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colormepurplex2 · 3 months

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Now I'm Yours | Feel It In Your Soul

↳ Alpha!Jungkook x Omega!f.Reader ⤜ A/B/O, Established Relationship/Mates ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 6,697 ⚠️ Vulgar language, fingering, knotting, creampie, discussion of violent acts, fighting/physical altercation, alpha challenge, knife violence/attack, blood, injury, bond sex, dick licking/oral, slick eating, biting/marking, blood/wound licking, surprise pregnancy

A/N: Read Make You Mine, the first installment of this series, here!

⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to story masterlist

When you meet Jungkook’s family in the garage the next morning, the sun isn't even up yet. His parents are waiting next to the large SUV that’s idling by the open door when you enter through the side entrance from the laundry room.

After a hasty shower, you threw on jeans and a t-shirt and are now helping Junghyun load the back of the vehicle with a few boxes from the storage room. The tops of the boxes are labeled with various things, mostly boasting medical supplies or nonperishable foodstuffs.

“Did Jungkook say why he wanted us to bring all of this stuff?"

Junghyun looks up at you from under his brow as he bends over to retrieve the next box, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “Donations. We’re going to be close to The Sanctuary, and we try to donate once a quarter if we’re able.”

This is the first you’ve heard of the Jeons donating to The Sanctuary. You’re intimately familiar with the place. It’s exactly what it sounds like: a sanctuary for abused or neglected omegas and their children. Mari was one such omega, cast aside by her original pack when she didn’t match with any of the alphas within it. It wasn’t until Roland, having just taken over as pack Alpha of your old pack, started up his own annual donations to The Sanctuary that he met Mari. Your old pack made at least a donation every six months after that, helping as many omegas and children as possible.

It’s not that you wouldn’t think the Jeons are a pack that would help those less fortunate; you’d just not given it much thought, considering you grew up thinking they were run by power-hunger alphaholes. Not that Jungkook isn’t an alphahole, he’s just…maybe not as bad as you once thought—even without the rose-tinged view you have of him now from being your mate.

The duel is taking place on neutral territory, which happens to be an old warehouse that’s been converted into a performance theatre in the entertainment district of the central city. The warehouse was renovated a few decades ago by the council when enough of the surrounding packs hounded them for a space to meet en masse.

It’s about three hour's drive, the view filled with the sun peeking over the mountains and trees with their leaves changing in preparation for winter. You sit in the passenger seat, head resting against the window while you try not to stress too much over the events of the next twenty-four hours.

“Come on, dear,” the soft voice of Jungkook’s mother drags you from your rumination. She’s leaning through the gap between the front seats, her hand lightly squeezing your shoulder. “We’re here.”

You hadn’t even realized the vehicle had stopped and that Junghyun and Jungkook’s father had gotten out already.

“Sorry,” you mutter, popping open the door and sliding out.

She meets you along the side of the SUV, a concerned look pinching her brow. “Are you feeling okay?”

Now that she mentions it, you are feeling a bit off-kilter. Though, it’s probably just the nerves. “Just worried, that’s all,” you explain, pressing a hand against your stomach.

“Did you skip breakfast?” she asks, hooking her arm around your other one and slowly leading you to where Junghyun and his father stand near the elevator of the parking garage.

Breakfast was the last thing on your mind this morning. “Yeah. I’ll be okay, though.”

“Nonsense,” she tuts, producing a whole-grain protein bar from the bag slung over her other shoulder. “You’ll feel better with something in your stomach. Now, let’s go find my son. Being near your alpha will do you a dose of good, as well.”

You nibble on the protein bar, looking to simply placate her, but find yourself suddenly ravenous and consume the whole thing in three bites. It sits like lead in your belly, and you immediately regret wolfing it down so quickly.

“This foolish display will start at precisely noon, not long now,” Jungkook’s father states, the clip of his cane hitting the linoleum flooring of the elevator echoing the disapproval that’s evident in his voice.

Junghyun presses the button that’s labeled ‘theatre hall’ on the control panel and the cabled car begins a swift ascent up to the fifth floor. You caught sight of Jungkook's motorcycle in the parking garage, sitting next to Jimin’s red sports car. A few other familiar vehicles lined the rows, but there were dozens more you didn’t recognize.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you feel a familiar humming warmth bloom in the center of your chest. It’s the same feeling you’ve learned to associate with being nearer to Jungkook. Peeking at your phone, you see it’s a message from the alpha, letting you know he’s waiting for you just on the other side of the elevator doors.

“There you are,” Jungkook exhales, not even waiting for you to get off the elevator before he’s gathering you into his arms. His scent engulfs you, immediately putting you at ease. Jungkook is all alpha, and as much as you hate to admit it, he’s exactly what you need; your stomach and nerves are instantly soothed.

Jungkook’s father clears his throat, drawing Jungkook’s attention. “What news do you have?”

Jungkook sighs, releasing most of his hold on you, but keeps an arm over your shoulders and ushers you out of the elevator and into the hall. “Most all the other families have arrived. Jimin is with Daehyun now. I haven’t managed to lay my eyes on either Raiden or Demetrius. According to the council, they’re supposed to be in the eastern dressing rooms. I have seen Kiel skulking around the halls, though, creepy bastard.”

“Have you seen Hyunsoo?” Jungkook nods in answer to his father’s question. “I’d like to have a word with him.”

“Last I saw him, he was inside speaking with the council.”

“Perfect, I could do with a word for them, too,” Jungkook’s father grumbles before starting toward the entrance to the performance hall proper. Junghyun follows closely behind, after dipping his chin at Jungkook. You’ve never seen Jungkook get bent out of shape over designation deference, as some alphas do. He doesn’t force those below him to bow and scrape; he just asks for as much respect as he affords them in exchange. It’s just another tick you’ve had to add to your ‘Jungkook isn’t as bad as I once thought’ list.

“Are you feeling okay?” Jungkook asks softly, his eyes flicking between yours.

You do feel much better now that you’re with him, which would normally grate on you, but you can’t seem to muster up the typical ire for some reason. “I’ll be fine,” you assure him. “Just nerves.” That seems to satisfy him.

“Come on, let’s go before Dad causes too much of a scene.”

“Umm, I’ll be right there. I’m just going to go to the restroom real quick.”

He continues to stare at you for a moment longer before slowly nodding. “Okay. Mom, we’ll be right back—”

“No, no. It’s okay, you don’t have to come with—”

“Jungkook,” his mom interrupts you both, giving her son an amused smile. “She might be your omega, but I promise she doesn’t need you to hold her hand while she uses the restroom. I’ll wait here for her. You go on ahead with your father and Junghyun.”

Pink creeps up Jungkook’s neck and kisses his ears. “Right. Okay. I’ll see you inside,” he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before reluctantly taking his arm from across your shoulders and heading toward the door his father and brother disappeared through.

“Thank you,” you say to his mom. “I’ll be right back.”

You’ve only been here a handful of times over the years for various events, but you’re able to follow the signs well enough to the restrooms located on this side of the venue. However, when you get there, the door is locked, and there is a janitorial wet-floor sign posted right outside.

It’s just your luck, right as you’re starting to feel a light wave of nausea wash over you. Taking a few deep breaths to try and calm your inner omega, who isn’t helping the situation at all, you turn to retreat back to where Jungkook’s mom is waiting for you a few halls over. Maybe she’ll have something that can calm your warring stomach and nerves.

“I can break the lock if you need to get in there,” a voice calls out from further down the hall just as you take a step to go back. “You look like you need it.”

You swivel toward the voice but can only make out the silhouette of someone standing in a darkened doorway a few doors down. They pull out a phone, and the blue light illuminates the ceiling for a moment before it’s plunged back into darkness. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“You don’t look fine to me.” The words come with a chuckle that slithers over your senses and sets you on high alert. You’ve heard that voice before. “If fact, you look like a helpless little omega that’s about to sick up all over the floor.”

That’s a thought. You might just do that, considering who steps out from that doorway, the face fitting with the name screaming inside your head. Kiel Barton. He’s every inch the viperous bastard he’s known to be. Despite being not much taller than you, he’s thicker through each arm and leg than both of yours combined. His bald head glints in the overhead light, and the jagged scar on his right cheek is bright white against his red-flushed face. He swaggers into the hallway, just a few feet away, twirling a switchblade through his thick fingers.

“I’m not helpless,” you seethe through your teeth. You don’t necessarily mean for the words to come out so aggressively, but they do. Years of not taking shit from anyone don’t seem to have worn off too much from your time of being mated with Jungkook. And if it’s one thing you’ve always hated, it’s how everyone thinks omegas are weak and soft—helpless without an alpha.

Kiel grins, and it reminds you of something you might see in a horror film right before the psycho killer attacks. “Oh, sweet, sweet omega,” he crows before sucking in a deep lungful of air, “I don’t think you realize just how helpless you are right now.”

You’re about to turn on your heel and run when he leaps. It’s like a strike of lightning; he moves so fast—faster than your reflexes can keep up with. Pain thunders through you as his burly form knocks into you and sends you hurtling a few feet down the hall to land in a heap on the floor.

He’s back on you in an instant, cold steel pressed against your neck. “Get off me!” you scream, trying your best to buck him off despite the disorienting feeling still reeling inside your head.

“I promised my brother as long as he did his part, I would do mine,” Kiel sing-songs in a demented tone, his words trailing off into another one of those spine-chilling chuckles.

“Fuck you!” You struggle under his weight, your knees and elbows trying to get any purchase along his thick-muscled body that they can. You manage to catch him along the neck with your hand, nails scoring bloody lines through the devil tattoo he has there.

An ear-splitting roar, the sound of loud banging, and running feet sound from somewhere down the hall, making Kiel’s laughter trail off. “Looks like my time to play is—” A small, sneakered foot meets the side of his ribs, turning his words into a grunt. The hit barely rocks him, but you can’t be sure of who it is, though, around his bulk.

“Get off of her, you snake!” snarls a familiar feminine voice, only it’s dripping with far more acid than you’ve ever heard before.

“FUCK! I don’t have time for this!” Kiel thunders, rearing back and bringing a fist around right into your temple, sending you careening into hazy darkness.

There is so much noise and movement that when you first come to, you think you’re dreaming. But then the very real pain lights up along your side, and you’re reminded that this is very much not a dream. You’re laying on the floor in the hallway outside the bathroom, side smarting hard from the impact of hitting the floor and the memory of a meaty fist stark in your mind.

You go to sit up, only to have your hand slip through a puddle of warm, sticky liquid. The scent hits you a second later, thick and metallic. “Oh gods,” you whimper softly. Your hand is bright red when you bring it up in front of your face.

“Please,” comes an even more pitiful whimper from beside you. Adrenaline kicks in, and you flip onto your hands and knees, letting your eyes swing over the scene around you.

A dozen bodies are packed in the hall, fists flying and mouths opened in concussive bellows. It’s pandemonium. Everyone is fighting, familiar faces and those of strangers alike. All the sounds combined make you want to crawl into a corner and cover your ears, but the form lying beside you keeps you right where you are.

Jungkook’s mom lies on the floor. Her body turned at an odd angle, with her hips going one way and her torso the other as if she was flung around like a ragdoll. You realize the whimpering is coming from her. She lifts a trembling hand toward you, and you grab onto it, crawling closer to kneel beside her.

The blood covering your hand, now seeping through the knees of your jeans, is coming from her. A familiar-looking switchblade is protruding from the upper right area of her chest, between her clavicle and shoulder, and there is a cut over her left eyebrow that blood is steadily oozing from.

“No, no, no!” You quickly rip off a strip from the bottom of your t-shirt and press it around the blade, trying to staunch the wound. The cut above her brow doesn’t look deep; all the blood is a bit alarming, but you know headwounds are the worst in being deceptive; they bleed so much. You’re also scared to take your hands away from her chest. “What did you do?”

Her eyes flicker open, rolling wide until they land on you. “Had to”—she pauses, whimpering in pain as someone stumbles backward and knocks into her splayed legs—”pr-protect the baby.”

“Protect the–protect the wh—”

“NO!” The alpha roar echoes through the hall, as loud as a thunderclap.

In the same instant that your hands are moved aside and replaced by the older, more gnarled ones of her mate, arms come around you from behind and you’re lifted up off the floor. Fear grips your throat, and you flail, aiming your elbow backward at whoever grabbed you.

“Stop, calm down!” Jungkook’s voice snaps you out of your fight instinct, and you sag in his arms. The fighting around you has turned into pockets of isolated struggle.

You blink a few times, clearing the panicked haze from your eyes, finally able to piece everything together. There are a few busted lips and some already swelling eyes, but there are at least a handful of familiar faces around you. Each one is executing some form of hold over individuals with less familiar faces; headlocks, arm bars, and others that look just as effective, if maybe more painful.

Then there is the scene at your feet, right out of a horror movie. Jungkook’s dad and brother are kneeling beside his mom, the knife still sticking out of her chest. It looks like the blood has stopped pooling around the blade, but you can’t seem to remember if that’s a good or a bad sign.

“Jungkook! Your mom, we need a medic!” you urge, struggling in his arms again.

A sinister, wet, cackling laugh cuts through the hushed din of the hallway before it turns into a hacking cough. You can hear the distinct sound of flesh hitting flesh and pained grunts.

”Shut up, you sick bastard!” The ragged cry comes from further down the hallway, where you see Seokjin with his arms wrapped around Kiel’s upper torso and Yoongi throwing fists into his stomach. “How dare you!?”

“Yoongi.” Jungkook doesn’t have to raise his voice at all. The other alpha stops, fist poised mid-punch, his shoulders heaving. “That’s enough.” The coldness in Jungkook’s tone has the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. You’ve never heard him sound so utterly emotionless. “For now.”

Pounding footsteps sound from the other end of the hall, and a few betas come skidding into view, medical bags in hand. “Out of the way!” one of the betas shouts, shouldering his way down the hall before dropping down beside Junghyun and beginning to work. “I need to get her stabilized before we can move her.”

Everything is still a bit cloudy for you; all you have are flits and flashes of memory, but it’s not hard to piece it together. Kiel came after you outside the bathroom, and then Jungkook’s mom tried to interfere. “Is she, is she going to be okay?” you ask, voice soft, your lips trembling around the question.

Jungkook hooks an arm under the backs of your legs and hoists you up against his chest, and you get your first good look at his face. There is a dribble of blood coming from the corner of his mouth and mild swelling coming up around his left eye.

He’s about to open his mouth to say something when a group of grey-haired alphas cut around the corner at the end of the hall, and the one in the front gasps dramatically, “Good gods! What has happened?” You groan at the loud sound, burying your face into Jungkook’s chest.

“This is what happens when you entertain absurd demands from a known trouble-making pack,” Jungkook’s father states with barely veiled malice.

“This is your mess,” Jungkook says, directing attention to the elders shuffling their feet at the end of the hall. His words are acerbic despite him speaking at a normal volume. It’s an alpha statement, carrying the cutting edge of an unspoken command. The entire hallway stills, the air thick with tension.

“Our mess?”

“If you had listened to me from the start about how utterly ridiculous this whole duel bullshit was, this”—he nods down at his mother, who is still being worked on by the betas—”wouldn’t have happened. I’ll have all of you off the council before the week is over, mark my words,” he seethes. “And, if she doesn’t recover fully, I’ll have more than just your titles. Yoongi, Seokjin, you know what to do.” With that, Jungkook turns and stalks down the hall, carrying you with him.

🌙🌙🌙

Jungkook

There is so much rage simmering beneath Jungkook’s skin that he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t let it out somehow. However, the only outlet he wants right now is you—to get lost in your body and your soul—but you’re in no state to take the brunt of his emotions.

“Jungkook.” Your soft voice draws his gaze down to your face. Seeing the swelling around your eye makes him want to turn around and finish what Yoongi was starting. Jungkook isn’t violent, but he could level the entire city right now if he weren’t so focused on getting you checked out. You bring a hand up and lightly trace the break in his lip. “What happened?”

“Raiden and Demetrius. I think this was their plan all along. One minute, Father and I were talking to the council while we waited, and the next, Raiden and Demetrius, along with a half dozen of their pack, came bursting into the theatre and attacked us.” Jungkook sighs, shaking his head. “I felt you, I felt the…” the trails off, not wanting to voice those feelings aloud. The pure terror he felt through his mate connection to you. The tie between the two of you has never really been an open street, he’s never been able to feel your emotions so viscerally before. It was almost enough to take him to his knees. If he didn’t need to fight off a pack of rabid alphas, it nearly might have. “I’m sorry,” Jungkook rasps.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. We knew they were up to no good. I should have been more vigilant or, at least, taken you up on your offer to escort me to the restroom.” You try to laugh, but it turns into a groan as your head pounds.

“Let’s get you to the hospital so they can check you over.”

No amount of protests from you will deter Jungkook from getting you to a doctor. Junghyun texts him shortly after he places you in the backseat of the SUV, letting Jungkook know that everyone else is on their way to the hospital and an ambulance is en route to get their mother but that the betas are hopeful.

Several hours later, you’ve been released from the hospital with confirmation of no lasting damage, just a recommendation to get some rest. Jungkook’s lip is patched with a butterfly stitch, per your insistence, and it itches as he sits on the edge of the bed in the hotel room he booked before leaving the hospital. Even though you aren’t concussed or anything, Jungkook didn’t want to risk taking you all the way back to pack lands.

Besides, his mother was admitted and is still there for observation, and he doesn’t feel comfortable being too far away while she’s in recovery. She went in for surgery immediately upon arrival and woke up not too long ago. Junghyun and their father are staying at the hospital with her until she’s cleared to go home, which will hopefully not be more than a few days. Apparently, her wounds looked worse than they were, and she was fortunate Kiel didn’t get her an inch further to either side. Otherwise, it might be a very different outcome.

Jimin texted him a bit ago, letting him know the entire Barton pack is being detained at the local precinct, and the authorities are awaiting word from Jungkook about charges. The council sequestered themselves behind closed doors, but the duel was considered null due to the circumstances. Jimin feels bad about being part of the ruse, even if he was just being used as a means to get close to the Jeon pack.

It’s come to light that the Bartons decided to use their feud with the Parks because they knew the Jeons wouldn’t sit idly by. One big, elaborate plan, all to get close to Jungkook’s Luna and try to tear down the hierarchy. If Jungkook lost his Soulmate, he’d lose his foundation of power as well. Or so, that’s what the buzz was when some of the Barton betas were interrogated, according to Jimin.

Jungkook knows everything is going to be okay, that you’re going to be okay; the doctor told him as much. But, despite that assurance, he can’t seem to relax. You’re curled up in the bed, facing him, and you look so peaceful, even with the swelling on the side of your face, but all he can feel is rage when he sees that…rage and so much guilt.

He never should have let you go to the restroom on your own. If he has his way, he’s never going to let you out of his sight again. It’s such an alarming realization, going from one polar sensation to the next. The fact he could give two shits less about you just a few months ago, and now here he is wanting to murder someone for touching you, is hard to wrap his head around.

Yet, here he is, fisting the edge of one of the blankets as he battles this feeling inside himself. The fact his alpha has been mostly silent since Jungkook laid eyes on you in that hallway is just as alarming. It’s almost like his alpha is giving him space. For the first time since coming into his designation, he feels like a giant void separates him from his alpha; he doesn’t like it.

There’s also the pile of papers sitting on the desk, a few feet away, that hold another key bit of information that won’t let him relax. It was standard testing, just something to help rule other things out and see what kinds of tests they could and could not perform to assess your head.

You’re pregnant.

Now that he knows, Jungkook can tell. There is a distinct, underlying change to your scent. It’s sweeter somehow, more alluring in the sense that you now smell partly like him. He should have known before. He knows that if he hadn’t spent so much time away from you, he would have realized it sooner.

You were surprised, but your shock seemed more subdued. When questioned, you told Jungkook what his mother had said to you. Somehow, even his mother knew before he did. Jungkook feels like a failure, like he’s done nothing right by you. It had to have happened the night of your designation celebration. Neither of you had bothered with any preventative measures that night, too lost in the touch and feel of each other to care.

And now, here you are, pregnant without a bite on your neck and a knot on the side of your head. If anything were to have happened to the baby…Jungkook isn’t sure he can even think about that right now. Not without wanting to put his fist through the wall.

He’s spent weeks worried about staying away from you when all along, he was clearly concerned about all the wrong things. The doctor assured him that even the most attentive of alphas take several weeks before they can smell their own child in the womb. But that doesn’t make Jungkook feel any better.

He thinks back on all the curt and what he thought were nagging messages he had gotten from his mother the last few weeks and can see them in a different light now. She wasn’t just trying to chastise him about his duty; she was trying to coax him home so he could be there for his mate in a way he should have from the start.

Jungkook knows what he needs to do now. There is no question about it. Though, it’s not because he feels obligated…no, he truly wants to solidify that bond with you. As soon as you’re ready, he’s going to offer himself to you, finally and fully.

“Jungkook, are you okay?” your sweet voice breaks him out of his thoughts and makes him release his tight hold on the sheets.

Your eyes look so big and bright even in the dim light of the hotel room as you sleepily blink up at him. How he never wanted to give himself over to you so completely before now marks him as a sure fool.

He sighs, exhaling a slow breath. “Yeah. How are you feeling?”

You stretch, wincing only slightly as your arm brushes along the side of your face. “Better, I think.”

“Can we talk?” he asks after a pause of silence.

You give him a guarded look as you slowly sit up and gather some of the blankets in your lap. The doctor told him you might start feeling the need to nest and gather comfort items, so he had specifically requested the Omega suite, which comes with complimentary brand-new fuzzy blankets and extra pillows that guests are allowed to take home when checking out.

“Sure,” you finally say.

Jungkook watches as emotions cross your face, echoing the pulse he can feel emanating from his chest. His alpha perks up, rousing for the first time in hours it feels like.

“Okay.” Now that he’s been given the go-ahead to talk, he’s suddenly feeling very self-conscious and uncertain. “I know you told me I don’t need to apologize, but I’m going to anyway.” Your lips form a thin line when he says that, so he hurries to continue, “Not for”—he gestures vaguely in your direction—”but for everything else. I want to apologize for everything before this. The way I’ve treated you and how I’ve acted. You’ve deserved better than what I’ve offered you these last few weeks—for being an asshole and a fucking dick,” Jungkook uses your own choice of words for him, and that earns him a small smile from you.

“I want to apologize, too, then. And before you can protest”—Jungkook was 100% about to—”just let me finish. Sure, you’ve not been the greatest the last few weeks, but I know I haven’t either. I should have tried harder, fought you on you being gone all the time, stood up for what I wan–er, needed, and been honest with how it was making me feel.”

Jungkook shakes his head, unable to believe how you’ve yet again turned the tables on him. “I, uh, there’s something that…there’s something I want to do,” Jungkook barely manages to get the words out as anxiety spikes at the prospect of you refusing.

“What is it?”

The look of intrigue on your face turns into pure shock as Jungkook prostrates himself on the bed in front of you, deliberately turning his head to expose the side of his neck to you, an act of submission. “I’m giving myself to you, wholly and completely. All those weeks ago, I claimed you and made you mine, and…now I’m yours.”

🌙🌙🌙

You stare at Jungkook, not sure what to say. “I-I don’t need,” you begin, reaching for Jungkook and encouraging him to sit up, “you to do that. You don’t have to bend to me…as long as you promise never to make me bend to you either.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll never force you to be something that you’re not ever again. I’m sorry I didn’t realize this sooner, I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you asked to come with me to Jimin’s. From now on, I’ll listen to you, and I’ll not dismiss your concerns or voice. I don’t want you to feel like you’re beneath me simply because you’re my mate. I want you as my equal instead.”

The truth behind Jungkook’s words is evident in the fervent way he delivers them but also in the way your omega mews in satisfaction. A bite for a bite, an equal. Even though you wouldn’t be leaving a permanent mark on his neck like he will on yours, it’s still the intention, and it’s completely unheard of in your world. There are stories, myths, really…but nothing wholly substantial.

You shift on the bed, gathering your knees underneath you. Your jeans went into the trash, and all the hospital had was a thin pair of shorts and a t-shirt for you to wear. You fluff out the blankets absently as you mull over his words. “Your equal?”

“Yes,” Jungkook resolutely declares.

“I think I would like that,” you whisper, eyeing Jungkook’s mouth with a quickly burning hunger.

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, swallowing hard as you lean in closer to him. “If you need more time to think, that’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” you counter, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Jungkook responds by kissing you hard on the mouth, wrapping his arms around you, and dragging you against his chest. He tastes like home; his tongue is warm and wet against yours, and you’re certain you could drown in the sensation if he let you. But, he comes up for air, breaking the kiss for a moment before pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

Even with the aches in your face and body, you respond to him. With every teasing nip of his mouth, you feel yourself growing wet. The fragrant cream of your slick blooms in the air, melding with his masculine and spicy scent to create the perfect, heady bouquet.

“I’ve never been more sure about something,” Jungkook whispers the affirmation between kisses until his warm breath ghosts over the scent mark on your neck. “You smell so damn good,” he groans.

You can feel his lips part over the skin there; his tongue laves out and swipes up the side of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. With trembling hands, you help each other discard your clothing, finally coming back together skin to skin. Jungkook pulls you into his lap, his thick cock sitting snugly against your ass. You can feel the bulge of his knot already as if his body is automatically responding to just your closeness.

“You can say stop at any time,” you tell him, earning a surprised grunt when you shove him back against the pillows and deliberately slide your ass slowly over his cock as you move backward.

There is a challenge in his eyes as you meet them. You move until you’re kneeling between his knees, cock sitting prettily before you. “Where, ah,” Jungkook sucks in a stilted breath when you take the head of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, “did you want to?” Pink tinges Jungkook’s ears as he looks down at you, mouth full of him. You tap the inside of his thigh and raise your brows in silent question. “O-okay, just…just be gentle.”

That makes you chuckle, the vibration coming up your throat, and you can tell it sends a shock through Jungkook; his head drops back, and his mouth opens with a loud moan. “Gentle says the man about to put a permanent bite on my neck. An act that is none too gentle, I might add,” you say, letting his cock slip out from between your lips.

“Okay, that’s fair,” he relents, his words breathy as you trace along the underside of his dick with your tongue. “Be as aggressive as you want, then.”

Feeling egged on just a little by that declaration, you plant your teeth firmly into the meat of his inner thigh and bite as hard as you dare. Your teeth pinprick his skin, and the metallic tang of blood leeches onto your tongue. Jungkook grunts; his whole body shivers against your mouth.

“Was that okay?” you ask tentatively once you’ve pulled back to admire the twin crescent impressions you left behind. There isn’t that much blood. The two small wounds from your teeth are already clotted.

Jungkook lets out a heavy exhale as his body finally relaxes back against the bed. His cock twitches beside your face, producing a thick string of pre-cum that has your mouth watering for a taste.

“That was,” he pants, “hot as fuck.”

Pride fills you, and your body kindly reminds you with an intense throb in your clit, how much it turns you on when Jungkook talks like that. “Your turn,” you urge, desperate to get his teeth on your skin and his cock in your pussy.

Jungkook growls his approval, letting his alpha strength take over, and maneuvers you easily into a kneeling position in front of him. Using a gentle hand in your hair, he pulls you up until your back is pressed against his chest, giving him unfettered access to the front of your body while being able to tease your clit with the tip of his length.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, using the hand in your hair to angle your head sideways so he can lick along the side of your neck. “Let’s see.” His other hand slides down the front of your body, tweaking your nipples on the way, until his middle finger grazes over your swollen, aching clit.

“Don’t tease me,” you say between clenched teeth. Your omega adds her indignation to your own, making your words come out laced with additional grit.

“I just want a little taste,” Jungkook whispers as he hooks his finger lower and massages it along your slit, collecting a generous amount of slick as he does so. You watch as his finger comes up and disappears beside your face.

The wet laving sound of Jungkook sucking his finger sends a shudder through you. You reach down with your hands, cupping Jungkook’s cock in one and using the other to part the lips of your pussy so you can fit him against your entrance. “Fuuuck,” you drawl out as the broad head of his cock slides in.

“I love the way your pussy tastes,” Jungkook moans, dropping his hand to your hip and using it to guide your ass back against him, forcing him deeper. “It’s almost as good as how it feels.”

His fingers prod along your hip, sliding until his palm rests over your lower belly. You whimper, rocking your hips the best you can, and place your hand over his. “How do I look?” you ask. “You once told me I’d look so pretty once I was pregnant with your pup. Do you still think that?”

“You are,” he starts, “the single most”—he emphasizes the words with long, rolling strokes of his cock that have his knot kissing your lower lips with every forward motion—”beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. Even before I fucked you raw and knocked you up.” The beautiful, endearing words contrast so wildly with the dirty confession he tacks on at the end. Proving once again that Jungkook knows exactly how to wind you up and have you begging for more.

“Prove it,” you goade, intentionally dipping your head to the side to expose your neck further to him.

The moment his teeth touch your skin, you both freeze. It lasts only a second, the time it takes for them to sink into the tender expanse of your scent gland. It’s like a double punch to the gut; you can feel it all the way in your soul. The bond snaps into place the same instant Jungkook fits his knot inside you, and you explode, disintegrating into a million tiny little points of pleasure.

Your body opens for him, both physically and mentally. What was once a small trickle of feeling now becomes a deluge of intensity. You’re vaguely aware of Jungkook groaning as he meets his own release, throbbing heavily within your walls. You can feel him beneath your skin, feel the way your own body is wrapped so tightly around his knot, and the infinite pleasure that’s flooding through both of your systems.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jungkook mumbles against your neck, his teeth finally pulling free from your skin. “I can feel everything.”

It’s hard to tell where he begins, and you end. There is a sense of middling permanence, the perfect balance between alpha and omega. You once feared that submitting to him completely would change you in some cataclysmic way. And, it has…only, you don’t feel damned. In fact, it’s far more empowering than you ever thought possible.

Jungkook brushes his tongue along the fresh bite, tending to your wound in a tender way that has you slumping over. He follows you down, gently rutting his hips, which forces his knot to rub and grate inside of you, flooding you with another luscious rush of dopamine, like a second orgasm.

“Jungkook?” you ask, trying not to fall asleep as he continues to nuzzle your neck, and his knot keeps you secured so close to his warm body.

“Hmm?” he hums. Jungkook settles you both on your side, holding you against his chest with one hand and stroking and petting with soft, sensual strokes along every inch of your body that he can reach with the other.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I promise never to make you doubt me ever again. You are my soulmate, my Luna…the mother of my child. You are my everything.”

And just as Jungkook said, he made you his, and now he’s yours. Forever.

⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to story masterlist

◅ Back to Master List ©️ 2024-02-14 ColorMePurplex2

#bts #bts fanfic #bts jungkook #bts angst #bts smut #bts non idol au #bts abo #jungkook abo #alpha jungkook #omega reader #abo smut #bts knotting #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts enemies to lovers #alpha jungkook x omega reader #jungkook smut #bangtanwhq #btscreaturescoven

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sevcasejay1chicago · 5 months

Text

I gotcha Partner- Jay Halstead

Summary: After chasing down a suspect, you have a bad asthma attack.

Warnings: none that I know of.

Authors note: Jay’s installment in the platonic asthma fics. ❤️ Enjoy!

—————————

You have been Jay Halstead’s partner since Erin Lindsey left 2 years ago. You had been friend prior to this partnership, having met at Molly’s as well, so the partnership was easy to fall into. You knew each others quirks well, but you also knew each other’s medical history very well given all the near deaths you two have experienced since being partners. You have never experienced more near death experience on the job before working with Jay Halstead.

Today, you and Jay, along with the rest of the intelligence unit, are sitting on a suspect’s house. This individual has been indicted for multiple counts of aggravated assault and battery, leading the unit to believe that he is involved in a string of assaults at a few night clubs he has been known to frequent. He’s smarter than most criminals. He makes sure not to hit the same club multiple times, but to randomly jump around to throw off any suspicion.

You and Jay were sat in his truck, idly chatting about Matt’s move into the apartment with you and Kelly, when the suspect pulled into his driveway. You both straightened up as Voight began to speak.

“Suspect has landed. Suspect has landed. Use caution. Don’t spook him.” Voight instructed through our radio.

Jay grabbed our tac gear from the backseat and handed me my own. We suited up before slowly pulling the truck to block the end of the driveway. Burgess and Adam came up one side while Voight and Atwater came up the other. You noticed blood on his door handle and quickly jumped out of the truck and rounded it to grab the guy.

“Chicago PD!” You yelled, announcing yourself before moving to grab the suspect. Unfortunately, he was quick to react and shoved you into Kim before running down the small alley way next to his house. “Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit!” You yelled, quickly standing to your feet to pursue. You were the smallest and the fastest, next to Kevin.

You heard Jay flip the sirens and say he was going to cut him off. Kevin was on your heels, cursing about how the perps always run but they can’t run from you all. You shook your head, pushing through the burning in your chest. You were still recovering from your attack a few days prior, so you definitely weren’t in top shape.

You saw the end of alley way, thanking God that this run was coming to an end. Just as the suspect reached the end of the alley, Jay pulled the truck to block it and held the suspect at gun point through the window.

“Put your hands up.” Jay growled, seeing the blood on the suspect’s shirt and knuckles.

You stopped running, coming to a halt at the back of the truck with your hands on your knees. You were having trouble catching your breath as an audible wheeze left your body. You dizzily grabbed the bumper as you sunk to the ground. Jay saw you and quickly jumped out of the truck as Kevin cuffed the perp.

“Y/n?!” Jay yelled, crouching down in front of you. “Jesus. Your blue.” Jay muttered, taking your face in his hands for a second. You were ice cold. “It’s okay. I gotcha partner. Up we go.” Jay muttered, pulling you into his arms and rounding the truck.

“She okay?” Voight asked, coming to open the door for Jay.

“She will be. She’s having an asthma attack.” Jay said over your wheezes. He dug around in the glove box until he unearthed your inhaler. “Alright sweetie. Let’s do this.” Jay shook the inhaler before helping you squeeze the trigger as you attempted to breathe.

“Here. I got a pulse ox from the first aid kit.” Kim said, jogging back from her and Adam’s car. She handed the device to Jay before moving back to give you and Jay some room.

They all waiting on baited breath as the pulse ox read. High heart rate and oxygen level fluctuating between 83-85. Their eyes grew wide at the reading, concerned given that your inhaler should have opened you up by now.

“I’m taking her to med.” Jay said, buckling you in and shutting the door.

“I will give you an escort.” Voight said, quickly running to his SUV that Kevin pulled around after placing the suspect in the back of a patrol car.

“5021 George to Med” Jay said into his radio, lights and sirens blaring as he drove.

“Go ahead for Med.” April said.

“April. Y/n is having a bad asthma attack. Cyanotic, high pulse, O2 is low to mid 80s. Rescue inhaler administered and not helping. ETA 5 minutes. ” Jay reported, glancing over at you as you shook. “Shhh. I gotcha partner. I’m gonna get you help.”

“We will be waiting at the door. Med out.” April said.

Jay put his radio back on the dash before reaching out to take one of your shaking hands in his own. “Almost there. You are doing great.” Jay encouraged, trying to hide his worry.

Tag list:

@treehouse-mouse

@shadowmeadowsworld

@sorry-i-spaced

@zephyrmonkey

@allisonargent144

@amie134

@lane-rodgers-barnes

@pensfan5871

@dumb-fawkin-bitch

@marvel-and-chicago-fan

@daggersquadphantom

#one chicago #one chicago x reader #jay halstead #fluff #comfort #jay halstead x reader #kim burgess #hank voight #kevin atwater #adam ruzek #asthma attack #platonic

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kpopfanfictrash · 6 months

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The Horrible Un-Haunting of Elliot House

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Ghost!AU / Romance / Comedy (?)

Pairing: Seokjin / Reader (she/her)

Synopsis: Some houses are harder to sell than others but you, Y/N, are determined to find the (supposedly) haunted Elliot House a new owner. That is, until it's very real and very hot exceedingly well-dressed ghost decides to make himself known. If only you didn't find yourself enjoying the knowing.

Rating: PG-13 (kissing but nothing beyond that)

Word Count: 6,214

Author's Note: hope you enjoy this random Halloween "drabble"! This got oddly angsty? I suppose that happens with ghost love LOL

[ Cross-Posted to Wattpad ]

“Through here,” you say, leading the Gundersons through an arched door. “You’ll find the most adorable sunroom.”

The Gundersons both gasp, appropriately awed by the tall walls of windows. Each panel is topped with stained glass, casting colorful patterns across the checkered floor. Technically, the sunroom isn’t part of the original house – it was added in 1975 during a brief period the address was owned by a cult – but you rarely disclose this fact during tours. Most people don’t care which parts of the house are original, so long as they can say they bought a 19th century Tudor.

Not that you blame them. Most people (or at least, sane people) appreciate the romanticism of an old structure without actually wanting to live in one. Modern amenities are the top benefit of progress, after all. The government couldn’t pay you to live without modern heating, plumbing, or refrigeration.

“Margaret, did you see?” Arthur Gunderson, a slightly rotund lawyer, and husband of said Margaret, gestures emphatically. “I’ll be damned if this stained glass isn’t Tiffany! See there, see that stamp in the corner?”

“Good eye, sir!” you chirp, barely glancing up from your clipboard.

Truthfully, you aren’t sure whether the glass is authentic. The cult that installed could hardly be called profitable (they sold the house at a loss after less than ten years, although this likely had more to do with crimes committed on said property than their income, but you digress), so you’d be hard-pressed to believe they could afford real Tiffany.

If this is what convinces the Gundersons to buy though, you’re hardly a realtor to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Ticking a box in the upper right corner – sunroom – you look up. “Right, well. That’s most of the lower level.” Pivoting on your heel, you head towards the corridor. “If you two will follow me upstairs, we can –”

“What’s that?”

Steps slowing, you stare at the plaster wall. A moment passes, then two before you convince yourself to turn around. When you see where Arthur Gunderson points, a relieved breath leaves your lips.

“Oh, that?” Floorboards squeak as you cross the room, sounding almost like laughter. “That’s the cellar. I’d offer you a look but unfortunately, the staircase isn’t quite up to code. You’ll need someone to look at that ASAP if you buy.”

Hovering at the wooden door, you grasp its bronze knob and pull. Tugging the cord for the light, you briefly scan the stairs but spot nothing unusual. Mostly convinced, you dutifully step aside.

“Feel free to look,” you say brightly.

The Gundersons crowd the landing you vacated.

“Careful, honey,” Arthur warns, holding Margaret’s elbow. “These stairs are steep.”

Standing on tiptoe, Margaret peers beyond him into the basement gloom. It could be your imagination, but she almost seems disappointed. A few cobwebs and shadows line the staircase, but nothing more sinister.

Hiding a smile, you check the next box. Cellar. Sometimes, people request to see this house not because they’re interested in buying it, but for the thrill. Entering the haunted Elliot house and surviving will make a great tale to tell their friends over cocktails.

Lowering your clipboard, you glance upward. So far, everything has gone to plan, which is partly the problem. You must’ve shown this house thirty times and always, something has gone wrong by now. Before being assigned its realtor, you believed in the paranormal, but only in a theoretical way. Not because you’d witnessed anything spectral.

Your opinions since then have changed.

Turning sharply, you plaster a smile on your face. “Shall we?”

Stepping back, Margaret pulls wiry frames from her jacket pocket. “I must admit,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “Based on what our last realtor said, I was expecting far worse from this property.”

Although your smile tightens, you nod. The other realtor had a point – Elliot house could be temperamental, at best. Downright petulant, at worst. You glare again at the ceiling.

“We get that a lot,” you say, ushering them down the hall. Best not to linger. “Whenever a house sits too long on the market, you know – people talk. Lots of rumors!”

“Oh, sure,” Arthur says, passing you with a chuckle. “We’re not superstitious, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” you say lightly, remaining behind. “That’s good to know. Now, if you head down the hall, you’ll reach the foyer. All the crown molding you pass is original. The house’s first owner and builder, Daniel Baker, was something of a craftsman. He –”

Abruptly, you cease talking and stare at the stairwell. Halfway down the steps, where before there was nothing, sits a perfectly ripe orange. Eyes narrowed, you stare at this a long beat before yanking the light cord down and shutting the door.

Glancing upward, you hiss, “Not today, I swear to – well, whatever hellish being you worship.”

The wind sounds almost like laughter, but you don’t stick around long enough to find out if that’s true. Shaking your head, you traipse down the front hall in search of the Gundersons. Luckily, they’re too busy taking pictures of the aforementioned crown molding to have noticed your absence.

“Shall we?” you say, gesturing at the front stairs.

Pocketing their phones, they begin their ascent. You wait at the bottom, giving them space to discuss the house. From personal experience, buyers tend to appreciate when you don’t hover.

Besides, the grand staircase is your favorite feature – equal parts artwork and functionality. From your place at its bottom, you admire the craftsmanship. Starting the climb, your fingertips skim whorls in the wood and for a second, you feel a phantom hand rest over yours.

Scowling darkly, you yank your palm away. Reaching the landing, you clutch at your clipboard tighter and walk forward.

“This way!” you say, practically shoving the Gundersons into the first bedroom.

While they ooh and ah about the bay windows, you tick another box on your spreadsheet. Master bedroom.

The second you’re done, the pen slips from your grasp and hovers in mid-air. It then turns, point-down, to scrawl something in the margin.

‘Master’ bedroom? Kiiind of racist, don’t you think?

Teeth gritted, you snatch your pen back. “I wasn’t the one who created the spreadsheet, okay?” you whisper. “And while, yes, I agree, and other realtors are moving away from that language, I don’t–”

“Pardon?” Arthur Gunderson peers, confused, over his shoulder.

Somewhat manic, you smile. “Oh, nothing,” you say, the words sounding high-pitched, even to you. “I was just reminding myself to show you the main bathroom. Beautiful claw-foot tub.”

“Oh. Sure,” says Arthur, returning to his wife.

Head whipping sideways, you glare at the most likely place Seokjin would be. A chuckle drifts past your ear on the other side, and your scowl deepens.

Once an appropriate amount of time goes by, you usher the Gundersons into the next bedroom. Hovering outside, you calculate how quickly you can convince them to leave. The longer they stay, the worse the so-called haunting will be.

You should have known better than to show them this house, but they were insistent. Or at least, Arthur was. Margaret seems reasonably paranoid, which you deem a positive quality. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius has heard of the haunted Elliot house.

Even the name is confusing, since it doesn’t bear the name of its builder, Daniel Baker, nor its longest resident, Mr. Josiah Whitley. Instead, it’s named for Nathaniel Elliot, the cult leader who murdered a man on its premises in 1978. Obviously, this fact wasn’t known to the public until after the cult sold the house and moved far away.

Eventually, Mr. Elliot was tried and found guilty of murder, but this was much later. Wincing a little, you glance at the ceiling. Seokjin has said many times that ghosts can’t read minds, but you wouldn’t put it past him to lie for a punchline. Even if he can’t read your mind, the faint scent of cedar lets you know he’s nearby.

Quickening your stride, you show the Gundersons the next bedroom. “This is one of my favorites,” you say, pulling hard on its warped door. “The view from that window is stunning. You can see all the way to the brook!”

Taking the bait, Margaret crosses the room. “Oh, look, Arthur!” she exclaims, leaning forward. “There’s a gazebo!”

He follows at a more leisurely pace, frowning when he spots a lone cobweb in the corner. Sighing, you swipe at this as you pass, almost certain the web wasn’t there this morning.

While the two converse, you pull out your clipboard and run down the list again.

Most days at your job are like today – running down lists and waiting for other people to make their own life decisions. Becoming a realtor wasn’t so much a choice as it was thrust upon you. When your mom got sick your senior year of grad school, you returned to take care of her and finished your coursework remotely.

There were only so many jobs with flexible hours, and you ended up getting your realtor’s license to support her on the side. When your mom passed, you stuck around to sort out her paperwork and affairs. Two years later, everything is in order and still, you remain. Stuck in a holding pattern, showing houses and too afraid to try your hand at anything different.

BANG.

The sudden noise from above plunges the room into silence. Both Arthur and Margaret swivel, wide eyes landing on you.

Margaret’s glasses chain trembles. “What was tha–”

“My assistant,” you blurt, backing towards the door. “He mentioned he would stop by to drop off some keys. That must be him – I’ll go and check!”

“But…” Arthur stares. “The noise came from above.”

“Be right back!” you call, stepping into the hall.

As fast as possible without raising suspicion, you rush down the hall. “Seokjin,” you hiss, hand skimming the banister as you descend. “Stop that right now!”

No one responds – not that you thought he would. Crossing the foyer, you reach the cellar door and yank it open. Flicking the overhead light, you see the orange has disappeared. Rolling your eyes, you shut the door.

“This isn’t funny,” you huff out loud to no one.

Far above you, a low groan shakes the house. Honestly, it sounds more sexual than scary, but you suppose that only makes it more sinister. Reaching the foyer, you slow your pace and set down your clipboard. Suppressing a sigh, you glance at the clock. This has happened enough times that you can predict things to the minute.

Crossing your arms, you tap your foot and count down in your head.

One – increased groaning. Sometimes from the cellar, often the attic and, during one memorable visit, from behind a locked bathroom door.

Two – shuffling feet while the Gundersons (insert buyer’s name here) debate whether to run or wait it out. They hastily whisper, wondering if it’s their minds playing tricks.

Third – laughter. Seokjin will say it sounds lilting but to you, his laughter is more akin to a car’s windshield wipers. Today, said laughter drifts from the main bedroom, immediately followed by the Gundersons’ screaming.

Directly above you, Margaret’s heels pound wooden floors. Wincing, you make a mental reminder to buff the scuffs from the wood.

“ARTHUR!” she calls, her voice pitching upward.

“Right behind you!” he bellows.

When the lights in the foyer flicker, you lean against the grand railing. In your experience, there’s nothing you can do now to save the showing. As soon as Seokjin reveals himself, it’s only a matter of time.

“Whoooo dareeessss to disturrrrrb meeeee!” he wails, and you try not to laugh. “This is MYYYY homeeee and you are nooooot welcomeeeee! OoOOOOooooOOo!”

Arthur is first down the stairs. Reluctantly, you step forward – as their realtor, you’ll try to calm them down and get them out. All part of the plan. What’s not part of the plan is Arthur’s blind panic, elbowing you – hard – in the stomach as he runs past.

Concaving, you stumble, your foot catching on a loose floorboard as you fall backwards. Suddenly, a pink cushion slides between you and the floor. You land in the middle of it, shocked but unharmed.

Arthur yanks open the front door. “You!” he blurts, whipping around to point. Blinking, you fight the urge to glance over your shoulder. “Yes, you,” he scoffs, spittle flying as Margaret runs past. “I don’t know if this is your idea of a sick joke or what, but your manager will be hearing from me!”

Before you can formulate a response, Arthur is out the front door. You hear the sound of their car starting, exhaust billowing behind them as they speed down the street.

Propping yourself on one elbow, you release a sigh. The house has fallen silent, almost sheepish in its total lack of sound. Head lolling back, you glare at the ceiling.

“You are so annoying,” you groan, well-aware you sound crazy. “I honestly don’t know what you’re looking for, Seokjin. The Gundersons were fine.”

The front door slams.

An outline of a person materializes between you and the living room, seeming composed of dust motes and sunshine. Turning your glare in their direction, you tap your fingers against the oak floor.

Seokjin solidifies fully, rakishly leaning against the paneled wall. He’s dressed in the same navy three-piece suit he wore when he died, albeit with his hair styled in this century’s fashion. Seokjin once said ghosts are able to change their appearance, but most choose not to. There’s little point to it, and it wastes precious energy.

Sadly, he shakes his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Seokjin says, his deep timbre resonating through floorboards beneath you.

“Show off,” you mutter.

Lips twitching, he crooks a finger. The foyer light ceases to flicker, and Seokjin straightens. Dusting invisible dust from his shoulders, he walks forward.

“The Gundersons were tiresome,” he says. “I would’ve been bored of them in months, started haunting again, and this house would’ve gone right back on the market. Really, I saved you trouble in the long run. You can thank me later.”

“Oh, no,” you deadpan. “Two commissions on the same property. What a horrible fate.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

Fighting an eye roll, you push yourself upward with cushion in hand. At least Seokjin was kind enough to break your fall, even if he caused the circumstances which led to it in the first place.

Brushing the dirt from the cushion, you shake your head. “You do know that eventually, someone will buy this house and you’ll have to make peace with that fact. Right?”

When Seokjin doesn’t immediately respond, you look up. His dark gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, briskly looking away when he catches you watching.

“I know,” Seokjin says, turning around. “Might I point out though, that I don’t have to make peace with anything. Ghost,” he adds, pointing at himself. “Not making peace with things is our bread and butter.”

“People have owned this house before, though.”

“Boring people,” Seokjin mutters.

“That didn’t seem to bother you back then!”

Seokjin enters the living room. “Ugh,” he groans, dropping onto a chaise. Dust motes spiral around him, as though he were solid. “If I must be trapped on the material plane, Y/N, the least the material plane could do is provide some entertainment. And the lovemaking of two seventy-year-olds doesn’t count,” he adds, fixing you with a glare.

Stifling laughter, you follow him into the parlor. Fluffing the cushion, you replace it on its chair and survey the room. Seokjin lounges dramatically and it could be your imagination, but he almost looks solid. More so than the first time you met, anyways.

He nearly scared the shit out of you, back then. Everyone at the firm warned you this house was haunted but were purposefully vague on the supernatural. The warnings they gave you were borderline mundane.

Oh, yeah, that house has been on the market forever. People say that it’s haunted, but I’d honestly be more worried about rats. Or asbestos – popcorn ceilings didn’t age well for a reason. And I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard a convict once lived in the basement for three months before the cops caught him. Watch out for that!

You entered this house with more than your usual trepidation, pepper spray in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Apparently, the wiring wasn’t all up to code – something you’ve since rectified with the city.

The sound of the door creak could’ve been written by the Brothers Grimm themselves, textbook gothic. Your flashlight swept over dusty floors, faint footprints remaining to remind you of its past. Spine steeled, you forced yourself to continue.

Finding a light switch, you flicked upward, and the chandelier came to life. The lighting was dim, barely enough to see by on a rainy day. Keeping your flashlight, you wandered into the parlor and came to a sudden stop. Forest green wallpaper lined the walls, remarkably intact for its age. Stunned, you turned in a slow circle.

Moody maximalism was one of your favorite design styles, and this room was made for it. With a slightly better attitude, you resumed your walk-through, discovering a hidden cupboard in the kitchen and a dumbwaiter to nowhere. The second-floor entry point had been boarded up, but that could be rectified.

Some of the woodwork of the house was scuffed, and a few corners held fallen leaves, but overall, it was in great condition. None of the realtors had prepared you for that – you arrived expecting a war zone and were pleasantly surprised.

On the second floor, you found a library – or what had once been the library, given the shelving was empty – that made you audibly gasp. Blue-black custom shelves extended along three of the walls. Closer to the door, a bright square of color remained from where a painting had hung.

Curious, your fingers traced the edges. “This place is unreal,” you murmured to yourself.

“I know, right?” said a voice directly in your ear.

Like any sane person, you screamed and jumped skyward. Your flashlight fell, its beam rolling over and over until it hit a baseboard. You didn’t stick around to find out, turning fast on your heel and bolting into the hall.

Thundering down the front stairs – wincing as the wood groaned – you nearly reached the foyer when Seokjin appeared.

“Boo,” he said calmly, between you and the door.

Coming to a shuddering halt, your hand gripped the railing. The ghost was impeccably dressed, if slightly invisible, and raised a dark brow in response to your flight.

Gaze darting sideways, you sought a second exit but all you could recall was the cellar and that wasn’t an option. Years of training from watching scary movies kicked in at that point, and you slowly straightened. Running away would do nothing – a ghost could follow you anywhere – so, maybe reasoning with him would be the best option.

“What do you want?” you asked, masking your fear to plant both hands on your hips. “Who are you?”

Surprise flared in his – admittedly attractive – gaze. Some of the shock had worn off by then, and you could admit to yourself (if to no one else) that the ghost before you was hot. Even thinking this felt ridiculous, and you wondered if your already-fragile grasp on reality was slipping.

Taking a single step forward, the ghost cocked his head. When you stumbled back, his lip quirked, and he appeared by your side.

“Who am I?” he mused, walking in a slow circle. “Awfully strange to ask me that, when I’m the person that died here, and you’ve never stepped foot in this house until now. I would know.”

Started, you turned your head.

This was a mistake since it allowed you to see every ridge of his features. The rounded tip of his nose, his enviably full lips, and a curve to his jawline which could likely cut glass.

Forcing your gaze upward, you found him focused on you. “You… died here?” you asked before you could think better.

His lips thinned. “You know, it’s very rude to ask a ghost how they died. It’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask,” the ghost replied with a sigh.

Your eyes narrowed, hearing barely hidden laughter in his tone. This ghost was making fun of you. The audacity!

Incensed by this, you lifted your chin. “Wouldn’t asking you whether it’s polite to ask about death be asking you about death, though?”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, slipping both hands in his pockets. “There really isn’t a good way for you to bring up that conversation.”

A laugh escaped, despite yourself.

His gaze flickered, as though oddly pleased. Quickly, the ghost scanned you from your shoes to your face, where he lingered.

“I’m curious,” he mused, resuming his walk in a circle.

Despite your discomfort, you forced yourself to stay still. Even though you could feel each place his gaze lingered – your shoulders, your collarbone, tacing the slope of your cheekbones.

“What are you curious about?” you asked, pushing the words past your lips.

He stopped between you and the door again. Slipping both hands from his pockets, he crossed his arms over his chest. The way his biceps strained against his suit was intriguing, implying there was something to strain against. Dimly, you wondered what a ghost’s gym routine looked like.

Your lips twitched at the thought, and the ghost scowled.

“Stop that,” he commanded. “You should be terrified. I was curious about why you haven’t run yet. Anyone else would’ve by now.”

“Would they?”

“Based on my experience, yes.” He tilted his head. “This is the first time I’ve introduced myself to someone and they stayed. Well,” he amended through teeth. “Stayed without crucifixes, holy water, and a priest.”

“Does that really work?” you wondered, genuinely curious.

“Does what work – exorcism?”

You nodded.

“Clearly not.” He waved a hand down his body. “At least, not in my case. When I first died, I wanted to move on. I was even excited when the first priest arrived, but he did nothing, and neither did the next one… eventually, I stopped hoping. Started haunting, instead.”

“Well, sure,” you said, dazed.

His lips twitched. “My name is Seokjin, by the way. Not that you asked.”

“That was literally one of the first things I asked!”

Ignoring this, Seokjin stuck out his hand. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” you said, ignoring the impossibility of what you were about to attempt while extending your palm. “Nice to meet you.”

Your hands met in the middle and, instead of passing through, you felt your palms brush. For a moment, you touched calluses and warm skin, smelling the faint scent of cloves.

Seokjin went utterly still.

Chin jerking down, he stared at your joined hands. “That’s… never happened before.”

Retracting swiftly, you said the first thought that came to mind. “What? Never touched a woman?”

Scowling, he retracted his hand as well. “I was thirty when I died, Y/N. Not thirteen.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, then paused. “You… haven’t been able to touch anyone since you died?”

“Things, yes. People, no.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “A psychic visited me once. The owners at that time brought her, wanting to see if she could get rid of me.” Seokjin snorted. “She got them to pay her, then said, ‘No.’ Hilarious. And interesting,” he added. “She told me she’d met other ghosts, ones that could interact. Never seemed to work for me, though.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. For it being your first encounter with the supernatural, nothing about this had gone as imagined. You weren’t sure how to converse with a ghost who, for all intents and purposes, seemed fairly normal.

Except for the whole ‘being dead’ part.

“Well.” You shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

His expression remained inscrutable, but for the faintest of seconds, you thought Seokjin looked intrigued. After a moment, he moved closer and leaned in. You caught the faintest whiff of orange, cloves, and cedar on what could have been his breath.

“I suppose there is,” he murmured, and then disappeared.

Since then, Seokjin has appeared each time you returned. The second time, you were halfway convinced your first visit was a hallucination. A theory Seokjin seemed content to feed into, refusing to show himself until you were about to leave. Then, he jumped through the hall closet to yell, “MUTINY!” and cement his presence in your mind.

Seokjin doesn’t dress the same every time. A few weeks into your friendship (if one can call it that), he informed you he could change his appearance but hadn’t done it much. It took energy to appear on the mortal pane, more so if his appearance was altered.

Still, you’ve learned Seokjin will do pretty much anything to commit to a bit. His brand of haunting tends to border on comical. Putting his arms on backwards, headless juggling, vomiting wine – really anything is fair game if not truly grotesque. By now, you’ve seen his whole gambit, which is how you can say today’s performance was lackluster.

Sprawled on the chaise, one foot dangling, Seokjin looks every bit of the tragic lothario. Again, you can’t help but wonder whether he’s gained permanence since the last time you saw him. You could almost swear the chaise sinks under the weight of his frame.

“What is it?” he demands, lazily pushing himself upward.

Something in your chest flutters, although you ignore it. Arms crossed, you fix him with a look of disdain. It’s sinful for Seokjin to look as good as he does – and the worst part is, you know it’s not an illusion.

After you met the third time, you Googled his name along with the house and found multiple hits. Seokjin Kim was killed on October 31st, 1978, by Nathanial Elliot, the leader of the Sunny Days cult. Both Seokjin’s parents joined two years prior, and he’d tried unsuccessfully to convince them to leave by mail and phone.

Eventually, he visited in person and convinced them to go – unfortunately, Nathanial caught wind of the situation and killed Seokjin before this could happen. You saw photos of Seokjin from then and can confirm he was always devastatingly handsome. Often, you’ve wondered if he left someone behind – a wife or a girlfriend – but can’t bring yourself to ask. You aren’t sure which answer would hurt more.

Regardless, you know Seokjin was missed. His parents were the ones who took down the Sunny Days cult, putting their leader behind bars for killing their son. Seokjin admitted once that they tried to tear this house down. They didn’t know he was tied to the grounds, and he didn’t want to tell them. It would’ve been harder for them to move on, he explained, and your heart broke a little.

Not long after that, you accidentally let it slip that Seokjin had a scent. It made him howl with laughter, nearly falling down the front stairs – not that this would’ve hurt him. From then on, Seokjin showed off his growing ability to move solid objects by leaving oranges for you in the house whenever you came. Only another of his practical jokes but lately, it’s made your skin hot to think of.

You realized you felt more than you should for him last month when he saved you from falling. Determined to clear out the cellar, your entire foot went through the first step and Seokjin pulled you to safety.

“Careful,” he murmured, one arm wrapped around your waist. Gently, he eased you backwards and onto the landing. “The top step is rotted through. You’ll need to call in someone to fix that.”

Unable to speak, you nodded and quickly disentangled. Each place he had touched, your skin tingled, and not at all unpleasantly. Since that day, your feelings have only worsened. Sometimes, you wonder if he knows.

Sometimes you wonder whether he feels the same, no matter how hopeless it is.

Heaving a great sigh, Seokjin stands from the couch. Lifting both arms, he stretches this way and that like an overgrown cat. The end of his shirt comes untucked, displaying a flat strip of skin you refuse to acknowledge.

Forcing your gaze to his face, you lift a single brow. Weeks after meeting, you considered Seokjin your friend, or at least an acquaintance. Now, you can’t call this friendship, but not because things between you have worsened. It’s because the more time you spend together, the more you find yourself wishing for something impossible. Something more.

“You know what,” you tell him. “There’s no need to scare off every potential buyer.”

Seokjin pauses, then lowers his arms. “There’s a need when they’re terrible. I’m the one forced to live with them for eternity, not you.”

“It’s not an eternity, though,” you tried to joke. “Eventually, they’ll die – or, so one would presume.”

Seokjin’s face hardens. Before you can take another breath, he’s standing before you. “Much better,” he says, his voice like steel. “I love being reminded that, while the world continues to age around me, I never will. I’ll simply stay on this godforsaken plot of land until the earth is destroyed by its own inhabitants. How long do you think that’ll take, Y/N? One decade? Two?”

Eyes wide, you stare at him in shock.

Seokjin has never spoken to you like this before. Usually, he’s far more cavalier about his reality, easily accepting the fact that he’s a ghost. Never once has he ranted about the world passing by. In fact, Seokjin frequently throws in your face that you’ll soon have more wrinkles than him.

For the first time, you wonder if all that is a front. If perhaps, deep down, all his lackadaisicalness is merely a cover for a deeper kind of fear.

Slowly, you move closer. “I didn’t mean to be dismissive,” you murmur. “Of course, I don’t want you to be forced to live with people you hate. I just meant…”

You trail off, uncertain and Seokjin’s face softens. He moves even closer, his scent comforting you in a way you can’t explain. In a way it shouldn’t be.

“I’ll never get used to this,” you sigh.

You aren’t sure why you’re speaking so softly. Possibly due to his proximity and possibly due to the look in his eyes, studying you as though you’re the impossibility, and not him. Dust motes trail through the air when Seokjin lifts a hand.

With bated breath, you watch as he reaches towards you. At the last second, he shifts and lightly brushes your jaw.

Sharply, you inhale because you feel it. You feel him.

“Seokjin,” you whisper. “What are you…”

Gently shushing, he leans in, and you feel his breath, feather-light, across your skin. Utterly shocked, you go still. It’s his breath that you feel. Breath that shouldn’t exist, according to logic.

Slowly, his gaze drops and stays on your lips. If Seokjin can’t read minds, he must hear your heart racing. The sound of it is all-consuming, drowning out rational thought.

“You want to know what I’m waiting for?” he murmurs, his gaze lifting. “I’m waiting for someone to look at this… house the way you do.”

“A lot of people have liked the house, Seokjin. People who –”

“I don’t want you to sell this house."

Startled, you stop. “Why not?”

His expression twists, revealing his vulnerability. “I think you know.”

Roughly, you exhale.

Yes. You do know. It’s the same reason you’ve half-assed the last six showings at this address. It’s why you keep people from looking, and when they insist, barely attempt to stifle Seokjin’s shenanigans. You could have come earlier today and requested Seokjin to be on good behavior. He would have done it. For you, he would have.

Which is exactly why you didn’t ask.

“I… want to hear you say it,” you say, so low, you’re surprised that he hears.

Achingly slow, Seokjin’s hand slips from your jaw to your neck. When he pulls you closer, you can feel the weight of his hand, the solid pressure that comes from his fingers on your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want you to go,” Seokjin murmurs, his lips close to your ear. “If someone else buys this house, you’d stop showing it. You wouldn’t come here again, and I can’t leave these grounds. If someone else buys this place” – his breath hitches – “I won’t see you again. I can stomach eternity, Y/N, but not without you.”

“Seokjin.” His name leaves your lips as a whisper, or prayer.

“Yes?”

“Do you ever…” Eyes opening, you look up. “I don’t want to say it out loud.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Your voice breaks. “That might make it real. What I want can’t be real, so if I say it out loud, it might vanish and right now, it exists in this tentative space. We exist in this space.”

Lightly, his thumb strokes your throat, and you feel your knees buckle. Every callous, every touch feels so horribly real, it’s making it difficult to remember why this can’t be.

“I’ve stopped wondering what’s real and what’s not,” Seokjin murmurs, his gaze tracing your mouth. “Most people say I shouldn’t exist and yet, here I am. They say I shouldn’t be here, able to touch you like this and yet, I am. They say I shouldn’t–”

Rising on tiptoe, you cut him off with your kiss. Seokjin shudders, his lips parted and warm in the shock of the moment.

“Fuck,” he groans, breaking away to stare at you in wonder.

Before you can respond, he returns, his kiss wild and fierce. Your own desire surges, touching him hesitantly at first, and then with full abandon. Hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, your fingers curl in his hair to anchor him to you.

Cupping your face, Seokjin pulls your body to his. His touch is reverent, deifying while his hands travel lower to land on your waist. His body curves above yours, catching your gasps with the tip of his tongue. Seokjin feels solid beneath you – solid, and warm, and painfully real.

His mouth moves to your jaw, trailing heat down your throat and across your bared collar. Shivers of pleasure shoot through you as he walks you backwards, pressing your spine to the wall. Briefly – wondrously – you laugh, the sound caught again by his kiss.

Within minutes, you’re panting, heart beating wildly as you grip his hair tighter. Seokjin’s leg presses forward, pushing your thighs apart and you nearly dissolve. He moves harder, faster, as though scared that you’ll vanish. This is the opposite of disappearing, though.

This is together, beneath, and on top as –

“Shit,” Seokjin growls, the sound torn from his throat.

Dazed, you look sideways and realize his hand has gone through the wall.

Seokjin stares at his wrist, his chest rising and falling. Everything you can feel is solid, but his hand sinks through the wall about an inch deep. It’s hard to concentrate with him above you, looking like that. Seokjin’s hair remains mussed by your hands, proving you touched him – however briefly.

Lips thinning, Seokjin pulls his hand out. Purposefully, he lays his palm flat on the wall but it’s clear to you both that he’s concentrating. Some of his pressure dissipates.

“I – fuck,” he exhales, dropping his chin.

Gently, you soothe a strand of hair behind his ear. This is the first time you’ve seen Seokjin anything less than immaculate and goddamn, if it doesn’t look good on him. That’s making it difficult to focus on the matter at hand.

The matter at hand. Ha.

Thinking this, a snort escapes your lips before you can stop it. Stunned, Seokjin glances up with wide eyes.

“Did you just… snort?” he asks, incredulous.

You shake your head, and then nod, sheepish. “Um, yes. I did. It’s just…” Now that you’ve started, you can’t help but continue. “I can’t believe the hottest make-out session of my life ended with your fucking hand through a wall.”

Seokjin stares for a long moment before – impossibly – his chest starts to shake. Before long, you’re both laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. Once your laughter has faded though, comfortable silence remains.

Pulling you into his chest, Seokjin’s hand strokes your neck. “I don’t know what this means,” he admits with a sigh.

“Me, either.”

“I do know I want to do that again.”

“Same,” you say, pulling back.

“But…” Seokjin hesitates. “Y/N. You know I’m not… real, right?”

Your heart sinks to your shoes. “You’re real to me.”

“I know.” He speaks softly. “But I –”

Lifting a hand, you press a finger to his lips. “Don’t,” you warn. “Please. I don’t want to think about the future right now. I know I don’t have eternity, but I don’t want what I have without you.”

Something in his gaze breaks but Seokjin merely nods, letting silence fall again. You fear that he’ll vanish, leaving you alone but he merely exhales. The breath brushes your skin.

“Alright,” Seokjin murmurs, winding his hand with yours. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

The ghost of a smile crosses your lips. “What if… we talk about me buying this house?”

#bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #seokjin fanfic #jin fanfic #seokjin fanfiction #jin fanfiction #bts fanfiction #seokjin au #jin au #bts au #bts halloween

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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year

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Locked Out (Anthony Bridgerton x Reader)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: 18+, explicit sexual content, language, mentions of blood Word count: 4.2k

Summary: When you find yourselves locked out of your house in the middle of the night, Anthony has some ideas for how you can kill time.

Author's Note: Inspired by true events that involved all the frustration but none of the fun 😜 This was just an idea that rooted itself. A silly little fic outside my usual style. Thanks to @faye-tale for chatting with me while I waited for a locksmith. 😊 And thanks to @colettebronte who always has the right JB pic for the job. 💜

You knew this would happen. You had never trusted the smart lock ever since Anthony had installed it. Either some criminal masterminds would hack the whole network of them, or the battery would die and leave you precisely where you were now, standing on the stoop in the chilly air as midnight approached, the moon and your phone as your only light sources. Again you wondered what was so bad about traditional locks as your phone flashed the error message. But Anthony had to get his way, as usual. One news story about a burglar three towns away and the next day he had bought every ‘smart’ home security device on the market.

Well now the stupid lock didn’t work. The first time you had pressed the button you assumed you had tapped something wrong, given how distracted you were. Anthony was crowding against you, one hand slithering over your backside while the other moved to wrap lightly around your throat. He was breathing heavy in your ear, licking your neck with his untamable tongue, a move that always made your eyes cross a bit. But now you had tried three times to unlock the door and it clearly wasn’t working.

“Anthony…”

He just rumbled in response, biting your lobe.

“Anthony!” You nudged him back with your hips, trying to snap him out of it. “The damn lock is broken.”

“What?” Of course he then had to inspect it himself for a full five minutes, trying every trick on his phone that you had, to no avail.

You stood with your arms crossed. “Where’s the spare key?”

Even in the dim light you could see his jaw set with aggravation. “Inside.”

You scoffed, “You didn’t hide it outside like you said you would?”

“I don’t want to leave a key to our property lying around for anyone to find. This thing was supposed to be top-of-the-line.” He growled.

You couldn’t help your eyes from rolling. “Anthony, that’s why you hide it…”

“Let me try the back.” He jogged off the steps and around the house through your garden gate. You both knew full well that he had rigged your back door with the same space age lock as the front and wasn’t likely to have any success. All you wanted was to get inside, to get warm and have a glass of wine. You looked up at the glare of the full moon. That must be to blame for your misfortune.

You weren’t going to wait forever and searched the number for a 24-hour locksmith. You were just about to dial when the sound of shattering glass echoed over your lawn followed by a loud curse. Oh good lord…

Before you could even detect which side of the house it came from, Anthony stepped out of the shadows, holding a forearm aloft.

“Anthony Bridgerton, what the hell did you do?” You hissed as loud as you dared, mindful of disturbing your neighbors.

But you knew exactly what he had done when he drew closer and you could see the bloody pulp that now constituted his knuckles. More alarming was the long, jagged tear in the sleeve of his shirt through which you could see the matching slice on his skin, blood already seeping out to darken the fabric.

“Broke the side window,” he grumbled.

“And how did that work out for you, genius?”

His eyes flashed. “The damn latch is too high. I couldn’t reach it inside.”

Excellent. Now you would need to replace your window as well as hire a locksmith. Your simple date night was turning into quite the misadventure. The cold was starting to seep in. Not expecting to spend time outside, you wore only a dress and no coat. You were so tired and irked you were bordering on a tantrum. But your husband was bleeding, quite a lot, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ream him out while he was injured.

“Jesus,” You huffed, taking his good arm and pulling him over to your car in the drive. Fortunately this piece of your property had a keyfob, making it your only form of shelter at the moment. “Sit down,” you ordered, opening the driver’s side door and pushing him into the seat. You crouched next to him and turned his wrist to inspect the damage. It was ugly, the whole sleeve from the elbow down stained red already.

Before you even suggested it, he tugged the cuff of his other sleeve with his teeth, slipping his whole shirt up and over his head until it hung only on his bloodied limb.

“Haven’t you ever watched movies?” You chastised as you began to wind the fabric around the gash. A gorgeous knit shirt ruined forever. “You wrap your arm with your shirt before you punch through glass.”

“Well I’m sorry for trying to solve our problem.” He snipped. You responded by pulling a tight knot, causing him to hiss.

But your frustrated energy threatened to redirect into something else entirely as you surveyed him. Even after all this time together, you went a bit speechless whenever you saw him shirtless. It really was obscene for someone to be so attractive. Broad-shouldered and muscular, with the most perfect patch of soft hair across his chest. Running your hands over him had reached the level of compulsion, beyond mere desire. Seeing as his torso was streaked with blood from his haphazardly bandaged arm, you gave in under the pretense of tending to him. You drifted your fingers up his carved abdomen and onto his chest where his movements slowed under your palm, his breaths deepening.

“I don’t have anything to clean you up with.” You were more agitated than apologetic. How fast were you going to devolve into naked, bloodied neanderthals all because you didn’t have a house key?

“It’s fine.” He laid his good hand over yours, holding it in place. You could feel the strong thrum of his heart. He knew what he was doing. Trying to dissipate your anger by turning himself into a distraction. But you wouldn’t let him. Someone had to remedy this situation.

You quirked a brow. “Should I call the paramedics or the locksmith?”

His pursed-lips look of annoyance was one you saw often and always relished. It was usually the only way he admitted you were right in a spat. Nudging him a few inches, you perched next to him on the seat.

“How long will they take?” he asked when you hung up.

“Half an hour.”

“What are we supposed to do until then?” You knew that silky edge to his voice and turned to look at him. His eyes, always dark, glinted most dangerously at night. Darkness suited him much more than daylight and even though you knew your husband was putty in your hands, one flash of those eyes made you feel like prey.

You shivered, due to him as much as the wind. “Whatever we do, I’m staying in here. It’s too cold.” You wouldn’t give in that easily. You stood and moved to walk to the passenger side but an arm curled around your waist and tugged you back onto his lap, then the door was pulled shut beside you.

“Imagine how cold I am without a shirt on.” His low voice reverberated through the enclosed space and soft lips landed on your shoulder. His arm was still banded around you, holding you tight. The devil.

You twisted to face him again, already knowing you would lose this battle. He smirked, just a glimpse of teeth in the blue glow of the fading dash lights lending fangs to your predator. Wasn’t he the wounded one? How did he gain the upper hand so quickly? You rested your hands on his chest again and knew he was lying. He was warmer than you and heating up by the second, his breath gusting over your forearms as you stared each other down. Each time you touched one another in places otherwise typically clothed, it brought out your animalistic tendencies. But seeing him like this, cast in shadow and roughed up, was causing something especially carnal to simmer inside you.

“We can turn the car on for heat.” You argued, never wanting to grant him the last word.

But then he pressed himself against you, hands spreading wide to grasp your bottom as he nuzzled his jaw against your cheek. He knew all of your buttons. One pass of his short beard across your skin and it was over.

“Mmmm…” he hummed in your ear, the baritone he reserved to devastate you. “Bad for the environment. We can keep each other warm.”

Then his tongue resumed its journey up your neck, leaving you gasping until he traced it into your waiting mouth.

Damn him. You hated and loved how easily he made you go to pieces. If you were being honest, the feelings worked in tandem. It was often when you were the most aggravated with him that you reached the highest peaks in your lovemaking. As your tongues swirled around each other, you knew this would be one of those times. But you’d have to be quick unless you wanted to put on a show for the locksmith. This was reckless, juvenile, but you didn’t care.

“I suppose you’re right.” You murmured over his lips then pushed him roughly back against the seat. His eyes lit with excitement as you maneuvered to straddle him, hiking your skirt up your thighs, kicking off your heels and underwear as you went. His splayed hands ran up to your back and crushed you to him for another hungry kiss. You moaned into one another, overcome with the rush of it all, with the risk you may be seen. As you held his jaw possessively, you wormed a hand down to the seam of his trousers.

“Do you have enough blood left to power this thing?” You smirked, nipping at his lower lip.

“See for yourself,” came the husky reply. Pressing down, you felt the bulge and rocked your palm against it. His responding noise caused a familiar jolt of desire to shoot through your every cell. You knew you were already soaking, aching and ready for him. In a flurry, the two of you fought off his belt and buttons and shoved his clothes down his thighs until his cock sprang free, rigid and hot in your hand. Positioning yourself, you swiped the head across your entrance, gathering the slick then swirling it around your throbbing clit. Anthony groaned, biting his lip and gripping you tight by the hips as you lined up and sank down onto him, your cry seeming all the louder in the small, insulated cab.

There was a reason you had given him the private nickname ‘Logsplitter’. Getting far too candid over too many drinks one night, you had told him how fantastically split open he made you feel. Had described that meniscus seal between pain and pleasure and how his body drove yours to it perfectly and kept you dancing upon it until it fractured and plunged you into liquid bliss. The next day you had been mortified but he eased your anxieties by making it the most enduring joke in your relationship. The bastard had even woven it into his wedding speech, announcing that he would still find joy in life’s mundane tasks with you, whether it be laundry, dishes, or log splitting. Public mentions of it sent heat rushing to your cheeks, but in practice behind closed doors it sent heat rocketing under every inch of your skin. He was so stiff and formidable, stretching you so splendidly. You began to move so that you could savor every inch.

Planting your hands on his shoulders for leverage you began to ride him at a steady clip, reminding yourself that you couldn’t dally. His fingers pressed deeper into your hips as his breath turned staccato with whispered curses. You gave a passing thought to the fact that his injured arm was probably streaking blood across your dress, but thankfully it was black and therefore might be saved.

As much as you were enjoying yourself, this was still a ridiculous situation. Bleeding and rutting in the driver’s seat of your car like you were criminal lovers on the lam and not just idiots who hadn’t kept a spare key to the house. And you were on a timeline. Fueled by a potent blend of frustration and arousal you began to move faster, pistoning on your knees as the leather squeaked. There wasn’t much extra space on the seat for your legs and your increased pace made you slip, pitching forward as one shin fell off the side.

Anthony caught you, hands moving up to your ribs as he chuckled. “Woah. Do I need to strap you in, baby girl?”

You could have slapped him. He only used that name for you when he really wanted to get you riled. Clearly he was enjoying your little tryst, finding the fun in this mess that he caused. You’d like to see him try and fuck you in the front seat. Glaring, you stepped on the recline controls and he stuttered in surprise as he sank backward until he was supine beneath you. Steadying yourself again you doubled your efforts, riding him hard as you held him pinned at the chest.

“You’re enjoying this too fucking much.” You ground out.

“What?” He played the innocent.

“We could be inside,” You panted, every word bouncing with your movements. “In bed. Uninjured. If you had just hidden the key…” Your breath caught as you tilted your hips and felt him strike against the deepest part of you, a twinge that increased your ache. “...and not changed the stupid locks.”

“So this is my fault?” His voice was all seduction, no remorse to be found. His eyes, what little you could see of them, gazed up at you as a hand moved to knead your breast.

“Yes.” You moaned, starting to climb the ladder as his fingers and his cock simultaneously found all the right spots to make you mindless.

“And you’re mad at me?”

“So fucking mad.” You gasped, leaning forward into his palm and angling yourself just so, feeling the ridge of him deep inside start to massage your center of sensation.

He craned his neck to ghost his lips over yours and whispered, “How can I apologize?”

Then his hand moved below your skirt and his fingertips found your clit. Pierced with sensation, you screamed some garbled syllables of his name.

He chuckled, warm and dark. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

Oh, he was awful. Driving you to delirium even when you were the one on top. You had found your rhythm, rolling your hips to sink him perfectly into place over and over. Coupled with the press of his circling fingers, you were shooting up the ladder, your blood beginning to hum with anticipation. Maybe you could pull this off in time after all.

“Fuck you…” you hissed.

“You certainly are.”

“Anthony, shut up!” You clamped a hand over his mouth, bringing the other to claw into his shoulder. You had assumed Anthony Bridgerton, man of refined tastes, would have found this all as debased as you did, but he was evidently having the time of his life. Maybe the laugh riot was precisely because he knew you were so flustered, which just made you angrier. But the anger was consigned to your mind only, as your body delighted in him. Warm and firm beneath your palms, he started to move with you, thrusting ever so slightly while his mangled hand pulled you down at the hip, slamming your bodies together as tight as he could on your every descent. His fingers swirled faster, just where you needed them, and soon enough you reached the top rungs, everything surging within.

Anthony mumbled something against your fingers, his breath hot and short, matching yours as you hovered over him. You released him, your mind too clouded with pleasure to fight him anymore. Your thighs began to quake while the rest of you started to tense.

“It feels like you’re about to forgive me.” He purred, and all you could do was whine, squeezing your eyes shut as your hips bucked against him desperately. “Come on then,” he coaxed. “I think I’ve earned it.”

One more thrust and circle of his fingers and you peaked, crying out as your nails sank into the flesh of his shoulder and your other hand scrabbled for purchase in his thick hair. Release radiated out from the epicenter of his touch, spasms clenching around his cock which now felt impossibly huge, fanning out through every muscle. You writhed, circling your pelvis against his as you rode it out and moaned.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he growled from the darkness. “That’s my girl.”

Gasping, you collapsed on top of him, basking in the warmth of his bare skin and the caresses of his hands across your back as aftershocks curled your spine. As you floated, you trailed your fingers into his chest hair. You contemplated extending your forgiveness verbally too, but when you propped up to look at him you saw a flash of headlights through the back window. A truck was turning down your street.

You cursed under your breath and glanced a kiss across Anthony’s lips before pulling yourself off of him and opening the door, stumbling out into the driveway, your mind still swimming. You tugged your skirt down and tried to smooth your hair as Anthony scrambled to hitch his clothes back over his stark erection.

“Stay here,” you cautioned and closed the door.

The truck was indeed the locksmith, a very beatific fellow named Lumley. He didn’t cast any judgment as you explained your situation. He professed to having seen it all and you believed him. But you might have been added to his list of unusual encounters after he deftly popped the door lock and let you in to turn on your lights. That’s when his eyes widened and he asked if you were alright. You looked down and realized he was gesturing to the blood streaks on your exposed arms. The way he fixated on your chin, you suspected you had a streak there too.

You laughed to calm him, explaining that your husband had cut his hand (you elected not to tell him how) and that you were both perfectly fine and would clean up now that you could get inside. A little shaken, he politely wrapped up your transaction and drove away. You were too relieved to be embarrassed and went to collect Anthony from the car.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” You swung the door open to find him still reclined. His trousers were back on thankfully, but he was slumped, eyes closed, cradling his raggedly wrapped arm. “Anthony?” You put a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

He blinked his eyes open and looked at you blearily. “Feeling a bit woozy.” He mumbled.

Fantastic. Not only had he lost blood, he had sent whatever remained shooting down to his cock and now there was none left in his brain. You didn’t think you were strong enough to carry him indoors if he collapsed, but you wouldn’t leave him in the damned car any longer. Tugging him by his good arm to slowly stand, you then draped it over your shoulders and steered him inside. He could walk just fine even if his head was drooping a bit.

You kicked the door closed behind you and walked to the sofa, easing him onto it.

“Aright, sit down. I’m going to get the first aid kit.”

You turned but were immediately halted by a hand around your wrist.

“There’s only one thing that’s going to make me feel better.”

The next you knew, you were on your back on the sofa, Anthony pressing you down as his lips consumed yours. He vocalized his want down your throat as his beard rasped against you. What happened to woozy? Maybe being horizontal was the only way he could function at the moment. He rocked his hips between yours, his unsatisfied stiffness insistently seeking entry. Within seconds you were ignited again, helpless against the weight of him, the taste of him, the smell of him.

“Anthony, if you stain the couch too, I swear…” You mumbled as he sucked at your neck. Tallying the cleanup that remained between the shattered window and your ruined clothes, you would not sacrifice your plush upholstery too. Reaching behind your head, you dragged the throw blanket from the arm of the sofa and quickly bunched it under his blood soaked shirt bandage. He didn’t seem to have heard you, or perhaps he just didn’t care, as he balanced on that elbow and used his other hand to tear open his trouser buttons. You lifted your skirt and helped him, as eager for this as he was.

You groaned in stereo as he sank into you once again, the sensation more overwhelming now that he was on top of you. His tongue dove into your mouth as well, the most delicious parts of him penetrating you as deeply as they could simultaneously. Vanilla as this position may have been in comparison, you loved it. Being completely underneath him, crushed, consumed and controlled by him. You had taken your pleasure and now you wanted to be a ragdoll in his arms. You didn’t know if your desires were romantic or perverse, but you didn’t care. The feeling of being filled and surrounded by the man you loved made you wildly aroused.

With no pretense, Anthony went to work pummeling you, chasing his release as urgently and selfishly as you had chased yours. You opened your legs wide, locking your ankles around his back and letting him plough even deeper. You still found this entire ordeal comical, but the man deserved some relief. In the span of an hour he had been chastised, injured, exposed and now blue-balled. This was his only reprieve until you had to undertake the ghastly business of dealing with his wound. And he was bringing pleasure to more than just himself. Predictably, his every thrust teased your clit, his sizable cock pulling all of you so tight that every feeling was heightened. While he panted harsh in your ear, you ran your nails down his rippled back and pert bum, leveraging with your wrapped legs to push up into him, the two of you grinding into one another as you whispered encouragements.

He was splitting you, sending you back to that place where all of your focus zoned in on the feeling of him inside, the relentless pounding of his body into yours that promised to quell every need of your flesh. Your whispered filth turned into small cries and then into silence as he drove harder and harder, his movements frenzied as he started to growl, pushing for the finish. All you could do was hold on as your whole body shifted beneath him, wearing tracks into the upholstery under your shoulders. You held your breath as your mouth fell open, unfailingly stunned at how he could propel you to the edge so easily. He shifted to look down at you. His hair was growing damp with sweat, a chestnut curl falling beautifully across his forehead. His dark eyes locked into yours, molten. You could read it in each other’s faces - you would come undone together.

Sparing Anthony the balancing act, you brought your hand between your legs and in seconds were breaking, tossing your head back as you succumbed. While the rest of you trembled, you clung to him with your limbs, luxuriating in all the hallmarks of his orgasm, triggered by your own. The way his back arched under your hands as his hips stuttered between your thighs. You loved how his whole body went rigid just before you felt the pulsing inside. He made the most beautiful gasping sound, so contrasted with his animalistic growls leading up to it, his mouth hanging open against your cheek, hot breath stirring your hair.

Absorbing each other’s tremors, he melted into you, resting his head in the crook of your neck and going full dead weight. You tightened your hold around him before he rolled onto the floor. You wound a hand into his hair, tracing patterns across his scalp as you both caught your breath. You looked over at his maimed arm and grimaced. It was a bloody mess. How he had been in the mood for not one, but two romps without a single complaint about an open laceration was a level of stubbornness and libido possessed only by Anthony Bridgerton. Now playtime was over. You had to be adults and handle this.

You kissed the top of his head. “Anthony.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even grunt in acknowledgement.

You felt a stab of alarm and shook him lightly. “Anthony?”

Then he groaned, nuzzling closer into you. “I think you’re right,” he slurred against your neck. “I need stitches.”

You rolled your eyes but rubbed his back reassuringly. It appeared the adventures of the evening would continue. You just hoped he could still stumble back to the car.

“Okay. I’ll get you another shirt and then drive you to the hospital. And we are taking the spare key with us.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp

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sweetandgentlecreature · 9 months

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First Light

Author’s Note: Hey, y’all! Me again! In this installation of Somethin’ Sweet, we’re back to Sy’s point of view. Grab some tissues and join me in my sad girl era. As always, thanks for stopping by!

Summary: Sy’s up early prepping for deployment and can’t help but relive the events from the night before.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female OC

Warnings: sexual content; nipple play, p-in-v intercourse, descriptions of male and female anatomy, explicit language, and adult themes. I am an adult, and due to the nature of this content, all works created by me will be rated for those 18 years and older. Minors, DNI.

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It never rains in Texas, but it did on the morning of Sy’s inevitable departure. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky as an early morning fog rolled in through the treeline. Bright, angry streaks of lightning raced across the sky and casted shadows through the room. A loud crash of thunder shook the old tin roof and startled him awake. In his moment of panic, Sy sat up straight and knocked the headboard into the wall behind the bed with a loud crack. It took him a second to recognize his surroundings in the dark, but once he did, he breathed a sigh of relief. A quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside him made his shoulders drop. 4:45am. Sy reached out and turned it off, as not to disturb his lover tucked so sweetly beneath the quilt beside him. That girl could sleep through a hurricane. A little fall of rain wouldn’t bother her much. Leaving over, he kissed the top of her head and lingered there, but only for a moment. Long enough to memorize the way she smelled. Honeysuckle and vanilla. Fuck, he’ll miss her.

Sy moved to plant his feet on the floor and ran a hand down his tired face. The last two weeks have been…a little less than ideal. It was his fault, really. He’d gotten the orders to ship out almost a month ago, but waited a while to tell her about them. He didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Things were just getting good here. Things were still so fun and new, but as always, Uncle Sam had other plans for him.

The first person he told was his mama. When he did, she barely flinched. Sy made the third generation of Syverson men who’d stormed courageously into war. His daddy served in Vietnam, his papaw in World War II. When duty called, they answered. It wasn’t easy, watching him walk out the door, never knowing if he’ll make it home again, but she’d made peace with it by now. “What good does it do fer me ta’ worry? Either you’ll come back, or ya wont. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”

Sy trod lightly off to the bathroom to start the shower. The room filled with steam, just enough to fog the mirror as stood beneath the steady stream and let it run over his head. Staring down at his feet, he let the water consume him. Heavy drops clung to his lashes, but he didn’t bother to blink them away. His mind was somewhere else. With someone else.

Sy had always been a steak-and-potatoes kinda guy, but he’d barely touched his plate. Every bite felt too heavy in his stomach, like he’d traded out his ribeye for a hunk of lead instead. She’d spent so much time cooking for him, springing for only the best of meat and the freshest produce the grocery store had to offer. The least he could do was clear his plate. Lord knew when he’d get another meal like this again.

Once he’d managed to choke it down, he stood and started grabbing dishes to take to the sink, but she stopped him quickly. She’d barely said a word all night, and her interjection almost startled him. “No, baby,” she whispered, taking the plate from his hands. “Let me get those.”

Merrin kept her back to him as she filled the kitchen sink with hot, soapy water. Steam fogged the window above as she drifted off in thought. She was a million miles away from here, swimming in regret and longing for just a little more time. There was so much to do, so much to say, but the words never came out right. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until the tears began to blur her vision. Closing her eyes, she gave in and let them spill down her face. She’d fought so hard to keep her distance. To brace herself for the inevitable. In the end, she’d fallen hard. Harder than she’d ever expected to; head over heels and still tumbling. She braced herself against the sink and let her head hang low, covering her mouth to muffle the sobs that bubbled up from her trembling chest.

When a hand reached out to touch her shoulder, she gasped. Looking up again, Merrin stared into the reflection of his eyes in the pane of glass before them. Calloused fingertips brushed her hair to the side, then traced along the side of her delicate throat. His voice was low and deep, a rumbling baritone pressed against her back as he broke the silence.

“I’m not gone yet. Gimme one more night. Just one more night, alone with you.”

Merrin sniffled softly, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded. From there, Sy wasted no time. Most of the dishes made it into the sink, but a broken glass was the last thing on his mind when he placed her onto the countertop. Shoving his way between her open knees, his lips were hot and harsh as they crashed into hers. If she didn’t know any better, she might think he was angry with her. In truth, Sy was angry; angry at their situation, angry at the world, but not at her. Never at her.

He grabbed her up, one hand on the back of the neck and the other wrapped around her thigh, squeezing with a force hard enough to leave a bruise. The pain turned into pleasure, the aggression turned to lust, and Merrin returned the favor with shared fervor. She wasn’t scared of him. On the contrary, she relished in his smothering presence, digging perfectly manicured nails into the meat of his shoulder as she drew him in just as close. Her mouth worked with his in a haphazard clash of teeth and tongue. Even in the mess, there was still beauty to be found. She was soft and sweet where he was rough and hungry. A yin to a yang, souls intertwined as one.

His shirt hit the floor first, and her sundress followed soon after. Merrin grabbed him by the belt and yanked until his hips pressed sharply into her own. They worked together to loosen the buckle and pop the button beneath it, ripping it from the loops and tossing it away to clatter to the floor. Rough hands came up to cup her breasts, bare and warm, a perfect fit for each palm. He squeezed gently and smirked against her neck, relishing in her pleads for more.

“Clay,” she whispered, clinging to him as he dropped his head to nuzzle against one hardened nipple, then the other. Always one to please, he licked his lips and welcomed one into his mouth. He took his time, gazing up through thick lashes as he moved from one breast to the other. She looked like an angel, basking in the glow of the sunset that poured in around her. But Merrin was no saint, far from it, and couldn’t stand his temptation for long. She let a hand fall between them to meet the bulge in his jeans and palmed it gently. She could almost feel the ache beneath the distressed denim; a steady, throbbing need that seeked relief that only she could provide. The words came before she could stop them. “Fuck me, Clay.”

Sy mumbled a gruff “Yes ma’am” into the flesh of her breasts and tugged himself free from his boxers. Never one to keep his lady waiting, he hooked a finger into the gusset of her panties and pulled them to the side. The sight of her wet heat made his mouth water. Any other time, he’d drop to his knees right then and there to have his fill, but it wasn’t what they needed the most right now. Right now, he needed to be inside of her, just as much as she needed to feel him there. He held the base of his erection and traced the swollen head through her folds, mouth agape and almost drooling as his eyes rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy.

“Fuck, honey. So wet for me.”

She gasped when the tip of his cock caught at her slick opening. The delicious burn from the stretch she felt as he pushed forward inside of her stole the breath from her lungs. They both watched as he crossed the threshold and buried himself deep inside of her. Breathy moans and whimpers of lust echoed through the room, and Sy took a moment to let her catch her breath again.

“Fuck, baby…”

She met his gaze once more, eyes wide and full of fire as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss. Sy tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, choosing to indulge her for a while, until he just couldn’t take it anymore. His retreat was nice and slow, but he didn’t pull out all of the way. Tugging her head back roughly, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and relished in the way she tensed around him. Nipping at her throat, he growled against her pulse and smirked. “So tight, honey. I’m not gonna last long.”

She answered with the rake of her nails down his back, leaving tender, pink lines in their wake, then dug them into the flesh of his bare ass. Shoving herself back onto his cock, she groaned loudly.

“Don’t tease me, Clay. I need you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. With a harsh thrust of his hips, he bottomed out completely. Sy held her down by the waist as he took what he wanted from her. In and out, over and over, he pounded into her with a fervor she’d never seen before. Their lust was wild and sinful as he stood there at the counter and fucked her into a mindless mess. A familiar tightness built somewhere deep in her gut, and before she could warn him, she was coming undone. Her eyes filled with tears, filled with so much emotion, then spilled down her cheeks in hot, furious streams.

It didn’t stop there. He had her again on the couch, and again against the front door, then once more upstairs in their room. The bed creaked under their shifting weight. Sweat poured from his face as he held one of her legs over his shoulder. Merrin clung to the sheets beneath her as he approached another climax. Just when she thought she couldn’t handle any more, he proved her wrong.

“Come on, sugar,” he begged, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and picked up the pace. “Gimme one more. Just one more.”

He’d been saying that for hours, but this time, he was telling the truth. His muscles ached and cramped, his body pleaded with him to give it up, but he was determined to make this a night to remember. He’d be gone for God knows how long; he wanted to make sure she’d had her fill before he left. Sy kept his promise and within seconds, he crashed over the edge of climax right along with her. Chests heaving and voices hoarse, they rode out their highs together and collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs. Sy stared up at the ceiling as he fought to regain composure and felt her curl up against his side. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Merrin held up a hand up and they smacked palms, victorious in their conquest. All qualms were forgotten, at least for a little while.

“High five.”

“Good sex.”

Standing at the sink, a towel wrapped around his waist, Sy stared at himself in the mirror. He scratched at his chin and turned his head from side to side, then flipped the switch on the side of the clippers. The first pass up the underside of his chin took off most of the length. He dusted a tuft of fuzz from the guards and let it fall into the basin before him. Sy made quick work of taking it all off, then grabbed the shaving cream to smooth over the stubble left behind. He moved with a surgeon's precision, each drag of the razor taking away the foam and leaving baby-smooth skin behind. Once he was finished, he bent down and filled his hands with warm water to wash his face. Just as he reached for the aftershave in the medicine cabinet, two delicate arms wrapped around his middle and squeezed gently. He brought one of them up and pressed her knuckles to his lips, kissing them as he spoke.

“What’re you doin’ up?”

Merrin yawned against his back and nuzzled her face there. Her eyes were heavy with the sleep that she just couldn’t shake. He reached back to run his fingers through her hair, twirling and twisting strands of amber around calloused fingertips as they stood in a shared silence. She raked her nails through the hair on his chest and dug them into hardened flesh, putting up a weak fight to keep him there for just a little while longer. “Couldn’t sleep,” was all she said as another roll of thunder echoed somewhere off in the distance. Sy glanced back at her from over his shoulder and found her staring up at him. She traced his cheekbone and down to the line of his jaw, mesmerized by the clean-shaven stranger who stood before her now.

“Most men grow a beard to hide their faces. You, though…” she pressed her thumb into the dimple on his chin. “You’ve got nothing to hide.”

She left him there with a gentle pat to the chest, then turned to head back into the bedroom. He watched her as she went, wearing nothing but the cheeky little splash of ink that was tatted across the dimples on her lower back and the panties that rested beneath them. A drunken mistake from Spring Breaks of old, left to peak from beneath low-rise jeans as a reminder of wilder days. Sy chuckled to himself and shook his head. He could hardly handle her now; if they’d met back then, he could only imagine the trouble she’d get him into. She’d have eaten him alive.

To his dismay, traffic was fairly light on their way to the airport. The skies above were a dusty shade of blue, vast and empty as the rising sun chased away the rain. Fields of wheat and grain blurred past on either side as they left their sleepy little town in the rear view. Sy drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting in her lap. Every now and then he’d hold her thigh, knead and squeeze, then cut his eyes from the road and over to her in silent reassurance. Every radio station from here to Houston seemed to play nothing but love songs, and each one salted the wound just a little bit more. Merrin tried to surf from station to station, genre to genre, but eventually gave up, so they rode in silence instead.

Sy didn’t mind the quiet. It felt more honest than anything he could say now. “It’ll be alright, honey.” “We’ll write every day.” “I’ll be home before you know it.” He couldn’t guarantee anything, and they both knew that.

Once they’d made it past security, Sy found a bench to sit on and dropped his bag at his feet. When he looked over to her, she was staring off somewhere in the distance, a million miles away again. To her, this felt like punishment. Like the universe had nothing better to do than shit on the best relationship she’d ever had. Karma had finally caught up to her, and this was how she was meant to pay for her transgressions.

“This isn’t fair.”

Clayton sighed and took her hand into his. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Life isn’t–” She cut him off.

“Don’t you dare tell me that life isn’t fair. I know life isn’t fair. This is…” Merrin shook her head. “This is cruel.”

He tried to smile, to crack a joke, to lighten the mood, but one look at her shut it all down. She was right. He’d been on the verge of hanging it up, of finally giving in and taking that cushy desk job at base to be closer to his mama, but his pride had gotten in the way. He knew he had at least one more deployment in him. One more, and he’d give it up for good. He just wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.

Everything had changed, now that he had Merrin. She was everything that he wasn’t. Gentle, but not easy to mislead; Stubborn, but only when necessary; Kind-hearted to those in need; and so fucking sweet. Now, he fought for her. If this it took to keep her safe, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Now, he had someone worth fighting for.

Wrapping her up tightly, Sy held her to his chest and buried his face in her hair. He pressed a fierce kiss to the top of her head and let his eyes close for a moment. They held each other just like that until his flight was called. Then they walked the Green Mile all the way down to the gate, where he pulled her aside and took her hands into both of his. His eyes searched hers desperately in a last ditch effort to commit them to memory. Shades of blue and green, specks of gold around the iris, as wild as the tide and as vast as the sea. When he kissed her, it was deep and lascivious. He didn’t care who saw. Fuck ‘em. Let them look. Sy broke his kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, dug the end of his crooked nose into her cheek and breathed her in for as long as he could.

“I love you, Merrin Paige. More than you’ll ever know.”

His words stole the breath from her chest. Three little words she never expected to hear him say. Three little words that paralyzed her, right where she stood. He kissed her cheek one last time, grabbed his bags, and headed off to catch his flight. Merrin watched from the window as the plane taxied at the end of the runway. A light drizzle began to sputter outside, just enough to blur her vision as the plane disappeared high into the clouds. Just like that, he was gone.

It never rains in Texas, but it did on the morning of Sy’s inevitable departure. It never rains in Texas, and today, Merrin hated the rain.

Far from home, Sy checked his watch as he waited for the line to ring. Static crackled in his ear as he cradled the phone between his head and his shoulder. 2pm in Baqubah; 10pm in Houston. If he was right, she’d still be up. Probably curled up in bed with a book, one of those dirty little romances she liked so much. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched and moaned. If Texas was hot, then this was hell.

Then, a click. The old desk chair groaned when he sat up straight. He listened for a moment, waiting for someone to answer, then checked the signal to make sure that the call had gone through. Fuck. Don’t let it be the answering machine.

“Sy?” a sweet voice chirped over the static. He sighed, relieved, and smiled widely at the sound of his name.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathed. “It's me. How’s it–”

She cut him off. What she had to say couldn’t wait.

“I love you too.”

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#henry cavill #captain syverson #henry cavill fanfiction #syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #henry cavill characters #captain syverson smut #captain syverson fic #captain syverson fluff #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill smut #syverson fluff #syverson smut #syverson fanfiction

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saltsicklover · 4 months

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Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Two

Read Part One

Part Three Coming Soon!

Prompt from THIS ASK

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU

Word Count: 4000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Lots of Crying, Parent Trouble and Reconciliation, Insecurity,

We don't get to meet Bobby yet, I'm sorry!

My father's office looks the same. Honesty it has looked the same for as long as I can remember, and it's not just this office either. Every single one of my father's offices has looked just this way. Tan walls, that sort of sad, off beige color that every military installation, from this side of the world to the next, think outfit them so well. There's always a strong oak desk, sometimes it's pine, but either way it's always a sturdy piece of furniture that has no business around the thrown together particle board of the neighboring pieces.

My father has always brought in his own chair. It's faded leather is always well conditioned and it's warn in. Warn in just the way that when you sit in it, you can almost feel the ever lasting presence of the many years my father has sat in that very seat. He has hauled it with him all around the country, always in unaccompanied baggage so it would be sitting in his office and ready for him upon his arrival. He used to joke that if he made it there before his beloved chair, his time stationed there would be hell in a handbasket.

The day he got stationed at Top Gun as the Air Boss, that chair took it's rightful place behind the new desk. The same desk with empty drawers and too many files preemptively stacked atop it. But that's just how it is, right? After all, it's been that way since my father made Commander and things don't look to be changing anytime soon.

The decanter on his book shelf has been wiped clean of dust and fingerprints. No doubt filled with any run of the mill whiskey that may find it's way into my father's hands. It's an office staple, that decanter's about as old as myself, but the crystal still shines after 25 years, especially after a good cleaning. There's a bottle of good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk, sat beside a bottle of the best vodka he could find. Always ready for the COMPACFLT to drop by on a moment's notice, though the Admiral has never made himself known long enough to break it out.

I sit and stare out the windows, the ones that make up the back wall of his office. There's always windows, but strangely the size seems to correlate with rank. One might think it would depend on the building, on the base, on the climate or area of the world, but what I've come to find out is the higher the number on your Pay Code, the bigger your fucking office widows.

That, and the less time you have for your family. It seems the higher that Pay Code number, the more time I've managed to spend with clerks and assistants. More visitation with office windows and the low reflection that stares back at me as I try to focus on the air field. Aircraft take off and land, the service men and women knocking out their required flight hours as the sun moves its way throughout the sky. But still, there are times I catch my own eyes in that low light reflection, but there are less tears now. Or there had been, until that fucking incident at the airport.

Truth be told, I haven't stopped shaking. In that damn reflection of my father's office window I can see both my tear stained cheeks and the confused looks on Rhett and Jake's faces. The images twist together. It's all hurt, every last piece.

I'm sure the three of us would be a sight if we were all standing in the same place, the boys with those same lost looks, hurt flashing through there eyes, and me, red rimmed irises and damp skin. Skin that is already threatening to chap over from the way it stings. I should have savored the way they so fiercely defended me. The way they folded me into themselves and kept me safe. Isn't that what home is, if only so briefly? A lifted wing to a chick in the same way their kind eyes were to me. It's a shame, the way it all came crashing down with those four little words.

There's not even a part of me that doesn't ache when the memory of only hours ago runs through my head. Their touch still ghosts over my shoulders. Phantom fingerprints left upon my upper arms, still smoldering, smoking as they cool.

Friendship has to be written into the strands of the universe, it just must be. Hidden deep within the stitching, taking a back seat to the drips of ink that are marred into skin, so easy to see. Because if it isn't, my soul shouldn't feel this heavy. It couldn't feel this heavy. So it must be. It must be.

There's mumbling coming from just beyond the fire door of the office, voices that I can't make out by ear but I know those tell tale footsteps that can't help but get closer. My heart pounds in the same way his footsteps all but reverberate through the floor. The voices get closer, and closer, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the air field- the vision of my own red rimmed irises in the glass of the O-9 sized window.

"Sir, I'm trying to tell you that-" The words come through muffled then clear as the door nearly squeaks open. A call to DPW and those hinges wouldn't grind, but I know door hinges aren't exactly on the high priority list for a Vice Admiral.

"Birdie?" That damn nickname's spoken by my father, in that surprised tone that is just a little too irregular completely flattens all my resolve. The floodgates open, or moreover, they break, just as I turn to meet his eye.

"Hi Dad," The words come out too wet and too close to a sob, but we both just stand there looking at one another. In the time we stare at each other, the Earth has rotated almost two hundred eighty miles around it's access. Four hundred fifty kilometers in roughly fifteen seconds. His hand is still curled around the doorknob, the brass of the handle turned down just so. A Lieutenant stands next to my father, an apologetic look hung upon her features. The tightness of her bun pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeable, but it makes her look a little more surprised, a little bit more of herself that's usually hidden under the mask, just barely breaking through.

It's another two hundred eighty miles before my father makes a move. He enters further into the office while the Lieutenant slips the door shut. I can almost feel how the handle must be warm beneath her slender fingers. The same warmth is rolling off of my hands; all of the nervous energy having nowhere to go but cycle out to my fingertips only to crawl back up my arms once more.

"Hey, kid," My father speaks after another moment passes, another few miles, "I- uh,"

There is so much hanging between us. After spending so many years arguing, instead of words left unsaid between us they all seem to be hanging in the air. Stiff and starched like a uniform collar, textured underneath my fingertips. The way they brush against my skin makes me itch as I inch closer. I wish to choke on them; on the words, longing for a moment that I had something else to say. Some sort of words found stuck somewhere between the tightness of my throat and the stickiness of my gums, lips dry and cracking under the pressure. Instead, they all still hang between us, a rickety old rope bridge while the few feet between us is a canyon's expanse.

The average argument lasts ten minutes, and families tend to have around a hundred arguments a year. That's a thousands hours of disagreements that stand between us over the last year alone. A hundred and twenty five words per minute. That's one hundred twenty five thousand words and I can feel each and every letter that hangs between us in this moment, thick between us like a fog. I can't seem to breathe.

The only thing that seems real is the hot tears falling down my cheeks and the sight of my father's downturned smile. There is so much pity there, or maybe it's remorse in the way one is remorseful for not appreciating a song the first time it's played through. It's the missing of the baseline and the way the bridge carries through to the end of the score. His eyes are gentle, in the way roses are- pricking, piercing from just the right angle.

"It's been a long time, Dad, I've missed you," The words have been hidden in the spaces between my molars, stuck there so long I barely recognized their honesty as they fell from my tongue. My lips catch on their sharp edges and I swallow down the acrid taste of bile and copper. Wiping at the new found streaks of tears, smearing them across the heat of my cheeks, my fingers come back tinged with watery mascara smudges.

"It's been too long, Birdie, sweet pea, too long," There's a slight hesitation in his tone, but it's all too genuine, in a way that makes my stomach turn. The nausea isn't new, not today. "How was-" I know he's going to ask about the last year, about the travel and the time spent in-between our arguments but I can't keep the words from slipping off of my tongue.

"I need to know about your Aviators," He stops, the words hitting him straight in the face leaving mouth hanging open mid sentence. His eyebrows scrunch with the narrowing of his gaze, the confusion evident in the way his head cocks gently to one side before he straightens it right back again. Parts of my father are slipping past the Admiral, like sand through fingertips, but he does everything he can to hold onto his hardened exterior.

"My Aviators?" There is so much hidden in the way the syllables crackle from his throat. He looks as though he has words still stuck to the roof of his mouth, words he keeps tonguing at to keep them hidden behind his teeth.

"I- yes," My brain is spiraling just a little to fast for my mouth to keep up. I can almost feel the way my nervous system is spiking, my neurons firing as my tongue tries to say the words in the forefront of my mind. The deep breath I force into my lungs does nothing to slow my thoughts, but my father's shoulders relax at the sight of my own shoulders dropping slightly. It's a shallow effort but it helps, if only a little.

"I met one of your Aviators today, at the airport," He nods in understanding, "Blond, tall, from Texas. Super nice. Said his name was Jake,"

"Jake?" My father huffs out, scrubbing a hand over his face. "A Texan with one of those shit eating grins?"

"He had a nice smile, if that's what you mean," I reason. The feeling of an impending argument is like static in the air, the hair on my arms standing on end as gooseflesh breaks out over my bare skin. That feeling is acknowledged with a quick glance between us, a look that has him moving closer to his desk. He picks up a framed photograph from it's corner before holding it out to me. I finally move closer, separating some of the distance between us. It's strange, being so close together after spending so long apart. I often wonder if that's how all children's relationships with their parents are after they grow up, or if my father and I are stuck in a unique form of perpetual misunderstanding. I take the photograph from his hand.

"This him?" He points at a man in the back row of the photograph, big smile and kind eyes. It's definitely him, that much I am certain of. There is just something so recognizable about that smile of his, the way the lines on either side of his mouth bend with a dash of mirth, bracketing perfect teeth. It's sick, really, how nice his teeth are.

There are a handful of other people shoved into the photograph together. Jake has his arm thrown around another man who sports a mustache and messy hair. That man looks at Jake like he emits pure light. Eyes squinted slightly with a smile too big to be contained with a closed jaw. That's Rooster. That's Jake's soulmate. There's no other explanation as to why the blond would be holding the other man so incredibly close, with his hands gripping into the material of Rooster's flight suit.

To Jake's other side is a woman. Her smile is smaller, almost practiced, but true joy emits from her eyes. With slicked back hair and sharp brows, she looks all business, like a woman not to be fucked with. But a friend, maybe? Her nametape is too small to read, but as one of the only women in the squad, she won't be too hard to pick out of the crowd. It's the man standing next to her that throws me. Another familiar face stands to her side, Rhett, only with shorter hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My eyebrows scrunch, mimicking my father's expression.

"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, my eyes still tracking over the faces in the photograph.

"Why do you ask, sweet pea?"

"I met a man on accident, really, his name is Rhett, and his friend was with him, this man here, Jake. We actually ended up on the same flight" I watch my father nod in understanding, one of his hands coming up to brush at his nonexistent five o'clock shadow. I huff, averting my eyes for the next part. "I might have had my soulmate sentence encounter earlier this afternoon," The confession is sheepish at best. I don't meet his eyes. There's no point. I know the expression he wears now and I know I can't handle it in this moment. There's already been enough crying.

"Was it with him? With Hangman?" I watch from the corner of my eye as my father's eyebrows knit together impossibly tighter. His voice is pinched at the callsign, lips tight around it.

"Yes, it was him, but that's not really the point, Dad," My eyes trail over him in the photograph again, but I'm pulled back to Rhett, confusion gnawing inside of my skull, just behind my eyes, "How old is this photograph, because this is Rhett right here, and he told me he wasn't military," I want to ask him if he really knows his aviators all that well, considering the lack of acknowledgement on his features.

"That photo was taken after their last mission, wasn't more than a few weeks ago, right after they all graduated their advanced training. It's recent, and there's nobody in that squad named Rhett,"

"There has to be! This is him, right here next to that woman. I swear it's him!" My fingernail, all chipped polish and sparkles, clinks against the glass, my father leaning closer to get a better look before plucking the frame from my gently shaking hands.

"Sweet pea, I think you're mistaken," His tone sounds like his words are treading a minefield somewhere deep in his throat. I can't help but cough at the thought. That tension bristles between us again, electric like a storm. My fingers knit through my hair to keep from chipping more of my nail polish from my already scraped up nails.

"That," My father taps the glass with his finger, "Is Lieutenant Floyd"

"Lieutenant Floyd?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Floyd," There's a faux confidence in his tone, the same one he used to use when he would call home to say he'd only be gone a little while longer.

"Dad," I raise my eyebrows as I finally swing my eyeline back up to meet his, "What is Lieutenant Floyd's first name?"

He sputters a bit, a hand rubbing at the lack of stubble on his chin. There's a sort of furrow to his brow, one I recognize, even if the rest of his features are laid out in a way I have never come to know. My father has always been a sure man, steadfast in his actions, information spread out in his brain easy to access. This grappling for an answer is unlike him, but it makes him seem impossibly more human.

"Oh, Dad," The words are spoken with slight exasperation laced in the low chuckle that springs forth from deep within my chest. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll just ask the very nice Lieutenant who let me in earlier, she seemed... knowledgeable,"

I am met with the deep roll of my father's eyes, his hands no longer scrubbing over his face, instead he rubs carefully at his temples. His reaction makes me grip a little harder at my hair. It's stupid, this battle between us. Something left over from the strife of my youth; what we clung to with white knuckles and bloody nail beds just to keep a semblance of a relationship. It's all adolescent animosity stripped to adulthood anonymity, achingly arduous.

"Honestly, Birdie," The words travel on an exhale, "I don't know his first name. Hell, I don't know most of them, especially if they don't give me trouble. I've always called him Lieutenant, barely ever needed Floyd tacked on the end,"

My father shrugs his shoulders unceremoniously, plopping the photograph back down onto the corner of his desk. He leans back into the long line of his desk, his usually pristine tan uniform wrinkling with the way he almost folds in on himself. My tongue flicks over my teeth as I fight the grimace I can feel rising over my features. I try and school my face back into pleasant nonchalance, much like my father usually does, however I think it's a skill better mastered with each star pinned to his collar.

"Can I say something?" There's too much honesty in the way the words crackle out. I nod; it's easier that way. My hands find home near my hips, my thumbs tucked into my belt loops in a shallow attempt to keep from continuing the pull on my roots.

"For what feels like forever now, it's just been you, your brother and I against the world. Just the three of us, and I know not having your mother has been one of the most challenging things, for all of us. I know there has always been this bond that Arrow and I have had, and maybe it's because he is my son, or because he decided that the Navy was his calling too. Either way, I know that there's a foundation there, one that you and I just don't have," I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The more he speaks, the more the sight of him swims.

"But, I want you to know that even though you and I have struggled," There's a little trace of humor there, but neither of us comment on it, "I love you so fucking much, kid. So much that my chest aches. And I knew this day was coming- your soulmate encounter. God, kid, I am so excited for you, but so fucking scared because you're my baby bird and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, I love you too much,"

There are tears steaking down his cheeks, a sight I haven't seen since my mother passed away. It makes my own chest ache in turn, seeing the strongest man I have ever known begin to crumble. With two quick steps, I am in my father's embrace. His arms are warm, cradling me into his chest, my face into the sandalwood scent of his collar. The stars pinned there less of an obstacle between us, now. He lets a land run over my spine, palm flat to my back, the warmth pooling through my top.

"I'll love you no matter what, kid, even if your soulmate is some military rat like me," He laughs, low and rumbling, into my hair.

"I love you, too, Dad, so much," I mumble into his collarbone, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can feel my tears sinking into the cotton of his shirt, the tan darkening with moisture. He doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn't say a thing. We stand there like that for a while, embracing. It's my father who breaks the silence.

"So, kid," He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the mangled bit to tears that still sits on the back of his tongue, "Tell me, how did it all happen? What did Hangman say?" The distaste in my father's tone is evident. I pull away from the embrace with a rueful laugh, one that stirs around that anxious feeling that's been ever present since the airport.

"Well," The word is all sigh, "Jake, Hangman or whatever you call him, was on the phone listening to his voicemail and Rhett had asked him who the message was from, you know? It was a pretty long message," I babble out the last sentence, trying to get to the point, but the words are stuck somewhere under my tongue.

My father just nods at me, allowing me the space to continue. Instead, I plop down into one of the chairs that sits in front of his desk, ones that are meant for official meetings rather than anxiety soaked realizations. I scrub a hand over my face before winding my fingers through my hair again, gentler this time. He stares at me, patient eyes and expression neutral. It's practiced, but genuine. I stare at he ground in front of my shoes when I can no longer meet his gaze.

"Rhett asked who it was," I begin again, back tracking a bit, "And Jake looked at him and said Oh, it's just Bob and that was it. I've had these words on my skin for so long that I thought hearing them would be so easy, but Dad, I panicked,"

"Oh Birdie, it's okay," My father hums, giving me a small grin on the side of reassurance, "It's not always like the stories, the fairytales are just to give us hope, but that's not how life is supposed to play out. It's alright,"

"It gets worse," My words are wet, "I ran, Dad, I ran. I heard him say that and I ran out of the airport and into the first cab I could find. I came straight here, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't even stick around to figure out exactly who Bob is to Jake. God, this whole situation gives me as much anxiety as a baby on board a pond jumper, look at me, I'm shaking like a fucking leaf."

"What did you just say?"

"I said I'm shaking like a leaf, look at me!" I laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out all gargled. I hold my hands out, watching the way they tremor at the thought of it all.

"No, not that," My father shakes his head, "The thing about the pond jumper,"

"I dunno, Dad, it was an analogy," I reply, it's all furrowed brows and tired voice. as if it could be anything else at this point. I watch my father's expression turn quizzical, his eyes tracking though the air as if he's watching a hop. His nose twitches for a second before he schools his expression back. His hands tighten a bit around the edge of his desk, then he's clicking his tongue to punctuate a sort of silent eureka moment.

"Come with me, kid, I think there's someone we need to go talk to," Then he's pushing himself form the desk and heading towards the door with the same conviction the Admiral meets everything with.

"What?" I push myself from my seat but can't keep my shoulders from sagging. He's stopped at the door, turning back to offer just a hint more.

"I think you and I need to go see Captain Mitchell," There's distain in his voice at the name. I bite at my lower lip, tucking my hands back through my belt loops.

"Why do we need to see Captain Michell? Isn't he the man you can't stand?" I ask, following after him. The whole thing seems futile but a curiosity thrums between my ribs. We pass the nice Lieutenant's desk, her seat vacant, before turning down the hall. It's not long before we are out on the air field and heading towards one of the large carriers.

#ftrftf #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd x reader #bob floyd angst #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd imagine #soulmate bob floyd #bob floyd soulmate au #icemav #father figure iceman #top gun maverick fanfiction #saltsicklover #requested prompt #saltsickrequests #father beau cyclone simpson #father cyclone

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proxima-writes · 1 year

Text

title: marked me like a bloodstain | part three

part one | part two

pairing: dark smuggler!joel miller x smuggler!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 2980

summary:

You save Joel’s life when the two of you are attacked on a smuggling run.

He has an interesting way of saying thank you.

author’s note: another installment for my dark!joel series. please please please heed the tags on this one, y’all. reader discretion is advised. if you like this story, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging - they make my day

you can also buy me a coffee if you want

content warnings/additional tags: explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), explicit language, canon typical violence (including death of raiders), no use of y/n, mentions of blood, degradation, pet names, MEAN MEAN MEAN joel, knife play, blood play, dom/sub dynamics, choking, gagging, spanking, oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, ass play, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, bondage, no aftercare. please let me know if any have been missed.

The raiders appeared out of nowhere.

One minute, you’re canvassing a new building for trade supplies and the next you’re hiding beneath a desk, the sounds of Joel struggling to fight off the three men who’ve ambushed you echoing in your ears. It’s just the two of you this run, Tess having stayed back to deal with a personal matter, which leaves you outnumbered.

When the men had burst into the room in a shower of glass from the windows, Joel had shoved you aside and demanded that you hide. Your hand grips your Bowie knife tightly as you try to steady your breathing.

You peer around the desk. Joel’s on his knees, two of the men standing over him while the third lays in a pool of blood that’s slowly growing in size, Joel’s knife sticking out of his chest. One of the men holds a goddamn machete, his lips curled in a sneer as he regards Joel.

“Fuckin’ old man here thinks he can fight, huh?” He asks his companion with a laugh, heavy Boston accent grating to your ears when you’re used to Joel’s Texan drawl. “Fuckin’ dumbass.”

The other man spits on the ground, near Joel’s hand. Your grip grows impossibly tighter on your knife.

You’re about to make a dumb decision. A colossally stupid decision. One that is going to get you into so much trouble with the asshole whose life you’re about to attempt to save.

Both of the raiders have their backs to you. One of them doesn’t have any visible weapon, he’s just a big fucking guy with a mean bark and meaner fists.

Which means you have to target the one holding a twenty inch razor sharp blade and incapacitate him before he can chop off any number of body parts.

No sweat.

You stand slowly, quietly, hardly daring to breathe as you leave the safety of your hiding spot. You creep with careful steps as the two idiots continue to taunt Joel. You twist the knife in your grip, turning it in your palm until your thumb is positioned on the bottom of the hilt. You wrap your other hand on top for stability and power.

When you’re right behind the oblivious man you raise your arms above your head and bring the blade down into his neck. He goes down to his knees with a surprised shout, dropping his weapon as you twist the knife and savagely rip it from its entry point.

His hands wrap around his bleeding throat. Joel launches for the machete, grappling with the other man as you bring the knife down again and again and again, stumbling forward in your efforts until you’re straddling the man as you rip your blade into him.

There’s a shout behind you that drags you from your vendetta, and you look up to find the accomplice standing above Joel, trying to press the machete to his neck. You take a running start at the man, colliding with him to knock him off. The machete clatters to the ground as you pin the man to the ground with your body, a knee digging painfully into his back as you press your blade to his throat.

“You don’t fuckin’ touch him,” you growl, sliding the sharp edge over the thin skin and watching in satisfaction as he sputters and chokes on his own blood.

You stand, wiping the blood across your jeans. Joel stands a few feet away, chest heaving with labored breaths. His eyes are dark as he stares you down.

“You’ve got some blood on your shirt,” you say, a stupid observation to break the thick tension as he continues to stare at you. He takes careful heavy steps in your direction.

“You stupid fuckin’ girl,” he says lowly. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“Yeah, and a thank you would be nice!” You snap back. You clench your jaw as he stands toe to toe with you, looking down at you with derision.

His hand grips your wrist, squeezing so hard you yelp and drop your knife, the blade clattering to the ground. He crouches, picking it up and advancing on you.

You stumble backwards, hitting a wall with a thump. He presses the tip of the blade to the delicate skin of your throat.

“You wanna listen to me now, baby?”

_______

Joel smirks at the flash of fear he sees in your eyes, high off the feeling it gives him. He’d been ready to accept death if it meant those men didn’t get a hand on you, and here you go throwing yourself at them like a rabid animal in his defense. The image of you savagely slicing each man up is burned in his brain, his cock hard as a rock in his jeans as he stares down at you.

Christ, he’s a monster. But his beast seems to call to yours in perfect harmony.

You swallow, the tip of the knife pressing deeper with the motion. Joel drags it down your chest, lightly scraping it across your clavicle, down between your breasts. He dips it under the hem of your dingy tank top, using it to draw the fabric up your stomach.

“Tell me somethin’,” he says, eyes fixed on the glint of metal against the skin he slowly exposes. “Did it make you wet?”

“D-did w-what make me wet?” You stutter.

“Killin’ those men.” Joel lifts the fabric above your breasts and pulls down one cup of your bra to expose your nipple to the cool air. He presses the flat of the blade against the taut little bud, earning him a hiss. “If I slipped my hand down into your panties, would they be soaked?”

You shake your head, and Joel smiles.

“Liar.”

________

Joel’s smile is terrifying. It’s sharp and mean and sinister as he looks down at you with dark eyes and darker intentions.

He’s right, though. You are a liar. A dirty, filthy liar.

“Take off your pants,” Joel commands. When you don’t move, he presses that goddamn blade against your skin again. “Now. Or I’ll cut them off.”

That gets you moving, if only because you have a very limited amount of clothing and can’t afford to lose a pair of perfectly good pants. Definitely not because your heart beats in triple time at the thought of what Joel might do to you once they’re off.

You clumsily remove your shoes and tug your pants down your legs, pushing them off to the side. You press your thighs together, hoping to hide what you’re certain is a sizeable wet spot.

But he notices. He always notices.

The blade is dragged up your thigh, a light scratch to your skin that leaves goosebumps in its wake. Your mouth goes dry as he slips the sharp edge beneath the waistband and pulls.

The elastic snaps against your skin, the fabric hanging limply off your hips. He holds your gaze as he does it to the other side before reaching roughly between your legs to pull it free.

Joel inspects the fabric, holding it up to his face. He rubs a thumb over the gusset and you can see the string of arousal that his thumb collects. He makes a disappointed noise.

“When will you learn, huh?” He asks. “When will it get through that pretty little head of yours that you can’t fuckin’ fool me.” You don’t reply, your mouth too dry and brain too fuzzy to form words.

“On your knees,” he demands. You drop heavily to the ground, the sting of concrete on your knees making you wince. “Hands out.”

You hold both hands out to him and he twists the mangled fabric of your underwear around your wrists, binding them together. The elastic cuts painfully into your skin, making you whine. He grips your cheeks and forces you to look up at him.

“Not another goddamn sound,” he snaps. He unbuttons his pants, pulling them down only far enough to free his cock. It slaps against his belly before he takes it in hand, pumping himself roughly. “Open that pretty mouth, sweetheart. It got you in trouble by lyin’ so now we have to teach it a lesson, don’t we, baby?”

You let your mouth fall open, sticking your tongue out for him. He runs the ruddy head of his cock over your tongue, the flavor and heat of him exploding across your tastebuds making you groan.

You don’t realize your mistake until it’s too late.

His fingers tangle in your hair, digging against your scalp and tugging your head back with a rough grip.

“What did I fuckin’ say?” Joel growls. He crouches, getting right up to your face. “I said not another goddamn sound. If you’re not gonna listen, I’m gonna leave you here as a treat for the next group of raiders.”

He releases your head and grips your chin, sliding his thumb over your lips. “Can you behave? Answer me.”

“Yes, sir.”

_______

Joel groans, slipping his thumb between your plush lips. He loves to see you like this, so pliant to his depravity with your eyes wide in fear but dark with lust.

He presses your mouth open by squeezing your cheeks, tilting your head back with a rough jerk of his hand. He gathers the spit on his tongue, pursing his lips and letting it fall into your waiting mouth. Your lashes flutter as it hits your tongue, depraved little thing that you are.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he teases. You’re silent this time, staring up at him with desperate eyes.

Good, he thinks. He wants you desperate. For him and him alone.

He releases your face and takes his cock in hand again, feeding it between your lips. He groans at the feel of your hot mouth, the press of your tongue against the underside of his dick, the scrape of your teeth as he draws back out.

Joel’s thrusts are slow but deep, pressing as far back into your throat as he can, until he feels it constrict and flutter against him. He groans, low and deep in his chest like it’s conjured from his very soul. You gag, tears sliding down your face in mesmerizing rivulets.

“That’s it, sweetheart, see? Guess this mouth is good for more than just lies, huh?” He says, voice taunting. He withdraws completely and you gasp for breath, falling forward and catching yourself with your bound hands.

“Stand up,” he commands. You stand slowly with uncoordinated movements, listing slightly to the left. Joel catches you, scooping you up with an arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees. You sag in his arms, head against his chest, and he carries you to the desk you’d been hiding under.

Joel sets you on your feet and turns you to face the desk with a harsh grip on your hips. He presses a hand between your shoulder blades, shoving you down on the grimy surface. He takes a step back, kneeling on the ground and spreading you with a broad palm on each cheek.

“Would you look at that?” He says. “You’re just drippin’, baby.” He leans close, licking you from clit to quivering entrance. “You taste like sin, you know that?”

You whine, squirming on the table. Some unintelligible words float through the air, but Joel can’t decipher them. He slips a thumb into your soaked cunt and you gasp, clenching around him. He withdraws, sliding the slick digit to your ass, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. You squeal, trying to wiggle away from the intrusion and he brings a palm down on your ass with a harsh smack that echoes in the building.

“Quit squirmin’. If I want to play with all your little holes, I will. And you’ll scream for it,” he growls.

“Joel,” you moan. You sound drunk, his name nothing but a slur of letters from your lips. “Please!”

His responding smile is sharp. Mean. More animal than man.

______

You can’t fucking think. Joel’s hands are everywhere except where you want them most. They trail across your back and ass and thighs, but never once does he get close enough to your aching center to give you any sense of relief.

“Please,” you sob. “I need it, Joel.”

“What do you need?”

“Need your cock, need you to fuck me, need you to split me open,” you babble. There’s the clink of his belt and the sound of his zipper drawing down, sounds that make your pussy clench and drip in anticipation like goddamn Pavlov’s dog.

“Beggin’ me for my cock like a greedy little slut,” he teases. He notches his thick head at your hole. “Well, if you want it so bad, better get to work.”

You blink, confused. “But—“

You’re cut off by a sharp smack to your ass that makes you shout. “You heard me.”

You swallow before tentatively working your hips back against his length. He sinks in slowly, stretching you harshly and you suck in a tight breath as he slowly fills you until you finally don’t feel so empty.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that,” Joel groans, a rare phrase of encouragement that makes your brain buzz. You rock forward and back along his cock, moaning as he drags across that spot inside of you that makes you see stars and forget your name.

“Hold still,” Joel commands, breaking through your brain fog. You obey with a whine that sounds pitiful even to your own ears. He withdraws completely and while you can’t see what he’s doing, you can feel his eyes scorching your skin. “Just wanted to see how hungry this little cunt was for my cock. Clenchin’ on nothin’.”

You feel a tear slip from the corner of your eye. Your wrists ache beneath the elastic of your panties, your throat burns from his earlier abuse, and you want so badly to come you think you might go insane with it.

He slams back inside of you with no warning. The smack of his hips against the back of your thighs rings through the air and you gasp and try to escape the onslaught of sensation, wiggling forward and rising on the tips of your toes. He yanks you back with a rough grip on your hips, fingertips pressing so hard you’re sure to find evidence of him long after he leaves you.

Joel’s weight shifts, pressing to your back until he can wrap a rough palm around your throat, dragging your body upright with him, your back bowing dramatically as he holds you to him.

“I’m feelin’ generous, baby,” he says in your ear, voice rough like gravel. “I’m gonna let you come all over my cock like I know you’re dyin’ to. But I’m not gonna touch that achin’ little clit. You come on my cock or you don’t come at all. You understand?”

You nod your head, clenching around him at his words and his tone and his possessive grip on every facet of you. Your vision tunnels as you chase your release, an easy enough task when every sharp thrust of his hips is making you see stars.

The fingers on your throat tighten the slightest bit more and his hips drive into the slightest bit harder and it’s enough to send you over the edge. You shake in his arms as your muscles tighten and your pussy flutters around him, crying out as his cock continues to split you open. You’re whining, oversensitive as he pounds into you with rougher, more uncoordinated thrusts as he finds his own pleasure.

He withdraws suddenly and simultaneously drops the hand around your throat, making you collapse forward without the support. A wet hot heat lands on your back, thick ropes of his spend marring your skin.

You feel Joel drag his fingers through it and he brings his hand to your lips. You open your mouth to him, the digits slipping across your tongue and leaving behind the salty taste of him.

You feel him step away and you stand slowly, head still spinning from the adrenaline and the orgasm and the experience that is Joel fucking Miller.

He comes back with your discarded shoes and pants, tossing them both at your feet. He reaches for your hands, slipping the flat edge of the blade beneath them and slicing them off.

“Get dressed,” he growls, leaving your blade on the table. Your eyes drift to it as he stomps away.

With jerky movements you step into your pants and pull them up your legs before sliding your shoes back on. You pick up the knife, testing the weight of it in your hand before heading outside.

Joel stands with his back to you. Your fingers twitch around the handle of your knife. With careful, quiet steps. Your brain runs through a million scenarios, but you decide on one.

With a harsh kick to the back of his knees, Joel collapses with a surprised shout. You tackle him, his surprise giving you an upper hand as you wrestle him between your legs, knees pinning his biceps to the dirt. He looks up at you in surprise, the first time you’ve seen such an expression on the formidable man.

Joel’s tense muscles ease the slightest bit when he sees its you. His chest is heaving with labored breaths as you press the tip of the blade beneath his chin. You drag it up his jaw, mesmerized by the glint of metal against his tan skin. You caress his cheekbone with the sharp tip, like a lover would with their thumb.

He hisses as the skin breaks in the wake of the blade, a small line of red bubbling to the surface. You grin at him.

“Next time I save your life? Just say thank you,” you murmur.

Joel Miller tag list: @huffle-punk @johnwatsn @hopelessromantic727 @whereasport @pedr0swh0r3 @yellingloudly @dragon-of-winterfelll @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @mydailyhyperfixations @liati2000 @ghostofjoharvelle @cutesyscreenname @morgaussy @letsgroovetonighttt @endlessthxxghts @fake-bleach @brilliantopposite187 @mattmurdock1021 @str84pedro @justsomeoneovertherainbow @loquaciousferret @milly-louise @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @kirsteng42 @caatheeriinee07 @eternallyvenus @midnightswithdearkatytspb @evyiione @leeeesahhh @tloubarbie @afterglowsb-tch13 @loveliestofthoughts @theviewfromtheritz @brittmb115 @uncassettodiricordi @pedritosgfreal @adriennemichelle98 @mxtokko @gingersince97 @switchbladedreamz @casa-boiardi @tonysterco @rvjaa @ladymunson @sexpoisoned @trisaratops-mcgee @decemberdolly @spookyemorockbabe @reader-without-a-story @katmoonz @simping-soldat @mswarriorbabe80 @orphanbird95 @shatteredbaby @tusk89 @gingersince97 @mssbridgerton @internetobsessed1234-blog @sloanexx @manazo @bigboiseason123 @bean-is-reading @darlingpedro @silkiers @pascals-cat @bbyanarchist @therealcap @pedrosgrogu

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist

#joel miller #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #Joel Miller x reader fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel x female reader #joel x you #joel miller x you #dark joel miller #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #hbo tlou

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givemeonereason · 4 months

Text

Meditations: First Friend

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Dragon Ball Masterlist Givemeonereason Masterlist

Rating: Angst

Plot: Piccolo has been missing and you’re the doing the actual missing. A friendly police officer seeks out to try and help you recover the missing link.

A/N: It’s about time I bring some other fellow DBZ characters into this.

They all interlink and play a part in each others lives. Also, this just felt like a very nice way to tie everything together.

I hope to bring at least one more character in during the next installment.

Don’t worry too much. We might see a reunion very soon.

╒══════════════════════╕

You looked for him out the window of your office those next few days hoping to see the white of his cape fluttering in the wind. However, he was never there. No matter how many time you check, and all the different times of the day, nothing.

Two weeks had passed and not one sighting.

You sat down in the company-provided ergonomic, rolling desk chair. It spun to the side. You let your feet dangle there limp.

The alien documentaries and fictional programs you've tried watching by way of research haven't really given you any closure. They just made you more frustrated considering that your alien, Piccolo isn't anything like they portray. It doesn't even give you any sense of how to get him back either. As far as you knew, there wasn't a spaceship to seen. At least, you didn't see one.

Is he really gone forever?

If you could just go back in time and change the outcome of what happened before. The day he carried you through the skies and you cried.

I'm not scared anymore.

I was caught off guard is all.

During your lunch break, you treaded up the hillside to where he usually sat. You could imagine him there still as a board with his eyes closed.

You stood there listening to the sound of the passing cars below and the birds above. You looked up to the sky searching for a place someone could fly to. And there was nothing.

"Piccolo!" No hesitation in your shout. "Piccolo, where are you?"

Someone on the sidewalk below stopped and looked up toward you. Some crazy lady screaming from a hilltop for her lost woodwind instrument? What on earth are they cooking these days?

My green alien guy.

You took out your phone and went to the internet and key searched "alien Piccolo." You saw lots of information regarding King Piccolo and his reign of tyranny and the World Martial Arts Tournament.

King Piccolo does greatly resemble the Piccolo you know. However, your Piccolo has softer features overall, but the sharp angles of his jawline and the point of his ears make him rather handsome. In an alien sort of way, handsome nonetheless.

"Excuse me, Miss." There was a gentle voice behind you. You pressed the screen of your phone against your chest hoping that whoever was standing there didn't see you staring down at the evil Namekian. It's not as if you were really looking at him, but rather imagining someone else.

"Yes?" You turned on a heel to address the voice standing behind you. You looked and saw no one at first, then your eyes darted down to see a concerned face.

When your eyes met his, he reached out a hand toward you. "Hello Miss, I'm Officer Krillin. I'm with the local police. There was a report of a woman shouting at the top of this hill searching for something. Are you alright? What is it that you're looking for? I can help you."

You closed your eyes and let out a deep sigh from within your chest. "What I'm looking for isn't here anymore." You glanced up towards the sky, the white fluffy clouds spread across the horizon. There was a longing in your eyes, the way you lingered subtly before looking back down at the man before you and smiled. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

There is little to no point in trying to explain this to the police. What are you going to say, there is this alien named Piccolo that I met here and I don't know how to get in touch with him now. He's tall and wears a cape. Claims to be a Namekian. Like the police would know, or even care about that. The best outcome would most likely be institutionalism. They'll lock you in a padded room with nothing to eat but porridge and if you're lucky jello. At least that is the worst-case scenario, right?

You took a step forward to walk down the hillside, but the officer stopped you. "The concerned citizen claimed you were looking for an instrument. That you were yelling out towards the valley." He was looking down at his notepad. He pulled a pen from his pocket, pushing the top with a click, he jotted down another note. "I am going to need to file a follow-up report. Do you think you could tell me more about this, please?"

You didn't say anything at first. You called this. You knew if you opened your mouth it was all over. How could you word this in a way that didn't make you sound crazy? "Let's say I lost my piccolo." You sighed once more before continuing. "I haven't been able to find it in some time. I came to see it-- play it here on this hillside."

The man took diligent notes. "And do you think you can describe what this piccolo looked like? I'm not sure I've ever seen one up close and personal. Are there any particular identifiers?"

Raspberry. I'm not really a fan of the raspberry jello. If anything I hope I'll get the pineapple. Refreshing.

Well, this could go two ways.

I could speak vaguely about the actual Piccolo and confuse this man.

I could just be plain and say a regular piccolo that you rented from a nearby instrument shop.

Neither of them sounds the least bit good. So you chose to go for the first.

No wait, lime. Yes, it's green. Green like..

"It's green, white and purple. It's a custom, limited edition instrument."

"Green, white, purple." He recited back. "Okay. I'm going to have a look around the area to see if I come up with anything. I will take down your number as a follow-up."

Officer Krillin walked down the side of the hill with you. He jotted down your phone number on his notepad. "Don't worry miss, I'll do my best."

You smiled at him, your eyes hiding the hopelessness there. "Thank you, officer." You knew this would be a fruitless endeavor, yet you had to play your part. You waved goodbye before you walked back into the office building. Somehow you completely forgot you had to work for a living.

═══════════════════

Officer Krillin walked around the area, rummaging through the brush on the side of the road and looking into divots in the hillside.

He kept looking down at his notepad, repeating the notion over and over as he scouted the area.

“Green, white and purple…Green, white and purple….”

He stood on the sidewalk and scratched at his temple. “A piccolo that is green, white and purple.” He looked online at a photo of what a piccolo looked like. “Okay, so it’s little green, white and purple then. Just like this picture. Little, green, white and purple.”

He crossed the street and looked in the grass on the opposite side of the street. “Little, green, white and purple. Little, green…little green…..hmmmm.”

He stopped in his tracks, squinting his eyes as the wheels turned inside of his brain. “Little, green. Dende? I wonder how that little guy is doing? Okay, Krillin, she was talking about a piccolo. Little, green, white….piccolo…..PICCOLO!” He exploded. He laughed loudly at this own realization.

He walked back to his motorbike planning to go back to the station and investigate this further. “Now, I have been wrong before, but I just have a hunch she’s talking about our Piccolo. The real question is, how does she know Piccolo?”

His mind wondered how such a brute like him would come into contact with such a beautiful woman like you, let alone she was looking for him as if she wanted to see him again for some reason. It perplexed him.

Though, he pulled himself a hottie himself so anything is possible. If 18 could hear his thoughts now she would laugh, but she also chose him.

But what if there is business with Piccolo? What if something is wrong? She was yelling as the report was written.

He rode faster towards the station where he dropped off his bike and headed for the roof of the manciple building. “Well, there is only one way to find out.” He shot up into the air, flying straight for the lookout.

When he landed on the platform Mr. Popo was diligently pruning his garden. He paid no mind to Krillin as he hummed an offbeat tune to himself.

Dende rushed up to meet Krillin. The smiles across each other's faces were as wide as the horizon beyond the lookout. "Wow, Dende, you've grown so much! You're so much taller than me!"

Dende laughed and reached out to embrace the smaller man in front of him. "How are you? How is everyone?"

"We're all good." He nodded his head. He posed with a thumbs up. "I didn't come here to worry you. I was wondering where Piccolo was?"

Dende turned and pointed towards the building behind him. "I saw him inside."

"Thank you little green." He started off towards the entrance. He could hear Dende over his shoulder, a tinge of irritation in his voice. "Not little....."

"Piccolo?" Krillin called out as he walked the halls in search of the, he looked back down at his notepad again, limited edition, green, white, and purple, piccolo.

Piccolo walked through the threshold of a room meeting Krillin in the hallway. "Thank kami I found you." Krillin laughed, his hand behind his head.

Piccolo looked down at Krillin sternly. It's not always good news when he meets with Krillin. Sudden visits never indicate anything by trouble.

"Hey Piccolo, funny enough, I've been looking for you for hours." Krillin laughed once more. His cheeks red reminiscing at his own cleverness as a police officer. To some, it's might only be considered luck.

Piccolo tensed where he stood. His whole body became rigid. Though you would never be able to tell with his powerful aura. He braced himself for whatever was coming next. Something wrong with Pan? A new enemy?

"So Piccolo, you might not believe this, but I met a woman today who I think is looking for you."

When Piccolo's narrowed eyes didn't soften and he didn't respond, Krillin continued. "It's kind of a funny story actually. Someone came into the station and said there was a woman on a nearby hillside screaming out about a piccolo. I went to see her and she described what the....." Piccolo was already walking away from Krillin before Krillin even realized he was gone.

"Wait, Piccolo!" His small stature only giving him minimal distance towards the Namakian. "Piccolo! I think she's looking for you." Krillin caught up to him. "Do you think that woman meant you? She said the piccolo was green, white and purple." He pointed towards him. "Man, that fits you to a T. But I just don't know why?" Piccolo walks into a room that befits a lofty office. Krillin followed him into the room, stopping short of the large table strewn with books on it. "Why does she care so much about you?"

Piccolo's fist comes down hard on the table. The books quiver about the violent vibration. His voice is deep and pointed. "Would you give it a rest?"

Krillin takes a step backward. "Woah, man, I just thought there is no way what she said was a coincidence." He laughed with his whole chest. "In all seriousness, she did look worried. She said she lost it, well, you."

Piccolo turned away from Krillin. "Leave me be."

Krillin stood quietly for a moment. "What do I tell her then?"

"I don't care what you tell her," Piccolo responded flatly.

Krillin narrowed his eyes, and he felt a sudden sadness wash over him. "Oh."

He walked towards the door and turned back to look towards the Namakian. "Did something happen between you two?"

Piccolo barely looked back over his shoulder. He chose to only look at Krillin through his peripheral. "Even if she does want to see me..." He looked back forward, walking towards the bookshelf against an adjacent wall. "I don't think I can face her after what I did."

Krillin seeing an opening, "just go down and-"

"No."

His shoulders dropped. "Why?"

"I told you to leave me be." He closed the book with a snap.

“I—“

Piccolo whipped around, his cheeks reddened with anger, his chin tilted downward, and his eyes narrowed. He roared at Krillin. “LEAVE!” Which made Krillin witness his life flash before his eyes.

Krillin took off out of the room. A steady push lifted his feet into the air as he took off down towards the ground.

A slew of emotions rippling over him. Mostly the lack of answers leading his confusion.

I haven’t seen Piccolo so worked up in a long time. Why now, and why that woman?

╘══════════════════════╛

Don’t steal other people’s works! Respect creators!

Reblogs and likes appreciated :)

══════════════════════

Tag List:

@jadew-08, @sussybacca, @imaginarydreams, @oriistar

To be added or removed from the tag list reach out through asks or messages. Please and thank you.

#piccolo and you #piccolo x reader #piccolo dbz #dragon ball z piccolo #dragon ball #dragon ball z #DBZ #dragon ball super #dragon ball fanfiction #green king #slug man #krillin #dbz krillin

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scopostims · 4 months

Text

stim gifs in photopea

[PT: Stim gifs in photopea /End PT]

Hello! This is my (lengthy) tutorial for how I make GIFs for stimblr using Photopea. It's not going to be as extensive as how I make for shows, celebrities, etc, because I have different processes for both, however I'm still aiming to cover everything I think necessary!

It'll be split into multiple sections with headers, so feel free to skip whatever you want if you don't find it necessary :•] Reblogs appreciated if you found it useful, but no pressure obviously!

Sections:

Getting your video

Importing into Photopea

Making the GIF

Sharpening the GIF

Coloring

Exporting & Optimization (in EZGIF)

End results, and misc tips and comments

1. Getting your video

[PT: 1. Getting your video /End PT]

Short section! These are the ways I download and source videos for use

Youtube - yt-dlp (installation instructions)

Instagram

Tiktok (Allows without watermark)

Pexels

For yt-dlp, check out this basic list of commands I made solely for downloading material to GIF! If you have further questions, either send me an ask or refer to the github page.

2. Importing into Photopea

[PT: 2. Importing into Photopea /End PT]

There are two ways to import into Photopea, the first is importing footage directly, and the second is screencapping (which I won't cover in detail, but this tutorial is for installing the program I use on mac & how to use it, and this is for installing on windows)

Option 1: Importing footage directly (see end for comments)

On the home page of Photopea, you'll want to click "Open from computer", and select your clip, upon selecting you'll be presented with a popup like below

All that really matters here is where you see "30 FPS", that's the videos native frame rate. I always put whatever that number is as my frame rate because I find it to be the best, but you can use different presets (Like ezgif, which gives you 12, 20, etc). The less frames you have, the chopper it will be. If you plan to slow it down later, I'd also recommend having more frames so it looks smoother after slowing.

Now you just have to wait for it to load all the frames, then you're set!

Option 2: Importing screencaps

This is my personal way of doing things, so this is assuming you've installed a screencapping program and already have your frames ready.

For this, when you click "open from computer", select the first frame and open it by itself. Once that's loaded, look in the top left at the "File" tab, select "Open & Place", then ctrl + shift to select the rest of your frames. Once they've all loaded in, you can either rasterize them now, or wait until after cropping and resizing (goes faster then).

What's important though, is ctrl + shift to select all your layers, in the top left open the "Layer" tab, hover over "Animation" at the bottom to expand it, and select "Make frames". With your frames still selected, hit the folder button in the bottom left.

Without this, Photopea won't recognize this as an animation, therefore you'll be unable to export it as a GIF.

3. Making the GIF

[PT: 3. Making the GIF /End PT]

3A. Cropping

To begin with cropping, select the crop tool, which is the fifth one down on the left bar (if you hover over, it will say the name), or the "C" key on the keyboard.

Along the top now, you should have some new options. The dropdown menu that says "Free" is going to be how you select an aspect ratio or fixed size, and I always set to 1:1 since most people on stimblr use square GIFs, but you can do whatever works for you! Make sure to leave "Delete uncropped pixels" unchecked, because that lets you move stuff around later without having to recrop.

Crop your animation down as you see fit, then either hit the enter key, or the check button along the top bar. If you're unhappy with the placement, you can undo it OR, select all your layers, then use the move tool (First icon on the left, or the "V" key) and drag it around as you see fit.

3B. Resizing

With all your layers selected still, open the "Image" tab in the top left, towards the bottom select "Image Size", then select what you want to resize to.

Tumblr's exact GIF sizing

1 per row: 540px

2 per row: 268px

3 per row: 177px

HOWEVER. For stim GIFs, I find the quality difference so negligible, you can resize to what you want. It's also better for it to be bigger and scale down, then smaller and scale up. For this reason, I typically do 268px no matter what, or 300px.

As far as resampling goes, leave it turned on, and I personally leave it on bilinear, but the different options vary slightly, so experiment and see what works for you!

If you're happy at this step, go ahead and skip down to exporting! But when doing this way, I do recommend sharpening for better quality at smaller size.

4. Sharpening the GIF

[PT: 4. Sharpening the GIF /End PT]

The fun thing about this section is you get to experiment and find what works for you! I'll give you my personal method, but you can play around, add and remove bits, etc until you get something you're happy with!

4A. High pass

High pass is my personal favorite way to sharpen GIFs, and for stim GIFs I'll often use only this.

(Steps 1-3 in image) To do, start by right clicking the *Folder* all your frames are in, and select "Duplicate Layer". Select all the frames in Only the folder on top, then go to the "Filter" tab along the top left, hover over "Other", and select "High Pass". The grey look is entirely normal! I normally set my high pass at 2-4, but play around with this step and find something you like!

Select the *Folder* all your high pass frames are in, and change the blending mode (fourth step in image) to "Soft Light", it should be on "Pass Through" initially. With that done, you've used high pass on your GIFs! If you're content here, skip the next section about smart sharpening, and see about merging animation folders under it.

4B. Smart Sharpen

Note: I recommend testing your sharpening settings on one layer BEFORE applying them to all layers, as it will be easier on your computer.

I utilize this in addition to high pass usually, but you can do it all by itself as well! To begin, select all the frames in your folder (if you used high pass, select the frames in the *Bottom* folder). Open the "Filter" tab on the top left, hover over "Sharpen", and select "Smart Sharpen". Now find what you like!

For stim GIFs, if I used high pass, I'll go for 75-110% amount, and a .1 radius. I personally don't like the look of an over sharpened GIF, so I only use smart sharpen if I want to enhance some small details high pass didn't touch enough, which is why I use so little. If you don't like high pass, you might use more here!

4C. Combining animation folders

If you used high pass, you'll notice you have two animation folders. To fix this, select both folders using ctrl + shift, open the "Layer" tab, hover over "Animation", and select "Merge". It will give you a popup to confirm, and you can go ahead and accept!

If you don't merge these, Photopea will think they're two GIFs in one document, rather than only one, which is why this step is so important.

As a note, once you merge these folders, you can no longer shift the frames around to change where they are in the crop like you could earlier.

5. Coloring (Image Heavy)

[PT: 5. Coloring (Image Heavy) /End PT]

This section is going to be less of a tutorial and more a basic rundown of the adjustment layers and what they do. Coloring will change from GIF to GIF, and you can do light or intense coloring, so this is just a guide to begin with, but really just play around and find what you like!

To access the adjustment layer menu, in the bottom right where "New Folder" was, the one directly next to it that looks like a circle made of two half-circles, will bring up your adjustment layers.

As a note, I always group my adjustment layers in a folder above my animation, for ease of hiding to compare with and without.

5A. Levels

Levels is one I almost *Always* use on a GIF because it makes it look cleaner to me. In the first box, sliding the black square on the left *increases* the blacks, sliding the white square on the right *increases* the whites, and the one in the center changes the general brightness up or down.

Sliding the black box on the bottom bar *decreases* the blacks, sliding the white box *decreases* the whites.

If you change the channel from RGB to another option, you can change the balance of reds/cyans, greens/magentas, or blue/yellows, I personally don't touch this for stim GIFs. In the RGB channel, I set the top black box at ~10, and the top white box at ~245 usually.

5B. Curves

This is another way of adjusting brightness, blacks and whites, or color balance. By adjusting the dot in the bottom corner you adjust blacks, the top corner adjusts whites, and if you make a dot in the center, it adjusts general brightness! You can also make multiple dots to separately adjust some values. By changing the channels, you adjust color channels rather than white/black.

5C. Exposure

This is another way of adjusting the lights and darks of the GIF. Sliding the exposure up and down will add/take away light from the lighter parts of your images. Adjusting the gamma correction up and down will add/take away shadow from the darker parts of your image. Offset increases/decreases the brightness of the whole thing but I almost never use it.

5D. Vibrance

Vibrance is what I like to think of as a "softer" way to increase intensity of colors, instead of using a Hue/Saturation layer. It affects warmer colours more intensely than cooler colours, whether you use the vibrance or saturation slider. The saturation slider here is more intense than the vibrance one, but less intense than saturation in a Hue/Saturation layer.

5E. Hue/Saturation

This one is simple! Sliding the hue slider changes the colour, sliding the saturation slider increases/decreases saturation, and sliding the lightness is basically like directly adding black/white to a color. I use lightness only sparingly.

What's cool here, is you can adjust the range to target a specific batch of colours! If you find your reds are too bright compared to everything else, you can target the saturation of them specifically.

5F. Color balance

This is a simple way to adjust the base colors of an image, by changing it to be more cyan or red, magenta or green, or yellow and blue. This can be useful for making a GIF appear warmer or cooler!

I almost only touch the shadows & midtones, and highlights sparingly. "Preserve Luminosity" preserves the highlights and shadows of the image, so by unchecking it, you can achieve some more intense results.

5G. Black & White

The black and white layer is useful because you can change exactly how light or dark a color appears after making it black and white. For that reason, I prefer it over a gradient map if I need to make something black and white.

5H. Photo filter

Photo filter is a simple way to add a color filter over the entire image, and adjust how strong or weak it is. "Preserve luminosity" once again just keeps the darks and whites of the original GIF.

5I. Channel mixer

I couldn’t even begin to cover channel mixer here, but this is for very intense color edits (I typically use it when I'm trying to make a GIF fit a board). However, here's another tutorial solely about channel mixer if you're interested in taking a crack at it!

5J. Selective color

Finally, selective color allows you to adjust the amounts of color or lightness/darkness of a specific batch of color.

By changing the color channel, you can affect different batches of color. The cyan slider controls cyan/red, the magenta slider controls magenta/green, the yellow slider controls yellow/blue, and the black slider controls black/white.

Checking the "absolute" is essentially like "Preserve Luminosity" in the other layers. With absolute, it's like shifting the color one way or the other, and without absolute, it's like adding to the pre-existing color.

6. Exporting and Optimization

[PT: Exporting and Optimization /End PT]

6A. Exporting

With all that done, we're ready to finish it up! To finish your GIF, open the "File" tab in the top left, go to "Export As", and select GIF!

Here you can rename, adjust the size (WILL ruin the sharpening you did), the quality (I leave at 100%), and the speed.

Another important thing to note is the "Dither". If you leave dither off, you can potentially encounter color banding, which is where (typically gradients) with look like strips of color, rather than smooth. This is because GIFs only have 256 colors they can render, so if something has too many, it bands.

By checking dither, it can get rid of color banding, at the cost of dots on the image (around where the worst color banding is usually). Sometimes the dots aren't noticeable and this is the better option, however it will Also increase your file size. It's up to you if you want to use it!

6B. Optimization

This is technically an optional step, as tumblr's GIF size limit is 10mb, so as long as you're under that, you can post, however, smaller GIFs load faster and I personally find are better for use in stimboards where you're loading a lot of GIFs! So to help this, let's head on over to the optimize section of ezgif. My personal goal is UNDER 4.5MB, ideally under 4MB.

The two main things I recommend are Lossy GIF, or removing frames, and I always start with Lossy GIF. I do anywhere from 5-15, and usually this will bring down GIFs a lot if you made them in Photopea! My example GIF was 6.7 MB to begin with, and afterwards it was 4.2MB.

However if you find that to be not enough, you can remove frames. When you remove frames, it speeds the GIF up, so I also recommend slowing it down (this is why I set my frames high in the beginning as well). I typically do "Remove every 4th frame" and slow it down to 75%-85%.

7. End results, and misc tips and comments

[PT: 7. End results, and misc tips and comments /End PT]

(source) The first GIF is without sharpening/colouring, the second is with sharpening but no colouring, and the third is with sharpening and colouring. I didn't color it much besides making it slightly warmer, but I hardly ever do much anyways!

As for misc comments:

In firefox, when you import footage directly, sometimes it glitches and tries to load 4000 blank frames, which is extremely resource intensive on a computer. The solution is import the footage in chrome, save as PSD, then open the PSD in firefox. (Or work in chrome but why do that /half silly). The other solution is screencap which I do since I do this often, but both work fine.

In firefox, sometimes you're unable to slow the GIF down upon export and it will export faster than it actually is. Slowing the video down to 50% restores it to native speed I've found, and you can do this in ezgif before other optimization.

When colouring, my number one tip is slide something all the way up first, then adjust down! By seeing it at max, you have a better idea of what's getting adjusted.

If you have any questions, drop me an ask :•]

And that concludes our tutorial! My apologies for the length, but I wanted to cover every possible thing here. It definitely seems like a lot, much more than working in ezgif, but when you get used to what you're doing, it goes extremely fast (even if you spend extra time screencapping). I personally find it worth it for the ability to sharpen GIFs alone, but as well as more detailed coloring opportunities.

Thank you for reading, I hope this has been useful!

#i did it :•]#not stim #stimblr #gif tutorial #photopea #big thanks to talos for proofreading this :3 🖤💚🖤💚🖤💚🖤

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toxicnotebook · 1 year

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Rating home library ideas from home decorating websites

Okay, here’s the thing: when I was designing a wallpaper for home libraries, I had to look at a lot- and I mean a LOT- of home decorating sites.There were quite a few interesting home libraries, both good and bad. And a few that were downright evil.

I set aside some of the ones I found noteworthy, and now I finally have time to write this post. We’ll start with a classic:

It’s cozy, there’s a comfy patterned chair, it’s using a small space in a smart way, it has a nice lamp and a small succulent. The modern reading nook summed up in one image, and it’s actually achievable for most homes. 7/10

This is, perhaps, a bit too cozy. Leaning a bit on the claustrophobic side if I’m being honest. But it makes good use of a very awkward space, and I do love me some fairy lights.

The top shelf above the window is a bit too high up for easy access though. 6/10

Oh this is just lovely. Does give off a used bookstore vibe, but that’s a plus for me! 8/10

Why does feel more claustrophobic than the one in the skinny ass hallway. It feels like the books are holding their breath to fit in that bookcase. Hate it. Nice color though! 4/10

In contrast, this moderate bookcase feels far larger and airier than it actually is! I do love the decor spots, although I hope the shelves are modular so one could, in theory, add more shelves for more books. Like I just wanna pop another shelf above the glass ball and jam some paperbacks there. But that might be a me problem. 8/10

Girl. This is just mostly air, not airy. Why even bother installing a custom mounted metal shelving unit when you have barely anything to put on it? What an absolute waste of space and money.

Also stacking your books in those small aesthetic piles will make it a bitch to find any specific book, good luck with that. 3/10

Fuck me, the multiple little pile of books on a shelf is a fucking trend. Like WHY would you do this on functional shelves like those? Books piled on a table makes sense. Books placed horizontally on a shelf they are too tall for makes sense. This? This makes no sense. You’re just making it harder to find & take the books off the shelves, AND you’re wasting space. Arrrrrhfhfghgh. 2/10

Ahhhhhh. Much better. Cottagecore girlies, this one’s for you! 9/10

So I live in an area VERY prone to earthquakes, and everything about this image sets off my anxiety. Floating shelves in general are iffy for earthquakes, but the large ones are especially prone to just...falling off the wall when things get moderately shaky.

Add in the large, heavy books on EVERY shelf, the absolute height of the unit, the fact the shelves are polished metal, AND all the books are right on the edge of the shelves....yeah. No thanks. 2/10 don’t wanna be brained by books

WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT EARTHQUAKE SAFETY. The old bookshelf wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t holding up pounds of books with just some bolts embedded in sheet rock and studs! AND GET SOME DIVIDERS. OR BOOKENDS. 1/10

Or something like this, perhaps! Large, roomy, and the spaces are generous enough that it can accommodate taller books. Still don’t like those little piles, but here it��s not as bothersome. This feels like a library that’s well-loved. 9/10 slightly too tall for me though

I hope you don’t have kids or pets, because all your books are coming down when this shelf gets hit with a moderate bump. 3/10 gives waiting room vibes

Good use of an awkward space, a nice chair, and while they did use floating shelves, these ones aren’t overloaded or crazy high on the wall. Wish the top shelf only had paperbacks, though. 5/10

This is just stupid. 2/10 points for whimsy

I’m a short bitch, so I love me an extravagant home library with a built in ladder. The perfect combo of maximum space use and ease of access! 10/10

Unless, of course, the ladder looks like it’s made of balsa wood or is otherwise completely USELESS. 0/10

What a perfect little nook. 10/10

Man, I really wanna love this, but the odd-sized shelf above the built in sofa knock a few points off for me. Maybe if the staging stylist had put in mass market paperbacks instead of regular books it would make more sense. Great view though! 7/10

YES. HELL YES. I love me a staircase library! Perfect combo of class, coziness, and space useage! 11/10

AAAAA THIS ONE IS EVEN BETTER- wait why are the books like that

wait

THIS? THIS IS A FUCKING TREND??? YOU CAN’T STAND ANYTHING BREAKING YOUR PRECIOUS NEUTRAL COLOR SCHEME SO YOU TURN YOUR BOOKS AROUND? DO YOU SIMPLY NOT WANT TO FIND ANY TITLE EVER AGAIN? DO YOUR SENSES COMPLETELY SHUT DOWN AT ANY HINT OF SATURATION? GET A FUCKING E-READER IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE IDEA OF BOOK SPINES!

Anyways. -2/10

Ahhh. Much better. Good use of an old phone nook, and you could add those raw wood shelves yourself. And look! You can have a neutral palette AND a home library without making it impossible to find a book! Who would have thought. 9/10

These types of shelves look cool, but are just hard to use in any useful way. Your books are going to be constantly flopping over. 3/10

Oh this is just prime coziness. Can you imagine reading in one of those squishy chairs on a rainy day? I’m starting to relax just from thinking about it. 10/10 someone get me a hot cocoa

I know these types of built-in shelves are popular, but man it would be such a pain in the ass to get any of the books from the top shelves. It just feels like these types of libraries are there for aesthetic purposes, not everyday use. 5/10 they do look cool at least

Well. At least there’s a ladder. 3/10 TOO TALL TOO TALL

This appeals to my Goth sensibilities. 9/10 gimme that chandelier

Those giant words feel like a threat. Is this library about to fight me? 3/10 hate the vibes

This REALLY appeals to my Goth sensibilities. 10/10 RAVENS!!

My opinion on this rests entirely on whether or not there are books behind the painting, because if I had to take down a giant ass portrait every time I wanted to read idk Witches Abroad I would be. Hmm. Cranky! Schrodinger’s books/10

Another excellent use of a weird space, and you could add those shelves yourself! 8/10

This is...extremely off-putting, but I’m not sure why 3/10 kinda getting fire hazard vibes tbh

If I walk into your home and I see this, I immediately know you don’t actually read those books. No book reader is gonna jam their books into a FIREPLACE- hope you closed it up, by the way, otherwise good luck when it rains- in a Tetris-like configuration with no way to see the titles. Every time you try to take a book out you’ll have to shove a bunch of books around and hope they don’t fall out in a giant pile you’ll have to carefully put back in your aesthetic little configuration of nonsense. Home library my ass. Be honest to yourself and call it what it is- an art installation on the cheap. 0/10

Oh I adore this. First off, perfect use of a weird alcove space. Second, the cushy pillows and warm lights just ooze cozy comfort. I can easily see myself flopping over the pillows with a thick book and hot tea. 12/10

Sooo, if I want to take out a book I’ll have to worry about knocking over my entire collection if I go a little too quickly or take out more than one? PASS. 1/10 point for the rainbow I guess

MAN, this just hits my maximalist sensibilities in the right places. The light fixtures, the absolute maximum use of space but still keeping everything within reach, and the bright yellow/deep teal color scheme. There are piles of books on the floor, but since I had my own floor pile during the bookstore days I can’t judge. Absolute perfection. 14/10 maybe put a rail on that stair shaped bookcase, you know someone’s gonna try it

HAVE YOU NO OTHER THOUGHTS IN YOUR BRAIN OTHER THAN YOUR ROMANTIC AESTHETICS? HAVE YOU NO SENSE OF PRACTICALITY? EVERY TIME YOU BATHE, YOUR BOOKS WILL COLLECT MOISTURE AND TRAP IT. THEY WILL NEVER TRULY DRY IN THAT LITTLE ISOLATED CUBBY HOLE OF A TUB. EACH DIP, EACH INDULGENT SOAK WILL NURTURE A BREEDING GROUND FOR SOME OF THE WORST THINGS YOU CAN BREATHE IN. AND WHEN YOU ARE HACKING OUT YOUR SPORE FILLED LUNGS, YOU WILL HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF. Or maybe your designer. In that case, -100/10 FIRE YOUR INTERIOR DESIGNER

Sources:

https://www.thepioneerwoman.com/home-lifestyle/decorating-ideas/g32701104/home-library-ideas/

https://onekindesign.com/2013/08/02/50-jaw-dropping-home-library-design-ideas/

https://www.thespruce.com/home-library-design-ideas-4129190

https://www.mydomaine.com/home-library-ideas-5086793

https://www.homesandgardens.com/interior-design/small-home-library-ideas

https://www.housebeautiful.com/room-decorating/home-library-office/g696/designer-libraries/

https://www.architecturaldigest.com/gallery/home-libraries-slideshow

#books #library #home library #libraries #reading #home decor #interior design #long post #I am so not kidding this is a LONG POST

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liaromancewriter · 7 months

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Dolphins and Sharks

Premise: Max and Sienna paint the baby’s nursery, and an old rivalry resurfaces.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Sienna Trinh x Max Valentine (M!OC) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 930

A/N: This fic was requested by @kyra75 for Maxenna: paint. Submission for @choicesprompts Flufftober, @choicesoctober prompt: 'Partner' and @choicesflashfics week 54, prompt 3

Sienna Valentine stood in the doorway of the smallest of the spare bedrooms and took in the bare white walls, dark hardwood floor and single window overlooking the alley below. It didn’t have the best views in the apartment, tucked away as it was in the corner down the hall, but it would do.

She suspected the original builders had probably envisioned the room as a den or home office. Before she moved in last year, Max had used the space as a library. Later, they converted the room into storage when her things from Boston arrived, as well as the boxes of keepsakes and paraphernalia she’d left with her parents in New Orleans.

The room’s location, close to the master bedroom suite, and size made it perfect for their Little Bean’s nursery. She couldn’t wait to bring her vision to life.

“Ready for our painting date?”

Sienna leaned back as Max slipped his arms around her from behind, resting her head against his shoulder. His hands covered hers, and they cradled their unborn child together.

“Definitely ready to put you to work,” Sienna teased, giggling when he pouted.

“Are you sure this is safe for you and the baby?” He nuzzled the side of her neck, and she shivered, her eyes closing as his hands drifted up to cup her breasts. “It’s not too late to hire someone.”

Sienna’s eyes snapped open, and she pushed herself out of his embrace, turning to face him with a fierce expression.

“Nice try, Rich Boy, but I want us to decorate our baby’s nursery, not some stranger,” she reasoned. “Besides, given the amount of time you spent researching non-toxic paints, I think we’re safe.”

He smiled wryly and shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “Okay, but don’t complain if the end result sucks.”

Sienna patted his cheek and grinned. “It’s cute how you believe that I will let you leave here unless the room is picture perfect. Just follow my lead.”

Max swooped in to capture her mouth in a searing kiss that had her insides melting.

“I love it when you take charge,” he murmured against her lips. “Can I persuade you to seduce me tonight?”

“Only if you’re good,” she quipped. “Now, let’s get to work.” She pointed at the plastic roll. “Step one. Cover the floor with a drop cloth.”

A couple of hours later, Sienna hummed along to a catchy tune drifting from the Bluetooth speaker. The playlist they’d chosen cycled through Top 40 pop, indie and rock songs and suited the mood.

She stepped back from the wall she’d half painted and glanced sideways to check on the progress with the accent wall. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation at the expert way Max handled the paintbrush roller.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” she accused when he turned around and caught her staring. “You’ve done this before.”

“Oops, you caught me,” he said glibly. “I’m a hotelier by day and house painter by night.”

“Max…” she sighed, not in the mood for jokes.

Her back was killing her, and her stomach had been growling for the last twenty minutes. She did not want to admit that Max was right about having her take it easy and letting him do all the work.

“Sorry!” he said sincerely.

He must have sensed she was out of sorts for a different reason, for he walked over and eased her into a chair. She was grateful when he didn’t say, I told you so and just tucked a shawl around her shoulders.

“Remember my friend, Doyle?” he asked, crouching so that they were at eye level.

“Of course. We went to his wedding in the summer.”

“Well, he used to flip houses once upon a time,” Max explained. “All of us got roped into helping whenever he needed free labor. Painting, hammering nails into two-by-fours, installing grout in bathroom. You name it, we did it.”

She regarded the walls he’d already painted, and her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Well, if the bottom ever falls out of the hotel industry, you’ve got a second career as a house painter.”

He burst into laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He rose from the floor and held out his hand. “Come on. Time for a break. You might be Superwoman, but all that hard labor’s made me hungry.”

The next day, Sienna and Max stood side by side, staring at the underwater-themed decals they’d just finished installing on the accent wall. Once the furniture arrived next week, the crib would go against this wall.

She sighed dreamily at the thought of their Little Bean guarded by a dolphin and a shark while he slept. She’d had her heart set on wallpaper originally, but her husband had been right. This was so much better. And they could easily change the decals as their son grew older.

“Go on, say it,” Max smirked, nudging her shoulder.

“… You were right,” Sienna grumbled, not wanting to admit defeat, but her smile gave her away.

She stretched on her toes and kissed the underside of his jaw. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

Max wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “You’re welcome, but we’re hiring out for the next one.”

Sienna laughed, nestling into his side, and stared wistfully around the nursery. Their son would have the best of both of them, and that was everything she wanted.

As for the next one, she eyed Max shiftily. Well, she had plenty of time to change his mind.

Bonus

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @peonierose @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Max & Sienna only: @aallotarenunelma @storyofmychoices @kyra75

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfics #playchoices #open heart fanfiction #sienna trinh #sienna trinh x oc #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #choices fanfics #choices fanfiction #sienna trinh x max valentine

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thestraggletag · 11 months

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The Caretaker, Chapter Two

AKA: A Rumbelle Sugar Daddy AU… kinda.

Rating: Explicit.

Summary: Belle French had never thought helping came with strings attached, confident that in a community people naturally tended to help each other, until the day she needed help to keep the library open and no one seemed to care. No one but Mr Gold, whose penchant for dealing could always be counted on, even if the price for his generosity was known to be steep.

At first Belle thought it was a power move, to have her about. The first time he called she was very apprehensive, but nowhere near regretting her deal with Mr Gold. Marco and his crew had been to the library just the day before, taking measurements and making a more thorough assessment of the work needed, going as far as to check the work done on the roof, determined not only to fix the damage the water had made on the building but to also ensure it would not happen again. He seemed to hold little esteem for the people the town had hired to do the original patching on the roof, but was too polite to say something about it. He had even gone above and beyond and done a general assessment of the building itself, commenting on the poor-quality glass installed on the windows of her apartment, letting her know it would be wise to replace them as soon as possible, as he doubted they would resist many more Maine storms in the state they were.

Mr Gold had delivered on his promise almost at once, so Belle felt a bit glad to finally be able to start paying him back. The first time he called her it was to his shop after hours. She clocked out promptly at six PM, which she usually did not do, preferring to organise some section or do some minor cleaning until right before dinner time, and went across the street towards the pawnshop. The inside was dimly lit, contrasting with the well-lit street outside and to Belle it felt a bit like stepping into a cave of wonders. She hadn’t been flattering Mr Gold when she complimented him on his shop. The place was fascinating, full of character and hidden gems, secrets to be discovered. The way the curios created a labyrinth, the clutter accentuated by the busy yet elegant pattern wallpaper, the myriad of old pieces of furniture that overflowed with items at the top, it all had its charm. Then there was the fact that no item that she could see was ordinary. Everything was antique or unusual, belonging to some sort of bygone era that made them foreign yet recognisable.

She told herself not to look, but it was so difficult. Everything seemed to catch her eye, from the dusty books on the shelves to the sparkles of the pieces of jewellery strewn about. But the most intriguing thing was the man standing beside the cash register. Mr Gold looked composed, almost indifferent to her presence yet acutely aware of it at the same time. He was dressed sharply, as always, but once more without his suit jacket, his shirt cuffs pulled back from his wrist by the golden sleeve garters he wore. He was very much like his shop, familiar and yet someone out of time, beyond the normalcy she knew.

After exchanging basic pleasantries he instructed her to take a seat on a nearby desk. It contained the only 21st century piece of technology: a sleek, shiny laptop.

“I need to do some work to get a couple of candelabras I’ve sold up to snuff before they’re delivered, and I don’t have the time to catch up on some basic paperwork. I wish for you to update the inventory. But please make a pot of tea first, you’ll find everything you need in the back room.”

His tone was not unkind, but it did not invite chatter and there was an air of authority in it that Belle noticed right away. She made her way to the back room of the shop, noticing that it was too littered with stuff, noticeably either broken pieces or things that had not been polished or cleaned yet. There was a small kitchenette in a corner, where she found small boxes of loose-leaf tea, meticulously labelled, a complete tea set and an electric kettle, along with sugar, honey and a small carton of milk in the nearby mini-fridge.

Determined to give him his money’s worth and prove her usefulness Belle set out to prepare the tea, finding a darjeeling that smelled ripe and fruity that she liked, taking care to warm the pot before putting the tea in and pouring the water. She found a lovely wooden tray big enough and piled on the honey, sugar, the milk in its little pitcher, a saucer, cup and silver spoon, along with the full pot, mindful Mr Gold would likely want more than one cup. When she brought it over, rather proud of how good it all looked- the tea set was rather lovely, bone china with a delicate blue and gold pattern- he barely glanced at it.

“Pour me a cup, please.”

The please seemed rather perfunctory, perhaps, but the librarian didn’t mind. She prepared the cup carefully, put a spoonful of sugar when he asked for it and held it out to him. Belatedly she remembered that she hadn’t offered him milk, and hurriedly did so.

“I prefer the blood of newborns, but milk is fine.”

The comment startled her into dropping the cup, her nerves finally getting the best of her. He frowned, for the first time showing an emotion that wasn’t mild interest, and clarified:

“It was a quip. Not serious.”

She knew that. Even if she thought the worst of Mr Gold, which she didn’t, she would not have assumed anything that shocking or garish to be true. It had simply caught her by surprise. Her grip on the cup loosened, sending it crashing to the floor. Panic immediately flooded her. The cup was clearly expensive and, as far as she had been able to tell, the tea set had been complete and intact a second ago. She picked it up, happy to see that it hadn’t shattered to pieces, but anxious about the sizable chip it had on a side. This would certainly draw Mr Gold’s anger. The man clearly had a passion for antiques, and even if half of the town rumours about his temper turned out to be false, it still didn’t look good for her.

“It’s-it’s chipped.” She paused, licking her lips and looking at it. “I mean… You can hardly see it.”

She didn’t know why she said that, given the size of the missing chip, but Mr Gold merely shrugged, unperturbed.

“It’s just a cup.” He went back to his work, instructing her to simply get another cup.

“Two, if you please. I do not like to drink tea alone if I have company. And bring some biscuits. They’re in the red tin next to the stove.”

Belle was too relieved to question his insistence on her taking tea. Besides the tea did smell rather lovely, and it had been ages since she had allowed herself the luxury of good honey. She brought back the two cups requested, along with the shortbread cookies she had found and served them both, trying to commit Mr Gold’s preferences when it came to tea to memory. Then she settled down to do the data entry he requested, enjoying the couple of cookies she had taken for herself, the salty-buttery taste of the shortbread complimenting the fruity flavour of the tea.

It was, she had to admit, less eventful than what she thought it would be. A bit awkward, with all the silence, but otherwise rather enjoyable. Data entry was something Belle could do with barely any need to concentrate, so she had been able to focus on the tea and the biscuits, on enjoying the warmth inside the shop and the cosiness of it.

The next few times were spent much in the same way, and Belle soon grew less anxious about the encounters and more bored with the stifling silence. Besides that she would actually say she enjoyed her time at the shop. Mr Gold would always have her prepare tea or heat up whatever lunch he had for the day, and there was always plenty to go around and an offhand comment for her to eat too, which more than suited Belle. Between tasks she’d be able to roam around the shop and explore and whenever she did have to do something, it was never too tasking, or unseemly. File some papers, do some data entry, ready an antique that was about to be shipped the way Mr Gold had shown her. She didn’t think any of it was worth the favour Mr Gold had done her in return, but she theorised it was perhaps a power thing, to have her about and give orders to.

Once she moved past her initial apprehension Belle felt determined to make conversation with the pawnbroker, which she knew from their previous encounters at the library was possible. Mr Gold, either on purpose or being true to his nature, responded first with monosyllables, but she would not give up, recalling the books he had taken out previously and enquiring about them, cajoling longer and longer responses from the pawnbroker till he felt compelled to ask her things in return, even if it was only to give himself a break from talking.

Once the conversation started flowing it was pleasant. More than. Mr Gold was witty, with a biting sense of humour that sometimes ran towards the macabre, but that was something they both had in common. He was also well-read, beyond just the books he had favoured in visits to the library, and rather well-travelled. They found they had a lot in common as expats adapting to American culture, and shared a love for history, theatre and period dramas. The more she talked with Mr Gold the more layers of him she uncovered, bits and pieces of the man behind the mask. None of it was personal at all, mostly superficial stuff, but still, Belle began to feel like she was the person in Storybrooke that knew Mr Gold best.

The first weekend he summoned her to his home the nervousness returned tenfold. It wasn’t just the change of venue but also the intimacy of it. What would he have her do in his home? She knew what Ruby would say and it was almost absurd, but the anxiety still lingered. The icy walk towards the edge of town, where Mr Gold lived seemed daunting, and even the eccentric colour scheme of the pawnbroker’s house could not shift her mood. Inside the house was warm, though, and beautiful to behold, a truly well-preserved Queen Anne with gorgeous ceilings, expensive Persian rugs and all sorts of interesting antiques that made it a natural extension of Mr Gold’s shop.

Once Mr Gold had helped her take off her coat, scarf and gloves- the later were dreadfully threadbare, but she did not have the money for a good quality replacement and she didn’t want to spend money on cheap gloves that would barely last her the winter- he directed her to the kitchen, which was a lovely combination of old and new, with ultra-modern appliances designed to fit into the decor instead of standing out like metallic eyesores. She saw that, on the counter, there were a myriad of supplies, including flour, fresh blueberries and sugar.

“What you do you want me to do, Mr Gold?”

He looked at her, a bit puzzled.

“I thought it rather obvious. I want you to bake. I greatly enjoyed the bakesale you organised, though in retrospect, knowing where the money ended up in, I regret purchasing so much. As I have understood you did all the baking.”

Belle did recall Mr Gold purchasing a lot of stuff, including several of her blueberry muffins, a special family recipe. Given what she now knew about his eating habits and what she had known for a while about his extreme dislike for the nuns- she sort of understood that one, after Mother Superior’s manipulative appropriation of the funds she had raised for the library- none of what he said surprised her and she gladly set out to bake. It was a vastly different experience from the rushed, anxious baking she had to do for the doomed sale. Mr Gold’s kitchen was bright and airy, with a lovely view of the backyard from the many windows that let sunlight in. She was also not pressed for time and did not have to make dozens of treats, so she could take her time with the muffins, making sure they came out perfect. Baking was something that reminded her of her mother, who had taught her when Belle was younger and Colette had yet to get sick.

At some point the faint sound of music- something by Clara Schumann, one of her piano concertos- reached her ears, adding to the pleasant feeling and also to her growing knowledge of Mr Gold. Soon enough the kitchen was full of the pleasant aroma of freshly-baked and cooling muffins, and she set out to make tea unprompted, knowing by then Mr Gold’s afternoon-time habits, deciding to serve it in the kitchen. The dining-room felt too cavernous.

When she called the man for tea, knocking on his study before entering, she was a bit happy to see she had surprised him, but he followed her easily enough, not even protesting at being made to take tea on the kitchen island, though he did inquire about the location.

“The dining-room looks fit for a state dinner. This is cosier.”

She enjoyed one of her muffins, but did not expect the rest to appear on their shop tea rotation the next week, thinking Mr Gold might want to keep them all to himself. It soon became a routine for her to go to his house on weekends, sometimes one day and sometimes both, to bake or simply hang around waiting for deliveries that he ‘could not be bothered with’. To Belle it meant lounging around gorgeous rooms full of amazing antiques and perusing Mr Gold’s collection of not-quite-collectible-but-still–very-old books, finding a treasure trove of interesting books about botany, a subject she had previously not known Mr Gold to favour. He also seemed to collect old cookbooks, some which looked rather well-worn, ranging from delicate French cuisine to more peasant fare dishes and Victorian cooking staples. There was always something in the fridge to warm up for lunch, and something yummy for tea, which meant Belle ate better those days than during the rest of the week.

It was a bit of a holiday, it felt like. When she stayed home invariably someone always seemed to come knocking in need of her time, either David with some emergency at the animal shelter or Leroy needing someone to help him with some convent initiative he- for some reason he refused to tell her- signed up for even though he lacked the skills or time for it.

But no one was looking for her at Mr Gold’s. She could relax knowing the sound of the doorbell did not bring with it some desperate friend in need of her time and attention. It did not mean people did not pester her for her time during weekdays, which left her having to improvise excuse after excuse, but though she didn’t like lying, what she had always found difficult about saying no to people was the feeling of guilt afterwards. She did not feel that now, with her time conveniently taken up by her deal with Mr Gold.

She began to be happy about the arrangement for something other than the visible improvements being done to the library, even though friends and acquaintances were growing a bit frosty with her, recriminating her for her lack of help, acting a like they were entitled to her time and leaving her wondering whether she had ever said no to people before.

She must have, surely, though she could not recall a specific example.

“What’s your first name?”

The question came out of nowhere, but once she said it she could not take it back. She was in Mr Gold’s shop, taking a pause from the task he had given her to drink her tea. It was ghastly outside, rainy and windy, and even the short walk between the library and the pawnshop had ruined her pristine appearance. Her hair, frizzy from the humidity, did not seem to want to cooperate with her and settled tucked behind her ears, which was irking her.

“My own business.”

The Scotsman’s response was caustic, but Belle had grown used to his dry tone. He was all bark and no bite when he was like that.

“I promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not knowing it will help you keep that promise.”

She could not help the unbecoming snort of laughter at that, but she had grown comfortable enough around the pawnbroker not to care about it. Instead she attempted to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear yet again, frustrated by how it refused to stay out of her face.

“What harm could there possibly be? This is not some folk tale where giving your name to the fairies has consequences or something.”

“You do look a bit fae-like. Bright eyes, delicate features.”

The unexpected compliment, in the midst of their banter, made her blush and look down, her hands grabbing the inkpot he had left for her, along with the pen he had instructed her to refill with ink. She delicately unscrewed the Montblanc, making sure the cartridge was empty and the spring lowered down before she dipped it into the pot, rotating the tip of the cartridge to fill it up. Her unruly lock of hair chose that moment to leave its perch behind her ear, flopping almost straight into the ink.

“Careful there.”

She hadn’t heard Mr Gold get closer, but suddenly he was right next to her, carefully lifting up the unruly lock of hair and fixing it in place with something he placed on her hair. Belle touched the thing carefully, feeling something that felt like small stones or maybe pearls. It was a beret. She removed it, noticing it was a beautiful piece, with small stones that seemed like diamonds and perfect little pearls, making up flowers and leaves. The style was very Art Nouveau, soft and romantic. Which meant it was likely very expensive, and her first instinct was to give it back. Or try to.

“Oh, Mr Gold, you shouldn’t bother. I can’t accept it, what if I break it or something? Like your cup?”

“It’s a trivial little trinket I’ve had lying around for ages. And it keeps me from fearing that lock might find its way into my tea later.”

“Nothing in this shop is a trinket. Take it back.”

She held out the beret again, frustrated when her hair decided to do her dirty and obscure her face again. Mr Gold rolled his eyes, studying her to gauge how determined she was about the topic before his gaze turned predatory and a dealer’s smile began to inch its way across his face.

“I’ll make you a deal, Miss French.” He paused, perhaps for effect, and Belle had to tell herself not to focus on the way his voice turned into a soft, beguiling purr when he was proposing a deal. Something to unsettle his potential victim, she supposed, and it did unsettle her, but not in the way she thought he intended. “I’ll give you my name if you accept the hair clip.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to think about the catch. This deal did not seem to benefit Mr Gold at all, except the pawnbroker never made a deal he did not stand to gain from, so there had to be something there that she wasn’t seeing. Nothing materialised, but she did not spot a hidden trap either. She may not know why Mr Gold wanted her to have both the beret and his name, but she would benefit anyway.

“Deal.”

Carefully, trying to make her frizzy hair look artfully teased instead, she combed through it before placing the beret to both secure the hair and the style she had put it into.

“There, done. Now you.”

“My name’s Alexander Uilleam. A constant reminder of my dead father.”

“That was also his name?”

“No. He hated me.”

Belle did not have to ask what he meant by that. After all, she had always half-jokingly thought so. And it did not necessarily come as a shock that a man as abrasive and prickly as Mr Gold had not had a happy or easy childhood. She could tell that the reveal had left him a bit discomfited, vulnerable, so she thought to put him at ease.

“Alexander is a lovely name. Elegant. It suits you.” She paused, glad when she caught a hint of a pleased smile on the edge of his lips. “May I use it, when it’s just us?”

“If you must.”

It didn’t take long for Belle to realise her deal with Mr Gold-Alexander- was not about power. If anything, he strived to be discreet when it came to their arrangement, never requiring anything of her that would expose their interactions to the judgemental people of Storybrooke. So she began to theorise that Mr Gold was lonely, which is why he kept her around. He tried to pretend otherwise, sometimes ignoring her and other times acting like her attempts at conversing with him or her mere presence was an annoyance he bravely chose to bear, but it was a poor act, at least now that she could read him better.

Her theory seemed to confirm itself when he began to take her to auctions and estate sales. She had known before that Mr Gold sometimes made those trips- people tended to make a big deal out of him being out of Storybrooke and, therefore, not able to pop out of nowhere to ask for people’s rents or whatever else they thought he did- but she had never given it much thought until he had told her she would accompany him to an event in Lewiston, some sort of estate sale. He would take her of the clothing, since this was a business event and so it was his responsibility to provide her with appropriate attire, and gave her the details for a Bergdorf account, telling her to order whatever she pleased. Her polite but immediate refusal was met with an offhand comment about how their deal was for her time, and he could not take her to the auction unless she purchased suitable clothing. Therefore, her refusal to buy clothes would be a breach of contract.

Belle’s sense of wounded pride at the notion that she was lacking quality clothes to wear to a special occasion was somehow lessened by the fact that she had lost a good part of her wardrobe to the damp and rot inside her closet, and the fact that she had sold some of her best shoes and dresses just a few weeks before she had made her deal with Mr Gold, needing that extra bit of cash to push her over what she thought at the time was the finishing line of her funds for the library, before they had mostly gone to her father. She had been able to afford some of her more expensive pieces by restoring antique books in her spare time, but she didn’t have any at the moment, hadn’t had for a while. Her wardrobe was severely limited at the moment, and Mr Gold was so blindingly rich he probably wouldn’t notice the change in his bank account even if she bought half the clothing her size on the website.

“Just the one outfit.”

“And a coat, don’t forget.”

She ended up buying a Givenchy powder-blue knit mini-dress, which she could pair with a plum-coloured cardigan and black booties she already had, and after much fighting she added a Burbery cashmere trench coat, something that she could get a lot of use out of without ever looking out of place. A few days later he had called her over to his shop to hand her the packages, without a hint of reproach in his face at the expense of it all.

“I forgot to ask you to add gloves, so I took the liberty to order a pair for you. I apologise for the presumption.”

The dress fit like a dream, and the coat was incredibly warm. But the gloves were her favourite part: exactly to her taste, a pair of woven leather and cashmere gloves that fit her hands perfectly and were soft like butter. But above all, they let her know that Mr Gold had cared about her comfort and took the time to ensure she would be warm while on their outing.

The outing itself was more fun than she had expected. The ride was amenable enough, with Belle in charge of the thermos of tea and the conversation and Mr Gold in the mood to be conversational. He clearly had a passion for antiques and did not mind indulging her curiosity on the subject, coming across both as knowledgeable and engaging. As for the event itself, Belle never quite understood what the point was of her being there. Her only expertise were books, and she did feel rather proud when she could point out a few neglected but salvageable first and second editions amongst the things sold from the library of the estate. He didn’t seem to mind, though, seeming to need her only for chatter while he perused everything with a calculated eye, sometimes pausing over a particular lamp or a certain piece of furniture.

Once they had made two full tours of the place- with Mr Gold perhaps leaning a bit on her, to hide his more pronounced limp, given the amount of walking they had done-he seemed to have made up his mind, quickly arranging the purchase of two lamps, a clock and three Bohemian crystal pieces, a decanter, a jar and a vase. It was a thing of beauty to watch him haggle, inscrutable as he pointed out a flaw or minor cosmetic detail and argued about the sellability of some of the pieces in the market. In the end he got exactly what he wanted at a good price, judging from the satisfied turn of his lips, and he was even kind enough to invite her to a late tea in a charming little cottage-style inn on the road back to Storybrooke.

There was no mistaking her enthusiasm when he brought up another trip, this time to an auction, and she did not even put up much of a fuss when he insisted she get herself a new outfit. She would find a way to return the clothes to Mr Gold once their deal was done and he could not stop her, and in the meantime she had come to have a better grasp of his fortune, which was bigger than what she had previously imagined. He truly did mean it when he said her purchases were of little consequence to him. Soon she had amassed a modest array of dresses, blouses, skirts and a few accessories, which she tried to expand with a few tasteful pieces from her own wardrobe. It was the sort of clothing she has always dreamed of wearing every day but had never had the funds for. And her guilt at spending Alexander’s money lessened by the obvious pleasure in his face every time he saw her in a new outfit, especially when she made subtle efforts to match him. A few times he would present her with a scarf or a similar accessory, saying something about the weather or some other excuse in an offhand manner, knowing she did not believe him but would not comment on it. It was sweet, and his taste was impeccable.

And though dressing up was fun, and the antiques were fascinating, it was Alexander that made each trip worthwhile. He was a great companion, more than eager to share his knowledge and explain his decisions as they both studied each item on display. He would defer to her when it came to books, and she was happy when he made a few purchases explicitly because she had recommended them.

Once or twice he took her to gallery openings in Portland or formal dinner events, where obviously the underlying purpose was to network and socialise. She had been hesitant at first about looking for dresses, till she finally managed to snag a fourth thousand dollar Marchesa crepe gown in deep red at under half the price. She had told him so the next day, over the moon about the steal.

“But was that the dress you liked best?”

“It was for that price.”

The night in question, when she had shown up to the pawnshop with her hair artfully teased and swept up and her make-up impeccable, he had a box from Louboutin in his hands.

“What is this?”

“Well, you did save all that money with the dress, so I needed something to do with the leftovers.”

The shoes inside were stupidly gorgeous, shimmery strass fabric pumps with a 4-inch heel, more than easy for her to manage.

“This is not what I was hoping for when I bought the dress, you know.”

“No, you were hoping to get one over me. I hope you realise there is no doing that, Miss French.”

“Belle, please. I can’t have you buying me shoes and not using my given name, at least.”

Had she known Alexander less she would’ve thought this was a way to flex his power over her once more, but now she saw it as a kindness from a person unused to expressing positive feelings to other people. That night had been particularly pleasant. He required her to only look good and contribute to the conversation when appropriate, and they both delighted in people-watching whenever he did not need to socialise. Belle even got him to dance, just a little, even if he had to lean rather heavily on her. When he had driven her back to her home, the Cadillac barely gaining on the dawning morning sun, she had felt almost unwilling to leave.

“You know, you don’t have to get me things for me to enjoy spending time with you.”

“I don’t? That’s not usually my experience.”

In an act of what she would later categorise as temporary madness she reached over to kiss his cheek. He was warm, and smelt still of his sandalwood cologne.

“I mean it. I rather like spending time with you. More than with anyone else, really.”

Something, she wasn’t sure what, had changed between them after that innocent little kiss. On the one hand Alexander himself seemed… softer, more at ease, less likely to dodge personal questions using quips or non-answers. She found herself opening up to him about her mother, who had died when she was very young, and how that had conditioned her, she supposed, to hide her troubles.

“She was sick for so long that I didn’t want her or dad to worry about me. It was easy to push things aside and try to find ways to help. Mom would always know, though, when something was wrong with me. She wasn’t fooled, and wasn’t deterred. She would often tell me she was my mom and it was her job to worry over me and not mine to worry over her.”

“A rather exemplary mother, then. I’m glad.”

They were having tea, both deciding at the same time to abandon their respective tasks, given the late hour. They were sharing the last scone between them, huddled together near the radiator in the back of the shop. The weather had turned frightful, and it was forecasted to continue so.

“But when she died… dad was left alone. And he didn’t have mom’s sixth sense for these sorts of things, he was rather helpless. I enjoyed being useful, finding ways to contribute. I didn’t expect that to create a- a rift of sorts. I love him and I know he loves me but… I don’t think he knows me very much, or how to interact with me. And I don’t know how to interact with him on a more real basis. Tell him when something is bothering me or I have a problem.”

Alexander, Belle had quickly surmised, had an abysmal opinion of her father. She had also assumed correctly that his own had not been great either.

“It’s a father’s responsibility to care for their child. There’s no excuse for shirking parental responsibilities.”

“Is this about your own father?”

He had talked briefly about his childhood, mostly about the two old women who had brought him up till they had died when he had been around fourteen, and had only mentioned his mother had died in childbirth.

“No, but he certainly wasn’t father of the year. Would make your own look downright decent.” He paused, pouring himself another cup of tea slowly, as if trying to make time. “I had a son. He was the world to me. I cannot imagine a parent, any parent, not being willing to do whatever it took to ensure their child’s happiness.”

In spite of the myriad of rumours going around Storybrooke about Mr Gold, many centred around his past before he came to town, Belle had never heard any about a child.

“You have a son?”

“Had. Balfour. A lovely boy, bright and full of life. His mother left us soon after he was born, but I made sure he never once felt her absence.” Alexander’s voice sounded soft and affectionate, his accent more pronounced as he told the story. “He was full of plans. Wanted to be an architect, a lawyer, and a doctor. Like kids often do. I worked hard so he would have the choice to be whoever he wanted, to be the supportive father I had always wanted my own da to be.” He paused, hands tightening around the repaired cup he favoured- why he insisted on using the one she chipped she had no idea- to the point she feared he might shatter the delicate china and hurt himself. “But it didn’t matter in the end. There was a car accident- a driver fell asleep at the wheel, I was told. He didn’t make it, and neither did Bae. I got out of it intact. Well, mostly.”

She didn’t have to ask him to clarify with the way he glanced at his ever-present cane, propped up right next to his chair.

“Did it happen here, in Storybrooke?”

Surely not. Belle could not imagine people would hate the pawnbroker so unabashedly if they knew what had happened to him.

“Yes. Less than a year after we moved in. Bae is buried on the edge of the local cemetery. He wasn’t baptised and Mother Superior pitched a fit at the notion that he would be buried on consecrated ground. So I bought the land right next to the cemetery, and made it look like it was part of it. Commissioned a bench so I could sit with him from time to time, but it got harder and harder to do so over time.”

It was no wonder there was an all-out war between the convent and the pawnbroker. Belle was rather amazed the Scotsman hadn’t evicted them ages ago.

“Would you like to go there sometime?”

Alexander looked up at her, surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that he did not need to visit the grave alone.

“I couldn’t possibly use our arrangement in that way. It would be too much of an imposition.”

“It would be outside the boundaries of our arrangement. Of my own free will.”

“Why?”

Had Belle now known Alexander better she would’ve been tempted to find the question insulting. But to the pawnbroker the idea that someone would do anything for him without getting something in return seemed an impossibility.

“Because I want to.”

He did not press her, but smiled sadly into his cup, determined to avoid eye contact, likely feeling rather vulnerable and raw.

“You’re too good a person. I’ve always thought so.”

He let the subject drop after, pointedly beginning to muse out loud about the upcoming weather, a clear message for her to move along.

She didn’t bring it up afterwards, and neither did he, but something seemed to loosen up about him, some invincible barrier he had struggled hard to maintain between them dissolving into nothing. He no longer felt the need to pretend he didn’t like it when she interrupted his work with a cup of tea, chiding him about his long hours, or pretend he did not buy strawberry jam for their scones because she preferred it to the blackberry one he usually kept.

Other things changed. She no longer waited for a summons, sometimes stopping by his shop simply to avoid having lunch alone or to share something she had recently baked- she seemed to have a lot of spare time now that people seemed to have stopped asking her to do things for them, and she felt a bit bad that she was rather enjoying it. He never turned her away or commented on her unexpected presence, and Belle theorised he was scared she would stop doing it. Alexander was a man used to loneliness, but he clearly craved social contact. And physical touch, which had rather surprised her. She was a very tactile person herself, but she had tried to refrain herself from touching the pawnbroker too much at first, convinced she was imposing herself on him, only for it soon to become clear to her that he welcomed the touch. It was easy to see in the way he seemed to subconsciously lean on it, sometimes chasing her hand as it retreated.

When she realised he was not adverse to her touch but rather the opposite she increased it, determined to bring some much-needed human contact back into Alexander’s life. She grew used to walking but his side leaning slightly against him, arms linked together, noticing he leaned right back, or to linger when she touched him to get his attention. With time she even grew comfortable straightening his tie and setting his hair to rights when the wind made a mess of his veritable mane. She enjoyed it too, the growing bits of intimacy that made her feel nervous in a way she hadn’t in years.

She didn’t allow herself to delve too deep into what it all meant.

“Hey, long time no see stranger.”

Belle looked up from her half-finished piece of French toast, smiling up at Ruby in what she hoped was a placating way. She had been too busy with Alexander and the crew at the library putting the finishing touches on their work, which sometimes meant letting them into her apartment, to visit the diner, which meant she had not seen Ruby in a while. She was hoping her friend wouldn’t read too much into it.

“Hey, Ruby, sorry about that. It’s been a bit crazy at the library with all the work going on.”

It was more than a passable excuse and she thought it would be more than enough to dispel the shadow of suspicion in Ruby’s eyes. But it seemed to merely give her an opening to plop down on the seat in front of hers and lean on the table, her hair perilously close to her food.

“Speaking of that I’ve been meaning to ask you… How on Earth did you get the money for the fix? I mean, you were really worried about it a while ago.”

It would’ve been easy to hide, to say that she had managed to squirrel the money together over time. She hadn’t told Ruby about her dad’s financial woes, after all, so it would be believable. But all Belle could think about was that she could not believe Ruby was interested about that now, after months of very obviously trying to avoid the subject and redirecting the conversation when it did come up. Belle had told herself that her friend wasn’t being insensitive, she just didn’t understand how much she was worrying over the matter. It seemed she had been wrong.

“Now you want to talk about that? Because I thought you didn’t care. You certainly acted like you didn’t all those times I tried to talk to you about it before.”

“Hey, hey, let’s not get defensive! I was just asking, trying to be a good friend. It’s just that I haven’t seen you in a while and wanted to know how things were going. Granny and I miss you.”

“I didn’t move to another town, Ruby. The library is right across the street, you could come in at any point to visit.”

“Well, I-I don’t get many breaks. You know how much of a hardass Granny is.”

“Have you seen the library’s working hours? I’m the only librarian, Ruby, if the library is open then I’m working. Yet I’ve always made the effort to come in here, to spend money I do not have on tea and a scone so we could chat a bit and you could complain about your grandmother, your job or your love-life, and conveniently avoid asking me about my own. So why the sudden interest?”

There was something in there, something in Ruby’s eyes. Something that wasn’t the genuine concern of a friend, and she hated that she was pretending to care about things Belle had wanted her to care for a long time to get it out of her.

“Because I think I know! I know you did something, something bad! You made a deal with Gold, didn’t you?”

The waitress hissed those last words quietly, and the diner was almost deserted, but Belle still found herself looking around, making sure that no one had heard. She was not embarrassed or ashamed about her deal with Alexander, didn’t mind that people would judge her if they knew. But whatever that deal had created, whatever the relationship between them was now, she knew she wanted to keep it private, like something precious that wasn’t meant for other people to see.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

It felt wrong to lie to Ruby more than to anyone else, but the surprising anger she felt towards her helped with that feeling. Belle had not known she had been accumulating so much resentment, small things piling on top of each other, anecdotes and slights weaving together, things she hadn’t thought about much at the time but that had clearly stayed with her, adding to the rift that she now saw growing between her and the person she thought of as her best friend. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t had the time to visit Ruby recently, it was that she hadn’t felt the urge to. Even before she had made the deal with Alexander, coming into Granny’s had felt more like a chore. Ruby would preemptively beg her not to talk about the library, remarking she was tired of hearing about it and dismissively assuring her it was a non-issue and the council would come around and pay for the repairs in time.

“Meanwhile you’re scaring the customers away every time they come. They’re tired of hearing about it Belle, and Granny cannot afford to lose her regulars.”

Belle had accepted it at the time as Ruby looking out for her Gran and trying to boost her confidence about the council funds reaching her in time. But it had meant she could not talk about anything going on in her life, all of it consumed with the situation. So she had kept quiet, and tried to ignore the sting when Ruby didn’t seem to notice or mind that Belle was not telling her anything about her life, or that she was growing thin and pale and seemed vaguely anxious all the time. It hadn’t seemed to matter at the time, but, suddenly, it did.

“I saw you! The other night, all dolled up and getting out of his monster of a car in front of the library, at almost five in the morning. I couldn't believe it, so I was trying to give you the opportunity to explain yourself!”

She knew exactly what Ruby had seen. There had been a party a few nights ago that Alexander had wanted to use as an excuse to show around a newly-restored a blue-glass scarab necklace by Lalique, hoping it would catch the interest of someone and he would be able to sell it directly instead of having to negotiate it being put up for auction in an upcoming catalogue of Christie’s. She had purchased a lovely De la Renta made out of gold lame for the occasion, strapless with a sweetheart neckline to let the necklace shine and had put up her hair in a rather fetching imitation of a Gibson Girl bouffant. It had been a lovely night, draped over Alexander’s arm, both of them people-watching to pass the time whenever it was not mandatory for them to mingle. By the end of the night she had been pleasantly tipsy and he had confided in her that he had an informal offer for the necklace. ‘A little south of six figures’ he had told her, smiling that predatory smile at her, a little bit softened by the obvious admiration in his eyes at what he saw as her accomplishment. It was the first time Belle had consciously thought she wanted to kiss him, wanted him to lean close enough that she could reach his hair to pull him close and press her lips against his.

And now Ruby was making it all sound something that wasn’t. Something unseemly.

“Whatever you think you saw it wasn’t what you’re trying to imply.”

She fished out her wallet from her purse, glad she did not have to scrounge up enough for the food and the tip amongst the loose change in her purse.

“And I don’t have to stay here and hear you imply I’m selling myself for the library or something. You know where to find me if you want to see me, but don’t feel rushed to do so.”

She waved at Granny on her way out, head held high and a weight off her chest.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #belle french #mr gold #rumplestiltskin #thestraggletag fanfiction #the caretaker

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 9 months

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This 1970 Pontiac GTO convertible was first delivered to the A.C. Morris Garage of Summersville, West Virginia, and during prior ownership it underwent a body-off rotisserie refurbishment that was completed in 2006. The car is claimed to be one of just 241 examples that were ordered with 455ci V8 and an optional automatic transmission for the model year, and it is finished in Burgundy over red vinyl upholstery. Other equipment includes a four-barrel carburetor, a Ram Air hood, a power-operated convertible top, power steering, front disc brakes, and a 12-bolt rear end housing a Safe-T-Track limited-slip differential. Acquired by the selling dealer in 2013 out of Arizona, this GTO convertible is offered in Missouri with refurbishment photos, manufacturer’s literature, build sheets, a reproduction window sticker, documentation from Pontiac Historical Services, correspondence with the GM Heritage center, and a clean Missouri title.

The car was finished from the factory in Burgundy, and the body was stripped, mounted to a rotisserie jig, and repainted during the refurbishment, at which time a replacement convertible top was installed. Features include a color-matched Endura front bumper, a chrome rear bumper, a Ram Air hood, and quad exhaust outlets with polished finishers.

Rally II 14″ wheels are mounted with 215/70 Firestone Wide-Oval tires. Braking is provided by power-assisted front discs and rear drums, and the car was optioned with power steering when new.

The cabin has been retrimmed with red vinyl upholstery (2254) as well as color-coordinated carpets and interior trim. Equipment includes front bucket seats and a rear bench, a woodgrain steering wheel, an AM/FM radio, and an 8-track player. A pre-delivery-style instruction tag is attached to the steering column, and Pontiac-branded rubber floor mats line the front and rear footwells.

The turned metal and woodtone trim-accented cluster houses Rally instrumentation consisting of a 140-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge. The five-digit odometer shows under 96k miles, approximately 50 of which have been driven by the seller. True mileage is unknown.

The optional 455ci V8 features a four-barrel carburetor and a Ram Air hood, and it produced a factory-rated 360 horsepower and 500 lb-ft of torque when new. The engine stamping shown within the gallery ends in 0P121234, which matches the final eight digits of the car’s serial number. Additional identification numbers are presented in the gallery.

Power is sent to the rear wheels through an optional Turbo Hydramatic 400 three-speed automatic transmission and a 12-bolt rear end housing a Safe-T-Track limited-slip differential. Additional photos are provided in the gallery to illustrate the underside, drivetrain, and suspension components.

Photos showing various stages of the refurbishment are depicted above.

Additional items accompanying the car include manufacturer’s literature, build sheets, a reproduction window sticker, documentation from Pontiac Historical Services, and 2012 correspondence with the GM Heritage center confirming the car’s specifications and equipment, photos of which are provided in the gallery.

#car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #pontiac gto #gto

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rom-e-o · 5 months

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Not Supposed to Be Here (Ebenezer/Constance)(Modern AU)

Unwanted company follows Constance home one day.

Rated 13+. Triggers for stalking from a third party, light violence w/ mention of blood, and some language. All the romance is just fluff, maybe with some innuendo if you squint.

Also, this takes place in a modern AU universe featuring @quill-pen's Bess (and her own Ebenezer/zar), Addie, and Gal. Cameo time!

Happy reading!

Usually, Constance felt safer upon entering their flat’s guarded lobby.

The gentle chime of the entry bell and lemony smell of freshly sprayed cleaner offered an air of professional hominess. It felt sophisticated, but also slightly cavernous, which usually aided her feelings of safety.

The building was old in design, with darkly lacquered walls and natural stone floors, but the cameras and keypads that dotted the vicinity were the best money could buy. The cost of the units within the building damn near insisted it. As a result, most of the residents did the same.

Literal resident, philanthropist (and casual billionaire) Ebenezer Samuel Scrooge, for example, had spared no expense in making her feel safe once she moved into his upscale London apartment. The man already had an impressive security system installed. A few years ago, he would have said it was to protect the funds, ledgers, and gold he prized. Now, it was to protect the woman with a heart of gold whom he had the honor of marrying in a few months’ time.

While Ebenezer treasured Constance open and ardently, her presence alone wasn’t the only factor that inspired him to pay top dollar for security.

He knew that being at his side put her in the public eye, and considering her ex-husband’s very active restraining order, he had updated the system to the latest model the day she first entered his abode.

Not only was the front door guarded by a doorman and the front desk staffed by two receptionists, but the floor Ebenezer’s flat occupied could only be accessed by a special elevator, which was manned by its own staff member at all hours, except for the occasional break. There was, of course, the fire escape out back, but that area was also guarded with cameras closely.

Yet, even as she made small talk with the attendants and checked their postbox for mail, a sense of uneasiness lingered over her like a storm cloud.

She felt unusually restless; like eyes were on her, but not just any set of eyes.

It had been just over a year since she’s felt that familiar sense of dread … the nightmare of his eyes, dark and cold as fog, watching her. Scrutinizing her. Hating her from afar.

A Harrods catalog slipped from her hands and onto the floor.

The rustle caught the attention of a nearby receptionist.

“Something wrong, Ms. DoGoode?” one asked, peering up at her from their post behind a large Mac monitor. They appeared to be checking their emails, the camera feed resigned to a smaller window in the lower corner.

Constance turned and looked behind her, her gaze moving through the lobby and out into the busy London streets. The frost-covered glass hid the details of the sidewalk and traffic outside from her view, but nothing immediately caught her attention.

Prudence, the large mastiff that loyally followed her lead even without a leash, followed her eyes. In response to her owner’s obvious discomfort, her stance immediately became more protective at the first showing of fear. She glanced around, growling in an attempt to stave off whatever was causing her new mama to tremble.

Yet, even as they both ladies stared out the front door, they saw … nothing.

Perhaps she was imagining things. Or, imagining people.

Trying to save face, Constance chuckled and tucked her mail away in her evergreen Telfar shopping bag, a recent acquisition from New York that her mother had sent.

“I’m fine,” she said, making sure to flash the receptionist a grin. “Clumsy as always, haha! Thank you for worrying.”

As if sensing her discomfort, Prudence whimpered and pawed at her lower legs. She bent and scooped up the mailer, then rubbed her large, meatball-shaped noggin. “Sorry, girl. I guess I’m just imagining things.”

Something must have triggered the feeling, she thought. Maybe another man in the lobby was wearing the same cologne as him, and she’d picked up on it subconsciously. Maybe she hadn’t seen someone coming in behind her at the entrance, and she’d let a door fall shut on someone. Yet, if that was the case, they apparently hadn’t stuck around to chastise her.

With kind words of parting, Constance made her way to the gilded elevator tucked in the back of the lobby. Prudence stayed behind just a moment longer, cocking her face at something beyond the glass.

Constance whistled as she held the door. “Come, Prudence.”

With a huff, the pup gave up her pursuit and trotted into the elevator.

“Good girl,” she praised. With those words, the elevator doors fell shut.

Moments later, the front door opened softly, and a man stepped in.

“Excuse me,” he asked as he approached the desk. We wore a dark trench with camel-colored gloves tucked into his pockets. His American accent was distinct, with a slight Dutch twang. “I looking for someone, and I think I just saw her go up.”

“Let’s see…oh, Harrods opened their Christmas department,” Constance exclaimed as she read the mailer on the ride up. “Oh, they already have their teddy bear display up this year! The Cratchit children would adore that. We should all go on an evening after work!”

While Constance attempted to distract herself by reading the seasonal ads, Prudence kept glancing around, as if even the tiniest shadow in the elevator could pose a threat.

“I wonder…has Bess ever been before?” Constance pondered aloud. “I’ll have to text Wolf and see. What a fun surprise that would be!”

Lacquered maroon nails tapped the glossy paper impatient. She glanced around the small space and heaved a sigh. “The, um, attendant must be on break.”

The mastiff definitely wasn’t listening. Her expressive eyes furrowed at every sound, and when the doors opened on the private floor, she even let out a bark.

Smiling softly, Constance gave Prudence a reassuring pat on the back as they exited. “You’re so brave, protecting me. Thank you, sweetheart.”

The praise temporarily distracted Prudence from her apprehension, her tongue lolling from her gummy jaw. Her tail swayed like a ship’s mast during a sea storm.

“Now, keys, keys…” Constance said, reaching her entire arm into the large bag to fish out the front door key to the apartment.

When her fingers brushed the distinct, heart-shaped keyring, a grin bloomed on her face. “There you are! Sneaky.”

Constance unlocked the front door, making sure to wipe her heels on the welcome mat before crossing the threshold.

“Ebenezer?” she called into the space, only to be greeted with silence. She heard no voices, or even music, from within. It seemed he was still out on business. He’d been called to a private meeting at a client’s estate. As the meeting was outside of their usual office location, there had been no reason for Constance to accompany him. Instead, he recommended she take the day off.

She smiled at the memory, especially how he had promised her he’d be back by dinner, then kissed her lovingly on her lips to seal the promise.

In fact, he kissed her each and every time they parted, no exceptions.

She kicked off her heels quickly, then reached up to a keypad located right next to their coatrack.

In addition to a front door key, the apartment had a security system that triggered every time the door was unlocked from the outside. Upon each entry, a special code had to be keyed in to disarm the system until the next time someone entered the space.

Some called the measure tiring or even nerve-inducing. She understood those sentiments, but to her, it was nothing but reassuring. It was a small price to pay for safety, in her mind. More than anything, she was grateful that Ebenezer took her safety so seriously.

She reached up and keyed in the code, her manicured nails tapping polished nickel buttons quickly. By now, she knew the code so well that she could enter it without even looking at the numbers.

A gentle beep sounded from the device, and Constance grinned in satisfaction. “There we go! Now then, miss ma’am Prudie, let’s—”

Without warning, the mastiff began to howl and bark. The volume of her bellows was so loud that the windows seemingly rattled in place.

His cheap cologne gave him away to Prudence before Connie had realized.

Just as the door was about the latch, a gloved hand shot through and stopped it from falling shut. The hand was large and masculine, adorned in a nondescript leather glove that would have been commonplace for anyone in London to wear, especially during the ideas of winter.

However, Constance recognized the glove instantly. She only knew one man who wore camel-colored leather gloves, complete with gold buttons at the wrists.

“Well, well,” Orin Spiegler grumbled, throwing the door open hard enough that the knob punched the drywall and left a hole. “The Sun was right.”

“Orin.” The sound came out as a choked gasp rather than a question.

“Normally I don’t read the tabloids, but when I saw that you hadn’t sent me a wedding invitation, I thought I’d check in with you personally.”

On stockinged feet, Constance stepped back from the front door. Shock stole her voice and ability to move, causing her to creep away with the speed of maple syrup through a frozen tap.

After a terrifying beat of silence, the man raised his arms like a preacher in a sermon and let out a loud laugh. “Well, don’t just stand there! Why don’t you give your ex-husband a hello, at least? After all, I flew all the way here. Don’t I at least get a kiss?”

She felt physically sick, as if she could vomit right there on the spot. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m banned from London? I’m here on business, Connie. Something our little … separation almost ruined for me. Don’t worry, I have no hard feelings about it, so don’t worry yourself into an episode over it.”

“I have a restraining order,” she said, her voice steady but far from confident. The acid behind his stare made it hard for her to control the tremble in her voice. “Y-You know that. You can be in London, of course, but…”

“I know you do, my little pumpkin-haired princess,” he said, his tone as condescending as his verbiage, “But, I was in the neighborhood. You know, the financial district, and saw you walking that fabulous little pup of yours.”

Her eyes flitted to the keypad, the red ‘Alarm’ button in the corner practically screaming to be pressed. She wanted to lunge to it, but her ex-husband’s broad-shouldered frame blocked it readily. Perhaps she could shove him, she thought, though her gut knew that she could move him even if she tried her hardest.

She’d never been able to shove him away before, after all.

Prudence continued to growl at the strange man, her canines flashing, and her impressive berth only accentuated by her splayed pose. Lowering herself close to the floor, she looked ready to spring up and attack, like an overwound toy or Jack-in-the-box.

“Easy there, princess. I’m not going to—”

When she snapped at his leg, his brow lifted in surprise.

“Temperamental, are we?” Orin sneered, “I never did like dogs. Too needy.”

His words sounded assured, but Constance couldn’t help but observe that the man had shrank away from her the tiniest bit.

He was scared of Prudence, she realized. Good. This was very good!

“She’s weary of strangers,” she offered, tilting her head down slightly.

“Didn’t seem weary when you were in the lobby.”

Her stomach congealed. So, he hadn’t imagined the feeling after all. “T-Then you must have also seen that I was talking with building security.”

“Who are just SO great at their jobs!” Orin mockingly posed, index finger bouncing in the air as if to tap an invisible period on the end of his statement. “Truly, bravo! I mean, all I had to do was walk in and speak to that lovely receptionist. She heard my accent, and I said I was a friend of yours. I told her I’d seen you while walking by and had just missed you in the lobby. Not a lie, after all. Then it was just a matter of choosing the right floor.”

“The right floor?”

“Everyone knows where your decrepit fiancé lives,” he said. “Exterior shots are all over the gossip rags. You should read them, actually! They say some things about you. Mostly about your breasts and age. I can’t believe they think you’re a 32DD. We all know you’re a—”

“Please stop,” she pleaded, holding a hand up, “I don’t care. I really don’t.”

“You should. They’re short-changing you, babe.”

“Don’t call me that. Also, don’t insult Ebenezer.”

“Well, anyway, images of you at your last dress-fitting kept me and all the other guys very entertained in the airport,” he said with a smile. “You ladies all looked so cuuuute! I’m glad you had some friends for this fitting. It must have been so lonely last time, with just you and your parents.”

“I-I…”

“I recognized Bess – fucking gorgeous lady, tell her I said that—”

“I won’t.”

“—and the other two … Addie and Gal, yes?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“So, I’m right. Fah-bulous. Are they taken?”

“In every way, shape and form,” she said flatly. “Are you satisfied?”

Orin chuckled a little too hard, until the sound petered out into a garish gasp. Then, his eyes drifted out the nearby apartment window, as if he was lost in thought. She almost thought she could sneak past him, until his eyes flashed back to her at the speed of an owl’s.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Connie?” he asked. “You. Here. With him.”

Constance furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand the question.”

“You’re not going to fall for the same song and dance again, are you?” he asked. “Doesn’t this feel familiar to you? The courting? The sweet nothings? You, sitting alone in an apartment, biding your time until he grows bored with you?”

It was Constance’s turn to laugh, but this time, in disbelief. “You and Ebenezer are nothing alike. Not in any way.”

“Now, that can’t be true,” he objected. “After all, you love him … and you loved me. Once upon a time, maybe, but you did. We must have a few similarities.”

“I loved the man I thought you were.”

“Perhaps we have acting in common.”

“No.”

“You think this one will last?” he asked. “That a man with his wealth and status will be satisfied with just you?”

“You have no right to—”

"Want a little insider tip?” Orin asked with a smirk. “Think of men like cabs, babe. When they're available, their light goes on. Ping! They wake up one day and decide they're ready to settle down, have a couple brats, they’re like a driver on-duty. The light goes on, and then, it’s a race against all the other cabs to get their next passenger. The next woman they pick-up? BOOM! That's the one. Marriage, kids, life-rending depression.”

Constance shook her head. “You might be like that—”

“—All men are like that—”

“—But Ebenezer isn’t.”

The guffaw that left Orin’s lips was as strident as cannon fire. “You think you're living a sweet little love story? You got lucky. You were just a pretty, desperate redhead on the curb. He pulled up, and you couldn't wait to hop in, couldn't you?"

Constance couldn’t look Orin in the eyes. “I-I…accepted Ebenezer’s kindness, yes. But I assure you, he was kind to me out of the goodness of his heart. He never expected anything in return because he’s a good man. A generous man!”

“Right,” Orin said. “And yet…here you two are. Living together. Engaged.”

“Stop.”

“A therapist would call this a troubling pattern, Con. You’re the common denominator here.”

“You were the one who asked me to marry you!” she asserted, her voice starting to hike in volume.

Then, to her horror, a grin split his face. “Oh … that’s right. I asked you. I flicked my little light on when I chatted you up, bought you a few vodka sodas on starry rooftops, compared you to a Botticelli angel, held your hand when we ice-skated in Rockefeller Center …I pulled my car up to your curb. And what did you do?”

He stepped forward again, which sent Prudence into a frenzy of howling and barking. Given the volume of her bellowing voice, it wouldn’t be long before neighbors (or security) investigated the noise.

This time, however, he didn’t shrink away. Instead, he reared his foot back and landed a solid kick right in her gut. The force sent Prudence staggering back enough for her to lose her footing.

Constance blanched at the sight. “Prudence!”

“You, a beautiful but dense girl from Manhattan, saw my light was on … and jumped right in.”

She flew to her knees and went to check on Prudence’s condition. Thankfully, it wasn’t a second of checking later that the mastiff was back to her senses. It appeared his blow had merely stunned her temporarily. With one shake of the head, she was right on her feet again.

Prudence weighed more than Orin by about twenty pounds, and while she had been holding back before, his attack only shattered her self-restraint. She lunged forward, jaws snapping and gullet foaming with rage. The force of her attack sent him to his elbows with a bone-rattling thump. Prudence didn’t cite or claw at him, but she did make a lot of noise while pinning is chest.

As predicted, the commotion caused doors to open in the hall, and Constance heard the concerned questions of neighbors.

While Orin was distracted, Constance bolted up and slammed the ‘Alarm’ button on the system. Along with the loud, reverberating barks from Prudence, the rhythmic blaring of the alarm created further commotion.

Pressing the button also automatically pinged authorities of an emergency.

It would also notify Ebenezer via cell message – a notification she knew he never silenced.

She wasn’t answering.

Ebenezer had no doubt he’d find at least twenty traffic tickets in his mailbox in the coming weeks, but the alarm had been activated at his flat and Constance wasn’t answering her phone.

If only he’d been at his usual office; he could have sprinted home, but no. Today of all days, he had been in a meeting outside of London, and had had to drive 15 minutes out to meet a particularly uppity client at their private estate.

Ebenezer had a feeling that the man would become an ex-client after how he’d dashed out after barely a word to Bob and his twin brother Ebenezar, but he couldn’t even care.

“Dammit, MOVE!” he swore, avoiding a flock of cyclists as he sped down A2198.

Once again, his call went to voicemail, and he immediately dialed again. All he could focus on was driving (AKA not crashing the car) and calling Constance’s phone over and over.

He left one pleading voicemail after another, begging her to call him back and also letting her know that he would be there soon.

When he finally had a visual of his building, he saw police parked out front, but their lights were off. Most importantly, there were no ambulances or other emergency vehicles. This slightly ebbed his panic, but not enough for him to coast into the building’s private garage and find a spot. Instead, he pulled up and parked in the street with alignment that could generously be described as cattywampus.

Again, he couldn’t care. Let them blast his windshield with parking tickets

Pushing the doors open and sprinting into the lobby, two of the guards immediately went to his side. Their goal had likely been to inform him of the situation, but their insistence upon pleasantries was too much chatter for him to handle.

“Sir, we’re glad you’re here!” one said, a light sheen of perspiration already coating their face. “Thank goodness, we were just going to—”

“Talk while you walk with me,” Ebenezer ordered, his voice practically bladed with tension. “Now.”

Instead of taking the elevator, he keyed into a private side staircase and took the steps up two at a time. Even professional firefighters would have had a hard time keeping up with the man.

Ten floors passed in the blink of an eye. Upon arriving at his flat’s level, he threw the door open to his floor to see a gaggle of officers crowded around his open doorway at the end of the hall. For a moment, his heart stopped at the sight before him.

Then, amidst a sea of curious onlookers and uniformed constables, he saw a flash of red hair. He would have recognized that hue anywhere.

“Constance!” he yelled, running down the hall at the sight of her.

Upon hearing her name, she turned to face him, her face puffy and her eyes blazing from worry. She was sitting on the floor in the doorway of their flat, Prudence seated at her side and nuzzling her face. They were okay, he thought, barely resisting tears.

She didn’t have time to speak before Ebenezer had shoved his way through the crowd and enveloped her in his embrace. They crashed together like comets compelled together by gravity.

Once in his arms, he felt her sink into him desperately, as if she was a small animal seeking solace from a hunter. “E-Ebenezer …I’m so sorry.”

He shushed her kindly but immediately, his wide palm falling protectively across her back. He urged her closer, and she obliged with a thankful sob, her shoulders shaking as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay, Sunshine,” he whispered, turning slightly to place a kiss upon her damp cheek. “Gods, I’m so relieved to see you. I-I…can’t even tell you what I was thinking on the drive … ”

As they embraced, Scrooge heard nearby officers chatter about what had just transpired.

“The bloke said he was here on business, but his name isn’t pulling up any employers here or Stateside.”

Business? Stateside?

With Constance still folded tightly in his arms, he looked over to see a smaller group of officers that had gathered around … someone. He squinted his eyes, as if trying to peer through the physical entities that blocked his view.

“Is he going to need a transport for any injuries?” a voice radioed in. “The dog jumped him, but all injuries look superficial.”

Dog? Were they talking about Prudence? He looked over to see that Prudence was staying close to Connie, hugging her flank closely while laying his head upon one of his bent thighs.

“Hey there, girl,” he whispered, his hand giving the base of her skull a scritch. “Are you okay?”

Prudence whispered, and Scrooge’s confusion deepened.

“No, we checked him out and he’s going straight to holding,” the officer replied, his tone clipped. “He’s breached a restraining order.”

“Acting in contempt of court, huh?” another repeated, followed by a huff of amusement. “Stupid bastard.”

Ebenezer’s blood ran cold. The realization of what had transpired hit him like a ton of bricks.

All other senses; his sight, his hearing, his sense of touch; faded away, and all he became conscious of was a building fury that threatened to turn his vision red. There, through the narrowest gap of legs, he saw the distinct pale skin and dark-hair of the man that had tormented his fiancée for decades.

“You.” Ebenezer stormed to his feet and crossed the hallway in two steps. He was driven by blinding anger, which caused his heart to buzz like a saw. With the posture of a lion spotting wounded prey, he surged forward and grabbed the front of Orin’s coat. The over-starched lapels crunched under the older man’s fingers from the strength of his grip.

At this lunge, panic ensued.

“Mr. Scrooge, sir—!”

“W-wait! Ebenezer!”

Ebenezer paid the others no mind as he hauled Orin close to his face, their brows nearly touching as he eyed the man like a Minotaur out for blood.

Orin wheezed out a laugh. Only then did he notice the light bruising and raised marks on the man’s neck, each swatch standing out brightly against his sickly skin.

Oh, he would absolutely reward Prudence for her hard work.

“I should put your hard head through this bloody wall, Spiegler.”

“Then we’d both be off the jail, wouldn’t we?” Orin taunted. When he grinned, he saw his teeth outlined in red. “See, I tried to tell Sunshine that you and I were more alike than different.”

"Did you?" he asked, practically snorting in amusement.

"Yes, but I see that time in sleepy little London has made her more of an airheaded bimbo than she already was. She just couldn't seem to grasp the concept."

He raised his other arm in preparation to dislocate Orin’s jaw first-hand, but paused just short of contact. Unfortunately, the goblin of a man had a point, and he was in no mood to be forced away from his wife. Or go to prison.

With a furious sneer, Ebenezer threw the man against the wall in release. The officers fumbled to catch him, but understandably, made no effort to chastise the philanthropist for his reaction.

“Get him out,” Ebenezer whispered, his shoulders hiked up to his ears, and his voice oozed with venom.

“W-Would you like us to—”

“I want everyone who isn’t a resident on this floor off of it,” he seethed, his tone oozing with disappointment. “Any officers that need to question us can come inside.”

When his gaze fell on Constance, still huddled next to Prudence on the ground, his icy gaze melted into something more careful and tepid. Slowly, he sank back onto his knees and pulled her into another hug.

“Come one,” he urged, his voice soft and so, so tender. “Let’s go inside. I’m with you.”

The entire questioning process was as cut-and-dry as it could have been, considering the circumstances. With the assistance of Orin’s digital footprint in addition to the less than glowing testimonies Constance and Ebenezer offered, the authorities were able to piece together a likely series of events. It seemed Orin had lied about his employment status. He was a self-employed crypto investor after having a falling out with his New York office and had no reason to be in London for any professional reason.

“There is … much for us to look into,” a constable said as they jotted notes in a small flipbook. “Ms. DoGoode, you said he made a comment about watching you enter the lobby. Yet, you say you didn’t see him?”

“N-No,” she answered, her voice sanded with exhaustion from the day’s events. “I felt like someone was watching me, and Prudence was looking out the front window too. I … thought maybe I was imagining things? I never actually saw him, though. Not until I keyed in and he grabbed the door.”

“Ah.” The officer scrawled another note.

“H-How did he get up onto the floor?” Constance asked. Prudence sat to her right, head in her lap, and Ebenezer sat to her left. One of his hands cupped her knee, his thumb moving in gentle rotations in one of the indents there. It was a soothing reminder of his presence that she was beyond grateful for.

“We’ve already interrogated the main office and are currently looking into where the oversight occurred.”

“That should be no issue, as there are cameras all over the building,” Scrooge chimed in, peering at the officers with impatience. “That should alleviate much confusion.”

“Yes, it should sir,” one replied. “We’re working to secure that footage properly.”

“Good.”

Constance watched her fiancé in intrigue. In all the time they’d known each other and dated, she had never seen him stare anyone down before, and she had to confess … it was quite unnerving. Regardless of how he addressed the officers, his hand remained tender when touching her.

Meanwhile, while the couple chatted with authorities, other members of the growing Scrooge family pack (comprised of the many friends, associates, and relatives that the twins had connected with) texted in. His twin brother, Ebenezar, had known something was amiss. He’s watched him sprint from the meeting after all.

Upon receiving a brief overview of what happened, as well as a request to inform the others, the messages trickled in steadily:

>>Ebenezar: I knew something was wrong when you left … but I had no idea that it was that bad, Sammy.

>>Bess: I will KILL that man, I swear.

>>Ebenezar: If the authorities half-ass detaining him, they’re not going to like the next letter from our firm that crosses their desk.

...

>>Addie: Don’t worry about any errands! Tom and I can bring things your way!

>>Tom: You bet we can. Are you both set for dinner tonight? I can run something over.

...

>>Harry: I’m so sorry, Uncle. Can Hela and I do anything? Just say the word.

...

>>Bob: I just called Mr. Ebenezar as well, and we’re going to divide and conquer at work. Consider it all done.

>>Ethel: What cell is he in? I’ve been taking axe-throwing lessons, and my aim is damn good.

...

>>Gal: If you guys need some door security that’s worth a damn, Jake and I are free tonight.

...

After one last swipe of their men, the interviewer cleared their throat, the loudness of it conveying a sense of finality.

“We’ll keep you both apprised of any updates,” the officer said as they pushed themselves up from the sofa. With a nod to their partner, they reached across the table to shake Scrooge’s hand. An odd gesture, all things considered, but he did reciprocate, though his eyes remained as sharp as a steel edge.

“I certainly hope those updates include information on whether Mr. Spiegler’s detainment details change,” he said. “Clearly an order from the court is not enough to stop him.”

“Absolutely, sir. We’ll keep you both posted.”

Constance was relieved the questioning was over, and allowed her fiancé to take the reins at leading the officers out the door. After a few more pleasantries, she heard the reverberating sound of the door latch and the telltale beeping of the security system turning on for the night.

When she looked up, she saw Ebenezer tentatively approaching her. His footfalls were soft, as if he was walking on snow. His touch was even softer as he reached down to push a few strands of auburn hair back from her face.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she started. Her tone was borderline formal in manner and delivery, as if she was speaking to an associate rather than the man she wanted to marry.

Ebenezer’s gentleness turned to confusion swiftly. “Goodness, whatever for?”

She paused to blink back tears before answering. Another apology left her.

“I’m sorry for how … for how I seem to always make your life more difficult,” Constance said slowly. She directed her gaze at a notch in the hardwood flooring, unable to look her fiancé in the eyes. She knew in that moment that, if she glimpsed his face, she knew she would cry again. “I-I should have noticed him sooner. I should have trusted my gut better.”

“No, sweetheart—”

“I should have trusted Prudence,” she said, looking down at said pup, whose head still rested in Constance’s lap. Upon seeing her sweet, droopy eyes peer up at her, Constance caved as a sob rattled her body. “H-He kicked Prudence, Ebenezer! She was so brave, protecting me, a-and I let her get hurt!”

For a moment, Ebenezer couldn’t find the words to speak. Did she … really care more about Prudence than her own safety?

Seeing Constance cry spurred London's finest lady (and treat aficionado) to lift her head and lick the woman’s face, lapping away her tears. She was also incredibly ticklish there, and Prudence’s kisses dissolved her tears instantly. With peals of laughter leaving her, Ebenezer leaned in and gave Prudence an affectionate kiss on the forehead.

“She’s a strong girl,” he assured, grinning broadly. “Aren’t you, Prudence?”

She barked in agreement, her warm and deep ‘ruff’ filling the space.

Constance huffed out another laugh, always amazed at how the pup seemed to understand conversations better than some humans. Although Prudence had done a sterling job at ridding Constance’s face of her tears, Ebenezer still fished a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He dabbed her face gently, careful not to pull or tug her skin.

“Tomorrow, just to be safe, we’ll take her to the vet,” he promised. “We’ll get her looked over and make sure she’s in tip-top shape. Trust me, Prudence has had many children accidentally tumble over her before. She helps the Cratchit children decorate at Christmas, after all!”

Constance giggled again, covering her mouth sheepishly as she did so.

Just the sight of her smile was enough to lift a huge weight from his shoulders. While the entire afternoon had been an exercise in panic, all that mattered to him was that she was safe.

“Now,” he said, placing the handkerchief in her hand, then caging her smaller hands in his, “What we’re also going to do is take a holiday. We’re going to spend some time away from the flat and let things calm down.”

The suggestion brightened Constance’s eyes, but that excitement was almost immediately tempered. “What about work?”

“I’ll call in some favors. My brother is a damn fine businessman – definitely better at handling clients than I am. Don't tell him I said so, though. Bob will handle the books. And if all else fails? Well, being a private practice has many benefits.” He then paused to rub his chin in thought. “Actually, it might be good to close our doors for a few weeks to give everyone a break.”

“Y-You think?” she asked. “Wait, but what about…?”

“Profits?” he asked, unable to hold back a smirk. “You’ve seen our accounts. We could shut down for the next thousand years and be right as rain. And that’s a moderate estimate.”

Again, that beautiful smile came back. Mere hours before he’s suddenly been faced with the possibility of never seeing that smile again, and the thought of that physically sickened him.

“Sunshine, what you said earlier…” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I…never want you to think that I see your ex-husband’s actions as a reflection of you. When you say you don’t want to make life more difficult for me, I realize that I cannot even begin to describe all the ways your have made my life immeasurably better since we first met.

“Since you came into my life, I’ve been changed in ways that, frankly, I thought I were beyond me. I thought I was too old to experience many of these lovely, sentimental emotions that poets love to wax on about.” He laughed, tossing his head back and staring at the ceiling. “Gods, I’ve never met someone who makes me feel so excited every time I’m proven wrong. It’s a feeling I’d wish every human could feel.”

Transfixed, she could only watch as he slowly turned to face her again. “You have made me excited to face each day. You’ve inspired me to notice small things – before meeting you, I don’t think I ever paid attention to those fuzzy caterpillars that come onto the sidewalks after it rains, or the way Prudence’s nose always wiggles slightly when she’s about to sneeze.”

“Really?” she asked. Her tone sounded so hopeful that it practically broke his heart.

“Yes!” he confessed. The answer couldn’t rush from his lips fast enough. “When I was calling your phone earlier, I…started thinking the worst. I suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of walking into that flat again if you weren’t there, or going back to work and seeing your desk empty. Seeing your coats line dup so neatly in our hall closet. Seeing your make-up on our bathroom sink. Not smelling your perfume on the pillow beside mine. Not hearing you have a sneeze attack every time you smell pepper, or not being able to race you down to the front lobby when we order take-away.”

Constance’s breath caught in her throat as she noticed tears prickling the corner’s of her love’s steely eyes as he rambled.

“When I tell you that there is no possible way you could make my life worse by being a part of it, I’m deathly serious,” he confessed. A tear darted down his cheek, and as he attempted to stifle a sob of his own, she dabbed it away with the handkerchief.

As if this gesture proved his point, a puff of laughter escaped him.

“The only possible way you could make my life harder or worse … is if you were no longer in it.”

It was his turn to cry as the tension of the day caught up to him, and he felt the floodgates break. Blast, he hated how easily he could be brought to tears sometimes.

What made it easier, however, was feeling Constance’s embrace circle him. Her hands latched at the base of his neck as she leaned in and covered his broader body with hers. His arms circled her waist, securing her in place, keeping her safe and present with him.

For many hours, they stayed like that, silently sobbing and embracing each other as the anxiety of the day left their bodies in literal waves. By the time they’d both exhausted their eyes to achy redness, sleep lingered over them with overwhelming insistence.

With mutual understanding, both parted ways to make some small changes before laying down. Ebenezer loosened his tie and Constance removed her constricting pantyhose, leaving her only in her blouse and pencil skirt. He gave her an impish whistle, and she threw that garment at him playfully.

Using her fiancé’s head as a pillow, she curled up atop his body and nuzzled her face against his shirt. Her ear laid squarely over his heart, where she could hear its steady and strong beat just inches away. Ebenezer moved a hand to the small of her back to not only make sure she stayed in place atop him and didn’t roll off, but to remind her of his presence.

“I’ll watch the door,” he promised, kissing the top of her head. “You sleep. I insist.”

His broad hand gave her waist a reassuring squeeze, hugging her close.

“And I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

>>Hello! You’re reached the voicemail for Constance DoGoode. I’m away from the phone right now, but leave your name and number, and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you!

… <BEEP>

<<Sunshine, it’s me. Please, please tell me you’re okay. I need to know you’re safe. I-I’m sorry for calling you over and over, and … fuck, I promise I’ll be there soon, angel. I promise. I love you, okay. I love you so much. I-I’m going to call again. Okay, love you. Please call me.”

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