#this chapters over 5k but its a good one i hope

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter One - Damn Mailbox

W/C: 5K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Relocating to the small town of Knife’s Edge in hopes of leaving your old life behind and starting brand new solves all of your problems, right? Wrong. It only creates more and one of them may live right next door. Side effects may include blaring music at 3AM, a scowling neighbor, and one too many shots of tequila on several occasions. (That The Bourbon will not be comping.)

A/N: I'm super excited to start this lil series, I've had this idea for a little while and I can never resist writing total opposites, it's just so fun to explore their dynamic when they want to reject each other so bad. Also a lot of this fic is inspired by Smoke Signals by Phoebe Bridgers (hence the name). As always I would love your feedback and any comments y’all have 🙂 OH and finally...the hugest largest biggest thank you to @uglypastels for beta reading and proof reading and all that good stuff, it was SO appreciated and really helped smooth things out ILY Z YOU'RE SO GOOD AT WHAT YOU DO 💜

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Morning dew was like an old friend, someone you hadn’t paid attention to since childhood but felt so familiar with, so…safe.  Maybe it was a little too ridiculous to find security in a few dew drops but arriving in a new town with a population of less than five hundred would have that effect.  Twists and turns of windy roads unknown, trees larger than any house, and barely any infrastructure would all frazzle anyone not accustomed to its elements.  Normally you wouldn’t get car sick but these roads were a beast you’d never encountered before in your life, stomach threatening to send back your lunch of tuna on white bread and a bag of Doritos.  You refused to let bile even trace your tongue so with just enough self control, you swallowed any sickness down and pushed forward.  Now you were hunched over in the driver’s seat, the door open as you sucked in the fresh mountain air, perfect lengthy blades of grass grazing the bottom of the door.  Just before you, up the driveway made up of damp dirt, was home.  A home you were a stranger to at the moment but hoped to at least become acquaintances with.  Lower expectations created less disappointment.  If you dive in head first, you can only guarantee yourself vulnerability and pain, slow and steady was the only pace.

It’s not permanent; you are just figuring things out.

It’s what you kept preaching to yourself during the altitude change, where flatter land transformed into large mountains, the tallest peaks coated in white.  Where your ears popped and your brain felt pressure.  And then shortly after, you were submerged deep into the forests, far from home, where you knew there was no going back for quite some time.  It was a trial run although it didn’t feel that way when the moving truck packed with your life pulled up just minutes after you, delivering every piece of your life to some cabin in a secluded town that was nearly invisible on any map.  Temporary was starting to feel foreign when everything felt more set in stone.

You’d think a town called ‘Knife’s Edge’ would steer you away and maybe that was the intent when it was first named; to ward off newcomers who had no business being out in the woods.  But it only intrigued you.  From what you could find out in a few tourism magazines, Knife’s Edge was not somewhere you went for a getaway, not according to the locals who were a tight knit community where everyone knew everyone.  The economy relied on the small businesses down in The Village, on Main Street which according to your calculations was about five miles down the road and around the lake then up.  That was the extent of knowledge you’d had on your new home and yes, maybe you should have gathered more information before daring to even place a down payment on some random cabin in the woods but when a new start calls, you either answer the phone or stare at it until nothing happens.  The cabin was either yours if you paid the down payment or it would’ve been torn down and sold to the neighbor for more land which would’ve sent you on your way again, on a wild goose chase for a new place that you could fit into.  Not that you were too sure that you’d even fit in here.  But it seemed too obvious that this was where you were meant to be when the realtor advised that it was yours at a low down payment, a steal.  So you’d try to make it work.

The moving truck’s door startled you, slamming against the top as two men got to work, unloading all your belongings.  You figured this was your cue to exit your beat-up sedan to unlock the front door–wide-paneled and made of a beautiful dark oak.  The crunch of pebbles and dirt alerted the movers to your presence where you let them know you were going to open up so they could begin their tedious process, one of them grumbling something incoherent in response.  As you approached even closer, there were knicks and dents decorating the surface of the door but it seemed to add to the essence.  The wooden steps creaked underneath your weight and upon glancing around the porch, you found two well built rocking chairs that the previous owner must have left behind.  Other than that, there were pine needles and other debris from the surrounding nature caked in the corners, some scattered along the rest of the floor that would need to be swept up but it wasn’t an urgent task in comparison to actually setting up your bed and other necessities.

The lock was stubborn as you twisted the key but with one more persistent shove and turn, it clicked and you were able to push your way in, the hinges painfully squeaking as you made a mental note to pick up some WD40.  The air inside was stale, smelling of dust and maybe a half hearted spritz of air freshener.  Or maybe it was drenched in air freshener but it did little to nothing to cover up the smell of an old abandoned cabin; you weren’t sure.  It was a modest size, the kitchen off to the right, tucked into the corner with a small island in the center.  The living room was the first room you walked into from the front, the floorplan more open than you’d expected.  A little to the left was a narrow hallway with shutter doors lining both sides, you assumed one side had to be the laundry.  The door at the end had to be the bedroom and the door just before you embark into the hall had to be the bathroom but you had no time to explore right now.

Morning light trickled in through the kitchen window just above the stove, creating a beautiful hue against the wood paneling of the walls which you only noticed as you came back in, setting a box that was labeled ‘kitchen’ on the counter before rushing back out to retrieve more of your belongings.  It was too early to be doing such strenuous work but that's what you get for securing a slot with the moving company first thing in the morning.  In hindsight, you didn’t realize you were signing yourself up to meet said moving truck at 6:00 AM but in your defense, you’d never done this before. 

By 7:00 AM the truck was fully unloaded and on its way out and with it went the grumpy movers, more than likely unsatisfied with the fact that they’d have to trek back down the mountain.  You graciously offered them an extra twenty bucks which they gladly took but still appeared crabby nonetheless.  Now for the part you had been dreading the most: unpacking each box and putting everything in its respective place.  But first, you wanted to take it all in.  You were right; the laundry was on the left side of the hall behind the shutter door and on the other side was a closet.  The bedroom was settled right where you had guessed, at the end of the hall and rather than being empty, it now held your bed and mattress, sheets still yet to be found among the boxes labeled ‘bedroom’ in thick sharpie.  The wallpaper was something you could do without but maybe you’d find time to peel it off later and replace it with something more to your taste.  Currently the bedroom walls were lined with floral designs and pale blue stripes and if you could be honest, the design was a bit too busy for your liking.  But it was a roof over your head for a good price so complaining was out of the equation.

At the opposite end of the hall, just off the living room was the bathroom, sporting a less off putting wallpaper of faded yellow and white vertical stripes.  You first ensured your hygiene essentials were in place, toothbrush and toothpaste in a glass on the sink, towels on the rack, and soaps set up in the shower including shampoo, conditioner, and bar of Dove.  Having these accessible was a priority, cleanliness being one of the most important factors of your daily routine.  

Clothes were next and you’d forgotten a box in your trunk of your most worn items of clothing that you could pick through until you were fully settled.  Lazily carrying yourself back to the driveway where your maroon sedan sat on top of the copper-toned dirt, you do a double take when you realize your mailbox was taken out, wood splintering out of the ground as the poor box lays among the grass at the edge of the street.  From what you could remember, it was fully intact when you first drove up so you’re forced to conclude that the movers you’d tipped generously must have run it over and not given it a second thought.

The half of the mailbox that rested on the ground was a lot heavier than it looked and you would’ve thought it was made of cement just by the weight.  You felt pathetic dragging it up the driveway, creating a prominent line in the dirt along the way.  A brief break in getting the damn thing up to your porch has you about half way up the driveway, glancing around at your surroundings, only to finally take into account that you had a neighbor relatively close by, a cabin similar to yours only a few hundred yards away except it was a darker wood and a red pickup sat idle in front of it.

You braced yourself, catching your breath to continue hauling the mailbox back until you can figure out how to repair it when your eyes catch on figure, a man making his way down the steps of the cabin you’d just been analyzing.  And you’re quick to shy away until you realize he’d already been looking at you, a cocky grin on his face as he slowly, almost tauntingly stepped off his porch.  The way he walked closer reminded you of a lion declaring its territory, especially with the mane of curls he had, shaggy and brunette.  He wasn’t close enough to allow you to examine any further; however, you caught the click of his tongue before he spoke.

“Gonna get splinters draggin’ wood around like that.”

It’s all he says, a toothpick between his teeth before he turns on his heel, combat boot digging into the soil and it’s only then that you realize he wasn’t offering assistance, he was simply picking up the hose connected to his spigot to rinse off his windshield which now that he’d drawn attention to it, was filthy with mud and leaves.  He wore a red and black flannel which reminded you of a lumberjack but this man just didn’t fit that description based on your short interaction with him.  Or rather his interaction with you.  Your first indication was that he had no facial hair; he was clean-shaven.  And his tight jeans that had black rips at the knees didn’t seem very suitable for a job that required a larger range of motion.

Without any further acknowledgement of your existence, he hopped in his truck and sped off around the bend without a care in the world.  He was a resident douchebag and you’d never even spoken a word to him.  You quickly realized you were still stood in the middle of the driveway with half a mailbox, grunting in protest as you lugged it the rest of the way up to the porch, leaning it against the railing for future contemplation on how to repair it or if you’d have to fork up money for a brand new one.  That was a problem for future you and though future you would be pissed at past you for putting the responsibility on her, you had other things to sort out such as unpacking the rest of the kitchen so you’d be able to actually use it to feed yourself.  And then of course you’d have to make your way into town a ways down the road to actually get groceries because not a crumb of anything edible was packed.  Aside from a bag of Chex Mix that sat in the passenger seat of your car that you’d picked up at a gas station.

–

Going overboard was an understatement when it came to how much you’d actually gotten done.  By 12:00 PM you almost had each room unpacked and put away, moving boxes discarded next to the front door to be thrown out later.  Your plan was to finish off the kitchen and then go into town.  Instead you finished the kitchen and moved from room to room with more motivation than you’d ever experienced in your life.  Maybe it was the adrenaline of living alone, no one else could tell you what to do or where to put things.  It was all up to you and maybe you were a little drunk off that power.  Regardless, you were now worn out and that energy didn’t last very long.  At least you had a freshly made bed for when you came back, that’s what you would reward yourself with. 

If you go grocery shopping then you can come back and nap.

There were still various projects to be done, items to be organized, and objects without a home but for the most part, you could sleep peacefully with the work you’d done today.  The floors were yet to be cleaned and the fridge still needed a good scrub down but that could wait until tonight after you properly refueled.  

Humming to some song you’d heard on the radio earlier, you make your way out the door, patting your pockets for your keys and wallet, both of which you had before locking up and heading for the car.  You rolled your eyes passing the mutilated mailbox, settling into the driver’s seat with an ache in your back from the grueling labor in the early hours of the morning.  Shifting into drive and then rapidly back to park, you remember that these roads are foreign to you and that you could easily get lost and possibly become a bear’s lunch with your luck.  With a tug, the glove box opens and reveals the map you had set in it before embarking on our journey.  The map that was mailed to you of the town didn’t seem very complicated.  But if you happened to make a wrong turn it could land you amongst some rocky cliffs which you thought better to stay away from.  So you carefully examined the route to town, what the people here seemed to call The Village Square.  You took the liberty of drawing your house on the map, a cute little doodle in blue gel pen and then proceeding to draw the rest of the route in the same blue so you’d always have it.

This was it.  A fresh start where no one knew your name.  This would be good for you.  At least that's what you kept trying to convince yourself.  

Goodbye someone else’s daughter and hello new self-made woman.

–

You weren’t lost.  You were just…exploring.

Okay, you were a little lost but the signs for The Village Square kept passing you by and yet you found yourself also passing the same exact pine trees–and you knew they were the same pine trees because every time you saw them you thought ‘hey that kinda looks like a dog’.  At some point it started to feel as if you were spawning in and out of some dimension until you finally turned into a lot directly behind one of the signs, sick of this game of hide and seek.  There were no signs for parking which is why you’d passed by so many times in the first place, and now it seemed like you were behind a restaurant of some kind.  This couldn’t be where everyone parked, right?  Anxiety was pooling in your stomach and before you could sike yourself out, you ultimately decided to park and walk from here.  You would only be a few minutes and hopefully you’d be able to muster up the courage to ask someone where to park from now on, even if it did make you seem like an idiot.

Leaves crunched under your sneakers, an obvious indication of the Fall season trickling one leaf at a time.  As if you were a wary animal, you cautiously walked around the building, finding that it was someplace called The Bourbon; the letters written out in neon red lights that weren’t yet illuminated, the open sign in the window dull signifying they were closed.  You let your eyes roam up and down the street, small businesses lined up all the way through and a few patrons, clearly with an agenda making their way along the sidewalks.  It was a cute place, nestled in a little valley.  Instead of plain old cement the sidewalks were cobblestone and overall it seemed to be a pedestrian oriented community with several cross walks and barely any traffic.  

From here you had no idea how to get to Marvin’s Grocery, which seemed to be one of the only produce stores around according to your map.  The others were a little more out of the way, your house conveniently only around five miles away from The Village Square.  The shops you passed as you attempted to gain a sense of direction were exquisite.  Mom-and-pop shops that either smelled of delicious baked goods or hunger-inducing aromas that filled your nostrils with savory goodness.  The smell would haunt you in the best way for days to come.  A candle shop piqued your interest, as well as a flower shop that bloomed so beautifully among the muted tones of the brick buildings around it.

Everything was so unlike what you were used to, back home things were more commercialized, built for quantity not quality.  Here it seemed to be the polar opposite which you could appreciate.  Corporations were the root of all evil and you had yet to see one single corporation among the several businesses you passed so far.  People seemed friendly but also confused by your presence, offering you a meaningful wave accompanied by a puzzled expression written on every face you encountered.  You were a stranger and it was becoming more apparent the deeper you found yourself in the square.  Some people whispered and you happened to snag onto a few words, mostly grasping ‘is she new?’.  In return, you graced them with a polite smile.  It wasn’t like you to initiate small talk or approach new friendships.  If they happened, they happened per the other party’s account, not yours, never one to try and stand out in the crowd only making this infinitely more uncomfortable for you, which was no one’s fault other than your own insecurity.

Eventually you were able to come face to face with the giant ‘Marvin’s Grocery’ sign which looked to be handpainted in big white letters outlined in black with a few cartoony carrots, a tomato, and a head of lettuce.  Wandering around for an extra ten minutes and refusing to ask for help certainly wasn’t ideal but it did familiarize you with the shops you would soon be buying from on the regular.  And it did give you a soft introduction to the small population of Knife’s Edge which despite the name, the people seemed lovely enough.

The store wasn’t the slightest bit crowded and it wasn’t very large either.  A mother and her two kids skimmed one of the aisles while an older man pondered over the produce, apples specifically.  Grabbing a cart, you begin gathering the items you had sorted out on a list in your head.  First bananas, grapes, and blueberries, you didn’t want to bother with too much produce as it went bad fast and you were only one person so those would do for now.  Then you moved on to pantry essentials, canned goods that you could stock up on and always have on hand.  Green beans, corn, peas, baked beans, even soups such as tomato, cream of mushroom, and the standard chicken noodle.

You’d built up a cart full in no time, and by then,  no one else was around so you noted that this time would be perfect to get your shopping done in the future so as to avoid as many people as possible.  The cashier was a woman, probably in her early sixties who seemed not all that intimidating which you were grateful for.  She smiles warmly and you appreciate the sentiment, grinning back at her as you place each item at the register. 

“You’re new.  But I bet you’ve already had an earful of that, haven’t you?”  She lightly teases.

You laugh softly, avoiding eye contact while still trying to remain well mannered, taking notice in small glances that the woman’s name tag reads Donnie in bold red letters as well as the ‘help wanted’ sign perched up against the window.  She seems friendly, a little rough around the edges though in the sense that she had several tattoos that disappeared into the rolled up sleeve of her blue crewneck sweater as well as a fire in her icy blue eyes.  You could already guess that she was quite the character.

“Don’t let them scare you off.”  Donnie carefully bags the eggs with a few more light items, her confidence radiating, as if she doesn’t even need to try, as if it just comes to her so naturally.  Something you could only wish for every once in a blue moon.  “We don’t get many newbies.  They’ll get it outta their system.”  Her voice is a tad scratchy but smooth otherwise, bringing a strange sense of comfort.

“Thank you.”  A mouse may as well have been louder than you but you tried and that’s what counts, right?  New people were not your thing but they would have to become your thing, moving to a place where no one knew you existed and all.  Or maybe you could fly under the radar?  It couldn’t hurt to become the mysterious outsider that spoke to no one although it wasn’t a very realistic ambition.

This was fucked.  You thought to yourself in the solitude of your brain.  Of course the second thoughts were coming now and not before you bought the damn property that tied you to this place.  Initially, the idea was a temporary situation far from home but the deeper you delved into this town, the more permanent it started to feel.  Not just anyone up and moved here and that was clear by the reaction you pulled from several onlookers.  And yet you moved here, bought that damn cabin with the money left to you from your father’s estate, and ultimately, left everything you knew in a manic state.  A mid life crisis in your early twenties.  

“Miss, your change.”  The woman broke through your thoughts and you must have shifted into autopilot, not even remembering handing her any money in the first place.

“S-sorry.”  You mutter, collecting the filthy coins in your palm, shoving them into the front pocket of your jeans which you knew would be a pain to dig out later but again, that was an issue for future you.  She hated your guts.

“No prob–”

It was abrupt, your exit but despite your rude departure, she called out “I’m Donnie!” and you never felt like a shittier person.  She was welcoming you to her home and you didn’t even have the decency to introduce yourself.  That’s how it looked at least, on the inside you were panicking and needed to isolate yourself immediately.  

You must have looked like a maniac carrying your groceries in a near sprint toward the direction of your car.  Everyone else seemed to move at such a mellow pace, not a single vein close to popping out of stress whereas you looked like you’d crumble under the slightest inconvenience.  Which you would if you didn’t get to the car fast enough.  A small misstep causing you to trip?  No chance, you wouldn’t show your face again for weeks.  Your groceries spilling all over the pavement because of said possible misstep?  You would consider moving all over again.

Thankfully the majority of the walk back to the little lot behind one of many businesses was blacked out, your heart practically pumping in your ear the whole time.  What you couldn’t black out from was the man-the same man from this morning smoking a cigarette as he stared at your car.  Fear drenched you; you couldn’t gauge his expression with his back to you but you could guess he wasn’t going to be smiling with the way he was lingering, shuffling his boots back and forth in contemplation.

Announcing yourself felt like the most daunting task in the world, humiliation melting into your skin like an uncomfortable burn.  Maybe some higher power heard your pathetic struggle because the crunch of your sneaker on a perfectly placed leaf called his attention to you, his head snapping in your direction instantly.

The urge to just run was strong but you maintained whatever cool was left within you, fingers waving at him weakly.

His expression was blank, unreadable.  He didn’t say a word as you slowly inched your way closer to the vehicle, only eyeing your every movement like a predator protecting his territory, much like he did that same morning.  The closer view of his face showcased his stoic yet soft features, eyes almost puppy dog-like but something glazed over them, a facade of some kind.  Something that overtook the puppy dog nature they were capable of and replaced them with a cruel glare.  The shape of his nose was endearing at least, rounded at the tip and tinted pink from the cold.

“You just park anywhere you want where you’re from?”  He asks, gesturing vaguely with a tip of his cigarette toward the car.  

Your shaky breath has him furrowing his brows at you, seemingly offended.  It’s not in your nature to offend people but you can’t seem to stop doing it, especially today whether you mean to or not.  But you definitely don’t think you mean to.

“N-no, ‘m sorry.”

“Sorry?”  He mocks, scoffing before inhaling a puff of smoke once more.

“I-I uh, I’m leaving.  It won’t happen again.”  You rush out, all the while forcing yourself not to cry.  “I just–I couldn’t find parking–I was driving around and—there was no–I couldn’t–”

“Don’t let it happen again.”  He warns, stern but easing up on his intense demeanor.

“Promise.”  You whisper, a tear betraying you and rolling down your cheek to which you quickly gather your grocery bags in one hand to swat away at your cheek.  It’s too late, he already saw.

No empathy is detected in his stare, not that you feel you deserve any.  It was just an observation.  “Now, get out of my lot.”  It’s a demand, a non-negotiable demand that if you were brave enough to argue, would probably have him towing your shitty little sedan.  

So you nod, blinking back the water works as best you could while tossing your groceries into the passenger seat, him watching the whole time.  With your seatbelt suddenly feeling like the most complicated thing in the world, you expect to look up and meet pure rage but instead your ears perk up at a few knocks on the window.  Rolling it down as fast as possible with the manual handle, the man stands towering over you, cigarette abandoned sometime in between you getting in the car and struggling to remember how a seatbelt works.  Did he have more choice words for you for illegally parking on what he deemed ‘his lot’?  You really didn’t want to stick around to find out but you had no choice.

“Left on Main.  Then right on Cherry.”  His dark eyes hinted at hues of warm honey but they were briskly dismissed by his cold attitude.

“What?”

“Next time.  So you don’t turn into my damn lot again.”  

You still didn’t know what he meant by ‘his lot’ and you didn’t have the backbone to ask.  You did however fully get the message that you were to never park here again and were now aware of which streets to search for to avoid it at all costs.  You’d memorize every detail of it if it meant you could steer clear of the apathetic man before you.  With a nervous nod, you were off, not once looking back just as he did that morning except he had more grit in his actions, you just came off as a scared church mouse.  You never even caught his name and you didn’t mind not knowing it at this rate seeing as he was all bite and bark for no good reason.

This place never felt so far from home.  Nowhere was home.  Your heart was in a sense homeless, lost and longing for the connections that these people had with each other that you couldn’t seem to tap into even if your life depended on it.  In all fairness, it had only been a few hours and you couldn’t gauge your success based on that but it was tugging on your brain like a parasite, eating away at your final optimistic thoughts.  

I don’t belong here.

I don’t fit in.

The drive ‘home’ was flooded with tears and muffled sobs into your now sticky sleeve, coated in snot and if anyone were to pass you along the way you would look psychotic with how your face scrunched up at every exhale, doing your best to keep yourself quiet despite being the only one in the car.  You were always doing your best.  Always to please others.  And it never worked.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (1/?)

Summary: Sequel to In Flames I Sleep Soundly; After the divorce, Wanda refuses to give you up. 

Chapter word count: 5k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Masturbation

Author’s Note: So... this AU wouldn’t leave me. For my new readers, you don’t have to read the first installment . This can be read as a standalone. Title is based on lyrics of “This Love” by Taylor Swift

AO3 | Masterlist

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta​

Next Chapter: Two

One

It’s not a god damn funeral, Wanda thinks as she stares at her black outfit.

With a huff, she makes the quick decision to reach for the zipper near the curve of where her spine becomes her head, and then pulls it down so hastily it gets out of track and refuses to budge further than her waist.

Shit, Wanda curses under her breath, wiggling her arms from its sleeves, which isn’t exactly difficult given her recent weight loss. At first she tries to shimmy her body out of the dress, but she only succeeds in getting stuck further and sweating under her pits. Unfortunately the weight loss didn’t happen around her middle, and she also couldn’t get it to move upwards and over her head. The options are to either fix the zipper or destroy the dress. Wanda picks the latter.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, she starts to frantically cut through the silky material. Her heart races as she terrorizes the dress with fervor–grunting Sokovian words she’s surprised she still remembers–until the dress pools at her feet in tatters. Wanda feels her energy depleted after, and she crawls on the bed to lie face down, on her stomach. 

To some degree, her recent outbursts are gradually becoming a concern, especially since she’s back in her old Manhattan neighborhood. The smallest, most insignificant things tick her off, and a densely populated city like New York is filled with them.

Like last week, when she was shopping at Trader Joe’s, and someone kept hitting her backside with their cart while waiting at the counter. 

“I swear to god, if you don’t lay the fuck off–” Wanda’s ears burned when she looked over her shoulder and saw a frail, old woman who looked like she didn't have many years left in her. 

“I’m sorry.” Wanda croaked out and then pressed her lips in a straight hard line. 

“Oh, it’s alright. We all have bad days. But sweetheart,” The old woman warmly smiled at her and then leaned closer as if to share a secret. “You need to get laid.” She added like she’s giving some age-old, archaic advice. 

Wanda’s smile in return was pasty, and she hurried to remove almost half of the stuff(not without receiving a dirty look from an employee who had to put them all back) in her basket so she could leave the counter as soon as possible. 

The mysterious universe had a dark sense of humor. It was sex that brought her to this manic-depressive, freak-out-at-a-grocery-store behavior, and to be told by a stranger that she needed more of it was just the icing on top of this tremendous fuckery of a year she’s had. 

Wanda turns on her back and closes her eyes for a minute. She doesn’t even know why she’s wasted an hour of choosing what to wear for the day she gets legally separated from you. And yet she couldn’t help but give an extra effort to look good for you. All she knows is the days she gets to see you are rare. She can count on one hand the times you’ve met since that fateful lunch at the diner back in Westview. She needs to look her best in these opportunities. 

She needs to look her best, and hopes you’d notice.

Glancing back at her wide-open wardrobe, that’s when she spots it. Hiding in the furthermost end of her rack, is a decade-old sundress she’s kept all this time. 

The memory rises unbidden to her mind, before she could stop it. 

It was the dress she wore on her first date with you. She recalls picking it specifically because it’s green. She wanted it to match her eyes–your favorite part of her body. It made you gape. It made you go almost stupid with want, forgetting the way to the restaurant where you made reservations because you wouldn’t stop staring at her. 

By the end of that night though, the dress was lost somewhere along the trip from the door to the bedroom.

“Aren’t we moving too fast?” You whispered against her swollen lips, breaking the kiss while your hands roamed all over her shaking frame. Wanda merely moaned and put her lips to your neck, kissing every inch of available skin to her. 

You’ve known each other for years. It didn’t feel like you were moving too fast. Rather, it was a culmination of sorts–seemingly platonic hugs that lasted just a tad longer than they should, the way your eyes always found each other in a crowded room, kisses on the cheek that came too close to the mouth. And not to mention, the other people you’ve both dated in those times of being more than friends but less than lovers. 

The pace was actually agonizingly slow. A slow burn that had put all other slow burns to shame.

You directed Wanda back to your mouth and the kiss that ignited again is its own kind of sex. God, she never really understood the fuzz about making out because her sexual experiences in the past didn’t really pay much attention to foreplay. For a while, she was simply content with the sliding of lips and tongues. But then you dropped to the floor and began pulling down her soaked thong, while your dilated eyes never left hers.

Wanda’s breath hitched at seeing you fall to your knees and gaze at her with incomparable reverence. How could you worship her when you yourself were so achingly beautiful?

She needed you to touch her soon or she’d go crazy. “Please.”

Her panties only made it past one ankle before you dove in to taste her for the first time. 

Wanda of the present comes at the ghost sensation of your tongue against her throbbing clit. In truth, it’s just her fingers that brought her to climax while she kneels at the center of her bed, her ruined underwear down past her thighs. She bucks her hips a couple of more times before falling back to the mattress, spent. 

That old lady was right. An orgasm does help.

-

The divorce is final. 

Today, she signed away any legal right she has as your partner. As for everyone else in the meeting room, it’s just another ordinary day to dissolve a marriage.

Wanda’s wearing the sundress that sort of accidentally gave her release this morning. You keep looking at her, no wonder trying to figure out why the dress looks so familiar. And Wanda can’t look at you straight in the eye without blushing. 

You came in with your ever reliable back-up: Natasha. Now that you’re no longer married to her, Wanda’s insecurities about the true nature of your relationship with Natasha has come up to the surface. The way Natasha would pat your back and ask you if you’re alright. The way she’d ask you if you’d like something to drink. The way she also knows you take your coffee black with three teaspoons of brown sugar.

The way she’s just always there. 

It annoys her enough that you said Natasha was your person, because then what was she to you? The title of soulmate triumphs over wife, and Wanda wants to be both. She wants all the titles. 

Well, maybe not all. She definitely doesn’t want to be called your ex-wife. But she’ll accept the reality for your sake. She wasn’t lying when she’d said she’ll give you everything you want, even if it puts her on the sidelines.

“Hey, do you want to get coffee?” Wanda breaks the spell of silence that lasted some five minutes when your lawyers and Natasha left the room to give you two a moment. 

She immediately wants to take back her words when you look at her  incredulously like she had grown another head on her lithe, sagged shoulders. 

“Seriously?” you say, and spitefully chuckle. 

Wanda says nothing, just resorts to quietly admiring you in a skirt suit she’s never seen you wear before. In the short time you’ve both been separated, she’s noticed little changes of yours that makes her homesick for you. You will wear new clothes and shoes, get a new haircut, try a new hobby, walk a certain way, and then all these changes will pile up until you become this inconceivable stranger. Still beautiful–but a stranger nonetheless. She knows the consequences of her actions are harder on you, but maybe, just maybe, it’s equally hard for her too. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” you sigh, despondent. “Maybe for you it’s not, but today is the worst day of my life, Wanda. Or second. Or third. I don’t know. There’s so many of them recently, but this is definitely in the top three. I just want to be alone.” 

Wanda will never get used to the way you’re now just either angry or tired of dealing with her. She’s afraid to reassess the odds of getting you back and finding out it’s worse than zero. 

“Right,” Wanda says, looking down at her feet. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You hum in response.

“It is, you know?” Wanda says.

You shoot her a quizzical look. 

“It’s hard for me too,” Wanda clarifies. “I spent all morning picking out what to wear and getting all dolled-up, in desperate hopes you’d–you’d change your mind at the last minute.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel bad, or–”

“No,” Wanda cuts in in panic. Somehow she keeps saying the wrong things. “It’s hard for me. Because it’s the end for our marriage when all I want is to be with you right now.”

You avert your gaze and nod solemnly at her as if you understood. 

Do you?

Do you, perhaps, feel the same way? Or is she the only one still in love?

“I’m sorry for being a jerk,” you say, eyes downcast still refusing to meet her eyes. “I know it’s unfair for me to act like I’m the only one who’s hurting. I just–I’m tired of being angry and sad and lost all the time. And it doesn’t exactly help when you’re around. For once, I want to feel something else and I need to be alone to figure it out.”

I want to move on from you, is what Wanda thinks you really want to say and her eyes well up. This time, she prays you don’t glance her way. She might just break down right in front of you if you do. She’s never known this kind of desolation. And she only has herself to blame. 

For once, she’s thankful for Natasha’s presence when she interrupts the moment, asking if you’re ready to leave.

“I am.” you tell Natasha. You get up and round the long table to approach Wanda. She could no longer stop the tears from falling when she felt you place your hand softly on her shoulder. The touch is so featherlight, it may as well just be her imagination. 

“Thank you for giving me the best years of my life. Goodbye, Wanda.”

The pain that racks her entire body causes her to visibly shake. She has no idea how she’s still alive at this point. Not for the first time, she desperately wishes for a do-over. But the clock only moves forward, and it’s still moving to take you away. 

Maybe time will also be the one to bring you back someday.

-

Two Months Later

Wanda hasn’t seen you since the divorce. Not once. Nor has she heard from you at all. While you didn’t downright reject her when she had told you that she’d try to get you back, her unanswered texts and unreturned calls should be more than enough to tell her otherwise. 

Her only consolation is that you haven’t blocked her number yet. A few days after she last saw you, she texted to remind you to pick up the last of your things she has in possession. Natasha showed up at her door the very next morning, which confirms you still get her texts. The items are inconsequential in nature, but Wanda had the hardest time putting them in a box. 

She spent an unnecessary amount of time arranging your hardbound books alphabetically (“It’s just not the same, but a Kindle user would never understand.” you’d explain to her whenever you’d shop for more) and cleaning each protector of your small collection of Funko toys (“A dozen more of those and you won’t have space left in your side of the cabinet. What does that leave you with?” Wanda would reprimand you after seeing a shopping bag full of them in the trunk of the car. “Happiness.” you’d reply with a sheepish grin).

She smiled contritely after she had sealed the package; how ironic that she terribly missed the things about you she’s the least fond of. It’s as if the grieving doesn’t have an end. And if she had known you’d send Natasha to retrieve them, she wouldn’t have given them away. She wanted to keep them–wants to keep more of you as much as possible. Wanda wouldn’t call herself a masochist though. Not really. 

Because it’s not over yet. It will take as long as it needs to, and it won’t matter. Patience is her utmost virtue. 

And Wanda believes you feel the same, because there are midnights where her phone would ring from an unknown number. She’d answer and listen to shaky, shallow breaths for a minute before the person on the other line ends the call. It couldn’t be anyone else but you, could it? These moments are always hazy, however, muddled by wine and prescription pills. But Wanda swears they happen. 

The days aren’t so bleak when she pretends she’s still your wife, and you’re just in some faraway place–like a soldier that has gone to war, she’s left to count the days until she’s in your arms again. She goes about her routine as she’s always done when the two of you were still together; go for a run in the mornings, have eggs and toast for breakfast, and then walk Sparky in the afternoon. Her evenings, excruciating and long, are the loneliest hours. Sleep won’t come easy to her, if it comes at all. Her heart mostly breaks as well for Sparky, who still waits by the door around the time you used to arrive home from work. He’d patiently wait there until Wanda would call for him, or fall asleep in the exact same spot. And it’s not like she can talk to him and explain why you won’t come home. All Wanda can do is wait for Sparky to forget this learned behavior or forget you.

So, for the past two months, she’s been taking it one day at a time. It’s now the only way she knows how to survive. It’s working so far, she muses, as she stands before the proof of it while carrying Sparky under her arm, right in the middle of a quiet street in Queens. 

Wanda had loaned the capital for the business right after the divorce papers were signed, and when she got the alimony from it, it was more than enough to pay back the loan in full and still for some change.

She wanted to create something out of what she had destroyed. 

And that’s how the borough’s first Sokovian café came to be. Or at least will come to be when the renovations are finally completed. She can’t see much through the scaffolding that is still in place, but she can make out what it would look like once it’s officially open to the public.

Her contractor and fellow Sokovian migrant, Mr. Jacobs spots her from where he is installing the signage. “Ms. Maximoff!”

Wanda smiles up at him, brushing her bangs away from her sight. The haircut is recent and she kind of regrets it. “Is everything okay around here?”

“I believe so. There’s still some electrical stuff to finish, but I’m confident we’ll be done before your opening.” he tells Wanda.

Sparky starts squirming against Wanda’s hold. “Is it okay to come inside or should I come back another day?” Wanda asks.

“Of course. I had my boys clear out the area and install the A/C last night, so you should be comfortable.”

Perfect. She’s yet to test out the oven she ordered, and there are some new recipes she’d like to try. 

“And Ms. Maximoff?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry, this place is going to do great. They’re gonna love you and our culture.”

A feeling of warmth spreads through Wanda’s chest. “Thank you, Mr. Jacobs.” He gives her a salute before going back to work.

Wanda’s not ready for the emotion that consumes her when she steps inside her new café. She puts Sparky down on the hardwood flooring, and his nose immediately gets to work, sniffing every corner of the room he could find–which isn’t all that long to cover for a regular-sized Jack Russell Terrier like him. The rented space is relatively small, so Wanda had to be smart with its interior design; a long bench stretches from the open kitchen and counter to about two feet from the entrance, spanning two round dining tables that could sit two people at a time; by the window wall facing the street, is a high top table with two chairs. At most, three staff(including her) could fit in the open kitchen, along with a single espresso machine and a wall oven. All in all, the café can accommodate about six customers dining in at a time, which is why she’s hoping she’d do better with take-outs. 

Wanda did all the decorations herself, top to bottom. The floral ceilings are a combination of autumn colors–your favorite season–and pendant lights subtly drop from them to emit a faint, yellow glow. The polished concrete wall of the dining area gives it an industrial vibe, while red brick tiles clad the panels of the kitchen area. For the finishing touches, Wanda decided to place a variety of potted plants in every corner of the room. 

Standing at the center of it all, Wanda feels a sense of pride and fulfillment–something that seemed implausible to her just a few months before.

"Best coffee in the world. Maybe you should start a café business." You’d joke sometimes whenever she makes you coffee in the morning.

A shadow passes over her eyes as she looks out the window. Needless to say, there’s only one thing missing in it. The person she wants next to her when all her dreams come true.

You.

–

Pietro finishes a whole batch of white chocolate macadamia cookies by himself. Wanda’s twin brother flew in last weekend, a rare occurrence since she only sees him once a year at most. He’d be home in the holidays for dinner, and be gone the following day. He lives with a suitcase, and never stays in a city for longer than two weeks. Wanda wasn’t expecting he’d visit her after she broke the news of her divorce, knowing he had gone through the same ordeal twice already without fuss. Apparently, it’s a run-of-the-mill life event for her brother, and it almost did not make it to their bimonthly check-in calls. 

“You’re gonna have to pay me for those.” Wanda tells him. She’s crouched on the floor, feeding Sparky strips of dried meat as she takes a break between baking and practicing her Youtube-acquired skill of Latte Art.

“I thought it’s a welcome home gift.” Pietro says, licking off the crumbs from his fingers. With the bleach in his hair extending to his medium stubbles, their resemblance is close to nonexistent. 

“You earn ten times more than I do in a year.”

“So? What is family for if not free food?”

“It’s $52 dollars.” Wanda says.

Pietro hands her a hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

Wanda smirks at him, pocketing the money in her apron. “I intended to.” She passes him a napkin, and gestures at his chin. He waves her off in a pompous manner, and instead, goes to the back of the shop to clean himself up. She didn’t think it’s possible to both know and not know someone at the same time. To look at them and see who they are versus who you think they’re supposed to be. In terms of money and status, he is miles ahead of Wanda, but perhaps at the cost of being unable to find the brother she shared her childhood with in Sokovia. Wanda’s not sure if he still exists beneath the layers of branded suits and expensive perfumes, she just knows she misses him terribly. 

“Second Chances,” Pietro proclaims as he returns a minute later, waving his hands wildly with an imitation of a fanfare. “A little corny if you ask me.”

“Well, I’m not asking you,” Wanda contends and then proceeds to scrub the empty tray that Pietro left in the wake of his cookie binge. “It’s a good name. People can interpret it however they want.”

“And you? What was on your mind when you came up with it?”

Wanda doesn’t answer that. 

“So,” Pietro jumps into a sitting position on the counter and lets his legs dangle from its edge. 

“How’s the quarter-life crisis, sis?”

Wanda cocks an eyebrow and gives him a once over. “Better than yours. All things considered.” 

Sparky comes up to him and stands on his hind legs to snuffle at his shiny loafers. 

“Touché,” Pietro laughs good-naturedly and crosses his legs to avoid the dog’s attention. “It’s weird though, seeing you get into this kind of thing.”

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks.

“You’re not a salesperson, Wands. Remember your girl scout days? Dad would buy all your cookies because you can’t sell for shit.”

Wanda snorts noisily through her nose. “Mom can’t bake for shit.” She notices the smile fall from his lips at the offhand jab at her brother’s favored parent. 

Wanda sighs. When she does get glimpses of the old Pietro, it’s mostly through negative triggers. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–” Wanda starts to apologize but Pietro quickly changes the subject without a preamble.

“You’re really not going to talk about it?” 

“About what?”

“Playing dumb isn’t a good look on you.”

Wanda suddenly drops the tray on the sink, the violent sound of metal hitting metal giving both of them a minor headache. She pauses to think, and then says, “How about you just ask me straight instead of skirting around the topic of she-who-must-not-be-named?”

“Okay,” Pietro says in an annoyingly placid tone. “What were you thinking, cheating on Y/N?”

Wanda swallows dryly. She did ask him to be blunt.

“I wasn’t. There’s… I don’t know how to explain it. There’s this missing gap, and I acted to fill that gap.” 

“Was it something that’s missing in your relationship?” Pietro asks and props his cheek on his palm. The question is so familiar to her because she’s asked it herself countless times, the day she kissed Vision for the first time. There wasn’t an epiphany nor were there pieces falling into place when she had slept with him. And when she thought she loved him, it wasn’t because she thought she loved you any less. She came to the conclusion, not too long ago, that perhaps there’s just something rotten inside of her that she simply wasn’t aware of. 

Wanda shakes her head, weary at making sense of herself and her decision to risk everything she’s built with you for something as cheap as a fling. “None of this was her fault. Her only mistake was falling for someone who’s way beneath her.”

“I always thought she’s too good for you, no offense.”

Wanda’s smile is brittle as she recalls how Pietro’s toast at the wedding started with that exact sentence, word-for-word. You had squeezed Wanda’s clammy hand as you listened to Pietro rant about Wanda, and jokingly express his regret that you married the lesser twin. Wanda apologized for his tactlessness, and you responded with a kiss to her cheek, telling her how wrong he was, how you were only good and she made you better. 

“I’m sorry, Wands,” Pietro tells her earnestly. “I can’t say I’ve been through the same thing even with two divorces under my belt. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with someone the way you both were with each other–or at least, the way she was in love with you.”

“Thanks, but that's not necessary. I’m going to fix it.” she says. 

It stings–the implication that Wanda was incapable of matching your love for her. But it only stings because it’s the truth. You deserve to be happy and she failed.  And yet, she also can’t survive the thought of you getting the happiness you deserve from someone else. After all this time, her selfishness hasn’t been tamed. 

Which is why Pietro’s next words hit her right in the gut. “Divorce can’t be fixed. Hell, it’s the only resolution for a terminal relationship. And hasn’t it crossed your mind that perhaps, she’s already met someone else?”

Wanda gives up on her search for the rolling pin. She cracks some eggs in a bowl and starts to furiously whisk by hand.

Maybe she’s an awful person for assuming you won’t be able to move on from her that easily. 

But that’s just how she sees it. 

“No.” she says.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know her, Piet.”

Pietro starts clapping in slow, steady beats. “She divorces you and you’re still so smug about how she’s so crazy about you.” he says. 

“If you’ve ever felt loved by someone like her, you’d understand.”

Pietro ignores his sister’s underhanded attempt to hurt him back. He came to terms with the reality ages ago, that he’s probably not one of the lucky ones who will get to experience the kind love that Wanda boasts about with you. Maybe he had it once, not necessarily in a romantic sense. But when he thinks of love–real love–he thinks of no one but their estranged mother. 

“Or maybe,” He jumps off the counter to retrieve his coat hanging from one of the dining chairs.  “Love goes away eventually.”

“Not ours.”

Pietro couldn’t help the maniac laughter that escapes his throat. “Are you hearing yourself right now? Do you know how pathetic you sound?”

Wanda purses her lips, continues whisking. 

“Okay, how about this. If you really love her, then you’d at least want her to be happy, even if it’s not with you.” Pietro tries to reason. 

“Oh, so you’re suddenly an expert on the topic.”

“I’m a dick, not an asshole. And yes, there’s a difference.”

Wanda keeps working the whisk like a madwoman. Large amounts of bubbles are forming in the emulsion, and overbeating the egg mixture is definitely not in the recipe.

Pietro continues, “Yeah, I’m a cheater, same as you are–”

“Don’t you dare–” Wanda suddenly tosses the whisk on the worktop, a glint of something dangerous in her green eyes. 

“Let me finish,” Pietro appeases lightly. “I’m a cheater. I cheated on my ex-wives. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself as some anti-hero who has the potential to be an actual hero and become the person they deserve to be with. Because I’ll never be that guy.”

“We’re not the same. We share a birthday, but that’s where the similarities end.”

“We share the same DNA, Wanda,” Pietro smiles through his frustration. Excessive stubbornness–another quality innate to Maximoffs. “But that’s not the point. You know she’d be better off without you. As cliché as it sounds, the only way you can actually show her you love her is by letting her go–completely.”

The shuddering sigh that escapes her is immediately followed by erratic sobs that go out of control fast. Pietro is right there in an instant, an arm thrown over her shoulder as her whole body jerks, rasping for air. 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” he murmurs into her crown. “You’ll be okay, Wands. I promise…you’ll be okay.”

“Will you be okay if I leave you here? I have to meet someone in a few.” 

Wanda heard you say in earnest. She lost herself for a while, stunned by the kindest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. The day flew by so quickly in your company, she hadn’t realized it was time to go. And to think that she almost skipped freshman orientation because going to New York University wasn’t exactly the plan. Columbia was–where her boyfriend was a junior. 

Her boyfriend, who she forgot texted her an hour ago asking if she was ready to go, and hadn’t heard back from her.

“Y-Yeah, my boyfriend is on the way to pick me up.” she mumbled, distracted by the glow of the sunset forming a halo around your head. You were beautiful in a way that was not entirely evident at first. Wanda was curious if anybody else had made the same discovery.

“It was nice meeting you, Wanda.”

“Likewise, Y/N.” she smiled like she’d been doing all day with you, and so frequently, that the muscles on her face were beginning to hurt a little. 

The smile you returned her way was glorious, but in a flash you were already walking away. Wanda couldn’t describe the way she fervently despised watching you go, especially without your number on her phone and no means to contact you in the future.  

“Y/N?” Wanda called out. Her heart seemed to swell and swing against her rib cage. 

“Yes?”

“Do you, maybe, want to hang out sometime?”

And the kindest eyes that ever looked at her gave the answer. 

Pietro leaves shortly after the tremors subside and her breathing returns to normal. The panic attacks aren’t that frequent, but she does get them now from time-to-time. They started right after the night you gave Wanda your wedding ring. 

With her brother gone, Wanda is left to wonder if you’ve met someone. She is left to wonder if you’re no longer miserable like she is, if you’ve taken considerable strides in moving on with your life. She tries calling you. Not to talk, but just to check if you still haven’t blocked her number. After several rings, you don’t pick up as expected. Not a setback. Not a progress either. She pretends you’re asleep or in the shower. She pretends you mean to call her back, but forgets to. 

And if a confirmation of not being blocked is all she gets, she’ll take it.

She’ll take what you can give even if it’s nothing.

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.” 

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

[aconflagrationofmyown]

but then… Gigi

chapter one (a Big Daddy Elvis fanfic)

Summary: this is a fix-it universe to catch all the feelings I have for this man in the late 70’s. It’s gonna be my least impressive, least dramatic, very plotless, indulgently meandering and self soothing fic that fixes all things through *love* -it’s gonna be so fluffy we might as well cure cancer and invent time travel while we are at it. That being so, and after all the joy that has come from y’all’s interactive prompts and suggestions with Sarge, I welcome any suggestions or prompts y’all might have as this universe expands. I hope you enjoy and this can provide a sweet little escape 🌷💋

Warnings: 18+ this universe is and will be mature due to sexual themes and drug mentions. In this chapter there are discussions about attractiveness, hinted unwanted advances in the past, some mild possible objectification, talking of weight gain and sugar babies, female masturbation with non orthodox self pleasure tools (and cherry coke didn’t come out for another two years shhh)

Special thanks to: my sugar babies @stylespresleyhearted whose pure hearted love for this concept is responsible for its very existence in the first place and her co-conspirator @eliseinmemphis . And as always, to my discord wives who forever back up all my endeavors and fuel my fire @ab4eva @elvisabutler @butlersxbirdy

Circa: early summer 1977, Memphis Tennessee

Word count: an astoundingly moderate 5k

There is a set and type of girls most likely to catch the eye of the most internationally famed rock star on the planet, and it isn’t self pity or self deprecation that makes Gigi acknowledge that she doesn’t quite fit that type. She considers it good fortune enough to run in circles that boast a number of the brazen, flirty and seemingly fearless young sort who can traipse up to Elvis Presley’s sleek Stutz window and, bending themselves over an unnecessary but effectively exposing amount, extract from him a cheeky invitation to a Graceland party.

Elvis is fond of this type, their vivacity and their audacity, even their ceaseless giggles and yes, the availability they clothe themselves with. They remind him of those girls who’d nearly break down his motel door in the early years. The ones that used to scare him shitless even as he fell prey to their perfume and painted lips, their milky soft hands sporting red hot talons that often as not hooked him down to hell with them.

As of late, he finds himself accepting any damn company he can get, after months of pushing company away. It’s a cycle and when he’s fresh outta reclusion he finds he’s probably a little liberal with the invites but it doesn’t matter. He’s still relieved and gratified that he is wanted and loved enough by his fellow Memphians that they’ll accost him on the street, lean into his window, all bubblegum and boobs, and ask for autographs and if he’s interested in some company.

He may be slowing down here lately, as his body and mind and the newspapers remind him constantly, but pretty young things are still one of life’s sweet pleasures, and even if he can’t give as much as he used to, at this rate he’s glad for anyone who’ll drag him out of the slump. Even if he’s more of a museum sort of attraction for them than the living wonder they once claimed he was. Maybe it’s this morbid understanding of these little floozie’s motivations that has him grinning along and offering a free invite for game night, all the while glancing past them to where she stands at a distance behind the giggling gaggle. Her limbs are strong but soft, her face beguiling yet oh so innocent and her posture is leant forward in unscripted eagerness to maybe catch a glimpse of him past her gaggle of friends. She has her hands clasped nervously in front of her -unconsciously highlighting the way the wind whips her thin sundress between her thighs and outlines her perfectly- and it’s adorable the way her sensible keds are scuffing the sidewalk rhythmically until she feel his gaze on her.

The minute Gigi senses his authoritative assessment of her over those tinted shades, her pretty little brain makes her snap to attention, aimless for a minute before falling back on ingrained rules of conduct. She has no seductive artifice, no hip cock or calculated smirk. Gone is the sneaker scuffing and the lip chewing and instead her back snaps straight up like a debutant, feet planted, hands unclasping, shoulders back and tits forward. Elvis thinks her mother, if she’s got one, would be very proud of her social graces. Personally, he is very admiring of those pert nipples straining the cloth, and proud of the eager tremble rustling her in the summer breeze just by a flick of his eyes over her fresh baked womanhood. But maybe it’s the red hot blush under the afternoon sun and the hesitant but almost giddy little wave she gives him that cements the fond flutter he feels in chest into a raging affection.

Falling in affection for a stranger is stupid, dumb and terribly risky. And not at all likely to be requited in the way he craves so badly these days. He knows this, it’s happened before. It’s best to stick to the gals who’ll fawn over his car window and maybe dance together for him later on. But golly, wouldn’t it be nice to pat a cheek that fresh and watch it turn rosier under an ole man’s admiration?

He pulls his cigar out to smile at her, because she deserves a full lipped, white teeth gleaming smile -his ole moneymaker. It still has its intended effect, it makes Gigi beam and her waving little hand clench in excitement. She even does a little bunny hop in place and the way the glorious young shape of her bounces under the demure sundress is all kinds of tonic to a tired fella’s heart.

It’s a lot to take, the way this certified legend ducks and peers past her gaggle of friends at his window to give her not only his attention but that most delightful of grins. The one that is deceptively bashful over being so admired. Gigi would be a pants on fire liar if she didn’t admit that she’s watched enough footage and poured over enough magazine spreads of the man through the eras to nearly swoon under the real life shimmer of it.

And she knows, vaguely, that she’s acting air headed in the way she trembles and bounces but that’s all she’s got, these natural responses, never was good at faking much of anything she feels, and certainly not when she was decidedly embarrassed. Which she was now -what with the way his smile is boyishly fond, his demeanor fatherly and his eyes lewdly assessing. There’s not a bit of the masculine spectrum he isn’t embodying at this moment and her body betrays her by submissively tremoring under his gaze alone. What would a touch be like?

Such slack mouthed, nipple tingling, body electrifying thoughts get interrupted when the myth himself points a bejeweled finger at her -one that is slender and lean and elegant in contrast to the bulk burdening the rest of him- and asks in a meltingly soft voice:

“You any good at charades, sweet cheeks?”

Even if she were terrible at the game, even if she didn’t know how to play it at all, the hopeful raise of his eyebrows would make her lie, hand on the Bible to this Hollywood trained actor, that she was the best charade player the world has ever seen. Her reply in the affirmative is overly confident due to sheer nerves and eagerness, and she vigorously bobs her head to add unneeded emphasis. It makes her beauty queen friends giggle and laugh good naturedly and to his relief she joins in, a hand flying up in humiliation to shut that glossy, pink mouth.

It’s so clumsy and natural a reaction that Elvis’ pointed finger twitches from a desire to tickle her, to watch her writhe from something besides embarrassment. He mourns that she’s standing so far from the window. At least the distance has given him a good view of her from the top of her shiny widdle head to the sole of her itty bitty footsies.

Plans are made at the window, Lamar is to send a car and apparently the lot of them will all be at Dinah’s house for pickup and Gigi tries to get a little closer to overhear these details but the crowd of girlfriends is a few bodies deep and there’s fans gathering, too. So she learns the logistics later, when everyone has finished homework and shifts and are primping in Dinah’s upstairs bedroom, hairspray and nail polish fumes thick in the air, and voices nearly hysterical in pitch from excitement.

-It worked! It worked! It worked! We are going to party at Graceland! Elvis Presley invited us to spend the evening!-

There’s a lot of different reasons for excitement, some of the girls are just curious to see the icon’s home, some are talking of how envious their older sisters (even some mothers) will be over them meeting their crush, others are hoping the scene is as debauched as the rumors would have the world believe, an opportunity to taste drugs and that rock n roll lifestyle for a brief shining evening. Marie asks if they think he’ll make them do naughty, dirty, sexy things for him and that brings up fresh tittering and salacious hearsay regarding his appetites and tastes. Someone deflates that mood by saying that he might just be a dirty old man now, it’s not quite the same as going to his house a few years ago. At forty years old he’s ancient to them. What with his declining health and being a recluse and -what if he lures girls and then murders them? Oh god, the urban legends come out, he’s a vampire, he’s a serial killer, he’s this and he’s that and-

Gigi thinks he’s awfully generous. That’s what she thinks. Inviting strangers into his home. And not just pretty young things. She personally knows folks who he’s helped, the downtrodden and the dehoused and the disadvantaged. She’s grown up in churches and schools and municipalities he’s funded. He practically provided for her and all of Memphis like an omniscient father figure these past three decades. And now there’s this kindhearted invite which most seem to consider akin to a ticket to a Carnival.

As she lets the girls fluff her hair and spritz her in perfume, adding an extra coat of mascara to her lashes -stultifying her if she’s being honest- she gives a brief thought to whether, just maybe, this will be a decadent night after all.

Elvis is still Elvis. It can’t be all hearsay. And for someone like her, who’s been a good student and a decent worker and hasn’t gone chasing every wicked, back alley experience available in Memphis, she frets a little that maybe inside that iconic mansion tonight she’ll lose something that’s been preserved so far.

Innocence? Maybe. But she thinks her greatest concern is that maybe he’ll prove to be something less warm and darling and extraordinary than that brief exchange on the sidewalk and years of idolizing have convinced her that he is. All this talk of him that floats around her makes her feel faintly ill, the morbid curiosity and the vulgar interest. No wonder he secludes himself.

The car arrives, decadent and alluring like its owner, and driving it is one of the many trusted minions of the king. There might not be seatbelts for every girl here but that doesn’t seem to matter, Gigi happily offers up her lap to Tammy and teases her that Tammy is her safety belt and Gigi is her booster seat. It’s a jolly ride, banter being made with the front seat fella who’s name she has to ask for about five times before Tammy takes pity and informs her he’s “George Klein”. Gigi gets a schooling in the back seat about his radio show and once again Gigi is reminded why Tammy is ‘Miss Memphis’ and she’s not. The babble of voices calms down long enough for Mr. Klein to lay down some ground rules before the car pulls through the gates.

The rules are shockingly normal: stay downstairs, make yourselves at home and but don’t behave like asses, don’t shy away from approaching your host, the last thing he likes is awkwardness or standoffish coolness in his own home. Gigi is rather certain that with her nerves and hero adoration she can manage not being stuck up or acting above it all, but she’s not at all sure she’s gonna manage to not be as awkward as a newborn duckling.

Graceland through the gates is not an unfamiliar sight to most of them, but Graceland up close, caressed in the inky dark of night from inside by golden fingertips of light, is magical. As is the atmosphere inside the place, though that may be more a case of her knowing where she was, rather than anything particularly incredible occurring in the opulent space. Despite the change of clothes to a slinky little number and the fluffed blowout that her more cultured friends gave her in consideration of the evening, Gigi can’t help but feel underdressed for a night in this gaudy Antebellum Establishment. Extra mascara and expensive perfume feels inadequate to match the gold and crimson and white furnishings. If Belle Watling had a home, Gigi reckons it would look rather like this.

That old worry returns that tonight might devolve into being the most debauched of her young life, that maybe she’s stepped into a hospitable bordello, so exotic and seductive are the furnishings alone. But to her surprise, seated on crimson curved couches, and already heatedly invested in a game of charades, is a friendly looking group of men and their wives. They have to be wives, the Mafia’s wives -they look so respectable, so relaxed lounging in Elvis’ Presley’s home. There’s differing ages here, middle and younger and all in between, and a man she’s rather certain is Elvis’ own father. It’s respectable, to her immense relief and confusion.

“Ah, here comes the fresh young blood!” One of the group says and it’s a bit chaotic then, half the group invested in keeping up the game and the other set rather eager to abandon their losing streak to offer welcomes and refreshment.

She lets the bodies swirl around her, a strange feeling of being a little left out taking over her without a single rudeness on the part of anyone present justifying the feeling. It irks her that she's so skittish, it just seems that everyone somehow falls in with another or ten and the established groups begin games or snacking or talking without her and she stands alone in the human eddy watching it all happen so effortlessly.

What’s entirely unexpected a half hour or more into this friendly pandemonium is a playful tap on her shoulder and turning round to find their host himself, clad in a comfy tracksuit, unzipped sufficiently low to display a devout amount of crosses shimmering on sweat slick skin and wearing shades even indoors. He’s asking if she’d like a drink.

“Oh -Elvis!” is a stupid thing to say in reply to his felicitations but it’s all Gigi can manage in such close proximity to his warm smile, his unzipped jacket and his heady scent. He looks her over, taking in the way her friends have erased the fresh faced ingenue on the sidewalk and made her into a sex doll and it takes supreme self discipline to not reach out and wipe some of it off. His scrutiny is making her nervous but she does at last manage to scramble out, “Yes, thank you, Mr. Presley, that would be lovely -it’s lovely of you to have us and your home is so unbelievably lovely, and I can’t believe we’re here, I’ve admired you for so long and -I, I’m only 20 and can’t drink.”

The word vomit robs her of breath and Gigi sucks it back in with a painful wince -she just declined a drink and proclaimed herself a complete goody two shoes, a perfect square, to the King himself. Her face flames hot and the heavy coating of lashes flutters from eye watering embarrassment.

Elvis just tilts his head to the side and gives her sweet face the appreciative study of a blush connoisseur, his grin growing impossibly wider and a little wolfish,

“Well, darlin, I’m a lil over 21 but I don’t drink ‘neither.”

“Really?” Ggi ventures in utter surprise, and that must’ve been redeeming on her part as his smile shifts from wolfish to fond before giving a tight nod,

“I was offerin’ lemonade, or sweet tea, but I think-“ and here he steps back, surveying her head to toe in the gauzy halter dress her friends snazzed her up in, “I think, yeah, yeah, ‘think you’re a cherry coke kinda girl.”

“I’m whatever you say, sir!” Gigi salutes him like a idiot because she’s had never had a cherry coke in her life or been assessed by a powerful man and she is quickly forgetting to be shy when so bewildered by his heavy lidded assessment-

“Yeah,” he nods, satisfied after another survey of the god crafted entirety of her, “Cherry coke for you, I think, lil Miss.”

He doesn’t fetch it, someone else in this crowded place does and it comes with the ordered white straw and she sips the carbonated beverage with a bashful smile, trying to think of something sensible to say in thanks when being looked at like that by the man who having fulfilled his host duties slowly moves away to recline in a decadent crimson armchair.

“Go on now, you’re here to have some fun, sweet cheeks.” he waves her down to the floor where many others are sprawled writing dares and acts, and she settles where he directs her, right by his leg until it’s her turn.

Once she moves to the mantle and acts out her turn, once it’s successfully guessed, she’s a little at a loss as to where to go. It feels presumptive somehow to sit by him again. So she sits by Dee instead, and feels a fool five seconds later, knowing it’s just nerves and shyness keeping her from a chance at sitting by such an extraordinary hero for what’s probably the best night of her life.

Ever.

Gigi wouldn’t get this chance again and yet she decided to act like an awkward idiot for fear of acting like a -what? Cling on? Groupie? It was just his leg, his beefy, muscled, thick leg beside her, and the heat of his body and the little noises of amusement coming from him. But it made her feel like she was burning up inside, it felt intimate, it felt like she should be between those legs and surrounded by his bulk. Like between his thighs would be the cleft in the rock to hide from this vast world that she’d been looking for all her life.

He was just domestic and kind, and she had to make it weird. Tammy’s unimpressed eye roll at her doesn't help matters. Soon the left side of Gigi’s face begins to burn and out of desperation she finally turns to face Elvis and finds him staring straight at her, her abandoned, half-drunk cola being jostled in his hand like a carrot for a horse. His eyebrow beckons, she blushes harder, he keeps shaking the damn thing and ducking his head with that coaxing grin. She rises and crouches through the partiers and moves back to her place at his feet.

“Here ya go.” he says mildly as she settles, nothing mentioned of the command and obedience just enacted.

He just gives Gigi her coke back, his rings clanking on the glass and fingers brushing hers during the handover. She chokes on her next sip when he pats the top of her head. Fatherly, if her father had ever been one for pats and noticing her existence. Unfettered, Elvis’ hand slides down the glossy brushed out length of her hair, to pat her back as she gasps out her shock, somehow making things worse but oh so lovely. She dares to lean back into that caressing hand, finds herself leaning against his leg by proxy, finding herself lulled and squirmy all at once.

Charades at Elvis Presley’s house are very much the same as at anyone else’s, and strangely Gigi finds that simultaneously the most bizarre and adorable thing imaginable. There is, however, a good deal more betting and hollering than would be permissible in most households, and she finds herself enacting dubious scenes with a shockingly plentiful array of cousins and fellow guests, but altogether it’s wholesome and lively and joyous. It seems a bit rigged when Tammy, fresh off winning Miss Memphis, has to enact the white dress subway scene of Marylin Monroe -made snort worthy humorous when an ancient creature, who Gigi has on good cousinly authority is Elvis’ grandmother, provides the wind to blow up Tammy’s flimsy excuse of a dress to her upper thighs. Flashing panties as is the iconic scene.

In a weak moment Gigi tilts her head to see Elvis’ reaction to her friend's beauty, and she doesn't miss the way he guffaws around his cigar at the sight of those award winning stems. Though she doubts it’s his first sight of them, they’ve been plastered all over TV and newspapers ever since Tammy won the damn thing a few months ago. Best body and face in the state. Gigi’s primped up face and heavy coated lashes and gauzy dress suddenly feel like an attempt to mimic something she wasn’t cut out for. Self consciously she tugs at the hem of the short skirt.

Tammy flashes Elvis a wink and shimmies in a mouth watering tease before sitting opposite the two of them, legs crossed and hardly a bit left to the imagination.

Elvis keeps grinning. Tammy licks her lips. Gigi finishes her coke and vaguely recalls the fact that the man is supposedly dating one of Tammy’s rivals from the pageant, or a sister of or a- Gigi doesn’t recall really, and she can be sure that between the way he’s stroking her own sun streaked locks and eye sexing Tammy opposite, the man sure doesn't act taken.

Watching Billy Smith try to act out a cheetah giving birth takes her mind off such self pitying introspection, and before she knows it, the gaudy foyer clock is ringing out 1:00 am.

Homework and college has been running Gigi a little ragged and eventually her little head begins to droop against his leg and the way the empty coke bottle starts to slip from her weak grip catches his attention. He slowly raises his hand from where it was resting ever so lightly on her shoulder and caresses her neck. To his immense relief Gigi leans into his patting eager as a housecat, and it makes him glad. Just as much as it makes him worry.

Only twenty years old and so easily lulled.

“You got a curfew, lil one?” he asks her with concern and that startles Gigi, his warm breath hot against her ear and the grunt of him folding himself over his sizable belly to get down near her face.

“No sir. Not really.” She admits, overly respectful in her sleepy state, “My parents aren’t really into stuff like that. They are pretty liberal that way. And I live with Tammy.”

She gives him an assuring smile even as she stifles a yawn, and two things flash across his mind. This means he (or God forbid, any man) could have her over here at his whim without excuses being made. And secondly, Elvis really must look out for her so that she doesn’t fall into the company of any such other men.

There’s no precedent for a Graceland party to wind down before dawn, but he considerately asks her if she’s got classes tomorrow. The honest way Gigi nods her droopy head and moans “yeah” has his heart clenching and his fingers flex, he wants to put her to bed. His bed, he thinks, though that’s a rather dastardly thought. Really though, he’d like to wrap himself around her and hold her and tell her he’d care very much whether or not she came home late from a stranger's house. That he’d be worried sick about so sweet and darling a little treasure if she were his. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’ll care no matter what, his or no.

Instead, he interrupts the game to have Lamar drive her home. Tammy and a few others, noticeably the ones who look like all night partiers, stay longer.

Gigi gets another pat on the head and a commendation to do well on her grades and that’s that.

Gigi last sees him standing in his foyer, jeweled chains gleaming in the nest of his chest hair and a boyish smile on his face, Dinah coming up behind to wave her farewell. Tammy is back there, too, probably going to get up to all sorts of fun while she gets sent home like a child. Wistfully, even as she walks down his drive to her ride, Gigi wishes she had hugged him goodbye. Gushed with more than just words in thanks for the invite, maybe even buried her face there in his chest, just once in that safe haven, sweat and jewels against her cheek. He had seemed to care.

But she wasn’t not that type though, was she? Brazenness was something that always felt awkward to her and landed her splat into uncomfy situations where college boys peered into the women’s locker room and jacked off to the sight of her legs as she tried to change into her track shorts.

The frenzy she often felt in her body to be touched would immediately die in situations such as having her hand clumsily moved up and down a penis in the dark of a movie theater. Or groped over her dress by the drunk jocks she tried to experiment with. Gigi could feel her own potential simmering hot and fervent inside, ready to be appreciated and let out like a fizz from a corked bottle. It was cruel that a fatherly sorta hero was the one to make her finally feel like she would take riding that man’s shoe over the most romantic gesture from one of her many age-appropriate admirers.

If she were Tammy, she wouldn’t have inspired the literal king of rock n roll to send her to bed. If she were Tammy she’d have made a move and said “damn that mythical absentee girlfriend” and would now be flat on her back getting obscenely used by that gorgeous hunk of a man.

Instead, deposited safely home by Lamar and tucked back in her shared flat, Gigi stares at her made up face with adamant animosity. It’s a fine face, she’s been told that plenty and she’s been told she’s smart, but it’s not really inviting the attention she suddenly wants so badly. Maybe she should have worn falsies to add to the effect. Maybe her features and coloring are too light. Tammy’s bleach blonde hair does not occur to her as being a strike against this logic. Instead Gigi thinks of pouring over photos of raven haired Pricilla as a girl and marveling at the thick mask Elvis crafted for her, wonders why she can’t be that kind of girl. She’s not petite, or glamorous or particularly coquettish, but she’d ride that man till he needed IV fluids if he’d just let her.

But he chose Tammy.

Dunking her face into the sink, Gigi scrubs away the artificial bloom until she’s left pink and freckled and so decidedly innocent looking it makes her wanna claw her cheeks to shreds.

“Lil one.”

The way he’d cooed it had turned her insides to jelly and ignited thoughts of her own sizable frame being made small while smothered beneath his sturdy breadth but now it turns her angry, and in the shower she lathers herself and wishes maybe her parents had given a shit about her catching a man instead of being “all she could be” because now at twenty she’s eyeing up the bulbous shape of her Lemon Up shampoo bottle and wondering if she’s big girl enough to take it. He was so big, so bulky and sturdy and muscly with padding to boot, and she’s just so sure his cock has got to match the thighs. A bulky, chubby thing, too, probably. The sort only girls like Tammy can manage.

She wants to be that sorta girl.

Gigi grabs at the bottle. She wrenches the shower handle to off, her wet body bolting for her bed, a jar of Vaseline in her other hand and savage lust in her heart. Halfway to the bed she realizes the shampoo bottle is almost empty and she wants to cry at that. She does stomp her chilled feet like a child and whines. What she needs is weight, her subconscious provides, everything about him was heavy and wonderfully big and she needs more than a hollow bottle to mimic him. She runs back to the shower and grabs at the conditioner, same ginormous shape and this time it’s fully loaded and heavy in her hand and she races back to bed, happy to dive under the covers with her dripping hair and goosefleshed skin.

Tammy has toys to achieve this, Gigi knows from sightings of them being washed in their communal bathroom sink. Pink and veiny and some that even buzz and it was all very funny and silly to come across them when she needed to wash her hands, but right now Gigi wants nothing to do with them, the stupidly large and bulky shaped conditioner bottle not even phasing her. Because it’s hers and not Tammy’s -Tammy who is probably getting railed but Elvis Presley right now. His cockhead probably isn’t shaped like the bottom of a lemon, but it’s gotta be round and this bottle will have to do.

It doesn't do. She lathers on the Vaseline to add to the sticky want she already has pooling, she rubs herself to a frenzy and as her hand cramps she tries putting the oiled up bottle up her channel and finds it’s really just impossible. It’s burns and won’t give and she berates herself and begs a man called “daddy” that she can barely admit to herself is Elvis to “give it to her” and curses Tammy for having a big vagina. She tries and tries with ever increasing anguish and frustration as the clock ticks towards three am and valuable sleeping hours are wasted as she tries to slip more than the crown of the lemon bottle into her untried cunt.

“Give it to me please, please daddy I can

take it.” Gigi insists to the shampoo bottle and her wrist manfully attempts to shove it in after slipping it along her folds for ages.

But it won’t go and she screams more and begs more and cries more and ends up seizing her stuffed valentine's bear -gifted to her by the football team's running back- and rubs herself raw in its button nose. It’s not the first time, but for once her sticky satisfaction doesn’t come to the thought of tiny white shorts ocean wet and clinging to him, or svelte white jumpsuits and chiseled jawline grinning promise. She digs her fingers into the stuffy’s fur and thinks of a hairy chest glistening with sweat and chains jingling with noisy exhales and the smell of him. Oh god the manly smell of him! - and the quiet authority that had her sitting at his feet and having her head petted and being sent home like a child. He acted like he cared for her and could find some use for her and she wets the poor bear’s muzzle at the thought of him telling her that her purpose is to keep him happy.

Worn out and trembling from her orgasm she rolls off the poor stuffed animal and buries her face in her pillow and dreams of warmth.

Outside Gigi’s door, arrested in her trip to the bathroom by shrieks of “daddy” and curses of her own name, Tammy shakes her head in disbelief and grins to herself through her whole nightly routine.

“Why were you cussing me out last night?” Tammy asks her placidly next morning, “Are you jealous of your daddy’s attention being split?”

Gigi groans at Tammy’s mischievous smile and realizes her mistake with a blush, “You didn’t- last night you came back? He didn’t keep you?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tammy agrees through her wheezing laughs and Gigi tries to aim a kick at her shins in mortification. “He was quite the gentleman in fact,” she expounds, “Except for the fact he spent the rest of our time asking me questions about you. I told him he’d lost all his raisin’ talking to a lady about another lady. Made a girl feel like a damn directory.”

“Oh, oh I’m sorry.” Gigi tries to suppress her thrill enough to sympathize with a no doubt annoying event. “You must’ve felt left out.”

Tammy pauses in thought for a bit. “He’s very….sweet.” Is Tammy’s verdict and to Gigi’s incredulity she sounds a little disappointed. “I mean, didn’t you think he was just sorta, ya know, nice?” Tammy presses.

Gigi thinks of the way his hand felt stroking her hair, the care about her curfew, the lack of alcohol, the endearments, the sturdy meat of his thigh against her shoulder. All the things that had made her rub herself puffy with a shampoo bottle that is still hidden under her covers. Yes, he seemed very sweet, and she was desperately in love with a man she’d never see again, who seemed a bit bashful about being “discount bargain Elvis” when all she could think of was how nurturing and mischievous he was.

He just seemed -shy. Bizarrely enough. And she could sympathize with that. Laying here on Tammy’s bed watching the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun when she should be studying, she thinks she’s solved Elvis Presley.

He’s shy.

“I thought he was precious.” Gigi agrees with Tammy, though her tone holds a reverence that makes the beauty queen of Memphis’ head spin in a near 180 to observe her now flaming cheeks. It seems the man has that effect on Gigi, present or not.

“Well, well.” Pretty, sultry, darling Tammy hasn’t a malicious bone in her body but she takes delight in making Gigi squirm, “You sound enchanted!”

“He was sweet!” Gigi protests, using her words against her.

“Yeah, he was.” she agrees, her perfectly tweezed brows drawing together for a moment before an epiphany dawns on her, “But I think it’s a means to an end.”

“What do you mean by that?” She balks, fervent in her conviction that it wasn’t an act. In fact, Gigi was certain he was more himself in his own home last night than ever on a stage.

“It’s making sense now.” she starts to pace the room, “He’s an outrageous flirt, you saw him, flirting with everyone he wasn’t related to that night, but he was so sweet to you- hmm, I think he wants to baby you.”

“Baby me?” Gigi repeat, staring up at the ceiling and feeling that flutter in her belly, just from the idea of him having *any* design on little ole her. “What’s- what even is that?” She asks her, a little hopeful, content to get her education from Tammy on this just as she has on all the more mechanical and dynamical aspects of sex and men.

“It means turning you into his baby.” she laughs, like it’s the most obvious thing, “Would probably put a little chain round your neck saying ‘belongs to Elvis Presley’ or something, and in turn spoil you rotten. At least, that’s how it’s worked for the others. It’s what he’s trying with Ginger but she’s got an independent streak.”

Ginger. The others. Of course there had been others. And yet he was so lonely again, already so lonely she was sure of it. Lonely in his own home, what was worse than that? “I wouldn’t mind being his baby.” Gigi mutters, bashful at the fact that what was essentially a future of house arrest, a portly sugar daddy and head pats makes her shiver delightfully.

“You sure about that?” Tammy suddenly seems overly earnest for a conversation in her room on a Thursday evening about a hypothetical scenario where Elvis Presley takes an interest in Gigi.

“Yes.” She gives it the full, weighty two seconds of thought it deserves. “And if all I get out of it is polishing his guns and feeding him yogurt then I’d honestly be happier than studying political science.” She makes a face as she registers the homework currently crinkling somewhere under her lower back.

“So you get that the sex probably isn’t exactly legendary anymore, right? Like -you saw him.” only Tammy, beautiful, southern pageant winner that she is, with the manner to accompany the looks, could say such a thing without Gigi socking her.

She’s looking out for her, just as she looked out for her with the sub par debate President that Gigi went to prom with and found insufferable after two weeks. She thinks Gigi needs to just keep trying the field (like her, Gigi presumes) until she finds the magical unicorn that will blow her mind in bed and satisfy her curious brain.

At this point in life, she’d settle for a man who chooses her drinks for her and cares enough about her well being to get her home by his own, invented curfew. Maybe she wants a father, what with hers being liberal to the point of carelessness, but she’d settle for a daddy, happily. “Tammy,” she says very slowly, trying to distill all these emotions down into something convincing -because strangely she feels a dire need to convince Tammy of her devotion even in this hypothetical scenario- “Tammy, if he gave a crap about me and paid my student loans, I’m pretty sure I could get off by just watching him smile at the way I make a fool of myself. And if that wasn’t enough, then I’d rub myself raw on his hairy belly. -you get me?”

Tammy looms above her, upside down in her view with her blown out bleached hair, heavy coaled eyes and shimmery mouth, studying Gigi for a minute before bursting out laughing. “You really meant that bit about his belly, didn’t you?”

“Yup.” Gigi mutters, throat thick and heart pounding -somewhere else pounds, too- at the very thought of being that intimate with him, that nasty sticky sweet with him. “Why are we talking about this anyway?” She whines, having worked herself up enough she’s damp and actually a little heartbroken knowing that if anything, Tammy is the one he’d go for.

“I got a call from George Klein this morning.” she spins away and busies herself in the closet, rummaging for shoes, Gigi thinks.

“Oh?” She asks, trying to keep the waiver out of her voice as she sits up and watches Tammy as she digs.

“Yeah, we got invited back.” she says, and turns on her award winning haunches to raise a significant eyebrow at Gigi, “All of us. And then, it was specified, you too.” she watches Gigi’s panicked, hopeful blush coat her face and chest.

“What exactly did he say, Tammy?” she demands, forcing herself not to gnaw on her fingernails, having to remember these nails might be in Graceland by the end of the week.

“He said that ‘E.P. wants to make sure the old gang knew they were welcome again, and the invite is only contingent on “Miss cherry coke” coming’.” she sits fully back on her butt now just to fully appreciate the way Gigi hyperventilates. “Cherry coke, huh?” she teases, “Did you ask for that just to be as euphemistic as possible or do you actually favor the drink?”

“He chose it.” Gigi whimpers, scuffing her keds together because it’s either that or her thighs.

“Oh god.” Tammy sounds like some guys do when their team makes a dirty, dirty interception that ends in a touchdown, “What did I say? Baby you, he wants to baby you! Oh my god, like he’s sweet but that’s -that’s nasty honey, just know that’s a nasty little thing to do.” she insists before turning back to her closet and digging through the dozens of pairs again.

Gigi flops back on her back and tries to think of the deep seated meaning behind cherries, and fails to do more than buzz in hopeless nervous anticipation at going back to that warm and kind and slightly bizarre haven that is Elvis Presley and his home.

Hope y’all enjoyed and if you wanna be tagged let me know. I live off your screams and your pestering, y’all are each precious to me!

Xoxo 🌷 Marina

@prompted-wordsmith

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

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@freudianslumber

@joons

[tillthelandslide]

Insufferable Arsehole - Part 6: Inside Your Mind

A/n: Hi everyone :) just want to say thank you to everyone has read this series so far, the support means so much to me and its mad to think some of my fave writers on here think this series is good! crazy to me but thank you thank you thank you!

Hope you like this chapter :)

warnings: smut, mentions of drug abuse, addiction and rehab

over 5k words

Series Masterlist

Part 5

Their lips were on each other's again the moment they were in the hotel room, the drive to this particular hotel had been torture. She had been teasing him from the moment they got in the car, allowing her thighs to spread, dangerously close to flashing all of the boys in the back of the car. The usual tour bus wasn't needed for this seemingly short journey (one which felt far too long with how badly he wanted her)

Her lip was being abused by her teeth and he could see her nipples pressed against the "I hate Matty Healy" shirt she was wearing.

The boys kept teasing him too, commenting on the fact he seemed distracted by something. He was very much distracted: by the tanned flesh of her thighs, by the visible bruises scattered across her neck (of which he just needed to attach his mouth and maybe teeth too, darkening them further), by the fact that her underwear was stuffed into his back pocket, by her lips which were just begging to be kissed and sucked; by everything that was her.

But now they didn't have to hold back, they could simply show one another how badly they wanted each other.

"We should probably have those drinks with the boys like we said" she said as his lips drifted along her neck, down to her chest, pressing against her collar bones. The t-shirt she had been wearing had been thrown across the room as soon as they entered the threshold, as were his trousers, shirt and her skirt. She knew she didn't really mean her words but wanted to see what he said.

"They can wait, let me have you to myself for a bit" he says, lips not moving from her chest. He pulls against her bra, revealing the swell of her right breast.

"Fuck how are you so perfect. God I don't deserve you" he says, lips wrapping around her nipple, her hands fly to his hair as her head snaps back and she moans loudly.

"Can't believe I haven't seen all of you yet. Doesn't seem fair does it love?" He asks and she doesn't even know what he's saying, not really, but she's nodding against him. Now she thinks about it, whenever they've done stuff before, either one of them had been partly clothed, the thought of being completely bare in front of him has her feeling a bit nervous.

As if he could read her mind, his lips stop their ministrations as he looks her deeply in the eyes.

"You're so beautiful love. Unbelievably so. I'm the luckiest, you know that right?" He asks as he takes her hands in his, pressing kisses along each of her knuckles, it was sweet, a clear change from how they were acting earlier.

"And we don't have to do anything okay? Not if you don't want to. I'm just happy to have you here with me. But if you want to go join the guys that's fine" he explains as she pulls him into her for a soft kiss. She was growing to like this side of him, a side she was just learning about, one in which they had barely scratched the surface of.

"I want to, I want you" she says against his mouth, he doesn't speed up his movements, he simply holds her against him, his grasp firm but not harsh. His lips move softly against hers, tongue making languid movements against her own.

He slowly moves them to the bed, hands supporting her back as she fell against it with a soft thump. She knows now this was going to be different from before. And she felt anxious at the thought but was also excited to see a different side to Matty .

"Matty" she says, her voice hesitant.

"Tell me what's on your mind" he says softly, lips wandering to her neck where more soft kisses were placed. Her own hands ran down his bare back, over the muscles, sketching him out like a map, trying to memorise every curve, every bump and vein.

"I'm scared" she admits, her voice quiet. She didn't struggle to be sincere quite as much as Matty, but she always worried that her words (no matter how sincere) would be rejected, or laughed at, or worse denied.

"What are you scared of my love?" He asked. Her heart fluttered at the words "my" and she pulled him away from her neck to look at him. She didn't know whether to tell him the truth: tell him she was scared of all the feelings she was feeling, how quickly she was falling for him, how he didn't even have to say he was sorry anymore because she forgave him the minute he told her his true feelings. She didn't speak and he simply pressed another gentle kiss to her lips, trying to draw the words out of her.

"Nevermind, I'm being silly" she says and his eyebrows furrow.

"Don't do that love, don't push me away. Wish I could be in your mind right now, hear what you hear, all your thoughts and feelings" he says, lips pressing against her cheek.

"That's what scares me" she whispers, fingertips drifting along his skin, not managing to find his eyes, afraid she'll spill every single thought that was bouncing around her mind.

"What love?" His fingers find her chin, slowly lifting it so they're looking at each other again.

"Think you already know all that.... You seem to know what I'm thinking without me telling you" she says and he nods, because he felt like it was true.

"Truth is love. I hardly know you, not in the way I want to. Want to know everything there is to know, all your secrets, all the things you've never told anyone before.... Not G, not Ross... No one" he admits and her heart swells at the idea.

"I'd like that" she smiles up at him and he places another kiss on her lips.

The moment where they so desperately wanted each other seems to have passed, now replaced by one which was more special. One where they wanted to talk, about everything, and so they did, some things he already knew, things he had memorised during the time in which they 'hated each other'.

Like her coffee order, her favourite colour, her favourite flowers, her birthday, all sorts. She was surprised he remembered half of it, but the fact he had made her realise how much he truly did like her.

Matty told her everything she wanted to know too, like his favourite books, his favourite songs, stories about his childhood that she didn't get to witness. Some things he struggled to say but wanted to, like his experience with drugs and addiction.

"What's your favorite song?" He asked, something he was uncertain whether he knew.

"Hmm... Good question, what genre?" She asks making him laugh.

"Probably... Something by Fleetwood Mac. Hard to pick which, maybe Storms, Silver Springs, or Landslide" she explains and he smiles down at her. He notes in his head that they're pretty sad songs, songs about unrequited love. He wonders if that's the only love she knows, a question for another day he thinks.

"Wanna know my favourite song of yours?" She asks, hands pressing against his chest to properly look at him.

His nodding down at her, fingertips drifting along her back, the skin was warm under his touch. She had never spoken about their music to him and he was excited to know what she thought, having spent years writing songs and wanting nothing more than to pick her mind about them.

"Inside Your Mind" she asks and he smiles, a hidden meaning behind his smile.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" He asks, he couldn't wait to tell her the true meaning of the song.

"Think it's a beautiful song... Remember the day G showed it to me... Couldn't believe how beautiful it was... Remember thinking I wish someone wrote such beautiful things about me" she admits and his smile stretches wider.

"What?" She asks, wondering why he's smiling at her the way he is.

"I wrote it about you" he admits. Her breath catches and she pauses, eyes drifting over his features to see if he was taking the piss.

"What do you mean you wrote it about me?" She asks, shoving him slightly, testing whether he was being earnest.

"I wrote it about you... Remember the summer before the album was released? We spent most of the summer together... Well you with the boys more than me" he says and her mind flicks back to the memory.

George had begged her to go on holiday with them, it was one of the only times their busy schedules lined up. She remembers agreeing despite knowing Matty was going to be there. She was having a difficult time with a relationship and she wanted nothing more than to be with her best friends.

"We seemed to avoid each other the whole holiday though" she says and he smiles at the memory.

"You avoided me... I was watching your every move love. I remember it was one of the first times I really got to see you... Without all the arguing because we hardly spoke..." He admits, she allows him to just speak, not interrupting him.

"There was this one night... Don't know if you'd remember, you were quite drunk... To be fair I was high as a kite too... I remember all of it though" he laughs at the memory. She listens intently wanting to know what he's about to say.

"We were all sitting out on the patio of that house, remember the huge pool? You had your feet in the water and I remember wanting nothing more than to just go up to you and just talk, without all the arguing" she nods at this, she thinks she would've liked that.

"Anyway... You came and sat with us and we were drinking and we were all talking, it was the first time we actually properly spoke without being mean to each other. Remember you like... Squeezed in-between George and me and I was shocked I had you that close" she remembers it now and she can't help but smile at the huge smile that rests on his lips as he tells the story.

"think I remember you were particularly bearable that day so I was nice to you... Also I was high too" she smirks and he chuckles at her, pressing a kiss to her head.

"We all drank way too much and Hann forced G and Ross to go to bed, you didn't want to so you stayed" he says, she doesn't remember any of this and she feels bad.

"I thought you were going to leave because it was just us... But we spoke for quite a while" he says.

"About what?" She asks, genuinely curious as to what they would've spoken about back then.

"About all sorts: your tour, our tour, you told me about this coffee place you had found in New York, told me to visit it, you told me about some douche you were seeing at the time" she groans at the last part making him chuckle

"... And then you fell asleep on me... And I didn't wake you up because I just wanted to have you there forever" he admits and her eyes soften as she looks into them.

"I eventually took you up to your room and then wrote that song... That whole holiday I was trying to memorise everything about you, just in case I never got to see it again" he admits.

"It was the November after that holiday you-?" She goes to ask, stopping her words completely worried she was pressing on something he didn't want to talk about.

He knows what she's saying even though she doesn't say it and he nods, grasping her hand, placing a gentle kiss to the back of it, letting her know it was okay to talk about.

"Can I admit something to you? Without you... Despising me for it.." he asks and she nods.

"That summer... It made me realise how much I had fucked up... I knew I could've had you the way that the guys had you, if I was honest with you from the start... The idea of never having you kind of broke me" he admits, she frowns and she feels her heart hurt at his words.

"I always hoped that one day it would all fall into place. But you went on tour after that and I dunno... I missed you even though... Even though I didn't have you. And I kind of just... Broke" he admits, she frowns up at him. She felt like it was her fault and he's quickly pressing a firm kiss to her lips as he sees her features fall.

"Baby you had nothing to do with it. It was me... Me being stupid and selfish and getting myself into this fucking pit of misery... There was other stuff too, don't want you thinking it was all about you because it wasn't. I got to this point in my life where... I didn't like the person I saw in the mirror, the douche that had fucked up his life... And using, it just made all that go away" he says and she nods, still feeling awful for his confession. She appreciates him being honest and that overshadows his confession.

"In rehab... I kind of realised that I can either pine over you for the rest of my life... Or I can do something about it. Kind of had that realisation about a lot of things in my life. I just knew I had to fix my life and myself otherwise I risked losing all of you"

"Matty" she says softly, leaning forward to press her lips to his. Her eyes were tearing up now, and he felt a tear drop to his cheek making him pull away.

"Why are you crying love?" He asks, pulling her tightly into her chest. She knew now she didn't need to be scared about anything, he was her person. He always had been.

"I just know now. I know how you feel about me. You don't need to prove anything Matty... That- that song, that story, it's everything I need to know" she says, pushing herself away from his embrace to look at him.

"Would you be mad if I said I wanted to prove it?" He says making her laugh.

"Of course not" she says, pulling him into a hug now. In fact she loves that he still does, he could easily settle now, accept the fact that she had forgiven him but he still wanted to prove how much he cared and that was the sweetest thing.

"Thank you" she murmurs against his neck.

"Thank you for what sweetheart?" He says.

"For telling me all that" she says, she knows it isn't easy for him to be like this with people and she's so thankful she is the one he's choosing to be like this with.

"One sec" he says, going to his bag to get something, whatever is, is being clutched in a tight grip in his hand and he hesitates as he puts it into hers, clasping his hands around hers, not letting her see it yet.

"I bought you something on that holiday... I knew... Well no: I hoped, that one day I'd be giving it to you, and have carried it everywhere with me since then... Just in case I needed it" he says, removing his hand, allowing her to open her hands, revealing a gold necklace, attached to the chain was a pendant, a small letter "M".

"Matty..." she says, voice trailing off as she looked at the piece of jewelery. "It's beautiful"

"You don't have to wear it... Not yet. Not if you don't want to" he says and her eyes find his.

"just promise me something yeah?" He says.

"Anything" she nods.

"Promise me you'll wear that when you're mine. When I've proven to you how sorry I am, how I truly feel" he says and she thinks he's already proven all of that, not that she lets him know that just yet.

"I promise" she says, pulling him into another tight hug.

"Let's go join the boys yeah?" He asks and she nods, not before pressing a firm kiss to his lips. He watches her as he leaves the bed, begging her to stay there for a second whilst he grabs his phone, snapping a quick photo of her, she looked so cool, clad only in her underwear, tattoos on display, tanned skin almost tempting him again.

"You're so beautiful love, could look at you all day" he says, palms flat against the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers quickly before they finally dress and join the boys.

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

Two weeks later the band are all sitting around this huge room at one of the venues. The past two weeks have been absolute bliss, it somehow felt that they had all grown closer, they all spent every waking movement with each other, never tiring of each other. You'd think spending 5 weeks with each other, 35 whole days, would make them sick of each other, but she loved the time she spent with every single one of them.

Matty and Lou had almost been in their own little love bubble, every day Matty did something to prove how sorry he was for treating her so badly for so many years. He made her a coffee every morning, sung songs to her when they were alone, scattered loving kisses to every inch of her body he could find. Sometimes in the middle of the night when they should've been sleeping, he would tell her a story, a small fact about the old days, that just proved that he really didn't hate her after all.

The band were now scattered about the room on various sofas. Matty sits on a round leather chair, it almost swallows him, makes him look tiny in comparison.

Ross is sprawled out on the ground next to him, his legs extending in front of him as one arm rests under his head. Matty laughs at how ridiculous he looks, his head resting near Matty's calves as the two spoke, Ross's voice slightly distorted from lying upside down.

The sound catches the attention of Lou, they share a look briefly before she continues talking to George , the two laughing with each other, G's arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the two spending some much needed time with each other (especially considering Charli had left to do her own shows) but the sight made Matty's heart swell.

"I've never seen you so happy mate" Ross says from below him, making Matty turn his attention to the lanky lad laid beneath him. The tall man turns on his stomach, looking up at him the right way round now.

"It's good mate" he then says. Matty nods, his eye wandering over to her again. He almost draws her in his mind: laughing uncontrollably with his best mate, tears coating her cheeks, a huge smile resting against her lips, those lips that he can never get enough of. Her hair is up in a ponytail, carelessly showing the bruises scattered around her neck.

"She's just the best" Matty says and Ross nods.

"She is. Thanks for that, glad you plucked your ideas up, glad we didn't lose her in the end " Ross says and Matty smiles at him "one of us forever now".

Matty nods "yeah" he has half a mind to ask her to get the 1975 box tattooed, she was part of the band after all, but she was also so much more than that.

A little while later, Ross has moved from the floor, now mucking around with Hann and George.

Matty remains in the huge chair, too comfortable to move. His phone rests in his hand, scrolling carelessly through Instagram, coming across a photo Lou had posted, the one he took, he smiles before commenting, reading his mates comments too, smiling down at his phone.

His phone pings, notifying him of a text. He smiles when he clicks on it, a selfie of the two of them set as her picture, "Room for one more?".

His eyes leave the screen, when he sees her, her own phone resting in her hands as she leans against a wall on the other side of the room. He nods and she walks over. He holds his arms out as she climbs onto the chair, he adjusts her so her legs are hung over his, holding onto her side as she rests against him. She smells faintly of cigarettes and he thinks that must have been where she was previously, but its her scent that is so overwhelming her; sweet and addictive that evades his senses.

"Hi" he says quietly, a wide smile breaking out on his face.

"Hi" she smiles.

"Missed you" he says simply, she nuzzles into his side, not saying anything for a beat, her lips press against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble he had let grow against her mouth.

"Missed you too" she pulls back to look at him, his red lips call her name and she can't help but push hers against his. His hand flies to her jaw, controlling the kiss quickly. His mouth opens on instinct and her tongue quickly meets his, moving against each other passionately. She pulls away slowly, making him groan in protest against her, only making her giggle. Oh that laugh, he fucking loves it man. He loves her.

"What was that for?" He asks, not complaining in the slightest, just curious.

"You guys are adorable" George says sighing deeply. They break away to look at him. A frown on his face.

"Fuck I miss charli' he says and they both frown.

They share a look, nod and both open their arms up, inviting him to join on the huge chair. He practically throws himself onto the pair, the both of them wrapping him up in a warm hug.

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

They were both acting absolutely feral before the show, they were annoying the shit out of everyone with the amount of sexual tension that was in the room.

The moment he walked out in his suit she felt her eyes darken, her breath pick up and her heart beat faster in her chest (and core). Her eyes raked down his form, how the shirt clung to his chest in just the right way, how his slacks fit his slender legs perfectly. He looked godly and she found herself swallowing at the sight.

He knew that look all too well and he smirked at the sight. She looked fit too: black leather skirt clinging to her delicious thighs as she sat on a high chair, her booted legs swinging, the top she was wearing wasn't particularly low cut but he could see the "M" necklace he bought her resting in between the swell of her breasts.

"Fuck" he muttered to himself, it didn't take her long to wear the necklace at all and the thought had him falling deeper by the minute.

He felt a hand clasp his back making him have to peel his eyes of her.

"Mate, we've got 5 minutes before we have to be on that stage, I know she looks fit but don't start something you know both of you can't finish" Ross says and George nods next to him. He sighs but nods agreeing with the sound advise.

His legs take him to her anyway. The boys flee just in case, getting ready to go on stage and leaving the pair be.

"Wow Healy" she says and a groan grumbles in his chest at the sultry tone she uses.

"Right?" He says, giving her a twirl, trying to ease the tension for his sake only. His eyes find hers again and he almost loses it.

He runs a hand through his curls which aren't tamed by the usual hair gel tonight and she almost pounces on him. His feet betray him and take him the rest of the way to her. His eyes land on her delicious thighs, hands finding them without a single thought. They're spread not a second later and oh how well they welcome him. His eyes catch a glimpse of her black lace underwear and his eyes snap shut.

"You're killing me here" he says as her neck strains to find his Adams apple.

"Baby" he groans eyes snapping open, their dark eyes finding each other.

"You look so good" he says, the vowels drawn out.

"You don't look so bad yourself Healy" she says, fingers playing with his curls, he didn't even see how they got there but they're curling around the strands gently, she knows she can't mess up his hair too much.

He breathes in deeply as he looks at her, breath bated and sharp.

"You look so good baby" she sighs out, repeating his words back to him, her breath hitting his lips.

"Oh fuck it" he says, smashing his lips against hers. Their tongues quickly find each other, meeting messily. He presses his core forward, his hands finding her hips and pulling her tight against him, she almost falls off the chair, but his tight grasp has her held against him, flushed.

Their make out session is quickly cut short, bells ringing to let the band know they're due to be on soon.

"Fuck" he murmurs against her lips, he sighs against her before they both pull away to go on stage.

He had clearly decided to make this show more painful for her. Particularly when he did the 'bit' on the sofa. It felt all to real when his fingers grasped the buttons of his shirt. Usually he would look up, away from the audience but this time he turned to where she was standing on the stage.

His eyes found hers, he took a puff of his cigarette, lips pursing as he blew out, he winked at her making her gasp. His hand smoothed down his chest, he only looked away when his palm lay flat against his trouser covered cock, that's when he decided to throw his head back, he purposely let out a deep sigh.

She swore she heard her name and the fans in front of her looked to her and screamed. Oh shit he said her name.

"You little shit Healy" she murmured to herself.

During the final bows, she made her way backstage and waited for him there. She sat anxiously for a while before she left, deciding to wait in his changing room. When she heard the crowd screaming loudly she knew they had left the stage.

She knew he'd rush to find her so she had to be quick. Her fingers found the zip of her skirt, discarding it. She took off her top, revealing a black lace bodysuit, something Matty hadn't seen her in before. She found one of Matty's white shirts and threw that over her frame. She heard the door slam against the wall behind her and she whipped around to seem him. His shirt was nowhere to be seen and he had already started on the buckle of his belt. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock until it clicked.

"There she is" he said, his voice deep as his eyes found hers.

"That wasn't fair now was it Matty?" She says, stepping slowly towards him. He froze in his tracks as she approached him, finally taking in her attire. A groan rumbled from his chest and his cock twitched in his pants.

"Fuck me you look hot' he says as her hands are placed on his bare shoulders. She lowers herself until she's on her knees, her lips finding his abdomen as he throws his head back.

"Don't get me wrong, you looked so fit. Running your hand down your chest like that" she said, mimicking his earlier actions.

"And the way your head was thrown back when you..." She says, her hand moving down more until flush against his core.

"But it wasn't fair Matty. Saying my name as if no one would hear" she says.

"Lou" he sighs again. She looks up at him through her eyelashes, her fingers find the zipper of his trousers and they make light work of undoing them. He helps her remove them, he knows she's the devil when her lips press against his clothed core.

"Fuck me" he says. Looking down at the beautiful woman on her knees for him, trying to commit the view to memory.

"oh I will, don't you worry baby" she says and he groans. Her hands find the hem of his boxers, pulling at them until his member is free and snaps against his abs.

This is completely uncharted territory but he's thriving off it.

"You're so hard for me" she says and he nods bashfully. She's too turned on and needs him too much to tease him, so her lips quickly find their place around his tip. The red and leaking tip disappearing against her red lips, her lipstick marking his member.

He groans and his hands wrap around her hair, making a makeshift ponytail .

"oh fuck you're good at this ' he groans. Her lips move down his shaft, all the way to the base and she moans against him, the vibrations nearly killing him. She begins bobbing up and down on him, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat perfectly. She doesn't gag, she moans and it has Matty's stomach clenching.

"Oh fuck you're the best" he says and she looks up at him, continuing her work and making him writhe against her. All that can be heard is his deep grunts and the wet sounds coming from below him and it's like music to his ears.

"Baby I can't, I need to be inside you" he groans, she moans against him and his hands are quickly placed against her shoulders, pushing her off him until a pop sounds. His hand finds her and he pulls her to her feet, he grabs her hips and pulls her flush against him, he quickly picks her up, leading her to the countertop to the left of them. He pops open the lace bodysuit, she grasps him in her hand and leads him to her core. His tip brushes against her clit before dipping into her cunt, coating just the head of him with her juices. He gives her a look and she nods at him, letting him know she wanted this.

"Fuck you're so wet, who made you this wet huh?" He says, lips pushing against hers, tongues fighting.

"You, it's always you" she says against him.

"Please fuck me Matty" she sighs.

"oh I will' he says, a smirk resting against his lips before he thrusts harshly into her. She takes all of him and they both moan loudly.

"Oh god Matty' she moans, hands grasping at his back, trying to get him closer although not possible.

"You were made for me darling' he looks down at where they meet, nearly coming undone at the site.

He pulls back before his hips snap forward again, sending his cock deep into her. Her head snaps upwards as she screams. They moan, groan and scream in unison, his cock driving to and from her at an unforgiving pace, curving upwards slightly and hitting her gspot perfectly. His eyes are trained on where they met, the sight filthy, turning him on even more. He felt unbelievably lucky that he got to have her like this. He had never felt this good with anyone before, but he also couldn't believe how connected it made them feel.

Her mouth opens and forms a "o" as the tip of him rubs against her soft spot.

"That it baby?" He groans and she nods vigorously. He continues driving himself into that spot, the spot that has her convulsing around him. His own head shoots back now, her lips sucking against his Adams apple. His fingertips find her clit and he circles it.

"Cum with me" he says, his words sending her over the edge, he cums not a second later joining her in the white hot pleasure.

It was a hard and fast fuck, what both of them needed to shake off the tension that had started to become unbearable mixed with adrenaline of the show.

He holds her tightly against him, pressing soft kisses to her lips. He pulls back to look at her and finds her smiling up at him.

"Never going to get used to that" he says and she nods in agreement. His pulls out of her, making the both of them groan. His fingertips find the "M" of the necklace as he smiles down at her. He doesn't ask if this means she's his, because the both of them already knew that and neither of them needed or wanted to confirm it just yet. They were enjoying just figuring it out for now.

"Look pretty with my initial on you" he says and she smirks.

"Marked your territory real good" she says and he all but groans at that. His territory. Her words had basically confirmed she was his anyway.

"Spoke to the boys earlier.... We think... If you want. That you should get the box tattoo" he says and she smiles up at him. If anyone asked her about this moment, she knew she wouldn't be able to do it justice, or explain how it made her feel. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her, it let her know that she was where she was supposed to be with the people who loved her most: she was home.

"I think that's a wonderful idea" she says, fighting back the urge to cry at the sentiment.

"Now what are we going to do about the fact you moaned my name in front of thousands of people?" She asks and he laughs loudly, leaving her to get a cloth to clean her up. He's gentle with the process knowing she would be easily overstimulated. She appreciates the softness of it all, especially when he places a soft kiss on her forehead when she winces.

"That's up to you love. We can let them speculate, or we can tell them" he says and she nods, thinking through the possible options.

"Tell them what though?" She asks and he agrees, at this moment in time, nothing was confirmed, they both knew how they felt but nothing was set in stone yet, they were going with the flow.

"I don't know... But I do know I don't want to have to hide. Want to love on you whenever I want... Flirt with you on that stage and over Instagram" he says making her laugh.

"How post-modern of you" and they both laugh loudly at that.

"Well then... Guess we just let them speculate" she says and he nods at her. His lips press against hers before they both get changed, returning to the boys.

"You guys are gross" George says making everyone laugh.

"Oh shut up, we've heard much worse from you" Matty says.

"Oh Charli... Just like that" Ross says, in a high pitch voice, completely taking the piss out of G. She's thankful he's taking some of the heat off of Matty and her.

"I do not sound like that thank you very much!" He says, defensive as ever. They join the group, Lou talking with Hann about various things as Matty messes around with the other lads.

She couldn't see how this could get any better.

Part 7

[juicyflawless25]

Bon Appétit (ch. 2) Nsfw

Word Count; A little over 5k (for the first chapter)

Notes; Inspired, somehow, by the song Bon Appétit by Katy Perry. Also cross posted on ao3. I apologize for the length of this! I didn't mean for it to come out this long, but here we are! I do hope you enjoy though! Also actually nsfw this time!

Tw; cunnilingus, cursing, general nsfw stuff

“Good girl.” You breathed in her ear, just before standing up straight and placing all of your attention to her hair. You heard Larisa swallow thickly, but you dared not gaze back at her just yet. No, you were going to set the mood as you pampered your wife to the best of your ability. 

You let your fingers gently massage at the base of her head for a moment, your thumbs gently pressing into where you always found her to be the most tense. A light groan flowed from Larissa’s mouth as her head fell forward lightly. A sweet smile graced your lips as you soaked in the way you could feel your wife almost immediately relax. Good, this was what you were going for. 

“Don’t stop, darling, that feels amazing.” Larissa murmured, a peaceful look falling onto her face as you peered at her through the mirror. 

For a moment, you leaned forward and kissed the spot your thumbs were massaging, which promptly made a gasp tumble from Larissa’s mouth. That sweet smile on your face? Gone in an instant as soon as you heard that gasp. In its place was a grin so devious, even Lucifer themselves would shiver. 

You leaned in again to place your lips on her neck, slowly and sensually kissing the same spot as before. You repeated the process a few more times, feeling goosebumps rise on Larissa’s skin and her body tremble. One last, lustful, sweeping kiss to the side of her neck and you straightened back up, feigning a look of innocence. 

Larissa stared at you amorously through the mirror, her icy blue eyes slightly blown from your kisses just seconds prior. You winked at her as you kneaded at her neck with love, kissing the top of her head with a coquettish smile. 

After a moment though, you returned your attention to her hair and gently began to pluck out the plethora of pins holding her angel-like hair in place. 

If there was one thing you loved to see on Larissa, it was her hair cascading down her neck and shoulders. She looked like a golden, omnipotent god just waiting to be worshiped. Especially in the morning, before getting ready for the day as she sipped lovingly on her first cup of coffee. The beginning of the day's sun shining through to cascade on her like a marvelously sculpted piece of marble. She was breathtakingly gorgeous and no one would ever tell you otherwise. 

You didn’t realize it, but as you thought of her this way, your hands still absentmindedly taking care of the pins still left in her hair, your breath had begun to come out more rapidly. And as Larissa tilted her head to stare at you, a small grin creased the right side of her mouth in amusement. With it, however, came a bit of a blush on her lovely pale cheeks. She had never found herself to be particularly beautiful, but the way you showered her with adoration always lifted her spirits high and gave her confidence in her beauty. It also had a tendency to make the apex of her thighs ache and throb. 

After a moment, you steadied yourself and chuckled lightly at the way you had lost yourself for a moment. Your wife had such a way about her that a reaction like that was inevitable. 

Soon, the last pin holding up the final curled piece of hair was finally taken away, and her golden locks rested beautifully upon her shoulders. You placed the last pin on the vanity with the rest of them before turning back to Larissa and her breathtaking beauty. 

Your hands had a mind of their own as they reached for her hair, fingers threading softly through her luscious locks. The tips of your fingers kneaded at her scalp, fingernails lightly scratching in tandem with your ministrations. Larissa let out a deep, guttural groan that sent shockwaves straight to your core. God, the noises your wife could make had no qualms in bringing you to your knees whenever made. 

The buckling of your knees at the sound was evident and Larissa grinned seductively, knowing full well exactly what was happening. And as you continued with giving her the best head massage of her life, her own core gently throbbing already, Larissa let loose another filthy groan that nearly had you falling to the floor for her.

However, the plan was for you to melt her into a gooey mess, not the other way around. So, you doubled down on your resolve and swallowed hard, taking one hand to brush her hair away from her neck. As soon as the flesh was exposed, you laid several soft kisses along the column of her neck, teeth nipping playfully at her skin. Larissa let out a long, shaken breath and you could feel the goosebumps rise on her flesh with your lips.

“You know, I’ve been watching you all day.” You began, just before you latched your teeth to the space connecting her neck and shoulder. 

Your eyes connected with hers in the mirror and you stared directly into them as you marked her skin with the most lovely bruise. 

Larissa’s breath hitched as she sucked in a shuddering breath. “O-oh have you now?” She questioned, eyes wanting to shut at the onslaught of your mouth on her. She kept them open, however. Always finding it erotic to watch as you marked her, claiming her just as you had done throughout your relationship. It never got old. 

“Mhmm. I’ve been watching you and how absolutely delicious you’ve looked. It’s made me want to eat…” You lightly bit at her shoulder to accentuate the word. “You…” Another nip. “Up.” 

You placed an open mouth kiss on her neck this time at the last word, a mischievous smile dancing playfully on the edges of your lips. You breathed her in at the same time, sucking in a deep breath of her most wonderful scent. Roses, bergamot and patchouli, a distinct and lovely smell that belonged only to your wife. 

“You smell good enough to devour.” You whispered, continuing your kisses up towards her ear before biting lovingly at the lobe. 

She shivered in response, that spot between her legs throbbing in tandem with her rapidly beating heart. For a moment, she almost spread her legs immediately, the need for you to be between them almost too much for her to bear. She kept them closed though, knowing that you would part them as soon as your mouth was hungry enough to ravage her. 

While Larissa seemed occupied with controlling the waves of arousal rolling from her body, your eyes ate up the sight of her from the top of her head to the very tip of her toes. You bit your bottom lip as you consumed the sight of her, noting how her chest had already begun to blush into a deep shade of red. How her eyes were slightly glazed over with lust, pupils beginning to blow wider and wider, nearly consuming the luscious blue of them. The way her body responded to your attention, yearning for any touch or gaze you might set upon it.

There was nothing in this world that would ever satisfy you in the way that your wife did. Not a single sun of the morning could light up your world the way her smile did. No blue sky would ever compare to her eyes and the way they stared at you with love and adoration, the kind that made your knees weak and your heart feel as if it were fit to burst. 

Not a single piece of the finest silk could ever touch your skin as softly or as gently as when Larissa placed her hands upon your hood before leaning in for a kiss. No taste of the richest foods would ever compare to how she tasted against your tongue when you explored every part of her you could reach. No, not a solitary thing would ever be comparable to the woman sitting before you, flushed with longing and need for you.

These thoughts alone, as you gawked so hungrily down at her, were exactly the ones you’d had a millions times before and would have again. These thoughts would always push you forward to worshiping her like the absolute Devine, celestial deity you knew she was and always would be. 

Unable to hold yourself back any longer, your left hand grabbed at her slim wrist as the other landed possessively on her lower back. As you gently guided her up from her seat at the vanity, the rest of her routine having been forgotten by now, you leaned in to hotly whisper in her ear, “I need to taste you, Larissa. I’ve been dreaming of it all day.”

Larissa choked out a strangled moan and closed her eyes as she let you guide her upwards to a standing position. And thank goodness you were holding onto her securely because if you had not been, she would have easily fallen to the floor as your words hit her ear and struck lightning to her clit. 

“God, yes!” The words slipped from her mouth unbidden, unable to hold back anything any longer. The way you touched her as you led her towards the bed, the way your eyes clearly displayed the neediness of your confession had Larissa already wet with need. Soaked, in fact. 

You guided her to your shared bed and sat her down on the edge of it with barely contained poise, your body trembling with a hunger for her that only making sweet, intimate love with her would even remotely satisfy. 

She stared up at you through her lashes, cerulean eyes intensely watching you as you placed your hands just underneath her jaw where her neck connected. You leaned forward, keeping eye contact with her until your lips crashed into hers. This was when her legs finally parted for you of their own accord, giving your body the room to stand between her legs. You fit there so perfectly, melding into her as your shared kiss created a heated dance that lit high rising fires inside both of your bellies. 

Larissa’s hands began to wonder as the kiss became more ferocious and needy, her long fingers smoothing up the sides of your thighs and gently rounding over your hips. In a matter of seconds, however, your wife rounded back to your ample behind and placed both hands there to squeeze. You felt a delightful quiver run through your body as she began to massage her hands over your ass, a moan flowing from your mouth and into hers.

She swallowed that moan and created one of her own, pressing her body further into yours as she stretched her neck to continue the onslaught of kisses you were giving each other. Your own hands began to wonder as well, traveling down her neck and over her shoulders. You enjoyed the way her soft skin felt under your fingertips, never tiring of the little sighs and hums she gave as you touched her.

As one hand wandered to her back, splaying across the top of it in possession, your other hand snaked its way back up her neck and underneath her hair. You disconnected the kiss in favor of breathing for a moment as you tangled your fingers in the hair nearest her scalp, pulling your face back from hers to inspect the heavenly look on Larissa’s face. Her lips were swollen, eyes half lidded and mouth parted as she panted, chest rising and falling quickly as her lungs filled with air. 

You couldn’t help yourself as you smiled at the sight of her, the smile switching to one of a puckish nature as your fingers grabbed her hair roughly and pulled her head back to expose her beautiful neck. Larissa gasped, eyes widening for a moment as she whimpered and her hands found tighter purchase on your ass. 

With fervor, you attacked her neck with a plethora of kisses, each increasing in their intensity. When you found her pulse point, you closed your teeth around it and sucked arduously, tongue lathing over it after a moment to soothe the burn she surely felt. Larissa enjoyed it though, the evidence clear from the way the moan of your name seemed to come straight from her core. 

Pulling back, you inspected the hickey you left on her skin, admiring the way the bruise complimented the lightness of her skin. A lovely reminder that she was yours, to be touched by no one but you. You gave a gentle kiss to it before running your hands down her arms and removing your hands from your backside. Larissa pouted, nearly on the verge of making grabby hands as you took a step back from her.

“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll have me back in your arms momentarily. But first, I feel an incredible urgency to undress you.” You threw a wink her way before gently cupping her cheek and brushing it with the pad of your thumb.

Wasting no more time, your urgency to have your wife laid naked before you, you dropped to your knees and stared up at Larissa lovingly, but with a glint of wickedness lingering in your eyes. She stared down at you with her mouth slightly open, sucking in deep breaths as she watched you lean your head downward and connect your lips to her left ankle. She clenched her jaw in deep concentration as you made your way up her calf, slowly creeping towards the bend of her knee. 

It took her a moment to process, her brain already in overload as she felt herself becoming more and more wet by the second, but your hands had gently run under her dress to grab hold of the top of her sheer stockings. Your fingers danced teasingly on her thighs for a moment before swiftly removing the stocking from her leg entirely, and all without ripping them. It disappeared behind you as you threw it, making a mental note to tidy it up later.

You repeated the process on Larissa’s other leg, your eyes gazing up at her every now and then to find a deep blush having gone straight to her ears. You grinned, absolutely loving the way she always blushed when aroused. 

Having gotten rid of the stockings from her legs, you rose to your feet to loom over Larissa, only to bend down slightly and place your lips against her burning ear. “Stand up, my love. I want to unzip your dress.” You husked, your tongue snaking out to lick along the shell of her ear.

Larissa moaned, already nodding her head before you were even through with the sentence. She stood up quickly, hand reaching out to hold onto your shoulder so she could steady herself. 

A chuckle escaped your lips as one arm came around to hold tight to her waist. “Such a good girl, obeying so quickly.” You praised her, words tinged with eroticism. Larissa mewled at that, the grip on your shoulder becoming tighter because of your words. 

As you watched her face, conveying a steamy look down at you as she bit her lip, your hand came up to grasp the zipper on the back of her dress. The way you grinned, she thought you were going to tease her and unzip her dress slowly. However, your other arm left her waist and gripped on tightly to the collar of her dress. In one fell swoop, you unzipped the dress and dragged the top of it free from her chest and arms. Larissa was taken aback, but greatly aroused at your display of wanton need to see her naked.

She was going to wiggle out of the dress for you, but you tutted at her before she could even begin to gyrate her hips. You shook your finger at her and dropped to your knees before her for the second time this evening. 

“Allow me.” Was all you gave her as you trapped the end of her dress between your fingers and palm, pulling down with as much force as you had done with the top.

The dress fell to the floor and pooled at her feet. Larissa stepped out of it, but before she could make any move, you were back on your feet and shoving her down onto the bed. As she landed, you crawled on top of her and settled at her hips, leaning forward to place your hands down on both sides of her face. The look of lust you found there made butterflies burst inside your stomach and your clit throb hard.

“Fuck, you are so delicious, Rissa.” You breathed out before attacking her lips hungrily with yours. 

She answered back with a moan and her hands coming to grip at your hips, kisses matching the intensity of yours. “Please!” Larissa begged, fingers holding onto you so hard that you were sure there would be marks there later.

“Please what, love?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow expectantly at her. 

Larissa rolled her hips into yours, moaning and squirming beneath you. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a bull in a china shop. The heat and throbbing between her legs had increased tenfold within the last few minutes, making her a needy, horny mess beneath you. 

“I need you. I need you so bad.” She tried to lean up to kiss you again, but you stopped her with a hand to her chest. “Darling!” She cried out, bewildered as to why you would stop her from kissing you. 

A dark chuckle rumbled up from your throat as the hand that was on her chest moved to cup her breast, which was still covered by her bra. Your wife moaned and shuddered as you massaged her breast, eyes closing for the moment to revel in the feeling. You ground your hips down onto hers for a moment, to give yourself a slight bit of relief. At the same time, you were letting her feel how wet you were for her as well. Larissa growled at the feel of your heat against her, making her buck underneath you once more. She whined pathetically when your hand left its spot, but she quickly stopped when you spoke.

“Arch for me, mon Coeur.” You purred, watching her lovely chest rise towards you as she did what you commanded. You reached around behind her and unclasped the bra, gently removing it from her person before slinging it behind you as you had done her stockings. 

“Mmm, perfect.” You commented as your eyes zeroed in on her breasts. Larissa arched closer towards you, putting on a display for you to admire. You knew what she wanted and you wasted no time in giving in to both of your desires.

With a passion Larissa had always adored in you, your lips latched onto one of her nipples, tongue licking vehemently at it as you sucked on it gently. Larissa’s hand came up to latch onto the back of your head, pressing your face further into her chest as you maintained your ministrations. Your wife’s other hand found purchase on your ass, placing an iron grip on it as she lost herself in the feelings you were providing. 

Not wanting her other breast to be forgotten, you traveled to it by making a trail of wet kisses towards it. Your tongue ran over the nipple longingly before you began to suck on it, bringing about a string of praises and curses from Larissa’s painted lips.

A wet pop sounded around the room as you finally let go of her nipple, making your wife shiver in response. She was writhing even more beneath you now, her hands crawling all over you, trying to pull you as close as possible. 

The way she was trying to touch you immediately made you feel completely overdressed. Her lust blown pupils gazing at you that she had the same exact thought in mind. Without much more thought to it, you quickly discarded your shirt and it landed somewhere next to the two of you. Larissa licked her lips hungrily as she stared at your chest, already bare for her, nipples extruding obscenely due to your arousal.

She reached up to palm both breasts, squeezing and pushing them together as she watched with rapt attention. You arched into her hands as yours latched onto her wrists, hips gyrating hotly against Larissa’s stomach.

You continued on in this way for a few moments, but eventually, as you stared down at the hottest wife a woman could ever have, you knew you couldn’t bear to not have her in your mouth any longer. You quickly removed her hands from your chest, a whimpering protest coming from Larissa at the action. You swallowed her whimpering with a feverish kiss, biting at her lip and pulling it before licking at her teeth with your tongue.

The goddess woman below you kissed back with passion and love, her fingernails scratching down your back as you devoured each other for a moment. You hissed, enjoying the sting and the pleasure of the action, which only spurred you further into action. 

“I believe I’ll be having dessert before dinner tonight, darling.” You teased, speaking against her lips before you started your ascent down her body. 

As you slithered your way down her body slowly, you left behind a plethora of wet kisses and bruises, marking her body up to admire later on. Larissa scooted herself up the bed to give your more room, laying herself back down onto her elbows to watch you observantly. As your face crept closer and closer to where she was most heated, her breathing came in short bursts, labored by the feeling of needing your mouth between her legs. She rolled her hips upwards towards your mouth as it passed by the large wet spot on her panties. You chuckled before placing a quick kiss to that wet spot, making her breath hitch hard.

Quick and nimble fingers hooked to the top of Larissa’s panties and pulled them down her long, luxurious legs. As the panties disappeared, you made eye contact with your wife and kept them glued to hers as you blew gentle air over her slit. 

You closed your eyes, however, when you took in a deep breath of her musky scent. “God, you smell so incredibly…” You opened your eyes again, eyes sparkling as a smirk stretched your lips. “Appetizing.” At that word, your tongue came out to lick through her slit, savoring the tang of her as it hit your taste buds.

Larissa let out a choked moan, legs automatically widening even further for you as she felt your tongue against her folds. You groaned, having dreamt of this moment all day long. There was nothing better than the taste of Larissa on your tongue. It was like ambrosia to you, making you feel as if you were some sort of god. But truly, it was Larissa who was the god, the one who tasted so divine, so utterly delicious. If she would let you, you’d spend each waking moment between her legs, feasting upon the nectar she so willingly gave. 

Your actions suddenly not your own, you buried your face in your wife’s cunt, an animalistic growl ripping its way up your throat as you latched onto her clit.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, fuck!” Larissa moaned loudly, one hand coming to grip onto your hair tightly, pushing her face further into her simultaneously. Her hips rolled uncontrollably, your mouth moving with her in tandem. 

The string of curses coming from her mouth only fed the intensity you felt for eating her out, your mouth sucking ardently on her clit, your hands gripping almost painfully to her thighs as they laid on your shoulders. Larissa wasn’t one to curse much, but when you got her in the bedroom, it was all over. The way they sounded coming from the lilt of her accent and coupled with the moans behind them, the apex of your thighs were to be dry no more. Not that they were much dry before then. No, Larissa had you slick and ready in a mere minute the moment she walked in the door.

“More, darling! Please!” She begged, one hand gripping at the sheets while the other felt as if it was about to rip the hair from your scalp she was holding on so hard. Even if she did, it would be well worth it to pleasure her in all the ways she loved.

Wasting zero time for her pleas, you continued to lap at her clit as your middle finger came to tease at her entrance. Larissa’s hips bucked at the contact, a long and needy whine spilling from her lips in need of more. You obliged, gently sliding your finger inside of her, feeling her pulse around it momentarily. A guttural keen came from above you as Larissa writhed and treasured the feel of you inside her. However, she still needed more from you and was more than happy to beg for it as long as you liked. 

“Y/n! I need more of you inside me! I’m burning with need for you, darling.” Her words hit your ears and you moaned against her clit, sending vibrations through it that made her sling her head backwards as she repeated your name in reverence.

With how wet Larissa was, sliding another finger inside of her was easy. A third finger followed the second, your mouth still singing glories to her taste. You could feel her wetness dripping down your chin and you relished in the fact that you were the one to put her in this state. Both of her hands were on your head now as you pumped your fingers in and out of her at a bruising pace. Her hips bucked up and down, hands keeping your head in place as she fucked herself on your face and fingers. 

You unlatched your mouth from her bundle of nerves for a moment to look up at her, the sob coming from her mouth at the loss of contact almost breaking your heart. Your fingers were still inside her thought, curling to find that spongy spot inside of her that made her head swim deliriously. 

“Can you take one more for me, baby?” You asked, not wanting to push her too far. Truthfully, you felt the need to climb entirely inside her, to meld yourselves together in ecstasy in any way possible, but of course that was impossible. And perhaps a little strange. You abandon the train of thought though as you wait for an answer.

Larissa nodded her head quickly, barely able to get a real word out, much less a sentence. “P-please! PLEASE!” She squalled, nearly losing her mind with how much she wanted you. 

Not one to waste an opportunity, you nodded and watched her face as you gently slid a fourth finger inside of her. The way she clenched tightly around them, a strangled moan and hotly uttered curses spilling forth from the both of you, nearly made your own orgasm occur right then and there.

“You feel so good around my fingers, Larissa.” You said before pushing your face back into her folds, tongue licking and mouth sucking enthusiastically. She only moaned louder in response, that coil inside her core winding tighter and tighter.

“I-I’m going to -OH!- come, darling!” Larissa stuttered as you pumped her full with your fingers, relishing in the way she felt and tasted. She was the finest of desserts, the nectar of the gods and all sweet things on Earth in one body. It was a wonder you ever moved away from the apex of her thighs at all.

You doubled your efforts, fucking her with such abandon that the headboard of your bed began to shake. You could hear Larissa losing herself above you and you had to look up and watch her as you ate and fucked her to the best of your ability.

Within a matter of seconds of you fucking her harder, Larissa’s thighs clamped tightly around your head. It was the telltale sign of her impending orgasm, her entire body quivering as her back arched and her legs kept you in a vise grip. You had no qualms with this, no complaints. No, you continued as you were, fingers pounding her into oblivion as your mouth feasted upon the wash of arousal that flowed from her entrance and into your mouth.

If anyone had been anywhere near the two of you at this time, they would think you were murdering Larissa from the way she sounded. The orgasm washed over her entire body and into her extremities, making them feel tingly all the way throughout.

You wanted to continue to devour your wife, but in time everything became too sensitive and she released her thighs from around your head to push at you lightly. You huffed as you finally removed your mouth from her, wanting to live there forever. But you knew that she would be overstimulated now, if the way her entrance clenched around your fingers were any indication at all. 

With a kiss to the inside of her thigh, you smile lovingly up at her and lay your head against her. “I’m going to pull out now, love.” You warned her gently, waiting for a response before doing so.

Larissa nodded, trying to control her breathing. She brushed her fingers through your hair as an indication to go ahead, her throat still a bit sore from the screaming she had just done moments prior.

With an ease only perfected from years of love making, you pulled your fingers out from her slowly. She hissed for a moment above you, sensitive from being stretched out a bit. You looked up at her with concern, but she only smiled and nodded her head once again, letting you know she was just fine.

You crawled your way up the bed to plop down beside her, giving any skin you could reach a light kiss in several places. She sighed happily, wrapping her arms around you as you lay your head on her shoulder. You kissed her neck before leaning on your arm to look down at her post orgasm face, memorizing it just as you had been doing for so many years before.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so gorgeous.” You breathed, running your fingers along her jawline and making her shiver.

“Mmm, I love you too.” Larissa responded, finally opening her eyes to gaze into yours. She smiled a full, teeth showing grin as she snuggled into you further. “I suppose you gave a new meaning to Bon Appétit tonight.”

A full, chest heaving laugh rose up to rock your whole body at her words. She laughed with you, enjoying the sound of you filling her ears. There was nothing she wanted more than what she had in her arms and in her bed right now.

As your laugh died down, you looked at Larissa with all the love in your heart and bent your head down to kiss her with that same love. “Well, when you give me such a grand course to feast on, how could I resist?”

Larissa blushed deeply, but surged forward to give you a deeper kiss before placing her forehead against yours. There were no words left in her, just that feeling that lived deep in her chest. The feeling of being whole and being accepted as she was. And, of all things, being devoured by the waves of true love.

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter One: Assembly Required

The Missing Title

Baron Helmut Zemo x Reader

Summary: Enlisted to help a friend with a crisis you once specialized in, you find yourself in a foreign country getting ready for a mission in which the details you're unaware of. Reunited with a good friend, you follow his unhinged partner as you all prepare to stop more harm from being released onto the world.

Words: 5k

Warnings: Cursing, Illegal Activities, Terrorists, Politics, Bombs, Assassinations, Criminals, Secrets,

A/N: So I watched the series this summer, and while I hadn't anticipated to get hooked onto anything, a surprise appearance from Zemo had me falling in love with his character and now I'm writing this series and it'll just evolve forward into a story I've been daydreaming up these past few months. Also thank you to @imamotherfuckingstar-lord for hyping me up and encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone with the future topics of this story.

“Whatever, we just need to get inside,” Bucky dismisses Sam’s introduction to you. Truly, it’s a reintroduction, since you’d met him once or twice before, even if it was really only in passing.

From all the stories you’ve heard, you’re sure his attention was elsewhere, so you aren’t too dissuade by his stiff attitude. Sam offers you an annoyed glance in hopes that you, too, are either amused or off-put by the ex-assassin’s dour aura. With an alacrity you'd rarely seen in the past few years, his partner opens the auto shop's door and heads inside.

"What're you talking about, you wanna break Zemo outta jail?" Sam asks the man, clearly more perturbed by the incurring situation you'd stumbled into upon your good friend, Torres’, request. "Where the hell are we, Buck? Have you lost your mind?" Following both the men with the little light their flashlights emit, you listen, unsure what exactly the job Joaquin sent you to help out on entails.

"We have no leads, no moves, nothing-" Bucky answers, but Sam cuts him off.

"-Except the one I just called in, yeah. What we have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars," Sam argues. Rounding the shelves of oil, dirtied gloves, tools, and mechanical parts, you try and watch your step. Albeit the darkness makes it harder than necessary to find your way without stumbling. Burner phone dug out of your pocket, you shine its faint light around your surroundings.

"And we also have eight super soldiers that are loose," Bucky reasons, his light casting downward as Sam shines it on him stepping over a rig. Despite not knowing James well, you know most people call him 'Bucky', and you know it's probably best not to interfere with the two men considering you're aware of Sam's indulgence when it comes to arguing. Hell, him and Joaquin could bicker for the rest of time. The thought elicits an amused eye roll on your behalf.

"Look, Zemo's gonna mess with our minds. Especially yours, no offense," Sam rebuttals, following suit as he steps over the rig. Suddenly his light is held still and there's a loud click before overhead lights come on all around you guys, lighting up what you can now see is a garage. Granted, the outside did have a sign indicating it was an auto-shop, you never know if it’s just a cover.

"Offense," Bucky comments, laying his flashlight aside on top one of the movable shelving carts. "Super soldiers go against everything he believes in. He is crazy, but he still has a code." Lips parting in thought, you're about to speak up when Sam beats you to it.

"Yeah, and I've been on the wrong side of that code, Buck, and so have you. He blew up the UN, he killed King T'chaka and framed you for it. Did you forget that?" Eyeing his partner with a ludicrous look in his eyes, he quickly finishes his train of thought. "You think the Wakandans forgot about it? It's a rhetorical question- they didn't. I know why this matters to you, but come on, it's pushing you off the deep end."

Despite your abhorrence for bickering, there was admittedly not much you could contribute to the conversation. Though the name ‘Zemo’ sounds familiar, you can’t pinpoint its origin. Tucking your burner phone into your back pocket, you place your hands on your hips in waiting. A big breath puffs out your cheeks as you pray they come to some sort of conclusion sooner than later.

"Sam, we don't know how they're gettin' the serum. We don't even know how many of them there are. Look, let me just walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?" Though the topic is concerning, Bucky’s phrasing and search of consent elicit an amused smile.

"What did you do?" Sam asks accusingly, like the man’s already committed some sort of crime.

"I didn't do anything. The weakest point in a system isn't the software, or the hardware, it's the meatware. The human element. Now, in this lockup, it's nine to one, prisoners to guards. And if two prisoners start fighting, then the protocol says four guards have to respond-“ Bucky starts to explain.

“-So why would two prisoners randomly start fighting at that moment?" Sam questions.

"-Who knows? There could be many reasons. But the point is, these things escalate. Lockdown procedures would have to be initiated with all those bodies flying around left and right, it wouldn't be hard to slip down a hallway or two. And if the fire alarm got tripped while the prisoners were being separated, someone could use the chaos to their advantage." With his thorough knowledge of the protocols, it’s clear Bucky has a plan.

"I don't like how casual you're bein' about this. This is unnatural. Are you... and- where are we, man?!" Sam comes back to reality, demanding an answer as hypotheticals really won’t do much for whatever super soldier problem is going on. In the distance the metallic sound of a hinge squeaking and a click of a lock signals a door’s been opened.

Eyes flitting to its source, the three of you watch in anticipation as a blurry figure approaches, its shadow cast upon the hanging plastic curtains of the auto shop. Lifting a section of said curtain, a police officer or guard of some sort enters. Considering the lack of people around, you assume he’s here to arrest you all for trespassing. Vision shifting to the men in hopes they have a better plan than you, the two of them surprisingly don’t move.

“WHOA, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa- what’re you doin’ here?!” Sam yells, clearly upset by the man’s presence.

“No, listen. Look, I didn't wanna tell you cause I knew you wouldn't let this happen. Okay?" Bucky says calmly, a confusing juxtaposition for you, to say the least.

"What did you do?!" Sam turns his attention to Bucky.

“Nothing, according to him,” you quip. Gears turning within your mind, you’re starting to wonder if this is that ‘Zemo’ character they were just talking about. The former Winter Soldier aims a glare at you momentarily before refocusing on Sam.

“We need him,” Bucky asserts.

"You're going back to prison!" Sam declares, focus and pointer finger now targeting the dressed up guard.

"If I may,” the man speaks, lifting a finger to weigh in the conversation.

"No!" Both Sam and Bucky simultaneously yell, their similarity amusing if it weren’t a serious situation. If this is that ‘Zemo’ guy they were talking about who’s in prison… then clearly they’re in trouble.

"Apologies,” the mystery man’s accented voice elicits your attention which shifts over to him. Eyeing him up and down, you feel like he looks familiar in a strange way, but your memory is failing you in this moment. As his eyes turn in your direction, yours dart back to the two men closest to you.

"When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him. You broke the law, and you stuck your neck out for me. I'm asking you to do it again,” Bucky’s words elicit slight paranoia and anger within you. Torres didn’t mention the help you’d be giving was illegal. While you’d technically broken the law before, it’s not something you were ever hoping to do again. If something goes wrong… you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to get out of this, and going to jail is not an option. Hopefully Torres could work something out if worse comes to worst.

"I really think I'm invaluable,” mystery man speaks up again. While you’re distracted by the notion of mentally planning next steps, the comment elicits a mildly amused smirk from you.

"Shut up,” Sam commands the guard-dressed man. He spares a glance in your direction, tacitly seeking affirmation, which he’s granted. “Okay. If we do this, you don't make a move without our permission.” Sam directs the latter of his sentence toward the accented man, to which he subtly shrugs.

"Fair,” he comments, holding the black cap between his hands in front of him. It reads ‘JUSTIZ’ in white big bold capital letters across the front.

"Okay, Zemo. Where do we start?" Sam inquires, handing the reins--temporarily, knowing Sam--over to the man in uniform.

“Woah, woah! He’s the guy? The one you were talking about- the UN Bomber?!” You exclaim, hands thrown out in front of you as you gauge the two familiar men.

Sam sighs, running a hand over his face. “Why do you think we made such a big deal out of it?”

“The one and only,” Zemo—as you now know—responds all too calmly for your preference. Though what were you expecting, really? The man who supposedly (if you remember correctly) broke up the Avengers, according to the news.

“Correction: you made a big deal,” Bucky retorts, a disgruntled look sent in Sam’s direction.

“Nevertheless, first I need to grab a few items,” Zemo states, turning and walking back behind the plastic curtain in the direction he’d come from. Though the two man-children behind you begin to bicker again, you follow the criminal behind the curtain. This attracts their attention as they follow, intent on watching Zemo and making sure he doesn’t escape.

Opposite where he’d come in there’s another door. Pushing it open, you walk through; a few feet ahead Zemo confidently walks toward a black sedan-style car that looks like something out of an old Hollywood movie. “Woah,” you whisper, taking in all the little details of what’s clearly more a showroom than a garage.

“So our first move is grand theft auto?" Sam asks sarcastically, you assume based off his tone. Approaching a yellow-colored convertible car of the same antique classiness you slowly reach out and run your hand along the smooth metal, taking in the intricate detaling.

"These are mine. Collected by family over the generations,” Zemo informs, opening the trunk of the black car nearest the door you all had entered through. Though you can see him stashing equipment into a duffel bag in your peripheral vision, you follow Bucky and Sam suit as you marvel over the opulent vintage automobiles.

"I spent years hunting people HYDRA recruited to recreate the serum-" Zemo explains. Information cataloging in your mind, your heartrate accelerates slightly as your vision shifts between the men in hopes of gauging their mentality. As the known terrorist approaches the vehicle you'd just been examining, you feel yourself stiffen slightly. Surely if he'd wanted me dead he'd have killed me already, right? As he opens the right-side back door and rummages inside, it seems as though everyone's attention has returned to the one speaking. "-Because once it's out there, someone can create an army of people like the Avengers." Slow and deliberate with his word choice, you can tell that there may not be any secrets left unsaid. As the man's intense brown eyes shift over toward you, and then Bucky, your jaw clenches, and you swallow.

Uprighting himself, he continues. "I ended the Winter soldier program once before. I have no intention to leave my work unfinished." With this revelation, relief washes over you and your tension ebbs again. At least it seems, for now, that you're not on his list. Crossing your arms over your chest, you refocus on the information Zemo's relaying. "To do this we'll have to scale a ladder of lowlifes." While the terrorist walks off toward the other side of the garage, you turn and follow his figure.

"Join the party, we've already started," Sam comments, seemingly trying to piece together whatever plan Zemo is forming. Walking after him, you try to keep up considering the man seems to be taking lead.

"First stop is a woman named Selby--mid-level fence I still have a line on--from there, we climb," Zemo explains. While an eyebrow quirks in confusion at the term 'fence' you don't verbally question it. It's obvious whoever he's talking about is some kind of 'in' and while Joaquin hadn't taught you everything he knows, you can still follow along with enough context to understand what they're talking about.

--------

It'd been easy enough to get to the airport as it wasn't far, only about a twenty-minute ride in a taxi. While the men attempted to ascertain a location from Zemo, the criminal had been reluctant to indulge them, simply profiting a 'you'll know soon enough.' to keep them satisfied.

"So how was the flight here?" Sam inquires, finally turning his attention to you as the past half hour has been hectic. Sitting between Sam and Zemo, you try not to let the awkwardness of the whole situation get to you. Up front, an old man drives the taxi while Bucky had insisted on the passenger's seat. The ex-Winter Soldier stares out the windshield, yet something tells you he's eavesdropping, which you wouldn't put past anyone in this vehicle, honestly.

"It was fine. Short enough, though the constant 'we're here, now we're here, no, we're here- was somewhat annoying. Like, I just kept having to reroute and figure out how the hell I was gonna get to you when you guys couldn't keep still for even a second!" This elicits a laugh from your friend on the left, and you can't help but smile for the first time since you'd arrived.

"Kind of hard to do when you've got an agent on your ass," Sam comments, an amused smile on his lips as he leaves room for you to continue.

"Oh God, who is it this time?" Palming your face, you know that this mission is dangerous, yet you haven't been involved in this world for a while, and considering the subject matter, it's rather crucial you help them out.

"The new shield," Sam explains. He gives you a tight-lipped disapproving smile, nodding in understandance of your reaction. Eyebrows raised and lips parting in shock, you shouldn't be surprised, yet you are.

"That's why Joaquin warned me," a hum escapes your lips, "makes sense. Can't say I'm a fan, granted I don't know him."

"You don't need to know him to know he's doing something despicable," Bucky comments from the front, not bothering to even spare a glance in anyone's direction.

"Hey now-" Sam goes to start something, yet you interrupt him with a dissatisfied noise.

"So we know that whoever their supplier is, they've gotta have a lab. A professional one, one big enough to be producing the-" you glance at the driver in the rearview mirror, "stuff, and once we know where we're going I can start looking into a lead. Sound good?"

The distraction seemed to work for now as both your acquaintances respond in some form. Bucky nods up front, the two of you momentarily making eye contact in the side mirror.

"Yeah," Sam answers, arms crossing over his chest as he sits back in the seat. Luckily, the airport is already approaching in the distance.

Upon arrival all the doors are thrown open and the men evacuate the vehicle. Zemo lingers at the door as he holds it open. Unaware of the implication, you instinctively slide out on your left, following your old friend, Sam. "How much do we owe him?" You ask. As Bucky begins speaking with the driver and Sam dismisses you with a wave of his hand, you follow Zemo as he walks toward the airport's runway.

The infamous 'Avengers' follow you two suit, the both of them adorned with sunglasses, even if it's not the brightest out today. Readjusting your duffel bag on your shoulder, you aren't entirely sure what Zemo's plan is here.

"So all this time you've been rich?" Sam asks incredulously, and it's then that you realize the private jet the group of you are approaching is for you. Steps falling behind, your lips part in shock and surprise. Bucky notices your change in pace and offers a look back in your direction, a quirked brow. Small legs quickening their pace once again to catch up to the tall men, you contain your awe.

"I'm a Baron, Sam. My family was royalty until your friends destroyed my country," Zemo answers. Another revelation, another piece of information you hadn't known and hadn't anticipated. While the man may be an international terrorist and criminal, you hadn't paid the case too much attention as it was going on considering you were going through your own set of problems within your work field during that time.

"A Baron?" You echo Zemo's answer as you outwardly process this information. Though you're by no means stupid, the title is something you're not the most familiar with.

"Yes, the thirteenth, to be exact," Zemo responds, offering a look back in your direction before returning his attention to the man awaiting your group at the steps of the private jet. The puzzle only grows as Zemo greets the older gentleman in a language you don't understand. With extended arms, the well-dressed gentleman takes the Baron into his arms. Kisses placed on either cheek, you find the custom familiar. Smiles on both the men's faces, you feel taken aback. Mind reeling, you only find your curiosity toward this criminal growing. "Please," Zemo encourages you all to follow him up the steps.

Sam mumbles something to the older gentleman, and Bucky doesn't acknowledge him as he gestures with his hand for you to go up first. The older gentleman begins to take your bag off your shoulder, but your hand is quick to find its way atop his. "It's okay, I've got it. Thank you."

"Are you sure, Miss?" The elderly man asks in English. With a nod, he releases the strap of your bag and offers a polite smile. Following Sam up the steps, the other two men follow suit.

With help from the taller men to stuff your bag in one of the compartments toward the back of the jet, you find the only open seat is the one across from Zemo. It shouldn't be a surprise, despite Sam and Bucky's marriage-like bickering relationship, they're friends, teammates, and are more fond of one another than you'd guess they are of Zemo.

Before you know it, the jet is taking off and you're in the air for the second time today. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," the Baron extends a hand in your direction, eyes roaming your face as you do the same, taking one another in.

With a quick look toward Sam, you're sure the worry in your eyes shows. Just as the Baron is about to sit back and retract his hand, you envelop his hand with your own, much smaller one. A firm shake between you two, you aren't sure what Zemo will make of your past, but surely he'll find out at some point.

"It's fine," Sam says your name, catching your attention. Even if the reassurance is small, you trust him.

With a divulgence of your full name, you offer Zemo a polite smile. "I take it you and Sam are friends? Former partners, I assume?" he questions, his head tilting slightly as he gauges both your, and Sam's reaction. The latter coughs, suddenly turning his attention out the window. You take that as your cue to answer.

"We've worked together once or twice, but... really yes, we're more friends than anything. One of his coworkers and friends is like a brother to me."

"Apologies if that's a little warm, the fridge is out-" the elderly man from earlier hands Zemo a glass of champagne, "-but I will see if there is some good food in the galley," he informs the Baron. From his attire, you've realized in the short time between boarding and taking off that the man is Zemo's butler.

Accepting the flute, the Baron responds in a language that sounds akin to Russian, you'd guess. The butler laughs, "Oh, it's good to have you back, Sir." Although you're not sure why, a small smile graces your features as you watch the butler turn to leave, though he suddenly turns back. "Can I get you anything, Miss?"

With a look between the butler and Zemo, who simply repeats his earlier indulgence of 'please', you shake your head, only to furrow your brows, rethinking. "Actually, water maybe, if you can, please?"

"Of course, Miss." The butler offers a polite smile and nod before turning to retreat into the galley toward the front.

"A friend of yours?" You question, turning back to face Zemo. Swallowing the sip of champagne he'd taken, he nods.

"Something like that," he responds with a look you can only attribute to playfulness in his eyes. "Can I ask how you've wound up on this exploit alongside us?"

Eyes shifting toward the windows beside your seats, you feel your heart beating a little faster under his gaze Zemo stares intently at you. Unwavering attention, he simply sips his drink as he waits for an answer.

"I, um... used to work for the CIA in their R and D department," you admit, swallowing the thick feeling in your throat as you contemplate explaining the whole truth.

"Which is how you met Torres," Sam comments with a smile, swiveling in his chair as he engages in the conversation.

"Yeah," you respond, meeting Sam's gaze. "though none of us knew what they were doing at first, we were just hired as scientists to test and develop certain biological elements. Our friend--" you turn your attention back to Zemo, hoping to clarify, "--Joaquin, the one who's like a brother to me, he wasn't a scientist, but we came into contact a few times and considering we grew up together we ended up in similar fields: the government."

"And how you met Sam," Zemo assumes, to an exactly correct truth.

"Yes, eventually."

"So you worked in Eugenics?" Zemo dares to ask, blatantly. Though you hadn't been expecting the boldness, you aren't surprised by the question. It was reasonable.

"In some ways... yes, though we thought at the time we were only doing it for the benefit of the people's health. Eradicating diseases, testing possible solutions and seeing how they affected the gene code," you explain. "Things... changed, toward the end, toward the snap..." trailing off, it's clear to everyone that there's a story there.

Not interested in divulging your secrets and past traumas, you don't indulge the following silence. While Sam may know a few select details of what occurred in the R and D department, he doesn't know the whole truth of what happened to your unit. Only what their cover-up was.

"You don't know what it's like to be locked in a cell," Zemo comments, his thoughts obviously having drifted from the conversation. "Oh, that's right- you do." Turning his attention to Sam, he offers him a grimace along with false cheers, sipping his warm champagne.

"Why don't you tell us about where we're going?" Sam pressures, swiftly changing topics as he doesn't wish to go down memory lane, and certainly doesn't want to entertain anymore thought of your previous life, nor the onslaught of questions, ethics, and morals he knows Zemo would cave to if he had you alone.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes with a wave of his hand before flipping another page in the small book he'd produced from his jacket a few moments ago. "I was just fascinated by this," the Baron comments. Eyeing the front of the book, you don't speak German, however, you can recognize it. 'Das Offene Nein In Der Liebe' reads the title, though you don't recognize any words besides 'nein', meaning 'no', and 'der' which you're pretty sure means 'the'. Curious as to why Zemo is suddenly avoiding Sam's questioning under the guise of reading, your eyebrows furrow.

"I don't know what to call it, but this part seems to be important. Who is Nakajima?" Zemo asks. In a sudden movement that makes you yelp and jump, Bucky has his gloved hand wrapped around Zemo's throat. Wide-eyed, you stare in shock and fear as you aren't sure what to do.

"If you touch that again, I'll kill you," the ex-Winter Soldier whispers, eyes filled with anger as he threatens the Baron. The thief quickly nods and Bucky retracts his hand, sitting back in his seat. Letting a big breath slowly filter through your lips, you try not to let the situation unsettle you. After all, from the fleeting moments you've been acquainted, Bucky's always been a wild card.

"I'm sorry," Zemo apologizes again, to your surprise. While you don't know either of the two men well, you hadn't heard them to be quite as... dramatic, as they've been the last hour. Still gathering yourself, you try not to meet anyone's gaze as your eyes travel to the flute Zemo still somehow holds in his grip. "I understand that list of names. People you've wronged as the Winter Soldier."

Your association with the man brought up, you let your gaze flit over to him, Bucky's face somewhat stoic on the outside, yet the faint view of his eyes from your position lets you see that Zemo's not wrong.

"Don't push it," the man warns, and you can't help but offer Bucky a sympathetic smile. While you don't know too much of his story or personal life, you've heard about how he's been through more than anyone could ever imagine.

"I've seen that book-" Sam speaks up, and you have no doubt he's trying to lessen the tension between the four of you. "It was Steve's when he came out of the ice. I told him about Trouble Man- he wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What'd you think?" Sam asks, turning the conversation into something more causerie.

"I like Fortie's music, so..." Bucky responds, finally shifting his attention back to Sam as opposed to staring out the window like he'd been doing for most of the conversation since take off.

"You didn't like it?" Sam asks, obviously offended in some way. Clearly his taste seems to differ from Bucky. Steve, though, was a different man. You hadn't known him personally, though you've heard all the stories everyone did growing up and during the time he was alive.

"Fortie's music is great, so- can't say I blame you," you agree, taking Bucky's side. Is it really taking sides if you're just stating your opinion, though? Sam clearly seems to think contrarily as he gives you a glare before turning his pressuring and quizzical look on Bucky.

"I liked it," Bucky states.

"It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive," Zemo pipes up, gesticulating with his hands to emphasize, "it captures the African-American experience." While you're personally not familiar with whatever movie, song, book, or album they're talking about, you can't help but find yourself biting back a smile. Sam's concerned look only adds to your amusement as he shifts his attention back and forth between the two men.

"He's outta line, but he's right. It's great! Everybody loves Marvin Gaye," Sam argues, finally turning an eye on you in question, "right?"

"I like Marvin Gaye," Bucky agrees.

"I... can't say I know Marvin Gaye," you admit embarassedly as your eyes turn toward your lap for a moment.

"Steve adored Marvin Gaye. Wait- what do you mean you don't know Marvin Gaye?! Everybody knows Marvin Gaye!" Sam argues, starting to go off about how Joaquin had to have shown you and how he'll correct that, that is, until Zemo speaks up again.

"You must've really looked up to Steve. But I realized something when I met him--"

"You met him?" The words leave your mouth before you cringe, palm coming up to your face as you remember. You hadn't been involved, but you'd seen the news. You knew what happened with Zemo. "Sorry! Sorry, I-" No one addresses your misstep, as you're sure they all know, or suspect, that it wasn't really your personal business anyways, even if the entire world knew what happened to some degree or another.

"The danger with people like him--America's super soldiers--is that we put them on pedestals," Zemo continues, reciting his line of thought on the subject as he ignores what you'd said, thankfully, and blows right past it.

"Watch your step, Zemo," Sam warns, obviously defensive over one of his closest friends.

"They become symbols, icons... and then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die, movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right?" Dark eyes turning on Bucky, Zemo clearly is bringing up what happened, what? Almost... nine, ten years ago? Silently counting on your fingers in your seat, you conclude: nine years. It's been nine years since Ultron rose and attempted to overthrow the world. Nines years since the Battle of Sokovia happened. Yes, it's all coming back now.

Zemo. Baron Zemo, royalty of Sokovia, right? There'd been something in the papers, something about how his family had tragically died and that was the reason he blew up the United Nations headquarters. That's what he's talking about. Tuning back in to the conversation, you follow his line of thought.

"As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?" Zemo shakes his head, and you can't help but do the same. "That is why we're going to Madripoor."

"What's up with Madripoor? You guys talk about it like it's Skull Island," Sam interjects, Zemo must have said something about it when you were zoned out.

"It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary in the 1800s," Bucky explains.

"It's kept its lawless ways, but we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves." The Baron turns his attention on Bucky, "James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone..." with no outward reaction, he turns to you and then Sam. "You two will have a part to play as well."

~~~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

[focusfixated]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ��

thank you for this! i think my favourite fics i've written are the ones that are basically like. my thesis statement. if you ask me about these characters, i will slide you one of these fics and say: here's my dissertation on the subject. everything you need to know about how i feel is in there.

can't get a life (if my heart's not in it)

libertines rpf | peter/carl | M | 20.9k

When Peter came to London, Carl was waiting for him under the hanging clock in the middle of Waterloo station. It had been romantic, in the way that Peter saw all their meetings as a little romantic – a song in the making, all Terry meets Julie and a sunset over the river. Or: the early days of Peter & Carl's love affair with London - and each other.

note: i wrote this one during my first year moving to london. inhabiting this story with these people and their music helped me settle there. this was also my way of taking every insanely romantic and toxic thing peter and carl did or felt about each other in those early years and weaving it into one point of reference.

on the wings of a nightingale

good omens | aziraphale/crowley | E | 11.1k

Aziraphale liked his body. He liked the shape of it, the way it moved and touched the world, a type of sensory feedback that made him understand the shape and extent of his corporation. Like he wasn’t just an ephemeral vessel. Like he was flesh. Or: Aziraphale gets a tattoo. Crowley is an accessory to this crime against good sense. Everyone’s kinks are very poorly disguised.

note: i think this is the one where i really got to grips with my authorial obsession with bodies, embodiment, sensation as existence. it's probably one of the most personal things i've written, too, in terms of its dissection of touch, and espousing thoughts on faith as tangible feeling vs abstract thought. this is the aziraphale that exists in everything else i've written in this fandom.

i hope i find my home

it chapter 2 | richie/eddie | E | 53k

The peak of summer is long gone, if it ever came, but the funk of stagnant air still hangs low over the suburban streets. Richie Tozier – sallow-skinned and puffy-eyed, wearing a too-small denim jacket that smells of sweat and mildew – hasn’t slept in several days, and he's trying to remember how he got here in the first place. Or: Coming back to Derry, Richie hadn't expected to live. Eddie hadn’t expected to die. In the aftermath of Neibolt, they’re both confronted by another shot at life.

note: possibly actually my favourite thing i've ever written out of all of these. features this ongoing obsession with bodies, though this is from a more confrontational perspective than the good omens one - there's an element of body horror, a sense of fear and discomfort about the body, and grapples with embodied repression. took me two years to write this one. it was a labour of love and hard work, and a proof of my commitment to getting this story about survival and recovery told.

le temps qu'il faut

disco elysium | harry/kim | T | 5k

Snow blows in from the east. It falls on Martinaise, thickening the frigid air like cornstarch, thick enough to chew on. Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi stands – quiet, watchful, an oddity placed at the centre of a racket – collar turned up against the weather. Or: winter is tough and so is Kim, but a lot can change in ten days.

note: a story where i feel like i got the closest to capturing the mood of the original media. it was such a fucking pleasure to write something that was almost pure atmosphere. felt right that the poetry came out of this cold and battered landscape, and really solidified my interest in capturing environments. (who needs plot when there are buildings and lakes covered in snow).

when we fight about love

our flag means death | multi | E | 41.2k

Bonnet took a dainty sip of rum, then put the mug down with a fussy finality. “Look, I’m not interested in deals and riches and who gets what from who. I want to find Ed, that’s it. You’ll come with us, and you’ll guide us to the Revenge, and when we’re done, you can have my other ship to do with what you like. Sell it, sail away, set it on fire, I don’t care. Do we have an accord?” Bonnet held out a hand. His nails were ragged, and there were blisters on his fingers. Somehow, he still smelled of lavender. With all the recalcitrance of reaching towards an open flame, Izzy shook it. (Or: after brokering an uneasy peace, Izzy Hands, Stede Bonnet and the rest of the Revenge’s depleted crew are thrown together for a mission: find Edward, snap him out of his terrible madness, and then – and then.)

note: this is the one. the story that sums it all up. "how do you feel about izzy? what do you think was going on with him? how would a coherent version of him, flaws and all, realistically interact with the people most important to him during this time?" well: like this. focuses on repression, again, a key theme for me. though the repression here is not just physical, but mental, too. this was an exercise in finding a way to present a dislikeable, misguided, unreliable narrator as a point of view character and still finding meaning and empathy in his perspective. one of the most satisfying things i've ever written.

[mybiasisexo]

Entangled - Part 8

Pairing: Chanyeol x f.Reader Chapter Warnings: Language   Word Count: 5k Author Notes: okay, I feel like this is lowkey a filler chapter 😭. but I like it so idk lmao. so much has happened since I last updated. I quit my old job, got a new one (that's kicking my ass. pray for me) had my bday and saw Beyonce 3 times!! but yeah as always sorry for the delay, hope you like the chapter and feel free to lmk what you thought!!! I loooove feedback and y'alls commentary!!! makes my damn day!! have fuuuuuun~!

You come to the following morning from what is possibly the best sleep you’ve gotten in years. A yawn escapes you as you stretch your tender body.

The action has you aware of something not moving around you, and you glance down to see a heavy arm thrown over your waist. As if the owner of the limb can sense your attention, it constricts, pulling you closer to a heat behind you.

Startled, you tense up, not even daring to breathe as you carefully roll onto your back and then turn your head the rest of the way until you’re knocking your nose gently against Chanyeol’s.

He’s in a deep slumber. Gentle snores leave his slightly parted lips, and his features are relaxed. He looks so peaceful, so serene, so…content. It melts your heart. You can’t help but stare at him, noticing the way his silky tawny hair falls across his pillow and the stubble poking out of his chin that grew in from the night before.

The night before….

Your eyes widen at the reminder and you’re sitting straight up, causing Chanyeol’s arm to fall limply on your lap.

Oh, you’ve really done it now.

Chanyeol stirs, and you think you’ve woken him, but he just rolls onto his other side, revealing his naked back to you.

Harsh rows of red raised skin catch your attention–the proof of how good a lover he is. Even though you know to some men, Chanyeol included, the scratches are a badge of honor, you only feel remorse from causing him pain.

His lack of clothing has you aware of your current state of undress and you quickly pull the thin sheet over your chest. It’s a silly action. Chanyeol’s sleeping, but even if he was awake, he’s seen your breasts plenty of times, had them in his goddamn mouth last night for christ’s sake.

Still, you must at least try to preserve some dignity.

You dare another glance at the man beside you, as if he’s a figment of your imagination that will vanish once you’re in your right mind. He doesn’t go away, so you must be really out of it.

Groaning, you drop your head, hitting your forehead repeatedly with the palm of your hand.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Fucking your ex fiance was the last thing you had planned to do on this trip. Getting closure? Sure. Making peace? The least you could have done. Now? Things have become even more complicated. Which is pretty impressive given everything that has transpired over the last couple days. And Yerim…. God, Yerim. She hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours and you’ve already jumped her man’s bones. Sure, he was yours first, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Shit, maybe you are the problem.

As if you aren’t already about to dive in a pool of panic, a memory from the night before decides to reveal itself. The knowledge has you gasping, staring unseeingly ahead of you in terror.

Did you tell Chanyeol you loved him?

Oh, god. Oh, fuck.

Yeah, you gotta get out of here.

Feeling nauseous, you stumble out of the bed, crumbling to the ground the minute you put weight on your legs. Your bambi legs are a byproduct of Chanyeol’s pleasurable menstrations, having you literally weak in the knees. You shake your head and push through the slight throbbing of your core, standing carefully on shaky legs. Chanyeol chooses this moment to toss back around so that he’s facing you again. The arm that was around you earlier flops forward to reclaim its position, but lands on egyptian cotton instead. His eyebrows scrunch together as his hand idly runs over the empty space–searching for you. Feeling bad, you pull down a pillow. His fingers find it and yank it towards him, curling into it like a toddler with his favorite teddy bear. Your name leaves his mouth in a content breath, and all the turmoil in you dissipates for a moment. Maybe you’re overreacting? Yerim won’t be too mad, right? And Chanyeol still wants you, right? Last night meant something to him?

Did it mean something to you?

You can’t even think about that right now. Truth is you have no idea where you stand, and are even more confused than before the wedding. You’ve blurred the lines and anything can mean anything.

What you do know is that you need to leave, and you need to do it before Chanyeol wakes up. You can’t face him right now, not before you understand your emotions and actions.

“Focus,” you order yourself. You scan the floor that is now a mess of discarded garments, and a shimmer of gold catches your eye. You snatch it up, only to find it’s Chanyeol’s tie. You stare at it, remembering the way he demanded you to undress him, and drop it like it shocked you, shivering from the memory. That is definitely not what you’re looking for. 

There. A little further you find your dress and underwear. You slide them on quickly, not bothering to zip up your dress. You’re only going a few doors down, so you only hold it against your chest.

Despite telling yourself to focus, you can’t stop thinking about your confession. Obviously it was the lust speaking, the nostalgia. Yeah, that’s all that was.

Chanyeol never said it back.

The epiphany straightens your back, and you startle as you lock eyes with yourself in the floor length mirror directly in front of you. The woman before you is tragic, her hair poofy and stiff, eyes rimmed black, face puffy and nose still red from crying. You look like the clown you are.

You shudder, truly haunted, and head out. You pause by the door to slip into your shoes and grab your purse. Your heels have a buckle, but you can’t risk wasting any more time, so you don’t bother securing them. 

You open the door and a choir of angels begin to sing.

Their joyous voices die with a record scratch at the sight of Byun Baekhyun standing on the opposite end, fist up as though he’s about to knock.

You can’t catch a break.

He takes you in, visibly shocked. He says your name in a dramatic loaded question and you wince at his volume, bouncing off the walls. Damn, this is not good.

“What are you doing here?” He asks accusingly.

You quickly peek over your shoulder, checking to see if your new visitor is loud enough to wake Chanyeol. He doesn’t stir, and you can’t fight the pride that blooms in you. You wore that man out!

Shaking the emotion off, you turn back to Mr. Loud Mouth in front of you.

“Hush,” you hiss, shoving him back with the arm not currently holding both your dress, and what little you have left of your sanity, together. You make sure the door closes with a gentle ‘click’ before grabbing Baekhyun’s arm, dragging him the couple doors down to your suite. He yelps and asks where you’re ‘kidnapping’ him. It’s easy to ignore his helpless cries with the obnoxious sound of your heels slapping against your feet. 

Once in front of your door, you dig through your purse for your key, forgetting you didn’t secure your dress. The top half flutters down, titties basking in the breeze.

You freeze, eyes closing tightly as you bite your bottom lip so hard you think you’re going to bite it off. Your only saving grace is that Baekhyun is behind you, obscuring his view of your private bits.

You hear him huff in annoyance before he’s brushing your hair out of the way, gathering your dress, zipping it up as far as it can go with your arms not in the sleeves.

“Thank you,” you whisper, face burning in shame. Dejectedly, you find the key and get you both in. You kick your clacky shoes off, not wanting to draw unwanted attention, and lead Baekhyun to your room. You rest your forehead against the door as you close it, giving yourself a moment to just breathe.

Once you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you’re good, you turn around and face your friend. He’s taken residence in your vanity chair, searching your frazzled figure with worry. You can only imagine what you must look like from his point of view.

Finally, he musters the courage to speak. “You look….”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay…. Would you care to explain why you were running out of Chanyeol’s room like you robbed him? In your wedding clothes, no less, first thing this morning?”

You rub your eyes. To be honest, no, you didn’t want to have this conversation. Especially with Baekhyun. No offense to the guy, you adore him, but he’s not really known for taking things seriously. Except… right now it does appear he’s taking this situation very seriously. Although there is a hint of playfulness in his tone, you can’t see any of it on his face, only genuine concern.

Defeated, you sigh and march to your bed, plopping down onto the edge to bury your face in your hands.

“We had sex.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” he answers sarcastically. You glare at him through your fingers. He grins in reply, but it’s soft, reassuring, letting you know that everything will be okay.

It slips from his face as a thought occurs to him. “You weren’t drunk, were you?”

You shake your head and he lets out a relieved breath.

“Quite the opposite. It was probably the most sober decision I’ve made this whole trip.”

“So, what went wrong?”

“I just….” You recall your confession and wince, stomach flipping with embarrassment. “We ended up running into each other in the elevator and went to his room. We were only supposed to talk. But, I don’t know. You know the wedding was a lot for us both. And this trip has been very stressful and tense and we haven’t been alone since we got here and maybe that was for good reason because obviously we couldn’t handle that if–”

“You’re rambling,” he interrupts.

You take a deep breath. 

“I told him I loved him,” you push out before you can regret admitting it. It sounds even worse spoken out loud.

“And?” He asks, skeptically.

You blink in surprise at his reply. “And he, well, he didn’t say it back.”

You avoid his gaze and bring your knees to your chest and nibble on your thumbnail anxiously, waiting for Baekhyun’s response to the new detail. You must have rendered him speechless, because he remains silent. Either that, or he’s trying to figure out the best way to let you down on Chanyeol’s behalf. That makes you stiffen your shoulders, bracing yourself for the cold dose of reality. It never comes, and his lack of response drags until you think you’re going to explode.

Finally, you whip your head up to him exasperatedly just to see him looking at you like you’re the dumbest bitch he’s ever seen.

“What?” You snap, hating how condescending his expression is.

He rolls his eyes at your tone and lets out a laugh coated in disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “I love you, but you’re stupid.”

“I know,” you sulk, pouting as you rest your chin on your knees. “I wasn’t thinking straight, obviously. I got too caught up in the moment. Being with him like that, it brought me back to the good ol’ days, when we were falling in love. But, we’re not in college anymore. We’re not the same people we were when we were together.”

You furrow your brows, really trying to untangle your thoughts. It’s a lot easier to do with someone to look at.

“That’s what it is. I mean, how can I still love a man I don’t know? I can still have lingering feelings for the man I used to know, though. Maybe having sex was a good thing? All that leftover tension between us can finally rest. Yeah, that’s what last night was–left over tension. Now that we’ve done the deed, we should be good now. Sure, we still need to have a talk, there’s still some things we need to address to fully move on, but I think the hardest part has passed.”

You search your friend’s face for the right answer. “Right?”

His lips thin and then he’s sighing. “Do you want to know what I think?”

You nod miserably, thoughts too chaotic to decipher any logic.

Baekhyun stands up and walks over to you, reaching out to rub your arms comfortingly. In a gentle murmur he says, “I think you need some breakfast.”

A surprised chuckle leaves you as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his stomach. “You’re probably right.”

You relax under his touch, and you both stay like that. His hands go from your shoulders to your back, rubbing soothing circles onto your skin. The repetitive trail makes you drowsy.

The door swings open.

“I thought I heard you co–OH MY GOD!”

Seulgi stands dumbfounded at the door, the hand not frozen on your door knob covers her hanging jaw. Shock coloring her face as she takes in the compromising sight before her.

Baekhyun stumbles quickly away from you, tripping over his feet in his haste.

“It's not what it looks like!” You defend. That’s literally the worst line you can possibly say to her.

“What the hell!” She squeaks. “What the fuck is happening right now!?”

“We were just about to get something to eat!” Baekhyun says, as if that explains anything.

“HUH?!” Seulgi starts fanning her reddening face. She turns to you, not even going to humor him. “Look, I know this weekend has been rough for you. I understand you wanting to distract yourself by getting underneath someone. But, to sleep with Baekhyun of all people–”

“Hey!” The man in question barks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Seulgi, please,” you beg. Crawling off the bed, you stumble over to her. “That’s not what happened at all!”

Your words go through one ear and out the other as she glares at Baekhyun, who’s shivering in his metaphorical boots under her judging stare. “I can’t believe you would do this! Chanyeol is your best friend! Do you not care how this will affect him when he finds out?”

“We didn’t do anything,” you plead.

“Then explain what I just walked into! Explain why you look a damn mess! And are those–are those hickeys?”

“I HAD SEX WITH CHANYEOL!” You yell in her face.

“I–wait, what?” You can see the internal conversation she’s having with herself as she tries to comprehend what you just confessed to her. When your words have meaning, a look of sheer horror contorts her lovely features.

“You didn’t.” Her voice is low, threateningly so.

You gnaw at your bottom lip, even more anxious than when Baekhyun was questioning you. 

Your silence is an admission and she yells your name accusingly.

“I know!” You agree. “Please, I know!”

“I don’t understand. How? Why? I thought you were over him, or at least trying to be. I–”

“Hey,” Baekhyun cuts her off, joining your little party. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s let her take a shower and get into some clothes that don’t have cum stains on them. Then we can get breakfast. She can explain everything then.”

“There’s no cum on my dress,” you mumble with a frown.

“I know Chanyeol’s kinks,” Baekhyun says. You huff in defeat.

Seulgi’s cat shaped eyes bounce back and forth between you both skeptically. You can see all the questions she has running through her pretty head.

“Alright,” she reluctantly agrees. “Hurry and get ready. I’m starving.”

You have a feeling it’s not food she’s hungry for.

Baekhyun leads her out of your room, throwing you an apologetic look, and you wonder how many more times he’s going to look at you like that.

Nearly an hour later, you find yourself in a little unassuming mom and pop restaurant. Baekhyun’s grandmother lives on the island, so he knows all the local hot spots. The ajumma serving you is absolutely thrilled to see him, promising to put a bit more love in your food, which you can definitely taste upon your first bite. It is exactly what you need after the active night you’ve had.

“Yerim made it home safely,” Seulgi informs, not glancing up from her plate as she does.

Your lips thin at the mention of her sister, knowing she’s bringing her up on purpose.

You didn’t need her reminder. Yerim has been on your mind all morning.

“Yeah?” You finally answer. “Glad to hear. I’m sure she’ll hate me for good once she finds out what I did right after she left.”

“She’ll get over it,” Baekhyun is quick to dismiss.

“She’ll forgive you,” Seulgi allows. “But she’ll never forget.”

Leaning back, she finally gives you a sharp look. “What happened last night anyway?”

Luckily, you just so happen to scoop some food into your mouth when she asks that, so you take advantage and slow down your chewing. Aiming to enjoy every last bit, because you know it’s going to be the last time you’ll be able to. You swallow it down with some water, for good measure, taking your time chugging it empty. 

Seulgi watches in amusement, knowing what game you’re playing.

“Well,” you start, scratching behind your ear. “As you both already know, Chanyeol and I hooked up last night.”

“Hooked up?” Seulgi clarifies incredulously. It’s an interesting choice of words to describe what the two of you did.

Beside her, Baekhyun shakes his head, but keeps his opinions to himself, allowing you the floor.

“Yeah. And I want to say, for the record, that it was spontaneous. We just so happened to bump into each other when I was on my way back to the room. He asked me if I wanted to go to his room instead and I said yes–innocently! We were planning on just talking. And I mean, we did talk a bit?”

“Did you talk about Yerim?” Seulgi asks.

“No….” You avoid her stare and sink into your chair.

“Did you talk about your breakup?”

“No….”

Her eyes narrow. “So, what did you talk about?”

“About the wedding,” you answer like it’s obvious.

“And now it all makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You pout.

“The two of you have been tiptoeing around each other all weekend. I thought it was just the awkwardness of seeing an ex–in your case, an ex dating your friend. But I misread it. Now it’s pretty obvious that if it weren’t for Yerim, you would’ve probably slept with him sooner. It wasn’t awkwardness I felt, it was tension…the sexual kind.”

Your frown deepens. Were you seriously that weak? You thought you did a pretty damn good job resisting Chanyeol, but it only took three days to fall into his sheets. That wasn’t very strong of you at all. Seulgi is right. Yerim was the main reason for you keeping your distance, not your pride or your past. She had only been gone a few hours before you gave into him.

“Does that make me a terrible person?” You quietly ask.

“I don’t think so,” Baekhyun answers simply, shrugging when you lock eyes.

“It doesn’t,” Seulgi agrees, although she lets out a tired sigh right after. “But I still don’t understand why? It’s been years, girl, and you’ve never mentioned him once in that time. It’s been a while since you got laid, and even longer since it was with Chanyeol. Old habits die hard, and you didn’t get the closure you wanted, but sleeping with your ex seems so out of character for you.”

“He’s not just some ex, Seulgi,” Baekhyun intervenes. “He’s her ex fiance, and they didn’t break up on bad terms, necessarily. There’s still love there.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you interject, shifting in your seat uncomfortably. 

“So, it was just an old attraction? Old habits and all that?” Seulgi asks.

“I think so,” you say and she seems to melt in relief. “I think it was just left over sexual tension, and now that we’ve got it out of our system, we can be normal. We can move on.”

Baekhyun doesn’t seem convinced. “And you’re sure Chanyeol will agree with you?”

You shrug. “I don’t see why not. It was just sex.”

“It’s never ‘just sex’ with Chanyeol, and you know that. Especially when it comes to you.”

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter, mood dampening at the memory.

He doesn’t hear you. “And I know you’re lying. Didn’t you tell him you loved him last night?”

You glare at Baekhyun and he answers it with a smug smile, knowing he just set you up.

“You did what now?” Seulgi asks deadpan.

Internally you wince. “I might have told him I loved him while in the throes of passion.”

She says your name disapprovingly. 

“And you know what? He didn’t say it back. So, you see? It was nothing more than physical for him as well.”

Seulgi looks as though she has some words for you, but Baekhyun beats her to the punch.

“You both drive me insane,” he groans. “It’s obvious you both still care about each other, what’s the point of trying to talk yourself out of it? It’s never too late to try again, and trust me when I say Chanyeol wants to more than anything. He’s already asked you for a second chance. He wants this! He wants you!”

“He said all that when he was drunk off his mind, Baekhyun.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true!”

You groan and lean your head back against your chair, feeling the pressure of the world falling onto your shoulders. It hits you then, the weight of Chanyeol’s affection, and for a moment you’re back on that sidewalk, drowning in it. You remember why you left, remember the moment your love for him twisted into something dark. Chanyeol said you told him you hate him. Truth is, you had. With him back in your life, you forgot about that, forgot that there was another reason why you were trying to avoid him. Again, everything is even more confusing, and you find yourself at a total loss of what to do next.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed by that,” Seulgi reassures. She knows you way more than you give her credit far. “Everything is happening so fast. You don’t have to make a decision right now, and honestly, I don’t think it’s wise for you to.”

You lift your head back up and take in your concerned friends. With the way they’re both sitting on either side of each other before you, it’s almost like they’re the angel and devil on your shoulders. One speaks for your heart, while the other speaks for your mind. Holding onto each of your hands and yanking you back and forth like a rope in tug-o-war. 

“I don’t know the right answer,” you whisper, feeling your eyes water in frustration.

“Whatever’s going to make you happy,” Baekhyun answers simply.

You cough a laugh and a tear escapes, but you’re quick to wipe it away.

“I think,” Seulgi begins, reaching over and grabbing your hand. “You should give each other space, and wait until you’re back in Seoul. It’s only a couple days, and it’ll give both of you time to figure out what exactly it is you want from each other. Do you have an idea of what that is? Is it a relationship? Closure? Or just physical connection?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit.

She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. You understand. She’s right.

“That’s probably the best idea,” you relent.

Baekhyun grunts in disgust. “Doesn’t Chanyeol deserve a say in this?”

“Of course he does,” you say.

“But that’s a conversation for later,” Seulgi intrudes. “Preferably with others around.”

You lift your hands up in defeat. 

Now that your problem has been solved for now, you all go back to eating in a comfortable silence. Everything still tastes amazing, thank fuck.

Suddenly, Baekhyun straightens and turns to Seulgi. “What did you mean earlier anyways? When you said me of all people?”

She scoffs. “Besides the fact that you’re a weirdo? You’re Chanyeol’s best friend. If you had slept together, it would be the deepest betrayal to him. But, if she had slept with any of you, my reaction would be the same. The only other person I could possibly see her with is Sehun, and even then….”

“Ew,” you both finish.

“I love all of you,” you say. “But not like that.”

“It’s the same for me too!” Baekhyun admits. “I would never do that to Chanyeol, because I would never do that, period. Don’t ever put that disgusting idea in anyone’s head again!”

“No problem!” Seulgi says, resolute.

You finish breakfast soon after that and leave for the hotel. Today is the first day of your little             reunion tour. Sehun figured that everyone would be too hungover to do anything that required movement, so you’re all just going to hang out at the beach and watch the sunset. Sounds like the perfect Sunday to you.

You all left your phones in the car, so the first thing you do once buckled up is check your notifications, reading the texts in the groupchat confirming some of the others were heading out to the beach and the location they chose. Baekhyun winces as he scans his device, catching your attention. When you lock eyes, he gives you that pitiful smile, almost like a warning, before turning his screen for you to read. It’s filled with texts and missed calls from Chanyeol.

“Oh boy,” is all you can muster, trying not to linger too much on the only message you can read: ‘please. I’m begging’.

“What’s up?” Seulgi asks from the backseat. Baekhyun proceeds to show her his phone and she shakes her head in dismay.

“Should I call him?” He asks.

“No,” you’re quick to reply. Avoiding his gaze, you settle into your seat, staring blindly out the windshield. You feel him watching you for a moment before sighing and starting the car, pulling out to drive you back to the hotel.

The elevator ride is long. You wonder if Chanyeol will be in the hallway when it opens. Baekhyun leans against the wall, rapidly firing off texts the whole way up. It takes everything in you not to ask him what he’s telling Chanyeol to calm him down. 

The doors open, and you’re both relieved and crushed to enter an empty hall. Baekhyun walks you both to your room, which is polite, but you all know is a front. His room isn’t on this floor, and you don’t need him to walk you back.

“Where are you going?” You can’t help but to ask.

He grins guiltily and nudges his head towards Chanyeol’s room. “I’m going to check on him. That’s why I came up here in the first place.”

“Right….”

He pats your shoulder. “Get ready and head down to the beach. I’m sure you got Jongdae’s text in the groupchat. Both him and Jongin are already setting up camp.”

“Don’t take too long,” Seulgi says in farewell before pulling you into the suite.

As soon as the door closes, she’s holding you by the shoulders, staring deep into your eyes. “You can’t go back on your word now.”

“I’m not,” you say, cringing as the way it sounds like a lie.

Her grip on you tightens. “It’s all going to work out. Don’t get all sulky.”

“I’m not.”

She smiles. “You’re such a terrible liar. It’s kind of cute.”

“Stop flirting with me,” you sigh, grabbing her hands to hold them instead. “I’m going to take your advice. We need space.”

“Space,” she repeats approvingly, rubbing your knuckles with her thumbs.

Banging on your door causes you both to jump.

“Yeol, stop it! I already told you they’re not there!”

“I need to know for sure.”

You swallow thickly at the sound of Chanyeol’s voice.

You hear Baekhyun sigh and then Chanyeol call your name, which jerks you closer to the door. Seulgi grips your hands harder, holding you back. You lock eyes. She shakes her head in warning.

“Are you in there?” He pauses briefly, waiting for you to reply. You hold your breath, afraid in the silence he can hear your heart’s rapid beating. “Please, open the door, Mel. I just… I just need to see you.”

His voice is calm, but alarmed, as if he’s trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. He knocks again, the reps urgent, giving away the worry he’s trying to disguise.

“I just need you to tell me everything’s okay.” Now his voice cracks.

Fuck it. You can’t avoid him forever. You go to open the door, but Seulgi’s hold is surprisingly strong and you can’t break it.

“Space, remember?” She whispers.

You didn’t know that started now. 

Reluctantly, you relax, leaning your head on Seulgi’s shoulder. She wraps her arms around you, rubbing your back as you wait for Baekhyun to do his job in getting Chanyeol away.

“I can’t do this again, man,” Chanyeol’s broken voice comes through the door. “I can’t lose her again. Not like this.”

“I know, Dude.” Baekhyun sounds just as helpless, and a wave of guilt washes over you from putting him in this position. “But, she’s not in there. Let’s go to my room so I can change. It won’t take long, so don’t even think of ditching me!”

A silence drags on for so long you’re sure they’ve left. 

“Chanyeol?” Baekhyun urges.

“I–okay. Let’s go.”

You hear them retreat and let out a breath.

Seulgi whistles. “Quite the mess you’ve made.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “You can say that again.”

“Hey,” She rubs your arm. “He’s going to be fine. Let’s change. I’m sure you’re now very eager to get down there.”

You let her lead you to your room. The whole time you can’t get over the pain in Chanyeol’s voice, a pain that you caused.

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[juneknight]

Slow Degrees

Chapter One |

“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.” — Voltaire

OR: the fic where Steven is a practically a blushing maiden and you corrupt him step by step.

About this: fem!un-named original character/Steven Grant. Explicit. 5k

You walk with a purpose that sets you apart. 

This Saturday, the British Museum is crowded. People meander from one spot to another, their steps slow and eyes on the exhibits. Bloody good on them for using the weekend to experience some culture, but it’s bloody terrible for you: side-stepping prams, dodging couples with clasped hands lest you burst through their linked arms, nearly tangling yourself in the leash of one toddler whose mother gives you the stink-eye. 

The gift shop is even worse somehow, and then you see that the stuffed animals are having a two-for-one sale and you feel liable to scream. Fate is like a teenager on the bus, sticking out its foot for you to trip over. But you haven’t come all this way for nothing. Without any sense of pride, you thrust yourself through the ring of children blockading the stuffed animals and begin to wade through the synthetic furs and empty marble eyes. 

“No, no, no,” you groan under your breath. You spot a black stuffie in the arms of a girl no more than six and have to struggle not to snatch it from her—not that it would do you any good. When she turns, you see that it isn’t the animal you’re looking for. No tall, sleek ears nor a long muzzle. You can’t help but look up towards the heavens and mutter, “Why are you punishing me?” 

“Can I help you?” 

You whirl.

“Maybe,” you admit while you fish your phone from your pocket, glancing at the nametag pinned to the employee’s lapel. “Donna. Don’t ask why, but I’m desperately looking for this stuffed animal.” 

She glances at the phone and steps around to the other side of the 360-degree-display. Face twisting, she points to an empty section wedged between stuffies resembling alligators and hippos. She gives you a look of contrived sympathy cultivated through years of customer service no doubt. “Sorry,” she says. “Looks like that’s been a popular one.” 

“You’re out?” you ask, fingers itching to grab her by her business-casual blouse and shake her. “You’re positive? Because I need this; I’ll pay double, triple whatever the marked price is. I’m desperate.” 

“I can see that,” says Donna dryly. “But—” 

“I’m sorry,” another voice breaks in. “Maybe I can help?” 

Your eyes track the sound of the soft accent. Standing just a few feet away, boxes of indeterminable tourist-trap merchandise in his arms, is a man. The first thing you notice about him are his eyes—tired. Dark brown, dark bruises beneath that hint at many sleepless nights. The next thing you notice are the curls: inky, charmingly chaotic. A small, wary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he glances between you and Donna, shifting on his feet to try and make the load in his arms more comfortable. 

The last thing you notice: he is so absolutely handsome. 

“You, help? Doubtful,” Donna says, just as you say, Absolutely. 

You tilt your phone towards him. His face lights up in recognition, and for a moment, the seed of hope in your heart blossoms, threatening to break through soil. He’s going to be able to help you. You can feel it. But then his eyes move past you towards the display and his smile falls. 

“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “Let me just pop these behind the counter and then I’ll help you look, yeah? There might be one hiding amongst the others. Kids don’t always set them back where they’re supposed to.” 

“Steven,” says Donna, voice tight with disapproval. “The display is empty.” 

“Please,” you grit through your teeth at her. “I said I would pay, didn’t I? I have eighty pounds on me, and if you direct me to a cashpoint, I can withdraw even more.” 

In the face of your insistence, Donna gives in, though you can tell by the thin press of her lips that she isn’t happy about it. Rolling her eyes, she waves a dismissive hand at the both of you and turns away, stalking off to some other part of the gift shop. 

“Pleasant, isn’t she?” You glance at Steven, your mood already lightening at the earnest kindness on his handsome face. “Are you her boss?” 

“Am I her—oh god, if only she’d heard you say that.” 

Together, you and Steven scour the display from top to bottom, but to no avail. 

“Can I ask, why the urgency?” he calls, elbow deep in stuffed scarab beetles. “Not a lot of people offerin’ to empty their bank accounts for Egyptian-themed stuffed animals.” 

“It’s for my nephew,” you admit. “He has autism, and he’s absolutely fixated on Egypt right now. Has been for years, really. Last time they were in London visiting me, my sister bought him that stuffie, and apparently he’s grown quite attached. Yesterday, she called me about an electrical fire at her building in the flat below hers. I guess they won’t let anyone back in until they know it’s safe, not even to get their effects. They’re staying with our mum in Leeds, but he’s taking it so hard, being in a different place and all that without anything familiar. She asked me if I would try to find another of these loveys for him and send it through the post overnight, but she couldn’t remember the museum she’d bought it at. You know how many museums there are in London?” 

“Too many, by your count I would imagine,” he says in sympathy.

“Spot on. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

He smiles, eyes looking a little distant and wistful. “I’m an only child. Always wanted a sibling though. I guess my mum had her hands full enough with me.”

Usually, small talk is a form of torture, but you can’t help but want to press, to know more about him. Already you have begun squirreling away facts about him. His name is Steven, with a V. He works at a gift shop in the British Museum. He is an only child. “Were you rotten when you were young, then?”

“Aren’t all teenage boys?” He smirks, a quirking of his lips that makes him look years younger. Mischief makes a home in him, you can tell. But you can also tell that he isn’t rotten, not at all. Not many grown men would wade through stuffed animals for a stranger. Bruised, maybe, like an apple that has been dropped too many times by careless hands. But aren’t those apples just as sweet as any other?

“You don’t strike me as someone who has ever misbehaved a day in their life,” you tease. All at once you realize that both of you have stopped rifling through the toys. Perhaps it is just in your head, but electricity bounces between you two, charging the air until your hair feels liable to stand on end. Your voice has dropped on instinct into something smoother, warmer, the voice you usually reserve for flirting. Steven doesn’t blush per say, but his mouth can’t seem to close and he looks a little warmer than he was a moment ago. 

A little girl jabs her sharp elbow into your side, working her way in between the two of you to get access to some falcon shaped animal on a lower tier of the display. The look she casts up at you suggests that the ache in your ribs is entirely your own fault. 

“Well,” Steven says, clearing his throat. He can’t meet your eye. “Unfortunately, it looks like we’re fresh out of your nephew’s favorite.”

The moment and whatever charge had been growing between you two has popped like a soap bubble. Your eyes burn. How will you have the heart to call your sister and tell her that you’ve come up empty handed? 

“There’s one last place I could check,” he says. “But if Donna finds out I took you, she’ll have me sacked for good. Come on then, let’s be quick.”

It is cooler in the stockroom, wall-to-wall Egyptian goodies hibernating under the fluorescent lights. Out of respect, you linger just inside the doorway, unwilling to take advantage of his generosity by looking around in an area where customers clearly aren’t meant to be. 

Steven disappears for a long time behind some boxes—knocks over a stack of overpriced, bagged gummies that you nearly enter the room just to help him pick up—before reappearing looking even sadder than before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You try and scrape together a smile for his sake; he looks about as devastated as you feel. After the three other museums you had visited across the city today, one would think you would be used to the disappointment. “It’s certainly not your fault. Not unless you’ve got a stash of Bastet stuffies you’re hoarding at home. There are a few more places I can—“

“Sorry, so sorry—Bastet? You showed me a picture of Anubis.”

You blink. “No. Here, look—says right here on the website that this is Bastet.”

“Bastet takes the form of a cat or sometimes a lioness depending on what dynasty you’re—well, anyway, that’s not a cat, is it? That’s Anubis, a jackal. Website must have it wrong. You never saw the stuffed animal?”

“Once, the day they bought it, but it’s been ages.”

“Could he be mistaken about the name then?”

“I’d trust him more than I’d trust myself when it comes to such matters.”

“Then,” and he pulls from between the counter an extremely similar stuffed animal to the one you showed him on your phone, except the ears are curved and feline, the muzzle not nearly so long and thin, “this is your goddess. Cheers.”

You clutch your heart, flooded with relief and triumph so keen that a happy shout bubbles up in your throat, just barely able to be swallowed. “Thank you so, so much, Steven. I really can’t explain how much I appreciate you going above and beyond for me. It’s going to make a big difference to my nephew, that’s for sure.”

The praise flusters him, that not-quite-warmth growing high in his cheeks as he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. The angle only emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw. On instinct, you glance at his hands which fiddle with a nearby mountain of ankh-shaped erasure. No ring. 

He takes you back to the gift shop and rings up the stuffed animal, only charging you the normal price despite your insistence that you would pay more. Passing you your receipt, he gives you a smile and the most endearing wave you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s in your head, the sweet sadness you see in him. The reluctance he has to part ways. If it is, then oh well. You’ve never been one to shy away from a risk when the reward could be so sweet. 

You pluck a ballpoint pen from his side of the counter, turn over your receipt, and scribble down your name and number. “If you’re interested, I would love to take you out sometime. To repay you.”

He looks at the number with wide eyes. “Oh, that’s—really, you don’t have to. It’s my job, innit?”

Firmly, you slide the number back towards him. “If you’d rather not, just toss it. After I leave though. Then, if you don’t call, I can just pretend you lost it.”

Without another word, gift bag in hand, you turn and begin to sift your way through the busy shop. You spot Donna by a stand of puzzles and make sure to stop and point to Steven, insisting, “He deserves a raise!” Her face twists as if she’s swallowed something sour. Her own tongue, hopefully. 

Before you’ve even made it out of the building, you have your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, calling your sister with the good news. 

*

Days pass, and then a week, and then two. Sometimes Steven crosses your mind: when banners go up advertising a new exhibit opening at the British Museum, when you spot a man of similar build ahead of you in line at the coffee shop. He never calls, which you understand. Perhaps he has a partner or you misread the situation. You try to just be grateful that he helped you find what you were looking for, and you put the handsome gift-shoppist from your mind. 

Until he does call. 

Another Saturday, though this one doesn’t find you with blisters on your heels from running all over London. Instead, your feet are curled up beneath you, a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on your lap while you alternate between spooning breakfast into your mouth and scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s a bloody morbid way to start the day, thanks to the state of the world, but it’s a habit that is hard to shake. 

All at once, a news story about the latest political drama disappears, a strange phone number lighting up the screen. 

“Really,” you mutter to yourself. “Telemarketers even on Saturday? Don’t you people bloody rest?” 

Swiping to answer, you tuck the phone to your ear and noisily slurp a bite of cereal. “City morgue,” you chirp. 

Silence on the other end, and then Steven says: “Sorry, I must—did you say city morgue?” 

You choke, inhaling milk and sugar and nearly upending the bowl on your lap as you scramble to set it on the table beside you. Wiping milk from your chin with the back of your hand, you clear your throat as quietly as you can. 

“Steven? Is that you?” 

“Oh, it is you! I thought I recognized your voice, but then I thought maybe you’d given me the wrong number on purpose which, well, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Would be strange for a person to go around offering fake numbers, they usually just give them out to creeps who won’t take no for an answer, don’t they?” 

“They do, and you are far from that.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t believe I actually called you. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it, got the number memorized by now. But when I picked up my phone, I swear I was just thinking about calling my mum like I usually do on the weekends, and somehow I must have dialed your number instead–” 

“Would you like to hang up so you can call her?” you tease. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, pleasantly surprising you. 

“Yes,” you agree easily. “But I’ll be the one taking you to dinner. I offered, didn’t I?” 

The two of you agree on a time that evening, considering neither of you have plans (and you’ve waited long enough for dinner with the gift-shoppist, thanks very much). 

Before you say goodbye, you tell him: “Steven? I’m really glad you called.” 

“Me too,” he breathes. 

After hanging up, you can’t help but spread yourself out on the sofa, stretching like a satisfied cat who has caught the canary and drank all the cream and whatever else cat’s enjoy doing. Thank you, Steven Gift-Shoppist’s mum, you think to yourself. 

*

“Lookit you,” Steven says, standing from the table when the maitre ‘d leads you across the dimly lit restaurant. It has a cozy atmosphere, perfect for couples with secluded tables tucked into nooks to give the illusion of privacy. Steven’s eyes trail over you from head to toe, lingering on the soft curves of your waist, the dress that clings to your figure. You’re showing a little more leg than you’re used to, but it’s worth it for the way his throat bobs at the smooth expanse of skin. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” And he does—dark slacks and a form-fitting dress shirt, the collar open to reveal a glimpse of his tan throat. You see the chain of a necklace, though it disappears inside the fabric. His curls may be tamer by a fraction. Gods, he really is handsome, you think. How are you going to get through this dinner while thinking about setting your teeth into the warm, soft skin of his neck? Or tangling your fingers in his hair so that you can guide his mouth between your legs? 

It’s been too long since you’ve had sex, and far too long since you’ve had sex with someone who you felt so attracted to. A part of you—the part not including the bits between your legs—cautions you against coming on too strong. 

Slow and steady, you think, while he kisses both of your cheeks. He smells softly of cologne, and you have to let a measured breath out of your nose. Easier said than done. 

“I almost thought I had the wrong place,” he admits while helping you into your seat like a gentleman from an old black and white film. “Never been somewhere so fancy.”

It ends up being one of the best first-dates of your life. Steven’s humor is witty and sometimes biting, his education not formal but nonetheless robust. If there was any doubt that he was interested in you romantically, it fades in the face of his sweetly clumsy flirting. How a man so attractive and enjoyable could be out of practice dating is beyond you, but you’ve never been one to question a good thing when the universe drops it into your lap. You talk about every topic under the sun (that’s appropriate on a first date), and with every new detail you learn about the man, you find yourself being more and more charmed by him. 

Between the appetizers and entrees, you pull out your phone to show him a picture of your nephew asleep among a sea of blankets with Bastet tucked under one arm. Steven lights up, even looks a little choked. “Not often do I get to make an actual difference to someone with what I do,” he says. “Just a cashier, aren’t I?” 

“I’d like very much to see you again,” you say while he walks you out of the restaurant on his arm. There are only a few minutes until your cab arrives, so the two of you linger beneath the restaurant’s awning watching the busy London nightlife pass you by. 

“Really?” Steven asks.

“Of course.”

“I—I would like that too. Very much.” 

You shiver a little from the cold, goosebumps blooming on your exposed legs. Steven tucks you closer to himself, suffusing you with his warmth. The wine simmers sweetly in your belly, so you can’t blame the way your head swims on him entirely. But you feel a little drunk on him as well. The smell of him, the feel of his body beneath the thin dress shirt, the burning heat he throws off. When you glance toward him, your breath brushes against his neck. It’s his turn to shiver. 

It rests on the tip of your tongue to invite him back to your place. You’re a modern woman, if the connection was right, you would have no qualms about sleeping together on the first date (and Gods is the connection right). 

By your sides, his fingers brush against your own. Keeping your eyes on the busy London street, you take note of how very still he has become, as if he is holding his breath. Another brush, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckle. Turning your hand over, he lets his fingers lace with your own. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Here you are thinking about getting his trousers off, and he’s trying to scrape up the nerve to hold your hand. 

Slow, then, you think. You meet his eyes, dark like ink in the dim light, and he grins. Butterflies spread their wings in your tummy. I can do slow. 

*

But it isn’t just slow, is it? 

It’s glacial. Your fourth date arrives, and short of holding hands and the breathless, closed-mouth kisses he bestows on you before he sees you safely into your cab, there has been no forward momentum. 

There are benefits to the pace, though; the intimacy is divine. Tonight finds you both swimming beneath a blanket in his apartment, fingers tangled together while you watch a French drama. Steven has the subtitles on for your benefit, though you wouldn’t mind him translating, murmuring the lines to you in his warm voice. 

As the movie progresses, your positions meld together until he is mostly reclining with you nestled into his side. His every breath moves your body, his hand resting on your own, thumb making sweet passes over the pounding pulse of your wrist. 

The movie begins to pass in a blur, subtitles blending together. All you can think of is Steven beside you. The obscene warmth of his body. The masculine, clean scent of him. You angle your face upward into the hollow of his throat, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not close enough to kiss him. 

You sigh shakily, breath fanning across his skin. His throat bobs. A kiss couldn’t hurt, right? Your lips positively buzz with the urge to feel his skin beneath them.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you think, leaning in so that your softly-parted mouth can brush against his throat. Steven keeps clean shaven, but you have the feeling he’d be able to grow an amazing beard if the stumble beneath your lips is any indication. You’re close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing, his jaw clenching. 

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers back. But he tips his head back to rest it against the couch, baring more of his throat to you. 

This time you press a kiss to his pulse. When you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath the thin skin, you nearly groan. His smell here is potent, the clean scent of his cologne, faded throughout the day. It’s enough to make your head go light and fuzzy. All of the sudden Steven gives a punched-out noise above you, and you realize that you’ve lapped your tongue against the hollow of his throat. 

“God in heaven,” he says. The hand which had been resting against the armrest clenches into a tight fist. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. Part of you is only teasing him, but part of you needs to know the answer. You’ve been working so hard to take things at Steven’s pace, but you were beginning to think that he needed you to make the first move. Either way, you didn’t want to be strongarming him into this; you wanted him to be a whole-hearted participant.  

“I–do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly? No. Not unless you’d like to, in which case, yes.” 

“In what world would I want you to stop?” he laughs breathily. “I mean, your mouth—oh god, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all I’m thinking about is your mouth.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve ever thought about my mouth?” you murmur. 

Steven goes stiff. You draw back, sure that you’ve made him uncomfortable. The flush on his face, clear even in the dim lighting of the flat, tells you that it isn’t that. He’s embarrassed. When he speaks, he stammers over his words: “I—do you mean?—well of course it, I mean—” 

You let him circle around the subject for only a few moments before your smile fades away. Is this normal shyness? You’ve had many partners in the past (though it has been longer than you’d like since your last), and you had never classified yourself as a blushing virgin. You couldn’t classify any of your past partners in that category either. But part of you wonders if Steven’s hesitance isn’t more than typical first-time-with-a-new-partner jitters. 

“Oh, no, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Steven says when you draw back. “I just, I’m not sure what the right answer is, love—”

“No, no, you haven’t offended me, honest.”

That’s how the two of you end up cuddling and talking about your past sexual histories. Steven seems to find it easier to talk when you’re facing away from him, nestled in the hollow between his body and the couch, both of you watching the lights flare and dim just outside the flat window as cars come and go on the street. 

“What was your first time like?” you ask him.  

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t really remember.” 

You glance up at him, looking for any tells that he’s lying. But Steven isn’t even looking at you; his eyes are still on the window. Distant, brows a little low as if he’s racking his brain. Is it even possible to forget your first time? you wonder. Even if it was the most lackluster, boring occasion, don’t most people remember something? 

“Maybe it’s best that you’ve forgotten,” you jest weakly. “My first time wasn’t all that special.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

“Not really. I don’t even think I began enjoying sex until I was much older.” 

“Does it bother you that I’m not very experienced?” he asks. 

“Not at all. Does it bother you that I am?” 

He smiles. “Not at all. Someone has to know what they're doing, eh?”

“I know plenty that I’d like to do,” you tease. You test. 

Steven swallows, his eyes dipping down to your mouth for a moment. “Yeah?”

You hum. Shifting a little, you move to rest on top of him, your forearm braced against the armrest that his head lays on. Earlier, he said that you were killing him, but you don’t think he has any idea how much he’s killing you as well. Just having him beneath you, curls a mess, mouth parted as his breathing picks up, eyes unable to linger anywhere that isn’t your mouth. He already looks on the verge of being fucked out. 

“I am absolutely going to wreck you, you know that?” you murmur. 

Then you relax into him, letting your body rest against the hard, warm planes of his own. He’s already hard, shockingly erect and sizeable even beneath the restricting denim of his pants. His eyes slip shut at the pressure of your hips against him, at the crush of your breasts against his chest. Leaning down, you cover his mouth with your own. He meets you eagerly, all tongue and gently nipping teeth, tasting so sweetly of the dessert you had shared at the end of your dinner. When he groans, it vibrates through your body landing squarely between your legs. 

“God I want you,” you pull back to whisper against his lips. 

“I want you too,” he whispers. “I think I’d like to take things slow, though. Savor you. I don’t ever want to forget this.” 

“I like the sound of that. Should we stop, then?” 

“Bloody hell, no. Kiss me again.” 

So you do. And you do. And gods, you do. Your mouths are swollen, lips raw from the kisses you share. When you trail your burning tongue across the sharp angle of his jaw, Steven moans, a sound that has you groaning as well into the hollow of his throat. Besides the sound of your wet, slow kisses and the heaving breaths you share, the flat is silent. 

Opening your mouth, you drag the sharp line of your teeth across the stubble of his throat gently, and his hips jerk upwards, hard cock dragging along your lower stomach. 

“Ohmygod, do that again,” he gasps. 

You whine, shifting upwards so that the next time you drag your teeth against his skin, his cock presses against your aching center. It’s enough to have you gasping, toes curling in your socks. God, you’re wet. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this wet from foreplay, even, much less just some sensual kisses. But every reaction of Steven’s is so raw and honest and wrecked that you can’t help but tighten the muscles in your thighs, lean up and grind down against him hard. 

“Fuck, oh—oh fuck!” Steven’s hands grip at your thighs, knuckles turning pale. 

“You’re so hard for me, love,” you breathe just to watch the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut. You drag your clothed pussy along the hard line of him, relishing in the muted friction against your clit. You’ve never been the kind of person to hold back from something that feels good, so you let your body chase the feeling, grinding yourself against him again and again just to feel the zap of pleasure. “Gods, I’m so wet for you.” 

“You are?” Steven gasps. 

“Soaked, can’t you tell?” 

“I—” 

“Won’t be surprised if I soak your trousers. How the hell are you this bloody sexy? Your cock feels so good and you aren’t even inside me—” 

“Love, I—” the frantic lift of his voice combined with the sharp surge of pressure where he grabs at your waist has you freezing, lifting yourself up and away from him even if your cunt aches at his absence. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” 

His grip on your hips tightens as he urges you to rest your weight against him again, the cords in his neck standing in sharp relief. “Fuckfuckfuck don’t stop, oh fuck I’m cumming, I’m so sorry—“

“Fuck,” you breathe, resuming the ocean-like drag of your hips over his spasming cock. He’s cumming. From just a little dry humping. Like a teenager. 

God, you’d never been so turned on in your life.

[pedritapascal]

A good Agent, or a Good Fucker... to me

Chapter five - Decisions, decisions…

Pedro Pascal's character - Dave York - [DY] The Protector 2 / Equalizer 2

Dave York x Female Reader

Word Count: 5K

WARNINGS: {+18} Sex Language; SA; Fingers; Tongue; Nudity; Explicit Details;

A good Agent, or a Good Fucker... to me

I woke up with the sound of the alarm on my cell phone, looked at the time… 06AM… I was waking up at the time I was used to sleeping, because the time zone in Holland was still messing me up. Even after a week here, I still couldn't get my sleep schedule in order.

The first week was getting to know the team handling the case and my new partner, Matthew Guerrit, who was only 3 years older than me, but had extensive experience in the US police and FBI, in the CIA he already had 5 years, and had been transferred to the Netherlands for 2 years. Always with a smile on his face, kind and not at all paranoid, a huge contrast to my old partner… The agency here was much smaller, with few people, there was Agent Lucas Raymond, Agent Jacob Dirk and Agent Brigitta Simon, who - as she said herself - liked to be called Brigg and thanked the heavens when I arrived at the agency and she was no longer the only woman here.

This was my new team, because unlike in the US, here we didn't only work in pairs, only when there was a need or in smaller cases, big cases like the one I was in, a whole team was responsible, and when I heard that, it was my turn to thank the heavens.

In a week here, I spoke to Dave three times, and on the day I left, he called me while I was at the airport to say goodbye and wish me luck.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there at the airport running and trying to stop you from traveling, I thought it was too cliché and I know how much you hate romantic comedies… and I also understand that you need to go… But I wish you all the best in this new phase of yours, and I hope you solve this case soon, so that maybe you can come back to me… to our case… in the case. Good luck"

And the other two times, he asked about the case, if I knew where any documents were or if I remembered anything relevant.

Apparently, during the week that I was away, the case slowed down, even with the arrest in Ohio, we didn't get any leads to follow up and get to Richard Bayle… but now that was no longer my problem. I had to focus on my new case, with my new partner and a new team.

The case here was about attacks, there was a terrorist and extremist cell that had been causing explosions in specific places all over Europe, and the US's concern about this? Simple, they didn't want these attacks to reach them, and of course, fucking NATO, which was charging the US for its collective defense regime.

I got to the office around 7:30 in the morning, slept badly, slept little, my mood was garbage, my head was exploding…

"Good morning Rookie, what a terrible face, still sleeping badly because of the time difference?" - Matthew asked

I just nodded as I massaged one of my temples…

"Here, see if this helps" - handing me a double espresso - "I also took a while to get used to the time zone, almost three months of bad nights, do you know what helped me?"

"Matthew, if you make any unfunny jokes I swear I'll shoot you…" He laughed

"No Rookie, biritas" - still laughing - "take a day to drink with us, Brigg would love to have you with us so you don't feel so out of place…"

"It's not a bad idea, but when I leave here all I want is my bed, I swear I'm not that boring, I'm just really tired" - yawning…

"Tell you what, we've got a game here, and I think it's about time you joined in, you're already part of the team…"

"Game? Matthew, I want you to know that I always won my fraternity's games in college and I don't accept losing, I'm even a terrible loser."

"Then that's all the more reason for you to take part" - Matthew said, taking a seat on the edge of my desk.

"Good morniiiiiing" - Brigg had just entered the office, always smiling, I never understood why she was in such a good mood, but she made the atmosphere light, and it was a good feeling…

"Hey Brigg, I'm talking here, put the Rookie in our game? What do you think? She says she's very competitive…"

"Good Rookie, you'll love it, and that's our way of saying, WELCOME TO THE TEAM" - Brigg said laughing…

"Ok Ok, I'm already curious" - I put the rest of the coffee on the table - "how does this work?"

"Simple" - said Matthew - "until the end of the week, the agent who manages to gather the most leads on the case gets a night of drinks paid for by the losing agents, plus bragging rights, of course, and" - he tapped the table in suspense - "gets an extra weekend off…" I get up and reach for some case files…

"So get your wallets ready, because on Friday the Rookie here will be drinking on your tab" - laughing

I sat down at my desk to get back to the case, Lucas and Jacob arrived and caught up on the game.

In those hours when I was concentrating on being part of the team, I didn't even remember him, and I didn't question whether I had done the right thing or not, but every time I remembered him, my chest burned.

"Hey Rookie" I heard a finger snap in front of me, and I snapped back to reality…

"Is everything okay?" Matthew asked - "You're more airy than usual…"

"Everything's fine, Agent, I was just thinking about some things in the US…"

"Are you missing it?"

"That's the problem, I don't know if what I'm missing is what I'm missing" - getting up to get other files.

"If you want to talk, Rookie, we'll have a coffee and you can get it off your chest…"

"No no, I don't talk about my personal life at work, Agent" - returning to my desk, I smiled at the irony of my sentence, I don't talk about my personal life at work but a few days ago, my personal life was in Dave's lap… I felt hypocritical for a moment, but new place, new life, right?

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

Friday came and with it the end of the week's competition, and I was disgusted because Jacob had won by one more lane than me, it was unacceptable.

"Jacob stole that I know" - I grumbled

"Take it Rookie, and get ready, because I only drink drinks over 30 euros a shot…"

We left the office laughing and complaining about the amounts Jacob wanted to spend, getting into the elevator, I had forgotten how good it was to laugh and have fun with coworkers, even before Dave, I went out very few times, always very focused on what I wanted, who would have thought that I would only last a few months in the corporation in the USA…

Whenever I thought about it, or thought of Dave, my head flew, Dave hadn't texted me for days, and I didn't know whether to be grateful for that, or to miss him, he still confused me…

"Rookie"

I felt a tap on my shoulder bringing me back, it was Matthew, again…

"Shall we?" He was standing there holding the door of the elevator that I hadn't even seen reach the first floor

It was the first time I'd accompanied my team to this pub, I didn't even know it existed, let alone that it was at the back of the agency, pool tables, dartboards, people smoking, classic 80s rock playing in the background, wooden tables and high chairs, a dance floor with a few lights. I think I've finally found my place in this city…

They went straight to a table at the back, I just followed them, apparently it was their official table, I settled into one of the chairs and the waiter brought us each a shot of rum… it was going to be a fun night and I was really excited.

After 8 shots, Lucas got up to the jukebox and put on a classic from the 90s, one of my favorite songs, Even Flow by PEARL JAM… I felt Brigg taking me by the hand

"Let's dance, Rookie."

"But you can't dance to that song, Brigg" - I laughed a little, but followed her onto the dance floor, still holding my long neck of beer that I was mixing with the shots of rum.

"We just swing Rookie, and feel the music."

I wrapped one of my arms around Briggs' neck and the two of us sang along to my favorite song like two drunks, jumping on the guitar riffs and bobbing our heads like two teenagers, laughing…

"Wow, I don't think I've ever had this much fun, I thought it was a mistake, but it wasn't, I did the right thing…"

"What mistake, Rookie? What are you talking about? You've got me curious."

"Nothing, Brigg, it's just me, you wouldn't understand." She shrugged.

The song ended and I went back to the table, fixing my hair and clothes, I was sweating a bit, even more so because of the warm clothes I was wearing, my cheeks flushed. Matthew came up to me with another beer.

"Enjoying Rookie?"

"Very much Matthew, thank you for letting me in on this" - opening the beer

"I saw you needed a distraction, sometimes you get lost in your thoughts."

"Nothing much, just some unfinished business that I've left behind and I'm worried about whether it's going to be okay."

"Some issues with work, or with someone?"

"Work Matthew, I always work" - drinking beer.

"You didn't leave anyone behind?"

My eyes grew distant for a moment, I took another sip of beer "No" I replied dryly.

"Then that's good because…"

I signaled for him to wait a minute because my phone was ringing, I stood up, moving away from the table and the noise a little, my eyes were blurring because of the alcohol, it couldn't be him, was I already drunk? It's not possible…

"Ready?"

"Rookie?"

"Dave?" - my body shivered at his voice

"What's that noise, where are you?"

"What do you need Dave?"

"Now to know where you are? Isn't it 3 a.m. in Holland?"

"If you don't tell me what you need, I'll hang up and go back to what I was doing…"

"Actually, I need your eidetic memory, but I guess that's impossible now, isn't it?"

"Can it be tomorrow? I'm really busy right now…"

Dave took a deep breath on the other end of the line - I could even imagine him smoothing his forehead…

"Sure, sure…"

"Good evening, Dave…"

"Princess?"

My heart stopped for a few seconds when I heard his voice calling me princess after so long…

"Dave," I said, my voice breaking.

"I miss you…"

"Good night Dave" - and I hung up

I took a deep breath, scratched my head…

I went back to the table and announced that I was leaving…

"No, Rookie, it's early, we'll be here until the morning," said Lucas.

"I'm falling asleep, guys, I want to see you hold out at the office tomorrow."

"Not me" - said Jacob, stretching - "I'm off, I'm going sleep all day."

"I still think you stole it Jacob, I just don't have any way of proving it yet" - laughing as I grabbed my bag and threw my suit on my back.

"I'll drive you Rookie" - Matthew offered

"No need, I've already called an Uber, it's coming, don't bother, just take Briggs" - pointing to the dance floor where she was jumping around to some music - "This soul needs to be guided home…" I went to the dance floor

"Bye Briggs" - waving my hand

"ROOKIE" - she hugged me, I wanted to say it apparently, but she was really drunk - "I'm so, so happy you came to the agency, for more female agents like us…. YAY FOR US WOMEN UHUUL" - Raising her arm

I laughed at the situation and at how drunk she was and got into the mood, raised an arm and shouted YAY.

My Uber beeped and I ran out of there, I wanted my bed. … I got home and just took off my clothes and put on a baggy blouse, threw myself on the bed with my cell phone in my hand, stood there looking at the screen, thinking about his phone call…

"I miss you too Dave"

I sent it as a message… honestly, I think drunks should have their cell phones blocked to avoid this kind of embarrassment, but now it was gone… yes, I regretted it the second I sent it…

Not three minutes later, my cell phone vibrated in response.

"Where are you?"

"You don't care Dave, you're not my fucking owner…"

"I didn't ask, idiot, I wanted to see you, that's all…"

"You're an idiot, you asshole, I'm at home, in my bed… going to sleep"

"Do you really miss me, princess?"

"After that little chat, it's all over… I've just remembered what an asshole you are… good night '

I locked the phone screen and tossed it aside, my head spinning, I didn't need to drink the last two shots…

My phone started ringing.

VIDEO CALL

Maybe it would have been better not to answer it, but I wanted to see him so badly, I sat up in bed, leaning against the headboard, with just the light of the lamp, rubbed my face with both hands to try to make it better and answered it.

"Hi Dave…"

"Wow, what's with the face?" - he laughed

"I'm fucking drunk, nobody looks good like that, asshole"

Dave was shirtless, leaning against his sofa…

"You look beautiful" - he smiled in a corner

"Aff, stop, what do you want? I can't remember anything about the case right now Dave… my brain is soaked with alcohol and…"

"I want you" - Dave interrupted me, and I blushed at his blunt answer, cleared my throat…

"So, what about the case? Did it go ahead? Have you been given a new partner?" - I tried to deflect

"It hasn't, that's why I need your help, but tomorrow, and yes, they've sent me a new partner, it's strange, but you're getting used to it, the only sad thing is that you're much hotter…" - he smiled

I put my hand to my face with my head back and turned around, smiling…

"Dave, I… you… we're over 7,000 km away and…"

Dave threw his body forward, his elbows probably resting on his knees, still sitting on the sofa, his cell phone down, giving me the impression that he was looking up at me…

"FUCK DAVE", I thought and bit my lower lip…

"Are you trying to seduce me Agent York?" - I asked, smiling

"Never, why? Are you feeling seduced agent?"

I ran my hand over my red face, biting my lip… looking at Dave through that screen, that neck, that mouth that he always bit the corner of…

"Maybe…"

"Princess, will you take your shirt off for me?"

I was miles away from him, but I still surrendered just looking at him. I threw my cell phone on the bed and took off my shirt, then returned with the screen while I leaned more heavily on the headboard, but without showing anything, he could only see up my crossed arm in front of my breasts…

"Let me see you princess…"

I shook my head no, biting my lip - " hum hum…"

"You want me to beg, don't you?"

I shook my head yes - "hunrum"

Dave took a deep breath, biting his lips, and moved a little closer to the screen…

"Please" - he whispered

"No…"

"I need to see you…"

"No…"

Dave drew in a deep breath and let it out

"Princess… please, let me see you" - he smiled - "I really need to see you…"

I lowered the cell phone screen a little more, taking my arm away, Dave mumbled something I didn't hear, but it sounded PERFECT…

I moved my hand down to my breasts, squeezed one of them from bottom to top and let out a low moan. Dave snorted on the other end of the line as he watched me. I squeezed and lightly pinched the nipple as I ran my tongue over my lips

"That's it princess, do them like I do" - Dave leaned back on the sofa with his arm outstretched, filming himself sitting up from the bottom, he was wearing those gray shorts from his gym days, I saw his other hand stroking his erection over his clothes and heard him moan low - "You drive me crazy princess" - He gasped

"What do you want Dave, ask me…"

He drew air between his lips

"I want to see you completely, take off your panties"

"This one?" - I had already taken them off and showed them to him

"Good girl, now come down so I can see all of you"

" Hum hum, and I'm not going to see you? That's no good"

"But you're already seeing me" - he smiled dully

"Not the part I want…"

Dave threw his head back and ran his hand over his flushed face

" Fuck, princess, look what you're making me do" - with a red face

"You started it, now you want to stop? No sir Agent York, you can take those shorts off for me"

Dave laughed with his head down, and his image shook as he took off his shorts as I asked…

"Okay Princess" - turning the camera back to the previous angle where I could see him from below, in his black boxer shorts, I thought about telling him to take them off, but the view was so perfect, I pretended I'd forgotten to ask - Can I see you now? - He asked as he adjusted his cock in his underwear

I just stretched my arm up and slid the camera down so that he could see me, arched my legs up a little and positioned the camera in front of me, still holding the phone, but in a way that he could see me. Dave moaned lowly as he squeezed his erection harder over his underwear

I wet the tips of two fingers and ran them down my body " That's it, princess, let me see you touching yourself, will you?"

When I get to my entrance and feel them rubbing against my clit, I let out a louder moan, and automatically close my legs a little, start massaging it, putting pressure on it with my two fingers, go down wetting them on myself and press my clit again, on the other side, I hear Dave moaning, he's pulling his erection down and up over his underwear until he lowers it a little, holding his cock at the base and squeezing it lightly, just looking at him like that made my legs shake. The head of his cock was already wet with pre-cum…

"That's it princess, moan for me"

My moans became louder but still muffled, Dave began to touch himself faster as he moaned, his hand with the phone was shaking a little, but nothing that disturbed my vision. I kept circling my clit while Dave moaned at me

"Dave, I'm so close"

"Come to me, come princess…"

He whispered to me as I touched my right spot, riding my own hand. Hearing Dave York moaning my name from the other side as he jerked off feeling my pleasure for him, my orgasm came like a strong wave and I could only moan louder as I slowed down my fingers trying to remember how to breathe, I opened my eyes in time to see Dave moaning letting his head fall back on the sofa, his hand slowing down, his chest rising and falling with his panting breaths as he came on his cock and growled his pleasure through his teeth, I salivated for him at that moment as I watched his cum drip down his fingers and onto his chest and belly with a few droplets of sweat that had accumulated. Dave looked at me, returning to his breathing, while I looked at him, biting my lips… I admired the sight for a few more seconds.

"Just a minute, princess" - Dave put his cell phone down somewhere, as I could only see the ceiling for a few moments, and came back quickly, just in time for me to see him wipe himself down - "How good can it be with you away?"

"I have no idea, Dave" - I shrugged and turned on my side with the phone closer to my face - "it really was great… but…"

"But it would be better with me there with you, wouldn't it?"

"No Dave, it's BUT I have to sleep, I have to be at the office tomorrow at eight, and it's already five in the morning… but it's always better when you're there… only you understand that…"

"Yes, princess" - Dave looked away - "I'll let you sleep, tomorrow I'll call you to help me with the case, okay?"

"Yes, but a normal call, no video"

Dave laughed

"Good night princess…"

"Good night Agent York…"

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Even though I'd only been asleep for almost two hours, I woke up in a great mood… as I got out of the shower and brushed my teeth with a towel on my body and another in my hair, I rubbed the mirror to remove the fog left by the smoke from the hot shower, looked at myself for a moment remembering last night and laughed, just letting a short laugh escape my chest… I rinsed my mouth and put my hand to my forehead, thinking… wasn't the idea to stay away from him? Okay, technically I am away, but… I needed some time to think… Anyway, I had to get to the office.

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I arrived a little late, but my team had just arrived…

"GOOD DAAAAAAY"

A SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH echoed through the room on everyone's lips.

"No need to scream Rookie" - Brigg, still wearing sunglasses and holding his hand to his head

"I'm late because I've gone to buy coffee for all of us, double espresso" - placing the tray on the center table while they were already reaching for their cups.

In the mess of getting the coffees, Matthew ended up getting mine by mistake, and when he tasted it he grimaced

"Wow, what kind of coffee is that?" I saw that it had my name on it

"Hey my coffee" - picking it up for me

"How do you drink it, actually, what is it Rookie?" - Matthew asked laughing

"Shh, don't talk bad about my coffee, it's unsweetened, with milk and a pinch of cinnamon, a perfect combination"

I went back to my desk sipping my coffee, the day would be long, but in the afternoon, I would talk to him again, and that made me smile.

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As I was leaving the building's garage with the guys, Matthew insisted on taking me to the car, I really wanted to believe that he was just being nice.

"Rookie, I was wondering if you were free today, I don't know, to see a bit more of the country, go for a drive… I don't know" - Matthew asked with his hand on the open door of my car…

"Aaaan, who's going?"

"Me and you, I wanted to show you the city, you've only worked since you got here" - he looked away

"I can't today, I have an appointment"

"Very important?"

"Maybe, maybe not" - I got into the car - "See you on Monday Matthew" - I made a point of pulling the door shut and he got the message

"See you on Monday Rookie" - He stood there with his hands in his pockets while I started the car.

At home, I grabbed a coffee and sat down to read my book, which I hadn't been able to get to for three days, and waited for Dave's call. At around 7pm my phone rang with his call

"Ready"

"Rookie, what's up? I need to make this quick. Do you remember the arrest in Ohio?"

"Sure, what about it?"

"In the evidence we took, there was a list of the possible buyers of the women who were there, do you remember any names?"

"Of course I do, but why don't you just look at the list?"

"What names?" - Dave didn't answer

"Dave, is everything all right?"

"Rookie, I need as many names as you can think of, now."

"Write it down then, Aaron Delaney, Briella Wilson, Amatto Bianchi and Rizzo Zanetti"

" Fuck yeah, you're a genius princess, I need to go"

"Dave, what's going on?"

"I can't talk on the phone, I'll get back to you as soon as I can"

"Dave?"

He had already hung up, my heart squeezed, it wouldn't be a big deal would it? He's an experienced agent and very good in combat, and an impeccable marksman, he's never missed a shot from what they say, he's a tactical expert and always has his Beretta M9A1 - his suppression pistol - at his fingertips. I took a deep breath, he would be fine.

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Three weeks went by, I didn't speak to Dave, just a few messages that made us sure that they were both still alive, but this last week, he didn't give any sign and my mind was racing, I couldn't call US headquarters just to ask about him… I texted Maggs to ask for the news and she told me everything that was going on, except what I wanted to know, if he was okay, but I think that if something had happened, she would have told me, wouldn't she?

I had to be focused on the terrorist cell case, but as well as being worried, I was disgusted because I'd lost the clue competition to Matthew and Jacob, JACOB AGAIN, how he thought he was winning.

It was Friday again and the score was tight between me and Jacob, I didn't even go to lunch because by the time I left I was going to get something, I thought the competition was healthy, we had already managed to arrest some people, but mostly people who weren't relevant to getting to the focus of the cell.

Two more explosions had taken place, one in Holland and one in Germany. The point was that the cell could be worldwide, connected by the internet, so we could never predict where the next attack would be. I had been looking at the photos of the last two crime scenes for hours, my head was throbbing, there was something there, I could feel it.

I picked up the photo of the first attack to compare with the attack now and noticed a drawing near the center of the explosions, I ran to the table in the center of the room where the folders and photos were, and picked up all the crime scenes that had taken place, checking them one by one and Holy SHIT, I found it.

I lined up the photos in chronological order of the attacks, and went through them one by one to confirm that yes, they had a symbol, it was a waning moon cut in half.

"Guys, look what I found" - calling the team to the table, I passed around the photos and pointed.

"How did you spot that, Rookie? It's very imperceptible" - Brigg asked

"Don't ask me how my brain works, I just knew there was something I'd seen before, but I couldn't remember where, and it was in the photos. Now we just have to find out if this symbol is placed before or after, if it's before it's to mark the site of the attack, if it's after it's to assume that that explosion was their doing…"

"I'll give it to Sylas now and ask him to check the street cameras a few days before the explosion dates" - Matthew left with the evidence in hand, heading for Sylas' office.

I got up and headed for the team board, picking up the pilot to write on…

"Hey Jacob, looks like the Rookie here is going to bankrupt you today" - making my point

"Calm down Rookie, there's still half an hour to go, it could still turn…" "That smell" - sniffing the air - "I feel a smell of revolt in the air…"

Jacob just laughed. … We arrived at the pub as usual, I already knew everyone at the bar, the bartenders, and I went in saying

"Bartel, make that double drink for me because today THE ROOKIE HERE IS PARTYING"

"THE Rookie WON ONE LENNON" - Bartel shouted to the bartender at the back.

" Finally, Rookie" - Lennon smiled from the back.

We sat down at the table, Jacob looking terrible, and I made a little kiss to him, rubbing my eyes as if he was going to cry.

Matthew and Briggs laughed, and I had fun, I loved those moments when I could get him out of my head.

The night was great, we drank and danced on the dance floor, even Matthew dared to show off his dance moves, at the table Lucas was consoling his friend Jacob, I might not have known how to lose, but compared to Jacob? No way…

I was already pretty upset, and it was almost two in the morning when Briggs took me to the dance floor again, my feet were already hurting and I was only wearing the white tank top I was wearing under my dress shirt.

Briggs danced just two songs with me and went back to the table, and I stayed there dancing alone until I felt a hand grab me around the waist.

When I opened my eyes, it was Matthew who, seeing me alone on the dance floor, had come to join me. He started dancing with me, taking me by the hand and spinning me around, and I laughed

"This isn't a waltz Matthew"

His hand tightened around my waist and moved to my back, and he pulled me closer.

"Hey what are you doing Matthew?" - I asked a little harshly

"What I've been wanting to do for weeks and you pretend you don't understand" - he moved closer to me, trying to kiss me and I pulled away, he held my face, I put my hands on his chest and pushed him back.

"Matthew, NO"

When I turned to leave the dance floor, I couldn't believe what I saw, I was drunk, but not to the point of hallucinating, it couldn't be, Dave was standing in the middle of the bar, with his black overcoat and his hands on his hips looking at me with his face closed…

"Dave…" - I whispered

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The tag list (always in progress), please let me know if you want to be added or removed in my future fanfic posts.

@hannahkatharine @drewharrisonwriter @morallyinept @simp4nott @star017 @survivingandenduring @popcornforone @perotovar @untamedheart81 @missladym1981 @yorksgirl @welcometodrama @blondebarbiiemiinajlover-blog @labyrinthofheartagrams @perennialdoll247 @jensensational71 @mrspedropascal5683 @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @pedroswife69 @welcometodrama @pedropascalsgermangirl @paanchusblog @stevie75 @leosilke @friendswiththemonster78 @vivian-pascal

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Chapter Six - Connections

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Three

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Next Chapter

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 5k

A/N: *me explaining to my friends why there's 17 tabs about medieval europe and vampires open on my computer* "you know, i'm something of a historian myself"

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“Get up.”

Your eyes burned as you pried them open, waking to find the Commander standing over you, the door to your cell now open behind him. Nestled between his fingers was the fallen key, its shining silver now a brilliant gold in the candlelight.

“What?” you croaked, your head still foggy with sleep.

“I said, get up,” he said, enunciating the last letter of each word as he stepped closer.

Finally tearing your eyes away from the open door, you propped yourself up, discovering that the cuffs on your wrists were gone. The thought of him touching you while you were asleep—even if it were only to take the restraints off—made your skin crawl. A glance at your clothes reassured you that only the restraints had been meddled with.

Obeying his command, you staggered to your feet, backing away as much as you could manage. Your eyes darted between him and the cuffs. Was this another one of his tricks? For all you knew, he had freed you just to lock you in a pillory, leaving you for all of Hosnian Prime to watch as you rotted away.

“I come bearing good news,” he said flatly.

“What ‘news?’” you asked, matching his enthusiasm.

“Don’t sound so upset. It comes from your General.”

The scowl twisting your face dropped. “What is it? What did she say?”

“Perhaps if you would let me finish, I would tell you,” he sneered. “Shortly after your failed incursion on our camp, the First Order generously presented her with terms of peace. In a rare moment of sensibility, she has agreed.”

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. The flame of hope in your heart shuddered, shaken by the Commander’s words, but you couldn’t let it die. The Leia you knew wouldn’t submit to the First Order so easily—certainly not after one of her officers was captured. There must have been more that the Commander was withholding from you.

“And what exactly are the terms of her agreement?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

He was quiet for a long moment, allowing the ambient creaks and groans of the dungeon to bleed into the conversation. Finally, he said, “In return for peaceful relations, the New Republic militia will stand down at once and pledge fealty to the First Order.”

Oh.

He continued, “Leia will control–”

“General,” you hissed. “You have no right to address her by her name.”

The Commander let out a quiet scoff. “Don’t I?”

Your eyes narrowed. Insufferable bastard.

“As I was saying, in exchange for this peace, she will oversee the land north of Republic City. I trust her experience from collecting donations for the Resistance will serve her well in this duty.”

You couldn’t fathom what he was saying. Leia exchanging her role as general of the Resistance for warden of a First Order territory was completely out of her character. Instead of providing clarity to your questions, this revelation was only creating more.

“That is…wonderful.” You had to force the sour words out of your mouth. “Yet, I must confess my confusion.”

“Yes?” the Commander asked with mild curiosity.

“Unless I am mistaken, if the New Republic and the First Order have settled their conflict, then there is no further need to have me as your prisoner.”

“You’ll find that you are mistaken, Lieutenant. The crimes you committed against the First Order occurred before the introduction of this treaty, meaning your actions were indeed treasonous. But you needn’t worry.” With that, the Commander turned his back to you, swiftly exiting your cell in a few long strides.

“Forgive me, but I feel as if I should,” you said frantically, chasing after him.

As your feet carried you, you realized that something else was missing. The fragments of bone riddling your lungs had vanished, making your breath effortless once more. Every ache in your body seemed to disappear overnight. Either the Commander had been true to his word, or the gods had answered your prayers, allowing you a moment of respite from your suffering. Given the Commander’s sudden generosity, you would have preferred it to be the latter.

“Your concern is unnecessary,” the Commander said, stopping in his path. “The two entities will be allies, united not only with a treaty, but with a marriage, as well. Since General Organa clearly values you enough to make you a lieutenant, wedding you to me will ensure her compliance with these terms.”

The ground seemed to shift beneath you. Blood roared in your ears as sweat gathered in your palms, which were searching for the stone wall beside you for stability. This was a nightmare. A vivid, terrible nightmare designed to crush your spirit. “N-No, you can’t… She wouldn’t…”

The Commander placed a hand on your back and began guiding you through the dim corridor, unfazed by your reaction. “The matter has already been settled.”

“No, please, there must be another way–”

“Enough!” he snapped. “Unless you would like to spend the days preceding our wedding inside a cell, I suggest you save your breath.”

 Numbness pricked at your fingertips as your breath quickened. Never mind what you had said about the gods earlier—they were cruel, now serving you a punishment of a different kind. Forced to marry a monster, the man responsible for the slaughter your men. The man who had taken you prisoner with the intent of turning you against your allegiance. Death was a more desirable fate than this.

At your silence, the Commander pushed you forward, his hand still planted firmly on the center of your back. You concealed your panic as the two of you navigated the dungeon. Flickering sconces cast tall shadows on the stone walls as you passed, each dark figure moving like ghosts in the night.

Dozens of cells surrounded you, each one occupied by a stranger with a story of their own. Some were dressed in civilian attire, others in Resistance uniforms. All of their bodies were bruised and bloodied, their brows stained with dirt and sweat. It was easy to determine those who had been there longer than you by the bones protruding from their limbs. Nausea rolled through your stomach.

At the end of the path was a short staircase that led to an iron door. If you didn’t know any better, you would have expected it to be made of feathers from the way the Commander pulled it open. He stepped aside, revealing another dark corridor, only this one stretched into the heart of the castle.

“After you,” he said, sliding his hand to the small of your back and pushing you forward. Bile rose in your throat at the sensation.

The First Order’s opulence oozed from the castle walls, as if flaunting their wealth would make their claim to power any more legitimate. Black velvet drapes lined the corridor, a stark contrast to the crimson quatrefoil tiles marking the path. Mounted between the drapes were portraits, each one illuminated by candlelight. Predictably, the paintings seemed to be reserved for the knights and noblemen of the First Order, with no ladies among them.

One portrait in particular caught your attention. The man was striking, with long, dark hair framing his alabaster skin and a stoic expression gracing his features. Though it was merely oil and canvas, your heart flipped in your chest.

Though it came at no surprise, the portraits of the knights were the most chilling among the artwork. Their empty gazes seemed to follow you through the hallway, even after you pulled your eyes away. Each helmet was unique to its owner, but they were all equally as ghoulish. From what you could see, there were six knights in total, yet one was missing. The Commander’s image was absent from the walls.

“Commander, if you don’t mind me asking…” You hesitated, debating if the question was appropriate to ask. “Where is your portrait?”

The only response you received was a low laugh vibrating through his mask. How am I to marry this man if he won’t so much as give me the time of day?

The Commander glanced at you before turning the corner, leading you through the entrance of a vast room. Your face burned at the realization that he had heard your inner dialogue. Quickly, you turned your attention away from him and focused on your surroundings. Overhead, a grand chandelier cast light upon you, its crystals shimmering from the flames of fresh candles. Intricate rose windows graced each of the walls, the red-stained panes of glass obscuring any view of the outside you may have seen. Their design was undeniably beautiful, yet haunting.

The Commander steered you toward a spiraling staircase, leading to another dimly lit hallway. Every velvet curtain was drawn, with only the candles mounted along the wall guiding you. Did the First Order prohibit the use of natural light? You could only imagine what percentage of Hosnian Prime’s taxes were spent on supplying the castle with fresh candles.

When you reached a set of tall doors near the end of the corridor, the Commander stopped you. “These are your chambers. You are not to leave them unless I instruct you to. Do you understand?”

A question floated to the front of your mind. Why did he wear that mask? You tried to picture how he looked beneath it. Perhaps his face was marred in battle, forcing him to now hide his ghastly scars from the world so as to not terrify any children he encountered. Women likely collapsed at the sight of him, and those who didn’t would surely run away screaming. A well-deserved curse for a bastard like him.

The Commander’s hand closing around your throat pulled you from your imagination. “I said,” he growled, “do…you…understand?”

You writhed in his grasp, clawing at his fingers as you nodded your understanding.

“Good,” he said, releasing your neck. “The Supreme Leader is hosting a dinner tonight. As liaison for the New Republic, you are expected to be in attendance.”

“I’m honored,” you sneered, rubbing the sore spots on your neck. Unlike last time, his grip was cautionary, like a hound baring its teeth before biting.

The Commander stepped back, flexing his hand as he lowered it to his side. “Be dressed in three hours time. Call for a handmaid to assist you with your needs.” 

With that, he turned away from you and descended the staircase, leaving you alone in front of the heavy doors.

Betrothed. Never in your life had you aspired to be someone’s betrothed—much less so being promised to an enemy. An enemy who slaughtered your soldiers, your brothers. The thought alone was enough to turn your vision red.

Upon entering your chambers, the first thing that caught your eye was the four-poster bed in the center of the room. Even in a large chamber like this, it swallowed the space. Similar to the drapes lining the castle’s walls, the bed was made with black, silk linens and covered with a dark, velvet spread—a color reminiscent of dried blood on your blade. After weeks of sleeping on a stone floor, it beckoned you, enticing you to crawl under the glossy sheets and sleep for an eternity.

But you didn’t. Whether it was fear of the possible consequences of missing tonight’s dinner or the layers of dirt coating your skin, you stepped away from the bed. Above all else, you needed to bathe.

Adjacent to the bed was a washroom, with cobblestone walls and an oak wood bath tucked in the corner. Long candles lined the perimeter of the room, already lit and illuminating the space. Furs covered the floor, nearly erasing the marble tiles beneath them. The luxury was nagging, inescapable.

At the Resistance base, you would draw your own baths, but here, you were clueless—not to mention barred from leaving your chambers. With no other option, you scoured your chambers for anything that resembled a call bell to summon your handmaid.

After checking behind every curtain and rearranging the furniture, you found it—an ornate, silver handle tucked between one of your bed posts and the wall. A soft ding sounded as you pulled on it, hopeful that someone would soon answer.

Time passed at a snail’s pace as you waited. It seemed nearly impossible to settle the unease that churned in your stomach inside these castle walls, but you found that busying yourself helped. 

You started with the furniture you had displaced, first moving the red upholstered chaise lounge back into its respective place, then tied the curtains back with the silver, braided ropes connected to them. Every item you touched felt more expensive than the last. A worthy use of Hosnian’s dues, you thought.

Just as you were sliding the last displaced book into place, a small knock came from the other side of the doors.

“My lady, may I come in?” a quiet voice asked, muffled by the wood.

“Yes, please do,” you replied, hurrying to open the door.

Before you could grab the handles, the doors opened from the other side, revealing a doe-eyed girl. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, but despite her youth, she seemed tired. Freckles dusted her pointed nose, spreading over her rosy cheeks. Her fine, chestnut hair was gathered in a neat bun, with a few small pieces hanging freely around her face.

You pulled your hands away, reflexively stepping back from the doors.

“My apologies. I didn’t expect…” she said, freezing in place. 

“No need to apologize,” you said, trying to cover your shaking voice. “I’m not used to having a handmaid.”

Anxiously, she smoothed out the black apron that covered her crimson smock, still standing outside of your chambers. You weren’t sure which one of you was more nervous.

“Please, come in,” you said, stepping aside and motioning her in.

The girl obeyed, averting your gaze as she slinked past. She was lithe, her fair skin taut over her collarbones. Your heart grew heavy at the sight. Despite its abundance, the First Order didn’t seem to feed their servants any more than what they fed their prisoners.

“How may I be of service, my lady?” she asked, her voice small.

“I, um,” you stammered, “would like a bath drawn. If you could show me where the water is collected, I can do it myself.” Asking this poor girl to do this mundane task for you felt unnatural, wrong.

“That won’t be necessary. I will draw it for you. Allow me a moment to gather the supplies.” She offered you a brisk smile before starting off towards the washroom.

“Oh,” you whispered. “May I start the fire for you, at least?”

“You needn’t worry about that, my lady,” she said, returning with a bucket in either hand. She was quick, already crossing the threshold of the corridor before you could stop her.

“Wait,” you called after her, stopping her in her path. “If you do not mind me asking, what is your name?”

At that, she turned to face you, bewilderment flashing in her hazel eyes. “No one has ever asked me that.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. Was that not a question you should have asked? 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry–”

“It’s Rey,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. “My name is Rey.” As she repeated the word, her eyes brightened, as if she were uncovering a forgotten memory.

“That’s a beautiful name.” You meant the compliment sincerely. The name reminded you of the sun, an immovable presence in the sky with the power to eradicate darkness with just a touch of light.

“Thank you, my lady. I will return shortly,” Rey said, nodding at you before slipping between the tall, oak doors.

Rey was true to her word, returning not ten minutes later with both pails brimming with fresh water. Against her wishes, you had taken it upon yourself to light the fire beside your bath with one of the candlesticks in the washroom. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind.

After her fourth trip to the kitchen, the bath was starting to take form. As the last cauldron became warm, you began to undress, starting with your weathered boots.

“Rey?” you asked as you tossed the first shoe aside.

“Yes, my lady?”

You laughed softly. “You needn’t call me that. I’m not a lady.”

Her eyes drifted to your tattered clothes, lingering on the patch of orange cloth sewn onto your right shoulder. The emblem of the Resistance. “Perhaps not now. But soon, you will become Commander Ren’s lady.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, neither of you wanting to discuss the matter. But you couldn’t avoid it forever.

“His name is Ren?” you mused, hanging your outer layers over the side of the tub.

“His surname is, yes,” she answered as she poured an herbal soak into the bath. “His proper name is Kylo Ren.”

The name rolled around your head, ricocheting off the walls of your skull. It was a powerful moniker, one that fueled the anxiety building in your gut. A faceless monster by the name of Kylo Ren would be your husband, your lord.

“He never told me his name. If it weren’t for the prisoner across from my cell, I wouldn’t have even known he was a commander,” you muttered.

Rey tipped the last cauldron of steaming water into the tub, filling the air with the sweet scent of lavender and rosemary. “Commander Ren is a very private man.”

“What do you know of him?”

She stiffened, and though you couldn’t see it, you could almost feel the hairs on the nape of her neck standing.

“I can’t—I shouldn’t–” she stammered, worrying the fabric of her dress between her fingers.

“Please,” you begged, covering her hands with yours. “I need to know what he’s like, what kind of treatment lies ahead of me.” 

Her eyes seemed to darken as she looked at you, your heartbeat rising in your throat as you awaited her response.

“I could lose my head for discussing this,” she hissed.

“What do you mean?”

“It is forbidden to speak ill of our leaders.” She pulled her hands away slowly, folding them neatly in her lap.

You felt dizzy, like the world around you was spinning, but your bare feet planted on the floor told you that it was not. Her nonanswer was louder than any lie she could have conjured about Commander Ren.

“Excuse me, my lady,” Rey said, breaking the silence that followed her previous statement. “I will return later to help you dress for dinner.” 

Before you could protest, she was gone, a blur of red fabric moving through your chambers.

Warmth rose to your cheeks as steam tickled your skin, enticing you into the water. You removed the rest of your clothes and tentatively slipped into the bath.

For what it was worth, the First Order seemed to have the finest soap and herbs in the realm. The soft scent lingered on your skin as you dried yourself with a plush towel, unlike the threadbare ones you had come to know in your Resistance quarters. Small pleasures felt more satisfying now than ever before.

Rey had spent the latter half of your bath entering and exiting your chambers, each time carrying with more gowns than before. The array was overwhelming, and with exquisite craftsmanship woven into each one, it seemed impossible to make a decision. Truthfully, you would prefer to wear something comfortable, like a smock or trousers, but such options seemed to be out of the question.

“Where did you find all of these gowns? Does the First Order have a storehouse specifically for them?” you joked, hoping to lighten the conversation.

“No,” she replied with a stiff laugh. “The castle’s tailors have been working tirelessly for weeks at Commander Ren’s request.”

“Weeks?!” you exclaimed. “Gods, time was lost to me in the dungeon.”

Rey was silent, busying herself with a black, satin dress. The material flowed onto the floor like a dark tide, eclipsing the intricate pattern of the rug. Long, tapered sleeves fell at its sides, with thin, silver threads connecting the rubies sewn onto the chest and shoulders. The gems were vibrant against the dark backdrop, like stars filling the night sky. It was truly stunning.

You and Rey shared a look, and within moments, she was loosening the ribbon at the back and helping you step into it. The fabric was cool against your flushed skin, from both the bath and the fireplace across the room. With one final pull, Rey laced up the bodice, allowing the dress to hug your figure. Its high collar wrapped around your neck, leaving just enough room for you to breathe.

“It suits you, my lady,” Rey said behind you, her voice full of awe.

“I’ll take your word for it,” you replied, staring down at the lustrous rubies gracing the front.

“Now, allow me to fix your hair.” Rey was already returning from the washroom as she spoke, holding a brush in one hand and ribbons in the other.

Fortunately, the heat from the fireplace had dried your hair rather quickly. You perched yourself at the edge of the lounge, allowing room for Rey to sit behind you. The excitement of donning the gown began to fade, giving way to the reality of the occasion. You were tied on the end of a string, the pet sheep for the First Order to treat however they pleased. Dread filled your gut once more.

Rey gently combed through your locks, separating knots that had formed from countless days of sleeping on a stone floor. Her fingers were nimble as she braided, carefully securing each section with pins and ribbons. The process was calming, distracting you momentarily from the night ahead. A tranquil silence filled the room, only interrupted by the occasional hiss or pop from the fireplace.

As she worked through your hair, you wondered what Rey’s life was like—what it had been like before the First Order. Was she born into this role, serving lords and ladies of the New Republic before its collapse? Or had she been like you, captured and given a harrowing ultimatum: a life of servitude or the blade. For her sake, you hoped it was the former.

“I am finished, my lady,” she said as she stood to her feet, gathering the remaining supplies in her apron. “I shall see you when you return from the feast.”

The thought of her leaving made your stomach drop. It wasn’t necessarily her you had grown fond of—you had only known her for a matter of hours. It was the sinking realization that you were going to be alone again, alone with Commander Ren. Given that his parting gift to you had been a hand clutching your throat, you were less than eager to see him again.

Rey was already in the hallway when you finally whispered, “Farewell.”

As the doors fell into place, a swarm of hornets erupted in your chest, rattling your ribs with the force of their anger. Emotion washed over you, too many at once to know the difference. Immediately, you thought of General Organa. Was this really her plan? Allow the First Order to rip out her spine and oblige their every demand? Years of loyal service dedicated to the Resistance, all for you to be used as leverage for the Supreme Leader to maintain power.

Yet, that wasn’t even the worst of it. No, that would be a fair treatment in comparison to being Commander Kylo Ren’s wife. In the eyes of the gods, as well as the laws of the land, he would own you, every part of you. The only escape from this torment would be in your mind, but even then, the sanctity of that was uncertain.

A stream of tears rolled down your cheeks. You wiped them away with the back of your hand and focused on steadying your breath. Everything you did was still in the name of the Resistance, in the pursuit of liberty. If sacrificing your own freedom meant that countless others would gain theirs, then it would be a worthy cause.

The light of hope flickered in your chest, wrapping its glowing tendrils around your heart. It had never abandoned you, and now, it was your duty to foster it. 

Just then, another knock fell on your door, this time landing harder than that of your handmaid. The sound startled you, prompting you to stand to your feet and fix the creases in your dress.

“Come in,” you called, folding your hands in front of you. As unnatural as it felt, it seemed as if the etiquette you had been taught as a child was slowly resurfacing. Poised shoulders, delicate hands, and eyes trained on the ground in front of you. If she were alive, your mother would be beaming with pride at the sight of you.

The two doors creaked open, revealing a tall stranger on the other side. You lifted your eyes, and as you greeted him with a nod, you recognized him. The man from the portrait—the one with ivory skin and russet eyes. Your pulse quickened.

“My lady,” he said, returning your greeting with a small nod. His voice was low and smooth, almost melodic. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he were a divine being, not a man.

The dress fluttered over your feet as you stepped towards him, closing the space between you. “Forgive me, I am not yet familiar with the First Order’s procedures. Are you my chaperone to the dinner?”

At the question, the man took his eyes off you and looked around the room, rolling his tongue over his teeth with a scoff. “I suppose so.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “My apologies, I only meant–”

“No need,” he said, offering you his arm. “Please, come with me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, slipping your hand around the bend of his elbow and stepping outside of your chambers. He was breathtaking, with long, dark locks framing his sculpted face and an aquiline nose sitting perfectly between his high cheekbones. He wet his bottom lip as he watched you take his arm, the contact of your bodies sending electricity across your skin.

A black cloak cascaded from his broad shoulders, pinned to his suit by two silver insignias. Like many of the accents in the castle, the inside of the cloak was lined with red silk, only seen every few strides. He wore a matching black suit, as dark as the night sky with a collar that reached his jaw.

The nerves buzzing in your stomach gave way to a different sensation, one that was much softer and hummed louder with every glance you stole at your escort. An oil portrait couldn’t do his beauty justice. Despite being betrothed to another, you allowed your mind to wander, imagining how his smooth, leather gloves would feel on your bare skin, or how his plush lips would move against yours. To make matters worse, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty for thinking such things.

Rich aromas wafted through the grand chamber below the staircase, an unspoken cue that you were nearly at your destination. Your mouth watered, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten fresh food in weeks. If only the circumstances of this dinner were different, you might have been able to enjoy yourself—even if it were only for a fleeting moment.

As you rounded a corner, the entrance to a grand dining hall came into view. A polished mahogany table stretched the length of the room, with attendants filling nearly every spot along it. The room was alive with energy, vibrating with laughter and conversations of the guests. Cheery voices overlapped with the scrape of silverware on porcelain, the sound of glass meeting glass as greetings were exchanged. It reminded you of special occasions within the Resistance. If it weren’t for the First Order emblem on the cloth table runner and the countless uniforms scattered throughout the hall, you could almost fool yourself into believing that it was. 

Your knuckles blanched around your chaperone’s arm as the two of you reached the tall doorway, trepidation churning in your stomach at the sight of the dinner party. 

“I do not know where I am to go,” you said quietly.

He looked down at you, a small smile playing on his lips. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, someone else spoke.

“Silence! Silence, all of you!” a husky voice bellowed throughout the hall. An older man stood from his seat at the end of the table, a seat lined with black velvet and silver accents fastened to the upholstery. From this distance, it almost resembled a throne.

The blood coursing through your veins turned to ice at the sight of him. Supreme Leader Snoke, in the flesh.

“We have all gathered here tonight to celebrate peace in the realm, but such a feat would be impossible if it weren’t for the union of our two powers.” A cacophony of voices cried out in agreement, the sound grating to your ears.

You clenched your free hand into a fist at your side. His words were poison, and somehow, you felt as if you were the only person in this room privy to it.

“It is with great pleasure that I welcome our honored guests—Commander Ren and his bride. Cheers to the lovely pair, and to a new reign of the First Order!”

Glasses clinked and spirits flowed at the Supreme Leader’s declaration, but you couldn’t hear the roar of the celebration over the blood rushing in your ears. Your fingers burned where you gripped Commander Ren’s arm, as if you were clinging onto a smoldering log in a fire pit. Quickly, you tried to retract your hand, but before you could, he clasped it in his.

“Cheers,” he echoed, flashing you a wicked smile.

[pilesofpillows]

Stars Aglow Ch. 3 || Okoye x Attuma

A Sea of Stars ~ Part 3 of 3

Ch. 1 • Ch. 2

Summary: Babies.

Warnings: Semi-Graphic Depictions of Childbirth, An Excessive Amount of Fluff, Seriously... I Hope Y'all Got Good Dental Insurance, And Tissues

Tags: @mamajankyy @theeblackmedusa @theemfingmenace @xenokattz @tvreadsandsleep @ariyannah @iccedays @xblackreader @blissdoutbyattuma @karimk2 @umber-cinders @mickimomo @dontruinmymorning @princess-of-gondor

A/N 1: Pinky swears are very serious things that I take very seriously. This chapter is a behemoth of nearly 5k words... ridiculous.

A/N 2: Massive, huge, ridiculous, enormous thank you to @xenokattz for all your help!! Love you forever 💕💕💕

The Amnio was brilliant. 

When she’d first told them about it, Shuri had made it out to be a simple birthing chamber, but it was far more than that. She had converted an entire floor on the lower level of the Citadel’s residential tower into a birthing suite of dreams, complete with an operating room, a miniature neonatal ICU, and a near-exact replica of Okoye’s upstairs apartment with an added nursery for their post-delivery stay.

The main space was wide and cavernous, with a wall of windows that allowed the sun to illuminate the room and provided an incomparable view of the night sky. At its center was a circular in-ground pool with a series of wide ledges that helped accommodate varying depths within the water. Four holographic displays lined half of the pool, one for each baby and the last for her, their vitals being monitored by the patches affixed to her stomach. 

Okoye kneeled on the second step below the outer ledge of the pool, her forearms folded across her mother’s knees as she breathed heavily, panting through the latest contraction. She’d been in the water for hours now, the night dragging on as her body prepared to deliver her children into the world. Her head was bowed, resting on her arms, her face twisted in a grimace as the labor pains reached a new height. Attuma kneeled behind her, massaging her submerged lower back and stomach while her mother cradled her head, murmuring words of comfort. Nakia and Ayo bracketed her mother, both coaxing her through breathing exercises in soft voices.

Nakia’s fingers entangled with hers. “You’re almost there, usisi. So close now.”

Okoye did not feel close. Each contraction felt like an hours-long battle, challenging everything she thought she knew about pain. What started as a dull ache in her lower back rose to a roaring fire as her muscles constricted tightly, stealing the breath from her lungs. She fought to regulate her breathing, exhaling forcefully in a loud groan.

“Good, intombi,” Her mother praised, dabbing the sweat from her brow. “You’re doing so good. It won’t be much longer.”

She heard Ixtli and the nurses who’d accompanied her singing beneath the water, a wordless melody of highs and lows in time with the waves of pain crashing over her. Attuma and Namora joined them, and she sighed gratefully as each note eased the sharp bite of the cramping across her lower body. Thank Chaac and Bast for Talokanil siren singers. 

An early point of contention in her pregnancy had revolved around whether they would observe Wakandan or Talokanil traditions when the time for her delivery came. She and Attuma had argued relentlessly about it until Namora suggested a merger of the two traditions; Okoye would deliver their children on the surface, in the water, with a Talokanil midwife and a Wakandan obstetrician. That Namora's mother happened to be an iyom k'exelom was a happy coincidence, and Okoye couldn’t be more grateful to the woman and her melodious analgesic. 

As the contraction passed, Okoye whimpered as she felt Attuma move to her left, missing his presence immediately. She pulled her fingers from Nakia’s and unfolded her arms, reaching for him desperately. Attuma leaned in close, holding her hand in his, and pressed his nose to her cheek, muttering a string of reassurances and praises in both their mother tongues.

She wanted him closer.

Ixtli surfaced, rebreathers firmly affixed to her face and gills, informing them that her body was ready. It was time to push.

She needed Attuma. 

Using what little strength she had, Okoye used the stair above her and her beloved’s shoulder to support herself as she sat back on her knees. 

“K’iino’?” Attuma’s voice was wary, trying to gauge her intent as he sat up with her. 

“Behind me, please? I just… I need…” Okoye didn’t know how to adequately verbalize what she was feeling.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to; Attuma wrapped his arms around her, shifting them gingerly until his back was flush with the outer ledge of the pool, only their legs remaining beneath the water. Her back rested on his chest, skin-to-skin; their hearts beat in tandem, soul-to-soul. 

“Good?” he whispered against her ear, and Okoye nodded, a stray tear slipping down her cheek. This was everything she wanted, everything she needed.

“Don’t leave me?” she pleaded. 

“Never, in K’iino’,” came his fierce response.

Her family corralled around them. Ayo, Namora, and Shuri stood on the outer edge of the pool, each holding a different colored blanket for their corresponding godchild, ready to carry them from the water after they were born. Her mother and Nakia stood on either side of her and Attuma, grabbing her hands and helping her into a low squat.

Namora’s mother crouched between her legs, gently cradling her belly. “Are you ready, Nacom?”

Okoye gave a hoarse hum of approval and steeled herself. She was tired and terrified, but they were at the end now; the battle was almost won.

“When the pain comes again, listen to your body and bear down,” she instructed. The Talokanil midwife looked contemplative for a moment and pressed on the lower right side of her distended abdomen. “This one first, hm? He’s ready.”

Okoye wanted to question her, but the force of her contraction punched the air out of her, and she clamped her jaw shut. The urge to push came, and she did as she was told, a long groan escaping her gritted teeth as she bore down. Long agonizing seconds passed before Ixtli stopped her, letting Okoye catch her breath before commanding her to push again. 

Her mother and Nakia spoke quiet words of encouragement as she labored, and she squeezed their hands as they continued on in the arduous cycle of pushing and breathing. Attuma blew softly on her head between each push, extolling her strength and courage as he urged her to keep fighting. 

Ixtli ducked her head under the water quickly and resurfaced with a chuckle. “Uts ka a k'iino' yanak ti' juntúul paal il le eek'o'obo'. [It is fitting that your Sun would have one who looks to the stars.]” she said to Attuma in rapid Mayan, GRIOT translating for the room to hear. 

“What- what does that mean?” Okoye asked, leaning back on Attuma’s shoulder, breathless. “Are they okay?”

“The baby is fine, General. He’s just facing the wrong way,” Dr. Langeni waded over from the fetal monitors, placing a reassuring hand on her knee as she explained. “It’ll make things a bit harder, but we’re watching carefully, and if we need to intervene, we will.” She nodded over to the wall of glass partitions on the right side of the room, behind which lay the operating room and NICU. “For now, just focus on letting your body do what it was meant to.”

Ixtli nodded, confirming her counterpart’s words, and when the next contraction struck, Okoye bore down again, her groan ending in a sharp cry as she felt the burning stretch of her son crowning. 

“Dudula, Okoye!” “Yiza, emnandi, tyhala.” Nakia and her mother spoke words of encouragement, urging her to push, and squeezing her hands back as she tightened her grip on theirs.

The Talokanil nurses had resumed their song, and their voices grew in pitch as Okoye pushed again, a low scream erupting from her throat. The feeling of something giving way was followed by a rush of relief flooding her, and she collapsed against Attuma’s body. He peppered kisses onto her forehead, praising her strength and wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. Gasps of awe and resounding echoes of praise came from everyone around them, but Okoye only had eyes for the tiny, screaming baby in Ixtli’s arms. The midwife stood and laid her son on her chest, and she instinctively cradled his small body even as the elder woman used a soft towel to wipe him down. 

Her son. 

Wriggling and squalling and hers.

Theirs.

Attuma’s hand rested over hers, his chin over her shoulder as they took in the new life they’d made together.

They had a son.

“Molo, mntanandini. [Hi, sweet baby.]” she whispered as his cries softened. 

He was magnificent. 

Ixtli wrapped her firstborn in a towel, plucking him from her chest, and passed him to Shuri, who stood ready, having swapped places with Nakia to receive her godson. Okoye smiled weakly as the princess beamed at the baby. 

“Molo, mncinane,” she murmured, gathering the small boy in a yellow woven blanket, “I’m your Aunt Shuri.”

Okoye craned her neck, watching closely as her sister carried him out of the water to the designated team of nurses and doctors ready to check him over. She winced as the smarting ache washed over her, despite her rush of joy. She felt the urge to push again, and it seemed her son’s twin was more than ready to join the world. 

“He will come easier; his brother has made the path clear.” Ixtli said, once again pressing on her abdomen. “Now push, child.”

Attuma sat them both up, and Nakia rejoined her, grasping her hand fiercely as her mother did the same on the opposite side, the three of them helping to support her body as she bore down yet again, and they re-entered the cyclical pattern of pushing and breathing. The singing resumed with her efforts, but the song was different this time. Through the haze, Okoye made out the words to a familiar chant from the River Tribe, sung in perfect harmony by the nurses and Namora. Even Attuma sang with them, his voice a gentle rumble against her back. Her eyes darted to Nakia, who grinned at her as they sang the steady, cadenced tune. 

Letting the song strengthen her, Okoye braced herself for the next wave.

She pushed.

And groaned.

 And pushed again.

A burning flash drew a harsh cry from her lips, and her second child entered the world, as quiet as his brother was loud. 

She held him to her chest, marveling at his scrunched face and soft cries. He was smaller than his brother but no less wriggly. 

Another son.

Perhaps Attuma was right, she thought with a tearful laugh. 

Her second son settled quickly, gazing back at her with Attuma’s dark, wide eyes. 

He was beautiful.

Like they did with their first, Okoye and Attuma cradled their secondborn son together. “Okoye… in yakunaj… two...” His voice was choked with emotion, but she understood perfectly what he meant.

They had children. 

Two children. 

Two sons.

She cooed down at him, welcoming him to the world in a hushed whisper as Ixtli wiped him down before gingerly passing her son to Namora. The Talokanil general wrapped her secondborn in a blue blanket Okoye’s mother had woven, whispering sweet words to him in Mayan. Okoye settled back against Attuma, watching as her friend carried her baby out of the water, passing him to the team of nurses and doctors waiting to ensure he was hale and healthy.

“Rest now. The next will not be so easy,” Ixtli said, drawing their attention back to her. “The youngest rarely is.” She shot a pointed look toward Namora, who scoffed from the medical bay, making Okoye laugh weakly. “Let your body work to expel the afterbirth while I consult the stars for your first two children. I will return when it is time.” She cupped Okoye’s cheeks, touching their foreheads together. “You have done well, Nacom Okoye. Chaac and Ix Chel have blessed you with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

She smiled tiredly and thanked her. The Talokanil midwife exited the pool, and Dr. Langeni followed, promising to bring an update on the children when she returned. 

Okoye looked at her mother. She was crying, tears of joy, Okoye presumed, and she blinked, a few tears slipping down her own cheeks. “Don’t cry, mama.”

She reached out a hand, and her mother took it, squeezing her fingers gently. “I can’t help it, emnandi. It’s not every day a woman becomes a grandmother; I should think I’m entitled to a few tears,” her mother sniped jokingly, and they shared a quiet laugh. She leaned forward to kiss Okoye’s cheek. “Oh, I’m so proud of you, intombi. You did wonderfully.” She kissed Attuma’s cheek as well. “You both did.” 

Okoye grinned, then winced slightly as her body continued laboring. The contractions were far milder than her earlier ones, and one of the Talokanil nurses rubbed her ankle in encouragement, speaking words she couldn’t understand. Attuma murmured the translated instructions and a steady stream of compliments between light kisses to her head and hair, and the afterbirth passed easily, requiring little effort on her part. 

She lay in the cradle of Attuma’s arms, glancing intermittently at the medical bay where her children rested. Okoye itched to hold them, to study their faces and catalog the pieces of her and Attuma in every feature. Nakia passed her a cup of ice chips, and she shot her sister a grateful smile, chewing them carefully between her contractions. She was slightly relieved for the short rest before their third child was born. She chose not to ask how Ixtli knew there would be time between the twins and their thirdborn or how she knew her children would be boys before their birth; the woman had forgotten more about childbirth than Okoye would likely ever know. 

Dr. Langeni returned and had a quick GRIOT-assisted conversation with one of the Talokanil nurses before wading over to Okoye. “Molo, umama, baba,” she said with a soft smile. “Everything is looking good; both boys are hale, healthy, and quite possibly the cutest newborns above or below the surface. You did very good,” the doctor chuckled with a wink. She pressed a button on her kimoyo beads, activating a holographic display of her womb. Her lips twisted in a frown, and she sighed. “It looks like Baby C is still transverse. Which means we have two options: we can attempt to maneuver them in hopes that they turn on their own, or we go in for a C-section now. Should they prove reticent despite the maneuvers,” she paused, arching a pointed brow at them, “we’ll have to go in surgically.”

Okoye narrowed her eyes at the implication but couldn’t argue. Be it a maternal or paternal trait, headstrong children were a given between her and Attuma, and she was already praying for the strength and patience to match wits with whichever aspects of herself would be reflected in her children.

“How long would we try the maneuvers for?” she asked, shifting against her beloved and placing a hand over the monitoring patch of her youngest.

Dr. Langeni turned to the displays outside the pool, studying the remaining monitor. “Should Baby’s heart rate remain within acceptable parameters and the placenta intact? We’ll say 20 minutes.”

Okoye nodded and glanced at Attuma, silently asking him to weigh in. 

He tilted his head, looking contemplative. “It is up to you, in K’iino’. I will be by your side no matter what you choose.”

Her heart fluttered, warmth flooding through her at his words, knowing he meant them wholly. She pressed her head into his chin and considered each option before taking a fortifying breath. “Let’s try the maneuvers.”

~~~

In the darkest hours of the morning, Okoye’s youngest child finally decided to cooperate with the efforts of the medical team. They’d guided the baby downward between her contractions, firm hands pushing hard through her abdomen. She grit her teeth through every attempt and nearly regretted her choice on a particularly hard press. The Talokanil surrounding her had resumed singing the euphoric analgesic of earlier, dulling the sharp pain, and Okoye groaned, breathing heavily. Attuma blew cool breaths along her head again, providing an anchor of solace in the sea of pain, but her relief proved temporary as her muscles tightened in a fierce contraction.

 Ixtli had returned shortly before they began; she and Dr. Langeni worked in tandem, the Wakandan doctor maneuvering the baby while the Talokanil midwife swam beneath her, singing a soft siren call to draw the child down. Ixtli resurfaced, a visible smile showing through her rebreather, and she proclaimed it was finally time to push. Okoye sighed gratefully, thanking the gods. Dr. Langeni gave her an encouraging smile and waded to the side of the pool with her mother, Nakia, and Ayo. Okoye slid forward, squatting low on the step below Attuma, her chest and head remaining above water. He slid his arms under hers, helping her to brace her elbows on his knees.

“One last battle, Nacom,” her iyom k’exelom said, giving her knees a reassuring squeeze, “Let us see what the dawn brings.”

The woman sank beneath the water, and Okoye sucked in a deep breath as she felt the next contraction roll into her. 

She pushed hard, biting back a scream, until Ixtli squeezed her calf, commanding her to stop. She leaned against Attuma, who spoke words of comfort and praise between blowing cool breaths of air on the crown of her head, each breath meant to hasten the delivery of their child. She rested for a moment before the Talokanil midwife’s head surfaced, coaxing her to push again, and they fell into a steady rhythm: Okoye pushed, Attuma blew, and Ixtli coaxed. 

Again and again, until she felt like she couldn’t anymore.

She sagged between Attuma’s legs, her head thrown back as tears ran down her face.

“Ko'ox, Bah’te. K'a'abéet a ba'ate'el! [Come on, Warrior. You must fight!]” Ixtli urged in a stern voice. “We’re nearing the end, Okoye; Yaantal a to'on jolkanil.”

Find your courage. 

Bast help her; Okoye didn’t know how much she had left.

She screwed her eyes shut before opening them to meet the deep umber of Attuma’s. They shone with love and pride, and he bent to kiss her forehead. “Ngakumbi kancinci [Just a little more], in yakunaj,” he whispered against her sweat-slicked skin. “Ungayenza. [You can do it.]”

 She looked into the eyes she loved beyond all measure and found her courage.

The next contraction ripped through her, and Okoye tucked her head into her chest and bore down, crying out at the searing flash of white-hot pain.

Ixtli dipped back into the water, coaxing her through a final round of pushing, their youngest child slipping free of her body as the sun broke over the horizon.

Okoye cried in relief, her body slumping from exhaustion, and Attuma hauled her into his arms. Ixtli emerged from the water, holding a small baby who began wailing seconds after tasting the air.

“A son?” she asked, a weak smile on her lips.

Ixtli grinned, a fierce, proud thing. 

“The Dawn has brought you a daughter,” she proclaimed, laying the baby on her chest.

Okoye clutched the small body, her daughter, to her, blinking in shock. Faintly, she heard the excited exclamations of her family, but her focus was solely on the tiny, wailing infant on her breast. She let out a shaky breath, staring at her daughter in awe.

She had a daughter.

Okoye held her close as she screamed, wondering how one so small could make so much noise. 

She put her brothers to shame. 

Okoye laughed as hot tears ran down her face, gently attempting to shush the squalling infant while Ixtli cleaned her. 

She was perfect.

Attuma laid a large hand on her back, nearly covering her entire body, humming the lullaby he sang throughout her pregnancy, and they marveled as she quieted almost immediately, her robust cries softening to hushed whimpers.

“K Eek'e' asab chichanen. [Our littlest star.]” Her beloved murmured, smoothing his finger over her furrowed brow.

Their youngest grizzled, nose crinkling.

“Welcome to the world, ntomba ethandekayo.”

Ixtli swaddled their daughter in a towel and placed her in Ayo’s arms, her sister-in-arms greeting the child warmly, wrapping her in the soft green blanket Okoye’s mother had woven for their third child. “Good morning, little one. Today is your birthday.”

She exited the water gracefully, speaking to the baby in full sentences, making Okoye chuckle despite her exhaustion. She watched through half-lidded eyes as the final team of nurses and doctors engulfed their baby girl. As their daughter was tended to, Attuma pressed long, tender kisses to her head, muttering an incomprehensible jumble of praise and thanks between each one. 

“Óoxtúul paalal [Three children], in yakunaj,” he said into her hair. “Ts'o'ok a taasik to'on óoxp'éel… [You have brought us three…]”

“Three stars,” Okoye replied softly. “Our own little sea."

~~~

They moved her from the water to a large bed once she passed the afterbirth, and she lay reclined against Attuma, clean, changed, and content. They talked quietly with her mother and Dr. Langeni about what to expect these next few days as they waited for Ixtli, the trio, and their godmothers. Okoye’s exhaustion was bone deep, but she wouldn’t sleep a wink until she had held each of her babies. Nakia slipped into the room, having ducked out earlier to retrieve the rest of their family. She led M’Baku, Yoltzin, and Aneka in, Junior still sleeping in the early morning hours. They stood at the end of the bed, smiles abounding.

Attuma’s mother came to their bedside, pressing her forehead against Okoye’s, then Attuma’s. “Ki'imak óolal, waal. [Congratulations, daughter],” Yoltzin said, grinning brightly. These weren’t her first grandchildren, but they were her eldest son’s, and she’d been giddy with joy the moment Attuma had informed her of Okoye’s pregnancy. She rounded the bed to stand beside Okoye’s mother, the new grandmothers embracing each other. 

“Three babies in one night! You truly are Wakanda’s greatest warrior,” M’Baku smiled proudly, gently squeezing her ankle through the bedding. “Where are the little shark pups?”

His question was answered by the sliding door, and Ixtli entered the room on quiet feet with Shuri, Namora, and Ayo trailing behind her. Each woman held a brightly swaddled bundle in their arms, and they formed a line by her right bedside. 

Shuri passed the baby in her arms to Ixtli, who unwrapped him slightly and placed him on the far right side of Okoye’s exposed chest. “This is your firstborn. A son who looked upon the stars as he entered the world, a war cry on his tongue. What name will you give to him?”

Okoye looked at her eldest son, whose eyes were closed as he slept peacefully, tiny brown fingers curling into her skin. The small yellow cap on his head hid most of his hair, but Okoye could see the gentle wisps that curled along his forehead. She lifted his small hand with her finger, an awed breath leaving her as he gripped it firmly. 

He looked like Attuma. 

Her beloved carefully traced the soft fuzzy hair of his son’s brow and answered Ixtli. “T’Khwezi Cadmael.”

The Star Chief.

Okoye heard Shuri and Yoltzin gasp quietly, and she glanced between her little sister and Attuma’s mother. Both women’s eyes were watery, and Okoye reached out, entangling her fingers with Shuri’s. She squeezed, providing a gentle reassurance, and nodded to Yoltzin. Neither T’Challa nor Cadmael would ever be forgotten; their spirits lived on through them. Shuri smiled tearfully, muttering a wet thanks before releasing her fingers, and Yoltzin hugged Attuma briefly. The princess slid from her place in line, crossing behind Namora and Ayo to stand with the rest of their family at the foot of the bed. 

“This is your secondborn. A son born beneath the Great Weaver, swift and sure of his path.” Ixtli lifted their son from Namora’s arms and placed him on the right side of Okoye’s chest. “What name will you give to him?”

Okoye gazed down at her son, watching him nuzzle into her skin. His skin was warm, and his body was heavier than she expected. He looked nearly identical to his brother; the deeper cleft of his chin was the only difference she could see between them. Like his siblings, their son had thin, dark lines along his collarbones, alluding to the presence of gills. Dr. Langeni had already confirmed that the organs were vestigial and had no function. Her children were blessed with the ability to respirate air through their lungs and water through their skin, much like the King of Talokan.

The first to be born between the land and sea, her children represented the cementing of the Wakandan/Talokanil alliance. The two nations were connected by blood, woven together by love. Her son required a name that fit their future. 

“Chii’kaan B’atz’,” Okoye said after a moment.

The Feathered Serpent Weaver.

Attuma cupped her face gently, looking deep into her eyes. “K’iino, are you certain?”

Her beloved knew there was no love lost between her and his king. It had taken time for her to tolerate his presence in Birnin Zana, never mind their home. Okoye hadn’t even called him K’uk’ulkan until she reached her second trimester of pregnancy. To honor him in this way was a step beyond, but in order for their nations to grow strong together, grace was necessary. She would never forget, and likely never forgive, but the past was immovable and unchangeable. They could only go forward.

“I’m sure” Okoye nodded. “We are bound by blood, my love. Our children are equal parts, Wakandan and Talokanil. We must honor both as we move forward.”

Attuma’s eyes melted with her declaration, and he kissed her forehead, her nose, then her lips softly. “Ndiyakuthandana, Okoye.”

Okoye smiled and returned his kiss, just as soft. “In yaakunech, Attuma.”

“The mother of your children is a wise woman, Nacom. K'a'abet a sutk'esiko'ob le ti' a watan,” Ixtli said with a sharp grin.

Okoye didn’t understand everything the iyom k’exelom said, but she did know watan. Wife.

She and Attuma shared a knowing smile.

We will be married when in K’iino’ is ready to have a husband again. That’s what he’d told her mother. 

She never thought she would have another husband, not after the bitter betrayal she’d faced. She hadn’t thought she could tie her soul to another man before Attuma. She hadn’t thought she could love someone so wholly, so thoroughly that she felt incomplete without them as she did with Attuma. He held her heart; married or not, their souls were irrevocably bound. 

“Tu k'iinili' [In time],” her beloved responded with a sly smirk.

Ixtli nodded and turned to Ayo, lifting their youngest from her arms. Like she’d done with the other two, the Talokanil midwife unwrapped the baby and laid her on Okoye’s chest, right between her brothers.

“This is your thirdborn. A daughter born at the dawn's breaking, ushering in victorious joy. What name will you give to her?”

Okoye craned her neck down to stare at the smallest of the three curled against her chest and felt her heart sing. She was their unexpected gift, a joyful surprise after the birth of two boys.

She looked at Attuma, who’d been so certain they would have three sons, they hadn’t bothered to discuss what they might name a girl. He looked just as baffled as she felt. Carefully considering Ixtli’s words, Okoye smiled down at her daughter, who grizzled and grunted even while she slept. 

“Ixazaluoh.”

Yoltzin’s water-distorted voice spoke from the other side of the bed, offering up the name. 

Attuma hummed and placed his hand on their daughter’s head. “It means ‘dawn,’” he explained lowly. 

Okoye echoed his hum. “Very fitting, Na’,” she grinned. “Ixazaluoh, then. Ixazaluoh Kenura. The dawn of our joy.”

Her beloved’s smile was wide and bright. “Perfect.” 

Attuma kissed her head, running gentle hands over each of their children. “They’re beautiful, in K’iino’.”

Staring down at them, Okoye couldn’t help but agree.

They would grow in time, surrounded by love and supported by their family. But for now, it was enough that they were here. 

Small and sleeping and theirs.

Beautiful, indeed.

A/N 3:

I tried not to be too graphic with the L&D, but she did have 3 babies naturally so... it wasn't ever gonna be short.

There's a fourth part to this somewhere in my brain... it might take a lil longer cuz I gotta work on that OT3 thing 👀👀

[cappymightwrite]

My Maid of Stone (Ch. 2 Preview)

A strong gale began to brandish the half-denuded boughs of the nearby trees, whirling the leaves in madcap companies about the wooded grove. The whole world seemed to sound around her then. A roaring and a rustle and a creak was everywhere, dust and dead leaves eddying across the pathways between trees, catching in withered bracken and barren brambles. The taste of snow in the air. And yet, cold as it was, harsh as it was, still it felt like an embrace to her. A return to something lost, a kind of remembrance, of something still held so dear. She felt like a tree that at first glance appeared dead to the world, yet when you climbed to its very top, you found bright green limbs sucking sap one hundred feet from the ground. You discovered the tree was very much alive and that was its secret. That secret life that it hid. Only visible to those who cared to look, to brave its heights and climb.  But what good does my praying do? No one will listen. There is no one here to listen. Pain prickled on the skin now, aching deeper in the chest. Water welling in the sight-hollows. Why? Because of the colours. Because the snow-covered world, even under cover of night, under moonlight’s glow, was so bright and pure looking, she could hardly bear it. Because the old pain felt closer here and the taste of winter in her mouth was as solid as any food she had ever eaten. Because beneath it all she could smell the roots and the sleeping earth and the seeds waiting to grow. She had fought against hope. Fought against her longing. And yet, all the things she had fought against so strongly, surrounded in the great hall, began now to swiftly crest over her, in great, consuming waves. The patter of her pulse. The rasp on the wind. Every sound, every beat, a call of his name.

Just a little sample to prove that I am still working away on this! The plan is to have another 5k word count for chapter 2 with enough plot to balance out all my ramblings about trees and mountains. It's been taking a bit longer than I maybe first planned, but I do want it to hit just right, as this chapter will be when they finally meet face to face.

Anyway, thanks to all those still invested in this fic — stay tuned! x

[cupoftaae]

Forever And A Day (KTH x READER) series ♡ college spirit (chapter 7)

Summary: your lifelong friend is forced to face his true feelings for you once he breaks the number one rule of becoming friends with benefits: dont fall in love. He knows he loves you, but you on the other hand need more convincing of the most important thing: the right decision.

Genre: fwb. Roommates, friends to idiots to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, the whole 9 yards tbh.

Pairing: taehyung x female!reader

rating: 18+ (minors dni!!!)

word count- 5k

Chapter warnings- okay so this is probably the chapter with the most warnings, there is a lot of alchohol, lots of swearing, theres themes of relationship abuse, physical abuse, manipulation, blood mention, we see jungkook btw (bc its party time) Taehyungs heart is in the right place but he does something bad. Kaito is a dickhead say it with me. dont read if youre sensitive to domestic abuse themes, this one was rough yall. also apologies for spelling errors.

A/N- So this is the chapter I would label as story changing, everything kind of takes a giant move in an opposite direction from here on out, Its crazy but hope you enjoy!!

-

Growing up, you thought that life would just magically align the moment you hit your 20's, you would be married with 2 kids living somewhere that provided everything you needed, and anything you wanted. You can laugh at yourself now for thinking, or even considering, that your early 20's would be any different from your teen years.

Because, with that said, here you were laying in bed with Taehyung as he slept, while your boyfriend was out doing God knows what. Granted, he isnt the best boy to use as an example, but just a few hours ago you almost kissed your best friend. You are a lot of things, but despite the shitty situation, you are not a cheater.

You could have yelled at him, you could have made a big deal about what happened outside, but you didnt.

You told yourself that this was taehyungs night to shine, so you dropped it and did what you both always do, forget it even happened. He is stubborn though, and snuck into your bed right before you fell asleep.

Its not unusual for you both to sleep near one another, but you would think he would get the hint that things needed to simmer down for a few.....guess not.

"youre awake?"

you turned your head to the raspy voice beside you, rubbing your eyes as you hummed. "yeah"

He smiled and stretched, burying his face into the pillow before reluctantly sitting up against the headboard.

"You sleep okay?" you ask

"yeah" tae chuckled, "Sort of have a headache..."

"ah" you reached into your nightstand and grabbed some Tylenol, handing the pills over to him along with your not drunk water bottle from last night.

He smiled graciously and took the medicine, sipping the bottle before clearing his throat. "thanks" the boy yawned. "any plans today?" he looked at you

You pulled down the sheet and sat up as well, groaning at the stubborn sunlight peaking through your curtains. "Um...yeah. shit I forgot....some of my friends are throwing a party and I said I would show up. I dont know why I agreed"

"what?" tae whined "just dont go"

"nah they will be pissed at me, they already called me a prude for working and being home all day after school" you shrug

Tae sunk into the bed, upset that you would be out and about while he stayed in the apartment. "I'll just make an appearance, then make my exit, okay? it wont be like an all night thing, swear" you rambled.

"can I go at least?" he pleaded with big eyes

sighing, you look up at the ceiling. "eh, Im not sure thats....I dont know if its a good idea"

"why not?"

"because you dont know anyone over there except from Chae and Dahyun...who youve only met a few times, and-"

"whos throwing the party?"

"...I dont know? Some kid named Jungkook"

"see? you dont even know whos gonna be there so whats the difference if I go?" he insisted

"Because I definitely will recognize people, we all are on the same campus, you wont know a soul"

"Pleaseeee" he jokingly whined and held onto your arm.

"tae"

"Is kaito going?"

"yes"

"then I will too"

you scoff and pull back, "youre going just because he is?"

He looks at you, "no, I just- whatever im going" he stands up and flairs his arms around dramatically before going into the bathroom to wash up, not giving any room to further the conversation.

you fall back against the pillows and sigh. You never wanted to go, but you thought perhaps you had a chance at having fun, now that chance was at like....0.0002%. You loved tae, but certain people in your life dont, certain people who will be at that party, certain people who told you not to bring him.

-

"Yes mom, i-...yes yes, I already said that" you paced around the kitchen with your cellphone pressed to your ear, attempting to clean off the counters while conversing with your mother who was back in Gwangju.

"Well im just saying, your birthday is next month and I would come to Busan myself but my back is still giving issues, doctor said no travel. Would love to see you and kaito come visit me"

You looked around the kitchen as you listened to your mom speak, eyes catching on taehyung who was eating an english muffin in the living room, writing an email to his mom about how he won the art contest.

"I'll talk to him, we both have crazy schedules right now and the semester isnt over until the end of next month, so-"

"its okay if you cant, im just throwing it out there"

"no no, i'll find a way, ok? I only turn 23 once, and Im sure Kaito will love to meet you too."

Tae took a bite of his food and cocked his head to you, raising his eyebrows as you silently shrugged in response.

"Ok....mhm. I love you too mama, text me, okay? ...bye bye" you sigh and put your phone down.

"early birthday festivities?"

"yeah....Im gonna visit mom in a few weeks and she asked me to bring the..boy" you giggle, making him smile.

"she doesnt wanna see me?"

"I think she just wants to meet my current boyfriend, youll see her on easter" you pat his back and walk into your room.

-

"I think Jungkook is cute" Dahyun spoke up, biting into her donut as she scrolled through social media, showing his photos to Chae.

"eh he is oka- woah, yeah hes hot" she leaned closer into her friends phone as Kaito sighed and handed over their coffees. "thanks bean boy" chae chuckled and sipped her drink.

"If you guys are gonna harass me on my shift you can go" he adjusted his apron before wiping off the counter. "do you seriously plan on waiting until I get off of work? you cant drive yourself to the party?"

"what else do we have to do? and....its raining" dahyun drank her coffee, turning to Kaito. "plus you only have another 30 minuets, hurry up"

Chae laughed and walked over to sit in one of the booths as kaito took a new customers order.

"dahyun cmere"

The girl walked over and sat with her friend, looking down at her phone. "whats that?"

"Its Y/N and taehyung" she snickered, scrolling through the collected photos you took last night on your instagram.

Kaito peered over at his friends, curious upon hearing your name brought up. "Oh, yeah, they had this stupid art thing last night, guess he won or whatever" he dried his hands and handed the customer their drink.

"this doesnt look like a art thing" Dahyun smirked

"what?" he came from behind the counter, walking over to see a video of you, drunk, at some bar with taehyung, eating fries.

"she said she was going home after" he pouted and took the girls phone into his hands

"hey!" chae snatched her phone back

"she lied to me" he scoffs and looks again at the videos. "this was last night? youre sure?"

"it says 18 hours ago, yes"

He scratched his head and silently walked back to his position, not speaking a single word until his shift ended. The girls sharing humorous yet worried glances at eachother.

-

"He isnt picking you up"

"what?" you walk around the lobby of your apartment complex as you struggle to comprehend your friend on the other line.

"He said he cant pick you up, but he would see you at the party" Chae spoke louder.

"why cant he pick me up?, where-, what is he doing?"

"I dont know, but thats what he said, ask him" she responded shortly before getting distracted by someone else and hanging up on accident.

You sigh loudly and walk over to taehyung who was resting on the bench. "so hes not picking me up, big surprise"

"what?" he sat up and faced you

You two had gotten ready quickly around 6pm and waited in the lobby for your boyfriend, who you thought would be picking you up.

"I dont know" you shrug and pinch the bridge of your nose,

"hey its okay, i'll go back upstairs and get my keys...ill drive us" he patted your back as you looked at your feet.

"no its not that, I just....he's been acting so off and different. I sent him a cute message last night and he texted me back all lovey dovey this morning, now hes ignoring me, I cant take his fucking moodswings"

"im sorry" he mumbled, looking around at the busy lobby. "maybe...maybe I shouldnt go, like, do you think hes mad that we hung out last night?" he asked

"I dont know anymore, man" you look back at him, "I think we should just go, im not gonna hide from him...maybe I can get him to talk with me" you sigh and stand to your feet. "Im okay with you coming just really...keep your distance"

"from you?"

"from him"

he nods and stands, "okay, just wait here i'll get my keys"

-

The house party was loud, maybe too loud for an on campus event, especially considering it was only 7pm. You practically felt the music blaring inside of you as you timidly stepped into the crowded house. You were immediately met with the mixed aroma of sweat, alcohol, bath and body works perfume, and incense.

"eugh.." you turn to Taehyung and carefully grabbed his arm, leading him out of the busy room. "Just sit, im gonna go look for Kai an-"

"Y/N!"

you turn your head to be met with an already drunk Chae, bringing you into her sweaty arms.

"oh..hey, uh-"

"you need to come with me, we are doing Karaoke upstairs, and Im winning" she yelled, alcohol evident on her breath as it smacked your face.

"you can win Karaoke?" tae mumbled behind you

"yes, yes you can!!" she pointed at him and grabbed your arm, "lets go bitch"

"wait y/n, dont leave me" tae pouted and grasped your other arm.

"I promise ill be right back, okay?" you offered a slight apologetic smile before being whisked away by your friend upstairs, leaving the boy alone in a room full of unfamiliars.

As you made your way into some cleared out room, your eyes were drawn to the huge Karaoke machine set up. "woah..."

"Yeah woah cmon lets go sing a celine dion song"

"chae hold on, wheres Kaito?"

"who?"

you sighed and looked around before grabbing her shoulders, "my boyfriend, Kaito, I need to talk to him, like now. Tall, black hair, you know.....goes by kaito." you dramatically explained as you watched your best friends eyes widen

"Oh yeah.... he is mad at you" she snickered and was quickly distracted by other people, running away before you could question anything she had just said.

"what the fuck" you exhaled, pushing through everyone to try and find kai.

Meanwhile, Taehyung navigated the party downstairs as he awkwardly made his way to the kitchen. There was no order of cleanliness, there was no organization, and the looks of all the mixed red solo cups scattered throughout the entire room kind of disgusted him. He didnt trust any of it, he lifted up a bottle of what looked like tequila and sniffed it, nope, definitely not tequila.

He gave up on finding something to sip on, leaning against the kitchen island as he peered around the large space that seemed too loud for his liking.

Perhaps this was how you felt last night in the art museum.

" 'scuse me" a voice came up beside the boy, making him quickly turn his head and try to figure out who was talking to him, the dim lighting making it difficult.

"what?"

"youre standing in front of the vodka. excuse me" the man repeated, only then did Taehyung understand and scoot over to the side, allowing access to the alcohol. "sorry" he murmured.

"dont think Ive seen you around" the man joked, smiling as he poured and mixed two different bottles into his cup. "whats your name?"

Taehyung looked down to his feet and quickly decided if he should lie or be honest, figuring that these were all college kids, and well, he was not.

"uh, im taehyung. Kim taehyung" he decided, holding out his hand in a gesture of a handshake.

The man looked down and chuckled, ignoring the greeting and looking up at tae. "yeah? you seem unsure"

"yes, thats my name. sorry, i dont usually do parties and shit"

"i can tell man" he took a sip of his drink, audibly wincing before smiling. "Im Jungkook"

Tae raised his brow in acknowledgment

"wanna drink? you look tense" jungkook patted his shoulder and offered him a sip of his own cup, which taehyung reluctantly drank from.

"eugh, jesus christ, that tastes awful"

"I know, but it will get you fucked up" jungkook shrugged,

"hey jungkook wheres Jin at? he said he wou-" a voice came into the kitchen, stopping abruptly when he stood in front of Tae.

"hey" taehyung swallowed harshly

well. he found kaito.

Kaitos eyes drunkingly looked over his figure, a look of disgust and only disgust is what best could be described as his reaction to him being here.

"ah no way, you guys know eachother?" jungkook looked between the two of them happily,

"sort of..." taehyung chuckled, feeling sweat develop on his neck and back.

"wheres y/n?" he asked, looking at him intensly

"Uh, I genuinely dont know...she went away with chae and-"

"wait, y/n is here?" jungkook interrupted, stepping between them both.

"yeah" they both said at the same time before meeting eachothers eyes again.

"dude.....where is she? shes hot as hell" he whisper yelled, peaking into the next room excitedly.

Taehyung glared at the boy, waiting to see kaitos reaction.

"I know, shes my girlfriend"

"no shit dude!" jungkook slapped kaitos back, now ignoring tae completely. "lucky ass"

"nah man" they both stood a few feet away from tae in the doorway, speaking quietly. "she got the worst personality, stuck up as hell. walks and talks as if she doesnt know the only reason boys talk to her is for her tits" he slurs and bursts out laughing

"damn thats harsh man... even for you"

"whatever, i dont care. you can probably have her next...." he sipped his beer quickly

Taehyung felt the anger course through his chest, he wanted to run up and say something, but frankly, he was scared of Kaito, and you had mentioned something about him when he was drunk. If this was it, yeah, its scary.

He immediately stormed out of the room and pushed through the crowd to search for you, the music now blasting louder than before. He quickly walked up to someone familiar by the stairs

"Dahyun, is Y/N around? is she upstairs?"

"taehyung!" she hugged him, "uh...I think? Chae is probably working her. shes ok im sure" she giggled and dragged him over to a lighter area. "look at my manicure! give me an honest opinion. Jimin said it wasnt work $80 bucks and I should just do them myself now, but I think its cute and-"

she went on and on about something that had nothing to do with him for what seemed like forever. Whos jimin? who cares its just a manicure?

he thought to himself as he smiled and nodded.

"they look good, gotta go" he quickly spoke, politely tapping her shoulder before making a dash upstairs. He checked each door, opening up a bathroom to expose two randoms making out.

"oh! uh, im sorry" he covered his eyes and slammed the door shut, walking to the other hall and entering a loud and packed room. "hey chae..." he walked up to the girl, who was in the middle a very intense just dance session with some other poor girl who fell victim.

"heEyy!!" she slurred and danced over to him

He smiled and caught her as she tripped, helping her up. "whats upppp?"

He laughed and made sure she was able to stand on her own before speaking. "do you know where Y/N is?"

"did you see my dancing?" she randomly questioned

"yes, I saw your dancing chae, very nice, now have you seen y/n?"

she looked around curiously before speaking, "oh, yeah, she went to the bathroom!" she yelled into his face

"great, thanks" he gave a thumbs up as he went back into the hall. well he knew which bathroom you werent in.

He trailed down the hall and walked into a bedroom that seemed to be empty, he gently called out your name.

"I'll be out in a second" you shout back, making him exhale in relief. He shut the door to the bedroom and sat on the bed as he waited for you to exit the restroom.

"oh, tae, hi" you mumbled, walking out to him. "you okay?"

"y/n, we need to talk, like...now" he stood up as you made your way over, standing in front of him.

You saw the concern on his face as he spoke, clearing your throat. "wh-whats wrong? what happened?"

"I ran into Kaito and I think-

the door slowly creaked open, a certain someones head peaking in.

"Oh surprise surprise, youre in here with her" Kaito opened the door and walked over, stumbling over his feet.

You stepped closer to tae, feeling fear seep in as you took in your boyfriends very drunk state.

"get out" he looked at taehyung

"no im no-"

"just get the fuck out" he bit

"Taehyung please its okay just go" your voice choked, eyes tearing up as you led him to the door.

"dont let him do anything" he whispered, as you shut the door in his face, making him take a deep breath as he paced through the busy hall outside.

You slowly turned to the boy, waiting for him to speak.

"so, I know that...maybe this is not the best time or whatever to bring this up, but im ready to just..." he began, pausing after words as his thought process was slowed.

"ready to what?" you fidgeted with your bracelets, keeping by the door in case he tried to touch you again.

"move on with my life" he laughed and looked at you.

"wh..what?"

"y/n lets be honest, you dont give two fucking shits about me anymore, so why are we doing this. you dont care, you never have"

you scoffed, "Kaito you are drunk...stop this please, you have no idea what youre saying! How dare you say I dont care about you when all ive done is worry about where you have been and why you are upset!"

"oh please" he stood up and walked around. "you wouldnt care if I died tomorrow, you would find the next boy toy to move on to."

"stop" you mumble, "im not like that, you are being an awful person to me right now"

he walked over and laughed, "why? because im calling you out? calling you out for being a whore?"

you bit the inside of your cheek to avoid breaking out in tears right then and there. you couldnt even speak, you were too afraid and frankly confused on what even caused this sudden outburst.

"you are the one crying? really? I should be upset, I am upset."

he shook his head as he looked at you, " I dont think theres anything left for us right now, so just leave it at that, yeah?" he mumbled into your face as you shoved you aside, allowing him to open the door.

You were shocked, you planned on coming to fix whatever was going on between you both, all of the stressing, just to for him to get drunk and break up with you in some random bedroom. no.

You carefully grasped his arm before he left, "kai, please dont do this" you whispered, his arm forcefully pulling away from you. "dont"

Kaito stormed through the people out in the hall, making his way down the stairs as your eyes met taehyungs. You avoided stopping to talk with him as you decided to run after Kaito.

You were embarrassed. You tried to convince tae that you were in a happy and loving relationship, the little lie was now unraveling as the night ensued right in front of him and your friends.

"wait, please" you called out, following your boyfriend into the living room where the music blared. you tried your best to weave through as best you could, finally catching up to the boy and attempting to reason with him once more.

"baby please can we just talk?" you ask loudly, facing his back as he stood in the crowd.

"No, dont call me that" he mumbled.

"Y/N!!! whats up!" Jungkook ran out of the kitchen to your side, smiling and hugging you. "nice to formally meet you, are you enjoyin- why are you crying?" he pulled away and took in your appearance

"Im sorry Im just dealing with something" you calmly tried to explain, kaito turning around to the both of you. "dont listen to a word this slut says" he bit, making you swallow harshly.

Jungkook looked taken back, his eyes meeting yours sympathetically. "hey, cmon man, dont....dont say that. youre having another beer?" he asked, genuinely concerned for his friends behavior.

Taehyung pushed through and made his way to the living room, eyes wandering for you. He assumed it was best to just leave now, unaware of what had gone down just a few moments prior. He found you standing next to Kaito and Jungkook, watching from afar as he contemplated going over and taking you away.

"dont touch me" kaito shivered away from your touch, making you sigh. "lets go home to my apartment, we need to talk and get you sober, youve drunk too much" you spoke, looking at jungkook for support.

"yeah cmon, listen to her. its probably whats best." he nodded

Kaito looked down with anger at his feet as you stared at him for a moment, you were hesitant to speak any further, but the boy needed help and never listened. He needed to get sober and then probably never drink again. this....wasnt kaito.

"lets just go please? I'll take care of you sweetheart its okay, I-" your hand gently reached out to hold onto his jaw, carefully caressing it as you tried to get him to pick his head up.

You werent sure what exactly had happened, all you knew is that one second you were reasoning with him, the next, the side of your face was burning in pain.

Kaito had pulled back and struck you to the ground.

before you knew it there was a crowd of people surrounding the incident, Jungkook pulling Kaito away as he spit words out at you, none of which you could hear. The music had faded out of your hearing, and the lights were hazed. Your face burned with shame as you struggled to stand up, eyes watching you with concern and shock.

You felt hands immediately pick you up to your feet, turning to see it was Taehyung. You tried to explain but you didnt even comprehend what was coming out of your mouth.

he looked pale, in more pain than you were. His eyes glanced over you and back at kaito as he felt rage fill throughout him, carefully setting you aside as he approached the other boy and suddenly punched him across the face, the room gasping immediately.

"hey- fuck! stop guys!!!" Jungkook tried to seperate them, but there was no use. Taehyung had kaito by his collar, fist repeatedly punching into his face as he fell to the floor, blood on his skin and clothing.

You stood back, unable to fully understand what the fuck was happening. Once it kicked into your mind, your feet were racing over to him, yanking on the back of his shirt. "stop!!! Taehyung stop!!!!" you screamed, other guests joining in to help stop it as well. Your friends stood in the corner, shocked at what they had just witnessed.

"are you okay, miss?" some random man came up, asking you as you realized how many people had been around, asking you questions, none you even heard or noticed.

Someone finally pulled Taehyung away from kaito, who had passed out against the cold tile, nose and mouth bleeding as you watched in horror.

"What the fuck is WRONG WITH YOU?" you screamed at Taehyung, grabbing onto his shirt and shaking him, tears spilling as he looked down at you.

He didnt respond, he let you flip out as people tried to fix up the unconscious boy on the floor.

"you guys gotta go, fuck, the police were called" Jin ran out and spoke loudly, cueing the group of people to run out the door.

"we need to go" Taehyung spoke flatly, gently grasping your arms as he directed you out the door.

He led you to the car and put you into the back seat before getting into the drivers side. He didnt drive right away, instead he looked down at his bruised fist.

"why...why didnt you say anything to me"

You had curled up into the fetal position, tears falling down your cheeks as you tried to look out the window.

"all this time....all this time he was doing this and you never-" he stopped, leaning his head against the headrest and closing his eyes.

"im sorry" you choke out.

He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself so he could speak, let alone drive.

"we will have to talk, about all of this"

"what if you get in trouble?" you whisper

"I didnt do anything wrong, he fucking hit you. He hit a woman, they all saw it" he spoke louder, voice shaky.

you sniffled, the pain in your face and head suddenly becoming really obvious, making you wince.

"are you okay? shit, lets uh, lets get you to a hospital or something" he started his car

"no...I just need Ice"

"what if you have a concussion?"

you groan, "I dont, taehyung, he hit my cheekbone and jaw" you trace your hand over your face, hissing at the sharp sting.

"Im still gonna take you to a walk in clinic, im not risking it. we will go home and sleep right after, I dont want to hear you argue about anything tonight. Tomorrow morning we need to sit and talk." he sternly spoke, making his way down the street.

You didnt have the energy to fight, you were mad, but you didnt have the energy.

You were upset with Taehyung for making the situation worse, but you were even more mad with Kaito. you felt betrayed, he humiliated you in front of everyone you know. He put his hands on you, after saying he would never do it again, over what? nothing.

-

"there is no signs of concussion, but there will be signifigant bruising and damaged nerves." the doctor read over her chart as you sat in a hospital bed, taehyung by your side. it was late, you missed your bed, you missed Yeontan. You didnt think you would be here, especially for this reason.

"thats..good, better than having something serious" he exhaled

"do you wish to file a report against the person who did this to you?"

Tae opened up his mouth to speak, but you cut in

"no, its already being taken care of, thank you though"

She nodded sadly and walked off, giving you too permission to go home.

you felt over your cheek, now covered with bandages.

"Im so sorry" he whispered, looking at you.

"tae.."

"no, im sorry. im so fucking sorry. I know I shouldnt have done that, but I.....I saw him hit you. I saw him hit you, y/n."

"i know" you mumbled, looking down.

"when I saw it happening, I just couldnt control myself. It was wrong of me, I take blame, but jesus y/n...."

"I know..." you repeated, voice cracking slightly. "tae please I just wanna go home, okay? I dont wanna relive it right now"

He nodded softly, standing to get to your side. "yeah, lets go home." he held your ice pack for you, leading you back to the car.

The sounds of the city surrounding you infiltrated your ears. You really couldve been anywhere in the world tonight, but here you were, in this position.

You knew you shouldnt have gone to the party, you regret it with your whole being, because not only did you suffer, but you dragged Taehyung into it too.

You had yourself to blame. you wanted to cry and scream but all you could do is lay in bed that night once you got home as taehyung gently rubbed your back, reassuring you that it would be okay.

Yeah, about that thing you said earlier, about assuming your twenties would be fantastic and amazing......11 year old you needed a reality check.

taglist:

@turnthepageandbeburnt @taebangtanbabe @borahaexoxo @lelefoodlover @tan-veee

[sincerely-sofie]

still cant get over travailshipping. i remember when you first tested the waters with it (which i believe was some time before the tpiag chapters started coming out?) and at first i thought it was pretty funny. ark slowly but surely falling headfirst for twig, who if she had a tagline it would be "if i could turn my feelings into weapons, mine would be a goddamn nuclear bomb", and her at first just being oblivious to it and thinking that the letters that expressed love and care that were written in cursive in her mailbox were just funny and she wanted to show them to ark with the guy just looking at her with the most "well that backfired in the weirdest way possible". but when tpiag finally ended i finally connected the dots as to why these two are just. augh. i wont go into detail here in your askbox but i wanna know is: HOW DID YOU DO IT. HOW DO YOU KEEP MAKING SUCH GOOD IDEAS FOR THE FUNNY DIGITAL ANIMALS. TELL ME.

(thinking to myself) "Ugh I should stop posting so much travailshipping stuff... It's probably so annoying to everyone who sees it. I feel bad for my poor followers. I'll check my inbox real quick and then commit to shaking up my content by—" *gets obliterated by your niceness*

Oh man. I remember posting that poll where I hesitantly described a possible Darkrai/Twig pairing in the tags while proposing Twig/Kip as an alternative route, despite it not being the direction I wanted to take the characters, because I was so scared of what people’s reactions might be. If I remember right, I posted it a little bit before I had just barely reached 5k words in the first draft of TPiaG.

I've been trying to write up detailed responses to how I come up with good ideas for travailshipping in particular, but there's one rule I use that defines everything after it and speaks for all of them: I have fun with the characters.

That's it. That's the rule. If I don't want to write a subject, I don't. I stick with what I find enjoyable and resonant. Does a joke make me laugh? Does a scene make me cry? Does a villain make me punch a hole in my wall? Does a cute gesture make me squeal? If so, then into the project it goes. I think people can feel when someone is having fun with their work, and that fun radiates out into their own experience consuming that work. It's like laughter— joy is something we're sharing with others as long as we feel it. Fun is contagious.

Also: when you don't force yourself to make things you hate, you attract people who like the same things as you. These people will find your work even more fun— because not only did you have fun making it, they're having double fun consuming it.

An important tangent I'll go off on is that I think that every creative project idea is a good idea. There's so many beloved bizarro ideas in the world, even the ones who try to be cool about how weird their premises are. There's this weird show where the main character works as a service industry worker in an underwater setting that's ruled by a Roman deity— he lives in a piece of fruit, and his pet gastropod makes cat noises. This show sounds like word salad garbage on paper and could be tossed out for its nonsensical nature, and yet SpongeBob SquarePants has made Nickelodeon over $13 billion dollars and is a treasured part of many childhoods. There's also a character who spends his time locked in intellectual and physical combat with a wannabe clown and wears a costume with bat ears while doing it. Batman's been an icon for over 80 years.

All of this is to say:

Ideas are always good ideas by virtue of existing. They don't derive their goodness from external sources. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Make more of what you love. Don't make things you hate making.

If you have fun while making the thing, people will have fun while they consume the thing's content.

I hope this makes sense. I didn't touch on idea generation as much as embracing existing ideas. Fingers crossed that was the right response. I'd just woken up from a nap as I was writing it, so hopefully it's not too meandering and managed to answer the question and—

— Oh shoot. Was that a hypothetical question??? Uh. Sorry if I went off on this rant when you were just trying to voice your niceness. Oops. 🫥