#whose turn is it with the brain cell this week?

[harborpointeblvd]

Had this saved in my drafts in case I needed it this week and I do.

[mari-positas]

fall into temptation | three

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56). several mentions of religion and religious symbols, reader has a father and two sisters, all who come with names, reader gets put into a a very uncomfortable situation, insecurity, anxiety, Seth is an asshole, protective Joel, he threatens to break someone’s jaw which is a warning in and of itself. SMUT. loss of virginity, reader is inexperienced but not totally clueless, oral (both m and f receiving), risky unprotected p in v sex (please wrap it up), lots of praise and pet names (baby, babygirl, honey, you know, the works), Joel gets a teensy bit rough, creampie, hint of aftercare, ends with a cliffhanger, but also not really if you think about it?

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 10k

a/n: it was not my intention to post this on jesus day, but here we are. this took forever and a day considering the second part was posted back in september, but i am so so proud of myself for finally completing a wip i could cry. i did a bulk of the editing while i’ve been sick and in all honesty i probably should have asked someone to beta for me because i think i coughed out like 90% of my brain cells this week, but i think it turned out okay. ish.

Somehow, even over the volume of the live music, you could still hear their hushed, astonished whispers.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Is that Joel Miller with Pastor John’s daughter?”

“What’s she doing holding his hand?”

“He’s got to be at least twice her fucking age—”

Throat bobbing anxiously, you glanced up at Joel.

His shoulders were squared back, his head held high. 

Solid. Steady.

Joel couldn’t seem to care less about the bewildered stares, the judgment that was being flung his way. Not once did he seem to waver. But you?

Oh, you were already starting to crumble underneath it all, on the verge of falling apart right before everyone’s prying eyes. Shame sat heavily inside of your chest, the weight of the feeling suffocating you, making it harder and harder to breathe as it prevented air from reaching your lungs.

It had nothing to do with Joel. Of course it didn’t. It had all to do with you and with who you were. Their beloved preacher’s sweet, innocent young daughter. 

His youngest daughter. 

Suddenly, the whispers were no longer whispers.

“Oh God, she’s not going home with him, is she?”

“That’s not right! Someone should say something!”

“Pastor John would never allow something like this.”

“Poor thing’s naive—she doesn’t know any better.”

Hot, stubborn tears of frustration glazed over your eyes and threatened to spill. It was as if you were a child who didn’t know any better, a gullible, clueless little girl with nothing in her brain who needed to be rescued—saved from the bad, bad man before he did bad, bad things to her.

Had it been anyone else, no one would have batted an eye. No one would have noticed, let alone cared. But it was you that Joel Miller was leaving the bar with in the middle of the night and it was you whose hand he had clasped in his own. That is what made it wrong. That is why it was a problem.

Everyone’s concerns had nothing to do with him at all, they had everything to do with you. You, you, you. You were the sole reason why it was a problem, the reason why he was being perceived as the Devil himself, horns out as he dragged the poor little unsuspecting angel down to the fires of Hell.

“Joel?” Overwhelmed, you instinctively reached for his arm with your free hand. Cold and trembling, your little fingers curled tightly around his bicep, digging into the firm, bulging muscle through the thick corduroy fabric of his sleeve. You whispered his name again. “Joel—”

“S’alright, babygirl,” he reassured you quietly over his shoulder. He gave your hand a comforting squeeze. “S’alright. Just keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You just keep on lookin’ right at me, okay?”

Nodding, you inhaled deeply and focused on him. Only him. The broadness of his back and his shoulders. Tufts of hair that curled over the collar of his shirt. Only him. He’s what mattered. He’s all that mattered.

“Almost there,” Joel murmured, squeezing your hand again as the door came into view. “Breathe, baby. We’re almost there. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen to you. Promise I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t until his fingers wrapped around the old, brass handle that you finally exhaled the breath you had been holding out in utter relief, though it was very, very short lived. Just as Joel pulled the door open, you felt a hand wrap around your arm. Dry, slender fingers dug into the soft flesh above your elbow as an attempt, and a feeble one at that, was made to tear you out of Joel’s grasp.

The music stopped and the bar fell silent. Everything and everyone came to a sudden standstill, freezing mid dance, mid drink, mid bite, mid gossip.

Shocked, you glanced over your shoulder. “Seth?” you squeaked his name. “What—what are you doing?”

Seth didn’t acknowledge you. His focus was on Joel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miller?”

Joel’s anger couldn’t be seen, but it could be felt. So palpable you could have wrapped your fingers around it. It radiated off of him and loomed over the entire bar like an incoming storm cloud. Threatening. Dangerous.

“Where are you taking her?” Seth demanded, his other hand curling around your wrist as he tried, but failed, to snatch you from Joel’s side once more. “Let the girl go! You let her go right now, you hear?”

Caught in between the two men, you nervously turned to look at Joel. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, seething eyes that did the talking for him. His message was loud and oh so abundantly clear.

If Seth didn't take his hands off you, he wasn’t going to have any hands.

Not after Joel Miller was through with him.

Blazing heat flooded your face. As if it couldn’t possibly get any worse, everyone had now gathered around you to watch the tense encounter, eyes wide, brows raised and jaws practically on the weathered, hardwood floor.

Tommy Miller stood among the crowd, subtly shaking his head, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line of disapproval as he glowered at his older brother. Would he be looking at Joel like that had it been Esther in your place? If she was the one he was taking home? Would any of this be happening if it was her instead of you?

“Seth.” Uttering his name, you shifted your attention back to him. You sounded calm and collected, despite feeling anything but. Joel’s hand in yours was the only thing keeping you steady and grounded. His touch was the only reason you hadn’t yet spiraled into a state of panic. Clearing your throat lightly, you spoke again and tried your hardest not to waver. “Please let go of me.”

Still fixed on Joel, he spat, “I’ll be damned if I let him take you anywhere.”

“He’s not taking me anywhere, Seth.” Without thinking, the words came tumbling out of your mouth—loud and clear for everyone in that room to hear. “He isn’t forcing me to go with him. I’m making the choice to leave with him. Out of my own volition. Please let go of me.”

Finally, Seth looked at you. His old, worn features were twisted in disbelief. “What?”

You swallowed dryly. Part of you wanted you to shrink away, curl into yourself. Instead, you straightened your posture, forced yourself to stand a little bit taller. Willed yourself to have a backbone for once in your life.

“You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. Several onlookers gasped in surprise at your rebellion. Where had this insolence come from? “I’m choosing to leave with Joel. Now, please let go of my arm.”

Behind you, Joel stood silent and still. 

Watching. Observing. Waiting.

He wanted nothing more than to intervene. Rip you out of Seth’s hands and shatter each and every last bone in all ten of his fingers for putting them on you. Had Joel not realized that this was probably the first time in your whole, entire life you’d mustered up the courage to use your voice, he would have easily given into the urge. He wanted to protect you. He needed so badly to protect you. Yet, he knew you weren’t helpless or incapable of standing on your own two feet. He knew you deserved the chance to stand up and speak for yourself after a lifetime of being silenced, a lifetime of being forced to stay in your place, seen but never heard.

“Seth, let go of my arm,” you repeated. It was no longer a polite request. It was a demand.

He scoffed. “Do you honestly think I’m going to let you leave with somebody like him? You think I’m just going to stand back and let him take advantage of you?”

Oh, you hadn’t liked that insinuation, not one bit. 

It caused something inside of you to finally give way.

Snap.

The blood in your veins boiled, ran hot enough to make you feel like you were about to burn from the inside out. “Joel isn’t taking advantage of me! It isn’t like that,” you seethed, furiously. The quiet, well mannered, obedient good girl everyone in Jackson knew was gone. And she could stay gone. In your periphery, you could see Leah elbowing her way through the sea of people to the front of the crowd with an incredulous look plastered on her face. She stood there beside Tommy, who appeared to be just as incredibly bewildered by your outburst. “Don’t treat me like I’m some child who doesn’t know any better! I’m an adult and I’m old enough to make my own choices, okay?”

For a moment, you had forgotten it was Seth standing there in front of you.

“I’m capable of making my own decisions! I don’t need you to dictate my life. I don’t need you to tell me what is and isn’t good for me—controlling what I should and shouldn’t believe in.” Your voice trembled as emotions you’d been suppressing for years bubbled their way up to the surface. Amidst the chaos, you could feel Joel squeeze your hand again, as if silently encouraging you not to lose your nerve. He was your anchor, the only person who could keep your world from capsizing. You knew he wouldn’t let you drown. Not even God, who you had always been forced to believe was your pillar of strength, had ever made you feel this protected. Safe. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live and much less when it’s the end of the world.”

It wasn’t Seth you were addressing.

It was your father.

Your father, who controlled every last thing, from what you would eat to the way that you dressed and how you wore your hair.

Your father, who refused to let you have a mind of your own, who simply could not bear the mere thought of you thinking for yourself.

Your father, whose love felt like shackles, heavy, rusted metal restraints that had been digging into the flesh of your wrists for far, far too long.

“You need to let me go now,” you said, swallowing back the lump in your throat. Once more, you caught Leah from the corner of your eye, your heart lurching in your chest when you noticed her desperately trying to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was the only person in the room who understood how you felt. Her rebelliousness only ever masked the pain of knowing her father’s love came with terms and conditions—and the fear of knowing what would happen if those terms and conditions weren’t met. For several weeks, you’d gotten a taste of what she went through everyday, how her fear of putting her foot down led her to run around in secret and live a double life. “Just let me go.”

Seth firmly shook his head. “No! I’m not letting you go anywhere with him. I don’t know what the hell he did to you, but he’s clearly got you all fucking brainwashed.”

That was fucking enough. Joel stepped in, lowering his voice as he said, “Y’know, I’ve just ‘bout lost count of how many fuckin’ times she’s asked you to let her go now and it’s really startin’ to piss me off.” Raising an eyebrow, he laid his offer out on the table. “Here’s the deal. You let go of her right now and I won’t shatter your fuckin’ jaw into pieces. That seem fair enough to you?”

“No.” Seth gripped your arm even harder, prompting you to let out a little yelp as his nails dug painfully into your skin. Though it’d been accidental and he hadn’t meant to hurt you, it didn’t matter. He’d just set off the ticking time bomb that was Joel Miller.

Furious, Joel snatched a fistful of his shirt with his free hand—the other still held yours. Gentle, despite being mere moments away from beating someone to within an inch of their life.

“Joel! Stop!” Tommy’s voice broke through the tension as he approached. His footsteps were slow—careful and cautious, as if he was afraid to make any kind of sudden movement. “Joel. Hey. C’mon now, let’s not do this, alright? Ain’t gotta handle things this way. We can talk it through. No need for anyone to wind up bleedin’ in the fuckin’ infirmary tonight, so just take a breath and let him go.”

Blatantly ignoring Tommy’s attempt to keep the peace, Joel tugged Seth forward, yanking him closer. “Listen to me and listen to me good ‘cause I ain’t gonna fuckin’ say it again. You’d best take your fuckin’ hands off her right now unless you wanna spend the rest of the night sweepin’ up your teeth off the floor of your own fuckin’ bar,” he threatened, his tone enough to send a chill up anyone’s spine, even your own.

“You wouldn’t dare, Miller.” Somehow, Seth managed to keep a straight face, but you could see it so clearly in his eyes and in the tremble of his lower lip—oh, he was terrified of Joel and rightly so. “Not in front of all these people. Not in front of your brother. That wouldn’t be a smart move considering you’re already on thin fucking ice for what you did to that boy’s face, now would it?”

Joel tugged him closer. “Test me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Go on. Fuckin’ test me.”

His challenge was immediately met with a pathetic look of defeat. Seth dropped your arm and he was released.

“S’what I fuckin’ thought.” Without another word to the man, Joel whirled around and roughly pulled the door open, leading the way outside. As you both descended the building’s old, creaking wooden steps, you began to shiver and he suddenly remembered he’d left his jacket behind inside the bar. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “C’mere, my little dove,” he murmured as he tucked you against his side for warmth. “I’ve got you.”

The first thing he did was light the fireplace.

“Should start warmin’ you up, sweet girl,” he’d said to you over his shoulder. He tossed a log into the blaze as you sat perched on his couch rubbing your bare arms with your hands. “M’gonna go upstairs and find you a blanket, alright? You stay put.”

“Okay,” you’d mumbled, knowing there was no point in telling him not to fuss over you.

Even with the soft, fleece throw blanket he had draped around your shoulders and the warmth of the flames in front of you, you continued trembling. Subtle, but he’d noticed it, felt it when he had sat down beside you and pulled you close against his side. “Oh baby, you’re still shakin’?” That was when he realized you weren’t cold. Frowning, Joel rose to his feet and disappeared down the hallway. He came back to the living room a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. With a small, labored grunt, he dropped to one knee in front of you and held it out. “Here.”

“No, thank you.” You shook your head. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Maybe not, but I’m kinda worried you could be in a bit of shock right now,” he stated, the creases in between his brows deepening as he observed you for any other physical signs of distress. Carefully, Joel lifted the glass to your lips, gently coaxing you to take a drink. “C’mon, darlin’. Think you can be a real good girl for me and at least take a couple sips? Hm?”

Sighing softly, you nodded and did as he asked of you, taking a small sip of water. It soothed your dry mouth and throat and you took another one. Maybe you were thirsty after all.

“Little more, now. Little more. That’s it. That’s my good girl.” Once he was satisfied with how much you’d had to drink, Joel set the half empty glass down on the oak coffee table behind him. He turned back to you, placing his large hands on either side of your thighs below the hem of your dress. He started tracing soft, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. “M’real proud of you for standin’ up for yourself back there, sweetheart. Took a whole lot of fuckin’ courage to do that, y’know.”

You glanced down at your hands in your lap. “Mhm.”

“Baby. Hey. Look at me.” One of his hands abandoned your leg and he reached up, delicately taking your chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilted your face upwards, his worried gaze meeting your own. “Talk to me. M’right here.”

“That—that was a lot,” you admitted meekly, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline started wearing off and your body slowly came down from the peak hormone rush. “It was a lot.”

Sighing, Joel’s hand fell away from your face. “Yeah, I know it was a lot, babygirl. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. “Don’t be sorry.”

His chest heaved with another sigh, this one deeper, heavier, bearing the weight of his guilt. “Well I am,” he said. He planted his hands on either side of you on the couch and lightly shook his head. “Didn’t even fuckin’ think twice when I pulled you outta that fuckin’ supply closet and took your hand in front of all those people. I was so fuckin’ hellbent on showin’ everybody you were mine that I didn’t even stop and think ‘bout what all it would mean for you. It was selfish of me. Real fuckin’ selfish. And I’m sorry, little dove.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quietly.

Joel chuckled in spite of himself. “M’pretty sure I’m the one who should be askin’ you that question, darlin’,” he remarked. “Tell me. Do you regret it? Do you regret me pullin’ you outta that closet?” He momentarily paused. There was a stutter in his heartbeat when you dropped your gaze away from his, silence your only reply. “Do you regret me takin’ your hand in front of everyone?”

Of course not.

You wanted to be his and you wanted everyone to know it. There was no regret, none. 

Still. 

The consequences that you would undoubtedly have to face in the morning were overwhelming. Daunting.

Surely, by then, your father would know about you and Joel. When he came downstairs right after sunrise and he discovered you weren’t in the kitchen helping Lydia prepare breakfast, he would question where you were and make some kind of remark about how you should not be sleeping in this late. He would tell her just how irresponsible it was for you to ignore your duties and obligations to him and the family. Sloth was one of the seven deadly sins, after all. He would make her trek upstairs and wake you, and when she did, your sister would find your bed empty.

Meanwhile, there would be a knock at the front door.

No stranger to having members of the congregation show up on his doorstep when they were in need, be it of prayer or comfort, your father would answer it only to find someone, not in need of solace, but who felt that it was their responsibility and moral obligation to inform him that they had seen his youngest daughter leaving The Tipsy Bison with Joel Miller in the middle of the night, hand in hand.

He wouldn’t believe them.

“Now, that is simply not true,” he would say, offended that anybody would have the nerve to show up at his door and accuse you of something so vile. “That’s not possible. I know my daughter and she would never do such a thing. It must have been someone else that you saw with him. Someone who looked like her, perhaps.”

Then, Lydia would descend the staircase and tell him you weren’t in your bedroom. “She must have gone up to the main street as soon as she woke up,” she would suggest with a shrug, not yet privy to the events that had taken place the night before at the party you and Leah had snuck off to. She never had to worry about you, the good one. “I did notice we were running pretty low on eggs. Sugar, too. She probably wanted to be the first in line at the pantry to—Papa? What’s the matter?”

The color would drain from your father’s face when the realization slowly sank in. No, you weren’t out on the main street picking up eggs for breakfast and sugar for his tea. You were lying up in Joel Miller’s bed—defiled, impure, and with the curse of Eve on your flesh. Even after dedicating his entire life to making sure you did not stray from the path of righteousness, he had failed. You had fallen into temptation. 

There was a chance he would have mercy on you. All you had to do was beg and plead for his forgiveness—and more importantly, for the forgiveness of God. “Vow to atone for your sins,” your father would say, his gaze fixed on the Holy Bible in his lap. He probably wouldn’t be able to look at you, not after what you had done. “Repent. And swear to me, child, that you will never so much as glance in that man’s direction ever again.”

No. That’s not what you wanted.

You wanted Joel and the freedom to be with him. 

But that freedom came with a high, high price.

You were willing to pay it, but you’d be lying if you said you were prepared to navigate the consequences. Then again, was there really any way for someone to prepare themselves to be shunned by their own father?

“I can take you home,” Joel offered quietly, the sound of his voice taking you out of the future and bringing you back into the present.

“What?”

“I can take you home,” he repeated himself. “I can take you home right now if that’s what you want, sweet girl. Won’t give you any kinda grief ‘bout it.”

Confused, all you could do was stare at him.

“Listen to me, baby. You mean a lot to me. More than I can even begin to explain,” Joel reassured you before any kind of doubt could find its way into your mind. “I want you to stay with me. There’s nothin’ on what’s left of this fuckin’ earth I want more than for you to stay here with me. But what you want matters to me a hell of a lot more than what I want.” He reached up, lightly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “If you decide you wanna go home and go back to your family—back to your old man—then that’s where I’ll take you. Okay?”

Your father would give you an ultimatum. But Joel? He was giving you a choice. And he’d respect that choice.

“I wanna free you from your cage, my little dove. But I think we both know you’ve gotta make the choice to fly outta there on your own.” He lightly swept his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, his eyes meeting yours as he whispered, “Door’s wide open for you. What you do next is all up to you.”

“I’m afraid, Joel,” you confessed. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and rolled its way down the side of your face. He was quick to wipe it away, along with the others that followed. “I do want out of my cage. I really, really do. But I’m terrified. All I have ever known is my family and my faith. I have never been apart from my father and my sisters.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re scared. Can’t promise you things will be easy, but there is one thing I can promise you.”

“What’s that?” you questioned, then waited with baited breath.

He gingerly cupped your cheek in his large palm. “I’ve got you,” he swore to you, just like he had done so back at the bar. “If you decide to stay, I promise I’ll take real, real good care of you, alright? For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. You won’t ever have to worry ‘bout a thing with me by your side. Swear it on my life.”

Warmth blossomed in your heartspace and finally, you stopped trembling. Lifting a hand, you curled your fingers around his wrist as your gaze fell to his mouth. “Joel?”

“What is it, darlin’ girl?”

“Kiss me. Please.”

With a gentle nod, Joel’s other hand found your hip, the warmth of it seeping through the cotton fabric of your dress. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against yours. It was a chaste thing, soft and innocent until you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer to you. “Babygirl,” he mumbled against your lips. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue through your parted lips and into your mouth. He tasted like bold bourbon and citrus beer. There was a faint hint of tobacco too—you recalled him admitting to you one night in the church house that while he wasn’t all that much of a smoker, at least not like he used to be when living in the zones, he would occasionally partake in the habit if he happened to come across a pack of cigarettes while out on patrol, pairing the nicotine with a drink. He tasted delicious. He tasted delicious because he tasted like yours.

You sank back into the worn, supple brown leather of his couch, tugging him forward so he sank in with you. Over you. Releasing your near death grip on his collar, you managed to wedge your hands in between your bodies and began to claw furiously at the buttons of his shirt, your fingers shaking out of pure desperation to feel him. It wasn’t until you were halfway down that he finally noticed what you were doing and leaned back, catching both of your wrists.

“Baby, wait,” he panted, shaking his head. “Don’t think now’s a good time for that—”

“Joel, please,” you pleaded, the intense ache between your thighs almost too much for you to bear. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“S’been a rough night for you.” Joel’s voice was hoarse—strained, like he was aching just as much, if not more. “You’re real emotional right now. Vulnerable. Last thing I want is to take advantage of you at a time like this.”

You frowned. Had Seth’s words gotten into his head?

“You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“Darlin’ I just don’t think we should—”

“Joel, please,” you begged him again. “I was so good for you, was I not? Wasn’t I patient, just like you asked me to be?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. He wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. You, his beautiful little temptress of Eden.

“I waited for so long,” you reminded him. “I’ve been so, so good for you. Please, just make me yours already. I don’t want to think about anything else right now. I just want to be with you. Please, Joel. I need you so badly it hurts.”

Christ.

No man could stand it. No man could possibly have the strength to deny you.

With a look of utter defeat, he folded. Before he could say another word or make another move, your greedy mouth was on his, and you kissed him with fervor, with urgency, as you finished the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Pushing it off of his shoulders, the corduroy fabric fell into a crumpled heap behind him, nearly knocking the glass of water off the coffee table. You broke away from him and shamelessly marveled at his mouth watering form—you admired the way miles of smooth, tanned skin stretched over his wide shoulders, broad chest and soft, soft belly. Arousal pooled between your legs and you reached out and raked your fingers down his chest, and over his stomach, going lower and lower, following the trail of coarse, dark hair that led you to his brown leather belt. You clumsily started fumbling with the brass buckle until he caught your hands once more.

“Slow down, my little dove,” he murmured. “No need to rush this. We’ve got all night.” He stood up and held his hand out to you. Time blurred a bit—maybe it was your nervousness mingled with the eager anticipation of what was to come, but there seemed to be a small gap in your memory, a blank space that spanned from the moment you rose off the couch until the moment you found yourself standing in his bedroom where you were about to answer to the call of the flesh.

Dropping your hand, Joel switched on the lamp on his bedside table and kicked off his boots before taking you into his arms. “C’mere, honey.” He nuzzled your cheek with the tip of his nose as he spoke, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheek. “Couple’a rules, sweet girl. I do somethin’ that you don’t like, you tell me. You want me to stop, you tell me to sto—”

Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you slowly lowered yourself down onto the floor and knelt at his feet with purpose, as if kneeling before an altar, a sacred, holy space. Though you felt anxious, you were eager to worship. “I haven’t forgotten about what I said earlier tonight,” you cooed, noticing the mild look of surprise on his face. “I said I’d make it up to you and I intend on keeping my word.”

All the blood in his body rushed south to his cock and it strained painfully against the crotch of his jeans. “Baby, I—” Again, he was cut off, only this time by the sound of his own groan when your hand brushed up the front of his thigh and over his growing bulge. He glanced down, his heart thrumming painfully hard against his sternum as he watched you reach for his belt buckle.

With all your might, you willed your hands so as not to tremble. It was self-explanatory, what you were about to do, but your total lack of experience sowed seeds of doubt into your mind—you wanted to make him feel good, just like he had made you feel good outside of the church house during services. Just how you knew he would make you feel tonight.

Hand still over his buckle, you pressed the tenderest of kisses to his bulge through his jeans. Then, turning your head, you rested your cheek on one of his thick, blue denim clad thighs and peered up at him through your eyelashes with a small, nervous smile as you confessed what he already knew. “I’ve never done this before.”

Oh, how sweet and endearing you were. Joel reached down and smoothed your hair back and away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “S’alright, honey,” he crooned, grazing the silkiness of your cheek with his index finger. “I’ll walk you through it. Teach you how to be a real good girl and suck my cock just the way I like it. That what you want, my little dove?”

His filth made your cunt clench hard around nothing.

Slowly lifting your head off of his thigh, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and managed a clear, consenting nod as your hands fumbled with his buckle, the clinking sound of metal ringing loudly in your ears. You undid the button on his jeans and pulled down his zipper, your throat drying when you saw the outline of him, his size intimidating even behind the cotton fabric of his faded, black boxer briefs.

With a harsh swallow, you glanced up at him, silently asking him for his permission to continue.

Such a polite little thing, Joel thought to himself. “Go on, sweetheart,” he encouraged.

You tugged his jeans down to the middle of his thighs and hooked your index fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down and freeing his cock. There was a deep, swooping sensation in your belly as you watched it slap up against the lower part of his abdomen. After many nights of sitting in his lap, feeling him through his clothes, grinding your cunt down onto him, you thought you’d at the very least had an idea of what you would be in for, but oh, how wrong you had been. He was so much bigger than you could have imagined, and your stomach swooped again when you realized he was not going to fit. Anywhere.

Licking away the dryness of your lips, you take him in one of your hands, feeling the heaviness of his length in your palm. He was so long and so, so thick.

“Oh fuck,” Joel hissed the curse through gritted teeth, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as your touch sent a charged jolt of electricity shooting up the length of his spine. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Christ. You hadn’t even done anything to him yet, but seeing you sitting so prettily at his feet was almost enough to make him come on the spot.

Delicately wrapping your hand around him, you found yourself almost in awe at the way your fingertips barely, just barely, touched. The sheer size of his cock dwarfed your hand, and made it seem so much smaller than it really was.

“You’re so big,” you murmured, echoing your thoughts. You licked at your lips again, suddenly feeling ravenous, an appetite that had seemingly come out of nowhere making you salivate. The tip of him was flushed red, slit already glistening—how badly you wanted, needed a taste. Never, ever, did you think you would be down on your knees for anything but prayer, but there you were, starved and desperate to bite into the forbidden fruit.

“What’re you waitin’ for, darlin’ girl?” he croaked.

“Permission,” you replied, sweetly.

“Go right ahead, baby. S’all yours—I’m all yours.”

Yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Finding your first push of courage, you leaned forward and so carefully swept your tongue along the tip of his length, collecting the slight saltiness leaking from the slit and getting your first delectable taste. With your hand still wrapped firmly around his base, you looked up, your eyes locked on Joel’s face as you flicked your tongue up against the rigid underside of his cock.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel groaned, all of the muscles in his stomach already pulling taut when he felt you dragging your tongue in a slow, purposeful lick along the length of him. “Babygirl.”

“Is that good?” you asked him, sounding hopeful. “Am I doing good?”

“Doin’ so, so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart. Look so fuckin’ pretty down on your knees for me.”

Pleased, you wrapped your mouth around the head of his length, pressing forward and taking him in as far as you possibly could—which, in all fairness, wasn’t very far. At least not as far as you would have liked. Another groan tore itself from the depths of his chest as your plush, plump lips sealed around him, your tongue warm and wet on the underside of his cock. Moving both of your hands to rest on the sides of his thighs, you began to move your head back and forth, following what felt most natural to you. The nerves you initially felt slowly but surely dissipated, vanishing one by one with every curse, every tremble, every sharp breath.

Joel resisted the urge to buck his hips forward, fought the desire to feel himself at the back of your throat. He needed to be gentle, so careful with such an innocent, pliant thing who had much, much to learn. “Sweet little fuckin’ mouth feels so good around my cock, baby, just like I fuckin’ knew it would. Y’think it can take more of me, little dove? Hm?”

You hummed, the vibration intensifying his pleasure.

“Yeah? Y’trust me?”

Your reply came in the form of a muffled, “Mhm.”

Joel reached down and cradled the back of your head in the palm of his hand. He carefully guided you further onto his throbbing length, slowly feeding you one inch at a time. Your fingers dug into the denim of his jeans. He was much more than a mouthful for you, and you could only take about half of him before he hit the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him. Drool dribbled out from the corners of your mouth and down the sides your chin, dripping onto your lap.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, that’s it. Little more now, honey,” Joel encouraged. He bucked his hips forward, his head slipping further down your throat. Just when you felt like you were about to choke, he pulled out and you tried your hardest not to cough and sputter as you took in a much needed, precious breath of air. He gave you a few seconds or so to finish catching your breath as he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs further down his legs. He stepped out of the articles of clothing and kicked them somewhere off to the aside, standing before you completely bare. “Open up.”

Your absolute devotion to him bred sweet submission, so as worried as you were that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, you nodded obediently and very willingly did as you were told. 

He guided himself right back into your waiting mouth, pressing deeply. You tried to relax your jaw, reminding yourself to breathe in and out through your nose. Tears streamed down the sides of your face as you did your best to forestall another gag. “Little bit more,” he said, thrusting his hips in a slow, steady controlled rhythm. He advanced even further into your mouth—trusting he wouldn’t suffocate you, nor push you too far past your limits, you opened up wider. He moaned, “Yeah, baby. That’s my good girl. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

With a bit of newfound confidence, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him. You swiped your tongue along the thick, prominent vein on the underside of his cock, earning yourself more of his sweet, sweet praise.

“Fuck, yeah, suck me off, sweetheart. This pretty little mouth was fuckin’ made for sin,” he breathed, guiding your head back and forth with a firm, but gentle hand.

You moaned, the noise muffled around his length. Slick soaked through your panties and coated the insides of your thighs. With another moan, you tightly squeezed your legs together, inwardly reminding yourself that patience was a virtue.

Noticing the way you had shifted, Joel moved his hand from the back of your head, lightly curling his fingers around your jaw. He pulled you off of his cock, a loud, lewd popping sound bouncing off the sage green walls of his bedroom. “C’mere, baby.” He grabbed your arms, effortlessly hoisting you up to your feet.

“What’s wrong?” you questioned him worriedly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Chuckling softly, he brushed a finger along the strap of your dress. You could do no wrong, his perfect, perfect girl. “Of course not, sweet girl. You did so fuckin’ good for me,” Joel reassured you, lightly tracing along your collarbone with his finger and making your flesh erupt in goosebumps. He leaned forward and feathered a kiss onto your lips, murmuring against them, “Are you wet, little dove?”

Before you could even process the query and generate some kind of coherent response, he dove his opposite hand between your thighs, cupping your warm heat in his palm. At this, your weak knees buckled, prompting you to reach out and grab onto his arms to hold steady and keep yourself from falling into a helpless heap on the floor.

“Oh, honey. You’re soaked. That what sucking my cock does to you?” he cooed. He peppered another kiss, this one onto the corner of your mouth. His voice lowered another octave. “Poor little thing. She needs me, don’t she? Needs me to take care of her?”

You whimpered. “Yes.”

“Manners, babygirl,” he reminded you, skimming your cheek with his nose. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Humming in approval, Joel withdrew his hand from in between your legs and guided you backwards towards his bed. “Sit,” he commanded gently, bidding you to let go of him. “Arms up.”

Reaching for the hem of your dress, he took great care in pulling it over your head, then discarded the vibrant yellow material over his shoulder, leaving you in nothing but your cowboy boots and thin, cotton white panties. Without a word, he knelt before you and pulled off one boot, and then the other, setting them both aside. He hooked two fingers underneath the elastic waistband of your underwear, coaxing you to lift your bottom off of the bed, just long enough for him to pull them down and slide them down your legs. He was so tender in the manner in which he undressed you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, beautiful girl,” Joel praised. His dark gaze dragged down the length of your body as you sat before him wearing nothing but the delicate, gold chain around your neck. The holy cross nestled between your supple breasts gleamed in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. He would leave it on until your decision was made, set in stone. “My pretty little dove.”

“Joel.” You whimpered his name, hands curling around fistfuls of his dark blue sheets. You were drenched now, in dire need of some relief. If he didn’t touch you where you needed him most, you would surely lose your mind.

Desperate, you leaned back slightly onto his bed and parted your knees, your folds glistening as you showed him just how badly you needed him.

Joel groaned, almost visibly salivating at the sight. The blazing heat in his eyes sent ripples of desire coursing through your body, straight to your throbbing core.

You opened wider. “Please.”

“Christ, babygirl. Already soakin’ the sheets.” Sliding a finger up along the seam of your pussy, he grazed your clit, the touch light, but somehow still enough to make your hips arch off the mattress as white-hot pinpricks of pleasure danced their way up your spine. He lowered his head and leaned in, your sweet scent drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Just when you were about to start pleading him for more, he dipped his face into the apex of your thighs, his mouth finally, finally, meeting your wet heat.

“Oh!” you gasped, your head falling back. “Fuck!”

Against you, his lips curled upwards into a wicked grin. He’d never heard you curse before, not until now.

Joel took his time devouring you, savoring the essence of your cunt with each broad stroke of his tongue. Sealing his lips around your clit, he flicked the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again, eliciting from you some of the sweetest noises that he had ever heard in his entire life. In preparation for what you both knew was to come, he pushed one finger inside of you, the invasion causing you to fist his sheets even harder. He then slipped in a second finger, groaning in sheer, carnal bliss at how your walls squeezed them, at the mere thought of them squeezing his cock in the same manner. How was it that you felt so much tighter this time around?

“Oh God.”

You shouldn’t be saying His name. Not like this.

Not when something this sinful was being done to you.

Hungrily, Joel lapped at you, curling both of his fingers in an upwards motion to hit the perfect spot. He knew you were close, felt it in the way that you squirmed and writhed. Draping his arm across your hips, he pinned them down onto the bed, holding you still as he chased your high as if it were his own.

“Joel,” you chanted his name over and over again in a fevered prayer. Releasing the sheets, your hands found his hair, tangling themselves in his curls. Your head fell back, and you cursed at the ceiling of his bedroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck Joel—”

Pushing onto his mouth, you came, moaning his name so loudly you were certain the whole neighborhood was getting an earful.

Joel pulled back, his beard and mustache slicked with your spend. “S’right, honey,” he crooned, his digits still buried to the knuckle as he helped you to ride out your wave of ecstasy. Eventually, when he pulled them out, you tried closing your shaking legs. He tsked and shook his head, wrenching them open further. “No, no, baby. Keep those pretty thighs open for me. Wanna see her.” He admired his work, his cock twitching at the sight of your pussy, swollen and shining, and ready to take him.

Like earlier, there was another brief skip in time.

Mind still in a haze, you hadn’t even realized that he’d risen to his feet and guided you further up onto his bed, not until you were lying on your back with your head on his pillow and he was hovering over you, his hard length brushing against one of your messy, inner thighs when he settled himself between your legs. 

Your heart began to pound in a mingle of both fear and excitement.

Joel’s eyes met yours. His pupils were blown so wide, there was not one, single trace of brown anywhere to be seen. “Y’absolutely sure about this, little dove?”

Your response came without hesitation. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Your submission was a gift, and he would cherish every last second of your surrender to him, savor it for as long as he possibly could. His lips, soft and warm, skimmed along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of fresh goosebumps in their wake.

If, by some chance, you decided that you wanted to go back to your father and to your faith, Joel didn’t know how he would find it in himself to let you go, not after this. Of course, he would have to let go, though.

The last thing he wanted was to help free you from one cage just to stick you right back into another. While he was no stranger to loss, he had to admit to himself that to lose you would be a knife to whatever was left of his heart.

Shoving the thought out of his mind, he reached down and gripped the base of his cock, pumping it in his fist before running the leaking head along your puffy lips, coating himself in your wetness with the hope it would ease some of the pain you were bound to feel. “Ready, babygirl?” he asked you, lightly teasing your entrance. “Might hurt a bit. M’gonna go slow. Just need you to relax for me, alright?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

You nodded, saying softly, “I know.”

Though he knew he had all of your trust, Joel could still sense your anxiousness. He reached out for your hand, lacing your fingers together with his own as he gingerly pressed forward and eased himself into you, taking the very innocence you had been taught your entire life to preserve, one slow, careful inch at a time.

“Oh—Joel!” You cried loudly at the initial stretch, your pretty face scrunching in discomfort. Tightly slamming your eyes shut, sparks flew behind your eyelids when he finally bottomed out. The burning sting in between your thighs was too overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. He felt so enormous within you, you could have sworn he was in your belly. Another broken cry fell from your lips and he swallowed it with a comforting kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed against your lips, a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, neck, and chest. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he suppressed his urge to thrust. Instead, he dropped his face into the hollow of your neck and waited, giving you the chance to adjust to him. He mumbled against your skin. “Doin’ so good for me, sweet girl. Y’know that? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Even in discomfort, you preened at his praise.

He squeezed your hand, and after a minute, he gave an experimental thrust of his hips—and then another and another before he ceased his movement once again. He was so big and you were so deliciously full of him.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and you found yourself asking, no, begging for more. “Move.” Your other hand found itself cupping the side of his face, coaxing him to lift his head and allowing your gazes to meet. Your soft, plush thighs parted further to help accommodate the breadth of his hips. “Please, Joel. I need you to move—I need you to fuck me.”

Surely, you would be the death of him.

He drew his hips back with cautious, tender care, then advanced in the same manner to fill your precious cunt all over again. He did it over and over, your pleasured moans encouraging him to begin picking up the pace. He drove his cock in and out of your weeping pussy, the slapping of flesh against flesh, the lewd, wet squelch of you around him inspiring him to fuck you harder, faster. And the noises you were making?

There was something oh so beautiful about your cries, sweet raptures of submission as you laid there beneath him, all too graciously taking everything he had to give you like the good, good, good girl you were for him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” Joel rasped. “Look at you—look at the way you take my fuckin’ cock, honey.”

And you did.

Glancing down, your gaze fell between your bodies and you watched in awe, openly marveled at the way Joel slid in and out of your cunt, how he knocked hard so deeply inside of you, driving himself as far as he could possibly go.

“Fuck Joel, I’m gonna—” You tried warning him as the pressure in your belly neared its peak, but you tumbled over the edge before you even had the chance to finish your sentence. Arching up off off the bed, you pressed your chest against his, your fingers squeezing his own so hard you feared you might break them.

“That’s it babygirl, let go,” he grunted, speeding up his thrusts. “Squeeze my fuckin’ cock—just like that. Good girl. My perfect, perfect girl.”

You didn’t quite get the chance to let the praise sink in.

Joel pulled himself out of you, and with ease, he flipped you over onto your belly. His hands gripped your hips and pulled them up off the mattress, his fingers moving to firmly knead the fleshiest part of your ass. He leaned over you, the head of his cock nudging at your hole. “Y’think you can handle a little bit more, sweetheart?” he whispered the question into a tumble of messy hair, the delicate scent of the lavender shampoo you used to wash it filling his senses. “Answer me, little dove.”

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly with a nod. “I can.”

With a satisfied hum, Joel sank into you, this second stretch not quite as overwhelming at the first, but still intense. “Relax,” he murmured, hunching further over your quivering back. He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head and then leaned down to brace his hands on either side of you. “Need you to be sweet for me just a bit longer, okay, baby?”

“God,” you whimpered when the heaviness of his balls came to rest on your sensitive clit.

It was the second time you’d uttered His name.

Joel almost grinned at the irony. He found his rhythm, groaning in gut-deep satisfaction with each snap of his hips—each smooth stroke in and each smooth stroke out.

“Oh fuck, sweet girl.” Heaven was indeed a real place, and Joel Miller was buried in it to the hilt, right at this very moment.

He was getting closer and closer.

Maybe it was your eagerness to help him reach his own release mingled with the pride you knew you would feel once you did that gave you a second wind, a fresh, new burst of energy. You planted your hands firmly on his pillow. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you curved your spine and pushed back onto Joel with purpose, meeting his thrusts halfway as you rode his aching length to the satiation that waited for him at the end.

“There’s my girl,” he rasped. “Oh fuckin’ Christ—”

No way he could live his life without you now.

He needed you.

He needed you so much more than you needed him.

Joel slipped an arm around your shoulders, across your chest.

“Oh!” you gasped as he then yanked you back, pulling you flush against him. The rough crash of your back against his chest, combined with the angle in which he was fucking you knocked the wind out of your lungs.

His lips were at the shell of your ear. “Stay,” he panted, his breath hot against your cheekbone. He wrapped his other hand lightly around your throat. Relentless, were his hips now—his movements had become frantic. Desperate. “Stay with me, baby.”

Even as you fought to catch your breath in the position he had you in, you picked up on the fact that he wasn’t asking you of it, nor was he demanding you of it.

He was begging you.

Him, the most feared man in this town. Begging you?

“Joel,” you choked.

“Please, my little dove,” he pleaded, turning your head towards him. His mouth was then on the corner of your own, his beard roughly scratching the soft and delicate flesh of your cheek. “I need you, babygirl. Stay with me. Please, just fuckin’ stay with me.”

Your hands curled around his wrists. “Yes, I’ll stay,” you moaned. “I’m yours, Joel. I’m all yours. I—I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ll stay with you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled through his chest. Joel firmly took hold of your cross, and without so much as a warning, he ripped the chain from around your neck and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder. He heard it land on the hardwood floor with the tiniest, faint clink the moment he spilled into you, ropes of warm release coating your fluttering walls. Curses and groans spilled from his lips and into your neck. Your cunt clutched at his pulsing cock, greedy for every last drop of his spend she could get.  

Once you were filled, you both collapsed beside each other on the bed, heaving to catch a steady breath.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Joel managed to ask, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

Exhausted, all you could do was nod and utter, “Mhm.”

He exhaled an amused huff through his nose. “C’mere.” He reached for you and pulled you against his side. He draped an arm around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as was possible. “Y’did so good, honey.”

Your mouth curled into a small, contented smile.

Several minutes had passed by, and despite telling him that you were too tired to even think about moving, Joel made you get up and use the bathroom, and while you did so, he ran a clean washcloth under warm water. “Here, darlin’. Let me clean you up,” he’d said, his lips meeting your forehead in a loving token of affection before he sank down onto one knee and ran the damp cloth along the insides of your thighs. He took extreme care when he wiped at your swollen folds, knowing you were still sensitive to the touch. “There we go. All done, now.”

Not long after, you were both back in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets.

Yawning, you nuzzled into bare his chest, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with each and every second that ticked by. You’d started drifting off when you heard his voice.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” you answered sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Did you mean what you said?”

“Mean what, Joel?”

There was a brief pause. “Y’know, when you said you’d stay with me.”

Snuggling closer to him, you mumbled, “Mhm. Of course I did.”

“S’not gonna be easy,” Joel murmured into your hair.

“I know.” You yawned. “But I have you.”

“You do. You’ve got me—and I’ve got you, babygirl.”

“Mm. I know that too, Joel.”

You felt him kiss the top of your head and then fell fast asleep in his arms.

The sun bloomed over the Grand Tetons.

Your father would wake soon, that’s to say if he wasn’t up already.

The nerves began to set in.

Joel must have sensed it. “Breathe, baby. S’gonna be okay,” he soothed, squeezing your hand.

With one of his warmer, heavier jackets that normally didn’t see the light of day until winter season draped around your shoulders, the two of you made your way down the road and towards your house. Or better said, towards your father’s house. Because after what you were about to do, that yellow and white cottage would no longer be a place you could call home.

He led you up to the porch. “Y’sure you don’t want me to go in there with you?” he asked, quietly.

You could have laughed. You almost did.

“Do you believe that to be a wise choice?”

“No, I reckon it ain’t the best idea,” Joel admitted with a sigh, raking his free hand through his unkempt, salt and pepper hair. He looked up at the house, then back at you. “Look, little dove. No matter what happens in there, just know that everythin’ will be alright. M’gonna take care of you. For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. I’ll try my hardest to be everythin’ you need.”

“You already are, Joel,” you said, your gaze earnest.

His chest swelled with warmth.

Truth be told, Joel didn’t know how he had managed to defy the odds—how he, of all people, had managed to make his way into that sweet, innocent, beautiful little heart of yours, but somehow he did, and he would not take this responsibility lightly.

He brushed your lips with his and promised, “Gonna be waitin’ right here, okay?”

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you willed yourself to let go of his hand and took a step back. You then started up the porch steps on wobbling legs. When you made it to the top, you glanced over your shoulder at Joel, who gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Exhaling slowly, you reached for the knob with trembling fingers and turned it, opening the door. You stepped inside, your heart dropping into your stomach when you saw your father sitting there at the foot of the staircase, as if he’d been waiting for you. He had been waiting for you. Fully dressed, he sat on the second to last step with both hands folded on his bible in his lap, a rosary clutched between them. “Papa?”

He said nothing. Instead, he silently observed you—his eyes glazed over the men’s jacket and the short dress you wore underneath it, the disheveled, loose hair and kiss swollen lips. Your holy cross nowhere to be seen.

“Papa.” You swallowed harshly and shifted your weight anxiously from the heel of one boot to the other. “We, um—we really need to have a talk.”

He peered around you, catching a brief glimpse of the man standing outside, waiting for you at the foot of the porch.

He cleared his throat, lightly. “Yes, child. I suppose that we do.”

Nodding tightly, you turned around and slowly closed the door. Joel’s words rang in your mind over and over, giving you the push of strength you knew you would need.

I’ve got you.

divider credit goes to @saradika 🤍

[doodle-pops]

Sweets and Treat

Fingon x modern human!reader

A/N: I have arrived with my beloved Fingon and another modern reader fic (*^▽^)/★*☆♪

Warnings: none, absolutely fluff and sweetness, modern human reader

Words: 3.7k

Synopsis: An attempt to bake your favourite treat, ends in burns, bandages and a sweet confession.

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The soft scent of crushed athelas and lavender hung in the warm air of the apothecary, mingling with the crisp breeze that filtered in through the open windows of Elrond’s homestead in Valinor, where ivy clung lazily to carved stone archways and light fell like gold through the treetops. There you stood elbow-deep in mortar and pestle duties, sleeves rolled to your forearms as you worked with slow deliberation to grind dried herbs into a fine powder after a long morning of bandaging over-eager hunting injuries and tending to minor wounds.

The healing house was quieter now since the earlier flurry of activity had dwindled to a few murmured conversations and the occasional bark of laughter from the ward beyond. Not too long ago, you had just begun to sort a small pile of freshly laundered bandages when you heard the sound of familiar footsteps, accompanied by the subtle rustle of robes and the telltale clink of vials in a tray.

“Is it safe to enter,” came a teasing voice from the threshold, “or will I be assaulted with flying gauze and foul language again?”

Looking up and arching a brow at Calwen, a fellow healer whose wry smile always hinted at mischief, and had taken to delight in troubling you at any available opportunity.

“Depends,” you replied, brushing a strand from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Are you bringing news of another poor soul who mistook a sword for a walking stick?”

“Worse,” she said with a grin that immediately set your internal alarm bells ringing. “We’ve got a new patient in the east wing. Rather urgent, or so he says. Requested you specifically.”

That alone prompted you to frown. “Is it that reckless idiot who tried to cauterise his own arm last week?”

Tilting her head while her lips twitched, she bore a ‘clueless’ expression. “Couldn’t say. Though I do recall a certain someone promising to throw the next fool who lit themselves on fire into the nearest fountain.”

“Glad you’re keeping track of my threats.”

“Always. They bring such flavour to the place.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”

There was no reply, only a suspiciously bright smile as she handed you a rolled up parchment of paper and turned sharply on her sandals before disappearing around the doorway with the flounce of someone who knew far more than she was willing to say. You didn’t know what else to possible say or do. Being around a class of people in a league entirely above you, left you exhausted as you tried to understand their love for being poetical, theoretical, hypothetical and metaphorical. You didn’t have time for such a brainrot moment.

Keeping the last of your two brain cells sane, were your jot and comfort in this foreign land.

Sighing, you set aside your tasks, you wiped your hands on a cloth, and snatched up the parchment as you moved out of the back room and into the airy corridor that connected the treatment wards. The moment you stepped through, the lingering scent of sweet herbs gave way to a subtle waft of chocolate and something else…something suspiciously like burnt flour. It made you wrinkle your nose.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath as you stalked toward the east wing, muttering to yourself as though you were gearing up for war. Maybe you were because dealing with people who lived like ‘you only live once’ didn’t exist since they were allowed to have second chances. “If this is that same overconfident fool who thought boiling salve didn’t need gloves, I swear I’m going to light him on fire. One more elf walks in with a burn injury and I’m submitting a formal request to ban anything fire from existing.”

Protesting like a lunatic to yourself as you marched through the hallway, your footfalls echoed faintly along the marbled floor. That glimmer of the halls glowing with that ever-present soft illumination that Valinor seemed to bestow on everything it touched, but you paid it little mind, too preoccupied with rehearsing a scolding worthy of the ages.

“I’m starting to regret opening my mouth and go “Hey, I know medicine!” the minute I dropped out the sky to save my ass. I should have let them throw me into the ocean or something.”

Rounding the corner with the intention of storming in, expecting the worst—probably someone trying to show off for one of the fair-haired maidens in the training courts again—and flung open the door, ready to unleash hell. But alas, it wasn’t some arrogant warrior sprawled dramatically on the healing cot.

It was him.

Fingon.

His dark hair was half-loose, braids falling lazily over his shoulders, the ends tied with a golden ribbons that looked slightly singed. From your angle, his cheeks appeared flushed, and fingers emerged in cool spring water which, from the look of it, had been mercifully given to him by someone with enough grace to buy him time but not much more. And then there were his robes, ever finely embroidered, were singed at the sleeve, and in his uninjured hand he held a covered dish carefully balanced on a folded towel.

For a long moment, you just stood there, the words you’d been crafting, caught somewhere between your brain and your throat.

Sheepishly he looked up, but hopeful, as though he wasn’t entirely certain whether you’d laugh at him or throw him out. “…Hello,” he said, with a slow dimpled smile that would do dangerous things to anyone’s composure. “I seem to have run afoul of the culinary arts.”

You blinked, dumbfounded. “You…cooked?”

Gently he lifted the dish. “I tried.”

There was a beat of silence passing before you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop with a quiet sigh of disbelief as you closed the door behind you. “Ah, uh, what, how, um—What did you do, throw yourself into the oven to see if it was warm enough?”

“Not at all,” he cheerily beamed, holding back a laugh, “just the tray. Though in hindsight, I do wonder if it had it out for me.”

Stepping forward, already reaching for the bandages and ointments, your eyes flicked toward the dish he held with curiosity now tinged with concern.

“Is that the dish? What did you whip up?”

There was a small puzzled expression crossing his face, resembling a puppy, before recognition. “A peace offering,” he replied shakily, as though all his confidence vanished at his pre-confession. “Brownies. I followed Glorfindel’s instructions. Mostly.”

There was a sudden pause as you looked him over, teetering on the edge of disbelief. “Glorfindel taught you to bake?”

Fingon nodded with utmost seriousness. “He claimed it was the quickest path to someone’s heart. Though he failed to mention how hazardous the process would be.”

And in spite of yourself, you laughed softly, like a bubbling spring because the image of the fierce and golden-haired Balrog-slayer teaching Fingon, High Prince of the Noldor, to bake brownies for the sake of wooing someone was so utterly absurd and endearing that you couldn’t help it.

Turning to set down your supplies, you shook your head. “Well, I suppose we should take a look at the damage. Your hand, I mean. I’ll see about the brownies after. Hopefully they’re still alive.”

“It isn’t burnt that terribly,” he whispered depreciated, feeling as though you might view his attempt as failure if you deem it needing ‘saving.’

As you began to gently unwrap the compress, your fingers working with the familiarity born of long hours spent in this house, you caught the way his gaze lingered on you with the an observational reverence of someone who saw more than what you showed to others.

It was the same look he always wore when he visited under the guise of wishing to see Elrond and learn more stories about Middle Earth through the ages.

Shaking your head at the notion, you drifted your focus to the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers—warmer than usual, reddened and delicate where it had come into contact with the offending tray. You handled his hand with practiced care, gently dabbing the cool salve along the burn in slow, even strokes, watching his knuckles twitch ever so slightly under the cooling touch. Callouses had decorated his broad hand from years of training, strong and sure in ways you had always noticed and tried not to dwell on.

The silence in the room shifted into something softer, the kind that always stretched between you and Fingon whenever he visited—full of things unsaid. It was filled with his quiet, steady gaze and the careful way he spoke around you, never too forward, always leaving space for you to step toward or away. His gesture always made you flustered and you hated how your heartbeat sped up at his nearness, how his mere presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. More intimate.

“You really burned yourself baking brownies?” you asked again, anything to resist awkwardness settling, though your voice had lost its earlier sharpness. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

There was a faint tilt of his head, and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. “It is a rather undignified wound, is it not? Shall I conjure a better tale? One involving a great hunting tale, perhaps?”

“I might believe it more,” you airily chuckled, smoothing a salve-covered thumb across the edge of the burn. “You’d look more at home hunting than in a kitchen.”

“Then it pleases me you’re tending to me now. You’re far gentler than Glorfindel was with his ‘lessons.’”

That led to a soft snort. “I’m surprised he didn’t teach you with a sword in one hand and a spatula in the other.”

“You are quite the seer. That is close to how he appeared,” Fingon beamed with all the solemnity of someone recounting a great personal trial. “It was chaos. I nearly lost an eyebrow.”

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips, though you kept your head ducked slightly to focus on his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s commendable you’re still alive. And you made it all the way here without dropping the brownie, so really, you should be proud.”

“I am,” he whispered quieter, almost thoughtful. “Though I might be prouder if you agreed to share it with me later.”

That made you looked up slowly, your eyes meeting his, and there it was again—that look. As if he were studying something he didn’t quite understand but very much wanted to. As if the room contained only you, and nothing else in Valinor could possibly matter. You held his gaze for a moment too long before you cleared your throat and gently set his bandaged hand aside to retrieve fresh gauze.

“I’ll wrap this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “It’s not severe, but you’ll want to avoid using that hand for a few days.”

A silence fell over you two once again as he watched you work without flinching, unmoving, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer, almost hesitant.

“You know,” he murmured, “when I asked Glorfindel to teach me, it wasn’t only for the brownie.”

You paused, not looking up. “Really?”

“No,” he reassured, and now his voice carried a note of quiet conviction, the kind that unnerved you more than a storm ever could. “It was for the question I intended to ask you when I brought it.”

A pregnant stillness lingered in the air, forcing you to halt, fingers hovering above the bandage, your breath catching before you forced yourself to resume wrapping, slower now. “What kind of question?” you asked, though you felt like you knew, though you felt the answer humming under your skin already.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flexed his uninjured hand slightly in his lap, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not from here,” he spoke up at last. “You’re not of Arda. Not even of the race of Men that my people once knew. And yet…you are here. Amongst us. Amongst me. And I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening just slightly as you secured the gauze and fastened it in place.

“That’s not an answer,” you said softly, unable to stop the tremor in your voice.

He leaned forward, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could smell the hint of chocolate still clinging to his robes, enough that his gaze became inescapable.

“I wanted to ask if I might court you,” he announced, simply. No fanfare, no embellishment—just quiet honesty. “Properly. Despite what separates us.”

You froze, fingers resting lightly against his wrist, your heart hammering as your mind tried and failed to conjure the right thing to say. There wasn’t a time when you had imagined this moment in foolish, lonely hours—always dismissing it as impossible, as something out of place and time. Because he was Fingon. High Prince of the Noldor. Reborn from the halls of Mandos, a song made flesh, heir to a house that shaped the fate of kingdoms.

And you were just…you. A human, displaced and strange, a creature of science and sarcasm, stitching wounds and fetching herbs in a world that still felt too luminous, too vast for your understanding.

Looking up at him slowly, words suffocating somewhere behind your teeth but refusing to come out. And he saw it—your hesitation, your disbelief. So he did what Fingon always did best.

He smiled.

“I know it is much to ask,” he said gently. “And I know our paths were never meant to cross. But they have. And I would not ignore that.”

You breathed out shakily, forcing yourself to step back and busy yourself with cleaning up the used bandages, because if you stood still any longer, you feared you might say something you weren’t ready to understand.

“Fingon,” you began, then faltered, eyes on your hands.

“I am not asking you to decide now,” he corrected quickly and earnestly. “Only that you think on it. That you know it is not a jest, nor some fleeting interest.”

Dared not to glance back at him, but you did and saw the sincerity etched in every line of his face, every soft curve of his lips, and something ached inside you, deep and old.

He didn’t press.

He only stood, slowly, cradling the brownies with his good hand and offering you the faintest of bows.

“I will return once the hand has healed,” he said, though something in his voice hinted he would return far sooner than that. “You may decide then whether to eat this with me…or scold me further.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving behind a strange warmth in his absence, and the faint scent of cocoa and burnt flour lingering in the air.

The healing house had grown quiet by the time the sun dipped low beyond the pearl-white trees and into the soft gold veil of twilight. Most of the other aides had long since gone home, leaving only a hush behind—the kind that settled thick over stone corridors and turned idle thoughts into wandering ghosts. You remained at your corner station, but your hands had grown still, unmoving for a while now, your mind elsewhere entirely.

You hadn’t been able to shake Fingon’s voice from your ears. The way he had said it—I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought. So simple, and yet spoken with the same conviction you imagined he might’ve once used before galloping into battle. No elf had ever spoken to you like that before, and certainly no prince. Not with intention. And definitely not after burning his hand trying to impress you with dessert.

A short, unwilling laugh escaped you at the memory.

He had really done that. The valiant, golden and hearty son of the House of Fingolfin had burned himself making brownies. For you.

When the door to the healer’s quarters creaked open, you were certain it was one of the senior healers come to check on late records. You didn’t glance up right away. But the moment you did, you found Fingon standing there again—cloaked now, though still informal, the hood pushed back to reveal the soft unbraided tumble of his dark hair, loose in a way that made him appear younger, more relaxed.

He held the same small covered dish in one hand. The other, the burnt one, was still wrapped in your handiwork. And you stared at him, stunned.

“You were meant to be resting,” you said dumbly.

“I did rest,” he replied, stepping inside. “Long enough to convince myself that if I waited until morning, the courage might drain right out of me. And then you’d be left with half a brownie and a full silence.”

You blinked. “Sooooo, you came back tonight?”

“I had hoped,” he said, a little more carefully now, “that you might be willing to share it with me. Now. If it’s not too bold.”

That should have been your cue to send him home. You should’ve told him you were tired, that it had been a long day, that patients were exhausting, that you needed to sleep and think and breathe—but you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you stared at the hearty dish in his hands, the scent of sweet chocolate wafting from it as he stepped closer.

“Are you sure it is edible?” you asked warily.

“That depends,” he chuckled with a slight smirk. “Will you eat it even if it’s not?”

Your expression twitched. “If I die, Elrond will kill you.”

“Then it’s fortunate you are the healer,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I assume you know how to revive yourself.”

You huffed, unable to help the small laugh that escaped as you shook your head and moved to the table near the corner hearth. Fingon followed, settling across from you as if it were the most natural thing in the world—as though he had done it a thousand times before and would again, for years still to come.

Producing two forks from the drawer, you slid one across the table toward him. He uncovered the dish with a flourish that would’ve been comical had it not smelled absolutely heavenly. You blinked at the warm, brown crust, bubbling edges, and faint caramelised glaze across the top.

“Well fuck me,” you muttered. “You actually pulled it off.”

“I am capable of more than I appear,” he proudly boasted with mock gravity, lifting a fork with the grace of someone raised to dine beside kings. “Though I dare say the presentation is Glorfindel’s doing. I only barely avoided burning it twice.”

Humming at his words, you took your own bite, and to your immense surprise, it wasn’t just edible—it was good. Warm and bright and syrupy with melted chocolate. You made a soft, delighted noise despite yourself. That response made Fingon’s eyes lit immediately. “That sound,” he said, too quickly, “—forgive me—it pleased me.”

Your fork paused halfway back to the bowl, and you looked at him across the modest firelight and shadows of the stone walls, feeling suddenly shy in a way that annoyed you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you reminded him. “I still haven’t agreed to anything.”

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I said I would wait.”

And he meant it. It showed in the steady way he looked at you, never pressing, never insisting, only offering his presence—his real presence—as if to say, Here I am. If you want me.

It had been a long time since anyone had made you feel like the choice was yours.

“I don’t know how it would work,” you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. “I’m not from this world. I say strange things, do stranger things. I don’t have kin here. No lineage. No...destiny. And human-elven relationships…” You trailed off, glancing away. “They never end well. You know that. You’re ancient, Fingon. I’m a blink.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, spoon still resting untouched in his bowl.

“And yet, for all my age, I have never met another like you,” he whispered quietly. “Not in all my days of fire and war, nor in all the years I have wandered since. You carry strangeness like a torch. You shine in ways that make my kind curious, and sometimes confused, but never unmoved. You remind me of the world we nearly lost—the one we fought for.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening at the rawness in his voice. Then he placed his fork down, looking suddenly uncertain, hesitant.

“I do not ask for forever,” he said. “Only…for a beginning.”

And it was then—only then—you understood. It wasn’t just affection he was offering, it wasn’t about courtship the way your world understood it. He wanted to build something with you. Whatever shape it could take. He wasn’t afraid of the human-elf barrier because to him, the time he had now meant more than the memory of what time had taken.

You didn’t speak for a moment, only reached for his hand again—the one you’d wrapped in bandages earlier—and rested your fingers lightly over his wrist.

The gentle touch of your hand upon his, he looked down at the contact, then back up at you with a quiet, surprised hope.

“I’m not promising anything eternal,” you reminded, a smile tugging weakly at your lips. “But…we can start with brownies.”

Just hearing your response, accustomed to your playfulness, his laugher echoed softly, yet disbelieving, eyes shining in the firelight.

“I would’ve burned both hands for that,” he proudly stated. “And I’m ready to try another sweet.”

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @feanorynz @6esi @will-0-wsps @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ella-error505 @xximmortalkissxx @gauntletgirlie @zheiya

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[nanamineedstherapy]

Ooga Booga Hiromi gets Mated to a Criminal

Previous Chapter: Ooga Booga Choso, Shoko & Yuki: The Great Gas Chamber Incident (Tumblr/Ao3)

Summary: Prehistoric, period-accurate Neanderthal JJK daddies courting you with grunts, rocks, & zero verbal communication. Just prehistoric buffoonery. A/N: OOGA BOOGA TRIBE, WE MEET AGAIN. 🦴🔥 Welcome to the prehistoric chaos that is this fic, where Higuruma tries to be the only man with a brain cell in a tribe of absolute menaces. 😭🪓 This is a crack fic with way too much bonking, aggressive courtship rituals, & the questionable choices of a woman determined to make her mate lose his mind. You’ve been warned. If you’re here for historical accuracy, please turn back now, because this is 100% Gege Akutami’s fault. Enjoy. 😂 Haven't written anything for this AU in a bit so apologies if this feel a lil rusty.

Higuruma is tired.

Not in a normal way.

Not in a "I hunted all day" way.

Not even in a "Gojo is talking again" way.

No.

Higuruma is tired in a “This tribe has no laws, only chaos, and I have to fix it before I lose my mind” way.

Higuruma is different from other men.

Other men grunt. Fight. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Higuruma thinks.

Higuruma ponders.

Higuruma judges.

He does not hunt for sport.

He does not kill for fun.

He kills because it is fair.

Because justice must be served.

Because if he lets Gojo and Suguru keep doing whatever they want, the tribe will devolve into "monkeys with rocks" in a week.

So Higuruma creates laws.

He carves rules into stone tablets.

He makes judgements by the fire.

He carries a mighty club—his gavel of justice.

And when someone breaks the law?

He bonks them.

---

You are a problem.

Not like Gojo, whose only crimes are his mouth and his face.

Not like Shiu, who steals meat like a starving wolf and disappears into the woods for days.

Not like Ino, who collects rocks and insists they’re his “sons.”

No.

You are a real problem.

You steal.

You lie.

You fight people for fun.

You once stole Sukuna’s food, then bonked him on the head and grunted, “Mine now.”

You made Gojo cry once.

You are the most feared woman in the tribe.

And yet—

You like Higuruma.

---

The first time you court Higuruma, you do it like any normal Neanderthal woman would.

You steal his club.

You bonk him on the head with it.

You grin. (Mate now.)

Higuruma stares.

Then exhales slowly. (You broke law.)

You tilt your head. (What law?)

(Do not steal.)

(…Even if I want mate?)

(Especially if you want mate.)

You blink.

This is confusing.

Men are supposed to fight for mates.

Men are supposed to take what they want.

Higuruma is not like that.

Higuruma is different.

You squint. (Then… how I mate you?)

Higuruma crosses his arms. (Follow the law.)

You stare at him like he is speaking forbidden magic. (Follow… law?)

(Yes.)

You grumble.

You do not like rules.

But you do like Higuruma.

So… maybe you try?

Maybe.

A little.

---

For one week, you follow the law.

You do not steal food.

You do not fight Gojo.

You do not throw rocks at Suguru’s cult.

Higuruma watches you closely.

He sees you trying.

And when the week ends—

He smiles. (You good now.)

You light up. (Good. We mate now?)

Higuruma nods. (Yes. Good mate now.)

You beam.

You grab his face.

You kiss him so hard he almost falls over.

The tribe cheers.

Shiu cries. (EVEN HIGURUMA HAS A MATE BEFORE ME!?)

Sukuna glares. (She should’ve stayed a menace.)

Suguru watches silently, judging.

Choso, holding his three pregnant mates, mutters, (Why does no one ask me for advice?)

But you do not care.

Because you have won.

Higuruma is your mate.

And now you just need to break the law again so he will punish you.

---

Higuruma has made a mistake.

A terrible mistake.

A life-changing mistake.

Because he mated you.

Because you pretended to follow the law.

Because you lied.

And now?

Now you are committing crimes again.

---

The day after mating, you steal Nanami’s food.

The day after that, you chase Toji with a spear for no reason.

The day after that, you throw a rock at Suguru’s cult and grunt, "STUPID!" before running away.

Higuruma watches.

Higuruma suffers.

Higuruma realizes he has married a criminal.

He catches you in the act.

He crosses his arms. (You broke law.)

You grin. (Yes.)

He grits his teeth. (Why.)

You tilt your head. (Mate only look at law. Want mate look at me too.)

Higuruma exhales sharply. (You committing crime… for attention?)

You nod, grinning. (Yes. Now mate must bonk me. Punish me.)

Higuruma blinks.

Higuruma processes.

Higuruma realizes you are too far gone.

---

That night, by the fire, Higuruma holds a trial.

You sit on a rock, swinging your legs, grinning.

The tribe gathers.

The men are invested.

Gojo snickers. (Your mate is a menace.)

Suguru hums. (She should join my cult.)

Sukuna glares. (Let me fight her.)

Nanami sighs. (She stole my food. I demand justice.)

Higuruma raises his club. (You guilty.)

You shrug. (Okay.)

(You must pay price.)

(Okay.)

The tribe waits.

The punishment must be severe.

Harsh.

Unforgiving.

Higuruma steps closer. (You must… help me enforce law.)

You blink. (What.)

---

Higuruma does the unthinkable.

He makes you his co-judge.

Now, you must enforce laws with him.

Now, you must catch criminals instead of being one.

Now, you must bonk others instead of getting bonked.

It is horrible.

You sulk.

You grumble.

You sit next to Higuruma with a club, frowning.

Gojo, caught stealing food, kneels before you.

Higuruma grunts. (You guilty.)

You sigh. Bonk Gojo’s head.

Gojo whines. (THIS IS NOT FAIR. SHE IS CRIMINAL TOO.)

You shrug. (Not anymore.)

Higuruma nods. (She is law now.)

The tribe cheers.

Sukuna looks disgusted.

Suguru squints. (I could use her in my cult.)

You sigh, bonking another criminal.

This is your life now.

You married the law.

And now you are the law too.

---

Higuruma has reached his limit.

He has dealt with stupid men.

He has dealt with stupid crimes.

He has dealt with Gojo existing.

But this?

This is too much.

Because there has been a crime.

A crime so unholy, so disturbing, so out of pocket that Higuruma is questioning why he even made laws in the first place.

---

It starts early in the morning.

A scream echoes through the valley.

A scream of horror.

A scream of a man who has seen the devil.

The tribe gathers.

And there, in the middle of the camp, is Nanami.

Nanami, standing over a horrific sight.

A monstrous display.

A thing so cursed it should not exist.

Gojo stares.

Sukuna squints.

Suguru blinks.

Toji gags.

Choso, holding his three pregnant mates, whispers, (What in the name of all that is good and pure is that?)

And then—

Nanami turns to Higuruma.

Face blank.

Grunt voice dead. (Your mate did this.)

Higuruma freezes.

Then slowly turns his head.

And there you are.

Grinning.

Proud.

Standing next to your creation.

It is… a totem.

A horrific, nightmare-inducing totem.

It has:

Gojo’s hair woven into it.

Sukuna’s missing teeth jammed into its mouth.

A stolen piece of Toji’s fur.

Nanami’s broken spear tied to its back.

Choso’s old loincloth wrapped around it like a cursed robe.

It is cursed.

It is horrible.

It is staring at them all.

Higuruma exhales. (…Why.)

You grin. (For protection.)

Ino wheezes. (PROTECTION FROM WHAT!?)

You shrug. (Bad spirits.)

Sukuna crosses his arms. (I am bad spirit. I don’t want to see this thing ever again.)

Toji gags again. (BURN IT.)

Suguru hums. (I will take it for my cult.)

Higuruma rubs his temples. (You… stole from men. Broke laws.)

You tilt your head. (For good reason.)

Higuruma grits his teeth. (You stole Nanami’s spear. How is that good reason?)

(He has too many.)

Nanami closes his eyes. (I have one.)

Higuruma inhales deeply. (You stole Toji’s fur.)

(Toji has many furs. One missing not hurt.)

Toji grits his teeth. (I was cold, you demon.)

Higuruma exhales. (You… took Gojo’s hair. How?)

Gojo freezes.

Slowly, his hand reaches for his head.

He realizes.

His eyes widen. (OH MY GOD. SHE DID. SHE DID.)

Gojo screams.

Higuruma is done.

---

The Judgement.

The tribe waits.

Higuruma rubs his temples harder.

You squat, grinning.

Waiting.

Higuruma sighs.

Then—

He throws his club down. (You are guilty.)

You nod. (You have no defense.)

You grin wider.

Higuruma takes a deep breath.

Then—

(Your punishment is me.)

The tribe gasps.

Gojo chokes. (EXCUSE ME!?)

Sukuna snorts. (Oh. Oh this is gonna be good.)

Suguru nods. (Yes. Divine judgment.)

Choso, still confused, grunts, (Why does no one ever ask me how to breed—)

But no one is listening.

Because Higuruma is already dragging you away.

And you?

You laugh.

Because you knew this would happen.

Because this was your plan.

Because breaking the law is fun.

And Higuruma will always come to punish you.

And that?

That is why you keep breaking it.

---

A/N: Thank you for surviving this Neanderthal nonsense. If you have theories about how many brain cells Higuruma lost during this fic, or if you just want to scream about the absolute chaos this became, the comments are open. Also, if you have headcanons for prehistoric tribe dynamics, weird mating customs, or other crack fic ideas, please share. I am disturbingly receptive to them. 💀 Thanks for reading, and remember: if you bonk someone, make sure it’s legal. 😏🪓

Next Chapter - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

[superbattrash]

Do you have any Superbat fic recs? Just kind of stumbled on the ship and am already excited by the notion.

Hiiiii sweetheart! Welcome to the bright and sunny side of superbat shipping ~ *blows dust off my laptop that I haven’t turned on in a month* oh gross, there are actual spiderwebs on it... I'm so sorry, Maggie. Ahem, first of all. Any and all fics by these talented people: @frownyalfred, @superbatdisasterblog, @susiecarter, @sassyresacon1990 (I know I'm forgetting a lot of people but it's been a while okay)

This is just handful of my ultimate favs, if you need more I'm always more than happy to go through my bookmarks!

tell all the truth (but tell it slant) by susiecarter (rated M)

It takes a while for Batman and Superman to work things out, once Clark comes back from the dead. Pretending to date each other in order to explain why Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are in the same place so often? Doesn't help as much as you might think.

Condersing Conditions by LeCadavre_1904 (rated E)

Before Bruce and Clark fall into bed for the first time, Bruce has an unusual condition.

Clark is as obliging as always.

don't push me (cause I am close to the edge) by LinguisticJubilee (rated G)

Kara huffs out a breath in frustration. “Every Kryptonian has a heartsong. And they’re beautiful, but when you listen to one on its own it feels like something is missing. It’s like...they have something like this too, right?” She gestures outward impatiently, and Bruce forces himself not to flinch at her casual use of they. “Only they have words written down instead.” 

“Soulmates,” Clark says, his voice strained. 

The word hits Bruce like a bullet through the lung. He keeps his face perfectly relaxed, his heartbeat calm and regular, as he realizes (too late, he's always too late) that he should have expected this all along.

fallin' for him was like fallin' from grace by Resacon1990 (rated T)

“But Bruce isn’t gay?” Clark points out, and there’s an awkward moment of everyone clearing their throats and avoiding Clark’s eyes until he turns to stare at Bruce. “Are you?”

Bruce blinks for a moment before offering a sheepish smile. “I’m not… not?” he offers, and Clark feels his brain just about short-circuit at the news.

Or, five times Clark finds himself falling for Bruce, and the one time he does something about it

No Church in the Wild by TheResurrectionist (not rated but OUCH ANGST)

"I'll have a contingency plan."

"If you're the first face he sees, you'll need it."

Bruce brings Clark back by himself.

smokin' in the boys' room - by The Ressurectionist (not rated but both blood and dicks, so rated Misha HAPPY) (I cannot tell you how many times I've reread this one GUUUHHH)

Bruce Wayne -- billionaire playboy, owner of, at most, three brain cells -- beaten up at his own charity gala. Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises out of nepotism and dumb luck, whose business wasn’t touched by corruption purely because of incompetence -- Bruce Wayne, airheaded and still generous, still kind, bloody in a stall and trying to hide it. 

His hand clenched on the stall door, crumpling it between his fingers. His eyes weren’t burning yet, but barely. 

“Who did this to you?”

I Would I Might Forget That I Am I by susiecarter (rated T)

Clark Kent woke up, ate breakfast, went to work—the same way he did every day. Ordinary.

Except for the part where Superman hadn't been seen in at least a week and nobody knew why, Lois was acting kind of weird, and Bruce Wayne was insisting that Clark was the only reporter he'd allow to run a feature on the crashed alien ship in the park, since Wayne Enterprises had been granted control of the site. And the way Clark felt every time Wayne looked at him a little too long definitely wasn't helping.

But it was fine. Clark was normal, there was nothing wrong with him, and everything was fine.

Satisfaction Brought It Back by slippin_into_dakrness and SpiritsFlame. (rated G) (This one is my comfort comfort comfort read!!!)

Bruce always thought that Superman's cute shtick of rescuing cats from trees was a bid for publicity—until a confrontation with a magic user leaves him stuck as a cat. He learns how mistaken he was when Superman not only rescues him, but takes him back to a small Metropolis apartment. The opportunity to learn more about the alien can't be ignored, but is Bruce ready for everything he will learn about someone he has only ever regarded with distrust and dislike?

[shieldherostuffs]

Ren: Whose turn is it for the brain cell today? Itsuki: I think it's Motoyasu's turn for the brain cell. Naofumi: It's never Motoyasu's turn for the brain cell. Motoyasu: Hey! Naofumi: Besides, I sold the brain cell for profit six weeks ago.

[mariacallous]

This post has been sitting in my draft for three weeks now. I’m sorry for the radio silence and thank you for your patience. I’ll include some of what I wrote previously below but a bit of an explanation, first. I think I’ve been suffering a bit of news whiplash. The news in general, and my own corner of it.

Trump’s re-election in November fell just as we, the journalists of the Guardian and Observer, were fighting to save what we felt was the soul of our news organisation, though sadly that wasn’t a recognised line item on any P&L report.

The fight was energising and instructive and clarifying on many levels, but the backwash from it has also been time-consuming and draining. I’ll fill you in on that another time. But I think I’ve finally felt, on the personal level, the “information collapse” that I’ve been thinking and talking a lot about recently.

It’s the term that I’ve been using to describe the tectonic shifts in our news and information system and the chaos of a world in which algorithmically driven social media on platforms owned by unaccountable monopolists has driven out fact-based reporting and news.

We’re dealing with a world in which truth and lies and conspiracy and science compete for eyeballs but not on a level playfield. The game is algorithmically rigged. Conspiracies are often more fun than facts. They drive more engagement and engagement makes more money, that actually is a fact. Meanwhile, journalism is expensive. Since Musk bought Twitter, it’s become impossible to ignore: endless content from MAGA accounts you don’t follow interlaced with crackbait viral videos.

But it’s one thing to write about information collapse, and another to live it. The Observer, or the hollowed-out shell of it, transfers to Tortoise on April 23rd and 100+ journalists have been terminated from the Guardian in various different guises. I’ve said before that in some ways, it doesn’t feel like a particularly surprising coincidence that this happened at the same moment that the tech bros merge with the US presidency. But on the other hand, it has been a lot to deal with.

And then, there’s the news. The only positive is that now that people are being kidnapped off the street by plain clothes ICE agents, the mainstream media has at least become bolder in naming what’s happening. You’ve probably seen stories about the Venezuelan deportees who’ve been shipped off to the megaprison in El Salvador including a Dallas bakery worker whose family claim he was identified as a gang member on the basis of an autism awareness tattoo.

Something about the story had snagged in my brain since I went down a rabbit hole of reading and watching videos on the prison and today, I realised why it’s bothered me so much. It’s not just that it is visibly a concentration camp, though it is. It resembles a set of vast battery chicken sheds for humans. The US deportees taken without any due process and with distressingly little chance of ever getting out are being placed in cells of more than 80 men crammed into tiered metal bunks. The whole place is a human rights violation but the authorities happily let in the cameras and show off the highly militarised guards and brutally choreographed admittance procedures.

What I’ve realised is that this is a concentration camp designed for social media. A point that was proved when the US Secretary for Homeland Security filmed herself in front of rows of silent prisoners and posted it on Twitter. I don’t quite know what this trend should be called. #fascistporn?

That’s a gold rolex, she’s wearing obviously.

The prison has been a key plank in the president of El Salvador’s strongman credentials and the alliance with Trump feels like a macabre new model for international relations.

A federal judge ordered the plane to turn around and return the deportees, and this was President Bukele’s response:

Bukele describes himself as a “philosopher king” in his Twitter profile and he’s a shitposter in the mould of Musk, retweeted by Musk, and now offering cutprice offshore rates for US’s first fascist outsourcing needs.

The prison episode, I’ve realised, isn’t just another bullet point in the breaking of the American Republic. And the US hasn’t just joined the axis of autocracy. This is a new an axis of edgelord strongmen who understand memetic warfare. And this feels like just the beginning.

Wood for trees

I hadn’t seen Bukele’s tweet until I read about it in this piece in the Guardian by Larry Tribe. He’s a Harvard professor and one of the leading constitutional scholars in America who has long been a clear and prescient voice about the risks that Trump poses to American democracy. He’s also someone who understands the role of technology in what we’re seeing happening. I got to know him a bit in the run-up to the 2020 US presidential election when he joined the Facebook Oversight Board.

The piece is a superb response to the dry and scholarly debate in the US about exactly what constitutes a “constitutional crisis” as opposed to some punchy executive orders that may be overturned etcetc. It explains some of the timidity of the press coverage to date and Larry helpfully scythes his way through the consitutional dithering:

But searching for evidence of a “constitutional crisis” in the rapidly escalating clashes of the executive branch with the judicial branch misses the larger cataclysm taking place across the US. This president, abetted by the supine acquiescence of the Republican Congress and licensed by a US supreme court partly of his own making, is not just temporarily deconstructing the institutions that comprise our democracy. He and his circle are making a bid to reshape the US altogether by systematically erasing and distorting the historical underpinnings of our 235-year-old experiment in self-government under law. What we are currently living through is nothing less than a reorganized forgetting of the building blocks of our republic and the history of our struggles, distorting what it means to be American. The body politic is being hollowed out by a rapidly metastasizing virus attacking the underpinnings of our entire constitutional system. Make no mistake. This is how dictatorship grows.

How to WhatsApp an (alleged) Russian spy

Now that Trump and Putin are buddies, Britain has become Russia’s number one enemy. That’s not supposition. Reuters has reported that the Russian foreign intelligence service had made a rare public announcement:

"London today, like on the eve of both World Wars of the last century, is acting as the main global 'warmonger. The time has come to expose them and send a clear message to 'perfidious Albion' and its elites: you will not succeed.”

What’s so striking about this is the language. It is a direct echo of the November 2017 speech that Theresa May made at the Lord Mayor’s banquet in which she called out Russia’s war of aggression against Ukraine and its weaponisation of the information space:

“We know what you are doing and you will not succeed.”

It’s an incident - and how it fits into a wider pattern of call and response - that we discuss in episode 6 of Sergei & the Westminster Spy Ring, the investigative podcast I’ve done with fellow journalist, Peter Jukes, super-producer Ruth Abrahams and Sergei Cristo, a dogged Russian-born British citizen who’s been trying for a decade to reveal the Kremlin’s attempts to subvert British insitutions.

It’s been pretty uncanny timing to have been writing and recording the final episodes of the podcast as the entire Russia-US relationship has shifted on its axis. And after we recorded the final episode, we had one last thing to do: call the alleged Russian spy who kicked the entire story off.

It’s another Sergei: Sergei Nalobin, the former first political secretary at the Russian Embassy in London.

We’d been sitting on two telephone numbers for him that had been published on a Ukrainian NGO website. There was obviously no way that the telephone number would still be functioning, it had presumably been exposed in a hack or leak of data from inside Russia, but we’d been making allegations about Nalobin throughout the series and it’s journalistic protocol to put those to the person in question and give them a right of reply.

So we tried the numbers. Peter rang from his phone and, as we expected, neither worked. But then I had the idea of putting them into WhatsApp and seeing if any details came up. A woman’s photo appeared and without thinking I called the number. This is what happened next:

Those “fucks” are real. I really never expected the number to be working. And the shock when the woman passes the phone to the man is very real. “Is it Sergei?” I ask. “Слушаю vас,” he answers. “I’m listening to you.” You can hear the freeze in my voice as my ask my question and then Nalobin’s reply, “I cannot help you.”

Not in this clip is my mini freakout that followed immediately afterwards, though we’ve put in in the episode. Calling an alleged Russian spy on WhatsApp on my own phone felt both dumb and instructive. Dumb because, well…the risk calculus on all things Russia has changed. Although by far the burden of that risk falls on Sergei, as the former Russian national (he’s now a British citizen).

The episode also includes an interview with Rainer Saks, the former head of Estonian intelligence. In 2022, we learned that Nalobin had taken up a posting there and was again expelled after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Saks describes Nalobin as an exceptionally talented operative with “aggressive tradecraft”.

And that there was no doubt, he said, that I had been the target by Kremlin information operations. He described the “scientific” approach that they use to target journalists and especially female journalists who they psychologically profile and then attack.

If a target is really valuable, they put a huge team to work with this profile. If you have to protect yourself personally as well, if you don't have a team behind who helps you, at least a huge team, you are wasting your time just for this personal protection. You have much less time to deal with your job. It was doing before, and this is, unfortunately, it's quite a classical case you have experienced, I would say.

Estonia is a frontline state and hearing this from someone who deeply understands the the Kremlin’s information operations was weirdly emotional.

Tony Blair’s former spin doctor, Alastair Campbell, and now one of Britain’s most influential political pundits tweeted this a couple of weeks ago encapsulating where mainstream opinion has been on the issue for the last eight years. This is not to throw shade on Alastair who has been very supportive of my journalism. But I was moved to respond to his tweet because the idea of a “conspiracy” was what so much abuse directed at this story (and to anyone who’s reported on it) focussed on.

And, if Rainer Saks is right, was itself amplifed by the Kremlin. (I’m happy to report that Alastair took it in good spirit and discussed it on an episode of the Rest is Politics.)

But the Nalobin incident was also instructive because in the making of the podcast, we leaned into the John le Carré spy genre to try and bring this story to a mainstream audience. We wanted to make it sound like drama and to a large part we succeeded, through Ruth’s skilful production and sound design. But calling Nalobin and having him answer, a real person, not a dramatis personnae, felt like we’d somehow broken the fourth wall.

And in any case, it isn’t a spy drama, it’s actually horror. We’re numb to it and Trump and Musk are trying to make us number to it. Worse, to make us bored of the ongoing murder and slaughter of civilians and believe that Ukraine’s defeat is a certainty. The chill I felt on the phone to Nalobin is the chill of reality.

The whole series is out now if you’re a box set binger and if you want to hear more, sign up to the Citizens newsletter as we’ll be advertising events around the series and issues it’s brought up. Also, Sergei has a crowdfunder if you’re able to bung in a few quid as he’s paid quite a high price for his whistleblowing activities.

The episode also includes a conversation between, Sergei, me and Luke Harding, the Guardian journalist who broke the initial story with him and who is relentlessly cheerful by nature. And this was his reflection with Sergei that I thought I’d extract and end on here.

I think deep down, we both care about democracy, we both recognize that it's under threat and that this decade quite similar to the 1930s I don't know if you agree, Sergei, but we could debate whether it's 37, 38, 39 but it feels to me that it's really difficult times, and that in these difficult times, people of good faith and good cheer and good spirit should support each other, and I think that's what we do.

[missacidburn928]

My brain did that dialogue driven thing again...

I am choosing to leave the characters up to you. Whoever you feel fits the role is who is should be. I'll leave who I'm feeling after the dialogue driven words my brain wouldn't shut up about until I wrote it out.

----

"Come on, baby. Hear me out. It's been 2 weeks already. You know she meant nothing to me. It was a stupid bet. I couldn't let him try and punk me like that by refusing."

The idiot has stopped me in my escape by placing his ridiculous frame in my path. Forcing me to confront him after I made my declaration of the end of our relationship and my intentions of never gracing him with my presence again.

As much as I do not want to. No matter how much I want to turn and just run away from the pain seeing his stupidly handsome will give me. I need him to get the message that we are well and truly over. Which is going to require some bravery on my part as I look him in the eye.

"You know what hurts the most? That you weren't even the one to realize how good you had it once it left you. No your little jesters had to point it out for you before it even registered in that thick skull of yours. God, I'm so pathetic to have given myself to such an asshole. Wait, no that gives assholes a bad name and some of my favorite people are assholes. You're just a vapid narcissist fool who can't see past his own ego to save himself. I am so thankful your carelessness and lack of self restraint pulled the e brake on your twisted carnival ride. Allowing me to walk away with my self esteem still intact. So please just go away. I meant what I said when I told you I never wanted to willingly lay eyes on you again. The sugar sweet apologies still perched in the back of your throat. I hope they turn to ash and poison. Slowly suffocating you in your delusions until self preservation takes over and you finally. Leave. Me. Alone."

I give myself a moment to catch my breath as my words sink in. I can already tell they are barely penetrating his thick skin. Movement to my left catches my eye. A body frame and gait I know all too well walking my way. With one quick look in their eyes I know my escape is not only imminent but will leave a devastating blow.

"There's my favorite human."

My shaking hand is quickly engulfed in warmth. Easing the tremors and replacing them with a sense of safety and ease as I am pulled away from my waste of space ex, into the embrace of my best friend.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, sweet face. You know how chatty my boss can be."

A kiss is placed upon my forehead. Extinguishing any remaining anxiety like a xanax to the bloodstream.

"Not at all. As always your timing was impeccable."

A throat is cleared beside us.

"Can I help you man? Me and the lady were just on our way home. Cozy date night ya know."

Eyes filled with barely restrained rage and hurt stare daggers into me.

"Him. That's whose bed you're warming now. Should have figured he was more than a friend this whole time. You know what, fuck you. You'll never have all of this again."

"So you can listen."

He steps forward.

"Fucking bitch."

I am smoothly pulled behind my black knight.

"I know that most of your brain cells are located in your biceps but I'm gonna need you to take a step back from my girl before I have to do something rather ungentlemanly."

"You against me? I don't care how big you think you are you couldn't land a punch on me if i gave you a free-"

Before he can finish his sentence, the sense as well as his consciousness is knocked out of him by a firm fist to the jaw. As soon as he hits the cold ground I am scooped up and carried valiantly over the limp body of my ex.

"Now what did you have in mind for dinner? I'm suddenly feeling rather ravenous and I'm not quite sure if food will be sufficient enough."

---

The pairs of men my brain came up with: (Let Me Know Yours)

Ex!Ransom & Bestfriend!Jax

Ex!Billy Hargrove & Bestfriend!Eddie

Ex!August Walker & Bestfriend!Will Shaw

[callsignfate]

I need you to be okay

Day Fourteen of Writemas/Birthday posts!

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

TW: Lecturing, mention of dangerous acts, mention of guns and military vehicles, mention and talk of military field work, If I've missed any let me know!

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡ This is stuck in my head. It's been stuck in my head. So now you all must have to read it. Reader is mentioned to be shorter than everyone and Laswell (I think)

(Soap finds out your married to Laswell might make a part two that he tells everyone)

You had joined TF141 for a temporary, unknown amount of time, often going by your callsign rather than anything else. Because they didn't dare ask your age, and you were slightly immature at times, they all called you different nicknames that had stuck with you.

A mission that was supposed to take no more than a day or two turned into almost a week. Everyone was excited to be back at the base. You could tell by the jokes and more revitalized tones that they were more than ready to shower and rest finally. You were excited, although for different reasons. You wanted nothing more than to see your wife.

"Shower and rest, Laswell wants a debrief in a few hours," Price said, grumbling about it under his breath about how he wanted a longer break for all of you and himself.

You nodded in response as the rest of them sighed and agreed with some small snide comments. You knew your wife well enough that she wanted to do it sooner; hell, she'd be there the second you stepped off the helicopter wanting a debrief if she wasn't trying to be even slightly nicer.

The hot shower and fresh, clean clothes felt like heaven. You finally got rid of the cold feeling that seemed stuck in your bones as you put on your favorite hoodie that you stole from Kate and headed out towards the meeting room. You could see Soap walking that way as well up the hall, also wearing more leisurely clothes.

It had been a few weeks since you had seen Kate. You could already hear her lecturing Price as you pulled open the door and looked to see almost everyone was here but Gaz. Kate's frustrated eyes flashed to yours as she raised her eyebrows with a pissed-off mom look she always gave you before she lectured you.

"And you, what in God's name do you think you were doing? We won't even talk about the reckless mistakes you made with them. I put you with them for a few months, and you begin to share their brain cells?" Kate's hands were moving frantically around as she spoke. She didn't often talk with her hands unless she was upset, and she was.

"I made the best decisions I could with the information and situation provided." You noticed that Kate took a lot of attitude back from the 141. She had vented to you about just how reckless they were, but you saw firsthand how tight of situations they get put in where they, and now you, had to make tough, probably reckless decisions to save their ass or get the job done.

"Don't talk to me that formally—I hate it, and you know it," Kate hissed out. In response, you laughed and sat down next to Soap, who looked bored and tired, although still happy and friendly as always.

You and Soap, while listening to Kate lecture Price, ended up spinning your chairs from side to side, quietly matching each other's movements with a stifled laugh every once in a while.

Gaz finally walked in. He sat near Ghost, who was silently watching it all unfold. Kate immediately went from lecturing Price to everyone as a group, sounding like a mother whose child had chased a ball into the street.

"Every one of you has a death wish or something? I leave for a few weeks, and suddenly the entire team decides to throw themselves into the line of fire like it's a bloody carnival game. I swear, Soap, you better stop making bets with Ghost on who can come closer to getting shot. And you," she pointed at Gaz, "I saw the report. You tried to take on a bloody tank with just a pistol!"

Gaz leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Well, Kate, you always said 'work smarter, not harder.' So, I thought, why not try it the other way around for a change?"

Kate's eyes narrowed, and you could practically see the storm clouds gathering. "This isn't a joke, Gaz. One of these days, your 'work harder' approach is going to get you killed."

Soap chimed in, "But we got the job done, Kate. That's what matters, right?"

"Getting the job done without getting yourselves killed or causing an international incident also matters," Kate retorted, crossing her arms.

You couldn't help but chuckle, earning a glare from Kate. "What's so funny?"

"Just missed your charming lectures, Kate. Reminds me that I'm home," you replied with a teasing smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, spare me. Anyway, debrief is over. Go get some rest, everyone, before you all end up in the hospital. And You, you stay."

As the door closed behind the last member leaving the room, you and Kate were left alone in the quiet aftermath of her scolding. The atmosphere shifted, becoming less official and more intimate. Kate sighed, her stern facade melting away as she ran a hand through her hair, a sign of her exasperation.

"You know," she began, her tone softer now, "I worry about all of you. This job... it takes a toll, and sometimes I feel like I'm herding a bunch of stubborn cats."

You chuckled again, standing up and walking over to where she was sitting. "Well, we're your stubborn cats, and you're the only one who can handle us."

She shot you a playful glare but couldn't hide the hint of a smile. "And what about you? Any reckless stunts I should know about? Or are you the one responsible adult in this operation?"

You leaned against the desk, meeting her gaze. "Oh, you know me, Kate. I'm the epitome of responsibility."

She snorted, playfully rolling her eyes. "Right. The 'responsible' one who used to climb out of bedroom windows just to avoid being caught sneaking in past curfew."

You smirked, recalling those rebellious teenage days. "Ah, those were the days. But seriously, I'm fine. No reckless stunts, promise."

She studied you for a moment, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful. "Good. Because... I need you to be okay. More than you probably realize."

Your teasing demeanor softened. You reached out, gently cupping her cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Kate. You're stuck with me."

She leaned into your touch, closing her eyes briefly. "Good. Because I'd hate to have to chase you down and drag you back."

You chuckled, giving her cheek a light, affectionate tap. "Wouldn't want you to break a sweat, now, would we?"

She swatted your hand away with a mock scowl. "Go get some rest. We've got work to do, and I can't have you falling asleep in the middle of a mission."

With a final teasing grin, you left the room, leaving Kate to her paperwork and thoughts. The banter might be constant, but the unspoken understanding between you two was clear—you were her anchor in the storm, and she was yours. As you walked out, you saw Soap standing near the wall with a slightly shocked but sly smile. He held your favorite cap, the one you wore often. Before you could react, he reached into it and pulled out your name tag that read 'Laswell.' Your face paled as you realized Soap had overheard your discussion with your wife and discovered the name tag you had hidden in your cap.

Soap, holding the name tag between his fingers, raised an eyebrow with a mischievous grin. "Laswell, huh? So, our fearless leader has a soft spot for you. Never would've guessed."

Your face heated up, a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "Soap, don't you have better things to do than pry into other people's business?"

He chuckled, tossing the name tag back to you. "Hey, just having a bit of fun. But seriously, you and the boss? That's interesting."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Price owes me twenty bucks. Said he never believed the boss would get involved with someone on the team. Guess we both lost that bet." You sighed, realizing that your personal life had become a source of entertainment for your teammates. "If everyone finds out we're married I will shave off your mohawk in your sleep."

Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful glint in his eyes. "Alright, alright, I'll zip it. Your secret's safe with me. No need to resort to mohawk threats."

"Good," you replied, though the playful threat hung in the air. You headed to your quarters, thoughts swirling. It wasn't that you were ashamed of your relationship with Kate, but the nature of your work demanded a certain level of secrecy. The last thing you needed was the team treating every mission like some kind of love story drama.

After dealing with Soap, you decided to find Kate. She was now likely in her office, buried in paperwork. The familiar sound of helicopters and distant chatter filled the air as you navigated the base.

When you reached her office, Kate looked up from her desk, a rare smile gracing her lips. "Took you long enough."

"Debrief ran late," you joked, leaning against the doorframe.

She raised an eyebrow, glancing at what you were wearing finally. "Is that my hoodie?"

You smirked. "Maybe."

Kate chuckled, standing up and walking over to you. "You know, I missed you."

"I missed you too," you admitted, pulling her into a warm embrace.

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡

[nightmarerodent]

what do you think the Kombat Kids think of each other? Do they hate their partners? Get irritated by them? Go wild!!!

(Frost can be included if you wish to write for her!)

Takeda and Frost fight like two cats trapped inside a box that’s then shaken violently. The rivalry is encoded in their blood. However, only they are allowed to talk smack about the other. Anyone else is being disrespectful to their brother/sister and they will defend the other’s honor on their behalf. But it’s not like they care about each other or anything. Certainly not.

Cassie and Frost are the disaster couple whose stupidity is so great it has its own gravitational pull. The sheer amount of hair pulling Takeda had to go through to get Frost to realize she had a crush was insane. He is never helping that emotionally repressed lesbian with any relationship issues ever again. (Or until next week probably.)

Jin thought very little of Cassie at first. Just another dumb American that was way too sure of herself but had no idea what she was doing. Now he crashes at her place all the time and they binge Bridgerton together. Times change. They are the gay/lesbian alliance and platonic soulmates and all shall be consumed by their bullshit.

Jin and Jacqui are the two most competitive MFers on the planet. They argue constantly. They love each other but will also turn anything into a competition just to have something to hold over the other’s head. Jacqui is glad she’s an only child because if she had a brother like Jin growing up she would’ve killed him. Doesn’t stop him from being the world’s best uncle to her children though.

Cassie took one look at Takeda and instantly knew she had to corrupt that goody-two-shoes in some way. He wasn’t going to be the little prince of the Shirai Ryu when she was done with him, oh no. He was going to be just as much of a mischievous little shit as the rest of them. Her unwilling sidekick in chaos. She succeeded. It took her two years but she got there in the end.

Frost and Jacqui see themselves as the only competent ones. Everyone else the wheel is spinning but the hamster is dead. They get along surprisingly well. Not best buddies for all time well, but they can hold civil conversation that doesn’t end in bloodshed. A rarity for Frost.

Jacqui and Cassie are BFF4Ls and sisters. Ride or die till the end. Also view each other as a sidekick sometimes.

Frost and Jin talk shit about the others together over iced coffee.

Takeda and Jin know each other more than they know themselves sometimes. They know every tic, every habit, every tell. They are as close as two friends could possibly be. Sometimes a bit homoerotic but that’s neither here nor there. They also sometimes share only one brain cell and it’s a guess as to who has it at any given time.

Jacqui and Takeda are Earthrealm’s most functional couple. They are so lovey dovey with each other that it can rot teeth. That’s not to say that they don’t fight sometimes, because they do, but it’s always resolved quickly enough. They never try to change anything about the other and love every flaw and insecurity the other has.

Conclusion: You are just as likely to find this group of chuckle heads bickering as you are to find them all asleep together in a cuddle puddle. Found family relationship goals right here.

[feelboss]

You're not making any sense and for someone whois 30 or 40 years old you are starting to sound like a teen. Maybe you should take a break from Tumblr?

anon I just had a full work week which ended with a dvm leaving to relieve a different clinic, leaving us with one doctor and 50 appointment, and a relatively young dog whose issues were entirely preventable & treatable having to be euthanized because the owner let it get out of control. i carried an incontinent, urine dripping, skin infected animal around and told her what a good girl she was and that everything will be ok and there won't be any pain any more. i ended up covered in infected skin cells and reeking like yeast and piss, and i still pet her and comforted her as I made the clay paws for her owners

i think i deserve to let my brain turn off on FUCKING TUMBLR DOT COM of all fuckin places

[ssa-dado]

i've recently started getting into philosophy because of symposium!!! i'm a literature major so i have my run-ins with it, but only recently started deep-diving into it...

so i have to ask because he's turning out to be one of my favourite philosophers... how do you think teach would feel about foucault?

First of all, I’m absolutely honored 😭😭😭😭 Honestly, I always thought the philosophy bits were just fan service for me - writing Symposium has always been my way of healing from my high school trauma with philosophy (I’ve always loved the subject, but my teacher only made us study its history, never its applications, so now I'm studying everything back again to my own terms) The idea that I might have influenced someone to explore a subject I love is beyond incredible. Truly, I might have cried over this 🤌🤌🤌🤍🤍🤍🤍

AAAAAAAÀ, I have so many thoughts…

First of all, I think Teach, being a professor at heart, will act like one. If asked directly, she will first give the family-friendly answer: "I don’t have a favorite philosopher. I love them all the same, so I appreciate Foucault's work."

Girl, wtf. You DO have favorites.

Long post.... I'm sorryyy

I think that out of the contemporary philosophers, Foucault is probably the one whose views she agrees with the most.

As you know, Foucault focuses a lot on the paradigm of power - what it means in modern society, the ontology of power, and all that good stuff. I did a mini breakdown (oversimplified, probably not 100% correct, it's just my interpretation) of Foucault's view on power and what she might agree with or not:

That power is everywhere: Not only in governments but also in every kind of relationship. That it’s something that flows between people and institutions in general: Here’s why it’s so important to be mindful on the kind of relationship teachers have with their students, because they shape them - they have power over them. But the opposite is also true, students influence their teacher. Because power isn’t just oppressive, it’s productive. It creates knowledge, rules, and ways of thinking.

She fucks with this last part very hard. When it comes to the teacher/student relationship she might agree in a way but she would use different words, in finding a balance of power between teachers and students.

Here's why she argues with that lovely unit chief so much. Ironically I think Hotch would totally agree with Focault (she probably tells him to read his works at least once a week but of course Hotch doesn't have time for this fuckery)

How those in power influence what is considered “true”: Here’s why, in his opinion, the way mental illness or sexuality is understood has changed over time - because of shifts in power and societal norms.

And since German Existentialism is unfortunately wired into her brain, I believe she does her best to form her own opinions based on individual studies rather than being swayed by someone else’s ideas. She still wants to believe in the power the individual holds within themselves. Idealistic, yes, but that’s Hegel’s fault.

Disciplinary power: Modern society, instead of using brute force, employs subtle forms of discipline, like rules, surveillance, and norms. Especially when it comes to surveillance - in schools or prisons, people are constantly monitored, which makes them behave a certain way, even when no one is watching. Here’s why he uses the panopticon as a metaphor for modern society. (Fun fact: in the Season 11 finale, when Tara is in the serial killer block of the prison, the architecture is influenced by the panopticon - circular floorplan, with all the cells facing each other)

To be fair, I think she kind of hates this, especially Foucault's idea of using the panopticon as a model for every prison. It’s only a temporary fix - people should not behave a certain way out of fear of being watched or judged, but because they truly believe it. Fear gives no real education to the individual. The core of the problem lies elsewhere. (Here’s why she vibes with the next point so much)

Resistance to power is possible by questioning norms and creating new ways of thinking.

Basically every interaction she has with anyone, especially that fucker of a lawyer Unit Chief

One random thought that came to mind is that when she applies philosophy to behavioral sciences, she doesn't do it because she strongly believes in a particular philosophy, but because she believes that over the centuries, certain ideas become ingrained in culture.

These ideas evolve alongside society, so her approach is to reconnect those fragments to their original concepts to understand the underlying patterns.

Influencing a culture takes time, which is why she rarely references 20th-century philosophers - they may have transformed the way philosophy operates, but they haven’t yet reshaped society. However, she is more likely to use them for the psychological aspects, as most of them base their ideas on experimental sciences. (Freud, Jung etc.)

Hopefully it makes sense AAAAAAAAAAA

[agentrouka-blog]

Oh wow I never considered that Olenna might have had a grudge against Sansa for originally being betrothed to Joffrey. That's interesting.

It's so Tywin-esque. Yeah obviously Margaery is an excellent match and if Robert had chosen her for Joffrey, nobody could argue that she wasn't suitable.....

But like anyone with half a political brain cell could understand why Sansa was chosen. She was the daughter of the man who helped Robert win his throne. The Tyrells did nothing. Sansa is also closely connected by blood to three Kingdoms (the North, Vale, and Riverlands) Classism isn't a good thing obviously but it would be a deciding factor here too. The Starks are of a line 8000 year strong and have ruled Winterfell, and they ruled as Kings. The Tyrells on the other hand were stewards that the Targaryens raised up and who have ruled the Reach for 300 years. 300 years is a long time to us but for Westerosi it's basically last week.

I can't think of a different reason.

I don't think it's terribly rational, deep down. The sheer determination to get Some Kind of Crown is both a very Tyrell desire (they were never kings in the olden days) and a Very Olenna desire, as well.

Back before Summerhall, the Targaryens snubbed four prominent families by ignoring marriage contracts: the Baratheons (who rebelled and got a replacement out of it, Rhaelle), the Tullys, the Tyrells and the Redwynes.

Olenna Redwyne-turned-Tyrell claims she "put and end" to her betrothal to Daeron, but the history books tell a different story. Why lie about that, unless it was a HUGE blow? Cersei is still obsessed with Rhaegar, so why should Olenna have been different after marrying her "oaf" of a husband?

So her son marries Allerie Hightower (who has Valyrian ancestry and the silver-haired look, is that an accident?) and after Robert ousts the Targs, her granddaughter is meant for the throne, in Olenna's eyes. Margaery is to fulfill Olenna's thwarted ambitions of royalty.

But Robert picks Sansa for Joffrey. Snubbed again. So maybe Olenna can supplant Joffrey by offering Marge to Robert and help reveal Joff's bastardy? No? Then it's Renly who wages war for the crown (at whose instigation?). No? So it's Joffrey again, ousting Sansa. Or better yet, it should be Tommen. RIP Joff.

And if Sansa, whose claim Olenna may or may not have seriously wanted for Willas, takes the fall for it alongside her husband Tyrion, whom Olenna can't seem to stop mocking, either? Well. That's simply tragic.

[ethicalvinyls]

the bread bully

synopsis: ellie has been a bully to YN for a while—since she arrived to jackson. and it’s been killing yn… because she has a crush on ellie. and what’s worse, she’s friends with her friends dina and jesse. on her birthday they throw a small get together for her, but what yn doesn’t know is that ellie is invited too. tension is high.

pt 2 soon ?

________

If I was born 20 years before the apocalypse began, I would have been celebrating my 19th birthday by sneaking into 21+ bars and drinking odd combinations of drinks beside a hot woman. Instead, I am celebrating my 19th by opening my father’s bakery. I’m invited to Dina’s to drink and smoke with her and Jesse, but as I set up the shop, I remind myself of who enjoys hanging around them… 

Ellie has never liked me. I say that despite her recurring presence at the shop every week. In exchange for sweet treats, she slaps a rude comment across my face and waits for my reaction. Said comments never fail to dim my smile, which I assume is what she wants. 

I like Ellie. She’s gorgeous–from her build to her hair and skin; the freckles that dot her face and make her look like the inside of a holiday snowglobe. I’ve had a crush on her since the day she arrived in Jackson. But to confess that, especially now, is like making a terrible joke to a room full of snobby teenagers and waiting for them to laugh in your face. 

When I shut the door to the pretzel rack, the door to the shop swings open. I look to the floor, knowing who it is walking in–Ellie, of course, with her old raggedy Converse and faded black jeans. I turn around and plug the coffee machine in, the smell instantly pouring out. I may not be a rude person, but the least I can do is fill the room with the scent of black coffee. 

“Hey,” Ellie says, her singular word sending a deathly shock through my chest. It felt as though I ate a bag of needles. “Get me a couple of chocolate muffins.” 

I feel my jaw twitch. I hate serving people whose vocabulary lacks please, and thank you, or “Could I get,” instead of “Get me.” Also, what number is a couple? Am I supposed to know that? 

I roll my eyes and reach for my gloves. However, before I slide them on, I pause. “Excuse me?” I say, which would have worked if I responded immediately. Now I just sound stupid. 

“Get me a couple of muffins.” Ellie doesn’t move a muscle or even a stupid brain cell, by the looks of it. She doesn’t catch on to the fact that I won’t get her, however many muffins constitute ‘a couple’ until she asks for them respectfully. 

I drop my gloves and tightly grasp the counter until my knuckles turn white. “I know what you said, I just–” 

“Then why are you acting like you don’t?” Ellie snapped. 

“You are literally just telling me to get you shit without being respectful. It’s like you know I’ll have to give these muffins to you.” 

“You don’t have to,” she answers with a shrug. That stupid, ugly shrug she does when she wants to sound smart. Like she has the entire fucked up world in her hands and she can do as she pleases. “But isn’t that what you do? Serve people? That’s your job–to get me what I need.” 

“Yes, I serve people, but that doesn’t mean you can be a dick. Why don’t you just say please, or thank you or–” 

“YN!” my dad shouts from the kitchen. He steps out with a rag mushed up in his hands. “Stop being rude and give the lady what she wants. Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you can treat everyone how you want.”

I feel like ripping Ellie’s tongue out and slapping her with it. It was my birthday and she had already embarrassed me in front of my own dad. I was over her. 

“Oh shit!” Ellie exclaims. “It is your birthday, huh. That’s why I was invited to Dina’s.” 

I nodded. 

“Happy birthday young one,” she says as if she wasn’t rude to me a second ago. She pauses, steps back a bit, then taps her fingers against the countertop. “Could you still get me a couple of muffins though.” 

I rolled my eyes. “How many is a couple?” 

She scoffs. “Four.” 

I throw on my gloves, pick up her stupid muffins, and wrap them in the cloth she kindly slid onto the counter. I push them back to her and give her a curt smile. “Here ya’ go.” 

“Thanks,” she murmurs, grabbing her muffins and running off. 

It isn’t some kind of secret that I gained weight. Everyone knows, but no one has said  a thing. I guess it’s because it suits me well. I’ve been walking and running and lifting more than my dad, so I eat more. And with that… almost every part of my body has gained a bit of fat. The only issue is, my bra’s no longer fit. They suffocate my skin under my boobs and make them spill over. 

I stare at my body in the mirror and simply give up. My boobs are spilling out and I know my skin will bruise if I keep it on. I opt for a no bra kind of night, and wear two shirts: a spaghetti strap camisole and a long sleeve. I throw on my black jeans and boots and run over to Dina’s without saying a word to my dad. He knows where I’ll be. Plus, we already shared a birthday cake before we closed up shop. 

When I arrive at Dina's, I shove my shaking hands into my pockets. I don’t know if Ellie will be inside, but the thought of her staring into my soul with her ridiculing smile shakes me. 

The brown door swings open and there stands Dina holding a joint. “Come in,” she says with her large smile. 

I nod and step in, the shakiness slowly pooling beneath me. Until I hear the sound of her stupid Converse scuffing the floor followed by her laugh. All of a sudden the shakiness shoots up my body and paralyzes my bones. I stare at Dina as if Ellie didn’t tell me she was invited. I had an ounce of hope that she would decide to stay home–but she loved Jesse and Dina and wouldn’t miss hanging around them. 

“You okay?” Dina asks as her hand slides onto my shoulder. I flinch and my bones snap. 

I nod. “Yeah,” I respond, shaking my body out and taking a step. “Just forgot she’d be here.” 

She sighs and rubs her cool fingers down my shoulder. “Just… don’t acknowledge her.” 

I roll my eyes and walk past her, her hand falling and sweeping past my ass. “As if that’s easy to do.” 

She cackles and follows behind me to the kitchen where Jesse and Ellie are making drinks with homemade cranberry juice. They pick up the glasses without realizing we’re walking up to them. They almost drop them until I slide a hand over Ellie’s hip, gripping onto her and taking the drink from her hand. 

“Be careful,” I mutter and place the glass back on the counter. 

She clears her throat and steps back, her hands awkwardly maneuvering down her waist where she dusts her hips off. “You bumped into me,” she spits. 

“Sorry,” I say and raise my hands in mock defense. 

“Hmph,” she mutters. 

I laugh and take the glass back, sipping it quickly. “You surprised that someone has manners?” 

She wraps her hands around the counter and leans down until she’s staring down my eyes and breasts. “You’re still mad at me for that?” 

I take another sip and raise my eyebrows while the strong taste of liquor seeps down my throat. “No, just pointing it out,” I say, my voice implying another comment is lying on my tongue. 

She lets the silence become murderous before she speaks. A smart tactic, because I want to pull away and rethink all that I’ve said to her despite nothing overly insane snuck out of my mouth. I almost do–pull away and walk out of the room–but she speaks. 

“Why do you not like me?” she asks. She slides her hand across the surface and steals my drink–which was, I’m assuming, hers to begin with. She takes a sip and raises her eyebrows while I laugh absurdly. “What?”

I shake my head and push myself off the counter. I step back and shrug. “You asking that is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day,” I tell her. “Which is crazy considering what you were telling me this morning.” 

She finishes the last of her drink and pushes it into the sink. She hurries to me in long strides and grabs onto me. I turn to look at Jesse and Dina, hoping one of them would look at me and pause the situation, but they’re laughing, fucking one another with their eyes. Ellie slides me back around and I follow her to the back porch. 

The door slams and I’m next: Ellie slams my body on top of hers as she drops onto a chair. I dig my nails into her shoulders and gasp in her face. The natural scent of mint and cranberry wafts back into mine and I swallow down my breath. 

I pat her shoulder where my nails sinked in and push away from her. However, she grasps my biceps and presses me back into place. 

I look at her with small eyes and a frown etched onto my mouth. “I’m trying to get off,” I utter. 

“I know,” she replies. “But just stay. I want to know all about your little resentment towards me.” 

I can’t help but roll my eyes for the fifth time. I look away at the reviving grass and laugh. 

“Why are you laughing?” 

“Because.” I return my focus onto her and my smile fades as she doesn’t have one across her face. “Because you hate me.” 

She scrunches up her face and shakes her head. “What?” she asks–like she doesn’t know what the hell I mean. “No, I don’t.” 

I push off her with enough force to bounce off her lap. I stumble over my boots but hold onto the wood pole behind me. “No, you don't?” I gasp, trying to catch my breath after almost dying. “You come into my shop almost every single day just to make fun of me.” 

“That’s not true.” 

I scoff and shake my head, in such an angering way that it might spin off and knock her unconscious. “How? Are you going to gaslight me into thinking I’m just going crazy? Because I’m not. I might be a little younger than you but that doesn’t make me clueless.” 

“I didn’t say you were,” she mutters. 

I purse my lips and throw my hands in the air. Why try with this girl if it’s going to end in me almost popping a blood vessel. 

“I can’t fucking stand you,” I exclaim and walk back into the house. I walk directly to Jesse who is so happily making drinks in the kitchen. I grab the whiskey bottle and pour it directly into a glass. I’m not much of a whiskey drinker, but why not. 

I take the full glass to the front porch and drink it slowly as I look at the remaining people entering their homes after a long day. Soon enough, the streets will be empty and I’ll be left with the sound of chirping cicadas. 

And slowly, it does happen. I continue sipping on the never-empty whiskey in my glass and listen to the insects rummaging in the shrubs. No one really interrupts me besides Jesse who comes out to fill my glass and ask how I am. I say I’m fine, but he knows I’m not–he senses something happened with Ellie earlier, but he doesn’t ask. He knows I’ll talk about it later. 

As the night gets more lonely and darker, I feel the whiskey warming up my body. At one point my nipples were harder than rocks and I began shivering, but now I feel like a blanket has slid across my entire body. 

I feel nothing. Not even the disappointment from Ellie treating me like trash. But I don’t know why I didn’t expect her to act as if nothing happened when I brought it up. Now I just feel stupid. 

A knock at the door alarms me. I turn around and almost sink into the wooden steps. Ellie stands there with a joint in between her fingers with a box of matches and a drink in her other hand. 

“I’m okay,” I tell her and turn around. “Tell Dina and Jesse that I’m good.” 

“It’s your birthday,” she says. 

“Yeah,” I mumble, “I know.” 

“So why have you been outside for the entirety of this celebration? You do know this is for you, right? It’s not Dina or Jesse’s birthday.” 

“If you’re here to make me feel more like shit, you’ve done your job. Now please, go back inside.” 

“No.” 

“Ellie!” I exclaim, setting my glass down and wobbling up onto my feet. “What the fuck is your deal? Go back inside and leave me alone!” 

She extends her hand, palm up with the joint laying across it. “Peace offering.” 

I shake my head. “You just came out here and told me I ruined the night.” 

“Not what I said.” 

“You essentially did.” 

“Did the exact words come out of my mouth?” 

“Fuck you,” I spit, and bend down to collect my drink. But I guess I’m not as balanced as I thought I was, so I almost slam onto the ground. 

Ellie reaches out for me and grabs my waist, sitting me down alongside her. “Be careful,” she tells me, copying my words from earlier. 

“I don’t like you,” I mutter. 

“Cool,” she replies. She places the joint between her lips and lights it with the already burning match. She sucks in and blows out, the strong smell of weed funneling into my nose. “You wanna hit?” 

I take the joint and suck in as hard as I can. I almost cough out a lung, so I sip on my whiskey. Ellie doesn’t ask if I’m okay, but I have a feeling she cares because she takes the joint from me and grabs her drink. She pushes away my whiskey glass and instantly I drink whatever is in her cup. 

Juice. Homemade apple juice. 

I wrap my hands around her own and sip until there is nothing left. Her laugh overflows my senses after I drink enough to burst my bladder. She takes the empty cup and sets it on the ground, the same hand settling down on my back two seconds later. I feel her fingertips rolling over my spine and I shiver. I know what she’s doing–she wants to sleep with me so she can prove that despite being an asshole, you can still have your way; because she always does, have her way. 

I swivel around and stare at her and the hand that has fallen onto her lap. She runs it down her thigh then digs her nails into her knee. 

“What?” she asks. “Did I do something?” 

I nod and stand up, my balance remaining wobbly. “Yes. I mean, you come out here to talk trash about me, then you let me hit a joint, and you let me drink some of your juice. And it’s all for you to try and seduce me. So you can show everyone in Jackson how much of a spoiled whore you are.” 

Ellie’s eyebrows crinkle and her mouth falls into a frown. She stands up and walks towards me, her hand stretched out in an attempt to make me stand still. I stand still, but not for her. I want to let my words knock her down. 

“I’m not going to be another gay girl in Jackson that gives you what you want,” I tell her. Ellie seems hurt, her shoulders dragging on the ground, her chest heaving like I punched the air out of her. I shouldn’t care because she never does, but I feel like sewing my lips together. “What number am I?” 

“Stop,” Ellie mumbles. “That’s not even it. I’m not trying to seduce you, Y/N. I was trying to be nice .” 

I scoff. “Oh really?” 

She turns around and walks down the steps, kicking down the cup in her path. I don’t have a clue where she’s going, but with the guilt slowly chewing my insides, I follow her. 

I say Ellie’s name. 

She turns around and tries to walk faster, but there is nowhere to go or hide that I wouldn’t know of, so she stalls. “What?” she huffs. 

“I sounded rude,” I tell her. 

“Okay?” 

“I should have tried to word it differently.” 

She turns around with a smile. She dips her hands into her pockets and begins cackling, her hair shaking out of its ponytail. “You were rude, and you never are. It’s cool. Just surprised that you called me out on my shit.” 

I shake my head and head over to her. I stand directly in front of her with only a foot of distance between us. “I like you, Ellie,” I whisper. “But it hurts knowing you mess with other girls in Jackson. And you’re being mean to the one girl that truly likes you.” 

She avoids my gaze, instead shoving her fists deeper into her men’s jeans. I want to shout at her to look at me. How is it that she can throw foolish words at me while staring me down but as soon as I confess to her that it hurts liking her because of this, she can’t even bare her eyes. 

I laugh and take a step back. “You won’t even look at me when I’m talking to you. This means a lot to me–just telling you how I feel! And you won’t even share a fucking glance.” 

I stand there hoping she’s only quiet because she’s forming a coherent apology, but all she does is rock back and forth with a cold look on her face. 

I nod. She’s not going to apologize. She doesn’t even feel bad for what she’s done to me. So I back away and turn around, the alcohol draining from the bottom of my feet. 

— 

I’m sober when I walk back to Dina’s. I pick up my shattered glass outside and throw it into the trash. I pick the glass out of my hands and bandage it up. All in silence. Music streams from some part of the house, but I can only hear my humming. 

Dina and Jesse are somewhere, but I don’t know nor care. I just clean up and leave. 

I’m on my way home when I see a shadow grow behind me. The smell of pine–that isn’t the trees around me–invades my nose and I begin walking faster. 

My name is called a matter of three times before I even acknowledge it. 

“What?!” I shout. “Leave me alone, Ellie. I don’t want to talk to you.” 

Her body speed walks beside me. “Can you just listen?” 

“To your dumbass apology?” I ask. “No.” 

“Y/N,” she pleads. “Just look at me.” 

I scoff. “Why should I? You didn’t do the same for me.” 

“Okay well I’m looking at you right now. And I want you to look at me so I can offer a true apology.” 

I try to walk even faster to my house. Right now I’d rather run into the forest and let the clickers eat me. 

“Y/N!” she exclaims. 

I want to cry. I desperately need to release a tear. 

Ellie shoves herself in front of me and grabs my shoulders. “Please,” she says. “Please just listen.” 

I look into her eyes with a tear plopping onto my cheek. I shake my head and grab her hands, shoving them off me. “Why would I after you’ve spent so long ridiculing me in front of my own family?” I cry. “Fuck off Ellie. I don’t wanna hear it.” 

I push past her and make it to my house three minutes later. I push the door open and as soon as I step one foot inside, I cry my lungs out.

[torreshalstead]

Unrequested Assist

Summary - A crowded Chicago bar on a Friday night was the last place Hailey wanted to be but she had promised Vanessa. And the guy that kept trying to hit on her when she clearly wasn’t interested just added to her regret of agreeing to go out.

Until a stranger interrupts and offers her the most welcome unrequested assist, maybe the night could still turn around after all. AO3 Link

This guy could not take a hint, Hailey thought as she pulled her body back as far away from him as she could. She was somewhat limited by the busyness of the bar but still, anyone with two brain cells to rub together should understand that she did not want to be chatted up tonight. In fact, she didn’t even want to be here. But Vanessa had insisted and she had already bailed on her roommate more times than she was able to count in the last few weeks - grad school was far more intense than Hailey had anticipated.

So here she was, in an overcrowded, overpriced bar in downtown Chicago on a Friday night - the exact ingredients that would lead to a hurt head, sticky shoes and possible regrets the next morning. But Vanessa seemed happy. She was currently dancing with a black guy whose broad shoulders meant he took up enough space for almost two people and Vanessa was doing her best to rub her hands up and down every inch of them. He looked familiar but Hailey couldn’t quite place him, maybe he was someone from school? Ken? Keith? Names and faces were not her forte but the man in question looked just as happy with his choice of dancing partner as Vanessa did.

‘So do you come here often?’ Hailey audibly groaned at the awful attempt at a chat up line. The sweaty guy who was in desperate need of a shower was clearly inept at reading body language. She was about to shift another inch to the left before realising that would mean she would end up on her arse as she was currently sitting on the tiniest sliver of the bar stool.

Feigning deafness, it was loud in here after all, Hailey took another sip of her beer and kept her gaze firmly ahead. Maybe he’d just get bored and leave her the hell alone.

It wasn’t that Hailey didn’t like to be flirted with and for sure with the right guy at the right time, she was all up for it. But tonight was not that.

It had only been 6 weeks since she had broken up with Garrett. Or more accurately, since he had walked out of their shared apartment together and left her alone.

She had thought he was it. The person she was going to spend the rest of her life with. She had thanked her lucky stars that on her first day at Law School, she had sat next to him in class, he had complimented her Bears jersey and she had never had to go through the trials and tribulations of modern day dating. They had fallen in love quickly, Garrett uttering the 3 magic words just 2 months in and Hailey echoing them immediately.

After their first year of school had ended, they had decided to get an apartment together and Hailey had assumed the next step in their relationship would be a ring on her finger and a trip to city hall, neither wanting the big white wedding you saw in the magazines. They had discussed it all, how many kids they wanted (2), if they wanted a cat or a dog (a dog), if they wanted to live in the city or move to the suburbs (city until the kids were a little older than out to the suburbs to benefit from the better schools). And yet none of that had happened.

He had left her. Alone. With a two bedroom apartment she already struggled to pay half the rent for. Luckily her only other friend at school, a bright spunky girl by the name of Vanessa, had also needed somewhere to stay and she had moved in the same week and relieved some of the burden, at least the financial burden, of being newly single.

He had uttered little to no explanation, just saying he didn’t feel the same about her anymore and needed his space. What kind of shit-man-brain excuse was that, Vanessa had said when Hailey had replayed the events to her.

A tiny part of Hailey was thankful, thankful he had ended it if he truly didn’t feel that way about her anymore. As much as she wanted to marry him, have his children and spend the rest of her life at his side, she didn’t want to end up in a loveless marriage. She was a child of one of those and it was a painful experience for all involved.

Vanessa had done all she could the past few weeks to bring Hailey back to her old self and not the miserable version who only wore oversized hoodies, ate copious amounts of cheese straight from the packet and moped around the apartment, all her spark having vanished. And Hailey loved her for it. Even if at this exact moment in time she was having strongly mixed feelings as the foul smelling breath of her wanna be date breezed past her face.

‘You deaf girl? I was talking to you?’ He said, his previously calm and even sweet tone being replaced with something far more angry. It made the hairs on Hailey’s arms stand on end.

‘I think she heard perfectly well, pal, my girl just doesn’t want to talk to you,’ a honey smooth voice entered the conversation and a heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders. For a brief second Hailey panicked, a stranger was touching her without her permission and she most certainly was not okay with it. But just as she was about to shrug him off and make a swift exit, grabbing Vanessa as she did, the greasy guy apologised quickly and moved away.

‘Sorry for the unrequested assist,’ her saviour said, removing his arm as quickly as he had placed it there. ‘You just seemed fiercely uninterested and the idiot couldn’t take the hint.’

Hailey turned around to face him and nearly spat out her drink, which would have been a shame on multiple accounts. Firstly, his white t-shirt would have paid the price with a hideous beer stain, and secondly, he was gorgeous. As in teen movie star, hang a poster on your bedroom wall and kiss it every night before bed gorgeous. It took all of Hailey’s jaw muscles to stop her mouth from hanging open as she took him in.

He was tall, Hailey would peg him at just over 6 foot tall if she had to guess. Well built, but not huge. Like he knew which weights to lift in the gym to make him look good but not out of proportion. His dark hair was slicked back into a smart hairstyle, one appropriate for a police officer or a teacher but Hailey could see thanks to the heat of their current location, it had started to reveal its natural curl. But it was his eyes that were making her lose her cool. They were emerald green, dark and bright at the same time and she knew if she looked at them for any longer she might be tempted to say something she would regret in the morning.

‘No,’ Hailey said, more to herself but when the strangers faced looked puzzled she shook her head lightly and corrected herself. ‘What I meant to say is thank you, for the assist,’ she clarified.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said and Hailey added his smile to the reasons this man was far too beautiful to comprehend. If she had had more than one beer tonight she might blame her current lack of cohesive thoughts on that, but she hadn’t, so she couldn’t. It was all him that was making her tongue tied.

‘Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?’ She asked when she realised she hadn’t said anything for at least 45 seconds. Way to make things awkward, Hailey, she scolded herself.

‘I’m not one to say no when a pretty girl offers to buy me a drink,’ he said, slightly cheekily but it was working for him.

‘A beer okay?’ She asked, flagging down the nearest barman.

‘Perfect,’ he said with a little wink and Hailey felt her stomach tighten. Cheekiness and winking were not usually two characteristics that made her want to drag a man into the back and have her way with him. But on this guy, if they weren’t in a public place and she didn’t have an early start at the restaurant tomorrow, she would be climbing him right now instead of offering him a drink.

Handing him the drink over the bar, she did her best not to spill it all over him, although the condensation sliding down the bottle made that task a little trickier.

‘So…’ Hailey said, leaving a pause for the stranger to add his name.

‘Jay,’ he said, taking a sip of his beer, never taking his eyes off her as he did so.

‘So Jay, what brings you here on this glorious Friday night?’ She asked, aware it was a bit of a cheesy line but he didn’t seem to mind judging by the grin on his face.

‘Well…’ he matched her by leaving a gap in which she added her name. ‘Well Hailey, my brother asked me, or more like dragged me along but he blew me off as soon as his girl texted him. I was about to head off before, no fun letting off steam by yourself.’

‘What steam are you letting off?’ Hailey asked, intrigued by the man in front of her. They were having to speak a little loudly to hear each other over the music, but the loud beat wasn’t bothering her as much as it had been a moment ago.

‘New job,’ Jay shrugged lightly. ‘New sergeant is hard work and I’m not sure where I stand.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘I’m a cop.’

‘Oh,’ Hailey had let out the sound before she could stop herself and she saw the change in Jay’s features almost immediately.

‘Not a fan of the police?’ He asked, the flirty edge to his voice had vanished and Hailey wondered how many times he had had this same conversation and how many people had simply shut down after hearing his profession.

‘Not that,’ she shook her head quickly. ‘Just not a fan of coincidences.’ When Jay raised an eyebrow in question she added, ‘I’m a grad student at law school.’

The sparkle returned to Jay’s eyes almost immediately, ‘so if I have any law related queries on the job, I can give you a call?’ He smirked.

‘Is that you asking for my number?’ Hailey quipped back.

‘Was it too subtle?’

‘No, I think I got it,’ she smirked. ‘Give me your phone.’

She entered her digits into his phone and saved it - ‘Hailey the Lawyer to be’.

‘Nice,’ he said, noticing the contact name with a grin. Hailey felt her phone vibrate in her pocket as he sent her a text so she had his number too.

‘Do you want to dance?’ He asked after pocketing his phone. ‘Or go somewhere quieter to chat?’

‘Is somewhere quieter to chat, code for back to your place?’ Hailey sassed.

‘I mean, it can be if you want. But I’d also like to continue to get to know you, and we can do that on neutral ground if it makes you more comfortable,’ he said honestly and Hailey was taken aback. It was something men didn’t often consider, the risks associated with being a woman and agreeing to go back to a stranger's place. She was touched that Jay had thought of such a thing, but she was struck by the reasons that he probably had. She could have imagined he had seen some things in his time on the force.

Hailey was comfortable enough with him already, more than she should be for the minimal conversation they had exchanged, but still somewhere public was probably the smarter option.

‘Let me go tell my friend I’m heading off, then you can take me to the diner on Rush. I could go for a plate of curly fries about now,’ she grinned, making a move to get up off the stool but Jay pulled a face at her comment.

‘Curly fries a deal breaker for you?’ She asked.

‘Depends,’ Jay said, ‘Mayo or ketchup?’

‘Ketchup obviously,’ Hailey said, folding her arms over dramatically.

‘Deal is still on the table then Hailey,’ he winked and Hailey felt a warmth spread somewhere below her belt.

‘Perfect,’ she said, getting up to head over towards Vanessa. She wasn’t sure her friend would have noticed if she’d have disappeared anyway, she seemed far too wrapped up in the man she was currently wrapped around. Kieran? Kevin?

——————————————————————————

Picking a booth a couple away from the door, Hailey slid into the seat first and Jay sat opposite. He shifted in his seat slightly, eyes darting around the room uncomfortably.

‘You okay?’ Hailey asked, curious about his sudden change in behaviour.

‘Just not a fan of having my back to the door,’ Jay admitted and Hailey immediately stood up. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said quickly as she gestured for them to swap.

‘Jay,’ Hailey said firmly. ‘If you’d prefer to face the door, then please face the door.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, a hint of embarrassment crossing his cheeks but Hailey didn’t comment on it. There was clearly a reason behind his request, but not one he openly wanted to talk about and Hailey wasn’t going to pry. Goodness knows she had her own reasons about things she did, and not ones you tended to reveal to someone who was a stranger less than an hour ago.

The conversation flowed easily once they had swapped seats. Stopping only to order a plate of curly fries, Hailey insisting they could share, and a couple of sodas. Jay told her more about his job, how his new role was in one of the specialist units of the Chicago Police Department. Hailey could tell he was proud but was also the kind of person who kept their own accomplishments under wraps. She learnt how he ended up in the police force after enlisting straight out of high school, how his father was never impressed with his son's choice of career. Her heart clenched when he told her how he’d come home from his last tour to help his mom when she got ill. She reached across to rest her hand atop his when his voice caught when talking about his mom.

‘Enough about me,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Tell me how you ended up in Law School.’

Hailey didn’t mind the redirect, she imagined he didn’t usually open up to people about losing his mom so young.

‘Well initially it was the plan because it was what my father wanted me to do,’ she said, dipping one of the fries in ketchup before popping it in her mouth. ‘Stupid part of me wanted his approval, I guess I still do,’ she admitted.

‘Why is that stupid?’ Jay asked, ‘Don’t most people want their parents' approval on some level?’

‘I guess,’ she shrugged. ‘We don’t exactly have the best relationship, never have.’

‘Oh,’ Jay said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry for pushing.’ But she waved away his apology with her hand.

‘You didn’t, it’s okay,’ she smiled softly. ‘Luckily I love my course so even though it was originally just because he wanted me to do it. I’m not doing it for him anymore. It’s for me.’ She said proudly. ‘I haven’t even spoken to him in the time since I enrolled.’

‘What kind of law do you want to go into?’ Jay asked, and Hailey smiled, appreciating him not digging further about her father.

‘Family Law,’ Hailey said. ‘Less of the prenup negotiations but helping with child custody issues. People always seem to forget that kids have emotions and opinions in those situations, and I want to make sure they get a voice and are heard. May end up side stepping into child advocacy but we will see how it goes.’

‘That’s a good goal, admirable,’ Jay said with a warm smile.

‘So you’re not one of those cops who hates lawyers?’ She asked with a grin, taking the opportunity to pop a few more of the curly fries into her mouth. This place really did serve the best ones in the city.

‘I mean sure, some get in our way,’ Jay admitted, smirking at her across the booth. ‘But I appreciate those who are looking out for those who can’t look out for themselves, kids or people who get caught on the wrong side of things. Not everyone who breaks the law does it out of choice - a lot of cops forget that.’

‘Sounds like we’ve both got our reasons,’ she said, noticing that his comment seemed more specific than a broad generalisation.

‘I had a friend once, had a tough time integrating back into civilian life when he left the army,’ Jay began, and taking a deep breath he continued. ‘He got mixed up with some bad stuff when he got back, but it wasn’t as black and white as right and wrong. Stuff happens overseas, stuff that affects you, even when you’re back home, and Mouse really suffered with it. I channelled it one way, and he went another - doesn’t mean he wanted to be where he ended up.’

‘I got him on side in the end, signed him as a CI and now his record is clear. But it could just have easily been a black mark against him his entire life, a shadow following him around reminding of the times he made a mistake.’ Hailey was taken aback how honest he was being, but she appreciated it. Suddenly his actions tonight made a bit more sense, helping people in trouble was in his nature, be it a friend or a stranger, he wanted to help if he could.

‘He’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ she mused out loud.

‘I’m lucky to have him,’ Jay said quietly, ‘not sure I’d have made it home if I didn’t.’

It was raw and honest.

‘Got to keep hold of the good friends,’ Hailey said offhandedly.

‘That girl you were with at the club, she one of those friends?’ Jay asked, taking a long draft from his drink.

‘Yeah, that’s Vanessa,’ Hailey smiled as she thought of her friend. ‘She’s my ride or die. Knows me better than I know myself, and won’t let me forget it.’ She chuckled.

‘Excuse me dears, I need to cash up, do you mind?’ The kind faced waitress who had brought them their food earlier appeared with their cheque in her hand.

‘Of course not,’ Hailey said, reaching into her pocket for her bank card.

‘I’ll get it,’ Jay said, handing over a couple of notes which Hailey knew would more than cover their total with enough for the inconvenience of them being the last ones in the empty diner.

‘I can pay,’ Hailey said but Jay shook his head lightly.

‘I know you can, but I’d like it if I could treat you,’ he said honestly.

‘Can’t say no to that deary,’ the waitress said with a smile and a wink before she headed back to the cash register.

‘Thank you,’ she said warmly, and she meant it.

‘I can walk you back to yours?’ Jay asked as they got ready to leave, they had already overstayed their welcome and the waitress was clearly ready to go home for the night.

‘That would be appreciated,’ she said as they headed towards the door, throwing an additional thank you to the waitress as they walked out.

Hailey’s apartment was only a couple of blocks from the diner, hence why she knew it served the best curly fries - she was a regular. They strolled together, pleasant conversation easily flowing between them as their arms brushed together with more and more frequency as they got closer to her building.

‘This is me,’ she said, a hint of reluctance to leave the situation in her voice.

‘Well, thank you for a lovely evening Hailey,’ Jay said, taking a small step forward, letting his fingers brush against hers.

‘Ditto,’ Hailey breathed, taking a step forward herself and linking her fingers with his.

She didn’t know who made the first move, she had been intending to but he might have gotten there first. It didn’t matter though, his lips were on hers and their bodies were flush together. It wasn’t an awkward first kiss with clashes of teeth and bumping heads, it was as if she had been kissing him her entire life. Her lips melded to his perfectly and when he softly ran his tongue across the seam of her lips, she opened them willingly, letting their tongues dance together. Her fingers tangled into his hair, keeping his mouth firmly on hers.

His own hands had found a place on her waist, one snaking its way across her back, his palm large against her petite frame, the other brushing against a sliver of bare skin between her top and jeans.

Remembering suddenly they were standing on a public sidewalk, she pulled back slightly, looking up at him through her lashes. His lips were swollen and his hair was messed up thanks to her musings.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said quietly, his mouth only inches from hers. ‘If you’d like that.’

‘I would like that,’ she said, letting her eyes drift down to his lips again and pressing up her tiptoes to place a chaste kiss against his lips.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow?’ Jay breathed out when she pulled back a second time.

‘I look forward to it,’ she said, backing up towards her door, keeping their fingers linked for as long as she could before they fell apart. She smiled as she pulled out her key card and let herself into her building, glancing back over her shoulder to see Jay running a hand through his hair, a smile still tugging at his cheeks too. She gave him a little wave as she headed towards the elevator.

It wasn’t the way Hailey had thought her evening would pan out. But sometimes life throws you a curveball. And sometimes that curveball is a handsome police officer who appears with an unrequested assist and the evening turns into something you’d never expected but wouldn’t have changed for anything.

[backtothestart02]

Spin the Bottle - 1/1 | snowbaird fanfiction

A/N: Just a little fun modern au for y'all.

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Synopsis: Modern!AU - Livia Cardew's last party before graduation has an unexpected party guest and an even more enticing party game.

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Coriolanus was bored already.

It was the last weekend before graduation, the last Saturday, and he’d chosen to spend it at Livia Cardew’s house, his bully for as long as he could remember. She was more civil these days, but she was still ever-looking for ways to humiliate him and make him feel small. She didn’t know about his family fortune – or lack thereof – at the moment, but it was only a matter of time. Then again, with only one week left at the Academy, perhaps even if she did find out, he wouldn’t have to hear about it. They wouldn’t be in each other’s proximity anymore, especially if his scholarship application to the university didn’t result in a full-ride scholarship. He was still waiting on that letter.

In the meantime, he had to pretend he was the pretentious rich kid the rest of his classmates actually were. So far, he was succeeding. It was parties like this one that he felt he had to go to in order to maintain that image, even if only for one more week.

Someone approached him on his left. He was too focused on the punch in front of him to determine who that someone was, but he soon found out, and was grateful that at the very least it wasn’t the host of the party – and, most favorably, that it was his best friend instead.

“You’ve been standing here for the past 10 minutes.”

He smirked faintly. Clemmie.

“Trying to decide if the punch our host so graciously served us is spiked or not.”

“I’ve had some.” He turned to look at her. “You should be fine.”

He picked up a cup and eyed its contents. It looked fizzy, but that could be from gingerale poured into it, not alcohol. He turned to look at her and set the cup down.

“Feel a tickle in your throat? A buzz in your brain cells?”

She laughed and slinked her hand through the loop his arm left open.

“Not quite. But if you’re so worried about it, grab a bottle of water. None of those have been opened yet.”

“Livia will tease me,” he whispered into her ear, having to lean down some because of their height difference.

“So let her tease. She only gets one more week of this. Think of how lonely that existence must be.”

He smiled again. Clemmie understood him. She also wasn’t a fan of Livia Cardew either. He suspected few people genuinely were. It gave him a sense of pride to think they were civil acquaintances now, if only on the surface.

“Until University,” he reminded her, as if it was a statement of fact. Not even Clemmie knew the true state of his financial affairs.

“That’s three months away,” Clemmie pointed out. “You want a level head for sure? Drink that good-for-you H2O. Better that than what happened last time. Festus is still teasing you about what you can’t remember.”

He nodded.

He remembered that party. He’d downed the spiked punch that time without warning. Everyone had downed it. But then a game of truth or dare had ensued. (The rich kids loved their party games.) Somehow, he’d ended up with a girl whose name he didn’t know in a closet in Festus’ house.

The closet had to indicate a result of Spin the Bottle or Seven Minutes in Heaven. But he couldn’t remember kissing anyone, and he suspected more than just kissing had to have happened for everyone’s shocked reaction when he returned to the party. Not to mention Festus congratulating him on ‘becoming a man’, whatever that meant.

Couldn’t be sex. He would’ve remembered that. But maybe something close.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t remember, and was told he passed out soon after the occurrence.

He didn’t want a repeat of that. He could only imagine what he must’ve looked like. He didn’t like not being in control.

He grabbed a tightly sealed bottled water that he inevitably needed Clemmie to help open and joined the crowd of his inner circle in the living room.

As could always be counted upon, Livia noticed his choice of beverage immediately. Not just because it wasn’t punch, but because everyone else had a cup of punch in their hand.

“Water, Coriolanus?” she asked lazily.

“I’m trying to maintain my figure, Livia,” he said with a bark of snark in his voice. It was cocky, but he didn’t care; and besides, that type remark was likely expected of him with this particular crowd.

Livia rolled her eyes and returned her direction to the others. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and relaxed into Clemmie squeezing her arm. He’d successfully survived another bout of Livia’s teasing. He could survive anything else this night.

And that anything else appeared right at that very moment.

The front door opened and in walked none other but Sejanus Plinth.

Sejanus was a rich boy too, but he’d only moved to the rich side of town in the last year, only upped and joined the Academy in the last year too, which gave everyone the impression that he couldn’t afford to be there before then. He was teased mercilessly because of that, but no one ever refused an invitation to a party for him either. Whatever his situation had been, he was now filthy rich, and it’d be a mistake for anyone not to acknowledge that fact and therefore not invite him to be amongst the other rich, pretentious young kids he now schooled with.

What they all probably hadn’t expected, however, was the younger, shorter young girl that he walked in with.

She couldn’t be that young. Sixteen at best. But she looked small beside him due to her height, and she was noticeable because her dress, while not looking particularly used, certainly wasn’t in the latest fashion like the other girls were wearing. It looked handmade even, several fabrics sown together like a quilt. It was beautiful though, no denying that. And she appeared to be wearing it proudly, even considering the company she was now in.

“Sejanus,” Festus announced him. “How nice of you to join us.”

“Festus,” he returned with a bit of snark.

“And I see you brought a straggler,” Arachne, Livia’s glue-to-the-hip bestie pitched in.

Sejanus stopped, almost as if he was surprised she’d noticed.

“This is Lucy Gray,” he said, nudging her in front of him so all his friends could see. “An old friend of mine. We were just catching up, and I convinced her to come along.”

“Sejanus is being modest. I invited myself. How are y’all doing this evening?”

Her accent, as well as her speech, gave her away. She wasn’t just an old friend. She was from Sejanus’ old neighborhood. Still, to his classmates’ credit, none of them were overly rude to her. Only Livia rolled her eyes, probably annoyed that Sejanus had brought along someone who was not of her caliber. Not that she should be surprised. After all, Sejanus once had fallen into Lucy Gray’s category too.

And yet, for reasons he couldn’t understand, Coriolanus was fascinated by Lucy Gray. It wasn’t just her unique dress. Though, he suspected Tigris, his fashion-bound cousin, would’ve appreciated it. But just the way she carried herself, her confidence. And there was no denying she was beautiful, even if it was in a unique way. Unique in a good way though. He’d pick her out in a crowd long before even Clemmie, who he’d always considered the prettiest in his grade.

“Party’s a bore,” Festus responded for all of them, and Coriolanus was forced to snap out of the trance Lucy Gray had swept him under.

Livia’s glare could be felt across the room.

“You’re welcome to leave if you don’t like it,” she seethed with an air that said she didn’t care when she clearly did.

“Why don’t we play a game?” Lucy Gray suggested. “That always livened up the party in my place back home.”

“New girl has a point,” Arachne said, sharing a knowing look with Livia. “What should we play?”

“We haven’t played Spin the Bottle in a while,” Livia said.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Festus butted in. “That’s more interesting. More condemning.”

“Why not both?” Lyssie suggested, joining the crowd. “Make it a combination.”

“Works for me,” Coriolanus agreed, to Clemmie’s surprise beside him.

He rarely contributed to party games and often had to be dragged into them. But something about the possibility of kissing the new girl send delicious shivers down his spine. Especially since he wouldn’t be the least bit tipsy and would be remembering all of it.

“Lucy Gray,” Livia called her over. “Why don’t you sit here? It’s the best spot.”

And Coriolanus knew what she was doing. There was a small dip in the floor under the rug where Lucy Gray was sitting across from. The bottle was certain to land on her, no matter where else it landed first. Coriolanus didn’t know where the best spot was for him to get it pointed at him first, but he decided it would be directly across from her. And it better be. He didn’t want anyone else kissing her but him.

The wave of possessiveness threw him off guard, but he also felt it was deserved. Clearly no one else at the party really cared that much for her, aside from Sejanus, and if they were just friends, it’d be awkward for them to kiss, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’d be expected.

A chaste kiss on the cheek could be easily gotten away with for them, he decided. The jealous streak rotting him from the inside out at the visual of Sejanus kissing his ‘old friend’ surprised him too, but he decided not to analyze that too closely. He probably wouldn’t even see her after tonight.

“Alright, everybody, let’s begin.”

Livia emerged from the kitchen seconds later with an empty beer bottle and inched into the circle just enough to reach the middle and spin the bottle.

To no one’s surprise, it landed on Lucy Gray first.

“My, my, looks like I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“You know how to play?” Livia asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Everyone knows how to play these games. Can I spin the bottle to see whose lips I get to kiss?”

Stunned beyond reason, Livia could only faintly nod.

Lucy Gray leaned forward, giving Coriolanus a hint of her cleavage directly across from her. He gulped but tried not to make it too noticeable. Could she be any more irresistible?

The bottle spun and settled on him, just as he’d hoped it would. He tried not to appear too excited, but his eyes landed on Lucy Gray, and she looked supremely pleased with herself.

Was she just as attracted to him as he was to her?

The thought made his head spin.

“Alright, you two love birds,” Festus snarked. “One kiss for the circle, and seven minutes to make out in the closet.”

Lucy Gray went on all fours to make it halfway across the circle.

“Well, c’mere, Blondie. Let’s give ‘em a good show.”

Livia scoffed at the comment, not even aware of how much Coriolanus was blushing till he inched across and slanted his lips across Lucy Gray’s.

Stars exploded behind closed lids. It was just a simple kiss. Two pairs of lips pressed against each other for the sake of the game. But Coriolanus felt the shift in his universe the same as Lucy Gray did. And he could tell by the look in her eyes when she opened them. Like she’d just discovered something new and amazing that she wanted to try again and again. He felt the same.

Festus picked up on them leaning in a second time before they did.

“Alright, you two, save it for the closet.”

Lucy Gray stood up faster than she needed to, and Coriolanus didn’t think to slow himself down.

“Closet’s the last door on your l-” Arachne started, but Coriolanus had already grabbed Lucy Gray’s hand, feeling a buzz from that too, and was pulling her in the appropriate direction.

“I think he knows the way,” Livia muttered.

“I’ll set a timer!” Clemmie announced.

“Hurry.” Festus slunk back against an armchair. “Before they get an extra minute in.”

At the end of the hall, Coriolanus found the correct door at last and swung it open. Several items fell into the middle, making a solid clunk on the floor.

Lucy Gray giggled, her hand flying up to cover her mouth before bounding inside.

“Here, I’ll help.”

He grinned and followed her inside, flicking on the light switch and closing the door behind them after they’d pushed the items back to the sides of the little room.

“Could we turn the light off?” she asked.

He was surprised by the request but figured there couldn’t be much harm to it, so he flicked the light switch back off.

“Better?”

“Mhmm. Kissing’s more fun in the dark.”

He felt heat sweep over him, and his fingers tingled. He licked his lips.

“Should we sit down too?” he suggested. “So you don’t have to go up on your toes for seven whole minutes.”

Another giggle escaped her, and he felt like he was going to explode. She was even more mesmerizing when all he could do was hear her. He could get drunk on sounds like these.

“Good idea.”

They sat down together, and then reached blindly for each other in the dark.

“Ready?” she asked, slinking her arms up his chest till they wrapped around the back of his neck, her nails digging lightly into his scalp.

His hands settled on her waist, his brain too incoherent to form words anymore.

“Put them here,” she whispered, and directed his hands lower – on her ass.

“Lucy Gray.”

“I know.” She licked her lips. “Haven’t felt this turned on in a while.”

He choked a laugh.

“You too?” she breathed.

“Try ever,” he managed.

“Well then, let’s get to it, Handsome. Time’s a wastin’.”

He smirked, not bothered by her speech in the slightest. It wasn’t a turn-off at all. It was a turn-on.

Maybe he should be concerned about that as a ‘pretentious rich kid’, but right now he didn’t care.

He squeezed her ass instinctively, and Lucy Gray lifted herself up on her knees to kiss him.

As soon as their lips touched, it was like fireworks exploding between them. Coriolanus actually moaned in that first kiss. Safe where his classmates couldn’t hear him, he felt he could indulge. And when Lucy Gray’s tongue sought his ought as she deepened the kiss, he knew she’d done this before. It should’ve made his crazy jealous, like he’d been feeling jealous before, but it surprisingly didn’t.

It just made him feel lucky. Lucky that this stupid game had been chosen so he could make out with the girl of his dreams.

The kisses grew more feverish as seconds turned into minutes. The seven minutes passed but neither cared, and both were getting caught up in the moment, pulling at each other’s clothes as if they couldn’t wait to tear them off and chase the racing desire running lose inside of them.

Coriolanus pulled Lucy Gray impossibly close, breathing in her scent as he kissed her. He never wanted the night to end.

“Okay, you lovebirds,” was heard from the hallway, but neither paid any attention until the door swung open and the light switch was flicked on.

Then they froze and looked up at who had so rudely interrupted them.

“It’s been 10 minutes. What are they even doing?” Livia called from the living room.

“Probably sitting there, being awkward,” Arachne said, sounding bored.

Festus eyed Coriolanus and Lucy Gray, who were still tangled up in each other and not looking like they wanted to move any time soon. Not to mention, Lucy Gray’s lipstick was smeared across Coriolanus’ lips, and he didn’t seem to be minding it.

“Wouldn’t hold your breath on that, Arachne.”

Gradually, they untangled and got out of the closet. Lucy Gray looked up at Coriolanus, saw the lipstick on his face and licked her thumb to wipe it off. He wished she hadn’t, but he understood he had an image to uphold once he joined the rest of the crew back in the living room.

The game continued, but neither of them were chosen again, and their eyes were solely on each other.

After the game concluded, people meandered throughout the house, looking for other things to do. Coriolanus lost Lucy Gray in the crowd and couldn’t find her again until Sejanus was leaving out the front door an hour later.

“Sejanus!” he called after him, actually jogging after his ‘friend’ as he stepped outside. Lucy Gray was a few steps ahead of him and turned to look as well. “Where are you g- I mean, you’re leaving?” He glanced at Lucy Gray.

“Yeah, she’s got a curfew.”

“A curfew?” He frowned.

“She’s 16 and lives on the other side of town. Yeah, she’s got a curfew, Loverboy.”

“Well, can I… I mean, would it be okay, if I…?”

Sejanus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Lucy Gray, Loverboy here wants to say goodbye to you.” He walked almost past her before whispering in her ear. “I’ll be in the car. Don’t take too long.”

Then he walked away, toward his vehicle, leaving them alone.

“Hey,” she said shyly, a step away from joining him where he stood, but in two long strides, he reached her instead and took her hands in his own.

“Hey, yourself. I lost you in there.”

She shrugged.

“Wasn’t sure you wanted to find me.”

His jaw dropped.

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been going crazy wondering if I’m ever going to see you again.”

She blushed, probably grateful that he couldn’t really see it in the dark, but he wanted to see it. Wanted to know he wasn’t alone in this. That it hadn’t been just a game to her.

“Wouldn’t that hurt your image? Seeing me again?”

He thought about it, and then discarded it in an instant.

“Screw my image. I’ll be graduated in a week and then who gives a damn?”

She smirked.

“That’s the spirit, Loverboy,” she teased, going up on her tip toes so that his curls brushed her forehead. “You going to kiss me again? For real, this time? Not for a game?”

“It was never for the game, Lucy Gray.”

And he released her hands to cup her face as she wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him soundly. They kissed for several seconds before they heard a honk coming from Sejanus’ car.

Regretfully, they pulled away.

“Tell me I’ll see you again,” Coriolanus whispered.

She nodded slowly.

“Ask Sejanus for my number. If he doesn’t give it to you, I’ll step on his toes so hard he’ll give you anything he wants.”

Coriolanus grinned.

“I will. I’ll do it!”

She laughed and backed away.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lucy Gray.”

Absolutely riveted, he watched the car until it disappeared down the block. He didn’t know what this was: lust or love? It was anybody’s guess. But he knew he wanted more of it, and he was going to get it.