#and the fact that it only plays once here for each “phrase” instead of twice/four times in a row

[wist-eri]

okay so this track is so good what if i went insane

[anika-ann]

Attached: Word Is that We Might Work It Out

Type: Modern-college-professor AU - part of Attached series 

Pairing: professor!Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 6850🙈

Summary: You said yes to Professor Rogers – Steve – taking you out for ‘coffee’. Ball’s in your court – and you decide to make your move. 

A date, maybe first of many, maybe not. A date with the gorgeous professor who happened to read your erotica about him. What could possibly go wrong? 

Warnings:  alcohol consumption, professor-student relationship and unspecified age gap, language, lots of fluff

A/N: Timeline-wise, this one-shot fits in after chapter four of Attached!!! At the end, you can find the reason behind me writing this. You can consider it one big flashback, if you will 😅 Gif by capchrisevaans.

Series masterlist | previous in timeline

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

You lasted one day. One full day since the encounter in the office, since Professor Rogers admitted he would like to take you out for coffee or something similar. Since you two exchanged numbers.

It took you twenty-four hours – maybe less – to decide that so what if that might be a bad idea. It was not against the university rules and Professor Steve Rogers was a fucking specimen who also seemed to be a genuinely nice human being and if you allowed yourself to play chicken just because something only might go wrong in the future, you’d be an idiot.

Penny, your roomie, wholeheartedly agreed. She actually punched the air in victory as you were nursing a greasy lunch due to the wild-ish celebration of the end of the semester together the night prior and you just said to the void: “You know what, screw it. I’m gonna go for it.”

You didn’t even have to say what you were talking about – Professor Rogers had been the topic ever since the faithful Monday.

So you texted him that if the offer still stood, you’d like to meet up on Friday evening. Was he free?

Hey, Y/N :) Thank you for reaching out. Friday sounds great. Do you have anything specific in mind?

“Dude. He’s such a cutie. Who even texts like that?” Penny chuckled, a wide grin on her face as you couldn’t but read the text out loud.

“I texted him like that.”

“Touché. Because you want to impress mister ‘hot as fuck intellectual’ there.”

You just rolled your eyes, neither confirming nor denying. Mostly because Penny was right. But he was the first to use an emoji and… yeah, cutie indeed.

Well, I never say no to dinner and I’m down for almost anything-

“I bet you are,” Penny hummed to your ear and you swung after her blindly and thought of a better phrasing.

Well, I never say no to a dinner and I’m not picky. You choose. Seven-ish sounds good?

“Spoilsport.”

“Stop reading over my shoulder!” you chuckled and bit your lip as the answer came almost immediately.

Seven is alright. I’ll think of something to treat a girl right ;)

Your stomach made a small somersault, your face instantly radiating heat at the possible innuendo. The phone vibrated again before you could fully process the image your mind painted of him actually saying it in his gentle timbre.

Just so we’re clear, what is the nature of the dinner? It can be whatever you feel comfortable with.

Your heart leaped into your throat, hammering wildly.

That was the question, wasn’t it? Since you texted him, you made one thing clear with yourself. If you were doing this, it was going to be a date. You wouldn’t be doing things by halves.

Penny next to you made a noise that sounded as something between an aww and her gagging on nothing. “He’s disgustingly considerate for a man his age planning on going out with a girl your age.”

“He’s not that much older,” you protested instantly, frowning. He wasn’t. She knew that; you had both done your research. “And I think it’s amazing.”

You caught Penny’s smile from the corner of your eye as you typed.

“Well, it is kinda sweet. And I know he’s not, I’m messing with you. It’s just-- DON’T SEND HIM THAT!”

“Why?” you questioned, looking at her quizzically and totally clicking on send on purpose at the same time.

I’d be comfortable with a date if you are.

“It’s so lame. Of course he’s comfortable with a date, he suggested it. Duh.”

The reply came way too fast and Penny chuckled behind you as your jaw went slack.

“You know what? Don’t mind me. Good job. Keep it up,” Penny patted your shoulder as you stared at the screen where Professor Steven Grant Rogers just texted you a damn heart.

It’s a date <3

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

It was a date indeed.

Steve texted you an address on Friday morning (along with an adorable good morning :) ), apologizing that he couldn’t pick you up, making sure you’d be alright getting there on your own. You found it absolutely sweet, considerate and smart. You suspected that his ‘inability’ to pick you up had something to do with the fact that you lived at the dorms and if he showed up there, it would be trending in the university chit-chat room within five minutes.

You spent a better part of the Friday afternoon researching the place and the weather forecast so you could dress accordingly and getting ready.

You were not ready for a date with Steve Rogers however; your nerves were a mess and nothing could ever prepare you for when he showed up perfectly on time in front of the restaurant---- wearing a suit no less.

How were you supposed to function when he was wearing such elegant clothing, a suit he filled up so fucking well?! And he looked just as breath-taking as always, stupidly perfect beard and slightly tousled hair you just wanted to run your fingers through and his smile was so gorgeous and--- Jesus Fucking Christ, the suit- how could you even put words together when looking at him-

“Wow, I feel so underdressed now.”

Clearly, you could speak just fine, only you lost your brain-to-mouth filter. Also, your mouth might have started watering and your heart was pounding like crazy. You would not survive tonight.

But, you also had a point. The restaurant was supposed to be a nice place, but relatively plain. And he showed up in amazingly fitting dress pants, white shirt, a tie and a suit jacket. So yes, you did feel underdressed.

“Oh no, no! You’re not,” he rushed to reassure you, eyeing your semi-leisure white dress with burgundy flowers with an attentive gaze that had you shifting your weight nervously. “I’m overdressed if anything. Sticking out like a sore thumb, I’m sorry.”

You could always just strip the suit jacket, was your first thought, but luckily for you, this time you managed to contain the words before they got out to the open.

“You’re fine,” you said instead, not knowing how else to react; needless to say you were grateful for the smile he gave you despite the double meaning.

Yes, he was fine indeed. Always. It was unfair, really.

“Thanks. You too. In fact, you look beautiful.”

Your heart stopped in your chest, your mind suddenly racing a mile per minute.

It was ridiculous. It was just a word. But for one, it was spoken so kindly and genuinely you couldn’t but think he meant it, for two, it was Professor Steve Rogers who told you that and--- beautiful.

You couldn’t remember a guy ever calling you beautiful.

Cute? Sure. Pretty? Maybe. Hot? Might have happened once or twice . But beautiful?

You might actually swoon.

And you were so lost in your head that you couldn’t but silently stare at the lethally handsome man in front of you and then it again registered in your brain that this was your fucking crush speaking to you and he was on a date with you and he had read your erotica, one that was about him no less-

Your face was set aflame in an instant and you… you couldn’t let out a word.

“It everything okay? Did I… did I say something wrong?” Steve asked hesitantly, a concerned wrinkle appearing between his brows and it reminded you of all the times you had seen him wearing such thoughtful expression in the two classes he taught instead of Professor Barnes and-

You were screwed.

Tonight was going to be a disaster.

“No, uhm, no, sorry--- maybe we should go inside or-“ you muttered, lightly gesturing towards the door and could you get any more awkward?

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

He let you walk in first like a real gentleman, the lightest skim of his fingers on your lower back, which caused your heartbeat to skyrocket; and only when the hostess seated you, you realized you never accepted his kind compliment.

It was too late for that now, you assumed, so you sipped at the still water which waited at each table, and repeated like a mantra to yourself that you needed to get your shit together otherwise you’d ruin your shot before the night even started.

But clearly, you succeeded at that already.

Whatever awkward aura you had around yourself, it seemed to extend now to him too – he shifted slightly in his seat (he had pulled out your chair for you before, because of course he had), his shoulders stiff. Despite that, he smiled at you over the menu.

“So… all exams worked out? Enjoying the freedom?” he asked casually.

“Oh, yes. Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” you uttered with a forced smile, your stomach twisted unpleasantly.  

For some reason, you felt like you were having a lame attempt at small talk with a professor, which you were, but it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

Not tonight. Not on a date.

What were you even doing here? What were you playing at? Professor Steve Rogers was entirely out of your league, gorgeous, funny, kind and smart and here you were, barely making conversation.

It was pathetic really. It was embarrassing for both of you.

“You up to anything fun?” he queried, the question less enthusiastic than the one before. He was already growing tired of making your uncooperative brain work at least a bit, it was obvious.

Your gulped as the memory of last night popped in your head – staying in, quiet evening, in a mood for some dirty writing--- oh bless, another reminder of why this dinner was and should be really weird.

Steve read your smutty story. The one about him.

“Nothing special,” you squealed silently, earning a plain nod. “Eh, we went out with Penny, my roommate and best friend in one person. But mostly I just stayed in and--- caught up on sleeping.”

“I know what that’s like,” Steve hummed, clearly as grateful as you were when the waiter appeared by your table to take your orders.

Silence stretched as the man left, your hand beginning to fiddle with the neatly folded napkin on the table, lump growing in your throat due to your nerves.

“What about you? Anything… fun?” you asked reluctantly, noticing a brief smile passing Steve’s lips. Pretty, sinfully pretty lips. Perfect. Untouchable for mere mortals like you.

“Oh, not much. Few exam sittings, faculty meetings – we had one now, hence the suit-“

“You came here right from school?” you blurted out, startled – and clearly surprising him with your rudeness. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Yes, I did. We have a meeting every last Friday of the month.”

“Oh my god, you must be so tired,” you sympathized with him quietly, the uneasy feeling in your stomach only growing. He came here straight from work and for this? “Why didn’t you say something? We could have postponed or something.”

Steve swiftly shook his head, his warm hand landing on yours, gently stopping your restless fingers. This time, it was butterflies in your stomach erupting with life, the sweet comforting gesture warming your heart. He wanted to be here. He came here for you. He was interested in you.

And the feeling was mutual. So why was it being so weird then?

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m glad you reached out. I’m glad that you said yes in the first place,” he admitted, features softening despite the tension in his shoulders never leaving. His brows furrowed as he slowly withdrew his hand – it must have been an automatic reaction then. “I’m not that tired and… and maybe I was little worried that if I asked for a different date, then…”

He trailed off and your lips parted in surprise, your heart swelling in your chest at what he was implying.

Did he think you’d back out? Did he think that all the potential obstacles intimidated you too much? That you’d think it wasn’t worth it? That it wouldn’t work out anyway?

Seeing as you were now, you couldn’t blame him. Despite him being the world’s most charming man, here you were, being… not at all yourself, stressing for no reason.

It seemed to you that had had chemistry, back there in his office. This date made sense. When you imagined how this could unfold, well, it went a bit differently too. There was considerably less embarrassment going around.

This was why you preferred writing to speaking. That’s why you liked daydreaming. Because reality was often less than ideal, no script, awkward silences, misunderstandings…

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your food arrived.

You both thanked the waiter politely and you hoped that at least now you’d have a good excuse for the lack of normal conversation.

“What are you sorry for?”

You sighed and nibbled on your lower lip, not missing the way his gaze instinctively flickered there, pupils dilating just a fraction – but enough for you to notice. Your heart skipped a pleased beat – but the undeniable physical attraction couldn’t be enough.

“For this,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. His features twisted in disappointment and something that looked a lot like regret flashed in his eyes. “I want to be here, Steve. I really do. I don’t know what’s wrong with me-“

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you,” he was quick to oppose and you couldn’t help it as a wry chuckle escaped you.

“Well, there’s certainly nothing wrong with you. And still, there’s this…”

“…tension?”

You wished.

“Sort of? But not the fun kind, for sure.”

He grimaced, but a spark of amusement lit up his blue irises. “Awkward air around us?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed victoriously as he voiced exactly what you were thinking. Then you quickly lowered your voice, looking around. Luckily, no one stared at you. You realized you leaned closer to him over the table, your heart racing at that, but you didn’t withdraw; it was a lovely opportunity to get even a better look at his perfect face. “But I don’t know why!” You knew why. “I like you, Steve-“

“I like you too. And I know I already said that, but you look stunning.”

Your cheeks burned again, but this time, you managed to stutter out a thank you at least. Stunning, Jesus, was he for real?

“T-thank you. You look incredibly handsome too. Then again you always do—why did I say that.”

One corner of his lips quirked up.

“Why thank you, I’m glad you did. The feeling’s mutual, believe me.”

“Then why does this feel like one of the most awkward dates I’ve ever been to?!” you whisper-yelled, causing him to chuckle, the tips of his ears turning red.

His hand once again landed on yours, this time deliberately, the gesture warming you in more than one way.

“Well… I’m nervous. You might be too.” You hummed in agreement. Was that all it was? “But the way you said it, at least it seems to me that it could have been worse, right? More awkward?”

You felt the corners of your lips rise at the remark, shrugging. He had a point there. And he squeezed your hand a bit and good Lord, it should not be making your heart race so much, but he was touching you and he was being really sweet and his fingers were nice and warm and long-

“Tell me.”

You blinked in surprise, realizing you had been staring at your joined hands. You raised your gaze, finding him watching you with a subtle smile.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me about the most awkward date you have ever been to,” he clarified, his thumb caressing your wrist.

You only hesitated for a beat before you nodded in agreement, god knew why. Perhaps you did need a reminder that this could have gone much more disastrously and it was mostly your traitorous brain telling you that you were messing everything up.

Plus, Steve deserved whatever he wanted – so far, he was the only reason this date wasn’t as disastrous as it could be.

“Okay. You ever been to a speed dating event, Steve? Because I have.”

“Oh, this is ought to be good,” he noted with another squeeze to your hand, before he released you. Shame. He sipped at his wine and dug into his pasta. “I’m all ears.”

This is ought to be good, Steve said. Well, maybe. You certainly hadn’t thought so at the time.

Explaining to Steve that as you had been under duress from no other than Penny, you both went to the event which promised you meeting ten dashing men in only an hour. You’d get five minutes with each, as anonymous as you’d wished to be, receiving a folder with nothing but a table with the first names of the men and a yes and no option and a line for your own notes about them.

You weren’t sure what to think of it – but after three epically failed Tinder attempts, you agreed to try. If nothing else, you’d gain a new experience.

And an experience had it been. You even lasted a month with one of the guys, but you didn’t tell Steve that. It wasn’t important.

André was.

André Whatever-was-his-last-name – because that was how it worked, no last names – definitely believed he was important. With the guys moving around the tables from one woman to another, spending five minutes with each, you could already hear André closing to your station from two tables over.

He was hard to tune out, courtesy of the colour of his voice, extremely unpleasant to your ears, and him never letting the woman he faced talk. Always interrupting. Always turning the conversation around so it would be about him.

Asshole.

You liked to think you weren’t quick to judge people, but André was making you cringe before you were even introduced. And then you actually were.

A minute into his monologue to you, you felt like you were being tortured.

And then the waitress managed to stumble and spill a glass of white wine – partly over your table, but mostly on the floor. At least she caught the glass and you had but a tiny spot on your dress.

“She was apologizing so profusely and I wasn’t thinking, okay. I went for the napkins few tables over to help and— I didn’t realize I put the open folder down for everyone to see,” you explained, feeling like face-palming when you remembered the night.

Steve watched you in anticipation, a small smirk and a knowing look on his face as he guessed you had already circled ‘no’ for André at the time.

Oh, you wished it were that simple. You felt your cheeks burn hot as you continued.

“André read it, of course. Obviously, he already got a hard ‘no’ from me, but… I might have written a tiny note for myself as to why,” you admitted and Steve’s eyebrow rose minutely, his curiosity piqued even more.

You took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t exactly kind to him. It was something along the lines of self-important asshole who probably compensated for something.” Steve huffed in amusement. But oh, if he only knew... you sighed and continued. “And If Draco Malfoy and Gilderoy Lockhart had a love child, this would be him.”

No sound came from your companion this time and your teeth anxiously sank into our lower lip, your pulse wavering. What was Steve thinking? Did he think you had been rude? Mean even? Nerdy? All of the above?

He stared at you for full three seconds, clearly rendered speechless by your harsh judgement.

And then he burst out laughing.

Suffocating weight fell from your shoulders and you silently joined him as you explained yourself.

“I was in my Harry Potter phase! And in my defence, I think it was actually pretty accurate...”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, sweetheart,” Steve chuckled lightly before laughing some more, irises twinkling with amusement and something… softer.

You shuddered upon hearing the endearment spill unwittingly from his lips, upon seeing the emotion on his face.  And maybe you were a little proud of yourself for making him laugh and lose the tension in his shoulders completely.

“It was one of the longest and most awkward three minutes of my life, the silence that followed,” you huffed, massaging your forehead. “He did not appreciate the comparison.”

“I bet,” Steve cackled, taking another bite of his meal, smile playing in the corner of his lips as he swallowed and continued. “But you’ve got to give it to him, he knew his Harry Potter characters.”

“Ha! My thoughts exactly. But that’s a little bit of weak base for dating, I think, especially since I kinda already hated him.”

“Oh, you did? I didn’t catch that,” Steve joked lightly, causing you to smile despite the horrid memory.

And funnily enough, telling him and remembering it… it did make you feel better and more at ease with him.

“Ha ha ha, laugh it up, Professor. Your turn.”

“I’m sorry?” he said, clearly puzzled. It didn’t escape your notice as his voice faltered, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the addressing.

Oh, so that’ s still a thing. You couldn’t but smirk a bit at that.

“An awkward date. You have to share now, it’s only fair,” you shrugged, only for a terrible realization to dawn on you. “Please tell me there is at least one awkward date story, Steve. Tell me this isn’t really your worst date ever.”

He shook his head with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, there’s plenty. I’m just trying to think about one that won’t scare you away from me. I’d hate that.”

One corner of his lips raised, he looked you up and down, lingering on your lips for a bit before meeting your gaze, something you could only hope was fondness and wanton in his eyes. Your breath hitched, heat pooling in your abdomen at the thorough onceover despite the gentle tone of his voice.

Fuck how could he make you feel hot and soft at the same time.

Unable to stand the intensity of his stare, you lowered your gaze and gulped, your stomach making an excited slip. He did want you. You had been being silly, letting your nerves get the better of you.

Clearing your throat, you willed yourself to look up, finding him still watching closely – and perhaps, there was a hint of a red to his cheeks, the tip of his ears burning as if despite the blatant flirting, he was unsure of himself too, because he didn’t want to mess up with you either.

You found it absolutely endearing and your heart swelled. The way you got to see there was more to him than his professor side and his dashing looks… you felt incredibly lucky. The more you got to interact with him, the more it wasn’t just your sinful thoughts belonging to him – he was quickly working on stealing your heart as well.

Plucking up your courage, you were the one to reach out this time, carefully sweeping your thumb over the back of his hand, smiling.

“I’m not scared off all that easily, Steve.”

He mirrored your genuine smile, a glint of something you couldn’t read lighting up his eyes.

“That’s good to know,” he said lowly and sighed, narrowing his eyes as if he was assessing you again. “Alright, here goes…”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

You actually managed to get one more awkward date story from Steve, because frankly, his experiences were hilarious. And surprise surprise, he was a great narrator. Plus, while he talked, you could ogle him shamelessly without fear of looking strange.

But you guessed that since you were on a date, you could ogle him anyway. He didn’t seem to mind; in fact, whenever he got the opportunity, he reciprocated it. It finally did feel like a date, the air growing thicker as you gradually shifted closer and closer, the light touches prolonging, feet meeting under the table without parting as soon as they made contact.

Your belly kept warming up with each smile and laugh, with every second of the intense eye contact, with every flicker of his gaze to your lips and vice versa. Sharing a dessert was a terrible idea, because you wanted kiss the crumbs sticking on his lips away. You teased each other, you complimented each other – with Steve absolutely winning the undeclared contest – and you realized that despite sharing your most embarrassing dates with each other at the beginning, this was the absolute best you had ever been to.

And you didn’t want it to end.

The light sweater you had brought with you did nothing to shield you from the surprisingly lukewarm wind. As you wandered the streets, Steve finally heard out one of your first thoughts you had had when meeting him today – he shrugged off his suit jacket.

Which… yum. The seams of his shirt were crying for help and you could only think fo one way of helping them – taking his shirt off too. But alas, Steve didn’t continue the striptease, probably because you were on the street. Instead, he did the most wholesome thing and held out the jacket for you to slip into.

You only hesitated a moment, teeth sinking into your lower lip. How could you say no to that?

“That’s awfully cliché and really sweet at the same time,” you muttered, causing him to shrug, one corner of his lips raised in a smirk as he helped you put it on, forefinger most definitely deliberately caressing the side of your throat before withdrawing.

A shudder ran down your spine, electrifying feeling going straight to your core. The whiff of whatever cologne he was wearing enveloped you, clouding your senses. Goddammit he smelled so good.

“Maybe I just want to see you in my clothes,” he hummed, the suggestive remark knocking the breath straight out of your lungs.

Stepping to your side from behind your back, you caught a glimpse of his expression – a little bit smug, a little bit panicked as it probably registered with him just how much suggestive it was, perhaps crossing a line.

It was absolutely not crossing the line, because the thought of wearing his clothes, preferably grabbing it because you couldn’t find yours after you threw it all around the room as you frantically stripped each other was making your head spin in the best way.

“Maybe I’d really enjoy wearing your clothes after you rip off mine.”

Steve’s jaw went slack, a choked noise leaving him and you couldn’t but laugh at his dumbstruck expression. Surprise, professor, you little shit. I can keep up.

“That was… mean,” he said, clearing his throat. Your eyebrows rose, pot calling the kettle back style. “But I see how I deserved that.”

“Damn right… but that doesn’t mean it’s a lie,” you shrugged, chuckling at the exasperated look he shot you.

‘Man, she’s gonna fuck you up on a whole new level and I’ll be here for it in the front row with a bowl of popcorn,’ Barnes’ words to Steve which you weren’t meant to hear echoed in your head, making you grin.

The teasing was intense, yet you felt comfortable in it. You blamed Steve and his nature – he already felt like a guy to go lengths to make you feel at ease enough; the way he had kept insisting on you choosing whether this was a date or not only proved it. He made it easy to be yourself, making you feel like you could.

And he made it perfectly clear that he was enjoying seeing you like that, that he appreciated you as you were.

But the closer you got to the campus, the more the reality was settling in, your laughter fading, butterflies and heat replaced by anxiety. He was still a professor. If you went for it, it wouldn’t always be uncomplicated like this. The awkwardness crept in as your steps grew slower, the inevitable arriving.

He couldn’t walk you home, to walk you to the dorm, even if the desire to do so radiated from every fibre of his being. He couldn’t do that for the same reason he hadn’t picked you up.

You came to a stop, feeling like there was this invisible border to a safe, students-free part of the city, the line you couldn’t cross side by side.

“So, uhm… this is it, huh?” Steve hummed, grim. You appreciated the lame attempt at a smile though and reciprocated, turning to face him.

“Looks like it.”

Heavy silence settled over you pair. Your eyes trailed all over him, lingering on his face, noting as he did the same. He was beautiful; you didn’t care you should say that about a man. He was. The light in his eyes dimmed compared to that just a few moments ago, but it was still there, expression soft, almost as soft as his beard looked, causing your fingers to twitch in need to run them over it and pull him in for a kiss.

Your lips tingled as the idea. You had never kissed a man with a beard and you wanted to know how it felt. The fact it was Steve only sealed the deal and made the need grow exponentially.

You wanted to kiss him so bad. But here you stood, unable to move, unable to speak. You sighed.

“Would you-“ “I want to-“

“Sorry,” you and him said at the same time again, laughing it off quietly, your fingers running through your hair.

Your stomach clenched when you noticed his eyes following the movement almost wistfully.

“You go first,” he prompted you gently.

You didn’t argue – if you learned one thing tonight, it was that Steve was a gentleman and that was so rare these days that you wouldn’t want to discourage him from being that way. Even if you really wanted to know what he was about to say, as soon as possible.

“I… I just want to say thank you. For the… for the date. I had a good time, so I hope you had too, at least a little,” you offered lamely, feeling blood rushing to your cheeks.

Like a schoolgirl blushing in front of her professor. Jesus, why were you being like this again.

Steve didn’t seem to find you as awkward as you felt however, your name slipping from his lips, kind and soft.

“I had a very good time. You’re amazing.” Your lips parted at the blatant and genuine compliment. His eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, that came out so strong, I didn’t mean to put you in spot like that-“

Stronger than ‘maybe I just want to see you in my clothes?’ you asked yourself. No, you didn’t think so. It was just that the playfulness had left at least two blocks back.

This felt more serious. More intimate.

“Ditto,” you whispered, gracing him with a shy smile he instantly mirrored. “But hey, I already knew that, so…”

He chuckled, shaking his head lightly, his smile only growing. When he looked at you again, his eyes were the beautiful warm blue that made you weak in the knees.

“Would you like to do something like that again?” he queried lowly.

Yes. YES. YES PLEASE. Minus the awkwardness at the beginning and the one a moment ago, preferably.  

“Yeah. I’d like that,” you agreed simply, taking note of how his face lit up even more.

How could a man be so indescribably hot and yet adorable enough to tug at your heartstrings?

“Good. I’m glad.”

He tugged at your hand unexpectedly, pulling you to your left, his other hand steadying you by gently grasping your forearm.

Before you could question his actions, a pair of men swaying in a drunken haze passed you, having no care in the world for whom they might crash into.

“Thanks,” blurted out lowly, sparing a second to shoot their backs a dirty glare.

But Steve’s hands were still on you, distracting, as you stood face to face, chest to chest, a little too close, a little too far. Your heart sped up in your ribcage, breathing picking up in anticipation. So close…

But all Steve did was to squeeze your forearm reassuringly, lifting your joined hands to his face.

Just like the day you agreed to get coffee with him, he kissed your knuckles, only this time it was much firmer. His smile was sweet and utterly irresistible as he kept looking at your face and you felt all the worries about the future melt away once again.

He was so precious and this felt so right and--- you didn’t want him to kiss your hand.

Well, you wanted it, but you wanted more too.

You had been aching to kiss that mouth since you had first set eyes on him, on that inhumanly gorgeous and hot creature. You were on a date, you both had a great time and clearly he was giving you the opportunity to decide how far you wanted to take this, because as much as every little touch of his made to crazy, the displays of affection were positively chaste.

And you wanted to take it very very far.

Your rational brain wouldn’t let you just hop into sac with him today, but fuck, you could do with a kiss. You wanted to feel that perfectly trimmed beard of his and you wanted to taste him.

Did he?

You stepped even closer as he let go of your hand, distracting you minutely; due to the sudden proximity, it landed on his chest and Jesus fucking Christ he was firm.

Your fingers clutched at the white fabric of his shirt as you observed his face, your gaze inevitably flickering to his lips. Glancing up once more to find him still watching you intently, pupils dilated, your breath caught in your throat, heat stirring in your belly.

Rising to your tiptoes, you gripped the fabric tighter and shortly pressed your lips to his.

It was a funny feeling – lips hot, soft and slightly chapped, a stark contrast to the beard, less rough than you expected, leaving a tingly sensation behind. It was different; exciting and addicting. Before he could react and before you could think twice, you kissed him again, this time lingering for a few seconds, your eyelids falling shut.

Your heart fluttered when you felt his lips reluctantly respond just as you withdrew, his grip on your arm tightening. You ran your tongue over your lips to savour the feeling, mouth instinctively curling up in a smile, gaze meeting his.

Little wrinkles appeared around his eyes as he smiled as well.

“You okay?”

You nodded, almost too eagerly, lowering back to your whole feet. Involuntarily, your gaze flickered to his mouth again, wanting more.

“Uhm… beard,” you piped up unhelpfully, pressing your lips together as soon as the admission left them.

Steve’s smile widened as he once again grasped your hand, leading it to cup his face – not before he dropped a kiss to your palm.

You almost let out a very embarrassing whine at the curious sensation, your mind, still enveloped in Steve’s warmth and cologne, wondering how the beard would feel elsewhere.

Your fingers unwittingly caressed the hair, thumb brushing his lips, unable to resist.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, lips parting, hot breath fanning over your skin as watched you.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed out and that was it – you pressed against the soft swollen flesh at the pet name, causing a low grumble echo in Steve’s chest.

And then his hand slid to your waist, the other sinking into your hair, and he pulled up into a kiss that had nothing to do with how patient he had been before. He was still a gentleman, but it was a close call – he angled your head to his liking, his lips dancing with yours in a sensual dance with just a tease of tongue licking at the seam of your lips, causing you to sigh in bliss, granting him access.

He hummed appreciatively, the sound shaking your bones as he held you flat against him, the heat of his body seeping into yours – as if every nerve ending in your body wasn’t on fire already. He breathed you in, consumed you entirely – there were no other words for it.

There weren’t many words you could think of to begin with, too busy feeling his broad shoulders under your palm, fingers roaming to find the soft hair at his nape, revelling at the taste of him, just a smidge of tongue and you wanted more, your insides twisting in need--- and oh, your back was pressed against a wall now.

You let out a small startled sound which Steve instantly swallowed – but it was a good wake up call for you both. The motions of his lips slowed, softened, a gentle caress more than anything, his thumb stroking your cheek.

Breathless, you chased after his mouth when he retreated, earning one small peck and then another. He rested his forehead against yours, nose briefly skimming yours, causing you to smile and meet his gaze.

“Sorry,” he muttered and you genuinely wanted to slap his arm or something for apologizing for that. Because you knew what you’d be thinking about for the next few hours, days even, hell, probably weeks. “For springing out like that. I just… wanted to do that for a long time.”

The admission had your heart skip a beat and you couldn’t but lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth – and nope, you weren’t over how it felt, his beard against your lips. You wouldn’t be over it for a long time, you suspected.

“Me too.”

“So… we’re doing this again, right?“

You smirked up at him as he reluctantly released you. “You springing out like that or-“

“Don’t test me, babygirl,” he nearly growled, causing your eyes going wide as saucers, feeling as if you were sucker punched to your gut – and liked it.

Babygirl. Jesus, he was going to be the death of you.

“You can spring out like that again too,” you chimed, your voice sounding a bit strangled, because holy shit he just called you that. His gaze flickered all over your face, a shade darker than before. Your underwear was thoroughly ruined with that single look… and the earlier make-out session. “But if we’re talking second dates, I’d definitely do that too.”

He huffed and shook his head, a chuckle escaping him.

“You’re a minx…. I think I like it.”

You grinned at him and then sighed regretfully, reaching to slip off the jacket, which made him frown.

“You could give it back later.”

“Don’t tempt me… don’t want to rob you of it--- and there would be questions,” you explained, knowing that even walking around the campus like what would raise rumours of god knew what.

Like, maybe someone would think some gentleman like Professor Steve Rogers himself lent it to you or something, gee, where would that come from...

Steve nodded in understanding, accepting the jacket and shrugging it on.

“Plus, I’m thoroughly warmed up,” you added cheekily, causing him to chuckle incredulously again. With a sigh, he leaned in, cradling your jaw in one large hand and pressed a sweet lingering kiss to your forehead.

You could melt on spot.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Let me know when you get home safe?” he asked of you gently, tugging at your heartstrings some more, because of course he did.

“I will. You too?”

His smile was soft and sweet as he promised to do so, clearly touched by your care. Well, that made two of you.

“Goodnight, Steve. Thank you for tonight.”

“Thank you.”

You breathed in deeply, dropping a last kiss to his cheek and quickly spun on your heels to walk away – because if you wavered a second longer, you might have not left at all.

Sure, you looked back at him several times, finding him standing where you had left him, his eyes following your receding figure. But you kept walking.

And once you couldn’t see him anymore, you broke into a fit of giggles, hiding your face in your palms to muffle your delighted squeal.

You were just coming back to the dorms from the date with Steve Rogers.

And despite the hiccups, it was the best damn thing in the world, leaving you giddy and already craving another date and more. Your cheeks hurt from smiling by the time you made it to the dorms, your heart pounding excitedly the whole time.

As promised, you let Steve know you made there safe, earning another text with a heart. It only made you squeal again, fingers frantic as you replied – and with a kiss for goodnight so he knew you truly enjoyed your night, ending included.

What he didn’t know was that maybe, just maybe, the next evening you wrote a tiny story in which you elaborated at what could happen if he ever pushed you against a wall and kissed your breathless ever again.

And hopefully, he would.

Soon.

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Attached masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

...how it happened? I was asked about the first date, very kindly and in a no pressure manner.

S: Hey, just out of curiosity, you don’t really have to answer… how do you imagine their first date went?

me: Hm, let me think, I guess, mm, it would be like this--- oh shit. Oh no. It’s gonna be a fic again, isn’t it? Maybe I could finally write a headcanon or a drabble--- sigh.

As if I could ever.

Thank you for reading :-*

[talesofstyles]

Happy Anniversary

look, we all need lawyer harry in our lives. and we need to shag him in his office at least once. this piece is a mix of pure filth in his office and cute dad harry moments with his little girl at home. anywaay i’ll just shut up now. hope you lot like it! xx

[4k]

Balancing two cups of coffee and a yellow folder in your hands, you stride off the lift and onto the 30th floor of your building. Your own office is just two floors below on the 28th, but you have a meeting scheduled on this floor in about twenty five minutes and you thought it would be nice to surprise your husband before you head to the conference room together. To maintain your professional image at work, both of you don’t make it a habit to pop into each other’s office even though you work in the same building unless it’s absolutely necessary, but today you thought you’d make an exception since it’s your anniversary after all. And you sure he wouldn’t mind.

Hell, you know he’d be elated.

You gracefully navigate through a sea of cubicles, stopping for a second here and there to greet back some of your colleagues as you make your way to Harry’s office in the corner. He got the corner office a little over two years ago after he got full equity partnership, and God, you love Harry’s office. There’s not much of a difference regarding the interior with yours, but the view is ten times more spectacular.

You stop as you hear your name being called, and as you glance to your right, you see his secretary smiling at you. “Hi! Happy anniversary!”

“Thanks Claire,” you smile back at her. “Is Harry in?”

She nods. “He’s got a conference call earlier but I think he’s done now.”

“I’ll be quiet just in case then,” you reply, walking past her. “See you!”

You shut the door with care and slowly turn the lock as you enter Harry’s office. You can see that he’s frowning ahead in that silent way he gets when his brain is dealing with some huge, knotty problem, but as he looks up from his computer and sees you, the frown immediately turns into a grin. “Hi wifey.”

“Hey,” you feel a pleased little smile coming to your lips as you creep along the edge of his desk until you’re in front of him, turning around for a second to set the cups of coffee and your folder on the table. “Got you some coffee, thought you’d need it.”

“Thank you my love,” he reaches out, curling both of his hands around your hips. When he looks up at you, he’s smirking. “I think we both do.”

His eyes are sparkling as he licks his lips, scanning the length of your body. Without a doubt reminiscing last night after you tucked your little girl in bed and had a little pre-anniversary celebration right there on your kitchen island. 

It still gives you jolt sometimes, the way he’s looking at you, as if he’s looking at a breathtaking piece of artwork. You feel like you’ll never get used to it even after four years of marriage and two years of being together prior to that. It never fails to make your heart skip a beat every single bloody time.

It’s not much help, the fact that he’s in a suit. You see him in a suit every day yet it never gets old. Whoever invented the phrase ‘a man in a suit is to a woman what a woman in lingerie is to a man’ is brilliant and you can’t agree more with them. Your favourite piece of clothing on him is a long sleeved button-up shirt, and you’re pretty sure it has something to do with your attraction to your husband’s shoulders. There’s just something with the way they look when he’s taking it off — and how much you enjoy unbuttoning it. And when you layer a coat on top of that, it’s like getting to enjoy it twice. Like a very beautifully wrapped gift that you just can’t wait to rip open. 

You choose his left thigh to sit on, the one with a tiger tattoo hidden underneath his black trousers. Your favourite thigh. His face is only inches away from yours, you can just smell the scent of his Armani aftershave and hear the crisp cotton rustle of his shirt as he moves.

“Happy anniversary,” he mumbles against your cheek. His lips warm against your skin, and you can feel he’s smiling as he layers kisses down your jawline.

“Four years,” you turn your head to have a proper look at his face when he’s done doting on your face. Your fingers dance along his jawline this time, before sliding back into his hair. He lets out a happy sigh when you rub his scalp, leaning closer to lock your mouths in a sweet, light kiss.

“Don’t chuck me just yet,” he jokes, and you can feel the words said against your lips at the same time as you hear them.

You give him another quick kiss, giggling as you pull away. “Don’t worry,” you shake your head. “Not for another fifty years.”

“Make it seventy, will ya?” A sly smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Sixty five,” you deadpan. “Give or take.”

He’s chuckling as he lets one of his palms slide up your leg, the other running down your back, stopping just above your arse. His grins widen when he doesn’t feel anything else beside your work dress covering them. “You’re not wearing anything under this?”

“Not a stitch,” you murmur.

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily just inches away from your ear, sending a ticklish sort of shiver through your whole body. “We’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”

“We can do the whole ‘make love and explore each other’s bodies’ thing later tonight,” you shoot him a smirk as your hands wander south to undo his belt buckle, turning around to straddle him and letting him pull your dress up until it’s bunched around your hips. “Now you just have to quickly shag the hell out of me.” 

Harry growls in your ear as you unzip his trousers and reach inside, feeling him go from interested to rock hard within seconds, and the sound of it makes your core flex around nothing. He adjusts himself in his chair, pulling down his boxers just enough to get his cock out before he settles back, giving the full control to you.

You hold onto his shoulder with one hand and lift your hips, not wasting another minute before you let him in with a quiet moan. He’s nibbling your bottom lip before tracing it with his tongue.

“Fuck, love,” Harry swallows every small sound that you breathe, crafting them into a low, desperate moan that rumbles from his chest. “So bloody wet f’me.”

“Been thinking about you all morning,” you whisper in his ear, your voice as seductive as he’d ever heard, making him growl and shift his hips upward. 

You lean back with your elbows on the edge of his desk, letting him have a better view of where he disappears so deep inside of you, filling you nearly past your limit.

“I love you,” he groans softly, biting his bottom lip as he brings his thumb where you need it the most, pressing down in small circles. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, one of your elbows slipping off his desk but he is quick to catch you. You’re about to protest when he moves his hand up instead, his fingers digging into your hips, but the feeling of him basically shoving you down onto his cock definitely making up the loss.

He lifts you up without warning before setting you down on top of the scattered draft contracts and financial reports on his desk. He is far from gentle, every thrust sending you further and further across his desk that he needs to pull you back. Every drag of his cock out of your sensitive core sends delightful shivers of euphoria racing through you.

You desperately try to find something, anything, to hold onto. His arms, his shoulders, finally settling with hair as you pull him down by his tie closer to you. With a gasp of his name, you fall into bliss. Your eyes closed as he kisses you intensely, breathing against you deeply as he lets go of himself, spilling all he’s got into you.

He chuckles against your jaw as you both try to even your breath, giving you one last kiss. He pulls out and quickly reaches out for tissues to clean you properly before wiping himself and tucking his dick back into his trousers.

He gives you a moment to come down your high, certainly not complaining about the view of you laying on top of his desk with your dress still bunched up around your hips. There’s no way he can look at his desk the same again.

He reaches out to help you to sit up, stealing another kiss or two as you try to stand. Your legs are quivering and his lips quirk into a gentle smirk. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you nod as you adjust your dress and fix your hair. “How do I look?”

“Freshly fucked,” he teases you, but hastily amends himself when you look like you’ve seen a ghost. “I’m joking, I’m joking. You look amazing as always, my love.”

“Oh shit,” you mutter as you glance towards the clock. You quickly grab your yellow folder and your cup of coffee and head towards the door. “We need to go. The SC and HSBC people and the insurer must already be in the conference room by now.”

“Wait,” Harry suddenly stops you as you walk towards the door. Pulling you close, his eyes fixed on yours before he leans even closer, giving you a wink before he whispers, “you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had. Happy anniversary.”

***

“Mummy!”

You’re smiling through the mirror on your dressing table at the reflection of your two and a half year old peeking her head into your room. She’s wearing an adorable pink smocked dress with the cutest fabric bow at the back and she’s clutching a painting she must’ve just done. 

“Hi poppet,” you turn around to smile at her, opening your arms to sweep her into a hug.

“Mummy, look!” She proudly shows her painting. “It’s a pish!”

She still can’t say ‘f’ so she always pronounces ‘p’ instead, and both you and Harry can’t get enough of her baby talk. She grows way too fast but the way she talks reminds you that she’s still pretty much your baby. And you love it.

“Wow,” you gasp admiringly. “That’s a beautiful fish, my love. Shall we put it on the fridge later?”

“Uh-uh,” she nods as she climbs onto your bed. When you’re sure she doesn’t need your help climbing up, you turn your attention back to the mirror and continue with your makeup.

“Where’s daddy?” You ask her, glancing towards your bed where she is sat before you do your eyebrows.

She shrugs casually. “Seepin?”

Honestly, she is so petty. You wonder where she gets that from. Now every time you ask her about Harry she’ll say that he’s sleeping. It all started the other day when Harry was putting her to sleep. Minnie was telling him about her day but Harry was so tired that he fell asleep on her bed in the middle of the story. And you can’t really blame Harry because as much as you love your daughter, you know she sucks at telling stories. It takes ages and there are so many times where you smile at her but actually all you want to do is to yell ‘GET! TO! THE! BLOODY! POINT!’ (but of course you don’t do that, that’ll make you a terrible parent). 

You laugh and shake your head. “No he’s not.”

You barely finished your sentence when Harry walks into your room. He’s changed out of his work suit and into his fancy one. It’s slate gray from Prada, with an unbuttoned black shirt underneath (that you’ll definitely ask him to button them up later just so you can unbutton it for your pleasure). He looks so dashing that you can’t help but stare through your dressing table mirror.

“There you are,” he strides to the bed before plopping himself down to sit beside Minnie. “Turned my back for a second and you already ran off.”

Minnie giggles as Harry attacks her with tickles. “Daddy!” 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Harry suddenly stands up, walking towards his wardrobe and takes out a wrapped box before walking back towards you. He’s smiling sheepishly. “I know we said no gifts, but I can’t resist.”

You roll your eyes comically. “I knew it.”

“Open it,” he hands you the box, before leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Happy anniversary.”

You can’t believe your eyes when you open it. It’s a black Alexander McQueen dress. The black Alexander McQueen dress. The one that you’d been saving for and promised yourself that you’d get it as a reward after you’re done with the big case at work that you're currently working with Harry, because it’s the biggest case you’ve ever had, and it’s just so stressful that the idea of a reward is basically the only thing that keeps you going. 

“Harry,” you look at him, dumbfounded.

“Thought you’d like it,” he smiles at you as he sits back down on the bed, and Minnie quickly sits on his lap.

“I don’t know what to say. I mean… how-”

“Darling, you’ve been looking at that dress on the iPad before bed every night this past month,” he chuckles. “Hope you like it?”

“Of course I like it!” You grin. “I love it! Now, I knew you would get me something anyway even though we clearly said no gifts, so I got you something as well.” 

You head to your wardrobe and rifles at the back behind your shoes. As you turn, you’re holding the wrapped present and you hand it to Harry.

“You shouldn’t have, darling,” he shakes his head, smiling at you. “But thank you.”

“Open it, daddy!” Minnie exclaims excitedly and Harry nods.

He sets it down on the carpet and carefully opens the wrapping paper. “A suit carrier!”

“Now it’s not as fancy as the dress, but I know you need a new suit carrier. You’ve got your old one for ages.”

Harry buttons your lips together for a proper kiss, earning a shriek of “eeew!” from Minnie as she closes her eyes with both of her dimply baby hands, and you both can’t help but laugh. 

“M’gonna get you!” Harry playfully growls and catches her into his arm before she gets the chance to run away, kissing her little face over and over. It’s the sweetest sight and seeing them together always makes you more broody than you already are.

“Daddy, stop!” She giggles as she tries to hide her face from Harry who is now trying to blow raspberries on her cheek.

You take the dress that you were going to wear back into your wardrobe and pull out your new dress from the box instead. And as you slip into your brand new dress, both your husband and your daughter are looking at you like you hung the moon.

“Wow!” Minnie gasps. “Beautiful, mummy!”

You smile sheepishly. “Thank you, my love.”

“Mummy’s hot isn’t she, Min?” Harry nudges Minnie gently, tilting his head towards you.

“No!” Minnie frowns. “Mummy’s not hot. She’s warm. Mummy gives warm hugs,” she enunciates carefully.

Both you and Harry are dying with laughter. “You’re right, you’re right,” Harry hastily amends. “Mummy’s warm. Sorry.”

You check yourself once again in the mirror and you finally put on your lipstick, before quickly realising that you’ve made a mistake. Minnie has been obsessed with your lipsticks these days that you can’t put it on without her asking to do the same.

“Mummy!” She yells in delight as she spots the lipstick. “Miiiine!”

“Minnie,” Harry turns to her, scolding her gently. “We don’t say ‘mine’. What do we say?”

“Please mummy?” She looks at you with puppy dog eyes. “I do it, please?”

You just can’t say no to your little girl. So all you can do is just sigh and sit her down on the dressing table, helping her to put on the lipstick. When you’re done, she gasps admiringly at her own reflection in the mirror and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Beautiful!” She exclaims. “Like mummy!”

“You are, my darling,” Harry walks towards the dressing table and stands behind Minnie, squeezing her from behind and kissing her on the cheek. “Just like mummy. Gonna be a little heartbreaker, aren’t you?”

Minnie lets out another fit of giggles as Harry blows raspberries on her neck. And Harry’s about to give her another kisses attack to her cheeks when suddenly the doorbell rings and Minnie’s eyes light up. “Auntie Gem!”

“Shall we go and say hello?” 

***

Harry is taking you to Wolseley in Mayfair, one of your favourite restaurants which also happens to be the place where you went on your first date. Technically it wasn’t a date, it was supposed to be a dinner meeting with some other people from the firm who were working on the same case with you and Harry, but one of them was stuck somewhere dealing with an even bigger case, and the other one had to go home for family emergency, so that left only you and Harry to deal with it. 

You’re looking at your husband in front of you as you take a sip of your champagne. He’s clearly trying to ignore his phone, but after the 10th time it vibrates, he gives up.

“It’s Halford isn’t it?” You ask him, guessing the person who’s been texting him for the past hour.

He nods, taking a gulp of his champagne before finally setting his phone down. “What?” He’s gazing at you, a quizzical expression on his face.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You still think they need to go with the merger,” he accuses.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

“Fine,” you give up. “Since you insist, I still stand by my opinion. There’s no way out of it. They need to accept HSBC’s offer to merge.”

“Are you insane?” He looks at you in disbelief. “There’s no way Standard Chartered people would accept that. Halford would never say yes to that!”

“Harry, SC is going bust,” you retort. “They’ve been in denial long enough, don’t you think?”

Much to your surprise, he suddenly smiles.

“What?” You look at him in annoyance.

“I’ve missed this,” he’s hiding behind his champagne flute but you still see him smiling. “

This time you give him a quizzical look. “What?”

“This,” he makes elaborate gestures with his champagne flute before taking another gulp. “Working on the same case together. Reminds me of the good ol days, you know?”

Of course you know. That was how you met, in a conference room (in fact, it was that very conference room you both went to earlier today), working on a case together. You didn’t particularly get along well in the beginning, and that’s just to put it nicely.

“Darling, I love you,” you begin. “But I don’t really like working with you.” 

He laughs. “Oh come on, I’m not that bad!”

“Minnie is the only case that I actually enjoy working with you.” You roll your eyes comically and Harry can’t help but snort.

“Speaking about that kind of case,” he clears his throat before he begins. “I know it’s been perfect. You, me, our… case. But, I s’ppose we could, um, try for another case now?”

“Harry,” you reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’d love to have another… case. But,”

“Oh.”

“No, listen to me,” he breaks off into silence and you feel terrible at how hurt he sounds. “I’d love to have another baby, believe me I do, I really do. But right now we’re both just so caught up with work that we barely even see Minnie. I want us to try and learn how to have a better work-leisure balance before we go through that again.” 

You sigh in relief when he finally smiles at you. “I understand.” 

“Christmas,” you say out of the blue and Harry looks at you in confusion. “Christmas. Let’s try for another around Christmas. Which gives us around six months to figure this work-leisure thingy. That’s enough time don’t you think? Or when we’re done with this Standard Chartered case. Whichever comes first.”

“Darling, there’s no need to rush,” he assures you. “Honest. I’m ready when you are.”

“Actually there is,” you joke. “I’ve still got some vouchers for Mothercare that’ll expire by December next year.”

He chuckles. “So I’ve got to knock you up by March the latest?”

“No, February,” you reply and Harry appears a bit bemused. “Minnie was born way past her due date and I’m almost sure this one will come late too. We need it to be born before December, because- what?”

“Nothing,” Harry grins wider. “It’s just crazy, you know. Us. This. If someone came to this very table back then and told us that in six years we’d come back here to celebrate our four years wedding anniversary and talk about having a second baby…”

“Oh my god, I’d be livid,” you can’t help but laugh. “God, I hated you back then. I thought you were the most arrogant bastard I’d ever met.”

“Look at us now,” he makes another elaborate gesture with his champagne flute. Clearly making reference to that Paul Rudd meme.

“Who would’ve thought?” You laugh, playing along.

***

It turns out that Harry has another surprise for you.

After dinner, instead of driving back to your home in Kensington, he drives you both to Covent Garden instead. Turns out he’s booked a room in Rosewood for the night, and he didn’t want to say anything because he was sure you would say no. And he’s not wrong. You’ve never been away from Minnie overnight ever since she was born, and you would definitely overthink it and ended up saying no.

God, you love your husband.

The suite is amazing. It has panelled walls and plush sofas and a massive bed that looks insanely cosy. Now that you’re here, you’re fully convinced that it is not a crime to have a night off, and that Minnie will be just fine. In fact, you’re almost sure that she’s having a better time with Gemma than she is if you and Harry had stayed home. Gemma adores Minnie and Minnie is obsessed with her.

Harry hands you a glass of wine as he kisses your neck lingeringly. “The bath is ready.”

“You’ve got a text,” you murmur, tilting your head towards the coffee table where his phone is.

“Don’t care.”

“No, you do,” you insist. “Just look at it.”

He rolls his eyes but he listens to you and walks towards the coffee table. He grabs his phone, taking a second to read before he looks at you in astonishment.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” You play it cool, trying not to smile because actually you’ve read the notification about three minutes ago.

“Look,” he says, showing his phone to you.

Halford (Standard Chartered)

Harry, we’ve had our internal meeting and we’ve come to a decision to proceed with the merger.

You grin. “I don’t like to say I told you so.”

“You fucking love to say that,” he’s beaming at you. “Sweetheart, I know you said we can try when this case is over, and it is now. But just so you know I’m happy to wait til Christmas before we try too. There’s no rush.”

“Just shut up and put a baby in me, Styles.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 9: Now I Love Your Shadow And I Love Your Curls]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex, violence, and drug use.

Word Count: 7.6k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @maggieroseevans​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @escabell​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​ @deacyblues​ @tensecondvacation​ @brianssixpence​ @some-major-ishues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @youngpastafanmug​ @simonedk​

Field Trip

“You want to go to Chicago with me?”                

I coughed, having almost inhaled a chunk of pineapple off my slice of GrubHubbed pizza. We were sitting on the grass outside Forks And Spoons under the shade of the maple trees, which were turning from jade to ruby to amber to fool’s gold, rejoining the earth they once rose from one fallen leaf at a time. It hadn’t rained in almost four days—was that some kind of record?!—and the leaves littering the ground crunched when I stepped on them, which I did purposefully and often. The breeze was soft and whispery and temperate. I could get used to this whole having actual seasons thing. “What, in like a hypothetical, at some point in my life kind of way?”

Joe smiled. His U Chicago hoodie of the day was black. “No, as in this weekend.”

“Really?”

“The Cubs have a game on Saturday, and it’s supposed to be rainy and overcast the whole time, and I just thought...” He shrugged, toying with a piece of pizza crust before tossing it to the squirrels. He’s nervous, I realized. How the hell do I have the ability to make the sexy undead Italian man nervous? “It might be nice for us to be able to get away for a few days. Away from my family. Away from Charlie. Not that I don’t appreciate the ambient noise of his snoring from the living room couch, it’s super endearing, I seriously consider dating him instead of you at least twice a week.”

“Go for it. Charlie could use a rich husband. His pension is pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t miss me?”

“I am not necessarily opposed to clandestinely seducing my sugar daddy stepdad should the occasion arise.”

Joe crossed himself like a nun passing tattooed, cursing, lip-pierced teenagers on the sidewalk. “Lord, protect me from this harlot.”

A weekend away. No Charlie, no constant and chaotic whirlwind of Lees, no Ben. I hadn’t spoken to Ben since our misadventure in the Lee kitchen; if he wasn’t avoiding me of his own volition, he was following orders to stay away. Joe claimed that they’d talked it out. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “I accept your invitation. Although, truthfully, I’d rather get hit by a bus than watch an entire real-life, no-commercial-breaks baseball game.”

“I accept your acceptance. And I’ll throw in a visit to the Shedd Aquarium, just for you. They have baby sea otters.”

“Sweet.” I checked my iPhone. “I’m gonna be late for Chemistry.”

“Anything fun planned?”

“We’re doing a lab involving hydrochloric acid. I’m highly concerned that Ben will accidentally spill some on himself. The miraculous instantaneous healing thing might raise a few questions.”

“Hm,” Joe replied. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at my bandaged hand. And he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Joe, I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” He took a preoccupied swig of his Dr. Pepper. Solemnity never seemed right on him; it was like he was wearing somebody else’s skin. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Hey. Mob guy.”

Now his eyes flicked to mine.                              

“No more sad spaghetti.”

“Okay.” He surrendered, took my face in his hands, gave me a kiss on each cheek and then one quick parting peck on the forehead. “You win. I’m not sad. I’m ecstatic, actually. I’m gonna be eating my weight in hotdogs and mustard-slathered pretzels on Saturday. What’s there not to be ecstatic about?”

“The fact that your license says you’re only twenty and consequently can’t get a beer?”

Joe blinked, remembering. “Fuck.”

I drained my Diet Coke, flung my pizza crust to the skittering grey squirrels—no eerie albino forest friends today—and pulled on my backpack. “See ya. Have an awesome time in Game Theory.”

“Thanks, I probably won’t!” he chimed, waving, grinning compliantly; and yet did I still sense some lingering menace of disquiet, of fear? I suspected I did. Chicago would cure everything.

Ben tensed when I walked into Professor Belvin’s classroom, ran his fingers through his unruly blond hair, peered fixedly down at his notebook and feigned obliviousness. There was already a metal tray of Erlenmeyer flasks, labeled bottles of solutions, burettes, goggles, gloves, and an unassembled ring stand crowding our small table by the open window. Autumn air poured in like seawater through cracks in the hull of a ship.

“Guess who’s gonna see the Cubs play up close and personal this Saturday?” I announced.

He pretended to have just noticed me. “...You...? But that doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was Joe’s idea. I’m acting like I’m not totally thrilled and freaking out about it, but I am. Don’t tell him.”

Now Ben was the one staring at my bandaged hand. His green eyes were large and unfocused.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.  

“Sure,” Ben returned noncommittally.

I started skimming through the packet of lab instructions and setting up our titration experiment as Professor Belvin circulated through the classroom, observing, commenting, offering suggestions and critiques. My wounded hand—still sore in the lull between Advil doses and relatively useless—was quite the embarrassing hinderance; I fumbled with a large glass flask and almost dropped it.

Ben shook his head and reached out to stop me. “Here, oh my god, this is so pitiful, sit down. Please sit down. I’ll set it up. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” I peeked at his notebook. “Your handwriting is atrocious. Haven’t you had like a century to work on that?”

“Penmanship was never at the top of my to-do list, tragically.”

“What language is that, anyway?” The phrases scrawled in black ink in Ben’s notebook definitely weren’t English. Or Italian. “Elvish? Are you a lowkey Lord Of The Rings fan? Magic and self-sacrifice and nearly insurmountable evil, I could see that being your thing.”

He smirked, struggling with the ring stand. “It’s Welsh.”

“Welsh,” I repeated, perplexed. “Welsh...like how Gwil is Welsh?”

“Precisely.”

Professor Belvin checked in on us, nodded in approval, reminded me that I was always welcome to stop by at bowling league activities, and resumed his wandering.

“Gwil still speaks it,” Ben continued. “The rest of them speak it too. At least enough for basic communication.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, fascinated, examining the long, unfamiliar words riddled with Ls and Ws and Cs. “But that must be very useful.”

“It is. Welsh is nearly a dead language at this point. It’s like talking in code. I always refused to learn it on principle...or maybe I was just being difficult. I would study other languages, Arabic, Japanese...but not Welsh. That was always Gwil’s language. Their language. It was a Lee thing. But now...”

“Now you’re sort of a Lee too,” I finished for him, smiling.

“Whatever,” Ben said, hiding behind his bangs.

I watched him as he at last tamed the ring stand, secured the burette, placed the Erlenmeyer flask. Then he began reading the labels on the solution bottles. “Guess what else.”

“What, Baby Swan?”

I grinned, showing off my unremarkable, entirely benign human teeth. “I’ll bring you back your very own U Chicago hoodie.”

That night, after a pleasantly prosaic dinner with Charlie—burgers, one veggie and one of the conventional variety, and milkshakes at Danny’s Diner—I started packing a small, Arizona-sky-blue suitcase as sparse raindrops pattered against the roof and moonlight streamed in through the open window. Then I ticked off my mental inventory.

“Jeans, sweaters, pajamas, socks...”

I pawed through the top drawer of my old, scratched dresser—the same one that had once upon a time been Renee’s—and contemplated the bra and panty options. Would my theme be comfort and practicality, or feral impenitent seductress? Friday and Saturday in Chicago would be our first nights alone together. That had to be significant, right? After some deliberation, I gathered a handful of lacy, transparent, and/or exceptionally skimpy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret that Jessica had more or less forced upon me during a shopping trip in Port Angeles last month. As I dropped them into the open suitcase, I glanced up to see the albino owl outside my open bedroom window.

“You never know,” I told the owl, shrugging.

It leered judgmentally back at me with those gory red eyes.

“Oh shut up. How many eggs have you laid in your lifetime, Casper The Unfriendly Ghost? Probably like a bazillion. Freaking feathery trollop.”

The owl had nothing to offer in its own defense.

“Why don’t you ever come around when Joe’s here? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He’s pale and weird too. Although I like his eyes a little better than yours. No offense, Snowflake.”

The owl blinked, tilted its gaze at me, ruffled its feathers and sent the raindrops that had gathered there flying in every direction.

I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket, spun around, and snapped a quick selfie with the owl in the background. “Say cheese, Marshmallow!”

The owl immediately unfurled its wings and flapped off into the trees, vanishing.

“Huh. I guess homegirl is camera shy.” I texted my selfie to Archer, typing out with my thumbs: I am the Steve Irwin of Forks. Behold, one of my many forest friends.

Archer replied a few minutes later: WOW! Pasty and mildly disturbing. Exactly your type. :)

“Yours too, apparently,” I murmured, smiling in my empty room.

I went to my full-length mirror with the plastic, teal-colored border, briefly appraised my reflection, felt a dull swell of approval for what I saw there. The version of myself that had once been so consumed by fears of inadequacy seemed impossibly far away, maybe even fictitious, a dream so vivid I could mistake it for truth. Three things were taped across the top of the mirror: Joe’s Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!! post-it, his Official Whatever You Want Pass, and a photo of us dressed up together and standing in front of the limo in the Lees’ driveway just before the Calawah University Homecoming dance. I peeled off the Official Whatever You Want Pass, carefully folded it into a neat little square, and tucked it into my wallet.

When the rain began to pour and thunder rolled in off the Pacific Ocean, I closed my bedroom window; but I remembered to leave it unlocked for Joe.

Departure

“Got your license?”

“Yes, Dad,” Joe sighed.

“Got your airport snacks?”

Joe held up the gallon-sized Ziploc bag filled with pumpkin and white chocolate chip cookies. “We’re ready to rock.”

“Call me when you get there safe,” Mercy fretted, hugging me and then Joe. “And Joseph, sweetheart, you make sure you keep an eye on her. She’s never been to Chicago before, it’s a big city, and O’Hare is an absolute nightmare, it’s so easy to get lost...”

“I don’t think he needs any reminders, love.” Dr. Lee laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with the other, watched us with a vague and wistful smile.

Mercy went back to trimming the flowers she had spread out across the kitchen countertop, white calla lilies that she threaded one by one into a translucent sapphire blue vase. “Now don’t forget to say goodbye to your brother. He’s out back feeding the new ducks. And I expect these ones to stick around for a while, thank you very much.”

“Mom, I don’t need to say goodbye to Rami. I’ll just think it. Really loudly.” Joe rubbed his temples with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut. “Peace out, you nosy bastard.”

“Joseph,” Mercy pleaded.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go say goodbye. Don’t get all aggressive. Don’t take it out on the flowers.” Aggressive...what a joke. I doubted that Mercy Eleanor Lee, formerly Martin, had a single aggressive bone in her immortal body; not even the infinitesimal stapes of her inner ears or the sesamoids of her feet.

“They’re calla lilies,” she replied dreamily, tending them like children. “And they symbolize love, and beauty, and fidelity...”

My nostrils itched and burned faintly in dissent. “I think I’m allergic to them.”

“You’re allergic to fidelity?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s it, now you’re definitely not getting my reclaimed virginity. No ma’am. I am not hit-it-and-quit-it material.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Mercy murmured.

“I’m going,” Joe said, showing his palms in capitulation and disappearing out the back door. I dragged my suitcase to the front one, politely declining Mercy and Gwil’s offers to help.

Lucy—her bleached hair in a high half-ponytail and wearing polka-dotted black tights, combat boots, a plaid miniskirt, and an extremely Octoberish orange sweater—was sitting cross-legged on the roof of Gwil’s Volvo. God, he’s such a dad. “Have a nice time,” she chirped artfully.

I opened the hatch of Joe’s Subaru and threw my suitcase inside. “Why do you sound like you already know I will?”

“I might have some relevant clairvoyant insight.”

“No way.” I stared up at her, stunned, my hands on my waist. “But you can’t see me, right...?”

“True. But this vision wasn’t of you. It was of Joe. You just happened to be there.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “And what transpired in this vision?” A night full of hot, steamy, blissful vampire sex? A girl could dream.

Lucy closed her eyes, recalling it fondly, maybe even cherishing it. “You were sitting in the stands of a professional baseball game. I could hear the crowd roaring, the umpire’s trumpeting interruptions. Blue and white...everyone was wearing blue and white. And you were there together—Joe a vampire, you human, side by side, almost entwined—shouting to each other over the thunderous noise and laughing and pushing nuggets of soft pretzels into each other’s mouths. So happy. I’d never seen Joe so happy.” Her striking pale eyes came open. “And he’s someone who’s already rather prone to happiness, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” I agreed.

“He’s never been serious about anybody else. I hope you know that.”

“I know that’s what he tells me.”

“It’s the truth,” Lucy insisted. “I would know if it wasn’t. Rami would know, Ben would know. Joe...he’s kind of the opposite of you. He’s always been the easiest to read. He’s the one Rami hears most loudly, the one who shows up most often in my visions. He’s clear, you know? Uncomplicated. Authentic. And what you mean to him...it’s something everybody sees. It’s a contagious sort of lightness, of joy. So thank you for that.”

And if whatever mysterious genetic switch that renders me immune to your talents wasn’t flipped, I’m pretty sure I’d look the same way. “I should definitely be thanking you,” I said. “You guys have a pretty cool existence going on here. And I’m so grateful to be invited into it.” For however long this lasts, anyway.

“None of us really invited you,” Lucy demurred. “We just let it happen.”

“So everyone knew I was coming? Because you saw it?”

“Everyone but Joe.”

“You never told him?”

“No. Not even now.” Lucy turned sharply towards the trees, as if she heard something in the soaring western hemlocks that swayed drunkenly in the wind. After a moment, she continued. “I’m not sure if I can even explain why. It wasn’t that I feared changing the timeline or something...my visions always come true regardless. Always. But I guess...” She tugged on her short half-ponytail, pondering. “I guess I didn’t want to cloud any of his decision-making, any of his emotions with the specter of the inevitable. I wanted whatever he felt for you to be completely organic. And it is.”

I considered her. “You are extremely thoughtful for someone who spends as much time shopping as you do.”

Lucy laughed in a high-pitched, almost juvenile trill, netting her fingers beneath her chin, her elbows resting on her bent knees. “I do like to shop. I didn’t always though.” She peered off into the trees again, this time pensively. “Did Joe tell you anything about my life before Gwil saved me?”

“Aside from the copious hippie jokes, not really.”

She nodded, her eyes far-away and still lost in the forest. “Gwil and Mercy are inordinately wonderful people. My biological father and mother, unfortunately, were not. And maybe they couldn’t help it, because from what I understand their parents were monsters too. I don’t think of them very often now, not even to resent them. But when I was alive I burned with it, with all that hatred, with all that bitterness. Every bruise was another log on the fire. Every screaming match or hurled plate was a splash of gasoline. So I ran away and found what I fancied to be a new family, and I lived on basement couches and out of vans and in abandoned buildings, and I explored increasingly inventive ways of putting that fire out.”

The October breeze cascaded through the trees, carrying echoes of birdsong and disembodied distant voices and the scent of pine. It reminded me of Joe.

“Chemically speaking,” Lucy said, “that first hit of heroin, that first high...it’s the best you’ll ever feel in your entire life. Nothing else will ever compare. Not skydiving, not backpacking through Southeast Asia on some Pulitzer-prize-winning journey of self-discovery, not winning the lottery, not the births of your children, not falling in love. And once you accept that, what’s the point in stopping? Everything you ever experience will live in the shadow of that needle. You’re twenty-five and you’ve already seen the endgame. You’re born, you suffer, you catch a glimpse of paradise, you pay bills and push shopping carts down the aisles of grocery stores and insipidly smile your way through your husband’s work parties until you die. What’s the fucking point? So I didn’t stop shooting heroin. And the whole time, I knew it was killing me. That’s what they don’t tell kids when they force them to make those idiotic classroom promises to never do drugs. You know it’s killing you, but you don’t care. Because it feels so goddamn good. Because it becomes the only sliver of your existence that doesn’t cut like glass beneath your skin. Sometimes you love things so much you let them kill you, isn’t that ridiculous?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her; still, I heard my own voice: “Yes, it is.”

“It took dying for me to see that life is worth living. That there’s magic in the mundane and the frivolous. And that there’s beauty everywhere if you bother to look for it.” Lucy uncrossed her trim legs, leapt gracefully off the Volvo, and—with definite but not unkind scrutiny—pulled at the collar of my thrift shop sweater. “Even in your very, very, very misguided fashion preferences.”

The front door of the Lee house swung open, and Joe jogged out, carrying his suitcase. Gwil, Mercy, Scarlett, Rami, and Ben appeared on the porch to wave us off.

“What’d you do?!” Joe demanded, pointing at Lucy.

“Nothing,” she quipped.

“You guys gotta stop doing this!” Joe exclaimed. “You know what you’re doing, you know exactly what you’re doing, you gotta stop cornering people and forcing them to listen to your creepy tragic backstories! Nobody freaking asked!”

Lucy chuckled patiently and stood on her tiptoes to hug him goodbye. “Have fun.”

“You know it.” Joe tossed his suitcase into the Subaru and opened the driver’s door. “Ready, Baby Swan?”

“Almost.”

I walked to the wrap-around porch, climbed the steps, held my hand out to Ben. My stitches had almost completely dissolved over the past week, and the clunky impediment of bandages was no more. Joe crossed his arms and watched from beside the Subaru with an uneasy frown, but he didn’t try to stop me. He nodded to Rami, so subtly I almost didn’t notice. Rami nodded back.

“I will miss your melodramatic brooding immensely,” I told Ben. “Please do some fun family stuff while we’re gone. I’ll see you soon. Dan eich bendith.”

“Dan eich bendith,” he replied, taken aback. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he ignored my outstretched hand and embraced me, his grasp so strong and yet so careful. His scent like crisp leaves and salted caramel and autumn sieved into a bottle unfolded in my lungs like an opened book.

“I Googled that especially for you,” I whispered. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m in awe.” His words were characteristically sardonic, but I heard warmth in them as well. When Ben pulled away, I saw that everyone else was smiling. Mercy had tears in her eyes.

I retreated back down the porch steps and met Joe by the Subaru. “Okay, mob guy. I’m good.”

He slid on his sunglasses, shook his head, flashed a proud and toothy grin. “You definitely are.”

All the way down Route 101 to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, we listened to Joe’s classic rock mixtapes and my NOAA Ocean Podcast episodes, reviewed the weekend itinerary, ran through the bare essentials for me to understand an MLB game (“Which I am totally not excited about whatsoever,” I informed Joe, who knew enough not to believe me).

When the Boeing 747 ascended above the clouds and unimpeded sunlight poured in from the other passengers’ windows, Joe put on a black sleeping mask over his sunglasses and reclined his seat, tried to nap, passed the time until he would be safe beneath the curtains of the sky again.

Somewhere over the Dakotas, as I leafed through a book about the Great Barrier Reef for my Marine Botany class, Joe’s hand bumped mine. “Hey,” he said drowsily, seriously; and I braced myself for some emotional declaration, some dire warning, some grave realization of the futility of what we agreed—almost always wordlessly, and yet unfailingly—was love.

“Yeah?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Uh oh,” I replied, smiling now.

“Flag down the flight attendant and get some more of those honey roasted peanut packets,” Joe said. “I’m starving myself back to death over here.”

The Windy City

The bat cracked deafeningly against the baseball pitched at nearly a hundred miles per hour. It was a home run. The crowd erupted into mindless, primal shrieks of conquest; and when Joe jumped to his feet, clapping and cheering and nearly spilling his blue-and-white bucket of popcorn, I found that I did as well. I screamed for the team of a city I’d never lived in, sank back into my seat beside Joe, nestled against his chest as his right arm closed around my waist and hauled me in closer, as his left hand teased me with a soft pretzel nugget hovering just out of reach. And in that moment, I felt like Lucy, snatching Polaroids out of the space-time continuum of the present and the future and the past. There was where Joe and I were right now, of course; the day we had met each other in the nonfiction section of the Calawah University library; the dance floor at Homecoming; the first night he snuck soundlessly into my bedroom window; all those years we still had left to spend together. Not forever, but perhaps long enough.

“I like this baseball thing,” I told him over the roar of the crowd, twirling my fingers around the curling locks of dark hair that stuck out from under his Cubs cap. Or maybe I just like you.

“Whew, thank god.” Joe wiped his forehead with the back of his hand in mock relief. “Now I don’t have to break up with you.”

After the game—a 5-3 Cubs victory, close enough to keep the spectators’ blood pumping throughout—we boarded the L, held onto the metal railings as the packed train car bumped and swerved along, and disembarked in Little Italy. Historic brownstones were interrupted by a freckling of pizzerias, Italian ice stands, and sports bars spilling out shouts of triumph and despair. We were staying in the Four Seasons with a view of Lake Michigan; but we had an hour of daylight—albeit chilled, dreary, and forever threatening rain—left in our Saturday. Tomorrow would be the aquarium, and then dinner before catching our flight back to Seattle, back to the greenery and fog and eternal dampness that I was beginning to think of as my home. Had I really only left Phoenix two months ago? Had I ever really lived there at all?

“So,” Joe said as we walked under shedding green ash and black cherry trees, his arm draped across my shoulders. “Guess what the University of Chicago has. In addition to a killer Economics PhD program, which yours truly will be graduating from in approximately 2027, astonishingly aged not a single day. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Hideous sweatshirts?” I guessed.

“One of the best Marine Biology departments in the world. And the affiliated Marine Biological Laboratory up in Massachusetts, where they send their PhDs to do research.”

“Wait, seriously?” I stopped abruptly, the heels of my boots squealing against the sidewalk. “You mean...for me?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, for my other girlfriend who is also inexplicably super obsessed with the ocean. I clearly have a type.”

“You want me...to come to Chicago...with you...after graduation? For like...a five to seven year commitment?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, that just sounds...serious.”

“Huh. What do you know. I guess we’re serious after all.” He took my hand and pulled me gently forward, leading me down West Taylor Street. He seemed to have a destination in mind.

“How is this going to work for you, anyway?” I asked, beaming uncontrollably now, trotting along beside him. “Living in a place that isn’t Washington or Scotland or Alaska?” Chicago was cold and cloudy for a lot of the year, true, but few cities were Forks-level wet and sunless. Forks-level tyrannically depressing, I would have said two months ago.  

He shrugged, unphased. “Night classes. Sunglasses. Faking a chronic illness so I don’t have to leave our house. I’m really good at that one. Plus I can get a doctor’s note any time I want one. I’ve got connections, you know.”

Our house. He said OUR house.

Joe came to halt in front of a stately yet plain brownstone which now operated as a trendy bookstore, the kind that sold six dollar lattes and hosted anarchist poetry slams on Friday nights.

“Is this where we’re going to crack hipsters’ kneecaps as a bonding activity?” I asked.

“This is where I grew up.”

I looked again, studying the earth-colored stone quarried over a century ago, the wrought iron railings that framed the front steps, the rectangular windows revealing the illumination and shadows of other families’ lives. “Joe,” I said softly, leaning into him, searching for my words.

“There were eight Mazzello kids: Joseph, Charles, Mimi, Salvador, Donna, Lucia, Bianca, and Giuliano.” He rattled them off like a jingle from a fast food commercial. “And I was the oldest. So when my dad dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of his shift at the Zenith Radio factory, it was my job to step up and figure out how to keep everyone fed. I was seventeen and completely hopeless at school back then; Sal was always the smart one, the disciplined one, he ended up as a math professor at Loyola University. I was just some directionless, grieving kid who never shut up. But there was a place for boys like me in Chicago in the 1920s. The mob could get you money. The mob could turn that same incessant chatter that got you bruised at school into something useful. And the mob could give you a family.”

Joe watched the brownstone solemnly, meditatively, his hands in his pockets.

“My mom sobbed for an hour the first time I brought home an envelope full of bills with Hamilton’s face on them. She knew how I got it. But how could she say no, how could she tell me to stop? We’d never seen money like that. All my siblings could finish school. My sisters could have new dresses on days that weren’t Christmas and Easter, my brothers new shoes, Sal the glasses he needed so badly. My mother always had something to put in the offering plate at church. And once you were in the mob, it wasn’t exactly easy to leave. But they took care of their own. After I died, they sent my mother money for years, until her own children were established enough to support her. That’s when I learned that money wasn’t just something that put food on the dinner table or kept the lights on. It’s a way of showing loyalty, of giving people peace and comfort and meaningful choices in their lives. It’s how I’ve been taught to give back to the world. So I guess I shouldn’t have disparaged my fellow vampires back in Forks, because there’s a slice of my tragic backstory, Baby Swan. Now you know. And you should know everything, since we’re in this thing together. Or maybe I just want you to.”

I laid my palm against his cool and flawless face, ran my thumb lightly across his cheek. “You really are serious about me.”

“I am alarmingly serious about you.”

“Even though this thing of ours has an expiration date?” Since I can never become a vampire. Since I will never have the distinction of being a permanent fixture of the Lee coven.

“That’s not a problem for today. That’s a problem for ten or fifteen years from now, whenever you decide you want to settle down and have kids and do the whole Great American Dream bit. You’ll be sick of me by then anyway. You’ll be dying to get away from us. Hahaha, get it? It’s a pun. Dying to get away from the vampires.”

I couldn’t imagine ever being sick of Joseph Francis Mazzello. Still, ten or fifteen years felt almost as good as forever to me. Fifteen autumns, fifteen Christmases, fifteen journeys around the sun that he avoided so deftly. “Why me, Joe?” I asked, incredulous. “You could have anyone. Any human, any vampire. Why me?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply. And his mystified dark eyes added: What kind of a question is that? “You’re smart and you’re hilarious and you actually care about the world, about where it came from, about where it’s going, about people and places and animals that you’ll never meet. You’re indomitable. You’re fearless almost to the point of recklessness. And yet you’re so kind. You’re even nice to Ben, and humans are never nice to him...they’re either horrified or confused, or they’re too busy fantasizing about him to remember that he’s a real fucking person. But you’ve always tried to see the good in him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.” Joe shook his head, marveling. “And yeah, I’ve...I’ve screwed around, full disclosure. I’ve done the hookup thing. And it was great for what it was. But I never wanted more. I never felt some gnawing, sentimental, Hallmark-channel need for connection, to understand who they were as people. And then I met you, and...I want to know every single goddamn thing about you. I want to know your favorite color, what books you read, what the hell is so appealing about pineapple pizza, what you dream of. I feel like I could never get tired of trying to understand you.”

A refrain circled through my mind like a whirlpool, dragging every other thought down into oblivion: I love him, I love him, I love him. “Blue,” I said at last.

“What?”

“Turquoise blue, like the sky in Arizona. That’s my favorite color.”

The smile, slow and wonderous, rippled across his face. He took my hand again. “Come on.”

Joe led me onwards, down a few blocks and around a corner, as the muted sun receded from the sky and the first stars took its place, pinpricks of celestial light in a blanket of violet, azure, amber, rust. He stopped in front of the Church of Saint Lawrence, established in 1902 according to the sign mounted on the brick wall that faced the street, perhaps the same church that he had once visited with his family as an impatient child, snickering with his brothers and sisters and kicking the back of the pew in front of him with shoes that never fit quite right. There was a fountain bubbling with transparent water, a statue of the Virgin Mary at the center, coins made of copper and nickel and zinc glinting through the water under corridors of silvery luminance cast by the streetlights.

“I lied about not having my own superpower,” Joe informed me mischievously, not at all serious.

“Oh, did you now?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his wallet, rooted around, pulled out a penny and handed it to me. “I can make wishes come true. So go ahead.” He nodded towards the fountain. “Make your wish.”

The penny was worn and nearly indecipherable, but I was just barely able to read that it had been minted in 1928. The same year Joe was turned. “Joe...I can’t just throw this away!”

“You’re not throwing it away. You’re exchanging it for a wish. Now wish.”

I closed my eyes, chose my wish, tossed the penny into the fountain. The plink it made when it hit the water was bright and yet mournful somehow, like windchimes, like flickering candlelight.

“Outstanding job,” Joe complimented.

He was so visibly proud, so content, so faultless. The streetlights threw shadows across the sidewalk, the fountain, the whole world it seemed. I laced my fingers behind his neck, gazing up at him. “What are we doing tonight, mob guy?”

“I’m so glad you asked. You see, we have options.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Door Number One,” Joe began. “It’s been a long day, and you’re exhausted from the illustrious honor of witnessing a Cubs victory firsthand. So we go back to the hotel, find some shark documentary on tv, order room service, shower, and drift off into a peaceful slumber. Just like last night.”

“Not bad. How about Door Number Two?”

“Door Number Two. You’re tired, but not that tired. We go back to the hotel, find that same aforementioned shark documentary, but totally ignore it and make out instead. Maybe we even round second base, in the spirit of the Cubs. Whatever you’re up for. Then we shower and drift off into a peaceful slumber.”

“Even better,” I said, and I meant it. “And what’s Door Number Three?”

Now Joe became jittery; his eyes darted to the fountain, the church, the cars that rolled lazily by. He was so desperate to conceal his hope, to not impose any undue influence upon me. I felt infinitesimal, almost weightless drops of rain against my cheeks, my collarbones, the downy undersides of my arms. “Well, uh, Door Number Three is...it’s...well...uh...it’s...”

Door Number Three is a home fucking run. “I want Door Number Three.”

“Really? Because you don’t have to say that, you can say no, that’s completely fine, it’s more than fine actually, it’s awesome, it’s totally cool, I’m seriously fine either way, and you can obviously change your mind whenever—”

“Wait.” I broke away from him, yanked my own wallet out of my purse, found the Official Whatever You Want Pass, hastily unfolded it, and presented it to Joe. “I want Door Number Three.”

He barked out a shocked laugh, accepted the pass, studied it in disbelief. “You are full of surprises, ma’am. It took me a hundred years to find a woman like you. And I don’t think I ever will again. Makes one wonder if this whole eternity thing is all it’s cracked up to be.” He tucked the pass into his pocket and kissed me beneath the streetlights, beneath the stars. “So there’s one tiny caveat to my wish-granting superpower.”

“Yeah?”

He smiled impishly, nudging the tip of my nose with his. “You have to tell me what you wished for.” He was joking, as he almost always was; I didn’t have to tell him anything. He wouldn’t press the issue. I doubted that he was really expecting me to answer at all. And yet I wanted to tell Joe; I yearned, for once, to be as clear as Lucy had said he was.

“For you and me,” I replied in little more than a whisper. “And for forever.”

Home

The only thing that startled me was how profoundly unstartling it all was, how wholly uncomplicated, how effortless.

I didn’t feel like a different person afterwards. I didn’t feel that some latent spark of lust, of carnality had been ignited, had singed through me, had left me forever marked like the heights of children ticked off on a doorframe over decades; I felt neither ruined nor awakened, no wiser, no older, no more enlightened as to the incalculable eccentricities of the vast and enigmatic universe. I felt only happiness, and exhausted satisfaction, and a deep, dreamless peace that engulfed me like frothy fingertips of waves dragging pebbles and shells back into the sea. I felt only a homecoming that was measured not in miles but in soul.

We slept in as the morning sun rose over Lake Michigan, bought Ben a hoodie (black, of course, per his usual aesthetic) from the University of Chicago gift shop, strolled unhurriedly through the dimly-lit, relentlessly blue pathways of the Shedd Aquarium. As I stood in the glass tunnel and watched sawfish and blacktip reef sharks soar by overhead, Joe linked his arms around my waist, tucked his chin into the dip of my collarbone, kissed the slope of my jaw.

“What do you think?” he asked, perhaps a touch apprehensively. “Could you get used to the Chicago life for a few years?”

“I would be tempted to kidnap some of these guys and bring them home to live in our bathtub. But yes.”

And Joe murmured, smiling, his lips to my temple: “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

Our flight back to the West Coast took off after dusk, and there was no blinding sunlight for Joe to avoid; only immense glooms of clouds and gleaming distant stars and the unfathomable void of space, cursed with crushing pressure and darkness like the cervices of the ocean floor.

Fifteen years might not be enough, I thought, resting my forehead against the cold airplane window as the city lights died behind us, as Joe’s hand weaved through mine on the armrest. But forever sounds just about right.

Larkin

There once was a boy born in a stone cottage with a dirt floor in a vanishingly inconsequential village just west of Clifden, Ireland. It was February 9th, 1672, bitterly cold, miserably wet, and the sea was murderous with storms. His mother was illiterate, as her mother had been, and as her mother had been as well, all the way back to people who painted mammoths on cave walls with their fingers; she was thirty-three and already exhausted with living, her seven children forever underfoot, her full and ruddy cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt from the field and ashes from the fire. Her husband was a failure and a drunk, but half a day’s worth of work once or twice a week was better than none at all; and as much as she never would have admitted it, he was a tether for her in a world that was often, as she had learned, both lonely and cruel.

She gave the baby boy a name—a strong Irish name, none of that audacious English rubbish—that meant rough or fierce, just like the sea that rose and ruptured against the rocky cliffs outside. He would need to be rough to survive in this world. He would need to be fierce.

He began like all the other children had been: sweet and yet anonymous, yielding, needful, worryingly small. She rocked him absently with one arm as she stirred the stew pot with the other. She sang to him, told him stories long before he could comprehend them, tales of the Lord and the saints and all their malevolent adversaries: serpents, pestilence, demons, dragons. She tossed stray sticks to him so he could carve pictures into the dirt floor and keep out of the way as she labored with the laundry or the sewing. And he grew, and he grew; and there was nothing remarkable about him at all, that boy speckled with mud and soot and the perpetual bruises of children mostly left to their own devices, that boy with pallid skin like his mother’s and black hair like his father’s and eyes so light and vibrant a brown they were nearly gold.

The boy was a baby, and then a child, and then a young man. And his mother realized one day—all at once, as a mother does when their attention is divided among so many other lives, when the children’s analogous faces bleed into each other and even their names sometimes escape her, even those names that she had chosen herself from the stories her own mother once passed to her through threadbare whispers—that people had a habit of following him, of listening to him. That there was an ether of allure that hovered around him like the mists that clung to the precarious, crumbling cliffs that touched the sea; that there was something like what the heathens called magic. And when the war came, that boy who was no longer a boy left his mother’s stone cottage and enlisted in Clifden, lied about his age, signed his name with an X because that was all he knew how to spell. But he was sure to tell the man who handled the ledger that he did have a real name, a good Irish name, a name apt for a soldier, a name that his mother had told him meant rough or fierce: Larkin.

There are men who join wars out of loyalty, principle, love for their homes; and then there are men who join to escape their homes, perhaps to forget them entirely. If you were to consult that ledger signed in a pub in Clifden, Ireland in 1688, you would read that I fought for Ireland, for the Catholics, for Christ the Lord and all his saints. But what I really fought for was my own resurrection: to take that boy stained with dirt and ignorance, drown him in the blood of other mothers’ trivial sons, and dredge up some greater version of myself that I had always known existed, that was hidden somewhere in the netlike darkness of the marrow of my bones.

People follow me, and they always have. I couldn’t tell you why. When I called them to enlist, when I thrusted swords and pikes into their calloused farmers’ fists, when I told them they could fight and live to see their wretched homes again, they believed me. I climbed the ranks like a ladder, like a mountain made of bones. And all those other mothers’ sons laid down for me so I could walk across the bridge of their spines to what I mistakenly assumed was invincibility.

At the Battle Of The Boyne, my horse was shot out from under me. A Williamite caught me beneath the ribs with his dagger. And as I bled out, staring up at the sky and impatiently waiting for the pain to vanish as my consciousness withdrew like low tide, I became aware that someone was lifting me, holding me, spiriting me through the battlefield and then the wilderness; and that my pain, in a disconcerting turn of events, had swelled to a vicious and unrelenting inferno.  

Three days later, I woke to find that I was resurrected again, this time as something more than human. The man who turned me was blond-haired, light-eyed, agile and yet gentle, ancient and yet ever-changing.

“I thought you’d survive,” Nikolai said in a thick Slavic accent, standing over me with a kind smile. Then he helped me to my feet. “You have greatness in you. It sweats out of your pores, it’s in every word you speak. What a shame it would be for all of that to go to waste.”

He taught me everything: how to read and write, how to hunt, how to dodge the sunlight, how to survive an existence that was both theoretically endless and yet forever on the precipice of being cut short. He introduced me to the Draghi, to vampires who were remarkable for their ferocity, or their creativity, or their curiosity, or their cleverness, or all those things at once: Victorien, Honora, Elizabeth, Kestrel, Zhang, Sergei, Ana, Gwilym. And most crucially, Nikolai showed me that my human talents were magnified several times over, that his own followers were not immune to them, that there was power in collecting exceptional individuals like pieces of china stacked in a locked cabinet; and that if I could learn to climb immortal bones, the ladder never needed to end.  

You never quite get used to the power, to the invincibility, to the promise of eternity. You never take it for granted. It hits you, again and again, in ceaseless and victorious waves. Once I was a barefoot toddler who sketched dragons and Catholic saints from the stories my mother told me into the dirt floor of our drafty stone cottage. Now I live in palaces with marble floors, with spiral staircases and libraries and gold-dripping ballrooms, with unobstructed views of any sea I choose. Now I am the dragon.

My phone rang, and I checked the name on the screen. Then I answered. “Hello, beauty. How’s the other side of the Pacific treating you?”

And Liesl answered, in a soft and astonished voice: “I don’t think Lucy can read her. I don’t think any of them can.”

I could feel it again. Another wave, crashing through me like the ocean, like the unstoppable rolling of time: power and insatiability and exhilaration. I smiled in my twilight-lit study as long-dead stars rose outside and the wind howled like wolves over the East Sea. “You know what to do.”

[snarwor]

moon and old stars - chapter 2

Wooooo Chapter 2~ Enjoy some Din/Boba blowjobbery. AO3 link at the bottom so you can stay notified of updates. Link to Chapter 1 here

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

Slave I wasn’t outfitted with the sonic shower the Razor Crest had. Fett kept a rather complicated-looking water shower on board, which had Din staring at it for several minutes in furrowed-brow confusion before he caught his expression in the mirror.

He hadn’t ever seen his face that red in his life. His eyes were puffy and bright, and his mouth stained a dark red with how hard he’d been trying to keep his sobs in, and if not in, silent. The right side of his face was creased, and matched the weave of Fett’s trousers. Kriff. His eyes flashed down to the floor again and he got into the shower.

As soon as the water hit his back, he had to bite down on his fist to keep from moaning at the perfect water pressure and heat. Fett may have bummed it on Tattooine for years, but he certainly didn’t bum it on Slave I. Din could count on one hand the number of times he’d taken a water shower, and three of those times were freezing cold and pathetic. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this shower forever, but the galaxy was waiting out there, as was the kid.

A frown came over his face, and he felt the initial joy of the shower pass from him. He washed his hair with too-rough hands, letting the uneven locks fall into his eyes as he tried to get a grip on reality again. He’d just asked for a reprieve from all this, and he hadn’t even gotten off.

It was strange to think about, actually. He had gone in expecting nothing, then expecting sex, and now...his body had never felt like this before. He was all at once jittery and fatigued, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Well. It’s not like he couldn’t take care of himself. He had been doing just that for decades, now. Before he could think twice on it, he wrapped his hand around his prick and gave a slow tug. He couldn’t help his mind drifting back to the moments before. Kriff, his knees were still a little red from how long he’d been kneeling. That sense of powerlessness, the submission that came from the act, Din had never thought he would be the kind of man to do that willingly.

He’d practically begged Fett to do it.

The thought of actually begging the stoic man for anything made his dick twitch in his hand, and he gave a small gasp. The fantasy unfolded itself like a many-paged text. Sensations, phantom now, of the heat beneath his cheek and the hand atop his head, came back to him in a flurry of feeling, each one more powerful than the last. Within a minute, he was tugging at himself in earnest, keeping his breathing steady even as his mind spiraled out of control.

“You were very good for me.”

The praise, flooding his chest now, was the tipping point, and he felt the skin on his lip give way to his teeth, the taste of blood spilling across his tongue as he spilled in his hand, silent and controlled.

He blinked his eyes again, and things were clear once more.

Kriff.

—

Dressed and securely strapped in his beskar, Din was only a little jittery. He retreated to eat by himself, instead of with the others. That’s twice in a day he’s had to take his helmet off, prompted by little more than his body’s needs.

He also felt all of their eyes on him, like they knew what he’d done. Din ate as fast as he could and returned, comfortable back behind the helmet once more. The four-man crew geared the ship up for travel, and he did what he could. He could hardly look at Fett as it was.

Fett wasn’t having any of that.

Within the first three minutes that they had reached lightspeed, Din was being dragged by the back of his helmet back to the berthing he was avoiding thinking of. He made a surprised noise. Fennec and Cara didn’t look surprised. When the door sssnicked shut behind them, he was tossed back onto the bed with a bounce. Unarmed, and in close quarters, Din’s heartrate started ratcheting up. Fett stood before the hatch, arms crossed.

“Was that necessary?” Din shouted.

“If you are going to continue acting like a shamed, shy child, then I shall treat you like it.”

Din gawked from beneath the helmet. He wished he had a telemetry scanner for what the kriff to do in this situation. There was no such thing. “I was not acting—”

“You are practically shouting your shame. What was it I told you about being in here.”

“You are not of a Creed you can disappoint while in here. The only truth is that you are mine.”

He made a soft noise and tried to sit up, but quick as a flash, Fett had his hand pressed against the middle of Din’s armor, looming over him. The weight itself stilled Din’s struggling movements. He was still breathing hard, and his chin hurt a little from the helmet’s chafing as he was dragged.

“Will you tell me why you feel shame?”

“We’re Mandalorians. You should know why.” His voice almost didn’t pick up on the vocoder, it was so soft.

“You needed something, I provided. There is no shame in needing help. Mandalorians often work together.”

“In the old times, perhaps. Not when there’s so little of us that the hunted Jedi outnumber us.”

Fett’s face took a considering twist to it. “Then think not of yourself as a Mandalorian. Not in here, and not with me. What we do in here should not be colored any different in your mind when you are somewhere else to think of it.”

“What?” Not as a Mandalorian? Was he insane?

“I know you heard me the first time.”

“We shouldn’t have ever done this,” Din said, shifting a little on the bed. It’d been so long since he’d had something soft beneath him, and the hard body above him played nicely against that comfort.

“Why?”

“It’s—”

“Shameful?” Fett said, quirking an eyebrow upward. Din knew the objection was weak. “Plenty of Mandalorians have indulged and continue to indulge in their fantasies and the very human needs of their bodies. In fact, you did in the ‘fresher a few hours ago. Yet you’re ashamed of wanting this, wanting me.”

Din could not say a single thing. It was like Fett had taken the words out of his mind. He swallowed roughly. “What am I supposed to do?” he said, at long last.

“In here, as I say. Would you like it to continue past the door?”

Din shook his head. “N-not with the others around.” A tension eased in his chest that he hadn’t noticed was there. He had acknowledged that what had happened, had happened, and had helped gain him some clarity, even if just for a few hours. Kriff, he’s going to need to be on his game for when they got to Gideon’s cruiser.

Fett only nodded. “We will be in hyperspace for awhile yet. They will alert us if something needs my attention. For now, you need my attention.”

He spoke with weight and truth behind his words, and Din’s face burned at the feeling.

“Do you wish to stay? You know my rules and the conditions for if you say yes.”

Din thought it over in his head. He would not be met with shame nor judgment from Fett, not in here. It was a good deal, and no one need know.

So he nodded.

And took off his helmet.

Fett helped set the rest of the armor aside, until he was back to the clothes he was wearing when he’d kneeled before. Din remained reclined on the bed, unsure of what to do next. He looked to Fett for guidance, and was given it.

“Have you ever sucked cock?” Fett asked. At Din’s sputtered mess of a response, that eyebrow quirked up again. He didn’t follow it up with any other questions regarding Din’s experience (or lack thereof). “Would you like to learn?”

The way he phrased it. Din’s mouth watered at the thought, and his eyes flicked to the fly on Fett’s trousers. He nodded again, mute with desire.

Fett simply climbed onto his bed, leaning against the far bulkhead, and took himself out. Din almost hid from the sight, but was urged forward by a hand on his head, guiding, leading, protecting.

Teaching.

Eyes wide, Din let himself be led between Fett’s legs, and he rested up on his elbows to put himself above the task at hand.

“Use just your tongue, for now.” Fett’s hand pressed down a little, leaving Din with the option to follow orders or deflect his path to the side if he’d changed his mind. His tongue, pink and a little nervous, poked out past his lips to lick at the skin just under the fat head.

He tasted of skin and slightly of sweat, but it was obvious Fett bathed often, and had the means to do so. He licked again, bolder now, and the difference in texture from the underside of Fett’s cockhead and the rest of his length made Din’s mind buzz in excitement.

“There you go. Jate, jate.” Stars, he was speaking Mando’a. Din’s entire soul stood up at attention.

“Oh, kriff,” he whimpered, his lips catching against Fett’s prick in a facsimile of a kiss. His eager body followed the notion, pressing a kiss to the underside of the head and pressing his tongue experimentally along the thick vein. He could feel Fett’s pulse through this.

“You want to be good for me, ad’ika?” Din’s head swirled with want. He must have gone cross-eyed. He nodded, the slightly-damp head smearing over his cheek a little. Curious, Din leaned down and licked against the slit, and pulled back a little at the taste. He went in again, taking another lick, following with his lips. He hadn’t even kissed the man, and he was kissing at his prick like a priest at an altar. “That’s it. Go ahead and suck on just the tip for me. Keep using your tongue. Don’t wanna use your teeth for this.”

It seemed like common sense, but Din almost jolted at the thought that he would try and do anything like that to him. Brown eyes flicked up to Fett’s, and he nodded his understanding. Din pressed another sloppy kiss to the head, bobbing in a rhythm that soothed him dizzyingly fast. Another whimper left the back of his throat, and the hand on his head scritched at his scalp with care. He’d been rough with himself in the ‘fresher, earlier. This gentleness was nothing he’d ever felt before.

“Go on, go a little deeper. Not too much. Just a little—good, so good for me.”

Din was eager to please him, all the troubles and worries which had plagued him now far, far away. The soft, deep voice spurred him on faster and deeper. The hand in his hair pulled a little, not in scolding, but reminding him to ease up.

“Not a race, little one.”

Din shivered, and he practically gasped around Fett’s cock.

“No one’s ever treated you like this before, have they? What a shame. You look so beautiful like this, just for me, just mine.”

“Yours,” Din gasped, a little slurred with the dick in his mouth.

“Go ahead and put your hand where mine is. Just to keep it steady.” Din brought his shaking hand up to where Fett’s scarred one was wrapped in a loose hold around the base. He never considered his hands to be slender or graceful, but Fett’s description of him, little one, was certainly true when comparing the two of them. Din held onto him, and had to scoot up a little more, his unoccupied hand planting itself in the sheets beside Fett’s hip before pulling back. Fett arranged him how he wanted, all his limbs curled in the circle of his bowed legs. A sense of calm and safety came over him, and he shivered again, feeling himself harden in his trousers.

“I—” Din looked up, a question in his eyes. “Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing so well for me, little one. I promise. Just keep doing what feels good. You have good instincts. Show them off for me.”

Din set to work.

He knew it’d be a stretch if he took any more in his mouth, and felt comfortable just suckling at the tip, getting that strange taste right from the source. Almost on its own, his hand started to stroke at the base, just little squeezes and pulls which in turn pulled a low, pleased noise out of Fett.

Without pulling off, Din looked up at him. The hand on his head was now petting him, a gentle affection that matched the open-mouthed expression on Fett’s face. He licked at the underside of Fett’s cock, just letting his tongue catch on the edge of the crown as he went. His tongue was going to be tired from this, he knew. It was worth it to see the expression change from awe to tight and twisted in pleasure.

Then Din pushed himself down deeper. His lips stretched, but the punched-out noise Fett made had him doing it again and again, bobbing his head eagerly, wanting more, taking more until he gagged, sputtering a little. He sat back, eyes flicking back up to see if he’d done something wrong. Fett let out a shuddering breath. “Happens,” Fett said between pants. “You’re still doing very good for me, ad’ika. Go on, try again.”

“Yes, d—” Din froze up all over, and swallowed nervously, mute once more.

“That happens too. Call me what you like, I promise I won’t mind. Say it for me. Try it out loud.”

“It was just an—”

“I don’t think I was asking.” Fett’s fingers twisted in his hair, curled wildly from not getting to dry just right.

“Yes...daddy.” Now Din felt that same punch to the gut, pleasure and some white-hot, twisting, bladed contentment pulsing through his veins. He pressed his face into the patch of bare skin showing at the top of Fett’s thigh, and the hand on his head moved to the back of his neck.

A soft squeeze. “Very good, my boy.”

Tears sprung to Din’s eyes again, and he looked up. He must have been a pitiful sight, but in Fett’s eyes, his submission and humility were beautiful, almost incandescent and radiant on its own.

Din’s cheeks were a ruddy red, and his lips slightly swollen from so much work with his mouth.

“That’s my good boy,” Fett said again. “You wanna keep going for Daddy?”

“Yes, please,” Din rasped, almost bowing his head, before a finger lifted his face by the chin.

“You’ve been very good for me. Why don’t you come up here and get your reward?”

Part 3 here

Read on AO3.

[parkeraul]

→ boyfriend  •  1 | t.h. & s.m.

prologue | part 1

author’s note — hello, girlfriends. first of all, i really wanna apologise for the lack of writings lately & for this shitty moodboard. plus, i wanna give the hugest shoutout to @itrocksmysocks who’s been sending me pictures and stuff to help me get inspiration to write this series [thank u so much, latina neighbour!]. for now, i’m gonna update this series once in a week, then the next i’m gonna reserve the next one to write, then update on the following week and it’ll go on and on. enjoy!

pairing: tom holland x shawn mendes x reader college!tom | college!shawn

masterlist ┊add yourself to my taglists ┊give me feedbacks.

words — 3,4k; warnings — flirting, cursing, mentions of alcoholic drinks.

“People on the very back: Listen!” Mrs. Edwards shouts, banging against the board twice with her pen. “This graphic is very simple, okay? If you keep on talking and talking, it’ll become your worst nightmare and there will be no help during the final test.”

The white board had been completely taken over by lists of informations, numbers, theories  and graphics in at least 3 different colours. It’s been an hour or almost two since she started crossing the entire board with red, green, blue & black and Tom feels amazed by how well she manages to understand the entire system she’s been writing for so many time. As a class he signed for just to have some more complementary hours, he can straight tell you he’s not exactly caring about it that much. It’s way too fast and too mathematic for his mind.

All the people sitting around him in the classroom are already letting the tiredness consume them. Some are sighing and dropping their pencils; some are rubbing their faces repeatedly; some others are actually paying attention and probably trying hard not to freak out. Considering the white walls with white tables and chairs, if no one said that this is a math class, people would probably walk in and think it’s a sanatorium. All faces exhausted and it’s clear to see that at least 90% of the class can’t wait for the summer break to rescue them all — the 10% left is filled with the boys that have been sleeping for the past 30 minutes.

“Next class we’ll get back to the basic analysis to freshen up a bit, I recommend you to bring one or two books to do some research as well—“

“Hey, dude,” Jacob whispers close to Tom, sitting on the chair in front of him as he turns his head — far enough to see Tom leaning in through his peripheral, but not far enough to lose sight of Mrs. Edwards giving further endorsements. “Match tomorrow at 5?” “Sure,” Tom agrees, keeping his ‘attentive’ on the teacher in front of the class. “Have you guys picked the entire team already?” He says nonchalantly. It’s typical: In Fridays, after everyone’s last class, friendly football match with the boys from the athletic team of the Empshire University.

“Ian, Ryan, Heather and Matthew: You guys cannot miss the next class at all. You guys have been bailing for a long time and one more skip it’s deadline for the four of you—“

“Same thing,” Jacob says and Tom starts to close his books, pulling his backpack up to tuck them inside of it haphazardly. “But we’ll add John Mayer to it because Kevin’s not coming.” “You don’t have to say John Mayer, his gang’s not here,” They both look around the classroom, failing at being discreet as they search for any friends of… Well… ’John Mayer’.  Tom zips his bag close and Jacob turns around to do the same while everyone else’s already prompting themselves up to leave. “And you better put him in the defenders, far away from the frontline.” “I knew you’d say this!” They laugh under their breaths, also getting up to finally inspire some fresh air outside.

“See you next Thursday.” Mrs. Edwards says almost quietly, arranging her stuff while the room starts to get empty.

The corridor had never felt this comfy before. It’s crowded and a little bit loud but a lot better than Classroom number 9. As students from all courses starts talking to each other, Tom takes a look across the wall and spots new posters.

This wall is known as The Great Wall of Empshire —or Wall–E for the intimates. The Wall–E is a large blue wall that stands out from the regular white & grey ones of the building. Also, is where students pin folders and posters to warn the whole college about whatever seems to be relevant. It mostly holds notices of people looking for roommates, lost & found stuff, a special space painted in red for teacher’s announcements and messages from the secretariat of the university. As the results of the finals and classes stuff starts to fade away, the posters to summer parties slowly take over the big blue rectangle in the exact middle of the corridor to one of the two buildings that build the Empshire University.

Coming closer, Tom watches Missy climbing tiny–trembling stairs to glue a folder about Musical Theatre auditions. She’s sure struggling and, although he feels bad, he laughs in anyways as low as he can. Obviously, he doesn’t come out as subtle as he planned and gets a very–stressed Missy Langford slicing his entire being in two with the mad look in her blue eyes.

“You’re being very helpful by laughing,” She huffs, tapping the big poster repetitively to make sure it won’t fall for the next week. “Asshole.” “Oh, Miss, come on,” He teases, smirking like the asshole she just called him. “I thought we were over that part. Asshole! – Idiot! – Douche! Get outta here! You know? Last summer’s business, love,” Tom brings up a memory they both shared some time ago, knowing how pissed she’d get with the dialogue all over Tom’s charming accent in a playful tone, which sure has nothing to do with the atmosphere of the moment itself. “I swear to God that if this thing was any stronger, I’d jump onto your face right now.” After rolling her eyes, Missy spits at Tom and sees his smile widening stupidly. “Anyways,” Crossing arms, Tom steps closer to the Wall–E and leans against a blank space. “What’s that?” “We’re doing Hairspray,” She answers flatly. “Not that you’re allowed to subscribe, of course.” “Who said?” Tom frowns and squeaks way louder than usual. What now? Is she going to forbid him to audition to an open–invitation? “Jesus.”   Tom’s jaw falls dramatically, “Oh! Swearing to God… Talking to Jesus, apparently,” He quirks an eyebrow, faking surprise. “Didn’t know you had friends outside college.” “Will you shut the fuck up and help me get down?” Missy gives the poster one last strong tap — probably thinking about slapping Tom’s face instead — and stretches an arm towards him. “Not that you deserve it, but–“

Tom goes silent at the moment he gets his back off the wall to help Missy, noticing Jacob coming closer suddenly with someone else.

“Is it here?” The person with Jacob asks, holding a big orange poster. “Yep,” He confirms. “We call it Wall–E!” The answer to his information is just a laughter that makes Tom immediately forget about giving Missy a hand, bringing him to step closer to the conversation. “Hey man, where were you?” At the moment Tom asks, Jacob instantly gets what he’s trying to do. Not that Tom wasn’t kinda nosy sometimes, but they’ve been hanging out enough for his moves to look predictable. Way too predictable. Jacob says nothing, only squints his eyes and the silence suiting the four of them is slightly uncomfortable. “Uhm… I asked him for help as he was waiting for people to open some space so we… Could… Walk until here.” The voice is hesitant and sweet, although, while Missy eyes the person — The person looks at Tom, then looks down — Tom looks back & Jacob watches Tom prepare a whole scene inside his mind. “There’s some tape upon that tiny cabinet that you can use,” Jacob points to the front, past Tom and Missy Langford, “And if you can put it wherever you want as long as it’s in the blue area.” “Thank you so much! I’ll help myself with anything, don’t wanna take more of your time.” “No worries,” Giving a smile, Jacob walks to the side and then to Tom, offering his hand to a high–five. “I think you’ll be okay.”

As he feels the deep gaze of his friend as he passes by, Tom understands the second intentions of the phrase as if Jacob had just said “very smooth, my friend, shoot your shot” and left. It’s not that Tom Holland is a complete womanizer — the term Prince Charming fits him better, he says —but everyone who knows him decently is aware of the fact that he has no time for bullshit. No ceremony, no playing around. If Tom Holland likes someone, he’ll sure let this person know and try a move. If it goes right then awesome! And if it goes wrong he won’t go bitter about it longer than two or three seconds. He’ll eventually forget even though he doesn’t want to.

The british boy watches another struggle. Tiptoeing, the other person lifts the poster to see if it’ll fit in the only larger space left on The Great Wall as Missy climbs down the stairs by herself, analyzing the entire scene with squinted eyes.

“Here, luv,” Tom gently moves closer and takes the poster in his hands. He tiptoes as well and reaches the blank spot easier. “I think it’ll fit, don’t ya?” “It sure will!” The answer comes out in a chuckle. “I don’t believe we met, actually,” With feet back on the floor, he holds the banner while he looks directly to the owner. There’s this stupid beautiful smile adorning his face kind of shyly, but surely threatening to widen more as his fingers run through his brown hair. “I’m sorry. I’m Y/N,” She says, smiling back at him and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and Tom notices the delicate pair of earrings shining through the locks. “Beautiful! Beautiful name,” His brows frown quickly, listening to her voice like his favourite band’s singing his favourite song of all time. His mouth wants to say ‘beautiful face too’ with ‘beautiful lips’ and a ‘beautiful eyes’, but his brain works harder to keep his dignity safe somehow. “And your name is?” Suddenly, his throat goes dry. He tries to clear it, eyes blinking rapidly and he stretches an arm to find support on the wall. The jeans on his legs goes tighter, the white t-shirt for summer weather feels hotter than a thousand coats and the backpack on his shoulder heavens like he’s carrying a bag filled with rocks. What the heck? “My name?” “No, idiot,” Missy says behind Tom. “My name.” Rolling eyes, Tom slightly turns around and clenches his jaw, looking at Missy Langford’s sarcastic face with everything but appreciation. “Will you shut the fuck up?” He mumbles through gritted teeth. “I’m tryna get lucky in here,” And this time who rolls eyes is Missy, fixing her yellow shirt and putting it back inside her blue jeans. “I’m Thomas, darlin’. You can call me Tom.”

Or future ex–boyfriend, Missy thinks to herself feeling a tiny bit of heartache annoying her chest. It’s been around four months since she argued with Tom, which led to their break–up. Well, Missy calls it a break–up. For Tom, nothing’s been broken up because what they had was just a thing, a sudden meeting of feverish hormones boiling through their bodies. No one ever kneeled down and asked gently, no one ever posted pictures online or introduced the other to their parents. He notices the way she’s still bitter about it, but after a thousand conversations and discussions, Tom had just decided to let her be until the ache goes away eventually, since his words were apparently not helping at all.

“Tom,” Y/N confirms, nodding along and looking at him. He reacts with a smile, coffee eyes drinking her in. “Thank you, Tom! I should probably go find that cabinet where the tape might be at—“ “I’ll show you!” Tom interrupts, prompting up his body and fixing his shirt. “By the way, what are you announcing? Do you need a place to stay or share?” “Oh, no! Not at all,” Y/N warns as soon as she drinks in the way Tom’s tone of voice fell worried. The boy looks down at the poster, trying to find the main information of the paper. “It’s just a party. You’re both invited, actually! It’s gonna be at my place… Tomorrow afternoon.”

Tom says nothing, just removes his eyes from the folder to look at Y/N’s charming smile. He didn’t need any more reasons to say something rather than yes — the other words slipping out of her mouth were soundless to him, his eyes were too hypnotized by the way her lips were moving; hypnotized in a way his ears stopped working for a moment but his head managed to nod along to whatever she proposed. Yes, yes and yes. A thousand times yes to whatever she just proposed.

“Well, I’ll find the tape to hang it on,” She comments, eyeing the couple as her feet start to plan their way to the middle of the corridor. “I hope you can make it.”

Her sweet smile makes it hard for Tom to think twice — not that he even considered doing this, but it’s new to him how the entire surrounding seems to slow down the pace and noise when Y/N simply breathes and smiles sweetly. This is not right, not one bit, he thinks. His heart never raced this fast before; his mouth never craved other lips as it’s doing at the moment but one thing is certain: this party’s going to ease down his thirst one way or another. Tom only realizes that Y/N went away when the frame in front of him becomes Missy. She’s got a smirk on her face and two of her fingers travel across his collarbone, right next to where his white shirt ends. She feels the warmth of his chest increasing underneath the pad of her index and middle fingers, eyes traveling across his softened expression.

“Pick me up at 2 o’clock tomorrow?” She asks rhetorically, melting slightly when he takes her hand to plant a kiss on her knuckles.

By the hand, he drags her body closer so he can murmur next to her ear the same word he’s been saying repeatedly for these past months.

“No.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were going to ditch us for that party tomorrow, you bitch!”

Shawn rolls his eyes, smiling widely as he manages to carry his backpack, water bottle and guitar case towards his car. Brian, on the other hand, doesn’t feel like smiling back.

“Answer me!”

“Dude?!” Shawn stops, putting down his case to grab the keys inside his pocket. “It’s just a football match, we do this every fucking week.”

“Exactly! We do this every fucking week—“

“Man, Y/N’s gonna be there,” He smiles again, pressing the button to unlock the doors. “You know how much I’ve been waiting for this day to come over.”

“Wasn’t she in London?” The redhead asks, walking beside his best friend as he bends down to get the guitar case once again.

Things are heavy in Shawn’s hands and back, but the thought of finally seeing Y/N again after a semester of torture shots a wave of numbness through his nerves. The blue shirt feels hotter and the black jeans are surely tighter, but the way his heart floats around his chest makes him feel light like a feather.

He misses her.

Misses her smile, her eyes, the sound of her voice and her laugh when he first talked about his feelings for her. Shawn noticed that she didn’t believe him at all, but that impression didn’t last long in his mind — the way Y/N got close to his lips to mumble sweet nothings had sent him to cloud 9. Then his trip flew down to hell just as quickly when she pulled away to walk past the door, leaving Shawn’s pout kissing the air and the side of his bed empty. Next thing he knew, Y/N was on a plane ready to spend half of the year exploring the british airs of South West London. The song he wrote about her ended up staying inside of his second drawer, but the long-sleeved jersey of his favourite Hockey team went away with her — making Shawn’s hand itch to find home on that body, taking back what’s his and what he wants to be his.

“Exactly,” He imitates Brian’s words. “Was.”

Brian says nothing, feeling defeated. His brows only lift while his eyes close, knowing that he can’t fight Shawn when he’s like this. Obsessed.

“You should come too,” He invites, putting the tip of his bottle inside his mouth to hold it while he pushes the door open. “Heard–Djulia–iths–gonha–be–ther’.”

His guitar case flies to the backseat along with his backpack, Shawn stepping to the side so Brian can tuck his stuff into the car too.

“I have no fucking idea of what you just said,” Brian tosses his bag while pointing one finger to Shawn. “But I’m not leaving my mates behind because of some girl.”

This time, the one to lift eyebrows is Shawn. His gaze narrows Brian as he hangs the driver’s door open.

“First, you know she’s not some girl,” He corrects. “Second, Julia is gonna be there. It’s a pool party, dumbass.”

While Brian walks to the passenger’s door, it’s like magic. Julia is out there, walking–dancing outside the campus with her friends around her, singing whatever song that was. His blue eyes can’t drift away from her until she’s disappearing behind the cars parked.

“Pool party?” He asks distractedly. “See, that’s the part I hadn’t understood before. I mean, I love football but you know I never say no to a party.”

Message from +44 20…: Hi!! You left before I could even ask for your number…

Y/N gets out of the shower to immediately find her phone buzzing and ringing. The screen doesn’t show the entire text, but she doesn’t need to think that much to figure it out. Opening the app, she finds a second message popping up right after.

+44 20…: I got it from the party poster, I hope you don’t mind

Her bottom lip gets trapped between her teeth, a stupid smiling drawing her face as the profile photo loads. There he is. Messy damp curls atop of a babyface, glasses in front of those chocolate eyes and bare chest. Whew. Typing, feeling like a teenager as her stomach gets butterflies, she can notice the way her breathing goes unpatterned.

You: hey, london boy. there’s no problem! i’m glad you did 😇

It’s fun to Y/N how the text got instantly seen, the ‘typing…’ showing up below the new saved contact’s name in seconds.

Tom (Empshire): 👀👀👀 Hahaha That’s good to know. I’m really looking forward to your party tomorrow

You: you’re gonna make it? that’s perfect 💓

Tom (Empshire): Of course I am! Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling

Unconsciously, Y/N’s legs clench together just to the imagination of his accent speaking these words loud and clear to her. Even with the dripping hair and body wrapped by just a towel, she jumps on her bed before she falls to the floor.

Tom (Empshire): Do I need to bring something?? Like beers and stuff

You: not really. unless u wanna drink something specific but as long as you’re here… just don’t forget your suit, darling 😛

If she only knew that Tom was exactly how she was picturing… Bare chest, wearing glasses, damp hair and thrown onto the sofa with a boyish grin. Tom honestly couldn’t think about smooth ways to flirt with her, he felt too intimidated — almost like Tom wasn’t Tom. Who would’ve guessed that Tom Holland could watch his moves to talk with a girl?

Tom (Empshire): I won’t haha

Then he couldn’t resist.

Tom (Empshire): Anyways, can’t wait to see you again… It was lovely to meet you earlier today. Good night, pretty one!

With burning cheeks and racing heart, Y/N twists in bed as she holds her phone for dear life. Coming back to the Empshire University fell flat at first, but with the taste of London still stuck in her life somehow, this looks as interesting as being in the United Kingdom itself — with a summertime way more catching than the winter. Her limbs couldn’t stop pulsing and the anticipation ran along her most sensitive spots mercilessly, making her thighs tighten even harder with a big smile tilting up the corners of her swollen lips from all the biting.

You: good night, t. can’t way to see you too. it’ll be awesome.

taglist of girlfriends: @lostinspidey – @goldenmndes – @shawnsunflower​ – @jawnjendes​ – @itrocksmysocks​ – @emilyxkate​ – @tell-me-when-ur-ready​ – @particularnervous​ – @grayxzabdixfer – @shawnssongs​ – @arypesanchez​ – @shawnmendes-s – @shawnsheaven​ – @mylifeisafxingmess​ – @perfectywrong​ – @whysparker​ – @blairscott​

tagging mutuals [if you wanna be untagged, please sorry in advance & let me know]: @mcuspidey​ – @devilmendes​ – @snowflakeparker​ – @strangertingle – @honeyrosemuffins​.

[aldbooks]

Desperada

...

What the everloving hell did I just watch?

Beware the salt... also the GIF use lol

Basically... I fucking hated it. The entire time I watched it, the majority of the words coming out my mouth were some variation of “what the fuck? This is excruciating!” I honestly can’t believe I actually watched it twice 🤦🏻‍♀️

Ok so, first we start off with some quality Lukanette and even Marinette’s friends are all “Wow! Marinette and Luka are so cute together. What a good match they make. Maybe she should give him a shot instead of Adrien?!”

But then of course, Adrien shows up!... with Kagami. And Marinette, predictably, becomes Disasternette. At this point, we’re not even two minutes in and I already kinda wanna turn it off.

So then the gang goes above stairs to see what’s going on and Disasternette becomes even worse when Jagged Stone asks her to help him find a new guitarist. Everyone of course expects her to say Luka, cuz duh. But no. She picks 🥁... Adrien.

Who doesn’t even play guitar.

Then Jagged says “what about that kid wearing my face on his shirt with the guitar strapped on his back?” (Lol) and Mari’s like “oh, of course!” Cue short lived sigh of relief, cuz it’s immediately followed by “Luka can let Adrien borrow his guitar!”

At this point I’m actually kinda angry. Because not only are they once again making Marinette look like an absolute fool, they made beautiful, selfless Luka look like a complete push over because he just gives the guitar to Adrien to please Marinette. Wtf??

And still, we’re not even four minutes in. At this point, I know this is going to be a very long episode.

So, now the introduction to this episode’s akuma, Desperada. I ain’t mad it. Cool costume design, semi legit reason for akumatization, also, we now know what that random akuma from the Gamer 2.0 episode is that we were all like who the heck is that?

Fast forward a little here: Mari has a bit of an ah-ha moment with Tikki like “omg why did I give the guitar to Adrien? Why am I like this?” (Unfortunately it isn’t the development we’re hoping for though, as we find out very soon)

There are some quality Lukadrien moments as they both try to hide from Desperada and help Ladybug.

There’s a moment where Luka plays his guitar and both Ladybug and Adrien go all dreamy eyed, which I loved (Lukadrinette for the win) but my salty ass kinda wanted Adrien to see Ladybug getting goo-goo eyed over someone else and get jealous. Lmao

Anyways, so Lucky Charm gives her a gong and we all know that means it’s time for a new miraculous holder. Yay! Of course it’s obvious now this is Viperion’s episode but there’s a moment of confusion (and an epic face palm) when Marinette is all “I know the perfect person for the job! 🥁 Adrien!”

Seriously? Wtf.

Upon hearing that Ladybug wants to give the miraculous to Adrien, Chat Noir distracts Ladybug long enough to destransform so he can accept it.

Also see here how he pushes Luka back into the locker like “why don’t you just stay here 😉” so she won’t think to give it to him instead, when she can’t immediately find Adrien.

So Adrien and Plagg debate (read: Plagg tries to talk some sense into his idiot holder who completely ignores him cuz “omg ladybug needs me!” Um, yeah dipshit, she needs you to be Chat Noir) and for a hot minute I think we’re gonna get Snake Noir. But, Adrien wants Ladybug to fall in love with him as ‘himself’ 🤦🏻‍♀️ So never mind.

Also for a hot minute I think Adrien is going to actually do the right thing and refuse, but of course not, because this is ML...

Side note: Adrien’s acting when he opens the box and pretends to be surprised to see a kwami is on point.

Side side note: I don’t know what I expected Sass’s transformation phrase to be, but it def wasn’t “scales slither” 😒 and also, his transformation sequence is terrible and that costume is a travesty. (His end pose also kinda reminds of the gif of the guy from Road to El Dorado aggressively playing the mandolin😂)

Anyway, so for basically the first time ever, we actually see Ladybug explaining the miraculous rules and powers to the new holder. Adrien tells a corny joke and basically acts just like Chat, to which Ladybug giggles

Again I think Adrien is about to do the right thing when Ladybug basically tells him to his face that Chat Noir is an unnecesary part of the team; so, naturally, he doesn’t.

Basically both of these kids act like selfish little shits so they can spend time together. For once I’m actually very proud of Plagg for calling Adrien out. “You’re supposed to be saving Paris, not flirting!”

What happens next is a montage of Adrien epically failing to save Ladybug with the Second Chance (do I sense a metaphor here? Is this foreshadowing? Ha! As if). He finally gives up the miraculous and good lord, thank you!

Then we find out he failed over 25k times before he finally made the right call...

So Luka shows up and of course it’s Adrien who is all “Luka should have the miraculous” not Ladybug (because she can’t actually chose Luka herself for anything) And of course Luka just stands there while she kisses Adrien and thanks him for his help, blatantly letting Luka know he was the second choice (def a metaphor). *sigh*

Luka’s transformation of course is hella dope. I really wanted Ladybug to have an “oh no. He’s hot” moment, cuz let’s be real...

Also, why is Ladybug suddenly completely cool with civilians knowing the identity of a miraculous holder???

We’re now over 17 minutes into the episode, nearly the end, and I’m just now realizing that the episode where Luka is introduced as Viperion, isn’t even about him.

Luka then, after a couple of tries, actually is the one to figure out how to win, proving he was the right pick for the snake from the get go. He plays the damn Lyre, because of course he does, and they use Ladybug’s second Lucky Charm (a saddle btw. What the actual hell. This is some more weird, 50 shades type shit (see Reverser)) to defeat the akuma.

Back on the boat, Jagged again apologizes for being a diva and instead of getting some resolution to the Lukanette mistreatment at the beginning of the episode, we get Kagami once again being all “better step up Marinette before I steal your man” which is just the cherry on the cake really

Other notes:

- in my opinion, this entire episode was essentially Adrien/Ladrien fan service

- as another poster astutely pointed out: Adrien acted basically exactly the same while Aspik as he does when Chat Noir, essentially blowing up Tom’s whole theory about Chat being the “real” Adrien

-Master Fu: this miraculous should be given to someone who won’t abuse it

Ladybug: gives it to Adrien- who proceeds to abuse it

- all I think we learned from this episode, is that both Adrien and Marinette need to get over their obsessions with Ladybug/Adrien because it severely impedes their ability to make rational, sensible, non-selfish decisions.

Also, that knowing each other’s identities really isn’t a good idea. Yeah I hear you, “what about Oblivio?” In Oblivio, they literally knew nothing about each other, other than they cared about each other and they worked well together. There was no ‘hero worship’ ‘he/she’s so perfect’ mentality to get in the way, just good old fashioned trust. So does knowing who the other is actually work for them?

Ha! I’ve been dying for a good opportunity to use that set

I don’t think I’ve said it before on here, but def in my comments on my fic I Wanna Be Bad: I loved Adrien when this show started. Of the cast of characters, he def had the most potential. Lately though I’ve kinda given up on him.

He’s had zero growth. In fact, some times I think he’s actually gone backwards, especially as Chat Noir. He’s become increasingly petulant and childish and hasn’t learned a damn thing about respecting Ladybug’s boundaries or how to take being a hero seriously. It’s honestly killing the love square for me.

The writing on this show in general has become atrocious. For instance, this episode (according to reported production order) takes place after Silencer. Meaning Mari sat there and listened to Luka confess to her twice, and then goes and says he’s “just a friend” (yes, literally. She pulled an Adrien) and continues to humiliate herself for a guy who’s openly shown an interest in another girl.

It’s so painful to watch. Just as it’s painful to see Chat continually rip his heart out for LB even when she keeps turning him down.

Enough is enough already. We get it. Let them move on. Just because they date other people, doesn’t mean they won’t still end up together. That’s called reality.

[cycwrites]

The Middle

Alternatively titled: Can Beca Come Out and Play – Or that time Stacie Got Bored

A/N: A post Nowish Stechlobree/PolyBellasSquared fluff and smut oneshot. Cause why not. And the Beta demanded I write her smut. Gotta keep @tiny-maus-boots happy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rating: Mature

Words: 18,000ish

Also on AO3 and FFN

All other works in my A Shared Lifetime AU can be found here though I do recommend reading it in the Written Order series on AO3.

~C~

Friday, September 1st, 2017

Chloe settled back against a pillow and grabbed her magazine from the bedside table. She’d just gotten out of the shower and planned to read a bit before she had to think about dinner. Beca had worked from home that day and was still in her studio, though she’d promised Chloe she’d be done soon.

When her phone chimed twice in a row, she picked it up and smiled.

Stacie: Oh baby! Why don’t you just meet me in the middddllllle

Stacie: I’m losin’ my mind just a littllllllllle

Chloe: Are you drunk?

Stacie: Maaaaaybe. Bree had to go back to work for a few hours and I got bored so I made something fruity.

Stacie: Speaking of fruity – can Beca come out and play?

Chloe laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?”

She looked up and saw Beca walk into the room.

“Stacie’s singing ‘The Middle’ to me again. Bree had to go back to work and Stacie got bored. Wants to know if you can come out and play.” She grinned when Beca mock rolled her eyes as she went to their dresser.

“Doesn’t she know that song is about… like… a fight and compromise, not ‘come out and play in the pool between our houses’?” Beca rummaged through the drawers and set out some shorts and a t-shirt.

Chloe shrugged. “I know I’m not the only one who thinks it’s adorable when she drunk serenades us with it.” She waited and while Beca remained silent, Chloe could see her smiling in one of the mirrors. “In fact, the last time that happened, I’m pretty sure you were the one who stood naked in our back door until she noticed you. At noon. On a Saturday.”

Beca turned around. “Hey, Bree dared me to.” She grinned wider. “She wanted to see how long it’d take Stacie to see me.”

Chloe laughed. “I remember.” It had been less than a second. Aubrey had literally timed it. ‘.751 seconds. That’s my girl.’ Stacie had been by the pool and homed in on Beca like a shark, pushing her back into the kitchen almost before Chloe had even realized Beca had opened the door.

Beca wiggled her eyebrows. “That was a good day.” She hip bumped the drawer close. “A really good day.”

Chloe nodded, grinning. It had been a great day and the four of them had barely made it upstairs before things had gotten serious. Well, as serious as they could be with Stacie and Beca giggling like teenagers; until Aubrey had gotten her hands on them, at least. Things had gotten a little (lot) more breathy then.

“She’s been drinking today too…” Chloe trailed off as watched as Beca stripped down for her shower and threw her clothes in the hamper. “What was I saying? I got distracted.” She bit her lip, ever appreciative of Beca’s naked form.

Beca grinned over her shoulder as she walked into the bathroom. “Have her come over; I’ll be out shortly.”

Chloe looked back down. “Right. Stacie. Texting.”

 Chloe: So pull me closer Why don’t you pull me close? Why don’t you come on overrrrrrrr

Chloe: B just got in the shower and I’m just reading in bed, so come on up.

 Chloe didn’t get an answer and after only a few seconds she had a silent bet with herself as she threw her phone to the side and held up her magazine again, though she looked over the top instead of reading it.

Either Stacie was just heading over from her house and wasn’t going to bother with answering, or… A shadow in the hall told her it was option two: Stacie had originally texted from the back door, if she wasn’t already in the kitchen. Chloe had a second bet with herself – would Stacie be clothed or not – but she knew there really was only one answer.

Chloe started to sing. “I need you on my skin, just come over, pull me in…”

Chloe broke off and drew in a deep breath when Stacie appeared in the doorway. Expected or not, the sight of a completely naked Stacie Conrad was something that she didn’t think she would ever get used to. Or get enough of. Hell, she wasn’t even really used to a naked Beca after all these years. Throw a naked Staubrey on top of all that… ‘Maybe not the best way to phrase it.’ Chloe grinned up at Stacie, desire already coiling through her. ‘Or the perfect way, I suppose.’ She bit her lip as Stacie stalked into the room, her eyes intent on Chloe’s, a small smile playing across her mouth.

Reaching the bed, Stacie slowly eased onto it on all fours and, not for the first time, Chloe thought she was like a giant jungle cat. All smooth muscle, liquid movements and focused solely on her prey. Chloe felt her body start to tingle in anticipation as Stacie paused just before she reached Chloe’s outstretched legs.

Chloe swallowed as she watched Stacie lower her face down until it was just above one of Chloe’s shins. Her tongue came out and delicately touched skin as Stacie continued her slow pace up Chloe’s body, her tongue lightly moving from shin to knee to thigh until stopped by Chloe’s shorts. She looked up, mischief bright in her green eyes, before tugging once at the bottom of Chloe’s shorts with her teeth. Chloe’s breath hitched in her throat as her legs automatically parted to allow Stacie’s shifting body between them.

Then she simply pressed her nose into Chloe’s thigh and moved upward, dragging the hem of Chloe’s shirt as, just like a cat, she pushed her head down and against the bottom of the magazine Chloe had forgotten she was holding. When Chloe was too stunned to move, overwhelmed a bit by all that skin, Stacie sat up and plucked the magazine from her hand, smiling as she tossed it gently to the side. She immediately resumed pushing Chloe’s shirt up with her nose, allowing her tongue free access to trace across Chloe’s stomach. She shivered under Stacie’s touch, her fingers tangling in honey brown tresses without conscious thought.

They’d all fallen so easily into this new realm that Chloe almost couldn’t remember what it was like before. Where she didn’t have the memory of what Stacie’s skin felt like against her own. How it tasted. Where she didn’t have even the thought in her head to reach out to either Stacie or Aubrey and pull them into a kiss. She much preferred this world where suddenly Naked Stacie and Sex Voice Aubrey often appeared like magic and Chloe didn’t have to keep her hands to herself.

With one last nip of teeth above Chloe’s belly button, Stacie pulled back slightly but before Chloe could even whimper at the loss, Stacie had lowered herself to slide the entire length of their bodies against each other until their hips rested comfortably together and her mouth covered Chloe’s.

Chloe also thought she’d never get tired of how Stacie would simply sink into whoever she was kissing. It never felt like she was pinning them down, merely trying to get as much of her touching as much of them as possible. Especially if she was naked.  Chloe wrapped her legs around Stacie, pulling her close and deepening a kiss that had already pulled the breath from her.

Chloe worked her arms under Stacie’s until she was able to grip Stacie’s sides, holding on tightly as Stacie began to slowly thrust against her. Chloe pressed upward, helpless to do anything but respond to the deliberately building rhythm. She heard herself whimper and was shocked at the need in it as she’d gone from zero to ‘fuck me’ in less than a minute.

Her hands skimmed up until she could rake her nails back down the length of Stacie’s spine, her fingertips finally flattening to smooth against the dip that led to the swell of her ass. Which, since it was there, Chloe palmed as much as she could from that angle and pulled her closer.

With a groan, Stacie pulled her lips away but before Chloe could chase her down or beg that she return to what she’d been doing, Stacie’s head dipped and she dragged the flat of her tongue firmly up the column of Chloe’s throat. It was Chloe’s turn to let out a moan that turned to a sharp hiss as Stacie’s teeth found her pulse point and gripped before her lips locked against Chloe’s skin and she began to suck.

“Jesus, Stacie.” Chloe breathed out, once again reminded of why Beca loved the feeling of this so much. She felt Stacie practically purr against her skin, hearing in it her love and the need to claim.

Stacie finally pulled back and licked delicately at the mark she’d left. “What do you need, love?” Humor laced her voice as she looked up into Chloe’s eyes, but her own were still fire and desire that scorched Chloe’s skin. She was still very much the predator intent on her prey and Chloe loved every thrilling second of it.

“Inside me,” Chloe answered breathlessly, already aching between her legs. “I need you inside me.”

“That can be arranged.” Stacie claimed her lips again but far too quickly before she pulled back. “But first I need to go get our girl out of the shower.” She kissed Chloe again, her tongue plunging hard and fast and Chloe felt the memory echo of it in her core. Stacie sat up, resting on Chloe’s thighs; her grin cocky and confident as she took in Chloe’s panting body. “We’ll be back, I promise.”

Chloe felt her heart flutter at Stacie’s grin. Part of her initial attraction to Beca had been that cocky smirk she’d given when they first met – especially when Aubrey had called her a bitch. Something about all that cool confidence made Chloe’s pulse beat faster and now she had two of them who had it in spades. Aubrey did too, though hers was a more controlled power and poise– less cocky and more a sheer force of nature – that had drawn Chloe to her from the beginning.

She held up a hand. “Help me up.” Stacie took it and tugged lightly, helping Chloe sit up. “Thanks.”

“No prob-” It was Stacie’s turn to hiss out a breath as Chloe immediately took her left nipple in her mouth and rolled her tongue around it. Stacie’s hands tangled in Chloe’s hair, holding her there as her hips pressed downward. “Chlo…”

Chloe sucked lightly, almost teasingly, before flicking the hardening tip with her tongue. When she was satisfied with the sounds Stacie was making above her, she let the breast slip free and turned to the other one. Her attention on that taut peak was much shorter, though no less ardent. Instead she lowered her mouth until she could pull in some of the skin on the underside and suck, creating a matching mark that had Stacie writhing against her.

Reluctantly she pulled back and looked up into emerald heat. “Then I guess you better go before I tip you onto your back and give instead of take.” It was all Chloe could do to keep herself still and not push forward until she could lower herself to run her tongue through Stacie’s center. Chloe’s body memory was strong there too; she knew how Stacie felt against her tongue, how she tasted.

Stacie’s thighs tensed around Chloe’s hips as she hesitated for the briefest second and Chloe could see the effort it took to roll off her and push herself to the edge of the bed. She did it quickly as if she didn’t trust either of them to really stop and it made Chloe crave more.

As Stacie walked to the bathroom, Chloe couldn’t help but watch the sway of her hips and think how lucky she was that she could look at that amazing ass whenever she wanted. When Stacie looked over her shoulder, Chloe didn’t even care that she’d been caught or that she’d been in the process of licking her lips at the time.

Stacie grinned at her. “Aca-perv.”

Chloe only lifted a shoulder. “Guilty.”

Stacie’s eyes flicked over her. “As cute as you look, you’re wearing far too many clothes.” With a decidedly more salacious slowness than Chloe had done, Stacie ran her tongue over her bottom lip and disappeared into the other room.

Chloe let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and fell back onto her bed. “Holy shit.” She and Beca had been thrilled when Staubrey had shown them just how much of their passion they’d been… not holding back, exactly, but they were apparently more reserved until things had settled. She knew it hadn’t been intentional or that they were afraid of scaring she and Beca off, but she could understand saving part of yourself in case the worst happened. To lay everything out and then have it blow up…

Chloe shook her head, unwilling to even entertain the thought of not having them in her life. To lose them now would be as devastating as losing Beca. She’d meant what she said to Beca the night they’d talked about being more while standing in their kitchen. Chloe had given her heart to both of them long before July and she was in too deep to even consider that there had been a possibility of something else. Where before she might have worried about that, worried about her heart getting hurt, she had no fear anymore. She wasn’t alone in this – Beca felt everything as deeply as Chloe herself and it was returned twofold by their other half. She half frowned. ‘Or was that halves. Quarters?’

She knew in the beginning that Beca had also kept part of herself hidden, to a lesser extent, because she was an extremely dirty minded and inventive woman. Aubrey and Stacie had joined Chloe in teasing Beca about being so prudish that she couldn’t say “sex” in normal conversation, but in the moment, she was as vocal and detailed in what she wanted to do or have done to her as the rest of them.

Now none of them held anything back and it was like being constantly bathed in a low flame that could spin into a firestorm at a mere glance. She’d never met anyone else who could convey a mental undressing in the span of a heartbeat and now she was surrounded by three gorgeous women who did it as naturally as breathing.

Chloe laughed as a shrill but short scream came from the bathroom, followed by an extremely loud “Jesus fucking Christ, Stacie! You scared the hell out of me!”

She couldn’t hear Stacie’s response but as Chloe made a decision and reached for her phone, she heard Beca moan. “Guess Stacie’s making it up to her.”

She pulled up Aubrey’s messages and typed out a quick text.

 Chloe: Are you somewhere you can talk on your Bluetooth? If so, give me a call. Don’t panic, everything is fine. I just have a question for you.

 She didn’t have to wait long before her phone was ringing.

“What’s up?” Chloe could hear people talking in the background and figured Aubrey must still be at work.

“Stacie got a little drunk and is currently in the shower with Beca. She was supposed to just get her out, but, well, Steca apparently got distracted. Again.” Chloe rolled to the end of the bed and stood up. “I was wondering if you’d like to listen.”

Aubrey’s sharp inhale was all the answer Chloe needed, but she chuckled at Aubrey’s careful, “Yes please.” She knew that only she, Beca and Stacie would hear the desire woven through those two simple words.  There was the sound of a bell and the voices in the background faded away to be replaced by street noise. Then she laughed. “Did you just say Steca?”

Chloe grinned. “Yeah, it seems easier. Like Jessley.”

Aubrey laughed again. “You’ve got names for us all, don’t you?”

“Not yet, but I can start thinking of them.” Chloe heard another moan and bit her lip. “But maybe later. Because...” Chloe walked into the bathroom and stopped in the doorway, her own breath trapped in her throat.

Beca was leaning in the back corner opposite the spray, which had been aimed down and toward the wall, and Stacie was kneeling between her legs with Beca’s left thigh up and over her shoulder. Beca moaned again and the sound echoed in the bathroom. Chloe bit her lip as Aubrey let out a quiet gasp in her ear when Chloe began to relay in detail what she was seeing. It dawned on her this was the first time they’d engaged in any sort of activity without all four being present, or at least only a short backyard walk away after a quick text. She wasn’t sure if it was making it more exciting or worse to describe it, but since Aubrey didn’t ask her to stop, Chloe figured she’d just continue. But for now…

She fell silent as Beca’s moans grew louder, Stacie’s right hand moving from where it rested on top of Beca’s thigh to slide between her legs. When Beca cried out, Chloe couldn’t hold back her own moan. “They’re so fucking gorgeous, Bree. Stacie’s inside her now, Beca’s head is back and her eyes are closed, her hands in Stacie’s hair.” Stacie had pulled her hair up into a messy bun and Beca’s fingers had sunk into it as she held on and pulled her closer.

Chloe could hear Aubrey’s quick breath in her ear and hoped she wasn’t anywhere where her coworkers could see her. While Aubrey wouldn’t care in the moment, she’d definitely care later if it came up in casual conversation or some sort of public lewdness reprimand.

Chloe fell silent again, lost in watching the two of them moving against one another until suddenly Aubrey yelled “Damnit!” in her ear.

Chloe’s attention snapped back to the phone. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Aubrey growled as Chloe heard the beep of the car alarm. “I just spent three minutes trying to get into my car. Except it wasn’t my fucking car, it was a damn Fiat two rows over!” There was the slamming of a car door and the sound of the seatbelt being pulled.

Chloe laughed with relief and amusement. “Aubrey, you hate Fiats.”

“I know! That’s what makes it more annoying!”  Aubrey started the car. “I’m on my way.”

“Please be careful.” Chloe looked back toward the shower. “Should… should we hang up? So you’re not distracted?”

“No!” Aubrey yelled.

“Alright, calm down there, horny pants.” Chloe teased, knowing full well she was a hypocrite. “Speaking of, I’m putting you on speaker for a bit. Stacie said I had too many clothes on earlier and I need to fix that.” She chuckled quietly as Aubrey let out another moan, knowing her best friend was picturing her naked. “I’d say we’ll be waiting for you, but I have no idea what’s going to happen when they get out of there.”

“You’re the worst.” Aubrey whined.

“You mean we’re the best.” Chloe said as she put the phone on speaker and set it down. She quickly stripped out of the clothes she just put on, folding the shorts and shirt on the counter but already knowing she was going to need a different pair of underwear when she got dressed again. ‘Whenever that is,’ she thought with a shiver.

Not wanting to distract a driving Aubrey with the details – though the moaning that was intensifying in the shower should give plenty of them – Chloe left the phone on speaker and leaned against the counter beside it. She got lost watching them again, filled with desire, love, need and overall a sense of home that pulled every single string in her heart. She was so lost in it that she didn’t even hear anyone come in but suddenly there was a naked body pressed against her back and arms looped around her waist.

"Oh thank god, I didn’t miss it completely.” Aubrey whispered in her ear before her teeth nipped at Chloe’s neck.

“How… how did you…” Chloe started to ask but Aubrey’s hands slid up and cupped her breasts; she decided it didn’t really matter and it wouldn’t have surprised her in the least to learn Aubrey had willed herself into spontaneous teleportation. “God you feel good.” She let her head lean back to rest on Aubrey’s shoulder and just enjoyed the attention and the view. Aubrey’s hands drifted up and down her stomach, nails scratching gently along her ribs, one slender finger dipping between Chloe’s legs, making her realize just how wet she’d become since Stacie appeared like a naked Goddess in the bedroom doorway.

Beca’s head dropped down and her eyes half opened once, then more fully, though Chloe could see she fought to keep them open. “Oh shit…” She broke off with a cry as Stacie pushed against her. “Bucky… the girls are watching. We’ve been caught.”

Stacie lifted her head and looked over her shoulder, smiling even as she licked her lips and Chloe felt Aubrey’s teeth sink into her skin. She understood all too well, her own body clenched at the memory and the promise she’d been given.

“Becs,” Stacie turned back around. “Do you think you could… maybe brace yourself somehow… so I can…” Stacie trailed off as she shifted her left arm until it was under Beca’s right leg.

“Holy shit.” Chloe didn’t know who said it, her or Aubrey, but they both gasped as Stacie lifted Beca’s other leg over her shoulder until Beca’s weight rested on her upper arms, her forearms braced against the wall to hold Beca in the air.

Beca’s eyes opened wide as she stared down in shock. “Holy fuck.” Stacie leaned forward again and obviously gave an experimental lick because Beca’s whole body jerked in reaction. She shifted slightly until she was apparently satisfied with her access and angle and buried herself between Beca’s braced legs. Beca’s eyes closed once more, her hands still buried in Stacie’s hair. “There, oh god, there… “

Chloe let her hands drift back and ran her nails across Aubrey’s thighs. Aubrey pressed closer, her hands still over Chloe’s breasts but now her fingers toyed with nipples that were so hard they ached. They were helpless to do anything more than watch; the two women in the shower would have held their focus anyway, but seeing Stacie actually holding Beca in the air was breathtaking.

“Fuck!” Beca’s toes curled as her cries grew louder and Chloe knew that she was close. So did Stacie, because – somehow – she managed to turn her hands until they were able to cup the sides of Beca’s breasts.  “Stace… oh god…” Beca let out a sharp cry. “Faster, please…” Stacie must have and Chloe felt her own muscles tensing in anticipation as Beca panted and writhed until Stacie’s name echoed from the walls and Beca’s body went rigid.

Aubrey’s body was rocking against her and Chloe pressed back, the sensation of Aubrey’s own hard nipples against her back adding another layer to the fire slowly burning through her. “I could watch that all day.” Aubrey whimpered in agreement as Beca’s body slowly relaxed, though Stacie still nuzzled against her.

Stacie gently helped guide Beca’s legs from her shoulders and stood, helping to keep her upright when it became obvious that Beca’s legs weren’t quite ready to support her. When Beca finally found her balance, Stacie leaned around the spray and turned the water off. Reluctantly Chloe pulled herself away from Aubrey and handed her the towel that Beca had laid out. “One for you.” She turned to the cabinet and got another one. “One for me.”

Stacie opened the door and gently urged Beca out first and Chloe stepped forward to loop the towel around her. Beca’s eyes were still a little glazed and her body trembled against Chloe’s like a newborn colt. Chloe gently began to towel her dry as Stacie stepped into Aubrey’s arms and pulled her into a deep kiss. Aubrey moaned deep in her throat, the hunger in it sending lightning up Chloe’s spine, and pulled Stacie even closer. Chloe, intimately familiar with that particular moan, knew it was because she could still taste Beca on Stacie’s lips; Aubrey hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, but once the other three had gone down on each other, then kissed her and the sound was the same, she admitted that it was a personal kink she’d recently developed. It was also the last time any of them had felt awkward about admitting something they liked or desired. There may be some light teasing, but never judgement or shame.

Beca let out a sudden sigh, as if she was just then finally able to draw in a deeper breath than the shallow panting she’d been doing. Chloe smiled at her even as she began to dry Beca’s hair. “You okay, love?” Beca nodded, her eyes still dazed. “Not able to talk yet?” Beca shook her head and Chloe chuckled softly. “That happens.” Beca stood patiently, still possibly not in control of her limbs, and let Chloe dry her off and run a comb through her hair. Beca’s face was still adorably slack and Chloe kissed her gently, feeling Beca slowly come back to herself as her lips firmed and her hands curved around Chloe’s ribs.

Beside them, once Aubrey had let Stacie come up for air, the other two were repeating much the same ritual though Stacie had managed to keep her hair mostly dry. As they stepped into the bedroom, Stacie turned and pulled Beca back into her arms, kissing her as thoroughly as she had Chloe and Aubrey.

“Thanks for letting me crash your shower, 8 seconds.” She ran her hands down Beca’s back and squeezed her ass.

Beca let out a laugh, her eyes finally clearing. “I’m pretty sure I should be thanking you for the shower invasion.” She pursed her lips. “Which seems to be a theme for the women in my life, apparently.” She looked over at Chloe and the warmth of her smile bathed Chloe from head to toe. “Since it’s what led us here, I’m not complaining at all.”

“Mm.” Aubrey chewed her lip briefly. “While I may have been shocked all those years ago, I have to say that I’m grateful Chloe briefly lost all sense of propriety.”

As Chloe turned to climb onto the bed, she heard Stacie ask, “How’re your legs, B?” She settled diagonally on the bed and watched Stacie pat Beca’s leg.

“What?” Beca looked up and blinked.

“Your legs. They working okay?” Stacie’s smile turned the slightest bit smug. “Or do you need more time?”

Beca’s eyes narrowed and Chloe bit back a grin. It wasn’t even like Beca could argue, Chloe had felt her trembling. “I may still need a moment.” When Stacie laughed, Beca poked her in the side. “It’s your fault, sweeping a woman off her feet like that.”

“Your toes actually curled.” Chloe pointed out helpfully. “Like, literally curled.” She grinned when Beca looked at her, eyes glazing slightly at the memory.

“I think my everything curled,” Aubrey sighed as she sat on the edge of the bed. “That was beautiful and hot.” Chloe stretched her arm out and ran her fingers down Aubrey’s arm who turned and looked at her. “You’re beautiful and hot too.” She pushed herself over next to Chloe.

Chloe smiled and pulled Aubrey down by a lock of hair. “I feel the same way about you, love. C’mere.” Aubrey pressed against her side and deepened the kiss immediately. Chloe rolled to her back, more than willing to let Aubrey take the lead as she leaned over and licked down into Chloe’s mouth. Aubrey’s left hand ran down her side before returning to cup her breast, causing Chloe to gasp into her mouth and arch her back.

A second weight hit the bed and Chloe pulled away to see Stacie crawling towards her. It was déjà vu all over again – except Stacie’s expression was more predatory, definitely more smug, and without any clothes as a barrier, she didn’t even bother with starting at the shin. Chloe’s breath stopped in her throat as Stacie’s head dipped and she gave a very firm, very slow lick up through her center.

“Oh my god.” Her eyes slamming shut, Chloe’s back arched further off the bed and she cried out as Aubrey’s fingers pulled at first one nipple then the other. “Oh my god.”

“I always keep my promises.” Stacie pulled away long enough to purr.

Chloe looked down the length of her body, finding Stacie stretched out on The Expanse and her mouth already back on Chloe’s suddenly even wetter core. She cried out again, unable to look away as Beca slid up onto the bed and onto Stacie’s back. As Chloe fought to keep her eyes open, Beca’s hands slid along the inside of Chloe’s thighs and pushed them apart, giving Stacie more room.

“Stacie… please…”Chloe couldn’t stop the roll of her body, already desperate for their touch.

“It’s okay, Chlo,” Aubrey whispered into her ear, her fingers still alternating between rolling and tugging. “We got you.”

Chloe let herself go, knowing she was safe because her three were always there to lift her up and catch her when she fell. She’d once thought that she was an instrument that only Beca could play – but the past two months had shown her what it was to be part of a symphony.

With a slight lift of Chloe’s hips with her strong but gentle hands, Stacie’s tongue traced her center, teasing along the edges before plunging in over and over. Beca’s hands tightened on her thighs before her left slid over and her fingers began to circle Chloe’s clit – never firm, never the friction that would push her closer to the edge - merely enough to keep her on edge, begging and desperate.

Those brief moments where she could force her eyes open showed Beca alternating between watching Chloe with enough heat to scorch and watching Stacie tongue fuck Chloe until she was ready to scream.

“You always sounded so good, Chlo.” Then there was Aubrey, whispering in her ear when she wasn’t leaving open mouthed kisses along any portion of Chloe’s skin she could reach. “I’d listen to you at night, with whoever had caught your attention, and wonder what it would be like to be the one making you make those delicious sharp gasps.” Her timing was perfect as Stacie’s tongue curled inside Chloe and she gasped, her whole body jerking as she tried to push herself closer to both of them at once.

“Why…?” Chloe tried to speak, tried to pull enough of herself together to ask Aubrey why she’d never given any indication, made any move, but all her focus was split between the myriad of sensations they were creating with fingers and tongue and she broke off with a cry. “FUCK!” Stacie’s chuckle rumbled against her – inside her – and Chloe thought she’d die from how sinfully self-satisfied it sounded. She could practically see the smirk that would’ve accompanied it if Stacie’s mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

“It wasn’t my place or time.” Aubrey said, her fingers still torturously circling, tugging and pulling at breasts sensitized to her touch. “Not that I knew we’d end up here – ” Aubrey pulled Chloe’s earlobe into her mouth and bit down gently before letting it slip free. “But I was more than happy being your best friend and wasn’t going to risk that if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“Oh Bree,” Chloe breathed out. Blindly she reached up and pulled Aubrey to her lips, needing to kiss away the sadness she felt at the thought of Aubrey alone in her room – knowing that Aubrey was both right and wrong. It wouldn’t have ruined their friendship and in fact Chloe was slowly becoming convinced she’d had deeply buried feelings for Aubrey since the beginning. And right because Chloe wouldn’t go back to change anything and risk never having the three of them like this in her life.

“You know I have to ask this,” Beca’s husky voice sent a shiver down Chloe’s back and she wasn’t surprised to feel a mirroring tremor where Aubrey was pressed against her. “How many times did you touch yourself listening to Chloe?”

If Chloe had any breath left to her – though Stacie had slowed her pace as she listened – she’d have laughed. It wasn’t until they’d entered into this relationship with Staubrey that Chloe realized just how voyeuristic Beca really was. While Beca loved to take part, she was equally as content and happy to watch and listen – half the time Chloe was convinced Beca could, and had, come from that alone. A small orgasm, perhaps, but it only made her more sensitive when one of them finally got their hands on her.

“Every time.” Aubrey confessed after the smallest hesitation. “Chloe had Titanium and I had Chloe as my secret lady jam.” Chloe’s mind went blank at the thought of Aubrey stroking herself in time with her cries, wondered how many times they’d come simultaneously already and she never even knew it. Somewhere, at some point, she was going to pin Aubrey down to have a discussion about this new information, preferably naked, but for now… Beca let out whimper, her fingers stilling for several heartbeats as Stacie moaned low in her throat, once more vibrating through Chloe’s center and pushing her that much closer to the edge.

“Stacie,” Chloe begged. “Please… oh god, please.” She hadn’t finished speaking before Stacie had lowered her hips and slid two fingers inside her. “Fu–” She broke off with a cry as Stacie’s lips wrapped around her clit and she sucked, sending Chloe’s body into overdrive. Almost simultaneously Beca’s lips landed on the inside of Chloe’s right thigh and Aubrey’s latched on Chloe’s throat, both of their mouths pulling just as hard and Chloe felt herself explode into a thousand pieces, each colored a different shade of blue and green as three souls wove around her and put her back together.

When she could open her eyes again, Beca had cuddled into her right side and was planting kisses all along Chloe’s cheek and brow. Aubrey was nuzzling Chloe’s neck and Stacie was kneeling between her legs, stroking lightly where Chloe’s thighs met her hips. Chloe licked her lips, knowing from the way Stacie’s eyes roved over her that she had something else in mind.

A feeling that was confirmed when Stacie reached out and gripped Beca’s ankle and tugged. “C’mon, B. Can’t keep the ladies waiting.” She pushed herself backward with her right hand, keeping her left on Beca as she went.

Chloe felt her stomach tighten in anticipation and turned her attention to Aubrey until the other two came back to bed.

~B~

Beca looked down at Stacie’s hand on her ankle, and back up as she was pulled gently to the edge of the bed. “Jesus, did you eat your Wheaties today or what?” She shivered slightly at the body memory of being lifted into the air passed over her. “Cause it’s really working for me right now.”

Stacie laughed as Beca slid off the bed and stood next to her. “You like to be womanhandled, that’s good to know for the future.” Before Beca could even think of an argument – though apparently Stacie wasn’t wrong, it just wasn’t something Beca had realized until tonight –Stacie leaned down and whispered in Beca’s ear. “I hope your legs are better, because Aubrey looks… hungry …”

Beca didn’t miss the way Aubrey’s eyes had darkened or the way she was looking at the two of them from her spot at Chloe’s side. Her legs were still a bit sketchy, but that was Stacie’s own fault. That entire encounter in the shower – Beca closed her eyes as another tremor washed over her and her thighs tightened involuntarily. “Oh, no. I’m good.”

Beca followed Stacie off the bed and let herself be guided over to the dresser where she opened the bottom drawer and gave the usual snicker at her IOU for Chloe’s birthday sitting on top. “How many times have we redeemed this now, Chlo?”

“Not enough,” came the cheeky reply. “We’ll have to fix that soon.”

“Just say when, babe.” Stacie knelt down and grabbed the original harness/underwear that Beca had bought back in college. “This one for you, I think.” Beca grinned and stepped into them only to catch her breath as Stacie slid them up her legs and cupped her still sensitive center when they were in place.

Stacie rose slowly to her feet and turned Beca back toward the bed. “How can they just keep looking hotter every time they do that?”

Chloe had pulled Aubrey down into another kiss and Beca felt her mouth go dry as she was presented with the rear view of an Aubrey on her elbows and knees, her half lowered body slightly angled to Chloe’s left, as if she’d been about to push up off the bed.

“Oh god.” Beca breathed out as she walked toward them, helpless to do anything else. She crawled up behind Aubrey and ran a hand up her spine. “Stacie’s right, you guys are...” She trailed off, her hands still roaming across the expanse of Aubrey’s back, watching the muscles twitch in her wake. “Beautiful.”

Stacie was suddenly pressed against her from behind, her left hand pulling the underwear from Beca’s body while the right one slid the toy into the hole in front and locked it in place. She leaned against Beca and ran her hand down the outside of Aubrey’s right thigh. “Baby.”

Aubrey’s head snapped up to look over her shoulder as she pushed up. Instantly and almost faster than Beca could follow, she’d widened her legs, allowing Beca’s knees to fit easier between them. It never failed to amuse Beca that she and Aubrey were alike in this way and had the same reaction to the other wearing one of their strap-ons ever since that first time – Now please, more, harder, faster. Beca could never decide if Aubrey was begging when she said it, or able to remember her manners even in the middle of intense sex. Not that it really mattered, the end result of both was the same as when she dropped the please entirely and just demanded.

Looking over Beca’s shoulder, Stacie’s hands settled on Aubrey’s hips as Beca reached down to guide the shaft inside but with a shifting of her body, Chloe stretched her arm out between Aubrey’s and gripped it first. Beca whimpered softly and looked up, but Chloe was hidden behind the curtain of Aubrey’s hair. She slipped her fingers around Chloe’s and squeezed lightly in a silent ‘I love you’ and let go to slide her hands under Stacie’s.

It was always like this and Beca felt her heart soak it up like a sponge. The simple touches between herself and Chloe, an unneeded but constant reassurance; Beca ensuring her connection to Stacie by the touch of their hands; all of them focused on Aubrey – it was never about who was with who or secret desires. It was always about the connection between the four of them and the love they shared: unreserved, unhesitating and everything. They had been four individual parts that made up one complete person for so long, even before they’d gotten into bed.

Both brunettes watched as Chloe’s fingers moved between toy and Aubrey, transferring the evidence of Aubrey’s arousal to the shaft. Panting, Aubrey closed her eyes and she let her head drop to Chloe’s shoulder, though Beca could still feel her tremble and twitch beneath them and easily pictured Chloe’s fingers sliding through her center.

Just when Beca thought she couldn’t wait anymore, Chloe slid it into position and Stacie pulled Aubrey’s hips toward them even as she pressed Beca forward. Aubrey groaned as the head eased in and Beca and Stacie paused, giving her time to adjust. Beca pulled back slightly and pressed forward, sliding another inch or so inside and Stacie whimpered as Aubrey let out a soft cry.

“I love watching you together.” Stacie said softly. “I love being part of it...helping you make love."

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Chloe agreed, though Beca still couldn’t see her behind blonde locks. “Any combination of you… us.” Beca felt fingertips just barely graze her thigh then slide between her hands and Stacie’s. “Make her feel good, loves. Just like you made me.”

Aubrey let out a half sob and dropped back down to kiss Chloe. “Stop making me cry during sex.” She sniffed slightly. “It’s…”

“Beautiful.” Beca said again as she interrupted, tightening her grip and feeling Stacie do the same. “We’ve got you.” It was something that they never got tired of saying, never tired of hearing. It went back to the constant reassurance and connection – the reminder that they’d always be there, no matter what happened.

Beca continued to push deeper in short thrusts that she knew would drive Aubrey insane. Every inch was slow, sometimes Stacie puling Aubrey back toward them, sometimes pushing Beca forward; each time Aubrey let out a soft cry and tried to push back, but their combined grip on her hips kept her under their control. Beca knew that Chloe must be continuing to let her fingers stroke and wander as Aubrey’s cries were sometimes sharper that their intentionally torturous movements would account for.

Finally her hips were flush against Aubrey and Beca couldn’t help but grind, loving every single gasp and keen that fell from Aubrey’s lips. Stacie slid her hands from Aubrey’s to Beca’s hips, squeezing lightly before letting go with her left to move Beca’s hair out of the way. She placed a soft kiss against Beca’s throat and nipped lightly before moving away. Beca shivered, always affected by sharp sting of their teeth against her skin, and tightened her grip on Aubrey’s hips.

She pulled back smoothly, leaving just the tip inside, and pushed back in; though her movements were strong and deep, they were slow and designed to see how long it would take for one of them to break, regardless of which position they happened to be in at the time. It was a war between Beca’s desire to bring Aubrey to a screaming climax and her, possibly somewhat twisted, need to have Aubrey begging her, “Fuck me already!”

College Beca would have never believed that in a few years the idea of Aubrey ordering her around – IN BED no less – was something that she’d not only give in to (eventually) but something she found she kind of liked. A lot. Then again, Beca had once pointed out if Aubrey had used her Sex Voice in practice things might’ve been different. Stacie had pulled Beca onto her lap and told her, “8 Seconds, if she’d used that voice on you before you were ready, I think you’d have run away screaming instead of dealing with all the repressed lust between you two.”

Beca turned and Aubrey’s head lifted as Stacie slid onto the bed, wearing another harness; Stacie’s eyes were intent on Chloe but her hand ghosted down Beca’s arm and pressed briefly against Aubrey’s back. By sheer force of will Beca kept her hips moving though her attention was split between them and Aubrey. Stacie crawled forward until she could lift Chloe’s legs and slide her spread knees under them, remaining upright and sitting back on her heels. Chloe’s left leg fell naturally along Stacie’s side, but Stacie kept a grip on her right, raising it up to rest Chloe’s heel against her shoulder. Even as she placed open mouthed kisses along Chloe’s calf, Stacie’s right hand was between their legs, coating and guiding and Beca had the perfect view as Stacie slid forward and into her.

A quadruple moan echoed around the room as Stacie filled Chloe on the first thrust, her left hand loosely wrapped around Chloe’s raised thigh. Her whole body rolled as she pulled back and thrust again, slow and languid. Aubrey had flipped her hair and Beca could see Chloe as she bit her lip, the hand that had been between Aubrey’s legs sliding to wrap around Aubrey’s left arm and up until she gripped her shoulder as an anchor. Aubrey’s head dropped, her moans growing somewhat muffled as, Beca assumed, she kissed Chloe hungrily.

Beca dropped her hips a bit, thrusting upward at a different angle and Aubrey’s sharp cry slid through her veins like quicksilver. She couldn’t help the jerk of her hips, burying herself fully in Aubrey with a grunt just to hear it again. Beca tightened her fingers, her hands sliding forward just a bit to grip where thigh met hip and ground upward.

Of course, the problem with any type of contest in bed between the two of them was that half of the time it was rendered completely moot by the two women who shared the bed with them. Watching Stacie and Chloe together almost always threw any plans Beca had of making Aubrey wait completely out the window. Most of the time as Stacie sped up Beca would unconsciously follow because having Chloe and Aubrey screaming out their release together was one of the hottest things she had ever seen. Though, on reflection, any combination of her three girls coming at the same time was something Beca would never tire of. On those occasions the four of them reached the peak at the same time… Beca whimpered at the memory, grinding herself against the insert on her side of the strap-on. That was heaven, as far as Beca was concerned.

Of course, then there were times like now when they would never be able to declare who won – a detail that Aubrey would say was important because she was a Posen and Posen’s always win.  Beca wasn’t sure who broke first but suddenly Aubrey was yelling her name and Beca’s hands had slid up to Aubrey’s shoulders as her hips quickened, sharp and fast. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if it was simultaneous; she was more than half convinced she was already as connected to Staubrey as she was with Chloe, knowing what they needed before they even spoke.

Aubrey’s head dropped to Chloe’s shoulder, her left arm stretching across Chloe’s chest to clutch at her side as she cried out. Beca loved to see Aubrey like this, any of them really - body beginning to bead with sweat, muscles in sharp relief as she pushed back against Beca’s hips. Beca lowered her chest to Aubrey’s back, the soft skin almost too much against her hard and sensitive nipples, but it just made Beca press harder against her, arms wrapped around Aubrey’s chest and her hips speeding up until the room was filled with the sound of skin against skin.

A sound that was doubled as Stacie tightened her grip on the tops of Chloe’s thighs, the right still extended upward and the left resting across Stacie’s own, her hips almost a blur as Chloe writhed, gorgeous and straining, beneath them all. Chloe’s voice blended with Aubrey’s as they both cried out, panting, begging and pleading for more, harder, faster, right there, please god just don’t fucking stop.

As individuals blurred, they became one entity made of four moaning, desperate parts, the names of the other three dropping from their lips with increased need and desire.

Beca leaned back, pulling Aubrey upright with her as her hands slipped around Aubrey’s front, immediately covering and kneading her breasts. Half kneeling, Aubrey rocked against her, her back bowing as she pushed her chest into Beca’s hands.

“Beca, I…” Aubrey broke off with a moan as Beca’s fingers rolled over her nipples.

Beca slid her left hand down to Aubrey’s center, her hips speeding up. “I love you.” She meant all of them; knew they understood that, here in this room she and Chloe had declared was just as much Staubrey’s as it was theirs. Her fingers brushed Aubrey’s clit, swirling once, twice, Aubrey’s body jumping with each touch until finally Beca applied pressure and rotated her middle finger. Aubrey’s cry filled the room as she came, shuddering as Beca kept up her thrusts and the pressure, trying to keep Aubrey up for as long as possible.

Chloe’s voice suddenly rang out, her body rolling against Stacie’s hips and the thumb firmly planted between her legs. Beca felt herself shudder, Chloe’s cries mixing with Aubrey’s causing a second, smaller orgasm to rock her and she pressed deep within Aubrey, rubbing against the insert and half wishing Stacie had picked the harness that had the second shaft for the wearer.

Aubrey slowly lowered herself back down, resting her head on Chloe’s chest, both of them trying to catch their breath. Beca’s hands stroked Aubrey’s back and sides, hips still pressing as she stretched forward to run her hand down Chloe’s arm before reaching out to rest her fingertips against Stacie’s knee.  Stacie’s hips still moved, slower now, her own hands running over Chloe’s stomach and smoothing Aubrey’s hair back from her face. She leaned down, letting Chloe’s right leg finally drop to wrap around her waist and kissed Aubrey’s forehead, then leaned up to kiss Chloe on the lips.

“You’re all so… incredible.” Stacie sat up and leaned over to kiss Beca. “I swear every day just gets better.”

“I would agree, except my brain has dribbled out my ears.” Chloe said before she whimpered as Aubrey’s mouth closed over her nipple. “And I don’t think I’m getting it back any time soon.” She cradled Aubrey to her, eyes closed in bliss.

Reluctantly Beca eased back, pulling free from Aubrey and hearing the disappointed whimper as she did. “I’ll be back.” She ran her hand down the curve of Aubrey’s ass. “Just need to clean up a bit.” Stacie did the same and they watched with amusement as Chloe and Aubrey immediately wiggled together with contented sighs, their hands wandering even as their lips met. Beca slid off the bed and tugged Stacie’s hand. “Faster we clean these off the faster we can rejoin them.”

Stacie let herself be led into the bathroom where Beca turned and slid the harness from her hips, kneeling to let Stacie step out of it. Even as her hands freed the shaft so it could be washed, she leaned forward and licked through Stacie’s center, loving the way her hips twitched forward at the lightest touch.

“Don’t you start that in here...” Stacie laughed as she reached down and tugged Beca up by her shoulders.

“Sorry.” Beca said with complete insincerity. Stacie merely reached back and pinched her on the ass as she slid Beca’s underwear down her legs. “Just couldn’t help myself.”

“Mmhmm.” Stacie ran her hand up Beca’s inner thigh and smiled as Beca whimpered. “Oops.” She set both sets of underwear in the tub to be dealt with – or maybe used again – later.

Standing side by side, they cleaned the strap-on the other had used and Beca was struck again by how normal this all seemed. They’d literally just been making love to each other’s wife with the toys in their hands and none of it ever felt weird. They were all committed to this new four person relationship; even their use of the title ‘wife’ was more of an inside joke between them at this point. Not even the first time they’d crawled into bed had it ever been awkward.

It should have been, she knew that, had read enough stories on the internet, that couples just didn’t jump feet first into the deep end of polyamory without a bit of awkwardness… but they had. At least, as far as she knew the others hadn’t felt any twinge of strangeness, not once they were all on the same page and knew they were thinking the same thing. Beca knew even Aubrey’s reluctance had been because she wasn’t sure she was allowed, not because she didn’t want to. But once Beca had helped her past that, all hesitation had been gone and the four of them had just… loved. Without hesitation or reservation. From the first second Beca had reached out for Aubrey, while Chloe and Stacie watched them from the bed, it had never been about sex. It was about how those three women completed her in ways she didn’t understand until the last barrier was gone. And in ways she was still discovering.

Even now, standing naked beside Stacie and spreading a hand towel on the counter so their strap-ons could dry, she felt nothing but home and comfort. And, okay maybe still incredibly turned on and in need of having one of those used on her before too long, but they had time and she had someone else she had to take care of first.

She waited for Stacie to walk back into the bedroom first, enjoying the view as she followed behind. Stacie crawled back onto the bed, sliding behind Chloe and nuzzling into her shoulder. Chloe and Aubrey were still attached at the face, but Aubrey’s left hand slid from Chloe’s neck to the back of Stacie’s head and pulled her forward into what Beca knew was a messy, but hot as hell, three way kiss.

Licking her lips, Beca slid onto the bed and, when the three of them finally broke for air, pushed on Stacie’s hip.

“Whatcha doin, B?” Stacie looked over at her and let herself be guided onto her back. Chloe turned in the circle of Aubrey’s arms, their eyes avid and eager.

“Taking care of you.” Beca said as she stretched herself out between Stacie’s legs, her right hand going under and around Stacie’s thigh.

“You don’t hav-” Stacie’s voice broke off with a gasp as Beca didn’t even hesitate and slid her middle finger into Stacie’s core. Beca couldn’t help the moan when she felt how wet Stacie was and she pushed herself closer.

“I want to.” Beca said, unsurprised by the rasp in her voice. She began a slow thrust, curling as she withdrew. “I need to.” She added a second finger and Stacie pushed back against her, legs widening to give Beca room.

Even as Beca leaned forward, her mouth already anticipating how Stacie would feel against her tongue, Chloe had stretched herself along Stacie’s side. Stacie cried out as Chloe’s mouth descended on her left nipple, Chloe’s hand reaching across to roll the right one between her fingers. Aubrey had pushed herself tight to Chloe’s back, her own left hand caressing Stacie’s stomach before pressing against her lower abdomen.

All of them were flushed and absolutely beautiful and Beca felt like her heart would split with how much she felt for them. Somehow, each second of every day, she fell deeper in love.

Beca circled Stacie’s clit with her tongue, feeling each twitch beneath her as Stacie’s muscles squeezed her fingers. She briefly wondered if she should’ve brought one of the vibrators with them, but decided to save it for later – she couldn’t have stopped now if she tried. She looked up the line of Stacie’s body, past the hands and Chloe’s gently moving lips and met Stacie’s eyes, hooded and hungry. Stacie always made sure everyone was taken care of and now it was their turn to take care of her.

Beca wrapped her lips around Stacie’s clit and sucked firmly, using the grip she had on Stacie’s leg to try and hold her in place when her hips lifted from the bed. She kept her eyes on Stacie’s face, even when Stacie’s eyes closed, loving the way she bit her lip before her mouth went slack, panting for breath.

Beca added a third finger, searching for and finding that ridged spot inside. She rubbed lightly, keeping up the suction and Stacie’s eyes shot open again. “Jesus!” She closed her eyes briefly as she pushed against Beca. “God don’t stop…” Her body rolled and Beca increased the pressure of her fingers and sacrificed a bit of suction to run the tip of her tongue over Stacie’s clit. “Bec… a…” Stacie’s breath hitched and Beca knew she was close.

She began to flick her tongue rapidly, not stopping as Stacie’s body began to writhe, following every movement of her hips to keep her mouth exactly where it was. Beca began to thrust her hand in short strokes, keeping her middle finger rubbing back and forth in a way that had Stacie going stiff as her climax crashed through her.

Beca felt a hand, then two, run through her hair, cupping the back of her head and keeping her where she was, something she was more than happy to comply with. She kept her fingers circling, but used her mouth to nuzzle and lick from entrance to clit, though she avoided that bundle of nerves for the time being.

Turning her head, she licked Stacie’s thigh before gently biting down. After soothing the sting with her tongue, she began to suck lightly, increasing the pace of her thrust, feeling Stacie’s hips begin their roll again as Beca marked her claim on the woman arching under her. When she thought she had a lasting mark, she let Stacie’s thigh slip from her lips and kissed the darkening skin.

While she’d been busy, one of the hands had slipped from her head and was lazily stroking along Stacie’s folds, helping build her up. A quick glance upward revealed it was Aubrey, her eyes catching Beca’s with their fire. Splitting her attention between Aubrey’s avid gaze and Stacie’s face as she worked against them, Beca licked around Aubrey’s fingers as they circled Stacie’s clit. With the both of them working in tandem, it wasn’t long before Stacie came undone beneath them, collapsing to lay limp against the bed.

“You okay?” Chloe teased as she finally lifted her head, leaving Stacie’s nipple with a final kiss.

“Ngph.”

Aubrey laughed. “I think we broke her.”

Beca crawled up until her head was even with Chloe who lifted her lips for a kiss. “It’s only fair; you guys break me all the fucking time.” She shifted so that Stacie’s right leg fit between her own – unwilling to give up the feeling of Stacie under her but not wanting Stacie’s legs to get sore because Beca was lying between them.

“It is one of our favorite things.” Stacie said weakly.

“Mm.” Chloe hummed in agreement and pulled Beca’s hand to her chest, cuddling it even as she wiggled back into Aubrey’s embrace.

“Mine too.” Beca sighed as she rested her head on Stacie’s upper chest.

“Aca-perv.” Stacie ran her hand down Beca’s back. “And I love you for every single dirty thought you ever have.”

“You should, considering you’re one third of the reason I have them.” Beca felt Aubrey’s hand rest on her back and let her eyes close in contentment.

They cuddled in silence, hands lightly stroking wherever they felt like it, and Beca was reminded of her earlier thoughts. Even that first night, when Aubrey had shocked Beca into a full five minutes of staring at her, it wasn’t from being awkward; it was because Beca had been so turned on at the thought of Aubrey using the strap-on that it had short circuited her brain. It hadn’t been anything she’d thought of prior, but once it had been said, her mind had broken itself trying to picture it.

Prior to that moment, Beca and Chloe had used it once in a while, but afterward… Aubrey had taken to it like a duck to water and changed how all of them had viewed that particular accessory. They still thoroughly, and often, enjoyed each other without it but none of them would deny that they all really loved bringing them into bed. Or against the bed. Or in the shower… Beca shivered slightly and felt Stacie pull her closer.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.” Beca burrowed into Stacie’s side. “I’m great.” She opened her eyes and met Chloe’s, seeing the same happiness she was feeling reflected back at her. They’d have been perfectly happy if this path hadn’t been taken, but both of them couldn’t deny that the other two made them better. Made them whole.

Her mind, already nostalgic, thought of their first time back in college. Beca had been so nervous prior, but once she’d made up her mind –okay, so when she realized that she loved Chloe and there was no reason to hold back anymore – all her nerves had faded away. The alcohol buzz she’d been feeling had faded by then and –

Beca’s mind suddenly jumped tangents and she spoke without thinking. “We’re all friends here, right?”

Stacie began to laugh. “I’m pretty sure I can still feel you inside me and we were just essentially balls deep in each other’s wife.” Even as Chloe laughed, Aubrey gasped in shock.

“Stacie!” Aubrey chided and Beca grinned when she saw that Aubrey’s face was a perfect mix of scandalized outrage and horrified amusement.

Stacie shrugged. “Sorry not sorry? Also, it’s not like I’m wrong.”

Aubrey began to laugh. “I love you.” She pushed against Chloe, who obligingly moved her head out of the way so they could kiss. When they finally broke apart, she looked at Beca. “I think that covers your question.”

Beca nodded. “Okay… so. I was thinking of how none of this feels awkward between us - and hasn’t. Ever.”

“That’s because you love us. And we love you.” Stacie kissed Beca’s forehead then Chloe’s. “Duh.”

“Right, but we didn’t know that at the time. It should have been weird.” She freed her hand from Chloe and held it up when Aubrey would have spoken. “Except even though we didn’t know… I think our hearts knew.”

“You are so fucking mushy sometimes.” Stacie stroked her fingertips down Beca’s back. “I love it.”

“Shh, that’s not the point.” Beca didn’t want to lose her thought before she got to her question. “And it made me think of our first time.” She cupped Chloe’s cheek. “And how once I decided to stop being a coward and take a leap of faith…”

“It wasn’t awkward at all.” Chloe finished, turning her head to place a kiss in Beca’s palm. “Not from the second you stepped into that shower. Nerves, sure but never awkward.”

“Exactly.” Beca smiled at her.

“What does this have to do with you making sure you can ask a question of us because we’re all friends?” Aubrey asked curiously.

“Okay – so. I know we’ve talked about out ‘first times’ long before we fell into bed together, and even more after because we’re all aca-pervs.” Stacie raised her hand in agreement, causing Aubrey to snort. “So we know all about the Lodge after Worlds, but… There’s one question I realized I never asked and haven’t thought about in a long time.”

“I can’t imagine anything we haven’t discussed yet, but…” Aubrey watched her narrowly. “What’s your question?”

Beca pushed up a little so she could look between them. “Did you guys hook up that drunken karaoke night too?”

“That’s the big question you’ve been holding on to?” Stacie began to laugh. “Beca, you’ve literally asked me what you taste like on Aubrey’s lips when I kiss her after she goes down on you.”

“You also just asked me if I ever touched myself while listening to Chloe have sex down the hall.” Aubrey pointed out, though there was a faint flush to her cheeks.

Beca squirmed, sure she was instantly blushing all the way down her chest. “That’s the kind of stuff you ask in the moment and there’s nothing off limits then because… because of how turned on I am and how badly I want you three. Plus the four of us are involved at the time and sometimes other things, like prior couple things, are sacred.” She forced herself to stop speaking, sure she had another five minutes of babble in her.

“She’s got you there, guys.” Chloe said as Aubrey buried her face in Chloe’s neck with a giggle.

“No, she had us earlier.” Stacie pointed out and Beca poked her in the stomach.

“You guys don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to, I get it… I just…”

“Yes.” Aubrey interrupted Beca before she could ramble any further.

“You did?” Beca began to grin. “I knew I should’ve bet Chloe!”

“You had a bet?” Aubrey asked carefully.

Beca immediately stopped laughing and reached for Aubrey’s hand. “I swear we didn’t talk about it a lot.” She began to have flashbacks to that horrible moment after the semi-finals. “Just like, maybe two or three times my entire freshman year.”

“Hey.” Aubrey squeezed her fingers. “It’s okay.” She pulled Beca’s hand up and kissed her knuckles. “I know you didn’t.” She smiled and Beca felt her shoulders lose tension she didn’t know she had. “I was just curious what the details of your bet were.”

“I don’t think we ever got as far as making wagers. Beca was too eager to shovel French toast down her face.” Chloe winked at her.

“You called her Bree.” Beca looked down at Stacie. “When you came to get us that morning. I think it was the first time I heard you do that. So I wondered.” She looked up again. “You guys gave nothing away at breakfast though. I’m impressed.” She pursed her lips as that night came back to her. “Was it because Stacie told you what she was thinking of while she slept in your bed?”

Aubrey laughed. “No. Stacie was actually extremely sweet.”

“Babe.” Stacie sighed. “You’re going to ruin my reputation.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t masturbate in her bed?” Beca grinned.

“No.” Stacie said immediately. “That would’ve been just… not right.” Then she grinned slyly. “But I thought about it a lot so I went into the shower and did it there.”

Chloe laughed. “And I heard nothing?” She shook her head. “I think I’ll be retroactively sad about that.”

Aubrey rested her chin on Chloe’s arm. “Stacie actually offered to sleep in her roommates bed – or the floor if she came home unexpectedly – and I was still just drunk enough to tell her that was silly.” She sighed, though looked affectionately at Stacie. “And that was my downfall because I couldn’t keep my hands off her, even after I was sober.”

“I have the same problem,” Beca muttered ruefully. “But… You mean to tell me you had all this…” She waved her finger up and down Stacie’s body. “And then you went cold turkey? For three years?” She made sure to keep her tone light – she knew how Aubrey felt about pushing Stacie away. “You are either the strongest woman I know or the most stubborn.” She pretended to think about it for a few seconds. “Or both.”

“We both needed to age a bit more,” Stacie offered easily.

“Like fine wine?” Beca asked, tracing Aubrey’s lips with her thumb. “Seems accurate.” Stacie turned to face Chloe and Beca snuggled up behind her, already nuzzling into her neck before something struck her. “Chlo?” She looked over Stacie’s shoulder.

“Hm?” Chloe looked up from where she’d been about to kiss Stacie.

“You don’t seem very surprised by this revelation,” Beca noted.

Chloe bit her lip. “Uh…”

Beca pushed up on her elbow, laughing. “Oh my god, you totally knew all this time! And you didn’t tell me!”

Chloe at least looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was my story to tell – especially when things were just getting settled between us all.” She looked up, pleadingly. “And I didn’t know until after the ICCAs!”

“What?” Beca frowned. “What brought it up there?”

“I was the first one to wake up that day.” Chloe looked over her shoulder at Aubrey. “These two were-”

“Totally snuggling!” Beca snapped her fingers as the memory popped into her head. “I’d forgotten about that – plus I’d half convinced myself I’d dreamed getting up and all Aubrey’s ‘boundary pillows’ were on the floor.”

“It was cute – I woke Aubrey up, she was extremely reluctant to leave her Stacie-cocoon – until she realized where she was and who she was holding onto.” Chloe settled down between them. “I understand; I like this cocoon too.” Stacie poked her in the stomach and Chloe grinned. “But I was the good friend and didn’t say anything until we got back to Barden and I made Aubrey tell me everything.”

“She waited until the rest of you were back at the dorm and pounced on me.” Aubrey lamented. “We were lying on my bed, still kind of in shock at the trophy sitting on my desk, and she gave me a hug.”

“And refused to let go until she’d told me everything.” Chloe said in satisfaction. “Well, not everything – I let her keep the actual details of ‘the sex’, as Beca would call it,” Chloe grinned at her when Beca let out a wounded gasp. “Don’t even try; you say it all the time.” She kissed Stacie gently. “And that’s how I knew you were definitely worth Aubrey’s heart. Because you weren’t even hinting that you had something to kiss and tell about.”

“Nothing happened in the hotel, by the way.” Stacie offered and Beca felt the underlying deflection. “I was minding my own business, finally having fallen asleep after getting the image of you two fooling around out of my mind, and the next thing I know Aubrey had attached herself to my side in her sleep.” She reached up and brushed Aubrey’s cheek with her fingers. “I was petrified for a good five minutes, afraid to move and not sure if it was because I thought Aubrey would sleep grope me – she didn’t – or because I was afraid she’d move away.” She smiled softly. “Eventually though, I finally fell asleep.”

“And we didn’t talk about it for another three years.” Aubrey said, almost sadly.

“No, but that night gave me hope that there was something more to us, even if I didn’t know that’s what I wanted.” Stacie sighed. “I should have just sleep groped you.”

“Nah, you’re as much a gentleman as Beca.” Chloe leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You guys worked out just the way you were supposed to.”

“I didn’t even know that Aubrey had told you until just before we proposed to each other,” Stacie said and turned to look up at Beca. “She never brought it up in all the times she tried to push us together.”

“Still wasn’t my place,” Chloe shrugged. “It just meant I was more frustrated when you guys were so obstinate. The very fact that neither of you discussed it was like neon signs spelling out ‘WE LIKE EACH OTHER.’ If it was bad one of you would’ve cracked much sooner.” She ran her finger down Stacie’s nose. “You always did protect Aubrey’s heart from the start.”

Stacie lifted one shoulder. “I knew from that night under the mistletoe something was different about her. The night she stayed over just confirmed it. She… you… made me feel something different than anyone else had before.” She cupped Aubrey’s cheek and Beca saw Aubrey’s lips tremble slightly. “You meant something to me. Before that night. I was just so certain I would never fall in love, I missed what was staring me in the face. With those big, gorgeous green eyes. So I kept it to myself and tried to put it out of my mind. Failed miserably.”

“Now who’s so fucking mushy?” Beca teased, running her nose along Stacie’s shoulder.

“I blame you.” Stacie reached back and patted Beca’s hip. “You’re contagious.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Beca linked their fingers together. “It’s almost like you love me-” Her phone suddenly rang from the other room.

“Ah shit. That’s the bosses tone. I’ve been expecting him to call all day.” She reluctantly slid to the edge of the bed. “I’ll be back.”

“Hurry, my ass is already cold.” Stacie called after her.

 ~A~

Aubrey laughed as Beca shot a middle finger over her shoulder just before she disappeared out the door. Beca’s voice came back a second later, full of confused laughter. “What the… Again?” The phone rang again. “Hold your tits, I’m coming!”

She felt herself drawn down into Stacie’s kiss, Chloe’s lips sliding against her throat from between them. Aubrey whimpered and shifted against Chloe’s ass, loving how well they fit together. She ran her hand down Chloe’s arm and over to Stacie’s hip, getting lost in the feel of them against her skin.

She didn’t know how long they spent that way until Beca came back, but suddenly there was a fourth body in the bed and her question pulled Aubrey back to the present.

“Whose bra is hanging from the newel post and whose is hanging from the chandelier and why are there two sets of clothes leading up the stairs?”

Aubrey bit her lip, remembering her frantic stripping the second she hit the stairs. “Um...”

“Actually,” Beca said when Aubrey trailed off. “I know Stacie’s bra is the one on the top newel post. Which means Aubrey is the one throwing her clothes in the air this time.”

She sniffed and lifted her chin. “It’s your own fault for getting me all worked up to the point where I couldn’t wait until I got in the room.”

“My fault?” Beca threw up her hands. “I think I was in the shower being ravished by Stacie.”

“Mmhm.” Aubrey licked her lips in the way she knew drove Beca crazy. “Chloe called me to let me listen in.”

“Dirty bird.” Stacie bit Chloe’s lower lip. “I love it.”

Chloe shrugged. “I figured she could use a little break at work. I didn’t expect her to just… suddenly be here.” She turned to look over her shoulder at Aubrey. “But I will never be opposed to Naked Aubrey magically appearing. I’d already had suddenly Naked Stacie show up in the doorway, so this was like a double treat day.”

“And this isn’t the first time you’ve had my clothes left on your stairs, so I don’t know why you’re surprised.” Stacie rolled over to look at Beca, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

“True.” Beca nodded.  

“What’d the boss want?” Chloe asked her.

“OH!” Beca bounced in place. “Okay. So, as you know, Emily recorded the song we’re using to showcase her writing ability to the boss.” They nodded, waiting with various degrees of impatience. “And you know that while she thinks I was just producing it for him, I actually treated it like a new single I wanted to release on the radio.” Aubrey made an impatient sound in her throat and Beca winced. “Sorry. I know you guys all told me you loved it but the boss finally listened to it this week. He told me he’d call me today with his thoughts.”

“Beca that’s awesome!” Stacie rolled to her back and held up her hand for a high five.

“Thanks!” Beca slapped their palms together. “He told me it was GREAT and that Emily’s got the internship!”

“That’s aca-mazing!” It was Aubrey’s turn to bounce. “When are you going to tell her?”

“Soon – I honestly thought he’d take longer and I’d be able to tell her on her birthday in Vegas, but there’s no way I can hold onto this for another two months.” Beca was practically vibrating in her excitement. “I’m so proud of her – I think he wants to put it on the radio next year – after some tweaks and stuff, but I really think Legacy could make it as a singer if she wanted.”

Chloe nodded. “She’s come such a long way from the ‘let’s not be dicks about it’ girl we met years ago. Seriously, can we take any credit for it?” She looked up when Beca remained silent and Aubrey noticed Beca was biting her lip. “What aren’t you saying?”

For the first time Beca was hesitant. “I don’t… I don’t really want to talk about it right now –” She held up her hand when Chloe started to speak. “Because this is something that we’re going to need to think about, all of us.” She looked at all of them one at a time and Aubrey couldn’t remember the last time Beca had looked so serious; though, in hindsight, it was probably the day they all committed to each other. “Before all… this…” she waved at all of them. “And the naked – I was going to ask Chloe if she thought Emily could move in with us. Since she’s basically got her own room here anyway.”

“That’s a great idea!” Chloe said immediately then paused as she realized what Beca was saying. “Oh.”

“Right.” Stacie was nodding. “All the naked that happens in the houses could present a problem.”

“It would definitely change the dynamics,” Aubrey mused. She still thought Emily knew there was more between the four of them than just friendship. “But we managed fine when she was here for those two weeks over the summer.”

“Sure, except the dozen or so times she almost walked in on one of us kissing someone who wasn’t our ‘official’ spouse because we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves.” Chloe grinned.

It had definitely been amusing at how many times they’d gotten carried away and almost caught. Not that they were ashamed, not in the least. But it was new and theirs and they wanted to keep it that way for at least a while longer.

“And it’s not just Chloe and I anymore, who get to have a say in this. It’s you guys too.” Beca chewed on her lip. “So just… we’ll just think about it for a while and then sit down and lay everything on the table.”

“You can’t say that, Beca.” Stacie said immediately.

“What? Why?” Beca looked bewildered.

“Because now I’m picturing you laying Chloe out on Bree’s table in her office.” Stacie said with a hint of a purr in her tone. “Or any of us with any of us. The possibilities are endless.”

“Well now I am too.” Aubrey said as she forced herself to push the thoughts away. “I think it’s still mostly your decision, because it’s your house – yes I know, we all have two homes – it means a lot that you’d consider our feelings in this. We’ll definitely give it some thought.” Aubrey grinned. “But seriously, she’s going to lose her mind when you tell her about the job.”

“Right?” Beca beamed and bounced in place again. “I’ll wait until we’re all able to be there for the next Skype date so we can take bets on if she faints.”

Aubrey reached over and slapped Beca’s knee. “Behave.”

“No, Beca’s right. There’s every chance Emily will get lightheaded and pass out.” Stacie said slowly. “I think you need to make sure that Katherine is there too. She’s going to lose her shit almost as much as Emily will.”

“Ooh!” Beca’s eyes went wide. “Good point! It’ll be awesome – but definitely for another day. But for now…” She turned around and plucked something off the bed behind her and placed it in her lap. “What’s this? It was sitting on the hall table.”

Aubrey winced at the sight of the plain brown bag. “Oops.” She’d forgotten she had that in her haste to get upstairs and undressed. ‘At least I didn’t throw that too.’

Beca looked down and back up. “I didn’t look in it.”

“Such restraint.” Aubrey smiled at her, knowing Beca was dying of curiosity. “You can, though.”

Beca immediately reached in and pulled out three small boxes and Aubrey heard Chloe’s breath catch.

“Bree?” She turned to look up at her. “Is that where you were?”

Aubrey nodded, and Stacie looked back at her. “I thought you were at work?”

“Well… I had intended to, but I decided to make a detour.” Aubrey chuckled slightly. “And then I just never went.”

“That’s how you got here so fast!” Chloe said, snapping her fingers. “I wondered how you got from the parking lot to here in less than half an hour.”

“Parking lot?” Beca asked, still looking down at the boxes in her hand. She finally looked up. “I guess I missed more than I thought.”

Chloe explained quickly. “When Stacie went to get you out of the shower, I texted Bree to see if she could talk on her headset. Because I thought she was at work and didn’t want to take the chance of anyone in the office overhearing you two moaning in the shower.”

“Their loss.” Stacie shrugged.

“Right, but while I was half describing what you guys were doing – stop looking so shocked Beca, you’d have wanted me to if things were reversed.”

Beca nodded. “Point taken. Continue.”

“I heard her go outside, but got distracted until she started cursing.” Chloe broke off and Aubrey knew there was no chance she wasn’t going to tell the rest of it when she started laughing. “Aubrey had been trying to get into a car that wasn’t hers. For three minutes.” She lowered her voice and whispered. “It was a Fiat.”

Stacie started to laugh and Aubrey tickled her side, making her laugh harder.

“You hate Fiats!” Beca crowed. “I think I’m flattered that you were so distracted you didn’t realize how ugly the car you were trying to get into was.”

Aubrey sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Beca grinned in delight. “It’s teasing gold, Bree.”

“Be good or I won’t tell you what’s in the boxes.” Aubrey teased back, having no intention of following through but Beca stopped laughing immediately.

“I’m sorry.” She held them out. “I’ll be good.” Then she smirked. “For now.”

“Incorrigible.” Aubrey shook her head and sat up behind Chloe. “Thanks.” She took the boxes and set them beside her. “I kinda wanted to do this individually, but…” She broke off as Beca made to slide off the bed.

“We can leave you two alone.” Beca said immediately.

“Beca,” Aubrey laughed. “This is your bed.”

Chloe shook her head. “No, this is our bed and you know it. We don’t mind.”

Aubrey felt herself melt a little. It wasn’t the first time they’d said it and knowing they meant it with everything they were always meant the world to her. It proved that her impulsive shopping spree was exactly what she’d needed to do.

“No,” she said softly. “You guys can stay.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Beca scrambled up to the top of the bed and pulled back the covers. “We’ll just be in here till you’re ready for us to come out.” She slid under them and peeked back out at Chloe. “C’mon.” She ducked back down, giggling and Aubrey smiled as her heart swelled in her chest.

Chloe gave Aubrey one more considering glance and smiled, wide and breathtaking in its beauty. “I’ll be with her.” She slid out from between Aubrey and Stacie to follow Beca under the covers.

Stacie sat up and faced Aubrey, sitting cross legged, though she turned to look at the two giggling lumps that gradually became one as the giggles stopped and the sounds of kissing could be heard. “They… are… adorable.” She looked back at Aubrey. “Seriously, how can I love them even more just because they’re making out under their covers to give us privacy?”

Aubrey shook her head. “If you figure it out, please let me know.” She turned and mirrored Stacie so their knees touched. “Hi.”

“I love you.” Stacie said simply and Aubrey suddenly felt like crying at the pure love she felt emanating from her.

“Tu es le soleil dans mon ciel. Je t'aime.” She had to whisper it, afraid her voice would crack from the emotions that had suddenly risen up inside her in the space between heartbeats.

“Hey,” Stacie took her hands and squeezed them. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

Aubrey cleared her throat, half embarrassed. “This isn’t the way things were supposed to go.”

“I do tend to throw a wrench in the grand Posen plans.” Stacie said lightly. “It’s my overwhelming charm. Just ask your mom.”

“While I don’t think that’s exactly what she’d say, you do have that in spades.” Aubrey drew a centering breath. “I got a bonus a few weeks ago for bringing that contract in without too much haggling from their agent.”

“That new hip hop guy… what was his name?”

Aubrey felt her lip curl. “Pimp-Lo.”

“Oh god, that’s right.” Stacie groaned. “Why hasn’t anyone talked him out of that?”

“I’ve no idea, but I feel for Beca because she’s the one who has to work with him.” Aubrey shook her head. “Honestly, I have no idea how that’s going to go.”

“I’ll make the popcorn,” Stacie said then squeezed Aubrey’s hands again. “But that’s awesome, babe. Congrats on the score and the bonus!”

“Thanks.” Aubrey ran her thumbs over the back of Stacie’s hands. “I decided to do something I never really do and splurge a little. I special ordered some jewelry.” She bit her lip. “For the three of you.”

“Just us?” Stacie looked down at the boxes sitting on the bed. “So you left today to go pick them up?”

“Yes. I was going to go into the office to do some paperwork, so when I told you I had to go to work I wasn’t a complete liar.” Aubrey shrugged, feeling sheepish. It was important to her that Stacie didn’t think Aubrey would ever start lying to her, and she felt this was skirting a line she’d drawn herself.

“Bree.” Stacie tugged her forward and whispered against her lips. “I know you’d never.” She leaned that last bit of distance and covered Aubrey’s mouth with hers, a warm and constant pressure that soothed muscles she hadn’t even realized had tensed. When she pulled back, she wiggled in place. “What did you get me?”

Aubrey laughed at the eager look on her face and picked up the largest of the three boxes. “For you, my love.” She watched as Stacie gently took it from her hand and opened the lid.

“Oh, Aubrey.” Stacie said, her finger stroking along the bright metal. “It’s gorgeous.” She gently lifted the bracelet out and let the small sun charm hang freely from it. “Is that…” Stacie lifted the charm on her fingertip.

“You, my sun.” Aubrey took the bracelet from her and slipped it around her right wrist. “I wanted you to have something with you that would… remind you of that. That you’re the center of my universe.” She thought the platinum looked perfect against skin tanned from all the time spent around the pool. “And that I love you more than anything else in my life.” Stacie finally looked up at her and Aubrey was shocked to see the trail of two tears tracking down her face.

“You’re my only.” Stacie said, her voice hoarse as she rose up on her knees, pulling Aubrey with her. “I love you with every molecule of my being and nothing will ever change that.” She wrapped her arms around Aubrey, pulling her in tight. “I fall more in love with you every day and thank whatever in the universe that wove our threads together.” She kissed Aubrey, instantly slipping her tongue inside and deepening it until Aubrey had to pull away to gasp for air.

Aubrey rested her forehead against Stacie’s. “I’m glad you like it.” She reached up and wiped away the tracks on her cheeks. “Once I thought of it, I knew I had to do it.”

“I love it, Bree.” Stacie kissed her again, softer this time. “I love you.” They traded lazy kisses until reluctantly Stacie pulled back. “I could sit here all day and do this with you, but do you want to give them theirs today or…” She looked back at the still moving lump under the covers that they’d both forgotten about.

Aubrey let out a somewhat watery laugh. “I probably should, since they gave us privacy and all.”

“I think they forgot about us, honestly.” Stacie grinned. “Should I get them both or just send one out to you?”

“Chloe?” Aubrey said slowly. “How do you plan to…” She broke off when Stacie gave her one last deep kiss.

“I’ll go make out with Beca and send Chloe out.” Stacie turned and tapped the blanket over them, saying, “Knock knock.”

“Come on in, the waters fine.” Beca said after a minute and the audible sound of two tongues pulling away from each other.

“How about I trade you me, for Chloe?” Stacie said cheerfully. “Bree needs her.”

“Well, if Bree needs her…” Beca pushed the covers back and two pairs of blue eyes blinked at them. “I suppose that’s a fair trade.” She pushed Chloe’s hair away from her face and pulled her chin up from where she’d fastened her lips to Beca’s throat when she’d taken her mouth away. “Honey… wife swap!”

Aubrey could almost feel the eye roll Chloe must have given because Beca stuck her tongue out while Chloe slid out from under the covers. She watched affectionately as she pulled Stacie down into a kiss and then, with a pat on her ass, she sent her under the covers with Beca. Where the giggling resumed; it sounded like they were having a tickle fight underneath the covers and the thought made Aubrey grin.

“Seriously, it’s like they’re teenagers.” Chloe shook her head and settled down in front of Aubrey. “Hey.” She leaned forward and kissed Aubrey soundly on the lips. “Miss me?”

“Always.” Aubrey resumed her cross legged pose. “Did you hear any of that?” She looked back at the struggling lump which had suddenly gone still with an indrawn gasp and smiled again.

Chloe shook her head. “Nope, Beca’s really good at distracting people when she wants to be.”

“I’ll say,” Aubrey rolled her eyes before she explained the contract and the bonus. “So I ordered something for each of you as a…” She winced at how cliché it was. “As a token of my affection? That sounds queerballs.” Chloe grinned widely at her appropriation of Beca’s word; it was the same grin she got when Aubrey insulted her brothers by calling them dicklicks. “But I really wanted you to always have something that reminded you that I love you.”

“Aubrey.” Chloe put one hand over her heart and the other on Aubrey’s. “As long as these are beating, I will always have something that reminds me of that.” She slid her hand up to the back of Aubrey’s neck and pulled her forward even as she rocked up on her own knees. Their lips met in one of the softest kisses they had ever shared and Aubrey’s heart gave a painful double thump. In that one sentence, in this one kiss, Aubrey felt everything they had ever been to each other wash over her:

Suffering under Alice’s regime, almost like they were in a war for three years.

Sharing each other’s deepest secrets and fears in the middle of the night.

Chloe sticking by her through that last year when by all rights she should have left Captain Posen behind.

Aubrey could feel the love in that kiss, sense the depth of it and was shocked all over again at how it matched her own. Knew that it was mirrored in the two women in bed beside them.

‘How in the hell did I get so lucky?’

“Well,” Fighting back a new threat of tears, because Chloe’s words were extremely close to making Aubrey ugly cry, she picked up the box marked with a small ‘C’.” I definitely agree with that, but I got this anyway.”

Taking it, Chloe sat back and opened it with the same care that Stacie had. “Oh, Bree.” She picked up the necklace and let it hang from her fingers. The platinum star pendant caught the light as it twisted slowly in the air. “Will you put it on?” She held it out with fingers that trembled.

Aubrey took it and Chloe immediately spun around, moving her hair out of the way so Aubrey could drape it around her neck. It took several tries to get the clasp – her own fingers shook – but once it was secure, Chloe turned back around to face her. The chain was long enough that the pendant rested just below the hollow of her throat, looking like it had always been there.

“You’ve always been my guiding star, trying to keep me from losing my way.” Aubrey remembered the talk she’d had with Stacie as they tried to figure out this new dynamic between the four of them. “I know I’ve kind of talked about it, but I wanted you to have something tangible too.” She touched just beneath the pendant and let her hand drop to Chloe’s knee, just needing that extra bit of closeness.

Beca had given her the idea, with the pitch pipe for her birthday. Even though she said she hadn’t realized it at the time, it was entirely Beca’s way of saying that she loved Aubrey when she hadn’t found the words yet.

Chloe had literally stared Aubrey’s personal demon in the face and wrestled it to the ground to try and get through and save her from herself. Aubrey was better at explaining her emotions than she used to be, but this still felt too huge to encompass. She cherished Chloe’s fierce loyalty as much as she cherished her giant heart and this was the only way Aubrey knew how to express that right now.

“I love it.” Chloe covered it with her hand. “I will never take it off.” She twisted her lips. “Except maybe to shower.” Grinning, she quickly climbed onto Aubrey’s lap and straddled her. “Thank you, Bree. It’s gorgeous, just like you.”

Whatever answer Aubrey was going to give was lost as Chloe kissed her with every bit of passion that Aubrey knew rested in her heart. When they finally came up for air, all Aubrey could say was “You’re welcome.” But Chloe just smiled at her, fully aware of the things left unsaid: Thank you for always being by my side; thank you for not giving up on me; thank you for kicking my as when I needed it.

Thank you for loving me.

“I know, love.” Chloe kissed away her tears before they could even fall from her eyes. “No waterworks, you know Beca will panic and think she did something wrong.”

“You’re right.” Aubrey ran her hand through Chloe’s hair. “I love you.” She touched the star against Chloe’s chest.

“Love you too, Bree.” Chloe kissed her one last time. “I’ll get Beca.”

Aubrey watched as the process repeated itself and Beca scrambled out from under the covers, her face flushed. She pulled the covers up over Stacie and Chloe, patted their hips before sitting cross legged in front of Aubrey.

“So you got me a present?” Beca said without preamble.

“I did.” Aubrey picked up the box. “And as much as I would like to tease you about whether or not you deserve it…” She held it out. “This means too much to wait.” She was nervous; while she knew that Stacie and Chloe would understand what she was trying to say with these gifts, this level of relationship with Beca was new. It was no less precious and important, which is why Aubrey had gotten the gift, but she wanted to make sure Beca understood that. There was still room to make a mistake and Aubrey couldn’t stand the thought of hurting Beca ever again.

Beca picked up and opened the lid eagerly before she froze. “Aubrey?” She looked up, her eyes wide in shocked pleasure. “This is too much.”

“No it’s not.” Aubrey let her own happiness rise as Beca slowly lifted the ring from the box. The platinum band was etched with the different phases of the moon. It was another outcome from her talk with Stacie. “In college, you reminded me that I can change without losing who I am. Giving up control of the Bellas was not a failure – especially because I had already lost myself in Captain Posen. It took both you and Chloe to help me find my way back.”

The moon in the sky, despite its variations, was constant. Like Beca had been constant ever since they’d resolved their issues before the ICCAs. Constantly caring for Chloe and Stacie, or even Aubrey when she’d been in town to visit. Still always challenging Aubrey, yes, but in a way that made Aubrey better – re-examine her rules, be more and braver. After Worlds, Aubrey had made the fastest decision of her life without hesitation or regret. She’d agreed to move in with Stacie and across the country with Beca and Chloe. Beca’s presence in her life was comforting and safe, just like Stacie and Chloe. She needed this sometimes exasperating woman to keep her balanced and focused, or to laugh and let go.

Beca was tracing the platinum band with her fingertip. “I don’t even know what to say.” She looked up, her eyes soft. “I know you’ve said it before but to get a gift like this brings it home.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Beca.” Aubrey took the box and set it with the other empty ones. “You tell me every day what I mean to you. I just want you to have something from me, in return.” She needed Beca as much as the others and she needed Beca to know it. She took a breath. “You’re as precious to me as Chloe and as necessary as Stacie.”

Blinking back tears, Beca slid the ring onto her left thumb, which was where Aubrey had hoped she’d wear it. She’d stolen one of Beca’s other rings when she’d gone in to special order everything. “Thank you, Aubrey.” She had to clear her throat as her voice cracked. She turned her hand, eyes following the ring. “This must have cost so much… too much.”

“I’m pretty sure all three of these gifts combined didn’t cost as much as my birthday present.” Aubrey raised one eyebrow as Beca looked at her sheepishly. “Right, so I got a bonus for finalizing the contract with your new artist and decided to spend it on my girls.”

Beca made a face. “Can we not talk about him? I’m not looking forward to that after the first of the year.” She suddenly tugged Aubrey into her lap. “I’d rather make out with you as a thank you for this amazing gift.”

Aubrey simply tangled her fingers in Beca’s hair and pulled her down, letting Beca take control of the kiss the second their lips touched. Knowing that Beca was deeply touched by the sentiment resting around her thumb and knowing she was better at showing her feelings than she was speaking them. Beca kissed her tenderly, both hands cupping Aubrey’s cheeks as she moved to place soft kisses all around her face before dropping back to her lips. The kiss deepened, growing more needful until Beca pulled back, leaving Aubrey trying to chase after her, not ready to stop yet.

“Let’s join them under the covers? I feel the need to celebrate.”

“Deal!” Aubrey said, sliding off Beca’s lap and up to the head of the bed. She slid down under the covers and found herself wrapped in Stacie’s arms as soon as the other two realized they were no longer alone. Beca slid in on the other side and pulled Chloe close.

“I, for one,” Beca began as they all tangled together in a pile. “Suggest that we all thoroughly thank Aubrey for her incredibly thoughtful – almost made me cry – gifts.” Beca pulled her lower lip through her teeth and Aubrey felt herself shiver in response. “For the rest of the night.”

“Seconded.” Stacie said immediately.

“Oh yeah.” Chloe purred as she slid against Stacie’s side. “Great idea, Becs.”

Aubrey closed her eyes as three pairs of hands reached for her and pulled her into the middle where she was covered in kisses and stroking fingers that didn’t stop until exhaustion claimed them all.

 ~S~

Saturday, September 23rd

A few weeks later Stacie opened the front door to a quiet house as she sorted her mail. It was the Saturday after Beca’s birthday and they planned to go out with Jessica and Ashley later that night. Stacie had gone into work to check on some tests she was running and had expected to find the other three ready to go to lunch.

“Hello?” Stacie frowned at the envelope in her hand and tore it open. “This has got to be bullshit,” she muttered to herself as she looked up. “Anyone home?”

She saw Beca’s hand rise from in front of the sofa and assumed that, for some reason, she was sitting on the floor with her laptop instead of on the couch. As Stacie stepped around the side, she saw Beca on the floor, laptop sitting on the coffee table, as expected. Beca had already refocused on her work though she did give Stacie a distracted smile when she first came into view. She also saw why Beca was sitting on the floor.

Aubrey and Chloe were stretched out behind her, making out like a couple of horny teenagers.

Chloe was on her back, her shirt unbuttoned and Aubrey’s hand had pushed up under one of the cups of her bra and it looked like her fingers were busy kneading and rolling. Their legs were tangled as they moved against each other, completely oblivious to her arrival and Stacie didn’t know if she wanted to burst out laughing or rip off all her clothes.

‘Both.’ She decided as she toed off her shoes. She couldn’t help but chuckle as Aubrey leaned to the side and tilted Beca’s head back; Beca, for her part, immediately turned her head and upper body so Aubrey could kiss her before breaking off and latching onto Beca’s throat. Stacie could see several marks already darkening her neck in various places and wondered just how long they’d been at this.

Tossing the mail down on the table, Stacie slid her jeans off her hips, the soft thud bringing three pairs of eyes around to her where they fastened in various degrees of hunger. She paused and finally asked, “I know it’s noon thirsty and all, but what if Jessley had been the ones to walk in the door?

Aubrey shrugged from her position on top of Chloe. “I knew they were working today.”

“But if they were off early, then Bree is just giving me a massage.” Chloe offered, running her hand down Aubrey’s side.

Beca turned and looked at them. “From the front? With her tongue? While lying on you?”

“I’m a really dedicated friend,” Aubrey answered sincerely and without hesitation. “I believe in doing a job right and meticulously.”

“I really do love that about you,” Chloe sighed happily as Aubrey’s hand still moved under her bra.

Stacie laughed and pulled her shirt over her head.

“What’s bullshit?” Beca asked suddenly.

Confused, Stacie looked up before she remembered her earlier comment. “Oh. The DMV sent Aubrey a speeding ticket.” Stacie stopped undressing when Aubrey looked up at her. “They said you were doing 55 in a 30 zone.”

“What?!” Outraged, she pulled her hand from under Chloe’s bra and held it out until Beca gave her the ticket lying on top of the rest of the mail. Stacie watched her skim it quickly then pause, her eyes going distant as she thought. “Oh.” She began to laugh. “Yeah we’re going to have to pay this.”

Stacie sat down on the table, wincing as the cool wood touched her skin. “You never speed, Aubrey. I refuse to believe you’re calm right now.”

“That was three weeks ago.” Aubrey said, her lips pursed.

“And?” Beca turned around, looking as confused as Stacie felt.

“That’s the day that Chloe called me while you guys were in the shower.” Aubrey said as she lay down between Chloe and the back of the couch. “I blew past one of those speed vans and didn’t realize it until after it took the picture.” She handed the ticket back to Beca who read through it.

“That’s why you got home so fast!” Chloe started to laugh. “I’d honestly decided you just teleported yourself home.”

Stacie grinned. “Then Beca has to pay for half of it.”

Beca looked at her as she set the ticket down on the table. “Will you accept service in trade?”

“Yes.” Aubrey said immediately and only batted her eyes in a close imitation of Chloe when Stacie looked at her.

“Oh – wait.” Beca turned until she was on her knees facing the couch. “You said it took a picture? Were you in your car? Are we going to have a cop show up at the door because you accidentally got into a Fiat one day?”

Aubrey groaned and buried her face in Beca’s shoulder. “I will murder you, you know this.”

“You can’t live without me.” Beca sang at her.

Stacie carefully bit back her laugh. Ever since that day, any time they were out and about, Beca would point out every single Fiat and say, “Look Aubrey, it’s your car” and cackle like she’d just said the funniest thing in the world.

“Guys?” They all looked up at her. “As the bruise on Chloe’s ass two weeks ago will prove, these couches aren’t big enough for all four of us. Before I get completely naked, what say we pile upstairs into our tiny king sized bed and continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable?” She immediately contradicted herself by taking off her bra and dropping it with the rest of her clothes.

Stacie turned and walked toward the stairs, a lot more sway in her hips than necessary and stopped at the bottom step. She put her hands on her hips and slid her underwear down, bending all the way over as she removed one leg and then the other, feeling three pairs of eyes watching her.

She turned and tossed her underwear at the pile, completely unsurprised that it landed neatly on her bra. “Nowish?”

Aubrey tried to push herself off the couch but ran into Beca, both of them falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses. Chloe, somehow, avoided them both and was heading for the stairs, already stripping.

“You, Conrad, are terrible. You know what that does to them.”

Taking a step backward up the stairs, Stacie grinned. “Yeah, but it’s so much fun when they make me pay for it.” She turned and ran up the stairs, hearing Chloe follow her and, further back, two more pairs of feet began to give chase.

[wewererogue]

The Norwegian prison where inmates are treated like people

[by Erwin James / The Guardian, February 2013]

On Bastoy prison island in Norway, the prisoners, some of whom are murderers and rapists, live in conditions that critics brand ‘cushy’ and 'luxurious’. Yet it has by far the lowest reoffending rate in Europe.

An inmate sunbathes on the deck of his bungalow on Bastoy. Photograph: Marco Di Lauro

The first clue that things are done very differently on Bastoy prison island, which lies a couple of miles off the coast in the Oslo fjord, 46 miles south-east of Norway’s capital, comes shortly after I board the prison ferry. I’m taken aback slightly when the ferry operative who welcomed me aboard just minutes earlier, and with whom I’m exchanging small talk about the weather, suddenly reveals he is a serving prisoner – doing 14 years for drug smuggling. He notes my surprise, smiles, and takes off a thick glove before offering me his hand. “I’m Petter,” he says.

Before he transferred to Bastoy, Petter was in a high-security prison for nearly eight years. “Here, they give us trust and responsibility,” he says. “They treat us like grownups.” I haven’t come here particularly to draw comparisons, but it’s impossible not to consider how politicians and the popular media would react to a similar scenario in Britain.

There are big differences between the two countries, of course. Norway has a population of slightly less than five million, a 12th of the UK’s. It has fewer than 4,000 prisoners; there are around 84,000 in the UK. But what really sets us apart is the Norwegian attitude towards prisoners. Four years ago I was invited into Skien maximum security prison, 20 miles north of Oslo. I had heard stories about Norway’s liberal attitude. In fact, Skien is a concrete fortress as daunting as any prison I have ever experienced and houses some of the most serious law-breakers in the country. Recently it was the temporary residence of Anders Breivik, the man who massacred 77 people in July 2011.

Despite the seriousness of their crimes, however, I found that the loss of liberty was all the punishment they suffered. Cells had televisions, computers, integral showers and sanitation. Some prisoners were segregated for various reasons, but as the majority served their time – anything up to the 21-year maximum sentence (Norway has no death penalty or life sentence) – they were offered education, training and skill-building programmes. Instead of wings and landings they lived in small “pod” communities within the prison, limiting the spread of the corrosive criminal prison subculture that dominates traditionally designed prisons. The teacher explained that all prisons in Norway worked on the same principle, which he believed was the reason the country had, at less than 30%, the lowest reoffending figures in Europe and less than half the rate in the UK.

As the ferry powers through the freezing early-morning fog, Petter tells me he is appealing against his conviction. If it fails he will be on Bastoy until his release date in two years’ time. I ask him what life is like on the island. “You’ll see,” he says. “It’s like living in a village, a community. Everybody has to work. But we have free time so we can do some fishing, or in summer we can swim off the beach. We know we are prisoners but here we feel like people.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect on Bastoy. A number of wide-eyed commentators before me have variously described conditions under which the island’s 115 prisoners live as “cushy”, “luxurious” and, the old chestnut, “like a holiday camp”. I’m sceptical of such media reports.

An inmate repairs a bike. Photograph: Marco Di Lauro

As a life prisoner, I spent the first eight years of the 20 I served in a cell with a bed, a chair, a table and a bucket for my toilet. In that time I was caught up in a major riot, trapped in a siege and witnessed regular acts of serious violence. Across the prison estate, several hundred prisoners took their own lives, half a dozen of whom I knew personally – and a number were murdered. Yet the constant refrain from the popular press was that I, too, was living in a “holiday camp”. When in-cell toilets were installed, and a few years later we were given small televisions, the “luxury prison” headlines intensified and for the rest of the time I was in prison, it never really abated.

It always seemed to me while I was in jail that the real prison scandal was the horrendous rate of reoffending among released prisoners. In 2007, 14 prisons in England and Wales had reconvictions rates of more than 70%. At an average cost of £40,000 a year for each prisoner, this amounts to a huge investment in failure – and a total lack of consideration for potential future victims of released prisoners. That’s the reason I’m keen to have a look at what has been hailed as the world’s first “human ecological prison”.

Thorbjorn, a 58-year-old guard who has worked on Bastoy for 17 years, gives me a warm welcome as I step on to dry land. As we walk along the icy, snowbound track that leads to the admin block, he tells me how the prison operates. There are 70 members of staff on the 2.6 sq km island during the day, 35 of whom are uniformed guards. Their main job is to count the prisoners – first thing in the morning, twice during the day at their workplaces, once en masse at a specific assembly point at 5pm, and finally at 11pm, when they are confined to their respective houses. Only four guards remain on the island after 4pm. Thorbjorn points out the small, brightly painted wooden bungalows dotted around the wintry landscape. “These are the houses for the prisoners,” he says. They accommodate up to six people. Every man has his own room and they share kitchen and other facilities. “The idea is they get used to living as they will live when they are released.” Only one meal a day is provided in the dining hall. The men earn the equivalent of £6 a day and are given a food allowance each month of around £70 with which to buy provisions for their self-prepared breakfasts and evening meals from the island’s well-stocked mini-supermarket.

I can see why some people might think such conditions controversial. The common understanding of prison is that it is a place of deprivation and penance rather than domestic comfort.

Prisoners in Norway can apply for a transfer to Bastoy when they have up to five years left of their sentence to serve. Every type of offender, including men convicted of murder or rape, may be accepted, so long as they fit the criteria, the main one being a determination to live a crime-free life on release.

I ask Thorbjorn what work the prisoners do on the island. He tells me about the farm where prisoners tend sheep, cows and chickens, or grow fruit and vegetables. “They grow much of their own food,” he says.

Other jobs are available in the laundry; in the stables looking after the horses that pull the island’s cart transport; in the bicycle repair shop, (many of the prisoners have their own bikes, bought with their own money); on ground maintenance or in the timber workshop. The working day begins at 8.30am and already I can hear the buzz of chainsaws and heavy-duty strimmers. We walk past a group of red phone boxes from where prisoners can call family and friends. A large building to our left is where weekly visits take place, in private family rooms where conjugal relations are allowed.

After the security officer signs me in and takes my mobile, Thorbjorn delivers me to governor Arne Nilsen’s office. “Let me tell you something,” Thorbjorn says before leaving me. “You know, on this island I feel safer than when I walk on the streets in Oslo.”

Through Nilsen’s window I can see the church, the school and the library. Life for the prisoners is as normal as it is possible to be in a prison. It feels rather like a religious commune; there is a sense of peace about the place, although the absence of women (apart from some uniformed guards) and children is noticeable. Nilsen has coined a phrase for his prison: “an arena of developing responsibility.” He pours me a cup of tea.

“In closed prisons we keep them locked up for some years and then let them back out, not having had any real responsibility for working or cooking. In the law, being sent to prison is nothing to do with putting you in a terrible prison to make you suffer. The punishment is that you lose your freedom. If we treat people like animals when they are in prison they are likely to behave like animals. Here we pay attention to you as human beings.”

A clinical psychologist by profession, Nilsen shrugs off any notion that he is running a holiday camp. I sense his frustration. “You don’t change people by power,” he says. “For the victim, the offender is in prison. That is justice. I’m not stupid. I’m a realist. Here I give prisoners respect; this way we teach them to respect others. But we are watching them all the time. It is important that when they are released they are less likely to commit more crimes. That is justice for society.”

The reoffending rate for those released from Bastoy speaks for itself. At just 16%, it is the lowest in Europe. But who are the prisoners on Bastoy? Are they the goodie-goodies of the system?

Hessle is 23 years old and serving 11 years for murder. “It was a revenge killing,” he says. “I wish I had not done it, but now I must pay for my crime.” Slight and fair-haired, he says he has been in and out of penal institutions since he was 15. Drugs have blighted his life and driven his criminality. There are three golden rules on Bastoy: no violence, no alcohol and no drugs. Here, he works in the stables tending the horses and has nearly four years left to serve. How does he see the future? “Now I have no desire for drugs. When I get out I want to live and have a family. Here I am learning to be able to do that.”

A convict works on Bastoy prison farm. Photograph: Marco Di Lauro

Hessle plays the guitar and is rehearsing with other prisoners in the Bastoy Blues Band. Last year they were given permission to attend a music festival as a support act that ZZ Top headlined. Bjorn is the band’s teacher. Once a Bastoy prisoner who served five years for attacking his wife in a “moment of madness”, he now returns once a week to teach guitar. “I know the potential for people here to change,” he says.

Formerly a social researcher, he has formed links with construction companies he previously worked for that have promised to consider employing band members if they can demonstrate reliability and commitment. “This is not just about the music,” he says, “it’s about giving people a chance to prove their worth.”

Sven, another band member, was also convicted of murder, and sentenced to eight years. The 29-year-old was an unemployed labourer before his conviction. He works in the timber yard and is waiting to see if his application to be “house father” in his five-man bungalow is successful. “I like the responsibility,” he says. “Before coming here I never really cared for other people.”

The female guard who introduces me to the band is called Rutchie. “I’m very proud to be a guard here, and my family are very proud of me,” she says. It takes three years to train to be a prison guard in Norway. She looks at me with disbelief when I tell her that in the UK prison officer training is just six weeks. “There is so much to learn about the people who come to prison,” she says. “We need to try to understand how they became criminals, and then help them to change. I’m still learning.”

Finally, I’m introduced to Vidor, who at 72 is the oldest prisoner on the island. He works in the laundry and is the house father of his four-man bungalow. I haven’t asked any of the prisoners about their crimes. The information has been offered voluntarily. Vidor does the same. He tells me he is serving 15 years for double manslaughter. There is a deep sadness in his eyes, even when he smiles. “Killers like me have nowhere to hide,” he says. He tells me that in the aftermath of his crimes he was “on the floor”. He cried a lot at first. “If there was the death penalty I would have said, yes please, take me.” He says he was helped in prison. “They helped me to understand why I did what I did and helped me to live again.” Now he studies philosophy, in particular Nietzsche. “I’m glad they let me come here. It is a healthy place to be. I’ll be 74 when I get out,” he says. “I’ll be happy if I can get to 84, and then just say: 'Bye-bye.’”

On the ferry back to the mainland I think about what I have seen and heard. Bastoy is no holiday camp. In some ways I feel as if I’ve seen a vision of the future – a penal institution designed to heal rather than harm and to generate hope instead of despair. I believe all societies will always need high-security prisons. But there needs to be a robust filtering procedure along the lines of the Norwegian model, in order that the process is not more damaging than necessary. As Nilsen asserts, justice for society demands that people we release from prison should be less likely to cause further harm or distress to others, and better equipped to live as law-abiding citizens.

It would take much political courage and social confidence to spread the penal philosophy of Bastoy outside Norway, however. In the meantime, I hope the decision-makers of the world take note of the revolution in rehabilitation that is occurring on that tiny island. (94)

[hanscom]

154 and 164 for reddie? 😈

154. “There’s only one bed.”+ 164. “Stop teasing me so much.”

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie KaspbrakRating: TWord count: 1,753

(This was supposed to be short and sexy, and ended up way longer than intended and way sweeter. Sorry for not providing you with porn, @wiersel, I hope you like it anyway.)

It’s kind of a long story. Eddie blames Richie. Richieblames the hotel. The place is booked solid, and the frazzled receptionist’sworn-thin patience is stretched all the thinner by the four separate callsEddie makes to the front desk, sure there’s a mistake.

There’s no mistake. The reservation says, right there inblack and white, Richie Tozier, room 209.

And room 209 only has one bed.

It’s something Eddie has said more than once. “There’s onlyone bed.” As if Richie doesn’t know.He’s blind as a bat, but the only thing worse than his vision is the idea ofbeing cramped in that tiny bed with Eddie Kaspbrak pressed up against him foran entire night.

They used to do it all the time when they were kids – sleep together,in the most innocent sense of the phrase. Richie would sneak in through thewindow Eddie left perpetually unlocked just for him, or Eddie would tell hismother he was going to Bill’s and then end up at Richie’s instead. Eddie’smother had never really liked Bill, but she had liked Richie less. She wouldhave already stroked out if she knew just how much time her son really spentwith him. Still spends with him. 

It’s complicated, between them. Always has been. They werefriends, and then best friends, and then… well. Something unquantifiable. Neverlovers, exactly, but sometimes they’d spend long hours in Eddie’s apartment,making out slowly, some sitcom playing quietly in the background, underscoringthe entire encounter with a laugh track to make sure neither of them got tooserious about it. Because while it’s always been complicated, it’s never beenserious.

Eddie looks serious, now. He’s standing to the side, staringat the bed with his fingers tapped against his lip, like he’s considering thebest way to pry the bed into two pieces.

“It’s just for a couple of hours,” Richie says, shouldering his suitcase to depositit on the bed Eddie hasn’t taken his eyes off of. “We have to get up earlyanyway. Bev wants to have breakfast, remember?”

Tomorrow, Ben and Beverly are getting married, finallygiving in to what’s been building between them since they were twelve years old.

Richie wonders what that’s like.

Eddie doesn’t look at all convinced. “I could sleep on thefloor.”

Richie tries not to feel offended, and fails. “You’d rathersleep on the floor than with me?”

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it, looking sort ofpained.

Richie looks pointedly at the carpet, stained in small patchesfrom wall to wall. “I can guarantee they’ve cleaned the sheets more recentlythan the floor.”

Eddie gives a tiny shudder, his mouth pinching up, the wayit always does when he’s disgusted. Richie has seen that look too many times. “Iguess you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Richie announces. He opens his suitcaseand rifles around for his toothbrush and his pajama pants. “I’m taking a shower.Feel free to join me, since we’re sharing things now.”

“You wish,” Eddie says, which isn’t his best comeback but isabsolutely true.

And so they settle in for the night. Richie takes a quickshower and then Eddie takes a much longer one, and they maneuver around eachother in the small hotel room without thought, in the way only people who have grownup together can. Eddie knows Richie likes to watch travel documentaries beforebed, and he has one turned on when Richie comes out of the bathroom, towel-dryinghis hair. Richie knows Eddie hates to sleep with a top sheet, claims it’s unnecessaryand annoying, so he strips the bed down to just the covers before Eddiefinishes his nightly routine. It’s the same sort of thing they would do for eachother under any other circumstance, but it feels different. Domestic. Richiehas had Eddie in bed before, had him pinned down against the pillows, had hislips kiss-bruised and spit-wet, but he has always gone home afterward.

Never in his adult life has he climbed underneath thecovers with Eddie and felt the warmth of his body all along his side and hadthe intention only to sleep. He feels all of thirteen years old again, and itmakes him sort of stupid, sort of playful, because he reaches out and tickleshis fingers up under Eddie’s shirt, along the inhale-exhale flex of his ribs.

Eddie goes stiff but he laughs like it’s startled out ofhim, his stomach shaking underneath Richie’s hand. “What the fuck are youdoing?” he demands, but the laughter makes his voice sound soft, amused. Fond.

“I have no idea,” Richie admits, honestly, and he rolls overonto his side. They turned the light out before they crawled into bed, but thecurtains over the windows are thin and there’s a streetlight right outside and thelong-suffering look Eddie always gives him looks softer in the shadows.

“Better figure it out,” Eddie says. “You tickle me again andI’ll break your fingers.”

“You won’t,” Richie replies. His voice has dipped lowwithout his own permission. “You like my fingers too much.”

Richie sees it play out on Eddie’s face, can practicallyhear the thought: oh. So that’s what we’redoing.

“I’m not going to fuck you in some hotel bed,” Eddie says.His voice is quiet and only a little shaky. “That’s disgusting.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Richie says. He slideshis hand across Eddie’s ribs, spreads his fingers out low on Eddie’s stomach.His little finger just barely dips beneath the waistband of Eddie’s sleeppants. “I’m not trying to fuck you.”

“So what are you trying to do?” Eddie’s voice is evenquieter, but shaking much more. He’s always been like this: real easy, barely needsRichie to hint at sex before he’s diving in, head-first. Eddie got called aprude a lot in high school, and then more in college, mostly because he refusedto hook up with someone until he knew the exact parameters of their oral hygiene.If they only knew.

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Richie says. And he’sreally not. He’s content just like this, big hand braced on Eddie’s stomach, feelingout the way he breathes. He could probably fall asleep like this, lulled by theway Eddie’s stomach rises and falls with every trembling breath.

But he doesn’t feel much like sleeping.

“Richie, come on,” Eddie says, almost a whine.

“Tell me what you want,” Richie says, because he reallydoesn’t know. Eddie’s sort of flaky like that, might want Richie to fuck himbut could just as easily want Richie to leave him alone. Richie realizes, suddenly,that no one is ever gonna really understand Eddie, not even him. But no one isever going to want to, either. Not the way that he does.

“I want –” Eddie says, then stops. “I just.” And he puts hishand on Richie’s and starts to push it down.

Richie resists. “I said tell me.”

Eddie gives this tiny, broken-up noise. “Stop it,” he says.

Richie stills his hand. “Stop what?”

“Stop teasing me.”

Richie can’t help but laugh, a quiet gust of amused noisethat still sounds loud in the hotel-room silence. “I’m not teasing you.”

“You always teaseme,” Eddie says. His voice sounds sort of raw, somewhere between a whisper anda groan. Richie has the sudden, unexpected thought that maybe they’re nottalking about sex anymore. “Stop teasing me so much.”

“You want me to get serious?” Richie asks, and it soundsmuch more intense than he means for it to, but maybe that’s the point.

Eddie huffs out a mockery of a laugh. “Since when have youever been serious?”

“I’m serious about you,” Richie says, which isn’t exactlywhat he intended to say but is exactly what he means.

Eddie stops breathing for a second, and Richie knows thisfor a fact, because he feels the gut-punched way all the air leaves Eddie’sbody. It’s silent for so long, too long, and Richie’s just about to run down tothe receptionist and throw himself at her feet, beg her for another bed,another room, maybe another life.

But then Eddie says his name, heart-wrenchingly sweet, anddrags him into a kiss by the scruff of the neck. Richie has kissed Eddie onceor twice or a thousand times before, but not like this. Never like this.

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie says, up against his mouth. “You’resuch an idiot.”

“Yeah, but you knewthat,” Richie says, because he’s been a self-proclaimed moron since they werekids and Eddie knows that better than anyone.

Eddie rolls them over, his body half on top of Richie’s. Hepulls back a little, his eyes glittering and his mouth gleaming wet in the lowlight. “Can’t believe it took you this long,” he says.

Richie stares at him, helpless to do anything else. “Wereyou waiting on me?”

“Have been since middle school,” Eddie says, casual asanything, like Richie’s heart hasn’t jammed up into his throat. “But thanks fornoticing.”

And there’s nothing for Richie to do with that except kiss himagain.

They fall asleep together that night, as innocently as theyused to as kids. Richie wakes up to the sight of Eddie’s face smushed into thepillow, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his face more relaxed than it ever getswhen he’s awake, and his heart aches for a long moment before he remembers he’sallowed to touch. He wakes Eddie up with soft kisses and sweet quiet words, andEddie isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine in the mornings but he comes alive inslow increments, sighing sweetly and folding his arms around Richie’s neck.

“Come on, Eds,” Richie says quietly. “We’ve gotta get up.”

Eddie cracks his eyes open. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles. “Wannastay here.”

And he probably means he wants to stay in bed, but his armstighten the barest bit around Richie, and maybe he means he wants to stay just there,in that moment, their lips a mere inch apart, their bodies tangled together.Richie, who has been avoiding his own feelings for more than half his life,doesn’t know how to assure him that if it’s up to him, there will be a millionmore mornings just like this, so he kisses Eddie’s temple and agrees to let himsleep for five more minutes.

[hazeleyedfloozy]

Work of Art. Part 1.

Heyyyyy friends so i haven’t written in a really long while because my life has been a real shit show. But now that it’s getting back to normal; I’m gonna try to write again. This a John Deacon x OC because I need me some COMFORT. And if I can’t have it I’ll write about instead. OKAY BYE. 

Warnings: Mentions of death, drunk driving, anxiety. Funerals, loss, angst angst angsty angst. 

Bouquets of flowers cluttered the dining table, counter space and foyer of the now very empty home. The smell of wilting plants invaded her lungs as she attempted to pour a bowl of cereal.

It had been five days since the funeral.  Two weeks since the accident. And what seem like an endless amount nights since her entire life fell apart. The walls were still hung with treasured photographs of the lives that had been so selfishly taken. A loving, somewhat dysfunctional family torn apart over such a stupid decision.

If I ever have the opportunity, I’ll kill him myself. That was the only phrase that ran through her head over the past week and a half.

Her parents and younger brother had been involved in a car accident, her parents killed instantly from impact. Thankfully, her brother was only banged up slightly; a broken rib and concussion. The accident was caused by a drunk driver; slamming into the Ford Cortina that had been so deeply loved by the family.

She’d heard so many people. So many voices complementing how well she was taking all of this. How strong she was for her brother; still an adolescent. How well she was keeping everything together. She could only nod and whisper a small “thank you” ; careful to not express any real emotions.

Her brother had returned to classes today; and she attempted to return to work that morning. Unable to reach the front door without a considerable amount of difficulty, her boss had recommended she take another week off.

She promised him she’d be back tomorrow morning; them both knowing full well that probably wasn’t the case.

What made matters worse; is that her childhood best friend; the love of her life… was nowhere to be found. John Deacon had become her best friend after a dare on the playground had gone sour; both too nervous to kiss the other on the lips. (The then eleven year olds promised they’d wait until they were ready. That day never came.)  Unable to form a full sentence for the first few days following the accident; she didn’t bother calling him. When Brian (the lead guitarist from his band) phoned to acknowledge his condolences; even offering to come home early from the tour to be there for her… and yet he still didn’t bother to even write. She’d wanted to feel angry. To feel upset. To be heartbroken over the fact that her best friend couldn’t make it to her parent’s joint funeral.

It was a celebration of life, really. She didn’t want people reliving her trauma for hours on end; it was enough to experience it in cinemascope every moment of every day.

The doorbell rang; jolting her out of the trance she was in. Dropping a Lily she’d picked from one of the many arrangements that had been sent to the house over the past few weeks. She was growing bored of them, really.

Knowing it was either another floral arrangement or takeaway from a concerned neighbor; she opened the door slowly.

It was neither.

John stood in front on the other side of the door frame; a single red rose outstretched to her. Her mouth dropped a bit; blinking furiously at the long haired, handsome man. His eyes met hers softly; him recognizing the pain hiding in them so effortlessly. The guard and shield did not have to be present around John. She’d been bullied, almost tormented through their years of school. For her height, untamable curly auburn hair, and freckles cascading over every free patch of skin. She’d been through the worst (or what she thought was the worst) with him. She’d been through the best next to him, too. The success of his band; her graduation from art school and subsequent portfolio showing at a fancy, London hotel. When the band really started to grow; she’d been put to the wayside. (Or so it felt that way.) The last time they’d had an actual conversation on the telephone was on her birthday, eight months ago. He’d tried to protect her from the media, from obnoxious names in the music industry who’d made fun of the lass when she’d left a party at Freddie’s one evening. He vowed to never let them hurt her again; thus distancing himself from her completely. (Even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process)

“Niamh… you look… tired.” He spoke softly, breaking the awkward silence with a knife.

“Did Brian send you?” Niamh asked flatly, letting him stand in the entryway of the house.

“Freddie mentioned it… actually.”

“Of course he did. As if the four bouquets and takeaway twice a week wasn’t enough.” Niamh rolled her eyes, attempting to quite literally shut the shy bassist out of her home.

“Niamh! You can ignore me all you want. But I’m just here to try and make sure you’re keeping yourself well. The band is concerned.” He rushed out; hoping the words would hit her ears before the door latched shut.

“And why should they be? Loss is a part of life. All of you know this.”

“They’re hoping you’ll come out on tour with us.”

“As if I don’t have a life here? As if I don’t have a brother that is LITERALLY my responsibility, John?! But of course you don’t know any of that because you’ve pushed me out of your life.”

“Life gets busy… I just…”

“You didn’t want the public to know about me. About your friendship with the ugly, freckle faced girl from a crappy part of London.” Niamh croaked.

Rain started to fall against the shutters of the once beloved home; now filled with distant memories and painful reminders of all that was lost. She motioned from him to come inside.

“I was trying to protect you, love.”

“Protect me from what, John? That’s not a fucking excuse.” She whispered tearfully, slamming the door shut. The impact of the noise making John’s shoulders jump.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.. love.”

“That’s the last thing I need to hear right now.” Niamh wrapped her arms around herself, keeping her guard up higher than usual.

“What do you need to hear? What can I do, Niamh?”

The cold, frigid exterior she kept was melting away as her heart began process what was actually happening. Her childhood best friend standing in her in her living room; the backdrop of childhood paintings and vacation photos spread across every single each of wall.

“I do believe this oil painting was created right after our first album was released.” John giggled softly, his hand brushing against the artwork.

“You never quite learned to not touch the masterpieces, hm?” Niamh joked.

The only masterpiece I want to touch is you. He thought to himself. He’d harbored feelings for Niamh longer than any one human should; unable to let her go. Unable to get the fire haired, ferocious woman out of his head. Whenever Freddie would sing the haunting lyrics of “Love of my Life.” in concerts and gigs, he’d think of the girl he’d always dreamt of kissing. The girl he knew he would spend the rest of his life pining for.

But I’d rather spend one hundred years pining after you; than losing you because of a puppy dog crush. He’d tell himself as Freddie finished out the beloved song.

“I hung all of these a couple of nights ago when I couldn’t sleep. It makes them seem closer somehow.” Niamh’s eyes filed with hot tears. She grabbed ahold of the pencil silhouette she’d done of John about one year before Queen experienced their first surge of success.

“I meant to always give you this… but… I never did because I felt like you were here with me… even when you were…”

“Countries away?”

She nodded softly.

“I miss you, Niamh. I want you in my life forever.”

“Then why did you leave in the first place John?!” She screeched, her voice almost hoarse. A hand flew over her trembling lips; stifling a sob.

“I’m so sorry… please… let me back in… anything I can do… I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t even know what I need right now.”

“Well I’ll stay until we figure it out. Together. We can have a fresh start. Together.”

She could only nod; the sobs controlling her entire being. He felt his heart shatter as he watched his best friend in such a state of misery. To see the strong, beautiful woman he’d fallen so deeply in love with, so broken and in a state of mourning. She turned to face him; her broken eyes filled with such exhaustion. Instinctively; he wrapped her in his arms. It was an awkward angle; as she quite literally towered over him at 6’4.

“As much as I enjoy holding you, I do believe this isn’t comfortable for either of us.” He suggested, nudging her side. She tipped her head back, laughing the hoarse laugh he’d treasured all of these years.

“Lets get you to bed.” He whispered, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She agreed, her body so exhausted from almost two weeks worth of little to no sleep.

Softly climbing the stairs; she’d taken the lead, wanting to retreat to her comforting bed.

He smiled at her room; unchanged since the last time he’d come to visit. The same photo from a summer night was placed on her nightstand. He had decided to play “leapfrog” only to have Niamh’s younger brother capture it on film. Gently pulling the quilts over her (what seemed tiny when she was in such a state of disbelief and heartache) frame; he kissed her forehead. Grabbing an extra pillow and blanket from the linen closet; he plopped himself down on the floor of her childhood bedroom. “The floor cannot be comfortable. You’re not seventeen anymore.”

“Still used to…”

“My Mum threatening to call your Mum if you tried any ‘funny business’ when you crashed here?” Niamh laughed.

“Come up here. It’s fine, really.” She convinced him. Thanking the gods above that he wouldn’t wake up with a stiff back; he settled in beside her.

“It feels good to have you home.” She whispered, before letting her eyes droop shut.

“Home.”

[luckydoogs]

THE FIVE BASIC RULES OF HOUSETRAINING

Here are the steps you’ll need for housetraining success.

1. Controlling Environment

One fact that helps with housetraining is that dogs instinctively don’t like to soil their living area—though, as I’ll explain in this section, their idea of a “living area” may be different from yours. This is why a crate can play a key role in housetraining—because it’s a comfortable, safe place where your dog can relax and sleep, he’s not going to want to have accidents in it. (There may be exceptions to this in the first two weeks or so.) It’s where your pet will spend time—in addition to other smallish areas such as a bathroom or puppy playpen—when you can’t supervise him. You also need to gradually, slowly, and separately teach your dog that other parts of the house are also his living space and, in turn, off-limits for going potty. Initially, your dog won’t understand this. It’s as though he’ll think, “Well, I won’t go in my crate, but my mother’s closet looks perfectly fine. I never really spend any time there at all!” Start small: for instance, limit your dog’s territory to just the kitchen for a short period. Then slowly move on to another part of the house. I typically recommend doing this with your dog on a leash, though if you’re 100 percent focused on your dog you can take the leash off. By paying close attention, you’ll likely be able to catch those subtle clues that he’s about to go and quickly whisk him outside. Letting him roam off-leash in the living room while you keep one eye on him and one on your Facebook newsfeed just isn’t what you want to be doing here. As your dog spends time in each new environment and gets acclimated to it, he’ll start realizing that the entire house is his home and not a good choice for going potty. This is a months-long process, one that you shouldn’t try to rush. If you notice that your dog is having a lot of accidents, that’s a cue to take a step back and refocus on smaller living space and more frequent potty breaks. Also, if your dog seems to favor various floor textures for going potty, such as carpet or tile, then that’s because he’s had too many opportunities to do so and has likely developed a preference for them. Prioritize getting him outside more often to encourage a preference for grass! If crate training is not for you for any reason, then consider alternative ways to contain your dogs, such as a playpen, baby gates, or a puppy-proofed room like a bathroom or laundry room. Again, the key is to completely control your dog’s environment—if you tether him to you or keep him in his crate or another sectioned-off area any time you can’t actively supervise him, then he can’t sneak off and go potty in the bedroom.

2. The Importance of Routine

Dogs thrive on a consistent schedule. Plus, keeping a routine is a crucial element to housetraining because it helps you know when your dog will likely have to go out. That starts with feeding your dog at around the same time every day and removing his bowl between meals. Dogs typically will have to go potty about fifteen to twenty minutes after eating. Also, make sure you remove your dog’s water dish two hours before bedtime during housetraining. How often should your dog go outside during the housetraining phase? Very often! In general, one-month-old dogs can hold it in for one hour, two month-olds for two hours, and so on. However, regardless of your puppy or dog’s age, you shouldn’t expect him to hold it in longer than three or four hours while he’s housetraining. If you work outside of the house all day, either come home periodically during the day to walk your dog, make arrangements for someone else to do this, or consider doggy daycare. Paper training is also an option if you want to do that long term—more on that later in this chapter. At the very least, walk your dog first thing in the morning, right after he wakes up from a nap, ten to twenty minutes after eating or drinking, after playtime, and right before bedtime. With a puppy, you will also likely need to get up in the middle of the night once or twice to let him out for that first week or two. When you walk your dog outside, never leave him unsupervised. You need to be there to praise him and reward him for doing his business outside. When I housetrain dogs, I will generally say something like, “Do you want to go potty?” before I let them out. I then let them out in the yard, on a leash, so that I can guide them to a specific area and remain very quiet. Don’t be surprised if your dog checks out the yard and sniffs around or tries to play for a few minutes first. This is normal. It’s best to wait it out and ignore your dog’s efforts to play. (However, this applies to potty breaks only! In other areas of training, it’s very helpful if your dog wants to play and engage with you.) Spend a good ten minutes out there with your dog if necessary. Ten minutes can seem like thirty, so adjust your expectations. If your dog goes potty, say “Yes!” and then after a one-second pause say “Go potty!” as he is finishing up. Be very deliberate and purposeful in your tone, as though you are teaching a new phrase to a young child. No need to be loud or say this a dozen times. Once it is just fine. Then promptly follow the phrase up with a reward and genuine encouragement right there outside (more on rewards in the next section). If your dog doesn’t go potty after ten minutes, then bring him back into the house and put him in the crate or other small contained environment he likely views as his living area, or keep him tethered to you. Try taking him out again ten to fifteen minutes later, or sooner if you see signs that he has to go, such as circling and sniffing the ground. This may sound like a lot of work, but trust me—the more committed you are too frequent bathroom breaks initially, the sooner your dog will get the hang of housetraining.

3. The Power of Rewards

Creating positive associations with housetraining is very important so that your dog will want to go potty outside. In other words, give your dog a special reward to look forward to after he uses the proper spot. I’m not saying you have to do this every day for the rest of his life—just during housetraining. Such rewards come in two major forms: food or play. For food, treats that your dog loves will work well. Again, a small piece of real meat like boiled chicken gets a dog’s attention. Another option: if your dog is very playful, you can instead encourage a five- to thirty-second play session immediately after he goes potty. A play session can be defined as anything that your dog enjoys, like chasing you around, playing tug-of-war, or a game of fetch. The idea here is to have fun! No matter which reward you choose, while you are waiting for your dog to go potty, stay boring and hide any toys or treats. After he goes, then reward him and praise him lavishly. Just pretend like you’ve won the lottery every time he is successful outside, and he’ll start realizing that he just did something that resulted in life getting way more interesting. For a more sensitive or nervous dog, you may want to tone down the excitement a bit. Otherwise, lay it on thick! Bottom line: Your goal is to teach your dog that going potty outside unlocks the most fun version of you—plus a special surprise! This may take several days to a few weeks for your dog to understand. Once he does, you can bet that housetraining will become a lot easier.

4. Handling Accidents

You should never punish your dog for having a potty accident. Doing that is like punishing an infant for going in his diaper. Old-school training encouraged pushing a dog’s face into his mess or even hitting him with a newspaper—I can’t think of a quicker way to not only compromise your dog’s trust but also greatly delay his progress. As I’ve been emphasizing, if you want the best results, focus on what you like instead of what you don’t like. When you catch your dog in the act of going in the house, interrupt him immediately by distracting him with a high-pitched voice or by clapping your hands and take him outside to finish up. Then reward him heavily for doing so in the right spot. If you don’t catch him in the act, scolding him after the fact is counterproductive. Instead, just clean up the mess and make sure you’re supervising your dog as much as possible to prevent future accidents. Remember, your dog is not to blame here. The only thing to blame is the lack of a controlled environment or your consistency.

5. Cleaning Up

When your dog has an accident in the house, do your best to eliminate odors; if you don’t, your dog will be drawn to those spots over and over again. Dogs like to go potty where they and other dogs have done so before. Even though you may not be able to see or smell a stain after you clean it up, your dog can detect it with his extremely sensitive sense of smell. Look for an enzyme-based odor neutralizer that breaks down the scent. You can find such products at pet supply stores, online, and in some grocery stores. Do not use ammonia, vinegar, detergents, or other similar chemicals. They aren’t effective, and they also may attract your dog back to the spot.

[wreathedwith]

How Not To Be a Boy book tour write-up

Brief write up of an event I attended where Robert Webb was in conversation with Victoria Coren Mitchell. Because they were both too cute about David Mitchell, “the elephant in the room”. It was a really fun evening watching two people talk who clearly like each other and get on well (and I got my book signed an’ all).

This is not everything that was discussed, nor is it verbatim.

VCM said at the beginning that RW's book is on its fifth reprinting already!

VCM also said at the beginning she had been “wanting to meet Rob for a long time and I'm pleased it's finally happening”.

RW's wife was in the front row of the audience (which mostly meant some guilty looks towards her occasionally when talking about certain parts of the book).

RW read out two extracts over the course of the evening: one part from towards the end of the book about the beginning of the end of his relationship with Jenna (reading Men are from Mars… and similar books, feeling absolved from emotional workload, playing Civ II), and the part about Will in Torquay.

(VCM referred to Ellis, who told RW to take Jenna to Milan to propose to her, as “David’s friend”. This reminded me that there’s an Ellis in Back Story – assume the same. His full name, as given in Back Story, is Ellis Wolfe Sareen, which is nuts.)

Back Story was brought up early on by VCM. (I think this was in the context of DM’s irritation that RW had suppressed his Lincolnshire accent, which would have given them a not-middle-class edge.) RW joked that he had “already outsold it”.

VCM mentioned in relation to this about her father in the 1950s, when it would have been far more common to do so, being born working class then going from a grammar school to Oxford, and adopting a posh accent and starting to wear tweed jackets in order to fit in with the establishment. VCM expressed fascination with RW doing something similar. VCM also contrasted her concerns when writing about her father, already famous, over not tarnishing his legacy, versus RW writing about people who weren't famous and whether he felt responsibilities around that. RW said that he did, and that everyone involved saw an early draft and okayed it. Occasionally people had said ‘really?’ about some aspect and it was taken out, but not very often.

RW, at one point: “Of course we were going to end up talking about flipping David the whole time.”

VCM segued at one stage into talking about DM's opinion on black tie (“My husband's theory on black tie is that the only good thing about being a man at red carpet events...”) and RW mimed irritation about her always going on about David and David's views. VCM moved on.

(Adorably!) VCM could barely get through without laughing – “this is one of my favourite things ever” – the story of DM intending to email a reminder to himself about calling RW (RW: “he needs some sort of app”) but accidentally emailing the message to Rob instead (mentioned by DM here). VCM: “It was nice! You knew you were in his thoughts.”

VCM: “In your best man speech at our wedding, you specified that you had never seen DM's penis. My question is: why had you expected to?” RW explained that he had meant that over the years (Edinburgh shows, touring etc.) they had shared a lot of “floors, or at least a twin bedroom”. But every time they shared a room, DM would “go off to the bathroom with his little bag ... and come back out resplendent in his burgundy pyjamas which, by the way, I know he still has.” (VCM seemed to indicate this was the case.) This is what happens, RW said, when “two people with vastly different ideas about nudity share a bedroom”. (For the record, RW asked the men in the audience to raise their hands if they had seen several of their platonic male friends' penises, and quite a lot of them did.)

There was some audience q and a time at the end, but a couple of questions were invited in the middle. The first question RW was asked was a good one: “When you're writing about sexism and stereotypes, how can you tell that a joke is working because it's about sexism, rather than being a sexist joke?” RW said that there was no formula and that it was something you got better at judging with practice, and you had to think about whether you could defend the joke if that situation ever arose. He also made an interested reference to Jimmy Carr (“although I like Jimmy”), citing Carr saying that jokes are a “holiday from morality” but RW personally wouldn’t subscribe to such an extreme view.

There was another, perhaps inevitable, question on why comedy is so sexist. RW for the most part abdicated from answering this, saying he was not qualified to answer and “if only there was a woman here to answer that” (although did elaborate somewhat, saying that although he didn’t do stand-up he thought women sometimes had to work a lot harder to command control over a room than a male stand up – he phrased it more carefully than that). VCM said “you didn’t ask [me]”, but said that the first time she went on a panel show no-one laughed, the second time a few people laughed and the third time nearly everyone did because people had realised it was OK to laugh. “And I didn’t get funnier; if anything, less funny.” Her explanation for this was that audiences get nervous when they see someone they don’t know, and far more so when that person is a woman. “It seems to be illegal to put on more than two women on a panel show at once,” VCM said, and that this could be solved by just getting on three or four women at once for every panel show for a couple of months, then everyone would feel fine about women, but it would never happen because of the first couple of months where it would feel awkward.

At one point, VCM said “Ten years ago, if anyone was to guess which one of Mitchell and Webb was not entirely heterosexual...” RW completely misinterpreted this and said “yes, it would have been me” (I guess he's thinking about... the cross dressing dancing? and similar) before realising what VCM had meant. “Oh yeah!” RW said, looking very amused. “People, some people, used to think David was gay.”

(This pretty much came up from some quarters, I guess, from the fact that DM appeared to have no love life to speak of and was successful but living with a flatmate in his late 30s. Now we know specifically what was going on, of course. But the thing is DM is... so straight. Like, hilariously straight. To the point of being terrified of women for a long time and also being quite apologetic in Back Story for not even being a little bit gay. Anyway, I found it amusing that none of that thinking immediately came to RW’s mind.) Further clarification on that side of things: RW said that “aged 16 to 22, I thought of myself as bisexual. Then that petered out. I blame Peter.” (“Ba boom! You've been waiting for a proper joke and that was finally it!”)

RW also said that sexuality was a spectrum and some people are quite happy at one end or the other, and others move up and down it. RW said he strongly disliked the idea that if you were attracted to twice the genders there was twice the temptation to cheat (“If you're going be tempted, don't get married! What are you doing?”). There was also a brief exchange between VCM and RW where VCM began suggesting and RW agreed that what you call yourself and how you feel about various genders fades away and doesn't really matter once you commit yourself to one person. (That's something I know not everyone would agree with, but I doubt he would claim to be making a more universal point beyond his own feeling.)

VCM did not soft-ball RW for knowing him, and asked him a really tough question at the end – essentially, what percentage of your father's mistakes have you made yourself, and how well are you doing overcoming them. (RW said that he thought he'd made about 30-40% of the mistakes. Can't remember exactly what he said to the latter, but it was something along the lines of not wanting to say exactly how well he was doing but that it was better than he had been and a work in progress.)

[chimpsintheforest]

Kindness Matters

Olyota! Ibara iyange ninyowe Sarah. Ninduga New York. Ninsomo ebisoro ha Cornell University. Ninkora ne kitongole kya Kibale Chimpanzee Project. Msemerirwe kukurora.

In case you can’t read Rutoora, the local language of Kanyawara, which I couldn’t do until earlier this week, I’ll translate:

Hello! My name is Sarah. I am from New York. I study animals at Cornell University. I work with an organization called Kibale Chimpanzee Project. It is nice meeting you.

After learning that I would be spending my summer in Uganda, I immediately looked up what language is spoken here. Google gave me two options: English and Swahili. I love learning new languages, so I decided without thinking twice that I would begin to learn Swahili. I would be fluent by the end of the spring semester and completely able to understand everything everyone said. …or I would at least be able to introduce myself when I met people. However, when I met with Allison and Rachel, two girls who were in Uganda last summer, they informed me that nobody in Uganda really speaks Swahili and that the local villagers wouldn’t understand me any better than if I spoke English. Heartbroken, I removed the “Learn Swahili” playlists from the ones I had saved on Spotify, realizing that English was going to be the only language I could bring with me. I would never be able to communicate with the local villagers unless I had a translator with me, which would completely strip me of my high-valued independence.

That all changed my first week in Kibale.

I traveled with the Mobile Clinic on June 7 and 8 to remote villages too far from a doctor’s office to receive treatment for most diseases. The first day we went to Kahondo. After a long ride in the back seat of a truck, smushed in with three other people (there were a total of 11 people in the truck: three in the front seat, four in the back seat, and four in the bed) and bruised from crashing into the door with every bump (which there are a lot of, making me feel extremely grateful for the roads in Ithaca), we finally arrived in a dust-covered town built of whatever scrap materials were available.

Stepping out, I saw a gaggle of schoolchildren swarming the doors of the small schoolhouse, eagerly peering out to catch a glimpse of the Mobile Clinic. Their excitement became fascination and curiosity after seeing me, a white girl, step out of the truck. They ran across the road, babbling in whatever language they spoke (I didn’t know at the time), stopped dead in their tracks when they were next to me, and stared at me, wide-eyed and unsure of what to think. I waved hello, and they all began giggling before racing back to the schoolhouse to observe me from a farther distance. I proceeded to help set up the clinic in some empty school buildings – one teensy room was going to be the “doctor’s office”, another was the lab, and a third was the reception area. After we were all set, they began playing music out of some speakers we had brought along to encourage people that the Mobile Clinic was friendly and that they should come and seek the help they needed. After a significant crowd had gathered, everyone began to introduce themselves. Eventually, it was time for me to introduce myself. As I raised the microphone to my mouth, I was instantly embarrassed. Whatever I said wouldn’t be understood by anyone. I took a deep breath and gave them the basics anyways. When I finished, I offered them a smile, hoping they would think of me as a nice person they could trust. Much to my relief, Patrick, the doctor, then introduced me to them in their language. They smiled, appreciating that he took the time to translate.

Throughout the afternoon, patients came pouring into the reception area, a steady stream of sick people needing help and unable to get it until the Mobile Clinic came to their village about once every 3-4 months. Somehow, we made it through 130 patients in 5 hours. Patrick is a true miracle worker. My job was to write down everyone’s names, ages, and villages into the logbook. As I wrote, I observed the people who stopped by. There were a countless number of 18-year-old girls with 2-3 children peeking around them from behind, and most of them were pregnant with another child. In the books they brought with them for the doctor to write in, many of them said that their education stopped at second grade. All the children came toddling in without shoes and with giant, rotund bellies full of worms. My heart sank as I continued to write name after name after name. In what way would I ever be able to connect with these people? My life is perfect in comparison – I’m receiving a college degree from one of the most prestigious universities in the world; I have multiple pairs of shoes; there is an abundance of food for me; I can get medical help the instant I need it. I couldn’t talk to them either; they didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak their language.

During the times that there wasn’t anyone to register, I looked out at the people waiting in the grass. They were all happy. The children were running and laughing with each other. People danced to the music. Even though they were sick, these villagers were enjoying themselves. The fact that the kids weren’t wearing shoes didn’t bother them – they wanted to wrestle in the dirt with their friends anyways. The young mothers weren’t upset that they had children – they loved them with the same passion my mother has for me. Watching the people outside, I realized, not for the first time, that Ugandan people don’t cultivate stress. Patrick loved treating the people who came, and he was smiling at the end, even though the work must have been exhausting. The patients weren’t upset about waiting for five hours to see the doctor; instead, they took the time to visit with each other. They seemed to embrace the lesson I learned my first week here: it’ll happen when it happens.

While I was relieved that the villagers didn’t seem to be upset with their lives, I still felt so distant from them. We’re both happy, but in totally different circumstances. Is that really enough to connect to someone? Some people would probably say yes. I wasn’t going to settle for that though. I came to Uganda to learn, and what better way to connect to people than to learn their language? Excited and eager to once again rekindle my love of foreign languages, I asked one of the girls from the Mobile Clinic to teach me a few simple phrases in Rutoora so I could introduce myself the next week. I’ve been reciting the phrases every day to prevent myself from forgetting what they sound like. I look forward to traveling with the Mobile Clinic tomorrow and introducing myself to the local villagers in their own language.

From this experience, I learned not only a few phrases in Rutoora, but I also clarified my definition of what it means to be happy and to have a good life. I realized that what the villagers need is not pity but medical care. They don’t have much, but they are more than willing to offer me maize roasted over a fire. They patiently wait for me to write their names, not at all annoyed that I sometimes mistake the spellings. The people in Uganda are, if nothing else, kind. To always be so kind and loving in everything you do takes a uniquely strong sort of person. While I at first thought they would envy me, the reality is that I envy them. From this day forward, I will always strive to be as good willed as they are, to practice unconditional love, and to be happy in whatever circumstances arise. Thank you, Uganda, for helping me become a better person. I hope I can someday repay you.

s.wright

[anjnaswami]

An Essay on M.S. Gopalakrishnan and Musical Meditation

I wrote this essay in April of 2015, when I began to access a depth of musical exploration that I’d been afraid of for many years. After a brief hiatus, I’m slowly getting back to that depth, intentionality and patience with my practice of music. Perhaps the habit of listening is one that can easily be forgotten if it is not constantly nurtured, but rediscovering the insights of my younger self is helping me forgive myself and move forward in this process. 

* * * 

It was the summer of 2009. I was in a hot Mylapore flat, jetlagged and sleepless after a night of no power (and as a result, no air conditioning). This had been the first trip that my mother and I had taken alone, and emotions were running high. Her mother (my grandmother, and a second mother to me) had passed away just a month before, and here we were in Chennai, embarking on what would become two draining months of rigorous musical practice and half-hearted mourning. It was late morning and despite the heat and my insomnia, I was still in bed, covered head to toe in the tent of stolen airline blankets I had created to protect myself from the ravenous mosquitoes that frequented our dusty bedroom. These were persistent mosquitoes, and even in the dry Chennai summer, they thrived on the blood of the residents of Alamelumangapuram Road.

My mother told me one last time to get out of bed. I groggily came out of the bedroom and she handed me a stainless steel tumbler of coffee that had been heated and reheated many times since she woke up. The tumbler sat in a davara, a shorter, wider version of the cup – something like a saucer, but deeper and used to cool down whatever hot beverage one was drinking. I poured the hot, milky coffee into the davara. The tumbler had become unbearably hot, and my already unsteady fingers trembled even more as I tried to transfer the coffee back to it. My fingers finally gave in and the hot coffee spilled all over me.

There certainly wasn’t enough time for my mother to make more coffee and for me to shower. It was already 10:30 am and my guru, H. K. Narasimhamurthy, would arrive at eleven. Over the past three years, HKN Mama had made a series of two-month visits to our house in Maryland, where we spent four to five hours every evening with intensive learning and practice. He taught me hundreds of songs, and spent the school day meticulously notating and printing out the compositions he planned to teach me that evening. When I came home from school, we would sit across from one another in the living room, which had been completely cleared out, except for a large rug, and a few photo frames and souvenirs that sat on the mantel of our broken fireplace. We covered every kind of improvisation, trading phrases back and forth, until we were tired of whatever raga we were in. I had never met so humble a musician. He would remark on how practicing with me was a challenge for him, and how we were learning and growing together. He was proud to have worked so closely with one student, and it satisfied my ego to dwell in his compliments. At the end of his trip in the spring of that year, he told my parents that he would like to take me to his guru, Parur M. S. Gopalakrishnan. MSG was a legend, and it had been my mother’s dream to have me study with him, or at the very least train me in the Parur style of violin. MSG rarely taught, and had very few students, but HKN Mama believed that he would agree to teaching me.

When he arrived at eleven, we had our typical session, practicing and improvising through various compositions and ragas for a few hours. He asked me to play some varnams (warm up pieces that were especially essential to the Parur technique), and after much discussion, he decided that I would show MSG Sarasuda varnam in raga Saveri. MSG was famous for his rendition of this varnam, and as far as I knew, I, too, had mastered it.

“MSG” was so legendary a name that he existed almost as a fantastical person in my mind, and the gravity of learning from such a genius had yet to set in. I had seen him play live when I was very young and less serious about music than I was now. Other than that, I only knew him through recordings of his concerts, which I seldom listened to. In spite of his international renown, he lived in the same Mylapore house he was born in. This was the house where his father Parur Sundaram Iyer locked him in his room for hours and made him practice. The rigor that had made MSG a household name was unimaginable. I had heard stories that Sundaram Iyer would leave MSG to practice for up to eighteen hours a day without a break for food. HKN Mama, Amma, and I sat in the oversized ambassador car that we had hired for the summer, which our driver Satyamurthy squeezed into the increasingly narrow streets of MSG’s neighborhood. There was a crooked yellow board that read “Parur M. S. Gopalakrishnan, Violinist” hanging over two thin, rusty, grated doors that opened to a terrifyingly constructed cement staircase. HKN Mama climbed them without looking at which steps were slanted and which were too short. My mother, who was extremely afraid of heights, asked me to walk behind her, so I could catch her in case she fell.

As he reached the narrow top step, HKN Mama said, “Namaskaram sir!” MSG’s wife came and opened the door. We came in, awkward and apologetic of our presence, as was custom when meeting such brilliant artists. I hugged my violin, and my mother carried a plastic bag of fruits to offer him. MSG sat hunched over, looking out at the netted balcony and listening to the distant cacophony of horns outside, completely unaware of the fact that we had come in. He wore a tight, worn, short-sleeve undershirt and an old veshti with occasional holes in it. His wife brought a tumbler and davara and sat them on the wooden chair in front of him. “Paal,”she said. Milk. He poured the steamed milk into the davarah. His fingers trembled like mine at the heat of the tumbler, but instead of immediately pouring the milk back and forth, he held the tumbler with his two palms and rolled it back and forth, slowly and meditatively, letting his ring clink against the tumbler in steady rhythm. “Vaango,” he said. Come in. And he poured the milk back and forth between the tumbler and the davara.

Once introductions had been made, HKN Mama told him that I would play Saveri varnam for him. He watched and listened closely as I played it. Once slow, twice fast, the second time in staccato or ‘cutting bow’ as we called it. When I finished, MSG was silent. And instead of addressing me, he looked at his student and said, “What is this, Narasimhamurthy? You’ve taught her without any gamaka?” Gamakas were the oscillations and ornamentations that were the cornerstone of Carnatic music, and were particularly important to MSG’s rendition of varnams. It was a painful moment. HKN Mama and I had both disappointed our gurus. After a beat, MSG turned to me and quietly said, “Okay, so you want to learn from me? This week, we will only work on this varnam. If by the end of the week the way you play this varnam has not completely changed, you don’t have to worry about coming back here.”

We had been there for half an hour, and in the next fifteen minutes, MSG Mama began re-teaching me the varnam. He played each phrase slowly, correcting me as I badly reproduced what he had played. And then he sent me home.

That evening, I practiced Saveri varnam and only Saveri varnam for four hours. Making the adjustments that MSG Mama had asked me to make. The next day, he listened to me play the varnam again and again for 45 minutes, occasionally making a comment or an adjustment. I went home and practiced Saveri varnam for seven hours. And so it went the next day and again the next day. It was frustrating and unending. I slept, ate, and breathed with only Saveri varnam on my mind.

But MSG Mama’s silence during these 45-minute sessions was perhaps the most terrifying. I suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that unlike HKN Mama, who always played along with me, MSG Mama could hear everything. He was listening intently as I played the varnam again and again. And all of a sudden, I was listening, too. It was something I had never done before. To actually listen to what was happening!  To listen to the point of forgetting that it was me that was playing and MSG Mama that was listening to it. My seven-hour practice sessions of Saveri varnam became more and more intense. They were trance-like. I had played the varnam so many times that I was no longer playing it. I was just existing in it, and slowly becoming it. It was no longer about the placement of my fingers, or the speed at which I was playing. It was about something much bigger than that. During class, MSG Mama stopped correcting me. He just listened as I became the varnam and the varnam became me.

After one week, I played the varnam for 45 minutes again, and at the end he said, “Good. Come at five tomorrow. And think about what you would like to learn next.” The rest of the two months went by very differently. Each day, he would ask me what song I wanted to learn, or what raga I wanted to work on. He would record it for me. I would go home and memorize it. The next day, he would help me internalize it and record the next song. The rigor of my seven-hour practice sessions lessened. I had become so preoccupied with learning the next song that I forgot what had happened that first week. What happened with Saveri varnam was beyond memorizing and internalizing. It was about forgetting, becoming, and then transcending. And I had naively neglected to follow the process that MSG Mama had taught me when I first met him.

A year later, my mother and I returned to Chennai for another two month intensive with MSG Mama. The morning after we reached, she handed me a tumbler of hot coffee and a davara. I poured the coffee into the davara. The tumbler was hot. My fingers trembled like MSG Mamas. I rolled the tumbler between my palms, and the heat began to transfer to my hands. The tumbler cooled down and my hands became warm, and I rolled it until my hands and the tumbler were one.

* * * 

I have just, after a very long struggle with music, returned to the kind of rigorous practice I had when I first started learning from MSG Mama. My mother and MSG Mama have both passed on, but it is only now, after almost five years of depression and anxiety around playing music, that I have been able to actually begin processing the lessons that I had with MSG Mama and truly feel transcendent when playing. Last week, I was practicing Saveri varnam, and started to relive what happened during that first week of lessons, and the way that MSG Mama rolled his tumbler was such an important part of it. Encapsulated in this little act was MSG Mama’s entire approach to musical meditation. With patience and intentionality, he took two seemingly separate entities and equalized them. Whether it was him and the violin, him and the composition, or him and the audience he was playing for, the drive behind his music was always connection, transcendence, and oneness, and for those who have really opened up and listened to his music, it is this overwhelming transference of energy that we have felt.

- Anjna Swaminathan

[jackson-wren]

Death and Loss Don't Exist when Phil Lester is Plowing You Into the Floor

They were watching a movie. That's how it started. Just an innocent marvel movie that Phil had picked out, Civil War to be specific, and Dan had been doing fine: curled against Phil's splayed legs, cheek pressed against his knee. Boxes surrounded them, and in the dark it almost felt as though they'd entered another world. Soft lighting played around the TV in a haze, and Phil started to nod off. What felt like seconds went by, and then Phil is groggily awoken by cold wind winding its way up the bottom of his pant leg. He cracks one eye open, only to be met with a darkened TV monitor and empty space where Dan had been. "Dan?" Phil works himself onto his elbows, trying to peer around the boxes. No response. Maybe he's gone to bed. Tired and slightly annoyed, Phil swings his legs off the sofa and stands, turning side to side to crack his back. The soft pad of his feet barely make any sound as he trudges out of their lounge and into the hall, ready to get downstairs, wash up and go to sleep. He doesn't see the shape on the ground until it's too late. "Shhhhhocolate milk!" Phil trips over whatever it is and hits the edge of their banister. Hard. Now annoyed, tired and throbbing from the probable puncture wound in his hand, he blearily regains his balance, poised to yell. Instead, when the shape lets out a sad sigh, he just shakes his head. "Dan, come on. Now's not the time. The movers get here at five thirty tomorrow." Dan makes no move to get up. In fact, he doesn't move at all. Phil knows how this is going to go, but he's tired for god's sake! And they've gotta be up early. When the nudge to the spine Phil gives him doesn't do anything, he groans under his breath and then bends down to touch his lips to the shell of Dan's ear. "Was it something in the movie?" Dan makes a sound that has a somewhat negative connotation, but Phil wants better than that. "Use your words, baby boy." That gets him a whimper. "No." "Then what is it?" Dan just sniffs. "I can't help unless you tell me, Bear." "I just-" The catch in his voice is muffled slightly by the carpet, but Phil still hears it. "'Just' what?" The words that follow come at flash-flood speed. "It's just that five years have gone by, Phil. Five!! And it's not that we're moving, that I don't mind. It's not even that it's five closer I am to dying. It's- it's five closer you are to death; five closer to the inevitable time when I'm going to- when I'll have to live without-" Phil brings his hand up to Dan's shaking shoulder blades. "Do you want the usual?" "No." It's wet with unshed tears. "Make it hard. Rough. Violent. Ground me." Phil's other hand is on his belt buckle before Dan finishes his sentence. It takes a few seconds longer than normal to undo it in the dark, but something about the way Dan phrased it- Violent. Ground me- something in that has sent Phil's brain into overdrive. The leather pulls out of his jeans with a whap that he can feel. "Throat or hands?" "Throat." Phil happily obliges, and straddles Dan, thighs resting on his ribs. Phil is essentially sitting on Dan's back, but he hasn't made any sounds of protest yet. He takes his time working the belt so that it's smooth and soft around Dan's neck, each touch sending smaller-than-usual tremors through Dan's body. Once it's been looped and tightened, like a dog collar, Phil moves on to the next step. He's gentle when undoing Dan's own fly and belt, gentle in getting them down to Dan's knees. Phil manages to shimmie them off of Dan's legs, and then the fun truly begins. You see, this is normal for them. Once, twice a week, Dan will have one of these fits and Phil will fix it for him. It's happened during gaming videos before, like Chimbot, where he'd had to cut the camera because Dan was so damn out of it. That had been a good one. Fucked him right into the sofa. They'd had to turn the cushions over. Cum stains, specially on suede. "Biting?" "Yeah." Phil starts at his calfs. His teeth graze the skin, and for the first time, he feels a shiver of movement from the man pinned beneath him. Phil smiles. Then he bites in earnest. Dan's little cry that slips from numb lips stems Phil on, so he trails those teeth marks up Dan's legs to his thighs. That's when they change. Phil starts to break skin. Coppery heat melts into Phil's mouth, and he pulls away momentarily to gasp, pressing the heel of one hand down on his quickly hardening dick. "Bruises?" "What do you think?" Dan is breathless now but still not shifting as much as Phil needs him to be. So he takes a leap. In one movement, Phil is back on Dan's thighs, but this time he's pinching. Dan starts to make these sounds, these sounds that remind Phil of a mouse he'd caught in a Haveaheart trap when he was seven. Squeaky. Desperate. Dan's boxers came off with his pants, so Phil takes his other hand and brings it down on Dan's bare ass cheek. That gets a reaction. Dan jerks, then slowly cants his hips into the carpet. Phil can imagine that doing so probably hurts, rug burn on your nuts and all that, but Dan seems to be enjoying it. With every slap that Phil administers, Dan jerks and then grinds. Phil's own erection is now seriously tenting his jeans, so finally, after Dan's pinched thighs have started to go purple and his ass is cherry red, Phil asks: "Lube or nah?" "Nah." Dan's voice has a bit more conviction too it. Progress. Phil doesn't even ask if Dan has prepped. Dan's always prepped. Even at the age he is, he's still as horny as he was at eighteen. Maybe hornier. Phil gets his own zipper undone, but that's as undressed as he's going to get. He takes the base of his dick through his pants, guiding it so that the tip peeks out ever so slightly. "Do you want it?" Dan's head finally raises from the carpet just enough so Phil can see his blown out eyes. "Oh lord, yes." The first push in is euphoric. It's just skin on skin on skin and Dan makes a sound like he's dying. Phil's always been told he's 'above average' and that people are 'apprehensive to bottom' for him, but never Dan. Dan has always groaned like a pornstar and bucked back against him, wanting more. This time is no different. Dan's grinding his crotch against the ground, fibers of polyester sticking to the soaking head of his dick. He cheek is being abraded as well, but God, he could go on like this forever. Death and loss don't exist when Phil Lester is plowing you into the floor like his life depends on it. Phil's balls are slapping against Dan's asscrack, and if Dan keeps squeezing then releasing, this is going to be over for Phil embarrassingly fast. Phil bends forwards, having slowed his thrusts down to pelvic grinding. Dan whines. "I'm going to edge you and you're not going to complain. Understand?" Dan nods. And with that, Phil's right hand wraps itself around the belt that had been resting against Dan's spine and tugs. Dan's back arches, his legs kick, and his fingertips scrabble at the tightening leather coil around his throat. Phil's nose touches the hair at the nape of Dan's neck, and he has to close his eyes from the sheer intoxication of it all. Dan's flexible as hell considering that Phil's still buried in his ass, but because of the angle they're at, Dan's clenching even harder than before. Or maybe that's the lack of oxygen. Phil can see how pretty Dan's cock is, curved up and brushing his black shirt with iridescent precum. Phil groans. His tongue seems to have a mind of its own and decides to lick the outline of puffed skin around the belt. Dan's choking tiny gasps out of his half-crushed esophagus, but when Phil bites down, Dan's breathing stops. He sucks hard, eyes closed, and wraps his left hand around the base of Dan's dick. He pulls one last time on the end of the belt, then releases it. Dan dry heaves, hard, collapsing forwards, but Phil's right hand, previously occupied with leather, catches him. "You're doing so well, Bear. So well for me." Dan can't even form words. Tears run down his face in little rivulets and blood puckers on the surface of his torn lips. Phil circles his hips, then picks up his speed, fucking Dan so hard that his knees scoot across the carpet. Phil lets Dan drops to his forearms, even as he's still trying to remember how to breathe. He allows this for less than four seconds. Then Phil's hand is fisted in Dan's curls, yanking, and he gets a good look at just how wrecked Dan is: bloody, crying, begging. Phil pulls out quickly, aligning his hips so that his dick slides into Dan's crack. "You like that whore? Huh? Me rubbing your crack? Bet you'd like my tongue in there too, right?" Dan moans. "That's what I thought. You're gonna make me cum, slut. Gonna make me-" Phil has just enough presence of mind to squeeze the base of Dan's dick with his free hand before his cum coats the back of Dan's shirt and the bottom of his own. Phil lets the shakes consume him for a bit, enjoying the feeling of letting go. But then something brings him back. Dan. "Daddy, please! Please, daddy let me cum. Please! Oh, daddy I need it. Need it so bad. So fucking bad- just ple- I- I need-" Phil takes his hand away. Dan screams. He falls forwards, grinding like a bitch in heat against the rough fibers of the carpet, ass clenching on nothing but air. "Yes daddy! Oh daddy, oh so good daddy. Yes. Mmmmmm, daddy thank you. Thank you daddy." As his frantic movements begin to slow, Phil places a hand on Dan's heaving side. "Baby, can I roll you over?" Dan gives a jerky nod. When Phil sees the front of him, he feels a proud smile begin to work its way across his face. Dan's throat is purple. His shirt is soaked, up to his nipples, and his dick is bright red, practically steaming. Phil sits back on his haunches. "Did that work?" "Hmm?" Dan takes a deep breath, semi recovered, and manages to get himself onto his elbows. "Did that work. Did I make you forget?" "Oh, Phillip Lester." Dan arches an eyebrow. "What do you think?" Phil grins. "Do you want me to carry you downstairs? We've gotta get you cleaned up." "I can manage." But as soon as Dan begins to stand, to put any weight on his feet, his knees give out. Phil laughs but helps him up anyway, and hobbles him down the steps, and, eventually, into the tub. "Love you, Bear." Dan leans into Phil's hands, scrubbing at his hair. "Love you too, Phil." ************* ****** ************* "Shit." It's raspy at best. Phil had thankfully gone to deal with the movers when they'd arrived. Dan hadn't even woken up. But now, apparently, the movers have packed up their entire apartment. They'd slept in Phil's bed for the night, since they didn't have to take it with them, and as Dan rolls painfully to the side to flip on his phone, he's grateful for it. His body hurts. Like got-into-a-nasty-bar-fight hurts. But thankfully for him, that's a turn on. Not so thankfully, however, is the fact that he's got raging morning wood. Or afternoon wood. It's one o'clock. He swings himself out of bed, barely getting his footing, and grabs his car bag from the end of it. The only clothing item in the backpack is a long sweater of Phil's, but in Dan's muddled state he doesn't really care. Taking the stairs slowly and with a death grip on the handrail, Dan grandpa-walks himself to their bathroom. Quick tooth brush, one last nostalgic look at that patch of carpet, and he's out the door. Only problem? He hadn't actually payed attention to how he looked. From the front door, he can see Phil in the taxi they're taking to the new place. The movers are getting the last of the boxes loaded up, and Dan takes a step towards them. One guy puts a crate down, wipes his brow and makes eye contact with Dan, then has to do a double take. "Oi! Mate!! You okay?" "What? Yeah, fine. Why?" The man huffs a laugh. "You look like you went six rounds with a prize fighter. What's up with the neck?" Dan gently places his fingertips against it and finds it raw and swollen to the touch. He tries to give a winning smile. "Nothing! Got tangled in a-" A cough breaks him off. "A garden hose. Have a n-nice day!" Dan speed walks to the taxi, opens the door and swings himself in. Phil's already laughing before the door is closed. "You think they believed me?" Dan turns to face Phil, who gives him a once over, eyes sticking to the obvious hard line of his cock through the thin sweater, snorts out a laugh, and pulls him in for a kiss. "Not a chance."