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#I HAVE AGONISED OVER IT FOR A WHOLE WEEK
tokkias · 1 year
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The way the Magnolia sun gleamed in through the crack in curtain, and splayed itself over the pink satin sheets of Lucy’s apartment, signalled the beginning of a new day. Vague memories of having made brunch plans with Levy the day prior hazed through her mind, but right now, her bed was just too comfy, her sheets, too plush, and the arm wrapped tightly around her waist was too warm to think about being anywhere but here.
Natsu stirred a little as Lucy shifted in his arms, turning herself over to face him before burying her face under his chin. In his half-sleep state, he accommodated her request, resting his chin atop her head as she hooked her leg around him, pulling him even closer into her grasp. Her fingers found a home in his hair, dragging them through his locks in a way that had him practically purring at her touch, which made it all the worse when she decided to pull away, to which he responded in turn with an involuntary whine at the loss of her touch.
His eyes fluttered open to meet hers, soft and radiant among the morning glow. Her lips were pursed slightly, practically begging to be encased by his own, and who was he to deny her that? He moved his arm to rest a hand on her cheek, gently caressing it with his calloused thumb before leaning in closer to her.
Lucy let out a hum of anticipation, letting her eyes fall shut as she waited for his lips to touch hers, only to feel a wave of shock pulse through her body when she felt his tongue drag across her face. She bolted up into a sitting position, only to be met with her partner, who was absolutely laughing his ass off at her reaction.
"Did you just lick me?!"
Her face was filled with disgust as she watched Natsu try, and fail, to pull himself back together, wiping away the tears he had begun to shed in his hysteric state.
Between cackles and trying to regain his breath, Natsu managed to choke out, "Man! You shoulda seen you face, you wer-"
Before he could even begin to think of how to end his sentence, Lucy grabbed her pillow and hit him with a loud THWACK. Whatever punishment she was trying to administer clearly failed her, as any composure he had managed to regain was fully diminished, being replaced once more with absolute howling laughter, muffled slightly by the pillow over his head.
Whilst her partner was still cackling to himself over his little prank, Lucy pulled her legs over so she was straddling him, her arms crossed over her chest, with a pout on her lips, and her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Her half-hearted attempt at intimidating him into an apology was futile, as Natsu shoved the pillow off of his face and met her with that stupid, charming grin of his that made her forget everything bad in the world, (including his childish antics, this case included).
His hands found their way to her waist, pushing up her shirt slightly before rubbing small circles against her soft skin with his thumb. The action pulled Lucy out of her anger; instead, she was filled with a feeling of content, her arms dropping to her sides to rest her hands atop his, only to be pulled back in when Natsu spoke up, a mischievous look crossing his face.
"Ya want another one?"
"No, I do NOT want another one, thank you very much!" She all but screeched as she pulled herself off of him and the bed, taking the comforter with her, leaving him exposed to the air as he once again fell into a fit of laughter.
"You are the worst!" she cried, throwing the duvet to the ground and making her escape to the door before he could try anything else.
"I love you, Lucyyyy," he called out to her from across the room, "c’mon, come back to bed; I promise I won’t lick ya this time!"
"No, you can't I love you your way out of this one, Natsu!" she retorted as she tried to make her way into the kitchen, her back to him.
Unaffected by her reprimands, Natsu jumped out of her bed and rushed over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her up, burying his face in her neck, peppering it with kisses, amused as she squealed in surprise, and carrying her back to bed, where they both flopped down onto the mattress. With a sigh, Lucy gave in to his affections, snuggling closer to him and thanking every star there was that at least he hadn’t tried tickling her.
"I love you," he repeated, his lips grazing against her forehead.
"Yeah, yeah, I love you too, stupid."
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jadeylovesmarvelxo · 2 months
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The Bet
Part one
Eddie is desperate to talk to you but will you ever be able to forgive and forget after learning your friendship was nothing more than a bet? Especially as you had fallen in love with him.
Do you still love him after all that anguish?
Part two.
Warnings: A lot of angst and you'll see..minors shoo! 18+
Don't copy, translate or repost my work.
❤️
A bet. That's all you'd ever been to Eddie, a bet to get one over on your now ex boyfriend, on Jason and the rest of the dark side as Eddie's friend had put it.
Had they spent this whole time laughing at you? Did Eddie get some kick out of stringing you along, stealing your heart piece by piece.
Was everything just a lie?
You had broken up with Bryan a week ago. Sick of his horrible nature and drawn to Eddie, head over heels for him. God you felt like such a fool.
The night you found out about the bet you cried yourself to sleep, walking to school on autopilot. Thank goodness for your friends because you struggled to get through the first day.
Mostly everyone was sympathetic but there was some people who sniggered when you walked past, whispered to their friends only it was so loud that you could hear.
I can't believe how gullible that idiot was
Imagine knowing the freak only got close to you for a bet
Serves that bitch and all the rest of Jason's idiots and the cheerleaders right for thinking they are so hot.
About time someone took them down a peg
Each thinly veiled barb cracked your already bleeding heart and you hurried to get away from the gossip.
It trickled out a couple days later, once the people had finished finding your pain hilarious, how anyone could find someone in pain to be funny was a mystery to you.
Whenever you saw Eddie you rushed away before he could speak to you, wouldn't look at his face because all you knew from him was lies.
Everything was a lie. He didn't love you, he never did. Your heart throbs with that realisation and you do your best to walk around school, head held up high and the heartbreak tucked up inside.
It was all an act but you were a great actor, you had to be to pretend like you weren't in agony on the inside.
...
It was the worst few weeks that Eddie could remember in a long long time, Dustin was disgusted with him and took a long time to talk to him.
His heart felt like it had been ripped in half and it was all his own fault, you wouldn't even look at him.
If he even attempted to try and speak to you it was to no avail.
The longest sentence you uttered was when he begged you to talk to him, even just one word.
All you said was ''goodbye Eddie" or that ''you didn't believe a word he said"
Steve picked you up from school with Robin every day, wouldn't even let Eddie go near you. Threatened to beat the shit out of him if he made you cry again.
He tried to speak to you again a few days later when Steve had eased up on guarding you, it was agonising weeks of you avoiding him.
You were coming out of cheer practice with Chrissy and another girl, Chrissy glared at him and the other girl looked like she wanted to kill him.
"Can we talk please, princess?'' he pleads and you ask your friends to give you a second and they do, very reluctantly still scowling at Eddie. He deserves that.
"I can't Eddie. I don't have anything to say to you" he swallows, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to think of what he can say to express how sorry he is.
''I messed up. I made a stupid mistake. The worst mistake, because I hurt you. I made a dumb bet to try and get back at assholes who bullied and made my friends and my life hell, it was mean and selfish and I wish I'd never done it" you listen to what he has to say and his heart aches when tears pool in your eyes.
"But you did do it, you couldn't even tell me the truth. You lied to me Eddie and all the time I was...I fell in love with you" he moves forward to cup your cheek, desperate for you to know that he loves you too.
"I love you, I fell in love with you and that's why I couldn't tell you. I couldn't lose you" you stare at him and don't speak for a few seconds, when you do the words split his heart in two.
"That's the thing, you lost me anyway" you walk away from him and he can't think of a single thing to say to stop you. Then he steels himself and runs to catch up with you.
"What Eddie?" you snap and he talks quickly, tripping over his words and anxious to get the words out.
"I hurt you badly, I fucked up and what I did was just fucking awful. I know that. I also know that I'm so in love with you, never thought I could feel this way for anyone but you snuck into my heart and it belongs only to you" you don't say anything but you don't rush away either, so Eddie says one more thing before you do decide to leave.
"I'll wait for you sweetheart, for however long it takes. I don't care how long I have to wait, you're worth every single second"
Tears pool in your eyes and you nod slightly. Ever so gently you squeeze his hand just a tiny bit then walk away, leaving Eddie determined as hell to win your trust again and maybe somewhere along the line your heart too.
💕
It took a while for you to even speak to Eddie for longer than five minutes, but he was nothing if not determined and patient, he's was not screwing this chance up.
At first, you didn't think Eddie was serious about waiting for you, but he was. Endlessly patient and sweet. Big brown eyes full of tenderness and joy when you spoke to him.
It was hard not to find him endearing, but he had hurt you badly and there was still a small part of you that held back, that was hesitant to get close, trying to protect your fragile heart that ached for you to give Eddie a chance.
It's Friday now and after an intense week of cheer practice, you can't wait to relax for the weekend.
Chrissy had been watching you looking at Eddie with longing, the exact same way Eddie looked at you for weeks now. To be honest it was beyond frustrating, the both of you loved one another, it was killing you both to be apart.
So that's why she was saying something to you today. More than anything she wanted you to be happy, if Eddie hurt you again just even a tiny bit then she would kick his ass.
That's before Steve go there first.
"Honey, what Eddie did was wrong and I'm mad as hell at him but anyone can see how sorry he is. He's so in love with you, maybe you could give him a second chance" Chrissy says to you as you sit down for lunch.
You rest your head on Chrissy's shoulder and let out a sigh. ''I want to, I want to so badly but I don't want to be heartbroken again''
Something tells Chrissy that Eddie wouldn't dare. That he would keep his promise to never hurt you so badly again.
She squeezes your hand reassuringly and it calms your anxiety down.
"Babe, he wouldn't dare. He's not stupid. Plus everyone might think I'm a sweetheart but I'll kick his ass if he did and Steve would too. Eddie won't lose you, not again"
The words play on your mind all day and when Eddie is hurrying to his truck at the end of Hellfire Club you pluck up your courage and go to speak to him.
"Eddie" the minute he sees you it's like his whole face lights up. A dimpled smile and brown eyes full of adoration greet you.
"Hey, sweetheart" longing fills the air, stifling you both and honestly you're pretty sick of it. So you take a leap, walk up to Eddie and take his hand.
"Would you mind if I asked you for a ride Eds?'' his hand tightens around yours and he grins, rushes to open the door to his truck and almost trips over his feet in the process. It's cute and you can't help but giggle.
He holds the door open for you. "Princess, your carriage awaits" you head inside.
The drive is short and sweet, Eddie once again being a gentleman as he opens the door for you to step out.
You thank him for the ride and before Eddie can head back into the truck, you kiss his cheek gently, then leave a sweet, chaste kiss on his lips.
The kiss leaves him looking dazed, he touches his cheek then his lips and there's that smile again, the one that melted your heart the first time you seen it.
"One more chance Eddie, if you hurt me again thats it. I mean it" he nods, his face serious as he takes in what you say.
"I swear you won't regret this princess, I love you and I'll spend every day proving that, do you... do you still love me?" he whimpers after a few seconds, his expression wide with worry and fear.
"I've never stopped" you answer back.
After your confession he practically does a little dance as he goes into his truck. Just before you open the door to your house, you hear his whoop of delight before he drives off.
The smile doesn't leave your face all night.
❤️
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yeyinde · 10 months
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infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader
You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.
And then you find him.
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MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops.  This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤
In Greek, there are two words for time: 
Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March. 
And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness. 
It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—
Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters. 
You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—
You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before. 
And then you find him.
Or, rather, he finds you. 
(Over and over and over again—)
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It starts in university. 
Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles. 
There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is. 
And then—
There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—
A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle. 
Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—
It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.
It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't. 
The most you've lost was a pet. 
And yet—
You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated. 
But it doesn't stop it. 
They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting. 
And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive. 
They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time. 
Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre. 
They tell you it's Thursday, now. 
Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest. 
Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it? 
Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel. 
The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to. 
Things—
Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it? 
And then you dream. 
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They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort. 
It makes you ache. 
Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—
—you should… you should sit for this—
Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss. 
—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—
You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something. 
Something, something—
You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—
Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again. 
It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now. 
It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice. 
(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)
—excuse me? You dropped this—
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HERE
There is a tavern on High Street. 
It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick. 
And yet—
Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip. 
It's strange. Odd. 
It's just a building. Just a tavern. 
—got some of the best brews in town—
But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—
—cosy little spot—
It's an anomaly. Much like—
Well. Much like everything in your life. 
There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant. 
How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets? 
Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable. 
Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—
On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money. 
(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)
It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now. 
Now: 
You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many. 
Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away. 
It doesn't. 
It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—
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—wanna come with me?—
You break on Saturday. 
—i like when you wear that dress—
You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway. 
—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—
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The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—
No. No. 
You've never been here before. 
You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red. 
A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"
It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—
"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."
You pull away from him, smirking, and—
The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused. 
It's silly. 
Stupid. 
The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be. 
You can't be here. Can't—
Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—
—hey, where are you—
"...goin'—?"
A chest. Warm. Familiar. 
Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—
Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—
"Honey…"
It's out before you can stop it. 
Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line. 
Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat. 
—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—
No. No. 
It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—
Heat sears your cheeks. 
His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence. 
You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. 
This isn't that man. 
He just—
"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow. 
—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—
"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea. 
You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige. 
He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust. 
His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town. 
"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"
"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it. 
"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—
"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?" 
It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"
Spiralling. 
You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark. 
The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach. 
You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate. 
"I need to go—"
"—I like your dress."
The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings. 
You scoff. "I hate it."
You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years. 
"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."
Pretty. 
"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want." 
It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that. 
The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.
"Sorry—"
"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."
Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie. 
"What—what did you call me—?"
He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—
Reserved. Cool waters. A rock. 
"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."
A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox. 
"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."
"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—
That is familiar. 
You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head. 
—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—
"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"
You can't. You can't—
There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand. 
Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit. 
The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection. 
And then—
Then:
Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom. 
A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him. 
It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream. 
It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest. 
—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—
Then—
"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."
Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you. 
It's your turn to walk away.
And so, you do. 
(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)
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—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—
It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air. 
It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.
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You don't expect to see him again. 
And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really. 
So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.
Out of sight, out of mind. 
A familiar stranger in a foreign land.
But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along. 
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It starts three days later. 
You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building. 
Safe, you think. 
And then—
Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber. 
He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes. 
He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other. 
In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout. 
You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same. 
You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul. 
He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station. 
A living phantom. 
It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery. 
Each time, you run. And keep running. 
And then once, you catch him. 
He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge. 
Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air. 
No one joins him. He doesn't look back. 
His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm. 
It's mesmerising. 
Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—
Longing. 
Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache. 
His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist. 
You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost. 
And then you turn. Run. 
(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)
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It is almost clockwork.
The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse. 
Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out. 
(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)
It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really. 
You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle. 
There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle. 
(No victor in the carnage.)
You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:
Frozen. Paralysed. 
You can't move. Can't—
—maybe, you're just tired of running—
—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—
His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't. 
He isn't waiting for you—
His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth. 
—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—
You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—
"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."
You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?" 
His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran. 
"Aye, it does." 
You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.
Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout. 
If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two. 
But it shouldn't. Can't. 
You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling. 
And yet—
You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement. 
It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete. 
If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.
But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again. 
It's too much. Intense. Hazel. 
Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum. 
"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?" 
His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern. 
"No." 
It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near. 
A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend. 
"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?" 
It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.  
Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes. 
And fuck—
Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no. 
"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"
"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you. 
His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh. 
He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole. 
You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone. 
"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie." 
You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea. 
His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away. 
"I'll see you around." 
It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away. 
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"Are you ready to order?" 
The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun. 
"Uh, yeah—"
The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds. 
You order tea instead. 
(It tastes like defeat.)
You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give. 
You stop, letting him finally catch up. 
(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)
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His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt. 
Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it. 
(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)
Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads. 
It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home. 
Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands. 
There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe. 
It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away. 
(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)
He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead. 
Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world. 
(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)
You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel. 
You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself. 
Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue. 
People don't just—
Know each other. 
And yet—
"They call me—"
"Soap." 
Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way. 
He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone. 
You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops. 
(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)
"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?" 
His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that. 
"I—" 
Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.  
"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere." 
It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you. 
He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go. 
"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"
When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them. 
"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."
The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin. 
A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile. 
"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"
It's a threat. A warning. 
You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid. 
(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)
"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance. 
Kismet. 
Horror. 
Some cosmic merging of the two. 
It's all—
Absurd. 
And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend. 
(Kismet, indeed.)
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He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time. 
You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth. 
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He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun. 
Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down. 
The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land. 
So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time. 
"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady. 
It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark. 
You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot. 
"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?" 
It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.
You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll. 
Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."
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And you mean it, too.
(Damn you. Damn you—)
Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit. 
Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette. 
It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers. 
But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed. 
Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity. 
It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his. 
A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star. 
Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop. 
You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness. 
This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough. 
Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself. 
He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another. 
But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for. 
He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know. 
He's kind. Charming. 
A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself. 
But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him. 
Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.
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The dance continues. 
Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met. 
Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth. 
An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh. 
It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism. 
(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)
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Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone. 
You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you. 
He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know. 
He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest. 
(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)
Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him. 
His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—
Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above. 
Is it happiness, you wonder. 
(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)
It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth. 
You see the past, the present. 
And your future. 
Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.
Future. There's no future. 
Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current. 
You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails. 
You pull away. He lets you go. 
"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise. 
"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse. 
A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue. 
The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon. 
It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below. 
The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus. 
"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again. 
Sweet longing. Beautiful agony. 
Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm. 
A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs. 
(But it belongs to him, now.)
And you—
You hesitate. 
The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down. 
The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone. 
What can you say? What could you say? 
Instead, you say nothing at all. 
Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away. 
(You don't pick it up.)
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Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead. 
"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead. 
The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze. 
All black, black, black. 
No sounds escape. 
"Sure, bonnie." 
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You dream, and when you dream, it's of him. 
He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun. 
In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.  
He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever. 
There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space. 
You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air. 
Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs. 
Belongs, but doesn't want to be. 
You think of Johnny. 
And you weep. 
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He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him. 
Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back. 
You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands. 
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You don't dance, and you don't dream. 
You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost. 
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Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—
"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"
Can't. Can't. 
"Johnny—"
"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"
He's pleading, you think. Begging—
For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for. 
Why?
And what?
And—
It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—
Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—
Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.
For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick. 
For once—
The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet. 
And—
All at once, it shatters.
—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—
(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)
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THERE—
There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish. 
Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises. 
So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says: 
Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.
You believe him. 
But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss. 
So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner. 
(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)
And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe. 
"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces. 
But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight. 
You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you." 
His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—
"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."
It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged. 
It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone. 
"Johnny—"
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"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie." 
The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.
You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him. 
It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain. 
"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"
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John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses. 
Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite. 
It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone. 
Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are. 
Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea. 
(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)
It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache. 
You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal. 
Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.
He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you. 
Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull. 
He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won. 
"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."
What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.
You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty. 
He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood. 
Price leaves.
A part of you goes with him.
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You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—
—break. 
But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound. 
Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse. 
Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real. 
But it is. 
And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty. 
No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—
A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage. 
You chase the sound. 
Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes. 
Running, running—
Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles. 
You don't scream when you sink. 
(The bubbles sound just like him—)
You smile.
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—NOW
Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:
Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him. 
A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.
It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret. 
You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him. 
He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle. 
You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind. 
His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go. 
Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours. 
His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings. 
It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once. 
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Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval. 
Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented. 
An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun. 
"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep. 
Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth. 
"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."
"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me." 
You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew. 
"I love you, Johnny." 
His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks. 
"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."
"Sorry to keep you waiting." 
—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—
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—THEN
"Excuse me? You dropped this."
It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out. 
But it catches. Clear. Low. 
You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket. 
"Sorry?" 
A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—
Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk. 
"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—
The leather peels back. Mush. 
You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills. 
"Alright?" 
"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—
And—
Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine. 
Your breath catches. 
"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"
Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one. 
And then—
Oh, God. 
"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"
"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"
It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.
Mortifying. Absolutely—
His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."
You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn. 
Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—
"I'll pay you back, I promise."
His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile. 
"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."
(And so, it begins.)
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theonewiththefanfics · 4 months
Text
Dare to Hope, Dare to Dream (Part 2/?)
Synopsys: For three years now, Astarion and his love have been relegated to living in the shadows as he lost his ability to walk in the sun. But one day hope is reignited, and the vampire can't help but reminisce how he got where he is now.
Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader
Genre: angst, fluff, SMUT
Warnings: violence, abuse, talks of SA, character death, SMUT (if there is anything else that should be tagged, please do let me know)
Word count: 5830
A/N: I have not played Baldur's Gate 3 (I don't own a PS or a PC where to play it. all of this is based on the info gathered online and through Neil's own gameplay etc. Please be kind :) )
Part 1
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The composing of the letter was quick work, as excitement thrummed through their veins, but every passing day diminished the accumulating hope.
It was agonising, waiting for Gale to respond. Where usually Astarion’s mind was preoccupied with Y/N, now it was occupied by that damned tome and that damned fucking page he couldn’t read.
There was a huge possibility it could be nothing but a simple song or a poem. It could be a curse for all he knew, but something in his still heart screamed it could be the thing that set him free from living in eternal darkness and making his love live like that too.
He’d give anything, pay any price for Y/N to be able to walk in the sun again, and if his hand was in hers, wrapped around her waist or tucked against his chest as they enjoyed the wonders of the world in colour, not the perpetual greys of night, he would beg on his knees if he had to.
His love didn’t seem to be fairing any better. She was fidgety all the time, where she used to be able to sit and watch Astarion patching up a shirt of hers or adding gorgeous swirls of gold and silver, now she organised and cleaned his whole tailoring room over and over again. Y/N cooked almost obsessively, way too much food for just one of them to eat, and it almost drove him mad how restless she’d become during sleep as well.
Worry ate at him that Y/N hadn’t gotten proper rest in days, all because of that damned book. Would it be worth it? Would her losing sleep be worth it in the end? Nothing that hurt her was, not in Astarion’s mind, but whenever he asked her to leave something be, said that he’d pick it up, she’d simply shrug and say, “No time like the present.”
Taking into account his feedings as well, his heart twisted at the thought that all of this was weighing on her shoulders, but luckily at least some of the burden of wait was lifted when Gale’s answer came.
To their relief, the wizard gave them good news and apologies, as he’d travelled beyond the Sword Coast with his grandfather, but would be taking the first available ship to Baldur’s Gate. It would take at least three weeks of travelling, but he would waste no time beyond that and go straight to their home, and that left the two anxious lovers to occupy their time however they could.
Y/N had already rearranged the whole library twice by then, half in search of figuring out where this mysterious book had come from, half in absolute boredom, while Astarion had taken to sowing and stitching dresses and tunics and shirts and trousers and even a gorgeous set if not a scandalous one of lingerie for Y/N (which he had promptly ripped to shreds that same morning she’d donned it to go to bed).
She’d admonished him through a desperate moan, as his tongue had skimmed against her neck, lace scraps still around her ribs and hips, nothing more left of the intricate design he’d so patiently made. Not that it’d covered much in the first place.
“I’ll make you hundreds more just to rip all of it off again,” Astarion groaned as her hips ground up against him, delicious friction causing him to respond in kind.
“But it was so beautiful!” Y/N whined when Astarion took her wrists in one of his hands and held them in a tight grip above their heads.
“Nothing is as beautiful as you completely bare and uncovered for me. So… delectable…”
Let’s just say neither of them could get out of bed after the sun had set, as their legs wobbled at the lightest touch to the ground, leading them to another day of sleeping in, and a night of passionate debauchery.
However, as much as Astarion wished to stay like that with Y/N, both of them naked and twined in bed, other things had to be done around the house, and at that moment, he’d asked Y/N to model a dress for her.
He didn’t dare say the cut was based on a sketch hidden deep in his drawers, and originally it was made of white lace with an accompanying veil, not the jade colour he’d cut it in now.
“Do you think we’re harbouring false hope?” she asked, colour-coding his threads and placing the box neatly back on the table after Astarion allowed her to redress and was happy with how the skirt flew around her hips.
“In what way, my dear?”
“I just,” Y/N huffed, sitting down on the arm of the chair next to him, watching how his quick fingers stilled their needlework so as to not poke her accidentally. “I don’t want you to be disappointed if this… if this isn’t what we think it is. I know how much you miss the sun.” Y/N gently threaded her fingers through his moon-white locks. “I know how guilty you feel for me having to forego it. You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted whatever was on Astarion’s tongue. “I can see it on your face.”
He looked down at the green gown’s hem he was embellishing. He’d tried so hard to hide the guilt seeping through his veins. He didn’t want her to know that; he already burdened her life as is.
“I can’t say it wouldn’t hurt if what we hope doesn’t come true.” Astarion put the needle and dress on the table, turning to Y/N and pulling her into his lap. “I wish I could give you the world, but I can barely give you half… if even that much. You deserve so much more than what you’ve deemed enough. I just want to… give you more…”
“My Star, please don’t even think you’re not enough for me.” Y/N brushed a pale curl behind his ear.
He gave her a rueful smile. “A little mind-reader you are, aren’t you?”
She simply shrugged, melting against his chest, his undead heart beating just a tad stronger at how much comfort she got from simply being held by him. “It’s not so hard nowadays when you’ve become an open book to me.”
Astarion had nothing to respond to that because he knew he had, at least with Y/N. He might not voice it out loud, but his heart was open. Yes, fear still lingered in bleeding gashes around the edges, but he knew, she’d always be there to dab at the pained spots and heal them with a kiss.
“I’m not leaving,” she mumbled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Not now, not ever. Not when the sun sets or rises. An army would have to come in and tie me up before dragging me away from you. And even then, I’d be kicking and screaming, biting my way out to get home.”
Astarion’s breath stuttered, but he didn’t mention what the words of her referring to him as her home did to him. “I just want if only a minute to stand in the sun with you. If that’s all I’m given for the rest of eternity, it’s what I’ll take. Just a moment with you in the sun.”
Y/N took his chin between her thumb and pointer finger, tilting his head up so their eyes could meet – his scarlet ones brimming with unshed tears, her own Y/E/C ones filled with nothing but sure-fire determination. “Whatever is in that book, spell or no, we’ll figure it out. But one day, I know, you will be able to walk in the sun again. I’ll make sure of it. Even if I have to raise all nine hells, I’ll find a way.”
“I know you will.” Astraion sighed, letting the tears roll down his cheeks. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Y/N’s laughter was the most gorgeous symphony to his ears. She gave a light kiss to the very tip of his right one, a shiver of pleasure rushing down his spine. “We’ll figure it out, my Star.”
That morning, just a couple of hours after their conversation, as Y/N was closing all the shutters to their home so as to not let in the sun of the new day, Astarion slid his palm into hers, tugging her to their bed while kissing every inch of her skin he could get to.
He needed to be close to her, he needed to sink into her and fuse together, become as close to one body as possible, otherwise, it was like he was going to combust from the love unless he could bathe her in it.
“I need you,” Astarion whispered against her cheek, as Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You have me,” she responded in kind. “All of me is yours if you want it.”
A shudder went through his body as he swiftly, but tenderly rid both of them of their clothes, gentle hands running over Y/N’s hips and sides, as she lightly squirmed away from him when he playfully dug his fingers against her ribs, before trailing their way to her stomach, where a jagged scar stood slightly raised against the rest of her body.
“And I’m yours. Body and soul,” Astarion said, still looking at that scar while he slowly slipped his frame to rest atop, his cock sliding through her already slick folds, lightly nudging his tip against her clit in a teasing manner.
“Mine,” Y/N sighed out dreamily, as he filled her, her legs locking around his hips, ankles crossed over the small of his back to pull him deeper until their hips rested flush against one another.
A slight whimper escaped him as he affirmed. “Yours… just yours, my love.”
He’d never thought that such a word as “mine” would bring him such feelings of love and adoration.
Astarion had always wanted to belong. He’d always wanted a family, friends or a true lover to build his life with, but for a horribly long time, all because of Cazador, that wish was locked away in a tomb just like him. And after a while of pain and misery, he just gave up on the idea as a whole. Belonging to someone became a despised thing, a notion he had no free will. He was a pet, a thing to be had and done with as his master pleased.
But then that Nautiloid ship happened, and he gained allies. Who morphed into friends, and then Y/N, the oddest one of their group, became so much more than that.
That night when he’d offered himself to her, he’d been ready to use his body as coin, as he’d been taught, if it granted him food, shelter and protection. Astarion was used to whoring himself out, but that wouldn’t be the worst he’d done. At least Y/N was nice to look at. She included him in conversations during the day and asked for his opinion. It would most certainly be lovelier than the other times.
Yet she’d surprised him and said no. She still offered him all the things he asked for, even her neck if he needed to feed, but Y/N was adamant she would not take sex as payment for such things.
Astarion took a surprised step back. “Am I – do I not appeal to you?”
Why did it sting? Why did the thought of the answer being “yes” hurt so much?
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s just that you don’t have to ask for those things and sleep with me as payment.”
“Oh.” That stumped him truly. His mind reeled at her words. “Then what is it that you want?” A cheeky comment was right there for him to spit out, but he refrained.
Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe patch a hole in a shirt, if it gets too ruined? Help me carry part of my loot if it gets too heavy? We’re friends, or at least good travel companions, I’d like to think.”
That moment had changed everything for Astarion. It had changed how he looked at himself and what he could ask of the world. She’d helped him learn he could say no.
When Y/N had been close to decapitating that vile Drow Araj after she looked at him like he was a puppet for Y/N to use, Astarion had confessed that night – his whole plan of seducing her, securing his safety and getting in her good graces so he always had someone to have his back if suddenly the rest of their party decided to turn against him.
The kiss they’d shared, initiated by Astarion himself, felt like the first kiss of his life. He was jittering like a youth as Y/N’s lips pressed to his. And for the first time in ages, he thought maybe he had someone, to be with not belong to.
When she cried out in ecstasy as Astarion started to move, slowly dragging his hips back and forth, allowing her to feel every ridge and dip and immersing himself in the warm, wet feeling surrounding him, his thoughts couldn’t help but wander to that moment in the Szarr Palace when Y/N had cried in pain instead as Cazador’s knife dug deep into her gut.
She’d gone in for an attack in an attempt at freeing Astarion from the grasp of the Ascension ritual, and she had almost gotten Cazador, had the vampire not moved in the last second, twisting away from her sword and delivering the critical hit himself.
Someone screamed so loud, the sound verged on popping Astarion’s eardrums. It was only when his throat went raw he realised it was him screaming.
Cazador didn’t even bother to pull the knife out, letting Y/N drop to the ground in a heap, her blood trickling out of her wound and pooling around her body, staining the tiles a deep red.
Astarion wanted to retch at the sight.
“Pathetic,” Cazador spat. “Both of you.”
Nothing but white-hot rage coursed through Astarion’s veins as he watched his master walk around Y/N’s crumpled form, nudging her with his foot as if she were nothing more than a worm.
“I cannot deny,” Cazador mussed. “For a brief second, I did consider turning her into a new addition to our family. It would have been fitting – my prodigal son, returning and bringing the last piece I need. A fitting punishment, for your disobedience, Astarion, wouldn’t you agree? You’ve broken pretty much all of my rules, and someone has to pay.”
Cazador turned his back on Y/N, obscuring Astarion's view of her. “And how poetic would have it been, had it been you draining her, taking every last drop of her blood, only for me to sire. I think I would have enjoyed your screaming immensely, but no matter. It would only be a waste of time.” The vampire master smirked at a struggling Astarion. “Tell me – was her blood sweet? It smells absolutely delectable. Maybe I should have a little taste.”
“Fuck you!” Astarion roared. “Damn you to all nine hells!”
Cazador only chuckled. “Maybe a couple of decades in that tomb of yours will do you good. Remind you of manners. Or maybe I will let Godey -,” but he didn’t manage to finish whatever horrors he was already painting in his mind as he choked on the words.
The vampire’s dark brows furrowed as he slowly glanced down and saw a blade protruding from his stomach, the hilt buried deep against his spine.
Surprise, anger and confusion all flashed across the immortal’s face as Y/N yanked the dagger out. Cazador slowly turned and found Y/N standing before him, a hand clutching against her stomach.
“That,” she gasped. “Is for what you did to me and this,” she thrust her hand again, this time letting the blade go clean through Cazador’s neck, “is for what you did to Astarion.”
She left the blade there, taking a few steps back on swaying feet, but it was enough of a distraction to break Cazador’s concentration and Astarion dropped free.
He was on his feet in an instant, pulling the knife Y/N had plunged back out and then smashing it deep into Cazador’s gut over and over and over again until there was nothing left of him but a mangled, almost cut-in-two, corpse.
Astarion dropped to his knees, chest heaving with exertion, his whole body covered in blood, all of it Cazador’s. Who was dead.
Cazador was dead.
His master, his torturer, the one who robbed him of his life and choices was finally gone.
Relief rolled through him like a tidal wave, his body slowly but surely wracked by sobs as catharsis set in. Two hundred years of pain and misery, two hundred years of not owning his body or mind, and now he was suddenly free.
He didn’t know how to process such a realisation. It seemed almost easier to live his life in fear, to constantly look over his shoulder and go to bed with the thought his miracle of a chance at life could be taken away at any moment. In that way, he didn’t have to create friendships or relationships, he didn’t need to get close to anyone and risk losing them. He could just always keep peeking through the tiny slit from the boarded-up window, instead of poking his head through the crack in the door.
So what was he to do now, when that door had been blasted wide open?
“Y/N,” Astarion whispered her name, his head snapping up and scanning the hall, quickly landing on her body.
She’d collapsed about fifteen feet away from Cazador, but it took him less than five seconds to be by her side. With trembling hands, he took her by the shoulder and turned her on her back, so he could see her face.
A sob raked through him. “Please,” Astarion begged, pulling her head to rest on his thighs. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Star,” his name was a moan of pain from Y/N’s lips. And he hated it.
It was supposed to be a sigh of pleasure as his tongue lapped against her sweetest spot, a groan of delight when he sank into her, his hands holding hers, lips pressed together in a reassuring kiss. It was supposed to be a laugh between hiccups as he joked and snarked. It was supposed to be anything but this.
Her body was covered in so much blood, and had it been Cazador’s he would have been fine, but he knew it wasn’t. It was her own, that sweet and tantalizing scent of it running up his nose. Usually, the tiniest drop of it, could turn him feral, but all it did now was make bile rise in his throat as more and more of it coated his hands and the floor around them.
“I’ll complete the ritual,” he choked, brushing a strand of matted-down hair away from Y/N’s face. “And then I’ll save you.”
“Don’t,” she gasped, begging him. “Please don’t.”
“I can’t let you die,” he could barely manage the words, but she still heard them and shook her head.
“And I will not let you kill innocents just to save my life.” Y/N clutched at his arm as tightly as she could with all her remaining strength that was weaning with every passing second. “If you do this, I will never forgive you. You’ll become just like Cazador. And I know you are so – so much more than that. Than him. Don’t let Cazador win. You – you fought so hard,” she sobbed out, half at the implication of what he’d overcome, half at Astarion pressing down on her wound as he attempted to staunch the bleeding, but to no avail. “Don’t throw all of it away. Not for this.”
Astarion swivelled his head around desperately as if a response on what to do could be found in the room, yet nothing but Cazador’s mangled body and the pool of blood it’d created answered.
“Please,” he whispered, leaning down and pressing his forehead to Y/N’s and once again repeated. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” her response was barely a puff of air. “I will always be right here with you, Star. To the very end.”
Y/N placed her palm right where his undead heart broke into pieces, and when she closed her eyes, the only sound left was the echoes of his screams.
He might’ve been screaming for ages, Astarion didn’t know nor did he care. All he knew was that his love, his sun, his reason for living was gone.
The sound of the door being broken down invaded his mind, as many pairs of footsteps entered, but Astarion paid no mind to his friends. They could all go to the nine hells with Cazador for his sake, as long as he got to stay with Y/N.
He heard Karlach, the gentle giant of their group gasp out Y/N's name, and even Lae’Zel’s hiss of surprise was unmistakable, the scene before them rendering the rest speechless.
“She almost looks like she’s sleeping,” Astarion muttered, tracing his knuckles against Y/N’s cold skin. So close to his own temperature he didn’t feel the difference. A tear splashed against her cheek, rolling down her temple and disappearing into her hairline.
“Astarion, Shadowheart can help,” Wyll said, stepping closer, but the pale elf just shook his head.
“No,” he muttered, tracing her unmoving features with his thumb. “No one will hurt her. Not anymore.”
“Astarion, she won’t hurt Y/N,” Gale piped up. “We can bring her back.”
But he wasn’t listening anymore. He didn’t care what they were saying. No one else would ever touch her. No one would ever dare hurt her again. He’d set the world on fire if they so much as touched a hair on her head.
His friends however had different ideas. With apologies on their lips, they grabbed him, ripping him away from Y/N, her body unceremoniously dropping to the ground from where her head had been resting against his thighs.
“I’ll kill all of you!” Astarion screamed, trying to bite and scratch as he was pulled further and further away from Y/N. “Some friends you are!”
It took Karalch physically ripping him away from Y/N’s dead body, Lae’Zel and Wyll helping her pin him to the ground as Shadowheart and Gale crouched beside his love, while Astarion trashed against their hold.
“He took her,” Astarion wailed and roared, his pain echoing in the chamber around them. “He took her!"
There was no need for elaboration. Not even Lae’Zel, always so quick to show her disdain against emotion, spoke. Instead, she moved a bit to the side, so Astarion could at least be granted the gift of seeing Y/N’s face as Shadowheart and Gale hovered over her dead body.
“He killed her, and I could do nothing about it,” Astarion whimpered, eyes focused on the serene look his lover had in death. He only hoped she felt at peace wherever she was.
A pale blue light glowed from Shadowheart’s hands, Gale’s power feeding hers.
“It won’t work.” He let the tears fall freely from his eyes. “She’s gone.”
It was a resigned statement from someone who was completely exhausted. He’d prepared for never leaving the Szarr palace, for dying, if he had to, but he’d never prepared himself for losing Y/N. She had become such a staple, such a sure thing in his life, he no longer could imagine how a single day without her smile could go. But now she was gone and –
His brows furrowed. It had to be a trick of his mind, a hallucination his grief-stricken heart was conjuring up, but there it was – the sweetest sound in the world he never thought to hear again – Y/N’s heartbeat.
A ragged intake of breath shattered through the hall, and he watched as her lashes fluttered. Her lungs stuttered as if they needed a minute to reconnect with her brain before they levelled out and remembered how to breathe.
Karalch, Wyll and Lae’Zel released their hold, and Astarion slowly sat up on his forearms. When Y/N took in her first full steady breath, Shadowheart slumped over, Gale already having expected it, dropping into a crouch and allowing her to lean on his side.
He couldn’t believe it. Y/N had died in his arms, he’d watched her life’s blood seep across his hands, and yet there she was – on the ground, her heart beating and lungs dragging in short breaths, barely but still.
“She needs rest,” Shadowheart said, running a soothing hand down her friend’s cheek. “As do I.”
“Let’s get back to the inn.” Wyll approached and helped the exhausted cleric, as he wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her up, without much of a fuss. Lae’Zel and Gale hovered over Y/N until Astarion was capable of getting to his feet, knees trembling like a fawn's. Whether they were there for him or her, Astarion didn’t know but appreciated nonetheless.
“Would you like me to carry her?” Gale offered, a gentle look on his face, nothing but concern evident, but Astarion shook his head.
“I’ll do it.” His voice was raw from the screaming and crying, but he didn’t care to clear it as he gently lifted her up.
Y/N’s head lolled to rest against his chest as if on instinct and he had to push down a sob as he felt her warm, alive body curl into his own, like so many times before now.
Karlach laid a leather jacket across Astarion’s naked shoulders, but all he could concentrate on were the shallow breaths entering Y/N’s lungs, her slow but steadily beating heart and the way her fingers curled against where his still one rested.
The whole trek back to the lodgings they’d procured previously, Astarion was numb, completely and utterly numb save for the incessant need to check if Y/N was breathing. He was struggling to figure out his emotions.
As he laid her down in the bed, Karlach lighted a fire and Gale promised to bring a cloth and some warm water for Astarion to clean Y/N up, he couldn’t help but grieve Cazador.
He didn’t stray from his love’s bedside not even for a second, keeping vigil day and night, but most importantly watching her chest rise and fall with deep, even breaths, yet some part of him mourned his master as well.
Three days after the events of the Szarr Palace, Astarion had reluctantly agreed to have a quick wash while Karlach watched over Y/N. He regretted that decision more than anything because sometime during the ten minutes he allowed himself to get rid of the crusted blood, she had awoken.
When he re-entered the bedroom, Astarion almost fainted at the sight of her beautiful Y/E/C eyes boring into his scarlet ones.
“Hello, Star,” she croaked through a smile, and he almost crumbled then and there by the doorway, had it not been for the tight grip on the knob.
Karlach made a quick exit, but not before placing a warm palm against his shoulder, giving him a slight nudge in Y/N’s direction, though he didn’t need one. It was like she had a magical pull, making him stumble across the room before his knees gave out with a hard thud and his hand desperately sought out Y/N’s. When their fingers entwined in a tight hold, he swore to himself to never let go of her again.  
“I thought I lost you,” his voice broke. “I – I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I’m sorry,” her own tone was quiet, barely a whisper. “But I couldn’t just let him hurt you more.”
“I know. I know you… I just…” He huffed, brows furrowing as he searched for the correct words. “I thought when I got my freedom back, you would be there by my side, but instead you were the cost of it.” Astarion choked on the word “cost”. “But at the same time, I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of him.” He didn’t say his name, he’d decided Cazador wasn’t worth having the honour of a name spoken aloud.
“And it felt disgusting. He hurt you. He took you from me, and yet… I didn’t even have him left after your… your… heart stopped,” Astarion took a shaky intake of breath. “I was completely and utterly alone. When Shadowheart appeared, I was almost tempted to ask her to revive him just so I could kill him again for what he did to you… and maybe, just so I wasn’t alone.”
Astarion lifted his gaze, resting his cheek against the palm Y/N had untwined from his, so her soft thumb could brush away the rivers of tears spilling down his face. “Please don’t leave me again. I’m – I’m not strong enough to go through it once more.”
“You are, my Star,” Y/N kissed his forehead. “You are so strong.”
“Let me rephrase that then – I don’t want to go through anything in life. Not without you by my side.”
“I promise,” she muttered and leaned forward pulling Astarion to lay next to her, sealing the vow with a kiss.
And though he still struggled with nightmares of that fight, though he still woke up breathless at times, arms desperately searching for the warm body that always occupied the other side of the bed, the deepest reassurance he could ever have that everything was alright, that Y/N was safe and sound, were moments like these when her body melted against his, where she was panting and gasping and so full of life, especially as Astarion hit that one spot that made Y/N throw her head back in a moan of pleasure.
Her nails dug into his shoulders with such a delicious taste of pain, never drawing blood though, but always leaving crescent imprints he wanted to keep on his body forever. Like Y/N’s touch could erase everything Cazador had left on him.
Y/N’s back arched, and Astarion used the moment to slip his hands underneath and pull her upwards from the bed so that she was resting in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, chest to chest, and him buried so deep, it made both their eyes roll to the backs of their heads in pleasure.
She’d taught him sex could be wonderful. It could be meaningful and lovely, instead of a means to an end or a bargaining chip to be used. It had taken a while for Astarion to grow comfortable with even the thought of her touching him, but nowadays, he became quite the grump if he ever awoke not in Y/N’s arms, even if it was for such a simple reason as nature calling her.
Her touch was the balm on sunburnt skin, her kiss was a reassurance that it needn’t go further than that and he could always say no and would be listened to. But in moments like these, all Astation wanted was more. He wanted to feel her squeeze around him, to hear her breath choke at the back of her throat, he craved to feel her pulse race as she climbed higher and higher, closer and closer to her orgasm with every thrust of his hips.
Sex had been something repulsive and vile to him. Now it was the most beautiful thing he felt blessed to participate in, all because of the woman moaning his name above him.
“I’m so close,” she whispered in his ear as Astarion kissed her neck, heart thundering in her chest.
“Let go,” he muttered, a shiver rolling down Y/N’s spine at the pleading tone of his words, making her grip his back tighter, and dig in her nails more. “Let go, I got you.”
She whimpered at his coaxing words and tightened so much around his cock, it became almost impossible for Astarion to keep pumping in and out, so he slid a hand down across her chest to her clit, just to push her over that edge she was teetering on.
Two deft fingers circled around the swollen bud, once, twice and that was it for Y/N to break. With a sigh of his name, she came, hard, taking him along as well, the orgasm surprising Astarion with its intensity and how quickly it’d crept upon him.
Bliss exploded through his veins, and his nails dug into the small of Y/N’s back, always careful to not hurt her, but deep enough to leave moon-shaped marks on her body, the same ones she no doubt had left along his back and shoulders as they both succumbed to euphoria.
A moan got stuck in his throat before slipping past his lips as Y/N ground down one final time, before stilling her hips and relishing how he filled her until the mix of their pleasure ran down their thighs and stained the sheets below. Never mind that though. It was a problem for future Astarion and Y/N.
They both were trembling as, slowly, the orgasmic wave subsided, and as they came down from their highs, Astarion couldn’t help but place a cheeky kiss on Y/N’s neck, letting his fangs skim along her skin and feel her pulse spike at that.
Y/N let out a breathless laugh, her hands slowly skimming up and down his spine, body still rocked by pleasure. “If you want a snack, you know all you have to do is ask.”
“I’m fine,” Astarion mumbled, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. “I just… I just love you. That’s all.”
At least that’s what he said, but underneath laid a thousand other words – I need to feel your heart beating. I have to feel your skin against mine. I need to hear you breathing and know that you’re alive and here with me. That he wasn���t imagining it as some sort of a hallucination and wouldn’t wake up back under Cazador’s control with her body lying dead on the ground by his feet.
Y/N hummed in content, pressing a kiss to Astarion’s chest. “I love you too. So much.”
A smile bloomed on his lips as he pulled away just a bit so he could cup Y/N’s face between his hands. “I don’t know what I may have done in my previous life, and I certainly don’t know what I did in this one to ever deserve someone like you, but whatever it was… I’m glad I did.”
The way her eyes shone would have brought Astarion to his knees, had he already not been kneeling on the bed. Y/N was just about to pull him in for a deep kiss when their moment was disturbed by the bell of their house ringing.
They knew it was daytime. And only one person would ring it then.
Astarion looked at Y/N.
She lifted a brow. “Ready to figure out what’s in that book?”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “With you, I’m ready for anything.”
Tags:
Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger
Astarion tags: @spacebarbarianweird
A/N: I am in love with pixels on a screen...
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urdrowning · 1 year
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reconcile / l. williamson
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AN i apologise for the quality. i am very much hungover as i write this. and idc if its mid february let me use this christmas gif my girl is ADORABLE my god i need to be in leah williamson’s arms RN
requested? - yes
word count - 2.5k (i’m proud of that)
—————
sarina had finally announced the england squad for the AC cup. you were elated to see you’re name listed. having recently recovered from a broken ankle, you were barely getting playtime. it’s as if nobody believes you’re truly fully healed, especially with jonas keeping you as pretty much a permanent bench warmer. knowing that sarina trusts you and you’re abilities is like a wash of relief and you’re over the moon. you assumed leah, your girlfriend, would be celebrating with you, as she’s repeatedly campaigned for your wellness and ability. but now it feels like it’s all been a lie.
you were out visiting your best friend, alex scott when you found out, she unsuccessfully attempts to lift you up in a hug of congratulations due to her shorter stature. you thank her before you realise that you have to go home and tell your girlfriend (even though she already knows, she’s on the same squad. but she’d pretend to act shocked for you anyway) excitement rushes through you as you practically ran to your car and sped home (which may result in a speeding ticket, but who cares, you’re gonna be playing for england).
rushing into your shared flat with a giant smile on your face to tell your lover the news, you’re greeted with a frown on her face before she utters
“you can’t do it y/n, you’re not ready.”
the smile drops from your face and it makes leah’s stomach twist with guilt, but she refuses to let it show and remains staring at you with a stern gaze.
“you.. i- what?”
you spluttered in shock. where did this come from? for several weeks she’s been by your side, fighting for you to get playtime.
“you can’t do it. you’re not ready to play in a tournament like this yet.”
your pride seems to shrink as you begin to fill with anger. how could she? all of her support and for what? just to belittle you and your abilities?
“are.. are you serious right now, leah?”
you hated this. you’re not a fan of conflict in general, but with your girlfriend? a nightmare. the thought of her being angry with you making your world feel as if it’s shattering.
but the anger that courses through you almost crushes the dread you feel, you’re justified in this argument, she isn’t.
“dead serious. you need to call up sarina and tell her you can’t compete. you’re not ready and sarina should’ve realised that”
she sighs. she hates this as much as you do. she hates to be the reason you’re upset, but she is adamant in her opinion.
“why? why, leah, am i not ready? because i have been working my ass off for weeks and you know this!”
you’re raising your voice, making her wince slightly, it goes unnoticed by you due to your unbridled anger and she scoffs at your lack of empathy as she snaps at you
“because you’re not capable enough! there’s a reason you haven’t been getting playtime you know, it's because you’re not trusted, y/n! you’ll slip on your ass and injure yourself again, you’ll put the whole fucking team in jeopardy, and i’m not ready to lose because of you being a loose end.”
word after word is like a stab in the gut. hearing it from a normal teammate? painful. but hearing it from your girlfriend? agonising.
“oh.”
you try to hide how your voice is raw with emotion, but you know it’s a futile attempt. she hears it anyway. she reaches out for you slightly.
“y/n..”
you move away from her touch, cold and distant. you don’t look at her, your gaze fixated on the floor. you know that one look in her blue eyes and you’re gonna break.
“don’t. just.. don’t.”
your voice shakes as you move away. you can’t be here right now. you can’t be around leah.
so, what do you do? you grab your car keys, turn towards the door and leave. leah doesn’t move. she doesn’t try to stop you. she’s dug her grave, she may as well lay in it.
you sit in your car for at least 6 minutes before you start the engine. tears fall from your eyes and warm your face. it feels as if your heart has been ripped out of your chest, you feel as if you’ve been stabbed in the back. out of all the people to doubt you, leah? the person you love most? why did it have to be her.
you wipe the tears off of you, take a deep breathe and drive. you don’t know where you’re headed, all you know is that you need to be away from leah.
why you ended up at alex’s house once again is beyond you. but here you are, sat on your bestfriends sofa, crying in her arms.
“i’m sorry, y/n. she’s being an absolute dickhead. you’re more than capable and she should know that better than anyone.”
she holds you tightly as she rants. vehemently disagreeing with leah, defending you so passionately. it’s as if she retired from playing as a defender in football to become your own personal defender instead.
“i appreciate it al but in all honesty i’d rather forget about it. i’m tired, i just wanna scream into a pillow for the rest of the night.”
she laughs lightly as she releases you from her tight grip, nodding at you.
“you know where the spare room is. stay as long as you need, okay? love you”
she truly means it, and although it’s not what you need, the small statement makes you feel a bit better.
“thank you, al, love you too. night.”
she squeezes your arm lightly, mumbles goodnight and leaves you to your own devices. you sniffle slightly and head for alex’s spare room. which has practically become your bedroom with the amount of times you’ve stayed here.
the minute you walk in you can do nothing but collapse on the bed, the past few hours have been a whirlwind of emotions and it’s drained you of any energy you possessed. you glance at your phone to check the time, only to be greeted by your lock screen, a photo of you and leah. she’s hugging you from behind, kissing your cheek as you close your eyes, smiling. you groan at the image as it causes more tears to spring to your eyes, you attempt to block the photo with your hand as you check the time to see that it’s only 5:54 pm. you sigh and contemplate your options.
you could either, stay in the room, look at photos of leah, cry and binge watch pitch perfect. or, you could simply just sleep and pretend that today’s fight never even happened.
you choose the latter, as the crushing weight of reality is too much to deal with.
so maybe sleeping it off wasn’t the best idea you’ve had.
after about 5 minutes of you forcing your eyes shut, and trying to force your mind to be calm. you realised that you can’t sleep without leah’s presence which then causes you to get emotional again at just the thought of her (you’re a little unstable there babes, but it’s okay, we don’t blame you!)
you text alex, asking her to come hold you again. you can hear the thumps of her footsteps before she opens the door and slides onto the bed
“i’m sorry about this.”
she smacks you playfully. opens her arms for you. you slot yourself into her arms and sigh. it’s nice, but it isn’t leah.
“don’t apologise, y/n. you’re my bestfriend. i’m here for you.”
you murmur a thank you as your eyes grow heavy. the emotional exhaustion mixed with the comfort of you’re best friends touch sends you into a deep sleep.
——————
you wake up to raised voices, the sounds making your newfound headache 10x as painful.
memories of the previous day flood your mind as you sit up in bed, you feel better after having rested, but still, the memory of the fight and what was said crushes on you.
shaking your head to clear yourself of your thoughts, you try to listen in to the voices from outside your door.
“i don’t trust that you won’t snap on her again though”
that’s alex, she has a protective tone to her voice
“i won’t. just, please. let me speak to her.”
you’d recognise that voice anywhere. anxiety fills you as you realise that she’s hunted you down. of course she has. you ran out on her. she’s probably come to end things with you officially.
you hear alex sigh.
“.. fine. but if you upset her, you’re out.”
of course she managed to find you. of course you would go to alex’s house. leah knows you better than you know yourself. she’s your other half, and now you’re about to lose that. it’s crazy that even after all the horrendous things she said to you yesterday, you’re sat here in anxiety about HER leaving YOU. god, the grip this woman has on you is insane.
a knock on the door ceases your inner monologue.
“come in.”
you cringe at the sound of your voice. the hoarseness of it is not at all pleasant.
the door starts to open and you see her shadow before you see her. your mind goes to overdrive. this is it, the end of the best 4 years of your life. she steps in the room and she’s holding something behind her back, you close your eyes, not wanting to see the box of your things she’s most likely collected. you’re not ready for this to be over, not willing to accept your reality. with a sigh, you open your eyes slowly to see that instead of a box, she’s holding.. flowers?
“for you.”
she looks shy. you look confused. if the tension from yesterdays argument wasn’t there, you’d have both laughed at each others faces. but instead you glance at the flowers in her hand. red and yellow tulips, your favourite.
you take them from her, clutching them tightly, you whisper a thank you.
“leah, what are you doing here-“
she cuts you off, talking quickly.
“i need to talk to you, will you hear me out? please, just listen to me.”
you nod, gesturing for her to continue. you won’t talk, you’ll let her say what she needs to say. you’re not in the wrong here, she is.
“y/n, i- .. i’m so sorry. i love you, i love you so so much and i am so sorry. you have every right in the world to be angry with me, i mean shit, i’m angry with myself. i can’t believe i let my emotions take control of me, i don’t think you’re a burden. you’re everything to me.”
she’s nervous as she speaks, stammering and playing with her fingers. it reminds you of when she first asked you on a date, over 4 years ago, she was shaking with nerves.
your voice is small when you speak, taking her words into account but also remembering the cause of the argument itself.
“so why did you say those things leah? why don’t you think i’m good enough to play?”
she frowns and shakes her head, her eyes are looking at your hands, clutching the flowers she’d given you tightly.
“i should never have said anything like that. you’re more than capable of playing, i mean hell, you’re incredible. i was just being selfish.”
she’s determined. she’s got a mission in her mind, and leah’s too competitive to give up on her mission. she’s not going to stop trying to earn your forgiveness.
“selfish?”
you’re even more confused. you can’t begin to understand.
“yeah, selfish. y/n, you mean the world to me. i love you more than i love anything. when you first broke your ankle during the match against chelsea and i saw you get carried off on that stretcher.. it was awful. seeing you in pain, it scared me so much. i know you’re healed now, but i’m scared, i don’t want you to get hurt again. i cant stand seeing you in pain and suffering.”
you sit there and process what she’s told you. taking in all the information, her fear of your health.
“my god leah, you need to learn how to be straightforward.”
you laugh at her. you need to teach her how to communicate better. she lets out a laugh. you’re not sure whether it’s because of your joke or if it’s out of pure relief, but the sight of her smile is enough for you to not question it.
“maybe i do.”
she smiles at you, still standing infront of the bed, looking at you. suddenly aware of how awkwardly she’s been stood there, you roll your eyes at her as you reach over to grab the hem of her shirt.
“get over here, idiot.”
you don’t have to tell her twice, she gets into the bed and melts into your arms. she buries her face on your chest as her arms wrap around your middle. you rest your head on the top of her own, gently stroking her back as you lay together. a contented sigh leaves her.
“i was so nervous. i was worried you’d not want to ever see me again.”
you smile slightly, both glad to know that you weren’t alone in your worries and glad that she values you so greatly, that she fears the thought of not having you in her life.
“not a chance, we’ve got too many plans together. i can’t really become y/n williamson on my own, can i?”
leah lifts her head from your chest as she moves her hand to cup your cheek. she gazes at you with an enamoured look in her eyes.
“i adore you, y/n.”
she leans in and your lips meet. kissing leah is unreal, her lips fit against your own perfectly, and almost every kiss with her is as special as your first. she pours so much passion into the kiss, as if she’s trying to portray how much love she has for you through it. you move a hand to her hair as the kiss deepens. you’re both in a world of bliss until a sock smacks the side of both your faces.
“oh no, you are NOT doing this in my house!”
alex stands in the doorway, hands on her hips looking like a very disgusted mother.
“ugh, alex! what’s wrong with you!”
you groan, your face flushed with embarrassment as you bury it in leah’s shoulder. leah laughs at you, her face flushed with both embarrassment of being caught and excitement of being with you.
“come on y/n, let’s go home, yeah? i’ve got some more presents for you back in our flat.”
she gets up and offers her hand towards you, you take it, smiling.
“gladly.”
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pixelnrd · 6 months
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After the events of her night out with Angela, April knew that she couldn't go on living in her marriage. She agonised over what to do, over how she felt, for weeks and weeks, weighing the pros and cons - how it would affect their children, hurting River whom she had loved so dearly for so many years. But in the end she realised she was not happy. Angela had awoken something inside her... something that she had never considered before, and now all of a sudden it was all that she wanted.
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River knew something was wrong. Things had been bad, but it felt so much worse all of a sudden. He confronted April one evening after the children went to bed, and she cried into her hands.
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'What have I done,' he pleaded to his wife. 'Please tell me April. How did we end up like this. How can we fix it.'
'I... don't think that we can,' April sighed. 'I'm sorry River. I can't... I can't do this anymore.'
'Tell me what I can do to make it work,' pleaded River. 'I'll do it if it means we have a chance for our family.'
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'I used to think it was all your fault, that you were the reason... but now, I think the fault is just as much mine,' confessed April. 'And I've realised why now, and I just wish I knew it sooner. But it's too late River. I want... a divorce.'
River was speechless at his wife's request. And devastated beyond measure. Suddenly his whole life, the life they had built together, was crashing down around them.
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193 notes · View notes
lonelysatellites · 7 months
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Unholy | Part 3 | Gator Tillman x fem reader
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I think it’s becoming more and more apparent with each snippet of Fargo that we get that my characterisation is way off 😅 but hey when I started this we knew next to nothing about Gator
18+ minors dni: smut, angst, mentions of violence and injury, blood mention, gun mention, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, swearing, drug mention, religious themes, if I’ve forgotten anything let me know! 7.5k (got carried away sorry)
Find the first 2 parts here
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The night that Gator broke your heart, the summer drought is also broken. Vicious claps of thunder shake the house, God unleashing his fury at your transgressions. Bright veins of lightening illuminate the dark sky, fat drops of rain punching the scorched earth outside, a few splashing onto the painted surface of your window sill. You know he won’t come, so why did you still leave the window open?
You spot him the following morning, slamming the screen door behind him, moodily stomping across soggy ground to his car. He’s buzzed his hair, the soft tresses that you’d clung between your fingers just hours ago now gone. You wonder if he thought of your hands in his hair as it fell to the floor.
Despite the agonising pain in your chest, you do as he’s asked you, for once. You stay away from him.
You can’t avoid him entirely of course. He stands nearby after church, while your dad exchanges pleasantries with his mom and dad. You watch his younger sisters while his folks are out at work, ignoring him when he returns to the house, just wordlessly pass him by and let him take over babysitter duties. On a few hellish evenings you’re forced to sit opposite him across the dinner table, at least thankful that you don’t have to take hold of his hands when everyone says grace over the food. You eat with your eyes cast down, tuning out to the small talk around you. He does the same. You don’t feel his eyes on you, not even once.
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Your daddy doesn’t pick up on the tension, too absorbed by the stress of his work to notice your foul mood that’s dragged on for weeks. The whole town is buzzing with whispered stories, shreds of gossip. It’s hard to tell what’s real, and what’s been fabricated for the sake of a juicy story.
Your ears snatch snippets of conversation between classmates at college.
Drugs, guns, a body found in the woods.
To them it’s just fun, finally something exciting to talk about in a town where usually the worst kinds of crimes are just petty misdemeanours. A group of kids from the high school trying to sneak beer out of Kowalski’s under their coats. A domestic that reaches boiling point, neighbours banging on the walls and screaming for quiet. The scandal that was Mr Jackson’s hideous garden gnomes being smashed three days in a row.
It’s not exciting for you. Seeing your dad so on edge had fear seeping into your bones. You were practically on lockdown. College was the only place you could go unattended, and you were under strict instructions to come straight home after classes, taking the bus instead of your bike so you weren’t alone. You could go as far as picking up groceries, so long as either Mr or Mrs Tillman went with you. Other than that, you stayed at home.
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You knew things must have been bad when you caught sight of Gator.
After a joint trip to the grocery store, you’d helped his mom carry her share of the bags in from the car. Sweat trickled down your back as you hoisted the heavy bags from the trunk, balancing them precariously on your hip so you could free a hand to slam the lid down. You’d usually make some excuse to leave and slink back to your solitary confinement, but the chilled air in the Tillman kitchen and the offer of sweet iced tea was too much to resist.
You sat on a stool by the island, sipping your drink as Mrs Tillman put away cans of corn and black beans. Her rambunctious six year old comes skidding into the kitchen, running laps around the island, babbling a mile a minute about a toad that she and her sisters had found at the end of the backyard.
“I don’t want to see no toad. Go on, get outta here!” Her mom laughed, shooing her away. The tiny hurricane leaves as swiftly as she came, a banging of the back door signifying her exit.
“And don’t slam that door!” Mrs Tillman shouted after her, giving you a wry smile. You giggled, twirling your paper straw around in your glass.
The door slams again, harder this time.
The woman’s face hardens as she bellows again.
“What did I just say about that damn d-“
A sharp gasp cuts off her words, eyes widening like saucers. You spin on your stool, wondering what on Earth could have horrified her so much.
Gator stands in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wooden frame.
His uniform is a mess, shirt askew and torn at the collar, deep merlot splatters staining the cotton. It’s easy to see where the stains had come from, his cheeks swollen and bruised, bottom lip split, dry blood crusting over the cut. Your eyes move down to where the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His right forearm is hidden beneath a navy blue cast.
“What the hell happened to you?!” Mrs Tillman shrieks.
Gator stands frozen in place, his eyes tracing over your face. Your expression has quickly warped to horror, matching his mothers.
“Gator!”
The boy shakes his head, wincing as he does so.
“M’fine mom. It’s nothin’.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me.” She says, crossing the room and reaching up to cup her sons tender face in her hands.
“Quit fussing’ over me. I’m fine.” He snaps. He knocks her hands away and storms out of the room, the sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs echoing through the house.
“I - I think I’d best be getting back. Thank you for the tea Mrs Tillman.” You whisper.
The woman seems to be in too much of a daze to hear you, and she only responds when you rise from your chair.
“Yes, of course dear. You’re always welcome, you know that.” She says quietly. She walks you to the front door, waiting until you’ve crossed the short distance to you home and you’re inside before she shuts it behind her. You wonder what she’ll say to Gator. You know he won’t give anything away.
As much as you’re dying to know what happened, you don’t ask you dad. He in turn offers no explanation for Gator’s injuries. You’re left with only your imagination, your mind keeping you up at night, tossing and turning in the sheets, the image of Gator’s bruised and bloody face the only thing you see when you close your eyes. You shouldn’t care as much as you do. A wicked part of you thinks he deserves to get his ass beat.
But you know that it wasn’t just some scuffle; a drunken brawl or heated argument that reached boiling point. There was a danger in this quiet town. Something that the sheriffs department was ill-prepared for, struggling to keep it contained, a dark threat that loomed over you all.
Each night you prayed for God to watch over your daddy and keep him safe. Gator too.
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The trees lining the modest campus wave their branches at you in the breeze. Leaves in various states of change; some still green and vibrant, others rusted and curling at the edges, preparing to fall. You weave through the bodies, moleskin hugged close to your chest, making your way to the bus stop.
A deep voice calling your name makes you pause.
Drew Chambers hurries along the sidewalk, knocking into a few students without an apology. He’s relatively unchanged since high school, just a little broader, and he was already an intimidating figure in his teens. The star quarterback, who’s light didn’t quite burn bright enough to earn him a spot in the colleges of his choice. You’d seen him around campus a few times, but you’d never spoken to him. You weren’t friends in school, he was a year older and moved in different circles. You tried to stay out of the way of him and the rest of his jock buddies. You knew little about him, other than his reputation for making his way through most of the cheer squad, and his bitter rivalry with Gator.
“Hey! I didn’t know you went here.” He smiles, slowing to a stop in front of you, blocking the path.
“Yeah. First year.” You shrug.
“I’m in my second. Sports science and physiotherapy.” He explains, even though you didn’t ask.
You nod politely but don’t reply. Although it seems that Drew is happy to do most of the talking.
“It’s nice to see a familiar face around here.” He says.
You hum in vague agreement. Why the hell was he talking to you?
“We should catch up sometime.” He says, like you had ever had a conversation this long before.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.” You reply.
“Really? A pretty girl like you’s got no plans on a Friday night?” Drew grins. His pale green eyes scan your body from head to toe, lingering where your dress skims over your thighs.
“Nope.”
“Perfect. I’ll take you out for dinner then.”
It’s a statement, not a question. Like it’s a given that you’d want his attention.
“I don’t know..” you murmur.
“C’mon. It’ll be fun. I’ll pick you up at 7. You’re on Maple, right? Up by Tillman?”
You jolt at the mention of Gator, but it goes unnoticed by Drew. You had no desire whatsoever to spend an evening with him, but a thought creeps into your brain and takes hold.
What would Gator think, if he saw you being picked up by another boy? The thought that he might be jealous makes you dizzy, a smugness washing over you that makes the decision easy.
“Yeah. Okay, sounds good.” You smile.
“Awesome. I’ll see you later then pretty girl.” Drew grins, turning back to go back the way he came. His words don’t have the butterflies in your stomach spreading their wings like when Gator called you pretty, but that didn’t matter. Maybe it would be good for you to spend time with someone new.
On the bus journey home you wrack your brain trying to figure out how you’ll convince your daddy to let you out of the house. You needn’t have worried, a scribbled note on the kitchen counter let’s you know that he won’t be home until late, maybe not until the following morning. The Tillmans will have a place set for you for dinner.
You call the house next door, relieved when it’s Gator’s mom who answers the phone. You feign a headache, excusing yourself from dinner, feeling a little guilty at the white lie, but you couldn’t exactly tell her the truth. It’d get straight back to your dad.
Despite not being particularly excited for the evening ahead, you still make an effort when getting ready. The cut of your powder blue dress is modest (you didn’t want Drew getting any ideas) but it clings to your waist and hips in a way that subtly shows your curves.
It was one of Gator’s favourites.
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You’d been wearing it on a cool afternoon earlier in the summer, stretched out in the backyard. Back pressed to the warm tiles lining the pool, one arm hanging limp at your side, fingertips cutting slowly through the chill turquoise water. You’d heard his whistle, the sound shrill enough to disrupt Hozier’s crooning through your AirPods.
“Did you just whistle at me?” You huff, your nose wrinkling in annoyance as you push up to see Gator leaning against the fence.
“In my defence, I called your name first. But you were too busy daydreaming.” He grinned.
“C’mon. I want your help with something again.” He said lowly.
It was embarrassing how quickly you scrambled to your feet, leaving your phone and ear buds dropped somewhere in the grass, Would That I now playing only to the ladybirds and ants.
It took little convincing on Gator’s part for you to help him with his problem.
He at least had the decency to toss a pillow onto his bedroom floor, your knees squishing into the soft down as you settled in place. He stood over you, almost statuesque, like an angel carved by the hands of Michelangelo himself. Or perhaps he was the devil.
Either way, you let your lips fall apart, tongue laid flat as he sheathed himself into your mouth. You’d thought it might be strange, off-putting, to do this to someone. But you loved every second of it as much as Gator did, looking up at him with glassy eyes, watching him unravel as he thrust into the wet heat of your mouth. He groaned, a vein bulging in his tanned neck, that if your mouth hadn’t been otherwise engaged, you’d have eagerly traced with your tongue. You took deep breaths through your nose, fighting off the urge to gag and blinking away the tears that streamed down your cheeks, all in an effort to earn his sweet praise.
“Oh fuck. That’s it - shit! Good girl, you’re such a good girl f’me.”
When he came, you swallowed down everything he had given you. Your reward was rough fingertips wiping away your tears; tucking stray hairs back behind your ears. A crooked smile, and a wink that sucked the oxygen out of your lungs.
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You shake the memory from your head. A spritz of Marc Jacobs Daisy chases away the ghost of jasmine and sandalwood that you swear still lingers in your room, Bleu de Chanel soaked into every soft surface despite it being almost two months since Gator had been here. You’re swiping on a sticky layer of gloss when there’s a knock at the front door.
As you descend the stairs there’s more thumping, impatient. Drew was obviously eager for your date to begin.
“M’coming!” You shout, hopping down the hallway, fighting with the laces of your Converse as you go. With the stubborn sneaker finally on your foot, you pull open the door.
Your bright smile fades immediately to a scowl.
“What are you doing here?”
Gator frowns.
“Mom said you weren’t coming over for dinner. You weren’t feeling well.”
“Okay. And?” You ask incredulously.
“And, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He shrugs.
You snort, a sarcastic laugh that makes Gator’s teeth grind together. He wasn’t used to you being so sharp, so abrupt. Where had his sweet girl gone? Is this what he’d turned you into?
“I’m fine.” You snap, moving to close the door. You’re blocked by a large hand pressed to the wood.
Gators eyes scan you suspiciously.
“What’re you all dressed up for?” He asks.
“I’m going out.” You say defiantly, folding your arms across your chest.
“So you lied to my mom?”
“I - I didn’t lie exactly.” You mutter.
“But you don’t have a headache, clearly.”
“I’ll have one in a minute if I keep talking to you!” You snap.
Gator rolls his eyes, his hand on the door curling into a fist.
“Who are you going out with?” He snarls.
“A friend.”
“Which friend?”
“Gator, I don’t see how that’s any of your busi-“
God must still be out to punish you, if Drew’s terrible timing is anything to go by.
Gator’s head snaps to look down your driveway as silver Altima rolls over the gravel.
“No.” He says, shaking his head. He looks back at you with fury burning bright behind his eyes.
“No way. Not happening.”
You scoff, shoving him hard with your shoulder so you can step over the threshold. You ignore him cursing under his breath, locking the door, although it’s a difficult task when your hands shake with anger.
“Hey sweetheart!” Drew calls, grinning cockily as he steps out of the car.
“Tillman.”
Gator doesn’t respond to the acknowledgement. His hand wraps around your bicep, not enough to hurt but enough to stop you in your tracks as you descend your porch.
“You’re not going out with Drew fucking Chambers.” Gator spits.
“Gator, you told me to stay away from you. Those were your exact words. You’re bored of me, remember?”
The boy winces. His hold on your arm loosens, and you wrench yourself away.
“If you don’t want anything to do with me, then that means you don’t get to tell me where I can go, or who I can go there with!”
You don’t let him get another word in, stomping over to Drew’s car. He gives Gator one final mocking wave as you slam the passenger door behind you, before dropping back into his seat and reversing out onto the road.
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If there’s any small consolation for Gator, it’s that you don’t seem to be enjoying your date all that much. Even at this distance, he can tell your smile is fake, can see the way your eyes drift to look around the room, like they always do when you’re distracted. Daydreaming.
Are you thinking about him? Are you wishing that he was the one sitting across from you on those cracked vinyl seats, sharing a sundae and talking shit about stuff that doesn’t matter?
What would you talk about? Gator realises that there’s still so much about you that he doesn’t know. Talking wasn’t exactly his priority during the times you were together.
You gave him tidbits of information here and there, happy to fill the silence that he gave you in the moments where you redressed, or as he drove you back home. In the weeks without you, Gator has clung to those stories and facts that you’d told him. He wasn’t sure if it made him miss you more, or less, but he still recited them over and over in his head.
You’re a Sagittarius. Gator doesn’t believe in all that bullshit, but he still smiles when he remembers the look on your face when he told you his birthday.
“You’re an Aries! See, that’s why we’re compatible.”
You miss your mom living at home, but you don’t miss her constant fighting with your dad.
You want to run your own bookstore one day, maybe with a little cafe inside.
Your favourite colour is yellow. Not bright or neon, but soft, pastel. Like the feathers of a duckling.
Parked across the road from the diner, Gator watches through his open window as you eat another spoonful of ice cream. You shudder a little, nose wrinkling up in that adorable way it always does when you don’t like something. Drew’s ordered chocolate.
He should’ve got strawberry. Strawberry is your favourite.
When your date has polished off the last of the sundae, and tossed a handful of bills onto the table, the two of you make your way outside. Drew’s hand comes to rest on the small of your back as he guides you to the car, the casual possessiveness of the touch making Gator’s fists clench. His right arm, a little paler than the left thanks to the weeks trapped in plaster throbs. A reminder of the last time Gator let his emotions get the better of him. Recklessness that could’ve cost him far greater than just a broken wrist.
Still, he doesn’t stop his emotions from ruling him once again. He waits a few seconds, leaving a reasonable distance before his car rolls out onto the road, following you both.
His plan was just to make sure you got back safe, ensure that you made it back into your home alone. But at a junction where Drew should have turned left, his vehicle instead goes right. He’s not taking you home.
Gator’s chest turns tight. He knows all to well where this road leads, everyone who grew up in this town does. Another fifteen minutes and you’ll be at the quarry. Long abandoned, nature had since reclaimed the space, moss and leaves wrapping the discarded equipment. No one ever went there now, except horny teenagers looking for a private space away from the prying eyes of the town.
Gator won’t let you get that far. He flicks the switch on the dashboard, blue lights cutting through the dying sunlight. His siren blares as Drew’s car comes to a stop at the side of the road.
“What the fuck?” Drew whispers, watching Gator’s reflection in the rear view mirror as he steps out of his car, making his way slowly to you. You don’t say a word, your breath coming quicker in staccato pants.
Gator pauses at the back of the vehicle. It’s rocks a little, a crunching sound cutting through the quiet.
“What the fuck?!” Drew says again, shouting now. He twists in his seat, his window sliding down in time for Gator to appear next to it.
“You’ve got a brake light out.” Gator says matter of factly.
“I know! I just heard you smash it!” Drew barks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t Tillman! Who the fuck do you-“
“If you’ve got a problem, you can file a complaint with Roy.”
Drew shuts up immediately.
“Step out of the car. Both of you.”
“Why?” Drew asks.
“Because I said so.”
The heat has dropped, the air chilled enough that goosebumps break out over your bare arms when you climb out. You clutch your purse close to your chest, watching as Drew exits. He’s toe to toe with Gator, both boys rolling their shoulders back and standing at full height.
“You got anything on you that you shouldn’t?” Gator asks.
“No.” Drew replies.
“Well I’m not gonna just take your word for it. Turn around and put your hands on the vehicle.”
“Are you serious?” Drew snaps.
Gator doesn’t respond with words. But he puts both hands on his hips, one resting over the weapon holstered at his side.
Drew acquiesces.
Gator is rough as he pats Drew down, his hands moving down his torso and into the pockets of his jeans. He pulls out Drew’s wallet, flipping it open and flicking through the cash in there. He grins when he removes a square foil packet.
“I doubt you’ll be needing this.” Gator smirks, waving the condom in the boy’s face before throwing it to the ground. His fingers reach into the wallet again. This time his brows raise in surprise as he pulls out a small plastic bag of white powder.
“Well well well. What do we have here?”
“That - that’s not mine.” Drew stutters.
“It was in your wallet.”
“I don’t know how that got there.”
“I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it at the station. Hands behind your back Chambers.” Gator sneers.
“C’mon man. Don’t do this. Please - we can work something out.”
Gator ignores Drew’s pleas, reading him his rights in a bored voice, the metal cuffs clinking as he secures his arms behind his back.
He pulls him round to the curb roughly, Drew stumbling as he tries to keep up.
“Sit there and don’t move.” Gator orders. He shoves Drew to the ground, and without his hands to steady himself he falls to his side, face landing in the dirt.
Gator radios for backup, and your blood runs cold. How on Earth would you explain this to your daddy if he turns up?
“Hands on the car.” Gator says quietly, his breath ghosting on the shell of your ear. You jolt, not realising he’d crept up behind you. Your hands shake as you place them on the cool metal.
Gator nudges your feet apart with his boot, widening your stance. His weight leans into your back, one thigh slotted between your legs as he presses you against the vehicle. You try to ignore the heat that blooms between your thighs.
He’s slower with you, but still a little rough. His hands grip your sides, rucking up the fabric of your dress, slipping down over your hips. He grips the fat of them, guiding them down so his thigh is pressed against your core. You can’t see him, but you know he must be smirking. There’s no way he can’t feel the heat radiating from you.
It’s obvious that there’s nothing concealed beneath the thin fabric of your dress, but Gator drags out his search. Your face heats at the thought of your date sitting just a couple of feet away, watching someone else touch you with so much familiarity and possessiveness.
A few minutes later, more flashing lights come into view. You hold your breath when the door swings open, sighing audibly with relief when a young deputy steps out. He gives you a surprised look as Gator approaches him.
While the two cops talk quietly between themselves, Drew mutters furiously under his breath. You share in his anger, glaring at the back of Gator’s head so intensely you’re sure he must feel it.
The deputy pulls Drew to his feet, leading him to the back of his vehicle.
“Hey. Hey! What about my car?” He shouts.
Gator laughs.
“This heap of shit? I wouldn’t worry about it, if someone steals it they’d be doing you a favour.” He mocks.
With Drew secured in the backseat the deputy nods his head to you.
“What about her? Should we call her dad?”
“Nah. No point in worrying him with this. I’ll just take her home.” Gator replies.
You stand with your arms folded tight across your chest, waiting until the deputy’s car fades from view. Then you start to make your way down the road towards town.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Gator calls.
“Home!” You snap.
“Get in the car!” Gator orders.
You ignore him, hurrying your pace. His footsteps crunch on gravel as he jogs in front of you, blocking your path.
“Get. In. The car.” He snarls.
“Or what?” You smirk.
“You gonna cuff me?”
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Cold metal digs into your wrists, a little too tight, biting your flesh. Gator at least had the decency to cuff your arms in front of you, and he’s careful when he helps you into the passenger seat of his Dodge, one hand on your arm to steady you, the other curling over the top of your head so you don’t hit it on the way in.
You sit pouting when he starts the vehicle, furious tension filling the small space.
“You pleased with yourself?” You sneer.
“Very.” Gator replies.
“What the fuck is your problem? Why did you have to spoil everything?”
“Oh I’m sorry. Sorry I ruined your perfect date with such a wonderful gentleman.” Gator says sarcastically.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Well what exactly do you mean?”
“I mean why couldn’t you just leave me alone!” You shriek, you anger reaching boiling point.
“You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either!”
“That’s not what it is.” Gator says gruffly.
“Well what is it then? You had no right to do what you did.”
“So I should’ve just left you to it then? Let him take you off to the quarry and do god knows what with you. Is that what you wanted, huh? You wanted to spread your legs for him like every other girl in this town has? Give him another notch on his belt?”
Your fury burns bright white in your chest, every cell in your body vibrating with it.
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite!” You scream.
Gator just manages to dodge your still cuffed hands swinging at his face, grabbing at your wrists to stop the assault.
“Hey!” He shouts back. A vein pulses on his forehead, his teeth bared in a threatening sneer.
“You’ve fucked half the girls in this town too Gator. You’re no better than Drew! And you seemed more than happy to mess around with me when you thought I was some innocent little lamb that you were leading astray. That’s all it was to you - some sick curiosity at corrupting me! When I wasn’t pure anymore I wasn’t good enough. You just tossed me aside like damaged goods!”
Your chest heaves, feeling lightheaded after your rant. Gator stares at you slack jawed, in horror and disbelief at your words.
“That’s - that’s not how it was.” He says quietly.
“Bullshit!”
“Alright! Listen, you’re right okay? It was like that at first. It was gross and fucked up, I liked the fact that I was the only one who’d ever touched you like that. B-but then it changed. That wasn’t what it was like for me in the end.”
You scoff. You try to pull away from him, but Gator keeps a firm hold on you, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“I - fuck! You scare the shit out me.”
“What are you talking about?” You mutter.
“You scare me. The way you make me feel scares me. I can’t get you out of my fucking head.” He says, furiously tapping at his temple.
“I didn’t know what to do, I just couldn’t let anything to happen to you. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“You hurt me Gator.”
Your voice wobbles, cutting off in a high pitched squeak. Tears burn your eyes, spilling down to stain your cheeks.
“I know. I’m sorry baby.”
“Stop it. Y-you don’t get to call me that anymore.” You hiccup. A sob breaks from your chest, the tears coming harder now.
“Hey. Shhh it’s okay, please don’t cry.” Gator whispers.
Metal clinks softly, the cuffs released from your wrists and thrown to the floor. Gator rubs his thumbs over the indents left in your skin, pulling your hands up to his face so he can kiss the marks he’s made.
“M’sorry.” He mumbles against your skin.
“I’m so sorry.”
You want to scream. You want to use your new freedom to claw at his face, tell him you don’t forgive him, you hate him. But you don’t. Not even a little bit.
You whine his name through your sobs, body falling limp against the seat. You've got no fight left. No when he’s touching you so tenderly, when he’s whispering sweet words to you, when you can smell the citrus and warm spice of his cologne. His scent crawls through your nose and up to your brain, like a parasite seeking a host, it takes over until all you can think about is how much you missed him.
“C’mere.” The boy murmurs, his voice softer than you’ve ever known it.
He pulls you flush to his chest. The centre console digs into your hip; it’s an awkward angle, your body twisted uncomfortably, but you don’t care. Gator cradles your face in his large hands, plump lips kissing away the wetness on your cheeks. Noses bump in a sweet nuzzle, quiet sighs exhaled that mingle together in the minuscule distance between your mouths.
Then he kisses you.
It’s all backwards. He’s worked you open with his fingers, had his head buried between your thighs, you’ve let the heavy weight of his cock rest on your tongue and nudge the back of your throat. And now, after all of it, you’re sharing your first kiss.
You taste like chocolate ice cream and root beer. Gator tastes like cigarettes and cinnamon gum. His lips are warm and pillowy soft, his tongue hot and wet when it slides into your mouth to meet yours.
Gator’s anger sparks hot in his chest once more when he thinks that someone else came so close to tasting you, to sharing this milestone with you. It had to be him that stole your first kiss. It had to be him that was your first everything. He swallows down the irritation, letting your lips soothe and chase away his insecurities. Your hands fist his shirt, greedy, trying to pull him closer when there’s already no distance left to cover.
You kiss until the need for oxygen is too great to fight, gasping when you break apart. He searches your eyes for any sign of regret, but he finds none. Only longing and need.
He reaches over to take hold of your seat belt, stretching it across your body and buckling you in.
“Are we going home?” You whisper.
“No.” He says softly. He leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh. Your skin tingles at the contact.
When you hesitantly place one hand over his, you’re relieved that he doesn’t pull away. Just let’s your fingers slot in between his, squeezing until his knuckles turn white.
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The lights at the quarry no longer work, only the moon left to illuminate the vast space. It should be intimidating, scary, to be somewhere so far from town in the dark. Nothing but discarded excavators and the old office, a converted shipping container with windows smashed in by some rowdy teenagers years ago.
But Mother Nature has softened the harsh edges of this place, her vines and moss wrapping metal and stone in a delicate blanket. She’s the only one who bares witness to what happens here now.
Gator pulls up next to a graffiti covered bulldozer, colourful tags in splotchy spray paint partially obscured by leaves and branches. He kills the engine, returning the space to its silence.
When he turns to you, his expression is hesitant. He waits.
He’s giving you the opportunity to change you mind; to demand that he takes you home, that he goes back to ignoring you and let’s you get on with your life without him.
Instead, you unclip your seatbelt and open your door, trembling legs swinging out.
He copies your motions, watching you with careful eyes as you open the back door and climb in.
It’s a little cramped, but you have just enough space to move, settling on your knees and shuffling to the middle seat. Close enough that you can capture his lips once again.
Gator hums through the kiss, greedy hands on your waist, squeezing the dough of your flesh under thin cotton. Your hands make their way to his hair, the soft scratch of stubble a foreign feeling.
“I’ll grow it back.” He promises between kisses.
“Mmm. It does look nice like this.” You whisper.
“But you prefer it long.”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll grow it back.” He confirms again.
You let him lean his weight into you, guiding you back until you’re laying across the seats, his hand protecting your head once again so you don’t hit it on the window. His lips dip down to your neck, sucking at your skin with a pressure that just isn’t enough.
“Harder.” You beg.
“It’ll leave a mark.” He says.
“Don’t care. I want it to.”
Gator’s far beyond the point of denying you.
If you asked him to bring you the moon, he wouldn’t stop until he’d found some way up to the dark sky, until he’d put the pale glowing orb in your hands.
His mouth forms a tight seal on the skin below your ear, sucking a deep bruise there that will fade far quicker than these feelings will. You’re growing desperate for him, the ache between your legs pulsing with want.
You don’t need to tell him, he knows your desires without you voicing them, they match his own. He moves lower, pushing up the hem of your dress, exposing the soaked fabric that covers your core.
“So pretty.” He says.
The butterflies in your stomach unfurl their wings. They’ve been so neglected, but now they wake from their slumber, fluttering from Gator’s praise. As he pulls your underwear down your legs you sigh, half expecting to see those tiny winged insects exhaled on your breath, flying through the warm air in the car.
Gator doesn’t waste time; he pries your legs apart, firm hands squeezing plush thighs as his head dips down. His nose brushes your clit, the bundle of nerves coming alive with pleasure, while his tongue swirls messily at your entrance.
You’re grateful for his strong hold on you, you feel like you might float away without his grounding touch. Your head thumps back against the door, warmth and joy flooding over you as Gator brings you almost embarrassingly quickly to the precipice.
His deep groans vibrate against your core, one hand leaving your thigh to clumsily stroke the hard on that’s tenting his pants.
“D-don’t - don’t cum in your pants again.” You tease. You feel him grin against your slick flesh, responding with a gentle nip at your bud that makes you keen.
One hand flies out to grab the bars that separate the front of the vehicle from the back, fingers curling around cool metal, in desperate need of something to hold on to.
The other finds the back of Gator’s head, short hairs prickling the pads of your fingers. You pull him closer, encouraging him to bury himself deep between your thighs.
“Fuck. Gator… I’m - I’m gonna-“
The cry that cuts off your words is loud and sharp, filling the small space and leaving a ringing in your ears. Your body convulses, thighs attempting to snap shut around the boys head. He continues to lap at you until your moans fade to overstimulated whimpers and pathetic mewls. Then he finally shows mercy.
Your vision is hazy, but you see the smile stretched across Gator’s face, his lips shining with spit and you. It’s not a smirk, not some condescending or sarcastic grin that you want to wipe from his face. It’s the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen him wear; soft and warm. Almost loving.
You’re still coming down from your high, body trembling with the aftershocks. You should be sated, content. But the ache you felt before has only grown in intensity, almost painful with how your body cries out for him.
“Please.” You whine, making grabby hand motions at him, no longer embarrassed to beg for him.
“I’ve got you baby.” Gator says softly.
“Let me see you.”
He pulls you upright, kissing you deeply, only breaking it to tug your dress up over your head. One skilled hand snaps the clasp of your bra behind your back, letting the garment fall and be discarded.
Through his kisses you fumble with the buttons on his shirt, your hands shaking so much that he has to take over. It slides off over his broad shoulders, exposing the chest hair that makes your mouth water, and a constellation of tiny moles and freckles that you hope you’ll have the opportunity to explore another day.
Right now there’s no time, there’s an urgency in the confines of these back seats that has Gator hastily unbuckling his belt. Your breath hitches as he rolls down his zipper, a quite groan falling from his lips as the pressure that restrained his length is gone. He’s too impatient to unlace his boots, so he settles for shoving his pants and boxers down to his ankles, crawling over you until you're settled with his weight pressing you into the seats.
His cock lays heavy on your stomach, pearly pre smearing across your skin.
You press a sweet kiss to Gator’s cheekbone, his eyes fluttering closed, nose brushing against yours. When you reach down between your bodies and wrap a fist around his cock, Gator makes the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard, a needy whine that no music could ever compare to.
You shift your hips, angling the head of his cock down until it sweeps through your folds.
“Shit, baby. Baby - wait.” Gator gasps. You pause at the sudden change in his voice. Gator’s mossy eyes look almost entirely black in the dark, and they widen in panic.
“I don’t have a condom.” He says dejectedly. He frowns, and you know he’s cursing himself for tossing the foil packet he took from Drew’s wallet aside.
“I don’t care.” You say softly.
“Baby.” He warns.
“Sshhh. It’s okay. I want you Gator. All of you.” You whisper.
You guide the thick length in your hand lower, feeling the tip of him nudge at your entrance.
“Are - are you sure?” Gator asks.
You answer him with a kiss. It’s enough to break the last of his resolve.
Gator props himself up on one arm, his other hand wrapping over yours as he guides himself into you. There’s some resistance, despite how wet you are and how much you need him, it takes a firm push for his tip to breach your entrance. You gasp at the sting, a sharp pain as your walls try to adjust to the intrusion.
“Just breath. That’s it, that’s my good girl. You can take it baby.” Gator murmurs, peppering kisses across your face as he rolls his hips. He pushes and pushes, until his pelvis is flush with your mound, and he fills you completely.
Gator stays still, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you. Needy hands grab at his shoulders, crescent moons left in his skin as you cling to him. The pain subsides slowly, melting away until all that you’re left with is that same ache. It’s not something physical, you realise. This ache is from how badly you need him to claim you, make you his.
As if there was ever any doubt who you belonged to.
“You can move.” You whisper.
He’s slow, so careful and gentle as he pulls out halfway, sinking back in at a languid pace. Your walls squeeze him, trying to make him stay each time his hips roll back.
“You’re so tight.” He says through gritted teeth.
“You feel like heaven baby.”
And he’s right. It is heavenly. You’re own little paradise in the back seat of a cop car.
With each careful thrust, the head of Gator’s cock presses against a spot that sets your body alight, sweat beading on your skin. The windows fog from heated breaths, concealing you both from the outside world. It’s just you and him. Nothing else matters.
“I’m not gonna last much longer angel.” Gator moans.
“Can you cum for me again? I need to feel it baby.”
You can’t find the words the respond to him, all you can do is nod your head weakly where it’s tucked against his neck. The trimmed curls at his base brush over your clit with every movement, your pleasure inching closer and closer to its peak.
“Please baby.” Gator whimpers.
The desperation in his tone pushes you over the edge. You tumble head first into euphoria, babbling his name over and over like a prayer. Your moans are loud enough to reach the heavens, all those virtuous angels probably blushing and averting their eyes to such unholy sights. How could it be a sin to feel something this wonderful? If it was, then on the day of your judgement you’d gladly look God right in the eyes and tell him it was worth it.
The feeling of you pulsing over him is too much for Gator. He loses the last of his composure, his hips snapping against you harder, chasing down his own high. He cums with a deep moan tearing from his throat, the sound muffled when he smashes his lips against yours. It’s a messy kiss, lacking any kind of coordination. He licks filthily into your mouth, holding your jaw in a bruising grip, fierce with possessiveness. Warmth floods within you, and your tummy flips over with joy at him marking you both inside and out.
Gator collapses over you, his weight almost suffocating, not that you’re bothered in the slightest. He pants against your chest, pressing the occasional kiss to your collarbone, while you nuzzle your face against his forehead, lightly scratching his scalp with your nails.
“Thank you.” He says, so quiet that you almost miss it.
“For what?” You ask.
Gator raises his head, his chin resting on your sternum.
“For letting me be your first. I - I know that was a big deal for you.”
“Oh.” A familiar anxiety swirls in your chest, insecurities tearing their ugly heads.
“Th-thank you. For being gentle with me.” You whisper.
Gator’s brows marry in a frown.
“What’s wrong? Do - do you regret it?” He says.
“No! No I don’t regret it at all. It’s just..”
“Just what baby?” Gator says softly. He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the soft skin beneath your eye.
“Is it - is this, like a one time thing? Will you still.. want me? Now I’m not.. y’know. A virgin.” You whisper the last word like it’s a curse, cringing and wrinkling your nose.
“Honey.” Gator sighs. His bottom lip sticks out in a sad pout.
“I’ll always want you. If I get my way, I’ll be your first, and your only.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
A bright grin stretches across your face, an expression that Gator matches.
“I’d like that.” You admit.
The radio in the front of the car crackles with static.
“10-15 in progress at Benji’s Bar & Grill. Nearest available unit please respond.”
“Do you need to get that?” You ask.
“Nah. S’other side of town. Besides, I’m busy.” Gator says.
He lowers his head back to your chest, feeling the quiet thump of your heartbeat under his cheek. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingertips trailing over collections of freckles like you’re trying to commit them to memory.
Gator doesn’t feel afraid like he expected to, being so vulnerable with you. Instead, his mind is filled with a sharp clarity.
He’s got his girl. And no one will ever take her away from him.
Taglist: @evansgal @madaboutjoe @angel-jz
287 notes · View notes
zu8her · 6 months
Text
✧・゚Indulged Sharing — anybody up for a good gangbang
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✧・゚tags — gangbang, threesome, cum eating, bisexual volleyball players, cum swapping, they are wearing suits, penetrative sex, consent, shawty taking on the whole squad, Tsukishima, Akaashi, Bokuto, Kuroo.
✧・゚notes — It's been awhile. I would like to thank loadshedding for making me write again. enjoy reading this. i really think this is not good but i want to put it out.
✧・゚— word count: 1.8K
Staring aimlessly around the boys' apartment, she hesitated to glance into the kitchen. The place was clean, she notes. At her feet she fixates on the outline of the table that was previously on the soft carpet before it was moved in the corner of the living room.
The wait was agonising. Had she just kept this filthy desire locked in the depths of mind she would not be here. Instead she’s here folding one leg over the other slightly adjusting her dress to prevent her leg from bouncing uncontrollably, slightly adjusting her dress. Looking up, Bokuto flashes a smile. Not his usual energetic one but one to calm her. The exchange was fleeting. She returns the smile before turning to gaze into the kitchen.
The rest of his flatmates have gathered there to conversate about her imaginative mind. She wishes to be hear what they are taking about but only hears mumbles. Her anxiety spikes when they catch her and give her a smile similar to Bokuto or a gaze she has never gotten from them before. She lowers her head, twirling a loose thread around her finger.
She lifts her head for a moment as Kuroo walks over and settles next to her. "Hey." She sits awkwardly while he sinks into the couch cushions. He eyes her taking in her frame. “You sure you want to do this?" He questions earnestly.
She turns to meet his gaze. "If you don't want to-"
"Oh, we want to." He reassures, smirking as he rests his head against the couch.
Reflexively. she glances back into the kitchen, eyeing Tsukishima. “Your boyfriend also wants to.”
Feeling a light poke from Kuroo,  she turns to see him point up at Tsukishima. The blonde stands with his gaze stern but his voice gentle. "Can we talk for a sec?" He extends a hand to help her off the couch. In the dimly lit hallway he squeezes her hand looking down at her through his glasses. “I talked to them.”
“Thank you,”
“I want you to enjoy yourself.” He tucks  a loose braid behind her ear before raising her hand and planting a kiss.
She had always thought about. The thought of indulging with more than one person at a time, drew her in. All their attention on her. Watching her. What pleasure could she derive from that.
At first she hesitated telling him. Always shaking her head when he’d turn his head at the sound of her faint gasp, caused by her attempt to expose her desire. One evening Tsukishima corned her. A quiet evening of indulging each other’s sexual fantasies lead her to finally tell him. Straddle his lap while finally letting her thought become words.
“I just wonder what it would be like.” She excitedly uttered. His face was blank, thinking. He listened rubbing her side. The excitement was seemly not shared. As a result, the next morning she passed it off as a joke. It was not brought up again. Well, until a few weeks later anyway.
“You did what?”
“They said they would be… willing to.”
That's how she ended up here. In their surprisingly clean apartment intoxicated by the mixture of their colognes.
“The safe word is blueberry. If you can't say anything just tap somewhere three times.” She nods. Leaning down he caresses her cheek before kissing her.
Feeling his hands slip from her waist she eyes him as he props himself on a couch while she returns to her previous seat, Kuroo and Akaashi at either side of her.
Akaashi cautiously moves to cup her chin. "May I?" His eyes dart from her eyes to her lips. She nods closing her eyes as she melts into the kiss. They alternate between deep kisses and pecks. Taking mere moments to breathe and stare at each other before indulging once more. The kisses, desperate as his hand roam her body and she grips his tie to pull him closer. She spreads her legs to get him between them.
He moves down to gently kiss along her neck and shoulders. Her gaze fixed on her boyfriend as he sits back sipping a glass of red wine watching.
The man on the left quickly forces her attention to him. "Look at me." He orders before he leans in to kiss her.
Feeling hands wrap around her hips, she breaks the kiss to see Akaashi on his knees. He pulls her to the edge of the couch while Kuroo latches onto her once more. She shivers with every kiss Akaashi places along her inner thighs, spreading her legs open. She whimpers against Kuroo as Akaashi pulls down her underwear, discarding it elsewhere. She gasps gripping his hair, once he latched onto her clit. 
“Can I touch you here?” Kuroo requests. She moves his hands toward her tits. Her moans muffled as he kisses her. He purposefully grazes her nipples, smirking as they kissed as she arches her back. Her orgasm came quick.
She drew heavy breathes to gather herself. Akaashi emerged from underneath her dress, sliding away towards Tsukishima.
From the other side Bokuto approached with his signature smile, lustful as he loosened his tie. His bulge evident through his trousers. He replaces Akaashi , placing his knee on the couch and laying y/n on her back, her head on Kuroo's lap. She squirms under him her eyes alternating from him unzipping his trousers and Akaashi feeding Tsukishima her cum as leaned down to kiss him.
Bokuto had girth. She gasps, when he lined his thick cock against her before slowly pushing inside.
She was drowned in pleasure as he dived into her cunt. She stared down at  his cock ripped through her. Indulging in the pleasure she leaned back staring up at Kuroo. Met with a sly smirk, she gave back a drunken smile before snapping her head forward when Bokuto placed his thumb against her clit. Reflexively she reached out but was stopped by Kuroo who pinned her hands above her head. Her eyes fall on her boyfriend who is stroking Akaashi's cock, taking her over the edge, she cums on Bokuto’s cock.
She flinches when he pulled out. Palming his cock glistening with her cum before resting his tip on her clit.
***
On her knees, she settled between his legs, nuzzling into the soft carpet. Innocently, she looks up at Tsukishima tugging at his belt. With his cock out, she started slowly stroking. (Alliteration was unintended). She felt it throb as she stroked it.
The carpet under her slowly became damp as she listened to him whimper and groan with every on of her licks and strokes. She bobbed her head letting his cock hit the back of her throat as his flatmates watched palming their cocks at the sight. Tsukishima grunted gazing down at her through his glasses as she took  his cock, carefully pushes her braids behind her ear before gently gripping the base of her head. He bucks his hips into her mouth. “There you go baby.” He coos as she briefly shut her eyes. Stings of his cum spurt into her mouth.
***
All she could do is stare at Tsukishima while he palmed his cock and let her moans echo through the apartment alongside her gentlemen's grunts and whimpers. She was face down against the soft couch and ass up as Akaashi fucked her from the back. Her moans were erratic. She could not keep herself silent while Akaashi repeatedly fucked into her. His flatmates stroking their cocks to her getting fucked threw her over the edge.
She came desperately trying to close her legs but Akaashi continued to ram his cock into her. "Shit- where do I- ?" he groans. "Inside."
She moaned as he came. Her eyes hooded and drool sinking into the couch as he slowly thrusted his cum deeper.
She groaned when he pulled. Catching her breathe as they watched his cum slide down her legs.
***
Laid out on the soft carpet, Bokuto fucked his thick cock into her mouth. Reaching forward to rub her clit while Kuroo abused her cunt causing her to hum at the sensation. She came twice on Kuroo's cock. Her head on a pillow, as Bokuto thrusted into her mouth, his knees at either side of her head. "Do you like that y/n?" She hums before sucking his cock again.
A flash-light on her, Akaashi sat with her phone in hand recording as Bokuto's cum slid down her cheek near her eye. Bokuto moaned slowing humping the last spurts of cum into her mouth. "Did that taste good?" Tsukishima questions as he bends down. She nods, pulling him into a kiss.
Bokuto smiles while cleaning the cum off her face as Kuroo pulled yet another orgasm out of her. He continued to fuck her as she squirted on his pelvis. Pulling out, he covered her pussy with his cum. Bucking his hips he slides his cock between her pussy, coating his cock with cum.
Tsukishima leaned down to suck his cock. Kuroo gently tugged at his blonde strands, throwing his head back.
***
Hands against the wall, Tsukishima was ramming his cock into her, Kuroo was recording and Akaashi and Bokuto were making out next to them on the couch.
"Yes. Yes. Yes." She brainlessly chanted.
"Look at her," Kuroo instructed. "Cock drunk."
Tsukishima moaned burying his head into her neck his arm around her chest and the other rubbing her sensitive clit.
"Do you want him to cum for you, y/n?" Kuroo asked. She desperately nodded to the camera.
"I need you to cum with me baby. Can you do that for me baby?"
Her moans muffled by his fingers in her mouth, she came on his cock as he rubbed her clit. "Fuck," he chanted as he pumped her full of his cum before watching as it dripped down onto the tile floor.
***
This time it was Tsukishima with her phone stroking his cock at her getting fucked by his flatmates. y/n was sitting on Kuroo's cock as he fucked up into her. Akaashi guiding her mouth over his cock. Cum messily decorated her cunt and Kuroo's pulsating cock sliding in and out of her. The white liquid even dripping down onto the carpet.
Tsukishima watched as she swallowed Akaashi's cock. Her big tits bouncing with every thrust. Attentively, watching Akaashi pulling his cum covered cock out. Holding it as the base sliding it back into her mouth and repeating the movement until she was satisfied. His hair fallen across his face staring down at y/n with a smile caressing her face.
His eyes moved down. Kuroo had his hand around her waist fucking her deceptively slow before rolling her over onto the carpet, lifting her leg and fucking his cum into her from the side with her braids all over his face. When he pulled out, Tsukishima moved in on her face.
She gave him a fucked out smile. “Was that good, Baby?”
“mmhm” She grinned at the camera.
_________________________________________
credit for banners: @inklore @roseschoices
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Note
hey babe!!xX was wondering if you could write a smut where the reader just straight up kicks ass during a whole mission, then when they get home and cleaned up tange can tell she’s exhausted. She insists she’s fine and attempts to finish up on work/research but he knows she just needs some love and rest. Praise & soft words/touches? Thank you so much!!
hii bby!! really sorry I didn’t do smut for this one😔 i intended on it, but it was so wholesome and sweet and felt it was a good ending point. but I do have lots of tan smut and could pretend that it’s a continuation. hope that’s okay. thanks for requesting💌
TAKE A BREAK
tangerine x fem!reader
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word count: 562
warnings: none just fluff
✧.┊ MASTERLIST
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Work was rough, nothing else to it- simply tiresome and agonising work.
You and the twins had just returned home from a two-week-long stakeout in Ireland, and to say you were exhausted would be an understatement. For the whole way back, all you thought about was your bed- how you wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the fresh sheets, but as much as you craved that, there was still paperwork to finish. 
As soon as you and Tan made it through the front door, you made a beeline for the shower, immediately undressing and stepping in, literally washing away the grime from your time away.
Once washed and dried, you walk back into your room and pick out some comfy clothes for the night- deciding on an oversized t-shirt and a pair of fluffy socks. You shove your feet in your slippers and make your way downstairs, laptop and case files under your arm with an old mug clutched in your hand. 
You place your work stuff on the dining table and head to the kitchen, collecting a couple of drinks -water for hydration and tea for flavour- before strolling back to the table to begin even more work. 
You weren't sure if your brain could handle much more, and as much as you tried to keep going, you couldn't help but notice a sharp pain behind your eye. 
"You're gonna give yourself a headache," Tangerine softly speaks from the doorframe, pj bottoms hanging low as wet, clean curls framed his face. "I think you should call it a night. It's late."
"No— no, I'm fine. Haven't got much left anyway," you dismiss your boyfriend, a faux smile on your face. "Shouldn't take long."
"Nah, love. That's enough. You're knackered," he says sweetly, standing behind you as he rubs your tense shoulders. "We should go to bed." He offers, trailing a comforting hand up your neck, fingers grazing your scalp.
"It's okay, really. I just—"
"No," he cuts you off, kissing a soft speck behind your ear. "It can wait 'til morning, love," he saves your work and closes the screen. "Come on, darlin’." He smiles, extending a hand for you to take.
You reluctantly do as asked, placing your hand in his larger one, allowing him to lead you to the sofa. He settles down first, laying on his side, head propped up on his fist, before nodding for you to lay in front. Again, you do as instructed -far too tense to protest- and lay down next to him, your chest to his as you drape a leg over his thigh, snuggling closer.
"You can't keep overworking yourself, love. It ain't healthy," he softly scolds, craning his neck to find your adverting eyes. "Okay? You need love and rest," he adds, brows furrowing as if to emphasise his point. 
A gentle, genuine smile spreads as you nod, looking up at him in awe. His features mirror yours, sweetly looking down at you as he thumbs over the apples of your cheek. 
"Promise you'll cut back," he notices you hesitate and then narrows his eyes as if to intimidate you playfully. "Promise?" He adds and kisses the tip of your nose for encouragement.
"Promise," you reply, your tone somewhat dubious.
"That's good enough for now," he grins, flattening a soft blanket over you both. "Now roll over. I wanna watch Miranda."
— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —
tan taglist: @tangerinesgf @kpopgirlbtssvt @angel-of-new-orleans @earth-elemental18 @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @thewinterv @navs-bhat @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @theredvelvetbitch @randomawesomeperson102 @lov3lypeaches7 @princess-pebbles-things @astermath @dynamitehacke @boldlyimportantface @charmedkim @fruitlovertangerine @psiiconic @bubblezuku @sporadiccherryblossom @landryslove @daenerys-supremacy @dontknownameauthor @honestly-who-even-is-this @simplyreflected
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cool-fancier · 5 months
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A Heartbreaking Decision
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Synopsis: You were unconscious in a sterile room, on life support. Your family considered unplugging it.
Your loyal partner, Bada, entered the room, shut the door, and confronted them.
As tensions rose, machines were turned off and the room fell silent.
"I love you," Bada said quietly. In another life, we'll be together."
The decision had been done, leaving long-lasting scars of unhappiness.
The sterile hospital room seemed to be suffocating, its cold, white walls reflecting the hopelessness that hung heavy in the air. You were an optimistic person once, but now you lay still, attached to a complex web of machines and tubes. A cruel twist of fate left you unconscious and unable to move and Bada could do nothing but watch, her heart aching with desperation.
The agonising condition got much worse by the strict hospital regulations. Bada begged the medical staff from where she was standing, just outside the room, her face twisted in agony. She had supported you through everything and had loved you with all her heart, but she wasn't regarded as family. The barriers of regulations and bureaucracy seemed impossible.
Your parents were thinking the terrible decision that hovered over your life as they stood inside the room, overwhelmed with sorrow and tiredness. There had been no sign of progress for several weeks. The financial strain and emotional pain were becoming unbearable for your family, and the idea of letting you go had become practically unavoidable.
From where she was standing outside the room, Bada overheard their serious conversation, and her heart fell with every word she heard. She was aware that your family had made the decision to turn off your life support. She couldn't stand the idea of losing you in such a way, and her choice was the result of unimaginable suffering. She couldn't bring herself to allow your family to make such a terrible decision without her.
Without hesitation, Bada interfered to resolve the situation. She discreetly closed the door from inside the room as she silently entered. She was unable to watch while your family prepared to send you away. She had to stand by your side, hold your hand, and indicate her presence to you,no matter what.
As she examined your lifeless body on the bed, Bada's hands shook. She was aware that her actions could have terrible consequences, but she was prepared to accept them all in order to be with you. She had to think that there was a chance that you might still recover.
Bada gently and nervously reached out to touch your face when she was seated at your bedside. Her voice cracked with emotion as she uttered loving and uplifting words while wiping tears from her eyes. She expressed her love for you and how she couldn't bear to lose you. You were her whole world.
Outside the room, chaos began. Your family and the medical staff demanded to break through the barricaded door, shouting for Bada to come out. The sound of pounding and shouting filled the corridor, but Bada refused. She had made up her mind to be with you for as long as she could.
The situation worsened as a result of Bada's choice to barricade the door and stay with you at the hospital. When your family had taken the difficult decision to remove your life support, it led to in a tense confrontation, but she was determined to be by your side.
As the medical staff and your parents burst into the room, Bada stood stubbornly, her grip on your hand unwavering. She met your parents' eyes as they flooded with shock and pain at her bold refusal.
Your father yelled, "Get out of here, Bada," his voice a mix of desperation and rage. "You have no right to interfere with our decision."
Your mother begged Bada, "Please, Bada, we're doing what's best for her," as tears flowed down her face. "You need to understand."
But Bada's determination remained unbroken. "I can't just stand by and watch you take this step without me," she replied. "I love Y/N, and I won't leave her side."
Your parents and Bada got into a heated disagreement, which raised the tension in the room. The medical team made an effort to step in, but it was challenging to restore order due to the intense emotional nature of the incident.
Your father roared, his voice quivering with fury, "You have no say in this. "We are her parents, and we have the right to make this decision."
Bada's voice cracked as she responded, "I know you're her parents, but I love her. I need to be here with her, to let her know she not alone."
Your mother pleaded for help one final time, her face etched with agony. "Bada, we appreciate your love for our daughter, but this is our decision to make."
As the argument carried on with neither side wanting to accept, tensions reached a breaking point. Your parents were compelled to carry out their decision as the medical team insisted in trying to turn off the life support.
Bada's voice quivered as she whispered to you, "I love you, and I'm here with you.And I promise in another life we will be together" Her eyes remained locked with yours as she leaned in to kiss your forehead. She then hesitantly released your hand, allowing the medical staff to proceed with their duties.
As the machines were disconnected, and the room fell into silence, Bada watched in suffering.  Your parents clutched each other close as their faces were scarred with suffering.
The choice had been made, but Bada and your parents' disagreements and enmity would remain forever as a reminder of the painful decisions they had been forced to make. Your parents' enormous grief and sense of duty had ultimately come into disagreement with Bada's firm love and resolve, causing scars that would take a long time for them to heal.
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heyidkyay · 4 months
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And I'm petrified of being alone, now |
Part Four
Matty Healy x reader
Summary: She’s just trying to get by, really. What with being a single parent to her four year old son whilst simultaneously trying to kick start a successful career as a radio presenter. She’s got everything she’s ever wanted though, friends close by, a mum who’s merely a phone call away, and of course her baby boy. What else is there to wish for? But then, it’s not long before her relatively normal life gets upended and turned on its head, and she’s suddenly forced to deal with situations she’s never even thought to imagine.
What happens when one mention of a certain controversial singer on her show sends a flood of unexpected challenges her way? 
Authors Note: IT'S TAKEN A WHILE BUT IT'S HAPPENING, MATTY AND MOUSE ARE SO CLOSE. Hi:) Hope you enjoy this part, finally throwing them into the same building!! Lot's happening in this one!
Warnings: Mentions of rehab, struggles around body image
Masterlist
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🐭 @/petitesouris 13m Early start, hoping it's a good session today!
The next week rolled around slowly and it had been one of the most agonising waits of my life. 
I’d constantly been emailing with the Primary Talent Team for the last few days, back and forth, just trying to work out which date and time would best fit both our schedules. It’d been gruelling. And the entire exchange would have gone a whole lot easier if it hadn't been for the fact that it had all been centred around them and based on their terms and conditions. Not forgetting the mile long list of Do’s and Don'ts they had also attached to their most recent email, which had been oh so fucking thrilling.
To be honest, I might not have minded it if my whole life had only revolved around the radio show. But as proud of it as I was, and as incredibly hard as both Adi and I constantly worked, I had other priorities that took precedence. I loved the show with all my heart but it could never be my entire life. Not with Teddy waiting for me back home at the end of each day, relying on me alone to raise and feed and clothe him.
Not that Healy’s management could comprehend that, or the fact that I had a schedule and a set routine. They didn't know when to stop and pushed and pushed to get what they wanted. And I could only fight back so much. Which meant that I’d ended up dropping Teddy off at Finn’s place a whole two hours earlier than usual just so that Adi and I could prep for the dated interview.
So, with that in mind, it was safe to say that I wasn't in the perkiest of moods when Adi bounded breathlessly into the studio that morning, a lot later than expected.
"I know, I know, I'm late!" Adi immediately squawked as she hurried on over, the door behind her slamming shut in her wake. "But I have good reason! I hardly slept last night, too excited for all of this!" She added as she threw her knitted tote bag down in its customary corner, the one I’d brought her the birthday last, and tossed her phone and throng of keys down with a clatter onto her paper-filled desk.
I rolled my eyes, but was unable to negotiate with the amused smile that pulled at the corners of my mouth. “Still had time to post a quick photo though. Don't think I didn't see it, Adeline- you tagged the show."
Adi’s smile was blinding when she spun around to meet me, brown eyes wild and full of mirth.
“Figured since you still haven't a clue about how Instagram works that you just wouldn't see it, my love!" She retorted whilst throwing herself down into my desk chair and kicking her Doc clad feet up onto the table. She shot me a smug smirk. 
“Cow. And oi, I’ll have you know I’ve caught on since Circa ‘18!” I defended, but relented upon seeing Adi’s arched brow. “Fine, I had Finn explain it all to me one night after a bottle of wine. But the point still stands.”
Adi’s raucous laughter bounced around the loft and I could only roll my eyes once more before huffing. 2018 had been a rough year for many, but mostly me, seeing as I’d accidentally posted a quick shot of me in the tub for the group chat to my story, exposing a little more than I’d like to our show’s following.
Adi stared back at me in disbelief, loosening the bun of unruly curls that had been strung together by a silk bandana, which also seemed to match the colour of the very short shorts she was wearing.
"He'd had to have been a saint in another life to have dealt with an indisposed you for that long."
I scoffed at that, but couldn't help my own trickle of laughter. “I sent Teddy round to his the next day with a box of chocolates- you know, those fancy ones he’s always banging on about?” Adi hummed her assent. “Felt proper bad about it all. Took him ages to teach me how to stop going Live.”
We both laughed.
“Waste of time that was, should’ve just brought the chocolates here! Knowing Finn, he only helped ‘cause he found the entire sodding thing hilarious.” Adi supplied, pulling a pack of chewing gum free from her jacket pocket.
Snorting faintly, I denied her offering of a piece with a wave of my hand, and went back to fidgeting with my phone, distracting myself again from my plume of thoughts. I spun the device round and round, slowly enough so that each edge made contact with the wooden desktop. 
“You alright there, babe?” Adi queried after a while, and I glanced over to see her eyes now trailing the movement. “Ted doing alright?” 
I stilled and then hummed, watching as she turned and went about fumbling her way through an array of wires that sat on my desk, most of which were already hooked up to the monitors. It was a task Adi did most mornings, even when I’d already ticked it off the list, ever the perfectionist, wanting to double check that nothing would go wrong with the day's show.
“Oh yeah, all’s fine. Teds is already obsessing over Halloween, ranting about what costume he wants to get this year. But August has only just passed, Ads.” I groaned, thinking back to the previous evening when Teddy had spent a good portion of his bath time rambling on about what every other kid in his class was going to be.
Adi peered back at me, the extremity of the grin she wore wrinkling the corners of her eyes. “Just kids, ain't it? We were the same, you'll miss it in a couple of years.”
I supposed she was right, but only because I didn’t have much of an experience to look back on. Halloween had just been me and mum in the woods up by the creek, collecting flowers and eucalyptus for the wreaths we’d make, then reading old stories by the fire.
“Don't remind me, please. I don't want him getting any bigger!” I sighed all too dramatically before standing to head on over towards the printer, picking up everything I’d sent off earlier from out the tray.
“It's the way of life, babe. So, when do you reckon Teds will end up towering over you?”
Adi simply chuckled when I stuck a finger up at her from over my shoulder, not even wanting to pay that idea any thought at all. Teddy was my baby, I couldn’t picture him all grown up.
“I should mention that I saw your tweet, by the way. Guessing you're nervous for today?” Adi added after, her tone a little softer than normal, catching me off guard enough that I actually stilled in place before I turned to face her.
“And you’re not?"
Adi’s mouth quirked upwards when she shook her head, dark ringlets moving with it.
“Why would I be? This is fucking huge for us, M! The exposure that we'll receive alone could really give us the big break we've been searching for- I honestly can't even begin to believe it.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip as I lingered over her words, then pushed back the thought of me having been the one to deal with the stress that was Healy’s management team to the back of my mind. Adi didn’t deserve that, I’d always been the one to deal with all the crap happening behind the scenes, and besides, Adi had a right to be excited. I only wished that I had the ability to join in on it.
“I just don't want to start up any more unnecessary drama, Ads.”
Drama was the very last thing I wanted, knowing that this whole thing with Healy could easily blow up in our faces if we didn’t go about it the right way. And if shit actually does end up hitting the metaphorical fan, then… I wasn't sure I'd be fit enough to handle it. Handle the backlash that would surely follow and affect the show, the only source of income I had. And without it, both Teddy and I would be royally fucked.
Apparently my lack of response had Adi rolling her eyes, adding an extra flare of dramatics to it by flicking my ear as she passed me by. “Don’t be such a worrier, babe. It’ll all work out, always does with us, don’t it? Besides, how can it not when I have a face as gorgeous as this?”
She winked, flashing me her famous grin.
“Tart.”
“Slag.” Adi easily countered.
A breathy chuckle escaped me and I shook my head before returning to the wad of papers I’d been rifling through. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s the radio, babe. No one will be seeing that gorgeous face of yours, or the way your arse is currently hanging out of those shorts.”
Adi cut her eyes at me from across the room, but they gleamed under the studio’s lights. “Don’t be jealous. We both know you love it.”
“Jealous? I’m a mum!”
“A fit one.”
A laugh bubbled up out of my throat at that and I couldn't find the energy to deny it, so I just shook my head.
“Anyway, you’re wrong.” And at my confused look, Adi continued on, grinning wickedly as she waved around one of the large devices she’d since picked up and cradled in her hand. “We are working with the camera’s today. Sort of why I'm here setting them all up. See?”
“Wait, we’re filming?” I gawked, and my eyes felt like they were just about ready to bulge out of my head as I sat up further to shake my head at her. Mouth already dry. “Non. No, Adi. No one ever mentioned that! I can’t.”
“They called yesterday demanding it. Just as you left to pick up Teds- it must've slipped my mind. I'm so sorry, hun.” Adi revealed sheepishly, her face scrunched up in an apologetic wince as the camera rig dropped to her hip. “But don't worry, yeah? I promise it'll all be sound and then we'll be well on our way to becoming the UK's biggest radio show!”
I reverted back to worrying at my bottom lip, chewing on it as though I hadn't eaten for days whilst I tapped an anxious rhythm into the arm of my chair. I couldn’t do the cameras, not today at least.
“Trust me, Mouse. It’ll be alright. You’ve done it before and you can do it again. No one will say a thing.”
I wished I could fucking believe her.
***
The Sun @/Thesun 16m Matty Healy spotted out in London today! The singer has been relatively quiet for the past few days- somewhat strange for the wayward frontman- but will this all change now that he's been seen? (Link) H @/user1 18m um, what? he’s where?? Adi @/AdelineWells_ 19m Long day ahead but we're very excited for today's show! Big surprises in store for you lot, so who's looking forward to it?? @/petitesouris @/Mouseonamic Indie @/user2 21m @/AdelineWells_ AHHH hope it's another Adi's All-Knowing segment!! Urmymedicine @/user3 23m Did anyone else see Jamie’s ig post?? He says to keep an eye out- AN EYE OUT FOR WHAT?? Talk! @/user4 11m I feel like I've been hit by an unnecessary amount of information
***
Matty’s bleary stare made an attempt to focus on the blurring buildings that passed them by as the car cut through the paved streets of London. Grey just melting into another varied shade of grey.
It was still far too bright for the beginning of September, the remaining weeks of summer only just tittering away now, and Matty couldn't help the scowl that had long since settled into his hollow features. 
One of the very few things he liked about the city was the fact that it was almost sure to be gloomy during the colder months. But it seemed as though the sun was shining a little brighter today, much to his chagrin.
A dull pain throbbed at either side of his temples, it’d been there since he’d been forced awake, and so he'd had to wind the window all the way down as soon as they'd set off to keep the nausea at bay. He silently regretted not turning in early last night, but it couldn't have been helped. It was hard to stay asleep without his usual nightcap, and even then, it was harder to dismiss the memories that plagued his mind without downing half a bottle of something or other.
A frigid wash of air wound its way down his throat as he took a long breath, his mind slowing a tad as the afternoon breeze trickled across his skin. But soon enough Matty’s calm was broken and his attention was then caught by Jamie, who sounded just as thwart as he felt.
“You even listening to me, mate?”
Jamie’s undeterred voice filtered through the back of the car, a short lived sigh following in its wake.
Matty merely rolled his eyes from behind his darkened sunglasses and proceeded to slump further in his seat, lolling his head to the side so that his focus was now within the car instead of on the distractions of the outside world.
His gaze trailed its way across the dark leather seats and blacked out windows before it finally ended up landing on his manager, who was kitted up in one of his many sharp shirts and a pair of formal fitting trousers. A right snazzy twat.
Matty could appreciate their pattern though, Jamie hardly ever ventured too far into the world of fashion, so the burgundy tartan was a sight to behold.
He soon fixed Jamie with an apathetic stare from across the backseat, fingers already itching for a fag, or maybe something stronger. He couldn’t be arsed with the mindless bother he’d been sent to complete today, really didn’t want to be dealing with a roomful of people that were there to assault him with an extensive range of hard-hitting questions, or have any more unwanted cameras shoved in his face in truth. 
But here he was, doing it.
Following orders because that was what it took to be a puppet. He was too tired to be tugging on any strings today though, simply wanted to get the afternoon over and done with, hopefully without any repercussions, so that he could fall back into bed.
“Matty, mate.” Jamie huffed, his face having fallen into a pitiful expression that Matty didn’t quite like looking at, but couldn’t seem to look away from. 
For a while, he'd been fearful that he'd pushed his luck all too far with Jamie, as well as the rest of the band too he supposed. But it seemed as though the guy had a thing for redemption, because he was trying his fucking hardest to annoy Matty into growing the fuck up.
“Look. I know you don't like this anymore than I do, but it's your job, mate. You ain’t got much of a choice here. But think of it this way, right. It's better you being here, doing this, than drowning away in your own fucking sorrows- thought you'd given up drinking since rehab, anyway.”
Matty’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the reminder. Rehab. What was it with everyone and always bringing it up? He’d been too fucking gone on painkillers to have given a second thought to the little amount of alcohol that particular shit show had provided. Could hardly call it a rehabilitation centre either, not when you were constantly surrounded by other abusers who were practically there on a getaway, just finding other means to entertain themselves with.
Jamie broke the silence just as Matty’s mind began to spiral, and Matty couldn’t help but be rather thankful for it.
“You just gonna sit there then?” Jamie snorted, obviously trying to fill the tense quiet now, “Normally you’d have told me to piss off by now.”
“Piss off.” Matty murmured, turning his focus back to the window.
The car seemed to be slowing down now and Matty furrowed his brow when they came to a gentle halt outside a block of buildings.
“Where are we?”
“Outskirts of Islington, I think. Not too far from the studio.”
Matty didn't get much of a chance to reply- not that he'd had one, Islington never did manage to bring up the most fondest of memories with him- because Jamie had all but jumped at the chance to exit the vehicle, opening up the sliding backdoor to escape into the stream of daylight.
With a tired sigh, Matty ran a hand through his mussed hair before he made a move to join his manager, clicking his neck slightly as the bottoms of his leather, heeled boots clacked against the cobbled pavement.
There was the usual musty scent that lingered throughout the city as he took a breath, but the smell of petrol was somewhat stronger here. Hardly anyone was wandering down the backstreet they had pulled into though, and those that did didn't linger too long on either him or the extravagant hired car that he'd been sanctioned with since having been struck with yet another driving ban.
Craning his head up, Matty could tell that there wasn't much to the building they were standing outside of. A commercial unit, three stories or so. Its brick exterior worn and dotted with timber sash windows. It was quaint enough, but not what he was used to when it came to things like this.
"Alright. A quick debrief before we go in." Jamie started, already fixing the faint creases in his otherwise pristine shirt, caused from where he’d been sat working in the backseat. “This is the same show that you had a bit of a spat with earlier this week, alright? So you'll be meeting the same girl that spoke out about your, um… Well, your image and publicity, and all that crap, generally speaking."
Jamie’s eyes flitted around them before he was back to typing away on his phone again. Fucking thing was practically attached to his hand, made Matty wonder how the hell he managed a wank.
But then he caught onto that last bit of his sentence and furrowed his brows, throwing Jamie another quick glance, not quite comprehending.
“Why we even here then? Thought your lot had a right mare dealing with all that.”
Jamie had the decency to look a tad bit sheepish as he started to lead them over towards one of the heavy-duty doors that adorned each of the surrounding units.
“They think that by doing this, it will clear up any allegations. They just want you to right your wrongs, I ‘spose. Make it known that what went down was just a 'misunderstanding' of sorts.”
“Right my? For fucks sake, Jamie! I was shitfaced! And if I remember fucking rightly, this supposed presenter spoke some actual truth. How the fuck am I meant to deny that and clear this whole fucking mess up?"
Matty was quite close to fuming now. It was always the same thing, again and again. The lies were never ending. So much so that he could hardly even recognise them from the truth anymore, everything had seemed to mould into one.
Jamie had since paused, his hand resting on the door's brass handle whilst he gave Matty the best smile he could possibly muster up. "Matty, mate, I'm sorry. Listen, I thought I could-"
Matty cut him off with a throaty scoff.
"Don't make out you're sorry. Not when you're just here ‘to do your job’. The only thing you're sorry for is the fact that you've got to be here at all, to suffer through all this shit with me and put up with the added drama. Just do me a fucking favour and keep your half-arsed apologies to yourself, mate."
Jamie looked genuinely taken back by his vicious rant for once, and somewhat hurt too, but Matty paid it no mind. He knew where to hit where it hurt, and he often didn’t stop until he tasted blood. The band knew that better than most.
"You act like you're here for me, when all you really care about is goin’ by the book and following the rules. Fucking grow a pair and apologise to me when there's an actual ounce of sympathy behind it." He spat back, teeth grinding as he clenched his jaw, glowering at the man standing before him. 
Matty shoved past his startled manager before he could linger on his words and pushed his way through the door. Fisted hands already making their way into his pockets as his nails dug crescent shaped moons into his palms in a desperate attempt to take the edge off of his vibrating anger.
"Ah, good, you're already here then! Thought we'd heard voices!" A cheerful lilt called out just as Matty rounded the short hallway, Jamie hot on his tail, and came face to face with a girl, who was leaning heavily against the metal rail lining the steep stairwell. 
Matty winced at the brashness of her greeting, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses at the very force of her presence. She had a mane of thick curls bundled atop her head, lips lined red and lashes winged with a heavy liner. She was definitely younger than him, but not by much, and he could only guess as he approached her, that she stood at a similar height to him too when she wasn't prancing about on metal staircases. 
His fingertips trailed across the paperboard carton he had stowed away in his jacket pocket as Jamie hurried on over to meet the woman- a beaming smile now replacing his previously dejected look. Matty bit into his cheek at the sight of it.
"Yeah, sorry if we're late! Hey, it's great to meet you, I'm Jamie and this is obviously Matty." Jamie greeted with an incessant smile Matty couldn't bring himself to look at, before his manager was gesturing towards him- the disgruntled singer he was always stuck babysitting- and then reaching out a hand.
"Adeline, but my mates call me Adi." The girl, Adi, chirped as she took Jamie’s palm in her own, her eyes flitting towards Matty long enough to get a good once over. A gesture Matty returned. "It's great to have you both here."
She wore a grin so large it practically surpassed the honey brown eyes that brightened her face. Her teeth were white, if not a little crooked, and the force of her smile showed off the metal piercing that sat against her front teeth.
"We're honestly really excited to have you on the show! We'll have a proper laugh and just chill, so there's no pressure or anything. Mouse is upstairs, by the way. Still have to set up the final bits and bobs." Adi added, her enthusiasm somehow never faltering. "You'll love her! She's the main man round here, the one who started up the show and all that. You'll be speaking to her once we begin, but depending on how everything goes I'm hoping to join the two of you at some point."
Matty merely hummed in reply, which earned him a slight jab to the ribs from Jamie, one he tried not to lash out at. And Adi’s eyes slitted a tad as she followed the gesture, though Matty noted she gathered herself rather quickly.
"So, is that all of you then? No one else to meet?" Jamie wondered politely and Adi chuckled in retort as she began to lead them up the shifting staircase, giving them both an eyeful of her long legs.
"Nah, you're in the clear. It's just the two of us running things around here."
Matty worked his jaw at her response, whilst the sound of his boots hitting each metal stair reverberated around them.
"And that works?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.
Adi's head snapped back to find him, eyes peering over her shoulder as she rounded the first small landing and started on the next set of stairs.
"Mouse was on her own for a long while before I came along. We cope fine on our own though. We might not be as big as some other radio shows at the moment, but we've got a good relationship that works well within this industry. She can be stubborn, whilst I can be pushy, and even when we butt heads over things, we're able to make up in the end for the sake of the show. I don't know how it would work, throwing someone else into the mix."
Matty gave her a curt nod.
"So, Mouse?" Jamie questioned just as they bypassed the second floor, continuing up the staircase. Matty could hear the curiosity that lined his voice.
Adi flashed them another grin. "Mouse. It's what she goes by."
"Oh?" Jamie prodded, prompting her even further. He had a right thing for nicknames, loved hearing the stories behind them or something. 
"Don't know how it came about, in all honesty. You'll have to ask. But it's been her pseudonym ever since she started as a kid."
Matty’s ears perked up upon hearing that, but it was Jamie who quizzed her.
"She's been doing this since she was a kid?"
"Technically. But no, it started out as a Twitter account, just her venting her thoughts and opinions on the music she loved. And trust me, teenage Mouse was just as cut throat and sarcastic as she is now- maybe even more so- but people loved it, still do. The idea for the radio show came about a couple years later, and that was that."
Adi stopped talking just as they reached the very top. The staircase had led them straight into an open plan room, where a large leather sofa separated the sitting area from the tiny kitchenette in the far back corner, and where half of the living space had been overtaken by a recording booth.
Matty blinked. It wasn't at all what he had been expecting.
"God, this is insane." Jamie suddenly crowed from beside him and Matty followed his manager’s wide eyed gaze to where a skylight had been fitted overhead, giving them a clear view of the bright blue skies they'd just escaped from.
"I know." Adi spoke through a breathy exhale, her eyes twinkling as she grinned up at the oversized window. "It was what sold us on the place, honestly. That, and the access we have to the roof."
She gestured over towards the closest window to the stairs then and Matty found a fire exit hatch sat just on the outside of it.
"Don't think the other tenants renting out the spaces below even know about it. Well that, or we've just been lucky enough to never to catch one another up there." She chuckled and Jamie joined her. 
Matty’s hand tightened around his pack of cigarettes, eyes lingering on the hatch. But before he could ask if he could get a quick look at it, Adi was waltzing her way across the room and over towards the kitchen. 
She waved them closer and gestured towards two sofas and a vintage looking armchair that should have looked somewhat out of place, if it hadn't been for the rest of the mismatched furniture that littered the space. From the mint green fridge shelving a chaotic range of mugs, to the wearing Victorian coffee table, which was hilariously similar to the one Matty’s grandmother had preened over whenever guests had gone to visit.
"Tea, coffee?" Adi asked and Matty dipped his head as he took a perch on the edge of an armchair facing the tele box. It looked well over two decades old and he questioned the last time he'd seen one that'd had a DVD player built into it.
"Coffee. Black."
Adi raised an amused brow but didn't comment, looking towards Jamie. "And you, Glasses?"
Jamie only chuckled at the name referring to the thick rimmed frames he often wore. "Tea, please. Milk, two sugars."
"Be with you in just a sec!" Adi winked in reply and pulled four mugs down from the fridge.
"Cheers." Jamie thanked her, smiling all the while, before a look of remembrance crossed his face. "So where's this famous Mouse of yours then?"
And as though someone had answered him, Matty looked up to find the door to the recording booth opening and watched as someone stepped out to join them.
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sweetpeapod · 1 year
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Prompts: Can’t you see that you’re hurting me?
Idk if I can add to that but if Eddie could be the one saying that & make it angsty (and maybe a bit fluffy at the end) pls do! Can’t wait to read these!!! :)
Thank you for your request! I hope you like this 🥺💚
Warnings: Misunderstandings, angst with a happy ending, mild swearing.
Word Count: 811
Masterlists
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"Can't you see that you're hurting me?" 
Eddie's face was contorted in pain. His eyes were wide, glistening with unshed tears as desperation shone through. 
He had thrown himself, almost violently, up from the couch, pacing the small room at the front of the trailer. 
You had been curled up into his side, your face pressed against his shoulder as you drew circles with your finger against the rough material of his jeans.
But the sudden movement of him ripping himself from the soft cushions had you practically falling to the side. You were left, half propped up by your elbow, staring up at Eddie. Instead of desperation, confusion tinted your glassy eyes.
"Eddie, what are you talking about?" Your voice was timid as you spoke, anxiety spiking as the young metalhead carried on pacing, shaking his head and twisting the rings around his long fingers. 
"You're always here. You're always touching me!" His words had a visceral effect on you. 
You felt your whole body curl in on itself, insecurities awakening from a slumber that Eddie had once managed to lull them into. 
"I-I'm sorry. I thought you liked that I'm always here, that we're so close." The wet voice that escaped you stopped Eddie in his tracks. 
He rushed to you, dropping harshly to his knees as he wiped away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek. 
"I do. Shit, I do. I'm sorry, this is me. It's not you. You're not doing anything wrong." He emphasised, letting his hand continue to stroke your cheek softly. 
But you could still see the conflicted pain deep within his big brown eyes. A pain he was clearly trying to bury in order to comfort you instead. 
"How am I hurting you, Eddie?" You asked quietly. You placed your smaller hand on top of his, squeezing gently as he glanced up at you. 
All you saw was vulnerability as he looked up at you through his unfairly long lashes, his own tears brimming along the edge of his eyes, threatening to fall. 
"I don't want to just be friends." He began, eyes dropping to the floor as he spoke. "But I will be, if that's all you want from me." Eddie was nodding subtly, as if to convince himself that what he said was true. "I can be your friend, just your friend. But- but I can't do this. This touching, and cuddling. It's too much. It makes me forget that I don't have you, not really." 
By the time he finished, his cheeks were tearstained and your heart ached. How had you not realised, after all this time. How had you not seen the pain behind those eyes? 
"But you do have me Eddie." You let your hand fall to his chin, softly tilting his face to look up at you. 
When his eyes fell upon yours, you moved your fingers to trace along his hairline and down to his cheekbone. 
"What?" He asked, so quietly you would have missed it if he hadn't been so very close to you. 
"I thought- I mean I know we never spoke about it. But I guess I figured we were kind of dating already." You shrug lightly, a small smile on your face as you continue to stroke the soft skin of his cheekbone. "I thought it was just some unspoken thing. I mean, I'm always here. And I definitely don't cuddle the others like I do with you, or hold their hand, play with their hair."
Eddie stared up at you in what could only be described as awe. He looked at you as if you'd just told him you had stolen every star out of the night sky just for him. 
"We're already dating?" His voice remained quiet, a mere whisper, afraid of shattering the moment in front of him and finding out it was all an elaborate daydream. 
"Yes? If you want that to be what's happening?" 
"If I- Shit, I've been agonising over this for weeks." The pained contortion of his face gave way for a smile. A smile you could stare at for hours. "You thought we were dating, but we never kissed or anything, didn't you think that was weird?" There's a quiet laughter in his voice, bemused and overjoyed at the revelation. 
You shrug, a mirroring smile creasing your cheeks as you gently tuck his hair behind his ear. 
"I wasn't sure if maybe you just weren't into that. And I'd never push you either way. I'm just happy being with you." Your explanation has Eddie's wide smile turning soft. 
"Jesus, you're too good for me. Can I- would it be okay if I kiss you now?" You can hear the slight uncertainty in his voice, the disbelief that this is real. 
"Please do." You whisper, leaning your face ever closer to his.
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boxboxlewis · 6 months
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Share a DVD commentary on Come get your honey
I'm so obsessed with this fic forever. Honestly I would read a line-by-line director's commentary of the entire fic but to rein it in I'm really curious about what Max is thinking throughout the fic? Daniel is so focused on how good the sex is (for him) and at times, how connected and possessive he feels toward Max, but is Max in that emotional space with him or is he focused more on the simple pleasure of it?
also! if you wanted to! i'd truly just chin-hands raptly listen to you talk about anything you wanted to talk about in this verse. like do they ever get together? do they ever have sex that is emotionally overwhelming for max / what would that look like?
ahhhh sarah ilu thank you! come get your honey is one of my secret favourites of my own children fics so i'm esp pleased you like it. dvd commentary below the cut :)
The first time Daniel and Max have sex is also the last time, has to be the last time, so Daniel tries to memorise every detail as it’s happening. Max’s stubble, spikier than Daniel might’ve expected / the awkward way he giggles when Daniel reaches for his belt / how he immediately apologises for the giggle, voice raspy, “Sorry, I just—” 
max is giggling here from NERVES bc he has had a big fat crush on daniel for one million years. however! he is a professional at Being Around Daniel Without Getting His Heart Broken, so he's also determined not to make a fool of himself.
Daniel has no fucking idea what to do with someone else’s dick, except, presumably, touch it in the same way he likes to touch himself, and he has low-key worried about this, when he’s thought about having sex with Max, which has been always, over the past few weeks/months/years, except as it turns out it’s not an issue because Max tells him exactly what to do: every bitten-back gasp from Max’s stupid-plush mouth when Daniel nips at his skin and then soothes it with his tongue, every motion he makes, the way his hips jerk up how he rolls his eyes at Daniel how he says “No, like this, here—”
the max pov of this scene is basically "oh my god how is daniel so hot and also so bad at this"
The next time Daniel and Max have sex is an error. A mistake, a lapse, a moment, and it’s Max’s fault, really. He looks at Daniel while they’re waiting for the pre-race press conference to begin and he smirks, and Daniel looks at his mouth: that’s it, that’s waiting the whole press conference with a half-hard dick and a racing pulse, that’s walking back to his motorhome when he’d rather run and texting Max “ok then” and texting again a minute later, “come over dick.”
max: [smiles hello at daniel]
daniel: AW yeah he wants that ricciardo D again 😎... come on OVER baybeeeee
He’d thought Max would be new to this, would be unsure, maybe, waiting for Daniel to take the lead, but Max is so comfortable, knows just what he’s doing, he shows Daniel how to use his fingers, he opens for Daniel so easily and beautifully, Max is good at getting fucked, and relaxed about it, which means he must’ve done it before, and probably not just a few times, probably lots of times.
daniel is right, max has had a lot of sex in this universe and he knows what he likes!
“You make me crazy,” he grits out, pressing his forehead into Max’s shoulder his collarbone, getting high from the smell of Max’s skin his armpit his hair, he’s trying to give it to Max so good Max will never go to anyone else for sex ever again, will just keep coming back to Daniel over and over and over and maybe if he thrusts deep enough hard enough at just the right angle he’ll make Max his wife— Max just laughs and kicks his heel against Daniel’s ass, says “Daniel, c’mon,” grips his hand in the back of Daniel’s hair and tugs Daniel’s head up and looks at him all cool and handsome and rolls his fucking eyes and pulls Daniel in and bites his lip, hard, and Daniel comes in an agonised rush, no grace no finesse much too soon. He hasn’t even gotten Max off yet, has to pull out and get his breath back and then make his way down the bed so he can get his mouth on Max’s dick and his fingers pressing back inside where Max is still loose and sloppy. He can feel Max’s fucking heartbeat inside his asshole, secret and lovely against his fingers, he can taste how close Max is to coming, and then Max is groaning, salt-bleach warmth coating Daniel’s mouth, choking him.
max is dying here. he likes daniel SO MUCH but also he's like "im literally giving this man a roadmap and a torch what is he doing"
Max has never in his entire life known when to stop. “I think I can tell maybe that you’ve mostly fucked girls.” He’s still tracing Daniel’s tattoos: the cherub on his forearm, now. “Because you kind of, you ignore my—uh.” Daniel guesses the “uh” is Max for “prostate.” He wants to die.
this is max being like "well naturally daniel would want to know if he is bad at sex, so he can improve" and just 100% not getting why it's painful for daniel to hear god bless
Max riding him is good, is better than Daniel could’ve believed, and Daniel can’t worry anymore whether it’s good for Max because it’s so fucking good for him. He can see Max like this, the entire glorious country that is Max’s body, whole vistas open for Daniel’s gaze. The softness of Max’s stomach / his puffed-up little nipples / his perfect fucking thighs, his perfect fucking thighs clamped around Daniel’s hips no one else’s. Daniel’s cock disappearing into Max’s body, Max’s frown, how he bites his lip, focussing, how he throws his head back and hisses when he finds an angle he likes. Daniel can reach up and pinch his nipple, cup his tit and draw a thumb across it, watch how Max flushes blotchily across his whole chest, he can follow Max into the rhythm he’s setting with his hips he can watch as each thrust makes Max’s eyelids flutter he can hope he can hope that this time he’s getting it right.
this time around is much better for max. good work, daniel
Daniel says “I have something I need to tell you, but you're not gonna like it,” and Max looks at him with wide eyes and says “Well don't tell me yet then,” and Daniel kisses him and thinks, one day.
max has some inkling of what daniel wants to say but he is TERRIFIED that he's wrong and maybe daniel will just be like "i think we should try reverse cowgirl" or something. so he elects not to hear it, so that the beautiful possibility that maybe daniel really likes him can live on a little longer 🥲 they do get together eventually but it takes a while!!
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panickeddemon · 8 months
Text
DDLC characters when they're drunk headcanons
as someone who has never gotten drunk I am obviously the right person to make headcanons on this ;D (some of this headcanons are more set for when they're older)
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Yuri
-I think would handle it the best out of all them. She has the most experience drinking out of all them so she knows her limits
-She has a pretty high tolerance though
-One of the big reasons she likes drinking is because it lessens her social anxiety 
-Gets increasingly more social and talkative the more she drinks, she’s gets more open and relaxed and is more willing to try talking to others even if she still comes off weird
-Along with that she also gets increasingly more impulsive
-She can already be a bit impulsive at times when she’s sober but this fact skyrockets when she’s drunk since there’s no voice of reason holding her back
-When she gets really drunk, without fail she will always do or say something in the spur of the moment that she horrifically regrets the next day which she’ll then proceed to agonise over it for the rest of the week
-If she’s in a good mood when this happens it’s usually just something really embarrassing that her friends tease her for
-If she’s in a bad mood when this happens something more dangerous could happen 
-She learnt from experience how much to drink as to not get to that point but also feel the weight of social anxiety lighten a bit
-If she’s drunk she needs someone to babysit her and keep a close eye on her, when she’s tipsy she babysits her drunk friends
-Also if she’s around someone she’s interested in romantically while she’s drinking she can turn real flirty
-She’s got some banger pick up lines up her sleeve, Yuri rizz is real
-When texting, still tries to spell good when she’s drunk but it doesn’t work out so well
-Imagine her infodumping while drunk, imagine a drunken Yuri rant, 10/10 must have experience
Natsuki
-She’s got a short tolerance and she’s not afraid to use it
-Was scared to drink at first because it reminded her of her dad but it ended up working out okay
-To sum up her drunken self, whatever emotion she’s feeling when she drinks will be exacerbated when she’s drunk
-if she’s in a good happy mood, she’s the life of the party, she’ll be energetic, much friendlier, she’s loud, excited, might stand on a table or two
-if she’s angry, she’s willing to throw hands over a slice of pizza. Copious amounts of swearing and angry half baked rants, again she’s loud, she’s a scary little feral gremlin. Tries not to angry drink since she usually ends up regretting those the most
-if she’s sad, she’s a hundred percent gonna end up crying. Will be more willing to spill her feelings, she’ll complain to the nearest friend, she’s pretty quiet and soft-spoken in this state.
-You might even see a rare clingy Natsuki if she’s in a certain mood
-overall she’s a wild card, a mixed bag of a drinking buddy
-Really likes going to karaoke and singing really badly and loudly between drinks
-hates the fact that she ends up throwing up 90% of the time
-a lot of burps and hiccups, she chuckles at it everytime
-still has a pretty good sense of danger when drunk off her ass
-a drunk Natsuki gets flustered cripplingly easily and can’t hide it, she falls apart, keep that in mind if you flirt with her
-cannot fucking hear you if you talk to her in a reasonable tone at a slight distance, goddamn deaf woman
Sayori
-the least coherent drunk out of these four
-also doesn’t have a very high tolerance, it doesn’t take many drink for it to get to her
-doesn’t like drinking too often but every now and again is okay
-is just super duper out of it when she’s drunk
-she’ll be half zoned out the whole time, her brain is %100 just vibing
-surprisingly won’t say much, she’ll have mild reactions to what’s happening around her or she’ll say or ask something really random out of nowhere every few minutes
-if you ask her a question she’ll reply like ten minutes later, very slow processing, windows 98 brain
-is extra clumsy when drunk. She’ll drop and knock over so many things and probably fall at some point. The next morning she’ll wake up with a bruise with no memory of how she got it
-if she’s in a good mood when drunk she’ll be really calm and lightly bubbly
-but drinking is bad for her when she’s not in a good mood. Can turn into a sad drunk, her feelings become even heavier than usual and she can spiral really bad, she sometimes fears drinking due to experiencing this before
-tends to get sleepy and drowsy. She’ll always end up passing out by the end of a session
-on rare occasion, if there’s alcohol in the house she’ll drink a bit when she’s having problems insomnia problems
-also most likely gets extra cuddly and affectionate when she’s drunk or tipsy
Monika
-usually drinks the least out of the four of them
-has a medium sized tolerance
-the only reason she drinks the least amount is because of  the lack of control she has when she’s under the influence
-doesn’t mind being a little tipsy so much, will just be more relaxed at that point
-an existential drunk 
-starts questioning the meaning of life, her purpose, why things are the way they are and other deep questions, half of them end up not making sense
-can spiral too deep and either get depressed or turn into a conspiracy theorist
-either that or she’s a clingy affectionate drunk
-if there is anyone she cares about there, especially if it’s in a romantic way, she will cling to them the whole time and use every type of love language she can think of on them
-she also talks a lot, she talks about random stories or things she finds interesting or about her feelings, anything, she wants to shut up but she can’t stop
-and of course she’s more impulsive too and will go along with whatever idea someone comes up with
-she perceives her drunk self to be annoying and embarrassing which is why she now avoids it as much as she can
-protecc drunk Monika
--------------------------------------------
was gonna do some hcs on how the interact with each other but might do that another time im lazy now
(apologies if this whole thing is a terrible grasp on what being drunk is like I've just had these headcanons stuck in my head for a while now man)
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WIP Wednesday - A Most Self-Indulgent WIP
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Getting an early jump on WIP Wednesday (GASP). I think I am coming to terms with the fact that I have a very specific wheelhouse that I like to play in. And it's not going to be something that 99.9% of the fandom will care for, but my God am I going to write my self-indulgent bullshit. But still, I'd be interested to know if there's any interest at all in this BS :D
So I bring my latest WIP, currently titled: Horny Trophy Wife!Henry Committing Adultery with Alex in a Vaguely Historical European Setting, feat. not-Baron Zemo.
Warnings: Mpreg of the hand wavy variety, Forced Marriage, Infidelity/Adultery.
Read under the cut. Tags also under the cut!
Henry looks over at his husband across the table, and barely conceals the grimace that wishes to peek through his wide, placating smile. Five years of his life he has given this man, five years of wearing the mask of a happy, content spouse. It’s true that the Baron is handsome in his own right, unimaginably wealthy and educated and refined despite his humble origin, and on paper ought to be an ideal husband. But the Baron’s stubborn nature and Henry’s tempestuous fury make for a sorry, wretched match. 
Yet Henry cannot say their marriage has been unproductive. Four little angels he has given the Baron, all four with strawberry-hued yellow hair and eyes as blue and fearsome as his own. They are Henry’s creatures, clinging to him like barnacles even as they grew out of infancy. His little angels serve as balms to his unrelenting loneliness, the ache of foreignness and not-belonging that will never dissipate from where it has settled down into his bones like the bitter cold air of this unforgiving land.
Henry craves the excitement he has been denied his whole life. First, because he was a threat to his older brother, who was pale and sickly yet ambitious, a stark contrast to Henry’s vigour, fertility and frivolity. Henry’s circumscribed upbringing was intended to diminish him in the eyes of the world, lest the unparalleled beauty and grace of the spare cause him to rise above the anointed heir. The match with the Baron was therefore ideal: the marriage brought England wealth and a mighty ally, and Henry would vanish out of sight and out of mind. 
Then, because he was dutiful and sweet, he was with child within weeks of his wedding night. His fertile belly had scarcely been empty since, a consequence of his temper flaring up at his husband, making them both concupiscent despite the lack of affection for one another in their hearts. As each one came into the world, the Baron jested that Henry was birthing his own army to rival the Baron’s own. Henry demurely denied his allegations, instead dreaming of more illustrious futures for his babes than to become lords and ladies of desolate lands rich only in the treasures that could be hewn from the rocks. 
But there is little promise of excitement in his life, besides the happiness the children bring. Occasionally, his heart will race – like when there is little news days after the end of one of the Baron’s military campaigns, and he can briefly fantasize about a merry widowhood. Then news arrives and his hopes are dashed and his husband returns and he finds himself once again with child even though the last one is barely out of swaddling clothes. 
A visit by emissaries of a young nation sets the court abuzz. The new nation had been born out of the ashes of a rival empire the Baron had helped set aflame, and so the visitors were to be honoured with days of dazzling amusement. But Henry is in a melancholy mood, and cannot bring himself to pretend to look forward to the long, agonising hours of politicking he will have to attend at his husband’s side. 
There is a silver lining, however. A quite literal one. The Baron, in all of his wisdom and quest to show off his dearest prize, had commissioned an elegant gown for Henry to wear to the ball celebrating the emissaries’ arrival, inspired by the suits of armour from the ancient days of chivalry. And bashful as he might play, Henry is a creature of vanity, excited by the notion of being observed and desired as an ethereal, untouchable beauty: the Baron’s angel of war and mother to his nation.
Tagging: @sparklepocalypse @orchidscript @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @priincebutt, @piratefalls, @onthewaytosomewhere @nocoastposts, @magicandarchery,, @zwiazdziarka, @taste-thewaste and ANYONE because I need more friends.
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vickyvicarious · 8 months
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I greatly fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things—the ship steered into port by a dead man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror—will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and back.
This might be an answer to the question of why Lucy sleepwalks to the graveyard. I know a lot of people say it's Dracula's doing,and even her earlier sleepwalking is easier to mistake as his influence when not paying attention to dates. But we know that she's been sleepwalking for over a week now, when he was still way out at sea. Even if she is vulnerable to his mere presence in some way that doesn't require any direct intervention, that wouldn't explain her sleepwalking with that much time/distance between them. So it starts perfectly naturally.
Then, the question is, at what point does that change? And tonight's sleepwalking is such a departure from usual, one that leads her right to him to be drunk from for the first time. So it's tempting to say now is when he starts. But honestly, I don't think that's true.
Mina points out here that she thinks the events of the day will provide material for Lucy's dreams and influence her sleepwalking. Later on, we get Lucy's own account of what she remembers from that night:
"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here in this spot—I don't know why, for I was afraid of something—I don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling—the whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once—as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you."
While there are other reasons for several of these elements, there are parallels to the events of the funeral as well. Dogs always oppose Dracula, so they may well have been truly howling... but Mina doesn't mention it, so it's possible that was part of her dream. If so it could have been related to the terrified dog she saw at the funeral. Similarly, the idea of water and drowning men, while perhaps just part of the experience of being drunk from, could have been an impression influenced by her thoughts of the story of the Captain and his companions. Another detail, admittedly more tenuous: while the lighthouse isn't in the same area as the cliffs that she and Mina walked to, or the Demeter's crash site, Lucy's spirit still goes towards the edge of water and land... towards the direction the Demeter blew in from?
Even Lucy wanting so badly to go to their spot in the graveyard despite being afraid... It could be due to the incident at the funeral making such a deep impression upon her. It scares/upsets her, but weighs heavily on her mind, and things that are on her mind can influence her sleeping behavior. Mina took her on a long walk that day as well... what if that plays in to sleeping Lucy wanting to go on a longer walk away from the house?
Mina is tired herself tonight, and perhaps doesn't hide the key as well, since she feels like the long walk will have done the trick to get Lucy to rest quietly. And we've seen a build of Lucy being more determined to try and get out anyway, with her having an odd concentration and searching for the key...
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