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mianavs · 3 years

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Queen of Peace

Oh, the king / Gone mad within his suffering / Called out for relief / Someone cure him of his grief

His only son / Cut down, but the battle won / Oh, what is it worth / When all that's left is hurt

“Queen of Peace” by: Florence + The Machine

knight!Osamu x queen!reader, royalty/historical au, forbidden love

tw: smut, oral (f!receiving), breeding, angst (of course)

a/n: a super self-indulgent fic inspired by the aforementioned song, a fanart of knight!osamu i reblogged a while back, and my undying love for historical fiction; tagging: @hqintheclub

ty: all my love to @rosesandtoshi @oneblonded and @liaslight for taking the time to beta read this!

wc: 6.3k+

bg: Kingdoms are named after regions in Japan (ones mentioned to are Chubu, Tohoku, Kanto, and Kansai). These kingdoms are then divided into provinces which are named after Japanese prefectures (Hyogo). Haikyuu schools are used as titles of nobility (Duke of Fukurodani, Marquess of Itachiyama)

The roar of the blowing horn broke you out of your trance; it’s thunderous cry signaled the arrival of the King and his soldiers. Your heart swelled with relief, and you swiftly set aside your needlework before leaving your rooms to greet them. Your ladies, who sat around you in a semicircle with their own needlework, mimicked your movements and fell in line behind you as you exited door after door before finally reaching the main corridor.

“Don’t you wish to change into a different gown, Your Majesty?”

You paused at the sudden inquiry from one of your ladies and glanced down at your simple black gown. “We are still in mourning. This gown is more than appropriate.”

You resumed your trek to greet the King leaving the other ladies who took it upon themselves to reprimand the one that had interrupted you. While you would never show it, you were relieved that you still had some semblance of control over your ladies despite your unpopularity amongst the courtiers. An unpopularity that had plagued you ever since you left Hyogo five years ago by order of the Kansai King to marry the widowed King of Kanto.

With each step you took, unease swirled in your navel and your throat tightened. It’d been a long war against the neighboring Chubu kingdom. One that had taken their king and your kingdom’s heir.

Prince Shoyo had been the King’s only child by his beloved first wife, a Tohoku princess, and his pride and joy. Nicknamed the ‘Kingdom’s Sun’, he had been admired by his peers, respected by the Council, and loved by the people. Even you, his stepmother despite being of age, had found comfort in the amiable prince who had never treated you unkindly. The news of his death had sent the kingdom into a panic and the courtier’s scrutinizing eyes once again fell on your stomach that had yet to swell with child.

“My Queen, are ya unwell?”

The turbulent thoughts that had clouded your mind the entire way to the palace’s front entrance cleared the moment that rich accented voice resonated in the foyer. There in the middle stood your childhood friend and sworn sword that had made the journey to a foreign kingdom without you asking, Osamu Miya.

You instinctively gravitated toward him as if tethered to his armor by an invisible string that pulled you closer, until he was just an arm’s length away. His thick brows knitted together and a frown was etched on his face as he studied yours. You offered him a small smile that might’ve fooled anyone else but not Osamu who knew you better than anyone. He pursed his lips but, nonetheless, went down on one knee, took your hand, and pressed a chaste kiss on the back of it. The warmth that radiated off of his touch and kiss spread like honey over your heart and soothed your nerves.

“I am fine,” you replied when Osamu rose to his feet and took his place on your left. “We should go. The King must not be kept waiting.”

Beneath your grief over the loss of Shoyo, there had been a flicker of hope for a renaissance in your marriage; your already precarious position depended on it. If you could only give the King an heir, then you wouldn’t be seen as the useless foreign queen anymore.

So when you steeled yourself against the autumn chill and saw the King’s banners billowing in the wind, you were determined to lie with your husband for the first time since your wedding night. Even when the old King struggled to dismount his horse, cursed his bad leg, hobbled over to you, and patted your head with the affection usually reserved for a daughter instead of a wife, you plastered a warm smile on your face while your hands fisted the skirts of your dress in frustration.

“Welcome home, My King,” you greeted with your deepest curtsy. “A humble feast is being prepared to celebrate your return. The official mourning processions will begin tomorrow.”

At the mention of mourning, the King’s mouth set into a hard line while his eyes glazed over. “You have worked hard, Y/N. Thank you.”

“Your Majesty is too kind. I am merely doing my duty.”

The King’s greying brow furrowed at your mention of duty before nodding once. “Of course. I am afraid my leg will not let me attend the feast, but I trust you will be there in my stead.”

“You can rest assured that I will be the most gracious host, My King.” You replied, hiding your disappointment over the news of his absence. Like all things involving you, the King was oblivious and continued his labored tread to the palace.

It was only when the King was outside of your field of view that Osamu, steadfast and true, asked after your well-being.

“Are ya alright, My Queen?”

You could feel his steel grey eyes burning the side of your face but kept your gaze fixed on the King’s ghostly trail.

“Of course,” you replied but neither of you believed it.

The welcome feast went by as you’d expected. The war-weary soldiers ate and drank their fill but there was none of the merriment and banter that usually filled the dining hall. The King and Prince’s absence weighed heavily on everyone’s mind including yours, so any conversations that took place were done in hushed voices that didn’t travel beyond its participants.

Yet it seemed that even the soldiers fresh from battle and with a plethora of personal issues already plaguing them had enough time to worry over the lack of an heir. Their eyes occasionally flickered over to your empty womb with varying degrees of concern and disappointment. When they became too into their cups and their stares more shameless, you wiped your mouth and excused yourself from the feast to a chorus of half-hearted ‘goodnights’.

Even in your rooms with your ladies readying you for bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about the burdening stares of the feast. So after your ladies finished and excused themselves for the night, you wrapped yourself in a thick robe and made your way to the King’s chambers on the other side of the palace.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone floors and you didn’t need to look back to know who it was.

“I do not need an escort, Sir Osamu.”

“It’s late, My Queen. Ya shouldn’t go off wandering by yourself even if it’s to see the King.” Osamu retorted, disapproval lacing his words.

You turned around to face him. “I am trying to do my duty.” You informed him and fixed him with a hard stare.

“So am I,” he declared and moved closer until you saw the determination and something else reflecting off his grey orbs. You knew better than to argue with Osamu when he was being stubborn, so you let out a defeated sigh and resumed your walk to the King’s chambers with your knight in tow.

The two guards outside the King’s door announced you before the King gave his approval. The large mahogany door opened and you walked in, ignoring the knowing stares of Osamu and the other two. You knew your bold actions were improper, but you were done waiting for the King to make the first move. Strengthening your resolve as you walked through the antechamber, you straightened your back and took a deep breath before entering the King’s bedchamber.

The room was dimly lit while the stench of liquor and medicinal herbs permeated the air. You spotted the king sitting at his breakfast table; one hand around an empty glass and the other buried in his thinning locks of hair. As you made your way to him, the moonlight shone on his aged face and reflected the tears that stained his cheeks. It was only when you sunk into a low curtsy that he noticed your presence.

“My King,” you greeted demurely. “I came to…see how you were doing.”

It was a lie, but seeing the King devastated with grief cracked your determination. The King glanced up at you and your heart clenched painfully at the sight. He looked lost with bloodshot eyes, trembling lips, and a furrowed brow.

“M-my son,” he croaked, voice dripping with sorrow. “My Shoyo…is gone.”

Tears blurred your vision and you rushed forward to embrace the desolate king. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed his head against your chest and mourned the loss of his son together.

In the end, your plans were for naught. You helped the drunken King to his bed and stroked his hair until he fell into a deep slumber. It was then that you should’ve left his bedchamber to return to yours, but you couldn’t find the will to do it. Gossip would run rampant in the palace the next morning, and your reputation would only get dragged through the mud for being a useless queen that couldn’t even seduce her own husband.

So, on a whim, you removed your robe and tossed it on an empty chair before lying next to the King.

You woke up at the crack of dawn and left before the sun’s rays spilled into the bedchamber. Throwing one last glance at the sleeping king, you offered him a silent apology before retrieving your robe and exiting his chambers.

The same guards from the night before greeted you with a bow, but Osamu was nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the strange pit in your stomach, you wished the guards ‘good morning’ and set off to your chambers. On the way, you passed by scores of maids, manservants, and guards who looked at your attire and exchanged looks. It was all proof that your ploy had been successful, and you made the long walk back with your head held higher and your back straighter than ever before.

But the satisfaction from your triumph was cut short when you found Osamu in your antechamber. He appeared agitated as his eyes swept over your appearance, lingering on your mussed hair and thin shift. Under his heavy gaze, you became conscious just how scantily-clad you were dressed and wrapped the robe tighter around your form.

Osamu approached you until he stood next to you, facing the door. Heat radiated from his body and enveloped you in it until it seeped into your bones, sparking something in the pit of your stomach. You could have stayed there for hours just basking in the warmth of his presence, but he spoke and broke your trance.

“Did ya get what ya wanted?” His cold tone was ladened with judgement and it bothered you beyond reason.

“Yes,” you admitted. “For the most part.”

His head whipped in your direction but you kept your gaze fixed on the door leading to your bedchamber. You could almost hear the opening and closing of his jaw, but instead of asking his question, Osamu walked out of your chambers, leaving you alone with your bittersweet triumph.

Just when you dared hope for a brighter future, your world fell apart with the death of the King just two days after Shoyo’s funeral. He’d been dealt a deadly blow by a wild boar during a hunting trip and passed away before a physician could arrive. It was the explanation the mob of courtiers offered you, and before you could wrap your head around the situation, a voice piped up amidst the courtiers.

“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”

A couple of moments passed before a weak chorus echoed that call, falling to one knee in the process. Their declaration should have filled you with joy, but the conflict on their faces as they exchanged looks only added to your already perilous situation.

The late King hadn’t even been in the ground for a day when the Council called for a meeting with you, the acting ruler of the kingdom. Exhausted as you were by the funeral processions as well as your new duties as regent, you mustered all your strength and courage before the impressive double doors of the throne room opened, and you were announced.

“Her Majesty, the Queen!”

The smell of cologne and musk filled your nostrils as you walked into that room full of critical men ready to tear you down like a pack of wolves. Your crown felt heavier than usual and your neck ached, but you continued until you reached the dais and lowered yourself unto the cold throne.

Rearranging your skirts, you looked up to find the leader of the faction that opposed you opening his mouth to speak. Unwilling to be shamed so early into the meeting, you spoke first.

“Let us begin.” You turned to one of the dukes of the neutral faction, “What is the topic of this meeting, Your Grace?”

“The matter of succession, Your Majesty.”

You bit back a sneer. You knew this discussion would take place sooner rather than later, but you couldn’t help feeling amused by their impatience in limiting your time in power.

“As a foreigner, you must not be aware of the importance of an heir with royal blood flowing through their veins.” A member of the opposing faction spoke out and the insult was not missed by anyone in the room, including you. Fueled by indignation, you placed a hand over your stomach and watched surprise flash across each of the faces in that room.

“After five years of living in this kingdom as your queen, I am perfectly aware of the importance of a Kanto heir. The late Prince Shoyo might be gone, but a direct heir could very well be growing inside me as we speak!”

The room broke out in an uproar between the factions. The men exchanged glares, insults, and accusations that went beyond you and into the deep-rooted political ideologies that separated them. Agitated by their emotional outburst, you were about to call for order when a voice from the opposition beat you to it.

“Gentleman!” Kotarou Bokuto, the Duke of Fukurodani, spoke up and stepped out of the crowd. “Let us convene on the matter at hand.”

His golden eyes brazenly met yours the way they always had during your prior reunions. His display only showed that he had no more respect for you than when you were just queen consort and you did your best to hide your embarrassment.

“A course of action regarding the future of our kingdom must be adopted.” The leader of the opposition declared, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smirk. “A time limit must be placed for the Queen to see if she is indeed with child. If the Queen does not show the signs of pregnancy after the allotted time period, I believe we should decide on an heir here and now!”

“And who, pray tell, do you deem worthy of being declared the Kanto heir if the blood of the late King is not growing in my womb?” You inquired despite already knowing who they would name.

“The Duke of Fukurodani, as nephew to the late King, would be the most suited for that title.”

“That is only if the Queen is not carrying the late King’s child.” From the crowd of the neutral faction, the Marquess of Itachiyama, Kiyoomi Sakusa, stepped out and bowed to you before re-addressing the opposition. “A trial period of six months should be an adequate amount of time to see if the Queen is with child.”

Muttering filled the room as the factions debated Sakusa’s proposition amongst themselves and with each other before the room settled and the leader of the opposition spoke once again.

“The factions accept the time period suggested by Itachiyama and the declaration of Fukurodani as heir if, and only if, Your Majesty is not with child.”

They presented this to you as if you had a choice in the matter when in reality, all you could do was agree to their conditions with a smile like the powerless ruler you were.

“Very well. The matter of succession has been settled and this meeting is now adjourned!” You declared, gazing across the room to find a pair of gleaming golden eyes already on you.

Your resolve was crumbling like your future as queen and your relationship with Osamu. It’d been less than a week since that heated encounter in your chambers and the two of you had yet to discuss the emotions that had fueled it.

As your sworn sword, Osamu still carried out his duties in accompanying you everywhere you went, but there was now a divide between the two of you. It was that divide that stopped you from actively seeking him out to confide in him the way you had over the last ten years of your friendship.

The meeting with the Council had been the last straw regarding your newfound loneliness and as soon as the two of you left the throne room, you turned to Osamu.

“We need to tal—”

“Your Majesty!”

Kotarou Bokuto’s booming voice called out and you turned around to find him followed by his advisor and close confidante, Keiji Akaashi, approaching you from the throne room. He was resplendent in the navy-blue and gold colors of his duchy and walked with a confidence that was befitting of his station—perhaps even more.

“Would you be able to set aside some time for myself and Akaashi? We’d like to discuss some things with you.” His friendly manner of speaking had fooled you long ago, but you knew better now and regarded him with skepticism.

“Pray tell, what exactly do we need to discuss?” You asked, unable to hide your annoyance at being interrupted.

“I’m sure you already know what it is.” Akaashi interjected and you thought it was about time the real mastermind behind Bokuto spoke up.

“Watch your tongue!” Osamu growled, taking a protective stance in front of you. Akaashi held his ground for a moment before backing down and you placed a hand on Osamu’s shoulder. He peered down at you with brows knit and his mouth twisted into a confused frown. You offered him a reassuring look and nodded once before he stepped aside. Turning to Bokuto and Akaashi, who regarded you with mild amusement, you offered them a forced smile.

“Follow me to my office, gentlemen. We will be able to talk at ease there.” You said and led them through the palace to the late King’s office that had been taken over by you.

Once inside and settled at the sitting area in the middle of the room, tea was brought up and served for you and the two men seated across from you. After taking a sip and wetting your tongue with the mild brew, you set down your cup and gave the gentlemen your undivided attention.

“Well then, I suppose you wish to discuss the succession?” You stated, cutting straight to the chase.

“We have a proposition for you, Your Majesty.” Bokuto replied, crossing his arms across his chest. “One that could very well save you from ruin.”

“Oh, how so?” You asked, feigning indifference while clasping your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“When your trial period is over and it is proven that you are in fact not with child, I would be willing to make you an offer of matrimony. Think about it, you could avoid returning to your kingdom a disgraced bride and continue being the queen—my queen.”

His proposition was beyond anything you’d imagined and a heavy weight set onto the pit of your stomach. You should’ve been outraged. You should’ve thrown them out of your office for even suggesting such an outrageous thing. You should have said anything except what you ended up asking.

“And this…arrangement would benefit you, how?”

“Despite what you may think, I believe you have done a wonderful job as the late King’s consort. I have no desire to take a risk with another woman when you are already the dutiful and reserved woman I am looking for.”

His words came out as compliments but all you heard were disparaging remarks about your person that left a bitter taste in your mouth. You turned to Akaashi to see if he was actually in agreement with the outlandish things Bokuto was spouting only to find a pleased smile gracing his lips. You sat there aghast as you realized Akaashi had no doubt been the one to plant the idea into Bokuto’s head. A shiver ran down your spine as the magnitude of Akaashi’s ambition manifested itself in the shape of the Kanto Kingdom’s throne. While it was true you weren’t the perfect queen, you refused to let yourself be used by anyone else and decided to take matters into your own hands with the help of your closest ally.

“I am afraid you will have to find someone else to be your duchess, Your Grace.” You unclasped your hands and laid them daintily over your lap. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have much work to do.”

For your plan to work, time was of the essence. The first chance you got to escape the endless paperwork you were stuck with as ruler, you dismissed your ladies and walked into the forest on the outskirts of the palace grounds with a silent Osamu following you. Deep within the forest was a grassy clearing with a flattened boulder in the middle that resembled a bench. It had become your sanctuary since your arrival five years ago that only you and Osamu knew about. While you had been too busy since Shoyo’s death to pay it a visit, you couldn’t think of a more adequate place to deliver your treasonous request to Osamu and see it through.

The vibrantly colored autumn leaves that adorned the trees had started to fall and created a blanket of deep red, burnt orange, and golden yellow on the ground that crackled with each step you took. Like the trees, you were determined to shed your old reservations to make way for the new risks you would take to be the master of your own fate. Taking in a ragged breath and drawing your woolen cloak closer to your form, you turned around and faced your devoted knight.

“Before anything else, I have something to confess to you. The King did not touch me that night. He fell asleep and I-I stayed the night.” Your voice thickened with emotion as you watched Osamu’s steel grey eyes widen with each word that fell from your lips.

“I thought that by making everyone else believe he did my reputation at court would improve. But now the King is gone and my womb is empty despite what I have told everyone including Bokuto.”

“I-I don’t understand wh—”

You rushed to him and took his gloved hands into yours. “You know as well as I do that returning home as a disgraced bride is not an option for me. In the best-case scenario, I will be stripped of my status and sent into exile with only the clothes on my back.”

“W-what are ya trying to say?” Osamu asked and tears welled up in your eyes from the worry that laced his voice and showed on his face.

“What I am asking of you is a dangerous, treasonous, and immoral thing. It is selfish of me but I am unable to come up with another solution. I will not demand anything of you. If you are not willing then we can forget that any of this happened for my punishment will be delivered in six months’ time.”

“Y/N, please, what do ya want from me?”

“A child. I-I ask that you give me a child to save me from ruin.” Tears fell from your eyes as you closed them, unable to look at Osamu after voicing your treacherous request.

Osamu said nothing. For a long stretch of time the only sounds you could hear were the whistling of the wind, the rustling of leaves, and your thundering heart. Dread washed over you the longer your childhood friend remained silent. Your breathing became strained as a lump lodged itself into your throat. You kept your eyes closed to avoid seeing the scorn that no doubt showed on his face.

“I’ll do it.”

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice, and you saw no contempt from the man before you. He looked at you as if you were the most precious being in the world. All your fears were dispelled when he raised your hands and pressed your knuckles to his lips. Instead of the comforting warmth his chaste kisses usually brought you, this kiss set your skin ablaze and a flush traveled all the way up to your face.

“Th-thank you, Samu.” You whispered, noticing the small smile that graced his lips at your use of his nickname. “I promise you that no harm shall ever come to you from this. This is my sin and mine alone.”

“Y/N, I have to t—”

“We have to be quick about this.” You interrupted and retracted your hands from his grasp to start working on the ties of your robe. Then just before the garment could fall to the ground, Osamu caught it with his hands. You looked up to find disapproval etched on his face while something darker lurked in his stormy eyes that sent a dull ache to your core.

“Not here. I’ll do it but not here.” He said resolutely as he pulled your robe over your shoulders and went to work fastening the ties. “You deserve better.”

You wanted to challenge him on that. You wanted to remind him that what you wanted to do was treason. You wanted to brand yourself as a harlot because that was what everyone else would’ve called you. But Osamu’s fingers were as gentle as his gaze while he worked and all you could manage was a whispered ‘thank you’ as you blinked away a fresh set of tears.

The two of you agreed on that night. You would dismiss your ladies and Osamu would guard your door alone that night. Then when the palace was asleep, he would join you in your bedchamber to carry out the task and return to his post before anyone took notice. It was hardly a fool-proof plan, but it was a risk you were willing to take as you had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Despite that belief, panic creeped under your skin as you sat in your antechamber on the cushioned bench beside your window. You tried working but you were unable to focus and left the pile of paperwork at the table. You even tried picking up your needlework only to prick your finger enough times to draw blood while completing a couple sloppy stitches. In the end, all you could do was wait for him while pressing on your bleeding finger—a miniscule punishment for the enormous transgression you were about to commit.

A singular knock broke your reverie. You rushed to open the door and pulled Osamu into the room before closing the door behind him.

“Was there anyone lurking nearby?” You asked, still holding onto his hand.

“No one, My Queen.” He replied, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

“Call me by my name,” you insisted before pulling him along to your bedchamber.

Except for the dim light from a couple of candles, your room was dark and you found that you preferred it that way. It was easier to forget your shame under the cover of darkness. You led him to your bed before you sat on the edge and waited for him to make the first move—except he didn’t.

“We do not have much time, Samu.” You breathed and glanced up at him only to find a pained expression on his face that made your blood run cold. “I-Is something the matter?”

“Before we start, I’ve something to confess.” He admitted and the creases on his brow deepened. “The reason I followed ya here five years ago and agreed to do this is because I-I love ya.”

His confession reverberated off the stone walls and echoed in your ears. You sat motionless on the bed while your mind revisited all of your interactions to try to make sense of his words. It didn’t take long for you to come to the same conclusion after thinking back to the gentleness of his words that never waned, the adoration in his eyes every time they fell on your form. You also recalled the worry he’d shown for you after Shoyo’s death and the dark emotion you could now recognize as jealousy that had swirled in his orbs after returning from the King’s bedchamber. It was then that you unlocked a hidden box of emotions toward Osamu. The immense comfort you felt in just seeing him. The warmth that spread whenever he pressed kisses to your hands. The ache in your belly when his eyes would darken with what you now knew was desire. They were all emotions you had never felt towards anyone except Osamu and you finally knew why.

“I love you too,” you revealed, not just to him but to yourself as well. “I-I think I always have.”

He released a shaky breath before gently cradling your face in his rough hands. Even in the flickering candlelight, you could still make out the unadulterated love behind his gaze. It was a love that had always been there, lurking beneath loyalty and honor, but at the same time, it was also new and filled you with excitement at the prospect of experiencing an emotion you’d renounced on your wedding night.

Osamu leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours and his nose was just a hair's-width away. He released a ragged breath that fanned over your face and caused goosebumps to rise over the expanse of your skin. You breathed him in, his scent a mixture of earthy musk and leather that you wanted more of.

“C-can I kiss ya?”

His question came out in a strained husky voice that ignited a flame in the pit of your stomach, and you answered by pressing your lips against his tentatively. A moment passed before Osamu took the lead and parted your mouth with a swipe of his tongue on your lower lip. You had never known what a kiss felt like and Osamu was more than willing to teach you. He explored your mouth and groaned in approval when you reciprocated. His kiss stoked up the flames burning within your core. An overwhelming need to close the distance between you rose and your hands found purchase on the hem of his tunic before they delved underneath the coarse material and made contact with his skin.

He broke away from your mouth with a hiss. “Wait,” he panted. “N-not yet.”

Before you could ask Osamu what he meant, he knelt down and pressed a loving kiss to your ankle. A furious flush spread across your face, down your neck, and underneath your thin shift. His eyes drank in your reaction and you felt him smile against your sensitive skin before traveling up your leg, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

When he reached your inner thigh, he sucked on the flesh and you clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle a moan. He pressed a soft kiss on the spot before repeating the same process on the other leg. By the time he marked your other thigh, both of your legs were trembling and desire pooled between your legs.

You felt him move again and panic tore through you as you bunched up your shift to see if he was doing what you thought he was—and sure enough, he was.

The protest on your lips was replaced with a heady moan when his tongue flattened over your slit and moved up until it reached a spot you were well-acquainted with. It was the spot your fingers would travel to late at night after having a little too much wine before bed. You quickly discovered that your clumsy fingers were nothing compared to Osamu’s mouth that alternated between sucking and flicking at the engorged flesh with his hot tongue.

His calloused hands trailed up your thighs and spread them apart while your hands pressed against the mattress to steady you. Just when you felt your release building, he surprised you by slowly pushing one of his digits inside of you. What had once been uncomfortable on your wedding night was now a tantalizing sensation that only increased with each finger Osamu added and dragged against your fleshy walls.

You quickly came apart on his fingers and mouth, your entire body shuddering as the waves of pleasure washed over you. Panting and flushed, you peered down to find Osamu’s mouth twisted into a grin and covered in your release. The sight was as immoral as it was entrancing. It was a sight you never wanted to forget; one you wanted to keep for yourself. At that moment, you knew exactly what you wanted and decided to take it.

You took off your shift in one swift movement and tossed it to the ground, your eyes never leaving his. As he worked on removing his own clothing, you crawled back onto your bed and watched him with hungry eyes. When he was as bare as you were, he joined you and settled between your already parted legs.

He looked big, but then again, you weren’t really sure what could be considered big, having long forgotten the only other one you knew. Tearing your gaze from it, you looked up at Osamu to find a silent question on his face. You broke into a smile at his concern and nodded your consent. Leaning one arm next to your head, he drew your lips into a passionate kiss before lining himself up and slowly pushing inside of you.

There was a mild sting but nothing compared to the pain of your wedding night. When sheathed himself completely, you wrapped your legs around him and whispered into his ear.

“I love you.”

Your words seemed to spur him on and he groaned into your ear, pulling out only to fill you up again. He made love to you in deep languid strokes that opened you up to a whole new world of sensations. Each stroke, each press, each kiss, built up another release and all you could do was drag your nails down his back and meet his thrusts with your own.

Your second release was even more potent than the first. You cried out and threw your head back onto the pillows while Osamu quickly reached his. He buried his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as he filled you with his seed—a sensation you’d never experienced before—and held you even after he’d given you everything he had.

For the longest time, all you heard was the evening of your breaths and the synchronized beating of your hearts. You ran soothing circles over the scratches you’d given him while he pressed sweet kisses to your cheek, neck, and shoulder. In the aftermath of your lovemaking, it was so easy to forget titles and circumstances. You were just two lovers on that bed and there was nothing you wouldn’t give to make it a reality.

Unfortunately, your life was anything but a fairytale, and you shifted beneath Osamu who seemed to get the message.

“I should go,” he murmured but not before pressing another kiss to your lips. One that you were more than willing to reciprocate. It was not nearly as long as you wished, but you held back a whine when he ended it and climbed off your bed. You drank in the sight of him underneath the pale moonlight as he slipped on his tunic and breeches, remembering how the planes of his body had felt against your hands, legs, and torso. As he laced his boots, you looked around the room for your shift only to find it on the floor at the foot of your bed. You shifted only to feel the sticky and wet residue between your legs and froze on the spot.

“C-could you hand me my shift?” You asked, just as Osamu rose to his feet fully clothed. “I do not want to risk—”

“Of course,” he replied before you could finish. He picked up the thin garment and brought it to you while pressing a kiss on your temple. “Sleep well, Y/N.”

It was just a glance, but you saw his grey eyes flicker to your bare stomach before swallowing and leaving through the door you’d pulled him through earlier that night. Your fingers ghosted over your navel and you wondered if he wanted it just as much as you did. After slipping on your shift, you pressed your legs together and lied back down while thoughts of a child with your looks and his character filled your head until sleep overtook you.

The six months of your trial period came to an end with little to no backlash from the Council. The neutral faction led by Sakusa watched you with satisfied expressions as you made your way up to the dais while the opposing faction grumbled amongst themselves but didn’t challenge you outright. You saw Bokuto and Akaashi with smiles that didn’t meet their eyes and responded by placing a protective hand over your protruding stomach that was still quite noticeable despite your loose-fitting gown.

Your attention was drawn back to the throne before you thanks to the gentle squeeze on your left hand. Turning slightly, you saw the hint of a smile on your knight and lover’s face and let his presence soothe you in the way it always had. So with Osamu by your side and his child growing inside your womb, you sat on the throne and watched over your subjects with your hand resting on your stomach as they shouted:

“Long live the Queen!”

#osamu miya #osamu x reader #osamu smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu x reader #osamu miya x reader #miya osamu #haikyuu fanfic #osamu fanfiction #osamu angst #haikyuu angst #royalty au #historical au #tw: smut #tw: oral #tw: breeding #navs.hq

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likeholymary · 4 years

Text

— untitled i.

playlist | masterlist

summary: once dear friends in college, obi-wan and (y/n) have bumped into each other in the capitol city of coruscant while both working there. will they rekindle their old romance from their college years, or will they remain as passing faces in each other’s lives? takes place in college years and 10+ years after.

a/n: ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. i didn’t mean to make it so angst but HOT DANG, here it is! also, try to think of coruscant like washington, d.c. also twin suns is definitely like a hybrid of starbucks and rain forest café, i don’t make the rules here, my crackhead brain does. basically rain forest café vibes but make it tatooine, and it’s a coffeehouse not a restaurant, lmao. also no warnings!

word count: 2.2k words

present.

The Twin Suns Coffee Bar was calling your name. While a multinational chain of coffeehouses, you couldn’t deny the desperate need for some caf and perhaps a small pastry on your way to work. Besides, the Twin Suns never failed to remind you of your home back in Tattooine, with its warm aesthetics and familiar scents, it was without a doubt your favorite coffeehouse to go to anywhere you went.

You smoothed your cream-colored blazer out some more as you entered into the bar, taking in the deep scents of the multiple different roasts, the sweet aroma of freshly made caramel and fluffy, buttery pastries just waiting to be devoured, the warmth of the orange and yellow lamps.

It was heavenly.

Twin Suns was different because they made each coffeehouse feel as if you were stepping into Tatooine. Covered with muted pink and burnt orange walls, black ceilings, and dark wooden countertops and tables decorated with small green plants like cactuses and succulents, it was truly a delight. The only difference, you and Anakin would joke, was that it was never dry like Tatooine, but rather moist like a rainforest.

Thinking of Anakin, you remembered that you had dinner with him, Padmé, Ahsoka, and the twins tonight. Fishing out your phone from your leather ‘mom purse’, as Ahsoka would say, you rapidly typed up a text to your group chat, just checking in that your plans were still on for the night.

You knew how busy Anakin and Padmé could be, especially with Anakin back to work as an aerospace engineer after having been a stay-at-home dad, while Padmé worked almost religiously as a congresswoman.

And you?

Well, you enjoyed working as a journalist for The Coruscant Times, the nations most trusted newspaper. You didn’t always work in the office, in fact, for many years you were the best field journalist. You loved your time there, but if there was ever hope of you having a social life, or Maker-forbid, a family, than you needed to settle down and begin your career in the office.

There were days where you ached just to get back out there and be with the people, but now you wrote as a columnist, commenting on a range of content, from the political ongoings of the world to the hottest new restaurants in capitol.

You were too busy texting Anakin something quippy in response to your ‘mom behavior’ (where did he and Ahsoka pick that up from?), when you bumped into the person ahead of you. At the sound of his deep voice, you froze, slowly looking up into those deep cerulean eyes, and, knowing in that moment, that you were in trouble.

“I should have known I would have bumped into you here.”

At the mention of Anakin’s roommate, you remembered he hadn’t introduced you yet. In fact, this was the first time you hadn’t heard about Obi-Wan Kenobi since Anakin had come home for the summer, before you two returned together to get you moved into the freshmen dorms.

Anakin and his elusive roommate had apparently gotten into a lot of trouble during their freshmen year together, constantly causing something around campus. Her favorite story was how they had accidentally started a campus protest when Obi-Wan and Anakin were joking about droid rights, which led to them personally asking droids around campus if they wanted to be free. Other students picked up on it, taking it much more seriously than anything Anakin could, and well... you get the picture.

Chuckling lightly to yourself as you both treaded the sidewalk headed for his townhouse, you asked, “Obi-Wan a big reader?”, to which Anakin groaned, “The biggest reader. There’s books everywhere around our place. It’s hard not to bump into his stacks.”

“His stacks?”

“Just you wait.” He darkly chuckled as he flipped through his keys before finding the right one and unlocking the door.

Anakin wasn’t lying.

Books were stacked in every corner, pressed against the side tables by the couches, even tiny hidden stacks had snuck their way underneath the tables, and even smaller ones underneath the couch itself, thin little books in small stacks lined together.

“Anakin! For kriffsake, could you for once in your life clean up your dishes when you make—“

The voice carrying itself through the house came through the hall to the right of the kitchen, before coming through and appearing as a tall man.

This was no boy, and there was no way this could be Anakin’s friend.

Six feet tall, this Obi-Wan was beautiful. His golden auburn locks were a bit messy, but he quickly brushed his fingers through them smoothing them out and at the same time making himself look even more attractive. You couldn’t help but be captivated by his cerulean eyes that were being pierced by the sunlight pouring through the window in their living area.

“Oh, this must be your friend, (Y/N), correct?” You blinked a few times before reaching out your hand to shake his outstretched one. You swallowed down you anxiety and nodded your head, attempting a smile, but you were sure you were failing miserably.

“Yes, and you’re the infamous Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

He grinned wildly, a glimmer of some cheeky nature apparent in his eyes and you couldn’t help but think that he would be some kind of trouble in your life.

present.

“It is lovely to see you, darling.”

The statement almost made your knees falter, and in another time him calling you ‘darling’ would have made you weak in the knees, but that was a lifetime you tried to forget, lest you get lost once more in the memories.

“I didn’t think I would ever see you back here.” You had crossed your arms at this point, attempting to throw up some guard. Don’t get in my head, don’t get in my head. Focus, you’re literally just here for a cup of coffee, get on with this awkward conversation with the man you were formerly, emphasis on formerly, in love with.

He didn’t seem fazed by your blunt statement, instead moving forward in the line, his eyes beckoning for you to follow. You stepped forward but tried to inch away from him as much as possible while still staying in line. Your eyes flicked to the barista at the register, as if willing her to take orders faster, wishing you could just get out of here.

Why had he come back? What was he doing here? The last you had heard of him had been while he was stationed in Mandalore, he had a girlfriend, some former classmate of Padmé’s, Satine...

He hadn’t even bothered to tell you. Instead you had found out from Anakin after the twins were born and you came to meet the two newborns.

You thought he would have told you, after all, you two had started off as friends.

“I was asked to come work at the University at their research facility.”

Of course he had.

Obi-Wan had always wanted to be a research scientist and make new discoveries about the world, which you supposed was largely due to his adventurous nature. He had graduated with his degree in biochemical engineering, with a masters in biology and clinical research (again, as stated, he was a nerd).

It was why he had so many books around his and Anakin’s apartment, and at one point, your apartment. You almost missed bumping into all those stacks of books every morning on your way to making your coffee.

“Well then I suppose you must be headed to work.”

“Yes, I am.” “Well, I am too, and I’m running late, so could you order already?”

You snapped, motioning to the barista whose register was now open.

The barista looked just as uncomfortable as you felt about your small outburst, but you just wanted to get out of there. You couldn’t think and it felt hard to breathe, despite you wearing your comfortable slacks that were never too tight, but right in this moment, they felt like they were binding you together, making it impossible to take a singular breath.

Obi-Wan stepped forward, just as calm and cool as ever, which only aggravated you more, and ordered a Nitro Cold Brew, before paying and walking to the pick-up area. How he could just so casually walk back into your life, as if he hadn’t broken you completely, his memory continually taking a pick and hammering new cracks into you here and there when you remembered something as simple as his smile, or heard your song on the radio, remembered him singing you to sleep or while you danced in the kitchen together....

“Ma’am, can I take your order?” “Yes yes, I’m so sorry...”

You quickly ordered your usual, the Twin Suns Double Shot on Ice with white mocha sauce added in. As you went to pay, the barista shyly told you that the man in front of you had already paid for your drink. Of course he had. So, in apology for your outburst, you fished a 10 dollar bill out of your purse and put it in the tip jar. You wished the barista a nice day, and moved on to the waiting area, tapping your foot as you stood and watched the other baristas speedily making their customers drinks.

“Still ordering the same thing I see. You haven’t changed a bit.” Obi-Wan said from behind you, and you could just hear the smirk in his voice.

You didn’t turn around. “Well you certainly have changed, Obi-Wan.”

The ambience around you was fuzzy - crowded voices chattering, a couple laughing to themselves in the corner, looking much like a young you and Obi. The thought stung painfully, and you tried not to show any emotion, but it was so hard not to when you felt every single one. New feelings, old emotions, a blur between what had past and what was going on right now, in this moment.

“How so?”

Despite being shorter than him, you turned you gaze upwards sharply, your eyes not wavering despite wanting to get lost in his stormy-sea-like ones.

“I once thought Obi-Wan Kenobi considered me a friend, a confidant, but I was mistaken. I thought you cared about me, cared enough to treat me at least decently, but I suppose I was wrong.” You bit your lip, trying desperately not to think about the memory of the night you broke up.

“I thought we could carry on as friends, but I suppose once you were done with me you were done. And now?” His eyes flickered with hurt, but you could tell he wasn’t trying to defend himself, but instead was trying to devote every attention to you.

“Now you try to act as if we are still friends. And that’s something I know will never happen again.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but the barista called out your orders, foiling any chance he had to explain or defend himself.

You stepped in front of him, going to grab your drink, not even turning around to look back at him as you opened the door and walked away.

“(Y/N)! Wait!”

Obi-Wan was running towards you, despite trying to navigate through the crowds of people and all while trying to not spill his own cup of coffee on himself. You didn’t bother to stop. You needed to get to work, and more importantly, you needed to process the wild morning you had just had, hoping you could still stomach your favorite coffee with the bundle of nerves blazing harshly in your middle.

“(Y/N), please-” He had grabbed your wrist, trying to get you to stop, but this only infuriated you more.

“Obi-Wan, can’t you see I am not interested in hearing whatever sob story you have? You are the one who broke up with me. You are the one who left and didn’t dare look back at the consequences.”

Once again you were forced to bite your lip, willing the tears attempting to build up to break themselves back down. You would not give him any more tears, not a single one. At least... not in front of him. You made a mental note to call Padmé during lunch for a brief therapy session.

“And these are the consequences. Goodbye.”

You left Obi-Wan standing in the crowd, not daring to look back and see those eyes, those eyes that could capture you once more and then leave you just as quickly as they had come and graced you.

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

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Today in Tolkien - March 5th

This is an eventful day, but a simpler one than the preceding days. It’s the first moment since the Breaking of the Fellowship that we only have two groups to follow. Frodo and Sam are at the Black Gate (“The Black Gate is Closed”). Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, and Pippin, and the Rohirrim, are at Isengard, and leave it late in the day; at night Pippin looks in the palantír and Gandalf rides off with him towards Minas Tirith (“The Voice of Saruman” and “The Palantír”).

And yes, this means that the end of the first half of The Two Towers happens at the same time as the third chapter of the second half. In the movies, I was annoyed at the Shelob’s Lair sequence being moved to the Return of the King movie, but when I look at the chronology I see it’s unavoidable. In a book that focuses on different people in different sections, these things can be managed; but in a movie you need some rough degree of simultaneity.

This also shows how the main events of the last two books roughly form three neat sections (each one ten days long):

1) The war against Saruman. Frodo and Sam travel to the Black Gate. Today is the end of this first section.

2) The war for Minas Tirith. Frodo and Sam travel to Cirith Ungol and enter Mordor. Frodo and Sam escape from the Tower of Cirith Ungol on the same day as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

3) The (fakeout) assault against Mordor. Frodo and Sam journey across Mordor to Mount Doom. Ends with the destruction of the Ring at the same time as the Battle at the Black Gate. Although this is the last section, it’s also the shortest (4 chapters: 2 for Frodo and Sam, 2 for everyone else).

So, starting with Isengard. The description of Isengard is rather Mordor-y, though less so, again evoking the idea of Saruman transforming himself into a lesser version of Sauron:

Beneath the walls of Isengard there still were acres tilled by the slaves of Saruman; but most of the valley had become a wilderness of weeds and thorns. Brambles trailed upon the ground, or clambering over bush and bank, made shaggy caves where small beasts housed. No trees grew there; but among the rank grasses could still be seen the burned and axe-hewn stumps of ancient groves.

Wormtongue arrives at Isengard in the morning and is horrified by its ruin, but Treebeard will not let him run away, and sends him to join Saruman in Orthanc. Merry and Pippin spend the rest of the morning searching the ruins for food for the Rohirrim (and finding food, drink, and pipe-weed for themselves).

Gandalf, the Rohirrim, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli arrive at Isengard a little after noon, and, to their mixed consternation and delight, find Merry and Pippin at the gates, eating, smoking, and napping. Gandalf and the Rohirrim go to meet Treebeard and have lunch, whuch Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli stay to eat and catch up with Merry and Pippin. The parley with Saruman in Orthanc - one of my absolute favourite moments in The Lord of the Rings, due to my love of dramatic dialogue, but too rxtensive to cover in detail here - takes up the rest of the afternoon.

Gandalf does not initially recognize the palantír, despite immediately regarding it as significant and as something Pippin should not touch. While they are riding away from Isengard he says, “there was some link between Isengard and Mordor, which I have not yet fathomed; how they exchanged news I am not sure, but they did so.” The groups rides some distance south of Isengard and then camps. Pippin sneaks the palantír away from Gandalf and looks in it, a Nazgûl passes overhead, and Gandalf rides off with Pippin for Minas Tirith. Shadowfax is extraordinarily fast; they pass Helm’s Deep, and reach Edoras by the end of the night.

Meanwhile, Frodo, Sam, and Gollum spend the full day at the Black Gate, watching Sauron’s armies arrive and seeing no chance for themselves to get inside the gates. Gollum offers a different way into Mordor - already planning to take them to Shelob and get the Ring, as he mostly decided on the previous day - and Frodo, after long thought, accepts.

Here we have foreshadowing both of the Ring’s hold on Frodo, and of how the story will end, in Frodo’s words to Gollum

“You swore a promise by what you call the Precious. Remember that! It will hold you to it; but it will seek a way to twist you to your own undoing. Already you are being twisted. You revealed yourself to me just now, foolishly. Give it back to Sméagol you said. Do not say that again! Do not let that thought grow in you! You will never get it back. But the desire of it may betray you to a bitter end. You will never get it back. In the last need, Sméagol, I should put on the Precious; and the Precious mastered you long ago. If I, wearing it, were to command you, you would obey, even if it were to leap from a precipice or cast yourself into the fire. And such would be my command. So have a care, Sméagol!

In the evening they set out for the southward route, and walk through most of the night, covering 8 leagues (24 miles, or 38 km). That seems like an almost unbelievable distance for them to be covering in a single night. Gollum estimates it is about 30 leagues (90 miles) from the Black Gate to the Cross-roads.

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #today in tolkien #gandalf #pippin took #saruman #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #gollum

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mrvdocks · 4 years

Text

Plus One

“That’s a straight no.”

“What? Why?”

“Come on,” You laugh. “I can hear the sirens coming for you now. She looks like she’s a junior in high school.”

He cocks his brow, “You do too and I still live with you.”

You playfully smack him. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you can't handle seeing me with someone else?” He says smugly.

@mochminnie and anyone else that would like to get tagged :))

(Chapter one)

Morning of Nancy & Jonathan’s Wedding

The daylight shines on his face when he wakes up. He looks down to see you’ve disappeared and instantly thinks yesterday was a dream. He’s almost disappointed.

“You snore too loud.” You say as a matter of factly, coming out in a robe and towel.

It wasn’t a dream. He smiles.

“You hog the blanket too much.” He retorts, flipping the covers over and getting up to stretch.

"It's like thirteen degrees outside of course I'm going to take it."

"There's layers to this, you know that right?"

“Alright, alright Casanova, do you want to stay here sparring with me or go find the love of your life?”

He stretches his arms, then sighs. “Not sure if I’ll meet the one if I’m half-naked.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” You wink, going back inside the bathroom to get ready.

Only an hour later and you two were nearly late because he decided to play hideaway with your heels. You didn’t protest as much but they were the only fancy shoe you’d brought to match the nuptial’s dress code.

You rushed into the elevator, counting down to at least ten minutes. It should be enough time to walk over to the chapel.

You glance at Steve, seeing him look out of it.

“Hey,” You tug at his arm. He straightens up. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just been a while.”

Part of him wondered if they would remember him after so long.

“Well if they’re not talking about you, they’ll be talking about how messy and out of place you look. Here, let me fix you.” You fix his Windsor knot stay in place and then move his floppy hair, letting a single curl of hair rest on his forehead.

“Is this really how you styled it?” You lift yourself on your toes to get more of it but he moves aside.

“Hey, hey, don’t damage the goods.”

“Is that - hold on, ” You take a whiff of his hair. “Oh my god.”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, laugh it up.”

“You smell like my mom!” You chortle.

He pushes you playfully as the elevator doors open and he walks out with you hysterically laughing. He smiles nervously at the passing guests as they file out to the chapel.

“That’s so cute. Listen, if you don’t end up with anyone our age here, you can definitely bag one of the aunts. I’m sure they’d love you.”

“It was my go-to in high school, alright? Girls loved it.”

He can see the subtle upward quirk of your mouth as you smothered a laugh.

“C’mon, before we become those people who hog all the attention.” You interlinked your arms and made your way past the field of green and a big brown chapel.

You both sat in the middle row on Nancy’s side, meeting all of her family and being introduced to her sister Holly, brother Mike and his girlfriend Jane. You couldn’t stop staring as Mike and Jane sat and goofed with each other.

“Been together since ‘84, and they still can’t get enough of each other,” Steve tells you in a hushed voice as he leans to you and begins giving you the dirt on everyone there.

Jonathan’s mother, Joyce sits at the front with a gruff looking man who kept trying to take out a pack of cigarettes. She’s pretty, and definitely doesn’t look as old as Steve says she is. She has a timeless beauty to her. Steve tells you that the man she’s with is Hopper, the same man whose wedding you would be attending later in March. Jonathan’s brother, Will sits to his mother's left and is in deep conversation with a man Steve doesn’t recognize.

Steve goes on a tangent on how different and grown-up everyone looks. He goes into details about things they used to do back in Indiana, some things crazy and others unbelievable. He almost sounds sad for not being able to see their growth for himself but that’s not a story he’ll tell you anytime soon.

You’re conversing with Jane when everyone quiets down and music starts playing. You stand and watch as Jonathan marches right up to one step to meet his brother and hug him momentarily. Holly enters, picking petals out of the basket and dropping them as she passes. Nancy enters soon after slowly, keeping tempo with the music. Her dad is older, more filled out, and grey-haired than Steve originally remembers him. Her mother, however, is stunning in a way that doesn’t overshadow her daughter. Her blonde hair is pulled into a half updo, she smiles warmly to guests as she carries the tail of Nancy’s beautiful cream dress. It's an eye-catching tulle gown with floral accents and lace sleeves that move comfortably with her.

Nancy’s brown hair is long and curls at the end, decorated with a pearl headband, her slender nude manicured fingers holding onto the bouquet gracefully as if she was a princess. She’s naturally gorgeous, with touches of blush on her cheekbones. She takes your breath away.

You’re almost a little jealous Steve got to date her.

“Please be seated.” The priest says.

You accidentally sit on Steve’s hand, making him jerk quickly but fast enough to avoid attention. You're locked in the entire time, entranced by every little detail from the soft brown tones of Jonathan's suit to the camera pin he wears to the embroidery on Nancy's heels.

The ceremony is beautiful, you even catch Steve tearing up at Jonathan’s thoughtfully written vows for Nancy.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

The crowd goes wild, cheers and whistles all around as Nancy and Jonathan kiss and he twirls her in a circle. She’s smiling shyly as Jonathan peppers her with kisses. Will steps in and takes a couple of photos before whispering something into Jonathan’s ear and making him laugh. The bride and groom rush outside hand in hand, rice and flowers being thrown as they disappear past the golden-brown of the chapel.

You and Steve give each other a look, thinking this wedding plan might not be so bad after all. You’re seeing love in its purest form.

The reception is held in a small banquet hall, music is being played by a band of fine instruments led by people Steve tells you are part of Nancy’s family. The whole place is decorated to bring out the snow and natural elements outside. Windows wide open, the brown of the hall illuminated by fairy lights hanging from above, a cute photo booth with a retro moon to pose with, and a DJ soon after the band leaves.

“Come,” Steve says, intertwining your hand in his and leading you over to where Nancy and Jonathan are.

Jonathan notices him first and immediately hugs him. Steve hugs him tighter, letting them sway for a moment while you introduce yourself to Nancy.

“Hi, I’m -”

“You must be the one Steve talks so much! I've heard a lot about you!” She giggles. My god, even her laugh was beautiful.

“Beautiful wedding! I am in love with you - your dress, I’m sorry.” You say, flustered. Nancy takes no offense and instead envelopes you in a hug.

“Thank you! It was a lot of stress but I'm glad we could finally get it to come to fruition. Steve never told me you were this lovely.”

You wave her comment away, feeling shyer than ever. “Please, I’m just so glad I finally get to meet THE Nancy Wheeler.”

“I hope you’re not trying to steal my wife,” Jonathan beams, bear-hugging you.

"I would never." You grin. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Byers.”

“Mr. Byers was my dad, please call me Jonathan.”

You nod, feeling the warmth and love that Jonathan and Nancy were giving off.

"So? How are you two? How's New York?" Nancy asks.

You and Steve glance at each other to see who goes first.

"Good! So good." You say in unison.

“So what’s going on with you two, huh? Any crazy stories?” Steve asks, eager to get the attention off of him for once.

“Well,” Nancy looks at Jonathan. “Jonathan was a freelancing photographer for a while but he was just hired for a two-year contract by Life magazine!”

You and Steve look at Jonathan wide-eyed and with jaws dropped. Jonathan smiles shyly.

“Jon, oh my god congratulations!” Steve says, pulling Jonathan into another hug.

“It was just a split-second decision, he almost didn’t send the photos in time but I convinced him.” Nancy smiles. "They want to send him to Amsterdam next week."

"Europe for the honeymoon? That's amazing." You gush, thinking about the canals and all the great food.

“And that’s not all,” Jonathan rubs at Nancy’s back with his other hand. “Nancy’s accepted a job up in New York as a journalist.”

“No way!” You feel your excitement skyrocket.

“We’re moving into the East Village in March, just after my mom’s wedding.”

“That’s amazing you guys, I’m so happy for you.” Steve is absolutely over the moon.

“Thank you and please help yourselves!” Jonathan’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Hope to see you guys soon!” Nancy exclaimed, before being met with more family to greet. You and Steve say goodbye and gush over them.

“I can’t believe you got to date her.” You remark, sipping more of the champagne.

“Yeah well, I was lucky to even kiss her. Looking back, I think they had it for each other all the time. I was just in the way.”

Projecting onto her, he thinks.

You frown. “Personally, I’m glad to see it all worked out in the end. To the happy couple!”

You bring your glasses to toast and snicker when some of it spills onto Steve’s lap. He tries to get you back but you evade him.

The orchestra ends and the DJ begins his set. He starts off with some lovey-dovey tunes you remember your mother playing from her childhood.

“Come on, let’s dance!” You exclaim, taking Steve’s hand and pulling him up and away from the table.

The dance floor is decently packed, The Del-Viking’s “Come Go With Me” echoing through the walls of the banquet hall.

Steve makes a fool of himself, flailing and dancing exaggeratedly while you move side to side to the dum dum dum, occasionally doubling over when Steve stumbles back into someone.

The music shifts after you two are completely tired out, changing to The Smiths’ “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”. Definitely Jonathan’s choice.

You and Steve pair up, dancing slowly with your head on his shoulder.

It’s a nice feeling, to be like this with someone. You didn’t know how you felt about Steve, besides the fact that he could be annoying as all hell and a bummer. But he wasn't so unpleasant to have around. He just needed to let loose. He wasn’t going to be twenty-eight forever.

Maybe it was too early, you saw how he’d freaked about Danny.

“Hey, five o’clock.” He whispers in your ear, ripping you away from your thoughts.

“What?”

“What about the girl at five o’clock? She seems nice.”

“Spin me.”

He spins you out to see a girl in a nice pastel blue colored dress and bouffant talking to Jonathan. He spun you back in.

“That’s a straight no.”

“What? Why?”

“Come on,” You laugh. “I can hear the sirens coming for you now. She looks like she’s a junior in high school.”

He cocks his brow, “You do too and I still live with you.”

You playfully smack him. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because you can't handle seeing me with someone else?” He says smugly.

“Pfft. She’s got babyface. Just trust me.”

The music shifts throughout the night, some electronic, another alternative, or more classical and then back to lovey-dovey.

At the end of “Earth Angel,” you’re just about ready to leave and kick off the heels that just won’t quit squeezing your feet.

“I’m starving.” You whisper into his ear.

“There’s food here.”

“Yes, and I’m still hungry. I need to severely gorge on something big right now.”

Steve chuckles lowly, about to make the joke you feared once the words ‘something big’ left your lips.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Yes, dear.” He snickers.

Once you’re away from the view of family and friends, you unbuckle the straps of your heels and breath in relief at your chains being taken off. Steve walks past you but you whistle to him to catch his attention.

“Well? Come on.” He motions for you.

You throw your head back and whine. “I can’t walk. These things have worn me down.”

He chuckles to himself shaking his head. “Alright, hop on.”

He turns and bends to your level, letting you climb onto his back like a monkey. You wrap your arms around his neck, him holding you up by your thighs.

You nestle comfortably into his shoulder, letting out an audible sigh.

“Don’t get too comfortable up there, you have the keys to the room.” He warns, but you’re fast asleep by the end of the sentence. "So much for being hungry."

He gets soft looks and compliments of ‘being a great boyfriend’ from different guests but he doesn’t have the energy to correct them. The dancing tired him out.

He uses the pointy end of your heel to click the elevator button and is careful with you when entering. Your soft sighs and deep breaths comfort him in some way. Your fingers twitch around his now loosened tie, softly scratching at the nape of his neck. It gives him goosebumps, but he relaxes into it, letting the warmth creep up to his cheeks.

He’s too lost in the feeling to notice when the doors open, the elevator dings to alert him. When he’s out, he shakes you slowly to wake you up. You stir and hum but stay asleep. He maneuvers your bag to face him, getting the key painfully slow. The door hinges creaking don’t wake you at all.

He lays you down onto the side where he sleeps, careful with your shoes and your bag. Putting them aside, he makes a move to close the door but your hand grabs at his wrist and pulls him back.

He glances down at you, still asleep but still holding on. “I have to close the door.” He whispers.

“Steve.” You murmur.

“Yeah?” He brings himself to ask, entranced by you.

You mumble incoherently, letting go of his wrist and turning your side to get comfortable.

He sighs.

"It was a nice wedding." He says, getting the suitcases out of the cab while you tip the driver.

"It really was. Plus I'm glad I got to take one of these suckers home too." You dig through your bag, pulling out the towel teddy bear that had previously been on your hotel bed. It looked a little deformed now but you could fix it.

Steve makes a surprised noise, "We steal things now?"

"It's not stealing if they were just going to put another one back."

"Well, I wish could've taken some of that shampoo. It made my hair smell great."

"Oh don't worry I got a couple of them in my suitcase. You can have them."

He looks at you with intrigue.

"What? We can't live fancy?"

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking as you head into the apartments.

"Hey, sorry I ruined your shot looking for someone at the reception."

He shrugs, feeling it wasn't a big deal. "That's why we have the other three, right? Plus, I had fun. I wouldn't have wanted to be in my head the entire time."

The answer satisfies you but you promise yourself to aim higher at the next wedding.

#steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #stranger things imagine #joe keery x reader

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apothecarinomicon · 3 years

Text

Spring week 4 part 1

After I’d rested up, I remembered that I still hadn’t actually made it back to Morna’s chamber. While I wasn’t certain they’d be able to tell I was late, it was the principle of the thing to get the books to them in a timely manner.

I once again made my way to Hero’s Hollow, this time on foot and without being accosted by any bleeding people. I gave my name to the guards outside and told them I expected to spend less than an hour in the dungeon. I was able to make my way back to the gauntlet sticking out of the wall fairly quickly, and removed it to open the passage to Morna’s chamber.

I traversed the hall quickly this time and found them lying on their back, staring at the ceiling. They looked up when I entered and said “that was quick,” so I figured I was in the clear. I began unloading the books from my pack and they picked one up and leafed through it hungrily.

They asked me if the spelling was going to be so strange in all of the books (I’d made sure to get the editions with standardized spelling). I told them that it was just the way that people wrote now, and that they’d get used to it.

They asked me about the library, eager for any information about the world. I fibbed a little and said it was large. I told them about the slight tension with the owners and they said I shouldn’t let it get to me. They’d been a misfit all their life and look at them now. I didn’t say that their situation wasn’t exactly aspirational.

I asked them how long they expected it would take them to finish the books before realizing that they would have no way of knowing. I told them I’d try to come back in a week to check on them but I couldn’t make any promises. They said that would be fine, and any amount of time with something new was a relief.

They asked me what other businesses were open in Greenmoor. I mentioned the bakery and the tavern, the blacksmith, the farms, the doctor, the tailor, and rattled off a couple other places that I hadn’t been to but knew must be present for the town to function. Wistfully, Morna said they hoped to see it in person again someday. I asked whether they’d previously lived in Greenmoor and they said they’d been more of a visitor.

They began sorting through the books and I figured I should leave them to it—I had other people to visit before the day was out, anyway. I told them I hoped they enjoyed the books and that I’d be back soon.

I don’t actually remember the act of opening the door and walking back to the main hallway, but I know I must have because I found myself placing the gauntlet back on the wall, allowing the branching corridor to reseal itself silently behind me.

────⊱⁜⊰────

I exited the dungeon and made my way around to the far side of Moonbreaker Mountain to visit Ainsley on her farm. She was out on her front porch with a washtub when I arrived. She greeted me warmly and had me sit down, offering a drink which I accepted.

She asked to what she owed the pleasure, and I told her I was just looking for conversation with someone who wasn’t hostile. She nodded and said she knew the feeling well. She continued washing as we spoke and I felt a bit strange not helping, but I thought it would feel even stranger to offer.

We talked for a long while (I don’t remember what about—I’ll admit my mind was preoccupied) before I brought up my question. I mentioned the gameball field I’d found in Glimmerwood Grove, and asked Ainsley if she knew why Senga would have been one of the team mascots. She answered—as I expected—that it was because my predecessor was part of a small group that played on that field regularly. Ainsley said she herself never much got into the sport, but she would watch sometimes when there wasn’t too much farm work to do.

I clarified that this meant my predecessor definitely had friends in town (Ainsley of course, but at least nine more!), and Ainsley said ‘oh sure,’ as if it was silly that I might have thought she didn’t. I asked who they were, what their jobs were in town, and Ainsley looked puzzled for a moment before saying that they weren’t around anymore.

I asked her what exactly that meant and she said she supposed they’d left. By the time my predecessor disappeared, she was the last of them in town. I asked where they could have gone and she shrugged. I asked if they weren’t her friends, too, and she said they were. Then she said some of them were adventurers so she supposed they were off doing that. She said some of them had family out of town. She said she thought one of them might have gone off to get a degree.

All the reasons she gave were plausible, but her uncertainty in them was... disconcerting. I asked if she could give me any names, so that I might be able to ask around in town, and she told me some. Now, though, I can’t remember them for the life of me. I’ve always been bad with names.

Ainsley mentioned that, despite serving as a mascot, she didn’t think Senga was ever present at a gameball match. It made sense, she supposed. My predecessor had loved that sheep like little else, and wouldn’t have wanted to risk her getting hurt if and when the matches turned violent. I asked how frequently the game got dangerous and she asked me (with a hefty bit of snark) whether I’d ever seen a gameball match before. I said sure I had, but it had never been a particular interest of mine. She put it this way: of the (very few) rules of the game, the one outlawing death and permanent injury was by far the most frequently invoked. I must say, that detail certainly did paint a clear picture.

We talked about other things, though now my mind was squarely wondering about what the gameball matches were like. It was close to dinnertime when I left, thanking her for her hospitality and promising to visit again. I had one more planned stop before I headed home, and I was excited for it. I walked back around Moonbreaker Mountain, hurrying to get there before the sun sank too low.

────⊱⁜⊰────

After leaving Ainsley’s, I made my way to Glimmerwood Grove and finally re-located Calder’s stream. It was closer to the path than I remembered—I just hadn’t gone deep enough into the woods when I was looking the other day.

Upon finding it, I was tempted to throw myself in to see if he might catch me again, but I decided that might be a bit much. Instead, I called his name. After a moment, he appeared out of the water wearing a large grin. As before, his form only solidified from the waist up and transitioned back into water where his skin met the surface of his stream. He told me he’d been wondering when he’d get to see me again. I asked him if he ate, and he said he did—mostly fish, but sometimes bugs too. “What about bread?” I asked, and pulled a loaf from the Bankheads’ bakery from my backpack. He said that if I was offering, he wouldn’t refuse.

So, I sliced the loaf and I spread some songberry jam on it and we sat and we ate. I asked him about his relationship to his stream. He said they were essentially one being, and that the water was like his body. He could say at any point what animals and plant life were present and where they were. Excessive waste or toxic material in the water would make him sick. He could even, to a limited extent, tell how the trees and shrubs that used his water for sustenance were faring.

I asked whether that feeling extended into the source or the tributaries of the stream, or even the mouth—where did Calder end and separate waters begin? He said a lot of it had to do with motion versus stagnance—most of what made the water his/him was that it was flowing under its own power. He knew that his stream flowed into Meltwater Loch, but he couldn’t feel past where it settled into the calmer wave patterns of the larger body. He said his main source was near the bottom of Moonbreaker Mountain, but that he couldn’t feel anything before the water was above ground. He said one of his major tributaries came from Blastfire Bog, and that was a bit strange and fuzzy because the bog had such a dense network of mycelium that was in but not necessarily connected to part of his water.

I told him I hadn’t heard of Blastfire Bog before. He said I’d probably find it useful to visit—it was a densely magical place. He did say, though, that it was difficult and dangerous to navigate without the proper preparation—full of nasty diseases, unpredictable swamp gas, and isolated denizens that could often be a bit territorial. He said humans and humanoids typically needed a coracle boat to navigate it safely, but that shouldn’t be too difficult of a purchase in his estimate (not that he himself had ever needed to pay much attention to the exchange rate of silver). I said I’d be certain to take all the necessary precautions, but that I knew I could count on him to keep me safe. I freely admit this was more of a flirt than anything resembling truth, but it made him chuckle so I feel no remorse.

We ate and talked for a while longer (our fingers brushed as I handed him another slice of bread), before Calder sat straight up as if he’d heard an odd noise. I asked what was wrong, and he said I might be visiting the bog earlier than anticipated. Someone had crashed into his tributary just then in quite the hurry, and they seemed to be shedding the spores of some kind of infection.

Well, that certainly couldn’t be good. I quickly packed up my bag and asked if he could lead me to this person. He turned his back to me and said ‘climb on.’ I wasn’t quite clear on what he was planning, but I certainly wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. He got me in a piggyback position and then, faster than I would have thought possible, glided upstream. He wasn’t exerting any visible effort, and yet we moved quick enough (and yet very smoothly) for the wind to whip my hair back.

I knew, though, that I couldn’t allow myself to get caught up in the moment. I needed to stay focused—there was a patient in danger, and they needed my help.

────⊱⁜⊰────

I’m very good with names. I don’t know why I wrote that before.

⇦●〇●⇨

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weeklyfangirl · 4 years

Text

Frat Boy Pt. 23

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 (1), part 7 (2), part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13 , part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19 , part 20, part 21, part 22

Here’s the chappie where you get a look beyond the Mediterranean fortress Harry calls home... ;)

Timing is sometimes too perfect to be the pure product of coincidence.

Everything is connected: the earth and the seas, the moon, and all the sky’s stars.

Our bodies are made of these, fragments of their nature, tying us to this world.

Aunt Lara used to tell me that we are a part of the cosmos, the cosmos pushing and pulling people into paths they’re supposed to be on. She’d smoke her cigarette on our porch with the full moon hanging high in the sky that she’d soon be flying through, and I’d nod, thinking I was so cool just for being around her. It was our time then, just the two of us, sometime after my parents had gone asleep and I’d sneak past their room to meet her outside. She never told my parents I was staying up late on a school night. She’d take another drag, extending one to me, knowing I wouldn’t take it.

“I’ve seen seven year olds with these things,” she’d mutter, laughing to herself, and when she’d look out, I imagined she was envisioning the Roman Cafe she’d frequent beside the famed Colosseum. A hot sun, and balmy breeze, warm like the foreign friends she’d meet, or the lukewarm seas lapping around her ankles. “So much warmer and clearer than anything you’ve ever felt here. The most miraculous shades of blue...” She’d smoke, she’d smile. I’d admire.

It was a full moon that night.

Just like it was tonight.

There are some things that happen so precisely, I think there must not be any other way these things could have happened, no other explanation, other than Aunt Lisa’s: the universe and its timing are inextricably linked to create our destiny.

Our choices change our future, sure. But there’s something beyond that, in the fickle way our choices play out ironically, that makes me think some things are fated. God, the cosmos, whatever you believed in - they had bigger plans for everyone.

They certainly had bigger plans for me other than a depressing Netflix binge in my dorm room after the game.

Yellow fluorescents flickered in the dismal parking garage. Lionel Styles was waiting by the elevators with Sven, looking oddly casual in normal streetwear. They grabbed Harry from me as soon as I’d parked, carrying him in. I followed, for a brief second questioning whether or not my services were needed. Maybe this was only family now.

But Lionel hastily beckoned me towards him. “You wanted a hands on experience right?”

His words seemed crass in a moment like this, but I brushed it off as stress as I went with them in the elevator. Lionel punched in a code and it creaked to life, slower than normal. A table had already been cleared in one of the surgery rooms, a white plastic sheet like that of a serial killer lain across. Gauze, ice water, rags, forceps, and needles were atop a metal tray. It was everything I expected of a surgical room - stark, sterile, and cold without any frivolous decor. No paintings. I assumed there was never anyone awake enough in this room to enjoy them anyway. Sven lay a white medical pillow down, too thin to be comfortable, as Lionel lowered Harry. I cringed, feeling another wave of nausea wrack through me. His gauze, once pink, was now completely red and looked wet to the touch.

“He’s been bleeding this whole time,” I breathed. Albeit obvious, it was less to inform Lionel than it was to come to terms with it myself.

Lionel flicked one of the syringes, nodding solemnly. “He might need a blood transfusion.”

Blood transfusion. IV poles were behind the table, blood blags and clear IV fluid already ready. He was expecting this.

“Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?”

“Nothing we can’t do. He’s just a boy. Gets into scrapes every now and then.”

“This is more than a scrape.”

He ignored me, plunging the needle in, and less than a second later, Harry’s eyes fluttered.

“Adrenaline,” I whispered under my breath. I recognized the protocol.

Lionel looked at me, curiously. “You’ve done a good job. Did you stuff the wound?”

I shook my head. Harry was still lightly breathing thanks to the adrenaline. But he wasn’t anywhere near stabilized to warrant my work being commended.

“It’ll be enough until my friend gets here,” he said.

I looked at him, skeptically.

“The anesthesiologist,” he clarified.

And I blamed it on the shock for being so daft. Dr. Styles had been established in the medical field since he received his degree, it was no surprise if he had a “friend” for everything.

“Is Mary here?” I don’t know why I asked this question. I don’t know why I thought it was relevant. Perhaps because if my mom knew I was bleeding out on a table, she’d be right there. Right beside me. She would’ve been the one driving, bossing around all the doctors. 911 would have been called and she would’ve moved hell fire and water screaming like a banshee to get to me. “Does she know?” I questioned.

Lionel didn’t even look at me, carefully unwrapping the gauze. “She’s sleeping. I didn’t wake her.”

The separate lives of Mr. and Mrs. Styles spread further in my eyes, only their roof and rings joining them.

I unpacked new gauze, handing it to him. The butterfly bandaids hadn’t held, big shock, and blood trickled down in a steady current. How much blood could he have left? Lionel didn’t have time to be surprised, but the stoic doctor looked a shade whiter when he grabbed the gauze. The wound was exposed and he hesitated, simply applying pressure. His hands bloodied by the second.

For as renowned as he was, in facing his own son, he suddenly seemed paralyzed. I wanted to shake him.

Sven re-entered, slightly out of breath. I’d never noticed him leaving. “They’re here, sir. But they can’t get in-”

A spark was lit. Something familiar for him to grasp onto. “Elevator’s been jamming,” he cursed.

I helped apply pressure, and Dr. Styles looked at me, unsettled.

“I’ll stay here. You can let them in,” I nodded, even though there hadn’t been a question.

“It’s deep. So you have to physically stuff the wound with gauze. Have you ever dealt with a stab wound?”

My eyes narrowed. He already knew what kind of injury it was.

Then, mustering all the poise and retort of the First Lady, “With all due respect sir, I can do this.”

“I’ve seen grown men faint at the sight of needles let alone handling an open wound.”

“Thank God I’m a woman then.” I don’t know what possessed me, but my steely gaze must’ve been convincing. Lionel ran through the door, not even bothering to shut it.

Perhaps it was all the hours of being kept to dull paperwork and the maddening helplessness I’d felt for too long now.

But I couldn’t sit around anymore.

I needed to do something.

Sven watched me as I put on gloves and bunched up the gauze, holding my breath as I pushed it past the skin’s opening, ignoring his little gasps telling me this was hurting him, and ignoring the hot sensation around my hands. Tissue. That hot sensation was his tissue. I was inside Harry. I was touching… suddenly the anatomy I’d memorized in textbooks was a little too detailed. These gloves were too thin. I kept going and Sven jumped in to help elevate Harry so I could wrap the gauze around his entire abdomen, stuffing his wound until it was full.

We didn’t speak.

I sat on the only steel stool in silence. I may not want to sit around, but right now the floor could move beneath me at any moment. Sven was in the corner of the room, gaze locked to the clock. The minutes seemed to tick by slower than anything I’d ever felt. I could feel time, just like in the elevator. And maybe it was because his time was running out. He could die. Harry could very well die. If I’d chosen to go with Renny, if I’d stayed a moment longer, if I’d left a moment sooner, I would’ve passed the locker room without hearing him, without seeing him at all. What would the alternative have been? An image of Harry bleeding out, cold on the floor made me nauseous.

And still the clock ticked.

I could have screamed by the time they burst through the doors in a flury. Two men I’d never seen before entered in slacks and untucked button-downs. This hadn’t been an expected call. This wasn’t official. They ignored Sven and I, instantly getting to work, which was fine by me as long as I could stay. They inserted needles and attached wires and masks until I wasn’t sure I could untangle him if I tried. The smallest mewling noises came from him, but he didn’t stir. I don’t think he had it in him to move anymore. Only able to give one desperate lolled roll of his head.

One of the men, the anesthesiologist, fiddled with a machine. The whoosh of releasing gas sounded when Harry took his first breaths. A slow, but steady, heart rate appeared on the monitor.

Lionel looked at it briefly.

The Doctor and his helpers worked for what seemed like hours. Maybe it was. For how long time felt and despite how intently I’d been staring at the clock, I couldn’t recall when we’d arrived. I cringed as they undid my handiwork, only to excavate deeper into the wound. I know this might be my future when I pursued medical school, but on more than one occasion I had to look away.

Sven had left the room entirely, standing guard just beyond the door. At least Sven escaped the smell of metal and flesh.

They stapled Harry together like meat, a butchered boy on the operating table, like Hasbro Operation except no one was laughing when the forceps dug in, and nobody won.

Every time I cringed, I reminded myself: Harry was asleep. He couldn’t feel any of this.

He looked like a corpse under the unforgiving white light, but the heartbeat reminded me he was alive.

When Lionel Styles finally turned away, tossing his gloves in the bin, he looked whiter than the sheet beneath Harry.

It was the longest night I’d ever had.

But for him, to excavate into his son the way he just had, I imagined it was longer.

------

“I didn’t have to come,” Matt said, for the first time irritance lacing his voice. Golden Boy stood at my doorway, recoiled, after I’d practically growled upon seeing him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a long night.”

And annoying after the e-mail notification I’d received about the DG Pretty Please. Time was running out, and it was the last thing I’d had on my mind recently.

“Why was it so long?”

I twirled my hair around itself in a messy bun, letting it hold itself up. I just shrugged while Matt’s concern mounted.

Lionel had asked me not to speak of it. “We’ll let you know when you can see him,” he’d said. As far as anyone else was concerned, I hadn’t been there that night. There was a reason he didn’t want Harry going to a hospital. Less questioning, less spotlight, less of an impact on their image… it still unnerved me. Such a horrific injury, and yet… it was almost expected, brushed under the rug. Had Harry really been this much of a troublemaker growing up that a stab wound was equivalent to a scrape for Dr. Styles?

Matt set the steaming Del Taco bag on the floor. “Y/N, seriously, what’s up? You couldn’t even stay the weekend on campus? She told me you’ve been gone for weeks.” He sat down at the foot of my bed when he was sure I wasn’t going to turn into a snarling monster. Which, to be fair, must have been a hard conclusion to come to. “And it’s true, I haven’t seen you around at all. You just… disappeared.”

“Okay, it was ONE week,” I clarified. “And we don’t see much of each other anymore anyways so don’t act like you’re so butt hurt that I decided to come home again.”

I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them. They were the ones we hadn’t said. The ones we knew were true. But a mood had crept through me last night turning me sour against the world. And now each word I spoke was infected with its poison.

His brows scrunched, eyes flashing with indignation, not sure how to handle me, of all people, lashing out abuse.

“Yeah, because you quit your PT job.”

“I got a new one!”

“And that’s fine! Why are you so… defensive right now??” he laughed briefly at the absurdity. “I just don’t know why you’re trying to blame this on me. Where is this coming from?”

I remained silent. I didn’t know why I was blaming him so harshly for our friendship reaching a downward slope. I knew we had different circles of friends, and as gross of a cliche as it was, he was with the athletes and I was with… Renny. Though now I was starting to hang out with Lynn more, too. A part of me envied him for having such an instant community with his team. Isn’t that why people joined sororities? For community? I’d seriously flunked that one, though a little voice told me I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

He looked to my collaged wall, expecting to see our photo strip. But it wasn’t there. He stood up, finding it atop my mom’s arts and crafts bin.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he said, softly.

I watched him, stood in my room like all those high school nights of old, seeming taller than before. Like in the months we’d lost touch he’d somehow gotten too big for this room, like he’d somehow outgrown me.

“It fell down,” I lied, because Harry had taken it off.

They say your high school friends won’t stay with you forever, that as you grow older, the number of friends you stay in touch with start dwindling until it’s down to one or two. I stopped speaking to most of mine after the first year of community college. People move on. People change. I changed too, even though I stayed behind. But there was always Matt. Of all people, I didn’t think it would be him and I standing apart and feeling farther, still. When these relationships change, the transition feels gradual. It’s like, in some unspoken unseen moment, your lives sync up, and you’re both busy at the same intervals. And then you make plans to see each other, but both of you don’t reach out the day you’re supposed to meet up. Neither of you follow through. Because it’s easier. It’s natural. An unspoken agreement.

“We’ve both been busy,” I said.

“The last time I saw you, you had a massive mark on your neck.”

“You can say hickey, Matt.”

His eyes fluttered, and he looked away. If I wasn’t devoid of emotion then, I’d think it funny how he got flustered just thinking or talking about anything sexual with me.

“You’re pretty close with Harry then?” he asked, ears slightly reddened.

“What makes you say that?”

“An educated guess.” A charming smile lit his face, almost shy, the hostility in the air dulling for a moment. “I’ve seen you with him before, and you were wearing his jersey at the game… I didn’t really believe it though.”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon. Harry Styles.”

“And?”

He raised his hands as if the answer was so obvious it was floating in the air. They dropped. “He’s not really your scene, is he? I don’t mean that in a bad way, he’s not really my scene either.”

“So?”

“So, nothing. I was just trying to find something to talk about.” He was getting more irritated now, his thumb digging in between his fingers. “Really, I don’t even care to talk about him, let’s talk about you. Please. Have you drawn anything recently? Why’ve you been feeling off?”

I snorted. “Please, I haven’t drawn anything since high school. There’s nothing new.”

He crossed his arms, testing me. “I don’t buy it.”

He was smart not to.

“You know… It took a lot for my dad to ask me to stay behind instead of going off to Princeton,” he said. Every molecule seemed to still around him. “He can barely speak now. The guy who wouldn’t ask you to fetch the boogie board even if you were the one who’d let the waves take it in the first place...” his voice trailed off, a silent sadness swirling in blue eyes.

I remembered Patrick Price taking us to the beach and pushing us beneath the big waves, teaching us how to balance on those harmless foam boards we’d pick up at Rite-Aid. Just three years ago at high school graduation, Patrick was running across the grass playing football with Matt and Dad at the BBQ while Mom and Summer dished out the pasta salad and watermelon. He was diagnosed two years ago, and now instead of serving pasta salad, Summer serves him, watching him closely on his wheelchair. ALS was a nasty disease and it acted fast.

“I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped,” he finished.

I wanted to say that I was sorry. I wanted to say that it wasn’t him, that it was me. But something else had already consumed me, not letting in the light, finding the darkest parts of me and unfurling them until some spilled past my lips. “You didn’t have to drive all the way down here just to see me.”

“I didn’t,” he said, and even though he hid his hurt well, I could still see it. He stood from the bed, making up his mind that there wasn’t any use being with someone who pushed away anything that ventured near. “I’m helping my dad move offices. The rent is too high now for landscapers.”

“They’re leaving? But you guys have been in the same spot for years.”

Matt gave a shrug, taking his turn at the silent treatment.

“I didn’t know,” I said, lamely.

The chasm between us grew bigger, and I shrunk even smaller, letting the silence and guilt consume me.

“But you wouldn’t want to talk to me about that either, right?”

I swallowed, hard. I deserved that.

And I was too ashamed to stop him from leaving.

Less than an hour later, I was cursing him again. The smell of Del Taco drove my mother away from the living room. Messy wrappers lay scattered around me when the door opened. I may have been too ashamed and prideful to apologize to Matt, but my growling stomach was stronger than both.

She saw me in the same position Matt had left me, and I avoided her gaze, checked my phone. No updates.

The room seemed cold.

“You look like you’re having the same day I’m having.” She came in with a basket of clean clothes, setting it on the floor.

“Mom, I told you I’d do that.”

“No, you needed rest.” There was a flash of pity, but it was lying beneath a thick shell of annoyance. She huffed, sitting on my bed, just like Matt hours before.

She snuggled closer. I faced her on my side, hands pressed against my cheek. She mirrored me.

I waited for her to say something, but in the silence her eyes grew wide, shaking her head. The mysterious reason for her mood like a gorged balloon floating towards a fan.

“What?” I asked.

“I think your Dad has feelings for somebody else.”

My brows scrunched. “What?”

“I don’t have any proof. But we were on a date night last night and…” -she let out a cruel laugh that made me want to hold her- “He was texting her.”

“Who?”

“A waitress.”

“A waitress?”

“Nicole the waitress.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“He denied it. But I looked at his phone when he went to the bathroom. She’s been a little… friendly with Dad.”

“Nicole?? Mom, she’s like nearly forty.” A brief memory of a friendly blonde working in the restaurant trickled up and left a sour taste on my tongue.

“Still fifteen years younger than me.”

My nose shriveled up, the thought of Father being romantic with my own mom made me cringe, but the thought of Father being romantic with somebody else? It didn’t seem… conceivable. My parents weren’t like the Styless. They kept us together. They loved each other.

“Have I met her? I’ll punch her next time I see her,” I said, the words still not connecting with my brain. With the facts laid out before me.

Mom snorted. “Not before I do.” She plucked at a hangnail, a habit I’d gotten from her, and I could practically see the insecurities already rolling around in her mind.

“You’re gorgeous, Mom.”

She gave me a look. “I’ve been stress-eating chocolates. I need to watch myself.”

“Mom.” I frowned, seeing worry behind her humor. “He needs to watch himself.”

She sighed, turning to the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just have this… feeling.”

“Women’s intuition?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, and I knew if Mother was telling me this from her vault of secrets, it must have been significant. She wasn’t one to listen to Lara’s spirituality, but intuition was something she would never refute. Momma turned back, rattling her thoughts together. “Anyway. I’ll just be... shocked. If it’s true. I mean...a waitress? Really?” Silence suspended. The afternoon sun warmed the room a little more than usual, exposing the paled filmy stars on my ceiling to be illuminescent frauds. “Or maybe I’m not,” she said, quieter. Before I could bat my eyes, she changed the subject. “Why’d you come back last night?”

But I could still see the steam rolling off her shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it more?” I offered. The Del Taco turned queasy in my stomach, and as much as I loved her, I really hoped she said no.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.” She squeezed my hand, letting me know she meant her apology. She did a once-over at my stale big t-shirt. “Did something happen to make you want to come home?” Her fingers ran along the tops of my knuckles. “Or do you just love me.” Her smile was less than half-hearted.

“I was going to be alone at the dorm again. Renny was going to a party and I didn’t want to go with her…”

“I hate how she leaves you alone. Maybe we should get you a puppy for company?”

I gave her a look and she caved. “No, you’re right. Probably wouldn’t fit in there. You couldn’t take care of a puppy now anyways. Too needy. So, did he like the house?”

Her mind seemed scattered in a million directions. Mine struggled to keep up.

“Mom, seriously what are you talking about?”

“Oh, I didn’t know if he said anything about it afterwards or-”

“Mom, who?”

“Harry, honey.”

She was clueless of what her words did to me. My heart lurched just hearing his name, and the worry from last night washed over my exhausted frame like a crab on the shore, strong tides like a persistent weight, threatening to carry me away again.

“I’m sure he liked it,” I said.

“It’s an older home...he’s probably used to columns of marble.” Her embarrassed smile for even asking the question made my heart split further.

“Actually, he did say something! I remember now, he told me it was cute. Homey. He thinks the marble stuff is too cold anyways, he’s excited to come back,” I reassured her. The last bit was probably a stretch but it worked. Embarrassment fell away and her smile glowed.

Satisfied that she was happy, I turned to face my ceiling, closing my eyes. The problems with her and Father swum in the back of my mind, but I was too tired to take on anything else. She was an adult. She could make her own decisions. The information settled in a box in my brain, waiting for a moment when I could fully process it and I’d unlock it all again. I could feel the inklings of damage it would do to me if I truly unpacked it - anxiety, anger, confusion, fear, pity.

Family was a constant.

I couldn’t think about that changing, too. Not when I could barely keep my eyes open.

“You’re so sad, angel. What’s going on in your mind, hm?”

I shook my head, shifting to look at the ceiling. I didn’t need to feel guilty for not confiding in her. I needed to not feel anything.

Her presence was like a lighthouse, radiating heat, beckoning me to come back. All without her saying a word.

She looked as if she were going to say something else, but her hand fell back into her lap. “Okay,” she said.

She didn’t even try.

Maybe she knew the fog was too thick for me to see her light.

Then, through the fog, a vibration shook me to the core.

-----

“Y/N, I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” Sven stepped aside, the grand foyer to the Styles estate stretching out before me. Any other time, it would be enchanting, captivating. Now, it looked as treacherous as a hospital hall. I wasn’t sure what rendition of Harry was waiting for me on the other side of the staircase.

My feet carried me up a familiar path, my heart pounding at the unknown.

Irrationally, I had to remind myself that Harry was alive. I wasn’t going to find him, not like I’d found my Grandpa in his room.

Regardless…

“Are there people watching him? Is he alone?”

“He’s stabilized. There’s no need for nurses to keep watch.” Sven held dirty linens as he stayed in my shadow up the stairs.

I nodded, the assurances not really meaning anything, not until I could put an image in my mind as to what he looked like. Right now, all I could conjecture was a gray blur for a head sticking out above the sheets. How bruised would he be? How much stained blood would there be? I didn’t know what to fill in the gray with, so my mind envisioned the grim Harry I’d last seen, the Harry that, if it weren’t for the monitor, I wouldn’t have known still had a beating heart.

Each step carried me closer with a horrifying thought. My brain playing connect the dots as I walked.

Pale.

A clay boy.

A stitched up doll.

And everyone knew dolls didn’t breathe.

I didn’t realize I was alone until I turned around. Of course Sven wouldn’t have followed me, but for some reason I wanted him to be here.

Maybe it’s because he was with me when I’d seen Harry last.

“Y/N.” The familiar voice was weaker, but the grim tone was still so painfully bare. Of course he’d sensed me.

When I stepped out from behind the door, I didn’t find a dilapidated monster. Harry lay resting.

“Hey.” I snuck in, light as a swallow’s feather in the morning breeze, floating down beside him and resting my head atop crossed arms. The sight of him shook me. “Raggedy Harry,” I barely whispered, a horrible punch-to-the-gut feeling ballooning in my chest.

Half of his face swelled more than the other, his bottom lip completely bruised and jutted out, with a fairly deep gash that had started to scab. I fought the urge to trace over it.

“Looks worse than it is,” he said, watching my eyes carefully. Besides the pink-red swelling, his face appeared flushed. And despite his injuries, he was still miraculously beautiful.

I didn’t even blush from staring. Loose earthy curls had not been affected by time spent smooshed against the pillows. If anything, it’d pushed them forward, the floppier fringe defying gravity just there above his forehead. People could go to a stylist and ask for effortless mussy curls and not have it turn out as good as his - and this just with his genetics and days spent sleeping.

If I were him, I’d look like a grease monkey.

“Well, I can’t see the worst bits I’m sure.”

His chest was wrapped in gauze, this time not bloody to the touch. It was thick, white, and secure, and suddenly the tears that had yet to spill started pricking my eyes. I didn’t know just how badly I needed to hear the words before he said them.

“Y/N, I’m fine. I promise.”

The heaviest weight lifted from my shoulders, but my body slumped deeper into his mattress from an instantaneous realization. I’d needed Harry to be okay. I needed him here, even if I couldn’t explain why.

My hand reached out, brushing the tops of his hand.

“It would’ve been a dick move if you died,” I managed to breathe. I let out a sorry excuse for laughter, nervously sniffling.

His eyes seemed heavy, tired. The circles beneath them a cry for help from his beaten body.

“You can sleep if you want. I just wanted to check in on you.”

“I’m not sleeping when you’re here. S’all I’ve been doing,” he croaked. A flood of relief washed over me. Being apart from him was the last thing I wanted right now. The anxieties that’d been plaguing me the past 24 hours were muted to a dull simmer, drowned out by the highs of my body being close to his. Noticing his body...

A steady drip came from the IV hooked to his arm. Five pill bottles were on his nightstand, within arms reach. He noticed my staring.

“To stay hydrated.” Then, under his breath, “And numb.”

“I know,” I barked a laugh that instantly felt out of place. “I want to go into medicine, remember?”

His voice seemed lower when he rumbled, “S’right. You’re a smart girl.”

The tenderness in his voice sent an unexpected warmth straight to my chest. “You know that’s also a curse,” I noted. “I think too much.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t laugh like I had. It sounded like an apology. I almost jolted when his hand reached out to touch mine, not expecting him to be warm.

“You almost died,” I said, taking a breath. “I was there when you almost died.”

“I never wanted you to be there-” Before I could take offense, he weakly squeezed my hand. “I want to protect you, Y/N. I never wanted you this involved with me.”

“Well we’ve done a shit job at staying uninvolved. You can barely protect yourself. You can’t protect yourself.”

“That isn’t going to happen again.”

“The fact that it happened! Harry, I don’t think you understand how scared I was. How scared I am. I could be next, I don’t know what they want...”

A horrifying puzzle piece clicked into place. My nightmare of being stabbed could become a very real reality. It wasn’t until I saw Harry wincing that I realized his breath had quickened.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Shit I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out. We don’t need to talk right now.”

The sting of I never wanted you this involved with me pulled me to the door, but his hand pulled me back.

“No. Fuck no.” But his grip softened again, his abdomen screaming at the effort to pull me back to him. When he spoke again his voice was a murmur, quiet-quiet, so gentle I could’ve imagined it. “Stay. Please. Seeing you here is the happiest I’ve been all week.”

My heart could’ve flown out of my chest, but for the buzzing electrical phenomena his words ignited in me, I was frozen by his sober admittance of want. It seemed all we ever did was dance around each other, literally. As if we were in an old 1700s ballroom, and everyone was dispersing into pairs. We spy each other from across the room and tiptoe around, refusing to seek other partners, yet refusing to commit to a dance.

“Is that sad?” His sincerity broke my reverie.

I leant closer, and his eyes fluttered shut in expectation… But my lips pressed soft kisses to closed lids. “I’ll stay,” I promised, nose to nose. Because my answer to his question would be yes. Something told me the mess of his body finally matched the inside of his heart.

Rather than tilt his head up to kiss me, he tried scooting over in the bed. It was painful to watch. I stopped him. There was plenty of room for me to lay beside him. So I did, scared to touch him.

“I’m not going to break,” he huffed. Tough and untouchable, I imagine being tip-toed around was the exact opposite of what he was used to.

“You didn’t see yourself that night.” Bloodied gauze and feeling his hot insides against my hands was enough to make my own blood curdle. It was enough to make me question if the Harry in front of me was simply a mirage. He was okay now, I reminded myself. But after I’d seen him bleeding out in the seat next to me, I wasn’t sure I believed him to be unbreakable anymore.

“You’re right, I’m… sorry,” he looked away, as if not being able to meet his reflection in my eyes. As much as I could hear regret, I knew he felt it even more.

My hand reached out, fingertips gently touching his raised cheek. “You were the one who felt it.”

He barely leant against my touch, gaze boldly probing my tired eyes, puffy from crying. The longer he stared the guiltier he became.

“Maybe we both did,” he said. The statement seemed to confuse him, brows stitching together. “No one’s ever been there for me like you. And-” he smiled as wide as he could with the swelling- “honestly it scares the living shit out of me. I know you didn’t have much of a choice to help-”

I surprised myself again, the definitive statement flying out of my mouth faster than I could comprehend. “I’d do it again.”

But the words seemed to hurt him more. His head lulled to the side, his prominent adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, deep in thought. “You’re too good for me,” he surmised. Before I could argue, he took my hand, pressing the back of it to bruised lips. He was acting so soft, so vulnerable. Was it the drugs? Was it an act? But if it was, how could eyes lie like that?

He hummed as if we were laying on the beach on the first hot day of summer, despite all the pain he must be in. The pros and cons list I’d written and stashed in my purse was sending out a throbbing heartbeat in my body, burning a hole where my purse lay at the end of the bed. No matter if the list were true, it couldn’t encapsulate the complicated person that he was. It wasn’t a fair portrait to paint. And putting me on a pedestal wasn’t either. “That’s not true,” I mumbled, far too late.

“It is,” he said. No room for argument.

“Did they give you some love drugs in this medicine bag of yours?”

His brows quirked at love, but he didn’t seem mocking when he said, “Maybe.” Emerald eyes were a mix of admiration, torment, and want as they drank me in, and I was sure if I let him stare into my soul a moment longer, he’d discover I wasn’t perfect at all.

I looked out towards his panoramic balcony window. Little flickers of light told of a city at the bottom of the hill, the dark ocean like a blanket for the rest of the world just out of reach. I wondered how long it’d been since the sun had set. Like any night with Harry, the rest of the world slipped away.

I stole a glance back at him, the beautifully broken boy resting his eyes. As if sensing me, he stirred, mumbling something incoherent.

“Too far,” he repeated, opening up his arms.

“I’m not laying on you Harry. Your stitches could burst.”

He growled. “I don’t care.”

And I didn’t doubt it. I came as close as I dared, thankful his shoulder wasn’t bruised as I lay my head in the crook of his neck, hands blindly combing through curls.

I could feel him relax into me, hear the boyish smirk across his face. “My mum used to do that,” he whispered. “Not this mum, my other…” his voice stuttered out. “My biological.”

It grew quiet in the room. An opening to the door of his past just barely letting in light.

“Do you miss her?”

“Can’t miss what you don’t remember,” he dismissed. And just like that, the door to his past was slammed shut. It was exactly what he said about the Styles’s first child Jane. But this time it sounded rehearsed, mechanical, a river of emotion carefully masked. But not to me.

My hands stilled, not sure if I should continue. But he leant into me again, and I continued my gentle work, as if undoing his tresses could untangle messy thoughts. “Thank you,” he sighed.

In some unspoken moment, he turned his head down, his tanned beaten face leant closer to mine. And with the intimate intensity only he possessed, he saw me. Like I was the only woman in the world. The oxygen seemed pulled from the room as time suspended. He leant lower until our foreheads brushed, his brows stitching together when I instinctually drew my leg across him, careful not to hitch it up too close to his wound. Our breathing deepened, the anticipation building as my hand drew across his face, my fingers settling behind his ear. He huffed, irritated at the tangling of the IV chord when he wrapped his arm around my side.

We stayed like this for a while, cradling the other. And just like I had done before, his pillow-soft lips ghosted over my cheek, then my nose, then my chin, until they hovered just over my lips. My eyes fluttered closed, the trail he left leading to one place…

“Y/N,” he breathed. I opened my eyes. There wasn't any reluctance in his eyes, but something similarly cautious yet fervent, an unspoken sentence pushing against closed lips.

But the sound of glass shattering woke us both up. His body turned hunter, still as stone as he listened for what came next. A hysterical cry drove Harry to stand, miraculously faster than I thought possible, and it wasn’t until he limped halfway towards the door that I realized he ripped out his IV. The banshee scream turned into a chilling wail, freezing me to my core.

My mind went to the worst case scenario. I’d have to jump from the window somehow. The gang must have found us. They must be in the house-

“It’s Mary,” he cursed, stopping my spiralling mind so quickly I was left dizzy. I don’t remember following him, but he stopped me at the door, hands locked around my shoulders.

“She has… fits, sometimes,” he explained.

“I don’t care.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to see this, too,” he said, and the amount of shame that shadowed his face was like a gouge through my heart.

I barely had time to say the words before another scream ripped through the empty house. “I’d do it again.”

With a somber nod, he rushed us out, practically sprinting to the living room where Mary Styles lay cradling her shell-shocked frame on the floor.

“You were gone. You left me,” she sobbed. Her hair was ripped from its usual loose curls and mascara ran down her face like the clear snot running from her nose.

“Oh my God,” a voice mumbled.

But I realized the voice was me.

The glass mirror at the bar had shattered. Shards of glass lay scattered all over the floor. Harry trudged through it, barefoot, bits of red mixing on the marble floors.

“No one was here, no one saw.” Her eyes were crazed as Harry bent over to pick her up and she pushed him away. “No! NO!!”

Fear spiked in my body. I’d never seen someone look so disconnected from the present reality. This was raw. Unpredictable.

But Harry seemed unphased.

“No one saw her, no one saved her,” she wailed. The weight of the words caused crippling sorrow. She stopped resisting, retreating into a shell of herself with choked cries, “Jane, Jane…” as Harry let out his own shout at the effort to lift her.

“Be careful, you’re hurt,” I called out, weakly. He didn’t bat an eye.

“Go through those doors, through the living wing, there’s a closet on your right. Grab the Valium and meet me in the guest room.” He avoided my gaze, looking instead to the direction I should be running to.

“Where in the closet?”

“Black box,” he ordered. Then, whispering to Mary, “It wasn’t your fault.”

But if she heard the words, they didn’t register, her face twisting, her own little trickle of blood running from the tips of her hands.

Her sobs barely quieted as they rounded the corner down the hall, abandoning me in the wreckage.

I was careful to step around the glass, heading to the massive hidden door in the wall I remembered Harry pointing out as the “living wing.” No one was around to confirm if memory served correct, but when I finally found the latch handle and tugged it open, tropical foliage surrounded me. It smelled humid, like stale water and… musky. Like when I had a hamster in fourth grade and forgot to change out its bedding. The light from the moon shone through their giant skylight, illuminating caged birds gently calling behind bars, enclosed in a sizey aviary. A small raised indoor pool made of rock looked like a concave fossil, with a shadow swimming amongst the mossy water. A miniature crocodile skirted to the furthest edge away from me and raised for air, two eyes looking skeptically in my direction. “Toto” was etched into the rock.

There were more enclosed habitats, and at the head of the room overlooking it all, a giant wooden desk. But no closet. No closet.

Frick.

I didn’t have time to ponder the eccentricity of the Styles’s owning a freaking zoo in their mansion. Nor did I have time to try and find a friggin light switch. Not at all.

I walked the length of the wing which seemed just as expansive as their living room. Ironic, I thought. Because this was literally a living room.

Then, beneath an arching tree canopy held in a planter box, two wicker handles protruded from the wall with a crack running between them.

Bingo.

They opened easily, revealing a deep closet full of filing cabinets and old paintings. My phone light illuminated the top, where two black boxes seemed to have gone untouched for years.

My foot tapped impatiently, not sure which one to grab. I hadn’t heard any cries of bloody murder, but someone (not me, someone more athetlic) could’ve run a mile in the time I’d been gone.

I reached for the one closest to me. It was velvet, I realized, surprised even this family’s storage containers would have some element of luxury. I prayed to find pills. But instead, a wax sealed envelope holding a thick stack of documents glared back at me. I was just about to secure the lid again when the inklings of a photograph peaked through between the papers. The deep-red seal, already opened, was their insignia, a cursive “S” that looked like it’d come from the 18th century.

Since the seal was already broken…

My hands carefully leafed through the pages, and as if they knew, the animals grew louder, alarming themselves of an intruder. These documents seemed court-ordered. Various signatures adorned the pages using language I couldn’t understand. My heart dropped when I realized what I was holding. Adoption papers. Among them, a newspaper clipping about a boy separated from a violent family, and adopted by rich Americans.

Slowly, with each word I read, the oxygen felt snuffed from the room, another puzzle piece falling into place. One that changed the picture completely.

Wednesday morning at 5 am, neighbors of Sheffield awoke to gunshots at the King flat. After an attempted murder of his wife resulting in two gun shot wounds to Maisie King’s abdomen, Roger King committed suicide. Maisie is currently in recovery, and her two children have been placed in foster care while the court assesses their home situation.

More newspaper headings were clipped out, detailing the TV star rescuers of the boy, how lucky he was and how a wonderful, ritzy life in California awaited him. His entire fate had been changed - but there was no mention of Gemma. And in each photo, the child-like innocence in his eyes seemed vacant, replaced with a stoic sadness I’d only seen glimpses of when he was medicated. When he was too numb to remember to keep up the mask.

For how little the Styles’s divulged about Harry’s past to the American press, in England the story seemed to be the tragedy turned happy ending. At least, to some extent, the Styles’s were owed credit for something. They’d probably paid off the international papers.

Little Harry… My stomach suddenly flipped, the room’s darkness transferring to something physically heavy in my chest. There was a photograph, too, and I carefully wedged a finger where the worn corner of it peaked out from the paperwork, keeping its place as I tugged it out. But when I saw it, I almost dropped everything.

The familiar curly-haired child I’d known from old Housewives episodes stared back at me in a worn blue polo from discolored film. Reddened tear-stained eyes looked at whoever was behind the camera.

There were fresh bruises on baby-plump cheeks, cuts across rosy cherub lips.

I looked away as soon as I saw it, but the image had already burned in my memory. A taste for the shadows of scars I could only imagine he carried ten-fold. His cuts had buried much deeper than flesh; the most dangerous wounds afflicted his soul and stole the air straight from my lungs.

Oh, God.

Oh, Harry.

How could anyone do such a thing? He was just an innocent boy, how could anyone- how often…?

Bitter bile rose in the back of my throat. Dealing with bloody injuries was one thing, but seeing a beaten child had me sick for another reason entirely. This was something evil.

I put the photo back just as quickly. I’d gone too far this time. I’d really gone too far.

So it was almost an accident that the next photo fell out when I was putting back the first.

A man, strewn across a red puddle seeping from his head. A gun tossed at his side. The bile rose again and I refused to stare, but my mind caught the ends of wavy brown hair and a face that wasn’t really quite there.

I should’ve noticed when the animals quieted, I should’ve heard footsteps quicken in the other room, but it seemed far away, muted by the roaring secret I’d just uncovered, my mind fully fixated on the life no one could have known about Newport’s playboy hier.

If Harry hadn’t noticed the velvet top of the box not quite closed shut, he saw the guilt in my eyes when he stood square before the closet doors.

He looked irritated, almost grabbing the closed box from my fingers.

“It’s the wrong box!” I cried, horrified that even my voice reeked of pity. And something else. Fear.

He froze. A flame flashed beneath the dulled emerald, a spark of knowledge I was sure he’d like to forget. That he’d probably tried to forget, countless times. He shoved it away and grabbed the other box, stopping briefly as he walked past me again. He threw a cold glare.

“Don’t be scared of the snake,” he said. “But he doesn’t like strangers.”

As if on command, a giant boa constrictor slithered out from the overhanging tree, tightly coiled around a branch.

I felt my heart lurch in my throat.

“Harry!” I called, but he wasn’t here anymore. And if he was, he didn’t answer. He left, rushing to deal with one mess, when I feared I’d just created an even bigger one. Frozen to the spot as I figured out how to basically army-crawl out of the closet, I ran out past screaming birds and rustling waters, snake eyes burning two holes in the back of my neck as I chased Harry’s shadow.

come talk about frat boy! or if you just wanna talk... i’m getting tired of talking to my dog lmao

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baglove · 2 years

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(via cat lovers Pet Bandana by mohammed elhachimi)

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#findyourthing #redbubble

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lamalefix · 3 years

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Okay so, a couple of weeks ago started my new journey.

I've been reorienting a bit in the past few years.

As much as I loved and will always love psychology, developmental and learning psychology specifically, brain (to be read exclusively with zombie-like voice) and its physiology, disorders and rehabilitation and so on, I found that Human Resources was a field so interconnected with what I studied and caught my interest. It didn’t always have my interest, I thought at first that this kind of organizational, managerial thing wasn’t fit for me but...

... Sometimes life treats you good when you least expect it, sometimes the things you do, the tiny choices you make on the road, change your life, your journey completely.

And it's quite a long story so sit down, take a cup of tea and let me tell you this story...

Please note that I’d use nicknames for the story, not because I want to add privacy at the matter but because I usually use those names with my friends (I’m weird, I know)

We live in a pretty chill, green area in Rome.

For some reason beyond my knowledge, when we bought our apartment, back in 1998, we ended up to live near my godmother.

She had a couple of dogs, and has a lot of dog-friends and dog-owners-friends.

A lot of you know I have a dog (Zelda, that beautiful silly golden retriever who loves to snuggle with my shoes), and when this story started, due to my internships and different jobs around the city, was usually my ma the one who took her on her strolls.

Before we decided to get a dog, right after my master's degree graduation ceremony my godfather (my godmother's husband) died.

It hit hard. At five in the morning on a cold day at the end of january my godmother called and told us the news. He had a heart attack and died on the spot, while working.

I clearly remember the last conversation I had with him, a couple of days before he died. He was walking his dog and I was waiting the bus under our homes. He was always so funny, he made a joke, and if I close my eyes everytime I step near that bus stop, I still hear him laugh and huff something along the lines of “Urgh going to the gym at this god-awful hour by bus, you really want to suffer”, and I smile everytime. But aside of my weird choices about my fitness life, this isn’t the story I want to tell you about.

After his funeral, for the next months before my internship started, I practically only slept at my house but lived at my godmother's to help out. So there I met two beautiful men (in both the inner and outer sense), that we’ll call Grey Fox and Tall-n-young, that lived across the road. They had dogs, Grey Fox had two adorable sausages dachshounds and Tall-n-young a chubby half-beagle. My ma just fit in, like a clockwork, rolled around them, every evening walked with them without a dog, but with them and my godmother, her sister and their dogs. (The story of how my godmother found her new stray dog on her husband's grave and he looked at her when she called him with her husband's nickname is for another time but... You know).

Meanwhile, my dad at work meets a new coworker whose wife is a pet trainer. And everything clicks in the right place.

I went to met Zelda (fishing my hand into the litter and she chose me by licking and snuggling against me - and my shoe) only a few months later.

But this isn't the story of how I met my dog either. This is the story of how I met my boss and how I decided I wanted the HR Management field to be something to pursue.

I met my boss, mentor and friend in a very weird moment of my life. I was finishing two contemporary internships at a Private Centre and a University Centre that offered help to families with kids with developmental and learning disorders. Up til that moment I knew my job would have been in that field, developmental psychology and rehabilitation, even if it was a stressful place to be at some point. I wanted to be a psychologist since age 5, not a princess, never a princess, who cares for princesses? I worked, without being paid (because that's how internships work for psychologists in Italy) more than 40 hours a week, from monday to saturday 8 am to 8/9 pm, and I hat to take a lot of work, papers and so on home, for over two years... And you'd say, "Why Giulia did you like it so much?".

One of my friend urged me to quit because I was so tired, couldn’t find time for myself and I just found out I couldn't enter the PhD I wanted, but I needed my abilitation at least, be a psychologist.

Meanwhile my ma was always around with the dogs and her new friends. She met Lovely, another dog owner who took a liking in me. A beautiful lovely girl, who sadly had a very aggressive cancer, that took her away three years ago.

One day Grey Fox who shared his birthday with Lovely invites me over along with my ma and my dog, because Lovely wanted me there. I never met Grey Fox’s partner up til that moment, everyone said he worked a lot, everyone said he did weird hours and travelled a lot, and he was doing something very similiar to what I studied, he worked as something like a therapist. (Something you’d call a life coach, in hindsight),

So, when I get there I finally met him, we will call him Nose-y (because you know, he has a pretty big nose), my boss, my mentor. He was sitting on that beige sofa in Grey Fox’s house, one of the dachshunds licking the back of his head, the other snuggling on his lap. And we start to talk. About tv series, about psychology, therapy, schoo, learning processes, about work and career paths. He said he was about to quit is job and move forward to get something done by his own hands, and open up what you'd call a start-up in coaching and HR management.

He wants me on his boat, he wants me to help him.

And that's how it started.

But not when I decided I wanted to go in this direction. As I said HR management and coaching per se, are like very close and interconnected with psychology, but I always sat on another corner, walking another path. Preferring underlying brain processes and biology more than production and management.

That decision was took sometime later.

After he quit his job as a top manager and Lovely died, after i got my abilitation and started to help out as a volunteer with elders, homeless and people with social and financial difficulties.

One day Nose-y asks if I want to join him and an actress and acting teacher, a beautiful woman that we’ll call Blondie, in one of their workshops.

We end up in the centre of Rome, in a theatre right behind Piazza Navona. The participants were members of a high performing team of a big org, I don’t remember the names, and I wouldn’t even if I tried.

They enter at some point in the theatre, and it doesn't need a psychologist to know that they are broken. Blondie makes me sit behind the light and sound effect technic table, and instructs me how to help out with that. Music, lights, enable their (our?) method to be even more effective.

The theatre is a underground thing, like a cavern-ish, basement in the centre of Rome, a typical thing you’d call a cellar that you’d find in old buildings.

I didn't know when I went there that morning, at the end of june, that I'd make some final decision by sunset.

The team, I was saying, was a tiny super-high performing team. But with high performance comes high stress level. And one of them killed himself. And they found him in the morning, in their office. And in that dark theatre they were blaming each other, and Luigi and Marta's job was to accompany them through grief and acceptance and restore their team work. By the end of the day, they were all more able to communicate, to listen, to help each other.

That was the moment. When I saw them leave, Nose-y and Blondie all tired and all wilt on a couch, but satisfied that I decided. I wanted to change, to be a better person, maybe a better manager, for a better future. I wanted to be one of the many people who work in HR Management that can be a support for emplyees, I wanted to be the change, to be there to help managing that work/life balance.

I don't know where this journey will lead me, I don’t know if I’d make it, if I’d get to be the better version of myself, the better version of what i wanted to be when this thing first started but...

I’m on my way and the only thing I can say is, it’s never too late to change direction, to pursue another dream, to have a new vision of that future you want to build.

It’s never too late. You can always grow up.

#long post #personal story #self-empowerment #something like that? i guess

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misterewrites · 4 years

Text

Underground Proper (Welcome to the Underground!)

Hello everyone! 2021! WOO! Thank god. I know it's pretty much just arbitrary signal of the passage of time but you gotta enjoy the little things. I hope you are all good, staying safe and sound in these chaotic times. Here is the new chapter which I hope you enjoy.

It's finally time to enter the Underground proper. Abigail and company had an exciting large send off but the first steps of the journey are at hand and Abigail is quick to realize that leaving the Underground might be harder than she thought.

Reblog, enjoy stay safe tell your friends about it! Wear your masks, wash your hands, have a great week! E out!

and if you want to leave me comments or find an easier way to read it, here’s a link to it on ao3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/69919671

The longer Abigail stayed in the Underground, the more realized she was wildly getting further and further out of her depth.

She thought the little walk from the cemetery to town had properly prepared for her trek into the wilds but all it had really done was lure her into a false sense of security.

The tunnel floor was uneven, the ground straightening and sloping at random which nearly caused her to trip once or twice. The path would randomly grow and shrink as well, sometimes becoming so wide that the Swift Slivers could march side by side then without warning becoming so narrow the trio had to fall into a single file line. She jumped at noises that abruptly existed in the tunnel, signs of life or movement echoing further down the path. The air was frigid and moist, reminding Abigail of her town’s harshest winters. She tried to keep track of where the group currently was but that ultimately proved useless as the road would veer slightly left, snaked back and forth, bent at a weird angle and sometimes looped back around, rising or falling with a spiral or slope. Illumashrooms weren’t as plentiful as the town and while it wasn’t pitch dark, Abigail had to squint and focus among the dim light of the occasional mushroom found on the path.

Her dear departed brother Arthur once mentioned how he was not a fan of tight spaces. Claustrophobia the clerics called it. At the time Abigail thought him silly given that they lived in a wide open farm. Here, among the darkness and stony walls of the underground, Abigail understood what he meant more clearly.

Arthur.

Abigail could feel her heart ached terribly at the thought of her brother.

“Watch out here farm girl” Oliver’s voice called from out front.

Abigail snapped back to reality, her hand reaching out for Archibald’s shoulder as the road sloped sharply once more.

Abigail knew the other two were helping her through her first time through the tunnel and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. She was used to being caught flat footed but never to this degree. Well except that one time during Winter’s Solstice. That was just awkward for everyone especially her.

Oliver was ahead, lightly humming the occasional song while calling out warnings about sudden shifts in the road. Archibald walked beside her when the path would allow, offering his hand then shoulder for her to brace herself with.

The boys were clearly no stranger to this way of traveling and while Abigail felt a little embarrassed at her tripping and confusion, she was grateful the two went out of her way to help her. Even Oliver hadn’t sent a pointed barb at her.

“I can see why it takes half day to a day.” Abigail sighed, steadying herself against Archibald “Is it always this rough?”

“Better and worse usually.” Oliver admitted, peering into the shifting shadows ahead “This just one path and since not many people go to West End, it’s usually uncared for here.”

He gestured to a illumashroom plucked from the ground and thrown to its side.

“But” he continued “The other paths are well worn, lot more people and lot more care put into maintaining the roads and the signs. More ways to get where you want too but also more roadblocks and unforeseen circumstances.”

“Mixed bag then.” Abigail huffed.

“Like life” Oliver replied.

Archibald nodded his head in agreement.

“How do you guys get used to it?”

Oliver motioned to himself “Born here.”

Archibald gestured to his sliver hued clothing.

“Right. Silly question.”

Archibald tiled his hand back and forth.

“Ha, thanks Archibald.”

He rose a thumb in response.

“Enough flirting back there.” Oliver shouted “It’s getting late.”

“Is it?”

“We’ve been working for about 6, 7 hours Archie?”

Archibald paused thoughtfully before wordlessly counting his fingers, holding up 7 after a moment.

Abigail glanced at them “Have we? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You will when we stop. Luckily there is a clearing up ahead.”

“Clearing? Like a field or?” Abigail glanced at Archibald who simply gestured forward.

“Clearing.” Abigail whispered in understanding.

Before them was a cavern, wide and spacious whose ceiling couldn’t been seen through the inky darkness. The walls were rough and jagged with the odd crack or smaller tunnel that led away from the beaten path. The faint of smell of ash filled the air as Abigail noticed the various imprints of tents and footsteps scattered across the floor, travelers long past persevered by dust.

“Rest stop” Oliver explained, putting his travel bag on the floor “There’s a couple of these caverns across the roads. Perfect to set up and keep an eye out when resting or sleeping. Usually there’s more people but like I said, no one comes to West End. Willingly at least.”

Abigail rose an eyebrow “You did though.”

If Oliver heard, he made no indication as he began removing things from his bag.

Archibald and Abigail followed suit, making themselves comfortable among the stony floor as they set up for the night.

______

Abigail was quick to realize what Oliver meant when he said she would notice once they stopped.

Once her little sleeping bag had been laid out and she folded up the cloak under her as a comfortable seat, she could feel the exhaustion ebb into her bones.

Abigail huffed tiredly as she took a seat “Wow, I’ve never been that winded before.”

Archibald was hard at work setting a fire pit, finding rocks around and enclosing the various logs of wood within while Oliver plucked at his lute mindlessly, sitting upon on his own pile of clothing for a seat.

“Lack of sun people say. Humans aren’t really suppose to go without it for long periods of time. Luckily a lot of food down here that helps with that.”

Abigail’s stomach rumbled hungrily at the mention of food. She briefly remembering eating snacks throughout the day but not a full meal.

Archibald fished out a piece of jerky from his pack and handed it to Abigail

Abigail smiled gratefully “Thanks.”

Archibald coughed, returning to his work as Oliver searched through his bag.

“Archie, Slimewood?”

He replied with an unhappy face.

“I picked up some Jub steak too.”

The archer nodded happily at the alternative.

“Slimewood? Jub steak?”

Oliver pulled out a carefully wrapped package, laying it to the side as he dug deeper “Food Abigail. I bought some for this road trip.”

“You bought food?? When?!” Abigail couldn’t recall seeing the bard make such a purchase.

“I snuck out after everyone fell asleep. Butcher owed me a favor so I did some midnight shopping.”

“And were you planing on sharing this information?”

“Yes” Oliver admitted “Now when it’s dinner time.”

“Surprisingly nice of you” Abigail murmured suspiciously. “Practical” Oliver corrected “We’re traveling together so the best shot to stay alive is to make sure we’re all well fed and in one peace. Especially this one.”

Oliver pointed at Archibald who beamed with pride.

“Right. Travel companions.”

“Hey you came at me with a knife.” Oliver reminded her.

“After you tried to rob me.” Abigail shot back darkly.

“Thought you were a corpse farm girl.”

Archibald looked back and forth between the two.

“Long story” Abigail offered sympathetically.

Oliver scoffed “I thought she was dead, tried to find something of worth, she came at me with a knife. Not that long of a story farm girl.”

Abigail glared openly at the bard. Oliver shrugged as Archibald finished the fire pit, flames and all.

Abigail sighed happily “Much better.”

“Oi merc, got a pan?”

Archibald nodded and pulled out an old worn frying pan. Oliver took it appreciatively and placed it upon the roaring flame, meat shortly followed after.

“Smells pretty good!”

“As opposed to?”

“I dunno. Not good? I don’t even know what this is!”

“First rule of eating food: Never asked what it’s made of.”

“I live on a farm. I’m aware of that rule.”

Archibald chuckled to himself as he eyed either tunnel entrance carefully for any sign of trouble.

The trio sat in a surprisingly peaceful silence among the crackling of the flame and sizzling of cooked meat.

“I’m surprised you know how to cook” Abigail admitted “Given that you’re a grave robber and a jerk.”

Archibald quietly nodded in agreement.

“Personality traits and old habits are not inductive of my skill set.” Oliver replied, turning the meat over.

“I don’t think I’ve seen a bard do anything besides sing and dance.

Oliver scoffed “They’re not real bards like me. I’m going to be the best and to be that, I need to be varied.”

Abigail couldn’t hide her surprise “So you’re not the best? I thought you burst into flames if you were ever honest.”

“I am honest” Oliver countered “I just decide how much honesty I need to share with people.”

Archibald snorted loudly.

“Yeah yeah” Oliver gestured threateningly with his spoon “Keep it up merc and I’ll burn your piece extra crispy and black.

Archibald rose his hand in surrender.

Abigail chuckled, smiling at her companions. She had forgotten how nice it was to be around people.

“Watch it farm girl” Oliver teased, passing her a plate filled with a well cook steak and odd side dishes “You keep smiling like that people might think we’re friends.”

“Moment of weakness. It’s been a long day.”

Oliver snickered, offering Archibald his plate “As long as we’re on the same page.”

Abigail decided to not reply.

Oliver took a smug pride at the others faces as they bit into their first taste of the sweetish salty meat.

“Not just another bard huh?”

Abigail stuck her tongue out “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.”

Oliver turned to Archibald “How about you merc? Gonna give me some validation?”

Archibald choked, too caught off guard by the question. He gave a friendly thumbs up before trying to clear his airway.

“No greater compliment than a man choking on your food.” Oliver beamed proudly.

Abigail gently rubbed and patted his back in an attempt to help Archibald. He let out a might cough and smiled sheepishly towards Abigail in thanks.

“You don’t talk much huh?”

He shook his head.

“Not a fan?”

A nod.

“I understand.” Abigail gave a cheery smirk.

Archibald was awfully interested in his plate all of the sudden.

“So” Abigail glanced back towards Oliver “This competition? This isn’t you picking on a bunch of kids for a talent show right? You’re actually competing against real bards in a real competition.”

“Of course.” Oliver waved off her accusatory tone “I’m morally gray, not a bully.”

“You’ve been bullying me just fine.” Abigail murmured with an unhappy edge to her tone.

“It’s how I show tolerance.”

“How about you stop being a jerk and sing for us bard?”

Oliver rubbed his fingers together.

Abigail raised an eyebrow “Seriously? You’re going to charge us?”

“No point to do something for free when you can get paid for it.” Oliver gave impish grin.

Abigail frowned before an idea formed in her head “You know Archibald doesn’t think you can sing at all. He was telling me he thinks you just talk a big game but doesn’t see it.”

Archibald froze, his fork halfway between his open mouth and his plate. His eyes darted back and forth, unsure how he got pulled into this.

Oliver pursed his lips: On one hand he knew Abigail was baiting him given how much of a conversationalist Archibald had been this far. But on the other hand, he could never resist a chance to show off.

“I’m playing” Oliver stated simply as he slid his lute off his back “But because I want to. I need practice if I want to win first place.”

“Oh right sure.” Abigail nodded mockingly

Archibald was still confused.

Notes filled the still cave air. It was a soft tune, slow and peaceful reminding Abigail of a lullaby. The bard closed his eyes, swaying back and forth as his fingers strummed across the strings almost like they were made of air.

“For the one day I have long since gone through my past.” Oliver whispered, his voice gravelly and low “Memories of a place that surely can not last. For far and wide I have long always done roam, watching and seeking where I shall call home.”

The flourish, the rises and drops in the music filled Abigail with some nostalgia she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying: He was by no means perfect given some notes did not fit with the others and she could tell this slow more determined song was not his preferred style but even she had to admit this was nice. Surrounded by people, enjoying songs long into the night.

It was nice to be around people.

______

Abigail yawned tiredly as morning came. Well according to Oliver and Archibald it was morning: In the darkness of the tunnels, it was pretty much impossible to tell what time it actually was.

As they drew closer to the capital, Abigail had a better idea of what Oliver meant by better maintained: While not perfect, the path was well worn yet smooth. The slopes weren’t as drastic or without warning. Once or twice, the road branched off to some other path that shot off in some direction Abigail couldn’t hazard a guess.

“What are these all about?” Abigail motioned to yet another crack in a wall, some smaller tunnel that led off into the darkness.

Archibald guided her away from the opening as Oliver glanced backwards.

“Stay away from those.” Oliver eyed the crack cautiously “We call them sideways because who knows where you’re going to end up.”

“I don’t get it.” Abigail was unable to keep the confusion out of her tone.

“Unexplored tunnels.” Oliver clarified “Well as far as we know. No one knows where they go and they’re very dangerous. If you’re lucky, they’ll just spit you out somewhere on the main road. But no one can really be sure and it’s best not to tempt fate.”

A shiver ran down Abigail’s back as she moved closer to the middle of the road. She was already disoriented and lost on this main road to the capital. She didn’t want to know how would it feel be hopelessly lost in the dark.

Abigail nearly crashed into Oliver, took caught up in her thoughts to realize the bard had stopped dead in the road.

“Wha?!” Abigail flailed in surprise “Oliver! What are you doing?”

“Do you hear that?”

Abigail looked about, unsure what she was supposed to be hearing.

“No, I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.”

A sense of dread began to fill Abigail, her breathing becoming labored. Now that she thought of it, this was the first moment in her journey that there was a tense thick silence. Even in the middle of nowhere, she could hear far off noises among the chilly air. Now the air was still with an overwhelming quiet surrounding them.

“Archie?” Abigail called only to find the archer’s eyes darting about, bow ready in his hands.

He pulled her closer, putting her in the middle of himself and Oliver.

“Guys?”

“Not now Abigail.”

Abigail felt the tension growing, some unseen danger that lurked close by, waiting for their chance to strike.

Abigail glanced about, desperately trying to find some sort of clue to what was going on when she spotted it: glowing silver gleams peering through the darkness of the crack.

Something scurried out quickly, it’s claws scraping the stone walls as its form was silhouetted against the dim glow of the tunnel. She tried to make out what exactly it was but its skin or shell or whatever was too dark in this light.

It was small which was a comfort to Abigail though its claws were sharp and dug easily into the floor. It was misshapen that even Abigail, whom was well versed with a variety of animals, couldn’t tell its features. The only that was noticeable besides its claws were its sliver eyes which were smooth and solid.

“What’s that?” Abigail tilted her head quizzically.

“What is…?” Oliver whirled around “ARCHIE!”

“what, wait?” but no sooner the words had left her mouth, the creature let out a horrible shriek. It thundered in her ears with such a volume that it made her dizzy and unsteady.

The creature stood on its hind legs, throat wide open and the shriek slowly growing louder and louder.

Silence came without warning but it was welcomed.

Abigail panted heavily, the ringing almost unbearable as her sight slowly focused.

There was an arrow where the creature once stood.

Abigail turned sideways to find Archibald, sweat on his brow, his breath heavy and uneven.

She let out a sigh of relief “Did I tell you how much I love you?”

Archibald gave a weak smile.

“Move!”

Archibald and Abigail stared back at Oliver who began pulling at their wrist.

“MOVE NOW!!” Oliver shouted, shoving them forward into a desperate run.

Abigail opened her mouth when she heard the sound of dozens of claws wildly scratching and scraping at anything and everything.

The creatures burst forth from the crack or at least Abigail thought they were creatures. She couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. It was a mass of constantly shifting shadows that took odd shapes. It was if the creatures couldn’t agree on what form they should take. The only thing that did not change was the dozens pairs of sliver smooth eyes, their gaze lifeless yet single minded.

Abigail struggled to break into a run. Her feet felt heavy like the floor was pulling her deeper and deeper into the ground. She could feel fear creeping into every inch of her body, threatening to send her into shock as she tried to keep her panic under control.

“I don’t want to die.” Abigail murmured fearfully as her hands grasped deliriously at the air “Not here. Not yet. Mom, dad. Please! Not here! NOT YET!”

She couldn’t hold in the scream, the panic and fear was too much. She could feel the tears running down her cheeks, the whirl of claws closing the distance inch by inch.

There was a quietness that came with the end. A strange sensation of peace, of acceptance. She felt it now amid the fear and panic. She could hear the soft sounds of trumpets in her ears, a familiar song playing in her mind. It took her a moment to recognize the fanfare of the king’s guard, a triumphant march of victory. She always felt safer whenever she heard the blaring of the horns far in the distance.

She took a deep calming breath. Her body no longer felt sluggish and disconnected as the fanfare played faintly in her head.

She could feel Archibald just behind her, the occasional notch of an arrow letting her know he was trying to push back the hoard but not finding much luck.

Abigail looked forward and was not surprised to find Oliver busy at work. The jet black lute glowed with previously unseen blue runes scrawled across its surface. His fingers were furiously strumming across his lute as if their lives depended on it.

They probably did. His song was the only thing keeping the fear at bay.

“Bards.” Abigail muttered under her breath before calling out “How much further to the gate?”

“Not close enough!” Oliver answered, his fingers never stopping “We’re going to have to lose them another way!”

“There is no other way!” Abigail struggled to keep the tears from spilling onto her face.

Oliver cocked his head forward “One but you’re not going to like it!”

“Why?”

“Remember how I told you never to go down sideways?”

Abigail nearly stopped in her tracks but Archibald sprinted past, clasping her hand tight and pulled her forward.

“Yeah we’re going sideways. Straight ahead, get up here Archie!”

Archibald glanced backwards, the massive wall of claws and sliver eyes just a few feet behind.

Oliver whistled to get his attention “We know what’s behind us, I need you to clear what’s ahead or else we’re not going to make it! Get up here merc!”

Archibald let out a shaky breath and pushed further, dragging Abigail close behind.

The trio spotted Oliver’s idea: A split in the path. One path curved to the side, the dimly lit main path that led to Haven’s Nest. The other was not so much a path as it was a void of darkness, a path that sloped downward into the unknown.

“Oliver!” Abigail cried.

“We can die now or we die later!” Oliver firmly answered “And at least later we might not die, now go!”

Abigail nearly let go of Archibald’s hand but the mercenary gave her a comforting squeeze. He turned to her and spoke wordlessly with a simple smile.

I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.

She took a shaky breath but nodded in understanding.

The trio threw themselves at the opening, sailing through the air for a moment before landing with a dull thud onto the stony floor. Before any of them could react, they began sliding forward, the slope pushing them further deep into the dark.

Oliver’s lute dimly lit the tunnel the little they traveled. It must’ve been a heartbeat or two when the group found themselves tumbling across the straighten floor.

“Get up!” Oliver shouted, pulling the other two to their feet “We need to get going.”

“Where!?” Abigail cried “There’s nowhere to go!”

Archibald elbowed Oliver and pointed out a strange silhouette outlined in the darkness of the cavern.

“Is that a house?” Abigail’s voice asked with disbelief “Down here? That’s creepy.”

“And probably bad news.” Oliver admitted as he pushed the two towards the strange house cloaked in shadows “but later is later! Go go go!”

The claws echoed faintly from the tunnel but the trio had already reached the pouch of the home.

It was oddly similar to Abigail’s home though in much worse shape: Faded, splintered wood with dull peeling paint. The windows were blackened out with dust and the house creaked unhappily as they climbed the porch steps. The door swung open by itself and while that gave Abigail pause, Oliver shoved them in, shutting the door behind them and locking it.

“This is a bad idea.” Abigail panted breathlessly.

Oliver wiped the sweat off his brow “Hopefully we’ll live to regret it.”

“I doubt it.” A voice called from the shadows.

Oliver and Archibald threw themselves forward, pushing Abigail behind them in a defensive formation.

The air was thick with creak, creak, creak of heavy boots walking down some unseen stairs.

A figure appeared before them. He was taller than anyone else here with an old tattered riding cloak draping his massive figure. Brown eyes peered curiously under his hood, his thick beard black and gray. His armor was dented and worn with a faded symbol of a sun across his chest.

“You do not know where you roam children.” the stranger’s voice spoke, melodic and deep.

“At least we’re alive right?” Abigail offered hopefully.

“No you were right.” Oliver eyed the stranger’s symbol distastefully “This is was a terrible idea.”

Abigail leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper “Is he bad news? A thief or murderer or something?”

“Worse.” Oliver glared openly “A paladin.”

#Original Work #underground #my work

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scintillating-galaxias · 4 years

Text

fellas is it gay to accidentally make out with your lab partner

(read it here on ao3!)

They’re stuck.

Impossibly, hopelessly, stuck.

It does not often happen that with their collective processing power, Perceptor and Brainstorm find themselves unable to continue in their work simply because they have no idea what the problem is. Perceptor is too calculated and particular about his methods to lose himself so thoroughly and though Brainstorm is not nearly as careful, his tenaciousness makes him absolutely ruthless when it comes to any blockade they run into.

But when they do run into one, they run into it hard.

Both of them are currently sitting on the floor. The pieces of the prototype of Brainstorm’s newest idea, a temporal displacement blaster, lay scattered between them. Brainstorm himself has been tossing his faceplate (which he’s been wearing less and less lately, much to Perceptor’s enjoyment) up and down for the last two hours. But now, the motion has been stifled by a terrible dullness slowly glazing over his optics. It’s a decidedly haunting look on him. He is all movement, all forward motion. He brings life, energy, to their lab just by existing in its space. To see him stagnant instills Perceptor with a profoundly unsettling sense of wrong.

Something must be done.

Perceptor cycles his scope. “One more time,” he sighs, breaking the silence, “you are—”

“We are,” Brainstorm cuts in listlessly, “we’ve been sitting together on the floor long enough that I think I can constitute this as a co-project.”

“We,” continues Perceptor, “are attempting to make a weapon that creates user-controlled temporal pockets which temporarily freeze the matter contained within it in a particular moment of time.”

“Time bubbles, yep.”

“And the issue…”

“The issue,” Brainstorm says dully, “is that everything that’s in motion when we put it in the time bubbles comes out all screwy.”

“‘Screwy’ is hardly the appropriate terminology, but… yes.”

Brainstorm groans and hurls his mask across the room. It skitters away with a clatter and vanishes beneath a shelf. “I don’t get it!” he laments. “I could make time-travel happen, so why can’t I make a fraggin’ pause button? It’s basically the same thing!”

Perceptor frowns and gingerly lays a servo on Brainstorm’s pauldron. When he doesn’t react, he says, “Time travel, until you, was an unexplored science. You’re the first, and the first ones never have it easy. We’re bound to run into troubles.”

Brainstorm smiles, but his wings sag dejectedly. “We’re unstoppable together, Percy. When you’re with me, I can invent, and make, and do literally anything. Anything,” he says quietly, “except this, I guess.”

Perceptor’s mouth opens, but no response comes out. He should be flattered—and he is—but it’s difficult to accept when Brainstorm’s field practically writhes with frustration and bitterness that’s clearly directed at himself.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, “I’m helping you see this endeavor through until the end.”

Brainstorm’s gaze burns when he meets it for a second too long, so he shutters his optics and focuses them down on the pieces of the prototype on the floor. Data. Review the data. Doing it again can’t hurt.

Trial #07, recorded at 15:01:29. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) placed on pedestal. Upon firing, temporal displacement gun disappeared. Suspect a fault within the barrel caused gun to misfire and hit itself with a temporal pocket. Unable to locate and retrieve it. Trial discontinued.

Trial #22, recorded at 18:44:17. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) placed on pedestal. Fired upon by temporal displacement gun. Temporal pocket successfully created around matter. Pocket was then terminated because Brainstorm disliked the color.

Note: This decision was not made with unanimous agreement.

Trial #58, recorded at 23:14:18. Matter (1.0 x 1.0 x 1.0 mechanometer cube of aluminum) launched 15 meters into air at 70-degree angle. Fired upon by temporal displacement gun. Matter successfully placed inside temporal pocket. Matter is ‘frozen’ in position. When released from temporal pocket, matter becomes intangible. Appearance ‘glitches’ between prediction position from calculated trajectory and original position. ‘Glitch’ flickers rapidly and seemingly randomly. Unable to reverse effect.

Trial #59… {in progress}

Uncharacteristically, his mind begins to wander. Maybe the hours of relentlessly hacking away at this project have dulled the sharp focus he typically has. A conversation he hadn’t meant to overhear between Tailgate and Swerve on one night at the bar begins to play.

“You’d think we’d have figured out how to get better interstellar WiFi by now,” Tailgate was complaining. “I’ve lost so many games because I keep lagging!”

“What I’m hearing,” Swerve said as he expertly swiped a rag around a cube, “is the sonorous anthem of a bad player.”

“No! You need to come over tonight, I’ll show you how bad it is in my hab suite…”

“You’ve got a thinking face on.”

“I do not have a thinking face.”

“Everyone has a thinking face. Yours is like—you go mm”—Brainstorm frowns a little bit—“and your scope kinda points down more.”

“Does it?” Brainstorm’s been paying that kind of attention to him?

“Yep. What’re you thinking?”

Perceptor chews on his glossa. “This is,” he begins warningly, “frankly, a whim—”

“Hey, I’d take Swerve’s ideas at this point. Pit, I’d take Whirl’s, and he suggested a gun that fired guns the other cycle.” Brainstorm twists around so that he’s facing Perceptor and plants his chin on his servos. “Hit me.”

“Alright… Forgive me for the crude phrasing, but the way these objects are behaving reminds me of Tailgate’s video games.”

Brainstorm links his digits together and nods thoughtfully. “...Yeah, you’re gonna have to give me more here.”

“Do you recall what issue he used to complain about until you’d fixed it?” he tries.

“His game was being slow? What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Bear with me. Tailgate described it as ‘lagging’, yes?” Brainstorm nods with one brow ridge raised. “In that context, it essentially meant that his game fell behind what was actually happening.”

“I’m familiar with the term,” Brainstorm says wryly. “He only whined about it to me three times a cycle for eighty-five cycles straight.”

Perceptor cracks a smile. “Then you could tell me why it happened and how you fixed it.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not?”

Brainstorm chuckles. “Fair enough. It was an easy fix. I could have done it with my optics turned off. His suite happened to be just on the edge of the range of the router, so it kept cutting in and out. I just gave him his own extension… based off the ship’s… Oh. Ohh. ”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the lag occurred when the connection was too poor. Everything in Tailgate’s game—from his perspective—stopped at the moment the connection dropped.” Perceptor looks to Brainstorm, who nods. “Anything else within the game continued to react with the environment unaffected because it wasn’t having the same issue. When the connection stabilized, everything in Tailgate’s game rapidly sped back up to what was actually happening.”

“Right…”

Perceptor sets his shoulders. “I suspect something similar is happening with these temporal pockets. When the pocket is activated, it creates its own timeline for everything inside that moves asynchronously with this one.”

Brainstorm’s optics begin to glimmer. “Keep going,” he says as he drags the pieces of the prototype towards him and begins to swiftly reassemble them.

Invigorated, Perceptor straightens and leans towards Brainstorm. “Once the matter is placed inside the bubble,” he explains, “it enters its own timeline. It splits off from this one”—he gestures broadly to their lab—“for the lifespan that the pocket exists. Like this.” He flashes a crude diagram onto the floor from his scope featuring a thick, straight line. “Here is the alpha timeline, using ourselves as a reference frame. It’s also the one the matter is in before the creation of the temporal distortion pocket.” He begins to draw a thinner line that branches off from the first. “This moment,” he continues, pointing at where the thick and the thin one connect, “is where the bubble is created. This new line is the new beta timeline the matter is in. But the issue is that when we create the pocket”—he erases the point of connection—“instead of staying tethered to the alpha timeline, the matter becomes more or less stranded in the beta one.”

Brainstorm shivers. “You’re the smartest fragging mech on this ship, you know that? I barely know what you’re talking about. It’s amazing. Keep going.”

Perceptor forces down the pleased swelling of his spark. Brainstorm practically invented all of the concepts he was talking about, and he calls Perceptor the smart one? “My theory for our problem is this: when we attempt to free the material inside of the bubble, it continues to behave as though it is within the beta timeline. Interactions with it become difficult because to us, it’s in a new position—at least, it should be—but to the matter inside the pocket, it has not moved.”

Brainstorm nods, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Yeah… yeah! Yeah, okay, okay, and then, then…” He snaps his digits together frantically. “So we give it some sort of—some sort of anchor to this timeline. So it’ll still move with it, but like, in tandem, and not as a part of this timeline.” As he speaks, he drags his digit along the thin line, runs it parallel to the thicker line, and then drags it back down. “We just gotta establish a remote connection from this timeline to the bubble.”

“Precisely. If we can manage that, then maybe…” Perceptor trails off with a tilt of his head. Brainstorm stares owlishly for a long moment. His optics blaze to life.

“I have an idea,” he mutters, scrambling to his pedes, “If this works, I swear I’m gonna—Oh my God, hold on—”

He drags Perceptor up, then flies over to his workspace, wings visibly quivering with anticipation. Perceptor can only watch in stunned awe as Brainstorm’s servos fly across the console, twisting, complex equations he’s almost certainly just now invented springing to life across the screen. “I mean,” Brainstorm rambles as he types, “hypothetically, it’s easy. I’ve done it before with my timecase. Of course, that was attached to my body, and this is firing over a distance, and that’s obviously different, but—”

“Sigma, not delta.”

“Thanks, and I played around with some long-distance options with the timecase, you know—”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, but they never were what I really needed. I mean,” Brainstorm scoffs, throwing up one hand while the other continues to work as a blur across the keyboard, “why try to calculate something that would find my exact position in an exact moment in time in the past? That’s like trying to shoot a bullet out of the air five minutes after you fire it. It’s asinine.”

“Yes, it would have been a pain. Your solution was clever, however.”

“So then—this might work? No guarantees. You thought it was clever?”

“Unbelievably so.”

Brainstorm bites his lip and mutters something like, “ You’re unbelievable,” but Perceptor can’t be sure. He doesn’t have the time to question it because Brainstorm pushes off from the console then, and snatches up the blaster. Perceptor finally shakes himself to quit his gawking (though he can’t quite get rid of the fond smile) and strides off to place yet another cube of aluminum onto the launcher they’d been using. When he returns to the firing line, Brainstorm is watching the recalibration bar load with a slightly frantic gleam to his optics.

“Come on,” he mutters, “come on, come on, come on, come on—”

The second the console flashes its confirmation of completion, he practically rips the cable out of the blaster that connected it to the console. It’s bent at an uncomfortably sharp angle at the end, but Brainstorm either does not notice or does not care as he takes aim.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” Perceptor’s spark chamber feels tight. “I’ll be firing on three. One, two, three.” He flicks a switch. Up goes the cube, sailing in a flinty silver arch—

Brainstorms fires. The blast hits the cube dead-on. It freezes at the peak of its arch inside of a cherry red bubble.

Trial #59, recorded at 24:01:47…

“You getting this?”

“Of course.”

“How much time has passed?”

Perceptor tilts his head. “When I finish speaking, it will be approximately ten point eight five two seven seconds since the material has entered the temporal distortion pocket.”

Brainstorm vents harshly. His right pede is tapping anxiously, but his aim is remarkably steady. “Right. I’m gonna release it now.”

A moment passes. Nothing happens.

Perceptor glances at him. “Brainstorm?”

A loud crash of metal reverberates through their lab as the cube hits the ground with a bang! and bounces gracelessly to a stop. The ringing of metal continues on into the shocked silence for a few fragile seconds.

“It worked,” Brainstorm says, dumbfounded. Then he laughs, shortly at first, and then bright and clear. The the radiance of his smile is the most exquisite thing Perceptor’s ever seen. “It worked!”

Perceptor finally releases the vent he’d been holding, only to sputter on his next cycle when Brainstorm drags him into a crushing hug. It’s despairingly brief, but when Brainstorm pushes him away, it isn’t far—just millimeters from his face, from his pretty mouth, Oh Primus—and it’s to place his servos firmly on either side of Perceptor’s helm.

“What—?”

“You’re fragging incredible,” Brainstorm whispers, and he kisses Perceptor full on the mouth.

As far as kisses go, the technique is slightly lacking. Their denta clack, their noses smash together, but he can feel Brainstorm’s victorious grin across his mouth and the giddy rush of he’s-kissing-me! drowns out every other line of code detailing cohesive thought in Perceptor’s processor.

But the moment he comes back to himself enough to reciprocate, cool air ghosts across his damp lips. The space in front of him is empty.

Perceptor resets his optics. Then he does it again. Brainstorm has not vanished into thin air. He’s actually across the lab, face buried in his servos.

“—fragging idiot, what the Pit was that, why, why, did I do that? Couldn’t keep yourself under control, and you do that? What the hell?”

A twinge of hurt plucks at Perceptor’s spark. Had he… not meant to kiss him? Why had he, then? Perceptor sighs. “Brainstorm.”

“Never gonna take my faceplate off again, oh my God —”

“Please just look at me.”

Brainstorm freezes. Slowly, he turns around, shame drawing his shoulders close to his audials. “I can—I can go, if you want,” he blurts.

Perceptor jerks his head back. “What?”

“There’s a bunch of empty labs on this ship. Plus, there’s plenty of other mechs dying to be your lab partner—”

“What?”

“Yeah, seriously, First Aid’s aft-deep in Ratchet’s old work, but he’s a seriously clever mech, I bet you guys would—”

“No, I mean—I don’t want you to change labs, and I don’t want a new lab partner.” Brainstorm stares. Perceptor turns his palms outward placatingly. “All I want is an explanation.”

Brainstorm’s wings droop miserably. He scrubs his forehead with a servo hard enough to leave behind faint orange paint transfers and exvents heavily. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. I got excited and sometimes I just—I’m affectionate. That’s, ugh, not an excuse, it’s stupid. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”

But he looks so defeated and upset, and his field is such a horribly tight, dark knot of despair-regret-disappointment, Perceptor cannot help but feel there is something he has purposely left out.

We’re unstoppable together.

Smartest mech on the ship.

You’re unbelievable.

You’re fragging incredible.

…Or Perceptor merely has not been looking into the data deeply enough.

His silence is obviously mistaken by Brainstorm, who laughs lifelessly and says, “I really screwed us up, huh.”

“No,” Perceptor says quickly. He takes a step towards Brainstorm. Then another, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and hold his servos if he felt so inclined. “You didn’t screw anything up. I forgive you,” he says clearly. Then he politely resets his vocalizer, and quietly adds, “But a little warning next time would be appreciated.”

“Of course, Perc, I—” Brainstorm’s helm snaps up so quickly, Perceptor’s worries if he’s pulled some struts. “Next time?”

“Yes. Next time.”

“You… You?”

“Yes.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“...Seriously?”

“For Primus’—” Perceptor curls one digit beneath Brainstorm’s chin. Before he can lose his nerve, he presses his lips to Brainstorm’s. This kiss is not nearly as bruising as their first one, but it’s deeper, and Perceptor still makes damn sure he pours every ounce of yes and want this and real he has in him until he feels Brainstorm begin to literally sink a little under it all. He breaks away then, unable to suppress his smile when he asks, “Is that a sufficient answer?”

Brainstorm makes a noise that sounds like his entire processor deciding to reboot by throwing itself into a body of water. “I dunno,” he says, dazed. “Might need a few more test runs to really be sure it works.”

Perceptor smiles and lifts his arms to loop them around Brainstorm’s shoulders. “I believe,” he says, leaning in, “that can be arranged.”

#simpatico #maccadam #my writing #fluff #accidentally on purpose kisses #this is silly . i have no regrets

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twitchesandstitches · 3 years

Text

(commission of Rose going through some feederism-induced transformation on behalf of John.)

-------

The Land of Wind and Shade was actually very pretty, Rose thought as she and John walked along a path lit by the luminous fungi and trees. She’d never had much opportunity to really appreciate the visual aesthetics of their worlds when they had played the Game (as they thought of it now), back before they had become gods.

It felt like a long time ago, Rose reflected as she reached into a pocket and palmed a few tiny tablets that resembled a feminine figure in profile, with a massive belly. She considered it a divide in her lifetime.

Oh, yes. It was hard, sometimes, to really recall what it was like before they had given life to a new world and all of them (her friends, Roxy and her friends, the trolls, and all who had perished in the playing of the Game) ascended to true godhood, entering the Medium as their own divine realm and free to engage with the mortal world they made, if they wished.

It had been… who knew how long? Centuries? Perhaps millennia. Rose knew it had been a while since the Mayor and his carapacian cohorts had turned up again, presumably after the end of their mortal bodies, so perhaps it had been even longer. Eventually it might be worth it to check on the mortal world and see how it was doing without their direct involvement, but for the present, it was fine enough to simply experiment.

Reality was somewhat fluid for the new gods in their divine realm. They had different ways of expressing it, and ways to experiment with it. For some, Rose included (and again, she thought of the transformatives in her hand), that meant tweaking their bodies.

She and John walked onwards, on the surface of his world, for the noble purpose of stuffing her with as much food as possible, and Rose was rather preceded by her own stomach, which bore a lot of testament success in this field. And perhaps a lot of worship towards her in the mortal world; she wasn’t sure if that had an effect or not.

Her belly hung out in front of her. It felt good, like that, and Rose contemplated taking another one of the transformatives she’d made specifically for this task.

Now she was waddling awkwardly, still not used to a body reshaped by those specific transformatives, and for a moment she thought that she resented this being the only word choice available to her.

She didn’t hate that she was waddling, exactly. She hated that it was an awkward word; she was pedantic, and insisted on picking the most applicable terms, and unfortunately she only had something so… inelegant, to work with.

She was waddling, even so. John was even slowing down his usual frenetic pace so she wouldn’t have to hurry, which made her smile even as being outwardly happy completely went against the persona she wore.

John was… tricky, that way.

Rose, like Dave and Terezi, had a whole headful of personas she put on around other people. She tailored herself to match their expectations, or to confound them, or because it was just really funny to do. But John saw through them. Somehow he had a knack for knowing exactly when Rose was putting up a front or not.

It was exasperating, sometimes. It was fascinating, too. It felt good to have a match that just rolled right through clever wordplay and saw what she actually meant, even if her actual wordplay falling on deaf ears was disappointing.

Now Rose fell into an easy stride, John still walking at her side, and striding was easy ernough for Rose with the physical transformation she had begun to explore lately. For instance, she noticed in a distant way, her hips were getting… wider. Much, much wider, and it helped that John enjoyed feeding her as much as she liked, and it was interacting with her transformations in some very unexpected ways; she suspected that his aspect was flooding into them, influencing the tasty treats with his very particular essence of… enthusiasm, and development.

He’d kept them moving onwards, and she wondered what that kind of attribute had towards food. Certainly it encouraged the body to pile on the pounds.

Her pelvis, she was sure, had also changed shape just as her hips had grown, her hip joints modified to swivel and roll with greater ease, and with the weight piling onto her body, it made her hips nearly three feet across. And she felt the delightful weight of every step, her hips rolling and rocking as a natural counterbalance.

Her butt was a heavy weight, beneath her robes. It pushed out and flexed in as her thighs moved, and there was a smack every time her thighs came together; they were wider than John’s entire body, wider than some of the trolls even, and the clapping of her thighs was a steady rhythm behind them.

She was starting to enjoy it, actually.

Her stomach, however, was the primary focus of her growth. The transformative pills she had made had involved little capsules and pictures of progressively bigger stomachs, and alchemized in such a way so that the pills created by it would have the attributes of bellies getting bigger, with all the resonance that implied; of good food, excellent digestion, and hedonistic satisfaction.

Or so she hoped. She no longer had SBURB to experiment with, but there was a whole reality for her to mess about with and see what happened, or maybe learn its rules.

The results of her experiments so far were plain to see: Rose’s gut was hugely distended, a round marvel projecting outwards, the itch to fill it up growing stronger even with a few recent meals gurgling away in there.

Her belly hung out from the rest of her body like a medallion, gently swaying to and fro as she moved, distending the rest of her clothes to a degree exceeding her breasts. That was no small feat; her bustline extended out several feet, lower slopes hanging above her navel and her cleavage was, all the same, pushed apart by the steadily expanding mound of a belly that was getting large enough, and often stuffed enough, to make her look moderately pregnant. Her god-tier robes had been subtly altered and now her stomach slung out of a spade-shaped opening at her front, a soft globe that was very visibly churning her most recent meals.

Her gut had changed; the way it worked was still changing. Rose was intellectually aware of that, just as she also knew that something in her power was affecting her digestive tract. To truly know something was to consume it, to totally make it part of you and grasp it, with your very being, and it seemed that her body had seized the idea.

It was quite another thing, feeling the muscles of her digestive tract seize and flex like a very mobile garbage disposal unit, or enormously powerful acids sink deep into everything she ate to dissolve it into something very much like the grist they used in crafting the things of the heavens. She could feel her meals from only a few hours ago dissolving like that, and she felt…

The essence of them, she supposed, merging with her. It felt… good. The slither of essence left a lovely shiver through her entire body.

Well, she supposed, if it felt this good already, why not give it a nudge? She took the rest of her sample of transformatives and slipped them into her mouth. She moistened them up with her tongue, and then swallowed them.

They slid down without issue. She fancied she heard a faint splash as they made it into her stomach. There was no immediate result, but she didn’t expect one. You needed food to use as fuel for a big stomach; she’d made it like that on purpose. Perhaps she didn’t have to, but there was such a thing as doing it right. ‘What,’ Rose had rhetorically written down in the cosmic journals that had largely replaced the game guides she used to expound upon. ‘Is the point of making your stomach larger if you don’t even do it by getting crammed with digestibles, I do mean, REALLY.’

The pills did have a minor effect; they bubbled and forthed ferociously in her gut, interacting interestingly with the more complex digestive processes her stomach had developed on its own since she started taking them. Her belly swelled slightly with internal pressure, and it was all she could do to stifle a small burp with her free hand.

She and John kept going; he glanced at her briefly, and left her to it. Like most of the others, he took a blaise attitude towards the current trend of mixing up their bodies, even if he currently didn’t seem inclined to do it himself.

Soon the illuminated forests and walkways gave way to an entrance arch with a suitably gnarled and strange-looking sigil upon it to indicate that this had something to do with Rose.

Beyond it, lay a small complex squatting on the ground like a lost turtle. It glowed with a faint, pleasant pattern of blue light: John had somehow taken a number of the luminous trees growing on his land and broken them down, reshaping them into a living house. As they entered, Rose saw that the general layout had not changed much since last she had visited some time ago. Then it had been, and it still was, a many-chambered and sprawling estate extending into the ground and also to the sky, producing new rooms as it expanded.

It wasn’t very well organized and it would probably be hard to find where everything was situated soon enough, but Rose honestly did not mind. It was a dinner place; those chambers were filled with very extensive and experimental cooking utilities, spawned from alchemiters from photos of ovens and handwritten lists of useful attributes for ovens, shaped the outline of massive kitchens that extended for miles, down into the depths of John’s world. They always were baking something, John’s own experiments mainly laying in the fairly mundane art of baking. Granted, where his powers were concerned, even something as straightforward as baking could get very complex.

Rose wasn’t sure if the food he made might interact strangely with her own concoctions. She thought it best to see for herself!

She looked up as they traveled into the complex, where John surely had lots of food waiting to sate Rose’s appetite; her belly rumbled loudly at the thought, so loud that John visibly jumped a bit. Rose acknowledged this with a faint shrug, but she was more interested in the smells of cooking up ahead.

They came into the complex, and John was glancing at her as they eventually arrived at a splendidly decorated chamber. He glanced up at her, specifically; Rose was fairly tall among their friends, at least the human ones, and John was probably the shortest of them all; his face generally hovered (and wasn’t THAT just the best possible word) somewhere around elbow level. The word that came to mind describing him, Rose mused, was ‘plush’; yes, she thought. Just like a plushy. He was thickly build and broad all around, but he was quite short and didn’t look terribly muscular. The effect was that of someone apparently designed for huggability.

Absently, she did just that, looping an arm around a compact but very strong shoulder and leaned slightly into him. The sudden motion tilted one of her massive hips against him, the swell of a huge butt check pressing on his waist.

He put an arm around her waist, in unconscious and perfect synchrony with her. She felt his pulse quicken, and at the periphery of awareness that her powers influenced, she felt the vague notion of thoughts blur across his mind. Not mind-reading, as such; she saw the potential that those thoughts embodied, or at least knew of them. They revealed themselves to her, like a sun rising overhead.

Such was the nature of Light.

Her belly rumbled again and Rose’s face shifted. It was genuinely pleasuable

John misinterpreted it. He looked up at her, around the curve of one huge breast, his expression adorably helpful. “Is your belly thing going okay?”

Rose smirked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She sniffed the air, and her belly rumbled demandingly as the mass of her meal was transmuted into physical flesh, and her belly protruded a few inches outward.

The sudden growth made her steps falter.

John took a hard step to the side, and Rose found their trail meandering away. “Hey!” She started to say, and John just kept going, and despite being so much taller than him, despite being a lot heavier than him, she was helpless to control their momentum.

John gently brought her to a chair. “Do you want me to rub your belly?” He asked as he helped her down, the chair transforming to take in her exceptionally broad backside.

Rose’s immediate response was to simply deny any discomfort. This was thwarted by the greater urge, more powerful in recent days, to enjoy being pampered. Her mouth was still forming around the words as she said, “Actually, that sounds quite nice.”

She let herself flatten back, her broad thighs spreading wider as if lounging in some sort of overlord’s throne. Her belly hung out. For a moment she wondered if her sense of her own body was feeling askew or not, as her belly felt even bigger than it had a few moments ago. Surely that was just an illusion, spawned from her still adjusting to a new tweak to her body?

The outer curve of her stomach kept going, sliding against the cool air. She thought she felt it brushing against the tops of her legs, short of her knees, all while the sensation of growth made the whole of her belly a pleasant warmth.

She felt her belly growing, more and more. Doubtfully, she supposed she might have oversizing or undersizing its actual dimensions, and supposed it didn’t much matter. She really liked the idea of her belly being particularly big, and supposed a bit of guesswork on her part would throw anything off much.

Further speculation was halted as John pressed his hands against her stomach. It might have been the power of Breath within his body, or the intimacy of such an action, but his hands felt so warm and soft, moving against her bare skin with a wild thrill that felt so good, she had to resist the urge to force his hands still, or to squeeze against her body just so she could relish the sensation.

For a moment her eyes, and much of her body, glowed like a solar furnace, light pulsing out of her body, and then she mastered it, so that John only saw her glow like a whole body blush. “You get embarrassed easy!” he said, teasingly.

“Oh, you can think that if you want,” Rose said lightly, and gasped as he slowly moved his hands across the outer surface of her stomach, fingers kneading so deeply that it stirred against the transforming walls of her gut.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel him smiling. Teasing smugness radiated off him, and she gave him points for deserving it there, at least.

Rose still sat up then, mastering the urge to simply lay back and let him rub her stomach, but oh, it was a powerful urge. Briefly, she imagined herself as an immensely bloated figure, without visible limbs, with nothing but an enormous belly that needed to be filled, and a great mouth ringed in huge lips for more food to be slipped down, and John a little fairy filling her up.

It ought to have been frightening. But at the thought of laying back, of food constantly sliding down her throat and making her belly constantly bigger and bigger and BIGGER, all while John orbited about to tend to her every need and whim…

Oh, yes. It was an attractive thought, at the root.

Slowly, without realizing it, she lay back, until she was lounging properly. If she were honest with herself (and honesty was not often a trait associated with those who awoke within Derse), she really didn’t care that much about keeping up appearances. At this point, it was just another habit she was gradually starting to shed.

John’s fingers slid up and around her belly, his strong fingers making intricate patterns on her just above her navel, his Breath power pulsing out into her stomach and accelerating the digestive process. Rose breathed in, and when she exhaled, the noise she made was a languorous and very satisfied sound, flush with the reality patterns of her meals fully melting into her as John’s powers sped up the whole process, mixing together in a very pleasant way.

But of course, adept fingers alone do not make for a completely ideal belly rub. His palms pressed in, deeply, his wrists flexing his hands to sink deeper into the meat of her gut, pressing against the inner walls in just the right way to really stimulate them, and Rose absently patted her own stomach, feeling a warm and fuzzy feeling.

It was hard to keep her hands off her stomach. It felt nicer to have someone else’s hands… admiring her handiwork.

John’s hands made their way down, in steady and experienced movements. Rose’s belly got bigger every time he did this, but he knew her belly all the same. It got bigger, yeah, but he knew it. The places to slide his palms to please her, the areas near her sides where she was almost ticklish, the spots near there that were just perfect for stimulating her digestion and relieved a belly ache, or a recalcitrant bit of quintessence that just would not dissolve properly.

His hounds came to those places, and he was so intent that he didn’t really notice her stomach slowly growing outwards. His hands sank deep into the ticklish spots, just enough to almost bother her, and deftly moving away to safer grounds.

Her stomach swelled a few steps outwards, closer to John, almost pressing directly against him. Absently, too focused to realize it, he stepped aside and rotated his hands against a sweet spot or two, and Rose rewarded him with a happy little noise that put a huge smile on his face.

Then, he tended to the source of the rumbling; with Rose’s pleasure still occupying important spots in his mind, he grew more attuned to her needs and the intricacies of her body, and was in a position to realize that her wobbling belly was growing faster than he was used to at this point.

He placed his hands down in a spot where he would normally rub deep and make little circles in, and he laid them down well enough. Before he could actually do anything more with that, though, her expanding flesh carried his hands apart as her belly widened.

Now John stepped back, completely on instinct, reflexes wired for just this sort of thing, and Rose’s belly still kept coming, sliding right into him and pushing him back even further.

It flowed over her legs. Her breasts, though still quite big, looked improbably small compared to the teeming flesh rising in front of him with a keen sense of demanding need. It rose up, so high and curved that it seemed to be trying to inflate itself.

John stepped back again as her belly kept steadily expanding outwards.

For Rose, the sense of pleasure faded. She felt a curious swelling, though, throughout her entire stomach, and a sense of personal space extending outwards. For some reason, John’s hands felt smaller, before he moved away.

“Um, Rose?” John’s voice called out.

Rose closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling without pondering on it too much.

“Your belly just got super big.”

The sensation continued, so pleasantly that it was a struggle for Rose to open her eyes. She glanced down, unaware of her back gradually sliding backwards against her seat until she was truly laying back, and felt, rather than saw, her stomach growing.

It was not an abrupt thing, as was often the case with these things; that was a later thought, of course. In the moment, her sharp mind faltered and stared out as her stomach slowly expanded outwards, its outer curves rising upwards as well. Her belly glowed, radiating the power of Light and shining like a star in its own right, the same faint orange as the robes hanging off her pin-up body.

Her stomach kept sliding outwards. It’s growing girth moved over her thighs and dipped out past her chair, warm air sliding across her new flesh. It wobbled faintly as she breathed in hard, trying to find words to express alarm and curiosity at this, but… it felt good. It felt really, really good. Rose squirmed in unexpected pleasure, the thrill of digestion gradually fading in favor of the new sensation of her stomach growing so rapidly that, yes, it was rising upwards, right into her field of view, and was starting to interfere with what she could actually see.

It occurred to her that John’s hands had moved back to her belly, even as it was reaching to the floor. Her stomach was quickly starting to get bigger than her, and John was standing up and slowly scooting back, but his hands were still firmly sunk into her stomach. Rose felt a surge of pleasure from the slight adjustments in him moving against her, and made a decision.

“Well?” She said archly, and stifled another swelling belch rising up from deep in her. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”

“Is this supposed to be happening?” John asked. He didn’t sound alarmed, now, that Rose wasn’t either; possibly he felt that as far as he knew, stuff like this happened all the time and he hadn’t seen it yet.

“I don’t know about ‘supposed’,” Rose said, deciding to try to play it off. “We’ve never bothered with that sort of thing. But I would like it if you kept doing what you were doing.” She leaned to the side, just enough that John could see her face where her huge breasts and the person-sized, massive gut sprawling across the floor wouldn’t obstruct it. She smiled at him, softly, eyes half-lidded and thick lips quirked at both corners. “So, would you get back to it?”

John swallowed audibly. “Well, if you say so!” His palms sank in deeply again, and Rose groaned in pleasure as they found new regions to roam across her belly, sliding downwards, nearly to the floor where they rested. The traveling motion of his hands stirred other motions across her stomach, the copious fat rippling as he moved, and it did so with so much force that it traveled up and down her new expanded gut.

Just like a ripple. The push of his hands, the lovely ways he rubbed against her gut, was amplified by the rippling, all over her belly, and she made more low noises in unthinking response, her stomach glowing faintly in response. Oh, but that felt perfect.

John kept rubbing; either her stomach was structured in a way to apply the force evenly, his Breath powers were making his rubbing continue onwards past the point he was actually touching, or perhaps a blend of the two. But as he scooted to one side where there was still a fair bit of rumbling for him to knead at, her stomach kept sliding outwards. It kept growing upwards, with ever more capacity to slide in more of his delicious food.

Rose leaned back, barely aware of losing hold of the ideas of relentless self-control that had kept her in an uncomfortable position on the chair until her belly had gotten bigger. This felt better, as far as she was concerned. She felt her stomach sliding outwards, so that it was rapidly getting close to somewhere around her own size in overall length and width, and it felt so nice that she honestly was not concerned. It did, however, feel rather empty.

Her eyes slowly opened as pangs of hunger started to grow, outweighing even the pleasures of John tending to her belly. “You had some food cooking, yes?” She said, dreamily.

John paused, his hands sunk into her belly nearly to the elbow. “Um, yeah?”

“Go get me some, would you? As much as you can carry.”

John floated up, made a little mock bow, and flitted away, a zephyr in human form.

He came back shortly afterwards. Plates of food hovered around him; not carried in each hand, but levitating about him, and without the restrictions of just two arms to carry it, he was able to bring several dozen in, loaded with all the tastiest treats he’d experimented with at the time.

“I wasn’t sure what you, specifically, might have wanted,” John said. “So I got a little bit of everything!”

Rose’s belly was no longer growing. She barely noticed. The air was thick with sweet smells and sugary tastes, warm smells laden with the distinctive after-tastes of frosting and chocolates, and undertones of milkshakes, fruits coated with impossible layers sculpted into genuine statues via the medium of chocolate and caramel, edible works of art…

“Oh, that smells interesting,” She said aloud, intrigued by what he’d worked up this time. “I must see for myself. Well, not see, but taste is a much more forensic sort of examination than just giving it a smack with your eyes.”

“That’s a horrible mental image. I like it!” John came over, with his many sweets, and sat in mid-air next to Rose, the scent maddening and she knew that he was perfectly aware of it, and just teasing her by sitting there and not giving him a single thing. What a brilliant move, on his part!

(It was entirely possible that John had no idea that Rose expected everyone else to make their every social move as brilliantly calculated as her own, and was not deliberately teasing her. It was also possibly that he knew damn well that she would think he was, and did so accordingly. It was hard to tell, with him!)

Gurgles and rumbles from deep within the expanded regions of her gut, the considerably reworked complexities of her digestive tract, and a more prosaic desire for tasty treats all got the better of Rose. She held herself back as long as possible, playing the part of a refined opponent, and finally she could take no more, and wildly reached out for the nearest piece of cake. John floated just out of reach. Normally, she would have been fine to keep it going for a while, enjoying the game of competition, clashing wits and personalities like a chess game (though not actual chess; having known carapacians, chess was now an uncomfortable exercise), but the thought of getting stuff through her throat and down her belly was too tempting.

“Very well, I give in!” She blurted out, and that was quite the surrender, coming from her.

John was still floating away. There was a terrible look of mischief about him. “What’s the magic word~?” He teased, floating almost close enough for her to pull him towards her.

“Please, and do please hurry with the treats already!” She almost begged.

“Aww. Okay…!” John floated in now, gently taking a seat in the air right next to her, just high enough that his hands could transfer things from plates to her mouth with ease. He admitted he was a little intimidated, and he tried not to look directly at the teeming massives of her breasts, or the gigantic sphere of her belly. Some part of him kept thinking ‘did I do that?’ and he was trying not to think about how nice it would be to lay down on her belly, listening to her digest.

He noticed Rose looking directly at him. Her expression shifted a little; the look of raw need and frustration had just a hint of wickedness in there. Her lips had changed, he realized; they’d grown immensely thick, puffing out into the kind of thick forms you normally associated with balloons. She raised an eyebrow, in that special Rose way of communicating a lot just with a little quirk.

“No mind reading or you won’t get any candy apples!” He said, with an adorable scowl.

Rose chuckled. “One, I don’t read minds, and two, I really don’t have to. You’re easy to figure out.”

“Hmph.” He picked up the plate, which did in fact have candy apples, and he selected one at complete random, holding it by the uncoated stem he used for handles. Gently he maneuvered it to Rose’s face, just above purple-painted lips three inches thick.

He expected her to take a bite; he did not expect her to gently put her lips against it and suck in. Whatever had changed her stomach had also altered the pressure that went into her lips, not to mention the flexibility of her jaw. Her lips flowed around the apple, saliva coating it as they slid completely around it in one smooth movement, her jaws stretching to fit the whole thing into her mouth at once, and then she slurped it into her mouth, plucking it right out of John’s hands.

“Eep!” John squeaked. Rose silently crunched the apple in her mouth, cheeks bulging but showing no sign of discomfort. She kept her eyes locked on him the whole time, her expression worryingly intent. A few hints of saliva oozed against her lips in the heat of her confectionary pleasure, and were slurped back in. Her eyes fluttered as she took in the delicious flavors of the candied apple, the way caramel and fruit blended together in ways amplified by John’s power to make a true taste sensation that a mortal simply couldn’t hope to imitate.

“Mm,” she murmured, after gulping the whole thing down at once, her belly wobbling slightly as it took it all in. “More.”

John nervously gave her another apple. Rose tilted her mouth up and sucked it in more slowly, but also sucked in his fingers too; her lips engulfed them, and pinned them there. John found that Rose’s mouth was very warm, and incredibly moist; as the apple traveled down her throat to never be seen again, the entirety of her lips pressed warmly against his fingers and then the rest of his hand as she drew it into her mouth, holding it there for a moment, and then let it go with a sound suspiciously like a kiss.

“Mm, you still have sugar on your fingers,” Rose said, eyes half-lidded. John was not quite blushing, but he was having a hard time meeting her eyes. She smiled a bit broader at that; it was nice to get one over on him.

“Well, at least you like it, right?” He said, giving her another apple. She ate it without complaint, and the next one he did, and still another went between her teeth, and soon she had polished off the entire plate. The apples were gurgling away in her belly, and she still needed more.

“Go on,” she said warmly. “Fill my stomach up, why don’t you? I’ve more than enough capacity for everything you have?”

“Challenge accepted!” John brought down more plates, picking up a slice of pie and placing it into Rose’s open mouth, and watching with fascination as she slowly chewed it, each flex of her jaw so slow that she plainly was savoring each bite.

She ate slowly, like someone taking a very long time to read a book; all in order to properly appreciate each and every detail, digesting full awareness of it to the last detail. It was the most intense way he’d ever seen someone eat his food; as if with the food in her mouth, there was nothing in all the world but his food. Her eyes closed when she swallowed, throat swelling up in huge gulps, and she radiated such satisfied pleasure that he briefly felt a surge of grand accomplishment.

And then, silently, with her expression alone, she asked for more.

The plates were emptied, one at a time; despite their number, Rose’s appetite grew so ferocious that she devoured everything on them without any sign of growing full despite the massive portions. It was gluttonous, like Terezi or Nepeta during the occasional communal dinner they had (usually corresponding to feast days in their honor, on the mortal world), but it was not ferocious; Rose did not wolf down her food or gorge on it, or try to force entire plates down all at once, as if her belly being emptied was an offense to her and all she had worked for.

No; Rose worked to occupy her belly. One slice of pie at a time, or a fraction of cake, as if taking in residents to a newly opened luxury home complex that required as many people as possible without being too much in a rush. She ate slowly and calmly, savoring every moment of it, and when she swallowed, it was loud. John had heard bells that were quieter, and like a bell, it signaled something. In this case, that she was very pleased with his offering.

He could have sworn he heard a faint, muffled echo after she swallowed. As if he heard the mouthful splashing into place in her belly.

Gulp after gulp, time went by, and both of them were scarcely aware of time passing as it did. Rose was lost in the pleasures of sweetness, tasing every metaphysical connection that went into the sweets, and each mouthful lost her in a world of deceptively calm-looking joy. John found his own satisfaction in feeding her; she loved what he was feeding her, so much, and he felt… proud of it.

And he was noticing that as they worked through the plates, her belly was getting even bigger. It gurgled loudly, of a different character than before. Then, it had wanted more to fill itself with, but now, it seemed to him that these were happy noises; the sounds of a satisfied gut, and that was something that made him feel even more proud of his handiwork.

His nature as a god of Breath felt a sense of imminence coming from her belly, though; something was going on that neither of them were quite aware of, and John felt it coming. He figured that Rose had it handled, though. She always knew what to do.

Her belly swelled larger, and emptied plates (devoid even of crumbs) lay in a neat tower near them both. The tower rose higher and higher, but even once they were all totally cleaned off, they weren’t as high up as Rose’s stomach. It had grown even bigger, sprawling out further as the feeding had progressed; each mouthful adding to its girth. It wasn’t even particularly smooth anymore, flexing and squashing in random directly as tremendously powerful muscle action crunched its contents into a fine grist to be dissolved ever more efficiently, and the power of Light flooded from her body, so that radiant pulses fluxed through.

“Mm-mmm,” Rose said softly as her breasts, now growing large enough to outsize her own torso, towering upwards. They were still small compared to her belly. Even with all the frenetic movement, it was still growing, though more slowly now. The pace of it was a pleasure all its own, a sweet friction from inside her own body and reshaping it to more efficiently be an absolutely ideal glutton.

Food dissolved alarmingly fast, mixing in with fluids and enzymes entirely unique to Rose’s divine body. It dissolved so quickly that it was building up quite a lot of gas, making her belly swell up once more. The skin of it grew firm, the pressure pushing against the inside of her stomach so much that the tightly packed shapes of her food was obscured, her gut turning almost completely round. It was hard to say how much internal gas that was; it was certainly enough to power a small, person-sized hot air balloon at the least, and in a distant way, that was precisely how Rose felt.

Rose’s eyes widened. Propriety that she unthinkingly complied with demanded that she stifle it, right now, before she did something embarrassing, while at the same time a part of her that really did enjoy not caring so much about image demanded to know ‘for what purpose?’. She tried to find a compromise, placing her hand over her mouth to muffle what she was certain would be a truly memorable belch.

Up it went, ascending like the jetpacks John had once used. Her throat swelled up with the weight of it; her breasts rose and fell as it went up her body, and her cheeks bulged when she clamped her mouth shut, realizing too late that this would be loud-

Her lips, though enormous and powerful enough to turn a milk carton inside out with a single sucking swig, were not strong enough to hold the belch back.

It roared out of her like more a force than an actual sound, wet and dripping as it left her mouth and existed in the world for a long moment. It was a shame John didn’t have any windows in that complex, because then they could have rattled in a way that could satisfy Rose’s sense for drama; it wouldn’t have actually helped the situation, but it would have sounded cool. Stone trembled as the noise went on, so loudly that it silenced every other noise around it, and her gut visibly deflated slightly as the pressure abated. Various chairs actually fell over from the force of it.

And, finally, it faded away, leaving a warm sensation in Rose’s body.

“Excuse me,” she said, daubing at her mouth in the midst of the ensuing silence.

John started to learn forward to say something, and then Rose sighed softly. “Oh,” she said, not exactly wincing but looking fairly alarmed all the same. “That’s an unusual feeling.” She put her hands to the closest bits of rolls and chub that anchored her belly to her body, and squeezed tightly, shutting her eyes.

There was something else coming; another grand change, fueled by the consumption, by her desires, and set off by the burp. Things happened in little steps and then came all at once with the right things to trigger them; she knew this.

And she thought; it was very nice to lean back in this chair. It would be nicer still to not require the chair, for maximum hedonism.

This thought went on its way, and perhaps it gave the surge of sudden physical transformation a specific route to use, a keyword to direct it. She might have already been about to take on the incoming form anyway, and the thought was just a reflection of underlying impulses that heralded it. She didn’t know for sure, and later, it was maddening.

Rose lurched forwards, her legs moving sluggishly beneath her robes and belly. The latter obscured them more effectively as Rose actually managed to get off her chair, floating upwards and then landing with a crash onto the ground. Her stomach softened her landing, and she slid backwards off it onto the ground. The back of her robes flared up, wobbling and shifting alarmingly.

“Uh, should I be looking away-” John started to say, the dimples and outlines of Rose’s butt against her robes growing much more outlined.

The growth interrupted him. Her backside, probably responding to her happiness with reclining so much, grew. Not quite as slowly as her backside, either, swelling out in a great explosion of flesh. Her legs grew shorter as her butt expanded, but it didn’t actually change anything in her height. She just wobbled back and forth, trying to maintain her balance as her butt fluxed outwards, projecting out from her body like a living bustle from Victorian fashion, and kept growing bigger.

It rose up to her waist, and a little bit higher than that, and flared outwards; so big that the sides were as broad as the rest of her body, not confined entirely by her hips. Her butt kept growing, expanding so that it was almost bigger than the rest of her body. It smacked against the ground, taller now than John himself, and Rose leaned back into it, her face almost as shocked as John’s.

Her gut dwarfed it, even so. It didn’t seem to grow larger, apart from the constant state of perpetual expansion it had been showing for some time now, but that was an academic point, given how big it actually was now. Her breasts hung high upon it, and Rose leaned into it, suspended between butt and belly for a perfect balance.

Her legs trembled, and it was hard to see them. Rose frowned, as if puzzled, at a curious cool sensation of her legs. Soon it faded, and she found that she couldn’t feel anything to do with her legs at all. She expanded her perceptions, and gasped aloud. Her legs had fused together, joined in the middle and flowing into a single piece of extended body. While useless for walking, that soon became an irrelevant point: the bones of her legs dissolved, her legs becoming a shapeless mass that hung beneath her.

Any sense of horror was cut off by a pleasurable feeling, like warm nudges coming from inside her. It felt like a sense of pressure too, not unlike that preceding the massive belch that had set off this transformation. The length where her legs had been expanded and swelled out, growing even larger than her upper body and almost as big as her butt, widening out into a sort of living base for her entire body. It was invitingly round, a living sofa for her body to recline into, and it kept expanding until it was twice as broad around as her body. Still dwarfed by her belly, but as she wobbled in place with a few more minor alterations to her stature, she remained stable, and lounged into it.

Rose shifted in place, blinking furiously. She glanced down, her robes exposing quite a lot of flesh below her. Her backside felt very well aired, and her new… base? Podium? Stand? Whatever she might call it, it was certainly supporting her.

Any bewilderment or horror at the transformation was numbed; she was more curious than alarmed. She wiggled in place. Yes; there was something almost liquid within her there, bearing her weight like a living mattress, adjusting itself to her body to avoid any cramps or feelings of discomfort.

She kept wobbling herself, in fact. It felt fun.

Her whole body felt very nice, actually. “Well, that was interesting!” Rose said, feeling herself for any traces of more genuinely inhuman transformation. Well, besides the obvious, of course. She examined herself; massive belly and butt, that puffy lower body base… she looked like a person built of orbs, and she thought it looked very nice on her.

“Rose!?” John floated around her, with the frantic energy normally associated with a hummingbird realizing too late that a diet had been a poor decision. “What happened to you!? Are you okay!?”

“I would say so, yes!” Rose adjusted herself. She turned very easily, her belly dragging on the ground and knocking several chairs and display desks over, folding them into its squishy depths. Feeling those solid objects deep in her belly-skin felt great; so much hard rigidity, shifting against her in all the right ways… oh, that was an interesting sensation.

John slowly floated to the ground. “My food makes people puffy and bloated,” He said, in tones of grave horror. “Why did no one warn me that could happen!?”

“No, no, it wasn’t any quality of your cooking,” Rose said absently, leaning into her massive belly. She was going to need some other means of getting around, but somehow, staying put seemed very attractive. Just enjoying John’s company, and the possibilities offered by her new, lovely body.

She still couldn’t keep her hands off her stomach. It felt so nice to touch, like a massive erogenous zone.

“It was me,” she said, still feeling shockingly calm. She turned towards John, smirking faintly. He looked a little lower on the ground; her new puffy base must have given her a few extra feet in height.

He blinked. His eyes had the glazed look of one trying to process something big, and fit the new Rose into his understanding of the world.

Eventually he said, in patient tones, “Uh. Okay, but. Uh. But, but why, though.”

Rose shrugged, and put her hands right back on her belly where she felt they belonged. “But why not?”

John raised a finger to make a point. He thought about it. He frowned. He lowered the finger. “Fair enough, I guess?”

#commissions #my writing #fics #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!john egbert #twitchy!rose lalonde #queued

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babyleclerc · 5 years

Text

Tequila Sunrise

Pairings: Chris Evans x Fem Reader

Style: One-Shot

Request?: No, but 100% inspired by that stupid Shawn Mendes/Camila Cabello song I will never get out of my head

Warnings: Language. Smut. Unprotected sex (woops, wrap it before you tap it, kids). NSFW. Slight dom!Chris.

Word count: 4.5K

Summary: You’ve known Chris since you were twelve. He’s always been a constant for you, never a romantic interest. But will the summer heatwave, humidity and pool time get to your head and change the way you feel about each other? Includes Anthony Mackie!

A/N: Holy shit, you guys. I’ve been working on this one all week. I won’t lie, I’m attached to this one and really hope you guys like it. :3 I’m considering doing a series tied to this -- more of what happens with Reader/Chris & potentially with Ava (bc I love her personality and modeled her off Blake Lively, if you couldn’t tell). If you liked this/would be interested in reading more in this world please comment and let me know!! Your support helps me write :))

This story truly feels like my baby so please do leave it some love/review if you liked it. Sorry if the smut sucked I hate writing it but felt like it was essential to the story jfdlakflds;akf;dsaf. Don’t hate me. ALSO, huge thank you to my #1 @deartomhardy. She helped me through this in so many ways. Hyped me up when parts of this fic made me sweaty, yelled at me when I whined about the smut. Supported me literally through it all. I love u my baby angel. <3 (Gif not mine!)

You say we’re just friends,

But friends don’t know the way you taste.

‘Cause you know it’s been a long time coming,

Don’t you let me fall.

It was hotter than all hell, and you were starting to get sick of the dry heat that was coursing it’s way through the city the past few days. Your hometown used to be so enjoyable; better weather, less traffic, less people, less lines, less noise. Now, everything was popular - and not in a cute way. The donut shop down the street you had been going to since you were five was now considered a collectible. You saw tourists at the airport with the stupid blue boxes everywhere. The quaint coffee shop that was next to a questionable Chinese restaurant had now multiplied where you could find one on almost every street corner. Even down to the people - one in particular - who used to just be a regular Joe Schmoe was now a celebrity in his (also your) hometown. Wild.

“Find any hotties out there?” You turned your head to the edge of the pool to peer through your circular sunglasses at the voice. Mackie was leaned against the cool tiles surrounding the edge of the pool, the bottom of his body enveloped in water. He turned to look at Chris who had just entered the gated pool area.

“I just went to get some beers, Mack. Chill.” Chris replied, and you couldn’t help the small smile that formed on your lips at his response.

Local-theatre-geek-turned-celebrity did have its perks, though. For one, you were able to enjoy a private pool on a 97 degree day, well, privately. Chris’s summer home was nothing short of a resort; food at any and all hours of the day, a pool, hot tub, and theater room. The best part about the pool was that there were no kids screaming and running around, wreaking havoc. You had a barbecue all to yourself, you could blast music and no one would complain. Plus, you found yourself suddenly surrounded by far better and more interesting company.

You and Chris had always been close. That was clear to everyone around you. You went to his premieres, supported him on Broadway, stayed up with him late into the night over the phone when his anxiety got the best of him, and he was a full Country away from you. Assured him that he would have the family he’s always wanted one day. And he supported you through all your endeavors. Helped you pay your way through grad school (I have so much money, Y/N, I literally don’t know what to do with it. Let me do something good for you, just this once he’d said to you late that night on the floor of your college dorm). Listened to you when you ranted about your parents and how the planet alignment was throwing off your mood. Was a shoulder to cry on when you went through breakups. There were no secrets between you, and there was no drama.

You knew this was because the only rule you had with Chris was the one that had stood the test of time: no sex. Period. No matter how drunk you got in the college dorms or at Marvel premieres. Even if you didn’t have someone to kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Even if you were vulnerable, heart aching for some affection and non-romantic sex after your ex cheated on you. Even if you were just plain horny. No. Sex. Your 20+ year friendship had lasted this long because one person in the relationship had always stood that ground no matter the circumstances. And for that, you were so thankful. Thankful for the lack of complications and strings; thankful you had someone in your life you could be you around. It was a rarity these days.

“Beer?” Said friend asked you, sunglasses adorned his tanning face. You looked up from Mackie and nodded, stretching out a hand to reach for the refreshing drink Chris was offering your way.

“Please,” You respond, waiting for Chris to pad his way over to you across the massive outdoor patio.

Had Chris not had his sunglasses on, you would have noticed the way he was eyeing your outstretched body, clad only in a thin, navy blue bikini on the poolside chair. Your bottoms hugged your hips as if made just for you; your tousled hair touching just beneath your shoulders; stray strands innocently snuggled beneath your breasts.

He took a breath, willing himself to look away as he handed you the cool drink. You noticed the way his obliques twitched with his arm movement, and how massive his biceps were after coming off of Endgame. You had, of course, noticed your best friend’s looks before - you weren’t blind - but the heat was making you see him in a different light. You took a swig of your beer, hoping the distraction would take you away from the way a bead of sweat was falling just along his torso towards the top of his swim trunks...

“I’d love one, Chris, thanks for asking.” Your best friend, Ava, spoke out next to you.

“Did you have to bring her?” Chris teased, grabbing another beer and gently tossing it towards Ava, who lay sprawled out on a lounge chair next to you in a stunning red one piece that hugged her cleavage just right.

Ava was the quintessential best friend whose kindness and selflessness made up for the fact that any woman next to her would otherwise feel inadequate.

She had long, slender legs, carved after years of soccer, tennis, biking, and basically any sport she could get her hands on. The constant need for an adrenaline rush made her tanned skin stay year-round, which was accompanied by a moderate four pack, large natural breasts, and wavy, thick blonde hair that always fell just right. Add her bright emerald eyes and a contagious laugh that lit up any room, and she was a heartbreaker to any man that was lucky enough to be in the same room as her.

But Ava didn’t care about that stuff, and that’s what made her so special. She was selfless. She put everyone else’s needs above her own, and had kindness oozing out of her, no matter the circumstances. She went to Mexico on a UNICEF trip on a whim after reading an article about children in need on a random Tuesday morning. She put her younger brother through medical school when both of her parents passed away unexpectedly (still a mystery to everyone else how she ever managed it). She was a perfect blend of compassion and enthusiasm that attracted men who wanted to get in bed with her and women who wanted to be associated with her. And it was effortless; as if it came to her like breathing.

“They’re kind of a package deal, those two.” Mackie piped up from the pool, grinning as he unashamedly drank Ava in. He had been trying to get with her all summer, but Ava stood her ground. She wasn’t one for summer flings.

But Chris knew this already; in fact it was Ava and Chris’s friendship that had gotten you to know Chris to begin with. Your mom had forced you into 6th grade soccer (hoping you would show some sort of athletic talent in your childhood) where you had met Ava on the very first day. Chris had been on the boys team at your middle school, and Ava being, well, Ava, had already made friends with the entire team within days. Your practices were on separate fields, separated only by a goal post but always ended at the same time. You would frequently all walk home together after practice, stopping for a smoothie, donuts, or ice cream along the way depending on the weather and talking about everything under the sun. Those walks were the reason you stuck with soccer for all those years (sorry, Mom).

“I already know what you’re going to say,” Ava started, lowering her voice and leaning towards you so the boys couldn’t hear. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d say a certain someone was checking you out today.”

You rolled your eyes, but felt your heart skip a beat at the insinuation. “Don’t go starting shit, Ave. He’s seen me in a bikini a million times.”

“Yeah, and you’ve seen him shirtless a million times, too, and yet here you are gawking at him like he’s some Sports Illustrated model.”

“Am not!” You laughed, taking a drink of your beer. You noticed the way Chris’s eyebrows raised at the sound of you from across the patio; he was always in tune with you even from a thousand miles away.

“Prove it.” Ava deadpanned, swinging her legs over her chair to sit up and face you.

“What?” You asked, exhausted by your best friend’s antics.

“Prove it.” She repeated, setting her beer down on the cement. “If it’s no big deal, and you feel the same way about him you always have and nothing’s changed-” She used air quotations, referring to the thousands of conversations you’d had about Chris since you were both back visiting your hometown and hanging out with Ava, “-then swimming and playing around in the pool should be no big deal. Just another swim with your best buds.”

She had a wicked grin on her face, and you knew you were in trouble. When Ava set her mind to something, she always saw it through. No matter what.

“Please don’t do this.” You pouted, though your best friend was already standing, waiting to make her move. The pitied look on your face didn’t fool her, and you found she was ignoring you as she dramatically fanned herself, heading towards the pool.

“It’s getting a bit toasty. I think I’ll take a dip to cool off.” She announced, “Y/N, you coming?”

“I think I’m good, thanks.” You glared at her, unamused. She shot you a wink in response.

“Man, I was really hoping we could chicken fight. Evans!” Chris jumped at the sudden inclusion from the loud blonde. “You in?”

He looked up from the edge of the pool where he had been leaning against one of the railings. Him and Mackie had been discussing some latest sports announcement at length, since you had been too bored earlier to listen out at lunch.

“Mhm?” Chris asked, clearly not paying attention to Ava’s antics and shooting a look over to the both of you. You noticed the beer in his hand was nearly empty.

“Chicken fight!” Ava said enthusiastically, “Me ‘n Mack vs you two losers.”

“Alright!” Mackie shouted happily, “Now things are getting interesting. Finally.”

Chris sighed, not near excited for the fight as the other two. “You in, partner?”

“I guess.” You groaned, knowing you had no way out of both Anthony and Ava’s persistence. You pulled yourself up off the chair and stood, stretching and rolling your neck, which had been stiff from the CrossFit class Ava had forced you to earlier in the week. Your muscles still ached from the fifty minute torture session you cursed your best friend all the way through, and though you’d never admit it - a dip in the pool sounded so refreshing after nearly 45 minutes in the heat.

Chris’s eyes never left you, or the way your body was glistening in the sunlight. The summer heat was leaving your cheeks just flushed, and he noticed how the thin swim material hugged your plump ass seductively. You were oblivious. Oblivious to the beauty and perfection Chris saw in you, how your right dimple surfaced when you laughed, and your eyelashes fluttered when you slept deeply. He felt a small pang of jealousy in his gut at the thought of all the guys who had seen you that way, and wondered if they noticed all those things about you that he did.

Throughout high school and through adulthood, people had always assumed Chris was dating Ava. Whether it was friends, family, or tabloids - people always gushed over what a “beautiful couple” he and Ava made. Maybe it was because of the stark blond hair, or maybe that she was almost taller than Chris, and they appeared to be “perfectly matched”. To Chris, she was just Ava. A close, and dear friend, but no one he would ever be romantically interested in.

She wasn’t you.

---

Much to your annoyance (and to Ava’s pleasure), chicken fighting with Chris had been just as awkward as you had expected. You were acutely aware of every touch - the way his strong hands gripped your thighs when you were straddled on top of his shoulders, desperately trying to shove your best friend off Anthony’s. She was stronger than you; that much was obvious. But having Chris at the base gave you an edge, and you ended up winning more than the other pair thanks to his cheating swipes at Mackie from under the water.

While the game was innocent enough, you heart drummed loudly in your chest every time his skin made contact with yours. Several times as you fell, shoved off by Ava’s very aggressive pushes, you’d feel Chris’s strong arms envelope you, laughing and crashing into the water with you. His arm stayed wrapped around your torso, holding you easily against his hip as you pushed up for air. Water droplets danced along your shoulders as you laughed, easily wrapping your legs around Chris as an excuse for support.

Finally, after several hours of Marco/Polo, ring tossing, and shark and minnows, Anthony and Ava had tired themselves out and retired to their respective homes. You and Chris had moved to the hot tub, tucked deep into the corner of the house, where you could still see the stars. The heatwave had finally burnt off, and you felt a cool breeze rolling through the property, sending a slight shiver down your spine. You leaned your head back onto the cool, diamond tiles that lined the tub, your legs peacefully resting on Chris’s lap across from you as the jets made water bubbles all around you. You sighed, blissfully happy - nothing was better than a long, warm day at the pool with your best friends.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” Chris asked softly. His fingers danced across your legs like a whisper, his warm blues matching the color of the water just beneath his sturdy chest.

“I’ve just missed this,” You reply, raising your eyes to meet his. “Life should always be this simple.”

“It can be.” Chris retaliated, thumb now making small circles just above your ankle. You smiled softly.

“Sometimes. But other times I remember that there’s reality, and we have to work and pay bills and like... be an adult.” You sighed again, “It’s just not the same as...” You trailed off, not having the balls to finish your sentence. You awkwardly broke eye contact with him, looking down at your hands in the water.

“Not the same as what?” He pressed, hand now gripping your ankle gently. He tugged just enough to force you to make eye contact with him again.

“Real life just isn’t the same as being here with you,” You finished out awkwardly. This was uncharted territory - you’d never talked about this kind of stuff with Chris. You were always just friends, and that was the extent of it. Nothing more; and there was never really an opportunity to be more than that because both of you had never let it.

But now... now he was here. And he was so... perfect. And caring. And kind. And he listened to your ideas, beyond just wanting to get into your pants. And he knew you so intimately, it was hard to think about being with anyone else. It made you wonder if all of your past relationships had failed for a reason, maybe there was someone else you were supposed to be with, and he had been right in front of you this entire time?

Chris tugged on your leg, a little stronger this time, willing you towards him as the water bounced between you guys softly. He was closing the gap between the both of you, but the pace in which he was taking was painfully slow. You felt every second, as if it had been slowed down five times, as you inched towards him slowly.

“Chris, I...” You whispered, as his hands enveloped you, gripping your waist and maneuvering you so that you straddled his lap.

“What?” He asked breathlessly, drunk on your smell, and the way your ass was settling on his groin. His eyes still haven’t left yours, he’s testing you - daring you to be the one to pull away first.

“I don’t trust myself right now.” You reply, eyes boring into his. Your face was millimeters away from his, and you so desperately wanted to reach out and taste him; know what it would feel like to kiss those soft, pink lips.

“Just one kiss.” He breathed. His tone was more of a request than it was statement, he was begging you to give in just this once. You lifted your hands and rested them on the sides of his face, feeling his slight stubble against the palms of your hands.In the decades of knowing him, you had never been this close. You breathed in deeply, taking in his scent. You felt as though you were home. And although it was likely only seconds that passed by, it felt like it had been a million minutes all smashed into one, and you finally leaned in, closing the fraction of space between your lips.

And suddenly, you were falling. Falling so deep into Chris and your feelings it was indescribable. He tasted like a perfect blend of vanilla, honey and strawberries; likely from the massive bowl he had eaten just hours before.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you as close into him as he could. This was more than just one kiss, and both of you knew it. There was no going back now.

After a few breathy moments, Chris pulled back for air, immediately relocating his lips onto the crook of your neck, kissing every inch of your skin from your jawline down to your shoulder. Your skin felt as though it was on fire, and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. You leaned into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as you let your eyes flutter closed. His hands roamed up your spine, tugging at the spandex material that was barricading him from access to your breasts.

“Not here,” You murmured, letting your head fall against his shoulder. As warm and sexy as the hot tub was, you weren’t interested in your first time with Chris being messy and wet in his outdoor hot tub. Plus, the cool breeze was starting to give you goosebumps.

He pulled away from the hickey he was working on just above your right breast. “Hold onto my neck.” He said against your skin. Wrapping your legs around his waist he easily stood, carefully maneuvering the both of you out of the hot tub and towards one of the guest bedrooms just a few feet from the hot tub. All the while his lips continued his assault on any part of you that he could, stumbling in the dark towards the massive queen bed that was enveloped in snow white sheets.

A small giggle escaped from your lips as he tripped slightly, dropping you backwards and onto the soft mattress.

“Think that’s funny?” He asked, grinning as he took in the sight of you; eyes sparkling and hair wet and wild, soaking the cotton sheets beneath you. Nothing separated him from you other than your skimpy bikini, which he was determined to pull off within minutes of having you on the bed.

“I mean, it was a little dramatic,” You teased, reaching out to grab his left arm, and interlacing your fingers easily as he leaned over, hovering over top of you. No part of you were touching just yet, other than his hand in yours. “I do have working legs, ya know.”

“Well, yes, but where’s the fun in that?” He teased, allowing himself to settle on top of you easily. He was grinning from ear to ear, and you weren’t sure if it was your ego or the heat of the moment - but you could have sown you’d never seen him this happy.

“Are we really gonna do this?” You asked softly, reaching your hand to stroke the side of his face, your eyes searching his.

“Do you want to?” He asked, ever the gentleman. Your heart was ringing in your ears, aware of the hard erection Chris was sporting through his swim trunks. It pressed against your right thigh gently. You squirmed beneath him.

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” You murmured, and that was the final confirmation Chris needed to close the gap between you two once more.

And this time was different from the hot tub. In the water you were slow, deliberate, wanting every nerve in your body to feel him against you. This was different; he was hungry for you. His hands made quick work of your bikini top, tossing it onto the floor as your lips parted to make room for his tongue.

His right hand massaged your left breast, pinching and flicking your nipple every so often. The sensation made you moan, and you arched your back in response. You could feel your pussy throbbing for him, begging him to please you, touch you.

Needing air, you pulled away from him, placing kisses along his chin and down his jawline.

“Chris,” You moaned into his ear, slightly tugging on his long, wet hair as his thumb padded your tout nipple.

“Mhm,” You were quickly realizing that Chris was going to make you beg him for this one. After years and years of waiting, he wanted to hear exactly what you wanted him to do to you. He wasn’t going to give you an easy out. Not tonight anyway.

“Please,” You begged, as his right hand moved slowly, torturously from your breast and across your tummy, running a finger along your slit over top your bottoms.

“What do you want?” He asked, nose nuzzling your neck before biting you gently.

You groaned, annoyed at the teasing. “We’ve had twenty years of foreplay, Evans. You know what I want.”

He chuckled against your skin, palming your pussy in response.

“Don’t be a smartass.” He bit your earlobe gently, running his tongue along your neck. “All you have to do is ask.”

You weren’t used to such a dominant side of Chris, but the rate in which it was turning you on was unbelievable. He was confident and sexy in the bedroom - a side of him you weren’t used to seeing. It was a relief to feel like you were being taken care of, and that your needs were coming before his. Even if he was making you beg.

Deciding that being blunt was the only way to get what you want you pushed him away from your neck gently, meeting his warm blues. There was a quick beat.

“I want you to fuck me, Chris.” It was so vulgar you felt your cheeks go warm. But if Chris was turned on before, it was nothing like the look of desperation and hunger he had in his eyes now.

He shoved his swim trunks off, freeing his cock that was standing at attention. You craned your neck to get a look, mouth practically watering at the sight. Chris yanked off your bottoms next and paused for a minute, drinking you in.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He breathed, his hands running down your sides. His hand stopped just above your folds, locating your wild eyes and watching your face as he slipped in one, two, then three fingers, testing your readiness.

You hissed, writhing at the feeling and pulled at the sheets in a death grip. After a few pumps he pulled out of you, but not after sliding his index finger once across your clit. The feeling made you shutter, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

He aligned himself, pausing to soak you in. After all these years of wondering, wishing, hoping; you were all his. He didn’t have to worry about anybody or anything else. You were here, and this was perfect.

Your eyes fluttered open, wondering what the hesitation was. You knew immediately he was silently asking for permission one more time. Once you crossed this line, there was no going back. Your hand found his and you intertwined your fingers once more.

“I want this.” You whispered reassuringly.

That was the confirmation Chris needed to settle himself above you, and slide into your pussy slowly. Inch by inch you felt yourself filled up by his impressive length, and you squeezed his hand, moaning loudly.

“Jesus,” He moaned, allowing your body to adjust before beginning to fuck you slowly. “So wet.”

His mouth latched onto one your breasts, licking and nipping at your sensitive nipple as he began slamming into you with more speed. His thumb was still making fast work of your clit, and the triple combination was making it hard for you to not cum quickly.

“Chris,” You breathed, reveling in the way his cock felt inside of you. You bucked your hips hoping to allow him to penetrate you deeper.

“So absolutely perfect.” Chris kept murmuring against your skin, over and over as he kissed, licked, and squeezed every inch of you he could. He picked up the pace, feeling your walls tightening around his cock. You were dangerously close to release.

You tried to form words but couldn’t think coherently. Everything was a blur, and every nerve was on edge as you felt yourself inching quickly toward orgasm. One more thrust from Chris and you let go, crying out as your walls clenched down on his cock without mercy.

Squeezing your breast, he found your mouth and kissed you as if his life depended on it. After a few more thrusts, he, too, let out a loud groan as you felt him finish inside you.

Still seeing stars you blinked a few times, your brain trying to catch up to the scene unfolding in front of you. You had just had sex with Chris Evans. Best friend of over 20 years. Man you shared every intimate secret with. He’s seen you naked. Touched you everywhere. Came inside you. Holy shit.

Chris was still lost in his orgasm, panting slightly. He pulled out of you, rolling over to his side.

“Wow,” He breathed. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “That was…”

“Amazing?” You offered, snuggling into his chest and letting a hand dance along his skin. Your heart still hadn’t recovered from the previous cardio session, and you could feel Chris’s still racing also.

“I was gonna say mind blowing.” His chest rippled in your hand from a laugh. “But amazing works too.”

Fin.

---

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