#she was visibly flustered and said something like ‘you want me to say Richard right?’

[writefightandflightclub]

Somebody to love (PART 1/2): Richard Alonso Munoz x fem!reader

Summary: Whilst your neighbour, Richard, is in love with love, you are a little more commitment averse. When he performs a small act of kindness though, your feelings start to unravel, and you wonder if you may have found somebody to love - right next-door all along.

Richard is a sweet, gentle man, and so I hoped to create a sweet, gentle story. I hope you enjoy spending some time in it!

I HAVE POSTED THIS IN TWO PARTS, ONLY BECAUSE OF LENGTH. WHILST YOU COULD PROBABLY(?) READ EITHER PART AS A STANDLONE THEY ARE MEANT TO WORK TOGETHER.

Genre / tropes: pining, friends to lovers (sort of - neighbours to lovers), getting together, domesticity, fluff, smut, nothing bad happens, ends happily, quite a slow burn for a one-shot, I guess?

Author’s note: This is part of my friends to lovers event, prompt requested by @foxilayde who I adore and you should too. Prompt was: he does something utterly mundane which shows how well he knows you, and your feelings hit you. I took some liberties with the prompt, and there is zero pressure to read this - IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A BLURB! :P More of these requests in pinned post!

Warnings/ Ratings:

PART ONE (Mature, 18+ ONLY): swearing; sexual themes (erotic poetry, thirsty internal monologue, sexual tension); food themes inc. mentions/consumption; family mentions - reader has nieces but they need not be biological; brief mentions of the prison system - Richard is a Corrections Officer; exceedingly brief mention of the Holocaust in context of a non-fiction book Richard is reading (I believe this is a canon read but may be wrong); loneliness (theme, not too angsty); self-esteem issues if you squint.

PART TWO: (Explicit, 18+ ONLY): swearing; explicit sex, including - oral m + f receiving; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie; f squirting (first time doing so); well-endowed man, ahem.

Word count: 10k for part 1, 9k for part 2.

You had been thinking about the small gesture all day. You had been distracted all the way through your shift, and then all through dinner with a friend.

Richard -your neighbour to the right- had turned-up at your door that morning, before setting off on his way to work. His visit had been unexpected, and you had opened the door in a fluster, seeing him greet you with a characteristically soft smile - just visible from beneath the thick brush of his bold, impressive moustache.

He had held them out to you - in between his index and middle finger. A small book of postage stamps.

You had simply looked at him in confusion for a moment.

“For your letters,” he had stated, in his soft-spoken voice. “You said last night you didn’t have any stamps, and I found these in my drawer, so...”

It was true. You had said that. Had forgotten you’d said it. Had barely registered running into him, since it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Your routine overlapped minimally with Richard’s -though more so since his new role in the letter room had him working days exclusively- but sometimes, you would meet serendipitously, as neighbours tend to do. Last night, in the liminal space between your work day ending and your home life beginning, you had stopped to chat with him, and -you remembered now- had made some offhand comment about needing some stamps.

The topic of letters had come up; naturally, given his new position. It caused you to mention having written some letters to your nieces -packaged up with little illustrated portraits you’d gotten commissioned for their new bedrooms. Letters which you hadn’t gotten around to posting.

And so, here Richard was. On your doorstep. With stamps.

It was a little thing. So little, it didn’t even register at the time. In fact, you had bundled him off your porch with a quick, cursory “Thanks, Richard!”, prioritising finishing your morning scramble and making it out of the door on time.

It didn’t register in the moment, no; but you were noticing it now, alright.

“-so, this morning,” you explain to your friend opposite you in the pizza parlour, as she absent-mindedly dips her crusts in some hot sauce, “there he is on my doorstep, and he’d brought me some stamps.”

Your friend, Jaz, dips her chin and slowly raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, her glossed lips curling in an amused, incredulous smile. “So, let me get this straight. He brought you some... stamps, which he already had, from his house next door,” she recaps, her smile inching wider by the second, “and now you want to fuck him?!”. Her eyebrows knit together in faux concern and she clamps a hand over yours where it rests on the table. “Sweetie, we need to talk. How low is your bar these days? Exactly how dick-starved are you?”

Ordinarily you’d be more than game for the light fun she pokes at you. Would even have a smart riposte ready. This time, though, you simply huff, your jaw twitching in minor irritation at how flippant she is being. So, shaking your head gently, you pull your hand away from hers, folding your jacket around yourself, suddenly feeling exceedingly self-conscious.

“Never mind. I’m obviously not telling it right. And, wait - hold up- who in the hell said I wanted to...” you look around the parlour, voice dropping to an indignant whisper as if anyone around you would hear or care about your hypothetical sexploits “...fuck him?” Your tone is defensive, and you shift to take a masking nibble on your straw, slurping the dregs of your soda and bouncing your leg nervously under the table.

Your friend merely raises an eyebrow, with a healthy -and not entirely unfounded- scepticism, and so, you try to rein your protestations in, lest you get slammed with a “methinks you doth protest too much”.

“Okay, okay,” Jaz concedes, holding up her hands and leaning back in her chair. “All I’m saying is, it seems like you have a hard-on for him all of a sudden. You’ve lived by him for years and you’ve never noticed the guy! It’s just stamps, baby cakes. It’s just your paunchy, kindly neighbour, who gets milkshake stuck in his moustache.”

At least he’s not afraid to make a mess of himself when he’s slurping, you think idly, your eyebrow ticking up - the thought leading you in a very particular direction and sending a sudden scorching heat to your cheeks. Also - paunchy? I like a beautiful soft tummy to rest my head on, thank you very much.

Yeesh. You are not okay. Still, before you go full feral, you shrug your shoulders in partial concession, widening your eyes in innocence. “Uh huh. Sure. Yeah.” 

“Seriously?” Jaz continues, shaking her head in good-natured disbelief - blatantly seeing right through you. “Are stamps your love language now, or what the fuck?”

She’s not wrong. It is very… sudden. You’ve never felt that way about Richard before. But is it so preposterous to think you might begin to?

“Jeez! Who said anything about love?!” You swirl your straw in your cup, concentrating on puncturing the remaining bubbles and ignoring your friend’s peals of bemused laughter. “Look, okay? I guess you’re right, Jaz. Maybe I’m just dick-starved,” you suggest, a smile finally claiming your lips. “It has been… a little while. And the last encounter was not very... inspiring.” You wiggle your eyebrows at her and your shared laughter mingles in the space between you. Still, you’re more than a little keen to deflect, and you bounce your foot more furiously under the table in your haste to change the subject. “I just thought it was sweet of him, that’s all, but… forget it, okay? Tell me everything about your hot date with Jackson.”

As soon as the invitation is given, Jaz jumps on it. And, as you listen to her spill the tea on her latest hook-ups with her fancy man, you try really hard to focus - but you can’t help that your thoughts keep wandering time and again to a certain man. A man with the kindest, most soulful cola-coloured eyes. Your neighbour to the right.  

You’re unsure why, but you feel a little bent out of shape - a little annoyed, even- that Jaz was so quick to dismiss Richard. Particularly that she had seemed to miss the whole meaning behind his small gesture. He was listening to you. He was thinking about you. And, as you dwell further on it, you realise that maybe -just maybe- you want the kind of guy who brings you stamps, goddammit.

Shit - maybe Jaz wasn’t too far off when she said stamps were your love language after all.

And, true, maybe you hadn’t paid the faintest bit of romantic attention to Richard -for the most part- in the years you’d lived side-by-side with him... but maybe it was time to start. Maybe, in fact, it was well overdue.

***

Granted, it hadn’t struck you right away how sweet Richard’s gesture was, but as soon as it had, you started to notice everything. To remember everything.

You remembered how he pushed a flyer through your door one evening, just in case you might be interested in the latest art exhibit going on at the local rec centre. You recalled how he had duct-taped the handle of your garbage can back together after it spectacularly broke one morning, causing your trash to spill over the sidewalk. It hadn’t seemed like a huge thing at the time, but now, as you imagine him painstakingly unfurling the roll and passing it around and around the broken piece, entirely on his own steam, it takes on a new meaning.

You have begun to notice - really notice- how he always smiles and stops to chat to you, his face lighting up as if he is genuinely pleased to see you. You have begun to notice everything he has done for you, over the years, a deluge of kindness flooding your heart. Details -little things- which seemed insignificant at the time, but which weigh heavier than gold now that you reflect on them.

And, most of all, you have noticed him.

Richard.

You have noticed his positivity. That bounce he gets in his step when he’s enthusiastic about something (which is always). The way his expressive, long-lashed eyes reveal everything he’s feeling whenever he talks or listens - his emotions and his compassionate heart pinned firmly on his sleeve, as prominent as his Corrections Officer badge. You notice how handsome he is; a fact which has inexplicably passed you by for the longest time. Perhaps, because of how understated he is? Not cocky and assured and alpha like the guys you’re usually drawn to.

Tonight, though, most of all, you are noticing that he’s not home, as you sit on your front porch steps, entirely locked out of your own house. You know for a fact that a couple of neighbours have spotted you there - you’ve observed pairs of curtains twitching- and yet no-one has come to your aid so far, mean bastards. You know, in contrast, that Richard would help anyone who needed it, without hesitation. And, it’s fair to say that sitting here, waiting for him to return and help you out, is certainly providing you plenty of opportunity to dwell on thoughts of him. In fact, you can’t wait for him to get home; not only because you wish for relief from the elements, no. But because the thought of seeing him actually excites you. You are looking forward to it.

Finally, thankfully, after the evening chill has long begun to bite at your extremities, you see Richard approaching. He whistles a jaunty tune as he comes up his drive, happy as usual. From his silhouette, you note that he’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and his usual ill-fitting jeans, his keys already jangling in his hand, and he stops abruptly when he sees you sat out front as though his feet are glued to the floor.

You can just about make out the smile which tugs at his lips, moments before his words do. He always seems happy to see you, and, on this occasion, you echo that feeling too, more so than ever. “Locked out?” he calls, and at the sound of his voice you stand, hopefully, clasping your purse on your shoulder, your own feet glued to the floor too.

“Yeah,” you call, throwing your voice over to him. “Waiting for the locksmith.”

You grip the strap of your purse a little tighter, as Richard takes a few steps closer, a polite but cautious smile lighting his face. “Want to wait inside?”

“Hell yes,” you gush with a relieved exhale of breath, gratefully trotting around to meet him on his porch where the security light bathes him in a halo of orange. “You’re a babe. Thank you, Richard.” You allow your eyes to gently rove over him as you approach. He’s wearing a turquoise bowling shirt, you realise. A bowling shirt with “Alonso Muñoz” stitched in an adorable flourish of red embroidery above the left shirt pocket. What’s more, he looks cute as all hell in it too. You seem to recall he’s in a casual league with some buddies.

“It’s no trouble,” he says with a warm, disarming smile, deep, pleasing creases radiating from around his eyes – and, even though you aren’t usually one to be lost for words, it is all you can do to smile back at him vacantly, clutching your purse strap tight enough that your knuckles strain.

Richard pauses too, seemingly taking a moment to remember the keys bunched and readied in his hand - as though your presence has pushed all other thoughts out of his head. “You must be cold. Let’s get you warmed up,” he says finally, snapping himself out of his stupor.

Yes please.

And so, with a bashful flutter of his long lashes as you shuffle even closer to him, Richard opens the door and guides you inside, hover-handing his palm at the small of your back.

He smiles widely as he is welcomed by his little fur ball, Lady, the white dog yipping and wagging and jumping up at his shins. Richard stoops to bundle her into his arms, the animal rasping its tongue over his shapely jaw, which he raises as he squirms away from the wet, eager kisses.

“Aw, you’re so precious, Lady,” you baby-talk, reaching out to apply fond scritches to the mop of her head. “I forget how cute you are, little bean!”

Richard chuckles with mirth, seemingly warmed by your sweet interaction with his pupper, and only when Lady gets restless in his arms does he set about plopping her down and refilling her food bowl.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Richard offers, before he briefly excuses himself, dipping away into another room and signalling he’ll be right back.

With Richard gone and Lady chowing down on her dried food, you take the opportunity to glance around the place, surprised by how at home you do feel, already, even though you’ve never set foot in here before. You’ve been in his yard before; for example, when he’s hosted block barbeques, or, when the summer sun has withered from your yard, you’ve sometimes shimmied your deck chair to be side by side with his as you languished together in the remaining patch of sun. But you’ve never been inside his home. Now that you are, you drink in the details of him, eager for any new information you can glean, and scanning over the books and paintings and photographs with particular interest. You smile as your eyes fall upon Lady’s bed, filled with a procession of carefully arranged stuffed animals and chew toys.  You are warmed by the painting of a beachy, mountain-edged, palm-fronded sunset, propped against the ‘sill.

You note that his place is homely and well-tended, and you also can’t help but notice that the place signals a rather solitary existence. One plate and one fork drying on the dish rack. A perfectly placed easy chair -for one- in front of the TV, the small couch to its side covered with stacks of books and papers, as if it has been a while since he entertained a guest. In fact, you would take a seat -make yourself at home- but you don’t want to intrude on His Seat, and nor do you wish to disturb his personal papers to clear the couch.

As you ponder this, Richard re-enters, extending a soft, flannel shirt towards you. “Here. In case you’re cold.”

You smile your thanks to him (grinning like a dumbass, actually) and you gratefully slip the garment over your shoulders, feeling instantly warmed. As you wrap it around yourself, you get a waft of fresh-scented detergent. You would never have guessed that you’d be able to recognise any particular Richard-y scent, but as the shirt’s pleasant odour engulfs you, you realise it is infinitely familiar. That it is wildly comforting.

You watch, a brief moment of awkwardness as Richard self-consciously combs his fingers through his thick moustache; sweeps a hand over his already immaculate, plastered-down curls. He looks so... neat. Controlled. Restrained. It crosses your mind that you’d like to mess him up a bit, see him come undone - of course, if he wanted.

Then, noticing your seating predicament, Richard surges over to gather up the strewn piles of mess, shifting them on to the coffee table instead. “Here, take a seat,” he indicates. “Sorry for the mess- I emptied the bureau looking for the stamps. Please. Every time I think to put it back I get distracted.”

His comment is nonchalant, but for the second time since he arrived home, you are at a loss for words, and you can only stare at him as you sink your ass down, gratefully, on to the now emptied couch. He’d gone to that effort for you? And now he’s apologising right to your face for the mess of it?

“That was kind of you, Richard,” you state, finding words again, and he shuffles nervously from shoe to shoe in response. You note that his brown skin grows increasingly flushed, with a deepening undertone of crimson as his eyes skim cautiously over you. “And thank you for letting me hang here. Promise I’ll be out of your hair soon. The locksmith should only be...” You suck in air through your teeth as you un-pocket your cell and glance at the time. “Yikes. Another hour. I’m so sorry to get in the way.”

His moustache twitches with a shy smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes all big and pretty. He certainly doesn’t look put-out, at least. “Not at all - it’s… really nice to have you here,” Richard insists, polite and sincere as ever. You are the one to feel bashful now, and you tug his shirt more firmly around your shoulders for comfort, the act serving to further fluster you and entrance him, it seems. He seems frozen to the spot again, and meanwhile, you’re now feeling overly warmed.

He looks a little lost, for a moment, as though it’s been so long since he had a visitor that he doesn’t quite know what to do with you. In the next second though, his practiced hospitality kicks in, his warm and affable nature shining through as he determines a course of action. “Have you eaten? I could fix you some dinner.”

You are hungry, you think, your tongue darting out along your bottom lip at the thought of food. Well, if he’s going to feed you, you’re not letting him do all the work -you decide- so you tentatively rise from your seat, clapping your palms together, signifying action. “Only if I can help you?”

“O- okay. Yeah. Thank you,” he nods; then, he comes to stand with his hands on his hips, thumbs to the front, causing his soft, rounded belly to protrude exaggeratedly from under his shirt. You’re not sure why that sends a very subtle flare of heat down between your legs, but it does all the same.

Meanwhile, oblivious to your thirsty inner monologue, Richard looks at you reservedly, until you smile and cross together to the humble kitchen, where, with another bashful flutter of his lashes he begins grabbing out utensils and ingredients. All the while, he moves seamlessly around you, so careful never to touch or to invade your personal space. The pronounced and careful lack of contact makes you realise, however -as he skims his body so close yet so far from yours in the compact space- that maybe you desperately want him to touch you. That you wouldn’t mind if his hand brushed your back, or lower. That maybe having him envelop his arms around you would feel as warm and comforting as his shirt – or even more so. That even, perhaps, if he pressed you from behind into the counter, his soft stomach leading, followed by his wide hips pinning you in place, his moustache grazing up the column of your neck, that you wouldn’t mind at all. In fact, the thought of his touch, and even the mere potential of it, fills you with an excited buzz deep in your belly. A thrill that you haven’t felt for a long time – at least, not quite like this.

Right now, though, you set these thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. You move around each other a little awkwardly, but thankfully, the conversation flows far more easily than your bodies. Richard’s shy and gentle, but he’s friendly. Inquisitive and interesting, and he keeps you chatting. And, so, you converse and cook together, until the resulting, homely odours waft into your nose, keeping your mind firmly on your much more literal hunger; at least, for the most part.

When the steaming food is plated up, Richard invites you to take a seat on the couch and you oblige, watching him fondly and with interest as he produces various condiments, a bottle of Mr. Chimi’s Churri sauce taking pride of place on the surface in front of you. You add a healthy dollop.

“Mmm, this is so good, thank you,” you say approvingly when he invites you to dig in, eagerly wolfing down forkfuls.

As soon as Richard has plonked himself down in his chair and balanced his own plate on his lap, he flicks on the TV – likely, more out of habit than anything. A vibrant telenovela sparks to life in the background, a particularly melodramatic scene in full swing. You smile to yourself. You recognise the show - you’ve heard him talk about it too. Even get the impression he watches religiously.

Richard’s eyes fix on the screen for a moment, and he is visibly suckered-in by the unfolding plot, his food disappearing at an impressive rate as he scoops it up to his mouth while he watches. Still, he doesn’t forget you’re there. Quite the contrary.

“It’s so sad,” he explains for your benefit, between his mouthfuls of dinner, his eyes overflowing with warmth as he turns to you. “Carlos and Adela are so in love, but they can’t be together. She’s engaged to Luis. She has to stay with him to save the family home because she already signed some papers.”

You smile, Richard’s heartfelt summary filling you with warmth. He cares about people. It’s what he does. Apparently, he’s even invested in the fictional ones. You try hard to supress your good-natured amusement at quite how invested he is; however, when his gaze meets yours once again, flicking back and forth between you and the screen, he must catch a hint of it in your expression. “Sorry,” he flusters. “I can turn this off, if you like?” he offers gently, eyes apologetic.

“Are you kidding?” you respond, with a warm smile. You’re no stranger to becoming over-invested in fiction, you suppose, and besides - you like the prospect of sharing this with him. “Catch me up some more,” you encourage. “So, we’re rooting for Carlos?”

Richard smiles gratefully, nodding vigorously in response. You like seeing him like this. In his own element, his own environment, doing things he typically enjoys. It’s nice to see him living his best life, thriving on the drama of the trope-laden plot. “I hope Carlos crashes the wedding. Luis doesn’t deserve her.”

“Yikes. You’re brutal, Alonso Muñoz,” you tease, a musical laugh lilting out of you.

You chat back and forth, an amused smile twitching at the corner of your mouth for the duration, and although Richard seems somewhat entranced by the developing storyline, he seems even more invested in you. He makes sure to listen to you, even when you’re sure you must be talking over an important detail. He ensures he fills you in on any prior plot point you may need for context.

And, while his eyes do intermittently flick back toward the screen, your eyes, however, remain firmly fixed on him. On the singular swoop of his meticulously parted, grizzled curls. On his long lashes blinking, his deep eyes shining beneath them, glinting in tandem with the light from the screen. His warm, brown skin and the lines etched in it when he smiles cast with a bluish hue, flickering light and shadow ghosting over the contours of his strong nose and chin and his heavy brow. The soft, inviting rolls of his stomach as he relaxes into his chair, and the way his belly shakes when he laughs. Of course, his glorious moustache, positively flourishing on his upper lip. Last but not least, what most gets you though, are his eyes. Eyes as kind and expressive and open as this sweet man’s heart is.

You laugh alongside him, hoping he is enjoying the company as much as you are. You could get used to this, you think; used to him. Indeed, you have no idea how you have managed to overlook this man, beautiful inside and out, until now. You resolve though, that you won’t make that same mistake again.

Eventually, the credits roll, and you thank Richard once more for the food. He carries your plate over to the sink, insisting -when you offer- that the dishes can languish there for one night. And so, instead of rising, you pat the couch cushion beside you invitingly. His throat bobs around a hard swallow as he stands before you, his feet momentarily glued to the floor; yet again. When Richard finally musters movement and takes a seat next to you, he places himself as far away from you as he possibly can on the small two-seater; out of respect rather than repulsion, you are more than sure. However, the compact space affords him little chance to keep his distance, and his clothed thigh presses warm against your own. He doesn’t make any attempt to move away though, and, equally, nor do you.

“Thank you, Richard,” you say, your voice softer and far more breathy than you intended, now that he is so close to you.

He clears his throat self-consciously, before his eyes crease with a sincere smile. “It’s no trouble. Anytime.” He sounds like he means it too.

You lean back, settling yourself deeper into the worn and slightly lumpy couch cushions. His posture, meanwhile, is still alarmingly stiff beside you, his torso upright and his hands folded formally in his lap. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d say that, perhaps, you made him nervous.

“Richard, I don’t bite,” you soothe. “Sit back. Relax. It’s your home.”

He nods in concession, exhaling his tensely held breath. “Yes, Ma’am,” he sounds obediently. You don’t think you’ve ever had anyone call you Ma’am before; but you note that you don’t entirely mind it, out of Richard’s mouth. You maybe even… like it?

Anyway, outside of your increasingly feral internal monologue, Richard reaches over to flick on the soft, ambient lamp to his side -the room having grown thick with shadows- and then he is sinking back, resting his head against the couch cushions alongside you.

You turn your head and tilt your torso a little towards him. When Richard does the same, it evokes a sense of intimacy that you weren’t all the way prepared for; the rest of the room seems to disappear as you are both held in a close circle of oranged light, the TV nothing but a lulling, background hum now. “I mean it... I... I wanted to thank you properly. For the stamps.”

“It’s no trouble,” he repeats, his voice deep and resonant and close now, catching you off-guard. No trouble? Sure. Despite the fact he’d clearly emptied-out everything in his living room to find them. “Did you send your letters?” he enquires softly, his eyebrows jumping up a little.

You can’t supress the bittersweet smile which inches over your face as you respond. “I did, and I got the cutest video call from my nieces when their mail arrived.” That wouldn’t have happened. Not without him being so thoughtful. You’d have put it off and put it off. The letters would still be sat on your dresser.  

Richard’s eyes light, and he looks genuinely pleased for you, his face glowing. “I’m glad.” He smiles, revealing a flash of his cute, ever so slightly imperfect (and therefore entirely perfect) teeth. Finally beginning to relax again, his hands rest flat astride his sturdy thighs and his head lolls towards you. With his next words, his voice becomes even softer. “I can tell you miss them since they moved away. Portland, right? I, uh. I really hoped you would send those letters. I know how much they can mean to people.”

“Portland. Yeah. Wow, you remember that?” You have to admit that you are a little shocked. Richard listened to you. Really listened to you. And, not only that, but he clearly read between the lines, connecting the dots between each one of your ad hoc interactions in a way which you -apparently- had failed to do thus far.

Jaz would scoff at you right now, you know it, if she could see you becoming all shy and flustered for him.

And now you want to fuck him?

But it wasn’t only that he brought you the stamps, okay? It was why he did it. He did it, because he knew what it might mean for you. Because, evidently, not only did he notice that you were sad -about something you barely let yourself acknowledge, by the way- but he also cared enough to try to make you happy instead.

The realisation that he cares is an emotional thing, causing a slight lump to rise in your throat. It should probably make you happy, but in fact, it saddens you. It saddens you because -you realise now- you have taken for granted all this time how easy Richard is to talk to. Have taken for granted the way he has been privy to so many candid details about your life.

Richard has often been the first person you’ve spoken to when you arrived home -sometimes the only person- and you have never hesitated to share your good news and triumphs with him. Nor have you hesitated to vent, sharing the more difficult details of your bad days. You’ve taken for granted just how much of yourself you’ve cumulatively shared with him; in a way you don’t often share with anyone else. Richard has been an important part of your life all these years, without you truly realising it. Perhaps because your interactions with him have tended to exist in such a liminal, peculiar space in your day. Perhaps because you were too close to see the big picture, instead of this collection of valuable, little things.

You hug your arms around yourself. You can merely repeat it again. “Thank you. For real.”

“It’s just a little thing,” he dismisses, modestly, and you are very suddenly tired of him dismissing himself. You want him to know how appreciated he is. Embodying this, your hand darts out to grip his where it rests on his thigh, and Richard looks down at this small spectacle in mild shock; and yet, he doesn’t pull away from your touch.

“It’s not. It’s a lot of things, Richard. I want you to know I appreciate everything you do. It has... It has been a long time since anyone was so sweet to me.”

Feeling self-conscious suddenly, following your outburst of affection, you inch your hand away from his; retreating, and reining yourself back in. For a moment, Richard’s fingers twitch up from his pant leg as though they might chase yours; but then, his hand stills, settled on his thigh just as before.

Then, a crease appears at his brow. “None of your Adonises are sweet to you?”

Your nose crinkles in confusion. “My... Adonises?”

“The... your... gentlemen visitors.”

Your brow creases, as you try to detect whether there is any judgement or malice in his observation, but, knowing him, you are not inclined to think there is. Still, you feel there is more to uncover. He’s noticed your dates coming and going then? He thinks they’re… Adonises? He’s surprised they aren’t sweet to you?

Still, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, perhaps realising how they might be misinterpreted, that crimson undertone to his skin flares again, this time reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks like he wants the couch to swallow him up, and you can’t help but feel for him. “I just meant...”

“-It’s okay,” you say, swooping in to rescue him before he can start helplessly blabbering. He keenly takes the invitation to stop, his mouth suddenly clamping shut, ready to listen. And you? You are ready to talk. The words seem to come so easily around him. “I guess... you’re right. I’ve been on some dates but they...” you sigh, furrowing your brow as you try to find the words. “That’s all fine. Most of the time it’s really fun. Or it was. But... lately...”

“Lately?” Richard encourages, when you don’t go on, his voice barely above a whisper as he hangs on your every word.

“Lately, I think… That maybe it would be nice to have somebody who doesn’t just come and go. To have… somebody to love, I guess?”

“Somebody to love,” Richard ponders, his expression becoming wistful. His head begins moving up and down ever so slowly, gradually building to a more adamant nod. He smiles, but his eyes don’t crease at the corners this time. “That really does sound nice.”

It shocks you, but seeing him even a little sad, like that, has your hands fisting in the material of your skirt, as you resist the urge to reach out for him and offer comfort. You want to cup his face in your hand and kiss him senseless, until his eyes glow once more, imbued with his characteristic positivity. You want to care for him and protect him and make him laugh and spend time with him and…

Fuck.

You want to love him, you realise, and the thought scares you down to your bones. It scares you enough that you sit forwards, breaking this most peculiar tension. Changing the topic. And, abrupt as it may be, at least it works.

“What are you reading?” you ask, shrugging his shirt from your shoulders as a hot, cloying flush creeps along your skin and up your neck, prickly enough that it feels like fingertips. As you imagine Richard’s fingers dancing the same path over your bare shoulder blade, slipping beneath the spaghetti strap of your top, peeling it down, you hurriedly pick up the first book you can put your hands on, turning it in your palms without taking in a word written on it.

Poor Richard. You must be giving the sweet man whiplash.

Still, he leans forward in his seat too, sombrely taking the book from your hands and gazing down at the cover.

“Ah. It’s a bleak topic,” he warns. A deep crease appears in his brow. “It’s Night, by Elie Wiesel – a survivor’s account of his experiences during the Holocaust.”

Your expression turns grave and pinched and you nod, listening carefully as Richard recounts some of the key details. Then, together, you continue to pore through the pile, tackling each book in turn. You listen intently to Richard recount the various synopses, passionate and precise and sensitive in his summaries. It seems he reads a lot of non-fiction. Heavy reading, with many titles about the prison system, and atrocities - often both. But, you understand why it’s important to him. You are grateful to understand how his empathetic nature begets yet more empathy, as he seeks to expand his knowledge of experiences and histories different to his own. 

At first sight, you think it’s seemingly at odds that such a positive man seeks out such dark accounts, but it makes sense to you, in a strange way. After all, he wants to understand how things can be better. He believes they can be. You don’t know anything more Richard-y than that.

Reaching for the next title, you find it is a little different to the rest. You are reluctant to segue too abruptly from such heavy topics, keen to give them the merit they deserve, but at the same time you are grateful for a little lightness as you pick-up what appears to be a slightly trashy romance novel. You smile fondly, connecting the dots between this and the telenovela plotlines that seem to grab his attention; the way he seems so in love with love. Again, you consider how the two sides of him -the more serious and seemingly more trivial - may seem at odds, but that actually, they each reveal what is at the core of him. He is interested in people. He’s invested.

“And this book?” you ask tentatively, not even trying to stifle your smile as your eyes wander over the cover, two half-dressed people locked in an erotic, sordid embrace. You are especially keen to hear what he has to say about this one too.

“Well… Like you said. Somebody to love - right? Don’t we all need those kinds of stories?”

Your eyes glow with admiration. Whilst he’s not cocky or overly assured, no, you are coming to admire Richard’s quiet confidence in who he is and what he cares about. His integrity and his lack of embarrassment in the things he chooses to value. His delight and lack of shame in the things that he enjoys. He’s not afraid to be who he is. You think that’s wonderful.

Next, your eyes flick back to the final book on the pile, partly for completeness but also out of curiosity. You feel with each title you pick-up, you are learning something about him; and, frankly, you want to know everything there is to find out. You look at it with a start however, when you realise what the final book in the pile is.

It’s your book. It’s the anthology of poetry you’d self-published around a year ago, and sold at your local readings. You reach for it instantly, almost cradling it in your hands like a precious object. Not because it’s yours - not exactly- but because it’s his. His copy looks eminently different to the spares you still have boxed-up in your house, all fresh and crisp, spines unbroken. This one looks a little worn around the edges - well-thumbed, spine broken-in. Some of the pages are dog-eared, and various makeshift bookmarks are sticking out of it. You’ve never seen one of your publications looking so… beautiful. So treasured.

“You actually read this?” you ask, a little overwhelmed, your heart hammering, and tears spiking in your eyes.

“I read it often. I told you, I really like it!”

You stroke the cover with your palm. “Honestly? I thought you were just being polite.”

When you’d mentioned to him for the first time that you wrote poetry -specifically erotic poetry- and had invited him to the reading, Richard had looked, at first, as though he was ready to die of embarrassment. Regardless, he’d still come along - your only neighbour to have done so. You vaguely remember having spoken to him the day afterward about it, but when you think of the show itself, you can’t picture him there. Now, you desperately wrack your memory of the event, searching for him. Wishing you could recall him showing-up for you in such an important way. 

It had been such a blur, though. You’d had a lot of friends there. You’d had a date there, who, at the time, you’d thought was the be all and end all. Now, however, you curse yourself for overlooking Richard. You wish you could go back and root through the crowd for him. You wish you could bring him into the spotlight. Bring him into your arms. And yet, while you ponder all of this, Richard reaches for the book and gently lifts it from your hands, with a gentle hum. It practically falls open on one particular page.

“This one is my favourite,” he admits bashfully. “Salted Peach. I must have it almost memorised by now.” You turn to him, studying his face. His expressive eyes are full of a heat gentler and more nuanced than your words could ever hope to be, you think, as he pores over the page. Over your words.

“No way. Prove it, Alonso Muñoz,” you challenge, exhaling a laugh that is surprised and disbelieving and utterly delighted all at once.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it, but the man sets his face, both more determined and more playful than you think you have seen him so far, as he hands the book back to you. “Okay,” he smiles, softly. “I’ll give it a go.”

You hold your breath as his eyes flutter closed -so that you know he has zero chance of cheating- his long lashes fanning-out beautifully over his cheek. You take the chance to look over his handsome features, while he can’t interrupt your surreptitious study.

Then, he begins. His voice is hushed and unsure, yet the richness of it washes over you, right from the first line.

“Like salt kept on the lips,

To resist is to rust,” he begins, and your breath catches in your chest.

“Let me be an oiled thing under you, all fluid and opening smoothly

With keen, slick hinges.”

First, you are struck that he really does know it. That he really does remember it, almost word perfect. You exhale a breath in disbelief, your chest filling with butterflies.

“A ruined peach

Spilling nectar over your thumb,” he continues, and desire knots deep in your belly.

It’s not that the words are explicit – they aren’t. But something about the way he recites them -recounts your desire- makes them feel positively sinful, his voice quietly confident and subtly erotic as he recites your words. You don’t only hear the words, but you feel them, almost as if his thumb really has punctured you.

You are becoming slick already, feeling like a ruined, grateful fruit. You want to be his fruit, you think. His salted peach.

“You can be my stiffness

My joints

My... (my stone heart? Is that right?)” he interjects.

“It’s perfect,” you encourage, your voice trembling slightly, even as his grows ever more robust, and, as you bolster him, he sits a little taller in his seat, his posture proud and the new confidence reflected in his voice as he proceeds. As he grows, stiffer, taller, you become liquid, and you writhe your heat subtly against your seat. You press your thighs closer together.

Enraptured, you watch his lips and tongue move seamlessly around the words. The micro-expressions on his face, revealing how tenderly he wishes to portray them, every word imbued with care. With expression, and feeling.  

“(Got it...) My stone heart

And I, boneless;

Bodiless flesh.”

As he continues, you close your eyes too. You stop checking the words against the book and you let yourself feel them. You let them wash over you. You let his voice wash over you; to sink and curl into the pit of you. You squirm in place, and yet this shifting makes you all too aware of your stillness – this fixed position and distance from him, when surely you should be moving and surging and undulating on him? Surely you should be leaning in and hearing the deep yet gentle timbre of his words waft into the shell of your ear, or fanning over your skin?

Surely, he should be touching you?

Your heart is racing.

“Salt me, then.

Lick your lips and taste me; sweetly.”

You want to taste him. Be tasted.

“Only on your tongue, do I exist.

Only in your hand, do I perish.”

You want to exist and perish on his hand.  

“Do not keep me on your lips.

Oil me with your writhing”

You want to be swallowed by him. Oiled by him. Made slick.

“Or else I rust.”

You are rapt. His words -no, your words, spoken by him- melting you.

His voice. So rich, and so sensual, and you could swear, as you listen to him, that your words have never sounded so erotic. That you have never felt them as deeply as you do now, hearing them fall from his tongue and his lips. Hearing them flow from his heart, as he recites them in a way you’ve never heard them; an interpretation entirely unique to him.

In fact, listening to him, like this, lights a flame in the pit of you, a heat suffusing through you, warming everywhere. He warms you, even from this distance, and you can feel how much heat he has to give. And, on boy. You want to lap it up. Every. Last. Drop.

“I... I forgot the next part,” he adds, shyly, his confidence wavering, and you open your eyes, beginning to recite the rest for him.

“Oh, love,

I long to be a fluid thing;

Under you.”

It sounds… true. It feels right. It feels so right to say those words to him. So right that it knocks the air from out of you.

At the sound of your voice, you watch a soft, unfiltered smile appear on Richard’s face, his still-closed eyes creasing deliciously at the corners, his moustache animating with it.

“And yet you resist me; rust me,” you continue, voice full of fissures, and Richard’s eyes slowly peel open, pooling with heat. This time, unlike the other times his eyes have met yours, he holds your gaze - doesn’t drop his eyes from yours in a flurry of bashfulness and fluttered lashes. He holds your gaze and he holds you, in this moment. In this little circle of intimacy, his eyes glowing, all for you. Pooling with that heat, so nuanced and gentle, but every bit as hot as anything you’ve ever touched.

Your voice and your smile and your heart crack wide open as you continue.

“You are salt kept on my lips;”

You complete the last lines at the same time, eyes locked. 

“Always tempting.

I seize up.”

Of all the swimming emotions rising at that moment, gratitude balls in your heart most intensely, and yet again, it is all you can do to thrust it towards him, your humble offering.

“Thank you,” you say, for the nth time that evening, a smile of the purest joy still splitting your face. “That was really beautiful.”  

It’s hard to comprehend how moved you are by what just happened. You are shocked. Flattered. That someone appreciates your words, that they resonate at all, makes you feel so seen. That the person is Richard is more of a treasure than you can fathom, and it causes a flood of raw, reckless emotion, joyful tears brimming in your eyes.

In return, Richard’s eyes shine as he regards you, with an admiration so deep and yet prominent that you almost shrink back from it. “They’re your words,” he impresses, aiming, as ever, to shrink himself instead.

You shake your head. You won’t have that. “No, Richard - it’s the way you recited them. I swear you should do my next reading for me. You’re so…” You search desperately for the right words, and you can’t find ones any more fitting. “…So fucking beautiful.”

And you call yourself a poet?

Your eyes well up.

You feel entirely caught off guard and just a little silly that you are getting yourself upset in front of him, and yet Richard’s eyes narrow kindly as you try to scrub a stray tear away from your cheek. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soothing, and in the next breath he reaches out to touch you, his hand settling over the top of yours. The gesture is a little awkward, unsure, but only until his hand is in place. After that it simply feels... right. Perfect, in fact.

He strokes you, his thumb ghosting slowly, minutely over your pulse point, sending a delicious shiver along your spine. His eyes search yours, and you become thoroughly lost in the intensity of them. Lost in a way that you don’t ever wish to find yourself again. Lost in a way that turns everything on its head - has you finally feeling found.

“I loved hearing you read. It was so wonderful. You should definitely do another event,” Richard gushes. “I’m sure I could listen to you read from this all night.” With that, and the scenario it conjures, perhaps, he looks down at his hand on yours. Maybe growing self-conscious, or worried that he is overstepping; that he has lingered there too long. Suddenly, though, you don’t think any length of time could be too long for him to be touching you.

When your gaze drops to his lips, however, his moustache bristles, and he quickly snatches his hand back to his lap. “Have you written anything lately?” he asks hurriedly, scooping up the book again, his topic change giving off the same energy as yours did previously.

You wonder if he is imagining your fingers trailing over his bare flesh now too. You hope so. Oh how you hope.

At his question, though, you exhale a small laugh, pumping your eyebrows once as your face splits in a smile. You shake your head gently. “I haven’t been... it’s a while since I was, let’s say, properly inspired by an encounter,” you explain, looking down at your hands in your lap, missing his contact already. “I’m just... Hmmph. I don’t know. It’s just... missing something. Guess they don’t make Adonises like they used to,” you add flippantly, poking light fun, partly at yourself.

Contrary to your flippancy, Richard becomes more serious. A gulp trails down his throat, and he seems suddenly frozen in place; seized up. As if he needs you to oil him so that he doesn’t rust. “W-What are you missing?” he asks, his voice lower than you’ve heard it, slightly more grit to it. His chest visibly rising, breaths slightly quickened; just like yours.

You look into his deep, cola-coloured eyes.

You?

What are you missing? You’re not sure, but somehow you feel that whatever it is, Richard could give it to you in moments.

Still, you don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you ask him a question in return. You ask him a question feeling that, somehow, in a roundabout way, both of your questions may arrive at precisely the same answer.

“Why that poem?” you question, softly, lifting your eyes to him. “Why is that one your favourite?”

“I... I think...” he swallows again, then he whets his plush lips with a flick of his pink tongue. “It’s about longing, isn’t it? About being... lonely? About... wanting... someone in particular.” He fixes his expressive eyes on a point on the table, unable to look at you, it seems, in that moment. Still, his words are telling enough alone, you think, even without you seeing that same sentiment mirrored in his eyes too.

Now, you have another question. “Do you ever... get lonely? Are you? Lonely?”

It’s not even an assumption about him, you vaguely realise. It’s a projection. A projection of how you feel, and how you never realised you felt. It’s a desperate plea for affinity. For that longing to be understood, finally.

You are the one who is rusted. Seized up.

However, as soon as the question is out of your mouth you wish you could retract it. Loneliness is a solitary thing, after all, and you have no business, you suppose, wading into anyone else’s.

“I’m so sorry, please don’t answer that,” you mutter quickly, your fingers darting out to ghost along his forearm in apology, your naturally tactile nature coming through.

He drops his gaze towards your fingers there, watching them skimming his warm skin and the soft, dark hairs on his arms. He doesn’t inch away. Instead, he lifts his eyes to you, and you know the answer before he says it aloud. You know the answer as his emotions are written clearly in his eyes. Worn on his sleeve, like his badge.

The weight of his loneliness crushes you as if it was your own.

“Me too,” you admit, nodding softly, and his mouth curls briefly into a small, sad smile as your fingers continue their slow inch across his skin.

He sits in that sadness for a moment, and then, tentatively, as a thought flashes across his eyes, he brightens, just a little – looking mildly more hopeful. “Well,” he suggests, bravely. “Maybe we can… keep each other company?”

That really does sound nice.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Richard reaches out to fumble away the single tear ever so suddenly coursing down your face, swiping a line on your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt anything so tender as his touch in that moment. It is yet another little thing; like the graze of a match head along its box. A little act, charged, with all this dangerous potential for a much larger, blazing thing to ignite.

You nod, the corners of your mouth trembling. “I would like that.” You would like that a lot.

Richard searches your eyes, and, ever so slowly - always slowly- as if you don’t wish to scare him away, you dare to hook your arm into his at the elbow, and you lower your head until it is resting on top of his shoulder.

“Is – Is this okay, Richard?” you ask in a small voice, pleading inwardly with the universe that he will say yes. That it is.

“This is... perfect,” he responds, even as he remains stiff against you, and, given his affirmation, you curl and scooch your body, shuffling a little closer to him. Bolstered too, with seeming new-found confidence, Richard raises him arm over you, and he nestles you safely against him where you can better feel his warmth. Where, with your knees drawing up on to his lap and your ear coming to rest on his chest, you can feel and hear the quickened thud of his racing heart as he holds you. His beautiful, kind, open heart.

Your mouth extends in a watery smile as you are held by him. He’s right. It’s a little thing, but it is perfect, isn’t it?

Still, again, although you should feel light, you feel heavy. With emotion. With longing. And so, you reach for another topic change. You reach for lightness. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an incredibly impressive moustache?” you enquire into his shirt, another solitary tear slipping over the bridge of your nose and wetting the flourish of red stitching.

Giving yourself whiplash now, you smile, as Richard’s chest shakes beneath you with gentle, easy laughter.

“Well, not everybody is a fan.”

“Who would actually dare?” you exclaim, as if thoroughly scandalised. “Fuck them, Richard. I like it. I like it a lot.”

His fingers trace shapes on your back. “Thank you.”

You are pleased to feel him gradually relax against you, his form melding with yours, his body becoming less stiff. Less rusted; more of a fluid thing.

“Do you… do you have a little moustache comb?”

Another chuckle. “I do,” he confirms, and you don’t know why on earth that detail settles it, but you think that he must certainly be the most perfect man on earth.

You go silent for a moment, but Richard prompts you gently - “No more questions for me?”- as if he was enjoying your mood-lightening segue. You are more than happy to oblige the sweet man by continuing, and you chew on your lip as you come up with something.

“Are you on Tinder?” A cheeky smile claims your mouth again - you’d kill to see his profile.

You’d think about the fact he’d probably never send unsolicited dick pics, but… then you’d be thinking about dick pics, and that’s one dangerous road towards Feral Town.

While you ponder this, Richard laughs again, but it’s a little self-deprecating this time. “No... I... I was for a while, but I...”

“What?”

He inhales and sighs his whole breath out again - a sad sound. His tone when he speaks is equally morose. “I’m… not sure people are looking for someone like me.”

At that, you abruptly sit up, narrowing your eyes and fixing a determined, earnest stare on him. You reach up, gingerly, moved to cup his cheek with your palm, his groomed sideburn and the plume of his moustache pleasantly rough under your fingers. You make sure he is looking you in the eyes. “Richard,” you contest, with every scrap of sincerity you can muster; and then some. “I think everybody must be looking for somebody like you.” 

His eyes are pierced by a peculiar emotion you haven’t seen there yet. At first it looks like pain, but then it levels off until his eyes are shining, with something resembling pride or gratitude. When a smile finally twitches his moustache, your gaze drops to his lips again, and you are no longer surprised by how easy it is to think about kissing him, desire unfurling in your belly at an alarming rate. A palpable, mutual longing eddies in the space between you.

You surprise yourself though, by dipping to press a sweet, chaste kiss into his cheek, rather than sinking towards his lips as you so wish to do. When you perform this gesture, his eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft, involuntary hum, the sound gathering in your very bones and setting up camp there. As you dip back from him, the edge of his moustache grazes your cheek, and you have to admit it’s sort of electrifying. You imagine how it would tickle if you were kissed by him. How it would tickle wherever you were kissed.

The lines of poetry, so to speak, are writing themselves in your mind, already. You haven’t felt this inspired in a long time, and yet, on this occasion, you want to wait. You don’t want to rush it - even though you’ve never felt the need to quell your desires on many occasions before. Life is short, after all – too short to waste. However, something tells you that Richard is the type of man you should savour. Something tells you, that you may have found somebody to love, and, you may not love often; but when you do, you love slow.

So, you pull away from Richard, and you note that his eyes have fluttered closed. When he opens them again, you know that this kiss on the cheek was the right thing to do. You see subtle tears shining in his eyes. Again, he looks pained -with first appearances- but these tears, on second examination you think, are joyful. His heart joyful yet heavy, exactly like yours. After all, when you are overwhelmed with joy all at once, with a flood of little, happy things, it can weigh you down, at first, if the measure of joy is not one which you are quite accustomed to. If you are not practised at carrying it.

At that point, contemplating joy, you are ripped cruelly from the moment, as, with the worst and best possible timing, your phone buzzes to life, vibrating against your hip until you reach to fish out the insistent device.

“The locksmith is here, Richard. I have to go.”

“Y- yeah. Okay,” he nods, despite the fact everything about him is conveying the opposite sentiment.

I don’t want to go.

“Thank you so much.” 

He nods again, and, wanting to leave him with a parting thought (or, not wanting to leave him at all, but needs must), you have the bright idea to pick up your book from the table, thumbing through it quickly to find the page you want. A poem called The Flood.

“Recommended bedtime reading,” you wink, thrusting the book towards his chest and standing, grabbing your purse and making your way towards the door. “I can give you back your shirt tomorrow, right?” you say cheekily. “Maybe after dinner?” 

Richard stands too, following you towards the door like he’s magnetised to you, Lady trotting along too, inquisitively, her little black nose snuffling at the air.

“A-after dinner?” he enquires, confused, as you sweep out in a little bit of a whirlwind.

“Yeah, Richard,” you smile coyly from beneath your lashes, injecting some flirtation into your tone. “I owe you dinner. To make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to make it up to...”

You arch an eyebrow at him, looking at him pointedly and smoothing your hand over his upper arm until he gets the gist. When your meaning dawns on him, he gets that adorable, excited little spring in his step. You revel in his bright toothy smile, striking and pearly from beneath the thick brush of his moustache. “I know a nice little pasta place. And there’s a great documentary playing at the Coolidge if you want to catch it?”

“Sure,” you agree, dipping forward to plant another lingering kiss on his cheek in the doorway, relishing the feel of that moustache all over again. “It’s a date.” 

Evidently flustered, and in no bad way, Richard fumbles for words and finds none, omitting a mere collection of stunted syllables and unfinished sounds in response.

You wink at him, and before swooping off, you add one final thing. “Feel free to consider the bedtime reading a preview, okay? If you’d like.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up in disbelief. You get the feeling he already knows exactly what that particular poem is about. “Yes, ma’am.” he nods, looking sweetly and longingly and adoringly after you as you sashay away.

“Goodnight, neighbour to the right.”

“Goodnight, neighbour to the left.”

You allow yourself one last long look at him before you retreat, an unstoppable smile splitting your face, and, seeing him stood in the doorway, smiling after you, only cements everything you have come to learn this evening.

From now on, neither of you will be lonely anymore. There will be no more longing. Instead, there will be a flood, you think.

THE END

PART TWO IS HERE

[lifeofkaze]

When Stars Ignite - Chapter 2

HPHM Rockstar AU

A/N:

General Warning: This whole fic has a general warning of being NSFW / 18+. We will give specific warnings for every chapter in itself, but several adult themes will be more or less present in every chapter, may it be explicitly or in mention. These include sexual topics, drug abuse, (ab)use of alcohol, smoking and a whole lot of cursing.

Specific Warning: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, swearing, suggestive NSFW content

~~~

Find the masterpost here, the previous chapter here and the next one here. The songs featured before every chapter can be found on this pretty badass playlist here.

~~~

This work is a collaboration with @the-al-chemist

Taglist: @slytherindisaster

No, we won't tell a soul where we gone to

Girl, we do whatever we want to

Ah, I love the way that you do me

Cherry, babe, you really get to me

~ Neil Diamond - Cherry, Cherry ~

It had already been pretty late when they had finally left the O2 arena and made their way into the heart of the city. They’d just had enough time to order something to eat at one of their favourite restaurants at the still bustling Heron Tower before last orders were called.

None of them being in the mood to go home just yet, they had taken a cab to Mayfair for an opportunity to wind down from the high of their show. Ethan had wanted to join them, but had waved them away after checking his phone, mumbling something about a lot of work waiting for him in the morning.

No one was particularly sad about Skye’s dad opting out, however; they were currently making their way past the line of people queuing up in front of the nightclub they had chosen for the evening. Orion wasn’t a fan of crowded dancefloors and music he didn’t like blaring so loudly he couldn’t hear his own thoughts, but had bowed to the will of the others.

Many people considered the glitz and glamour that came with being famous as a perk; he just found it shallow and irritating. However, he was still too wound up to just return to his flat; he hadn’t seen his friends in weeks and was looking forward to properly catching up with them. Even if it wasn’t his preferred location for sharing talk and laughter, nothing was perfect after all.

As expected, music washed over them the moment they entered the building and the air grew increasingly warmer as they were led deeper into the bowels of the club. He could see Everett checking out the women on the dancefloor as they walked past, while Lizzie was slightly nodding her head to the music; naturally, she wasn’t able to resist a compelling beat.

The uncomfortably loud volume lessened to a more agreeable level when they arrived at their designated table in the private area. Their first round of drinks hadn’t even arrived yet, when Everett rose from his seat again and left for the dancefloor; none of them had any desire to join him. Lizzie had been considering it for a moment, but Orion knew how exhausted she must be from their performance. His own muscles were burning with fatigue, he could only imagine how she must feel.

Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of stories to tell; before their break, they had spent every day together for months on end, making a span of four weeks feel like an eternity and a blink of an eye at the same time. Skye was telling them about the side project she had started with her brothers while Merula spoke about her dabbling into poetry. Lizzie had spent the whole four weeks in the States with her brother and had brought back quite an assortment of stories to tell.

Orion himself had travelled a fair bit as well; there was nothing sparking his creativity like visiting new places with a clean and open mind. Thanks to a surge of inspiration, the songs for their next album were coming along greatly. Although they were still far from what Orion considered good enough to openly share them, he was satisfied with the progress.

When Everett returned after some time, the atmosphere cooled noticeably. Hanging from his arm was a girl with long brown hair, who was looking at Everett as if he was Keith Richards and Kurt Cobain combined. She was dolled up to a ridiculous degree, with heels as high as her dress was short.

Glancing down at her simple dark jeans and top, Lizzie chuckled to herself. “Now I feel underdressed.”

“If anyone is underdressed, that would be her,” Merula muttered, eyeing the hem of the girl’s dress, which barely covered her bum, with an arched eyebrow.

As she and Everett sat down next to Lizzie, the contrast between the girl’s artificial look and Lizzie’s more natural beauty couldn’t have been greater. Orion would probably never stop wondering why women felt the need to distort their looks in such a way.

Real beauty was not something to be put on and worn on display, forced about with flashy jewellery and an absurd amount of makeup; it was like light shining from the inside. It illuminated everything around it, drawing eyes without even trying to.

Their conversations all but ceased as Everett started boasting about their band’s success, his impact on their music and the solo career he had been fantasising about ever since Orion could remember.

Orion had to bite back a laugh as he saw Skye mimicking Everett’s expression when he didn’t look her way. Granted, he was a passable guitarist and talented singer. None of the other band members had the way of enticing the crowd and holding their attention like Everett did; nor did any one of them want to. He was about show and performance, the way he liked to celebrate himself all smoke and mirrors, but this didn’t stop his act increasingly getting on all of their nerves.

Everett didn’t use to be that way back when he had joined Equinox; while he had always been a charismatic guy, their continuous success had started getting to his head. Judging by his erratic gestures and slurred speech, Orion wouldn’t bet on alcohol being the only thing he had coursing through his system and clouding his view on things at the moment.

It wasn’t long, however, before Everett eventually decided he'd had enough of them.

Ignoring the annoyed looks of his friends, he and his girl had started making out right next to them. After a while she giggled, pulled on his sleeve and whispered something into his ear. Without sparing them so much as another glance, Everett got up and pulled her along towards the exit. There was a collective sigh going through the group after they had left.

“Fuck it, a few more minutes and she’d taken her bra off,” Merula muttered.

Lizzie shuddered. “No need, it’s not like she was wearing one.”

Skye shook her head. “I don’t get it, what do they all see in him? He’s not even that good looking.”

“You don’t find any man good looking,” Lizzie answered wryly while taking a sip of her almost empty drink.

“Fair enough,” Skye shot back, blowing her a kiss over the table. Lizzie rolled her eyes, but had to laugh anyway.

“I see what you mean, though,” she continued a moment later. “He’s been getting downright nasty lately. The way he was talking to Charlie during the feedback round? That was so unnecessary; a little more and Charlie might have hit him.”

“He’d never,” Skye chuckled. “It takes more than Ev to rile someone like Charlie up. That would be like Orion punching someone.”

They laughed at the ridiculousness of that idea. Skye was right though, Lizzie thought. While Charlie had been offended at suggesting his work wasn’t absolutely flawless and up to his own standard, it wasn’t like him to lose his cool over something like that.

“Like anyone pursuing what they love with a passion, Charlie does care about his work deeply,” Orion picked the conversation up again, “it is only natural to feel defensive when attacked. When you pour your heart and soul into something, it doesn’t matter if the results or yourself are doubted; it comes down to the same thing.”

“Maybe, but Charlie’s attitude is causing problems,” Merula said glumly. “As much as I hate to admit it, Ev is right; the pyros are a joke since Charlie’s doing two jobs at the same time.”

Lizzie immediately jumped to her friend’s defence. “It’s only temporary; he’ll concentrate on sound as soon as a proper replacement is found.”

Merula snorted in response. “I’m not sure there is anyone Charlie would be happy with who’s not himself.”

“Giving up something you love to the care of someone else is no easy feat,” Orion conceded, “but Murphy said it himself, they have a new applicant in for an interview tomorrow. If they meet him with an open mind, maybe we’ll have the newest member of our crew faster than we think.”

Merula’s answer was cut short by the waitress approaching their table carrying a fresh round of drinks. She handed them out and was about to leave, when she turned around again. Hesitating for a moment, she blushed a little, the change in her skin colour barely visible in the dimmed lights of the nightclub.

“Excuse me if I’m rude or anything, I really don’t want to disturb you,” she mumbled, looking visibly flustered, “but you are the guys from Equinox, aren’t you? The rock band?”

Skye grinned. “Right you are. You a fan?”

The waitress’s eyes lit up. “A fan? Are you kidding? I adore your music! I’ve got tickets for your show tomorrow and can’t wait! It’s such an honour to have you here tonight.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” Lizzie smiled, idly stirring her cherry margarita with the cherry that had come as decoration.

The eyes of the waitress followed the swirls she was creating in the dark liquid. She was visibly gathering her courage before blurting out, “Is it true what’s written on your website? On your character profile?”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows in confusion. “Pardon me?”

The girl started blushing again. “In the misc-section, you know. They’ve written you could tie a cherry stem with your tongue; I’ve never met anyone who can do that.”

Now it was Lizzie’s turn to blush and hide her face behind her hand; sitting directly next to her, Orion could see that she was laughing behind her fingers.

“I knew I should have never told anyone about this,” she sighed, “I had no idea Ethan had them put this on my damn profile.”

“Shut up, you can’t really do that,” Skye exclaimed incredulously. “No way that’s true.”

Lizzie furrowed her brow. “Of course it is.”

“You never told me about that.”

“Why would I?”

“Then why did you tell dad?”

“He asked,” Lizzie shrugged.

Now it was Merula’s turn to look incredulous. “Ethan asked you if you could tie a cherry stem?”

Lizzie snorted. “He asked if I could do a party trick.”

Skye crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back in her seat. She nodded at the cherry between Lizzie’s fingers. “Prove it.”

Amused, Lizzie tilted her head. “What, right now?”

“Scared I’ll call you out, Jameson?”

Her eyes sparkling in prospect of a challenge, Lizzie plucked the stem off the cherry and twirled it between her fingers. “Watch it, Parkin.”

She flashed the still sceptical looking Skye a mischievous grin before she let the cherry stem disappear behind her lips. She knew everyone was watching her intently and Orion could see she was trying not to smirk.

He himself was so concentrated on whether she would succeed or not, he was caught completely off guard when he suddenly felt Lizzie’s hand coming to rest on his knee beneath the table. His breath hitched as she was squeezing it lightly. He had to bite his cheek as her fingers started grazing the inside of his thigh in slow circles, her hand steadily dancing higher and higher. All the while, she was keeping a straight face, her blue eyes fixed on Skye.

Orion couldn’t believe what she was doing; he took a deep breath that came out a lot shakier than he had meant it to.

Just before he had to stop her wandering fingers, she retracted her hand abruptly. Her eyes flickering towards him for the briefest of moments, she pursed her lips and pulled the now doubly tied cherry stem from between them in a deliberately slow motion. With a confident smile, she flicked it at Skye, whose jaw had dropped open.

“Teach me,” was all she managed to say before Lizzie broke into laughter.

“That’s my secret technique, Parkin; I’m not sharing.”

Lizzie leaned back in her seat, visibly satisfied with herself. Judging by the devilish smile playing around her lips, it was not only because she had proven Skye wrong.

Orion closed his eyes for a moment and brushed his hair out of his face to give his fingers something to do. While Lizzie and Skye were bantering back and forth, Orion was counting to fifty in his head in an attempt to reign his thoughts in again.

Just when he thought he had himself back under control again, Lizzie leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand while appearing to listen to Merula attentively. What the others could not see was her using her shift in position to press her leg against his. The cheeky smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth was hidden by her hand, only visible to him.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Orion moved himself out of her reach. “As much as I would love to stay with you, my friends, I’m afraid tonight’s show has taken more of a toll on me than I thought,” he explained at Merula’s and Skye’s confused expressions; Lizzie was merely blinking at him innocently. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head back home to get some well deserved rest.”

Without waiting for any of them to reply, Orion quickly turned around and left for the exit, all the while feeling Lizzie’s eyes on his back.

[purvishraick]

A TALE OF ALWAYS AND FOREVER

CHAPTER 7

Fanfiction : Bloodbound (Choices)

Pairing : Adrian Raines x Amy Richard Parker (MC)

Warning : none

Rating: Teen

TAG LIST : @otherworldlypresents ​  , @evelynistic ​   , @silma-words ​ , @fireycookie , @lauren-raines-x , @nala-raines

If anyone wanna be tagged in future do let me know….

read previous chapter here ….. Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6

So here i promised this last night but sorry it got delayed ...got stuck in some important work .... now here i am .... i hope u like it

Amy had to forcefully cut the call, in order to shut her brother and she new that this will make him angry. But she didn’t need a pep talk for not getting wasted in the club before her interview. She could handle her brother afterwards and the interview was important. She wandered here and there and settled on the bench. She felt like she is being watched from behind but didn’t find someone. Just then a stunning woman with an icy demeanor came towards her.

“Amy?” stern woman said .

“ yes that’s me “ she replied .

“I am Nicole Anderson, VP of operations at Raines Corp. I will interview you . “ she said .

Amy was surprised to see that she was going to be interviewed by someone so high at post but her queries were eased when she reminded her that they take their hiring process very seriously and she followed her in the conference room keeping her confident look .

“ now then. The Raines Corporation is a global leader in technology and innovation . Why exactly are you interested in being the executive assistant to our CEO ? “

“well…” Amy took a deep breath and continued , “ I’d love to help make the world a better place . what I admire most about the Raines Corporation is your dedication to global innovation and improvement. The clean – water initiative …the vaccine for the cerella virus …the green energy project… you guys aren’t just getting rich. You’re trying to help people, to make technology that’ll save the planet. I can’t think of anything better than being a part of that.”

“hmm……a good answer. A bit cloying , perhaps, but Adrian might actually like that “ Nicole said with an appreciative look.

Just as she was going to speak the next thing , the door at the back of the room swings open , and a handsome man in a perfectly – tailored suit strolls in.

Intelligence sparks through his eyes . He was extremely charming , with his black obsidian eyes assessing her , her already killer nervousness now peaked a whole new level.

“ Adrian I wasn’t expecting you…” Nicole asked unable to hide the surprise in her voice .

Adrian as in Adrian Raines …well all escalated very quickly for her .

“ I had a free minute. Is this the candidate ?” he asked taking the authority in his hands as he decided.

Professionalism and seriousness reflected in his voice .

“ yes …but I’ve just started the interview and—“ Nicole asked stammering .

“ I’ll take over from here “ he cut her off not wanting to take any excuses .

“……of course sir , go right ahead “ she surrendered .

Adrian sat across Amy , eyes burning right through her . He has never seen such a beautiful person in his entire existence , god knows how would she be as a person .

Amy’s nervousness grew even more when his eyes bore through her but she remembered once more , she is Amy Richard Parker and nothing in this world ever scares her , she remembered her brothers’ advices on professionality and confidence and recalled her dad’s proud thought about her and her mother’s loving smile . Now that was enough to calm her down , so she put on the brave and fearless smile again on her face and straightened her back.

“ Amy , is it ? “ Adrian looked at her and saw her hazel brown eyes which her so hypnotizing , with all his strength he prevented himself from being lost in them .

“ that’s right “ she said interrupting his thoughts .

“ tell me Amy , what do you desire ? “ he asked her and she was surprised at the question .

Amy was already so mesmerized from him that this question surprised her.

“ You mean ……why do I want this job ? Because I – “ but was interrupted by Adrian .

“ I didn’t ask why you want this job. I asked what do you desire . “ he asked seriously and professionally.

“ I desire ……PASSION “ she answered after thinking fir a while .

“ oh , really ? “ he asked , his brows raising , he was in true sense intrigued by her answer .

“Sorry , if that is too personal but I am just being honest . I want to feel deeply. I want to experience life , live every moment like my last. We never know when is our last moment , it is better to live our life to the fullest than to regret it afterwards . That’s what I desire “ she answered honestly and it was the true answer she saw what happened to her family everything was good and happy then suddenly they lost everything , she do not want to regret anything .

“ I can relate“ Adrian was impressed internally but didn’t expressed it. He supressed a smile to reach his face. He was truly impressed by her desire to live and feel and experience. He now looked at her resume .

“ lets see here … graduated college 3 years ago …masters in communication …interned at Mannon financial…volunteered in San Torbida and France abroad for a year “ he read out and again was impressed from her but wondered why it took her an extra year to sign up for this interview or for that matter any other one .

“ yep that’s right “ she said .

“ well , how was that tell me in three words “ he asked .

“ difficult. Enlighting. Rewarding. “ she replied easily .

“ good , this job can be challenging and unpredictable , are you comfortable running unusual errands ?”

“Absolutely “

I have been doing them since a long time now , she thought to herself , smiling .

“ Handling confidential information ? “

“ I can keep a secret “

You wont even realise how many I am keeping right now too , she thought again and smirked .

“ Working nights ? “

“ Always been a night owl “

Okay , I atleast told him one thing fully without strings attached , she smiled while thinking .

“ Good , Anything else I should know about you ? “

“ Hmmmm …… I have got WORLD CLASS people skills “ , she said with a proud smile .

“ Oh , really ? “ he asked with questioning eyes .

“ I was voted ‘ most likable ‘ in my high school class . Also ‘ most popular ‘ and ‘ best smile ‘ . Technichally you are not supposed to win in multiple categories , but I was able to persuade them . And also the cherry on the top I was the PROM QUEEN “ , she stated out all of her achievements proudly and remembered how happy and proud her father was to see her that day . She and her brothers has always been the brightest in the whole family , anyways. Suddenly feeling nostalgic and tears building in her eyes she averted her gaze on the floor.

“ Thus proving your point “ said a grinning and impressed Adrian , but he saw a glint of sadness in her eyes and he doubted that he saw tears too , and was unable to understand why counting her proud moments made her sad .

“ exactly” Amy said after controlling her emotions and forcing a smile.

“ one more question “ Adrian leaned forward hands folded on the table and with an intense expression , told her the story of a man who got a genie lamp and destroyed everything , and then finally asked her about what should his final wish should be .

“I think his final wish should be to undo his first two wishes “ she said after thinking for a while .

“because ?” Adrian asked curious to know her theory .

“ because he already had everything he could ask for a family and many friends …what could he ask for more it was more than enough …all he wanted or ever needed was right there in front of him …this is a story of temptation and greed …he should have never played this game …all now he can do is making things as they were before “

Her answer was something totally honest … Adrian glanced at her and then noticed how true each and every word was . she was not only beautiful but also quite intelligent …in true sense beauty with brains.

She was quite interesting too …Adrian personally never saw such a person in his entire life … and he needed to know her …he knew that it is a huge risk and a mistake but he already did that when he decided to interview her himself …now he couldn’t resist her … so then he does the only thing he could do …he knew that Nicole will be a big trouble after this but guess he was okay with that if it was what would keep this girl around .

Then he grins brightly at Amy and says

“ You’re hired “

“wait what ? …seriously “ Amy asked with wide eyes , she was surprised , how in world is it possible that someone gets hired so fast …this was weird to her … but of course she was happy .

Adrian left an inside giggle watching her surprised reaction …she looked adorable with those wide eyes …his smile grew even wider … and he extends his hand …which obviously she took .

‘ oh my god …his skin is impossibly smooth…and hold so firm …wow he is really handso-……no no no …stop brain stop thinking …no eyes …don’t look in his eyes for too long … fuck …, I am a disaster …stop cheeks don’t turn red …god please ‘ she thought .

Good god if god wanted to kill her please kill her in this exact moment …someone save her from this embarrassment …she was a disaster with wide eyes blushing cheeks …FUCK.

Adrian saw her flustered reaction which was by far the cutest thing he saw in his life … his vampire senses made her blushing cheeks clearly visible …the dark pink tint on her cheek made her impossibly adorable.

“welcome to Raines Corporation “ , he said with a bright smile

They made eye contact for just moment but everything stood still for that particular moment …it was mesmerising .

In that moment Adrian didn’t knew about Amy but he knew that they were going to go a long way .

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

@choicesficwriterscreations

[jjmaybanksblog]

Heather

Based on Heather by Conan Gray

Word count- 2126

Warnings: insecurities, angst towards the end, some body dysmorphia

Y/n: your name

Y/n/n: your nickname

Y/f/b: your favorite band

"I still remember, third of December me in your sweater."

Y/N looked at herself in the mirror, pulling the long sleeves around your fists, clenching the fabric in your hands. JJ walked up behind you, easily wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his body.

JJ grinned at your reflection, chuckling as he saw your face glow a light pink. He released you and plopped himself on his bed. "I've been saving up all year to buy you something for Christmas." He brought up, sending the butterflies on a rampage in your stomach.

"JJ I told you you don't need to get me anything."

You said it looked better on me, than it did you. Only if you knew how much I liked you.

JJ slapped the spot next to him, waiting for you to join him. You shuffled over to him and laid next to him, him arm resting underneath the crook of your neck, his finger tips playing with the ends of your hair.

"You know you look really cute in my sweater. It looks way better on you than me." He complimented you, making your heartbeat start to speed up. "Shut up." You easily got flustered at his kindness.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you relaxed into his touch. You have known JJ since kindergarten and have been best friends ever since you shared your animal crackers with him.

As years went by, you began to develop feelings for your fellow Pogue. It would start with you blushing whenever he complimented you. Then your heart would race whenever he would hold your hand or hug you. To staring at his lips wondering what they would feel like against yours.

But I watch your eyes, as she walks by. What a sight for sore eyes brighter than a blue sky. She's got you mesmerized, while I die.

Y/n enjoyed the free food Mr. Carrara gave out to the Pogues after Kie had begged him. No one had actually eaten an actual meal in the last week. You and JJ were currently throwing French fries into each others mouths, horribly missing.

JJ loaded a fry in his fingers about to throw it, only to catch the eyes of a beautiful girl who walked by them. His jaw just barely fell open, his eyes following the girl as she walked by. You turned around to see what he was looking at, only to feel your self confidence drop down about 50 levels.

"Wow." He whispered to himself. "Yeah... wow." You repeated, fiddling with your fingers. "I'll be right back y/n/n." And with that JJ got up, leaving you with the rest of your friends.

Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty. You gave her your sweater, it's just polyester, but you like her better. Wish I were Heather

You and the Pogues decided to get together at John B's Chateau to just hang out. You were helping Pope set up the snacks in bowls and plates. Kie was setting up blankets and pillows on the floor. John B was stashing the bottles of alcohol in the fridge.

Everything was going beautifully until JJ walked into the house with the brunette girl under his arm. For a moment your heart stopped as you took in the sight of her wearing his sweater you wore earlier that day. "Guys, this is Heather. Heather this is John B, Kiara, Pope, and Y/N." JJ pointed out his friends to the new girl.

Heather grinned brightly, saying hello to everyone. The group collectively welcomed her, Kie's eyes quickly looking at you. "Excuse me, Pope." You flashed a fake grin before walking into the bathroom.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your finger tips lightly skimming the features on your face. Running you hands through your hair, you remembered the image of the girl in your head. You compared yourself to her in everyway you could.

You noticed how big of a thigh gap she had, and how you didn't have one. How she had a waistline that one could be jealous of. You looked at your stomach, and although it was flat, your mind pictured fat rolls hanging out.

A soft knock drew you out of your thoughts. Without even realizing it, you were crying. You opened the door to see Kie with a concerned look on her face. "Oh baby." She mumbled, entering the bathroom, opening her arms to give you a hug. She was the first person you talked to when you realized you caught feelings for your best friend.

"I have no right to be jealous, Kie. I shouldn't feel like this, but I do and I hate it." You sobbed into her chest, hating yourself to getting to attached to him.

Watch as she stands with, her holding your hand. Put your arm 'round her shoulder, now I'm getting colder.

Kie stood with you in the bathroom, helping you calm down before walking back out to the rest of the group. "Everything good?" John B asked, knowing that it wasn't by the sight of your red nose.

"Yeah, yeah Kie was just helping me with something." You lied, grabbing a beer, then sitting in a chair. You crossed your legs, swirling your drink in your hand. Taking a swig of the alcohol you locked your sight on the new couple.

Your harsh glare softened as you saw just how big JJ's smile was. You watched as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, intertwining their fingers together. Heather rested he head on his chest, JJ pecking her forehead.

Your heart clenched, tucking your body further into your sweatshirt, ignoring the cold breeze that shuffled through the air.

But how could I hate her? She's such an angel, but then again, kinda wish she were dead.

You stood up from your chair, walking past the couple and into the kitchen. You grabbed another beer, turning around only to bump into Heather.

"I am so sorry!" You quickly apologized, glad that your drink still had the cap on. "Oh my God, no it's okay!" She took a look at you, your insecurities starting to feel very visible. "This is totally random but you're literally so pretty! And I love your sweatshirt!" She complimented you, your eyes looking at your y/f/b sweatshirt.

"Oh thank you! I've loved this band since JJ introduced me to them." Heather grinned, her cheeks instantly turning pink at the sound of his name. "We should definitely hang out one day and listen to them together." She offered the idea. "Yeah! Yeah of course." You lied, handing her the drink she wanted.

You excused yourself outside, telling John B your mother had called you and you had to talk to her. You walked out into the cold, walking over to the hammock where you and JJ shared your first kiss.

It was freshman year of high school, the night of the homecoming dance. A boy named Kevin Richards asked you to be his date to the dance. You had gotten ready at John B's house since your house was being redone after a hurricane struck the OBX.

Dressed in a maroon silk dress with matching high heels, you waited for the boy to show up. All your friends asking if you wanted them to wait with you. You quickly shook your head, shooting them off to the dance.

Looking at the clock, 5 minutes turned into 10, 10 turned to 20, and 20 turned into an hour. You felt defeated, embarrassed, hurt, annoyed, and sad. Taking the heels off, you let out an angry shriek, throwing the heels out the door and into the backyard.

Meanwhile JJ was in his room, his ears perking up at the sound. Checking the clock, he thought you would've been at the dance by now. He walked into the living room, his eyes catching the outline of your silhouette sitting in the hammock.

He walked towards you, plopping himself in the seat next to you. "I thought you'd be at the dance by now." He said, watching you shift uncomfortably. "Kevin stood me up." You mumbled, picking the nail polish off of your finger nails.

JJ clenched his jaw in anger at your words. "It's his fucking loss. I swear I'm gonna fight him my foot is gonna go all the way up his ass. I'm so sorry, you look... you look beautiful y/n/n." You turned your head towards him to see him already looking at you.

He slowly leaned in, capturing your lips in his in a soft kiss. Your face quickly felt like it was on fire as he cupped the side of your face, stroking your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

You wanted to hate Heather. You wanted to despise her for being a horrible person, but in reality she was one of the sweetest people you've ever met, only frustrating you even more. You took a swig of your drink, the sound of footsteps coming up behind you.

As she walks by, what a sight for sore eyes. Brighter than a blue sky, she's got you mesmerized, while I die.

You lit a spare blunt JJ had hidden under the hammock pillow, inhaling the smoke before slowly relaxing. All you could think about was how happy he looked when he was with her. You wanted him to look at you like that, at one point you were convinced he looked at you like that.

But now things are different. And there was nothing you could do about it. You couldn't tell him how you felt, knowing how shitty that would be to put pressure on him. You don't want him to think you're making him pick. You just had to deal with it.

JJ appeared from behind you, making himself comfortable as he sat down next to you. "Why aren't you in there?" He asked, taking the blunt from your hand. "I got a call from my mom but then she just stressed me out so..." you lied, pointing to the weed.

He nodded his head, "so what do you think of Heather?" Your eyes widened as his sudden question. You bit your lip, holding in what you really wanted to say. "I think she's really lucky to have a guy like you. It's nice seeing you this happy" You smiled softly.

JJ pulled you into a tight hug, holding the blunt away from your hair. "You're the best." He grinned, pulling away. He handed you the blunt back, giving you a peck on your forehead before walking away.

Only he didn't walk all the way back inside. He could tell you were lying he knows you like the back of his hand. He could see your broken spirit through your eyes. He bit his tongue as he walked towards you again.

"You don't like her." He accused as he stood in front of you. You furrowed your eyebrows, coughing on the smoke. "I do, though."

"Then why do you look like you're about to cry? Hmm? Why did you disappear with Kie after I introduced her to you guys?" He asked, pacing back and forth.

Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty. You gave her your sweater, it's just polyester, but you like her better. I wish I were Heather.

"I don't know what you expect me to say." You mumbled, standing up to face him. "The truth!" He raised his voice.

"You tell me the truth! Why did you kiss me the night of homecoming?" You yelled back, your arms crossing across your chest. He wrinkled his eyebrows together, "what?"

"Did you pity me? Did you feel guilty that I got stood up? Did you like me? Or did you just want to take my mind off things?" You integrated him. "What does that have to do with anything?" JJ was street smart, but sometimes completely oblivious.

"Because I don't understand why you would ever kiss me!" You started, JJ's stare immediately softening. "I'm not even half as pretty as Heather. She's... she's flawless. She has such a kind and good heart. And I hate that. I want to hate her but I can't." You admitted, biting your tongue.

"And seeing her walk in with the sweater I was wearing earlier today just felt like I was bitch slapped by the harsh truth. All I could think was, 'god, I wish I were Heather right now."

"It's just polyester y/n/n." His voice softened, stepping towards you. You instinctively backed away from him. "But you like her better..." you trailed off. He felt his heart shatter, watching and listening you admit these feelings.

JJ was left speechless, standing in his spot he didn't know what to say or do. "Goodnight, JJ." You mumbled before taking your alcohol and walking back inside.

Part 2 here

[theconservativebrief]

Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-MA), architect of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, only wanted to know one thing about President Donald Trump’s nominee to lead the consumer watchdog agency — and it had nothing to do with financial regulation.

During Kathy Kraninger’s Senate confirmation hearing Thursday, Warren asked about how she was involved in the administration’s “zero tolerance” border policy that led to the separation of more than 2,000 immigrant children from their parents in recent months. Kraninger’s portfolio as the associate director for government programs at the White House’s Office Management and Budget includes oversight of the Department of Homeland Security and the Department of Justice, the agencies that carried out the policy.

But Kraninger would only say that she had nothing to do with setting the policy and that she only participated in a few meetings about it. She wouldn’t even condemn the practice of separating children, which nearly every Republican in Congress has done.

The exchange grew heated, and Warren became visibly angry:

Sen. Elizabeth Warren blasts Trump’s CFPB nominee, Kathy Kraninger, for her role in family separations.

“I will remind you, you are under oath and lying to Congress is a crime. I’ll also remind you that many of the documents I’ve requested about your role in this policy could eventually become public under the Freedom of Information Act,” Warren said. “So, let me ask again the specific question. Were you involved in developing or implementing the policies that led to children being taken away from their parents at the border?”

“Senator, it’s difficult to separate —” Kraninger said before she was cut off.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Warren interrupted.

“So, as I said, I will not characterize the advice that was provided on the —”

“I didn’t ask you to characterize,” Warren cut in again. “I asked you a simple yes-or-no question. According to reports, in some cases the Trump administration isn’t sure which children belong to which parents. As of Monday, the administration had not identified the parents of 71 separated children. Which means right now they can’t be reunited. DHS is the agency which took parents away from their young children. Did you work with DHS to create a plan for eventually reuniting these children with their parents?”

Once again, Kraninger refused to talk about it. And once again, Warren repeated the question.

“I didn’t ask what the plan was or what advice you gave. Did you work with them on a plan to reunite these children who were taken away from their parents?” Warren asked.

“I understand the question, Senator, but it becomes a slippery slope in terms of characterizing the advice that was provided or the analysis or the questions that were raised —”

“No, it’s not a slippery slope. You don’t want to characterize because you don’t want to admit that you had something to do with this. You know, this was a policy that was designed to traumatize children and families as a way of scaring them away from the border. Even if they were seeking asylum, even if they were fleeing death threats, gang violence, rape, domestic abuse,” Warren said.

It was the most heated exchange in an already tense confirmation hearing.

Warren’s comments reflected the deep division between Republicans and Democrats over the future of the consumer watchdog group, which was created as part of the 2011 Dodd-Frank financial reforms during the Great Recession.

Democrats believe that the CFPB has been crucial in protecting consumers from the type of financial fraud on Wall Street that triggered the economic collapse. But Republicans say that the agency overburdens businesses and that its independent structure gives it too much unchecked power.

Trump announced plans to nominate Kraninger, 43, last month to replace acting director Mick Mulvaney, who took over the agency after Richard Cordray stepped down as director in November. Vox’s Emily Stewart neatly summed up Mulvaney attitude and legacy at the helm of the agency:

While in Congress, [Mulvaney] criticized the CFPB and in a 2014 interview slammed it as a “sick, sad” joke. As acting director, he’s taken a number of actions to reduce its scope and rein it in: He’s disbanded consumer advisory boards, scaled back sanctions on payday lenders, and even pushed to change the agency’s acronym to BCFP.

Kraninger is one of Mulvaney’s prótegés, so Democrats are worried that she will continue his attempts to weaken the agency.

On the surface, Warren’s questions about family separation seemed unrelated to the bureau’s consumer role. But Warren argued that if Kraninger was directly involved in carrying out one of the cruelest government policies toward vulnerable children, she would be unfit to protect vulnerable, working-class families from the ruthless companies that try to scam them.

“One thing consumers need in a CFPB director is someone who’s willing to stand up to powerful people on behalf of those who don’t have power,” Warren said during the hearing.

Kraninger’s nomination to lead the CFPB was already questionable — she has zero experience with consumer issues or financial regulation. But Democrats’ concerns about her lack of qualifications soon turned to concerns about morality and her capacity for cruelty.

The administration’s zero-tolerance policy to prosecute all unauthorized border crossers for illegal entry was announced by the Justice Department in May, and prompted a massive domestic and international backlash when reports began to describe how immigration agents were ripping children from their parents so that the parents could be prosecuted. A federal judge later ordered the administration to stop, and to immediately reunite the families, but it soon became clear that the federal government had no plan to do that. The agencies are still trying to track down the parents of several dozen children they haven’t been able to reunite.

It’s still unclear how involved Kraninger was in designing and implementing the policies that led to family separation. Traditionally, the Office of Management and Budget works closely with the executive branch — but the Trump White House doesn’t always follow a traditional playbook, and she hasn’t said much about her role. But she definitely had some role. After all, her job is to give policy guidance and move around resources around to carry out those policies.

But a second drama played Thursday out when Kraninger wouldn’t even say that it was wrong to separate families —something that even Trump’s allies in Congress have done (though they say the president wasn’t to blame).

Here is Warren’s question and Kraninger’s exact response.

“Do you think that purposefully inflicting that on innocent children is immoral?” Warren asked.

“Senator, I think there are many heart-breaking stories that appear on the news every day, from the conversation we had about American families, hard working, who are —” Kraninger responded.

“It’s a simple yes-or-no question,” Warren interrupted, growing more agitated. “Do you believe it is immoral to set up a plan whose deliberate intent is to inflict harm on children?”

“Senator, it’s not appropriate for me to provide my personal opinion and internal deliberations and discussions on this matter,” Kraninger answered.

Warren’s response was scathing:

“You see the videos of some of these children being returned to their parents after long separations,” she said. “They’re dazed, they’re unsmiling, they’re dirty. It’s like the life has been sucked out of them. These are innocent children who may be scarred forever by this policy. It is fundamentally immoral and you, you, were part of it, Miss Kraninger. It’s a moral stain that will follow you for the rest of your life. If the Senate votes to give you a big promotion after this, then it is a stain on the senators who do so.”

Then someone in the audience began playing the audio recording of children crying in their immigration cells after they were separated from their parents — audio that was obtained by journalists at ProPublica and published online last month. The children’s wails drowned out the committee chairman as he called on the next senator to question Kraninger.

Kraninger sat there with a pained, flustered expression for a few seconds before the audio was turned off. Then she regained her composure and began taking more questions.

Original Source -> Elizabeth Warren confronts Trump nominee for her role in family separations

via The Conservative Brief