#she wanted to be at the late stage loops so she could have an easier life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

buckyownsmylife · 4 years

Text

daddy issues - chapter x

The one where Ransom doesn’t feel ready to become a father, but he should have thought about it before sleeping with a complete stranger.

When Ransom’s latest one night stand lets him know that he’s going to become a father, he finds himself looking for the qualities he never believed to have so he can become the parent he never got to witness as a child.

for general warnings and author’s notes, please go to the fic’s masterlist.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I looked over at the man driving beside me, a feeling of comfort and gratitude suddenly washing over me. Over the last five weeks, Ransom had truly been the partner I had always hoped to have a baby with, even if we weren’t together in the way I originally would have wanted to be with my child’s father.

It almost didn’t matter though, because he was always around. Whenever I needed something, even if it was the middle of the night, he didn’t seem to mind that we lived on opposite ends of the city. He would drop by with my favorite junk food and leave without complaining.

I’d even started to let him sleep on the couch when I figured it was too late for him to drive back by himself. He never tried to make a move again, which was so relieving to me, especially since my pregnancy hormones were begging me to climb him like a tree. But also now that we got to spend actual time together, I’d come to learn he was a very interesting man. Sure, very immature in a lot of ways, but it almost added to his charm, somehow.

It didn’t help my goal of containing my attraction.

We’d gone to two doctor’s appointments and he truly was doing his very best to show me he was here for me - or maybe he just really was excited about having a child. If there was something I’d come to realize in our talks, it was that Ransom didn’t have a particularly loving childhood, so it warmed my heart to see how invested he was in making sure our kid wouldn’t go through the same things that he did.

“Hey,” I called out for his attention, reaching over his lap to squeeze his thigh. “Thanks for doing this with me.” His eyes were a bit wide when they met mine, but his smile mirrored my own.

“Thank you for inviting me. Can’t believe you trust me enough to want to introduce me to your parents.” That made me chuckle. His honesty was overwhelming most times, but it was also one of the traits I liked the most about him, now that I’d become used to it. If there was one thing I could be completely sure of, it was that Ransom Drysdale would not hide how he was really feeling to please anyone. And somehow, that calmed me down.

“Honestly,” I responded, excited with this opportunity to tease him. “Me too.” The insulted gasp that he released had me giggling right away, risking a glance to the side to check that he had actually understood that I was only teasing him. The way the corners of his mouth turned up let me know that he did.

“Okay,” he conceded, nodding but keeping his eyes on the road ahead. We were almost in my childhood neighborhood, I could recognize it even with my eyes closed. There was no logical reason for it, just an instinctive, deep calling, that made me feel at ease around the streets I hadn’t walked for so long. “I guess I deserved that.”

It was silent then, as he slowly drove us to the cul-de-sac my parents had lived in for the last thirty years. Nothing had really changed, and that showed a lot of the people who inhabited it. If Ransom was nervous at the prospect of meeting the grandparents of his future child, he didn’t show. Or well, I didn’t realize it.

“Hey!” I tried to match my parent’s excitement as they almost ran out of the house to meet us by the car, the second we’d stopped in front of the place I had grown up in. I barely had the time to prepare - I’d hoped I would have gotten a few more words in with Ransom, decide what we would say - but it warmed my heart to imagine them by the window, excitedly waiting for us to arrive.

“Oh my, you’re so big already!” My mom exaggerated, prompting me to roll my eyes as I noticed Ransom and my father shaking hands, our luggage already in my companion’s hands. “You really should have told us sooner,” she chastised, but I was prepared for that.

“Mom, c’mon. You know I had a lot to figure out, I didn’t want to let you guys know about a baby that I still had a high risk of losing, and on top of that, I had tons of classes to prepare.” My mom nodded, her eyes never straying from where her hand rested on my belly. I knew she understood it, she was just having a hard time grasping the concept of her baby having a baby.

“Shall we go inside?” Ransom followed closely, dropping the bags at the entrance when my father approached to give me his own inspection. I chuckled lightly at his furrowed brows until finally, he seemed satisfied with what he found and embraced me against his comfortable chest.

“Good to see you, kiddo. And I’m glad you’ve brought Ransom here for us to meet! We’ve prepared the room for you guys, would you like to go upstairs and rest? We can always catch up tomorrow.” Surprise had me blinking a couple of times, taking a second too long to understand what my father meant.

“The room?” I asked, right when Ransom confirmed it, “For us?” He didn’t sound as confused as me, but maybe a bit hopeful even, and it only made the situation even harder to comprehend.

“Yeah,” my mother confirmed, a patient smile on her lips. “We figured, you’re bringing a guy home for the first time and pregnant… It’s obviously pretty serious.” I was at a loss of words, mouth hanging open as I realized my parents were completely okay with the idea of me sleeping with a man I wasn’t married to under their roof, but what happened next really threw me on a loop entirely.

I felt Ransom’s arms around my shoulder, it was what prompted me to turn to the side and look up at him, but instead of finding him at his usual height, I was shocked with a kiss being deposited on my unexpecting lips, instinctively prompting me to close my eyes.

“Thank you so much.” That was all he had to offer after releasing my lips, and it wasn’t even directed at me. “For the reception, for understanding. I’m excited to talk to you more tomorrow, but for now, I think it’s better for the baby if I take this one to bed.”

Ransom’s P.O.V.

“Why on Earth would you do that?” I barely believed she managed to wait until we were both inside the bedroom, with the door locked, until she spit it out. I was almost certain she would confess the truth right there, laughing in my face at the prospect of actually being in a relationship with me.

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” I feigned nonchalance, shrugging and making a point not to look directly at her as I began to get settled, opening my suitcase and pretending to look for something.

“There was so much we could do about it! Practically anything other than pretend to be together when we aren’t!” Her exasperation irritated me. What was so bad about dating me? Why didn’t she want to be associated to me, the father of her child?

But I chose to take a deep breath, just like the therapist I’d been secretly seeing had taught me. I didn’t want to screw this up, I reminded myself, and I tried to see things from her perspective, instead of immediately focusing on my own feelings of insecurity.

“I’m sorry,” I immediately recognized it, and by the way she looked immediately disarmed, it was probably the right way to start. “I just figured it would be the easier way to go about this, considering what you’ve told me about your parents. I know they weren’t going to be excited about you being a single mother, even though I’m clearly more than excited to be a co-parent regardless of our relationship, and of course, I didn’t intend to lie, but when the opportunity appeared… I just figured we’d take the easier route.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say, and I could see by her expression that it made sense to her too, now that I’d explained. She didn’t want her parents’ interference, and she wanted this trip to go as smoothly as possible. It truly was the simpler way to deal with it.

“I can go downstairs and explain the real situation, if you want me to!” I offered, knowing now she’d be completely reassured of my intentions. “Really, it’s no bother. I’m sure they can fix the guest room for me.”

I turned around to leave, but her hand seized my wrist quickly. “Let’s not bother them, right?” It was impossible to stop the smile from appearing on my face when I turned around to look at her again, finding us much closer than we’d been before. Instinctively, without even thinking, I laced our fingers together, chuckling lowly at her cuteness.

“Right.” The moment felt heavy with something unspoken. I could still feel her lips on mine from when I kissed her earlier to sell the ruse to her parents. I hadn’t planned it, but it felt right for the moment.

It felt right at that moment, but I didn’t want to screw this up. So I put on my most charming smile, the same one that always prompted her to roll her eyes but giggle at me, and question, “Can I keep kissing you, then?” I put a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, my fingers running over her jaw when I found myself unable to pull away. “It’ll make it more believable.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, looking cute as ever with all of her suspicion, but ended up giggling and nodding. It allowed me to finally relax, and so I took the opportunity to look around the room we were in, taking notice of the posters on the wall, the little mementos, and picture frames on the shelves.

“So this is your childhood bedroom? This is hot.” I knew she had rolled her eyes at me, and I was glad we were now at a stage in our relationship where I could say stuff like that without her immediately kicking me out.

“Are you always hard?” For the first time that night, I hesitated. The truth was, and what I wanted to say was that it only happened when she was around, but I didn’t. I knew my silence could make her think I was some sort of creep, but it was better than admitting the truth.

I always wanted her, in one way or another.

“Are you sleepy?” I asked, an effort to change the subject, yet again resorting to messing with my luggage in search of something I didn’t need. “Did the trip tire you out?” Silence followed my question, and I understood she was thinking about it, even if I didn’t know what exactly she needed to think.

I grew tired of pretending to be busy, so I just turned around and faced her as I wanted for an answer, taking advantage of this time to admire just how beautiful she looked, particularly now that her belly had started showing. I don’t think anyone should look that good, not after a five-hour drive, and a burning sensation settled deep in my stomach - I couldn’t tell if it was desire or resentment, fear of ever having to stand back and watch her fall in love with someone who wasn’t me.

“Not really…” Her answer snapped me out of my thoughts, reminding me of what I’d asked. “It’s still so early…” Her eyes were on the night sky behind me, visible through the window of her childhood bedroom, and I shifted from one foot to the other as I waited for her to say something more, but nothing came.

“Well, what do you want to do?” I thought she’d take her time figuring something out - she’d taken so long to decide if she was tired or not - but instead, she surprised me with an immediate response, and an immediate response that almost gave me a heart attack.

“I want to suck your cock.”

It was my turn to not know what to say.

“W-what?” But she seemed decided. Instead of explaining, or offering any sort of insistence, she just shortened the distance between us, hand immediately curling on the edge of my pants as soon as it was within reach.

“Take this off.” I only lost five seconds in hesitation, perusing her eyes, trying to see if this was some sort of joke or test. When it became clear the only way I’d ever find out would be by jumping in head first, I decided to say fuck it.

My hands made quick work of my belt before unzipping my pants, letting it fall down my ankle, and she didn’t even give me the time to step out of it and kick it to the side before she sank down to her knees, taking my boxers with her.

She wasted no time wrapping her lips around the head of my member, already hard from my ever-present infatuation with her, not giving me the opportunity to protest the uncomfortable position she had put herself in. All thoughts of complaints or negotiations flew out of the window and into the night sky the second she started sucking, slowly but surely making her way to take more and more of my cock until her lips were grazing my navel.

My knees buckled and I had to hold the back of her head just to keep myself up, have something to hold onto to stay grounded. My eyes rolled back at the choking, slurping sounds coming out of her, and I silently asked God to allow me to cum this time. I didn’t think I’d survive if she decided to change her mind.

Her mouth felt good - so good. I couldn’t help but praise her. “Oh, fuck,” the curse fell out of my mouth easily when I looked down to find her staring up at me, mischief clear in her eyes. “Y-you’re very good at this.”

She kept on bobbing her head up and down my dick, giving me the sloppiest, most perfect blowjob I’d ever gotten, before pulling away with a pop and teasing, “Oh, yeah? You like it that much?”

Then the situation became overwhelming. My cock twitched inside her mouth, but I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to cum and have to face her regret, I didn’t want to feel guilty for relenting and allowing myself to have this. So I tried to hold back, knuckles brushing her cheeks as I focused on controlling my breathing.

But of course, she’d never let me win.

“You know…” her sultry tone warned me that she wanted me to break, even before her hand curled around my member and began to pump it. “... I thought it was really hot when you were acting all jealous and possessive that night at the bar.”

I inhaled sharply, not only because of the implications of her admission but also because she’d enveloped my balls with her warm mouth as she waited for my reactions. “R-really?” As much as I hated hearing myself trip over words because of another person, I couldn’t hate her for the effect that she had on me.

“Yeah…” she moaned against my skin, sending the reverberations across my body. “I couldn’t let you know though, otherwise you wouldn’t learn… But you learned now, didn’t you?”

Her response was a moan, perhaps louder than I should have released, as I pulled on her hair in an effort to keep her away from my dick. “C’mon, Ransom!” She teased, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let go for me!”

When I shook my head, a pout appeared on her beautiful lips, and I just had to lean down to kiss it away. “Didn’t you like it?” She questioned when we parted, and I almost laughed, squeezing the back of her neck in a playful gesture.

“Oh, baby… Of course I did.” Biting my lip, I felt like I had to add, had to make her acknowledge it, “You’ve made me very, very happy.” When she leaned her head to the side, I already knew what she was going to ask.

“Then why don’t you want to cum?” That was a question I was dreading to answer, mainly because of course I wanted to cum, I just didn’t want to do it in her mouth. But if I had any chance whatsoever of getting what I truly desired, I’d have to voice it to her.

“Hell yeah!” I reassured her, making her laugh at my enthusiasm. “But not like this. Can… Will you let me touch you?” Time seemed to stand still as I waited for her answer, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t tell until she pushed me away and rose to her feet, walking towards her own luggage.

“No.” The word almost physically hurt me, and I deflated, falling down on the bed as I ran a hand over my hair, thinking about what the hell this would mean to us now. But then she was back, standing in front of me, a condom wrapper being waved right before my eyes. “I wanna ride you.”

I never wanted to fuck anyone this badly before. She got rid of her clothes just as eagerly as I took off my shirt, sending it flying somewhere across the room, and when she climbed on my lap, I had already put on the contraceptive. By the way she immediately sank down on my dick, it was clear that she was grateful for my speed.

“Oh, fuck,” I groaned against her shoulder, still able to hug her to me despite the small belly separating our chests. The build-up from the last time I almost had her, not to mention from minutes ago when her mouth was still around me had the fire in my stomach burning brightly in no time, as I sat back and watched her fuck herself on me.

“Y-you take me so well.” It came out louder than I intended, and she let go of her breasts to pull me to a kiss in an effort to silence me.

“Shhh…” She whispered, fingers running over my strands as she reminded me, “you have to be quiet, honey.” The nickname took me by surprise, my hands flying up to grip her hips as I took back the control she had so easily usurped from me. “Ransom!”

The way she moaned my name… I could get off just to her voice alone, and that’s what brought me to my release. Somehow, despite barely being aware of anything other than the way my cock throbbed inside of her cunt, I was able to make her cum, and watching her throw her head back and silently scream almost paralyzed me.

“Wait,” she commanded when I tried to lay her down. “Don’t pull out.” I melted against her, falling back on the bed and adjusting us so I could cuddle her to me while abiding to her wishes.

I think she was barely awake when I spoke again, not thinking at all as the words fell from my lips. “Does this mean we’re dating now?” And suddenly, her body wasn’t comfortably relaxed against mine. No, she jolted awake, sitting up and letting my limp cock slip from her while she clutched the sheets over her.

“What? Why?” I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be defensive, and disappointed, and overall hurt from her skepticism, but I knew I couldn’t. Not right now, not when I had a goal in mind and I was so close to it.

“Why not? We’re practically a couple anyway, you even brought me to your parent’s place! Now that we’ve brought sex to the table, what’s the difference between this and an actual relationship?” A long silence followed my words, a silence that felt heavy, suffocating even. Her eyes never left mine as she pondered over what I’d said, and in the quiet of the night, I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“Ransom, I don’t want to be your girlfriend.” I felt my heart breaking in a million pieces at her words, too stupefied to argue anything else. I suddenly was extremely aware of just how naked I was, and how uncomfortably the used condom was now sticking to me.

“I’m sorry, I just… I don’t really know you,” she continued, and despite how kind her eyes looked, I still felt like she didn’t understand just how badly she was hurting me. “We’ve never even been on an actual date.”

Surprisingly, that was the sentence that brought hope back to me. Even as she continued, “This was just… a one-time thing,” I didn’t feel deflated anymore, only excited. I knew she wanted me. It was just a matter of showing her that, getting her to admit it. And she had just told me how to do that.

“A one-time thing, huh?” I smirked, pulling her back into my arms, appreciating the surprise that took over her features at the response she certainly didn’t expect to get. “Like the night we made her?”

She chuckled against my chest as my hand fell over her belly. I was certain it was a girl, just as she was certain it was a boy. We had decided not to know, at least not now, and although most of the time the curiosity was eating me alive, I knew I was right.

“Yeah,” the mother of my child whispered against my skin. “Just like that night.” And with her hand covering mine, I slept soundly in a way I couldn’t remember ever doing before. I knew I would do whatever it took to keep her right here, in bed with me. Forever.

#my series #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale series #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale writing #ransom drysdale reader #ransom drysdale reader insert #ransom drysdale reader inserts

276 notes · View notes

itsgottabeyoo-ngs · 3 years

Text

Caught & Compromised (M)

Jung Hoseok Oneshot

••☀ Author: @itsgottabeyoo-ngs

••☀Summary: It wasn’t like you were really doing anything wrong. If anything it was a compliment, if not a compliment-it was definitely his fault. That, you wouldn’t waiver on.

☀ =.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.= ☀

“Don’t stop on my account.”

In which Hobi walks in on you seeking out your own pleasure - without him.

••☀Pairing(s): J-hope-Jung Hoseok/Reader

••☀ Word Count: 3.93k

••☀ Rating: 18+

••☀ A.N: This work was inspired by a comment left on my previous work, hope it's what you were envisioning <3

As always, thank you to @pinknamjoon or being the best in every way imaginable. I wouldn’t know what to do without you!

Thank you to my girls that keep me motivated and grounded, @junghoseokit, @dariangarcia and @ilikemesometaetaes. Love you all so much <3

••☀ Tags: Smut | Established Relationship!au | J-hope/Jung Hoseok!au | Caught in the Act!au | PWP

••☀ Warnings: unprotected sex, light breathplay, light overstimulation, soft dom hoseok, mastrubation, light voyeurism, dirty talk, sex toys, creampie, swearing, mentioned aftercare, Hobi is still a dom but surprisingly soft, we need cypher part 5, light degrader/degradee kink, reader is a lil bit of a pain slut

☀ =.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.= ☀

You swear you had locked the door. You swear you checked your phone multiple times for his message that he was finally heading home. You specifically remember him telling you that he would be getting home late tonight.

And yet - there he was, staring at you with his signature gaze - dark, powerful and accusatory. One which he normally reserved for his role as lead dancer, waiting for the boys to mess up, scrutinising their every movement, and sizing up the competition.

It wasn’t like you were really doing anything wrong. If anything it was a compliment, and if not a compliment-it was definitely his fault. That, you wouldn’t waiver on.

He had been practically living in the studio for the last couple of weeks with Yoongi and Namjoon, working on some ‘secret project’ that you had been hoping was Cypher 5. Though, now you were sure that even if it was, he would never tell you.

It goes without saying that you had missed him. You did let him know that you were thinking about him often. You had meant it in more of a, ‘the bed feels cold without you in the mornings, I miss eating meals together and cuddling on the couch, I saw this and it reminded me of you’ kind of way. However, when you had found yourself missing him in...other ways, you were too weak to deny yourself the indulgence of picturing him in that Dior outfit, hip-thrusting on the stage.

He had told you before that touching yourself without his permission or knowledge was, in other words, prohibited- punishable even.

So when he walked in on you as you had your sweat-glistened head thrown back, a vibrator deep inside your walls, and profanities falling out of your mouth, your blood ran cold and you knew you were in for it.

Now, having pulled the blankets over yourself and removed the toy from within you, you watch him, unable to gauge or read his intentions. His gaze never leaves your face and you can feel your cheeks heating up with embarrassment and, excitement?

“Don’t stop on my account.” He chuckles darkly, sauntering over to the bed, looking around the room with an impish grin spreading across his lips.

You feel the bed dip down next to you from his weight, unable to lock eyes with him any longer, you watch his hands as he rubs them together slowly. You startle when he begins speaking again.

“Imagine my surprise,” He pauses, waiting for you to look up at him, “When I come home early to spend time with my princess, and she’s already occupied with a little friend.” He smiles evilly, tugging down the covers to reveal your purple vibrator, noticeably wet.

Your breath hitches in your chest, unsure what his motives are as he picks up the toy and turns it on.

Bzzzzzzz

The sound, though faint, rings powerfully throughout the room.

He notices your confusion and hesitation as he reaches out to lay his hand on your leg.

“I could hear you as soon as I came through the front door, princess. Did you want the neighbours to hear you? Hmmm?” He hums, methodically trailing his slender fingers up and down your naked thigh.

You quickly shake your head, noticing he’s awaiting a response. His stare is icy. He wants me to speak, say something- you will your mouth to move and make sounds as he raises an eyebrow, now curling his fingers around your soft skin and squeezing at your flesh, leaving the skin underneath a bright shade of red.

“N-no.” You choke out, trying to even your breath and suppress the bubbling urge building in your throat to giggle out of nervousness and anticipation.

Hobi had two moods when it came to you breaking the rules. He either turned the other cheek and let it slide, never drawing too much attention to the wrongdoing. Or, he punished you for it and made it very clear that it would not happen again.

He didn’t do this in a violent manner, you two had a very loving relationship. However, he would hold it over your head and use it as his excuse for getting you all worked up over, and over and over again, but never letting you cum. He never failed to get creative, like that one time, when he made you wear a buttplug all day - your final exams for uni of all days - and failed to tell you that he had a remote control that could activate it anywhere and anytime. His punishments were never cruel, but the fact that you never knew how he would react or when he would decide was the right time to ‘educate’ you always left you anxious and excited.

Would it be a handful of spankings tonight? Perhaps work you up to your limit, leaving you craving your release and never giving it to you? Or maybe, he’d do nothing but tease you, making your face turn red and your panties wet as he humiliated you for how weak you were for not being able to refrain from pleasuring yourself without his permission?

Your body trembles at the thought as your mouth runs dry, looking up at him again. His expression has changed, he now looks down at you with amusement. Maybe he knows I’m trying to figure out what he’s going to do to me, you think, only half-certain that he can read minds.

“Trying to figure out what I’m going to do with you, princess?” He asks sweetly, the ends of his lips tugging up ever so slightly.

Now fully convinced that he could hear your every thought, you nod, absent-mindedly rubbing your thighs together for some well-needed friction.

“Well, seeing as I rudely interrupted an intimate moment, I think you should carry on, don’t let my intrusion stop you.” He says as he hands you your vibrator, the noise deafening as realisation sinks in.

Your head snaps up to meet his as you limply wrap your hand around the toy, the vibrations making you shiver as you grip it tighter.

“Show me what would have happened if I hadn’t walked in here, princess,” He pauses and leans over you, close enough to your ear that his warm breath tickles your neck, “That’s an order.” He pulls back and stands up, straightening out his jacket and taking a few paces back from the bed, placing his hands in his pants pockets.

You hesitantly kick off the remaining sheets so they pool at your feet. The cool air rushing up under your long nightshirt and causing your nipples to harden in response.

Sensing his impatience, you make haste. “Uhm, what do you want me to do?” You ask shakily, still weary and unsure if you are reading the situation correctly.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” He demands, turning around to face you yet again.

“N-no, sir,” You rush out in response.

He never answers you, instead, he slowly shrugs off his jacket, taking his time to fold it over the back of the chair, not even glancing in your direction.

Knowing that the second time he’d have to tell you something would also be the last time, you bring the toy over your clit gently, working it around in small circles, finding it easier to melt into the feeling when he isn’t watching you with hungry eyes.

You quietly tease your vibrator through your folds, humming out in satisfaction when it catches right at your entrance. There was a reason this toy was your favourite, though it was a slim fit inside you, it had a small part that branched out to rub deliciously at your clit, every thrust you made inside you moved it around your most sensitive part, easily and quickly built you up to an orgasm.

You search the room for your boyfriend, trying to catch his eye to ask for permission to sink it inside you. He’s on the other side of the room, slowly and meticulously removing his clothing, looking at you through his peripheral, paying about as much attention to you as he would a rerun of his favourite show.

Instead of pressing him anymore, you decide to follow the rules and act as you were before he interrupted you, taking your pleasure back into your own hands. You slowly push the toy inside you, letting a faint moan slip through your lips as it stretches you out gently once more.

Looking up at him, you watch as he slowly slips off his shirt over his head. His abs contract as he reaches up to pat down his messy blond hair. Only his pants remain. You can’t peel your eyes away from him as he slowly unbuckles his belt, sliding it through the loops and snapping it away from him towards the ground. You jump at the noise and he laughs darkly.

He reaches for the button on his trousers, unbuttoning and zipping them down with great care. You can’t help but feel the excitement bubble up in your chest once again as he gracefully steps out of them, turning around and folding them over the dresser. You meet his stare in the mirror, blushing as he smirks at you.

Now feeling that you were the one watching something you shouldn’t, it adds to your enjoyment as you feel a sudden jolt run through your body and you clench around the toy buried inside of you.

You shut your eyes and give in to the feeling, immediately combining the image of the Hobi right in front of you with the one clad in a tight black harness.

“Tssssk. Eyes on me, princess. After all, you were thinking about me, weren’t you?” His tone is dangerous, challenging- no- threatening you to speak up again.

You force your heavily-lidded eyes to look at him, another moan escapes your throat as you greedily take in the masterpiece that is his body. His long, lean legs that support his slim, yet muscular build are planted firmly in front of you. As his hands reach down to pull at the elastic of his boxers, his chest muscles contract slightly, allowing for his collarbones to deepen in their shadows, seemingly creating more space at the crook of his neck.

As he finally discards his final piece of clothing, you’re overcome with lust. Watching as his hardened cock slaps against the base of his stomach, you’re suddenly disregarding his command that you refrain from using words and begin to beg, “Please,” you whine, “please touch me.”

“Now why would I do that?” He muses as he circles around to the other side of the bed. “I’m not even here, remember? I just see a needy little slut trying to get off while her boyfriend is away.” He adds, all but spitting out the last part.

The words shouldn’t affect you as much as they do, your back arches in response and your breathing hitches. You quickly pull back the vibrator off of your clit, the vibrations proving to be far too powerful, about to send you over the edge.

“Did I say you could stop?” He asks brusquely, bringing a hand to the base of his shaft and leisurely tugging at it, working his hand up and down as he stares down at you with an expectant gaze.

You slowly push the toy back into you and settle the outer extension on your clit, the obscene noises it makes as it slides in sending a hot flush to your cheeks. You work it in and out slowly, each drag of it getting you dangerously closer to your release.

He makes his way onto the bed, crawling over to sit next to you, his cock is standing heavy on his stomach and leaking precum. You can’t help but absent-mindedly lick your lips as you watch it bounce as he settles down on his knees beside you.

“S-sir,” You start to warn him, “I’m gonna cum, I can’t. I can’t hold off any longer.”

“Then do it.” He growls, his eyes unwavering as you try to remove the vibrator from your folds once more. He grabs your wrist firmly stopping your hand from moving. He uses his grip on you to push the toy back into your dipping pussy, not letting you escape the vibrations that are sending you quickly over the edge.

Your orgasm hits you hard, taking your vision along with your resolve to stay silent.

You cry out as your body convulses from the waves of pleasure that rock through you. Gasping for air and gripping the sheets underneath you. Your back arches up as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm with the toy, each thrust making you shake with pleasure and overstimulation. Tears form at the corner of your eyes as it simultaneously opens up your convulsing walls and rubs against your clit.

“T-too much, sir.” You barely choke out, eyes squeezed shut, writhing in the bed trying to wriggle out of his reach.

He lets his hold on you loosen, pulling the vibrator out of you and shutting it off. He throws it to the foot of the bed, rubbing your thigh with his hand while he brings the other to his cock.

As you start to come down from your high, you look over to see him lazily stroking himself, eyes glued to you as your chest rises and falls, your cheeks dusted pink and your lips parted.

“You look so good like this, princess. Already so fucked out and I haven’t even touched you.” He muses, eyes trailing down your body making your core heat up again.

He shifts his weight around and leans down, his face not even an inch away from yours. He winks at you, making his nose scrunch up before he finally leans in to capture your lips with his. Hobi kisses you with intensity and control, easily flooding your thoughts with nothing but him once more. Your head is still reeling from your powerful release, feeling light and heavy at once.

Never breaking the kiss, he flips you onto your back and climbs over you, framing his arms around your head, you can feel his erection press against your lower belly and you can’t help but roll your hips up against it.

He groans into your mouth at the contact, pushing you back down onto the mattress as you let a soft whimper slip past your lips.

“You fall apart so easily baby,” he croons into your ear, finally positioning himself over you and pushing his cock gently into you. He lets out a low hum as he runs the tip through your folds, collecting the wetness that was already there and using it as lubrication, thoroughly coating his cock in it before he’s slowly pushing in.

You let out a shaky breath as he finally bottoms out, his hips now flush with yours and you can feel the way he leans against you, savouring every point of contact his body shares with yours.

He begins moving as he feels you clench around him, taking the opportunity to snap his hips forward and let out a satisfied growl. You can’t stop the moans that fall from your mouth, changing pitch every time his hips meet yours, shallow but quick strokes that have you babbling and clinging on to him. Your body is shaking as you try to push yourself up from the mattress, but still he pins you down, seemingly pounding into you with more force each time.

“Taking me so perfectly,” Hobi mumbles. “God, look at you.” He hums, voice low and dripping in lust.

As if driven by an unforeseeable force, he pulls back and reaches for your lips, running his fingers over the swollen flesh before dipping his fingers into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue. You mewl around his fingers, your tongue swirling around his digits sucking and coating them with your saliva.

“Good girl,” He coos, “my pet knows just what to do.” He removes his fingers from your mouth and grabs one of your breasts, kneading it before tweaking your nipple, rolling it between the pads of his wet fingers. You keen at the new sensation, digging your nails into his shoulders.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck and inhales as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, sucking at the skin and finding a rather sensitive spot underneath your earlobe to mark up. Claiming me as his, you think.

His hand moves to your other breast, not one to neglect your needs in any sense.

You moan as he brings his mouth over your hardened nipple, alternating between kitten-licks, soft bites, and sucking, you clench around him and throw your head back, getting lost in the pleasure.

Now pulling back, he picks up the pace, watching as your tits bounce from the movements. Hoseok grunts with the force of his thrusts. Not normally one to break character so easily, you feel a sense of pride as his hips falter- only to pick up seconds later, readjusting so he can reach farther into you, now hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

“Feels so good sir, want more, need more,” You beg, still surprised that he’s not withholding anything from you as he normally would, maybe he needed this as much as I did.

Just then, he tilts his head to look up at you, his gaze flickering with mischief.

He suddenly pulls out and grips his cock tightly at the base. You whine at the sudden lack of contact, having fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

“No, no, no, no, no,” You rush out, grabbing at his shoulders and trying to pull him back into you.

He runs the head of his cock through your folds and presses against your mound, teasing you softly. You suck in a breath through your teeth as he continues to trace it through your slick, brushing against your clit and making it throb in response. Not able to take much more of his games, you buck your hips up to grind against him and he hisses, pushing down onto you even harder with his hand.

I’m definitely going to bruise tomorrow, You smile to yourself, thinking of how proudly you’ll wear his marks.

His other hand snakes behind your head as he weaves his fingers into your hair, tugging at the roots. It may be too hard for some people, but it’s pure bliss for you.

You hum contently as you feel yourself slip deeper and get lost in the pain that mixes deliciously with pleasure. You want to feel him, everywhere- you want it all. As if an unseen force is guiding your thoughts and tongue, you blabber out, “Please. Please use me, I need it. I need you, please.”

“Fuck baby, with dirty words like those you’re gonna have me cumming soon.” He grunts as he brings your legs down to rest between his. He moves his knees in closer, squeezing your thighs together tightly beneath him.

Then, he’s pushing back in, seemingly somehow even deeper than before, hips rutting down into you before drawing all the way back, tip barely inside of you before thrusting back into you, all the way to the base. The squeeze is even tighter now, you wonder how he fits inside you at this angle, every time you clench around him, he thrusts that much harder to stay buried inside you.

Your hips move in tandem, he picks up the pace and you struggle to keep up, arching your back and lifting your hips up to meet him, drawing a string of profanities from his mouth as he continues to pound into you.

He lets your hair fall back into place, now bringing his hand to your throat, lightly squeezing and stopping the blood flow just the way he knows you like it. You let your eyes flutter shut, rolling up your hips up to meet him, seeking out his lips for something to ground you.

He takes the hint and leans down to press a kiss to your lips, you open your mouth and let his tongue in, your tongues move together passionately, desperately- teeth catching on your lips and tongue as he loses his composure. He pulls back and you’re stunned by the way his eyes gaze at you with unparalleled desire. His thrusts get impossibly faster and your jaw slackens into an ‘o’, eyes rolling back with the inescapable pleasure you feel.

You cum without warning, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Your thighs shake underneath as you ride out your second orgasm of the night, already exhausted, you pull him closer, wanting to feel him as deeply for as long as possible. You tremble beneath him, letting the waves of pleasure flood to every corner of your body, your hands tightening to fists and your toes curling.

He fucks you through your orgasm with slow, unfaltering thrusts and strikes your g-spot as you continue to ride out the aftershocks. Your walls take him further in with each wave of pleasure and he cums mere seconds after you, groaning and all but falling on top of you.

“Fuck—” Hobi whispers into your neck, panting heavily and pulling out of you with a low groan. “Did so well for me princess.”

You look over at him and he’s smiling with his whole face, it lights up the room and makes your heart stop for a second.

You listen as his breathing returns to normal slowly but steadily, he reaches out and brushes your hair out of your face. The way he treats you like a glass doll now, compared to mere seconds ago when his hands were wrapped around your throat, bruising your hips and forced into your mouth makes you giddy. You always hear people talking about the ‘duality’, but they had no idea.

You shift in bed and smile to yourself at the thought. As you move, you clasp your thighs together, feeling the hot cum threatening to spill out. You move your hand down in an attempt to stop it, cheeks heating up from embarrassment of feeling it flow out of you and making a mess on the sheets.

“Leave it,” he says, his hand coming down on top of yours to still your actions. “I want to watch it drip from you.”

He props himself up on his side, reaching out his hand and ghosting his fingers over your skin, drawing shapes as he lets out a low hum of fulfilment, watching as a thin stripe of wetness trickles out of your folds. You shiver as he reaches down to run his finger through your folds to collect the mixture of your arousal and his cum. He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean, releasing it with a noisy pop.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” you joke, as you watch him, unwilling to admit that his actions once again stirred something deep inside you.

“Coming from the girl that just got off on her own in front of me, only to beg me to fuck her seconds later.” He easily counters, bringing his hand back to your face, tracing around the curve of your jaw and cupping it, gently moving it up to catch your lips in a soft kiss.

You smile to yourself, thinking about how concerned you had been earlier about the possible punishment, I guess he has three moods.

And this one just happens to be your favourite.

☀ =.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.= ☀

#bts smut #bts #jung hoseok #jhope smut #j hope bts #bts fanfic #hoseok x reader #smut #hoseok

105 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 3 years

Note

💭

Ayyy Congrats Chlo! Can I get a 💭 of Noah when his girl is pregnant? Like how is he through it snd when she's in labor?

no more requests, the sleepover is over, I'm just finishing up what's in my inbox!

I got so carried away with this

he would be so good by the labour stage

but lets be real, he takes a hot minute to get adjusted

now, don't get me wrong, this was planned

and he is damn excited to be a dad

you've been taking folic acid and vitamin D and all the good stuff

and you were both elated and crying when the test came back positive

but he does take a moment to actually realise what it means

like he did not think that far through, if he's honest

rubbing your back throughout morning sickness

but like, he doesn't quite get it

you have a significantly lowered sex drive

breast tenderness and morning sickness and he is kinda sexually frustrated

it takes him a moment to adjust to that because y'all had been pretty active before, and he has to take care of himself now

not to mention, you're a lot more sleepy

he knew you'd get sleepy, but he expected it to come later, not as early in the pregnancy as the first few weeks

so there's a lot of things that have to be cancelled

like concerts and things

but he was looking forwards to them

and it causes some arguments to begin with

like when he went to the concert with boyd instead

and you'd put a blanket and pillow on the couch for him

or the argument that came with him insisting that he could ride the bike a little longer

and the little strop he gets in when you throw out all the foods on the list your midwife gave you after your first antenatal appointment

"you can't eat them, but I can! why do we have to throw it all out?"

"because you're supposed to be supporting me!"

"I am supporting you, but I still want to eat my food!"

"fine, keep it then!"

and he feels bad two weeks later when you go to game night

and derek and stiles have laid out an awesome looking spread

with charcuterie boards and cheeses and crackers and wine

and he knows how much you love all of that stuff

and you literally can't have any of it

in fact, you brought your own meal, which is a salad and plain crackers and it's not exactly game night material

and so he does some research into food and writes down everything you can and can't have

and he watches a video on best recipes for pregnancy and he makes one for you

a little surprise dinner for when you get home from work

"what's all this?"

"well, you know, your meals look kinda' miserable. but, you're literally growing our child, so you should get to eat nice things, and I googled a good recipe for pregnancy safe meals."

noah getting laid that night

and afterwards, when you're asleep on his chest, he realises how easy it is when he stops thinking it's gonna be a struggle

at around about 7 weeks, you start getting more emotional

crying more at movies and getting mad at random things and being a lot clingier than usual

which he doesn't mind, of course

but it freaks him out sometimes

"noah, what the fuck?" while in tears and he's freaking out because he has no idea how bad he fucked up or what he did "there's a dead bird in the garden, noah, that's got to be some kind of omen, oh my god, what if you die? why would you just die, noah?"

so he cleans up the dead bird

but now you're mad because you're worried about him abandoning you

"baby, if I was gonna' abandon you then why would I have married you, huh?"

and it takes him a hot minute to get used to that too

however, he also learns how to direct it at other people for his own amusement

"hey, baby, did you know that stiles wears socks to bed, even in the summer?"

"you wear socks to sleep in the summer? you're sick, stiles. you're sick. I don't want you near my child, you're weird, you and your socks and your sweaty toes can stay away. you're so gross."

"what the fuck?"

and noah just laughing his ass off about it

you also have to pee a lot more so noah has to take that into account

you're still fully able to go hiking and do the things the two of you love doing

but he has to plan in your pee breaks

not to mention, you're still throwing up every morning

so, he can't plan too much, but he does plan a little weekend getaway for you both

with a privately rented cabin so that you can throw up each morning in peace and don't feel like you're being watched

panicking when you get spotting at week 8

and that really throws you both through a loop

rushing to the hospital and he's unfamiliar with driving your car

so it stresses him out to know he's useless in emergencies

it turns out to be nothing

but noah is pretty sure he's never cried that hard

not to mention, in a public bathroom, just so he didn't scare you

and when he gets home, like, fuck, it's a reality check for him

he starts getting driving lessons

he has a license and all but he's rusty

and he wants to be prepared, so he starts taking lessons

he also starts checking out bigger cars for the two of you

because your little car won't do in a few years

"you know, not that I'm complaining, but I've noticed you aren't wearing bras anymore."

watching your cheeks go fucking warm as you get all embarrassed

"do you wanna go shopping, get some comfier ones?"

"you are gonna go pregnancy bra shopping with me?"

"well, considering how proud I am when I get to go regular bra shopping with you, I think pregnancy bra shopping is the same."

going with you to get tests and scans done

literally crying again when you hear the heartbeat

"we made that, oh my god."

texting everyone he knows when you get your due date estimate

holding your hands when you have to get your pregnancy vaccinations

actually taking notes when the midwife starts talking about making a birthing plan and getting things sorted before you get to the third trimester

and he does a lot of research on birthing plans and starts prepping

going on every shopping trip with you

"I want to get the nursery painted, like, a while before the baby comes. so we can air it out for fumes."

"we can go check samples out this weekend."

"well, I mean, that's soon, like, really?"

"yeah, whatever you want, sunshine."

getting laid again

and when the morning sickness goes away, he starts getting his late morning sleep back

starting to get self-conscious about extra pregnancy weight gain

and noah doing everything he can to reassure you

but as you get into the second trimester, your sex drive suddenly jumps back up

and he fucking loves it

because that's a lot of unprotected sex and a lot of making out and a lot of touching

and honestly, something about it is really turning him on

"baby, I don't know if it's your glow or the fact that I am literally so in love with you, or maybe the months of not having sex, but I've literally never been this hard."

"shut up and fuck me, you can compliment me later."

"'kay."

throughout your second trimester, you get everything done

the nursery gets decorated and the furniture is built and it's perfect

there's only the little touches now, like mobiles and clothes and such

he also bought the new car, and traded yours in

and he arranged for you to get lessons in it too, so you know how to drive a bigger car before you get too pregnant to drive safely

crying the first time the baby moves. so much fucking crying.

and getting so excited every time

it's few and far between in the middle of your second trimester, but it's so meaningful

starting to go to pregnancy classes

and he also signs you both up for a pregnancy exercise class

that is supposedly meant to make labour easier because of the pelvic floor exercises

having a few days where you're nervous around him

thinking he did something wrong

"I think I'm gonna want to take an epidural."

"that's what you've been so worried about?"

"well, yeah. I read all these pamphlets about how it's so controversial and sometimes the dads don't like it, an-"

"I want you to be happy, okay? it's gonna be a happy time, so whatever you want, we'll do, okay? I want you to smile when you look back on the birth of our baby."

"I love you, so damn much."

"I love you so damn much."

finding out the sex of the baby, neither of you wants to wait

telling everyone it's a secret until the baby shower

your bump really starting to come in at the end of the second trimester

as well as headaches and backaches and stretch marks

and noah always making sure to kiss it better

a lot of nice warm baths and washing your hair for you

the baby starts responding to touch and sound, though

noah starts talking to the baby a lot

telling them about your day and rubbing lotion on your stomach

the baby getting hiccups for the first time

in the beginning of the second trimester, you start choosing names

more tears when you settle on a name

the third trimester is where you really start feeling it

you’ve got mood swings, you’ve got backache, and you’re getting a lot of odd cravings

all of which noah indulges for you

some make him gag and he actually cannot watch you eat it

banning food in bed

it caused an argument but he won that one

announcing the gender at your baby shower

you and noah dressing in white while waiting for everyone’s guesses

it’s a girl!

you announced it via a little cake cutting ceremony that was pink inside

using those last few weeks to decorate the nursery with teddies and buy clothes

when you finally go into labour it’s actually while you’re hanging out with stiles and derek

thinking it’s just cramps for a while

because you’ve been having cramps, you think it’s fine

until

“uh, (Y/N), you know I love you, but did you pee on my couch?”

“excuse me, I did not pee on your couch an- oh my god, they’re contractions.”

noah literally choking on his drink

you rubbing his back as he tries to cough it up

panicking so much that his whole fucking birthing plan goes out of the window

“the bag is at home!”

“what about your pillow?”

“fuck! fuck! fuck!”

derek is the only calm one because stiles is;

“HOLY FUCK, IM GONNA BE AN UNCLE, GIMME A NEICE!”

and noah is

“HOLY FUCK, IM GONNA BE A FATHER!”

so derek coordinates it all while you just kinda sit there and watch it all

“okay, well, her contractions are now, like, eight minutes apart, so maybe we should get a move on.”

telling stiles to take you to the hopsital while he takes noah to pick everything up

and off you go

stiles is fucking buzzing the whole way there

calling your hospital to inform them you’re on your way

getting to the hospital and being greeted by your midwife

“lovely to see you again, mom and dad”

“I DIDN’T MAKE THAT.”

“thanks, stiles.” your midwife being confused. “this is the uncle, they’re twins. dad is on his way.”

“I’M THE UNCLE!”

“stop shouting stiles, the baby won’t come out, you’re scaring it back up.”

“sorry.”

stiles holding your hand

noah arriving five minutes later with more than enough stuff

“I didn’t know which pjs you’d want after so I brought options!”

after a good few hours of labour, and noah being there for all of it, your baby is born

literally crashing right after and sleeping for a while

“‘bout fuckin time you woke up, noah won’t let me see my niece ‘til you have. hurry up.”

“I will punch you so hard you’ll be glad you’re in a hospital.”

“that’s my wife”

“sorry.”

meeting your daughter with noah, and having a moment

because he’s put her in a little pink striped onesie and she’s got a baby beanie on

“she’s got your nose.”

“you can’t tell that, she’s like six hours old.”

“i can hope.”

finally taking her to meet stiles who practically dies on the spot

he cries a lot when he finally gets to hold his niece

“stiles, derek, meet ‘hope claudia stilinski’.”

#9ksleepover #hope stilinski is like emma rapp #i made a new baby character #she’s my new au character pls #i love her #don’t steal her

46 notes · View notes

what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

Everything

@momobaby227 @marvelfansworld @cobalt-gear @djeniiscorner @ayamenimthiriel @coldmuffinbanditshoe @nerdofthefandoms @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @southerngracela @goldenfightergir @kellymat @what-just-happened-bro @jennmurawski13 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jtargaryen18 @redhairedfeistynerd @charmed-asylum @saiyanprincessswanie @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @jhayes6984 @anika-ann @icanfeelastormbrewing @gigglegirl77 @princess-evans-addict @mes-2016 @theladybiers @void-hoechlin

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit @icandothisallday @capsiclewinter @this-is-serenaa @alexakeyloveloki @perplexed3001 @twittytelly @kelbabyblue @maan24

If your name appears above but the tag isn’t live please let me know.

#halloween challenge #j's haunted house 2020 #jshauntedhouse2020 #dark ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #murder he wrote #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale fanfiction #knives out #knives out fanfic

391 notes · View notes

virtueangel · 4 years

Text

limitless.

chapter one.

wc: 2,034. original publish date: october 1, 2020.

Winter seems to drag on this year, pushing back Spring farther and farther until it steps off the chessboard of seasons completely. It's early April, but there is still snow piled up on the sidewalks, filling in the cracks of the concrete squares and melting into slush on the smooth surface. John F. Kennedy and Cleopatra walk down the sidewalk now, grasping hands dearly so as not to slip on the melted snow. Cleo is bundled up tightly in a black cardigan, John's varsity letterman jacket draped on top for extra warmth. She huddles close to the boy as she walks, trying to bask in some of the natural body heat wafting off of him. They like to walk in silence -- sometimes it's easier that way. Their questions don't have to be answered if they're never asked. But sometimes, the burden of carrying around the question is greater than the weight of hearing the answer.

"Why don't you ever take me on real dates, John?" Cleo asks in her shrill voice, almost whining.

"I don't know why you'd want me to, Cleo," he replies coolly, still grasping her hand. She wears elegant black gloves which hug her lean fingers fittingly. The cashmere is smooth and inviting against John's palm.

"Because some girls like romance, John."

"I thought you liked making out with me."

"I do!" She relaxes her hand, still holding onto John but not as violently. "But I don't feel like your girlfriend when I'm being shoved into a closet. I just feel like a pair of breasts and an open mouth."

John stares ahead nonchalantly. "That's because you're not my girlfriend, Cleo."

She lets go of his hand completely and scoffs. She shoves her own hands into her pockets -- John's pockets -- and watches her feet on the sidewalk. Her shiny black boots tick against the pavement, her movements slow and even steadier now that she doesn't have the boy's support. "Some girls like being girlfriends, too."

John sighs, shaking his head in exasperation. "We've been over this, Cleo. I don't date, but you like me and you're hot."

Cleo clenches her jaw. "That's a shitty thing to say, JFK. Don't you like me, too?"

JFK shrugs. "I like your ass."

The girl rolls her eyes, quickening her pace to walk in front of John. She slows down again, realising that the bottoms of her new boots are too slippery to risk a pace faster than normal. "Whatever. We're almost to my house anyway."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Cleo lets out a huff before grabbing onto JFK for support again. She wraps her gloved hands around the loop his arm makes as it sticks out of his pocket. "I'm not gonna argue with you when we're right on the verge of a make-out session," she says.

"I thought you didn't want to be used for your body."

She shrugs before giving the shameless answer, "I don't, but you give exceedingly good head."

John F. Kennedy smirks. "Oh, you bet I do."

Cleo blushes, and tries to hide her face from John.

"But I can't today."

“What?” She asks. “Why?”

"Because I've got a lot of homework," he says, knowing it's a half-assed excuse.

Cleopatra turns to him, her eyebrow raised. "You don't do homework, John."

"I have to help Van Gogh today," John explains.

"Van Gogh?" Cleo repeats. John nods. "He needs your help?"

John rolls his eyes impatiently, wondering why Cleo can't seem to get it. Wondering why everything about her is so superficial that she can't understand that he has a best friend; why she isn't the only one who matters. "No, he doesn't need my help, he just doesn't like being alone on Friday nights."

"Neither do I," Cleo protests, batting her eyes desperately. She means the action to come off as flirty, but she knows she's going to lose this fight.

"So call some of your other friends. Abe, Joan-"

"Abe Lincoln and Joan of Arc are both cool enough to have plans on a Friday night," she combats.

JFK smirks. "Surely you won't let them be cooler than you."

Before Cleo can protest, they are walking up her driveway, her hands still wrapped around his arm. John walks her up the three steps to her front stoop, whirling her around so her back is to the door and her face is to him. He holds her gloved hands delicately, pretending to feel bad about blowing off his hot not-girlfriend to go spend time with his emotionally deprived best friend. It does sound depressing and lame when he hears it in his own head, but there's no going back now.

"Call me tonight?" Cleo asks, the slightest hint of a beg in her voice. She tries to hide it again under a flirtatious lilt, but it falls flat for the second time this afternoon. Cleo already knows what JFK is going to say.

"I never call, Cleo. People who are dating call, and I-"

Cleo cuts him off with an exasperated eye roll. "-don't date. I know."

"So why did you ask?"

Cleo shrugs. "I don't know. But I'm going now."

Nonetheless, she steps toward John for her expected kiss. He leans down to give her one, as per their afternoonly routine, but it doesn't bury itself as deep as usual. John keeps his mouth closed, despite Cleo's best efforts to engage him in the endeavour. When she realises her plan isn't going to work, she pulls away and scrambles into her house, swiftly shutting the door behind her to close off her embarrassment from the rest of the world. She has enough to worry about it seeping through the cracks.

***

JFK knocks on his best friend's door nearly ten minutes later, his feet sopping wet in his tennis shoes. He'd made a mistake when dressing that morning. He could see the snow intruding the sidewalk from his bedroom window, but he'd still opted for his sneakers, full of breathable holes and heat-accommodating fabrics. His big toe feels like it could snap off at any moment. He thinks if he were to take off his cotton sock and look at it, his toe would be blackened with the final stages of frostbite.

Vincent Van Gogh answers the door himself, wrapped in a fleece blanket and feet smothered in three layers of sock. Kennedy can't help but feel a little bit jealous, sure his toes are nice and cozy in their thick woollen fortress.

"JFK," Van Gogh greets the boy, standing aside to let him through the door. Van Gogh wonders how Kennedy ever could've noticed him at school; he stands at 5'5” while the varsity cross country runner was 6'1" last time he measured. Van Gogh is often a traffic cone to be tripped over.

"Sorry I'm so late. Cleo was bitching at me," JFK apologises.

"That's okay. I'm used to being alone," Van Gogh shrugs.

"But I know you especially hate Friday nights. You hate when there are sports games because the town gets loud and the drunken yelling echoes through the neighbourhood, bouncing off of the shingles and spinning like tops in your ears -- ear."

Van Gogh scoffs. "Spare me the poetry, Kennedy. You don't need to romanticise my mental illness, okay? It's not fucking fun."

"I thought you liked all that flowery prose -- all that girly shit."

The shorter boy shakes his head, feeling even smaller under Kennedy's scrutiny. "Don't talk down to me. And just because literature is written like a painting doesn't mean it's 'girly'. You like my artwork, don't you?"

"I like the one you did for AP art last year... the self-portrait."

Van Gogh smiles internally, secretly pleased with his best friend's answer. "I never thought I'd get a real compliment out of you, Kennedy."

"I compliment you!" He protests.

Van Gogh shakes his head, still wearing his smile. His lips are like daisies soaked in blood -- full and dripping. "Not without coating it in some condescending insult."

"Whatever, Gogh. You didn't want to be alone, and I'm here. So what now?"

"Well, so long as I'm holding you hostage, you may as well do some homework."

"I don't do homework," JFK reminds him.

Van Gogh smirks. "I know that, Kennedy. I just had to remind you of your morals before you go off and give me an honest compliment again. Weirds me out when you go soft, even for me."

JFK follows Van Gogh to his bedroom. The hallway walls are oddly bare and would go without notice if they hadn't been painted a murky blue. No pictures are hung, which strikes Kennedy as uncomfortably odd every time he visits his best friend's house. JFK's dads have hundreds of pictures of him stuffed into each nook and cranny of their house -- it's striking to see a pair of parents who care so little about documenting their child's early years.

Gogh pushes open the door to his room tentatively, almost as if he's scared there'll be an apparition seated on his bed. He shudders at the thought, trying to shake it off by opening the door all the way. He sits on a chair instead of the bed, nervous to accidentally sit on top of the ghost and give it a perfect chance to tunnel its way up into his organs. JFK notices the boy's shuddering and raises an eyebrow, taking note of the closed window and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Who knew such a small boy could be so hopeless at keeping warm?

"Cold?" Kennedy asks, and Van Gogh looks up from the spot on his hand where he'd been anxiously picking at a scab. "And don't do that; the skin's almost healed," he adds.

Van Gogh narrows his eyes at the boy on his bed. "Since when do you care whether or not my scabs are healed?"

JFK shrugs, nervous to admit that he feels like he has to care since his friend's parents so obviously don't.

"Sorry I snapped," Van Gogh covers quickly. "Reflex."

Kennedy nods dismissively as if to show that he understands.

A couple seconds tick by, filling the room like a hose in a swimming pool. The time collects in the bedroom, spilling into every corner and fault line crack of the walls. It begins to overflow, and that's when Van Gogh can't stand the silence anymore. He invited Kennedy over so he wouldn't have to drown in stillness. Why can't JFK talk, dammit? Why is he so self-absorbed that he can't carry on a conversation for longer than five minutes at a time?

"Do you wanna read a book?" Van Gogh suggests, but it comes out in an urgent blurt. Maybe that's for the best. It gets Kennedy's attention.

"I don't read books."

Van Gogh rolls his eyes, cheeks burning a violent fire from embarrassment. "That's because you don't have the attention span to," he spits. "I could read it to you."

JFK's head snaps up. Gogh's cheeks darken an even deeper shade of red and he can feel his heartbeat in his face. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Okay," Kennedy says at last. "Read me a bedtime story." His overconfident, annoyingly-flirty tone is back, and Van Gogh smiles in relief. The blood drains from his cheeks and his heartbeat follows, little by little.

He excuses himself from his chair to slide a book off of his shelf. Kennedy lies down on the bed, his head on the pillow and his too-long legs spilling over the edge. "Give me a blanket," he demands, clearly serious about the "bedtime" thing. Van Gogh rolls his eyes, but fishes a blanket out of his bottom dresser drawer and throws it over to Kennedy nonetheless. JFK has just finished unfolding the blanket and throwing it over himself when Van Gogh settles back into his chair, lifting the cover of the book with his long fingers gingerly. His nails grow out past his fingertips which is normally a girlish look, but Kennedy can't help but wash his eyes over the boy's hands anyway. It doesn't look girlish on Van Gogh. Nothing looks girlish on Van Gogh.

#jfgogh #jfk clone high #clone high #van gogh clone high #fanfiction #van gogh x jfk

149 notes · View notes

thr-333 · 4 years

Text

Mismatch- Part 16

Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020

When everyones dates go very well

First< Previous > Next

-------

“Thanks for dropping us off,” Marion slides out Selina's car, Kagami and Chloe following, “We couldn’t take the same route as them,”

“I’d be disappointed if you did,” Selina teases, with an edge of seriousness.

“Thank you,” Kagami chimes in, getting waved off by Selina as she and Chloe leave to hunt down the targets.

“So you’re going to tell him?” Marion whispers through the open window.

“Yep,” She sighs, tightening grip on the steering wheel, “We’re going to go on a date of out own, completely romantic, then ruin the evening,”

“You really think he’s going to be mad?” Marion cringes, getting a reassuring smile.

“At me,” She clarifies, “Don’t you worry he’ll be thrilled to have more kids,”

Marion holds back a laugh at her exasperated tone, “Have fun,”

“I won’t,” Selina assures, throwing back a, “Have fun,”

“I will,” Marion grins, spying on the totally-not-a-date between two disasters will be nothing but entertaining.

Marion waves at the leaving car before jogging to catch up with the girls. Staying slightly behind to watch them try and talk about plants. Chloe trying to sound more intelligent than ‘look at the pretty flower’, not that Kagami would mind. He resists the urge to drags his fingers through the leaves of ferns and vines as they walk down the winding paths of the botanical garden. Too many times has he touched plant life only for it to wither and die later, a side effect of holding his miraculous too long. So he always made sure Marinette is around to counteract the bad luck.

The urge gets easier to resist as they enter a more open garden area, filled with flower patches and green grass. Probably the cleanest place in Gotham likely thanks to a certain rouge that would hunt you down for littering here. He spots the two lovebirds and directs the girls to a nearby tree well suited for hiding behind as they spy on the little picnic Adrien has set up, in a grassy patch surrounded by flowers.

“Oh my god,” Chloe groans, “How can they be such idiots?”

“Can we just tell them?” Kagami asks irritably, not for the first time.

“No, let their relationship take its natural course,” Marion scolds, not for the first time.

“Do you think they’re going to be just as slow when they’re together?” Chloe complains more than asks, “Will they ever get married?”

“Are you kidding?” Marion scoffs, “The day after they get together someones going to propose,”

“Probably both,” Kagami predicts, watching as they both fumble over something.

“Probably,” Marion and Chloe both agree, as the fumbled object gets dropped.

“Well, hey there!” a high pitch voice shouts through their whispering, “Who’re we spying on?”

Marion whips around coming nose to nose with Harley Quinn herself. He takes a step back to see Poison Ivy standing just behind.

“Um…” Marion debates going for his baton, they didn’t seem hostile but they don’t need to be to cause damage, “Our friends date?”

“Ohhh!” Harley stands on her tiptoes to look over their heads, “Aren't they just precious?!”

“Yes,” Ivy agrees to Harley’s goo-goo eyes despite not having looked over once.

“Let's go say hi,” Harley links her arms with Marion and Chloe’s dragging them over to the picnic.

“What are you doing here!” Marinette shouts as soon as they approach, seemingly more surprised at them than the two rogues.

“I caugh’em spyin on ya and decided to drop in,” Harley releases them and sits down, “This looks delicious!”

Harley takes a cookie from a plate, eyes lighting up when she takes a bite. Marion locks eyes with Marinette as confused as him. It only gets worse when Ivy sits down as well, on the grass not the blanket. Well it’s not like he can just leave. Marion shrugs and sits down, immediately reaching over to steal from Marinette's plate, ignoring the plates around him.

“Sooo,” Harley hums partly around a mouthful of cake, rocking back with legs crossed, “What’s ya names,”

“Marinette, that's Marion,” Marinette hisses his name, as she tries to snatch back half a sandwich.

“Oh! Brucie’s kids!” Harley claps her hands together, “You’re the Wayne twins!”

“Uhhh…” Yes? No? Kinda? Soon? It’s up to him?

“No they're not,” Kagami takes a seat following Chloe, “It’s just a baseless rumour,”

“Yep!” Marion agrees way to loudly, “A completely baseless rumours, no fact here, nope,”

The look he gets from Marinette is expected, but it’s Chloe’s lingering gaze that really gets to him.

“I like what you’ve done with the flowers,” Marinette covers for him, alerting him that Poison Ivy had made many more bloom.

“I didn’t do much,” Ivy says, even as the grass around her is a couple inches taller than it used to be, “They already wanted to bloom so bright at seeing you,”

“Really?” Marinette sweat drops, reaching for her bag, “I do have a bit of a green thumb, I take care of a garden back home,”

“What wonderful things do you grow?” Ivy asks with keen interest, Adrien off to the side looking awestruck at Marinette’s composure.

“She’ll be takin all day now,” Harley spins towards the three other date crashers, “I didn’t hear your names!”

Chloe and Kagami startle as she leans further into their personal space.

“Surely if you’ve heard of the twins you’ve heard of me,” Chloe flips her hair, only getting a blank face from Harley, huffing, “Chloe Bourgeois,”

“Kagami,” She replies curtly, “Marion doesn't appreciate date crashing,”

“It’s alright Kags,” Marion assures, he more had a problem with having to hold her back from yelling at them both when they didn't kiss after fireworks.

“Ohhhh, are you two dating,” Harley stage whispers, making Chloe choke on her drink.

“No not at all,”

“Just friends,”

And not friends in the Adrien Agreste way.

“Ew gross you two dating?” Chloe cringes, “Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!”

“Oh! Then you two!” Harley exclaims, addressing the girls.

“Umm…”

“Well I….”

“Yes,”

“Rion!” Chloe yells, blushing furiously at his shit eating grin.

“Well let me give you some advice,” Harley sing songs, a not so subtle glance back at Ivy.

“I don’t think that's necessary-”

“Hush now,” She shushes Kagami, “So when you're on a date and some bozo tries interrupting, there's this nifty thing you can do with certain nerves-Or! If you have the tools, a good whack upside the head-Or! My favourite! You get your gun and…”

Marion shifts away, still keeping Chloe and Kagami in his sights, both completely red.

“-And I planted this one three years ago,” Marinette explains, letting Ivy hold her phone, eyes glued to whatever picture was on it, “I know they tend to like partial shade but I found this one prefers to be more in the sun, so I just move it on especially sunny days,”

“Your garden is brilliant they all look so-” Her gaze snaps up to Marion, making him freeze in place, “They do not like you,”

“Um,” It takes a second to realise she was talking about the plants, “I guess not, the plants at home like me,”

“Do they?” Ivy frowns, and Marion desperately hopes she likes Marinette enough to not attack him.

“Well, we have a catnip plant that does,” Or at least Plagg likes it enough to do his best not to let anything, even himself, destroy it.

“You do?” Ivy turns to Marinette, who starts talking about the plant.

Marion takes this opportunity to escape back into the conversation they were having with Harley-

“And if you really want to have fun in bed you can-” Nope never mind.

Marion stands, considers bringing Adrien along to find some more snacks for their bigger group. But he seemed just as enthralled with Marinette as Ivy is with plants. He walks off waving to Marinette as she looks over to check on him. He smiles at the silent desperate pleads for help Chloe and Kagami give him. With a bounce in his step Marion walks off.

He didn’t even realise he had left them alone with two rouges until he was halfway through the gardens. Whatever. Marinette could handle them and they both seemed friendly enough, if not very polite. If they wanted to crash a date he can think of another person that would rather it happen to them.

“So the twins got out of hospital yesterday,” yes because that's a good way to bring up the topic of your illegitimate children to their out of the loop father.

“That’s fast,” Translated means; I’m suspicious.

“Did you look into those Paris heroes?” No she isn’t stalling not at all, this is important.

“I did, they’ve been working mostly alone for years,” Bruce scowls, picking at his food “I don’t know how the league hasn’t heard about this,”

“Didn’t Marion say this Ladybug person fixes everything?” Selina hums, she had been to Paris and never saw anything, they couldn't be that good could they?

"Is that what he meant?" Bruce looks up at her genuinely puzzled.

Selina hides her smirk behind her wine, which she desperately needed for this conversation. She had forgotten not everyone could understand their babbling. Not even Bruce, yet. She merely hums in response, before taking a gulp of wine.

“I plan on contacting her,” Bruce admits out loud, their secluded rooftop table ensuring privacy, “Did they say anything more to you?”

“They’ve had some other things on their mind lately,” She doesn't meet his eye, so they were back to this topic, great.

“Post traumatic stress?” Bruce guesses, she wished- wait no- that's not good.

Selina would rather do this a hundred times over than have her kids suffer like that. Fortunately they didn't seem to be. Which could be concerning in its own right.

“No, actually, they seem completely unaffected by a near death experience,” Selina sighs, they should be right? Thats normal for regular people right? Well they weren't normal, mainly because of the man sitting across from her, who needed to know that, “Just like their father,”

“Tom?” of-fucken-course he had to make this harder, no she will not admit she was purposefully vague.

“No,” Selina feels the anxiety in her chest choke her, “You,”

And nope that last word only made it worse.

“... What?” Bruce pauses, fork still in mid air.

“You,” She places her empty glass down, the clink hitting the table deafening.

“... Selina, what are you saying,” Bruce lowers the fork, halfway between a scowl and suspicion.

“I mean we’ve been at it for years is it really that surprising?” Selina tries to play off, joking tone not overshadowing her panic.

“Selina,” Theres that stern tone, paired with the signature Bat glare.

“... They’re your kids, our kids,” Selina corrects, making sure to meet his eye. No tricks this time.

She lets the silence hang, studying Bruce's face. At first you can clearly tell he's trying to keep a mask on, but it cracks bit by bit. She sees confusion, realisation, panic, anger, disappointment all over lapping. Swirling together repeating over and over again until settling on anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me!” He explodes, pushing her off the ledge she had been on all day, or the last couple days, or hell for eighteen goddamn years.

“Because you-you’re-” She fumbles, so many reasons, mainly relating to Bats in some way, but that wasn't the main reason, “You said you didn’t want kids!”

“You never told me I already had kids!" The realisation hits Selina that he remembers.

If it was just now, or he had for years. He remembered the night she had asked if he wanted a family. He had said no. That he couldn't. That he had a responsibility to the city. So she had left. Not daring to see him when she was pregnant and not wanting to see him afterwards. The next time she saw Bruce he had just adopted a child.

“What would you have done! Huh?!” A child who a year later was chasing criminals around Gotham, “Would you quit? Would you dress them up too and make them fight crime!? I sent them to Paris to avoid that!”

“You know full well I never made them do anything!” Maybe not on purpose, but they do a whole lot for his approval.

“Their kids Bruce! You should have never let them join you out there!” She rants, pacing away from the table.

She gave them up so they would never join her either. Although with how much Marion likes cats he would surely love his own cat suit.

“How would you know what would happen?” Bruce demands, keeping pace with her, dragging his hands through his hair, “I-god- I hadn't even adopted Dick yet and you wrote me off!”

“ Exactly , do you really think you could have raised them!” Dick's his argument for good parenting? Better than Jason.

“Maybe I wanted to!” Bruce yells, anger crumbling, he collapses onto a love seat looking over the city, “Maybe I wanted to raise at least one of my children,”

“I know,” Selina tentatively sits on the chairs arm, reaching over to him, “But they deserved a chance to live without all this ,"

She vaguely gestures to the city and partly to Bruce. Who looks offended at his inclusion.

"They’ve been in Gotham a week Bruce," She slides into the seat, arguing her point before he has the chance, "And they have the press after them, villains attacking, they just got out the hospital ,”

“Hm,” Bruce looks out at the city, not really seeing any of it. “They really are like me huh,”

“Without a doubt,” She gets a slight tug at the lips from Bruce, completely humourless.

They fall silent Bruce looking out at the city. She studies his expression, less of a world wind of emotion now but certainly still in turmoil. He starts to fix his mask back in place, she looks away so he doesn't have to. Looking out at the view they were meant to be enjoying on their date. One that she had planned. Bruce was never going to trust her to plan one again. Or at least he will always be expecting her to spring shocking news on him.

“What do you want to do now?” She asks the question she has wondered for years.

Whenever they were alone and things were calm, unnervingly calm for Gotham. She had thought of telling him. Partly because the calm alarms her, in a life of chaos she felt out of place in it. It would be the perfect way to bring the storm. While cats tended to hate water she has been an alley cat all her life, the calm was meant for house cats. However, thats what the other part of her wanted. For that calm to stay, but to include their kids. Who always sat at the edge of that calm, threatening to ruin it never letting her settle into it. Maybe that was why she could never enjoy it. Maybe now that they were in the storm, the next calm would be with the two of them.

“... I don’t know,” a rarity for the Batman, more common for the man underneath.

----------------

Taglist:

@technicallyburninggarden @fusser90 @misslenamooney @superbwhispersconnoisseur @biodad-bruce-month

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fic #bio dad bruce wayne #Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020 #Mismatch #Marinette #marinette is mdc #twins au #vigilante au #pop star au #bio dad au #bio! dadbrucewaynemonth2020 #b!dbwm2020 #Maribat #mlb

132 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

when your love reaches me (i)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 9.3k+ (i am abundantly sorry for how long this is. curl up with a snack, my dudes)

warnings: required: total suspension of disbelief. also: screwed up historical timeline, slight angst, language, innuendo, suggestive moments and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: hi! a day late, but i wanted to respect the ‘out of time’ epilogue which came out yesterday as this is very much inspired by @perriwiinkle and her lovely fic. this is my take on a similar theme, only with brian and just three (3) parts. thank you to @deacyblues for your beta-ing help on this mini-series; i heart emoji you. anyways, let me know what you think. enjoy! xoxo!

in this chapter: something—be it fate or otherwise—transplants you to a place you do not belong.

it’s raining hard, thunder and lightning battling for dominance in the gray sky. you clutch your textbook to your chest and duck your head against the onslaught, feet nearly slipping on the flat stones of the sidewalk. london weather has always been unpredictable, but you’ve never seen a storm like this, never been caught in one either. it’s too far to make it back to your flat without catching pneumonia and the library feels just as far away so you push forward. the sky turns bright white followed closely by a boom of thunder, and you squeak, picking up your pace.

across a muddy patch of grass stands union concert hall. it’s likely to be locked on a saturday evening, but it’s worth a shot. you squelch through the mud and run the remaining hundred yards to old brick building. your hands, wet with rain, scrabble against the brass doorknob, which, to your surprise, turns with ease. muttering a prayer of thanks, you wrench the door open as a gust of wind turns the rain sideways. you slip inside, breathing heavy, and fall against the door as it shuts.

silence. blessed silence.

you heave a sigh of relief and run a hand through your drenched hair.

the concert hall is empty, but the lonesome rows of chairs and desolate stage come as no surprise. with fall break around the corner, imperal college is largely devoid of students on the weekends. there’s parties to be had, memories to be made; no one wants to be cooped up on campus. you, however, don’t have that luxury. there’s too much to be done in too tight a span of time.

as the rain pounds the roof and slides down the windows, you take a seat at the back of the hall. the plastic chair creaks underneath your weight, and each time you move a soggy squish echoes about the room. your textbook—creating exhibitions: collaborations in the planning, development, and design of innovative experiences—rests open on your lap. the laminated binding curls as it dampens, but you’re soaked to the bone. there’s no avoiding the damage. if you must, you’ll pay the thirty pounds at the end of the semester to turn your rental into a purchase.

if you think about it, it really is quite sad, the way you’re sitting on your own on a saturday night, highlighter clamped between your teeth, eyes scanning the pages of your textbook with far too much interest. if you think about it, you know you should be out with your friends. this morning rachel had tried to convince you to come out after your shift at the museum, but you’d said no—again. you’ve been given a full ride in the masters of science communication program, and you’ll do nothing to jeopardize the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. rachel insists that a simple evening at a local pub is harmless, and you know she’s right, but your answer is always the same: no. it’s easier that way.

you read for awhile, highlighting the text and annotating the margins of your textbook with the thoughts or questions that flit through your mind. as you dry, the legs of your jeans turn stiff, and your hair feels frizzy with humidity. not for the first time, you wish you’d remembered the pink umbrella leaning against the coatrack in your flat.

an hour passes, maybe two. with a heavy sigh, you shut your book and meander through the rows of chairs toward the bathroom. the washroom light flickers a muted yellow when you switch it on, an incessant electronic buzz filling the room. crossing to the counter, you stare at yourself in the mirror. you look atrocious: tired bags under your eyes, streaks of mascara on your cheeks, hair unruly, clothes sodden and weighed down on your body. you’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn depressing. you look like a madwoman, like some sort of victorian nightmare. in an effort to clean yourself up, you splash cold water on your face and scrub the makeup away until your cheeks hurt. you wet your hair, run your fingers through the tangles, and attempt to dry yourself under the hand dryer.

it’s still raining outside. there’s a single skylight in the bathroom, and when you look up, it’s a funny sensation, watching the rain slam against the window but never hit your face. you smile faintly; there’s just something about being inside when it rains. it’s similar to a warm hug or a—

a crack of lightning breaks you from your reverie. the sound goes straight to your heart, stopping it with the force of its blow. with a gasp, you clamp your hands against your ears, eyes screwed shut, and you’re suddenly six years old again, scared of a simple thunderstorm. white light pours through the skylight, drowning the room in an almost heavenly glow. thunder trips over the heels of the lightning in an effort to make itself known. the thunder is more like a roar, and you swear you can feel the foundation of the building jostle.

then all is quiet. even the sound of the rain on the roof has stopped.

you pull your hands from your ears, breathing heavy, and look around the bathroom. maybe... maybe you should call a cab or an uber. you’d rather not be stuck in the concert hall overnight, and the storm feels eerily close.

grabbing your bag from the counter, you fumble for your phone in its depths. you come away empty-handed, but you must have left it on your chair alongside your textbook. you pull open the bathroom door and step into a crush of bodies.

your heart stutters in your chest, confusion stealing the air from your lungs.

there’s a crowd of people in the concert hall. it’s hard to move, to breathe, to think. the room is dim, lit only by orange and white lights on the stage. there’s music pounding through the room, and it sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re too stunned and confused to place it. a haze of smoke filters over the heads of onlookers; the air smells like cigarettes and sweat. where had everyone come from? how long had you been in the bathroom? surely not long enough for a band and a crowd and—

a thought strikes you: this is not the union concert hall you were just sat in seeking shelter from a bad storm.

a hand circles your arm, and you startle, head twisting to the left. “you okay, love?” a voice asks. the man is short with warm-toned skin, his hair like a dark halo around his head. he stares at you in earnest, and you’re sure you’ve gone pale.

in lieu of answering, you stumble backwards, back into the bathroom. the subway-tiled walls of moments past have turned a dull green, and the hand dryer has been replaced with a paper-towel dispenser. the linoleum under your shoes is grimy, unwashed and stained. the air is heavy with cigarette smoke thanks to the women lounging around the open stalls, dripping ashes to the floor with a simple flick of the wrist. the scent clings to the inside of your nose, and you blame the tears pricking the corners of your eyes on the smell.

“excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a lithe woman with blown-out blonde hair. she gives you a once over, her brow furrowed, before leaving the bathroom.

at the sink, you brace your hands against the edge. the sink feels like cheap plastic, easy enough to rip from the wall. where the sturdy white countertop has gone, you aren’t sure. for the second time in one day, you splash water on your heated face.

“hey. are you okay?”

you look up and meet the doe eyes of a short girl standing behind you. her hair is bobbed at her neck, her eyes lined with a deep purple liner. her appearance is warped by the faded mirror, but you can see the way she’s looking at you, and you don’t blame her. you’re sure you look as crazy as you feel.

you straighten at the sink and shut the water off. “i’m just...” you flounder for a good excuse. your insides feel like mush, and your brain has paused, as if the loading symbol is looping over and over in place of producing any coherent thought. “do you have a phone i could borrow?”

“there’s a payphone around the corner,” she says, her words slow with apprehension. “did something happen out there? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

there’s a pounding in the back of your head, hard and steady, and you rub your temples. “i was studying and then i was here and i don’t really remember the rest.” you pause. “it’s been a long day.”

the girl’s face softens as she smiles. she moves to stand beside you and withdraws a thin tube of lipstick from her clutch. “i know what you mean. i can get pretty bogged down and feel like the time’s flown by and i’ve been asleep the at the wheel, but, god, it’s queen! they started here, you know, in this very concert hall. and now they’re back, just for us! how bloody exciting is that?” as she speaks, her irish accent grows stronger, in tandem with the excitement lighting her face.

you frown, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “queen? like... the band queen or queen elizabeth?”

she pauses in her lipstick application. “the band queen, silly. are you really that knackered?” with a grin, she puts the lipstick down and takes your shoulders in her hands. “you’re at a queen concert, love. it’s friday, september first, ninteen-seventy-eight. has been all day, ever since you woke up in your jammies.” she laughs, her blunt bob swaying as tilts her head to the side. “you gonna be fine?”

your first thought: no, absolutely not.

the only answer you can give, punctuated by a weak smile: “yeah. yeah, i’m gonna be all right. thanks.”

the girl puts her makeup away and gives your shoulder a final squeeze. “i think they’ll be finishing soon, so i’m gonna pop back out so i don’t miss it. try and get some rest, yeah? you look like you could use it.”

she exits the bathroom, a song momentarily pouring through the door, and you find yourself alone in the empty room.

before you can stop yourself, you twist on your heel and lunge for the nearest toilet. you vomit, heaving what little remains in your stomach, until there is nothing left to unearth. dropping back against the stall, you duck your head between your knees.

this is just a fever dream. maybe you got scared during the storm, hit your head, and passed out on the bathroom floor. there’s no way in hell—no way in hell—this is nineteen-seventy-eight. that’s preposterous. and sure, queen might have gotten their start at imperial college—everyone knows that—but that was eons ago. freddie mercury is dead, john deacon is retired, and brian may and roger taylor are well within their seventies. the girl must be mistaken or strung out or high or all of the above.

or maybe you are. you can’t be sure anymore.

your legs tremble beneath you as you stand. if any good has come of this, it’s that you’re dry now—suspiciously so. despite the pale sheen on your face and layer of sweat on your forehead, it’s as if you were never drenched to begin with. your cream pleated trousers have no wrinkles along the back after you spent all afternoon stuffing and unstuffing boxes on the floor. your navy top is void of the stubborn coffee stain you’d gotten this morning as you rushed into the museum ten minutes late. it’s almost as if the day never happened.

it’s almost as if the day—saturday, september fifth, twenty-twenty—is still forty-two years in the future instead of thirty minutes away from ending.

“all right, we’ve got one more for you lovelies tonight! this one’s new, so keep it a secret ‘till the record comes out, okay?”

you turn at the sound of a familiar voice amplified over a loudspeaker.

freddie mercury.

though you’ve never been a huge queen fan, you’re positive anyone with even a passing knowledge of classic rock could hear his voice and pick it out in a lineup.

heart in your throat, you sling your bag over your shoulder and squeeze out the door. the energy in the hall has heightened tenfold since you last stood in the bathroom doorway. perhaps it’s due to the fact that the concert is rapidly drawing to a close and everyone wants to drink in the last moments before it’s all over.

perhaps it’s simply because it’s queen.

as your eyes slide to the stage, you can’t help but feel a giddiness rise in your chest. your throat goes tight, eyes misty, as you weave through the crowd on auto-pilot. you’re drawn to them; who wouldn’t be? the floor shakes beneath your feet as the music surges around you. he’s magnificent—freddie. he commands the crowd with ease, and you feel at home, relaxed, like you’re watching a friend goof around. seeing him there—whole, well, happy—is nothing short of a miracle.

“aren’t they marvelous?” you turn to see the girl from the bathroom. she holds your bicep tight in her fingers. her smile is radiant, her face glowing with unbridled joy. “i’m glad you made it out for this!”

you nod dumbly, swiveling back to drink in the final moments. matthew at the coffee shop you frequent would kill for something like this. you want to text him, to rub it in his face with a good-natured wink, but he hasn’t been born yet, has he? seeing freddie mercury on stage confirms it.

you’re not in twenty-twenty anymore.

the song draws to a close, and you find yourself smiling despite the uncertainty of your current situation. you can’t help but applaud alongside the rest of the audience. someone shouts “encore” but freddie waves him off with a laugh.

“we just did a fucking encore!” he says.

they take their bows—all four of them—and then disappear backstage. a moment passes before the house lights flicker on, and the crowd begins to disperse. trash litters the floor, and the room doesn’t feel as magical as it did seconds before, but you find it hard to breathe nonetheless. try as you might, you can’t tear your eyes away from the stage.

“oh my god, wasn’t that brilliant?” bathroom-girl practically jumps up and down on her ballet-slippered feet. “i’m anna, in case you were wondering,” she says.

you hesitate. there’s too much going on around you, so many things you’ve only read about or seen in pictures: the fashion, the hair, the fucking band. you feel dizzy—dizzy with fear and excitement. it’s like you’re standing in line for a rollercoaster. you know what’s coming: the slow climb up the first hill, anticipation bubbling in your stomach before the first drop, then the madness of letting yourself plummet at incredible speeds. all you can do is laugh, just like you do on the rollercoaster.

“[y/n],” you say between fits of amusement. “sorry! i don’t know what’s gotten into me!” you press a hand to your mouth, shaking your head back and forth.

anna grins. “that was me when the concert first started.” she bends her head toward yours conspiratorially. “i nearly pissed myself when i saw john deacon walk out for the first time.”

your laughter turns to girlish giggles and holding her forearm is all you can do to keep from falling to the floor. you’re drunk, surely. drunk off what, you can’t say, but you’ve felt like this before.

“hey!” anna’s eyes go wide, and you can see the lightbulb turn on above her head. “i saw where they parked their vans. we could go have a look-see!”

your initial reaction is a resounding no. just the thought of standing mere meters away from queen makes you want to break out into hives. you’re sure to say something stupid and embarrassing or screw up some time-continuum-thing. you’ve seen enough doctor who to know not to mess about with time.

oh god, you must be really fucking crazy if this is what you’re life has come to, deciding what the right or wrong move is based on a children’s television show.

yet there’s still a sliver of your heart holding on to the hope that this is all a dream. you could wake up at any moment, still in the concert hall, yes, but where you belong and a soaked mess from the rainstorm. so, even though you know you shouldn’t, even though your heart of hearts tells you that you’re a girl out of place and far away from home, you nod and let anna drag you toward the a side-exit door.

outside, the air is chilly, but it soothes your hot skin.

standing outside the concert hall is perhaps more strange than standing in it. you know this spot; you walk behind the building every day. if you follow the winding path toward the dormitories and then veer to the left, you’ll eventually reach your flat—or you would if this were some other time. it’s not a terribly long walk, and most of the time, you find it refreshing. but today, with the sun replaced by the moon and the evening air and anna’s nervous energy, you find yourself a mite too cold. the cold settles in your stomach, not on your body, and you catalog the area. the parking lot has been repaved, all the dips and cracks you know so well gone. the tree which overhangs a dumpster in the corner is but a small sapling, and the dumpster is nowhere to be seen. the cold in your belly spreads to your chest, and, for a moment, you forget what it is anna dragged you here for.

but then her fingers grip your wrist tightly, and you remember: queen.

“look,” she whispers. “there they are.”

you follow her eyeline to the gaggle of men descending a ramp propped beneath a set of double-doors. in the thin veil of darkness you inhabit, it’s hard to make out who is who. brian is unmistakable, what with his gangly arms and legs and tilted shoulders. freddie is easy to pick out, too; he walks with a swagger only he can pull off. everyone else is a jumble of faces obscured by the night and a cloud of cigarette smoke. they’re loud, but not rowdy, and it reminds you somewhat of a group of teenage boys out to make trouble.

“let’s go over.” anna steps forward, but you stop her with a hand on her elbow.

“no, we shouldn’t. i’m sure they’ve got security, and we really can’t just waltz up there. besides, what would we say?” you shake your head. “this is close enough, don’t you think?”

“fuck no!” her exclamation startles you, your eyebrows lifting, and she laughs. “this is likely the only time we’ll be able to meet true rockstar royalty. you can stay back if you want to, but i’m gonna go.”

“go where?”

in unison, you turn with anna on the ball of your foot. your movements are slow, hers hurried, but you both come face to face with roger taylor and you both inhale sharply.

your first thought is foolish: he looks so young. but of course he does. he’s twenty-nine here, not seventy. half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, and his blond hair brushes the collar of his jacket as he goes to remove the cigarette and puff a plume of smoke to the side. he wears sunglasses, despite the late hour, and if you weren’t so bloody unsettled, you’d find him attractive.

anna finds her voice first. she points her thumb over her shoulder. “well, we were gonna go and... that is, we thought we might...” she heaves a sigh, and her smile turns angelic. “you put on a great show tonight.”

roger grins, his eyes fixed on anna. “i thought i saw you in the crowd.” his voice is raspy and high and dripping with innuendo. you all know he did not see anna from behind his drum set, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling her lower lip between her teeth and batting her eyelashes.

“oy, rog, can we get a move on, please?”

roger frowns and slips between you and anna, his hand firm on her bicep. he shouts in the general direction of the disembodied voice. “don’t get your fucking knickers in a twist, crystal, jesus!” he rolls his eyes and looks back at anna. “sorry, he’s like a damn mother hen. i didn’t catch your name.”

“anna.” she’s breathless, ready to drip to the floor in a puddle of goo. it’s painfully obvious, and roger seems to like that. his hand rubs an untraceable pattern over her shoulder.

“and your friend?” he doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just jerks his head in your direction.

you should be offended, but really you feel like crying. an overwhelming homesickness builds in your chest. everyone you know, every place you hold so dear, none of it is as it should be. those fleeting magical moments during the concert are quickly wearing off, and you feel yourself slipping back to the panic you’d fought in the bathroom.

“that’s [y/n].”

“would you gals like to join us for some drinks?” this time roger does look at you, his gaze soft but purposeful. he’s daring you to turn him down.

maybe it’s the homesickness. maybe it’s the idea that you can be anything, anyone, here with few personal repercussions. maybe it’s the haughty glint in roger’s eye. whatever it is, it finally gets you talking.

“lead the way,” you say, your eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

roger’s smirk widens, and he tugs anna against his side with an arm around the waist. “gladly.”

the inside of the tour bus is cramped. you suspected it might be so based on the outside, but you didn’t realize just how tight the quarters would truly be. you’re stiff, sat on a stool between two men with long brown hair and equally long faces. there’s a tremor in your leg, and you itch to steal the cigarette out of the man-on-your-left’s mouth and smoke your anxiety away.

for anna’s part, she seems at ease, and you envy that. she’s wrapped around roger’s arm, pressed against him on the couch, and in that moment you feel a certain flare of hatred toward her. you’d always been jealous of the girls who could so effortlessly flirt and make a move and get what they want. you never had to the confidence to follow suit. sitting as you are near the back of the bus, crammed between two sullen and tired roadies, you’re reminded of secondary school lunches. a rush of discomfort heats the back of your neck, and you shift on the stool. your movement must disturb to the man next to you because he shifts, too. he leans away, twisting his neck to look at you.

“you good?” the smoke that leaves his parted lips circles around your head, stinging your eyes.

“i wish everyone would stop asking me that,” you mutter. it comes out before you can stop it, and when you realize what you’ve said, you sink down further on your stool. your hand comes to squeeze your forehead. “oh god.”

but the man just laughs. “here.” he hands you an unopened beer. it’s cold to the touch, dripping with sweat. “you look like you could use it.”

you lift it slightly in a sign of thanks before popping the tab and taking a swig. it’s cheap, and that surprises you considering it’s queen, but you drink it anyway.

“so, who picked you up?”

your eyebrow arches, and you look at the man on your left with a mixture of shock and distain. “no one, thank you. i came on my own accord and i’ll leave in the same way.”

out of the corner of your eye, from his place on a low bench in front of you, you think you see brian turn slightly, his curls swaying with the movement. but he doesn’t face you after all, so it must have been your imagination.

“okay, okay!” the man holds his hands up in surrender, mirth etched along the lines in his face. “sorry!”

you resist the urge to huff, cross your arms, and pout like a child. you pull at your beer instead.

the man nudges you with his elbow. “chris taylor, by the way. crystal.” he points to the man on your right. “that’s ratty—pete.”

pete looks tired enough to fall out of his chair. all he can do is raise his eyebrows in greeting and drop his head back against the wall.

“i’m [y/n].”

crystal mirrors ratty’s movements and stretches his legs out underneath the card-table. “well, i must admit that you might be one of the most level-headed lasses we’ve had in here—and we’ve had plenty of girls grace this bus.”

you aren’t sure if he’s bragging or simply making conversation, so you ignore the comment and say, “i’ve had a... strange day. it’s a lot to take in.”

you’re not lying. really, it is a lot to take in. the tour bus is hot and sweaty, but conversation is quiet, like a background hum. it’s not what you thought it would be; nothing is.

“didn’t think you’d end up here?”

you shake your head. “absolutely not.”

crystal smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, the truth in your words humorous to you and you alone.

the bus door opens, and a flurry of sound enters the already-cramped space. crystal sits forward; ratty seems to wake up. at once, the energy is higher. you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribcage.

freddie enters the bus in all his post-concert glory. you’d been a baby when he died, but now you sit at the back of his tour bus, watching as he laughs and jokes and lives. it makes you want to throw up all over again.

he stands in the center of the bus, hands on his hips, surveying the jumble of roadies and groupies and band members. “well?” the corner of your mouth quirks upward at the sound of his voice; you can’t help it. “have we decided where we’re crashing yet?”

“uh, yeah.” john deacon pipes up from his spot at the front of the bus. you hadn’t noticed him all night, but there he stands, leaning against the driver’s seat, a map in hand. “i think we’re gonna—”

“oh hell, we don’t need that!” roger slaps the map out of john’s hands. it crumples between his fingers, and he all but pulls anna onto his lap. she squeals in delight. “we’ve got our own personal tour guide right here. not to mention brian. he’s got to know his way about.”

“don’t forget [y/n], roger!” anna says, ever the good friend.

no, please. please, for the love of god, forget [y/n].

as one, the tour bus turns to look at you. this time bile does rise in the back of your throat.

sitting in the back of the bus you can handle. crystal is nice, and simply being in the presence of music royalty is sure to be the peak of the rest of your life—whatever that may look like. but having them all look at you, expectantly, waiting for you to giggle or blush or say something, it’s that too much you told crystal about moments earlier. only this time, it’s so much you feel like your head might explode.

even though it feels like decades, only a few seconds have gone by since everyone began waiting for you to make a peep. so when you look at anna and say, “i’m sure you know better than me,” it doesn’t sound awkward. it sounds like a comment shared between friends. you’re thankful for that, at least.

“okay, fine.” anna claps her hands together. “what are you in the mood for, freddie?”

your eyebrow lifts at her familiarity, and beside you, crystal chuckles behind his hand. god, she’s good. you are... decidedly not.

“anything fabulous. we’ve just had a good show, if i do say so myself, and i want to have some fun before we really have to start working.”

“we are working, fred.” it’s the first thing you’ve heard brian say all evening. you can’t see his face from where you’re sitting, so his voice sounds far away. far away but ever so nice to the ears.

freddie waves his hands dismissively. “you know what i mean.”

“there’s a disco club a few blocks from here,” anna offers. “it’s not garishly disco, but it’s fun.”

there’s a pause before freddie says, “it’s late, so it’ll have to do.” he turns to brian with a grin. “do you think we should call ahead?”

twenty minutes and three phone calls later, you’re walking side-by-side with crystal and ratty, hands twitching at your sides, desperately wishing for the comfort of a pair of pockets. if you’d hazard a guess, you’d say there’s about twenty people headed for the club. you know you should feel happy, exuberant at the chance to party with queen in the 70s, but your head hurts. it really, really hurts, and you haven’t the faintest idea where you’ll spent the night. you have no money, no contacts—nothing but the clothes on your back and the half-empty purse thrown over your shoulder.

“[y/n], where are you from?” ratty asks. his questions is harmless enough, but it breaks your underarms out in an uncomfortable sweat. how can you explain that you’re from here, the very here you’re walking on, without also explaining why you have no idea where the disco club is or where the charming flower stand on the corner has gone?

you settle on something vague, but passable. “not from around here.” the toe of your shoe kicks at a loose pebble, which skips forward, nearing the long strides of brian.

“on holiday then?”

“something like that, yeah.” you smile to soften the blow of your unsubstantial answers, and it seems to appease.

you chat with the roadies about inconsequential things—roger’s horrible morning breath, the oil crisis and its impact on the upcoming tour, whether or not pigeons lay eggs. it’s small talk, and you ask more questions than give answers, but it relaxes the ache in your shoulders. you have to remind yourself breathe, drink in what you can while you can. you’ll be okay.

you have to be.

the group rounds the corner like an amoeba, all uneven edges and uncertain direction. though the hour is rapidly closing in on one a.m., the road is filled. a few of the cars closest to the curb honk and frenzied arms reach out windows to wave as queen passes them by. a girl flashes her tits from the sunroof of her car; roger gives her a thumbs up.

“is it always like this?” you ask.

crystal laughs. “this is nothin’, dove. we’ve got this party planned for october in new orleans, and i am honestly a little bit afraid of what might happen.”

the club comes into view, music ebbing through the open front door. climax is written in bright yellow lightbulbs across the marquee, and someone squeezes anna’s shoulder with a laugh. the line waiting to enter is long, roped off in anticipation of your arrival. those in queue push forward as your party begins to enter. freddie signs a few autographs on the back of receipts. brain scrawls across the crest of someone’s hip with a shit-eating grin on his face.

the resounding thought that you shouldn’t be here flickers through your mind and not for the first time. you ignore it as crystal leads you into the club, a hand tucked in the small of your back. his touch is anything but sexual, and it’s a relief. he likely sees you as a lost puppy, out of her depth, and you might have to lean into that come closing time.

“do you want something to drink?” he shouts over the music and laughter and shouting.

you nod eagerly. “yes, please!”

weaving through horde of dancers, you find a spot at a cocktail table tucked near a back corner. “boogie wonderland” plays over the louder speakers, and it grates against your headache. the disco ball in the center of the room spins and spins and spins, casting sprinkles of white light over the room. you can’t stop watching it, wondering what it would feel like to wrap yourself around the ball and stay there forever. it probably wouldn’t feel very different from how you feel right now, though your legs are planted firmly on the ground.

“lost in thought?”

you turn, expecting to see crystal with your drink, but you’re met with the incredibly tall form of brian may. you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes he’s standing so close. he must notice because he takes a fraction of a step backwards, his smile widening.

your mouth goes dry, but you manage a shaky nod. “yeah, i guess.” you blink and run your eyes over his face. like roger, he’s painfully young. his curls are dark and full, his skin smooth. he’s handsome, ridiculously so, and despite what some may believe, you think he knows it too.

“you’ve been awful quiet tonight.” he leans against the table with ease. the edge, which reaches your chest, seems to dig into his hip, and he adjusts himself to a more comfortable stance. “most girls are chatty.”

“that’s what crystal said.”

brian chuckles under his breath. “yeah, crystal would know.” he glances over his shoulder then looks back at you. “[y/n], right?”

you’re surprised he remembered or overheard or asked someone before walking over. it’s a simple thing, but just hearing your name grounds you. you don’t care who says it; it reminds you that you are, in fact, still human. and it doesn’t hurt that brian’s voice is like butter. it could put anyone at ease.

for the first time that evening, you feel a lightness in your chest as you smirk and meet his gaze. “brian, right?”

at this, he throws his head back to laugh. his reaction brings a blush to your face, and you duck your head, uncertain where your burst of flirty energy has come from. moments ago, you’d been yearning for the comfort of a good bed and solid night’s rest. now, you could stand in this dark corner and look at brian, hear him laugh, until you fall asleep standing.

when he’s calmed, brian looks at you again. there’s a shift in his stare, one you can’t quite place. “what do you do, [y/n]?”

this time, you decide to answer honestly. “i’m a student, most of the time,” you say. “but eventually i’ll be a curator for museums.”

his eyebrows lift. “a curator? that’s bloody brilliant.”

you shrug. “i like history and photography and design. it’s kind of the perfect blend.” glancing at your empty hands, you fumble for your words then meet his eyes through the underside of your lashes. “a little birdie told me you’re pretty smart yourself.”

he tilts his head in a noncommittal manner, and you swear you can see a tinge of color rise along the top of his exposed chest. “i suppose.”

“what is your specialty again? besides the guitar, of course.”

“astrophysics with a concentration in interplanetary dust.” before you can make a quip about how much interplanetary dust is actually around to study, he leans close. he has to bend at the waist to lower his mouth to the shell of your ear, and when he speaks, it’s hardly above a whisper. “i’m good at other things, too, you know? besides space and the guitar.”

you draw back slightly, enough look into his eyes. his pupils are dark, overpowering the hazel tint of his irises. if you move an inch, your lips will brush his mouth; you stay still, your eyes darting back and forth between his.

you feel utterly ridiculous for a fraction of a second. he’s brian may, first of all, and you are decidedly not worthy of his attentions. but more than that, this isn’t your home, your time. the thought makes you cringe.

fucking hell, you don’t belong here.

his long fingers skim your waist. the touch is feather-light, a mere whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts.

“what are you thinking?” he breathes.

“not much.” it’s a half-truth; you can barely focus on your existential crisis with his fingertips working along your skin as they are. he’s brazen enough to dip underneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch the skin of your hip. you bite your tongue. “wondering where you got the nerve to be so cheeky all of a sudden.”

he withdrawals his hand as if he’s been bitten by fire, cheeks gone red as flame. “sorry, sorry,” he stammers. “i just thought that—”

you know you shouldn’t, that it will only lead to trouble, but you do it anyway.

you grab his wrist and squeeze tight. “i’m only joking, brian.” your grip relaxes as you grin. “come dance with me.”

he huffs a sigh of relief, shaking his head. “damn, you really—”

you interrupt him again, your feet moving on their own accord toward the dance floor. there’s this strange desire in you—a desire to forget—and he seems willing enough to be the one to help you lose track of your troubles. “come dance with me.”

“i don’t really know how,” he admits, though his smile is wide, showing off his teeth.

“me neither! we can look like idiots together.”

somewhat reluctantly, brian follows you onto the dance floor. the music is louder here, the song changed to something you don’t recognize. you weren’t lying when you said dancing wasn’t your forte. in primary school, you’d stepped on the toes of every boy in your music class during the week of mandatory dance lessons. things haven’t changed much since then as you promptly land your foot on brian’s seconds into the song.

you gasp and clamp your hands over your mouth in an effort to obscure your laughter. “shit, i’m sorry!”

“it’s fine!” he yells, straining to make his voice heard over the thrumming of the music. “the clogs, they’re kinda like a protective shell.”

swaying to the beat, your hands slide along his forearms. “oh yeah? what do they protect you from?”

“klutzy girls like you.”

looking back on the moment years later, you wonder if that’s when you fell in love with him first, on the dance floor, his gangly body unaccustomed to fluid movement. he makes you laugh with his two left feet, and you forget, like you’d hoped, that you do not belong in his arms. as the music ebbs and flows like the tide, you follow it, swinging, swaying, twirling in whatever way you can. you’re sweaty, and he’s sweaty, but you’re both smiling. at some point, you bump into anna who bumps into roger who bumps into freddie and then it’s some version of disco mosh pit, arms and elbows and feet tangled together. you’re laughing—truly laughing for what feels like the first time in ages—and, if you could, you’d stay in that moment forever.

the music slows. you breathe hard, nodding as anna whispers something in your ear about leaving with roger. you aren’t sure if you’ll see her again, aren’t sure if it matters, but you’re thankful for her nonetheless. hers was the first kind face you met, and for that, you can never repay her.

a pair of arms wrap around your middle, pulling you tight against a lean chest, dipping you side to side as the music trills in the background. he mumbles against the skin of your neck. “rog’s leaving with anna.”

you nod and curl your fingernails around his forearms. “i know.”

“is it too presumptuous of me to ask if you’ll do the same? not leave with him, i mean. leave with me.”

you could say something about his proposal being too forward after only a handful of hours together, but you don’t. you feel dizzy from dancing, dizzy with a sense of freedom. normally, you’d never follow a guy home after just meeting. it’s never been in your nature, despite the times you wished it were. tonight, though, you feel like you can do anything.

and if that means letting brian may take you back to his hotel where he’ll likely screw the daylights out of you, so be it.

you twist slightly in his arms, enough to look up at him. you repeat your words of earlier. there’s no hint of a challenge in your voice this time, only desire. “lead the way.”

by the time you reach the door of brian’s hotel room, you’re fumbling with what buttons on his shirt are actually buttoned. his lips are pressed against yours, and you can feel his smile on your teeth as you struggle to both kick the door open with your heel and work the last two buttons.

“you know,” you mumble against his mouth. “you’d make it a lot easier for me if you just don’t button any of them. you’re halfway there, anyway.”

“so i’ve been told,” he replies, his own fingers pushing the three buttons of your blouse through the small holes.

the comment gives you pause. your hands still on the warm skin of his shoulders, and you pull back. his eyelids are heavy, his lips parted and plump. you don’t know what it is about his words that make you stop. maybe it’s the idea of him in a similar situation with another girl. of course, you know you aren’t the first concert-goer he’s dragged home; you aren’t that much of an idiot. still, the thought niggles at the back of your brain.

his hands slide away from your shirt to cup your face, and he bends down to kiss you softly. this kiss is different from the ones he’d given you in the lift—hungry and demanding—and in the hallway—earnest and consuming. he’s gentle, painfully so, and tears spring to your eyes. you’ve never been kissed like this, not so tenderly. it makes your heart stop.

“just you and me, [y/n],” he whispers when he breaks the touch. “just you and me.”

you nod and finish pushing the white shirt off his shoulders.

he doesn’t fuck you. he truly makes love to you, worshipping your body until you both are spent and sweaty, sheets tangled around your limbs. when he collapses beside you with a soft groan, you feel the overwhelming urge to cry. it’s embarrassing, really. but it’s been such a long day, and you’re tired—tired and happy and warm. you throw your arm over your eyes to keep from showing your emotion. you absolutely refuse to be the girl who cries after having sex with brian may.

you feel the bedsheets rustle as he props himself up on his elbow. his fingernail skims along your collarbone. “you’re so... divine.”

you drop your arm to stare at him, heart thumping in your chest. his eyes flick up to meet yours. he smiles and looks at you as if he’s known you his whole life, not seven hours. there’s nothing you can say that will capture how you feel in this moment, so you simply grab him by the neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss.

later, when you’re drifting off to sleep, one of his sleep shirts swallowing you, his chest against your back, one leg pushed between both of yours, you wonder if you’ll wake up in the morning and find it was all a dream. it certainly would make for a good story once you make it home to your flat. even so, if it isn’t a dream, the part of you that so desperately yearned for home hours earlier is slipping away.

you could stay here, like this, if he let you.

shaking your head, you burrow against him. such silly thoughts. even if you have to stay here, out of place, for the rest of your life, this night was a one-time thing. you must know that. so, you’ll cherish his arms around you while you can and commit everything to memory.

come morning, you find yourself still in nineteen-seventy-eight and deliciously sore. you’re embarrassed to say you smile at the revelation of both situations.

stretching your arms over your head as your eyes flutter open, you groan with your stretch. after your eyes have adjusted to the bright morning light streaming through the open curtains, you look around the room and find brian sitting at the small table in the middle of the kitchenette. he has the hotel phone cradled against his shoulder and ear and looks delightfully sleep-muddled. you slip from bed, uncertain how you should act.

will he send you away now that the night is gone? you wouldn’t blame him. your fingers twist the hem of his shirt as you sway from foot to foot at the base of the bed.

he looks up and waves you over. a good sign, at least.

bare feet padding against the carpet, you cross to his side, but don’t reach out to smooth the unruly curls on his head as you wish you could. the thought crosses your mind that you are painfully in love with him already, and it doesn’t even phase you. it just makes you laugh to yourself.

“what do you want for breakfast?”

you blink. “sorry?”

“breakfast? what do you want?”

“i don’t really care. anything,” you say with a shrug. at his pointed look, you concede with a roll of your eyes. “fine. a waffle.”

he adds a waffle to the order, thanks the person on the other end, then puts the phone down. he’s quick to grab your waist and pull you to his lap, his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck. you giggle and swat his shoulder.

“i thought you wouldn’t be so keen about me come morning,” you admit, keeping your tone playful as you pull back to brush the hair from his face.

his forehead crinkles. “why wouldn’t i be?”

you shrug. “we barely know each other. plus, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n] and you’re brian may. not exactly an obvious match.”

he’s quiet a moment, eyes searching yours, before he says, “what do you think about plato’s allegory of the cave?”

you choke on a laugh. “i’m sorry?”

“you know, plato’s cave—what do you think about it?”

he’s being serious, something that absolutely stuns you into answering honestly. you settle on his knee, arms twisted around his neck, as you consider your response. “well, i mean, i think it’s a good metaphor.” you pause. “it makes me think of people and their cell phones.”

“cell phones?”

shaking your head, you backtrack. “i mean, just technology in general. when it comes to technology, we never really know what we’re getting, do we, usually until it’s too late. i know it wasn’t his intention, but the cave makes me think of that. the way technology can so easily take control and we’re powerless to stop it.”

your words hang in the air for a long while. then he dips forward and claims your mouth with his. you shuffle in his lap, surprised, a soft oh parting your lips. he kisses you with that same hunger you’d felt in the lift the previous evening. when he draws back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“come with me,” he breathes.

you still completely, hands dropping from his neck to his arms. the clock on the desk in the corner ticks, loud and annoying. “what?”

“come with me.” he draws back to run a hand over the hair framing your face. “on tour. we leave next month.”

“you’re insane, brian.”

he shakes his head. “no, i’m not.” his words are resolute, anything but unsure.

“we’ve only just met and i don’t think you know what—”

“i know what i’m saying, [y/n].” his hands move to hold your face. “come with me. i’m crazy about you. say what you will about the timing, but i don’t care. you’re smart and funny and beautiful and i want to get to know you more, but i’m leaving. i’d kill to have you by my side.”

“brian...”

your head is spinning, your throat gone dry. someone knocks on the door in the hall—room service—but he keeps talking.

“it’s north america first, then europe, then asia. it’s long, i know, but you don’t have to stay the whole time. i couldn’t ask you to leave your studies like that. you can leave any time you want.”

“brian,” you say again, this time more forcefully, yet he continues.

“i just think that... after last night... fuck, i really like you, [y/n], and i’d hate to see some other guy swoop in while i’m gone.”

he stops at last, breathing heavy, his wiry frame practically trembling with anxiety. you smooth your hands down his neck and across his shoulders, smiling softly. and maybe you’re just as crazy as he is because you lean in, kiss his lips, and say, “okay, i’ll come with you.”

you don’t think twice. don’t have to, really.

he grins, his fingers squeezing your thighs. “really?”

you nod. “really. but only so long as we can go to a disco every now and again. i think john would like that.”

he laughs and delves his fingers in your hair, kissing you hard. you forget about the breakfast waiting in the hall. it doesn’t matter.

a month and a half later, you’re stood outside the record company’s london office, thumbing through your hastily-acquired, perhaps-not-totally-legal passport. crystal had gotten it for you. there being no record of your birth, you aren’t sure how he managed it, but you don’t ask any questions.

the last month and a half have been a whirlwind, to say the least.

you’ve been, largely, happy. any chance you get is spent by brian’s side, and he seems just as eager to pass his free hours with you. you were able to snag a job at a corner diner to make some money for basic necessities—a change of clothes, for starters—and anna, also invited on the tour, gave you free reign of her pull-out sofa without asking for an explanation.

but despite spending more time in brian’s hotel room than anna’s living room, and despite the blissed-out evenings and comfortable mornings and long chats and shared moments of quiet, despite everything that makes you happy here, you still know it’s not right. it’s not where you belong.

so as you’re standing outside the record company, heavy suitcases at your feet, roadies and groupies alike milling about, you can’t help but feel on edge. it’s that same feeling you had the first night you arrived: your heart is in your throat, your chest tight.

maybe it’s the clothes: the tight, flared jeans, white prairie blouse, chunky tan heels. it’s cute, but it’s not you. not yet, anyway.

maybe it’s the hair: you’d had to get it cut earlier in the month, anna dragging you to a salon after claiming your hair was too dowdy. when you look in the mirror now, you feel like farrah fawcett, and that’s not totally bad, but it’s taken some getting used to.

maybe it’s the lack of technology: you’re so used to your phone being attached to your palm, or your car keys jingling in your purse, or your earbuds falling out of said purse at inopportune times. now, you just have a bag with a book in it and a few pieces of really uncomfortable makeup.

all of it serves as a reminder that this is not home.

“ready to go?”

you look up from your passport and squint as the sun hits your eyes. brian stands in front of you, and he moves to block the sunlight. you laugh. “you’re like my own personal sunblocker.”

“it’s a gift and a curse.” dropping a duffle bag, he bends to unzip it and pull out a box wrapped in plain brown paper. “here, i got you something.”

you frown. “brian, that’s not necessary.”

he pushes the box toward you. “just hush and take it.”

with a sigh, you take the box from his hands. over your shoulder, gerry stickells, tour manager, calls for everyone to load the bus with their belongings. the flight to dallas doesn’t leave for several hours, but he likes to be punctual, and the band plus thirty-odd crew and three or four extra girls makes for a hard group to wrangle at once. you don’t envy him his job.

brian leans a little closer, dropping his voice as he watches gerry herd stragglers toward the bus doors. “open it before he comes to shout at us.”

“fine, but you still shouldn’t have gotten me anything.”

you rip the paper from the box then slide your nail under the edge. pushing back the cardboard folds, you find a camera nestled amongst sleeves of tissue paper. it’s a small camera, the name canon etched along the silver rim. a thin leather strap is curled around the black casing.

“brian,” you breathe. you meet his eyes, which shine and sparkle and send a thrill to your chest. “this is too much.”

“when we met you said you liked photography. i figured there might be things you’d like to take pictures of while we’re gone.”

cradling the box against your chest, you rise to your toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth. your fingers wind in the hair at the back of his neck, and his hands come to rest on your sides. as has become custom, you feel his smile on your mouth.

“does that mean you like it?” he murmurs.

drawing back, you nod. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide. “yes, of course! thank you!”

gerry’s voice interrupts brian’s response, and you turn to see him, red in the face, pointing to the running vehicle. “hey, you can do that on the bus! get a move on!”

by the time you find your seat on the bus, the tour is already running behind schedule. gerry blames brian, who only shrugs in apology. there’s a brief speech of general safety and schedule from gerry then one of excitement and giddiness from freddie. then the bus rolls out of the parking lot.

you’re nestled on brian’s lap, his arms around your stomach, a game of scrabble on the table in front of you. to your right, john pulls at a cigarette.

“fred, we haven’t even left the country. i don’t want to be sick of this game before tomorrow.”

freddie sticks his tongue out. he places a letter square down and rubs his hands together. “ha! that’s... sixteen points. deaky, write it down!”

brian shifts to glance over your shoulder. “no, that’s not a word, fred.”

“of course it is!” he points to you. “[y/n], please tell him it’s a word.”

instead, you smile and take a picture of him, consternation on his face, finger pointed in the direction of the camera. he groans and rolls his eyes, dropping back against his chair. brian snuggles you close, his breath ghosting over your neck.

as the bus heads for the airport and the game of scrabble continues, crystal leaning over your seat to add his two-cents, you lean back and sigh. there’s a warmth in your chest, in your heart, that you haven’t felt in a long time. you intertwine your fingers with brian’s and squeeze his knuckles.

maybe... maybe this where you belong after all.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan

#brian may #brian may fic #queen #queen fic #j writes #brian may x reader

223 notes · View notes

curiosityjams · 3 years

Text

re: iz*one

first of all, i wanted to say i didn’t plan on writing something about the disbandment. the past few months have been incredibly rough on my mental state to the point where i feel as if i’ve lost all sense of self. shit has been so rough for me, their disbandment being confirmed made that even worse for me. however, i realized i need to learn how to be okay with like...being open about my own emotions in a time of uncertainty and writing them out helps me in a way even if a lot of those emotions i’d rather keep private. i’ve also been going thru a time where i’m currently reevaluating this past year and everything i’ve done/felt in the past few yrs (2.5 of those years being izone’s run), so i thought i’d write something about the disbandment and what iz*one means to me, esp during this point in my life. i’d write more about what led me to this point, but if i did, i’d end up writing a whole novel, so i’m just going to keep this as short as possible.

also if this is a jumbled mess, i’m sorry!!!!

since we’re here to talk about the inevitable, i just wanted to say that i’ve probably had a harder time accepting them being gone than i thought. i knew they were gonna disband eventually bc lol produce group, but also, knowing what happened with the voting scandal and the panasonic, it makes it even worse for me. i hate that they didn’t even bother to handle their disbandment in a way that wasn’t complete horseshit. i hate how the pandora screwed everything up. i hate how we didn’t even get a proper goodbye from the girls. i knew that this was going to happen, but i fucking hate how it all turned out. i can’t say i’m 100% happy with the ending and honestly, don’t think i’ll ever be able to fully accept that they’re no longer a group.

that said, i’m not here to vent.

while i’m obviously upset that they’re gone, the fact that they were ever a group to begin with--i’ll forever be grateful. i avoided getting into them for the longest time because of my own trauma from being involved in the 48 fandom (smth i’ll talk about at a later time bc it’s a lot), but the moment i decided to watch their “up” performance and actually give them a chance beyond looping la vie en rose, that’s when i fell in love. i fell in love with the music. i fell in love with the visuals. i fell in love with the bond between the girls. most of all, i fell in love with the fact that during a weird transitional period in my 20s, i found a group that gave me the closure i needed in a time where it felt like the world was against me while also giving me the strength i need to move on.

while we’re on that topic, let’s talk about kwon eunbi.

as you already know from my url, eunbi is obviously my bias. she’s the leader of the group, under the company my ult group, lovelyz, is also in, and THE absolute all-rounder. she’s extremely talented, super fucking funny, a babe of THE highest order, and the best single mom you could ever ask for. every time i watch a video of iz*one’s or look at any of their pics, i’m always in absolute awe of her. while i love all of the girls (j-line has a very special place in my heart bc of my time in 48 fandom) and do consider the entire group to be one full of bias wreckers, it’s eunbi that instantly caught my eye and the one i’m incredibly proud to call my ult.

“now, drea, why is it that you’re taking so much time with talking about how special this group and that girl are to you?” well, it’s mainly because that eunbi and i are the same age (both 95-liners, but i’m older by 2 months) that i’m so drawn to not only her, but the group as well. yeah, it’s normal to be drawn to members born in your birth year, but for me and esp in this case, it’s far more complex than it seems.

around the time i got into the group, i was (still am) going thru a quarter life crisis. i had just finished my a.a., was a few months away from turning 24, and had pretty much decided i was going to take an indefinite hiatus from twitter due to the amount of harm its done to my mental health over 10 years. i felt like shit knowing that so many people my age were living their lives, getting married, having kids, etc all that shit while i felt as if i was frozen in time and like i could never accomplish any of those things because according to society, my time was up. as a woman on the autism spectrum, i never felt like anything i did was enough and knowing that even after years of trauma, the feeling that if i don’t have my entire life sorted out by 24/25 scared the living shit out of me. knowing that a panini happened made those feelings even worse.

i know it’s weird to like...feel so many emotions over this esp since 23-25 is young and starting your career out at that age is normal. that said, knowing how eunbi was already in a group prior to joining iz*one that ended up disbanding months after they debuted, the road she took to get to where she is now, and the fact that she’s 25/26 and will get so many chances to start over is what gives me hope after such a shit year. i can finally get to where i want to be, i’ll graduate from university, i’ll hopefully get a job that will earn me enough money to move out of my mom’s house, i’ll find love, etc who the fuck knows what’s going to happen? i hate that after years of hating myself and being afraid of getting older because people often have this mentality that you should abandon all sense of yourself once you hit your mid 20s, it’s taken me THIS long to actually start accepting myself for who i am and living my life for myself, but i’m excited to see where the fuck life takes me after years of self-hatred, trauma, and trying too hard to please ppl that don’t give a shit. seeing eunbi just have a fucking blast on stage, take care of her members, and overall be the amazing person she is gave me the strength i desperately needed to actually get to the path i want to be on as someone that’s a few years away from turning 30.

as i said earlier, i’m not ready to just outright accept iz*one being gone. i’ll probably spend the entire month of may just watching their content since there’s still a shitton of stuff i have yet to watch and i’m lowkey embarrassed that as a fan, i’m admitting this, but also: there’s no time limit. i can always watch that video at another time, i’ll like that pic later, etc. i wish iz*one was one of those things that had no time limit because i’ll always cherish them, but in the 2.5 years of their existance, i achieved some big things and survived a pandemic. i left twitter, got closure in chapters i needed closure in, finished my a.a., etc among many other things during that time and it’s partly because of iz*one that i’ve pushed myself to do all of those things. it’s hard esp since it’s easier to just write smth like this on tumblr than actually do it, but the girls and their music were part of the reason why 2020 wasn’t a complete dumpster fire for me.

most of all, i wanted to write this because i wanted to shout-out the amazing folks at @izonetwork. i joined super late in the game, but the convos i’ve had, the laughs we’ve had on discord/among us, etc i’ll never forget it. meeting all of you was one of THE highlights of an otherwise shitty year and i’ll always credit you as one of the reasons why i wasn’t completely emotionally distant during such a dark time. all of you keep me grounded and i’m forever grateful. super honored to call you guys my friends. <3

so yeah, thank you iz*one. thank you, eunbi, sakura, hyewon, yena, chaeyeon, chaewon, minju, nako, hitomi, yuri, yujin, and wonyoung. i don’t speak korean or japanese, but know i’m eternally grateful for all the joy, strength and bops you gave me in the past 2.5 years. i’m even more grateful for the friends i’ve met thru my own fandom of the group. i’m excited to see what every single one of you does next regardless of what it may be.

now if you’ll excuse me, i have to go catch up on all the enozis i’ve missed.

❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

#izone #kpop #be quiet drea

9 notes · View notes

amydancepants-peralta · 4 years

Note

prompt: jake being the sweet and caring husband he is when amy gets her period, sometime during trying/before ding dong

The first thing Jake notices is the empty tampon packaging in the trash can in their bathroom, the blue cardboard sticking out amongst the tissues as he discards the last of his contact solution.

It’s presence doesn’t surprise him - it’s the same brand that Amy’s been using for years. Cross referenced with the other brands with her typical Type-A regularity for value, availability and reliability; she will often conclude her findings with a satisfied grin, pleased with the knowledge that she is in fact still using the best available option on the market. It’s packaging is a sight that’s as normal as all the rest, and having grown up with his mother and occasionally getting to the stage of regular stay-overs with various girlfriends over the years, Jake is no stranger to finding such things in the trash.

He’s been expecting it for days actually, which probably sounds odd but he’s known Amy for so long that he knows how to read the signs. Breast tenderness was one - and she’d pulled away slightly from the hug he’d given her a couple of days ago, eyebrows knitting in silent discomfort as she’d readjusted her position in his arms before tucking her face into his neck, and it made him realise that a few weeks had (somehow) already passed.

(It had been a hug of commiseration, the latest negative test in what felt like an endless tally of negatives still clutched in her left hand as she wound her arms around his waist, and he knew that she’d been hoping that all the signs her body had been sending her way would be related to a brand new life growing inside her, instead of an indicator for the opposite.)

Another sign (and admittedly, the more obvious one) was the tiny red dot that Amy marks on their calendar each month - in the same location as the ones she marks on her planner - and in true Santiago style, it was right on time. So the empty carton comes as no surprise - but if he was to be completely honest, there was still a tiny part of him that had held onto a sliver of hope that maybe, after they’d given up the rigid scheduling and just started trying to try, that maybe this time the test would be wrong, and they’d have finally gotten it right.

But they hadn’t, and now her body has the receipts.

He knows that Amy thinks it’s her that is failing them, and even though he makes the joke, he wishes that she’d acknowledge the likelihood of it being his. After all, you only need to compare the difference between their genes to know which one of their bodies is way more likely to turn up for their duty on time and ready to go, and which is likely to be a few minutes (too) late. Whether she can’t see it or simply doesn’t want to, Jake isn’t sure. But he’d give anything to be able to make it easier.

Amy’s already in the process of swallowing two Advil at their kitchen sink when he walks in, and as she stretches forward to wash out her glass Jake wraps his left arm around her middle, pressing his chest against her back as he squeezes. Letting out a soft hey, she leans into his touch, and even though Jake can feel the smile on her face when he presses a kiss to her cheek, he can hear the resignation in her voice. He lowers his head to leave another kiss along the side of her neck, wrapping both arms around her middle and resting his forehead against her shoulder when her hands move to cover his. She sighs, and slowly he nods.

“You smell good,” she whispers to break the silence, and eventually Jake shifts his hands from her middle to their kitchen counter, giving her room to turn in place. He catches her gaze when they’re finally face to face, finding all of the sadness that she’s trying so valiantly to mask, mirroring her response when she shrugs in a total loss for words. Her hand moves to rest against his cheek, a touch that is so familiar but still feels so perfect every time she does it, and when he leans in for proper kiss all he can think is how he’d give her the world, if he only knew how.

“I’m just about to call my mom,” Amy mumbles, resting her hands on Jake’s waist and letting them linger as he begins to step back. “I’ve been putting it off for days.” It was something that used to be a lot more regular - until the conversation began to turn towards ovulation schedules and conception suggestions - and as the months went by it just became too difficult for Amy to hear how easy it was for others to do the one thing she was struggling so hard to get right.

Jake nods, deciding in the interim to do a run to the nearest corner store and grab a few necessities. (This phone call, he knew, was going to need space - and he rather give it to Amy before she needed to ask.)

He can hear the hey, mom from their bedroom as he peels the list from it’s magnetic pad on the fridge, and blowing Amy a kiss even though he knows she’ll never see it from the kitchen he heads out, closing the door just loudly enough for her to know that he’s definitely gone.

The Sampson’s Grocers is a relatively new addition to their neighbourhood, a family owned business that sits five and half blocks away from their apartment but always has the best produce. The aisles are familiar to Jake, the layout remaining unchanged each time he comes here with Amy, and he grabs a basket from the door and begins filling it up as he moves through the store.

Because it was written by his wife, the list in his hand has been itemised according to aisle, and it takes him no time at all to gather all of the items, deciding to do a second lap just in case there’s something they’ve both forgotten to put down (and perhaps also to buy Amy and Camila just a little more time).

Because he loves his wife, he stops past the sanitary products in aisle seven, grabbing a twin pack of each level of absorbency and making a mental note to collect the chocolate she likes on the way back to the register.

Because he believes in their future, he gathers another three packets of Amy’s favoured pregnancy test - the ones with the 99.9% certified accuracy - and places them in the basket next to the tampons.

(And because they’re on sale, he grabs an extra packet of sour gummy worms that may or may not end up making it all the way home.)

Normally, for the first few days of her period Amy would be seeking all of her favourites - warm blankets, hot chocolate, takeout and a marathon run of old Jeopardy episodes, all in no particular order. Long since mastering the art of filing up water bottles with one hand while ordering takeout online with the other, Jake hesitates outside their favourite Thai restaurant before deciding to forgo.

(These past few months have been different, and he has the strongest instinct that today is going to be the same.)

She’s on the couch with a blanket covering her feet by the time he walks in the door, eco-friendly bags hanging in his left hand as he closes the door with his right, and gives him a soft smile as he heads towards the kitchen to put everything away. Her positioning leads Jake to think that the pain relief has kicked in but he still moves quickly, eager to return to Amy (it is their day off together, after all), and as he’s finishing up he calls out if she needs anything.

“No. Just you.” Comes her reply, and maybe there’s still a couple of items left on the counter, but clearly out of the two options (out of ANY two options, really), Amy is going to be his priority, and he makes a beeline straight to the living room, capturing her smile and storing it away in his heart with all of the others when he gets there. Grabbing his left hand, Amy pulls it towards her and leaves a kiss against his palm, and when Jake shuffles along the couch to move closer she snuggles into his side, resting her head against his shoulder like that is it’s second home (which, to be fair, it kind of is).

Amy’s hand slides around his waist, toying with the belt loops of his jeans, and after a pause she glances up. “My mom suggested a hormonal assistance program I could start taking that .. actually sounds kinda promising. I’m going to call my doctor tomorrow and see what she thinks.”

He nods, running his right hand along her forearm. “That sounds like a great idea, babe.” She nods into his hoodie, and when the silence stretches out he continues. “Do you want me to get you a hot water bottle or anything?”

Her grip around his waist tightens, as though Jake’s sentence alone was enough of a threat for her, and shakes her head before tucking her nose into his neck. “No. Just you.”

He nods again, resting his head against hers as she takes in a deep breath. This has been the change in recent months, now that the beginning of her period doesn’t just mean persistent aches from all the cramping and no chance of sex for five to seven days. Now, it told her that even though they’d tried their hardest - and then for a little while, didn’t officially ‘try’ at all - that despite her best efforts, nothing had worked, and they (she) had failed again. Now, the pain wasn’t just from the contracting muscles in her uterine walls (he’s read a lot about conception and biology in the last six months); now, the pain is compounded by the confirmation that once again, there would be no mini Peralta-Santiago arriving in nine months time.

She asks him if he thinks everything is going to work out; her voice so soft you almost wouldn’t hear it (but he hears her, even when she thinks he doesn’t), and he nods, shifting to press a kiss to her forehead to seal the promise. There’s no way for him to know for sure - and he’s well aware that as time presses on things will only get harder - but he believes in them with every fibre of his being, and if there was anybody that could come out of this battle a winner, it is Amy Santiago.

So he tells her yes, tells her that he loves her and that everything will be okay, and because she loves him her body relaxes against his, knees curling up until they’re resting just along the outside of his thigh.

“You know, I could actually kinda go for some chocolate,” she mumbles, twisting her neck until her cheek is resting against his chest, and Jake smiles in victory because he knew this was coming.

“Ask and you shall receive, my darling wife.” His left hand disappears from her thigh, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and grinning brightly as he reveals a family sized block of her favourite - thankfully unmelted due to the slightly cooler weather outside - and her eyes light up in glee. She gives him a chocolate flavoured kiss a few minutes later, telling her she loves him with her actions just as much as her words, and honestly, all of world’s problems could probably be solved by a little chocolate.

It will only be a few more weeks before there will be no need for the recently purchased packets of tampons, and they will get stashed away to the back of the cupboard for their eventual need in nine or ten months time, but for now the day passes with the two of them stretched out on the couch.

There is so much proof of their love within these four walls, and the greatest proof of all is yet to come, but for now all they need is a couple of Advil, a block of chocolate, and the arms of the one you love.

#we stan one supportive husband #anon prompt #thank you for this!#I don't know if this is what you were looking for #but this is where my mind went so ...#catch me getting distracted from my other fic by writing this #if you’ve sent me a promot pls know that i’m working on it!#b99 prompts #b99fanfic #b99fic #jake x amy fic #peraltiago fic #my writing

176 notes · View notes

cateringisalie · 4 years

Text

FFVII Halloween Day 3

Written for the prompt ‘Black Mirror’

The Mako reactor up on the mountain fascinated Dala Strife since childhood. On good days she could catch sight of the structure, the running lights visible as dark fell on clear nights. Her parents long made clear it was not a place she should visit. Mount Nibel as a rule was off limits to the town’s children, the province of monsters and so many other risks. None of them theoretical or subtle. The dragons occasionally strayed uncomfortably close to the town and a militia formed up to drive the creature back. One of many threats. Mako power was the way of the future; Mom told her as much when she asked more questions. It was the Shinra company’s crowning achievement and Nibelheim was so incredibly fortuitous to have the first such installation. All the other reactors were distant copies; including the massive eight ringing the distant city of Midgar. A point of prestige. But somehow, nothing came of it. Nibelheim was barely a footnote in the company’s history. As Dala grew older, other details stood out as inconsistencies and strange questions. Fragmentary or missing information and no one with seeming any interest in the whys or how of Mako power. The gaps ranged from why Nibelheim had been the experimental stage for the reactor. The town was isolated and remoted, but surely better to push something new and untested in a region far removed from anything else? The upcoming rocket projects at least had such a level of concern. How was the Mako flow identified and what made Nibelheim suitable for the project? Mom never knew the answers, not worried about the whys of energy generation more on the practical improvements. Brighter lights. Better, hotter ovens. Central heating. Sure, the Mako taint in the air took some getting used to – but not as if Dala ever noticed it having lived with it her whole life. Dala spent some time after trying to pick the Mako-scent out of the air to no avail. But what sent Dala down a maze of questions and no answers at every turn was an old library book. The town – outside of Mako power and seemingly in spite of it – was forever behind the curve. The life of Shinra’s big cities glimpsed through the eddying whirls of bad reception on television painted a more thoroughly modern world, architecture, gadgetry and lifestyle so at odds with the present. Such a left-behind attitude extended to the schools and the library. Faded, damaged books most close to falling apart, slowly supplanted with new tomes, these already out of date by the standards of the rest of the world. In amongst the books was a children’s guide to power plants. Disappointingly it was written well before and in seeming ignorance of Shinra’s Nibelheim project. Another chance to see the town’s name in print in a form other than the local paper which suffered significant delays and detail to typical gossip. A question occurred after starting at the book. Power plants were not new – they’d existed and provided electricity for years. Some used coal to produce electricity. Some used gas. What did Mako power plants use to produce electricity? And perhaps the better question; what was Mako? Coal as a power source was familiar, if old and out-moded. Some in Nibelheim remembered getting it delivered and burning it in the fireplace. People remembered gas cylinders and the risks involved with them. No one had any inkling of what Mako was, what it meant, and where it came from. And seemingly no one was prepared to ask the question. As a term it appeared out of nowhere in the wake of the Nibelheim reactor coming online. Logically it was something in the ground. The only people the Nibelheim guides lead up the mountain where poorer trade caravans unable to afford sea or air transport – and an annual visit by a Shinra worker. Nothing was being transported up to the reactor for processing. Nor was it mining coal as some kind of cover. The books made clear excavating the material would be obvious, messy and require an active work-force. Retrained and out of work miners were not hard to find within the town – and the ones willing to entertain her for a few moments were adamant there was no coal in Mount Nibel. Mako. No one knew what it meant, nor did anyone especially care. Nothing for it but to investigate. She wrote a letter to the President of the Shinra corporation. She went back to the library. The books were out of date, but there had to be something newer. Right? Narrowing down the relevant subject matter was difficult. The few books she found mentioning Mako power, were generally abstract. An allusion here, an off-hand mention there. All of them towing the company line of better, cleaner, more efficient and most of all cheaper. Her quest for knowledge got her into trouble fast. Dala followed the new trade caravan on a Mount Nibel crossing, noting the pathways as they ascended and detouring off to the reactor once they reached the summit. Little to find here; the door was sealed tight shut, the mechanisms and machinery inside humming along. So little to see; power lines descending the mountain to provide power to the town. The rest of the reactor revealing little. Some pipes plunged into the rock but to what end? Nothing in the operation of construction bore any resemblance to the images of coal mines she could find. Nothing like gas extraction. Mako power was once more something new. But something new no one wanted to talk about. Her trip to the mountain was noticed all too easily and her panicked parents turned furious after finding her, grounding her for a month. Not a huge concern. There was seemingly little to find in the town or on the mountain. Instead she turned back to the library books. Perhaps she was looking at it from the wrong angle? What about Mount Nibel made it so suitable for the Mako reactor or else Mako extraction? Amongst the older tomes was a geographical survey of the mountain. Old and seemingly never updated; tiny cramped text charting an astonishing amount of information. Statistics about the height, the weather systems, fauna, flora. Everything. Dala read further. Geographical surveys seemed about right. The book listed numerous instances the mountain had been surveyed. Neither this nor any former study had found any coal or gas on the mountain or within it. This much was true. But the most recent survey detailed a series of caves completely unfamiliar. By the descriptions and line drawings included, the entrance to them was found well away from any of the in-use trails and in the most notoriously monster-infested parts of the mountain. And there, out of the blue, was the word. A Mako flower was reported in the cave, itself the results of previous Mako flows through the tunnels. Incredible. So much effort and here was an answer. But- What was it? The tunnels in question lead on a looping path to the summit and to a fissure in the rock. The book noted still liquid Mako could be found in the cavern and noted the risks with exposing it to the open air. Frustrating; nothing. The book continued onto a long set of descriptions of the far side of Mount Nibel and the fauna there. No mention of Mako. So close and yet so far. The index at least yielded some possibilities. The first entry for Mako lead her back to the same pages she read. The other pointed to a glossary: Mako: molten and semi-molten naturally occurring material. Referred to as Lifestream in some cultures. Wait. Dala’s head swam. Lifestream. An old term and one people were often dismissive of. She had another book mentioning Lifestream; an old gift from her parents, a book about harmless myths and legends and- Downstairs, someone knocked on the door. Probably her friends wanting to beg for her release, but she had been neglecting them of late so. Dala pulled the slim volume from the shelf. Here. A story about the Ancients, the mythical previous inhabitants of the Planet. They believed- Dala’s hands shook. They believed life was a cycle; of being born from the Lifestream of returning to it after. The Lifestream was the blood of the Planet in their eyes. And Shinra were using it to power the world. She let the book fell. Had to tell someone. Had to stop them. Had to- The door of her room opened and she opened her mouth to reprimand, to let them know the hideous reality of Shinra’s invention and stopped. A man in a white coat, his hair pulled back into a pony-tail, his back hunched stared at her through his glasses. Behind him were uniformed Shinra infantry. Dala shivered as the stranger stepped into her room. Where was Mom? She ran to the window. More Shinra infantry, people forced out onto the street by gunpoint. “It will go easier if you tell me who else you asked about Mako.” The man was right behind her and his smile was hideous. Dala’s throat was tight. She stood frozen, unable to move while the man flipped through her books and muttered something about oversights. By nightfall, the town would be gone.

#ffviihalloween #final fantasy vii #final fantasy #ffvii #nibelheim #my ffvii fanfic

12 notes · View notes

sariahsue · 5 years

Text

The Open Line - Ch 29, Roses

Read Chapter 1 Read Chapter 28

Night fell steadily over the Notre Dame cathedral and the two superheroes perched on the bell tower. The rising moon was the only indication of passing time, but the whole night could have passed and Ladybug wouldn't have cared.

Dinner had been delicious. Cat Noir swore he didn't cook any of it himself, so it was safe for human consumption. The admission had made her laugh, and the expression on his face when she offered to bring him a homemade dinner to their next patrol had made her kiss him again. Happy and shy and hesitant, so unlike the loud reveling she'd been expecting.

They sat side-by-side at the table, at her insistence. It was cramped, and their arms brushed together as they ate, but it felt nice to be so close to him. Besides, sitting like this made it much easier to sneak kisses onto his cheek when he wasn't expecting it. He still shook a little every time she did it. Like he was never expecting it, or maybe that he couldn't quite believe this was real. It was a reaction she planned on curing him of as soon as possible.

Nearly an hour later, she was sopping up the last of the sauce with her bread, taking her time swirling it around the edges of the plate. Taking her time, because she didn't want to leave him, didn't want the night to end so quickly.

"Dinner's taking a lot longer to finish than I thought it would." Cat Noir looked down at their nearly empty plates, a little confused.

Ladybug smiled knowingly. "Hmm," she said said, drawing out the sound to pull his attention back to her. "I think I know why your calculations were so off."

"Really?" He turned, and their faces were only inches apart. "Why is-"

Ladybug cut him off with a kiss. "Too many of these," she said, before giving him a second. And then a third.

Cat Noir responded slowly, stiff under her touch. She'd surprised him again, but he recovered quickly, his shoulders dropping as he sighed against her mouth. His hands found her waist, sliding her to the edge of her chair, like he couldn't get close enough to her, even while kissing her.

He was the one who pulled away first, nuzzling his nose into her cheek. "I'll never have too many of these." His breath tickled. "But we have to get going. We're going to be late!"

"Late?" she asked, excitement bubbling. "You mean there's more?"

Chairs scraped and the tablecloth rustled as Cat Noir helped Ladybug to her feet. "Oh, come on," he said as he guided her to the edge of the tower. Lights sparkled below them. "You know how over-the-top I am, especially when I'm trying to impress you." And he flipped over the edge, spinning in midair until he landed on the wooden spine of the roof 100 feet below. Like the show-off he was.

Ladybug chuckled before following.

"See? I told you I was faster than you," Cat Noir said two minutes later. They landed in front of the marble steps of the Palais de la Découverte, the Palace of Discovery science museum. White stone columns and black bronze horse statues stared down at the new couple.

"You are not," Ladybug said. "You beat me here because I didn't know where we were going."

"And that's somehow my fault?"

Ladybug shoved his shoulder, not finding that comment worthy of a response. Everything she had loved and missed about their relationship was back in full force, the banter, the friendship, the trust. Really, it wasn't much different now than it had been before. There were just new types of touching, and a happier Cat Noir.

Together they walked up the front steps, and a cold gust of wind made her shiver and pull closer to him.

"So does the second half of this date include breaking and entering?" she asked. The glass double doors were shut tight. All the lights beyond were dark. "Because I think this place is closed."

"It is closed," he said, reaching into his pocket. "But I've made a special request." The key jangled on its ring as he held it out for her to examine. "Being an- I mean, being me has some benefits."

The way he said it, the way he scuttled off to unlock the door, eyes averted... Ladybug wasn't sure if he'd meant his superhero or civilian self.

She walked up slowly behind him – then watched with delight as he fumbled the key when she put her hand on the small of his back – before he swung the door open for her.

"After you." He slipped from underneath her fingers as he pulled away and bowed for her to enter. Strange. Had he been keeping his distance all night? Considering how she'd been hanging off him all night, she'd expected... But maybe she was just imagining it.

She reached out and brushed her hand over his chest as she past him, but was quickly distracted.

Her footsteps seemed louder than normal as she stepped through the door and the outside world hushed. Whispers of their conversation echoed through the enormous atrium. "I have no idea where we're going," Ladybug said. "You still want me to lead the way?"

"Only if I can follow you to heaven."

"Uh..." Ladybug was grateful it was so dark. Another difference in their dynamic: How easily she blushed at his flirts.

Cat Noir waved for her to follow and walked deeper into the empty building. She let him get about three steps before she caught up and looped her arm through his. They passed paintings and statues, whispering to each other until they arrived at another set of doors that opened on what looked like a small auditorium, minus the stage. Seats ringed around a circle of space in the center of the room, which was empty except for a desk with a computer and some other electronics on it. They walked down to the front row, where he motioned for her to sit down.

With a few sharp taps of his claws, the computer turned on and started to hum. "I believe I once promised you the stars, My Lady."

Lights sparkled above her, and the seats leaned back easily to let her see the night sky – filled with more stars than she'd ever seen – glowing on the ceiling. The chair next to her squeaked as her partner sat down and started giving her the grand tour. Galaxies swirled. Planets flashed by. He knew so much.

And Ladybug's fingers felt so lonely. Expecting him to take her hand at the first opportunity, she'd left it on her armrest for him. But in the dim light, she could see his hands tucked neatly on his lap. Come to think of it, he hadn't touched her first all night except to help her to her feet after dinner. In the darkness, her concerns resurfaced. She'd kind of expected him to be all over her, all hands and lips and soft whispers.

His voice wavered a little as she reached over and slid her hand into his, but he kept up with his explanation of star clusters and stellar nurseries as he laced their fingers. The speech was only paused when he raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, one by one.

Ladybug loved listening to him. He was attentive and understanding of her questions, though in her completely unbiased opinion the armrests detracted from the presentation. They were downright obnoxious, getting in her way and creating a barrier between them like that. She had half a mind to climb into his lap, she started to get up, but then the stars above dimmed to faint pinpricks and the house lights come back on.

"So, what did you think?" he asked. He turned her hand over in his, tracing the large dot in the center of her palm.

She thought a lot of things. That she wished she'd realized earlier how wonderful her partner was. And how time was really unfair, speeding up like this when she wanted to be with him longer. When she didn't answer his question right away, his ears flattened and his fingers stilled.

"I think," she quickly said, "that I'm not quite ready to go home yet." This time, she did lead him, just to the center of the room, where there was a small space between the first row of chairs and the computer. The hum of electronics and her own heartbeat were the only music, but she put her free hand on his shoulder and guided him into a slow dance under the starlight sky.

Instead of the bright smile she expected at their closeness, Cat Noir seemed distant and maybe a little sad. His steps were slow. He tried to hold her at arm's length, and she had to keep stepping closer. What on earth was bothering him?

"You really went all out for me, didn't you?" she asked, when she couldn't stand his silence anymore.

"Was it too much?" he asked, sounding nervous. His wide eyes blinked rapidly. "Sorry. I've never been on a real date before."

Before she could formulate a witty response about his lack of experience, he took another step back, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to stand this close to a girl while on a date.

Okay, that was it. Ladybug was done feeling like she was chasing him across the room instead of dancing with him. Tightening her grip on him, she pulled him in, until she could comfortably rest her head on his shoulder.

That finally seemed to be enough permission for him. The hand on her waist lightened, until only one finger remained. He pulled it up, outlining her curve from her waist up her side and sliding back down again. She shivered when his fingers brushed her hip and melted into him a little further, before his palm flattened against her body once more.

"No, it's not too much," she whispered. "You just did all this work while thinking I wasn't coming."

"But I hoped," he said. "Just like I've always done."

***

It was another hour before the duo made their way back through the dark corridors of the museum. Their footsteps echoed on the tiles, and Ladybug watched Cat Noir out of the corner of her eye. He was smiling, but it was small, and aimed at the floor instead of at her.

Now was the perfect opportunity to ask him what was wrong, but before she could figure out how best to frame her concern, he stopped at the front door and turned to her. The only light was from streetlamps and headlights that filtered through the glass. The shadows it cast were soft, blurring the edges of his mask, though it couldn't hide how his expression went from pleased to hesitant.

"I have something else for you," he said. "I promise it's not over-the-top this time."

Ladybug waited expectantly as he ducked behind a pillar and pulled out an enormous bouquet of roses, pink and red, her favorites. It overflowed in her hands as she pulled them into to smell them. There must have been three dozen. Her hands barely fit around them stems.

This was his idea of a reasonable gift? Not that she minded – she was flattered – but it did raise some questions.

She smiled and thanked him as he led them outside and locked the door behind them. The crescent moon was soaring above the city now.

"I hate to say it," he said, "but it's probably time to go."

"We've stayed out later before." She rubbed a rose petal in between her fingers. "And I don't really want to leave." She doubted he did either.

Cat Noir cleared his throat. "Then maybe we-" He took his guiding hand off her elbow. There it was again. The distance that she hadn't expected, that she'd been fighting so hard against all night.

"Never mind," he said. "I'll let you make up your mind before asking again."

"Make up my mind about what?"

He looked confused. "Don't you remember? I promised I wouldn't bother you for a second date until after you'd made your choice."

Ladybug's mouth fell open. "Are you serious? This is what's been bothering you?" She hadn't intended it to come out as a shriek, but the way his cat ears flattened, she thought she might need to turn the volume down a little. "How many times have I kissed you tonight?"

"Thirty-eight."

His tone was so matter-of-fact that Ladybug paused. "You... you counted."

The ears pressed further against his hair. "Is that weird?"

Carefully passing her bouquet to one hand to get it out of her way, she shook her head and closed the space between them. "Thirty-nine." And she kissed him. This one was slower than the others had been, lingering, as she poured everything she felt into it.

Honestly, how could this boy not have realized what he meant to her? He needed to know.

"Forty," she whispered, letting her free hand wander up his arm and ghost over his cheek as she kissed him again. "Forty-one." And again.

When they broke apart, he didn't step away this time. He was solid and there, and she thought he finally understood, with his hands firmly around her waist, his lips resting against her forehead. But she had to make sure.

"If it isn't clear," she said. "I'm picking you. I've already picked you."

The grip around her tightened. "Then can we please, maybe, do this again sometime?" The vibrations of his voice rumbled through her. "Because I have about a million other ideas I want to spoil you with."

"I'd love to."

"Yeah?" There was the smile she'd been waiting for all night. Brilliant and glowing, blinding her to everything that wasn't him (while still managing to squeeze in that adorable goofiness she'd always loved).

"Yeah," she said. "But there is one thing I need to ask you."

"Anything."

A car whizzed by. People across the street walked slowly, watching them. A window light flicked on in the next building. And Ladybug felt suddenly too exposed and nervous to keep going.

"But not here," she said. "Follow me."

Read Chapter 30 here

***

Author's note: I'm posting on Monday because I couldn't get it done over the weekend, and I'm *still* not entirely happy with it. :/

#ml #miraculous #miraculous ladybug #ladynoir #ladynoir july

84 notes · View notes