#read an interview where she said she’d ‘never get a look in at a place like saltburn’

[cattons]

emerald fennell will get on her zoom and say [posh voice] Nooo no darling the rich people are the worrssstt. You’re supposed to side with the povvo. referring to the 130 minute film she helmed in which a family of prejudiced but loveable aristocrats are murdered and usurped by an upper middle class lunatic

[nichuuu]

Scatterbrain

Word count: 18k+

They say it takes a village to raise a child. 

To raise a girl as fine as Jang Wonyoung, you’d probably need 3 whole villages.

Two of those three villages would be used to train the way she walks because it’s perfect: classy, poised, elegant. The other one would have to work on her outfits because god would she need those. Hopefully the village doesn’t operate a Shein style manufacturing line. She’d hate that.

Her face is the definition of “striking the gene pool lottery”, and so is the rest of her body. Lanky arms and legs; toned, slim tummy; big, bright eyes that glimmer under the flashing lights. Personally, you like her “you’re on camera” smile the most. She knows this, and she always makes it a point to shoot it your way as she struts towards you. She stops half way to get a flute of Champagne, make that two actually, then grabs another. Those long legs can cover one hell of a distance, and they bring her right to you in a matter of seconds.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she hands you the Champagne flute in her left hand, and the rings on it shine in the light, “cause it’s starting to feel like you’re just stalking me now.”

Of course, it’s the snarky remarks that open the conversation. Jang Wonyoung, airheaded as ever m’lady, and you sip on the Bubbly that she’s very nicely delivered to you. Wonyoung is, of course, a little bit of an airhead in your books (only because she believes that you’re always there for her, nothing else), and it’s never not hilarious to watch her draw her lips into a thin line. It’s not the first time she’s hearing this from you; it certainly won’t be the last. You can’t control where you’re posted to, but you know for a fact that you’ll see her again a couple months down the road.

Cause your meetings with Jang Wonyoung are through pure serendipity really, and you certainly will start calling it that after you read that one story. You know: the one where this guy cheats on his idol girlfriend, who he has a tense relationship with, with another idol that he happens to meet just about everywhere. There’s 0 communication between the two of you when these types of events come around, and neither of you know if either of you will be there or not. Actually, it’s just you really; neither of you know if you will be there. 

“Here for Kwon Eunbi again? Or are you finding someone else?” This question of her’s is customary at this point. Never once has it been perfunctory.

“Well, I was actually here to try and catch an interview with Jo Yuri, but I guess you’ll do,” you reply. Wonyoung scoffs—so I’m second place then?—and you have to assuage her oh-so-damaged ego, “you’re making this inference on your own Princess. I never said anything remotely close to that.”

And it’s that smile on her face that makes you want to kiss her really. It’s gorgeous, it’s cute, it’s beautiful. She’s given you that damned smile so many times that you could probably draw it from memory, though you’d definitely butcher it. The dress is certainly doing it justice, and you watch it brush against the skin of her legs as she shifts her weight to the other foot. I’ve never been that good at inferences. You’re far better than me, Prince, and she’s playing with her hair: twirling and untwirling it around her finger. That ribbon atop her head… Her stylist certainly knows their stuff.

“Think I’ll win an award this year?” Her question draws you away from your thorough examination of her. You take a moment to think, and you have to say, it depends, but I think you could definitely get something in some category. She gives you this inscrutable look, and she’s chuckling to herself as she looks at the crowd and sips on her champagne. You can guess what she’s about to say next: quite the crowd today, huh? And you’d reply, “Don’t think that they’re all here for you”, and that would prompt her to shoot back with, “Then who are they here for? You?”. 

But of course, when do things ever go according to plan?

“Have you thought about my offer?” she asks, and you’re caught off guard. 

Cause here’s the history between you two: Middle school best friends, always kind of inseparable. She was the beauty queen, it girl, and she still is; you were the writer, head of the school magazine, and you’re pretty much writing for the rest of your life. Wherever you went with her, rumours followed—Are they dating? I think they’re just friends. Maybe she’s trying to be the front of the magazine?—but you never thought much of it. It was just a simple friendship to you, nothing more. 

Then the kiss she gave you in high school changed it all.

It was a party, hosted by one of your mutual friends. She kissed you, and no, it wasn’t a Spin The Bottle forfeit, nor was it a dare of any sort; it was a sincere, tender kiss in the garden—unprompted, and away from any prying eyes and soft like silk chiffon. You have to admit, the sensation had your brain mired for a minute or so. But when you came back to your senses, you kissed her right back, and things got complicated after that. 

No one knew of it; it was your little secret. Wonyoung became closer than ever, and next thing you know, she declares the two of you “exclusive” but not dating. It’s because her agency has that funky dating ban thing, and Wonyoung was desperate to find a loophole, albeit a little complex. Of course, you’re willing to stay “exclusive” with Wonyoung in secret, but you started to worry that it can’t stay this way for long after the two of you get out of high school. 

But as fate would have it, your career paths meet at the crossroads, and now you see her every other month or so. You still text her when you can, and the “exclusive” relationship has sustained. Now that she’s an adult and she’s bringing in mad bucks for the agency, she’s informed you of some changes in her contact. From there, the offer was birthed, and you have left it unchecked for the past four months or so, “grey ticked” as she liked to call it.

“You haven’t texted in a while, thought you died,” she continues, leaning on her elbows against the table. “Thank god you’re alive, huh?”

You hoped that she’d just forget about it, but she’s more of a mnemonist than you give her credit for. An award show is the last place you expected to be caught off guard by Jang Wonyoung, but she’s definitely a master of surprise. I uh… I haven’t really thought about it, is a lie you tell her and yourself. She smiles enigmatically, downs the rest of her Champagne. 

“Let’s talk about it tonight,” she touches your chest, and it’s soft like silk chiffon, “you know where to find me, Prince.”

She struts off to join the rest of her members, stops halfway to return her Champagne flute, then looks back at you over her shoulder to give you a small wave. You sip on your Champagne as the silk brushes against her skin. 

It’s a heavy breath that leaves your mouth, and it’s the rest of the Champagne that goes in.

*

302.

Gold lettering, black plaque. It’s grand, pretty elegant. Suits her well. 

Then the door opens. 

In her bathrobe, Jang Wonyoung shoots her “you’re on camera” smile. You’re earlier than expected—she lets you in—Matter of fact, I thought you might not show at all.

And it’s a must to quip back, “thought you’d be asleep by now you big baby.”

When the door closes, it’s straight to work, and here’s how that normally goes: kissing, undressing, foreplay, then finally—fucking. Not that it has to follow that order or anything, but it’s the unspoken schedule that Wonyoung’s written up. God forbid anyone goes against what the princess is comfortable with, not that you’d ever try to either way. Your voice is barely a mumble past her lips—aren’t we supposed to talk about something?—and Wonyoung’s quick to dismiss any queries, “later. There’s always time for it later”. 

So it’s the kiss that’s pulling you back into her. Her front teeth capture your bottom lip, pull, drags it back a little like she’s trying to unwrap you like a present. You hold her waist, and with gentle hands, you push her back against the wall. It’s not that you’re trying to get control or anything; you’re just attempting to give her something to work with, a place to rest as she starts to work on the buttons of your shirt. 

“Are you already naked underneath that?” you whisper, though it’s more of a drawl than a whisper. In response, she momentarily stops with your buttons to slide a section of her bathrobe away, giving you a good look at a column of her naked, milky skin. 

In short: Yes, she is very much naked under that robe.

“Don’t get distracted, my prince. Eyes up here.”

“You’re the one that made me look, princess.”

She’s evidently struggling with the last button of your shirt, and you have to let go of her for a moment to help her get it done. Then it’s off with the shirt, and she flings it against the door for convenience sake. Your belt’s next, and that’s taken care of before you can even say, let me undress you Princess. It does make her hesitate at the clasp of your trousers for a bit. Just for a bit.

“I’d like,” her fingers are moving again, and they’re awfully quick at unfastening your pants, “for you to unwrap me on the bed instead.”

How raunchy of her. Makes you want to try her on.

Your pants fall. Your hand slithers into the bathrobe. Her jaw drops. Wonyoung my darling, and your fingers have captured one of those perky breasts, the right one to be exact. How do you ever—it’s light pressure to the nipple for you; it’s mind melting for her—get away with being such a big slut? Look at you, I’m barely even squeezing here. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes wide, mouth agape and her chin tucked into her neck. Frame it up, take a step back, admire it. It’s the face of someone who’s pent up, the expression of a needy girl who’s been aching to get some dick. Maybe if you guys had met a little sooner, she wouldn’t be this sensitive. But now? A twist of your forefinger and thumb is all it takes to draw a cry out of her, a little more pressure is enough to rain hellfire upon her. What a crazy-hot mess she is; only god knows how to clean her up and get her sorted out.

Open mouth straight to your ear, Wonyoung lets out a breathy gasp. In your fingers, the stiff peak rolls between the pads—back, forth, back, forth: motions that make her weak in her knees. It’s with great effort that she pulls your face back to hers, captures you in her quivering lips. Elegance has long been thrown out the window by now, and it’s not going to be returning for quite some time, as if you ever need it at a time like this. She’s barely holding herself up at this point. Where did the prim proper Jang Wonyoung go? 

The answer’s in her kiss—gone, dusted, she was here just a minute ago though. She’s grasping at whatever inch of your skin she can find, and her nails are definitely gonna be leaving marks on the sides of your neck. You let out a small, wry laugh as you silently observe her behaviour, watching her implore without speaking, badger without requesting. It’s an art form really, the form of expression for the horny and desperate and bratty. When her hands grip your face and her nails sink into your cheek, you pinch a little harder and relish the pleasant vibrations that are sent into your mouth as she gasps. Her palms press into your jaw, and they’d probably crush it if you press any harder. Her feet patter against the wood as she starts to direct you to the bed. You kick off your shoes together with your pants. 

It’s definitely a sight to take in: Jang Wonyoung in a massive king size bed, a thin bathrobe being the only thing between you and that wonderful body being the bathrobe. Maybe if she wasn’t in this state she’s in, she’d gesture to you with a come hither motion, and invite you to remove the fabric from her body. Instead, she opts for a spine tingling mewl, and that’s your invitation to her body. It’s hardly an insinuation; the fact that she wants to be unwrapped like a present is undeniable, she used the word unwrap herself. The bunny knot holding the two pieces of fabric is symmetrical—has Wonyoung’s fingerprints all over it. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s watching you with a half-open mouth, maybe you’d compliment her on her efforts a little, maybe even call her “princess” a couple more times before you properly ruin her.

(But she’s already ruined, ruined by a mere bit of pressure to the nipple. What else can make her tick now?)

Her body is at your mercy and it, quite literally, jerks as you start to pull at the knot, undoing it centimetre by centimetre, millimetre by millimetre, inch by inch. You want to see how long she can watch for, how long she can witness herself be undressed in a painfully slow fashion. Needy as she is, she’s patient as she watches one end of the rope grow longer. 

Longer. 

“Do you want me to speed this up, baby?” The smirk on your face would earn you a pout from her if her nerves weren’t in a bundle at the given moment.

“W-Whatever you want,” she answers, and her voice is brimming with breathy arousal. How are you getting away with all this? She’d grab your wrist and pull by now if she wasn’t so damn needy right now.

You give a dry laugh. “Then I’ll keep at this then.”

Longer.

“Fuck. Just pull it all the way already.” She looks you right in the eye as she begs you to hurry, and now you can see the need brimming in those large, round eyes, the ones that stare back at you with soft intensity, if that’s even possible. She’s good at mixing emotions into her stare.

“I thought you said—”

“Just fucking do it!”

Slack.

And the knot comes undone, and together with it, the robe falls off to the sides of her body—it’s beautiful. Never have you taken so much pleasure in undressing her, but you sure-as-hell have taken this much time to admire that wonderful, slender frame. From your standing view over her, you get down to her level to get a better look at her. It’s all part of the game of course: the way you look her in the eye, the way you touch her jaw ever so slightly to turn it towards you. The kiss is sickly sweet, and she’s starting to taste more and more like that cherry lipstick you gave her when you saw her some time ago at another event. Into your mouth, she lets out a sonorous moan. Your fingertips brush along her skin, slither down from her collarbone to her cleavage—down to that flushed pink region between her equally flushed thighs. Almost instantly, the tip of your digits are coated in slick fluids, and you raise an eyebrow at the girl on the bed.

“I literally touched you.” It’s amusement permeating your voice more than anything. In the sheets, she squirms in the slightest, eyes locked on your fingers that rest against that dripping heat and breath caught in her throat. You know that if you were to shift your finger in the slightest, you’d trigger a chain reaction that you have no power over. Her legs would clamp, her abdomen would tense, her eyes would roll. In the midst of it all, she’d maybe scream, or maybe she’d moan; either way goes. As far as you’re concerned, she’s needy as fuck at the moment, and she’s not going to let anything stop her from cumming.

“Yea, well… I can be sensitive.” Her defence is hardly a solid one, more of a perfunctory reply. Her head’s far from able to formulate a quip to throw back at you; that ability went out the window together with classy Wonyoung. “Put them in.”

You go against her request, and your fingers start to skirt the edges of that swollen, pink slit of hers. A crime—you’re going against the princess’ wishes, but realistically speaking: she can hardly be called a princess at the moment, so why comply? 

A portion of the bathrobe is still clinging on to her breast. You use your other hand to push it away, and the split second of contact makes her flinch. “Jesus. You’re so fucking turned-on right now,” you can’t help but muse, all while your fingers retrace te outline of her swollen lips. She’s shivering, she isn’t breathing quite right. “Do you want to moan, baby? Do you want to moan like a good little slut for me?”

And she fixes you with a glare. “F-Fuck you… Put them in.”

No “please” this time. Shame. If she were more polite, you would’ve obliged; now you’ll just have some more fun with her. 

Your thumb finds the swollen nub, and a little brush is all you need to get her straining like a psycho in a straitjacket. What will I ever do with you Wonyoung?—and she’s getting wetter by the second—You look so pretty when you’re so needy, you know that?—why would you ever, for a second, think that she’d be as refined as the last time? She doesn’t play with herself when she needs to get off; she waits till she sees you again to get off on your cock, your fingers, your mouth. Sexting was off the table, she wants you to be physically there, driving her insane as she lets herself come undone. 

“You know,” and you’re almost laughing as you watch her face twist even further, “that I could do this forever right? I could just lie here, tease you for as long as I want… Or maybe that’s what you want?

She’s messy, so fucking messy. Juices are starting to soak the bed—you can feel it as your fingertips round the bottom of her slit. Housekeeping would certainly question the spot, and the two of you wouldn’t be there to reply anyway. Her cheeks are flushed, the veins of her throat are popping. It takes a considerable amount of effort to stay this composed, but you know that she’s breaking more and more. With each round your fingers make, cracks start to form along that perfectly sculpted face. The fine lines on her forehead begin to show as her brows start to furrow. Strained sounds are coming from her throat as the urge to moan is slowly winning the battle against her will. She wants control, but she can’t have it when she’s a wet, hot mess next to you. She’s being bratty for the sake of it. Your fingers are your leverage against her. It’s killing her. It’s delighting you.

And just like fine China thrown against concrete, her will shatters. 

“Please! Put them in!”

And your fingers stop just at the top of her pussy. It feels like a long minute, but she isn't about to take another second of this. Her thighs clamp against your arm. Her fingers wrap around your wrist in desperation. She begs again. And again. And again. And again, again, again. The bed starts to creak as you start to move your fingers down her lips, down to the very end of her cunt.

God is she dripping.

“Will you moan for me?” you drawl huskily. A finger, two, three rest themselves against her heat. 

“Yes.” There’s barely any of her original self left in there. “Please just—”

The fingers breach her opening. She screams, a high-pitched, keening cry. The noise makes your cock strain in your boxers, and you have to grit your teeth as her inner walls wrap tightly around your intruding digits. A moment of stillness comes, a moment where she’s just breathing raggedly, struggling to process this pleasure that’s racking her body faster than she can comprehend. She’s a ticking time bomb of nerves; the slightest movement in this state could send her into perdition, and she’ll barrel past that point of no return faster than both of you can imagine. God, she’s sensitive. God, she’s a mess. 

The chuckle that departs from your mouth is one of perverse pleasure. “Baby,” you whisper, right into her ear as she struggles to catch her breath. She squeezes her eyes shut, and you watch with a grin as her chest rises and falls. The grip on your wrist is a vice, knuckle-white and unrelenting. She’s begging you, with her eyes, to start moving, and you have to tell her, “I can’t start till you let go of me, baby.”

And it’s with reluctance that she slips her hand off your wrist, but that hand won’t stay empty for long. You guide it to her own breast, and with a soft whisper, you tell her to squeeze. She’s servile. She complies without protest. Her eyes slowly open themselves, and you relish the way they’re lust-glazed appearance looks under warm light while her breaths level themselves out. For a moment, there’s calm. For a moment, it’s tender.

Then your fingers start to move. All hell breaks loose.

Everything she did to calm herself quickly becomes futile; it becomes undone as her back arches in a way that catches your breath in your throat. Your fingers graze her walls, pressed into each other as they slowly draw in and out of her. And mind you: you’re going slow, slow enough to make her feel every bit of your fingers brush against her insides. But it’s enough to make her curse, enough to get her mewling like a damn kitten while her hips start to rock, rubbing her clit against the base of your palm. There’s no way to describe how needy she looks; her want is beyond words, and you’ve barely even started. Three fingers is the most you’ve ever put inside her. Clearly, it’s working wonders for her.

And now you yourself have to admit: you’ve wanted her for some time now. Since the last time you saw her, you’ve fantasised about that slim tummy twitching, about holding that snatched waist once more, about those long legs wrapped around your neck while your tongue and fingers turn her into a pliant plaything. For weeks, you’ve wanted nothing more than pulling Jang Wonyoung apart, reduce her into a withering mess wherever you guys are and get her screaming till she’s sore. You can’t even begin to describe what you’ve done with her in your dreams, nor can you ever convey how it feels to desire her as much as you have. So, you put all of it into action, sordid sentiments channelled into your fingers that are making those cute features twist and contort in perverse pleasure. She’s rambunctious, and her juices are quite literally soaking your hand, spilling the strongest sillage of lust all over the bed. 

“Why do you always have to be so fucking messy?” You’re really just trying to see how much you can get away with at this point, though the answer seems to be: just about everything. Your fingers start moving faster. You love the way her cheeks are starting to flush even more. “Are you always this wet? Or is it just for me?”

The squelching is lewder than you can ever imagine. The sound of her slick, wet heat being breached by your fingers is enthralling. Add the sounds she’s making into that and you have the ultimate erotica audio that can bless mankind. She’s panting, she’s moaning, she’s whining—she’s doing it all really, and you’re just using your fingers. God knows how she’ll react once you’re inside of her, rock hard meat stretching her out instead of a few fingers fiddling around in warm walls. 

But hey, the sounds she’s making are ever so erotic, and she’s definitely making your blood flow to all the right places. She feels out of place; you can’t put your finger on what’s wrong in this whole thing. It’s probably a small detail, something you’d overlook over the sight of her chest heaving as air shoots out and gets sucked back into her mouth, her whole body straining and convulsing against the bed while you get a thumb on her clit and rub at a languid tempo. Probably something miniscule, not worth mentioning because all your attention is focused on the look on her face (you want to mess up the makeup so badly it’s almost frustrating). And no, you’re not trying to make her cum in five seconds; she’s just really riled up—bundle of nerves and trigger happy. Probably hasn’t been treated this way in a while, probably hasn’t had three fingers twisting around, sliding in and out of that tight wet hole slow enough to make her feel every bit of skin against her walls; fast enough to make her combust if you were to speed up, in, like, forever. 

“I–I…” She’s quite literally mewling, and the sharpness in her voice is so cutting that it makes an incision in a bag inside you that’s keeping all the perverse thoughts at bay. The thoughts are leaking out now, and it’s almost impossible to stuff them back in. You want her against the glass: tits against the window and ass in your hands while you pump and pump and pump into that slick tight hole; you want nothing more but to pick her up and have her lock her legs around you, tight frame flushed against you while you nail her against one of these walls that surround you; you want to unhinge that jaw and watch that pretty mouth—now parted to let the stream of moans flow—take your cock in and out between those kiss-swollen lips and watch the drool leak out the corners of her mouth. Shit. It’s killing you. Jang Wonyoung, dolled up. She’s killing you. 

(No way in hell are thighs meant to be this hot, and lips are not  supposed to look this delicious. Yet Jang Wonyoung somehow goes against every fucking norm, fights it naturally and effortlessly and wins like a seasoned warrior. So just for her case: her thighs can be this hot and flushed, and her lips can look this fucking appetising. You kiss her; it’s sloppy, it’s lewd, it’s hot and everything in between. Mark her neck, mark that row of skin above her right collarbone, mark her everywhere. Cusses are flying—god forbid her agency finds out about the things hse says while she’s getting fingered. She's making a mess out of herself. She’s making a mess out of you.

Fingers, just fingers and she’s already looking like this: hair fanned out, frazzled, looking like she just went through a car wash and yet somehow has her make-up intact. Fuck. You want to watch the mascara run, watch it streak while she tears up as she’s choking down cum and she’s struggling to take in air. Pretty little princess, messy and glacially being turned into some improper slut. It’s hard to not smirk while you ruin her with the same fingers you use to type articles about her—fingers that sing praises and can also make her moan enough to make her throat hoarse.)

The rhythm of your hand makes her body roll. Her toes–painted over, fresh manicure—curl into the sheets. Doe-like eyes stare back at you, plump red lips part to gasp your name, throat muscles strain trying to  curse and moan at the same time. The fingers are gliding in and out and in and out and she’s begging you to not stop (like hell you ever would) in those choke up little sobs while she’s—

Oh fuck baby I can’t I can’t I can’t — Anything. I’ll do anything. Please just let me cum. I’m so fucking close baby. Please just let me fucking cum. I’ll be a good girl. I-I promise I’ll be a good fucking girl for you just… Fuck!

—blue screening on your fingers: lost in the sauce or whatever. Pliant plaything, docile doll. You’re certain she hasn’t gotten off in at least a month if the way she’s taking it is any sort of yardstick. She’s far beyond drenched, far beyond salvation and way off the deep end of the “needy” pool—drowning herself in her own sea of sighs and gasps and moans and loose phonics that slip out of her mouth. Ostinato of your fingers squelching in her cunt; half time rhythm of the creaky bed; melody of the chorus of Jang Wonyoung’s voice—music to your ears.

And there’s lots to unpack from the moment you locate that soft spot at the top of her pussy. There’s a lot of cussing, a lot of jolting, a fair amount of whining and your name is thrown somewhere in that mix. You find her lips, she kisses back, one of her hands grabs your arm, nails dig in and stay there. Flurry of actions, filthy language—fucking hell, someone stop her.

Bottom line: lots of action. You find it congenial to start from the part where it quite literally ends her world. Once your digits curled up into that sensitive patch of flesh, it was all over for her.

You can pinpoint the exact moment where the orgasm rips through her body, the exact moment where her muscles seized so perfectly that her back arches. The pulse around your fingers is strong, walls tight around your digits and your thumb gently rubbing on her clit while the pleasure rolls through her body, molten iron libido converting the feeling between her thighs to electricity that makes her short circuit. The moan is breathy if anyone’s asking, and the look on her face—twisted, perverse satisfaction: superimposing need and want—has a whole foot over the line of pornographic. Wires are fraying in her head, her vocal cords are strained, she’s ruining the sheets with her juices; you’re complicit in every damn part of this, and guilt is the last thing on your mind.

Then her back falls back flat against the mattress, and the sheets ripple as her body makes a dense thump against the bed, punctuating the sigh she releases into the air. Nerves are unbundling themselves. She’s sweaty and panting. Your fingers are beyond soaked.

“Messy,” you muse, slowly drawing your juice slicked fingers out of her cunt. You bring them to her mouth. She languidly tastes herself, sweat-darkened sheets hugging the muscles of her shoulders and lining her ribs. She looks so tiny in the bed if you looked over the fact that her legs were dangling over the edge of the mattress, and that’s easy to do once you lean in for a kiss.

(It’s not hard to slip your tongue into her mouth, and there’s barely any fight left in her as you roll her nipple between your index finger and thumb. The sweat-matted hair sticking to her forehead adds a nice touch to her face.)

“Such a good girl.” Your tone is warm as you praise her, and a hand moves to cup her cheek in an act of tenderness. Her eyelids flutter shut. She puts the weight of her face into your palm. 

“Do I get my reward now?” she whispers, and it’s more of a plea than a question really. You take a moment, not to think, but to drag out the suspense for a little more before you give her an answer. You take guilty pleasure in knowing that you could keep her on tenterhooks for the whole night—the only thing stopping you is the throbbing of your cock in your boxers and the look of sheer need on her face. If you could: you’d drag this out a little longer, maybe tease her a little and call her more names. You still could do that, but you’d much rather fuck her instead. 

“Where do you want it?” your thumbs hook into the waistband of your boxers and hook them down. Your cock springs free from its cottons confines, and Wonyoung’s eyes instantly dart to it. She may be a little obsessed with your cock, but only a little when she’s depraved (which is right now). Before you can even react, she has your shaft in her hand, lanky fingers wrapped around it and pumping it with considerate strokes. 

“I want a big load in my ass.” she requests, far from innocent and banking more towards improper, which seems to be a pretty big theme of hers tonight. “I’ve been wanting to feel daddy’s  hot load leaking out of my ass for a long time…” The strokes delivered to your length grow firmer and firmer by the second. “Please?”

The spikes of pleasure her small hand delivers to your system is really making it hard to say no at the given moment. Of course, she’s well aware of it, and she’s definitely feeling so damn smug right now. And so with a very clouded mind, you nod. She smiles smugly, unaware that you’re about to fuck that smug little smirk rig of her pretty face. Conveniently, she’s already on her back—it’ll make the process so much easier. 

“I take it that the lube is in your bag?” You raise. She grins and nods. 

Sure enough, you find it in the exact same place as it usually is: side pocket, right next to her lipstick. You toss it towards her and move around her, slip her ankles over her shoulders. She lies still, unmoving and obedient as her left calf goes past her head, then her right. You lean forward, and she gasps as she's almost bent her completely in half. She’s flexible; this position won’t bring any harm to her, but it is congenial to ruin her asshole and leave her sore for the next day or so, which is exactly what she wants, but probably not how she imagined herself getting it. She cracks open the lube, and with precision, squirts a generous amount of it on the tight ring of her ass, making eye contact with you all the while as the clear liquid gathers at the puckered ring of muscle. The tube is discarded to a side when she’s done, and she uses her hands to spread her asscheeks for you, inviting you to take your liberties with her hole.

“Come on Daddy,” she urges you. “Come fuck this ass,” she continues, her hands spreading her ass cheeks even wider as you start to line yourself up with the tight ring. “Wreck this fucking hole Daddy, I can fucking take it.”

To hear her say those words was almost enough to have you cum right there and then. You press the tip of your cock at the open, gaping hole of her ass, swirling it around the entrance, collecting more of the copious amounts of lube around it. She was generous with the amount of lube she dispensed; you're about to be generous with the strokes you're gonna make inside that ass.

(She yelps when you slide inside her ass. God does it feel so fucking divine.)

She is so tight and wet and hot that you think you could’ve cum with your first thrust inside her. Her pussy was tight and hot, but her ass was even tighter and even hotter. Even though your cock was slick with lube, it did close to nothing to keep the sheer tightness of her asshole from clenching around you like it was a really small glove. It wasn’t the first time you’ve been inside her ass, but it sure as hell felt like a novelty every single time you entered that tight ring of muscle. Fuck. The heat, the tightness—sublime. You think you could cum in a matter of seconds if you didn’t have self control.

“Go!’ she hisses, through the pain and discomfort. “Fuck me. Fuck my ass!”

You would have been happy to stay there, buried balls deep in Wonyoung’s ass, but her own words goad you into moving—slowly at first, but with a steadily increasing pace, you begin to fuck Wonyoung’s ass with long, slow strokes. She hisses—part glee, part discomfort—as your shaft starts to pump itself in and out of her ass. You draw yourself out till only the base of you tip remains inside of her, and then you thrust back in, hard, hard enough to make her yelp out in pained pleasure while she grits her teeth and watches your rock hard shaft fill her ass. It's a perverse show for her, and it brings you a sort of dark satisfaction in knowing that past all that discomfort she’s feeling, she loves the way your cock stretches her out and fills her defenceless little hole. 

With her ankles over your shoulders, you’re practically spearing yourself vertically into her ass, fucking her deep and making her feel every inch of your throbbing meat inside of that hot, tight hole. Every penetration is punctuated by a deep, guttural groan from Wonyoung, sometimes a curse, or something along the lines of: fuck. So fucking full. You know for a fact that the pained sounds you hear now will turn into airy gaps of pleasure once she gets used to the discomfort, and that she’d probably be a mewling mess by the time you reach the stage where she can take you in and out of her ass with only pleasure in her system and no pain. For now, you’ll settle with the pace you have—slow, long strokes in and out of her ass while she squeezes her eyes to block out all sensations distracting her from enjoying the sensation of her ass being filled with cock. You have to admit that she’s doing a great job at it, and your praise vocalises itself in the rather harsh form of, “what a good little slut.” 

(And here’s something interesting you noted: never once in this whole thing did she ask you to stop, nor did you ever think about stopping to let her adjust. If this was anyone else, you would have given them a moment to breathe upon entering, and you certainly would be checking on their wellbeing throughout it all. 

Thing is—the two of you know her too well to know that you could only dream of stopping once you got started with her, and it could only end in two ways. 1) You cum in her. 2) You cum on her. Edge her and you’ll never get the end of it, you would know. The last time you pulled a stunt on her like that, she left you tied to a chair with a vibrator taped to your cock till you were begging and a cummy mess. It wasn’t pretty. She could dominate if she wanted to, but she preferred to be a manipulative brat instead.)

It’s not long before she’s desensitised to the pain, and your slow pace is not enough, no, not for Wonyoung. Next thing you know it, she hissing for you to go faster, fuck her harder—I told you to fuck my ass Daddy. Don’t hold back on me now—and deeper. She swears, all three languages that she knew strung together shabbily like they were put together on some shitty production line and thrown out at random—and while you made little sense of the sounds coming out of her filthy mouth you knew what they meant.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

Then you fuck her ass. Hard and fast.

You almost surprised yourself with the liberties you were taking, drilling in and out of her butt with the same speed and depth that you would use with her mouth and pussy.

“Yes!” she shouts—a loud, full shout. “Yes! Fuck me like this! Pound me, fuck me until you cum in my slutty little ass!”

You grunt in reply, because it was all you could do. The faculties of human language have long since abandoned your grasp and ability, and nothing else exists in your mind except the thought of filling her tight, hothole with warm, white semen. Her eyes lock with yours and you only find that they’re full of need, nothing else (not like she’s capable of displaying any other emotion at the moment). The rest of you, every fibre of your being, was focused on pounding Wonyoung’s tight little hole as hard and fast as you possibly could. Her ankles bounce helplessly behind your head, her knees press into her shoulders and her breath is ragged; sweat drips off your forehead and onto her tits, and your hot breath mixes with hers as you struggle to keep yourself propped up with your arms.

In short: the two of you are sweaty and messy (one more so than the other. Take a pick, not sure if there’s a prize for guessing right), victims of lust and slaves to pleasure. You blame Wonyoung just because you can.

For a few delicious moments, there is absolutely nothing in the world aside from the tight hot sheath of flesh around your cock, the warm flesh of her legs against your shoulders and the strands of sweat-slick hair that fly just about everywhere, all topped with the lewd, filthy, obscene words spilling from Wonyoung’s mouth. For a few delicious moments, she feels nothing but the feeling of her tight hole being stretched and used by the cock that turns her face into a wrought outlet of pleasure while she lets filthy words and exclamations spill from her lips. 

Try as you might, you couldn’t have it last forever. Not when you were already so turned on from watching her writhe and twitch under your fingers. Not when the sheer, pure pleasure overwhelming you was more than enough to cause you to cum at any moment.

And when she orgasms for the second time, her ass tightening exponentially around you—there is little you or anyone else could have done to stop the inevitable.

“I’m gonna cum in your ass, Wonyoung,” you hiss through gritted teeth, your lust and pleasure-addled brain on the edge of losing all comprehension.

“Cum with me! Fill me!” 

And so you do it, burying yourself hilt deep inside the quivering woman’s asshole before filling it with the last of your cum, giving her every last drop you had left in your body, leaving rope after rope inside her sore, well-used, cum-filled asshole. You almost black out, and you quite literally have to dig your nails into the sheets while Wonyoung’s own orgasm takes over her body, making her twitch and her ass contract—milking every last bit of cum from your throbbing, twitching length till it was nothing but a dry, hard rod inside of her creamy asshole. 

There’s silence that is punctuated by both of your ragged breaths. She looks at you, you look at her. And the two of you can’t help but chuckle at the mess you’ve made of each other. You want to remember the way her nose wrinkles as she teases you, “you fucking animal”, and you want, so badly, to burn the image of a sweaty, weary Jang Wonyoung, folded in half beneath you like she was a piece of origami paper, panting and gasping as a fresh load of cum spills out of her ass. 

It takes energy, but you bend down and kiss her, letting her sweaty calves slide off your equally sweaty shoulders as you do. She’s satisfied, for now, and she pulls you down next to her on the hotel bed with one hand and gathers the cum leaking out of her ass with the other. 

“Look at this,” she whispers, and your eyes train themselves on the pearlescent, sticky, slimy, fluids that run down from her fingertips slowly. “You made such a big mess inside my ass,” she chides before bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking your cum right off her fingers like it’s a delicacy. “Now I have to clean all of this up. You’re lucky I like the way your cum tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Um… Ew?”

Wonyoung smirks and gently nudges you with her left foot.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, all smug and everything. “I know you love the way I taste too.”

* In the dark, her small hand creeps around your torso and grasps yours. 

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” She’s whispering right into your ear, and it’s a sensation you want to be able to hold on to for the rest of your life. “I know your eyes are open.” The feel of her small fingers rolling the knuckle of your index finger sticks itself in your head like a post-it. “ I can hear and feel you tossing, you know?”

Okay. No dodging. 

The sheets stay still as your shoulders turn. You roll over, face her, and you really just want to capture the way the night lights paint her face: doe-like eyes reflecting glimmering pools of moonlight, warm yellow light painting her cute-yet-so-fucking-gorgeous face in a manner that not even Van Goh could copy, lips parted slightly as if in mid speak. She’s right there—you can kiss her if you really want to.

“Are you still mad at me?” She asks, tender with her tone. “I know that I fucked up, okay?” You can tell that she’s not even trying to look pitiful at the moment, but the way her face is sculpted really makes you want to just hold her to your chest and stroke her hair. Sincere are her words—heart heaved into her mouth. “I don’t blame you if you’re still mad. It’s your right. But… Just hear me out? Please?”

If you were mad, you wouldn’t have let her hold your hand the way she was now. If you were mad, you would’ve pretended to be fast asleep; ignore her pleas and just close your eyes and fall asleep. Alas, you can never stay mad at her for too long.

“I was… Never really angry, Wony.” Your tone is a lot softer than you would ever expect, but you know it’s because you probably needed this talk more than she did. “I... I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

And she studies you for a moment, lets the sound of your breathing fill the space as she furls her upper lip into her front teeth, and it’s a perfect moment for you to try and understand what’s happening in her head. She’s a complex creature really; understanding her is like finding a meaning that everyone can agree on when you look at abstract art.

Down below, you can still hear the cars moving through the street. Billboards and screens are still on, and from the window in your bedroom, multi-coloured lights filter into the room past the blinds like moonlight through bamboo leaves. The sheets you lie in are fresh, and they feel nice and smooth against your skin, and they smell like roses. The mattress creaks a little as Wonyoung shifts her weight, and you have to admit that you’re half-drunk on the scent of her shampoo. 

“You must have been scared,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I got really emotional. I… I shouldn’t have walked out. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know how to reply to that. Not now at least. Maybe it’ll come to you the next morning.

You give her a sweet smile. You hug her to your chest. You want to remember how she feels in your arms.

*

The gentle trickle of water down the arch of her spine is really something—a steady stream flowing down her back, running over the muscles of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts and fraying at her plump ass. You can’t remember the last time you showered with her, but you certainly remember the view being this good. 

In the shower of room 302, Jang Wonyoung lets the warm water hit her skin from the rain shower nozzle. Her hair—wet and freshly shampooed (and conditioned)—sticks to her back. Creamy skin glistens, small beads of water affix themselves to random parts of her body, stay there for one or two seconds, then roll down in streaks, almost as if they too were admiring Wonyoung’s well-sculpted figure.

Slim fingers grasp locks of hair. She lifts and looks over her shoulder, the whisper of a grin on her face as she shoots a beckoning wink. “Are you gonna help me soap my back? Or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?”

“Don’t you have to, like, turn off the water first?” you ask, and you already know what she’s gonna say, but you just want to hear her say it. For memory sake.

“Mmmm.” Her humming as she ‘ponders’ reverberates in the shower, floating over the sound of water from the shower head falling to the floor like rain. “No… Adds to the atmosphere, don’t you think?” 

Ah. There we go.

“Then could you at least step back?” you request. This shower is comically huge—long length, breadth about the same length as your arm span. In the space, she looks so tiny, but you know for a fact that she could probably walk to the other end of the shower in a stride. You’re not one to disregard the facts, but you do like to live with a bit of imagination.

Wonyoung chuckles, low and sonorous. She pushes her hair over her shoulder, then—painfully slowly—walks back till she’s out of the stream of water. Water wastage is the last thing on her mind. She stops when she feels your hands on her back, and she looks over her shoulder, expectant. You move your hands and the soap lathers as it’s spread. You start from the centre of her back, rubbing gently in the section where the muscles of her shoulders meet and working your way outwards and upward to her shoulders. Then it’s down from there, your palms moving in small circles and covering every inch of skin.

“You’re good at this,” she mutters, watching with intent as your hands start to trail to her lower back. “Maybe you should’ve been a masseuse instead of a writer.”

“Uh… Patronising much?” You chuckle, watching as her back muscles twitch a little when you apply gentle pressure. “The pay’s about the same,” the soap makes patterns across the area above her ass—spirals of foam that stick to her skin like styrofoam flowers. “The hours are probably the same… But I don’t think I can live on rubbing someone’s back really hard. I Think I’ll just save this service for you, but only for when we meet.”

Humored, Wonyoung offers a giggle, high pitched and cutting above the sound of water striking the floor tiles. She shifts her weight to her right foot, making her body slant a little. Her skin is soft under your palms. Your hands are going lower and lower, slowly spiralling towards the curve of her ass that’s literally just a centimetre away.

“You know…If you take up my offer, you can do this for me everyday.”

Your hands slow to a stop. You raise your head a little to find her searching for your gaze over her shoulder. “Oh?”

“Yea.” Her voice is low, like a mother trying to persuade her child to eat their vegetables. “Every night, we can be like this: you soaping my back, us chatting… Doesn’t it sound wonderful?”

Your lip furls behind your front teeth. “Yea… It really does.”

And in her gaze, you sense her sensing your apprehension. “What’s stopping you from taking it up then?”

(For context, here’s the deal proposed by her company: the two of you go public with the relationship, get clout for the company, and Starship will let you lead your lives together—no qualms, no disturbances. She can visit you whenever, live with you, appear outside together with you like it’s a regular Tuesday night; you get to date the girl you fell in love with all those years ago for real. Only issue: once you get the last stroke of your signature out on the contract, you practically agree to blurring the line between your private and public life. Press will be all over you like ants after you step on their nest, you probably won’t get to enjoy a cup of coffee in peace, everyone will suddenly want to curry favours with you… Was it worth the sacrifice?)

You find it hard to meet her eyes, and so your gaze affixes itself on your hands. It’s not like you don’t love her or anything, but your apprehension makes you feel like shit. It shouldn’t be this hard to say yes, yet the idea of selling your life of privacy to live a life with her makes you screech to a halt at the crossroads. Sometimes (in these moments), you wished that you didn’t always make decisions with your head and your heart. 

As the shower continues to run, Wonyoung slowly turns around. One hand finds yours, the other gently takes you by the chin and raises your eyes up to her. She’s tall, and the two of you are staring eye to eye; same height, different trains of thought.

The hand on yours guides you to her breast. Eyes locked with yours, she lays your palm flat against her tit. The skin beneath your fingers is slippery, but it doesn’t remove any of the familiarity from the sensation. Then she squeezes, and the flesh spills out between your fingers like putty. She gasps—airy. 

“Don’t you want me?” She whispers, and it’s raunchy more than anything. It isn’t aggressive, but it’s certainly blurring the line between demanding and caring. “Don’t you want to be able to fuck this pretty little pussy every night?”

She’s really far from home base. “Wony…”

“Don’t you love owning me?” She’s squeezing harder. Her knee twitches. Sopa’s spilling out of your fingers. You’re certain that you’re gonna mark her. She doesn’t care. “Don’t you want me all over you? Every night?”

“It’s not that Wonyoung.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” She’s not prodding for an answer, nor is she trying to demand a reason for your silence. She wants to understand you, to internalise what’s going on inside your head. You have no reason to lie.

“Will it all really be okay?” you ask sincerely. “My family, my life… Will… Will it all really be…”

She understands where you’re coming from (if the relieving of pressure around her own breast is any indication), and she’s starting to tune herself to the frequency of your worries. “If you’re wondering if you’re gonna be harassed—you won’t.”

“Yea but—”

“I promise you: I will do everything I can to make sure that you will be safe. You and your family–if so much as a finger is laid on any of you, I will quit.”

“Wonyo—”

“No one will intrude on you. You won’t have to live with the flashing lights. I give you my word: I will make sure that everyone who wants to invade your privacy will leave you alone. You and your family will all be left alone.”

If it’s possible for sincerity to ring clear, Jang Wonyoung has absolutely made it happen. Sweet like honey; she’s left you feeling like you had a spoonful of it. And just for good measure, she steps closer and repeats once more: “I promise.”

Considering that your hand was at the left side of her chest, this was really a “I swear. Hand to my heart” type of deal (whether it’s intended or not is purely up to your discretion). 

And as you gaze into those eyes, you want to remember the way she gazes at you softly, gently, tenderly. If it weren’t for your hand on her tit, you would’ve considered this one of the more tender moments you’ve shared with her. Not that it’s not or anything… Just that it’s a little hard to call this a loving moment when you can literally feel her nipple poking into the flesh of your palm at all times of the conversation.

“Are you sure you won’t land yourself in trouble?” you ask her, and she’s quick to scoff.

“Of course. I make too much fucking money fo those higher up fuckers to not listen to me,” she reminds you. 

Well… Then that settles about everything then.

“Okay,” you tell her. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

The corners of her lips play up in a smile. She leans in, kisses you—no tongue, closed mouth—and lets the hand keeping yours at her breast fall. Long arms wrap around your waist and she pulls you close, flushing her tight frame against your body. When lips part, she whispers a soft I love you, a sparkle in eyes that lingered for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Then—without you noticing—her hand snakes down and grips your rapidly hardening shaft, and she squeezes. This time, the line between demanding and caring is clear as day, and she’s chosen to play her ball to the court of demanding. With a gleam in her eye, she begins stroking with her closed fist, and she pumps your stiff length at a slow but steady rhythm, adding an occasional twisting motion to her wrist, corkscrewing her fingers around your cock, increasing the pleasurable shocks she was sending through your system with each pump of her hand. It was almost like she wasn’t the sweetest, loving girl in the whole world just two seconds ago.

“Jesus fucking…” You can’t even finish your sentence. Your teeth grit. Your fists clench. It’s hard to breathe. “Maybe… A little bit of a heads up next time?”

She smirks proudly, watching as you tilt your head back and let out a groan. “Where’s the fun in that?” And gently, she pushes against your chest, guides you to the wall. When your back presses against the cool tile, she presses herself against you. She leans in, hot breath on your skin, and then the feeling of her lips against your jaw almost makes you yelp. She kisses a path down your jaw, paves a way towards your neck to get cheeky: sucking, nibbling, licking the skin of your neck while she keeps the movement of her hands slow and considerate. The shower continues to run.

Do you know—she breaks contact with your skin for just a second—how fucking horny—her breath’s tickling your ear, sending shivers down your spine—you make me?—and she squeezes a little harder around your shaft, not enough for it to hurt, but enough to feel you throb in your hand and make you gulp a little. She starts going faster—jerking, fucking pumping your length in her closed fist, and it’s almost impossible to keep your eyes open; your eyelids flutter shut. Your head rests against the wall, a sigh slipping past your lips. It’s filthy really—down from the way she catches you off guard to the way she makes your skin sore after she’s done feasting. Almost every interaction with her in a private space is as X-rated as this; it’s hard not to get into a situation like this around her. You know: a situation where the two of you are naked and getting really touchy and actively trying to get each other as many times as humanly possible. 

“Fuck yes baby…” you rasp, your nails starting to eat into your palms as she the sound of her hand sliding up and down your dick starts to cut above the steady stream of water. With each rise of her hand, the pad of her thumb plays with the head of your member, and when it sinks down, she twists her wrist in a screwing motion. Rinse and repeat; up and down and up and down and fuck. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

She hums in reply, and she has your earlobe between her teeth the next second, nicking you mischievously, sending small pricks of pain shooting through your system as she adjusts her grip on your cock without ever breaking her motion. Next thing you know, your tongue is inside your ear, and she’s leaning in so close that when you open your eyes, you’re practically looking over her shoulder, looking down the curve of her back that glistens with moisture and soap bubbles.

“I love this cock so fucking much,” she whispers, a bit of a hiss in her words as she takes the head of your cock between her forefinger and thumb and pinches lightly. “It stretches me out when I need it.” her fingers start to trail down your slipper shaft, letting the smoothness of her palm rub against your whole length, “fills me when I want it.” She’s milking the precum out of you, making you all leaky and squirmy as she starts pumping faster. “And it’s so fucking big that I can choke on it. You know how much I love being choked.”

She chooses that last bit to make eye contact with you, and she’s practically served you what she wants next on a silver platter. The next move is clear cut and simple; no words need be spoken. You were going to fuck her—and you mean properly fuck her—with a hand wrapped around that small throat. How you were gonna do it was still a mystery, but you figured that it’d slowly come to you, but it will definitely be related to the mirror and the sink outside and the mirror in front of it. At once, you reach over to the handle of the shower, and you turn it down to the handheld showerhead mode. Wonyoung bites her bottom lip, perverse glee painted all over her face as you use it to wash the soap off her back. She’s watching, waiting, probably drenched down there and aching to be stuffed full of cock.

She’s almost shaking with excitement as you finish washing all the soap off her body. You’d hardly consider her clean, but it won’t hurt to hop back into the shower again once you're done with her. The shower door swings open and you’re cupping her pussy, dripping wet while stumbling out with her, lips locked on hers and her hand on your cock as you push her against the sink of her hotel room. From the moment her mouth opens and let the moans pour out while you rub her clit to the moment her hand leaves your cock to cradle your face, she’s practically radiating need from the pores of her skin. You can’t help but playfully remark, “you’re such a fucking loser”, while your thumb thumps against her clit and sends pleasure tearing through her system. Weak in the knees, she holds on to you for support.

And the moans (those fucking hair-raising moans), they tumble out of those plump lips like marbles down a ramp, and they mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you start to leave a trail of kisses down her neck, doing to her what she did to you in the shower; you give her a taste of her own medicine, and the way she’s titling her head back to let you mark her freely makes it almost seem as if it’s the intended outcome of her actions. It’s like she knew that you would get back at her, and it wouldn’t come as a surprise if you ever find out that she gets off on knowing that she can manipulate you in her own bratty ways—get you wrapped around her finger and have you doing all the things she wants you to do without having to tell you. Not that you have something to gripe about it, but you’re just so amused (and that’s just one word to describe how you feel) by how she goes about her ways.

“Come on,” she manages to whisper, all while you’re busy sucking on the skin just below her collarbone till it’s sore. She has a lot of pride in her voice for someone who’s quite literally quivering. “You know you want to fuck me. Give me a good creampie again.” 

You lift your head for a moment, and you take in the look of almost childlike excitement on her face as your hand finds its way to her throat. It’s perverse excitement, that lewd exhilaration of knowing that she was about to get what she wanted, and albeit a little messed up, it was pretty hot in its own way. When your fingers gently wrap themselves around her throat, you can feel every muscle in her body tense in anticipation, as if she didn’t get enough from the bedroom earlier.

“Up on the counter baby. Let me see how messy you are down there,” you whisper.

She knows what to do, and she has herself propped up on the counter and engaged in open mouth kissing. She doesn’t need you to tell her to spread her legs, and she definitely doesn’t need you to tell her how cute she sounds when your fingers slip inside of her, feeling around the mess you’ve made of her and coating your digits in her fluids. Your index and middle finger are slick with her juices when you retract them from inside her, and you can’t help but chuckle. 

“Messy as ever,” you muse, making a show of sucking her juices clean off your fingers. She’s sweet and borderline tangy—a taste that you’re accustomed to, and you will never get tired of it. She’s biting down on her lower lip, the skin wrinkling under the pressure of her front teeth as she makes a sound that’s close to a purr. 

“You made the mess.” She has her eyes locked on yours as you raise an eyebrow, prompting her to follow up after her first statement. Not that you didn’t know what was coming, but more that you wanted to gently coax it out of her, because it was so fucking hot to hear what she had to say next. “You clean it up.”

And you’re more than happy to oblige. She watches you with intent eyes as you sink down to your knees, waits with bated breath as you lower your face till the glistening, pink folds of her pussy are right in front of your face, flushed thighs around your ears. Her excitement is almost palpable, and you can hear the sharp inhale she takes when your palm finds its place on the inside of her left thigh, pushing gently to give you better access to her heat (you’re really just trying to drag out the tension if you were being completely honest with yourself). You lick your lips, lean forward till your mouth is hovering above her slit. 

“You better moan for me this time,” you tell her, and you’re making sure to make your breath hit her slick as you speak. “You have such a wonderful voice. Put it to use.”

Praise mixed with the slight hint of authority—it’s enough to make her nod furiously and implore you with doe eyes to just get on with it. With a smirk, your lips find the swollen nub at the top of her entrance. You suck on it. Hard. And almost at once, her thighs clamp around your ears and her hand is on your head, like it’s some sort of natural instinct for her when you’re eating her out. Keeping to her word, she cries out—keening, whiny and ever so fucking bratty, and it’s the the holy grail of every wet dream. Nothing in the world could bring you more satisfaction than that shrill, airy cry she lets out when the pleasure ripples through her body, and you’re just getting started. 

Your mouth opens and your tongue flattens itself against her folds, (She tastes so good. You want all of it, all of her) and you drag it up her folds, deliberately, painfully slow as you start to lick up that wet cunt. Her back arches; you can feel her struggling to keep a hold of your head; she throws her head back and lets out a gasp; her thighs clamp down a little harder around your head. The pleasure in her system builds up with the slow movement of your tongue, only rising and rising as you lick from the base of her slit to the mid section to the top. When the tip of your tongue flicks her clit, it's almost like an explosion, enough for her other hand to join its pair atop your head, enough to make her cry out in a perverse plea, “Daddy, please!”

(For the record: she’s wanted this from the moment you guys stepped into the shower. She’s willingly turned herself into some pliant little plaything, and she’s probably getting off so hard to it. Frankly, if she wanted to order you around, you’d be up to it, but this is what she prefers.)

And nothing else needs to be said really. You put your whole mouth on her—relishing the shiver that runs up from her thighs up to her body—and get right into making a wreck of her. You lick, you devour, you ravish her: working your mouth on her pussy, lapping up the juices that spill forth from flushed lips with broad, sharp strokes that make her body grow taut and her legs quiver. You tongue her clit, lick up sweet fluids, make her messy and needy and hot in all the right areas till she’s drilling her nails into the back of your scalp and pushing your face against her sweet slick. In half whispers, she tells you just how good you make her feel—oh Daddy I’m so fucking wet!—and you feel a dark part of yourself be fed by these lecherous words—Oh god oh fuck I’m gonna fucking cum if you keep… Fuck!—that leave her half-parted mouth and linger in the air, reminding you of just how wanton she is and how you’re the only person in the world she ever wants to fuck and be satisfied by. You’re hers; she’s yours—a relationship with Jang Wonyoung that any guy would kill for. 

“Daddy—” she gaps, her voice a whole octave higher than it should be as her nails turn into claws at the back of your head. “Fuck I’m cumming. Daddy I’m cumming!”

The pulsing of her pusy against your tongue grows. You continue licking, lapping. One stroke, two strokes—three. She moans, blue screens. You hazard a look up.

Nothing else matters. Only: the sight of that back arching off the marble counter, her thighs around your head trembling and quaking as her hips roll and her mouth parts in a silent scream. You’re certain that there’s blood being drawn from the back of your head, but you're more certain that she’s got enough heat in her core to melt molten iron but a lack of breath that makes her gasp for air as you lick and lick and lick your way into her. You can feel her orgasm getting closer by the second, it’s in her breathing, and in the way her hips are practically thrusting her into your mouth.

And just like the bathrobe from earlier, she comes undone—falls apart and ceases to keep control of her body. She tenses, her thighs go rigid around your ears. Her breath is caught in her throat, her eyes are closed. You stop your work, admire the way she glows as her body twitches and her face twists. Pleasure rips its way through her muscles, her nerves—splits her very being in half as the orgasm rolls through her system. She’s beautiful, and she’s a messy work of art that you’ve created. 

You rise to your feet as she winds down, and her hands leave your head to rest on the counter while her body struggles to process the aftermath of that orgasm. It’s not the first time she’s cum for the night, and it certainly won’t be the last. Her eyes open, and she instantly locs them on you as you brush back some of the hair that sticks to her sweat slicked face. You take her hand and give a gentle tug, and she slips off the counter obediently. You grip her jaw—tenderly but rough enough for her to like it—and tell her to turn around. Servile, she obeys, and in the reflection of the mirror, she watches as your hand snakes its way to her throat and grips it. You’re not squeezing, not yet. 

“I’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy now,” you drawl, gripping your shaft in your hand and slapping it against her slit. The contact makes her shudder, but she remains silent as you place a kiss on her cheek. “Your face is gonna be so pretty when I choke you and fill you.”

“Yes Daddy.” Her reply is a whisper, a borderline drawl that’s airy and raunchy and makes your hairs stand on their ends. She’s looking at you through the mirror, plump lips slightly parted and eyes glassy. “Own me. I’m yours, forever.”

And you’re all too happy to hear that from her.

You slip into her, hilt yourself inside her in one swift motion. 

(Tight. Hot. Wet. So tight.)

She lets out a sigh, low and sonorous, harmonising with your own groan as you press her against the edge of the counter and make the fingers around her throat squeeze. The sound that leaves her throat is the sound of her sigh being truncated, and it delights that dark part of you. Being inside Wonyoung was otherworldly, as it always was, but here, in the bathroom of her hotel, on the night where you’ve agreed to seal a deal with her, she felt downright heavenly.  She squeezes her walls around you, her body thankful for the sensation of being filled by cock, if the intense tightness and slick wetness were any indication; she looks over her shoulder and bites her bottom lip. And when she has your gaze, she mouths something. 

Fill me.

The silence is deafening, but it’s all you need to hear. 

When you withdraw your glistening shaft for the first time you relish in the feel of her walls gripping you, not wanting to release you—but just as quickly they welcome you back inside as you penetrate her again. Soon you are pumping in and out of her at a slow, steady pace, her soft gasps turning quickly into long, drawn out moans as she is fucked against the marble. Her hands steady her body against the counter, her back arched in a way that lets you get a wonderful top-down view of her breasts as they roll together with her body. It’s a concerted effort, but she makes it seem effortless. 

“Be honest.” With the hand around her throat, her voice sounds a little hoarse. It’s hot. “Do you think about this, Daddy? About fucking me like a good little slut?”

“Wonyoung,” you reply, speaking through your gritted teeth. “You have no,” and you punctuate the sentence there with a deeper thrust into her tight slick, a thrust strong enough for her to let out a strained gasp. “fucking idea…”

(In the mirror, you watch as she curls her lips into her mouth and tilts her head back into your shoulder, like she’s submitting her whole being to you and letting you take liberties with her body. You take the invitation, and your free hand finds itself on one of her soft mounds and gives it a squeeze—rough but tender enough to elicit a low moan from her throat that makes your hand around it vibrate pleasantly. 

At the given moment, she’s doing all she can to make herself a pretty little fuckdoll for you, doing her best to encourage you to treat her rough, treat her like you own her. She wants nothing more but to feel the rockhard meat penetrating her tight little cunt stretch her out and fill her the way she wants, all while she’s begging and pleading obsequiously while being obsessed with your cock. It’s a lot to take in for her for sure, but she gets off on it, and you get off on it too—the fact that she’s being all needy and pleading just so she can implicitly tell you to fuck her till she’s raw and can’t fucking walk the next morning. The fact that she’s actually in control while being such a bottom. Bratty manipulation.)

“Then fuck me Daddy,” she tells you, almost pleading. “Use this pretty little pussy. I want it. I fucking need it.”

With her invitation to do more with her body, you’re more than ready to do what you’ve intended to do from the very start. You increase your tempo, and before long you are truly fucking her, drilling in and out of the tight hot warmth of her body with quick, deep strokes. With each stroke you don’t pull out more than halfway—you concentrate instead on pumping hard and fast, getting as deep as you could inside her given your standing position. She takes it well, like she was made for this. In her world, this was what fucking looked like, and it was the only definition that she was going to live with and she’d take it to the grave. She indulges in the roughness, the almost animal-like way your cock fills her again and again and again, all while she encourages you with cries and moans and sighs that are music to your ears. 

And a notion hits you: she’s going to make you fuck her till she’s the only thing you can possibly think about. She’s going to draw out every single primal urge within you, make you want her like she’s some form of drug and you’re the abuser, and then she’s going to get exactly what she wants—your cum in her pussy. You can’t let her win like that, you can’t. You can tell that to yourself now, but you’re not sure if you can remember it later, not when she practically reeks of the strongest possible sillage of sex. 

Her pussy throbs around you, pulse strong and just a beat behind your thrusts as you thrust yourself in and out of her slick walls, filling her up and drawing yourself out before filling her up yet again. Pure filth spills from her mouth, expletives, sordid sighs and cries and any sound or word that comes to mind. She's a quivering and squirming mess, and from the mirror you enjoy the way she’s almost writhing in against the counter. Ample breasts bounce with each thrust that shocks her body, and it’s almost hypnotic if it weren’t for the fact that that pretty face was stealing the show. The face that was marvelled, the face that was the source of jealousy, the face that was on the face of so many magazines and posters and adored by millions, if not billions—scrunched up, improper and so fucking lewd that it looked like it belonged in a porno instead of an idols face, and you take pleasure in the fact that your cock is ruining the face of a princess, turning her dissolute and so fucking needy that she was as good as a fan begging her for an autograph. This side of her was reserved for you, and only you—her duality is reserved for your eyes only. 

Her body is slick with sweat, rubbing against your own sweaty torso while her body rolls together with your thrusts. “Fuck—” you’re saying, but it comes out as more of a growl than anything given how hard yur teeth are clenching. Your fingers squeeze tighter around her throat. The slightly reduced airflow at her throat causes her pussy to clench even tighter around you—and the added tightness brings succulent pleasure to your mind that makes you think you’re going insane. You probably are at this rate. “This pussy. It’s so fucking good baby.”

Her reply is a strained gasp, but you get the gist of what she wants to say. She wants, so badly, to tell you how good your cock is making her feel, how well it fucks her, how well it fills her and stretches her and how it’s her favourite thing in the whole world. The squelch of your cock filling her pussy is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the smacking of skin against skin as you press more of your weight against her, pushing her a little more into the corner of the counter and a little more over the line of pathetic. She moans in response to your actions, and it’s telling you: fuck. Harder. It’s better when it hurts. 

And you can feel her juices leaking down the back of her thighs, wetting your crotch and making the smack of skin against skin louder than ever, almost as if it was an announcement: I’m being fucked like a good little slut and I love it. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to you,and for clarity, it’s something along the lines of turning you absolutely feral with her moans and the divine tightness of her pussy that makes you want to cum on the spot. Okay,maybe she is cognizant of how crazy she makes you when you fuck her, but you barely have the capacity to think, let alone rationalise wether thai girl in your arms that your chocking and fucking feel smug in knowing that she’s driving you insane. 

Oh and she loves it when you play with her tits. The way you fondle them is almost aggressive. Scratch that—it’s really fucking aggressive. You’re slapping her tits, leaving red marks all over the milky white skin and pinching and twisting the stiff nubs atop her breasts, all while she mewls and cries out in that strained voice that makes you throb even harder inside of her wet walls and makes you grit your teeth like your a dog waiting to chew on a bone. 

“D-Daddy,” she pushes out, past the fingers that close her airways and past her groans and moans and sighs. “Harder.” And your thrusts are starting to cut her off, but she has more to say. When it comes out, each word that she spits out is punctuated by a thrust of cock into her pussy, and it’s the hottest thing you’ll ever hear. 

Fuck.

You thrust deep inside her. 

Me.

Your cock drives itself deep into her, slicking itself with her juices.

Harder.

And if words could linger in the air, hers certainly would. 

You fuck her hard, and fast, and deep—hammering her into the counter, nailing her defenseless pussy with a pace that you would have thought was rough and callous were it not for the fact you knew this was exactly how she wanted it. All she can do is hang on, grasp onto the counter with a knuckle-white grip with her hands as you take your liberties with her body, fucking her as hard as you can, as deeply as she can take it. The cups on the counter shake, the toothbrush inside one of them shaking under the force. It’s loud,  but you hear none of it. You hear only the sharp sighs of pleasure that leave Wonyoung’s lips, and the wet slap slap slap of your crotch as it hammers her cunt again and again and again, your cock drilling her, pounding her, making her yours if you weren’t already doing that.

It takes a little long, but the haze of lust parts for a moment for you to realise that you're getting closer and closer to getting what she wants out of you. While the thought of burying yourself inside of that quivering, pulsing pussy to let it milk every last drop of cum from you is ever so enticing, that small part of you that wants to own her pushes you to fight against the urges. Not that there’s any harm in giving her what she wants, but it’s just that you don’t want to reward her bratty, manipulative tactics. She knew for a fact that she could tie you up and ride you over and over till you were dry—she’d done it before. But instead, she’s chosen to fulfil her needs in a less direct manner, maybe for fun or maybe just because she felt like it. 

“Yes,” Wonyoung hisses, spit flying into the mirror and her palms slipping on the counter. “Just like this Daddy.” And she’s making sure to make eye contact with you through the mirror, letting her eyes do most of the talking. If anyone’s curious, the look she gives you is saying, I’m your good little slut. Fuck me. Use me. Fill me. Please, and it's nothing short of hot and tethering far over the line of lewd. At this point, neither of you are in a state where you're capable of coherent thought, nor are you capable of thinking about anything else except each other’s bodies and the wet, lewd squelching of cock filling Wonyoung’s pussy. It goes on and on and on, a cycle of your hips hammering the back of her legs and your cock spearing deep into her cunt.  She takes it so well, drinking you in hungrily, coiling around your shaft like a snake as if it was begging for you to stay in her forever. The sight is enough to make your balls tingle and your toes curl, and your hand around Wonyoung's throat tightens to the point where the only thing that can leave her lips is a groan as her airflow is reduced. 

She’s tighter, hotter, wetter. Her pussy fits you like a glove, moulding around your cock as it pumps in and out of her at a pace that you had no idea you were capable of. The hand around her neck is nothing but an outlet of pleasure for you, and she’s loving it. “Such a good girl,” you mutter, watching from the mirror as her mouth slacks and opens while she’s being pumped full of cock. “You were made to take Daddy’s cock, weren’t you?”

Her equivalent of a yes is a sharp, strained groan—an amalgamation of phonics and whatever sounds the lack of air flowing to her throat permits her to make. She’s so fucking messy down there, and your cock is sliding in and out of her with ease, aided by her slick juices that coat your shaft and let it disappear and reappear from between her legs with ease. The motion is almost graceful if it weren’t for the fact that it was a sordid one, and you take a moment to admire the way your shaft glistens in the light of the bathroom while you fuck her the way she wants it: rough, hard and tethering over the edge of callous. If it weren’t for the hand around her throat, she’d be making herself hoarse with all the moaning she’d be doing.

And the hand around her throat is bringing her so much pleasure, if the way her pussy squeezes around you when you choke her is any indication. She wasn’t lying when she said she liked being choked. While she didn’t like gagging on your cock, she sure as hell loved it when your fingers clasped around the muscles and made her gasp. She liked the sensation of being deprived of air, be it when she was riding or when she has her kness buried into her shoulders and was being fucked into the bed like a slut. You were always afraid of hurting her, but when she shots you that look, the one that says, come on, you can do better, you know that she’s getting exactly what she wants, just the way she likes it. It was just a matter of how hard you squeeze around her throat before she either cums or passes out, though the latter has rarely happened before the former.

“Daddy!” she chokes, and you know exactly what she’s about to say next. So you release her throat from her grasp, bunch a lock of her hair in your closed fist and you pull back. Her eyes squeeze themselves shut. Her back arches deliciously, her voice now free to finish shat she’s aching to announce. “I’m fucking…”

You never expect her to finish her sentence. Wonyoung’s eyes open, and a gasp leaves her open lips. Her walls, already vice-like, tighten so hard around you that you think you might come there and then. You feel how close she is. 

“Fucking cum for me, Wonyoung. Cum around my cock like a good little slut.”

Wonyoung does as she is told—and the quivering, trembling orgasm she experiences is almost frightening in the way it overwhelms her body, turning her into a wet, hot mess. Her pussy tightens and pulsates, her fingers claw against the marble counter, and her entire lower body shakes violently, as though she had lost control of her nerves and muscles. For a few beautiful seconds she is utterly overwhelmed by the sensations, until finally she slumps forward in your grasp, breathing heavily. 

It's good. It's so good, but it's not quite enough to get you to your finish. Not yet.

(And if anyone’s asking: it’s not that the sex isn’t good. It’s mind blowing, amazing, and whatever word that can be used to describe “fucking incredible”.  She’s hot, so tight and fucking soaked down there. You’re horny, throbbing and on the verge of filling her full of your seed. But you’ve said it before and you’ll say it again—you’re not rewarding bratty manipulation. As tempting as it would have been to simply pound her from behind until you gave her needy pussy the load of semen she so desperately wanted, you knew that there was something even better that you could do.)

You pull out of Wonyoung, your shaft glistening under the hotel light. Her eyes are wide with shock as you withdraw yourself from her body, pulling her away from the counter—but only enough to have her lean back against you and not stand up completely. Her mouth opens to say something, but she's interrupted when you turn her face to you and kiss her. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, your tongue slipping into her mouth and massaging her own, lapping at the roof of her mouth as her tongue swirled around your own. You bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention. When her eyes flutter open, you whisper, "I'm not finished."

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You turn her around, push down gently on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Wonyoung on her knees with her pretty little face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you finally bury yourself inside and cum down her throat, but that would just be a repeat telecast of every other night with her. Spice things up; give her the liberty of creativity with your cock. 

And of course, Wonyoung perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth. Grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other, Wonyoung quickly launches into a hard and fast blowjob, taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with a rapid pace while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion, just like she did in the shower. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. Your hand finds a clump of her sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. No, you weren’t going to push her head down onto your cock; you had to give her the space to work on her craft. 

And of course, she exceeds every expectation out there. Your eyes shut involuntarily, your brain unable to handle any sensations beyond the wet, hot cavern of Wonyoung’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft with tight, soft lips. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. With each subsequent entry her tongue becomes more adventurous, beginning with quick swipes left and right on your shaft with each entry and ending each exit with a swirl of the tip around the head of your cock. While she tastes herself on your cock, letting her juices mix with saliva, her hands work in perfect concert with her mouth, one joining her lips at your shaft and pumping up and down, a twisting motion to her wrist while her free hand works gently with your dangling balls, fondling them with considerate fingers. She plays with them softly yet hastily, her fingertips working their magic between the sacs with expert attention.

You are content to stand there with your eyes shut, simply enjoying the feel of your cock pumping in and out of her mouth at a fervent pace, but a small part of you knew that you had to see it happening in order to truly believe it was all real—and so with a not insignificant amount of self-control, you force eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Black locks bob up and down frantically above your cock, doe-like eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you as her cheeks hollow and her jaw unhinges even more to accommodate your length. 

It all becomes too much, and it hits you all at once—having her pump your shaft in the shower, eating her out then fucking her—and you quickly find yourself nearing that inevitable peak.

“Fuck, Wony—” is all you manage to say before your orgasm overtakes your world.

Wonyoung releases your cock from her mouth a split second before you erupt, shooting long, thick strands of hot semen all over her pretty little face. Her face glazes over in pleasure and you are all too happy to watch as strand after strand of cum lands on her cheeks, her pretty little nose, and finally her open mouth and jaw. You watch, through half-lidded eyes drunk with pleasure, as the thick streams of cum flow down her face, dripping onto her upper chest and those perfect breasts of hers. Her face is flushed and her mouth open, as though she herself was on the verge of orgasm (she probably was, and she was going to make it your problem as soon as she got your cum off her face).

You want to remember the way she wipes your cum off her face with the back of her hand, how she licks it all up like a cat licking its own paw before moving to clean the stray strands of cum off the tip and sides of your cock. You want to remember how she rises so gracefully even though she was a sweaty mess, and how she gently takes your hand and guides you back into the shower for another clean up.   

And back under warm water, you want to remember how she kisses you, and how she whispers, “next time, I want that big load in my pussy.”

*

“What?”

And it’s hard to meet Wonyoung’s eyes as you set down the papers from the doctor. You can feel her confusion, her frustration, her rage from across the dining table in your apartment. It isn’t pretty. Nothing about this situation is. 

“It’s a neurological disease,” you tell her, all while you’re looking at the MRI that’s in the middle of the table. You’re really just regurgitating what the doctor told you—it’s the only thing you have the capacity to do right now. “They ran their tests. They told me what I suspected. I’m losing my ability to read and write, to understand language. In 2 years—give or take —I won’t be able to express my thoughts. I’ll be spouting gibberish. What people say, what I see — on pages, street signs, everywhere — they’ll all be unintelligible to me.” She’s silent, and it unnerves you in every way possible. You haven’t even gotten to the worst part of it all. “My mental competence will deteriorate. I’ll have to live off a tube cause I’ll forget how to eat and drink. Dementia will follow shortly.”  

Now would be a great time for her to say something, anything to break this silence. But she is silent, unmoving and reticent in her seat from across you. You have no choice but to gulp and deliver, in your personal opinion, the worst part of it all, “By the time I forget how to breathe I… I would’ve lost all my memories by then.”

She chooses the moment after the last word leaves your mouth to pick up the MRI scan and look at it. 

“So… Everything we’ve built up till now will just… Disappear?” she whispers. She sounds hurt, scared and everything in between. You bite your lower lip. 

“Yes.” There’s no point sugarcoating it, it’s inevitable anyway. Face it now, sulk later… You think that’s the best way to deal with this piece of news. You hope that the matter-of-fact tone of voice that you’ve chosen doesn't betray how frightened you are by the prospect of losing everything you know. “We can’t stop it. It’s in my genes.”

She sets down the scan, and when you look up, you see the tears flowing down her cheeks and it makes you want to cry as well.

She stands up, shoulders her handbag and walks towards the front door. 

“Where are you—” you begin. “I’m going somewhere else to think,” she interjects. 

When she slams the door behind her, you feel like you’ve let her down in so many ways. There’s a burning in your chest that you can’t describe. The first hot tear rolls down your cheek, and you let the rest that well in your eyes flow down without resistance. 

You don’t want to remember what it feels like to be helpless—the emptiness, the rage, the sadness, the confusion is all so overwhelming. But you figure that you’ll have to feel it again at some point down the road. 

Might as well figure out how to cope with it now, when Wonyoung isn't there and you're all alone with your thoughts.

*

When you awaken later that night in your bed in the apartment, it takes you a few moments to determine whether the soft, slim body climbing atop you is real or part of some wonderful dream—but the familiar warmth of your girlfriend, and the soft, pleasant smell of her hair, convinces you that this was all real.

Wonyoung places soft kisses on your neck and jawline, before moving to your mouth and kissing your lips softly. You are still only half awake, but your senses and instincts take over, and you find your mouth welcoming her kiss and returning it with one of your own, your hands moving to either side of her hips and finding, to your surprise, that there was only bare skin there and no clothing.

“Wony…” you begin, as she deepens her kiss, her lips pressing more firmly against yours.

“Shhh,” she answers, “please. I need this. I need you, right now. Please.”

She’s suddenly reappeared after walking out on you, and you have yet to process the slew of emotions that have come your way. Part of you wants to stop her, to talk things out with her so that you could: a) figure out if she was still mad at you and; b) verify that she wasn’t drunk. But the part of you that formed the majority of your conscience knew that she needed comfort as much as you did, and that she needed something to assuage her and make her feel like everything would turn out alright. So you find yourself relaxing underneath her, letting her scent fill your nostrils as her tongue dances with yours.

She straddles you, and your hands begin to run up her naked body, up from her slim thighs to her chest where the ample mounds sat proudly, her nipples erect and stiff. She isn’t wearing any underwear, and your fingers brushing against the slick of her pussy is enough to verify that for you. She’s naked atop of you, kissing you like you just confessed your love to her or like you’re about to go on some mission and never return. It’s not lustful, but it’s full off passion and aims to soothe not stir. 

She breaks the kiss. Her eyes flutter open. In the dark that is pierced by the street lights of the city, you want to remember the way her eyes glimmer and shimmer as she breathes heavily. There’s no alcohol on her breath, and from the way she’s cradling your face, you can infer that she’s not mad at you in the slightest. 

“You okay?” she whispers, and her tone is soft and warm, like that time she spoke in the shower of her hotel about signing that contract with her company so that the two of you could officially start dating. It’s been some time after that, but you still hang on to the way her words made their way to your heart. “I didn’t mean to startle you if I did.”

You respond by nodding, and it’s enough to convey: I’m alright. You brush away the hair that falls in front of her eyes, and you really want to remember how silky smooth her hair feels in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask her, making sure to keep your tone as warm as her own. She blinks, goes silent for a moment, then answers, “I’m making amends.”

She holds your gaze, you hold hers. The staring contest ends when you gently pull her in for another kiss, and you want to remember how she softly moans into your mouth while her thumb, smooth and tender, caresses your cheek.

When the kiss breaks again, her hands snake their way down to your sweats. You assist her in removing your shorts—a very clumsy affair: tangled hands and arms and lots of chuckling. But your cock does finally spring out from your boxers, the ones that have been discarded in the corner of the bed, together with her clothes. When it’s all done, you have the pleasure of witnessing the sight of her slim frame straddling you once more, long legs surrounding you on either side of your thighs while she peppers kisses on your chest. 

“I’m sorry I left you to deal with… Everything. Alone.”  she begins, “I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that… I’m sorry. I hope you aren’t angry”

And from your lying position, you lift a hand to cup her cheek. “We can talk later.”

She gets the message, but bends down and kisses you nonetheless. You’d probably have trouble falling asleep later in the night, and she’d wake up and you’d have this same conversation again. You’d rather have it later than now, not when the wound is still fresh.

Wonyoung lets a soft smile play on her lips. You are slightly aware of her raising her hips, her right hand finding its way between your bodies to grasp your wet, erect shaft, and line it up with her entrance. She breaks the kiss for the third time that night, searches your eyes for approval to continue with this. Was it make up sex? You didn;t know if it was for sure, but it sure as hell felt like it. What you do no for certain is: you’d like to experience this now, and you want to etch this in your memory for as long as you can before it fades with the rest of your mind. 

You give her the slightest of nods, and you feel the head of your cock press against her wet, tight opening. Slowly, carefully, Wonyoung lowers herself down onto your shaft, your cockhead parting her tight lips to impale her pussy. She gasps loudly as she impales herself fully, and she opens her eyes slightly to match your gaze. You brush stray locks of hair away to reveal her face fully, and you bring her mouth back to yours to kiss her deeply. As your tongues duel, she begins to raise her hips, drawing your shaft out of her body before lowering it once more, and soon she has found a soft, slow rhythm as she rides you, grinding her warm, tight body against yours. 

She raises herself upright and lets her hands rest on top of your chest. You’d like to save that face she makes in a supercut of her other memorable faces: eyes closed, lips slightly parted and the wisp of a smile on her lips as she rocks her hips. From where you lie, you watch as Wonyoung takes you in and out of her body with soft grinding motions, riding you slowly, enjoying every entry and exit of your shaft as it fills her over and over in slow, tender strokes that make her shiver. You watch as your shaft appears for a split second or so before driving back into her, each disappearance accompanied by a soft spike of pleasure. As always, she’s letting moans and sighs and gasps tumble freely from half-parted lips as she takes you in and out of her slowly, rocking her hips with innate grace and elegance. All you do is let your hands rest on her thighs, moaning softly to encourage her as she rides you lovingly, tenderly, a far cry from what you’re used to when it comes down to sex with Jang Wonyoung. 

Through the night, your cock glides in and out of that perfect pussy, elicits moans and gasp and sighs and cute little cusses when you hilt yourself deep inside of her and tug a little at her hair. Her hands were always active, sometimes caressing your chest, sometimes on your jaw, sometimes behind your head as she snaked an arm behind your head to keep you locked where you were just so she could sneak in a kiss. You came in her mouth, her ass, her pussy. She came on your fingers, your cock, your mouth. She cussed a lot, almost passed out once or twice. You cussed a lot two, and you caught her when she almost rolled off the bed (the two of you laughed for a minute about that situation before you ended up spooning on the floor, her leg in the air and your cock pumping in and out of her while she had your back to you and your face in her right hand). 

Bottom line: it was wonderful, wonderful make up sex that ended with both of you sweaty and panting and wanting more from each other but you guys just don’t have that energy to keep going. It was a novelty for both of you, and you wanted to remember just how special she could make you feel, even in the impurest of acts. 

*

The flash of the polaroid camera is almost blinding, but you power through and keep your eyes open. Like a child that’s seeing snow for the first time, Jang Wonyoung watches excitedly as the polaroid emerges from the slot in the camera, and she’s all too eager to grab it and lay it face down on the coffee table in your apartment.

“I thought you’re supposed to shake it?” you ask, watch as she fiddles with the camera for a little bit before she snaps a selfie with her newest purchase. She gives you a look that basically translates to, “uh, are you dumb?” and waits for the next polaroid to emerge from the slot before she launches into her lecture. 

“Shaking the polaroid to make it develop faster is a myth,” the way she sounds so official and everything is so cute. You can’t help but smile a little as she sets the other polaroid down. “It shifts the pigments and blurs the photo, but an idiot like you would need a genius like me to tell that to you.”

The remark is clearly meant to be biting, but it’s nothing short of hilarious to you. “When did you become a camera nerd?”

“Ever since I got this,” she lifts the polaroid camera up and hits you with that you’re on camera smile. “Maybe I should do an ad for this brand. Increase their sales, you know?”

She leaves you to think on that and retrieves the first polaroid she took: a picture of you and her on the couch of your apartment. Not the grandest first photo, but hey, a memory is a memory, and you really are just focusing on cherishing those at the moment. As she leaves the couch to clip the polaroid onto the photo rack (a bunch of metal wires on a metal frame with wooden clips to hold photos) she just set up, you grab your journal next to you and flip it to the page you wrote on a few hours before. With your pen (that you now carry around just about everywhere with your journal), you scribble down a new part of today that you want to remember. It was her idea to journal down everything you wanted to remember. 

The entry goes right under the one about Wonyoung’s new camera.

She looks so happy with that new camera. Bet she’s going to go back to the dorm and show it off to all of her members because she’s a fucking child. I hope that…

And you trail off in your writing, What you wanted to say was just on the tip of your tongue just a second ago. Why can’t you remember it? It was literally just in your head a minute ago…

No. 

You shut the journal. It makes a soft yet substantial thud as the leather cover slaps against pages. You place your pen in your pocket, set the journal back down on the couch and stand up to walk towards your girlfriend, who is currently adjusting the angle that the wooden clip holds the polaroid at. She senses you walking up to her, steps aside and makes a space for you to watch her struggle. You would offer help, but you know that it removes half the fun for her when you do something for her. 

She fiddles around a little more, makes a couple of grunting sounds under her breath, curses a little, and next thing you know, she exclaims, “tada!” while pointing at the first occupant of the photo rack. You roll your eyes, throw an arm over her shoulder and look at the slightly blurry photo within the white frame. 

“With the camera,” she tells you, her tone soft and warm like… Like… Fuck. “I hope that we can help our memories live on. Sounds pretty deep huh?”

You can’t help but chuckle in agreement. You take a moment to stare at the two faces that occupy the space in the polaroid, and you hope to God that they will never, ever look foreign to you. It’s a futile prayer, you know, but a glass-half-full mentality is the best chance you have at not spiralling out of control. 

Wonyoung lays her head on your shoulder, silent and all sentimental as she closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. She lets out a shuddering sigh, and you know that she’s trying not to cry, cause in this situation she’s the one that will end up hurt at the end of it all. You’ll forget the pain of forgetting; she’ll remember the pain of being forgotten. It sucks, but it’s just the way it is. You hug her, hold her close and stroke her hair. You don’t want to forget what she means to you, what you mean to her.

How many more polaroids left till it all ceases to matter?

____________________

Hello! Hope you guys enjoyed this fic. I'm a bit rusty so this one might be a bit funny, but hopefully the style of storytelling I chose didn't fuck you up too bad. Non-linear storytelling will be the death of me. Also: I kinda didn't edit this one too much. My bad hehe.

This was really more of a PSA to cherish the ones you hold close to you, because you never know when they will just disappear. Love the people close to you, cherish them forever.

~Lots of love Nichuuu

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

Under the Weather | Cillian Murphy x Reader

Summary | It's your one-year anniversary with Cillian and he's just finished filming The Party but as the night goes on, you begin to feel feverish and sick. Cillian comes home and takes care of you.

Warnings | fluff lol; age-gap.

Pale Blue Eyes- The Velvet Underground 🎶

word count: 1421

Don't interact if you're a Yvonne hater. This is a completely fictional piece and does not reflect Cillian or his family in reality. Read with the assumption that Cillian is not married and does not have children.

........................................

She started to feel sick around noon, the inklings of fatigue and fever creeping up into her head. She went to dinner with Cillian as she said she would for their one-year anniversary but her pearl earrings felt colder than usual against her feverish skin and she shivered when she had pulled on her dark green dress with the boat neck that exposed her collarbones to the chilly air. Curling her hair was too much, and the heat had left her exhausted and sweaty, even though she was cold. She tightened her green buckled flats and sat up in her chair at the vanity, placing a warm hand against her hot forehead and sighed. She wasn’t sure if she was actually sick or just anxious from the weeks of filming that Cillian had been preoccupied with for The Party. But he was done now and focused on his private life, the life that included her now. 

He was 41 and she was 28, and already the media had a lot to say about their relationship. She was young but not that much so, she’d gone from crappy sitcoms and low-budget movies to blockbuster films and award shows. She was just as relevant as Cillian, though she may be a decade younger. She loved Cillian and the way that he helped her with her rehearsals and her anxieties. She confided in him and spilled her guts and he listened, his eyes gentle and validating. He was quiet and reserved when she had first met him on set for Peaky Blinders as one of Micheal Gray’s love-interests. She was almost never in the same scene as him so they never had a moment to speak until an interview that she was invited to attend with the main cast. She was seated next to him on the raised platform in front of the cameras when the clip keeping the back of her dress together broke and nearly unraveled in front of everyone. Without hesitation, CIllian had reached over and pulled the two ends of fabric together, keeping her dress from falling down her chest. He kept his hand against her back for the remainder of the interview, and still added to the discussion and smiled when prompted to. When the cameras stopped, he helped her get up from her seat, still holding her dress together and helped her off. He only left once a crew member had successfully pinned her dress, giving her a kind smile and a nod.

And now here they were. 

She checked Cillian’s watch on the bedside table and hurried to finish getting ready before he arrived at 7. He’d made reservations at a small restaurant in Dublin where he knew the owners and their children. Smoothing down her short emerald green dress, she hurried down the stairs to the first floor of the walkup she shared with Cillian in Dublin and waited anxiously by the door for the familiar sound of footsteps on the granite steps. She saw his silhouette through the textured glass on the front door and threw it open before he could knock. He was startled but smiled when he saw who was waiting for him. 

“My God, you look lovely darling!” He smiled and closed the door behind him, blocking out the summer breeze. He put each hand on her waist and turned her around slowly to see what she was wearing. He’d finished an interview for The Party and changed into his suit in the dressing room before driving back, so he looked slightly rumpled but unmistakingly beautiful.

“How was the interview?” She asked, her hands clasped around his neck.

“Eh, I’m happy it's all over with ya’ know?” The wrinkles around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. 

He kissed her head but when he pulled away, he frowned down at her. 

“You feel warm.” He put the back of his hand against her cheek and moved it to her forehead, clucking his tongue. “Do you feel alright, love?” 

“I thought I might be getting sick but it's not bad, I can still go.” She waved him off. 

“Ah ah ah, not so fast. I think you have a fever.” He took her hand and led her to the kitchen and picked her up, setting her down gently on the countertop. 

“You mustn’t make such a fuss, Cillian.” She sighed defeatedly, her hands clasped either side of the cold marble countertop.  

“Hush, love.” He rummaged through the medicinal cabinet in the kitchen and retrieved the mercury thermometer that they had bought at a drugstore as a house-warming gift for themselves. “Open your mouth for me,” she complied, touching her tongue to the roof of her mouth, “good girl.” He praised her. 

“This is ridiculous. I feel fine, Cillian!” She mumbled around the thermometer. He rested his arms on either side of her body, his legs planted firmly between her knees. He said nothing but glanced down at his watch every few seconds to check the time. When it was done he pulled the thermometer from her mouth and read it to her. 

“100.3. You’re sick, love.” He laughed softly and placed the thermometer on a folded cloth by the sink to wash later. “Come on.” He spread his arms and she reluctantly hugged him around his shoulders so that he could pick her up. He sighed softly as he arranged her in his arms and climbed the short flight of steps to the second floor. 

“What about the dinner reservations?” She whined into his shoulder, her nose crushed against the soft fabric of his suit. 

“It'll be fine, darling. Let me worry about that.” He passed through the doorway into their bedroom and laid her down on the bed. She squirmed in protest when he went left, going down the stairs quickly. She could hear him moving around the kitchen for a while before coming back up the stairs, a glass of water and Tylenol in his hands. She sat up against the pillows at the headboard and curled her knees into her chest. He sat on the edge of the bed and gave her two of the distinct white chalky pills. 

“Take these.” He ordered softly and waited. 

“Yes, sir.” She grumbled and swallowed the pills, downing them with water. He took the empty glass from her hand and placed it on the nightstand. 

“Let me get you out of these” He unbuckled her shoes and tossed them aside, his hands patting each ankle as he did so. 

“I’m sorry, Cillian.” She whispered, her arms held up in the air in a pitiful request for affection. He leaned over and hugged her. 

“For what, darling?” He furrowed his brow and stroked her hair. 

“For being sick on our anniversary.” She sniffed and fought back childish tears. He pulled away and rubbed his thumb over her feverish cheek. 

“That’s nothing to be sorry for, love. We still get to spend the evening together, right?” He smiled and kissed the top of her head. 

“Ok.” She nodded and allowed him to remove her earrings, sliding the backings off into his hand and returning them to her jewelry box. She turned to the side as his hands found the top of her zipper. As he pulled, her skin tingled with goosebumps all the way down to her tailbone. His hands slid the dress off her shoulders and pulled it over her head. She was naked besides her underwear and sensitive to the cold. Cillian quickly took one of his long sleeve shirts and pulled it down over her head. She slid her arms through the sleeves and curled into his side as he leaned over, resting the dress carefully on the arm of a chair. When he straightened back up, he put one arm around her shoulders and the other one on his stomach. She nestled beneath the sheets and wool blankets beside him and breathed him in. 

As she started to fall asleep, he cradled her in his arms, holding onto her with security and love. He waited patiently as she slept before changing out of his suit. He turned off the lights and applied a cold washcloth to her head as she slept soundly beside him. He laughed softly when her nose was congested and she started breathing through her mouth, drooling slightly on her pillow. He combed his fingers through her hair and kissed the crown of her head into the night before he fell asleep himself, his arms tightly around her.

[zahri-melitor]

The Circus

Jack suggesting they take Tim to the circus when it came to town was a big ask. Performances usually took two hours or more. Even with an interval, they’d barely managed to take Tim to the movies yet without Janet having to take him out in the middle. And this was an environment where if she took him out it would still be overstimulating, with the carnival all around them.

Jack was an optimist. And not the one who’d be dealing with a screaming Tim, Janet thought grumpily to herself. But Jack was also all for it, telling her stories of his childhood memories seeing clowns and jugglers and lions roaring. And it was something they could do as a family.

Luckily, there was a tv special about circuses on that night, including footage of a number of acts. Janet set it up to record on a tape, so she could talk Tim through the process before they went.

*

Tim had been a warm lump buried into her side on the couch, fascinated by the recording. She’d skipped through the video, just stopping at each of the performances.

“We’re going to go to the circus, Tim, and see acts like these. Do you see the clown juggling? We might see that. Or here’s some trapeze artists, swinging like you do on a swing. Look at their tricks!”

“They go upside down!” Tim seemed entranced.

“Isn’t that clever of them?” And here’s an elephant. Look how big the elephant is!”

“Wooaaah.”

*

Janet’s preparation had worked. Tim seemed fascinated by the sights and sounds and smells of the circus, and didn’t hide behind her when they took him over to meet some of the performers before the show, to make everything feel easier to relate to. One of the acrobats had crouched down to Tim’s height and shook his hand, saying he’d look for Tim in the crowd, while Tim giggled.

“I told you this was a good idea, Jan,” said Jack, looking at Tim getting himself sticky on cotton candy. “It’s so much easier to be able to take Tim with us when we go out.”

“You were right. I was worrying too much,” conceded Janet, as she watched Tim try to feed some of the cotton candy to an elephant. “And it is nice to go places as a family.”

Things continued going really well…right up until the moment they didn’t.

As Janet carried a wailing child out of the tent, through the screams and the hysterics all around them, his snotty nose mushed against her shoulder, soaking through the fabric, she gritted her teeth. At least Tim was so small he wouldn’t remember. Or understand.

*

The night terrors had her up and resettling Tim down for weeks. It was the worst case of sleep regression she’d had to deal with since Tim was 6 months old. The parenting books had said this would stop happening now he was almost three. But eventually, as every other time, it passed, and Tim wasn’t climbing into their bed and clinging for comfort every night, and he (and Janet!) were able to return to sleeping through the night.

*

Later, when Janet thought about it at all, the idea that seeing a clown would be a happy bonding experience between parent and child made her shudder.

*

They were out of VCR tapes and going out for the evening, and she wanted to record Dallas. Janet sighed, and went to look at the pile of recordings Tim hoarded. Surely there was something in here that he’d outgrown and wouldn’t miss. If she asked him, it would become a whole drama as he insisted that every single tape was special and he couldn’t possibly give it up, but there had to be an old recording of Sesame Street buried at the bottom or so.

Crocky. Crocky. (Tim was still mildly obsessed with Crocky). A recording of Robin Hood. The Jungle Book. Mr Wizard. He-Man. Another Crocky… she stopped and squinted at the next tape. The spine label read ‘circus’ in her own neat handwriting, but Janet couldn’t recall any TV shows or movies that matched that, and she was sure she’d never seen Tim watching anything about a circus.

Janet inserted the tape into the VCR. It started halfway through, in the middle of an interview with some circus performers sitting to one side of a stage. The performers were wearing red and green leotards.

It clearly wasn’t anything that Tim would watch, and Janet wondered how on earth it had gotten mixed up in the pile of Tim’s videos.

He wouldn’t miss this one.

*

“Mom?”

Tim came up to her in the kitchen, as she was putting away some dishes. “Yes, sweetheart?” He looked distressed.

“Did you take one of my tapes? Only Dad said he didn’t and it’s missing…”

“Oh, Tim, I’m sorry. We were out of tapes and I’ve never seen you watch that one. Was it special to you?” It was important to acknowledge your child’s emotions, Janet repeated to herself, even if said child had never shown any attachment to the object right up until 30 seconds ago.

Tim shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just that that one was my tape. And now I can’t get it back.” His eyes started to fill with tears. Oh no. “You should have asked, Mom.”

“I am sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Tim stared at the floor, digging the edge of one shoe into a line of tile grout. “No. They won’t show that program again.” He sounded downcast. “If you’d asked I could have told you which tape was okay!”

“I’ll do that next time,” Janet promised. Tantrum seemed averted. Please.

*

Later that evening, Tim was sitting on the floor of the living room, playing with trucks, when Jack flipped over to the History Channel.

“Are you sure you want to watch ancient aliens again, dear?” Janet asked Jack. The historical inaccuracies grated at her, given her archaeological training.

“It’s hilarious, Jan. The people writing these shows have clearly never been to a dig in their life.”

Tonight however the next show wasn’t ancient aliens or Atlanteans or Bigfoot trackers; it was someone tracking their local cryptids and showing blurry video footage of various criminals and the Bat-Man. Jack was obsessed with this sort of thing, and was laughing at the grainy footage.

Janet saw Tim look up from his trucks for a moment and seem caught, eyes wide, the light from the television screen playing across his face, as he watched fast-moving costumes spin and flip across the screen.

[light-yaers]

Take Care: Chapter Six

Fic Masterpost | AO3 | Chapter List

Warnings: swearing, eventual smut, emotional themes. 

A/N: this is my magnum opus. please don’t hate me. 

Word count: 8.5k

Chapter Six

As much as you tried to be normal about it all, it was impossible for you not to innately freak out. You slept on yours and Roy’s confrontation for the remainder of the weekend, and when Monday rolled around, you thought about pulling a sickie and not going into work.

Maybe it was just you, but when you felt embarrassed about something of your own doing, you didn’t want to see anyone. Especially not the person who’d seen you embarrass yourself the entire fucking time, in the form of Roy fucking Kent. It was exposing, and made you feel overly vulnerable, on top of still being internally pissed off that he’d gone into this knowing that he was never interested in reading what you’d written. All of it mixed up into a cake that only made you feel sick, so you did the most rational thing that any embarrassed person would do– isolated yourself.

You stayed in your office all week, with the door closed. When you left each day, you made sure you were the last to leave, double checking the corridors for stray players, coaches and Roy himself. In the mornings, you walked a different route to work, one that didn’t follow the main roads around yours and Roy’s part of Richmond. You didn’t want to be walking along and see his Jeep round a corner, only to have to stand there like a twat and catch his eye through the windshield.

“Does a simple misunderstanding really need to get to this level of discomfort?” Rebecca said, over one of your rare but appreciated lunches. She’d lightened up even more after the Everton game, which was a nice side effect.

You crunched down on a mouthful of salad, chewing sullenly. You’d been on edge for days. “I don’t know,” you let out. “Probably not. But I still can’t make myself get over it. I feel fucking awful, I mean— he just said yes to get me off his back, didn’t he?”

Rebecca shrugged. “No one can know with Kent. I don’t think he did it for that reason, though. You said the interview went well?”

“Well, I thought it did, I don’t bloody know. Either way, I’m not submitting the article now.”

Rebecca looked at you with raised eyebrows. “It’s up to you, I know, but if it were up to me, I’d still submit the damn thing.”

“Yeah, well it’s not.” You stuffed another forkful of salad in your gob. You’d heard the same thing from your mother a few days prior, and were debating telling Keeley the next time you saw her, but nothing would sway you with this.

You’d messed up, and you felt mortified that you’d made Roy open up when he wasn’t even interested in reading what you had to say. You were in a position where you were definitely going to take his side into account, even if it meant a standstill for you.

Rebecca’s face softened. She leant closer to you on the sofa, and placed a gentle hand on your arm. “So, you pissed off a footballer. He’ll get over it, and by God, what you’ve written cannot be as bad as any tabloid drivel that’s been written about him before. It’ll be fine in time, you just need to stop beating yourself up about this, alright?”

You sighed through your nose, swallowing the food in your mouth painfully. “Yeah, you’re right. I still can’t make myself face him just yet, though.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked, and the way she was looking at you made you want to open up.

Oh, because I have an immense crush on him that I can’t shake, and I cannot stand the thought that I’ve annoyed him in any capacity.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it was an obvious lie. Rebecca widened her gaze further, noticing something there. You let out a pent up breath. “It’s my problem. I’ll sort it soon, but I just— I don’t want to crowd him more, especially after last week. I’m being fucking stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid to want to make someone feel comfortable. That’s a good trait to have,” she said, squeezing your arm. “Just don’t let it ruin you further when it doesn’t need to.” She smiled at you softly, and you smiled back. “What happened to the girl that chased Roy down for those player profiles in the first week, hm?” she added, trying to lighten the mood. It only made you feel worse, weirdly enough.

“I got to know him,” you said, trying to keep the hurt off your face. “Properly, I mean. I got to know him properly.”

Rebecca’s face perked up with alarming speed. “Oh?” she asked, assumptively.

You waved her off immediately. “Not like that,” you said, but it was clear that both of you knew you were fibbing. Rebecca’s smile only grew. “Not like that.” You reiterated, trying to get yourself across harshly, but it only made it more apparent:

You fucking liked Roy Kent. It was clear to fucking see, and he probably knew it himself, too. That made it all the worse, and embarrassment crept onto your ears immediately.

You shoved another full fork of salad in your mouth, and Rebecca scoffed to herself, amused. The two of you finished your lunch together, with her playfulness counteracting your idiocy. How many more times were you going to make yourself feel childish?

Rebecca cleared her throat. “I get it,” she said. “He’s grumpy, and mean, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who doesn’t want to fix a grey, stormcloud of a man.” She smiled at you sincerely. “Your secret is safe with me.” She winked, and you scoffed so abruptly that an olive from your plate launched itself across her office.

It felt good to have another woman around. You liked it.

You had the weekend to yourself, and stayed in for the sake of self care. You’d face Roy sometime next week, but had to psych yourself up first to deal with it. He’d been training non-stop anyway, with the first threats of relegation for AFC Richmond appearing, despite their win against Everton the week before. It just wasn’t enough to keep them in a stable position, not when the season was over halfway done.

You wanted to call Keeley, but stopped yourself when you remembered she was on a weekend away with some sponsors, getting treated and talking business. You were thankful that you weren’t in her shoes. You knew nothing about PR, nor did you have her same sense of style and immediately approachable personality.

You messaged Sam a few times, just to talk about your latest shared book. He was as sweet over text as he was in person, and even invited you out with the guys on Saturday night— you were tempted, but declined for the sake of stressing yourself out too much. You had a full-on few weeks and wanted to be chipper for the days ahead; you had an assignment due imminently, and your aversion to Roy at the moment was proving difficult to manage work and your personal life at the same time.

You needed to snap out of it. Rebecca was right— it was eating up your time and energy. And as much as you were picturing it badly, you knew that Roy probably didn’t care nearly as much as you did. Embracing your mistakes was all part of learning.

That’s the mindset you adopted when you entered the Dogtrack on Monday morning, just over a week after the team’s win at Everton. You smiled at your colleagues and chatted to them in the cafe in the morning like normal, before you went about your daily routine. You popped your head around the manager’s office a bit later on, and discussed your weekend with Ted, Beard and Nate, before all the players started arriving for training. They sent you smiles and hellos in greeting, and Sam told you about the messy night he’d had on Saturday. All was normal, until Roy stepped into the locker room.

When he caught your eye, the air stilled. The guys around you silenced like school children, and you fought the urge to fake an emergency so you could leave. Roy scanned the room bluntly, before he strolled towards his cubby and dropped his bag on the bench. You sent Sam an awkward smile, before you turned to the Richmond Captain.

He peered down at you for a second, before looking away without a word. “How was your weekend?” you asked, trying to keep things light. Roy didn’t like small talk, but this would have to do.

He growled in response, but you were determined to get something– anything– out of the gruff man before you. He’d noticed your overly avoidant behaviour for one, and you only had yourself to blame for that. “Roy,” you tried again, shooting him a small smile when he peered at you once more.

“You talking to me again, are you?” he replied, and a jolt of electricity ran through your limbs.

The energy in the locker room stalled, as the guys descended into absolute silence at Roy’s response. You felt their stares on your back, and you fucking hated it. You doubted they knew what was up, but had probably had to deal with some weird energy from Roy over the past few days.

“Yeah, I am,” you said, holding your ground. “Are you okay with that?” You raised your brows at him questioningly, strongly, and he reciprocated with a quick scan of your face.

All his prior angst faded away with your simple retort. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?” he said, and you felt your chest relax instantly. “I took Phoebe to the zoo on Saturday. Two lions were going at it in the enclosure and I had to tell her they were wrestling.”

You scoffed so hard you almost choked, not expecting those words to fall from his mouth. “She has to learn one way or another, I guess.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want her thinking that sex is like fucking wrestling one another,” Roy said gruffly.

You shrugged. “It sort of is,” you let out hazardously.

Roy perked an eyebrow at you questioningly, an amused smile appearing on his face. “What kind of sex are you fucking having?”

Sam choked beside you abruptly, and you shot your stare onto him quickly, only to find Isaac and Colin smiling at each other like schoolboys behind him. You pointed at all of them sternly, with wide eyes. “Enough.”

Isaac clutched a hand to his chest defensively. “It’s a valid question, bruv. What kind of sex are you fucking having if it’s sort of like wrestling?”

The boys descended into childish giggles, and you turned back to Roy as you tried not to join them. You could feel your cheeks warming as you did, but you loved them all so much that you didn’t care if they were laughing at your expense. It was good to laugh at yourself once in a while.

You inhaled deeply, accepting the embarrassment only for the sake of you and Roy being okay again. He was smiling at you as you fiddled with your fingers. Not that he’d admit it, but this week had gone twelve times slower without your presence breaking apart his time. He’d got used to your impromptu locker room crashes, and the methodical way he always peered around your open door after training was done for the day.

“None,” you finally let out. “I am having no WWE level sex, sadly, because I’m not a fucking Premier League footballer.” You scanned the room and pouted at them all melodramatically, before you headed towards the locker room door with false glumness. Their giggles surrounded the entire room and it warmed your heart.

“We’ve gotta get you on some apps, or something,” Colin suggested, as you turned back to them and leaned against the doorframe.

“Oh yeah?” You crossed your arms. “Which ones?”

“Tinder?” Isaac offered, and you mimed sticking a finger down your throat.

“Please, Isaac. I’m not a fucking teenager anymore.”

“What about Bumble? It allows women to message first,” Sam said, and you furrowed your brows.

“I don’t want to talk first, ever. I’d rather a man send me a shitty pick up line that I don’t respond to than have to do that.”

“Hinge?” Bumbercatch added, and you let out a disgusted laugh.

“Oh, great! I can have three dates with some posh Richmond bloke, engage in awful fucking sex and then be ghosted the next day for no reason. That sounds thrilling.”

“There’s always Grindr,” Colin said, and the room fell silent. All eyes were on him, including your own that were squinting at him questioningly. Colin paused for a moment, like a statue. “Oh, sorry. With all this wrestling talk I forgot that you don’t actually have a dick.”

The room erupted in ooo’s while you tried and failed not to scoff to oblivion. You glanced over at Roy– there was a smile on his face, one that he was trying to hide and absolutely failing at. He shrugged his shirt off quickly, and you sucked in a painful breath, before you forced yourself to look away.

“Maybe I do,” you said bluntly, before you pointed around the room. “And none of you will ever fucking know.” You smiled at the way the boys got all bashful, before you stood up straight and beamed at them all. “Thanks for the dating advice, but I accepted my chronically single fate a long time ago.”

“That’s only because you’ve been around pretentious, uptight writers your whole life,” Zoreaux offered, and a few nods of agreement cropped up around the room. Zoreaux clapped his hands together suddenly, and you flinched in surprise. “You need to find yourself a footballer.”

You rolled your eyes and ignored their childish chants. “Over my dead fucking body,” you said, raising your hands to the sky in defeat. “And this is where the dating advice ends.” You swivelled on your heels and sent them a chaste middle finger, before you made your leave. “Goodbye!” you yelled from the corridor, and were met with one collective Bye!

Roy slipped on his football shirt after you left, and he was thrust back to two weekends before. He knew he’d fucked up with what he’d said in Liverpool, but there was something that kept him from opening up about it all– the fact he avoided everything that was written about him. Every interview, every post match press conference, every fan photo or interaction, the lot.

As much as he felt like a twat, he was also secretly relieved that you’d chosen not to submit the article. He wanted your success, certainly, but he wished you’d picked someone else. It was his fault for agreeing to it in the beginning, which was exactly why you’d got angry and upset. You were right; he’d been harsh, he’d been mean, but he hadn’t expected you to give a shit. Maybe that was more of a commentary about him than about you.

Either way, he was glad to put your week of silence behind him. Having you back in the locker room in the morning felt like coming home.

The days flew by quickly, but you still hadn’t updated Keeley about everything that had happened, and part of you didn’t want to now. She’d been so excited for you, and you didn’t want to break the news to her at all. You put the article behind you, and focused on new projects. With the days whittling down and matches being played in the blink of an eye, it wouldn’t be long until the season was up– along with your time at Richmond. It was funny to call it a year of placement, when in fact it was only nine months, to tie in with the football season.

You’d been at the club for almost six fucking months already. Christmas and the New Year had passed unceremoniously, and when you thought about it all you only freaked out more. You’d been to more matches than you could count, had written more words than you ever had in your entire life, and actually considered a bunch of footballers as your friends. But the worst thing of all– you’d held onto Roy’s jacket for close to three fucking months. He had to have noticed its absence by now, but still hadn’t approached you about it. Nor had you done the right thing by returning it, especially not after your panic in his house the month before.

That’s what you found yourself thinking about over the next few weeks. In between matches and assignment days, you’d lie awake at night and think about the fact it was all going to end. You needed Keeley to tell you to snap out of it, but had been so deprived of her company since she’d become so busy all of a sudden. As the final three months of the season loomed, you barely got more than a few minutes to spend with her at lunch. You hadn’t mentioned the article at all since the incident with Roy, but you were glad that it wasn’t hovering over you anymore like a few weeks prior.

As February ended and March began, you walked to work happily. You’d miss this immensely. Your small flat, your easy walk to Nelson Road, and everyone you got to see on a daily basis. Richmond was definitely part of your life now, and that wasn’t something you were going to forget.

You entered the stadium like normal, but there was an uncomfortable buzz in the air. You smelled it first in the form of static, the kind you get before a thunderstorm. The corridors were quiet as you walked towards your office, void of all players and your colleagues alike. You weren’t overly early, nor had some sickness ravaged through the entirety of Nelson Road, but nevertheless all was quiet.

You strolled into your office. When you switched on the light, you screamed when you were met with the burst of a confetti cannon right in your face. “You’re a fucking writer!” Keeley screamed, as you ducked down to try and protect yourself from this surprise attack. Paper crinkled in the air and all over your hair. It landed on the floor and ceased to move. Glitter covered everything.

Behind her, Sam, Ted and Nate cheered at your terror, while you tried to compute what the fuck was going on. Keeley lunged at you and encased you in a fast hug. You squeezed her back when you came back into your dimension, but confusion rattled in your brain. “Well fucking done, babe! We’re so proud of you!” she exclaimed, and you allowed yourself to accept their excitement, even if you had no clue what she was talking about.

“Ah– thank you?” you let out, alongside a subtle yaaaay that you felt was necessary, when Keeley started bouncing up and down while hugging you. You smiled at her as genuinely as possible when she pulled away.

Sam stepped forward first. “I particularly liked the paragraph where he talked about football academy. It is sweet to imagine Roy so young and less grumpy,” he said, and Ted clapped him on the back in agreement.

“Oh, absolutely, that was a banger.” Ted looked at you and grinned so hard that his moustache moved higher-up on his face. “Now, I don’t hold what Roy said about Beard and I against you, I was just glad to get a mention in this legendary article of yours.”

The smile dropped from your face immediately. You stood up quickly, and turned to Keeley quickly. “What are they talking about?” you asked, but you already knew the answer.

Keeley frowned at you. “Your article, babes,” she said, like you should know exactly what she was fucking talking about. Quickly, she shuffled in her bag and brought out today’s copy of the Independent. It was already open on the sports section, and when she hovered it before you, you stopped breathing.

Your article was on the front page. In huge, bold letters, as clear as fucking day, it read The Roy Kent Effect (and what it can do to a person who knows nothing about football). Your name was on the byline, alongside the photo you’d picked out before to be submitted alongside it.

“I– I didn’t–” you stuttered, trailing off in shock.

“I did,” Keeley said for you. “I submitted it for you, after you let me read it,” she admitted, but the look on her face showed you she was so much less excited about it now. All you saw was red at her admission, to the point where you were torn between screaming at the top of your lungs or crawling into a ball on the floor.

“Will you guys give us a minute, please?” you asked quickly, shooting a wide-eyed and panicked look at Sam, Ted and Nate.

The three of them scattered like rats, and you slammed the door behind them as soon as they were out of your office. Keeley flinched when you did, but your heart was beating too fast for you to notice. All you felt was the wobble in your fingers and pins and needles in your toes.

“What’s going on?” Keeley asked, concerned.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the article. Your words were printed right in front of you, but you’d never been so mad to see something of your own published. “Roy and I had a bad fight,” you started, but the words took so long to form in your brain from all the yells that ratted inside your skull. “He told me he had no intention of reading the article, that he’d never wanted to, and I said–” You stopped yourself from choking on your words. You caught Keeley’s eye, and chose to ignore how much yours were welling up. “I told him I wasn’t going to submit it.”

Keeley gently brought a hand to her forehead, digesting your words. She paced your office slowly, trying to find the right thing to say, but both of you knew it was useless. “I’m– fucking hell,” she said, stumbling over her thoughts. “I’m so fucking sorry.” She turned to you with glassy eyes. “I didn’t know, and I– I just wanted you to believe in yourself–”

“I know,” you said, trying to hold it together. Your anger dissipated into something else entirely, and that something else was on the brink of tears. “I know,” you repeated.

Keeley rushed forward and grabbed your wrists gently. “I’m a fucking idiot and I never should have done it,” she said quickly.

“You’re not an idiot,” you breathed out, before you peered down at the floor. “But, you never should have done it, yeah.” There was no point in beating her up– she’d done something with the intention to help you, without knowing that Roy would react this way and cause shit to hit the fan.

Never before had you gained friends so kind that they did stupid things all for your sake. In any other universe, you bet that Roy agreeing to the article had gone very well, and Keeley submitting it without you knowing had gone amazingly, but here? No. Hell fucking no. In your universe, everything you touched turned to absolute shit when it didn’t need to.

“Fuck,” you said sharply, clamping your eyes shut. A few tears fell and landed on the grey carpet of your office. “Fuck.”

“I’ll tell him,” Keeley said, panicking. “It was my fault, none of this is on you–”

“I wrote the fucking thing in the first place!” you exclaimed suddenly, and inappropriately found yourself laughing. Chuckles bobbed from your chest involuntarily, and with every burst another tear fell from your eyes. This was a mess.

Keeley squeezed your wrists reassuringly, and you forced yourself to breathe out and look at her. When you caught your eye, you sent her a soft look. As your panic subsided, you thought about the fact that she’d submitted it for you because she’d believed in you. She’d done it as a favour, as a gesture to let you know that you were good, that you had potential, to get you out of your head.

You wrapped your arms around her before you could back out. You were thankful for her, even if it had all gone tits up. Laughter trickled from your lips affectionately, and it only made her squeeze you even harder.

“Is now a good time to mention that you fucking won?” she said, her voice muffled by your shoulder.

You laughed even harder, absolutely astounded by it all. Out of hundreds of students, your article had fucking won the entire competition. “I fucking won!” you chuckled out, and the two of you swayed from side to side in each other’s embrace.

You hated not being in control. It was unsettling and made you feel erratic, like everything could fall apart if you didn’t have it all planned out beforehand. As far back as you could remember you’d had this issue; not being able to switch the fuck off. Things needed to be planned, and when they weren’t, you felt sick. Now, times that by ten and add a bunch of hyperactive footballers into the equation. It was a miracle you hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest during your six months at the club. Your masters had been fucked from the start, you’d messed up countless times during the job, and everything with the article was just the cherry on top of a shitstorm.

You sat in your empty office and stopped yourself from yelling at the ceiling above you. After Keeley had left, all your innate foundations came crashing down imminently. You wanted to go home and sleep for the remainder of your placement, but you couldn’t– not now. This mess had been reopened, and you had to clear it up again.

You knew the longer you left it, the worse it would get. Roy and the other boys were due in for training soon, and you couldn’t stand the thought of Roy seeing the article out and about before you’d had the chance to catch him up to speed. Keeley had made a massive fucking oopsie, but you didn’t hold it against her. She didn’t know about your fight, nor had she had the intention to screw things up this bad. That was always the thing, wasn’t it? Intentions were always good, but that didn’t always mean the best outcome was inevitable.

Wracking your fingers through your hair, you puffed out your cheeks with a colossal sigh. It was a waiting game, now. And as soon as you could, you’d tell Roy everything.

Roy slammed through the doors of the stadium for training. He was in no mood to be messed with, and knew that seeing your face would only make it worse. That morning, as he shut his front door, he looked down to see his face on the front page of the Independent’s sport section. Your name was beneath the heading, alongside a smiling photo. He leaned down and picked it up, scanning the title quickly–

The Roy Kent Effect (and what it can do to a person who knows nothing about football).

He growled to himself, before he crumpled the paper in his hands angrily. He stormed towards his Jeep and threw his gym bag harshly onto the passenger seat, before he headed off to Nelson Road. Everywhere he looked, the newspaper article loomed over him. His colleagues in the cafe read it over their morning cup of tea, and promptly froze when they saw him pass. This was he last thing he’d fucking wanted, and he was regretting his decision to ever say yes to you.

You’d reassured him you wouldn’t submit it, so why was it printed in the paper for everyone to fucking read?

He continued to the locker room in frustration. When he entered, the guys stopped the conversation they were having. They nodded at their Captain, before they silently turned back to their cubbies and got ready for the day ahead. Roy tried to ignore the prickling feeling of being watched. He had it whenever he went anyway, but this was tenfold. The thought of people knowing new information about him made him feel overexposed to the max.

Sam approached Roy through the silence, and shot him a sunshine smile. “Morning, Captain,” he said. Roy didn’t respond with more than a quick glance at his teammate. “So, have you seen the ar–?”

“Where is she?” Roy interrupted him suddenly. His voice was coarse and gruff, and Sam immediately recoiled when he sensed the anger seeping through Roy’s pores.

“In her office,” Sam replied, gesturing in the direction of your office innocently.

Roy didn’t stick around after that. He headed to see you as fast as he’d bombarded through the doors from the car park.

Your inbox had been blowing up all morning, along with your Twitter. You hadn’t been able to stomach reading them all yet, as you sat upon your anxiety and tried not to imagine the absolute worst when you saw Roy. Trying to reassure yourself had stopped working after the first ten minutes, and a Google search of ‘how do you un-print an article from a published newspaper?’ hadn’t provided much in the way of help.

Roy didn’t bother to knock. He rounded the door frame and took you by surprise. You sucked in a sharp breath and stood up quickly, meeting his gaze. “Roy, there’s something I need to tell you–”

“You submitted the fucking article?” he said harshly.

You frowned at him apologetically, and gently rounded your desk to stand opposite him. “You saw it,” you started, trying to settle your nerves. “I’m so sorry, Roy. It was a total accident, and it was actually Keeley who–”

“An accident? How is this a fucking accident?” he interrupted you. Upset cut through his aggression, but he was still seething. He pointed at you harshly. “You told me you weren’t going ahead with it. My face is plastered on every fucking newstand around London, and you’re saying it’s a fucking accident?”

You furrowed your brows at his outburst, not expecting him to be this angry. It was a mistake, but he was acting like you’d done this intentionally. “Roy.” You tried not to stumble over your words as rage crept up on yourself. “It was an accident. I’m sorry, but this was out of my control. Keeley submitted it without me knowing.”

Roy balled his fists. “Fuck this!” he yelled, and you took an abrupt step backwards.

“This could have been avoided if you’d just told me the truth!” you hit back with, losing all sense of composure. “If things had gone smoothly, this would have been the fucking outcome all along, and it’s obvious that you never wanted this! This is not just on me.”

“Not just on you?” Roy repeated. “Oh, of fucking course, it’s not just on you, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s always someone else's fault with you.” He raised his arms theatrically as he spoke, trying to expel his anger. “The uni cocked up your placement, I fucked up your first assignment, and now Keeley accidentally submitted an article that has my name stamped all over it.”

“You just stated facts, Roy–”

“But do you know the biggest fact of them all?” he cut over you, before he took a looming step forward. He leaned closer to you, until you could feel the air warm at how heated he was. “You did this. It was your choice to come here when you knew fuck all about the game, about us. It was your choice to write the fucking article in the first place, and it’s your fault that everything has gone tits up–”

“You fucking agreed to this!”

“I didn’t agree for you to get involved in my life!” he yelled, and you let out a colossal groan of frustration. You paced on the spot, needing to just fucking move, to dispell what you were feeling, to get it all out of your system. Roy didn’t back down. This fight, the real fight, had only been growing within both of you from the moment you first met. “I didn’t agree to you walking in here and latching on like a fucking leech, and fucking with my head, and making me feel– all this.”

All this.

Your heart pounded within your chest as his words spilled onto the carpet. This wasn’t just about the article, you realised. This was more. This was the jacket on the peg by your door, and all of the another times, and all of the smiles and jokes and texts that had been rattling between you both for the past six months.

“Oh, I see,” you said, lowering your voice. There was an energy that buzzed between your gazes, one that told you now was a good time to rip off the fucking bandaid, even if it meant the end. “This isn’t just about the article, is it?”

Roy breathed heavily opposite you, his chest rose and fell erratically. His fists were balled at his sides, but his face softened almost imperceptibly. You noticed it. You noticed every look that Roy sent your way. That was why this entire problem had begun.

Him, him, him, him, him.

“Why won’t you let me in?” you caved. “Or fucking anyone.”

“This is fucking stupid—”

“What’s stupid is that you cannot fucking stand when people give an actual shit about you.” You stepped towards him strongly, trying to convey everything you felt within your words. “You do it with the guys, with Ted, and you fucking do it with me.”

“This isn’t a fucking therapy session. I don’t need a fucking uni student to psychoanalyse my thoughts and feelings and all that other bullshit,” Roy said lowly, like a warning.

“Why have you never mentioned the jacket?” you asked suddenly.

Roy’s eyes widened. He stilled. “What?”

“The jacket. The one you leant me after the charity ball. I’ve had it for months, yet you haven’t mentioned anything.” Roy’s thoughts short-circuited. “Not once have you asked for it back, or collected it, or fucking anything.”

“At least I didn’t chicken out while trying to return it,” Roy said harshly. You held your breath. “I saw you shove it in your bag at my house, after the interview.”

You fought the urge to be sick. You weren’t expecting a full read through of yours and Roy’s relationship when you entered the Dogtrack today. You weren’t expecting to be so fucking mad at him, madder than you’d been about anything else in your life.

“I didn’t want this to end,” you admitted calmly, despite the butterflies tearing holes in your gut. “Is that why you never picked it up, hm? Because you didn’t want to admit to yourself that you actually give a shit about someone else?” You kept your eyes on his, flicking back and forth between them as you tried to hold it together. There was a finality to your feelings, and you feared you were approaching the end of their tether. You weren’t one to stick around if you knew you weren’t wanted. Roy had made himself perfectly fucking clear to you. “That’s why you agreed to the article, isn’t it? An attempt to give a shit, but you got scared when you realised people will know you just that little bit better from it. That’s why you’re raging and whining and looking at me like that, and ignoring all the other shit you’re feeling just because it’s easy, and what you’re used to.” The words spilled from your mouth like water. “That’s not how I do things, Roy. I bother, and I care, and I give a shit. And–” you stopped to let out an upset chuckle. Your eyes welled. “I can’t believe I thought we were actually close, when the truth is…” You forced yourself to keep your gaze steady. His eyes inhaled you. “I hardly know you, Roy. And you won’t let me try to, not properly, or on paper, or in the fucking article, even.”

Roy’s brain had stopped thinking coherently as soon as you’d started talking. You were right, you were always fucking right, but he would never let you know that. Not after this, not with the way you were looking at him so desperately, in pleading, baring your feelings out in the fucking open to try and get him to understand. His anger was real, but it wasn’t about you– it was about himself, but that’s just not how Roy Kent worked.

He was mean, he was angry, he was harsh. He didn’t let anyone stomp all over him on the pitch, or in life. Anyone who entered his life and tried to scale the tall walls he’d built around himself was nothing more than a threat. It was unsustainable, and had only brought pain in the past. It explained his string of finished relationships and friendships, and why he was still unsettled at the age of thirty-five.

“I’m sorry about the article,” you said softly. “But, I’m not sorry about everything else. Whether or not you get over it– that’s on you.” You shrugged, before you frowned at the floor. Tears disrupted your vision. You felt defeated, almost.

As the anger disappeared from his shoulders, Roy nodded at you in understanding. There was nothing else to say.

You let out a shaky breath as you looked up, and you decided that time was up. “I have work to do,” you said, as a signifier that this conversation– confrontation, fight, admittal, whatever the fuck you’d just had to endure– was over.

Roy hardly spoke for the rest of the day. Not during training, or during the team’s pep talk before their next match that Saturday. When he drove home, he felt odd in his house alone. All he could fathom to think about was you. Your words, the way you so easily revealed all and told him to grow up. He was overly used to people backing down when he got angry, but you hadn’t let him. You fought back, and had such determination to put him in his place.

It was a refreshing change of pace.

Roy noticed your absence at the game that weekend. The owner’s box was void of your energetic support. Out of a crowd of ten thousand, he could easily pick out your voice above all else– not only for the fact that you yelled like an opera singer, but because he listened out for you, in truth. When the crowd went wild at an excellent tackle of his, his signature chant roared from the stands.

He’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where. Roy Kent. Roy Kent.

When your voice hadn’t rang out next to all the rest, he glanced up at the owner’s box to find your seat empty. It threw him off his game for the remainder of the match.

The weekend after, you also didn’t attend. Your presence was sporadic after the fight, and Roy found himself enduring the sharp sting of butterflies in his gut whenever he so much as glanced at you in the hallway, or caught sight of you in your office during his workouts. Guilt was not an emotion that Roy often felt, but it had taken over his entire body. It was a slap in the face when you’d laid everything out perfectly, and absolutely judged him correctly. Whether it was projecting, or just being fucking stupid, his anger about the article stemmed from something much bigger. You saw straight through him, and that was what terrified him.

Word of your fight had spread across the team. He knew as soon as the guys started looking at him differently– with pity. They were careful not to step on his toes, and muttered to each other when he left the room. Your visits to the team were still clockwork, but it was clear to see there was something painful whenever you caught Roy’s eye. You’d smile, you’d say hello, and that would be that. He was surprised that you acknowledged him at all, and had been certain that you’d restart your silent treatment from before, but you were bigger than that. If anything, he wished you’d ignore him, since every stare you gave sent a shockwave of guilt through him.

When you failed to turn up for the third game in a row, Roy bottled it on the pitch. He played poorly, and was overly distracted to play decently. He kicked his boots off from frustration when entering the locker room afterwards, and they smacked against the wall of cubbies loudly. Behind him, Sam and Isaac looked at each other knowingly.

Isaac was the first to step in. “Roy,” he said calmly.

“I get it, I played like fucking shit and lost us the win. I fucking get it,” Roy said quickly, trying to get this over and done with.

“Nah, bruv.” Isaac gently grabbed his shoulder, turning him around to face the rest of the team. “This isn’t about the game.”

“She has never missed this many games before,” Sam said, and the team all shared sullen looks. “We get why that would throw you off, but now it is time to do something about it.”

The team nodded in agreement. “Did you read the article at all?” Isaac asked.

Roy frowned. “Why would I? It’s nothing I haven’t read before.”

Sam moved to stand next to Isaac. They looked at each other quickly, and shared a soft kind of look. Isaac turned back to Roy, and squeezed his shoulder. “Just read it, bruv. Seriously.”

“It is not like the others,” Sam added.

When Roy got home that evening, he opened the top drawer of the side table by his front door. It was full of old post and discarded papers, just stuff that didn’t have a place anywhere else. He’d shoved the copy of the Independent in there after the fight. He hadn’t wanted to throw it away for some odd reason. From the drawer, he picked out the newspaper and clutched in tightly. He got himself a whiskey from the kitchen, and sat at his dining table, before opening it up to the sports section.

His face stared back at him judgingly. Donned in his Richmond shirt with his foot on the ball, there was a steely look that had been captured in time on his face. He remembered that day– the first game of the season, where they’d been fucking battered. Beneath it was the article, in all its glory. The words loomed on the page almost scarily, but Roy told himself to get over it.

He inhaled deeply, and then started to read.

The Roy Kent Effect (and what it can do to a person who knows nothing about football)

The first fact I came to realise, working at AFC Richmond, was that Roy Kent is a legend. He was only nine when he was scouted for Sunderland, and he grew up loving the greats– Robbie Fowler, Paul Ince, Gary Neville– but his favourite footballer falls to his namesake; Roy Keane. ‘He didn’t take crap from anyone,’ Roy tells me, over a beer in his Richmond house. It’s full of sports memorabilia, trophies, awards, shirts, that I’m sure any fan of the beautiful game would whimper at. For me, however, it goes straight over my head.

It’s impossible not to feel the gravitas of being in Roy Kent’s home, but I feel it’s wasted on someone like me. I wouldn’t consider myself a football fan, but having been AFC Richmond’s appointed social placement for three months, it is a world that I’m desperately trying to enlighten myself on. Roy knows that, which is probably the only reason he’s let me grill him about his past, despite his very public opinion on the press.

Roy looks nostalgic when he thinks of his initial training. ‘You’ll never know how cool I felt when I was twelve, going to a football academy with the likes of world class players. My life was laid out as soon as I signed on the dotted line, and from the age of fifteen it was obvious I was going to be signed at Chelsea,’ he recounts like it was yesterday.

‘Chelsea. I think I know that team,’ I say, and all it does is make me seem more stupid. Roy shows me he doesn’t mind when a smile appears on his objectively grumpy face, and it eggs me on to try and make the footballer laugh as much as I possibly can throughout this interview. Having been at Richmond for almost half a season now, I know that the boys work hard. Making them laugh is part of my job description, just to break apart the obvious stress they all feel about the rest of the season.

Lasso’s reign is something new that none of them were expecting, and Roy’s face sours slightly when I mention his name. ‘You know Ted just as well as I do, you tell me what you think is going to happen?’ Roy says, and I comically mime locking my lips and throwing away the key. It’s best not to let people who know nothing about this game comment on what could happen at the end of the line.

From his start at seventeen, Roy Kent was a Chelsea staple. He donned that bright blue until his thirty-third birthday, which is when he made the decision to leave. He headed to AFC Richmond soon after. Even though I know nothing, I’m curious to know why he made such a career altering decision– going from the top, to the literal bottom. AFC Richmond haven’t got higher than 18th place in the Premier League in six years. It was practically moving to an alien nation.

‘I’d been at Chelsea for more than a decade,’ Roy starts, and I can’t help but notice the tension on his jaw, covered by his signature beard. ‘It had become routine, my life. The guys were stellar, and the management. Everything was the same, except me.’

‘You mean… your ability?’ Roy nods almost severely, and it’s easy to understand what he’s getting at. It’s then that I get up and grab us another beer. Roy makes it very easy to feel at home, despite someone prodding into parts of his life that he hasn’t spoken about publicly very often. He speaks highly of his sister, and his niece. Family is a large part of what makes him the man he is, one that drags him away from football when he needs to be reminded of other things that make life beautiful– not just the game.

Since arriving at Richmond, I’ve heard a phrase within the walls of the Dogtrack; the Roy Kent Effect. His teammates say it when they nail a play in training. Lasso and Beard say it when Roy makes things easier for their NFL suited brains to understand. His hamstrings say it when he withstands another sports massage from the club physio.

The Roy Kent Effect is a household name at AFC Richmond, only becoming so alongside Roy’s arrival at the club two years prior. When I mention it to him, Roy leans back in his chair and smiles. Yes, he can smile! ‘They’re good lads, the Richmond lot. I see myself in a lot of them. Obisanya, McAdoo, they all work so hard. It’s an honour to be their Captain, but I don’t steer the ship on my own.’

‘I don’t think that’s what the Roy Kent Effect means. It’s not about you leading them.’ I say, and this is the only time I’ve ever felt smart when it comes to football, especially next to the likes of Roy.

Roy leans forward. He likes to show people when he’s listening to them. It only elevates the notion that he knows there’s always something for him to learn. ‘The Roy Kent Effect isn’t anything you do, it’s simply having you around. You’ve been a role model, a leader, a staple of the game, for more than ten years. There’s admiration there, and that’s what they want to show you. That’s why they perform, and overachieve, and kick the ball like their life depends on it. It’s for them to show you how much you mean to the sport.’

He sits with my words silently, as I juggle with the panic I feel at making Roy Kent speechless for once. This will never happen to me again.

It’s only then that I realise the Roy Kent Effect has hit me, too. It’s why I annoyed him for this interview. It’s why I research, why I show up for work everyday, despite knowing very little in the grand scheme. When I learn something new, Roy’s the first person I tell at the club. I fit it into conversation, but he always notices. The other’s are often amazed when I reveal I know a fact, or understand the sport more, but Roy doesn’t make a big deal of it. It’s another reason why I don’t stop. He pushes me, the same way he Captains his team, directs his managers, and plays the damn game– with thought, with care, putting one foot in front of the other, like he’ll drop dead if he doesn’t keep this up.

‘One day I’ll wake up, and without knowing, it’ll be the last day that I ever play football,’ he says, later on. Roy has changed our beers to whiskey. ‘From your perspective, you think football is just a game. But, it’s not for me. It’s my whole life.’

We talk about the possibility of what lies beyond the sport, of what is out there for Roy after his inevitable retirement, but he doesn’t seem to understand that there is more that lies beyond. It’s impossible not to take it to heart. I spend the latter half of the interview trying to slot my feet into his shoes, and I still won’t ever know how it feels to be Roy Kent. Even Roy doesn’t know, which makes me strike off every tabloid photo, pundit quote and incel tweet that’s ever been shared about the Richmond Captain.

He is often described as blunt, harsh, mean, angry, and all of those traits are definitely true. But, the man that sits before me, after welcoming me into his home, his world, his life, is so much more than than. This is the Roy Kent Effect in full force, and I, amongst thousands of others, will not take it lightly when he leaves football behind for good.

“Fuuuuck,” Roy breathed out slowly. The butterflies in his stomach had disappeared.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tag list: @atjamesbbarnes​ @20th-centu-fairy-girl​ @royalestrellas​ @weakmoony-stuff​ @ironmanmagnetfridge​ @lemonpiegurll​ @hellomagicalsouls​ @her-fandom-sanctum @gothicwidowsworld​ @old-enough-to-know-better73​ @djarindroid​ @afraidofshrimp​ @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @queen-of-dumbasses​ @sogoodtoheritsvicious​ @lznnph1l @crav1ngc4ke​ @onceuponaoneshot​ @jamieolivia27​ @dadbodfanatic-x​ @kelp-dreaming​ @harrypedro465 @lonely-escape-artist​ @abeeabeeabee @nicklet94 @libsybum @cha0sdreaming​ @toomany24s​ @kashee-h​ @infinetlyforgotten​ @secretnook​ @cluelesslilsharkie​ @callmecasey81​ @deepdarkvelvet​ @twiceinabluemoon​ @cardeegans​ @golden-hoax​

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC

my dearly departed by redrobin1989

Kon heard the stories about how Tim had fallen apart after he died. He couldn’t imagine what Tim had gone through, what he’d been feeling. Even now, with the shoe now on the other foot, Conner doesn’t know how to cope. Especially when he needs to keep his boyfriend’s collapsing family together.

Exit Strategy by smilebackwards

Batman needs a Robin and Batman has a Robin. Tim is just extraneous now, vestigial. He’s a bandage over a healed wound. He doesn’t know what he’s hanging on to.

Or: Tim didn’t expect his exit strategy from the Batfamily to involve quite so much bonding time with Damian over Wayne Enterprises bureaucracy.

the capillaries in my eyes are bursting by Scarlet_Ribbons

Bruce grunts, standing up. “Jenkins said the same. What about what you weren’t told?”

And without dissembling, Jason says, “I think they fucked that kid up, B.”

[Jack and Janet die. As things get weirder and weirder, it feels like Tim might be at the center of the unfolding conspiracy.]

Stranger Things

and i know that you don’t, but if i ask you if you love me— by fakecharliebrown

Once, only a few weeks before his parents decide he’s too old to be tucked into bed at night, Steve grabs his mother by the wrist and asks, “Does Father love me?”

“Of course he does,” she says immediately, smoothing the blanket where it rests over his chest.

Steve blinks up at her. “Then how come he never says it?”

She purses her lips. “He shouldn’t have to, sweetheart. You should just know.”

(It isn’t until years down the line that Steve realizes she’d somehow turned that into being his fault.)

or; Steve Harrington through the years, on loving and being loved.

Percy Jackson

percy jackson and the scrutiny of his coworkers by pqrker

Jim turned back to the tank and looked at Marcie the seal, who was now staring at the spot his coworker had been standing just moments before with that same strange look of reverence in her eyes.

Percy Jackson truly was the oddest person Jim Elpool had ever worked with.

Or: 5 times percy's coworkers were confounded by his fish magic, plus 1 time they try to figure it out.

Star Wars

Bounty by smilebackwards

"You took a puck for Luke Skywalker?”

Din looks up at the tenseness in Cara’s voice.

“Yes?” The puck for Skywalker had been passed over by half a dozen hunters, surprising considering the price on his head, but Din had assumed that was because his last known location was Coruscant. The Core is a dangerous place to hunt bounties.

“If I didn’t consider you a friend,” Cara says, with a tone that sounds like she’s reconsidering it, “I’d shoot you where you stand for admitting that."

SVSSS

What Is Seen by CaveteDracones

....is not [always] the real truth.

Truth-compelling artifacts in the hands of an enemy to one side, SYSTEM-mandated silence on the other, and Shen Qingqiu caught between the two. Is it too late to go back to the Water Prison?

and judgment is just like a cup that we share by Kieron_ODuibhir

The blob finished rotating into place in a way that wasn’t quite compatible with geometry as Shen Qingqiu understood it, and cleared a throat it didn’t seem to have.

“Greetings,” it said, somehow clearly addressing him in particular more than the room as a whole despite its total lack of features other than blueness and translucency. “I’m here on behalf of the Hyper-Celestial Peace and Order Enforcement Bureau. Crime scene secure, proceeding to interviews. Beginning with Subject One: You are Shen Qingqiu, formerly Shen Yuan, also known as Peerless Cucumber?"

[tinydeskwriter]

Cosmopolitan Couple’s Timeline

A/n: this is the Part II of Buzzfeed Article; It’s fluffy 💓, and more about their relationship. The photos used are only illustrative because after writing I got too lazy to search into pinterest. I hope you all like it as much as you liked Buzzfeed Article.

A Complete Timeline of Jack Harlow and Y/n L/n’s Relationship, Because You’re Nosy

There are celebrity couples who make sense and then there are celebrity couples who click together so seamlessly, their love is basically an aesthetic. Jack and Y/n are proud members of the second group. They are both infinitely photogenic and seem to float through life like it’s all one photo shoot that they were absolutely prepared for.

Quick question: Do you remember where you were when Y/n L/n and your boyfriend Jack Harlow went Instagram official? their *little* (read: earth-shattering) relationship caused women everywhere to weep real tears. Life’s a beach, ain’t it? Since then, these two have been sharing teensy looks here and there at their equal parts enviable and adorable relationship.

(Rude of him not to be dating me, but okay.)

That said, there is a LOT of ground to cover in Y/n and Jack’s yearlong relationship, including how Mr.Harlow went down to one knee, so let’s get down into the details of the Hollywood coupling almost too good to be true. Almost.

August 13, 2021

Newly single Y/n basically ✨manifested✨ her beau after posting this, on Twitter:

L/n had just got out of a long term relationship with Australian heartthrob Liam Hemsworth, the two had been going strong since October 2019 (visit their timeline here if your feeling nostalgic) with rumors of a engagement on the horizon, sources close to the former couple claim: “Liam was very much ready for the next step, and he wanted that with Y/n, they are very likeminded, but Y/n didn’t see herself as a wife and mother at this stage of her life. She is also very close to her family and the idea of living permanently in Australia wasn't very attractive to her, she'd lived there with him during the pandemic, and she was terribly homesick.”

September 13, 2021

They met on the red carpet, minutes before posing for pictures “Tommy Hilfiger set us up” the actress joked, recalling the moment, “The flowers on my dress and in my hair were made from scraps of fabric from Jack's suit”. “I was a little anxious, trying not to let it show, and this one turns to me, cute smile and all, and says, just pretend I'm the most perfect thing you've ever seen and the pictures will be perfect, and in my head I’am: I don't think I need to pretend.” Jack comments nearly a year later when the couple is interviewed by Vogue.

There you have girls, those looks of pure adoration were legit. A source tells Us Weekly, “They were all over each other. Super smitten and gazing into each other’s eyes as they danced together their whole night.” Jack and Y/n left the Gala together (she had his suit over her shoulders). 

They reappeared together in Virgil Abloh's After-Party—and again left together—. L/n described the moment to Net-a-Porter magazine: “On the way back to the hotel we stopped at this hole in the wall pizza place, I was starving, we ate in the van because they were already closing, we played a game of 'forty questions', and in the end I just wanted to run away as fast as possible, because I was like: oh shit I've known this guy for a few hours and I'm in serious danger to falling in love' surprisingly Jack felt the same, and didn't run away, he basically picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, caveman style, so, you know, we can say that we have been together from the day that we met! Two weeks later he accompanied me to Ireland for a month.”

October 2021

They had been seeing each other for two weeks when Y/n had to jet off to Ireland to re-shoot scenes for her new project. Very romantically for someone who claims to have never been in love—and shockingly—Jack accompanied his Lady Love. Perhaps even more shocking is the fact that the couple at that moment had not even exchanged their first kiss. Yeah, they were taking things *slow*. “I’ve been jumping from relationship to relationship since I was eighteen, I wanted to make sure it wasn't just infatuation,” the Golden Globe-winning actress told longtime friend Hailey Bieber on an episode of 'Who's in my Bathroom.' “He was super patient and by the end of the second week I was pretty sure he was going to be my last first kiss, we kissed on our first night in Ireland, we were coming back from dinner at the local pub, we took the scenic route by the sea, it was very romantic.” Our hearts.

October 28, 2021

Just a few short weeks after that initial Met Gala meet-cute, Jack and Y/n went Instagram official on *both* of their accounts. It came just days after Harlow went solo for Doja Cat's 26th birthday party at Delilah’s, at the time it was widely reported that the Atlanta-based rapper was staying at the actress' home in Chatsworth, no explanation was given for L/n's absence, leading some outlets to report that the romance had come to an end. Y/n posted a couples picture that oozed Gen Z Fifty Shades of Grey vibes (in a good way).

Jack shared two pics—one of Y/n solo in bed, city lights in the back, and, a very sweet kiss pic, captioned ‘The best view’:

October 31, 2021

Vas J Morgan and Michael Braun Halloween Bash. It was the place to be on Halloween, and it was the first appearance of the couple after making the relationship IG official. Everyone who follows Y/n knows that Halloween is the actress's favorite time of year, and she takes it seriously, Y/n is one of our favorite celebrities to watch this time of year because she always comes up with the best costumes. And she didn't disappoint. Jack and Y/n appeared in a couples costume, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, and they looked sexy.

November 16, 2021

Weren’t expecting Jack to be so open about his relationship with Y/n? Same, TBH! In a new interview with Complex, Jack said that being open about his relationship with Y/n isn’t exactly his style, he usually prefers to keep things more private, but he decided to switch up his usual tactics because he’s sooooo smitten with her. “She’s game-changer.” “I’m a private guy and I want to protect that, but it just felt like trying to hide it only make things worse, makes curiosity around us grow, especially when your dating someone like Y/n, she has one of the most recognizable faces in the world, it’s insane, she got that level of fame,” he said. “I feel more comfortable about the public nature of the business that we’re in nowadays than I did a year ago. So for me, it was a moment to, I guess, take ownership of that and then get back to work.”

November 25, 2021

Thanksgiving was a good time for the couple. From Y/n’s Instagram photo and video dump celebrating the day, the couple spent the holiday together and with his family ~Yes, girls! He took her home to Louisville to introduce her to his mamma!~ from the looks of it, Y/n also met all of his childhood friends, and was given a tour of the city. Your! Faves! Could! Never!

December 5, 2021

It was Jack's turn to meet his girl’s family. They spent the beginning of December in Vermont enjoying snow sports. Apparently Jack immediately bonded with everyone because the universe had fated this romance, clearly. The Kentucky rapper along well with Y/n's older brothers, if you can’t tell from the countless photos the three men shared on IG. He took her younger siblings snowboarding~our hearts~, and played Tea Party with her adorable nieces. The young couple was photographed by fans having lunch in town with Y/n's parents, and according to the photo's author, "They seemed very comfortable together, and Jack and Y/n's father seemed very friendly to each other. ”

December 25, 2021

The couple spent their first Christmas apart, and Y/n shared a photo of the couple with the caption “miss u❤️”

December 29, 2021

She didn't miss him for long however. On December 29th the couple was spotted in Miami, where Jack was performing at NBC special Miley’s New Year’s Eve Party (Yep, Miley, her ex-ex), before jetting off to Hawaii where Y/n presented us with a certain enviable level of photo dump. To be her.

January 8, 2022

Ireland was also the place for several important milestones for the couple. Like Jack bringing up the subject of children. Yep. That happened.

About the episode, Jack commented during a radio interview in early January, “I knew from the first smile she gave me that I wanted her to be the mother of my kids, I was like, Damn, I want my kids to have that smile.” The rapper revealed. “Fast forward, we're in Ireland, and I had no idea Ireland could be so romantic, I went to visit her on set, totally unprepared, Y/n is there, fully dressed in her character's clothes, and she has a baby in her arms, that made me feel something,” the Kentucky native continued, “there were other kids, because they were still testing various ages, but none were older than, I don't know, six, and they were all relatively similar to her. It made me want things.” “Did you guys have that talk?” The radio host asked. “Oh, Yeah.” Jack replied with a self-satisfied smile. “It was how we ended up with a dog. If Jacques is alive and healthy in a year we will have this conversation again, she says.”

Their dog is adorable by the way. And huge. But his parents are 6ft3 and 5ft7, so 🤷🏻‍♀️.

January 9, 2022

Y/n was nominated for a Golden Globes, we were ✨finger cross✨ hoping to see Jack Harlow as her arm candy on the red carpet, but we were holding back on our expectations since Y/n famously doesn't walk red carpet with her boyfriends (we've had our hopes crushed when she was dating Harry Styles and then later with Liam Hemsworth, the actress' two longest relationships to date), we were already resigned that we would see the New England beauty walking accompanied by one of her yummy looking brothers when they arrived, AND! WE! GASPED! First, he opened the door himself and helped her out. 

Second, he straightened the train of her dress BEFORE he offered her his arm and they walked down the red carpet like a couple out of a Hollywood Golden Age dream (with a futuristic twist), they were wearing Dior, which the actress was recently announced as a Global Ambassador, and they looked to die for.

And the glances? It's like their eyes scream 'I love you'.

February 8, 2022

Jack celebrated his Oscar Nominee girlfriend with a post and a sweet caption: ‘Just found out I have a Academy Awards Nominee girlfriend. Congrats my heart, you deserve all the validation for the fantastic work you've been doing over the last decade.’

February 14, 2022

2021 crowned Michael B Jordan the ultimate King of Valentines Day surprise, we ~and the rest of the world~ thought it would be hard to beat closing an aquarium for a romantic dinner.

Boy, were we wrong.

'Cause Jack Harlow managed to close the Griffith Observatory for Y/N's Valentine's Day Surprise and we're dying… of envy. God does has favorites, and little Miss L/n just happens to be one of them. 

According to an anonymous source, 'Jack turned the place into a blooming garden, Soul Food, Y/n's favorite pastry from a Vermont bakery, he went all out for their first valentine's day. She was really touched, no one has ever done something like this for her before, she felt bad that she only bought him a watch.' 

Unfortunately, Jack and Y/n haven't shared their Valentine's Day photos with their followers.  But when asked about the gift he received for Valentine's Day Jack replied: 'Y/n gave me a Rolex, the same type and year of manufacture as the one Paul Newman got from his wife, on the back she had it engraved: Come home, we miss you. And before rumors get wild, the 'we' in question is her and Jacques, our dog' the rapper clarified, when asked what he got his girlfriend he said: 'I bought her a necklace, she hasn't stopped wearing it, so I think she liked it.'

February 18, 2022

The couple managed to steal the spotlight from another rapper-actress couple during the NBA All Star Games weekend. Not a feat for many women, but Y/n managed to overshadow Megan Fox.

For starters, she was dressed cute and to die for in a vintage Versace look wore in ‘95 by Kate Moss ~a bit reminiscent of a cheerleader/schoolgirl outfit~, white New Balance sneakers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with a 'Harlow' silk ribbon, and Team Nique Varsity Jacket with number 80 on the back.

Second, she cheered her man for every point he made like he had just own a Grammy ~goals~. Last but not least, Jack dedicated his 4 pointer to his lady, which was sweet. Team Nique lost, but you wouldn’t say that by the kiss the couple exchanged courtside.

March 13, 2022

On Jack's 24th birthday, Y/n posted several pictures of her boyfriend and the couple on her IG, including some messages exchanged between them that give us a glimpse into their relationship. And it's gold. The actress captioned it: 'Happy your day, old man. As part of the old L/n tradition, I'll expose you. But I love you❤️.'

The post was later followed by another photo of the couple, captioned with a love declaration by the actress ‘My Handsome Jack, I knew I like you when you made me feel nervous, and my heart would beat faster than the wings of a hummingbird every-time you looked at me with your gorgeous ocean blue eyes. I knew I loved you when I felt calmer with you than without you, and just your presence there was able to calm my anxiety attack. You made love songs make sense to me. You made home a person instead of a building for me. I love you Cowboy, my barbarian, my angel. Thank you for holding my hand and never letting me run away.’ and Jack replied in the comments with 'I love you babygirl'

Let's not forget they were in Turks and Caicos with Drake at the time.

Oh, and the Valentine's Day necklace finally made a visible appearance in pictures, it’s a diamond ‘J’on a white gold chain, how very Taylor Swift’s Call it What You Want of them.

March 27, 2022

The 94th Oscar Ceremony. Where to start with this ceremony?

For starters Jack and Y/n again rocked the red carpet in Dior. As a nominee for one of the main categories, Y/n went all out in a gold gown and, yes, she wore a star-studded tiara in her hair ~but she is just that level of gorgeous~. A couple in their early twenties has no right to look as cute and put together as these two *they even look like they smell good, if that's possible*.

Will Smith vs. Chris Rock happened.

Will Smith won an Oscar and received a standing ovation ~although Y/n neither clapped nor stood up, and the camera focuses on the exact moment she shakes her head at her boyfriend~.  

Y/n L/n then won the Oscar for Best Actress, and delivered THAT viral speech, 'Over the years I've watched my idols at these big fancy events, over the internet, and on the streets protesting countless causes, it made me proud to see these people who inspired me on the front lines of such noble causes, made me want to do more. Over the years we protested for the BLM, Violence Against Women, the Me Too Movement, we protested against violence, period. And tonight something happened, which under all California laws is misdemeanor crime, by the way, perpetrated by one of ours against one of ours, and in an act of absolute hypocrisy, you, who march against acts of violence, who protest against acts of violence, gave a standing ovation to the aggressor, you normalized aggression against an act of comedy […]Toxic masculinity in 2022 is not an excuse[…]So tonight, I applaud you, the Hollywood Elite, for your hypocrisy.’ The actress, who did not accept the Oscar upon going on stage, was about to leave, to the silence of the audience, when she returned, accepting the award from Anthony Hopkins hands, who quickly congratulate her. 'I was going to leave this here in protest, but I deserved it, and it may be the only one in my career after today.' The actress was finally applauded by audience members ~mostly the younger generation~.

The actress' attitude was congratulated by many industry members, despite having received criticism online and from other actors.

April 2, 2022

Their GQ Couples Quiz. It’s the most viewed Couple Quiz in the channel and is #couplegoals. This couple is *obsessed* with each other, as we’re obsessed with them. In the nearly twenty minutes video we learned that they are living together full-time now—at Y/n LA house, that once belonged to Frank Sinatra—but Jack claims that none of them are LA people. Their song is Fire on Fire by Sam Smith, 'but there's a lot of Taylor Swift on our relationship playlist' the actress admitted while her boyfriend hid his face behind the questions cards. They're a compatible couple according to their zodiac sign—he's a Pisces and she's a Taurus— 'We were meant to be, Sunshine' Jack jokes. 

'What would make me the happiest man alive?' Jack asks with a smirk. 'This one is easy, are you ready?' Y/n asks looking at the production behind the camera with a mischievous smile. ‘Okay. Hands down. Eight mini-me.’ Minute of silence ‘She’s right.’ The rapper agreed with a lazy smile.

Our favorite moment must be the ‘Describe me in one word.’ to which Jack responded with a smirk ‘Mine’ and like Y/n we just melted.

(You can watch the full video here)

April 3, 2022

The Grammys! Jack was nominated for two awards, and would perform alongside Lil Nas X. The couple arrived in all-Black Givenchy, and Y/n absolutely slayed in sheer lace. 

The couple also accidentally starred the cutest moment on the red carpet, when without realizing they were separated during photos and interviews, Y/n turned her head looking over her shoulder in search of your beau ~a move worthy of Sharon Stone and Angelina Jolie~, the microphone of the E! Channel captured the moment when the actress asked her assistant 'where is Jack?', and almost instantly, in five strides, the rapper is reunited with his girlfriend, their hands intertwining almost unconsciously, and he just looks at her with a smile and 'Hey babygirl' as if they haven't seen each other in days. *Again, to be her*

About the couple, Little Nas X, who is a close friend to both, commented 'They're one of those weird couples that even breathe in sync.'

Jack didn't take the Grammy home, but the couple had fun, and Y/n was dancing and singing along during her boyfriend's performance.

May 2, 2022

Jack may not have followed the assignment, but Y/n rocked the theme for both of them *and even made us imagine her in a wedding dress*.

May 6, 2022

Not only was it the Kentucky Derby and the couple attended together, it was also the release day of Jack's new album, Come Home The Kids Miss You. Y/n was the star of the 'First Class' video, an obvious choice when your girlfriend is a world-famous movie star, she's also going to appear in the 'Churchill Downs' music video with Drake by the looks of it.

In interviews prior to the album's release, Harlow commented that he was moving back to Louisville, initially it was unclear how the move would affect the couple's relationship, however in an interview during the Derby the Louisville native confirmed that Y/n and him were making the move together.

May 13, 2022

Am I the only one who finds it absolutely adorable that this couple is exactly two months apart in age? The actress celebrated the date being pampered by her boyfriend, surrounded by family and friends at the couple's new home in Louisville, Drake was present at the party. 

Jack shared a birthday tribute to Y/n, which he captioned, “Happy birthday my dreamgirl, the love of my existence 🤍 you have the most beautiful heart and soul I’ve ever known.”

June 2022

You might have thought that at this point in Jack and Y/n’s Hollywood love story, they were out of IG milestones, but on June 13, Y/n took it to the “publicly calling each other soul mates” level calling her handsome beau “the other half of her soul”.

And not to be out-gushed, Jack called his “soulmate,” which is basically a synonym.

Due to professional commitments, the couple spent some time apart in June, which Y/n briefly commented on in the 73 Questions with Vogue video. Y/n posted on IG with the caption: I miss you, please, bring your ass back home.

July 2022

Were we ready? No! Did we know it was going to happen? Yes! On July 13th (always 13th because 13 is a lucky number for the couple, they were both born on the 13th, Y/n ✨manifested✨ Jack on the 13th, they met on the 13th…) Jack got down on one knee in the couple’s home in Louisville. The first floor was transformed into a sunflower garden, there were candles, and the couple's playlist playing in the background.

“Today I asked my soulmate to marry me and she said yes, babe we’re using the buddy system for the rest of our lives, ” he wrote. “I promise to be the best husband and the best father for our future eight daughters 🤍 I love you babygirl.”

September 13, 2022

Jack celebrated his and Y/n’s one-year anniversary with a thirst-inducing, sexy picture (is that now the new traditional first anniversary pic)?

“365 days by your side, My Heart” he wrote. “I’m the luckiest man in the world to be able to call you mine. I cannot wait to grow old with you and start our team of mini-us. love you so much sweet girl🤍”

September 19, 2022

Jack appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live! and shared some previously unknown details about his proposal to Y/n.

Jack went all out to maximize the romance at the proposal, which he said took place at  their home and involved a a entire floor filled with Y/n’s favorite flower (sunflower) as well as candles, her favorite champagne, and pizza (from the same place they eat that first Met Gala night). While this scenario might scream MARRIAGE PROPOSAL to most people, Jack and Y/n are so romantic in private and gush about their feels so regularly that she didn’t actually realize what was going on at first, “I don't think she ever imagined herself living in Louisville, Kentucky, and I don't believe anyone imagines a woman like Y/n living in Kentucky, she's the pinnacle of glamour, someone you imagine living in LA or NY, so when we broached the subject of living in Louisville, she touched me when she said that as long as we were together anywhere was home, I promised I wouldn't let her regret that decision, so grand romantic gestures are common at home.”

“Man, you're making some of us look bad.” Kimmel joked. “I just like to make her happy, it's not that hard.”The First Class rapper said with a shrug.

But that was not the initial plan, as bad cold postponed the proposal. “I had planned a trip just the two of us, our families were going to join us, but she didn't know that part, I planned to propose to her on June 13, under the light of Aurora Australis, there was a Symphony Orchestra hired for the occasion, and Maria Grazia from Dior—thank you Maria, you absolute angel— sent the dress she was supposed to wear, I already had her father and grandfather's permission, her overprotective older brothers too, her mom gave her blessing, but then on the 10th Y/n had the worst cold, and I ended up canceling the trip.”

During the interview with Kimmel we had another huge revelation:

“But it all worked out in the end, you two are happy…” Kimmel commented. “Yeah, yeah, my wife and I are really happy...” Jack said with a smirk. “Your wife…?” Kimmel asked with a double take. “Oops.” It was the only thing the rapper said, covering his mouth, making the audience cheer with the confession. “When did this happen? Congratulations!” “We are legally married, on the 14th we took a flight to Vegas just the two of us and our parents.” 

They are planning a ceremony for after Jack's tour ends. Our bets are that the ceremony will take place in Kentucky or Vermont. The bride will probably wear Dior and the groom Givenchy.

September 20, 2022

The day after Jack's interview on Jimmy Kimmel's show, Y/n posted a photo of the couple in Vegas with the caption, “Since the cat is out of the bag… our first photo as Mr and Mrs Harlow, I love you husband. ”

[beefromanoff]

Going Under Ch. 31

summary: Gianna moves on with her life, Nat and Wanda stage an intervention.

characters: Bucky Barnes x OC

soundtrack: Never Tear Us Apart - INXS

warnings: fluff, pop star fantasy x love story, set in an AU where the Avengers reunite after Civil War, pre-infinity war, slight angst, hurt/comfort, lonely reader/OC.

author’s note: so sorry for my slower posting schedule, I've been so so busy with work that I'm pressed for time but I really wanted to get a chapter out for Valentine's Day! we're getting somewhere good, guys! thank you for reading and reviewing, ilysm!

chapter list/links - xo

_________________________________________________

Bucky 

“Five minutes to landing, Captain.” 

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Steve’s face was riddled with concern as he buckled the chinstrap of his helmet. “You sure you’re up for this, Buck?” 

The only sound was the hum of the Quinjet’s engine as Bucky seemed frozen in his seat. As they’d begun their ascent a little over an hour ago, his phone had pinged with a notification that would derail the entire morning. 

‘E News Exclusive: Gianna Cruz and Sebastian Stan Get Cozy Before Valentine’s Day’

The team had gotten word of the circulating paparazzi photos and decided no good would come from Bucky seeing them. That consensus didn’t extend to the SHIELD agent who decided to forward it to him this morning, right before their departure for a mission. Fortunately, it was strictly intelligence and recon, something both Steve and Bucky could do in their sleep. That didn’t mean it was pleasant for Steve to fly in silence for an hour, his friend’s turmoil almost palpable in the seat beside him. 

“Beginning descent now.” 

Bucky braced his hands on his knees and stood, snapping out of his stupor. “I’m fine.” He rolled his neck and reached for the weapons holstered to his legs, doing a silent count. 

“You sure? If you’d rather hang at the jet and keep watch, it won’t take -”

“Steve.” Bucky met his eyes. “I said I’m fine.” 

The Quinjet touched down in a thick, overgrown forest. As the ramp began to extend with a hiss, Bucky took one last look at his phone. The image wounded him more than any weapon had in battle. The photo, clearly taken from across the street, showed Gianna looking happier than ever. Her latte, which he could still smell as clearly as if it were in front of him, sat half drunk on the table, lipstick print on the side. She was laughing, really laughing. He could tell by the way her eyes crinkled on the outside. This wasn’t for show. It wasn’t one of the laughs she’d perfected for evening show interviews and fan meetings. This was real. 

Across from her sat the man responsible for making her laugh. Dark hair peeked from below his baseball hat, slightly shorter than Bucky’s, but not far behind. His hand was wrapped around a coffee cup with no lid, the other hand gesturing as he told the story that was so evidently hilarious. The man rumored to be playing none other than Bucky himself in the movie about his life. The one he’d signed off on years ago after encouragement from Steve and Tony, guaranteeing him he’d have a say in how the movie portrayed him. He could be as involved as he wanted to be. They reminded him it would help his reputation following the pardons, and help public opinion swing his way. Plus, the paycheck wasn’t bad either. 

Now, years after signing those damn documents, he wanted nothing to do with the damn thing. Not if he had to sit and watch someone who was supposed to portray him live out life with the one person he wished he’d never let go. Fuck the movie. Fuck the actor. Fuck the agent who sent him these photos in the first place. 

Admittedly, he knew he would have seen them anyway. His feeds were still full of Gianna from the days he’d spent reading fan posts and theories about the two of them together. The days when he was in the photos going viral. Now, he wasn’t doing much to change it, considering he still paused to stare every time her name or photo appeared on his screen. 

The thing that really got him about this photo wasn’t the fact that she looked so happy and so carefree while he felt like a shell of himself. It wasn’t the fact that another man sat across from her, either. Both of those things felt like a kick to the gut, but they weren’t the worst part. 

The worst part was that he knew that coffee shop. 

This was one she refused to go to unless she wanted to be seen, be photographed. It was a paparazzi hotspot. She knowingly avoided it for that reason. The fact that she was there, with that man, was no accident. She wanted to be seen. 

She wanted him to see.

Gianna

Three Days Prior

Gianna’s stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

“Hey, thank you again for meeting me.” Sebastian’s eyes were genuine, kind. “I really do appreciate it.” 

She smiled, cheeks sore from doing so much of it over the past half hour they’d sat at this table. Her favorite shop these days, quiet and private. The few sips that remained in her coffee had gone cold, but she didn’t care. It was a beautiful day in the city and she’d forgotten about her pain, her loneliness, for just a little while. 

“Of course. I appreciate you asking me.”

“Yeah, well…I wasn’t sure what you’d say.” His eyes were sheepish. “I know things aren’t, well, I don’t know. I’ve heard things aren’t the best right now, but --” 

“It’s okay.” She cut him off with a gentle smile. “Things aren’t, well…they aren’t right now. At all. But no matter how I feel or how it ended, his story deserves to be told the right way. I respect you for wanting to do that.” 

Sebastian sighed in relief. “Thank you. Seriously. My agent keeps reaching out to Pepper, but she said ‘Sergeant Barnes has no desire to be involved in the project at this time.’ I have a feeling she gave me the watered down version of what he actually said.”

Gianna laughed. “Yeah, that’s probably true.” She shifted in her chair. “I’m not overly familiar with the uh…process. What do you need from me?” 

“Not much, hopefully, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just want to get it right, get him right.” He leaned onto his elbows. “The story, of course, but also him as a person. His mannerisms, his voice, his mind. I want to understand him.” 

“Yeah, get in line.” Gianna murmured before catching herself. “I can help.” 

“Perfect.” He grinned, looking enough like Bucky that her heart jolted. “Of course, I have a whole team of people to help me look more like him physically. That’ll take some time. He’s not a small guy.” Sebastian mimed growing his biceps. 

“No,” Gianna laughed. “He isn’t. I’m sure a Super Soldier workout program is out there somewhere.” 

“I’ll leave that to the professionals.” He waved a hand. “They just tell me what to do and I do it. For now, can we meet again? I don’t know how long you’ll be in the city, but I’d love to meet a few times a week until I feel like I’ve got it right.” 

“I’ll be here for a while. We’re still figuring out tour dates and everything, so I’m in the city for the foreseeable future.”

“Great. How’s Friday? Coffee, again? My treat, of course.” 

“Friday is great.” She smiled. “But let's meet somewhere else this time. Do you have a problem with meeting more…publicly?”

He grinned again, raising his empty cup. “Not at all. All press is good press when you’re making a movie.” 

Gianna gave a wry smile, raising her cup to his. “Then let’s make headlines.”

Bucky

Wanda stormed into the training room, followed closely by Natasha. Bucky was deep into a sparring session with a punching bag, sweat glistening on his forehead. The recon mission had been easy, getting them back relatively early in the day. He decided to skip dinner and let off some steam instead, the image from earlier still burned into his mind.

"Bucky Barnes!" Wanda's voice cut through the thuds of Bucky's punches, echoing through the empty room.

He paused, looking at them with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "What?"

Natasha crossed her arms. "We're tired of your brooding. Enough is enough. We're having an intervention."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "An intervention?"

Wanda nodded. "Yes. You're coming with us."

Before Bucky could protest, they each took one of his arms and practically dragged him out of the training room.

The common room was suspiciously empty. 

“Where is everyone?” Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“They flew into the city for a basketball game. They’ll be back tomorrow. Steve didn’t mention it?” Natasha gave a coy smile. 

“No. He didn’t.” 

She grinned. “Good.” Natasha pointed to his bedroom. "Go shower, put on something comfy. We're having a girls' night."

“A what?” 

“Just go.” She gave a light shove towards his door.

Bucky scoffed but complied. When he returned in sweats, the atmosphere had changed. The living room was warm, inviting. In the dining room, Wanda and Natasha were setting up what appeared to be a cozy dinner. Candles were lit, and a bottle of wine was breathing on the table. The smell of marinara wafted through the air.

Wanda poured wine as Natasha motioned for Bucky to sit. "Okay, Barnes. Time to spill."

He eyed them warily. "Spill what?"

Wanda leaned back, sipping her wine. "How you feel. About Gianna, about everything. We're not leaving until you talk."

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "What's there to say?"

Natasha leaned forward, spinning pasta on her fork. "Start with the truth. Do you still love her?"

Bucky hesitated but finally nodded. "Yeah, I do. But that's not important."

Wanda shook her head. "That's a start. At least you don’t deny it. Why do you say it isn’t important?"

Bucky's eyes dropped to the table. "I'm not good for her."

“From where we’re standing, you seemed pretty damn good to us. She didn’t exactly seem…unsatisfied.” Nat sipped her wine. 

Bucky glared at her. 

“Okay, sex jokes aside. That girl was happy. Why the hell do you think you weren’t good for her?” 

“Because, Nat, I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.” His fist hit the table, rattling the wine glasses. Neither woman flinched. “She’s young, beautiful, smart, she has everything going for her. Everything. The whole world is in love with her. She could have anything, anyone she wants. She should have a family, a life, everything. She’s too amazing, too good for someone like me. I can’t stand the thought that I’m holding her back from something better. From someone better. I have all this shit that I’ve done, blood on my hands, I still get nightmares…I don’t want her to have to live with all that.” His voice broke ever so slightly at the end.

Natasha leaned in, her voice soft and kind. "Bucky, she knew what she was getting into when she fell for you. And she didn't care. She still doesn't."

He looked down at his hands. "But I can't give her a normal life. She deserves more than this."

Wanda spoke softly, "Maybe she thinks a life with you is better than any normal life. You've got to trust her to make that decision. Plus, it’s not like she can just walk down the street either. Did you forget the reason you met her in the first place?"

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair again, frustration evident. "What if she regrets it? What if she wakes up one day and realizes she wasted her time with me and I’m not worth it?"

Natasha leaned in, placing a hand on his arm. "Bucky, you are worth it. You've changed. You've got to believe that. Stop seeing yourself as this monster that they tried to make you. See yourself how we do."

He looked up at her. “What do you mean?” 

Nat glanced at Wanda, who reached out her hand. “May I?” 

Bucky nodded slowly, taking her hand. 

Instantly, his mind was full of light and color. Scenes flashed before him, one after another. 

Him in combat, sniping someone who was about to take a lethal shot at Steve. Him throwing a football to Peter, who was beaming. Him high-fiving an agent who finally won their first sparring match after weeks of private sessions. Him lifting a beam off of a civilian in a fire, rescuing them when they realized it would take too long for the fire department to get the jaws of life up that high. Him with his arm around Wanda on the couch on the anniversary of her parents’ death, holding her while she cried. Him catching Natasha inches before her head hit the concrete after being thrown in battle. Him watching Lord of the Rings with Peter and arguing over whether the book was better than the movie. Countless scenes of him laughing with Steve. Glimpses of the agents’ faces as he spoke, all full of awe and admiration. 

Then there was Gianna. Memories of her face, looking at Bucky, eyes full of love. Bits of conversation with Wanda where she gushed about him. Her face when she woke up in the hospital bed after the bombing, immediately asking where he was. Memory after memory of the two of them together, from the perspective of various team members. The two of them dancing on the dock, disgustingly in love. Them laughing, holding hands, dancing in the kitchen in front of the coffee pot. The way she looked at him like he hung the moon. The way he looked at her like she was the sun. 

Bucky couldn’t deny the difference between the man in these memories and the man he saw in the mirror. His face was bright, warm, joyful. Now, dark circles hung below his eyes and he just looked…colorless. Like he felt inside. 

With a gentle squeeze of his hand, Wanda let go. His mind was quiet, devoid of all the memories. He was back at the table with two of his best friends looking at him with hope and concern. His friends who thought he was worth all of this trouble for. His friends who he loved so dearly. 

“How did you…?”

“I asked.” Wanda smiled. “I asked if I could see all of the good memories of you. Everyone had more than enough. The hardest part was sorting through them all.”

He stared at the table for a moment, dumbfounded. 

Nat nudged him with her elbow. “Just remember, Buck, if you’re thinking those things about yourself, you’re saying we’re all wrong. When was the last time we were all wrong?” She winked at Wanda. “Especially us.” 

Bucky grinned despite himself. 

“Eat!” Wanda chastised, gesturing to his plate with her fork. “It’s not as good when it’s cold.” 

The conversation continued as they ate, thankfully shifting away from Bucky’s emotions for the time being. For the first time since he watched Gianna walk out the door, he felt a sliver of hope.

As the night progressed, the atmosphere lightened even further. Wanda insisted on watching a romantic comedy, stating that it was a staple of a girls’ night. They even had pints of ice cream reserved for the occasion. Bucky feigned interest, but his mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts of Gianna and the memories he’d been shown.

Natasha nudged him as they sat on the couch, the screen illuminating their faces. "You okay?"

Bucky sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah. Just thinking about her."

“Good.” Nat grinned. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do, but you better do something. The next intervention won’t be so cushy.”  

The movie played on, but Bucky's mind was miles away, contemplating the possibility of winning back the woman he loved.

Gianna

The vibrant atmosphere of Madison Square Garden buzzed around Gianna as she sat courtside at the Knicks game. The cheers of the crowd, the bass of the music, and the energetic spirit of the close game created a palpable buzz in the air.

Gianna, dressed in jeans and a corset top, found herself featured on the Jumbotron. The crowd erupted in cheers as she waved and blew a playful kiss. Beside her, Madison Beer, shared the moment with a grin. They’d been in talks about recording a song together and decided to take a girls’ night to celebrate. 

As the halftime began, Gianna caught wind of a commotion in the row behind her. Turning, she saw Peter animatedly trying to persuade her security to let him through, insisting that they were friends. However, the stern expressions on the security team indicated their skepticism as they refused. 

With an amused smile, Gianna stood and walked over. "It's alright, guys. He's a friend."

The security team eyed Peter warily as she beckoned him closer. "I told you I know her! Spider-Man and Gigi, pals!"

Gianna chuckled, giving Peter a friendly hug. "It's been too long, Pete. What are you doing in the city?”

“Nat kicked us out for the night.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair. 

“Us?” Gianna’s heart pounded. 

“Oh, uh, Steve, Sam, and Mr. Stark.” He gestured up towards the suites. Looking up, Gianna saw three friendly faces smiling and waving from the Stark Enterprises box. She grinned and waved back.

Peter paled as he glanced over Gianna’s shoulder, where Madison had joined them. 

Gianna laughed, "Oh, I’m so sorry. Peter, meet Madison Beer. Madison, this is Peter Parker."

Peter's eyes widened, and he stammered out a greeting, utterly starstruck.

Madison laughed, "Nice to meet you, Peter. Gianna's told me a lot about you. Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and all."

Peter's eyes widened even further. "Really? Wow, now I really owe you one.” He elbowed Gianna.

Madison grinned, amused by Peter's awe. "Are you here on vigilante business?”

Peter, still in a state of disbelief, managed to laugh. "Uh, not this time. More of a guys’ night.” He gestured back to the box.

“Oh my God, is Tony Stark here?” Madison squealed, suddenly starstruck herself.

“Yes, actually, he sent me down to ask if you, uh, wanted to join us…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you have great seats, I mean courtside, that’s tough to beat, but we’ve got the bartender and the food and -” 

“Can we?” Madison whirled to face Gianna. 

“It’s just you four?” Gianna said under her breath to Peter, expression cautious.

“Just us.” He nodded, understanding who exactly she was asking about.

Gianna swallowed in relief and linked her arm with Madison. “Shall we?” 

The trio made their way to the Stark Enterprises box, where Tony, Steve, and Sam were eagerly waiting. As Gianna approached, Steve stood up, grinning.

"Gianna! It's been too long," Steve said, enveloping her in a warm hug.

Tony added, "And who's this? Supermodel, actress…?"

“Singer.” Gianna chuckled, "Tony, Steve, Sam, meet Madison Beer. Madison, meet the guys.”

The atmosphere in the private box crackled with excitement as the game resumed after halftime. Gianna, Madison, and Peter, flanked by Tony, Steve, and Sam, were fully immersed in the exhilarating game, standing at the edge of the box.

"Come on, guys! We need a miracle play!" Tony shouted, his eyes glued to the action.

Madison joined in, "Come on, my jump shot looks better than that!"

Peter grinned, "I'd pay to see that."

As the game intensified, Tony couldn't resist pushing the excitement to another level. He gestured to the suite’s bartender, who poured shots for everyone. "A little liquid luck for our team!"

Gianna laughed, taking a shot glass from the tray and raising it in the air. "To the Knicks!"

The group echoed her and the shots went down smoothly. As the glasses were dropped back on the tray, the Knicks scored a crucial basket, sending the group into a collective uproar.

Tony, always one for mischief, looked at Madison. "You know, I heard if you blow a kiss to the team, it brings good luck."

Madison playfully rolled her eyes but obliged, blowing an exaggerated kiss toward the court. The team scored again, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

"Madison, you're our secret weapon!" Sam teased, throwing an arm around her as she jumped up and down. 

The alcohol running through everyone’s veins only amplified the excitement. The group became rowdier as the drinks flowed and the game reached its climax. Even Steve, usually the more reserved of the bunch, found himself caught up in the infectious energy, despite not being affected by the alcohol. Gianna had been taking it slower, finding that when she came home after a night of drinking, it all turned to sadness even more intense than when she was sober. So tonight, besides the shot, she was still sipping on her first cocktail. 

Gianna leaned over to where he sat, resonating with the other relatively sober person on the. "You having fun, Cap?"

Steve grinned and raised the bottle in his hand, "Beer, basketball, and great company. What’s not to love?" Before Gianna could continue the conversation, the crowd erupted into thunderous cheering as the Knicks finished with a win. The group erupted into cheers and high-fives, Tony going around and kissing everyone on the head.

“Alright, Happy’s bringing the car around. It’s time to celebrate.”

Steve glanced at his watch warily. "Tony, it's late. We've got an early flight back tomorrow."

Tony waved off the concern. "Last time I checked, whoever owns the plane decides the flight time. Looks like our flight just got delayed!"

Madison tossed her hair over her shoulder as she linked arms with Sam and Peter, trailing Tony out the door. Her laughter echoed into the hallway as she wagged her eyebrows at Gianna, clearly thrilled with how the night was unfolding. 

“Sounds like we’re in for a long night.” Steve gave a resigned smile to Gianna. 

Smiling, she downed the rest of her watery vodka cranberry. 

“Then let’s make the best of it.”

Bucky

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“What?” Bucky groaned, stirring on the coach. Wanda had fallen asleep sprawled across half the sectional, leaving Bucky to doze off in an awkward seated position. Only Nat had stayed awake through the second movie. Her reaction to whatever text she just got was enough to wake him back up.

Nat eyed him, but didn’t reply, turning her gaze back to her phone. 

“Nat, what is it?” Bucky shifted to sit up straighter. 

She paused, chewing her bottom lip. Seeming to realize it was pointless to resist showing Bucky, she flipped the phone around. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright, glowing screen, but he recognized the interface to be Twitter. 

‘The Avengers party with Madison Beer and Gianna Cruz: Pop Stars spotted entering famed nightclub Flame following Knicks Victory.’ 

Bucky clenched his jaw as his eyes raked over the photo. Tony was winking at the camera, leading the group. Gianna and the brunette girl, Madison, each held one of Peter’s arms as they walked, Steve and Sam walking behind them and shielding their eyes from the flashes. 

“How old is this?” 

“Bucky…”

“Nat,” His tone had a warning in it. “How old is this photo?” 

“It was posted fifteen minutes ago. According to Steve, they got to the club about forty five minutes ago and Tony doesn’t seem to want to call it a night.” 

He rubbed his hand along his stubbled jawline, suddenly wide awake. “How quickly can we get to Manhattan?”

[sequinsmile-x]

To End Up With You

Emily has a job interview and is nervous. Aaron helps her through it.

-x-

For @ssamorganhotchner, who deserves all the good things because she is so incredibly lovely. Here's some very caring Hotch for you <3

I hope you like this bestie!

p.s. Lina said this doesn't count as a fluff apology for yesterday, because it's "Morgan's fluff" so...apparently I still owe the rest of you ;)

-x-

Warnings: None

Words: 2k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

“You’re stressed.” 

She sighs, coming to a stop in front of him. Sometimes, it really sucked that he was once a profiler too. 

Emily turns sharply to look at her husband, her eyebrows drawing together as she frowns at him. “Of course I’m stressed, Aaron,” she continues her pacing in front of the couch where he was sitting, twirling her wedding rings around her finger in a futile attempt to stop herself from tearing her cuticles to shreds. “It’s a job interview.” 

Section Chief. She was finally going for Section Chief after years in the field, the change of pace more desirable than it had ever been. The BAU was her family, the first place she had truly been able to call home before she found one here, with Aaron, but it was time to move on, to take a step away and let someone else step up to the plate. To find the end in this beginning, the path she had started walking so long ago. 

When Aaron first called her when he returned to DC, she was furious. Anger that she hadn’t expected flooded her veins as she demanded to know why he had left it until now to call, why he had been away for so long. She’d missed him far more than she thought she would, more than she would allow herself to show anyone. Their friendship had always been between the two of them, a secret that could have developed into more. They had missed each other so many times, moments that they should have taken, that she had spent so long worried they’d never get to where they are now. 

Somehow, with no small amount of work from the two of them, they made it. They were married. Lived in a home they had chosen together, a room for Jack that he visited when he was back from college. 

It was the life she’d always dreamed of, but never allowed herself to believe could be real. 

“It won’t be as bad as you’re thinking it will be,” he assures her, and she scoffs slightly, picking at her thumb. 

“How do you know that, Aaron? They could ask me anything.” 

“You’re acting like you’ve never had a job interview.” He says, and he reacts, momentarily, just a flash of something across her face, through her body, but it’s enough for him to notice. “Wait, you have had a job interview before, right sweetheart?” 

She closes her eyes and sighs, shaking her head at him to confirm his suspicion. 

“How?” He asks, and when she opens her eyes to look at him his eyes are full of confusion, and she groans, rolling her eyes at him. 

“It’s not like Interpol sits you in front of a panel and asks you about where you see yourself in five years. And the BAU kind of just…happened the first time around,” she flashes a tight smile at him, the memory of their very rocky start a fond one, the years that had passed allowing her to look back on it with rose-tinted glasses, “Then Clyde asked me to go back to Interpol, and I came back here because you asked me to when you and Jack had to go into hiding.” 

“Did I ever thank you for that by the way?” He asks, and the smile on his face lets her know it’s his attempt to calm her down, to stop the spiral he had accidentally started her on. She smiles at him despite herself, her eyebrow raised. 

“You have,” she teases, “You could always thank me again though.” 

“Later,” he promises, a tone to his voice that never failed to make her stomach flip, before he becomes curious again, “what about your first ever job?” 

“I was a waitress, and the owner of the place was a perv, all I had to do was walk in with a low-cut shirt on and the job was mine.” 

“Weren’t you 16 when you had that job?” 

“Aaron,” she says, her tone firm, “focus,” she finally sits next to him on the couch, barely any space between them as he reaches out for her hand and links their fingers together, “We don’t have time to fix the patriarchy today.” 

“Sorry, Em,” he says, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles, “can I help?” 

She groans, pressing her temple against his shoulder as she continues to stare ahead, aware only of the way he was tracing his thumb over her knuckles. Always lingering at her rings for a second longer than anywhere else, as if he also still couldn’t believe this is where they had ended up after all this time. 

“You could go for me?” She offers weakly, and it makes him laugh before he drops a kiss on the top of her head. 

“I know Dave always says we’re turning into each other,” he replies, kissing her head again, “but I think that would be a stretch.” 

“Spoilsport,” she mumbles, smiling as he pulls her closer, putting his arm around her so he could run his hand up and down her arm. 

“You’ll be great, sweetheart,” he assures her, sounding far more confident in her abilities than she did, “they’d be fools not to give you that job.” 

She looks up at him, “You have to say that, you’re my husband.” 

He tucks some of her hair behind her ear, grey now that she had let it grow out completely. She’d been worried at first, a small part of her wondering what he would make of it, but Aaron loved it just as much as she loved the salt and pepper flecks throughout his hair. 

“I also used to be your boss, I know exactly what you’re capable of,” he says, reaching for her hand and stopping her from picking at her thumb again, soothing the sore skin with his own. 

“I should get going,” she says, smiling tightly at him as she leans forward to stamp a kiss against his lips, “I don’t want to be late.” 

“You’ll be great,” He says again, squeezing her hand as she stands, wiping non-existent lint from her slacks as she does. 

“Just think,” she says, an attempt at lightness that the fierce beating of her heart in her chest battles with, “if I get the job, I’ll officially outrank where you got to before you retired.” 

“Yeah, I love you too, sweetheart,” he deadpans, making her laugh as she gathers her things, leaving the house with plenty of time to spare.

___

The last bit of tension leaves her body, her shoulders relaxing, as she walks through the front door. The scent of home, of him washing over her, a familiar wave of comfort she’d happily drown in. 

She’s just getting her second boot off, leaning on the wall with one hand to keep her balance, when she sees him come into view, a large glass of red wine in hand.

“Hi sweetheart,” he says, kissing her cheek, and then on the lips once she straightens up, “how did it go?” 

She blows out a breath as she takes the glass of wine from him, “Ok, I think?” She grimaces slightly and turns her nose up. “Honestly, I have no idea. It’s so hard to hell.” 

“I’m sure you did great,” he replies, kissing her again, smiling at her as he pulls back, “Dinner will be about 30 minutes, and I’ve run you a bath,” he stamps a kiss against her lips, “it should be hot enough still to take off a layer of skin, just like you like it.” 

She beams at him, “You really are the best.” 

“Go have your bath, I’ll be down here when you’re done.”

She does as she’s told, shedding her clothes the second she’s in their bedroom, leaving them strewn across the floor she’s sure he will comment on later. As she opens the adjoining bathroom door she’s hit with steam and the smell of lavender and chamomile. The last of her earlier stress melts away as she sinks into the hot water, hissing slightly at the pleasant burn on her skin. 

She sighs as she relaxes in the water, sipping her wine in silence as she soaks in the comfort Aaron had created for her. It was one of the many ways he would show his love, through action. Whether it was something like this, or something much simpler like her favourite coffee pressed into her hand as she left for work in the morning. He always woke up before her, even though he was retired. 

Her allotted time goes by quickly, Aaron letting her know dinner was almost ready by yelling up the stairs. She climbs out of the bath and dries off, pulling on an old shirt of his and some sleep shorts before she heads downstairs. 

“I needed that,” she says when she sees him, wrapping her arms around his waist as he places the final dish on the dining table, “thank you.” 

He wraps his arm around her, “You don’t have to thank me,” he kisses the side of her head, “I made your favourite.” 

She moans as she breathes in the scent of the food, “You’re really doing your best to get lucky tonight.”

“I’m always lucky when I’m with you.” 

Emily laughs, the sound catching in her nose almost like a snort as she looks up at him, rolling her eyes as she steps away to sit down at the table. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet you love me anyway,” he says, taking the seat next to her, wrapping his hand around hers as they settle down to eat. 

“I really do.”

___

After they have eaten they curl up together on the couch, under the blanket they keep thrown over the back of it specifically for moments like this. Neither of them is watching the movie they’ve put on, something they have both seen countless times purely being used for background noise. She has his left hand in between both of hers, mindlessly measuring its size, fingers idly playing with his wedding ring, twisting it on his finger. 

“Do you know why I was so nervous earlier?” She asks, not realising she was going to say it until she was speaking, shifting just enough to look at him. “Why I want the job so much?” He shakes his head, despite the fact she’s sure he has some idea. They’d always been so in tune with each other. “I want the progression, to have a new challenge. But it’s also because of you.” 

His eyebrows crease and he begins to protest immediately, “Em-”

“Not because I think you want me to,” she assures him, disentangling her hand from his to cup his cheek, her thumb scratching at the stubble he let grow occasionally, knowing she enjoyed it, “But because it feels right,” she smiles at him, “I want more time with you, for us. We’ve both wasted so much time already.” 

Aaron looks at her adoringly, “You know I’ll always make time for you, sweetheart, no matter what.” 

“I know,” she replies, kissing the slope of his jaw, “and it’s about time I did the same for you.” 

He simply smiles at her, knowing there is nothing else that can be said, that, just like since they met, they didn’t necessarily need words to know what the other was thinking.

“So,” he asks, encouraging her to rest against him again, “who are you going to suggest for your replacement? JJ?” 

She groans at him, “Don’t jink it.”

“You don’t believe in jinxes,” he says simply, an edge of amusement in his voice, “you just don’t want to choose between them.” 

She grumbles as she turns her face into his chest.

“Fucking profilers.” 

___

When she finds out she gets the job, he’s the first person she calls, just like he was whenever she had news - good or bad. 

He tells her he’s proud of her, and she’s almost just as proud of herself for not crying in her office when he says it. 

When she gets home that night, he’s bought champagne, and she’s never felt luckier. 

-x-

Tag list:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @sneetchestoo, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis22, @denvivale317, @thrindis, @hotchsguccitie, @cmfouatslota77

Join my tag list here!

[desertfangs]

Vamptember Day 16 - Phone Call

Prompt: "Phone Call" | Armand/Daniel | 1012 Words

Still very early in the chase years, Daniel realizes he's missed an important appointment re: the Interview with the Vampire book.

----------

Daniel stood in the phone booth as the snow started to fall, listening to it ring. It was after hours but he’d only just remembered the date in the taxi on the way from the airport. Or rather, he remembered why the date sounded significant. 

He willed someone to pick up. Short of that, he’d have to leave a message. 

He leaned against the booth, exhaustion starting to wear on him. Normally he slept well on planes. These days, it felt like the only safe place to sleep. Once the cabin door was locked and the plane was at cruising altitude, there was no way his vampire stalker could get to him (or so he hoped). But he’d felt uneasy for the entire flight from London, chugging ginger ale between gin and tonics, hoping something would help. Nothing had. 

“Hello?” 

Daniel straightened. A live person, even after five. Lucky. Daniel told the woman who he was. He heard the shuffling of papers. Sounding annoyed, she told him the courier had gone to the address he’d provided but he wasn’t there to receive the manuscript. She admonished him for missing the delivery. “We can resend it tomorrow, but the editor really wants these proofs back by Monday.” 

“Sorry, there was a family emergency,” Daniel lied. “My grandmother died and I had to leave the state.” He winced. His Irish heritage made him faintly superstitious and speaking someone’s death into existence was a no-no. He knocked quietly on the wooden box beneath the phone that held the phone book. 

The woman from the publishing company apologized. Assured him they could give him another week given the circumstances. Asked when he’d back in New York, or if they needed to send the manuscript somewhere else.

An unhinged laugh bubbled up out of him. Where would he be in a day or two to accept a delivery? The devil only knew. The devil who haunted him, following his every move with supernatural cunning. 

The woman seemed to mistake his laughter for a sob and told him how she’d lost her grandfather the year before. 

“I can be in New York the day after tomorrow.” It was only an hour flight. He could get some sleep here and then head back to the airport in the morning. He’d be there in time to get the proofs the following day with more than enough time to spare. 

The woman made a note, verified the address where he’d be—a hotel where Daniel had stayed once before—and then apologized for his loss again before hanging up.

Daniel put the phone back on the receiver and leaned his head against the cold glass of the booth. Daniel had never been punctual but he never used to miss entire appointments. 

Something tapped against the glass.

Daniel looked up, startled, his heart slamming into his ribs. Armand’s face was on the other side of the glass, ghostly pale, his amber eyes locked onto Daniel. He was smirking. 

Daniel opened the phone booth door, trying to ignore the blood thrumming in his ears. “I’ve been in Boston less than hour,” Daniel said, forcing his tone to sound casual. “That’s impressive, even for you.” 

Armand’s smirk faltered. He looked faintly surprised, which made him look younger, more human. Daniel loved when he could catch him off guard, even momentarily. It took some of the edge off of his terror. 

Daniel started walking down the street. If he couldn’t find a hotel and get some sleep thanks to the vampire’s sudden arrival, at least he could find a bar. 

“You’re going to New York?” Armand asked, falling into step with him. 

Daniel wanted to lie but it was no use. Not only had he likely overheard, but he could read his thoughts and hear his pulse, like walking lie detector. 

“I have business there. You can’t come.” Imagine if it were as easy as that! Sorry, All-Powerful Immortal, you’re not allowed to stalk me until my work in Manhattan is complete. 

“I’m not all powerful,” Armand said. 

Daniel grunted. Might as well be.

“It’s about the book?” Armand asked.

Something in his tone made Daniel stop, ice flooding his veins. He’d wondered if Armand would actually let the book get completed. Armand had known about it from the start, of course, but now that it was coming to fruition…

Armand watched him with a sinister, almost playful gleam in his eye. “If I killed you now, would it stop the book from being published?” 

Daniel swallowed. His mouth felt very dry. “I doubt it.” He didn’t need to proofread it. It was basically a courtesy, and his final chance to make sure they hadn’t left anything out, to see if they’d made any changes, and maybe try to fight them if they had, for whatever that was worth. The book could be printed tomorrow if they so chose. 

Armand stood unnaturally still, staring at him until Daniel thought his heart might explode. And then he smiled faintly. “I don’t care about the book. As I said, no one will believe it.” 

Daniel relaxed slightly, but his pulse still raced. 

“Go to New York, do your business.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Just don’t take too long. If I get bored, I may decide to end this little game.” His smile widened in a way that showed his fangs, which sent another jolt through Daniel, a mix of fear and, god help him, desire.  

Armand pivoted on his heel and continued down the sidewalk. Daniel stared after him. He had the strangest urge to run after the vampire, to chase him down and continue the interaction. Ask what he thought of the book, what might happen when it was out. Did he hope it might lure Louis out of hiding? Or Lestat? Did he intend to kill Daniel once it was done? 

He forced himself to remain planted to the spot as snow fell into his hair and dotted his glasses, until the vampire was long out of sight. 

Then he went to the closest bar and ordered a very stiff drink.

[not-a-space-alien]

All Creatures Great and Small Chapter 2: Doxxed

There's a good reason why you're not supposed to feed the trolls...

As always thanks to my collaborator @static-stars and my beta/sensitivity reader @appelsiinilight! <3 And special thanks to @ratcatcher0325 for some beta reading as well!!

Story masterpost

AO3 link

P.S. To stave off the inevitable tidal wave of references to this I'm sure is coming: Yes, Mr. Crocker from Fairly Odd Parents exists, hahahaha hilarious

Thistle’s phone sat in the center of the table, with Marcy, Teddy, and Colin sitting at the chairs on three sides.  Thistle sat at the fourth place, sitting on the table with his wings folded close to his body, shoulders hunched.  His leg bounced nervously.

Marcy had a stormy look on her face, hands clasped in front of her.

“Okay, so he doesn’t know exactly where we live,” said Colin.  “Right?”

“I don’t think so,” said Marcy.  “But the incident at the electronics store was so nearby, it’s–”

“I’m sorry,” said Thistle, for the millionth time.

Marcy held her hand out.  He shut his mouth.

“What were you thinking?” said Teddy.

Thistle found his shoes very interesting.  “I–I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I guess–It just made me nervous to see–that he was telling everyone, and–and I guess I thought I could get him to take it down–”

“All right,” said Colin.  “It’s already happened, so now we just have to deal with it.”

Marcy said, “We deleted all his comments, and we combed through everything on all his profiles on every site for identifying information.”

“We deleted a lot,” said Thistle shame-facedly.  “I never posted anything about my location though.  I swear.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but who knows what those computer people can do these days.”  He stroked his chin as though he’d said something particularly insightful.

“Who is this guy?” said Teddy.  “You said the employee who saw Thistle was being interviewed?”

“He’s a conspiracy theorist of some kind,” said Marcy.  She’d watched a few of his videos, but had to stop because it felt like her brain was melting.  She picked Thistle's phone up, scrolling.  “It’s all bullshit, but there’s no way this is satire or a joke.  He’s too committed to it.  But I don’t know how anyone believes it.  I mean, look at this stuff.”

“Oh god,” said Teddy, “he has multiple videos about how Trump won the 2020 election.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Colin, “What was that about–stem cells from abortions being used in–”

“That’s antisemitism,” said Teddy, pointing to a video Marcy nearly scrolled past.  “That’s a dog whistle in the title.”

“That’s what most of it is like,” said Marcy, taking the phone back.  “But he has a few videos about the ‘truth’ being hidden from the public on supernatural creatures.  Mostly it’s about demons, but there’s some other stuff too.  This is his first video about fairies. Or more specifically, 'tiny people in the walls.'"

“What was that?” said Colin.  “The thumbnail was a snake skeleton.”

Marcy rolled her eyes.  “He claims to have a naga skeleton.”  She brought up the clip and paused it, zooming in.  “How are there so many people eating this dumb shit up?  This is clearly some sort of monkey skeleton put onto a ball python.  There was a fake mermaid in the Barnum museum made the same way.”

“Actually,” said Thistle, very quietly, “Those are real.”

All three giants looked down at him incredulously.

“Once when I was young, a snake monster found our nest and ate two of my older siblings.  We were able to drive it off, but we had to just up and move to a new tree miles away to get away from it.  That’s what it looked like.  Torso like ours.  Snake instead of legs.  They’re about that size, too.”

Teddy burst into nervous laughter.  “Oh great.  Great.  Some batshit insane conspiracy theorist happens to be right about our particular slice of the unbelievable.”

“We don’t know that he’s going to come here,” said Marcy hopefully.

“He was here,” said Teddy, almost hysterical.  “Look, he’s in the shopping center in this video.”

Colin put an arm around her.  “It’s all right, Teddy bear, don’t freak out. We can deal with this.”

“There’s no way he could get our address,” said Marcy.  “Right?  Unless…”

“It’s on your mobile account,” said Teddy.  “The one you added Thistle to, right?  Does the employee he interviewed have access to it?”

“He–he’s surely not supposed to give that information out,” said Marcy.

“That doesn’t mean he won’t.”

They all grimaced.

“Well… his branding is good, I’ll give him that,” said Teddy.

His logo was a cartoon alligator with a magnifying glass, with the word InvestiGator underneath of it.  It was so ridiculous that Marcy couldn’t help bursting into laughter.

“This is fucking stupid,” she said.  “I can’t believe this.”

“Aaaaand of course he’s into cryptocurrency,” said Teddy with a scowl.

“It’s–it’s called fucking—” Marcy was having trouble getting words out between peals of overwhelmed laughter.  “Fucking–TruthCoin, and–and he’s selling alligator NFTs.”

“How did someone so wrong about everything else get this one specific thing so exactly right?” said Teddy.

“I don’t like this one bit,” said Colin.  “This guy is nothing but trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thistle, voice wobbly.  

The laughter stopped at his serious tone, and all three giants looked down at him again.

“If–if–if–if it’ll fix this, I’ll leave if–if you want me to.”

Marcy's looming hand reached over to Thistle.  He shrunk back a little.  She picked him up by the back of his shirt and plopped him into her outstretched hand.  “I think you're a little too eager to sacrifice yourself at every opportunity.”

“But I made–but I put everyone in danger.”

Colin rolled his eyes.  He got up and walked over to the front door, pulling it open.  “Well, go on, then.  Leave.”

Thistle's face crumpled.

“I'm kicking you out.  We hate you now, and we think you deserve to get eaten by the neighbor's annoying dog.”

Thistle stared at him, baffled, eyes glazed over.  “You–are you being serious?”

“Of course not!”  He slammed the door shut.  “Does that sound like something any of us would say?  No?  So stop treating us like we're heartless monsters.  You’re our little buddy.  We’re not going to kick you out.”

Thistle wiped his eyes and looked down.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” said Teddy gently.  “...Even if it’s a stupid mistake, it doesn’t mean you deserve to be abandoned.”  

Marcy brought her other hand over and folded it over him, giving him a reassuring squeeze.  “It isn’t the end of the world, Ardo.  We’ll deal with whatever happens together, okay?”

He grabbed her pointer finger, giving it a squeeze back.

***

“Shut up!  Shut up!”

Marcy tried to ignore Colin’s increasingly annoyed shouts from upstairs as the neighbor’s dog continued to bark intermittently.  “I get one day off to sleep in with my girlfriend and you wake me up!  Shut up!!”

Marcy laced her shoes up, looking down at Thistle, parked by her ankle.

“Okay,” she said.  “Teddy and Colin are both home today, so if anything happens they can deal with it.  Okay?”

He nodded.  “Right.  I…I think I’m going to go upstairs to their bedroom until they get up for the day.”

“Good thinking.”  She brushed his jaw delicately with one finger.  “There might not even be anything to worry about, okay?”

He nodded.

Marcy reached over and held Thistle’s phone up.  “Now do you want me to leave this here today?”

He wrung his hands.  “Uh…No, I think–I think you take it with you again.”

“Okay.”  She slipped it into her bag.  “Have Colin and Teddy text me occasionally to check in, then.”

“I will.”

There came a holler from upstairs: “Marcy, when you go out, drag that stupid dog back to Kristi’s house.”

“Okay, Colin!”  She leaned over and plucked Thistle off her pant leg, where he’d started to climb up.  She gave him a kiss on the top of his head.  “Have a good day.”

“You too!”

She set him on the bannister, and he scrabbled up it into Teddy and Colin’s bedroom.  She watched him go, then turned and opened the front door.

There was a man with a white van parked nearby their driveway–just enough that he was still technically on public property.  The neighbor’s dog was standing in front of him, tail wagging, occasionally barking.

Marcy stood frozen in the doorway.  Oh God.  The beard.  The stupid beard.  It’s–

“Hey!” said the man, giving a friendly wave.  “Is this your dog?”

Marcy stepped out onto the porch and slammed the door behind her, locking it.  She saw that the adjacent window was open, so she quickly stepped over and shut it, too.

“He’s cute!” said the newcomer as the dog stood with paws on his thighs, jumping up on him.

Feeling numb, Marcy drew near.  “Uh–No–No, he’s–he belongs to the neighbor.”

“What’s his name?”

“B…Buster…”

“Cute.  He’s cute.”  The man lifted the dog gently and plopped him onto the ground.  “Ahem, ah, are you Marcella Lester?”

“Uh…”  Marcy broke into a cold sweat.  “I’m sorry, have we met?”

He put a hand to his chest, smirking.  “Not formally.  My name is Robert, I host a show on YouTube where I go on fact-finding missions.  Can I ask you some questions?”

Marcy decided that the distance she’d already walked was close enough, and stopped.  “What–What kinds of questions?”

“What’s the stuff in this truck bed?  This yours?”  He tapped Colin’s truck with his foot, nodding towards the grass-stained equipment in the back.

“That’s–That’s Colin’s, he works in landscaping.”

“Really?  That’s cool.  A likely story.  It’s interesting that you’re both at home and not at work at 9AM on a Monday.  Courtesy of the taxpayers, I’m sure.  Will you tell me about your work?”

Marcy’s heart started to pound.  “Uh, mine?”

“Yeah!  Unless you have something to hide about it?”  He leaned in.  “Do you?”

Marcy’s voice squeaked despite her best attempts to not be intimidated.  “Excuse me for one moment I need to go to go I’llberightbackstayrightthere.”

She sprinted back to the porch, jamming her key into the door and whirling back inside.  She did up the deadbolt, then walked over and locked the window and pulled the curtain shut.  “Colin!” she yelled, moving to the living room and locking the windows there.  “Colin!  Teddy!  Help!”

Colin appeared on the stairs in a flash.  Marcy turned back around when she saw he was only in his boxers, hairy chest fully out.  “Woah!” she said, covering her eyes.

“Dammit Marcy, don’t yell like that unless someone is actively attacking you.”  Colin darted back upstairs.  “I’ll be right there.”

Thistle’s face appeared at the top of the stairs, peering over the top step.

“Go hide in the sock drawer,” said Marcy.  “Don’t come out until I come get you.  Don’t look outside.  Don’t come out.  Don’t make a sound.”

He darted away, zigzagging to avoid Teddy’s feet as she came out next.  “What is it?” she said, drawing her robe around herself.

“He’s here,” said Marcy.  “YouTube guy.  Crocodile guy.  Fucking guy.”

Teddy’s eyes boggled.  “Well, tell him to leave!”

“But how?”

“Just go outside and say ‘Please leave!’”

“But what if he gets mad?”

Colin reappeared on the stairs, this time in pants.  “What did he do so far?”

Marcy started to drape the blanket from the couch onto Thistle’s little house and his craft station in the living room, to hide them.  “He just kinda asked me to talk.”

“Well, why don’t you go talk to him?”

“Are you crazy?” said Teddy.  “No, nope. Talking with those kinds of people always backfires.  Just politely tell him to leave.  Ah!”

This last exclamation was prompted by the appearance of the newcomer’s face in the little window at the top of the front door.  Marcy whipped around, suddenly worrying if she’d shouted at Thistle to go hide loudly enough that he could hear.

“Just tell him whatever it takes to get him to go away,” said Colin.  “Go on.”

Marcy bit her lip.  “Uh.  Okay.”

Drawn by the commotion, Mochi was stretching in the entryway when Marcy walked back over.  She picked Mochi up to stop her from darting out, then opened the door a crack.

“Woah, cute cat!” said Robert.  He extended a finger and rubbed Mochi’s head.  Mochi leaned into it, eyes squinting.  Traitor.

“All right,” said Marcy.  “Look, I’m sorry but I’m really busy, I was just on my way to work–”

“It won’t take long.”  Robert put his hands in his pockets.  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of my videos?”

“Uh…”

“Well, I’m just putting together a follow-up to an interview I had recently in this area.  It was pretty closeby to where I live, so I figured it could pop over for some fact-finding.”  

“I don’t think I can–”

“Sure you can!”

“But-”

“What exactly do you study at your job?  You work for the government, don’t you?”

Marcy rubbed the back of her head.  “Look, I’m not really comfortable answering that.”

Robert nodded, tongue in his cheek.  “Mm-hmm.  You have an NDA?”

“A–A what?  An ND–No, I don’t have one.  Look, can you, can you please leave?”

“Sure, I’ll be out of your hair fast enough.  Have you seen anything unusual in this area recently?  Have you ever seen–”

“For God’s sake!”  Colin’s shout echoed distantly.  Marcy felt him before she saw him, shoving past Marcy to lean into the doorframe.  “Get off my porch!”

Robert’s hand came from out of his pocket where it had been resting, holding a phone that was already recording. 

Oh of course.  Of course.  Now he starts recording.

“Sir, I’m just asking questions,” said Robert.  “What’s wrong with that?  You don’t think freedom of speech should be–”

“Go speak freely on someone else’s porch,” Marcy snapped.  “Leave me alone.”

“Aha!” said Robert.  “You seeing this?  This government scientist refusing to answer my questions, avoiding the issue, harassing me, threatening me, covering up the truth.  I’m getting this all on film.  You’re being filmed.”

“This is private property,” said Marcy.  “Please leave.  I’m not saying you can’t ask questions, but–”

“I am,” said Colin.  “Get off my property.”

“Call the police then,” said Robert.  “We’ll have a nice discussion with them, I’m sure.”

“If you don’t get off my fucking porch soon you’ll wish I’d called the police instead of what I’m about to do to you,” Colin hissed with shocking venom, getting right up into Robert’s face.

“I got this all on video, you see this?  Threatening me over just looking for the truth.”  He said this with the same amount of bravado, but he’d begun to slowly back down the front steps off the porch. 

Colin grabbed Marcy’s arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door and locking it.  “Jesus Christ,” he said, rubbing his temples.  “What part of ‘tell him to go away’ didn’t you understand?”

“I did!  He didn’t listen!”

“Whatever.”  In the ensuing pause, Robert could be heard talking to his camera, but his voice was gradually getting further away as he presumably moved back towards his van.  That was a relief, at least.

“Sorry,” said Marcy awkwardly.

Colin sighed.  “Okay.  Whatever.  Teddy?”

“Yeah?”  She was still standing at the top of the stairs.  “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You’re right as always, dear.  Is T okay?”

“He hasn’t come out.”

“I’ll go get him,” said Marcy.

Teddy padded down the stairs to stand next to Colin, who was watching out the window through parted blinds.  Marcy paused to peek out the upstairs window; the interloper was sitting in his parked van, still talking to the camera.  Overwhelming, irrationally intense hatred boiled over inside her immediately.  She walked forward and closed that curtain.

She made double sure that her bedroom blinds were closed and closed her door before doing anything.  “Thistle, it’s me, it’s safe to come out.”

When she got no response, she extended a hand and gently rolled her sock drawer open.  Thistle was hard to spot, but there was one particular pile of socks that quivered slightly.  She reached down and touched it gently, and it jumped.  “Are you okay?”

Thistle rose up from under the pile.  His face was splotchy, his cheeks streaked with tears, ugly-crying with snot running down from his nose.  “N-no.”

Marcy gave a tsk and scooped him up.  He balled up in her hand, shaking.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “We got him to leave.”

“Please don’t kick me out,” said Thistle.  He was in the throes of a panic attack like he hadn’t had in a long time, imagining how much easier it would be for Marcy to just open the door and toss him out to face the consequences of his own actions than it would be to try and untangle the mess he’d made.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–”

“Hey, hey, hey, relax.”  She wiped his cheek with the pad of her thumb.  “I’m not going to kick you out.”

“But-but I–I f–I led a predator back to the nest.”

It suddenly snapped into place for Marcy–Thistle’s seemingly overeager offer to sacrifice himself by leaving, the paranoid hysteria over being kicked out.  It was the same reason he staunchly refused to let any human, even one he trusted, near his family.  Leading a predator back to the nest was one of the worst offenses possible in his mind.  Putting others in danger by being careless was a fatal mistake.  He expected to suffer new consequences on par with not being able to go back to his original home, the exile he’d been enduring, and was waiting for the hammer to drop.

Marcy sat down on the bed with him cupped to her chest.  She did something that she’d discovered often calmed him down once they’d established the requisite level of trust: being careful of his wings, she squished him between her hands, pressing down carefully with enough force to act like a weighted blanket, but not enough to hurt him.  His lithe frame trembled, warm and vibrating against her skin.

She lifted her hand, to see him splayed limply out in her palm, facedown.  She felt a slick spot where his face met her skin.  “Better?”

“I’m sorry,” said his muffled voice.

“We already went over this.  You made a mistake, but we’re not going to let anything bad happen to you because of it.  We’ll deal with this together, okay?”

“Okay.”

She rubbed his shoulder blades with her finger.  “You think we’d kick you out?  Is that what your family would have done?  I know you love your family, but….they sound so cruel.  They would just kick you out of the nest for making a mistake like that?”

Thistle pushed himself up to kneeling.  “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t.  That’s what I’m saying.  Would they really abandon you?  They wouldn’t want you to return?”

Thistle wiped his face.  “Of course they would want me to come back if it was safe.  They love me.  You make them sound so mean.”

“I’m not trying to, I just…”

“It’s different.  It’s different for us.  We have so much we need to be careful of.  It’s not a matter of what you deserve, or what you want…it’s a matter of what you have to do to make sure your family survives.  The world is so much more dangerous for me than it is for you.”

Marcy put him down on her lap.  “Is it really that hard out there for you guys?”

“Marcy,” said Thistle, voice breaking, “do you not remember what I said about the snake monster that ate some of my family?”

“Well, yeah but…”

“If the entire group risked itself for the sake of one individual every time we were in danger, our nest would have been wiped out a long time ago.  We are not humans.  We have a different way of thinking.  We all understand that it is not cruelty.  It is being careful, and if you fail to be careful, you have to put the family’s best interest first at whatever cost to yourself.”

“You make yourself sound so disposable,” said Marcy coldly.

“They would do anything for me, and I would do anything for them.  If any of them were in the same situation, I know they would do the same to keep me safe.  That is what family means for a pixie.”

“And yet you started this by begging me to not do what you think is best for the group.”

Thistle raised himself up to all fours, still facedown.  His arms trembled, and tears rolled down his cheeks.  “I–I–I know it’s selfish, but, but, but, I just can’t–”

Thistle looked up and was shocked to see that Marcy was crying too.  “Well, you’re not with a family of pixies anymore,” Marcy said.  “You’re with a family of humans now, and we don’t need you to do that.  Please be selfish.  Please.  Please.”

Selfish.  It was one of the worst things a pixie could be.  A selfish pixie was what caused hives to be destroyed in one fell swoop.  He still had the image embedded in his mind, of his older brother wrapped in the coils of a snake monster, fighting it with all his might as the rest of the family escaped.  How could a hive even function if its members were selfish?  Thistle had been struggling ever since he got here to have a sense of self outside his hive, his identity as an individual and not part of a group.

Marcy wordlessly tilted his head up to make eye contact.  “I promise we can handle it.”

But that’s right.  He was part of a group.  He wasn’t alone.

“Thank you,” Thistle wept.  “Thank you.  Thank you, Marcy.  I do think I want to go back in the sock drawer now, though.”

She smiled at him sadly.  “Okay.  Whatever will make you feel better before I leave.”

***

Despite Marcy’s reassurances that the guy in the van was gone, Thistle stayed hidden in the sock drawer for the rest of the day, until she came home from work and discovered him there with a sad gasp.  He mostly just wallowed.

He had people in his corner, he had a group, it was true.  But everything was still such a struggle.  All it took was little mistakes here and there to bring on such terror.  He was operating completely in Marcy’s world, one he still didn’t fully understand and had few ways to interact safely with.

He didn’t even miss his phone or talking to Sierra.  He’d been staving off loneliness by supplementing his friendship with Marcy and Teddy and Colin with online socialization, but that had all just turned sour in his mouth.  All he could think of was how disastrous it would be if he ever actually met any of the people he’d been talking to online.  None of them could ever know the simple truth of what kinds of microscopic fingers typed those messages, or just how close he had to stand to the mic when he voice chatted to sound normal-sized.

He thought of Sierra’s pictures of her holding kittens and cats and small bugs, and the way she would certainly gasp with delight upon seeing his real person, and imagined her enormous fist closing around him.  They talked as though they were equals, but if they actually met, she could do whatever she wanted to him and he couldn’t do anything to stop her except ask Marcy for help.

He would never be a person to any of the humans.  It had taken ages to establish any sort of rapport with the three humans that were on his side now, after a period of terrifying uncertainty and danger, and he’d only done that was because he was forced to.  It seemed like an impossible task imagining all the effort it would take to meet anyone else new.  He was just some particularly interesting animal to them, to the other 7,999,997 billion humans he shared the planet with.

And maybe he was just some animal.  Humans didn’t spend all their time worrying about being eaten.  They didn’t hide in a sock drawer all day, powerless to defend themselves.  They didn’t have anxiety about being stepped on or squished or grabbed or avoid meeting new people because they were afraid of being put in a jar.  They didn’t revolve every waking decision around the risk that it would expose them to predators.  They didn’t skitter away reflexively at loud noises or sudden movements.  They didn’t worry about coming home to find that their entire family had been eaten.  They didn’t conduct themselves like a neurotic prey animal, safe from all manner of garden-variety monsters by virtue of their sheer size.  They didn’t have nightmares nearly every night about being tortured and gutted by their friends.

They didn’t have nightmares about being eaten by a snake, which was a nightmare Thistle hadn’t suffered since childhood, but which had resurfaced to come torment him that night.

It was a snake with a human face, which made it even more disturbing when it unhinged its jaw to swallow Thistle.  Thistle scrambled backwards to try and escape, but it felt like he was moving through molasses, his limbs sluggish.  By the time the muscular coils encircled him, squeezing him, his pleas for mercy had already been exhausted.

He woke up crying, relieved that the horrible situation disappeared into the blackness of Marcy’s bedroom.  The feeling of skin pressing in on him remained though, but after a moment he realized it was because Marcy’s hand was on top of him, pinning him to the pillow where he’d fallen when she rolled over.

Even with Thistle having to occasionally wake up and shift positions to avoid being squished as Marcy moved restlessly in her sleep, he still consistently slept better in bed with her than he did alone.  It was the swarming instinct.  He’d never slept alone in the hive, not once since he was born.  They were safe in a group, the more the better.

But he was alone now.  A lone pixie was basically a dead man walking.  They rarely survived for very long after getting separated from their hive.  Despite Marcy’s presence, he still had nightmares.

Thistle shifted under Marcy’s hand, pathetically trying to imagine the warmth radiating from her was coming from fellow pixies sleeping peacefully next to him.  He buried his face in the pillow, squeezing taut fistfulls of the fabric beneath him.

Wait a minute.  He’d just gone over this.  Thistle wasn’t a lone pixie… He was alone as a pixie, but he wasn’t alone.  

For the first time out of all the times he’d had nightmares, it occurred to Thistle that he should wake Marcy up.

He scooted out from under Marcy’s hand, which plopped limply down behind him.  Marcy let out a snoring breath.  Hugging his arms around himself, Thistle wiped his face on the back of his hand, sniffling, and leaned over, shaking her hand.  “Marcy.”

No response.  He raised his voice and shook a bit harder.  “Marcy?”

She jerked slightly, eyes just barely cracking open, voice heavy with sleep.  “Hm?  Mhmmmmwha?  What is it?”

He suddenly felt very silly and self-conscious.  What did he really expect her to do?  “I, um…”

She blinked sleep out of her eyes.  “Is everything okay?”

“I…I had a bad dream.”

She made a sympathetic sound and curled her hand around him.  “I’m sorry.  Do you want to talk about it?”

Thistle leaned into her hand, hiding his face.  “I got eaten by a predator.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”  Marcy gathered him up, curling her fingers around him to form a protective wall.  “That’s not going to happen.”

He hugged his arms around himself and gave a little tremble.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“I–”  His voice cracked.  “I don’t think so…  It’s just…”

“Are you scared of that guy?”

“I’m scared–I’m scared of every guy.  Every human.  They’re–”  He broke eye contact, looking down.  “It’s–it’s stupid.”

“It isn’t stupid.”

“I…I’ll never be able to–to just meet new people like you do.”  That was definitely wholly inadequate to describe his entire train of thought, but it was what he managed to choke out.

Marcy rubbed his hand with her pointer finger.  “Do you want your phone back now?”

He shook his head.  “No.  I…I don’t think I want it back.”

Marcy frowned.  Thistle wiped his eyes again.

Marcy reached over and retrieved Thistle’s device from where it sat charging on the end table.  She held it up to him.  “Unlock it, please.”

He swiped in the passcode unenthusiastically.  Marcy lifted it up and away from him, scrolling and pressing buttons.

She looked at him, then held the phone up.  He sniffled and examined what she was showing him.

It was his DM with Sierra.

Is everything okay?

When you get the chance, can you let me know you’re okay?  I’m starting to get a bit worried about you.

Please don’t ghost me.  I really like talking to you.  I know you’re busy.  I’d just like to know you’re okay.

Do you want to voice call?

Thistle looked down, lip wobbling.  “Marcy, you know I can’t actually be friends with someone like her for real.”

“Why not?  You’re friends with me.”

Thistle squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his hands around his knees.  “You know why!”

Marcy removed the phone.  “Have you ever voice chatted with her?”

“Once or twice.”

Marcy pressed some buttons, then set the phone down.  To his horror, he saw the phone was ringing.  “You can’t call her!”

But after a few shuffling noises, a woman’s voice crackled out through his phone speaker.  “Hello?  Hey, Thistle?  Can you hear me?”

“Hey, this is Marcy.”

Sierra’s voice ratcheted up with excitement.  “Marcy!  Hi!  Oh my gosh, the famed Marcy!”

Privately, Marcy thought Sierra had the voice of a particular kind of young adult who was very, very annoying, and would leave her out of inside jokes in college.  She tactfully set the thought aside.  “Sierra?”

“Yes!  Thistle’s told me about you!  I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

Thistle had folded himself up on Marcy’s thigh, hiding his face, wings vibrating.  Marcy said, “All good things, I hope.”

“Yes!  Is–is he there?  Is everything okay?”

Marcy slid the phone over to Thistle, putting the mic right next to his head.  He looked up at her with watery eyes, face stretched taut with anguish.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Thistle choked out.

“Hey!  You sound so upset!  You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s…Everything isn’t okay.”

“Oh no!”

“But Marcy is helping me.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Sierra,” said Marcy, sliding the phone back over.

“Woah,” she said, “for some reason you’re so much louder than he is, can you lean away or something?  Sorry!”

Marcy gave a small smirk and pushed the phone back towards Thistle.  “Sierra, Thistle is upset thinking he has no friends.”

Thistle hid his face, going red, ears pinned to his head.  “M-Marcy.”

“What!” said Sierra.  “I don’t count?”

Thistle started to sob, shoulders wracking.

“So, so Sierra.  Thistle hasn’t sent you any pictures of himself because he thinks you’d treat him differently if you knew what he looked like.”

Thistle let out a choked gasp, absolutely mortified.

“What?!” said Sierra.  “No, of course not!  I–Why would I?  I’m not shallow like that!  You’re my friend!”

Thistle slammed his whole hand down on the end call button.  He looked at Marcy with angry tears in his eyes.  “Marcy, you know she thinks you mean I’m ugly or something!  You know what’s going on here!  It’s pathetic!  I’m pathetic!”  

“You aren’t pathetic.”

“I can’t ever actually meet her,” said Thistle.  “What’s the point?  I have to hide behind a phone and a screen, no one can ever get more than just my voice, and even then I have to stand right next to the mic to make sure they don’t hear that I’m five inches tall!”  Tears streaked down his cheeks.

The call icon lit up again, indicating Sierra was calling again, but he ignored it.  “I can’t ever meet anyone else!  The whole process of meeting you, and Colin and Teddy, it nearly killed me!  I can’t do anything!  I can’t go back to my family, I can’t meet new humans, there aren’t any other pixies around…  I can’t–I can’t go outside and explore–and I’m not the kind of guy who always wants to be leaving the nest–I–I’m okay with staying inside most of the time, but I–it feels so so bad to–to know that no one will ever see me as a person–because even you didn’t at first, and…”

He trailed off as Marcy’s hand made comforting circles on his back.  “Thistle, listen.  Listen to me.”

His ears twitched.

“The way we met, and the way you and Teddy and Colin met.  First of all, that was my fault completely.”

“But–but that’s probably what everyone else would do, too!”

“Listen, let me finish.  I promise you–I promise–you will never have to go through that awful experience again.  You’re braver than when we first met.  You learned how to shout.  You know how to tell others what you need.  You can introduce yourself now.  And you have me to help you.  You can do anything you want to.”

Thistle sniffled.  Marcy had used her fingers to hold his hands, so they were trapped.

“You’ve powered through some extremely scary stuff way, way better than I could have.”

“But–But, but you’re not afraid of anything.”

Thistle was jostled slightly as Marcy laughed.  “Thistle, you haven’t seen me be scared of anything you’re scared of because that stuff isn’t scary for me.  If I were your size, I would be terrified of everything you’ve been dealing with.  I wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“...really?”

“Really.  I did a study abroad in Germany in undergrad, and I didn’t speak a word of German.  On my first day I got lost on the way home, took the wrong bus, and ended up on the other side of the city.  I had to call my host family to come rescue me at like 10PM.  It was one of the scariest things in my life.  And everyone else was the same size as me!  There weren’t monsters prowling around that wanted to eat me!  You’ve gone way further out of your comfort zone than I have.”

Thistle flittered his wings.  “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I know you can handle anything this big wide world can throw at you.”

Thistle blushed, squirming. 

The call icon lit up on the phone again.  Marcy gave him a reassuring pat.  “Now…Do you want to try this again?”

He gave a tearful smile and answered the call.

———————————–

Tag list

@cloudwatchingtoday   @theepiccreatorofmagic-blog-blog  @waitisthatgt @itssmoltime @ratcatcher0325  @alarcomet  @borrowerbecca @crazytinygirl @bittykimmy13 @cheeseybeans8 @whumpsday @theroyaleemily @kitn-underfoot @lucentbliss

@cheeseybeans8

[obsessivelollipoplalala]

Please, elaborate👀

I’ll copy and paste this from my drafts lol:

I think there’s a general fandom view that Brian, as much as he loved Anita, was afraid to truly commit her and he couldn’t keep it in his pants, which led to his fling in ~1999, but there’s more to the story—namely, Anita’s behavior as a partner. This isn’t meant to bash anyone, this is just a result of me reading various interviews and attempting to contextualize things, so please, folks, don’t take this post the wrong way or begin discourse. I just never saw anyone else really talk about this, so I decided to.

First of all, what initially interested me was that Brian said he was hesitant to get married again because he failed at the first one, but on the Howard Stern Show in 1993 (barf), he said he’d love to marry Anita, if she’d have him. That made me curious, because they wouldn’t marry until a full 8 years later. In a ‘95 interview, Anita said they hadn’t “gotten around to it” yet, so they did talk about marriage, but there would still be another 6 years after that until they finally did it. Why the wait, then? I know they had a lot of issues to work out, but still, that seems like a long time. I started reading around and coincidentally started talking about this subject with a friend and found some sources. In a 2011 Daily Mail interview, Anita said that she was about to walk away from Brian after he had the affair with Julie, but instead, she asked herself why she kept running away from commitment, then turned to him and said she was “ready” to get married. To me, that implied that she perhaps turned Brian’s suggestions to get married down before, or kept kicking it down the road, and it seems like this was, in fact, the case.

Going by various interviews, Anita was afraid of marriage (she said as much in the ‘95 interview), and considered it difficult for an actress always on the move to settle down. Her career always came first. This reminded me of this interview with Brian in ‘98, where he basically said Anita wasn’t living with him by that point because he couldn’t “live her life” and she couldn’t live his, which I always assumed had to do with their crazy career schedules. Even aside from their careers sometimes keeping them apart, she seemed to have trouble committing in general. In the Daily Mail interview in 2011, she revealed she was engaged 4 times before Brian. 4 times!!! That’s a lot! In the interview, she also said, “But it’s only when a man says ‘let’s get married’ that you realize it means having a family, stopping what you’re doing and making a commitment. If that happens when you’re not ready, you can’t go through with it.” Clearly, she wasn’t ready with any of the prior engagements.

Going back to that ‘98 interview, it’s evident that Brian and Anita’s relationship was in quite a bad place. In addition to implying they weren’t living together much anymore, he talked about how he couldn’t cope with being alone at night:

“I cling to things like, I’ll always make my bed when I get up, because I don’t want the feeling when I go to bed that no one’s been in there since morning. Strange things like that. I also leave the light on, so that when I go into the bedroom at night it doesn’t feel cold. It’s not as if I’m scared of the dark, but it’s an icy feeling which can grab your heart and say; ‘Nobody loves me. After all this time, here I am on my own.’”

Brian was feeling alone and unloved, and this was 1998, so we know he was genuinely not a well person at this time, since this was when he had to go away to a clinic to get help because he was so suicidal. His affair with Julie started in 1999 (I think), so not long after this incredibly difficult period. Look, he shouldn’t have done it. I’m not simping for infidelity. I’m just trying to contextualize things, and…idk, if I were madly in love with someone and they knew I wanted to marry them, but they still weren’t ready after +10 years together and were spending more and more time away from me…I can see why a very-unstable-Brian would be feeling hopeless about their relationship and turn to a years-long friend to get the kind of connection he seemingly wasn’t having with Anita anymore at that point in time, at least not regularly.

What’s even more interesting imo is Anita’s own words about the affair. She didn’t solely blame Brian. In that 2011 Daily Mail interview, she said:

“It takes two people to make a mess and two to make a good marriage. Face your mistakes. You can say ‘I love you’ but if one of you isn’t present because they’re working, what can the other one do? […] Do you want a home life? If you do, don’t you think it’s time you put a bit more in the pot? […] I wouldn’t be married today if it wasn’t for that affair. I needed to grow up and deal with the fact I was also responsible for our relationship.”

The bold text is my doing. To me, it sounds like she wasn’t meeting Brian halfway in their relationship at the time, and it took him going astray for her to realize that and take responsibility for it. It’s a pretty mature response tbh, and not one many would have in this situation (I’m including myself here lol). The fact that she says she wouldn’t have gotten married to Brian without the affair is wild to me, personally, but it’s very telling. It took almost losing Brian as a partner for a flame to be lit under her butt and to realize, “Oh shit, I contributed to this, too, and need to get my shit together and put effort into our relationship if I want it to work.” I also think it’s noteworthy that they got married pretty much instantly once Anita finally agreed. Of course, I’m sure Brian was simply super relieved to have her back instead of having her leave him, so he wasn’t going to turn down marrying her then, but still. As soon as she was ready, Brian made her Mrs. May.

tl;dr It appears that Brian and Anita had a lot of emotional baggage to work out and both contributed to rough times in their relationship. By her own admission, Anita wouldn’t have finally married Brian if she hadn’t almost lost him as a partner. It’s a Lot. I think Anita said marriage gave them much more security in their relationship, so at least they eventually worked things out.

[shaykotastories]

Girlfriend reveal //shaykota

“Fuck.” Dakota whispered, hand covering her mouth as she stared at her phone. Shayna looked over her shoulder at Dakota, brows furrowed. Dakota seemed comfortable laying on the couch, but the groan she released definitely wasn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Shayna asked. Shayna knew her match was due in two days, and she was planning on leaving tomorrow so she could get to know the arena better like she always does. She asked Shayna to tag along and she accepted, finally getting time off work for the first time in months.

“My gear isn’t there.” Dakota sat up and extended her arms towards Shayna, handing her phone for her to read it. “I don’t like improvising.”

Shayna laughed a little, knowing how much hassle Dakota had been the first time her gear went missing. She ended up wearing the most basic thing too, so all the messing around with outfits turned out useless. Shayna handed her phone back to her, sitting next to her with a sigh.

"I can help if you want me to." Shayna offered, letting her sink slightly into the couch so she could put her head on her shoulder.

"Please." Dakota sighed, "I could wear the jacket I have but I've worn that a million times."

Shayna hummed, trying to think of an outfit to put together. She'd bought thousands of pieces of clothing she never ended up wearing, so maybe something out of that?

"Come on then." Shayna nudged Dakota's leg with her hand before standing up. She groaned, but followed behind into their bedroom. This would be a very long and tiring process, but Shayna was willing to put in the work.

A pile of clothes lay on the ground by the time Shayna finally figured out what she was comfortable with.

"Okay." Shayna looked over as Dakota came out of the bathroom again, standing up from their bed to look into the half empty drawers.

"Do we only have pants? I don’t like this." She looked down while pointing to her legs. 

Shayna hummed, looking down at her legs. With a little bit of thought, she'd figure something out. Grabbing a purple crop kinda shirt, Shayna threw it at her and told her to go put it on while she found something to change the pants.

Finally after looking for them she found it. scissors.

Within a couple of hours, she was finally set on an outfit. Dakota stepped out of the bathroom, the outfit Shayna picked out gently covering her skin, exposing much more of it than she usually would.

Shayna's eyes widened as she came out, one hand holding the chain that she couldn't attach to her belt by herself. Shayna stood up, biting the inside of her cheek before walking closer to her and taking the chains.

"Where do you want them?"

Dakota just shrugged, looking down as Shayna kneeled down on one knee to try to get a better view to the belt. Once she was done with one side, she did the other, but not before looking up to see Dakota already looking down at her with a smirk.

"Shut up." Shayna scoffed trying to wipe a smirk off her own face. Soon enough the chains were correctly connected to her shorts, and so Shayna stood up and looked into the mirror she had placed in the corner of the room.

"You look hot." Shayna smirked into the mirror, watching as Dakota's grin widened. Quickly and swiftly, she wrapped her arms around Shayna’s waist and put her head on her shoulder, kissing Shayna’s neck lightly.

"Wait until I have my makeup on,"Dakota said.

Shayna smiled over her shoulder to kiss Dakota's lips, pecking them a couple of times before telling her to change back before she accidentally ripped something. Dakota complied, only after kissing her neck once more.

Later, after her match and after everyone had seen her gear, she had an interview to do and then could head home. As always during an interview, Shayna sat behind the camera and watched until she was done, but this time she did something a little different.

"And what about your change in uniform? What made you change your usual look to something so drastically different?" The interviewer asked, smiling as Dakota laughed and made eye contact with Shayna.

"I wasn't supposed to wear this actually. I had to utilize what I had because my gear didn't come in time." Dakota responded, politely smiling as she stopped talking, but before the interviewer could ask another question, she spoke up again. "Actually it was my girlfriend who helped me. She chose the entirety of this outfit."

The interview was over quickly, everyone was tired and wanting to go home.

"Girlfriend, huh?" Shayna asked, walking next to her from the interview room. "So I can post photos with you now?"

Dakota laughed a little, opening the door with a smile. Her make up was still on due to the interview being so late.

Only a few people knew about Dakota and Shayna, the public was yet to find out what she looked like too.

"Yeah. You should see my comment section.”Dakota said

Low and behold, her comment section and Instagram DM's consisted mostly of questions about Shayna’s appearance. They wanted to see her out of curiosity, and so Dakota took out her phone and grabbed Shayna’s chin, turning her face so she could lean down and kiss her as she took a picture.

"Good enough?" She showed her as shayna's cheeks heated up, only momentarily looking at the picture before nodding.

She captioned it 'Girlfriend Reveal' and posted it on her story, along with some more pictures of her and Shayna they had taken.

To say her fans went crazy was an understatement, ship accounts slowly appeared and edits did too as Dakota posted videos on Instagram.

[harrison-abbott]

four folks in a lonely house

Bruce didn’t get the job. He was upstairs in his room, fuming about it. What made it worse was that the employers had been enthusiastic in the initial parts of the application process and had made it seem like he was on course to be accepted. Then he met up with them again in the interview. Four people at a table staring at him, with him in a seat in front of them. He blushed once during the session. Maybe that was why? That Bruce showed weakness? This job would have given him an avenue to leaving this place. He could hear Marcy downstairs banging about with the pots. As per. Bruce didn’t want to tell Marcy he had failed with the job because he knew how she would react.

Marcy was banging the pots because there was only one can of chopped tomatoes in the cupboard when she needed two; and she was too lazy to head up to the supermarket to get another can: and she knew that Bruce had used the other can last night and had never replaced it. That bastard. He’s such an invalid! I bet he didn’t get that job either. But of course he won’t tell me, either way. Degenerate scumbag! She chopped up the onions. The radio was on and it was wrangling about some war that was pumping three thousand miles away. She hated the sound of it and was waiting for her programme to come back. But the sound wasn’t as bad as Sal.

The sheepdog. Sal. That was senile and had survived a liver tumour operation the other year and couldn’t really run anymore. She had meant to be brought up on a farm, pounding after animals on long cold hilly fields. But she’d grown up in the city instead and had never quite adapted to it. And coupled with the senility she had the tendency to bark in sporadic moments, without apparent cause. As she was doing now. Sal also despised the sound of the radio. Because canine ears are far more alert than those of a human’s; and could sense animosity in the tones of voices just as well as, or better than, people. And the bulletins when they were read out were not only filled with animosity, they were mindless expulsions of fear. Sal barked. Again. And then Marcy bolted out of the kitchen, shouting at her. So Sal got up and fled because she was familiar with Marcy’s notorious temper.

Sal ran up the stairs and she went into Timothy’s room. Timothy was lying on his bed listening to rock and roll music through his headphones. He didn’t hear Sal come in and got a mini fright when she bumped her muzzle into his elbow. But Timothy and the dog were pals and he rubbed her skull and shut the door and she lay on the floor looking at him whilst he put his headphones back in and returned to the music. He was obsessed with this band. And all the bandmates, and the contours of the sound. And he was teaching himself guitar as well. Bruce took the piss out of him for his playing because he wasn’t that good (or so Bruce said). And he couldn’t play past a certain hour in the evening, as Marcy was always tired and insomniac. So he had this short window of an hour or so after he got home from high school where he would practise his guitar. The others weren’t in the house, then, and those little windows were about all he had. But, yes: Tim did like the dog. He stroked the thick fur on her neck and upper chest. And dreamed that one day he would be a musician, like these deities that soared through the headphones.

[mrbexwrites]

15 Questions: Character interview edition

Tagged by @words-after-midnight

I’ll keep the tags open, so if you come across this, take it as an open invitation to join in. But please tag me, so I can see your work! I love seeing what everyone else is getting up to!

I chose to focus on one of my side characters from Memento Mori.

Kyrie is Morgana’s niece, and whilst she doesn’t have a lot of scenes, she and Morgana are really close. So it was nice to flesh her out a little bit by answering these questions!

Morgana’s interview questions can be found here:  https://at.tumblr.com/mrbexwrites/15-questions/iqvtcyjigt9p

1. Are you named after anyone?

My name is Kyrie. My mum said that I’m named after a song by a band called Mr. Mister. They’re an old band from a long-time ago. She said it was her favourite song. Avery said that mum stole one of their mixtapes, and only gave it back when she’d broken the tape because she’s rewound and played the song so much! I don’t know what that means, because I’ve never broken any of my music! I’ve never heard the song, because my mum won’t play it any more. 

2. When was the last time you cried?

I cried when mum and dad told me that they weren’t going to be living together any more. I know that they both love me, but that we’re just not going to be a family any more… 

I miss us all living together, but I don’t miss them fighting all the time. 

3. Do you have any kids?

I’m six. I have a lot of dolls. Mum and dad have both bought me a lot of toys recently. 

4. Do you use sarcasm?

What’s sarcasm? 

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

I like seeing people’s smiles. It makes me happy. 

6. What's your eye color?

Brown

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

I don’t like scary movies. Avery was babysitting me once, and we watched a film about aliens. I didn’t like it, especially when the little alien burst out of the man’s chest. I couldn’t sleep because I was worried that the big alien was hiding in the walls, or there would be a pancake-alien wanting to hug my face…

Mum was so angry with Avery that she shouted at them for ages, and Avery wasn’t allowed to look after me anymore without ‘another adult present’. Aunty Fred is always with them, so now we can just hang out and have tea-parties instead. 

8. Any special talents?

I have dreams sometimes… But I don’t like to talk about them. Aunty Morgana is the only person I can talk to about the dreams, because, sometimes, she’s in them too. She keeps me safe from the monsters in the dream-place. 

…I don’t want to talk about this any more. 

9. Where were you born?

Glasgow, in Scotland. 

10. What are your hobbies?

I go pony-riding, ice-skating, dance class, singing lessons, taekwondo, gymnastics and swimming. Mum says it’s important for me to be busy. That’s the only thing she and my Grandmother agree on. 

I like to read books with Aunty Morgana. Aunty Fred has bought me a little raspberry pi computer, and I’m enjoying teaching it how to sing to itself. 

11. Have you any pets?

No, but I would like a kitten. I think if I ask mum or dad to get me one, then one of them might do it, so that they can win. But that might make them fight again…so I don’t want to ask for a kitten just yet. 

12. What sports do you play/have played?

I don’t know if I have time to take up a team-sport? Does my horse riding and dance classes count?

13. How tall are you?

I’m almost as tall as Aunty Fred! The top of my head reaches her armpit, so I think in a little bit, I’ll be taller than her! I’d like to be as tall as Uncle Pete or Avery, because then dad can’t put things in the high up cupboard away from me! 

14. Favorite subject in school?

I like English, because we get to read. PE is also fun; I’m really good at beanbag racing! 

15. Dream job?

When I’m older, I’d like to be an actress like my mum was! She and my dad made a lot of Bollywood films before they started to argue and fall out. I think I could be really good at it as well! I’ve learned a lot of the dances, and I can sing really well! 

[black-kitties]

Chapter 6

Start reading from Chapter 1

Brin had returned sometime during her conversation over the phone. When she’d re-emerged from the bedrooom he had placed the ground rules that neither her, and especially Hero, could leave the house. Even the balcony was off limits. In the back of her mind she worried that despite the beacon now being moved, they’d still come to this place since this is where it had originally fallen. To quell her worries she thumbed through TV channels until she’d found WGBS with a ‘breaking update ‘on the missing Superman. Jaz wasn’t really interested in the story herself, but the sudden reaction Hero had to hearing the story made her pause. His head had shot up, his ears were firmly forward and his eyes were glued to the screen as the anchor spoke.

               ‘The Justice league has yet to address the public’s fears that Superman is missing. It has been over a month,’ The screen cut to a shaky camera displaying images of Super man walking out of what looked like the rubble of a building with a child in his arms reuniting her with her family, ‘Since Superman has last appeared to the public. Concerns over Superman’s absence at the libraries opening have grown exponentially as request for comment is continually ignored by the Justice league Media coordinator and spokesperson Abigail Point. As weeks pass with no sign of Superman, the public fears what this could mean for emboldened villains the world over. Superman is scheduled to appear at the children’s hospital next month…’

Jaz glanced back at Hero. He was completely absorbed by the story at this point. She’d never seen a dog act like this. The story had shifted to street interviews with ‘concerned citizens’ who voiced their well wishes and spouted some interesting theories on where Superman was. It ranged anywhere from him being on vacation to him having given up on the world. One that piqued Jaz’s interest was an interview given outside one of the many closed down animal shelters in Metropolis’s suburbs.

               “I know for a fact that Superman is genuinely missing, know how I know? Because this is happening.” He gestured to the boarded up windows and police tape across his business’s front door, “Here, in Metropolis city we have strange metal reptiles stealing pets off porches and destroying hard working American businesses and where is Superman! Where is the Justice League? People are getting hurt!”

The image cut back to the anchor as she continued the story but Jaz wasn’t paying attention to it. Hero had whined hearing the mans pleas and he genuinely looked… Concerned. He was too expressive for a dog. Jaz’s thoughts were cut off as Brin climbed up the staircase. “Anything good on tonight?” He was wearing what she could only describe as his costume.

“Who are you supposed to be?” She asked jokingly.

“Ha ha, very funny.” Brin sat down in the lounge chair of the couch. Jaz hadn’t seen a super up close yet, at least not one in the full getup. The orange and black spandex moved and hugged his form perfectly and the giant wolfs head emblazoned on the front of it… It looked genuinely good in person. Nothing like the cheap spandex or materials used in cosplay’s she’d seen at Comic-Con’s. It looked well made with small delicate details, little metal emblems and leather accents that elevated the suit from cheesy to cool. “I’m from the future…” She nodded, pretending she didn’t already know that, “But you already knew that…” The blood drained from Jaz’s face. Her heart instinctively began to race.

“What are you talking about?” To her credit, she kept a calm demeanour and tone of  voice.

“You do that really well.”

“Do what?”

“Lie. If I didn’t have this super hearing,” He said, pointing a clawed finger to his ear, “I may have fallen for it.” Jaz grit her teeth. Right, Timber Wolf had enhanced senses on top of his super strength and ability to shoot things with his claws.

She crossed her arms over her chest, “If you already overheard, why are you asking me all of a sudden?”

“I’d like there to be some honesty between us, Jaz.” There was an edge that entered his voice that put her hairs on end. “No more lies, no more deflections. Who are you, who are you really?”

Jaz struggled to come up with some way to get herself out of this, but as she racked her brain a low growl began to rumble in’s Brin’s throat warning her. “Alright.” She threw her hands up, running her fingers through her hair, “You’re from the future yeah?” He nodded, “Well. How bout try another world.”

“I’m not from Earth either, I’m from-“

“I know, and no that’s not what I meant.” She shook her head, regretting even correcting him… But she couldn’t keep up a lie as big as pretending she’s from some other planet in this galaxy. Timber Wolf was part of the legion of Super Heroes, he knew far more than she would about all the other planets and worlds here. “I’m… I’m from an alternate reality. Sort of. It’s… Its really hard to explain.”

Timber Wolf smiled, “Try me, I may seem like a dumb brute but I have the futures knowledge and understanding of the universe.” He shrugged, “Sort of.”

“It’s not so much you as it is me. I don’t honestly know as much as I probably should anyways. I- I wasn’t really supposed to ever come here, or really even supposed to know much about the program that sends people here.” She sighed again, biting her lower lip. Could she trust him? He was a Super and she’d seen some of the shows his character appeared in. He was a good person, albeit very hot tempered and prone to losing his sanity… “Me being here was a mistake. I’m just sort of floating around and making the best of it until the gate reopens and I can return home.”

He nodded, deep in thought. “Is that why you’re homeless?”

“Eh?”

“While you were passed out I searched your bag,” When she looked like she was about to protest he held his hands up in defence, “I couldn’t just let some random stranger off the street stay under the roof without knowing the least bit about you. Not with all the targeted attacks going on recently.”

Jaz glared at him, “Well, no. If I really wanted to, I could probably get a job and a place to stay. It’s just… Why waste my opportunity to explore a new world and experience all these new things as a nine to fiver, ya know?”

“So you decided to be a vagrant that bums her way through this world?” Brin raised a brow.

“I decided to be free. And I don’t bum my way through the world, we call it busking and I’m pretty good at card tricks. I earn my money.” She replied indignantly. Jaz watched Timber Wolfs smiling face warp into a snarl as he sprung to his feet faster than her eyes could follow.

“Stick close,” He barked before rushing down the stairs. Jaz had to scramble, nearly falling over her feet to try to follow him with Hero keeping close behind.

“They’re here?” She whispered, several paces behind him but he heard her anyways, nodding his response without casting a backwards glance. Jason met them at the bottom of the stairs, his laptop clutched to his chest. The sound of the door being busted inwards made Jaz and Jason jump, while Timber Wolf snarled.

“Go to the basement, stick together and call me if they find you. I’ll hear,” And with that Timber Wolf launched himself at the three metal forms that had already piled through the doorframe. Jaz followed after Jason, holding onto the hem of his shirt while he reached behind himself to hold onto her arm. Hero at her side looked torn between joining Brin or protecting them. The sound of Timber Wolf Grunting and the sight of him being grappled by three of the Dino’s decided it for Hero. He rushed into the fray, leaving Jaz to call after him as she was lead downstairs to safety.

 -          -      -

Hero leapt through the air using the full weight of his tackle knock the Dino with its arm locked around Timber Wolf’s neck off balance. Using that opportunity Timber Wolf reached behind himself shooting his claws between the jaw plates on the underside of the Dino. He’d grown so used to the pain that caused him that he didn’t even wince. It’s eyes flashed on and off before it slumped to the floor. The other two Dino’s tried to subdue Timber, but he punched one off balance while Hero slammed himself behind its knee toppling it to the floor. The tail of the second one swept underneath Brins legs sending him to the ground as well, with it falling on top of him. They struggled against each other, hand to hand grappling with each other as Timber Wolf’s claws sunk into its metal gauntlets.

The other Dino was trying to stand back up but Hero kept attacking its tail or its feet, distracting it just enough that it didn’t join the other on top of Timber Wolf. The second Dino came crashing into the first with Hero barely dodging out of the way. Brin landed on top of them, stabbing his clawed hands between the metal plates in the chest of the final prone Dino. He watched its eyes flicker and shut down. He stood up surveying the wreckage. The two arms of the second Dino had been ripped off its body before he’d destroyed its internal circuits, the third’s head was smoking and the final one had a gaping hole in its side.

His smile froze though when he heard Jaz scream.

 -          -      -

 Teresse followed Clara through the halls of the Watchtower. Back in their world Jaz had described it as a massive satellite base that the Justice League used to monitor their world. The place sounded impossible. It was equipped with artificial gravity, a jungle to filter air and a lake under it to provide environments for every league member to hang out in comfortably. Its hull was made of Prometheum, a metal that didn’t even exist on earth, and it was filled with strange technologies from Martians, Kryptonians, and other races that Teresse had already gone and forgotten.

Cyborg was their most frequent babysitter and he was currently walking them towards the research lab. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to talk to them about the metal lizard case the league was working on. He spoke as they walked telling them about how the lizard men had only just started popping up in and around Metropolis. They were working closely with the detectives to get to the bottom of it. Just last night they lead a bust on a warehouse suspected of being a base of operations. It led to dozens of arrests and the safe return of over a hundred dogs to their owners.

As they were walking, a sanitation worker dressed in blue overalls with a blue cap pulled down over his eyes accidentally bumped into Clara nearly sending her to the ground. He caught her with a slap against her back, muttering apologies as he rushed off. “Ow.” Clara winced.

“The hell was that?” Terese shot a glare back after the quickly disappearing form of the man.

“Are you ok?” Cyborg’s stopped to check on them. Clara nodded, “We’re almost there.” He frowned as he watched the janitor disappear around a corner.

“Any idea why they’re going after pets?” Terese asked.

“They’re not just going after pets.” Cyborg explained as he keyed in the code that granted him access to the research lab. Inside was a giant circular table with numerous buttons, dials and screens all flashing and displaying different feeds of information. The rest of the room was split into subsections with open halls into other offshoot rooms surrounding the circular main one. There were lab assistants with the Justice League symbol stitched into their lab coats rushing about and attending the numerous machines and whatever experiments and tests they were running. “Last night they all began transmitting the same image, they’ve even gone so far as to distribute it among every petty criminal and thug throughout the city.” Cyborg pressed a button on the giant round ‘war table’ that was at the center of the room. Terese and Clara gasped in unison as a giant image of their friends’ fierce face holding a comically large wrench over her head mid swing appeared as a hologram in the centre of the room. Beside it was the image of the same dog Jaz had sent them a picture of when they’d been talking earlier in the day.

Chapter 7