#and later on that evening someone from the groom’s side of the family came up to me out of the blue | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

free-for-all-fics · 1 year

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Just binge watched the IWTV series and it gave me many thoughts. No pun intended when I say it made me very thirsty. So I wrote some prompts! Warning: Some of these contain spoilers for the AMC show! Most of these prompts are written with the AMC show in mind, but they can probably be used interchangeably for either the 1994 movie or the 2022 tv series. Whichever version is up to you. Please tag me if you’re inspired by or write any of these ideas. I’d love to read it! ❤️🩸

Content Warning: Almost all of these prompts contain dark themes! Including: Toxic behavior, unhealthy relationships, power imbalances, abuse, racism, murder, and incest. If Dark! Fics aren’t your thing or you can’t handle such themes, that’s okay. These prompts just may not be for you, so ignore them and kindly move on. If you don’t like, then don’t read. Please don’t act as morality police and harass me or others. Don’t start arguments in the comments. Thank you.

1. You meet Lestat and Louis at a ball celebrating your arranged engagement to an odious man you don't love. While taking turns dancing with them, you're rudely dragged away by your jealous and controlling fiancé. Seeing how innocent and miserable you are, they later kill your unwanted groom and take you from your home, eventually giving you the choice to live with them and have a better life as a vampire.

2. You were Lestat's lover and companion heart when he was human. You were forcibly separated when he was abducted and turned into a vampire by Magnus. He believes you later perished in the French Revolution, until he’s delightfully surprised when he finds you in New Orleans while living with Louis and Claudia. You don’t look a day older than when he saw you last, and he realizes you had faked your death over a century ago. As he watches you seduce and feed on a couple of unfortunate humans, he falls in love with you all over again. You’re even more beautiful as a vampire.

3. Lestat feeds on you and drains you of blood to the point of near death. He gives you a choice: Join him in eternal life as his new companion heart and lover, or don't. Help him adapt to the modern world, or he will leave you to die and move on to someone else.

4. Haunted Mansion-esque AU: When Lestat was human, he was deeply in love with you, a black or mixed woman, despite it being unconventional and illegal. You may have had many plans for the future, but your love was like playing a most dangerous game. It ended tragically with you killed and him kidnapped by Magnus and turned into a vampire. But what if you’re reincarnated looking exactly the same as you did before in the early 20th century. Lestat becomes obsessed with you at first sight, discreetly following you around or using his powers to hypnotize you to come to him.

He acts overprotective and possessive when he courts you. Even if you don’t remember him or your past life yet, he’s undeterred in his advances. He’s determined to keep you safe with him and not let such a cruel fate befall you again. If that means turning you into a vampire, so be it. You’re his forever and he’s yours. You may hate him at first, but you’ll thank him for the dark gift in the end. He has loved you in death as he did in life and whether your memories come back or not, he’s going to stay by your side. What if in this life, you’re Louis’s neighbor/friend and he loves you too? Maybe not romantically, but there are many forms of love.

5. You’re Lestat’s younger sister and the only other person he loves in his family apart from yours and his mother. He cherishes you so deeply that he often protected you from your abusive father and other brothers by taking countless beatings and starvations to spare you. While you were only a teenager, you’d tend to his wounds and bring him food and drink. He insisted you came with him and Nicolas to Paris, where he would look after you as your legal guardian until you could be free as an adult woman. But after he was turned into a vampire, he tried to stay away. For years, he kept his distance and watched over you from afar as you blossomed into womanhood, while using his inheritance to send money and lavish gifts so you could live comfortably. He still wanted to provide for you, give you everything he felt you deserved but couldn’t have while living in poverty.

Until something happened that made him hyperaware of your fragility in your mortal state. He realized he was too selfish and loved you too much to condemn you to permanent death. He couldn’t bear it if you were lost to him forever, so he snuck into your house and turned you into a vampire. You live together for many decades before you go off on your own to explore the world. But you still correspond and visit regularly. You’re surprised and delighted when you stop in and discover your brother has a lover and a…sister? Daughter? Are you an aunt now? You’re not really sure what the family dynamic is but you’re happy for him.

6. Crimson Peak/Flowers in the Attic-esque AU: You’re Lestat’s sister. You sought comfort and protection from your abusive father and other brothers through each other, and your unhealthy coping mechanisms spiraled into a toxic incestuous relationship. After taking countless beatings and starvations, you’d tend to Lestat’s wounds and he to yours. While locked away together, you’d silently admire your bodies and touch each other gently, mindful of your scars. Your curiosity gave way to darker thoughts, and neither of you could help the urges you began to feel. Lestat and you are so fucked up. You’re overly co-dependent on each other, you both can be manipulative to get what you want, etc. You and Lestat are aware you might love each other too much, since you’ve had ugly fights fueled by jealousy where you’ve threatened to kill the other.

“If I can’t have you, no one can!”

“Do it, coward. You won’t. You and I both know a life without me would be even more unbearable.”

But neither of you would ever actually go through with it. Despite your issues, you cared for each other and wanted to get into a better situation. Even after Lestat became a vampire and inherited endless wealth, he couldn’t let you go. So he snuck into your Paris bedroom and seduced you. Afterwards, he used his powers to render you immobile so he could kidnap you. He turned you into a vampire and your bond can never be severed now. You may have been livid with your brother for turning you, but even that argument ended with angry hate sex to blow off steam. It’s no different than the many times he killed or otherwise drove away all the men and women who vied to be your lover while you were both still human. You were angry with him then, and retaliated by doing the same with all his lovers. These kind of sibling spats are common. If there’s one thing you both hate, it’s competition.

But still you slept together and all was soon forgiven. As vampires your lovemaking can be bloody and violent but it hurts so good. You can’t hear each other’s thoughts, but are so in tune with one another that you still know exactly what the other is feeling. When everything is good, you either hold hands or embrace without needing to say anything. You have your own coffins, but often crawl into each other’s so you can cuddle within the enclosed shared space where you spend hours talking into the early morning before going to sleep. You’re addicted to each other’s company. To the outside mortal world you may act as husband and wife. This is your eternity. You both fear loneliness and abandonment more than anything in the world, so as long as you stay together, neither of you will be alone and you’ll both be fine.

7. You’re a whore and have threesomes with Lestat and Louis. Unlike Lily and the others, you’re a woman of many talents with a unique spirit, so Lestat and Louis want to keep you forever as theirs. What started out as purely transactional sex and pillow talk has become so much more. They’re addicted to you and each other. Being a human and having sex with two vampires is on another level you never knew existed. Levitating in the air while your body is sandwiched between the two handsome devils, Lestat feeding on you while Louis may refuse to at first before Lestat convinces him to do it. Un petite coup, they call it. The little drink. Not enough to kill you, but just enough to keep them fit. The feelings of intimacy it awakens in you is beyond words. And all your senses are only heightened once your lovers turn you into a vampire. While you have your own coffin, you sometimes share a special coffin that’s big and spacious enough to fit 3 people.

8. You’re a human who willingly lets Louis feed on you in modern day. What Daniel doesn’t know is that you actually live in the house with him and Rashid. They take good care of you after the feedings and it’s like a poly relationship. Daniel doesn’t know how to respond as he watches Louis feed on you while you just nonchalantly talk to him like nothing is happening to you. He finds it so off putting how you hold eye contact with him.

Spoilers: Or you’re actually a vampire who pretends to be human by putting on a good show of acting faint and woozy after Louis feeds from you. You go by a fake name and wear contacts just like Armand. Louis and Armand are your lovers.

9. Phantom of the Opera-esque AU: You’re an opera singer or a First Chair in the orchestra and you’re elevated in Lestat’s eyes due to your immense musical talent. You’re one of the few human attachments Lestat keeps. He acts as your patron, providing you with money and lavish gifts. He visits you in your dressing room before and after performances, where you often get hot and steamy. He sometimes takes you back to his home where you sing and play piano (or another instrument) together. You may not know about his vampiric nature yet, but make no mistake: He will inevitably turn you one day.

10. In the books, Lestat mentions bedding a whole lot of women before he was turned so it’s possible he had children he never got to know. He finds out he had a secret accident baby over a hundred years ago when you, his daughter, show up at his and Louis’ home after tracking him down. Lestat being Lestat, he may not believe you at first, but you have substantial proof: A birth certificate, old belongings of his, miniatures of him and your mother, handwritten letters from the 18th century, etc. And then there’s your uncanny resemblance to him in both physical appearance and personality/mannerisms that even Louis points out. You’re not only a grown adult, but frozen in time. Maybe you had a family of your own before your vampire transformation, maybe not. But Lestat tracking down his descendants could make for an interesting story. Because he’s not your maker, you can hear each other’s thoughts. Lestat wants to know everything about you: Who your maker was, how you lived after parting ways with your maker, etc.

He doesn’t want secrets. In hypocritical fashion, he’ll probably keep secrets from you, but he doesn’t want you to keep secrets from him. You and your father are alike in so many ways, and sometimes that causes you two to butt heads and get into petty quarrels. It’s like an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It’s like two walls trying to get the other to move. Whenever your father annoys you too much, you’ll block him out of your mind or he’ll do the same to you. From what your mother told you about him, you were expecting him to be a bratty and spoiled prince. She used to say you were his perfect copy and called you princess to annoy you. He does love you and you do love him, it’s just expressed and shown in very weird, unusual ways that don't make sense to anyone else. Your form of affection is unique to only you two.

11. You and Lestat are vampires in a complicated love-hate and co-dependent relationship. It can get very toxic and manipulative, especially since both of you are varieties of possessive and jealous or vain and narcissistic. Sometimes if either of you are bored, you do your best to goad each other into losing any sense of decorum or restraint. Like playing with each other’s emotions is a game. Your arrangement of, “You can fuck whoever you want as long as you come home to me.” quickly becomes “I thought we could have an orgy. You can fuck them and I can eat them.” Your sex life is full of depraved fantasies and decadence you indulge in. A hedonistic existence of drink, drugs, and parties. You’re both different flavors of fucked up, but you’re addicted to each other. You want him dead, you want him all to yourself. He wants you dead, he wants you all to himself. It’s far from healthy, but it’s all you know and neither of you care. You’ve let go of human attachments ages ago.

12. You’re a vampire who’s in a romantic/sexual relationship with Lestat and in his own twisted way, he actually cares about and loves you along with Louis. You were given the dark gift by your maker when you were a full grown adult, unlike Claudia. So you’re like an older sister or aunt to her. Claudia is envious of your mature body and asks you questions of the female sort that you do your best to answer, no matter how awkward they are. Some of the questions she has are similar to ones she writes in her diary. (If you know, you know.)

13. Ghost of Thornton Hall-esque AU: When Lestat was human, he was in love with you, a renowned singer. During a masquerade ball celebrating your birthday, a fire started that quickly spread out of control. You got trapped in the burning building and were killed. You’re the only person Lestat has cried rivulets of blood over in his vampire life. All Lestat has left of you is a necklace you always used to wear. That’s why he’s hesitant to turn Claudia after Louis saves her from the fire and tries to make excuses that she’s too charred and he doesn’t know where to bite. During the Mardi Gras ball, Lestat hears your voice whispering and singing sweetly to him. He may be losing his mind due to fasting, but he swears he can see you in the crowd, wearing the same blood red dress that you burned up in. Your black lace mask hides your eyes from him. He follows you, but keeps losing sight of you in the crowd when other men and women get in his way. It’s like trying to follow a ghost. Finally he catches up to you. When you turn around, you are indeed wearing the very same red dress you wore when you “died”. It’s now charred and black in some areas. He removes your mask and looks into your eyes - your vampire eyes.

14. You and Lestat go out to Lover’s Lane because it’s one of your favorite spots to hunt. The many lovey-dovey couples fueled by passion and sexual desire makes your meals that much more tasty. After you feed together, who could blame you if you also wanted to get romantic and passionate yourselves and make love outdoors or in the car of some victims before you disposed of the bodies? It’s practically like going out on a date anyway. Lestat and you go on date nights like this often. Your dates have also included going to the movies, sometimes watching vampire flicks to laugh at them and have a good time. Lestat uses his vampire powers to make an annoying movie goer who keeps shushing you start slapping himself repeatedly, just to entertain you and himself.

15. The relationship you have with Lestat is…complicated, to say the least. You’re human, but musically talented or have something else about you that makes him very possessive and obsessive over you. Maybe you remind him of his first love, Nicolas. He fears loneliness more than anything, so he tries to make you dependent on and love only him. He tries to isolate you and prove that he’s all you need. He can take care of you and give almost everything you desire. Toxic Lestat is so against you leaving because he doesn’t want to be alone. He lets you know of his plans to make you a vampire, whether you like it or not. It’s inevitable, he’s more than clear in no uncertain terms about that. But instead of rejoicing at his plans to give you this most precious and coveted dark gift, you tried to run away. He killed all the other passengers of the train you tried to stowaway on and blamed you for their deaths. You made him do this by acting out and being ungrateful, their blood is on your hands.

He used the conductor’s head as a macabre puppet to scare you before he coerced you into coming back home. You should be thankful he’s still respecting your compromise to stay human for a little longer after you pulled that stunt. You should show him some appreciation for all he’s doing for you, instead of acting like a spoiled and bratty princess. One time, you get into a nasty fight that ends with Lestat dragging your weak but still alive body outside, leaving a bloody trail. He then uses the Cloud Gift to fly high up into the sky while holding you in his arms. He tells you, “How I’ve waited. I have patiently waited in vain for you to love me as I love you.”

“Let go of me!”

“Anything for you,” he says as he strokes your cheek and wipes away your tears before letting you fall from the sky. As your heart pounds loudly in your ears and can be heard over the whistling wind, you thought surely you’d splatter on the ground below and be nothing but an unrecognizable mess of mangled flesh. But no. Lestat wouldn’t give you the mercy of permanent death. He only let you free fall for a few seconds before swooping down and catching you. As if to teach you a lesson and further prove his point that you need him. You need him to protect you from others and yourself. But who’s going to protect you from him, you think to yourself as you lose consciousness in his arms.

16. During the Mardi Gras Masquerade ball, Lestat had Tom appoint you, his vampire bride, as Queen while he was Raj. After fasting for three days before the ball, you play your part well. Both men and women try to crowd around you and vie for your attention, but you’re very particular about who you hand out boutonnières to. You can see Lestat surrounded by middle aged women he seduced but can’t remember from 10 years ago. They’re still fawning all over him. Ah, these must be the ladies from the Women’s Opera Society. They’ve gotten so old and wrinkly in such short time, poor dears. You use your hand fan to hide your smirk as you try not to laugh when you overhear their voices coated with sympathy. So they really believed him to be ill all those years? Just when he asks which of the ladies did he pull under the stairs during that dull lecture on Don Giovanni, you take that as your cue to pull him away. You can feel the ladies’ questioning and jealous gazes on you as you loop your arm through his and kiss his cheek then his lips.

You’re so radiant, all dressed in white and diamonds. But all the women’s eyes are drawn to the matching rings on your and Lestat’s fingers. You love putting on a good show. Even more so when you’re covered in blood during the after party when you and your vampire family start feeding on the selected victims from the ball. While you walk towards them in a straight line and assert your power, they run and scream in terror. In vain, they try to break down the locked doors and windows. It’s a massacre, a bloodbath, and one hell of a good time. (Whether you know of Claudia and Louis’ plan to kill Lestat or not is up to you.)

17. Vamps inspired AU: You’re a vampire who was turned against your will. During the 1970’s, you met and fell in love with Daniel, a fresh young journalist who was aspiring to achieve more as a writer. You were only together for a few short years before you left. As much as it pained you to do so, you knew you had to leave him before he noticed you weren’t aging and got suspicious. He could have a normal life and hopefully find another love. You loved him so much that you didn’t want to be selfish and condemn him to vampirism. So you parted ways both for his sake and to protect your secret, before he had his first interview with Louis.

Now it’s 2022 and Daniel is an old man. When he’s interviewing Louis again, he’s surprised to see you, seemingly either living with or working for the vampire, just like Rashid. When he questions you, you lie. You say you’re not his past love, but her daughter, and that your mother died. It isn’t until much later in the interview, after Rashid reveals his true identity as Armand that you also come clean. You tell Daniel that he was right about you, and that you’ll answer any questions he has. You spend a great deal of time catching up as you ask him about his life, family, career, etc. And he asks you about your own life, why did you leave, why didn’t you tell him or turn him, etc. (Maybe you’re Armand’s sister and over 500 years old so the sun has no effect on you either.)

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callalillywrites · 1 month

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His Dream Come True

Well, Jake and I agreed that my first version of this story sucked so much. This one is much better though I'm certain it's not quite perfect. I'm going to post it anyway.

This story is a direct follow up to this story.

Based on this song:

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Pairing: Jake Jensen/Reader

Word Count: ~3900

Summary: Jake thought he lost his chance with his childhood best friend and love of his life when you get engaged to someone else. Maybe fate has something else planned for the two of you when he comes back into your life in time for your engagement party.

Warnings: none really, some angst to start but fluff at the end

A/N: It's proofread but all mistakes are my own.

I do not give permission for my work to be copied or posted on other sites or fed into an AI machine.

*****

The fancy envelope rested heavily in Jake’s hands.

He didn’t need to open it to know what it contained.

You’d found someone else.

He’d known that would happen eventually, and he couldn’t even blame you. It wasn’t your fault he’d always been too much a chickenshit to tell you how you felt.

That doesn’t stop him from begging Clay to let him leave their latest mission early.

He needed to see you. Even if it was just to say goodbye to you and wish you well, then that would be enough. It would have to be.

As much as he might’ve wanted to stand in front of you and bare his soul to you, he knew he couldn’t do that if you’d found your true love. He couldn’t be that selfish with you.

He kept that promise as he walked into your parents’ home for your engagement party.

You were easy to spot the moment he stepped inside the familiar living room. It was the room where you and he would spend hours playing when he wasn’t dragging you outside. It’s the same room where you would show him all the ideas you had about a perfect wedding. You would even go on to play it out with your many stuffies and have him play your groom every so often.

Oh, how he wished he’d known he would come to relive those moments more often later on. He wouldn’t have pushed you away a few times or wiped your wet kisses off his cheeks.

If he could go back, it wouldn’t be to his youngest self but to his teenage self. He had the chance to actually kiss you after one of his soccer games. You’d been so close to him, and he’d even leaned in. Another teammate ruined the moment, and he’d been too nervous to try again.

His trip down memory lane ended the moment you spotted him.

You said something to the man at your side. Your fiancé, no doubt. Then, you were weaving through your friends and family until you stood right in front of him.

“Jakey?” Your voice shook while your hand came up, nearly cupping his cheek. It never made contact though as you launched yourself at him, wrapping yourself around him. “I can’t believe you’re here. They told me you died. Should be so mad at you right now, but I’m just so happy you’re alive.”

His arms tightened around you.

When he pulled back, he tugged a small chain from his pocket. “How could anything ever happen to me when I’ve got my good luck charm?”

You gasped at the little rabbit charm you’d bought him before his first deployment. It’d been one of the last things you’d given to him before the two of you went separate ways. You to university and Jake to boot camp.

“You kept that?”

He nodded. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I? You gave it to me.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the man who’d been at your side before joined the two of you. His arm went around your waist. It wasn’t an act of possession, but it affected Jake in a way he hadn’t been prepared. You were truly not his any longer. Never would he be allowed such liberty with you.

“Oh, Jake, this is Steve, my fiancé. Stevie, this is Jake. He’s been my best friend since forever.”

Jake exchanged a few rather pleasant words with Steve.

As much as he hated it, he couldn’t dislike the man who’d gotten his ring on your finger. Another fellow military guy, Steve left the service a few years before and met you shortly after at a VA event. You’d gotten involved with the VA after Jake joined the military himself. Steve had been the one to help you through your grief over believing Jake was gone.

When Steve’s called away, you hesitate. Your hand does reach up to cup his cheek as you said, “I’m really glad you’re okay. You’re not allowed to ever scare me like again, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He shot you what he hoped was a cheeky grin.

The way you shook your head while fighting back a smile, he must’ve succeeded.

As much as he wanted to steal you away and catch up, your other friends and family soon dragged you away from him.

He didn’t leave for a little while as some of your family came up to him and chatted with him, happy to see him alive as well.

At one point, your father pulled him to the side and offered him a stiff drink.

“You look like you could use it, son,” your father said by way of explanation.

Your father and Jake shared the quiet moment, sipping at the dark bourbon and watching the party continue without them for the moment.

“Steve’s a good man. He’ll take real good care of my daughter. It’s all I ever wanted for her,” he said, breaking the silence. When your father’s gaze slid toward Jake, he couldn’t help a small chuckle as he added, “But I can’t say that I haven’t thought I’d be giving her away to you over someone else. I would’ve approved if you had ever made a move. Just so you know.”

Unable to form words, Jake tried and failed to think up anything beyond a shocked, “Thank you, sir.”

He couldn’t possibly imagine what he could say to that information.

Your laugh caught his attention as Steve spun you before dipping you in front of your friends and family. The smile you graced Steve with made the bourbon he sipped settle like a hot jolt of lead in his stomach.

That was a smile he hadn’t seen from you in ages. It wouldn’t be a smile meant for him again.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, handing your father his half-finished glass. “I, um, I should probably get to my sister’s. She’s expecting me. I’m glad she’s happy.”

He bit his tongue to keep himself from rambling further.

Before he left your parents’ home, he dared a final glance in your direction.

Your gaze was on him, and a small frown appeared across your features.

Not wanting you to ever be upset, he gave you the best impression of a smile that he could muster and a half-hearted wave.

The late afternoon sun burned his eyes, but he didn’t slow his pace to the truck he’d rented. He needed to get away from you and your parents’ home. The memories would forever haunt him. Taunt him with roads not taken.

He doesn’t see you standing at the front door, watching him walking away. Nor does he see the tears that spring to your eyes that you hastily swipe away before Steve can see them. Your fingers begin to play with the engagement ring on your left hand.

*****

Clay had been generous in the time off he gave Jake.

Pulling up to his sister’s home, he soon found himself wrapped up in a tight hug. His sister around his neck and his niece around his waist. Their love helped ease the sadness lingering in him at seeing you so happy with someone else.

“Uncle JJ, you gonna come to my games since you’re back?”

Jake grinned. “Wouldn’t miss them for the world, squirt.”

His sister granted him some mercy then by shooing his niece off so she could settle him into the guest room of their home.

“Oh, I found a box of your old stuff when I was cleaning up the closet in here the other day. Thought you might want it, so I put it over there.” She pointed to the box that was sitting in the small chair situated in front of an antique writing desk she found at a flea market a few years back. She’d been so proud of the find and the plans she had for it, sending them all over several text messages to him.

“Thanks,” he nodded at the box, then gestured to the room, “for everything.”

She left him to settle in then.

It didn’t take him long to unpack as he’d long since learned to pack light. He had his few belongings either hanging in the closet or put away in the small drawers of the dresser.

With nothing else really to do for the moment, he approached the box and popped the folded flaps. Photos and notebooks filled the interior alongside some of his soccer trophies and other memorabilia from his high school years.

The one thing that stood out the most was the pink notebook he’d thought he lost some years ago. It’d been a special secret between him and you. The two of you would write whatever you had on your minds and share them, so others wouldn’t see them.

He recalled the one time one of his teammates had grabbed the notebook and tried to read it. Thankfully, the two of you had used a special language you two had created in your childhood. The two hadn’t bothered with keeping a code of that language, either.

As he sank down on the edge of the bed, he opened up the notebook. The strange words and their actual meanings came back to him as he started reading. Small smiles and several shakes of his head followed along his reading.

Time quickly sped away as he got lost in the notebook and all the secrets the two of you shared.

It wasn’t until he got to the last page that he nearly dropped the notebook.

The last entry was one he hadn’t seen before. It was in your handwriting, too. The date on it was the same day he shipped out.

He read and reread the words until they were forever ingrained in his mind.

I love you, Jake. I’ve always loved you. Come home to me, okay? I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life, now or ever.

You’d confessed, and he’d never seen it until that moment.

His heart twisted while his stomach churned painfully. Burning moisture blurred his vision behind his glasses and soon speckled the lenses.

Did this mean that you thought he hadn’t loved you back?

That thought had him nearly tripping over himself to reach the bathroom. The two bits of finger food he had alongside the bourbon your father had given him came up. That was soon replaced with pure bile that burned his throat. He didn’t have much left before he shifted to dry heaving. It hurt to breathe, and he couldn’t get the vice around his heart to loosen.

He lost track of how long he stayed kneeling over the toilet. His knees shook from their prolonged hold. His hands shook for a different reason, but he didn’t notice as much. He kept clenching and unclenching them to ground himself.

When he could safely say that nothing else would be coming up, he rinsed his mouth out and drenched his face with more water. His skin felt on fire as his thoughts continued to reel with this new piece of information.

Had he really cost himself his greatest dream?

You’d hugged him as though you’d never said the words.

How much had he hurt you when he hadn’t responded to your message all those years ago? How did you not hate him for that?

He didn’t deserve you. He realized that now.

If he’d been a real friend, he would’ve seen your message. He wouldn’t have let you doubt his love for you. Hell, he wouldn’t have let you get there because he would’ve kissed you when he had the chance.

That was all gone now.

He would spend the rest of his vacation avoiding you. It was only fair to step aside now and let you find your happiness with someone else.

If only fate was so kind to him and his plans…

*****

Over the course of the next few weeks, Jake could count on both hands and feet the number of times he accidentally ran into you.

It wasn’t exactly hard to do in the smallish city you both called home for so long. Yet, it shouldn’t have been so easy, either.

If Jake didn’t know better, he would think someone was orchestrating this whole thing.

More often, Jake would manage to spot you and duck around a corner before you spotted him. He didn’t want to make it awkward for you or himself by actually running into you. Well, more like making it awkward for himself. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t say something stupid. In fact, it was almost a sure thing he would.

His filter never really existed around you.

Yet, you never minded that about him. It’d been one of the reasons he fell so hard for you all those years ago. Why he was still so in love with you. With you, he could be himself. You never made him feel bad about it, either. Sure, you might tease him every now and then, but you were never mean about it. How could he not fall for you?

The times he couldn’t escape without you spotting him, he would offer up a wave and pick up an item. Then, he ducked out of the aisle and out of the store. He’d most often leave his items behind for some poor worker to deal with, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back. He couldn’t until you left, then he would begin his shopping all over again.

By the end of his third week, he was ready to pull out his frosted tips by the roots.

You’d cornered him in one of the shops, spotting him before he even clocked you.

“What gives?” you demanded, crossing your arms over your chest.

He gulped. “Nothing. What’s up?”

Well, so much for playing it cool with the way he stammered.

“You’re avoiding me, and I want to know why.”

“I’m not.”

His gaze couldn’t help scanning the store for any signs of your fiancé. The last thing he wanted was to have a confrontation with you and have Steve overhear it.

“Now, you’re lying to me. All those years as best friends really don’t mean that much, do they?”

“That’s not true. You know it’s not. I…”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words he wanted to say. He couldn’t do that to you or your fiancé. You’d made your choice. He wasn’t it.

He could only hope that you would see the truth in his eyes.

That was if you’d look at him.

No, you stubbornly stared at some spot over his shoulder.

He could see the moment you made up your mind about whatever thoughts crossed it. Your shoulders squared up, and you let out a slow, steadying breath.

“It’s fine, Jake. At least, I can put the past to rest now. I am glad you’re safe and alive. I hope you stay that way. I really do. The world needs you in it.”

You took a step away and turned back to the shopping cart you’d been pushing around. Over your shoulder, you added in the softest voice he’s ever heard from you, “I really hope you have a good life, Jake. You deserve it.”

Jake fought the urge to reach out and pull you back to him. He wanted to tell you everything that’s ever entered his mind about you, but he let you walk away from him again.

In an equally soft voice, he waited for you to leave the aisle to say, “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

What he didn’t know was his quiet voice wasn’t so quiet. He didn’t know you’d stopped in the next aisle over and rested your head against the shelf. He didn’t know that his words carried to your ears or the way your unshed tears blurred then streaked down your face.

He didn’t see you play with the engagement ring on your finger. It’d become a new habit since he’d walked back into your life. You weren’t even aware of it.

There was someone who did notice and has noticed the change in you since Jake came back into your life. He couldn’t say he liked it, but he couldn’t deny you anything, either. If your heart called out to Jake’s instead of his, then he’d let you off the hook. He’d help you get your guy.

*****

The bright red glow of the clock next to his bed taunted Jake.

He should’ve been asleep hours ago, but he’d been unable to sleep since you cornered him earlier that day. He couldn’t get your sad eyes off his mind or the words you’d said to him. How he wished he could’ve told you the truth.

The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he’d swallowed them back. Just like every other opportunity he’d had with you over the last couple decades.

No, you deserved to live a happy life with a guy like Steve. Not the hopeless case that was himself.

Maybe his friends had been right about him. Maybe he did screw things up to the point he’d forever be alone. He probably even deserved it for the way he’d treated you earlier and that fateful day years ago.

Shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes, he tried to shut his thoughts down. He needed sleep if he was going to watch his niece’s first game since he came back home. He wasn’t going to disappoint her like he’d done with you for far too long.

He set his laptop next to him and dropped back into the pillows behind his back. His eyes had just slammed shut with the purpose of falling asleep when his phone dinged.

When he might’ve ignored it, another message dinged. A few more followed it until he couldn’t ignore the noise any longer.

His fingers deftly opened the screen to shut down his notifications when he froze.

None of the messages came from his friends.

They came from you.

You awake?

Where are you?

I really need to see you.

Please, Jakey, it’s important.

Jake fumbled his phone as he reread your messages. It took him several tries to even write a reply that resembled some level of comprehension.

Can you meet me on the porch in 5?

I won’t stay long.

Just really need to see you.

He texted back quickly.

In a rush to meet you like you asked, he donned the pants he’d been wearing earlier but forewent the shirt. There wasn’t much need for one in the still-warm night air.

Then again, maybe a small part of him wanted you to see him and be a little impressed with the physique he’d gained from his years in the military.

He ducked out of his room, grateful it was the one closest to the front door. That meant less chance of waking his sister or niece at such a late hour.

You were already waiting in an SUV when he stepped outside. The interior light illuminated your teary face alongside the gentle smile on the man you’d be marrying in less than a month.

Jake had to swallow the bile rising in his throat at seeing Steve cup your cheek. He almost couldn’t when Steve pressed a kiss to your other cheek. You said something to Steve and hugged him for a long moment, then stepped out of the vehicle.

To Jake’s surprise, Steve waited until you stood on the porch under the light with him before Steve started the vehicle up. He shot Jake a single nod before pulling out of the drive and headed down the road.

“Where is he going?” Jake couldn’t help asking, his gaze still following the retreating taillights. “Why is he leaving you here?”

“He seems to think I belong here,” you said in the smallest voice. Your arms came up to wrap around yourself as you met his surprised gaze. “I’m hoping he’s not wrong. Did you mean what you said earlier?”

Jake doesn’t know how to answer that. He couldn’t recall anything he’d said earlier that would’ve given you an inkling of his feelings. As much as he might’ve wanted to tell you, he’d been so careful not to put you in that position. Hadn’t he?

“You said you loved me. I don’t think you meant anyone to hear it,” you finally supplied, “but did you mean it?”

“It doesn’t matter if I didn’t or didn’t. You’re engaged to Steve.” Jake spared a glance at the empty street, a frown forming. “Though, I’m beginning to have my doubts about how good he is for you. Has he done this before? Left you somewhere without any way to get home? Tell me, and I’ll kick his ass for you. I’ll—”

You cut him off then.

Your lips pressed against his in a way he’d never thought to experience with anyone before, least of all you. It wasn’t anything more than a chaste kiss to shut him up, but he could taste the berry lip balm you’ve always favored on your lips. He could feel your breath against his lips when you pulled back the smallest amount.

Your left hand came up. The shimmering diamond ring that had adorned your finger the past weeks was missing.

“I’m sorry,” he said on a breath.

Your breath hitched. “You don’t…”

You let the words hang between the two of you.

It took Jake a moment to catch on to your meaning, but he quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, no. I’m not sorry I said I loved you. I meant that. God, I’ve meant it for years. No, I’m sorry if my saying it cost you your engagement.”

“I never should’ve said yes to Steve. He was a sweet guy who helped me through my grief.”

You stop to take a breath. That same steely determination he witnessed in you earlier that day and countless other times settled in you. Your shoulders squared and your gaze met his with a fierceness that had him holding his breath.

“But he’s never been the man that held my heart. He was never going to replace the one I’ve loved since we said our first ‘I do’s’ in my parents’ living room all those years ago.”

In the secret language you two came up with, you whispered, “I’m in love with you, Jake. Always have been. Always will be.”

This time, Jake kissed you. It was a lot of smushed lips and knocked teeth, but neither of you cared. Soon, the two of you found the right angles to deepen the kiss until it left you both breathless and aching.

When he pulled away, he ran his thumb over your cheek and whispered, “You’ve always been my dream. If you’ll give me a chance, I’d like to make my dream come true.”

"I think I can do that." You grinned at him, then traced a finger down his bare chest to his belly button. Your grin widened at the shiver that your action caused. "First, you must tell me what the military does to make you look this good, Jakey. I'm all for a demonstration."

Beet red, Jake ushered you inside where he was all too happy to show everything your heart desired.

*****

Main Masterlist

#jake jensen #jake jensen x reader #song fic #childhood friends #friends to lovers #marry me by thomas rhett #the losers (2010)#light angst #fluffy ending #fluff

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mejcinta · 1 year

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Lately, I noticed lots of people getting delicate around Aemond and Alys' relationship, claiming that either he raped her or she groomed him.

The book depicts the beginning of their relationship «Prince Aemond had taken her into his bed as a prize of war soon after taking Harrenhal». During the dance, terms such as "take to bed" and "spoils of war" are also used in reference to the Daemon and Nettles, and to the Jon Roxton and Sharis Footly:

1) «Daemon Targaryen had come to love the small brown bastard girl, and had taken her into his bed» but does this necessarily mean that the Demon raped Nettles, as the show has already established his pedophilic tendencies (the young girls whom were offered to him in the brothel, both Laena and Rhaenyra were groomed by him, since one was around 15-16, other never was able to form her charachter without his influence).

2)«Bold Jon Roxton became enamored of Lady Sharis after the First Battle of Tumbleton, and claimed her as a “prize of war.” When her lord husband protested, Ser Jon cut him nigh in two with Orphan-Maker. Sharis wept as he tore her gown», her reaction made it clear that she was assaulted.

Now let's look at the relationship between Alys and Aemond, the background of their characters and how their relationship was later described.

Alys Rivers was a bastard of House Strong, Grand Maester Munkun and Septon Eustace refer her as a bastard of Lord Lyonel Strong. The general attitude towards bastards stems from religious beliefs, where those born out of wedlock are seen as a weakness and dishonour of their parents, and are therefore treated with disdain. The treatment of female bastards is even worse, when in such a feudal and patriarchal society as Westeros, they have far more limited opportunities to improve their position than male ones. "A Feast for Crows" introduces a bastard girl named Falia Flowers, whose family mistreated her and forced her into servitude, and after Euron Greyjoy takes control over her castle, she willingly goes with him because she was enough of the miserable life in her parental household.

While her parentage remains dubious, her surname clearly indicates that she was the daughter of a nobleman. But unlike bastards like Jon Snow or Rhaenyra’s sons, she was a servant to her relatives and after her own children were born dead she served as a wet nurse, an occupation historically regarded as exploitative of women. Not only she was a servant, but also accused in witchcraft (whether it is true or not), it always is followed by social stigma, discrimination and marginalisation of women.

Obviously power imbalance on Aemond’s side, making her unable to groom her, and how could she do it to an ADULT. But how later their relationship was described:

-“it was Aemond alone who had become besotted with the Rivers woman, to such an extent he could not bear the thought of leaving her”;

- after the defeat at the battle by the lakeshore he almost strangled the messenger to death if not for Alys be the only one who could stop him, so he valued her enough;

- when alys was captured by sabitha frey, instead of asking for help if she was his hostage, she proclaims that she is carrying his child, and aemond later came to rescue her and she run with him;

- he brought her to battle above the god’s eye with him and kissed her as last thing he did in life;

- after his death she proclaimed herself as his widow even she would gain nothing from it, and when some man dared to insult her son with Aemond, he was immediately killed, either she ordered someone to do that or even blowed up this man’s head herself.

While show revealed Aemond had unpleasant first sexual experience and called out Aegon’s tastes as depraved, can be assumed that they will not make him force himself on Alys. So the term "prize of war" could be thrust upon them by others and should be seen as such if Alys and Aemond consider it as that.

You know, people can project all they want on Alys, Aemond and their relationship, but one thing the show has made clear is that they're 'softening' Aemond. He's not nearly a scrary brute as his book counterpart (which I still find interesting). There's more nuance to his character, and the same will go for Alys (like Alicent and Rhaenyra's characters).

Hoping that Aemond is made abusive and Alys some sadistic witch is so...boring, unoriginal, petty and bitter. There's nothing remotely new or interesting story-wise about that. But let's just wait and see.

#anon #alys rivers #aemond targaryen #aemond × alys #alysmond #fire and blood

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rat-rosemary · 1 year

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Hi! This may seem strange but I would like to see your side of things, as someone who has not kept up with mcyt in like. A year at this point. I thought dream had groomed people? Was that a rumor or am I confusing him with someone else? And what do you mean about quackity? I'm coming into all of this very very very late lol

I dont blame you at all for not knowing what going on. I'll try to explain quickly but those are multiple complicated situations, so the post will probably get a bit long,sorry

Ok, so starting with the first one. There was a girl, called Amanda, who claimed that she was groomed by Dream. That was a lie, most of her claims being debunked either by herself, by people who knew her irl or by her ex-online friends. What we found out from those online friends is that Amanda was actually the one doing shady stuff, and you can find all about it on the doc her victim (mascara) put together

BUT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LOOK AT THE TW AND TAKE THOSE SERIOUSLY, THERE ARE GRAPHIC PICTURES IN THE DOC

https://twitter.com/Mascarahhhh/status/1679238021814550528?s=20

(And i think someone just recently came with even more things forward about Amanda, but that was recent and I hadn't had the chance to read it)

(Just went and read trought the stuff the other person posted and holy shit! Amanda fucking SA'd someone! Fully r4p3d them! The exclamation marks are of pure shock and disgust!)

So, thats the grooming situation. Dream did not groom anyone and the person who accused him of doing so should 100% be in jail

The Quackity situation, on the most basic level is that Dream and Quackity made similar smps and Quackity started ghosting Dream

At first it was just that. But it started evolving when Q fans started attacking and harassing Dream and his fans more and more, doxxing and stalking Dream and his family. Thats what prompted Dream to write a big text and post it publicly on twt, after spending almost a month trying to contact Quackity privately so they could talk and Quackity could say something to try to slow the hate down.

Quackity said and did nothing, and multiple Dream fans came forward talking about how people showed up to their houses and got arrested because of the Qsmp/Usmp situation.

I can find yoy specific threads talking about it later, but the Smile community actually made a doc with all the kind of hate and threats we got

Found it! But the document cannot be displayed anymore because of what it had in it. The people behind it are working on a solution, their account is https://twitter.com/Burner16610314?s=20

Individual threads \/ \/

https://twitter.com/slaylvs/status/1687573052500881408?s=20

Im finding individual threads so im going to put them here

If you go on twt right now you might have a hard time finding many Dream fans because we're all going on private again because the video Tommy posted made us start getting doxxed again

Thanks for genuinely wanting to understand our side of the entire thing, hope you ahve a lovely day/night

Dont forget to take breaks from social media and to take care of yourself!

#the dog barks #dreamwastaken #discourse #quackity #tommyinnit #quackity situation #tommy situation #the voices #it sure says something that the doc containing the hate Dream stans got was considered too graphic to stay up

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eyeslikewatercoolers · 1 year

Text

Seashells (Sashnetra)

Suprise fic time! This is actually part of both the Wedding Planner AU (set way in the future, so no spoilers for the main story) and the Love Letter AU (which is Jasya-centric au, this set as a prequel, of sorts) This is a very fluffy and family-centered fic, so I hope y'all enjoy!!

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

Sasha woke up to the morning sun rays shining through the window of the master bedroom. She had been at the rental beach house in Malibu for the past few days, both she and her family needed some time away from their chaotic and busy lives in LA. Her arms reached the other side of the bed, expecting a warm body to snuggle over and stay in bed for a little longer. But to her dismay, the other side of the bed was empty, with the duvet barely put back in place. Sasha rolled over to see her bedside table, where her bottle of melatonin and cell phone sat from the night before.

She sat up in bed and picked up her cell phone while feeling the cold air conditioning hit her arms. Her phone showed notifications from several different brides, a few grooms, and one unhappy mother of the bride. But she scrolled over all of those messages since she knew that her assistant, Amethyst, had it all covered while she was away from her business. She clicked on the text that came in less than an hour before she woke up.

Neech: The little one wanted to collect more seashells this morning, we’ll be back later. Love u

She sent a few heart emojis in response before pressing the lock button and putting it in the drawer of the bedside table. She wasn't going to need it much today.

She walked to into the adjoining bathroom and took the pink silk robe from the hook on the wall. Sasha slipped it on and tightened the tie in front of her. She looked in the mirror and fixed her dyed ginger hair to a loose messy bun. After freshing up, she walked back to the bedroom to open the curtains. From her view from the bedroom window, she noticed that the sliver of the driveway and the road outside were still slightly wet from the small thunderstorm that came in the night before.

Sasha walked through the hallway, seeing that the door to her oldest daughter's room was slightly ajar. She knew Kerri preferred the door shut, and had a feeling that Kerri invited someone over during the night before. She also has noticed that since Kerri was a teenager, she always had the same person over during nights when they had thunderstorms in the area.

Down the stairs, she saw a familiar younger woman with blonde hair sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. She was facing the other direction, writing in a notebook, and a half-full glass of orange juice next to her. She walked in from the other side of the kitchen, and greeted the woman at the counter "Good morning, Jasmine. I see that you got up early today." Out of all of Kerri's friends, Jasmine was the only one that knew that she was welcome in their home at any time. The two girls had met and became best friends shortly after Kerri was adopted when she was 13 years old and moved to a new school district.

Jasmine looked up from her notebook, shutting whatever she had been writing. Sasha had accidentally seen what was in the notebook before, only seeing what appeared to be letters, titled 'Dear Daya', before realizing that it was meant to be private. Jasmine smiled at Sasha "Hey, Sasha. Kerri said that it was okay for me to come over last night, even though I got here pretty late." Jasmine explained.

Sasha took out two coffee mugs from the cabinet and saw that the coffee machine had freshly brewed coffee ready in the pot. Her wife was always better at remembering to turn on the coffee pot in the morning, which she quickly learned to appreciate in their relationship. "It's fine, you know the door is always open for you." She said as she poured the coffee into the mugs. She turned to the other counter and set the mugs down, and continued "Was it the thunderstorm that brought you over?" she asked.

Jasmine pursed her lips and nodded. Sasha and Kerri have known Jasmine's fear of thunderstorms for years. One night during a sleepover and a storm suddenly came in, she saw the girls alone in the dark living room. Kerri had Jasmine's head in her lap, the blonde teenager crying while Kerri tried her best to soothe her. Sasha made both the girls hot chocolate that night, all of them sitting in front of the electric fire of their home. Jasmine continued talking "My cats can only do so much to calm me down at my apartment. Plus, my roommate is always out with her girlfriend anyways."

Sasha listened as she prepared the coffees to her and her wife's preferences. Lots of sweetened creamer for herself, and a small splash of milk for her wife. "And writing seems to help you out too since I've been seeing you with that notebook a lot lately."

Jasmine's eyes widened, and she was about to speak, unsure what to say in response. Luckily for her, the conversation was interrupted by the sliding door to the backyard opening, and the sound of small feet running across the floor in sandy flip-flops.

"Momma! Me and Mommy got lots of pretty shells this morning!" a preschool-aged girl with long brown hair and green eyes ran over to hug Sasha's legs, holding a small plastic bucket in her hand.

Sasha knelt down to look at her younger daughter "You did? How about we go look at them outside and you and Mommy can show me your favorites, okay Delia?" Her daughter nodded and noticed Jasmine in the room, walking over to give her a hug as well.

"She has so much energy this morning, she ran so much when we were over on the beach." Anetra walked up behind Sasha, giving her wife a good-morning kiss on the cheek, before picking up her cup of coffee from the counter. "Let's go outside and enjoy this morning together." Anetra walked in front of Sasha towards the back door, coffee still in hand.

Sasha looked at her wife as they walked outside. She was still as enamored by Anetra since that day in the fitting room, almost a decade later. Her wife's appearance had changed over the years, now a scar runs straight through her left eye, tattoos etched into her skin, and slight old stretch marks from her pregnancy with Delia. But Sasha was always reminded how beautiful her wife is, everyday.

Sasha sat on one of the lounge chairs, setting her mug on the small glass table next to her. She sat up, cross-legged as she felt Anetra sit behind her in the chair, head resting in the crock of her neck, and arms wrapped around her midsection. Anetra’s torso pressed against her back, and she felt the most at home in her wife’s arms.

She and Anetra watched as Delia dumped the shells onto the concrete of the patio, with some grains of wet sand and small pieces of seaweed still attached to the shells. Jasmine sat on the ground with her, helping her organize the shells that Delia collected that morning. She held up different shells of varying shades and shapes, showing everyone around her.

While Delia was distracted, Sasha noticed Kerri at the doorway, sneaking out of view and tip-toeing around the girls, before grabbing two clam shells and holding them over her eyes "Rawr! I'm the shell monster and I'm here to get you!" Kerri exclaimed before Delia jumped up, giggling and running away as her older sister chased her around the yard. In between giggles, she kept asking for Jasmine to protect her from the shell monster.

She and Anetra watched the girls play in the yard, and Sasha spoke quietly to her wife.

"Hey, Netra? I'm pretty proud of the family we made together."

Sasha felt Anetra's arms tighten around the small of her waist, hearing the smile in her wife’s voice.

"Me too, Sasha. me too."

#wedding planner au #love letter au #sashnetra #rpdr s15 #rpdr fanfiction #rpdr s14 #my fics #my writing

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welldonebeca · 2 years

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The Duchess and the Bastard (XII) - A Gift

WC: 2.3k words Warnings: Fluff. Victorian AU. Dirty talk. Victorian AU. Masturbation. Notes: It was only since 1926 that the marriage of a couple legitimised their previously born children. As this story happens in the 1800s, Ben is still considered illegitimate and a bastard.

Rey barely had time to think as she walked past the door of Princess Leia’s home, a small wing far from the most public part of the palace.

It was part of being engaged to Ben. She was supposed to get to know his parents better, as they would be a big part of her life once they got married.

Ben was going to move into her home to live with Rey, as her grandfather was going to pass his state to her, and Ben was set to help her manage her state. Still, they would be around his parents constantly.

Her future mother-in-law looked terribly happy to see her, and Rey was surprised when she welcomed her with a big hug, squeezing her close.

“Oh, Rebecca!” she swooned, reaching for her hand and squeezing her hands. “It’s so good to finally have you here.”

She smiled, a little surprised, but squeezed her hand back.

“Hello,” she spoke, simply. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Come inside,” she pulled her gently. “Dinner is almost served, and Han wants to show you and Ben something.”

Rey nodded, a little worried, but walked inside, and beamed when her gaze met Ben’s, and her fiancé crossed the room with large steps, taking her hand in his and pressing a long warm kiss on her knuckles.

“Good evening, my bride,” he greeted her.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt her cheeks flushing.

“Good evening, my groom,” she squeezed his fingers.

Ben smiled largely at her, and was about to say something when Han’s voice interrupted them.

“You can stare at each other later,” he nearly barked at them. “Come sit down before dinner is served.”

She chuckled, but just let Ben tangle their fingers as they walked to his father’s study room, and sat down with her fiancé by his side in front of his father, who was holding a box.

“Are you going to be here for the talk, your majesty?” he called behind them.

Rey frowned a little, confused, and Ben squeezed her hand.

“It’s their thing,” he whispered. “She is your majesty sometimes.”

She nodded, and Leia finally walked into the room, walking to sit by her husband.

“God, you are so impatient,” she complained. “I was just over there.”

“You said you wanted to be here,” he shrugged. “So be here.”

His wife sat down.

“You’re so dramatic,” she glared at him. “Go on, big pirate.”

He scoffed, and picked up a velvet box, looking at them again.

"Now, I had this made for Leia and I, a few months ago," he explained to them. "Back when I told her my last departure would be the last time I sailed off into the sea."

“After over 30 years, he finally proposed to me,” she giggled, looking at her husband. “Told me we would get married as soon as he came back.”

“And we did,” Han affirmed, emphatic, looking at her.

They exchanged smiles, looking at each other with the intimacy and familiarity one would only have with someone they’d been with for a long time.

“I wanted to get us some special wedding rings,” he confessed, looking back at the two of them. “Rings that meant something to us.”

Ben squeezed her hand, and Rey could see how he looked puzzled, but couldn’t tear her eyes from his parents.

What did they mean by telling them that story?

“But then Leia told me Benny over there had found someone,” he smiled, looking at his son, and Ben scowled. “And he had given her the family telescope.”

Her fiancé squeezed her hand a little, and she gave him a squeeze back. Anytime she looked through the telescope, Rey couldn’t help wondering how it passed through their hands during their goodbyes, and it fell on hers.

She would love to give it to their children, so they could look at the sea and the stars.

“We are old,” Han told the two of them, as if to remind them of her.

“Dad…” Ben tried to argue.

“I am!” he interrupted him. “And we all know that. I’m 64, do you really think I’ll reach 80 with the lifestyle that I had?”

Leia scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Stop being dramatic and just tell them what we decided, Han,” she slapped his hand.

Her husband scowled, looking annoyed, and placed the velvet box he’d been holding while he told them their story.

“Well, we decided together that these rings should be around another pair of fingers,” he pushed it in front of them. “Yours, not ours.”

She exchanged looks with her own fiancé before he reached for the box, and opened it.

The wedding bands were golden and cut a little more bluntly, and were both decorated with a single diamond.

“Read the words,” Han told them.

Ben reached for the rings and turned the bigger one - which was supposed to be his, apparently - leaning closer to the light and turning it slowly, and she watched as his face softened as he read the words, and he looked back at her, taking the ring closer to her face.

“Look,” he whispered.

Rey turned the ring a little as he held it until the engraved words became clearer and readable.

Star-guided to you.

She smiled, feeling her heart a little warmed, and watched as Leia’s lips curled in a smile as she watched them attentive.

“We adjusted them using one of Ben’s rings and your engagement ring,” she told them. “It’s our gift to you, to show you how happy we are by seeing you two coming together.“

Rey stood up, quickly moving to them, and hugged Leia the moment she stood too, squeezing her mother-in-law-to-be with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Very much.”

Leia held her in a motherly embrace, and the moment they stepped apart, she moved her hands to her cheeks, caressing them affectionately.

“We are a family now,” she affirmed. “And I’ll do my best to be the best family for you, Rey. I promise.”

They stepped apart, and dinner was served right after, passing so quickly through her happiness that she barely realised her plate was clean as she listened to stories from Leia and Han and their relationship. They had been together for almost 34 years - since she was just 20, and he was 30, almost the same difference of age between Rey and Ben themselves - and had never really planned on getting married until they were old, even after Ben was born. Han spent most of the year in the sea, only coming back during Winter and leaving by the start of Spring, so they barely spent more than four months together in the year.

Rey didn’t think she would ever be able to spend such a long time away from Ben.

“Benny, dear,” his mother spoke as they stood. “Will you show Rey that painting we had done of the Falcon? In my study? We’ll be there in a minute.”

She looked up at her fiancé, a little confused when he outright blushed.

The Falcon was his father’s ship. Why would he blush by with that?

“Of course,” he agreed. “Are you getting jasmine tea?”

“Yes,” she decided.

Ben nodded, and offered her an arm, and she let him guide her to a small study room, and looked at him with some confusion.

“What was that?” she asked, looking back.

He flushed even more.

“They are leaving us alone for a bit,” he confessed, scratching the back of his neck. “For half an hour or so.”

Rey got surprised for a moment.

“Alone?” she repeated.

He smiled a little.

“All alone,” he confirmed.

They only exchanged a short look before Rey stepped to him, kissing his lips eagerly.

Ben was quick to embrace her, pulling her close to his body, and gasped when he grabbed her waist and lifted her up, sitting her right on the desk.

His lips were hungry over hers, as if all the need they’d had to hide through the dinners and ball and the whole time they’d had to behave like any other proper couple just all came to the surface with their kiss and the little bit of privacy his mother had just given them.

“Ben,” she whined when his lips travelled through her jaw and her neck, kissing it, sending shivers through her skin. “Are you sure they won’t come in?”

She would die of embarrassment if his parents walked into them kissing like this!

“Absolutely sure,” he nibbled on her earlobe, a single hand moving up her torso, and she arched her chest when his finger brushed over her breast.

She remembered the way he had looked at her, the way his lips moved as he told her what he wanted to do with her once they were married, and his filthy craves.

Even thinking of that made her damp and hungry for him, and his lips on her skin was turning her hot.

“Can I see you?” he pulled back, looking at her face. “Just a little more?”

She looked at his face, trying to think.

It would take a lot of time for her to remove her layers, and they only had half an hour - or even less.

“Just a little more,” he held her waist.

She nodded, and reached behind her back, but Ben covered her hand with his, lips coming to kiss her shoulder as he unbuttoned her dress on the back slowly, and gently unhooked it, pulling it back, and exposing her corset and chemise to his eyes.

Rey’s cheeks flushed warm under his attentive gaze.

The only people who had ever seen her so underdressed were her ladies, and the way he was looking at her made her feel even less dressed. It was like he could see right through the fabric of her clothes, to her very skin and even deeper.

Ben reached for her body slowly, caressing the top of her corset with his thumb and then her chemise, slowly tucking the fabric and exposing a little more of her chest, touching the top of her breasts slowly, making her skin raise in shivers.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to see more of you. To touch you fully.”

He lowered his lips, and placed what should be a chaste kiss had it been anywhere else if not her chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” he placed little pecks on the top of her breasts, from left to right and right to left.

Rey sighed, and spread her legs when he put his hand on her calf, slowly travelling up.

Different from the other night, she was wearing all of her layers, and Ben seemed to take notice of it.

“I didn’t know,” she apologised softly.

Ben just moved his nose over her skin, inhaling her scent.

“I know, my love,” he kissed her skin. “My perfect little wife, so innocent.”

She whimpered at the nickname. Oh, how she craved that, to be his, at last.

“I can still touch you,” he exhaled, fingers moving between her legs and slowly caressing his way up her thigh and crushing his knuckles against her folds. “Do you want me to?”

“Please,” she exhaled.

Ben kissed her =again, gentle and needy as she panted into his lips.

“Ben,” she whined.

“Did you make yourself peak when you were alone?” he bit her lower lip, fingers moving insistent, angling to focus on her sensitive bud. “Thinking of the way I kissed you and the promises I made to you?”

She whimpered, warm, shivering and feeling herself already so sensitive.

“I tried,” she closed her eyes, and he rested his forehead on hers, moving his nose over hers. “But I couldn’t.”

He hummed, the sound travelling down to where he was playing with her, as dexterous as his lips before.

“You’re the only one who can do it,” she whimpered.

Ben inhaled, and she whimpered when his fingers pressed a little harder on her bud.

“I’ll make you peak every night,” he promised her. “Several times, until you can only remember my name.”

Rey held back a cry. God, she couldn’t be too loud, they couldn’t be found like this.

“I’ll make you peak with my fingers,” he promised, insistent. “I’ll make you peak with my mouth and my cock, Rey, I promise you I will.”

She nodded, trembling as the same pleasure she had felt from his lips grew in her stomach, tighter and tighter.

“I’ll teach you to make yourself peak,” he promised. “So I can watch you do it, my love, so I can see your whole body shaking, so I can see your pretty cunt and your face as you cum for me.”

She just moaned, flushing and squirming.

“Ben,” she cried, grabbing his shoulders, and squeezing him close.

“Cum for me, Rey,” he whispered into her lips. “Peak for me, my little wife.”

He kissed her lips a single moment before she cried out in pleasure, eating her moans as Rey reached her peak, shaking under his and holding him as she did.

Ben pulled away from her lips when her peak came to an end, and he kissed her jaw and cheek slowly as she panted, coming down.

“I love you,” he whispered, and her eyes opened to find his eyes on hers, deep and full of devotion. “I do. I love you.”

She exhaled, smiling. He had called her love so many times… he had even said he had fallen in love. But he had never told her he loved her, not until now.

She caressed his face, and Ben’s lips curled in a big smile, showing his dimples and adorably crooked teeth.

“I love you too,” Rey declared.

He kissed again, deeply passionate as his hand moved up and wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

“I can’t wait to be married to you,” he whispered into her lips.

Yes, Rey felt the very same.

#The Duchess and the Bastard series #reylo #reylo fanfiction #reylo fic #reylo fanfic #reylo smut #reylo fluff #reylo au #reylo medieval #star wars reylo #rey #ben solo

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muneebaashiq · 1 year

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The last time I saw - Part 1

"Oh! My feet are killing me," I exclaimed, finally taking a moment to sit down after tending to the wedding guests and ensuring that the arrangements were going seamlessly. It was the first time I had sat down since arriving at the hall and taken a second to appreciate what was happening around me. The hall was grand, the tables were perfectly set up, and the flowers hung flawlessly from the ceiling and along the stairs on either side of the stage. People were chatting, eating, and having a good time, just like any other wedding. Finally, the wedding day had arrived, and while there was chaos, it was the perfect kind.

The bride and groom were dancing on the stage, smiling as they took pictures with the guests. I looked at them, especially the bride, my sister. She was wearing a red embroidered lengha (traditional wedding dress), authentic Pakistani jewelry, and beautifully designed henna. She wasn’t entirely happy with her outfit, but to me she looked ethereal. She seemed happy; however, I knew that she felt quite nervous for this new life journey.

(Image credit: https://www.herculture.org/blog/2016/10/9/so-many-events-the-culture-of-pakistani-marriage)

"You should leave now," my dad said.

"I'll leave in fifteen minutes," I replied.

It might seem strange to someone that my father asked me to leave during my sister's wedding, but he wanted to make sure I made my flight on time. The only condition for my attendance was that I would timely leave for the airport. Why did I have to leave? Because the wedding was in Pakistan, and I had to sit for an exam two days later in Canada. If I missed the exam then I would have to wait another year to take it, and the $10,000 international student fee I paid would go to waste. So, I had to leave the wedding to catch my flight, fly for 36 hours, and take my exam the day after I arrive.

All of this sounds too hectic and trust me it was. I even contemplated missing the wedding, but I felt too selfish doing that. It seemed as if I was abandoning my familial duties to fulfill my interests. More importantly, I wanted to be at the wedding because my sister has been there for me my entire life and now it was my turn. So, my family and I decided to have the wedding before I left.

My dad, who was looking at me, now sat next to me and held my hand. We said nothing and just sat in silence acknowledging that this is the last time we get to be together until I get done with my studies. I wondered what was going on in his mind but tried not to make it obvious. After a few minutes, I decided to go up to the stage and say goodbye to the couple.

As I approached them, I could see my sister’s eyes welling up. We just embraced each other for those few minutes. Neither of us were ready to let go since we knew that if we did things would never be the same. However, letting go was inevitable as time never stops and you constantly must keep up with it. As I was leaving the hall, I looked back at the stage, an image still vivid to me till this day because that was the last time, I saw my family.

youtube

(Music credit: Wiz Khalifa - See You Again ft. Charlie Puth [Official Video] Furious 7 Soundtrack)

Sitting on the plane, I wondered if it was worth it to sacrifice moments like these for a better future. Much time has passed, and I have gained much success in life, but it came at the cost of losing many precious moments with my family.

#Youtube

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dankusner · 3 months

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Dallas police say Charles Albright is the coldest, most depraved killer

See No Evil

Charles Albright patiently waited behind an unbreakable glass wall, watching as the prison guard escorted me through three sets of steel-barred doors.

“I apologize for not being able to shake your hand and say hello,” he said, formally rising as I approached his window in the visiting room.

“They do not allow me to have face-to-face visits.”

The steel doors clanged shut.

Then the man whom the Dallas police had called the coldest, most depraved killer of women in the city’s history gave me a long gentle stare, his dark deep-set eyes never wavering, an encouraging half-smile on his lips.

At 59, he had a finely sculpted face and carefully groomed gray hair.

Even in his prison uniform, he looked positively distinguished.

“Ask me anything you want,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you anything that’s not true.”

Throughout his life, Albright had been described by many who knew him as the portrait of happiness, untroubled and troubling no one.

He was, they said, a kind of Renaissance man—fluent in French and Spanish, a masterful painter, able to woo women by playing Chopin preludes on the piano or reciting poetry by Keats.

It was simply impossible to believe that he could have viciously murdered three Dallas prostitutes in late 1990 and early 1991.

The person who should have been arrested, Albright’s friends and lawyers insisted, was Axton Schindler, a paranoid, fast-talking truck driver who lived in one of Albright’s rental homes.

The evidence pointed to him, they claimed, not to their beloved Charles Albright.

Perhaps Albright was a touch eccentric, but he was certainly harmless; he was even squeamish when it came to violence.

“You won’t find any woman who’ll say anything other than that I was always a perfect gentleman in their presence,” he said softly.

Behind the glass wall, he wore an almost childlike expression—weak and perplexed and, yes, oddly appealing.

“I was always trying to do things for women. I would take their pictures. I would paint their portraits. I would give them little presents. I was always open for a lasting relationship.”

In most cases, serial killers are brutal, woefully uneducated young men, lifelong sadists who kill for their own twisted reasons.

How, then, could someone so charming, so exceedingly polite, suddenly decide in the later years of his life to become a blood-thirsty sex monster?

“Look, I’ve known Charlie for thirty years,” sighed one Albright friend, a retired Baptist minister.

“In all that time I think I would have seen his dark side slip out at least once. Believe me, if he really was a psychotic killer, he couldn’t have kept it a secret all this time—could he?”

December 1944: Life With Mother

He was known as the most good-natured, eager-to-please of children, a precocious boy who could do just about anything: name all the constellations in the sky, catch snakes without getting bitten, even perform a tap dance routine onstage at the famous Texas Theater.

“Charlie was like a Pied Piper to the rest of us kids,” a childhood friend recalled.

“We always wanted to see what he would do next. He was just so much damn fun.”

In 1933, when he was three weeks old, Charles was adopted by a young dark-haired woman, Delle Albright, and her husband, Fred, a Dallas grocer.

The Albrights lived in the all-white middle-class neighborhood of Oak Cliff, then a beautiful residential area across the river from downtown.

According to the story Delle would later tell Charles, his birth mother was an exceptional law student, just sixteen years old, who had secretly married another student and had become pregnant.

When the girl’s father found out, he demanded that she annul her marriage and give up the baby for adoption; otherwise, he would cut her off from the family.

Delle Albright made sure that Charles knew she would never abandon him.

She pampered her boy: She kept goats in the back yard so he could drink goat’s milk, which she said was better for him than cow’s milk.

Yet sometimes her mothering went to extremes.

When Charles was a small child, she occasionally put him in a little girl’s dress and gave him a doll to hold.

Two or three times a day she would change his clothes to keep the dirt off him.

Afraid that he might touch dog feces and get polio, she took him to Parkland Hospital to see the polio patients locked in huge iron lungs.

“You can spend the rest of your life here,” Delle would solemnly tell her son.

When he was less than a year old, Delle put him in a dark room as punishment for chewing on her tape measure.

When he wouldn’t take a nap, she would tie him to his bed.

When he wouldn’t drink his milk, she would spank him.

Indeed, people around the neighborhood talked about Delle Albright’s odd, grim nature.

No one could ever remember her buying herself a dress.

She kept a scarf over her head and wore clothes from Goodwill. Although she and Fred were far from poor, she usually scrimped at mealtimes, even picking up the old bones the local butcher threw in a box for his dogs.

She could use them, she would say, for soup.

Not that Charles ever openly complained.

He always appreciated that his mother taught him manners.

Delle told him to speak politely about other people or “say nothing at all.”

She told him to respect women, especially when it came to sex.

She lectured him about the way his father acted “greedy” with sex:

Whenever Fred saw her in the bedroom in her bra and panties, he tried to grab her.

She was going to have none of that, and she was going to make sure Charlie never tried anything like that with his girlfriends either.

As he grew older, she insisted on chauffeuring him every time he was on a date.

She would even call the girl’s parents to let them know that her son would not do anything untoward.

If Delle seemed overprotective, friends said, surely it was because she had never raised a child before.

Charles himself recognized how fiercely she wanted him to succeed.

Each morning, before the school bus arrived, she had him practice the piano for at least thirty minutes.

She taught him so much reading, writing, and arithmetic that he was moved up two grades in elementary school.

Delle also introduced Charles to the world of taxidermy.

When he was eleven years old, she enrolled him in a mail-order course—the Northwestern School of Taxidermy, taught by Professor J. W. Elwood.

“You are beginning to learn an art that is second only to painting and sculpturing,” Professor Elwood wrote in the first book of lessons Charles received.

“A true taxidermist must be an artist.”

As Charles set to work on the dead birds he found, Delle was right beside him.

She showed him how to use all the tools: the knife used to cut the skull, the little spoon used to scoop out the brains, the scalpel required to cut away the eyes from their sockets, the forceps that pulled out the eyes.

She even skinned the first bird for him, teaching him not to cut too deep.

Dutifully, Charles spent hours on his taxidermy courses, stuffing and mounting his birds, making them look as life-like as possible.

Then he would be ready for the crowning touch—the eyes.

He used to go to a taxidermy shop and stare at the boxes and boxes full of gloriously fake eyes: owl eyes, eagle eyes, deer eyes.

He loved their iridescent gleam.

He wished he could collect them the way other boys collected marbles.

Yet Delle wouldn’t let him.

Taxidermists’ eyes were too expensive, his frugal mother would say; there was a better, cheaper way.

She would open her sewing kit, look for exactly what she needed, and get to work.

Then she and her son would place the birds in the oak china cabinet in the front of the house.

They were, indeed, Charles Albright’s first works of art, just as the mail-order booklet had promised.

Everyone who came to the house would peer into the cabinet to see what he had done. And there, peering back, would be his birds, beautiful, life-like . . . and blind.

The birds had no eyes.

Instead, sewn tightly against their delicate feathered faces, were two dark buttons, each shimmering dully in the living room light.

Even today it is difficult to imagine Charles Albright as someone who would savagely murder prostitutes and remove the eyeballs from their corpses.

As a child he was pampered and protected by his adoptive parents, Fred and Delle.

Yes, it was odd that Delle sometimes dressed up young Charlie in girls’ clothes.

Yet as a teenager in Oak Cliff, he was a devoted Boy Scout.

“You never knew a prostitute in Dallas?” I asked.

He shook his head, baffled by the question.

“Never! I knew absolutely none of them. At the time I was arrested, I couldn’t tell you the names of the motels they stayed in, any of the motels’ locations, or anything else. It is a crime that the police never put me on the lie detector to find out what I did know and what I didn’t.”

“Could the prostitutes possibly have seen you somewhere?”

“None of these girls had ever seen me. They never saw me drive slowly by like I wanted to pick somebody up. Believe me, if I had anything to do with any prostitutes in Dallas, I would tell you.”

December 1990: Mary Pratt

The first victim turned up in an undeveloped, almost forgotten lower-class area of far south Dallas.

She was a large woman, 156 pounds, naked except for a T-shirt and a bra, which had been pushed up over her breasts.

Her eyes were shut; her face and chest were badly bruised.

Apparently, the killer had thought it best to beat her before firing a .44-caliber bullet into her brain.

A resident of the neighborhood was so horrified by what he saw that he rushed inside his home and brought out a flowered bed sheet to cover the body.

A police officer on the scene immediately recognized the woman as Mary Pratt, age 33, a veteran prostitute who worked the Star Motel in Oak Cliff.

While it was not unusual for the “whores of Oak Cliff,” as the police called them, to get their share of beatings—almost nightly, a girl would complain about a trick “jumping bad” on her, punching her, kicking her, even trying to run her over with a car—for a whore to be murdered was unusual, especially when it happened to be someone as well liked as Mary Pratt.

Mary wasn’t one of the brazen hookers who stood in the street and flagged down tricks.

Because she rarely had any extra spending money—the money she got usually went for drugs—she never bought sexy clothes.

Standing quietly on her corner she wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, and small T-shirts that showed off her breasts.

Occasionally, at the end of a night, she asked one of her regulars to drive her to her parents’ home in the south Dallas suburb of Lancaster.

Mary’s parents—older retired people—never knew about her other life.

They would call out good night as she climbed into her childhood bed.

Pratt’s file was handed to John Westphalen, a short, ruddy-faced homicide detective at the Dallas Police Department.

With his thick East Texas accent and a wad of Red Man chewing tobacco permanently packed in his cheek, Westphalen looked more like a rustic county sheriff than a street-smart urban cop.

In homicide circles he was something of a character:

Defense attorneys loved to complain about his blustery, intimidating interrogation tactics.

But Westphalen was also one of the department’s most tenacious investigators.

He took one look at the Pratt file and realized the case would depend more on good luck than on good detective work.

Pratt’s killing was a “dumped body” case—one of the hardest types of murders to solve.

She had obviously been killed in one location and dumped somewhere else.

There were no witnesses to either the killing or the dumping, no murder weapon, little forensic evidence, no fingerprints, and no apparent motive.

Considering the kind of felonious characters who nightly swing by the Star Motel, Mary Pratt could have been shot by just about anyone.

Accompanied by his partner, homicide detective Stan McNear, Westphalen drove to the Dallas County medical examiner’s office to watch the autopsy of Mary Pratt.

It was a routine trip; both men knew the autopsy would show a gunshot wound as the cause of death.

As Dr. Elizabeth Peacock, one of the staff’s younger pathologists, put down her coffee cup to begin the examination, Westphalen and McNear stood a short distance from the blue plastic cart where Pratt’s body lay.

Peacock noted the needle tracks on Pratt’s arms, the Playboy bunny tattoo on her chest, the bullet hole in her head.

She opened Pratt’s right eyelid. Then she opened the left.

“My god!” she exclaimed. “They’re gone!”

There were no eyeballs, no tissue—nothing.

Mary Pratt’s eyes had been cut out and removed so carefully that her upper and lower eyelids were left undisturbed.

Peacock was dumbfounded.

This was not an operation taught in medical school.

The killer had to know how to slip a knife around the eyes, making sure not to injure the adjoining skin, and then cut the six major muscles holding each eye in the socket, as well as the rope-tough optical nerve.

With the eyelids shut, it was impossible to tell the eyes were missing.

Surely, whoever did this had to have had a lot of practice on someone, or something, else.

Quickly Westphalen contacted the FBI’s Violent Crimes Apprehension Program unit.

Through its computers, the FBI keeps data on the nation’s most unusual, depraved mutilations—bodies chopped up, organs removed, even eyes punctured with a knife as a result of a frenzied attack.

But an FBI agent told Westphalen that he found no listing anywhere of such a surgically precise cutting.

Longtime Dallas cops take pride in acting utterly unaffected by anything that comes their way.

But this time, Westphalen couldn’t help it.

“What kind of person,” he asked McNear, “would want a girl’s eyeballs?”

September 1952: Class Clown

When Charlie Albright transferred to Arkansas State Teacher’s College in Conway, Arkansas, it didn’t take him long to become one of the school’s most popular students.

He was remarkably well rounded: president of the French club, business manager of the yearbook, member of the school choir, halfback on the football team.

When he signed up for a drawing course, the art professor was so impressed with Charlie’s good looks that he made him the class model.

Yet Charlie wasn’t known as just a goody two-shoes.

He was the all-American fraternity boy, a great college prankster.

One time he sneaked into the home economics building, got a load of food out of the refrigerator, and cooked a steak dinner for his buddies.

Another time, on a dare, he broke into a physics professor’s office in the middle of the day, picked the lock on his cabinet, stole what was known around school as “the unstealable physics test,” raced downtown to make a copy of it, and had the test back in its place within an hour.

The professor, who was teaching a class next door, never suspected a thing.

Frankly, Charlie Albright had to feel some relief in being away from home.

He was considered a very bright boy in Dallas—he graduated from Adamson High School at fifteen—and he was something of a celebrity.

When Charlie was fourteen, Delle and Fred purchased a piece of property in their neighborhood and gave it to Charlie.

Charlie sold it to buy more lots, and the Dallas Times Herald published a story about him under the headline WORLD’S YOUNGEST REAL ESTATE MAN AMASSING NEST EGG FOR COLLEGE.

Yet Charlie’s love for mischief had tainted his reputation.

He had received bad deportment grades in school for shooting rubber bands and crawling out of study hall.

He had “accidentally” set fire to his chemistry teacher’s dress. And he had flunked a few courses because he was “too bored” to study.

(Of course, if his mother had found out, he would never have heard the end of it. So he sneaked into the school office, filched some report cards from a desk, filled them in with all A’s, and proudly showed them to his parents—his teachers’ and principal’s signatures perfectly forged.)

It was minor stuff, really.

It wasn’t like he went to jail.

As Charlie himself would later explain, “I just didn’t know what I was doing. If anybody tells the truth, they will say I never did a mean thing in all my life. But I did a lot of mischievous things just to show off for the older kids.”

Well, there was the time he was caught breaking into a neighborhood church.

Then there was the time he was caught breaking into a little store and stealing a watch.

And there were the visits he and his mother received from Alfred Jones, a twenty-year-old psychology student working part-time as a Dallas County juvenile probation officer.

But what did Jones know back then? And what right did Jones have to say, forty years later, when he was a well-known psychologist in Dallas, that of the dozens of juveniles he saw back in the forties, the one he remembered most clearly was Charlie Albright?

“He could divorce reality sufficiently from his value system,” Jones said, “so that he could tell you something false and at the time actually believe he was telling you the truth.”

Maybe, one of Charlie’s relatives said, he pilfered things from stores because his mother was so stingy. Or maybe he just wanted to rebel against her. Granted, Delle Albright did whatever she could to keep a close watch on her son. She took him to the Methodist church each Sunday. She made him go to bed, even when he was in his teens, at eight each night. Whenever she chauffeured him on a date, she watched him so closely that he would joke about the way she drove “with her eyes on the rear-view mirror.” Charlie loved his mother—that much was clear. But there were little things that sometimes bothered him. He was never certain, for example, that his biological mother had been the brilliant law student that Delle claimed she was. He so hated Delle’s cooking that he would stuff his food on a ledge under the table or give it to his dog. Delle fussed over him so regularly, he said, that he began to get headaches. (Delle decided the headaches were from bad eyesight and promptly made Charles wear glasses, even though he had twenty-twenty vision.)

Yet Delle couldn’t protect Charlie the first time he left home. Right after high school, he enrolled in North Texas State College in Denton—but by the end of his freshman year, he was arrested for being a member of a student burglary ring that broke into three stores and stole several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise. Charlie swore he stole nothing. The other boys, he said, had asked him to keep some things in his dorm room for them. How was he to know the things were stolen?

Delle Albright went to the store owners and tried to reimburse them for what was taken. She tried to persuade the judge to let her act as Charlie’s lawyer. She even asked that she take his place in prison. Yet the boy went to prison for a year, spending his eighteenth birthday there. Delle, meanwhile, worked to keep the matter hushed up, so that no one in her neighborhood knew that Charlie Albright had become a convicted felon.

Arkansas State Teacher’s College was Charlie’s chance for a new start. As he told a probation officer, he was going to mend his ways. He began to date a lovely young English major, Bettye Hester, and made plans to marry her. He did truly brilliant work in science; although he hardly studied, he made an A in his human anatomy course. It was said around school that Charlie Albright was going to go far. He even talked about going to medical school and becoming a surgeon.

But Charlie never stopped playing the role of class clown. Of all his great pranks, no one would forget the one he played on his friend Andrew (not his real name). In a fit of anger, Andrew had broken up with the most beautiful girl on campus, a woman with almond-shaped eyes. After the separation, he tore up several photographs of her and threw them in a trash can in his dorm room. Weeks later, Andrew got a new girlfriend and asked her for a photo. One night, while Andrew was staring at his new girlfriend’s picture, he realized that something was wrong. He looked closer. It seemed that her eyeballs had been cut out and replaced with—Good Lord!—the eyeballs of his old girlfriend. In disbelief, Andrew looked up at the ceiling. There staring down at him, was another pair of his old girlfriend’s eyeballs. More eyeballs were above the urinal in the men’s bathroom down the hall. No matter where Andrew turned, he was confronted by the sight of his old girlfriend’s almond-shaped eyes.

The story soon raced through school. That jokester Charlie Albright had pulled the old photographs out of the trash and saved her eyeballs for just the right moment. Did any of his fellow students, in retrospect, find the stunt a bit strange? Of course not, they said. It was pure Charlie. Who else could have been so inventive? From left: At Arkansas State Teacher’s College, Charlie was a great prankster and a star football player. At Crandall High School, he was everyone’s favorite science teacher and football coach. And he was a model boyfriend for his last love, Dixie Austin.

“Why do you think the eyeballs were missing?” I asked.

“I don’t understand either.” He sighed. “Why the eyeballs?”

“Well, what kind of person would be able to cut out the eyeballs of some hooker?”

“Someone who is sadistic? Just one mean son of a gun? I don’t know the purpose behind it, unless that person thought the women wouldn’t be able to see without their eyes in the next world—which is sort of ignorant.” December 1990: A Clue

Because the police had not released any information about Mary Pratt’s missing eyeballs, her death had only warranted a two-paragraph story in the back sections of the local newspapers. In fact, when patrol officers John Matthews and Regina Smith began their daytime shift on December 13, just a few hours after Pratt’s body was found, they had not even heard about the crime.

Only two and a half months before, the two officers had been assigned to a newly created beat on Jefferson Boulevard that included Pratt’s streetwalking territory. Once the most popular shopping district in Oak Cliff, Jefferson had deteriorated over the previous 25 years, a victim of urban blight. Some storefronts were shuttered; others were barely profitable. The Texas Theater, infamous for being the site where Lee Harvey Oswald hid out after the Kennedy assassination, was padlocked. Matthews and Smith’s assignment was to provide a police presence for the area—to become acquainted with the merchants, shake a lot of hands, and crack down on small-time crime such as burglary, car theft, shoplifting, and prostitution. In police circles, it was far from a glamorous beat. Other officers, used to the action of the streets, considered it more of a public relations position.

Each morning, Matthews and Smith began their day by cruising down Jefferson, herding the prostitutes back toward the Star Motel. On a busy day, about forty women—mostly black, some white, and a few Hispanic—worked the area, charging anywhere from $15 to $50 for a “flatback” (straight sex). The Star was not a high-class call girl operation; Matthews snidely called the forty-room motel “the prostitute condominium.” The women there, most of them drug addicts, would have sex in a customer’s car in a nearby alley or use a room shared with other prostitutes. Then, money in hand, they would walk down a well-worn dirt path to one of the nearby dope houses and purchase heroin or crack. After a quick hit, they would be out on the street again. Some hookers would work nonstop for two or three days—never changing their clothes, never even taking the time to eat—until they finally crashed back at the motel or in the house of their “sugar daddy” (a regular customer who cared for the woman enough to provide her with food, clothes, and a place to sleep).

Such a dreary scene did not faze Matthews, a stocky, no-nonsense 28-year-old; little on the streets did. The son of a patrol officer in New York State, he had grown up with cops-and-robbers stories. He had been with the Dallas Police Department since he was 21, when he went to work patrolling Harry Hines Boulevard, one of the city’s high crime and prostitution areas. On the other hand, when 31-year-old Regina Smith decided to become a police officer, she had never fired a gun, seen a dead person, or even been in a fight. She was a former supermarket cashier, a graduate of a two-year fashion merchandising college, and the single mother of a 6-year-old child. Nonetheless, inspired by a newspaper story about the need for more black female police officers, she entered the Dallas Police Academy in 1988. Her instructors berated her for wearing too much jewelry, mocked the way she shot a gun, and laughed when she couldn’t finish her push-ups, but she refused to quit. After graduation she was assigned to one of the rougher night shifts—and still she wouldn’t quit.

On the Jefferson beat, Smith discovered she had a knack for talking to prostitutes. She wanted to talk to them; she felt it was her duty as a police officer to try to improve people’s lives. “Tell me, girl,” she would say to a new prostitute, “what are you doing whoring out here? You know you can make more money working at Burger King than you do here.” She even started a “hook book,” a kind of photo album that contained the mug shots of the whores on the street. She would wistfully leaf through her hook book the way some people pore over their high school annuals.

On this particular morning, Smith was not surprised to see Veronica Rodriguez, a brazen charcoal-eyed prostitute who would try to flag down tricks even when she knew the cops were watching. Usually, when she spotted Matthews, she would lean forward so he could see her cleavage and say, “How ya doing, Officer?” Rodriguez, barely 26 years old, had lived a miserable life. She had been arrested for prostitution numerous times, once when she was nine months pregnant. Although that baby was stillborn, she was the mother of at least one child—a baby born on a raggedy bed in a whore motel down the road from the Star.

As Matthews pulled the squad car alongside Rodriguez, Smith rolled down her window. She noticed a nasty gash across Rodriguez’s forehead and what looked like a thin knife cut across the front of her neck. “Girl, what happened to you?” she asked. “Don’t arrest me,” Rodriguez gasped. “I almost got killed!”

Rodriguez told the officers that the previous night, she had been picked up by a trick, driven a long way south to a field, and raped. The man—a white man, she said—then tried to kill her, but she escaped and ran toward a house. The man at the house just happened to be someone she knew. He also just happened to know the man who was trying to kill her.

Matthews and Smith gave each other a look. Rodriguez was a notorious liar. No doubt she had been in some kind of fight, but in the middle of nowhere she ran right into the house of someone she knew? This was probably another of Rodriguez’s “pity stories,” which she often told the cops so they would feel sorry for her and leave her alone.

Yet two days later, on an afternoon drive past the Star, Matthews and Smith saw Rodriguez again. She was sitting with a balding middle-aged white man in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. While Matthews went to one side of the truck to get Rodriguez and escort her to the squad car, Smith went to the other side to speak to the man. She asked him for his driver’s license, which he produced: His name was Axton Schindler, of 1035 Eldorado. When Smith ran Schindler’s name through the computer, he came up clean, except for some unpaid traffic tickets. Suddenly, Rodriguez started shouting, “Oh, don’t arrest him! That’s the man who saved me from the killer! That’s him!”

The officers looked at the address again: 1035 Eldorado. It was not out in south Dallas, where Rodriguez’s attack allegedly took place. It was in an Oak Cliff neighborhood, just a five-minute drive from the Star. The man—a sort of nervous guy who spoke incredibly fast—said he had no idea what Rodriguez was talking about. He said he had known her for years and was just giving her a ride to the motel. He didn’t protect her from any killer. He didn’t even have sex with her. He was just a long-distance truck driver doing her a favor. Rodriguez, the officers decided, was lying once again. They carted her to jail for prostitution and hauled Schindler in for his unpaid tickets.

Although Matthews and Smith would not know it for months, a clue to the murderer’s identity had fallen right in their laps. September 1969: Con Man

Charles Albright was 36 when he began teaching high school science in Crandall, a small town east of Dallas. The principal at Crandall, who had been looking for a teacher the entire summer, was ecstatic when the astute young man called him up right before the school year was to begin. According to his college records, Charles Albright had a master’s degree in biology from East Texas State University and was working on another master’s in counseling and guidance. He was also about to enter ETSU’s Ph.D. program in biology.

Albright’s students found him fascinating. On field trips, he could recite, in flawless Latin, the scientific name for every plant he came across; he could split open a rotted log and talk about each insect he found inside. He drove a green Corvette to school and wore lizard-skin shoes. (A few girls, smitten by his charm and masculine looks, wrote him love letters.) He even helped coach the football team. After a heroic play by one Crandall player won a game for the school, Albright lifted him up and carried him off the field.

How, the principal would later ask, was anyone supposed to know that the promising young teacher had forged all of his transcripts? He was simply flabbergasted when an ETSU official told him that Albright had never even earned a bachelor’s degree. Everything—his degrees, his teacher’s certificate—had been faked. Apparently, he had slipped into three different offices at East Texas State, grabbed all the necessary forms, copied them, added his name, forged signatures, and then sneaked them back into the files. He had even stolen the registrar’s typewriter so the typeface on his records would look the same. Had an ETSU administrator not realized that he had never met the Charles Albright whose name kept popping up on the school’s list of graduate students, Albright would have gotten away with the scam.

When Albright was confronted, he grinned ruefully and admitted to the crime. He needed to bend the rules a little, he explained, in order to get a teaching job. After he quit Arkansas State Teacher’s College—well, okay, he was kicked out for being caught down at the train station with suitcases full of stolen school property, including his own football coach’s golf clubs—he didn’t think he was going to get a second chance to prove how smart he was. By then, he had married his college sweetheart, Bettye, and she had given birth to their daughter. Frankly, he didn’t have time to begin all over at a university. It was a crying shame, he said. If only he could have finished his degree, there was a professor at Tulane University in New Orleans who would have hired him to do biology research.

Because the forgery was a victimless crime—and because Albright himself, according to one ETSU administrator, was such a nice, repentant fellow—the university decided to keep the transcript scandal out of the newspapers. It was embarrassing, after all, that a school could get bamboozled. Albright pleaded guilty to a fraud charge and received a year’s probation.

As the seventies began, Albright was back in his old Dallas neighborhood with his wife and daughter, living in a house not far from his parents’ home. Once again, no one had any idea of what he had done. The Charlie Albright the neighbors knew was a happy-go-lucky figure who could master anything but simply didn’t care about settling down in a nine-to-five job. He had some money from his parents, and his wife had a job as a high school English teacher. He was free to latch on to one new project after another; he rarely had a job that lasted longer than three months. He worked as a designer for a company that built airplanes. He worked as an illustrator for a patent company. He was a well-regarded carpenter. He collected wine bottles from the famous Il Sorrento restaurant in Dallas, hoping to start his own winery. He bought a lathe and made baseball bats. He collected old movie posters. He regularly went to the Venetian Room at the Fairmont Hotel to get autographs from the stars performing there. On a lark, he went to a Mexican border town and became a bullfighter—“Señor Albright from Dallas,” the posters read.

Albright still had a Pied Piper–like ability to captivate people. After visiting a friend who worked at the beauty salon in a Sanger Harris department store, Albright promptly went off to beauty school, got his beautician’s license, and then persuaded the salon to hire him, with no experience at all, as a stylist. Albright took to calling himself Mr. Charles. He would spend at least an hour with each woman to get her hair exactly right.

When Albright told his stylist friend that he was also an accomplished artist, the friend paid him $250 to paint a picture of his wife. Albright was indeed a good painter; self-taught, he had won a prize at the Texas State Fair for his portrait of a dark-haired woman in a long green gown. His goal, he said, was to be like Dmitri Vail, the famous portrait artist of Dallas.

Albright worked for weeks on the woman’s painting without finishing. He insisted that he needed to keep working on one special feature, the most difficult part of the painting. Tired of waiting, the friend decided to go to Albright’s house to look at the work in progress. There, in the living room, was the six-by three-foot portrait. It was richly colored and remarkably realistic. The woman’s hair, her mouth, her nose, her ears, her neck—everything was finished. Well, not everything. The stylist stared curiously at his wife’s painting. In the center of his wife’s face were two round white holes.

After all this time, Albright hadn’t even begun working on the eyes. It was as if something held him back, as if he preferred the portrait to remain as it was on his living room easel. “Charles,” asked the friend, “when are you going to paint the eyes?”

“When I am ready to,” Albright replied.

Months later, Albright finally painted the eyes. He then painted them again, to get them just right. He painted the proper shadows under the eyelashes; he gave the eyelids just the right droop in the corners; he shaded the eyeballs to make them look perfectly round. When Albright was finished, his friend could not believe how well the painting had turned out. It was, he realized, a mesmerizing portrait—especially the eyes. His wife’s eyes were so perfectly recreated that they seemed to follow a person across the room

“There’s no question you love eyes,” I said.

“Well, I do want to paint fine eyes. That’s every other artist’s weakness—they can’t paint eyes.”

“Would you ever love eyes enough to—”

“No, no, I’ve never taken the eyes out of anything. I’ve never had the desire to. To me, what matters is what the eyeball looks like in the woman’s face, or the guy’s face—not what the eyeball itself would look like.”

“Could you figure why someone might want to keep the eyeballs? Would they want them as a sort of a souvenir?”

“I don’t think anybody would want to keep eyeballs. That would be the last thing I would want to keep out of a body. It would be a hand or a whole head, maybe, if you were a sick artist and you thought the woman was fabulous. You might not want to see that beauty go to waste.” February 1991: Susan Peterson

The second victim was found on a Sunday morning, on the same south Dallas road where Mary Pratt was dumped. Like Pratt, she was mostly naked. Like Pratt, she was a prostitute. Her name was Susan Peterson, age 27. She had been shot in the head, chest, and stomach. Her eyelids were closed.

Because her body was discovered on the other end of the road, just outside the city limits, the jurisdiction for the case fell to the Dallas County Sheriff’s Department. A detective named Larry Oliver, who had not heard about the Pratt killing, was called to the scene. Eerily, the same scenario unfolded. Oliver accompanied the body to the autopsy room, where a pathologist began the standard external examination. The pathologist opened one eyelid, then the other. He motions for Oliver to come closer to the table. Oliver couldn’t believe what he was seeing: The dead woman’s eyes had been expertly cut out.

When the pathologist mentioned that the Dallas Police Department had had a similar case just two months earlier, Oliver did some checking. Within 24 hours he traveled to the police department’s homicide offices to see John Westphalen. Soon there were meetings with sergeants and lieutenants and with the chief in charge of homicide. While police officials deliberately avoided the phrase “serial killings” to describe what was happening—Westphalen kept referring to the killer as “a repeater”—everyone in the room knew what they were hunting for: a twisted, brilliant murderer, someone who dropped bodies on quiet residential streets, where they were certain to be found the next morning.

At that point, a contingent of detectives favored keeping a lid on the story. If the press discovered that the killings were linked and turned the spotlight on the Star Motel, the killer might get nervous and start picking up women from other areas. But homicide supervisors decided that the police department had a greater obligation to warn the community that it might be in danger—even if it meant warning low-dollar hookers. Besides, publicizing the case might bring in some leads. Lord knows, there was little else to go on.

As flyers were posted around the Star asking prostitutes to stay off the streets, detectives met with the press to discuss the two killings. Although no information was officially divulged about the missing eyes, word quickly leaked to reporters that the women’s faces had been strangely mutilated. “The guy was almost surgical in the way he did it,” one detective told a reporter. To the police department’s dismay, a media frenzy ensued. The prostitute murders sent the city’s imagination into overdrive; calls came in from reporters all over the country.

As John Matthews and Regina Smith sat in their squad car reading the front-page newspaper stories about the prostitutes’ deaths, they too were shaken. These were women from their beat, women they were supposed to protect. They knew Susan Peterson: She used to be the most beautiful white prostitute in Oak Cliff. Although her five years on the street had taken their toll—her once-alluring smile had turned winter-hard and her body had grown plump—she was still able to put on her brown go-go boots and denim miniskirt and pick up ten to twelve tricks a night. And she was a fearless hooker. She threatened other prostitutes who tried to work too close to her corner. She even cursed Matthews and Smith when they tried to move her off Jefferson Boulevard. Like a good pickpocket, she was an expert at clipping a trick—stealing money from his billfold while he was having sex with her. If the killer could get Peterson, Matthews and Smith said, then he could get any of the women. They surmised that the killer knew every corner of the whore district, all the alleys and all the streets. He was able to pick up Peterson and vanish within seconds. He also must have been one of her regular customers. Otherwise she never would have let her guard down. Certainly she wouldn’t have allowed him to shoot her three times. She would have pulled out a razor and fought back.

This time when Matthews and Smith pulled up to the Star, the prostitutes didn’t keep their distance. They poured out of their rooms, surrounded the squad car, and began to pass on their own personal lists of suspects. The women talked about their kinkiest tricks, the men who wanted to tie them up or whip them. Smith made her usual impassioned speech, asking the girls to get off the street, but the black prostitutes, at least, were not buying it. “He’s after the white girls, honey, not us,” they said. Oddly enough, the black prostitutes saw the killings as an opportunity for them to get more business.

And then there was Veronica Rodriguez. Rodriguez had been telling a lot of people—reporters, other prostitutes, and Matthews and Smith, as well as other officers—any number of stories since the killings began. At first, she said she had witnessed Mary Pratt being shot. Then she said she had met a man who had only bragged about having killed Pratt. Then she said she knew nothing at all about Pratt’s death. About her own rape in the south Dallas field, she no longer said the killer was white; now he was Hispanic. Then she said he might have been black. Almost everyone who spoke with her thought she was “brain-fried” from drugs.

What bothered Matthews, however, was that Rodriguez had never changed her basic story about being attacked. Usually, she would forget whatever pity story she had told the day before. Did someone really try to kill her in that field? Could the man who supposedly saved her, Axton Schindler of 1035 Eldorado, know the killer too? Or could Schindler have something to do with the killing himself? Could it be that the real reason Rodriguez was changing her story was simply because she was afraid?

Matthews and Smith didn’t know what to do next. They had already told the homicide division that Rodriguez claimed to have information about Mary Pratt. They had mentioned the attack and the possible Axton Schindler connection. With that, they figured they had done their job; it would have been way out of line for the two young officers to cross into homicide’s territory and conduct a murder investigation on their own. Later, Westphalen would say that he never got the officers’ tips. Among all the phone calls, all the messages, all the reports flooding in, the name “Axton Schindler” never crossed his desk, he said.

Whatever the case, a potential break was slipping away—and the killer was preparing to strike again. According to one of his softball teammates, Albright (bottom right), would “back down” if another player challenged him: “He literally could not stand the idea of fighting.” March 1985: Dark Secrets

The incident was kept very, very quiet. There would be no trial, no headlines. The district attorney had arranged for him to serve a probated sentence of ten years, which meant no jail time. Probation was fine with him—just as it was in 1971, when he was arrested for forging some cashier’s checks, and in 1979, when he was caught shoplifting two bottles of perfume. In 1980, when he was sent to prison for stealing a saw from a Handy Dan, he had to serve six months. But then, at least, his mother could tell everyone that he was leaving Dallas temporarily to take an important job at a nuclear power plant in Florida.

This case, however, was different. If the news got out, it could humiliate him. Not that he was guilty, he kept saying over and over. He had never touched that little girl. The girl’s family was just looking for a scapegoat—and they had picked him, Charlie Albright, one of the most dedicated members of St. Bernard’s Catholic Church in East Dallas. He had first met the family in 1979, when he began singing in the church choir. People admired his voice, even if it was untrained. In one hushed service, he performed the tenor solo, “Comfort Ye My People,” from Handel’s Messiah. Soon he was acting as a Eucharistic minister, standing before the altar in a robe, reading Bible passages, helping with Communion—almost like an assistant priest, for goodness sake. He loved to help people; everyone knew that. The monsignor at St. Bernard’s called him Good Old Charlie. Albright was known to slip a $100 bill to someone who was down on his luck. After he met the little girl’s family, he brought them a big box of steaks. He dressed up as Santa Claus and gave the girl and her siblings presents. Did anyone seriously believe he would sneak into her bedroom and molest her?

The girl’s parents tried to keep the matter quiet—especially at the church—because they did not want to stigmatize their daughter. But they also wanted Good Old Charlie to pay. Albright worried that if he fought them, the story would leak. So on March 25, 1985, in a nearly empty Dallas courtroom, he stood before a judge and confessed to “knowingly and intentionally engaging in deviate sexual intercourse” with a girl under the age of 14. He was 51.

For the first time, Charles Albright’s mask seemingly had slipped. Was there, on the other side of his gentlemanly Jekyll-like personality, a kind of sexually perverted Hyde? Women who heard the story couldn’t believe it. After Albright dissolved what he called his loveless marriage to Bettye in 1975, he developed a reputation as an old-fashioned ladies’ man. He was still getting by with odd jobs and family money, but women saw him as a grand romantic figure, someone who showered them with flowers and music boxes and candy. To one woman, he recited from memory all 42 verses of “The Eve of St. Agnes,” by John Keats. To another, he gave a slew of presents, along with a fully decorated Christmas tree. Women found him virile and sexy; one said he could do six hundred pushups without stopping. Yet Albright never made a sexual advance toward a woman until she asked him to first—at least that’s what he proudly told his friends.

In late 1985, Albright fell in love with Dixie Austin, a pretty, shy widow whom he had met on a trip to Arkansas. It was one of the most romantic times of his life. At dinner, he charmed Dixie with stories about nature and art. He showed her the autographs he had collected from Ronald Reagan, Marlene Dietrich, and Bob Hope. He took her hunting in the country for salamanders. His dream, he told her, was to find a new species of salamander that could be named after him. Sex with Albright, Dixie later said, was gentle and satisfying. He never talked dirty to her, and he never wanted her to do anything that might be considered unconventional. He certainly did not sneak off and have affairs.

By the time he met Dixie, however, Charles Albright had already created another life for himself. Although he masterfully hid his secret from everyone who knew him, he was a veteran of red-light districts all over Dallas. To some prostitutes, he was a whoremonger—a regular trick. To others, like Susan Peterson, he was even a sugar daddy. At Ranger Bail Bonds, the company she used to bail her out of jail, Peterson listed Charles Albright as her cosigner on bond applications. On one form, she listed him as her best friend in the event that she skipped town and the bondsmen had to hunt her down.

There is also evidence that Albright was a friend of Mary Pratt’s long before she became a prostitute. In the early eighties, Mary lived in a south Dallas neighborhood where Albright’s parents had long ago invested in cheap rental property. At the time, Albright was temporarily living in one of the rental homes. According to several sources, Albright had a brief fling with one of Pratt’s female friends and brought that woman and Pratt over to his house for parties.

Other prostitutes say that when Pratt started turning tricks at the Star, Albright became one of her customers. Pratt told them that “Old Man Albright” was a good trick, willing to pay a little more than the going rate. Soon Albright was making the rounds. With some of the girls, he had a platonic relationship. He would pick them up, talk to them, take them to get a hamburger, and drop them back off, never even attempting sex. With others, he had standing sexual appointments—always in the afternoons, when Dixie was at work as a sales clerk at a gift shop in Redbird Mall.

Every Friday afternoon, for instance, he had sex with a married woman who hit the streets after her husband had gone to work and her children were at school. Albright, whom she called Pappy, felt sorry for her, she said: “He was a sweet gentleman. If I ever needed extra money, I would call him and he would drop it off.” But the married woman said that by late 1987 she had to put an end to her dates with Albright because he began to get more and more aggressive. She said he asked her to beat him—“to spank him like a child.” Another prostitute, Edna Russell, remembered meeting Albright when her friend Susan Peterson asked her to do a “double.” She said she and Peterson went with Albright into a motel room. There, he handcuffed them to the bed and began hitting them with a belt and an extension cord, all the while shouting, “Scream, bitch! You know you like it!”

Perhaps it was no coincidence that Albright’s life began to spin out of control after the death of his parents, Delle and Fred. Without them around to look out for him, a repressed part of Albright may have finally unleashed itself. He and Delle, who died of cancer in 1981, were not close in her last years. Delle was disappointed in the way her son had turned out, while Albright found her to be a pest—especially when she would bang on his door early on Saturday mornings to get him to help her with one of her little fix-up projects. But as his final gesture of devotion to his mother, Albright went out and bought a dress for the undertaker to put on her body—the first new dress he had ever seen her wear. Surprisingly, he wept at her funeral, wracked with grief or maybe guilt over the way he had let her down.

He also cried at Fred’s funeral a few years later. Frankly, it had not been until after Delle’s death that Albright and his father became close. Albright remembered how Delle constantly nagged at her quiet husband, bickering with him about problems around the house. With her gone, Fred seemed more relaxed. Several nights a week, Albright would take him to dinner at a nearby cafeteria.

After Fred’s fatal heart attack in 1986, Albright inherited at least $96,000, along with all of his parents’ homes and property in south Dallas. For what friends said were sentimental reasons, he kept the property in his father’s name. To bring in some extra money, he rented out one of the tiny ramshackle frame homes, on a street called Cotton Valley, to a truck driver named Axton Schindler. Known as Speedee because he talked so fast, Schindler was a singularly weird individual. He stacked the rooms of his house with trash up to three feet high. He put an automobile engine in the living room. He lived without electricity and running water: He used a Coleman lantern for light and bottled water to wash himself. Albright’s friends said he should get another renter, that Speedee was too unusual. But the always agreeable Albright, who had met Schindler through a female friend, said he wasn’t that bad of a fellow, so he let him stay.

At this point, Albright had made the decision to move back into the old family home in Oak Cliff, which, like the rental homes, was still listed in the property rolls under Fred’s name. Although the neighborhood had grown somewhat shabby over the years and the house was definitely in need of a new paint job, Albright said the place would do nicely. He brought his new love, Dixie Austin, down from Arkansas, and together they settled in for a quiet, romantic life.

The address of their home was 1035 Eldorado.

“You know Irv Stone, the head of the Dallas County forensic science department, which studies physical evidence found at crime scenes?”

“Yes,” he said. “We played on a softball team together. He was sort of a standoffish person. Everyone would call him ‘Dr. Stone.’ So finally I said something to him about my supraorbital foramen bothering me. He’d say, ‘Huh?’ I’d say, ‘You know, where the ophthalmic division of the trigeminal nerve comes through and feeds my eyebrow up here. It’s really been bothering me.’ And Irv, sort of cocky, said, ‘I hate to inform you that I am not a medical doctor.’ I’m surprised he didn’t know his anatomy.”

“What were you describing, the area above your eye?” I asked.

“Yes, the little ridge there, right where the nerve comes through.” March 19, 1991: Shirley Williams

John Westphalen had filled up four black spiral notebooks with notes on the prostitute murder case. He had gone back and reexamined the crime scenes. Special undercover units had been sent to stake out the prostitution areas and run computer checks on the license plates of vehicles that cruised by, just to see if the owners might have any unusual criminal records. Everything added up to zip. This was a killer in total control, a man who refused to panic. “We’ve got to answer three questions,” Westphalen said again and again at meetings about the case. “Number one, Why is he after prostitutes? Number two, Why were both bodies dumped on that same street? And number three, Why are those eyes cut out?”

Sitting around Westphalen’s battleship—gray metal desk in the heart of the fluorescent-lit homicide office, detectives started throwing out theories. Maybe the killer had gotten AIDS from a prostitute and was out for revenge. Maybe he believed the old superstition that a murderer’s image always remains on the eyeballs of the person he kills. Maybe he believed a dead person’s eyes would follow him forever. Or maybe the killer took the eyeballs to fuel some sexual fantasy. Maybe he wanted to eat them—or cook them. The only thing Westphalen knew for sure was that the killer came out late at night, was strong enough to drag those girls in and out of a car, and had surgical skills. He also probably needed a well-lit room to do his surgery. Hell, somebody said, maybe this guy is a whacked-out doctor.

Suddenly, in the early morning hours of March 19, the killer changed tactics. On Fort Worth Boulevard, another whore hangout a few miles from the Star, a black prostitute named Shirley Williams emerged from the Avalon Motel, where she worked as a maid during the day and turned tricks at night. According to another prostitute who saw her, Shirley was wearing jeans and a yellow raincoat and appeared to be in a stuporous drug high as she tottered alone on the sidewalk.

She was found at six-twenty the next morning, dumped on a residential street half a block from an elementary school in the heart of Oak Cliff. As children walked to school, they could see the naked woman crumpled against the curb. An unopened condom was beside her body. “Go look at her eyes and tell me if they’re there,” Westphalen said to the medical examiner’s field agent at the scene. The field agent flipped open the eyelids. “Gone,” he said.

Westphalen turned to his partner, Stan McNear. “We’ve got number three,” he said.

The autopsy on Shirley Williams’ body would show that the surgery had been hurried. The broken tip of an X-Acto blade was found embedded in the skin near her right eye. But there were still no witnesses, no murder weapon, no fingerprints. Worse, the killer had now murdered a black woman, and he had moved locations. Just as the detectives had feared, the publicity about the case had sent the killer away from the Star and his south Dallas dumping ground. There was no telling where he would hit again. Albright’s first two victims were found in south Dallas. They were Mary Pratt (top left), a well-liked prostitute who would stand quietly on her street corner and wait for tricks to drive by, and Susan Peterson (top right), a fearless hooker who would threaten other girls and curse the cops. His third victim, Shirley Williams (bottom left), who worked as a maid during the day and turned tricks at night, was found in Oak Cliff. Veronica Rodriguez (bottom right) initially told the police that Albright had tried to kill her too, but she changed her story.Ric Moore October 1990: A Son’s Vengeance

In the autumn before the killings began, Charles Albright was the model of domestic propriety. During the day, he put his carpenter’s skills to use around the house, installing new cabinets for the kitchen, adding a skylight in the bathroom. If he was preparing to become a modern-day Jack the Ripper, none of his friends or family had any idea.

But on October 1, Albright did something that, even for him, seemed a little peculiar: He took a job delivering newspapers in the middle of the night for the Dallas Times Herald. Albright told Dixie, who by now was his common-law wife, that he needed more spending money. He had never been good with his finances; in four years he had gone through his inheritance, and he had yet to get a full-time job. Because Dixie got a monthly annuity check and worked daily in the gift shop, she paid most of their bills. Dixie wasn’t exactly pleased with Charlie’s decision—she said she couldn’t get a good night’s sleep with him gone. But Albright said it would work out fine. He would wake up around three in the morning, deliver papers on an Oak Cliff route between four and six, and then be back in bed by six-fifteen.

He and Dixie agreed that most of the money he made would go for the trips he took with his softball team. The well-built Albright was one of the better players in the city’s senior slow-pitch softball league. He played for both a day team and a night team, and he was chosen as an outfielder for a local all-star team that went to the Senior World Series in Arizona. Albright, of course, was the league’s most colorful personality: He wore red shoes while everyone else wore black, and he twisted a coat hanger inside his cap so the cap would sit perfectly upon his head. He brought a cooler of soft drinks to every game for the other players to share. At the end of the game, there was nobody who could regale an audience with a funny story the way he could.

“No one ever saw Charlie upset—I literally mean that,” said a man who managed one of Charlie’s teams in the fall of 1990. “He went out of his way to try to be liked,” said a longtime friend who also played ball with him. “Every now and then there would be some jawboning during a game, maybe a scuffle between two players from opposing teams. But if somebody came after Charlie, he would back down, as if he was scared. He literally could not stand the idea of fighting. He would rather give you a present. Every time he saw one of my daughters, he gave her a gift or a ten-dollar bill.”

Because Albright’s former teammates were so fond of him, it is difficult even today for them to talk about a certain incident that took place a few months before the murders. Many of them still deny knowing anything about it; others say they have only heard about it secondhand. But at least two men have confirmed that Charlie Albright let his mask slip again.

At the end of one game, some players for the Richardson Greyhounds, Charlie’s day team, were sitting around the ballpark, shooting the breeze and eating some candy that Charlie had brought, when two women in a car drove slowly by. After the men joked that the women must be prostitutes, the team’s manager shouted, “Hey, Charlie, you’re single. Why don’t you take after them whores?”

Albright said, “Hell, I’d kill them if I could.”

Stunned the men turned toward their mild-mannered friend. On his face was a dark scowling look. “What do you mean?” the manager said, trying to keep the conversation light. “We’ve got to have whores. It keeps men from chasing married women.”

“The hell it does!” Albright snapped. Then he marched off to his car and left.

It was the first time anyone had ever seen Albright show any kind of anger. When the team assembled again for practice a few days later, the manager tried to apologize. “We were just shooting the bull,” he said.

“Well, that’s a touchy subject with me,” Albright replied. “My mother was a prostitute.”

He was not talking about Delle, he said, he was talking about his birth mother. The other men were speechless. Was this just one of Albright’s tall tales? In the months to come, a number of people tried to verify the story, including an FBI agent and a private investigator working for Albright’s defense attorney. They learned that while his biological father could not be traced, his biological mother was a nurse who had lived and died in Wichita Falls. Perhaps she never was the brilliant law student whom Delle Albright had described to her son. But there was no way they could determine if she had ever been a prostitute. Albright’s relatives, in fact, insisted that after a lengthy search through court records, Albright had been thrilled to find his biological mother. As an adult, he had visited her several times in Wichita Falls and had brought her gifts. He had even introduced her to Fred Albright and to his own daughter.

Yet somewhere in Albright’s mind, the connection between prostitution and motherhood had been made. It is possible that Charles Albright was wrestling with a very twisted version of the Madonna-whore complex, unconsciously seeking revenge on the mother figures who disappointed him by associating with prostitutes—the worst possible women he could find. On one hand he seemingly cared for prostitutes like Susan Peterson and Mary Pratt. He helped them financially, bought them dinner, and gave them presents. On the other hand, he wanted to punish them. Perhaps he hated what they had become. Perhaps he hated what he had become in their presence.

Whatever the reason, if Albright had truly decided the time had come to kill, he had put himself in a perfect position to do it. His paper route gave him an excuse to be out at night. He had prostitutes who trusted him enough to let him take them on a little trip. He had his parents’ old property just a ten-minute drive south of the Star, where, unseen, he could carry out the murders and mutilations. And because the property was in his father’s name, nothing could be traced back to him.

There was only one flaw in the plan—one Albright didn’t even know about. Charlie’s truck-driving tenant, Axton Schindler, had decided a few years back not to list his south Dallas address on his driver’s license. As he liked to say, he preferred to keep his privacy; he wanted the government to stay out of his business. Instead, he put down 1035 Eldorado, the address for Charles Albright.

“The police told me you had a number of true-crime books in your house,” I said.

“Oh, hell, there were other books—books of poetry, several Bibles, cookbooks, all kinds of books on art, watercolors, oils, and some books on science. It was as well-rounded a library as you wanted to find.”

“But in any of those murder books you read, did you learn why a serial killer acts the way he does?”

“Well, just for the sheer pleasure of killing a girl, I would imagine.”

“A serial killer,” I said, “would not have—”

“Would not have dumped them on the street where they would be easily found,” he quickly said. “Look, if I made up my mind I wanted to be one, I wouldn’t have been caught on the third killing. If I had decided to be a serial killer, I sure would have been a good one. You can ask anybody about anything I have ever done. I tried to be the best at what I did.” March 22, 1991: Caught

Once word of Shirley Williams’ killing spread, the Star Motel turned into a ghost town. Some prostitutes, black and white, told officers John Matthews and Regina Smith that they were leaving Dallas. Others said they were getting out of the business. A few women, so desperate for drug money that they couldn’t leave, moved together to a street corner next to the home of a man who promised to serve as their lookout and bodyguard.

Cruising the area, Matthews and Smith spied a black prostitute, Brenda White, a seventeen-year veteran of the neighborhood. White tended to work alone on a street corner in front of a church, away from the other prostitutes. The officers decided to stop and make sure she knew about the murders. “Girl,” Smith said, “don’t you know there’s a killer loose? He’s now killing the black girls too.” “Well, I’m going to get my black ass out of here,” White replied. “I just had to mace a man who jumped bad on me the other night.”

White told the officers that a few days before, a trick in a dark station wagon had pulled up alongside her and that she had gotten inside the car. He was a husky-looking white man with salt-and-pepper hair, cowboy boots, and blue jeans. “Let’s go to a motel,” she told him. “No,” he said. “I’ve got a spot we can use.” As a way to protect herself, White never allowed a new trick to take her anywhere but a whore motel, so she told him to drop her off immediately. Suddenly, “a change came over his face,” she recalled. “It was like anger, rage. He said, ‘I hate whores! I’m going to kill all of you motherf—ing whores!’” Before he had a chance to grab her, White shot a stream of Mace into his face, threw open the door, and jumped out, breaking the heel of one of her favorite red leather pumps.

For the rest of the day, Matthews and Smith could not shake White’s story from their minds. They flipped through their notebooks. They thought about everything the whores had told them since the killings began. Always, they returned to Veronica Rodriguez’s rambling talk about being raped.

The next morning, as they were checking in for work at their police substation, Smith said, “We need to run a computer check on that Axton Schindler.” Because county government computers contain more information about citizens than city computers, she and Matthews drove to the Dallas County constable’s office near Jefferson Boulevard. There, a deputy constable on duty, Walter Cook, agreed to help them. Seated around the terminal, the officers asked Cook to type in Schindler’s address: 1035 Eldorado. The name Fred Albright popped up as the owner of the property.

Fred Albright? Where was Axton Schindler?

Cook punched in another code. It turned out that this Fred Albright also owned property on a street called Cotton Valley. Wasn’t Cotton Valley in the very neighborhood in south Dallas where the first two prostitutes were found? Cook kept typing. Fred Albright, the computer reported, was dead.

Matthews and Smith stared at the screen: The only clue in the case led them to a dead man. Then, after a pause, Cook said softly, “Maybe this has something to do with a man named Charles Albright.”

Several weeks before, Cook explained he had come to the office early one morning and had answered a call from a woman who would not identify herself. The woman had been friends with Mary Pratt, she said, and through Pratt had met a man whom she briefly dated. He was a very nice man, she said, but he had an odd love for eyes. She also happened to mention that he kept X-Acto blades in his attic. Cook asked for the man’s name. “Charles Albright,” she said.

If any other constable’s deputy had been helping Matthews and Smith that day, the link to Albright might never have been made. But good fortune prevailed. Cook typed in another code, and personal information for Charles Albright popped up on the screen: “Born—August 10, 1933. Address—1035 Eldorado.”

Somehow, they said, Schindler and Albright were connected. Perhaps Albright was Schindler’s “friend,” the one who had tried to kill Veronica Rodriguez. Their hearts racing, Matthews and Smith rushed to the county’s identification division and asked to see Albright’s criminal record. The officers discovered a string of thefts, burglaries, and forgeries and the charge of sexual intercourse with a child. The clerk then pulled out a mug shot of Albright, a photo of a rather handsome well-built man with grayish hair, angular features, and deep-set dark eyes—just like the man Brenda White had described. In the picture, Albright was frowning, his face perplexed, as if he was surprised he had been caught.

The clerk wondered why Smith was so excited. “Honey,” Smith said, “I think we’ve got the killer.”

On their way to the homicide department, Matthews and Smith rehearsed everything they wanted to say. They could not seem unprepared, Matthews insisted; it was nervy enough for two raw patrol officers to visit the legendary Westphalen and tell him they believed they had found the killer—although they had no solid evidence to prove it.

Westphalen greeted them politely. Matthews started, then Smith interrupted, and soon they were both talking at once. Westphalen sighed. “Calm down,” he said. “Let’s take it slow.” A few minutes later, after they had finished their presentation, Westphalen decided they were on to something. He put together a photo lineup of six mug shots and told Matthews and Smith to show it to Brenda White.

Immediately, Smith and Matthews tracked White down on her usual street corner and asked her if she recognized any of the men in the mug shots. White unhesitatingly pointed to Albright’s picture and said he was the man who had attacked her. A little while later, they showed the same lineup to Veronica Rodriguez. According to Matthews, when Rodriguez got to the third picture—Albright’s—she started trembling. Suddenly fearful, she refused to identify anyone. Matthews called Westphalen with the bad news. Rodriguez is so afraid of the killer, he said, that she won’t pick out his picture. “Bring her down here to see me,” Westphalen growled.

Westphalen knew if he could not get Rodriguez to break, he wouldn’t have the evidence to go after Charles Albright. Brenda White’s story offered only the prospect of a misdemeanor assault charge. But if Rodriguez identified Albright, the Dallas police could file charges for attempted murder, get a search warrant, and look through his house for evidence that might connect him to the three murders.

Smith and Matthews dragged Rodriguez downtown. In a small interrogation room, Westphalen stared with his icy blue eyes at the crack-addicted Rodriguez. Rodriguez began to shake again. Tears poured out of her eyes. She wouldn’t look at the pictures laid out before her. Trying to control his anger, Westphalen took a different tack. He told Rodriguez about the three girls, how they were brutally killed, how the police couldn’t get the killer off the street without her help. “This is so easy,” he said. “Pick out the picture of the guy who assaulted you, and we will get him and put him in jail, where he can’t hurt you.” Slowly, Rodriguez looked over the mug shots. While Westphalen and another officer watched, she reached for Albright’s photo, turned it over and signed her name.

At two-thirty in the morning on March 22, as a gentle rain fell on Oak Cliff, a team of tactical officers burst through the front door of 1035 Eldorado. Despite the home’s shabby exterior, the treasures of Charlie Albright’s eclectic life decorated room after room. One cabinet was filled with exotic champagne glasses, another held delicate expensive Lladro figurines of pretty young women. On one wall were Life magazine covers and valuable Marilyn Monroe movie posters.

As Charles Albright was handcuffed and led away, he never said a word. Stumbling out of bed in her nightgown, Dixie Austin looked incredulously at Albright and then back at the police. Unable to imagine what the man she loved could have done, she began to scream. December 1991: Convicted

For a long time after Charles Albright’s arrest, most everyone involved in his case wondered whether the police had enough evidence to convict him of murder. Despite a withering all-night interrogation by Westphalen, Albright refused to confess to anything. He acted as if he had never heard the names of the murdered prostitutes. Police searched through every square inch of the south Dallas properties. They searched his Oak cliff house six times. The FBI even brought in a high-tech machine that could see through walls. Although the searches produced an array of interesting items—carpenters’ woodworking blades, X-Acto blades, a copy of Gray’s Anatomy, at least a dozen true-crime books—they never came up with the eyeballs. Behind Charlie’s hand-built fireplace mantel, police discovered a hidden compartment filled with pistols and rifles. None, however, turned out to be the murder weapon.

Nor could police find anyone who would admit to seeing Charlie with the three prostitutes on the nights they were killed. Dixie claimed that on the nights in question, Charlie did not leave the house early for his paper route and that he always came home on time. As the trial date arrived, Veronica Rodriguez decided to testify as a witness for the defense. She claimed that she and Albright had never been together and that Westphalen had coerced her into picking Albright’s photograph from the lineup. Axton Schindler continued to deny that he had saved Rodriguez from Albright. He said a Hispanic man named Joe had brought her to his door.

But Toby Shook, a low-key 33-year-old prosecutor working for the Dallas county district attorney’s office, had a trump card. For the first time in its history, the DA’s office was going for a murder conviction based solely on controversial hair evidence. Days after Albright’s arrest, the city’s forensic lab reported that hairs found on the bodies of the dead prostitutes were similar to hair samples taken from Albright’s head and pubic area. As evidence goes, hairs are not as conclusive as fingerprints—it’s impossible to tell how many other gray-haired men’s hairs might look similar to Albright’s hairs under a microscope—yet in this case, the lab kept running tests. Lab technicians said that hairs found on the blankets in the back of Albright’s pickup truck were similar to hair samples from the first two prostitutes killed, Mary Pratt and Susan Peterson. Hairs found in Albright’s vacuum cleaner matched the hair from the third prostitute killed, Shirley Williams.

An additional piece of the puzzle came from John Matthews and Regina Smith. The officers found a prostitute, Tina Connolly, who claimed that Albright was one of her regular afternoon customers on Fort Worth Boulevard. She never saw him cruise after dark, she said, except for one time—the night Shirley Williams disappeared. Connolly took Matthews and Smith to a secluded field near Fort Worth Boulevard where Albright used to take her for sex. There, they spotted a yellow raincoat, just like the one Williams was last seen wearing, and a blanket. Hairs on the coat and blanket matched Albright’s hair.

Albright’s defense attorney, Brad Lollar, tried to convince the jury that the case against Albright depended on the flimsiest circumstantial evidence. The killer, he said, was probably Axton Schindler, who just happened to skip town the week of the trial. Admittedly, the police had many unanswered questions about Schindler. Westphalen had spent hours interrogation him, trying to determine if he assisted Albright in the killings or was at least aware that Albright was murdering women on the rental property. But there was nothing to tie him to the case except for an empty .44-caliber bullet box found behind the house, which Albright might have dropped there himself. When Schindler’s and Albright’s photos were shown to dozens of prostitutes, none recognized Schindler, but many recognized Albright. Nor were there any hairs found on the dead prostitutes that could be linked to Schindler. Most important, no one who had ever met Axton Schindler could imagine he would have the slightest skill required to perfectly remove a set of human eyes.

Albright never testified. Throughout the trial, he sat quietly in his chair, his shoulders slumped, like a weak, humbled figure. Shook, in his closing argument, derisively called Albright “this former biology teacher, bullfighter, college ace, smart man who just can’t seem to have a job.” But Shook warned the jury not to underestimate Albright—that he had grown much smarter during this trial, that if he ever got out of jail, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

On December 19, when the jury returned with a guilty verdict and a life sentence, Dixie collapsed in the courtroom. Albright’s friends avoided the reporters in the courthouse hallway; it was as if they did not want to be blamed for having lived with a vicious killer without recognizing him for what he was. But a stunned Brad Lollar, who genuinely thought he was going to get his client acquitted, strode tight-lipped out of the courtroom. “It’s always a miscarriage of justice,” he told the press, “when an innocent man is convicted.”

He was confident, he told me, that he would win his case on appeal. Another judge, he said, would see through the lies told at the first trial. He leaned forward in his chair and grinned optimistically. He couldn’t complain about prison life, he said. He was reading two books a week on the Civil War; he was taking notes for a book he wanted to write on the wives of Civil War generals. He was busy working as a carpenter in the prison woodworking shop, coaching the prison softball team, and writing letters to Dixie. He had just sent a request to Omni magazine for a back copy of its first issue because there was a painting on the cover that he liked. He grinned again and told terrifically funny stories about how crazy the other inmates acted. For a moment, it was hard for me to remember exactly what Charles Albright had been accused of doing.

But then I’d lock on the image of an eyeless young woman lying faceup on a neighborhood street. Why would such a kindly, lighthearted man want to cut out a prostitute’s eyes? Why was he so plagued by eyes, that potent and universal symbol, the windows to the soul? In the ancient myth, Oedipus tore out his own eyes after committing the transgression of sleeping with his mother. Did Charles Albright, a perverted Oedipus, tear out the eyes of women for committing the transgression of sleeping with men? Perhaps he removed their eyes out of some sudden need to show the world he could have been a great surgeon. Maybe he dumped that third body in front of the school to show his frustration over never having become a biology teacher. Or maybe a private demon had been lurking since his childhood, when the eyes were left off his little stuffed birds. Just as he long ago wanted to have a bagful of taxidermist’s eyes, maybe he decided to collect human eyes for himself.

“Oh, really, I have never touched an eyeball,” Albright declared again, for the first time becoming indignant with me. “I truly think—and this may sound farfetched—that the boys in the forensics lab cut out those eyes. I think the police said, ‘We want some sort of mutilation.’” Almost cheered by his reasoning, he returned to his psychologically impenetrable self. Whatever secrets he had would remain with him forever.Longreads Crime Dallas

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editorandchief · 2 years

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Hell Hath No Fury | Billy Hargrove

Summary: "The villain is the person who knows the most but cares the least."

Warning: Age gap relationship, Cheating, Grooming?

Requested: No

Being FWB's with Billy was complicated, I knew that he wasn't looking for anything serious and neither was I at the time but that was three months ago and I started to think that maybe things were getting more serious. That was until Billy started ghosting me and cancelling meet ups last minute. I had no idea why...until now.

Riding my bike down the street on my way to let Jonathan Byers borrow my camera when I heard the familiar sound of an engine, stopping my bike I see Billy's car slowly pulling up to the Wheeler house with his head lights turned off.

Stepping off my bike I pulled it into the bushed while I crouched down low as to not be seen by Billy and the person in his passenger seat. I watched as Billy exited the car walking quickly over to the passenger side he opened the door and out stepped...Mrs. Wheeler.

I felt like my heart was about to leap out of my chest, it felt like someone was pushing down on my stomach as it became heard to breath. Watching as he leaned his body over hers as her back was pressed against his car. This? This was why he was blowing you off?

I don't know why I reached for my camera, why I took the pictures of the two engaged in a heated lip lock, smiling at each other before the mother of three returned to her blissfully unaware family.

One Week Later

This feeling was something new for me, I had no idea what it was but what I did no was that it didn't go away, it didn't fade.

It lasted. It lasted as I developed the photos in my basement. It lasted as I ran through all of my dad's printer paper in his office making copies of the two best ones. It lasted while I was riding my bike around town leaving one in every mailbox I came across like I was the fucking paper boy. It last when I got up extra early this morning to get to school and leave one taped to every locker and wall until I had no more.

But it simmered now as I sat on the bleacher of the football field watching as people started showing up for school.

First it was the teacher I wondered how they would react to the photos tapes to the surfaces, if they would attempt to take them down before the students arrived, mw knowing they would never succeed.

Then you fellow student began arriving not knowing what they were walking into, cause even if they managed to get all the photos from the walls there would be no way to get them from inside of the lockers.

After an hour I decided to enter the school, partly hoping that this may get school cancelled seeing as I was working on the three hours of sleep I got from a nap the day before.

Walking down the hall I see multiple groups of students all speaking in hushed voiced holding something I didn't have to guess about, some laughed and giggled while others just showed looks of disgust, disappointment, envy maybe. Slowly but surely more and more people came in as they all shared the same look of confusion and curiosity before they realized what it was that they were seeing as I stood absently with my locker open watching as the first of my dominos fell.

"What the fuck is this?!" You heard from down the hall as you turned you head from inside your locker. "How the fuck did this?!" Billy asked as he looked around angry, clenching one of the papers in his hand, I must have zoned out cause I didn't even see him come in.

Billy stomped down the hall repeating his question as he snatched any paper from anyone he saw.

I think he took someone's math homework.

The hall remained silent as no one spoke up to take credit because none of them had done it and though I didn't know exactly what Billy would do, I didn't put it past him to react with violence. Eventually Billy gave up looking for the culprit and stormed out of school before the sound of his tires screeching faded away from the school.

All day it was the only thing anyone could talk about, that unknown feeling was now replaced with a very known one. Boredom.

Which paved room for thoughts.

Thoughts like how Nancy Wheeler now has to worry about of her parents will divorce instead or focusing on collage applications next year.

Thoughts like now Mike Wheeler who is already a social pariah of sorts may never make new friends due to parents not wanting their sons to fall victim to Karen 'The Cougar' Wheeler.

Like how Holly Wheeler probably won't understand why her house is falling apart.

Thoughts like how Neil Hargrove will be pissed when he finds out and he'll be mean to Billy and when Neil is mean to Billy, Billy is mean to Max and she and her mother didn't deserve that.

But Ted Wheeler didn't deserve to be cheated on, right?

At the end of the day it didn't really matter, It's not like feeling bad (Even though I didn't) would change anything.

Karen Wheeler knew that cheating on her husband with a high school teen was pretty shitty, but she did it anyways.

Billy knew sleeping with a married woman was a shitty thing to do, but he did it anyways.

I knew spreading those pictures around town instead of just telling Ted Wheeler was a shitty thing to do but......Anyways.

Anyways people do all kinds of things when they are mad, Billy knew that better than anyone, but I wasn't just mad this was more than anger. I was..I was...Furious.

Fury.

#strangerthings #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #masterlist #billy hargrove x karen wheeler #karen wheeler #mike wheeler #nancy wheeler #holly wheeler #ted wheeler #max mayfield #stranger things #stranger things x oc #billy hargove imagine

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scarlettriot · 2 years

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SHE LIT A FIRE: PT 7 - Dive In

Pairing: Dad!Kirishima x F!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, drinking (of age), scars, body image problems

Contains: Kirishima as a father. Reader has an established quirk. Reader is American but related to a canon character. Main characters are in their late 20s. Hurt/Comfort. Broken family situation. Absent mother-figure.

Summary: 72 hours can go by pretty fast when you have a dress to pick out, a swim lesson to teach, and a wedding to attend. It goes by especially quick when all you really want is to spend five more minutes getting to know a certain someone just a little better.

Tag List: Has been moved into the comments ♡

A/N: I apologize for this chapter taking so long to complete, but I really wanted to do it justice. I think I have at least nine other drafts sitting in my google docs. If you come across spelling errors or anything, I'm very sorry. Little editing was done to this. Thank you so very much, @weebaboobs @silverhairsimp and @ace-of-books, for helping me get through this. This chapter, like the others before, switches between Reader's and Kiri's POVs. There is a minor text conversation, Katsuki is orange, and Reader is purple. And, with that, I hope you all enjoy ♡

Word Count: 7,787

THURSDAY

K. Bakugo: You home?

The message alert chimed on your phone while you were in the process of cleaning up dinner. Drying off your hands, you swiped your phone open and saw the text, and with a puzzled look, sent back your reply:

Me: Yeah. Everything alright?

In your head, you started going over the shift schedule until you remembered that Katsuki had these next several days off in preparation for Izuku’s wedding. He shouldn’t have anything to worry about regarding work or the office. His best man duties were far more important, at least, they were for the next 72 hours. Todoroki and Katsuki both were going to have their work cut out for them just keeping the groom-to-be calm enough to get to the end of the aisle.

You kept your phone unlocked, open to your text chain with him while you finished up the last couple dishes, but no new messages came through. You didn’t even get the three little ellipses to indicate he was typing. But, what you did get was a sharp knock on your door about ten minutes later.

On the other side was Katsuki himself, black garment bags piled high in his arms. “Katsuki! What the fu–”

“Just lemme in.” You quickly stepped aside and closed the door behind him while he dropped all the bags down on your sofa. “Kyo showed me the dress you’re planning on wearing Saturday,” he started to explain, “‘S not gonna work.”

You folded your arms and narrowed your eyes at the blunt blonde, “And why not?”

“The event is too fuckin’ fancy to be wearing a sundress. You’ll be underdressed.”

You’d been so busy getting used to everything new in your life that you hadn’t even thought to check and see what the dress code for the wedding was, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let Katsuki know that.

“So!” He gestured broadly to everything he brought.

“Katsuki, you don’t even know my size.”

The corner of his lips rose up with a smirk. “Just trust me, wouldja? I’ve got a knack for knowing sizes and cuts. Guess it runs in the family or somethin’.” He grabbed the bag on top, “All of these are from my old man’s collection last year. They were just sittin’ back in his storage room, not doin’ a damn thing, so I grabbed what seemed good, and now they’re yours.”

You choked on air, “Excuse me, it sounded like you said they’re mine now.”

“They are.”

“You can’t just give me a dress, Katsuki! Especially not one from your father’s collection; it’ll take me at least a month to pay you back!” You were paid well at the agency, and you didn’t have many expenses to worry about, and it still would’ve taken a month!

“First of all, I’m not giving you a dress; I’m givin’ you all of ‘em.” He held up a hand when you tried protesting. “Listen, they were just collecting dust! He’s not gonna put them back out on the racks, this way, they have a purpose!”

You held the nylon bag in your hands, looking down at it, and then over to the rest of them before coming back around to Katsuki himself. “I don’t really know what to say… thank you, Kat.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of this,” Katsuki shook his head, “it’s fine, really. But I do have to get going. Kyoka and I are heading over to the nerd's house. Gotta make sure his vows are down to one composition book rather than the four he had yesterday.” If you looked closely, it seemed the vein by his temple was far more pronounced than usual.

Before he could make for the door though, you tossed one arm around his neck and pulled him down for a hug with the garment bag pressed between you. “Thanks again, Kat.”

It took him a second to wrap his arms around you, and you definitely heard him scoff, but more importantly, you heard his quiet; you’re welcome.

Once alone again in your apartment, it took you no time at all to find every available surface to hang the many bags from, twenty-one in total. You unzipped each of them slowly, unveiling the presents that lay within, and honestly, there wasn’t a single one you disliked.

Katsuki must’ve taken into consideration the colors you wore on a regular basis because all your favorites were among them. Not only that, but he obviously thought about the plethora of different events you’d be expected to attend now that you were back pro hero society, well, in some capacity at least.

Some of the dresses were more understated, and others were glamorous gowns. The ones that fell on the more flashy side, you zipped up to save for a later event, maybe the gala that was coming up in a couple of weeks. That still left you with fourteen perfectly viable options to pick from. After a quick text to Katsuki asking him a few basic questions, was there a theme to the wedding, what the venue was, and once he got back to you, you were able to take five dresses out of the running.

Nine was still so many though. You had no idea how you were going to settle on just one.

You’d been zipping up the back of the seventh dress when somewhere in your room your phone started to ring. You found it under one of the garment bags, flipping it over to see Eijiro’s and Remi’s goofy faces smiling at you. He was calling you early tonight. Not that you minded.

“Hey!” You answered quickly before the call went to voicemail.

Eijiro had been in his living room with Remi perched in his lap, the phone between her small hands. She’d already changed into her pajamas for the night, teeth brushed, but she begged to say goodnight to you before going to bed, and he didn’t see the harm in it. However, that opinion changed the moment you answered the phone.

He could see from over top Remi’s head what you were wearing, and it certainly wasn’t the usual hoodie he’d grown accustomed to seeing you in damn near every night. Instead, you were in a gorgeous-looking dress, and he feared he called you at quite possibly the worst time.

“Wow!” Remi held the phone out like she could see more of your dress that way. “Y/N! You look so pretty!”

“Awe, thanks, sweets!”

Gods, all he could think was that someone was over at your house right now, and he didn’t even know why but his chest suddenly felt so hollow even though you took the time away from your date just to answer his call. “Y/N, I’m so sorry,” He quickly interjected, “I should’ve texted you first. Sorry, we interrupted your evening.”

“Wait,” You chuckled, “You’re not interrupting anything! Well, except my evening of trying to find a dress that’s suitable for Izuku’s wedding. Apparently, sundresses aren’t fancy enough.”

And just like that, he was able to breathe again, laughing while you turned the camera around and showed off the new dresses you acquired.

“I wanna help!” Remi bounced and started pointing out different dresses she wanted you to try on for her next.

“Whoa, kiddo, you were supposed to be getting to bed, remember? This is just a g’night phone call.” Her little lip wobbled out in a pout. “Now, none of that. You’ve got your very first swim lesson tomorrow! Gotta get to bed so you’ll be all ready for it!”

Remi had been open to the idea of getting in the pool at the top of your building, even more so now that she had a brand new swimsuit and dynamight themed floaties. And, with a few more sunny days of summer left, the date had been set for them to come to your place in the afternoon to see if she’d really go in the water.

“What if… what if you manage to get in the water for ten whole minutes tomorrow, you can help me pick out a dress to wear afterward. I’ll try on whichever ones you want.”

She seemed to consider your bribe, tapping her chin and thinking it over. “Can we get pizza after too?”

“I think we can do that.”

“Okay then. I go to bed now. Night night, Y/N!” She ended the call before he even had the chance to say goodbye himself. It wasn’t too big a deal though. He sent you a text saying he’d call you back once she was asleep.

And, less than an hour later, he was stretched out on his sofa, doing just that.

“Awe, you changed. I thought I might get a preview of tomorrow's fashion show.”

“Awe,” you mocked right back at him, “and you pout just like your daughter.”

He had to smile at that. “Hey, she learned from the best.”

Time passed by, but Eijiro didn’t really notice, he often lost track of it on these late calls with you. But, a sort of routine had formed between the two of you. The first yawn of the night was a free pass, the second meant heading for your bedrooms, and the third was just before you both turned out your lights. And tonight, all three of them were caused by you.

He crawled into bed and propped his phone up on the nightstand after plugging it in so it wouldn’t die during the night. Laying on his side with his arm tucked under his head, you talked until that third yawn escaped you. “Think it’s about that time.”

“Yeah…” You sleepily agreed, and he watched your arm reach out of the screen and then go dark while it adjusted to the lack of light, and his did the same. “Sleep well, Eijiro.”

“See ya in the morning, Y/N. Sweet dreams.”

FRIDAY

The morning whirled by while Eijiro kept Remi busy, letting the sun rise high in the sky to warm the day before the pair set off for your apartment. She’d been wearing her swimsuit all morning and insisted he had to put his trunks on first thing, too, because he just had to be ready. It wasn’t so bad though, it meant that when they got to your place just after lunch, she was all ready to go.

You met them up on the rooftop with access card in hand, and Remi bolted right for you just as she always did. “You ready!” He broke into a grin at your enthusiasm.

“Yeah!”

Except, that wasn’t exactly true.

Together the three of you sat on the edge of the pool for twenty minutes thus far, just trying to convince Remi to dip her toes into the water. She wasn’t having it. You even reminded her about the pretty dresses downstairs that she’d get to see, and that didn’t seem to be as enticing now that she was face to face with her biggest fear. But, she allowed you to entertain her just a little, pulling up small funnels of water and whirling them gently around her feet. The moment she was asked to put them in herself, though, that was too much for her.

She would scoot herself back at least a foot. It probably would’ve been a whole lot further had it not been for Eijiro slipping his arm behind her back to stop her.

“Pebbles,” he tried coaxing her back to the edge again, keeping his long legs still in the water, so no droplets went flying about, “It’s really not that bad, baby. You’ve got your floaties, and we won’t letcha go under. You trust us, yeah?” Even though she nodded at the both of you, the look on her little face made Eijiro’s heart ache.

He stole a glance over at you, and where his daughter's ruby eyes were filled with anxiety and fear, he saw nothing but patience reflected in yours. You gave him a sad little smile and shrugged. “Well, we’re up here, and I’m not gonna let his big, fun, empty pool go to waste.”

There was this moment, when your hands reached for the hem of your shirt, and you lifted it up over your head, where Eijiro thought his heart might have actually stopped. Staring was rude. Damn it, he knew better! But, he couldn’t help but peak when your hips wiggled, and your shorts dropped down your curvy legs. You kicked both over to a lounge chair before dropping into the water, using your quirk to minimize any splash that would’ve occurred.

The tips of his ears burned red and he swore his cheeks must’ve been on fire while his eyes followed you around the pool as you swam a lap and then another.

“Daddy. More sun blocker.”

“Wha–?” He immediately refocused on his daughter. Looking down and checking her shoulders and cheeks for any signs of red on her skin.

“Not me. For you.” Her hands reached up and pressed against his heated cheeks.

“Oh. Oh, I’m alright, Pebbles.” He kissed her little knuckles, “Thank you, though.”

You’d made your way back over to them by now. The water glistened off your skin when you lifted your arms out to tickle Remi’s feet, and Eijiro just leaned back, happy to watch you work your magic once again.

There was something about the way his daughter laughed when you were around, it was more carefree than he’d had the pleasure of hearing recently and you just made it all seem so effortless. Even now, you convinced her to crawl back over to the edge of the pool with a smile on her face. “You’ve got your dad right beside you, and I’m right here. Sweets, we’ve got you.”

Her smile wavered, and she pulled at the skirt of her swimsuit. “What if water goes in my eyes again, or my mouth?”

Eijiro sat back up and tapped her chin. “Well, you’re gonna keep your mouth closed, for one thing,”

“And I won’t let the water get anywhere close to your pretty eyes. You just put your feet right here, okay?” Your hand hovered over the area just below her, not making a single splash or ripple in the water.

And, by nothing short of a miracle, Remi took a deep breath and held it, cautiously dipping in one foot and then the other.

Eijiro was the first to cheer, with you following just a millisecond after. Both of you with smiles so infectious they spread right to Remi’s, who started breathing again. “I– I did it? I did it! Daddy see! Look! I did it!” Her feet even kicked below the surface. “Y/N! See! Look at my feets!” You sent little bubbles all around her ankles, and a giggle so pure filled the air.

In the minutes that passed, her butt scooted right to the very ledge of the pool, any further and she was going to be in the water. One look at you, though, and Eijiro knew he had nothing to worry about, you were ready just in case an accident occurred.

“Gettin’ pretty close to the water there, Rem. Wanna go in?”

Her lip was stuck between her teeth while she thought it over and then she motioned for him to lean down, whispering something for only him to hear. “Can you help me? You and Y/N. Want no water in my face.”

He ran his fingers through her soft, dark hair, “‘Course we will.”

He tugged his t-shirt off and tossed it beside yours on the chair. There was no way he missed your gaze falling the second his head turned back toward the water, and he did his best to hide the smirk on his face because at least he hadn’t been the only one staring.

When he dropped next to you in the water, you tamed the splash just like you’d done for your own. He popped up at your side with a cheesy grin on his face, pushing his hair back out of his eyes while you flicked a small orb of water at him.

“Alright, baby, just gonna slide right off the edge like we did,” He held his arms out for Remi, holding his hands out to guide her right where she needed to go.

“There’s not gonna be a splash, I promise.”

She nodded. “Countdown?”

You and Eijiro started at the same time, “3…2…1–!”

Remi used her hands and pushed off with a shriek leaving her lungs. Eijiro was quick, snatching her up right away. “That’s my girl!” He beamed, and her little fingers dug into his forearm while he twirled her around the water, making her legs make their own wake. You followed wherever they went, keeping the water steady and off her face until Remi reached for you, wanting you to carry her around instead.

The afternoon snuck by while the two of you passed Remi back and forth, carrying her around the pool, around the people that came and went, letting her get used to the water for as long as she wanted.

Eijiro was lazily following you as you made another lap around the pool with Remi on your back, her arms locked in front of your neck. Water splashed around the both of you, and you weren’t doing too much to mitigate it anymore. Perhaps more surprising was his daughter didn’t seem to mind. Not one bit.

He couldn’t wait to tell his parents about this. Oh, and Mina too. And Katsuki and Tamaki. None of them were gonna believe it. Hell, if he weren’t witnessing it happen right before his eyes, he wouldn’t believe it!

But, there was one thing Eijiro knew beyond a shadow of a doubt; none of this would’ve been possible without you. He’d hoped one day Remi would be able to conquer her fear, find a way to overcome it, but he never thought it’d be this soon. Apparently, all it took was the right person.

You had Remi held up in your arms now, wading around in small circles, the pool far more crowded now than when all this had begun. “Daddy, has it been ten minutes yet?”

Both of you laughed since roughly 160 minutes had passed since she took the plunge. “Yeah, Pebble, it has.”

“Okay. I think I’m done now. But, we can come back, right? Y/N said if I learn how go under water I could swim with duckies and sharks someday!”

“Yeah, baby, if that’s alright with Y/N.” You rolled your eyes and flicked another orb at him.

“Of course it’s alright with me!”

“Tomorrow?”

Eijiro made his way closer with a smile on his face, thrilled his daughter was eager to get back in the water. His hands brushed yours when he lifted Remi out of your arms. “Not tomorrow, ‘m sorry. Remember, dad’s gotta go to a wedding. Y/N’s going too and you’ve gotta help her pick a dress out for it.”

“Going together?” She asked while you both waded to the latter.

It was only decided last night that the two of you would ride there together. You mentioned something about getting a taxi, and he saw no sense in that, not when he’d have to drive by your place on his way to the venue. “I’m gonna pick her up, yes, you nosey child of mine.”

“Good!” He lifted her back out of the water before climbing up the ladder behind her, turning to offer you his hand, but you were still all the way in the water.

“What is it?”

Your eyes darted around and he saw you taken in just how many more people were up on the rooftop now. “Do you– would you mind grabbing my shirt f’me? I um–” You glanced down in the water, and it clicked for him when one hand settle across your scars.

“On it.”

He grabbed a towel too and brought it over. As soon as you were on the ladder, he let the towel cover you so no one saw a thing, held it around your back while you slipped your shirt on, standing between his arms. “I’m not embarrassed by them.” Your voice was so quiet only he heard you and his response was just as soft.

“Glad to hear it. You’ve got no reason to be.”

“I just don’t like the judgemental looks.”

“Darling, you don’t owe me or anyone else an explanation.” You still stood so close to him, and you certainly didn’t know it, but it made his heart beat a little quicker. A habit he picked up every time you were in this close of proximity. “They’re just a part of who you are, but I understand why you don’t want strangers commenting. ‘S okay.”

“Daddy!” The intimacy that had gathered between you instantly disipated, heads whipping towards Remi, who was sitting on the lounge chair, bundled up in her shark towel, “Pizza and dresses now, please!”

Eijiro just shook his head until he felt your hand rest on his arm. “Hey, at least she said please.” He scooped Remi up in his arms, and you grabbed the towels, all three of you heading down to your apartment.

“Okay, daddy, I think we found best.” His daughter crawled up beside him on the sofa, hiding a yawn behind her hand, the excitement of the day finally catching up to her.

The pizza had been finished, and you let Remi inspect the dresses you narrowed down from the night before. She pointed out the ones she liked and paid the others no mind. Eijiro had seen you in three of them so far, and each time you stepped out of your room in a new dress, his expression never failed to make your knees feel just a little weaker than before.

Sitting up a little straighter on the sofa, his smile looking so unbelievably genuine, the words beautiful and gorgeous dropping from his lips more than once and reddening his cheeks in the process.

The fourth time you stepped out of the room and gave your little twirl, that was the only time Eijiro had been rendered speechless. You felt his gaze on you, starting with your legs and working its way upward, lingering in certain places longer by only a fraction of a second. His lips were slightly parted, jaw just barely unhinged. The temperature in your apartment felt like it rose twenty degrees in a matter of seconds, all from the way he was looking at you.

“Hello! Earth to dad. Y/N looks pretty, right?” His daughter's hand waving about in front of his face seemed to break him from the trance he was under.

“Y–yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat and moved a yawning Remi off his lap, “I don’t think you got the back zipped up all the way, though. May I?”

You nodded and turned around for him, felt his fingers hold your waist still while his other hand pulled the little zipper up the last few inches.

“For what it’s worth, I think they all looked great on you.” His quiet words tickled your ear, breath warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help leaning back into his touch like you had that morning in his kitchen.

“But you like this one best.”

You felt his rumble of a laugh before you heard it this time. “I don’t think my opinion matters that much.”

His calloused fingertips brushed against your shoulders, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I think your opinion matters a lot, actually.”

Of course, you didn’t need him to say outright that this dress was his favorite. His reaction to seeing you in it was more than enough indication. Over the past few weeks you’d shared with him, his words and actions slowly stoked embers low in your belly you’d almost forgot existed but hearing him admit, “If it matters that much, then yes, out of all the dresses tonight, I think this one makes you look stunning,” That made them spark.

“Thank you, Eiji.”

A little shuffle from the sofa had both of you turn your heads. Remi found herself a blanket and pillow and made herself comfortable, her eyes getting weighed down by sleep.

“I should be getting her home.”

“Right, of course!” You started towards your bedroom, meaning to get changed real fast, but he caught you just as you crossed the threshold. “Oh, the zipper.” He nodded, and you spun back around. He pulled you right back into his hold, bringing the zipper down until you felt cool air hit your bare back.

Facing away from him meant you didn’t see the way his fingers lingered, longing to touch you just a little more, hoping to satisfy his growing curiosity, especially since the dress dipped low enough that he was blessed with the tiniest glimpse of the lace panties you had on. He refrained, though, and said nothing more than you’re welcome when you stepped away to get changed.

He grabbed his and Remi’s bathing suits that had been hanging in your hall bathroom, put them away along with a couple toys she’d brought out and by the time Eijiro lifted his daughter up into his arms, she was just barely clinging to consciousness.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, pebble, gonna head home now.”

You opened your door at just the right time to hear her ask. “Y/N coming too?”

“No, she’s already in her home.”

“Oh…”

She held out sleepy arms for a hug once you were back in sight, and, for a moment, neither you or Eijiro were quite sure if she was going to release you.

But, when she settled back against Eijiro’s chest, he offered you a hug of his own. Holding you to his side, “I call you when we’re home.”

“I’ll be up.” Your arms were still around him, needing this for just a few more seconds that he was happy to allow. Both of your minds sad the night was ending but also, already looking forward to the day to come.

SATURDAY

Soft pastels painted the evening sky, providing a picturquese backdrop for what had already been a beautiful day.

The ceremony for Izuku and Melissa was kept short in order to, “make sure the nerd could say his vows and not sob ‘em,” according to Katuski, but that didn’t take a single thing away from the event itself. A cocktail hour followed, whisking away the newlyweds and their close family and friends while the rest of the guests, yourself included, mingled around expertly decorated tables, sipping on signature drinks and munching on some of the most delicious appetizers you’d ever tasted. Perhaps the only thing tastier was the dinner itself.

You sat at a large circular table with Eijiro on one side and Tamaki on the other. Lost in conversation with friends that had your cheeks aching from laughter.

It wasn’t long before the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. were sharing their first dance, and the DJ was calling for other couples to join them on the dance floor. Tamaki was already standing from the table, his hand holding his husband’s.

“Do you like dancing?” You asked Eijiro, leaning back in your seat slightly so he could hear you better.

An easy smile slid on his face. “Yeah, I like dancing, can’t promise you I’m all that good though.”

His chair suddenly jerked, kicked by Mina, who’d been on his other side. “Excuse you! After all that time I spent teaching you how to dance for Kat’s wedding!” Her eyes landed on you next, “He’s great, do not let him sell himself short!”

Before he could get any more of a lecture, Eijiro stood and held his hand out to help you up. He led the way onto the dance floor, finding a spot for the two of you between all the others that paired off. His hand softly rested on your waist, and your mind instantly snapped back to the night before.

You’d been trying not to think too much about it. Not wanting to read into it or see something that wasn’t really there. But maybe there was something more to it all. It certainly felt like there could be with the way your feet moved effortlessly along with his, in perfect time with the music. And you never really could deny how nice his fingers felt laced with yours.

“Mina was right,” You mumbled with a small smirk when he cocked an eyebrow as if to ask about what. “You are pretty great.”

You could’ve added, at dancing, to the end of that sentence, but then you might not have gotten to see his smile. The one that pushed up the balls of his cheeks, so his eyes crinkled at the corners, it was one of your favorites.

He twirled you around suddenly, only to pull you back in close to him, and you got to feel that rumbling laugh again when your hand landed on his chest. “Guess I do still know a thing or two.” The wink he gave certainly wasn’t necessary, but it reminded you of that flame in your belly, and how it was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Eijiro had lost count of the number of dances he had the pleasure of sharing with you. When the slow songs blended into more lively numbers, you still remained in his arms. That was until Mina, Ochaco, and Itsuka, fueled by many fruity cocktails, pulled you away from him and into a circle of giggling women.

He took the opportunity to lose his suit jacket and wander over to the bar in search of something to cool himself off. It wasn’t until he had a glass of whiskey in his hand that he noticed Denki, Hanta, and Katsuki all crowded around a hightop, Denki with his arm in the air, waving him over to join them. He just didn’t realize quite how fast he would regret it.

It was about five seconds after his whisky glass touched the white linen tablecloth that the question spilled from Denki’s lips:

“Alright, I gotta ask since you guys are clearly gettin’ real cozy, how’s the sex? Good, right?” He saw his friend’s golden eyes find you in the crowd, and slowly he nodded his head. “With the way she moves those hips, it’s gotta be good.”

“Denks, I’m driving t’night, and that means I cannot drink the amount of alcohol required in order to have this conversation with you.”

Hanta snorted a laugh before taking another swig of his beer while Katsuki only rolled his eyes.

“Awe, c’mon, you’ve been keepin’ it quiet for weeks, man! Give us something!”

All he could do was shrug his shoulders and press the cool rim of the glass to his lips, knocking back about half of it in one go. “I’ve got nothin’ to give. We haven’t had sex.”

But Denki really couldn’t help himself, “Why the fuck not? I know you’ve been outta the game for a while, but really, did ya forget how it works or…”

This was just a conversation he couldn’t have. Especially not here. “‘S just not like that between us.” But, even as he spoke the words, they tasted acidic in his mouth.

He knew what was holding him back, what kept him from trying to seek something more with you, but, more importantly, he knew what you were going through. The loss you had suffered and were still learning to cope with. He wanted more than anything to be there for you, and, so far, you were letting him, he was a person you trusted, and he didn’t want to chance these feelings he was having ruining that.

Denki and Hanta shared a look before the blonde looked back at Eijiro. “Well, since it’s just not like that between you guys… guess I’m gonna go finally make my move.” He clinked the neck of his beer with Hanta. “Wish me luck!”

The three men watched as Denki moved his way between groups and couples until he found you among them. Eijiro saw his mouth move, and you nod your head with a grin. “Damn. Don’t know how he does it.” Hanta chuckled before leaving for another drink.

Eijiro knew how. He knew it didn’t have a damn thing to do with Denki and, instead, had everything to do with the fact you were just that kind of a person.

“You’re gonna shatter that glass if you squeeze any tighter.”

Katsuki brought him back, and he forced his hand to relax, but he still didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck is really goin’ on? ‘Cause dunce face might believe that shit you said, but I sure as hell don’t.”

He wrenched his eyes away from where Denki had his hands on your hips and snapped them over to Katsuki. “There is nothing else to tell. It’s like I said weeks ago; there’s nothing goin’ on with Y/N and I.”

Katsuki glared up at him, and Eijiro knew it was taking everything in him not yell, so, he pulled him a little further back from the crowd, just in case.

“Quit. Fuckin’. Lyin’. To me. You’re shit at it.”

“Whaddya want me t’say, Katsuki? Huh? That I like her, ‘cause, yeah, I fuckin’ do.”

“So why the hell is the human battery pack dancing with her then?”

He just barely managed to grit his response between clenched teeth. “Because I can’t give her the kind of relationship she deserves to have!”

“The hell does that mean?”

“All the time ‘m not workin’, ‘m with Remiru. I couldn’t even keep my ex around and that was when I was just workin’!”

It was so damn hard for Katsuki to keep his voice down, Eijiro knew that, and he just didn’t care. He didn’t want to talk about this, but Katsuki wasn’t letting it go. “Your ex was a piece of actual trash, and you know that! So, why are you bringing that up! Y/N already hangs around with you and the kid, like, all the time! What would change?”

“It’s different! We’re just friends right now! The expectations are totally different!”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Eijiro prepared himself, expecting this to be it, but rather than explode, Katsuki sucked in a deep breath. “You’re being fuckin’ stupid; you’re gonna let fuckin’ Kaminari take your girl because you’re too damn scared. Man the fuck up.”

Eijiro wasn’t sure there was ever a time in his life when he wanted to clock Katsuki quite as much as he wanted to at that moment, and in trying to keep that anger in check, he let something else slip rather than his fist. “There’s shit you don’t know.”

“About what!”

“About her!”

That had the blonde blinking for a moment, and it was too late to try and back track. “What about her?”

“Can’t say. ‘S not my place.”

“Eijiro, I worked with that woman for months. I nearly fuckin’ died right next to her. I might not know everything about her, but I’ll tell ya what I do know: She loved her job, her life, and the people in it. Even after that failed mission, she wasn’t scared to go back out into the field, she didn’t want to quit, but something made her. If almost dying doesn’t make you quit, then something way more fucked up must’ve. You tellin’ me you know somethin’ about that?” Eijiro nodded his head slowly. “If she trusts you to share something so important to her, what makes you think she wouldn’t wanna be with you?”

He swallowed thickly, trying to think of a way he could voice his concern without explaining what really happened to you. “She was hurt, Kat, bad. Physically, but way more emotionally, I think. Even if I had the time to make her happy, I don’t want to push her into something new before she’s actually ready.”

There was no stopping Katsuki from scoffing at his making you happy remark but the rest he seemed to take to heart. “Fine. Ya wanna let her take the lead, alright, but you’ve got her best interest at heart. You know her better than anyone right now. You really think Duracell is gonna be as considerate?”

“No…”

“Then I suggest you go fuckin’ do somethin’ about it before he actually thinks he’s got a shot.”

He really had no idea what he was thinking besides knowing that the idea of you with Denki was going to make him ill. So, he gave Katsuki a final look and then was crossing the dance floor. He didn’t have a clue what he was going to say to try and get you to dance with him again… if you even wanted to dance with him again– Just as he started getting in his head about everything, he saw you right over Denki’s shoulder, and the smile you gave him made his heart skip several beats.

“You came back!” You chirped just as soon as he reached you.

“I’ll always come back for ya.” He grinned, knowing in the back of his mind he definitely meant that in more ways than one. “Do ya mind if I cut in, man? Promised Y/N a dance weeks ago.”

“Awe,” Denki pouted, “Fine, just come find me if he decides to take a break again.”

The way the blonde kissed your knuckles before leaving, Eijiro could’ve done without seeing that, but you laughed it off and slid right back into his arms, and suddenly, everything felt alright again.

You sighed, seeming to be thankful for the slow song that came on, and he could feel you leaning on him a little more than before. When your cheek pressed against his shoulder, he feared you might hear his heart hammering out an escape plan.

“Did ya wanna take a break for a bit?” He asked quietly, still swaying you gently, but you shook your head.

“I’ll be alright for at least another song. Plus, I missed you.”

Now, he definitely knew you could hear his heart, just as sure as you could see the shit-eating grin on his face, “Oh really?”

“I– I just–” Damn, did you look cute when you got flustered.

“Was Denks really that bad of a dancer?” He asked, and you stopped stumbling over your words, laughing softly instead.

Your own laugh blended with his. “He’s not bad, he’s just not you.”

For the rest of the reception, you remained right by his side. Dancing, getting drinks, talking with friends, as the night wore on. Where one of you went, the other followed. Neither getting sick of the other’s company.

You stood hand in hand during the sparkler send-off, waving goodbye in the vast crowd that gathered behind the limo taking Izuku and Melissa off on their much-deserved honeymoon. From there, though, the party died down tremendously.

More guests sat in chairs at tables rather than dancing to the last couple songs of the evening. He’d wound his arm over your shoulders, and you’d had your head rest on him for the last ten minutes. “Wanna head out?” He murmured softly into your hair, and you nodded.

A few quick farewells, and see-you-Mondays, later, and the two of you were walking to his car, one of the last few that remained in the parking lot. The music followed you out, and your ears perked up, instantly noticing the notes to one of your favorite songs.

“Damn…” He looked down at you with a bit of concern etching on his face. “Nothing. It just this song is one of my favorites, and, of course, it plays when we leave.”

He’d unlocked the car and took your shoes from your fingers, setting them on the backseat along with his jacket. “What’re you doing?”

“Dancing with you,” you let him slip your hand back into his, “just one more song before the night over.”

Out here, you had all the room you could possibly want to move around, a dance floor for just the two of you, and yet you danced closer than you had all night. Your bare feet were on the tops of his polished shoes, your head tucked comfortably right under his chin, and that song you loved so damn much, now more than ever before, you wished it would never end.

But you knew those last couple words, the final cords coming to a close, and the laugh that bubbled up out of your lungs with Eijiro started walking with you still on his feet back to the car; well, he was pretty sure that was his new favorite song.

He helped you slide in, making sure your dress was out of the way before closing the door. Neither of you asked this time; his hand just held yours the whole ride back to your place, thumb ghosting across your knuckles while you watched the moon following you home.

You’d fallen asleep again, worn out by the day, and he woke you just as he’d done before; his warm hand cradling your cheek, gentle caresses bringing you back to him. “Hey, lemme walk you up.”

You had no objections to the kind offer, and he kept his arm around you as you walked through the lobby, during the ride up the elevator, and down the corridor while you pressed your thumb against the scanner to open your door.

“Thank you for today, Eijiro. I had a lot of fun.”

It was so easy for him to smile back at you. “Me too. Want me to call when I’m home, or are you gonna pass out before then?”

“I promise I’ll stay awake.” And, before you had a chance to realize what you were doing, you rose on tiptoes and pressed your lips to his cheek, dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. “Drive safe, and thank you again.”

His eyes were wide, but you were just a little too tired to notice, your mind not yet realizing what you’d done. “Uh– yeah– right! I’ll talk to you soon.”

You went through the process of locking the door and putting your shoes away before it dawned on you.

“Oh shit…” You muttered in your empty apartment. “Oh shit!” Fingertips pressed to your lips. You kissed him, you actually kissed him! Hand holding and hugs were one thing but kissed him!

What were you gonna say when he called? Would he still call? Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal to him, and he wouldn’t mention it at all, that would be the best outcome but, maybe it was a very big deal to him. Maybe you crossed a line–

You knew that knock at your door and quickly undid the lock. “H-hey, um, d–did you need something?”

His cheeks burned redder than you’d ever seen them before. “Yeah…” his hands cupped your cheeks, and he leaned in close, “You.” The three-letter word landed on your lips just a second before his lips did.

He couldn’t keep them against you for long, he told himself he wouldn’t, but from the moment yours brushed his cheek, he could think of nothing else. The doubts he had were swallowed up by the flame you sparked, and curiosity turned him back around and carried him right back to your door. Just one kiss. That was all he needed. Or that was all he thought he’d need.

The moment he pulled away, he instantly craved more and wanted to bring you right back to him, but you looked so stunned, practically frozen in place, and he feared he’d been right before. This wasn’t what you wanted. All the doubts and insecurities crashed over him until both your hands grabbed a side of his undone necktie and yanked him back against you.

Your lips came alive, igniting against his.

Gods, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt anything quite like you. He couldn’t remember another kiss he felt throughout his entire body, and yet yours felt like lightning running through his veins, setting every nerve on end.

“Damn…” The word barely fell off his tongue before it was gliding back in your mouth, not quite able to get enough. You both sucked down ragged breaths when you broke apart with smiles plastered on your faces. “I– um– I should probably get goin’. My moms’ are still–”

“--at your place because of Remi.” He nodded but closed his eyes when your warm hand rested on his cheek. “Just call me when you’re settled for the night, okay?”

“Soon as I can, promise.”

He’d meant to be on his way, he knew he should’ve been going but you turned in between his arms and he had to bite his lip to stifle a groan.

“Think you can help me again before you leave?”

You knew exactly what you were doing. Any hint of tiredness had left you the very moment he showed back up at your door. And now that he allowed you a taste, you were wide awake and greedy for more.

The way his hands tightened on your waist almost made you melt. He’d always been careful with you, every touch gentle. But when you looked back at him over your shoulder, a quiet, “please,” leaving you, for the briefest moment you felt a fraction of the strength he actually possessed press into your flesh when he took just one step forward.

He guided you through your doorway and into the apartment, using his foot to shut the door so his hands never left you. “You make it real hard f’me to walk away, y’know that?”

“Then stay…” his lips on your neck cut your sentence short, each kiss like fire licking your skin.

“Can’t.” You knew that. Of course, you did, “But, I want to.”

One hand traveled up the length of your spine, nearly reaching that zipper that you knew he’d pull down only far enough because that was the respectful thing to do, and then he’d be gone. Because he was a good man, a great father, who needed to be getting home to his daughter. You shouldn’t have asked and yet the desire was just a smidge too strong for you to withstand; “Just another five minutes?”

He’s fingers halted, the air thick with something brand new beginning, and he spun you around fast enough your breath caught in your throat, coming face to face with his perfect smile, “five more minutes.”

#mha #bnha #mha fan fic #kirishima #kirishima x reader #kirishima x y/n #kirishima fluff #kirishima fic #best red rock shark ♥️🦈#red daddy riot #only literally #scar’s writing again 📕

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real-jane · 2 years

Text

bug and bear

[steve rogers x fem!reader]

summary: you’re set to marry a man you’re not sure you even like, but the person going to all the appointments with you is your life-long best friend.

words: 3.5k

a/n: I got inspired for this watching Toscana on Netflix! the whole idea of helping someone with their wedding while you pine for them… one of my fav tropes. this is my first time writing for steve 👀. enjoy!!

—

He’s attended every appointment with you–choosing flowers, cake tastings, all four caterers (since your mother wasn’t convinced that your idea of a food truck would properly serve a hundred guests, it was thanks to Steve’s meticulous notes that she finally came around… hundreds of dollars saved, too)--and never once complained.

Your friendship started with playing hide-and-go-seek around your neighborhood the first day your family moved in next door. Steve has been game for whatever you asked since. Friends in a way which makes ‘best’ feel insufficient, and far more fierce about vouching for you than your own brothers ever were. Steve’s a part of you.

The alterations place tried to chase him away for your dress fitting, but you needed his opinion! ‘It’s bad luck’–who cares? Your girlfriends had gushed over your dress when you first tried it, to a degree that you couldn’t remember if it suited you until you were standing there in the damn thing six months later, staring at yourself in the mirror. Steve didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He just leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, and smiled.

His gentle demeanor has grounded you the entire wedding planning process, so when your mother signs you up for a ballroom dance class… he’s affable. He’s unbothered. Of course he’ll go, of course he’ll wait, of course he’ll be your partner when the attendees are unevenly matched, of course he’s good at it, too.

But he isn’t your fiancé, and that’s why you’re fucked.

Said groom begs out of appointments with such frequency that sometimes you forget to even tell him about one. Did you mention the dance class? Or are you prescient, able to intuit his answer without needing to bring it up? Why would your own fiancé ever willingly join you for something that wasn’t his idea?

Why did Brock ask you to marry him? That question keeps you up at night, as he snores from the other side of your too-large bed.

You’ve been with Brock since college. You don’t remember what it feels like to get butterflies, just from the way he looks at you. His attention is certainly not as piercing as Steve’s softest gaze, because that man has never had an unsteady blink when you rely on his eye contact for reassurance. He probably wouldn’t blink, ever again, if that was what you needed. Brock doesn’t seem to mind how often you’re around the blond; time and again, he’s said how faithful you are, how loyal. He didn’t agree to Steve being in your wedding party, however, and it’s probably for the best because if Steve stood behind you while you told Brock you’d love him forever, it would feel like a betrayal of a relationship which never was.

Loyalty to Brock feels an awful lot like mutiny when you’re swaying in circles with the man who keeps his promises. Steve’s hand is warm at the small of your back. When you take an unsure step, he squeezes your joined hands. ‘You can stand on my feet,’ he whispers when the instructor steps out of the room to take a call. If Brock were here, he’d be dragging you along with no discernable rhythm or form.

It’s not that you don’t get along with Brock; you root for the same sports teams, you like the same music, you both like to cook and he’s taken you on some of the best trips you could ever imagine. Sex is infrequent but fine. He’s just not… that nice to you. He says he loves you like he’s forecasting the weather. He wouldn’t let you put the soles of your new dance shoes on his dress shoes so you’d stop tripping. So.

You let yourself slip into the daydream.

Stepping up onto Steve’s shoes, pressing your chest to his. Leaning your cheek against his chin. Closing your eyes. He’s humming, just a soft little tune. You’ve laid against his chest sobbing, before; touch is not an unfamiliar shared experience. Just not around Brock. Not because Brock would care. You’re not even sure your fiancé would notice. But–

“You don’t like him.”

It comes out of your lips too fast, on a quick exhale like your mouth knows something your brain hasn’t realized. Steve doesn’t say anything. He rubs a circle over your spine. You try to pull back, to look up at him, but he holds fast. The instructor returns to the room and you hastily step down, catching your heel. Thanks to his steady grip on your hand, you manage to avoid falling, but the woman running the class gives you a disgruntled snort.

Class is dismissed without Steve looking you in the eye once. He’s still at your elbow, but he’s quiet. He doesn’t turn the radio on in the car. He stares at the road. You can't bring yourself to break the silence, but all you want Steve to do is tell you whether you’ve made the right assumption. The street lights come on and the sky darkens, and you’re glad you can’t see the blank expression on his face anymore.

Two blocks from the apartment you share with Brock, he pulls over, shuts the car off, and rubs his chin. You fidget with your ring. He can’t help but clock your movement, and he grasps your wrist, interlacing your fingers like he usually does when you’re driving long-distance. Steve brings your hand closer, studying the bespoke diamond.

“You’re not a diamond girl,” he murmurs. Finally, finally… he looks at you.

Two decades of friendship zip through your brain on a reel. Every time he’s given you that look, stripped of any teasing or inside jokes, distilled into one composite realization that Steve Rogers has always looked at you like that. Like you’re sunshine, or something rare and precious. But not a diamond, because he’s right. You hate that ring.

He leans back in his seat, letting your arm drape across the console so he can keep a tight hold on your hand, and he doesn’t look away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you peep, when he sighs for the thousandth time.

“You were too excited, bug–how could I? The promising quarterback asked you out! I wasn’t sure your feet were ever gonna touch earth again.”

“Steve–I’ve been seeing him for almost a decade!” Heat rises in your cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me the second you met him?”

He frowns. “Don’t think I haven’t been counting the days,” he says, and your heart lurches.

“You should’ve said something.”

“Would you have listened?” Steve bites his lip for a second like he doesn’t want to let you know the whole truth. He thinks better of it, squeezing your hand. “I don’t have to live with him, buggy, so what does it matter? If you’re happy, I’m golden, you know that.”

You sink into the passenger seat. The inside of his car blurs into a landscape of watery glowing lights.

“It’s just–” he stops. You turn your head away from him so he can’t see a droplet zing down your cheek. He plays with your engagement ring, twisting it. It doesn’t fit you but Brock never bothered to try to get it resized, so you figured you’d wait and get it sized with your wedding band. “This feels like the end,” Steve says.

“Tell me not to do it, then.”

He balks at the challenge just long enough that it hurts. “I’ll support whatever choice you make,” he says, knifing you between the ribs with his nobility.

This isn’t your best friend, who drove three hours to help you move into the dorms freshman year and gave you all his unsolicited opinions about placement of your unironic Shrek poster. This isn’t Steve, who tells you if your spaghetti sauce needs more garlic, or your plants need less water, or your car needs an oil change. Whoever this is, he’s not the Steve you… you love. He’s hiding behind good intentions, and it is painful enough trying to riddle through your own muddled feelings about your impending wedding without him coming up short for reason, too. So, you push open the passenger door, and rip your hand out of his hold.

“Bug–” You slam the door on his pleading call, striding down the sidewalk in your flip-flops, with your dance shoes dangling off two fingers and your phone clenched in your fist so tight you’d surely shatter the screen (if it weren’t for the heavy-duty cover Steve bought for you). His door opens and shuts behind you, and he’s running after you. You’re at the corner when he catches up, snagging your elbow. “Listen to me–” he breathes.

“What kind of girl am I?” you demand, forcing him to follow you over the crosswalk. Your tears are furious, and your feet ache.

“Hey–”

“Steven!” You rip your arm free, dodging around an annoyed older couple who you nearly barrel into. “You exploded my life,” you say, swiping your hand under your nose. “You think I can marry a man I know you hate?”

“I don’t, honey, I don’t.” He pulls you to a bench and forces you to sit with his hands on your shoulders. He kneels in front of you.

“Oh my god! Do you know how many people spit on the sidewalk?”

He rolls his eyes and cups your cheeks. “You’re hysterical. I’m–shit, bug. I envy him.” Steve wipes away the fresh tears, and he chuckles at the stunned look on your face. “You’re my world. My buggy. How could I interfere in your happiness? Even if it hurts me not to. You’re allowed to make choices without my influence, and you should. Hmm? You went three hours away for college without asking if it was gonna rip my heart out of my chest.”

You can’t help the hiccough of a laugh. “There she is. It wasn’t very nice of you, you know.”

“You don’t own me,” you manage, despite the smile which threatens your cheeks.

“I’m acutely aware of that, thank you.” He brushes your cheekbone. “I’m… trying. To make peace with the idea that You and Me aren’t always gonna be attached at the hip.”

“You did follow me to the city, you stalker.”

“You begged me for months!”

“You caved!”

“I did,” he says. His cheeks flush. Steve’s eyes can’t decide which of yours to study, but his stare is intense. “I don’t know what I’m doin’, here. But all I know is, if it was my name in curly script that you hand-wrote on a hundred invitations, you couldn’t keep me away from one second of planning our day.”

“I can’t even get rid of you now,” you say with a sad smile. You pull one of his hands from your face and press it between yours.

“So.” He shrugs. “Where is he? Huh? I feel like I’m the proxy for a dead man.”

You sigh. Your thoughts coming straight off Steve’s lips. “He says I’m better at ‘all this’ than he is. He ‘trusts me.’”

“He’s–fuck.”

“You’re cursing a lot, bear.”

His face lights up at the affectionate title. “I’m sorry I haven’t been truthful.”

“Lay it on me. Please.”

Steve promptly sits beside you, shoulder pressed to yours. You loop your arm with his and wait.

“I… yeah. I hate him,” he admits. “Brings out the ugliest parts of me. I never got jealous when you dated in school, but he made you draw a line, and I assumed (incorrectly or not) that it meant one day you’d have to stop talking to me. Which–when I called you from the bar? Remember that?”

You smile. “The day after Sam’s birthday? When you were shouting over the aggressive ABBA sing-along?”

“Yeah. I called Bucky, and I told him I needed him to take me out and get me wasted, and not ask me any questions.”

“He succeeded. You were barely intelligible–”

“Brock talked to me.”

The way your eyes widen has him nodding right away. “Yeah. He told me to play my little game, because you were never gonna leave him.”

“When the fuck did he say that?”

“After you told me he didn’t feel comfortable with me being your Man of Honor. I approached him on Sam’s birthday while you were doing the cake prep. Told him I hoped there were no hard feelings, that I was happy for you guys… he laughed in my face. He’s got a real ugly side when he drinks, bug.”

You swallow hard. “Jesus. I sent our invitations out before the party.”

“Yep. Which is why I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. The panic you would’ve had after two margaritas…”

“I would’ve gotten sick.”

He rubs your arm. “You were already so stressed out–”

“I had a panic attack at the post office. Mom had to pry the box out of my hands in front of a very concerned postal worker.”

“What–you did?”

“That’s why I cried when you handed me a drink,” you snort. Your head falls onto his shoulder. “Can I ask you a question? No frills.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you feel differently if I was engaged to someone you liked?”

“Hmm.” He glances down at you, but his face is shadowed with the street lamp behind him so you can’t fully tell what he’s thinking. But he points at your ring and holds out his hand. You slip your fingers into his without question. You know every groove in those fingers, by touch. He lifts your ring towards the amber glow.

“No. I wouldn’t. I’d still lose you in every way that matters.” Your blood thrums in your ears as he works the massive diamond from your finger with ease. “If he knew you at all,” he murmurs, “there would be a garnet on this finger. 14k gold, small band. Initials engraved in the band–E.M.R.”

“Bear,” you breathe. The corner of his mouth turns up. He wiggles the end of his pinky into your ring, and then leans forward so he can kiss the imprint of the stone on your skin.

“But then–I’d be pretty pissed if he proposed with my grandmother’s ring,” he says softly. “You ever thought about it, buggy?” When he looks at you next, he’s so close to your face that you shiver. It doesn’t take much to press your forehead to his.

“At first, no… especially with our moms always talking about it,” you say. He laughs. “But you asked Peggy to prom senior year and I thought the earth was gonna fall out from under me.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Once I went off to school, I dreamed about you showing up at my dorm in the middle of the night to tell me you needed me. Breaks were worse, especially Summer when I could set my watch by your morning text, asking me what we were gonna do that day. But you grew up quick, and way less awkwardly than I did, and there was no way you’d ever, ever like me. So, when I met Brock, and he was the first guy besides you to ever think I was worth spending time around, it sorta felt like my only chance. I think… I think I knew you didn’t like him when I brought him home that first time. I convinced myself that you wouldn’t let me move to the city with Brock if you didn’t like him. I still can’t believe you moved here, too. Or that you’re here, right now–”

He kisses your temple, and your throat closes off for a second. “I have loved you since you hopped outta that moving truck when we were ten. I wanted to ask you to Prom, by the way, but you told me you were gonna go with Carol and Maria.”

Your eyes flutter open and you glare at him, mouth agape. “We’re idiots.”

He laughs. “Yeah, bug. A pair of dumbasses.”

“God.” Your fingers trace his jaw like it’s new territory. “I–I don’t think I like Brock, either.”

“No?”

You shake your head. “He’s not–whatever. He’s not you, Steve, and that makes him deficient in every way.”

He sits back from you, carding a hand through his hair, almost like he doesn't believe you. “What are you going to do?”

“Ask me.”

“What–”

You cup his cheek. “Not to marry him.”

It takes him two seconds to get with the program. Steve holds the engagement ring which is wrong for you between two fingers. He slides off the bench and kneels on the sidewalk once again, making you cringe, but at least you can see his eyes again—nearly green from the lamplight. He rubs your knee with his free hand.

“Don’t put this back on. It’s not right for you to be with somebody who doesn’t jump at the chance to watch you learn to waltz.” When he smiles, your whole future settles into view. “But if you want to spend every day feeling like someone breathes because you do, then… I know a guy. And I know a ring, with my name on it. And if you’re game… could be your name too.”

The lights bathe the entire street in some kind of magical glow, and this is exactly how you dreamed of Steve Rogers when you were a smitten teen. Well… not with his knees on concrete, with another man’s promise in his hand, but with that sweet smile… offering you a world which was always yours. You just didn’t know it until he offered.

“My mom is gonna be pissed,” you breathe. “She just picked out her dress.”

Steve’s face breaks into a triumphant grin and he swoops his arms around you, twirling you around and around until you’re dizzy with laughter. When he sets you on your feet again, he hugs you so tight that you can feel his heart thumping.

“She will get over not hosting a hundred person party. Your mom loves me, bug,” he murmurs.

“It’s easy to love you. Wait—“

He hovers over you, so tempted to kiss you, but he holds off when you touch his lips.

“Once I give it back. Then I’ll kiss you.”

“And?” His ears perk up, and you can’t help but laugh.

“I’m yours.”

“Better get you home, then.”

“You are home, bear. Since we were ten.”

“If you don’t stop that, I might cry.”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Come on.” You nod towards the prior block, where he is parked. He tucks Brock’s ring into the toes of your dance shoes, and practically skips back to his car. He pulls open the door for you, and jogs around to the driver’s seat. You’re hardly buckled before he’s peeling out.

–

Brock isn’t home.

Leaving is easy when you look around a place where you lived with a person, who never liked your taste much. Staring at art he chose, and the colors he likes, and the fireplace he refused to use so he’d never have to clean it… it’s strange that you would ever have thought this was a life you could settle into comfortably. It’s not Steve’s place, which is filled with antiques from going upstate in the Summer with you, and funny paintings found at flea markets, and the constellation motif he let you paint on the ceiling of the bathroom when you both had one too many tequila shots. Nothing about Brock’s apartment draws you in, or makes you want to stay.

You set the ring on the counter, spotless from his meticulous cleaning routine, with a short note vague enough to leave Steve out of it, and clear enough to let him know that you’re calling off the wedding.

Then, you take your wedding dress out of the spare room closet where you buried it behind golf clubs Brock never used. Turns it out was bad luck for your impending nuptials for Steve to see you in it.

When you descend the front stairs of your building, Steve is leaning against his car, nervously tapping his foot.

“How’d it go?”

“He wasn’t there. I have no idea where he is. Haven’t heard from him all day,” you realize. “Couldn’t think of anything else to take.”

He clocks the garment bag over your shoulder and holds out a hand for it. “Ooh, you grabbed the gown,” he says appreciatively, hanging the hook over the ceiling handle behind the driver’s seat.

“You never said you liked it on me.” You wink when he turns on you with panic. He scoffs.

“The things it made me think of were not gentlemanly to say at the time,” he chuckles, sitting in the driver’s seat again. Once you’re seated, he leans over and kisses your cheek. “You didn’t wanna grab clothes, or anything?”

“…Steven, I have two drawers of clothing at your place, and most of the time I’m over, I steal your shirts.”

That makes him grin. “What’s mine is yours, bug.”

“Your… lips?”

“Especially those.”

You’ve dreamed of kissing him since puberty. An embarrassing amount. Your first kiss was abysmal on principle, because it wasn’t with Steve. This kiss is twenty years of loving each other at arm’s length, demolished. He’s gentle, and the angle is difficult across the center console, but boy if it doesn’t feel like he was put on this earth to kiss you.

Part 2

thanks for reading! :)

Kate’s masterlist - Marvel Masterlist

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers oneshot #best friend!steve rogers

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