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macfrog · 22 days

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sweet child o' mine | pt. iv

to @mrsmando - without whom this insane story would never have happened in the first place. i love you i love you i love you thank you all so much for coming on this journey with me - it has been a blast. i hope you like where we turn out! love you guys always n forever x

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: you're a mom. it's time to get your shit together.

warnings: bon jovi mention straight out the gate, labor/delivery [i have never given birth. those of you who have are nothing short of remarkable. please forgive if some of this is a little inaccurate or vague], use of pain medication during birth, description of pain and post-birth recovery, super emotional reader, unprotected piv, oral, alcohol consumption. DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 12k

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

It’s September twenty-third.

Well, by now, it’s probably the twenty-fourth. You’ve been a little distracted, rolling between the sheets with your next-door neighbor for the last couple hours.

The wedding’s still going strong downstairs. The same Bon Jovi song has played three times over. Tommy has called Joel to ask where he is so much that Joel’s phone is now switched off and shoved to the bottom of his bag.

You’re slouched on the toilet in a sliver of moonlight. A fistful of tissue, panties loose around your ankles. Rolling your forehead side to side along the cool tile, heartbeat hammering between your temples.

Joel Miller – Joel fucking Miller – is in your bed. Naked, sweating, cock probably still half-hard.

This morning, the very idea of the man was an eyeroll. Stood in your mirror, promising yourself that this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over with.

This time in a month, it’ll be a foggy memory.

This time in a year, it –

His voice is muffled through the bathroom door. “Did you fall in, or somethin’?”

You snort. The milky moon blurs across your vision when you pull yourself upright. You swipe between your legs and stand, flushing the toilet.

“I needed a fucking breather,” you tease, tiptoeing back across the room.

Joel’s stretched out; a worked arm draped along the headboard. Sun-kissed to the middle of his bicep, paler across his shoulder. One leg bare on the mattress, the other under the sheets. They only just cover his modesty – dark hair trailing beneath light silk just in time.

He’s so big. It’s like you never really noticed until now. He takes up half the bed, laying like this. And sure, you’re halfway to fucked, but – has he always been so handsome?

You flop down beside him with a sigh, curling up in the burrow of sheets at his side. Your eyes trail up his body – the sheen of sweat up his side, the dark, damp hair under his arm. All the parts of him you’ve never seen before, will never see again.

You gulp. Quit fucking staring.

He doesn’t notice, anyway. He’s rubbing circles into his temples, grumbling. “How many goddamn times are they gonna play It’s My Life?”

“…for Tommy and Gina…” you nudge him, “…who never backed down…”

Joel chuckles, pulling his hand down his beard. “Twenty bucks says he’s changing that to Maria.”

“Oh, for sure. I ain’t going back down to listen to it, though.”

He hums in agreement, reaching over for his beer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks.

“You owe me, by the way. This is my room, remember? My fucking minibar.”

He pauses, the bottle against his bottom lip. His eyes linger south of your chin before he answers, “I’m paying for the damn room.”

“Then I want a drink from yours. Make it even.”

He clicks his teeth and drinks again. “It’s one beer. Call it an early birthday gift.”

You frown. “When the hell’s your birthday?”

“Tuesday.”

“Bullshit.”

“Serious. The twenty-sixth.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows; chest bare and on display. And it’s a strange feeling, how little you care. Twelve hours ago, you didn’t know how close to sit next to him at the ceremony. How many times you could accidentally bump knees or brush elbows and it not be weird.

But in the last two hours, he’s made you come more times than you can count. More times than anyone you’ve ever been with before – that’s for sure. And you’ve repaid the favor: the proof is still dribbling out of you. Still dripping between your legs, all pearlescent and warm. You’re soaked, swollen, still sore from the size of him.

It’s a fucking strange feeling, that you don’t mind at all.

“How old are you turning?” you ask.

Joel swallows. He settles the beer on his sternum, thumbing the corner of the label. Sucks in a deep breath and says, “Forty-eight.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, eyes wide.

He turns slowly, glaring at you. “Hilarious,” he drawls, bumping the bottle against your tummy.

You hiss at the sudden chill. Wiping cold droplets from your skin, you swipe it from his grasp.

Joel pushes himself from the bed with a quiet groan and pads across the room. His cock sways with each step, an arrowhead of thick hair at its base.

He doesn’t seem to mind, either.

You tip your chin back, taking a hefty swig.

The pulsing bass is heavier, guitar squeal sharper, when he cracks open the window. Cool air sweeps past the scent of sex and settles softly on your skin.

The mattress dips again as Joel settles back into bed. He pulls the sheet over himself, silk falling over the stubborn shape against his thigh.

“Well,” you pass him the bottle, “happy birthday, old man. Here’s to forty-eight.”

“Here’s to forty-eight,” Joel echoes, staring off into space, “and whatever the hell it has in store.”

1:29. 1:29. 1:30.

It’s blurring across your vision. The pain and the panic and the blinking of your fucking alarm clock.

Your stomach is still tensed in the aftermath of the contraction; an ache like the slow sway of the ocean, a wave rolling off into the distance. You’re hunched over the edge of the bed – knee bouncing, palms kneading your round belly.

“We’re okay,” you whisper, blowing into the still night. “We’re fine. Maybe it isn’t labor, right? Maybe it’s just those…Braxton…shit…Hicks.”

The cicadas laugh as your uterus swings again.

Another kick of pain; a bolt that winds you, piercing from your stomach down between your legs. So slow it feels fucking personal.

Your back curls, nails digging into the mattress. You grit your teeth until it passes, then push yourself to your feet, reaching for your phone.

You think of Joel: the flecks of gold in his eyes, the rough surface of his palms. The fresh, woodsy scent woven into every thread on his shirt, seeping from every pore on his skin.

The way he’d pull you under his arm and walk you to his truck. Play more Eagles or whatever shit he has to take your mind off the pain – tell you he knows, he knows as you whimper in agony. The way he’d hold your thigh the entire ride, loosening it only to weave his fingers through yours.

He’s in Houston, though. He’s something like three hours away. There’s nothing he could do, even if you did call – even if he did pick up. Even if he got in his truck right this second.

Shit. Shit fuck shit. How are you in labor right now, on this fucking night? All your teasing, all your taunting the universe. You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?

Yeah. They’re half you.

You’re on your own. It’s nothing new; you’ve been on your own for most of your life. You drove yourself to college, worked your ass off, and sold your graduation guest tickets to your roommate. You found a job by yourself, moved back to Austin and turned it into home by yourself.

You haven’t needed anyone or anything, since you were eighteen.

But – oh, Jesus, fuck it. This was a two-man job from the start. Some things you figure you can let slide – and having a kid seems like a pretty decent excuse.

Fuck it.

You move, hunched and hobbling, to the bathroom door. Slumped against the wooden frame, you cup a hand between your legs.

Sure enough, your underwear is soaked. The fluid trickles down the seam of your thigh, warm and thin. It glistens in the moonlight when you lift your fingers.

“Shit,” you whisper. “Goddamn it, Duck.”

Body tingling and almost numb with pain, you scroll through your contacts to J. You stumble into the bathroom, wet fingers slipping around the sink. A weight begins to pull low between your hips.

Two rings and the tone cuts, his voice instantly spilling a cool comfort down your spine.

There’s no hello, no double checking that you haven’t accidentally dialed him in your sleep. Only that trademark drawl, that flat tone you’d swear sounded bored, if it weren’t for the haste with which Joel asks, “You okay?” the second he answers.

As if he were awake anyway, just waiting for your call.

“Yeah,” you choke, rubbing the nape of your neck. “I just called at one in the morning to…to say hi.”

He sighs, the crackle of breath echoed by the tinkle of wind chimes. The creak of wood as he settles into a chair on Vanessa’s parents’ porch. “Alright, smartass. What is it?”

“I’m…I’m in labor.”

“Mhm. That sure is funny, baby. Good one.”

You groan. “No, Joel, I swear – I swear, I just went into labor.”

He pauses. The chimes titter in the background. “You’re…You ain’t kidding me?”

The sharp peak of pain swipes the air clean from your lungs. The phone hits the sink with a clatter, drowning out your cry.

This kid is beating the ever-loving shit out of you. You’d be embarrassed if you had the energy to think about it.

“Baby?” Joel yells, loud enough that the sound loops around the bowl. His voice lifts to an octave you didn’t know it could reach. “Talk to me. Please, talk to me.”

Your fingers clamp around the phone. “I’m f-fine. It’s fine. I just gotta…gotta change my fuckin’ sheets, Joel, my waters broke while I was sleeping –”

“Oh, Christ,” he growls. The door squeals as he storms back into Vanessa’s family home. “The sh…Change the goddamn sheets? You gotta get to a hospital, darlin’!”

You laugh, head tipping back. “It’s fine,” you tell him. “Feels like the kid’s trying to kill me, but I can – shit, I can take ‘em.”

There’s the jangle of keys, the ruffle of a shirt being thrown over his head. “Yeah?” Joel says.“You can take childbirth, all on your own? Do me a favor and call a damn ambulance, baby.”

“An ambulance,” you repeat, laughing again.

“Yes, an ambulance. Call 9-1-1 right now. You want me to call ‘em? Let me go grab the landline –”

“Joel, do not call an ambulance –”

And if you thought you’d heard him at breaking point before – plucking your underwear from his lawn, dragging you around Home Depot, paling in your room with a pregnancy test in his hands – you know you have, now.

“You gotta get to a goddamn hospital now, baby!”

His voice trembles at its end, quivers like the pluck of a guitar string. A high-pitched echo, a nervous vibration.

Joel’s panicking.

It’s the second thing in less than five minutes that you never knew he could do.

“I can’t afford a f-fucking ambulance, Joel,” you yelp, sitting back on the edge of the bathtub.

“I will pay for it,” he pleads, “I’ll pay. Just – you gotta call them. You gotta…” He sighs again, breath wavering. “You’re in labor, and you’re alone. If anything happened to you, I –”

A hushed voice interrupts him. Follows him through the house, knotting her nightgown around her waist and twisting her dark tresses into a ponytail.

“She’s in labor,” Joel tells her. “I can’t stay. I’m going back for her.”

The porch door slams shut before Vanessa can reply, and Joel’s back outside again. Gravel crunching beneath his boots, crickets screaming in the background. “Still with me?” he asks.

“Still here,” you breathe, tracing your nails along your leg. “Duckie says hi, I guess.”

He hums. “Hi, Duckie. You little shit.”

You rock back and forth, eyes closed. Breathing between contractions, your head low between your shoulders. “How long will you be?”

The truck door creaks open. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be…Fuck, I’ll be a couple hours, at least. I’m on my way, alright?”

Tears drip onto your bare thighs, the salt spilling into your mouth. “Joel,” you shake your head, “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he says. “Are you kidding? Got us this far ‘n now you want to bail? That ain’t you, baby. Come on, now.”

“I wanna bail,” you insist. You slump to the floor, head lolling over the rim of the bathtub. Weeping like a little kid. “I’m scared, Joel. I’m so scared.”

“I know you are. Lord knows I’m scared, too – scared as hell. But –” the engine roars to life, “– I can’t wait to finally meet this kid. Our kid. Can’t wait to hold ‘em. Can’t wait to see you become a mom, and me become a dad.”

“Mom and Dad,” you whisper, sniffling.

“Mom and Dad, right? Yeah. You can do this. I know you can.”

The bathroom blurs behind your tears. You close your eyes, replacing the pale night with warmer dawn. Replacing it with images of tiny hands and feet; missing front teeth and a love-worn teddy tucked safely into bed.

Joel’s voice is softer, kinder. Calmer, now that he’s closing the hundred and fifty miles between the two of you.

“Just – don’t let the kid give you any shit, alright?”

The fear boils into determination. Something more irritating than it is terrifying. You inhale, blowing a heavy, shuddered breath to the ceiling. “Whatever, Miller.”

“Attagirl,” he says. “That’s the spirit. Now, call a damn ambulance.”

With a scoff, you push yourself to your feet, waddling towards the foot of your bed. You sway back and forth, holding your bump and listening to the hum of Joel’s truck.

And then you hear it.

Three sharp raps, from downstairs.

You wander to the hallway, squinting in the dark. “Joel?”

“Hm?”

“Are you…?”

The sound grows louder the nearer you draw. Quick knuckles against your front door.

“Am I what, darlin’?”

You lower yourself down the stairs, fist tight around the rail.

It’s August again. Sun’s encore blazing through your kitchen windows, bleeding golden through your living room. Everything shining, everything new and untouched.

Knock knock knock.

Light satin, duck egg blue; string lights and a diamond-encrusted necklace. The bones of your wardrobe propped against your porch. A rattling toolbox hanging from his fist, a positive pregnancy test in yours.

The knocking halts when you flick the porch light on. She calls your name once, old voice quivering.

Your phone is still glued to your ear as you pull the door open. “Al…?”

She squints at you and lifts a hand to shield from the light. She’s still in her pajamas – green dressing gown loose and lifting in the breeze.

Her eyes drop to the tee draped over your bump, the silver stream of fluid down the inside of your thigh. As she opens her mouth to speak, your hand slams into the doorpost.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, and Alice Brown steps straight over the threshold.

“Are you in labor? Oh, sweetie. Sit down, sit.”

She backs you towards the stairs. One bony, trembling hand around yours – squeezing as tight as you are. She rubs up and down your spine, shushing until the pain subsides.

You blink up at her glowing figure, haloed by the porch light outside. “How did you…?”

She hushes you with a finger in the air. “I’m up most nights. I heard you from the window. Have you called 9-1-1?”

You shake your head, beginning to cry again.

Alice just nods, dismissing your bullshit. “Where’s your overnight bag, sweetheart?”

You toss a thumb over your shoulder. “It’s up in the nursery. I can go grab it –”

She holds you still with a hand on your shoulder. “Stay.” Another curt nod, then, “Get your shoes, get yourself over to my car. Do you need pants? You need pants. My car, right now.”

“Alice, you really don’t have to –”

“Get in the car,” she insists, climbing past you. “I’m right behind you!”

You watch her figure dissolve into the dim upstairs, and lift the phone back to your ear. “Did you…hear all that?”

“Alice Brown,” Joel replies, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “What’d I tell ya? That woman doesn’t miss a goddamn thing in this neighborhood.”

“Three centimeters,” the obstetrician says, covering your legs with the sheet. “Still a little ways to go.”

The suite is hushed and still. Walls an unoffending shade of oatmeal; decorated only with oak paneling and a framed painting of some lilies.

A nurse tilts the shades, averting the twinkling city lights in the distance. She turns and smiles – the same fucking smile everyone’s been giving you since you set foot in the place. Head tilted, brows arched.

Sympathy that you want to chew up and spit back out at their feet.

You force yourself to smile in return, and she floats back out to the bustling reception.

“Will he make it?” Alice asks. She’s still in her pajamas; the floral print goes well with the interior of the room. “The father, I mean. Joel.”

The obstetrician peels the gloves from her hands. She shrugs as she drops them into a wastebin. “I don’t see why not,” she says. “Things are moving a little quickly, but I don’t see you having your baby in the next couple hours.”

“You don’t know this kid like I do,” you groan, shifting in the bed.

She lifts the cardiotocograph reading, scanning the jagged lines. “You’re doing great,” she says. “I’ll be back in a little while. Just holler if you need anything.” She strolls off, letting the door sweep shut behind her.

Alice adjusts your pillow and squeezes your shoulder. She holds out a cup of water, guiding the straw to your lips. “He’ll be here,” she whispers.

You take a sip and settle back. “I don’t think I’m that lucky. I told him I hoped he’d get a flat on the ride there. This feels like karma.”

“Well, if it’s anyone’s karma –” she wiggles her fingers, “– it’s his. Going to Houston was ridiculous in the first place. Hell, you two not being together is ridiculous.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Just because we’re having a kid doesn’t mean we should be together. You shouldn’t be with someone for the sake of a baby who won’t even know any different.”

“Right, right,” Alice agrees, turning away. “You should only be with someone if you love them.”

“Exactly. And me and Joel – we’re not in love.”

She murmurs to herself. She lowers into a chair by the window, crossing her arms. “I’m seventy-three,” she says. “I’m not a damn fool.”

Something twists awkwardly between your hips. You wince, clutching your bump.

Duckie’s heartbeat pulses through the room. Muffled little bubbles of noise, popping one after the other. Strong and steady as hell – a determined little thing, the doctor said.

Don’t I fucking know it, you thought.

You reach for the silicone mask and cup it over your mouth. The gas is cold and funny when you inhale, feeling it shoot straight for the back of your skull. It does little more than dull the spiking pain, but still – you tip your head back, eyes rolling closed.

You let yourself fade from the suite – its yellow lamplight and hushed chatter outside – to somewhere warmer. Somewhere brighter.

Birdsong high overhead, and the whispering leaves on the oak trees in your yard. The sweet breeze on your skin, soothing the sting of the sun. Prickling wood on your fingertips, the gentle strum of a guitar somewhere beyond the fence.

Peering between the slats, catching glimpses of him like watching a film reel. His head nodding, his foot tapping. The concentration tight on his face; the perfect pick and pluck of his fingers on each string.

Half-hoping that he’ll spot you, scold you for spying and storm back into his house. That he might bring it up later – And another thing, while he whips his newspaper from your grasp, ignoring your cackling.

Half-hoping that he won’t. That he’ll sit there at his back door, bottle of beer at his feet, playing to his audience of sparrows.

And you’ll stand here, wishing you could ask the name of each song he hums.

The contraction splits your daydream in two.

In two hours, you dilate almost three centimeters.

You pace back and forth across the suite, pausing only when your womb clenches like a fist. The contractions are lasting longer, swinging lower, and punching harder. They’re giving you less recovery time; less of a chance to get back on your feet.

It’s a fucking nightmare.

Joel’s still not here. Last you heard, he’d just hit Travis County. Twenty minutes, baby, I promise. That was half an hour ago.

It might be for the better that he hasn’t gotten here. You’ve warned Alice three times already that you might just beat the shit out of him, whenever he walks through that door.

And you know what, sweetheart? She chuckled. I bet you could beat the shit out of him, sore as you are.

“Fuck,” you cry out, collapsing onto the bed. You stretch out forward, head hanging between your shoulders, and gulp back more of the laughing gas. The ache barrels from your stomach to your hips, peaking in the very center.

Alice rubs circles into the small of your back. It’s not helping, but you let her do it anyways. Gives her something to tell the neighbors that isn’t damaging to your reputation.

“That’s it,” she coos. “A little longer, just a little…”

The door clicks open just as the tense band begins to loosen.

Your head is spinning. The mask slips from your fingers.

Alice’s hand pauses. “…a little longer…” she repeats, voice drifting. Her weight leaves your back, replaced by something heavier, stronger.

Safer.

Someone grounding, someone smelling of pine and sweet spice.

He sits on the bed at your back and curves around your body. Lips to your shoulder like the sun in your backyard. His beard scratches against your hot skin.

You blink your eyes open.

Joel’s watch face winks back at you. His hands are over yours – bigger, wider. His fists swallow yours whole. They turn, slipping beneath your palms, and your fingers lace together.

“Joel…” you breathe, face turning in to his neck.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he says, wiping sweat from your brow.

You fall limp against his chest. “Holy shit.”

He looks exhausted. Gray, almost translucent. Looks like he’s just driven a couple hundred miles, half asleep and wholly panicked.

But – he’s here. He made it.

The sight of him, the feel of him holding you upright, melts away any anger or resolve to fight back. For now, at least. Picking an argument can wait until there isn’t a human splitting you in two.

He’s here. You’re not doing this alone.

“Holy shit,” Joel repeats. “You okay?”

“How did you get here so –?”

“Ninety-five the entire way.”

You frown. “Only ninety-five?”

“Trunk’s a hunk a’ shit,” he admits. “Couldn’t break a hundred.”

Alice scoffs, somewhere across the room.

He cradles you, his lips to your forehead. “Where we at?” he asks, staring at the paper churning from the cardiotocograph.

“Five, almost s–shit – six centimeters.” You clamp down on his hands, your uterus winding again.

Joel holds the mask back to your lips and you suck another chemical breath in. “Six? Jesus,” he gapes at Alice, “ain’t that…ain’t that real fast? For – for your first?”

Your fingers are weak and shaky, resting on his knuckles. “Your kid has a sick sense of humor,” you mutter into the silicone.

“That ain’t from me,” he says. “That’s all you, maestro.”

You turn closer into his shirt with a groan. He’s solid as a rock, swaying you through it. He’s here.

Alice swipes her coat from a hook by the door. She shakes her head, pulling it over her shoulders. “Ninety-five, Joel? Sweet Lord.”

He rolls his eyes. His hand curves around your bump. “Had a little bit of an emergency, Alice,” he says, watching your face twist with pain.

“And what if you’d had an accident?”

“I didn’t, Alice.”

“You could’ve, goin’ that damn fast. You’re lucky you’re even here.”

Joel finally looks up. “It’s four in the mornin’,” he protests, like a teenager. “Lucky if I passed five cars.”

You give him a weak smile, lowering the mask. You won’t win, you mouth.

He presses his lips to your head. “’s too much fun,” he murmurs, and you snort.

“Oh!” Alice throws a hand up. “I’m glad you find it funny!” She buttons her coat and glares back at both of you, hands on her hips.

She’s a busybody – has been since before you even moved in. She showed up on your doorstep on your first night with a casserole in hand, and made sure to get a good look at your living room before she shuffled back to her own place.

Always watching, always listening.

You never thought you’d see the day when you’d actually be thankful for her snoopiness.

“Thank you, Alice,” you say, head tilting. “For getting me here, for holding my hand…Thank you.”

Her expression thaws, eyes gleaming. With a sniff, she composes herself – and then points to Joel. “You call me as soon as that baby arrives. I won’t sleep, Joel, until you call.”

“I’ll call,” he assures.

She looks back at you. Balls her crepe paper fists, gives them a hearty shake. “Good luck, Mom,” she says, and with one last glance, slips out of the room.

Joel turns back to you, an eyebrow raised. “Take it she was out tendin’ to her tulips again?”

“Yeah,” you snicker, “one in the morning, those fuckers had to be watered.”

He chuckles. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better now,” you tell him.

“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve been here. A goddamn idiot, headin’ off like that. So damn stupid.”

“Shh, you’re here now.” You wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I just needed you to be here.”

He nods. “I’m here, whatever you need. Tell me what I can do.”

You take a deep breath. “I need…”

Joel straightens – bracing, ready to jump at your first request.

“…I need a fucking break, Joel. I’m so tired, and this fucking kid –”

“Alright,” he sighs, shifting from behind you. “You and your goddamn jokes.”

You smirk, looking over your shoulder. “You missed me.”

“Hm,” he fixes the neckline of your gown, “I missed you. I really did.”

Born at 07:43. It’s a girl.

It’s like being broken open. Like splitting at the seams; your old self falling from you like shards of fruit. Separating, rolling apart; making way for someone older, wiser. Someone with all of the answers in the palm of her hand.

Mom.

You finally get it. She turns to you, finally glances over her shoulder. And she’s no stranger – no one you haven’t known your entire life. I know you, you whisper, nail trailing her smile lines and the pimples along her jaw.

I see you every time I look in the mirror.

Duckie is pulled from your body with a scream like bloody murder – a scream which matches the whimper you let out in shock, if not in volume.

The kid can scream. Jesus Christ, she can scream. It pierces the dull room; deafens you for a couple seconds the first time you hear it.

You’ve never heard a sound so fucking beautiful.

She wails as they lift her from your body. All curled-up, wriggling in the midwife’s arms. She wails as they slot her beneath your chin, as they wipe the blood and amniotic fluid from her.

She wails until the moment her skin meets yours, and as though it’s all you’ve ever known, you begin shushing her cries. Your arms close around her body, rocking her until she settles.

Her tiny hand grabs for something, for someone, for –

You.

Her mom.

“Joel,” you gasp, watching her tiny, pruned fingers clasp tight around just one of yours. “She’s…she’s so small…”

He sniffs in reply, lifting his hand from your shoulder to wipe his face.

You turn to look up at him.

He looks as broken open as you feel. Eyes bloodshot and soaking, tears streaming into his thick beard. A sob in his throat which chokes and silences him, until he catches your eye and he can’t help but laugh with elation.

“Look at her,” he weeps, all torn up by the little girl in your arms. He presses his lips to your forehead in a crash of a kiss: wet, soaking wet on your skin.

You beam up at him when he pulls away. “We did it,” you whisper.

Joel shakes his head. He runs a thumb across the damp print left on your head. “You did it, honey,” he mutters. “I was nothin’ but a spectator.”

“You almost missed the game,” you quip, and he laughs again.

Your body throbs; nearly numb with pain, heavy with fatigue and emotion. But as long as she’s here, this tiny tornado of a girl, you don’t feel a thing.

Clenching and then unclenching her fist around your finger – so delicate compared to the punches she was throwing at your ribs just six hours ago. She’s worth every fucking second of it.

You finally fucking get it.

She fits so perfectly in the crook of your arm. It feels as though your body was made just to hold her – the very shape of you, designed especially for the very shape of her.

You wonder whether it was the same for your mom. Whether you came along and made her feel whole, for the first time in her life.

Duckie’s eyes open – all glossy and brand new, blinking up at the both of you like she needed no introduction. She already knows you, from the inside out. Her dad’s graying beard, the threads of silver around his temples. Her mom’s tear-stained cheeks, eyes red and bleary with sleeplessness and pure love.

You’re Mom, you’re Dad.

It’s all she’s ever known.

The pillow sighs as you lean back into it. The doctor begins repairing the damage done between your legs; threading and knitting your body back together.

You’re caught between a state of bliss and shock. Your brain is doing much the same work to itself as the woman between your knees is. Patching over all the bloody parts: the screams which tore your skin, the pain which cracked your teeth.

None of it holds a candle to the weight of her in your arms. No matter how tired you are, you can’t take your eyes off her. Her puffy cheeks, the little creases between her brows. No matter how sore, you never want to let go of her.

Joel runs a finger down Duckie’s cheek. “Ain’t she the most beautiful thing in the world?”

“I love her,” you say, bubbling again. “I love her more than anything.”

An hour old, and she’s already a daddy’s girl.

Joel ambles back and forth at the foot of your bed in the recovery suite, bouncing Duck in his arms. He’s never looked so relaxed, so natural at something. He’s never seemed so content, so peaceful.

Everything he’s ever made with his hands – structures and framework and your goddamn closet – and yet this, this tiny accident, this baby girl you were so sure you’d dreamt up right up until an hour ago –

This is the thing he’s proudest of.

Morning lifts through the windows, all soft and vanilla. It floats around him, sunlight spilling across his skin and breathing life and color into him.

Sunlight – or his daughter. They’re the same thing, anyway.

You pull apart a slice of toast, watching. Just watching. Sweet strawberry jam on your tongue, the flavor of everything sharper, fresher. The colors brighter, more vivid.

The world makes more sense like this, you think. Painted in shades of honey and ochre; a room in a corner of the world where time slows to a halt. A soft lullaby from his lips, and the little coos from hers.

The ache of love and labor lingers deep inside you, and nothing has ever made more sense.

You suck the sticky sweet from your fingertips.

Joel looks up, toying with Duckie’s hand. “You want her back?” he asks, a dumb grin on his face.

You shake your head. “I like watching you.”

He scrunches his nose, nuzzling it against his daughter’s, and whispers, “I wasn’t gonna give you back, anyways.” He sways in the early light, staring down at her. “Jesus,” he mutters, swiping at his eyes again, “I didn’t…I didn’t know I could love somethin’ this much.”

“Me, either.”

He drifts over, lowering himself slowly onto the edge of the bed. He extends his elbow, still cradling the baby, and helps you pull yourself upright.

You hiss, a not-so-subtle sting between your legs.

“You, uh…you think of a name yet?” Joel asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, hooked onto his shoulder. Duck blows a bubble and you wipe it with your knuckle. “I thought we were sticking with Duckie?”

His cheeks swell. The sun kisses the edges of his beard. “I thought of one,” he says softly. “Maybe. It’s your call.”

You yawn into his shirt, the warmth of him calm and soothing. “Alright, Miller. Hit me.”

He looks down at the baby nestled in his safe hands. The smallest thing either of you have ever seen.

The name must roll around his head a few times, the way he tilts to-and-fro – looking at her from one angle, then the next. Deciding, when he pulls back, that she suits it from every direction. Like it was her name long before he or even you knew it.

You watch his lips shape the name before you hear it.

Sarah.

And for what feels like forever, you just stare at him. The syllables lingering in the air like glistening specks of dust in a sunbeam. Your eyes follow them down to your daughter, now sleeping peacefully with two hands around one of her dad’s thumbs.

“Sarah,” you repeat, remembering whose name it was, whose name it is – whose name it has always been. “Sarah Miller.”

Joel’s shoulders lift. “What do you think? She look worthy of bein’ a Sarah?”

The rustle of tissue paper. Blue and green and purple tearing between your fingers. The funny fuzz of pom poms as your hands rummaged through the bag. Her hand swimming towards you, an orange foam fish riding the waves between her fingers. Bubbly sounds erupting from her lips.

Your girlish giggle. Her silly grin. Hopscotch along the sidewalk; stopping to look for cars before she’d walk you across the street. How much do I love you, baby girl?

More than the whole world, Mama.

“I love it,” you breathe, tears running to the corners of your mouth. “Sarah fucking Miller.”

“Sarah fuckin’ Miller,” Joel echoes; two wet lines the same as yours, curving down his cheeks. He shifts her into the crook of his arm.

You’re impossibly close. Your chin rests on his shoulder, foreheads brushing when you lean in to each other. His breath is hot on your lips, closer and closer and closer until –

He tastes like salt, rich with emotion. Salt, and then sweet when your tongue meets his. He lifts his free hand to cup your cheek, and your fingers link around his wrist.

And you know you shouldn’t be doing it – know this isn’t your man to be kissing. But in this room, where no one else can see – where it’s just you, him, and all the best parts of yourselves shaped into someone better – he feels like yours.

Just for a moment.

Joel takes the first week of Sarah’s life off work.

He spends a good twenty minutes on the phone to the contractor, talking more about the kid than he does the job. Her eyelashes, her fingernails, the way her legs scrunch anytime he lifts her up.

He’s besotted with the entire thing. And he tells everybody so.

He moves in with you both, stays in your guestroom. It’s a week of no sleep, no peace, and a total of three showers between you. Wearing the same clothes covered in spit-up and drool until one of you has the time or energy to do laundry.

It’s hard. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. By your count, you’ve already cried three times to Joel – terrified you’re getting it all wrong.

But you’re doing it. Jesus God, you’re doing it.

You order takeout most nights. You can’t stand long enough to cook just yet, and you don’t trust Joel not to burn your fucking kitchen down – despite his protests. And it feels like, after everything your body’s given you, it deserves a greasy pizza and some chicken wings.

You rot on the couch together, watching shitty TV and arguing over reruns of Jeopardy! – until Sarah wakes and the whole thing begins again.

Joel loses the game of rock, paper, scissors tonight.

“Shh, baby girl. ‘s alright now, I gotcha,” he lulls, tucking her back in to her bassinet.

She fusses and stretches out; arms over her head, legs curled up. Her onesie is still a little too big – the socked feet all baggy, the sleeves rolled up her wrists.

He lingers for a moment as she drifts off, a hand stroking her tummy. Watching, always watching her. The rise and fall of her stomach, the puffs of breath from her nostrils, her lips still suckling away in her sleep.

“I swear I have a baby photo that looks just like her,” you say. “Same nose and everything.”

Joel clicks his teeth. “Got her looks from her mom. Lucky thing.”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you snort.

He drifts back over, sinking into the couch at your side. “Doin’ okay?” he asks, and you nod.

Every muscle in your body still feels like a ton weight. Your stomach is still swollen; there are still stitches between your legs. There are moments you can’t tell if you’re crying because of hormones, exhaustion, or joy.

Every time, it’s a combination of all three.

Life before feels so long ago – and it hasn’t even been a fortnight. But then you held her for the first time, and now – your arm misses the weight of her when she’s not in it. Your house feels eerily quiet when she’s not laughing, or whimpering, or screaming the fucking roof down.

You can feel your daughter growing up already, and she’s only ten days old.

On the mantelpiece, safe in a stippled gold frame, your mom beams down over her. The photo at least twenty years old, the memory even older. Laughing, the way she always was; nothing quite so funny as a joke frozen in time.

Joel prods you with his elbow. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Your mom.”

“Oh,” you scoff, “no, she’d be like, Holy shit. This kid totally kicked your ass.”

He chuckles. “Sure she did,” he shrugs, “she’s your kid.”

The TV babbles to itself across the room. In its glow, Joel meets your eye. A tiny, pearly fleck swimming in deep honey.

It’s familiar – each shade of bronze in his eyes, each thread of silver through his hair. Like you’ve mapped each and every line on his skin, collecting them like the sleepless hours between you.

Everything about him feels so normal. Burnt toast in the morning, a spoon clinking around a mug of coffee. The rustle of the newspaper, the sizzle of eggs in the pan, the baby snoring on your chest.

Everything – and yet nothing you’ve ever known.

“I miss her,” you whisper. “I miss my mom.”

His hand finds yours instantly. “I know, baby. I know you do.”

You slouch down, leaning on his shoulder, and close your eyes. Joel presses his lips to the crown of your head, his thumb looping around your knuckles.

Sarah gurgles in her sleep. She sighs – a satisfied little sound. Nothing has ever made more sense.

His voice rumbles against your skull. “Who sent the lilies?”

Your eyes flutter open. “Hm?”

Joel flicks his finger towards the window, towards a sprawl of speckled, cream flowers. “The lilies? They weren’t there this morning.”

“Oh…” You turn to look up at him, cringing.

He sees the flicker of her behind your eyes. Her lustrous curtain of hair, her perfect almond nails.

“Really?” Joel asks, mirroring your expression.

You nod, trying not to laugh. “From her and Kate. You were upstairs with Sarah when she came by. I offered to call you down, but – she just wanted to drop ‘em and go.”

“What did she…? Did she say anything?”

Your head shakes. “She just…she said congratulations, said she hoped we were okay. Then she got in her car and she left. I kinda figured things weren’t sunshine and roses, anyway. You haven’t fuckin’ seen her since Houston.”

He snorts, fingers massaging his eyes. “I was goin’ to tell you,” he mumbles into his palms, “I just…Honey, I don’t even know what day of the week it is right now. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you mutter.

“Yes, I do,” he insists. His eyes flit over to Sarah, then back to you. “We haven’t really talked it through yet, me ‘n her. I called her a few days ago, we agreed it’s time. It – it’s past time. I shoulda called it months ago.”

“I guess,” you sigh. “Are you okay?”

Joel’s brow furrows. “’course I am. I got the most beautiful baby girl in the world,” and then, rolling his eyes, “you’re here.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you clip, batting his arm. “Vanessa could do way better, anyways.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

You squeeze his fingers, softly adding, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Joel.”

He stares down at your clasped hands. He looks tired, worn out. You figure it’s not just from the newborn. But he takes a deep breath, something the color of relief dawning on his skin, and looks you dead in the eye.

“I’m not.”

“Hey, Duckie – can you say, Happy birthday, Daddy?”

A vinyl wobbles on the turntable – some acoustic record from when Joel was a teenager. There’s wrapping paper still crumpled beneath the coffee table; four plates with more crumbs than cake left, dotted around the room.

Tommy leans in, a lopsided party hat on his head, and tickles Sarah’s chin.

She blinks at him, unamused, then scrunches her little nose and turns back into your chest.

He sighs, straightening. “She don’t like her uncle Tommy all that much,” he grumbles, sulking back over to the couch. Maria puts a consoling arm around his shoulder.

You rest your lips on Sarah’s head, breathing in her sweet scent. Swaying back and forth, you tease, “She don’t like anyone all that much, not unless they’re her daddy.”

Joel’s head lifts and he smiles, eyes glistening. He watches you and Sarah dance; laughs when you twirl her around and she tips her head back, flashing a gummy grin.

“She’ll come around to ya,” he tells Tommy, wandering over to your side. “We all learned to, eventually.”

Tommy scoffs. “Very funny, old man. Jesus.”

Joel stoops down to let Sarah run her small hands through his beard. He catches her fingertips between his lips and pretends to nibble on them.

She giggles, squirming in your arms. Her fingers find the sweeps of hair on his forehead and, taking a fistful, she tugs.

“Christ,” Joel hisses, pulling back.

“That was on you this time,” you chuckle, pointing a finger. “You know she does that, and you still fall for it.”

Maria glances down at her watch. “Is that the time?” she asks, turning to Tommy. “We should really turn in.”

“Oh – right, right.” Tommy tips the last of his beer into his mouth. “We’re takin’ Mom to brunch tomorrow. Better get some goddamn rest.”

Joel hums, still massaging his hairline. “Hey,” he whispers, elbowing you. “Maybe I should take her over. She’s getting sleepy – ain’t you, little Duck?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tommy stands and holds a hand out. “Why don’t you let Maria and I take her? We’ll tuck her in, keep an eye on her. We weren’t half bad the other day, while y’all were at work. And if she’s stayin’ at Joel’s tonight anyway…”

You glance to Joel, who shrugs. Something shaped like Sure.

“As long as you don’t mind,” you reply, bouncing the baby slowly. “Let me go grab her things.”

Joel’s hand slips across the small of your back as you pass, making for the stairs. He lingers at the bottom, watching until you turn into the nursery with Sarah in the crook of your arm.

You set her down in her crib and gather some of her favorites: a yellow blanket, a duck comforter, a rattle shaped like an elephant. She watches contentedly as you shuffle back and forth, staring when you lean over the wooden rail.

“You know how much I love you?” you whisper, curling a finger inside her fist. She squeezes, and you say, “More than the whole world.”

She grabs at the chain dangling from your neck, the letter S catching the light. Instead, she lifts your finger to her mouth. Her nails scratch light as a feather across your skin. Her gums are tiny and soft around your knuckle.

Everything about her is tiny and soft. Her sweeping eyelashes, her plushy cheeks. Her round tummy, and the squeals she lets free as you dot kisses and blow raspberries all over it. No matter how much she’s grown in three months, she’s still so tiny.

She’ll always be the smallest, sweetest thing you’ve ever known. And she’s all yours.

“Jesus, kid,” you sniff, swiping at your tears. You slip your hands around her back and prop her on your hip. “Alright, let’s go. Quit making your mom cry.”

The bag over your shoulder, you carry her out of the room and into the dark hallway. It’s quiet downstairs; nothing but the crackle of the record player, the distant chink of dishes in the kitchen.

That – and hushed voices in the living room.

“Joel,” Tommy says, over and over again. He’s trying to cut in between his brother’s rambling. Joel – listen to me. Just listen, for one second –”

You linger on the bottom step, trying to split Joel’s voice from Tommy’s. Trying to pluck the words out, over Maria’s humming from the next room.

“…and it ain’t that simple, Tommy it’s –”

“What ain’t simple about it? You have a –” Tommy says it through his teeth, “– you have a kid together, Joel. You really think she’s gonna –”

Sarah grabs the charm around your neck and shakes suddenly, rattling the chain.

You close your hand around hers, losing your balance. “Shhhhit, Duckie, you –”

Joel’s eyes snap to your figure as you step down. He clears his throat, leaning away from Tommy. “Hey – hey, darlin’.”

“Hey,” you reply. Bright. Chipper. Unclenching your fist to let your daughter shake your necklace some more.

She squeals with delight when she spots Joel across the room.

“She ready to go?” he asks, slinging a quick – telling – look at Tommy.

You look between the brothers, browns quirking. They look as guilty as each other: scratching their beards, staring at the furniture instead of you. “Uhuh,” you reply, tongue against your teeth. “Everything…everything okay?”

Tommy slaps his thighs as he stands. “Everything’s great, sweetheart. Sure as shit. Joel – you, uh…you got a key on ya?”

“Oh, yep.” Joel reaches into his pocket. He unhooks a silver key from the chain and drops it into his brother’s open palm.

Tommy calls for Maria. He sidesteps around you, face flushed and smiling.

She floats through from the kitchen, drying her palms on her jeans. “Where’s my baby duck?” she sings, reaching for Sarah.

You pass her over and she melts into her aunt’s arms, curling up into a little pink lump on her chest. “She just had a feed, like, twenty minutes ago, so – she should go down pretty well. And there are more bottles in Joel’s fridge, if you need ‘em.”

Maria nods, wrapping Sarah’s blanket around her. She lifts the bag strap from your shoulder and hands it to Tommy. “I’ll text you as soon as she’s down. Come on, Duckie, let’s get you to bed.”

Tommy leans over and squeezes your arm, winking as he follows his wife. He calls goodnight to Joel, lifting a pointed finger over his head, and closes the door behind them.

Things could not have gone smoother.

It’s suspicious as shit.

You turn when you hear Joel shifting.

“C’mon,” he utters, a pile of plates in one hand. “I ain’t leavin’ you with this mess.” He heads through to the kitchen, broad figure swaying.

The plates spill into the sink, water trickling over them. Joel hums to himself as he gets to work with a sponge in hand.

You linger in the living room.

Things have been good lately – peaceful. You’re in as much of a routine as Sarah will allow: a steady pattern of dropping her off and picking her back up, patchwork family dinners, daytrips whenever both of you can make them.

Your body is healing, pulling itself back together. You don’t have to think about being Mom anymore – she walks in stride with you. The world is painted a new shade of normal – one where you can do anything with a baby on your hip, one where love becomes your first language.

One where you swallow back the ache in your heart, for better or for worse. The only piece of you still fractured. The only wound left open.

Joel’s birthday cards lie flat on the coffee table. You pluck them up one by one – his parents’, Tommy and Maria’s, yours – and Sarah’s.

A messy splotch of a handprint, bright yellow paint smeared across half the fucking card (she hasn’t quite mastered self-control yet). A googly eye plastered to the bird’s chest; orange crayon for the beak and legs.

Sure, you took charge for most of the project – but when he opened it and saw his daughter’s little masterpiece, you caught him swiping his knuckle at the corner of his eye. He snuggled into her, perched on his lap, and whispered, Thank you, little Duckie.

You prop them along your mantelpiece, dotted around your mom’s photo. When you step back, looking from son to brother to…a good friend, you could almost pretend.

Almost pretend that they belong here, on this mantelpiece. There is no yours and his. Just one of everything; nothing doubled nor halved.

Almost pretend that he won’t collect them as he leaves, break into another teary laugh at the sight of the duck painting, and then kiss your cheek goodnight. Promise to have your daughter back in time to go swimming tomorrow morning.

Almost.

“Hey,” Joel calls, “did you, uh – did you hear Tommy talkin’ about Jackson?”

You slip into the kitchen, side by side with him at the sink. “Uh, yeah,” you reply, lifting a towel. “Moose, pine trees. Yep.”

“It sounds beautiful. You think we should take a trip up there sometime? Could be Sarah’s first vacation.”

“You mean the three of us?”

He shrugs, scrubbing a bowl in the water. “Sure. I don’t think Duckie would let one of us stay behind, do you? She’d scream the damn airport down,” he chuckles, looking back to the twinkling bubbles.

You hum. “Maybe.”

“You don’t feel like it?”

“No, I do. I just – I don’t know. Maybe someday.”

“Okay,” Joel says, nodding. “Put a pin in it.”

He passes you a dripping plate and you drag the towel over it, circling the pattern until the suds are wiped clean. And another, and another.

It feels awkward. It feels stiff. There’s something hanging between you, heavy on both your shoulders. A weight you haven’t felt around Joel in over a year.

You turn to him as he stacks the last plate on the draining board. “Is that what you were talking to Tommy about?”

Joel pauses. “You heard that, huh?”

“Only the part about having a kid. It’s none of my business, I know, I just –”

“Actually,” he clears his throat, “it’s plenty your business.”

He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. A deep breath, cheeks puffing as he exhales. His grip on the dish towel whitens his knuckles.

He’s…nervous. The same shade of gray he wore the night you went into labor.

He takes another unsteady breath.

“Joel?” you ask, head tilting. “Whatever it is, you can say it. I got whiskey, if that’ll make it easier. Probably tastes like shit, but…”

His expression cracks. His eyes twinkle, and he smiles. Only a little, but enough. Enough to let the words slip through.

“You know, that night at Tommy’s wedding was one of the best nights of my life.”

Your heartbeat thuds a bassline in your ears; the rush of your blood the squealing guitar. Skin tacky, moans caught between teeth. Laughter and lust tangling together in the air.

“Yeah?” you ask.

Joel nods. “Yeah. Lying there – talking, laughing, messin’ around. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard in all my life. I could’ve stayed in that room with you forever.”

Your eyes start to sting. You look away.

“I thought I would regret it. I thought I should regret it. And I never did. But then,” he takes a deep breath, “the next day, I look out front, and my newspaper’s sittin’ on my lawn. And for two weeks straight, I kept checking – and there it was. I thought, Sure as shit, she regrets the whole thing. I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

You shake your head. “I wanted to see you again. I missed – I missed you. Missed pissin’ you off.”

He laughs. “I missed you pissin’ me off. Missed that annoying as hell thud on my porch.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to – you know,” you admit, and Joel nods.

“We got pretty good at avoidin’ each other,” he grumbles. “And then – with Vanessa, I thought I’d be doin’ you a favor. Letting you off light.”

“You…you took her number to do me a favor?”

“Naw,” Joel says. “I took her number ‘cause her brother in-law has a lumber company, and I had a closet to build. I was drunk, I was an idiot, and I brought it up to her at the wedding. By the time I thought it through, you ‘n I weren’t speakin’.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shakes his head. He edges closer to you. Voice low, he says, “I shouldn’t’ve gone out on that first date with her. I shouldn��t’ve done any of it. I should’ve talked to you about what I was feeling.”

“Well, maybe we both should’ve,” you mutter, wringing your hands. “I wasn’t exactly the best at it, either.”

His head tips, considering. “Can I tell you now?”

You glance over to him. “Tell me what, Miller?”

“Tell you…tell you that I love you,” he whispers.

It steals the breath from your lungs. One clean swipe.

He nods to himself, then – certain of it – and says it again. “I do, darlin’. I love you.”

Your heart begins to hammer. Tears spill over onto your cheeks, dripping from your jaw.

“And, look –” Joel takes your wrists, “– I got no right to say any of that, I know. I put you through a hell of a lot, these last few months – and that kills me. But if you’ll let me, I swear to you – I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life.”

You look up. His cheeks are dappled, too – glistening with tears. “Joel…” you weep.

He cups your jaw. “Listen to me. What we’ve had, the last three months – I want it all the time. I want you, and I want Duck. I want the three of us under one roof. I want to sleep in the same bed as you.”

You breathe a shuddered laugh. Your hands fall over his wrists. Keep talking, you mouth, bottom lip trembling.

“I want to get married, or not,” Joel says. “I want to show up to Tommy and Maria’s anniversary party late, ‘cause Duck couldn’t pick which shoes she wanted to wear. I want to have more kids, take ‘em on vacation.”

“Wyoming?” you sniff.

“Wyoming,” he repeats. “I want…I want all of it, baby. You ‘n me. I want you ‘n me, more than anything in the world. And if I’m too late, then you can tell me. Tell me, and I swear on my life I will never mention it again.”

Your hands curve over his. His strong knuckles, worked and weathered and worn by his years. Down to his wrists – the tatty strap on his ages-old watch, the dark hair peppered along his arms.

“I love you so much, baby. So much that it drives me insane. You drive me…fuckin’ insane.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you whisper, balling your fists against his chest.

Joel laughs, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah,” he sniffs, “I figured you’d say som’ like that.”

“I love you, too,” you mumble, linking your arms around his neck. “Shit, I love you.”

“Ain’t that a thing?” he says, and his lips are on yours.

It’s been a year. A year since the first time you felt him – lips soft as velvet, sweet with alcohol and something stronger. His tongue and yours, his teeth and yours. Every part of you clashing with every part of him.

And goddamn, you’ve missed it.

Joel follows you upstairs, pinning you to the wall by your bedroom door. White heat flooding through your veins, he kneels before you and pulls you onto his tongue.

He’s hungry.

He laps at you as though you’ll be gone in the morning. As though he won’t wake up tangled in you, breathing in your scent, lips on your skin.

Dusk seeps in at the edges of your vision; daylight draining from the sky. It’s dark, too dark to see him clearly, but you feel him fucking everywhere.

His beard grazes the inside of your thigh. He kisses where he scratches your skin. He holds your hips steady, tongue dipping in and out.

“You know how fuckin’ sweet you taste?” he growls, slipping inside again.

He looks so good between your legs. Like he was made for it – made for you. All yours, in ways you never really understood until now.

He brings you to the edge with his tongue flat against your clit. Holding your hips firm against his mouth, groaning with you as you fall.

You come with a broken moan. Hips stutter to a halt, legs fall wide open. The warmth in your belly spills over and rushes to every corner of your body.

Joel moans, tongue still lapping as your cunt pulses all over him. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he slurs, watching you come undone.

He stands, a chaste kiss to your lips, and then parts them with his tongue. “Taste good?” he mumbles, kissing you gently.

Yeah, you think, moaning against him, it tastes fucking good.

He spreads you out on your mattress and kisses what feels like every square inch of your body. You giggle at the feeling of his lips behind your ear; moan when they close around your nipple.

Your back arches; little lightning bolts as he pulls the buds to a peak. Your fingers knot through his hair; hissing at the meeting of pain and pleasure between Joel’s lips.

“I love you,” you whisper, when he settles between your legs. You don’t know that you’ve felt something so true in all your life.

He smiles. Your fingers trace the lines at his eyes.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls your hips to meet his.

You curve a hand around his neck, glancing down at your open legs. “Looks a little different to the last time you saw her.”

Joel shakes his head, licking his lips. “Beautiful, baby. She looks so goddamn beautiful.”

Each movement is careful, deliberate. He notches his tip at your hole and pauses until you’re looking at him again.

And then he pushes in.

He slips an arm under your head; the other holding your thigh on his waist. He kisses you as you stretch around him. He still tastes like salt and slick.

You gasp, teeth gritting around a hiss. “Fuck,” you whimper, turning in to his chest.

“Easy, easy,” Joel coos, voice rumbling against your temple. “Catch your breath. Doin’ so good.”

“It’s not sore,” you tell him, nodding for him to move again. “It’s…it’s just…different.”

“Tighter,” he groans, eyes on your cunt as it draws his cock in.

You agree, “Tighter.”

He catches you in another kiss, his tongue slipping between your lips. “Feel so good, sweet girl. Breathe. ‘m right here.”

It’s never felt like this before. This gentle, this tender.

You have never felt like this before. Broken open, stitched back together. Your heart split into two – whole again each time his body meets yours.

Joel catches your moans on his tongue. He steadies his pace; rocking into you over and over. Laughing against your lips; your fingers intertwined with his.

“Feel good?” he pants.

Your head rolls back. “Mhm.”

“Take it, baby. Such a tight little thing.”

“Joel,” you cry, “I’m close.”

His teeth nip at your neck. “Shit,” his hips jump, “attagirl. Just like that.” He thrusts into you harder, bleeding the color from your vision.

You pull his lips to yours, foreheads tacky. Joel’s eyes gloss over.

I love you, he breathes.

And the world whitens.

He pulls you against his chest when you come back around. Shifts up the headboard, skin all sticky and warm. He kisses your temples, kisses your shoulders, kisses your knuckles.

You melt into his grasp, turning to look up at him. You run your fingers over his lips, through his damp hair. Just staring. Drinking him all in.

“You were right next door, the entire time,” you whisper.

He runs a thumb across your cheek. “Yep.”

“Do you think we wasted too much time?”

Joel’s lip turns. “Nah,” he says. “We found our way.”

“Needed a little help, though.”

He scoffs, tongue between his teeth. “I’m sure she’ll hold it against us forever.”

You think of that evening in August. The last bow of the sun before your world changed forever. Of deals struck and promises made. Of satin on your fingertips – newspaper ink and duck egg silk.

You think of that photograph on your mantelpiece. Bright eyes watching every second of it. A smile on her face the entire time.

You laugh to yourself. Joel looks down and kisses your swollen cheek.

“We should go,” he taps your thigh, “got a little duck who’ll be wonderin’ where her mama and daddy are.”

The church tower rings out twice as the truck purrs between graves.

Joel pulls up under the shade of a sycamore, tires rolling to a halt. Sarah kicks her feet, her heels thudding against her car seat.

“Mama,” she presses a sticky finger to the back window, “flowers.”

“Yeah, baby,” you call over your shoulder, hugging your own graveside gift a little tighter in your arms. “Lots of ‘em, huh?”

“Yeah,” your daughter quietly considers, then kicks her seat again.

Joel waits patiently for you to give him the go ahead. He slips a hand around your knee, looking ahead at the rows of headstones. So patient, so gentle.

Your chest swells, a deep breath filling your lungs, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Sure?” he asks. “Take as long as you want, darlin’.”

But if you wait any longer, you’ll never leave. The paper wrap crinkles in your arms. “You take Duck,” you reply, “I’ll take…”

Joel lifts your hand, placing a soft kiss between your knuckles. “You got it. We’ll walk on.”

He leaves you in the truck to collect yourself. He unbuckles Sarah and sets her loose, following her across the grass with his hands in his pockets.

Her light-up sneakers flash as she sprints; head tossed back, toothless smile pointed to the sun. She turns back to her dad, her little hand fitting perfectly into his.

Made for each other.

You hook your fingers around the handle and leave the truck.

Their grave is a short walk down a grassy slope, sheltered by another towering tree. Its leaves flutter down around you as you near the stone; stray petals which catch in the breeze and lead the way.

You kneel down, the grass dry and prickly through your jeans. “Hi, Mom,” you whisper, sweeping some dust from the base of the grave. “Hi, Dad.”

Your grandma picked this spot. She’s long gone – laid to rest elsewhere with a grandfather you never met – so you try to visit as often as you can. Freshen the flowers, brighten up the stone.

It fucking sucks, but someone’s gotta do it.

You peel the brown paper from the bouquet, exposing the soft colors Sarah picked back in the florist. They fit perfectly on the stone, right beneath the words Devoted parents.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a feeling that wraps itself around your throat and steals any other words – until a flash of pink catches your attention.

“Duckie,” Joel calls, following her between graves. “Hey. This is a cem…Hey, Duck, listen – this is a cemetery, we gotta be – Sarah!”

You stifle a laugh, watching him jog after the hoodie tied around her waist. He swipes for her hand and she dodges him, ducking between graves faster than his mid-fifties joints can turn him.

There’s no one else here – it’s only you. And it’s a quiet enough place as it is, so – you let her laugh. Let him chase her, and let her sneakers light the place in pink. What else is there to do?

“Sorry it’s been a little while,” you tell your parents, eyes still on your man.

He’s kneeling now, Sarah on his thigh, in front of a tall, cross-shaped stone. They’re pointing at the words on the stone, her inquisitive eyes studying each one.

“I know I said I’d come visit for Dad’s birthday, but I guess things got busy – what with the move and all. We’re still living out of boxes. But the girls’ rooms are almost done – we just gotta paint ‘em.”

You look back down to the stone. Your mom’s name carved deep into spotted marble, your dad’s underneath. One awful date to tie them both together.

Dad probably heard Duck’s first squeal and turned away; gone back to whatever boring activity he might get up to in the afterlife. But your mom, you know for certain, is sat with her chin on the heel of her palm. Watching her mini-me trace the shapes of words, squirming when Joel presses his lips to her temple and whispers hints to her.

She’s probably smiling, making some comment about how big Sarah’s getting. How smart she is, how funny. How she must keep you and Joel on your toes – and goddamn, she’s right.

“Joel’s been working on the kitchen,” you continue. “I left my phone in the truck, but you should see it, Mom. He got these marble countertops, these little brushed-gold handles. He wrote our names on the wall before he tiled it, so whoever remodels after we’re gone will find that. The four of us.”

“M-meh-mem-orr-mem-or-ree?” Sarah tilts her head.

Joel nods. “Memory, yeah. Good job, Duck.”

“Duckie’s good,” you tell your mom. “She’s top of her class in – well, everything. Really wiping the floor with all the other first-graders. She’d have been your favorite – I know that much. And you’d have been hers.

“She’s gonna be some kind of lawyer, we think. Social justice and all that. She likes to be a woman of the people. Always talkin’ back to Joel – she hardly cuts him any slack, these days,” you laugh.

“He’s good, too – Joel. Working hard, as usual. Tommy and Maria visited last week – they brought Buckley, and now Duck won’t stop goin’ on about us getting a dog.”

You chance a glance over the stone, making sure the pair are out of earshot when you add, “Don’t tell her, but we called the pound last night. We’re heading there tomorrow while she’s at school to pick one out for her birthday. Joel’s giddier than I think Sarah’s gonna be.”

Joel’s carrying Duck now, wandering down a wobbly row of graves.

She halts him by pointing to one. “N-eh-v-eh-never…fff-or-g-for–”

He stares at her, a grin breaking across his lips. “Sound it out, that’s it. ‘s a big word, baby girl. You got it.”

The world seems to blur around them. The birds sing, a light melody from overhead. The green trees sway across the blue of the sky; the straight soar of cars on the highway. It all fades into the background, behind the two of them – wandering from shade into brilliant sun.

Your family. Your man, your blood – and everything in between. The little girl who brought it all together in the end – leading her dad by hand over knolls and broken stone, chasing butterflies, and asking what eh-teh-err-nal means.

“Means forever,” Joel says, kneeling beside her. “’s how long I’m gonna love you for.”

“And Nel?”

“And Nel.”

“And Mama?”

“And Mama.”

Sarah runs her hands through his beard, swaying side to side. “But me the most,” she concludes, nodding.

Joel hms, biting back a laugh. He lifts his chin, asks the little girl whether or not he’s going gray.

She has the same ridiculous laugh you do. The same snort you used to find so embarrassing, until you heard it come from her.

Just watching them stokes the already burning fire in your ribcage – the warmth flooding around your heart. He’s so good at it – being a dad.

Was he ever anything else, before he was a father? You can’t remember a time you didn’t wake up next to him, wrapped up in his arms, or with one of his kids burrowed between your bodies. It all feels so long ago, now.

He wanted to do everything. He’d lie with you between his legs, holding your half-sleeping form upright while you fed her. He’d race home after work specially to bathe her. He picked up any and every single duck-themed thing that he came across.

And what were you? Mom felt like such a fucking longshot. So out of your reach that you couldn’t understand the meaning of the word.

But there are days when she says it – Sarah, looking up at you with Joel’s twinkling eyes and a smirk which matches yours – and it’s like you’ve been waiting your whole life to hear it. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for her.

Well. Her, and her little sister.

“And, uh – another thing,” you say, reaching for the plastic handle of a car seat. “I brought somebody for you to meet.”

A clumsy fist shoots up to shake a speckled dinosaur toy – the brown spheres of its eyes catching the sunlight. She squeals with delight when you unbuckle her, kicks her legs the same way her sister always did.

“She’s a little nervous, ain’t you, Nel?” you whisper, laughing at her gummy smile and tiny, socked feet. “She spit up on herself on the way here, but – I think you’re gonna love her.”

You perch the baby on your thigh, same as Joel did with Sarah, and she wraps her fingers around one of yours. You wiggle it – waving to your mom’s name, to the petals gently fluttering in the breeze.

“Mom,” you sniff, “this is Ellie.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel miller #tw pregnancy

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kleewie · 4 months

Text

i don’t wanna keep secrets just to keep you (and i)

summary: dating tip? just don't. for celebrities, romantic relationships are absolutely forbidden. the slightest hint of one could ruin your career. but are you even listening to the lecture? doubt it, 'cause you're doing the complete opposite. (alternatively, a celebrity au featuring secret relationships.)

→ featuring: childe, & ayato (you can really tell who my faves are)

→ warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, slight cursing, established relationship, mentions of alcohol and drinking, tension, actual cursing, unreliable reader pov, gender-neutral reader (i apologize if i missed things, i haven't proofread it yet)

→ a/n: so, hi! long time no see? i was pretty stressed with college and well, i'm back! i began writing this last year and finally got the courage to finish it. but here it is and i hope you enjoy it :> please let me know if you like it <3 it really makes my day!

credits to @dumplingsjinson for the prompts!

beware, lengthy post ahead! more under the cut!

the debut.

“forbidden?” you repeat.

“absolutely forbidden!” your manager says. “a rookie with no fanbase? a scandal will ruin your reputation! you're absolutely forbidden from dating anyone.”

you sigh. he's being too overdramatic.

you will never be in a relationship, you're absolutely sure. how can you? with no time for yourself as it is, dating someone with the limited hours you already have sounds impractical.

besides, you're too busy training and practicing for auditions.

remembering it now, you want to laugh.

i told you so, your thoughts chastise.

god, you should've listened.

childe, the actor

“that's a wrap!” the director cheers.

your eyes glisten as you hold back tears. it's embarrassing, you think. so damn embarrassing.

you've been repeating the same kissing scene multiple times now. obviously, the director cheers for finally completing the take and not because you did a good job.

childe pats your back. “you did great,” he says, with a smile.

but you know the gesture so goddamn well. the same nonchalant cold grin he throws at everyone that he now directs at you? oh, he's angry alright.

for what reason? who knows. you're too busy wallowing in self-despair over how terrible your acting is.

the scene is supposedly simple. it involves the second lead, who happens to be you, confessing their love to the leading man, resulting to a spontaneous kiss.

yet, you're fumbling over the lines, acting so out of character, tripping over set, incorrectly initiating the kiss at awkward angles—the whole time-wasting squander.

“what's going on?” childe eventually asks, once he arrives at your shared apartment. his bag drops to the floor with a flop. “you're acting strange. the entire crew sees it, i see it, the director sees it—what if he decides to fire you? what will you do then?”

you swallow dryly. you left the set early hoping childe's hectic schedule prompted him to forget the whole issue. yet, here he is finally bringing up the conversation after what feels like a month's worth of tension.

as you sit on the sofa chair, your fingers massage the bridge of your nose. breathe in, breathe out. you repeat. don't cry. you try to calm yourself down as a sob tries to break through.

eight months, you've been a couple.

but, there are some things you're afraid to say.

each year, the biggest tabloid newspaper in the country releases an article on celebrity dating scandals. a month ago they released one single page article about a popular actor dating a newbie actress. it barely had any juicy details, just a simple paragraph of a somebody dating a nobody.

yet, it did not end well for them. and you're terrified; for when it could happen to you.

you imagine it. dozens of messages and multiple missed phone calls on your cell as your name becomes the next talk of the town. the headline reads: revealed! a nobody actress, the second-lead from the northland bank saga currently dates the nation's boyfriend, childe!

it terrifies you. you could lose your job. lose what you love doing the most. and you could get tossed aside like an old sweater under someone's bed, left to rot and decompose.

so, yes. you hesitated earlier at set because you don't want anyone to connect the dots. to look at the kiss between you two and notice something amiss. to speculate that there's more to your relationship than what meets the eye. to realize you look at him as more than a co-star. to see how much you're in love with him. to realize the both of you are dating.

“it's not easy.” you say, releasing a sigh.

two years you've been in the business. rookies barely get any roles as it is. being in a well-received rendition of an old romance drama is a once in a blue moon opportunity and you can't risk someone finding out about your relationship.

“camera shy? no—you've kissed heaps of actors for that school drama.”

you mumble, “two people aren't heaps of actors, tartaglia.”

“then what is the problem?”

childe saunters to where you sit. he leans towards you and presses his palm on the head of the sofa, trapping your body between his and the chair. childe's eyes meet yours and you instantly look away.

he knows you well enough to comprehend that look on your face. the way you hide your clammy hands behind you, the manner of your eyes staring only at your feet, how your body tucks itself into the corner of the seat.

“me?” childe whispers.

he places a hand under your jaw. his thumb softly pushes your chin upwards so your eyes meet his.

“why?” he pleads.

“you won't understand.”

“i will if you tell me,” he says, holding your gaze. seeing how you relentlessly persist on keeping your mouth shut, he shakes his head. “oh, please tell me.”

you hesitate. you tell him and then what?

you could say: hey, childe! i'm afraid of our relationship being discovered. i'll be hated by your fans. you'll be constantly drained by my crying and whining. your reputation would take a hit regardless of how popular you are and—and then he'll finally realize how exhausting and annoying it is being with you.

your self-deprecation loves to pull you deeper into its sapping embrace. you're nothing, it mouths. childe would dump you and find some other actor or actress to date. god. it would be so easy. with his popularity, good looks, and charming personality, he'd find a better and talented rising-star the moment he chucks you out the front door.

so, you shake your head firmly.

“tell me, please.” he whispers.

you cross your arms, and look away.

“are you sick?”

you shake your head.

“somebody hurting you on set?”

again, you shake your head.

childe pauses, “...do you have feelings for someone else?”

“no!”

“then what is the damn problem?”

“nothing!” you exasperate, furrowing your brows together.

childe takes your reluctance as distrust and it ignites his irritation. do you not trust him? is he that insignificant to you? what are you hiding? hell, did you fall for the main lead of the show, zhongli? or do you not love him anymore? god, he can feel himself suffocate in resentment.

is he so unimportant that you'd prefer to keep the problem to yourself? it makes his blood boil; how he'd do anything for you, but you'd rather keep it to yourself and suffer alone.

“tell me.” childe scowls as he watches your lips quiver.

you keep your mouth firmly shut.

“fine, hold your tongue.” he sneers, “i understand. i really do, baby. it's not about the cameras, the flashing lights, the audience.”

childe brushes his lips against yours, “you wouldn’t kiss me like that in public, though, would you?” he releases his hold on your chin and his sharp eyes meet yours. “it’s only behind closed doors when you care to act like we’re each other’s.”

with a hooded jacket in one hand and a face mask in another, childe swiftly leaves the apartment with a slam of a door.

leaving you alone with your wretched thoughts.

more under the cut!

despite walking out the flat hours ago, childe still reverberates jealousy and anger; pure envy at how normal you act around everyone else yet, around him you're too guarded; and angry at himself for saying those awful words to your face.

he smacks his forehead on the steering wheel. childe acknowledges how childish he's been acting. you aren't ready to talk, and he shouldn't be forcing you to speak out your difficulties.

surely, the stress is piling up on you. he knows the hours you've been working on set, memorizing lines, practicing moves—again, he thumps his head on the wheel.

stupid, he curses. control your damn temper next time.

he reaches for the box of blueberry cheesecake on the front passenger seat. subconsciously, he drove two hours (and back) to the bakery's main branch as its side branches were sold out of your favorite cake. and he knows how much you love the pastry.

however, his body slouches in the parked car outside the apartment. the long drive works miracles with his anger, but the courage to actually walk inside and apologize never comes.

the ding of a text draws his attention. ‘go inside and beg for forgiveness, brat.’ yoimiya, a fellow actress from the same company as him, says. the woman is always in the loop and well-informed.

a shiver goes down his spine. if you told yoimiya about the argument, he's absolutely sure you're furious. you'd only speak to her as a last-ditch effort; knowing her personality she'd pummel him to bits while you watch.

as a result, he stands inside the apartment, one hand knocking on your bedroom door. however, instead of tasting blood, he hears your stifled sobs. the abrupt sound convinces him to turn the knob and enter the room.

the illumination from the hallway brightens the bedroom, shining a bit of light on your face. you lay on the bed with your knees to your chest, with a blanket over your waist. your reddened cheeks and tear-stained eyes makes his stomach churn.

“please don't cry, baby.” childe cooes, kneeling by your bedside. he leans over you, his fingers gently grip your cheeks. “i'm so sorry.”

the sudden apology sprouts pools from your eyes. his thumbs brush the water off your face and softly says, “i shouldn't have said—please, don't cry. it's my fault for taking my anger out on you.”

“i'm afraid of losing you,” you whimper. “if they find out—oh god—they'll tear me apart. i'm nothing compared to you. i'd lose everything. i might even lose you—”

“never, i will never leave you. no matter what happens,” childe interjects.

you furrow your brows, sobbing. “i'm no one—too difficult,” you hiccup. “you'll throw me away. i'm too whiny and too draining. if they find out... you'll see all the comments about how ugly—”

“breathe, baby.” he settles himself on your bed and softly places you on his lap. “you're gorgeous. you're not draining, and frankly, you're cute when you whine.”

you bury your face into his neck and continue, “i'm serious, childe. you'll get exhausted. the articles will talk about you too!”

“articles, mhm. they're just articles.” he hums.

irritation begins to set in. was he this clueless? you release another sob, “they're not just articles. they'll nitpick every single thing you do! oh—look at this newbie getting together with childe. oh, they suck at acting! why is childe even—”

childe gently places his palm on your neck, coaxing you to meet his gaze. “are you talking about the tabloid from last month?”

you sigh, “what else am i talking about?” and instantly you sense his laughter resonate. “are you laughing?”

“you're adorable, baby.” he breathes, nuzzling his face on your neck.

“you're making fun of me! what the hell, childe?”

he releases a sigh, pausing his laughter. “the tabloids every month. they're paid. companies pay them to talk about their idols for publicity.”

your face contorts into confusion, “who would willingly—they talked about lumine all month because of the article! you know she's my favorite actress. why would they willingly put her on the spotlight like that?”

“publicity, baby.”

you shake your head, “it makes no sense.”

“oh, it does.” childe hums. “of course, they'd seek permission first. it boosted views for her drama, didn't it? lumine did say she got extra for the views and switched apartments.”

“yeah, wait—you knew this whole time and didn't bother to tell me?”

he chuckles, “that's what you get for keeping these things to yourself for a month.” he squeezes the bridge of your nose.

“you're terrible.”

“love you too, baby.” he teases, “and besides, if a tabloid threatened to do something—” his thumb gently traces the skin around your neck. “—i'll keep you safe.”

a soft smile graces your features. “...i'm just not ready for anyone to find out. yet, anyway.”

childe hums, “we'll do it on your terms, okay? whenever you're ready.”

“sure, i guess you can keep me for a while longer. until you throw me away and find the next rookie to—”

childe's soft laughter sparks a flutter in your stomach. he would never do such a thing. the moment he first laid his eyes on you on set, heard your beautiful laugh between takes, listened to your jokes while practicing lines, and god, seen your angelic smile? the things he would do to keep you as his.

“never.” a cheeky grin appears on his lips, “i'll take care of you.”

bonus: five years later

your phone rings. the vibration continues on and off, signaling multiple inbox messages. you swipe your phone to see texts from several of your close friends.

‘i know you told me you were okay with it, but i didn't think he'd try to do it so soon. i tried but he's too hardheaded.’ says yoimiya.

‘congratulations! when's the wedding? i'm kidding. don't kill childe.’ says thoma, an actor from your same company.

‘sorrows, sorrows, prayers.’ says venti, your current co-star.

you even receive a message from childe himself.

‘good morning, baby. i'm completely fault-free. simply honoring your wishes as a devoted fiancé should.’

attached to a message was a link to a video entitled: please don't kill me honey.

you click the link.

the video's blurry, as if taken by a cellphone. you recognize thoma as the person videoing the whole scene, as he turns the camera to face him before focusing it on a woman—seemingly a fan of childe. she wears merch from his most recent drama.

a fan goes on stage chosen by a random lottery draw. the said fan wins the chance to interview childe, who was the guest of the day for talk show, and ask one question.

the girl hastily walks on stage, holding a microphone given by staff.

“um. hello, childe!”

the audience screams as the huge video screen focuses on your lover's face. he waves a quick ‘hello’ and the crowd yells louder.

the girl hesitates, “are you dating anyone right now?”

childe twists the microphone in his hands. “hm? right now... i'm not dating anyone.”

the crows sighs in relief, utterly happy their favorite leading actor continues to be single.

but you see the outline of a smirk flashing on his face, and you instantly know there's a deeper meaning to that sentence. “but, it's difficult to say... since we're not really dating as of the moment.”

quietly, you hear the voice of yoimiya whispering, “don't do it.” the camera now focusing on her, trying to get herself on stage. thoma flips the camera around to face it on himself, waving a hello, apparently enjoying the drama. he then focuses the camera on the wide screen, featuring childe's face.

to add mayhem into the mix, childe continues, “i don't think being engaged to your partner falls under dating. we're way past that.”

the interview ends with the audience screaming their lungs out in disbelief, while childe's laugh resonates the whole auditorium.

ayato, company director

“oh, them?” ayato's steady gaze meet yours, pressing his lips in a tight-lipped smile. “they're a friend of mine.”

friend. it echoes in your mind, repeating incessantly. friend. friend. friend.

dread creeps into the pit of your stomach akin to a quick flick of a lighter. after all this time, your stomach lurches. is that all he thinks of you?

god, you need a drink.

the businessmen before you smile, prompting you to return the favor. subsequently, you humbly introduce yourself as just an ‘actor in the industry’. and they laugh. of course they do.

who wouldn't know you? a multi award-winning movie and television star with piles of nominations. so modest, they say. so kind, they praise. you grin, the smile not reaching your eyes, thanking them for their compliments.

but you're so accustomed to their fake smiles, ingenuine flattery, and sweet talk; you never truly know what's actually honest and real—eyes flickering to your azure-haired partner—no, who's honest and real.

you swallow the thought down.

as if aware of the invisible daggers thrown his way, ayato's gaze meets yours. his lips are pressed firmly together, eyes devoid of warmth.

not now, his expression conveys.

you narrow your own eyes, irritation burning through your corneas. as much as you want to start an argument in front of his investors, you agree to his silent insistence. after all it's his gala; one he's tirelessly prepared for over several months.

so you bite your tongue and smile: one honed by years of acting—fake yet strangely genuine.

it's not strong enough. you say, sipping wine with shaky hands. earlier, you left ayato to his fellow businessmen using the excuse of needing a bathroom break, a reason to which he obliged.

you stare at the elaborate party before you, wishing you could go home. the gala swiftly dissolved your social battery, aided by forced mingling and bitterness. a friend, your consciousness repeats. always a friend. so you sit on a chair by the wall, sipping drinks like water.

suddenly, the hairs of your neck stand on end. you sense his presence behind you, prompting a glance through your peripheral vision.

“careful, darling.” ayato's says, tone smooth yet laced with warning. “i'd rather not have you collapsing. your lovely face wouldn't compliment these filthy floors.”

you tense immediately, shoulders stiffening. “reverting back to pet names, i see?”

ayato's hand now rests on your shoulder, his thumb brushing your soft skin. “what seems to be the issue? i doubt it's due to the eight glasses of wine you've consumed in one sitting.”

you roll your tongue in your mouth, practicing the words. let's break up. you bite your tongue. let's see other people. besides, he wouldn't care would he? it's not as if he's been acknowledging you as someone he's been dating, has he? hiding your relationship from his business partners is one thing, but concealing it from closest friends? his family? that's an entirely different matter altogether.

a friend, he says to his business partners.

a star from the company, he answers to his closest friends.

a companion, he whispers to his family.

you're sick and tired of it. all of it.

raising the wineglass to your lips, you drown the drink in one go. you raise two fingers signaling the waiter for another drink.

ayato sighs and you think you feel his hand on your neck tighten, ever so slightly. “you've reached your limit with wine, dear.”

soon, the waiter arrives with three more glasses on his tray. ayato's disapproving glare compels the waiter to scurry across the ballroom floor, steering clear of you.

you click your tongue and begin, “who says so?”

“your fiancé,” he mutters, voice dripping with venom.

you immediately scoff. “sure. for your sake, i'll pretend you mentioned that earlier.”

before ayato could retort, the presence of another individual calls his attention; his younger sister, ayaka.

“brother, the sangonomiya heir's requesting your presence.”

he sighs, irritation etching his features. yet, you blink, catching a subtle shift in his expression—seemingly twisting from annoyance to something resembling relief at the mention of sangonomiya's name.

you swallow the bitter thought.

“watch them for me, could you? i'd rather not have them find a server willing to disobey my instructions and serve them a drink,” ayato whispers, his tone betraying a hint of tension that doesn't go unnoticed.

ayaka nods. her consent prompts the older brother to depart, heading towards the misty rose-pink heir who stands at the opposite side of the ballroom.

ayaka says the inevitable, “you should let him know it bothers you.”

“...i'm not sure what you're referring to.”

her gaze follows yours, observing the giggling and cheerful countenances of the kamisato and sangonomiya heirs. they seem to be enjoying their time together. as always, you remark.

“they're just close friends, you know.”

you click your tongue. “like how him and i are just friends?”

ayaka sighs, understanding your implication. “you know what i mean.”

sangonomiya's hand on your partner's shoulder elicits an exasperated sigh from you. “thoma told me they were to be married if i wasn't here.”

“the man always running his mouth—” she takes a calming breath before continuing, “—but brother's very fond of you. i'm his sister, i should know.”

“then how come after dating him for five years, he still calls me his friend.” you pause, a hand sliding into the right pocket of your outfit. you absentmindedly play with the engagement ring inside. “i'm his fiancé, aren't i?”

“he has his reasons. petty reasons.”

you bite your tongue. or he's embarrassed of you.

you met the kamisato company heir two years after your debut as an idol. as you shifted towards acting, you developed a close relationship with his sister, a seasoned actress from the same company. eventually, she became the bridge that strengthened the bond between the two of you.

you dedicated yourself nonstop, evolving from a rookie actor to a multiple-nominee and winning star; all in the pursuit of being able to openly show off your relationship with ayato without it tarnishing your reputation.

however, when you're prepared to finally reveal your relationship, he isn't.

and it leaves you wondering, is there someone else?

you mean, you're hesitant to doubt the love of your life. but considering he's kept your relationship a secret from everyone for years, it's obvious he's adept at keeping things hidden.

even from you.

and the thought sours your mood.

excusing yourself once more to use the restroom, using the premise of consuming ten glasses of wine, you bid adieu to your favorite kamisato (at the moment). you instead head towards a secluded balcony away from prying eyes.

you stare at the garden below. your eyes quickly blink back the tears threatening to fall. not now, you hiss. don't do this to me, not right now.

“i assumed you would have retreated to your room by this point.” his voice murmurs, unnervingly composed.

you turn around to see your partner holding a glass of wine. his features remain blank, inscrutable.

maybe it's because of all the wine you've been drinking. you can't seem to tell between what's real or not.

“what did you discuss with kokomi?”

“i wasn't aware you were both on a first name basis.”

“answer the question.”

he smiles, “business as always.”

you huff and wrap your hands around your arms. “of course. just business.”

ayato immediately picks up the anger in your tone. he lays his palm on your forearm, gently pulling you towards him. “look at me,” he pleads, with a subtle trace of irritation in his voice.

you turn to look at his face, eyes glaring.

“i felt your glares the entire night.” he begins.

you shrug, smiling innocently. “...what ever do you mean?”

“don't toy with me, darling.”

as he enunciates his answer, it's as if the final thread of your patience snaps. does he still continue to feign innocence and lie to your face?

last month he proposed and you were overjoyed. you then expected a shift in your relationship; the final unveiling of your engagement to the public. you gave him your permission, a definitive “i'm ready for everyone to know.”

yet thirty days later the engagement remains concealed leaving only a few of his friends (thoma) and a few family members (ayaka) knowing about your updated relationship.

if it was the ayato from two years ago, he would be delighted—ecstatic even—to reveal the truth. he might have used the gala today as an avenue to scream to the world, this person and i are in love.

but he didn't.

so the weight of your feelings began to drag you down; it almost feels suffocating in a way. as if a ribbon labeled, he's ashamed, tightly winds around your insides, intricately tying them all together into a sophisticated bow sowing distrust whispering; he's hiding something.

your suspicions, coupled with his frequent visits this month to the sangonomiya estate, fueled your frustration until it erupted. if only he ceased pretending innocent, perhaps you would able to smile through the whole facade.

if only he didn't ask.

“i'm not naive. if you developed feelings for kokomi then you shouldn't have proposed.” you snap. “was it out of pity? did you feel so damn guilty that you chose to go through with the engagement instead of being honest about your feelings?”

ayato furrows his brows, mouth tightening in anger. “what are you talking about? i discuss private affairs with kokomi. business affairs.”

you laugh; one infused with irritation and disbelief. “don't tell me then. keep your stupid secrets.”

“do you want me to jot down a damn list detailing every single thing i do in a day?” he growls. “i won't divulge company secrets just because you feel like throwing a tantrum.”

your hands drift to the tie around his neck, tugging the crooked tie straight. “no. go ahead and keep your secrets.” you pause and roll the words with your tongue, “you're clearly very good at keeping secrets. you’ve kept me—us—as a secret for so long, so of course you’d be good at keeping fucking secrets.”

anger flares across his face. “you desired our relationship to remain a secret, and i respected your wishes.” he sneers, “i wanted to let the damn world know how much i'm in love with you yet, it was the opposite of what you desired.”

ayato releases his grip on you and strides back into the ballroom, but he halts right at the door to the balcony. “so don't dictate when i should reveal the truth simply because you've grown sick and tired of keeping me as your dirty, little secret.”

he finally departs; and you stay, tears pooling, with a profound ache in your heart.

ayato waltzes around the room in a nonchalant dance; yes, good to see you. he lies. how's business? he couldn't care less. enjoy the party! no, he wants everyone in the damn room to feel his wrath.

although he yearns to set the entire ballroom ablaze, ending the party prematurely would be ill-manned of him. so, ayato continues being a gracious and honorable host.

but he feels hollow. he envisions himself freezing the entire room in an icy gust, everyone turning into statues. he wants to sprint back into your arms and plead for you to listen.

he doesn't understand what came over him. why he lost his temper like that. typically, he'd manage your outbursts with composure and understanding. what happened? he doesn't know.

he attributes his outburst to the mounting pressure. the chronic lack of sleep and continuous exhaustion coming from his title as heir. perhaps it's the truth gnawing his skin; despite his powerful position atop the company, it can easily be ripped away with the flick of a wrist.

instead of spending time with his fiancé—he doesn't know if he still deserves to call you that, you probably threw away his ring the second he left the balcony—yet here he is, engaged in conversations with business associates he cares little about.

“brother?” ayaka calls. she finds him leaning against a railing of stairs. “i closed off the gardens.”

ayato swallows. he last saw you sneaking towards the grounds. “they're still on the grass?”

“yes.”

“they'll catch a cold.”

“they will.”

he glances at his sister. “they think i'm unfaithful.”

“i know,” she says matter-of-factly. “have you offered them any evidence to convince them otherwise?”

ayato stays silent.

“i know you care about them, brother.” ayaka sighs, “however, surprising them with a specially crafted ring and being petty when your entire relationship is at stake may not be the wisest move.”

he sighs.

“most especially if they suspect that your frequent visits to the sangonomiya manor are fueled by romantic feelings for its heiress, and not for their own wedding ring.”

after a while, ayato spots you lying on the grass in a starfish formation, having finally swallowed his pride. his eyes glaze over your features: red eyes, cheeks marked with tear stains, and an exhausted expression.

“can we talk?” he begins.

you spare a quick glance before turning your attention back to the night sky. “there's not much to talk about.”

“i'm not cheating,” he asserts.

“i know.”

“do you know, or have you resigned yourself to not knowing?”

“hm,” you hum. “a part of me entertains the thought of you cheating. yet an even smaller part absolutely knows that if you were truly cheating, you'd be more discreet. who, in their right mind, would inform thoma that you visited her manor?”

he chuckles, a laughter-less sound escapes him. “i understand i've been secretive. you have every right to assume i'm up to something indecent. but i have my reasons.” ayato confesses, kneeling beside your body. he places his hand inside his suit pocket, pulling up a black small box.

you instantly sit up. “you're horrible,” you cough, eyes widening as he opens the box to show a ring. “this entire time you were—god.”

“i placed a special order,” he mumbles. “i visited each day to ensure it was flawless, right down to the smallest details.”

“i'm so sorry.”

“don't be, love.” he breathes, “you had your reasons, and i was insistent on keeping it a surprise.”

relief floods your features. “good,” you whisper before tears well in your eyes.

the sound of your sobs breaks his heart. he immediately wraps his arms around you, brushing his lips on your cheeks.

“i'm sorry, darling,” he murmurs, kissing the skin above your brow. “i'm sorry for worrying you.”

“goddamn sadistic,” you sob. “you knew i was freaking out, but you just watched!”

he grins, “i have to admit, you look cute when you're jealous.”

a groan escapes you. “don't make me throw away both rings.”

“is that so? i should've ordered twenty spares.”

“no.” you scold.

“oh? look at my darling, so jealous,” he smirks, nuzzling his face into your neck. you then feel his lips press into a straight line. “you're not something i would ever try to hide. i would never be ashamed of our relationship.”

you laugh, “prove it.”

your smile faces seeing the smirk on his face. in that exact moment, you know that kamisato ayato, the preposterous god in human flesh, plans to do something grand and explosive to prove you otherwise.

“do not.” you begin, “we've talked about this. you cannot—you absolutely will not bribe the government to declare our wedding date as a national holiday!”

bonus: ten minutes before the clash

“is it getting warm in here, or am i sensing the intense gaze of your loving fiancé on me?” kokomi laughs, sipping a glass of champagne.

ayato takes a peek, and he chuckles upon seeing your irritated and jealous expression. “they certainly are.”

“please do not involve me in your lovers' quarrels. everyone knows we're just close friends.”

“they do.”

“have you told them?”

“...it may have slipped past my mind.”

kokomi shakes her head. “sadistic.” she slips a black box into his palm. “clear it up. i do not want to be murdered by your future partner.”

ayato glances at you from across the room as you engage a conversation with his sister. “mhm, i could, but their jealous expression is too endearing.”

“sadistic,” she repeats. “absolutely sadistic.”

he chuckles.

“also, kazuha mentioned that you've been referring to them as your companion. correct that.” she continues, “and stop calling them your friend!”

“they asked me to when we started dating.”

she rolls her eyes. “you're so petty. stop trying to provoke them!”

“anyways, everyone knows we're engaged,” he corrects. “their whining face is the cutest.”

“sadistic.”

“kokomi?”

she tilts her head and hums, “yes?”

“ever wondered how much it costs to propose a national holiday?”

author’s note: lmao. so in this modern au ayato actually succeeds in turning your wedding date into a national holiday. the government actually appreciates his donation because a.) they always accept goodwilled (lmao) funds and b.) ayato's an important pillar to the gov and they don't want to upset him 'cause petty rich boy tantrums tilt the economy (how sadistic).

so, ayato's the heir of the company where you are employed at as an idol turned actor/actress. kokomi is the heiress to a big jewelry corporation. lmao they were both engaged together when they were like five but they instantly broke it off because well, they both threw five year old tantrums.

plus thoma telling you that they were to be engaged was just a fact he blurted out when you asked about kokomi (he manages to omit the five-year-old part because he's careless + he didn't think it matters because anyone can tell ayato's intensely in love with you)

#genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact x reader #tartaglia x reader #childe x you #childe x reader #ayato x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x you #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin headcannons #genshin angst #genshin hurt/comfort #kamisato ayato #childe #tartaglia x you

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thejoyofseax · 11 months

Text

Why We Can't Have Medieval Food

I noted in a previous post that I'd "expand on my thinking on efforts to reproduce period food and how we’re just never going to know if we have it right or not." Well, now I have 2am sleep?-never-heard-of-it insomnia, so let's go.

At the fundamental level, this is the idea that you can't step in the same river twice. You can put your foot down at the same point in space, and it'll go into water, but that's different water, and the bed of the river has inevitably changed, even a little, from the last time you did so.

Our ingredients have changed. This is not just because we can't get the fat from fat-tailed sheep in Ireland, or silphium at all anywhere, although both of those are true. But the aubergine you buy today is markedly different to the aubergine that was available even 40 years ago. You no longer need to salt aubergine slices and draw out the bitter fluids, which was necessary for pretty much all of the thing's existence before (except in those cultures that liked the bitter taste). The bitterness has been bred out of them. And the old bitter aubergine is gone. Possibly there are a few plants of it preserved in some archive garden, or a seed bank, or something, but I can't get to those.

We don't really have a good idea of the plant called worts in medieval English recipes. I mean, we know (or we're fairly sure) it was brassica oleracea. But that one species has cultivars as distinct as cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kale, Brussels sprouts, collard greens, Savoy cabbage, kohlrabi, and gai lan (list swiped from Wikipedia). And even within "cabbage" or "kale", you have literally dozens of varieties. If you plant the seeds from a brassica, unless you've been moderately careful with pollination, you won't get the same plant as the seeds are from. You can crossbreed brassicas just by planting them near each other and letting them flower. And of course there is no way to determine what varietal any medieval village had, a very high likelihood that it was different to the village next door, and an exceedingly high chance that that varietal no longer exists. Further, it only ever existed for a few tens of years - before it went on cross-breeding into something different. So our access to medieval worts (or indeed, cabbage, kale, etc) is just non-existant.

Some other species within the brassica genus are as varied. Brassica rapa includes oilseed rape, field mustard, turnip, Chinese cabbage, and pak choi.

We have an off-chance, as it happens, of getting almost the same kind of apple as some medieval varieties, because apples can only be reproduced for orchard use by grafting, which is essentially cloning. Identification through paintings, DNA analysis, and archaeobotany sometimes let us pin down exactly which apple was there. But the conditions under which we grow those apples are probably not the same as the medieval orchard. Were they thinned? When were they harvested? How were they stored? And apples are pretty much the best case.

Medieval wheat was practically a different plant. It was far pickier about where it would grow, and frequently produced 2-4 grains per stalk. A really good year had 6-8. In modern conditions, any wheat variety with less than 30 grains per stalk would be considered a flop.

Meats are worse. Selective breeding in the last century has absolutely and completely changed every single species of livestock, and if you follow that back another five centuries, some of them would be almost unrecognisable. Even our heritage breeds are mostly only about 200 years old.

Cheese, well. Cheese is dependent on very specific bacteria, and there are plenty of conditions where the resulting cheese is different depending on whether it was stored at the back or front of the cave. Yogurts, quarks, skyrs, etc, are also live cultures, and almost certainly vary massively. (I have a theory about British cheese here, too, which I'll expand on in a future post)

So, even before you go near the different cooking conditions (wood, burnables like camel and cow dung, smoke, the material and condition of cooking pots), we just can't say with any reliability that the food we're making now is anything like medieval people produced from the same recipe. We can't even say that with much reliability over a century.

Under very controlled conditions, you could make an argument for very specific dishes. If you track down a wild mountain sheep in Afghanistan, and use water from a local spring, and salt from some local salt mine, then you can make a case that you can produce something fairly close to the original ma wa milh, the water-and-salt stew that forms the most basic dish in Arabic cookery. But once you start introducing domestic livestock, vegetables, or even water from newer wells, you're now adrift.

It is possible that some dishes taste exactly the same, by coincidence. But we can't determine that. We can't compare the taste of a dish from five years ago, let alone five hundred, because we're only just getting to a state where we can "record" a taste accurately. Otherwise it's memory and chance.

We've got to be at peace with this. We can put in the best efforts we can, and produce things that are, in spirit, like the medieval dishes we're reading about. But that's as good as it gets.

#medieval cookery #medieval cooking #food history #historical cookery #historical cuisine #medieval arabic cookery #horticulture #genetics

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scorpioriesling · 10 days

Text

Random Tropes HC (pt. 2)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Lucien / Eris x reader

Warnings: slight sexual suggestions

Summary: Random tropes, and how each would play out, depending on the character... and you, of course.

SR’s Note: I saw a filter on Tik Tok where you can rank book tropes, and this idea came to mind. I am using my top 6 (not in order) for the purpose of these posts -- enjoy! Part 1

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Lucien - "Only One Bed"

You were definitely crushing on Lucien -- who wouldn't?

You were close with him and Tamlin, working at the Spring Manor until you became more than an employee, but a friend.

Well, a friend to Lucien anyway.

Tamlin took note of how well you were able to spy, and turned you into his own personal Spymaster.

You didn't mind too much -- after a while, Tamlin warmed up to you. He also appreciated how you made Feyre feel more comfortable when she first arrived in the Spring Court.

As fate would have it, you and Feyre were a lot alike.

It didn't take long to see what was going on. She was planning to run.

Over the last few months, Tamlin grew more enraged, more angry at the world. You couldn't stay, you knew you had to get out.

And Cauldron be damned, Lucien was coming with you.

He wasn't happy about it at first, especially when the two Night Court warriors winnowed Feyre away and left the two of you to walk the rest of the way to the Night Court.

"Do you think he will change?" Lucien asks you, the cold wind ruffling his hair. You shiver against the wind.

"No," you say after a long moment. Lucien pulls you close to him, heat radiating from his body against the chill.

"I don't know if we could ever go back." He says. You sigh and bury closer to him, trying to keep in step with his long legs.

"I don't think he'd allow us back." You say. Tears prick the back of your eyes, but you blink to keep them at bay. Lucien changes the conversation, happier topic chosen this time. He is talking about all the delicious food the Night Court must have when you finally spot a motel in the distance.

"Our salvation!" Lucien gasps. He grabs you by the arm, pulling you with him as he breaks into a jog. You're panting trying to keep up, but you finally make it to the building.

"We're just about sold out." The stocky female behind the desk murmurs. Lucien sighs and runs a hand through his hair. You're standing behind him, and you place a delicate hand on his shoulder. He turns to you, gaze softening.

"Ma'am, we'll take whatever you have left." You say. She rummages through her drawers, presenting a single golden key on a long corded string.

"Floor 2. Last door on the right." She huffs. You anxiously take it from her, looping the string around your neck. The key dangles like a pendant on a necklace as you take Lucien's hand in yours and lead him upstairs.

Some salvation this is.

There's only one bed.

A blessing in disguise.

"Cauldron..." he sighs, slinging his bag to the floor. "I'll just, take the floor." He says, moving into the room. You furrow your brow.

"Lucien, do you think I've never had a sleepover before? We can share." You say. You rifle through your pack for extra clothes, and with a wave of his hand, the candles and fireplace are alight with warmth.

"Well... only if you're okay with that." He says. You nod, realizing then that you have no sleepwear. Lucien seems to realize the same thing as his hands come up empty.

"You can shower first, if you were wanting to." You offer kindly. The firelight is painting his features beautifully, and you force yourself to look away. But Gods, was it hard.

"Thanks!" With that, he was heading for the bathroom. You sighed, flopping down on the bed. You hadn't expected this level of comfort from a motel bed, but the soft silky blankets, the plush pillows...

You sighed a breath of contentment, fingers toying with the gold key laced around your neck.

You stripped down to your undergarments, as your clothes from the day were filthy. Folding them into a neat pile beside the bed, you slipped under the sheets, goosebumps erupting over your body as the blankets had not yet warmed.

Lucien finally came out of the bathroom, his eyes raking over your bare shoulders not concealed by the covers. He choked down a cough, and you kept your eyes closed as he slid into the bed next to you.

His bare arm brushed yours, and your eyes flew open. You readjusted to lay on your side, and so did he at the contact. However, now you were face to face.

"Are you... cold?" He asked. His sweet gaze held yours as his fingers timidly grazed your shoulder. Fresh goosebumps appeared, and you shivered.

"Yes." He frowned.

"Comere." His hand gripped your waist, fingers over your hip bone as he pulled you flush against him. You pretended not to notice the growing buldge pressing against you as his hand traced small patterns over your back.

"I can give you some of my body heat, if this is okay?" He asks, voice low and raspy. Maybe it was the way his lips were inches from yours, the small candelight illuminating his perfectly sculpted face...

Or maybe you had finally decided to be honest.

"It's more than okay." You said. Heat returned to your cheeks, and a small smile danced on his lips as his gaze flicked between your eyes and mouth.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, trailing down your neck to the small key still looped around it. He toyed with it for a moment, before his lust-filled amber eyes met yours once more.

"I can give you more, if that would be okay too." He whispered. You shook again, this time the excited, anxious, energy rolling from you.

"It's more than okay."

Eris - "Who Did This To You?"

Reading was one of Eris' favorite pass times.

In fact, it was one thing he had in common with you.

The only thing, he swore.

One of many things, actually.

In fact, Eris was doing just that when he heard a commotion outside. Usually, it was his father. He'd learned not to get involved, but this time...

This was different.

His heartstrings tugged as he strained his ears, trying to listen beyond his windows for any indication of what was happening.

"Please... please..."

He snapped his novel shut, flying to his feet and racing outside. He wasn't sure what had come over him -- but he knew. He could feel it. You were here, and you needed him.

He'd thought over and over the last few years how you'd cry. How he would and could make you do it. Thought about killing you himself, once. Using his fire on you in ways he'd done only once before. You were acting like a lap dog, sitting with the Inner Circle at one of their meetings. Rhysand didn't let you talk, of course. You didn't even challenge him. You always let him walk all over you.

Maybe that's what pissed him off so badly.

You were packed full of good ideas, talents, advice; but you bowed to Rhysand, and that was that. You never spoke up for yourself.

You were worth so much more than that. You could offer so much more than you were allowed.

He tore through the hedge maze, snapping branches, feet thundering around every corner. His breathing was heavy, eyes searching in the night to find you.

"Please, Eris... someone..."

He followed your pained whimpering until he found you in the middle of the maze. You were slumped against the large water fountain, breathing unevenly as blood stained your neck, dried flakes throughout your usually vibrant tendrils. Your hands braced over your abdomen, tears creating tracks down your dirtied face.

"Oh my Gods..." He rushed to you, and you looked at him in desperation. His heart broke in two, seeing you crumpled and hurt in front of him.

His sadness turned very quickly, to anger. He felt... violent.

He ran his hands over your face, seeing blood pouring from your lip, and he reached up to move some hair from your forehead -- a huge gash the cause for the ever growing pool you sat in. Well, one of the causes. He was fuming, hands trembling as he tried to stay gentle with you, but absolute rage filled his every vein at how this could have happened to you.

Who could've let this happen to you.

"Eris, I..." you coughed, more crimson drops landing on the stone pathway below. "I... I didn't mean to... this is the first place I thought of..." another loud sob wretched from you, and Eris cupped your cheek. His whiskey eyes were dulled to a deep bourbon, his jaw clenched.

"Come with me."

He scooped you up, carrying you as carefully as he could back to his wing of the Forest House. You let out small yelps, the searing pain in your stomach too much to handle.

"Please, stay with me Y/N," he pleaded, looking down at you sorrowfully. He felt as though he was carrying a small, injured deer -- that is what you were. A gentle, wise, doe. His gentle doe.

He finally made it inside, sitting you on the sofa in front of the fireplace as he ran to the washroom and returned quickly. He presented a small wet cloth, taking your chin in his fingers and beginning to wipe away the red stains over your delicate skin. He tried so hard to stay gentle with you, trying to replicate the softness you'd always offerred others.

But, that's one thing you didn't have in common. He wasn't soft, or sweet like you. He tried to steady his breathing, gazing into your round, watery eyes instead. It only caused him more pain, seeing you like that. His head dropped, and he raked a hand through his hair.

"Put this in here," he grabbed a clean cloth, folding it and raising it to your mouth. You opened, usually defiant towards your enemy, but, really... you'd do anything he asked. He placed it between your teeth, and his hands covered your bloody ones, still clutching your stomach.

"Y/N... you have to move your hands." He says. Your eyes screw shut as you groan, removing your hands shakily. He breathes a sharp gasp, shaking his head.

"Hold onto me." He says. You look to him in confusion, and he places your stained fingers on his shoulders. One of his hands lingers on your for a moment, and he pressed the inside of your wrist to his lips. He looks back to you, eyes already asking for forgiveness.

"I'll be honest, I've thought about hurting you before as you've hurt me," he says, voice deep with ... something. Something you couldn't place. You could barely focus as your mind started to fog, vision clouding with black spots. "...but never like this."

He sighs one last time, a hand coming into view, fingers ablaze with fire. You sit up, or try to anyway -- a sob racks your chest, muffled by the cloth, and Eris holds you down, hand splayed over your sternum.

"Hold onto me." He says again. His hand meets your bubbling would, fire searing the skin as a scream tears through your already dry, cracked throat, only quieted by the cloth you’re biting down on. Your eyes blow wide, and you squirm under his hold. He looks at you with regret, pulling back for a moment only to press heat onto your would again.

Your hands rip and claw at the collar of his shirt, red already smeared over most of it. He huffs an apologetic sigh, continuing to carterize your open would.

Over. Over. Over again.

You lean back, knowing the familiar weightless feeling. You were going to black out. His once-white collar slips from your fingers, and your eyes meet his one last time before you slink into darkness.

When you come to, you're wrapped cozily in silken sheets, a pair of fleece pants covering your legs. Soft sunlight streams in through... a window. You blink, widening your eyes and looking around. The mahogony sheets were an unusual replacement to your lilac ones, and the four poster wooden bed was a change as well. Your eyes caught on a bookshelf, one with many titles like yours, at least. One book sat on the window seat, basked in sunlight. It was a title you'd already read.

You were in Eris' room.

You lean to sit up, but cry out in pain and lay back down, head flopping against the plush pillows under your head. Your hands instinctively reach toward your stomach, tugging at the hem of the tank top you bore. A bandage was wrapped around your midsection, concealing any injury. Your mind went to last night, what you'd endured, winnowing to the Autumn Court, the burning...

In moments, Eris is passing through the doorway, concern threading his brows together as he looks you up and down.

"Is everything alright?" He steps to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He pulls the covers up, tucking them around you in comfort. You shake your head, silver lining your eyes as they meet his.

"I... they took me last night." You manage to get out. Eris readjusts to face you, a hand stroking through your hair. He bites on his lower lip, eyes searching yours.

"Who. Who took you Y/N." He says. It sounds like more of a demand than a question.

You shake your head, a tear slipping free as you remember being kidnapped from your bed, and tossed onto the mountainside. The feeling of snow under your knees, rocks in your palms only the beginning of the pain you'd endure before somehow winnowing away.

"It was... they wanted me to partake in the..." you stifle another cry. Eris brushes his thumb against your cheek.

"The fucking Blood Rite." He bites out. Anger radiates off of him, the small fire in the fireplace near the window growing with each passing second.

Again, he asked, eyes boring into yours. "Y/N, who did this to you?"

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

#a court of silver flames #acofas #acotar #acotar smut #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #lucien acotar #lucien vanserra #a court of frost and starlight #lucien x reader #eris vandaddy #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #acotar series

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yourlocaldilemma · 8 months

Text

Road trip to nowhere (ln4)

Lando Norris x fem!bestfriend!reader

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: mild smut, unedited

A/n: as always, feedback is appreciated :)

______________________________________________

It was something out of a fairytale. Soft snowflakes spin down around the car adding to the twinkling layer of snow covering everything. The ground, the trees, and the sky are all painted a pearly white by the thickly falling flakes.

The boy next to you hums along to your playlist as he navigates the icy roads with ease. His curls are still damp with melted snow from your mad dash to the car two hours earlier.

“How much longer?”

Lando all but giggles. “You’ll see soon enough princess,” he grins, dragging out the S as he turns onto another small forest road, even thinner than the one you’d been on for the last hour.

The winter break had come with never ending flurries of snow and lots of time spent with the Norris family. It was supposed to be you, Cisca, Flo and Lando on the trip, a cozy winter getaway with your oldest friends. The cold had come with consequences though, and a vicious winter flu had wiped the sisters off the map, leaving all the hot cocoa and board games for you and Lando.

If it had been any other of your guy friends, the drive would have felt awkward and the prospect of spending a weekend alone with them would have made you more than uncomfortable, but you’d never felt that way with Lando. Your friends had told you countless times they thought you were blind and naive to not realize how perfect you would be together, but you had always brushed it off with a laugh the same way you did when they found out you were alone this weekend.

The car turns one more time around a pocket of trees.

“Woah,” you exhale,” That’s, wow.” Landos eyes glint at your reaction to the cabin suddenly sitting in front if you. The small clearing before you is lined with shimmering, snow covered trees and a wood cabin straight out of an instagram post. The windowsills are lined with greenery and you can see warm lights and Christmas decorations inside the cozy house. Lando stops the car and pulls the hood of his sweater up.

“Run in on 3?”

Shards of snow clinging to the hem of your socks slowly melt as you unpack your bags. A slight sheen of sweat clings to your skin. After dinner, you and Lando had explored the property, which ended in you both lying in a pile of snow. The bedrooms in the cabin are cozy, with thick duvets and soft chairs. Dancing around the bedroom, you slide clothes into drawers and pull your stack of books out of your bags.

You’re in the middle of digging through your backpack for a lipgloss when the room goes dark and dead silent. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes adjust to the dark. Peeking out into the hallway, you notice the rest of the cabin has gone just as black.

“Lando?” The sudden dark seems to make your voice echo down the hallway more than it did in in the daylight. His footsteps pat down towards the kitchen.

“I think the breaker went. I’m going to take a look at it.”

“Mk.”

You make your way to the kitchen, sitting on the couch under the window before pulling you legs up under you. It’s only 3 minutes until you hear Lando come back inside.

“There’s nothing wrong. I reset everything multiple times. It might be something wrong with the grid?” He unlocks his phone and flops down the the couch next to you. Seconds later, he groans. “The snow took out a power line. It might be a while.”

“We’ll end up freezing to death in our sleep.”

Lando grins before dashing down the hallway, returning with his mattress in tow and duvets slung over his shoulder. “We can sleep in here! You know body heat and whatnot?”

You only laugh at his antics while you head to your room to get pyjamas on as he skips around the living room setting up the makeshift bed.

~~~

After winning five rounds of Uno lit by candles, and then dealing with a boy who happens to be a very sore loser when it comes to card games, you crawled as far under the covers as possible and curled up. Lando slid in next to you and tossed a still sour goodnight in your direction.

You’re close enough that you can hear him taking small little breaths in the dark, breaths that catch when you accidentally brush against him on the small mattress. The silence is almost deafening, but it all fades to a dull hum as you let yourself get lost in your head. Butterflies are dancing in your stomach and anticipation is building in your chest, tingling on your skin as your thoughts drift towards dangerous places. Things you know won’t happen, you know shouldn’t happen, but in moments like this, you wish for anyway.

Neither of you say anything for a long while, letting the night wrap around you, hoping you’ll fall asleep before anything crosses the line toed in the sand. The line that does, whether you both admit it or not, have footprints tainting the opposite side of it. The good-nights and I love you texts are never quite platonic, the words exchanged and phone calls after hard days are never the support of someone who is just a friend.

But I’d didn’t matter, and it wouldn’t ever matter, because you and Lando let everything go unspoken.

“You’re shaking the whole fucking blanket Y/N” What’s supposed to be a silence breaking joke comes out as nothing more than a whiny whisper. Even with the low light you can see Lando’s face flush at the pitch of his voice as he coughs lightly.

Your response is blunt and dripping of unappreciated sarcasm for his benefit. “It’s cold.”

A flash of white teeth as Landos lips stretch into a grin. “Thanks for the weather report Princess.” Closing your eyes again and flipping around in a small attempt to find a warmer position, you scoff at him before cuddling even deeper into your flat pillow.

When you speak, there’s an annoyed edge to your words. “A weather report would have been a good thing to check before you dragged me to the middle of the woods. You should at least say you’re sorry, don’t you think Lando?” The blankets move around you again but he doesn’t give anything but a grunt of acknowledgment to your snide comment.

The cabin is once again quiet but for the sound of the soft snow on the windows. If the heavens hadn’t decided to dump three winters worth of snow in two days, this would have been the perfect way to end what what, so far, been a perfect winter break.

“Y/N.”

You slide your eyelids apart the tiniest bit to see the silhouette of Landos face mere inches from yours. Even in the pitch black, you can find hints of colour in his pearlescent blue eyes and the pretty colour on his cheeks.

“Lando.” His name slips from your lips as nothing more than a whisp of air between you, so incredibly opposite to the tone you said it in minutes ago. The rose in his cheeks deepens half a shade before you begins to talk.

“Y/N, I’m sorry about the shitty weather, and the fact that it’s midnight and were awake because it’s -30 and we have no heating, and I’m sorry if you regret coming out here, but I’m not sorry for bringing you out here.”

Your eyes meet his and you’re so close to him you can see the small beads of moisture lining his bottom lashes.

“I’m not sorry because this is the only time I’ve got to be alone this winter, and of course I love our family Y/N, but I love you more. When I’m away and I’m stressed it’s you I call, it’s your good morning text I want, it’s your face I want to come home to every single night. I’m not sorry we ended up having to share this bed because every time I’ve touched you since we were about 13 Y/N, I’ve felt fireworks and I’m pretty sure you have to.”

Now fully formed tears on his dark eyelashes begin to drop, making their way down the planes of his face before slowly dampening yours.

“Im not sorry because the butterflies and anticipation and the way I crave your touch when you’re anywhere near me isn’t something you feel for a friend. And you can correct me if I’m wrong, but the eye contact we make across tables and rooms and through phones across continents is edging on something we don’t talk about.”

Your face is stinging in the cold, slick with both your tears as you watch Lando smear his accord his cheek with a long finger.

“But I am sorry if you don’t feel the same way. If you truly believe that the way our souls connect is nothing more than a good friendship. I’ll respect that, I promise, and Im sorry. I just,-“

Time air surrounding you feels suffocating, kicking you into Landos gaze as your blood boils and skin crackles alive with thousands of emotions.

“Kiss me?”

Every muscle in your body sparks to life and aches for more, more, as Landos lips brush yours with gentle pressure. His breath is hot on your face as your noses touch and he pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours for regret that he doesn’t find.

His hands slip down your body like silk, leaving a path of suddenly burning skin in their wake. You feel your soul vibrate with the need to be touching him, to be as close as you possibly can to the boy who stole your heart all those years ago. Who took all these years to confess to you the very ruing that ran through your kind every time his face popped up in your train of thoughts.

He emits a low groan as you tangle your hand through his curls, leaving a kiss on your lower stomach before allowing himself to be pulled back up to your lips. You kiss like you’re making up for years of lost time, and maybe you are, but as Landos tounge slips past your lips with ease you decide that you’ll have many, many more nights to catch up. The wet desire of your tongues slipping past each other draws a quiet moan from you, which sends Lando into a spiral as he tries to find the sweet spot that will bring you to make that sound again and again and again.

Helplessly you clutch at his body, hands running down his biceps and taught abs before pulling at his thigh until he gets the hint, pulling it up and beside your chest. Reaching under you, Lando grabs your ass, squeezing as he flips you around to lie on him, getting another breathless moan to slip past your lips against your will.

He clenches his eyes shut at the noise, opening them to find you looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world worth looking at. Dropping your head, you begin leaving a trail of short kisses up his collarbone and around his muscled neck. You allow your body to collapse onto his, giving up on trying to support yourself as Lando circles his fingertips over the swell of your ass.

You can feel him on your thigh. A surge of boldness taking you over, you push aside all the heady thoughts swirling around and shift to free you hand from their grasps on his body. Lando grunts lowly as he winds his fingers in your hair, a sound just short of pornographic as you cup him through his sweats. He pushes his hips up into yours as you start to tug at the waist of the sweatpants.

“Y/N.” He catches your wrist, stalling your movements as he tips your chin forward to see you face.

“Please.”

“We’re not having sex for the first time on the floor of a cabin, freezing to death in pitch black.”

“Why not? We’ve waited so long Lando.”

“You deserve the world. I’m not going to have our first time be any less than that.”

You whine, grinding down on him, desperate for any form of friction. He gasps and wraps a hand around your waist with a bruising grip.

“Y/N.” A feeble warning, one that only makes you smile as you watch Lando. He’s too far gone at this point to care, intoxicated by the feeling of your body and your heartbeat on his.

“I’m going to come in my pants like a teenager if you keep doing that.”

“I want you to feel good.” You whisper. At that his mind goes blank, hand moving to swiftly remove your shirt. He tips his head back and moans as he sees you’re not wearing a bra before pushing your chest to his lips with a single finger.

“Princess, I’m going to-“ he hisses against your chest, the warm breathe making your nipples peak. You grind down onto him one more time before he bucks his hips into yours and moans loud enough that the cabin is filled with the sound of his pleasure.

You both breathing heavily as he meets your eyes, small flecks of gold catching the moonlight as he smiles softly before pulling you to him.

His sculpted chest is warm against your bare breasts while you lie, completely covering every inch of his body with your own. You stay that way for what could have been hours, content in each other. After a while, Lando begins to suck hickeys into your neck, giving occasional soft noises of delight at his work.

Silence with him has always been comfortable, but this time wa sa different type of comfort. The air is cool, but heavy with the weight of the events that had just unfolded, leaving both of you wondering why you had ever doubted your feelings.

The arms around your middle tighten and you look down to see Landos eyes waiting for you.

“Hey princess.”

“Hey there pretty boy.” You trace the outline of his features, the drop of his nose and the lines of his jaw. The smile he gives you brings light into his eyes and a ruby blush to his cheeks.

He yawns, leaving into the small shakes you’re drawing on his head. “I’m tired Y/N.”

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He hums contentedly, nestling his face further into your lower stomach as his torso rests softly between your legs. There’s no noise for a few moments before he whispers softly, voice tickling the sensitive skin of your navel.

“Please don’t move. I’ve wanted this for longer than you can imagine.”

You respond by staying perfectly still, listening until his breaths steady and slow to a comforting rhythm. Resting your hands in his hair and wondering you how long he’ll sleep before waking up feeling sticky and gross, you fall asleep, cuddly and warm.

#lando norris x y/n #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #f1 x reader #lando norris smut

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 8 months

Text

Lonely This Christmas

Pairing: Billy Washington (Trigger Point) x f!reader Warnings: Dark and obsessive behaviour, stalking, smut, dubious consent. Word count: ~4.5k

Summary: On a rare occasion when her and Billy both find themselves home for Christmas at the same time, they admit they've always fancied each other. However, as things develop between them, she soon realises that for Billy it's something much more sinister than a harmless crush. Based on this request.

Author's note: For my darling @heimtathurs. I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She walks up the pathway to the front door, the combination of the bitter cold and the handles of the plastic carrier bag cutting into her flesh causing her fingers to sting painfully. The cans in the bag clank noisily against each other as she jostles it from one hand to the other, raising her fist to knock at the door. Her breath comes in hot, cloudy puffs as she shifts from foot to foot, relief flooding through her as she sees the silhouette of her best friend, Lana, appear through the glass in the door.

“Let me in then!” She grumbles, pushing past and handing Lana the bag, once the door is open. “It’s bloody freezing out there!”

It’s December 23rd, and time for her and Lana’s annual tradition of Christmas Eve Eve film night - a ritual that they’ve managed to keep alive since they first met in secondary school, though as the years have passed their taste in films has matured and they can now sit and openly drink beer, instead of needing to sneak a bottle of MD 20:20 back and forth between them beneath a duvet, like they did as teenagers.

The location never changes - always at Lana’s parents’ house - even now that she’s moved out, she always comes home for two weeks over the festive period, and like clockwork the two of them sit on the sofa the evening before Christmas Eve and stare at the TV until they can no longer keep their eyes open.

She shrugs off her coat as she moves through the hallway, into the living room, the warmth from the central heating causing her skin to prickle with the pleasant rise in temperature. Rolling her eyes as she spies the DVD case for Die Hard on the coffee table, she sits heavily down on the sofa, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs beneath her.

“We watched this last year,” she says to Lana, who follows a few paces behind, having deposited the contents of the bag into the fridge in the kitchen, “It’s not even a Christmas film!”

“It’s set at Christmas, so it’s a Christmas film,” Lana shoots back, handing her a can of Stella, before flopping down beside her and cracking open her own. “And Bruce Willis in that vest? I’m gripped.”

She snorts a laugh, opening her own beer and taking a deep sip, enjoying the way the coolness of the bitter liquid fizzes against her tongue.

“How’ve you been anyway? Your mum and dad not in?”

Lana swallows and pokes at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Nah, they’re out for the evening, think they could use a break since face-ache moved back in. I’ve only been back here a few days and he’s already doing my head in.”

She feels her cheeks heat up at the mention of Billy. She’d met Lana’s younger brother when he’d started at the same secondary school as them and, although he was a couple of years below them, she’d always thought he was cute. He was tall, if a little on the lanky side, and his floppy blonde hair and big blue eyes instantly attracted her to him. She’d kept the fact that she fancied him to herself though, feeling it was inappropriate to lust after her best mate’s brother, especially a younger brother.

As the years had passed, Billy’s seemingly permanent cheeky smile had faded into a persistent look of misery. He’d done badly at school, left with failing grades and been rejected each time he’d tried to apply to join the army.

Meanwhile, Lana had flourished, leaving school with a handful of As and Bs. She’d enrolled at college, before enlisting in the army and from there her career in the police force had taken off. She’d moved away from home, had a place of her own and had made her parents proud.

Billy, on the other hand, had struggled with chronic unemployment, eventually falling in with an alt right group who had set him up for a potential terrorist attack. He’d barely escaped the explosion on Cranstead Gardens, and had never really pulled himself back together afterwards. His relationship with his long-term girlfriend, Becky, had broken down and he’d moved out of their flat and back in with his parents, where he’d been living for the last six months.

She hasn’t seen Billy since they left school, but Lana tells her all about him whenever they hang out or chat on the phone. She’s always felt strangely protective of him, where Lana and her parents have given Billy a hard time, she has opted for a softer touch, believing he just needs someone to understand him.

“You can’t be so hard on him,” she says, finger pinging against the ringpull of her can absentmindedly, “he’s been through a lot.”

Lana sighs, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s not paying any rent, never tidies up, isn’t bothering to look for work. We can’t help him, he won’t let us, doesn’t wanna help himself.”

“Where is he at the moment?”

“Skulking around upstairs,” Lana nods towards the staircase. “First Christmas he’s not spent at Becky’s mum’s in a long time and he’s taking it…well, I couldn’t tell you how he’s taking it, he never leaves his bloody room.”

She nods sadly, letting the topic go as they settle back into the sofa cushions as the opening credits for Die Hard begin to roll.

“I’m empty,” Lana says around twenty minutes into the film, shaking her beer can. “You want another?”

“It’s alright, I’ll go,” she tell hers, taking her empty and heading towards the kitchen, eager for a break from a film she had no interest in watching last year, let alone again this year.

She chucks the cans into the recycling bin, before opening the fridge and retrieving two more. She yelps as she closes the door, startled by Billy standing there.

“Jesus, Billy–”

“Sorry, sorry…” he mumbles apologetically, a tinge of pink dusting itself across his cheek bones, as he averts his gaze. “Wasn’t tryna scare ya, just came down to make a cuppa.”

She exhales through her nose, a smile tugging at her lips. “S’alright. How are you getting on, anyway? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah…” he says uncertainly, filling the kettle from the sink and then flicking it on to boil. “Guessing you heard what happened then?”

She nods, placing the cans on the side and wiping the condensation off of her hands onto her jeans. “Lana told me. I’m so sorry, Billy, I really hope you’re okay.”

He says nothing for a moment, dropping a tea bag into a mug, followed by a generous pour of milk.

Milk first. Ugh.

“It’s been hard, y’know,” he finally says, “tryna find work, but there’s fuck all out there. What are you up to these days? You’re looking well.”

The sudden shift in focus doesn’t go unnoticed by her, he’s clearly not keen to talk about himself, but she can’t help but smile at the small compliment, feeling herself grow bashful.

“Got a job at a marketing agency,” she tells him, “nothing fancy, but it pays the rent.”

She’s actually a high ranking executive, living in one of the area’s most expensive flat blocks and has a tidy sum saved away for a deposit to eventually buy a place of her own. She’s unsure of why she’s downplaying her achievements, perhaps on some level she feels she owes it to Billy to not rub her success in his face when he’s clearly having a rough time of it.

The kettle boils and Billy fills his mug, stirring the tea bag around with a spoon, before squeezing it out with his fingers, making her wince - that has to burn, but if it does it doesn’t appear to bother him. He discards the used bag on the side, before turning to her. She can see what Lana means about him not tidying up now, it would have taken two steps for him to put it in the bin, and he hasn’t bothered. The laziness almost makes her want to laugh.

“So you and Lana doing your film night then?” He asks, noisily slurping his tea, then fixing her with a soft, yet unblinking gaze.

The intensity of his baby blue eyes flusters her, and for a moment she forgets what he’s asked, feeling the same old butterflies from their school days return. She clears her throat, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the feeling.

“Y-yeah…I’m surprised you remember. You were a teenager the last time we did one of those with you here,” she smiles warmly.

He nods, keeping a hand wrapped around his mug, pushing off of the kitchen side towards her and suddenly she’s aware of just how tall he’s grown, her throat running dry as she feels the kitchen counter bite into her back as she presses herself against it.

She deflates slightly, letting go of a breath she wasn’t aware when she’d been holding, a little disappointed when he brushes past her, lingering in the kitchen doorway.

“I remember,” he says, a ghost of the lopsided smirk she loved so much from their school days playing upon his full lips, “remember what a racket you and Lana used to make pretending you weren’t pissed on that nasty blue stuff.”

She grins, her gaze dropping as she fiddles with the cuff of her jumper sleeve, thinking back to all those years ago. “Sorry, Billy,” she finally says, looking up at him, “we’ll keep it down tonight.”

“No worries, I’ll be upstairs,” he tells her. “Enjoy your film.”

“Billy?” She calls softly after him as he moves to go back upstairs.

He turns, looking at her questioningly.

“You’re looking well too, by the way.”

The dusting of pink that had appeared across his cheekbones earlier now returns in earnest and he gives a simple nod before turning and heading up the stairs.

She deposits his now cold, used teabag into the bin, then grabs hers and Lana’s beers from the side and goes back into the living room.

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully, her and Lana finish off Die Hard, then move onto Gremlins.

On the couple of occasions that she goes upstairs to the bathroom she can hear the sound of Billy playing Call of Duty through his closed door. She thinks about knocking to invite him down to join them, but figures if he had wanted to do that he’d have asked in the kitchen, so she leaves it.

They’re halfway through Jingle All the Way when she feels her eyelids start to grow heavy. She leans forward, placing her half drunk can on the coffee table and turns to Lana.

“I’m gonna have to push off home, babe, I can’t keep my eyes open.”

Lana nods, pausing the film and sitting forward with a yawn. “Yeah, should probably get to bed myself. You gonna be alright getting home? Need me to call you a cab?”

“Nah, it’s only down the road, I’ll be fine walking,” she insists as she puts her shoes and coat back on.

“Alright, well, text me when you get home, yeah?” Her friend says, pulling her into a hug.

“Course,” she smiles, hugging her back and heading towards the front door. “Have a great Christmas. See you for New Year’s.”

Lana waves her off and as the front door closes behind her, she’s about to head back down the pathway when the glowing ember of the end of a lit cigarette catches her eye.

She turns to see Billy leaning against the side of the house, smoking a roll up.

“You off?” He asks, exhaling a plume of smoke that’s made larger by the cold that clings to the puff of his breath.

“Yeah. Was good to see you, Billy,” she says, trying to ignore how her pulse races at the way the soft glow of the street lamp illuminates the sharpness of his side profile.

“I’ll give you a lift, if you want?” He offers, crushing his cigarette beneath his foot.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m only twenty minutes down the road,” she says, suddenly feeling awkward, putting her hands in her coat pocket.

“And you could be five minutes down the road if I drive,” he retorts with a smirk.

She sighs, her gaze softening. Not having to walk home in the cold would be nice, actually. “Yeah, go on then.”

Billy walks around to the front door, opens it and fishes around on the key hooks until he has the set he needs. They walk down the road until they reach a red VW Polo and he unlocks it.

“New car?” She asks nonchalantly, having expected to see his old silver Vauxhall Cavalier.

“Nah, this is mum’s. Haven’t had a car since…well…y’know.”

Since it blew up. Fuck, how could she be so thoughtless?!

“Oh god, Billy, I’m so sorry, I–”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, opening the driver’s side door. “Do you mind just giving me a minute before you get in?”

She nods, keeping her hands in her pockets, watching as feels all around the car’s interior, checking inside the glove box and under the seats.

Checking for explosives.

He finally settles behind the steering wheel, gripping it tightly, attempting to calm his breaths.

“Honestly, Billy, I don’t mind walking…” she says quietly.

He looks up at her, as though just remembering she’s there. “No…no, it’s fine. I want to do it. It’s good for me, I have to.”

“Can I get in now?” She asks, giving Billy a reassuring smile.

He nods, and she walks around to the passenger’s side, climbing in and buckling her seatbealt.

Billy starts the car and they drive in silence for a few moments before he finally speaks.

“You must think I’m such a loser,” he mutters, fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

She turns slightly in her seat, shocked by what he’s said. “I’ve never thought you were a loser. Please don’t say that.”

“I’ve got no job, no car, I live with my mum and dad, can’t even drive without needing to check I won’t fucking blow up first,” he scoffs, “don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not!” She protests. “You’ve been through so much, Billy, you need to give yourself a break.”

His lips quirk, he pulls a hand away from the steering wheel to pull at the collar of his t-shirt. “S’not just what happened though, brought it on myself dad says. I’ve always been a loser, ever since school.”

“I never thought you were,” she assures him gently, “I actually really fancied you back then.”

Billy draws in a sudden breath, glancing sideways at her as he pulls up outside of her block of flats.

How does he know where she lives? Lana must have told him.

“And now?” He asks, turning off the engine and twisting in his seat to look at her.

It feels as though all the air has left the car suddenly, as they stare at each other. She isn’t sure what possesses her, perhaps the three cans of lager she’s drunk throughout the evening, but she finds herself leaning over the centre console and pushing her lips against his.

He reciprocates, soft and unsure at first, but quickly gains confidence, his mouth moving against hers with more urgency.

She cups his face, her fingers grazing over the stubble at the corner of his jaw that he always seems to miss when shaving and she smiles into the kiss, enjoying its roughness against her fingertips.

Billy seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth and she moans softly as it slides against her own.

Their pupils are wide with lust, the windows of the car fogged up when they finally part for breath, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

He strokes his large hand over the back of her head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I come up?”

She swallows thickly, not wanting to reject him, but knowing it’s not a good idea to rush things. “Not tonight, Billy, I–”

He jerks away, hurt flashing across his features, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Right, yeah, sorry, was stupid to think you’d want that…”

“No, no, it’s not that!” She says, reaching over and taking his hand in hers, running her thumb over his scarred knuckles. “We’ve waited so long for this, I don’t wanna rush it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, his shoulders relaxing as he breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Can I text you then?”

“I’d like that,” she looks at him through hooded eyes, “let me give you my number.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

Oh. Something else Lana must have given him.

“Alright then. Well, goodnight.”

She leans over and pecks him on the lips, then exits his car.

When she goes to sleep that night it’s with a smile upon her face, knowing that her childhood crush feels the same way that she does. In the back of her mind, she knows that Lana will go mad when she finds out, but that’s a bridge she’ll cross when she gets to it.

She is less than enthused when she awakens the next day realising it’s Christmas Eve and she needs to make her annual visit to her great aunt’s for room temperature sherry, mince pies and questions about why she isn’t married with children yet.

Her face lights up when she sees a text on her phone from an unknown number and realises it’s Billy.

She grins excitedly to herself, calling her great aunt and feigning a migraine, before showering and readying herself for her day with Billy.

True to his word in his text, the buzzer to her flat sounds an hour later and he is at her door a few moments later.

It’s awkward at first, as they both stand there sizing each other up, unsure of what to say or do, until he takes the initiative and steps forward to kiss her.

It all feels so easy and natural, as though it’s something they should always have been doing, and when he takes her hand in his as they walk into town she can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at how perfectly her hand slots into his.

They walk around the Christmas market together, hand in hand, drinking mulled wine. For the first time since they were at school together, she sees Billy laugh, a genuine, happy laugh. He makes jokes, a sparkle returning to his eyes and he looks so relaxed, she is finally able to see his potential again, all that he could be if he wasn’t constantly wallowing in self pity, lurking in Lana’s shadow and taking his parents’ criticisms to heart.

When he walks her home that evening, she doesn’t hesitate to invite him up. Gentle affirmations of “I had a nice time today” rapidly escalate to needy kisses as they tug at each other’s clothes. This is the Billy that she wants, and she sees no point in waiting any longer.

His large hands eagerly grasp at her hips as she pushes him down onto the sofa, straddling his lap.

They are a frenzied clash of lips, teeth and tongue, her hands finding their way into his hair, pulling his head back slightly to mouth at his jaw and neck. He groans at the sensation, hips bucking up to meet hers.

When he slides down his tracksuit bottoms and boxers to free the ample hardness that has been pressing against her thigh for the last five minutes, she lifts herself, meaning to remove her tights. She gasps when his long fingers pluck at the crotch, tearing them open and pushing her knickers to the side.

His digits swipe through the wetness of her folds and she shudders against him. “You on the pill?” He asks gruffly.

She nods in affirmation, a whine escaping her as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, slowly pressing into her.

The sounds he makes against her ear as he thrusts up into her are lewd, but with every grunt and breathy moan she clenches around him. This is a purely carnal act of desire, fulfilling years’ worth of pent up animalistic need. There will be plenty of time for gentle lovemaking, but right now she just needs to feel him, and judging by the way slams her down to meet each quick thrust, jaw slack and brow furrowed, she is certain he feels the same way.

The throbbing of him inside of her, as he spills deep within her, drives her over the edge and she peaks with a strangled cry, tightening around him in quick successive pulses.

They remain like that for a long while afterwards, resting against each other on the sofa, in the darkness of her living room.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, you’ve got no idea,” he whispers eventually, once his breathing has returned to normal.

“Me too,” she whispers.

“I wanna stay, but–”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Billy, it’s alright. You should get home before your mum gives you an earful.”

They pull unsteadily apart, adjusting their clothes, and she walks him to the door.

“I’ll text you, yeah?” He says.

“Yeah,” she smiles before kissing him softly, “Merry Christmas, Billy.”

“You an’ all,” he murmurs, pulling her into a tight hug and then walking away.

Christmas Day is uneventful. Presents and a roast at her parents’, followed by an afternoon of board games and films.

She gets a happy Christmas text from Lana, and smiles when she gets one from Billy too - the first he’s ever sent her.

By the time Boxing Day rolls around, she’s already thoroughly fed up with her family and eager to be back in her own space. She grins when her phone buzzes with a message from Billy.

She pulls out her phone, thinking carefully about what to send to her best friend, before typing a message.

She arrives at Billy and Lana’s parents’ house an hour later and is given a warm welcome by everyone. It’s strange not being able to interact properly with Billy, considering how close they’ve become so quickly over the last few days, however, he carries himself with a confidence she’s never seen him have in front of his family before.

He stands a little straighter, actually bothers to make eye contact when he talks to people. It spreads a warmth within her chest to see him no longer looking so downtrodden and defeatist, she can no longer sense the anger that used to simmer just below the surface like she used to be able to.

His eyes find hers whenever no one’s looking and she can’t help the smiles that she directs his way.

The leftovers have been dished up and they’ve been sitting around the TV for an hour when she goes upstairs to use the bathroom.

Noticing Billy’s bedroom door ajar on her way back downstairs, she can’t resist a peek inside. She’d never dared go in when she’d come to see Lana when they were younger. She pushes the door fully open, nose wrinkling at the rumpled bed sheets and assortment of dirty socks and boxers that litter the floor, but smiles as she casts her eye over the Oasis poster on the wall and the acoustic guitar that leans against the chest of drawers.

She twiddles absentmindedly with the PS4 controller, when a box that’s been shoved haphazardly beneath the bed catches her eye. She drags it out, pulling out a scrapbook that sits on the top.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her blood feeling as though it runs ice cold as she flips through it. It’s filled with old school photos of her, plus newer pictures that have clearly been printed off from her social media accounts.

Rummaging further into the box she pulls out items she’d assumed she’d either lost or that Lana had borrowed on the occasions she’d stayed over - there are scrunchies, old lip balms, even a pair of her underwear. Disgust causes bile to rise in her throat, a mixture of fear and disbelief quickly spreads its way through her body.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Billy’s voice says quietly from the doorway, causing her to gasp as she looks up in fright. “Doesn’t matter now though, don’t need that shit anymore, not now I’ve got the real thing.”

“Billy,” she pleads, her voice shaking, “what is all this?”

“I’ve always wanted you, never thought you’d feel the same though. She looked like you, y’know,” he tells her, stepping closer and shutting the door behind him.

“Who?” Tendrils of icy fear spread to her belly, every nerve in her body screaming at her to run, yet she stays rooted to her spot on the bed.

“Becky,” he says simply, “she was the spit of you. Only reason I went out with her, to be honest. I was gutted when she ended things, but she doesn’t matter now. Don’t need some cheap knock off, not when I have you.”

“Please, Billy, you’re scaring me,” she whispers, tears pricking her eyes.

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Job hunting, the bomb, none of it matters because I’ve got you.”

“Listen to yourself, this isn’t you,” she pleads, backing up on the bed away from him as he towers over her.

“You’ve seen how much better I am with you, you can’t take that away. I need you. And I make you feel good too. Look, you just need a reminder.”

He looms over her on the mattress, his hand darting between her legs and she whimpers.

“Billy, no, please…”

She wants to scream, to cry out and make him stop, but the thought of attracting the attention of Lana and her parents and them coming up here and seeing all of this is more than she can stand. So she lays there, lets Billy slide his hand up her skirt and into her underwear, hating the way her body responds to his trust.

“See?” He murmurs again the shell of her ear. “Only I can make you feel like this. Everything is gonna go my way now that you’re mine, you’ll see.”

Her vision goes watery, a combination of tears and building pleasure causing the poster on the opposite wall to blur.

She tenses as his fingers work her quickly towards her climax and she screws her eyes shut, shuddering with a quiet whine as she falls apart.

“There you go,” he coos gently, “I’ve got you now, and I’m never letting you go.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. Billy is a man with nothing to lose. He means it. He’ll never let her go.

#billy washington #billy washington x reader #billy washington x you #billy washington x y/n #billy washington smut #billy washington imagine #billy washington trigger point #ewan mitchell #billy washington fan fiction #billy washington fanfiction #billy washington fanfic #billy washington fan fic #trigger point

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thetriumphantpanda · 5 months

Text

Delicate - Chapter Two: Maroon

3.7k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: despite some last minute reservations about meeting Joel, you throw yourself into the date, but it doesn't go according to plan.

A/N: Ahhhhh oh my God - @hellishjoel and I are so excited to bring you the second chapter of Delicate! We're having the best time with this little pairing already and we hope they manage to worm their way into your hearts just like they have with us! We're taking turns in posting the chapters of this - so please make sure you're following both of us to keep up to date!

warnings: mentions of being a single parents, rom-com vibes, foul language, a bestie who is nothing but trouble, Joel being terrible at dating in general, a lil smattering of angst, mentions of food & alcohol consumption.

There’s a flow of peace that settles across you when the door to Noah’s room clicks shut. You love him, he’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and he keeps you afloat every day, but these moments, when he’s finally asleep and you can stop thinking for a minute, are the moments you crave each day.

You settle down on the couch, mug of tea in hand, with the TV playing quietly, just for background noise more than anything, as you pick up your phone for the first time that evening. There’s a few emails, mainly about shopping sales and holidays that you think you should book but never do - those are quickly deleted to stop any temptation of spending money on something that isn’t essential. There are a few messages from your mom, just confirming that she’ll pick Noah up from school tomorrow, what she’s planned for them to do and what she’ll feed him. You shoot a message off in reply that it all sounds good and that he’s excited for some quality time with his grandparents, because it’s true, and then you set your phone down on the coffee table and try to ignore it for a while.

You finish your tea and queue up a few episodes of a show you’ve been meaning to catch up on - something mindless that people at work always seem to talk about. So mindless that it actually sends you to sleep. You wake with a jolt a few hours later. The house is still quiet, which means Noah hasn’t decided he’s still got too much energy and needs to burn it off by jumping on the bed or pulling some of his toys out. You sigh, checking the time to see it’s almost midnight.

You gather your stuff, put the mug in the sink to deal with in the morning before trudging up to bed. There’s a moment at the top of the stairs, where you think it would be so easy to flop down on the bed and forgo the rest of your responsibilities, but you’ve got your mother’s voice in the back of your mind, something about wrinkles and pores and how bad it is to sleep in your makeup, so you turn left into the bathroom, cover your skin in serums and creams and then finally, just after midnight, you fall into bed.

Knowing it’s bad to look at your phone this late at night, once you’ve set your alarm, you click open the godforsaken Hinge app that Dixie had insisted on setting you up on. So far, after six months, you’d been on a fair few first dates, three second dates and had a God awful one night stand, but nothing had been sticking, no-one seemed to be exactly what you were looking for. You’d promised her that you’d try though, so as had become a nightly ritual for you, you set about giving away your daily likes, not really paying a huge amount of attention until he pops up for you. Joel. 45. From his first profile picture, the exact kind of man you’d been searching for. Rugged, handsome,

Of the few photos he had on his profile, he was often donning a flannel or a simple short-sleeved shirt that curved around his biceps and broad shoulders. He always wore the same tilted smile, with dazzling eyes and dark hair with licks of silver. He was a handsome lumberjack of sorts.

He looked to be an outdoorsman, at least two of Joel’s pictures were of him hiking a trail accompanied by a young girl, surrounded by greenery and tall rocks with the sunshine peeking through the branches. His face was glowing and tan from the light, his handsomeness so natural. Beautiful, even.

Joel’s “Typical Sunday” consisted of a black coffee in the morning, followed by making burgers on the grill for him and his family before settling down to watch a Dallas Cowboys football game. That was a typical Sunday for a man, but it showed how he liked to unwind and that he was a family man.

First, the mention of a family, plus that beautiful young woman in almost all of Joel’s pictures - a daughter, perhaps? Older than your own boy by quite a few years. He must have been on the younger side of having children if any of these assumptions were even correct. But there was something about knowing he also had a baby to be thinking of felt familiar, comforting, as they would always come first.

And it turns out that talking to him is pretty easy too. He’s charming, a slight insomniac like you, and from what you can tell from the slight back and forth you managed to have before you go to sleep, able to flirt a little with you too. It’s why when he asks to take you out you say yes without hesitation, it could be fun, he could be the one, who knows?

Mornings are always chaos. Half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table, a mug of coffee made with the best of intentions but sat to go cold, a rush of getting Noah dressed and in the car with everything he needed for school and then the annoyance of getting stuck in traffic on the way to drop him off, all coalesce to make you stressed as you help Noah out of the backseat.

“Remember granny is picking you up this afternoon okay?” You ask, bending down to kiss his cheek as he fiddles with the straps of his backpack.

“I know, mom.” He groans, using the back of his hand to wipe the kiss off his cheek.

You smile, ruffle his hair a bit, because no matter how much he might protest, he will always be your baby, “Behave for her, okay?” You warn lightly with a smile, “She’ll bring you back home tomorrow.”

Noah spots some of his friends across the playground and steps around you to make his way into school. You turn, hold your hand up in a wave and shout at him to have a good day. Noah turns, walking backwards to look at you, waving right back.

“Have a good day, mom!”

Underneath the way he’s growing up, he’s still the sweet little boy you knew you could raise on your own. You sit back in your car, picking your phone up to make sure you’ve got enough time to go to the store and stock up on some groceries, when you notice a notification from Hinge. It’s Joel.

Just checking you’re still okay for tonight?

For some reason, you sit and stare at it for a few minutes, fingers itching to type something, to confirm, but there’s that usual seed of doubt that appears after all this time that makes you want to tell him something’s come up, you’ll have to reschedule. After months and months of trying to find someone, to failed first date after failed first date, you wonder if it really is worth it, no matter how good of a match Joel Miller seems on paper. Is he really going to be worth getting dressed up for? You sigh, type out your usual message of I’m sorry, I think I might have to reschedule, when the screen is filled with the face of your best friend, trying to call you.

“Hello?”

“Hello sexy mama!” Dixie’s voice immediately soothes you, “How are you this fine morning?”

“I’m okay,” You speak softly, plugging the phone into the car so you can speak to her as you drive, “Just dropped Noah off at school.”

“How is my favourite man?” She asks.

“Yeah, he’s good, he’s staying with my mom tonight so I think he’s just pleased to be away from me for a while.”

“It’s like the universe read my mind!” Dixie exclaims on the other end of the phone, “Do you want to go out and get wine drunk tonight?”

You stutter for a second, because you could, you could cancel with Joel, go out and drink cheap wine and dance with your friend, but before you can say anything, Dixie picks up on your hesitation.

“OH MY GOD!” She all but screeches, “Do you have a hot date tonight?!”

You grumble a little, because how is she always so attuned to you like this?

“Yeah, although I don’t know if I’m gonna go.”

“Why not?”

You sigh again, “I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore?” You offer.

“Girl, get outta here with that attitude!” She chastises, “Is he hot?”

You grumble a little again, but you can’t deny it, Joel is hot, “Yes.”

“Well then,” You can hear her clap her hands in the background, clearly having you on speaker so she can go about her business, “If he’s hot, then there’s no harm in it, forget me and my wine, go out, drink wine with your hot mystery stranger and get fucked, girl!”

“Dixie!” You screech, “I’m not fucking him.”

“Whatever you say, girl!” She shouts down the phone, “If you cancel, I’m kicking your ass, okay?” You sigh, once again, something you’re getting more and more used to these days, “Have fun and be safe!”

And then all you can hear is the dial tone from where she’s hung up on you. You think about it all the way around the grocery store, she wouldn’t know if you did cancel, would she? But you’ve known her long enough to know she’d sniff a lie out of you in seconds. So, when you settle down at your desk, you pull out your phone and send Joel a reply to confirm the plans you made last night, and then spend the rest of the work day trying not to work yourself up about the whole thing.

You don’t think that the anxiety of waiting for a date to show up will ever get easier. Stood just inside the doorway of the restaurant Joel had chosen, you’re chewing at the skin around your thumbnail. Did you dress right? Do you look okay? When he turns up will he look like his pictures or not? Will he lean in for a kiss on the cheek? Do you give him a hug? You’d like to think of yourself as a seasoned pro at this now, but those first few awkward moments always made you anxious - there was no second chance at first impressions.

You needn’t have worried about Joel though. When the door opens and he stands in front of you, he is exactly the man you’d studied on that app. Taller than you, broad and big. Scruff, peppered with gray across his face, though it’s neatly kept, just like this hair, although more unruly, it’s still peppered with grays and it suits him. He’s wearing dark jeans, and a flannel that you think must be saved for best. You step closer, open your arms. Joel leans down, and does indeed press a kiss to your cheek, one of his wide palms pressed lightly on your lower back as he hugs you back a little.

“Nice to meet you, Joel.” You smile when he pulls away.

“You too, ma’am.” He smiles back at you, and you can tell he’s nervous.

“What have I told you about that?” You tease as you step towards the hostess, Joel giving her his name, you hope the slight teasing will put him at ease, you remember just what it was like when you started dating for the first time, and as much as you want to have a good time, you want to make sure Joel is having a good time too.

She picks up two menus, leads the two of you to a table at the edge of the restaurant. Joel pulls your chair out for you, pushing it gently under you as you sit down. The light is low, and there’s a thrum of chatter across the whole restaurant as you open the menu, glancing your eyes over the choices.

“Do you want to share a bottle of wine?” You ask, finger skimming the list of wines available.

Joel nods, “Sure thing, darlin’.”

You smile, looking down at the menu, deciding you much prefer darling to ma’am, especially in that sweet southern drawl of his. When the waitress returns, you both order food and a bottle of wine, which is quickly brought to the table, uncorked, with the dark red liquid poured into two glasses. The waitress leaves the bottle on the table as you raise your glass, Joel following suit, clinking them together before you take a sip.

You’re watching as he does the same, a smaller sip than you, and then watch as his nose crinkles and he coughs a little. It makes you laugh, putting your glass down to cover your mouth a little.

“Dunno why I said yes,” He shakes his head, “Fuckin’ hate wine.”

You can’t help but properly laugh now, hoping that it puts him a little at ease. You reach over the table, lay your hand on his wrist just a touch, “What would you prefer to drink?”

You don’t miss the way he subtly drags his wrist back from your touch, covering it by scratching at the skin on the side of his hand, but you don’t let it bother you. You’re a touchy person, it’s what makes you feel at ease mostly, but that doesn’t mean it works for Joel, so you fold your hands back in your lap.

“Usually beer,” He mumbles, flagging down the waitress as she walks past to ask for just that, “Or whiskey.”

“I don’t mind a beer,” You offer, trying to make light conversation, “But whiskey makes my throat burn.”

He doesn’t offer much of a reply apart from a short hum from his mouth, his attention moving from you to the room around you, letting the table fall into silence. You look down at your lap, trying to think of things to say whilst you wait for your food.

“So, Sarah, right?” You ask after his daughter, it’s something the two of you have in common at least, “You must be super proud of her, medical school is incredible.”

“Yeah,” He says simply, “She’s a very smart girl.”

You expect him to ask after Noah, ask him a little about what he’s like, maybe what his favourite subjects are at school or whether he’s in any sports clubs or anything, but he doesn’t offer anything else to you, doesn’t ask any questions.

There’s a lull in the conversation, saved by the waitress dropping your meals in front of you, fresh tomato pasta with chicken for you and steak and mashed potatoes with asparagus for Joel. You swirl your fork through the pasta, scooping some into your mouth as Joel cuts into his steak. Your eyes are trained on him, watching how he eats - it’s one of your big tests, table manners, and to be fair to him, he passes with flying colours - sure he eats a bit fast, but it’s nothing off-putting, and he seems to be able to use a knife and fork properly and chew with his mouth closed, which is a far cry from the last person you’d been out with.

“You look really good tonight,” You offer, setting your fork down for a moment, “The flannel is very Texas.”

You think in the dim light you can see him flush a little, and you’ve not said anything that isn’t true, he does look good. Fucking great actually. Joel finishes swallowing, takes a swig of his beer.

“Thank you,” He tips his head towards you, “You look nice too,” He brings his hand up to his face to motion, “Rosy cheeks.”

You try not to let your disappointment show, it is a compliment after all, so you put all your focus back down into your meal, the two of you finishing your food in a rather awkward silence - you willing Joel to ask you something, to start a conversation, anything really. You watch as Joel pushes the asparagus around his plate after eating two of the spears, finishing off his steak and potatoes but leaving the rest of the greens.

When the waitress comes back to clear your plates, she asks if you’d like the dessert menu. You look to Joel, who tips his head in a way to say it’s up to you, but this has quite possibly been the most excruciating few hours of your life, so you drain your glass of wine, tip the last of the bottle into the glass and sit to wait for the bill.

“Listen,” Joel starts, dragging your attention from the bottom of your glass to him, a look of slight regret on his face, “I ain’t too good at all this,” He tries to explain, “It’s been a long time and I’m a little rusty.”

You kind of want to wring his ass for it a little, but underneath his apparent disinterest, you can still see the nerves of the guy who first walked through the door, and you get it, you think you’d been similar when you first started dating again, but you don’t think you’d completely lost the ability to think of a single question.

Joel insists on paying the bill and you don’t fight him for the privilege of splitting it - you think it might upset some of that southern chivalry he has and for someone else they’ll love that. It’s a silent affair as you both stand up, gather your things.

“How are you getting home?” Joel asks, holding the front door open for you.

“I can just grab a cab,” You smile, “How about you?”

He points to a truck, “Only had one so I can drive home,” He explains, “Do you mind if I wait with you for your cab?” He asks, “I’d feel better knowing you get in one safe.”

“Of course,” You smile, “The hostess called one for me, so it shouldn’t be long.”

There’s another lull in conversation, thankfully your cab arrives quickly, saving the silence from falling into awkwardness again. Joel beats you to the door, opening it for you.

“I would say it’s been nice meeting you,” He speaks, “But I feel like I made this real difficult, and I’m sorry for that.”

Going to step into the cab, you stop, leaning down to put your bag in the back seat, pausing a little before you turn back around to him, meeting his eyes. They’re striking, dark brown and beautiful, and trying to tell you just how much he knows he’s messed up. It makes your heart sink because you feel that sadness too, knowing he had so much promise, that he understood you in a way you thought other people didn’t, without even needing to talk to you, he’s a single parent, he gets it, like other people don’t. It frustrates you, makes your breath catch in your throat and your eyes glass over.

You bring a comforting hand to his shoulder, “It’s okay,” You add a smile at the end, “It takes some time to get used to this all again, I was the same,” You look down at your shoes, “It’ll get easier each time you do it, I promise.”

His head dips, regret flashed across his face, like he wishes he could go back and do it all over but better this time.

“M’sorry, again,” His tone is low, morose even, then he dips, presses a soft kiss to your cheek, “Get home safe.”

You flop down on your bed, hand running over your face, wondering at what point it had gone wrong. He’d had so much potential, had seemed like he could be so right for you, so what went wrong?

No sooner have you sent the ‘home safe’ message to Dixie, do you feel the soft vibrating of your phone. You answer, put the phone on loudspeaker and set it by your head.

“So, how did it go?”

You groan, “He had so much potential Dix,” You let out a pained noise, “I don’t know where it went wrong?!”

“Oh honey,” She coos down the phone, aware more than anyone how much you wanted to be done with dating and finally have someone you could spend time with, “What happened?”

“I don’t even know!” You exclaim, “Like, I could tell he was nervous, and this was his first date in years, but it was like he’d never spoken to a woman in his life, it was so hard!”

You can hear her sucking on her teeth on the other end of the phone, “Are you being too hard on him?” She asks, “You always say the cocky men are no good because they’re rehearsed, maybe he just needs time to warm up?”

“Dixie, I’d need a flamethrower to warm him up!”

That gets a giggle out of her, “Mama, listen to me,” She goes into serious mode now, “Not everyone is as seasoned as you at this, and if this was his first date in years and he comes face to face with you? Of course he’s going to be nervous, you can’t write him off just for that honey.”

That’s when your truth really hits out, “But what if I spend all that time warming him up and it’s a waste of time? He could turn out to be no good for me and then I’ve wasted so much time instead of trying to find the right person.”

“Honey, respectfully, you’re forty, not at the end of your life, I promise that maybe spending some time trying to unravel someone a little instead of writing them off immediately might actually be worth it.”

“I don’t know, Dix…” You trail off.

“Just sleep on it, okay?” She offers, “See how you feel when you wake up before you send him the ‘thanks but no thanks’ message.”

“Okay, I promise.”

The two of your say goodbye to each other, you stay led on the bed for a while before you push yourself up, plug your phone into the charger, noticing the notification from Hinge when your screen lights up. You can see it’s Joel’s name that sits on the front screen. You sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed, weighing up whether to read it or not. Deciding that if you do read it, you’re likely to make a decision against what Dixie told you, so you leave the notification sitting there, get yourself ready for bed and then will yourself to sleep without going over every second of the date wondering what you could have done differently.

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tallymonster · 3 months

Text

Careless Whisper ❤️ AO3 link ❤️‍🔥

Summary: Zesstra is a stripper and she just got off work. She turns on her computer and watches a very steamy streamer.

THIS IS PURE SMUT TRASH, IT IS NOT SERIOUS. If you come to my asks being an asshole, your ass will get BLOCKED.

A/N: there's a lot of emojis and out of character speak going on here. Do not take anything written here seriously, this was done for fun. Consider this a love letter to my friends on the Astarion Brainrot discord and to the ones who let me use their Tavs in this wild idea I had one day when I got too stoned and started to write on Google docs. Might be a one off, might be a thing, who knows?? Either way, enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day 😘💕

@cursedhaglette who let me use Halia (goldengalhal)

@tragedybunny who let me use Sera (SeraQueen)

@micropoe10 who let me use Colette (EcoGirl)

@just-a-refrigerator who let me use Elora (slutty_songstress)

And @bhaalbaaby who let me use Penelope

Thanks guys, I love love love you all 💕

Zesstra flops onto her bed with her laptop and a giant glass of wine in her hand. Another shitty day at work, but what's new? Being a dancer at the Fae Cabaret wasn't the ideal thing, but fuck, if the money wasn't worth getting her ass slapped for 10$ extra dollars in her tip pile.

Today though, was the last straw. The creepy rich dude who comes by every once in a while came by tonight, and did his same bullshit. She could practically recite his opening line “Hey gorgeous, why the sour face?” followed by a stupid smarmy laugh.

Zesstra smiled, put on the fake giggle, and slapped his shoulder. Next, he buys her the cheapest mixed drink, and of course, he gets himself an expensive glass of whiskey he never finishes.

She tries her hardest not to roll her eyes after he makes some degrading comment about her coworker, grimacing while he rants about some meeting with important people she doesn't give two fucks about.

Whatever, that's all in the past now. Tonight was about Zesstra, of course. It's her blessed time off and she was going to spend it the only way she could truly enjoy it.

Zesstra turned on her computer and went through her socials. The public one for family and close friends, some messages from the girls at work, nothing too exciting.

Then she flips to the slutty socials, the ones where she can post pictures from work. She answers some messages on her pay per post site, adds more lewd photos from her various shopping sprees, and scrolls for a few minutes. Messages pour in offering her the world for a few seconds of her attention, but there's really only one place she wishes to be.

Zesstra thinks back on the one bright spot in her nights. A regular she only knows as “The Lawyer”. He's a good looking elf, perfect silver hair, gorgeous face, dazzling red eyes that lock onto her as she walks the floor of the club.

He usually doesn't say much, but when he does Zesstra swears she’s heard that silky voice somewhere before. She put that thought to the back of her mind. Tonight was about seeking her own pleasure.

Clicking through the streaming sites she visits on nights when the images of him won't leave, she finds that her favorite creator, an asmr streamer called ProfaneDelight, just began his stream. Zesstra clicks on his name and pops her headphones on. She drinks more of the wine, and closes her eyes as his voice begins to fill her ears.

“Good evening, darlings.” She watches as he enters the frame of the video, his tight red shirt and black pants hug his body. The camera is at the most unfortunate angle, since it won't allow her to see his whole face which she assumes matches the delicious sound of his voice.

“Have you been waiting all day for me?” He huffs softly, a small laugh follows, “What a good audience you are…” His breathy tone sends shivers down her spine.

Zesstra kept her eyes on the screen as his hands come up to the desk he stands behind. She notices the black leather gloves with red piping along the edges that cover his hands.

“You know I can't stand to be away from you.”, his voice drips, seductively. “I bet you think of me while you do the most boring things.”

Zesstra can't help keeping her eyes locked on his hands, she tries not to, but her mind starts to imagine The Lawyer’s hands there instead.

“Do you get excited when you see time passing by as I get closer to coming back to you?”

His right hand comes up to the top of his shirt, slowly undoing a couple of buttons. A breathy sigh followed his hand as it lowered itself down his torso. Zesstra bites her lip in anticipation, taking another slow sip from her wine.

Her eyes follow his hand as it comes to a stop at the waistline of his pants. The heat rises to her cheeks when she sees the outline of his cock as the gloved hand cups it.

A strained groan escapes his lips, she can already feel the effects of his seduction working on her body. Her cheeks are heating up just by watching these slow teases.

Zesstra swallows more wine, watching as he opens his shirt more. The pale skin of his core seemed to shine in what appears to be candlelight. The soft yellows of the light bathe his body, the shadows cast highlight the muscles that are slowly exposed.

“Ah ah aaahh” he teases, “if you want more…you know what to do, darlings.”

Zesstra smirks mischievously, the money she earned tonight would be put to great use right now. She types a quick message and before she could type it she hears the ping of a donation from someone called goldengalhal.

goldengalhal sent 20$ “Starting off right, love. There's more where that came from 😘”

Zesstra rolls her eyes and sends her 25$ donation, 5 more than whomever that is. Back on the screen she sees her name and message pop up.

TestyZesty sent 25$ “couldn't wait to come home, looks like I got here just in time…”

He laughs and begins to slide one of the gloves off near the microphone. The soft scratching sound of the fabric rubbing against his pale hand sent more shivers through Zesstra’s skin.

As the glove comes completely off his hand, he taps on the mic, Zesstra sighs contentedly and licks the wine off her lip. She notices his fingers, and does a double take. They look familiar? She pours the last bit of this bottle into her glass and leans back to watch more before jumping to conclusions.

“Looks like we have someone who came by at the right time…little TestyZesty…my dear, what are you so testy about? Anything I can help with?” His lips curl into a little smirk, “I hear I give wonderful stress relief…”

Zesstra shoots up on her bed, her wine swivels in the glass and almost spills due to her abrupt reaction. “No fuckin’ way.” her jaw drops and she begins to type her response. Suddenly, another donation pings, this time from a SeraQueen.

SeraQueen sent 50$ “I had a bad day at work, can I get a little love too 🥺”

“Of course, dear. Hope your day can improve now that you're here, my Queen.” he responds with all the sweet words they all love.

Zesstra scoffs, “Biiiiitttttch, please.” she giggles and sends her message. As soon as it pops up on screen, she hears his melodic voice begin to read it.

“Work, irl shit. Life sucks, then you die. You make it better though.” she sees a small smirk on his lips, Gods, she would kill to suck on those lips. “Oh, don't be so nice to me, Zesty…you make me want to be nice back..” He draws out the last bit of that sentence, making the hairs on her arms stand on end.

The second hand comes up and begins the same languid dance of slipping the matching glove off. Bit by bit he takes the glove off each finger, a soft moan flows out of those pretty pink lips when he finally releases his hand from the offending accessory.

He strokes the microphone with his fingers as more soft, breathy moans leave his lips. “You're all so eager to get me exposed aren't you? All these adorable messages just for me?”

“You have no idea…” Zesstra grabs the second bottle of wine that sat on her nightstand, she unscrews the top and drinks straight from the bottle. More images of her Lawyer pop into her head, but her mind decides to think of the way he ran his hands all over her when she took him into the private rooms at the back of the club a couple of nights ago.

No matter how many times she's been told not to let people touch her, she can't help letting him do it every time they're alone. He was paying for the whole experience, of course, but sometimes she wonders what they would get away with if she were the one paying him.

She snaps out of it the moment she hears another donation ping from an EcoGirl.

EcoGirl sent 150$ “do you like to garden? Because I have a hedge that needs tending 😏”

“Oh no, little love. I can't mess up these immaculate hands…then how would I be able to make these streams?” He giggles a bit and stands to remove his belt. It's like a little game of back and forth comments and donations from different people.

Among the many she notices a comment from a slutty_songstress “how do I get you to sing for me? bet you make wonderful sounds 👀”. He apparently noticed that one as well, he reads it out and huffs into the microphone.

“I don't usually do private performances…most of the time I’m the one getting the dance done for me…” A skewed smirk grows on his face, as if he's trying to play coy.

Zesstra’s mind begins to fire off with unhinged horny thoughts. She would do anything to give this man a dance he would never forget. People do love her aloof drow attitude, who’s to say he wouldn't?

Before she could stop herself, she drops another donation.

TestyZesty sent 100$ “what kind of dancing? Are you going to the ballet or stopping by the Cabaret? maybe I'll see you there? 😘”

Another cheeky comment, sure to get his attention. He laughs again, and bites his lip. “Well, I do enjoy both, but I do hold a special place in my heart for the girls at the Fae…have a few in mind actually.”

Within seconds the chat is flooded with questions on who the girls could be. Zesstra sees a few of her coworker’s names flash up on the screen, most notably, Penelope, the pink tiefling with a huge fan base, and Nym the other drow girl who worked part time at the strip club.

Some even mentioned Nym’s brother Sorm, but he had given up the cabaret after finding himself a job as a model after one of his regulars hit it big during Faerun Fashion Week.

Penelope and Nym are Zesstra’s friends and friendly competition. Most nights where the three of them work, they'll place bets on which one of them will get hit on first (Penelope), which one will get a four figure tip (Nym), and who can get the client the most drunk within 30 minutes (Zesstra).

She giggles as the comments keep flying, eventually, one commenter names her!

“Have you seen Zesstra?? She's kind of a bitch but total dommy mommy energy 🥵”

Zesstra cackles like a banshee, “That's right, babes, fear me!” She takes a long drink from the bottle, amused that someone out there thought of her.

Back on stream, the delightful treat in front of her sucks his lip and releases it with a pop, “Darlings, I will never kiss and tell, but I do know one of my little friends is here right now.”

Zesstra sputters into her wine glass, she cannot believe what she just heard! Is he trying to imply that he's a possible client of the Fae??? There's no way, he's probably talking about the ballet that her cousin Octavia is a part of. But then again, how many of those girls sit in their room after a performance and flick their bean to this shit?

She chuckles the thought out of her head, and focuses her attention on the screen. She starts to type a message when a donation pops up.

goldengalhal sent 200$ “I do ballet, maybe you’ve seen one of our performances? I'm the prima ballerina at the Gate’s Performance Hall.”

“Good for you, goldengal. I do appreciate the arts, and I do love dressing up for the occasion, but….there's just something about the girls at the Fae that gets me going…”

Zesstra’s brain short-circuits. “OH MY FUCKING GODS.” Could he be one of her regulars????

Another donation. EcoGirl sent 50$ “CAN WE GET BACK TO THE MATTERS AT HAND?? our boyfriend is still wearing a shirt. 👀”

Zesstra laughs and sends her donation, TestyZesty sent 69$ “i agree with EcoGirl, can we get back to these pressing matters? In particular, the rest of those buttons 😏” An amused chuckle comes out of his lips, he stands and Zesstra could see him lean in closer to the microphone.

His hand slides down his chest, following along the line of buttons at the front of his shirt. The almost hushed sounds flowed from his lips. A strained groan here and a breathy moan there. Zesstra’s skin prickles under his teases.

His hands linger on the buttons that hold his shirt closed, one by one he begins to slide his fingers over the closures, his pale skin becoming more visible by the second. More soft whines and moans fill Zesstra’s ears, the vibrations pooling down in her core.

He leans over and speaks directly into the camera “I hope you all are pleased with yourselves, I don't usually let you all have this much power over me, but I figured with it being Lover’s Night, I would give my little pets a treat.”

He blows a kiss to the camera and begins running his hand down his neck, slowly trailing his hand down his now exposed chest. A low groan, almost a growly noise flutters out of his throat as he pulls the rest of his shirt open. The red silky looking fabric hung off his shoulders as his hand lingered on his waistband.

“Shall I keep going, lovelies? What do you think?”

The messages fly on the left hand side of Zesstra’s laptop screen. One after the other they compete for his attention until another high donation drops.

Slutty_songstress sent 200$ “off with the shirt, please (respectfully)”

“Well, my songstress, since you asked so politely…” The last word is drawn out, he lets his shirt drop from his shoulders, his hand throws it off and palms his cock again. He sucks his lip into his mouth, Zesstra could see what looked like a fang pop out the right side.

More breathy moans fill her ears as she begins to remember earlier in her night, when her bright spot waltzed into the club. She watched as the Lawyer walked up to the bar, he leaned on the counter and began to text furiously. Zesstra didn't usually feel so flustered because of a client, but the way he looked at her was not usual of the other patrons.

When she walked up to him he looked straight at her eyes and smiled. “Hello, beautiful.” She smiles back and leans over the bar, letting her shoulders drop, pressing her upper arms together to puff out her chest. The little game of playing it cool failed under his gaze.

They talk for a while before she hears her name being called, at the same time he checks his watch and notices the time. “I’m late to a very important meeting. Looks like we have to part ways, gorgeous. Maybe next time, we can have some time together? Perhaps away from these prying eyes?”

Zesstra could never properly hear him, no thanks to the loud ass music Alfira played behind the DJ booth, but she was pretty good at reading lips by now.

He slips her a note and winks as she bends down seductively to shove the little scrap of paper inside her platform boot. The moment ruined by Nym, who comes to pull her up on stage. Soon after she finishes her set, she pulls the little note out and reads it.

Zesstra’s jaw drops and sees that it's a business card for one of the most elite law firms in Faerun. It was a plain white card with his name, Astarion, and number written on it. On the back there was a note that read “I helped you once before, don't hesitate to ask again.”

She had given him her landlord’s number when they were trying to pull some shady shit and not fix her leaky shower. One call from “her lawyer” and it was done.

Seems like this was her chance, and given the amount of alcohol she's drunk so far, Zesstra decides to text the number.

“Hey, Astarion. It's Zesstra. Pretty bold of you to give me a business card.” She hits send and throws her phone on the nightstand. She'll check it later, he was probably busy at that meeting he mentioned.

Back in her room, she snaps back to reality yet again when she hears the sound of hundreds of messages scrolling past. Apparently in the time that she was in her daydream, her streamer had already undone his pants! She scoffs and types out a message.

TestyZesty sent 123$ “Holy shit, I looked away for five seconds and you sluts got his pants open??”

Zesstra hears the sultry voice reading her message out loud with a little wince at the end, “I guess if you were paying attention, you wouldn't be surprised.”

Her throat feels dry, she clenches and swallows. “You're all so sweet, letting me ramble like this…I wish I could see your face when you let me do whatever I want to you.”

Zesstra was already extremely turned on from seeing her crush earlier and the way she could feel his eyes studying her reactions.

“Touch yourself. I know you want to.”

As if she was being compelled to, her hand begins to trail down her center, slipping into her tiny shorts. She feels her wetness coating her fingers, her body opening up under his commands.

“Be good for me, I could be really good for you…” he slips his pants down, and she hears them hit the ground. His hand moves up to his waist, pulling at the fabric of his skin tight boxers, his cock very clearly hardened by this point.

“Oh fuck…” she slips her shorts completely off, spreading her legs on both sides of the laptop sitting on her bed. Her left hand goes back to work herself open while the right is tugging her bra up to play with her nipple.

“Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want, darlings.”

Another flood of donations and messages ring out, Zesstra wishes they would all just shut up and enjoy the show, but it's all part of the game.

EcoGirl sent 100$ “pleeease, I need to see this man cuuuuummmmmmm 🥵”

“As you wish, dear. Any particular way? Or is it the dealer's choice?” his voice drops as a sharp exhale escapes with a pout, his muscles tense and release as he runs his hand over his cock.

“Tell me how you want me to.” a sigh, and a moan, “I really wanna come for you all, you've been so good to me tonight..”

Two donations come in at the same time, each opposes the other.

SeraQueen sent 350$ “love the teasing, keep going, we love anything you give us”

goldengalhal sent 420$ “fuck your hand. Let us see your cock leak.”

“Ooh, the war begins…So direct, goldengal, and sooo generous…thank you, love. I do like what SeraQueen adds though, maybe I can give both of my generous beauties a compromise?’

He runs his left hand down the front of his boxers more, his breath hitches and stutters. His fingers teasing the length of his cock. He pulls the camera and the microphone down a bit and flops into the chair behind him.

TestyZesty sent 422$ “you look comfy, just how I imagined when I think of riding you when I touch myself.”

Zesstra had to take her hand off her tit to type that, but she could tell it had an effect on him. As a stripper, she could pretty much tell when any of the patrons got too excited by the dance. This guy clearly loved the attention he got doing these streams in more ways than one.

He begins to pull his boxers down, teasing them all with how slowly he was inching the fabric off. As soon as his cock is freed, it bounces back, bobbing with a twitch. “Is this what you think about, Zesty?”

TestyZesty sent 100$ “ fuck yes. I want to milk you, you drive me crazy.”

A pleased hum that turns into a moan follows as he runs his hands up his thighs, digging his nails into his skin. Zesstra can see the red scratch marks grow bright against his pale skin. Gods, she would love to bite down and see how pretty he would look bruised with little love bites all over.

He wraps one hand around his cock, the other continues to work his way up his toned chest, tweaking a nipple as he begins to lazily stroke his cock.

TestyZesty sent 100$ “get yourself nice and hard, I wanna have a good image of you underneath me.”

“Let me give you a better image then, darling Zesty…”

Zesstra is rewarded with a louder moan, he strokes himself a little more, grabbing a bottle off camera with his other hand. He flips the top and drizzles what looks like lube all over his cock.

EcoGirl sent 50$ “yesyesyesyes get it nice and slick, daddy. I would suck you all day if you let me.”

SeraQueen sent 240$ “you have the prettiest cock, so thick too”

“Oh EcoGirl, you like it when daddy fucks his hand? Would you like it to be your cunt instead? Maybe you and Sera can share?”

Zesstra clenches around nothing, she can't take it anymore and reaches down to fully indulge in herself. She begins to circle her clit, stroking slowly, trying to imitate the movements of his hand on screen.

His hand now coated in a combination of lube and precum slides up and down his hardened length, the muscles on his thighs flex and he lets out more breathy moans. “Let's see who can get me to come all over their beautiful tits, I do love it when they're covered with my come, bouncing in my face.”

Zesstra strokes down her pussy, her slick entrance is so desperate to be filled by him, to be the only one bringing him pleasure. She lets herself wander to the place in her mind where Astarion is the one making her mewl underneath him.

goldengalhal sent 300$ “faster, I love it when you can tell how desperate you are to come.”

He huffs and does as he's told, his hands find their places on his cock and on his balls, both working in tandem to ruin him for the audience. With one hand he strokes himself more, building up speed. His other cups his balls as his fingers spread, moving down towards his frenulum. He arches his back, thrusting into his hand more desperately.

Zesstra wants him to cry out for her like this, she wants to be the one to make him feel as good as he does for her, all she can bare to think of is his cock sliding inside her, splitting her open and taking what he wanted.

Waves of pleasure crash into Zesstra as she watches him stroking his cock faster, she can see how everyone's words affect him. The way his chest stutters as he's getting closer to his own high. His hips thrust up into his soaked hand, seeking release, his breaths growing more ragged and strained.

Zesstra's fingering herself in time with his thrusts, she lets the images of Astarion flood back into her head, his hands all over her as she grinds herself onto him during her dances. She rubs the heel of her palm into her clit faster as she feels herself getting closer, the moans and breaths in her ears pushing her closer to the edge.

“That's right, come for me…let me fill you with my come, get you nice and full for me. Have my seed drip down your legs as you go about your day…” a stutter followed by a strained groan “fuck yourself faster, I want to feel you come for me.”

Zesstra feels herself winding up more, the tension ready to snap at any moment, when she hears his moans grow louder and more primal. He's desperate to come and she would do anything to get that to happen. She keeps her eyes locked into his hands.

With her free hand she sends the last donation she thinks she can type before the lust fully takes her.

TestyZesty sent 69$ “come for me, gorgeous. Let me see you come and coat your beautiful skin.”

“Yes darling… gods, I'm so close… are you gonna come too, Zesty? Come with me, sweet girl.”

As if on command, Zesstra can feel herself crossing over the precipice, her body writhes and clenches as her cunt squeezes down on her fingers. She rides her orgasm out as she hears him panting and whining.

“Yes yes fuck you're so tight and wet, I can't take it anymore, fuuuuck…” he twists his hand on the rise of his hand, giving the head a bit of a squeeze. He thrusts into his hand with little shallow movements, his fingers from his other hand grip on his balls as he fucks his hand.

His body is clenching, tensing up more and more as he pushes himself over the edge, his cock twitches as he comes. The thick liquid coats his hand as it drips down. His body shudders as he keeps fucking his hand through his climax.

His moans stutter and his hips tremble. His waist and stomach are coated with his come, an obscene display for such a composed subject.

“Looks like I gotta clean up here, darlings.” he pants with a small laugh, his breath shallow and chest heaving. “For my little messenger, I hope you liked it. Expect a response from me soon, pet. Good night, loves.”

The stream ends, Zesstra thinks that little sign off was strange, but everyone has their thing. As she's coming down from one of the best orgasms she's had, she hears her phone ring and notices that Astarion has actually texted back! His meeting must've just ended, perfect timing.

When she opens the message, she nearly dropped her phone from the whiplash from throwing her head back. As plain as her own red eyes could see, was a short text. “You were pretty bold tonight, yourself, testyzesty…” Zesstra gasps, her eyes are as wide as dinner plates. “OH MY FUCKING GODS?!?!”

She immediately feels her hands trembling wildly. All she could think about was him, and it turns out that it was. Zesstra’s brain immediately blanks out when her phone rings again. “Did you mean what you said? Do you really want me like that?”

She quickly types a response and sent it back “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Come now, dear. Don't play coy.” his response reads, “Pretty easy to figure out it was you, not many girls mention seeing me at the Cabaret. Thought you were trying to drop a hint? Figured you recognized my voice from earlier?

Zesstra didn't even think about it, the club is so fucking loud, her mind races at the fact that now she knows that he definitely got off to her watching him. “Did you always know?”

“No.” he replies.

“So then…you meant to give me your phone number tonight?”

“Yes. Let's just say, you intrigued me. Besides, you're not the only one who has a public and private life. I was hoping to let you in on my little secret eventually, but it seems life had other plans for us.”

Zesstra cannot believe what's going on right now, her mind is racing through the hundreds of times he's come through the club. The sudden departures and strange late night meetings, it all makes sense now. There were never any meetings…well, not with other lawyers at least.

“So….what happens now? I know who you are, you know who I am…do we keep going down this path or do we split ways?”

“I think you're a rather curious little kitten, why don't we see how far down the rabbit hole we can go? I'll send you my address. Let me know what you decide on.”

Zesstra bolts out of bed, she puts on the skimpy dress that hangs on the bathroom door. She slips it on and gathers some things before running to the door. As she makes her way down the stairwell of her building, she gets his address. She bites her lip and replies “I’m on my way, see you soon.”

#bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #everyone is out of character #it is what it is #happy valentine's day

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