#her and i use the first (and the cleaner one) one

[shrenvents]

hii can you do some dean smut, maybe he and reader meet in a dive bar or sum?? <3

a/n: sure thing, i hope u like 😉😘

Mind Games

Warnings: Minors dni; Smut, v!penetration (protection used), language, fingering, some fluff, some jealousy

Pairing: Dean Winchester x you

Summary: You and Sam go way back. You and Dean as well, though he has no recollection of it, and for that, you make him pay.

Word Count: 4.1 k

...

The night had been long already when Sam texted you—“Hey, I'm in town. Drinks at Murphy's?”—but you didn’t hesitate to answer yes. It had been quite some time since you’d last seen him, and life had a funny way of pulling people apart after high school, though you and Sam tried to stay in touch here and there.

It hurt when he unexpectedly dropped out of school without explaining why, but thankfully he reconnected down the line, and the rest was history. He was just an easy friend, a good one you could pick up things with even after years of silence.

A dive bar wasn’t exactly your first choice. You preferred places with brighter lighting and cleaner, less sticky floors, without an old jukebox playing songs that were a hit, long before any patrons could remember. But Sam seemed to have a soft spot for them. It suited him, really—the unpretentious atmosphere, the cheap drinks. 

As you stepped past the creaky door, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes hit you like a wave of nostalgia. It reminded you of late nights sneaking into bars with Sam when you were underage, laughing too loud, worrying too little. The memory still made you smile.

You quickly spotted Sam, his broad frame hunched over a small booth in the corner, beer in hand. He looked up, eyes twinkling when he saw you, enthusiastically calling your name. Mid-wave, you froze and your heart skipped a beat after noticing who was sitting across from him —Dean. Sam’s older brother. 

Dean leaned back in his chair, lazily nursing a beer and his signature, cocky smirk as his eyes coasted his surroundings. He looked exactly the same, though his face was a little more rugged, and perhaps a little worn from life.

You’d had a ridiculous crush on Dean back in school. Your best friend's older brother. The guy who could make anyone laugh, who strode around like the world was his oyster. But he never noticed you. Not back then. Dean was too busy sleeping around, charming his way through the female student body, and leaving an abundance of broken hearts in his wake. The few times you were around him, he rarely glanced in your direction. And that was fine. Especially now, since you’ve grown up and moved on…

'Of course he's here,' you thought with an internal roll of your eyes, trying to steel yourself for the sudden rush of old, pitiful memories of unrequited love. You should've guessed he'd be here since Sam told you they'd hit the road together.

With a deep breath, you straightened out your shoulders and paced over, mustering all your strength to fix a calm smile onto your face as you greeted Sam, and his brother, who most likely wouldn’t really know you. "Long time no see," Sam remarked, standing to give you a bear hug, which you immediately returned. “Missed you."

"Missed you too," you replied with a pleased sigh. Your eyes then flickered to Dean for the briefest moment. He hadn’t moved, still reclined in his seat, watching you both with that curious tilt of his head. His silence stretched on long enough that it was clear—he didn’t recognize you.

'Typical,' you thought, and your smile tightened into a thin line as you slid into the booth. Ignoring the way Dean’s gaze dwindled, you decided two could play this game. It might be fun, even.

"Dean, you remember her now, don't you?" Sam asked, oblivious to the tension looming in the air as he gestured to you, hoping the in-person image would jog his memory.

Dean’s brows furrowed, and for a second, you swore you saw something flash behind his forest-coloured eyes. Then, as if he’d decided it wasn’t worth pretending, he shook his head, offering you a half-smile. You dismissed the swarming butterflies in your stomach, realizing this might just be the first time he's truly looked at you. And you’ve seen that look countless times from afar —it was the one he showed to the next girl he'd pick up.

"Sorry," Dean huffed dramatically, feigning disappointment having not remembered you. His voice was a low rumble that made your pulse quicken against your will. "Can’t say I do."

And there it was. Just as you expected. You’d spent countless afternoons back in high school, hanging out with Sam, romanticizing his older brother from the sidelines, praying he’d eventually give you the time of day. But Dean Winchester has always been… Well, Dean Winchester. And he always will be.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms with a smirk of your own, mimicking his relaxed demeanour. "Don’t worry about it. It’s been a while." Dean’s eyes narrowed momentarily, like he knew he’d missed something important, but had no clue what. Sam, ever the peacemaker, cut in with a laugh.

“Well, now that that's settled, drinks are on us. Let’s catch up.” Sam pushed a beer towards you and you downed nearly half, already determined to show that tonight, you weren't gonna be that quiet, shy, unnoticeable girl you were in school. If Dean noticed you now, he was in for one hell of a ride…

You and Sam probably spoke for less than an hour, because, unfortunately for Sam, he could barely get a word in with all of Dean's shameless flirting, which you somewhat entertained. Undoubtedly, neglecting him only egged him on more.

Throughout the night, after Sam gave up and wandered elsewhere, drunk and confused, Dean would make bold throwaway comments, steal lingering glances, and release that low chuckle every time you defiantly teased him. At first, it was satisfying—this was the guy you used to dream about noticing you, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off you. But as the hours ticked by, you recalled all too well who Dean really was: a player. A guy who’d probably seen countless women come and go without a second thought. However, now, with him slowly inching towards you, it was becoming increasingly difficult to disregard the urge to go home with him to spare your dignity.

The second the ragged surface of his jeans started grazing your thigh, you excused yourself to get another drink. Strutting over to the bar, you felt his eyes bore into your backside and a shiver racked down your spine. Rather dizzyly, you ordered another drink but were surprised when a tall stranger offered to pay for it. Despite the unwanted attention, with Dean eyeing you both, you selected to make this stranger an outlet for a potential mistake.

So just for show, you leaned in a little too close, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, ambling with your drink as if you were reluctant to return to Dean. His gaze was burning holes into the man's head the entire time, and you knew this was doing wonders to Dean's inflated ego. 

Then you heard a loud thud behind you, and just as you turned around, Dean was already there, standing close by, staring daggers into the stranger you ironically couldn't remember the name of. Dean then glanced down at you, wordlessly demanding eye contact, and you're rooted to the floor when his hand brazenly brushes across your lower back, to rest comfortably on your hip. "Hey," he smiled as his gaze softened, marking the smooth return of his playboy facade.

"How about we get outta here?" Dean whispered into your ear while his nose skimmed your hair. Subtly taking a deep breath, you seductively beam up at him and note how his grip tightened on your side as if he had to brace himself. "Exactly what I was thinking," you whispered back and Dean's eyes fluttered, and you're so close he likely thinks you're about to kiss, but you have other plans.

"Wanna go?" You asked the man you nearly forgot about, who seems almost as stunned as you sense Dean is. He takes a sharp intake of breath at his rejection, virtually staggering back from you, and the moment his hand lifts from your hot flesh, you slip away and grab the stranger's forearm, swiftly hauling him outside with you, without looking back. As you left, you waved goodbye to Sam. "I'll call you tomorrow," you said with an energetic wink, unable to conceal how giddy you were.

After your dramatic exit, you made it clear to the poor stranger that you had no intention of taking things any further than a walk to your car. But Dean didn’t know that. 

…

The very next day, you made more plans with Sam to make up for yesterday's turn of events, but Dean was relentless. For that whole week in fact. He obviously forced Sam to give him your number, and since then, there have been numerous texts, calls, and unexpected visits. Each time he found you, his approach became more serious, more focused, and still, you’d reject him every time, in a rather absentminded way, which drove him mad. You grew to love the way it made him squirm.

Today was one of those days, at a quiet little bar far from the one you met at, the conversation quickly turned south from the usual banter.

He’d barely sat down before that trademark smirk was back. His green eyes glinted as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table between you, his fingers grazing yours. The touch was subtle, but deliberate—like he was testing the waters. You pulled your hand back just a fraction, enough for him to notice but not enough to discourage him. You were growing unsure of who you were punishing at this point.

"Missed me?" Dean's voice was deep, smooth, and far too confident for someone who’d been chasing you all week and failing miserably. You rolled your eyes playfully and took a sip of your drink. "Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanted to get a quiet drink," you quipped. Dean chuckled, undeterred, shaking his head. "Right, right. That’s why you agreed to meet me here. For a ‘quiet' drink." His voice dripped with mischievous sarcasm, and an undertone of sexual frustration.

You couldn’t help but grin. "Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better." You crossed your legs and kicked out one, lightly touching Dean's, and he tensed. He then closed in, his fingers gently touching the back of your hand, this time pausing just long enough to send a quake up your arm. "You like to keep me guessing, don’t you?" He wet his lips, eyes darting to yours, which were shrivelling up with anticipation.

"Maybe," you admitted with a sheepish grin. "Or maybe I just like taking you down a few pegs." Dean laughed, a deep, throaty sound that sounded a bit like a scoff and sent a rush of heat through you. He didn’t pull away, and the teasing glow in his eyes eased for just a moment as he studied you.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" His voice dropped a notch, and his regard danced across your skin. "Ever since that night at Murphy's… I haven’t stopped thinking about you."

Though your pulse was racing, you shifted away, pretending to be unimpressed. "I'm sure you say that to all the ladies," you taunted with a roll of your eyes. Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "This isn't like that."

You raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. "Oh Please. Not even a little?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I know I didn’t remember you from school. But Sam and I've moved around so much; I never bothered to remember anyone." He winced, as if admitting it aloud stung a little. "Though I have no idea how I don't remember you. I wish I did," he expressed, and he sounded so sincere that you nearly swooned.

"But things are different now. This is different," he proclaimed, eyes wild with a fiery determination. You arched an eyebrow, scooting forward. "So, what’s this been about then?" Though you question Dean, you give him no time to respond, pressing on. "You're just upset that I didn’t fall into your lap like all the others?"

Dean’s eyes were ablaze, and he didn't retract into his seat. If anything, he dipped in closer. "Sorry I hurt your ego," you added, half-sarcastic, half-challenging. He shook his head and his jaw clenched. "Maybe it started out that way," he acknowledged, but his tone held not a trace of his usual humour. "But really, it isn’t like that anymore."

You tilted your head, intrigued by the sincerity in his voice, but confused by his articulation. You’d expected him to laugh it off, throw out a line, but this? This felt… as he said, different. Not to mention the way he was looking at you—like he was seeing you, really seeing you—made your heart skip a beat.

"Oooohhh, okay then," you mocked slowly, drawing out the words. "Tell me, what’s it like Dean?" If you weren't paying such close attention to him, you might have missed how his breath hitched and how his eyes darkened while he inched closer to you. The impish atmosphere between you two had suddenly altered, the circulating tension becoming thick and electric. His hand moved to your thigh under the table, his touch scalding, steady, while his other hand weaved through your fingers.

"It’s like…" He trailed off, his voice a whisper now, his lips brushing your ear. "Every time I see you, I have to resist the urge to…" He paused, cutting himself short as he moved back slightly. His breath was warm on your skin and he peered down at your lips once again, however this time, he appeared vulnerable.

"To what?" You whispered, barely able to get the words out as your heart pounded against your ribs. Dean’s eyes flicked back up to meet yours, his hand tautening on your leg, his thumb slowly rubbing your inner thigh. "To kiss you."

Before you could respond he closed the gap, his lips crashing into yours with a sudden, heated intensity that took your breath away. You melted into the kiss. All the teasing, the banter, the back-and-forth disappeared as you instinctively tangled your fingers into his hair, drawing him in.

Dean groaned softly against your lips, pleased by your instant reaction. His hand moved from yours to cup your cheek, his thumb gently gliding over your flushed skin as the kiss deepened. It was slow at first, then building, and heat swarmed your core when the hand gripping your thigh slid upwards. You felt the pent-up tension you'd been feeling all week, and since the moment you saw him, spill into your actions. He pressed flush against you, leaving no space, and you laid your legs overtop of his lap. His tongue licked your lips surface, grazing your teeth and you gasped, pulling away as much as he allowed.

Breathless and panting, Dean rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That’s what it’s like," he rasped airily, his voice hoarse. And for the first time, you believed him. Things may really be different.

As you got lost in your thoughts, he began to chant your name with that same smile widening. Both his hands then seized your upper arms, shaking you tenderly as he repeated your name. "Tell me what you're thinking," he more or less pleaded.

"I'm thinking that, if I find out you're lying to get in my pants, I'll kill you," you smirked devilishly, peering up at him through hooded eyes. His eyes morphed into a darker shade of black, turned on by your threat. You giggled, lightly shaking your head. "I can't fake this baby," Dean sweet talks, and you note how his manner seems looser now that he's gotten how he feels off his chest.

He pecks your cheek. "You know, I was pretty hurt when you left with that guy the other night," he huffed like the memory still haunted him. You stifled your laugh. "Uh-huh?" His eyes narrowed at your teasing response, though his smile hardly wavered. "You think that's funny?"

"Yeah," you replied immediately with a shrug. "Especially since I was deliberately messing with you." Dean's brows shot into his forehead, creasing it in utter disbelief and bafflement. "I didn't sleep with him Dean," your tone lowers wantonly, "like I said, I wanted to take you down a few pegs."

His wide eyes crinkled as he erupted with laughter, stammering "touché" in between chuckles. You laughed along, admiring how carefree he was at that moment. When his stream of laughter died out, you gulped at the strange look he suddenly showed. "It's a shame," he stated cryptically. Your face twisted with puzzlement, which made Dean's dreamlike expression grow, apparently in deep contemplation. "What?" You snapped jokingly.

"Oh nothing," he sighed while his palms skated down to your torso, cupping your ribcage as he looked to the distance sadly. You smacked his side which made a snort escape him. "Oh, just... If only you left with me that night," he remarked dolefully, unable to hide that glint of lust-fueled wit. "If only," you reiterated with a strained sound, also unable to hide your looping thoughts, which were clouded by desire. "How about we make that happen?" He kissed your other cheek. His lips lingered there and his breath fanned your skin. "How about it?" You responded airily and Dean laughed at your consistent repetition, clearly trying to push his buttons in a way he's grown to love.

Without another word, he slides out of the booth and gently ushers you out, onto your feet, holding your hand firmly in his. With his spare hand, he drops some cash on the table and pulls you to his hip. He walked you both outside, leading you towards his car and you shuddered at the sight. It reminded you of the countless times he'd pick up Sam from school and you'd watch him from afar. The number of fantasies you had of him and that car made your body surge with a fierce, intoxicating need.

He opened his passenger seat and propped you inside, and you obediently admired his every move until he sat behind the wheel. One glimpse of his profile darting from you to the windscreen pushed you off the edge.

"Fuck," you quickly murmured, catching Dean off guard when you abruptly pounced on him, straddling his thighs. You cupped his dome, tugging on his short locks while his hands shot to your waist, dragging you downwards so he could grind into you. You both moaned into the messy kiss, so close to satisfaction, yet so far. He groaned your name when your lips moved to his neck, desperate to leave a mark. He reluctantly tried to halt your attack, but your need overpowered all logic. "I can't wait," he grunted when he wretched your face from his neck. Dean's head thumped against the seat's leather headrest and his eyes were glossy with a sort of determination.

"Get in the back," is all he ordered before he hastily assisted you onto the backseat. He climbed on top of you after grabbing a condom from the glove compartment, following your mouth eagerly, and pecking it a few times as he laid you down. "God you're sexy," he groaned. He then yanked off his jacket and shirt in two swift motions before that familiar smug expression consumed his features. "You're unbelievable," you scoffed and his smirk grew.

"I get that a lot," he commented jokingly and you smacked his side harder than before, displaying your exasperation. He laughed and you threaded your fingers into his hair again to shut him up. His mouth collided with yours, and his hands frantically removed both of your clothes. He sweared loudly when you bucked your hips up and rub his bulge —now covered by his boxers alone. His deep voice let out a surprising whimper when you did it again, this time using your hands to drag him down, clutching his defined hips.

You then had a sudden craving to admit to him how much you longed for this moment, but you opted for: "fuck me." Dean growled into your ear before kissing you rather harshly as he took himself out of his briefs. He cupped your bare breast, which is still partially hidden by your bra since he was too transfixed elsewhere to remove it completely.

When his cock hit your abdomen and he slid on the condom, you hummed a moan, biting your bottom lip in anticipation. "Jesus," he mumbled under his breath when his tip breached your slit. He smoothly glided inside, as if you were two puzzle pieces melding together. Your heart panged and you gasped, while Dean muttered nonsensically. He reared back to look into your eyes once he bottomed out. When he pulled away, his very breath abandoned his lungs as if his soul was now connected to your lips, and you'd be keeping it with you now and forever. For once, he actually felt like putty in someone's hands, and he didn't hate it. Not when you felt like Heaven, after years of experiencing Hellfire.

Underneath him, you remarked on how it felt to finally be touched by Dean... Addictive. Unhurriedly, he guided both your arms above your head, stretching out your spine, and holding your wrists in place with a single hand. The air stilled and you listened to his rapid heartbeats. The tension was palpable as his mouth descended onto yours —quickly going from slow and passionate, to needy and frenzied. Dean suddenly thrust and you yelped, which made him cease his movements immediately. He attempted to pull away from your mouth but you raised your head to pull him back down, unable to do anything else, not with your arms still hoisted above you. You rolled your hips into him and he released a lengthy grunt of approval, clearly understanding that you wanted him to resume his pounding.

He sped up his thrusting and you could barely hold back your cries, loving his strength and weight caging you in, and taking you roughly. Even though his lower half was aggressive, it was still Dean writhing into you, looking down at you with such tenderness, and kissing you in ways that made you hopelessly expect more. At this point, you'd take whatever he'd give you and thank him for it.

"Don't stop," you nearly shouted when your legs begun to shake. He released an animalistic sound, his strokes becoming increasingly choppy. Dean heaves your name, muttering, "You're some kind of fantasy, you know that?" Before you could respond he captured your lips, moaning into your mouth while his fingers slipped between you two. Suddenly his digits rubbed circles onto your clit and you gasped loudly, whining into his all-consuming kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt Dean smirk, but you couldn’t bring yourself to reprimand him when he makes you reach your climax, which rushes over you like a tidal wave, crashing into shore with a loud sob.

"Fuck," Dean's hips stuttered into you, and his eyes squeezed shut as he came, letting go of your wrists to prop himself up in a plank. He breathed in and out slowly, eyelids eventually fluttering open to witness you already surveying him, entranced by his face when it's full of ecstasy. "That was... Fucking amazing," he panted as he monitored your reddened complexion. You nodded, though you shied away from his gaze, feeling all too vulnerable, afraid that history was repeating itself, and you were already head-over-heels for Dean Winchester.

As your mind wandered into a dark place, Dean's calloused finger pads grabbed your attention when they caressed your jaw, swiping your cheek. "I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," he chuckled airily to himself before continuing, "and give me a chance to do that again—many, many times."

Now it's his turn to seem sheepish and you laugh, partially in shock. "No strings attached?" You arched a brow as you questioned what you were, despite having not gone on an actual date yet. He displayed a genuine smile as he shook his head no. "I'm already tangled up in them," he confessed with a shrug.

Your heart flipped and you fought to remain stoic. You then lifted your index finger above your nose, right in his eye line. "I'm givin' you one chance... To do that, over and over again," you whispered sensually, biting back your shit-eating grin. A giddy, boyish look took over Dean's face and your laughter burst through, making your core clench around him and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"How about we start that 'one chance' right now?" You purred, smirking at the way his eyes playfully narrowed. "Gladly."

[cold-neon-ocean]

Posting this by itself because :) I just feel like he should have gotten to wear the mech pilot suit at least once..

(my AU black version and the og green)

[feytouched]

my dumbass dog zaya chewed up all the lowest hanging ornaments on our xmas tree AND the battery pack for the lights -_-

[badnikbreaker]

none of u are ready for the roleswap im cookin up

[zylev-blog]

Batman opened the door, catching the falling body that had come out of the tube. Glowing green Lazarus water flowed around his feet, but he didn’t care. He gently laid the boy onto the ground, listening for breathing sounds. But he wasn’t even sure if his species could breathe. The boy was no older than Tim, with stark-white hair, and pale green skin. The boy wasn’t human, that was for sure, but as to what species he was, Batman had no clue. The teenager hadn’t even opened his eyes since being removed from the tube.

The Lazarus water didn’t smell quite like the pits he was used to. The water smelled cleaner, stronger. Less like battery acid and more like a strong-scented cleaner that he couldn’t give a name to.

He grasped the boy by the shoulders as he picked him up bridal style. He needed to take the boy to the cave, and figure out if he was even alive. A regular hospital wouldn’t be able to do anything for him.

“Batman, we’ve apprehended the last of the men in white suits.” Red Robin said over the comms.

“Good,” His voice was gruff, “Make sure they don’t escape before police arrive.”

Tim didn’t bother saying anything else to him. Neither of them were in the mood for jokes. Not after what they had seen tonight. They had stumbled across a lab in Gotham in an abandoned warehouse. They had thought that it was a Joker hideout when they first arrived, but they had quickly found out that wasn’t the case. After they had began to investigate, they had found corpses of many people that had been thrown into a pit. The bodies had evidence of vivisection, torture, and experimentation. The bodies had ranged from children to adults, but the results were all the same. They were all dead.

They had found tubes like the ones used at Cadmus. They held a few humanoid-species, but most of them looked like they were in varying stages of death. The only tube that looked like it held someone living had been the teenage boy he now held in his arms.

The worst thing about all of this were that they had no idea what this place was, what they were doing, or why they were in Gotham. They had stumbled in by mistake.

He had a lot of work to do.

“No survivors.” Nightwing’s voice sounded. Not even Dick was in a good mood anymore, and he had been joking around for the last few hours.

Batman looked down at the boy in his arms. The boy hadn’t stirred once, hadn’t moved, and hadn’t breathed. He might be carrying a corpse for all he knew.

“And the files?” He prompted.

“Downloading.” Red Robin’s voice was grim. “You’re not going to like it.”

He didn’t like anything about this situation already. How could it get any worse?

“From what I can tell from skimming through the files,” Red Robin continued, “They were experimenting with people’s souls. They killed all of these people because they wanted to catch their ghost.”

“Hrrn.” He looked away from the teenager in his arms. Maybe he didn’t have a corpse in his arms—but a ghost. A ghost of a teenager he failed to save.

What if it had been Tim lying in his arms? Dick? Jason? Damian? Did this teenager have parents before he died, or were his parents in the pit?

The boy stirred, whipping Bruce’s attention back to him. The boy moaned in pain, starting to writhe in his arms.

“You’re safe now.” He said to the boy. “You’re saved.”

“Nnnngh.” The boy opened Lazarus green eyes to look at him. The eyes were hazy, as if exhaustion plagued them. “Batman?”

“They won’t hurt you ever again.” He promised.

“Where is my sister?” The boy asked. “They took her.”

Dick’s words played on repeat in his mind. No survivors. But the boy didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

“We’re still searching the base. She’ll be here somewhere.” He lied.

The boy closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. But even with Bruce watching him, the boy did not breathe. Maybe he didn’t need to anymore. Tears leaked down the boy’s cheeks, as if he knew Bruce’s lie.

[cup-of-starlight-waters]

Okay, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was a prose translation of the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was wonderfully charming and lyrical and perfect for use in a high school, and so a clever English teacher (as one did in the 70s) made a scan of the book for her students, saved it as a pdf, and printed copies off for her students every year. In true teacher tradition, she shared the file with her colleagues, and so for many years the students of the high school all studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight from the same (very badly scanned) version of this wonderful prose translation.

In time, a new teacher became head of the English Department, and while he agreed that the prose translation was very wonderful he felt that the quality of the scan was much less so. Also in true teacher tradition, he then spent hours typing up the scan into a word processor, with a few typos here and there and a few places where he was genuinely just guessing wildly at what the scan actually said. This completed word document was much cleaner and easier for the students to read, and so of course he shared it with his colleagues, including his very new wide-eyed faculty member who was teaching British Literature for the first time (this was me).

As teachers sometimes do, he moved on for greener (ie, better paying) pastures, leaving behind the word document, but not the original pdf scan. This of course meant that as I was attempting to verify whether a weird word was a typo or a genuine artifact of the original translation, I had no other version to compare it to. Being a good card-holding gen zillenial I of course turned to google, making good use of the super secret plagiarism-checking teacher technique “Quotation Marks”, with an astonishing result:

By which I mean literally one result.

For my purposes, this was precisely what I needed: a very clean and crisp scan that allowed me to make corrections to my typed edition: a happily ever after, amen.

But beware, for deep within my soul a terrible Monster was stirring. Bane of procrastinators everywhere, my Curiosity had found a likely looking rabbit hole. See, this wonderfully clear and crisp scan was lacking in two rather important pieces of identifying information: the title of the book from which the scan was taken, and the name of the translator. The only identifying features were the section title “Precursors” (and no, that is not the title of the book, believe me I looked) and this little leaf-like motif by the page numbers:

(Remember the leaf. This will be important later.)

We shall not dwell at length on the hours of internet research that ensued—how the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, grading abandoned in shadows half-lit by the the blue glow of the computer screen—how google search after search racked up, until an email warning of “unusual activity on your account” flashed into momentary existence before being consigned immediately and with some prejudice to the digital void—how one third of the way through a “comprehensive but not exhaustive” list of Sir Gawain translators despair crept in until I was left in utter darkness, screen black and eyes staring dully at the wall.

Above all, let us not admit to the fact that such an afternoon occurred not once, not twice, but three times.

Suffice to say, many hours had been spent in fruitless pursuit before a new thought crept in: if this book was so mysterious, so obscure as to defeat the modern search engine, perhaps the answer lay not in the technologies of today, but the wisdom of the past. Fingers trembling, I pulled up the last blast email that had been sent to current and former faculty and staff, and began to compose an email to the timeless and indomitable woman who had taught English to me when I was a student, and who had, after nearly fifty years, retired from teaching just before I returned to my alma mater.

After staring at the email for approximately five or so minutes, I winced, pressed send, and let my plea sail out into the void. I cannot adequately describe for you the instinctive reverence I possess towards this teacher; suffice to say that Ms English was and is a woman of remarkable character, as much a legend as an institution as a woman of flesh and blood whose enduring influence inspired countless students. There is not a student taught by Ms. English who does not have a story to tell about her, and her decline in her last years of teaching and eventual retirement in the face of COVID was the end of an era. She still remembers me, and every couple months one of her contemporaries and dear friends who still works as a guidance counsellor stops me in the hall to tell me that Ms. English says hello and that she is thrilled that I am teaching here—thrilled that I am teaching honors students—thrilled that I am now teaching the AP students. “Tell her I said hello back,” I always say, and smile.

Ms. English is a legend, and one does not expect legends to respond to you immediately. Who knows when a woman of her generation would next think to check her email? Who knows if she would remember?

The day after I sent the email I got this response:

My friends, I was shaken. I was stunned. Imagine asking God a question and he turns to you and says, “Hold on one moment, let me check with my predecessor.”

The idea that even Ms. English had inherited this mysterious translation had never even occurred to me as a possibility, not when Ms. English had been a faculty member since the early days of the school. How wonderful, I thought to myself. What a great thing, that this translation is so obscure and mysterious that it defeats even Ms. English.

A few days later, Ms. English emailed me again:

(I had, in fact searched through both the English office and the Annex—a dark, weirdly shaped concrete storage area containing a great deal of dust and many aging copies of various books—a few days prior. I had no luck, sadly.)

At last, though, I had a title and a description! I returned to my internet search, only to find to my dismay that there was no book that exactly matched the title. I found THE BRITISH TRADITION: POETRY, PROSE, AND DRAMA (which was not black and the table of contents I found did not include Sir Gawain) and THE ENGLISH TRADITION, a super early edition of the Prentice Hall textbooks we use today, which did have a black cover but there were absolutely zero images I could find of the table of contents or the interior and so I had no way of determining if it was the correct book short of laying out an unfortunate amount of cold hard cash for a potential dead end.

So I sighed, and relinquished my dreams of solving the mystery. Perhaps someday 30 years from now, I thought, I’ll be wandering through one of those mysterious bookshops filled with out of print books and I’ll pick up a book and there will be the translation, found out last!

So I sighed, and told the whole story to my colleagues for a laugh. I sent screenshots of Ms. English’s emails to my siblings who were also taught by her. I told the story to my Dad over dinner as my Great Adventure of the Week.

…my friends. I come by my rabbit-hole curiosity honestly, but my Dad is of a different generation of computer literacy and knows a few Deep Secrets that I have never learned. He asked me the title that Ms. English gave me, pulled up some mysterious catalogue site, and within ten minutes found a title card. There are apparently two copies available in libraries worldwide, one in Philadelphia and the other in British Columbia. I said, “sure, Dad,” and went upstairs. He texted me a link. Rolling my eyes, I opened it and looked at the description.

Huh, I thought. Four volumes, just like Ms. English said. I wonder…

Armed with a slightly different title and a publisher, I looked up “The English Tradition: Fiction macmillan” and the first entry is an eBay sale that had picture of the interior and LO AND BEHOLD:

THE LEAF. LOOK AT THE LEAF.

My dad found it! He found the book!!

Except for one teensy tiny problem which is that the cover of the book is uh a very bright green and not at all black like Ms. English said. Alas, it was a case of mistaken identity, because The English Tradition: Poetry does have a black cover, although it is the fiction volume which contains Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

And so having found the book at last, I have decided to purchase it for the sum of $8, that ever after the origins of this translation may once more be known.

In this year of 2022 this adventure took place, as this post bears witness, the end, amen.

(Edit: See here for part 2!)

[himbosandhardwear]

Eddie scans the room, looking for who or what he's not sure, just keeping his eyes peeled for something interesting. It's Saturday night, a packed house, some of the usual suspects but some new faces too.

One in particular stands out, especially considering his Sears Catalog attire and artfully tousled hair.

There's something about his loose body language that draws Eddie's eye. He's out of place but he doesn't act out of place. Eddie can respect it.

Unfortunately, when their eyes meet, he gets a kicked gut reaction that makes it clear this guy is off limits. The guy looks away immediately, probably thinks Eddie is more likely to pickpocket him than buy him a drink. Oh well. No great loss, he didn't come to get laid anyway.

He makes his way to the bar, gets a shot of Jack and a Miller Lite and waits. Teddy will probably show up before too long, maybe they can bar hop. He sips his beer and looks around some more, noting the older Mexican lady who runs the flower stand on the corner. You wouldn't guess it just by looking at her but she can drink anyone in the place under the table. He should really get her name.

Sears Catalog has moved to a table on the right side of the room, standing with a presumed girlfriend. Their heads are bent close together. He looks up and catches Eddie staring. They both look away again. He's really gotta stop doing that before he gets hate-crimed. It's a known problem, his type being untouchable preppy boys. He's sure if a shrink studied him, they would say it was because he didn't think he was worthy of love, or some shit, but he can't help it. The straighter, the meaner, the cleaner cut, the more Eddie falls all over himself. It’s a miracle he ever gets laid. Thankfully there’s always closet cases. He swore to himself he wasn't going to do that anymore though, he needs to have some self-respect, not let asshole jocks use him and drop him the second an emotion is displayed.

“That outfit is hideous.”

Eddie jolts in his seat. He finds Sears Catalog smirking at him like what he's said is the height of wit.

Eddie wastes no time pouring the rest of his beer over the guy's head.

He stares back at Eddie in shock, almost hurt. Fuck him. He doesn't care, he's not letting some dumbass gymrat hone his bullying skills on him. Not today.

The guy's girlfriend jogs over with a handful of napkins, which is when Eddie splits.

“I told you not to use that line!” He hears her exclaim. Eddie stops in his tracks.

“But…but...he didn't even let me get to the good part,” Sears laments. Eddie can't turn back around, he's frozen in place.

“Yeah, dingus, because it's a stupid fucking line. I'm sorry you had to find out like this but not every guy who makes eye contact with you wants to fuck you.”

“I know that! I just thought… I don't know. Let's just get out of here.”

He sounds so defeated. Eddie did that. He assumed the worst and reacted accordingly. Like an asshole. Like a bully.

They're halfway to the door when Eddie's feet unstick themselves from the floor. He rushes to intercept.

“What was the rest of the line?” He shouts.

Sears turns, eyes wide, unsure.

His…friend? Looks Eddie over, unimpressed. “What's it to you?”

He winces. “Just…uh…I guess I thought you should know, some of the guys who make eye contact do want to fuck you, they're just too stupid to realize they're being hit on.”

Sears and Mean Friend make their own eye contact. Mostly ‘Beat it' and ‘Are you serious?’ and ‘Yes, oh my god, please go.’

Eddie respects their bond.

Once Mean Friend has sufficiently rolled her eyes and threatened Eddie with bodily harm should anything worse than beer befall her friend, she stalks off into the night.

“You should take it off.”

“Huh?” Eddie responds, stupidly.

Sears smiles. “That's the rest of the line. ‘Your outfit is hideous. You should take it off.’”

Fuck, it really is a terrible line. Something a middle aged creep would use. If he'd waited long enough to hear it the first time it would've made him laugh though, which would have broken the ice.

“Awful. Zero out of ten,” he says while grinning. “Looks like you already offended one guy.” He looks at Sears’ wet shirt, appreciating his own handiwork.

“I'll keep workshopping.” His hand comes up slowly, like Eddie might react badly again. “Steve.”

It's his honor and privilege to clasp Steve's hand in his own.

“Eddie. And can I say, your outfit looks great. It would look better on my floor.”

Steve practically twinkles at him. “Stop, I'm already a sure thing.”

He uses the hand still in his grasp to pull Eddie forward and smash their lips together.

When their grandkids ask how they got together, Eddie is going to have to lie.

[mochinomnoms]

Shrimpy Chronicles: First Mating Season

NSFW!Jade Leech x Shrimpmer!Reader X Floyd Leech

Synposis:

Maybe Floyd was being prophetic when he called you ‘Little Shrimpy’. “But I’ve noticed, you’ve been getting pudgier lately, and feverish. Do you have a mating season, amor mia? I wasn’t aware if shrimps did.” She’d been pointing out your latest symptoms of late. Sensitive, soft and plush, hot, and red-cheeked, like your body was preparing you for something. It didn’t help that the waters had been warm of late, or that your husbands had been extra attentive with your meals and treats. And their attention. Especially their attention. The gold wedding bands and pearl ring on your left ring finger probably helped with that, though.

[wc} - 6,873

[cw/tags] - afab!gn!reader, merfolk-sex, breeding kink, prehensile dicks, twins stated to have both sets of sex, double-penetration in one hole, pregancy mentioned at end

[notes] - womp womp, this is my first smut fic, pls be nice. also i cracked and am shrimp-brained i love shrimp reader so fun to write!!!!

If you had to decide between going back home, and leaving Twisted Wonderland, by this point you’d happily stay here for the rest of your days! 

The gold wedding bands and pearl ring on your left ring finger probably helped with that, though. You were admiring them as your mother-in-law Narissa Leech swam to your side, her tail brushing against yours. 

She was a beautiful mermaid, long and slender with an aquamarine tone to her skin, and a speckled snowflake pattern. Her eyes were a bright yellow-gold, and gleamed at you with delight. 

“Mia cara nuora, whatever is going through your head? Still getting used to all this?” She gestured to your legs. Or your tail, you suppose. 

You’d gotten married to the twins just two months ago, and made the commitment to become a merperson, just like them. The first second of your honeymoon consisted of you permanently becoming a merperson, gaining scarlet scales that covered your lower back and hips, clustering into your shrimp tail and white stripe from the hips to the tip of the tail. Between that and the shrimp legs on their hips and upper tail, it was quite ironic that you ended up becoming a cleaner shrimp.

Maybe Floyd was being prophetic when he called you ‘Little Shrimpy’. 

“Yeah, it’s weird. Being in your own body when it wasn’t always your body. I think? I don’t know, it’s strange.” Despite never having 8 legs and a tail, they just felt surprisingly familiar and instinctual. 

“Oh nuora, you’re a natural! Don’t you worry, if my sons could pick up human movements, you’ll be like a true-born merfolk.” She cooed, curling her arm around yours and tugging you along back to your home.

“But I’ve noticed, you’ve been getting pudgier lately, and feverish. Do you have a mating season, amor mia? I wasn’t aware if shrimps did.”

She’d been pointing out your latest symptoms of late. Sensitive, soft and plush, hot, and red-cheeked, like your body was preparing you for something. It didn’t help that the waters had been warm of late, or that your husbands had been extra attentive with your meals and treats. And their attention. Especially their attention.

You’d been filled with the need to be taken care of by your mates. For all intents and purposes, it seemed that you’d been given a mating season with your merform. And with how touchy your husbands had been, they were quite aware, and anticipating the start of your season. 

“I think…I might.” You sheepishly admitted, embarrassed to discuss such an embarrassingly intimate fact. She seemed unbothered and content. 

“Oh how lovely, I have been looking forward to the possibility of becoming a grandmother!” She giggled, delighted at the thought. “You know, morays always have such small broods, but shrimps always have plenty of fry. Will you be considering giving me plenty of grandbabies?”

You flustered and stuttered at the idea of having babies, let alone many. It wasn’t something you were discontent with, in fact the thought of making Mini Yous and Jades and Floyds. 

You wonder how many times you’d have to go to give you your first. Would you be easy to knock up? Or would you need to be fucked over and over to ensure their seed took? 

You had to shake your head to settle down the heat in your cheeks and belly, making you feel all sorts of ways. 

“We’ll see Mama Narissa, I can’t say I’ve thought too much about it.” You lied.

Narissa laughed, twirling you around in a little dance. By the time she stopped, you were so dizzy that you couldn’t swim straight, pushing against her for support. 

“Oh darling, trust me, my boys certainly have. Don’t let them rough you up too much, cara, they’ve always been insatiable!” She laughed at your darling cheeks, teasing you as she took you to the rest home. 

She always swam you to your home, bringing you back from daily mother-in-law excursions. Narissa would take you out to the local town and introduce you to the folks, saying that it would be a good idea to make friends in town and start networking as the newest member of the Leech family. You were…faintly aware of the type of reputation your new family had, and while neither Jade nor Floyd cared about pushing you to maintain any sort of image. 

While their sons might not care (in fact the twins seemed content to just keep you to themselves), but their parents, Narissa and Bruno Leech, did. Narissa scolded her sons when they tried to hide you away, switching shifts at work so that you’d never be alone. 

It was her who insisted that you go out to town, meet with associates, and get you established in your spot in the family. The twins quickly gave in, as few could argue with the head of the Leech family.

You’d been surprised to hear that Narissa was the family head, or Donna, as you’ve heard others call her. From your conversations, Jade and Floyd had made out their father to be the one in charge, while their mother was overprotective and stayed home. While she was protective, she knew many people of various “backgrounds”, and spoke and held herself in a manner that demanded respect. 

Her husband, Bruno, was much more wry and relaxed compared to her, though he’d been the main liaison between Narissa and any associates. He also liked going to the surface for meetings and outings, unlike Narissa who preferred to stay in the sea. 

So, she’d been more than happy to drag her sons to work under their father, while she took you under her wing. You’d been suspicious, and felt that you could safely assume that the Leech parents were grooming you and their sons to eventually take over their positions. 

You appreciated it, since it kept you busy. Plus, you got to see how people really live under the sea, or the Leeches at least. Based on how spoiled the twins were, you were a bit surprised at the lack of servants of any sorts at home, except a small school of cleaner wrasses that immediately scattered off at the wave of your mother-in-law’s hand. 

The home for you and the twins was settled closer to the Rosarian reef, rather than the Northern Coral deep sea. In fact, the home was a coral bed built around a sea cave, apparently a luxurious real estate under the sea! Though, the main appeal was that it was close to a beach on one of the Queendom of Roses’s islands, which you visited to meet with Ace, Deuce, and Grim. 

“Oh, Mama Narissa? Perhaps we can go up to the surface next week when we go out?” You swam into the kitchen together, the meal that Narissa had helped you prepared earlier on the counter. 

“My friends are coming to the beach to visit me, I thought that you might like to meet them?”

Narissa wrinkled her nose, but smiled politely, “I’ve never been a fan of the surface, but I suppose it can’t be helped. I’d love to meet your human friends.”

She clapped her webbed hands, gesturing to the food on the counter as she twirled around in the water. 

“Now, let me show you how to make this dish. The boys loved it as kids, I think you humans called it sushi on the surface. Come one!”

You two had made it home just an hour shy of your husbands’ return. Narissa was diligent in making sure you’d always be able to greet your husbands’ return with sweet words and sweeter kisses. 

And they did enjoy it so, she stayed for 30 minutes to help you finish preparing the supper for the evening, then taking her leave so you could have some alone time for yourself up the remaining 30 minutes. Floyd cooed about having a cute stay at home spouse to come home too, while Jade delighted in the domesticity of it all. 

But between your earlier conversation with Narissa, and the burning need growing in your abdomen, you were yearning for your husbands’ touch and love. 

Narissa noticed before she left, cooing at you like she would a baby. “Oh nuora, are you alright? Maybe go lie down and rest. I’ll send a text to the boys that you’re feeling unwell.”

“Mm, okay…that be…nice…” You clumsy swam past her, clutching to the walls with your hands as she gently grabbed you by the waist. With Narissa as your guide, she helped you lay down on the love seat in the living room. You think she might’ve had a mischievous smile on her lips, but you couldn’t tell as you wearily curled into the cushions to nap. 

You think you could make out her mumble something about ‘babies’ and ‘grandchildren’, but you’d passed out by the time you processed her words. 

The next you woke up, there was a slender hand brushing through your hair, which still retained your color and cut from when you were human. You made out the familiar voices of Jade and Floyd, the latter right above you, as the former sounded like he was in another room. 

“Mmmph, Flooyd? Isss that you?” You murmured, reaching out blindly for Floyd as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Heya, look at my little Shrimpy.” Floyd cooed, sinking down to be face level with you, pushing his forehead against yours. “Mama said you weren’t feeling great. Did you need us?”

Floyd spoke with a baby-voice, nuzzling against you with delight. The scent of salt and lemons, something you’d associated with Floyd, filled your nose as you happily sighed, throwing your arms around his neck to bury your nose against his skin. Floyd made a sound of surprise, though he immediately clutched onto you in response.

“Aw, cute! Hey Jade!” Floyd was giggling as Jade quickly swam back into the room carrying a potion in his hands. His gaze softened, seeing you curled into Floyd’s arms. 

“Oh, look at our sweet pearl.” Jade sighed, smile growing as he watched you pull away from Floyd to open your arms up to him.

“Jaaaade! You’re home too! Give me a kiss~” you weren’t sure when you’d become so blunt and bold. Normally, you’re more reserved, if a bit teasing, with your affections, the twins loved making a game out of who could fluster who first. But right now? You felt…different. 

Your mind felt like it was floating out of your body, watching everything happening from third-person. All of your senses felt more aware, from the sounds of the water currents outside, to the beating of your heart, to the humming of your skin. It was like you were both drunk, high, and yet neither at all. 

None of that mattered, though, not when Jade so sweetly embraced you, the dark markings and freckles on his skin glowing as he teasingly peppered kisses over your flushed cheeks as Floyd did the same to the back of your neck. 

“Aw, why didn’t Shrimpy ask me for a kiss too?” Floyd whined, huffing as you dragged Jade’s lips to yours. He glowed too, pretty like an aurora. He grazed the points of his teeth over your neck, making you whine and shiver. 

“I’m—mmh—sorry, Floyd!” You separated from Jade to tilt your head back, moving one hand to cup Floyd’s cheek. “Kiss! Lemme kiss you!”

Floyd eagerly met your lips with enthusiasm, moving with Jade to sit on the love seat again in his lap, facing Jade.

You hadn’t been intimate since your transformation, so it was slightly embarrassing to be curled into the cushioned shell loveseat, sweaty, lascivious, and sensitive at your husbands’ touches. 

Floyd hummed against your lips as he tangled his long tongue against yours, Jade busy with fluttering your chest and tummy with wet kisses. 

“Darling, look at you, how messy and sweet you look! You’ve missed our touches. You’re craving them, aren’t you?”

Jade chuckled against your belly button, something you kept from being a human, and kissed it. He eyed your tummy, the skin there and the slight translucent sheen to it. 

It wasn’t off-putting, not to them. Why many fish in the sea had see-through skin and muscle, allowing you to see their skeleton and organs. Yours was quite tame compared to those creatures, the rest of your body retaining either a pink or red opaque hue, with only your lower abdomen and stomach having the translucent skin. 

“Of course they have Jade, they’ve gone months without their tummy bein’ filled up.” Floyd purred, moving away from your panting mouth and unfurling his tongue, dragging it down your chest to your navel. “And their body is telling them to breed. Just look at how puffy their slit is getting~”

You whined as both of them moved to direct their heady gaze to your cunt, hot and throbbing for attention. The scales around your slit had been slowly pushed to reveal lips and a clit, trembling under Jade’s hot mouth. Another whine was drawn from your throat, his tongue dragging on the skin around your lips. 

Your entire body felt like it was melting, all the need and heat from this week amounting on top of you like the earth on Atlas’s shoulders. But now? It was all crashing down on you like your body had been waiting for this point. For the touches of your mates along your body, claw tipped fingers just grazing around where your hips and slit were. 

It probably didn’t help that you hadn’t been touched, or touched yourself, in weeks with the confusion of a new body. Though, it seems that the twins were all too happy to help you learn mer anatomy. 

“Jade! Please, I need you to touch me, lick me, drink ‘n eat me up—AH!” You shrilly gasped as he shoved his tongue in your hole, his long tongue rubbing against your walls. You arched your back at the sensation, an intoxicating spike of energy crawling up your spine. Jade drank in your juices, humming as he tapped your g-spot with the tip of his tongue. 

The sensation was quickly becoming like a drug, spiking as Floyd took a long, slow and coveted lick to your clit until he reached the tip of his tongue, flicking it as he drew it away. He giggled at your yelp, staring into your eyes as he started sucking on your clit, suckling like a baby to their mother’s teat. 

And he certainly was sucking the life out of you, keening as you shook from an orgasm that blended into a paralyzing stream of pleasure. 

Yet, you still felt like you were missing something, as the heat in your belly hadn’t dissipated. Rather, it felt like it was getting stronger, begging for something to fill the empty void in you.

So it was helpful that neither twin cared for leaving their meal, waiting for you to either push their heads away, or for them to get bored. You of all people knew that they have a hard time getting bored from things they find interesting, and you were certainly captivating.

Their tongues worked nonstop, Jade tongue-fucking your sweet spots as Floyd made a particularly hard suck to your button, making you buck your hips against his. In fact, they seemed content to just switch places, Jade feeding on your pearl and Floyd pushing his tongue so far in that you’re sure he brushed your cervix. 

Moans and cries freely left your lips, as several smaller orgasms rocked your body. Your chest heaved as you gasped, your gills filling with water. The twins giggled, Jade kissing up your body and Floyd dragging his tongue through your slit. 

“Hmm, Floyd. Look at how needy they are.” Jade melted into your embrace as you wrapped your arms around him, placing wet kisses against his cheeks and lips. “How cute, who knew that they’d get so desperate when in their mating season! No wonder Mother was pushing for us to get home so quickly.” 

Floyd cackled, nuzzling against your chest as he squeezed you against him. “Yeah! No wonder! Do you wanna be filled?”

“Oh, of course they do~” Jade grazed his teeth along your ear, tugging it before letting go to whisper in your ear, “They want to be bred silly! Don’t you, my love? Just ask, and I’ll fill you up over and over again. I’ll fill you up until you’re utterly full, and then eat my cum out of you just to fill you back up again~ Do you like the sound of that—ow, Floyd, that hurts.”

Floyd had reached up to pull at Jade’s strand of hair, a chittering growl reverberating through his chest as he hissed, “Don’t be selfish! They’re my mate too!”

Sleekly, Floyd slid up your body to take his place on your other side, pulling at your chin with his cheek. He let out a high-pitched whine as he did, his words muffling. 

“You want me to fill you up too, right?” Floyd pouted, smacking ticklish kisses to your face and neck. “Floydie will give ya lots of baby Shrimpys! How many do you want? Two? Think we can get three in one go?”

Your body was getting hot again, and you felt empty. There was a desire to be stretched out around your husbands’ dicks.

“Ah, I want—I want,” You cried, moving your hips up, grinding against the water. “I wanna be filled! Both! I wan’ both of you in me!”

Both of them froze and shared a look, their sudden stillness making you feel upset, as you began babbling half-coherent begs and sobs.

“Aw, (Name). Don’t cry.” Floyd shushed you, rubbing his nose against yours as he smiled. “It’s not that we don’t wanna. We really, reeally wanna give you what you want!”

“Mm-hm.” Jade hummed, cupping your cheek as he drew your gaze to him. “Yes, of course we do. But you’re just a bit small, darling.”

Floyd and Jade had always been big, especially in their merforms. And even as a merperson, you didn’t even reach half of their length. There was no question that their dicks would be equally proportional.

“We don’t want to end up breaking you, love.” Jade breathlessly murmured against your ear. Though, from the heady tone of his voice and the grip he had on your hips, you were sure that was a lie. 

“Unless you ask us. Then we’d be happy to.” Floyd cooed into your other ear, hand wandering down to caress your still slick slit, using your juice as lube to rub your clit. “Ask us. We’ll take real good care of ya after, we promise~”

It wasn’t even a question, more a matter of you coughing up your ‘yes’, but your voice was caught in your throat as they resumed their movements. 

Jade took delight in marking up your neck with hickies and suckling your nape, his free hand squeezing your chest and slipping under your cover to pinch your nipple. 

“Ah! I want—fuck!” You gasped as Jade started fondling your chest and suckling from your nipple. “Shit, Jade! Mmh!”

Between his mouth on you, and Floyd whispering sweet, arousing words into your ear, asking you, “don’t you want us to make you feel good? To fill you up?”

Jade hummed in agreement from your chest, tugging it with his teeth before resuming his sucking. You rapidly nodded your head, opening eyes that you didn’t realize were closed. Two gold eyes were watching your expressions. 

Floyd continued being the prettiest devil on your shoulder. “Just say ask. Ask. And say ‘pleeeease’, say ‘Floooyd! Jaaaade! Fuck me pleeeease!’”

Mimicking your voice, Floyd made mean, mocking moans into your ear. You’d be offended if it didn’t make you hot. You’ll fuck him first, then complain later.

A pinch to your clit, and a nibble to your nip, and you were arching and walling, “GAAAH! FLOYD! JADE! FUUUCK ME! PLEEEEASE! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASPLEASEPLEASE—”

You yelped mid beg as Floyd let out his raspy laugh, picking you up in a bridal carry as he zoomed to the bedroom. He’d shoved you into the sheets, adjusting so that your head was hanging off the edge of the soft coral bed. 

The taller twin settled to grind his navel and slit against yours, groaning as his cock was coaxed to slip out to your sticky opening. Jade, gently and firmly guiding your head, pushed his own softening slit to your lips, sighing as you licked around the slit. 

Your own tongue dragged its entire length along Jade’s lips, the salty taste of this slick making your eyes close in bliss. It took but a few more licks for his long cock, green and pink-tipped like a flower, to come out. It followed your tongue and was easily coaxed to thrust into your mouth, prehensile and wrapping around your tongue. 

It was gentle, only thrusting softly into your mouth, until it shuddered around your moaning mouth, Jade groaning from the vibrations. Floyd’s own dick had made its way out, pushing against your tight hole and slowly filling you up. You swear, it took up your entire womb with its size, rapidly thrusting and pushing against your walls with the intent to breed. Floyd seemed unaffected, beaming in delight at your muffled cries and begs as he grinded against your clit. 

“Haah, Jade! Our shrimp’s pussy feels sooo good! It’s so tight and soft.” Floyd took heaving breaths as made out with you messily, groaning and giggling into your mouth. “It’s like they wanna make sure my seed fills them up~”

You cried out, muffled moans filling the air as you tried nodding in agreement. You’d tried answering against Jade’s dick, but only served to further stimulate him. 

“Mmh, and it’s like they want to milk my cock. Greedy, greedy darling. You’re so—hah—lucky we love spoiling you.”

Jade thrusted harder against your mouth, the tip touching the back of your throat, making your gag and choke. Even so, you relaxed and let him face-fuck you with no remorse. It wasn’t like you needed air anymore, not with the gills on your neck.

Besides, it wasn’t Jade fucking your mouth that took the oxygen from your lungs, but way Floyd stretched you out and rubbed his own clit against yours. 

“You feel that? You feel how good you're making me feel? Yeah~” Floyd purred, roughly grinding against you as he breathlessly laughed. “Making me feel all sortsa ways, like I could keep fucking his hole of mine forever~”

One of the first delights you learn before transforming was that, as eelmers, your darling husbands were built with both sets of sex, their slit hiding away their hastily growing cocks and tight openings. You wondered if you could return the favor and eat them out instead, the thought of a trembling Jade and keening Floyd as you feasted utterly delicious. 

“Now Floyd, what did you say earlier?” Jade asked, pushing your hair away from your face as he kept at his meal. “Don’t be selfish! They’re my mate too!”

Jade mimicked Floyd’s pouting tone, mocking his brother with a shit-eating grin as Floyd growled, clawed hands digging into your hips and upper tail to fuck you even harder, making you bounce against the bed and Jade’s dick. 

A particularly rough thrust against your cervix brought you back to the moment, Floyd’s teeth digging into your right shoulder as he suddenly came in you. 

His cum was thick and filling, dripping from your hole from the sheer amount Floyd busted into you. And as Floyd pulled away, you pulled away from Jade and looked down to see inches and inches of his dick leaving your throbbing cunt. You weren’t even sure if you came with him at this point,  all the euphoric bliss you’d been feeling blending in. 

What you were sure of was Floyd’s length still being hard and firm, moving around his hand as he pumped it. That fact that he was still able to keep going made you ravenous as you wiggled your hips at him, hoping that Floyd would keep going. 

You needed to feel fuller. You needed to take up as much cum in you as possible. You needed to be bred like a good little mate. At least until you could return the favor. (You pushed that last thought to the back of your mind, confused as to why your sex-filled brain conjured that.)

“Hey Jade.” Floyd ignored your cranky whines, you’d be filled up again soon anyway. “Switch spots with me. I wanna feel their mouth, besides, our mate is nice and tight, ‘n squeezes you juuust right~”

Floyd giggled, his signature laugh, slinking up your body as Jade snaked down, dragging his hands down your body as he did. Jade was quick to take his spot, his dick slick with his precum and your spot slipping into you with little resistance. 

Both were big, but Floyd was slender and longer, whereas Jade was shorter and much thicker, stretching you out to the point that you were sure you’d be ruined for anyone else. As if you’d ever want anyone else. 

Jade was ever so gentle with you, slowly pushing the tip of his cock as he used Floyd’s cum as lube, his girth filling you up deliciously. You groaned as you felt the cum in you push out of your hole to make room for Jade, until he eventually made it to the hilt. His length was pressing against your walls, swirling in you, as Jade started grinding his slit against you. 

“Damn!” Jade cursed, gasping as he pressed his head against your chest, teething at the skin. “You’re right, Floyd, they feel so tight and soft against me! I could get drunk from your walls, my love~”

Obsessed as he’s always been with your chest, Jade took to occupying his mouth with your chest, back to suckling you like a baby. It was like he was opening for milk to come out and fill his insatiable tongue with your taste. 

“Yeah! Can you imagine how much tighter they’ll be when we both fill them up? Haha! You’ll be begging to have our dicks in ya forever, our cute lil’ shrimp!” 

Floyd, rougher than his brother, pulled at the hair in your scalp, firm but soft, and pushed his dick towards your mouth. He threw his head back, sighing as you took a long, slow lick from the tip of his cock to the base. It trembled against your tongue at the stimulation, surprising as it tried wrapping around the muscle before shoving itself into your mouth. You choked as Floyd began pistoning into your mouth, cackling as little tears dripped from your eyes. 

Between his fast pumps, and Jade’s tortuously slow thrusts, you were slowly being driven insane.

“Ngh, d-did you just cum again?” Jade stuttered, pulling away from your teat with a string of saliva connecting you two. “I felt it…I’m close, you know. Mmmph…Want me to fill you up again my love?”

“Mmmm! Mmmphmm!” You cried against Floyd’s dick, tongue massaging his length as you sucked. You’d managed to keep rolling your hips against Jade, the stinging effects of overstimulation starting to take hold.

“Ha! I think they want it Jade~” Floyd cackled, finally shoving your face against his groin, forcing you to swallow around his dick. “Give it to ‘em, if our shrimp wants us to breed them, then we oughta make them happy~”

A chilling growl left Jade’s mouth as he clenched his teeth into your left shoulder, near the crook of your neck as his prehensile dick pounded into, practically fucking your womb, like it wanted to nestle in and never leave. 

Your tummy felt hot as Jade filled you up, finally moving your head away from Floyd to cough and gasp at the feeling. Managing to lift your head, you saw a bulge on your stomach where Jade was filling you up with his own cum, right along Floyd’s. 

“Aha, I’m so full!” You moaned, giggling deliriously, all thoughts from your head fucked out, as you rubbed the bulge. “It feels so goooood~” 

The heat coursing through your veins has dissipated quite a bit, now a comfortable hum and tingling on your skin instead of an insatiable need to get fucked. You beamed as Jade, still in you, leaned down to kiss you sweetly, his hands cradling your face as he nipped your nose. 

“We’re glad, aren’t we Floyd?” Jade purred, grinning down at you with a hungry look still. You made a noise of confusion as he moved away, rolling to his side. Whimpering as a few inches of his length slid out as he did, but he stopped, keeping most of it in. Looking down, you could make out the pearlescent cum of your husbands leaking out of you, thick and viscous. 

“Hmm, yeah.” Floyd sighed, tracing along your pudgy tummy, briefly squeezing down to watch more cum leak from your hole. “Let’s fill them up even more!”

“Huh?” You pushed yourself up on your elbows, blinking rapidly as Floyd took your otherside and positioned his dick against your still stretched out cunt. 

“You said you wanted both of us in you, right?” Floyd started pushing, long tongue licking over your cheek, down your neck, and slathering over the bite he made. “You wanted both of us at once. We’re giving you what you want.”

Your brain function was still yet to completely return, as you barely managed to process his words at the last second. “Wait, wha—AAAAH!”

Your hands went flying up to their hair as Floyd pushed in against his walls and Jade’s dick, stretching you beyond comprehension. Pulling at their teal strands, you could hear both of them ominously chuckle, Floyd’s hand going back down to your nub as Jade’s lips made their way home to your chest to feed. 

“Fuck! Too much! Too much! Aaaaahahaha!” You gasped, laughing as the heat returned to your belly as your eyes glazed over. “Ooooooh shit! F-floyd, Jaaade…uwwwaaah…”

Throwing your head back, you started letting out open-mouthed moans, blubbering as you started speaking nonsense to your mates. Any coherent thought was yanked from your brain and tossed out like garbage as they started moving in you, lengths pushing up against all your most deliciously sensitive spots, tips hitting your cervix like they were fighting to take up the space in your womb first. 

“Aahaha! Look at you! Fucked stupid~” Floyd lovingly nuzzled against your temple, kissing your forehead as he continued his mean words. “Do ya like it? You gonna cum again? Cum as much as you want~ Only we can make you feel this good~”

Floyd cackled again, bringing your head back up to make out with your drooling mouth, his tongue tangling with yours. 

“Mmm, morays can go for hours you know,” Jade cooed, cheeks flustered and eyes drunk on your body as he flicked your nipple with the tip of his tongue. “Do you want us to keep going? Use you? Make sure our little mate is filled with plenty of seed for their eggs? Do you want to keep getting fucked~”

“Yesh!” You cried, muffled against Floyd’s sloppy kiss. “Fuck me more! I wa-wanna feel your cocks here!”

You placed your hand over your navel, feeling the bumps of their dicks as they pounded against your insides. Pulling away from a whining Floyd, you looked down at your belly, and gasped at the sight. 

You could just barely make out the blue, glowing lines on their dicks as they moved in you, the outline just visible under the transparent skin of your belly. You could even make out the pearly white sheen of their cum filling you up under the skin. The sight shocked you into coming, tossing your head back as you panted for oxygen. 

“Sho good! It feelsh shooo good! Don’t stoooooop~” You were slurring as you bawled your eyes out, shaking as you came once again for the nth time that night. Yet they didn’t stop, not from your overstimulated tears, nor your walls tightening against them.

“Floyd! Jade!” You gasped, your insides feeling raw and like they were burning, finally being pushed past your limits. “W-wait, I can’t…I just…I just came—FUCK!”

Your husbands pulled you up, wrapping their tails around yours and each other to be closer to you, as Jade forced you to look down at your extending belly and their lengths moving in and out. As soon as one slipped out, the other thrusted in, ensuring you were never empty. Unfortunately, as they did, more of their cum was slipping out as well, making Floyd whine. 

“Aw, Jade! Look at how our Shrimpy is wasting our seed!” Floyd pulled on your ear with his sharp teeth, playfully chittering in your ear. 

Jade clicked his tongue in disappointment, bumping his forehead against yours, “How wasteful, we’ll just have to go a few more hours then, to make sure our seed takes. Can you handle it, my love? You can, can’t you?”

You blinked open your eyes, the algae lamp on the nightstand providing a dim blue light to the room. Yawning, you tried stretching your arms, wincing at the pain that shot up from your lower back. 

“Mmh? (Name)? You already wanna go again?” you heard Floyd sleepily giggle to himself, spooning against your back as his tail was wrapped around your fins. “We already went a couple of hours, but I’ll go again for my shrimp, hehe~”

You reached a hand over to pinch his nose, grumbling, “Stop it, you know exactly what yawning is.” 

Floyd pouted, digging his head against your back again as he tightened his grip. From your front, Jade groaned at the movement as he nuzzled his head against your chest, arms gripping your midsection and tail tightly wrapped around your hips. At this moment, you were just a body pillow to him. 

“Stop moving…it’s still early…” Jade mumbled into your skin, nipping at it briefly. “...Want to…sleep.”

“Nah, I’m awake now. I wanna eat somethin’, wanna come to the kitchen?” Floyd asked, kissing his bite mark on your shoulder as he did. He untangled himself from you, stretching and wincing from the scratches you made on his shoulders stung.

You tried moving, but felt a cramp in your hips and pelvis as you did. Between that, and Jade’s displeased growl as he tightened his grip, you were trapped. 

“I don’t think I can move…you guys did a number on me.” You were just noticing your entire torso and navel covered in hickies and bruises, the most prominent being the hand marks on your hips. 

“Heh, nice. Oof!” Floyd grunted as you threw a pillow at him. You had half a mind to smother Jade too as you felt him smirk and chuckle into your skin. Unfortunately for you (and fortunately for him), there was a cheery knock at the front door. 

(Or the frame of your front door. Homes under the sea didn’t have doors, though you had a rather intricately designed curtain over the entrance for privacy). 

“I miei figli! It’s been a few weeks now! Can I see mia nuora?”

Since your mating season started, you’d been going at it nearly nonstop with the twins the first week until your libido managed to die down to a more reasonable amount. Granted, at least one of the twins was with you at all hours as they took turns going to work. This week, you’d taken to just resting your incredibly sore body. Nearly 5 days since you were last fucked, and you were still wincing as you swam. 

Unfortunately, Narissa missed you just a bit too much to wait a few more days to see you. 

“Oh my god, Mama Narissa!” You bolted up, Jade grumbling as he let you untangle from his grasp. He settled for grabbing your pillow and shoving his face in it to drink in your scent. “Shit, has it really been weeks?”

“Mm-hm,” Jade hummed, finally opening his eyes to look at you. He was never a morning person, surprisingly, so it took him sometime before he was fully coherent. “You were insatiable the last few weeks…begging to make sure you stayed filled up. I was surprised at how long you lasted between rounds.”

Jade rubbed a hand against your belly, staring at it intently as he slow blinked, ready to fall back asleep at any moment. 

“...It’s twins.” He said, very matter-of-factly. You blinked in confusion, but smiled at the idea.

You covered your hand over his, lacing your fingers together as you shrugged and smiled. “You think? Humans usually have just one, but I’ve also never had a mating season, so I don’t know.” 

“Hm, it is.” 

You blinked again, staring at Jade as he lovingly smiled at the bump on your stomach. Shrugging again, you pushed his bangs back and pressed a kiss to his forehead, making the effort to trudge through the pain and swim out to greet your mother-in-law. You sharply inhaled as you tried straightening your tail, feeling like your muscles were being pulled. 

“Ah!” You hissed, rubbing your lower back as Jade perked, getting up and letting you wrap your arms around his shoulders as he carried you on his back. 

“Here, I’ll take you.” Jade rubbed his eye, now fairly awake as he blissfully took you through the hallway into the living room, then the kitchen as you heard voices coming from there. 

“It’s been weeks! I just wanna see my nuora too, especially since neither of you have been at work at once for nearly a month!” You could make out Papa Leech’s, Bruno’s, raspy voice from the kitchen. 

“Oh relax, amore mio!” Narissa purred, kissing her husband’s cheeks as he visibly softened. He was stocky, built much like his sons, but much longer and covered in old scars. He was also a darker, muted shade of green, his eyes hazel and hair a familiar shade of black. You could look at Bruno and obviously see the resemblance between his sons and him.

“They’re fine! Look there, they are with Jade now.” Narissa chirped, swimming past Floyd to ruffle his hair as he tossed a scallop in his mouth. “Save some for your mate, Floyd. I’m sure they’re starving. 

Floyd looked offended at the suggestion, replying with a full mouth, “We’ph kefft ‘em fed!”

Narissa scolded him for speaking with a full mouth as Bruno excitedly made his way to you, snatching you from Jade, who made an annoyed hiss, and twirled you around. He squeezed you in a bone-crushing hug as he spoke. 

“There you are! Our family shrimp! Don’t be mad at me now, but you’ve kept the boys plenty busy! I’m gonna need to steal them back, why don’t you and Nari go—”

You yelped as four pairs of arms snatched you back from Bruno’s embrace, a hair-raising growl and clacking of Floyd’s jaws echoing in the kitchen. Floyd was holding you between him and Jade, the latter protectively curled over your stomach as he eyed his own father. 

Bruno looked less than amused, rolling his eyes as he clacked his own pharyngeal jaws in response. 

“Just playing ‘round with mia nuora, what’s wrong with you two?! Hissing at your own father?!” He snapped, briefly looking at Narissa as she turned his face to hers. 

She had a smile on her face, gold eyes locking on Jade’s hands covering you. 

“Amore, you need to be careful with (Name)! Of course, they’re hissing at you, you’re roughhousing with a berried mate!”

Berried?

“W-what? What’s that mean?” You asked, confused as Bruno immediately brightened, rapidly sinking to the ground to be at eye level with your stomach. Narissa gracefully followed, as did your husbands, now relaxed. 

“It means our Shrimpy is gonna have baby Shrimpies.” Floyd giggled as Jade reached up to direct your gaze to your translucent tummy. 

“See, my love? The eggs look like berries.” Jade tapped a finger against your slightly protruding stomach, right where you could make out the sight of two teal colored eggs. 

You gasped, placing your hand over Jade and Floyd’s. Effectively stunned into silence, Bruno had more than enough energy to loudly celebrate for all five of you. 

“WHOOP! NONNINO! I’M GOING TO BE A NONNINO!” Bruno excitedly swam around in circles, twisting and twirling around as Floyd darted to his father’s side, following his dance in happiness.

Jade chuckled, giving his mother a knowing look as they both straightened back up, moving to nip at your ear affectionately. 

“I suppose we should let everyone else know the good news.”

You nodded in a daze, the thought of letting your adoptive parents up on the surface of the news dizzying. 

“Yeah…” You finally smiled, breathlessly laughing into Jade’s shoulder as you reached for Floyd, who immediately met your embrace, nearly knocking you into Jade’s arms in excitement. 

Between the rings on your left-hand ring finger, and the two eggs in your stomach, it was no question: you’re happy to stay in Twisted Wonderland for the rest of your days. 

comments and reblogs appreciated 🩷

[reiderwriter]

Hi Kacie!! Now that your requests are open... Could I request a smutty fic where Spencer finds out reader has a not-so-common sensitive spot (like her legs, hair, arms, whatever body part you want). Maybe he finds out kinda in a public setting after she gets all flustered and wants to keep pushing to test his theory?? You can take as much inspo from this as you want<3

(If this emoji's not taken)-💃 anon

A/N: Hello! Sorry for going MIA for a while there. It was the beginning of a new school year here in SK, so I've been really busy! I've been chipping away at this one little by little, and it's finally done! I hope you enjoy it ♡

Warnings; Smut, 18+ Minors DNI, case details, misogyny from a bartender in the opening scene, Semi-public sexual experimentation, edging, PinV sex, use of pet names (good girl), slight degradation, cum play, etc.

Masterlist

The back of the bar was dimly lit as you walked through it, keeping pace with your teammate as you kept one eye on the shady inhabitants of the bar. 

You'd been sent - with Spencer of all people - to ask the local dive bar staff about suspicious regulars. A fact that didn't exactly take into account his general lack of intimidating looks and your status as the newest member of the team. 

A trial by fire if you'd ever seen one. 

You tried your best not to stick out like a sore thumb, but the people in these parts could spot a Fed from a mile away. And though Spencer was remarkably pipe-cleaner-like, they'd certainly recognised enough FBI in him to clam up upon your entrance. 

“We got some visitors, I see. What can I be getting you, little lady?” The barman greeted you as you reached the first stool at the counter, a patronizing smile on his moustache clad lips. 

“If it's okay, we'd like to ask you some questions. I'm Agent Y/N with the FBI. This is my partner, Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“You're a Fed? Now, why would you bother doing all that hard work when you could be warming my bed, girl. It's definitely more honest and satisfying work.” 

The way the man leered at you over the counter has you freezing momentarily. Your instincts were saying fight, but you held your tongue just long enough to not ruin any rapport your team could build with locals. 

“I'm flattered, but already spoken for I'm afraid. Have you seen any suspicious men in here in the last six months, one that would pass through only semi-regularly, maybe with a few female companions, though never the same.” 

Professionalism at the cost of your peace of mind was going to be a hard learn for you as you grit your teeth and swallowed the bile in your throat. 

He just continued to leer at you as he dried up beer glasses. 

“You're looking for a man who likes cheap whores? Maybe you are in the market for a career change after all.” 

That was about all you could take, and luckily, Spencer Reid was well aware. 

Quickly grabbing you by the wrist, he pulled you behind him defensively and leaned over the bar, his voice low and somewhat chilling. 

“Disrespect my partner like that again, and I'll have you charged with aiding and abetting a murderer who has kidnapped and ended the lives of three local girls. Local girls whose fathers you're more than likely acquainted with, who absolutely have multiple acres of property and just enough bullets to put you in the ground.” 

The blood rushed to your ears at his voice, but the light grip of your wrist held you in place indefinitely. 

All the fight left your body, as you found yourself coming dangerously close to melting into Spencer in relief. 

He forced the man to answer some more basic questions, but it wasn't as if you could hear them. He stroked a quick thumb back and forth across your wrist as all the thoughts fled your head, and the words fell asleep on your tongue, resting there until he released you from his grip. 

You'd known that the area was slightly sensitive for a while, having accidentally brushed up against things and felt serious chills shoot up your spine. What you hadn't known was that it was that kind of sensitivity. 

Though, in all honesty, you hadn't exactly known that you could feel that kind of excitement for Spencer either. You just hoped he wouldn't notice. That much. 

Having finished his line of questioning and reiterating his threat, he moved his hand from your wrist to the small of your back and adeptly guided you from the restaurant and out of the line of vision of every pair of eyes in the place. 

“Are you okay?” He asked when he finally got you to the car, voice still quiet and low, and slightly too close to let you fully relax. 

“Peachy. He talked to you at least.” You turned away from him and began opening the passenger side door. 

“Nothing new or useful, though. Your bpm is high,” he joined you in the car, putting on his seat belt while you completely let go of yours, letting it zip back into itself.

“My… my what?” 

“Your bpm is high. Your heart was beating so fast,” he said, reaching over you to help you reclip it. “Were you nervous, Y/n? Or just sensitive?”

“Your mouth is entirely too close to mine to be asking that question,” you breathed out, cursing your eyes from stealing a glance at his lips. 

Only five minutes into this sudden attraction to Spencer Reid, and you were already mortified and extremely horny. In equal measures. 

“What would be the appropriate distance to ask that, then?” 

“I hear Australia is lovely this time of year.” 

He chuckled softly at you as he finished adjusting your seat and then moved far enough away to let the ground swallow you in peace. 

Never one to leave well enough alone, it seemed that Spencer took it upon himself to experiment with you for weeks on end after that. 

He'd constantly ask you to pass him papers, pens, anything that'd allow him to run a finger across the inside of your wrist. On more than one occasion you'd caught him staring into your eyes as he did it, and it took a nearly embarrassing amount of time to realise he was checking how dilated your pupils were before and after. 

When he'd gathered enough data for that line of questioning, he moved on to bigger things. 

You knew you were in danger of seriously falling head over ads when he offered to walk you to your motel door in a seedier case location. 

You, an FBI agent with a real-life gun and badge and job at Quantico, and you were jumping at the chance to have a man walk you to your room. You'd have been embarrassed if you weren't burning with anticipation. 

You hoped that like every other man in history, he was gently trying to insinuate himself into your bedroom, and by extension, your bed and more intimate places. 

So you were more than slightly disappointed when he started wishing you a good night. All of the aforementioned disappointment fled your body, though, when he picked up your hand and dropped a kiss to the inside of your left wrist, repeating the action on the right before wordlessly retreating. 

You stared at his back as he walked purposefully down the corridor and into his own room, leaving you to pick up your jaw and retreat to your room to lick your wounds. 

You wished it was him picking you up instead and found your brain imagining just that as your fingers dropped between your thighs that night. 

It became a case tradition for him to tease you like this, kissing your wrist after innocently walking you back to your hotel room. The others thought it chivalrous, almost cute and childlike, a form of courting that graced the good old days. They didn't know he grabbed you by the waist and held you against his hard-on every time you rode an elevator together. They didn't know his tongue darted out a few times to lick your wrist on occasion. They didn't know how you once mentally begged him to bite you there and how you shuddered as he ran his teeth along the vein there. 

Spencer was coming to the crux of his research regarding how far he could push you before you cracked. Only now, it was how far he could get without pushing you against a wall and jumping your bones. 

You knew you were in danger when he offered to escort you home after a case. 

“To walk you to your door, you know? Like always,” he smiled at you, the picture of innocence as you became damp between your thighs. 

“Sure. Yeah, okay, I'll get my keys, let's go.” 

You weren't sure how no one else noticed that Spencer didn't have a car to drive himself home after taking you to yours. You were unsure if they'd connect the dots between him escorting you home and his own apartment being 45 minutes in the opposite direction. 

Luckily for you, you could keep your hands at 2 and 10 the entire journey, away from his grasp. If he'd have touched you right then, you're sure you'd have driven both of you right off the road into a ditch. 

Or a pedestrian. 

The drive was calm, but pulling up forced your heart to your throat and kept it suspended there, almost like it was frozen at gunpoint, a deer in the headlights. 

“We're here.” 

“Great. Let me walk you in.” 

In. You swallowed hard, wishing very much for him to be inside of your apartment. 

“Okay.” 

Stepping into the elevator a few minutes later, he waited mere seconds after the doors began closing to pull you into his personal space. He was hard, he was so hard once again and his cock was now straining against your ass.

“Spencer, we need to talk about t-that,” he stroked your wrist as his hand splayed across your stomach, holding you firmly against him. 

“About what, Y/N?” 

He pulled your arm up almost as if inspecting the wrist for imperfections, and your head melted back into his chest. Why was this elevator so goddamn slow? 

You sprung out quickly when the doors pinged open finally and moved straight towards your door without a glance back, but you felt him close behind you. 

“Y/N, wait for me, wait, I'm sorry,” he called out quietly as you forced your keys into the lock as fast as possible. 

“Y/N, I'm sorry if I stepped over the line, I didn't mean too, please look at me-” 

You got the door open and turned back around to grab a firm hold of his tie and yank him into the apartment behind you. 

“Months. Spencer, you have been edging me for months, and I am sick of it.” You half growled at him, slamming the door behind him and then pushing him up against it. 

“I can feel how hard you are right now. Obviously you want to fuck me, so why aren't you?” 

His face went from shocked to intrigued, then shot straight for mischievous as he cracked a smile, and you felt his hands wrap around your wrists slowly. 

Before you could react, he had your positions swapped, your arms above your head pinned at the wrists and his breath hitting your neck as he answered. 

“I wanted to see how long it would take you to break.” 

Your lips leapt to his, hitting him angrily as you searched for more pleasure in his touch, one leg pushing up to wrap around his waist as his hips settled between yours. 

He met you at your level, giving just as good as he got.   

“Call it scientific curiosity,” he murmured, lips trailing down your neck, but hips pinning you in closer to the wall, keeping you trapped there. He made his way along your shoulders and then pressed light teasing kisses up your arms while rutting his hips into you, dry humping you against the wall as your eyes glazed over in lust. 

“You react when I touch you, you heat up. But it gets worse if I touch you here, right Y/N?” His lips again found your wrist, but this time his teeth grazed across the veins he found there. 

“You get so horny now when I look at you. I can grab your wrist and make you beg for my cock, isn't that right?” His mouth was back by your ear as your legs went limp under you. He still had you caged against your own door, and you had no idea what to say to that. 

Part of you wanted to protest purely because of the rough tone of voice he was using. The other wanted to flood to the floor and tell him yes, beg him to just fuck you and be done with this pure torture. 

“I asked you a question, Y/N. Isn't that right?” 

“Yes, yes, Spencer fuck, I don't care anymore, yes. You can touch me and I'll react to you, please help me.”

“Good girl.” 

He pulled away instantly, but his hands wrapped firmly still around your wrists. Slowly, he pulled you towards him as he slowly walked backwards further into your apartment. You thought for a second about just throwing yourself back into his arms, to close the space he'd created again between the two of you. 

You tried it, lifted your head slightly, begging his lips to return there, but he held firm. Each step was an agony of need, and you fought to hold your tongue, begging yourself not to beg him so pathetically. 

“Such a good girl, I'm holding you by the wrist, and you won't even protest about how slow I'm being.” 

Your mouth fell open as you registered his words. 

“You're being an ass.” 

“What was that? You want me to touch your ass?”

“Spencer!”

“Don't worry, we'll get to that.”

His back finally made contact with your bedroom door, and you stumbled forward into his chest as he kept his grip even still. 

“You're going to listen, right? You're going to listen to me and do what I ask you to do, aren't you?”

You wavered again. He'd been teasing you, but now he was serious, his tone light and his voice soft, but you could feel the strength in his grip. You could feel his arousal at your hip. 

“Yes, Spencer.”

“Good. Get on your knees on the bed. No clothes.”

He released your hands and opened the door for you as you tried your best to walk forward calmly. 

By the time you reached the bed, you'd removed most of your clothes, but you hesitated at the underwear as he watched from behind you. A quick glance over your shoulder saw him palming his cock through his pants, still leaning against the door he'd opened for you. 

He was getting off watching you, and you were frozen in arousal. 

“No clothes, Y/N.” 

“I know.”

“Underwear is clothing.” 

“I know that, too, Spencer.”

“Then take it off.” 

You shot a quick glare over your shoulder as you unclaimed your bra behind your back and threw it to the floor. 

“On my knees, right?” You said, climbing on the bed still clad in your panties. 

“I also said no clothes.” 

“If you're so invested in my state of dress, how about you come and help me rectify it.”

His lips twitched in small annoyance, but he followed the trail of clothes you'd left, ridding himself of his tie, shirt, jacket, and pants along the way. 

He climbed on the bed slowly behind you, not opposite as you'd presumed he would. His hands reached out to touch your back before slowly sliding all the way up to your neck and pushing your upper body down into the sheets. 

You let out a little squeak in shock, but let his hands guide you, feeling especially pliant when he grabbed your hands and crossed them behind your back. 

“Maybe the panties can stay. I'll just decorate them afterwards,” he said, and with that, he pulled your hips up with his free hand  guiding you into the position he wanted you in, and pushed two fingers into you. 

“Fuck, Spencer-” your brain short circuited as he pumped the digits slowly in and out of you, setting an agonizing pace but holding you so tight that.you couldn't even press your cunt back into his fingers. 

“What? What is it, Y/N? Tell me how you feel?” 

“Feel good, so good Spencer, p-please more.” 

He shifted slowly behind you, pulling his fingers out almost completely before pushing them back in, this time with another finger added. He didn't quicken his pace as you assumed he would, but he took his time stretching you out further as you moaned and whined underneath him. 

“More. You wanted more,” he reminded you, and his voice was like a sharp hit straight to your cunt, rough and hot and filling you completely. 

You barely registered the orgasm that flowed over you, your brain replaying his words on a loop as he continued pleasuring you. 

“That's it. That's a good girl. Get my fingers nice and wet.” 

When you finally grounded yourself in the moment again, your cheeks flushed as you realized just how wet you'd gotten. You felt your arousal still dripping down your leg and turned your face further into the sheets to hide your embarrassment. 

He pulled his fingers out of you, though, and with his now free hand he crouched over you and hooked his fingers under your jaw lifting your head and body up, forcing your crotch back into his as your back arched. 

“Don't hide from this. Look how wet you are for me, Y/N. Taste it.” He tapped his fingers against your mouth and you were ashamed at how fast your lips dropped open, tongue falling out to let him wipe his cum stained fingers against your pretty little lips. 

You tasted yourself on his fingers, wrapping your tongue around them and sucking as he dragged his dick across your back, trying to relieve himself in any way he could. 

“Good girl. It's time for one more, Y/N.” 

You released his fingers with a wet pop as he pushed you back into the sheets. Lining himself up, he entered you easily, your cum providing ample lubricant. 

You whined at his first few pumps, certain he was going to continue his torturous pace and leave you begging for more hours into the night. 

Instead, he let himself work you up to it, each thrust gaining in speed and strength until you could hear the slap of your skin against his more vividly than your own heartbeat. 

His cock was thick, filling you perfectly as you lost yourself in the sensations. 

“One day, I'll handcuff you to this bed,” he said, leaning down and whispering in your ear as each part of your body vibrated with lust. 

“I'll tie you down to this bed, and I'll treat you like a princess. I'll eat your cunt for hours until you cum every time my breath hits your cunt, and I'll cover your pretty tits in my seed. I'll let you use my cock as your personal sex toy, and I'll fulfill every single need you have.” 

His hand released your wrists as both of his hands came to wrap around your waist, pushing you deeper into the plush covers and changing the angle of his dick. 

You screamed at the pleasure, forgetting the paper thin walls your apartment boasted. 

“Fuck, Spencer.” 

“And you're going to love every single second because your brain switches off every time I touch your delicate little wrists.”

With that, another wave of pleasure spread through your body, sending prolonged shivers throughout your body. 

You felt him withdraw and heard the sticky mess of him stroking himself behind you until he made good on his promise and sprayed his generous load across your ass and panties before collapsing on the bed next to you. 

The two of you laid there for what felt like hours, sharing nothing but your labored breaths and the space of the bed before he finally rose. 

You tried not to sleep, but your entire body felt stiff from the awkward, if enjoyable, position he'd held you in. 

Your eyes drifted shut, and you just listened to his movements. A creaking floorboard here, a stumble against some furniture there, culminating in some running water and a return to your space. 

“Y/N,” he whispered, cautious to rise you from what he assumed was much needed sleep. 

“Mmmm,” was all you could reply.

“I realize now that I made a pretty big mess, so we need to get you in the bath.” 

“Mmm,” you protested, brows furrowing as you tried to gather your sheets closer around you, cradling yourself in the warmth. 

But doing so only made you more aware of the sticky wet mess around your torso and legs, and you let out a small, frustrated sigh. 

“You're stubborn, you know that, right?” He said, admiration coating his tongue as he lifted you slowly and helped you place your feet on the floor and walk towards your bathroom. 

“Spencer, shouldn't have a bath, too sleepy.” 

“I know, I'm going to stay.”

“In the bath?” 

“In the bath.” 

“Good.”

And it was. You let him lift your legs one by one into the scorching water and melted back into him, your head resting on his shoulder as if it were the most comfortable pillow you'd ever used, and you slept. 

[joeloverture]

morning cardio | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog pairing: dbf!neighbor!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your neighbor and dad's longtime buddy catches you sneaking back home after an underwhelming hook-up. you want more — he provides. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!neighbor!joel, age gap (23/50), reader has a bad relationship with her father, reader's father is overly strict, reader hooks up with an oc, dirty talk, soft!dom joel, degradation, praise, thigh riding, 1 spank, titty slapping, daddy kink, exhibitionism but nobody sees, almost caught, heavy petting, misogyny for sexiness that joel doesn't actually believe in since he's a sweetheart [no use of y/n] word count: 3.7k a/n: watch me almost exclusively post dbf joel. watch me. also, mind the tags, they've changed slightly since i posted the teaser. this was supposed to be a series. this is no longer the case bc i'm indecisive. sorry.

Mistake number one: your eyes are crusted shut with the mascara you’d forgotten to wipe off.

Mistake number two: the bed you wake up in is not your own.

Mistake number three: sleeping with your neighbor.

Rubbing your mascara-sealed eyes, you blink yourself into consciousness and instantly regret it. There’s a moment of stillness, time stretching as you take in the room underneath the swelling orange sunlight. The window is cracked just enough to give you a glimpse at the world outside — birds chirping, sprinklers spritzing, cars crunching gravel as they pull out of the driveway. Surrounding the narrow, rumpled bed is a graveyard of orphaned socks. A box fan whirrs in the corner. The room had felt much cleaner past midnight when it was only the yellowed street lamp outside shining through the window. Then you spot the digital clock on the cluttered bedside table reads 6:10, ten minutes later than you’d wanted to be awake for, and time returns to its regular pace.

Your heart kicks awake in your chest, veins going cold. You kick the sheets off of your sweaty body, roll out of bed, and stumble two steps before planting your feet on the carpet below. Even that isn’t enough to stir your hookup. Dylan Andrews.

It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Both of you were home for spring break. Both of you had flirted at the block party with each other. He was only decent-looking and mediocre with his hands, but you needed a break from spending another night in your childhood bedroom. What better way to do it than with a dick appointment?

Again. It’d seemed like a good enough idea at the time. Sneaking out underneath the nose of your strict, tough-as-nails dad was the easy part. Sneaking back in? Less easy. And to make matters worse, you were already ten minutes behind.

Shit.

You tiptoe across the room, naked as the day you were born, and stuff your underappreciated lingerie into your backpack. Without even putting your panties or bra on, you hop into your shorts and wrestle with your hoodie. By the time you’re out of Dylan’s room, it’s 6:12.

The difference between your dad and Dylan’s mom? She doesn’t give a shit what side of town Dylan wakes up on or how much alcohol is sloshing around in his system as long as he’s safe. You’re not the first girl to do the walk of shame out of Ms. Andrews' generic McMansion house, and you’re far from the last.

She’s downstairs in front of the coffee maker, still wearing her pajamas and doing a Dollar General crossword when you slip past her kitchen unnoticed. The door clangs shut behind you, and you figure she must see you walking down the cul-de-sac.

Your dad always leaves for work at 6:45 after a freezing cold shower and a steaming cup of black coffee for balance. You can only hope his shower ran a little late and that he isn’t at the dining room table already. Cramming two steps into one, you continue with your beeline down the awakening street.

You’re followed home by the mailboxes and flower beds, the pebbles you kick with every step. You’re almost to the property line, prepared to make a mad dash to your front door when you hear the faint call of your name. You skid to a stop, and turn to face the source: the craftsman-style house next door.

And there he is – Joel Miller, sitting on one of the cushioned chairs of his front porch in nothing but his sleep shorts and a t-shirt, legs spread as wide as the chair can accommodate. There’s a smug, knowing look on his face, one that says I’ve caught you. See how you can get out of this.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been face to face with Joel — Mr. Miller. You’d think you���d see him more often, with him being your dad’s buddy and your neighbor, but it’s been since summer. You’re sure he must be having the time of his life by joining your just got laid parade.

“You’re up awful early,” he calls, beckoning you up the driveway with a come-hither movement of his fingers. Leaving your dignity at the curb, you pad up the yard to his porch, climbing one of the stairs to lean against the gutter that feeds into his shrubbery. Pollen and moss is scattered across the wooden deck, surrounding a package that he hasn’t bothered to pick up yet. His guitar is off to the side, propped up against the doorway of the house. You wonder if he’d been playing when he’d seen you walking by.

Joel’s covered for you before, briefly and sparingly. Taken the fall for the half-empty bottle of fireball in your dresser even though he’d never go within ten feet of that shit, blamed it on himself for accidentally leaving it behind after fixing a wheel that had jumped off track for you. Even though your dad had chewed him out for drinking on the job, he’d still managed to sneak it back to you with the wise words of hiding it in a sock next time. You’d been two months past your twenty-first when that had happened, and maybe Joel had pitied you after realizing how authoritarian his friend was.

You aren’t as sure if he’ll pity you now.

“Needed some fresh air,” you defend lamely, hands hanging limp by your sides.

“Needed some cock?” he corrects, and his bluntness makes you choke. He seems relaxed for the words that just came out of his mouth, fingers drumming on his impossibly large thighs, a playful smirk resting on his lips.

You sputter, “No! Jesus, what the hell–”

“I got eyes, hun. Saw you leave that Andrews kid’s place. Clearly he didn’t stick it to ya that good if you’re still walkin’ steady,” he comments. His head tilts.

“Joel,” you hiss, eyes flitting to your dad’s house next door. He seems to read your mind, his smirk widening.

“Wonder what your pops would think. Bet I have a pretty good idea. His little angel, sneakin’ around and whorin’ herself out.” He clicks his tongue at you. “A damn shame.”

Heat spools low in your stomach and down to your unsatisfied center. You wish you’d worn darker colored shorts instead of the flimsy gray things you have on. There’s no barrier of your panties to stop yourself from leaking all over them, and with the way Joel’s looking at you, eyes dark and sly, you’re wishing there was.

“Can’t even imagine what you’re gettin’ up to at that college ‘a yours. Bet you had five guys inside of ya all at once, and I sure ain’t talkin’ about burgers, hun.” He lounges back in his chair, watching you.

You feel yourself gush. Heat burns in your thighs, and they rub together on instinct, seeking to extinguish that brimming ache between your legs. You bunch your hands in the fabric of your sweatshirt and can’t stop yourself from squirming underneath his gaze. It’s not like you’ve never thought about this, this with him of all people when you’re underneath your covers and your hand finds the warm junction between your thighs. Always unattainable. Always just out of reach.

You whisper again, “Joel,” but this time, it comes out as more of a moan. Humiliation warms your cheeks and chest, forming a different kind of pit in your stomach.

“Hmmmm?” Joel hums at you with a raised brow. He’s casual, indifferent, almost. But then his eyes flicker up and down, stopping at the wet patch smeared across the front of your shorts, the way your thighs press tight, tensing before letting go. “Ah. A little slut shamin’ gets you all riled up, hun?” That tears a whimper from you. He does that stupid come hither motion again, and like a lost dog, you listen. Standing in front of him, you feel completely, utterly exposed.

He adjusts himself in his chair, and you swallow the building lump in your throat when you see his bulge hardening. It sends another zap of heat to your core, and then another, more surprised one when his hand goes up to grab at your tit. Your breath catches as he thumbs one of your hardened nipples. A triumphant noise echoes out of him. “Braless, too?” His other hand goes down to your shorts, playing with the waistband. “Prancin’ around in these short, skimpy things, too. Practically giving the whole neighborhood a free peep show.”

His hand slides lower. Lower. Pans over to the crease of your thigh and then his thumb is planting over your clit, rubbing only once before he pulls away. “Messy pussy. Bet you stained the guys sheets.”

You’re quiet, staring at him, his wicked fucking expression, those hands that look like sin itself. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Ah. Poor baby. All this effort and you didn’t even get to come.” He just looks at you. Unmoving. Not doing a single damn thing to get you there.

“Please, Joel,” you whisper, embarrassed by the gritty need already embedded into your voice when he’s hardly even touched you.

And he’s still wearing that wolfish look, that tainted-with-intention gleam in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what you do want when he asks, “What? What do you want?” He licks his lips, a fleeting moment.

You look over your shoulder, at the rising street. Anyone could have their windows cracked. Anyone could hear you confess on this porch. Still, you murmur, “I… I want you to make me come, Joel.” Your voice shivers a little bit along with the stroke of wind that wisps against the backs of your thighs.

His brows raise together, now. His head tips forward. “What was that? A little louder. You know, my ears really ain’t the sharpest these days…”

Fucking bastard.

“I want,” you say again, fighting to stop your voice from wavering, to keep it not too loud but not too quiet. “you to make me come.”

Joel sucks on his teeth for a second. “Ohhh. Now I don’t think that’s really fair, hun.” He gives you a mockingly sad look.

“Why?” you ask, and you know you sound as whiny as a petulant child. But he’d been correct earlier. You put in all of this effort, sneaking out for a thrilling night that had turned into something more like two sweaty bodies moving together and only one of them feeling good from it. You want to feel good. You’re tired of looking at the right and the wrong. Joel’s sitting in front of you, his thumb still smelling like your arousal; that’s what’s right.

“You’re out here breakin’ all the rules. Shouldn’t be rewarding you for that, sweetheart. Besides, it’s a little fucked up, dontcha think? Makin’ you come all over me while your pops, my buddy, is none the wiser gettin’ ready for work next door?” His vulgarity only weakens you even more, pussy clenching and begging to be filled. You’re about to protest again when he cuts in, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help ya out.”

Your heart pedals in your chest, eager and wanting. But Joel, instead of getting up and elbowing you inside like you expect, stays right where he is. He pats one of his splayed thighs, the grin on his face only widening. Your face contorts. Joel hears your question before you ask.

“What? Never humped someone’s leg before? With how much of a bitch in heat you’re actin’ right now, I’m surprised.” You can feel the shock on your face plain as day. Joel jerks his head down to his thigh, egging you on. “Better hurry up if you want my help, sweetheart. Pretty sure your dad’s about to get goin’, and I sure don’t have all day, either.”

The rapidly shrinking part of yourself that isn’t consumed with desire tells you to take a step back. That anyone, God forbid, even the Adlers across the street could witness this. Talk about a free peep show.

You think of the alternative: sneaking back into your house with a hope and a prayer that your dad won’t find you, backpack over your shoulder and shoes on, as you climb the stairs back to your bedroom. Open up your Joel-advised dresser drawer of things your dad says you shouldn’t have and pull out your vibrator. Do the same old hassle of a routine, desperately trying to make yourself come. Reach an unfulfilling peak.

Or… take what Joel’s offering you. Risks and all.

You take a tentative step forward, glaring at Joel when he chuckles because of your hesitance, and plop yourself down on his thigh. The pressure against your clit immediately pulls a whimper from you. His big hands fix themselves on your hips, holding tight, but not too tight as to hold you captive against him. There’s still the faint existence of the Joel you’ve always known, considerate and sweet and all southern gentleman, that exists behind the guise of his dominance. 

You nestle your head into the crook of his neck, breathing heavy against him as you get a slow start to grinding your hips on his thigh. Although your movements are tentative, uncertain in nature, your head is already going fuzzy.

“Bet you’re only this wet cause that boy already put a new load in your dishwasher.” You scoff at him in disbelief — both at how much more wet it gets you, and how foul his words are. He chooses then to jerk you forward by the hips. You cry out as your pussy drags along the thick expanse of his thigh, clit catching on the bunched up fabric of your rumpled shorts.

“Zip it, you fuckin’ hussy. Ain’t a damn soul in this neighborhood that wants to wake up to you sobbin’ while gettin’ off on this thigh.” One of his hands drifts back to squeeze at the flesh of your ass. You hear the spank before you feel it, a sting that echoes and sticks right between your legs. He’s effortlessly strung a barbed wire of humiliation around your body. The lack of power makes your thighs clamp down around his, and you can’t tell if you crave more of it or despise it.

Unable to decide which, you loudly, exaggeratedly moan into his ear, still rocking down on his lap. It resounds through the neighborhood, the springboard roofs ricocheting you coquettish noises down the street and through the flowerbeds. A spooked crow lifts off of the power lines behind you, and you hear it squawk as its wings beat and carry it away.

Joel cocks his head at you, brow raised. “So it’s not just your legs that have a problem stayin’ shut. It’s your nasty mouth, too.” His hands migrate up your sides to your tits, which jostle with every flighty movement across his thigh. Before you know what he’s doing, he tweezes at your nipples in a way that makes you melt into him, forehead falling flat against his neck. And then he lands a hard smack across your chest, pleasure with a bite. Your hips jolt. “Behave for daddy before I make you walk next door draggin’ a snail trail behind ya.”

You know he doesn’t mean your real dad. A new rush of heat settles in your stomach, tightening your cunt from an ache to an insatiable thrumming that only Joel can solve. “Fuck,” you almost shout, but end up muffling into his skin with an open-mouthed kiss. He sighs, adjusting under you. The change in angle on your clit makes you whimper, especially when you feel his hardened length smushed against the outside of your thigh.

Your hand goes down to grip it, to participate in the push and pull, the cat and mouse, but he shakes his head, pulling it out of the way. He holds you by the small of your back, urging you to keep rubbing on him. “You’re lucky I’m even givin’ you my thigh,” he spits. “Ain’t gonna let you play chutes and ladders tryna make me come when I know damn well where that hand was last night.”

“Daddy,” you pout at him, lower lip jutting out.

He only shakes his head. “Don’t start.”

Whining in agitation, you manage to school yourself into behaving like he’d told you to. Every grind of your hips welcomes pleasure, beckons it, activates the porch light inside of you that invites it inside. You go limp against Joel as he guides you back and forth, and even limper when he tightens the muscle underneath your soaking core. Your hands anchor themselves on his broad shoulders, nails carving into his skin through the flimsy material of his shirt. He hisses underneath you, a break in his seemingly titanium resolve. You feel yourself getting closer, heat wreathing around your stomach, cunt clenching.

In your house, the foyer light flickers on.

Your hips stall over Joel’s as you see your dad’s backlit silhouette moving around in the foyer. Likely sliding on his shoes, patting his pockets for his wallet and his work phone…. You have two minutes at best.

Joel’s eyes follow your distracted line of vision. His amused chuckle warms the back of your neck. “Oughta hurry up if you don’t wanna get caught. Your old man would be in for a rude awakening, headin’ to work and finding his precious little girl fuckin’ my leg like a whore,” he murmurs.

He bounces his leg underneath you, and you bite back the needy cry that threatens to slip out. It feels so good, too good for you to think about anything other than the haze of arousal and pleasure that hovers over your head like a perpetual fog. You return to grinding down on him, hips pumping with a greater, renewed speed. “Attagirl,” Joel croons at you, and the hand at the small of your back presses harder, pushing you up and down his thigh.

Short, strained breaths of yours meet the morning air, eyes pinned on the rectangular window. It’s a golden-washed reminder of how wrong this is. Your dad would blow a gasket, see red, breathe fire at you if he knew exactly what was happening just a few feet away from his front yard.

But you forget all about that when Joel’s calloused fingers cup your chin, nudging you to look at him. His eyes are all pupil, darkened with something like starvation, something like want. “Don’t look at him. Look at me,” he coaxes, and he bounces his thigh again.

You’re close, you can feel it. He can feel it, too, in the way that your thighs fasten around his, your cunt rocking on him as your fervor makes the whole front porch shake and shudder. Tossing your hips back and forth, you wanted it, but now? Now you need it. Your stomach tightens, your legs shivering below you as your cunt gushes all over both of your shorts. “That’s it, baby, come on me like you were beggin’ to. ‘S alright, nice and easy for daddy, mhm?” He tenses his thigh one final time, and you lurch over that edge. “Gooood girl,” he hums as your cunt flutters against his leg. “You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?” he asks, jerking his head toward your house.

You figure you must be, after what you just did.

You’d planned on staying there, riding it out and trembling against his warm chest. But the garage cranks open. You jolt off of Joel’s lap, damn near teleporting across the porch with how fast you move. Joel smirks at you, crossing his unfucked leg over his freshly fucked one, where you’d rubbed your cum all over his skin until it’d glistened. The sight warms your stomach all over again, but it doesn’t last – nerves spasm in your ribcage as your dad ducks out into the driveway.

You fumble with your shorts, pulling them down and crossing your hands in front of the obvious stain on the gray fabric. Your dad squints across the yard, cupping a hand over his eyes. “Miller?” He calls your name shortly after, and you straighten. “You’re up early, kiddo.”

You open your mouth, on the precipice of a lie that you know won’t be good. It’ll come out unsteady, dishonest, and uneven. 

Joel points at the package at the foot of his doorstep. “My toolbox got sent to yours,” he explains. “Damn postal. ‘Bout as good as the Boston Post Road these days. But your kid’s got me covered. Raised her right.”

For the second time, Joel Miller covers for you. You have no idea where this leaves you, standing under your dad’s scrutinizing gaze. With your cum cooling and sticking to your folds the same way it’s cooling and sticking to his leg, Joel knows your secret. And he’s keeping it.

Your dad only gives a shallow nod, looking between the two of you. “Well,” he hooks a hand back at his truck. “I gotta head off to work.” He shifts on his feet, this time pointing to you. “And you head back inside, kiddo. Too early for you to be up and movin’.” Of course it is.

You stare at the ground, the pollen and stray leaves below your feet. Finally, you settle on a nod. Shallow and halfhearted, much like his. Your dad, satisfied, retreats back into the garage. You hear the truck engine come to life.

“You heard the man,” Joel says. You tighten your fists, moving to step away, but the way Joel’s eyes glimmer has you loitering. He lowers his voice. “See you soon, daredevil.”

That damned nickname. “How do you know I’ll be back?” you retort under your breath.

He shrugs. “I’m sure there’ll be more… ‘packages’.”

You blame the heat in your body on the rising sun, sweat clinging to the back of your neck as you plod off through the front yard. There’s only one thought in your head as your dad pulls out and you close the garage. Mr. Miller can’t happen again.

Mistake number four: thinking you’re telling the truth.

[dcxdpdabbles]

hi hi!! i loveee your writing (always makes me smile/cry whenever i read it)

Have you got another part of Unfinished Business (i think that’s what it’s called - the one where Gotham is getting cleaner through a computer game) ??

LOVEE YOUR WORK!!!

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷 ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜🩷

Bruce poured over the maps, searching for the random new streets that had appeared overnight. There were traces of them, but Bruce could have sworn they had been closed down or remodeled years ago.

Some buildings have been built over the old roads too, around the industrial revolution. The expeandtion of Gotham also meant that some places were removed or added on. They vanished. They were redundant.

Someone or something had made those roads reappear, and the many abandoned places had vanished or been fixed simultaneously. The question is, why?

Why were they doing this to his city?

It made no sense.

Was it a warning that they were powerful enough to remove entire structures with anyone the wiser? Bruce did not like it. He hated it. With so many of the buildings gone or fixed up, it seemed that the city was less cluttered.

He could see across the city now, and it caused hives to break out on his skin. If they were this powerful, what could they do to people? To his kids?

"Bruce, we got something," Tim hisses from his right. He had ordered everyone to go into lockdown within the cave. He doubts that anything in here will stop universal manipulation but it made him feel better to have his kids with him. "Their in Crime Alley."

Babs is running eyes on Gotham. She was biting her lower lip so hard blood had started to slowly drip down her chin. She had been in the manor when the first changes had begun. After calling her father in a panic- apparently, the police force work to the dirty copies just admitting they were corrupted in mass hysteria- she decdied to remain at the cave in order to use the panic room.

James wasn't sure what was going on, but he rather his daughter be behind the best security measures money could buy. He remained at the prescient, handling half his department turning themselves in.

He had always been professional but he admited to Babs that he felt a specail terror at the sight of his men's eyes going foggy then watcthing them one by one form a line to enter the cells.

Once they were behind the bars, they started talking, detailing who they work for and where the proof was for their arrest. James had at first thought it was something like a new form of Fear Gas but after three hours they confirmed it to be true.

The sky had turned blue by that point, and the cloud of pollution was long gone. She could do nothing for her father who was out there, facing whatever monster was cleaning up the city.

Bruce pats her arm, gently squeezing until she realizes what he wants. Her jaw relaxes, lifting her teeth from her flesh. He hands her an ointment to put on it without comment, and she uncurls her hand from over her mouse to take it.

Babs nods at him, face still filled with stress, but there is a softness in the corner of her eyes. For all that, she wasn't his daughter- even if for a while he truly believed she would be a daughter-in-law back when she and Dick were together- he adored her like his own.

He doesn't need words to know she's grateful for him reminding her to be kinder to herself.

Bruce turns his attention back to the screen, hissing through his teeth when he witnesses a start to glow gently in a familiar green color before the graffiti vanishes. It doesn't desolved or gets wiped away.

One moment, it's there, marking the territory of various gangs, random hooligans, and some genuine art, and the next, it's gone. As if though it never existed.

"Zoom in" He commands. With a few taps on her keys, Babs does just that. The camera is one of the city's older models, so the image isn't the clearest, but regardless, she clicks the record option anyway.

The glowing green surrounds the words, before one blink to the next, gone. Then to the alarm of all the watchers the brikes, reshape to new, expanding slightly and even having a finsihes repainting.

"No," Tim whispers in horror and loss. "Not the condemned fire station where I had to get my first tetanus shot. There were so many rusty pipes there."

Bruce reaches out, bringing his silent child into his arms as he feels his own tears welled up. "I feel through that roof my first night as Batman. It's alright Tim, we will avenge it."

Bruce gently pats Tim's hair, feeling his boy hide his face into his chest like a young child seeking comfort. He knows Babs is heartbroken too. That fire station was the place she used to go to with a sledgehammer whenever she had a fight with an ex-lover.

It was her comfort rage place. Bruce had even bought Bab's very first sledgehammer and had watched he break down her very first pillar back in her first few weeks of Batgirl.

All those memories. Gone.

"Shit," She gasps as the glow expands towards the camera and the resolution suddenly sharpens. It's clear enough to be the newest modles. "City secuirties have been compromised! Aborting systems"

All the screen go black and the Gotham natives can only sit in horrified silince.

"What more can they take from us?"

Alfred rubs the space between his eyes. He stands at the top of the stairway, watching the three's interactions after raiding the kitchen with food for the rest of the family.

The cave was equipped for months in a lockdown, but Alfred wanted to get everything non-preventive before sealing them in. The rest of the kids were behind him, helping grab supplies. "Hopefully, they'll aim for your stupidity next."

________________________________________________________

"Daniel Fenton, if you don't stop playing that silly game and come do your chores, you can forget about going out this summer!"

"But Mom, I'm this close to clearing out the legal system's corruption! Just thirty more minutes, please!"

"Now, young man!"

Danny pouts, staring at the screen that was shown casting Gotham City. He had removed the crooked cops and the brided lawyers, but the judges, prison wardens, and even some of the jail prisoners needed to be dealt with.

He had just purchased a better security camera and street post for the worst part of the city, hoping to earn some points from lowering crime there.

"I guess I can distribute some wealth to the working class from the Court of Owls in the meantime." He mutters, opening his citizens' profiles. He clicks on groups, wrinkling his nose at the Court's karma status. "Lawfully evil, prepare to be under the law again."

He presses the start time and leans back. Cracking his neck and hands, Danny lets the scenario run. He just has to do the dishes, clean the lab, and mow the lawn. That should be enough for the four hours on the wait time to finish. He hopes this will lower the general public's stress levels.

Gotham will be so happy when she sees her character's happiness ratings. Danny thinks with a smile. I could even add some tourism. That should really get the people's bank accounts growing!

[hildergard]

A GENTLE HAND ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

SUMMARY | "Gentle Hand," Mylenda insists on calling you, and perhaps that is what you are destined to be, perhaps that is what Prince Aemond needs.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

TAGS | Mention of sexual assault and abuse, mommy issues, angst and light fluff.

WORDCOUNT | 10k

NOTE | This is my first fanfiction on this website. Ewan Mitchell plays such a fascinating Aemond that I had to write this. I hope it's any good. Tell me if I should write a part 2! <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The roebuck’s blood turned your fingers sticky and the knife handle slippery. 

Brought by the royal hunters that very morning, the poor creature now lay on the counter of the Red Keep’s kitchens between the dismembered rabbits and the plucked ducks. It had only taken you a few cuts to skin the beast⏤practice makes perfect. 

The flesh was now raw and spilling its bloody perfume. You grabbed a thyme leaf from one of the bouquets garnis picked for the mutton stew and pressed it against your nose to soothe your nostrils, assailed by the disturbing scent of game⏤a full-bodied mixture of earth and wildness. Above this acrid aroma, death distilled its powerful bouquet and turned your stomach. It had been years since you entered the service of the Crown and yet the disgust never vanished. 

"She's coming," a small voice yelped from the kitchen entrance. 

A murmur passed through the crowd of maids. All around you, they hurried their movements. Two tables away, Cass grimaced and hurriedly threw the pieces of mutton into a large pot before drowning them in wine. You met Dacey's panicked gaze as she hastened to peel potatoes. The blade of the knife slipped and nicked at her palm, but she had no time to care or feel. 

Nothing mattered when Mylenda was around. 

You straightened up and slipped the thyme leaf into your apron pocket. Your knife took no time to sever the roebuck’s tendons, spread the muscles, scrape the bones and, finally, dislocate the shoulder with a clean cut. The second limb followed immediately afterwards. 

Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen and rattled the pans. The strong, greasy smell of venison, which had been bothering you all morning, disappeared at this familiar noise. Your fingers tightened around the handle of your knife as you stuck it in a leg. 

One piece of meat wasted and your head would be chopped off. 

"Is that venison ready, girl?" the matron’s voice grated against your eardrum. "It shouldn’t take you hours to cut up a poor carcass. I taught you better. Has my absence made you lazy? You know what happens to slackers."

You shook your head. 

"Sorry, ma’am."

She grabbed your hand. The knife fell with a sharp clang, silencing all movement in the vicinity. Pots and pans, chopping boards and spits were cast aside. Amidst this deathly silence, all eyes fell on you. 

"These are no hard-working hands. No, they're not… Next time I see you, I'd better see blisters on your lazy palm. Such… Such gentle hands in my kitchen," she scoffed, "Even whores get rougher skin jerking off cocks."

You flinched. 

"You better start working harder, got it?"

Terror ran through you. You nodded frantically before wrenching your hand from her grasp and cradling your clenched fist against your heart.

Mylenda muttered something you did not care to hear, your ears deaf to anything but the frantic pounding of your heart against your temples. You looked down and immediately came across the beast's eyes, sitting in a clay bowl and reminiscent of the pile of gooseberries that would be used as a sauce for the chops. You could almost taste the delicious berries on the tip of your tongue. 

Your stomach rumbled. 

If the old woman heard it, she said nothing, too busy assessing your work. 

"The cut could be cleaner," she criticised, "but I don't suppose the royals will mind when the meat crumbles into the stew. You're lucky we're not roasting it. You’re as tactful as a headsman, girl. You’re not cutting off a thief’s neck but the King's dinner. You better fix that."

"Yes, ma’am."

Your gaze fell even lower, to the hide piled up in a jumble on the floor. You were hoping to make a coat out of it this evening, in the privacy of your little bedroom. The air was getting colder and colder and your cotton dress would soon no longer suffice. Gilliane, like a true Northerner, kept saying that winter was coming. 

Whatever that meant.

You kicked the skin under the table and prayed to the Seven Gods that Mylenda would not see it.

"Once you've finished cutting it up, you’ll make a terrine from the legs and shoulders," she ordered. "The Hand loves it. And don't forget to cook the guts. I ain’t letting a plump liver like that go to waste. Must’ve been a brave beast, that one," the matron said as she struck the bloody organ with pride. "A persillade should do. The mutton stew will be the main course."

You nodded and swallowed down your bile. The rancid scent of the old woman rivaled with the earthy exhalations of the venison. 

"Back to work, girl."

With these words, Mylenda left to go and torment Cass, who was struggling to cook the mutton. Bubbling wine stained the sides of the copper pot and evaporated on the flame. 

"Gi' me that. I'll carve it up for ya."

Someone snatched the knife out of your hand. You lifted your head and found Gilliane beside you, her gaze riveted on the matron who had turned crimson from screaming at poor Cass. 

"Gentle hands... Gentle hands... I’ll tell her what I think of her hands. I'd love to see them so-called palms wrinkled wi' effort. I've never seen her hold no knife since I arrived," she mumbled. 

Her defence warmed your heart. 

"Tek care o' them offal ‘fore the old cow decides to serve yer kidneys wi' mustard instead," she whispered. "She'd get a kick outta that, that madwoman." 

"Do you think she can smile?" you asked. 

"Gods, no," she scoffed. "She was born wi' pursed lips and that ugly wrinkle between her eyebrows."

You both laugh before returning to your tasks. Gilliane was busy carving up the rest of the venison so you concentrated on the liver and the parsley. The smell of garlic and herbs wafted out of the mortar in front of you and made your mouth water as you added a pinch of salt and a spoonful of oil. 

For a second, you dreamt of being a lady and imagined tasting these exquisitely flavoured dishes. The soup⏤more water than broth⏤and the stale bread you were entitled to once the service was over were intended to feed you, not to please. This right was reserved for people of good breeding. 

In the corner of your eye, you saw Mylenda stopped to face Hendry, a little boy of just thirteen who had joined you a month earlier. It wasn't unusual for people to sell their children in exchange for a new cart or some meat. Sometimes, mothers would lay their babies outside the gates of the Keep and pray that the place would blossom into a better life. From here, you could see the boy's pale complexion and shaking shoulders. The plate he was cleaning was dangerously close to falling. You prayed to the Gods to spare this child from the wrath of the woman next to him. 

"The King's dinner my arse..." you grumbled as you started to dice the liver. "She doesn't give a damn about doing His Majesty a favour as long as she can torture us."

"What's worse is she doesn't realise that she doesn't need t'beat us. Just a whiff of her rotten breath and believe me, even the worst brigand would fall to their kn–"

Oswell Pyne stormed into the kitchen, his fist wrapped around the arm of a weeping Prudence. 

You dropped the pestle at the sight of her swollen face. Her milky complexion faded into a mass of frightening bruises. The purple and blue weren't enough to hide the drops of blood beading at her temple and the edges of her lips. 

What had this poor girl fallen into? 

You immediately abandoned your post⏤to hell with the damn parsley⏤and tried to make your way through the other servants who had gathered at the entrance to the kitchens, just as eager to find out more. Gilliane insulted two or three of them, who immediately moved aside for fear of poking the Nordic woman and having to face her coarse tongue. 

"Steward Oswell," Mylenda stammered. "To what do I owe your visit? You don't normally drop in until dinnertime, which, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't start for another two hours."

She turned to the maid, whose sobs had worsened at the sight of the old hag. Her headdress had been ripped off and her blonde hair was falling in knots over her tiny shoulders. 

"Prudence, what have you done, girl?" she asked dryly. "Oh, sir... I hope she didn't cause you no trouble. My girls usually know how to behave."

"Well, it seems Prudence here has seen fit to answer back to His Majesty."

The whole kitchen fell in an uproar.

Mylenda, who ruled with an iron fist over the henhouse of the Red Keep’s maids, harped on to you all day long about the importance of keeping quiet. You still remembered your first day in the service of the Crown and the words she had screamed… 

"Maids can gossip all they like in the kitchens, Gods know stirring a stew for two hours can put even the most seasoned of maids to sleep, but if I catch any of you uttering a single word outside these walls, they will be punished. The Lords don't need to be reminded that we exist. As soon as you stop smelling the kitchens, you shut up."

Shivers ran down your spine. 

"Obviously," the steward continued, heedless of the chaos his words had unleashed, "Prudence didn't care about the repercussions such disastrous behaviour might have on the maids. Or on Mylenda herself. Am I right, girl? Own up your mistake."

He shook Prudence's arm and she let him, her chin trembling. You wanted to slap that horrible man, to make him swallow his arrogant smile, but what could you do but stand by and watch this horrifying spectacle? 

Next to you, Gilliane cursed against the matron and the steward. Her insults were drowned out by the whispers of the other maids. Cass, her apron still stained with wine, was turned towards Ellyn, the baker. Even Hendry had leaned over to Dacey and was whispering something in his ear. 

"Quiet, girls!" Mylenda shouted before turning back to Prudence. "Well, what are you waiting for? Speak up! For Gods’ sake, what's got into you?!"

"He... He tried to... To... I didn't want to... My father... he would have... No... I couldn't..."

Your heart fell into your stomach. Of course. You closed your eyes and breathed in to try and silence the flicker of indignation blossoming inside. The hubbub around you increased. Several girls gasped. A few had the courage to protest. Next to you, Gilliane grunted and clenched her fist. 

How many more maids would have to suffer the same fate before someone took action? How many young girls would have to be broken, their prospects dripping down their aching thighs, because of the animal urges of one and the same man? 

"And that gives you the right to answer back to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?" the steward growled. "You fool!"

The memory of Dyana still haunted the kitchens. No one dared mention her name for fear of invoking her tormentor, whom the aromas of poppy and dirty gold could not mask. How naive you had been to think this had been enough to keep him out… The executioner had invited himself into your ranks and was sowing his eternal seeds of destruction. Again and again and again. 

Such was the luck of Targaryens and their royal blood while the small folk picked up the pieces and healed the wounds. Spoilt blood flowed and flowed and flowed without a care in the world. Who would stop the bleeding? Were we destined to die, our empty bodies turned towards the gold-covered hands that held the knife? 

"I understand Prudence was to be one of the cupbearers at tonight's dinner. You can understand why the King would be... offended if he had to endure the sight of that... that seductress while he ate his meal. Would he not?"

Ashamed, the old woman grumbled under her breath, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Mylenda only cared about her reputation. She forgot that, like all of you, she was nothing. You frowned, disgusted by this dishonourable but not in the least surprising display. 

"Of course, sir! Come here, girl!" Mylenda barked at Prudence before grabbing her hair and pulling her forward. "I'll show you what I do to maids who dare to talk back! You'll be sorry you didn't let the King get his way!"

Next to you, Gilliane took a step forward, ready to fight, but you held her back before she too sealed her fate. You had seen what happened to girls who dared to speak out and you didn't want to see your friend beaten to death by a stick. 

Mylenda's crazed gaze swept across the assembly before coming to rest on you. She pointed at you with her bony finger. 

"You! Gentle Hand! You'll be the cupbearer in Prudence’s stead. I hope you fill glasses better than you cut meat. I will not be humiliated any further by one of my maids. You will behave yourself and do me honour. Got it?"

You paled and glanced around in panic, but the other maids lowered their heads, happy not to have been chosen. Nobody wanted to be the cupbearer. Not since the coronation. Standing for hours enduring King Aegon's indecent babblings, his lips loosened by the acrid taste of wine, was an ordeal you all sought to avoid. Until now, you had managed to escape it, eternally hidden behind the steaming pots. 

The Gods had now taken away your chance and were throwing you into the dragon pit.   

You stammered incomprehensible words, pointing to the pieces of liver ready to be cooked, but Mylenda would have none of it and glared at you until you bowed your head and admitted defeat. 

Oswell stood next to the matron, staring at you with his nose turned up⏤like watching an insect, you realised. He finally nodded and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. 

His departure set off a firestorm. Gilliane turned sharply towards you, her grey eyes ablaze with rage. 

"One day, I’ll gut him like a pig," she spat. "Mylenda. Oswell. They're rats, all of 'em."

You watched as the others busied themselves around Prudence. Cass wrapped a cloth around her shoulders and led her to a chair. Ellyn handed her a loaf of bread and forced her to eat before bringing a glass of water to her bruised lips. 

"Poor girl," Gilliane continued but you were listening with a distracted ear. "She's far too good to work here. I'll pray t'the Old Gods for her tonight. Maybe they'll hear me and get her outta this hell ‘for the old cow gets the better of her."

The Northerner shook her head and, at last, looked at you, her eyes moistened with concern. She leaned towards you and asked if you were all right. Words fell short on the tip of your tongue, troubled by the sight of a destroyed Prudence and the evening ahead of you. Your chores consisted of cooking and washing cloths, nothing that would justify being in the company of the royal family.  

You shrugged. 

"If ya want, I can ask Mylenda to swap us," Gilliane suggested. "I don't want ya to have anything to do wi' him. Not after all that mess," she nodded at Prudence. 

Henry was clumsily dressing up her wounds. 

You shook your head. 

"No. It'll only get you in trouble with the old cow. I'll go. It's just serving wine, isn't it? It can't be that bad."

"I guess," Gilliane conceded. 

You knew very well that your friend wanted to protest. You could see her plea right at the edge of her lips, but you went back to your post and your persillade before she could tell it. Protesting wouldn't change anything, so you might as well get used to the idea and put up with it. You deliberately ignored the shiver of terror that ran down your spine at the thought of the King and grabbed a new sprig of parsley, chopped it roughly before adding it to the mortar. 

Mylenda appeared beside you as you grabbed the pestle. 

"What are you still doing here, girl? Didn't you hear me? Go and look after the wine. We still have to add the honey and decant it. And for Gods’ sake, change that bloody apron! Spare the royal family the sight of these hideous rags! Ahem. Right, then. Now, where was I? Henry, polish these bloody chalices!"

The old matriarch left you alone, arms flailing away. 

Contrary to popular belief, the wine cellars were not next to the kitchens. You had to venture even further down to find the huge and cold rooms. You were already missing the lively melody of the kitchens before leaving them. 

"We probably won't see each other again before dinner, so... Stay away from t’King," Gilliane whispered to you before pursing her lips. Her hand squeezed your shoulder painfully. "If anything happens, anything, tell me and I'll take care of it–" 

"Don't you worry about me," you put an end to her budding act of betrayal. 

She nodded, frowning and her gaze determined. It was hard to believe that this fiery fury had been bred by the icy winds of Longtown. 

"Can you do something for me?" 

"Anything," she replied immediately. 

"Hide the roebuck skin." 

Gilliane smiled and winked at you. 

"As long as ya leave me some to mend me cloak."

"Deal."

You gave her a thin smile and abandoned the venison and parsley, your knife and mortar for barrels and crushed grapes. When you reached the caves, a cellarer was stirring wine in a gigantic pot. Beside him, another was pouring honey into the red bath. They were probably making the hypocras the King was so fond of. 

"I... Mylenda sent me. I'm the cupbearer... For tonight’s… dinner..?" 

The pourer interrupted your poor explanation and nodded towards the corner of the room. 

"Make yourself useful and fill those jugs up, girl."

The two hours passed quicker than you had wished and soon you found yourself with your back against the wall, your arms already tired from carrying the jug of wine you had filled yourself. 

You thought back to Mylenda and lowered your head a little more. Her orders, engraved in your skull, haunted you. You could almost feel the old woman's bony fingers wrap around your chin and yank it down. The labyrinthine floors of the Keep were not enough to blur the threat of the old woman. Even when she wasn't there, she forced you to keep your head down, your eyes glued to the floor and, above all, your mouth shut⏤if you dared utter a single word, you'd suffer her fury and her fist. 

You remembered Prudence's swollen face and shivered. Aegon Targaryen may have cast the first stone in her doll's face, but you had no doubt that the matron would throw all the others and beat her to the bone. You tightened your grip on the jug's handle and prayed to the Gods to spare you from the same fate.  

With a distracted ear, you listened to the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower, speak in a soft voice, but her words faded under the suffocating presence of the King. He stood close enough to you so that you could hear every gulp of wine drunk, every mouthful chewed open. He spat out your persillade and stained the white tablecloth with vulgar words, obviously caring little for decorum. 

The perks of being King, you supposed.  

Your mind wandered away from Kings and Queens to the hide under the worktop. Had Gilliane taken it away or was it still lying on the sticky kitchen floor? Would you keep the hair or turn it into a leather coat, less warm but more durable? After what Mylenda had called the "deer disaster", she wouldn't let you butcher any more animals. No more skins for you. You'd have to buy fabric, but the few silver stags you were given every month wouldn't be enough. 

Despite the plump little purse hidden under your straw mattress, you refused to dip your hand into it. The Crown housed you and fed you; clothes were a mere futility when the Keep provided you with a red dress and a white apron to wear. So why spend your fortune, meagre though it may be, on coquettish whims? No. The purse would remain hidden until you left the Keep. 

Leather it is, you thought. 

"Girl. Wine."

You startled and hastily filled the glass the Hand held out to you. Otto Hightower glanced at you for a moment but said nothing. He took a sip and turned to continue his conversation with his grandson, Prince Aemond. You sighed, relieved when his attention left you. A small voice in your head, however, whispered to you that he would definitely mention this incident to Oswell, and if not to the steward, to Melynda herself. 

You gulped and absent-mindedly wiped the drop of wine from the jug.  

As you moved to regain your place by the wall, your eye drifted to the venison terrine in front of the Hand, left untouched. You frowned. The fruit and cheese had long since filled the plates and foretold the end of dinner. A bitter taste poisoned your mouth and tugged its corners down. They were happily wasting the food while, under their feet, maids would fight to trim the bones of their leftovers, like vile carrion-eaters around a leprous corpse. 

The nobles boasted of their noble education and mastery of good manners, but these vanished in the indecency of their existence. 

A pale hand burst in front of your eyes and stopped under your nose to present you with an empty cup. Without a word, you poured the King another drink and kept your head down. His insistent gaze burned the side of your face and moved lower, stopping on your heaving chest. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end and the handle of the jug pressed painfully into your sweaty palm.  

You pig. 

You looked around for a way out and found no better distraction than the Prince Aemond. Your gaze immediately fell on his eye patch. You were standing on his blind side, you realised. The thought reassured you. For the first time, you could observe the members of the royal family as you pleased. 

Unlike his brother, the second son of the late King Viserys did not take pleasure in fondling servant girls. He spent his urges studying the texts and holding the blade when he wasn't off murdering his nephews⏤for the war that emptied your stomachs and purses had blossomed at the hand of Aemond Targaryen. 

Your eyes fell on his clenched fist, his angular jaw and his famous leather eye patch. 

Yes, you could easily picture him a as murderer.  

You left your thoughts for a moment to serve the Dowager Queen again, noticing that there was nothing left of the parsleyed liver that had filled her plate⏤a flash of satisfaction shook you⏤but your gaze quickly returned to the statuesque figure of the Prince. 

You frowned. 

A crack split the fascinating sight. His hand was gripping his glass so tightly that his knuckles were turning white, but even this strong grip couldn't mask the tremors shaking his fingers. The veins in his wrist gushed against the pale skin and seemed to be screaming out a pain that no one could hear but you: the King had started singing, the Dowager Queen was biting her nails and the Hand seemed about to insult his Grace. 

Other details suddenly jumped out at you, as the din next to you worsened: his eyebrows furrowed, his other hand gripping the edge of the table, his vacant purple eye. He wasn't even answering Otto Hightower any more, just nodding absently. 

Prince Aemond soon had enough of his brother's ditty and stood up. The chair legs creaked against the floor and made you wince, but you lowered your head and pursed your lips. He greeted his family in a curt voice before leaving, his head held high, a far cry from the spectacle of weakness you had just witnessed. 

"My glass isn't going to fill itself, girl. More wine. And don't be stingy. To the brim. I'm thirsty."

You watched in silence as the red liquid crashed into the golden glass. A fine foam rose to the surface, the syrupy aromas of the spiced wine oozing out of it. For a second, you indulged yourself in the divine fragrance and its sweetness, which almost made you forget the King's perverse eyes. 

Aelinor stepped forward and cleared the Prince's place setting. She took the empty plate, then the glass, and soon it was as if Aemond Targaryen had never dined here. Only a round of wine, where his glass had been placed, was proof of his presence. 

He had never asked for a refill, you realised.  

For some reason, the vision of Prince Aemond stayed with you for days. 

A new servant, Gretchel Stone⏤a bastard of the Vale⏤had been hired to replace Prudence as cupbearer and waitress. The blonde girl had disappeared from the Keep three days after what the maid now called 'The Accident'. Wherever she was, you prayed for her good fortune and health. The law of the Lords was merciless⏤they played games and let the Small Folk suffer the consequences of their actions. 

If Prudence's departure had saddened you deeply, Gretchel's arrival had freed you from your duty as cupbearer. You were elated to be back in the kitchens and the laundry. The mere memory of the King's gaze still sent shivers down your spine. It stuck to your skin despite the hours you spent in the bath, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing. Your flesh, however raw, couldn't shed the terror. 

The hour of the Nightingale enveloped the Keep in an unrivalled softness. You enjoyed this in-between moment, when the night clung to the fragments of moon that still remained and left the few early risers to enjoy the quiet that the sun would take away. 

The journey to the Great Sept was quick and untroubled. The few drunkards sprawled out on the ground in their own filth were fast asleep and the laborers already working had no use for you. Wrapped up in Gilliane’s cloak, your friend still asleep, you hurried on⏤soon, the Red Keep would awaken and duty would crush you.

When you finally passed through the monument's great doors, septas were silently cleaning the wax from yesterday’s burnt-out candles. 

You passed them and knelt before the wall of the Crone, letting your gaze drift over her wrinkled statue and the murals carved in her honour before taking a splint and lighting a candle. You clasped your hands together and closed your eyes. 

"Dear Crone," you whispered, "You who have seen so many lives and so many fates, grant me clairvoyance and discernment, for the future seems full of trials. Give me patience in my struggle and the strength to act with justice and compassion. Enlighten my steps and bless me with your mercy." 

A bruised, stoic face appeared before your eyes, but you stood up before your thoughts drifted into those dangerous waters. 

Lowly people need not concern themselves with the affairs of a Prince, an unknown voice said firmly.

When you returned to the Keep, it had come alive, bustling with hurry and duty. The kitchens were busy preparing meals for the Lords as other maids were coming and going, their arms drowned in clean and dirty linen. When Mylenda saw you, she threw a white pile into your arms and ordered you to change Prince Aemond's bedding. 

 "Gwenys, the poor girl, is ill," the matriarch explained. "The flu, no doubt. Bloody business. I'll be damned if the Prince catches it. He breaks his fast an hour after dawn. Any minute now, in fact. Make haste, Gentle Hand! And don't let anyone see you."

You stammered your obedience and hurried to Maegor's Citadel. The huge closed doors sent shivers down your spine. They separated you from the power of the World and its cruelty. The blood of the dragon slumbered in these quarters and you would not be the one to poke the sleeping beast. Your gaze fell on the King's chambers ⏤had an innocent soul once again fallen to his cruelty last night?⏤but you lowered your head and continued on your way. 

You knocked on the door⏤your knuckles hitting the carved wood painfully ⏤but nobody answered. Your shoulders relaxed and your breathing calmed. The heavy door would not budge as you tried to push it open. Where were the Kingsguards? You threw your entire weight against the wood and when it finally did open, a thick layer of sweat was soaking your back. 

Your eyes quickly swept over the Prince's quarters, drowned in the distinct opulence of royalty. In one corner, a bookcase was overflowing with ancient tomes and the smell of parchment filled the room. On the walls, murals glorifying House Targaryen caught your eye, but you forced yourself to keep your chin down, your mouth shut, and moved towards the bed, ignoring its warm and cosy appearance, a far cry from your straw mattress. 

The four-poster bed alone was bigger than the small room you shared with Gilliane. Its tastefully embroidered green and black curtains caught your eye, but you resisted the urge to touch them. 

Your arms went to work on their own and fell into familiar gestures. 

You pulled off the worn sheets⏤trying not to think about the fluids trapped in them⏤rolled them into a ball and let them fall to the floor before taking the new ones and draping them over the feather-filled mattress. At last, you fluffed the cushions, releasing a musky and unmistakably masculine scent in the air. It floated in your nostrils. Your heart raced and your cheeks flushed. A little voice⏤sounding strangely like Mylenda’s⏤discouraged you from giving in to temptation, but the perfume numbed your senses and your reason. 

Your trembling hand grasped the cloth and brought it to your face... Already, the scent caressed your cheeks. You gasped, your lips parted, ready to taste this intoxicating bouquet... 

The door slammed. 

The cushion fell from your hand. 

You scrambled to your feet, almost tripping over the pile of dirty sheets on the floor. 

The look on Prince Aemond's face made your blood run cold. 

"Out."

Head down, you picked up the linens and left, taking care not to approach the Prince, who was visibly enraged. As you passed him, his gasping breath caught in your eardrum. You risked a glance in his direction and glimpsed at his clenched fist. 

Just like at dinner.  

The doors closed behind you with a slam that startled you. You had just enough time to hear a grunt and see the Prince's silhouette collapse to the floor. You paled and opened your mouth, ready to offer help, but Mylenda's threats came back to haunt you. You lowered your chin and disappeared around the corner of the corridor, determined to turn a deaf ear to the Prince's groans of pain.

Surely he would have ordered you to stay or fetch a Maester if he felt the need. His silence said it all, didn't it? A creature as proud as Aemond Targaryen probably wanted to be left alone to brood over the illness that was tormenting him. Perhaps Gwenys flu had affected more people than Mylenda thought. 

Yes, that must be it. 

Gwenys' ailment had turned out to be much more than the flu. Blood flux, a nasty ordeal… Oswell and Mylenda had tried to keep the matter quiet so as not to alert the Lords and give them more reason to hate the servants they were condemned to brush shoulders with. Several maids were dismissed from their duties to stop the spread of the disease⏤better letting it grow in Flea Bottom than the Keep, the steward had said⏤and their tasks had fallen on the already stooping shoulders of the remaining workers. 

Busy changing the Prince's sheets at dawn and working in the kitchens during the rest of the day, it had become difficult to find time to pray to the Crone and the Mother in the Great Sept. This new schedule left you exhausted and irritated. Gilliane sometimes had to wake you up⏤something that would have been unthinkable just two weeks earlier. You were finding it hard to mourn the Hour of the Nightingale and the peace and quiet that Mylenda had forced you to give up. Now you had to pray in your room late at night, with the smell of cooking and soap still clinging to your skin. 

But the Gods turned a deaf ear to your pleas and left you to face alone the guilt that grew in your heart each time you abandoned the Prince to his painful fate. 

Your mornings were structured around a heavy sense of déjà vu. No matter how late you changed the Prince's linens, he would always appear and order you to leave with a booming voice before collapsing in a tornado of pain that, strangely enough, broke your heart. 

"I don't know what's wrong with him," you shrugged. But I'm sure... I mean… It can't be the blood flux," you dared to whisper the forbidden word. "His sheets are always clean. I've never found any blood or vomit or... or anything. No... It must be some other affliction. For it to happen every day... Maybe it's his spirit? With all this talk of war... Oh, it's terrible. And strange. I can't stop thinking about it. Perhaps I should speak to the Maester..."

You stirred the contents of the pot absent-mindedly. As you had predicted, Melynda no longer trusted you to cut the meat and had assigned you to the sauces, much to your delight⏤the dreadful scent of fresh had been replaced by bouquets of redcurrant, wine and mustard. 

Next to you, Gilliane cut a rabbit’s head in one clean stroke. 

« Dozens of masters would travel from the Citadel just to treat him. It's not yer job to worry about him. He doesn't deserve it and it’ll only get ya into trouble. Maybe it's a ploy to bed ya. ‘Ve heard he spends lotta nights in the Street of Silk."

"Hmm... I doubt that's it. What's the point of dismissing me, then? If it was a ploy to... to do that… wouldn't it be easier to let me help him? I don't think the Prince is like his brother. No... He seems genuinely unwell."

"Generations of incest do that to ya," your friend scoffed. "It's about time the Gods punished 'em for their sins... These Greens are rotten to the core and you'd do well to remember that. These... These usurpers are–" 

"More cutting and less talking, girls. The Crown pays you to fill stomachs, not to gossip like wenches. If working is such a bother, I'll be happy to replace you with obedient young ladies. Hundreds of them dream of your position in Flea Bottom." 

"Yes, ma'am," you replied in unison. 

Gilliane waited until Mylenda had gone before turning back to you, the bloody tip of her knife pointed towards you. 

"Don't waste your prayers on that kinslayer. And keep away from him, d’ya hear me? There's something evil about that boy, I know it."

You nodded silently and stopped your thoughts from drifting to the Targaryen man. Perhaps Gilliane was right. A prince's business was none of your concern and it would be foolish to think otherwise. 

Yes, you would do your chores quietly and let the lords play their game and fight their demons alone. 

Prince Maelor's flushed and  tearful face refused to leave your mind as you took his dirty linens to the laundry. You did not normally look after the King's heirs⏤Queen Helaena preferred to entrust this task to her trusted servants since that night⏤but a panicked Jenny had stormed into the corridor of Maegor's Citadel, a crying Jaehaera in her arms, as you went to the Prince's room. You had not hesitated to volunteered to take the soiled sheets to be washed; on the contrary, you welcomed the distraction with open arms⏤everything was good to postpone the duty that awaited you. 

The smell of urine emanating from the sheets in your arms made you wince and quicken your pace, but your heart wept for this little toddler whom life had not spared. The King's last child had been prone to accidents since the barbaric assassination of Prince Jaehaerys⏤no doubt the traumatic death of his brother had upset him, as it had all the inhabitants of the Keep. 

Once the sheets had been dropped off, you turned around and retraced your steps until you arrived in front of Prince Aemond's room. You swore under your breath as noises pierced the wood. The sun, already high in the sky, was taunting you. Your little diversions had only delayed your duty, not erased it despite your prayers, and now you had to change the Prince's bedding with the man in the room. 

Maybe he would not care to hold it against you... After all, he told you to leave every day, whether his linens were changed or not. You turned on your heels and were about to head for the kitchens and Gilliane, but a scream stopped you in your tracks. 

A second followed, then a third. You glanced around, hoping to see a Royal Guard burst around the corner, but no white cloak appeared. The corridors remained empty and the Prince's screams continued to ricochet off the alcoves and ceiling mouldings with you as the only ear listening. 

Over your shoulder, the door taunted you. It was ajar, you realised. An unusual lack of attention from the Prince. You took a step towards it, keeping your eyes fixed on the small gap. Soon, the Prince's silhouette came into view. 

On the ground, wearing only a shirt and trousers, Aemond Targaryen was shaking like a leaf, a trembling hand pressed against his bruised eye. A new wave of pain must have swept through him as he curled into himself and screamed. 

You rushed to his side. 

"Are you all right, my prince?" you asked breathlessly. Mylenda and her orders be damned. "Would you like me to fetch the Maester?"

Your hand hovered over his shoulder, which twitched with agony, but you did not dare to touch it for fear of retaliation. The Targaryen man raised his head with an almost bestial growl, resembling the dragon on his coat of arms. When he recovered enough to understand who was standing in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed and his complexion flushed with anger. Your heart skipped a beat and fear seeped through your veins in a matter of seconds.

"Get out," he gritted before turning his head⏤no, hiding. 

"My Prince, I fear I must insist. Your eye–"

His eye patch had slipped off and, although it didn't unveil the horror that lay behind it, it did reveal a red and irritated scar. The lower eyelid was now a mass of inflamed skin. You turned your head and saw a bottle of milk of the poppy overturned, its translucent liquid staining the floor. 

"Get out or I'll have your head!"

You jumped. In an impulse you would no doubt regret, your fingers went to his bruised cheek and brushed against the burning skin to feel the damage before you squeaked. The Prince's hand tightened around your wrist and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed, until you yelped and abruptly pulled away. Pain colonised your palm, your fingers you could now barely move, and the bone at the centre of it all. You got up on shaky knees and walked away, leaving the Prince alone with his torments. 

Instead of heading for the kitchens, your legs led you to Maester Orwyle's dark and silent storerooms. No doubt he was busy deciding the fate of the kingdom with the other members of the Small Council. Silently, you slipped through the door and lit a candlestick before examining the shelves filled with ingredients of all kinds, some perhaps older than you. Hundreds of labels jumped out at you, but none caught your eye until the orange of a jar lit up your retina. 

You glanced behind you and were relieved to see the room still empty. Hastily, you uncorked the jar and dipped your hand in. Your fingers brushed against the softness of its contents before closing around it. You repeated the operation once, twice, thrice, until your pockets were overflowing with expensive and precious ingredients. When it came to stealing the powder you needed, you hesitated but ended up finding a small wooden bowl, insignificant enough so that no one would notice it missing. 

Just as you were about to leave, the faint glow of the candle caught on a small metal container and blinded you. You read its familiar inscription before dropping it, too, into your apron and setting off again, praying to the Gods that the Maester didn't notice the missing ingredients, otherwise you'd certainly end up on the scaffold. 

Your footsteps hit the floor of the Keep. The corridors gave way to staircases that revealed the lower floors, hiding your bedroom. Once you were safe, you tossed your loot onto the bed before digging out a mortar and a sticky jar from underneath it. With trembling hands, you dipped a wooden dish into a bucket of clear water normally used for bathing before grabbing the pestle. 

In the mortar, you emptied the bag of green clay and drowned it in the water before stirring. The pain in your wrist redoubled, but you gritted your teeth and persevered. You added the marigold and camomile petals, then the gooey inside of a Dorne plant whose name you didn't know, before adding two large spoonfuls of honey. 

The neck of the metal container hung in the air for a few seconds. Was that wise? You hesitated, thinking back to the bottle spilt in the Prince's room, but gave in to temptation and let three drops fall into the concoction. 

You ran back towards Maegor's Citadel and snuck into the Prince's quarters. He raised his head and his features quickly contorted with rage at your sight. 

"You again! I shall speak to the steward of your–"

You threw the mortar on the floor, along with some bandages, before turning around and slamming the door. Your back slid against its wood until you fell to the floor, gasping for air. 

Seven Hells, what have I done? 

For a week, your nights were spent praying to the Gods to spare you from the Prince's rage. Sleep slipped away in night terrors that always woke you with a start, leaving you paranoid enough to look over your shoulder every few minutes, waiting for the inevitable. A beating by Mylenda, a dismissal by the steward, even a visit from the Royal Guard... but nothing happened. And that somehow made it worse. Perhaps the Prince wanted to deal with you alone. A series of shivers made you waver. He was terrifying, untouchable⏤impunity incarnated. If anyone found out what you'd done... 

No. No one would know, you tried to convince yourself. 

You decided to keep the incident from Gilliane, who wouldn't have understood anyway. No doubt she would even have chastised you for not leaving him to die on the icy floor of the Keep. A staunch supporter of Rhaenyra, she hated the idea of working for the enemy. You had no thought on the subject. Politics did not matter to you as long as you were paid and the Gods let you live. You wouldn't spit on the hand that fed and housed you. 

It was comfort that kept you under the yoke of Mylenda and her petrifying breath, not ideology. 

The dirt on the King's sheets dissipated in the icy water of the washroom. Your purple fingers struggled to wring the fabric. Terrified of having to face the Prince and reap the consequences of your reckless act, you had asked Mylenda to change your chores in the morning. Fortunately, the matron didn't argue too much, sending you away with just a barb about your hands⏤as was her custom⏤before returning to her duties. Washing clothes had never been your forte, but you preferred it to Aemond Targaryen’s presence.

Two more weeks passed without the Prince making his presence felt. He seemed to have disappeared from the Keep. According to the other maids, his appearances at meals were brief and always tense, and some had even seen him lose a duel during his sparring sessions with Criston Cole. 

When you realised that the Prince would not take revenge, your shoulders relaxed and your mind returned to more pleasant thoughts. 

How naive of you to think that Aemond One-Eye would give up. 

He cornered you in a corridor one evening as you were making your way to your room. Your fingers were itching to do something other than stir sauces and wash cloths. The deerskin, hidden under your bed and still intact, was waiting for you. With all this fuss, you had never found the time to make your long-awaited coat, a decision you bitterly regretted⏤the cold had definitely fallen on King's Landing and left you shivering when your chores weren't there to warm you up. 

A hand pulled you into an alcove. You attempted to struggle but the stranger quickly overpowered you, leaving you unable to move or scream. White streaks cascaded in front of your eyes, carrying a distinct musky smell which stunned you into compliance. 

By the Gods, he had come seeking revenge. 

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill you. 

"Which Maester did you steal that poultice from?"

His sharp tone was terrifying. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes and a squeak fell from your lips. The prince turned you towards him, waiting for an answer, but you didn't know what to say. Your thoughts were all jumbled together, rendering you as mute as Cromm, the horse keeper from Flea Bottom. He was close, so close that you could see the grain of his skin, the purple of his eye and the scar on his cheek⏤less red than last time, you noticed. 

"Answer me, girl. Where did you find this ointment? Maester Orwyle assures me he has no knowledge of it. Nor do his colleagues. No one in this Keep knew of its existence until I mentioned it. So speak up!"

You stammered a few words, incomprehensible even to your own ears. This seemed to frustrate the Prince to no end as he tightened his grip on your arm. 

Your wrist throbbed, reminiscing the pain. 

"If you do not tell me who–"

"It’s mine," you cut him off, eager to free yourself from his grip. "I made it."

The silence stretched and wrapped around your neck in a horrifying premonitory vision. 

"... You? »

"Yes?"

He glared at you. The darkness of the alcove didn't dull the brilliance of his purple irises. It glowed and made your heartbeat quicken. Legends said the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men and you couldn't help but agree, blessed enough to contemplate their work. 

"Hm."

The pressure on your arm vanished. 

"You will tend to my linens. The new maid cannot do it properly."

The Prince turned around and disappeared into the night. 

The green and black curtains of the four-poster bed had long lost their novelty but none of their splendour. You fluffed the pillow before picking up the duvet. The musky scent of the Prince invaded your nostrils and dilated your pupils. You'd never admit it, but you were relieved to find yourself back in the quarters of the Dowager Queen’s second son. No more freezing water. No more soiled sheets. No more vomit and sperm staining the King's robes. 

The Prince entered the room without a word, but his panting alerted you. Over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of his clenched fists, furrowed brows and soaked forehead... You didn't wait for him to dismiss you before curtseying, your headdress almost falling off. You gathered up the sheets and headed for the door, but he held out a hand.  

"Stay. I've... I've got to..."

The sheets fell at your feet as the Prince wobbled. Your hands struggled to hold on to his torso, which, in its mass, threatened to send you to the floor too. With clenched teeth, you guided the man to his bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in your arms, and immediately covered him with a blanket, not caring that you had spent time tucking it. 

"What... what should I do? Should I fetch Maester Orwyle? Or someone else? A guard? Ser Criston Cole, perhaps?"

The situation was surreal. Prince Aemond Targaryen, kinslayer and rider of Vhagar, was turning to you for help. A spark of jubilation ignited in your chest but panic spoiled the moment. Large beads of sweat beaded on the Prince’s forehead and ran down his skin to his twitching eyebrow. Your eyes widened at the sight. The whole left side of his face was twitching and convulsing. 

You were right to add chamomile, you thought gravely. 

Prince Aemond had spasms, his muscles never healed from the loss of his eye.

A pang lacerated your heart at the thought of this young boy, fated to suffer in silence during all those years. 

A warm sensation brought you back to the present. A pale and large hand had engulfed yours and was gripping it so tightly that you winced. But you said nothing, just whispered words of encouragement that were drowned out by his groans. He was no longer the terrifying Prince the maids talked about. He was turning into the fragile, battered being he had once been before your very eyes 

"Do you... have your... your poultice?" he managed to say. 

You shook your head. The prince had started to shiver. In a fit of bravery, you placed the back of your hand against his forehead and found it burning. A spark of panic ignited your chest.

Fever was never a good sign. 

"Can you... Can you make some?"

"I–"  you stammered. "My Prince... The ingredients are not easy to find."

"Paper… And a quill."

Not wanting to exhaust him further, you rushed to his secretary and promptly grabbed the items before running back to his bedside. He grasped it with a trembling hand and scribbled something on a roll of paper before handing it to you. 

"Give this to Maester Orwyle. He'll grant you access to his supplies. I... I need your help."

With a determined nod, you set off in the direction of the healer's quarters, who was stunned by your request before letting you in. The man watched you make the ointment in silence. The weight of his gaze slid over your tense body, too concentrated on your movements to pay attention. You left, throwing a thank-you over your shoulder, and returned to Aemond's room, out of breath and with your heart pounding against your temples. 

The Prince had not moved. He only moved when you handed him the pot.  

"Can you... put it on me?" he asked in a small voice. 

So, you, the ever-dutiful maid, did what you knew best and obeyed. 

Gently, you removed his eye patch with his permission and dipped a bandage in the poultice before placing it on his wound. You were careful not to stare at his wound for too long. The Prince was tense, uncomfortable with the idea of his face bare. His hand had found a piece of your apron and was clinging to it like a mussel to a rock in the vain hope of finding comfort. Sometimes, in an uncharacteristic show of bravery, you would let your fingers caress his before taking a new strip and starting the operation all over again. 

Soon his scar was entirely covered with the ointment except for his eyelid, whose bright red flesh alarmed you. 

"You must remove the sapphire, my prince," you murmured, thus speaking into existence what had until then remained silent. 

He tensed under your fingers. A rustle echoed in the room. His hand had torn off a piece of your apron. You swallowed and looked down. 

Had you gone too far? 

Mylenda will beat you for ruining your apron, a more urgent voice reminded you. 

"Your eye socket is irritated," you tried to explain. "And the pressure of the gem seems to be... making it worse. Perhaps it would be best to let the flesh rest and not torture it any further."

"Turn around." 

Your eyes latched onto the drapes and slid higher, over the murals. Dragons were drowning castles in their flames, ridden by white-haired men. Behind you, something clanged against the bedside table. Here and there, blue reflections ricocheted off the wall and drowned the blaze in a fragmented ocean.

"Resume."

A gasp escaped from your throat before you could take it back, horrified by the new mural, even more violent than the war scene you had just abandoned. There was nothing left of the eyelid. The empty eye socket clung to the remaining skin, but it was tangled up in a carnal mess⏤the work of a hurried butcher. The roebuck galloped into your mind. Mylenda would have grumbled at the sloppy stitching. 

"Resume," he repeated. 

His voice trembled with rage. 

Silently, you wet yet another strip of cloth and placed it on the remnants of his eyelid with a trembling hand. Your finger grazed his temple before falling back into your lap. Once again, the Prince grabbed your apron. The chamomile perfumed the room, releasing its soothing fragrance all around you, but he remained impervious to it, battered by pain and ghosts. 

With his face wrapped in white clothes, Aemond Targaryen resembled the dead king.

At least the spasms had subsided. That reassured you. The first bands were already hardening and working their miracle. The hollows in his forehead had disappeared, his body finally giving itself a well-deserved rest. The Prince let himself fall back against his pillows. 

You took this sign as a dismissal and got up, not wanting to impose your presence on him any longer. The dirty sheets from the night before were still lying on the floor. Mylenda was probably wondering what you were up to. Gilliane couldn't make up excuses indefinitely. 

"Stay."

"I have to get back to the kitchen. And your sheets..."

"Stay," he commanded in a weak voice. 

What could you do but make yourself comfortable at the Prince's bedside? The order sounded like a request, but no doubt he would have taken your refusal as an affront. He was still a noble and nobles did not like to be contradicted. 

"Can you touch my cheek? Your hands... Your hands help."

His purple eye rolled in its socket and struggled to stay awake as it rested on you. The Prince was not in his right mind. The pain left him bare before you, vulnerable. What could be more dangerous than a vulnerable Targaryen? He would wrap you in his secrets, not caring that you would surely burn in them. In the Red Keep, it was wiser to remain ignorant. To be a confidant was to meddle in unknown and dangerous matters. 

Mylenda was right. You should have kept your mouth shut. 

So you said nothing as the Prince grabbed your hand and pressed it against his cheek. His courage seemed to surprise him, for he tensed before relaxing and pressing back against your hand, desperately seeking the warmth of your palm. His lips parted and he sighed. Your cheeks flushed at the sensual sound, but you clung to the illusion of peace that embraced the room and buried your fears in a corner of your chest.

It was easier to cooperate. 

Your fingertips traced his temple, the arch of his eyebrow, the hollow of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and then repeated the exploration on the other side. His purple eye disappeared behind an intact eyelid, so different from the other. He sighed happily and curled up against you. The grip on your apron loosened. His breathing slowed. 

"Mummy."

The moan pierced the silence and took the peace with it, leaving only the cruel reality. She laughed at you and your naivety. Your blood turned cold. A wide purple eye looked into yours. You immediately stood up and mumbled an apology. The Prince followed suit, despite the pain. A bandage fell with a wet noise onto the sheet but, for once, you could not bring yourself care. Your eyes remained stuck on your hands. 

Stupid, stupid girl. What had you done? Touching a Prince like that? If His Highness didn't take care of you, the steward would beat you⏤like Prudence, like all the others. And Mylenda... The horror squeezed your stomach painfully and twisted your guts. 

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll–"

Hot tears rolled down your cheek and dried your skin before landing on your trembling lips. You shook your head frantically and picked up the pile of dirty sheets before running for the door. 

If there was one thing Mylenda had taught you, it was to shut up. 

[bones4thecats]

Hi hi hello! It's me 🧑‍🧑‍🧒 again, hehe. Your writing always sparks joy! And I have a new idea for a request (^w^)

Could I request Ace, Deuce, and Floyd with a reader who often patches them up or straightens out their hair/clothes for them whenever they get into some sort of mischief or fight? Like, they clean wounds and uses plasters or bandages with cute designs or fix crooked ties or collars. It's their way of showing affection (like a little cleaner shrimp haha)

I hope you have a wonderful day! Remember to stay hydrated (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

When Their S/O Straightens Them Out

Characters: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, and Floyd Leech Requester: 👪Anon A/N: This is honestly so cute! By the way, like in my other Twisted Wonderland pieces, the reader is not considered to be MC (or Yuu Sei and I have dubbed him in my au) ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Book 1 Chapters 24-28 and Book 3 Chapters 33-39 (not fully-centered - just mentioned) and Mentions of speaking lewdly, fighting, injuries from fights, and physical assault leading to almost-permanent damage ⚠️

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»»———————————-　 Ace Trappola 　———————————-««

🪅 Ace has always had a big issue when it comes to relationships. It is literally canon that he had a girlfriend in middle school and when he lost interest he ghosted her till they broke up

🪅 But, when he finally met you, the first year began to seemingly become more mellow around you. Well, he was still a little rascal to others, but he loved to just sneak behind you a spook you instead of dunking buckets full of water on you

🪅 And he was the same until another Heartslabyul student began to get a little close to you. And by close, I mean by stating his care for you loudly during practices, oblivious to the fact that your boyfriend was a mere few feet away from him

🪅 Let's just say the jealousy bubbled over and he threw a basketball at his face, sending the other into anger. And to sum it up, you and the teachers were beyond pissed

"I mean what were you thinking?! You could've gotten suspended, and if you think Riddle would get super angry about a missing tart imagine a suspension!"

🪅 Ace sat there as you began to re-wrap his injuries from the fight, and seeing the fairly deep cuts and scrapes reminded you of when you helped the rest of your dorm and the magicless human and his pet cat against Riddle's overblot

🪅 He watched carefully and pretty much ignored your scoldings in favor of seeing your face flush slightly in anger and contort as you spoke. Ace may not seem like it, but he does love to observe you caring for him. Some would call that slightly creepy, but you found it flattering, he paid you more attention than his homework

🪅 You began to put the bandages away with the cleaning materials when you felt two arms hug you from behind and a man's chin lay on the top of your head

"Thank ya', lovely."

"Anything for the Ace of my Heart."

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»»———————————-　 Deuce Spade　———————————-««

♠️ Despite what he wants, Deuce does still have his delinquent urges inside of him. He is severely protective over you to the point where others would think that he was forcing you in the relationship. Thankfully you know better

♠️ He loves to see you happy, even if it means others make you that. But Deuce can tell what someone is really thinking. He spent quite a bit of his childhood around people who hid their true emotions, heck, he was even one of those people!

♠️ So, seeing this random Pomefiore student come up to you constantly and act as if he just wanted friendship, but in reality he was just trying to woo you over. Wanting you to leave Deuce for himself

♠️ Deuce was getting angrier by the day, so it was bound for his anger to finally take over and cause him to act out

♠️ All it took was hearing the other man speak awfully gross things of you in the changing room after Track and Field practice. And he took the first hit

♠️ Next thing he knew you were fixing him up and trying to heal around the collar that came from Riddle earlier that day. The housewarden had found out about the disagreement and yelled his signature spell's name, making you sigh in annoyance

"Dearest, I understand that you love me. But you shouldn't have put yourself through that kind of action, Great Seven knows if he were to press assault charges onto you!"

"Y/N... I'm sorry. I've tried so hard to be the perfect straight-A student for you, my mother, and grandmother and then hearing that- that bastard talk about you that way just made me snap. Y'know?"

♠️ You smiled gently as you laid the extra materials aside and held your boyfriend's face to look at you. You rested your forehead onto his as he sighed and hugged you back

"I love you so much, Deuce. Just the idea of you being minorly hurt, nonetheless severely hurts."

"Understood. I'll try to be a bit better, okay?" Deuce asked, his smile enlarging as you nodded and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you so much for loving me, Y/N."

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»»——————————-　 Floyd Leech 　——————————-««

🎭 When you first met Floyd during your first years at Night Raven College, you knew that you would feel sorry for his future one and only. Little did you know that you were that one and only

🎭 Everyone understood the memo when Floyd was around. Do not speak ill of him or someone he was close to, it would only result in the sadistic eel-mer to pop up and practically squeeze you until you had a permanent dent in your ribs

🎭 Unfortunately for a new Octavinelle first year, he viewed the rumors as dumb. He was obviously acting this way to gain attention in that way, there was no way that a puny-looking eel-mer was stronger than the gorgeous and powerful betta-mer that he was!

🎭 Over the passing couple weeks, you have been hiding every interaction close to flirting away from the Octavinelle trio, knowing that either Azul and Jade would tell Floyd in a heartbeat

🎭 But, again, sadly for that new student, Floyd was walking around instead of being on his shift -due to finding it boring- and found the male taking his hair, which was flipped onto one side, and attempting to use dark-red and white colors to attract you. And that was not just going to pass by Floyd like nothing

"Y/N! Who is this you're talkin' too? A new friend?"

🎭 The sharp row of Floyd's teeth poking out from his smile didn't even spook the other male. And when he tried to lay a hand on you, Floyd snapped and began to twist the other male's arm to the point it was on the bridge of breaking. He just smiled as you laid a hand on his shoulder and asked him to put the guy's arm down

🎭 He did and watched with amusement as the other being began to run away in pure fear, gripping his arm as the pain echoed. You just groaned and adjust Floyd's jacket and look over his hands for any kind of scrape from work or being an idiot

🎭 Floyd smiled with wonder in his eyes as you cleaned him up like a little shrimp. Kind of like the magicless guy from Ramshackle!

"Y/N~ Would you ever leave me for that little baby fish?~"

"No. Why, you jealous?"

"Psh! Please. I know that I'm better than all those other bottom feeders."

[gguk-n]

Chapter 5- Racing for Love

Unravelling Max's Mystery (Max Verstappen x Online Friend!Reader)

Series Masterlist

Summary- Y/N spends her time in Netherland with Max while his girlfriend no where to be seen. They spend Christmas and New Year together. Y/N can't get over Max; maybe it's for the best. Max realised he loves her.

{Reader's POV}

I headed back to the hotel after the race to get dressed and meet up with Max. Every one was going to be celebrating Max's win at the club. All the drivers were also joining, making it the perfect opportunity for us to meet. I was so excited. I wore a navy blue body con midi dress, it made me look and feel hot. I had told Max I'd meet him there, yet he insisted on picking me up. I was almost done getting ready when Max knocked on my door. I opened it to a much cleaner Max. I grabbed my purse and headed out with Max. "Is your girlfriend in the car?" I asked walking along with him. "No" he answered and then we walked in silence to the car. On the way there I asked again, "Is she meeting us there?" "No" he replied shortly. "Why?" I asked again. "She went back home" Max said in a tone that meant he didn't wanna talk about it anymore.

At the party, I had a lot of fun. I got to meet everyone who were very kind, welcoming and funny. They were all shocked that Max had a friend for so long that no one knew about, Charles and Lando included. We laughed, we drank, Max was pretty sober, not having touched a drink since we got there. "Why aren't you drinking?" I slurred having gulped down my previous shot of vodka, I'd lost the count of how much I had to drink since I got handed a glass as soon as one finished. "I drove here, we need to drive back to the hotel" he replied. "OHHHHH, LET'S DANCE" I shouted over the loud music. "You should go, I'm good here." Max replied while preventing Lando from toppling over. I sauntered my way to the dance floor, a guy had made my acquaintance as soon as I started dancing and we were having a lot of fun until, Max came dragging me back to where we were sat. "Max, I'm having fun. Lemme go" I whined trying to pull my hand away from his but drunk me wasn't very strong. "Drink some water and then we're leaving." he stated. "What? But we just got here. Look at all those bottle" I pointed at the bottles behind the bartender, "I need to sample those" I cried. "You can sample the alcohol later. We don't want you to get alcohol poisoning." he said shaking his head. "I have a good tolerance. SEE" I said while finally breaking free from him to try to walk in a straight line only to fail miserably and almost fall. I was only saved by Max's crazy fast reflexes, who caught me at the right moment and carried me over his shoulder back to his car, all the while I was screaming. "PUT ME DOWN....MAXIE.....YOU'RE MAKING ME DIZZY....PLEASE....I THINK I'M GONNA puke" I puked as soon as he put me down next to his car; thankfully having the brain to stop myself from puking all over his expensive car. I brushed the back of my right hand against my lips after puking, "Thank god I didn't puke on your car. haha. I don't think I can afford to clean it" I laughed. He handed me a bottle of water and got me in the car after that. The hang over wasn't as bad as I had expected it to be; maybe because Max got me medicines to help.

I spent the next few days in Zandvoort going to some of the very few places Max was allowed to go and have fun as a kid. We even went go karting. It was a shitty feeling racing against a World Champion since that idiot can't just enjoy the race. He had to make everything a competition. How did he expect me to win when this was the first time I was karting while he did this as a living for many years. We had bet on the fact that the loser had to do whatever the winner wanted; in all my confidence I had said yes, I had forgotten that my opponent was Max Verstappen. Yet, when he won after one pout, Max forgot he's the winner and let me get what I wanted since it was technically cheating since this wasn't his first time and it was mine. So, that's how we ended up watching Barbie at the end of the day. As I wiped away tears, I saw that Max was also wiping away tears. I'm never gonna let him hear the end of this.

The next few days were a blur, I tried to make the best of the situation since I wasn't sure when I would get to meet Max again. I packed up my stuff, a question still lingered on my mind; where the fuck was his girlfriend?. So, I decided to have this conversation in the car where he wouldn't be able to escape me like he did the last few days. Max carried my stuff to his car and loaded it in the car. I sat down on the passenger seat waiting for Max to come. We drove off towards the airport when I said, "Maxie, I haven't seen your girlfriend since the race. I was really looking forward to getting to know her" "Oh, umm" he sighed, "Actually, we broke up" he said while looking straight ahead. "What? Why? Is it because you hugged me first at the race. Fuck, should I apologise?" I rambled. "Schat, nonsense. We hadn't been getting along for a while. I'd been thinking about breaking up with her for a while, it just happened when you were there. It's not your fault" he clarified. My shoulders sank while I waited to get to the airport. I bid Max a good bye and he promised to come visit or have me visit during the off season. I promised to meet him soon. With a heavy heart, Max disappeared in the crowd as I walked into the airport.

We went back to our previous routine of talking on video calls. I ended being spoiled a lot more now that he knew where I lived because I would come home to a new package I didn't remember ordering at my front door when I returned from work. If I asked him why, and he'd just shrug it off and say that it was something that reminded him of me when he was in that country for the race. After a few packages, it was overwhelming me. I felt like I was using my rich friend for financial gain. We were on call after I had opened up a package I got from Brazil. Y/N- Max, you can't keep sending me so much stuff. There was a box full of trinkets and snacks from Brazil. Max- It was nothing, did you like it? Y/N- No Max- oh ok, what do you want? I can get that for you? Y/N- Maaaaxxxxx, that's not what I meant. You have to stop sending me stuff now. It's getting over whelming. Max- But...I just wanted to bring a little something back from every race. Y/N- Yes, do that for yourself. Not me Max- I've always wanted to take you along to races and bring you stuff back from races since I've known you. Now that I can, let me make up for all the lost time. Y/N- I get the sentiment Max, I do, but no. It's making me feel crappy since I'm not able to get you anything. I enjoy our friendship, I do not want to feel like I'm using you. Max- You're not using me. I'm using myself, honestly. Y/N- I don't want to come home to anymore packages any more. If you really want to get me something, think about it for a couple time. One or two items that you would like to get for me, is perfectly fine. Max- Ok...I really wanted to get you things though. Y/N- You can tell me about your weekend. I'll listen but this is overbearing to me. Finally he got what I meant.

We ended up making a plan for the off season. Max had won the season with the amount of points he had scored. It was a given that he was gonna be the World Drivers Champion for 2023. So, I wanted to celebrate it with him. He offered to fly me out to Abu Dhabi for the race which would not be possible since I had work. That's why we planned to spend the Christmas break together. I did suggest leaving a few days before Christmas so he can spend it with his family but he was vehemently against it. I had started Christmas shopping in November, could've done it earlier. I got Max an ugly Christmas sweater with the grinch and a matching one for myself. It would be like a friendship bracelet. We would be spending the holiday in Monaco because of the privacy and I wanted to get away from here for a few days at least. I kind of wanted to clear my feeling for Max during this trip too. Being on the receiving end of Max's affection with gifts or the phone calls wasn't easy when you were in love with him. He made it so difficult to try and get over him when he would sweet talk his way back into my heart whenever I thought I didn't like him in that way.

I had sent my collection to the author I was editing for currently since she wanted to read it ever since I mentioned that I wrote. I sent her the email a couple days after going over the collection one last time. It was exciting and nerve wrecking. Maybe getting the opinion of a fellow author would help me make it better and improve it, if need be.

The last race of the season was upon us. Max was crowned the World Driver's Champion for the third time. I texted him as soon as the race ended and congratulated him. I couldn't believe that I got to witness a Max win. The day couldn't get any better when I got a call from the author I was editing for who said that she loved the collection of poems I sent her and she wanted to help me get it published under the publication she worked for. She had been working for that publication for so long and was the biggest earner that they couldn't deny her request. In her defence, she said that the poems were so good that any one stupid would only reject it. I was asked to edit it and the author was an angel to help me out. Her reasoning was that this was a mutually beneficial relationship since she hadn't enjoyed working with someone as much as she enjoyed working with me.

Winter break couldn't come any sooner. I had packed my bags; no work, done with my editing side gig. I couldn't wait to hang out with Max. The flight there felt so long, maybe it was the excitement of wanting to see him. Max was waiting for me at the airport when I got there. A big smile on his face as I walked towards him. I wrapped my arms around his neck as I hugged him. He twirled me around a little before putting me down. We walked back to the car with my bag in Max's hand. The ride there was filled with a lot of talking on Max's part. Hearing him go on about what he loved was the warmest feeling. "The cats are so excited to see you" he said. "So, you aren't?" I joked. "What no" he was flustered. "I'm excited to." he mumbled a tint of red visible on his cheeks. My heart leapt in my chest as I watched him blush. What if I wasn't delusional? What if he liked me? I thought.

At his home, the cats were a little cautious of the stranger that had entered their space but recognised me quickly by my voice and a few hours later I was sat with both of them sat on either side of me; petting the two with both of my hands. Max snapped a picture of us sat on the couch. "Can't believe this is the life you live" I said petting his cats, a soft purring exuding from both. "Having cats is the best thing ever" I almost screamed from excitement. Max laughed. "I might kidnap them" I suggested. Max shook his head, "You will do no such thing"

The next few days leading up to Christmas were a a blur, we spent time around the city, walking around and site seeing. Max was a great tour guide since he stored the most random information in his head. He gave me a quick history lesson on a lot of the places we went to. We walked along the track in Monaco since I wanted to. We went hiking; I was very out of shape is the conclusion I've come too. We spent the day leading up to Christmas cooking at home and decorating the place. This was the first time since I moved out from my parents place did I end up celebrating Christmas.

We ended up sleeping on the couch as we watched Christmas movies after tiring our self out with the decoration. I woke up in Max's arms, a warm fuzzy feeling erupted in my stomach as I watched soft snores emit from Max's lips. I carefully pried myself out of Max's grasp. When I returned, I found a disheveled Max sat on the couch. "where did you go?" he asked while rubbing his eyes. "I had to pee" I said, now sitting down on the couch beside him. "Should we open presents?" I asked. "Lemme freshen up" Max mumbled while getting up. He came back, much more awake and with 2 cups of coffee for us. We drank in silence until Max brought his present for me from under the tree and handed it to me. There were a few actually; a book on Formula One with Max's face on it, a pendent with a sapphire stone and a stupid coffee cup saying 'best friends forever'. I smiled as I held the cup against my lips acting like I was sipping coffee. "Thank you Maxie" I said. He just smile. "Now, it's your turn." I said. He grabbed the other presents; which included an ugly sweater, a Sid from Ice Age plushy and a perfume from Max's favourite brand. "These are a lot of things" he said. "Yeah, I wanted to spoil you" I smiled. "I feel spoilt" he smiled back. "I got us matching ugly sweater" I said while going to grab mine. We ended up putting our sweaters on. "I didn't tell you but I got signed by a publication" I said while Max inspected his sweater. He looked up with shock and happiness in his eyes. He quickly hugged me, "I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it" he said while hugging me. I hugged back, "Thank you for believing in me" I said with tears in my eyes.

Christmas was a weird day, we had Turkish kabab because Max wanted to. I wasn't one to say no to delicious food. The days between Christmas and New Year were a bit of a blur honestly. On new year's eve, we went out with a couple of his friends. I had decided not to drink my weight in alcohol. As we all counted down the time to new year, the excitement palpable. When the clock struck 12, I was pulled towards the guy next to me who had made acquaintance much to Max's dismay. He pressed his lips against my lips, easing me into a kiss. When I pulled away to look at Max, who's eyes flashed hurt. I hugged Max wishing him a happy new year. We left a little while later. Max was uncharacteristically quite as we drove home.

We never spoke about the silent treatment Max gave me on the way back from the club. I left Monaco a few days after. Our friendship returning to it's long distance status. With Max having to train for the next season and me having to prepare for school and my book.

The next few months were a blur with both of us quite busy. Max kept is his streak of winning the races and watching him win was a proud feeling. He would call me at the end of the day to discuss what happened and I enjoyed listening to him even though I didn't know shit about cars.

I spent the entirety of my spring break and summer break with Max, travelling to his races; which he insisted I joined. The feelings I had for him only grew. I tried to keep myself in check but all the small things he would do made it impossible. He was caring and sweet and kind, and most of all my first love that I had a hard time moving on from.

His summer break was spent lounging around my house. He accompanied me to the launch of my book; going as far as to promote it on his socials. People had started to speculate that there was something going on in between us. Max didn't really answer those questions or even try to kill the rumours. He got me a big bouquet of my favourite flowers when he came to the book launch. We went out for dinner to celebrate; ending up on all the tabloids the next day. I apologised to Max about the mess but he was unbothered, a little smile played on his face after he read the articles but nothing more.

After the summer break, Max was flying out to Netherland, for his home race. I couldn't join him due to there being a few tests I needed to grade but promised to be there for the race. I flew in the morning of the race, Max showing up at the airport to pick me up. He wouldn't let me be on my own, if he was there. We caught up on the stuff that happened in the 2 days we didn't speak. It felt like routine talking to Max. If we didn't, it felt like my day had gone my horribly and everything that could go wrong would go wrong. There was comfort in Max's voice and his arms whenever he hugged me.

I accompanied Max to the paddock, the cheers loud. Last year, was the first time I was here, this year it felt so familiar even though it was only my second time. Max wasn't starting pole but he could still finish first since he was in the front row. The race started off with Max over taking Lando at turn 1. The chance of Max wining his home race for the fourth time seemed more likely. But as the race went on, Max lost his P1 to Lando who kept the distance between him and Max a constant. Making Max finish P2, the way he started. He got out of the car to find me and his team waiting for him. I mouthed a congratulations as he walked towards me. He had tears in his eyes, "I wanted to ask you out as a race winner." he said wiping his tears. My heart skipped a beat; "You can still ask me out" I suggested. "But I'm scared of what you'll say" he muttered. "My answer would be the same, whether you were P1 or P2" I said. "And what's that?" he asked expectantly. "I would love to go out with you, Maxie" I said with a smile and tears in my eyes. Max almost jumped when he heard me, "Go on and finish up. We have a lot to talk about" I said pushing him towards the media pen.

I was waiting in his driver's room just like last year. But this time it was different, there were butterflies in my stomach and I couldn't stop smiling. I found myself pacing around the room, imagining what we would say. I was pulled out of my thought by Max now standing at the door. "Hi" he greeted shyly. "Hey" I replied, sitting on the sofa followed by Max. We sat facing each other, he took my hands in his, "Lifde, I can't believe this" he began. "me neither" I chimed in. "I've liked you for so long, I don't remember a time I didn't like you since I've known you" I continued. Max couldn't help but smile. "I didn't think you felt the same" I said. "I didn't think you felt the same either." He added. "Y/N I really wanted to win this race and ask you out as a race winner." He sulked. "You're already a race winner and a three time champion at that. I couldn't ask for more. Plus I couldn't care less; to me you'll always be a winner" I said. He took my face in his hands, "Can I kiss you?" he asked softly. I nodded. His lips inched closer to mine before they touched, our eyes fluttered close, his lips dry and chapped against my soft shiny glossed lips. Our lips moved in synchrony, tilting our head as we deepened the kiss. His hand trailing down from my cheek to my waist to pull me closer, I was now sat on his lap. I pulled away breathless, our foreheads touching, breaths intermingling, eyes locked; "I love you Y/N" he stated. "I have for a while. I didn't know how to say it. I'm glad not winning pushed me over the edge" "I love you too, Maxie. Can't wait to celebrate your fourth championship" I said. "You think?" he asked. "I know" I said, cupping his cheeks to kiss him again. His hands on my waist pulled me closer, as if it was even possible. "Will you be my girlfriend?" he asked in between kisses. "Yes" I breathed out as we continued to kiss.

When god sends blessings, it becomes hard to count. I got the man of my dreams and the stepping stone to my career goals.

[randombush3]

labor omnia vincit

alexia putellas x reader

words: 7538

summary: well, it’s how you meet your wife (posh + becks style)

content warnings: a little bit of drugs and alcohol

notes: HEY HEY HEYY. this is a TRILOGY and here’s the first part. enjoy the build up x

2015. London. 

You groan at the thought of singing another word. The mug set haphazardly on the ledge reserved more for instruments than crockery, half in the air after the last time you returned it to its place, is now empty. There is no hot water left to soothe your burning throat, and there is no patience remaining in your finite store. 

The girls, on the other hand, seem to soldier on. A harmony is incorrect? They sing it again. The producer, a fat old man called Dave whose taste in music might rely on his taste in women, isn’t a fan of a certain beat? They are thinking of ways to change it. 

Ever since your single was released two years ago, this has been your life. Or, at least, the less glamorous side of it. The other side, consisting of sold-out arenas, exclusive clubs, and a world tour that only increased your total domination over the music industry, has been paused while you and the girls slave away on the second album. Apparently, you’re being uncooperative. You would call it boredom. 

“It’s four in the morning, Dave,” Anya states, jabbing out her index finger towards his Rolex, paid for with the revenue from the last single you released. It topped the charts for days. Dave glances down at the clock face with a grunt. “Look, Y/n’s already left us and gone to bed.” 

“Still here,” you murmur, rather unconvincingly, from your spot on the far-too-comfortable sofa behind the mixing desk. Sprawling out even further, you wrap your legs around the third member of your group, Gio. She squeals as you pull her on top of you. “I want to go home, though.” 

“Don’t we all know it,” Gio giggles. She’s had at least six cups of coffee since you arrived at the studio for the second recording session of the day – a solid nine hours ago. That was only after a break for a late lunch or early dinner (whichever your dietician preferred to call it). 

“We need to finish.” 

“I need to sleep,” you reply. Gio scrambles off you in time to avoid the glare you are sent by your producer. “And I’m not sleeping here again. Last time it gave me a crick in my neck and I’m fairly sure the cleaner felt me up.” 

“The sexy cleaner is mine,” Anya declares, jerking you upright. Your stomach lurches with emptiness. “Otherwise, I agree. Let us fuck off home. Please, Dave.” 

He looks at the three of you, bags under your eyes, making long rubbed off (or cried away, in Gio’s earlier over-emotional state). You have changed out of the outfit the paparazzi pictured you in earlier, opting for the stained, grey joggers you folded away in your Birkin. Anya and Gio snuck in so that they weren’t caught in their pyjamas. 

Dave sighs. 

“Tomorrow, don’t go for lunch with any of your silly boyfriends. Come here for noon, and we’ll finish when we finish. We’re getting this album done, and you can’t fire me until it’s out.” 

His sense of humour is appreciated, even if his work ethic is not, and you practically bolt out of the studio, friends in tow. 

Anya grabs your hand as you rush down the corridor, making your way to the exit. “No lunch with your boyfriend,” she repeats Dave’s words, mocking his gristly voice. You roll your eyes, snatching your hand away from your friend before pushing open the back door of the studio, heading towards your new BMW i8. 

You have been friends with Anya Kazi and Giovanna Bartoli since the age of two, meeting them on the first day of nursery, specifically after cutting one of Gio’s ringlets off with safety scissors. Though Anya happily clapped along, she did not defend you, and so you went for her hair as well. Your teacher, hoping to quell the budding animosity, placed all three of you in time-out, where a united front was formed. It hasn’t been broken since that moment, though a few years ago, you were terrified it would be. You, with a well-concealed preference for women, however, have managed to keep your friends. They assured you that they 1) already knew and 2) could not care less. 

“You don’t even like cars,” Gio scoffs at the sight of your latest purchase, your last name printed proudly on the number plate. “Was this an ‘I’m famous’ buy or did your daddy get it for you?” 

“He emailed me a few recommendations,” you answer off-handedly, sliding into the driver’s seat, switching on the ignition. It growls with a mean, menacing precision, the engine’s quality known and heard. “And don’t pretend that your family doesn’t have a Roll-Royce parked in the driveway of their million-pound townhouse.” 

“You are just as much from Hampstead as I am, girl.” 

You roll your eyes, stifling a yawn. Anya pulls out in front of you, no doubt speeding off to avoid the boy-racers you and Gio become at this time of night. 

Your flat has progressed from that of the one you shared with the girls in Princess Park two years ago. It’s nicely decorated, you like to think, with most of the work being done to it while you were touring. 

The walls are hung with artwork; some your own, some not. The canvases and frames adorn every room, dictating the vibe, declaring your individuality to any visitors who choose to admire the paintings and sketches. Then, if they were to look at the shelves dotted around the space, they’d see books with matching themes to the art. Your living room has a print of Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’, blown up in a gilded frame, hanging above your green leather sofa, adding colour to the white walls, and then a bookshelf filled with navy-bound novels about whatever you fancy. You’re quite chuffed with the design, though it was really the interior designer you hired who came up with the idea. 

Without a second glance to any of the intricate details of your home, you stumble your way to the bathroom, going through the motions until it is time to get into bed. It’s a big bed – one that often feels too big for just one person – but the mattress is inviting and you dive into a deep sleep head-first, knowing you will not be getting up until someone calls you tomorrow morning. 

…

Barcelona, seven hours earlier. 

The bar is busy, as most are in Barcelona at this time of night, and the girls are out for dinner and a post-training drink. The wine glasses have deceived them all, though, because they have been emptied and refilled a few more times than Xavi would be impressed with. 

A young, budding star does not drink during the season, the alcohol drought both self-inflicted and encouraged by every coach who promises to take her far. Her eyeliner must be smudged by now, but Alexia can’t leave yet because Jenni has promised that she can stay over at her place and she needs her to take her back. 

The reason for her temporary relocation is that Alexia is fed-up with her mother’s pestering, seeing as it is only one week into the season and she is already being called a workaholic. She can’t stay in that house tonight, especially when her little sister is the complete opposite: sleeping with anyone who gives her a chance and never doing anything that will help her future. Eli Segura is baffled by the lack of balance in her life – two daughters, two extremes – but she is the most concerned with her eldest, angering Alexia to no end. 

Alexia is also fed-up with this conversation. It’s all the girls seem to be talking about these days, utterly consumed with this new English girl group just like the rest of the world. 2sday has completely taken over all interesting topics of discussion, and Alexia doesn’t think she can handle being asked which one of their songs she likes the most one more time. 

She likes them, she guesses, but so does everyone. Todo el mundo is in love with all three members. 

The girls are discussing who their favourite is. 

“She’s Italian though, and that’s cool of her,” Jenni argues, putting forward her case for Bartoli as if she chose to have parents from a certain country. Alexia hums in thought, thinking of the pictures she saw from the world tour – how long her legs are, tanned and sculpted and shown off nicely by the mini-skirt she wore. “Did you know that her little sister is a model? She’s called Cristina or something. The beauty is practically in her DNA.” 

“Aren’t all three of them models?” asks Marta pointedly, finger tapping the photoshoot on the magazine cover.

“Well, all three of them are sexy,” Jenni replies, remembering just how enamoured the world is with the three break-out stars. “Ale, which one is your favourite?” The magazine that had sparked this conversation is slid towards the twenty-one-year-old, and she looks at the picture on the front page: you, Gio, and Anya, all dressed in oversized suits with nothing underneath, hair slicked back and eyes piercing, ‘girl power’ brandished over the bottom of the photograph. 

“Y/n L/n,” Alexia answers easily, fascinated by the sculpture of your face. She thinks you are beautiful, in a less crass way than her teammates. “And you lot sound like men with the way you talk about them.” 

“Ooh, Alexia is getting all high-and-mighty,” Jenni teases. “Looks like it’s time to take the baby home.” 

“She’s cranky because she’s tired and it’s past her bedtime,” adds another teammate, though Alexia is too wound up to really care who. 

They all make little pouty faces at her as she finishes the last of her glass of water, the clear liquid standing out against the deep red of most of the table. Jenni rolls up the magazine and swats her shoulder with it, before handing it over to its owner and finally allowing Alexia her rest. 

In silence, they sit in her car – an old Ford in need of replacing but not on the footballer’s list of things she will buy with the money they are now getting. FC Barcelona Femení has become, at last, a fully professional team, and Alexia looks ahead to the future with a hopeful dream and the knowledge that she will need to work hard if she ever wishes to become the best. Jenni has become a good friend ever since she joined the club last year, and she brings a global ambition to the friendship that she knows Alexia does not have. Jenni is from Madrid, and plays for Barcelona because she can, not because it is her club. Her team is the same as her grandfather’s, and she often expresses to Alexia her wish to play for them someday, as well as scoring in every league she possibly can. Young Alexia Putellas has never once considered stepping foot outside of Spain. 

Not only that, but her father died three years ago and here, in Barcelona, is where she feels closest to him. She cannot fathom a life past the plazas and the cobbled streets of her home. And she’s glad. She’s safe here, and she needs nothing more than her team, her family, and a football at her feet.  What more could she possibly want? 

As she settles on Jenni’s sofa, blanket pulled over her body, head resting on a plump cushion that smells faintly of Jenni’s dog, Alexia decides to watch whatever is on TV right now. Jenni, in an attempt to learn English, has found an English news channel that seemingly reports on ‘exclusive’ celebrity news. There you are, plastered on the screen, your picture zoomed in to the point of the pixels blurring.

The woman speaking has a high-pitched and critical voice, saying words that Alexia does not hear. She stares at your picture, considering the life you have, imagining that, one day, footballers like her have the stardom of Beckham and Messi and Ibrahimovic. Though she herself does not crave that exposure, well aware of her shyness, she thinks about the future with a wistful sigh, lost in her dream as the English woman narrates what she can see, judging how you have opened your mouth to take a bite of the food, listing the brands you are wearing. 

And, in her weird, exhausted haze, she sees your face. It’s probably only because you’re on the screen and she’s staring at it, but you are there as she pictures the growth of women’s football. You’re there in the stands as she plays in front of a sold-out Camp Nou, cheering and singing along to Catalan chants she knows you’d never actually know in real life. Slowly, she falls asleep, and, just before she closes her eyes, you are there: back to her, dressed in a familiar shirt. Alexia. 11. Somewhere in a far-off fantasy land, Alexia Putellas marries you that night. 

…

It’s Sunday. 

You drive to your parents’ house in Hampstead, only twenty minutes away from the flat you now live in, to reluctantly attend their weekly Sunday Roast. Before, it was a condition of remaining on the booking list for the annual family holiday, seeing as you had declared university was going to wait until after your gap year and then had become a popstar instead. Now that both you and your brother can afford to come anyway, the tradition is there for sentimental value. A world tour made you realise how much you love them all, even your annoying older brother. 

Your parents are lawyers who met at university and found love in a city that they never moved out of, both of them doing extremely well for themselves. They raised you and your brother to ski, horse-ride, and attend prep schools and public schools, although boarding school was not quite desirable. Your dad speaks in a booming voice, received pronunciation an act used for court, slight Mancunian accent lilting his words whenever he relaxes. 

“Darling!” your mum exclaims, surprised at your attendance just like she is every week. “Come on in, come on in. Daddy has the footie on, and your brother is on his way. Don’t you have songs to sing? How come you’re here?” 

Ushered inside your own home, you smell the brief scent of your family before adjusting to it all and fitting right back into the chaos. There’s beef in the oven, and the roar of the crowd playing faintly from the kitchen where your dad must be preparing the potatoes. He’s proud of his potatoes. 

You slip off your shoes – a new pair of Uggs – and follow your mother to the kitchen. Dad is there, doing exactly what you’d expected, hands working instinctively as his eyes focus on the TV, mouthing along with the commentary as Manchester United take on their opponent. “Sit down,” Dad says as soon as you walk in, pointing at the stools tucked into the island. “We’re not doing too badly, and today should be an easy win.” 

“I know. I do watch the football without you, Daddy.” 

He tuts. “Yeah, but you don’t get the same level of commentary on your own. Plus, United isn’t even what I wanted to talk to you about. I have thought of a publicity move that you should definitely make – it would really help you guys out.” You entertain his suggestion, knowing that’s what dads do, sitting back on the stool with a smirk on your face, already thinking of an interesting way to tell him he is being stupid. “So, what I was thinking was that you guys do a half-time show! You love football, and the girls love footballers – what isn’t to like? Plus, I bet any club would jump at the chance to make some money from extra tickets sold just to see you.” 

“And you haven’t already contacted our manager?” you check, finding your father to be quite unpredictable and rash. His ego is also far too inflated by clients who don’t see him for the kind but bumbling fool he truly is, and so he often takes it upon himself to put forward any ideas he has to your management team, much to everyone’s inconvenience (the last thing they need, amongst sorting out photos of you snogging girls and your friends in various compromising positions, is an old man telling them what he thinks will boost your image). “It’s a good idea, I must admit. I’ll bring it up.” 

“Good stuff.” There’s a clang of metal as the potatoes go in the oven too, and the fridge opens with a pop as your dad begins to fish out the carrots and parsnips to complete your meal, Your mother is responsible for everything else. “Try to get it at Barcelona or Real Madrid,” he says off-handedly. “Imagine singing in the Nou Camp. That’d be crazy.” 

“Not the appearance I dreamt of when I was little, but I’d still get to touch the grass,” you agree. 

“Y/n, we knew you’d never be a footballer. You haven’t got the coordination for that.” They tried to support you, they really did, but then music lessons took over and the sport became a form of entertainment, not exercise. “Women’s football is really something, though. In twenty years, it’ll be good. Maybe you should invest.” 

“I know zero women’s footballers, apart from – what’s her name? Kelly Smith. The English one?” 

“The Arsenal player, yeah. It’s a shame we don’t have a proper women’s team.” 

“Should I fund one?” you joke, but his face lights up and he has taken you seriously. “Okay, I know we’ve been successful thus far, but we haven’t raked in that much. Who knows! It could all go to shit and I could end up right where I started, in my childhood bedroom with no degree and no choice but to mooch off my parents.” 

“I get the sense that you’re slightly stressed about this album,” Dad says slowly, smiling wide, proud to have worked you out. He has always been good at that; knowing what you are feeling. It is a wonderful trait for him to have, seeing as your mother struggles with emotional connection of any kind. She is too much of a corporate big-shot for that, anyway. 

“It’s killing me.” You sigh, slumping on the stool. “It’ll be released and then we’ll hop on tour and I’m so tired. Anya has a crush and Gio’s dating someone and now all of our songs are about love and I just… I don’t know about that. I don’t know if I will ever know about that.” 

And, though he hesitates, Dad walks around the island and places a hand on your shoulder, telling you that you will find the right man someday. 

Deep down, he knows that the daughter who loved to watch football and never once commented on their hairstyles or pretty faces – the girl whose crushes on members of boy bands always seemed half-hearted and forced – is not a daughter who is going to bring home a man one day, with a smile on her face and a ring on her finger. He knows. It is quite possible that he has always known. Whether he is going to bring it up before you feel comfortable to talk about it is a different matter, especially since your mother has dreams of her daughter’s husband that she has whispered to him ever since they found out their second child was a girl. 

Sunday is pretty routine, which you are grateful for. Your brother, also a lawyer, discusses his latest case, resembling the stories your father used to tell at the dining table: stories you’d both yawn at when you were younger. You dish out a few industry secrets, recounting your most recent trip to Cirque Le Soir. With disdain, your mother berates you for any possible drug-usage, scolding you for something you have not admitted to but somehow knowing that you are guilty of it anyway. It feels much like the family dinners of your teenage years, but you suppose that pop stars never really have to grow up and decide that it isn’t all bad. After all, you drive home in a very stylish car.

Then, the week starts with another gruelling, waste-of-time day at the studio, where you go inside before the sun comes up and emerge long after it has set. Dave is decently pleased with the vocals so far. There are another seven tracks to go, but most of those are being written by other people. Mark Ronson, you’ve heard, is open to working with your group. It’s all very exciting, even if you feel like you have run a marathon by the end of the day. 

On Tuesday, you remember to tell your manager and publicist (she’s a woman of many talents) about your father’s idea. At first, her reluctance is extremely evident, but it later dissipates once she thinks about it, having promised you and the now-excited girls to see what she can do. 

You are on a private plane to Barcelona before you can realise what is happening. 

Bags packed with more make-up and spangled underwear than proper clothes, and sunglasses shielding your hungover eyes courtesy of last night’s consoling of a newly-single Giovanna Bartoli, you try your best not to vomit while in the air and even squeeze in a spot of light reading. The girls laugh (wincing at the sound) when they see you revisiting the Aeneid. You like Virgil, though, so you don’t mind. 

“How many days are we here again?” Anya asks, equally hungover. 

“Three,” replies your manager, not bothering to look up from her laptop. “Today, tomorrow, and the day after. Please check if the players are married before you do anything with them.” 

“I’ve sworn off men,” mumbles Gio miserably. She stretches her legs out with a sniffle, and then draws them back in to protect her broken heart. “If I’d get off with any woman, I’d like her to be Spanish.” She clears her throat, the lump of tears disappearing as she retrieves her GCSE-level Español, giving it a shot. If not to be serious than to at least piss you off. “Hola. ¿Cómo estás? ¿Quieres dormir conmigo?”

“What? And then you’re going to shove your tongue down her throat?” Gio looks at you with a smirk. “That is not how you kiss a woman.” 

“Hey, you can’t keep them all to yourself!” 

You laugh, though your manager’s attention has been caught and she is already showing her disapproval. “It would be better that I did if that’s how you think it works.” 

“None of you are kissing women.” 

“That’s not fair,” Anya protests, upset that she didn’t even get to join in the conversation before it got shut down as swiftly as a rowdy houseparty in an American teen-movie. 

“I agree. That’s not fair on Y/n, who actually needs to kiss a woman so her knickers aren’t in a twist all the time.” 

“I’ll twist your knickers in a minute,” you threaten, fist raised to Gio in good humour.

“See what I mean? She needs to let off some steam.” 

“Well, do it discreetly if you must. Do your shows, go out with the players, and bring whoever into your bed as long as they have tight lips and no vendetta against you. Gio, we’re going to have to say something about him ch–”

You gulp, not wanting your friend to cry again. “Wow, the view is really nice,” you interrupt, catching Anya’s appreciative nod in the corner of your eye as you splay your palm on the glass of the aircraft’s window, marvelling at Barcelona’s plazas and cobbled streets. Imagine this being your home, you think to yourself. 

…

Jenni is squawking when Alexia makes her way into the circle of players during their drinks break. Alexia knows her friend is excited to go to the men’s game later on today, but she hadn’t realised it is to this extent until she gets grabbed by the forward and shaken as though she is a snowglobe. 

“I got the golden ticket,” Jenni shouts in her ear, making their teammates around them laugh. “Me, you, and Mario are going to the match tonight!” 

“I already knew that?” They don’t really get free tickets, but they can be heavily discounted. Tonight isn’t a super big deal, though Alexia may stand corrected. “Was I not supposed to know that?” 

“Of course she doesn’t know,” Mariona says, squirting some of her water at the midfielder. She recoils from the droplets, but they land on her training top anyway, and Alexia is already pissed off with the entire world. “Alexia, do you seriously live under a football-shaped rock?” 

Alexia takes a moment to brush off the teasing, picturing the bursting trophy cabinet that is almost within her grasp. “Yes, and it is very homely.” 

“Madre mía, you are one of a kind,” Jenni says with a sigh, movements less aggressive as she drapes an arm around Alexia’s shoulders. “Guess who’s singing at half-time tonight. You’re going to drool so much that the people below us will think it’s raining.” 

At this, Alexia knows exactly who Jenni is talking about, and she blushes though it could easily be mistaken for redness from exercising. 

“I just think she’s pretty,” comes Alexia’s slightly defensive reply. They walk to the middle of the training pitch, rejoining the team as Xavi explains a confusing drill. Neither really listen. 

“Is this your first celebrity crush?” Mariona jibes, overhearing the conversation and finding it necessary to join in. Any excuse to poke fun at the baby of the team. 

Jenni ruffles Alexia’s hair, ruining her neat ponytail. “Alexia’s in love with a straight girl,” she sings. 

It’s then that the whole team chooses to get involved, ears perking up at the mention of Alexia’s lovelife – a more or less forbidden topic. Their captain, Marta Unzué, even chimes in with a ‘we’ve all been there’. Like a stroppy teenager, Alexia folds her arms over her chest and turns to focus entirely on football, something that she knows she loves and loves her back. They leave her alone for the rest of the training session. 

She even manages to forget about what comes after the first forty-five minutes of the match, sitting comfortably in a stadium that is her version of heaven. 

You, on the other hand, cannot distance yourself from the nerves of performing in no less than ten minutes. 

The players were nice when you accompanied Anya to speak to them, and they spent a good while fumbling their way through English to invite you all to join them tonight at Pacha. You took photos with Messi and Neymar to show your father. 

The outfit, if you can call it that, is tight and could possibly show your entire bum to eight-five thousand Culers tonight if you’re not careful. Silver eyeshadow glistens in the mirror when you peer at your reflection, inspecting the bejewelled bralette and tiny shorts you are wearing. 

Anya and Gio, who both look dazzling in their own silver combinations, tell you that it is time to get your microphones sorted. When you stand in the tunnel, ready to go out, you see that they have laid out a sheet on top of the grass so your heels don’t ruin it. Part of you wishes that you were in a football strip and boots. The music starts before you can get too reminiscent. 

You sing with the same adrenaline you always get, and the crowd becomes a blur in your mind as you lose yourself to the melody. The bass hits your heart just like the lyrics do – especially since this song was written by Anya about her last boyfriend – and you hold back tears as the choreography leads your limbs in an energetic dance that must be entertaining to watch. 

When it finishes, and your chest is rising and falling quickly as you try to catch your breath, Alexia thinks you almost catch her gaping at you. Your eyes seem to be scanning the stands. Maybe you see her. 

Maybe that is why you, in your big, black hoodie and paparazzi-proof baseball cap are sitting in the stands of Estadi Johan Cruyff the very next day. 

Alexia does not point you out to her teammates. You make it clear to all who recognise you that you are trying to be incognito, and either the fans at the stadium have no knowledge of popular culture, or they are granting you your privacy.

She is now the entertainer, shining under the spotlight of the bright sun, a ball at her feet like that is where all balls were made to be. And you watch carefully – she can feel it – but you do not stay long enough for her to even think about approaching you. 

…

2016. Somewhere in the sky between LA and New York. 

This time round, the tour has confirmed your hatred for all plane journeys, hotels, and sold-out concerts. 

You’re dead on the inside, numb to the glitter and sparkles of your life, and your eyes are always halfway to being sealed shut in the deepest slumber humanly possible. 

There are a few things that ease the disdain you have for your career, but none of those compare to the channel you have found that streams Barcelona Femení’s football matches. Your excuse, made to no one other than yourself, is that Manchester United has no women’s team. Of course you’d watch them instead, if you could. 

“This is peak lesbianism,” Gio comments, her fifth time saying the exact same thing, prodding a napping Anya to alert her to your boredom-killer on the flight. You’re glad these planes have wi-fi. “We’re in America, which has all the women’s football in the world, and you still choose to watch your crappy little stream on your cracked iPad.” 

“If you hadn’t decided to jump out at me, the screen would be just fine,” you grumble, transfixed on the way Alexia Putellas dribbles with the ball, turning and passing to Jennifer Hermoso who slots the ball right into the bottom-right corner of the net. The pitch looks damaged, and you really have researched how you can help out the sport, but it is hard to dispute anything the girls say about your crush on an unknown squad member when everyone knows you could get your football fix from the Premier League. 

You’re yet to tell anyone that you have just bought this season’s Barcelona shirt. You’re not sure if you’d be invited on the family ski trip if your father were to find out. 

“Sorry, sorry,” replies Gio, hands raised in the air, a gesture of surrender. In hindsight, your response was clipped. “Didn’t mean to distract you from such an important task. When will you tell us who it is that you fancy? We’ve been waiting for you to come to us, but, fuck me, you’ve got tight lips.” 

“And, before you say it – we’re not nosy. We just care. And we find it cute.” 

“And…” 

“What?” you practically grunt, biting your tongue as a hefty challenge sends Alexia Putellas face-first onto the patchy grass. It makes your heart jump. 

“Well, it’s not like she won’t want you, so make your move.” 

“Just like you made your move on Justin Bieber?” She winces. “We did warn you, babe.” 

“It’s alright,” Anya comforts with a small smile, though you are well aware of how funny she also found the situation. Being in LA, as a celebrity, is always an interesting experience. In Gio’s defence, she did not know about a certain model standing right behind her, and you are fairly sure she had run off to do lines with someone or other earlier. “But, yeah, seriously. Y/n, do you want us to guess?” 

“Go on. Guess.” You smirk, because they’ll never–

Anya’s hand flaps as she puts her privately-educated memory to good use. “What’s-her-face?” she squeals, hand slapping down on her thigh as the name eludes her, the flapping resuming once she remembers. “Alexia Putellas!” 

You rip your eyes from your cracked screen, widened in horror. “How did you know?” you ask, voice a whisper as you swallow your shock. 

“You talk about her all the time. ‘Ooh, she’s the future’ this, ‘watch her grow’ that. Just talk to her. She’ll fancy you back.” 

“She’s not a celebrity. Normal people don’t slide into people’s DMs like we do, and I have no clue whether or not she can speak English,” you reason, having said the same thing to yourself every time your finger hovers on that feature of Instagram. “And I don’t like her? You saw me kissing–”

“God, drop it. You know she kisses anyone with a mouth, and you also know that you’re lying your arse off. Whoever this footballer is, just talk to her. If anything, it’ll be good for you to spend time with someone who isn’t going to drag you right into their own closet.” 

“Closets in LA can be very big,” you say with a sigh, having already received a lecture about the damage-control your publicist always seems to be doing. You don’t really think it’s ‘damage’ if a photo of you enjoying yourself with someone, but your publicity team deems any picture of you with a woman one to be locked away in some encrypted file and never released in the papers. 

…

You: Hola! Congratulations on the win. :)

You cringe so hard, but you send it anyway, your friends leaning over either shoulder as they egg you on, wishing your closet gobbled you whole and spat you out somewhere further away than Narnia.

Alexia, in Barcelona, groans at the sound of her phone buzzing, wondering who on Earth is texting her this late. 

And she drops the device on her face when she sees what the notification is. 

Because it really does not make sense, and she is not used to the idea that women’s footballers could one day fraternise with celebrities like you without feeling out of place. (And she’s had a crush on you for about two years and you’re texting her at midnight to congratulate her.)

You, on the other hand, are gripping onto your phone with trembling hands, holding on for dear life. Anya, who claims her C in A-level Spanish was unjust and incorrect, is brainstorming your next message, adamant that you’ll seem cooler if you display some knowledge of her mother tongue. You don’t tell her that, of course, Alexia’s first language would have been Catalan, because you don’t want it to be obvious that you have done a little bit (a lot) of research. 

Gio tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear for you – a comforting gesture. “Hey,” she says kindly, “what’s the worst that could happen?” 

She tries. 

She fails. 

You have compiled a list within a millisecond. “I don’t know,” you start, but, oh, you do. “She could screenshot the conversation and leak it to Twitter? Or she’s not a lesbian and she is disgusted that I am? She could have a girlfriend? She could think my account’s been hacked and report me and everything’ll be deleted? Or all of the above?!” 

The chat is still open on your phone, but you can’t see past your tidal wave of anxiety. 

“I think you’re just nervous.” Understatement of the century. 

Before you can make a snide remark saying exactly that but to Anya’s face, your message is no longer the only one present. 

“She replied!” you shout, volume a concoction of fear and excitement and a thousand emotions in between. 

Alexia: Gracias por ver :)

“Thanks for watching,” Anya translates. 

You exhale. “Okay. Done. No more.” You ignore both of their facepalms with the sort of blissful ignorance you’re sure only delusional people possess, but it is better to have a healthy heart rate than to understand the lyrics to whatever ballad the two of them have in the works. 

…

“Kiss her.” 

“What?” 

“Just kidding,” Jenni giggles, winking at Alexia and stealing her glass of something-not-too-strong. 

The team has been invited to a party with the men’s team, all because their favourite girl group is back in town and are treating the club like a pit-stop on their way to Madrid for the European-leg of their tour. The album has been in the top ten worldwide ever since it was released.

Alexia looks good tonight, as said by Jenni who thought her wardrobe consisted solely of football strips and Barcelona merchandise, and she revels in her little secret. Your little secret. She hasn’t told anyone that you messaged her two months ago, even if the conversation ended with her response. 

Which is why Jenni is set on teasing Alexia about her non-existent chance with you, especially when you have spent your entire night on the other side of the reception room, deep in conversation with Neymar Jr., who is not shameful about his appreciation for the plunging neckline of your tight dress. He has a girlfriend, but Alexia has seen enough tabloid headlines to know that most famous people don’t care. 

Your glass is always full, though that is your own doing. Something about the way a pair of hazel eyes have been watching you from the minute you walked in makes the air around you feel heavier than it should, and alcohol helps to dull your fluster. 

Anya and Gio have circled back a few times, adding to their persuasion each lap. When you see Gio heading your way, a small smile playing on her lips as someone or other trails behind, you excuse yourself from your conversation with your personal hero (who, sadly, would be able to describe your boobs but not your face if he were asked) and clasp your fingers around her forearm, pulling the two of you even further from a certain women’s footballer on the other side of the room.

“She’s staring,” says Gio in a low voice, leaning in to speak into your ear. “She’s staring at you like she wants to eat you.” 

“I’d let her,” you reply, lips loosened from the champagne you’ve been drinking. “She is beautiful.” 

“She is still staring.” 

You decide to be bold. You stare back, and Alexia is trapped, frozen to the spot. “She is so beautiful.” 

“Now you’re both staring.” 

“I’m going to talk to her.” 

“You should,” she encourages, slurring. The blur might come from your distraction, your drunkenness, or her own intoxication. You don’t care. 

Absently, you nod. “Yeah.” 

She presses her fingertips between your shoulder blades, cold hands making you shiver. “Go. You got this.” 

“Yeah.” 

She pushes you away from her, in Alexia’s direction. Your feet carry you on what feels like an inevitable path. 

And you… walk right past her, out of the door, and into the warm air of the evening to have a smoke instead. 

Behind you, Gio lets out a silent scream, turning right around and giving up on your happiness because what more can she do? And Alexia, who is confused about what just happened and bored of this event anyway, is glad to be given an excuse to leave. 

Except, you are blocking her exit, cigarette pressed to your lips as you inhale the smoke like it is a lifeline. She frowns, lips a tight line of disappointment, really. “¿Tú fumas?” she asks, though she knows both the answer and of your incompetence when it comes to her language. 

You let your eyes meet hers, and Alexia shivers, though she tells herself it is only because it’s November. “Hola,” you reply. 

For some reason, Alexia is drawn in. She steps closer to you, and you don’t have anywhere to go, backed against the wall you are leaning on. You’re drunk, and the cigarette has burned down to a stub of orange and black. She’s also drunk – less so than you – and she has nothing to lose right now. She is no one, in her mind, and you are far from prudish. 

She decides, once she is barely ten centimetres away from you, that your dress is provocative, but it only adds to your existing beauty. You push your chest out, standing up straighter. 

The dance is very still, and very silent, but you can imagine what it feels like to kiss her and you know that she is thinking the same thing. 

“You can, if you want to,” you whisper, hoping she understands. 

Luckily, she does. 

Alexia fumbles her way through the first tentative second, shocked that this is what she is doing, but she finds her footing and relaxes into the taste of champagne and cigarette smoke, the heat of your body sparking a fire within her. You pull her closer, pressing her body into yours, and you are now consumed by desperation. The kiss grows messier, and Alexia’s hands begin to roam, mind lost in a haze of desire. She is explorative but she is gentle, and you gasp into her mouth as her tongue pushes past your lips and a hand settles on the curve of your bum, the other cupping your jaw. 

Briefly, she wonders how many girls you have done this with. You seem experienced. The thought, while a little disturbing, sort of spurs her on, feeding into her competitive nature. This will be unforgettable for her regardless of the outcome because it’s an interesting story to tell, but what about you? Are you even aware of what you’re doing? Are you straight? No, you can’t be. You messaged her, so you started this. She is only… finishing it? 

You sense her distraction, pulling back with a blink and a deep intake of fresh air. She tries to move back, afraid of what comes next, but you don’t let her go, clutching onto the hardened muscles of her arms to hold her in place, ready to kiss her again.

The moment is spoilt by a voice – an English voice – and the theft of your attention. Your eyes, previously hooded and dark, widen as they flit towards the door behind her, terribly upset that your friends have developed the worst timing known to man. Gio shouts again, telling you that it’s time to go. You have to get to Madrid, and the pilot would be incredibly annoyed to hear that the flight was delayed because you were too caught up in snogging a girl you may or may not fancy. 

“We really need to go!” Anya repeats, growing impatient with you as you debate giving up your entire music career. “Like, it is insane how badly you need to get your arse over here to say your goodbyes and then jump in the taxi to the airport with us.” 

“Can it just–”

“No!” they both shout in unison. 

You sigh, looking at Alexia, the proximity prodding at a feeling low in your stomach. She doesn’t squirm under the intensity of your gaze, instead sporting a lazy, blissfully ignorant grin. And you’re about to break her little heart. 

“I have to go,” you say softly, forehead resting on her shoulder as you mumble your words out. You have a duty to your job, or, as Virgil puts it: labor omnia vincit. Work conquers all.

“You have to…?” she tries. 

“Go.” 

“Tiene que irse,” Anya translates, reminding you of her presence (and her much better comprehension of Spanish). “Ahora.” 

“Ah.” Alexia’s hand cups the back of your neck as you raise your head, and she kisses you, though the kiss is short. 

You pat your body down with a sudden haste, wandering past your alcohol-clouded thoughts to remember the location of your ticket, reaching down to grab your clutch from where you’d dropped it on the floor while having a smoke. It pops open as Alexia watches your movements, and you retrieve a pen and a scrunched up ticket (you have no idea why that’s in there, but you are grateful that it is). 

“Here.” You hand her the ticket, pressing it into the palm of her hand and then sealing your goodbye with a quick peck to her lips. 

Then, you are gone, running off at an impressive speed in those heels, chasing your friends into the building. 

She pauses herself in time for a moment, drawing back her grasp on reality as her thoughts still and she breathes in your lingering perfume. And then she blinks – blinks her way back into midnight in Barcelona. 

She opens her palm to see what your gift was, unfolding the piece of paper with an overwhelming curiosity that almost rips it at the edges. 

A boarding pass from London Stansted to Barcelona-El Prat Airport, decorated in fresh, black ink.

Scrawled on top of the flight details is something much more valuable than the entrance into First Class the paper allows. 

Eleven digits. 

Twenty-two-year-old Alexia Putellas, the catalyst for change in women’s football as the world knows it, suddenly sees her future set right out in front of her. Because there you are.

[puckbunnyera]

Just Friends | Luke Hughes

• ──────────────♡────────────── •

pairing: luke hughes x reader genre: fluff word count: 2.3k warnings: none summary: maybe you were never really just friends

notes: it's been less than 24 hours since i posted my first fic and i've already received a few asks for a part 2 so here it is. i'll link the first part here. thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read it, like it, reblog it, etc. i'm always really nervous to post my own writing so any type of interaction with it feels good to see.

also, i know the timelines of the games played in both fics don't align with the actual events in real time but we are just going to ignore that for the sake of the plot.

• ──────────────♡────────────── •

I sigh as I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, doing one last fit check before Luke arrives. I'm nervous. I come to this realization as I smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in my shirt. Why? I couldn't tell you. It's been almost two months since the night I met Luke, and we've talked and texted almost every day since. We've even hung out multiple times since then, but I always seem to get all nervous and jittery anytime he presents the offer. My thoughts start to consume me to the point that I'm almost tempted to text him and ask for a rain check, but before I can fall too deeply into them, my attention is stolen by the two girls lying on my bed behind me.

"I still can't believe you're dating The Luke Hughes." One of my friends says causing me to turn my back towards the mirror to look at her.

"We aren't dating." I scoff. "We're-"

"Right, you're 'just friends'." My other friend interrupts, rolling her eyes and using her fingers to make air quotes as she says the words.

"We are." I shrug, moving to sit in my vanity chair so I can put on my shoes.

"You don't have to believe us if you don't want to, but he totally has the hots for you."

"It's so obvious. Any time he has the chance to get away from his job, he's calling, texting, or coming to see you. Even if it's only for a short amount of time. Those aren't typical behaviors of a guy who wants to be 'just friends'."

They continue to go on and on as if they're trying to convince a jury that they're innocent of a crime. The sound of my phone dinging from beside me on the table finally brings their rambling to an end. I pick up to find a text from Luke.

From Luke🏒: i'm here

To Luke🏒: omw

"I would love to stay and continue this conversation," I smile sarcastically as I stand up, "But my friend is waiting for me downstairs." I make sure to add extra emphasis on the word friend.

They both giggle and bid their goodbyes as I walk out of the room. When I make it downstairs to the lobby of my apartment building, Luke, in all of his handsome glory, is waiting patiently by the door.

"Ready to go?" He questions once I'm standing in front of him. I nod in confirmation and he opens the door for us, placing a gentle hand on my back to lead me out.

"What's the plan for today?" I ask once we're settled into the car.

"I need to drop off a couple of things at the dry cleaners since my brother forgot to do it," He gestures to the items in his backseat. "But then I figured we could go to dinner, catch a movie, and then maybe grab some dessert before I take you home."

"Sounds good!" I reply with a smile, with which he returns one of his own before putting the car in drive and pulling away from my apartment building.

Things are going well today. Really well. We're having fun and Luke is being as sweet as always. However, that's the only problem. Despite the stance I took in the argument with my friends, I can't help but let their words get to me. The whole evening, I've been reading too deeply into every little thing he does. Every door he holds open for me, every chair he pulls out for me, every accidental brush of our hands when we walk side-by-side. I'm trying not to let it show, but when Luke's voice rattles my thoughts and pulls me back down to Earth, I know I'm failing.

"Are you okay?" He asks as we sit in the car, waiting for the red light to turn green. "You've been pretty quiet today."

"Really?" I ask, genuinely confused because I hadn't noticed that change in my behavior. When he responds with a solemn nod, guilt rises in my chest. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was. It has nothing to do with you." Yet it has everything to do with him.

"Did something happen?" He pushes further.

"No, just have a lot on my mind with work and all, but I'm okay. Promise." I give him a soft smile in hopes that it will give him enough reassurance to drop the conversation. Thankfully he does, but the look in his eyes shows clearly that he doesn't believe me. "So my friends were telling me that you have a home game coming up in a couple of days against your oldest brother's team. Are you excited?" I change the subject quickly.

"Yeah," He nods, a smile gracing his features. "My parents are gonna be in town to watch us face off against each other. All three Hughes brothers on the same ice. I'm hoping it will be as exciting as everyone and the media are making it seem." He chuckles. "I'm also just really excited to see Quinn. We haven't gotten to see each other much since I moved out to Jersey and the season started. I think it'll be nice to have us all back together again, even if it's just for a couple of days."

"I bet it will be."

"I'm glad you brought this up because I've been meaning to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Would you maybe want to come to the game?"

"Do you want me to come?" I'm praying the hopeful look in my eyes isn't obvious.

"Yeah," He nods. "I really do."

"Then I'll be there." I assure him. "The girls were talking about purchasing tickets anyways, so I'll tell them to make it three tickets instead of just the two."

"Don't worry about it. I got it covered."

"Luke, you don't have to do that." I shake my head, readying myself to argue.

"I know I don't have to, but I want to." The look he gives me makes me forget any rebuttal I had previously prepared. "Plus, I already got the tickets and the seating arrangements set up."

"And you just knew I was gonna say yes?" I reply, crossing my arms.

"No, but I was hoping you would."

"I guess some dreams really do come true." I joke.

"I guess so."

We continue to talk and joke around for the remainder of the drive. It goes by a little too quickly though, because before I know it, he's putting the car in park in front of my building. Being the gentleman that he is, he walks me all the way up to my apartment door. It's not until I have unlocked and opened the door that he finally says goodnight, placing a soft peck on my cheek before walking away. Once he has disappeared into the elevator and I'm sure he's gone, I close and lock the door.

As I'm getting ready for bed, I become aware of the slight ache in my cheeks from smiling so much. As soon as my head hits my pillow, the realization dawns on me. I am in love with Luke Hughes.

• ───────────────────────────── •

I'm still in shock at the fact that he really went all out with the tickets. My friends seem to be as well considering that they still haven't managed to pick their jaws up off the floor yet. Never in my life would I have ever expected to be seated in one of the arena's luxury suites. I feel a little bad the more I dwell on it. There are more deserving fans that could be sitting here, yet some girl who knew nothing about the sport two months ago had them handed to her at no cost.

"Hi, you must be Y/N." An unfamiliar woman's voice pulls me from my pity-party.

"Oh, hi." I greet her as I turn in her direction.

"I'm Luke's mom, Ellen." She smiles and pulls me into a quick but gentle embrace. "And this is my husband, Jim." She gestures to the man beside her.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N." He offers a hand for me to shake.

"You as well." I accept it before introducing them to my two friends, who are not-so-discreetly eavesdropping on the conversation.

We all find a seat and fall into casual conversation. Just getting to know each other and talking about this, that, and the other. Once the teams begin to make their way onto the ice, our attentions shift away from each other and onto the players.

Having admitted to my lack of knowledge of the sport before the game started, Jim and Ellen kindly explained the game to me so I would know what is going on. By the end of the first period, I'm clued in enough that I don't need it anymore and eventually, I become just as immersed in the game as the rest of them are.

It's in the second period that Luke scores a goal and we all stand up, cheering loudly with the crowd. The excitement is so high that I don't even shy away when Ellen happily pulls me into a tight hug before pulling away and continuing to cheer for her youngest son. Third period seems to go by in a flash and then the game is ending with a 6-5 win for the Devils, both Jack and Luke having contributed to the score with goals of their own.

Once the final buzzer goes off, my friends bid their farewells before heading out to go home. However, I hang back with Ellen and Jim upon the request of Luke. I follow the two down from the suite until we make it to where the locker rooms are located, waiting in the hall for the three brothers to emerge. We stand around conversing for about ten or so minutes before the men finally make their appearances.

They all embrace and greet each other as I stand back and watch with a smile. They really are a beautiful family. Once they all break away, Luke turns his attention towards me. He steps forward and reaches for me, pulling me into his arms.

"Congratulations." I speak softly as I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, his wrapped around my waist.

"Thank you." I can hear the smile in his voice.

Time escapes me as I stand in his arms. I'm not even sure how long we've been holding onto each other. It's his brother's voice that finally has us separating.

"You must be the infamous Y/N." Quinn steps up, a smug grin on his face. "I've heard so much about you."

"I've heard a lot about you as well," I respond politely, despite the blush I'm sure I'm sporting due to his teasing tone. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Ellen asks from where she stands, now next to Quinn.

"Oh, um," I look to Luke for an answer. He nods, a pleading look in his eyes. "Yes, I would love to." I finally reply.

With that being said, we all begin to exit the arena and head to the parking lot. We're almost to the vehicles when Luke gently grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. Once his family is out of earshot, he begins to speak.

"This might seem random and sudden, but I've been thinking about it for a while." He starts, looking away nervously and lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "And feel free to say no because I don't want you to feel like you have to say yes just because I'm asking. Or if you feel like you need time to think it over, feel free to take all of the time you need. Actually, maybe I-"

"Luke," I say his name softly, placing my hands on his reddening cheeks and forcing his gaze back to mine. His rambling comes to a halt. "Breathe."

"Sorry." He inhales deeply before releasing his breath. "I was wondering, would you be my girlfriend?"

It's my turn to take a deep breath. Out of all the things he could have said, I was not expecting this. I take a moment to gather my thoughts as a smile begins to pull at my lips.

"I would love to." I nod, my smile growing larger resulting in his own.

"Well," He takes a step closer to me. "Since you're my girlfriend now, does that mean I can kiss you?" His question flusters me but I try hard not to show it.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"Really fucking badly."

"Then kiss me, Luke."

And so he does. His lips crash into mine in a soft but passionate kiss. As if he has waited a lifetime to do it. It's gentle yet desperate. As we finally part, he pecks my lips a few more times before pulling away completely. He opens his mouth to say something but is stopped by Jack shouting from where his family is waiting by the cars, surely having seen the whole display.

"If you two lovebirds are done sucking faces in the middle of the parking lot, I would like to leave now. I'm fucking starving." He teases.

We both turn our gazes in time to see Quinn smack the middle brother in the back of the head and both parents shaking their heads at their son's antics. Luke chuckles at the scene as he intertwines his hand with mine and begins to walk to the car. My heart flutters as I finally admit the obvious to myself. Maybe we weren't ever just friends. I mentally roll my eyes as I climb into the back seat, already picturing the two squealing girls in my head and the endless amounts of I told you so's that I'm sure to hear when I fill them in. However, when Luke slides into the car next to me and interlocks our hands once again, I can't bring myself to care. I think I like this little life.