#cause i had to throw out the packaging to fit them in my bathroom mirror

[radellama]

I wish razor heads had standardised attachment heads. Why are they all different

[chubbology]

Overindulged

prompt: feeder boyfriend quits his job and balloons as fat as his feedee/feeder girlfriend

He drove his sleek BMW up his driveway and into the middle garage just as dusk settled into night. He’d stayed overtime at work again, and to make it up to his girlfriend, three dozen fresh assorted donuts sat in the passenger seat.

Sure enough, immediately upon opening the back door with his stack of boxes, he heard her voice: “Late.”

“It’s the end of the month,” he said. “What do you expect? Brought you something though, so don’t be mad. Come in here.”

He set the boxes down on the granite island, then waited, sucking in a breath. His pupils dilated as his favorite person in the world waddled through the wide archway leading into the kitchen. After giving him a pout, she pulled the boxes toward her with arms that hung, at their heaviest, over half a foot with fat.

She was a beautiful, enormous woman. He had met her on a plane three years ago on a business trip to Paris. She’d pulled him into conversation like a warm whirlpool, and he’d listened in awe to her life story: miserable wife of a banker to a happily divorced entrepreneur, flying first class on her own dime.

With a smug, knowing smile, she talked about how she used to be skinny for her ex’s sake and now was free. He couldn’t help but let his gaze roam over her blatantly overweight body. Thighs pressing firm on either armrest of the wide seat, bust prominent and heavy, belly button deep and visible through her dress.

Bad news is, she’d concluded, I just settled a messy lawsuit that lost me my career and nearly bankrupted me. But she shrugged, as if such was life. I’m taking my last-hurrah vacation until I have no choice but to eat tiny, unsatisfying meals again.

He decided that couldn’t come to pass, so he spent as much time with her outside his business obligations as he could, taking her to meal after meal, falling in love as she ate to her heart’s content and shamelessly talked about how she’d rather fallen in love with gaining weight. It titillated and empowered her. By the end of their two week stay in Paris, she was twelve pounds bigger and he had invited her to live with him for a while as she looked for a new career path. She accepted.

Three years later, she’d found her calling without having to leave his luxurious, spacious home. Doing what she loved.

She was almost four hundred and fifty pounds now, last he was updated. She always wore leggings that clung to every lump and bulge of cellulite, and she liked to tease him by wearing crop tops, letting her massive belly and side rolls hang out and wobble as they pleased.

He watched with soft eyes as she stuffed herself with four jelly-filled doughnuts. Between bites she said, “These long hours at your soulless job are no good. My fans want to see more of you.” More eating. “The last time you fed me on camera was weeks ago!”

She gave him an imploring look as she ate a fifth doughnut. Boston creme. Her face, once conventionally pretty, now had a sexy overindulged look. She’d lost her jawline to additional chins and neck fat, and her round, fatty cheeks quivered as she chewed. Even before she finished the fifth doughnut, she picked up a sixth. “And don’t think they haven’t noticed that little tummy you have now.”

“What?” He looked down at himself, blushing at how his tie sat out a bit on slightly stretched white buttons.

Before he could say anything, she pushed a chocolate doughnut in his hand. “I know people willing to pay a pretty petty to see you chunk out.” She smirked. “Pop a couple of those buttons.”

He laughed dismissively, but as he ate the doughnut, he contemplated the press of his new chub against his shirt. His pants felt a little tight in the ass, too, now that he thought about it. What if? he thought.

Suddenly, he found himself admitting: “I’ve been thinking of quitting.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I want to spend more time with you,” he explained. He hadn’t meant to talk about it now, but here he was. Out of nervousness, he pulled one of the boxes toward himself and picked another doughnut, this one caving in under its sprinkles. He took a heavenly bite. “I have plenty of money saved and invested to take care of both of us for a long time. I just don’t see why I…”

She waddled over to his side of the island and took his free hand. “You know I’d support you.” Then she pulled him closer, into a smiling kiss. “I’ll support you real good.”

*

Before his two week notice even ended, he was eight pounds heavier, and he relished how his coworkers’ eyes lingered on his burgeoning waistline. Soon, his tummy was pushing over his pants. His chest felt thicker. He felt his ass spread wider when he sat down. He ate desserts all the time, and his girlfriend lavished him with attention (food) at every opportunity when he was home, encouraging him to eat in amounts he’d never let himself eat before. She started filming - with his consent, as always - the development of his chubbing up. Her fans loved him even more than they already did, compliments coming in faster than he could read them.

One month into being an unemployed man, she stuffed him on camera until one of his shirt buttons popped off. The experience was more of a revelation for him than even becoming officially overweight; that night, after she went to sleep, he got out of bed, squeezed into an old pair of slacks that barely fit him, then gorged himself in the kitchen until he gasped at the relief of his ass seam tearing open, unable to accommodate his butt, which everyone online said was growing gorgeously fat. His heart fluttered just thinking about it, and he hoped his ass kept growing.

It did.

“I admit, I never thought you’d be this much of a pear,” his girlfriend told him, six months into his steady ballooning. They were admiring his progress in the large bathroom mirror. He may have looked small relative to his partner’s morbid obesity, but somehow, they were both more fascinated with his growth at the moment. She outlined his bottom heavy figure with her hands. Fat had indeed stored most eagerly in his ass, thighs, and hips. His belly drooped soft and wide.

“I love it,” she said. “Love everything about you.” But then something else came into her expression. “Except how you’ve stopped picking up after yourself.”

He swallowed, and said honestly, “Sorry. I know I’m getting lazier.”

“We’ll have to hire a maid.” She grinned wickedly. “Or do two pigs deserve to roll in their sty?”

*

A year into living on his passive income and her subscribers, the couple had not yet hired any cleaning services, and his country club house was...well. Not trashed, but messy and disorganized. She blamed the five pounds she’d lost over the past month on having to constantly throw his trash away. She punished him by making him stand while drinking a whole liter of full-sugar soda. Since he’d developed a strong distaste for any physical effort as he sunk deeper into obesity, he grumbled the whole time. When he finally fell back on the couch, she sat too. Together, they took up most of it. But while she looked perfectly composed, he was panting raggedly, slightly sweaty, a food stain on his pants.

“Look.” She reached out and held his chubby wrist. “I can tell that the fatter you get, the more your natural inclination is to be a pig.” She spoke with total matter-of-factness. As if the emergence of his inner pig was unsurprising and inevitable. “It’s not uncommon in men - that urge to oink and eat as a way of life. But we share this space. I help pay off this house. Please throw away your take out containers.”

Then she added, at his long-suffering sigh, “I’ll reward you.”

He met her gaze. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

*

This time, there were no cameras. There was just her, sitting on one side of their king bed and him on the other, breathing heavy, taking her reward one bite at a time.

Everywhere in their bed were containers and packages and napkins and soda bottles. He had eaten mexican and noodles and burgers and fries. He’d eaten candy bars and sundaes and milkshakes and chunky cookies. He was so full he could feel the skin of his belly stretching. He could practically feel the skin of his thighs stretching, as if they were filling up heavier with fat right then, as he was determinedly overfed. He swallowed another bite of greasy cheeseburger.

“Keep going. I can tell you're slowing down, but I’ll have none of that yet. I want to see progress from you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you want to feel the ecstasy of squeezing through a doorframe or are you going to plateau at being just fat?”

He let out a breathy moan as he ate another bite of the cheeseburger. His girlfriend knew him too well. She knew he liked the new challenges being big was causing him. She knew it turned him on that he sat so much fatter in his own car, belly pressing against everything, ass barely fitting at all. She knew his hands had begun cupping his hips as a half-unconscious habit, admiring his own width.

He liked how his thighs had to push past each other, jiggling every time. He even liked when he accidentally bumped into things, because it was a hot reminder that he wasn’t the same. He was like her now. He was fat. He was a pig. He wanted to eat and get so big he could barely even waddle. He wanted to squeeze through doorways. He wanted to get stuck.

“I want everything,” he said. And she smiled, temporarily pleased.

*

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

[vintagedolan]

lucid locations (gbd)

while one full year of wakeheart and an impending candle launch are definitely moments to celebrate, you might just have another plan for the ceo’s attention

word count: 7.5k

warnings/tags: ceo!grayson, lots of smut, 🥵  is all im sayin

feel free to send in requests! and check out my masterlist if you wanna :)

Between construction at the house, the warm California summer and an inviting pool right in the backyard, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d had on more than a bikini top, running shorts and one of Grayson’s shirts. He was the same - mostly running around shirtless in his shorter shorts, maybe throwing on a tank top if he was building. When you’d packed up to take haven from the construction dust and noise, headed for a rental house in Malibu, you’d had to convince him he needed to pack more than his new speedos. 

Needless to say, getting cleaned up and ready for a black tie event was quite the shift from your usual day to day. The makeup you were swiping on felt almost foreign, especially the lipstick. But the hand that made it’s way onto your bare back was all too familiar. You relaxed into it, smiling at Grayson in the mirror. 

“God damn.”

“Stop it,” you rolled your eyes, closing them when he leaned over to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“You look so good,” he hummed. “But can you look good 6 inches to the right? I gotta clean up my beard.” Your eyes went wide, lip jutting out as you moved over, opening up the spot in front of the sink. 

“Don’t shave it.” You blurted, making him laugh.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m just cleaning up the edges. The scruff stays.”

“Good, it makes you look very... ceo-ey,” you grinned, reaching over to run a finger over his jaw, feeling the coarse hair there that you loved so much.

“What, I don’t look ceo-ey with a baby face? Not even in this fit?” He gestured down to himself in his speedo, striking a bit of a pose.

“King of business. Steve Jobs is quaking. The bulge really sells the whole look,” you teased, scrunching up your nose. He belly laughed at that, a hand moving to his chest as if to brace himself until he moved forward to you, spinning you around a bit so he could press his nose to yours.

“Can’t blame me when you insist on getting ready in a bra and tiny shorts,” he mumbled with a grin, fingers ghosting up your bare sides as if to reiterate his point. 

“I’m enjoying the ethan-has-his-own-bathroom perks of this house, sue me.” His lips brushed against yours just barely as you spoke, so light that it almost tickled. 

“I’m enjoying it too.” He pressed a kiss to your lips gently, a small one. 

“Don’t smear my lipstick bub,” you cautioned nicely, wrapping your arms around his neck. He sighed at that, eye meeting yours and just looking. It was the type of gaze that made your cheeks as warm as your core.

“Bring more so you can fix it later. You’re very kissable right now.”

“And you’re very sappy,” you mused. He always got sentimental on big occasions, excited to make new memories. “And kissable.” You gave in, giving him a quick one, ignoring his attempt to deepen it. “We gotta get ready or we’re gonna be late to your own event.”

“The CEOs have to be a little late, I think it’s customary,” he tried, but you just shook your head, covering his lips with your hand.

“Shave, I gotta do my hair anyways. And I’m probably gonna need your help with my dress.” 

That was enough motivation for him to get on with getting ready. You’d been sneaky, not shown him the dress you’d picked out for the evening. It was your first black tie event that you’d gone to ever, and definitely the first one with him at your side. You wanted to look good next to him, look good in the pictures you knew were going to be taken that he was no doubt going to post and probably print out to add to his photo collection too. It had butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you did your hair the way you liked, keeping it simple and making sure it framed your face.

It took you a little while, and you smiled when Gray wandered back into the bathroom in his suit, bowtie hanging loosely around his neck just as you finished. You let out a low dramatic whistle, breaking it off into a laugh when his cheeks turned your favorite shade of pink. 

“Help.” He walked over to you, lifting his chin up so you could better access his bowtie. You went to tie it immediately - you’d taught yourself last week when he decided to wear one. It made you smile as you recalled the two of you sitting on his bed, him shirtless with just the bowtie around his neck while you practiced, the spitting image of a male stripper from a bachelorette party. You’d been laughing so hard that it took you a ridiculous amount of times to get it. Luckily now you got it on your first try, proud of yourself as you straightened it out.

“Is it dress time?” His eyes flashed a bit when you nodded in response, heading for the closet where your garment bag was waiting. You pulled it out, having to hold your arm up high so that it didn’t pool on the floor as you moved it to the bed. 

Grayson rubbed his hands together in anticipation before he balled them into fists, the full embodiment of a kid on christmas, but in a 6 foot body. 

“You look like you’re gonna combust baby, chill,” you teased, shaking your head as you slipped your shorts off. You felt his eyes on your thong, the smallest one you owned. You still weren’t sure it would work - only one way to find out.

You reached behind yourself and unclipped your bra, letting it fall to the floor before you leaned down to scoop everything up and toss it the laundry. 

“I like where this is going.” His voice had dropped a bit, eyes taking you in from head to toe.

“Oh yeah? Well, get excited,” you teased, reaching into the Target bag on the floor to pull out a few nipple pasties. “These bad boys are coming along for the ride.” You wiggled them around dramatically in the air before you turned to the mirror to put them in place. Grayson watched, entirely unfazed.

“Okay, go stand in the bathroom for a minute,” you instructed, pointing to the door. He balked, eyes going wide.

“What? Why!?”

“Cause, you seeing me wiggle into this thing will ruin the allure. And I like surprises.”

“But I wanna see,” he pouted, giving you the best puppy dog eyes he could muster. You weren’t sure how a 6ft man in a tuxedo could look so soft, but he pulled it off.

“You will see, in like two seconds,” you teased, pushing gently on his chest as he walked backwards towards the bathroom door. He was still pouting when you closed it.

Taking a deep breath you went back over to the garment bag, pulling the zipper of it down to reveal the fabric you hadn’t seen in a while. Just laying there it looked almost innocent... almost. But when you put it on? You’d never felt like such a bad bitch - even in the fittings you’d felt powerful, sexy. 

“Do you have it on yet?” Grayson’s voice was impatient, a bit distorted. He was biting his fingernails, you could tell. 

“No, just gimme a minute,” you laughed, coaxing the dress off the hanger and carefully stepping into it. The fabric was silky but dense, with enough structure to give your body shape and enough flow for it to be flattering. It was a deep purple that reflected in a way that made it almost blue when it caught the light. The cleavage was there, but subtle, and that subtly was made up for with an open back. The material pooled right over the curve of your ass, leaving almost your entire back exposed, held up by the tiny straps over your shoulders.

But once you had it on, you remembered your favorite part, the main reason you’d bought it besides the color. 

The slit.

It was high. So high that it was borderline inappropriate, but still just classy enough. It tapered up at your hip, leaving your entire left leg open to the air. And as you’d feared, the lace line of your thong was visible. 

“Let me see,” Grayson whined from behind the door. You knew if you didn’t give in he was going to come out anyways.

“Alright alright, come in!” You called to him. He wasted no time in getting the door open as you stayed where you were in front of the mirror, trying to figure out what to do about the underwear situation.

“Holy. Fuck.” 

That caught your attention, and you turned to see his face. He was smiling, but his mouth was wide open, jaw slack as he looked you up and down. You expected him to get it together after a few moments, but he just stood there, awestruck, eyes never leaving you. 

And then, to top it off, he finally took in a raspy breath, coughing a little. You opened your mouth to say something, but he held up a finger and moved towards the bed, rummaging around by the bedside table. 

It was a sight you always wanted to remember - him, puffing on his bright red inhaler while standing there in a tux. 

“Wow, that good huh?” You couldn’t help the ego boost that it gave you to see him so undone just from looking at you.

“You got room for this in your bag? Might need it later with you lookin’ like that.” 

You rolled your eyes a bit, but you held your hand out anyways, taking it from him and sitting it down next to your bag. The fabric tape you’d bought peeked out at you and you pulled it out with a sigh. It wasn’t the most comfortable looking stuff, but you didn’t have much of an option.

You moved back in front of the mirror, reaching up to your thong and hooking a finger through it and pulling it down.

“What’re you doing?” His mouth sounded dry as he spoke. 

“It was showing. Can’t wear any with a slit this high.”

“You’re actually trying to kill me.” He watched you step out of them with hooded eyes, which turned to confusion when he watched you open the packaging on the tape. “What’s that?”

“Fabric tape. Keeps everything where it needs to be, ya know?” 

“You can’t just wear the dress?”

“Do you want the entire Wakeheart team to see my vagina tonight?” You laughed, quirking an eyebrow at him in the mirror. He scrunched his nose at that idea, staying quiet while you got everything arranged and taped.

“Okay, tell me if you can see anything.” You spun around slowly, trying out a few different angles with your leg that you might do during a photo. 

“You’re good. I fuckin’ love that dress, it looks perfect on you.”

“Thank you baby. You look pretty fuckin’ hot yourself.” You fixed the collar of his shirt with a smile. He brought his wrist up, checking his watch - his green rolex, of course. 

“Ah shit, we gotta go or we really are gonna be late.”

You just nodded, moving to the box with your new black heels and pulling them out. Grayson held his hand out for them and you handed them over, blushing when as you watched him crouch down and reach for your foot.  

“I can do that you know.”

“I know.” He grinned up at you before he looked back down and guided your foot in, his big fingers giving him a few problems when he got to the tiny clasps on the straps. “These are stupidly tiny.”

“I can get em,” you offered again, but he just waved you off, sticking out his tongue as he focused and finally got the buckle to thread through. The left shoe went easier, even though you had to hold onto his shoulder while you balanced on your right. 

He stood up when his work was done, eyes flashing wide when he looked at you.

“You’re so tall now. That’ll be nice for my back.” The question must have been clear on your face, because he answered it. “Don’t have to bend down to kiss you.” 

“Shut up and put your shoes on,” you laughed, kissing him quickly before moving to check yourself in the mirror one last time - even you had to admit, you looked damn good. Grayson got his Louis shoes on quickly, tying them and coming beside you, phone in hand. He pulled you against him so you both fit in the mirror, posing like you were on a red carpet just for his phone. 

“Turn around.” His voice was gruff, and when you did as you were told you knew why. You couldn’t help it - he took the first picture of just you looking up at him, your back on display. But by the time he snapped the next one, you snaked your hand down, white nails bright against his black pants as you cupped him over the fabric, his bulge already growing. 

“Don’t.” 

He snapped the picture anyways. 

“You sure?” You didn’t have to lean too far to get close to his ear now that you had on heels, and he rolled his neck as he sucked in a breath. His eyes flashed to yours, desperate and angry and wanting all at once. 

His hand fell over yours, pulling you off of him by your wrist. “Later.”

“Promise?” It rolled off your tongue as you looked up at him through your lashes. 

“Jesus,” he groaned, the effort he was using to stay put together obvious. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles before he let go. “Yeah, fuckin’ promise.” 

He saved the last picture under my eyes only and put his phone away, taking your hand as you grabbed your bag and followed him out of the room. 

------

“Does my hair still look okay?” You turned to Grayson, a bit nervous that you’d undone all your hard work.

With gentle fingers he fixed a few strays that had come loose. You should have known that they were going to play Cudi the whole way to the venue - it was a Dolan celebration after all. The boys always got hype, and you couldn’t help but join in, dancing along and singing at the top of your lungs. For your mood? Wonderful. But for your look? Maybe not so much.

“You look perfect.”

“Promise?” You quirked an eyebrow, knowing exactly what you were doing and loving every minute of it.

He sat back down in his seat further, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath through his nose. Ethan noticed from the front seat, watching for a moment and then deciding he should probably mind his own business. 

Grayson’s eyes were serious when he turned to you, leaning over so no one else heard your conversation.

“We have photos in like 5 minutes. I’m begging you. Behave.” 

You pondered it for a minute - how many times had he fucked you up, got you turned on in public when there was nothing you could do about it? But there was a sincerity in his eyes and his voice that you couldn’t ignore. 

Did you like being told what to do? No. But for Grayson? You’d do just about anything.

“Fine,” you conceded with a grin, leaning over to give him a quick kiss. “But only cause I want you to be able to post the pictures without your dick showing.”

“How considerate of you,” he rolled his eyes, but it was light hearted. He laced his fingers with yours, thumb running over your skin as his excitement mounted every minute closer you got the venue. You watched out the window as the fancy buildings started to emerge, signaling that you were getting close. Malibu had a more relaxed yet somehow more exclusive vibe than LA, and it had your heart racing.

“You’re gonna be fine, it’s just cameras.” He had somehow sensed your nerves, putting his own aside as he tried to comfort you instead.

“You’ve done this before, of course it’s not scary for you.”

“True. But I’m gonna be with you the whole time, which means you have nothing to worry about,” he countered, almost asking you to challenge him on it. You just nodded, picking up your purse from the floorboard.

“When we get out can you stand in front of me? I don’t wanna accidentally flash anybody.”

“Of course baby. I thought thats what the tape was for though,” he mused.

“Better safe than sorry.”

“We’re here, you guys ready?” Ethan turned from his spot in the passenger seat, excitement written all over his face. He reached back, hand extended to his brother, his partner in all this. You watch them do the handshake they could do in their sleep, a silent communication of excitement and support. 

And then, it was time for the show to really begin. It was a bit of a blur after that, mixtures of adrenaline and nerves. Grayson opened your door, standing tall and broad as you stood up, got your footing and adjusted your dress to make sure all was covered. And then he offered you his arm, prideful grin on his face as he showed you off.

It was a blur after that. You vaguely remembered pausing in front of the backdrop, a simple white with the Wakeheart logo scattered across it. You took a few serious pictures, giving your best sultry look, but mostly you just smiled, so proud of your man for all he worked so hard for.

At one point he stepped back from you, gesturing towards you proudly. It took you a minute to register that the photographers were calling out for you to pose, just you by yourself. You did your best, posing and looking where you were called. 

You only relaxed when Grayson reattached to your side, leading you down the rest of the carpet that stretched up to the venue. You posed for a few with both him and E just for fun, the three of you goofing off and just being yourselves before you made it to the end, the doors open to reveal the inside of the venue. 

“They want some of just E and I, do you wanna wait out here or do you wanna go sit down?” 

“I’ll go sit, save my feet. Have fun!” You kissed him quickly, vaguely aware that a few cameras flashed. You reached up and wiped a tiny bit of lipstick off his lip before letting him go, watching him head back over to his brother. 

You weren’t alone for long - you’d barely made it into the room before Sterling saw you, lighting up and running over to you. She was in a floor length green number, the sparkles on it catching the light from outside.

“Ster! You look amazing!”

“Says you! Holy shit! You rode in with the boys right?” You nodded, starting to look around. “Do you think they’re gonna like everything?”

“Oh they’re gonna love it, for sure.” 

The room was dim, colorful lights all around giving just enough brightness to make it functional without ruining the vibe. It only took you a second to realize that each light was specific; purple, blue and a light orange, just like the Enterlight collection. There were little Wakeheart touches everywhere, from the little mini fragrances on the tables to the logo printed on the name cards at the tables.

“Your all’s table is at the front I think,” Sterling offered, pointing up by the stage. “I gotta go find Daniel, I’ll find you later!” She disappeared to find her boyfriend and you headed in the general direction of the front, weaving through some of the tables.

“Y/N!” 

You turned, lighting up as you realized the call had come from Deon who was beelining for you, the biggest smile on his face.

“De!” was all you could get out before he had you wrapped up in a hug, almost lifting you off the ground. It had been too long since you’d seen him, too long since he’d come by to hang out after the first few times that you’d hit it off. 

“You look hot as hell girl, damn!” He praised, and you blushed so deep that you were sure he could see it, even in those lights. 

“Did Kai get to come?” 

“Yeah, he’s getting us drinks, wanna meet him?”

“Of course! Gotta see what all the hype is about,” you nudged his shoulder, taking his hand as he lead you over to the bar.

Kai was taller than you’d pictured him when Deon had described his boyfriend, but he was beautiful enough for all De’s constant gushing about him to make sense. The introductions went well, and you almost forgot where you were until someone cleared their throat.

“You guys gonna get drinks or what?” The bartender that spoke was a burly guy, too much muscle, and probably too old to be happy as a bartender if his tone and glare said anything about him.

“Oh right, sorry! Just uh, two mules for us. Y/N?” Deon looked at you expectantly.

“A mojito for me please,” you kept up the niceties, trying to stay pleasant. Maybe he was just having a bad night. 

“I hate making those.”

Niceties? Gone. 

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing you’re getting paid.”

“Suppose so,” he grumbled, passing over the two mules to Deon and Kai. They took the gratefully, giving you a little wave before they headed off, so caught up in each other that they didn’t even register the conversation. You stood up a bit taller now that you were by yourself, practically daring him to try something.

“You here by yourself?” 

“No.”

“Don’t see anybody with you.”

“So observant.” You let the annoyance seep into your tone, but you were right in assuming that he was the type of guy who didn’t give a fuck if the women around him were uncomfortable. 

“Where’s your man then? Not a smart one if he’s gonna let you walk around here wearing that by yourself.” The way his eyes raked up and down your form didn’t sit well with you. 

“He’s a bit... occupied. And considering I’m the reason there’s a bar here in the first place tonight, I suggest you watch your mouth and make the drinks before the CEO changes his mind.” 

“What she said.” 

You’d know that voice and the hand that slid dangerously low across your back anywhere. Apparently, the event planners must have shown the workers who the whole party was for, because the man behind the bar changed his tune immediately.

“Mr. Dolan,” he greeted, so serious that is almost made you laugh. “Can I get you anything sir?”

“You can get my girl what she asked for, and you can watch your mouth. That’ll be all.” 

You weren’t sure how a guy the size of the bartender could look sheepish, but he managed it as he handed over your mojito. 

“Thanks! Have a great night!” You hoped your insincerity was blatant enough as you took your drink and waved back to him, letting Grayson’s hand guide you as you turned around. 

“Hi baby, how were the rest of your pictures?” You asked as you walked to the table, chasing your straw with your tongue for a moment before taking a sip. 

Grayson just shook his head at you. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

You shrugged, enjoying the compliment and lifting up to kiss his cheek in thanks. He pulled your chair out for you before you sat down, settling beside you. As you expected, he was a hot commodity, a stream of people coming up to the table to give their congratulations. It only got more constant when Ethan found his seat on the other side of Grayson, everyone making sure they got their moment with the boys. 

Grayson was fully engaged, and you did your best to listen, focus on what he was saying, accepting the little nods of acknowledgement everyone was giving you.

But you were much more focused on the way Grayson’s hand was reached back so he could keep a hand on your thigh, his diamond ring cold against your skin as he squeezed every once in a while -  a little reminder that he appreciated you being there with him. 

It was innocent enough - but the mixture of him in that suit, the professional tenor of his tone, the lights, the fact that his hand was big enough to cover all the way across your thigh. You couldn’t help it - you shifted your legs just barely, only then realizing just how wet you were. 

It was wishful thinking that he didn’t notice. And of course, right at that moment there was a lull in the congratulations. He turned back to you, a playful glint in his eyes. 

“Come with me, I wanna show you something.” 

You smoothed out your dress when you stood up, hoping your skin didn’t look as flushed as it felt. 

“Hey. We gotta talk at 8. Don’t leave me hanging.” Ethan’s tone was all too knowing, and if you hadn’t already been blushing you would have when he fist bumped his brother. 

You took Grayson’s hand, his Rolex cool against your wrist as he lead you out of the event room, down a small hallway and to an elevator. He hit the button labeled R, and you both waited as patiently as you could. As soon as the doors were closed he was on you, both hands on your face, thumbs over your jaw as he pulled you to him. 

You melted into him, molding to his form, whimpering when his right hand traced down your back, crossed over and tucked under the fabric of your dress, fingers ghosting over your bare hip. 

“Fuck, forgot you ditched the panties,” he groaned, turning in annoyance as the doors dinged and opened. 

There were very few things that could have pulled your attention away from Grayson at that moment - the view was one of them.

“Oh wow,” you breathed, looking out at the rooftop that the elevator had brought you to. It was a garden of sorts, lots of greenery and flowers all around. But the real stunner was the view over the ocean, a perfect Malibu beach stretching out, visible even in the dim twilight that had settled over the sky while you’d been inside. 

“Figured you’d like it up here. And it’s private.”

You turned around, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Private.” You swallowed around the word as he came closer to you, pulling you in for another kiss. This time you got your piece, hands coming up to his neck, searching out any skin you could find over his collar. He one upped you, both hands moving down your back, under your dress and over your ass, squeezing and massaging as he reached further, getting dangerously close to where you needed him most. 

“We can’t, Gray we can’t.” Your words didn’t match your actions, whole body jolting when his hands moved out of your dress, right hand resting on your hip from the front now, the slit just making it that much easier for him to gain access. 

“Why not?” He mused, kissing along your neck. 

“Cause we can’t go back down there looking fucked out. We’ll be home in a few hours.” There wasn’t even a flicker of conviction in your voice, and he just shook his head, unwilling to hear it.

“Can’t. Got me fucked up down there, calling me CEO and shit, hyping me up to that piece of shit. Don’t think I’m gonna make it home without at least a taste.” His hand traced left, ducking under your dress. You gasped as the tape peeled off your skin, leaving you vulnerable. 

“Fuck Gray,” you whimpered as his hand cupped over you, your knees buckling underneath you at the feeling of his fingers sliding through your slick. 

He groaned at what he found, other hand coming up to the back of your head, chasing your lips with his as you gasped when he started to move. 

“Just hold onto me baby, I got you.” His voice was deep in your ear as you clung to him, his arm wedged between both of your torsos as he worked you over. But just when you were really getting there, legs shaking, he pulled away, leaving you exposed and cold in the evening air.

You were about to complain, but the look he gave you told you he was far from done.  

“You’re on watch.” His voice and the wink he threw you had your already weak knees about ready to give out as he sunk down, moving your dress away like a curtain.

He pressed a sweet kiss to your hip before he ducked down, holding onto your thighs as he dove in with a wide tongue, finally getting what he’d been waiting for. And even if he hadn’t told you to you would have been bracing yourself on his shoulders.

“I like these heels,” he murmured when he pulled back for air. “Gets me a better angle.”

“Fuck, Grayson.” Something about you using his full name had him diving back in with a vengeance, tongue rough and active, only pausing to suck on you in the most delicious way. 

Your eyes rolled back, hands finding his hair, not caring if you messed it up as you held on, twitching a bit as he hummed at the feeling of your nails on his scalp. You forced yourself to focus, watching the door to make sure no one wandered up to the roof, found the star of the whole affair buried in your pussy.

But something else caught your eye - a little clock, number shining blue.

7:58pm

“Gray, G-Grayson, stop, stop it’s almost 8, you have to - fuck - you have to go,” you warned, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull him away from you. 

“Gotta keep my promise first,” he said, only speeding up, knowing you were close from your breathy tone and your quivering thighs. Sure enough, all he had to do was add his finger and you were completely undone, calling out his name and bracing on his shoulder so you didn’t collapse. 

He stood back up with a triumphant grin, ego booming as you just stared at him, working through the aftershocks. He checked his watch and clenched his teeth, giving you a nervous look.

“Hell yeah, one minute to spare. Take the elevator.” He pressed a wet kiss to your cheek and jogged off, leaving you panting and alone as he disappeared down the staircase. 

“Jesus christ,” you huffed, trying to walk forward on your wobbly legs as quickly as you could, doing your best to pull yourself together. It was all deep breaths and attempts to ignore the wetness on your thighs in the elevator ride as you tried to re-stick the fabric tape with no luck.

The only reason you didn’t go to the bathroom to get yourself re-situated was because you didn’t want to miss the boys speech. So you quickly made your way to your seat, sipping on your drink to try and cool yourself down while you watched Ethan attempt to fix Grayson’s hair at the side of the stage. Oops.

They walked up eventually, waving and acting as humble as ever while the room applauded them. Grayson looked entirely unfazed, as if he hadn’t just been nose deep in your pussy 60 seconds ago. You tried to manifest the same energy, pretend like you weren’t still practically dripping sitting there in your dress. 

But when he looked right at you and swiped his thumb across his bottom lip, wiping away what you knew was you? You clenched around nothing, biting down on your straw. 

It was going to be a long rest of the night. 

They thanked everyone for coming, and for all the support of the brand over the last year. They shouted out everyone on the team, giving them the praises they deserved. Grayson slipped in a little moment for you, a “thank you to my amazing girlfriend who always smells every sample I bring home and isn’t afraid to give her honest opinion, and who keeps me sane and supports me through every step of everything I do” that had your cheeks burning as all the eyes in the room sought you out. 

When they were done he wasted no time in putting his hand right back on your thigh as soon as he sat down, smirking a bit when he wrapped around and found just a trace of wetness.

“Easy. My tape won’t re-stick,” you warned, not wanting him to get too frisky and accidentally move your dress. 

“Guess you’ll just have to stay close to me then huh,” he mused, leaning in for a kiss that you gave him happily. 

The rest of the night went smoothly, from the meal to the social hour afterwards. You stayed on Grayson’s arm, right where he wanted you as he made his rounds, made sure he spoke to the executives that he and Ethan had invited, got the advice he’d wanted to ask about. 

Before you knew it midnight had come and gone.

“You ready to get out of here baby?” 

“Hell yeah.”

Perks of dating a 20 year old CEO? He has his own driver when he wants it. But to your surprise, the man who drove the three of you there handed him keys instead of leading you to a car. 

“Had em drop off the porsche in case we wanted to ditch early and Ethan didn’t.” He answered the question he knew you had, leading you to the familiar blue car that was waiting on the side of the street. 

“Always the planner,” you teased, squeezing his arm before he opened your door for you and helped you in. 

“I do run a company you know,” he mused, leaning down to kiss you one more time before he picked up the rest of your dress and put it in the car so it didn’t get closed into the door.

You watched his every move as he went around the front of the car and climbed into the drivers seat, starting it up and revving it up once just for good measure. 

As soon as he pulled out of the spot you were leaning down to unclasp your heels, groaning in relief when your feet were freed.

“Better?” 

“So much better,” you sighed, relaxing back in your seat as he plugged the rental address into the GPS and started down the road. 

“Those shoes have their perks for sure. Sorry they hurt you though.” He palmed the wheel as he turned and you bit your lip, remembering exactly what perks he was talking about.

Now it was his turn.

You reached over, hand resting on his thigh, nails digging in just barely. He twitched, foot pressing a bit on the gas, lurching the car forward.

“Easy baby,” you cautioned, turning in your seat so you were facing him, fingers tracing up further, gauging his reaction.

“What’re you doing,” he asked as if he didn’t know, eyes trained forward on the road. 

“Keeping promises,” you mused. “Got me fucked up back there.” 

He sucked in a breath through his teeth as you repeated his words from earlier, unbuckling his belt and pushing it out of the way as you spoke. 

“Yeah? How’d I get you so fucked up baby. Tell me.” 

“You know exactly what you did,” you reminded him, popping the button open with your nail, coaxing the zipper down to reveal his Calvin Klein briefs that were already getting stretched as he got harder and harder.

“Wanna hear you say it,” he grunted, knuckles white on the steering wheel. 

“Could barely walk to the elevator when you ran off, my legs were all wobbly. Made me feel so good,” you explained, stroking his ego and his bulge simultaneously.

“Fuck yeah they were, and you still made it down for my speech.” You reached up under his waistband, pulling his underwear down enough for you to get your hand around him. His hip stuttered as you started to work him over like only you could. 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you hummed, using your thumb to trace the vein on the side of his shaft, up over the tip with just enough pressure to really fuck him up. 

“Shit baby. Just like that.”

You did as he said, twisting your wrist over him as he grew in your hand. When your knuckles grazed over his balls the porsche jolted again, making you grin.

“Careful. Can’t fuck you if we don’t make it home.”

“If you weren’t so fucking horny we wouldn’t have a problem,” he huffed, looking at his phone to check the ETA. 2 more minutes. 

“Can’t help it. You in a suit just gets to me,” you admitted, batting your eyelashes a bit just for fun. You didn’t count on him dropping his right hand from the wheel and reaching over to you, shoving your dress to the side and immediately cupping over your already sensitive folds. You jolted in your seat, squeezing his dick in your hand. 

Two could play that game. With a wicked grin, you shifted, closing your legs so he couldn’t reach you and leaning forward, dropping your head.

Before you could get very far his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back up so you had to look at him.

“Wait.” 

You swallowed hard and nodded at his command, sinking back into your seat as he pulled the porsche into the driveway, typing in the gate code, fingers drumming on the wheel while he waited for them to open. He pushed the gear shift forward into park as soon as he stopped, looking over to you.

“Wait.” He said again, opening his door and readjusting himself back into his pants before he came around to your side of the car. He opened your door sweetly, offering you a hand.

As soon as you were on your feet he was crouching, shoulder hitting your hips before he grabbed and lifted, practically throwing you over his shoulder.

You squealed, trying to find purchase against his back, hands balling up his suit jacket in an attempt to hold on. He was unfazed, even taking one hand off you to unlock the door. 

By the time he made it to your alls room on the top floor you’d gone limp, knowing there was no point in fighting him. You missed his face while you couldn’t see it, smiling when he leaned forward at the edge of the bed, let you fall on top of the comforter, bouncing slightly. 

���Dress on or off?” You asked, quirking an eyebrow.

He pondered it for a minute, eyes darkening as he imagined both scenarios, played them out in his head.

“Off,” he decided. You nodded, standing up and pulling one of the straps off over your shoulder. His fingers found the other before you could, pulling it off so that the top of your dress fell down, revealing your breasts. You looked down with a laugh, almost forgetting about the nipple pasties you’d put on. 

He cupped them anyways, thumbs running over the little petal shaped cut outs, the muffled sensation of his fingers on your nipples making your back arch, asking for more. He was gentle as he peeled them away, not wanting to hurt you, ducking down to kiss each one when they were free. 

You ran your fingers through his hair as he licked over them, kissing his way across. Your dress continued to fall down, gathering at your hips until his hands found it and pushed it the rest of the way off.

“Much better,” he grinned, guiding you back until you fell on your back again.

It was quite the show, watching him strip out of his suit in front of you. He started with the jacket, tossing it away without a care before he started working at his bowtie. 

You couldn’t resist - you sat up, untucked his shirt from his pants, hastily fumbling over the buttons, pausing to run your hands over his abs as soon as you saw them. He groaned at that, especially when you leaned forward to kiss his warm skin. He got the tie off somehow, working from the top button and meeting you halfway before pulling it off. Just him shirtless in those fucking pants was enough to have you fully worked up again, and you laid back down, watching him pull his belt off through the loops, undo his button and pull everything down at once. 

Your mouth watered, ready for him, but to your surprise he crawled on top of you, resting just enough weight down to pin you to the bed. He was beaming as he looked down at you for a few moments, just taking you in.

You reached up to cup his face, pulling him down to kiss you, surprised but warm nonetheless at his sudden change of mood.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I love you too.” There was no question. “Proud of you.” 

“Couldn’t have done it without you.” He pulled back, readjusting so he could line up. You opened your legs a bit wider to make room for him, anticipation mounting as he rubbed himself over your folds for a few strokes. His lips found your forehead as he finally pushed in, stretching you out as he slowly let you adjust to all he had to give.

“So fuckin tight for me, every time baby, fuck,” he huffed out, sinking down further onto you. If you had room to, your back would have arched as you drug your nails over his arms, overwhelmed at how deep he already was. 

He dropped to his forearms, rocking above you so hard that your whole body moved across the bed with each thrust. You clung to him, arms moving around him, scratching at his lower back.

You couldn’t even form words, the only things falling from your lips being his name and a constant stream of whimpers, punctuating each drive he made into your heat. Every time he pulled out his tip ran across that spot deep inside you that had you squirming, body unsure of whether you wanted to run away or get closer, overwhelmed by the force of the sensation. 

He knew you were close when you started to clench around him, walls fluttering in a way that pushed him towards the edge like nothing else ever could. 

When your orgasm came, it was almost too much. You cried out, clinging to Grayson as he continued to pound into you without mercy, only spurred on when you bit onto his shoulder, riding it out before your body went limp for a moment, completely fucked out.

“Almost there baby, fuck,” he groaned, sitting up and grabbing your hips with both hands, holding you up as he chased his high, lost in you entirely. “Want your mouth.” 

Somehow in your blissed out state you managed to sit up enough for him to get close enough to you and your waiting tongue. It only took a few quick strokes before he was cumming, hips stuttering as he unloaded into your mouth. You found the energy to suck him dry, taking all he had to give before he guided you off, much too sensitive for you to keep going. 

He laid down beside you, rolling to his right to find your hips and pull you on top of him. Neither of you moved a muscle for a few minutes, just trying to get your breathing under control and your heart rate back down to an acceptable rate. When you finally got enough energy back you made your way up to his face, catching him with soft and lazy kisses over his lipstick stained lips, drinking each other in. 

You knew that the pictures would run tomorrow, and your faces would be everywhere. You could see all the headlines about Grayson in your mind: CEO, youtuber, famous, heartthrob; every girl that saw him in that suit would be just as enthralled as you had been. But none of it mattered. Because they didn’t get your Grayson, the Grayson who picked you up and carried you to the shower twenty minutes post fuck, helped you take your makeup off and made you laugh until your stomach hurt when he washed his hair and spiked it up in a soapy mohawk like a six year old. That was your Grayson; your CEO, your heartthrob, for the rest of your fucking life. You relished in the thought as you curled up to him that night, loving the weight of his arms around you as you drifted off. 

[iluvsexyvoltageguys]

A Very Merry Christmas

Fandom: Mr. Love Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Lucien x Reader

Warning: NSFW

This is a Secret Santa story for @mythiica Merry Christmas! 🎄🎁

"You want me to wear this?" You hold up a red lace corset trimmed in faux white fur. "I'm not sure that you've been good enough to deserve it. I only rewards good boys."

"Oh, I've been good," he pulls you up against the length of his body. "Last night you were telling me exactly how good I am. ‘Yes Lucien. Keep stroking it right there. Fuck, that feels amazing’ Did I dream it or was it some other woman who was moaning and screaming her pleasure in my bed." His eyes sparkle with mischief.

"It had better not have been another woman," you frown as you nip his ear, one hand stealing down between your bodies to cup him. "You're mine."

He's hard and eager; you stroke the length of him through the fine fabric of his trousers. You had been out at the annual Christmas benefit for the children's hospital.

You looked beautiful tonight in your silver blue sheath dress. Your hair was gathered up in an artful pile on the top of your head. A few tendrils have been left free to tumble down and accentuate the graceful column of your neck. He wants to nibble at the vulnerable skin just below your ear, you always moan when he flicks his tongue over just that spot.

"I'm definitely yours," he affirms. "So maybe you should reward me for all that good behavior tonight. I was a model of restraint despite your attempts to lead me astray you wicked woman."

"Me?" You protest with fake innocence.

"Yes, it was definitely you. You had your hand between my legs under the table. I don't know how you managed to carry on a conversation the whole time as if nothing was going on. Teasing me like that, I wanted to push you up on the table and fuck you right there."

"Poor Lucien. Were you having a problem with your control?" You smirk at the memory. "Are you saying that you can't handle it?"

"I'm saying that you were driving me crazy and there was nothing I could do about it because we were surrounded by three hundred other people. But now we're alone and I'm calling in the debt. You owe me _______."

"Oh, do I?" Heat fills your eyes. "I'm not sure that I do."

"Put it on," his voice is a low rumble.

"What will you give me if I do?" You challenge him.

"I'll give you the best night of your life."

His words stir dark passions. Your pupils dilate at the promise, deep black pools of desire. Without a further word you turn on unsteady legs and walk into the bathroom, the red lingerie clutched firmly in your hand.

You unzip your dress and let it fall in a heap at your feet. A quick flick undoes the front clasp and your black lace bra joins the dress on the floor. The corset slides over your head and you pull it down into place.

Your reflected image in the mirror shows red half-cups barely covering your breasts, the fur tickling your already stiff nipples. The long garters hang over the tops of your thighs, no stockings tonight but the effect is still sexy with your black thong peeking through the straps. The fit is perfect, but that's not too surprising given how well he knows your body.

You reach up to pull the pins from your hair. He's going to cum when he sees you, you look like a playboy fantasy and you know it. With one last look at your reflection you go in search of the man who's responsible for it.

He's already in bed by the time you walk back into the bedroom. His chest is bare and the sheets are pulled up to his waist. The look that comes over his face when he sees you is priceless; a mixture of lust, adoration and primitive possession. “______," that's all he whispers but it sums it up completely.

You lean back against the door frame, letting him look his fill. The arch of your back presses your breasts even higher so that they threaten to spill out of the red lace. He can hardly believe his luck. No matter how many times you’ve shared his bed it can still surprise him that this gorgeous creature wants him.

"Merry Christmas Lucien. So, how do you like your present?" You ask him as if it was even a question.

"I love it."

You smile as you stalk towards him, there's a sense of power that comes from knowing exactly what you do to him. "I'm glad you like the packaging but you know that presents are meant to be unwrapped." You trail your hand down the valley between your breasts, fingers skimming over your stomach and coming to rest on your waist, your thumb hooking under the elastic of your thong. "Do you want to unwrap me Lucien?” You’re standing right in front of him now, close enough for him to reach out and touch all that creamy skin.

"Oh god yes, and I've got a present for you as well," his mouth curves into a cheeky grin, his eyes crinkling with humor as he deliberately looks down at his erection.

"I think I have a pretty good idea of what it might be," you slip your hand under the blanket and flip it back. The sight that is revealed causes you to dissolve into a fit of giggles. It's what you expected and at the same time it's not. Tears of mirth stream as you clutch your belly to control the laughter. "I can't believe that you wrapped it!"

His erection stands up eagerly; a very pretty red bow is tied neatly at the base with a sprig of mistletoe attached.

"Well it is Christmas, so I thought we should get into the spirit of it."

"It’s very like you to do something like this," you grin at him. "Does this mean that you want me to kiss it?" You flick the mistletoe.

His eyes widen at the offer, he hadn't intended the greenery to be a suggestion but if you’re offering then he'll take it. His girlfriend has an amazing mouth, wicked and knowing. The thought of you going down on him, using that tongue over the plump head and swallowing his shaft into your wet mouth is enough to make him weak in anticipation.

"Yes," his voice barely a whisper and he coughs before trying again. "Yes please. I want you to suck me off," he says in a lower, manlier tone.

You throw a leg over so that you’re straddling him; your mouth consumes his in one deep kiss before you start moving south. There are stops along the way. A pause to flick at his nipples, a wet circling around his navel with your tongue, and a playful nip of his abs before you finally hone into the most sensitive area.

Your fingers lightly touch him as you undo the ribbon; the barely there pressure is torture. He wants you to take a firmer grip but you pull back when he tries to grab your hand.

"Nuh-uh. We're going to do this my way," you shake a finger at him. "Hands by your head and keep them there."

You’re going to rip his control to shreds, tease and torment him until he goes mad. He can tell by the gleam in your eyes and the grin on your face. It might be more than he can take and it's going to be sooo worth it.

"Ok," he grips the pillow under his head with both hands. "Do your worst."

Your evil chuckle forces warm puffs of air over his straining cock as you hover just above him. "Relax Lucien, I promise I'll be gentle with you." True to your word the first lick is a feathery caress around the tip, he can feel his cock throbbing with each pass of that wet tongue. One hand is wrapped around the base of his cock while your other hand plays with his sensitive balls.

You open wider, letting him go as deeply as you can take him. He's too long to swallow fully, barely more than half way in before you feel him hitting the back of your throat. Your warm hand tightens around the rest of the shaft, it gives the illusion that he's fully encased in the wet heat of your mouth.

He has to fight to stop his natural inclination to buck his hips, especially when you start sucking. The way your mouth grips his cock feels so good. Your head bobs up and down as you milk the length of him. The wet suckling sounds that you make are as much of a turn-on as the feel of your lips around his cock.

You’re amazing. You’re mind-blowing. You’re a goddess.

"_____, I'm so close. I'm going to cum," Lucien warns you. He wants to spill his seed inside your mouth but he leaves the decision up to you.

You make a small sound to acknowledge that you’ve heard him but you don’t slow down or stop. You can tell exactly how close he is by the way his muscles are all tensed under you. Your mouth works even harder, creating a stronger pull as your tongue caresses him and he can't hold back any longer.

The first spurt fills your mouth with a salty taste, it's musky and heady and uniquely Lucien. You swallow, lapping up every last drop and staying with him right until the end. You let him go with a final lick; his softening cock falls to rest against his thigh. When you lift your head to look up at him there's a look of awe on his face. "That was amazing ______."

"Good. I'm glad you enjoyed it," you smile.

As if to prove his point he wraps his arms around you and with one deft move he's flipped you over and reversed your positions. Lucien braces himself on his elbows as he looks down at you. You’re still wearing the lingerie and he decides to leave it on you. The hints of skin that show through are as erotic as if you were totally nude.

"Where to start?" he murmurs as if he were contemplating his options. "Maybe here." His hand pulls down one cup just enough to expose the stiff tip of a breast. It's achingly sensitive and you can feel yourself get wetter as his mouth latches on and his tongue plays with the nipple. His mouth works in a rhythmic sucking motion, mimicking your earlier actions on his cock. Did it feel as good for him then as it does for you now?

The way that he's playing with your breast pulls something tight inside of you. You squirm, unable to keep still because of the pressure building between your legs. One hand is massaging his scalp, encouraging his ongoing attention as your other hand snakes down so that you can finger yourself. You only get one flick in before his hand is pulling yours away, frustrating you before you can get any real friction going.

"No, it's my turn now. We're going to do this my way," he echoes your earlier statement.

You glare at him, it's not as much fun being on this end of the teasing. He laughs at the way you’re pouting like a little girl being told no, it's so incongruous with the sex siren appearance. You may not be happy but it's a mark of how much you trust him that you obey and pull your hand back to a neutral area.

"Get on with it Lucien," you growl, foreplay is nice but you want an orgasm now!

"Whatever the lady wants." He moves further down so that he's eye level with your cunt. You lift your hips to aid him as Lucien pulls your panties off, they're embarrassingly wet and his smile is purely masculine as he rubs his fingers in the evidence of what he does to you. "And it would appear that you want me."

Lucien hooks one arm under your thigh and lifts it to rest over his shoulder. The position causes your legs to spread even further apart so that he can see every last detail. He bites the skin of your inner thigh, sucking hard enough that he's going to leave a mark. He loves it that he's left a visible sign of his possession on your body, a secret that only the two of you will know about. He is smart enough to do it only in places that won't be visible.

You might complain about it sometimes but secretly you love it as well. There are times when you’ll cross your legs at work just to feel the slight discomfort from the bruise; it's a tactile reminder of your last bout of sex. You could be sitting innocently in front of your coworkers or taking a coffee break and you’ll be fantasizing about his sweaty body rubbing up against yours.

He places a gentle kiss over the marked skin and then he's moving north and more centrally. His fingers spread your lips to expose the nub with its little hood of flesh. Such a small area and yet your whole body is focused on that one spot, just waiting for him to touch it.

The first flick of his tongue causes your hips to arch. He keeps rubbing over the bud, an up and down motion that has you moaning and thrashing about in no time. The friction over your clit is just right, you can feel your pussy clenching in anticipation of the climax that is building. And then just when you’re about to go over the edge he pulls back, a teasing feathery touch that is nowhere hard enough to satisfy you.

"No!" You protest.

You can feel his chuckle against your skin; he's enjoying inflicting his revenge for your earlier actions at the benefit dinner. "Having problems with your control?" he taunts you.

"You're going to have problems walking in a minute if you don't finish what you started," you growl.

"Oooh, threats!" he smiles with glee. "I love it when you play bad. We both know that you're too fond of my cock to do me any harm. But if it will make you feel better, I'll let you spank me later." His laughter booms out.

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. That particular part of his anatomy might be safe but his ears are still fair game. He must have sensed your intention because his hands capture your wrists before you can twist his ear. Lucien's still laughing but he accedes to your demands. His mouth captures your clit again and this time the pressure is firm and unrelenting as he works you up to a peak again.

"More," you demand. That one word is all that you can manage as his tongue has robbed your breath away. Fortunately he knows exactly what you need and he slides two fingers into your tight wet pussy. He works them in and out, imitating the way his cock normally thrusts into that wet channel. The feeling of your pussy being stretched in combination with the stimulation to your clit has you screaming as you come hard. You’re a mindless mess in his bed and you couldn't care less as long as he just keeps touching you there.

You rest in the curve of his body, the little spoon to his big spoon. He finally took the corset off you and your bare back is pressed against his chest.

"That was awesome. The best Christmas present ever," he says.

You turn so that you face him and wrap your arms around his neck as you lean in for a kiss. "Yeah. A very merry Christmas indeed Lucien."

MLQC Masterlist

[marvelstud10s]

Cupid’s Bullet | 01

Summary: Leading a life of mystery and quiet, she has everything under control as her impeccable life as an assassin. Except this one time.

Pairing: Eventual Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

A/N: Legit screaming at how bad this looks, but I really like this AU thing I did, but ignore my rookie writing don’t let the beginning fool you (I put ethnicity and race in there cause I don’t want people assuming I only do one race hehe)

Chapter 1

The frosty November air nipped at Y/N’s sensitive skin, causing her to shiver and shrug deeper into her blue knit scarf. The cute little cafe seemed to be closer the last time she checked her GPS, deciding to walk instead of taking a cab to save money. Y/N could barely make out the cafe’s sign as she jumped on her tip toes, weaving her way throughout the bustling New York crowd. She kept glancing down at the time, not wanting to be late. 9:42 AM, the clock read. Four minutes until showtime.

Y/N walked into the almost deserted cafe, but still very pleasant. The air smelled of freshly roasted coffee beans and vanilla, soft jazz music playing through the speakers. She looked to her left, looking at her first client, Owen, white, a tall brunette with soft doe brown eyes. He was a paramedic, and good at it to. A good Christian boy with morals and astonishingly kind. As if on cue, he looked up and gave Y/N a wave and smile, showing off his pearly whites. She did the same hesitantly, then headed over to the other side of the shop to wait for her second client.

A jingle of the store bell made Y/N look up from her clock, seeing Victoria, her second client, enter the store. She was average height, neither tall or short, sharp brown eyes, Latina, a mole under her left eye, making her look more intimidating. She was an up and coming business owner for a beauty company. She walked with confidence, glancing at her watch. Punctual, Y/N concluded.

Just as the second hand reached the twelve. 9:46 AM.

Victoria turned and glanced at her watch once more, not seeing Owen shoot up from his spot, finally noticing he was going to be late for work. The coffee is going to be tough to clean out, Y/N thought to herself, as, seeming in slow motion, the two collided with each other, and Owen’s coffee flying through the air and splattering all over Victoria’s ironed blouse. Victoria stumbled a bit, staring down at her, now coffee brown and lavender, shirt with an open mouth. Owen grabbed her arm and steadied her. “Oh my gosh, are you alright? I am so sorry, I’ll get that cleaned up right away, I didn’t mean to-, gosh I’m so clumsy.” Owen rambled as he quickly grabbed napkins and dabbed her shirt repeatedly. You dug through your sleek black leather bag and fumbled with a small red handgun, with a little tiny white heart on the side (adds a little feminine touch, she thought). Y/N closed an eye and focused, pointing the barrel of the gun at Victoria. Y/N took a deep breath, not daring to move a muscle, not even huff a breath. And in one go, pressed down her pointer finger, the force of the shot pushing her backwards a bit, hitting Victoria, the invisible and harmless bullet going through her first client, then going into her second. Y/N slid it inconspicuously into her bag, doing what she’s done thousands of times without a hitch.

Perfect. No more, no less. Victoria gasped in a breath as she was ready to scream at him, but then she stopped herself, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. “I-it’s alright, everyone has those days,” she says, gently grabbing the napkins from him. The two looked at each other, time seeming to slow down just for the two of them. “How would you like it if I took you to coffee sometime, as an apology. I promise I won’t spill it on you,” He chuckled. Victoria smiled and bit her lip. “I’d like that very much.”

Y/N smiled to herself as she crossed two names off her list.

I guess you could call me cupid. But the idea of being compared to a floating baby in a diaper isn’t exactly flattering. I like to think of myself more as a “love” assassin, I don’t know what else to call myself really, my job is more of just a morning routine. Each night, every night for as long as I could remember at 11:15 PM sharp, I would get a letter, a pastel red envelope with a pretty little heart on the front in metallic gold, no return address, no name, no nothing. A deep, almost blood crimson wax seal would conceal the paper, with an arrow indentation on it. The paper inside would be a perfectly shaped rectangle stationery, fit for the envelope, with gold flowers and light green leaves lining the side of the white paper. All the paper would say is a time, two names, and two descriptions. When I come back from the missions, I would find $500 in cash in a similar envelope on my kitchen table. I would never get a location of the mission, that was for me to find out. I’m still stumped as to how I know where to go, I just find a place that seems fitting, and I’m always right, always on time. Never had an incident, never had a mess up, never late. Never imperfect.

Except for one time.

The day was Monday, January 27th, 7:38:23 AM. Y/N was up and doing her daily workout, preparing for the mission, which was at 4:39:03 PM. It wasn’t sharp, Y/N hated missions that didn’t end in a sharp. She mumbled and complained to herself about the early hours, but she couldn’t sleep last night. Her hand twitched on the dumbbell, almost dropping it on her foot. She set it down gently, not wanting to get lost in a daydream and hurt herself. She shuffled to her tiny kitchen, preparing a breakfast, feeling something deep in her gut, figuring food could solve it. Butterflies, and they wouldn’t go away. “Pancake mix, pancake mix,” she murmured, looking through her cabinets. “Dang it,” she whined, knowing she was out, and settled for a PB&J. Y/N bounced her leg up and down, nervously chewing on her sandwich, scarfing it down without even noticing. Her missions always go right, always, but she always had the tendency to get nervous.

She always made sure she wasn’t fidgeting, shaking, sloppily shooting or foolishly letting somebody see her. But she can’t help but worry something is going to mess her up, and she doesn’t even want to know what’ll happen if she does. Maybe the magic being who sent her the letters would stop and kill her in the middle of the night? What if her gun stopped working and she couldn’t do her job anymore? Wh- Her thoughts got cut short as she heard her doorbell ring. Y/N shifted her eyes to her leather bag, not jumping, her instincts always on high. She swiftly grabbed her gun and put it in her thigh holster, then grabbing a real gun and holding it up, pointing it at the door. She cautiously gazed around her apartment, quickly going over how long it would take to double check her nailed down windows. No, too much time. Trust yourself, she thought to herself. She never let her eyes wander from the door, never letting her gun trail from it. She ran from her spot and by the door, the doorknob farthest from her. “Who is it?” She asked in a firm but innocent voice, as she took the safety clip off of her gun. “Uh, delivery?” A wavering voice said from the other side, sounding like a teenager. Y/N’s composure let up a bit, but opened the door with her foot. She quickly stepped out and hid the guns, putting on a fake smile. “For whom?” She asked. He looked up at her nervously, his blonde hair falling onto his face.

The delivery boy stuttered, scratching at his growing acne. “Um, Miss L/N?” He asked. She signed the paper and sent him on his way, then setting the box gently on the floor, recognizing the pastel red color and multiple gold hearts. No address. Y/N briskly walked to her window, looking at the delivery boy and wondering how he knew where to deliver it. One part of her wanted to just throw caution to the wind and open it, seeing the familiar packaging. But letting her guard down meant laying her life down. She glanced down at the boy again as he walked down to his car. He hopped in, but didn’t start it right away, instead, reaching for something on his neck. Something wasn’t right about how he scratched it though. The delivery boy pulled on something, a sort of blue fabric coming off of his face, revealing a woman, pulling off the blonde bowl-cut wig, revealing her red hot hair. They made eye contact, a split second of mutual, controlled panic washing over them. The redhead reached up to her earpiece, saying something. Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to read her lips. “We have a problem.”

That’s not good.

Before Y/N could even blink, a bullet came breaking through her living room window, effectively shattering it. Y/N ducked and ran, picking up her bag, staring at the mystery box, deciding to take the handheld box and put it into her bag, but then throwing it, chastising herself for tolerating something that obviously put her in danger. Her door slammed open as a man with a mask with an “A” on it, threw a red and white shield at her. She kicked it back at him and whimpered, never seeing these people before in her life and wondered what they wanted. Y/N limped a little, the shield really taking an impact on her boot clad foot. She hurriedly grabbed her shoes and ran into her bathroom, tossing open her mirror and crawling through the tunnel, closing the glass behind her. The cold, damp tunnel gave way and she dropped, a small gasp leaving her. She put on her shoes quickly, grunting at the rush. 

A light could be seen at the end of the supposed rabbit hole, the freezing wind making her squint at it, a dumpster pile speeding up faster and faster, cushioning Y/N’s plummet. She tried to be as noiseless and fast as possible, jumping over the dumpster, almost tripping over the gravel under her black combat boots and jumping onto her black motorcycle, quick and quiet, a stealthy black helmet already being fastened onto her head. She started the engine up, without it making a roar, making her smirk and she sped off without looking back. She turned into an alley, deciding to take the long way around the building, not onto the streets, not taking any chances to get caught. Y/N stepped harder on the gas, coming up to a gate that led to the freeway. A wooden ramp was coincidentally there, as if on purpose. She took it anyway, the ramp giving her leeway and making her look pretty cool as she dropped onto the freeway, passing every car easily.

Her engine revved as she swerved between lanes, multiple cars honking at her, many of them throwing expletives at her. “What am I lookin’ at?” Y/N wondered allowed, her computer screen inside the window of her helmet showing her the nearest exit and safe house. “Who were those people?” She asked again. Six faces showed up on the screen, a brief bio on the left side. “The Avengers, six super human heroes, Black Widow,” she looked at the picture of the redhead, recognizing her immediately. “Steve Rogers, AKA, Captain America, Tony Stark, also Iron Man, blah blah blah,” She muttered, quickly trying to learn as much as possible. A red alert popped up on her screen. Incoming impact, it read. “Send an emergency car ASAP, I need to get out of here quicker.” She instructed. She cleared the screen off her window, and looked to her left to see another motorcycle with a man firing at her wheels. Y/N switched lanes and went behind a car, evading the bullets. The man came up behind her and started shooting again. Y/N turned and shot, grunting. “Where is that car!” She yelled, getting impatient. As if on cue, the black car pulled up beside her, the drivers seat opening, the computer already opening it up for her. She stepped on the brake quickly and jumped off the cycle and into the car, the motorcycle crashing into the man and making him fall. Y/N closed the door and huffed. “Auto-drive. I should really come up with a name for you, like Tony did. What about, Saturday?” She asked jokingly. The computer swerved the wheel a little in objection. Y/N laughed, shaking her head. The car turned and pulled into an exit quickly, hoping not to be seen.

[honestsycrets]

No Thieves Welcome XX: Mads

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk comes to see the reader grieving the loss of his children, finding a surprise.

❛  warnings | deceit, heartbreak, grieving, loss, breakups.

❛ sy’s notes | if you’re still here, i’ll see you in my sequel What She Really Wants under NTW’s masterlist.

Far’s things are in a cardboard box you close up, smoothing clear tape over the lips. Most of the house is packaged for the move cities away. Today is graduation but as you told mother, you weren’t up to it. Something about having your father here just… a week or two ago, and now, he was gone didn’t sit well with you. The only thing you were grateful for was actually getting your diploma with the year you had. Your grades slipped from glorious A’s with sprinkled B’s to… dare you say it, Cs. Despite that, you think that your nearly perfect years will help you in college. 

When you take it, that is.

You pad out of your mother’s room and toward your own, looking around the empty hallway. Studs stick from the wall where pictures of a happy family were. The illusion is gone now. You’re only left with the sticky reminder of the tape that held your heart together.

 You’ve begun to pack your clothes into a giant box for the big move Monday. There’s still momentos all over the place. On your dresser, a framed image of Asta’s bright smile in galaxy painted lips. She isn’t smiling much from prison. Your father in Tivoli, holding you pridefully in his arms against a backsplash of bright lights and stringy plants. He’s not prideful anymore. He’s dead. As dead as a man could get cremated into a small tin of ashes that mother separated between the two of you. 

Keep him in your memory, she said.

Then there was the vanishing child. Your heart hadn’t the time to grieve. You stand by a full-length mirror, dragging your palm over your distended stomach. Hvitserk had not spoken to you since that day. He carried his head lower still when you passed by with Magnus. Good. It was better that way.

Just then, your phone chimes. You pick it up, tapping the app that alerts you when someone is at your front door. You tap ‘live,’ finding your ex-boyfriend is just there. His hands are in his pockets, rain downpouring. His fluffy black hoodie soaked, matted to his sloppy bun. You’re lucky your mother is always working. 

“I’m coming,” you say into your phone. 

Hvitserk turns his head up, nodding with a sway of his body. You go downstairs, holding the railing as you bound down the steps to the front door. Your hand hovers at the handle, composing yourself. You push open the handle and open the door. Hvitserk stands there, eyes rimmed by red as if he’d been crying. Your heart pangs. 

“Hi babe,” he says, a waft of alcohol punches your stomach. You stand aside, letting him step onto the welcome mat inside the home. It’s too cold to be standing outside. You clear your throat when he stops, looking down his sopping wet shorts. The rainwater dribbles over the welcoming mat.

“Think I have a change of clothes for you somewhere.” 

You slip up the stairs and into your bathroom, pulling the fresh emergency pair of clothes. You never asked much of Hvitserk when he came splattered with blood or with injuries that you couldn’t begin to make sense of. A good wife didn’t ask questions. That was what Aslaug always told you. 

“It’s just a t-shirt and some shorts,” you clear your throat. “They’re yours. I have your other clothes somewhe--” 

In a swift motion, Hvitserk pulls you in. His hands don’t wander toward your ass for a grab or cheek for a kiss. They tighten around your back, tugging you forward and into him. Hvitserk’s nose cradles in your hair, breathing in your newest perfume of peonies. A bottle your father meant to give you, with a graduation anklet from a luxury brand. As you learned, he also planned to give you a necklace with two charms when your twins were born. You couldn’t face opening that yet. 

“Hvitserk--” 

“You look good,” he pulls back, wiping wet tears on his wet hoodie. Your eyebrows push together when you nod, looking him over. His well-corded arms reflect that he’s been in the gym instead of the last week of school. Alcohol on his breath indicates that afternoons are spent at the bottle.

“You look… exhausted.” 

“Yeah uh--” Hvitserk looks down to his change of clothes. “Graveyard shift. Uncle Rollo’s taking off to France.” 

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” you remark awkwardly. Your kettle in the kitchen screeches, interrupting you from your words. “I’m gonna go get that. You can get changed.” 

You’ll need that Bubble Tea to deal with Hvitserk. You step off to the side toward your kitchen, fixing your drink of black tea once testing the heat of the water. Burnt bitter tea is gross tea after all. He’d know you were leaving. As you mix quick cooking boba balls, you have to know that he’ll know. Once he knows…

“You’re gonna leave?” Hvitserk’s voice cracks. 

To protect your son, you think. You briefly glance over your shoulder, taking him in. You recall that shirt fitting looser. Not… clinging, as much as it did. “Mor has some connections up in Aarhus to get me into school. And… she can’t really live here without seeing Far,” you drain your boba and begin to assemble it. There’s nothing as gratifying as spilling the cream into the cup. 

“(Y/N) I--” 

“It’s okay, Hvitserk. What happened… it wasn’t your fault. We lost them,” one, you think, one. “...and these things just happen sometimes. Plenty of women have miscarriages.” 

Except that wasn’t the whole picture. The whole picture-- the truth was, you were still pregnant with his child. He should have been a happy father waiting by your side. Mor was right, you tell yourself. Your little boy wouldn’t be safe with his father.

“I could have done somethin’. I even named my fuckin’ kids-- Mads… for the boy and I thought, ya know, you’d name her something stupid.” The side of his lips pull down into a tight whisper. You shift, turning around with a cool drink in your hands. You set a hand to his forearm, steadying his spiraling thoughts from self-deprecation. His eye falls down to your hand. You’re still wearing his ring.

“Listen to me,” you say, shaking his forearm for emphasis. “There is nothing you could have done. If not that day, another day. I was wrong when I blamed you, Hvitserk. Those were-- those were hateful words.” 

“Okay?” you emphasize. 

“Yeah… okay.” he says, though sounding unconvinced. You remove your placating hand from his arm and settle a tea in his hand. He looks down upon it otherwise unmoved. 

“You know I don’t like this shit. Gimme the headaches.” Hvitserk tips the tea up, his eyes flickering up toward you. He holds your look as you stand upright, hand upon your hips now. 

“It’s good for you.” 

“Not after that much shit you put in.” He laughs but drinks it anyway, wrinkles forming between his eyebrows when he manages to down it. 

“Oh, it’s not that bad. You’re full of shit.” 

“Yeah, you too.” Hvitserk pushes himself off the side of the counter, gathering his wet clothes. You supply him with a bag to take them home. He throws it over his shoulder, still smiling to himself. He wants to tell you to keep the ring. That you earned it. That… it was meant for you. But he’s afraid you’ll take it off. “Guess I better head the fuck out before your mother gets here. Bitch sent me some mean--” 

You lean forward, reprimanding yourself as you do so, and grasp his face between your hands. You tug him into your hard kiss, slanting your lips over Hvitserk’s own. His hold slackens on the bag, clattering over your pink painted toes. The coldness of the laundry causes them to shift into a lavender. Your tongue flicks and curls against his own-- and he loses his modest appearance, grabbing your ass and squeezing you tight. Your stomach hits his, and you watch the confusion over his face. 

“Surgery,” you explain just as mother told you to. “Do you... wanna stay the night?” 

Stay the night. He sucks in a breath, hopeful for what those words could mean. The storm raging outside and your hand drifting between the waistband of his shorts tell him that you indeed mean it as he hopes. Your voice strained as if the words trickle slowly through a sieve. “One last time?” 

“Yeah,” Hvitserk says. This half-formed plan to get you back a failure. He wouldn’t beg. But he would hope. He’d always hope you would make your way back to him. “That’d be great.” 

That winter the flurrying of the snow feels all the more pronounced. 

Maybe its the fact that you took that fall off of school. Mother said to enjoy your pregnancy-- what was left of it. But it felt... all the more lonely without someone to enjoy it with. 

Your mother tried, that was a fact, but she wasn’t Hvitserk. Not that you... needed him there. Mother was providing well. Come spring you would go back to school, take your courses in engineering, and get on with your life.

The cold of that December day was lost on you that night. Perhaps because the pains started the morning before-- early at three in the morning. They carried on. Past noon, past dinner time and into the wee hours before the next day. 

“And good-- one more,” your mother says, crouched by your bed which overlooks the large window. You push once again and there’s a cry-- a painless delivery despite the chaos of months earlier. The cries are loud, and you drop your head, exhausted from the pain stretching your womb the whole day. After the miracle of life, you were afraid to use pain treatment. 

“He looks like his father,” your mother announces, pulling the child free. You look up, gripping the necklace around your neck tight. You had a near death grip on it this whole time. 

“He does,” another voice comes from beside you. You glance up to Asta at the foot of the bed. Her charges had been dropped-- and thankful as you were, you knew Ragnar had something to do with it. She was here on return from studying abroad in America and you couldn’t be more thankful. Even if she had done time, she was here now. In a week or two, she’d return to Copenhagen. 

“Great, tell me he doesn’t have his eyes.” you whine, your mother’s work quickly done with the help of one of her trusted co-workers. More best friend at this point, then co-worker. After the afterbirth was delivered, and that incessant shoving on your womb was done, Asta came by your side. She closes the blinds shut, kneeling before you. 

“He does, oh god.” You laugh, bringing him into your arms. Near existant tufts of blond hair and the eyes in the same shape... you look over his forehead and slim lips, noting to yourself just how much of his father’s image he was. Even as a baby.

He’s going to be trouble.

“He’s so cute,” Asta whispers, knocking her forehead against the side of your head like an affectionate puppy. You relax into her, rubbing your thumb over his full and lightly rosy cheeks. “What are you going to call him?” 

“Mads,” you answer immediately. “Just like his father wanted.”

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[preface2adreamplay]

Under Your Spell (Chapter 23) - Oi To the World

Summary: A Jared Padalecki/OFC /Oscar Isaac fiction.

Christmas in New York.

Chapter warnings: Swearing.

Chapter WC: 2,804

Christmas was upon her so quick it made her head spin. Stef was standing at the airport arrival halls, checking her bag every few minutes in case her passport jumped out and made its way home.

Her nerves were pinging like overstretched guitar strings. She spent every Christmas with Darius and Oscar, why was this one making her antsy?

They had misplaced her suitcase, that was irksome. The kind man at the lost baggage desk assured her it would make its way to her address before Christmas Day. With three days to go, she wanted to believe him, but figured she should hit up some stores just in case.

Stef had learned years ago that if the airline ‘lost’ your bag it would either arrive very late or not at all, several years before while on tour, she had ended up playing a show in her boots, grimy jeans and her bikini top because she had nothing else that was clean. That was a messy tour for everyone. Since then, she kept a bag with the essentials with her while she traveled; clean underwear, a spare shirt, make up, toiletries and...oh fuck, she remembered that she hadn’t packed pjs.

‘Mom!’ Darius was elbowing his way through the crowd of people in the arrivals hall, a big smile on his perfect face.

‘Hey kid, how are you?’ Stef pulled him into a hug, her chin resting on his broad shoulder.

‘Good, dad’s outside, there is literally no parking, this place is crazy!’

‘Well, it is Christmas.’

Darius looked about for her suitcase, giving her a look. ‘What? No presents?’

‘Airline lost my bag, I’m annoyed.’

He nodded sympathetically. ‘Come on, before dad is in a bad mood too.’

Oscar leaned in to kiss her cheek, ‘Hey momma.’

Stef rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t make me say it.’

Oscar smiled, his hand fondling the keys in the ignition.

‘Ok, hey daddy.’

Pumping his fist he started the car. ‘I’ve waited so long for you to do that.’

Darius slid into the back seat, missing their exchange. ‘The airline lost mom’s bag.’

‘Aw, shit, no.’ Oscar pouted.

‘I got my essentials,’ Stef patted the bag at her feet.

‘What a way to start the holidays. But, I got the eggnog ready, the place looks amazing, Dar helped me with the decorating,’ he held his fingers out, counting each thing to look forward to.

‘And of course, Indiana Jones is waiting for us.’

Stef felt the whoosh of excitement, it was truly a tradition at this point. Peeking over at her ex lovers face, she saw the blood rush to his cheeks, he was positively giddy.

Darius was texting, ignoring his parents. Stef wondered how many more Christmases she would be spending with him before he started his own traditions.

Oscar nudged her elbow, ‘hey, this’ll be fun. You’ll learn to chill.’

‘My mind doesn’t chill, you know that.’

‘We’ll see,’ he replied, before starting the engine.

***

Moments after dropping her bag at the door and pulling off her boots, there was a cup of eggnog in her hand. Darius was on some handheld gaming device that Stef didn’t recognise (Oscar always organised the tech gifts) and Oscar was lazing in his sweats, guitar in his lap, strumming mindlessly.

This is what it was for Stef at Christmas. Up late singing with Oscar while Darius slept curled up on the rug by the fire, at least until he grew a bit too old to sleep to get excited about Father Christmas visiting.

‘You could at least take off your coat and relax.’

Oscar leaned his head against the back of the sofa, his curls falling against his brow.

Stef was wearing her warmest, fluffiest sweater, it had been mind-numbingly cold when she left home that morning, but Oscars living room was lit up with Christmas lights, candles and a fire burning, and honestly she was starting to sweat a little.

‘I’m gonna shower first if you don’t mind.’

Oscar shrugged, turning back to the guitar, strumming a few familiar chords.

Stef noticed her album propped up against he wall next to his stereo, she felt the warmth in her tummy at the idea of him listening to it. He was always so supportive.

The shower pressure was thunderous, the water beating down on her already sensitive skin. Wincing, she reached over and turned down the spray. Any other day she would have loved it. But, not after the last few love making sessions she’d had with Jared. Each time they started making out it had been nice, soft, and ended rough and intense, him bending her body to his will, trying to find different ways to outdo the last time she came. Every orgasm he pulled from her was done with love, she knew, but her body was starting to fold in upon itself. That was just what Jared wanted.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she could see the bruises on her hips, her ribs. Pressing against the finger marks on her thighs she could feel him there, the hot sting of him buried inside her, his breath on her neck.

Her nipples were hard at the thought, remembering him in the bathroom, the fogged up glass of the shower cold against her palms as she tried to hold herself up while he fucked her. Then afterwards, he took her from behind while she watched in the mirror, seeing his mouth fall open while he slid inside her, one hand wrapped around her neck, bending her over the sink. Each thrust of his hips brought her to the edge, his fingers grabbing hold of her hip to keep her steady, legs shaking beneath her.

Even now, two days later, she could still feel him. And she missed it. Missed the power he had over her, trusting him to do as he wished with her.

Her fingers were trailing against the marks on her shoulder, teeth marks and hickeys, trailing down to her breast and right there by her nipple, a fresh bite. That had hurt. His fingers were inside her, all of them, ripping her apart as she came hard, his teeth sinking into her. There was nothing else in the world like it, the throb of her pussy, swollen from his hands and his mouth, before he even started fucking her.

Stef moved her hand between her thighs, her head falling forward. If she was quiet, she could get herself off in a couple of minutes thinking of Jared’s mouth on hers, grabbing her face between his hands, throwing his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. The way his eyes closed and he swallowed hard when he entered her.

‘I know you will come when I tell you to.’ He had said, holding her head in his hands, his forehead against hers.

Her cunt was aching to be filled, her fingers weren’t enough, but the thoughts of him was, she was dripping when she came, biting her lip hard so no one would hear her.

Oh god, she thought, the fuck is wrong with you??

After she cleaned up, scolded herself again and slipped on the extra pair of clean clothes, she checked no part of her skin was visible. The choice of sweater covered her neck, only a little of the burn on her right wrist could be seen. She stared at it for a moment, poking at it with her finger. She probably should put some cream on it, it stung a little, she had pulled against her restraints, it was gonna happen.

‘You ok in there?’ Oscar called from the other side of the door.

Stef opened the door, letting the steam escape. ‘Have you forgotten what it’s like living with a woman? We take our time in here.’

Oscar looked sheepish, ‘sorry. But the pizza is here.’

‘Pizza! You never said there was gonna be pizza!’ Stef hopped onto his back as he walked into the kitchen, his strong legs bracing to keep himself upright.

‘Have you taken your pills today, Effie?’ He laughed, one of her arms was around his neck. ‘You’re choking me a bit.’

‘Sorry,’ Stef jumped down and grabbed a slice of the biggest pizza she had ever seen. ‘All veg?’

‘All veg,’ Oscar stuffed his mouth and licked his thumb.

‘So how’s life?’

‘Same as it always is.’ Stef answered between mouthfuls. Darius had a plate perched on one knee in the living room, his ear to his phone.

‘His girlfriend,’ Oscar nodded toward him.

‘Cute.’

Oscar shrugged again. ‘I’d like to say we had our shit sorted when we were his age, but who does?’

‘If anything, we were in disarray.’

Both of them sat quietly studying their son for a minute.

‘Life sucks and then you die,’ Stef said quietly, feeling Oscar’s eyes turning to her.

She laughed, then snorted, causing Oscar to fall into a fit of laughter.

Darius turned around in his chair to look at them, rolled his eyes and continued his conversation.

‘Life doesn’t suck now though, right? You’re happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.’ The invitation to talk about Jared was there, she knew, but she didn’t want to offer up any information.

It was her turn to shrug. ‘I suppose.’

She heard him sigh. ‘Come on, eat up. We have so much tv to catch up on.’ Oscar knew she would relax after a while. Always afraid to tell him anything, lest the rug be pulled from under her. He understood, he was partly, or mostly to blame for the rift between them. Actually, he thought, he was all to blame.

She was better with him now, this relationship had brought out the playful side of her again, he had missed it more than he cared to admit.

‘I got you a gift you can open now!’ He suddenly burst out, startling her.

‘It’s not Christmas yet, Oscar.’

‘No, it’s perfect timing since your bag isn’t here.’ He hopped off the kitchen stool and jogged over to the tree, grabbing a nice sized package. Stef followed him in, curious as to what was going to sort out the no clothes issue she was having.

Darius had finished the call, looking a little glum. ‘Open it, mom, he seems real excited about it.’

Oscar was smiling, eyes twinkling as he watched her rip open the perfectly wrapped gift. Heavy material fell open in her hands, ‘Oscar, what the hell is this?’

Both men were laughing, Darius bent over holding his ribs.

‘Amazing, Oscar thank you. A Star Wars onesie with your face all over it.’

‘Hell yeah,’ he choked, ‘and look’, he pointed to the crotch. His face really was adorning all the important parts.

Stef buried her face in it, she couldn’t hold back the laughter. ‘Thanks so much, it’s everything I ever wanted.’

‘Should have gotten Dar one as well.’

‘No thank you.’ Darius piped up, shaking head, throwing back a glass of eggnog.

‘You made that way strong, dad, jeeeesus.’

‘Yep, trying to get your mom drunk.’

‘Ugh, please no. You’ll be up all night.’

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up with surprise, ‘Darius, what the hell way is that to talk about your mother.’

‘Ugh, I meant singing and playing guitar. Oh god you guys are gross.’

‘Hey, no arguments. I have been here an hour!’ Stef emptied her own glass and shoved it in Oscar’s direction, jiggling her hand so he knew she wanted a refill. ‘I won’t say no to getting a little fucked up.’

‘Now we’re talking,’ Oscar flicked Darius’s ear, ‘follow your mom’s lead, she’s the sensible one here.’

While Oscar disappeared to get refills, Stef’s phone started buzzing in her jeans pocket. She slid out onto the back porch cursing the cold air as she answered the call.

‘Hey girl, get to NY ok?’

‘Yeah, I did, not here long and the airline lost my bag.’ She grumbled.

‘Aw man, shitty.’

‘How is everything on your end?’

Jared sighed heavily, ‘home and surrounded by children and I need a break already.’ Stef could hear someone screaming in the background, following by crying.

‘Shit, hang on.’ He disappeared for a moment. ‘It’s ok, it’s been handled.’

‘So what’s the plan for the next few days?’

Stef ran through the general stuff that always happened around Christmas time. Some shopping, some sleeping, drinking, playing cards and writing songs. Standard stuff.

‘And you’re with Oscar and Darius?’ Jared queried, as if he didn’t already know the answer.

‘Yep, same as always. Though, I wonder how long before Darius doesn’t want to hang with us for the holidays anymore.’

‘I still hang with my folks,’ Jared offered, trying to cheer her up.

‘Sure, but if he goes and spends it in a different country or gets married it’ll just be me and Oscar staring at each other. How awkward would that be.’

‘You guys don’t get along if he’s not there?’

‘We do, but we know each other a long time, it’s not exactly exciting.’

Jared chuckled, ‘Christmas is never the same unless you are a kid or have kids.’

Stef shivered, ‘agreed, I’m in the yard and man, it is fucking cold here. I wish I had you to keep me warm.’

Jared hummed on the other end of the line. ‘That’d be nice. I most likely won’t get to see you until after the new year, probably the end of January.’

End of January, a whole month to go, Stef thought unhappily.

His family needed him more than she did, that was for sure. She was being greedy with his time, wanting every spare moment he had to be spent with her.

The familiar gut clenching sensation was back, oh why did she have to feel for him? That wasn’t in the plan. That wasn’t what she had wanted. Honestly, she had forgotten how it was when you met someone and fell for them over time. It hadn’t happened for her in a long, long time. She hadn’t fallen for anyone since Oscar.

Stef turned to look in at the living room where Darius was still eating pizza, talking to his father. Oscar was gazing back at Stef, nodding in agreement to whatever Darius was saying.

Had Oscar ever fallen for anyone else since her? She had been sure years ago, he seemed pretty serious with someone for a while, but that fizzled out.

He was intense. Everything about him made her tingle, even now with his eyes on her, Stef rubbed her neck unconsciously, wondering what the hell was thinking.

‘Stef?’ Jared was laughing, ‘you still there?’

‘Sorry, distracted.’

‘Yeah, no kiddin, want me to call you back later?’

‘Sure, go have fun with your family.’

‘You go have fun with yours.’

My family, she thought, stepping back into the warmth. This was her family. Sighing happily, she threw her phone onto the sofa and took the eggnog from Oscar’s hand, their fingers brushing for a second.

He didn’t say anything, everything he wanted to say was in his eyes, his perfect expressive eyes.

‘I think I’ll slip into that onesie, the eggnog has made me feel like jeans aren’t the right thing to lounge in.’

Oscar raised an eyebrow and watched her make her way back to the bathroom, she was humming away to herself.

Darius burst through the door when she had changed, she could hear him release the loudest piss as she giggled her way into the living room.

‘Close the damn door, no one wants to hear that, buddy.’ Oscar shouted. ‘Ha, look at you.’ He eyed Stef, asking her to do a twirl.

She spun on her tip toes.

Oscar licked his lips, ’Well, you did tell me once that you had a beautiful place for me to put my face.’

Stef looked down at her crotch to see Oscar’s serious ‘Poe’ face look back her.

‘Oscar, you’re a bad man,’ she sighed.

His nose crinkled as he smiled at her, ‘ready for a movie?’

‘Yeah,’ Stef threw herself down onto the sofa, loosening her ponytail. Oscar sat at the other end, grabbing her feet and gently placing her legs across his lap.

Stef looked across at him while he settled in, pushing at a cushion until he got it at the perfect angle, his fingers working the remote.

The opening scene started up, Darius joined them with a beer in a glass she remembered stealing from a pub in the city.

Smiling to herself, she caught Oscar looking at her. ‘Ready?’

Stef grinned back at him, ‘ready.’

Let’s just relax and forget about the world outside of this house for the next three days, she told herself.

No band, no music, no complicated relationships. Just her, Oscar and their son.

[raywritesthings]

Baby Won’t You Please Come Home 9/11

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Oliver Queen, Laurel Lance, Quentin Lance, John Diggle, Felicity Smoak, Thea Queen, Roy Harper, Moira Queen, Joanna de la Vega, Dinah Lance Pairings: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Thea Queen/Roy Harper Summary: Oliver returns to Starling City after the Undertaking only to discover that he’s not the only one who has absented it; Laurel Lance has seemingly vanished with barely a trace for the last four months. As he struggles to piece together the mystery of what caused her to flee the city they both call home, Oliver must also ask himself if he can make things right after leaving the woman he loves a second time. If he can find her at all. AO3 link

So...yes. I realize this fic has been in over a year-long hiatus, but as you might have been able to tell from my blog, I’ve worked up the spoons to care enough about these characters (okay mostly just Laurel) again. Very, very sorry for the unforgivably long wait, but if you’ve been hoping for a continuation then I am hoping you enjoy!

Six months ago

Laurel eased herself onto the barstool, tempted to kick her shoes off in order to rub at her aching feet. Eight to ten hours a day standing inside a cramped tent was killer for the arches.

As usual, it was Joanna who didn’t have any reservations voicing what was on her mind. “Please God, tell me this is almost over.”

“If I have to tell one more family we lost their papers in the quake…” Laurel couldn’t even muster the energy to finish that sentence, but it didn’t need to be. The other woman shook her head in commiseration anyway.

“Hey, come on, we didn’t come out to talk about all that,” Luis interrupted from her left. He passed them each a glass. “We came to forget it.”

Joanna raised hers with a “Here, here.”

Laurel gave their coworker a nod of thanks before taking a long pull of her drink and grimacing as it went down. “You know, I had to tell the Kims that I couldn’t find their deposition in our files—”

“So much for not talking about it,” Joanna teased.

“But,” she carried on, “it turns out the whole block of buildings their landlord owned went down in the quake. You couldn’t sue him for anything now.”

“And that’s why they say karma’s a bitch.”

She considered this, staring into her glass as she revealed, “Now twelve more families have lost their homes and two are dead.”

“Laurel.” Joanna laid a hand over hers resting on the bar top. “I know this is hard. Most days I can barely drag myself to work in the morning. But there’s nothing more we can do.”

“I know.”

“Have you been looking for a new position? We’ve all got to start thinking about the future, you know.”

“The future,” she echoed hollowly. What was the point? After five years of pushing herself forward case by case, client by client, she’d finally felt herself starting to come alive again. Now it was all gone—and Oliver vanished with it—leaving her worse off than she’d been before. Sara, Tommy, how much more was she just going to end up losing in the future?

“I’ve applied at Wethersby & Stone,” her friend blurted. She looked up in surprise at the sudden announcement. “Corporate, I know.”

“No, no, that’s good,” Laurel hastened to reassure. Joanna was being practical; she had herself and her mother to think about, especially after losing her brother. “I hope you get it. I know you’ll get it.” She lifted her glass decidedly, and with a grateful smile Joanna mirrored her.

But she couldn’t hide the disgusted face she pulled after her second taste of her beverage. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Laurel looked at it more closely. Maybe she just was feeling something stronger, but that didn’t explain why this drink should put her off so badly. “You know what? It must not be my night.”

“Oh, come on, Laurel.”

Luis and Anastasia both looked over with vague curiosity and disappointment as she slipped off her stool and stepped away from the bar. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

“I’m just not feeling up to it.” She shrugged. “And I promised my mom I’d call her later.” It was a lie, but the two of them had been talking more as of late. It wasn’t perfect, but after five years of nothing Laurel was willing to take what she could get.

Maybe that was her problem.

Joanna didn’t exactly look thrilled, but she nodded her understanding. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t stay out too late,” she instructed them all, getting various reactions from too-innocent grins to rolled eyes.

Despite what she considered responsible actions, the next morning Laurel woke feeling about as worse off as if she really had stayed at the bar and long past closing time. How could she possibly be hungover?

Sitting up proved disastrous as her stomach roiled unexpectedly. She tried waiting the nausea out but was soon staggering to her feet and into her bathroom. Kneeling in front of the toilet was not the first thing she’d wanted to do this morning, yet even worse was that nothing seemed to be happening. Her stomach was still protesting, it just didn’t seem to be enough to provoke a reaction. Laurel didn’t relish the idea of throwing up, but it would at least allow her to feel better afterward. She’d prefer to just get it over with already.

Instead, Laurel was forced to sit with her knees tucked underneath her and her forehead pressed against the cool tile as her stomach gradually calmed itself. By the time she felt settled enough to risk getting back up, she’d lost half an hour and felt nowhere near ready to start the day. Slowly she shuffled back into the bedroom and took her phone off the nightstand.

“You didn’t need to check on me, you know,” was Joanna’s amused greeting after the second ring. “I’m leaving in fifteen.”

“Actually, I think I might not be able to make it in,” Laurel said with reluctance. “I’ve got some kind of stomach thing. Really queasy.”

“Oh no! Think it was something you ate?”

“I…don’t know.” She tried to think back to the last full meal she’d had. What was in her fridge?

“Well you better be getting back in bed,” Joanna advised. “I could stop by, maybe bring you some soup.”

“No, you guys are going to be swamped without me,” she dismissed. “It’ll probably just go away on its own.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I’ll come in—”

“No, you’ll stay in all day, Laurel,” her friend countered, leaving no room for argument. “There is no point dragging yourself to work and making yourself sicker. Just take the day off and hopefully you’ll be feeling better tomorrow, okay?”

“Alright, alright,” she grinned in spite of herself. “But call me—”

“I won’t. Get well soon!” With that, the other woman hung up. Laurel rolled her eyes.

Well, if she couldn’t go into work today, she could still be productive. Laurel wrapped herself up in her bathrobe and relocated to the front room, powering up her laptop. She’d been falling behind in organizing her notes due to the bare-bones operation they were currently winding down, but a day off was just what she needed to get back on track. She flipped one of her legal pads to where she’d last been working off of and started transcribing her notes from page to screen. Client’s name, records they had or hadn’t been able to recover, and status of their case. It took her well into the morning, which just went to show how much she’d been putting it off.

A couple hours after that she decided her stomach had remained settled enough to try for some water and crackers. That was if she could locate any of the latter in her depressingly bare cupboard. Near the back she finally found a box—Tommy’s favorite brand. He must have picked them up the last time he’d made a trip to the store before he’d moved out...

Laurel took one out of the packaging and nibbled on the corner. The cracker was stale. With a shaky breath she dropped first it and then the box in the trash, the thump of it hitting the bottom loud and somehow final in the otherwise quiet of her apartment.

Laurel returned to her desk and grabbed a post-it note. A grocery list was definitely in order. New crackers, canned soup, maybe some ginger ale. Did she want to pick up anything for after this bug passed? She had no idea if she’d have the time or inclination to try making anything complicated. Still, Laurel jotted down a couple types of vegetables and pasta. She could definitely handle pasta.

That was her kitchen’s future planned. What about her future? She considered Joanna’s advice. CNRI was closing permanently, all too soon, and she needed to make a decision. She knew that.

Laurel eyed the email from Adam Donner sitting in her inbox. Truthfully she’d been surprised when the ADA had reached out to her. But that offer wasn’t going to last forever. It was time to stop sitting on it. She took out her phone.

“Assistant District Attorney Adam Donner speaking,” the man answered after a couple rings.

“Mr. Donner, this is Laurel Lance. I received your email earlier this week.”

“Oh! Yes, I’ve been hoping to hear from you. It’s my understanding that with CNRI’s future uncertain at the moment you might be looking for a new position. The DA’s office is looking for someone right now, and your qualifications make you an ideal candidate if you’re at all interested.”

“CNRI’s future is not uncertain. If we had any doors left to close, we’d be closing them soon. So I would be very happy to sit down for an interview with you.” She hoped the lack of a smile on her face wasn’t bleeding into her tone.

“Excellent. Let me just pull up my schedule so we can find somewhere to fit you in.”

They agreed on a time later next week, which Laurel wrote down before quickly making her excuses to get off the phone. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Donner, or even the prospect of working at the DA’s office. But moving on from CNRI just felt very...final. Like closing the door on a part of her life. It wasn’t a practice she was unfamiliar with, but it was just getting harder and harder to keep doing it. What was the point of moving forward if she had to leave everything and everyone she cared about behind?

If Joanna found out she spent the day being maudlin she’d be upset, so Laurel resolved that was enough work and self-reflection for one day. She closed her laptop and curled up on her couch, flipping through the channels on the television until she found a movie she could watch somewhat mindlessly. The only thing she could want for now was some ice cream—but that was a thought best not to dwell on either, so she dismissed it.

By the time she was yawning and heading to an early bed, Laurel felt she would certainly be rested and well enough to return to work tomorrow.

Which of course was why the next morning found her in the same exact position she’d been in twenty-four hours before, crouching over the toilet and willing herself to just get it over with already. This just didn’t make any sense. She barely had anything in her stomach at this point, so what could be making her sick?

Another call to Joanna meant another day off work. Laurel staggered back into the bathroom after she’d gotten off the phone and opened her medicine cabinet. There had to be something in here that would help her get over this bug. But she didn’t have much aside from aspirin.

She was running low on tampons, too. She’d meant to grab some last month, but what with hosting Taylor and then everything surrounding the earthquake—Laurel stilled.

Her cycle...she’d missed her period. Somehow in all the chaos it had slipped her mind, but she’d missed it. How had she missed that she’d missed it?

Her gaze landed on the tile in front of the toilet where she’d been crouched only this morning, feeling sick...Laurel gripped the edge of the sink and met her own panicked gaze in the mirror.

“No,” she murmured. “No, no, that’s not possible.” She’d been careful with Tommy, knowing how many other partners he must’ve had. She’d always made sure—

Except the one time she hadn’t. Except the one time Oliver had shown up at her door and there had barely been time to breathe let alone think, when the sense of right had outweighed everything that had gone wrong in their lives up to that moment.

Didn’t they always say that just once was enough? But she couldn’t know for sure, Laurel reminded herself as she passed a shaky hand through her hair. Not yet.

On trembling legs she stumbled back into her room, pulling on the first clothes she grabbed from the closet and nearly stepping into two different shoes on her way out the door. She spared a harried wave for the doorman before slipping into the flow of foot traffic outside the building.

Laurel kept her head down as she entered a convenience store several blocks away that she’d never been to in her life. It was quiet and seemingly empty of other patrons, yet her heart was pounding loudly enough to her that she wondered if it could be heard. She felt both hyper aware and yet removed from the situation, like she was watching a film from the uncomfortably close point of view of some other woman. Her whole body was tensed in anticipation of rounding a corner and bumping into a familiar face. How would she explain herself? It was for a friend? Just a precaution? None of their business?

She finally found the right aisle, looking to either side—coast clear—before stepping up to the section displaying various kinds of tests. Laurel worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she scanned the labels and instructions. Her attention was split, ears straining for the chime of the door signifying another customer. Finally she grabbed a test that seemed cheap enough and easy to use off one of the shelves and walked with it tucked under her arm to hide the label on her way to the register.

“Good morning,” the cashier greeted.

“Morning,” Laurel echoed, forcing what she hoped was a regular smile on her face as she placed the test on the counter. Of course, the other woman’s eyes immediately dropped to it, then darted first up to her face and strangely back down again...to where her left hand hung at her side.

Laurel felt her cheeks begin to heat up slightly as her bare fingers curled up into her palm before hastily stuffing her whole fist in her pocket. Not that it served much good now.

The cashier made no comment, simply scanning the box—which of course was when it occurred to Laurel she didn’t remember how much money was in her wallet. Using her credit card would be as good as handing over her name. A brief but frantic search managed to produce a twenty and a few smaller bills, and she barely suppressed the sigh of relief.

The door chiming shot her nerves to hell all over again, however, and Laurel resisted the urge to turn and look like some kind of idiot. By the sounds of it, at least two people had entered. Young, possibly teenagers, maybe even Thea’s age—God, Thea.

“Would you like a double bag?” The cashier asked with what felt to her like a knowing look, and Laurel didn’t manage to keep from starting guiltily.

“Yes, please,” she responded in an undertone. The teens were already making their way up to the register.

“Receipt?”

“No thank you.” They could be right behind her now. Had they seen? Did they know?

But when she turned around with the bag clutched tightly in her right hand, the pair were busy browsing magazines. There wasn’t anything for her to be fearful or ashamed of. She made her way calmly towards the door.

“Well, hope you get the result you want,” the cashier called to her. The teenagers paused in their conversation. She could imagine them looking up, curious and confused. Mortified, Laurel ducked her head back down and left without a backwards glance.

She had to fight herself not to simply run the entire way back or to constantly check that the double bags were not still somehow see-through. Nobody out here on the streets could possibly know what she currently held. They had no idea, and they never would. Nobody needed to know except her, and only just to check. Then she could throw it away, bury it deep in the trash—assuming the result was negative, that was.

And if it wasn’t?

Laurel was breathing heavily by the time she shut first the apartment and then her bedroom door behind herself. The door to the bathroom still stood open, the light on. She’d forgotten to switch it off on her way out. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to re-enter it, not yet. A part of her couldn’t believe what she planned to do, that it could even be necessary. A scare like this, it wasn’t supposed to be her.

She took the box out again, turning it over in her fingers. There was no use continuing to stare at it, she knew. Maybe this wasn’t the answer, maybe she really was sick and needed to see a doctor and was just wasting time. Whatever the result was, opening this box and taking the test would make it real. Was she ready for it?

It wasn’t as if she’d ever been ready for any other development in her life. Laurel pushed off the door she’d been leaning against and took the test with her into the bathroom.

It was the longest several minutes of her life, pacing across the small, cramped space, her heart continuing to hammer away. What was it going to say? What was she hoping for, what result did she want? Her mind chased itself around in circles until she couldn’t stand it and finally snatched the test up from where she’d laid it on the sink to wait.

Two lines.

The test slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. Positive. It was positive. She was positive. She was pregnant.

Laurel sat hard on the lip of the bathtub. There seemed to be no other prevailing emotion than shock. She was pregnant. One of her hands came up to rest on the smooth expanse of her stomach. It didn’t feel as though anything was there, and yet the proof rested not two feet away from her that there was something in there. The beginning of a someone.

“Oh God.” Her mind, normally racing trying to keep track of her work, her family and friends, was drawing a distressing blank. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, and wasn’t that so typical? For all she tried to be careful, to plan ahead, she could never resist the temptation to just throw all caution to the wind. Now it had landed her in bigger trouble than ever.

Though not just her. It took two, after all.

Oliver. Her head dropped into her hands. As if the mess of their relationship could get any worse. How could she possibly come to him with this? Going by his current behavior they’d be lucky to get him back in ten years if he heard this kind of news.

He’d left her. That should probably tell her what his possible desire to be involved in something like this should be, but...a part of her, that part that could never quite give up on Oliver Jonas Queen no matter how many people told her she was crazy for it, reminded her he didn’t have the full story. He couldn’t know that right now she was pregnant. That right now they were pregnant. If she was going to tell anyone right away, she wanted it to be him.

She needed to see him, speak to him at least. This changed everything. His leaving, her guilt for Tommy’s sacrifice. Things that had seemed insurmountable only a day ago felt like excuses rather than reasons to remain apart.

The only person she knew who might possibly be able to reach him was Thea. Laurel rose to her feet and found herself retracing her steps out of the apartment moments later. There really wasn’t any time to lose with this hanging over her.

She sent a text ahead and by the time she reached the lobby had gotten a reply back asking her to meet at the Verdant. She’d had no idea the place was staying open without Oliver to run it. In fact she hadn’t been back there since before the earthquake.

Laurel took a route that wouldn’t lead her past where Joanna and the others would be set up for the day, and by the time she arrived at the club the sun was nearly right overhead. Her stomach was grumbling, too, and she touched it again before moving her hand quickly away. How obvious could she be? Shaking her head, Laurel took a moment to compose herself before entering the building.

“Hey.”

Thea looked up from the stack of papers she was studying, her face breaking into a smile. “Hey!”

“Looks like you’re just about ready to reopen for business,” Laurel remarked with a glance around the place. A few employees were scattered about seemingly rearranging seating and the like, Roy Harper among them she noticed.

“Yeah, well, I figured it beat sitting around at home,” the younger girl told her, and Laurel nodded. She could relate to that need to keep moving, to throw herself into something and ignore her own problems. “Not to mention there’s no telling if my trust fund let alone my parents’ company will still be standing in a year.”

“Very smart.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, Thea preened slightly at the compliment. For how quickly she was being forced to grow up by her family’s actions, she was still so young. “Thanks. So, what brings you around?”

“I needed to ask you something,” she hedged. “It’s about Ollie, actually.” That was all she could trust herself to say. A part of her marvelled that Thea could have no idea what was happening right now, the same as her only hours ago. “I was wondering when he was planning to come home.”

“How should I know?”

Laurel’s hopeful smile faded. “You mean he hasn’t been in touch?”

Thea snorted. “He left me a note saying he went on a ski trip in Europe. Didn’t even ask if I wanted to get the hell out of here, too.”

Laurel hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you have wanted to?”

Thea shrugged. “It’s not like I’m exactly popular right now. But I got the club.”

“Just the club?”

Laurel bit back a smile as she turned to see Roy look up from polishing one of the tables.

Thea made a face at him. “You’re an employee of the club. And my boyfriend.”

“Thanks, boss,” Roy remarked dryly.

Thea was rolling her eyes as she shooed him further out of earshot before returning her attention to Laurel. “You want a drink? It’s on the house,” she offered, already reaching for a glass.

“No!” Laurel winced at the sharpness in her tone. “No I—I can’t.” She was pregnant, had been for at least a month...and she’d been drinking up to now, hadn’t she?

The younger woman didn’t seem too fazed. “Okay. Listen, I have no idea if he’s reading them, but I’ve been sending anything I want to say to his email. That’s your best bet. I’ll let you know if I hear from him, but right now I’m as in the dark about what Ollie’s up to as you are. Figures I just got used to him being back right before he disappears again,” she muttered to the bartop.

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon, Thea,” she attempted to assure her, though as distracted with worry as she was she didn’t know how sincere it came across. How much had she had to drink since she could have gotten pregnant? More than usual, if she was being honest with herself. What if it had affected the baby? What if there was something wrong? “I have to go. Good luck with the opening.”

“Thanks.”

The doorman seemed bemused as she passed him for the fourth time that day, and Laurel wasn’t sure if her attempt at a smile held up at all. She was too busy considering what she wanted to say. How did she break this kind of news over an email?

Or should she? Laurel wasn’t sure if it was fear or selfishness that had her wanting to make sure she could tell Oliver in person. She wanted to be able to see his reaction, know what he thought, talk to him about this like they should.

It took a few attempts, deletions, and rewordings, but she ended up with:

Ollie,

Thea told me you’re taking some time to yourself after everything that’s happened. I guess you needed the space. Maybe we all do.

But things have changed. I found something out and I have to talk to you about it. I know you feel like you can’t be in Starling right now, but this is important. I can’t do this without you.

Please write back when you can.

Love always,

Laurel

She held her breath as she hit send and stared at the little box that popped up saying her message had been delivered. Laurel wondered what time it was over in whatever ski lodge Oliver was staying in, when she might hear back. She didn’t know how long she could wait on this before needing to speak with someone.

She took her phone and dialled the number that would always come first in her mind, her thumb hovering over the call button.

But...could she tell her dad? He’d always dreaded something like this happening. Why would he be happy? He’d more likely be the opposite. He’d be furious at Oliver, there was no question of that. And her? She was an unmarried woman who’d been dating another man until shortly before getting pregnant by her ex.

Shame. Fear. Humiliation. Those were the reactions he would have. She could picture the ‘I told you so’ falling from his lips as clear as if he was standing in front of her, could see his hunched form at the bar grumbling into his drink epithets about Queen and his own gold-digger daughter. Laurel squeezed her eyes shut, willing the images away, and the phone slipped from her fingers.

She shouldn’t bother him anyway, she tried to tell herself. Her father was already dealing with so much, what with his demotion. God, this kind of blow to his reputation, it’d probably shatter what little respect he had left at the precinct.

What about her reputation?

She wasn’t exactly an unknown in the media thanks to the high-profile businessmen she’d gone after for her clients. Her various tangles with both the Queen family and the Hood didn’t help either. Was she the kind of person who would end up in a tabloid over a scandal like this? She didn’t want that for herself or a baby.

As selfish as it was, getting the hell out of here sounded like a great plan at the moment. At least until she’d figured out what she was doing. If Oliver replied by the end of the day, she’d need money to go and meet him wherever he’d holed up halfway around the world. If he didn’t...well, then she’d definitely need money.

The bank was about to close, so she’d have to go tomorrow or the next day. How much was she safe in taking out? She’d need money for plane tickets, food, shelter, possibly a visit to a doctor or some kind of women’s clinic. Bitterly, she recalled that with Rebecca Merlyn’s clinic closed, there wasn’t any such place she could go in Starling anyway. The nearest Planned Parenthood was at least a city over, so she’d need to be going out of town for a few days at least regardless.

Laurel found herself refreshing her inbox constantly over the rest of the day and the next, though it brought her nothing but the odd bit of junk mail. Oliver either hadn’t read her email or didn’t want to respond. She didn’t know which was worse.

But there was a way she could make sure which it was. She opened up a new message and typed the equivalent of an SOS:

Please Ollie, I’m running out of time.

If he could read that and not answer, he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was at all.

Say Oliver didn’t respond. Say he never responded. How long was she willing to wait? How long could she wait to make a decision?

The reasons against keeping it were distressingly numerous. She was on her own. She didn’t have any prospects for future employment as a pregnant woman. She couldn’t know when or what kind of support Oliver would be willing to give—not that her pride would ever let her accept his money. She wasn’t even sure if she could be a good mother, with or without the means.

But after everything in her life that she’d had taken away from her...would she be able to survive losing something like this?

Laurel rolled onto her side, wrapping her arms around herself.

Thea had said she wasn’t popular in Starling these days. Laurel doubted anyone related to the Queens would be. People were angry, and whether or not it was justified didn’t seem to matter. They’d hate her baby.

Was it even safe to keep it, if that’s the sort of life it would have? The life it would have in Starling, anyway. Laurel had never thought of leaving the city permanently. It had been her home, her one constant when everything and everyone else in her life left her. How could she even think of going?

But this couldn’t just be about her and her wants or needs anymore. Maybe she couldn’t save a city. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough to fight an army like Joanna had tried to warn her. But there was one person now whose life rested literally in her hands and her hands alone. She had to protect it.

Laurel pushed herself up to sitting, looking around the darkened room. “I can’t stay here.”

She was at the bank first thing the next morning, having barely slept the night before. Laurel scanned the available tellers, hoping she’d come on the right day...there!

She approached one teller in particular. “Mr. Ricci!”

“Ah, Miss Lance! Good morning!”

She had gotten to know the balding man quite well during the proceedings she’d guided his son through to prove him innocent of an armed robbery. If anyone at Starling National would be willing to do her a favor, it was him, and that was precisely what Laurel had been counting on.

“So good to see you!” The man was saying. “Now, what can I do for you today?”

“I wanted to make a withdrawal.”

“Of course. For how much?”

“Five thousand dollars?” She couldn’t help the slight uptick in her voice at the end.

The man’s eyes went wide. “That is quite a sum. I’m not sure…”

Laurel knew she had to think fast. “I’m treating myself to a bit of a vacation, and I want to take out the money so I budget myself. That’s all I’m letting myself spend.”

He nodded, clearly mulling it over. “Lots of people are trying to get away these days. But if anyone deserves a vacation, it is you. Alright, come with me, and we will get it all taken care of.”

Laurel did not have to fake her gratitude at all. “Thank you so much, Mr. Ricci.”

She stayed long enough chatting at the bank so as not to seem suspicious. It wouldn’t be good if it looked like she was about to make a run for it.

Once finally home, Laurel checked her email again. Nothing. Oliver wasn’t there.

If she stayed any longer, sooner or later she would have to face either Joanna or her father. Whether she went into work or took another sick day, they’d know something was wrong. If she didn’t want to involve anyone else, she had to be on a train out of the city by tonight.

A bizarre sort of calm seemed to settle over her — or perhaps she was just teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown — but Laurel took out her scarcely-used suitcase and began pulling things out of her closet. Comfortable, baggier clothes were prioritized; she’d have no need for dresses or pantsuits while hiding out to have a baby, and eventually she wouldn’t be able to fit them anyway. Toiletries were placed in a smaller case before being tucked away as well, and looking around the bathroom reminded her to get rid of her trash and the pregnancy test. She was sure her father would case her apartment all on his own if he had to, once he realized she was gone.

Laurel paused at her desk, pulling a notepad towards her. Should she leave him a message not to worry? Explain that she had to go away for a while? It’d probably only make him worry more and be that much more determined to find her. And it wasn’t as though she could give him a proper explanation or one that would make him happy with her. Better to leave him with what little good opinion he might have left of her.

She checked the time and knew she needed to get moving. With her phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, she placed a call down to the lobby.

“Hi, Mr. Powell, it’s Laurel. Would you mind calling a cab for me? I’m a little behind on packing.”

“Of course. When should it arrive?”

“Twenty minutes would be perfect. Thank you so much.”

She forced her suitcase closed and leaned heavily on it as she zipped it back up. Laurel left her phone on her bedside table and went to her front door. She turned back for one last look at the home she’d made for herself over many long, trying years. It seemed hard to believe she was about to leave it behind. But it was the only way.

Down in the lobby, Mr. Powell was waiting. “I can help you with that,” the doorman offered, taking a hold of her suitcase to stow in the trunk of the cab pulled up to the curb.

“Thank you.” She just barely bit back a goodbye. Instead, Laurel slid into the passenger seat.

“Where to?”

“The train station, please.”

Moments later, they were driving off and she watched as her apartment disappeared in the side view mirror.

“Going on vacation?” Her driver asked.

Laurel felt a wan smile lift the corners of her mouth. “Something like that.”

Four months ago

Laurel paced the scant floor space between the bed and the wall, her mind chasing itself around in similar circles.

She was running low on cash. Not enough for it to be an emergency yet, but even cheap motels like this one she was staying in started to add up night after night.

The minute she went to withdraw more funds she was sure her father would be on her trail. If he still had his detective’s badge she doubted she’d have made it this long without him finding her. And if he found her like this...it just wasn’t thinkable.

Laurel placed a hand over her stomach, which was decidedly firmer than it had been months ago before all this. Before she’d hatched a crazy plan to run away with a baby she didn’t even have enough money to get another checkup for let alone take care of once it was born.

She couldn’t do this on her own, but she had no one. By keeping an eye on any Starling news she could tell Oliver was still God knew where. Her father had enough of his own troubles, if he’d even want to help her after all the worry she must have caused him. Thea was much too young for her to depend on for this. She had nothing else that resembled family.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Her mother was just a short train ride away in Central, after all.

Of all people, was she really considering going to her mother? Maybe things were better between them than they had been, but nearly five years of no contact was a lot to forget.

But what other options did she have?

Laurel checked out of the motel that morning and headed for the nearest train station. She purchased another ticket in cash, this time to Central, and waited to board.

The entire journey she was a nervous wreck, thinking up all the many ways this could and would go wrong. It took everything in her to actually leave the Central City train station and not simply hop a second train out of there. From there she splurged a little on a taxi cab as she only had an address and no way of knowing how to get to her mother’s house just on the edge of the suburbs. Laurel paid the driver and got out, pulling her suitcase along behind her as she came up the walk for the very first time.

It was a one-level building, small without seeming too cramped. There was a tree in the yard and a couple different kinds of flowers that had mostly wilted, though they couldn’t hold her interest for long.

She drew in a deep breath, her hand resting just inches from the door. Could she really do this? She didn’t have many options, true, but what would her mother say? What if she refused to help her?

There was no way of knowing until it happened. She rapped on the door and then planted her feet firmly on the doorstep. The wait wasn’t very long, and soon enough she was once again face to face with her mother.

The older woman’s eyes went wide at the sight of her. “Laurel!”

She tried not to cringe as she offered a, “Hi, Mom.”

The next thing she knew, Laurel was being pulled over the threshold and into the older woman’s arms. It was so unfamiliar a sensation to her that she couldn’t help standing there stiffly for a moment before remembering to move her arms to reciprocate.

“Oh, thank goodness!” She felt lips against her cheek and then her mom was taking great gasps of air as she held her tightly. “Oh, Laurel!”

She found herself being pulled even further inside and led into a living room. Her mother’s home for the last six years, and she was just seeing it for the first time. There was a picture of both her and Sara on one of the end tables next to the couch her mom guided her to sit on. Laurel wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Does Quentin know you’re safe?”

Her gaze dropped to the rug.“He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“What? Why haven’t you told him?” Her mom reached into her pocket. “Did you need a phone? Let me call him—”

“No! No, mom, please don’t call him,” she begged.

“He’s been worried sick, honey,” her mother told her, and something twisted painfully in Laurel’s gut. “Your father loves you.”

“He won’t- he won’t love me if he finds out,” she managed around the lump rising in her throat. “He’ll hate me. If he doesn’t already—when he drinks he says things, he blames me for Sara getting on the boat, and then he says he didn’t mean it, but he would this time. He already thinks I’m a—you don’t know what it’s been like, you left.”

“Alright, alright, I’m not calling.” Her mother placed the phone down and instead knelt in front of her. “Tell me what’s happened. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Laurel shook her head, wiping furiously at the tears that continued to spill over. This wasn’t really the plan. But her mother was here and listening, actually listening to her. And it had been so long since she could truly talk to someone she knew.

A tremulous smile rose to her face. “I’m pregnant.”

Her mother’s eyes went wide before darting to her stomach. She wasn’t showing yet, which was normal or so the scant reading material she’d been able to get her hands on said.

“Oh, Laurel.”

Her smile fell just as quickly as it had come. “I know.”

“I can’t imagine, and with Tommy—”

A choked sob left Laurel, and she shook her head as her eyes squeezed shut in shame. “It’s not Tommy’s.”

“Then who—? Oh, honey.” For the second time that night, her mom reached out and hugged her. Laurel held on tight this time, needing the comfort, needing the release.

“I know. I know it looks bad. We’d broken up, and then Oliver told me he still loved me, and I- I just didn’t think.” She sniffed loudly and swiped at her nose. “God, mom, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

Laurel froze, and her mother pulled back slowly, her hands trailing down Laurel’s shoulders to rest on her arms.

“I know I haven’t been a very good mother to you — or a mother at all.” Her mom looked down, not seeming able to meet her gaze. “You should have felt able to come to your father or I the minute you found out, and if you didn’t I only have myself to blame.” She looked up again, and Laurel was shocked to see tears in her eyes. “I was so consumed with grief from losing Sara that I didn’t realize I was losing you, too. And I don’t know how I can make that up to you.”

Laurel found it nearly impossible to speak around the lump in her throat. “That’s okay, mom. It’s okay.”

“Tell me what you need. Whatever you need.”

She was rapidly becoming overwhelmed. “I- I was just hoping to stay for a week, maybe two? I need to find somewhere to work or I’m gonna run out of money, and I—”

Her mother shook her head. “You’ll stay here, but for as long as you need. Let me do what I should have been doing for you. You take care of the baby.” She rose up to place a kiss on the top of Laurel’s forehead. “I’ll look after the rest.”

Somehow, despite everything that had happened in her life so far, this was the moment she really felt she was dreaming.

Two months ago

Laurel had fallen into something of a routine. Wake up, eat with her mother, head out for a walk around the neighborhood or do some exercises at home while her mom left to teach. Even if her stomach was slowly beginning to grow didn’t mean she had to totally let herself go, and it wasn’t as though she had much else to do apart from the occasional check up on the baby. Then she read up on the news in both Central and Starling or picked up one of the paperbacks lying around the house.

Probably the strangest adjustment was just how much time she and her mother spent together now. They got dinner or Laurel would attempt to fix something that would then need to be salvaged once her mom got home from the University, on weekends they watched movies, and rather than a partner it was her mom that accompanied her to the classes on breathing and other what-to-know-about-expecting-and-parenting techniques. It was...nice.

These days, sometimes Laurel had the night to herself if her mom was out on a date, though she had yet to meet the boyfriend. The first few weeks, her mother had come straight home from classes and always seemed relieved to find Laurel still there. She hadn’t brought up contacting her dad again yet either, which she suspected was out of fear that Laurel might run for it. She couldn’t really say whether or not it was warranted.

It still felt unreal how well her mother had taken the news, and she didn’t know if she could hope for the same from her father. It didn’t stop the guilt from churning on the few occasions her parents talked, and her mother had to lie over the phone that she still hadn’t seen her. Yet still she relied on her mom’s silence.

Of course just when she’d gotten settled, everything changed again.

“Billionaire and son of the woman accused of conspiring to commit mass murder, Oliver Queen, has returned to his hometown and in just the nick of time. With Stellmoor International poised to buy the majority of shares in Queen Consolidated, the Queen heir will need to hope for another miracle not unlike his rescue from an island in the North China sea one year ago.”

“Will you tell him?” Her mom stood with her arms braced on the kitchen counter, eyes on the television.

“I don’t know.” It had been so long, she’d simply begun to assume none of them would ever hear from Oliver again. Now he was back and totally unaware of the plight she was in. Could she even hope he’d want to be involved at this stage?

He had a sense of duty to family, that was true. Laurel wasn’t sure if this counted. Did an accident borne out of a moment of passion warrant his concern? Did Laurel?

“Maybe I should let him get settled back in first?”

Her mother shrugged, leaving the choice up to her.

The next forty-eight hours saw an attack at Queen Consolidated, Thea kidnapped and saved by the Hood who made a surprise return, and Oliver only barely acquiring a co-ownership of his family’s company. And it only seemed to grow worse from there. Laurel watched in horror the next week as Alderman Sebastian Blood of the Glades whipped up an angry mob to swarm Oliver’s car, one member of the crowd smashing a window with a thrown brick.

“It’s just not safe, is it?” She asked her mother as she paced back and forth behind the couch. “And even if it was, Oliver’s just managed to hold onto the company, Mrs. Queen’s trial is coming up...their family doesn’t need a scandal like this.” Laurel glanced down at the bulge in her stomach her old Starling U hoodie wasn’t quite able to hide anymore. “And I couldn’t do that to the baby.”

“As much as I think he at least ought to know, I can’t help but agree. Anyone connected with the Queens right now seems to be in danger.” Her mother was frowning, but clearly resigned. “Keeping the baby safe is your first priority, Laurel. Maybe someday things will calm down, but...Oliver will have to understand.”

Laurel spent the next week restless and unhappy. Decided as she was, now more than ever she missed her home and the people there. In an ideal world, she could be picking out baby names with Oliver, mediating lunch with her dad, getting Thea’s advice on how to decorate a nursery...but ideal was the last way to describe her world.

Maybe it could be worth it. She’d been in danger plenty of times over the last year and always come out of it. Maybe if she let herself try, it could work.

Of course, one evening the news served a cruel reminder of just how unsafe Starling currently was.

“Serial killer Barton Mathis, also called the Dollmaker, broke his usual pattern tonight by abducting Officer Quentin Lance. Lance was responsible for Mathis’ incarceration just five years ago, and police are considering this an act of revenge.”

“Oh, Quentin.” Her mother was watching with a hand over her mouth and wide eyes.

“I should be there. God, mom, what have I been doing?” All this time, letting her fear over her father’s reaction keep her from spending time with him. What if that time had run out? What if she’d never get to tell him, never get to make things right?

She nearly had her suitcase half-packed when her mother cried out from the main room, “Laurel! Laurel, they’re saying he’s been found!”

She dropped the shirt she’d been folding and rushed back in front of the television. Early reports were indicating some involvement from the Hood, and she found herself once again unaccountably grateful for his existence, whoever he was.

“Are they saying what condition dad’s in?”

“Not yet.”

She had to know. With trembling fingers, she took out the phone her mother had gotten her when she’d started staying here.

“Laurel?” Her mother asked.

“Oliver will know if dad’s okay,” she said quietly, more to herself than anything. “I can ask him, and then maybe- maybe we can talk. I...I don’t want something bad to happen to one of them without them knowing.”

She’d entered the last digit and now hit the call button, waiting with her breath held as it rang.

Just when she was thinking he wouldn’t pick up, he did. “Hello?”

Her mind went completely blank at the sound of his voice, and Laurel couldn’t think of what to say.

“Hello?” Oliver repeated, a bit more tersely this time. “Is anybody—”

He’d stopped, and she didn’t know why. She knew she should speak, but her voice still wouldn’t come.

And then Oliver said one word. “Laurel?”

Her breath hitched. How? How could he possibly know?

And yet on the other end of the line, Oliver only sounded more certain of himself as he tried again, “Laurel, please, if—”

She ripped the phone from her ear, mashing the end call button, just barely catching his cry of “—wait!”

“Honey?” Her mom was watching her with evident concern.

“I—I just—” It felt like her throat was closing up, and the phone fell from her fingers as she dropped her head into her hands.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Her mother said, sitting next to her on the couch and wrapping her arms around her.

“How do I even tell him, mom? How do I tell him now?”

Her mother held her through her tears over the absolute mess she’d made of things.

Two hours ago

Laurel stood in line at the post office shifting her weight from foot to foot, and not only because they were tired of carrying her weight. Part of her still wanted to turn around and walk right out, but she’d made it this far.

The little box she held kept drawing her eyes, and she’d lost track of how many times she’d read the address she’d written on the side. The name on that address in particular.

Quentin Lance

After many long, late night talks with her mother, she’d finally made the decision to reach out. The baby was due in just under two months, and while she still couldn’t work up the nerve to go back to Starling City herself, it was long past time for her to face up to her actions. At least to her father. It hadn’t been fair to keep this from him, no matter what he thought of her as a result. Whether he chose to shut her out of his life permanently was his choice, but at the least he would know she was okay. As okay as she could be, all things considered.

She stepped up to the next available counter. “Hi, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?” The post office worker rattled off in a bored tone.

“Fine, thanks. How much is it to make sure it arrives before Christmas?”

“Well, we’ve got rates for priority or expedited shipping, overnight—”

“I’ll take overnight,” Laurel decided. Now that she was here and really doing this it seemed silly to wait any longer. Either her dad would forgive her or he wouldn’t, but it was the holidays, and this was the best she could give him.

Her abruptness caused a blink from the woman behind the counter, and she actually seemed to look at Laurel properly for the first time.

“Alright, press that button on the screen,” the woman told her. She handed over the money next and waited for her change.

“You have a good holiday.”

“Thanks, you too,” said Laurel.

“Is the little one coming before or after?”

She found herself smiling in spite of her nerves. “After. I’m still two months from my due date.”

“Well, you take care now. And good luck!”

Laurel left the counter and the package behind, not necessarily feeling any better about it but knowing it was out of her hands now. She’d just have to see what happened once her dad received it.

A man held the door open for her as she exited the post office, and Laurel thanked him before turning to find a bench just outside to sit on until her mom’s class let out that evening and she could pick her up. She didn’t mind waiting. It was plenty warm out for December.

As the time dragged on, however, storm clouds began to gather, causing the skies to darken even quicker than usual. She moved back inside for a time and made a stop in the restroom, but a glance at her watch showed she’d be forced out again soon enough.

“You got a ride home?”

Laurel jumped, but it was only the woman who had helped her at the counter. She was zipping up a raincoat and had an umbrella.

“Should be on its way,” Laurel answered.

“Alright, you have a good night then. Shame we’re getting rain like this instead of snow for the holidays.”

“Yeah.” Laurel watched the woman head out to her car, then exited the post office before one of the other workers felt they had to ask her to leave. The bench was still unoccupied so she reclaimed it and settled in to wait again and worry about the package and her father.

Even if it didn’t look or feel much like Christmas, she’d just have to hope for a miracle, because that was what it was going to take for this family of hers to come back together.

But it wasn’t a miracle that struck only an hour later.

[thefanficnewbie]

The Unexpected Punk on a Snowy Night - Part Two | Chloe Price x reader

Read pt 1 here 

Summary: Now that you have a guest at home, Christmas surely won’t go as predicted, and that’s a fact. Still, watching a movie with some popcorn should be easy and entertaining enough, right? Right?

Warnings: none - apart from Chloe’s usual cursing

Author’s note: This story is set before the events in BtS.

“Chloe, c’mon! It’s almost ready!” You yelled as you poured soda into two glasses. The ‘pops’ coming from the microwave increased by the second, the familiar smell of salt and butter floating in the kitchen as your stomach roared in expectation.

“Coming!” Chloe’s voice rang a few seconds later, the third time she’d answered the exact thing since the moment she’d gotten under your shower. Not that it bothered you. The teenager had arrived with a shirt damped of beer and a persistent odor of cigarettes, besides being dangerously cold after spending so much time outside without proper clothing. She deserved a good bath.

Only now the popcorn was ready, and you had to wait for her to choose a damned movie on TV. After letting the bowl and cups on the living room side table and adding a few more cushions to the sofa for comfort, you finally let your impatience loose and headed to your suite. You didn’t worry about knocking, intending to go straight towards the bathroom door to hurry up your guest.

“Oh, shit.” You widened your eyes as you stepped into the bedroom, already regretting the decision. A dark flush spread on your cheeks, a wave of nervousness flowed through your body and you forced yourself to look away, teeth biting your lower lip.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

In front of you, stood Chloe Price, frozen by your sudden entrance, halfway through putting on one of your PJ pants, only a black top bra on her upper body. Her surprised face mirrored yours, and the following moments were filled with such an awkward silence that you started to question every choice you’ve ever made in your life.

Chloe was the first to break it. The punk hesitantly cleared her throat and reached out for the t-shirt on the bed, sliding it over her body. At that, you slowly rose your eyes to meet hers, too embarrassed to even think of an acceptable apology.

“I, uh- I forgot to take the clothes to the bathroom with me. Sorry…” She scratched the back of her neck. If it weren’t for your own self-consciousness, you might have noticed the clear blush on her face.

“No, I-” You resisted the urge to turn around and run away to Antarctica “I should’ve knocked, it’s my bad.”

“It’s fine.” Chloe said dismissively “But, um, you said the popcorn was ready?”

“Yes!” You gladly walked out of the room, still recovering from such an awkward situation. The girl followed your lead as you took the bowl and cups and climbed onto the sofa. 

“Geez, I’m starving.” Chloe dove her hand into the popcorn and brought out a fistful to her mouth. You smiled at that, continuing to browse the movies of the cable TV.

“Hm, this needs more salt.” She said in-between chews. “And no way in hell we’re watching Home Alone!” She added as the title popped on the screen. You chuckled and handed her the remote, starting to stand up.

“Wait, what are you doing?” She turned to you with furrowed eyebrows, though using the opportunity to switch channels.

“Uh, getting some more salt?”

“What? No, lemme do it.” The teen grabbed your wrist and pulled you back down.

“It’s ok, really, I-” But she was already up and heading to the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, promise I won’t break anything!” Chloe said with a smirk. You opened your mouth to protest, but decided against it with a resigned sigh, sinking back onto the sofa. The peacefulness lasted a good three seconds before realization hit you.

“Wait, Chloe!” You jumped to your feet, running after her “Careful with the-”

“Fuck!”

Your face fell as you stepped into the kitchen and spotted the punk leaning slightly over the bowl, a panicked expression her face, the shaker still on her hand, and, as you feared, a pile of salt over the popcorn. Just like a small, snowy mountain from Alaska.

Too late.

“Shit, I’m sorry, (Y/N).” She started to apologize, but you shook your head dismissively, surprisingly amused at the situation. The same thing had happened to you a week ago, only with scrambled eggs, instead of popcorn.

“Geez, it’s my bad, I should’ve warned you…” You chuckled, getting closer to have a better look at the accident. “It’s the shaker, guess it isn’t closing tight enough.”

“I noticed.” Her lips curved upward “Man, I totally ruined this.” She hesitantly tried one popcorn out of the edges of the bowl, grimacing. “Unless we want to get a bad case of hypertension.”

You rolled your eyes at her, slightly tilting your head, a smile gracing your features.

“I guess I can fix us something else… Any suggestions?” You raised an eyebrow, also trying to come up with ideas. That was the last popcorn portion you had.

“That depends… What’s on the menu?” Chloe looked at you playfully.

“Well…” You turned around and started to examine the cabinets, listing whatever you found - which honestly wasn’t much, you hadn’t gone to the grocery store in a couple weeks. “Oh, wait, I’ve got some chocolate here.” You stretched your arm to reach the bars, putting them on the table with a satisfied smile. 

“Good, ‘cause all I could find is fruit.” The teen had started to explore your refrigerator, and now placed several packages of strawberries, grapes, and cherries next to the chocolate, along with two pears and bananas.  “This is way too healthy for me, are you a bird or something?” 

“I was supposed to take those to my parent’s house.” You laughed, also slightly disturbed by the amount of fitness food in your kitchen. But Chloe wasn’t paying attention to you anymore, now staring at everything you two had assembled on the table, a hopeful smile on her face.

“Hey… Is there any chance you know how to make fondue?”

“Too much milk.”

“No, it’s not! It’s still dense.” You kept on stirring the mixture and pouring the milk in.

“It’s sauce, it’s supposed to be dense!” Chloe exclaimed exasperated, leaning on the wall beside the stove.

“Not this dense, the recipe said to put in half of the chocolate’s volume in milk.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but you passed the half mark ten minutes ago.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I told you s-”

“Don’t you dare!” You raised your hands in defeat, stepping back as a very smug Chloe Price took your place in front of the pan, now filled with a sauce as thin as juice.

“Next time, leave it to the pro here, will you?” She teased, earning a frustrated huff from you as you started to wash and cut the pears.

“Shut up.”

“I can’t believe we’re done!” You gleefully walked into the living room, carrying a big place full of neatly arranged fruit slices.

“Not thanks to you.” Chloe joked, following you with a bowl of delicious dark chocolate sauce.

Suddenly, a deep, unmistakable sound rang in the silent room. You instantly looked at your belly, feeling your stomach complain at the emptiness inside of it. Your cheeks warmed up, your eyes closed tight. One more cringy moment added to your vast, vast collection.

One second of awkwardness passed.

“I’ll double that.” The punk suddenly burst out laughing, almost letting the bowl fall to the ground. Seeing that, you quickly put the plate on the couch and rushed towards the girl, placing your hands over hers to try and balance the precious chocolate. The moment you touched, a wave of non-existent electricity ran through your fingers, and you could swear you heard your heart beat ten times faster.

“Close one!” She breathed out, and a smile crept onto your face as you looked from the bowl to her.

“Yeah,” Her eyes were beautiful, and you didn’t know how people managed to not stare at them for hours on end. The still rational side of your mind was kind enough to remind, though, that the eye contact was starting to become creepy and weird.

“So, um, I don’t really feel like movies right now…?” You hesitated, slowly taking your hands off hers. What if she wanted to watch something? Especially after all the work put into that fondue-

“Oh, thank God, me either.” Chloe said, visibly relieved, and another giggle left your lips. “If I had to sit through one more dumb Christmas spirit mumbo jumbo…”

“I feel ya,” You turned around, eyes scanning the room in search of something else to do. “C’mere” You smirk, making your way to the well-closed glass doors of the balcony. The snow still fell over the town, glistening as it covered each and every house, a world of whiteness that seemed to envelop your apartment and bring you to a world of your own. One you deeply wanted to share with Chloe.

The punk raised a confused eyebrow as you motioned for her to sit on the carpet, but complied nonetheless as you went to your bedroom to grab a warm, comfy blanket. Back in the living room, you handed it to her and proceeded to put both the bowl and plate on the floor in front of her. 

Finally, you turned off the lamps - leaving only the colorful Christmas lights to dimly illuminate the darkness -, pressed play on your radio so that it played a CD of soft, instrumental tunes, and happily sat down next to the girl. 

“This is hippie…” The teen commented, smirking, as she helped you wrap the blanket around the two of you. “But I like it.” And you would’ve answered, but at that moment your arms, sides, and legs touched hers. Your muscles tensed up, waves of adrenaline burned through your veins and a dozen butterflies sprouted in your stomach. Your eyes doubled size, and it took you a few moments to regain your normal breathing.

“Well, uh, are we going to eat or what?” You managed to ask, glancing at the red strawberries just waiting to be tasted.

“I thought you’d never ask!” Chloe leaned forward, ignoring the toothpicks and dipping a cherry into the sauce with her fingers, before throwing it into her mouth with a satisfied smile… That slowly turned into a grimace.

“Hothothothothot-” She mumbled with her mouth half open, desperately flapping her hands in the air. Honestly, you didn’t know whether to laugh or help. So you did both.

A minute later, and you two tried to breathe in between the laughter. Chloe with a glass of cold soda in her hand, still taking sips and grumbling about her slightly burnt tongue. You replaying the scene over and over in your head, starting to giggle again every time you thought you’d calmed down.

“Ok, I’m gonna try it now.” You announced as your chuckles died down. You chose a specially beautiful strawberry, letting only the tip of it into the chocolate. You then brought it closer to you with your other hand beneath it, to avoid drips on the floor, blew on it and finally took a careful bit.

“Did you really need to do all that?” Chloe asked, clearly unimpressed at your extra measures.

“Unlike yours, my mouth isn’t on fire now, see?” You gave her a cocky smile. “And this is delicious.” You enjoyed the lasting flavor of chocolate in your thoat.

She rolled her eyes and took in air to shoot back a sassy response, but at that second an unexpected punk rock song started playing, and Chloe frowned as she took out her cellphone.

She pressed the hang up button as soon as she glanced at the screen, but you were able to read the contact’s name, “Mom”, and the picture of the Two Whales Diner waitress, Joyce Price.

The girl grunted, shoving the device back into the pocket of the PJs. You waited for her to say something, but wasn’t exactly surprised when that didn’t happen. Dipping a piece of pear into the chocolate, you asked:

“So, what was that all about?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She said curtly, picking a grape. 

“Yeah? Well, maybe that’s exactly what you need..” You turned to her, serious for once. A couple seconds passed and Chloe sighed, slowly leaning back until she lied completely on the floor, hands under her head to support it.

“I get it if you really don’t want to, though.” You hesitated.

“No, it’s ok, I- It’s just bullshit, you know?” She said, letting out her irritation.

‘Good’ You thought, ‘she needs to vent.’ You lied on the floor too, turning your head to her side, hands resting on your belly.

“Fucking step-douche and his stupid-ass mustache decided to steal my mom and my Christmas.” You didn’t know much about her personal life, but from the little she had told you previously, that seemed to be her mother’s boyfriend, whom she’d mentioned one or two times, each time with her voice dripping with anger - just like now. 

“That son of a bitch showed up with a turkey and God knows what, saying he’d spend the holidays with us like normal families do. Who the fuck does he think he is? We are not a fucking family! He could go and die frozen on the snow, for all I care! Hell, I myself would ask Jack Frost to fasten the work!”

You simply listened, your lips closed in a thin line and your eyebrows furrowed. You didn’t know if her anger was contagious, but you already resented the man.

“And you know what’s worse?” She kept going “My mom didn’t say a thing! She just let it happen, she was happy with it! She prepared the food like nothing was wrong, like we were all enjoying some quality time and what’s left of her husband wasn’t rotting under the fucking ground.” Her voice cracked.

“I tried to keep my cool, I fucking tried, but then that asshole started to lecture me on the values of family and Christmas, and I couldn’t deal with that bullshit anymore. So I left. I took two beers from the refrigerator, my emergency stash and walked on the street for hours. Until it started snowing, and then I winded up here.” 

Truth to be told, you had no idea how to respond to that. Silence enveloped the both of you for half a minute after she finished talking until you gathered enough words.

“Well, that really sucks.” Chloe turned to you, and you inwardly winced as her eyes begged for some comfort and reassurance. “I hope step-douche eats too much of his goddamn turkey and gets sick. And I hope you have the honor to kick his ass out of your house.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips.

“I won’t say I understand what’s happening to you because I don’t. But I can imagine, and I can empathize, and I can listen to you the whole night long. I may not be able to offer good advice nor solve all the problems you’ve got, but you’re welcome in my apartment whenever and I’ll be happy to curse that son of a bitch with you.” You smiled, praying those simple words would reach her heart and give her some help, even if just a little bit.

“And, as awful as this Christmas may have started for you, I’m glad it brought you here.” You sat up, but still had your eyes locked on hers “‘Cause I can’t imagine a better way to spend mine.”

“That’s so cheesy.”

“I know. But it’s true, and it helped, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” She tried to hid a smile from you but failed.

“Now, because you were so kind to share this with me…” You picked a gorgeous strawberry and dipped it entirely into the sauce. “Have a reward! C’mon, sit up!” 

Chloe complied with an amused smile, not truly seeing what you were doing and looking at you in surprise as you pushed the fruit into her mouth.Then, she actually tasted it and her face brightened.

“Holy shit, this is amazing.”

“I know, right? All thanks to you.” You smirked.

“Damn right it is!”

And the conversation flowed from there. Whatever awkwardness, reluctance or nervousness vanished, and you two spent hours, even after the fruit and chocolate were gone, talking about the randomest of things. School, hobbies, dreams, childhood, movies, music and even anime. 

Laughter echoed in the apartment every five minutes, getting louder and louder until you had to giggle into cushions to avoid disturbing the neighbors. It became a competition of funny stories, each one making your belly muscles hurt from the effort and your eyes squint as tears streamed down your face.

And sooner than you expected, the first ray of sunlight graced the sky, which got gradually lighter as the night kissed you two goodbye, welcoming a chilly and pleasant Christmas morning. 

“Sleepy yet?” Chloe teased, seeing you rub your eyes.

“Aren’t you?”

“Nah, I could stay awake for hours still-” Her speech was betrayed by a sudden yawn, that she awkwardly tried to avoid, earning chuckles from you. “But yeah, sleep doesn’t sound bad, either.” She smiled sheepishly.

So you led her to your bedroom, gave her a brand new toothbrush and closed all the windows and curtains, trying to create a fake “nightly atmosphere”. Against her weak protests, you insisted that she should sleep in your bed with you - it was double, after all. As if you’d let her sleep on the couch.

And now, after such a long night, both of you warm and cozy under a couple blankets, listening to the early birds chirping outside, you couldn’t picture a better moment than that. Minutes passed, the best parts of the past night still playing before your eyes. 

Chloe and you were turned each to a side, back to back, but as sleepiness started to get the best of you, you slowly turned to her side, whispering:

“Chloe? You awake?” 

A few seconds passed without a response, and you concluded she was asleep. With that knowledge, you gathered enough courage to say what had been floating in your head for hours.

“I really like you.” 

Happy for finally saying it out loud, even though knowing she wouldn’t hear you, you closed your eyes and let the tiredness take over you. Just as you were about to drift into sleep though, you felt the bedsheets moving, and then heard Chloe’s drowsy, but amused voice:

“I really like you, too.”

So, this is the end of this two-shot! Hope y’all liked it!

Once again, I’d really appreciate any feedback and/or reblogs! 

Friendly reminder that requests are opened for both male and female characters (romatnic or platonic).

Merry Christmas! :D

[swimmmusic]

The Lambskin Condom Apocalypse Clinking and clanking in its hinges. The wind off the semi-trucks rattles the gate. Its joints lightly rusted from recent rain. Rain that makes LA drivers scramble around the highway in the kind of frenzy that will ensue when the Zombie Apocalypse actually does take place. Devouring us all and our gluten-free cracker boxes, over-sized paper towel squares, essential oil tinctures, anti-aging Vitamin E lotion bottles, medium Frie cardboard holders, once worn and now forgotten stilettos, chipped red tool boxes, popsicle sticks, Blow-Pop wrappers, secret-wielding journals, waterproof phone cases, twice-thrifted vinyls, temperamental mirrors, auspicious to-do-lists, lambskin condoms, ankle socks, initial-bearing handkerchiefs, futon frames and carbonated mixed-drink cups. Yes, all of that. Gone. Accompanying the rattle of the gate is music from the Cross-Fit Gym a block away. It’s aggressive. Though it does sound motivating, in a foreboding, militant manner. It could either be the Cadence to the Wehrmacht or a new Disturbed song. Either way it’s offensive. On many levels. Today is Sunday. It is usually quieter. Alas it is relatively still at my place. My ‘front yard’ is a driveway, splattered in dust and oil stains. As if a Cal-Arts sophomore became obsessed with Burnt Umber and disenchanted with the restrictive nature (or perhaps just the tedious up-keep) of brushes, thus deciding to throw paint at a canvas for a semester. (Surely leading to a C minus but much fun in the form of psilocybin induced Pareidolia.) The driveway bakes in the dry air. The tequila seeps through the pores in small beads of sweat… Back in the concrete jungle. But just a few hours ago, in the latter part of an unexpected wild night, I sat on the lavish deck of a mansion in Beverly Hills with 4 models discussing what they had stolen from the patio bathroom. The patio was as far as they were allowed to go. With me that is. A giant Samoan bouncer in a bespoke suit told us, apologetically, that the pool, hot tub and tree house were restricted to female guests. The girls had my back. Or at least no interest in swimming in the pool so we returned to the deck. Other girls in tight dresses wandered in and out of the bar area. Caterers were packing up food. One told me, “you should have been here a few hours ago.” ~~~ “A few hours ago” ~~~ We stood outside of a club called Warwick. One of the girls I was with knew a promoter so we waited for him to come outside while everyone looked each other up and down and evaluated in their own minds who was in fact, better than who… strictly in the terms of social status, wealth and beauty. The thing is, until someone grants you access, the people working the door look at you like you are the gum that stuck to their shoe in the parking lot; utterly annoyed that you exist, slightly confused as to why you exist and determined to get rid of you without getting any sticky residue on their fingers. This usually makes me feel small and very insecure. A little sad too I think. Not for myself, but that humans can ever take part in such grotesque behaviors such as war, theft, and in this case, human denigration via low admittance door policies at ‘da club’. Just as I felt me, myself and my self-worth sinking down between the cracks of the sidewalk, a guy with a tight shirt, feathered hair and a middle part came to let us in. (The middle part looked surprisingly good for a middle part.) I have met a few of these promoters and they seem to have the same demeanor with me each time. They glance at me for a second, realize I am part of the package deal, begrudgingly shake my hand and move on to the ladies. There is a part of them that remembers I am a human but that part has been suppressed so strongly by bottle service guidelines that trying to make any meaningful contact feels like someone from the aforementioned zombie apocalypse trying to talk their bitten friend into staying human. We are escorted to an elevated lounge area with a table. Tequila and vodka bottles twinkle on the table like jewels in a Tiffany’s display case. The promoter asks me what I’d like to drink and pours it strong. I’m undeniably charmed a little. Before the alcohol takes effect I gaze around the giant club. I have been to Warwick a couple times and experience the same anxiety in the first ten minutes each time. The ceilings are high. The music is very loud. The people are very handsome. The shirt collars are very sharp. The fedoras are very fedora-y. The high heels are very high and make most girls walk very awkwardly. Along with my anxiety, I feel myself start to judge. But I don’t want to. So I take some deep breaths and ask to see it all differently. I tell myself, “Chris, people have different tastes. It’s ok that people enjoy this. Maybe you can?” Then something magical happens. After the fourth time my friend tells me to take a shot with her and after the fourth time I oblige, I find myself laughing, dancing, hooting, and hands-in-the-air-fake-rapping along to a song I don’t know the words to. DAMMIT! Despite all best intentions, I am now having an absolute blast at Warwick. I can blame it on whatever I want. Booze? Good friends that are unfairly attractive? Infectious party music? Booze? Surprisingly short unisex bathroom lines? Booze? Surprisingly congenial girls in the surprisingly short unisex bathroom lines? The bouncer’s feathered, weightless hair that somehow looks great with a middle part? BOOZE!!! But hey, no matter the cause, I had a mother fucking blast in DA CLUB. Fast forward now passed all these shenanigans to the end of my wild night in Hollywood. What kind of an ending could such an adventure close with you must be wondering? If you guessed a skinny dip in the mansion’s heated pool with pre-paid escorts and the most legendary game of Marco Polo since Ian Zeiring and Scott Baio took on the Grotto… you would be wrong. Optimistic. But wrong. However if you guessed a mud bath with four models in the bed of a Ford Ranchero, where the mud was replaced with Nutella while Gala apple slices rained down from the heavens burying our extremities leaving only our mouths to dip, snap and crunch our way to open air… well… again, you would be wrong. An ambitious little crépe you are, but wrong. Ok, but really now… guess how it could have ended. Yes! Taco Bell! Taco Bell, indeed. We made it in the doors just before closing time. CONFIRMING GOD WAS ON OUR SIDE! But moments later, when it was our turn to order, they refused us service because it was 5 minutes passed closing time. SOLIDIFYING GOD HAD FORSAKEN US! Judging from our reactions, one would have thought we were being ushered into the unlucky side of a Zombie triage line. Luckily, the girls knew a different promoter that was also denied Cheesy Gordita glory. (And yes, in Hollywood promoters are everywhere… like Maserattis… any time you turn your head one is whisking by with some blonde happy to be along for the ride.) He told us of a different Mexican place that would serve us. (Sidenote: Is Taco Bell actually considered Mexican? #deepthots) The girl driving us parried, “But it’s not Taco Bell! Is it good?” He sighed and replied, “It’s open.” I remember thinking to myself in my drunken state, “Damn, that was wise as fuck.” I squinted and shielded my growing respect. The real point of this part of the story is that I have met this promoter multiple times. Each time he barely looks at me in the eye, sadly realizes I’m part of the package deal and begrudgingly shakes my hand as if we have never met. And he does it again. I’m too drunk to think all zen and woke-like so I don’t take any deep breaths. Judgement begins to swirl fiercely around the Sammy Hagar-branded Tequila river rapids in my head. But before I know it, something magical happens! Again! He goes and pays for all of our Mexican food! But get this! Then he just leaves! Like Batman saving us from impending doom! Disappearing before he can collect on his munificent errand. Consider me CHARMED much! I went from commiserating over whether or not it’s a power play for him to be so flippant of my existence to fantasizing about him adopting me as his little Ahijado! I ate a quesadilla. Then I ate two pastor tacos. Then I ate half of one of the girl’s enchiladas. Then I sighed and looked down in defeat. *Earlier that day I had promised myself I would not drink or eat past 9 pm for the rest of the week. So how do I judge Warwick if I had a great night that I’ll always (barely) remember. How do I judge promoters for treating me like a sub-human if they buy me Quesadillas that I’ll never (kind of) forget?!! Ugh. I suppose it is possible to ‘see things differently’. No matter where you are, judging only leaves ya less likely to have fun. Or less likely to stuff your face with a hangover-assuaging enchilada. The end… well, at least for the human portion of my audience… The rest is for God, of which whom I was abandoned by in Taco Bell, but have come to peace with since. Ok, thou One and Only-est… despite all these diplomatic mantras I have reached in my enlightened state… I must address that zombie apocalypse… with all its fleshy deserts and carnal terror? Well Lord, I still ask you please, please take Warwick first; but also please let me have one more night there before you do. I know what you’re thinking, God. But who knew Hell on Earth could be so fun?! -Cookie da Club Crasher * Note from author about title. As for all the things that will go in the end of days… Perhaps not lambskin condoms. I believe those are a myth, produced to drive guilt into the hearts of those without a latex allergy, still too careless to wrap it up. ‘What never existed can never be relinquished’. Which metaphysically speaking, makes Lambskin condoms the most durable form of protection on the market! Now ya know! Be safe kiddos.)

[taytayize123]

Lost Country Heart

Lost Country Heart “Another vice, another call, another bed I shouldn't have crawled out of” Living in a small town has it’s perks, but it can also be very lonely. In my case, I don’t blend in with what's normal, meaning that people think there’s got to be something wrong with me when I’ve always been a little lost in life. My name’s Taylor, and I live in Owensboro, Kentucky. I’m a southern girl through and through, it runs deep in my blood. I don't have blonde hair, tanned legs, or a cute, little, petite frame, meaning I don't look like the girl country singers describe in their songs. When I look in the mirror, I see long, chocolate brown hair that develops natural blonde highlights in the summer, ever changing blue eyes that range from an icy clear blue, or a darker midnight blue, and pale pink lips that somehow always end up in a pout that curves into a smile. Growing up hasn’t always been easy for me. I have gone through a lot of emotional heartache that a child, or young adult, shouldn’t have to go through. For the longest time, I wondered if  anyone cared about how their actions affected me.  In my family, I have a wonderful mother who is one of my idols because she always taught me that no matter what, I need to use my voice and follow my dreams whatever they may entail. My dad is a very hardworking man: a real “keep working hard and you will receive great things in life” type of guy. He lives for his family and wife, which is something I have always admired since I was a little girl. I also have an older sister named Keala that’s eight years older than me. She’s strong willed, yet has a very caring heart. I have a backbone and I'm not scared of standing up to anyone because of that woman. I thank her for that every single day. When I was eleven, I really began to doubt I was good enough. I found out my sister was pregnant by her college boyfriend. It shocked me, because I knew the dreams she had of going to fashion design school. Sadly, these dreams were put on hold. Having to adjust to not being the “baby” in the family and everyone fawning over the new “bundle of joy” made me feel so insignificant, lonely, and uncared for. Six months after Keala had my nephew, my grandfather died from colon cancer. It ended up throwing me into this overwhelming sadness that felt like I was being swallowed up by a dark force that I couldn’t escape from. My saving grace was music; all different kinds ranging from R&B soul stuff to Rock n Roll and Country. I began singing at the age of fourteen in my school’s choir. For my audition,I choose to sing At Last by Etta James. I planted my feet like a tree trunk, gripped the microphone with my left hand so tight my knuckles turned white, and began singing with my eyes shut tightly. Once I finished, I opened my eyes to see my whole choir class cheering and clapping for me. Ever since, I just couldn’t stop. I remember when my teacher told me that I needed to sing and let my voice be heard. I decided that it wasn’t a choice: I had to let it out. When I started High School, I was so uncool and I had an awkward phase. I was sure no guy would ever notice me, and I was right up until my Sophomore year. I came back from summer vacation a totally different person. I had lost a little weight, learned how to dress properly, and actually did my hair and makeup. I finally had developed some major confidence, which is how I met my first boyfriend. His name was Sawyer and he was the quarterback of the football team. He was an all-American boy: he loved football, going muddin (driving big trucks through the mud), and sipping on a ice cold Bud Light. Seven months of dating floats by, when I found out he had been “hooking up” with another girl. I was beyond pissed. I jogged to my car so I didn’t cry at school.  On my way to the car, I passed a sign that read; “End Of The Year Talent Show May 25th!”. Instead of crying about Sawyer, I decided to have a little fun. In turn, I entered the show. The night of the show came and everyone in school showed up, including my family, my friends, and, of course, Sawyer. I peeked behind the curtain, feeling someone tap on my shoulder, telling me it’s time for me to go on. I walked on stage, grabbed the mic stand as the music starts. “Right now, he’s probably slow dancing with a bleach blonde tramp, Right now he’s ordering her some fruity little drink because she can’t shoot a whiskey, standing up behind her showing her how to shoot a combo.” Oh yes, I sang Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood to a full auditorium of people, including that cheating asshole of a boy. He then he proceeded to fast walk out of the place by the time I sang the last note. I showed him not to mess with me every again! After graduating, I choose to move out to Nashville to try my luck at becoming a professional singer. I used all the money I saved up working at this little diner in town. I got in my car and started the drive to my new home state, hoping that I could actually make a name for myself. When I got there, I  got myself a nice little apartment right next to the bars and clubs were where I had gigs around town almost every night. I got a job at a place called Honky Tonk Central. It was a huge, loud, and boisterous club that’s known for great live music. I worked as a bartender, until, one night, a nice looking gentleman walked over to the bar where I was pouring drinks. He noticed I happened to be singing along to She Talks To Angels by The Black Crowes ,which spilled through the big speakers above the bar. The man approached me, saying, “Hey, I heard you singing. I like your voice a lot, would you be interested in an opening slot on Friday night at the Bluebird Cafe?” I couldn’t believe what this man was saying. I was shocked, but beyond excited for this opportunity. The whole rest of the week, I was beyond nervous, trying to figure out what my set list was gonna look like, what outfit I’d wear, and praying to every musical god I have ever looked up to in life that this showcase was going to be a hit. Friday night came before I knew it. I showed up to the Bluebird, wearing a light-wash pair of skinny jeans, a white cotton 70’s inspired blouse, and a pair of cowboy boots. I also had my lucky diamond studs that were given to me by my grandmother just before she passed away. I knew she was there with me in spirit. I got up on stage, beginning my set for the night. I had chosen songs I personally like to listen to. They included Vice by Miranda Lambert, I’d Rather Go Blind by Etta James, Hard To Handle by The Black Crowes, and, to end my set, Piece Of My Heart by Janis Joplin. The last few lines of Piece Of My Heart flowed out of my mouth and the place enraptured into fits of cheering. I even received a standing ovation. I felt like I had won the lottery because all different kinds of greats in music have played at the Bluebird Cafe, and I had just played there too. I decided to go get a drink afterwards. While I sat down on the stool, the guitar player of the house band sat next to me, striking up a conversation. His name was Mason, he had chestnut brown hair and it wasn’t short or long but just enough to run your fingers through. He also had fluorescent green eyes, paired with a sweet smile. I ordered us two Bourbons on the rocks as we chatted about our musical influences, where we grew up, and how important the art of songwriting really is in this decade. One two many bourbons and whiskey shots later, we stumbled out of the club, arms latched onto each other. Mason was leading us to his place, which happened to be just down the street and around the corner. Once, we got there, he pushed me up against the wall as our lips interlocked together, my hands running through his soft hair as his hands ran down my waist to my butt, giving it a squeeze. I giggled, involuntarily breaking our kiss. I suggest we go to the bedroom. He takes my hand, walking me to his room, telling me to lay on the bed. I sit, kicking off my boots as he does the same. I lay down on the bed as I watched him begin to light candles and walk over to the record player. He picks out a record, placing the needle down. I smile when I hear the words of the song Miss You, by The Rolling Stones. This man was sure making the mood perfect. Crawling into bed, he quickly met my lips, beginning to make out. I pulled away, letting him remove my blouse as I took his white button down off, revealing his toned abs. Smiling, I watched his eyes widen as he noticed my ample cleavage displayed before him, earning a sexy smirk from him. He then takes off his jeans showing off a nicely sized package, causing my mouth to curve into an ‘o’ shape, persuading me to wiggle out of my jeans. I remove my bra, freeing my breasts. Mason removes his boxer briefs,  hooking his thumbs into my panties to slowly pull them down. We each spend some time pleasuring each other in many different ways, but the moment that he pushed himself inside me had me gasping for air. Moans slipped through both of our mouths, some of which were his name as well as profanities. I couldn’t believe that this man was making me feel this good. We fell asleep after making love for a few hours, listening to each others heartbeats becoming one cohesive beat. I wake up from sunlight that’s twinkling through his curtains, turning to my right to see this beautiful man sleeping next to me. His tanned skin lying upon my pale skin was a sight I never wanted to forget. I leaned off my side of the bed to reach into my bag for my phone, noticing I have a missed call from the guy who gave me the opening slot at the Bluebird Cafe. While I quietly tip toed into the bathroom, I called him back. He explains that the country musician, Frankie Ballard, needs an opening artist for his tour and he thinks I’d be perfect match for the gig. I accepted, learning that I leave tonight at 6pm. I walk back into the bedroom, picking up my things and writing a note on the pillow explaining everything, hoping he understood that I had to take this job. I left to go home to pack for the tour, and as 6pm rolls around, I board Frankie’s bus, wishing that I get a call from Mason. What a night!

[vincejonesuniverse]

I was born in 1955. Way back then there were basically 3 types of “kids”: just the regular let’s play hide-an-seek, build a fort, throw rocks, ride bikes, ring doorbells and run, make random calls and ask if “Ben Dover” was home (caller ID ruined that), get muddy, mercurochromed bloody knees and elbows, be home by dinner time kind. Then there were the “weird” kids. Now, this class broke down into the “weird” in an eccentric kinda way which made you kinda cool and then there were the “stay away from little Johnny” kinda weird which wasn’t so good, and everybody had at least one friend who fit the former and knew one of the latter. Today the latter generally hold elective office or work at the DMV.

Finally, there were the “special” kids (special being the term used in polite company). Now, I know a lot about this class, for you see, I’m a member. As a child I struggled to “fit in,” be “just one of the kids” and I lived in terror (strong word but completely accurate) of the “short bus” which transported them to school and home again. My generation pretty much walked to and from school. The only time a parent picked up their child was if they were injured beyond the school nurse’s ability to patch them up or they were sick, projectile vomiting kinda sick or did something REALLY BAD, like invade Poland. So, every day when the short bus would pass me, twice, I would freeze up inside, deathly afraid of being found out. I was seven when I first began considering suicide.

I was adopted at six weeks of age and unbeknownst to my new parents, I was “special” as well as being a sickly child; my heart stopping more than once before I was 9. As a result, my father felt cheated out of the son he envisioned having, and though I supposed he tried, it was abundantly clear he would have traded me in for a different model if given the chance. Mom was Mom. I could have been on death row, guilty as sin, and she would have been there patting me on the arm saying, “its OK honey, the Governor will call since I know in my heart you are a good boy.” But I couldn’t talk her or anyone about what I was feeling and experiencing, hell, I couldn’t even put it into words for myself.

I didn’t know why I was different, but it was clear I was. I would watch the interactions of my playmates, confounded as to the ways they related and responded to each other, and they did it so effortlessly. I’d hang in the background, try to be a part of without really being noticed, especially for the wrong reasons. And I watched a lot of TV looking for clues.

I had a hard time making and keeping eye contact and would often look off to the side when talking to someone. I would say “inappropriate” things (not like bad language or such, well, OK, sometimes, my mind just makes connections which make perfect sense to me, others, not so much) and had no clue as to why they were inappropriate. I would get that hated scrunched up nose narrowed eyed “say what” look and know I had somehow messed up.

In the early 60’s IQ tests were the rage. When the sealed envelopes with the results were handed out in my class, everyone got a white envelope, well almost everyone, mine was manila in color. That day’s walk home was filled with thoughts of suicide and ways to do it because I knew this was it. I left the envelope on the kitchen table (the thought never crossed my mind to disappear it) and waited in my room resigned to my fate. When Mom opened it all it said was the school wanted them to make an appointment to come in for a conference. My Dad was pissed (yep, that is the word he used) because he would have to take off work and was sure I had done something I was covering up. I maintained ignorance, thankful for the reprieve, dreading what I thought I KNEW was coming. The day came and I attended the meeting with the Vice-Principal as well. They were told I was, wait for it, ABNORMALLY intelligent. I don’t know what else was said after that, for I had shut down and blanked out. It was in the car driving home when I came back around to my father saying, “that was a huge waste of time.” I waited for “the” talk I had been dreading, but it never materialized. I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened and it was never brought up again. I really don’t know why they had my parents come in, this was before GATE or programs for gifted students existed, I think they were just as perplexed at what to do with me as I was.

At a very early age I decided the best course of action was to try to “fit in,” so I dedicated myself to mimicry. I would surreptitiously watch you: your facial expressions, the tone of your voice, the words you chose, how others reacted to you and how you reciprocated. And I practiced and practiced. You know how people say they have done something a “thousand” times? From that point (around 7) through High School I spent thousands of hours in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing the things that came so naturally to you, until it became second nature. I taught myself to “fit in,” to act as if, even though I didn’t understand the underlying why’s.

And life went on. I looked at what generally qualified as “normal” (not surprisingly a lot of that came from TV) and started checking off the boxes. In time my fear of being “found out” diminished, but I was still a little “weird” which was kinda OK in High School. I played sports, got a girlfriend (relationships took my acting to a whole new level, and I still sucked at them), had a small circle of friends and was bored out of my mind. I drove my teachers to distraction by rarely turning in homework but acing tests. My poor mother on numerous occasions had to fight with instructors to pass me. I wouldn’t have graduated High School if not for her. She was 5’1 & ¾" as she would often proudly state and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. One her favorite momisims was “dynamite and poison come in small packages,” she was a force to be reckoned with.

What really made High School tolerable though were the drugs and alcohol. See, if you were loaded or drunk you were expected to say and do inappropriate things. It would be forgiven with the blanket, “oh, he is just f#%ked up.” Talk about a get out of jail free card. As you can well imagine, drugs and alcohol became constant companions and close personal friends. Time passed and I kept checking off boxes: I got married (poor girl), bought a house, became a father and had the beginnings of a career in business management, because that is what “normal” life looked like, right? Things were good, at least I thought so, right up until they weren’t. My reliance on intoxicants turned on me and I ended up out of control, alone, broke, in dire straits physically and mentally. Then at 30 years of age I sought help and have been free of active addiction since 1985.

When I first I entered the community of recovery I was amazed. They talked about secrets and being “the actor,” of hidden feelings and motivations, lies and destructive behaviors. I felt like I was home at last and I let my guard down a little. Though I am still a part of this community, this feeling lasted only a couple of years until I had to face the truth, though I had much in common, I was still “special” and proceeded to work to “fit in” once again.

You see, I’m Autistic and all that implies. Hyper focus, given to routine, poor socialization skills, difficulty in forming and maintaining relationships, the whole eye contact thing (I have been practicing that for over 55 years and I still get it wrong) and so on. I am “high functioning” with (if you believe the tests) a high IQ. Sounds good, but to me it’s like being the car in the junkyard with the best paint job and good tires. I know, I know, just stop it. You must admit though it is a pretty good line. Shhh…just between you and me, the whole IQ testing thing, today I am pretty sure all it really denotes is someone who takes IQ tests well. Just sayin.

There used to be a thing called Asperger Syndrome, which pretty much described me. It is not a thing anymore though, which kinda sucks cause Asperger sounds like you’re having a burger made from snake and only real men eat snake burgers, I could see John Wayne or Errol Flynn eating a snake burger and liking it (remember, born in 55).

It wasn’t until President Kennedy came to office that the approach to mental health and how we address and work with children who are “special” began to change. In the ensuing decades a new world of resources and understanding has emerged, and had I been born a decade or so later, my life probably would have had a very different trajectory.

There are myriad of ways we can be defined, if we allow it. I am not DISabled; I am just other abled. I see the world through a prism of colors, sounds and textures different than you, not a good thing or a bad thing, it just is what it is. On the upside, having studied people’s expressions (micro and macro), vocal inflections, body language, etc. since I was a small child, I have an uncanny ability for “reading” people and predicting behavior, especially those who suffer from addiction.

Today, maybe it has to do with getting older, but I don’t care anymore about “fitting in,” I want to spend the rest of my days free of the fear-based restrictions I placed on myself and be honest. I met a young man recently who was Autistic, I asked him how he was coping with life and fitting in. You know what he said? “Screw’em. If they don’t like me for who I am, I don’t want them in my life.” I cried.

We all have gifts and talents, are part of the grand fabric of life, the tapestry of colors truly a wonder. All here to teach and be taught, no one without or lacking value. Today I see the world through a new pair of glasses and though the music in my mind is somewhat different from yours, it is all part of the great symphony, every note of value, even those off key for they provide the impetus for change and growth. The key is, and always has been, love, and from love acceptance and respect.

So, if we ever meet in the “real” world, whatever that is, I may say something a little off key or be a little too blunt, but don’t take it personally. Oh, and I am told I can be a little intense so there is that. It is just me, being me, no longer in hiding, and chances are excellent I will probably say something that will make you laugh and though I don’t own a 1949 Buick Roadmaster convertible I am an excellent driver.

[vincejonesuniverse]

I was born in 1955. Way back then there were basically 3 types of “kids”: just the regular let’s play hide-an-seek, build a fort, throw rocks, ride bikes, ring doorbells and run, make random calls and ask if “Ben Dover” was home (caller ID ruined that), get muddy, mercurochromed bloody knees and elbows, be home by dinner time kind. Then there were the “weird” kids. Now, this class broke down into the “weird” in an eccentric kinda way which made you kinda cool and then there were the “stay away from little Johnny” kinda weird which wasn’t so good, and everybody had at least one friend who fit the former and knew one of the latter. Today the latter generally hold elective office or work at the DMV.

Finally, there were the “special” kids (special being the term used in polite company). Now, I know a lot about this class, for you see, I’m a member. As a child I struggled to “fit in,” be “just one of the kids” and I lived in terror (strong word but completely accurate) of the “short bus” which transported them to school and home again. My generation pretty much walked to and from school. The only time a parent picked up their child was if they were injured beyond the school nurse’s ability to patch them up or they were sick, projectile vomiting kinda sick or did something REALLY BAD, like invade Poland. So, every day when the short bus would pass me, twice, I would freeze up inside, deathly afraid of being found out. I was seven when I first began considering suicide.

I was adopted at six weeks of age and unbeknownst to my new parents, I was “special” as well as being a sickly child; my heart stopping more than once before I was 9. As a result, my father felt cheated out of the son he envisioned having, and though I supposed he tried, it was abundantly clear he would have traded me in for a different model if given the chance. Mom was Mom. I could have been on death row, guilty as sin, and she would have been there patting me on the arm saying, “its OK honey, the Governor will call since I know in my heart you are a good boy.” But I couldn’t talk her or anyone about what I was feeling and experiencing, hell, I couldn’t even put it into words for myself.

I didn’t know why I was different, but it was clear I was. I would watch the interactions of my playmates, confounded as to the ways they related and responded to each other, and they did it so effortlessly. I’d hang in the background, try to be a part of without really being noticed, especially for the wrong reasons. And I watched a lot of TV looking for clues.

I had a hard time making and keeping eye contact and would often look off to the side when talking to someone. I would say “inappropriate” things (not like bad language or such, well, OK, sometimes, my mind just makes connections which make perfect sense to me, others, not so much) and had no clue as to why they were inappropriate. I would get that hated scrunched up nose narrowed eyed “say what” look and know I had somehow messed up.

In the early 60’s IQ tests were the rage. When the sealed envelopes with the results were handed out in my class, everyone got a white envelope, well almost everyone, mine was manila in color. That day’s walk home was filled with thoughts of suicide and ways to do it because I knew this was it. I left the envelope on the kitchen table (the thought never crossed my mind to disappear it) and waited in my room resigned to my fate. When Mom opened it all it said was the school wanted them to make an appointment to come in for a conference. My Dad was pissed (yep, that is the word he used) because he would have to take off work and was sure I had done something I was covering up. I maintained ignorance, thankful for the reprieve, dreading what I thought I KNEW was coming. The day came and I attended the meeting with the Vice-Principal as well. They were told I was, wait for it, ABNORMALLY intelligent. I don’t know what else was said after that, for I had shut down and blanked out. It was in the car driving home when I came back around to my father saying, “that was a huge waste of time.” I waited for “the” talk I had been dreading, but it never materialized. I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened and it was never brought up again. I really don’t know why they had my parents come in, this was before GATE or programs for gifted students existed, I think they were just as perplexed at what to do with me as I was.

At a very early age I decided the best course of action was to try to “fit in,” so I dedicated myself to mimicry. I would surreptitiously watch you: your facial expressions, the tone of your voice, the words you chose, how others reacted to you and how you reciprocated. And I practiced and practiced. You know how people say they have done something a “thousand” times? From that point (around 7) through High School I spent thousands of hours in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing the things that came so naturally to you, until it became second nature. I taught myself to “fit in,” to act as if, even though I didn’t understand the underlying why’s.

And life went on. I looked at what generally qualified as “normal” (not surprisingly a lot of that came from TV) and started checking off the boxes. In time my fear of being “found out” diminished, but I was still a little “weird” which was kinda OK in High School. I played sports, got a girlfriend (relationships took my acting to a whole new level, and I still sucked at them), had a small circle of friends and was bored out of my mind. I drove my teachers to distraction by rarely turning in homework but acing tests. My poor mother on numerous occasions had to fight with instructors to pass me. I wouldn’t have graduated High School if not for her. She was 5’1 & ¾" as she would often proudly state and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. One her favorite momisims was “dynamite and poison come in small packages,” she was a force to be reckoned with.

What really made High School tolerable though were the drugs and alcohol. See, if you were loaded or drunk you were expected to say and do inappropriate things. It would be forgiven with the blanket, “oh, he is just f#%ked up.” Talk about a get out of jail free card. As you can well imagine, drugs and alcohol became constant companions and close personal friends. Time passed and I kept checking off boxes: I got married (poor girl), bought a house, became a father and had the beginnings of a career in business management, because that is what “normal” life looked like, right? Things were good, at least I thought so, right up until they weren’t. My reliance on intoxicants turned on me and I ended up out of control, alone, broke, in dire straits physically and mentally. Then at 30 years of age I sought help and have been free of active addiction since 1985.

When I first I entered the community of recovery I was amazed. They talked about secrets and being “the actor,” of hidden feelings and motivations, lies and destructive behaviors. I felt like I was home at last and I let my guard down a little. Though I am still a part of this community, this feeling lasted only a couple of years until I had to face the truth, though I had much in common, I was still “special” and proceeded to work to “fit in” once again.

You see, I’m Autistic and all that implies. Hyper focus, given to routine, poor socialization skills, difficulty in forming and maintaining relationships, the whole eye contact thing (I have been practicing that for over 55 years and I still get it wrong) and so on. I am “high functioning” with (if you believe the tests) a high IQ. Sounds good, but to me it’s like being the car in the junkyard with the best paint job and good tires. I know, I know, just stop it. You must admit though it is a pretty good line. Shhh…just between you and me, the whole IQ testing thing, today I am pretty sure all it really denotes is someone who takes IQ tests well. Just sayin.

There used to be a thing called Asperger Syndrome, which pretty much described me. It is not a thing anymore though, which kinda sucks cause Asperger sounds like you’re having a burger made from snake and only real men eat snake burgers, I could see John Wayne or Errol Flynn eating a snake burger and liking it (remember, born in 55).

It wasn’t until President Kennedy came to office that the approach to mental health and how we address and work with children who are “special” began to change. In the ensuing decades a new world of resources and understanding has emerged, and had I been born a decade or so later, my life probably would have had a very different trajectory.

There are myriad of ways we can be defined, if we allow it. I am not DISabled; I am just other abled. I see the world through a prism of colors, sounds and textures different than you, not a good thing or a bad thing, it just is what it is. On the upside, having studied people’s expressions (micro and macro), vocal inflections, body language, etc. since I was a small child, I have an uncanny ability for “reading” people and predicting behavior, especially those who suffer from addiction.

Today, maybe it has to do with getting older, but I don’t care anymore about “fitting in,” I want to spend the rest of my days free of the fear-based restrictions I placed on myself and be honest. I met a young man recently who was Autistic, I asked him how he was coping with life and fitting in. You know what he said? “Screw’em. If they don’t like me for who I am, I don’t want them in my life.” I cried.

We all have gifts and talents, are part of the grand fabric of life, the tapestry of colors truly a wonder. All here to teach and be taught, no one without or lacking value. Today I see the world through a new pair of glasses and though the music in my mind is somewhat different from yours, it is all part of the great symphony, every note of value, even those off key for they provide the impetus for change and growth. The key is, and always has been, love, and from love acceptance and respect.

So, if we ever meet in the “real” world, whatever that is, I may say something a little off key or be a little too blunt, but don’t take it personally. Oh, and I am told I can be a little intense so there is that. It is just me, being me, no longer in hiding, and chances are excellent I will probably say something that will make you laugh and though I don’t own a 1949 Buick Roadmaster convertible I am an excellent driver.