#Now the coverage is only 3 hours a day... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckets-and-trees · 3 months ago

Text

Red, White & True: Election Day in New York, Pt. 1 [15/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 7.2k Summary: Election Day is finally here, but the campaign certainly isn't over yet. The people need to get out and vote, and you and Steve put in more hard work to get them to the polls. But you can't ignore the new level you and Steve have stepped into for your relationship...

Content/Warnings: political/campaign discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT (oral - male and female receiving, vaginal intercourse, implied hand jobs, referenced shower sex)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 3 - 8:32AM - TIMES SQUARE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN]

“We all know it’s Election Day. Our team here at Good Morning America has been covering the developments you dedicated coverage for months, following the candidates, the debates, and the rogue run for the presidency by independent candidate and former Captain America Steven Grant Rogers, and in an unprecedented surprise development, we have the New York City native joining us here in studio right now,” Michael Strahan says, standing tall beside the news desk as the camera pans to reveal Steve sitting comfortably in one of the Good Morning America conversation chairs next to Robin Roberts and George Stephanopoulos.

"Good morning, America," Steve says with a small wave, his voice calm and steady despite the monumental day ahead. He looks impeccable in his navy suit, his signature red and blue campaign tie knotted perfectly at his throat. Your heart is racing and chest slightly heaving from the adrenaline of rushing across town and sprinting through the building to get Steve to the ABC studio in time for this last minute chance appearance, but Steve didn’t even break a sweat and looks cool as a cucumber on set.

He is a super soldier, but he also didn’t have to do any of it in heels.

"Captain Rogers, thank you both for being here on what must be an incredibly busy morning for you," George says, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

"I wouldn't miss it," you reply with a warm smile. "And please, call me Steve. New York is home, and I wanted to start this historic day right here."

“But we’re not your first stop, are we?” Robin jumps in. On the monitor next to you and Pepper, you can see them cutting to footage of you and Steve at your polling station to cast your ballots - which happened only just under an hour ago. “You’ve already been to Brooklyn to vote!”

Steve laughs, “Yes, we have! Voting is the most important thing every American can do today, so my wife and I made sure to take care of that the first chance we got!”

This stop hadn’t been on the itinerary, but your campaign press secretary had worked some sort of miracle and pulled many strings and announced as you got in a car to drive from The Plaza to your Brooklyn polling station that she’d managed to get Steve a five minute segment on the country’s most-watched morning show as long as you could make it into the studio by 8:30am.

"Now, Steve, the polls are showing an incredibly tight race. Some are calling it the most unpredictable race in our nation’s history,” George says. “The most successful run a third party candidate made was Theodore Roosevelt in 1912. After serving two terms from 1901-1909, he said he was not interested in running for a third term, and the Republican nomination went to his Vice President William Howard Taft who went on to win and succeed Teddy Roosevelt as President, but he was unhappy with the direction Taft went, and sought the nomination again four years later. He didn’t get it, and so he ran as the candidate for the Progressive Party, and he actually earned 88 electoral votes.”

“That’s true, and I’m old, but this actually was still just before my time,” Steve confirms with a wink and a grin, effusing charm. “He won 27% of the popular vote, but Woodrow Wilson ended up taking in 435 votes in the electoral college.”

“Now there are two possibilities at the end of this election,” Robin takes the reins from her cohost for the next leg of the conversation. “The first and most straightforward is that one of the three candidates wins a simple majority, just 270 of the 538 electoral votes. But what happens if none of you reach that crucial 270 threshold?”

"If no candidate secures a majority,” Steve explains, “the House of Representatives holds a contingent election to choose the president, while the Senate does the same for the vice president. In the House, every state delegation has one vote, whereas in the Senate, each Senator votes individually."

“That’s fascinating,” Robin replies.

"The Constitution's framers designed this process for exactly this kind of situation," Steve continues, his voice steady and clear. "It's happened before in our nation's history, though not since 1824."

"And polls show this is a real possibility tonight," George adds, glancing at his notes. "How does that affect your strategy today?"

Steve leans forward slightly, his expression earnest. "Our strategy remains unchanged—connecting with voters until the last poll closes. Every state is a battleground state for us, not just the quote ‘traditional swing states.’ I think that’s one of the most dynamic parts of this election. But we would prefer if we could take a true 270-victory to keep it in the hands of every American voter. The people deserve to have their voices heard. That's what democracy is all about."

"Speaking of connecting with voters," Robin transitions smoothly, "your campaign has defied conventional wisdom at every turn. No party infrastructure, no traditional fundraising apparatus, yet here you are, competitive in nearly every battleground state. What do you attribute that success to?"

You watch from just off-camera as Steve considers the question, his thoughtful pause not a hesitation but a careful, deliberate moment to find the words that matter.

"The American people are ready for something different," Steve says with quiet conviction. "They're tired of the political theater, the partisan gridlock. I was tired of it, too - that’s why I decided to do this, and what Charlie Young and I offer is simple: straight talk, clear vision, and a commitment to putting country above party." He smiles, that smile that has won over millions. "And I've been blessed not only with extraordinary supporters but a team of dedicated Americans who believed in this vision enough to work around the clock to make it possible."

George jumps in again and asks. "What's your message to voters who might still be undecided as they head to the polls today?"

Steve's expression grows more serious. "Vote your conscience. Not your fear, not your party loyalty, but your genuine belief in what America can and should be. This country has faced greater challenges than the ones before us now, and we've always emerged stronger when we've put our differences aside and focused on what unites us rather than what divides us. That's the America I believe in, and that's the America I hope to serve."

"And what about today's schedule?" Robin asks. "Where can voters expect to see you?"

"We'll be making stops in all five boroughs today," Steve replies. "We want to talk to as many people and thank as many people as we can. And then we'll be hosting a gathering in Central Park this evening as the results start coming in."

"And for those who haven't had a chance to meet you in person during the campaign," George says, "what would you like them to know about you as they head to the polls today?"

Steve takes another brief moment, his expression thoughtful. "I'd want them to know that I've never stopped believing in what America can be. When I woke up in this century after being frozen for decades, I had to learn about a world that had changed dramatically. But the core of what makes this country special hasn't changed—it's still about people coming together, looking out for each other, and believing that tomorrow can be better than today if we're willing to work for it."

"And time for one last question," Robin says, glancing at the producer who's signaling from off-camera. "Win or lose, what happens tomorrow?"

Steve smiles, a genuine warmth spreading across his features. "Tomorrow, the sun rises on America as it always has. And regardless of the outcome, I'll continue to serve this country in whatever capacity I can. That's been what I’ve done since 1943, and it hasn’t changed."

"Captain Rogers—Steve—thank you for joining us this morning," George concludes, extending his hand.

"Thank you for having me," Steve replies, shaking hands firmly with both hosts as the segment wraps.

"And we're clear!" calls the floor director. The red lights dim, and the studio immediately buzzes with movement as crew members shift equipment for the next segment.

"That was great," Robin says warmly. "Good luck today, Steve."

"Thank you," he replies, his smile genuine but a touch weary around the edges in a way only you can detect.

"That was fantastic," Jake says, appearing at your side as Steve steps off the set. "You hit every key message point we wanted."

Steve's public face softens slightly as he turns to the two of you and Pepper, the practiced polish giving way to something more genuine. "Did it sound natural? That last answer felt a little rehearsed."

"It was perfect," you assure him, straightening his already-perfect tie in a gesture that's become second nature. "Authentic but presidential."

Lisa hurries over with a tablet displaying the updated schedule.

"That went incredibly well," Lisa says, swiping through her notes. "Social media engagement is already spiking. The clips will be running all morning."

"The quinjet is waiting," Pepper notes, checking her watch. "We need to be in Queens by nine-thirty."

Steve frowns. “The quinjet? Is that really necessary?”

Pepper smiles serenely. “We’re going to use all the resources at our disposal to get you where you need to be today. Quinjets are immune to traffic.”

[2:27PM - BROOKLYN]

Your body is humming with the adrenaline of five back-to-back events across New York City's five boroughs. After heading to Queens from the Good Morning America appearance, you’d then gone to the Bronx, back into Manhattan, ridden the Ferry to Staten Island to mingle with the crowd there before the actual Staten Island stop, and made the last stop in Brooklyn.

You’re in a black SUV again now, and the motorcade weaves through the afternoon traffic, but instead of taking you back to Manhattan, every turn takes you deeper into Brooklyn. You exchange a puzzled glance with Steve as the familiar streets of your neighborhood come into view.

"Are we going where I think we're going?" you ask, leaning forward to catch Jake's eye in the front seat.

Jake turns, his expression a mixture of conspiracy and satisfaction. "Change of plans. We're taking you home."

"Home?" Steve repeats, his brow furrowing. "But the schedule had us back at the Plaza until the Central Park event."

"We only led you to believe that," Jake says, not quite meeting Steve's eyes. "Team decision.

We don't trust either of you to actually rest if we take you back to campaign headquarters. You'll both be hovering over polling data and making calls until it's time for evening appearances."

"What?" you and Steve say in near unison, both of you immediately sitting up straighter.

Jake's expression doesn't waver. "You heard me. You're going home to your actual home, and you're going to take a real break before tonight. The both of you are running on fumes."

"Jake," Steve begins, his tone carrying that Captain America authority that usually brooks no argument.

"With all due respect," Jake interrupts, remarkably unfazed, "this isn't negotiable. You two need actual downtime before tonight. Sophia, Sam, Bucky, and I conferred with Pepper. It was unanimous, and Pepper pays my salary, not you."

Steve glances at you, a silent conversation passing between you. You can see the initial resistance in his eyes.

“We're confiscating your phones as well," Jake adds, putting his hand out expectantly. "If we need you, we'll communicate through the Secret Service agents."

You stare at Jake, mouth slightly agape, but realize you shouldn't be that surprised. The team has been protecting you both from burnout for months, orchestrating moments of respite amid the chaos whenever possible. Still, the boldness of this particular intervention catches you off guard, but you know he’s right.

With a sigh of surrender, you hand over your phone. Steve hesitates a moment longer before reluctantly following suit.

"Three hours," Jake says, pocketing both devices. "That's all we're asking. Eat something that isn't campaign trail food. Take a nap in your own bed. Change into fresh clothes. Just be normal people for a little while."

The SUV pulls up to your brownstone, the one Steve purchased and that you haven’t spent more than a handful of days in since becoming his wife. It looks exactly as you remember—the freshly painted door, the window boxes that the property manager has maintained in your absence, the worn stone steps leading up to the entrance.

"We'll have agents downstairs," Jake continues as the Secret Service team conducts their standard perimeter check. "But inside, it's just the two of you."

"What about the press pool?" Steve asks, his sense of duty clearly warring with the temptation of a few hours of true privacy.

"Handled," Jake says firmly. "Why do you think we packed the news cycle for the first seven hours of your day?"

"And social media?" you ask, already anticipating that’s been covered, too.

“You surely noticed Peter Parker was your shadow across the five boroughs - he was gathering more than enough footage and photos to fuel the campaign until tonight.”

"You thought of everything," Steve observes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"That's my job," Jake responds with a smirk. "Now go. Rest. That's an order."

"Three hours," Steve agrees.

"Thank you," you add.

Jake smiles, genuine warmth replacing his earlier firmness. "See you at five-thirty. The car will be waiting."

As you step out of the SUV, the November air feels crisp against your skin. You and Steve walk briskly up to the front door, hand in hand, and a Secret Service agent opens it to let you inside. The brownstone welcomes you with familiar silence as the front door closes behind you. For a moment, you both stand in the foyer, as if reacquainting yourselves with the space that's meant to be yours but has seen so little of you.

"That was well-played by them," Steve finally says, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

"Very," you agree, taking off your coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. "But they're not wrong."

Steve follows suit, his jacket joining yours. "No, they're not," he admits, running a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of fatigue he allows himself only in private. "I haven't stopped moving since 5 AM."

You step closer to him, reaching up to loosen his tie. "And you were up at 4:30 checking polling data."

His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Of course I did," you say softly, working the knot of his tie free and setting it on a small table near the front door. Then you tip your head up and kiss your husband. It’s sweet, soft, taking advantage of a moment you get to simply be together. He returns it in kind, and you feel the contentment bleeding from him into you.

When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his chest and let out a contented sigh. "I'm starving," you admit, realizing you've barely eaten anything since the campaign breakfast at 6 AM.

"Me too," Steve says, his stomach punctuating the statement with a rumble that makes you both laugh. "Let's see what we've got."

You take his hand and lead him through the brownstone toward the kitchen. The house feels both familiar and strange—this space you've shared but never truly lived in together. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air and casting warm patterns across the hardwood floors. Your heels click against the wood, and you pause to slip them off, leaving them beside a decorative bench in the hallway.

"Much better," you sigh, wiggling your toes in relief.

The kitchen is spotless and eerily untouched, yet somehow welcoming. Steve opens the refrigerator, his expression turning to surprise.

"It's fully stocked," he says, glancing back at you. "Someone thought of everything."

You peek around his shoulder to see fresh produce, eggs, cheese, and various containers neatly arranged on the shelves. "Sophia," you guess. "She would remember we haven't actually lived here."

Steve pulls out ingredients—bread, cheese, deli meats, tomatoes, and lettuce. "Sandwiches?" he suggests, already moving with purpose around the kitchen.

"Perfect," you agree, hoisting yourself onto one of the counter stools to watch him work. There's something mesmerizing about seeing Steve in such a domestic setting, his movements efficient yet relaxed as he assembles lunch. Your mind wanders back to the last time you were in this kitchen together, making chocolate chip cookies, and though things had been developing between the two of you, it was at that point when you started to feel the reality of your relationship and the roots of it being permanent, of going beyond a political arrangement, of genuine love and affection.

Steve must have been thinking along similar lines, because as he assembles sandwiches for you both, he says, “I never told you how nervous I was for you to come here for the Oprah interview.”

"Nervous?" you ask, surprised. "Why? Because Oprah was coming?"

"No," he says with a small laugh, carefully slicing a tomato into perfect, even rounds. "Because you were. This was the first place that was really mine in this century. I'd had apartments, quarters at the Avengers compound, but this..." His knife pauses as he gestures around the kitchen. "I chose every detail. And I knew you’d been here before - for the nights around the wedding, but there weren’t emotional stakes back in June, and then suddenly I was seeing it all through your eyes."

You slide off the stool and move to stand beside him, picking up a knife to help with the sandwich preparations.

"There was this moment after dinner," Steve says, glancing up with warmth in his eyes, "we had a few minutes before the team was going to prep for camera angles with us in the living room, and you ran your fingers slowly along the banister while we talked, then walked over and lingered by the windows. It was the first time I saw you truly relax around me."

"I didn't realize I was so transparent," you admit, watching as he layers turkey and cheese onto whole grain bread.

"Not transparent. Just... seen." He slides a completed sandwich toward you on a plate so you can cut it in half. "By me, anyway."

The simple statement carries weight that settles comfortably in your chest.

You take a bite of your sandwich, the fresh ingredients a welcome change from campaign trail food. "You really see me, don't you?" you say after swallowing. "Even back then, when we barely knew each other."

"I think I've always seen you," Steve replies, his voice soft as he leans against the counter opposite you. "Even when I was trying not to."

You both eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the simple pleasure of a homemade meal in your own kitchen feeling like an extraordinary luxury after months of catering and takeout in hotel dining rooms, busses, planes, and at campaign events.

Steve finishes his sandwich in record time and makes himself another while you're still working on your first.

"Super soldier metabolism," you tease, watching him assemble a second sandwich with practiced efficiency.

"I've been running on fumes, remember?" he says in a pained voice. "Haven't had a real meal in years."

You study him as he eats, noticing the slight tension around his eyes, the way he occasionally rolls his shoulders to release stiffness. Steve Rogers, ever the soldier, pushing through every bit of fatigue he’s determined to ignore, and all without complaint.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, catching your contemplative gaze.

"Us," you answer honestly. "How strange it is that we've been married for months but this is the first time we’re getting to do this, be this.”

"Normal life," Steve says, nodding. "Just being together without a schedule, without cameras." His eyes hold yours, warm and thoughtful. "I want more of this. After today, regardless of the outcome."

You set your sandwich down, suddenly emotional at the simple truth of his words. "Me too."

Steve reaches across the counter, taking your hand in his. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, the gesture so familiar now it feels like a language all its own.

"I keep thinking about what happens after," you admit. "If you win, if you don't, everything changes again."

"Some things change," Steve agrees, his voice steady. "But not us. Not this." He squeezes your hand gently. "I meant what I said last night."

Heat rises to your cheeks at the memory of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. "I know you did. I did too.”

Steve finishes his second sandwich, takes a long drink of water, then wipes his mouth on his napkin and turns to face you. You look up at him and lick your lips, his eyes darting down to catch the movement.

"Come upstairs with me," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register that sends warmth spreading through your limbs. "We have two and a half hours left before we have to face the world again."

You step closer, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. "What did you have in mind, Captain Rogers?" you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice despite the way your heart quickens.

His eyes darken slightly as he looks down at you, his hand coming to rest on your waist. "A nap," he says with mock seriousness. "Jake's orders, remember?"

"Just a nap?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

Steve's mouth curves into that half-smile that makes your stomach flip as his hand squeezes at your waist. "Just a nap," he confirms. "But I can't be held responsible for what happens before or after said nap."

You laugh softly, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. "Then by all means, how can I refuse?"

Steve scoops you up in one fluid motion, drawing a surprised gasp from you as he carries you toward the stairs. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape.

"Show-off," you murmur against his ear.

"Efficient," he corrects, navigating the stairs with ease despite your added weight. "We're on a schedule, remember?"

You’re up two flights of stairs in next to no time.

The master bedroom is bathed in afternoon light, the cream curtains softening the November sun into a gentle glow. The bed is made with fresh linens—another thoughtful touch from whoever prepared the house for your brief visit. Steve closes the door behind you, though there's no one else in the house to hear or see.

Steve sets you down gently at the foot of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist as yours slide up his chest.

For a moment, you simply breathe together, the campaign, the election, the world outside all fading away until there's just this—you and Steve, husband and wife, in a quiet room on an extraordinary day.

His lips find yours with gentle precision, the kiss unhurried despite the ticking clock. Steve's fingers work at the buttons of your blouse while you loosen his belt, both of you unhurried yet deliberate. There's no need to rush—this stolen time is yours alone.

"I keep thinking about how surreal this is," you murmur as he trails kisses down your neck, your blouse now hanging open. "In a few hours, you could be the President-elect."

His hands pause their exploration, and he pulls back slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes serious despite the flush on his cheeks. "Or not," he says. “It’s always been a long shot.”

“But not an impossible shot,” you counter.

He smiles, cupping your face in his hands. "No. Not impossible." The fire you see in Steve’s eyes is there - you know he’s not feeling defeated, just tempering expectations, optimistic but realistic.

Your fingers trace the contours of his face, memorizing every line, every plane. The enormity of it all washes over you—not just the election, but this journey you've taken together, the unexpected path that led you here.

"Whatever happens tonight," you whisper, "this is what matters. Us."

Steve's hands thread through your hair, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The intensity there makes your heart stutter. "Always," he agrees, voice low and certain.

You slide your hands down his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. A surge overtakes you—the need to show him with actions what words can't fully express. With deliberate slowness, you sink to your knees before him, maintaining eye contact as you undo his belt completely and lower his zipper with careful precision. His breath catches audibly, his hands moving to your shoulders as if to steady himself. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds himself with perfect control.

"You don't have to," he murmurs, though his dilated pupils tell a different story.

"I want to," you reply, your voice soft but certain.

His eyes darken further at your words, and he gives a small nod, surrendering to your touch. You ease his trousers down his hips, followed by his boxer briefs, revealing his already hard length. The afternoon light plays across his skin, highlighting the perfect planes of his muscled abdomen, the definition of his thighs.

Your fingers trace up the inside of his leg, feeling the slight tremor that runs through him at your touch. You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip bone, feeling him inhale sharply at the contact. When you finally take him into your mouth, his strong but gentle hands come to cradle your head in his hands, not guiding, just connecting.

"God," he breathes, the single word heavy with desire.

You take your time, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his skin, the sound of his breath catching and releasing above you. The afternoon light streams through the curtains, casting a golden glow across his taut abdomen, highlighting the perfect definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. You watch his face as you move, captivated by the way his eyes darken and his lips part slightly with each slow stroke.

Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath your touch. His fingers remain gentle in your hair, neither pushing nor pulling, just maintaining that intimate connection between you. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, drawing a low, rumbling groan from deep in his chest that sends a shiver of satisfaction through you.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his voice strained and husky.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in his reactions, in the way his breathing grows more ragged with each passing moment. His thighs tense beneath your hands, and you glance up to see his head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted. The sight of him—powerful, vulnerable, yours—sends heat pooling low in your abdomen.

When his control finally breaks, it's with your name on his lips, his hands still cradling your face with impossible firmness that’s still gentle even as pleasure overtakes him and you eagerly swallow him down.

After, he helps you to your feet, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and determination that makes your pulse quicken. His hands never seem to leave your body as he carefully removes each article of your clothing, scorching your skin, spiking the desire with each touch. He turns you both and presses your back up against the bedroom door.

"My turn," he whispers against your mouth, the words a promise that sends even more anticipation coursing through you.

Steve is not slow in kneeling before you and hitching one of your legs up over his shoulder, burying his head into your wet cunt. His breath is hot against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips as his tongue makes first contact.

Your back presses harder against the door as Steve's large hands grip your hips firmly, anchoring you in place. The contrast of the cool wood against your heated skin makes you shiver—or perhaps it's the intense way he's looking up at you, his blue eyes darkened with desire.

"Hold onto me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

You thread your fingers through his hair, the soft strands tickling your palms as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. Each touch of his lips is deliberate as he works his way back to your core with agonizing slowness. His stubble creates a salacious friction against your sensitive skin, the slight sting only heightening your anticipation.

When he finally returns his attention to your center, you grip his hair tighter, your head falling back against the door with a soft thud. His tongue moves with purposeful precision, circling your clit before flattening against it, sending sparks of pleasure radiating outward. Your breathing grows ragged as he establishes a rhythm that has your knees weakening, grateful for his strong hands keeping you upright.

"Steve," you gasp, the single syllable carrying everything you can't articulate—need, love, desperation.

He responds by doubling his efforts, sliding one hand from your hip to slip two fingers inside you. The dual sensation of his mouth and fingers working in tandem has you climbing rapidly toward release, your body tensing with each stroke.

"That's it," he encourages against your flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the building pleasure. "Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The leg draped over his shoulder trembles as tension builds within you, coiling tighter with each expert movement of his mouth. Your fingers tighten in his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrates against your sensitive flesh, the sensation pushing you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body arching against the door as Steve works you through it, his movements slowing but not stopping until you're gasping, oversensitive, and tugging gently at his hair to signal you need a reprieve.

He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his hands steadying you as your knees threaten to buckle. His mouth finds yours in a deep, claiming kiss that has you tasting yourself on his lips. Despite having just found release, desire flares anew at the intimate gesture.

"Bed," you manage between kisses, tugging him toward the mattress. "Now."

Steve follows willingly, his renewed arousal evident against your hip as you both stumble onto the freshly made bed. The sheets are cool beneath your hands and knees as you crawl up the mattress, Steve right behind you. He positions himself over you, his chest against your back, hips rutting against yours.

His lips find the sensitive spot at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine as his hardness presses insistently against you. You arch your back, pressing your hips back against him in silent invitation. His hand slides around to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple as his other hand guides himself to your entrance.

"Yes," you breathe, the word half-plea, half-permission.

Steve enters you with one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of you gasping. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. The fullness, the connection—it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

"I love you," he murmurs against your skin, the words reverent and raw.

"I love you too," you reply, reaching back to touch his face, needing that additional point of contact.

He begins to move, slow and measured at first, letting you both savor each sensation. His rhythm builds steadily, each thrust slightly deeper, slightly harder than the last. Your other hand clutches at the sheets, anchoring yourself as pleasure builds once more. The only sounds in the room are your mingled breaths, occasional whispered endearments, and the soft rustle of sheets beneath you.

"Faster," you plead, pushing back against him to emphasize your need.

Steve's restraint breaks at your words. His pace increases, each thrust more powerful than the last, the new angle hitting the intimate spot along your front wall that sends you to another level, and you moan.

His hand slides from your breast down to where your bodies join, his fingers finding your sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The stimulation has you climbing rapidly toward another peak, your inner walls clenching around him as tension builds.

"Steve," you gasp, the word both warning and plea.

"I've got you," he promises, his voice strained with his own building release. "Always."

Your second orgasm crashes through you with surprising intensity, your body shuddering beneath his as waves of pleasure wash over you in relentless succession. Steve follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside you with a deep groan that reverberates through your connected bodies.

For several heartbeats, you remain locked together, both catching your breath as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside. Steve presses tender kisses along your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace that makes you feel cherished beyond words.

When he finally eases out of you, you both collapse onto the mattress, limbs entangled, skin cooling in the quiet afternoon air. Steve gathers you into his chest, his arm draped protectively over your waist.

"That certainly not a nap," you murmur against his jaw, your voice languid with satisfaction, lips brushing against his beard.

Steve's chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "We still have time," he points out, but the way his hand roams your back and the push of his thigh between your legs suggests he’s not considering sleep just yet.

And you don’t sleep.

You kiss, you grind and grope and pleasure each other some more. After what seems like far too soon but is an hour later, Steve coaxes you out of the bed, but into the shower where he fucks you again against the cool tiled wall.

"It feels strange," you admit, wrapping a towel around your torso. "Being here when there's so much happening."

Steve nods. "Strange but good," he says, his shoulders squared but relaxed for the first time in weeks. "Jake was right."

"Don't tell him that," you say with a small laugh.

Steve laughs, securing his own towel around his waist before stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Our secret, then."

You lean back against him, savoring the solid warmth of his chest against your back, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a moment, you both stand there, reflected in the slightly fogged bathroom mirror—your skin flushed, hair damp, eyes bright. You look happy. Both of you. Despite the weight of expectation hanging over this day, despite the exhaustion of the campaign trail, despite the uncertainty that awaits.

You check the clock on the wall—nearly five o'clock. The bubble you've been living in for the last few hours is about to pop.

"We should get ready," you say reluctantly, running your fingers through your damp hair. "Car will be here in thirty minutes."

Steve nods, but instead of moving toward his clothes, he stays exactly where he is, arms around you, lips pressing warm kisses along your shoulder. "Five more minutes," he whispers against your skin, and you're tempted—so tempted—to give in, to stay locked in this private world where it's just the two of you, no campaign, no country watching, no history being made.

But duty calls, as it always does.

"Five minutes," you agree, turning in his arms to face him. "But actual getting ready has to happen."

Steve's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you. "Deal." His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. "Whatever happens tonight," he says, his voice low and serious, "this has been the greatest adventure of my life."

"Better than fighting aliens?" you tease, but your voice catches on the words.

"Much better," he confirms without hesitation. "Fighting alongside the Avengers was about saving the world. This—" his hand gestures between you, encompassing everything unspoken, "—this has been about making it better."

The weight of his words settles over you, and you rise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his in a kiss that carries everything you can't articulate—gratitude, love, partnership, hope.

When you pull away, Steve's eyes remain closed for a beat, as if he's committing the moment to memory. Then he inhales deeply, his shoulders squaring with familiar determination.

"Time to get dressed," he says, dropping one final kiss to your forehead before stepping away.

You both move with practiced efficiency, the routine of preparing for public appearances so ingrained now it requires little thought. Steve selects a fresh navy suit—the same color as this morning but a different cut. After taking care of your hair and makeup, you stand much longer flipping through the options in your closet, considering the wardrobe that has been expertly curated and tailored for you but that you’re largely unfamiliar with since these clothes have been here, not on the road with you.

As you rifle through options, it doesn't help that your eyes keep being drawn to a very conspicuous piece at the very end.

The conspicuous garment bag with your wedding dress.

Your fingers brush against the protective plastic, memories of that day flooding back with unexpected intensity. The intricate lace, the delicate beading that caught the light as you walked down the aisle in that small Brooklyn church. It had been a practical choice at the time—a wedding arranged for political strategy, not romance.

"You were so beautiful that day," Steve's voice comes from behind you, startling you slightly as you hadn't heard him approach. His reflection appears in the mirror beside yours, his eyes soft with remembrance. "I could see that, and I knew you had to be great—Pepper had promised me she'd pick the partner I needed, but I never imagined I was meeting the love of my life."

You chuckle, though your eyes glisten slightly with tears—partly because Steve's words move you, and partly because, in hindsight, you recognize that day was tougher than you ever initially allowed yourself to admit.

"I didn't expect this, either," you admit, turning to face him properly. "Any of it. I thought I was making a political arrangement with a good man. I never imagined..." You gesture between you, at the intimacy that has grown between you, unexpected and profound.

“You were beautiful that day, but you also looked so determined, so fearless, I was thrown for a loop.”

You laugh again. “Are you serious? I was walking down the aisle to marry Captain America, who was still technically a stranger to me since he’d ditched our first date to meet a former president instead, and I’d also had a rather tense conversation where I’d just revealed to my parents why I was really rushing in to a marriage that hadn’t been on their radar at all. I was all game face and determination because I was barely holding it together.”

Steve's expression softens, and he reaches out to cup your cheek. "I had no idea. Like I said, you seemed so composed."

"That's what you saw," you say, leaning into his touch. "Years of practice hiding nerves. But inside, I was a mess. There was no turning back. And I didn't want to, even though I knew it wouldn’t be easy. And then you took my hand and it felt..."

"Steadying," he finishes for you.

"Yes," you admit.

"Even then, something about us just worked." His thumb traces your cheekbone. He sighs. “I wish we could do it all over again, do it right.”

You shake your head, responding immediately, “I don’t! There’s no way we’re here, like this, exactly this kind of in love if we’d done it any other way.” You take his other hand in both of yours as you continue, “This version of us is what I want for the rest of our lives.”

Steve kisses you fiercely, and when you break apart, he says, "You're right, I know you're right, but I didn't even propose to you."

You blink, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice. "What?"

"I never proposed," he repeats, taking both your hands in his. His eyes are bright with emotion. "You deserved that moment, at least. A real proposal, not a political arrangement hammered out over pitches and contracts."

A smile tugs at your lips. "Steve, we're married, that’s the important thing."

"I know." His thumbs trace circles on your palms, a gesture so familiar now it feels like a language all your own. Then he reaches out to touch the garment bag, his fingers tracing the outline of the dress within. "We should renew our vows," he says. "After all this. A real ceremony, for us this time."

The suggestion catches you off guard, but warmth spreads through your chest at the thought. "I'd like that," you say softly.

A knock at the bedroom door - muffled as it’s filtered from the bedroom to the en suite bathroom - interrupts the moment. "Five minutes, sir, ma'am," comes the voice of one of the Secret Service agents.

"Thank you," Steve calls back, his eyes never leaving yours.

You turn back to your wardrobe. “You go, you’re distracting! I’ll be down in just a few minutes.”

“Alright,” he laughs. "I'll see you downstairs," he says, pressing one more quick kiss to your temple before moving to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at you with an expression that makes your heart skip. "Thank you. For everything."

Before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you with your thoughts and a closet full of clothes. You run your fingers over the options, finally selecting a dark green dress that complements Steve's navy suit.

As you slip into the dress, your mind races with possibilities for the night ahead. The polls have been unpredictable, the race unlike any in modern history. By morning, your life could look dramatically different—or perhaps not. Either way, something fundamental has shifted during these months of the campaign, and there's no going back to who you were before. The woman who walked down the aisle in that wedding dress feels like a stranger now—someone who couldn't possibly have imagined where this path would lead.

You give yourself one final check in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the tailored dress that was built to fit your body like a glove, giving you confidence in your curves, and adjusting your hair. The face that looks back at you is tired but luminous, eyes bright with purpose and something else—a quiet confidence that wasn't there before. Whatever happens tonight, you're ready.

next part: Election Day, part 2

Coming toward the end of the series, I'm back with a regular Friday update! Ta da! Are you proud of me? 🥹

Somehow I thought Election Day would be one chapter, but since it's such a big day, it was inevitable that it would need to be split in two - I just didn't know that until we got here hahaha! When I got to this point in the chapter, we should just be glad it leant itself to a natural enough breaking point. Story-wise there are just about as many scenes left for them for the second half of this very long and essential day.

But I'm also happy that we'll get to have one more chapter (and probably an epilogue...tbd on the election results).

(and tbh, I'm only 90% locked in on my decision for the election results...)

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #slow burn #political au #steve rogers x y/n #red white & true #aspen wrote something #female reader #steve rogers x yn

163 notes · View notes

unholyhelbig · 1 year ago

Note

“You’re supposed to be dead.” was so strong felt like you hit me with that sentence I even forgot the title can’t wait for next part!!!

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 3/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 4,695

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, fatal injuries, mentions of death, containment, and horrible grammar because I don't proofread

[a/n: Sorry for the delay on this one. I promise I'll hit you guys with less tragic backstory and more plot soon! ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The word sounded foreign to you. Asgardian. The first syllable was doable, the start of something and the end of something in one fail swoop. It was the second syllable that threw you off. Guardian. That wasn’t something you had ever been, nor did you want to be. The two women that frequented your holding cell, now they were guardians.

You were never one of those superhero junkies. Not like the rest of the world. They were infatuated with the Avengers and even more so with the media coverage of them. The main six would do their due diligence and go in for interviews, the occasional ribbon cutting on new Children’s Hospitals.

It was the C and D list heroes that gave you the ultimate ‘ick’. There were reality television shows that highlighted their daily lives and social media accounts that reported on their flings and lack thereof. Of course, they’d home in on the Avengers too, but they circled like vultures, and it was the main reason you had seen the phrase ‘Asgardian’ in the first place.

Thors Summer Body.

Jesus Christ, they called it the Asgardian Abdominal Workout and you had scoffed at the stupid title and graphics on Instagram while you wiped the neon orange Cheeto dust from your fingers onto the front of your shirt.

You didn’t know what they meant for you, but you paced the length of your holding cell while you thought about it. It was day three and you were getting stir crazy. So much so, that when Natasha entered with your lunch for the day, you threw yourself against the glass.

Both of her eyebrows went sky high, grip tightening on the plastic tray. “Whoa, okay. Good afternoon to you too, Kitten.”

“Why do you do that?” You asked.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re not intrigued by me.”

She was the only one who hadn’t resulted to the poking and prodding, and endless tests that had been run on you. Of course, Wanda was more likely to stick around for a conversation. She’d spend hours with you, just talking, staring at you while you slept. Your mind had chosen to be a challenge, and that excited her. It was more of an emotion than you pulled from her wife.

Natasha let out a sigh and clicked her way through the passcode. You had half the mind to shove past her, just to get out of this stale air. But, she was the Black Widow, and you knew your odds were slim. So, you stayed put, backing away to give her enough room.

She usually placed the tray on the table and then retreated with less than five words to you. But this time, she closed the door and turned towards you, arms crossed over her chest. The pure strength of her physic intrigued you, made a rosy color bloom against your cheeks.

“I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t.” She sounded out carefully. “Do you know Hawkeye?”

You nodded. He was the guy with the arrows, the only other person on the Avengers that had molded their skills instead of inheriting them. Jenn spoke fondly of him, had helped with a case a few years back that you couldn’t recall. You had been struck by the stomach flu and remember being particularly miffed that you hadn’t gotten to meet him.

“So did Loki. Briefly. He was the first big threat that we encountered as a team and he wormed his way into Clint’s mind, changed him because Clint was mortal, and Loki was a different kind of God. A trickster, and an Asgardian.”

“You’re… afraid of me?”

Natasha laughed and if you hadn’t been so wounded by the noise, you would have found it pleasurable. She closed the distance between you both. She smelled soft, floral. It was different from Wanda and from the nurse who had been in and out, growing bolder the more she worked on you.

“No, sweetie. But don’t be so offended, little intimidates me. I know that like our world, you come from one of your own. One with good guys and bad guys. I just hope that you know which side of the line you fall on.”

You stifled a groan. You didn’t even know who you were, much less if there was some malice deep down in your core. Right now, all you were was restless. While you were a homebody that usually extended to shitty television and greasy snacks. Neither of which was offered here.

Wanda brought you a novel to read, but it was in old English and hurt your head to squint at the words on the yellowed pages. You’d only gotten a quarter of the way through. The rest of your time was spent getting jammed with needles and staring at the blank ceiling.

“Hungry?” Natasha asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Alright then, come on.”

You blinked dumbly at her, narrowing your eyes. This could be some form of sadistic trap, but really, what did you have to lose? You were cooperative thus far. No matter where she led you, it would be better than here.

The floor was startling and cold against your bare feet, your jaw clenching in response to the change that hit your skin. Natasha watched you carefully, two steps in front of you but still with a keen eye.

The two of you took enough turns that you wouldn’t be able to find your way out of the compound, much less back to your holding cell, without her. The walls all looked the same, steel lock protected doors lining either side of the corridors. There were no discerning stock photos to spruce up the place, not even windows. If you knew any better, you would say that you were underground.

The elevator was warmer. Natasha used the keycard on her waist to operate it. You stared down at your feet. They were bruised from your excursion through the cemetery. Your hand reached out to the side of the elevator when it lurched forward, throwing you off your balance.

Natasha reached over and grasped your elbow, keeping you steady. Her warmth was domineering, running through you like a heated iron rod. You decided to change the subject for your own self-preservation. “What are we doing exactly? Because if you’re leading me to my demise, then you owe me a replacement lunch, first.”

She scoffed “Is food all you think about? From what I remember you were wolfing down week-old takeout when we met.”

“It’s not all I think about,”

At least, it didn’t used to be. Lately, you were starving at all times, thinking of your next meal directly after you’d finished your first. It was almost as if you were burning off more calories than you could consume. At first, you figured it was your body’s way to catch up after being buried alive- buried dead- but it persisted.

“uh-huh, you know my wife reads minds, right? Seems like all you think about is food and sex.”

“That’s not, I don’t-“Your cheeks heated up and you covered your face with both of your hands. God, this elevator ride was too long. You would be perfectly content digging another grave and laying in it.

“Relax. I’m teasing you.” She nudged you with her shoulder. “You and me, though, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together these next few days. Fury wants us to run more tests that don’t involve needles and EKG’s. That okay with you, kitten?”

You nodded, tongue officially tied. Each time she called you that, you felt arousal pool in your stomach that was quickly ebbed away by guilt. There was no way that you would allow yourself to be taken by the Black Widow. It was her job to be alluring.

And then there was her wife, the woman that you were equally infatuated with. She had a warmth that emanated from her, but a coldness that could wash over her in an instant. It scared you. It turned you on.

Not only could she hear your less than pure thoughts about Natasha, but she wasn’t shy about letting you know she could. The corner of her lip would quirk up, almost as if she wanted to tease you about the fact and not reprimand you.

The elevator doors opened directly into an atrium that was complete with lush green grass. You flinched, holding your arm in front of you to block out the sudden burst of sun. You’d been imprisoned for the past couple of days, and before that, you were in a different type of prison.

You took a deep breath of the clean air, letting it coat your lungs. Your skin instantly warmed. Natasha didn’t’ push you, instead she let you take in the square building around you. There were tinted windows that jutted out in a hexagon shape from the structure, long hallways that lead to move testing areas, living quarters, you were sure.

“I know you haven’t worked your muscles in a bit, but I have some obstacles for you, if you’re up to the challenge, that is.”

“You kidding? I aced gym. Bring it on.”

Natasha’s wolfish smile did nothing to aide your confidence. She led you into the center of the green and squared her shoulders. You didn’t see any equipment around: no vaulting bars, or weights. It was just the two of you and the nature that surrounded. It was only when she lifted up her hands, curling them into fists, that you truly understood.

The Black Widow wanted you to fight her.

There wasn’t much time to contemplate. She moved like lightening, and though you knew she was going easy on you, the crack against the center of your nose didn’t feel like it. You let out a groan, moving both your hands to your face as warmth gushed from the center.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck!”

“You’re supposed to dodge.”

“You’re supposed to warn me.” You pressed your hands harder against the dripping wound “Oh, I’m going to die.”

Natasha scoffed and let her hands drop from their defensive position. She closed the distance between you and gripped your arm. You refused to budge, making a small noise at the back of your throat. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Move your hand, let me look at it.”

You leveled her with an apprehensive look but eventually conceded. Watery rust was against your palms, wicked into your lifeline that seemed oddly to stretch on for way too long. It had already dried, you were almost hyper-fixated on the blood. On it’s stain.

Natasha was impossibly close, you could feel her exhaling against your collarbone, her hand squeezing your face and pushing your head to the side to get a better look. Her eyebrows creased. You focused on the smattering of freckles against her nose and under her piercing eyes. You hadn’t noticed them in the fluorescents of the facility.

“Mm, well, you can heal on your own. Just like Thor.” She gave your cheek two pats and stepped back. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“I beg to differ,”

Natasha resumed her stance and you held your hand up as if taming a wild animal. As if that would stop her from advancing on you. From this view, you could see the blood that had slotted through your fingers and ran in interconnecting lines. It was almost like a system of roads, each leading to your wrist and drying in a strange pattern. Beautiful. Familiar.

Your hand was tingling viciously and the world around you had started to pulse. You steadied yourself, focused on the grass under your toes. The soil was damp and cold. The sun was hot and harsh. You knew exactly where you were, but the rushing sound past your ears seemed to want to change that.

“Y/n,” You heard Natasha softly. She sounded like she was suspended in air, or you in water. “Y/n, are you alright?”

1893, Chicago World’s Fair

“Miss, are you alright?” His voice filtered through your thoughts. It was smooth and amplified compared to the crowd that flitted around you. Bodies were slotted close together, different scents of spices and crushed florals mixed with the sweat of strangers.

“Yes, of course,” You assured him, seeing the worry drain from his stare. He held his prize in one palm, hard enough to morph the copper back into its original shape. “My apologies. I suppose the heat is getting to me. Please continue, Mr. Damm.”

He gave you a crooked grin. You’d stopped at his booth out of a version of pity. In truth, your eyes had locked with his across the crowded exhibition floor and you couldn’t pull yourself away. He looked like a nice enough man, standing next to a small box that was made of wood.

Glass was bordering the top half, giving the viewer a good look at the inside mechanics. There was a crank that jutted out of the side and a small slot that was in the center of the wooden base. In a room filled with ships, locomotives, and a real moving walkaway, not many people took interest in a simple party trick.

“Have you ever put a penny on a train track, miss?”

“Yes, of course.”

He grinned harder “Well, that’s a good way to lose a limb, if I do say so myself. Now, I have all ten fingers and all ten toes but there are plenty out there who are risking their lives for something that you can now get with convenience. Do you have a penny, miss?”

With heat rising to your cheeks, you fished into the damp area between your breasts and pulled out a coin, making sure it was dry. You couldn’t hide it’s warmth, but the dress you’d chosen to wear on your mothers’ recommendation was much too tight fitting to carry anything in a proper place.

Mr. Damm did not seem to mind, he simply placed the penny into a small slot on the side of the machine. “I’ve spent years crafting a rolling mill that presses designs into soft metals. Not only that, but it elongates them as well. A penny had tremendous value, but wouldn’t you sometimes prefer something more?”

“I suppose I’ve never thought about it before.”

“Ah, well, come here. Crank this lever and watch.”

You glanced at him for reassurance before doing as you were told. It put up more resistance than you were expecting, but eventually you watched two metal rollers press the copper into a longer, oblong shape. You had to admit, it was a cool sight, especially with your ability to control the speed.

Eventually, your coin popped out of the slot in the wood and it looked like anything but the penny you had provided. It was stretched and the words ‘Columbian 1893 exhibition’ were impressed into the metal. He placed it into your palm, still warm from the process.

“Very good, Mr. Damm. But, does it still hold it’s value?”

“Of course, Miss! First thing I made sure of. Though, I suggest you keep this. One day, they’ll be worth millions.” He tucked his thumbs proudly into his suspenders “I’m headed to New York City in a few days to patten this machine, here.”

You returned his smile, words caught in your throat when a hand started against one side of your waist and trailed along your back to rest on the other. The rosewater scent that accompanied Helia. She was a few inches taller than you and hugged you close to her pale form.

There were dark circles under her sunken eyes, her hair a jet black. She often captured the eyes of anyone in the room. But in a room with so many wonders it was hard to notice her among them. People often thought of her as sick. But you knew better. Helia simply mirrored a specter. She was filled with a sharp kindness that was preceded by her excitement.

“Sister, what have you got there?” She plucked the coin from your hand and ran her pale finger over it “Very nice! This is fantastic, sir. Really amazing. I hope you don’t mind if I steal y/n away from you.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Damm gently took your hand and placed a dry kiss on the top of your hand. “It was fantastic to meet you, miss. Enjoy the fair.”

Helia had pulled you away by the waist before you could respond. You wiped the top of your hand against the rough fabric of your dress, suppressing a chill. He was nice enough, an average looking guy. Deep down you knew your mother only let you attend to see if you could attract some type of man.

She’d long ago deemed you feral, her wild-child that held the beauty but none of the grace to settle down with an acceptable husband. You wore Helia’s dress because she would have left you to rot in the hot motel room if you hadn’t at least attempted to look presentable.

“Mother is going to be so upset with you,” You tsked, “pulling me away from a possible suitor.”

“Oh, the inhumanity. We have to hurry. Jorell has been holding the same spot in line for the Ferris Wheel. We simply must join him. I don’t have the patience to wait another day.”

“At least you are one to admit your flaws.”

“Hush, walk faster.”

You felt incredibly stiff in the dress but followed her a quicker pace. Your brother had sacrificed his entire day to make sure the three of you could rise high above the fair. You’d long given up on your own ability to stand in a stretching line and you’d had to keep him waiting even longer.

A light drizzle had begun to fall from wispy grey clouds, instantly cool on your skin. Helia hugged you closer, silently pleading for the ride to still be operational. There was no electricity crackling through the sky, nor a worried look on a single patron’s face.

Jorell waved the two of you over, boots splashing against the cobblestone. His hair was damn, inky and falling into his ghostly stare. His shirt was soaked through at this point, the white outlining the curves and dips of his stature. The strong, protective man that had yet to find a suitor either. Though, mother was much less persistent when it came to her only son.

“Where did you find her?” He smirked.

“Playing with coins.”

“I wasn’t playing with anything. If you must know, a very nice man was giving me a demonstration of his invention.”

Helia nudged him in the ribs, “She took pity on him, like she does all helpless creatures.”

You suppressed a groan. Certainly, you were deemed to softest of the three siblings, though you knew when it was necessary to put a thing out of it’s misery. You’d bring home stray cats and then make excuses for the parasites that were attached to it.

“Come on, we’re next!”

Helia grabbed your hand and gave it an excited squeeze. There were two metal steps leading up to the boarding area. A man stood next to a gally of machinery, and unlike Mr. Damm’s penny pressing box, you couldn’t see inside of it. He held a black umbrella up to protect the panel from the weather.

He grunted out “No single riders, only two to a car. One of you will have to sit this out.”

It would be fair to let Jorrell and Helia take the helm. You weren’t much of a fan of heights anyway, and the diming in your sisters’ eyes at the news was enough to break you. “You two go on ahead.”

“You’re sure?” Jorell asked, lifting a dark eyebrow.

“I’m positive, go! I’ll be waiting right here.”

Maybe you did take too much pity on the beasts around you. They certainly stuttered to find kindness, as did you in moments. But at the base of the worlds first Ferris Wheel you would have done any kindness for the strangers that flitted around you. Especially for your own family.

You watched as they boarded the cart closest to the bottom, the last riders until a chain was slipped across the front, blocking the rest of the patrons. Bad weather. You heard the man mutter, but paid no mind. He certainly wouldn’t let them ride if the conditions were too dangerous.

They grew smaller and smaller as the monolithic machine carried them to the very top of the loop. You craned your neck, having to look away as harder rain blurred your view. It was unladylike to wipe at your eyes, but you hadn’t given a care. Unladylike or not, you’d give anything to see Helia and Jorrell in this moment. Joy swelled in your chest.

Then, the Ferris Wheel lurched to a stop. Strangled cries of shock floated down to you. This must be part of the exhibition. It was a naïve thought, but one that carried you for a moment more of bliss before pure terror. The next noise was grinding metal against metal, shaking that jostled many of the riders.

The speck of Jorrell had slid from his seat, the metal much too slippery from the rain. He held on to the edge, the crowd letting out sounds of distress. One woman screamed. You felt damp and useless, hand covering your mouth.

Helia gripped at the fabric of his shirt desperately trying to keep him afloat. And you believed whole-heartedly, that if the machine hadn’t lurched again, she would have been able to maintain her grip.

New inventions were faulty. They malfunctioned in different conditions. The rain had not been anticipated and neither had the harsh winds that made Chicago damp and freezing. Another sound of metal crunching and a scream that was masked within a sea of people already beginning to plan how to cope with tragedy.

You may have screamed to, but you had a feeling the noise got stuck in your throat. Jorrell had tried to grip the bars on the way down. They bit into his fingers, water making it impossible for him to swim.

He was crushed in an instant between the gears that you could see, and this time, you did cry out. You figured your legs unable to work, knees nearly hitting the cobblestone. In that moment, you thought about how it would dirty your dress.

An arm was there to steady you, grasping onto your elbow and pulling your eyes away from the scene. You were pliable in this moment, unable to question who had grabbed you. There was the scent of metal and strong cologne. They emanated comfort, tucking your head into the small of their neck to pry your eyes away from the mechanical mauling.

“Look away,” Mr. Damms voice was muffled against your ear, filling his chest cavity. “This isn’t something a lady should see, miss.”

The scream tore through your chest with a visceral pain. Your nails were digging into the soft soil, heels pushing against what you could only recognize as grass. You’d come to in a state of fight or flight. Adrenaline coursed through your veins, breath refusing to catch.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright.”

It took you a moment to realize who was in front of you. The world was dripping with color, the rushing sensation fading from your ears. Instead, it was replaced by the sound of birds, the scent of nature, the warmth of the sun. You were still outside, lying on the ground and blinking up at the crystal blue sky. No rain. No water.

Natasha was knelt next to you, a look of worry flooding her expression. She had one hand on your chest, and the other was cupping your cheek. She was checking your vitals, you were sure, because you had most certainly lost consciousness.

“Breathe in for six seconds through your nose. Good… now hold it. Only breathe out through your mouth when I tell you to.”

Your chest had started to ache when she finally gave you the nod to release the air you had greedily drawn in. She stayed with you, repeating the process three more times before you finally felt the blades of grass tickle your palms, the slight breeze touch your skin. Natasha brushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair behind your ear before she flopped back into a sitting position.

“Want to tell me where you just went?”

“Chicago,” You grunted out.

Natasha got this adorable crease between her brows, but she didn’t’ push any further. You squinted up at the clouds and stretched your arm out, enjoying the prickly sensation of the grass.

“Sometimes… I get these nightmares. Most of the time I don’t remember my dreams but when these happen, they feel so real. Almost like I was there myself, which is impossible because they were decades, centuries ago.”

“What are they like? Your dreams?”

“Volatile. They all follow the same formula. A life that I couldn’t have had, an older brother who dies by water and a younger sister who just… dies. One of them meet a violent end before I can wake up, and they’ve never repeated themselves. It’s just new tragedy after new tragedy.”

You’d always thought the dreams were weird. But, chalked them up to being related to stress. When you were a kid, it was stress about starting a new school, soccer try-outs or midterms. Then as you got older you pinned it on college admissions and failing the bar twice before submitting to be a paralegal instead.

But then, Jonathan died. Drowning just as every other version of him had.

You’d never told anyone about the dreams and now you were sounding them out with a near-stranger who you were pretty sure used to be a villain. You’d read that on the back of a cereal box once while it tore up the roof of your mouth with its sugary edges. You didn’t’ put much faith in the trivia.

“That must be scary,”

You pulled yourself up, resting your arms on your knees. You were sure you looked disheveled, but she gazed at you with something of admiration and a recognition of pain. She’d pulled a blade of grass from the earth and was shredding it in a nervous habit.

“Chicago, huh?”

“The Worlds Fair, actually. I got a penny.”

“Oh?” She gave you a small smile “My, well, aren’t you rich.”

The two of you laughed, a small moment that filled you with content. It seemed to fill the crater that had just opened up in your soul. If it even was your soul to fill. It eventually flickered out, silence washing over you.

“Natasha?”

“Yeah, y/n?”

“Are you going to figure out what’s wrong with me?”

Your voice broke and you were tempted to muffle it with a cough. You didn’t’ want to show weakness. It was a golden rule in your family. The embarrassment of your actions in the dream still lingered on your tongue. Falling into the arms of Mr. Damm and his listless invention.

“Why can’t I die if everyone around me dies too easily?”

You all but whispered the words, and a soft, pitying noise came out of Natasha that you weren’t expecting. She clenched her jaw and unclenched it as if she was afraid to mince her words. There was almost anger, no, frustration, with herself behind her stare.

“Nothing is wrong with you, y/n. According to your bloodwork, you’re extraordinary. Growing stronger and stronger every day. You’re an enigma, even by Asgardian standards. But you’re not impossible to solve. We’ll figure you out.” She glanced down at the grass between her fingers, shredded another green strip. “No one deserves to live with that much pain.”

With a nod, you wiped away the tears that escaped with the base of your palms, careful to avoid looking at the blood. You’d never passed out like that, had a vision, a memory, forced upon you with the pull of a trigger. You didn’t want to risk it.

“Let’s get you a shower, yeah?” She stood and reached out her arm before hoisting you to your feet.

“Are you saying I stink?”

“I thought I was being very direct about the fact. Besides, I may have hit you a little hard, kitten.”

“I knew it!”

She grabbed you by the hand and pulled you along, as if she didn’t trust you on your own feet. Her grip was reminiscent of Helias, strong and consistent and filled with nothing but care. You let her lead you, hoping the blood wasn’t the only thing the shower would wash down the drain.

[Taglist💕: @dannipotatoo, @non-binary-frogking, @mysticalmoonlight7, @metanoiablxxm, @coxlong, @b3nzzzzz, @simpforlizzie, @delulu-bayolet-era, @dorabledewdroop, @crescentcrush, @roselockwood, @ellieromanov, @leenasayeed, @theowlappears, @pitifulbinx, @pepemyfantasy, @tekanparadiae, @skittlebum, @mariabeloskivismyoc, @natsbiggestfan1, @marvelwomen-simp, @cinffy23, @kyky-maximoff, @natalierushmansstuff, @bstvst, @lezzylover, @404-almostdone, @mishimrno, @maxidentbby, @shayarshucky, @merlinsouls, @neothepotato, @aliherreraaa, @olicity-boo, @tarathia, @thinking1bee]

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Wanda Maximoff #scarlet witch #black widow #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x reader #Wanda Maximoff x you #Wanda Maximoff x reader #Wanda maximoff x y/n #Wandanat #Wandanat x reader #Wandanat x you #Wandanat x y/n #Marvel

366 notes · View notes

sugrhigh · 1 year ago

Text

ALL YOURS - ( roomie!matt pt 5 )

summary- you and your roommate matt have been sleeping together for a minute now, but neither one of you wants to ask the other what it means. feelings come to fruition one night at a party and the dynamics of your relationship change once again.

warnings- nsfw content ahead people so read at ur own risk, swearing, drug/alcohol use, dom!matt kinda, unprotected sex, it’s straight up smut at the end so fr don’t read it if u don’t want to!

roomie!matt x fem!reader

a/n: THIS IS TECHNICALLY PART 5 OF THE ROOMIE!MATT TEXT SERIES so if you haven’t read those you might be a bit confused. link to the master list is here.

strap in because it’s kinda long so i hope u guys love this final chapter as much as i do <3 inbox is always open xo

@sleepysturnss

rain patters against the windows mercilessly as the tv drones on, interrupted only by booming thunder every few minutes.

its late in the day now, and the cloud coverage makes it extra gloomy, even with interior lights on. not that this bothers you.

storms have always been a source of comfort in your eyes. something about them makes you feel safe, reminds you that the world is far bigger than whatever is worrying you.

“oh, i’ve been meaning to ask if you’re still seeing that guy. what’s his name again?” nick asks from beside you, scrolling mindlessly on his phone as he slumps against the couch.

you’ve been sitting like this for hours together, rotting in his living room while it continues to pour outside.

“it’s luke, and no, i’m not talking to him anymore.” you reply, trying to sound as casual as possible.

he looks up at you now, clearly a bit shocked to be hearing this. “please tell me it’s not because of my bitch ass brother.”

you bark out a laugh before you can stop yourself, mostly due to the fact that it’s absolutely because of matt. just not for the reason he thinks.

“as if. it was my decision, don’t worry.”

this is only half true. you did cut the poor guy off, but only because matt had essentially instructed you to do so before you guys had sex for the first time a month ago.

and then you hooked up again. and again. and a couple more times after that. neither of you could stop coming back for more apparently.

none of your friends know yet. as much as you want to be honest with them, you haven’t really talked about the details of this little situation. you’re almost positive matt hasn’t been seeing anyone else, but you also haven’t outright asked.

and there’s no use telling everyone about something that might not even be real.

“what made you do that? was the sex bad? is he an asshole?” nick interrogates further, clicking his phone off so his full attention is on you.

you can’t tell if he’s suspicious or if you’re just genuinely paranoid, but you don’t like this line of questioning either way.

“no he’s fine, he just wasn’t doing it. and his breath always smelled for some reason.” you’re lying through your teeth, but his face morphs into an expression of disgust like he’s buying it.

“ew, major turn off.”

“you’re telling me.”

nick sighs and snuggles further into the cushions, resting his head on your shoulder as he stares at the tv.

“well for what it’s worth, i’m sorry it didn’t work out. but who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone sexy at nathan’s tomorrow.” he says.

“yeah, maybe.” you feed into the hypothetical, even though you know that won’t be happening.

at least not if matt sturniolo has a say in it.

your music is playing softly over the speaker as you get ready, perched in front of your vanity like a doll. you’ve just finished your makeup when you hear a singular tap on the door.

“can you hurry it up in here?” matt calls as he pushes it open slightly.

you find it funny that he’s always sure to knock, ever since he walked in on you naked that fateful afternoon. even though you’re literally sleeping together now, he makes it a point to not invade your privacy.

“can’t rush perfection, matthew.” you taunt him as you put your palette and brushes back in their rightful place.

he moves further into your room, walking over to stand behind you. he’s dressed up in jeans and that black muscle tee you love so much, tattoos on display as his hands go to knead your shoulders lightly.

“you do look amazing.” he compliments.

“likewise.” you reply before meeting his searing gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

he increases his pressure slightly, digging his fingers into your neck in a steady pattern. you already know what he’s angling at and he hasn’t even spoken.

“you know, we could just stay home.” matt suggests with a smirk.

“c’mon, we can’t keep ditching our friends. they’re gonna get suspicious at some point.” you shake your head and stand up, because the massage is starting to feel a little too good.

“nobody cared when we left early last time.”

you cross your arms over your chest and turn to give him a pointed look. “because you convinced them that i was sick.”

“so i’ll just tell them a different lie.” he shrugs.

“oh my god, i am going to this party with or without you, so you better make up your mind before the uber gets here.” you say over your shoulder, headed out of your room toward the stairs.

“such a brat.” he grumbles, but you hear him following you regardless.

“only for you.”

two hours later you’re standing in the middle of nathan’s living room, dancing along with the typical crowd. nick and madi are on either side of you, both bopping around drunkenly to the beat.

you’ve had three shitty drinks at this point and your head feels a bit fuzzy. you’re positive your cheeks are flushed, which is actually kind of nice.

matt was with you minutes earlier, but he’s ventured off to get another drink. it’s selfish that you miss him every second he’s not around.

it’s just nice having him by your side. sure, it was kind of casual at first, and you didn’t think it was going to develop so quickly. but now whatever is going on between you means a whole lot more.

you like when he asks you to spend the night in his room, or when he saves the last can of redbull for you so you don’t go to work without caffeine. you like that he’s been replacing the flowers he got you every time they start die, the way he insists on driving you places even if it’s out of his way.

you just like him, and it’s more than casual. at least it is to you, and you can’t imagine that at this point he doesn’t feel the same.

but you don’t want to be the one to try and put a label on it. quite frankly, it scares the shit out of you, and you’re still not drunk enough to keep thinking about it in the middle of this party.

you see chris a few feet away against the wall, beer in his hand as he chats animatedly with nathan. you know he has what you’re looking for, so you shout that you’ll be back and head their direction.

they both smile at you as you approach, almost perfectly in sync.

“what’s up!” chris leans down a bit so you can hear him better.

“do you still have that joint you mentioned earlier?” you ask into his ear.

he nods happily, and nathan shoots you both a questioning glance. by the looks of his sleepy eyes, he’s probably already crossed.

“we’re going to smoke!” you fill him in, motioning toward the front door.

nathan nods and tells you he’ll stay back, so the two of you shuffle your way out of the living room, trying to avoid bumping into as many people as possible.

you pass the kitchen, and as your eyes scan the people you spot matt huddled in the corner. he’s talking to a very obviously enthusiastic girl, one that you don’t recognize. your stomach drops at the sight of them, and you hate it.

he doesn’t see you, so you turn your head and keep following behind chris. he’ll stop talking to her soon. he’ll probably even come looking for you instead.

right?

the crowd thins as out by the door, and the two of your step out into the fresh air moments later. the street is relatively quiet, and once the door is shut the noise of the party is muffled. there’s nobody else outside, and you’re grateful.

the other townhouses stare at you as chris crosses the short driveway so he can hide underneath the tree in the yard. you follow his lead, watching as he fishes the lighter and joint out of his front pocket.

“keeping it handy, huh?” you joke.

“you caught me at the right time, i just packed it upstairs.” he smiles before putting it between his lips.

the flame burns the end as he takes a hit, exhaling up toward the sky. you pass it back and forth in silence, both enjoying the momentary break from socialization.

chris clears his throat a minute later, nudging at the grass with his toe absentmindedly. “so, i have a question to ask you.”

he looks over so he can hand the joint back, and your hands shake ever so slightly as you reach out to take it.

“yeah?”

“i think matt is seeing someone. do you know anything about that?” he asks bluntly.

you try to remain calm as you shake your head at him, though it seems impossible. you aren’t prepared for this at all.

“uh, no?”

chris smiles just a little bit, like he’s already got you right where he wants you. “so he doesn’t bring anyone over? it’s just the two of you?”

your narrow your eyes at him. “just ask what you want to ask.”

“are you guys together?”

there it is. you were expecting it this time, and it still makes your stomach flip.

“no. i mean, kind of? we’re not like, dating. we’re just…uh…hooking up.” you’re trying so hard to figure out how to put it that it sounds horrible.

he just laughs. “no you’re not. that kid is in love with you.”

your jaw drops slightly in surprise, and this only makes chris chuckle harder.

“what the fuck are you talking about?” you ask him once he finally calms down.

“i’ve seen how he’s acting lately. so fucking goofy, like he’s got his head in the clouds. he only ever gets all dopey like that when he really likes someone, and i kind of suspected it was you.”

it’s hard to find any words. there’s simply nothing on your brain, no coherent thought to be found. chris gives you a playful nudge.

“it’s okay, i won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. but i think you feel the same.” he makes a guess, and he’s very accurate.

you look away as you take your final hit, trying to decide how you want to respond. you exhale the smoke and pass the remainder of the joint back to him.

“okay, you got me. i do want it to be like, a real relationship. and i’ll talk to him about it soon, i promise. just please don’t tell anyone until i do.” you plead.

he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a side hug. you relax into him, and you have to admit you’re a bit relieved that at least somebody knows now.

“of course not. i’m here to support you both whenever you’re ready. everyone else will be too.”

“thank you. that makes me feel a lot better, seriously.” you say truthfully as he pulls away.

“good.” he nods in satisfaction, giving you a loopy grin.

“i’ve mooched enough, so i’m gonna go back inside, but thanks again. i owe you a blunt for the reality check.” you point a finger at him as you back up off of the grass.

“i’ll never turn that down.”

the high has taken over as you spin around to walk normally, and it’s nearly impossible to stop smiling. having confirmation that you’re not crazy for feeling the way that you do is wonderful.

you head back inside the house, almost positive that you’d find matt hanging out somewhere with your friends.

but as you pass the kitchen again, you spot him in the same place, leaned up against the end of the counter with a solo cup in hand. it seems like the girl is even closer than she was before.

your face falls immediately. it makes you angry that it’s been so long and he still hasn’t told her to get lost yet. if he wants to be all possessive over you, then you shouldn’t have to act so cool for him.

you’re certainly not feeling collected right now. and he deserves to know that.

you wedge your way around the people chatting and pouring themselves drinks without a second thought. matt sees you coming before you actually reach him, and he looks confused by your irritated expression.

you wrap your fingers around his arm wordlessly, right in the middle of the nameless girl’s sentence. he doesn’t put up a fight. in fact, he’s practically hot on your heels as you pull him back toward the hall.

“uh—hey! we were talking bitch!” she shouts after you.

“don’t care.” you don’t even give her the satisfaction of making eye contact.

there’s really no point. matt is trailing behind you like a puppy, and that’s all that matters. he clearly doesn’t want to be there any more than you want him to.

“what’s going on?” he asks as you maneuver around the outside of the crowded living room, making a beeline for the staircase.

it’s taped off to everyone except your group, in case of emergency.

this feels like one, considering you don’t even care if anyone sees you together. you don’t respond, you just let go of his hand and step over the thin barrier, glancing behind you to see if he’ll follow.

there’s a curious look in his eye, but he does the same.

you continue up the stairs, making sure he has the perfect view of your ass as you go. you can literally feel him staring, which only stokes the fire.

“are you taunting me right now?” matt asks as you reach the second floor.

this makes you pause, and you turn around so you can wrap your hand in his shirt. you yank him into the bathroom, slapping the light switch on with your free hand.

you close the door behind you, which suppresses the booming sound of nathan’s music playing through the speakers.

“what the hell is this?” you uncurl your fist and shove his chest to put some space between you.

his eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he regains his balance and sets his cup down on the counter. you realize you probably spilled some of it by dragging him around, but that’s not your main focus right now.

“what do you mean?”

“don’t you dare play dumb. you can’t stand it when anyone else even breathes near me, so why would you think that i would be okay watching you flirt with some random girl for fifteen minutes? you either want me or you fucking don’t, matt.” you spit, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.

it’s shocking that you’re being this honest with him, but you’re faded and you’ve been pushed beyond your limit.

no use tip-toeing around it now.

“you think just because she came up to me that somehow means i don’t want you?” he asks, and there’s more of an edge to his tone now.

“how am i supposed to know? we haven’t talked about it, whatever this is.” you wave your hand back and forth between the two of you.

a look of understanding passes over his face. “oh, this is about labels, huh?”

this infuriates you more, because that’s not even the point you’re trying to make. he’s aggravatingly calm right now, like he’s so sure of himself.

“look, if you don’t want to be in a real relationship with me, then fine. i don’t care. but i’m not gonna keep exclusively sleeping with just you if that’s the case.”

matt is silent for a moment, eyes darting across your face. you can see him gazing at your lips, and it drives you crazy.

he takes one step forward, staring you down with those pretty blue eyes. even though your height different is relatively small, it still feels like he’s towering above you.

“are you really trying to tell me you wouldn’t care at all if i wanted to see other people?” he asks quietly.

his face is so close, and you breathe in his familiar smoky cologne. it’s dizzying, being this overwhelmingly attracted to someone.

“of course i’d be upset, but there’s not much i can do about it if you don’t feel the same.” your voice is hushed now too, and you wish you didn’t sound so weak.

matt cups your chin gently with one hand, forcing you to keep your focus on him. your heart is slamming against your ribcage now, begging for some kind of relief.

“i want to be with you so bad that it kills me.” he finally admits.

it’s your turn to be stunned, and you stay completely still as his thumb grazes over your bottom lip slowly.

“i had this whole thing planned, i was going to take you to a fancy little restaurant and ask you out like a gentleman. but you just couldn’t wait, could you?” his voice is husky, pupils blown out in lust.

“i…really?” you ask breathlessly.

“really. so what do you think? you wanna be mine?” he goads with a smirk, gripping your face a bit tighter.

it’s normally hard to swallow your pride, especially with matt, but you’re so vulnerable in this moment you can’t tell him anything besides the truth.

“i do.”

“good, because you already are.” he growls before closing the gap between you, lips crashing against yours.

he tastes sweet, like the soda he’s been mixing with vodka all night. it’s a pleasant mess of teeth and tongue as you deepen the kiss, passionate in a way that you’ve never experienced with him before.

his hands travel down to grab at your hips, pressing against you so your lower back bumps against the sink. you tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling enough to elicit a groan.

it vibrates against your mouth, and you feel yourself throb just from that little noise alone. he’s normally not very vocal, but you bring it out of him.

matt’s hands slide up your body, finding their way under the hem of your sheer lace top. his cold rings press against your stomach as he slowly inches higher, leaving goosebumps in their wake. you let go of him, throwing your hands upwards so he can peel the shirt over your head.

“so fucking pretty, just for me.” matt praises as he tucks your hair behind your ear, attaching his lips to your neck seconds later.

you tilt your head back to give him a better angle, sighing in pleasure as he nips at the soft skin. one hand is feeling up your chest as his teeth dig into your collar, tongue sliding over the marks he’s leaving in an attempt to soothe the irritated areas.

you move your own fingers down between both of your bodies, ghosting them over the crotch of his jeans, palming him just a bit. his dick is already straining against your hand, and he hisses a string of curses into your shoulder.

“no more teasing tonight, i need you now.” he grumbles, already out of breath as his hands travel to undo the button of your pants.

you take the lead and slide them down yourself, tearing your thin panties off with them because you want him just as much. it doesn’t seem fair that you’re the only one exposed, so you tug his muscle tee upwards in desperation.

matt doesn’t protest, he just tosses it to the floor with the rest of your discarded clothes. you let your fingers rake over his skin, down his abdomen and over his happy trail until your fingers meet the waistline of his jeans.

you glance up at him through your lashes as you unbuckle his belt, entirely naked now, and he swears he could finish just by looking at you.

the sensation of your hands skimming against his thighs as you drag his jeans and boxers to his ankles makes him twitch. nobody has ever turned him on the way you do, and it’s frightening how good you make him feel.

but you always enjoy everything just as much, because he’s the best dick you’ve ever had. perfect length, enough girth to stretch you out, and he knows exactly how to move to your liking. matt even keeps it trimmed nicely.

the tip glistens with precum, and you pull your hair back with one hand like you’re getting ready to put it in your mouth.

“no, stand back up baby.” he instructs, and the commanding note in his voice makes you push yourself off your knees, extending to your full height.

matt turns you around so you’re facing the mirror, one hand on your side and the other on your back as he forces you to bend at the waist. your forearms press flat against the cool marble counter, and the assertiveness of it all sends a jolt of excitement right to your core.

his palm comes down on the curve of your ass without warning, just hard enough to sting. you let out a whimper, arching your back more as you gaze at him through the reflection.

he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, smoothing his hand over the place he just hit. his eyes are so dark, so full of desire that it just solidifies the way you feel about him.

“you like that? you want me to be rough?” matt leans over you, cock pressed against you as he speaks into your ear.

“please.” you whine, shifting your hips to try and feel more of him, to feel anything.

he stops your movements immediately and smacks your ass again, this time on the opposite side. it makes you groan in delight, almost involuntarily.

“you’re gonna look at yourself while i fuck you, got it princess?” he says, backing up just a bit so he can take his dick into his own hand and pump a few times.

you nod as you feel him line himself up at your entrance, and you know that at this angle you’re perfectly on display for him.

he pushes himself inside of you in one fluid motion, and you gasp as his fingers squeeze your hip. matt doesn’t give you time to adjust to him like normal. instead he immediately starts to pick up speed, wrapping your hair in his free hand so you can’t look anywhere else besides in front of you.

your lips are parted as you moan, eyes fluttering at the stimulation. you can hear matt grunting behind you, a deliciously dirty sound.

“look at how pretty you are, taking me so well. all fucking mine.” he marvels, rocking your body against him even harder.

skin slaps together, and his pace is making your legs tremble. you can feel the party raging on underneath you, and it’s strangely even hotter in this setting.

“shit, you fill me up so good matt.” you tell him, catching his eyes for a second before he throws his head back.

“fuck.”

he’s hitting it so well, and you can feel yourself tightening around him with every stroke. it’s turning him into an even bigger mess.

“god, if you keep that up i’m not gonna last much longer.” he warns, bucking his hips into you at a slightly different angle.

you cry out at the new sensation, a guttural noise that you didn’t even know you could make.

“i’m so close, right there babe.”

matt listens perfectly, using the hand on your waist to guide you so that you bounce against his thighs in the same spot. you’re a whining mess, and you can’t keep looking in the mirror.

you feel the tears as your eyes screw shut. the fire in your stomach is growing, spreading throughout your whole body. he tugs your roots a little bit more.

“come all over my dick, pretty girl. it’s all yours.”

his words are what send you over the edge, and your body shudders as you feel yourself giving in to the high, releasing all over him.

“fuck, matt, stay inside.” you pant, and he groans loudly.

two more sloppy strokes and you feel him tense, filling you up as he finishes. matt lets go of your hair, dragging his fingers along your shoulders, you back. you look so fucked out, makeup smudged slightly under your eyes, and you both love it.

he pulls out slowly, giving you one last tiny pat on your ass.

you’ve both got stars in your eyes as you stand, and you can feel the wetness pool against your thighs. thank god you’re on birth control. this was a special occasion anyways.

you turn, and matt immediately pulls you in for a kiss. you smile slightly, because you can’t help it.

“come on, i need to get cleaned up.” you pull away slightly.

“fine.” he sighs, but he lets you go regardless.

you wipe yourself off with some toilet paper quickly and flush it while he redresses. you two have been missing for minute now.

you guess it doesn’t really matter. sure, you should probably be discrete about having sex around your friends. but you’re also together. officially.

“so, does this mean i can tell the other girls in your dms to fuck off?” you joke as you put your underwear back on, shimmying into your jeans next.

“you can honestly tell them whatever you want.” matt runs a hand through his hair, smiling at you like a fucking goofball.

you’re just situating your shirt into place when the door comes swinging open, revealing a very drunk nathan. you and matt freeze, completely unsure what to do.

his eyes go wide as he realizes what’s going on, mouth hanging open like he can’t believe it.

“woah. no fucking way”

#matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #fanfic #roommate au #smut

457 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 10 months ago

Text

Usually held in the two weeks after the Olympic Games in the same host city, the Paralympics showcase the best athletes with physical disabilities from around the world competing for their home countries. (The Paralympics are not to be confused with the Special Olympics, which feature athletes with intellectual disabilities.) This year, the Summer Paralympics will take place from August 28 to September 8 in Paris, France.

Quick history lesson: The origins of the Paralympics began shortly after World War II, during the 1948 London Olympics, where 16 wheelchair-using veterans participated. The first official Paralympic Games took place in Rome in 1960 and featured 400 athletes from 23 countries. Since then, the Games have taken place every four years and now feature 4,400 athletes in 22 sports (the Olympics have 32), with 549 gold medals up for grabs.

There are athletes competing from 177 countries (this year’s Olympics had athletes from 184 countries), including 10 countries that have never been represented in the Paralympic Games before, along with representation from the Neutral and Refugee teams. In case you missed it, at the last Paralympics in Tokyo, China earned the most medals, with Great Britain behind it and the US in third.

Since the 1988 Summer Games and the 1992 Winter Games, the Olympic and Paralympic Games have been held in the same cities and venues. Although Paralympians still strive for equal treatment as Olympic athletes without disabilities, there is a large gap in funding between the Olympics and Paralympics.

Where to Watch

This year’s Games will make history as the first Paralympic Games to offer live coverage of every one of the 22 sports played. Like the Olympics, every event at the Paralympics will be available to stream on Peacock if you’re in the US.

If you prefer going old school and watching on basic cable, a select number of events will be airing on the NBC channels NBC, CNBC, and USA Network, along with E!, Golf Channel, and Telemundo, which offers coverage in Spanish. In an effort to make the Games more accessible, closed captioning will be available for every Paralympic event (regardless of the platform). You can also watch highlights and athlete interviews on Paralympic.org.

In the UK, Channel 4 has more than 1,300 hours of live coverage scheduled. Folks can also watch through their streaming service or Channel 4 Sport’s YouTube channel, which will show the entirety of the Games for the first time. BBC, BBC Radio 5 Live, and the BBC Sport website will also air highlights and select coverage. The Paralympics website also has a complete list of where to watch by country.

Opening Ceremony

The Opening Ceremony will begin August 28 at 8 pm Paris time, 7 pm BST, 2 pm EDT, and 11 am PDT. Similar to the Olympics opening ceremony, the Paralympics opening ceremony will be held outside of a stadium at one of the major squares in Paris, Place de la Concorde, and the iconic avenue Champs-Élysées will be transformed into the opening ceremony stage.

The competition starts the following day, on August 29, at 11 am EDT (8 am PDT). Like with the Paris Olympics, the start times will be similarly early and continue throughout the day. The specific timing of some of the events might change, so check the schedule of events on the Olympics' Paralympics schedule webpage.

Blind Football (Soccer)

Blind football is an adaptation of football (or soccer, if you’re American) for athletes with vision impairment played with an audible ball. This men’s competition starts early on September 1 and continues on September 2, 3 and 5, with the gold medal match on Saturday, September 7.

Boccia

Boccia is one of only two sports with no Olympic equivalent. It was originally created for athletes in wheelchairs who have impaired motor function or coordination. To win, each team must get the most balls closest to the white ball called the jack, with athletes allowed to make modifications according to their needs. Men’s and women’s individual games start August 29 and go through September 1, with the gold medal individual matches on September 1 and 2. Mixed pairs and teams start September 3, with gold mixed pairs and teams matches on September 5.

Goalball

The other sport of the Paralympic Games without an Olympic equivalent, goalball is a team sport for the visually impaired and blind, in which players wear special black eye-covering-type glasses so they fully can’t see and are thus more equitable (and honestly, look cool as hell). If there’s anything that the Olympic Games have taught us, it’s that the people go crazy for some out-of-the-norm eyewear. The audience needs to stay as quiet as possible because the ball has bells inside. Thus, the athletes have to rely solely on sound, while they use their whole body to try to block the ball from making it inside the goal. (Lets see Neymar try to do that.) Men’s and women’s games start August 29 with the gold medal games for both on September 5.

Para Archery

The first game played at the early iteration of the Paralympics in 1948, para archery now has men and women’s individual and mixed teams, with wheelchair or standing, and with recurve and compound bows used. Men’s and women’s individual events begin August 29 and continue through September 5, with gold medal matches in individual, teams and with different bows across multiple days.

Para Athletics

One of the most beloved sports in the Paralympics is para athletics, which has been a popular fixture in the games since the inaugural Rome Games in 1960. Today, it spans a wide range of track, jumping, and throwing events, as well as marathons. Because of the wide range of men’s and women’s events, competition begins on August 30 and happens daily with gold medal matches until the Games end on September 8. Check the full para athletics schedule for more specific events’ times.

Para Badminton

Para badminton debuted at Tokyo 2020, although it has been hugely popular for decades. Like badminton, players compete as singles and pairs, as well as standing and in wheelchairs. Group play begins on August 29, with men’s, women’s, and mixed doubles beginning August 31. Gold medal matches take place September 1 and 2.

Para Canoe

The Paralympic Canoe competition features two types of boats: the kayak and va’a (traditionally used in Oceania for travel between islands). Para canoes are basically the same as those used in the Olympic Games, but just have a wider bottom for greater stability. The races begin September 6 with gold medal games on September 7 and 8.

Para Road Cycling

Throughout the years, like many other events, Paralympic cycling has grown to adapt to many disabilities, and uses standard bicycles, handcycles, tricycles, and tandems. In road cycling, there are road races, time trials, and relay events. Both the men and women’s individual and relay events and gold medal races take place daily September 4 through 7.

Para Track Cycling

Para  track cycling is similar to road cycling but takes place on a velodrome track (as the name suggests). Competition is divided into time trials, individual, and tandem or team sprints, using standard bicycles and tandems (all of which can be adapted for the specific athlete). The various track cycling events and gold medal races take place simultaneously August 29 to September 1.

Para Equestrian

Unlike the three equestrian events at the Olympic Games, the Paralympic equestrian program only includes the dressage competition. Para dressage essentially focuses on how well the rider and horse gel, with riders judged on their riding and performance with the horse. All the events are individual mixed, and each competition has gold medal rounds, taking place August 3, 4, 6 and 7.

Para Judo

Para judo is one of two martial arts competitions at the Games. The Paralympics judo follows the same rules as its Olympic equivalent, except it’s practiced exclusively by athletes with vision impairments—and is way more badass, in my humble opinion. (I think I’m allowed to make that assertion since I’m also disabled, don’t come for me.) With the athletes unable to see their opponent, they must use their sense of touch and careful listening—including slight differences in breathing and movement—to sense what their rival may do next. Men’s and women’s matches take place September 5, 6, and 7 and have gold medal matches at the end of each day.

Para Powerlifting

Para powerlifting is a men’s and women’s bench press competition that tests upper body strength where the athletes compete in different weight categories. All of the events are individual and there are gold medal rounds for each competition (which varies by gender and weight class) taking place September 4 to 8.

Para Rowing

A relatively new sport, rowing debuted at the Paralympic Games in 2008. Now, there are five rowing events, including three mixed events. Para rowing rules are nearly identical to those at the Olympics and rowers are eligible for different events according to their gender and impairment categories. The races begin across all categories on August 30, continue to August 31, with final gold medal rounds on September 1.

Para Swimming

Para swimming has remained one of the most enduring sports in the Paralympics since its debut at the Rome Games in 1960. Its popularity is due in part because athletes with all kinds of physical and mental disabilities can participate and doesn’t require any specific equipment. (Prosthetics aren’t allowed either.) Featuring different swims at different distances, athletes compete in breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, freestyle, and medley. As one of the most popular sports, there are men’s, women’s, and mixed events virtually nonstop with gold medal races near the end of every day, August 29 until September 7.

Para Table Tennis

One of the OG Paralympian games, table tennis actually has a longer history in the Paralympic Games than its Olympic counterpart. When it began, it was only open to wheelchair users, although today athletes are placed into 11 different classes based on their physical and intellectual impairments. Men’s and women’s doubles, singles and mixed games take place August 29 to September 7, with gold medal games every day except September 2.

Para Taekwondo

Para taekwondo is a new competition that made its Paralympic debut at the Tokyo Games. Focused on athletes with upper limb impairments, they are split into two sports classes and divided into weight categories. Men and women compete August 29 to 31, with gold medal matches at the end of each day.

Para Triathlon

A relatively new sport introduced at the 2016 Rio Games, the para triathlon is held over the “sprint” distance, which is half the Olympic distance for individual competitions, where athletes swim 750 meters, cycle 20 kilometers, and run 5 kilometers. The competition is divided by men’s and women’s, with medals being awarded for each race September 1 and 2.

Shooting Para Sport

Shooters compete in rifle and pistol events from distances of 10-meter, 25-meter, and 50-meter in men’s, women’s, and mixed fields. Depending on needs, athletes compete in a kneeling position, prone, or standing (or in a wheelchair or shooting seat). The games take place August 30 to September 5, with medals awarded each day.

Sitting Volleyball

Sitting volleyball is pretty much the exact same as the volleyball we know and love, except as the name suggests, is a sitting variation of the sport. It’s played by two teams of six players who move around the court using the power of their arms, along with a lowered net that’s 3 feet high. The games start on August 29 and continue until the men’s gold medal game on September 6 and the women’s on September 7.

Wheelchair Basketball

Originally used for rehabilitation and exercise for World War II veterans—wheelchair basketball is quintessential Paralympics. Now, it’s one of the most popular and beloved sports for wheelchair users around the world. Games start August 29 and go until the men’s gold medal match September 7, with the women’s September 8.

Wheelchair Fencing

What’s more badass than fencing? Wheelchair fencing. In this sport that requires discipline (and ability to not flinch when a sword is coming at you), athletes compete in a special wheelchair frame designed for the sport which is fastened to the floor—meaning the fencers cannot move and are always close to their opponent. Just like the Olympic equivalent, wheelchair fencing consists of three disciplines: foil, épée, and saber. The men’s and women’s matches take place September 3 to 7, with gold medal rounds at the end of every day.

Wheelchair Rugby

Wheelchair rugby is a four-person team sport played in specially designed wheelchairs. It combines elements of rugby, basketball, and handball, with players using a round ball. Because it’s such an aggressive sport, it’s often referred to as “murderball.” Need I say more? You’re gonna wanna watch this one. Mixed games start August 29, with the gold medal games September 2.

Wheelchair Tennis

Wheelchair tennis pretty much follows the same rules of able-bodied tennis, except here the ball can bounce twice before the player hits it back. Athletes are divided into open and quad classes, along with men’s, women’s, singles, and doubles. Games start August 30, with gold medal matches September 4 to 7.

91 notes · View notes

norskheks · 2 months ago

Text

Have you ever wondered what it's like being chronically ill in the US?

I have type 1 diabetes and use an insulin pump. Here's briefly how that works: my pump, which I typically keep in my pocket, has a spot for a cartridge that I fill with insulin, which is attached to tubing, which is attached to an infusion site, which is basically a piece of plastic and adhesive that goes on top of my skin, and a cannula that goes underneath it. These get changed every 2-3 days. (This is not universal; different pumps work differently.) I use a pump because the constant infusion of insulin results in the best control over my blood sugar levels for me (type 1 means my body makes zero insulin).

I'm struggling right now because I only have 2 sets of pump cartridges & infusion sets left (that's 6 days max), and my insurance is refusing to cover them at all. Insurance coverage is often split between medical (like doctor's visits) and pharmacy, which are administered by different companies even under the same plan. So now, medical says pharmacy should cover the cartridges and infusion sets because they're "diabetes supplies" (even though no pharmacy near me carries these supplies and as far as I can tell they are only available from medical supply companies, not pharmacies), and pharmacy says they are not considered to fall under "diabetes supplies" and medical should cover it under Durable Medical Equipment (correct afaik).

Twenty each of these (which lasts 40-60 days) costs about $300. I'm very very lucky that I can spare that right now, so I'm paying out of pocket while I fight with insurance, but on top of that, the medical supply company I get it from says that they haven't received any of the documents they requested from my doctor's office, while the doctor's office says they sent them a week ago. So I asked them to re-send it on Friday, but it has to go from receptionist to nurses and it's a whole process, plus my doctor's office closes at 4:30 on weekdays and isn't open on weekends. So now I'm grocery shopping for low carb meals and snacks so I can stretch the supplies out as long as possible (fewer carbs = less insulin).

My insurance is through my employer (I pay $75/week for it!), and they have hired a company to advocate for insured employees in cases like that. Not because of my case, just because they know that health insurance here sucks so much shit and is so confusing that they knew they would get complaints if they didn't. So I am working with an advocate there, and I have basically had to teach him all about how insulin pumps work so that he understands what it is I actually need. Most non-diabetics have no idea, even in the healthcare industry. (I have read horror stories from fellow type 1s whose surgeons for unrelated issues had no idea how to manage their diabetes while they were under anesthesia and they ended up with dangerously high blood sugar because the surgical staff refused to give them insulin for several hours because they weren't eating, which, that is not how type 1 works!!) But he is now recruiting colleagues to help pore over the details of the insurance plan documentation to figure out how to appeal it.

And to top it all off, whenever I call the insurance or the supply company, it is impossible to speak with anyone who has any decision making power, and they all just repeat the "It's not covered" line no matter how much I try to explain the nuances of the coverage. And then I have to make an effort not to scream at people who are just trying to survive by working a shitty job at an evil company (because that's basically a majority of available jobs). But I can't be TOO calm, or they won't understand how serious it is. So I have to sound upset but not angry, while I am shaking with rage that the system is like this.

Because this is not remotely the first time I have been desperately low on supplies fighting to get prescriptions covered by insurance, sent by the doctor to the pharmacy/supplier, and filled by said pharmacy/supplier, plus shipped by the supplier in a timely manner. I have had to switch the type of insulin I use multiple times because different insurance companies cover different ones. And again, I'm very lucky because all the rapid-acting insulins work the same for me so switching is more of an inconvenience than a real issue -- for some people they don't, and some people are actually severely allergic to certain types of insulin and cannot use them even if their insurance company tries to make them (so the insurance is basically giving them a choice whether to die by diabetic ketacidosis or anaphylaxis)!!

And then people wonder why I take it so personally when they say they're against universal health care. What I hear when someone says that is, "I think this process is fine and good, actually. I think you deserve to stress out and fear for your life and health regularly because of an illness, and I don't want my taxes to go to preventing that." Because that issue is not hypothetical to me. It is literally about me and my life.

If you're still reading, thank you for reading my rant. I'm not asking for help, I'm both very privileged and very knowledgeable and I'll be okay, but I am so so angry and just needed somewhere to fully express my anger. And I wanted to do it publicly because I think it's important for people to know that this is happening all the fucking time in this fuckass country!

And by the way, this has been happening for years and years. I've been an adult for 20 years now (and I've been diabetic for 30 years), and it's basically been happening that whole time. This is not just an issue with the current administration or party; this is a problem with the whole damn system. It is a system that is hoping that I fall through the cracks so pharmaceutical companies (including supply companies) profit, or that I give up and die, so the insurance companies can save some money.

#and to top it all off I'm also autistic so it is even MORE exhausting to do this than it is for allistics (which I assume is already VERY)#type 1 diabetes #t1d #chronic illness #chronically ill #united states healthcare #fuck the usa #fuck ableism #fuck capitalism #long post #please do not tell me about omnipods being carried by pharmacies #I know and I used to use them but I had to switch because they irritate my skin way too much #which is the same reason I'm continuing to use dexcom g6 until they literally stop making them #bc I've heard bad things about the adhesive on the g7 sensors

15 notes · View notes

janeyseymour · 1 year ago

Text

La Cosa Nostra- pt 3

Cowritten with @schemmentis

Part 1. Part 2.

Summary: You're interrogated... meanwhile, Melissa worries and heads to the one place that she can usually find comfort.

WC: ~2.85k

You step into the dark and solemn offices that you’re sure you’ll be stuck in for hours on end, and you sigh when you see the two agents from the night before.

“Glad to see you decided to show up,” Danik says coldly. “Almost out of time too.”

“I have two minutes to spare,” you reply cheekily. “And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take those two minutes to call my mother-in-law to arrange to pick up my daughters from school today. Since I couldn’t be home last night, my wife had to stay home with the girls instead of prep for her restaurant, and I promised her I’d get coverage for pickup duty.”

“Go with her,” Danik instructs Shaw. The agent follows you down the hall as you dial your wife’s mother.

“Y/N?” the older woman picks up.

“Hey Ma,” you sigh into the phone, speaking English instead of Italian like you usually would. If you had gone into your mother-in-law’s native tongue, that would only look more suspicious to the FBI. “Listen, I have a favor to ask of you... I need you to pick up the girls from school today.”

You silently pray that she responds to your English in English, and for once she does. “I always love an excuse to see my grandbabies, but why can’t you or Lissa?”

“I have some things to take care of with the salon while Mel is handling her restaurant today,” you explain vaguely. “Please, Ma.”

“Okay, okay,” your mother in law chuckles into the phone. “God, you two are such workaholics.”

“It’s all for our girls,” you laugh softly as you think of them. “It’s all for the girls.”

“What time are they done with school again?”

“3:15, but the lines start to get long and the girls don’t like to wait, so Mel and I usually try to get there around 2:50,” you explain.

“2:50, got it,” Melissa’s mother notes softly. “Okay. Take care of yourself, Y/N. I don’t need you overworking yourself to the point of a heart attack and leaving my daughter to take care of those two rascals on her own.”

It’s funny that she says that, because if you die in the near future, it most certainly won’t be because of a heart attack. You let out a laugh that only you know the meaning of. “I’ll do my best, Ma. Thank you.”

“Anything for the four of you,” the woman on the other end of the phone smiles into the phone before hanging up.

You look at the agent who was listening to your phone call. “Was it really necessary that you be here for that?”

“We have every right to be tracing you right now, Mrs. Schemmenti,” Shaw states. Then he lowers his voice. “But I also found it a bit overkill for me to follow you.”

He leads you back down to where you had entered, and then he and Danik lead you and Sammy into the back room.

Try as Melissa might, she’s allowing her worry for you to consume her at work. She’s made a few mistakes in terms of scheduling already today that thankfully her manager on duty caught before the final schedule went out to her employees, her stock inventory was almost entirely all wrong, she almost didn’t balance the checkbook correctly (and that would have only made your family look all the more suspicious), and she nicked her fingers while dicing various vegetables.

“Boss?” Valentina, the manager on duty asks quietly as the redhead curses in Italian under her breath. “If you don’t mind my asking, is everything alright?”

“Just peachy,” your wife replies rather snippily. “Just peachy.”

“If you need to take the day off to regroup,” the meek and mild woman tries to offer. “You know the restaurant is okay in my hands. I handled it all last night, and I can do it again today if you need it.”

“And why would you suggest that?” Green eyes glare into brown ones.

Valentina twists her fingers together nervously. “You just don’t seem to be here mentally today, and I totally understand.”

“You could never,” Melissa grumbles.

“I have off days too, and it’s okay to admit that you need the day,” the sweet woman says. And when she knows that her boss will retort something about being the owner, she quickly adds on, “even if you are the owner of this restaurant.”

Melissa blows out a breath as she expertly wraps the fingers that she had almost sliced off (and thank God she hadn’t. Not only would it be terrible to have to call you and explain that she was in the ER and she would be out of commission for a bit, it would look like someone was targeting her and had her fingers cut off).

“You could have a day to yourself to relax without those little cuties of yours climbing all over you, I know your wife is working at the salon right now... just a nice relaxing day to laze on the couch and do nothing.”

Melissa toys with the idea of leaving the restaurant for the day- she knows Valentina could handle it, and she did handle it last night. She knows too though that the picture perfect afternoon Valentina is painting isn’t at all the one she would have. As nice as it is to imagine returning to your home, and curling up on the couch- maybe with that book she’s been meaning to read; it wouldn’t happen.

She sighs, slowly nodding. “A’right, a’right. You talked me into it, Val.” She mutters, stepping past the other woman. “But you need anythin’, even somethin’ small, you call me, hey?”

Melissa waits until Valentina has confirmed thoroughly that she’ll call at even the smallest inconvenience before she leaves out the back of the restaurant. Her eyes take a last sweep over everything in the kitchen and storeroom before she fully leaves. She won’t be able to have the relaxing day Valentina convinced her of, but she has more important business she can take care of instead.

She makes the short drive from her restaurant, pulling the car you share into a different parking lot. She puts it into park, taking a deep breath. She hopes Sammy is at least doing his job and protecting you. If he isn’t, she’s going to make sure he learns. She doesn’t care how high up in the family he is. Shaking the thought of Sammy, or you, as much as she can, Melissa steps out of the car and locks it as she makes her way across the asphalt.

She carefully ascends the few concrete steps outside, tugging the glass door open to step into the small atrium. She steps up another short set of stairs before she tugs the heavier wooden door open. The previously muffled sound of the church organ plays fully in the air once the door is open, the scent of incense filling her nose. Melissa steps into the back of the church, her late entrance to this morning’s service lost beneath the noise of music and parishioner’s singing.

She dips her fingers into the font of holy water affixed to the wall. Her hand makes the sign of the cross over her upper half as she, mostly, genuflects at the side of the last pew. Melissa slips into the seat at the aisle, patiently waiting as the hymn plays out. After another few moments, the organ’s music lowers and slows as the singing ceases. The audience of the mass takes their seats once more.

“Mornin’, Babs.” She greets softly the woman that reclaims the seat next to her. The priest is summarizing the mass’ lesson for today and giving one last prayer up at the pulpit.

“Good morning, Melissa.” Barbara returns amicably, though she doesn’t hide her surprise at seeing the redhead. “I can’t recall when you last attended a Thursday service. Even just at the end of it.”

The redhead looks sheepish at being caught out at being present only for the end of this mass; that and the fact she certainly doesn’t attend as often as Barbara does. “Well.” Melissa sighs. “Sometimes a little extra prayer is needed, huh?”

“Is everything alright, dear? With Y/N? The girls?” Barbara questions, glancing at her friend worriedly.

“As much as it can be.” Melissa hedges. “More, huhm, business problems, guess you could say.” She confides quietly as the final procession begins. The priest and the altar servants making their way down the main aisle beneath another hymn.

Normally, Barbara would be back on her feet. Participating in the procession and singing the closing hymn loud and proud. Melissa and her had had plenty of conversations like this. Paused between hymns and pieces of the Mass. Today, Barb stays sitting. She sees the worry on the redhead’s face.

“I hope not with the restaurant.” She says as her hand gently grips one of Melissa’s. “I know how much that place means to you. I think you were happier the day you opened than when you married Y/N.” Barbara teases with a half smile, attempting to lighten the mood.

Melissa shakes her head, returning the squeeze of Barbara’s hand and smiling just a little at her tease. “No, the only day I might have been happier than my weddin’ day was the day my two babies were born without complication, an’ you know it. But uh, it’s the salon. I know it’s sort of…our second thing, yeah? I know it wasn’t a dream of Y/N’s like the restaurant is for me but it still means a lot, y’know? Without the salon we would've never met, had the twins…The restaurant would have never happened without it. I just…I dunno, Barb. I don’t know what to do. Y/N is in trouble and…my hands are tied. I hate it.”

Barb pulls Melissa’s hand to her lap, gripping it between both of her own now. She holds it there for a long silent moment. Melissa doesn’t question, having experienced this before. The last time had been when you were pregnant and she was worried something would go wrong with how at risk you were. Barb had held her hand and prayed. For Melissa and you both. She does the same now. The day that she had prayed for you and your unborn babies was over five years ago now, but it all feels so familiar- the sneaking into a Thursday mass late into the service, the back pew, the soft tone that the other woman had used. It takes her back to that day just briefly before she too closes her eyes and prays; she prays for your safety and for you to come home to her tonight alive and in one piece, for your girls to never have their innocence ripped from them and never have to become a part of the side hustle to stay alive.

Melissa isn’t sure how much or what exactly she believes in anymore. Of course she was raised religious. She’d never speak the doubts she has anywhere where her mother or nonna could hear. Still, with the life she’s found herself in, it’s hard to find much faith. She might not be a man on the streets, a member of the family with more…messy assignments. Even so, she’s seen plenty. Just like she knows you have. Faith is hard to be strong in when you’ve witnessed the darkest parts of the world.

When you’re in the life; you’re in. Melissa doesn’t need to be a contract killer or a capo or consigliere. She’s family. When you’re family, you’re privy to every side of it and just like blood family; you pick your battles. You pick what is worth really lending your voice to because if it isn’t actually worth it you’re risking much more than an argument over dinner or estrangement at holidays. You’re risking your life along with everyone you love’s lives. Just like blood family; there are things you pretend you don’t see- things that are never spoken about but simply are.

Melissa sighs, a soft and quiet thank you when Barbara pats her knuckles. A silent sign that she’s finished praying and is here if Melissa wants to talk more. She lightly squeezes Barb’s hand before she’s pulling her arm back to her own space. “I’ll still see ya Sunday. Just figured a check in might help.”

“You know where to find me.” Barbara assures. “You don’t have to wait to meet me at Mass either, you know.”

“I know, it’s just one of the few free times I get.” Melissa answers. She squeezes the other woman in a quick hug before she steps out of the church the way she came.

Once she’s shutting the car door behind her again, she’s anxiously checking her phone. Nothing. It’s only been a couple hours but she had hoped with Sammy with you he’d manage to get you through the process much faster. She turns the key in the ignition to start the car once more. If she’s stuck waiting hours again, and doesn’t need to worry about your girls, she’s going to do the next best thing she can. Get whatever information she can from each and every one of her contacts.

“No comment.” You mumble, crossing your legs as you attempt to get comfortable in the metal chair. You glance at Sammy, sitting to your right. He’d instructed you to say nothing else so long as agents were in the room with you. Though you both know the room is being recorded even at the moments you’re left alone.

By now, you’ve rolled through both Agent Shaw and Agent Danik being both good cop and bad cop. They’ve practically given themselves whiplash with each being your friend one moment and then tag teaming with the other to switch sides to being an enemy. They claim they have evidence that you were directly involved with Bobby’s murder- irrefutable evidence.

The only problem with that is you’re not a hitman. You’re not one of the people anyone of the family would call for a kill. You knew the hit was coming; that much is true. Though you don’t admit to that, of course. Yet you had nothing beyond knowledge to do with it. If you didn’t have Sammy sitting next to you, you’d have likely laughed the fifth time they claimed you were the one that killed Bobby.

You remember the night well. It was near Christmas. The twins were only two years old. You and Melissa had taken them to her mother’s and had watched your large family, both blood-related and otherwise, coo and aw over them both. The girls absolutely ate up the attention, acting as if you and Melissa didn’t always fawn and fuss over them. At the time Bobby was killed, you were on the way to passing out with Mel on her mom’s couch; grateful that there were so many other eyes watching your girls that meant you both could sneak a little rest. And once the two of you had joined the world around you again, Uncle Dominic had informed the two of you lowly that business had been taken care of. At the time, you just nodded sleepily into your wife’s chest, thinking that all of your issues dealing with that man had melted away and you would just be able to enjoy this little life that you’ve built with your wife and two girls. How wrong you had been.

You know you had nothing to do with Bobby. Still, you stick to what Sammy told you. You repeat ‘no comment’ until the two words start to sound like gibberish to you. Finally, the agents step out once again. They play nice, offering water or food for both you and Sammy. You both decline.

You try to stretch out your legs beneath the table, annoyed by the knot between your shoulder blades. “Sammy,” You say the man’s name, dragging out the syllables to show your annoyance.

“They got nothin’, kid.” He answers. “They’re throwin’ shit to the wall and seein’ what sticks.”

“If I’m here until three am again, I ain’t payin’ you.” You grumble.

“You don’t pay me anyhow.” Sammy shoots back.

“You and I both know that even if my wife and I don’t pay you monetarily, you get paid in something better,” you roll your eyes. “Melissa’s branzino. You’re about two steps away from really pissin’ me off, Gaetano.” You warn lowly.

His hands raise, both palms outward as if showing he is unarmed. “Ay, don’t bite my head off. I’m here to help you, huh? Just stay patient a little longer. I’m tellin’ ya, they got nothin’.”

What feels like ages later both Agents you can now easily recognize return. They each reclaim their seats across the table from you. A folder of papers set down in the middle. Shaw pushes them across the table to you, flipping the folder covering the papers over.

You glance at the forms, your brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

“Search warrants.” Shaw answers. “For the salon and your home.”

TAGS, and let us know if you want to be added!: @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @sunsol-22 @dvrkhcld

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary fanfic

134 notes · View notes

fuck-customers · 1 year ago

Note

Managers👏fucking👏communicate👏challenge!👏

I've asked many, many, many times that if managers are going to ask me to come into work on my days off to provide the necessary information. They refuse or "forget" or only provide partial information. So if I'm not given all of this information initially, I am not responding.

1. What time do they want me to clock in at? "ASAP" or "whenever you can be here" can sometimes be acceptable answers, in instances where I'm extending my already scheduled shift, not coming in on my day off. But if that is the answer, then I definitely need to be provided with more information. Such as...

2. How long will the shift be? I will accept answers in two forms: "from x time to x time" and "come in at x time for a x hour shift" This is actually a surprisingly big one, because I learned the hard way that if I didn't confirm ahead of time, I got suckered into a 2 hour shift. A complete waste of time. Or the opposite- I end up getting roped into an 8 hour shift but wasn't given the information ahead of time and couldn't pack a lunch and now I have to waste half of my lunch break buying food during lunch rush.

3. What department? Ok so I clock in and go....where? At my store, we are all cross-trained in all departments (or we're supposed to be- I am at least- so we can fill in wherever needed) I need to know what section of the store to head to. And depending on the department, I need different tools. For example, if I'm a cashier, I usually don't need to grab a box cutter. But if I'm stocking, I need one to open shipping boxes. Also, I hate register and I want the option to decline ahead of time.

I just received a text that simply says "are you available to come in?" which meets 0/4 of the necessary information requirements, so I will not be responding.

(Just to be clear- I have repeatedly explained to all members of management over multiple years that I need ALL of this information in order to determine if I can cover a shift. It's not like I made up secret rules in my head and magically expect everyone to read my mind. I have been very clear and consistent about needing this information. So no information=no coverage from me)

Posted by admin Rodney.

75 notes · View notes

rosearcanaeum · 6 months ago

Text

(Ten) people I'd like to know better

Tagged by: @screechingfromthevoid <3

Last song: Far From Me by Chase Noseworthy is just on repeat. Sad boy Vax and perfect for my range!

Favorite color: it really depends on context honestly. But the most general is soft pink.

Last book: 😅 I've been struggling through Nein Eyes of Lucien for a while.... more honestly its Call of the Netherdeep and Explorers Guide to Wildemount. I truely read far more fanfic than anything else.

Last movie: I watched Night at the Museum for the first time this week. It was waaaaaay better than I ever imagined. I knew it was good and funny. It was also incredibly sincere and I can't get enough of that.

Last show: speaking of sincere, I'm about halfway through Frieren: beyond journey's end. And holy shit! I have never seen any media with a character who views and interacts with death the way i do. Its pretty heavy as shows go but its trustworthy. (I have a hard time with new stuff most of the time. Cr is one exception and this is too apparently)

Sweet/spicy/savory: no joke I've eaten salt before lol. But i prefer combos or all 3. Sweet spicy is underrated.

Relationship status: I live with my queer platonic partner. Its still just buckwild to me. As a kid i hated the idea of living with a partner cuz i didnt want so many aspects of what i was told that looked like. But hey guess what, y'all can decide what your relationships look like. We have separate rooms, are not sexually involved, rarely even touch tbh. And we love each other very much and want to grow old together in a house with cats.

They're touch averse and I'm sensory seeking. My fun Sunday night (out dancing) is their nightmare. But because we are who we are and how we understand and communicate in our relationship we rely on each other for only things that are available. I'll tell them all the dumb shit i see and do on Grindr and we'll sit on the couch and knit together.

Also my brain nearly explodes everytime I realize not only do we do couple stuff, we have couple friends we do couple stuff with. 18 year old me would have never believed you if you told them.

Last thing I looked up: I looked up the caffeine content of the thai tea concentrate I got my partner to see if i could try it. And shockingly i should be able to. Still gonna eat first and be careful though.

Current obsession: I'm pretty spread out rn, unusually. Ive got a sweater im excited about. And I'm on my 3rd attempt at a dorym water bottle sleeve I'm designing. This one should work now. Honestly dorym is probably no. 1 on my list. I shipped that back in exu, along with a bunch of stuff cuz I'm a delightful multishipper. So i feel particularly excited about dorym finally taking off. But also that while dorian was always looking to orym if anything else had come along he was there for the ride. I love robbie so so much. He is such a good character storyteller!

Looking forward to: today im hanging with 2 friends im usually in a larger group with so thats gonna be fun. Looking forward to baking off the beef wellingtons i made for my partner for xmas. And im looking forward to being able to work full time again in the new year. Ive been on part time for health reasons and stayed because i was spending hours on the phone fighting for insurance coverage. Now that both a done i can work more. I love my job and its a particular kind of boredom that i get when i cant work. Lol speaking of, im looking forward to the holidays being over. The office closures normally screw us but now im only working thurs fri for the next 2 weeks and I'll have try really hard to keep busy enough. At least my partner has 2 of the days off with me!

No pressure tags; not sure I can get to 10 and please dont feel obligated but I'd love to see yours (if you havent already. Ive been avoiding spoilers a lot recently so may not have seen it): @vigilante-apologist @standbyyourmantis @soedblackchaos @forestthechonkykitty @corrrvid @local-redhead-bookworm and luddles looks like you did already do this.

Thats all i got. If you see this and want to do it, consider yourself tagged!

19 notes · View notes

serenadeonacanoe · 23 days ago

Text

Waiting for Something (Namjoon x OFC) Chapter 2

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Original Female Character Genre/Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Pining, Emotional Realism, Slice of Life, Media/Celebrity Dynamics, Bangtan are truly good friends to OFC, travel, Seoul, this has a bit of it all... Word Count: ~126k | Chapters so far: 45 Status: Incomplete Yes, this is a bit of a monster of a fic. It was my first one, five years ago. At the time I just wanted to get my mind off Covid, no editing, just writing every day. Now I finally found time to edit it all, my goal having been to finish before BTS returns. So you have been warned: This covers quite a few years and is full of tropes and cheesiness. I hope you enjoy. =)

More already on AO3

Summary: It starts as a joke. A red carpet wink, a viral clip, a late-night show stunt. Ollie, a rising music journalist, never meant to become the girl who accidentally flirts with Kim Namjoon on live TV... and definitely not the one who ends up texting him afterward.

But what begins with playful banter and harmless curiosity slowly becomes something else. Through late-night messages, missed opportunities, chaotic schedules and quiet moments of honesty, Ollie and Namjoon find themselves circling something that might be real. If only the timing weren’t always slightly off.

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

Chapter 2

I had realized long ago that there weren't enough hours in the day to focus on music I didn't like. Sure, good music journalists were critical as well, but from the time I started writing for a music magazine in college, I had focused on what I liked. Even if it sometimes hurt. My articles also went beyond music and covered all of pop culture. God, I hadn’t written about anything but Hamilton for two weeks in 2015 before someone gave me a talking-to, telling me I could maybe slip in some of my usual indie rock and pop coverage again.

Some people hated me for it. Called me more of a professional fangirl than a proper music journalist. But others seemed to like me for my enthusiasm and I knew that when it came to getting my own show, enthusiasm had been more important than a stellar music taste. That had changed a little. There were artists I didn’t care for but still had to cover because they were blowing up. What came as a surprise was how much fun it could still be. Forcing myself to really listen during prep sometimes made me like their work. And sometimes the people were just fascinating.

It had definitely started like that with BTS. I appreciated the international influence on the American music scene. But growing up on Arctic Monkeys and The Strokes, dance routines weren’t something I had ever gotten used to. I was too young for the Backstreet Boys. Then there were these seven guys everyone was talking about. My knowledge of K-pop was limited. A few names I remembered, but that had been years ago.

Still, I wanted to understand. One night, Lauren and I watched every BTS music video we could find. A bottle of wine and half a pizza later, we were sitting on the couch at 3 AM. There was just so. much. content. What started as research ended in utter happiness. The words "just so precious" were said so many times they lost all meaning.

"How... what happened?" Lauren asked as we stepped outside for air.

"I don't know. But it can't happen every night. Promise me we won’t fall deeper into this hole because... man. It’s bottomless."

Lauren laughed, nodded, then shook her head. "But... Jimins voice is like that of an angel. And I love Jins dumb jokes so much... and..."

I covered my ears laughing and pretended to run. "Stop!"

I had sprinkled hints in my show but never done a full piece on BTS. They’d been recording an album while the show took off. But now it was award season, the album was out and they were starting a world tour.

They were everywhere. And for the next few days, they kind of followed me around in a way. Friends and coworkers kept mentioning my little incident. When my ratings went up the next two weeks, the network suspected it was Army-related. It was almost mind-blowing how one comment could move more than all my interviews that day. That bothered me a little. But then I reminded myself I had gotten here on my own and there were perks. Also, this would blow over. Everyone on late-night shows claimed to be a fan these days. Soon no one would remember that time my face had been a meme for like two seconds.

But I should’ve known better.

Two weeks after the awards I was invited to a late-night to talk about my show. Everyone on my team was freaking out. Especially me. This was IT. It made no sense, but the show’s management made clear it was just a few minutes on a slow day. Someone had canceled and I happened to be in town. Not the words you want to hear, but it didn’t matter. We had 24 hours to find clothes and prep some talking points. Looking back, I was just dumb. It was obvious why they wanted me there. I was flattered. Even if my team had suspicions, nobody said anything.

I think I did well that night, but I was nervous. I tried to make a joke out of it. Near the end, the host said they had a little surprise. I looked at him puzzled.

"We heard you’re a fan of a certain band..." Screams from the audience. My heart sank. If someone had asked for my favorite band, honestly, I wouldn’t have said BTS first. But of course, that’s who he meant. I played along, acted shy, smiled a lot.

Then came more screams.

They had tried to sneak up on me, but you can’t sneak up on Army in the audience. I turned and there they were. Grinning. I let out a surprised squeak before bursting into laughter and hiding my face. The host started talking to the band while I was still recovering.

"It’s a good surprise, I gather..." he said as they came forward to shake my hand. Namjoon was last again and his smile was amused, apologetic and maybe a little proud.

"Great surprise." I was a bit out of breath as I made room for Jin and Namjoon on the couch while the rest sat behind us.

No words were needed. It was suddenly obvious why I was here. It might have hurt if everyone hadn’t looked like they were rooting for me. The host asked them questions about the album and tour. Then he turned to me, grinning.

"So you think you’ll see them live?"

I nodded. "If I can get tickets."

"We give you tickets." Jin said, giving me a thumbs up.

"Well, I guess that’s sorted then..." the host said. "But before you go... got a favorite member?"

The way he said it and the audience’s laughter made it clear this wasn’t a serious bias question. They were making fun of me.

I sighed, scratched my forehead and asked myself how I’d ended up here.

"I do."

"So who is it?"

Namjoon, sitting beside me, tried not to laugh. "Yeah, who is it?"

I smiled at him for a second before turning around. Yoongi was behind me.

"Suga!"

More laughter. Namjoon acted like I had broken his heart. Yoongi grinned. Someone shouted "It’s a lie!" but I couldn’t tell who.

A moment later I was being ushered offstage. My assistant Harriette gave me a huge hug.

"Why would you do that to me?" I laughed. "Great promo. Business is a bitch. And I thought you might actually enjoy it. I think you did." She was right.

Backstage I drank a whole bottle of water while watching the rest of the interview. I could have left, but didn’t. It was my first big TV appearance. Even if it hadn’t happened for the reasons I’d dreamed of, it made sense in a way. I was happy.

The host came over to thank me. I thought BTS had been rushed out a side exit, but they came in one by one. Polite, smiley, a little removed. "Guess we’re even now..." Namjoon said as he passed me. "Didn’t think you were one for revenge, but alright..."

Their manager appeared, trying to move them on. But they lingered. Talked to guests and staff. Had a drink. They looked as relieved as I felt. These shows must be nerve-wracking no matter how many you’ve done. I asked some of them to video call Lauren. She looked like she was having a heart attack when she picked up. Eventually they were told they really had to go. We said goodbye.

I was about to flop on the couch when Namjoon turned back and jogged over. Jungkook noticed and smiled but stayed where he was. He stood in front of me. So tall. I didn’t realize my mouth had opened slightly. But I didn’t have to say anything. He smiled, awkward again. "So... I figured the reason you never called after we saw each other last time was because... you couldn’t. Because you don’t have my number. So I thought... I should probably just give it to you."

It was clearly a joke. But he looked nervous. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Uhm... okay... yeah, sure..." I couldn’t speak properly. I handed him my phone. He typed in his number and handed it back. Then hurried after the others.

I looked down at my screen.

Namjoon, sorry about tonight.

On the ride home I was exhausted. Lauren was already freaking out when I walked in.

"Do you think it’s actually his number?" "Why the hell would he give you a fake one? That makes no sense." "No... it doesn’t." "Just text him and you’ll know."

I looked at her, unsure. A bit annoyed that after a big night for my career, I was having a conversation that wouldn’t pass the Bechdel Test. But it was what it was.

It took me an hour to decide what to say.

Me: [12:24 AM] Soo... is this actually Namjoon then? Namjoon: [12:39 AM] It is. Me: [12:41 AM] I think I need proof.

A few minutes passed. Lauren and I started panicking. But then an image appeared. Namjoon, holding a mug with the tv show’s logo. It was dark. He looked like he was on a bus.

Me: [12:51 AM] Okay, I’m convinced. Namjoon: [12:52 AM] And how do I know this is Olivia?

"Fucking hell, look at those dimples..." Lauren was still staring at the picture. I pulled out the same mug from my purse and held it up to my face. Lauren snapped the photo.

Namjoon: [1:02 AM] Alright, yeah. I think that is the girl RM apparently not so low-key flirted with a few weeks back.

Lauren and I just looked at each other and burst out laughing. Then my phone rang. For a second, I thought it was Namjoon. Nope. It was Jackson. The ex who’d hooked up with a friend. I don’t know why I picked up. He talked fast, said he’d just seen the show, that he always knew I’d make it. I couldn’t get a word in. Lauren came back and I mouthed "Jackson."

She put down the wine bottle, took my phone and yelled, "Oh no no no, fuck off!" then hung up. I collapsed on the couch, laughing, nearly crying. What. a. day.

"We are getting wasted tonight, we have all reason to celebrate."

#bts #bts fanfic #fanfic #namjoon fluff #namjoon smut #rm #bts smut #namjoon #namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon #kim namjoon x reader

8 notes · View notes

dariaslookalike · 1 year ago

Text

Needing Miller pt 2.

Summary: It's a shit hole of a world that you're living in, and it gets even shittier when you're ambushed in your sleep. It's a slippery slope that leads you from being tucked cozily in your sleeping bag to joining the raiding group lead by the most infuriating (and intimidating) man you've ever met. You need to survive, above all else- either in this group (without smacking its leader over the head), or in the world alone after somehow escaping. Easier said than done, when your mind loses all sense of focus, tactics and skills the second that Joel Miller rolls up his sleeves and shows his godforsaken forearms.

Warnings: Violence, swearing, adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: thought i should note while this is joel as a raider it is *not* dark joel- he is not going to be anything dubious to our protagonist- at the end of the day that is my sweet husband joel miller, not someone who is going to swing on a woman in the name of romance.

also more often than not i'll be updating this first on AO3 because i am like bugging out about tumblr formatting [desperately trying to make a masterlist]

Next Chapter: Pt 3

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

You don’t sleep for long. It’s hard to. The pain that’s shooting from your cheek and the tension held in your body means that after a few pitiful hours, you jolt awake. The only thing you can be thankful for is that you’re so exhausted, no dreams visit you.

Night has completely fallen onto the mall now, and everything is cast in harsh shadows from the fire still burning off to the side. Soft hues of orange and yellow light up the pale floor, and the shadows are darker, deeper, than if they were made just by the moonlight above.

You force your breathing to still even as the memories of the day flood back in. Where you were. What happened to you.

You twist in your sleeping bag, and Ryan glances down at you, still sitting on the edge of the fountain. You stare at him for a second before you clear your throat. You sit up, the material around you swishing.

“Thanks for staying. And stitching me up.”

“It’s fine.” Ryan nods. “Only a few hours- I can stay longer if you want to go back to sleep.”

“No. I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

His eyes flick to yours, but he doesn’t question you. He just nods again, and pushes to his feet, and begins walking over to sit by the fire.

You nod to yourself. He was good at stitching you up. To stay true to his word and watch over you. But the both of you clearly aren’t interested in being friends. He knows you’re only here because Joel let you be here. You know he was only tending to you because Joel made him. An odd, forced arrangement that you weren’t going to push any further. Right now you wanted to focus on staying alive in this group, not making friendship bracelets.

You settle against the fountain, still sitting in your sleeping bag. You can see everyone from here. While it’s later than before, only one person remains sleeping, and the rest circle around the fire. A nocturnal bunch. It makes sense. Sure, the light of day gives you the benefit of sight, but now, when the moon’s high up and everything is washed in darkness, it gives them coverage, security.

Your hand reaches up, and edges across the thick gauze pad taped to your face. It’s wet on the outside, and you know you’ll have to change the dressing soon if you’re able to. Your cheek is blooming with heat. You remembered it when you grazed your knee as a kid. Warm throbbing pain that was your body’s way of trying to kill any infection. Right now it feels like your body is trying to melt away your face. The skin beneath feels sharply prodded and stretched by the stitches, but you tell yourself that’s good. Better to feel that pain and hurt and heat than be the one with their head blown off.

Your hand drops from your face.

Terry. That was his name. Carving your own knife into your face. His head splattered across the floor. Your shoe crunching into his ribs with a kick.

You don’t know his dead friend's name and you won’t ask for it either. But in your mind, you still see the drop of his body to the floor, the slow, self-assured lowering of Joel’s gun as he tucks it back into his waistband. Two bullets. Two men. You’re only making up for one of them, and you wonder if he thinks you’re even more indebted to him now.

You clench your jaw. No. Joel was going to let you go- your hand wasn’t forced in joining this raiding group. You weren’t repaying a debt. You were trying to save your hide from raiders who wouldn’t just cut you, but carve you up and play with the pieces.

But Joel did you a favour. Spilled the blood of two of his men as a result of you. Took you in when he could have shot you for your limited supplies or left you to become septic.

And…you didn’t have any place better to be. You had run from the QZ; from the loss. The despair. The control. Everything that had happened, you had to get away from it. Head East. That was all you were doing.

It was a crack pipe dream thinking that you’d just keep heading East. Reach the coast. Swim abroad against the current and the tides and the waves and find a place on a continent you had never visited.

But something in your gut knew you were never going to make it to the coast; knew you weren’t truly following that day dream. Knew that you were going to get bit. Or caught. Or hell, step wrong, twist your ankle, and starve to death because you couldn’t walk the rest of the way.

You could make this work. Like Joel said, you’d do what he tells you to and you’d live. That was all you needed to do right now. Live.

You nod to yourself and get acutely aware that you aren’t alone anymore; that you couldn’t mutter to yourself without someone hearing now or hum under your breath if you got bored. You focus, and let your eyes trail to the campside. There’s two more people in the group than you counted before.

You focus on their forms. You see Ryan; the dirty blonde of his hair, your blood on the cuff of his jacket. He bumps his shoulder into the man sitting beside him, and they laugh about something you don’t hear. You don’t know the name of anyone else but spend time taking in their faces; rooting it to memory. All men. You’re not sure what that means for the group. Did they think they had no use for women outside of abuse and simply discarded them before you had shown up? Or were they just close knit, unwilling to let anyone into their protective circle? Neither option filled you with confidence.

Your gaze catches on Joel. He’s here now; you wonder where he walked off to, though you know you’re not entitled to ask. He’s facing the fire, and you’re able to take in his side profile. The sharp slope of his nose. The intense heaviness of his brow. The tightness to his lips, his jaw, his temple; as if even here, sitting at a fire with the group he commanded around him, he wasn’t at ease.

Your eyes sweep up and down him. He’s got a heavy, tanned jacket on, even that close to the flames. A pair of dirtied jeans. They hug his legs, and you think about him, wrapping himself around you just to stop your rabid attack. The thought swirls in your stomach, and becomes a flurry when you take in the slouch of his shoulders, the firelight catching on his hands that are clutched together in front of him.

He was handsome, and you feel nausea rise at the thought. When was anyone ever handsome to you? He was older than you, more brutal than you, more experienced than you. He should revolt and disgust you. Your logical reasoning does absolutely nothing to convince the pounding in your bloodstream to calm. You swallow. You have to forcibly drag your gaze away from him, force yourself to settle onto the new figure beside him.

But the man beside him is grinning, and already staring at you. You flush, realising you’ve been caught looking at Joel for what felt like hours. The man ducks his head closer to Joel, chuckling and saying something too quiet for you to hear. Joel doesn’t laugh, and instead his head spins, and he looks directly at you.

You sink further into your sleeping bag, and instantly look away, training your eyes onto the entrance of the mall, the slope of the walls, anything but him.

You flick your eyes back momentarily, wanting confirmation that you weren’t still being eyed. Instead, you catch the man beside Joel patting his shoulder and pushing himself to his feet. You stare at him, and shake your head slightly; praying to yourself that this wasn’t happening.

The man smiles, and he leaves the fireside, walking over to you. Joel’s staring at him, that notch in his brow again, before he scoffs and faces the fire again. You force yourself to look at this man, take him in; don’t cower or slink back; face him head on.

He’s got dark, black hair that’s curling below his ears, and the same carved nose of Joel. He’s wearing some kind of flannel and jeans, and he brushes his hands off on them as he comes closer, and sits down beside you.

You back yourself up, sliding against the fountain edge to put some distance between you but you still keep your eyes trained on him. Distance, not retreat. The man notices, but he simply smiles and sticks out his hand. You don’t shake it, and he laughs, withdrawing.

“I’m Tommy. Joel’s brother.”

You nod, and whisper your name back to him. His lips curl into a smirk. He’s got the same confidence as Joel. But Joel was domineering, commanding, authoritative. Tommy just came across as cocky. He taps his own cheek, eyebrows raised. You’re reminded of how Joel did the same thing, warning you that you’d bleed out if you left.

“What happened there?”

“Take a guess.” You bite.

He shrugs, unfazed by the harsh tone of your voice and huffs out a breath. “I was the one who cleaned out Terry.”

You feel anger burn white hot in your chest at the thought of him. His entitlement to you, his assault to your face. You swallow the anger down, aware that you were still being watched. You think of the body dragged out only metres away from you. You weren’t aware that Joel had directed the same to be done with Terry. It makes sense. You don’t want to attract rats, or other raiders who got it in their mind that the nearby group was smaller, weaker. Or something more vile than a rat, sniffing out after the death and decay in hopes to spread it’s virus.

Tommy’s gaze finds yours, and he studies you, as if trying to take you apart and sort through what the pieces meant.

“I know his ugly face was ‘cause of Joel- no one else that headstrong to put a bullet between his eyes. But he had a nasty shoulder. Skin clawed off his wrist.”

“What, were you friends with him?”

You resisted the urge to pick under your nails, to clean out anything left of Terry. There’s a beat of silence, and then Tommy’s lips spread out in a wolfish grin.

“No. Was gonna put a bullet in ‘im myself if Joel didn’t. Just wanted to say that I’m glad he suffered before. Especially if he cut up your pretty face.”

You nod, and turn your head away; half to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks and half to hide Terry’s assault. Tommy tilts his head to follow you, maintaining your gaze.

He smiles, eyes scanning over you. “Don’t worry- I dig chicks with scars.”

You laugh and it’s so unexpected that even you blink in surprise. You compose yourself, but Tommy’s smile is just wider, accomplished.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what my life goal is, for raiders to think I’m hot.”

Tommy’s jaw twinges at the word ‘raiders’, but he just shrugs. “Well, congrats then- mission accomplished.”

You huff out a chuckle, shaking your head. You flick your eyes back to him and allow yourself to examine him closer. His hair is combed back, and he’s has a slight stubble to him. As if he was a man who preferred to be clean shaven, but had been without a razor for a bit too long; a contrast to his brother. Smooth skin, cheekbones that drag your eyes down to his lips. He’s older than you but you struggle to pinpoint by how much.

He smiles as if it’s the easiest thing in the world; as if you were both just at some bar, chatting with each other, and the world hadn’t ended; as if you hadn’t done things you weren’t proud of and he hadn’t probably done worse.

“Seems ya to like to stare at Miller men.” He says, teasing.

He has the same Southern drawl, but his voice is higher, not as weighted. You blush and turn away but he waves his hands in defense.

“‘It’s not embarrassin’. I get it- I’d stare at him too to take in my handiwork.” He waggles his thick eyebrows. “Or were you starin’ at him for some other reason?”

You scoff, and turn back to him; glaring as the anger in your chest rears its head back up. “Handiwork?”

He smirks, nodding. “Yeah. Saw the scratches on Joel’s neck.”

He reaches up, gesturing his hands clawing down his neck. “Just a shame you didn’t give him a black eye too- would’ve paid money to see it.”

You should feel embarrassed, or wary to be discussing your earlier grapple with Joel’s brother. But instead your lips tug up. You look at Tommy from the corner of your eye.

“I kicked him in the balls. If that’s worth anything.”

His eyes blow wide and his mouth drops open a bit until he laughs, tipping his head back. “God. No wonder he was so moody when he came and got me.”

He chuckles to himself before he looks back at you. “That’s good. If you can kick him in the nuts and get away with it, you’ll make it here. No doubts.”

You nod, not sure how to respond. Did you want to make it here, wherever here was?

The conversation flows on. Tommy gives you the names of everyone, pointing them out around the fire. You’re able to laugh with him, and offer a little bit to the conversation.

You’re not sure where you stand with this man. How truly trustworthy he is beneath his charming facade. But Ryan’s antiseptic and skills were something you’d need to keep close by before you were fully healed up. Until the wound on your face became a scar, you couldn’t leave.

So, when he asks about where you came from, what you’re doing all the way out here, you feed him little pieces of information- not enough for him to gather the full story, but enough that he leans in closer; as if deciding to trust, or at least entertain, you too.

You don’t register that Joel’s walked over to you until Tommy’s gaze flicks upwards, and you follow.

Joel’s glaring down at his brother, and Tommy’s easy smile slips off his face; replaced with a hard carve of his lips and tense hunch of his brow. The charming man fades away, and in his place is a hardened, now seemingly older man. A raider- not a man you met at a bar that didn’t exist anymore.

There seems to be unspoken words between the two, communicated in the flare of Joel’s nostrils, the square of his shoulders, the clench of his fists. You simply watch the exchange, enraptured and feeling like you’re intruding. Finally, Tommy sighs, and his gaze slides to you, a bashful smile put back in place.

“Nice meeting ya, Dollface.”

You laugh, and when he offers you his hand again, you reach out, shaking it. He lingers, holding onto you, and you’re stuck staring into the dark of his eyes; you can see the firelight flickering in them.

Joel clears his throat, and Tommy rolls his eyes, shooting you a smirk as if to say Can you believe this guy? But he pulls back, pushing himself to his feet. He raises to his full height, and stares at Joel- more unspoken conversation, and now it’s Tommy talking in the set of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the twinge in his temple. The tension snaps and dissipates when he simply shakes his head, brushing past Joel and returning to sit by the fire.

Joel scoffs at him, and shakes his head. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down, taking Tommy’s seat beside you.

“What was that?”

His jaw clenches, and he keeps looking across to the fire. “Nothin’.”

“Yeah, sure seemed like nothing.”

Joel’s tongue darts out to lick across his lip and he shakes his head slightly. “None of your business.”

You force yourself to exhale through your nose, to not slap him across the face. “Sure- but I was having a nice conversation with him. Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot of that to go around here amidst all the shooting.”

He scoffs, and finally turns to you fully. His face is half cast in light from the fire, and the thought catches in your throat that Tommy was only sitting here a minute ago and didn’t look half as handsome as the man in front of you.

Joel glares at you, the notch in his brow deeper. “Those two needed to go- not gonna have some fuckin’ punks walking around like they make the rules.”

His eye dips down to the bandage on your cheek and you wonder if he sees the knife stabbed into it as much as you still feel it. He drags his gaze back to yours, hissing. “And Tommy only wants to get in your pants. Nothin’ nice about the conversation.”

Your eyes widen and you scoff, words slipping out before you can stop them. “Bite me.”

He scowls, lip tugging down. “Real creative.”

“What?” You demand, leaning forward, fire licking up inside you. “Am I supposed to sit here and think of a fucking essay when you tell me all your brother wants to do is fuck me?”

Joel’s brow furrows, and he clicks his teeth. “Watch it.”

You huff but you’re left with a moment of tension, and it leaves you with flashes of images- Terry’s head splattered across the floor. Your wrist nearly broken by Joel’s hand. His gun glinting at his waist.

But you also see the obedient turn of heads. Tommy’s annoyance yet subordination.

You’re angry. Angry that you were so exhausted you had to sleep. Angry that you weren’t prepared more in that fucking shop. Angry that you got caught. Angry that you got stabbed. Angry that you’re stuck with this group when you were doing just fine on your own before you met them. Angry that the man beside you is talking to you like you’re a child. You yield to the fire inside you and scoff.

“Fuck off Joel.”

His eyes widen and it’s the same minuscule, near-unnoticeable change that reveals his shock. But he just clenches his jaw, showing more restraint than you had. “Sure got some gall.”

You run your tongue along your teeth, and his eyes track the movement. “I ‘had some fight’, right? Thought that’s why I’m here.”

His eyes stay trained on you, and his gaze is heavy, stern. “Just ‘cause you can run your mouth doesn’t mean jack.”

Your eyes dip to his neck, and you see what Tommy was talking about. Where you had scratched him earlier, there is jagged lines down the smooth column of his neck, some speckled with blood. Your eyes flick back to his.

“Yeah?”

His nostrils flare and it’s the only indication that he knows exactly what you were looking at. He snarls, and leans even closer.

“Tomorrow we’re on the move. You slip up, you fuck up, you don’t have any of that ‘fight’ in ya, and you’re done for.”

You clench your jaw but you don’t flinch back, instead holding his gaze. “Sir, yes, sir.”

He scoffs and is the first to lean back, shaking his head. “You’re gonna learn some respect.” He pins you with a glare. “Don’t ever mouth off like that in front of anyone- or you’re gonna wish I left you for dead with that knife in your face.”

You swallow, and your cheek burns in pain and shame. You clench your hand.. Force yourself to feel the strain of your bones where he had nearly crushed them and the nails digging into your palm instead of reaching across and slapping him as hard as you could.

You could see the imaginary line you had to toe. Not subordinate enough for him to step on you and treat you like shit. Not insubordinate enough for him to put a bullet between your eyes. Tell him to fuck off when you needed to. Bow your head when he told you to.

So you just nod, and turn from him, leaning back against the fountain. You had clearly pushed enough of his buttons tonight, and you weren’t ready to push anymore. Yet.

He huffs beside you, and turns away, facing back to the group.

Finally, after what feels like tortuous hours of uncomfortable silence, he clears his throat. “You ever used a gun?”

You look at him from the corner of your eye but don’t turn to him. “What?”

He scoffs beside you, as if repeating himself is his own personal hell. “Have you ever used a gun?”

You swallow, and your hand slides in your sleeping bag, thumbing over the hilt of your knife. “Yeah. Got taught in FEDRA’s school.”

He turns his head at that, maybe just realising that you didn’t simply spawn into existence in this mall. That you had a life. A school. Maybe friends. A family. That you had gotten out, gotten this far by yourself.

He tuts. “‘T’s not gonna do you shit then. I’ll teach you tomorrow as we go.”

You swallow, tilting your head slightly to look at him. “Tommy can do that. Or Ryan.”

“Already sick of me, Newbie?”

You don’t say anything, and he leans in closer, eyes narrowing.

“I brought you in. ‘M responsible for you.”

You turn back to him fully, eyebrows raised. “You said I was free to go. I joined. I’m not some sick puppy you dragged in to fix up.”

His tongue runs along his teeth beneath his lips. “Whether you like it or not, it’s cause of me that you’re here and not bleeding out in some fuckin’ shop.”

You resist the urge to bite your ruined cheek. He’s right. You know it. You can feel the debt you owe to him thrumming between the two of you.

“So, what? You teach, and then I can stay out of your way?”

“Sure,” He snaps, eyes dark. “You learn to shoot a gun properly, and I won’t have to talk to you again.”

You clench your jaw. “Great.”

“What’s wrong, Dollface?” He hisses the name. “You should be jumping for joy.”

“What’s your issue?” You snap, reeling on him. “You take me in, get my face fixed up and now you’re pushing me for a fucking fight. What is it? Seeing how long it takes for me to snap, how long until you can put a bullet between my eyes too?”

He huffs, and shakes his head, fury evident in the clench of his jaw. “‘M not testing you.”

“So what is it?” You push, glowering. “Can’t stand the thought of your brother getting some ‘cause I told you I’d bite your dick off?”

His eyes flick towards you, and he scoffs. “No. Just don’t get why you’re buddying up to him. You’ve gotta learn something.” He hisses. “Anyone who’s made it this far, who’s survived, didn’t do so cause they were fuckin’ nice.”

You glare at him. “You don’t think I learned my lesson from Terry? From your crew?”

You jut out your chin, and his eyes snag on the bandage across your face. You know what he’s thinking- that you’re never going to be able to forget that lesson. Something like pity flashes through his eyes for a second before you see him chew his cheek for a second, as if physically biting back his response. He takes a deep breath, and then another, before he looks back at you.

“Don’t get it twisted,” He says, eyes dark and foreboding. “Terry wasn’t good. But a Miller,” He huffs, "is a different kind of bad. Stay away from Tommy.”

You swallow, and almost want to laugh at the dramatism; but something in his words is ragged, raw. True.

You clench your jaw, levelling your gaze with him. “And what about you? You said you’re responsible for me now. Miller.”

His lips tilt down but he shrugs, nonchalantly. You scoff.

“So what? Tommy’s some big bad wolf I should steer clear from, but you’re my guardian angel?”

He mirrors you, scoffing and crossing his hands across his chest. You hate the stupid flex of his forearms and the way your eye catches on the shadow. “Nowhere near that. But I’m not gonna let you jeopardise my crew until you can prove you can handle your own.”

“You brought me in.” You hiss, throwing his own words in his face.

“Exactly,” He snarls, lip curling. “I brought you in and if you fuck up, it’s on me.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears. “So you teach me to not fuck up- And then you won’t have to talk to me again. That’s our deal right? I do as I’m told and I get to stay. Nothing more, nothing less.” You say, repeating his words from earlier again.

His jaw flexes, but he nods.

“Can’t wait.” You hiss, turning away from him

He doesn’t leave. You can feel him practically thrumming with annoyance and anger at how petty and childish you were- but he doesn’t leave.

You’re his responsibility now, hisses the small voice in your head. You want to tell it to shut up. To understand that you could have left, still could if you wanted to; but you chose to be here, because otherwise you would have died two streets away with a raider robbing your boots off your cold feet. Hell, you might have made it a week before the dirt and rubble and spores sunk into your wound and you died a feverish death.

But you don’t. Because you know that you owe Joel- owe him for the bullet in Terry, the bullet in his other insubordinate, the stitches in your face; the protection and food and shelter you’d get now in this desolate waste land of a city. That was the deal. He provides you with the mockery of a good life in this wasteland, and you do as you’re told.

And you know that Joel is responsible for you. Killing two of his own men, even if it was for disobeying his rules, because of you was a threat to his domineering authority. You, your actions, your slip ups, your fuck ups, would all be a reflection on him.

He was responsible for you and you owed him. Two truths that coexisted in this twisted partnership you had found yourself in.

So you don’t tell him to fuck off again and to go back to the fire. Instead, you lay on your side, back still against the fountain, and tug up your sleeping bag to your chin. Your head is closest to Joel; enough that if you tilted your eyes up, you’d be able to see the underside of his jaw, his cheekbones, the messy top of hair. Right now your gaze could only find the solidness of his thighs.

You think of the quick draw of his gun, his unflinching gaze as he blew someone’s head off for the second time that day. You wonder if he meant it- if he was a different, but wholly worse evil than Terry.

You don’t think you want to find out.

He can watch your back tonight, teach you about guns tomorrow, and the day after, you would make sure you keep as much distance between the two of you as possible.

The pain is still throbbing, but it’s becoming an accepted, familiar sensation in your body. It dulls in the background of sleep.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfic #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #raider!joel #raider!joel x reader #dariaslookalike fic

71 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

Text

Red, White & True: Election Day in New York, Pt. 3 [17/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 5.8k Summary: Everything draws to an end, and results are coming in.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to friends to true love

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 3 - 7:52PM - FIFTEENTH FLOOR SUITE, THE PLAZA HOTEL]

A handful of states close their polls at 6pm, and so as you sit up in the suite eating dinner with staffers and your parents, you’re starting to see a few spots on the map change from grey to red or blue. Kentucky and South Carolina have gone red; Vermont, Virginia, and North Carolina are in the blue; and nothing has been projected or called for Steve yet - who will show up in green on the map. The campaign spent a lot of time jumping in and out of Georgia since it would be a key swing state for everyone, and their polls closed at seven, but it will likely be hours before things are definitively called there.

With three major contenders, a candidate only needs a minimum of 34% of the ballots to take their votes in the electoral college in forty-eight of the fifty states.

Your father passes you a plate of appetizers from the elaborate spread catering has set out. In true Plaza fashion, every morsel looks like a miniature work of art, but your appetite is fickle as you watch the electoral map with one eye while trying to maintain conversation with the others in the room.

"You've barely touched your food," your mother observes, her voice low with concern. "You need to keep your strength up. It's going to be a long night."

"I know, I'm just nervous." You gesture vaguely toward the television where Anderson Cooper and Jake Tapper are holding court with a robust cohort of political analysts and thought leaders, debating and analyzing all the developments so far. In addition to the presidential race, there are Senate and House races that will determine how things will stack up in Congress.

She puts a hand over yours with a knowing smile. "I remember your father before his first big promotion decision. Couldn't eat for two days."

"That was different," your father protests mildly, though his eyes twinkle with amusement. “Nothing close to a presidential race.”

On the television screens throughout the suite, CNN's John King stands at his "Magic Wall," the giant interactive electoral map that has become a fixture of election night coverage. The camera catches him mid-sentence as he zooms in on the Midwest.

"—and we're just getting the first results from Indiana now," his voice carries over the ambient conversation in the room. "With sixty-two percent of precincts reporting, we can now project that Indiana will go to Independent candidate Steve Rogers."

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to the screens as a section of the map flashes and then fills with green—the color the networks have designated for your campaign.

"Indiana," King continues, tapping the state with practiced precision, "with its eleven electoral votes, becomes the first state to be called for the Rogers-Young ticket tonight. This is significant, folks. Indiana has traditionally been a Republican stronghold in presidential elections. The last time it went Democratic was for Barack Obama in 2008, and that was considered a major upset at the time. For Rogers to take Indiana suggests that the independent campaign has successfully carved into traditional Republican territory."

A cheer erupts from the campaign staff, high-fives and hugs exchanged across the room. Jake punches the air, his face alight with vindication.

"I told you the ground game there was working!" he exclaims to no one in particular. "Those extra rallies in Fort Wayne and Evansville paid off!"

Your father wraps an arm around your shoulders, giving you a squeeze. "First one on the board," he says, his voice thick with pride.

"It's just one state," you remind him, though you can't help the flutter of excitement in your chest.

"But it's a sign," your mother adds, her eyes bright. "People are listening."

Steve makes his way over to you, navigating through the celebrating staffers. When he reaches you, he leans down to kiss your cheek, his eyes bright with cautious optimism.

"One green state on the board," he murmurs against your ear.

"Eleven electoral votes closer to two-seventy," you reply, referencing the magic number needed to win the presidency. "Only two hundred and fifty-nine to go."

With the first green state on the board, it’s no longer a pipe dream that Steve could win states. But the question is will he - or Monroe or Peterson - earn the two hundred and seventy needed to win the presidency outright?

The network cuts to a commercial break, and you take the opportunity to check your phone. Messages have been pouring in all night—from friends, former colleagues, even a few celebrities who've publicly supported the campaign. But one text catches your eye—from Oprah.

Indiana's just the beginning. Keep watching Ohio. I've got a feeling.

Ohio would be an incredible get. But so was landing an interview with Oprah, who’s now optimistically texting you on election night.

You glance across the room at your husband - former Captain America - speaking to the current Captain America and shake your head ever so slightly.

How is this your life?

The evening progresses in a blur of projections and anticipation. Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Governor Peterson’s home state of Michigan remain too close to call, but Florida's thirty electoral votes flash red at 9:15 PM, sending a wave of grumbling and groaning through the room. Connecticut and Delaware come in as green to give Steve ten more votes between them.

Maine - one of the two states that can allocate votes - doles out three blue to Monroe, but Steve takes one green from their share. Missouri, New Jersey, and Rhode Island come in for Steve, but it’s still only 50 votes with Peterson at 36 and Monroe taking most of Democratic New England to sit at 63.

Steve paces, he stands in quiet consternation by the window, dives into data with Jake, and cycles back through it all again and again. Jake is adamant that Steve shouldn’t appear in public again until it’s time for his speech - that visits to the crowd in Central Park or in the Grand Ballroom downstairs should only come from his VP candidate Charlie Young, Charlie’s wife Zoey, or you.

You find yourself drifting to Steve's side as he stands alone by the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline glittering against the night. His reflection in the glass shows a man deep in thought, shoulders tense despite his attempt to appear composed.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask softly, sliding your arm through his.

He turns slightly, offering you a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just wondering what the Founding Fathers would think of all this. Three viable candidates, a former Avenger on the ballot..."

"I think they'd be impressed by how far we've come," you reply, leaning into his warmth. "Democracy evolving, adapting."

"Or they'd be horrified that a super soldier could potentially be president."

You squeeze his arm. "They'd see what I see—a good man trying to do what he can for his country."

Before Steve can respond, there’s another joyous uproar when Illinois and its nineteen votes go green for Steve, bringing him up to 69 votes and surpassing Monroe for the first time tonight.

The energy in the room spikes with each new state called. Aides rush back and forth with updated numbers, tablets displaying real-time data from key precincts. The clink of glasses and nervous laughter punctuate the tension as everyone watches the map slowly fill with colors.

Sophia weaves through the crowd toward you, tablet clutched in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. Her face is flushed with excitement, eyes bright with the adrenaline that's keeping everyone going.

"We just got word from our team in Ohio," she says breathlessly, leaning in close so you can hear over the chatter. "The numbers from Cleveland and Columbus are stronger than we projected. If the trend holds—"

Just then, Jake calls out from across the room, "Pennsylvania's been called by AP! We took those nineteen, baby!”

The room erupts at Steve taking his first swing state off the board from red or blue, with people jumping and hugging, including yourself and Sophia.

In your excitement, you don't notice Sophia's drink tilting precariously until it's too late. Cold liquid splashes across your silk blouse, the dark cola creating an instant stain that spreads down your front. The icy sensation makes you gasp, jumping back reflexively as the room continues celebrating around you.

"Oh my God!" Sophia's eyes widen in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I can't believe I just did that." Her face flushes crimson, mortification replacing her previous excitement. "I'm never this clumsy!"

"It's just a Diet Coke," you assure her, grabbing a nearby napkin to try and dab away at the liquid - but it’s reflex more than anything. You know it won’t help in this case. “I’ll go change, it’s fine.”

Sophia grimaces in sympathy. “I think there’s a change of clothes already laid out for you in case something like this happened.”

You laugh. “It’ll be good to stretch my legs anyway. I’ll be right back.”

You slip out of the suite without drawing any attention to yourself - except for your Secret Service agent, who falls in step with you - and head down the hallway.

With Pennsylvania in the pile with Kansas, Louisiana, and Iowa that came in just before, Steve’s up at 108 electoral votes.

Peterson’s red has surged up to 90, but Monroe’s blue have held steady at only 63.

So a little Diet Coke spill cannot dampen the buzz of impossible excitement you’re feeling in your bones.

The agent remains in the hallway once you key in the door. The Secret Service has had this floor on lockdown all day, precluding a need to check your room.

You kick off your heels immediately, then step in front of the mirror to survey the damage and laugh to yourself. It’s bad. But months on the campaign trail mean your team has extra clothes ready to swap out for you or Steve at any given moment. And, sure enough, when you step through the small sitting room into the bedroom of the suite there’s a garment bag laid across the king size bed. You begin to unbutton your blouse, then blink and turn back to look at the bag again.

“No…” you say out loud to no one, as you step closer to the foot of the bed. “What…?”

Why is your wedding dress here? Surely it’s not some symbolic nod they want you and Steve to make about your arranged marriage… That would be insane.

There’s a click of the lock at the door, and then Steve’s voice. “Sweetheart?”

Your heart rockets all a-flutter in your chest at the way the endearment rolls so naturally off his tongue.

“In here,” you call, your voice wavering slightly as you stare at the wedding dress.

Steve appears in the doorway, and you immediately notice he's changed out of his navy suit into a crisp white shirt and dark slacks. His eyes find yours, then follow your gaze to the garment bag on the bed.

You note that he doesn’t look surprised at all.

Instead there is a curious mix of determination and vulnerability in his expression that makes your breath catch.

"Steve, why is my wedding dress here?"

"Because I was hoping you might wear it again," he says, his voice low and steady despite the emotion you can see flickering in his eyes.

"Wear it again?" you repeat, confusion clouding your thoughts. "Tonight? For what?"

Steve crosses the room slowly, his movements deliberate as he comes to stand before you. The soft light of the bedroom casts shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the earnestness in his eyes. He takes your hands in his, and you're surprised to find them slightly trembling.

Or is that you?

"Sophia's drink was no accident," he says with a half-smile, and suddenly everything clicks into place—the furtive conversation with Bucky and Sam, the meaningful glances, Sophia's uncharacteristic clumsiness. "I needed a moment alone with you."

You shake your head in disbelief, but warmth is spreading through your chest as realization dawns. "In the middle of election night?"

Steve's thumb traces gentle circles on the back of your hand, his touch grounding you as the world seems to tilt on its axis. "I couldn't think of a more perfect time."

Steve takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours.

"These last months have been the most extraordinary of my life," he continues, his voice gaining strength. "Not because of the campaign or the people or the possibility of making a better future for the country, though all those pieces have been incredible in their own right, but because of you. Because I've had the privilege of falling in love with my wife—really falling in love with you—day by day, moment by moment."

Your heart swells at his words, eyes misting as you see the raw sincerity in his gaze. This is Steve Rogers—not Captain America, not the presidential candidate—just the man who has become your whole world.

“You were asked to be my wife,” Steve says, matter-of-fact, “and not even by me, but now I want to ask if I can be your husband?”

"Steve," you breathe, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

"Tonight, the country is deciding if they want me as their president, but I already know what I want. I want you, for the rest of my life, not because a strategy demanded it, but because I love you. Because I choose you. Because when I look at my future—whether it's in the White House or back at our brownstone in Brooklyn or anywhere on this earth—the only thing I know for certain is that I want you beside me."

Emotion makes your throat ache as you watch him gradually sink to one knee before you. The gesture is so achingly traditional, so sweetly earnest coming from a man who has lived through a century of change, that tears spring to your eyes.

"Steve Rogers," you whisper, cupping his face with your free hand, "are you proposing to me on election night?"

"We've done everything backwards," Steve continues, a gentle smile playing at his lips. "Had our wedding before our courtship, built a life together before we even knew if we wanted one. But I'm asking you now, marry me again tonight?"

“We’re a little busy!” you laugh breathlessly.

He cocks his head to the side. “No, we’re not. Polls are still open on the West Coast, and in Alaska and Hawaii. Unless you’re refusing me…”

You can hear the tone of sarcasm in the last part, but you’re still quick to exclaim, “No!” practically shouting. “I mean, yes, of course I want to marry you again," you say, your heart soaring. "But when you say tonight, you mean…"

"I mean right now." The smile that breaks across his face is radiant, making your heart flutter. He stands, pulling you against him in one smooth motion, his arms encircling your waist.

"But how? When?" you ask, your mind racing with logistics even as joy bubbles up inside you. "We can't just—"

"We can," he interrupts gently. "It's all arranged. The Terrace Room is ready for us. Your parents and our closest friends are here. Since technically we’re renewing vows, we don’t need an ordained officiant, but Sam knows a chaplain who works with the VA, and he’s waiting for us downstairs."

You blink in amazement. "You planned all this? During the most important night of the campaign?"

"This is the most important night of our lives," Steve corrects you, his hands warm and steady at your waist. "Not because of the election, but because it's another beginning for us. Our real beginning."

Your eyes search his face, finding nothing but absolute certainty there. This man who has faced down armies and aliens and impossible odds is looking at you like you're his greatest adventure yet.

"What if you win?" you ask, your practical side making one last attempt at reason.

"Then we celebrate twice," he says simply. "And if we lose, we still have something beautiful to mark this night."

The logic of it strikes you suddenly—the perfect symmetry. Your marriage began as a political calculation, a strategy to win an election. Now, on election night itself, you have the chance to transform it into something chosen freely, with full hearts and clear eyes.

"Yes," you say finally, your voice strong and sure. "Yes!”

Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sheer audacity and romance of his gesture. "But what about—"

"The campaign? Jake has it under control. The results? They'll come in whether we're watching or not. Speeches? It’s still anybody’s game. We have at least an hour." His hands cup your face tenderly. "This is our moment. Everything else can wait a little while."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, half disbelief, half pure joy. "You're impossible, you know that? Planning a surprise vow renewal ceremony on election night."

"I prefer the term 'strategic,'" he counters with a grin.

You shake your head, marveling at this man who you imagine will continually find ways to surprise you for the rest of your lives together.

You lean in, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I love you, Steve Rogers."

"I love you," he echoes, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss that promises forever.

You're about to deepen the kiss when a furious pounding on the door startles you both. The hammering is so intense it seems to rattle the entire door in its frame.

"Steve!" Bucky's voice booms from the hallway, urgent and breathless. "Open the damn door!"

"Coming!" Steve calls, releasing you reluctantly.

The romantic bubble has been pierced by whatever emergency has Bucky sounding so frantic. Steve strides quickly to the door, yanking it open to reveal Bucky standing there, chest heaving as if he's just sprinted the length of the corridor.

"Georgia, Texas, and Ohio," Bucky announces, his eyes bright with something between disbelief and triumph. "All three just came in green. Within five minutes of each other."

Steve's face goes blank with shock. "What?"

"Texas?" you whisper, the impossibility of it making your voice falter. "Texas went green?"

Bucky nods vigorously, his metal hand gripping the doorframe so tightly you can hear it creak. "Forty electoral votes from Texas. Santos practically went door-to-door for us the past five days.”

"How?" Steve breathes. "Texas has only failed to go red with Carter in the seventies, Bartlet with Hoynes as his VP, and Santos in ‘06 and ‘10.”

“Wait,” you interject. “Georgia and Ohio, too? Georgia and Ohio?”

Bucky beams. “Another big swing state in the South and the state that almost never gets it wrong when it comes down to who ultimately wins the presidency.”

“Republicans never win without taking Ohio,” you add, all of you knowing way more about electoral college lore at this point than many political operatives and politicians.

“And, like I said, forty from Texas. With seventeen from Ohio and sixteen from Georgia. That's seventy-three more in our column. We're at two-nineteen and counting."

Your jaw drops and Steve shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you just say two-nineteen?”

“Oh, you missed New York - but we banked hard that you’d take your home state - and Wisconsin came in after you left, too, giving you twenty-eight and ten respectively.”

Steve leans against the doorframe, his face a mixture of shock and dawning realization. "Two hundred and nineteen electoral votes?"

"Just fifty-one more to go," Bucky confirms, his eyes gleaming. "Jake's losing his mind up there. The networks are scrambling. No one saw Texas coming."

You grab Steve's arm, dizzy with the implications. "We're actually doing this," you whisper. "We're actually winning."

The enormity of it hits you both at once. What started as a long-shot campaign, an idealistic bid to change the nature of American politics, is now on the verge of making history. The independent candidate who many dismissed as a symbolic protest vote is now within striking distance of the presidency.

Bucky watches your faces with a mixture of joy and impatience. "So, are we still doing this thing or what? Because the window of free time has narrowed significantly if you’re still… wait, did you ask her?"

Steve nods, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question there.

"Yes," you say firmly, squeezing his hand. "We're absolutely still doing this. I don't care if every state in the union turns green in the next twenty minutes—I'm marrying you again tonight, Steve Rogers."

Steve's face breaks into that radiant smile that still makes your heart skip, and he turns back to Bucky, who’s grinning almost as much as Steve. "Wedding's still on. Tell everyone to meet us downstairs in fifteen minutes."

Bucky grins, already backing away down the hall. "Better make it ten! And I'll keep Jake from having a coronary when he realizes you're still going through with this."

As he disappears around the corner, Steve closes the door and turns back to you, his expression a mixture of wonder and determination.

"Two hundred and nineteen electoral votes," you breathe, still processing it.

Steve laughs, pulling you into his arms and spinning you around once, the movement lifting you slightly off your feet. His joy is infectious, electrifying the air between you.

"I don't even know what to say," he admits, setting you down gently. "But right now, I care more about being your husband—your real husband—than I do about being president."

His words make your chest swell with emotion. In this moment of potential political triumph, his focus remains on you, on the relationship you've built from such unlikely beginnings.

"Two-seventy might happen tonight," you whisper, "but either way, we're happening right now." You run your hands up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Steve kisses you then, a kiss filled with promise and certainty. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright with determination. His fingers trail along your jawline, tender and reverent. "I should go change. Sam's got my suit in his room."

You nod, reluctant to let him go even for a few minutes. Steve takes the wedding band off your finger, promising to give it back to you next time he sees you. "Something borrowed," he murmurs.

"Ten minutes," you remind him, brushing your lips against his one more time before stepping back.

"Ten minutes," he confirms, his eyes lingering on you as he backs toward the door.

When he's gone, you turn to face the wedding dress, freeing it from the garment bag and running your fingers over the delicate fabric. It seems like a lifetime ago that you first wore this—a political arrangement between virtual strangers, both of you nervous and uncertain. Now, the thought of wearing it to marry the man you love fills you with a different kind of butterflies entirely.

There's another knock, and this time it's Sophia and your mom, coming to help you with your wedding dress.

"Thank God you're here," you say, relief flooding through you as you open the door. "I need to get ready in less than ten minutes."

Your mother brushes past you, already reaching for the dress. "Well, we can't have you late to your own wedding. Again." Her eyes twinkle with amusement.

Sophia follows her inside, the back up cosmetics bag she’s carried around ‘just in case’ for you during the campaign in hand, a determined expression on her face. "I still can't believe I had to feign clumsiness as part of a presidential conspiracy," she laughs, setting the bag down on the dresser. "Though I have to admit, spilling that drink on cue was harder than any campaign strategy I've had to execute."

"You were very convincing," you assure her, stepping out of your stained blouse as your mother holds up the wedding dress.

"I can't believe he planned this," your mother says, shaking her head in wonder. "And I’m so glad we get to really be here for you this time,” she adds.

You squeeze her hand, not wanting to relive the past. “It’s different for all of us this time.”

The three of you work quickly, and you do make it downstairs in ten minutes. Peterson takes his home state of Michigan and both Dakotahs for twenty-one more points in the red column.

But that doesn’t matter as your father meets you at the entrance of the Terrace Room, which has been transformed into an ethereal wedding-scape.

[11:18PM - THE TERRACE ROOM]

You assume there must be a couple getting ready to use the room for their own nuptials the next day because there are far too many chairs set up, and the hotel staff certainly couldn’t have pulled off decorations this elaborate in only a few hours. The crystal chandeliers are striking enough, but with creamy silks and lush cascades of white and blush of flowers hanging from the ceiling, it’s surreal and stunning—just one more unforgettable thing you catalogue in your memory for this incredible night.

Steve stands at the front of the room, his eyes finding yours immediately as you begin your walk. The small gathering of your closest friends and family—Sam, Bucky, Sophia, Jake, your mother, Pepper, Maria Hill, Peter Parker—all rise, but you barely notice them. Your entire world narrows to Steve's face, to the look of pure adoration that transforms his features as he watches you approach.

The music is soft, some classical piece you don't recognize but that feels perfect for this moment. Your father's arm is steady under your trembling hand, excitement and an eagerness surging through your veins.

"I'm so happy for you," he whispers, his voice rough with feeling. "Not because you might be First Lady, but because you found someone who will look at you like that for the rest of your life."

You squeeze his arm in silent thanks, unable to form words past the lump in your throat.

When you reach Steve, your father places your hand in his before stepping back. Steve's fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, grounding you amid the surreal beauty of this moment. The chaplain begins speaking, but his words fade into the background as you and Steve stand face to face, hands clasped, hearts open.

“You ready?” you whisper so only he can hear, the reassuring question you’ve asked each other a hundred times at key moments during this campaign - this marriage.

“Let’s do this,” he replies, no question.

And there’s no question in your heart either.

Everything this time is different. You can’t take your eyes off each other, you hold onto his hands desperately - earnestly - because you need to like you need to breathe. Steve slides your wedding band back onto your finger, and this time when he does it, your heart feels like it might burst from happiness.

The vows you speak aren't scripted or rehearsed. They flow naturally, honest declarations of the love that grew between you - from reluctant allies to acquaintances to partners to friends to lovers. Steve's voice catches when he promises to choose you every day for the rest of his life, and you don't bother hiding the tears that spill down your cheeks as you pledge yourself to him in return.

When the chaplain pronounces you husband and wife - again - Steve's kiss is nothing like the polite, chaste brush of lips at your first ceremony. This kiss is deep and passionate, a promise and a claiming all at once. The small group erupts in cheers and applause as you melt against him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, his arms wrapping securely around your waist.

When you finally break apart, Steve keeps you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

"Mrs. Rogers," he murmurs, his voice intimate despite the audience.

"Mr. Rogers," you reply with a smile, your heart so full it aches.

Jake clears his throat loudly. "Sorry to break up this moment, but we've got Montana and Colorado coming in green. That's fourteen more electoral votes."

Steve laughs, keeping his arm around your waist as you both turn to face your friends. "Two hundred and thirty-three," he says, shaking his head in wonder. He turns to look at Pepper. “You might not have been crazy about any of this after all.”

She beams. “I’ve been known to have an eye for people and possibilities - and I couldn’t be happier to be right about this.”

Your small wedding reception consists of champagne and a hastily assembled dessert bar courtesy of the Plaza's pastry chef who, upon learning Captain America was renewing his vows on election night, insisted on creating something special. The elegant room buzzes with conversation and laughter, an island of personal joy amid the political storm raging outside these walls.

Steve pulls you closer against his side, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Rogers?" he asks quietly, his breath warm against your ear.

"Like I'm living in a dream," you admit, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "What about you? Still nervous about the results?"

"I'm exactly where I need to be," he answers, his eyes never leaving yours. The certainty in his voice makes your heart swell. "Everything else is just..." He trails off, searching for the right word.

Your moment is interrupted by Sam, who pops another bottle of champagne, the cork flying across the room as everyone laughs.

"To the newlyweds," he announces, refilling glasses for the small gathering. "Again!"

Everyone raises their glasses, but before you can take a sip, Jake’s phone rings. His expression shifts as he listens, eyes widening. He looks up at Steve and steps forward to hand him the phone.

Steve takes the phone with a questioning look at Jake, who mouths, "Monroe."

The room falls silent, all eyes on Steve as he puts the phone to his ear. You move closer, your hand finding his as he speaks.

"Senator Monroe," Steve says, his voice steady despite the surprise evident in his eyes. "Yes, sir."

You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you watch the play of emotions across your husband's face—surprise, respect, and finally a humbled gratitude. His hand tightens around yours.

"Washington and Oregon both?" Steve asks, looking at Jake for confirmation. Jake nods vigorously.

"That's very generous of you, Senator," Steve continues. "But the math isn't certain yet. We're still shy of two-seventy, and you’ll surely take your home state of California. There's no need to—"

He pauses, listening intently. His eyebrows rise in surprise, and you can see a new emotion settle across his features—respect.

"I appreciate that, Senator, truly," Steve says, his voice softer now. "But with California's fifty-four votes and maybe Nevada still in play, you could potentially—"

He falls silent again, listening.

"That's... very gracious of you," Steve responds after a moment. "I've always respected your commitment to this country as well, sir."

The room has gone completely still, everyone holding their breath as they piece together what's happening. Jake's eyes are wide, his fingers frantically tapping on his tablet as he runs calculations.

"Yes, sir. I understand," Steve continues. "Thank you, Senator Monroe.” He pauses again. “Expect to hear from me soon. I mean it.”

When Steve ends the call, he stands motionless for a moment, his expression one of stunned disbelief. The room around you is utterly silent, everyone waiting with bated breath.

"Monroe just conceded," Steve says finally, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. "He just called to tell me he's about to make the announcement publicly."

The room erupts in gasps and exclamations. Jake is crunching numbers on his phone frantically. "With Washington and Oregon bring you twenty more, getting you to two hundred and fifty-three," he announces, voice cracking with excitement. "That's seventeen short of the magic number, but—"

"But even if he takes his home state, Monroe sees he can’t win anymore," Bucky interrupts, still looking stunned.

Sam steps forward, champagne forgotten in his hand. "What about Peterson?"

"Monroe thinks Peterson won't concede until all the votes are counted," Steve explains, running a hand over his beard. "But he won’t take California, and there aren’t enough big counts left to get him to two-seventy.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. "So what does that mean exactly?"

Jake's face breaks into a wide grin, his eyes shining with emotion. "It means," he says slowly, savoring each word, holding up his phone with an electoral map, "even with California going blue, Monroe only gets to one hundred twenty-one electoral votes. Peterson can't possibly break two hundred at this point. Steve, we're looking at two-seventy plus."

"God," Steve whispers, turning to you with a look of wonder that makes your heart stutter. "This is actually happening."

You grasp his hands, speechless, as the enormity of the moment washes over you. Your husband—your real, chosen husband as of ten minutes ago—is about to become the President of the United States.

The room erupts again, this time in a cacophony of cheers and sobs. Sam wraps Steve in a bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground. Bucky stands back, shaking his head in wonder before moving in for his own embrace. Your mother is crying openly now, your father's arm tight around her shoulders as they beam with pride.

But all you can see is Steve's face—the mixture of disbelief, humility, and determination that washes over his features as the reality sinks in. The man who woke up from the ice to find his country changed, who fought to protect it even when it turned against him, who stood up for what he believed in no matter the cost—that man is now going to lead the nation he has always served.

"We need to get you changed back from groom to presidential and then back downstairs," Jake says, already shifting into logistics mode. "They'll be expecting a victory speech soon in Central Park."

Steve nods, but his eyes never leave yours. In this whirlwind of history being made, he reaches for you. "Come with me?" he asks, and though it's phrased as a question, you both know there's only one answer.

"Always," you reply, taking his hand.

NEXT PART: Epilogue

Well, well, well. Looks like someone named Aspen finally brought this story to an end.

There will be an epilogue, yes, and I have some deleted scenes as well as a moment or two for future President and First Lady Rogers that I want to share with you still and maybe a spin-off series, but HERE WE ARE!

AND

I HAVE FINAL RESULTS FOR YOU VISUALLY!

I used the 270towin interactive map, and it doesn't have a green option, but here's how the votes officially shook out in the end.

A candidate only needed 34% in ANY given state in order to claim the majority and get the electoral votes for that state, and the more I thought about it, the more I felt like Steve could win. When I started the story, I thought it was more likely that there'd be no clear winner the night of elections, but with the unrest after the Blip and the Return, with Steve's ability to speak and connect with people, and with the photo scandal being exposed and exploited as a pretty cheap gimmick, I felt like any voters who were slightly on the fringes of still voting red or blue would be willing to say enough is enough and go for an inspiring figure like Steve. Tired of the system, but not voting for an option that wanted to burn the system and smash it to pieces, you know? Steve genuinely wants to do good.

And we get to have a happy ending in fiction. I felt like it was self-indulgent, but then @stargazingfangirl18 helped me NOT to feel guilty giving us a happy political future since we don't get to have one in real life.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x yn #slow burn #political au #steve rogers x y/n #red white & true #aspen wrote something #female reader

134 notes · View notes

rootedinrevisions · 9 months ago

Text

Chasing Us: Part 6

SUMMARY: Hannah and Tyler spend the day on a catamaran with her family.

WARNINGS: NONE

WORD COUNT: 4.2

PART 1 I PART 2 I PART 3 I PART 4 I PART 5

TAG LIST: @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87

Hannah woke up slowly, her senses gradually coming alive to the warmth and comfort surrounding her. She realized she was lying on her right side, her head resting on something firm yet surprisingly comfortable. As she blinked her eyes open, the events of the previous night started to come back to her - the nightmare, Tyler's comforting presence, and how they'd fallen asleep together.

She turned her head slightly, only to find that her pillow wasn't a pillow at all. It was Tyler's arm, his right arm cradling her head, while his left was draped securely around her, holding her close to his body. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the realization of how close they were. The steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, the warmth of his body enveloping her - it all felt so natural, so intimate, yet it caught her off guard.

Before she could dwell on it too much, a soft knock on the door broke the morning stillness. "Hannah? Tyler?" It was Emily's voice, cheerful and light. "Everyone needs to be downstairs in an hour. Bring a swimsuit and something to cover up with!"

Hannah carefully disentangled herself from Tyler's arms, trying not to wake him too abruptly. She turned over and gently nudged his shoulder. "Tyler, wake up," she whispered, her voice still groggy with sleep. "We have to be downstairs in an hour. Emily said we need swimsuits."

Tyler stirred, blinking his eyes open and giving her a sleepy smile. "Morning," he mumbled, his voice husky from sleep. He slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed her words. "Swimsuits, huh? Sounds like we're in for a fun day."

Hannah nodded, already sliding out of bed and making her way to the bathroom. "I'm going to get ready. I'll be quick," she said over her shoulder before closing the door behind her.

She splashed some cold water on her face to fully wake herself up and stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, her mind replaying the way she had woken up in Tyler's arms. The feeling of safety and warmth still lingered, and it brought a soft smile to her lips. But she quickly pushed the thoughts aside, reminding herself that they were here as friends.

After brushing her teeth and freshening up, Hannah reached for her swimsuit - the only one she owned. It was a two-piece she'd bought on a whim last summer, not realizing at the time just how revealing it was. She hesitated for a moment, wishing she had something with a bit more coverage, but there wasn't much she could do about it now. She slipped it on and then pulled a light sundress over it, hoping it would be enough to keep her feeling comfortable.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Tyler was already up and dressed in what appeared to be swim trunks with a white t-shirt thrown over them. He looked relaxed, his hair still slightly tousled from sleep, and when he glanced at her, there was an easy smile on his face.

"Ready?" he asked, grabbing a towel and stuffing it into a bag along with some sunscreen.

Hannah nodded, trying to keep her mind focused on the day ahead instead of the previous night. "Yeah, let's go."

As they headed downstairs to the living room where the rest of the family was gathering, Tyler reached out and gently took her hand in his. This simple act caught her by surprise, but she quickly found herself squeezing his hand back. Something was comforting in the way his fingers intertwined with hers, a quiet reassurance that she hadn't expected but welcomed all the same.

The family was already buzzing with excitement, chatting and preparing for the day ahead. After a few minutes of final preparations, they all made their way outside, the soft sand of the beach warm beneath their feet. The walk down to the beach and then to the nearby marina just down the beach was filled with light conversation and laughter, the anticipation of the day ahead evident in everyone's voices.

As they walked, Tyler didn't let go of Hannah's hand, and she found herself growing more accustomed to the contact, even enjoying it. The warmth of his hand in hers felt natural as if they'd done this a hundred times before. When they reached the dock, the sleek Catamaran awaited them, gently bobbing in the water.

Tyler released her hand momentarily as they approached the edge of the dock, but only so he could help her step onto the boat. He placed a steadying hand on her back as she stepped forward, and when it was time for her to cross the small gap between the dock and the boat, he held out his hand again.

"Here, I've got you," he said, his voice soft and reassuring.

Hannah smiled, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks as she took his hand once more. She stepped onto the boat, and Tyler followed close behind, never letting go of her hand until they were both safely on board.

As the group boarded the catamaran, the sun was already high in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the sparkling ocean. The crew greeted them with wide smiles, handing each guest a chilled drink as they stepped onto the boat. The atmosphere was light and festive, the perfect start to a day spent on the water.

Hannah accepted her drink with a grateful smile, feeling the refreshing coolness of the glass against her palm. Tyler was right beside her, his hand resting casually on the small of her back as they made their way to the seating area. The catamaran was spacious, with plenty of room for everyone to spread out and enjoy the day. The gentle sway of the boat beneath her feet made her feel like she was already beginning to unwind.

Once everyone had settled, Emily stood up, raising her glass high in the air. "I just want to say a quick thank you to everyone for being here," she began, her voice warm and filled with affection. "Matt and I are so grateful to have all of you here to celebrate with us. It means the world to us that you made the journey."

The group raised their glasses in response, a chorus of agreement murmured around the deck.

Emily continued, her eyes shining with happiness. "And while we're toasting, I want to make a special mention of the love that's brought us all here today. Here's to the love that's stood the test of time, like my parents and Matt's parents. To the love that's just beginning a new chapter of its journey, like Matt and I. And to the love that's still new and finding its way, like my dear sister Hannah and her Tyler."

Hannah felt her cheeks flush as everyone's eyes turned to her and Tyler. She glanced at him, finding his eyes already on her, a soft smile playing on his lips. He clinked his glass against hers, the gesture intimate in its simplicity, and she couldn't help but smile back, her heart skipping a beat.

"To love," Tyler echoed, his voice low and sincere, as they both took a sip from their glasses.

The toast ended with a round of cheers and laughter, the group returning to their conversations and the anticipation of the day ahead. Hannah felt a warmth spread through her, not just from the drink but from the shared moment with Tyler. She glanced around at the others, her heart swelling with gratitude for the people around her and the unexpected connection she was finding with Tyler.

As the catamaran began to move away from the dock, Hannah found herself looking forward to whatever the day would bring, her thoughts lingering on the way Tyler had looked at her during the toast, a look that made her wonder if there was something more between them than just a pretend relationship. Or if Tyler was just a really good actor.

The catamaran cruised smoothly across the water, the gentle breeze carrying the salty scent of the ocean. The group relaxed into the rhythm of the boat's movements, the earlier toast setting a warm and joyful tone for the day. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the crew announced that lunch was ready, inviting everyone to gather around the shaded dining area.

The table was laid out with an array of light and fresh options: crisp salads, a variety of sandwiches, grilled vegetables, and a platter of tropical fruits. The colors were vibrant, reflecting the bright, sunny day, and the scent of freshly prepared food mingled with the ocean air, making Hannah's stomach rumble in anticipation.

Hannah and Tyler took their seats next to each other, their plates filling quickly as they passed dishes back and forth. The group settled into easy conversation, laughter punctuating the soft hum of the catamaran's engine as it continued its leisurely journey along the coastline.

"So, Tyler," Hannah's mom began, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. "Tell us about the work you do with Hannah. It sounds exciting, but I imagine it must be quite dangerous at times.

Tyler smiled, pausing to finish a bite of his sandwich before answering. "It can be," he admitted. "But I've always been drawn to it. There's something about the unpredictability of the weather and tornadoes, the challenge of being out there in the middle of it, that keeps me going. Plus, I've got a good team backing me up." He said, his eyes glancing at Hannah briefly.

Hannah's dad chimed in, nodding thoughtfully. "Takes a special kind of person to do what you do. You must have nerves of steel."

Tyler chuckled, glancing at Hannah. "I think I'm just stubborn," he said, his tone light but with a hint of seriousness. "And maybe a little crazy. But I love what I do. Every storm is different, and every day out there is a new adventure. And I feel like when you love something, you'll spend your whole life trying to understand it better. That's me and storms."

As the conversation continued, Hannah found herself stealing glances at Tyler noticing the way he seemed so at ease with her family, how naturally he fit into the group. It was strange to think about how much had changed since they first agreed to this pretend relationship. The way he interacted with her parents, laughing and talking like he had known them for years, only deepened the feelings she was starting to acknowledge.

The lunch was relaxed and enjoyable, with the group savoring the food as much as the company. They lingered over their plates, sipping on cold drinks and sharing stories. Emily and Matt recounted funny moments from their relationship, drawing smiles and chuckles from everyone. Hannah felt a sense of contentment settle over her as she listened, enjoying the easy flow of conversation and the closeness of the people around her.

Tyler leaned in closer to Hannah, his voice low so only she could hear. "Your family's great," he said, his tone sincere. "I can see where you get it from."

Hannah smiled, her heart skipping a beat at the compliment. "Thanks," she replied softly, feeling a flutter of nerves. "I'm glad you're getting along with everyone."

Tyler's eyes met hers, a warmth in his gaze that made her feel as if they were the only two people on the boat. "Me too," he said, his voice carrying a deeper meaning that left Hannah wondering if he was talking about more than just her family.

As the meal wound down, the crew cleared away the plates, and the sound of music began to drift from the boat's speakers. It was upbeat and light, the perfect soundtrack for the afternoon ahead. The group started to relax even more, a few of them swaying in their seats to the rhythm or humming along to familiar tunes.

"Let's take this party up a notch," Emily suggested with a grin, standing up and pulling Matt to his feet. They moved to the open space at the back of the catamaran, where there was enough room for a little dancing.

As the music filled the air, Emily and Matt swayed together, setting the tone for a lighthearted, carefree dance. The others watched for a moment before joining in, laughter and music blending into the perfect summer day on the water.

Tyler, noticing the way Hannah tapped her foot to the beat, leaned closer and asked with a playful grin, "How about a dance?"

Hannah hesitated, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "I'm not much of a dancer," she admitted, glancing at the others who were already moving in time with the music.

"Neither am I," Tyler replied with a chuckle. "But it's all about having fun. Come on, I'll take the lead."

Before she could protest, Tyler stood up and offered his hand. After a brief pause, she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. As they moved to the open space where everyone else was dancing, Hannah felt a mix of excitement and nerves. She wasn't used to being the center of attention, but something about Tyler's confidence and the easy way he held her hand made her want to give it a try.

Tyler started with simple, light steps, swaying gently to the beat. He kept his movements easy, just enough to guide her without overwhelming her. "See? Not so bad," he said, his voice encouraging.

Hannah relaxed a little, allowing herself to follow his lead. "Okay, maybe this isn't so terrible," she admitted, a smile growing on her face.

As the music picked up, Tyler decided to take it up a notch. He added a playful twirl, spinning her under his arm and catching her hand again. Hannah let out a surprised laugh, caught off guard by the move but enjoying it all the same.

"You're a natural," Tyler teased, his eyes bright with amusement.

"Hardly," Hannah said, shaking her head, but there was no denying the thrill she felt as he twirled her again.

Tyler continued to lead her through the steps, gradually adding more spins and playful dips. Each time, he pulled her back into his chest, their faces close enough that she could see the warmth in his eyes. The playful energy between them grew, the connection they were building over the past few days becoming more tangible with each move.

Hannah found herself getting caught up in the moment, laughing as he spun her around and holding onto him a little tighter each time he brought her back into his arms. The world outside their little dance seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them and the music that surrounded them.

With a final spin, Tyler drew her close, his arm wrapping around her waist to keep her steady. Their faces were inches apart, their breaths mingling as they paused, the moment stretching between them. The playful atmosphere had shifted slightly, becoming something more intense, more charged.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, with a grin, that was both teasing and a little tender, Tyler loosened his hold just enough to let her take a step back, breaking the tension but not the connection.

"See? You can dance," he said softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Hannah smiled, her heart still racing from the unexpected closeness. "I guess I just needed a good partner."

Tyler's eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer before she stepped back, giving her space but still keeping her hand in his. "Anytime you want to dance again, you know where to find me."

The music continued to play, but the moment between them had left a mark, deepening the bond that was steadily growing stronger. As they returned to their seats, Hannah couldn't help but feel a little breathless, her mind replaying the way Tyler had held her, the way his eyes had looked at her.

The Catamaran drifted gently over the sparkling blue waters, the sun casting a warm glow on the scene. Laughter and conversation filled the air as everyone relaxed, enjoying the sun and the company.

Matt stood near the railing, looking out at the water with a grin. "You guys ready to dive in?" He called out, his excitement evident.

"Let's do it!" Tyler added. As he spoke, he began to peel off his white t-shirt, revealing his toned chest. Hannah caught a glimpse of him as he tugged the shirt over his head, and she couldn't help but let her eyes linger. The sight of him in swim trunks, the sun glinting off his skin, made her heart skip a beat.

Tyler, noticing her gaze, gave her a playful wink before tossing his shirt aside. "What, never seen a guy in swim trunks before?" he teased.

Hannah blushed slightly, trying to avert her eyes, but she couldn't help stealing another glance. Her thoughts were a whirlwind as she took in the sight of him.

Before she could completely recover, she heard a voice behind her.

"Are you going to join us, or just stand there admiring Tyler's abs?" Emily's voice was lighthearted as she approached, having noticed Hannah's lingering gaze.

Hannah's cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. "I, uh, I guess I'll join you," she stammered, trying to play it cool as she slid her sundress off.

Tyler's eyes moved to Hannah as she revealed her swimsuit. The two-piece was the same striking grey-blue that her dress last night was. The color contrasted beautifully with her skin. He felt a twinge of admiration, noting how the suit accentuated her figure.

As everyone began to prepare for the swim, Tyler and Hannah made their way to the deck where the sunscreen was. Hannah had just finished applying some to her arms and legs, but she struggled to reach her back.

Tyler noticed her difficulty and walked over, a playful grin on his face. "Need a hand?"

Hannah looked up, surprised but relieved. "Yeah, if you don't mind."

With a nod, Tyler took the sunscreen from her and began applying it to her back. His touch was gentle and careful, ensuring that he covered every spot. He rubbed the lotion with practiced ease, his fingers lingering slightly as he made sure she was fully covered.

As he worked, Tyler's hands brushed against her shoulders, then slid lower to cover the parts of her back that were exposed. He squatted down to get the back of her legs, his movement respectful but intimate. Hannah couldn't help but shiver slightly at the sensation, her breath catching in her throat.

"Almost done," Tyler said softly, his voice low and reassuring. "Just need to get a few more spots."

Hannah nodded, her cheeks flushed. "Thanks, Tyler."

"No problem," he said with a smile, finishing up the last of the application.

As he handed the sunscreen back to her, Tyler's eyes roamed over her, taking in the sight of her in the swimsuit. She blushed under his gaze, feeling self-conscious yet pleased.

"Looking great," Tyler said with a wink.

"You guys ready to jump in?" Emily asked.

"Ready when you are," he said, extending his hand towards her.

Hannah took his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. Together, they made their way to the edge of the boat, where Tyler's touch was reassuring.

As they prepared to jump in, Tyler gave her an encouraging smile. "Come on, it's not that bad. I promise the water's great."

Hannah took a deep breath, then nodded. "Okay, I'm ready."

With a final look at each other, they both leaped into the water together. The splash and cool embrace of the ocean were refreshing, and Hannah's nerves started to melt away.

As they surfaced, Tyler looked over at her, his smile broadening. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Hannah laughed, the tension of the moment easing. "Not at all."

After a few laps around the boat, Tyler swam back to where Hannah was floating, enjoying the clear, warm water. He floated beside her, their bodies close in the water. "You know," he said casually, "this is a pretty great way to spend the day."

Hannah smiled, her cheeks flushed from both the sun and the fun. "Yeah, it really is."

After the swim, the group gathered back on the Catamaran, their laughter and chatter blending with the gentle hum of the engine. The crew began setting up for the next activity of the day: snorkeling.

Tyler and Hannah, still enjoying the warmth of the sun, grabbed their snorkel gear and followed the others to the edge of the boat. The clear water below was inviting, and the vibrant marine life promised a fun exploration.

Tyler turned to Hannah with a grin, "Ready to see what's under the surface?"

Hannah nodded, a mix of excitement and nervousness in her eyes. "Yeah, I've never been snorkeling before."

Tyler chuckled. "Me either."

With their gear in place, they both took a deep breath and prepared to dive in. Tyler helped Hannah with her mask and snorkel, adjusting them to make sure they fit comfortably.

As they jumped off the boat together, the cool water enveloped them, and they swam towards a designated snorkeling spot. The underwater world was a dazzling display of colors, with schools of fish darting around the coral reefs. Tyler kept a close eye on Hannah, making sure she was comfortable and enjoying the experience.

Hannah's initial nervousness quickly faded as she marveled at the vibrant marine life around her. She pointed out colorful fish and interesting coral formations to Tyler, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Tyler, equally captivated, gestured for her to follow him towards a particular stunning reef. They swam together, their movements synchronized as they explored the underwater beauty. Every so often, Tyler would glance over at Hannah, his smile visible even through the snorkel mask.

As the snorkeling adventure came to an end, Tyler and Hannah found themselves drawn to a cozy nook at the front of the catamaran. Nestled among a collection of cushions and soft blankets, the spot was perfect for unwinding after their active day.

The sun was just beginning its descent, casting a golden glow across the water and painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. The gentle sway of the boat and the distant sound of waves created a serene backdrop.

Tyler and Hannah settled into the cushions, and she leaned back into him, seeking the comfort of his presence. His arm naturally wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close. Hannah let out a contented sigh, her body relaxing into the warmth of Tyler's embrace.

They watched in silence as the sunset unfolded, the sky gradually shifting from brilliant gold to deepening shades of pink and purple. The peacefulness of the moment seemed to deepen their connection, their earlier playfulness replaced by a more contemplative calm.

Tyler shifted slightly, adjusting his hold to make her more comfortable. His fingers brushed against her arm, creating a soothing sensation that made Hannah feel even more at ease. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them and the stunning panorama of the setting sun.

Hannah glanced up at Tyler, her eyes reflecting the soft colors of the sky. "Thank you for today," she said softly, her voice tinged with genuine gratitude. "It's been amazing."

Tyler looked down at her, his expression tender. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I had a great time too."

They continued to watch the sunset, their thoughts drifting with the ebb and flow of the sea. Hannah felt a growing warmth in her chest, not just from the sun but from the closeness they shared. Tyler's presence felt comforting and reassuring, a stark contrast to the unease she had felt before.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of twilight blues and purples. Tyler shifted his gaze from the sunset to Hannah, his eyes filled with an unspoken affection. He gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his touch tender and deliberate.

Hannah turned to face him, her heart racing slightly at the intimacy of the moment. "I've never felt this way before," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyler's smile was soft and understanding. "Me either," he said."But I'm glad I'm experiencing it with you."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Tyler's gaze lingered on Hannah's lips, and she felt a magnetic pull between them, drawing them closer. His hand cupped her cheek, and it seemed as though he was about to lean in, his lips just inches from hers.

But before the moment could unfold, they were abruptly brought back to reality by Emily's voice calling out from the back of the boat.

"Hey, guys! We're almost back to the pier. We should start getting ready to head back to the house."

Tyler blinked, pulling back slightly, the spell of the moment broken. Hannah quickly turned away, a flush creeping up her cheeks. They both sat up, suddenly aware of the world around them again, the intimacy of the moment replaced by the bustle of the group preparing to disembark.

"Guess we should get moving," Tyler said with a small, slightly awkward smile.

"Yeah," Hannah agreed, her voice a little shaky. She stood up, adjusting her sundress, trying to steady her thoughts as she prepared to leave the sanctuary of their quiet corner.

As they joined the others, the unspoken tension between them lingered, a reminder of the connection that had deepened throughout the day. But for now, they would have to wait to see where that connection would lead.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction

20 notes · View notes

jerzwriter · 2 years ago

Text

A Moment in Time... (Trystan's POV)

Part one of this short series was written a couple months ago when we didn't know the ending of Crimes of Passion 2. Now that we do, I retrofit the initial part, just a little, to make this an alternate ending AU. What if Trystan had become king? Because in this world, he did. It's now two years later, and he's about to be wed. The whole world, including Carolina, can't escape the coverage, and he can't escape the regret he has over the choices he made.

Part One: Carolina's POV can be found here.

Now, let's explore Trystan's thoughts as he approaches the big day.

Book: Crimes of Passion 2 (Post Series) Pairing: M!Trystan Thorne x F!MC (Carolina Rose), Past Rating: Teen Category: AU/Angst Words: 3,280 Summary: Please see above. A/N: This was initially going to be an open-ended, two-part story. But I've changed it so we will have a conclusion. So, Part 3 will be forthcoming. Participating in @choicesseptemberchallenge2023, Day 4, They've been secretly in love with each other for a long time.

I hope you enjoy the story!

Please note: If you read the original story in the past, Part 1 has been changed very slightly to accommodate for things that took place in canon. I hope you enjoy this!

The silence weighed heavily in Trystan’s room. So much that the gentle tap on his door sounded like a thunderclap as it reverberated off the cavernous walls.

“Come in,” he called out, never turning to meet the servant’s gaze.

He was trying to concentrate on the crowd assembling beyond the palace gates; they seemed to double in size by the hour. Boisterous and draped in the colors of the Drakovian flag, the festival-like atmosphere was a vivid contrast to the mood inside Trystan’s chambers.

The clattering of the fine china teacups landing on his marble table echoed through the room. Marguerite smiled politely, acknowledging the servant with a gentle nod before they took their leave. She raised the cup to her lips, hoping the fragrant mix of spices would provide some comfort; then, maybe, she would be able to give her brother the comfort he desperately needed. But one look at his forlorn expression, and she was already hanging her head in defeat. Comfort was a tall order; at most, she hoped she could help him through.

Joining him at the window, she rested her head on his shoulder just as she had when they were kids when watching a celebrating crowd was an enjoyable event. Lowering her arm, she clasped his hand in hers. For there wasn't an ounce of joy present today.

“Well, the public is certainly in support,” she observed.

“Yes. The world is so eager for a fairytale that they’ll accept any farce. Yet, heaven forbid they should see the real thing.”

“How do you think it feels to be a normal person? You know, people who don’t approach their wedding as if it were a death sentence?”

“I don’t know, Mags,” he replied sadly. “I’ve only had a brief taste of normal, and it was only borrowed time.”

The rehearsal was over, and the cocktail receptions for dignitaries who had arrived from every corner of the globe were now behind him. All that was left to do was get dressed and show up at the cathedral tomorrow. The only silver lining right now was that his mother and betrothed were far too busy to have any time for or interest in him; if only every day could be this way. He intended to spend it alone, but he should have known Marguerite wouldn’t allow it, and as she led him to the tea table in the corner of his room, he almost broke a smile.

“I had them make badambura,” she smiled. “I remember you loved them when I was a child.”

“When we were children,” he corrected, biting into the flaky almond treat. “A simpler time, when the world’s ails could be soothed with a pastry.”

“That’s only because we didn’t know better,” she declared. “How are you holding up, brother?”

“I’m doing what is necessary. That's what I was born for, isn't it?”

Marguerite placed her cup on the table and crossed her arms defiantly. “Save that answer for the rest of the family. I’m worried about you, Trystan. Even as a child, I found the... arrangement... our parents had to be... peculiar, but looking at it from this angle, I can see our father probably needed it just to survive. But you don’t have that; you’re doing this alone, and it can’t be easy.”

Trystan placed his hand lovingly atop his sisters and offered a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Mags. I’ll manage.”

Manage. That’s the most he had been able to do since that day. He managed. He lived up to his duties and gave performances worthy of an Oscar. Most seemed to believe it, or had little concern for it’s sincerity, for it was his role that mattered to them, never the man. But Mags was different, and as Trystan fell silent, she knew exactly where his mind had traveled.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. His heart had yet to accept the fate that his mind knew was inevitable. He spoke with his father... begged his father... to see if he could alter the rules to allow him to marry Carolina. While Trystan didn’t have much hope if he was going to survive this day, he had to push those thoughts aside, and what better distraction than the beautiful woman at his side.

“Could you hand me those cufflinks?” he asked.

Carolina lifted them and watched as the Drakovian royal seal embellished on them glimmered in the light before she helped fit them into his cuffs.

“Have I mentioned how handsome you look?” She smiled. “I wasn’t the kind of girl to daydream about fairytales often, but I still managed to have one or two. And I swear the handsome prince looked just like you.”

“Like me,” he feigned astonishment. “Perhaps you should have aimed a bit higher.”

Taking her hands, he pulled her in tight, savoring her touch, filling his senses with the jasmine scent of her perfume. This was all he needed, a life full of tender moments like this with his love at his side. Should that be too much to ask?

“Thank you,” he whispered, sorrow creeping into his voice.

“Happy to be of service to the King of Drakovia,” she grinned.

“I’m not a king yet.”

“Trystan... let me fantasize a little, would you? I don’t get to play handmaid to royalty often.”

“After everything you’ve seen in this palace, how can the thought of royalty still entice you?”

She ran her hands down the front of his dress uniform, leaning into his touch.

“Because I happen to like this royal.”

“And I thank my lucky stars for that every day.” Kissing the top of her head, he allowed the moment to linger, but the ticking clock reminded him that it was growing short. Clearing his throat, he looked at her earnestly. “I know you and the others booked your flights home. But... we haven’t heard from my father yet. Perhaps you could stay until an answer is reached.”

“Trystan,” she started, “you know luck probably isn’t on our side this time. If the rules could have been changed, your father would have changed them for him and Eveline...”

“They were different times,” he interrupted. “And my father isn’t me. And even... even if things can’t be changed... all I ask is that we remain together. Partners. Lovers. Whatever you want to call us... I just can’t lose you, Carolina.”

“That wouldn’t be much of a life,” Carolina responded, diverting her eyes. “You’ll be required to marry and have children, and I wouldn’t be able to be more than a consort to you, and I don’t know if that’s enough for me, Trystan.”

“I would never let that happen to you.” His voice was commanding, but they both knew the decision wasn’t his. Taking her face in his hands, he committed every curve to memory. Then, a muffled roar drew their attention toward the windows.

“Mother will be pleased,” he spoke bitterly. “After all the chaos of the past few weeks, she was afraid people would be sick of us. She underestimated how loyal... and how proud... her own people are.”

Carolina wrapped her arm around Trystan’s waist. “They’re so lucky to have you.”

“I’m not sure,” he faltered. “Vasili wasn’t wrong about me. It doesn’t excuse what he did, but I never wanted to be king. I never took the idea seriously.”

“You were practically a child then, Trystan. You’ve grown so much.”

“But is it enough? I don’t know that I love Drakovia the way a King should. Sometimes, I believe that...”

A rap on the door interrupted them, and Lydea entered, nodding politely. “It’s time, Trystan.”

“Of course. Duty calls.” He turned to Carolina. “Please tell me you’ll be at the coronation. I need you to get through this day.”

“And if you need me, that is exactly where I will be,” she smiled.

Lydea remained in the room as Trystan exited, and something that appeared to be sincere sympathy was present in her eyes.

“I don’t want to trouble my brother before the coronation, but I should let you know. My father has returned from his conference with the Council.”

“And you know their answer?” Carolina asked gravely.

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say. But I thought you should know.”

The women exchanged a look that spoke louder than words, and Carolina smiled bravely as she swallowed back tears. “Very well. Now, you need to get Trystan to the cathedral.”

Trystan didn’t realize how long he was silent or how long Marguerite sat patiently, waiting for him to return to her. When their eyes met, a moment of truth passed between them. Marguerite’s face was riddled with fear and pain, but she had put the moment off many times, and she couldn’t allow it to pass again.

“Have you ever spoken to her, Trystan? Did you ever speak with Carolina after she left?”

Trystan’s eyes widened. Though her name was etched in his mind, no one had dared to mutter it to him in years gone by. Carolina’s memory was treated like a page in the book of his life. A page that was torn out, crumbled, and discarded as if she meant nothing at all. No one understood that as he handed them the pen to script the remainder of his story, she would still occupy every page. No matter how hard others tried to write upon them, they could never take her away. His life was no longer his own, but no one understood; he surrendered so much of himself, but he would never cede control of his heart. No one understood... except for his beloved little sister.

“Once,” he spoke so low she almost didn’t hear. “I’ve heard her voice exactly once since the day she left. I reached out to see if we could remain friends because the thought of her being completely absent from my life felt unbearable to me... it still does.”

“And...” she asked anxiously.

“She said she’d call if she ever fell out of love with me because, unless she did, being just friends would be too painful." With a mournful sigh, he lowered his face into his hands. “And I’ve spent every day since knowing my greatest wish and worst nightmare are one and the same. Every time my phone rings, I pray her name will appear, every time. But, now I know, if that day should come, it will mean she no longer loves me.”

“Oh, my dear brother. Then I’m afraid you will never get that call.”

“I know,” he smiled sadly, eyes flooded with tears. “I know... and Carolina will remain no more than my most precious memory.”

“Trystan, I have to ask... I know the Council refused to overturn the rules... but you’re the king... you could have issued a decree at any time and changed everything. You could be preparing to marry Carolina tomorrow and not...”

“NO!” he answered defiantly. “No. Why should I change the rules, Mags? So she could tell me no matter how much she loves me, but she can’t live this life? Or for her to accept and give up everything she loves except for me. Then she could come here and serve as queen, and I could slowly watch everything that I love about her, everything that makes her the extraordinary woman she is, slowly die before my eyes. Would that be better?”

Mags reached for his hand, but he walked to the window with an exasperated sigh. Pulling back the curtains, he took in the adoring crowds, all waiting for him and Jia to complete their elaborate farce. He accepted his fate, but it still felt surreal.

“Leaving things as they are, I can tell myself we had no choice. That fate was cruel, and we remain a story of true lovers ripped apart by fools who could never understand what we shared. But if I changed the rules... then I’d have to accept that we chose not to be together, and Mags, I can’t live with that.”

He waited patiently. Waited for her words of comfort or perhaps a loving touch, but Trystan underestimated his youngest sister.

“You already do!” She spat; her words felt like a dagger. “You had a choice, Trystan. Albeit, a difficult one, but a choice nevertheless... and you chose the crown. I’m not even faulting you; I would never want to be in the position you found yourself in, but the truth is... you had a choice.”

Trystan turned to her with fire in his eyes, and Marguerite prepared herself – for his rage or her need to offer consolation – but she didn’t expect what followed.

“Then I chose wrong,” he muttered. “I made the worst mistake of my life. A king should love his country above all. He should view any sacrifice he is forced to make on its behalf as an honor. I love Drakovia, Marguerite... but I love Carolina so much more. If I had to sacrifice one... it should never have been her.”

A slow smile spread on Marguerite’s face as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “From where I’m standing, big brother, you’re not dead yet... so there is time to fix this.”

“Mags,” he snorted. “Look out the window. I’m to be married tomorrow. If I tried to leave this palace today, Mother would have me dragged back by rabid dogs.”

“Then don’t tell her. Come on, Trystan, you’re smarter than that. I know walking away will be terribly hard, but what’s the alternative? You already said if you have to sacrifice something, it shouldn’t be Carolina. And, Trystan, you shouldn’t sacrifice yourself, either.”

He nervously glanced around the room, his breathing quickening. It's an electrifying moment when a person realizes that they crafted their own cage, for it's the same moment that they understand that they also hold the key. Freedom, sweet, precious freedom and all the promises it offers is now within reach, and the feeling is as intoxicating as it is horrifying.

“I can’t take the family’s plane...,” he stuttered, “and the airports... I would never be able to board a flight...”

Marguerite was already on it. “No, but fortunately, your lovely sister has many friends with private jets. Some of them even owe me favors.”

“And they’d be willing to take on the Queen’s wrath?”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “You think some American multi-millionaire cares about Queen Viktoria? Are you kidding? They’d much rather play a pivotal role in one of the greatest love stories of all times.”

Trystan stood before her astonished, as realization washed over him; he wanted to run but found himself paralyzed.

“Come on!” Mags clapped her hands, snapping him out of his fugue. “I’ll make the arrangements, but you need to get dressed!”

She stopped what she was doing for a brief moment; she had to take her brother in. She knew she’d never want to forget the smile that crossed on his face. Trystan Thorne was almost free.

~~~~

It wasn’t until he was safely aboard the luxurious private jet that a horrifying thought crossed Trytan’s mind. What if Carolina didn’t want him? What if the two years apart taught her she was better off without him? What if she couldn’t forgive him for not putting her first?

“Bloody hell,” he muttered aloud in the empty cabin.

Being a runaway groom who turned his back on his country for the woman he loved seemed a romantic notion.... unless she decided she didn’t want him in return. Then, he’d just be a fool. But even if Carolina didn’t want him, his choices from this day on were his own. For the remainder of the flight, he chose to remember the beautiful memories he shared with that snarky detective in New York. And the more he thought of them, the more he felt at ease. She had to still love him, too. She never called him like she said, so she had to. Right? He closed his eyes and tried to rest. There was a long flight ahead, and he’d have his answer soon.

~~~~~

It was just after midnight on the day he was supposed to be wed when his plane touched ground at Teterboro Airport. By now, the palace must have known he was missing. Then again, he was of such trivial importance his absence might go unnoticed until he was expected to wake. At Marguerite’s suggestion, he turned off his phone. He’d have to deal with the mess his leaving created, but right now, all that mattered was seeing Carolina. The thirty minute cab ride to the Drunk Tank felt like an eternity, but when he saw the soft light emitting from it's windows, it felt as if he were arriving home. The fear and dread that had consumed him was replaced with a a warmth he had long forgotten.

“Is this the place?” his taxi driver asked. “Looks like it’s already closed.”

“Yes,” Trystan replied, offering several bills to the driver as a tip. “This is the place... thank you.”

“Hey, wait a second,” the driver nodded. “I know you! Aren’t you the king of that little country no one knows about? The one who solved the Hand of Mahra case, right?”

“Yeah,” Trystan grinned, pulling several larger bills from his pocket. “And if you wouldn’t mind not sharing that information with the rest of the world for at least a day or two, I’d truly appreciate it.”

“Hey," the driver laughed heartily. "Keep these coming my way. I’ll forget I saw you myself!”

Trystan leaped out of the car and stared into the pane-glass windows. A plethora of happy memories from another time flooded his mind. He stretched his neck in hopes of catching a glimpse of Carolina, but it was someone else who met his eyes.

“Trystan?” Tommy opened the door with a raised brow. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” the wayward monarch smiled, stepping inside, "It's me."

Tommy locked the door behind them, bewilderment visible in his eyes. “Aren’t you... supposed to be getting married today?”

“Yes, something like that... I can explain later, but I need to see Carolina immediately. Is she here.”

Uncle Tommy took a step toward the stairs leading to Carolina's apartment, confusion replaced with a protective glare as he crossed his arms.

“Now look, Trystan,” he started. “I always liked you. I really did. But my niece has been through hell and back since you split. And I’m not about to allow her to be hurt again.”

“I understand,” Trystan replied pleadingly, “and I hope you'll understand that's not why I'm here. Hurting Carolina is the very last thing I want to do. I'm here to make things right. But it’s around seven in the morning in Drakovia. If they haven’t already, someone will find my bed empty soon... just hours before my wedding was to begin. I’m not here on a whim. I’m not here to cause pain. I’m hoping I can end the pain for me... and Carolina. If she’ll have me, I will make her the center of my world for the rest of time. Giving up a kingdom is nothing compared to giving up our love. I swear to you, Tommy, on all that is sacred... I’ll never hurt her again.”

Tommy looked Trystan over, then reluctantly stepped aside. “You know where her room is. But Trystan, pull anything funny, and so help me, Jesus...”

“Tommy, you have my word.”

He didn’t remember rushing up the stairs or the way he took two steps at a time to get there. He didn’t look around when he reached the landing and had no recollection of walking down the hall. His feet delivered him to the space in front of Carolina’s door as if they had been programmed to, and in a way, they had. He had walked this hall before, then dreamed of it every day from the moment she said goodbye.

His palms were sweaty, and his blood felt as if it had gone cold. His heart raced so fast he was certain it would burst out of his chest. But with sheer determination, he raised his hand to knock on the door, and it swung open much sooner than expected...

“Wow, that was fast!” Carolina. That voice. He'd know that voice anywhere, and when his eyes met her, his shoulders went limp. He was home. At long last, he was home. He hoped the look of astonishment in her eyes would turn to one of joy, but before he could say a word, she gasped.

“It’s... it’s you.”

~~~

@choicesficwriterscreations @choicesbookclub

Tagging others in reblog.

#choices fanfic #playchoices fanfic #crimes of passion #crimes of passion 2 #crimes of passion fanfic #tyrstan thorne #trystan thorne x f!mc #trystan thorne x mc #playchoices #choices the stories you play #choices fic writers creations

82 notes · View notes

carusolikey · 1 year ago

Text

The Blue Hour

a Max Phillips & Bloodsucking Bastards FanFic

Chapter 2: Oh - Hi, Mark. How's Your Sex Life?

After Max took Mr. Rochester and held him hostage, he’s decided to make good on his threat - but not without playing with his food first! Teasing out his secrets, it’s a wonder we don’t keep him on a shorter leash. Oh, these wicked games, Max - if he loses, he’ll probably just put what’s owed on his tab. Although, to his credit, this rakish fellow does know there’s a time and a place to be cruel and a time to be kind. Let’s just say, in the words of Fiona Apple, he’ll let you use his skin, to bury secrets in - things are definitely going to get a little hot and heavy in here. Reader beware, you're in for graphic fare!

Pairing: Max Phillips of Bloodsucking Bastards x afab!fem!reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW 18+ (No Minors)

Author’s Note: I wrote this piece during the month of April 2024 - Adenomyosis Awareness Month, and the idea came to me during March 2024 (Endometriosis Awareness Month). This will not have any type of pregnancy kink, but will touch on infertility of OC due to the aforementioned; canon for this story is also that Vampires are infertile - there will be no Renesmé. OC is intended to be around the same age as Max, reader’s choice up or down, but no age gap. Because older afab/fem lovers are sexy - we drink and we know things.

Warnings: This will continue to be a blanket coverage of this point forward.

A bit of rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration - P in V, oral [m + f receiving]), food play, 18+ only content, able bodied fem afab reader, alcohol consumption, non-gendered pet names, fem can be carried and has hair - though length is not mentioned, consensual "bondage", some use of y+n - but not explicitly, though consensuality is implied and intended through actions and reactions, no protection used for Vampire reasons TBD (be wise and always use protection, this is fiction). Did attempt to stay away from gendered pronouns and nicknames, although did use the word woman, 3 times throughout the entire piece (not fully published yet) referring to OC. Discussion of history of endo / adeno, and future chapter will mention previous relationship / SA; there will also be Vampire hunting, murdering, and blood….sucking bastards.

Wordcount: 13k + a few, but who's counting?

Return to the Masterlist!

The next evening, when I woke up, I started receiving a bunch of texts from Max. Just one right after the other. By the time I realized he had been sending them, I had 40 new texts from him.

Thirsty much? I scoffed.

And then I clicked on the text thread and gasped, covering my mouth. Oh no.

Each text was a picture of Max outside of a specific apartment with a huge grin, either with a single person or a whole family, holding Mr. Rochester and variously captioned, “Doesn’t belong to them!” - “Not these people, either!” - “This guy will take it if we can’t find the owner!”

Scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling - the Cullins family, old Mr. Feeney, little Old Mrs. White whose husband just passed away last year, the Partridge family with all of their little kids. This was a nightmare!

I mean, eventually, I will probably laugh at this, but right now I could sink into the ground. Groaning, I buried my head under the covers and practiced mindful breathing - 8 seconds in, hold for 8, breathe out for 8. Camped under the covers, I had just started to find my calm, when my phone gave off another singular glow, “Just wanted to let you know that I was thinking about you. All day.” From Max.

Okay. Heart rate increasing, but in a good way. I can work with this. I sent him a non-committal gif of Kathryn Hahn in WandaVision, throwing a sassy wink, and tossing her head back in an adorable giggle. Yeah. Yeah. That’s good, I think. Or I still have things to work on in therapy? Six of one, half dozen of the other! Then I winked and tossed my head back in an adorable giggle.

These pictures of Max with Mr. Rochester and various people throughout the building continued on until the next evening, and the evening after that. To say that I was not a fan, would be an understatement. I persevered and honestly, gave some of my best narrative performances of sexual tension and duress while recording.

The author reached out to me, letting me know they were very happy with my work, and that they would be adding a male narrator for that character’s chapters. To be honest, I was a little relieved. It could be challenging to find the right pitch and timbre for masculine voices. But even more importantly, I was a bit of a wreck. I needed a break.

Would it be fair to call what Max was doing psychological torture? I wasn’t convinced that he was doing it intentionally, and my confused attraction to him technically isn’t his fault. My own hormones and body have been so out of whack since my insomnia set in, it would hardly be fair to place the enigma of my intricate chemical fluctuations on him.

Why am I thinking about this so much? You know exactly why you’re thinking about this so much - he has a name, and it’s not Max. I physically and mentally waved my thoughts away, as I poured 160º F water over two bags of Yerba Mate in one mug.

Strolling around my apartment, I spotted my shake weight, and set down my cup of tea. Perfect - now lefty can become a lean, mean, orgasm machine! I picked up the shake weight with my left hand and started shaking it - almost immediately, there was a knock at the door. Um, no one knocks on my door without an invite, I thought to myself. Peeking through the peephole, I saw Max, who gave a wave.

Weird, he must’ve just seen my shadow cross the peephole. I opened the door with my right hand, shake weight still absentmindedly shaking in my left hand.

His eyes widened and his grin pulled up to one side, revealing his dimple, “I’m not sure exactly what’s happening here, but I like it!”

Taking notice of my left hand, I realized that I was shaking the weight directly towards my mouth in a rather hilariously obscene manner which, to be fair, seems like an intentional design flaw.

Putting the weight down immediately and plastering my best customer service smile on my face, I greeted Max, “How may I help you today?”

“I like the sound of that.” he took a deep breath in, “As much as I’d like to seek your help, I’m actually here to provide,” he emphasized.

“Oh, indeed?” I stepped back as he leaned against the doorframe, getting a bit closer to me, and I put my left hand on my hip.

“Indeed.”

From behind his back, he pulled out Mr. Rochester.

“Seems this fellow has no home. Looks like you can either adopt him or send him to the pound.”

The way he said that with a sneer was downright dirty, and I gave him a look letting him know it.

“BUT –” interjecting before I could, “I was wondering what you were doing this evening.”

“Well, I did just get off the phone with the author of the series I’ve been narrating, and it seems my part is done for the time being.” I said, giving a shrug. “I’m between projects at the moment.”

“Interesting, and coincidentally perfect timing. How do you feel about going to a midnight showing of a terrible movie?”

“That’s not a particularly alluring invitation, I think I’m gonna have to hot pass that one.”

“Hot pass?”

“Yeah. Hot pass. Not a days-old hard pass that’s been left out, getting dry and crusty. A hot pass served straight from the oven, farm to table, I didn’t need to sit on that at all, it’s ready when you are, made to order, HOT PASS.”

“When you say it that way, how could one resist?”

“And yet, that’s what a hot pass in essence is - I’m resisting, Max. Hot. Pass.”

“I promise you, it’s a cult classic! The theater serves booze, there will definitely not be any children there - if you don’t have fun, I’ll owe you.”

My ears pricked up. Owing. Interesting. Sounds like I can’t lose. I raised my eyebrows in deliberation. What do I do now? Cold Take? No, that’s not the opposite of a Hot Pass - I’ll have to work that out later.

“I accept!” I grabbed my spring jacket, my little purse wallet, and my keys.

“Excellent,” in his excitement, Max gave me a kiss on the cheek as I passed by him on the way out of my apartment, causing me to blush and turn around suddenly, walking directly back into him. He was a wall of a man, and as I started to fall backwards, he caught hold of me by the waist, steadying me.

“I would love to not be the reason for another personal injury to you,” he said, chuckling.

Startled by the sudden upheaval of being swept up into his arms upon impact, I found myself resting my right arm on his left, and gripping his tie tightly in my left hand. He appeared undisturbed, and I noticed that he’d dressed up in another three-piece suit, for this spontaneous date? His silver-gray button-up struggled at the seams under his muscles, yet appeared to move fluidly with him. It was certainly a well tailored suit, I thought as my jaw slackened, eyes moving to the muscles tensing in his neck as he pursed his lips, preparing to speak.

“We’ve got a movie to get to.” His eyes moved from my face, down to his tie and he smirked as he looked at my hand, clutching desperately at him. Raising his eyebrow, he said, “Save that for later, Sweetness.”

I let go immediately - and he let go slowly, gently.

“Oh my god,” I shook my head, and led the way to the elevators, realizing as I passed the hall mirror that I was significantly underdressed compared to Max.

Wearing my favorite classic baby tee with a pic of Jake Ryan from 16 Candles on it that says, “I ❤️ Jake Ryan”, a monochromatic gray striped peasant skirt, and some white leather Doc creeper loafers, I asked him, “Before we go - do I need to change? I just threw this on, and did not give a second’s thought to just leaving with you immediately as is. I kind of feel like an asshole, because you’re –” I gestured to his sharp ensemble.

He shrugged, “I think you look great –” pausing to look me over completely, his eyebrow going up slightly as his mouth opened slightly, letting his tongue stick out.

“But I would never tell you what to do.” Recovering somewhat quickly, he gave me a wink before hitting the down button.

I tried asking more questions about the movie on the way down, but Max would not budge, verbally. Physically, he managed to get closer and closer to me, intoxicating me with his pheromones yet again. It was a short walk to the dingy theater, where the midnight showing was of a movie called, The Room, which I’d thought was a movie starring Brie Larsen, but Max assured me - was not, in this instance.

The acting was terrible. The story was confusing, and maybe a bit upsetting, the sets were certainly a choice. It was absolutely hilarious, I spent most of the movie laughing out of pure surprise and delight at the absurdity. I could feel Max looking over at me in the dark, and smiling every time I laughed, pleased that I was enjoying myself.

youtube

As we exited the movie, Max squeezed my hand and asked, “So, what did you think? Are you owed anything for this jaunt?”

“Well. I will admit, Max, true to your word - there were no children present.” I gave him a sneaky little smile, as he gave me a surprised look, “BUT - but, I will also say that I did really have a lot of fun. The movie was absolutely ridiculous, and I’m sure I’ll be quoting it for years to come.”

“Oh, HIIIIII, Doggy!” Max said to me, leaning in.

“Oh, HAI MARK,” I quoted back to him, as he kissed me on the cheek, igniting a new bloom of blush on my neck and cheeks.

“You know there’s more that I want to show you?” My face mimicked a question mark, “Ah, yes! Keep that look of wonderment, for in the basement of this theater,” I scowled at that, and he continued a little slower and calmly, “is a museum, called the Museum of Bad Art.”

“Hmm? What’s that?” I was confused, but intrigued.

“All around this area are different satellite locations of the Museum of Bad Art, and one of them is located here. It’s really terrible art that they’ve collected from local art shows, from Good Will, the Salvation Army, estate sales, just from anywhere they can find it, and it’s stunning in its horrificness.”

Giving him a determined look, I declared, “Bring it on.”

Giving me back an equal amount of sass, Max proclaimed, “Oh, it’s already been broughten.”

Once we got down to the basement, it was hard to know where to go first, there was just so much.

Luckily, we came across an easy one - something that could almost have been done by one of the masters, but - maybe not.

“Max, tell me your thoughts on this painting.”

Max stood very still, his arms crossed, and then started nodding slowly, “Yes, I like this one a lot. Cat with overflowing cornucopia, overflowing with lush fruits, I really like how the artist uses the light to highlight –”

With his intense gesturing and the pause, I took the opportunity to help him out, “To highlight how the cat’s face is too small to be his face? To be the face that goes with that head?”

“Hmmm,” He groaned appreciatively, and then pointed at the painting, “I think that’s it. And I love it.”

We came to the next painting, an old woman in a blue dress in a field of flowers, and Max asked, “What feeling, or sense of ennui are you deriving from this work?”

“Well, Max, my general sense of ‘ennui,’ as it were, and I’d like to thank you for using that word,” he tipped an imaginary hat and did a little bow, mouthing the words ‘you’re so welcome’, “is a little bit confused, because while it appears this older woman is skipping through this field of flowers, she doesn’t appear to be happy about it. She’s got a very placid face, but not in a good way.”

“Hmm, yes. I see that. I find the bright yellow sky to be particularly upsetting. What’s going on back there?”

“Maybe she set something on fire, and she’s doing a crazed skip away from it?”

“I think Grandma’s not cooking pot pie for Grandpa anymore.”

We both hemmed and shook our heads over that tragedy. Poor Grandpa!

The next painting we came to was titled, Sad Monkeys and Woman, but they also had the title in French, which sounded even better, Singes Tristes et Femme. Sadly, the painter was anonymous, and no credit could be given where credit was due.

“Shall we break this down?” Max asked with tempered enthusiasm, making sure that I had a hold of his arm.

“If we shan’t, I’ll be terribly disappointed.” I leaned in to whisper - matching his intensity.

He nodded, “Excellent. Ladies first.” He gestured towards the painting.

“Well, I don’t understand the need for all of the broccoli florets, but if we can look past that, it seems that the monkeys are sad, and the lady is in a circus tent - but why are the monkeys sad, and why is the woman inside the tent without the monkeys?”

Sighing, furrowing his brow, Max gave it a moment and then replied, “I think it’s a medical circus tent. They’re waiting for test results, and it’s probably not going to be good news.”

A lightbulb went off in my head, “OR, what if, like the saying, ‘Not my circus, not my monkeys’ they just got their 23 and Me results back and it’s her circus –”

“But not her monkeys?” Max finished my thought, and we turned to each other and both said, “SAD MONKEYS!” and then made fake sad faces at each other.

We passed by a particularly disturbing painting of Joan Crawford, and I gasped, “Oh, Joan! What have they done to you?”

“Derivative.” Was Max’s passing response.

Kismet, it seems, brought us to a final portrait that appeared to depict none other than Molly Ringwald herself.

“What would you say is happening here?” I asked Max, gesturing towards the painting.

“I’d say that Molly Ringwald is battling a little cherub baby angel over one shoulder, and some sort of Mrs. Doubtfire inspired crone over the other shoulder.”

“Aha - the recurring duality of good versus evil, and of course, humanity represented by - Samantha, from 16 Candles?”

“Naturally.” Max nodded, “Who better? Although, I wonder if you would call it coincidence or serendipity that you’re wearing a 16 Candles shirt and we’re happening upon art with the very same subject matter?” We started to walk out of the museum and the theater, heading back towards the apartment complex.

Passing him an eye roll, “Coincidence, definitely. Although, I didn’t take you as someone who would consider anything serendipitous,” I looked at him curiously.

He shrugged, giving a snarky look back at me, but also kissed my hand, “I take what life hands me. Sometimes more.” He smirked and gave a chuckle, “Whatever happens, happens, sometimes - I think life has a way of surprising you. But listen - do you really love Jake Ryan?”

I burst out laughing, “What?! He’s a fictional character, and from a movie that has not aged well, at that.”

“Why do you have that shirt then?”

“I mean –” I shook my head a little, “it’s the persistent idea of Jake Ryan. Sitting cross legged, kissing over a flaming birthday cake? Yes, please. But, also - the one. The one who doesn’t forget your birthday, who sees you in a sea of others, who treats you like you matter - the fantasy of being someone to another person. To have passion that is reciprocated. Jake Ryan is a state of mind.”

By that point, we’d reached the entrance of the apartment building. Max paused, taking in what I’d just said.

“I’m sorry - that was a lot, and again, it’s just that over-romanticized ideal. You know, imprinted teenage crush.” I’d started apologizing, taking Max’s silence as a sign that I’d said too much, been too much.

“Hey, hey,” He shook his head and started rubbing my shoulders, “No, it’s a really nice idea. 80’s movies affecting the romantic interests of people over the years, how they react, behave, that’s absolutely valid. How it affected you personally? I mean - I’m happy to hear all about that.”

“Okay,” I smiled, “What about you? Was there any movie that stuck with you over the years of idealized 80s romance?”

Max paused, thinking for a moment, “Say Anything - I thought I could be Lloyd Dobler,” I frowned, “I know, I know. He’s a little, stalky. But he looked so cool holding up that stereo, playing Peter Gabriel. I needed to be him. Or, my younger self needed to be him.”

I nodded, smiling and encouraging him to open up more, but a cold chill ran through me as the temperature dropped, and I involuntarily shivered in my light jacket. Noticing, Max wrapped his arms around me.

“Let’s get you inside.”

We made our way up to the 4th floor on the elevator, and Max walked me to my door. “Thank you so much for tonight, Max.”

“Um, we’re not done.” His features hardened, and he gave me a stern look.

Taken aback, I responded, “I’m sorry?”

“We’re not done - or do you not remember that I brought back the ‘lost device’ tonight?” his hardened features smoothed into something playful, yet foreboding.

“We’re going to figure out what it does.”

My stomach sank, and so did my vagina - both feeling like they had just gone down a really high hill on a rollercoaster. To be honest, I couldn’t decide if I was horrified or excited.

This evening with Max had been exactly what I needed and wanted. We vibed so well with each other, and he made me feel so comfortable being myself, even when he was walking around looking like he did in that suit. I bit my lip a little too hard while thinking about it, and winced, as I tried to think about how I was going to come clean about Mr. Rochester. But what about - ? No. Not tonight. Fuck off ‘what ifs’ and ‘what abouts’. I deserve this. I was resolved.

“Very well,” I said nonchalantly as I put my key in the door lock - Max stood close behind me, putting both hands on my hips, he leaned his head down and sniffed my neck, while the hairs on my body all stood up. For a brief moment, I froze there with my eyes closed, feeling the strength of his hands on my pelvic bones. Until he took one hand off me, and pushed the door open in front of me.

Shaken out of my fog, I walked forward into the apartment, dropping off my keys, wallet, and jacket near the front door. I turned around, and asked if I could get him anything to drink.

“Just you,” he grinned ferociously, and bit his lip.

I unintentionally laughed nervously, “Okay - I’m assuming you don’t need a glass with that?”

He chuckled and shook his head. Picking up Mr. Rochester, he handed it to me, “Are you ready to get to work?”

The way he said it was commanding, strict, the type of question that deserved the exact answer I gave, “Sir, yes sir.”

When he heard that, he stood up a little taller, a little straighter, his pants leaned a little bit more to the left, as he took off his jacket, unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, keeping his tie and vest on, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

As I held Mr. Rochester in one hand, Max reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. I pouted a little, confused as to why he would need to check his phone right now.

“You said that this might be a bluetooth compatible microphone for recording things on TikTok, so I paired it with my phone.” Oh no. My face dropped. “Oh yes, yes I did. Let’s see if it works. Why don’t you sing into it for me?”

“What should I sing?”

“You can sing whatever you like.”

I felt Mr. Rochester start to buzz lightly, and I had a terrible, wonderful idea for which song to sing, but I knew that if I did it, there would be no turning back.

youtube

Picking up my phone, I connected to my speakers, flicked on Joan as Police Woman’s cover of Whatever You Like and started singing into Mr. Rochester.

“Stacks on deck, Patrón on ice. We can pop bottles all night. Baby, you can have whatever you like. I said you could have whatever you like,” Max’s mouth dropped into an open grin, mesmerized as I moved my body to the music. He turned Mr. Rochester up, as I dragged it down my body, “Late night sex, so wet, you’re so tight. I’ll gas up the jet for you tonight. Baby, you could go wherever you like. I said, you could go wherever you like.”

But then I bent my right elbow and yelped, holding it in pain. Fuck. Did this have to happen right now? I can play through it, yeah. I’ll just play through it. I lamented that I might not be able to have the necessary grip for all the things I’d been wanting to grip all night long. I opened my eyes, and Max’s crotch was in my face, definitely available, but he immediately bent down on the floor next to me.

“I’m going to fix this for you.”

He lifted his hand to his mouth, and with much larger incisors than I remember seeing (have I not been doing a good job of paying attention to him ?), he bit into his finger, and then removed my bandage. Taking his bloody finger, he rubbed it all over my bruised and slowly healing elbow. As he rubbed his finger over it, the bruise started to fade, the scars began to disappear, and in a matter of moments the whole area looked as though I had never injured it. I took a closer look at it, then bent my elbow up and down, back and forth, and it was completely fine.

I looked up at Max, completely baffled. “What just happened? What did you do?”

“I could make you forget that you ever fell and hurt yourself but, I’m not going to risk the brain scramblies. I want you to know the truth.”

“Good, I’d love to be privy to the inner workings of your life.”

He chuckled, “It’s a little bit more complicated than that,” he bared vampire fangs at me, and I scooted back, “Oh! No, no. I’m not going to hurt you,” his face looked so sad, as he reached his hand out, palm open towards me. “It’s basically a medical condition - extreme iron deficiency and sun allergy.”

I mean, I was definitely familiar with medical conditions - I was living a version of vampirism already, in constant darkness. Taking a beat, I decided to hear him out and nodded for him to continue, taking his hand.

“It happened on a business trip to Staten Island, I was hanging out with some clients at a club, showing them the area –”

“Staten Island? Really?” I interrupted.

“Yeah, you’d be surprised,” He seemed a bit squeamish about it, which was a first, “Anyway… this extremely crusty looking, yet very stately, oddly attractive fella - sounded like he was from an older European country, super weird, wearing a New Jersey Devil’s hat. Well, he interrupted our drinks with clients and turned me, out of nowhere. Afterwards, I never received any guidance for my unholy transition, I just had to figure it out on my own.”

“Oh my goodness.”

I clutched his hand tighter, searching his face for a signal, trying to figure out what he needed from me. He seemed so down, and he had done so much for me, so I decided to give back to him by opening up and being honest with him.

“Max?”

“Hmm?”

“I want to open up to you as well, and in the spirit of honesty, I have a confession.”

His face immediately perked up as he prepared to hear what I had to say to him.

“I know what that device is that I was singing into,” he bit his lip and raised his eyebrows, in what we’ll all pretend was surprise. “It’s Mr. Rochester.”

Then he actually was bewildered, and furrowed his brow when asking, “Mr. Rochester?? Like Jane Eyre? Charlotte Brontë? Wife locked in the attic?”

“One and the same,” I said sincerely, “He’s my vibrator, but you should know, it’s a friends with benefits situation, it’s not serious.”

“WELL! I mean,” he seemed exasperated, yet continued quite calmly, “I’m really glad you opened up to me. I like the honesty. Would you ever want to have a threesome with Mr. Rochester and of course, myself?”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “How very Eyes Wide Shut of you! Yes, I think that would be something to pencil in. We’ll just have to check Mr. Rochester’s schedule, he’s very, very busy.”

Max gave me moon eyes, “Of course. And if you need someone to step in and fulfill your needs while Mr. Rochester is unavailable, I’m more than happy to - but I also have one more confession.”

“Another one?” I asked, shocked that there could be anything more than “vampire”?

Nodding his head, he began, “Because I am a vampire, I have some extra features. I can hear very, very well. I can see temperature differences in the human body, I can smell things that people can’t smell.” No idea where he’s going with this. But nodding encouragingly anyway. “When I first moved here, and when I first became a vampire - I heard you every night. You’re the only person in the whole building who has consistently had insomnia for the past 20 months, 1 week, and 2 days.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling a little woozy.

Max took my hand in his, rubbing his fingers in and out of mine slowly.

“I heard you when you cried on and off for those first couple months - which really annoyed me at the time. I heard you quietly humming around your apartment. When you started leaving your apartment to do laundry again and started singing in the laundry room, I fell in love with your voice. When you started narrating books, I’ll be honest, not all of them were good, but you - you are a good narrator, and your voice calms my heart and sets my soul at peace. I heard you on the phone with your mom, with your friends, I learned so many things about you - how you write poetry in the middle of the night and just practice reciting it out loud, to keep yourself from losing your own voice. I had to meet you, I had to know if I was going crazy about you just because you were alone in my head every night, or just because I was actually going mad.”

As I breathed in and out slowly, counting my 8’s, holding my 8’s, Max continued, “I think this is real, and I hope that you’ll give me time, and get to know me at your own pace.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I looked around the room, I thought about everything I had been through these past, nearly two years, and looked at the man, the vampire, presenting himself before me. I thought about the whirlwind of this past week. Normally, I would call this a huge red flag - love bombing, et al. - but he didn’t say that he loved me. He also told me to take my time. This is different, it seems like he wants to take time to see if it’s real for himself, too. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. What am I doing?

I bent my right elbow, which felt fantastic, as I traced my thumb back and forth across my bottom lip, and Max watched me with a concerned look on his face. Picking up Mr. Rochester, I decided to say how I really and truly felt.

“Max, I think that in order for me to communicate what I need, I’m going to have to finish what we started.”

His eyebrows furrowed, confusion and unease marring his face, I hit play on my phone, and continued singing.

youtube

“I want your body, I need your body,” standing up, pulling him up by his tie, “Long as you got me, you won’t need nobody.”

Using his tie like a leash, I gave him a tight little yank, leading him into my bedroom. Holding onto his tie-leash, I gave him a little push, encouraging him to sit on the edge of the foot of the bed. I slipped out of my peasant skirt and shoes, keeping my t-shirt, lingerie, and knee socks on. Sitting on his lap, facing him, I started to unbutton his vest as he put his hands on my hips, gripping me, rocking me against his burgeoning erection. I bit my lip, trying not to moan, but instead focusing on the task at hand which was incredibly difficult - especially while feeling his dick rubbing up against my vagina and clit through layers of fabric. Oh, that smell of him - leather, whisky, pine maybe? Something musky, I can’t - Resting my head against his shoulder, I pushed off his vest and started unbuttoning his shirt.

I loosened his tie, but only enough to get to the button at his collar. OH! He hit me with a deep, rough lunge against my lingerie, and my thighs quivered, anticipating the eventual thrust, the deep, violent rut into me that would scratch this itch, raging at my core. Pulling his collar out from under his tie, I tugged his entire shirt off, so that only his beautiful chest remained, with a neat little tie, perfect for keeping him right where I wanted him.

Pulling on the tie, I smirked, “Oh, Hiiii, Doggy.”

Max looked up at me, adoringly, and moved one of his hands up my back, pushing me right up against him, so that he could grab my mouth with his. Working his other hand up, while continuing to roll his hips into mine, he pulled my shirt up over my head. We took a break from kissing, and Max let his fangs out, biting into the fabric at the front of my bra, ripping it open easily and baring my breasts to him.

“Max,” I pouted, “That was expensive.”

He looked up at me, a devilish grin on his face, “I’ll buy you a new one.” Then proceeded to lick around my nipple, squeezing my other breast, jutting up into me, and rubbing the middle finger of his other hand up and down my spine, while I held onto his tie-leash. How he managed to hit my clitoris through the pants, I have no idea, but it created the perfect amount of friction in so many different delicious places, until finally, I gave a hard yank on the leash.

“We need to get all the way on the bed, because I need to be on top of you,” He looked up from the nipple he was sucking on, and replied, “Whatever I can do for you, Sweetness.”

He climbed back on the bed, then yanked me up with him, on top of him. I laughed, but only because I felt like I was going to explode if I didn’t get him inside of me soon. I kissed him, and he kissed me - he held on to me, and kept kissing me, his hands all over - sliding my lingerie down my thighs, and I had to pull away, “Max, no - I’m primed, I’m ready. I love kissing you, but I. Am. Ready.”

Raising his eyebrow, he licked his lips and grinned, “Don’t let me stop you. You’re a woman on a mission.”

I dragged my nails down his chest, around his nipples, giving gentle kisses along the way. When I got to his pants, I unbuckled his belt, popped open the button, and unzipped the zipper, my body shaking with impatience. Max lifted his hips, helping me to pull his pants and his black boxer briefs down, past his sumptuous, mouthwatering cock. I sat up, and blew into my hands to make sure they were warm - then licked the palms. Holding his dick just beneath the head with one hand, I slowly licked the underside, from the bottom of the shaft, to just under the head, giving it a little special attention, and then slowly, dipping my mouth over him, over his cock, up and down, slowing moving my hand up and down as Max started to groan. I kept going, keeping myself steady, going as far as I could, until he touched my hand.

“Sweetness? I want to fuck up your pussy with my cum. I want to wreck you - can we?”

Of course I was amenable to that proposition. He took my hand, like a princess, and led me forward so that I was hovering over his dick, letting it rub against me. While I continued doing that, he leaned all the way forward and started playing with my tits again, squeezing my ass, ravishing my body, so that I didn’t know where the pleasure was coming from. As he dipped the head of his penis into my vagina just slightly, teasing me, I finally - slowly, firmly, sat on his dick, and we both let out a loud groan together.

Every time I rolled my hips, my chest rolled, too, and we kept rubbing against each other in all of the right ways. Taking one hand from my hip, he started making circles with his thumb along my clitoris, and I started to feel the building coil, the tension, his dick throbbing as I clenched onto him. My vagina pulsing and squeezing as his dick kept pumping into me, and my clitoris, sparking and popping into a full abdomen orgasm. His warmth, his cum running down his cock and trickling along the edges of my vagina. I took my finger, and swiped at the puddle, licking it off my finger while Max stared at me in awe.

“Fuck, Sweetness. I could watch that all day.” I leaned into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around me. “Please rank your customer satisfaction level with 1 being the lowest and 5 being the highest on your touch tone phone.”

“Um, hello? I’d like to lodge a complaint - I’ve been having sex with humans when I could’ve been having sex with vampires this entire time. Super Massive Blackhole Fuck Up.”

Max chuckled, “Your response has been accepted and will be processed between 10 - 15 business days.”

“What?! Why so long?!” I exclaimed as I pulled back slightly.

“Bureaucracy, obviously. A lot of paperwork to fill out. In fact, I should probably get started.”

Max started to lift me up off his lap and I whimpered in disappointment. His rich chuckle tumbled out of his chest, “Or we could just sit here, counting the seconds since our last successful orgasm.”

Smiling as he rubbed my back and gave me a kiss on the forehead, on the cheek - then abruptly, his mood changed. His eyebrows furrowed, and suddenly he was very serious.

“We didn’t use any protection.”

I looked down, playing with his tie, “I know.”

“I want you to know that, one of the benefits of being a vampire is that we’re not susceptible to STIs. It’s not a thing in the vampire world, we can’t catch them, we can’t be carriers…”

“That’s fine.” I interrupted him, “I kinda assumed after you told me that you were a vampire, that we’d have sex, then you’d completely exsanguinate me, or make me your familiar. And then I wouldn't have any free will after that. I considered this that one thing that I needed to do if I were to –”

Max’s face fell, his right hand stopped drawing circles on my back, and he used it to lift my chin so that I was looking him straight in the eye.

“Never.”

He gave me a soft kiss on the lips. “For as long as the sun sets and the moon rises.” Kissing both of my eyelids, he pulled me into his chest.

“I have control. Not like the first night I turned, but that’s another story. Now, it’s - nothing.”

“So it’s not like Twilight when Edward made a stank face when Bella walked into her science class?”

Max started guffawing.

“No! No, no no. Being around people, it’s like being at the supermarket - you don’t want to go when you’re hungry, otherwise you’re going to end up putting way more in your shopping cart than you need. And if someone is bleeding, it’s like being around someone cooking bacon or baking brownies, or whatever your personal weakness is when it comes to food. You can resist, but DAMN if it doesn’t smell good!”

I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, “Okay, I was not expecting that at all,” Max laughed lightly, “Twilight, True Blood, Dracula, those are my entire basis of vampire knowledge. So - no worries of STIs, that’s great!”

As I finished what I was saying, Max stiffened, “I think there’s another thing you should probably know –” he paused, as though he wasn’t sure how to approach it.

Leaning back, I looked at him as he explored my face, clenching his jaw before starting, “Some people might see this as a bonus, although others may feel that it is a dealbreaker.”

I looked back at him, attempting to keep my face as supportive as possible, albeit I was somewhat nervous where he was going.

“Vampires cannot get humans pregnant - or other vampires, for that matter. The water turns to wine as soon as you turn. Which is probably for the best.”

Max bit his lip, raising his eyebrow in a questioning manner, “Is this a dealbreaker?”

My heart rattled around my rib cage, glowing as it warmed towards him, my appreciation for his candor and consideration, his openness and frankly bravery in being able to admit so many scary, risky things to me tonight. It was certainly a lot to take in, a lot to process.

“Well,” I started, “Between you not being able to have children and you being a vampire, I would say that being a vampire would probably be more of a dealbreaker than the extremely normal issue of male infertility, right?”

Pausing, I gave him a wink.

Apparently he was holding his breath, because he let it out in a whoosh as he nervously giggled to himself.

“That being said,” I continued, as he focused on my lips, “I actually can’t have children either, so - I’m glad you brought this up. And I’m really glad that we won’t be having a weird vampire-human baby hybrid à la Twilight.”

“Wait. You can’t have children?” Max asked, as I shrunk a little into myself, “DUMPED!”

And he swung me off his lap, onto the bed, where he stood over me. His chest slowly going up and down, the tie dangling over it, and his pants which were open just enough for our earlier sex acts, providing the full monty of his cock rising with another generous erection.

Sitting up on my elbows, I raised an eyebrow, “I’m not sure that I love that my inability to produce offspring, followed up by a subsequent dumping, which by the way - didn’t know we were officially a thing yet - is giving you such a massive erection. Don’t - love - it.”

I cocked my head to the side, after Max gave me a particularly charming grin, and eyed the precum starting to bead at the head of his massively beautiful dick.

“Oh, we were definitely a thing,” he said, reaching behind him to grab something - but what was he grabbing? No. Oh no. When did he have time to bring that into the room? “But it’s over now. Sorry. Perhaps it’s my turn to sing for you? Express my broken heart at your treachery and deceit?”

Setting up a song on his phone, the music started as Mr. Rochester started on a low buzz.

youtube

Immediately I recognized Wicked Games by Chris Isaak, as Max slowly climbed the bed near my feet, singing into Mr. Rochester, “The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you. Strange what desire, makes foolish people do.”

As he got closer to my thighs, he took Mr. Rochester, and gently applied him to the inside of my left knee, just along the side, moving slowly up, “No, I-i-i-i - don’t wanna fall in love. No, I-i-i-i - don’t wanna fall in love, with you.”

He looked me straight in the eyes as he increased the vibration, taking Mr. Rochester, and placing him in the lower center of my abdomen, about 3 fingers width above my clit. I scrunched up my nose at him in disapproval, although I was simultaneously feeling quite frazzled.

“What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.” He quickly swiped Mr. Rochester straight up and around my belly button, then over to the right side of my abdomen. “What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.”

The buzzing, set to medium, was not too light that it tickled, but was just enough to set my senses ablaze. Up again he went, circling my right breast very delicately in concentrically smaller circles until he was focused on just the nipple, as I leaned back, curling my toes and clenching the sheets in my hands. Max moved in closer, hovering above me as he circled my left breast, my nipple, dipping his head into the crook of my neck. He started kissing, licking, and nibbling along my collarbone, moving up towards my chin, in the meanwhile, drawing Mr. Rochester down my body until he was right on my clitoris.

Gasping from the combined pleasures, I reached my arm around his neck, pulling myself up so that I could kiss him right in the little dip below his Adam's apple. Using my tongue, I gently massaged the divet in between generous kisses, inhaling large breaths of his virile, woodsy, spiced scent. With my other hand, I lightly ran my fingers up and down the length of his dick, stopping just below the head along the frenulum, tenderly swirling my finger in very soft, small circles.

“Oh fuck.” Max whispered loudly, putting his forehead against mine. “I’m gonna pull you up further onto the bed, okay?” he said through haphazard breaths, tossing Mr. Rochester aside.

I nodded as he reached underneath me, moving me closer to the top of the bed, and putting a pillow underneath my head. He glanced down at me, giving me a big smile, “And now I’m going to fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked.”

Smiling back at him, he immediately put his lips to mine, pulling me into a full, luscious kiss that just kept going. His body against mine, our skin touching - melting into each other, moving together up and down, he used one hand to line himself up with my vagina. Edging into me, inch by glorious inch with each wave of our undulating bodies. Once fully inside me, he pulled back like a slow coil and then snapped back into me, and did it again, and again, and again. I put my hand above my head to brace myself against the headboard, and Max brought his hand up, grasping onto mine like he couldn’t bear to have any piece of me not engaged in making love to him.

He continued to thrust into me - the repeated, wet friction of the head of his cock on my g spot, the feeling of his shaft filling me up - hard and thick. Pulsing subtly as he clenched his muscles to continue driving into me, I started to feel the pull, the spasm, taking the bite of apple from the tree of knowledge with the snake at my feet. The intensity of which only increased as I opened my eyes, looking up at Max as he looked back down at me, with his sincere, enthusiastic half smile and adorable dimple. He slowed as he felt my vagina contract around him, and moved his penis in and out in deep circles. Until I could feel his rigorous and steady ejaculation into me, warming me from the inside out.

Giving me sweet little kisses along the line of my jaw as he remained inside me, giving my chin a little bite, he leaned onto one elbow and reached down, swiping at our cum at the base of his cock. Bringing his finger to his mouth, he licked it off, mimicking what I’d done earlier.

“Fuck, Sweetness. I could watch that all day.” I teased, parroting what he’d said to me earlier.

Max raised an eyebrow and leaned in, giving me a full, deep kiss, letting me taste our combined flavors. Everybody is different, but for some reason it reminded me of pineapple upside down cake, or rum raisin ice cream, with a slight saltiness, and I felt dizzy from all of the attention and care he was giving me. Or perhaps it was simply dehydration?

I looked over at my bedside table, where I’d left a glass of water just out of reach and Max, attentive beyond my expectations, reached over and handed it to me. Taking the glass out of his hand left it free to wander, and wander it did. He took his hand, trailing his index finger down my throat. Upon reaching my clavicles he splayed his hand and slowly drew his whole hand down my chest, resting his hand between my breasts and leaving it there. He moved over to my side, propping his head up on his other hand.

As he moved to my side, naturally, his penis came out of me. His dick was big, but realistically, it was not that long and that was for the best. Gasping theatrically, he took his hand off my chest and said, “Oh no!” Then scooted closer to me and draped his dick over my hip, making me laugh at his desire to use his cock to keep a claim on me.

Max started tracing imaginary shapes on my abdomen. Until he furrowed his brow and traced what, to most people, would look like a frowny face between my hips, my pubic bone, and my belly button.

“These scars - this is why you can’t have kids?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and sighed, “Yeah. I mean, it’s a little more complicated than that, but it’s the visual and physical evidence remaining of what happened that caused it.”

“May I ask what happened?”

I bit the inside of my mouth, then reached over towards my bedside table that was just out of reach, to put the glass of water back. Without trying, Max took the glass of water out of my hand and easily put the glass back on the table for me.

Without thinking too much, I turned on the clinical side of my brain.

“I have a disease called endometriosis,” I’ve repeated this so many times, for so many people that I don’t even have to think about it anymore, “it’s where tissue similar to, but not, the uterine lining grows outside of the uterus. In a way, it’s like cancer, in that tissue is growing where it shouldn’t - however, it absolutely does not metastasize the same way at all, so it cannot be qualified as a cancer. The tissue that grows is triggered by estrogen, so it’s aggravated by menstrual cycles, but the pain it causes is not limited to menstrual cycles. As it grows, it creates painful adhesions which are almost magnetic in drawing organs together, getting organs stuck together to the point that a person’s abdomen can be 'frozen' in place - organs are really supposed to be free floating, mobile, not stuck together.”

I took a moment to breathe before digging back in.

“That gets really painful. It can affect fertility in many different ways, and is responsible for about 50% of infertility cases. A lot of people who have endo often find success with pregnancy after having a surgery known as 'excision' surgery. Not to be confused with 'ablation' surgery.” Going on to describe the difference between the two, “Excision pulls the disease out by the root, ablation just burns the disease off at the surface - it’s basically like cutting the lawn versus pulling the weeds. You wanna pull the weeds.”

I paused. I knew I’d said a lot, and took a look at Max to see how he was faring.

His brows were knitted together, concerned, but he was paying attention. “So, you had one of the - excision - surgeries? Your fertility should’ve been better right?”

Tilting my head slightly, I continued, “Ehhh, well. I had 3 surgeries, well 2 - “ Max frowned, “My first surgery was with a doctor who was a gynecological surgeon, but not an endo specialist. So they opened me up, panicked when they realized how much was happening, drained an endometrioma in my ovary, and then sewed me back up. Then I had an excision surgery with 2 well known endometriosis specialists who diagnosed me with stage 4 disease, and based on visual confirmation only, adenomyosis.”

“Adenomy–? But they got all of the endometriosis?”

“They did their best. They got rid of everything that they were able to see, but I lost my gallbladder and my appendix to the disease and adhesions. However, they did save my left kidney, so I was psyched about that,” I gave Max two thumbs up. “And adenomyosis is when endometriosis grows in between the layers of uterine lining. It can either be focal or diffuse. If it’s focal, that means that it’s like a little ball or cyst that they can remove, although it’s very tricky to do because the uterus is basically a giant muscle filled with blood vessels. The muscles have two jobs: squeeze to shed lining, and close off blood vessels so that you don’t bleed your own blood. When there’s something like adenomyosis or fibroids interrupting the muscles, they can’t always properly close off the blood vessels.”

“And you bleed your own blood?”

“Yes, and it always makes me think of that line from the movie Dodgeball, ‘Nobody makes me bleed my own blood - nobody!’ You know what I’m talking about - Ben Stiller says it?”

Max chuckled, “Yeah, I know it. ‘If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball’! But continue, please.”

“Yar. So. It’s a lot harder to remove disease from inside the lining of the uterus. There’s a procedure called the Osada Procedure, developed by –” I paused for dramatic effect, “Dr. Osada, from Japan. But it’s pretty wild. They actually…” I stopped and looked at him, “This next part is a little graphic, but from a scientific standpoint, it’s also very interesting. Are you sure you want me to continue?”

He pretended like he really had to think about it, hemming in various different ways for a good minute, “Ummmm…ahhhhhh, hmmmmm, wellllllllllll.” And then he smiled at me and reached for my hand, “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Well, they basically do a c-section, and lift your uterus out so that they can peel back the outer layer and remove the disease from the inner layer.”

His eyes grew wide and his smile turned to repulsion, “Whaaaaaaaat??? Really?? That’s - I don’t know that I like that.”

“Only 5 doctors in the world are capable of performing it, so it wasn’t actually an option for me. Well, 4 doctors now, one retired.”

“So what is the treatment if not that?”

“Birth control, aka hormone modifying medication. I had to have an IUD inserted AND take a progesterone-only birth control at the same time daily, in order to keep myself from bleeding through.”

“Progesterone-only because estrogen made the endometriosis angry?”

“Exactly.”

“You said ‘had’ though. You’re not doing that anymore?”

“Uh, no. So there are other options, like presacral neurectomy, which involves severing the nerves between the uterus and the presacral plexus, the bundle of nerves that sends pain signals from the uterus to the brain.”

Max’s face turned to one of unhappy disgust, with an exaggerated frown and I laughed, “I know, that doesn’t sound great. Some people have a lot of luck with it, which means they get to keep their uterus, try for kids, but sometimes the connection grows back, sometimes the wrong nerve gets severed and people experience tingling and paralysis, lack of feeling, the surgery is somewhere between 52% - 75% effective amongst patients - but again, there aren’t a lot of doctors who are qualified to perform that surgery.”

“Is that the surgery you got for your third surgery?” Max asked, looking concerned.

I shook my head, “No. I actually started having pain again about 7 months after my second surgery - the first surgery with the specialists - despite physical and pelvic floor therapy, and my endo specialist told me that it was possible, with all of the endo I had, that I had more disease. That it would be worth it to have another surgery.”

“So you did that.”

“Yeah. And, because there were some concerning things happening regarding national / local access to my hormone medication –”

Max interjected, “The birth control? With the Supreme Court and local laws?”

I nodded and he frowned, “Exactly. I wasn’t sure that I was going to have access to the medication that allowed me to stand up straight, and kept me from suffering significant anemia. After talking with my doctor, I decided to go ahead and have an Anti-Müllerian Hormone blood test done to see what my ovarian reserve was. It was super easy - they just drew my blood, and then I found out how fertile I was.”

“Judging by those beautiful hips…” a smug smile stretched across Max’s face.

Rolling my eyes at him, I forged ahead with good natured sarcasm, “Yep. That’s how that works. Science solved!”

He gave me a kiss on the cheek, chuckling.

“Normal AMH levels are about 1.5 - 4.0 ng/l and anything below 1.0 is considered low, but above 0.5-0.8, is still viable for fertility treatments. Mine came in at 0.05 ng/l.”

Taking a moment, Max gulped, absentmindedly starting to brush a strand of hair out of my face and behind my ear, then continued to trace along my jaw until he reached my chin, placing his thumb on my bottom lip, affectionately brushing his finger over it, his eyes focused on both of my lips.

“I think I know where this is going - but I want to hear it from you.”

Pursing my lips, I carried on - still fairly objective in my tone and phrasing.

“It didn’t make sense to try to hold on to an organ that wasn’t serving me and wouldn’t serve me, I’m not super young - and especially as someone who was not in a relationship or had any idea when or if I would be partaking in another one. Much less so in this climate. I’m not going to hold off for some ‘maybe’ person,” looking at him, “sorry,” he shrugged, and shook his head, unbothered, “-- to decide for me in the here and now, while I was currently in a lot of pain; when I could go ahead and make the choice for myself to get both surgeries done at the same time. And after doing the research, I decided on a total hysterectomy plus a salpingectomy - it’s one of the three options available. There’s hysterectomy classic - just the uterus; total hysterectomy - uterus plus cervix; radical hysterectomy - uterus, cervix, ovaries. I kept my ovaries so that I could maintain my hormone levels on my own, but I got a salpingectomy, aka got my fallopian tubes removed, so that I didn’t have a risk of an ectopic pregnancy, which oddly, is still a possibility despite having a hysterectomy. Wild, eh?”

Max gave me a horrified look, “WHAT? Jesus.” He shook his head. “So –” his hand hovered over my midsection, “how is this all feeling now? How long ago did this happen?”

Scrunching up my face, I responded, “About 20 months, 1 week, and 4 days ago - I had to stay in the hospital for 1.5 days.” Then I grinned and said in a British accent, “I’m getting betteh!”

Letting out an amused cackle, Max did his own Monty Python impersonation, “You’re not dead yet?”

Keeping my face in a dramatically large, frozen faced smile, eyebrows raised, I just shook my head and raised my shoulders in a shrug.

Max cackled even louder, and wrapped me up in his arms, giving me aggressively sweet little kisses, while I giggled at his relentless ardor.

Stopping abruptly, he inquired again, “Seriously, though - you seemed okay during sex, both times,” he flashed his eyebrows and smirked, as he gave me a quick look up and down, then got serious again, “but I didn’t hurt you at all, did I?”

“Oh, no - not at all. They found more stage 4 disease during my third surgery and removed that, and everything healed up quite nicely. No complications. And if anything, my hormones may be a bit out of whack - I’ve had a hard time obviously, with insomnia, and there was a period of time where I really, really didn’t feel like myself at all. But now that I’m off not one but TWO forms of birth control, which is a LOT, let’s be honest - I feel like I’m outside of a cloud that I’d been living in.”

Max nodded while he listened, “If anything I’m more present, I think. And my sex drive is a lot higher, sex is –'' I looked into his eyes, wishing I could convey to him just exactly what being with him meant, “actually pleasurable. It doesn’t hurt. Occasionally, the ghost of endo haunts me, and that leaves me a little sore. But if I’m going to be sore from anything, I want it to be from an intense sex session with you.”

“It haunts you?”

“There’s no official cure for it, and when it takes a really long time for a diagnosis, the disease can develop its own nerve endings, which can leave many patients with residual nerve issues, like fibromyalgia or other types of neuralgia.”

“Did you write a book on this or are you also a part time doctor?”

I laughed, “Ah, no. A lot of patients have to push to get diagnosed, and that usually involves becoming very educated in the various aspects of endo. I have spent a good portion of my free time helping other patients advocate for themselves - the whole system is problematic in a lot of ways.” I sighed.

“I have one final question for you,” Max led into his query, “The kids ‘thing’. How are you feeling about having to give that up?”

Giving out an exasperated huff, I launched into my response, “First - I have a lot of thoughts. I had a lot of thoughts. I always thought that I would have kids, but no matter what relationship I was in, it never seemed like a good time. Not just because of where we were planning-wise, but because I had other stuff I wanted to do instead. And I know that sounds selfish - I like kids, I do - it’s just, I didn’t want them around all the time.”

Max laughed at me, or with me, it was hard to tell, “But I did want the choice. I wanted it to be mine, and mine alone, not because of something that couldn’t be helped, not a government, not anyone else but me. And when I was setting up the surgery and had to coordinate with the insurance company, do you know what the insurance agent said to me?” Max shrugged and shook his head. “We’ll have to confirm with your doctor, to make sure that you’re not trying to get out of having kids.”

Max’s face took on a steely glare, his nostrils flared as he breathed out, and he accidentally bared his fangs.

“I know. I was furious. I didn’t realize having children was a requirement for my gender. But I spent the next 20 minutes educating that insurance rep on my reproductive system, and then they admitted that they knew people with similar issues and had some issues themselves, so it’s - whatever.” I threw my hands in the air.

Looking away from me, Max clenched his jaw - he seemed to be trying to get his fangs to retract. I could tell that what I said upset him, and I reached my hand up to his chin, turning his face back towards mine. He took my hand, and brought it down to his heart, holding it there in place as he leaned his forehead against mine. After a minute of slowing his breathing, he pulled my hand back up to his face and kissed it. Drawing back, fangs no longer on display, he studied my face - letting his rich, hot coffee eyes dissolve me.

“I hate that you went through that - and I feel like an asshole for being annoyed at you because I had to listen to you cry in the middle of the night when I first transformed.” Shaking my head, I opened my mouth to speak, but Max pushed on, “I am an asshole. It’s what I do best. And I suspect that sometimes it turns you on.”

He had me there, and I tried not to look directly at him. “I am trying, though,” giving me one of his deliciously charming smiles and a wink, he pulled me closer, and nuzzled my neck.

“You know what?” Max began, a teasing, smug look on his face as he pulled back, “All that you’ve been through - that’s all very impressive. And I want you to know that I’m here for you. Because I know exactly what you’ve been through.”

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely.” He lifted his leg, showing off a small, white scar, about 3 inches long. “I was chased by a dog when I was 8 years old, and fell on some glass.”

Mockingly, but with sincere gusto, I gasped, “Oh no!” Touching the scar on his leg, “This is horrific. I hope you sued that dog. And that piece of glass.”

Max dramatically and emotionally sniffed back fake tears, “Thank you. We sued them into oblivion for everything they were worth. It was very traumatic.”

“And how much was everything they were worth?” I inquired.

“A bag of puppy chow and the rest of the broken bottle.”

“Sounds like you came out on top. Somebody didn’t have to pay for college!”

Max burst out laughing, “That’s right, I went into college admissions with puppy chow and a broken bottle and said, ‘This should cover one 4-year bachelor degree, right?’ and they absolutely said yes. And now I work in sales.” He shrugged, still chuckling.

“Wait - so you’re a vampire, and you still work? That didn't stop once you transitioned?”

“Ah, yeah. I still have bills, although I do get some kick back when I –” he mimed biting into someone’s neck, sucking their blood, and then tossing their corpse over his shoulder.

“Kick back?”

“Yeah, I take their wallets and drain their bank accounts. They’re not using it anymore.” All of a sudden his face jumped into a look of surprise, and he looked like a little kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar.

Gasping in feigned surprise, I declared, “What?! Not my Max! Not my sweet Max? He would never steal from dead people!”

His face moved into an awkwardly wide stretched grin, and his eyes shifted back and forth, “Ummmm - honesty is important to you, right?” I nodded. “More important than if I was a thieving thiever who stole from helpless dead people who were at one point alive before I drained their blood?”

Earnestly, I nodded.

“Well, yes. I may take a collection up from the corpses, but I always ask first. ‘Hey, Mr. Dead Guy, do you want to donate to my personal cause?’ and then,” he mimed moving a skull’s jaw with one hand, and spoke in a slightly higher voice, “they say, ‘Why yes, Mr. Phillips, this sounds like a great cause, I’d love to donate to it. Take my bank card and drain all of the funds, please and thank you.’ Isn’t that so nice of them?” He looked at me with his mouth wide open in a giant, cartoonish smile.

“Ohmygod, soooo nice.” I batted my eyelashes at him, while talking like a Valley Girl from the OG Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“Sooo nice. They love it.” He leaned in to kiss me, his voluminous lips toying with my own, his tongue peeking into my mouth. I found myself feeling dizzy again, but this time I knew it was because we had just spent about ten minutes kissing without stopping to breathe, as Max moved with me, as though he were part of me.

Scooting me a bit closer to him, he wrapped his right arm around me, allowing me to rest my head just under his chin. With his left hand, he took my right hand, kissing each of my fingers one by one before asking, “Is that clock right?” referring to a clock I had hanging on the wall across from the bed.

“Yep.” I yawned.

Looking down at me, “Hmm. Well, it looks like I may have successfully tired you out.” I let out a snort. “And, I actually have to get ready for work.” He sighed.

“But you were up all night,” I complained.

Max took my hand and pointed at himself, “Uh, vampire - I think we established that.” Then chuckling, he kissed my hand again, placing it on his chest. “It’s only 8-9 hours. 10 hours if someone’s being a dipshit and doesn’t get their reports done.”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay, Max.”

“I was trying to psych myself up, Sweetness.”

“Ewwww. Gross.”

“What’s that? Not enough? Tone it up?”

I shook my head, giggling.

He sat up and pulled me with him, gently nibbling at my throat, “You’re good enough to eat, and I swear to god, that pussy’s gonna be on the menu tonight.”

Then, as he started to get off the bed, he tugged me off the bed with him carefully, by the wrists. As we stood there, naked and facing each other, Max maintained his hold on my wrists directly in front of his chest. Standing up straight, his strong, broad shoulders rolled back, he surveyed my body without ever moving his head. I stared right back at him, defiant, though my nipples betrayed me as they perked up under his calculating gaze.

“I want you to dress me.” Max said in a calm, firm voice.

I frowned at him.

He cracked a crooked grin, then leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “Please.”

Licking just under my earlobe, he gave it a bite and wrapped his lips around the lobe, right before giving me a kiss on the cheek.

How could I possibly resist that? I bit my lip, “Well, when you ask so nicely –”

“Manners maketh man, so they say.”

Max winked and let go of my wrists. I started to grab my own clothes, and he reached out to grab my wrist again.

“Ah-ah. Just me, Sweetness.”

It’s one thing to have someone attempt to control you and every little thing you do. It’s quite another when you know that someone is asking you to do something because they want to spend more time with you, because they want to see more of you, because they enjoy YOU.

I tossed my clothes behind me, and reached down for Max’s black boxer briefs, kneeling before him so that he could step into them, as he balanced by putting his left hand on my right shoulder. Then I began gliding the shorts up his muscular calves, his strong thighs, gradually standing up - until I reached around to pull them up over his ass, pressing my body against his. He groaned as I took my hands and ran them the length of the elastic band towards the front of his body, where his dick hung out the front, or rather, was beginning to experience a raising of spirits. Carefully, but firmly, I grasped his cock, and Max let out a pleased whimper, closing his eyes, and then immediately opening them.

“No –” he said breathlessly, “Not yet. I have to get going. But I love where your head's at.”

He smirked at me, reaching around to grab me by the ass while simultaneously pressing me up against him, leaning down to give me a kiss on the lips. As he released his grip, I went ahead and tucked his erection upwards facing in his boxer briefs, which kinda, sorta worked.

He put his hands on his hips and said, “Fashion, baby,” clicking his tongue and winking at me.

Picking up his pants, I got back down on my knees so that he could step into them. He put his left hand on my right shoulder again to balance himself and said, “Sweetness, I don’t have a kink for Stepford Wives, but the way you’re taking care of me is so fucking hot.”

I made eye contact with his dick as I stood, looking up at him, and he chuckled, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.”

“I’m counting on it,” I told him as I turned around to find where his shirt and vest went.

Under his breath he muttered, “You can always count on me.”

“What?” I asked as I turned around.

He shook his head, looking like a deer caught in headlights, but tried to play it off casually, “Nothing. Were you, uh - you were saying something?”

I pursed my lips in an amused smile, shaking my head, “No, I guess my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

“I mean, you’re not a vampire.” he said, shrugging and looking slightly suspicious.

“Or, I’m just very tired, and - imagining things.”

As I made my excuses, Max seemed a bit relieved that I wasn’t pushing him to admit that he said anything. Although, I wasn’t sure that I was ready to hear him. At least, not ready to exchange words at that level of commitment, not so soon. I’m not in a rush, and he’s a vampire - he actually has forever. Man can wait.

Walking over, I tried to smooth over his crumpled shirt before holding out an arm for him to reach into, then walking behind his broad back, to slide the other sleeve on. Returning to my spot in front of him, Max put his hands on my hips as I started buttoning him up from the bottom to the top, making sure to keep his tie tossed over his shoulder. Once his shirt was all set, I tucked his tie over his collar, and folded his collar back down over it, adjusting the knot so that the tie had a slightly more tidy fit. I tucked his shirt into his pants by reaching my arms around him like I was giving him a bear hug, making my way around to the front the same way I’d done with his boxer briefs. My hands smoothing him over around his waist, until I got to the front and took one final opportunity to trail my fingers gently over his erection. He sighed again, closing his eyes, and I gave him a kiss on the cheek. Over his shirt, I helped him put on his vest, assisting him again with his buttons.

“You look so good.” I said as I stood back, admiring my work, and quite frankly just the beautiful human - oh, I mean vampire, that he is.

“So do you.” He said as his tongue stuck out a bit from his mouth, his eyes trailing my body.

I rolled my eyes, laughing lightly, “I’ll go find your jacket from the other room - your shoes and socks are here somewhere, so I’ll let you finish that part.”

As I walked out into the living room, nabbing Max’s jacket from the couch, I stopped to look out the window. Dark velvet night threatened to break with blue early morning twilight along the edges of the horizon, and I shuddered.

What happens to Max in the sunlight? I crossed my arms, feeling goosebumps rising on my skin, feeling - what? Fear for him? Worry? Caring? It’s been awhile since I’ve done this. I hoped that I could pace myself.

Without realizing that he’d come out of the bedroom, I found myself in his arms again after he walked up behind me, gently wrapping himself around me. Leaning his head on my shoulder, he gave me a nuzzle and a peck on my cheek.

“Walk me to the door?”

I laughed, “Like this?” He gave me the cutest, sweetest face of pleading. “Fine.”

So we walked to the door together, and as Max walked out he turned around to face me, leaning in the door frame. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

Just then, my elderly neighbor from across the hall, Mr. Vilallonga opened his door to grab a package that was sitting outside. Max took his arm from the door frame as he turned around to see what was happening behind him, and Mr. Vilallonga caught a full glimpse of my naked body. I gasped, immediately covering my body with my hands, just as Mr. Vilallonga looked up, dropped his package on the floor, and started apologizing profusely.

As soon as Max realized what was happening, he stepped in between us to block Mr. Vilallonga’s view.

Holding back a wheezing laugh and apologizing to me repeatedly, “I will make this up to you, I’m so sorry - never again, okay? Never again. Your body is sacred to me - it’s not for this fucking guy,” he frantically whispered, pointing with his thumb behind him.

Fuming! I fumed at him. Meanwhile, his features had softened so much, I could tell that he was very, very sorry that this had happened. But it was gonna take a minute for me to recover. I also might’ve prematurely killed Mr. Vilallonga, who had slammed his door shut, and whom I could also still hear yelling apologies through his door.

“Leave.” I told Max.

He gave me sad puppy eyes and nodded, then immediately switched to a giant smile, mouthing the words, ‘I’ll call you,’ while he held an imaginary telephone to his ear, followed by promptly pushing me back into my apartment and closing the door.

Alone, I went into the bathroom and started the shower using my right hand to turn the faucet on. I paused, remembering that it was less than 12 hours ago that I had a bandage on my elbow and struggled to bend that arm. And now? Bending my arm every which way, it was perfect. Maybe better than before. Was that even real?

Scrolling through my phone, I selected some music at random for shower time ambience and atmosphere.

youtube

As the beat kicked in, so did Miley Cyrus’ husky voice as I stepped into the shower. Shampooing my hair, I sang along, “I was born to run, I don’t belong to anyone, oh-no. I don’t need to be loved by you.” Rinsing out my hair, applying conditioner and using the loofah, I kept singing, ‘See his hands ‘round my waist, thought you never be replaced, baby. Ooh, you know it’s true.”

Flashing back, I remembered how many times Max put his hands on my body, reverently touching my flesh, making me feel incredibly sexy and simultaneously safe with him. I thought about the one who came before, the one who even now, had been holding me back. But not anymore. “That I was born to run, I don’t belong to anyone, oh-no. I don’t need to be loved by you.”

Exiting the bathroom, I slipped into a pair of silk shorts and a silk tank, grabbed my notebook and sat on my bed. Being with Max had been exhilarating, but my feelings were starting to get a bit intense for me. I decided to temper them by writing them out in a type of poem I’d learned way back in college - a freeform, stream of consciousness style. It felt better than journaling because I always ended up giving up on journals about 3 or 4 entries in. But with a “poetry” journal, I could say that I was being creative and artsy without any judgment from anyone else. There was absolutely zero pressure. I could let my thoughts flow, and in the end, they would be prettier than anything I would’ve written in a regular journal. At least that’s what it felt like for me.

Opening up my journal, I felt the dam break and I was off - scribbling exactly how I felt, on an extreme spectrum, allowing myself to engage in these feelings was a huge release.

Make me yours. Mark me with your kisses, claim me with your voice. Tell the world they’re making a mistake when the hands they lay upon me attempt to take away my choice. Keep me with your quiet eyes, let yourself enjoy the image of my body, the visage of my body, it’s for your eyes only, that I disrobe. Mold me with your gentle hands, sculpt and shape me with your touch, until I am no longer the shadow of who I was, but the silhouette of who I will become. Not because you demanded it, not because I let it go, but because when we’re together, our love and sacrifices create something bigger than they could ever know.

A little silly, and it definitely turned out to be a love poem. I read it aloud to hear how it would sound, and I didn’t mind it. But it’s definitely not getting published anytime soon, and I giggled at the prospect.

Well now that’s out of my system – I put my notebook on my nightstand, and turned off my bedside lamp. As I slept, I had fitful, sexy dreams about Max, and woke up craving him.

To be continued...

Check out the Easter Eggs for this chapter here.

Continue to Chapter 3

Return to the Masterlist!

Sharing is caring - hit that big ol' sassy reblog button!

#Pedro Pascal is a sexy vampire!#Max Phillips x afab!fem!reader #Bloodsucking Bastards FanFiction #Not Twilight #HOT PASS - Renesmé!#Endometriosis Awareness #Adenomyosis Awareness #Youtube

19 notes · View notes