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the-winter-spider · 3 months ago

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Under Pressure | Part 4

Modern!Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: Anxiety, depression, angst, su!c!de

A/N: Ive had this part done for a bit it just took me awhile to edit and proof read because ive been a little down in the dumps. Sorry! 🫶🏻

Masterpost

----

The air smelled like saltwater and funnel cakes, the sticky-sweet scent mixing with the cool ocean breeze rolling in from the shore. The laughter of children rang out from the boardwalk, blending seamlessly with the distant whoosh of roller coasters and the upbeat tunes blasting from the game booths. The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in warm golden hues, making it feel like the whole world was dipped in honey.

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

Because you felt okay. Not great, not cured. But okay and for today, that felt like enough.

“Alright, who’s first?” Sam grinned, pointing at the towering wooden roller coaster ahead, its rickety frame swaying slightly with the wind.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Not me. I’d like to live past tonight, thanks.”

Natasha smirked, nudging you with her elbow. “Coward.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t trust things built before color TV,” you shot back, making Steve snort.

Bucky, standing next to you with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, leaned down slightly. “You’re just scared,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You turned to him with a deadpan expression. “No shit, Barnes.”

He laughed, warm and rich, and the sound made your chest feel lighter than it had in weeks. Maybe even months.

“Fine,” Sam said, clapping his hands together. “We’ll start easy…bumper cars.”

Natasha groaned. “Sam, you just wanna crash into Steve at full speed.”

“And?”

Steve sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I knew bringing you here was a mistake.”

“Oh, come on, Stevie.” Sam threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders, grinning. “Live a little.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched up into a smile. “How about the ferris wheel?”

Sam scoffed “What are you a girl?”

“Hey!” Natasha scolded him, shoving Sam’s shoulder.

You shook your head, laughing as they bickered. A real laugh, it scared you as it slipped out. The day was perfect. And yet that made your chest feel tight.

It was too perfect.

It didn’t feel real.

Because happiness like this never lasted.

Because you were waiting for the moment the day turned, for the moment the weight you always carried would creep back in, whispering in your ear that you didn’t deserve this. That none of this was real. That the second you went home, everything would feel empty again.

The laughter of your friends started to sound distant.

The crowd felt too close.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, curling and uncurling into small fists. Your breathing was still even, controlled but it took effort now. You kept your eyes on the Ferris wheel, pretending like the anxious knot forming in your chest wasn’t there, like you weren’t already fighting to keep yourself here, to not float away into your thoughts.

But Bucky noticed.

Because of course he did.

Because he always noticed.

Without a word, without even looking at you, his fingers brushed against yours. It was barely a touch, but it grounded you. And then he took your hand.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t even intentional, really. It was just Bucky.

Quiet. Steady. Certain.

Like he was reminding you: Hey, I see you. You’re okay.

Like he was anchoring you back to the moment, back to him, back to the feeling of warm skin against yours, solid and real.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, like second nature, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. But you felt it everywhere.

You swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.

The Ferris wheel groaned as it carried you upward, the city skyline stretching endlessly in the distance, twinkling under the navy-blue sky. Below, the boardwalk was alive with color, bright flashing lights from carnival rides, the neon glow of game booths, the golden warmth of streetlamps casting long shadows across the sand.

It was the kind of night that felt like a memory even as it was happening.

“I don’t wanna go home,” you admitted softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Bucky, seated next to you, turned his head. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring out at the ocean, watching as the waves reflected the moonlight. “It’s just… quiet there. Empty. Feels like the second I step inside, when I’m alone, all of this will disappear.”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then, he nudged your knee with his. “Then don’t.”

You turned to look at him, confused.

His blue eyes, soft under the glow of the Ferris wheel lights, held onto something steady, something certain. “Stay over at my place,” he said. “Or I’ll stay at yours. Whatever you want.”

Your throat tightened, an unexpected warmth flooding your chest. “You don’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I know I don’t,” Bucky said simply. “But I want to.”

And the way he said it, like it wasn’t even a question, like it was just fact, made your eyes sting more than they should have. You blinked quickly, turning back to the view, trying to shake off the sudden swell of emotion.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the skyline.

He was looking at you. He was always looking at you.

And he was about to say something, something important, something that sat heavy on his tongue..

But then Sam’s voice rang out from below. “Hey, lovebirds! Get your asses down here! Rides done! Photo time!”

Bucky scoffed, leaning his head back against the seat. “Jesus Christ.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. “We should probably go before he starts yelling at strangers to take it for us.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh but stood up when the Ferris wheel came to a stop. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, offering you his hand again.

“Alright, everybody squeeze in!”

Sam held the phone out in front of him, grinning as the five of you huddled together near the neon lights of the boardwalk.

Steve had his arm wrapped around Natasha’s waist, and she gave him bunny ears behind his head with a sly smirk. Sam was front and center, making sure to get the best angle.

And then there was Bucky.

One arm slung over Sam’s shoulders, his other wrapped tightly around you.

You had both arms wrapped around his middle, your head resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of him grounding you.

“You guys ready?” Sam grinned.

“Just take the damn picture, Wilson,” Bucky muttered.

You giggled against his chest, and his hold on you tightened slightly.

The camera flashed.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

Everything was whole.

Because you had them.

And they had you.

----

The hospital room was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that made every small sound feel magnified. The rhythmic beeping of the machines filled the air, steady but fragile, like a heartbeat trying desperately to hold on. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale, artificial glow, washing out the already colorless walls. It made everything feel colder. Made you look colder.

Natasha sat at your bedside, her fingers resting lightly over yours, careful, as if too much pressure might break you. Your hand was small, limp, frighteningly cold. She rubbed her thumb absently over your knuckles, trying to warm you up, trying to remind herself that you were still here.

She’d never seen you like this. Never this still, never this pale. Your lips still carried the faintest tinge of blue, your skin almost translucent under the hospital lights. Your hair lay limp against the pillow, a stark contrast to the way it usually framed your face when you laughed, when you lived. But right now, you looked like a shadow of yourself.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flickering between your face and the monitors tracking your vitals. As if watching the numbers would somehow make them stronger, more stable. As if sheer willpower could undo what had happened, could pull you back from the place you’d nearly disappeared into.

The boys had gone back to your apartment, to get your phone, to reach your family, to make sure things weren’t a disaster when you came home. Because they were all so sure you would be. But really, she had sent them away because she needed to be alone. Not for herself, but for you.

She needed to sit here with you and let the guilt sink in. Needed to feel it, to let it settle in her bones, because God knows she deserved it.

For weeks, months, she had been angry with you.

She had stood outside your door, yelling through the wood, demanding to know why you couldn’t just show up for her, why you were always absent when it mattered.

But now, sitting here, she felt sick at the memory.

She had no right to be angry. Not when she had missed it. She had missed everything.

Her eyes burned as she looked at your frail hand in hers, her grip tightening instinctively. How had she not seen it?

Your sweaters, always oversized, always hanging loosely off your frame. She had thought it was just a style choice, something trendy. Not a way to hide how much weight you’d lost.

The way you never ordered a full meal anymore, just picked at appetizers or claimed you had already eaten. She had laughed about it, teasing you for being picky, never once questioning it.

Your texts, getting shorter, your responses more delayed, your excuses for missing plans more frequent. She had chalked it up to you being “busy.”

Busy.

You hadn’t been busy. You had been slipping. Drowning.

And she…so wrapped up in her own happiness, her own life, her own future, had never once pushed past the surface.

Her throat tightened as the memories came flooding back, each one sharper, more damning than the last.

Your smile, never quite reaching your eyes. Your sudden need to leave early when the group hung out, claiming exhaustion or an early morning.

The way your clothes seemed to hang off your frame. She had looked at you a thousand times and never seen you. “I’m such an idiot,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she squeezed your hand.

Her fingers curled around yours, as if anchoring you to her, as if holding on could somehow undo the damage already done.

“I thought I was a good friend,” she continued, her voice cracking. “I thought I was helping by giving you space, by letting you come to me when you were ready. But… you weren’t okay. You weren’t okay, and I didn’t see it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, falling onto the stark white hospital sheet covering you. She didn’t bother wiping it away. She should’ve known. She should’ve asked.

But she had been too caught up in herself, in her promotion, in Steve, in the wedding she was already planning in her head. She had talked so much about herself. About her future, about the bright things ahead. And you had listened. Smiled. Nodded. Encouraged.

Never once saying how much you were hurting. Never once asking for help. She let out a shaky breath, guilt weighing heavy on her chest, suffocating her.

It wasn’t you.

It had never been you.

It was her.

She had blamed you for not being a good friend, when all along, she had been the one failing you. Her grip on your hand tightened, her forehead lowering until it nearly touched your arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking completely now. “I should’ve been better. I should’ve seen you, why didn’t I see you? You were there!”

Another tear fell. Then another. And another. She had accused you of not being there for her brightest moments. But now, sitting here, staring at what almost became your darkest one, she realized how selfish she had been.

How cruel.

“You’re not the shitty friend, Y/N,” she whispered, her voice shaking as the words barely made it past her lips.

“I was.” Her vision blurred, her shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body. “It was never you.”

Her fingers brushed against your wrist, against the IV taped to your skin, her voice barely audible. “It was always me.”

The rhythmic beeping of the monitors continued, indifferent to the devastation sitting beside you.

And Natasha, lost in the weight of her own guilt, could do nothing but hold onto you.

And hope…pray…that when you woke up, she could somehow make it up to you.

---

Bucky didn’t want to leave. Every part of him screamed to stay, to plant himself in that hospital chair by your bedside until you opened your eyes, until you looked at him, until he could make sure, really, truly make sure, that you were still here.

But he wasn’t the only one hurting.

Everyone was.

Even if you didn’t think so, even if you believed the lie that you didn’t matter, that your absence wouldn’t leave a hole so gaping it felt impossible to fill, you were wrong. You were so wrong.

So, he left. He left because Natasha needed her time with you, because Steve, Sam, and himself had work to do, because there were things that needed to be done before you woke up. Before you came home.

Your apartment felt off.

Not just empty…abandoned.

The second they stepped inside, the stillness pressed against their chests like a weight. It wasn’t just quiet. It was stagnant. Like the air itself had given up, like time had stopped the moment you collapsed.

Steve flipped on the light, casting everything in a soft glow. The space was cluttered but not in an intentional way like you had been existing here, but not living. Dishes sat in the sink, forgotten. A crumpled blanket rested on the couch, untouched since the last time you curled up beneath it. The faint scent of lavender still lingered in the air, but it was stale now, faded.

Bucky’s breath caught when his eyes landed on the coffee table.

The pill bottle.

It sat there like a cruel reminder, a silent weight pressing down on the room.

His stomach turned violently, his throat tightening as he stared at it, his body rigid. He didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his own body going unnervingly still when he registered what he was looking at.

This made it real.

Steve hadn’t been there. Not at your apartment, not in that room with the flashing lights and the pounding on the door. He had met them at the hospital, blindsided and panicked. But this…this solidified it in a way that made his stomach lurch.

He had been holding onto something… hope, that maybe it had been an accident. A mistake. A moment of carelessness, not a moment of decision.

But the bottle was empty.

Steve swallowed thickly, pressing his lips together as he exhaled through his nose. He moved first, his movements deliberate but gentle. He didn’t say anything as he picked up the bottle and turned toward the kitchen, tucking it out of sight.

Because when you came home, you weren’t coming home to this.

Sam, trying to refocus, spotted your phone on the kitchen counter, the screen black, battery drained. He grabbed it, searching for a charger before finally plugging it in.

“Alright, we’ll wait for it to power up,” he muttered, leaning against the counter, his eyes scanning the apartment like he was waiting for something to jump out at him.

Steve glanced around at the mess the small but telling signs of struggle, of isolation, of a person barely holding themselves together. It made his chest ache.

He sighed. “Let’s tidy up a bit,” he said. “When she comes home… she shouldn’t come back to this.”

Bucky should’ve helped.

But he stayed by the door, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest it almost hurt, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket like he was bracing for something. His face was pale, his jaw locked, his eyes heavy with something unreadable.

Sam caught the way he was standing there, unmoving, staring at the wall like he wasn’t even here.

“Hey,” Sam called cautiously, nodding toward the bathroom. “Why’s the mirror like that?”

The mirror was covered with an old towel, tucked haphazardly over the glass. It hadn’t been that way the last time Bucky had been over.

Bucky’s voice was monotone. “She broke it,” he said simply. “Punched it during a breakdown.”

Sam’s stomach twisted.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before glancing back at Bucky.

“I saw it months ago,” Bucky murmured, barely above a whisper, his gaze fixated on your record player across the room. His jaw clenched. “I should’ve known then. Should’ve tried harder.”

Sam’s face tightened. “Buck, we said we weren’t gonna do that.”

Bucky ignored him, his eyes locked on the record player like it held some kind of answer, some kind of reason why he had missed everything.

“Instead, I just put our stupid song on. Like that would make everything better.”

Sam swallowed, his gaze flickering toward Steve, then back to Bucky.

“Buck,” he said gently.

But Bucky just shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it, rolling his shoulders back, his face hardening.

“Forget it,” he muttered, stepping further into the room. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie.

But Sam didn’t call him out on it. Not yet.

Because no one in this room was fine.

“We should figure out what her PIN is,” he said after a while, glancing at the phone. “Once it’s on, we can check if her parents or anyone’s been trying to reach her.”

Silence.

Steve looked up.

Bucky was gone.

His stomach turned. He scanned the apartment before spotting the hallway light spilling into the darkened space. The door to your spare room was cracked open.

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance before Sam headed towards it.

The room was chaos. Not in the way the rest of the apartment was. No, this was different. This wasn’t life abandoned mid-motion.

This was a storm.

Papers were everywhere. Some scattered across the floor, others stacked haphazardly on your desk, mixed with unfinished drawings and torn sketches. There were notes too, some crumpled, others carefully folded. The bed was unmade, the blankets tangled and spilling onto the floor, like you hadn’t bothered fixing them in weeks.

But that wasn’t what made Bucky freeze.

It was the letters.

Neatly arranged in a row.

Each one labeled.

Steve. Natasha. Sam.

And then..

His name.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded against his ribs, an unrelenting force that made his head swim.

“Bucky?” Steve called from the kitchen. “The phone’s on. What’s her PIN?”

No answer.

“Buck?” Sam’s voice was quieter, hesitant.

He stepped into the room and followed Bucky’s gaze.

His breath hitched. “Oh, fuck.”

Steve, still in the kitchen, frowned. “What?”

Sam didn’t answer.

His eyes flickered to Bucky, who hadn’t moved. His hand hovered over the letter with his name on it, fingers trembling slightly.

“What do we do?” Sam asked quietly. His voice was unsteady, uncertain. “We’re not gonna read them. Right? We can’t. She’s alive. She’s gonna live.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

He reached down, fingers brushing against the envelope. It felt heavier than it should have, as if every unspoken word inside had weight to it.

Then, without a word, he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Sam swallowed. “Bucky—”

But Bucky turned on his heel, brushing past him, his footsteps heavy as he walked back into the living room.

Steve looked up as they entered, his brow furrowing. “What was that about?” he asked, eyes flicking between them.

Sam hesitated. “Just… something we found,” he said vaguely.

Steve narrowed his eyes but let it go. “Did you get her PIN?”

Bucky’s voice was flat. Detached. “She uses her birthday.”

The phone buzzed faintly in Steve’s hands as he typed in the familiar numbers, your birthday. The screen flickered to life, casting a dim glow in the silent apartment.

Bucky paced near the window, jaw clenched, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he was trying to physically hold himself together. Sam leaned against the couch, arms crossed, his brow furrowed with an unease none of them could shake.

When the home screen finally loaded, Steve exhaled slowly. “Alright, let’s see if there’s anything…” he muttered, swiping through the lock screen. His finger hovered over the messages app, hesitation creeping into his expression.

Sam, already tense, leaned in. “Anything from her parents?”

Steve’s lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the screen. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “No. Nothing.”

Sam pushed off the couch, his frown deepening. “No way. Let me see.”

Steve handed him the phone, and Sam instinctively locked and unlocked it again. The screen flashed with your wallpaper, a frozen moment in time, a photo that felt like it belonged to a different life.

Coney Island.

The five of you, standing in front of the Ferris wheel, faces lit with unfiltered joy. Steve had his arm wrapped around Natasha, who was grinning as she gave him bunny ears. Sam was in the middle, arm extended to take the picture, his laugh almost audible through the image. And then there was Bucky, one arm slung around Sam’s shoulders, the other wrapped tightly around you, holding you against his side. You had both arms wrapped around his middle, your head resting against his chest like it was second nature.

Sam swallowed hard. His thumb hovered over your face, tracing it absentmindedly.

“How’d we get here, man?” he asked, his voice quiet, heavy with something neither of them wanted to name.

Bucky stopped pacing, his gaze flicking toward the phone. He stared at the image for a second too long before tearing his eyes away, turning back toward the window.

Sam cleared his throat, shaking himself out of it. He opened the messages app and started scrolling, his expression darkening.

“There’s… nothing here,” he said slowly. “No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.”

Steve frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Refresh it, throw the apps up, it's what Nat does. Let me check again.”

Sam handed the phone back, and Steve repeated the process, scrolling through each thread with careful precision. But the result was the same.

Empty. Silent.

Steve let out a slow exhale, his shoulders sagging handing the phone back to Sam. “I don’t get it,” he said softly. “How do you not—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Sam dragged a hand down his face, frustration creeping into his tone. “How do your own parents not check on you? How do they not notice something’s wrong? What the hell is this?”

Bucky let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not surprised,” he muttered, his voice low, bitter.

Steve looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Bucky turned to face them, his expression dark, eyes stormy.

“She was never their priority,” he said, his voice clipped, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “They didn’t want a kid. They barely paid attention to her growing up. Half the time, they didn’t even show up to her school stuff or her birthdays.”

Sam’s jaw tensed. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Bucky said, his voice rising slightly. “She used to tell me about it, back in high school. How they were always too busy for her. How she felt like she didn’t matter to them. And now? Now she’s lying in a fucking hospital bed—” His voice cracked, and he exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “And they still can’t be bothered to check on her.”

Steve’s stomach churned as he glanced down at the phone again. His thumb swiped through your last messages, and his chest tightened. “When was the last time she messaged them?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Sam leaned over to check, his eyes scanning the timestamps. His face fell.

“A little over two weeks ago,” he said. “She sent them an I love you. That’s it.”

Steve felt like someone had punched him in the gut. “Did they even respond?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Nope,” he said bitterly, pointing at the tiny indicators next to the messages. “They read it. Both of them. That’s it.”

Bucky’s face contorted with something ugly, rage, grief, frustration, all tangled into something uncontainable. “What the fuck is wrong with them?” he spat, pacing again, his movements sharp, erratic. “What kind of parents just read that and don’t even bother to text back? What kind of people do that to their own kid?”

Sam’s face hardened. “I don’t know, man. But it’s messed up.”

“Messed up?” Bucky repeated, his voice shaking with fury. “It’s fucking cruel. She’s amazing. She’s kind, beautiful and funny and smart and she would do anything for the people she loves. And this is what she gets?”

Steve sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bucky—”

“No,” Bucky snapped, his voice cracking, his anger bleeding into something more raw, more desperate. “Do you know how hard she tries? How much she hides?” His voice wavered, and he shook his head, running both hands through his hair. “And for what? For people who don’t even care enough to ask if she’s okay? How do they not see how incredible she is? How lucky they are to have her?”

Sam stepped forward, his voice softer now. “We see it, Buck. We see her. And that’s what matters. She’s got us.”

“Did she though?” Bucky stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. He looked at the floor, his hands shaking slightly as he clenched them into fists. “She deserves better,” he whispered, voice thick. “Better parents. Better… everything.”

Steve set the phone down on the coffee table and stepped closer, resting a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“She has you, Buck,” he said, voice steady. “That’s better than anything else.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes glassy. He nodded stiffly. “When she wakes up,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m gonna make sure she knows that. Every single day.”

The room was unbearably quiet, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Alright,” he said, his voice rough. “Do we… text them? Her parents?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said flatly. “If they didn’t care enough to check in before, they don’t get to act like they care now. Not unless she wants them to.”

Steve exhaled sharply. “So… what do we do now?”

Bucky’s hand drifted to his pocket, fingers curling around the letter like an anchor.

“We make sure she’s okay,” he murmured. “And when she comes home… she’s not coming back alone.”

Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”

Bucky straightened, his jaw set, his expression resolute.“I’m staying,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the pull-out. I’m not leaving her alone again.”

Sam and Steve exchanged a look but didn’t argue.

Then, after a beat, Bucky exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. His voice was quieter this time, almost hoarse.

“I need a second,” he mumbled.

And before anyone could stop him, he turned and walked out of the room.

The stillness of your bedroom was deafening. It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace, it was the kind that pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were grieving. The faint scent of your lavender perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp smell of stale tears and despair.

Bucky sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. His fingers trembled as they traced the edge of the envelope, your handwriting staring back at him. Bucky—just his name, written in a shaky but deliberate hand.

His chest felt tight, like there was a vise wrapped around his ribs, squeezing with every breath. He didn’t want to open it. He didn’t want to see the words you’d left behind, the thoughts you’d decided to put on paper because you thought it was the end. But at the same time, he couldn’t stop himself.

With a shaky inhale, he slid his finger under the flap of the envelope, carefully pulling out the folded piece of paper inside. It felt heavier than it should have, as if the weight of your pain had seeped into the very fibers of the page.

He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the first line.

Bucky,

I don’t even know where to start. I guess that’s the funny thing about goodbyes…you never know how to make them feel enough.

He blinked hard, his vision blurring as the words swam on the page. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears.

You’ve always been my person. My constant. My safe place. And I know I don’t deserve you…not the way you’re always there, always showing up, even when I push you away. I don’t know how you do it, Buck. I don’t know how you can look at me and see anything worth staying for.

A shaky breath escaped him, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to push back the tears that threatened to spill. But it was no use.

I’ve tried so hard to fight this, to be stronger, to hold on. For you. For Sam, Steve, Nat. For all of you. But I can’t anymore. It’s too much. I’m too much. And I’m so so sorry for putting that on you.

The paper trembled in his hands as his tears dripped onto the ink, smudging the words slightly. His jaw clenched, and his throat tightened as he kept reading, his voice breaking as he whispered the words aloud.

I want you to know that this isn’t your fault. It’s not because you weren’t enough, you were more than enough. You’ve always been more than enough. If anything, you’re the reason I held on as long as I did. You were my anchor, Bucky. My reason to stay. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to keep holding on.

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he lowered the letter to his lap, his hand coming up to clutch his chest. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re so wrong, sweetheart. You are strong. You’re the strongest person I know.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking as the sobs overtook him. The weight of your words crushed him, guilt and grief intertwining in his chest until it was almost unbearable.

But he forced himself to keep reading.

I don’t want you to blame yourself for this. I need you to hear that, to believe it. This isn’t your fault, Bucky. This was my choice. And I hope…more than anything, that you can forgive me someday.

You deserve so much, Buck. So much more than I ever gave you, more than I could ever give you. I hope you find that someday. I hope you find someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved. Because you deserve everything.

Thank you for being my best friend, my light in the dark, my everything. I love you, Bucky. I love you. I love you always have, and I always will.

Goodbye.

His hands tightened around the paper, his knuckles turning white as he reread the final word. Goodbye. It felt like a knife twisting in his chest, sharp and unrelenting.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. His tears soaked into his palms, and his shoulders shook with the force of his grief.

Bucky sat frozen on the edge of your bed, staring at the letter in his hands. It was crumpled slightly where his trembling fingers had gripped it too tightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. His mind replayed your words over and over, your pain etched into every line, every sentence.

A soft knock on the bedroom door startled him, and he quickly wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Buck?” Sam’s voice was gentle, cautious. “We’re getting ready to head back to the hospital. You ready?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He stared at the letter in his lap, his thumb brushing over your name written on the envelope.

The door creaked open, and Sam stepped inside, Steve close behind him. Steve glanced around the room, his gaze softening when it landed on Bucky.

“I need to get Nat home,” Steve said quietly. “I know she hasn’t eaten all day, and you know how she gets when she’s worried. She’ll make herself sick if we’re not careful.”

Bucky nodded faintly, his movements stiff and robotic. He stood slowly, still clutching the letter as he turned to face them. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“She loves me,” he said, his eyes downcast.

Sam frowned, confused. “Who? Natasha?”

Bucky shook his head, holding up the letter as if it explained everything. “Y/N,” he said quietly. “She loves me. Not as a friend, not like that. She… she actually uh loves me too.”

Sam blinked, then let out a soft laugh, his lips quirking into a bittersweet smile. “Yeah, well, I could’ve told you that,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re both idiots. All these years, dancing around each other like the rest of us didn’t see it.”

Steve snorted, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Please. I’ve known since high school. You think I didn’t notice the way she looked at you during football games? Or how you’d lose your mind whenever she skipped school?”

Bucky let out a weak laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe how much time I wasted,” he said, his voice cracking. “All those years I could’ve been with her, and I just… wasted them.”

Sam stepped closer, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You didn’t waste anything, man,” he said softly. “You were there for her in the ways that mattered. You still are.”

Bucky’s grip on the letter tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Do you think…” He paused, his voice trembling. “Do you think if I’d told her…if she knew how much I love her…that she wouldn’t have…” His voice broke, and he gestured helplessly.

Sam sighed, his hand squeezing Bucky’s shoulder. “You can’t think like that, Buck,” he said firmly. “The ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if onlys’ aren’t gonna help. They’re not gonna help her, and they’re sure as hell not gonna help you.”

Steve nodded in agreement. “Sam’s right,” he said gently. “This isn’t about what you didn’t do. It’s about what you do now. And right now, she needs you to keep showing up for her. That’s all you can do.”

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling shakily as he tried to steady himself. “I just… I don’t want to lose her,” he whispered.

“You’re not,” Sam said, his voice steady. “She’s alive, Buck. She’s still here. That’s what matters. And we’re all gonna make damn sure she knows that.”

Bucky nodded slowly, slipping the letter into his jacket pocket. He straightened his shoulders, the weight of his grief still heavy but his resolve stronger now.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

As they left your apartment, Bucky glanced back one last time, his eyes lingering on the room that held so much of your pain—and so much of his guilt.

---

The first thing you felt was pressure.

A dull, suffocating weight settled over your chest, pressing down on your ribs like an invisible hand. Every breath felt foreign, like your lungs weren’t your own, like your body wasn’t yours to control.

Then came the sound.

The steady, rhythmic beeping of a machine. The faint murmur of voices just beyond your reach. The sterile hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was all distant, muffled like you were underwater, trying to break the surface but never quite making it.

Then came the pain.

A deep, aching soreness that crept through every inch of your body, weighing you down like you’d been wrung out and left to dry. Your limbs felt too heavy, your head throbbed in a way that made it hard to think, and your throat burned raw and parched, like you’d swallowed glass.

Panic stirred beneath your skin.

Your fingers twitched against stiff sheets. The sensation was slow to register, sluggish, delayed, like the connection between your mind and body had frayed. Something was clipped to your finger. Something else was wrapped around your wrist.

Where am I?

Your breathing hitched, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as confusion clawed its way through you. Your eyelashes fluttered, and the blinding sting of fluorescent light made you wince. You blinked rapidly, trying to adjust, but everything was hazy shapes blurring together, colors muted and unfamiliar.

Nothing made sense.

And then..

“Y/N?”

The voice cut through the fog. Soft, familiar, but laced with panic.

Your gaze drifted toward the sound, sluggish and disoriented, and through the haze, you saw her.

Natasha.

Her red hair was messy, her eyeliner smudged like she’d been crying. She was sitting beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm, her fingers barely brushing your skin. Her green eyes, usually sharp, guarded were wide, raw with something between relief and sheer panic.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “You’re awake.”

Your brow furrowed. Awake?

Something was wrong.

You weren’t at home.

The air smelled too clean, sharp with the sterile bite of antiseptic. The sheets beneath you were stiff, the hospital blanket too thin. The room was cold, the fluorescent lights casting everything in an artificial glow. Machines beeped softly beside you, their steady rhythm a cruel reminder that something had happened…something big.

Then the word hospital settled into your bones.

And everything came crashing down.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat erratic and frantic as your mind scrambled for answers.

The pills.

The phone call.

Bucky’s voice desperate, breaking, pleading.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers curling weakly into the blanket as the realization hit. The darkness you had welcomed had spit you back out.

A choked sob escaped your throat before you even realized you were crying.

“Oh, babe—” Natasha’s voice broke, but she didn’t know what to do. She squeezed your arm gently, her fingers tightening slightly, but it wasn’t enough to ground you.

The walls felt like they were closing in.

Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven gasps. The heart monitor beside you picked up speed, beeping frantically in sync with your panic.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You didn’t want to be here.

The sobs came harder now, your body trembling as the weight of everything settled over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under.

“Y/N, just breathe, okay?” Natasha’s voice wavered as she stood up, panic creeping into her own expression. “I—I’ll get someone, just—just hang on.”

She turned on her heel and ran, disappearing into the hallway.

Chaos.

The door burst open, and suddenly there were too many people. Too many voices, overlapping, mixing together until they became nothing but static.

Too many hands, pressing against your shoulders, trying to steady you, trying to hold you down.

“Y/N, you need to breathe—”

“You’re safe, just try to slow your breathing—”

You couldn’t.

The room was too bright. The machines were too loud.

Your body wasn’t yours.

Your chest was caving in, collapsing under the weight of panic and grief and something sharp, something unbearable.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run.

But all you could do was cry. Because this was something else you couldn’t do right, another thing you had failed at.

----

Natasha stood frozen just beyond the glass, her hands clasped over her mouth as she watched helplessly. Her whole body trembled, shock and guilt and fear swirling inside her like a hurricane.

“Nat?”

She turned just in time to see Steve, Sam, and Bucky rushing down the hall, their faces etched with concern.

“What happened?” Steve asked breathlessly.

Natasha’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“She—” Her voice cracked. “She woke up.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky moved.

He shoved past them, his pace quickening as he made a beeline for the door. “I need to see her,” he said, already reaching for the handle.

But before he could step inside, a nurse blocked his path.

“Sir, you need to stay out here—”

Bucky barely heard her.

His eyes locked on the window, and what he saw shattered him.

You—curled in on yourself, crying so hard your entire body shook.

Doctors surrounding you, their voices drowned out by the sound of your ragged breathing.

The heart monitor beeping too fast, erratic and uneven.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

His chest ached with something unbearable, something desperate. “I need to see her,” he repeated, his voice raw, cracking. “Please—”

“You can’t right now,” the nurse said firmly, her hand pressing against his chest. “She’s in distress—we need to help her calm down first.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to go to you, to hold you, to fix this.

But all he could do was stand there.

Helpless.

Useless.

Sam swallowed hard beside him, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Steve placed a steadying hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his own face pale, his breathing uneven.

“She’s awake,” he said, trying to ground himself in that fact. “That’s what matters.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Didn’t blink.

His eyes never left you.

His best friend. His everything.

Crying like the whole world was collapsing around her.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x steve #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader angst #james bucky barnes #bucky batnes x reader angst #james barnes x you #bucky x female reader

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genderthings · 3 months ago

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Eddie's Gender Week Masterpost

Ao3 Collection

Thank You for participating! With special shoutout to @mugloversonly who did the whole week! We got 9 fics and 1 fanart overall, check them out:

Nonbinary Eddie performing 'Sweet Transvestite' by @alicetallulaafterdark

nonbinary Eddie | prompt: Stage

Pretty by @mugloversonly

prompt: genderfluid | G | Steve walks in on Eddie trying on a dress

Steddie Twilight AU by @fuctacles

shapeshifting is kinda like being genderfluid | M | 1104 | cw: your high school trauma may resurface | Incubus!Eddie, transfem Stevie, inspired by Twilight, part 1 of 3?

Keep on Dancing by @mugloversonly

transman Eddie Munson | prompt: Lipstick/drag | G | summary: Eddie invites Robin and Steve to his drag show

I'm Coming Out by @mugloversonly

transwoman Eddie Munson | prompt “tie/trans” | G | summary: Eddie comes out to the party.

Tease by @mugloversonly

genderqueer Eddie Munson | prompt “stage” | M | summary: Eddie performs on stage for their fans...and their boyfriends.

A gorgeous man walks into a dressing room by @fuctacles

New Furniture by @mugloversonly

transmasculine Eddie Munson | prompt “he/they/ sex shop” | T | summary: Eddie and Steve go to a sex shop.

First Blood by @mugloversonly

Phoenix by @mugloversonly

TransFeminine Eddie Munson | prompt “Wayne” | G | tw: child abuse, use of the word Transvestite (but not as a slur) | Summary: Eddie tells Steve how she ended up at Wayne’s.

#masterpost #eddiesgenderweek #eddiesgenderweek masterpost #gender things #trans eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson #stranger things events #transgender #nonbinary eddie munson #transfem eddie munson #transmasc eddie munson #gender nonconforming eddie munson #queer eddie munson #steddie

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broodybuck · 7 months ago

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Shameful Dreams | Series Part 4

Series Summary: Steve and Bucky are each respectfully married to their wives, as any man should be in 1941. And yet, that doesn't stop Steve from having very shameful dreams about his married friend. Unexpectedly, things begin to happen outside of Steve's fantasies.

Series Tags: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes | Rated E | Tags: 18+ explicit smut, no powers au, pre-serum Steve, top Bucky, bottom Steve, secret relationship, internalized homophobia, consensual infidelity, closeted characters

[Masterpost] // [ao3 link]

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3]

Steve has experimented before. He knows how it feels to put a finger in his ass. But he stopped a while back, too ashamed of what he was doing.

It's odd how being with Bucky supplies equal parts shame and exhilaration. In some ways, Steve's become so uncaring about everything he used to worry about before. Currently, all he cares about is prepping for Bucky.

Bucky doesn't know what Steve's doing at home. But the thought of him finding out delights Steve in so many ways. He can picture the moment. Bucky's eyes will go wide, his pupils will dilate, and his whole body will tense at Steve's admission.

Steve continues to diligently work at fitting three fingers in his hole. To be honest, it's hard to find the time. The shower is one of the only times he has privacy away from Peggy. She starts to notice his showers racking up in minutes. She's begun teasing him about his longer showers, and Steve goes all red whenever she does. But not for the reasons she thinks.

Bucky is his deep, dark secret now.

While Steve preps himself, he has no idea when he and Bucky are going to fuck. They don't talk about it. Nights in the outhouse stay mostly the same with the addition of oral. They don't always blow each other because some nights they're kissing too much, get impatient, and just use their hands.

He deepthroated Bucky for the first time a few nights ago, and when Bucky told him he was getting so good at it, Steve preened over the praise all night. If Bucky is impressed by how much Steve can fit in his mouth, Steve can't wait to show him how much he can fit in his ass.

The way it happens is, Peggy makes a plan to visit her mother and doesn't ask Steve to join. He doesn't have paid leave anyhow.

The funny thing is, Steve doesn't even realize this is their opportunity. He's not thinking, he's set on the docks, meeting at the outhouse like always. But on the first Monday Peggy is away, Steve walks out to find Bucky waiting in the parking lot of his job. He's leaning against the side of his car looking all kinds of smooth.

Steve walks over to him, keeping an overt distance when he halts.

"Heard Peggy is visiting her mother," Bucky says.

"Yeah."

"So you got the house to yourself?"

That's when it occurs to Steve that, for the first time, they don't have to use the outhouse. And oh god, he's filled with too much excitement at once he almost gets dizzy.

"Meet you at home?" Bucky asks.

And that makes everything rush inside of Steve. It's the way he calls it home, letting Steve imagine it's theirs. That they have a real life together and aren't sneaking around. As if they don't have wives to cheat on.

Steve should feel bad about using the bed. It isn't just his, it's Peggy's too. It's where they make love.

But it's also the first time he's ever been allowed to make love to Bucky. And it is making love because they finally have a bedroom all to themselves. Truth be told, it feels like his wedding night all over again.

They're going to fuck, Steve is sure of this. Mainly because he'd die if they didn't. And he knows Bucky wants it just as much as him.

Still, it's sweet how shy Bucky is when they first walk into the room.

"Stevie," Bucky prompts.

"Yeah?"

"I know this is asking a lot but I was hoping you'd let me fuck you."

Steve bites back a smile.

"Let you? I've been prepping all week."

And there it is. The look, the one Steve was waiting for, the one he saw a glimpse of in the outhouse. Bucky's especially beautiful when he's overcome with lust.

They crash into each other, lips first. They're clawing at each other's clothes, already rubbing their hips together.

"I still need... time to..." Steve pants between desperate kisses.

"I know," Bucky says and pulls away trying to calm himself. "Let me help."

Steve has to admit, in all his fantasies and all his wildly inappropriate dreams about Bucky, he never pictured this part. Steve on his marital bed with his legs spread wide while Bucky opens him up with fingers coated in vaseline.

It's even better with Bucky's hand — everything is. And Steve has to stop himself from coming so many times. He resorts to pleading with Bucky that he's ready more than once but Bucky keeps telling him no. He's scared of hurting him and it would be sweet if Steve wasn't about to burst at the seams, his balls are so tight, he's clenching every muscle to stop himself from exploding.

Finally, Bucky decides he's ready and Steve breathes a huge sigh of relief. He relaxes momentarily while he watches Bucky slick up his cock and moves between his legs.

It's slow, painstakingly slow. Even with all the prep and vaseline, Steve still feels pressure when the head of Bucky's cock breaches his hole. His face must tense because Bucky stops with the tip in.

"You okay?" he asks.

Steve nods. "Keep going."

Bucky pushes in a little further, then stops again. He exhales shakily.

"Shit, Steve. You're so tight. I don't get it. I spent forever opening you up."

"You're too big, baby," Steve drawls and gets one of those deliciously heated looks from Bucky. "Keep going."

Bucky pushes in again, he's halfway now.

"Fuck," Bucky mutters right as his hips jolt and he thrusts forward, bottoming out in one push.

Steve groans, gripping Bucky's forearms aggressively.

"Shit, sorry. You okay?" Bucky pants.

"I'm good, good," Steve stammers, his eyes squeeze shut.

It's overwhelming, not just the feeling of Bucky's cock stretching him wide but the realization that he's finally inside of him.

Bucky leans down and kisses him, Steve's eyes flutter open. Steve nods again, urging him on. Bucky pulls back, pushes forward again. He slides in and out about three times before he slumps over Steve's chest and moans. A true, beautiful moan — nothing like Steve's ever heard before. He grabs his cock and comes easily too.

They don't move for a minute.

"Fuck, sorry — that was shit," Bucky apologizes.

Steve frames his face, pulls him down for another kiss.

"This is amazing," Steve says.

Bucky's mouth quirks into a smile. "I swear I usually last longer."

Steve laughs and kisses him again. "Me too."

"You feel too good," Bucky breathes. "It's nothing like..."

He stops abruptly and Steve knows he was about to mention Gail.

"I know," Steve agrees. "So much better."

Bucky blinks surprised like he wasn't expecting Steve to agree. Bucky leans down and kisses him for a long time. He's gone soft inside of him now and pulls out at some point but keeps kissing him long and slow. They roll on the bed until Steve's on Bucky's chest, wrapped in his arms.

They look over at some point and realize the sheets are already soiled with their release.

"Want me to get a rag?" Bucky offers.

"I'll throw it in with the laundry."

Bucky gives him a look.

"I'm someone who prepares, Buck."

"Oh, are you?" Bucky smirks.

"Of course. I knew we'd get here eventually. I didn't know how or when, but I knew it'd happen. So I learned how to do laundry."

Bucky lets out a laugh. Then he sighs.

"This is so much better than the outhouse."

"Fuck yeah, it is."

They, unsurprisingly, continue to meet at Steve's house all week Peggy is gone. Bucky grows more confident in fucking Steve. He doesn't move as slowly, he lasts more than three thrusts and Steve gets used to having a cock inside him.

Steve learns how to ride Bucky and fuck, they both like that. Bucky gets this unbelievable look on his face and always comes a lot faster when Steve's on top. Which is boosting Steve's ego more than it should.

They venture to other areas of the house. Something they both admit their wives don't approve of. They fuck in the shower, on the recliner chair, over the kitchen counter, on top of the coffee table.

One night, they fuck up against the front door. They don't plan it. Bucky just shoves Steve against it the moment they walk inside and opens him up right there. That was secretly Steve's favorite.

The week goes by too fast. On Friday, they're silent with the glum reality that Peggy will return home tomorrow.

They're lying in bed this night. They've fucked twice already. Tonight, their hands are intertwined, Steve's leg is hooked over Bucky's hip while his head rests on Bucky's chest. He can feel Bucky breathing, he can count every heartbeat. He's dreading the moment Bucky will have to get up and leave.

"Gonna miss this," Bucky says softly.

Steve actually feels his eyes well up so he refuses to look at him.

"We still have the outhouse," he says weakly.

"Yeah," Bucky chuckles, making Steve's cheek bounce with it. "But this was really nice."

"It really was."

"Hey, at least you have the reminders."

"You're not gonna remember?" Steve picks his head up, offended.

"No, of course, I will," Bucky says, cupping Steve's chin. "Sweetheart, I think about you every fucking night."

Steve softens instantly, the pet name affecting him a little too much.

"I meant reminders of all the places, you know? The table, the chair... it's probably best it's not my place. Sometimes, I go out to the shed and get hard."

Steve's mouth drops at the revelation.

"No, you don't," Steve mocks.

"I swear. Can't get any work done now."

"Well, I won't be able to do nothing if I get hard in every room of my house."

Bucky grins. "Yeah, almost got every room. Didn't we?"

Steve sighs happily, letting his chin fall back on Bucky's chest.

"We'll get the rest someday."

"I'm counting on it, sweetheart," Bucky says and lifts Steve's chin again for a kiss.

Steve looks at him as they draw back.

"This is the best and worst thing I ever did," Steve admits.

"I know," Bucky says. "You're the best and worst thing that ever happened to me."

#stucky #stucky fic #stucky smut #stucky series #series part 4

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medusapelagia · 11 months ago

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Challenges fic

Steddie Angsty August + AU-gust + Aug-kissed 2024 Master Post, AO3 Masterpost

💄 Stevie week 2024

🎸 Corroded Coffin Fest 2024

🗓️ Steddie Week 2024

Steddiemicrofic Steddie microfic series 🏰 Steddie microfic Medieval AU series (WIP)

💜Harringrove Lovefest 2024

🌨️Running From The Daylight - Whumpuary 2024 Steddie | rated M | 15 chapters | 15,961 words

🌗Harringrove Movember 2023

⚡️AU-gust 2023 AO3 or Tumblr MasterPost 30 Steddie - 1 Harringrove

❤️‍🔥Harringrove Kinktober 2023

🏏BatBoys Prompts Steddie

📽️MetalSandwich Movie Mania 2023

🗓️ Steddie Week 2023

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spnpridemonth · 4 years ago

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thank you all for an incredible week! it has been so amazing seeing everything you have created! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 now on to the absolute mammoth of a masterpost...

browse creations by:

day (2021): day 1 | day 2 | day 3 | day 4 | day 5 | day 6 | day 7

type: art | edit | video | writing

#mod post #masterpost

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somethingthatsaysbubbles · 4 years ago

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THE RIPPING CASE OF MS. DELIA RODWICK | Chapter Four: I’ll Wait for You

WARNINGS BY CHAPTER: MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Mentions of Murder/Serial Murder. Explicit Descriptions of Arousal/Genitalia. Masturbation/Mentions of Masturbation. Mentions of Alcohol (Wine). Self-Loathing. Mentions of Burlesque Performer/Sex Worker Prejudice. Discussions of Religious Hypocrisy and Canonical Disability.

Word Count: ~3.3K

Fandom: The Alienist

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x AFAB GN!Reader

A/N: Thank you so much for all of the love and support! As always, let me know if you catch a typo, missed warning, or you would like to be added to the taglist. In this chapter, the reader wears period-accurate, assumed-masculine clothing. Also, I know that Yann Tiersen’s “La Valse d’Amélie” is not historically accurate; I would apologize, but the vibes are just too exquisite. Enjoy!

Masterpost

After several hours of intense discussion, you handed Ms. Howard a list of addresses for everyone who knew your birth name, and—much to your embarrassment—Dr. Kreizler demanded that you stay with him until the killer was caught. You attempted to argue with the alienist, afraid that if you stayed you would put him in danger, but he had a rapid retort for every excuse you exhausted.

“I refuse to take advantage of your generosity. I would only be a burden—”

“—I am happy to host you. It’s safer if you stay here.”

“It’s so late—”

“—I’ll have Stevie prepare a room for you.”

“There’s no point. I can’t possibly sleep—”

“—I’ll make you a cup of tea,” the good doctor said as he showed his friends to the foyer. “And I’ll stay up with you as long as you like.”

The soft sound of a teaspoon clinking against a porcelain cup caught your ear from Dr. Kreizler’s kitchen as you pursued his bookshelves. You’d long since discarded your suit jacket and waistcoat on the doctor’s desk chair; your simple, white suspenders dangled from your hips as your fingers danced over the variety of expensively-bound volumes in his library. “I might as well make myself comfortable,” you’d said as you stripped off your outer layers, finding amusement in the way the alienist averted his eyes.

I’d give my life to see you blush again...

After his trip to Bellerose, memories of Dr. Kreizler tormented your mind. They snuck into every silent moment—started as nothing more than sweet glimpses of his glistening, honey-brown eyes. While you bathed the morning after your meeting, your train of thought turned to the way he smiled—kind and cautious—when you said something that pleased him. As you ate, you recalled the way your hips rolled—bouncing to Gaskin’s “After the Ball.” You remembered the keen way your lips kissed his champagne flute, feathering over the memory of his mouth. Only a week later, you sent for Mr. Sinclair—asking him to acquire Pinot noir for your private dances; and, your memories morphed into imaginings. You dreamed of him sitting with you outside Caffè Florian, his hand in yours—the soft, sultry skin of his palm pressed against your own. You thought of his fingers, the ones he dug into the arm of his seat, and how the sight made your toes curl—a quivering warmth wetting your inner thighs. You thought about taking the tie from around his neck and feeling his hair under your hands. You imagined your fingers unfastening his trousers.

You daydreamed about pressing your lips to his cock’s flushed, heavy head—his eyes closed in pleasure. You were ashamed to admit that you touched yourself in those moments. When you were alone in your room—the mid-winter moon hanging high in the sky—your hand found your hungry cunt, wet and waiting, in the dark, and you circled your clit to the thought of him—the way his thumb trapped your tears like you weren’t some intimate, salacious secret—like you were worth his time—like he really wanted you—

“Have you found anything particularly enticing?”

You gasped as the good doctor’s kind, curious voice jolted you from your thoughts. Pivoting, you presented him with his hard-bound copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. “I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth,” you quoted. “I heard many things in hell.”

Dr. Kreizler eyed you inquisitively. “Many would say that Mr. Poe was a madman.”

“Many would say that the Earth is flat,” you countered. “That a loving God gave us the ability to feel pleasure, then he condemned us for having the grotesque audacity to do just that.” Running your fingers reverently over its cover, you embraced the book as if it was an old friend.

“You admire him then,” Dr. Kreizler replied. “You believe Mr. Poe was a tortured genius.”

You laughed—a loud, sunny sound. “Why is it that men must always label each other as either mad or brilliant?” Flicking your gaze to Dr. Kreizler, you took him in teasingly. “Can a man never be just a man?”

You shrugged before the alienist could answer. “Poe was a skilled writer, but he was a remarkable businessman. He understood that humankind seeks self-torture; we find pleasure in our pain and love the horrors we find lurking in every corner of our souls. We frighten and disgust ourselves for the thrill of it.” Sighing, you averted your gaze—aware of how grave your assertion was. “Forgive me, Dr. Kreizler—”

“—Laszlo.” Your eyebrows came together in confusion, and the good doctor smiled sweetly. Offering you a cup of tea, he continued, “Please, call me Laszlo.”

Your eyes brightened, and you blushed. “Laszlo,” you whispered, a delighted shiver dancing up your spine at the way his first name felt on your tongue. It was so warm, so right—so perfect. You held Poe’s work in your off-hand as you took the fragile teacup from between Laszlo’s fingers—grinning over the muted, strawberry shade that dusted the good doctor’s cheeks when your hands brushed his. “Thank you,” you hummed, your eyes closing blissfully as you blew across the top of the tea before tasting it.

Your eyes snapped open in surprise as your tastebuds were overwhelmed by the subtle, sublime weight of a honey-and-chamomile-infused green tea. “Chamomile is thought to relieve stress while green tea reduces anxiety,” Laszlo explained. “The honey...” He floundered for a moment as he failed to find the words he wanted to say, setting the teacup's saucer on a nearby table. “You said that you enjoy sweet things,” he whispered.

You smiled tenderly before taking another sip, the tea’s saccharine heat settling in your stomach. “It’s delicious,” you said, hiding a sprightly smile behind your cup. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, and there is nothing to forgive regarding your assessment of Mr. Poe.” Laszlo’s eyes lingered on yours before he cleared his throat, crossing the room with a calculated stride. “He wrote about broken minds and horrid sins because that is what his readership demanded. His work was subject to the same audience that craves the tragic headlines of The Times and Journal.” Lifting the newspaper that John left behind, Laszlo scowled—scanning it briefly before tossing it back onto the table. “If anything,” Laszlo continued, keeping his eyes firmly fixed away from yours. “I’d say you are...exceptional...for stating a fact that few seem capable of accepting.”

“Exceptional,” you parroted, raising a pleased eyebrow in lieu of focusing on the pride that surged through your chest like lightning through low-hanging clouds. “That’s high praise coming from one of the most exceptional men I know.” Laszlo’s lips settled into a frustrated frown.

“Not exceptional enough to uphold my promise to you.” Your body grew cold in response to the sudden self-loathing that took over his tone. Rushing to his side, you almost shattered your teacup as you slammed it down on the table. The good doctor inhaled with a sharp shudder as you took his right arm in hand.

“You will catch him. I know you will.”

Laszlo’s body remained stiff and still like a rabbit staring down a hunter’s arrow as he softly responded, “Two more dead, and your name written in blood...” When he turned his tortured gaze on you, you gasped at the gaping well of hopelessness you found hiding behind his eyes. “How can you have such faith in me when I’ve already failed you?” Laszlo’s lower lip trembled under the sting of his teeth, and his right hand hung limply by your hip.

Trailing your fingers up the alienist’s arm, you squeezed his shoulder—your eyes locking in the sitting room’s electric, all-encompassing light. “You will only fail me if you give up, Laszlo.” Before your confidence could crumble under the weight of your own insecurities, your fingertips traced the collar of Laszlo's shirt. “Don’t give up,” you pleaded—pressing the backs of your nails into his perfect, brunette beard.

The two of you stood in thick silence for what felt like forever: a pair of picturesque, marble statues in an overgrown garden. Your eyes flicked down to his lips which sat softly parted by a self-disgust you could not name or understand. How can he possibly think so little of himself, you thought. He promised to avenge Delia when the rest of the world would rather forget her. Does he not understand how extraordinary that is—how caring he is—how kind and comforting? Your throat constricted. Does he not understand how much I—

You pulled your hand away as if it fell too close to an open flame. “Have you ever read The Tell-Tale Heart,” you said, trembling as you rounded the table—your hand catching on your cup of tea.

Don’t, you warned yourself. We barely know each other.

“Of course. I’ve read every book in my library,” Laszlo responded, hanging his head when you refused to meet his gaze.

“Why does that not surprise me,” you teased, sipping your tea.

Falling in love like this is for children and fools, the logical, well-lived part of your psyche promised you. However, the part of you that you were sure perished under the impenetrable weight of adulthood-woe whispered back, would being a fool be such a bad thing?

Blushing, you met the amber eyes of the alienist across from you. “The vast majority of my library is filled with books I haven’t read yet.”

Laszlo’s gaze narrowed as he gave into his curiosity. “Do you plan to read them?”

“Yes,” you said, “and no.” Choking down your drink, the image of his fearful self-loathing flitted across your mind. “Most of the books in my library are recommendations or gifts from friends.” Your fingertips rubbed nervously along the rim of your cup as you continued, “I’m afraid to read them.”

“You’re afraid to connect to others,” Laszlo replied.

“I’m afraid that after I read what they’ve recommended—learned what they’ve wanted me to learn…” You swallowed thickly, crossing to the couch and sitting down—laying The Tell-Tale Heart on your lap. “They’ll lose interest in me and leave.”

“Fear of abandonment,” Laszlo offered easily, too easily. “It can be caused by poverty or physical and sexual abuse, but it usually stems from an absence of one or both parents in early childhood.” You froze, your fingers gripping your teacup tightly as you locked eyes with Laszlo. The good doctor’s gaze flicked over you freely, picking you apart in a way that reminded you of a taxidermy. You never took up the hobby, but Delia was heavily skilled. She said that preparing a pipevine swallowtail for display made her feel like a god; she resolved who would rot and who would rest forever in benign beauty.

Does Laszlo plan to let me rot?

The alienist’s mouth opened, determined to continue his dissection, but you silenced him before he could speak. “Would you like me to read to you?”

For a moment, you feared he would disregard your deflection and drill you about the inner workings of your mind—your past and present. Instead, his face softened, and he sweetly said, “It’s been a while since anyone read to me.”

Oh.

“That’s a pity,” you replied, patting the seat beside you. “Someone should remedy that injustice immediately.”

Laszlo looked at your hand apprehensively before joining you. “Are you sure you wish to read a story about murder this evening?”

“Yes,” you answered. “I know Poe’s work well. His horrors are not hidden to me.” Narrowing your eyes at the alienist, you laid your hand across your lap. “Don’t psychoanalyze that statement.”

Laszlo grinned fully, folding his hands over each other as he got comfortable on the couch. “I wasn’t going to.”

You gasped as your hand gripped the empty space over your sarcastically insulted heart. “Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Laszlo Kreizler?”

My, that private, foolish part of you purred. My Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. My Laszlo. Forcing a smile, you opened the book—attempting to read before you found yourself unable to focus.

Placing a thumb on the page to mark your place, you said, “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

You anchored your gaze on the curtained windows across from you, staring through them to the starlit streets beyond. “Somewhere out there is a serial murderer who knows me by name and took the life of my dearest friend.” You huffed a laugh as you looked at Laszlo. “I should be terrified. I am terrified, but I—” Your heart hammered against your ribs, racing as you struggled to find the right words. “I feel safe here.”

The good doctor’s chest seized as his eyes caught yours, and his body cried out quietly—aching to cradle you in his arms. “I’m glad that my home...that I can provide you with some semblance of comfort,” he muttered. Laszlo’s left hand formed a fist on his thigh, and a tired laugh tickled his lips. “I’ll admit, I’m not sure how I managed it. Most people would agree that compassion is not one of my strengths.”

“Then most people are idiots,” you asserted, sighing as you set your teacup on the coffee table. “I haven’t known you long, Laszlo, but you’ve been so kind to me. You have treated me as nothing less than your equal, a luxury that many men have not afforded me.” Before you could urge yourself out of such an audacious action, you reached for his fingers—wrapping them between your hands in a reverent hold. “You work with children,” you implored. “In order to be half the alienist that you are, you need to be able to comfort those in your care.” You flushed a radiant red as his fingers found the spaces between yours, squeezing softly. “You are a better man than you give yourself credit for, Dr. Kreizler.”

“I hope you’re right,” Laszlo whispered under the weight of his own blush.

“I know I am,” you promised, gently pulling your hands from his. With a giggle, you handed him The Tell-Tale Heart. “Read to me,” you demanded.

He chuckled as he took the book from you. “I was under the impression that you were going to read to me.”

“I changed my mind,” you teased.

The good doctor got up with a grunt. “Fair enough, but I refuse to read you Poe.”

You watched him put the book back with a pout. “Why not?”

The alienist shook his head at your antics, pulling a soft-cover manuscript from his mound of volumes. “You’ll sleep better tonight if we remove ourselves as much as possible from the prospect of murder.”

You scoffed—sending him a soft, goading grin. “Far be it from me to ignore a doctor’s orders,” you cooed. “What is your professional recommendation then?”

Laszlo sat back down beside you—lifting a simple, linen-bound book into view. “Scarlet Stockings by Louisa May Alcott.”

“A love story,” you asked incredulously, not expecting someone as logical as Laszlo to lean toward romance.

“You’ve read it before?”

There was something timid in his tone that made you pause. “Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.”

Laszlo nodded, accepting your answer as he pulled a pair of spectacles out from his waistcoat pocket. Sliding them over his nose, he situated his left hand up on the couch’s arm. He looks so domestic, you thought with a tired smile, and—ignoring any ounce of hesitation in your heart—you got comfortable as well. The alienist’s eyes widened in concern, but he said nothing as you nabbed a nearby pillow and propped it up against his outer thigh. With a sigh, you separated your suspenders from your trousers and tossed them over the back of the couch. On instinct, Laszlo moved his right arm to make room as you placed your head on the pillow—the wonderful weight of your body warming his lap.

This is immensely improper, Laszlo’s subconscious screamed at him. Despite his commitment to cultural progress, a small part of the good doctor’s psyche still clung to decorum and social acceptance. He knew that he should have put some distance between you two and demanded that you go to bed. The dance at Bellerose was one thing, but this—

Laszlo’s chaotic thoughts quieted when you looked up at him from his lap; your smile was so sweet, so sacrosanct. “Is this all right,” you murmured, and he melted. It was more than all right; it was wonderful. You were wonderful.

“Yes,” he assured you. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” you echoed, reaching for his right arm that sat awkwardly at your side. Taking his wrist in hand, you brought his arm over your belly. As with the last time your fingers held his right arm, he froze. Your eyebrows furrowed. “Is this all right,” you asked again.

Laszlo answered promptly, an itching anger poisoning his voice. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

You kneaded the flesh between his knuckles with the tips of your fingers. “You turn into a statue every time I touch your arm.”

The room was silent as Laszlo looked away from you, and you stilled with him—waiting for a response. After a long moment, he muttered, “My right arm is weaker than my left: a congenital defect.” His voice was strained in a way that spoke of life-long hurt and loneliness—of trauma that can follow a person like their shadow over packed earth. You held him tighter, wishing for all the world that he would look at you.

“Does it hurt?”

“Occasionally.”

You slid the tips of your fingers under the sleeve of his shirt, squeezing his arm softly. “Does this?”

“No,” he said, swallowing thickly.

“And this?” Lifting Laszlo’s hand to your lips, your mouth met his thumb in a tender kiss, and he gasped—snapping his gaze to yours. The empty space between your tongues was tense and tangled with an electric want.

“No,” Laszlo whimpered, a tenuous breath brushing past his teeth. For a moment, you were tempted to turn over his hand and bring his palm in to meet your mouth—tempted to lay your lips over each of his knuckles. You wanted to claim every inch of him, but you steadied yourself as his eyes shut tightly—his thoughts turning away from some agonizing, unimaginable horror. If it weren’t for the way that his hand held your own, how his thumb pressed against yours with purpose—with promise...You’d think that you were the horror he was hiding from, but his repulsed grimace reminded you of when you danced for him—reminded you of the ceaseless self-loathing you saw buried in his soul.

He doesn’t think he deserves this, you realized, and your face warmed at the idea that maybe he did want you. Maybe that was the problem? I’ll wait for you, you found yourself vowing—resting your joined hands under your heart. I’ll wait as long as I need to.

“Would you like to read me to sleep, Laszlo” you inquired cautiously—your voice soft with sudden, safe exhaustion. “I rather enjoy the sound of your voice.” His eyes finally fluttered open, and he looked you over with wide-eyed, disbelieving wonder. You smiled, and he blushed—his fingers stroking yours. With a nod, he cleared his throat and cracked open his book.

Letting your mind drift alongside the delicate, careful cadence of Laszlo’s words—you closed your eyes and imagined that you were in an empty hall. His feet guided you through the first steps of a gentle, German waltz. A candle’s caressing flame danced between your clasped palms, and Yann Tiersen’s “La Valse d’Amélie” crackled under the golden, cathedral ceiling. His arms cradled you close, your smiles never misstepping.

“‘You are right, I'll wait for you, and love you all the better for the sacrifice,’ whispered Belle. ‘I only wish I could share your hardships, dear, for while you fight and suffer I can only love and pray.’”

TAGS: @scuttle-buttle @bruhlsbees @apparrio @livvyshmiv @ajeff855 @imalsonotsure @bubblegum28universe @frozenhuntress67 @uncomfortablebagel @janine-007

Read on AO3!

[Next Chapter]

#The Alienist #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler x you #dr laszlo kreizler #laszlo kriezler x reader #laszlo kreisler x reader #laszlo kriezler #laszlo kreizler fanfic #laszlo kreizler imagine #Daniel Bruhl #daniel brühl #gender neutral reader #gender neutral fanfic #afab #reader insert

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fallingforyou123 · 4 years ago

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You Will Never Be A God-Une

Warnings: Slight language, implied smut, alight angst

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: Here is the official part one! Hope you'll like it, reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

Series Masterpost

The sheets hung loosely around her frame, the only thing keeping her from being exposed to the cold air. The stranger laid beside her in a dazed out state, chest rising ever so slowly. A small cloud of smoke engulfed the both of them, a bad habit Stevi had picked up from an ex of hers.

“Those will kill you one day.”

“No more than sleeping with strangers will.”

“Touche.”

Stevi moved to get dressed, keeping quiet to avoid another conversation. Leaving was always bad, but leaving when there was still so much to be said was the worst. She couldn’t quite place it, but there was a feeling, something small sitting in her gut. It worried her, she’d never felt like this with a stranger. So safe and comfortable.

“Stay. Just till the morning, I’ll have my driver take you home.” Came the voice from the other side of the bed.

“No, definitely no. I have rules, no names, no staying. I can’t”

“What a lonely life you must live, to disconnect so much from those around you.”

Stevi looked at him, truly looked at him. He looked so much different than the man she met a couple hours ago. His perfectly gelled hair was nothing more than a brown mess atop his head, his eyes were clouded with a sleepy haze, and his suit had been replaced by a very thin sheet. He looked like someone she could see herself falling for back in university, she had to remind herself that this was a man with a lot of money, someone she’d probably dig up dirt on for an article.

She shook her head, she needed to leave.

After she finished dressing, she grabbed her bag from the front room and slipped out the door. Checking her phone she saw a couple missed calls from Brooke and an enthusiastic ‘be safe!’ text from Poppy. She quickly both, ensuring them that she was not dead in a ditch somewhere, before ordering an uber and hoping in the elevator.

***

The rest of the weekend had gone by in a blur. She’d spent all of Saturday nursing her hangover with ice cream and old reruns of Golden Girls in bed. Then Sunday was brunch with the girls at a little cafe where she was forced to share every detail of the events that unfolded Friday night, only leaving out how weird she had felt in the strangers' company. And then all too soon she was getting ready for a week of meetings and interviews.

Walking into the office, Stevi was greeted by her boss informing her that her 11am was now Stevi’s and ‘oh, look, he’s early.’ She mentally groaned, there was not enough caffeine in the world to make this worth it. Don’t get her wrong, Stevi loved her job, but god did she hate her boss. She was flakey, and whenever anything didn’t appeal to her, she’d simply give it to Stevi with barely any notice. There were far too many nights that she had to stay late because she was given a column to write only hours before it was due.

With a heavy sigh, she walks into the conference room, hoping that this won’t last long. “Good morning, my name is Stevi, I’ll be doing the interview today since Diane couldn’t be here.”

“Rule one.”

She whips her head up towards the man, “What?”

It’s in that moment that she realizes who this is, the man from Friday night. And coincidentally, Tom Holland. She should’ve known the other night who he was, his name and face had been plastered on the bulletin board for weeks, one of their most anticipated interviews this year. Tom was not only a pretty face, but the youngest CEO to be running an international company in decades. His father had started Holland and Co. Publishing almost 30 years ago, and only a few months ago he handed it over to Tom.

“I said, rule one darling. You’ve broken it.” She’d forgotten how lovely that voice was, remembering how captivating it was to have him whispering in her ear.

“I heard what you said, Mr. Holland.”

“Call me Tom, you’ve more than earned that privilege.”

“This is my place of work, not some stupid nightclub, I keep things professional here.”

Neither of them take their eyes off the other, a silent war taking place between the two of them.

“Well, if you’re such a professional, stop looking at me like you’re wanting to fuck me.”

A small gasp leaves Stevi. She stands up to leave, gathering her things, and looks at him with venom in her eyes, “Mr. Holland, I’m afraid that this interview is over, if you would please talk to the receptionist she will reschedule you in with someone other than me.”

A small look of shock crosses Tom’s face before he too stands, reaching out to grab Stevi’s arm, “Wait, I'm sorry. Sit down, I’ll be civil.”

Reluctantly, she does. Placing her notebooks in front of her and pulling out the recorder. Before she begins she gives Tom a warning look, “One word, one single word out of line, and this is over.” To which he nods and sits back, hands folded in his lap, looking like a true business man.

***

The rest of the interview goes by smoothly, only a couple of suggestive looks being thrown her way before he bites his tongue. Stevi’s never been more relieved to finish something in her life, the tension between the two becoming almost unbearable as the interview went on. “Okay, I think that’s all we need for the article, a draft will be sent to your assistant to go over before we publish it in next week's business column.”

Stevi stands quickly, ready to put everything behind her and spend the rest of her day hiding in her office. Before she can leave, a hand is wrapped around her arm once again, and body right behind her. “Let me take you to dinner, darling. A reward for being good.”

The voice in her ear sends a shiver down her spine, and for a second she debates it, “Tom, I can’t. I don’t mix business with pleasure, this is already a conflict of interest.”

“More of those damn rules. Live a little, let your guard down for once.” He looks at her with pleading eyes, something that makes him look more like his true age. That feeling sneaks its way back into again, and for a moment, while she stares into his eyes, nothing else exists. Just the two of them and a world of possibilities.

“If I say yes, this stays between us. The people we are here, and the people we are then are not the same. My job may not seem dangerous to you, but it could be very bad for me if someone gets the wrong idea.”

Tom nods, he knows all too well what she means. “Tonight at 7, meet me at The Garden on 22nd, I’ll make the reservation.”

She agrees, lets him put his number in her phone, and gives Tom one last smile before heading down the hall to her office.

She jumps when she sees someone sitting at her desk, “James, what are you doing here?”

“What, can’t check in on my favourite captain?”

“Not without a secret agenda, and last I checked, I have nothing to report to you, I’m off duty.” Stevi walks towards him, pushing his legs off of her desk.

“Ah, sweetheart, you’re never off duty. Not when you’re talking to men like that.” James points out the door, to where Tom can be seen talking to the receptionist.

“That is none of your business, James.”

“I want details, everything you can find out about him, on my desk by Friday, you know what’ll happen if it’s not. Have a good day Stevi.” And with that, James walks out of the room, leaving a chill hanging in the air.

Stevi suddenly can’t breathe, the four walls surrounding her feeling like a cage. She quickly grabs her things and walks to Dianes’ office, telling her there’s a family emergency and she’ll work on the article at home. Within minutes she’s scrambling to get into her car, dialing Poppys’ number, needing someone to calm her down.

She spends the rest of the day on Poppys’ couch trying to recover from her near mental breakdown. This life was never something she wanted, she’d been dragged into it by her ex. After he failed to complete a simple task, he was killed in their apartment, and she was responsible for finishing it out. But it’s never that simple, one task turned into two, and then four, and now she was too far in to be able to leave.

All too soon, it was 6:30 and she was leaving for her date with Tom. She’d left Poppys an hour ago, promising her that there was nothing to worry about, it had just been a bad day. She drove in silence, not wanting to focus on anything but the road. She got to the restaurant right on time, quickly being seated in one of the private rooms. She’d been here once before with her parents when she first moved to the city. They’d taken her out to celebrate and they’d spent the night drinking fancy wine and eating more food than they could’ve ever imagined.

Lost in her memories, she didn’t realise how much time had passed since she’d arrived. Checking her phone she saw that it was now quarter past, and no sign of Tom. She tries texting him, thinking maybe he’d gotten off of work late. By 7:30 she starts to panic, she’s 2 glasses of wine in and still no sign of him. To no avail, she calls him, worry turning into anger when it goes straight to voicemail.

It’s almost 8 when the waiter informs her that Tom has called, he won’t be making it, but to order whatever she likes and he’ll pay for it.

And so she sits there, wine glass in hand, wishing she’d never even met Tom.

#tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland series #tom holland x oc #mob!tom holland x reader #tom holland and co

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klaineccfanficlibrary · 4 years ago

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THE FIRST PROMPT DROPS IN ONE WEEK!

To quote the great Stevie Wonder, love’s in need of love today. We are continuing the Valentine’s Challenge! The library will post a song prompt, complete with lyrics and video if available, at midnight EST starting on February 1 and every day through February 14th.

The challenge is open to both Klaine fanfic and CrissColfer fanfic (or art).

You can do whatever your muse tells you. Either write a 14 chapter story (the more new stories in fandom, the better!), or 14 separate one shots, or you can create art. However you interpret the song is up to you. Maybe just the title moves you, the lyrics, just one line in the lyrics - it’s up to you. And the more words, the sweeter!

Use the tags #Klaine or #CrissColfer and #KlaineCCValentines2021

The library will reblog each entry every day, and upon completion, we will create a masterpost of all the entries.

--> Please email the library and let us know if you’re participating so we can keep a look out for your daily entry.

Please reblog and spread the word!

Thank you!

~Lynne & Adrienne

#signal boost #klaine fanfiction #glee fanfiction #crisscolfer fanfiction #klaineccvalentines2021

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stevieweek · 11 months ago

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Ao3 Collection | Days 1 - 3 | Prompts

The first one of many, fic by @fuctacles T | + first dress + fantasy | Steddie

Stevie Wearing the Strawberry Dress, art by @alicetallula G | + first dress | -

Untitled, art by @stevieharringtonwifeguy G | + D&D/Fantasy | Steddie

Chiffon, fic by @machtaholic - | + first dress | -

Victoria's Got Nothing On Her, fic by @augustjustice E | + lingerie + Dom!Stevie | Steddie

I'm in chainmail, baby I'm impressed, fic by @formosusiniquis M | + lingerie + D&D/Fantasy | Steddie

Candles, fic by @steddie-island E | + lingerie | Steddie

Mommy's girl, fic by @katyawriteswhump M | + Scoops/uniform + lingerie | Steddie

my lady, fic by allthewaytothechapel T | + D&D/Fantasy | Steddie

Better in Yellow, fic by @stellarspecter G | + sports + first dress | Robin&Stevie

i thee wed, fic by @matchingbatbites T | - | Steddie

He's so cute when he howls, fic by @fuctacles G | - | Steddie

Untitled, fic by @stevieharringtonwifeguy M | + Dom!Stevie + monsterfucking | Steddie

Princess, fic by @machtaholic - | +D&D/Fantasy | -

Gonna Y/N on his Wattpad til we're Canon, fic by @formosusiniquis T | - | Steddie, Stevie&Robin

Girls Like Girls Like Boys Do (Nothing New), fic by @augustjustice M | + sapphic | Stancy

cut to the feeling, fic by allthewaytothechapel T | - | Steddie

the way you fuck, the way you taste, fic by @midsummer-semantics E | + monsterfucking | Steddie

The sound of a promise, fic by @fuctacles M | - | Steddie

Pride, fic by @machtaholic M | + Dom!Steve | Steddie

unfulfilled wishes, fic by allthewaytothechapel G | - | Steddie

Cuffing Season, fic by @steddie-island E | + sapphic | Steddie

I've Been Dead All Day, fic by @stevesjockstrap E | - | Steddie, Stommy

Sports, art by @arelliann G | + sports | -

A rush kinda like the old times (I still cross your mind), fic by @steddie-island M | - | Stommy

Give A Little Bit, fic by @stevesjockstrap T | - | Stevie/Argyle

Annus Mirabilis (Marvellous Year), fic by @medusapelagia E | + sapphic | Stevie/Carol

Taking the Edge Off, fic by @augustjustice E | + sapphic | Stancy

The day Eddie quit his job, fic by @fuctacles M | + sapphic | Stevie/Chrissy

Fireworks, fic by @machtaholic - | + sports | -

#stevieweek24 #stevieweek #stevie harrington #transfem steve harrington #fem steve harrington #trans steve harrington #steddie #mtf steve harrington #transfeminine steve harrington #female steve harrington #event info #stranger things event #stevie week #stevie week masterpost #stranger things #masterpost #nonbinary steve harrington

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rossmccallsqueen · 5 years ago

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Music and Lyrics

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Brian have just had a beautiful little girl, but she doesn’t have a name yet.

Warnings: N/A (just lots of fluff)

Word count: 1.6K (I know it’s short I’m sorry)

A/N: I know it’s been awhile and I’m so sorry y’all. Quarantine has not been my friend, but I’m so happy to be writing again. I hope you enjoy!

Nine months later and here you were, in your hospital room, absolutely exhausted. You’d been told time and time again that being pregnant and giving birth were truly tiring, but now that you were experiencing it first hand it was an entirely different ball game. It was your first pregnancy after all, so this was so new to you. Your saving grace had been your husband. Brian was not a first-time dad, but this was his first with you. He had been so excited throughout your whole pregnancy, wanting to experience all of your firsts with you.

You knew it was because he hated himself for missing those things with his other children. He was going to be there the whole time, he told you. And he had been. When the two of you had heard your daughter’s heartbeat for the first time you remembered Brian had tears in his eyes. You could tell this was special to him, and the love you felt for him was indescribable in those moments.

You would be lying to yourself if you hadn’t been nervous about Brian becoming a dad again. In the back of your mind, there was that little worry that he wouldn’t give your daughter as much attention and things like that. Every time you’d convince yourself out of it but for some reason, the thought wouldn’t go away. Anxiety was a funny thing sometimes when it came to things like that, you thought. Brian was amazing with his other kids. He had spent so long righting his wrongs with them, and you felt he had done so.

But what if the same things happened again? You didn’t want him to be the dad that your daughter only sees once every couple of weeks. Everyone knows the early years are so important to a child’s well being and life in the long run. You looked over at him, as he was asleep on the couch chair thing that the hospital always puts next to the bed for dads when their significant other was in labor. He looked peaceful, unlike yourself. You’d think that after pushing a whole baby out of you that you’d be tired enough to sleep, but apparently not.

You thought you should at least try to shut your eyes. Maybe then you would be able to trick yourself into falling asleep, but you had your doubts. Just because your eyes were closed, didn’t mean that your brain would turn off at the same time.

Not long after you started to trick yourself into falling asleep, you heard a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?” You heard Brian say.

“I saw Mum was asleep, so I thought Dad would want to spend some time with the little one. Still no name yet?

“Not yet. I would love to take her.” Brian responded. Small coos came from her mouth as Brian gently took her from the nurse. Followed by the nurse’s footsteps out of the room and the door shut, you opened your eyes just enough to see Brian lean back against his chair bed with your daughter on his chest.

That was another thing that had been on your mind, trying to figure out her name. Whenever one of you came up with something the other one didn’t like it. You were about to ask Freddie because he had named Tiger Lily for Roger. Freddie seemed to be the best at coming up with names. But Brian insisted. He thought that the two of you should come up with it since it was your first child. You just had a child and there were a million things on your mind, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.

You peeked your eye open again one more time, and you saw Brian kissing your daughter’s forehead. He had tucked her in under his t-shirt and was rubbing her back. You kind of wished that you weren’t pretending to be asleep so that you could get the camera out and take a picture. However the more you looked, the more you could tell it was a special moment.

“I cannot believe we still don’t have a name for you, little one. I thought your brother and sister were small, but you give a new meaning to the word.” He spoke so softly. It would always amaze you how he could sing so loudly on stage, but talk so softly to tiny humans.

“You’re absolutely beautiful, just like your mum. You’ve got my nose though, you poor thing. Your mum will say I have a wonderful nose but I’m not so sure that I agree with her.” You smiled, as he was right. You loved Brian’s nose. She started getting a little fussy, and Brian kissed her again.

“Would you like to hear a song? Yeah how about we sing a song. You’ll grow up hearing lots of it baby girl.”

Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she wonderful?

Isn’t she precious? Less than one minute old

I never thought through love we’d be, making one as lovely as she

But isn’t she lovely, made from love?

He was singing one of your favorite Stevie Wonder songs. He had sung it to her while she was growing inside you, so you knew he would sing it to her once she was born. Your damn hormones were making your eyes water looking at the two of them because it was so sweet. Any worries that you had about Brian before were slowly starting to go out the window. You could already tell that his whole heart and more loved your daughter. Within a day, she was already your whole world.

Isn't she pretty? Truly the angel's best

Boy, I'm so happy, We have been Heaven blessed

I can't believe what God has done

Through us, He's given life to one

But isn't she lovely made from love?

Brian made the song sound like something completely new. His voice had put your daughter to sleep and it was starting to do the same thing to you. You didn’t want to fall asleep yet though, you wanted to watch how precious Brian was being with your daughter. Then it came to you again, you still hadn’t thought of a name for her.

You’d already suggested just about every name you could think of. At least the ones that you’d read in all the baby books you’d been given. She was already looking to be a Daddy’s girl, so maybe Brian would think of something.

You watched the two of them a little bit more. Brian continued to sing and your daughter didn’t make a fuss. His voice was like magic to her. That daddy daughter bond was definitely one to be taken seriously. She had Brian wrapped around her little finger so tightly already.

She had a head full of hair, which she definitely got from Brian. You could see the little curls forming on the top of her head, just like his. She had his nose and his hair, but he’d told you that she had your eyes and your smile (which he had also said were the best features to get). You wanted to hold her, but at the same time it was the sweetest thing getting to observe them. Brian had paused in his singing, and you took the chance to “wake up” from your nap.

“Hello love, who do you have there?” You asked. Brian looked up at you and a warm smile spread across his face.

“Just our little one. She’s the most beautiful little girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on. How did we create something like this?” He kissed her forehead one more time.

“I’ve been asking myself that since she got here. But ya know what?”

“What is it my love?” Brian could barely take his eyes off your daughter.

“She still doesn’t have a name. Maybe we should come up with one?” You suggested, a little smile showing in your tone.

“That might be a good idea, yes.” He laughed a little, and got up out of his chair while holding your daughter tightly in his arms. She was so small his arms almost swallowed her. You moved a little so that Brian could sit down with you on the bed. He maneuvered so that your daughter was laying on the bed in front of you two so that you could both get a good look at her.

“Any ideas Mr. May?” You asked.

“Not a one. How about you Mrs. May?” It always made you feel all warm and glowy inside when he called you that. That would definitely never get old.

“I think I have one.” You smiled. You’d finally thought of it.

“Care to share with the class?” He raised an eyebrow and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I heard you singing to her. She loved the sound of your voice, it was almost like magic. So I think we should call her Melody.” You looked at Brian for his reaction. His eyes lit up like it was Christmas, and you knew that was the one.

“That’s it. That’s her name! Melody May. What a wonderful name for a wonderful little girl made from love.”

But isn’t she lovely? Made from love.

———————

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tazzytypes · 4 years ago

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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 16

Hey guys! So sorry for the delay -- if you follow me on Tumblr, you know that it has been a battle trying to get time to work on this next chapter. Between school and work, the burnout is strong this semester and the senioritis definitely doesn't help. Is it just me or are teachers putting a lot more on our plate than they did last semester? Anyways, here's chapter 17 -- This chapter is shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy it!

Read more on AO3 or find more chapters on the Masterpost!

Stevie’s voice echoed throughout the salon, the woman standing on the same part the brunette witch had once laid. Emily had yet to decide which was more improbable, Stevie Nicks serenading them or the fact that she had gone to hell and back. She stood on her own in the corner of the room in an attempt to ease her nerves. Having something at her back was reassuring, similar to huddling under your sheets as a child. She wasn’t sure, however, which boogeyman she was hiding from.

They all seemed so unfazed. Hell was but a mid-week grocery run. Stevie singing more akin to listening to your sibling practice for an upcoming recital.

Myrtle, Zoe, and Queenie sat poised in the corner of the room, so still that she might have mistaken them for an oil painting. Cordelia and Madison were similarly stationed on the other side of the room, Madison standing by the staircase and Cordelia standing by the door. Misty sat on her own, directly in front of Stevie with tears brimming in her eyes. It wasn’t hard to see that the woman was obsessed. In fact, it quite surprised Emily that Misty had yet to faint.

Stevie Nicks — The White Witch — sang Gypsy. Emily had heard it a thousand times before in her car, in her room, in supermarkets over the intercom, and she was listening to it yet again. Emily was a witch, she had been to hell, she had fought a demon, found out that her dreams were never really just dreams, and now she was watching Stevie Nicks sing. The fever dream continued and the young witch was just along for the ride.

So still was everything that it was hard not to doubt her own mind. Even the warlocks were perched with bated breath, Behold on the stairs and the others above them. Pennypacker was the only one in motion accompanying the siren that was Stevie fucking Nicks. It was impossible not to stare at her. Still, Emily’s eyes couldn’t help but flicker up to the new Supreme. Blue eyes met hers before flicking away. Michael’s expression was firm and stoic. Her friends back home would have called it “resting bitch face,” but she felt there was more to that expression. However, Emily didn’t know him enough to quite define what.

He had been quiet since Cordelia awoke — not that he was particularly chatty to start with. Michael and Ariel were perched above them on the balcony. The Chancellor’s gloating had yet to clear from his face, his eyes flickering to Cordelia again and again. The former Supreme did not indulge him, keeping her eyes firmly set on Misty as if she might disappear. They must have been close, Emily concluded, for her to look like that.

“I knew you for such a short time, but I have missed you forever,” Cordelia had said. It almost made Emily feel bad for doubting the headmistress — almost.

Emily looked around the salon and grabbed a glass of wine. She doubted anyone would comment on her underage drinking. It was the least she deserved after the day’s events.

The distorted voice of a thousand tongues still rang in her ears and her desire for answers burned her with every breath. Grabbing a second glass, she gave into the fire. Her feet were light as she made her way towards the stairs. No one noticed her leave… all except one.

Michael’s gaze was nothing short of sharp, but there was something else to them. She had seen it in hell, reflected a thousand times over in the mirrors that lined the halls of purgatory. It only flashed across his face for but a moment, but she had seen it clear as day.

Michael Langdon was afraid.

Even now, his back to her as she came to the top of the stairs, she could feel that fear. It was anxious and tense, always on alert. The kind that kept you from everyone and everything. It was a fear Emily was all too accustomed to.

“It’s hardly fair,” She spoke, Michael turning only slightly towards her in acknowledgment of her presence. Holding out one of the glasses, Emily came to rest beside him. Stevie continued to sing and the others continued to watch, unaware of their conversation or pretending it wasn’t happening. “This should be for you. Celebrating your success. They usurped your victory with a victory of their own.”

Michael accepted the glass of wine, nursing it in his hand as he leaned on the railing. “I have a feeling this won’t be the last celebration we’ll have. No offense to you witches, but I’d much prefer something with my fellow warlocks.”

He watched her carefully. What had his father meant? A gift? He was supposed to wipe out the witches, not join hands and sing kumbaya. Her eyes focused on him but quickly flitted away back towards the revelry.

Emily shrugged. It was a fair point. She assumed celebrating with strangers wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

“Still,” she said, doing her best to pretend she couldn’t feel his eyes on her, “Enraging, isn’t it… or, at the very least, frustrating.”

“How did Cordelia find you again?” he asked.

Emily pretended not to notice his once-over. Ignoring the question told the young witch all she needed to know. She chuckled and shook her head. “Someone left an anonymous tip. Apparently, there’s a hotline or something… 1-800-is-this-a-witch.”

Michael smiled, a lopsided expression more to signify that he heard her than out of actual enjoyment. Emily’s hazel eyes once again flickered away from his and to the floor before gazing out at Stevie once more. Michael followed her gaze and they rested in a brief, comfortable silence.

“You should be more careful about who you stare at,” She said, so low that the boy-wonder barely heard her speak. Her eyes flickered back to him, the light of the fire accenting a ring of gold around her pupil. “and who sees you doing it. Especially in a crowded cafeteria.”

Zoe had told her about the tip, naturally. It had been one of the many things that ran through the brunette’s brain since she arrived at the academy. A normal person wouldn’t have a good enough sense of witchcraft. Hell, Emily hadn’t even heard about Robichaux before her sudden transfer. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the anonymous tip was also a witch… or a warlock.

Emily would be lying if she said that the look on Michael’s face didn’t amuse her. She hadn’t been sure at first, but now there was no doubt. Names were something she had always been bad with, but faces? Faces she always remembered. Especially when they were pointed out by a friend as, “that boy who keeps looking at you.”

Michael’s lips twisted and his brows furrowed, his eyes immediately going to survey the witches below. They remained unmoving; eyes fixated on the performance. No one's gaze flickered upward. There were no poorly concealed whispering.

“Do they know?” He noted.

“No.”

Michael finally turned to look at her fully. Either she had something up her sleeve or had yet to learn of the safety that came with dishonesty.

“Why?”

Emily thought for a moment. It was a good question. The coven had been nothing but kind, but something in her gut twisted whenever she thought about baring all her thoughts out to them. She wanted to call it intuition, but it wasn’t as if she could ask Cordelia or even Zoe to confirm that particular assumption.

“They’re very opinionated,” She finally decided,” Everyone is. I need to come to my own conclusion.”

“And what is the question you are trying to answer?”

“What game you’re playing,” she said, surprised when the thoughts spilled past her lips. It was the wine, she imagined. “It’s akin to chess, but I can’t quite place the name of it.”

Michael simply smiled, a detached and unemotional expression. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe, but for now… congratulations.”

Once again, her words made him pause. She was the first to congratulate him… even among his fellow warlocks. He quickly spoke to hide his surprise.

“To surviving hell,” he said, holding his glass out for a toast. Emily cautiously clinked her glass against his own, the action just as hesitant as when she had taken his hand.

“Did you know,” She spoke again after taking a sip and trying to hide the grimace the bitter drink provoked, “historians speculate that toasts were once used to check for poison?”

“Last I checked you brought the wine, not me.” Michael said, “unless this is a confession to attempted murder.”

Emily looked at him for a moment as her mind comprehended what had just happened, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish. Michael felt almost proud of the result.

“No, that’s not—” She let out a sigh and pinched her brow, “I ramble when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”

“I just got back from literal hell. My nickname in high-school was Satan, but that was just a joke.”

Michael laughed. A genuine laugh, not just the ones you did to fill the awkward silence. He tried to hide the expression, but his lips couldn’t help but twist into a small smile.

“Think of it this way,” he said, leaning a bit towards her as they continued to talk, “you’re prepared for the day your time comes.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

She took another drink, not bothering to hide her expression of distaste. Emily leaned back on the railing so that she was facing the stairs as if she were expecting someone to sneak upon them. Looking over her shoulder, she stared at her new Supreme and waited for his rebuttal.

“They all have the power to escape their hell,” he said, looking back at the festivities below, “they just choose not to.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, “How do you know that?”

“Call it a gut instinct.”

A silence lapsed between them, both observing the people around them. On this balcony, everything felt so detached. They were but spectators in their own lives, barely retaining control.

“Hell’s personalized, yeah?” Emily finally noted. Michael didn’t look at her, but she could feel his eyes boring into her. He was probably annoyed with her, but for once she couldn’t bring herself to care. “What do think your hell would be?”

“What would yours?”

“I have a few ideas.” The brunette’s lips twisted a bit, a purple hue now forming on them from the wine. “The never-ending hall was close.”

“What was that about, anyway?” Michael found himself asking before he could think. “You said it was purgatory.”

She could only sigh, her eyes bugging a bit as she tried to think. How crazy was crazy? She didn’t even have a basis for comparison anymore. Better yet, how did she even begin to answer?

“I had a dream once. There was a never-ending hall filled with beings that hadn’t been human for so long that they now looked more like shadows. I had to walk down that hall with a basket of… something.” Emily explained. The glassy fog seemed to appear for a moment in her eyes, but she quickly shook it away. “I’d rather dissect a frog for eternity.”

“You have a surprising lack of sympathy for a witch.”

“I don’t know whether I should take that as an insult or a compliment.”

Michael laughed and shook his head. Emily mirrored his expression for a moment, but it quickly fell as her eyes settled on the stairwell. She must have only been in that hellish void for a moment, but it felt like she had been writhing in it for eternity — screaming bloody murder for someone to save her. The shadows of this place taunted her, a predator that could consume her at any moment. Sleep was not going to come easy that night.

“Pain is relative and so seems is hell,” She said, voice detached and distant once more. The change made Michael perk up, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “She was in pain… I will be in pain. I am simply jealous of the outlet in which that pain comes in.”

“Envy is surprising as well.”

Emily smiled, wry and humorless. “What can I say? We can’t all be perfect.”

Michael didn’t respond to that, his eyes narrowing onto movement below them. He couldn’t see Cordelia from this position, but he could see Madison. The witch looked back with a confused expression as if someone had thrown something at her back. Her eyes flickered back to Stevie for a moment before she took a few steps back and disappeared out of his view.

Emily followed his gaze, seeing the tail end of Madison disappearing below them. “What do you think they’re plotting?”

“You don’t trust your own kind,” Michael said. A statement. Not a question. Emily simply shrugged.

“I’ve known this world for two months,” She said, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” She agreed with a crooked grin, “Though I suppose not leaving me there in hell earned you a few points in the right direction.”

“Witches zero, warlocks one.”

Emily made a face, lips curling and head cocking in contemplation.

“You’re about an even tie at this point.” She said.

Once again, the silence consumed them. They had gotten used to it, she presumed. Emily wondered how time worked in hell - things had certainly felt like an eternity. It was enough time to make her feel different, somehow. Her eyes flickered to Michael as he stared into the distance. That was a better question for Cordelia, she presumed.

With a sigh she turned back towards Stevie, allowing herself to be serenaded once more. The song came to an end and they watched as Misty shot up and began clapping. Stevie smiled at her and held out a hand which the woman gratefully took, practically skipping towards the singer.

“You think she’d let me take a photo with her?” Emily asked. Michael gave her a befuddled look, brows knitted and nose scrunching. She didn’t notice the look at first, too focused on the scene below them. When she turned, her face immediately mirrored the boy-wonder’s.

“It’s Stevie fucking Nicks,” she said, tone defensive, “My mom was a huge fan of hers.”

Michael simply rolled her eyes and Emily scoff at his ignorance. Bringing her glass to her lips, she tilted her head back and downed the rest of it. She grimaced and shook her head before placing the glass on a nearby table.

“Come on,” she said, nudging his arm a bit and making her way towards the stairs, “you should get one, too. Hang it in your office when you become Supreme.”

Michael turned around to look at her. “You really have no idea of how things work, do you?”

“A month ago, magic was a distant dream of childhood,” Emily spoke, giving him a pointed look and gesturing to the room around her, “I’m in the midst of a train wreck which is my reality.”

That was enough to make Michael chuckle.

“You’re quite the poet.”

Emily could only laugh at that, rolling her eyes for good measure, “Whatever you say, Mr. Supreme.”

The girl’s change of personality was enough to give one whiplash. She had been so timid before they performed Descensum, barely able to meet his eye and cautious as a mouse. Then again, the drinking probably had something to do with it. Michael wondered what she saw in those few moments she had been alone in hell.

Emily waited expectantly. With a sigh, Michael gave in to her demands. Behold looked to them as they descended the stairs. He had seen the brunette pass him on the way up. The suspicion he had before was still evident in the way he looked at her, but now it was accompanied by a hint of surprise. Witches and Warlocks were natural enemies, after all.

Misty’s back was to them as they approached, the only thing visible of the woman being her curly hair and flowery shawl. She and Stevie seemed to be in a serious conversation. Everyone seemed to be in serious conversation, talking to one another in hushed whispers.

Michael followed after Emily, hands behind his back. He regarded the room, eyes scanning over the occupants as their eyes flickered towards him. It would be harder to sneak around now given his new position. He’d have to adapt. Sparing a look back towards the balcony, he found Cordelia settled into her corner of the room once more. Madison was nowhere to be seen. Whatever conversation they had concluded. His expression soured ever slightly. Emily must have been a diversion.

“Excuse me,” the brunette witch spoke. Stevie Nick’s presence seemed to have sobered her somewhat, timid nature returning. Michael turned his gaze back towards her, feeling the eyes upon them. “I don’t mean to be rude, but could we get a picture with you? My mother is a huge fan — practically grew up with your songs as lullabies.”

Misty was beaming, whatever conversation she had with the White Witch obviously going well. She bit her lip as Emily came to stop beside her as if it was the only way to keep herself from spilling every last detail.

“Anything for a fellow witch,” Stevie said happily. Emily reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Misty happily took it from her as Michel awkwardly stood to the side. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced to his shoes then back up to the balcony. Ariel smiled at him and rose his glass. Michael offered a strained smile in turn.

His attention was pulled away by movement out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, he found Misty waving him over.

“Your turn, Mr. Supreme!”

Michael could only sigh at the nickname but still walked towards Stevie with a strained smile. He was stiff next to the woman, something that seemed to amuse Emily.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Stevie said as Misty directed them into place, her eyes focused on the camera, “Descensum is a dangerous spell. The last time I visited this coven, it didn’t end well.”

Misty turned to Emily as she took the photo, showing the results to the brunette who smiled and thanked the woman. Michael pulled away from Stevie, the forced smile quickly leaving his face and into something more amicable. Misty showed him his pictures and he just offered a smile and nod before the woman handed the phone back to Emily.

“Where are my manners,” Misty said with an awkward chuckle, motioning to Stevie as she realized the awkward silence building up, “This is Stevie, of course. And Stevie this is—”

Misty paused for a second as she looked to Emily, “Well I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Emily,” The brunette introduced, holding out a hand to Stevie, “I’m new.”

The musician smiled and took Emily’s hand.

“You have a musician’s fingers,” Stevie noted.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Can’t lie to me, child. Not only am I familiar with these things, I’m a witch as well. What do you play?”

“Only a few things,” Emily admitted, pulling her hands away and allowing them to settle at her side.

“What was your first?”

“Violin,” she said, “tried piano, but couldn’t quite catch on.”

“You’ve certainly fiddled with the devil today,” Stevie noted, turning to smile briefly at her biggest fan, “You were one of the ones who saved our Misty, weren’t you?”

Emily glanced towards the boy-wonder before returning to the woman, “Actually, I was just an unintended side-effect. Michael did all of the work.”

The brunette stood back towards the man as if to guide Stevie’s eyes, biting her lips and looking to him in apology. His eyes flickered from Emily to the other two women, noting their hesitation.

“In that case,” Stevie said, ignoring the way Misty looked between herself and the new Supreme, “Thank you very much. You have done a great deed for this coven. Misty is one of the most powerful witches I know.”

Her tone was cool and icy. Emily couldn’t help watch the two as the tension was drawn between them. It was as if the witches knew something she didn’t. It was infuriating.

“The pleasure is mine,” Michael said, articulate and direct as if he were giving a speech instead of a conversation. The whole interaction felt like a bravado, an act. “Such is the job of the Supreme.”

Emily was pulled away from the conversation as Misty linked their arms together. “So, you’re a fan of Stevie?”

The brunette allowed herself to be distracted, “Not as avid as you — or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh she’s—” Misty said. Her eyes darted once more to Stevie, then Michael, then back to Emily. She squeezed the brunette’s arm for emphasis. “you know how some songs just make you feel like dancin’? That’s Stevie for me.”

Another glance was given towards Michael, Misty’s ever-present smile faltering for just a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked.

“I’ll be better once I see the sun,” Misty said, pulling her shawl tighter around her, “Anything’s better than this damn candlelight.”

“If I stay down here any longer, I may just go blind,” Emily agreed, doing her best to be reassuring. She tapped the rim of her glasses with her free hand. “Not that my sight was great to begin with.”

Misty smiled at her and squeezed her arm once more.

“So where did Miss Cordelia find you?”

“Georgia.”

“You’re used to the humidity, then.”

Emily nodded, “Too familiar. You from Louisiana?”

“Born and raised,” Misty sang, “Spent most of my life living off the grid in the swamp.”

“Is it more peaceful?”

Misty smiled awkwardly and gave a nod towards Michael and Stevie. The pair were still talking, Stevie leaning back ever slightly and Michael standing with his hands behind his back.

“Certainly has less politics,” The swamp-witch said, earning a small smile from Emily. The two lapsed into silence. Emily was quickly overwhelmed by the sounds around her, head turning a bit to break free of the crackling fire and roar of whispers in every corner of the room.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Misty spoke, pulling Emily from the chaos, “What was your hell like? I’m assumin’ it's different from everyone. I mean, there was a boy in my chemistry class that seemed to enjoy… well, you know.”

“Do they have dissections in chemistry?”

“He was an avid learner.” Misty said, “or, at least, that’s what his parents called it.”

If the horror of childbirth wasn’t enough to dissuade Emily from having kids, Misty’s comment was enough for her to swear them off entirely.

“It’s all a blur, honestly,” she said, returning to Misty’s question, “All I remember is a door by the River Styx then—”

“Styx?” Misty asked, nose crinkling and brows knitting. Emily opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a boisterous voice from above.

“I believe this would be a good time to make a toast,” Ariel spoke from above them, clearly enjoying the control he had over the room, “In celebration of old friends and new…”

Emily found her mind wandering as the man spoke. Misty hadn’t known what she spoke of. Was it because of descensum? No, it couldn’t be. From the bits and pieces she had been able to collect from her fellow witches, Misty had lost her life performing the same task they did.

Hazel eyes flickered back to Michael only to find him staring at her in turn. Emily didn’t know how to feel about that look in her eyes. She had seen fear, but that was the most dangerous expression a person could wear. It meant they would do anything to get themselves out of a corner. Michael was a snake sizing her up. Was she a threat or his next meal?

Madison awoke in the night to muttering. In all honesty, she hadn’t had the chance to fall asleep in the first place. While she wore the title of “cold bitch” with pride, the fact that Cordelia looked to her for such a monumental task was suspicious at best. Well, she was a powerful witch — powerful enough for Fiona to think she was supreme.

Her hand went to her neck instinctively. The swamp-bitch’s shit was enough to remove all signs of trauma, but some days Madison swore the gaping wound was still there. Being strangled to death the second time probably didn’t help the fact. Neck-related trauma seemed to be her shit.

With a sigh, Madison tossed and turned, throwing her sleep mask off the side of the bed. This place was darker than fucking night, anyways.

She had just settled back to sleep when the muttering came again.

“Can you can it, Persephone?” Madison snapped, “Some of us want some fucking beauty sleep.”

“Finis venit,” she heard again, somewhat slurred and groggy, “Ante infinitium.”

“Look, Satan,” Madison snipped once more, pulling her phone off the bedside table and turning on the flashlight, “Go the fuck to sleep before I shove my foot up your—”

Madison wasn’t scared by much. She had been to hell where she worked in customer service and given a hand-job to Harvey Weinstein. However, when the light landed upon her temporary roommate, she was, at the very least, startled.

Emily was almost going full exorcist. Sitting straight up from the blankets in which she had made her bed, her eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

“Fenis venit,” she said again, a drunken-like slurring to her voice, “Ante infinitium.”

Then she fell back and resumed snoring.

“Fucking freak,” Madison scoffed, turning off the light and pulling the covers up.

She should have roomed with Zoe.

“How’d you sleep?” Zoe asked Emily as they all stood outside the academy. Two bodyguards packed their things into the car and Emily could only shift from foot to foot as she watched them.

The younger witch’s eyes flickered between the bodyguards and her mentor. Why did they need bodyguards, anyways? “Fine.”

“With Madison?” Queenie said, letting out an incredulous laugh on Emily’s left, “yeah right. She had you sleep on the floor, didn’t she?”

Emily’s eyes flickered to the ground and her lips pursed together.

“… Maybe.”

“Girl, you went to fucking hell, but you’re going to let a blonde bimbo push you around?”

“It kind of worked out,” Emily said, “She snores.”

Madison, only a few feet away from the trio, scoffed loudly and rolled her eyes. Queenie could feel the starlet’s eyes boring into her back.

“How loud?”

Emily’s eyes flickered back to Madison whose nostrils were flaring as she glowered. She expected the look to silence the girl.

“Like a bear.”

Queenie laughed and even Zoe couldn’t help but snort. Madison crossed her arms and huffed, stomping her heel into the ground in protest. She looked like that dog in 101 Dalmatians — the one in the beginning with its snout in the air pompously.

“At least you don’t have to share a room with her,” Zoe said, leaning in close but not bothering to lower her voice, “Did the earplugs help?”

“Very.”

“Whatever,” Madison snapped, “at least I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“And?” Emily said, finally turning to look at the woman, “that’s quiet… and amusing, if you think about it.”

Madison’s eyes narrowed and she took a few steps towards her. Emily sighed as she recognized the signs of a square-up, the woman coming until she was barely a foot away from the brunette.

“You know they have a saying about bears and sticks,” Madison said.

Zoe took a step towards the two, “C’mon Madison. Can’t you just chill for like five seconds?”

“That you should wave one around at a black bear, but not a brown bear?” Emily asked, crossing her arms and ignoring Zoe entirely, “Really important distinction, I’ve heard.”

Madison frowned and narrowed her eyes. The next thing Emily knew, the end of her skirt was on fire.

“What the hell, Madison!” Zoe yelled, quickly moving to perform a counter-spell. However, as soon as she began to cast it, the fire was gone. Emily hadn’t moved an inch, her eyes still firmly set on Madison. She didn’t… she couldn’t… could she?

“Consider it a lesson,” Madison said, crossing her arms and smiling smugly.

“In what,” Zoe exclaimed, “bitch-craft?”

Myrtle’s voice silenced any further retorts, coming to stand with the group with Cordelia at her side. “Can we wait to start the petty squabbles once we get out of this damnable place?”

“Whatever,” Madison said, clipping Emily’s shoulder as she pushed her way towards the car, “I call shotgun.”

Cordelia spared a glance at the other three witches and they followed Madison’s lead obediently. Zoe squeezed Emily’s shoulder as she passed, offering a reassuring smile.

“How are you feeling?” Cordelia asked once the women were out of earshot.

Emily didn’t have a snappy response for that one.

“Different,” she finally decided after a few moments of consideration.

Cordelia patted her cheek. Her eyes were sad as if she knew what the girl had gone through. Emily didn’t like when people presumed things like that.

“The pain will fade.”

“It’s not the pain I worry about.”

“Then what is?” Cordelia asked, brows furrowing.

“The fact that everything made sense there.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a shout from the car.

“Come on, Delia,” Myrtle called, “The plane takes off in two hours.”

Smiling and nodding, Cordelia squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more later.”

The brunette had barely a moment to think before she felt a weight over her shoulder. Jumping a bit, she turned to find that Misty had swung an arm around her. The girl was all grins, constantly looking up to the sky and spinning around as if she were dancing from the second they stepped outside.

“Don’t worry too much about Madison,” She said as the two sauntered towards the car, “She’s always mean.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Wonder what her hell was.”

“Retail,” Emily said, “or so she said. Kind of generic, don’t you think? Then again, generic would probably be an insult to her. Irony, I guess.”

Misty laughed, “I like you. You’re funny.”

The ride to the airport was eventful. While all the girls were tired and ready to go home, a playfulness emerged from their delirium. Cordelia sat near the front of the car, talking in hushed whispers to Myrtle as the rest of them held an avid debate in the backseats. She would glance back at her girls now and again via the rear-view mirror.

“You should really get that checked out,” Emily said, turning back to the starlet, “Snoring is usually a sign of breathing problems.”

Stationed at the center of the car, the newest addition to her family seemed to be blooming. Cordelia had never heard the girl speak so much. She had worried, naturally, the effects hell would have on the girl's psyche. However, her instincts had been right. Giving the girl something to conquer had done Emily some good and revealed more of the magic in her bones.

Madison huffed. “I don’t snore.”

“Like sleep apnea or something?” Zoe asked, clearly reveling in any conversation that pissed off her former roommate.

“Kind of,” Emily said, “when you snore it's because air can’t get through your air passages properly and causes the surrounding tissue to vibrate… or floppy airways.”

“Hey, Madison,” Queenie shouted between chuckles, looking back to the tiny back seat the starlet had been shoved into, “You got floppy airways!”

“At least I don’t have floppy skin.” Madison snapped before grumbling, “Will probably live longer, too.”

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Actually, the belief that weight is correlated with health is inaccurate,” Emily said, “Correlation does not equal causation. Also, haven’t you died three times already?”

“Here’s a question for you,” Madison said, “Do you know how to mind your business?”

“Depends — Do you know how to not be a bitch?”

Queenie let out a barking laugh. Misty giggled a bit as well, leaning into Emily with a smile.

“Almost always,” She whispered to the brunette.

“What did you say, swamp rat?” Madison demanded, taking off her sunglasses just to glower at the pair. She much preferred it when Emily was nearly mute.

“Girls,” Cordelia finally sang, feeling a headache coming on, “can we please save the bickering for when we get back to the academy?”

“Sorry, Miss Cordelia,” Misty quickly apologized, shrinking in her seat.

Madison was anything but apologetic. “Emily started it!”

“Like hell I did!”

“Girls!” Cordelia exclaimed, the whole car falling into a tense silence. If not for the gentle rumble of the engine, one could hear a pin drop. The silence was quickly interrupted by a nearby car slamming into their horn.

“Still quieter than Madison’s snoring,” Emily muttered quietly, a chuckle leaving Cordelia despite herself. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Cordelia watched as Misty leaned into the brunette and whispered something in her ear. Emily smiled and whispered something back, Madison loudly scoffing in response.

She made the right choice, letting Emily into the academy. Still, something the girl had said was stuck on repeat in her head, “…everything made sense there.” Misty had said the girl had used powers in hell. Emily had told the headmistress of her dreams, but Cordelia had also been to hell. It was no dream, not in the slightest. It was real as anything.

Cordelia’s eyes flickered to the back seat, watching her girls. She couldn’t help but wonder if Michael was the one truly rising or if fate had a different future in mind.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon

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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 4 years ago

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Winterhawk Bingo (round 2!) Masterpost

I may not have gotten a bingo, but I had a blast writing all these fics! Better luck next round, maybe I'll get a bullseye. 😉

All fills are fics, hope you enjoy!

(all the fun stuff below the cut)

Knock Knock

Square: I4 - protective Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 6970

Rating: E

Summary: “Barton,” Bucky says softly, resting a hand on his forearm. He pointedly does not think about the feeling in his palm, the feeling of Barton’s skin against his own. “Barton,” he says again, a little louder this time. Eyelashes flutter, and blue eyes try to focus on Bucky, who nods in response. “Good. You’re awake.”

That’s not what he wants to say, or do. He wants to smile, he wants to pull Clint close and hold him and kiss those sleep-heavy eyelids. He wants to say, “Good morning, sunshine,” or something equally ridiculous, because Clint makes him feel ridiculous.

Barton. Barton, not Clint. Pull yourself together, Barnes.

In which Bucky and an injured Clint have to hide out in a safehouse, where Bucky would much rather be kissing an injured Clint than tending to his wounds.

So of course, in true logical fashion, Bucky decides that Clint needs a bath.

Next Time

Square: G4 - massage

Word Count: 1741

Rating: T

Warnings: implied self-harm/self-neglect, nightmares

Summary: Clint's nightmares often drive him to the range in the middle of the night, where he pushes his body harder than he should to try to get rid of the images in his brain. When Bucky finds him there, both of them get rather more than they're expecting.

Unshackled

Square: G1 - Bucky’s trigger words (chapter 7)

Word Count: 60,177 (wip)

Rating: E

Summary: When Clint wakes up with a concussion and no memory of how he got it, he figures things are bad.

When he realizes he's also shackled to the wall of the tiny room he's in, he figures things are really bad.

But when he realizes the Winter Soldier is shackled to the opposite wall?

Clint figures his bad day turned full-on disaster, and he's got no idea how he's gonna get out.

This is the story of an Archer and a Soldier. An Avenger and a brainwashed assassin. At the heart of it, two men who are bound in more ways than they know, both by heavy shackles and, eventually, to each other.

A Symphony of Souls

Square: N1 - soulmate au

Word Count: 3149

Rating: T

Warnings: brief mention of unrequited bucky/steve during the teenage years

Summary: “Maybe we just don’t have soulmates,” Stevie says. He hasn’t heard anything either. “Don’t start with me. It happens sometimes,” he says, all defensive, when Bucky shoots him a look.

“Yeah, it happens sometimes,” Bucky concedes. “But it’s very rare. What are the odds that the two of us, best friends since forever, both end up without soulmates?”

Stevie shrugs.

In a world where when one soulmate listens to music the other hears it their head, Bucky's never heard a single note. Saddened, sure he's one of the few born without a soulmate, he goes off to Europe to fight.

This is the story of his journey through time, from silence to sounds to a symphony.

Both of You Look Perfect for Both of Us

Square: N1 - free space (chapter 1), O5 - big dick Clint Barton

Word Count: 10,382

Rating: E

Pairings: established Winterhawk, established Symbrock, eventual wintersymbrockhawk

Summary: When the Avengers' resident geniuses come up with a way for the two supersoldiers to actually get drunk, Clint volunteers to chaperone them (and Steve's boyfriend Sam) at the bar for an evening. He gets a lot more than he bargained for, what with Steve serenading Sam and Bucky turning into a hopeless flirt with the first disaster blond who walks into the place.

Not that Clint exactly minds; watching Bucky flirt with Eddie Brock is almost perfect.

If only he could flirt with Eddie too.

These Dreams Just Won’t Disappear (Please Say You’ll Stay)

Square: I3 - dreamsharing

Word Count: 5311

Rating: T

Warnings: nightmares, mentions of past abuse

Summary: Clint can't sleep. He's been having nightmares as long as he can remember, and he's getting, ahem, tired, of not getting any rest.

He knows it's dangerous, but he calls on the Lord of the Dreamworld for help.

He never thought the Dream Lord would look like a regular guy, with longish brown hair and bright blue eyes.

And who ever heard of a god named Bucky?

Four Dorks, Two Bikes, One Beautiful Night written with @vexbatch

Square: I5 - wearing each other’s merch

Word Count: 5918

Rating: T

Pairings: established Winterhawk, established Symbrock, eventual wintersymbrockhawk

Summary: It’s been a few weeks since Clint and Bucky have seen Eddie and Venom, but they’re finally back in NYC and want to take Clint and Bucky out on a cute date.

They mostly keep their hands to themselves.

Mostly.

Come Apart, Fall Together written with @vexbatch

Square: O1 - mutual pining (chapter 1)

Word Count: 5454 (wip)

Rating: E (for later chapters)

Pairings: established winterhawk, established symbrock, eventual wintersymbrockhawk

Warnings: depressive and dark thoughts in chapter two

Summary: It's been about a week since Clint and Bucky had their big date with Eddie and Venom. Eddie said he'd call...

but they haven't heard a thing.

Do they call? Do they text? Or do they just sit and make life more and more difficult for each other–and for everyone else around them?

Lucky for them, Clint and Bucky have good friends–and each other–to figure out what to do. And on the other side of things, Eddie–going through a tough time of his own–has Venom to pull him through.

They may have fallen apart, but in the end they'll crash back together, inevitable as the tides, and coming together has never felt so hot.

#lirael writes #whbmasterpostr2 #winterhawk #wintersymbrockhawk #look at all the pretties!!

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dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade · 6 years ago

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Heartbreaker - Teaser 5

A/N: Hey, hello, I wanted to let you know that Part 5 is the last part of this series. However, I have also written something like an Epilogue, so if you would be interested in reading that, announce me so I will know if I should post it or not.

Heartbreaker Masterpost // Fanfiction Masterpost

“I don’t know,” Jake whispered angrily to Josh while pinching the bridge of his nose, glancing at you every few moments as if to check that you hadn’t vanished from between the sheets.

“But what do you think that happened? That couldn’t have been the drinking, drinking doesn’t do that,” Josh spoke louder than his twin. His voice made you open your eyes slowly and you could see the blurry shapes of Jake and Josh.

Josh was leaning in one of the armchairs, while Jake was standing up, next to him. You wanted to sit up and ask them what were they talking about, but your whole body felt tired and heavy, almost like a magnet that was attracted by the bed.

You stepped in the shower and turned the water on, to the max, and turned it to cold. Cold showers always helped you think things through somehow.

As you washed your face and your hair, you felt inside yourself a kind of familiar anger and that feeling brought back to you, finally, the last memory of the series of events – asking Jake to stay the night with you and you starting crying.

That day had been the last show of Greta Van Fleet in Los Angeles. Even though you had spent there only four days, it felt like months. Time there seemed to have not been linear. Everything that had happened since you arrived there seemed to be in a past long gone.

You remembered Jake giving you a ride in the convertible Cadillac on Sunset Boulevard, the kiss, the lunch by the ocean, the first night together, the dance, everything. You remembered all the funny moments you shared with the boys, all the laughs and board games; Josh’s habit of finding a high spot to start singing and Danny teasing his height; Sammy asking you for fashion advice and teaching him how to tie his tie. All of these had happened in only four day and you couldn’t believe it.

After Los Angeles, the boys had two more states to play – Oregon and Washington, and that meant only one week.

The thought that in one week all would be over wrecked your heart. None of you wanted to bring it up; it was like an unspoken agreement to enjoy the time that was left, so you did.

Tags: @myownparadise96, @jeordinevankiszka, @littlegeekwonder, @gretavanyeeeeet , @umbriellethenightfall, @songbirdkisses, @freeeshavacadoo, @sweet-dreams-on-butterfly-wings, @stevie-baby, @satans-helper, @bigthighsandstupidguys, @leterscam, @valleyd0ll, @mountainofthesunn, @retrodrummers, @itsametaphorbriansblog, @brightonfleet, @safarimama

#greta van fleet #gvf #greta van fleet fanfiction #gvf fic #gvf fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #danny wagner #sam kiszka #heartbreaker #teaser 5 #last part #1960s #60s #fanfiction #writing #series

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unfolded73 · 6 years ago

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Transformative (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

A Stevie Budd character study: she navigates being David's Best Person at the wedding reception. This fic explores an idea I've been playing with that Stevie is aro. Although this is set at David and Patrick's wedding, they exist mostly in the background of this story.

This is dedicated to my fandom BFF, @j-philly-b. After eleven years of dragging each other from one fandom to another, I literally don't know what I would do without you in my life.

Thanks to @startswithhope aka @language-of-love for giving this a quick beta read.

Rated Teen, 3260 words. (ao3) / (schitt’s fic masterpost)

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

Stevie is making a concerted effort not to drink too much at the wedding reception, and not only because she tends to try to make out with people when she gets boozy. There is also the very real worry that the tears she managed to keep from spilling over during the ceremony, while David and Patrick said their vows, will overflow if she gets drunk.

And no, before anyone asks, it’s not because she’s still hung up on David, God. She got over that not too long after she told him she had, her face-saving lie becoming retroactively true. It’s just emotional, seeing her closest friends making each other so happy. Especially when she thinks back to what David was like when he first got to Schitt’s Creek, to see him so euphoric now is… it’s a lot. It makes her emotional, and Stevie is not a fan of being emotional in front of people. She’s not a fan of doing much of anything in front of people, but between the musical last year and being David’s best person today, she’s been forced to get used to it.

Which reminds her, she has to give a fucking toast in a little while.

Well, maybe one more drink won’t hurt. For courage.

She makes her way over to the bar and orders herself a glass of white wine (as long as she stays away from the hard stuff, she’ll be fine). When she thanks the bartender and steps away, she almost collides with a guy in a charcoal suit holding a bottle of beer.

“Oh! Sorry,” Stevie says.

“No worries. It’s Stevie, right?” the guy says, reaching out with his free hand to shake hers.

“Yeah.” She’s probably supposed to ask his name, but she drops his hand and waits for him to volunteer it if he wants to.

“I’m Tim. One of Patrick’s cousins.”

Stevie eyes him. She met several cousins at the rehearsal dinner, but she can’t remember if this was one of them. “He has a lot of cousins.”

Tim laughs. “Yeah. I’m not even sure how many of us there are.”

There’s a lull that Stevie doesn’t know how to fill. “Okay, well--” She starts to step away, back toward her seat at the head table.

“So you’re David’s closest friend, I take it? Since you were his best…”

“‘Best Person’ is what we went with.”

“Not that you’re full of yourself or anything,” he says with a grin.

Stevie doesn’t feel like doing this. She doesn’t feel like bantering with a guy (even a reasonably good-looking one like Tim) at a wedding. She doesn’t feel like at some point making the decision between going to bed with this guy and not. She doesn’t feel like doing the walk of shame from his hotel room (she assumes hotel; she’s pretty sure he’s not one of the wedding guests staying at her motel) and figuring out how to get back home without bumming a ride from her one night stand. She’s so… tired of all of it.

“It’s just, when I heard Patrick was engaged to this guy, I googled him, and…” He shrugs. “I mean it’s not that I don’t trust Patrick’s judgment, but…” He seems to be leaving a blank for her to fill in. What, does he expect her to agree with him? Yeah, dude-I-just-met, my best friend is a shallow slut who’s going to break your cousin’s heart, you got it out of me!

Stevie blinks at him and pastes on a fake smile. “But what?”

“No, I mean, nothing,” he flounders.

Another similar-looking guy comes up and claps Tim on the back. “Whatever he’s saying, ignore him; he’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, that was starting to become clear.” She does recognize this one from the rehearsal dinner. Another cousin from Patrick’s never-ending supply of cousins, one who actually had some kind of ushering responsibility, if she remembers correctly.

“Tim, I think I saw some kids loitering around your car,” the new cousin says. “You might want to go check.”

Tim gets a panicked look on his face and bolts away.

“Thanks,” Stevie says. “Sorry, I know we met last night but I can’t remember your name.”

“It’s Dennis. And don’t worry about it, no one deserves to have to make conversation with Tim for any length of time.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a real prince.”

Dennis winces. “He didn’t say anything homophobic, did he? Because I told him--”

“No, nothing like that. Just… David-phobic, I guess.”

“Aren’t you David’s closest friend?” he says with an eye roll. “Sorry, I called Tim an asshole when clearly I should have said ‘stupid asshole’.”

Stevie laughs at that.

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, Patty’s always had a good head on his shoulders. Okay, yeah, I guess he took a while to figure out , you know… what he needed in a partner,” he says, gesturing over to the dance floor. Patrick is currently laughing at something David is saying and attempting to restrain him from leaving to sit down when the DJ starts to play ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca.’ “But he’s clearly figured it out now. So David’s okay in my book, because he’s what makes Patty happy.”

Stevie bites her lip about ‘Patty’. She’s not going to make fun of Patrick about the nickname today, oh no. She’s going to save it until after they get back from their honeymoon, and then she’s going to pick her moment and tease him mercilessly. She might call him Patty for an entire week if she doesn’t get bored with it.

“Patrick’s what makes David happy too,” she says, surprised that something so sentimental would come out of her mouth to a near-stranger. “Okay, I gotta…” she says, gesturing back to the head table before escaping from Dennis. She doesn’t gotta anything at the moment, really, but the escape feels necessary.

Necessary but short-lived, because Stevie can barely take another sip of her wine before Alexis is dragging her out on the dance floor. The song is one of David’s favorite Mariah ballads, and Alexis pulls Stevie into a slow dance like they’re a high school couple at prom, her bony arms slung over Stevie’s shoulders. The fact that, as part of the wedding party, they are wearing matching dresses makes the tableau look even weirder, or so Stevie assumes. Still, she puts her hands on Alexis’ tiny waist and dutifully sways to the music.

“You couldn’t dance with Ted to this?”

Alexis huffs. “Ted is doing shots with Ronnie and Jocelyn.”

“Oh my God, they are going to drink him so far under the table--”

“I know,” she says with an eye roll. “He’s such a lightweight.”

“Alexis… David is married,” Stevie says, because even though she’s been along with him and Patrick for the entire ride, the fact that David Rose is a married man… it’s like learning that a starfish has mastered calculus.

“Right?” Alexis says. “I literally never thought this day would come. Like, ever.” Then Alexis’ eyes wander the room and a grin unfurls on her face. “That guy you were talking to earlier is watching us. I think he might be into you.”

Stevie starts to turn, but Alexis quickly says, “Don’t look. The cute usher. Dennis, I think?”

“Oh. Yeah. He’s probably looking at you, Alexis.”

Alexis simpers. “I get why you would think that, but I’m pretty sure it’s you this time.” She wiggles her body, and Stevie feels the undulations of Alexis’ hips under her hands. “Stevie’s gonna get some!”

“No, I’m not gonna fuck one of Patrick’s cousins, but thanks for your well-wishes.”

“You could, though.”

Stevie sighs. “I know that given my past and my low standards--”

“Like David,” Alexis says with a giggle.

“--that this might come as a shock, but the thought of hooking up with someone at this wedding, even a cute boy, is a painfully dull idea. I think I’m past that.”

Alexis gives her a serious look. “You don’t want to do meaningless sex anymore, I totally get that.” She gives another wiggle of her hips like she’s a happy puppy. “So what we need to do is, we need to find your soulmate.”

Stevie drops her chin to her chest. “No, that’s not…” She sighs, and then looks back at Alexis. “That’s what everyone always says. ‘You haven’t met the right person yet’ or ‘Let me fix you up with my friend’ or ‘You just need to put yourself out there.’ But what if I’m… happy like this? Running the motel, helping Mr. Rose plan the Elmdale expansion, hanging out with my friends, or just being by myself in my apartment? What if I’ve only been looking for a romantic relationship because everyone tells me I’m supposed to, and not because I’ve ever actually wanted one?”

Alexis looks pensively at her, taking all of that in.

After Emir, Stevie spent a lot of time thinking about her feelings -- more time than she ever wanted to spend thinking about her feelings. She’d liked Emir a lot and the sex had been fantastic, but she realized that a lot of her heartbreak when he made it clear he didn’t want anything more than an occasional hook-up was because of what she thought it said about her. That she was provincial and small and worthless. Even her feelings for David, when she’d really interrogated them after he stole Roland’s truck and ran away, were rooted in insecurity about herself. David Rose was the very definition of experienced and worldly, and the idea that he might care even a tiny bit less about her than she cared about him had been excruciating. It wasn’t that she loved David, at least not that way. It was that she couldn’t bear to watch him inevitably lose interest in her as a person. She’d wanted so much to keep David in her life. The sex was incidental to that, except for its inherent power, in her experience, to keep men interested.

Alexis is giving Stevie a soft smile, one that would have been completely foreign on her face a few years ago. “If you’re happy, babe, then that’s all that matters.”

The Mariah ballad is reaching its vocally excessive climax, and Stevie notices the DJ signaling her. “I guess it’s time for me to do this stupid toast now.” Her stomach flutters with nerves. Despite her foray into the world of theater, she feels a little like she’s headed to her own execution.

Walking over, she takes the microphone as someone presses a champagne glass into her hand. The song fades out, and the sound of her throat-clearing comes blaring out of the speakers. There’s some glass-clinking from someone, and then everyone quiets down. Stevie pauses, looking out over the crowd. She sees Patrick and David standing side-by-side, arms around each other, smiling at her.

“Hi, everybody. I guess it’s my job to give a toast to the grooms, so, uh, here goes.” Stevie flinches at the whine of feedback on the first few words and adjusts the position of the mic in front of her face.

“I remember the first time that Patrick walked into the store while I was there, probably helping David do something that he was too lazy to do on his own.” There is a smattering of laughter from the assembly, and it makes her feel a little bit better. “It didn’t take more than a few minutes of watching them talking to each other, kidding around and trying to one-up each other, that I knew there was some kind of spark there. Apparently I was the only one who knew, though, because David invited me to come on their first date with them.” More laughter. “I mean, they did figure it out eventually, based on the fact that I caught Patrick with a hickey on his neck at the store a couple of weeks later. And the fact that they were desperate to fool around together in my apartment when they couldn’t find privacy anywhere else.” Patrick puts his face in his hands at that, shaking his head. Stevie thinks fleetingly that she should feel bad saying all that in front of the parents of the grooms, but she very much does not. “I mean, when you think about it, there’s no way David and Patrick would even be together now if it wasn’t for me. It’s a favor they may never be able to repay, but I’ll take cash if you guys want to try it.”

That gets her a really big laugh, and Stevie beams.

“My point is, I’ve had a front row seat to all these milestones between these two, and…” She pauses and swallows on a dry mouth. She once told David she was incapable of sincerity, but she is going to attempt it now. “I’ve heard that love can be transformative, and I always thought that was bullshit. But watching Patrick and David, the way their differences complement each other, the way they support each other through good times and bad times, the way they love each other…” Her voice breaks on that; Stevie struggles to hold it together but she is rapidly losing her battle with tears. “I guess it might be true. So anyway, I’m glad I got to watch them fall in love, and I’m glad I got to be here today to watch them promise each other forever.” Holding up her champagne, she finishes with, “I love both you idiots. To David and Patrick.”

There is a rousing cheer and a chorus of ‘To David and Patrick,’ and Stevie hands the microphone back to the DJ like it’s made of snakes and hurries off the stage. She looks down at her glass, realizing she forgot to take a drink after her own toast.

Swigging down the champagne and setting the glass aside, Stevie looks up to see David approaching.

“Don’t you dare hug me, David.”

“I’m going to,” he says with a smiling head-shake, that smirking smile he has when he can barely contain his happiness.

His tuxedo fabric is smooth against her cheek, his arms enveloping her in a warm embrace. Stevie returns the hug, settling into it like a comfortable blanket.

“You made me cry, so you get a hug whether you like it or not,” David says.

“Please, you’ve been crying off and on all day; you can’t blame me.” She pulls away, then reaches out absently to brush away any trace of her makeup (expertly applied by Alexis this morning) from the lapel of his jacket.

“True.” He’s giving her a knowing look. “You know, you can be quite the romantic.”

“About other people’s relationships, yes I can,” she says with a sage nod. “Like, I can appreciate another person’s cute baby without wanting my own baby.”

David shudders at the mention of babies and makes a disgusted face.

“How does it feel to be somebody’s husband, David?”

David turns to look behind him, and Stevie follows his gaze to the dance floor where Patrick is dancing with Mrs. Rose. Stevie grins, wondering who’s leading in that pair. “So far, I guess it’s okay,” David says with another smirk, his eyes shining, then he looks back at her. “I love you.”

“How dare you,” Stevie says, the lump in her throat growing larger.

“I know. Come on, let’s dance.” David takes her hand, and Stevie lets herself be led.

Much later, as she watches the people on the dance floor and catches her breath, Mr. Rose makes his way over. “So I was thinking about the new motel,” he says by way of greeting.

“You were thinking about the new motel at your son’s wedding?” Stevie asks, not really surprised but enjoying the chance to shame Mr. Rose a little.

“Well, I don’t mean…” He opens and closes his mouth a few times before explaining, “I was thinking about it last night.”

“And what about it?” They were breaking ground on the Rosebud Motel in Elmdale next month, which, for reasons that still mostly surpassed her understanding, was going to be styled in much the same way as the original Rosebud Motel. Hipsters like the aesthetic, Alexis had told them. Even the use of the term ‘motel’ contributed to a sort of ironic realness, she’d said, a statement that gave Stevie a good laugh at the time.

“When the new motel is built, someone will have to run it and I was thinking, why not Stevie?” Mr. Rose says with a big grin.

“I already run a motel.”

“I… I know that, Stevie, but the new motel is going to be bigger, and in a town with a lot more going on. Better restaurants, better culture, more to do. It might be an interesting opportunity for you if you want it. We can hire someone else to run the original Rosebud.”

She blinks. Stevie Budd has spent her entire life in Schitt’s Creek. She went to high school here, spending her Friday nights learning to shotgun beers or giving a fumbling handjob in the backseat of a car. She’s always expected she’d probably die here in her shitty apartment, maybe with a couple of pet cats to round out the lonely spinster aesthetic.

“I don’t know, Mr. Rose. My friends are here.” She gestures toward the dance floor, where Ted and Twyla are flailing around to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now,’ and then cringes at the idea that she would actually miss a lot of these people if she moved.

“Well, Elmdale isn’t that far, so you’d still be able to spend time with the gang here.” Mr. Rose pats her gently on the shoulder, his body language filled with hesitancy. “You can stay in Schitt’s Creek if you want to, of course you can. But I want the choice of which motel to run to be yours.”

She can’t decide if she wants to bask in the fatherly smile he gives her or flee from it. “Thank you, Mr. Rose.”

“And who knows, if we keep expanding?” He holds his arms out wide. “Think what the future might hold!”

“Uh huh.” She looks back out at the dancers, but she can feel Mr. Rose’s eyes still on her.

“You know, Stevie, I hope you know I’m not… I’m not just giving you this opportunity out of some kind of fatherly impulse.”

The war between basking and fleeing intensifies. “Fatherly--?”

“It’s because I’ve been watching you since we hired more staff, and you’re very good at managing people -- getting them to do what you need them to do. I hate to admit it, but you might be better at it than I am.”

Stevie blinks. She didn’t expect to be getting a performance review at David’s wedding, but that seems to be what’s happening.

“So I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather see running the new motel. It’s not only that you deserve the opportunity, Stevie. It’s that I’m confident you’ll succeed.”

“Oh.” She feels her eyes welling up with tears for approximately the fiftieth time that day. “Thank you.”

He gives her a warm smile. “We can talk about it more later. You should go dance with your friends.”

She goes. Stevie dances in a loose circle with the people who have gradually wormed their way into her heart over the last few years, with the people who have made her feel like her life is full. Smiling and closing her eyes, she soaks up some of that transformative love for herself.

#stevie budd #stevie budd ff #schitt's creek #schitt's creek ff #my fic

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witchqueenofthemoon · 6 years ago

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BODY AND SOUL Part 16 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: OKAY DUCKENZIES. This part dragged my ass. It took forever, but once again, I’m so happy with it. My schedule has been punishing. I can’t stop writing and never feel like doing anything else but I have a full time job and my relationship and all this other shit in my life and I have to sleep sometimes and I’m trying to find a balance. But I’m so happy lately? I’m so lit all the time, everyone I know IRL is like “what is UP with you” because I’m writing a book (this, this is the book) and I’m fucking beside myself, I’m so relieved about it, I’m so happy about it all the time but I’m also having a hard time disconnecting from it to plug into other things lately. Still working out how to do that. The thought Kenzie has about Duncan in the beginning of this part (”...you are exalted in my eyes and my body and my soul”) is literally a thought she had about him in another life, and she will never know that. Plume has a really fancy three-course menu that I didn’t feel like writing about at length, so I sort of chose one thing for each of them off it and skipped the rest. Here’s A SUNDAY KIND OF LOVE, imo one of the best love songs of all time. The man who got upstairs at Kenzie’s work and tried to hurt her will feature again. I listened to this remix of Imogen Heap’s Headlock a lot for the sex (69 dudes) in this part (sex which I am very proud of if I may say so, I can write a goddamn sex scene y’all--THREE SEX SCENES THANKS); cuz the mood in that is VERY sex-vibe Duckenzie. Duncan’s dream that Kenzie is an angel is based on @inkedbadwolfart‘s ICONIC Michael x Mallory piece. Deep Creek Lake is real but the cabin I’m creating that belongs to the Shepherd family is of my own invention. I’ve never liked “Dunc” as a nickname for Duncan and it doesn’t really fit Duckenzie, so I came up with another nickname I like more and Kenzie will indeed call him Dunny every now and then when she’s feeling particularly affectionate from here on out. This is the top Kenzie wears in the morning and this is the skirt (which I ordered the other day, can’t wait to get it!!). This is her star necklace. These are her pointed boots which she wore to Le Diplomate as well and I have them irl and they are legit my favorite shoes I own and always make me feel sexy hence them giving Kenzie that feeling too. Here’s the short-sleeved button-down Duncan puts on in the morning; summer clothes from here on out for awhile, babes. I had to put The Chain in this part; I’m a die-hard Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks fan. A reminder that the MASTERPOST wants you to reblog it and pass it around because I won’t be loading the fic up on AO3 until it’s totally finished, which...I don’t know how long that’ll take? Maybe a few more weeks, maybe a month, maybe longer. Still not entirely sure where this story is ending, I figure I’ll know when I get there. The Shepherd mansion (that is, Annette’s mansion) is some kind of cross between this mansion and this one in my mind. The chairs in the dressing room look like this. To my beloved Duckenzies: @impiorumrequies, @hi-ilovedamien, @nat-de-lioncourt, @ladywriter94, @leiwya, @icouldrun, @killcort, @starscavengers, @carousallie, the list goes on--I love you more than words can express. THANK YOU.

“I would like for you, Mackenzie, to do a few interviews with us next week.” Kenzie refocused on Duncan’s mother; her thoughts had been full of Duncan’s eyes (sky and storm) since he had gazed at her so lovingly and pushed something into her; wrapped his love around me, like a blanket made of softest gold, that’s what it felt like, and I pushed it out of me and onto Annette and then her face fell and she looked so confused and then she softened...the anger in her eyes towards me dissolved and now her eyes look the way I think they probably looked when she was a girl, a girl who wanted something else; wanted to be loved, wanted to love. A wave of affection for Duncan had crashed into Kenzie, and she couldn’t help but gaze over to him with fierce devotion; you are my Prince, most beloved to me, and you are exalted in my eyes and my body and my soul. The thought had fallen, soft as a sheer curtain, over her sight and her mind, as if it were something she’d read in a book somewhere and forgotten; and she had stared at him and flowers had bloomed in her thoughts to behold him; and the moment had extended, spread out far beyond itself, and she had felt the weight of time and the depth of his love for her again and she was lost in it for a little while.

“It’s important...that if you and Duncan are going to be...together...you understand your new responsibilities as a part of the public face of Shepherd Unlimited.” Annette spoke with a strange slowness, as if something was holding her back, and Kenzie couldn’t decide if it was the heavy energy that now hovered in the room (something that passed between Duncan and I, I don’t understand what it was, but it had some kind of power) or Annette’s own inability to say what she was truly thinking or feeling. Or her inability to accept the idea of them, truly together. Whatever the reason, Kenzie looked away from her; she found Annette terribly beautiful, but Duncan’s mother had a strange coldness that raised the hairs on Kenzie’s neck, drained the blood from her fingers. As Annette spoke, she seemed to gain momentum, falling back into her clipped cadence. “That will include making public appearances with us and coordinated communication with the press. I’m sure Duncan has mentioned this, but I expect you to come to the house tomorrow to do a fitting for the Gala. Everything has to be carefully planned, it’s the most important public event of the year for the organization. From now on, you’ll be expected to present yourself publicly with physical, verbal, and behavioral sophistication. Duncan himself has been a poor example of that lately.”

Kenzie looked back across the table to Duncan; his eyes betrayed none of his discomfort, but she felt his annoyance, drifting in dark colors: To hell with sophistication, keeping her safe is what I care about. If she isn’t happy, nothing else matters. His thoughts fell over her with fierce warmth; Kenzie felt as though she could drink them, swallow them, absorb them, feel them as though his fingers were all over her.

“Mackenzie, do you understand me?” Annette took another long drink from her wine glass, eyes hovering across the table at Kenzie.

“I...yes, Annette. I think so.”

“That article published today was an opposition to the company. I expect you to turn down editorials of that nature in the future.”

Kenzie was silent, pressing her lips together. No, I don’t think so. I’m going to write about what I feel strongly about. Or why write at all.

The waiter returned at that moment, mercifully, and Kenzie breathed a silent, internal sigh of relief. She had the distinct feeling that Annette not only did not tolerate being lied to, but that she was preternaturally skilled at sniffing out said lies; that she could pinpoint them with precision and yank them out of a person. Better to lapse into silence than to lie to her, I think. Annette ordered foie gras; Duncan ordered lobster. Kenzie looked down the menu, lost; she hadn’t even contemplated food under Annette’s steely gaze, and it seemed to be in a foreign language, suddenly.

“I think you’d love the risotto, Kenzie,” Duncan said to her gently. She nodded to him gratefully and said “I’ll have that.” Thanks baby. Affection washed over her again and he gave her a little smile. Baby, you’re doing so good. Just a little bit longer and we’ll be done. Soon, we can escape. Annette ordered another bottle of wine; the one she’d had on the table when they’d come in was already half empty. Duncan’s mother tipped it carefully into Kenzie’s wine glass, filling it about a third of the way, and pushed the stem closer to Kenzie, pointedly. Then, she poured another glass for Duncan.

“To the continued success of Shepherd Unlimited and our dynasty.” Annette raised her glass and nodded to both of them with stern expectation. Duncan raised his and nodded at Kenzie a little; she brought hers up with a timid hand and Annette clinked against it with a sharp tap. Kenzie drank a small sip of the wine; hope it isn’t poisoned, she thought wildly, watching Annette drink from her glass again, eyes skirting over to Duncan taking a deep gulp of his, as if he were terribly thirsty and it was water. Duncan looks so beautiful. But he always does. His hair fell over his forehead, perfect waves down the sides, falling behind his ears. The velvet blazer gave him an almost royal appearance; like his throne was sitting in some vast chamber somewhere, waiting for him. His straight nose and full lips were like a statue carved by a master sculptor; he seemed too lovely to her to be real, I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking that, feeling that way, like he’d been molded from the first human clay and every piece of come after had been slightly less. He pressed one long hand against the side of the stubble at his cheek; I want to bury my fingers in that stubble, I want to breathe it deeply into my senses, impossibly intense blue eyes carefully switching between the two women sitting in front of him, warily at Annette, with aching affection at Kenzie, then back again.

“I am capable of putting my differences with Madeline aside if you can conduct yourself appropriately,” Annette spoke again. Her gaze slid between her son and Kenzie; she seemed to regard their obvious adoration with a mixture of disdain and incredulousness; she can see how much he loves me, and it’s upsetting her, Kenzie thought. Well, Annette, get fucking used to it.

“Do you think you can do that?”

Annette stared at her, hands around her wine glass, head cocked slightly, her eyes like dark pools. This woman is like a very dark well, Kenzie thought. And I don’t know how far down the bottom of the well is. I think it might be a very long well, and very, very dark. But she loves Duncan. I can tell. I don’t know if the love is the kind of love I know, the kind I feel for those I care for; her love is different, I think. But I do think, in his case, it’s real love, in her fashion.

“I’ll do my best, Annette.”

“Your best must be as close to perfect as you can possibly make it, dear. Or else you will not last long in our world. Steel your mind, Mackenzie. You no longer have the luxury of living anonymously. To be part of this family, however long that may be, you accept the scrutiny and criticism of the nation.”

Kenzie bit her lip, clutching her hands together in her lap. “I can handle it.”

Duncan’s eyes flickered over her, bright with intensely warm emotion. So brave, so brave, she heard him think. ....your strength around you like gold...oh, Kenzie…

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Annette replied, and Duncan said, immediately, “She can, Mom. She’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. She’s amazing.”

“You sound drunk already, Duncan,” Annette rolled her eyes, her expression annoyed.

“Today someone got up into her office and tried to attack her,” Duncan said, his tone going dark as he looked at his mother. “They said something about the Shepherds taking everything away from them, so they were going to take something away from the Shepherds. I hired her a bodyguard yesterday, thank god--he’s the only reason she wasn’t injured. Being thrown into our world can’t be easy, and yet she was the one who insisted we still come to dinner tonight, Mom. I was contemplating cancelling on you. Already Kenzie has proven she is more than capable of navigating this world and has the resolve it takes to weather whatever comes her way. And she deserves your respect.”

Annette was silent and looked down; there was a flicker over her features; “I didn’t know about that,” she said, carefully. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Mackenzie.”

“I’m okay,” Kenzie said, fighting to keep the trembling edge she felt out of her voice. The truth was she didn’t feel very okay at all; the incident at One Franklin Square had terrified her and Kenzie longed for nothing more than the dinner to be over and to be held in Duncan’s arms in the safety and quiet of their bed with the rain falling against the window. Sweet Fates, hurry us on to that place, through this storm, through this rain, through this difficulty, she thought, looking into his eyes, fighting the bubbling emotion that threatened her again, feeling crushed and laid bare by the beauty of his face and the love in his eyes. She wanted to tell him what had happened in her own words with her own mouth and then she wanted him to press his mouth with aching need into her body and tangle the black sheets into symbols of their passion and their love and their devotion and press his fingers into her mouth and against her throat and down between her legs, where they belong my love, where you belong, pressed against me. I want to be alone with you my love and I don’t want to be here anymore. But Kenzie knew that this was part of the test; the test of knowing if she could indeed suffer a lifetime of Annette Shepherd; if she could put her love before her exhaustion and help Duncan in this way. And so she said again, “I’m okay. I would do anything for Duncan. I will do anything.”

“God, but you do remind me of Madeline.” Annette shook her head, as if to clear away her disorientation.

Two waiters came in then with their dinner; Kenzie’s risotto was delicious, savory and sweet, and she sent warm, grateful thoughts across the table toward Duncan again; he smiled at her and she was struck with another ache to hold him, to touch him; she watched his fingers stretch out at the side of his salad fork, towards her; he tapped them a little every now and then, and she could feel his impatience, his restlessness, his aching need for her. She wondered if Annette garnered strange delight from keeping them apart like this, even across a table; Duncan’s mother seemed like the kind of person who never did anything on accident, everything, every movement and inflection and gesture, ever-calculated. She’s trying to exert her will over him, Kenzie thought. Show him that she still owns him even though he belongs to me now and his desires have changed and she wants to pretend like she can’t see it but she can and that’s what made her so disoriented. She didn’t expect to see love in his eyes when he looks at me, because she hasn’t seen it there before, not like this. But she saw it. And now she knows. Now, she can’t pretend it isn’t real, or that he’s infatuated, or what he feels is only lust. Even Annette can’t deny that Duncan Shepherd fucking loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

Kenzie couldn’t help it; she smiled at Annette, and Annette returned it, but very small, a smile that did not extend to her eyes. You think you’re going to be able to control me now, Kenzie thought. But you won’t be able to. Duncan is going to change your company. He’s going to change everything, and I’m going to help him. We’re going to take all of Shepherd Unlimited and we’re going to give its riches to people who need them and we’re going to create beautiful things and we’re going to help people and you won’t be able to stop us. I know it, deep in my bones. Kenzie turned her eyes to Duncan and he was watching her with intense concentration, a morsel of lobster paused in his fork in midair, halfway to his mouth; as if he had heard everything she’d been thinking and was struck with it, as if her could see her drawing him a map that was invisible to Annette even though she was sitting directly in front of them, and the luminous smile in his eyes filled her with a depth of glowing energy that felt like sunlight on her skin. Yes baby. Yes, we will.

-------

It was well past 10 when Annette finally released them; by then, Kenzie felt as though her body was in physical pain, such was the depth of her desire for Duncan to hold her. I thought yesterday had been long, she thought, but today was almost unbearable. Annette had insisted on discussing endless details of the most recent episode of Duncan’s show, and he answered her in clipped, short sentences. Every now and then she shot Kenzie a suspicious look and seemed to change the way she was about to say something; she thinks she can’t trust me, and she’s not necessarily wrong, Kenzie thought. Finally, Duncan had come around the table and helped her out of the seat on Annette’s left side; relief flooded her at the warm, smooth feeling of his large hand grasping around her fingers; “It’s time for us to go, Kenzie had a very long day today, Mom.” “I expect you at noon sharp, Mackenzie,” Annette had said, her eyes flashing at Kenzie with a dismissive shimmer; Duncan leaned forward and she inclined a sharp cheekbone for him to kiss. Then, Duncan pulled Kenzie out of the room with a pointed determination, leaving his mother there to her own devices; Kenzie followed behind him, dizziness washing over her in a wave as they stepped out of the cocoon of the secluded room and back into the warmer light of the restaurant, and then out to the polished foyer. She could hear the rain falling against the windows; Duncan had pulled out his phone with his other hand and was texting Samuel, then he looked at her with a terrible softness (those eyes, my love, those blue eyes) and tucked the phone back into the inner pocket of his velvet blazer, his fingers coming up to her cheek, their warmth sending a flutter of sensation down her skin.

“Baby, you did so fucking good,” he whispered down to her mouth, and Kenzie sighed at the sound of his voice, her body flooding with the relief of his touch. “God, I wanted to touch you so much, that was agony. You are so brave and I’m so proud of you, Kenzie--”

“I wanted to touch you too, baby, Duncan, I wanted to so much--” Kenzie pulled him down into her roughly by the lapels of his velvet jacket, his full lips crashing against hers with a deep heat, her hands going into his hair, those waves like fading autumn and Duncan’s hands fell down to the small of her back, pressing her tightly into him, the desperation in his touch filling her with coiled hunger, her hips grinding against his thighs. The doorman and the people at the reception desk nearby carefully ignored them; Kenzie felt grateful towards them. Four hours with Annette Shepherd unable to touch each other and I think we’ve earned this. Duncan’s phone sounded; “Come on, Samuel’s here,” he breathed into her and his breath was sweet with wine and the chocolate mousse they’d had for dessert and Kenzie heard the tiny moan that escaped from her lips as he pulled away from her, such was her need for him. “Come on baby,” Duncan said again, pulling her gently through the door, “let’s go home.”

In the shadowed backseat of the BMW Kenzie folded close against him, her shoes kicked off and her legs tucked under her; Duncan’s arm was around her and her head was in the crook of his chest, her face pressed into his smooth shirt, and Duncan was looking down at his phone; emails. “I messaged Ben today,” he murmured to her, softly, tucking his phone away, as Etta James floated towards them from the stereo again (I want a Sunday kind of love...a love to last past Saturday night...and I’d like to know...it’s more than love at first sight...), “I want you to sit in on the interview, baby, okay?” Kenzie smiled despite how tired she felt; “I’m sure Ben will love that.” “It doesn’t matter what he thinks of it, because I’m not doing it if you aren’t there.” Kenzie nodded; she looked at Duncan in the dappled color of the neon lights they passed and was struck again by how beautiful he was; feeling shy suddenly, her affection tumbling out of her, unable to be contained: “Duncan, you look so handsome right now.” He turned his head to her, smiling, and she saw the shyness in it; in him. “And you look so lovely, baby.” That he felt shy before her, too, made her heart clench. Kenzie pulled her phone out of the little clutch on the seat beside her; she opened the Instagram app on her phone as Duncan said “Baby, what are you doing...”

“I think it’s time we took a selfie together, baby,” she said, matter-of-factly. Kenzie lifted the phone above them and reversed the camera so it faced them; she looked up into it, her eyes bright and wide under her dark eyeshadow and carefully applied mascara, her head still tucked under Duncan’s arm, and he inclined his head down to her, pressing his nose gently against her hair, closing his eyes. Kenzie snapped a picture; Samuel had been driving through the glow of downtown still, and the lights had fallen over them in pink, blue and gold; over Duncan’s cheek and Kenzie’s forehead, giving the picture a haunting luminescence. Kenzie brought the picture up to her eyes--it stopped her heart, the peaceful expression on his profile, the glittering aspect of her gaze, the lights falling over them.

“We look so good together, baby--” Duncan whispered into her ear, and his lips fell into the small space below; Kenzie gasping at the sweetness of the sensation, “--you are so fucking beautiful.” Kenzie sighed into his lips, pressing closer to him as she typed: The longest day, the greatest love. She hit Share with a satisfied smile. “You always look fucking beautiful,” she argued, her voice soft. “No, you fucking do,” Duncan murmured as his lips fell down her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. “You do angel, you do…”

Kenzie was aching for him, her body pulsing with need, but she hadn’t really told him what had happened that day, and she longed to; the burden of it was pressing into her heart, and she felt as though the weight of it was crushing her. “Baby, I...wanted to tell you what happened today.” Duncan lifted his head up immediately, leaning back to look at her, his face serious. He looked over her shoulder; “We’re home, baby,” he said, and Kenzie glanced behind her to see Samuel had pulled up to the high-rise. Finally. Samuel handed the roses to Duncan carefully as they got out of the car; there were no paps anywhere, and the rain was stopping again, the thunder moving off far into the distance and a barely-there drizzle fading away, the sky finally clear. The moon had returned though it was again barely a sliver in the sky; it hung there over the building as Kenzie looked up at it, an omen of the new cycle that had begun in earnest now; my new life has begun, and my life of anonymity is gone, she thought, the echo of Annette’s words falling down. Duncan carried the flowers carefully beside her as they moved upstairs; Anchaly gave him a nod, then looked at Kenzie with a smile; “you look lovely, Miss Stone, I trust whatever was distressing you earlier has been taken care of,” and Kenzie smiled back at him, nodding. Anchaly had a new book now; it was The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. “Yes, I’m better now, thanks, Anchaly.”

In the elevator they stared at each other, Duncan’s hands full of roses, Kenzie’s hand reaching out to tuck around his arm. “Before the man got upstairs, there had been some other people who had tried to get up, reporters from a magazine or something, I’m not really sure,” she started. “But the security downstairs caught them before they got to the elevators. The other guy was faster, I guess, and he didn’t really look like paparazzi--I don’t think he was.” The elevator slid open quietly and Kenzie used her key to open the penthouse door; Duncan continued to listen to her, quietly, as he opened the cupboard under the sink and brought out a Waterford vase for her roses, which had begun to wilt a little; fitting, because that’s how I feel too, Kenzie thought. Kenzie took the vase gently from his arms and brought it over to the coffee table alongside the low leather couch; the roses immediately threw their brilliant color against the juxtaposition of light and shadows there, one of the reading lamps switched on by the housekeepers. Kenzie looked down at them, emotion washing over her again. Then she turned to him and folded herself into him and Duncan kissed her hair and closed his eyes. “He had really wild eyes, I remember that. Like he was lost. But Harris had just gone to the bathroom...he was only away from me for a minute, I swear. The man comes up to my desk and he’s in a big overcoat and shaggy hair and he smelled...strange, sort of like gasoline. He grabbed my wrist with this terrible grip--” at that Kenzie looked down at her wrist and for the first time that day noticed a small purplish bruise that had begun to form there, Duncan reaching down delicately to examine it, bringing his lips down to her skin; “and he hisses into my face, looking right into my eyes. He said “There you are. I saw you on the videos. The Shepherds took everything away from me, so now I’m gonna take something away from the Shepherds.””

“God, baby.”

“He starts dragging me and Precious sees him but she’s too far away, she’s down at the other side of the office, and he’s so strong it feels like he’s going to snap my wrist and rip my hand out of my arm and I’m trying to get out of it but--but he’s just too fucking strong.” Kenzie felt tears in the back of her throat; she turned, pushing her hair to the side. “Unzip me, baby,” she said, and felt Duncan’s warm, long fingers between her shoulders, gently pulling the zipper down, his face pressing into her hair. Kenzie reached for his hand and then she pulled him, slowly, softly, into their bedroom (ours) and pushed the dress off her shoulders, stepping out of it, her hands coming up behind her to unclasp her bra and she could feel Duncan hovering there, close, but it was as if he was afraid to touch her. She turned and looked at him for a moment; he was still fully clothed and absolutely regal in his velvet blazer and she shivered, vulnerable; she pressed against him in just her panties now, his arms coming around the softness of her bare skin, and cradling her with his body, so much larger and so warm. “Harris comes out of the bathroom--” Kenzie continued, feeling able now that he was holding her again, “--and he sees this man pulling on me and I look at him and I scream help Harris help me and he goes up to this man and he hits him right in the throat under the chin with the flat of his hand and...the man just crumples like he’s made of paper.” Kenzie drifted her hands down the soft velvet of Duncan’s arms and turned her eyes up to him; his expression a dagger into her heart, his eyes dark with the memory of the fear she had seen there when he’d run out of the elevator and to her desk, his face white, his body shaking as she fell into his arms. “I just sort of stood there in shock for awhile, by the time I felt like I started breathing again I realized Harris was holding me up and my knees were buckling and he picked me up like I was a doll and set me in my desk chair and I just...I just burst into tears…”

“Oh Kenzie, oh, baby, oh no…” Duncan’s lips came down and kissed her eyelids, first one, then the other, his mouth came down and kissed the tip of her nose and then her cheeks, one at a time, and then her mouth, kissed her mouth with aching supplication and Kenzie thought that’s enough, I’m done and I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight, I just want you to kiss me, kiss me everywhere, kiss me forever, and Kenzie whispered “Duncan,” into his mouth and she turned away from him to the lamp beside the bed and switched it off and they were bathed in darkness, the low light from the living room spilling through the doorway for a moment; “Shut the door, baby,” she whispered, and Duncan obeyed, turning and pressing it closed, and now they were in darkness entire, but for the low glow of the city somewhere far away through the window. “Your eyes look like gold,” he said to her, and he threw his blazer onto the floor (that’s right baby, abandon everything except for us) and moaned softly into her as her hands came up to unbutton his shirt, pulled his belt out with aching ease, unbuttoned his pants and pushed them away. “And yours look like blue fire,” she replied, up into his lips, pulling him down to her as she fell back onto the bed. He hovered above her and she could just see the outline of his hair over his eyes, the shape of his jaw, the shadow of his stubble, the soft shape of his lips, open and his stare falling down over her, and Kenzie loved the darkness because in that moment it felt like it was holding them, shielding them truly from the eyes of the world, creating a secret place where they could hide and all other thought could fade and only the two of them existed, in this place. His lips came down to her nipple and sucked with urgency, fingers coming around to push her breast into his mouth, and she shivered as his hair fell against her collarbone, a whisper of his love, and her hands went down his back, nails digging in and leaving red trails that were lost in the shadows, her legs coming around him, crossing at his back, pressing her sex up into his groin where she could feel the hardness of his cock through the two thin layers of fabric that covered them there. Duncan continued to suck, swirling his tongue over the hardness of her nipple again and again, then moved to the other breast and worked at it carefully, his free hand drifting down to the waistband of her panties and toying with it carefully in his thumb and index finger, pressing into her hip bone, but not moving them further down, not yet.

“I think my mother liked to try to keep us apart tonight,” he whispered against her between sucking on her, the tickle of his breath against the wetness he’d left on her making Kenzie’s eyes flutter. Duncan’s musky-wood smell was falling over her in the darkness and it made her heart beat wildly up into where his lips were devouring her, and she was dizzy with the strength of her senses, the presence of him in the absence of sight. “She wanted us to not be able to touch each other, but she failed, because I’m going to touch you everywhere now, I’m going to touch you until you’re written into my skin like a tattoo that can never be erased, I’m going to kiss you a thousand times, baby, kiss you until I’ve memorized every inch of you...”

Kenzie was murmuring before she even realized it herself; a low hum of yes, baby, yes, mhmm, yes, fuck, the feeling of his mouth on her in the darkness kindling a fire low in her body that made her want to writhe, and she was pulling his face up to her to taste him, breathlessly connected, and her hand fell down his ribs to his hip bone and into his briefs where she wrapped her fist around his cock--it was achingly hard, thrilling her again, sending a shiver down her body and he arched into her, moaning into her mouth as she pushed the fabric off him, cradling his ass in her hands for a moment, dragging her nails down to his thighs as she pushed the underwear off him and he said “Oh fuck, baby, that feels fucking good--” and then he yanked her panties down with one terribly strong hand and Kenzie’s heart stopped for a moment with the force of it, gasping as his index finger pressed harshly between her legs, into her clit, his mouth hovering over hers again; if she’d been standing her legs would have buckled instantly, instead, her legs keened back, lifting her sex up towards his hand, up so her ass fell against his thighs with a low slap, and she uttered another little moaning cry into him, her fist still clutching his erection and his hardness was sending currents of energy through her core, her cunt convulsing for a moment in anticipation. Duncan seemed to feel this current under his fingers flush against her; he let out a pitiful groan into her cheek, and she felt his cock convulse under her fingers.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he whispered, his blue eyes staring down into hers in the dark, penitent, devoted, and the outline of his expression in the deep shadows one of aching adulation, and it made Kenzie feel as though he was whispering a prayer into her, a prayer of worship, a prayer to her only and always, a priest to her, and a prayer so fervent it made him most beloved in her eyes. “I’ll do anything you want to you, I’ll let you do anything to me, fucking anything. Tell me, angel.”

“I want your lips on me and I want mine on you, baby, I wanna suck your gorgeous cock while you eat me,” Kenzie whispered, and she moved from underneath him, pushing his arms gently so he lifted away from her, following her carefully, completely supplicant to her direction; Kenzie pushed him down into the pillows now, his head falling into their softness, his long form stretched out underneath her, and she straddled him for a moment, staring down at him. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness and she could still see that aching devotion falling down the beautiful contour of his face; he reminded her of a Renaissance painting, a man who also seemed unlike a man in that he was so radiantly graceful and sublime, a higher form of man, an ideal of the ecstasy of human imagining. How are you mine, she thought again, dumbstruck and shivering, and his hands came up to cup at her breasts, and she pressed a finger down between his lips and he sucked at her skin, her thumb grazing down his stubble. Kenzie moved back a little, moved until she felt the hardness of his cock brush up the sensitive, wet space between her legs; Duncan moaned into her finger, closing his eyes; those eyes, low blue flame, a constant candle lit for her and her alone.

“Am I your angel, baby,” Kenzie asked, her body thrilling at the feeling of his length flush against her pussy and ass, her cunt twinging again, the spasm of the muscles there sending a thrill of demanding need through her thighs. She let her sex press into him that way for a long, aching moment, knowing it must be as intense and terrible for him as it was for her, relishing the intensity, pressed against his need.

“Fuck, Kenzie, yes, you’re my angel, you are the only one,” he said into her fingers, and her hand fell down to clutch around his adam’s apple, desirous for more, a longer prayer, a deeper worship, a worship from his mouth into the core of her being, and she squeezed a little, her nails pressing into his skin, and he gasped. Kenzie’s mind filled with heat, her senses suddenly feeling like scalding water overflowing, and she raised her little palm and brought it down against his cheek with a snap, the little slap startling her ears and his eyes flashed at her in the dark and Kenzie said “Worship me with your mouth now, baby,” and he said “Yes, baby, come here,” and she knew he was commanding her--the slap and her hand at his throat seemed to have kindled an animalistic rush in him--and her need to be filled was bleeding into a need to do what he wanted now, and she was lost in the clash of her desires as he gripped her thighs and carefully pushed her down so he could turn her at the hips (god he’s so fucking strong, his hands could rip the life out of me, drag me down into oblivion, my Hades dragging me down with his beautiful, terrible hands, down into the depths to be devoured by him entirely devoured this way devoured in his aching lips), flipping her carefully but with an ease that made her heart jump into her throat; suddenly her back was facing him, her legs slipping down to straddle on either side of his chest under his arms, his cock pressing between her breasts now, and he yanked her up, demanding, to his face, so her cunt hovered just below his lips and his cock was brushing against her jaw; he pulled her into his mouth and Kenzie cried out, whimpering helplessly as his tongue immediately pressed into her clit, terribly warm and dripping wet, and her head fell and she drooled onto the head of his cock; she felt her eyes roll back into her head as he ate at her, and Kenzie steeled herself and opened her mouth and took his hard cock (fuck he’s fucking big when I look at him this way fuck he’s huge) into her and carefully pressed down, her tongue working against his length, and she felt him shuddering under her as his tongue probed into her soaking wet cunt and back to her clit again, focused there with a precise, deft rhythm; Kenzie opened her throat, willing herself not to gag as she took his whole length into her for a moment, then worked herself back up carefully. She could feel her thighs shuddering, the feeling of his mouth shattering her desire for control; it was bleeding out into a desire to give him terrible, transcendent pleasure--in this moment, Kenzie felt gold waves of emotion falling from the top of his head down into her body; I want you, only you, only you and always, always to be pressed into you this way, only to worship you, only to feel your mouth, only to feel you, you belong to me and I am yours entirely and there is nothing without you, there is void in your absence, that is all I know for certain, I wanna fuck you until I am lost in you and I become you and you are me and together we are something else, I wanna fuck you endlessly and so hard and so deeply and so often--

Kenzie moved her mouth up and down, working her hand at the base of his cock, her tongue swirling at the sensitive hole at the smooth head of his length; her saliva dripped down from her lips, down the shaft of him, and she moved her hand up and down and the sound of the wetness sucked in her ears as she moved her head again, faster for a moment and then with aching slowness, and Duncan moaned against her, against the swollen lips of her cunt, swollen with his attentions, swollen with terrible want. “Fuck baby, you taste so fucking good, god, your mouth feels so fucking good, fuck, I can’t--oh, fuck--Kenzie, fuck, baby, gonna--” Kenzie could hear the tremble under his words, the edge, and she dipped her head down further so the head of his cock pressed into the back of her throat and she felt his tongue lave out and press harshly into her clit, press there with wanton concentration as his hot come spurted into her mouth and she swallowed, once, twice, the taste of him salty and thick, her eyes going hazy as she felt the edge of her orgasm cresting down between her hips; she pulled back and up so she was sitting on his mouth, her ass at his nose, and pressed her hands into his torso, the taste of his come coating the inside of her mouth, and she looked up at the ceiling, dark with shadow, and his hands were on her thighs pressing her down onto him and Kenzie cried out as her orgasm forced itself roughly down through the center of her and bright flames burned behind her sight, filling the blackness of the room with intense light as she lost herself in his devoted prayer, the most ecstatic of prayers, his mouth and his tongue rushing every bit of her out into him in that moment, extending her helplessly into oblivious exaltation.

“Kenzie, baby, oh, baby, Kenzie--” Duncan’s hands were pulling her softly down, murmuring her name with aching softness, and Kenzie felt like she was coming back from a far distance to his arms; back from the brink of of edge of the universe, and she was sliding off him and she was beside him now, her head falling onto the pillow, hair falling across her cheek, close to his face, his arms clutching her with fervency, as if he couldn’t stand the sudden cease of the closeness of their orgasms; she pressed into him, her leg coming over his thigh, and he kissed her and the taste of her sex filled her own mouth as he did, and her tongue came against his and Kenzie thought I could die, I love him so, I could die right now and this would be enough for me, how can I bear this, how can I bear how much I love him, it’s so much, it fucking hurts, it aches.

“Duncan, I love you. I love you so much. I wish there were other words--”

“Shhh, baby. No. I know. I have to ask you something,” and his mouth was at her forehead, his hands threading her hair, his fingers pressing to the sides of her face; Kenzie could feel the weight of his cock, going soft, pressing into her stomach, and the thin film of sweat on his skin against her, and his eyes seemed almost white in this light, ethereal in post-coitus. “Do you feel like...sometimes...you can hear what I’m thinking? I know...I know it sounds crazy--”

“Yes, baby. Yes. I heard you tonight, I think, when we were with your mother--it’s not the first time, but I...I thought I heard you think that I was so brave, brave and that my strength was like gold, and, before that...you looked at me and it felt like you pushed something into me, you pushed you love and your faith into me and it spread around us--”

Duncan was nodding into her--“Yes,” he was whispering, “yes, baby, yes, I didn’t imagine it, yes, that happened, yes, you can hear me, you heard me, you felt it too,”--and she could feel the smile on him, though she could barely see it; his body felt as though it was smiling, a coiled joy in him as he pressed more deeply into her, his hands falling down her waist to clutch her hips into him and his hips ground against her and she sighed; a sigh that was more like a cry, and tears came instantly into her eyes, tears at the intensity of her orgasm and at the intensity of what had just passed between them; the realization that they had both experienced that energy tonight, that they had both heard each other’s thoughts, somehow, madly, impossibly, and yet somehow possible, and the wildness of this revelation stopped her heart; sweat broke out instantly on her skin and she was filled with terrible longing for him again, in a sharp wave that crashed into the center of her chest.

“How--” and Duncan was kissing her again, his mind falling into her and it felt like a thousand pinpricks of light that had burst into brilliance under his skin, in the lining of his soul; how, how, how, but the how suddenly meant nothing; the only thing that mattered was the understanding, the reality, the knowing, and Kenzie wondered if she willed it enough, if she wanted it, if she could hear him now--she focused on the feeling passing between them, the connection of their mouths pressed together, the salty sweetness of his skin, the musky smell of him that fell over her in bursts, the aching strength of him pressing into her, the soft cascade of his hair as she pushed her fingers through it, in the dark; I don’t need to see him with my eyes to see him, to truly see him, the low blue glow of him, the radiance of his beauty. I think I could see him, really see him, at the very end of time. I think I could pick him out of a million other souls and know him, instantly. And then she did hear him; heard the tenderness under every beat of it, and she felt lost in him, like he was pressing his lips onto the deepest, most secret part of her: Kenzie, I think I’ve always known you, I think we knew each other in some other time and in some other place, and I think we were together then, and I think it’s destiny that we found each other again, and I think no matter what happens someday we will find each other again, because that’s our Fate; that’s what they wove for us, when time began, they wove our souls together and it cannot be changed and we cannot be long parted from each other and we will always find each other again, because they will It--and their will is the way of things. You are my One, the only One, until the end of all things. Mackenzie. I love you. I love you. I love you…

Kenzie pressed into him, pulling him gently so he was on top of her now, their mouths still crashing against each other as these thoughts, his thoughts, and she knew they truly were this time, fell into her like a waterfall, like a rainstorm, and Kenzie’s hand came down to his cock again and slid up and down as he grew hard and she lifted her hips up onto his thighs and slid down onto him, her cunt slick with release, and they gasped into each other, his hands buried in the golden cascade of her hair and clutching her hip so she was pressed flush into him and this way, us together, it’s the only thing, she pushed the thought into him and she knew he didn’t need to speak, knew he heard her, his eyes staring into hers then closing, overwhelmed, and Duncan nodded into the bridge of her nose, his hair falling against her eyelashes, yes, the only thing, the only thing, to be here with you, beloved of all, most beloved, my love. He pressed into her, then out with aching slowness, then began to ride into her with a measured, building rhythm; his hand came down from her hair and Duncan brought his fingers up to his mouth to suck them carefully, not breaking the tide of his concentration as his length pressed into her with wild urgency, and brought them, slick with his spit, into her swollen clit, still, already, aching with wetness from his mouth; his other hand came up from her hip to press into the center of her chest, between her breasts, as if to hold her heart; as if to feel its luxuriant pounding through the tips of his fingers; his thighs pressed down into her, forcing her legs wide, and he was so hard Kenzie ached; ached with the knowledge of him. Their minds came together again, for a moment, from spinning around each other; the intensity, the intimacy of the touch--of our souls, she thought to him, and into her he pressed another thought--our bodies and our souls, Kenzie, for both of mine are yours.

“You’re gonna come,” she breathed into him, her mouth pressing into his nose, pressing against his eyes, which fluttered closed against her; “and I’m gonna come at the same time, okay, baby?” She arched up into his hand, the feeling of his fingers making her want to scream, making her hips grind up, making her want him inside her always.

“Okay, Kenzie, baby, okay…” Duncan’s eyes stared into her, needy, aching--and then he let out a little whine into her that seemed involuntary--a little cry that seemed to echo out from the center of his being, and Kenzie said “Shhh, baby, I know--” “Kenzie, how, I found you, somehow I found you, fuck me, I fucking found you--” “Fuck me, baby, fuck me,” Kenzie demanded, her eyes rolling back as the sensation of his fingers rushed her up to the edge, “Fuck me like that, fuck me hard like that, give me your hard cock, baby--” and Duncan pressed into her with such force that she felt the scream building at the back of her throat--”I’m going to--come--”

At that moment Kenzie felt herself slip down over the edge of her orgasm; felt it cascade up through her, from the ends of Duncan’s fingers deep up inside her where his cock was buried in her, and at the same time her cunt clenched down onto him with ravenous need and her scream, completely overcome and tinged with a sob, rattled out of her--and then she felt Duncan press his mouth into her neck to stifle the strangled scream that came from his own throat, and he came deep inside her and they clung to each other, convulsing, trembling, and Kenzie could feel the hot wetness of his tears falling into her hair and against her skin where his face was buried against her ear and she felt the sob of his body as her own hot tears coursed down her cheeks and her arms clutched around his back and her sex spasmed again and again against his length, sending dizzying shocks up her body. Kenzie brought her hand to his cheek and her heart spasmed painfully at the wetness there; in the darkness she could see the glowing white-blue of his eyes again, now overcome by his orgasm and the emotion that had fallen out of him with it--Duncan Shepherd, her prince, so soft and pliant and vulnerable in her arms, and she gathered his sweetness in this moment against her and knew she would remember it always; Kenzie knew that she would look back on his tears in her hair on this night; knew that if she ever doubted at all that he loved her, she would look back to this night, the tender color of him as he clung to her and know that he did; know that he always would, would because it was their destiny to love each other, through every shade of time.

------

Later, after their tears had dried, Kenzie lay against him with her head in that space under his arm; her space, and Duncan’s hand threaded through her hair behind her, lazily, absently, her leg crooked over his thigh, one of her hands on his belly with his hand hovering above, his pinky crooked against her thumb; they were silent, the only sounds coming from the faraway drift of the night outside, and Kenzie couldn’t hear any of his thoughts now; couldn’t perceive their shape, knew that they were hazy with the weight of his orgasms, hazy with tiredness, hazy with the depth of the emotion they had shared, and she felt sure hers were hazy in the same way, that he couldn’t see them; she was on Duncan’s side of the bed (somehow she knew this inherently; that she would always sleep on the other side, but tonight they hadn’t moved from the way they’d fallen post-coitus) and had switched on the lamp there, on the lowest setting; the bronze light fell over them as they stared up at the ceiling, and seeing him now, after the sensation of him bathed in darkness, struck her with wonder; to see you that way, and then this way.

“I think we can only hear thoughts when...when whatever is happening is really intense,” she murmured into his cheek, and Duncan sighed into her, closing his eyes; “I think you’re right,” he said, hand coming from her hair to hold her at the incline of her arm above the crook of her elbow, press her naked torso into his hip. “Kenzie, I can’t believe it...it’s so incredible…I never believed in anything like this before now. I never believed in things I couldn’t perceive with my own eyes. Now...I do believe. I believe in all of it, now. To be near you is to believe.”

“You think of me so tenderly,” Kenzie whispered, looking up at him. “It takes my breath away.”

Duncan’s eyes were still closed, as if he was afraid to look at her; “I love you so much, Kenzie. I don’t have words for it. It...scares me. But it’s the most amazing...the most moving thing I’ve ever felt...” Kenzie’s eyes fell over his wildly beautiful face; like this, he was like an aspect of the Pieta, or some aching divinity; to be loved by him shatters my soul into a thousand pieces, each one raw with sensitivity, each one alive with so much feeling I can barely stand it.

“I love you too, Duncan. Please tell me you felt it from me.”

He nodded; his eyes opened and they were shining with tears again. “I did. I do. And I heard those thoughts towards my mother from you, baby--I heard you--that we’ll help people and create beautiful things--and we will, I promise we will, I love you so.”

Kenzie sat up and pressed a kiss into him, and smiled; “Oh, Duncan.”

“With you beside me, Mackenzie, I promise we will make everything I have--everything we have--into something beautiful. Baby, I swear.” He brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing along her fingers, making low heat coil in her belly.

“Duncan, we can make so many people happy. As happy as this. As happy as we are,” she said, and then Kenzie suddenly pressed the tips of her fingers into Duncan’s torso, unable to keep her smile at bay, dancing them along his skin, all of her joy spilling out of her; a peal of laughter burst out of him and Duncan jerked to the side to get away from her tickles, and then he pulled her down onto him and rained kisses between her breasts and Kenzie thought more joy is coming and our love will make us brave and so bright and our love will bring light to others and she knew, in the deepest part of her soul, that it was true.

------

When Kenzie woke the sun was shining down onto the bed (it’s summer, she thought, we should go to the beach soon, I’d love that, kissing him in the sand with the blue ocean stretched out before us) and Duncan was (wonderfully, blessedly) still sleeping quietly beside her. They’d slept naked (like that first night, Kenzie’s thoughts drifted, sleepily, eyes roving over his saintly face, the delicate incline of his eyelashes, the pout of his lips, whatever dream she’d had instantly forgotten, that first night where my heart was shattered by you and you kissed my ankles and said god, you taste good and I fucked you wearing that necklace that had taken me so long to save the money for and when you woke you hovered over me again, desirous, and I knew it hadn’t been a dream, and I knew I’d be content to always be in your bed, a bed we’ve now made ours from our passion), and Kenzie could feel the delicate press of his fingers against her hip, their bodies turned towards each other, Duncan’s curls falling over the pillow. She pressed her toes into the incline of the top of his ankle, down his foot and up again, where she could feel the hairs on his smooth, long leg, and pressed toward him, hungry for his heat. Kenzie lifted her face up into Duncan’s neck, sending little kisses down from the incline of his jaw to his adam’s apple and the elegant fall of his collarbones; Duncan let out a little pliant sigh, his big hand coming up from her hip to clutch her against him, immediately needy; she marveled again at the way it seemed to cover so much of her body, wherever it touched her; she felt enveloped under his hands, cradled in his colossal embrace. Kenzie felt the hardness between his legs press between hers (fuck, he always has an erection in the morning, ugh, fuck me baby) and the musky smell of him fell through her (he smells like sex, like the woods after warm rain) and he said “Kenzie,” and she thought like a prayer, he says my name so lovingly, “what time is it, baby.”

“Only after 8.” The smell of him was making her dizzy, making her cunt pulse down towards where she felt his cock pressing to the inside of her thigh; Duncan’s eyes opened to stare at her, and Kenzie breathed out a little, wondering if she’d ever not feel frozen with the intensity of his gaze. “We can sleep for hours still if we want to, baby...”

Duncan kissed her gently, just once, sleep still clinging to his eyes; Kenzie brought her hand up to brush the bits of skin that had gathered at the corners of them away with one careful finger, admiring the hairs along his jaw and the straight fall of his nose, the dusting of tiny beauty marks along his left cheek. His eyes were open still, half-closed with the remnants of the sleep he’d just left; and he said “You were an angel in the dream I was having,” and his eyes fluttered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, one of his hands coming up between her shoulder blades, one falling down to clutch, fingers spreading, over her ass cheek.

“Oh really. An angel, huh?” She pressed more kisses into his chest; into the bones of his shoulders, still marveling at his smell. Duncan was nodding into her, greedily; pressing her mouth up into his, his fingers tightening around her skin, speaking between their lips; “Yes. You had wings and a halo that looked like it was made of stars...of starlight. I was...I don’t know who I was. I was dark. I was something dark. And you put your arms around me and I was full of light and relief. Your touch was...healing. It healed me. You were divine, baby. You are divine.”

“You aren’t dark, Duncan. You aren’t.”

“Kenzie...I’ve done...there are things I’ve done that--”

“Shhhh. They don’t matter now. We’re together. You aren’t dark. You aren’t.”

His tongue was in her mouth and she was shifting up onto him in the soft morning light, on the incline of his hips against the trail of hair on his abdomen that led to his groin, pushing herself up from the center of his chest so the lips of her vulva were pressing down into the upper side of his morning wood, and he moaned into her; “I’m never gonna stop wanting to fuck you, Kenzie,” and she said “Good, baby, because you’re gonna fuck me again right now,” and she lifted her hips and pushed herself down onto his thick erection so she was straddling his thighs and Kenzie whined as he filled her, “god, baby, you’re so fucking hard,” and he groaned a little, as if trying to steel himself against the intensity of the sensation, and Kenzie put two fingers in her mouth and rolled them along her tongue; saliva dripped from them as she brought them out and pressed them against her clit and worked at herself, hard and immediate, as she rolled her hips on him, his shaft totally buried inside her so she could feel the knobbed surface of his balls against the bottom of her ass, feel him throb deep inside her, filling her so much she wondered if he’d tear her apart; it made her shudder and throw her head back, and she watched his eyes, hazy with sleep a moment ago, go wide and roll back as she rode his aching cock.

“We all have darkness in us--” Kenzie breathed down at him as she moved her hips and rubbed at her clit, building a tantric cadence with her body, “--but you have so much good and so much loveliness in you, baby, and it was there before we met, I know it--”; Duncan’s hands came up, one pressing to her breast and kneading at her nipple, hard now in her arousal, the other at the small of her back, his nails digging into her skin there, as if to chain her against him; “Don’t stop, baby, god you feel like fucking heaven, fuck me,” and his voice begged, she could hear the edge in it, the need; she smiled, and he gazed up at her, his expression rapturous; that beautiful face, that gorgeous face, like a God, like Hades to his beloved Persephone, like Dionysus beholding Ariadne, like Apollo, most fair, smitten with Daphne, or Eros folding Psyche into his arms: just for me, when he looks at me that way. It’s only for me, and I know it. I can feel it. That gaze is for me and me alone, for I am most beloved among all to him.

“Kenzie, angel,” he breathed, and she watched his eyes flutter with the wave of his release rising, the intensity of the softness and wetness and tightness between her legs; god I love to see him in the light, she thought, I want to stare at him all fucking day, I want to drink him like wine. Her sex ached; ached with their fucking from the night before, ached with need for him now, ached so wonderfully that she thought she might faint from it, the intensity of the want there coiling like a spring that would cut and maim when it broke forth; “let me, baby, please, let me touch you,” he whispered, and she lifted her fingers from her clit to let the large, warm pad of his index finger flush itself against the bud of nerves between her legs, her hand falling down over his palm to grip at his wrist, holding him there--”There, that’s better, baby,” he murmured, “God, I can’t wait to get that fucking mirror,” and she nodded and said “You wanna watch yourself fuck me, huh, baby,” and he said “Fuck yes, I wanna watch myself fuck you, Kenzie, angel baby, fucking goddess,” and she laughed a little, and her laugh seemed to stir his desire further and she felt his length spasm inside her and his other hand came up from her breast and around her neck and she gasped a little “Fucking yes, baby,” and he squeezed, the pressure of his fingers constricting the air from her lungs and Kenzie’s heart pounded harshly in the center of her, and her sex twinged under his fingers and then he was pressing his hips up into her and moaning her name as he came, “Kenzie, angel, Kenzie, baby--” and she whimpered as he hand went tighter for a moment, tight enough to make her gasp longer, harder, fuck yes, baby, I love your hand there, forcing me down onto you this way, she knew he heard, and then she came under his hands, came and knew that as she did, he saw the halo around her head as she hovered over him in the sunlight; the halo he’d seen in his dream.

------

“Baby, I was thinking--” Duncan said as she sat at the black obsidian island in the kitchen, in the Marie Laveau tee shirt, staring down at her phone in one hand (Instagram; the comments on the photo of them together were absolutely wild and it had wracked up over 35,000 likes; Claire had already sent her several links to websites gushing about the photo, including one from BPF.com: DUNCAN SHEPHERD AND GIRLFRIEND MACKENZIE STONE POST FIRST SELFIE TOGETHER ON INSTAGRAM; LEGIONS OF FANS COIN NICKNAME “DUCKENZIE”), hair over her shoulder, a spoon poised in her other hand over the bowl of granola with blueberries and blackberries he’d given her, to her delight--”We own a cabin around Deep Creek Lake...it’s about a three hour drive from the city, and it’s...well, it’s a very large cabin, very secluded. Sometimes my Uncle BIll and my mother still use it for private parties, mostly. We used to go there more often when I was young, but it’s been about two years since the last time I stayed there. I was thinking...we could go there and stay for a few days. After the Gala. We could get away from the paps and my mother and everything...all of this. It’s so beautiful there and there are deer sometimes and I think--”

“Yes, baby, fucking yes,” Kenzie cut him off. “Dunny, I would fucking love that.” She couldn’t stop the grin that broke over her face as he turned to her, his blue eyes smiling down at her incredulously, the espresso he’d just made her in his hand. “Dunny, huh? That’s a new one.” He brought it over to her (he was in black sweats again, his torso bare) and she leaned up as his face came down to her; his kiss tasted like bitter coffee and sweet berries and him, all of him, and she sighed into him, gently pulling the copper espresso cup from his hand, her fingers trailing over his languidly.

“That’s what I wanna call you, baby,” She grinned again. “Dunnybunny.” She laughed. Duncan snorted, his face breaking out into a smirk that became a snorting laugh of his own. “I can’t wait to see my mother’s face when you call me that in her presence.”

“Oh, I definitely will, in that case. Not much will make your mother like me less than she already does, so I have nothing to lose.”

“She does like you, though. She can’t help it. The way she kept mentioning that you look like Madeline; that was her way of showing you affection. How could anyone not like you, baby?” His fingers came across the island as he leaned down onto it, trailing down her arm, her wrist, her hand; Kenzie’s phone lay just beyond her fingertips; Duncan glanced at it, noticing the Instagram photo open on it, eyes falling over the hundreds of thousands of likes. “Everyone loves you. And they should.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she smiled up at him, toying with the ends of his fingers, feeling her cheeks blush. Duncan smiled again as he turned away to make another espresso, this one for himself. “Yes, Miss Stone, whatever you say, Miss Stone.”

“Ugh, no, don’t,” and she stood and ran over to him and threw her arms around his back, burying her face in his skin, hair falling in her eyes. “Don’t call me that. Call me baby. Call me Kenzie. Call me angel.”

“Fuck,” and he turned around so she was looking up into his eyes and he said “Kenzie, I will call you angel a thousand times a day if you want me to, anything you want belongs to you now, just say it, just tell me what it is and it’s yours, okay? I mean it. Anything, baby. When’s your birthday, anyway?”

“July 17th. Anchaly told me you’re a Cancer too, so yours must be close to mine.” Kenzie’s arms still gripped Duncan’s hips, and his hand had come around to that soft spot under her ear, down into her hair, the tangles of sleep brushed out. “July 6th,” he answered, pressing his lips into her forehead as she stood there barefoot, feeling tiny in his embrace again, wildly vulnerable and soft and small. “My mother always insists on having a huge party...invites a hundred people, all politicians and celebrities, god, I always hate it, but this year--this year I’ll love it because you’ll be there.” “Mmhmm, of course I will, baby...but I have no idea what to do for a present--what do I get for the man who has everything?” She grinned up at him.

“I do have everything. Now, I truly do, baby. Now the party will always be for you, too. Oh, Kenzie, I love that. I love that our birthdays are close.” He pushed his fingers gently along her cheek, his arm around her shoulder; the tenderness in his voice made her heart shake. “Kenzie, I love you so much, being with you is like--like I’m fucking high as a kite all the time, wonderfully drunk--” he pressed his lips down onto her cheek, along to her ear, and Kenzie shivered, her body arching up into him, unable to stop herself. “That cabin sounds so wonderful, baby,” Kenzie said, trying to break the spell that had begun to weave between them again--she��d have to get ready to go to the Shepherd mansion soon, it wouldn’t do to arrive disheveled in front of Annette Shepherd from fucking her son on the table. But I do want him to fuck me on the table, Kenzie realized. We haven’t fucked on the table--not this one or that fucking beautiful cherrywood table in the other room--I want him to lay me down on it and fuck my fucking brains out standing. “To get away from everything like that sounds so perfect, everything has just been so insane…”

Duncan pulled away from her, nodding. “That’s why I thought of it. I don’t want you to get...overwhelmed. The paps are enough to drive anyone insane, but they hound this family like wolves at raw meat, ever since my grandfather became one of the richest men in America back in the 70’s. And the way they’re acting around you scares me. I want you to be safe and happy more than anything, baby. And it’ll be just the two of us. Just us.” His hand fell against her lips, probing gently. Kenzie opened her mouth a little to let his finger in, tongue swirling over it, her eyes lifted to his and she could see the heated desire coiled there again, could see the shape of the thoughts drifting inside him; he’s thinking about getting a hook for the ceiling in our bedroom, a hook to hang velvet rope, rope to tie me up and fuck me standing while we watch each other in a gilded mirror and I fall down onto his face as he eats me on his knees and he’s thinking about using that plug on me and then fucking my ass himself, fucking me hard in the ass with his big cock and coming inside me there, and her senses tingled and vibrated with the onslaught of these thoughts. Fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. She sucked at his finger as his thoughts crashed against her, and his eyes went bright with his arousal--blue like the summer sky drifting outside these windows, all my little plants hanging along it now, resting on the spotless sill--Kenzie was sure she had never wanted a man so much in her life as much as she wanted Duncan; she wanted every part of him, every secret, every shadow, every crevice and contour of him memorized, every inch explored, and the desire for him seemed to grow rather than dissipate every time they fucked, every time they came close together as if their minds were linked (but they are, we can each other’s fucking thoughts sometimes), every time he made her come with his mouth and his hands and his hard cock. The thought of exploring each other for days, sheltered by woods and a lake and the quiet of nature, with no one to tell them where to be and no one to take photos of them and no one to stare at them or scold them or probe them for details made her ache; god, that couldn’t come soon enough. But there was so much still to get through, first. Ugh.

“I should get ready to go to your mother’s house, baby,” Kenzie whispered, with regret. Duncan was leaning down to her again, his nose brushing against hers, his mouth hovering just above hers, his breath shallow, his thumb wet with her spit, now trailing along her bottom lip. “But I heard that. And the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, Kenzie.” He pushed his mouth onto hers and she returned his aching kiss for a moment, then pulled back and spoke into him, hearing his breath go ragged.

“While I’m with your mother, you should do some shopping. For us.”

“Uh huh, Kenzie. Yes, baby.”

She slid out of his grasp; Duncan groaned in frustration, and Kenzie could see the flush of his skin, looking at him over her shoulder as she stepped towards the bedroom. Her hip ran into the edge of the island, not looking where she was going; she blushed, wincing, and Duncan bit his lip, looking down at the floor and then back up at her, shyly. Kenzie saw the vulnerability in his gaze at her having heard those thoughts, raw and carnal and full of hedonistic want of her; but they had sent a thrill through her, one that made her think of the colossal painting that stretched across his study again; The Youth of Bacchus, the pleasures of the flesh, my body and your body, baby, together, where they belong.

“Wanna come watch me get dressed, baby?”

“Ugh, yes,” Duncan groaned, and came after her as she ran towards the bedroom, past the dark red roses on the coffee table, laughing.

------

Most of Kenzie’s clothes were still on the rolling clothing rack she’d used in her old apartment; the clothes that had been in her sun-and-moon dresser still stacked neatly in large boxes. Duncan had, somewhat shyly, asked if he could put all her things away for her--while she was busy with Annette--in the drawers on the right side of the walk-in closet; “I’m going to move the things I have in there out; it’s your side now.” “Are you kidding, baby, it’s my dream for someone else to do my laundry for me. You can put my clothes away every damn day. You can be my personal stylist,” and she clutched him around the waist for a moment, pressing against him, and he smiled down at her. “You’ll have one of those for real very soon, baby,” he replied. “Annette insists, for all public events. Also--now that I’m thinking of it--I have a service deliver groceries here several times a week. If you write down everything you think we need and give it to Anchaly in the morning, it’s here at night. It’s safer--and especially after that incident yesterday, baby, I think you shouldn’t go out alone for things like that. Harris should be with you if you need to go shopping for any reason. You should use the card I gave you to order anything you need online as much as you want to; Anchaly signs for packages, too.”

Kenzie frowned a little, leaning away from him, going over to her hanging rack and pulling out a black collared sweater with short sleeves, throwing it on its hanger on the bed. She leaned over one of the boxes that littered the corner, finding the high-waisted mini skirt she was looking for; it was black too, with gold buttons down the front. She pulled the Marie Laveau shirt off, standing there in just her underwear for a moment; as she pulled the skirt up, wiggling it over her hips, she avoided Duncan’s gaze from where he stood standing at the door of the walk-in closet, leaning against it, eyes focused on her; she couldn’t hear him right now, but knew anyway that he was looking at her with both affectionate concern and desire.

“Kenzie. I understand your frustration, baby. I do.”

Kenzie breathed out, leaning over another box, finding a strapless tan-colored bra, snapping it over her arms and pulling the cups over her little breasts (she’d remembered reading somewhere that for fittings a strapless bra should be worn), and then she turned to him, in just her bra and skirt, the frown still creasing over her face. I can’t help it, she thought. This sucks. “It just...makes me fucking sad, baby,” she said, tucking a golden-tawny wave behind her ear, reaching for the shirt she’d tossed on the bed. Duncan came over to where she stood; he slid onto the bedspread, grasping her hand before she could pull it away, crossing his legs, pulling her gently down to him. “Like I’ve given up a part of me...one that could go to the grocery store and just...get groceries. Fuck.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s like this.”

She knelt on the bedspread, mussed from their passion and their sleep, looking at him; the bareness of his shoulders and the fall of his hair and his expression of remorse, blue eyes burning, oh, those eyes; then she pressed her arms around his neck, and Duncan put his face into her hair and pulled her into his lap, breathing her in.

“I know it’s not your fault, baby,” she murmured. “I just...I can’t believe...in just a week...so much can change. Everything. You know?”

“Baby, I know. Everything is different now. It feels strange to me too--everything I thought I wanted for the company...it was really something my uncle wants-- something my mother wants. I want something else. I want what you said, what you thought across that table when you looked at my mother--to bring other people happiness like this.”

Kenzie nodded into his neck, her body filling with sweet affection for him, a golden cascade of love--to choose your light over your darkness takes courage, my dearest love, and I am so proud of you, so proud to know you and love you in this moment, was the thought she pushed into him, and his arms tightened around her and she felt the emotion in the way he moved his head against her, felt the tremor in him, overcome with her admonition. You aren’t dark. You’ve chosen to be something else. That’s what matters.

Kenzie heard her phone trumpet from the kitchen island where she’d left it; she glanced over at the silver alarm clock on Duncan’s side of the bed and noticed it was 11:30 exactly. “Baby, I think I have to go soon,” she whispered into him and Duncan sighed. “I wish we could just stay home together, today,” he murmured into her.

“Me too, baby. But tomorrow we can. Tomorrow we have the whole day to ourselves. Maybe I can finally put all my things away.” She kissed him and Duncan closed his eyes; “Or we can just fuck all day, baby,” he said into her mouth, and Kenzie grinned into him, shivering. “I’m curious how many times I can make you come in a row--” And she wiggled out of his arms teasingly as he said this, loving the hungry look in his eyes. “Get that mirror and that hook,” she said, staring at him for a long moment, “and we can test that theory,” then, Kenzie went back over to the boxes in the corner, pulling out a pair of black socks, slipping them on her feet. Duncan watched the incline of her leg, letting out another soft little moan, almost involuntary; then he climbed off the bed and went to the walk-in closet, pushing his sweatpants down as he did, kicking them off, still looking over his shoulder into her eyes as his cock came free of its constraints, not quite erect, but not soft either; in that between state of arousal and anticipation; he slowly moved his hand down to it, gripping its shaft for a moment, leaning against the doorway, eyes falling up and down her body in the little sweater and mini skirt, his mouth open just a little, and Kenzie bit her lip. “Bad boy,” she whispered. “I’m gonna punish you later.” He grinned at her and went into the closet. Kenzie passed by to get her phone from the kitchen and couldn’t help but glance to him undressed, his back turned to her now; his wide shoulders extending down to his round ass and thick thighs, the fine hairs on his legs visible in the warm light of the closet. Beloved. Like the statue of David. I really do wish we could stay in bed all day, worshiping each other. If we ever get tired of fucking, it won’t be anytime soon.

Kenzie reached for her phone as she reached the island, looking down at the text.

Samuel: Miss Mackenzie, ready when you are.

Harris had today off; Kenzie supposed it wasn’t necessary to have him at the Shepherd mansion (there was no chance of paps being there; there was heavy security around the clock), though, she thought, it would have been nice to have his large presence beside her, in case Annette tries to poison me, only half-facetiously, biting her lip. On my way down in 5, she replied. Thanks Samuel. Kenzie went back to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway of the walk-in closet; Duncan was mostly dressed now, in tailored black slacks and a short-sleeved button down; “I don’t think I’ve seen you in short sleeves yet, baby,” she said softly, coming up to him as he did the top button, facing her; glancing up at her. “You look nice. You always look nice. But I like you in short sleeves. You look more...relaxed, or something.”

“I’m pretty sure naked is the most relaxed state you’ve seen me in, Kenzie,” he said, eyes in hers, his radiantly beautiful smile making her shy again. “Also, the short sleeves are for practical reasons--the high today is 81.” Kenzie turned to where several pairs of her shoes were lined against the floor; she hadn’t had time to organize these yet either, but she picked out her long black pointed boots, leaning against the drawers as she pulled them on under Duncan’s watchful eye; he was switching between buckling on his black Movado and staring at her legs again as they vanished under the black velvety fabric of the boots; they always made her feel pretty when she wore them, and she felt like she could use all the help she could get if Annette was going to be breathing down her neck for a few hours. “Samuel’s waiting for me downstairs, baby,” she said, looking up at him, straightening, clutching her phone in one hand, reaching for him with the other; he grasped her arm, stepping forward, and leaned down into her, and his heady, musk-wood smell fell over her again, dizzying and deep. “I’ll text you when I’m done with your mom, okay?”

“Okay, baby. Thank you for doing this. But remember what I said, if you don’t like what she wants you to wear, you don’t have to wear it. Erik is reasonable, he’ll understand.”

Kenzie reached over to where some of her jewelry was lined on the accessory shelf built into the side (her side) of the closet; she slipped the long necklace with tiny gold star charms on it around her neck; it dangled to her stomach, and she flipped her hair back over her shoulders, placing her hands on her hips. “How do I look, baby.”

“Like my Kenzie. Like a fucking angel.”

“Can you see my halo and wings still?”

“Always.”

She blushed; ugh, this fucking Prince. Fuck me, pressing her face up to kiss him again, then dancing away as he tried to grab her closer--”You are too fucking good at that,” he said after her, his eyes like deep ocean, and she giggled as she snatched the little convertible bag from where she’d left it by the wall in the living room, dipping down to smell the roses on the table, their evocative sweetness floating up at her; she glanced towards where she knew his bust of Nike was on the left side of the Bouguereau prints, and spoke a silent prayer for a day that wasn’t rife with the stresses of yesterday; spoke a silent prayer that in Annette Shepherd’s presence, she would be fearless and calm. Duncan followed her out, barefoot; he watched her go to the door and pull it open, and she said, “Wish me luck, baby.”

“You don’t need luck, Kenzie. You are beloved of the gods.”

She stared at him, puzzled; she could feel the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “That’s a funny thing to say, Duncan.” He came up to her, hands falling through her hair with adamant affection, before she could slip away from him again. “It’s true. I said it because it’s true. I feel it. Destiny. Our destiny. This wasn’t luck. It was destiny. It is our destiny.”

The doubt slipped from her mind; the confusion melted. “It really is, isn’t it.”

“Yes. It really is.” He kissed her fiercely again; his mouth bruising into hers; touching in thin tendrils down to her stomach. She pressed into him for a moment, suddenly possessed by her sadness at leaving him; then pulled away softly and stepped into the hall.

“I’ll see you in a few hours, baby.”

“Mhm, Kenzie. I love you.”

“And I, your Persephone, love you.”

“Oh, baby--”

Kenzie ran away from him down the hall to the elevator, which magically, somehow, opened for her before she even pressed the button. She turned as the doors slid shut, and he was leaning against the frame of the penthouse entrance, arm clutching the lintel, eyes on her, and she knew he was thinking of flowers in her hair again, petals floating down and leaving a secret trail behind her as she descended back to earth.

-----

Samuel had his foot on the gas of the BMW as soon as Kenzie slid into the backseat; she’d taken more time than she thought upstairs (your son was distracting me, Annette) and it was fifteen till the hour. Today he was listening to Fleetwood Mac; Kenzie clapped her hands together, delighted; listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise--”Samuel, can you turn it up?” She saw Samuel’s very white grin at her in the rearview, and watched his hand reach out to the knob on the Harman Kardon sound system; Stevie and Lindsey’s voices crashed into her on either side as if they were in the backseat with her.

“And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again, I can still hear you sayin’, you would never break the chain--” Samuel had the windows down and the wind whipped her hair across her cheek and neck, and Kenzie thought of Duncan’s hands and his blue gaze and his mouth and his hair on his forehead and the stubble on his cheeks and his height towering over her but his looks of longing into her eyes and toyed with the little stars on her necklace, feeling them carefully, singing along softly to herself. We can hear each other’s thoughts sometimes. A week ago I would have thought current me had lost her fucking mind. But I know it’s real. How can it be real? I don’t fucking know. But it is.

“Miss Mackenzie, your voice is so beautiful,” Samuel said, glancing up at her, the smile still at his mouth. “You should have been a singer, like Ms. Nicks.”

“Thank you, Samuel. To be compared to Stevie is the highest of compliments.”

“Just so.”

Chain, keep up together...Chain, keep us together…

As Samuel pulled up to the gate of the Shepherd mansion, Kenzie’s stomach did a backflip and she floated away from the strains of Christine’s high, cheerful voice: you, you make loving fun, it’s all I wanna do--Holy fuck, Kenzie thought. This is huge even for a mansion. She could see the tall Colonial-style windows over the gate, the Roman pillars extending in the doorway, a balcony above. I need to remember Duncan’s family is one of the richest in the country. Fuck. Am I ever gonna get used to this? Samuel spoke into the intercom (“Mackenzie Stone here to see Annette Shepherd,”) and the gate buzzed open. Kenzie glanced down at her phone; it was five till. She silently thanked Samuel’s magical powers of speed again. Samuel pulled up around the curving driveway to the entrance; vast double doors seemed to stare down at her with hostile judgement. Kenz, you got this. Remember the way Duncan pushed his love into you last night. The way you gathered it and moved it and made it more. You can gather it that way again, just remember that feeling. Be brave like Momby.

Kenzie breathed out, thanked Samuel (and silently, Stevie) and stepped out of the car, boots clicking on the smooth, tasteful cobble of the driveway, looking up at the house, bag slung over her shoulder, phone clutched in her palm. It was sunny and beautiful today; it was truly beginning to feel like summer. Kenzie breathed in deeply and let it out again; don’t let her get to you, no matter what she says, Kenzie. Momby wouldn’t. Duncan wouldn’t. Don’t do it.

She waved a little at Samuel before she shut the door; “I’ll text you when I’m done, is that okay, Samuel?” “Of course, Miss Mackenzie. See you later.” She turned away as it clicked shut, steeling herself again for a moment, then going up the three wide, smooth white steps to the double doors, both with opulent knobs made of embossed gold; she hesitated, unsure of the etiquette; do I knock? Kenzie reached out and turned one of the knobs, apprehensively, peeking her head slowly into the interior of the house. Inside, it was as opulent a place as she had ever seen; if Duncan’s penthouse was spotless, you could eat a steak off the floor of the foyer of this house; Kenzie felt immediately far too ordinary to be here; too flawed, too insecure, and far too human. She toyed with the idea of running out, waving Samuel down and speeding off. But that, of course, was impossible.

A woman came towards her, beckoning sternly. She was very tall (probably taller than Duncan, Kenzie thought, reminded of Harris) and had hair so blonde it was almost white; it was pulled back into a very tight bun that looked painful to Kenzie, and her face was done up with carefully-applied, subdued makeup, her thin, nude-lipsticked lips pressed together tightly. She wore a very tight, very neat pantsuit in dark gray with low black kitten heels, and she looked very strong, with wide shoulders and hips. “Mackenzie Stone, come here.” Her voice had a slight accent, one that Kenzie couldn’t place. Danish? Swedish? “I am Ingrid. They are in the South Wing.” Kenzie jumped inside, pulling the big door shut behind her; the foyer was eerily quiet but for a huge grandfather clock swinging in one corner. Ingrid beckoning with a short motion again; “Come, now, thank you.”

Kenzie stepped quickly behind the woman, who moved very fast and almost noiselessly; I bet this woman could kill someone easily without ever getting caught, Kenzie thought with a chill. I guess Annette needs people like that around her. Ingrid led her around the right side of the curving double staircase, down a hallway hidden behind it, towards the far end of the mansion; if Duncan has one Bouguereau original, I can’t even contemplate how many of these are authentic, Kenzie thought, gazing around at the paintings that adorned the walls (they seemed to mostly be a mixture of Impressionist and Modern art--but there’s nothing here as beautiful as The Youth of Bacchus, she thought, it’s the most beautiful painting I have ever seen, and my boyfriend OWNS it), the sconces and shelves that held Ming vases and sculptures and china and embossed books. Ingrid turned a corner sharply, then opened a long white door (another embossed gold knob) to a round, wide parlor room, modified to look like a dressing room, with a round dais in the center and several mannequins along one wall, a few very beautiful Regent-style white-and-gold armchairs littered here and there; Kenzie saw Annette stretched languidly in one of them, dressed in a flawless cream-colored wrap dress with a black sash tied at her waist, her perfectly styled hair falling down her shoulder, her expression hidden by the angle, and a man with a very bright floral scarf, a shiny bald head and very long false eyelashes standing with a hip cocked facing the doorway, gesturing at her flamboyantly and telling a story, animatedly.

“--I said honey-bun, you don’t get to tell me what the fuck I’m going to do, I tell you what the fuck I’m going to do, then you give me the time I need to fucking do it.” The man cocked his head, batting his lashes. Annette let out a little barking laugh. “Needless to say, I--” The man broke off, noticing Ingrid at the door, and Kenzie hovering behind her.

Annette glanced back. “Oh. Mackenzie. You’re actually on time.”

Uhhhhh. Kenzie’s hands came up to the star necklace, noticing her hand was trembling. What would have happened if I wasn’t?

“Thank you, Ingrid, you can shut the door.”

Ingrid gave Annette a curt nod, and gave Kenzie a long glance as she left, her eyes going from Kenzie’s feet up her body to her hair around her shoulders and down again, a judging glint in her cold eyes. Yep, you got it, I’m fucking Duncan, you’re right, Kenzie thought. Stare away, make sure I have the right genetics and the birthing hips and my boobs are the right size. I wonder what Annette will say when she hears I don’t want to have kids, ha! The door shut behind the woman with a loud, clean click, and the man in the eyelashes came toward Kenzie, pressing his hands theatrically to his cheeks.

“My, my, my, what a little cupcake you are.” He reached for her hands and Kenzie extended her palms into his, her cheeks burning with apprehension. “A little rose petal, a babydoll blooming bud, a teensy slice of delectable red velvet. I’ll bet he’s been nibbling at you night and day.”

“Erik, that’s enough,” Annette said, and Kenzie glanced over to her to see an expression of sharp annoyance in her eyes; whatever mirth may have been on Annette’s face a moment ago was gone, replaced with a calculating neutrality.

“Lord, Annette, as if you can’t see why he’s absolutely head-over-heels.” Erik rolled his eyes, letting Kenzie go, giving her a little wink that Annette couldn’t see from where she sat. Kenzie pressed her lips together tightly, trying not to smile. I like him. “She’s like a tiny little princess in a fairy tale. Snow White. Rose Red. Princess Peach. I’m Erik, sweet thing. And you’re Mackenzie. And this is Annette--oh, you knew that, of course.” Erik turned to Annette, giving her a long look and a coy smile.

“Mackenzie, come here, we have a lot of work to do and I have a meeting at 3,” Annette said to her curtly, standing up and beckoning to the dais. “Erik needs to take your measurements, and then we need to discuss a color palette.”

“I’m thinking mod,” Erik gestured vaguely towards Kenzie’s hips, flicking his wrist. “Like Edie Sedgwick at a Renaissance fair.” Annette made an exasperated noise from the back of her throat as Kenzie came up beside her, heart pounding, and grasped Kenzie’s arm suddenly with a tight, pinching grip, pushing her onto the dais. “Measurements, please, Erik. Mackenzie, hold still.”

Erik spent the next ten minutes or so pressing a measuring tape along Kenzie’s body as she moved as he told her to; Kenzie looked down from Annette’s appraising gaze, which seemed as cold and heavy as ice; she tried to remember the warmth that had spread around the table over dinner last night, but it slipped away from her, just beyond her grasp; without Duncan there, Kenzie felt lost inside her doubt, caught in the approximate, austere eyes of his mother. I doubt those comments from Erik helped warm her heart to me today, Kenzie thought, exasperated. Her stomach felt sour and she contemplated asking for a glass of water, but Annette’s frown deterred her. She remembered Annette didn’t know she’d moved into Duncan’s penthouse yet; oh fuck, she’s really gonna love that one. Annette’s quietness unnerved her--who knew what Duncan’s mother was thinking behind her dark-well eyes. Erik fussed over her, as if to fill the silence between them: “Look at your tiny little hourglass! Those hips, my dear, absolutely to die for. A pity you’re not a little taller, then again, Madeline was never known for her height, was she. How is she these days, by the way?”

“Very well, thanks for asking.” Kenzie’s eyes slid to Annette, who raised her eyebrows, then back to Erik, who was pressing the measuring tape along her bust with careful precision; he had clearly done this a thousand times before her, and his interest in her breasts was completely non-existent beyond the practicality of his duties. “She’s retired now. We had a wonderful time with her the other night.” She looked at Annette again for a moment, seeing the angry flash in the other woman’s eyes; kicking the hornet’s nest, Kenz, she scolded herself, but it was too late; heat was rising behind her temples. I am good enough for your son, Annette. You may never think so, but that doesn’t fucking matter. You’re going to accept me eventually because your son loves me and that’s not going to change. This is our destiny. He said so himself to me. He knows it too. I may not be the trust-fund heiress to an oil company in Texas you would have chosen for him, but I’m the one for him, tough shit.

Erik seemed to have finished his measurements, taking note of them on a little yellow notepad with a fountain pen in his manicured fingers; “Annette, what do you think for colors. I’m thinking black and white with a gold embellishment.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Annette said, her tone biting. She sat in the armchair facing Kenzie, eyes falling down Kenzie’s small form; half-full of resentment, half a simmering superiority.

“Ummmmm,” Erik said, rolling his eyes a little again. “Honey, you’re the one who insisted she do this with you in the first place.” Kenzie gave him a grateful look.

“Mackenzie, I hope you understood how serious I was last night,” Annette said, ignoring Erik. Kenzie bit into the inside of her cheek, willing herself to stay calm. “If you are offered another article in the nature of the one published on Friday, you will turn it down.”

“Annette, with all due respect, I’m a journalist working for a liberal publication. I’m not a Republican, and dating Duncan doesn’t suddenly make me a centrist. Maybe you should ask Duncan what he really wants for the company in the first place, since he’s going to be helping you run it soon.” The words tumbled out of her, and Kenzie immediately bit her lip, fumbling her hands together. Oh fuck, Kenz. What was that.

A cold pallor fell over Annette’s face; it made Kenzie’s blood chill in her veins. Erik’s mouth snapped shut and he raised his eyebrows, a little hiss of air escaping his lips. Annette sat up very straight in the chair, setting her hands on the armrests with her fingers tightly curled. “He told you that, did he,” she hissed.

“Yes. We’re together now. I deserve to know about his life.” Kenzie tried to quell the tremble that had started in her hands; adrenaline pumped through her, making her feel as though she’d just taken a hit of weed. “You seem determined to hate me, Annette, but I don’t hate you at all. I wish you could see that Duncan doesn’t want what you want; that he’s sensitive and good and kind and wants to be surrounded by real things, beautiful things. He just wants to be loved, just wants to love--and we love each other. Why would you try to deny him of that?”

“I don’t have time for this today.” Annette stood, eyes blazing. “Mackenzie, if you speak a word of what Duncan has told you to anyone, I will make sure you seriously regret it. Erik, get her a fucking dress, I don’t give a shit what it looks like. Give her a fucking brown bag to wear for all I care.” She stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

“Oh, honey, you are Madeline Stone’s daughter, aren’t you?” Erik turned to Kenzie, a grin falling over his features, his long eyelashes batting at her. “She had that coming; and you have nerves of steel.”

“Not really feeling like it at the moment,” Kenzie said, voice audibly shaking. Now that she had started to come down from the adrenaline, she felt woozy and sick.

“So, what do you want to wear?” He pressed a finger to the side of his face.

Kenzie tried to clear her head, her mind frenzied and racing from the exchange with Annette; then, like clouds parting to the sun, she thought of the one friend who had been a constant in her life since they were in middle school; their friendship carrying her through high school and shitty jobs and college and a breakup and her bumpy first year at the Post when her self-doubt had been at an all-time high. Clairebear. Morgan Winthrop.

“My...my best friend Claire. She works for a designer. Morgan Winthrop.”

“Oh, honey, I know Morgan. We go way back. We used to go to Studio 54 together. You want Morgan to make your dress?”

“I--Yes. Yes I do.” Kenzie tossed her head back, pushing her chin out. To hell with this. It’s my life and my relationship and if I have to go to this Gala, I want to wear what I want to wear. The theme is based on me after all. Gold in the darkness. He said it was based on me. That it’s for me. It’s me.

“Darling, I think that’s marvelous.” Erik tucked his head down to her conspiratorially. “I can see why you’d be drawn to Morgan’s aesthetic. And I think she’d know just what to do for you. A little birdy told me Duncan based the theme on you, a little slice of starlight--little golden moonbeam that you are. I’ve never seen him this way. You’ve gotten down under his skin, babydoll. You’re in the soul of him, now.”

“So...you’ll help me?”

“Darling. In a minute. I want to see that boy happy. And Annette does, too. She just needs to realize that. With your help, I have a sneaky suspicion that won’t take as long as one might have thought. You’re a bold little burst of fresh air.”

Kenzie hopped down from the dias, heart pounding, and went to the armchair where she’d placed her convertible bag, pulling her phone in its gold case out, opening her contacts to Clairebear. She hit the call button, raising the phone to her ear. Claire picked up after two rings. “Hello, Kenzie? Is everything okay?”

“Clairebear, I need your help. I need Morgan’s help. I need Morgan to make my dress for the Shepherd Freedom Foundation Gala. And I need it to be the most amazing fucking dress of all time.”

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