#Verse 04-The Eye | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

formulaforza · 1 year

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miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—04. every finger, every sigh —word count: 6.8k —warnings: obvious sexual innuendos, implications, and mentions of sex. no smut. club activities, alcohol consumption. love, mackie... ok here's how this is going to work. if you don't read smut please feel safe to enjoy this chapter. if you do read smut, there is a link in the chapter to the nsfw cut. word count & warnings for that will be at the top of that post. I hope this works out for the majority of u guys... I want everyone to feel comfortable reading.

Chris peeks her head out around the sliding door into the bedroom, finds him sitting on the couch ready to go, scrolling through his phone and nodding along to the Carrie Underwood playlist playing from Chris’ phone in the bathroom. They’d had an impromptu dance party half an hour earlier to Cowboy Cassanova–hairbrush microphones and all–while Chris was doing her makeup. Charles butchered the chorus and stumbled to keep up with the verses, but he brought energy, and that’s all that matters. “Close your eyes!” She calls out to him.

“They’re closed,” he says, putting a hand over his eyes, peeking directly through his fingers.

“No, they’re not.”

“They are!”

“I’m looking at you.”

“Chris, Chris, Chris,” he laughs, closing his fingers over his eyes. “They’re closed.”

“Okay,” she says, stepping out from behind the door. The heels of her boots click across the floor with every step, coming to a soft stop a few feet in front of his seated position. She adjusts the strap of her bra and flattens down her dress, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Open.”

When she was packing for the trip, Charles had told her that they’d probably go out at least one night, that to be safe, she should bring a couple different outfits. Today, she’d settled on the most classic article of clothing in her wardrobe, a little black dress. Paired with a leather blazer to make it, as Hannah had said, “just a little classier,” she’s also got her full collection of jewelry on; from a string of pearls to her friendship bracelets. The star of the show, however, is her shoes.

Cowboy boots. Red cowboy boots. The pair has sat in the back of her closet for years now, barely worn in because where do you even wear a pair of firetruck red cowboy boots? She’s giddy about finally getting to wear them.

“Sacrément fille!” He exclaims, eyes trailing her entire figure as he stands.

“Shut up,” she laughs, shoving his shoulder away.

He grabs her wrist from the air between them on the recoil of the shove, pulls her close, almost flush against him and slinks an arm around her waist like it belongs there. It burns her entire body, him so close, looking at her like he does. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, wraps her arms around his neck like they’re going to slow dance at the senior prom.

“You don’t even know what I said,” he smirks.

She rolls her eyes. “The look on your face is as good as Google Translate.”

“I like the boots.”

“They’re red,” she smiles up at him, sticks her foot out to the side so he can see it without craning his neck, without having to step back from her. She knows that when he inevitably does step back, she’ll be chilled by the absence of his warmth. All this talk about her outfit, but she’s just his accessory. He looks annoyingly gorgeous, per usual, and entirely too kissable.

He nods. “I know.”

She’s struck with the urge to just stay. To slip the do not disturb hook over the door and stay in for the night. “You know what else is red?”

“Hmm?”

She raises her brows, smirks. Guess, she implies it all. Guess what else is red, Charles. He blushes as red as her boots, has to break his eyes from hers to roll them, shake his head and run his tongue over the front of his teeth with a chuckle.

“You’re trouble.”

“Mmhm,” she hums, standing on her toes to kiss him. His hand moves up her back, cups the back of her head and deepens the kiss. You’d think he was starved, the way he takes control of the kiss she’d initiated, pulls her to him. To him, to him. Close enough he could build a home in her mouth. She pulls back with a breathy laugh, sinks her teeth into her bottom lip to keep the smile from growing too giddy. “Let’s go,” she says, because if they don’t leave now she worries they won’t leave.

“Troublé,” he calls after her when she disappears into the bathroom to retrieve her phone.

“Charles,” she hums all singsongy. “I want you to speak to me like one of your American girls.”

– – –

They uber to the club with Joris and Arthur, who Chris is pretty sure are already half-drunk by the time they’re climbing into the black SUV.

“We got to get you laid tonight,” Arthur says, reaching his hands over the passenger seat headrest to give Joris an overdramatic shoulder massage.

“Do you want me to ‘have you met Ted’ him?” Chris asks. She’s met with a car full of confused eyes and a deafening silence. Bombed that one, Chris.

“Quoi?” Arthur asks. Joris shrugs.

“What is ‘have you met Ted?’” Charles asks with a gentle smile and patient eyes. She feels like one of her students, like she’s speaking a foreign language.

She opens her mouth to speak but just sighs. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it,” she says. “Just. I’ll get you someone tonight, don’t even worry about it.”

“I don’t need any of you to find me a girl,” Joris defends. “I can handle that all on my own.”

“Alright, mate,” Charles says, puts his arm around Chris’ shoulder and leans in to whisper, just for her, “Help him.”

– – –

There’s a whole group of drivers at the club they head to. Chris is still trying to learn their names, to match the names with the faces. She follows behind Arthur, walks in front of Charles, guided by his hands on her shoulders through the crowd. He calls out greetings to the drivers as he passes, until she’s flashing the stamp on her hand and being ushered into a section with even more drivers. Pierre and his girlfriend, Kika, Charles makes the introductions. Lando, Carlos and Isa. “Esteban et Elena arrivent,” Pierre relays to Charles with an eye roll. Charles smiles, pats Pierre on the shoulder.

“Vous pouvez être gentil,” he quips.

Little time is wasted in getting drinks in their hands, in running the bill of whoever’s paying for the table.

Chris is a puppet and her whiskey sour is the strings, sipping from a glass that never empties, the bottle girl’s ratio caring less about her sobriety and more about racking up the bill. The strobe lights are half-blinding, liquor erasing the threat of a headache.

She moves with Charles and his fingers splayed over her hips, the force of him a greater pull than the soul-shaking beat could dream of being. He’s hot. Hot and sweaty and half of it has to be hers. The blazer and bag are long abandoned on a chair over there, or maybe it’s over there, who knows anymore? The straps of her dress barely conceal her bra strap and she’s paranoid about it the entire time they’re dancing, constant adjustments with every clap of the men huddled around the DJ booth.

One of the girlfriends, the young one, Chris can’t remember her name, steals her away for a round of shots. She doesn’t ask what it is, downs it without a chaser and it’s smooth in a way only the expensive stuff can manage.

“I love your boots!” Kika speaks. Kika! That’s her name. Kika, Kika, Kika, remember it, Chris, remember it. Her accent is thick and unplaceable over the music, even as she speaks inches from Chris’ ear.

Chris laughs. “Thank you!”

“You have to send me a link!”

“I’m so sorry!” She apologizes directly into Kika’s ear, the two girls with a gentle hold on each other’s forearms while they speak, anchoring each other in place amongst the packed section. “I have no clue where I got them.”

When Chris does turn back around to make her way back to Charles, he’s nowhere in her sightline. There’s not enough room for him to have vanished, he’s got to be hidden by someone’s body. Maybe he’s found her blazer. She sits with Kika for a while, the two girls exchanging compliments every time the conversation needs to change topics. They go on like that until more people, the other girlfriend’s she’d been introduced to… Elaine and Emma? She knows she’s not close.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” one of them says. “Come with?” Her eyes dart between Kika and Chris. Both girls nod and join the train to the bathroom. On the way through the group–I’m going to find Lily, someone says–Chris spots Charles again.

They brush past each other with a shared smile, a wordless exchange that he still manages to slur, blown pupils boring into her. If Chris thought she could stop and talk, she’d be asking Charles what the girls’ names are. There isn’t time for that, though. Someone really needs to pee. Elena. Elena really needs to pee. Elena, Elena, Elena.

“Isa!” Elena calls out to the other. Isa, Isa, Isa. Good, now she knows everyone’s name again.

“I’m getting Lily!” Isa responds.

Chris has no idea who Lily is, much less where she is, so she continues following behind Kika and Elena to the bathroom line. There’s eleven people ahead of them in line and Elena looks like she might have to pee on the floor.

The line moves quickly, though, and before they know it they’re bursting through the door and giggling at the speed of Elena’s heels on the floor. “Dio mio,” she says, the stall door clattering shut.

“So, Chris–it’s Chris right?” Elena asks through the plastic of the stall.

“Yeah.”

“Chris,” she laughs. “How did you meet Charles, anyway?”

She checks herself out in the vanity mirror. Her lipstick is smudged. She wonders where on Charles she lost it. “Uhm,” she hangs on the sound, making a half-hearted attempt at fixing the smear. “We met at COTA,” Chris explains, going into one of the stalls and grabbing a shred of toilet paper. “At the grand prix.”

“Oh, my God!” Elena exclaims. “You’re the girl Isa heard about!”

“What?!” Chris laughs. People are hearing about her. Stay cool. You’re so cool, Chris.

“Yeah,” she says, and the toilet flushes. She resumes her sentence when she re-enters the bathroom. ”Carlos told Isa about some girl Charles was fucked about.”

Simultaneously, Isa, and who Chris’ master deduction skills lead her to believe is Lily, enter the bathroom, the latter flipping off someone in line. “I told you, my friend is throwing up in there!” She yells and the group already in the bathroom goes cricket silent. Lily’s demeanor instantly changes when the door closes behind them. “Anyways,” she smiles.

“Well,” Kika says, laughing and turning back to Chris, “I knew all about you,” she says. “Charles and Pierre love gossip.”

“Oh my god!” Lily exclaims, “you’re Charles’ girl?” Chris can feel herself blush, hopes that it can be masked by the flush of the sweat and the liquor. She’s not his girl, but she doesn’t hate the way it sounds. No, she doesn’t hate it at all. “Wait. Are you guys like together, together?” Lily asks.

“No,” Chris smiles, but you can keep calling me his girl. I won’t stop you. “We’re just… hanging out? I dunno, it’s weird because it’s all long-distance.”

“But you like him a lot?”

“Yeah.” Blushing. Harder. “A lot.”

“Ugh,” Isa groans. “Charles is such a sweetheart, you guys are adorable.” Chris thanks her meekly.

“He’s not looking at you very sweetheart-like tonight,” Kika quips with a silly giggle. “He can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Or that dress,” Elena adds.

“Fuck me eyes, for sure,” Lily says, bursting into laughter. Chris is redder than her boots now, surely.

“Guys, guys,” Kika breaks through her laugh. “We’re embarrassing her.”

Lily complains the entire walk back to their sections that she can’t stay with them. She’s with Alex, in Max’s section, in the Redbull section. She makes Isa and Elena promise to text her about any and everything exciting that happens. They get back to their table just in time for the show, for the bottle girls with their lights and sparklers and thousands of dollars worth of liquor and their giant signs. Chris can hear Pierre’s laugh over everything, can hear Charles’ Fuck you, mate, followed by a laugh of his own. When the girl holding the sign finally turns, Chris chokes on a giggle. GET ‘EM NEXT YEAR CHAMP, the sign reads.

She can feel eyes on her. Charles, she hopes. Charles, she can’t find in the chaos. When she does spot him, half-dead sparkler still in his hand, head drunkenly bobbing along to the beat, he’s looking right at her, grins a stupid grin and winks.

They go on like that for some insufferable amount of time, catching each other’s eyes across the crowded section, never once managing to bump into each other. She doesn’t know about him, but every time she decides enough is enough, becomes all too aware of his eyes and the way that they never seem to be off her, chooses to take matters into her own hands, she’s stopped short by someone who wants her to take a photo of them or take a shot with them or sit and chat with them.

She finds her blazer and bag in the mess, turns around and is finally running into him. “Qu'est-ce que ç'est?” He asks, pointing to the glass in her hand. She’s almost positive that even if she did speak French, she wouldn’t be able to make out his question.

“Wh…” she takes a shot in the dark, makes an assumption with the point to the glass and the quirked brow. “Water.”

“Water,” he sighs out into a pout, snaking his arm around her waist, swaying drunkenly with her. She laughs at their differences in sobriety. He laughs when she does. “No fun.”

“You should drink some,” she says, “if you’re plannin’ on getting any tonight.” She’s just as bad as he is, just tipsy enough that her accent gets thicker, her annunciation fading away into the thump of the bass.

“I can’t hear you,” he shakes his head, dropping it down to her mouth in an attempt to gain some clarity. Chris rolls her eyes. Must she do everything?

She pulls him impossibly closer, hand on the back of his neck, undoubtedly leaving a lipstick smear on his ear. “Do you want to have sex tonight?”

His head whips up quicker than she thought the liquor would allow. He’s looking at her, looking into her, lips so close she can almost feel them kissing her and she’s supposed to not kiss him?

He tastes like his drink and laughs into her mouth, digging his fingers into the fabric on her hip. “Yes,” he says, crystal clear.

“Then sober up, Bud,” she says, gives him a solid pat on the chest. He nods, swallows hard and stands up stick-straight to salute her. She laughs like it’s the funniest joke she’s ever been told and pushes him away, off into the direction of the table itself and the water that sits atop it.

It’s forty-five minutes and three glasses of ice water later that she’s telling him to order the Uber, another ten before they’re abandoning Arthur and Joris somewhere and leaving the rest of the group with an Irish goodbye. Chris never does fulfill her promise to get Joris laid. Fifteen more minutes of Charles and his roaming hands in the backseat of the car, Chris somehow finding the restraint to giggle each time, to tell him with every kiss, every touch, wait. Wait until we’re at the hotel.

“Do you want people to know you’re here?” Charles asks.

“What?” She asks, instinctively following his eyeline to a group of men waiting outside the hotel entrance. They’ve got their phones out, one of them with a Ferrari cap on, the others decked out in different team merch, and their eyes dart around like a driver is going to manage to teleport past them. “Not really.”

She sinks into her seat while Charles chats with the Uber driver. They speak in English, but Chris doesn’t hear much of it. She’s too busy staring at the four boys just meters away.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks, and she’s back in the car.

“Sorry,” she says. “What are we doing?”

“I’m getting out now, he’s going to take a lap and then you’ll get out,” Charles explains. “Are you alright, though?”

She nods. “Yeah.” It’s a reminder to her, and a glaring one at that, of what this all is. She keeps allowing her brain the leniency to forget that he’s someone to a lot of people, that he isn’t just Charles, the guy she’s hanging out with. “I’m good.” He pauses with raised, unconvinced brows. His eyes search hers for the truth and are met with a nearly imperceivable nod, a silent, stoic confirmation that he can step out of the vehicle.

The car is silent on the long lap around the hotel. She can hear the parking lot pebbles under the rubber of the tires, the breathing pattern of the driver, her own heartbeat. It’s the kind of quiet that makes everything else loud.

The guys are still there when she does climb out of the car, geeking out in a language she doesn’t speak and can’t identify. She bites down hard on a smile and ducks into the building, finds him waiting for her–nervous eyes and all–leant against the wall beside the elevators.

“Good?” He asks, standing up straight, holding his hand out to find hers, pushing the elevator doors open button with the other.

“Great,” she lets her smile speak, interlocks their fingers like it’s her favorite thing to do. The doors ding, open, and they step inside. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t,” he says. An obvious lie.

“I like being your little secret.”

“Oh, do you?”

Chris nods, links her arms around his neck and moves so that she’s flush against him. Close, close, close. They’d spent far too much of the night away, far too much of the weekend. Nothing is close enough, not with implication in the air, not with fabric between them. She kisses him, hums the buzz of their energy. “Your dirty little secret,” she whispers into the breath between their parted lips.

His hands slip inside her blazer, run along her sides over the fabric of her dress. “Fuck,” he mutters through a chuckle, droping his head to kiss her neck, to mark every possible space between her clavicle and her lips as his. She’s more than happy to let him, to be claimed by him. Take me, have me. Please–make me yours. “You make me crazy,” he says between kisses, with a lazy laugh against her skin that she wants to taste, to swallow up with the rest of him. He kisses her hard, stumbling until they find their footing in the middle of the elevator.

The doors open with another ding and he jumps back from her, stares at his shoes, scratching the back of his neck, running his hand over his hair. Chris can see the blush on his ears, a giggle escaping her lips when she’s met with two strangers glancing up from their phone just long enough to trade places.

It’s silent, dead but for the poorly choked laugh from Chris.

“Shut up,” Charles whispers as they walk down the hall. The moment the elevator doors shut behind them, she’s smacking her hand over her mouth, laughing loud and achingly into the skin. “It’s not funny,” he says, but it’s breathy and full of his own laughter. When they’ve made it all the way to their room door without quelling the giggle-fit, when Chris’ inability to stop laughing becomes funnier than what she was laughing about in the first place, Charles laughs out a simple, “stop?”

She straightens while he holds the keycard over the lock, looks at him with a forced frown, fighting hard against their own upturned corners, a quivering bottom lip holding back the floodgates of her laughter. “Make me.”Make her, he does–pushing open the door with his back, finding her wrist and pulling her inside. He doesn’t have to pull–you don’t have to pull. I’m following. He tries to swallow her laugh but then she’s the one pulling, disappearing down the short hall into the suite, a knot of giggles and implication and excitement and everything, everywhere, all at once ties itself around her insides at the sound of his feet behind her.

click here for the nsfw cut!

They sleep in late Monday morning, and Chris needs little convincing to order room service instead of trudging down to the lobby, hangover and all. Chris can stay in bed all day watching TV. Something from Netflix, English audio with French subtitles that took her eleven minutes to find. Charles, who hasn’t been mindful about keeping his things tidy, has to get out of bed earlier to start gathering his things and packing up his bags.

She reads her book, spends half of the time re-reading the same page because she keeps getting distracted by the shirtless man walking around the room. She hopes he isn’t paying too much attention to her, that he isn’t realizing she hasn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.

“Do you know how long the flight is?” She asks over the edge of the page.

“Didn’t you come from Nice?” He asks, folding a Ferrari polo at the edge of the bed.

“No, Paris.”

His brows raise. “Why did you do that?”

She laughs. “You’re the one who booked the flights.”

“Well,” he matches her chuckle. “Why did I do that to you?”

– – –

The plane leaves at 12:30 in the afternoon. A private charter, a full flight; Chris and Charles and his family and Andrea and Joris and Nicolas. It’s her first introduction to the last, who finds his seat at the back of the plane with Andrea.

Chris grades papers for the first half of the flight–instinct at this point every time she steps onto a private plane. She’s sat across from Pascale and Charles, next to Arthur. Lorenzo naps, sprawled out across three seats and knocked out cold. When she finishes the geography worksheets, Pascale is reading a book and the boys are playing chess. She watches their game intently, studying the board and the boys’ moves. Charles moves his king back diagonally, leaves it hesitantly in d2. Arthur counters ,moves his bishop from e6 to d7. Charles, with the king again, is running from Arthur. D2 to c2.

Chris is not, under any circumstances, a chess prodigy. She does, however, have a repetition-based memory system, and has watched her older sister Chandler play a million and one solo games over the years. She knows the game well enough to see something Arthur–for whatever reason–doesn’t.

In his infinite wisdom, his fingers hover over his bishop, Chris watches on as he inches closer and closer to an error. She can’t help herself, the competitiveness taking over. She reaches over his arm, picks up his rook and moves it forward a space. He looks at her confused, but she gestures for him to come closer. “Fool's mate,” she whispers, and Arhtur’s eyes dart to the board, back to Chris just as confused as they’d started. “Promote your rook, then e1 to b1.”

Charles is looking at her with a confused smile, mouth ever so slightly open. “What do you see?”

“You, losing,” she says, sitting back in her chair to watch Arthur beat him.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, wags a taunting finger at Charles. “You, losing.”

Charles ignores his brother, keeps his eyes on her. “You play chess?”

“There are a multitude of things you don’t know about me,” she says, and it all feels so familiar. Familiar and familial and like finding the perfect skipping rock at the lake.

“Please, tell me all of them.”

“Oh, mon dieu!” Arthur interjects. “Get a room!”

Charles kicks him under the table, pretends to have an itch on his face to get away with flipping off his kid brother. Chris laughs softly at the whole interaction, adjusts in her seat and looks up just in time to catch Pascale’s glance over the top of her book. “Is it a good read?” She asks, “I’m always looking for new books to add to my list.”

Pascale smiles, sets the book page down on the table. “You are a big reader?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chris nods. “Almost every night before bed.”

“That’s wonderful! I wish these boys would read more."

“I read,” Charles defends, finally making his move. King, c2 to c3. Exactly what she knew he’d have to do.

“What do you read?” Pascale asks Charles.

“F1 gossip,” Arthur chimes in.

“Arthur.”

“Maman.”

“Go back to your game. Chris and I are trying to have a nice conversation."

“You brought us into it,” Charles mumbles, scanning the board.

“I,” she sighs, shakes her head and shares a laugh with Chris. “Yes,” she says, “To answer your question, yes. It’s very good. You can borrow it when I finish if you’d like.”

“Oh,” Chris smiles, catching Charles staring in his peripheral vision. “I uh, I can’t read French,” she admits, and the language barrier feels so much bigger to overcome than it ever has. It’s glaring at her like an angry elephant.

Pascale nods. “Make Charles read it to you.”

They land in Nice, France at 6:10 in the evening. Exhausted, they say their goodbyes to Nicolas, who is taking another flight to Paris. The rest of them are led through the airport’s back hallways to the helicopter pad, where they take a seven-minute ride to Monaco.

“Have you ever been in a… one of these?” Arthur asks.

Chris nods. “My brother has his pilot’s license.”

In a parking garage beside Monaco’s own private helicopter pad, they say their goodbyes to each other. Chris lingers behind Charles, but Pascale meets her with open arms before hugging her own son, pulls her tight. Tighter than she did the first time they met.

When she does hug Charles, they have an exchange in rapid French.

“C’est une chérie,” Pascale says.

Charles nods, sighs out a chuckle. “Je sais.”

“Est-ce que je vais la revoir?”

“Je l’espère.” Charles’ eyes keep darting over to Chis, bouncing back to his mother each and every time Chris is staring back at him. “Est-ce que tu l’aimes elle?”

Pascale smacks Charles’ shoulder playfully, gives him two kisses on either cheek. “J’aime tous ceux qui te font sourire.”

– – –

His apartment, just like every single other thing she’d seen since touching down in the country, permeates wealth. It feels almost fake, like she’s been transported into a movie set or a plastic doll house. Everything is so incredibly perfect–the streets are without potholes, the sidewalks without cracks, the buildings without dirt. The cars are worth more than she is and all of the shrubbery is perfectly manicured. Places like this don’t exist, not in real life, and yet here she is being driven around the streets of the Twilight Zone and staring out the window like a kid in a candy store.

The walls of his complex are carefully decorated with artwork–the abstract kind that nobody really understands but everyone knows costs a fortune. The floors are marbled and the walls are marbled and everything is so clean and shiny and perfect. So perfect it’s practically illness inducing, and he’s here. She’s here with him.

They squeeze into a small elevator with their suitcases, one that definitely would not pass building regulations back home. More marble. More shine. A big, floor to ceiling mirror.

She’s so exhausted. So, so spectacularly tired. She leans against him like a stiff board, forehead against his chest while he chuckles, pets her hair. “I have never been more tired in my life.”

“It’s the jet lag,” he offers.

“I fell asleep six hours ago and woke up in a simulation.”

“You want to do nothing all night?” Charles asks. Chris nods against him.

She’s pretty sure there is gold in the marble. “How much do you pay to live here?”

“A lot,” he mutters. She doesn’t need elaboration.

His apartment tour is top-tier, a potential new wonder of the world. This is the bathroom, this is the picture in the dining room that everyone hates, these are the fake flowers on top of the forty thousand piano–Chris plays a couple notes as she walks behind him through the different rooms. This is the nearly empty wine fridge, all of the bottles are unopened. “I don’t drink wine,” he says. And this, this is the bedroom.

She flops onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. It’s like being suffocated by a cloud of comfort and warmth and sleep. She doesn’t stay for long because she knows if she does she’ll be asleep until morning.

You’d think it was an established, well-oiled routine, the ease at which they navigate the evening. Because Charles, as he tells Chris, doesn’t “really keep food around the house,” they’re stuck with takeout. He translates a menu from his phone only to scroll another couple pages down and find a menu already completely in English.

Charles settles on Seafood Linguine and Chris the Tuna steak with a side of grilled asparagus. She showers while he gets the food, washes the travel grime and the Abu Dhabi dust down the drain. He wins the race to finish the task at hand, a quiet knock on the bathroom door before she hears it creak open. “Food is here,” he says, and she watches the last of her conditioner spin away into the drain.

They eat in the dining room, beside a off-puttingly large photograph of a man whose backstory Chris is too apprehensive to question. Charles is still in the same clothes he’s been wearing all day, and she’s sure he feels coating in a thick layer of sludge from all the altitude changes and recycled, stale air. She sits across from him in pajamas, sweatpants that she couldn’t place the origin of and a heather gray sweatshirt, RES Tigers printed across the front of it in a combination of big red block letters and black cursive. The ends of her hair stain the fabric a dark gray everytime she moves a piece of it.

“I know what we should watch,” he says, around a forkful of her asparagus.

“Hmm?” She hums, mouth full, reaching for her water glass.

“You cried about it.”

She chuckles. “I cry about a lot of movies.”

“You cry for a lot of things. Not specific to movies.”

Chris shrugs. “Guilty.”

“You were having a ‘movie day,’” he says, reaching across the table for his phone, his other hand, fork still between his fingers, feigns quotation marks. He scrolls quickly on the screen. “You say, ‘Jih-ordie makes me cry.’”

When met with her puzzled look, wiping her mouth with a napkin, he turns the phone for her to see. “Oh, Gordie. You want to watch Stand by Me?”

Chris reaches her fork over, stealing a bite of his pasta. “I do not think I have seen it, to be honest,” he says, and she thinks that’s obvious enough by the fact that he mispronounced the main character’s name thirty seconds earlier.

“Well,” she chews, covering her mouth with her hand to block the view of it. “We have to watch it, then.”

Chris, after seven intense minutes of bickering, convinces Charles to let her do the dishes. You still haven’t showered, she argues. It’s my house, he reasons to no avail. His first taste or arguing with an Elliott and he can’t even make it ten minutes without conceding to her.

It takes her longer than it should take any one person to wash a couple of plates and two sets of silverware, but he has a lot of kitchen cabinets and a lot of drawers and she’s opening half of them to try and find the dishes’ homes.

Back in her Georgia home, up the long driveway and inside the purple door, if you make a left at the first doorway you’ll find a green couch, a tall bookshelf, and an antique piano. She’s been learning how to play for what feels like forever, now. What started as a housewarming gift from her grandparents that had sat untuned in their spare bedroom from a time long before Chris, it has become an annual resolution to eventually learn to play. It’s made of softwood and is chipped, scratched, well loved and well played and nowhere nearly as nice or expensive as the upright Steinway sitting in front of her now.

She toys with the keys, looks around the instrument for any sheet music but finds none. Instead, she looks up some basic songs on her phone, sets it on the shelf and begins to play–painfully slow. Each time she tries to pick up the pace, she misses a note or her finger slips and she shakes her head softly, chuckles at her own missteps. It’s a beautiful song, perfectly tuned with keys that would never dream of sticking. It makes her sound so much better than she really is.

“You didn’t tell me you play?” Charles peruses, his feet creaking across the hardwood floors, his presence making the room that much warmer.

“I don’t.”

“Liar,” he says, kisses the crown of her head. He smells clean, like eucalyptus and mint the color blue and April. He reaches behind the piano, between the window and the instrument and pulls out a folder, a piece of paper ripped from a notebook, and hands it to her. “Can you read this?”

She takes it from him, reads it over slowly. It’s sloppily written sheet music, scribbled out in pencil with three eraser tears and a dozen marks on the first page alone. At the top, scribbled in what she assumes is French: la chanson de Charles. “Yeah.”

“Play it?” He asks, already moving to the dining table to get a chair, to pull it up and watch the show. She nods, moves her phone to the bench and sets the papers on the shelf and plays it. Poorly, but played through nonetheless.

“It’s so sad,” she says. He chuckles. “Did you write this?”

He nods through a yawn, stands up to put the chair away. “It is something I’ve been working on. My brother wrote the music because I just play by ear.”

Her face contorts into a foul mix of disbelief and concern. Who the heck plays Piano by ear, she thinks. “This is really good, Charles,” she says. She flips through the pages again, reads them carefully.

“It’s messy,” he moves past her, his fingers tracing her back, shoulder to shoulder as he walks by into the living room and lands on the couch with a soft thump. “I am going to take a nap, and you just keep playing. Work out the mess, maybe.”

He realizes quickly that he’s never going to be able to watch this movie again without thinking of the woman under his arm. For the rest of time, no matter what happens, when he thinks about this movie he will think of her.

She makes it a whole ten minutes before she’s sniffling. They're going on about the importance of a lucky cap and she’s crossing her arms over her chest. He smiles, because sometimes watching her exist is like watching a puppy be perfectly and irresistibly adorable, and then he kisses her hair.

Charles wishes he could ignore the parallels, but they’ve always hit like a punch to the gut–no, no–it’s always been more like getting the wind knocked out of you on the playground as a child. Like you can’t breathe for a minute, but being able to stop breathing all together is never really presented as an option, so. You just have to open your lungs again.

The main character, Gordie, is in a petrol station or market or maybe it’s supposed to be both. Anyways, he’s there and he’s buying food and the clerk is just going on and on about the poor kid’s brother; about how much they look alike and all the potential that went into the ground some time ago.

Yeah, the Jules comparisons are a lot like getting the fucking wind knocked out of you.

She cranes her neck up to look at him like she knows something he hasn’t told her. “Y’okay?” She asks, and when his eyes snap down from the screen to meet hers, he realizes he’s been squeezing her hand. He was telling her something he hadn’t told her–silently, unconsciously.

Chris, he’s come to learn in the past thirty-five or so minutes, talks during movies. She talks a lot during movies. Let me know if you get confused, she’s said… three times now. She seems to be a never-drying well of trivia for the film, from this is why they chose a Yankees cap to there is a Simpon’s parody of this scene, she doesn’t shut up. Honest to God, the best he can do is half-listen, especially if he hopes to understand any of the actual plot.

He feels a wet drop hit his hand near the hour mark during what even he can admit is quite the emotional scene. She sits up shortly after to properly wipe the tears from her face. “Are you okay?” He asks through a chuckle, sitting up, flat hand rubbing circles on her back.

She shakes her head, speaks with a fragile tremble in her tone, “No,” she bites down on the inside of her cheek and her eyes look anywhere but at him.

Charles pauses the movie.

“That teacher is so screwed up!” She continues.

“I know,” he says, and his heart breaks with the shudder of her breaths. This is the first time he’s been faced with her crying. Sure, he’s got the voice memos and the pictures and the videos of her crying across the world over books and movies and television commercials with homeless dogs. He’s never sat there, though, never had to stare down her heartbroken eyes and figure out a way to fix them.

“He’s just a kid,” she sniffles, wipes her eyes once more and takes a deep, heavy breath. She reaches for the remote, settles back into her spot on the sofa and unpauses it. “It just makes me sad.”

“I know,” is all he knows to say. Validate, even if he thinks her emotions are a bit silly. It’s what he’s supposed to do, it’s what a boyf- it’s what a good person is supposed to do. She leans against him, snuggles into him like he’s a pillow or a favorite blanket and he only hopes she isn’t embarrassed about crying, that he’d been able to be a little more emotionally intelligent in calming her down.

You know what, no. It is a boyfriend thing to do. It is. He wants to do boyfriend things without doubting they’re boyfriend things. He wants her to know that a physical display of how much she cares for other people isn’t going to drive him away, that it’s actually horribly, disgustingly endearing. He wants this to have a label, to have the security of a title. “Chris,” he starts, and he’s surprised he isn’t going to think about it all for longer than a moment.

“I’m okay.”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

She whips her head to face him in the dark living room, in the soft shadows of the television screen lighting. He’s looking right at her, into those fucking eyes that are never not driving him insane. “Are you just asking me so that I stop crying?” She asks.

He shakes his head, doesn’t even entertain the idea with a laugh. “No.”

“You know this is, like, our first date, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “This is at least our third date,” he replies, feeling he’s being conservative about what a ‘date’ can be considered when you live on opposite sides of the globe. It’s definitely been more than three.

“You’re wrong about that.”

He counts them out to her on his fingers. “COTA. Club. Right now.”

She matches his gesture. “First time we met. We were drunk. Right now. I mean, maybe if we count all the times we talk–”

“Chris.” Answer the fucking question.

“What?”

“Fine,” he concedes, even though he’s definitely right. “One date. Question still stands.”

She smiles, giggles to herself and if she would just give him an answer he could kiss her. “Yes,” she finally says, thumb on his chin. “I’ll have you all to myself, Charles Leclerc,” she whispers into his lips and beats him to the kissing punch.

He smiles out of it, “Already had me, Christyn Elliott.”

“Oh,” she pouts. “Well, then, maybe I'll have to reconsider,” a dumb smile pulls on her entire face, illuminating it in a childish way that he can only roll his eyes at. “Kidding,” she reassures with a hand on his chest. “Totally kidding.”

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simmerandwrite · 1 year

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Sink Into Me - 05 - mob!Steve Rogers x plus size! reader

Summary: You were simply doing a good deed, pulling the handsome stranger out of the way when a car jumped the curb. Little did you know that the life you saved belonged to Steve Rogers, the Army veteran turned art dealer with connections to the Brooklyn crime syndicate.

Steve Rogers, who won’t stop calling you his guardian angel.

Steve Rogers, whose new goal in life just might be repaying his debt to you.

Steve Rogers, who isn’t shy until it comes to his feelings and will stop at nothing to keep you safe.

Chapters: 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08

Wordcount: 6k

Warnings: some smut in this one, vague references to violence, canon level violence (series), body image issues (series)

Notes: thank you all for reading! means a lot to me. i’d love to hear your thoughts and remember, a reblog goes a long way for a writer on this hellsite!! ( if you see me in the wild, i’m @simmerandcry)

As happy as you were to have Steve laying beside you in bed, you weren’t ready to sleep yet. Not when you hadn’t seen him in almost a week. Sure, you had both very quickly made up for lost time – you weren’t sure you’d be walking straight tomorrow – but it was these quiet moments, just the two of you, that you cherished the most.

With your head resting on his bare chest, you traced your fingers along the tattoos that decorated his skin. The eagle, the poetry verse, the cross, the script displaying his mother’s name - you liked how they all seemed to tell a story and also provide an extra bit of insight about Steve.

“Which one did you get first?” You asked quietly, propping yourself up slightly to get a better scan of his torso. He had pulled his boxers back on after you cleaned up but he still had plenty of skin showing. “And which one hurt the most?”

Steve glanced at your curious smile then scanned over his chest. “This one hurt the most, against my ribs.” He tipped to the side slightly, revealing a traditional style tattoo that lined the right side of his torso. “And the first..” A laugh escaped him, moving his hand to tug at the waistband of his boxers. He pointed to the faint outline of a fading tattoo, just a few letters that adorned the front of his left hip.

You twisted to see what he was pointing at. “I never noticed that - what does it say? ‘Punk’?”

“Yeah,” Steve was laughing again, running his thumb over the letters. “Me and Buck gave each other tattoos one night. Dumb teenage shit, you know?”

“That’s strangely… endearing,” you laughed along, letting out a long breath and returning to your spot resting against him. “Bucky’s your best friend?”

“Seems a bit juvenile to say it that way, but yeah. I trust him with my life.” Steve circled his arm around you and held you closer somehow. The light touch of his fingertips grazed your shoulders. “Me and him, we’ve.. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“Can you tell me something no one else knows about you?” You closed your eyes, fighting off the heavy wave of sleep that was creeping in. “Not even Bucky?”

“Hmm.” Steve paused, taking the extra moment to press a kiss to the top of your head while he thought of his answer. “I closed on a new property today.”

You opened your eyes again. “Okay, that’s… a fact, I guess.”

His chest rumbled, smirking. “I bought a cabin in Connecticut, near the state border. It’s a little thing - triangle A-frame structure, two bedrooms, comes with a canoe and a kayak, there’s a trail down to a lake..”

You couldn’t help but push yourself up again, turning to smile at him with wide eyes. “It sounds beautiful! Just an investment property orr…”

“No, it’s for me. I want somewhere to escape the city. It needs some work but I want it to be all season.”

“I can’t wait to see some photos.”

“Maybe we could..” Steve trailed off, eyes closing momentarily before he opened just one to peek at you. “Could up there on a weekend? Just us two?”

Your cheeks warmed at the thought of a weekend away with Steve, away from everything, cozy around a fire. “That sounds like a dream.”

“Well, let’s make it happen, sweetheart.”

---

“Hey, you’ve barely even commented on that terrible design - where is your head right now?”

You sighed, tearing your empty stare from your TV across the room and down towards where Maria was sitting on the rug. You had invited her over to binge the latest season of your favourite reality tv fashion show and, well, you were clearly being a bad host.

Truthfully, you were lost in your thoughts. You’d been drawing in them a lot over the past few weeks. You could feel your work life balance slipping away as another busy project season approached. And moving had thrown you for a loop. But mostly your mind was racing thinking about Steve. Your pros and cons list about him and the state of your relationship was growing on each side.

God, the pros were so good. He was attentive, kind and interesting. You both had fun together, you laughed a lot and he cared as much about Hercules as he did you. And the sex was amazing - he really enjoyed taking care of you. Steve was strong in his convictions, fought through adversity, and remained passionate about the things that mattered to him.

But on the other hand, you knew it was fair to have doubts. Steve was busy with work and whatever else was going on in his life and you didn’t see each other as often as you both would like. And there was the large mystery of what he really did for work anyway, though you could put enough pieces together. Quiet phone calls, an endless list of people who seemed to report to him, the illicit activities at the club, his resistance to the police…

“Are you okay?” Maria shifted slightly, pausing the show and turning to look up at you as you clutched a pillow anxiously on the couch.

“I’m just thinking about Steve,” you finally admitted, closing your eyes and collapsing back into the couch.

“What else is new?” Maria joked, eyes narrowed as you watched you. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been willfully ignorant about his..” You hesitated. “..His work.”

Maria scooted closer, propped up on her knees. “Okay, yeah, let’s dig in because what is all that about? I was kind of joking about the mob thing but..” Her eyes grew dramatically wide. “Wait.” Reaching for her phone, she tapped on the screen and looked back at you. “Hey Google - what does a mob boss do?”

“No, come on,” you laughed, though it was mostly to hide your concern. “It’s going to burst the bubble, you know? The minute I really admit all this out loud.”

Maria scanned over the webpage illuminated on her phone. “It’s kind of a spectrum of information here. Whatever this thing is he’s running, they could have their hands in a lot of stuff like loaning money, tax fraud, political racketeering, illegal weapons, murd–”

Shaking your head, you reached for her phone and took it from her. “Stop, please. I don’t want to..” You sighed and draped your arm across your eyes. “Last week, I was staying over at his place and he got a call in the middle of the night. Something so important he had to leave for an hour but of course he didn’t give me any details. But that can’t be a good thing, right? I’m not an idiot.”

Maria just sighed, your name quiet on her lips. “I know you’re not an idiot. But maybe.. I don’t know. Maybe this was only meant to be short term.”

A beat of silence sat between you both. Eventually, you took a deep breath. “Steve is a good person.”

Maria nudged you with her elbow. “Is he?”

“Yes! The side of him I see is… good, I think.”

“And the side you don’t see?”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Maria said your name softly, enticing you to peel your arm away and look at her. “It just sounds like whatever Steve does - lawful or illegal or whatever - it could be dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt or caught up in something you shouldn’t be a part of.”

“I don’t want that either,” you replied quietly. A dramatic groan followed as you fell sideways onto the couch cushions. You knew Steve would never, ever let you get hurt. The real problem though was - what could even be potential harm for you? Wasn’t being with Steve just adding to that big potential risk? Maybe it really was time to admit that and maybe it was time for a hard conversation. “It feels like I met the right person at the wrong time.”

Maria offered you a small sympathetic smile. “It also feels like it’s time for the second bottle of wine.”

---

Even thinking about starting the conversation with Steve intimidated you. Deep down, you knew you were just delaying it on purpose - remaining perfectly content in your honeymoon phase.

After a long workday, you had collected Hercules from his daycare then headed home, showered and talked yourself into being bold enough to bring it up with Steve. You met him at Shield, where he promised he was just about done with some paperwork then you could find somewhere to go for dinner.

You waited patiently in the chair across from his desk, fingers tapping against the arm of the chair as you watched him. Out of all the days, it was this day he had chosen to reveal to you that he sometimes wore reading glasses.

And fuck if he didn’t look even more attractive in a pair of glasses. Now your stomach was swirling with anxiety and something else, too. You weren’t sure how much longer you could contain yourself.

“You okay?” Steve’s voice broke through your thoughts. You met his gaze over the desk. He had stopped his pen from marking up the ledger ahead of him, staring at you with stoic curiosity instead. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

“No, no. Take your time.” You waved your hand and looked anywhere else in the room.

He kept a photo of his mom on the corner of his desk. A framed antique movie poster decorated one wall and–

“Sweetheart?”

You sighed and looked back at him. “I’m fine. Just.. I had a long day. My boss has been micromanaging me like crazy and… just tired, I guess.”

You could tell he didn’t really believe you, but thankfully he didn’t press. He did drop his pen down, though. With one swift motion, he closed his ledger book and leaned back in his chair.

“C’mhere, my tired girl.”

With another sigh, you pretended for a moment to consider rejecting how he was inviting you over to his side of the desk. But you couldn’t resist. You stood and shuffled your way over there, letting him gently perch you on the side of his desk as he stood from his chair.

His hands found your hips quickly, as he leaned down and looked into your eyes. “We don’t have to go out.”

“No, no,” you shook your head. “I want to! I just..” You scrunched up your face, trying to find something convincing to say. “My mind is all over the place today.”

Steve gave you one of his little charming half smiles, slotting himself between your legs and moving his hands up to cradle both your cheeks. His thumb brushed over the apple of your cheeks. “Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Before you could let out the breath you were holding, across the room someone banged on the door. Steve grumbled under his breath and opened his mouth to dismiss whoever was there, but instead the door rushed open.

“Rogers, your phone broken? We were supposed to start this meeting twenty –”

You tried to turn your head to see who was there, but Steve held you steady. A series of expletives left his mouth as he stepped back for a moment, shouting towards the door.

“And since when do we meet in my fucking office, Russo?” Steve dropped his hands and moved towards the door, acting as a barrier between you and the opposite side of the room. You craned your neck to see them standing on either side of the doorway.

“I’ll meet you at the bar then..” The other voice eventually replied, footsteps disappearing in the hallway.

“Fuck..” You heard Steve muttering again.

Well, date night was definitely off the table, you were certain of it.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I double booked and –”

“Steve, it’s fine.” You dismissed him immediately, hopping off the desk and meeting him in the middle of the room. “I can take my rotten mood home, it’s probably better this way.”

“I’ll get Shaun to take you home, okay? He should be downstairs.”

You could see the genuine disappointment on Steve’s face. He clearly felt bad that his meeting had slipped his mind but it occurred to you that certain things were probably easier for him to prioritize and, well, where did that leave you?

You just nodded and accepted the offer. Steve grabbed your hand and guided you back down to the main part of the bar, making one quick hand motion to his driver, who immediately jumped to attention and hurried outside to pull a car around.

“Come over after?” You brought your hand up and poked his chest. “I’ll order a pizza?”

He nodded, reaching for his wallet. “Let me pay for it, at least.”

“Steve,” you laughed, stopping his hand and looking over your shoulder briefly. You didn’t recognize a few of the people lingering around the bar, a few of which were clearly watching you and Steve. “It’s okay.”

He sighed, head shaking. When you resisted again, he held up his hands in defense. “Fine, but I’m coming over with a pint of gelato then.”

You smiled. “Sounds amazing.” You looked back again, then raised up onto your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you later.”

---

Steve sent you a few updates throughout the night. That his meeting went longer than he hoped, that they had to meet up with someone else, that he was sorry and would be there soon. When he finally showed up, you had already packed the pizza away and changed into your pajamas to sprawl out on the couch. Hercules was sprawled out under your feet just the same.

When he opened the door, you twisted and offered him a smile. Though it disappeared quickly when you got a better look at him under the lights in your kitchen. You didn’t mean to gasp but when you narrowed your eyes, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

“Steve - are you bleeding?” You leaped up from the couch and met him near the kitchen sink, pulling his shoulder in an attempt to see his neckline better. “There’s blood all over your—“

“Shit.” He took a step back from you, letting out a long breath as he lifted a hand to his collar. “Fucking shit.”

“Are you hurt? What happened?” You twisted your head again, trying to look but he turned away. “Steve.”

Silence hung between you both.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “I’m fine. It’s…it’s not my blood.”

You took a step back, trying to ignore the heavy feeling that took over your stomach. Maybe you were about to have the dreaded conversation sooner than later.

Steve turned on his heel and looked at you, teeth gritted as he found his words. “It's, uh, an occupational hazard.”

Brow furrowed, you frowned. “This isn’t funny.”

He pulled at his collar and sighed again. “I’m not laughing.”

“Steve.” You walked backwards until you hit your couch, perching yourself on the end with crossed arms as you watched him across the room. He wasn’t making this conversation any easier - shedding his jacket and collared shirt left him in just a goddamn white tanktop and fuck if he didn’t look so incredibly built. “Did you - did you ki-”

He cut you off, head shaking as he muttered out your name. “Please don’t ask that question.”

You took a deep breath. “We have both been ignorant here, okay? And I don’t want to ask but I don’t know if I can avoid it anymore so.. So, you’re in.. the mob? You run the…”

Steve smirked, briefly, then shook his head as his jaw tensed. His discomfort was evident in every twitch. “That’s an archaic term.” He let the air out of his lungs then reached for his jacket. “No, we can’t do this. I won’t do this.”

“Tell me the truth!” Your voice came out louder than you intended, but you carried on. “I’m not an idiot, Steve. And neither are you. I’m smart enough to figure out that whatever you consider your ‘business’ - it’s above the law, or below it, I guess.”

He gritted his teeth for a moment as he considered his words. “Fine. I guess we’re talking about this now.” He paused. “It’s my responsibility to manage a network of people, alright? People who..”

“You can’t even say it out loud,” you scoffed quietly, shaking your head as you looked away.

Steve huffed, calling your name to grab your attention again. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I have a team of people working for me. I loan money, I make trades and get a cut, I turn a blind eye to things when necessary. I don’t always follow the rules or act with civility. That part of my life -I, I don’t want you involved, okay? So forgive me for trying to shield you from that.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favour, Steve!” You sighed. “I don’t get it. You’ve shown me who you are - who you really are - time and time again and that version of you, I just.. how does the Steve who has a little hideaway cottage upstate, who-who funds after school programs in his neighbourhood - how does he kill people!?”

Steve took a step forward, your name on his lips. “Listen to me, I didn’t—”

You choked out a dry laugh “Stop. You have literal blood on your hands.”

He shook his head, mouth agape. “I use force when I need to and I like to ensure my message is understood by any means possible. But unless absolutely necessary, I don’t take lives.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“I told you I’d never lie to you.”

You didn’t reply.

“You called me, sweetheart. Remember?” He closed in the space between you and reached for your hand. “Those idiots were breaking into your apartment and you didn’t dial 911, you called me. Why?”

Hesitantly, you extended your arm and let him squeeze your hand.

He brushed his thumb across your knuckles. “Because you know that deep down, maybe the cops wouldn’t get there quick enough. Maybe they wouldn’t help you at all. You’d get a report, one follow up call and nothing else. I know there are good cops but they are overworked and outnumbered. And the bad ones.. I’m doing my part and taking care of my city in any way I can.”

You looked up at him again. The blood was still staining his neck. With one firm tug, you removed your hand from his hold. Your voice shook. “You should go.”

“I think we need to— ”

You flicked your wrist to the door. “Go.”

Though you could see him resisting, Steve relented and stepped back from you. His mouth opened to argue but snapped shut quickly. Gripping his soiled shirt, he moved towards the doorway.

“Steve?” You stood up and he paused, meeting your glossy eyes. “Do you think you’re a good person?”

“What matters more is if you think I’m a good person, sweetheart.” He paused and waited for a reaction from you but you remained motionless. “I’ll, uh- goodnight. I’m sorry.”

Just as soon as the door clicked shut, you collapsed onto your couch, consumed by your tears.

---

You weren’t entirely sure why your day went so poorly - was it your boss and their awful attitude? Was it the coffee you spilled all over your lap at lunch? Was it the fact that ignoring Steve and every thought about him was grinding on your emotions?

All you wanted was a hot shower and dinner under a blanket on the couch. That was it. You just had to make it home. You figured at least the bad day was behind you as you headed to your apartment. Because you couldn’t imagine it getting worse.

Hah.

You [6:51PM]: hey You [6:51PM]: i know we left everything up in the air You [6:51PM]: but I don’t know what to do You [6:52PM]: I think someone is following me

Maybe you were being paranoid. Because you were in a hurry. For that same reason, you couldn’t be certain the same man from the subway was following you to your bus stop. But when you hesitated and turned down a side street, pretending to be very interested in the fruit display outside some nearby bodega, he slowed down too. And when you opted to turn back and join the line at Starbucks, as a test, he followed.

You tried not to panic.

Your first thought was to message Steve, a habit you had been struggling to resist all week. He’d reached out a handful of times since your fight but you had done a damn good job not replying. But now? He was the first person to come to your mind.

Moments after you reached out to him, your phone rang.

You brought it to your ear as you waited in line. “Hi.”

“Are you safe? Where are you? Can you share your location with me?”

You let out a long breath. “Sure, just a sec.” You pulled your phone away and did as he requested. “Done.”

“That’s perfect, thank you sweetheart. I’m on my way to meet you. Are there a lot of people around you?”

“Yes, plenty.”

“Great. My GPS is telling me you’re at Starbucks? Is that right?”

“Yeah - want me to grab you a cake pop? You seem like the cake pop type.” You paused. “I’m just gonna order - should I call you back or..?”

“No, you’re good. I’ll be right here. Go ahead.”

You smiled at the barista, trying to maintain your composure. Pulling your phone down slightly, you ordered. “Just a tall americano, please. With a bit of milk.”

Steve chirped in your ear. “Decaf?”

Oh, shit. It was after six already. And here Steve was, in the middle of your panic, reminding you of your own caffeine sensitivity. You paused before paying for your drink. “Can you make that decaf, please?”

After you paid, you heard Steve again. “I’m about a block away.” God, he was moving fast. You could hear honking behind him.

“Okay, I’m uh..” You faltered, scanning the crowd for the man who has been following you. You ducked behind a couple sitting at a tall table when you noticed him lingering near the door. “The guy.. I think he’s waiting for me to leave. Maybe. I don’t know, actually. I might have made this whole thing up or -”

“Just stay where you are, keep talking to me.” It sounded like he was walking now. “Whatever your gut tells you, it's important. Nothing wrong with that, I promise.”

You hummed a quiet agreement. That kind of justification did make you feel better but your doubts continued to creep in. Grabbing your drink as your name was called, you took a few steps forwards and finally spotted Steve at the door.

“The guy in the blue jacket?”

You quietly confirmed, finally meeting Steve’s eyes across the sea of people waiting in line. The sight of his smile, though just there for a moment, mostly settled the turmoil in your stomach.

“Just stay right there until I come get you, okay?”

With a final nod, Steve ended the call and returned his phone to his pocket. Then you watched as he very subtly stepped up to the man you had described, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

The man froze.

Steve reached out and gripped his shoulder, guiding him outside and beyond the window. Then you lost sight of them both and you tried not to let your mind wander.

You sipped your coffee, sliding into a chair at a free table - though you were smart enough to keep your back to the wall, waiting for Steve to come back for you. Finally letting yourself breathe, the gravity of the situation seemed to settle in you. Why was someone following you? Was this connected to the break in at your apartment again? Was it something related to Steve?

Steve.

God, you couldn’t believe how he dropped everything to come protect you from whatever this was, if it was anything at all. Actually, no, you could believe it. Because Steve had proven many times that he cared about you and your wellbeing.

“What matters more is if you think I’m a good person, sweetheart.”

Could a good person do bad things? Didn’t that make them a bad person? Fuck, you didn’t want to get into the moral gymnastics of this again.

You were freed from the spiral of thoughts when Steve dropped into the seat across from you, eyes narrow with concern. You knew he was searching your face for distress, pain, anything.

“You okay?” Finally he spoke, slowly reaching his hand out to grab yours as it sat on the table. You squeezed back as he held on.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He didn’t touch you?”

“No, no. Kept his distance enough that I was second guessing myself but..”

You wanted to ask who the guy was, if Steve knew him, why he might be following you. But you didn’t really want answers to those questions.

“Let me take you home,” Steve let your hand go and nodded towards the door. “Do you need to get Hercules?”

You revealed a small smile though it faded quickly. “I do.. but..” You swallowed the lump in your throat and closed your eyes. “Can I.. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay, let’s grab your boy and we’ll go to my place.”

---

Despite the straight lines and cool tones that decorated Steve’s apartment, you felt comfortable there. The entire journey to get through his door, from the car ride to the elevator, you felt like you were holding your breath. But walking into his living room, as Hercules padded across the kitchen floor to slurp up some water from a dish Steve had left for him, you felt the tension release from your shoulders. Finally.

You fiddled with the sleeves of your sweater as you crossed the room, stopping in front of the large windows that looked down onto the city. You felt small suddenly.

Behind you, Hercules’ wandering footsteps came to an end as he flopped down in the middle of the living room. Then, you could hear Steve walking towards you too, slowly.

He stopped at your side, casting a brief sideways glance to you before he shifted his gaze to the skyline.

You swallowed hard, tangling your hands together as you spoke. “I called you.. that night... Because you make me feel safe, Steve. I can’t really explain it but it’s something I’ve never felt before..” A small laugh escaped you. “Even now, wearing my heart on my sleeve, I think I should be scared and yet..” Turning your head to the side, you met his eyes. “..I’m safe.”

You couldn’t read his reaction. Was it confusion, relief, understanding? He dragged a hand across his jaw before looking away again.

“Steve?” You grabbed his nearest hand. “Thank you.”

To your surprise, Steve pulled his hand back for a moment then turned and brought it up to cradle your cheek. His eyes burned with something you hadn’t seen before - something deep, intense. “You don’t have to thank me - you shouldn’t have to thank anyone for caring about you, sweetheart. It’s an honour — it’s my privilege to keep you safe.”

You were shrouded in him - the intense feeling of protection radiated through his stare, through his touch, his words. Why couldn’t this be easier? Right then, it felt easy but you knew it wouldn’t always be that way.

You closed your eyes briefly then looked back up at him. “What do we do now?”

He licked his lips, resisting breaking eye contact with you. “Who I am- it doesn’t go away.”

“I know. Logically, maybe walking away makes sense.. before this gets more tangled. But I just don’t… that’s not what I want.”

Steve stepped forward, closing in the space between you. “Okay. Then what do you want?”

You couldn’t answer. You wanted to smash your lips into his, run your hands down his back, feel him on top of you. But your logical brain stopped you. With all the willpower you could manage, you pulled away and took a small step back. “I want to.. uhm. Shower. Do you mind if I—”

Steve took a step back too, nodding. “Of course. Yeah. Go ahead. There’s fresh towels in my bathroom..”

With a solemn nod you turned and headed down the hall, doing your best not to look back at him.

Fuck, you were so totally fucked. What the fuck were you doing?

Steve’s shower was incredible compared to the one in the guest room. Spacious, with heated tile on the floor and a rainfall shower head. You turned on the water to warm up as you undressed, opening the door to his small linen cabinet to grab a towel. Then you saw it - the neat stack of your preferred shampoo, conditioner, lotion and body wash.

Had Steve grabbed those just for you? You could cry just thinking of him walking around CVS and matching the toiletries to the ones you kept in your own bathroom. You wrapped the towel around your torso and moved the soaps to the bench in the shower, then peaked your head out the bathroom door.

“Steve?” You called out his name, hearing quick footsteps heading your way.

He stepped into the bedroom and met you at the door frame. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just, uh..” you hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I can’t figure out how the shower works.”

He frowned. “Huh. I can show you the-” His face turned to a smile instead, taking in your coy smirk. With one hand he reached for the hem of his shirt. He gave you another look, as if to make sure you really wanted his company.

You grabbed his hand, letting your towel drop to the floor. “Come on.”

Steve didn’t waste any time tearing off his clothes and joining you under the water. Once you were both well soaked, the whole shower filled with steam as his lips found yours.

He was hungry for you and you were hungry for him too. Gone were the doubts and fears and worries as you were left with just Steve - with his calloused careful hands and his soft lips, his calculated touch. He was a man with a mission.

“Fuck,” you whimpered out, breathless as Steve’s lips moved towards your neck. “Steve, I..”

“Tell me what you need, baby. Tell me and you can have it.” His hands snaked over your body, gliding easily over every inch of your skin.

You gasped as his hands gripped your ass, before slipping around to the front, between your legs.

“There.. Yes,” you breathed out against the shell of his ear. “Make me come, please. Fuck me, tell me I’m yours..”

One of Steve’s hands came back up to capture your lips again, to cradle your jaw as his other started to play a symphony between your legs. His fingers moved gently at first, circling your clit slowly to warm you up. His tongue danced against yours, grinning against your mouth as you let out a tiny whimper. “Is that good? Is this what you need, my love?”

My love? The man was going to kill you, unraveling you inch by inch, touch by touch.

“Yes, yes!” Was all you could muster to reply as Steve sped up, challenging both himself and you to get you there with a bigger impact. You barely had time to prepare yourself for the climax, shaking against his hand as his lips clamped down against the skin of your neck.

You could tell he was going to leave a mark there.

You didn’t care.

In a swift motion, he moved his hand from between your legs to the outside of your thigh, lifting it up against his hip and pulling back enough to align himself with you. On your other leg, you raised yourself onto your toes to meet him and then you heard it - that deep, sensual growl that echoed from his chest.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he seethed through his teeth, head tipped back momentarily as he pushed himself fully into you. You pulled him back to your mouth, holding his cheeks in your hands as you breathed him in. “I need this - need you..”

He collapsed against you, thrusting slow and steady, eliciting a whine from you with every extra push. And then, before you could even understand what was happening, Steve was lifting you - hands gripping the underside of your ass cheeks to hold you steady. You nearly protested, thinking about the sheer physics of what was happening - but damnit, Steve was stronger than you realized.

“I won’t let you fall, baby. Won’t let anything happen to my girl, I promise..” He answered your racing questions without hesitation, keeping you safe and secure in his arms as he fucked into you with an unmatched intensity. Christ, you feared the tiles might shatter behind your back.

“You’re my girl, all mine..”

You wondered momentarily if the subtext behind his words matched yours. When he said you were his, did he mean it? In his heart and soul?

“Wanna do this forever..” He continued, head nestled beside your own as his pace increased. “Wanna make you feel good, happy. Safe. Want you around me forever.”

You were nearly bursting at the seams, anticipating the wave of feelings as another orgasm approached. “Steve..” you were breathless, barely audible in his ear. “Come with me, baby.”

“I’m close..” he returned, pulling back to find your lips. “I’m gonna— ”

He collapsed against you as he reached his peak, grunting as the last motions of his hips tensed and he flooded into you. He held you there, legs shaking around him as you came down from your own climax.

You both caught your breath, lost in the sound of the water hitting the tiled floor.

---

Steve never wanted to take his moments with you for granted, especially in the early morning light. You were a dream under the golden rays - somehow attached to his side in your sweet slumber. This was all he dreamed of. Silent, calm, serenity.

Resisting his urge to check his phone, he shuffled and pulled his arm around you, keeping your back cradled against his chest. Fuck, even your half dressed form under the sheets had him ready to go first thing in the morning.

You rustled under his hold. “Morning..” The rasp of your first spoken words melted his heart.

“Did I wake you?” He asked before pressing a kiss to your neck, hot breath tickling your skin.

“No, no. Internal clock. Herc probably needs to go out..”

“He’s still asleep,” Steve replied, pausing to crane his neck and check on your sleeping dog just outside the doorway to his room. “Content.”

“Me too,” you said quietly, pressing your hips back against Steve. All of him. A low moan escaped you. “Very good morning..”

Steve took that as enough of a cue and let his lips get to work. Kisses were pressed against your neck and shoulders as the hand tucked around your waist reached below your shirt. With every twist of your nipples, your hips moved more aggressively.

Steve grinned. “Let me take care of you, baby.” His hands explored all over - from your chest, across your soft stomach to underneath the waistband of your underwear. “God damn, I love how you feel. All ready for me..”

It wasn’t long before you were shaking at his hands and he was lifting your thigh to slide in, hungry and relentless to really feel you. He held you tight, your bodies moulded together as the city woke up beneath you. Steve breathed out your name again and again, like some kind of secret prayer.

With a firm hand gripping your hip, he let himself go with a possessive growl. God, he could start every day like this forever if you’d let him - a reminder to you both of how he felt for you, how you were tied together, how you’d both get to think back to this moment during every other hour of the day.

Eventually, you had to leave the bed and return to the real world.

Steve took you home, waited as you got changed for work as he caught up on his own outstanding messages. Then he took you to drop off Hercules and delivered you safely to the front door of your office.

After one or two or three kisses, you reached for the handle of your door. He called your name to stop you.

“Steve, I’m already late,” you frowned, tipping your head to watch him.

He sighed, though a small apologetic lined his face. “Just one more thing. Next weekend - would you be up for a road trip to the cabin? We can talk about.. everything.”

You thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.” Leaning in, you stole another kiss. “Okay, I’ve gotta get upstairs. Thanks for the ride. I lov-” You blinked and caught yourself. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Steve watched as you hurried away. He sighed, teeth clenched, only putting his car back into drive once you were safely inside.

With a tight grip on the steering wheel, Steve headed into Manhattan. The early morning traffic would normally bother him, but he didn’t mind the extra time with his thoughts before he made it to his meeting.

If he could even call it a meeting. God, he hated the mind games his mentor liked to play. Elusive, tricky and always trying to teach a lesson - Nick Fury was a force to be reckoned with.

Steve pulled up to the The Gemini Hotel, nodding to the young kid scurrying working the valet desk as he handed over his keys and headed inside. Steve didn’t bother even sparing a glance towards the attendant at the front desk and he ignored the concierge too, striding directly to the elevator to head up to the penthouse. Conveniently, he ran smack into Fury’s right hand man once Steve stepped into the elevator.

“You’re about twelve hours late,” Phil Coulson started, eyes stealing ahead as they travelled upwards.

Steve didn’t reply. When the elevator dinged, Steve surged forward and hurried down the hall to the familiar suite. With a grunt, he pushed past the security guard waiting outside the door and made his way inside.

“Good fucking lord, can’t a man read the paper and eat his croissant in peace?”

Steve ignored the commentary from Nick Fury, who was leaning back in an office chair with his feet propped up on the desk. Steve reached across and pulled the newspaper away, slamming his hands down on the desk and staring the other man down. “Fury, we need to talk.”

Up next: drama, probably. and some more Steve POV.

CHAPTER 04 - CHAPTER 06

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfic #mob boss steve rogers #steve rogers x plus size reader #steve rogers x curvy!reader #steve rogers x curvy reader #marvel fanfiction #simmerandwrite #simmerandcry #story: sink into me

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7grandmel · 2 months

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Todays rip: 11/04/2024

I will Never be a Redneck

Season 7 Featured on: SiIvaGunner's Highest Quality Rips: Volume Sapphire

Ripped by Madinstance

youtube

Requested by Corb and uwustepanne! (Discord, Request Form) (@uwustepanne)

"I'm just kidding, this isn't a blue balls rip. However, you're going to wish it was. I warned you."

Can you IMAGINE being 601billionlazer and getting this rip for Secret SiIva 5?? You hear the silly blue balls and go oh, haha what fun, what a great little bit Madinstance, you always outdo yourself so its fun to see you've taken a funny step back here - only for the truth to be revealed and all hell to break loose? You hear the backing change and think, I swear I recognize that, there's no way he actually did it - the banjo comes in with a gleefully sinister pluck and reaffirms your suspicions. Madinstance fucking did it. The first proper rip uploaded as part of Season 7 introduced the year with a fucking bomb. I will Never be a Redneck.

And look, I've covered some One-Winged Angel rips on here already, One Winged PSYcho - V.S. Sepsyrop and Hen'yoku no Piraman - the latter even being made by Madinstance as well - but I feel like it needs to be stressed how thoroughly deranged this rip in particular is. We ALL know Cotton-Eye Joe, if not the original American country song then ABSOLUTELY the world-famous 1994 Eurodance version - one that, funny enough, was recorded by a Swedish band. Indeeds, its oddly befitting: A culture clash between my homeland, and the nation where a majority of SiIvaGunner's own audience and contributors live - the result is that ALL of us knew well what Cotton-Eye Joe was, a piece of our childhoods for some, or at least for me. Yet its prevalence on SiIvaGunner had been comparatively tame in comparison to that popularity, only appearing in some modest mashups and melodyswaps in Season 1 - seven whole years before Madinstance deployed the nuclear option. Realizing that this overplayed icon of a song even had the ability to be remixed in such a fashion positively blew my mind - I won't sugarcoat it, I will Never be a Redneck completely floored me.

And like, in some ways its to be expected, right? Madinstance is incredible, he continues to show up on here with rips like Initial Deluxe (I've Just Raced on this Course Before) and Fell From a High Place (Reprise) for a reason - his prowess for these large-scale projects feels like it shouldn't even be humanly possible. I remarked back in Hen'yoku no Piraman just how much the recent trend of One Winged Angel rips impresses me, how each one feels as if the ripper is truly showcasing their worth whilst dedicating it all to the glory of a single meme. That still stands, yes, but to apply it to a song that otherwise had near-no prevalence on SiIvaGunner, no standard set for how remixing it ought to go: To have my FIRST ever time hearing Cotton-Eye Joe pitch shifted be in this absolute behemoth feels downright criminal. And its even crazier how it WORKS the whole way through.

The amount of touches present to make this feel as cohesive as it does is staggering. The chorus' titular line of "Cotton-Eye Joe" replaces the use of "Sephiroth!" in the base track perfectly, the original song's violin instrumental breaks between the chorus and verses are pitch shifted into the ominous tone of One Winged Angel's equivalent instrumental breaks, the banjo going off the shits in the longer break from the main melody midway through the track...really, its incredible how much of the original track's excitement and danceable fun suddenly sound so ominous, with changes so deliberate, substantial yet conservative enough to not lose the Cotton-Eye Joe feel - this ALWAYS sounds like the right amount of both tracks in balance. I love how the song's chanting "Hey-hey-hey-heyys" suddenly sound akin to One Winged Angel's latin choir song, how the vocals of the chorus repeat in a somewhat staggered, haunting way near the rip's end - like Beautiful Dreamer or My Dr. Eggman Can't Be This Evil!, its remarkable just how drastic the change of tone becomes through rips like this.

Most of all though, it is that gradual realization of what you're listening to that has made I will Never be a Redneck such a classic for me - NOBODY could've anticipated it based on the channel's past history, and nobody would've expected THIS would be the way that Season 7 would officially "start". Yet its the kind of rip you can send to anyone - both songs are immediately recognizable, and the effort put in to making the two work in tandem is unmistakably impressive. uwustepanne, who wrote in to request this be covered, included a short anecdote with her write-in, about how this rip showing up in her YouTube feed was what made her realize the channel hadn't ended with Season 6's finale, that I will Never be a Redneck in a way represents everything she loves about the channel, the impact its had on her. And yeah - isn't it crazy how a rip as cracked as this one, still wound up facing incredibly stiff competition for rip of the Season?? 2023 was one of SiIvaGunner's greatest-ever years, and seeing a rip like I will Never be a Redneck uploaded at its very start felt almost like they'd set the bar far too high for the rest of the team. Yet somehow, someway, everyone else was up to the challenge and continued making absolutely incredible rips throughout the entire year. Madinstance continues to raise the bar of quality on the channel at almost every turn, and having him do it at the Season's very start - with a rip as out-of-this-world as I will Never be a Redneck to boot - remains as an absolute power move.

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your-subby-creature · 1 year

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Intro Post:

Hi! I finally remembered to make one of these, let me know if I missed anything :^)

Last updated: 04/09/24

——————————————————————

Basics

Names: Creature or Hal/Halogen

Age: 20

Pronouns: he/it/pet/they

Gender: Genderqueer Trans Man

Interested in: anyone of any gender, especially other queer and trans people <3

Relationship status: Single and unowned (and a relationship anarchist so eh who really cares in the first place)

Role: Submissive Verse (leaning bottom)

DNI: Minors, Pedos (MAPS/NOMAPS/PEARS),bestiality/zeta, bigots of any kind or those who fetishize them, ED / weight blogs, self-harm (SH) blogs, no age in bio/pinned, anyone who doesn't believe that consent is always and forever the highest priority

Non-kinky interests: queer & trans community and history, art, crochet, baking, podcasts, nonfiction books, disability and neurodiversity, paganism, psychology, language/linguistics, history (I'll love you forever and also never shut up if you ask me about my research <3)

What I look like: Since I don't post or send pictures I should probably describe myself. I'm a white 5'0" (152.4 cm) fat and invisibly disabled guy. I'm entirely hairless due to an autoimmune condition (alopecia!), have grey eyes, and wear glasses.

DMs: Open

Asks: Open

Taken Emoji Anons: 🐑, 🍯🐾, ☆, ✨️,🎀, 🦴, 🐺🦊🐶, 🦊🕳, 📸

Tags: #Creature originals (original posts), #Creature responds (asks) #Creature scenes (based on scenes in dms or requested) #Creature rambles (misc thoughts), #Creature Studies (academia), #Creature polls (polls) #Creature denial (denial challenges) #puppy playtime saga continues (exactly what it sounds like)

——————————————————————

Kinks

Favorites: cnc, obedience, (cock)worship, control, praise, (loving) degradation, humiliation, objectification, hypnosis, free use, training, pet names, pain, impact, bruising/marking, cockwarming, discipline, sexual torture, ownership, oral fixation, dehumanization, boywife, petplay, orgasm control, body writing, domesticity, cages, corruption, experimentation/scientist kink, anal,

Soft limits: blood, detrans/misgendering, light choking or breathplay, heavy piss, light burning, kidnapping, rimming, needles, bratting, wet and messy, lactation, vomit, primal chasing, spitting in my mouth, heartbeat/cardiophilia

Hard limits: Raceplay, scat, abdl, bestiality/zeta, snuff/gore, pregnancy / birthing, sissification/feminization, hard breathplay, drowning, real incest, feederism, guns, fat fetishism, bald fetishism, SH fetishism, ED fetishism, farts/eprocto, abandonment, fuckpig, sub/sub competition, prolapse, ocular trauma

Presume anything not listed above is something I am neutral to / okay with. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask!

My body: I am on T but have not had any surgery. Acceptable terms include chest, tits, slit, cunt, pussy, hole, (t)cock, (t)dick, and ___parts (e.g. puppy parts or needy parts, etc.)

Terms: I love masculine, neutral, or objectifying terms! Anything that is not explicitly feminizing (eg good girl, princess) is fine; whore, slut, cunt, and bitch are alright. Do not call me slurs without asking. Never use the words annoying, worthless, useless, or pig(gy) in reference to me.

Safewords: For scenes and role-playing I tend to use the stoplight system (green/yellow/red), but if asked for a unique personal safeword, I use "Fluoride"

——————————————————————

Interacting

Pictures / Videos: DO NOT ASK ME FOR PICTURES OR VIDEOS. Presume that I will NEVER send them unless I initiate and explicitly ask your consent to send them. However, feel free to send me any pictures or videos of yourself or of things you find hot (as long as it's all legal and consensual and doesn't violate my limits.)

Audios: I MIGHT send audios with your consent during role-play through a Vocaroo link that I will delete once the scene ends. This is subject to my own judgement, but you are always welcome to ask. You are free to send any (legal, consensual, limit-abiding) audio whenever you'd like.

Calls: Presume that I WILL NOT call you (yes, even on platforms where I don't have to give out my number) unless I initiate and explicitly ask. This is due to privacy concerns and is non-negotiable.

Asks: Asks are open and I love them! I'll always try to answer them, unless they directly violate one of my limits or ask me to doxx myself in some way.

Messages: Anyone is free to message me! I will always try to respond unless it goes against one of my limits, and I reserve the right to stop messaging at any time. Feel free to role-play, scene with me, etc. You get one strike on misgendering me in messages (e.g. "good girl") before the scene immediately stops and you most likely get blocked.

Role-play, flirting, or scenes: Within the confines of my limits and the understanding that either of us can stop or revoke consent at ANY TIME, feel free to role-play, flirt, or scene with me. Please note: I am autistic and have a tendency to unmask during scenes where I'm being given orders to enact IRL. For me this means following certain patterns of typing, taking instructions literally, and requiring clear directions.

Meet-ups: I WILL NOT meet up with you. Non-negotiable.

#Creature originals #Creature responds #Creature scenes #Creature rambles #Creature polls #Creature denial #Creature Studies

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shecharm · 10 months

Note

╰┈➺ * ♡ ⊱◞ ❛ Hm? No, the cloak isn't mine. I took it from a dragonborn a few nights ago. I'd say it goes well with my armor. ❜ (bg3 <3)

* @serpentsexile , unprompted - always accepting.

Their response is met with quiet, mismatched eyes examining the aforementioned garment. She doesn't remember the dragonborn wearing it - perhaps they'd gone out while the rest of them were at camp. Oh, the grilled fish last night was fantastic… maybe she'll make some more later this week. With her mind now diverted, she gives them a little nod of the head; it did match well with their armor, and perhaps buying her own cloak wouldn't be such a horrible idea after all.

"Perhaps I should've picked one up from the grove before we left," She surmised, but it was too late to have regrets and she didn't want to go all the way back. "I'll have to find another," She reasoned. It shouldn't be difficult. She could readily find one because many other travelers carried a wide range of items.

#// I LOVE THIS VERSE SO MUCH!!!!!!!!#&; verse 04. \ ♡ —— ﹙ raw & half-eaten in the cold blue of her ego. — the scrying eye. ﹚#♡ ——— ﹙ in character . ﹚#♡ ——— ﹙ answered . ﹚#serpentsexile

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tomicscomics · 1 year

Photo

04/21/2023

Open my eyes, dear Lord! ...but not like that.

___

JOKE-OGRAPHY: The verse in this comic is summarized but essentially unchanged. However, while the verse meant "their eyes were opened" in a figurative way (as in "they came to understand suddenly"), I depict the opening of the disciples' eyes very physically. Their old eyes peel open like eyelids to reveal newer, more understanding eyes within. Don't worry, I'm sure the old eyes end up shedding like scales (like with St. Paul). They won't be a permanent second pair of eyelids -- that'd be gross!

#jesus #resurrection #easter #luke 24 #bible #bible humor #bible art #bible memes #disciples #catholic #catholic humor #catholic art #catholic memes #christian #christian humor #christian art #christian memes #breaking bread #jesus peels our eyes and hearts like boiled eggs

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curseplay · 8 months

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@goofily sent . . . from kitty: [ NECK ] * paris kisses kitty's neck. [ ACCEPTING. ]

to say kitty drives her wild would be something of an understatement. paris finds herself thinking of her the second there's a lull in her day while apart, which means that when they're together, the idea of focusing on anything else is entirely out the window. antsy for an equal amount of attention, they step up behind her and wrap their arms around her middle, briefly admiring the sight of them in the mirror. [ kitty's doing her makeup . . . paris has been ready to go for about half an hour now. ]

❝ you look real pretty, ❞ they hum in her ear. their eyes close, heartbeat sparked into a frenzy just by the sensation of her back against their front. unable to help herself, paris nudges kitty's head to the side by pressing their nose to her jaw, leaving a clear path to her neck.

she can't even tell if kitty is still attempting to doll herself up or not. what starts out as a few soft kisses to her jugular quickly falls apart into something hotter and heavier. paris exhales headily after a particularly long moment without air, one where their teeth had nipped ever so slightly at kitty's skin.

❝ i wouldn't be mad if we stayed in tonight, ❞ they murmur, one thumb swiping across her lower stomach. ❝ or even if we were a little late, ❞

#goofily #she didnt even bat an eye and theyre like this. shes so powerful #: 　/‏‏‎　♯　answer.　…　something you still seek.　'#suggestive /#: 　/‏‏‎　♯　verse: 04.　…　i'm so navy blue.　'

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souls-foreclosed · 6 months

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Chapter IX: De Civitate Dei

Second Verse: LOVE - “Eyes Of A Child” (167-170)

(DEC 20 - 2023)

Dear Reader,

you have reached the end of 2023's updates! Due to health issues with the radial nerve in my right hand I will not be able to draw for a while. The planned hiatus will still last until the comic's 4th anniversary on MAR 04, 2024 - however, if it's not back by then, chances are I just haven't recovered enough yet. Thank you all for reading, and a happy new year to you and your loved ones.

Yours Truly,

Sev Wildfang

Archive No.: 746-749

#souls foreclosed #sfcomic c9 love

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saintmeghanmarkle · 20 days

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Since so many sugars quote the Bible in regard to MM and announce that God is punishing Charles and Catherine with cancer as revenge on her behalf just thought I'd leave this verse here. Just in case they've overlooked it. by u/Hermes_Blanket

Since so many sugars quote the Bible in regard to MM, and announce that God is punishing Charles and Catherine with cancer as revenge on her behalf, just thought I'd leave this verse here. Just in case they've overlooked it. Proverbs 6:16-19:There are six things the LORD hates, seven that are detestable to him: 17 haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, 18 a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, 19 a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up dissension among brothers. post link: https://ift.tt/Nxg8P7f author: Hermes_Blanket submitted: May 20, 2024 at 04:38PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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milgramtheories · 1 year

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yuno ⭐ kazui

yuno and kazui are biologically related: my dissection of kashiki-mukuhara also huge shouts out to @nikoberry who helped me put this theory together! for ease of reading, yuno's information will be on the left side of this post, with kazui's information on the right- to the best of my ability. sources are linked best i can

disclaimer: i dont know how canon it is that the prisoners experience memory loss of their lives & parts of their murders before milgram, but this theory works best under that assumption

this will also all be under a cut, for the sake of your dashboard... it's very long...

01. Age

to start off, it is not far-fetched that kazui could be yuno's biological father, as he would have been ~21 when yuno was born

02. Design

milgram character designs are made with a lot of intent and deliberation, the characters in the main cast look very different from one another, though yuno and kazui have a few key details that tie them together

note 1. posing; yuno and kazui are both posed in very similar ways for each of their trials. for trial 2: they seem excited, greeting you with a wave or acknowledging you wtih a nod for trial 1, they seem relaxed, but prepared. theyre meeting us for the first time, warmly, but not exposing who they are just yet

note 2. hair; these two have a handful of similarities with their hair. their hair color looks to be the same, but tinted with their respective colors they also have their bangs cut similarly, cut just under the eyebrow, a straight edge on their right side, with their hair parting on the left side

note 3, facial structure; both have a more "straight faces" (more noticeable in yuno's t2), coy smiles, and droopy/soft eyes

note 4, color;

03. Personality

excerpts pulled from the milgram wikia

04. Interrogations

yuno does not have a father present in her life

kazui's response to his question "Who do you want to see right now?" is "I can't meet them anymore."

he says "meet." not "see" or "be with", implying it is someone he has not met before: perhaps a child he knows of, but has not been told anything about them

(it could also be "meeting up", though i am not able to translate the original. in this case, it could be "meeting up" with the woman at the bar)

this one ^ mostly just tickles me

and i was almost going to dismiss this next one as him talking about his marriage

buuut... niko twisted my arm on keeping it in for the theory!

these next two are likely more about kazui's childhood friend, and his adultery, but theyre fun to apply to this theory, so im keeping them in.

05. Name Meanings

im not well versed in interpreting japanese names, so these are again, pulled from the milgram wikia

06. Timelines

muu mentions just before this that she does not interact much with men around kazui's age, save for her father

kazui mentions himself having a child out of the blue, and quickly dismisses it. muu does not comment on this in the full timeline, so it could be that he is talking to himself. but why?

(translation source) connecting this timeline to the one above is interesting as well, as yuno mentions that she and muu could be seen as the same age. perhaps muu reminds kazui of a child he has not met, yet knows is around muus general age

(translation source) it's important to note that the above timeline was posted 2 days after kazui's t1 video, half, premiered on the MILGRAM youtube channel. kazui makes no mention of children in his voice drama, but mentions them to shidou a few days after his song extraction

07. Cats

kazui's next song is titled "cat," and yuno's t2 video, tear drop, has very VERY brief flashes of cat imagery used for her

08. Doors

there is a great comparison that @dearmahiru has made for their respective t2 song artwork! though, i would also like to point out that their doors are made with a very very similar wood (re: the significance of the kanji used for their names)

the only prisoner thus far with a somewhat similar door to these two would be haruka

though the wood finish is almost entirely smooth, with hardly any visible grain, unlike yuno and kazui, who have woodgrain very visible on their doors. haruka's door is also not curved at the top

09. Etc, The End

i was mostly going to note that he says "float" in this translation, which corresponds to yuno's balloon imagery however, i started looking into the potential symbolism behind chairs and..

(i would also like to note that the chair has hearts on it, which im sure has significance- but at the moment is just a cute detail to me)

if you made it this far, thank you for reading, and please tell me your thoughts on this!! id love to hear what everyone else thinks about this theory!

im know there are more well put-together and stronger supported theories than this one, but it's my first full theory ive come up with on my own, and im just excited to share it! at the very least, it's a fun headcanon, and i will also go ballistic if it gets confirmed

#milgram #milgram theory #kashiki yuno #mukuhara kazui #yuno milgram #kazui milgram #002 #007 #GAH i cant think of anything else to put in this post #im gonna post it before i drive myself crazy looking for more!#please take this (throws it into the room and runs away)

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finntheartist-sketchbook · 22 days

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FAKE GAME IDEA (would love ideas!!!)

(04-07) Bowling Brawl:

So I had this brainrot idea for a bowling game.

It would combine the standard bowling experience, mixed with special moves and abilities that are unique to every character in the game. The better they bowl, the more energy they get. And you can then use that energy to do combo moves that earn you a whole new type of score based on style points. Both your style points, and your bowling score combine into your overall score. So some brawlers are really good at bowling, and some awful at it, but have really cool moves to make up for it. And they all battle it out in verses battles, to determine who is the best bowler to have ever lived. It was really just an excuse to make a bunch of over the top bowling characters. Here are some of the ones I came up with:

(PLAYER 1)

She's a pretty solid bowler, but she's too cocky for her own good. She spends to much time talking shit, then putting that energy into bowling the ball. (PLAYER 2)

Dude does not know what he is doing. He's probably doing that thing other athletes do where you change your sport mid-career. He knows a lot of trickshots, but a bowling ball is not a basketball. Honestly whoever told him he should change careers, should change careers. (PLAYER 3)

They look like they don't care at all. But that couldn't be more wrong. Ever since [THE ACCIDENT], they've been training in underground bowling rings to take down the fiercest of bowling opponents. Now they're here to take you down too. Their moves might not be the flashiest, but they didn't get the nickname SNIPER for nothing. With pinpoint precision they will out-bowl you in power and accuracy any day of the week. (PLAYER 4)

Is..that a..cat? Are we really letting a cat into this prestigious bowling tournament...? Apparently he has the strongest throws out of any of the bowlers here, but his technique is so bad that his bowling ball ends up in the walls or ceiling, as much as it does the bowling lanes. An associate asked him if he wanted us to pull up the gutter rails, but he got offended and swiftly clawed his eyes out. When asked for comment about his chances of winning, he said "HELL YEA!!" then threw a bowling ball towards a little girl celebrating a birthday party with her family. 🎳💥🧍‍♀️

I would seriously love to see other peoples designs for their own bowling champions to join the roster. If you do PLEASE TAG/@ ME!!! I would love to see them!! >:3 If you also have any ideas for this game concept, I'd love to hear them too!!!

#fake game #game design #finntheartist #concept art #character concept #game idea #game mechanics #original character #character design #bowling #digital art #digital drawing #sketchbook

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space-mermaid-writing · 2 years

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The witchling and the god [Loki x Witch!Reader] Chapter 12

Summary: The Avengers were looking for someone to help Loki fit in with the team. To become socially acceptable, so to speak. He had been given the choice of sitting in a cell in Asgard or serving some sort of community service probation on Midgard. The Avengers and Shield both felt that as long as Loki was on Earth, he should be under supervision. This is now your job. Why? Because you’re a witch. You’re not sure why this qualifies you, but here you are, giving it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?

Tags: Witch!Reader, Magic, Witches, slow burn, everybody lives in the tower, character development, Loki‘s redemption, Stephen Strange is a friend, Loki and Stephen are frenemies, Tony Stark is a good bro, kids love Loki, Tony has stupid nicknames for everybody, eventual smut

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read it on AO3 | Previous | Next

Chapter's Note: You gave me a lot of songs recommendations and it was really hard to decide, since they were all great. So I made a whole playlist with my favorite songs from you :D Some of them even went on my personal dance playlist. I finally settled on 'Be my baby' by The Ronettes for this chapter, since the lyrics fit best. But listen to whatever song you like. Beta by @zaria-04 <3

Chapter 12: Be My Baby

The night we met I knew I needed you so And if I had the chance I'd never let you go So won't you say you love me I'll make you so proud of me We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go

You have a bowl in your hand and a wooden spoon in the other, while you move your hips to the beat of the song. On your stove are two pots, one bubbling a purple liquid, the other so far just some water. Music is coming from a stereo on the shelf. You love listening to music while you work, turning it up to full volume, because there's no one around to complain about it.

So won't you, please, be my, be my baby Be my little baby, my one and only baby Say you'll be my darlin', be my, be my baby Be my baby now, my one and only baby Wha oh oh oh

With the spoon and a practiced eye, you measure out various ingredients to mix in the bowl. Extract of Atlantic poison oak - deadly if you use it wrong, but healing if you know your way around - chamomile and birch bark… something's missing. With a swirl of your finger, a sealed jar comes flying out of a cupboard. Dried garlic. You forget the dried garlic every time, even though you've read the recipe a dozen times and know it by heart.

When you get it all together, the bowl rises into the air on its own and everything is mixed inside by an invisible hand. You have your hands free to light a match and add the flame as an ingredient.

The next verse you sing along loudly.

I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three Oh, since the day I saw you I have been waiting for you You know I will adore you 'til eternity

The mission about the artifact was almost a week ago and by now you have recovered well. Lots of sleep and delicious snacks have helped. Since you spend most of your time in the tower in New York, your work as a witch has fallen by the wayside. So you took yesterday and today off to keep up with your orders.

While the ingredients are melting, you have time for a dance solo. It's one of your favorite songs and no one is here to judge you. Barefoot, you dance around the kitchen. Your black dress is long and figure-hugging, but through the two high slits, you have enough freedom of movement. Some clichés about witches are just true. You grab the bowl out of the air and scrape the contents into the boiling water.

So won't you, please, be my, be my baby Be my little baby, my one and only baby Say you'll be my darlin', be my, be my baby Be my baby now, my one and only-...

You sense a motion from the corner of your eye and hear a chuckle. Startled, you whirl around. The knife you throw gets stuck in the door just inches away from Loki's head. As a sign that he comes in peace, he raises his arms.

"You have a bad aim," he says.

"That was just a distraction." You point down, and as Loki lowers his gaze, he notices roots entwined around his ankles and legs, keeping him from moving. It draws his attention away from you for a brief moment and you try to shake off your embarrassment at being watched by him while dancing and singing in your kitchen. Hopefully your flushed cheeks don't give you away. You wonder how long he has been standing there.

"Consider me impressed, Witchling." The grin still graces his lips and you don’t question his good mood. With a small gesture you dissolve the protection spell and free Loki from his bonds, with another one you turn off the music.

"What do you want?" you ask him. If he shows up here at your cottage, it must be important.

"Why do you humans always ask that? Why do you always think I want something from you when I just want your company?"

His words make your heart beat fast. But you remind yourself that this is part of his game. He is flattering you to avoid a direct answer. "Because you're not allowed to leave the tower without good reason."

"Ah - that's where you’re wrong," he corrects you and starts looking around curiously. He steps to a nearby shelf and eyes at the contents. "I may leave the Tower in your company. Aside from that being a useless rule because it doesn't really stop me, Stark will probably-" Your phone rings. "… contact you."

You reach for your phone, which is on a nearby table. It's an incoming video call from Tony. You pick it up while Loki looks at your stash of labeled potion bottles with interest.

"What's up, Tony?"

You see the face of the billionaire popping up. He is wearing dark sunglasses and seems focused on something else. You hear the sound of welding in the background and every few seconds his face is illuminated by a small light source in front of him. He's probably in his tech lab, you think, when you notice the dark smudges on his face.

"Did Loki show up?" he asks you.

An idea strikes you and you raise your eyebrows in wonder. "Loki? Why would he?" you ask, seemingly surprised. "I’m off work today."

This makes Tony drop his work and turn his face to the screen. He curses under his breath. "That litte..."

Just then Loki slides into view next to you. "I'm here," he announces loudly for Tony to hear. He tries to take your phone from you, but you're faster and dodge him. A brief scuffle ensues until you manage to push Loki aside and regain control of your device.

"What's going on?" Tony asks since he hears your voices but doesn't have a clear view.

"Everything's fine. I'll drop Loki back home later," you assure him before you hang up.

"Wicked minx," Loki accuses you. He stands right in front of you, as usual in your personal space. You thought you'd have to get used to it by now, but it still gives you goosebumps. In a good way. And that's bad.

"That was for startling me earlier" you promptly retort.

Loki's grin takes on something wolfish. He's long since realized that he's found a worthy opponent in you and wonders to what extent he can test the limits.

You hear a soft bubbling and remember that you still have a potion on the stove. Quickly, you step past Loki and rush to it to keep it from boiling over. It would ruin it and you’ve put a lot of work into it.

"How did you get here?" you ask Loki in passing.

"Through the portal in your room." Apparently he's decided not to leave your side today, because the Asgardian is stepping up beside you again and watching you work over your shoulder.

"You were in my room?" You scrunch your nose. You don't like that thought. Apparently you need to put a magical protection around your room in the tower. You had refrained from doing that until now because you thought it was safe enough. "How did you get in there anyway?"

"Don't insult me," Loki speaks with his usual arrogance. "The protective measures in the tower are no obstacle to me. Speaking of which, your chambers are rather spartan and not particularly tastefully decorated. I took the liberty of changing that."

Now this is really going too far! You whirl around to face him with an angry glare. "What?! Loki, if I go back and everything is green, I swear to god-…"

"I'm a god. Swear to me."

You blink and stare at him. He's thrown you off balance. It takes a few seconds for your brain to remember how to form words and you turn back to your potion. "Unbelievable," you mutter softly.

You don't see it, but Loki is very pleased with himself. You feel his presence at your back, knowing he's still standing there. You’re longing to touch him, brushing your back at his chest. You breathe in and out deeply, trying to focus on your work. You can't let the Asgardian throw you off.

It's just a game to him.

This phrase became a mantra in your head that you repeat over and over. You wish it was different, that you could be more than just friends. It pains you, but you allow the feeling in, even welcome it. It stings your heart, but in the long run it will help you overcome your feelings.

"So, why are you here?" you ask again, but this time less brusque. You need to talk to not fall into a spiral of thoughts. "I'm not complaining about it, just wondering. You've never seemed interested in my cottage before. It's a very small country. Not as luxurious as you're used to."

Not compared to his suite in the tower and even less to the palace Loki grew up in. Even if you can only imagine that one.

"Don't sell it short. It's lovely." His puffed confidence seems to scale down and his next words are almost apologetic. "I'm sorry for coming here unannounced. I don't mean to intrude if you are busy with your work." He watches you pour the brew out of the pot. You don't say anything, because you have a feeling there's more to come.

"Sometimes being in the tower can be a lot. My brother. Everything. I merely wished to escape it for a few hours."

You throw him a smile over your shoulder. "Of course, Loki, you can stay the day."

It's a big vote of trust that Loki is so honest with you. He seems relieved by your answer.

It's little nuances in his behavior, but by now you can read him pretty well. And you also understand his reasons. You have the freedom to enter and leave the tower as you wish. Loki doesn't. The residents and workers are friendly and polite to you. Not that much to him.

But the Avengers seem to open up to him. It’s going just fine with Tony. Natasha and Clint also seem to have a better opinion of him after the mission. But it's not friendship. Not even companionship, more like a polite tolerating on both sides.

Loki only has Thor - and you. And when the two of you aren't around, he spends his time alone in the suite, or at least that's what you assume. It's big and equipped with everything he needs. But he probably still feels cooped up in it. You certainly would. And Loki has been there longer than you’ve even had this job. You can't blame him for wanting to go somewhere else, see something different.

"I may ask you to help me with my work, though," you add.

"I'm at your service, Witchling."

A grin creeps onto your face as you think of how tempting that offer is. But in a different way. Luckily, you've turned your back on him and he can't see your face. "Great. Then you can get the box of bottles from under the table," you say instead, pointing at them.

He does as told while you pull a stack of labels from a drawer and label them as rheumatism medicine and with today's date. You show Loki how he can help you fill the bottles.

After everything is done, you put them in a basket.

"We're going to deliver these to a nursing home. Unless you'd rather stay here and read in the garden," you offer him. After all, he's come here to have some peace and quiet.

"I'll go with you."

"Great," you smile, then your eyes fall on his outfit. "But you should change into something casual. People here don't know about Asgardian gods nor their fashion."

With a green glow, his usual tunic and leathery pants change into dark jeans and a green shirt. You acknowledge it with a satisfied nod.

Your path takes you along the edge of a forest. It's a quiet area, you've chosen it at your home especially for that. There are not many people out here, they normally stick to the larger paths. Since today is a cloudy day, you see nobody else.

There is also a road from your cottage to the next village, but on foot it is a detour. You'll get there much faster on the narrow path.

It is a large forest with dense undergrowth. You visit it often to look for herbs or mushrooms. You know which trees are hollow and preferred by owls for nesting, where you can find feathers from them. You know the small pond fed by an underground spring where foxes and deer rest. The forest is familiar to you – you have lived here for many years and are more out in the wild than among people. Because of your work in the tower and with Loki, you no longer have the time to visit it every day. It's a nice change and you realize you've missed contact with others. To exchange more than a few words with someone and to see them more often than just every few weeks.

Sometimes you miss the quiet of nature. New York is a hectic city and even in the corridors of the Avenger Tower you always see someone. Loki is pleasant company, you find. He walks silently beside you here, carrying the basket, contemplating the landscape. It is an easy silence, one in agreement. You don't feel obliged to speak just for the sake of words, but revel in your own thoughts – yet you are not feeling alone.

"Did you grow up here?" the Asgardian asks you.

You shake your head.

"No, I'm from the mainland. We've gotten into the habit of moving every few decades so people won’t notice that we age differently." At his questioning look, you add, "My siblings and me. My sister lives in France at the moment and my brother in Canada."

"I didn't know you had siblings," Loki admits.

"We don't see each other often. My brother is a bit like yours: great laugh and always in a good mood. Not so good with hugs, thought," you smile as you think of him. You should talk to your siblings sometime soon.

"Do you prefer that kind of company?" Loki asks you hesitantly.

"It's nice, but also draining." You turn your head toward him. "I prefer your company."

"Do you now?"

"I do." No snarky remark, no witty comeback. Just a simple truth. It surprises Loki and he falls quiet for a while. You don't mind walking in silence, you are used to it when you’re with him.

"I also enjoy your company." You almost miss his reply, a quiet confession that makes you smile.

"That's good to hear." But before you can say anything else, the Asgardian suddenly stops and tilts his head.

"We're not alone," he says quietly in response to your questioning look. "Someone is following us."

You perk up, but you can't hear more than a rustling in the undergrowth. Loki takes a step between you and the trees, you feel the density of his magic increase around him as if he were gathering it.

A low growl sounds from between the trees, and it is picked up by two or three more creatures. It is menacing, but still you can’t see any beast.

–––––––––––––

Witchling Tag List: @lokisgoodgirl @lokixryss @itsybitchylittlewitchy @yokshi-unbeliebubble @fictional-hooman @elennair @all-envy-suyu @purplekitten30 @elisadmaggiore @nothing2113 @baebeepeach @ceo-of-stfu @moonlightreader649 @ronipiamka @fluffybunnyu @ninjarose23 @ozymdias @huntress-artemiss @thedistractedagglomeration @rosaline-black @sofi786 @moonlightreader649 @paetonnn @eldriidd @r4inlov3r @maeisonline @marvel-love24 @sinsandguilt @kalinaselennespeaks

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#loki x y/n #Loki x reader #loki layfeyson x you #loki laufesyon x reader #Loki x you #imagine loki #the witchling and the god #imagine marvel #mcu prompt #loki odison x reader #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #loki fanfction #slow burn #loki odinson #loki laufeyson

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