#quest never bothered getting a manicure in his life

[pininiu]

hand studies for the bloomic love interests cuz I wanted to try out adding more variety in drawing the appendages

totally didn’t regret the idea halfway through

[thekitschdiet]

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet. 

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days. 

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress. 

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram.  Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it. 

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is  actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even… 

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera. 

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

 I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead.  Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit. 

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an  inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read). 

[tothemeadow]

Hi!! I just saw your requests were open and I wanted to ask for a nsfw scenario with Mui? But like with a dom!fem!reader please, hehe. I honestly can't be submissive to save my life (it makes me extremely uncomfortable and is a big turn off)so I'd really appreciate it if you could write for me! There's so little content for dom readers tbh- I'd understand if you're uncomfortable with the topic though!! 1/2

Aw, thank you! And I totally get what you mean - femdoms are 😤👌

It is my personal quest to bring more dominant reader action into this thirsty world.

‘make me’ / Tokito M. x Reader

warnings: NSFW, sugar mama/baby, Mommy kink, sex toys, blowjobs, pegging

words: 2,545

(a/n): you bet your goddamn ass Muichiro is 18+ in this

-

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Your eyebrows twitch. Tonguing the inside of your cheek, you mentally count to ten. It’s best not to rip into him just yet. All you asked was that he come inside, maybe spend some quality time with you. It’s not too much to ask, is it? There’s nothing wrong with wanting that, is there?

But no, clearly there is.

Perching his designer sunglasses on top of his head, Muichiro gives you a onceover. Long, inky strands frame his face; the hairs are pushed back behind his ears, revealing expensive looking hoops. Everything about his appearance screams haughty bitch - his tanned skin, his perfectly manicured nails, the name brand swim trunks wrapped around his skinny legs. It’s funny, though, since he wouldn’t even look this way if it weren’t for you.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, you know?

Pouty lips purse around a bright red lollipop as he pulls it out of his mouth. Both his lips and tongue are stained a fruity red, the color a stark difference against his crystalline eyes. Even as he blinks, you can see specks of a fine, shimmery eyeshadow. As much as you’re annoyed with him, you can never deny how absolutely stunning he is.

“You’re frowning,” he points out. “You’ll give yourself crow’s feet if you keep doing that, Mommy.”

Oh, yes. The delights of being a sugar mama. Too bad your sugar baby is a spoiled brat.

Promptly planting yourself on his lounge chair, you yank the magazine from his grasp and toss it onto the table next to him. Muichiro cocks a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Don’t be backtalking me, sweetie.”

“I am not,” Muichiro says, his tone almost bordering a whine.

“Oh? Then I’m only pretending that you’re acting this way? You know I don’t like it when you treat me like that.”

Muichiro puffs his cheeks indignantly. Even while pouting, he looks like a model. It’s both utterly ridiculous and amusing at once. “I’m not doing anything wrong. You’re just overreacting.”

Overreacting? Oh, now that’s rich.

You click your tongue. “Watch your tone.”

Scrunching his eyebrows, Muichiro sticks the lollipop in his mouth and shakes his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Muichiro,” you warn.

“Make me.”

You suck in a sharp breath. That’s enough of this bratty attitude. Reaching forward, your fingers wrap around the stick of his lollipop, yanking the candy away. Muichiro cries out in alarm, an offended expression contorting his features. You chuck it onto the magazine, careful enough not to hit the table. If Muichiro complains about you ruining his reading material, sobeit.

“Listen to me, you little brat,” you spit, your hand clamping around his face and squishing his cheeks. “Don’t make me bend you over my knee.”

Muichiro’s eyes widen. You can see the gears turning in his head; thick lashes flutter enticingly, brush his sun kissed cheeks. You realize right away that he’s mocking you. Cocking his head back, you leer over him.

“Muichiro,” you start in a low, low voice, “you better get your ass inside before I tie you up and edge you.” Loosening your hold on his face, you retract your hand and stand up. Muichiro hastily scrambles to follow suit, a sly smirk growing on his face. Little brat – he’s enjoying this.

The rational part of your mind tells you to cease all motions and not give into his little scheme. However, the darker, more animalistic side tells you to comply and have him thinking over what he’s done. You choose the latter.

Muichiro plops himself on your bed the second he enters the bedroom. The bed itself is large, expensive; satiny sheets and thick blankets cover the bed, the color an elegant cream. You’ve always appreciated how nicely the tone of Muichiro’s skin contrasts compared to it. Muichiro’s movements are practically giddy as he shucks his trunks off and places his sunglasses on your nightstand. A quick glance over tells you that he’s already half hard. He openly smirks as he catches you staring.

“Come on, Mommy,” he singsongs, perching himself on all fours and crawling to the edge of the bed. Tossing his long hair over his shoulder, he flashes you a sultry look. “I don’t wanna wait anymore.”

You don’t even bother holding back a scoff. Look at him, acting like he owns the damn place. Like he’s in charge of the relationship. Crossing your arms, you force yourself to keep on an annoyed expression. It’s a load of bullshit, though, since you can feel dampness collecting in your panties. Kneeling at the edge of the mattress, you look down at Muichiro.

From this angle, you can see the delicate slope of his back, the swell of his perky ass. The brat is built like a goddamn pornstar and he knows it. Cupping his chin, you tilt his head up. “You think everything has to go your way, huh?”

Muichiro wiggles his ass. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

You tongue the inside of your cheek. If he’s going to be continuously mouthy like this, there’s only one thing left to do. Pulling yourself away, you ignore Muichiro’s impatient huff and head for the closet. Like the entirety of your home, it’s large and full of expensive items; however, as wealthy as you may be, most of them are Muichiro’s belongings. Dropping low at a set of shelves, you pull out a black box, your fingernails drumming against the thick plastic. Muichiro’s probably expecting a pair of handcuffs, maybe even a gag.

But you’ve got something better in mind.

At this point, Muichiro’s openly whining with impatience. As you quickly disrobe, the distinct sound of skin sliding skin, the slight breathiness of Muichiro’s moans. Your chest pangs with irritation; you don’t know what’s going on in that perverted head of his, but you’ve finally had enough. Securing the harness around your hips and thighs, you grab onto your weapon of choice and storm back into the bedroom.

Like you thought, Muichiro’s flat on his back, his neck craned over the edge of the bed, his fingers frantically pulling and twisting at his cock. Your mouth dries at the sight, a lump forming in your throat. Muichiro looks absolutely breathtaking like this, his body sprawled and long hair flowing.

“Mommy,” he sighs, almost dreamily.

“Fuck,” you grunt. Quickly making your way over to the bed, your pussy clenches around nothing as his breath hitches in his throat. “Get on your hands and knees,” you bark.

With a feeble nod, Muichiro does as he’s told, probably too horny and eager to get fucked to give any mouth. You almost laugh, because is he really being serious right now? Obviously, he thinks with his dick more than his head, it seems. Pressing his face into the mattress, he raises himself on his knees, his ass reaching towards the ceiling. Between the split of his legs, you can see his cock hanging heavily, precum swelling from the slit.

“Impatient little brat,” you growl, clambering onto the bed behind him. “You just had to start touching yourself, didn’t you?”

“It’s not like you were doing anything,” Muichiro snips. A squeak bursts from his lips when your hand sharply connects with his asscheek.

“Bad boy,” you say, a deep scowl digging into your cheeks. You ignore his cries as you spank him again, again, and again. His ass is turning an apple red from the force of your spankings, the outline of your hand becoming more and more evident.

Muichiro takes it like a champ, though, his back arching and thighs twitching. The head of his cock drags against the thick duvet; it elicits such a sinful noise from him, the edges blurred with a heavy breath. Slender fingers clutch at the material, yank on it with a grip that turns his knuckles white.

“You should apologize for your mouth.” Delivering one final smack against his pert ass, you sit back on your haunches and turn to the object you placed on the bed. The dildo you picked is jet black in color, a perfect mix of length and girth. This oughtta shut Muichiro up. After attaching it to the harness, you flick your fingers against the reddened skin of his ass. “Face me.”

With shaky movements, Muichiro raises himself to his knees and turns around. His eyes instantly latch onto the thing between your thighs; his Adam’s apple bobs as he thickly swallows. Cupping a hand around the back of his neck, you guide him forward, bending him over until he’s eyelevel with your cock.

“Since you run your mouth so much, I figured you might as well put it to use.”

Muichiro’s eyes dart upwards.

You cock an unamused eyebrow at him. “Well? What are you waiting for? You’re starving to get fucked, right? Where’s that confidence from earlier? Doesn’t my little slut wanna be fucked into the bed?” Taking your cock into your hand, you tap the head against his flushed cheek. “Suck.”

Petal lips wrap around the head, the hint of a tongue peeking out. You watch as Muichiro flicks his tongue over the head in tiny strokes. You scoff. The hand on the back of his neck pulls him further in; your cock shoves its way deeper into his mouth, making Muichiro yelp in surprise. Keeping your hand there, you let him set his own pace.

Slurping noises quickly fill the room as he frantically sucks on your cock. He urges it down his throat, his pretty pink lips wrapped so sinfully around its girth. His eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, his thick lashes fluttering sultrily. Saliva bubbles at the corners of his mouth, spill down his chin. Frantically bobbing his head, his tongue laps at the underside of your cock, frantic, desperate. His hips shift subtly and suddenly he’s moaning around your cock; your eyes narrow into icy slits.

“Dirty little cockslut,” you sneer. “You’re getting off by sucking a fucking toy? You’re that desperate to have something down your throat, aren’t you? Go ahead – choke yourself.”

Gripping onto the back of his head, you buck your hips forward, driving your cock down his throat. Muichiro gags around it, his eyelids falling shut. The air hisses as he sharply inhales; he complains weakly, the sound nothing more than a pathetic whimper.

“You want me to fuck you with this, don’t you? Be a good little slut and cover it up in spit. You’re already so messy, so it should be easy for you, huh? Filthy boy.”

Muichiro moans loudly; as though encouraged by your degrading words, more spittle rolls down his chin, glistens on the surface of your cock. His hips move erratically, the drag of his cock against the duvet making his cries louder and higher in tone.

“Uh-uh-uh,” you tsk. You rip his mouth off of your cock, an obscene string of spit clinging to his bottom lip and the head of your cock. It snaps as you pull him away, a fucked-out expression playing on his features. “You wanna get fucked?” Muichiro eagerly nods his head. Picking up the bottle of lube laying to the side, you look at him expectantly. “Then you know what to do.”

Trembling fingers grab the bottle from your hand. You watch on as Muichiro pours the fluid over his digits, a slight hitch in his breath at how cold it feels. Reaching behind himself, he teases his quivering hole with the pads of his fingertips. Steadily, he works himself open, adding one finger at a time. Biting his lip, he rocks back onto his fingers, the squelch of the lube seemingly echoing in the room. Paired with his heavy pants, he sounds absolutely filthy.

Settling your back against the headboard, you beckon him forward with a ‘come hither’ motion. Muichiro hiccups on a soft sob as he pulls his fingers out of him; quickly scrambling to sit on your lap, he practically jumps on top you in his desperation. He’s too quick to lower himself on your cock, a keen ripping itself out of his throat at the stretch.

“Do- do something already,” he hisses, his eyelids fluttering. “Stop making me do all the work, Mommy!”

“Ungrateful slut,” you growl. Gripping onto his hips, you roll your hips into him, the head of your cock inching into him even further. “You’re still going to be a brat? Do I have to press your face down into the bed and fuck you silent?” At that, Muichiro moans loud.

Yanking him down, you control the pace, guiding his hips and angling your own so you’re hitting his prostate dead on with each stroke of your cock. He whimpers and mewls in pleasure, his head craning back and exposing the column of his neck. Swooping in, you nip at the flesh, scratch your teeth over the pounding vein. You’re all too aware of the slick between your thighs, how it’s ruining the blankets beneath you, but you don’t fucking care. Not when Muichiro’s whining like a bitch in heat.

His cock bobs with each thrust, slaps back against his stomach. Precum oozes from the tip, smears over both of yours skin. He’s just dying to be touched, to have your hand jerk him off, to have your lips wrap around the aching flesh. Quickly snatching his wrists, you force him to wrap his arms around your neck. Tiny gasps spill from his lips as you mouth at the underside of his jaw. Your hands drift over his chest; you pull and twist are his hardened nipples, relish in his pathetic mewls.

“Mommy, Mommy,” he chants, his tongue lolling out and more drool dripping from his chin. “Touch me.” He keens as you sink your teeth into his neck.

“You’ve been such a brat,” you coo. “If you want to cum, it’s going to be like this.”

Tears prick the corners of his crystalline eyes. “I-I can’t,” he stammers. “Please, Mommy-“

Readjusting yourself, you slam your hips into him, the head of your cock slamming into his prostate even harder. His fingernails scratch your shoulders as his entire body seizes up; throwing his head back, he chokes on a cry as he orgasms, hot ropes of white shooting out and painting your stomachs. You fuck him through his orgasm, milk him for everything that he’s got.

The corners of your mouth pull into a smug smile as he finally looks to you, his face a bright and sweaty mess. The inky strands of his hair stick to his skin. He looks so wrecked, so thoroughly ruined – and fuck it’s so hot. Bringing him forward, you lick your way into his mouth. His tongue languidly slides against yours, barely putting up a fight. He moans into your mouth as you run your fingers over his sensitive cock, scooping up some cum on your index finger. Breaking off the kiss, you promptly shove your finger into his mouth instead.

“Are you ready to apologize yet, sweetie?” you ask him.

Grabbing onto your wrist, he pulls your finger out of his mouth; he sticks out his tongue, showing you the bit of white gathered on the red-stained muscle. Clamping his mouth shut, he flashes you a mischievous smile. “Make me.”

[headfulloffantasies]

Search and Find

Part 5 of Clones and Kings

Read on Ao3

Three hours pass and Rex still hadn't heard from Mando. He scooped up Mini-Yoda and decided that if Mando couldn't find his own way home then Rex would go bring him home. 

Rex needed to have words with Ahsoka. When he’d finally managed to contact her on Wolffe’s behalf, she’d practically squealed with glee at the sight of the other clone. And then she’d scooped Wolffe up and dragged him away to do undercover work in a distant sector. But Ahsoka had left Rex with Mando and Yoda Model 2.0. Ahsoka told Rex it was important. Ahsoka claimed the child had incredible powers that could not be left untended until Skywalker finished his quest. Ahsoka promised Rex was doing the will of the Force.

Why pray tell, did the Force want Rex covered in drool and run ragged keeping a toddler from eating jumper cables? No one would tell Rex. So Rex continued to shadow the Mand’alor’s steps.

Mando had a lead on his elusive beskar dealers. Not just the thieves, but the big dogs involved in melting down stolen armour and selling it on the black market. The lead led them to Coruscant.

Rex hated Coruscant. The towering spires twisting up into infinity and the platforms raised higher and higher into the sky gave Rex a sense of vertigo. The ground never felt stable on the top levels and the lower levels were always shrouded in dark.

Only the old Jedi Temple sat free of the dizzying influence of modern architecture. Still, Rex wouldn’t go back there in a million years if someone paid him a million credits. That was a haunted place.

Mando landed his ship on a platform somewhere in the middle of the levels just after sunset.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Rex asked for the umpteenth time.

Mando gave him a flat stare through the helmet. “I won’t risk taking Grogu with me,” he explained again. “And this has to be done tonight before the dealers get wind of me. I need you to watch Grogu until I come back.”

The tyke slept in his hammock in Mando’s bunk. His massive ears twitched every now and then as he dreamed. Rex imagined Little Yoda dreamed of frogs of lightsabers.

Mando strapped his pulse rifle over his shoulder. He checked his whistling birds and re-loaded his blaster twice. If Rex was a braver man, he’d guess Mando was nervous.

Finally, Mando approached his son. Rex turned his head to give them a bit of privacy. Out of the corner of his eye, Rex watched Mando caress Un-Yoda’s fat cheeks. Rex averted his eyes.

Mando’s boots thudded down the ramp. Rex followed to close the door behind him. Mando turned on the last step.

“If I’m not back in three hours, take Grogu to Luke Skywalker’s Jedi school,” Mando instructed.

“What?” Rex squawked. “But-.”

Mando swept off into the night, ignoring Rex’s protests.

Rex shuffled in the doorway. Mando hadn’t said anything about leaving him to die in a Coruscant gutter. The mission hadn’t seemed that dangerous to Rex when they’d discussed it. Had Mando lied to Rex about the severity of the danger?

Rex had half a mind to grab his guns and go after the kriffer. But Master Yoda’s Copy still slept in his hammock. Rex kicked himself. He should have known if Mando refused to bring the kid that this mission was too much for Mando to handle alone. The buir and ad’ika normally could not be separated on pain of death.

A chirp drew Rex’s attention. He looked down. The New Yoda blinked sleep from his huge eyes. He babbled and waved his hands to be lifted. Rex reached down and picked him up.

“Well, kid?” Rex asked. “I think your buir may have stepped in the bantha’s mess this time. So, do we wait him out, or do we go after him?”

The child snuggled into Rex’s elbow and fell back asleep. Rex decided that meant one vote for giving Mando the benefit of the doubt. Rex rocked the kid gently and made his way up to the cockpit. He sat in the pilot’s chair and watched the dark streets through the windscreen. Rex’s stomach rolled with every passing second. He was a soldier. He wasn’t used to laying low and sitting around when someone else faced the fire.

Every moment that went by was a moment Mando might have a bullet in the back of a knife between his ribs. Rex couldn’t stand this. He checked the chronometer. Only an hour had passed.

Rex didn’t mean to fall asleep. Honestly, he had worked himself up so much he didn’t know he could sleep. But the kid had made a nice warm lump on his chest and the night dragged on.

Rex bolted awake alone and cold.

The tiny Jedi was gone. Rex lurched out of the pilot’s seat.

“Hey kid?” Rex called out. He didn’t see any green ears or hear any pattering feet. Rex had left the door to the cockpit open. He cursed himself as he hurried down the ladder.

“Kid?” Rex scanned the interior of the main hold. Mando’s bunk stood open. Yoda the Younger had not returned to his hammock.

“Kid?” Kriff, what was his name? Googoo? Grog? Gremlin?

“Little Grub?” Rex tried.

A babble caught Rex’s attention. The pantry door hung open. Master Yoda’s Double sat on the highest shelf, his clawed feet waving. Wrappers littered the floor along with crumbs and rations bars deemed unacceptable to the toddler’s unknowable sense of taste.

Rex scooped up the child. “How many of those did you eat?”

The child only burped. He took another huge bite of the ration bar in his hands. Those new teeth growing in didn’t seem to bother him so much right now.

Rex brushed crumbs off Not-Yoda’s face. The kid caught hold of Rex’s finger and waved it around.

“Yes, you’re very cute and very naughty,” Rex grumbled. He extracted his finger before The Progeny of Master Yoda tried taking a bite out of it.

Rex glanced up at the closed ship’s ramp. “So your buir still hasn’t come home, has he Little Grub?” Rex shifted the child to settle against his hip. Rex pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why can’t anything ever go according to plan?”

The baby cooed. Rex looked down at him. Those huge eyes implored Rex.

“Kriff,” Rex cursed. “We all knew I wasn’t going to leave him to die here. Are you ready to go drag him out of whatever mess he’s gotten himself into?”

Hardly-Yoda dropped his ration bar and smacked his sticky hands against Rex’s chest, a string of gurgles flowing between his teeth.

“Okay then,” Rex nodded. He grabbed his pistols and opened the ship’s ramp. A squall of rain lashed against his face. Rex tucked the child into the crook of his arm and slogged out into the storm. The wind nearly toppled Rex over. He staggered off the landing pad and into the relative shelter between two buildings.

“This way.” Rex headed down. Mando’s contact owned some kind of warehouse in the lower levels of Coruscant. Rex hustled past the denizens of people trying to escape the rain. Eventually, they wound up in a dark, wet alleyway that smelled like dead loth cat. The warehouse door hung open.

Rex unholstered a gun and carefully stepped from the dim street into the blackness of the warehouse. The empty space echoed the screech of the door falling shut. Rex froze. His heart pounded while he waited for someone to jump out from behind the scattered shadows. His eyes gradually adjusted to the dark.  The shadows coalesced. Rex drew a sharp breath. He covered the child’s eyes. Those weren’t crates or boxes. They were bodies.

Rex tread carefully, stepping over outstretched arms and crumpled legs. He recognised among the wounds the marks left behind by whistling birds.

“Your buir was here, Little Grub,” Rex whispered.

The child whined.

“He’s not here anymore,” Rex noted the lack of shining silver armour among the fallen. “So where did he go, Little Grub?”

Rex followed the trail of carnage. A disgusting smear of blood led out the back door. Rex prayed it didn’t belong to Mando. Rex stepped out into the rain again. He blinked water from his eyes. A body slumped against the alley wall.

Rex realised with a jolt that if the beskar thieves had won and left Mando’s body to drown in the storm without his armour, Rex would never recognise Mando. He knelt beside the cold corpse. It couldn’t be Mando, Rex decided. This man was too bulky in the shoulders and round in the middle to be Mando.

So, Mando had slaughtered an entire warehouse of armed men and followed this last straggler out to finish the job. And then what? Where had he gone?

Rex spun a circle. This alley was used by a dozen establishments as a garbage disposal. The mouth of the alley led to a main thoroughfare. If Mando had gone that way Rex would never catch up to him.

Yoda the Smallest cooed. Rex glanced down at him. The child stretched his hand out. Rex followed where he pointed. The door directly across the alley was smudged with blood.

“Good work, Little Grub,” Rex said even as his throat closed with worry. Someone had left this alley covered in gore. It had to be Mando. Rex just prayed the blood on the door handle didn’t belong to Mando.

Rex shoved the door open.

Pounding bass and flashing rainbow lights deafened and blinded Rex immediately.

Rex had heard this joke. A clone and a baby walk into a bar. What happens next may surprise you.

The music buzzed. Rex craned his neck to try and see above the crowd milling around the tables. Rex grabbed the first man walking his way.

“You seen a Mandalorian running around?” Rex asked.

“No,” the man said almost before Rex was finished speaking.

Rex frowned. “You sure?”

“Never seen a Mandalorian in my life. Now scram,” the man shooed Rex away.

Rex backed into a woman. “Sorry,” he apologised.

She put her manicured hand on his arm and leaned into his space. Rex got ready to tell her he didn’t want to dance. She put her red lips next to his ear.

“I heard you say something about a Mandalorian,” she said over the music. “Go ask Erl.” She nodded to the squat Didynon with white ridges on his face and bulging eyes minding the bar.

“Erl knows everything,” the woman promised.

Rex pushed his way to the bar. He had to wait for the Didynon to finish serving several customers before he could attract Erls’ attention. Tiny Yoda reached a clawed hand for the amber drink someone had abandoned on the bar top. Rex scooped him up and away. Yoda Junior wailed. One of the eyes on the sides of Erl’s head swiveled in Rex’s direction.

“Erl?” Rex asked.

The Didynon raised his head. Rex found he couldn’t look in both eyes at once. He tried his best to pick one and stay focused.

“I’m told you might have seen a Mandalorian around here?” Rex asked.

Erl’s gaze dropped to the child wriggling in Rex’s arms.

“That thing housebroken?” Erl demanded.

Rex honestly didn’t know. “I’m looking for a Mandalorian,” Rex repeated.

“I heard you,” Erl nodded. “I seen a Mando about an hour ago. Silver armour? Yeah, that was him. He came storming in here from the back room, covered in blood, and then left in a hurry.”

Rex perked up. “You see which way he went?”

“Might have,” Erl blinked both eyes one after the other.

Rex grumbled and dug into his pocket. He came up with a handful of credits and dumped them on the bar.

Erl leaned closer. “The Mando said he was going back to his ship.”

Great. Rex deflated. If Mando had left an hour ago, he would have run into Rex and Not-Yoda-Yet. Something had to have happened between the bar and the ship.

“Thanks,” Rex left the bar. He stood in the rain for a long moment. He had no idea where to look next. Underage-Yoda wailed again. Rex tried to calm him. The child only cried harder. Big fat tears mixed with the rain slapping down.

“Hush, it’s alright,” Rex tried bouncing the kid in his arms. “Your buir’s around here somewhere. We just have to find the kriffer. Nobody can kill that bucket-head. I swear he’s immortal. That’s why he keeps going on suicide missions. He’s proving his invincibility. And his ability to give me an ulcer.”

The child quieted from wailing to loud sniffles. He seemed to be listening, so Rex kept talking.

“That’s it, Little Grub. Someone up there is watching over your buir. Maybe even Master Yoda himself.” Rex let out a barking laugh. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? Old Master Yoda keeping an eye on you and the kriffing Mand’alor. I wonder what the old jetti thought of your buir claiming the Darksaber.”

Rex imagined Master Yoda swinging his cane and screeching. The thought brought another laugh.

The child had quieted. He gripped Rex’s gloved index finger between both hands.

Rex sighed. “I don’t have any more ideas, Little Grub. Let’s go back to the ship and try to get some sleep. Your buir might come back on his own. If not, we can try to find him in the morning.”

Rex slogged through the puddles back to the landing dock. A voice shouted as Rex approached. Rex spun with a hand on his blaster.

“Woah there,” a man with an impressive beard waved from the shelter of an overhang at the edge of the dock. “I mean you no harm, friend. My name is Teach.”

“Teach,” Rex held back a sigh. “I don’t really have time to chat.”

“You’re looking for the Mandalorian?” Teach asked. Rex went still.

“How do you know that?”

Teach shrugged. “The Mandalorain was looking for you.”

“What?” Rex squawked. “When?”

Teach scratched his beard while he thought. “Maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Where did he go?” Rex demanded.

“That way,” Teach pointed a dirty finger in the direction Rex had originally left the ship.

“I am an idiot,” Rex hissed. Premature Yoda cooed. “You don’t have to agree, I already know it’s true.” Rex grumbled. “Come on Little Grub. If your buir was still upright twenty minutes ago, then he’ll loop back to the ship eventually.”

“Better hurry,” Teach advised. “Your friend wasn’t looking too good.”

Rex stopped in his tracks. “What does that mean?”

Teach spread his hands helplessly. “He was covered in blood. And sort of tipsy, you know?”

Kriff. It sounded like Mando hadn’t escaped the fight unscathed after all.

“Don’t worry,” Rex patted the child’s head. “We’ll find him.”

Rex was a soldier. Better than that, he was a Captain. He knew how to sweep a grid search. He started by heading in the direction the man had pointed. Rex followed the street to its end. He kept his eyes peeled for a kriffing Mandalorian just as idiotic as Rex himself.

Rex and the green bean in his possession weaved back and forth down the streets, alleys, and side streets all around the landing dock. Rex asked the people he found braving the rain about Mando. None of them had seen Rex’s lost bucket-head. If the ghost of Master Yoda really was looking down, now was a good time for the old gremlin to give Rex a divine signal.

Rex slammed into something solid as brick.

“Kark!” Rex spat. He checked over Yoda the Second. “Watch where you’re-.” Rex looked up at the silver chest plate he’d run into. He blinked. A familiar visor looked back. Mando and Rex stood frozen in tableau in the middle of the slick street. Rex’s mouth opened and closed. Mando stood still as a statue.

“Where have you been?” Rex exploded.

“Me? You were supposed to leave hours ago. I thought someone had got you.” Mando snapped.

“Well, I thought you’d been gutted and left for the birds,” Rex shot back. “And I’d never leave a brother behind.”

Mando fell silent. Rex realised his voice had risen to shout through the rain.

Mando swayed on the spot. Rex shot a hand out and grabbed Mando’s arm. The man looked ready to keel over.

“Come on,” Rex pulled Mando back to the ship. He waved his thanks to Teach still sitting under the dripping overhang. Rex tugged Mando up the ramp and out of the rain.

Rex shoved Mando to sit on the edge of his bunk. He plopped the shivering wet Sham Yoda into Mando’s arms.

“Are you hurt?” Rex demanded. “Do I need to leave you with the med kit?”

“No,” Mando shook his head.

“Are you sure?” Rex pressed. “You don’t seem stable, no offense.”

Mando said nothing. Rex knew better than to keep pushing. He pointed to Mando’s left shoulder. The armour sat askew. “What happened here?”

“They managed to rip my pauldron off,” Mando grumbled.

Rex’s blood went cold. “They tried to strip your armour before killing you?”

Mando nodded. “That’s the way they operate. They know it’s the ultimate dishonour for a Mandalorian to have their armour removed by another. They shame our people before they kill us.”

Yikes, yikes, yikes. Rex did not have the context to process that.

Mando stroked a gloved hand over the Little Jedi’s head. The tyke cooed. It seemed to calm Mando. His shoulders climbed down from around his helmet. Rex heard the sigh through Mando’s vocoder.

“You know the significance of armour,” Mando said. “I’ve seen you checking your paint.”

Rex nodded. The blue stripes and scores had just as much importance to Rex as his own limbs. To lose them would be devastating. Especially after so many clones had lost themselves to the Empire. Rex swallowed that thought down before it overwhelmed him.

“You’ve never asked me my name,” Mando said. “Not once in all this time.”

Rex straightened up. “It’s yours to give. Names are important.”

He thought of his brothers, who chose their names so carefully when no one bothered to give them one. He couldn’t help his mind straying to the first of many funerals he’d attended during the war. When the commanding Jedi had read the list of the dead, he’d read their CT numbers. The hiss of disapproval didn’t rise over the helmets bowed in grief. But no CT numbers were ever read at a funeral again.

“Din Djarin,” Mando said softly. Rex almost missed it. “My name is Din Djarin. When we’re alone, you may use it.”

Rex dipped his head. “I’m honoured, Din.”

Mando stood awkwardly and shuffled to the fresher.

Rex kept watch on him out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t convinced Din’s wobbly demeanour stemmed entirely from emotional upheaval. More likely the kriffer was hiding a blow to the head. Rex recalled a whole tribe of Jedis who would remain unnamed who used to conceal injuries like that.

Phony Yoda whined and waved his little claws.

Rex patted his green head. “We found him, Little Grub. Nothing else to worry about.”

Din came back out of the fresher and paused. “What the hell happened to the rations?”

Rex pointed a finger in Mini-Yoda’s face. “This is your mess and I’m not taking the fall for it.”

[itsomgitsgreenblogging]

Labor of Love Chapter 2: A Critical Role Shadowgast Fanfic

Well, I was utterly floored by the amount of love I got on the first chapter of the fic, and so I felt that I had enough ideas and time to continue it. Seriously, thank you to everyone who supported chapter one, and here’s hoping you continue to enjoy this fic! Considering I’m still in a quarantine, I have plenty of time on my hands lol. 

I took inspiration from the food section of the Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount, so let me just say, thank you so very much Essek server for helping me! You guys are, as always, the best. 

Read on AO3

Read Ch 1 on Tumblr

Preview: 

Each cupcake looked like a treasure chest, decorated and drizzled and shiny. Each cupcake was almost too much of a display to consider blemishing. From the candied lemons on the Radler to the swirl of the tamarind-vanilla frosting to even the glisten of the drizzle. It all screamed a level of care and attention that Essek didn't exactly feel deserving of. All of this came from Caleb’s mind, he knew it. But what a wonderful, beautiful place that mind must have been. It made him yearn, impossibly, faithfully for something that he didn’t even have the words for. He hadn’t thought he was empty before, but now he felt downright cavernous.  

"Well, what's got you in a mood? Your resting bitch face is worse than usual,” Lythir noted, taking a sip from his mimosa. Essek set down his own drink and gave him a look. “That’s not making it any better.” 

“I don’t have a resting bitch face,” Essek noted very pleasantly as he flipped through the menu. The place was in the trendy upscale shopping district of Rosohna, promising gourmet modern-Xhorhassian cuisine served on shiny white plates and all deconstructed to the highest fashion. It was a bit pretentious, even for Essek. For example, why did all the drinks have to be in mason jars? But he hadn’t picked the place that had been Lythir. Though, Essek was sure he was going to have to be the one to foot the bill. 

Lythir was looking back at him expectantly. He was an old acquaintance of Essek’s, who worked at one of the premier newspapers in Rosohna. There were plenty of reasons that Essek prefered other people’s company over Lythir. He tended to be dour, self-important, and pretty annoying in general. Essek didn’t like most people, and he especially disliked people who felt they had something to prove. One’s business should remain their own. But Lythir had always done good work for the cultural office, and always gave Essek the head’s up when something big was happening. So, at the very least, Essek owed him to hear him out no matter how absolutely obnoxious he was being. 

“Well, you are a resting bitch so…” 

“I didn’t invite me out to brunch, that was you. This is your fault, so you don’t get to complain about me. If you want someone to complain about me to, you should have invited your husband,” Essek said shortly. Essek would have preferred Lythir’s husband to be there anyways. He was a stylish, soft-spoken individual who was the head of a non-profit that helped place refugees in housing and set them up with job assistance. Essek actually enjoyed his conversation, as opposed to Lythir. But it was what it was. 

“Oh get that stick out of your ass, Theylss. I invited you here for a reason...well, that and getting drunk.” 

“I suppose my company is not enough,” Essek sighed dramatically. 

“Oh, please. As if you don’t purposefully make yourself the least friendly person to interact with on a daily basis on purpose.” 

“We both know that’s not true. You hold that distinct honor.” 

“Oh shut up,” Lythir said, his expression pinching. “You always have to be so clever.”

“Are we ready to order?” the waitress asked, walking over to them slowly, as if the ground itself was triggered with traps like some ancient dungeon. 

“I’ll have the Eggs Uthodurn,” Essek ordered, closing the menu and sliding it to her. He smiled his best smile at her, the one he often put on to comfort interns trembling at the sound of his boss’s heels...before they realized it was him they needed to watch for. She looked relieved. 

“On a bagel or Uthodurnian muffin?” 

“The muffin please.” 

“Salad or home fries?” 

“Salad.” 

“And for you sir?” the waitress asked Lythir. 

“Full Xhorhassian Breakfast,” Lythir said lazily, not even bothering to look at her. “Bagel and eggs scrambled.” 

“Thank you,” Essek said to the waitress who smiled and hurried away. Essek turned his gaze back to Lythir, keeping his expression decorated as naturally as he could. "So what was it that you wanted to speak to me about?" 

"Though in theory we have moved away from the 12 Den Form of Government, we all know that it still exists," Lythir said, taking out his little notebook. "Your little brother is about to find himself in some hot water if he doesn't cool his current investigation. I know he thinks he’s some hot shot ye old Taskhand, but we all know that it’s the case." 

"Of course he is," Essek snorted as he rested his chin on his palm as he continued to look towards Lythir. "What did he do this time?" 

"Investigated a high ranking member of Den Beltune for corruption," Lythir said, opening his notebook. "Bribery and intimidation, the usual. Oh but a dash of insider trading is the scary thing, isn’t it?"

"Verin can never leave well enough alone," Essek sighed deeply, taking a long drink from his cocktail. It was so unwieldy to drink a bellini from a mason jar, but he was making due regardless. "It's part of his nature." 

"So are you going to stop him or what?"

"I'll do what needs to be done for all of our sakes." 

"That's cold," Lythir noted with a chuckle and a shake of his head. 

"Perhaps," Essek said tiredly. "Was that the only reason you dragged me out here in your quest to protect the realm, Lythir?  

"That, and I love the pissed off look you give every time you have to say Verin's name." 

"Truly, your company is a Luxon's blessing." 

The rest of brunch was a lackluster affair…mostly due to Lythir's subpar company. Essek couldn’t even eat three bites without feeling queasy. No, it wasn’t that he was suddenly concerned about his brother. He couldn’t care less about that. It was more the feeling that all of this was going to become a migraine if he didn’t get out in front of it.  Essek sighed as he climbed into his car, shooting a text to his mother. She was home, apparently going to the Temple to worship later. Lovely, but better to do this sooner rather than later. He gritted his teeth, pulled out from the curb, and drove towards the Theylss family home. 

The townhouse was in the Firmaments, the most upscale district in Rosohna. When Essek pulled next to the curb, and was immediately met with a housekeeper before he could ring the doorbell. Essek gave him his jacket and was led into the living room where his denmother was waiting. The whole house itself was styled classically. Heavy curtains, arches,  marble statues, Vermelock purple woods and wallpapers, luxurious tapestries and paintings of Theylss members since...well...since his mother had first put a name to her fame. She was laying back on the chaise lounge, with a mug of something in her hands. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Essek asked dryly, noting his mother’s general state of undress. She was wearing a silk robe, and lingerie that was lacy and very revealing. He resisted the urge to turn around and stare at the wall. He was an adult, but still, even the slightest inclination of his mother’s sex life was enough to make him want to gouge his own eyes out with a spoon. 

“Oh please, don’t be dramatic. It’s the morning,” Dierta Theylss said with a sigh as she sat up, looking oh so pleased with herself. 

“It’s half-past twelve.” 

“It’s morning somewhere, and I had a very good night, and I’m in my own house,” she said, taking the reserve of almond liqueur and pouring at least a double shot into her coffee. “I’m allowed to be dressed however I wish. 

“I beg of you, don’t tell me how your night was. I really, really don’t want to know.” 

“Essek, please, I thought when you became an adult we would be able to talk candidly about things. You hurt your mother’s feelings.” 

It was just then that Dierta’s current husband walked down the stairs. It was hard to keep track...but Essek was sure this was the fourth one in his lifetime. A handsome half-orc man...who of course was younger than Essek technically though he was somewhere in his forties. Essek couldn’t remember his name. Garrall? Gurak? Something like that maybe? He gave Essek a slow, awkward wave before grabbing coffee and then booking it back upstairs to avoid the oncoming storm. Good, Essek thought. He might actually like this new stepfather of his...though he was pretty sure that they had been married for at least two years. Did that count? Oh, whatever. He at least wasn’t as dense as the last one who had always smelled of mothballs and couldn’t keep from blathering about his stocks in Whitestone residuum. 

“I didn’t come here for a social visit, Mother,” Essek noted, taking the glass that was offered to him by the servant before sitting in the empty loveseat. He settled it down, not touching it. No use in getting too comfortable, after all, these conversations tended to be short and fraught with danger. He needed all his faculties working for this.  

“Of that I’m perfectly aware, you don’t do social visits. I can only assume that you did something and you need your mother’s help to clean up your mess,” she said, taking a drink. She motioned and the servant raced to refresh her cup. She took another lazy sip, gazing at him from over the rim as she did. There was something lurking there that always put him on edge, but it was more prominent now. 

“Not my mess,” Essek corrected, intertwining his fingers and resting them on his knee. “Verin’s mess. Verin’s mess that always ends up being my mess somehow.” 

“You mean Verin’s little pet project? His corruption investigation?” Dierta asked, tracing the rim of her mug with a manicured finger. “Oh yes, I’ve heard about it.” 

“And you haven’t done anything about it?” Essek asked, leaning back and crossing his legs. “What’s your plan then?” 

“Whatever could I do to dissuade him? You, on the other hand, may have more luck than I did.” 

“No,” Essek said angrily, the realization striking him quickly with the force of a hard slap. “No, this is not something you are going to pass off to me. I am only here out of respect to you, I’m not here to play your errand boy.” 

“Essek, you and I both know that things go better when you just listen to me,” Dierta said, her face hardening and Essek could nearly see her assume the ancient, feared, and coveted role of denmother right there. You are my son, and you will abide by me is what she didn’t say. It was the threat that was inherent in her tone. She was his denmother, even though in theory they had long since abandoned the practice. In fact, she was still one of the most powerful people in Rosohna. As soon as she had dawned the role like a heavy mantle it was gone and replaced with something cloyingly sweet. “You are my favored son for a reason. Now, listen to your mother. I have a plan.” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Essek said, standing up out of his seat. “You can just speak to Verin directly. I’m not playing this game of yours anymore, this is exactly the reason why I moved out of this godsforsaken house.”

“You know he doesn’t listen to me once he’s got an idea in his head.”

“He doesn’t listen to me either. In fact, he hates me so whatever plan you have concocted in that brain of yours isn’t going to work. This was obviously just a waste of my time,” Essek told her shortly, yanking his jacket from the coat hanger. The servant looked pissed, and Essek leveled a glare that had him scurrying backwards. 

“Essek, tell me, what happened between you and Verin anyways?” she asked idly, as if it had nothing to do with her. Essek bristled even further if that was even possible under the circumstances, and felt his mouth twist further into a deep grimace.

“Can’t you tell?” Essek asked her with a sour grin. “It’s because I’m too much like you.”  

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Dierta huffed impatiently, but Essek was already out the door and to his car. He slammed his door shut, punched in his brother’s number and sped off from the curb towards his house. Essek almost immediately hit both traffic and Verin’s voicemail. Almost at his wit’s end, he tapped the wheel impatiently. 

“Verin,” Essek said shortly, glaring heatedly at his phone. “Don’t be an idiot. Be smarter than whatever you are up to, because it’s not just your ass on the line here and I will not help you.” 

Essek cut the line and stared at the traffic ahead of him. He continued to sit there, stewing on his distaste for everything for a bit before he just got tired of that and his attention wandered. He cast a look towards his messenger bag...the one he had gotten into the habit of keeping in his car just in case. It was looking up at him judgmentally…. as if saying he was weak and sentimental. He didn't need to go to the bakery, to soak in its atmosphere like it was a warm bath at the end of a particularly stressful day. He could read his books and answer Messages at home. But nothing about driving back to his empty cold apartment seemed appealing at that moment. 

He was a weak selfish creature, after all. And so he turned left...to the Xhorhaus Bakery. 

The bakery itself was buzzing with the usual amount of activity, on account of it being the afternoon. There were two lines, one for the regular register and the displays of sweets. At the other, Fjord and Caduceus (as he had learned from his previous trips) were making crepes and waffle cones for children to place their ice-cream. In front of them, trays of toppings like fruits, square jellies, jewel-colored syrups and jams and whipped creams, different flavored tapioca balls, a rainbow of sprinkles, and homemade candies and crushed cookies. Essek got up to the register and noticed immediately that Caleb wasn't there (not to his disappointment, he was not disappointed, it was foolish to be so and the last thing that Essek was, was foolish). Veth was also nowhere to be seen. He was met with Jester who smiled happily at him, as if there were no one in the world she would rather see. It helped lessen the sting of definitely not disappointment greatly. 

"Hi Essek!" Jester greeted, meeting his gaze before a grin curled over his lips. "Caleb's in the back right now."

"I didn't need to know that," Essek said with a sigh. 

"Sure you didn't. But in the meantime we do have Widogast's Wall of Infamy," Jester said, pointing to the aforementioned sign. On it were recommendations of the different pastries and food available that day. Essek swept them with his gaze, memorizing the neat scrawl that had to be Caleb's handwriting. It was beautiful, well practiced, the show of an educated hand. Just another thing to obsess about that he didn’t need to, Essek thought annoyed at his own obviousness. 

"I'll do one tall black coffee and...uh...whatever the daily triple threat is." 

"Oh my gosh, cupcakes!" Jester said excitedly, tail moving back and forth with her eagerness as Jester accepted Essek's payment. "They definitely won't let you down, Essek. You are gonna love them. I'll have Beau bring everything over in a sec!"

Essek sat himself in his usual corner seat and began setting himself up for work. His tome-pad angled up, and his books for after settled in a neat pile. Leylas Kryn got about twenty or more serious business requests every day, and Essek knew from experience which ones were worth going over with her and which ones weren't. He still attempted to be kind and courteous however, besides, who knew if certain products would take off? Always good to leave the door open for later. Having more ammo to arm himself with was never a bad thing. 

"Here you go, black coffee and daily triple threat," Beau said, settling down the tray with a thump that made Essek jump. She began to speak with all the enthusiasm of a secretary at the Department of Magical Artifacts. "Our specials today are our Wildemount Drinks cupcake collection. First cupcake on the left is a Queen's Water cupcake, a honey cake with a guava filling and a tamarind-vanilla buttercream. Second cupcake is a Radler cupcake, a vanilla-beer cake filled with a lemon curd and topped with a tangy lemon cream cheese frosting. Final cupcake is a Yunfaalyu--yes I know I totally butchered the pronunciation--decadent chocolate cake with a current jam filling, vanilla frosting and a plum liqueur drizzle. Each cupcake is enchanted to give you a different sensation." 

Each cupcake looked like a treasure chest, decorated and drizzled and shiny. Each cupcake was almost too much of a display to consider blemishing. From the candied lemons on the Radler to the swirl of the tamarind-vanilla frosting to even the glisten of the drizzle. It all screamed a level of care and attention that Essek didn't exactly feel deserving of. All of this came from Caleb’s mind, he knew it. But what a wonderful, beautiful place that mind must have been. It made him yearn, impossibly, faithfully for something that he didn’t even have the words for. He hadn’t thought he was empty before, but now he felt downright cavernous. 

"I probably can't eat all of these by myself," Essek said guiltily. "I didn't realize they were so big." 

"You look like you could use it," Beauregard noted, leaning against the table. Her muscles flexed with the effort."You're like a fucking stick." 

"Why, thank you," Essek said sarcastically before giving her another look. "You don't strike me as the bakery type." 

"I'm not, I'm a member of the Cobalt Soul," Beauregard said with a shrug, naming the international organization of monks. In the time of war they had been covert operatives and general badasses. Now they served as a peace-keeping and rebuilding operation for people in almost every country in Wildemount...though supposedly they were still general badasses. "Caleb's my friend, and this is my side gig. Self-defense instructor and part time librarian doesn't pay a whole lot." 

"I see," Essek said, blinking. He didn’t really understand why she would be under-selling her job, but, it wasn’t his business and he didn’t care enough to dig into the specifics. Information was important, but too much was a burden to saddle yourself with.  

"Plus, you need at least two strong people to carry wedding cakes. Me and Yasha tend to do that," she explained, flexing her arm to show off her bicep. 

"I'm sorry, wedding cakes?" Essek asked curiously. 

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting it's a Dwendalian thing. During the reception of a wedding in the Empire, you have a cake. Not just any cake, it can be...like...up to six tiers or more," Beau aided her visual by miming stacking. "And they are decorated, with sugar flowers and other things. I mean, it's all gross and sentimental but they are beautiful. You cut the cake together at the wedding, feed each other and the party starts. Asshole couples might smush it in each other's faces but, like, that's real old fashioned and also a horrible tradition." 

"That's...surprisingly tender," Essek said, unable to visualize what something like that would feel like. The idea of feeding another person, it had to be intimate. It was a way that food became another vehicle for affection. It was surprising to hear about such a tradition from the Empire, the salt-of-the-Earth and cold-barbed-wire fence country that it was. Then again, people were people no matter where they came from. Being in love was a universal thing...not that Essek had any experience with it. "It's lovely." 

"Yeah, well, don't get your panties in a knot about it. We don't do many wedding cakes here, but Empire immigrants like us, and those people marrying immigrants, are starting to come in asking for them. Caleb and Veth are in a consultation  about a wedding cake now for a couple. Why? Are you in the market for one?" Beauregard asked, her expression searching. 

"Oh no, no," Essek said with a desperate shake of his head. He didn't know how much of this conversation would get back to Caleb, and that idea was mortifying enough. He didn’t need Caleb also thinking he wasn’t available...not that it mattered at all. "Definitely not." 

"Well then," Beauregard said shortly. "Good luck with the cupcakes." 

She trudged off, leaving Essek to it. It was in that moment, sitting there in the busy bakery bereft of an audience to perform for, that he finally felt himself decompress. He almost had to check his ears to make sure steam wasn't coming out. Life didn't look so bad, with a cup of coffee and cupcakes sitting in front of you. There was something about the visceral comfort of it all that made the knot in his chest that was forever tight just loosen just a little. Essek took a sip of his coffee before reaching to pick which cupcake he was willing to try first. It was all so tempting, even though Essek still swore to himself that he didn’t like sweets. 

Essek cut the first cupcake, the Queen’s Water cupcake so he could get a bite of frosting, filling, and cake all at once. The cake itself was tender and almost melted in the mouth was delicately sweet with the honey and warmed with spices, countered by the intensely flavorful guava, and the sour-sweet punch of the tamarind-vanilla frosting. Immediately as he tasted it… he was enveloped by the flavor dancing on his tongue, with his next breath in he was filled with the sensation of warm sand against his fingertips, a cool breeze and the glittering sapphire waves of the Menagerie Coast around his knees. As soon as it was there, it dissolved like seafoam the moment he finished the bite. 

Essek did not hesitate before his next bite, the Yunfaalyu cupcake. Yunfaalyu was a popular traditional Xhorhassian drink, something Essek had grown up drinking on special occasions and on the holidays. It was traditionally a plum liquor served frigid-cold over ice and topped with currants. Every family had their own method of serving it and most families were a little obsessed with it. Plums were considered the Queen of Fruit in Xhorhas for a reason, and the drink was considered a delicacy by all rights. Essek had enjoyed plums soaked in it, eaten Yunfaalyu poured over shaved ice on hot summer nights. He had never had it in a baked good before, and was now wondering how he had spent his whole life without it. Chocolate was a relatively new import from Tal’dorei, fashionable as drinks served as powder stirred in hot milk with spices. In a cupcake it was a revelation in the way it melted sweet and bitter all at the same time. The currant jam was tart, smoothed over by the creaminess of the frosting. It was the plum liquor that transported him this time. The tingling on his tongue when he breathed, he was surprised to see his breath not swirl white. A cold Xhorhassian winter night, a scarf wrapped around his neck, snowflakes brushing his cheeks and his eyelashes, and the warmth of a crackling hearth. Again it was gone within the space of a breath.  

The final cupcake, the Radler, awaited for him. He took his next bite, now expecting it to be bone-shatteringly good. The cake was so flavorful, light and yet had a deep earthy quality. It was counteracted by the sharp-sour-sweet lemon curd, and the tang of the cream-cheese frosting. It’s sharpness eased into something sweet and citrus and almost addictive as he couldn’t stop himself from taking another bite. Immediately, he realized that this was the taste of summer, like long grasses and dandelions brushing his fingertips and the hum of insects in his ears. He could feel the heat of the sun, something so unfamiliar and yet unmistakable, like golden comfort being settled upon his shoulders. It was like stepping into a warm bath...and yet more ethereal and it somehow soaked in deeper. It reached right down to the core of his heart, where almost nothing penetrated. This was a gift to someone who could never feel the sun as anything but pain. 

He sniffed and bit back something that felt suspiciously like tears but definitely were not. But whatever scratchy feeling he had at the back of his throat had nothing to do with stupid, soft, gentle wizards who used their magic to let some poor drow fool feel sunlight. Essek was broken out of his revelry by the feeling of the cat, Frumpkin jumping up into his lap. 

“Oh!” Essek greeted, looking at the wide yellow eyes that looked up at him curiously. For a moment he could have sworn they flashed blue, but then they settled back into a warm gentle yellow. Essek tentatively placed his fingers under Frumpkin’s chin, and watched as Frumpkin actively leaned into Essek’s scratching. His fur was soft to the touch, unlike most animals he had pet before. His purring caught him off guard, because he had certainly read of cats purring he hadn’t realized you could feel it. It was a delightful little sensation as Frumpkin settled on his lap for a nap. Essek probably should have been more concerned about the state of his pants...cat fur would probably show up on them. But he didn’t find that he cared. 

Essek sat for a bit, finished the Radler cupcake and his coffee. He thought about ordering another coffee, but as soon as he did he noticed that Caleb had appeared from the back and didn’t think he was strong enough to speak to him. Just tasting what he had created was enough for his poor heart for one day. Caleb looked at the person ordering warmly, welcoming, and it made his heart fluttered in his chest. That was enough to make clear to Essek that he had definitely made the correct decision. 

You will just have to continue to be my private daydream. My sweet and soft when everything is terrible. The shot straight to my heart, my never-ever-might-have-been. And I'll just have to be content with my lot, that I've known just the tiniest sliver of your heart that you've served to me on a silver platter. Essek thought idly as he tapped the next image on his tome-pad. No use in being greedy. This is just enough to make me not so miserable as I was two hours ago. 

"Here, something you might like," Caleb's voice startled Essek out of his daydreams immediately. Essek looked to see Caleb settling a cup of coffee of some sort in front of him, having appeared out of the haze of Essek’s thoughts and back into Essek’s reality. 

"I didn't order anything," Essek said, voice devoid of any normal emotion and instead sounding like he was slowly being tortured for information somewhere in an Empire bunker like in one of the old movies. 

"It's on the house," Caleb said as Essek reached for his wallet. The cat in his lap perked up, delicately maneuvered across the table ladened with the fruits of Caleb’s labor, before settling on Caleb's lap. It left Essek feeling strangely bereft and cold. Caleb was holding his own cup, and looked a bit concerned. "Were they not to your liking?"

Caleb motioned to the two partially eaten cupcakes remaining. Only the Radler, the sunshine cupcake, had been completely devoured. 

"Oh, no! No," Essek denied quickly. "They were all delicious. It's just...one was quite enough to fill me up." 

In actuality he probably should have eaten more. He hadn't eaten breakfast, and taken maybe three bites of his brunch. It was strange though, where most food settled in his stomach like lead...it was different here. Everything he ate here had an intensity of flavor that Essek wasn't used to. It had to be the magic, but...he didn't really care. More than anything, he wanted to let the taste of that last bite of that Radler cupcake linger as long as possible. 

"If I must confide...the Radler is my personal favorite from that batch of recipes," Caleb said, sounding relieved while sipping out of his own cup. Essek looked at the mug Caleb had placed in front of him. Noticing his look, Caleb motioned towards it more firmly. “I hope you enjoy that.” 

Essek took it and took a sip. It was a flat white, the strong taste of the espresso and the smooth mouthfeel of the milk. There wasn’t any sugar in the cup...after all the sweets Essek doubted he would be able to take that. He sighed deeply, fingers curled around the mug itself as the warm radiated into his fingertips. Almost immediately Essek realized what he was doing and forced himself back into his own mind. Caleb was looking at him expectantly. 

“Tell me something,” Essek said, feeling rather brave in spite of himself. It wasn’t a smooth segway but at least he was talking in an even and normal tone. “When you bake the magic in...how do you compensate for the components? I mean...I hope you aren’t putting fleece into your cupcakes.” 

“Ah, you so caught the major image,” Caleb said, sounding delighted. 

“I’m sorry, is that a trade secret?”

“Oh no, no. I’m just not used to people so interested in the how, they are more interested in the results,” Caleb said, waving his hand as if to dismiss his worries. “We draw the essence of the spell out and soak it into the water we use to mix each batter.”

“Truly...it’s fascinating how you are utilizing magic for different purposes,” Essek noted, settling his hand on his notebook. “How did you come to this conclusion, this bakery, if you don’t mind me asking? You are a very talented wizard, and this is a rather...well unorthodox profession for a wizard.” 

Caleb paused for a moment, considering the question as he scratched under Frumpkin’s chin. The cat meowed lazily, caught in the middle of a pur. Caleb smiled at it, before picking up his cup once again. 

“When we all first came here...things were difficult,” Caleb explained, looking into his cup. Today his hair was back in a loose low ponytail, that drew Essek’s eyes to the nap of his neck. Was there no part of him that wasn’t ridiculously attractive? “We were all just scraping by. If you can believe it, we all met in an inn on the way to the border and we just decided to stick it out together. Some of us...weren’t lucky enough to make it. When we got here, things were hard but better. Back then, though I loved magic it reminded me of a lot of terrible things in my life, not to get too personal about it. Veth asked me to think of something I loved that I could do. And I could only think about magic, finding a way to do magic in a way that would make me and everyone I had come to care about happy. My mother had always loved cooking and baking, and doing so reminded me of her. So, I just thought one day, to the Nine Hells with it. Combine them both and see what I get. I’ve been so lucky in a lot of ways, but the fact it all worked out is at the top of the list.” 

“We are lucky to have you,” Essek said, hoping that sentiment didn’t sound too contrived. 

“I’m not sure what the neighbors thought of us at first,” Caleb chuckled, deep from his belly, and the sound nearly sent a flush to the tips of his ears. Of course Essek had watched Empire programming once in a while. His mother thought television was gauche at the best of times, but Essek had found ways to sneak entertainment out from under her. Say what you would about the Empire, their television at least was far more entertaining then the how-many-different-channels-do-you-need-to-praise-the-Luxon slop you got in the Dynasty. He had read some interesting articles about how it was all a bread-and-circuses strategy by the Empire to lull their citizens into complacency, which was all fine and good and evil, but with hunky human men daring to brave the unknown in scripted series about adventurers? It went down easy and made very good entertainment. The voices of those old fashioned stars had always been deep timber that Essek guessed was natural to humans. He hadn’t realized how attractive it could be...until this particular human male was sitting in front of him. 

“I think you’ll find that a lot of people’s lives have improved with you here,” Essek said, settling his mug down primly and with his best aristocratic sniff. “I think you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Ja, I just might,” Caleb said, raising the mug to his mouth. His blue eyes sparkled mirthfully, like the dream of that summer day baked into a single cupcake.  

---------

“Stop being evil for like, ten minutes and seriously consider the proposal,” Professor Waccoh demanded of him. Essek looked up from his phone to look at her and met her glare. 

“I did consider it. It was stupid and so I stopped considering it,” Essek said, completely deadpanned. “If that’s being evil, then consider me the evilest man alive.” 

“Kryn wanted something to show the majesty of our nation! Our technological advances are something we should be proud of. If you showed approval she'd consider it.” 

“Nothing about giant machines that move through the streets makes any sense.” 

“They would have purpose and make sense, you are just thinking too small.”

“I am not helping you bring that in front of Leylas Kryn. You go ahead, but it does not have my stamp of approval,” Essek told her. 

"Cheapskate," Professor Waccoh accused. 

"Bite me,” Essek said as pleasant as could be. 

“I wouldn’t want to poison myself.” 

“They are ready in there,” the secretary said, poking her head out of the meeting room. Essek put on his professional face and then walked through the door. 

The discussion at hand was the 10th Anniversary of Peace, the date that marked the beginning of what people were calling the golden age of Xhorhas. It was rather pretentious if Essek thought about it, but it wasn’t his job to judge. Really, it was his job to be there and take down notes and to know what his boss liked or didn’t like based on her subtle facial expressions. Essek had always been good at that, having been trained from the days in Den Theylss with his mother breathing down his neck to always know what it took to be on someone’s good side. By the end of the meeting, Essek had whittled the list of suggestions down to three before Leylas Kryn adjourned the meeting for a break.  

Essek stood by the juice machine, deciding what healthy-concoction-monstrosity he wanted to put into the temple of his body as Quana Kryn saddled up next to him, taking a sip from her own cup. Golden eyes searched his face before a smile pulled at her mouth. Quana Kryn had always been the more approachable of the two, but it didn’t make her any less intimidating as she nearly towered over Essek. Today she wore suspenders with her suit, and certainly enough of the office staff had swooned over it to make someone force her to put on a jacket. Leylas could be considerate like that.  

"Tell me, what did you think of Waccoh's little idea there?" Quana asked congenially. It startled Essek, only because they didn’t really talk too often. Obviously he worked closely with Leylas and he was often the butt of passing jokes, but Quana just drifted in and out of his purview the way most people did. There was obviously something she wanted, and he would just have to figure out what it was on the fly. 

"The good professor has amazing ideas, but unfortunately the follow through is a bit lacking," Essek said simply. 

"Cheeky," Quana scoffed, before pinching the bridge of her nose. She took in a deep steadying breath. "I'm not getting enough sleep. This Vow Renewal is driving me crazy."

"Ah, well, that's the price of love I suppose," Essek said, sipping his green juice and trying not to cringe. It tasted like barley and cucumbers, but not in a pleasant way. There was something sharp and metallic in the back of his throat making it difficult to swallow. 

"I, of course, love my wife more than anything. And of course, Vow Renewals are how we show that in the Temple. But if I have to talk to another person about the flowers or what dress Leylas will be wearing, I will dust off my sword," Quana sighed, leaning against the wall in a way that was so practiced and easy that Essek was jealous. "It makes it all the worse that it’s going to be televised. I don’t know what we are going to do for the reception. Tell me, Essek...I’m just realizing this, that I haven’t the slightest clue about you. Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“I don’t,” Essek said.

“A boyfriend? Partner?” 

“No, I have no significant other,” Essek said before casting a suspicious eye towards her. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you had any ideas. I know that’s not what you do, but I know that’s what you do.” 

Essek thought for a moment, before throwing his cup away. The contents splattered on the trash bag as he did so with little regard. 

“Have you heard about wedding cakes?” Essek asked curiously. 

“No, what is that?” 

“An Empire tradition that’s becoming popular amongst the people,” Essek explained, pulling out his tome-pad as he searched up a familiar name. “I figure if the strength of our nation is how we actively welcome people into our country, this might be a good opportunity to demonstrate that.” 

“And I suppose you have a recommendation for me to pass to the Misses?” 

“Always,” Essek said with a smile.

[mst3kproject]

307: Daddy-O

I am nearly convinced that Alphabet Antics represents some kind of early MKULTRA experiment. There’s something about the juxtaposition of the chaotic imagery and the narrator’s soothing voice… like it’s trying to put me into a trance and a seizure at the same time.  I don’t yet feel any need to ask my neighbours if they’re communists but it might take a while to sink in.

On to the movie.  Our hero is Phil, who’s sort of a prototype of Buffalo Bill from Riding With Death in that he’s a singer, a trucker, and a racecar driver all in one.  As the film opens he’s just met a girl named Janet who’s even worse at both driving and social skills than he is – clearly they were made for each other.  Sure enough, they team up to investigate the death of Phil’s nerdy friend Sonny, and discover he was making deliveries for a drug ring.  Unusually for a movie like this, they do end up agreeing to call the cops, but only after they have committed several more crimes, and this waiting nearly gets them both killed.

I don’t like Daddy-O, but that’s not so much because of anything the movie does wrong as just because it’s not the kind of film I enjoy.  As MST3K features go, it’s actually not bad – not great, certainly, but solid enough.  The race scenes aren’t all that exciting, but we’re never at a loss for what’s going on.  The exposition can be clunky, but it tells us what we need to know.  The main character doesn’t make much of an impression, but we’re only gonna be spending seventy-three minutes with him and there’s enough going on that it doesn’t matter, and the movie never tries to do anything that’s beyond its meager budget.

The music, meanwhile, is pretty good.  I’m not gonna run out and buy the album (was there an album?) but the songs are quite catchy in a good way, and the score as a whole isn’t bad. I guess that makes sense, since the John Williams who wrote it was in fact that John Williams.  Like Vilmos Zsigmund shooting Mixed-Up Zombies or J. J. Abrams mixing sound for Nightbeast, everybody’s gotta start somewhere.  The music even approaches having some story relevance: the first song Phil sings is Rock Candy Baby, about a woman whose defining feature is her sweetness, and whom the narrator views as a possession (Rock Candy Baby, you’re mine).  Wait’ll I Get You Home suggests a less innocent relationship, in which both parties are a little more aggressive – he directs this towards Marcia, but we are meant to see that his tastes have changed as he grows to like the abrasive Janet.

Why he likes her I don’t know. I don’t know why any of us are supposed to like Janet (it’s so weird to think there was a time when that name could belong to a cute blonde in a sports car, rather than a woman who wants to speak to your manager).  She’s smug and rude the first time we meet her, lies in the knowledge that the road workers will take her side because boobies, and only changes her attitude towards Phil when she realizes he could make a pretty convincing case that she’s a murderer.  She’s supposed to be a ‘liberated woman’, doing what she wants and keeping the company that pleases her, but Phil disapproves of this and so does the movie.

The way Phil behaves towards Janet isn’t particularly admirable, either.  He talks down to her and manhandles her, and declares several times that if she were a man he’d punch her.  I hope nobody in my audience is the type of clown who’d ask ‘if women are equal does that mean men are allowed to hit them?’ but in case somebody is: I don’t think people should hit each other at all, outside of in self-defense or sports that require it.  Since neither of these apply to Phil and Janet then no, he should not hit her, no matter how obnoxious she’s being, and this would be true if she were a man, too.

Why are we supposed to root for these two to hook up?  None of their interactions are romantic and their arguments, rather than building sexual tension, just make it look like they can’t stand each other.  The ‘rivals to lovers’ trope was already old when Shakespeare did it, but Much Ado About Nothing makes it clear from the beginning that Beatrice and Benedick are actually rather fond of each other and enjoy their insult contests.  When our first interaction between our romantic leads has one party threatening to deck the other, that doesn’t work.

Another character I don’t quite get is Daddy-O’s criminal mastermind, Mr. Sidney Chillas.  Between his way of talking and his love of steam baths and manicures, I have a feeling he might be a gay stereotype of some sort, but I don’t know enough about the 50’s mindset to say.  He seems to think very highly of himself, particularly his intellect, and yet his reasons for hiring Phil don’t make much sense.  If he were half as smart as he claimed to be he would have turned this man away as soon as he learned that Phil had been taking an interest in Sonny’s death – or at least watched him far more closely, as he implied to his lackeys he would.

Is this the joke, that Chillas thinks he’s smart and he’s not? If so, it should be a repeated source of humour, rather than just a single doozy of a stupid mistake.  Or is he actually supposed to be a brilliant strategist and businessman?  Because if that’s the case, then I don’t buy it.

Chillas’ questionable intelligence is linked to another thing in the plot that doesn’t work – it seems to be a complete coincidence that he decides he wants to hire Phil.  When I sat down to watch the movie again, I remembered it as Phil deliberately seeking employment with Chillas in order to find out what happened to Sonny.  I think this is supposed to be part of the reason, but it’s mostly implied, and it’s Chillas who approaches Phil in the club to talk employment with him.  At this point he should have already seen that Phil was hanging out with Sonny the night the latter was murdered.  Or if Chillas sought out Phil specifically to keep an eye on him (or indeed, both), that would work, too, but Chillas specifically says he does not find Phil suspicious.  The movie has already had a big coincidence when Sonny just happens to die along the route where Phil and Janet were racing.  It’s not allowed a second one.

Other than that, though, the movie works pretty well.  Events follow one another in a fairly logical sequence, and the clue that Sonny left exists for a reason other than being A Clue. Daddy-O really isn’t trying to teach us anything, but that’s okay.  All a movie really has to do is tell an engaging story, although ones that don’t have a psychological theme often end up feeling, as this one does, a bit unsatisfying.  The only thing it really emphasizes and returns to is that women are bad drivers.

Janet’s driving and her bad manners are the focus of what I guess is her character arc – at the beginning she’s driving like a madwoman and nearly causing accidents just to entertain herself, at the end she’s using her skills to deliver Chillas’ lackeys to the police.  At the beginning she’s rude and abrasive to Phil, by the end she’s fallen in love with him.  We’re not given any better a reason why she likes him than for him to like her. He’s been a jerk to her, too.

Phil’s arc is supposed to be falling in love with Janet, and that’s pretty much it.  He doesn’t learn anything much about himself or the world in the process.  It seems like he ought to confront the fact that his best friend, Sonny, didn’t trust him with the truth – shouldn’t there be some angst about that, or the fact that Sonny didn’t ask Phil for help paying for his mother’s treatment rather than turning to a life of crime?  Between that and the fact that Janet turns out to be a lot nicer once you get to know her, the movie could have been about how you can never be sure you know somebody, but they didn’t bother.

The friendship between Phil and Sonny was particularly poorly-handled. Phil says, some people have brothers, I had Sonny, but this is the epitome of telling rather than showing.  When we see the two interact, Sonny refuses to talk about what’s bothering, gives Phil a locker key, and vanishes.  We know nothing about Sonny other than that he apparently wasn’t too bright (he hid the drugs in his locker at a gym owned by a guy he must know works for Chillas), and so we find it hard to get involved in Phil’s quest to find out what happened to him.  We believe far more in Phil’s driving skills because we saw those in the opening sequence. It’s disappointing that the later scenes mostly just show him at a steering wheel in front of a projection screen, but because we’ve already seen him on the road, we can believe in it.

The problems in Daddy-O are pretty easy to pick out, and could have been fixed with just one more script rewrite – none of them would have required more money or even better actors, and they would have made the whole story much more satisfying and meaningful.  The movie as it is works well enough for a crummy B-picture, but just a little more work could have made it an A.  It was also supposed to be career musician Dick Contino’s big break into film, but he ended up being in only four movies between 1958 and 1960 before deciding it just wasn’t worth it.  Since one of the other three was Girls Town, that means no less than half his entire filmography was featured on MST3K!

[lifeofgroffsauce]

Miscellaneous papers spilled from a crisp manilla folder held lax and haphazardly, clattering onto the apartment's hallway floor to cause a groan from the actor. Various safety waivers and film contracts now mixed up and out of the ascending order of dates he'd meticulously placed them in, was a hell of an end to the night. Crouching down to gather them, grumbling irritably as he did, he tried his best to reorganize the mess before knocking on the door.

“Jon Groff! My faaavorite client!”

The shrill ring of his, uncharacteristically drunk, agent Kelly hit his ears. It was her cheery smile that was infectious and suddenly he matched her enthusiasm, despite his previous misfortune seconds ago.  

“Oh my god, you're such a little liar!” He accused playfully then gestured to her relaxed posture against the wood slab that seemed to hold her up, having it half way open. “What are you doing on a Monday night, missy? Don't you have special agent things to be doing?”

Freshly manicured nails, tips too boxy in Jonathan's opinion, tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. He noticed they both suffered the same fate when it came to alcohol flushing their cheeks. Hers, however, wore only a faint blush peeking through her artificially tan skin. “What?! Why are you- did you not get my email?” A gasp fled from her lithe form, soon swatting his arm. “Check your fucking emails more than once a year! Jesus, I sent you an e-vite!”

Just as he rose an inquisitive brow, she swung the door fully open, bright cerleans catching the light of the Brooklyn bridge out of gigantic panoramic windows lining the living room wall. A small group of people congregated about the space, all mingling with each other. They all appeared to be close friends and work connections.

“You're having a party? Oh my goodness,” He laughed almost nervously and mustered up a sheepish grin. “I'm super sorry. I wish I had known! I'll make a better habit of reading those but, it's really late and I just needed to-”

“Jonathan! Nooo, don't be sorry! Come in, come in!” To her urging, his lips parted to object but she quickly silenced him with her shushing, coiling her nimble digits around his larger ones. /Don't argue with Italians, even the five-foot-two short shits like Kelly./ He smirked at his own thought and walked in.

“You know Drew Gehling, right?” The boozy Kelly slurred her way through each introduction like a proper hostess. A striking baritone voice flooded the space with his drawl, steps moving toward the agent as they circled around the dining table. “Why bother asking, Kels. Tall, dark, handsome. Fits Jonathan's type perfectly. Of course they know each other.”

Jonathan's muscles tensed slightly, his mouth pulling a tight-lipped grin. “Though I guess the 'tall' box has been unchecked. New boyfriend's on the vertically challenged side.” Zachary offered a sassy smirk to Jon to let him know he was joking and calm him down; unfortunately, it did the opposite. He was painfully reminded of where he should  be versus where he was.

“He's flexible; that's all that matters,” Flew from his lips faster than his brain could register. It earned him a chuckle from his ex-boyfriend. J shrugged.

Kelly, the serial gasper at this point, followed with a grip of Jon's bicep. “Oh my god, I fucking meant to talk to you about all those Instagram posts! Stop with the lovey crap or Jeana will actually have a job to do- and Jon- I'd rather keep her on standby and not pay her an exorbitant amount of money because you're in your feelings...” She continued to scold him, but he had long since tuned her out as, in paranoid fashion, his focus was on studying Quinto until the tall male left the room to go refill his oversized glass of chardonnay.

Another theatre family member (he remembered as Lin's “cousin”) joined their conversation and began a debate regarding the proper use of social media. Jonathan eased up a bit when he saw Zach return but rather than engage, turned to his own huddle of friends on the other side of the room. /I'll stay for a little while longer, I don't want to be rude./

Before he knew it, a blush colored wine glass was being thrust into one of his hands he was animatedly driving his point home with. Without thought, he accepted it, not aware it was Zachary that had given it to him until several moments after. Naturally, the thirty-three year old regarded him with a polite nod, watching as he seamlessly dove into the topic at hand.

“I just don't see the point in lying on social media about who you are or what you do. Why try to make someone believe you pop bottle of Dom every weekend and prance around on a private beach every holiday? Stop stunting.” One actor in their bundle scoffed.

While Jonathan's eyes were taking in the many that had swarmed around their expanded circle, Zach spoke up. His left arm leaned against the kitchen's accent wall. “I take it you've never heard of 'escape theory'? Mm, what a shame, Brandon.”

A click of his tongue snagged Groff's attention, wine kissing his lips, attention on Quinto. “All of us here; we're trying to find an outlet to help us step outside, escape- if you've put two and two together- who we are for a fragment in time. It can be as simple as that evening glass of cheri you have in your underwhelming studio apartment, or as large as the theatre audience seeing you stripped down, bare-assed, utterly exposed for eyes to feast on your body. You don't think posting photographs on social media does that as well?”

He was met with silence; the group stealing glances but not quite knowing how to move forward. Quinto took that as a que to continue speaking, this time with a tone that was introspective. “We can project anything out into the world... put out... anything, but the hardest thing to do is show it who we are. To the core. That's why people 'stunt' on social media. Maybe, after a while, we'll start to believe it, too. We'll start to believe we're something more than we actually are.”

Another pause. “Here I just thought everyone had Cartier bracelets and endless frequent flier miles.” Jon deadpanned, earning laughter from everyone, as well as a slightly grim smile from Zachary. The older actor excused himself, accidentally (intentionally?) brushing his front against the Hamilton star's chest when he passed.

“Jeez, Zach!” Kelly coughed, senses overloaded at the trail he left in his wake. “Use more Bleu de Chanel, please. I don't think they can smell your bougie ass in Chelsea!”

Two hours later...

“Drive safe. Take back alleys. The scenic routes. Turn on your Friends app so I can see when you're home.” The demands came at lightening speed from his drunk agent, whom he was sure peppered some Italian expletives in there. “Kelly Bean, I'm good. Three glasses of wine. Solid as a rock. Go to bed.”

He watched the petite woman tuck herself into the Pottery Barn sheets then began his quest for the door, stopped only by the sound of glasses clanking together. Everyone was gone with the exception of two. While the first was exhausted beyond belief, seeing the second clearing the glasses off the table alone guilted him. “Do you... do you want help with this?”

The onyx haired man shook his head no. “I'll have you know, I'm very domestic now, Groff. I got it. Go home,” He insisted. “I would just feel bad if I left this for her because honey, with that hangover she's going to have tomorrow, she's going to be wishing for death. Dirty crystal will be the catalyst that pushes her over the edge; the Brooklyn nutcase. That's why you don't get involved with Virgos.”

Jon nodded slowly as he spoke, semi-entertained though far away in his mind. It caused him to approach his next set of words with caution. “Hey, do you remember... I know this was a long time ago and it's probably super unprofessional because of, you know, the show, but...” A sigh. “When we were together, maybe the first six or so months, we- we did a scene. It was super intense...” He was gaging Quinto's, so far, anti-climactic reaction. “I threw up...” An embarrassed laugh leaked into the air.

“Which time? I remember that you had the weeeeakest stomach,” The laugh that followed from Zachary was filled with nostalgic amusement. After diving up the glasses in even rows into the dishwasher, he spun around to pin his broad back against the pantry door, raising a finger. “I think you may have cried once, too. I don't do crying so, kind of let you do your thing on that one. A little dark, in retrospect.” His hand waved back and forth, not too sold on the idea that he added, “To be fair, I mean; we did a lot of intense stuff. We were intense stuff.”

The gears in Jonathan's brain were turning. An odd comfort came from hearing him stress were. Mentally noting to keep that in his arsenal when he had to balance his career and relationship. As if that justified him being there talking to him, instead of at home, spooning Lin as he promised. The lyricist was never far from his mind, especially as he stood in the warm cast of light in the otherwise empty home, staring at the distant embodiment of someone he cared about.

Zachary was a walking memory; an old polaroid that had discolored and aged with time. Circumstances were what they were. No amount of positive narration would change the way something was. Not even the comfort a lie would provide. There was ice and the bite of winter whenever he looked at him.

He greatly preferred Lin, who was a photo album with more promise and opportunity for happiness. A radiating warmth that flowed from a steadily burning fire. Thoughts, the splitting wood and radiant embers that transformed into something beyond what is expected. In life, he'd found another soul he believed shared a part of his. They were intertwined in some cosmic way, and life was too short to not pursue that. Even if that meant he had to intervene in the man's own marriage to make it happen.

Still, none of this quelled the incessant internal squabbling that came with trying to piece together... the reality. /To weed through the lies of the past is necessary to have a better understanding of the future's truth./ Some shit his therapist told him that he wished he hadn't. Now he couldn't stop trying to remember.

Lingering whispers of anxiety multiplied into an fierce entity that occupied his headspace long after he'd left. Two small pills were his savior, dissolving into his Rosé-filled gut.

Finally, he made it home.

Luckily, his boyfriend was out cold. Feet weren't as coordinated as they could have been, stumbling while attempting to take off his jacket. The blunt hit of his kneecap on the night stand caused his hiss before he whispered apologies to the offending piece of furniture. Resuming his place with the Puerto Rican in his embrace, a smile graced his lips. He could only hope his aura remained as peaceful as it did in this moment.

[amymel86]

Not How It Was Meant To Happen - FINAL CHAPTER

I'VE ONLY GONE AND BLOODY FINISHED ONE OF MY FICS!! *party poppers pop, champers gets passed around, cocktail sausages get skewered with lil toothpicks*

Too soon. It's all too soon. The baby's not safe to make its appearance into the the world until 37 weeks, Sansa is 36 weeks. Jon remembers this fact from one of her 'What To Expect When Expecting' baby books. One week can't make that much difference right? RIGHT?!

It's Jon's uncertainty that pumps worry through his veins and courses fear through his muscles, replacing blood and energy with plain panic. He wills the traffic light to go green, turning the air blue with a slew of curse words, hurled with force from his tongue.

He needs to get to the hospital faster. Faster. Sansa needs him even though he's aware that there's physically nothing he can do for her and the baby should nightmares become reality.

The journey seems to take eons longer than usual, and it's as if every parking space is filled once he gets there. Jon forgoes paying at the parking ticket machine, it would take up too much time - they can clamp my fucking car if they want, I need to find Sansa.

Jon doesn't remember nervously fidgeting as he waited for the lift that he and Sansa normally take to the maternity ward, he doesn't remember racing up the stairwell instead or barking 'Sansa Stark! Where's Sansa Stark'?! at the poor bewildered ward receptionist....but here he is, being blocked from entering Sansa's room by none other than Catelyn Stark - who seems to think that relaying to his deaf ears what happened, pressing a hand to his shoulder and calmly urging him to go home, or insisting that all Sansa needed was her Mother, is going to stop him from entering that room.

"I don't know which particular brand of 'asshole' you think I am Cat, but I'm not leaving here unless Sansa wants me to" Jon glares before gently pushing past a dazed Catelyn with a resolute "excuse me".

Sansa looks up with a watery smile where she sits on the bed, her stretched out legs covered by the usual light blue hospital blanket, her back leant against white pillows. Her shirt was pushed up, exposing her swollen belly, there were a couple of straps around it with wires hooked up to a beeping machine on wheels that was churning out some sort of plotted graph.

"I'm sorry Jon" she sniffles and Jon suddenly feels ten tonnes heavier.

Oh God! Sorry for what?!

"Oh no" Sansa shakes her head and waves a tissue-clutching hand once she sees the panic in his features. "The baby's ok, everything's fine Jon".

He feels that extra weight of worry dissipate into the hospital atmosphere along with the beeping machines and clinical smell.

"It's just me. I was being stupid" Sansa croaks down to her bump.

"I find that hard to believe Sans" Jon says softly as he settles into the chair next to her bed and grasps her hand with both of his. "What happened"?

"I...I had these weird 'tight' feelings in my belly for most of the morning so I called the midwife and she asked me how often they were happening" she sniffed before letting loose a quick rush of upset words, her voice right on the cusp of a sob "but I hadn't thought to time them, so I didn't know, and then she asked if they were coming in regularly and getting more intense or if they were being consistent or erratic and I honesty couldn't tell Jon - I was just so scared"! Tears started rolling down her cheeks as she continued her babbling explanation. "Some were getting a bit painful but some were just uncomfortable you know? And - and I just panicked Jon! I panicked and I thought the baby was coming, but it can't come now because it's little lungs wouldn't be ready and I just-"

"Shhh - shhh" Jon stroked her tears away with his thumb "but everything's ok yea? The baby's ok? And you're ok"?

Sansa nodded.

"I feel so stupid Jon" she sniffed "I should have known it was Braxton Hicks".

"Braxton Hicks"? Jon repeats softly in query.

"Yes. Practice contractions that don't lead to actual labour" Catelyn interrupted curtly as she entered the room, accusatory glare at the ready for Jon as her arms folded across her torso.

Sansa looks to her Mother and then back to Jon. "I would have called you earlier but I thought Mum had already done it".

He glanced at Cat who had enough good grace to look away ashamedly.

"I'm here now". Jon smiled at Sansa and squeezed her hand.

They stayed in the hospital for another hour with Sansa hooked up to the beeping machine so that she could be monitored before the midwives were happy to let her go. Every now and again she'd let out a wince and clutch her bump. It was difficult for Jon to reign in his spikes if panic each time she did so. He remained at her bedside whilst Cat continued her hovering, not giving them a moment to be alone together until she finally piped up.

"Sansa should come back home" she announced suddenly before they both turned to gape at her. "Until the baby comes - she shouldn't be left alone in that apartment during the day. What if something happens? You should come back home with me Sansa" she finished, finally directing her words resolutely at her daughter.

Jon's mouth opened and closed without a single sound a few times before he could croak out "I can take a few weeks off and be at home for San-".

"No Jon" Sansa interrupted "you can't use up all your holiday now, besides, I want you there once the baby does arrive". She gave him a small smile and grasped his hand, Jon was inclined to not ever let hers go.

"The Mormonts have agreed to let me have fully paid paternity leave Sansa, I could-"

Sansa shook her head. "It's four weeks until my due date Jon-"

"And even then, she could go overdue by as much as two more weeks" Catelyn interrupted insistently.

You're not being helpful. Jon glared back at her. Factual, yes. Helpful, no.

"Besides" Catelyn continues "you should stay at home with your family after the baby arrives too. You'll need all the suppor-".

"No Mum" Sansa said firmly, squeezing Jon's hand "I'm taking the baby home with Jon".

*********

Sansa's stay at the Starks turned from one, to two, to three weeks. Jon texted and phoned her everyday but it wasn't the same.

He missed her presence in their apartment terribly and he had so much to say to her that he felt if he didn't, it would consume him whole from the inside out. Something had to be done.

Jon pulled up to the Stark's large family home with its perfectly manicured lush lawn, wide sweeping gravel driveway, huge red brick house and tall spotless windows glinting in the sun.

He never used to bother knocking or ringing the bell when he frequented there. He would just simply push open the grey painted door and call out his arrival to the hallway, awaiting whomever would greet him first with a smile and a warm embrace or a grin and a teasing joke.

Now though, after a few months of not even stepping foot onto their front doorstep, flanked with terracotta pots of begonias, he raised his hand to use the silver knocker, shaped like a wolf's head grasping a ring of metal in its jaws.

Tap, tap, tap.

Nothing.

Jon tentatively twisted the doorknob and pushed it open with a squeak of hinges.

He was about to call out to announce himself when he heard voices coming from the infrequently used front sitting room. The door was ever so slightly ajar and without thinking, Jon inclined his head towards it to listen and discern who was talking behind it.

"What are you gonna do Robb? Ignore Jon for the rest of your life? How's that gonna work when the baby gets here? Or are you planning on skipping family Christmas's and Birthday parties - he WILL be there".

Jon's breath hitched in his throat, he'd danced around the issue of the other Starks, not really wanting to confront it head on. Robb's frosty behaviour towards him was a particularly sore wound that Jon had promised himself he'd repair at a later date instead of picking at it - If he could repair it at all.

He should knock on the door, he should make himself known. But he doesn't - he's more than convinced that if he does then Robb would rather bolt for escape than work through anything with him at the moment.

But Sansa was on the other side of that door and she sounded resolute in her apparent quest to seek a reconciliation between the two former best friends.

"Sansa" he heard Robb sigh. "Don't worry yourself about me and Jon, we're big boys, we can figure it out ourselves".

"Can you though? Because since all this happened the most I've seen you speak to him is a grunt when he thanked you for helping move my stuff out to our apartment".

"I won't pretend that I'm happy about the situation Sans".

"The situation"!?

"Alright, calm down! If Mum finds out you're all agitated, I'll get it in the neck".

"No Robb....what 'situation' are you talking about"?

"Oh I don't know Sansa" Jon could hear the frustration dripping off of Robb's words. He could tell that he was holding back from really raising his voice with her. "Maybe the situation where my best friend fucks my little sister and ruins her life"?

There's a shattering smash and Jon moves his hand to the doorknob but freezes when he hears Sansa bellow back at her brother.

"HOW DARE YOU! How can you be so hypocritical?!!.... I know you got drunk and slept with Marg two years back, how is that any different to me and Jon"?!

"I didn't get anyone pregnant"!

"You didn't use protection though did you?! Did you know how relieved Marg was when she next got her period"? A few seconds of silence hung heavy in the air. "No. No you didn't because you didn't bother to keep in touch when you went off to your work placement"!

Her rant was met with even more silence.

"Well I'll tell you how relieved she was....She was so relieved that me and her went on a night out to celebrate that ended with pizza at her house....except me and Jon don't get pizza do we Robb?....We get this".

Jon wasn't sure what Sansa would be gesturing at but he had a good guess.

"And do you want to know the worst thing"?! She continued, her voice now shaky from raw emotions. Jon couldn't hear Robb's reply - if he replied at all.

"The worst thing is that you should be blaming me"!

"What do you mean"?

"I mean it's all my fault! This whole 'situation' is my fault Robb". Sansa sobbed.

"It's not Sans-"

"IT IS ROBB"! She yelled.

Jon heard a few shuddering gasps before Robb's soft voice pierced the silence.

"What do you mean"?

Sansa took a deep breath. "I did it. I forced Jon".

"I don't see how you-"

"I got him drunk Robb! I got him drunk with the intention of sleeping with him. I CAUSED THIS".

There were a few moments where all that could be heard was Sansa's ragged breath as she panted after her outburst. Jon stared at his hand on the doorknob, not quite sure what to make of her admission. It didn't even make sense to him.

"If you think that Jon didn't want to sleep with you then you're blind" Robb rasped after a while. "He's been mad for you for years.... I just thought....hoped...that it would fizzle out eventually".

Jon could practically hear the shrug in his friends voice as he felt his skin grow hot and somehow simultaneously cold with shock. He had no idea that Robb was aware of his feelings towards his sister, he'd never said anything or hinted at his knowledge. Apparently Jon wasn't as good at hiding his desires as he thought.

"Don't be ridicul-"

"I'm not Sans, Jon knew what he was doing".

"I quite literally poured liquor down his throat Robb! He didn't know what he was doing...but I did...until I started feeling the effects too...and I carried on anyway because I wanted-......because I wanted..." Sansa choked over her her words.

"Because you wanted what Sansa"? Robb whispered hoarsely.

"Because I wanted to be treated like I was worth something" she said in a cracked sob.

"What are you talking about sweet girl"? Robb's voice sounded muffled. Jon pushes the door open a fraction and winces at the soft creak it emits. The two inside the room do not appear to have heard it however, as Jon sees them embracing as he peeks through the crack in the door. Sansa is as wrapped up in Robb's arms as she possibly could be with her pregnancy bump between them. Robb was pressing his face to her hair, both arms over her shoulders with Sansa's around his middle. Remnants of a shattered ivory vase scattered at their feet.

Jon simultaneously wanted to leave them with some privacy whilst also being tempted to burst in there and scoop Sansa up in his own arms, offer her his own comfort, his own shoulder to absorb her tears and his own hands to stroke her hair.

"He's a good man" Sansa sniffles into her brother's shoulder "don't make him suffer any more, he doesn't deserve it....he needs his friend back - he's gonna be a Dad, Robb".

Jon's gut twists and tickles as he watches the siblings stand holding each other for a while, swaying ever so slightly while Sansa's sad sniffling breaths start to recede.

"He does like you, you know?....more than like" Robb breaks the tear stained silence.

Sansa huffs and twists away from Robb's arms. "I want to go home".

"You are home".

"No.." she sighs "...I'm not".

With that, Sansa starts walking towards the door as Jon backs away from it abruptly on the other side. She lets out a small gasp of surprise once the door is yanked open and their eyes meet.

"Sansa" Jon breathes.

"Jon....um.." Sansa twists to glance behind her at her brother whilst her hand still clutches the doorknob before turning back to Jon. "Could you take me home...please"? She asks with red rimmed eyes and one hand resting on her belly.

"Of course".

Sansa leaves him in the hall to go upstairs and gather her things. Robb approaches him slowly, eyes downcast until he meets him in the hallway. Once his friend manages to raise his gaze to meet Jon's, there's a flicker of that old Robb in his eyes and smile - a taste of how their friendship used to be.

"You'll look after her yea"? Robb says, laying a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder.

"Always" Jon nods with all seriousness. He's never meant any promise as much as this vow right now - there's no way he would break it.

Robb's smile widens. "You'd better do... or I'll bloody that nose of yours again...'Daddy-to-be'".

There's a sudden lightness to the hallway that they stand in, like a thick fog around them had lifted, leaving two friends grinning at each each other now that they can clearly see one another again.

"You can count on me, 'Uncle Robb'" Jon chuckles.

During the short car journey home, Jon can't help but continue his ongoing battle at not repeatedly glancing at Sansa in the passenger seat. His head was a busy place to be in right now, with no defined space for coherent thoughts on how best to proceed.

It takes him a while but he finally breaks the silence with a clearing of his throat. "Sansa, about Ygritte -".

"You don't need to tell me Jon".

"No, I mean she-".

"Can we do this another time?.... I'm really tired and I just want to go home".

Jon receded within himself with a nod, his grip on the steering wheel intensifying. Sansa let out a long breath through her nose as she turned to draw hearts on the window with her fingertip.

********

As soon as the key turns in the lock and the front door opens to their apartment, Sansa darts into her room - well, as much as a pregnant woman can 'dart' anywhere. He follows her in, gently placing her bag of belongings on the floor by her desk. Sansa lets out a sleepy sounding 'thank you' and proceeded to lay fully clothed on her bed, facing the wall.

Jon left her to the sanctity of her room for the evening, hoping that she'd emerge a little more rested - or even still groggy from sleep. He imagined her nuzzling her tired head into his lap as he stroked out her hair in that way she liked. She'd be calm enough for him to explain about Ygritte, to confess about overhearing her conversation with Robb and confirm her brother's musings - he liked Sansa, more than liked, he loved her.

Except she never emerged from her room that night, the pull of her fluffy pillows must have been too much to break and Jon drudged to his own bed, deciding to take the next day off of work to spend with her.

************

"Jon.......Jon!..." his name breaks through the haze of sleep surrounding his head. Who it was that was calling him in the pitch black of night still alluded him as he rapidly swam to the surface of wakefulness.

"Jon"!

Sansa!

He leapt from his bed in the dark, stubbing his toe on something unknown in the process. Fuck.

"Sansa"?! Jon called out into the dark hallway before he saw the light bleeding through under the door of the bathroom. Jon moves closer and called again. "Sansa? Are you alright"?

"Can you get my phone from my bedside table and bring it here please"? Her voice muffled through the door.

"Err...ok" he padded into the room that smelt of her and swiped the phone before returning.

Sansa was in the bath, head resting back, eyes closed, hands on the bump that was rising high out of the warm bath water. She was taking large long drags of the balmy bathroom air, in through her nose, then slowly out past her lips.

Jon only just managed to successfully ignore the urge to gawp at her breasts.

"Sansa"?

"I forgot to bring it with me" she said, not opening her eyes.

"The phone"?

"Yea, I need to time the contractions".

"Contractions"?

Shit.

"Yea" she winces, sucking in a sharp breath over her teeth. Her head curls up and her brow remains furrowed for a while until she slowly relaxes back into her previous position. "They've been going on for hours, I thought a bath might help because my back is killing me but I need to keep timing them....I didn't mean to wake you until I knew I was properly in labour and not just more Braxton Hicks".

"I'll call the hospital" Jon said in a panic.

"No!...not yet Jon!....they're not coming in regularly enough....just....just sit...stay with me....please".

Jon moved numbly, closing the lid on the toilet and clad in his boxers only, perched atop it, never taking his eye off of Sansa as he did so - as if she might evaporate into the bath steam should she not remain in his sights.

Sansa sighed, closed her eyes again and began scooping up the warm water with her hands to tip it over her belly. Her shoulders had little droplets of water scattered about them like a constellation and her vivid auburn hair had been quickly swept up high into a messy bun.

Fucking hell you're beautiful.

Sansa's head snapped up as she eyed him quizzically. It was only then that he realised he'd spoken the words out loud. Jon cleared his throat and Sansa snorted as she rested her head back but remained eying him.

"Even like this"? She gestured to her swollen stomach.

"Especially like that" Jon breathed.

There was a silence that followed Jon's words that was filled with both of them searching the other's face for hidden truths. Finally Sansa broke the quiet.

"I don't think Ygritte would like you saying that" she said, looking away, projecting her words towards the line of shampoo and shower gel bottles standing behind the bath taps.

"Sansa, there is nothing going on with me and Ygritte".

"But she said-"

"I don't care what she said - you can consider whatever it was as complete lies. I work with her and that's it....or at least I used to".

"What do you mean"?

"I fired her when she tried to kiss me".

"Oh" Sansa said softly, staring at the over-bath showerhead. Jon moved to kneel on the bathmat next to her so that he could reach over and take her hand.

"I love you Sansa...no one else is even on the radar".

Sansa's eyes danced back and forth between his with doubt laced in her stare. Jon was about to attempt to wipe away that doubt with further declarations of his feelings towards the accidental mother of his child when she abruptly gripped his hand fiercely whilst her face pinched in pain. Her other hand flew to her belly and she sucked in a gasp.

Jon felt helpless as she breathed through her pain, her grasp on his hand gradually becoming looser and looser.

"This probably isn't the best time for that conversation" Jon mused out loud.

"No, probably not" Sansa smiled once her contraction had subsided.

Jon started mimicking her previous action by scooping the bath water up to her bump, the water running over her tight opalescent skin and the newly formed stretch scars. He felt her eyes on his face as he continued to concentrate on what his hand was doing.

"I do though" he said to her stomach "I love you Sansa" his gaze came back to her face.

"You wouldn't if you knew what I've done" she whispered with a face full of worry.

"What is it that you think you've done love"?

"Trapped you" he watch her gulp "I forced you to get drunk that night and now you're trapped with me".

Jon could tell that each word was threatening to release a sob and he couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.

"Sansa" he started with a firm, serious tone to grab her attention "Sansa, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't have an idea of what you wanted that night when you led me away being all flirty and locking us in that room...I mean-" he snorted and ran a hand through his hair "I never thought it would actually happen, I'd been hoping...praying for years that something like that would happen with you...and then when it did it was a bit like a very hazy dream".

"Because I'd gotten you drunk" Sansa countered. Jon shook his head.

"You didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to do Sans... I've wanted you for years".

Sansa stayed quiet as she watched Jon's hand that was now gently pressed to her belly, his thumb stroking her wet skin.

"You think that you 'trapped' me Sans" Jon took a deep breath "but the truth is this" his hand lightly skimmed from the top of Sansa's bump to just below her navel "is the best thing to have ever happened to me".

Sansa stared at him trying to decipher any falsity to his proclamation. Her lips were slightly parted and the bottom one looked to be on the verge of a tremble when her face pinched in pain again. Jon was surprised to feel her belly turn as hard as stone beneath his hand. Sansa let out a groan of agony this time as her head lolled back.

"Are you timing these"?! She grit out through clenched teeth.

"Shit. No" he scrambled backwards to retrieve her phone from on top of the cistern, where he'd left it.

They'd stayed in the bathroom until the bath water began to cool. After helping her out of the tub and wrapping her in her pale yellow silk robe, Jon stood facing Sansa in the centre of their lounge. She supported herself with her hands up on his shoulders, Jon held her waist as they swayed soothingly with Sansa's head resting against the crook of his neck.

"I should phone your Mother" Jon said past her shoulder.

"No"

"Sans, the contractions are coming in more quickly now and I can tell they're getting more painful, she'll want to meet us at-"

"No" she breathed against his skin "I don't want Mum there, just you... I just want you".

"Alright" Jon whispered as they continued to sway together in the middle of the room.

"I'll go get you some clothes love, I think we'll need to leave soon" Jon began to pull away but Sansa grabbed his hand before he could entangle himself from her fully.

"I'm scared Jon" she whispered, her eyes glittering with threatening tears.

"I know, love" he smiled "but I'm here... I'm not going anywhere".

"Jon" Sansa said, getting his attention back when he made a move to leave their embrace again.

His smile that was born from the need to provide comfort and bravado to support Sansa was quickly swallowed up by a deep kiss that he'd not expected.

He held her as tight as he dared to and moaned into her mouth as her tongue slid against his. They broke the kiss with a series of small pecks that Jon kept continuing down her jaw before Sansa gasped in pain and gritted out some strained words.

"The clothes Jon! Get my clothes! We need to go!...ah"!!

Jon rushed to grab Sansa something to wear, as well as the bag they'd packed for the hospital stay. He took two seconds to glimpse into their third bedroom at the cot with the pale yellow hand knitted baby blanket carefully folded over the railings. His heart skipped a few beats before he practically ran back to Sansa in the living room.

****************

EPILOGUE

8 Years Later ~

"Where do you think you're going Mrs Snow"? Jon croaked sleepily as he playfully tugged Sansa back towards him in their bed, lightly tickling her sides before burying his face in her hair at the back of her neck.

Sansa giggled and squirmed. "The kids will be awake soon" she chided, reaching back and slapping his arm.

"Surely we've got time for this" he growled in her ear as he rubbed his erection against her ass.

"Jon! I'm not trying to come up with yet another excuse as to why Daddy is on top of Mummy again ok?....I still don't think poor Aemon believes that we keep having tickle fights....and little Bethany keeps telling all our family - and complete strangers for that matter - that 'Mummy and Daddy's bed squeaks because we jump on it all the time'"!

Jon snickered but carried on nosing her hair and dropping soft kisses down her neck and shoulders like he knows she loves. He felt Sansa shiver and heard her soft whine. He smiled against her skin and began snaking his hand down past the band of her cotton sleep shorts.

"Jon" she warned as she grabbed his wrist and brought his hand back up to her flat stomach, his calloused fingers smoothing over Sansa's skin where her top had ridden up in her sleep. Jon huffed in defeat before drawing lazy twirling patterns on her abdomen with his fingertips.

"I can't wait until we can start telling people" she sighed against her pillow.

"I can't wait until you start showing" Jon nipped her ear as his fingers began tracing up and down the silvery stretch marks from her previous two pregnancies. Sansa shook her head.

"You really do have a weird thing for pregnant ladies don't you"?

"No, I have a perfectly natural 'thing' for the woman I love. I can't help it if I'm gonna enjoy our first pregnancy that's not 'out of wedlock'".

"First"?! Sansa turned in his arms to throw him a look that was half alarm, half amusement.

"Oh yes" he grinned "my wife will be constantly 'round with child'". Jon moved to hover over her as he teased before leaning down and kissing her deeply to swallow any of her mock indignant protests.

"You do know that each pregnancy ends with a squalling, wailing, shrieking baby don't you"? She mumbled against his lips.

"And I'll love every single one of them" he mumbled back.

"Besides" Jon said after releasing her lips "your mother was joking with me that she always suspected that you'd grow up to have a brood to rival hers in numbers...sooo"?

Sansa rolled her eyes and grabbed his face with both hands, bringing him down for a series of little kisses. "No" kiss "more" kiss "babies" kiss.

"Hmm" Jon growled into her neck, grabbing her leg and hitching it over his hip "I'm sure I could convince you otherwise Mrs Snow". Sansa began to giggle when their bedroom door swung open and two little pairs of feet rapidly padded on the soft carpet towards them accompanied by high pitched childish squealing.

"TICKLE FIGHT! TICKLE FIGHT"!

[lightsburnbrite]

Young & Wild: Part 10

After a short holiday in Mallorca and a few weeks back home in Copenhagen, Georgina found herself settling into her new life in the suburbs of Merryside. When they left Denmark so Daniel could return to training, she was surprised to learn that he had sold his flat and bought a house instead. He said it was something he’d been meaning to do and that it made sense to do so now, but Georgina wondered if Daniel had other thoughts for the future as well. If he was thinking about getting married and starting a family, she would have been lying to say that those were not thoughts she shared. Overtime she thought about bringing it up, she was distracted and it was left to another day.

When the weather was nice, she found herself driving to the city and then wandering around with the dogs late into the afternoon just so she learned her way around. Frequently, those trips led her to the Liverpool Historic Society. At first, she just looked around but when the ladies who volunteered there got to know Georgina, more specifically her penchant for cultural research, they started putting her to work. There were times when she would spend days and weeks researching a particular event and Daniel noticed that was when she seemed to enjoy herself the most.  

Daniel laughed as he closed his eyes. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Georgina stepped back to look at him and scrunched her mouth into a frown. “But first I think we need to get rid of this.”

Georgina moved closer to the edge of the tub where Daniel sat and started to pull his t-shirt over his head. He smirked but continued to keep his eyes closed.

“Ok. It might be a little cold. Don’t wiggle or it’s going to be messy.” She couldn’t make it through her full sentence without giggling as she reached for her tube of mud mask.

It couldn’t be seen with his eyes closed, but Daniel rolled them. He halfway mumbled, halfway laughed at himself. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’ll ignore that.” She tweaked his nose before smoothing the thick paste across his forehead. Once his entire face was evenly coated, Georgina stepped back and admired her work. “There we go. Now your skin will be refreshed and detoxified.”

Daniel tried not to move the muscles in his face, already feeling the mask beginning to dry but he still laughed as he held out a hand. “What’s next? A manicure?”

“Of course!” Georgina took his hand and grinned broadly before Daniel tugged on her hand and pulled her against him. She giggled as she sat on his knee, the mud mask now smudged against parts of her cheek and nose.

With his finger, Daniel swiped the smudges so that they looked more like war paint before smiling back at her. “I’d never live that one down with the lads. Now, how do I get this off?”

“I think a shower might be in order.” Not caring now if she got the goop on herself, Georgina laid her hands on his cheeks and leaned in to kiss Daniel.

He placed his hand on the small of her back, a silent cue that he was going to stand. “Well, let’s get started on that then.”

Dressed in her robe and towel drying her hair, Georgina turned around to face Daniel who was lounging in bed. “I wish you didn’t have to go away.”

“I’m not too keen on it right now either.” He patted the space next to him and Georgina sat next to him and leaned against his shoulder. “But it’s not for that long. I’ll be home before you know it.”

Georgina frowned. “I know, but I feel like in the time that we’ve known each other, we’ve spent more time apart than we have together.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” He let out a little laugh as he smirked. “How am I supposed to keep you under my spell if I’m not around you constantly?”

“Oh, shut up, Danny.” She gave him a playful shove. “You are the only man I have learned to cook for.”

“Oh yeah?” With a broad grin, Daniel pulled Georgina across his lap.

She beamed back at him before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissed him on the nose. “Yep. Amongst other ways, I’ve been occupying myself with cooking classes.”

“So lets see how that’s working out.”

Daniel stood back and watched as Georgina worked her way around the kitchen, tentatively at first, but eventually hitting her stride as she put together a Caprese salad while grilling chicken. It was a nice enough evening that they ate outside in the garden, Odin and Thor occupying themselves with their rope tug.

Taking a long drink of his wine, Daniel sat back and smiled. “You did good, Georgie. Anymore tricks up your sleeve?”

“No more tricks.” She shrugged in a facetious apology until she suddenly sat up straighter. “Oh! I did get a job today. The ladies at the Historical Society asked if I’d do their research full time with some grant writing as well.”

He smiled again, but this time he beamed proudly at her. “Yeah? Shit, you can cook and you make your own money, what do you even need me for?”

“Love and companionship.” Georgina raised her glass and winked before taking a sip. “So where are you all off to this time?”

Daniel looked back at her and smiled endearingly, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer. “Southampton.”

“Oh come on!” Georgina pouted. “How long will you be gone?”

Reaching across the table, Daniel placed his hand over hers. “Couple days. That’s all.”

Continuing to frown, Georgina rested her chin on her hand. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I know, G.” He laughed again. “No one said that you did.”

After a begrudging goodbye from Georgina, Daniel made his way to Melwood where the team was to have a quick training session before embarking on their journey south. When Daniel walked into the dressing room, he was met with his teammates all in various states of undress and gathered a round a few phones, most were snickering.

“What’s so funny?” Daniel slung has bag into his locker as he looked towards anyone who would give him an answer.

The new guy, Carroll, grinned broadly as he turned his phone towards Daniel . “It’s the owner’s daughter.”

There, on the Daily Mail’s website were dozens of pictures of Georgina, in her apartment and what he assumed to be Preston’s house, partially dressed, in her underwear, in the shower, and sleeping.

“She’s a fit one, yeah?” He laughed again while elbowing Daniel. “Says her boyfriend’s phone was stollen which is where the snaps came from. Wish Daddy would bring her around more!”

Daniel felt like he had been kicked in the gut. No, he didn’t like the idea that his teammates and any reader of the Daily Mail would now have seen Georgina naked. No, he didn’t like that Preston had done this out of revenge (Daniel knew very well that there was no way his phone was stolen). What bothered him the most was that every single picture was candid and distinctly voyeuristic. Hell, if he knew that Georgina posed for the pictures, he could have dealt with that but he knew that was not the case.

“Ay!” All of a sudden, their captain decided to break up the party. “Get your arses out on the pitch!”

Carroll shrugged and went back to put his phone in his locker. Daniel put his head down and went about his business until Skrtel caught up with him.

“Hey man,”

At first, Daniel shook his head. Georgina and Daniel had heeded her father’s advice of keeping a low profile except for a few friends, Skrtel happened to be one of them, and Daniel really just didn’t want to say anything.

“No,” Skrtel stopped him as he started to walk away. “You ok?”

Daniel rolled his eyes and shrugged. “What am I supposed to say? It pisses me off but I can’t say anything about it. and for as hard as it is for me, it’s going to be a million times worse for her. Georgie isn’t going to handle this well.”

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Sorry.”

Daniel was already agitated so the fact that he was benched nearly sent him over the edge. He went back and forth between calling Georgina or waiting until he got home. They had an unspoken rule that they wouldn’t contact each other when he was with the team but now he wasn’t sure that was such a great idea. He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her but then he pushed those thoughts from his mind as well. Maybe she hadn’t even seen it yet.

Either way, he couldn’t wait to get home.

“Georgie?” Daniel called out as soon as he set foot in the hallway off the garage. “Babe?”

Instead, he was met by Odin and Thor, tails wagging with enough enthusiasm to wiggle their whole bodies. He spent a few minutes giving ear scratches and belly rubs before continuing on his quest to find Georgina. He put his bag down and kicked off his shoes when he heard the television in the sitting room. There, he saw Georgina curled up in the big arm chair and swathed in an oversized hoodie that she had nicked from him a while ago. Knowing his footsteps were barely audible, Daniel called out to her again, so she wouldn’t be startled.

“Hey, George.”

Standing up, she looked back at him, hot tears threatening to spill out onto her cheeks at any given moment, and shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Danny.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Daniel pulled her against him and squeezed as hard as he possibly could without hurting her. “Why on Earth do you think you need to apologize to me?”

Georgina wiped her eyes and shook her head again. “The entire country has probably seen me naked by now. I can only imagine what they’re saying to you when you show up to training. And then Dad, how can he be taken seriously-”

“Georgina,” Daniel rested his hand on the back of her neck before resting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back. “This, none of this is your fault. You pissed off an entitled prick who can’t handle rejection. Even if you had taken those pictures yourself and sent them to him, he had no right to pass them on to the fucking Daily Mail.”

She heaved out a great sigh and leaned into him again. Speaking into his shoulder, her words were muffled. “It gets worse.”

Daniel stroked her hair and squeezed her again. “What is it?”

“Preston is the one who told me about it.” Turning her head to the side, Georgina pressed her forehead against his neck. “He had cameras in my apartment. He said if I don’t leave you and go back to him, he’s going to leak more. He has a video of us.”

“Georgie,” Daniel didn’t quite know where she was going with this.

Wordlessly, Georgina shook her head. “Dad has been discussing our options with his lawyer-”

“Georgie, I don’t care who knows about us,” He interrupted, not caring what the family lawyer had to say. “I don’t care what happens when everyone finds out.”

Georgina closed her eyes and sighed again. “I don’t want him to be the one to do it.”

The corner of Daniel’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “So we tell them. But, we give them something to really talk about.”

“What?” Georgina looked up at him with knitted brows.

This time, he laughed. “Pretty Boy thinks he has the upper hand, he either gets you back or he’s going to get revenge. So, we take that away from him. We tell him to fuck off and tell everyone else about us.”

Georgina started to open her mouth, but Daniel shook his head and continued. “Instead of saying you’re my girlfriend, I say your my wife.”

Now she smirked. “You’ll say I’m your wife?”

“I’ll say it,” He squeezed her again, “Because it will be true.”