#I THINK BECAUSE I KEEP THESE IN TAGS IT'S SAFE TO SAY THAT HER BIRTHDAY IS DEC 24TH AND WE SHOULD ALL SAY HAPPY LATE/HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

I FORGOT TO THROW OUT AFTER THE EPISODE RELEASED NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[moondirti]

simon sees a familiar face. (AO3 mirror) tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.

It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.

He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.

Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast – thrown the most delectable fucking bone.

Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him – and frankly, every other mutt on the task force – through long missions.

He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one – if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by – but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.

"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.

"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."

Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"

"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.

"Well, he must be soft in th'head."

She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."

"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."

"Hm?"

"His loss is my gain."

"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knows– he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her – real, fleshly, blood full – and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"

And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.

Instead–

"Could be."

"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"

"Tha' obvious?"

"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"

"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"

She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?

"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."

And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."

It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.

"I don– Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.

"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs – starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record – and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."

Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.

He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.

(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!

I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much of an actress, I'm afraid.)

Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search of the star of this show.

And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.

When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.

But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.

So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute – so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.

(Truthfully, she could've done with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce – and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)

"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "

"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."

Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone – if anyone ever lasts that long – but is absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.

But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.

"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.

"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."

He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.

Just wanna be fucked.

Daft, silly girl.

She should've chosen anyone else.

It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.

"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."

And he means it.

It's impossible to withdraw completely from her – vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.

Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.

Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her – not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.

The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.

"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.

"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.

(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)

His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.

"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."

Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.

What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.

"W-what are you–" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that has at last realised it's been caged.

"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands."

"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.

"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."

Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you. Johnny: I don't believe you. Johnny: Pick up my calls. Johnny: SIMON.

[jiminrings]

fail-safe (2)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you've heard nothing about it, so you're thankful.

alternatively, yoongi reminds you of home in more ways than one.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, brother's best friend AND single dad au, eventual fluff, a lot of yearning but For What, they reunite but at what cost rlly, jealousy, self-loathing, unrequited love (initial), deja vu but in the worst possible form, eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: i am So sorry for this .

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

FIVE YEARS LATER

The trip back home wasn’t as rough as Yoongi expected it to be.

Somehow, there’s a huge difference between sitting in economy seats versus first-class seats, even if they’re situated on the same aircraft. When he left, Yoongi was irritable (amongst other things) to keep bumping elbows with everyone else; now that he’s back, he almost misses the ruckus in the cabin that’s far too cramped for everyone who could afford it.

Yoongi used to hate people like himself — atleast the version that he is now. He hated bastards sitting upfront in seats that reclined all the way back and ate off plates instead of noisy, flimsy plastic containers. Back then, deep down to his very core, he wanted that lifestyle for himself. To become bigger and better than he could ever imagine for the life ahead of him was always the goal.

Now that he’s at the peak, maybe even being the peak himself, he feels weirdly homesick.

“You need to bundle up all the way, Haneul. They’re gonna scold me if you’re not covered from head to toe,” Yoongi playfully chides his son, the insecurity and nervousness underneath his tone flying right over his head. It’s not even that cold, but still, a huge part of Yoongi worries.

He worries everyday if he’s a good dad to his four-year old. He worries if he’s good enough to be a solo parent because after all, he’s the one who has main custody of Haneul anyway. He worries and worries, but there’s nothing quite like the trepidation he feels being back home with everyone who has ever known him prior to all this success, suddenly seeing him come home.

It should be the opposite way around, that’s what everyone says to him. Yoongi had been queasy the whole flight back home despite the flight being one of the smoothest trips he’s ever been on in his life. He’s nervous to be back where he had been born and raised and he doesn’t know what’s that supposed to mean, except for the fact that he has an inkling of what the weight in his chest pertains to.

He’s back because it’s your mother’s 60th birthday. He’s back because her and Namjoon had asked him to, and he obliged without even thinking about it. Yoongi had offered numerous times to throw a party for the woman who had practically raised him alongside his closest friend, and even if Namjoon had backed him up on the grand idea for such a large milestone, she said no. All she wanted was for everyone to be back home, and Yoongi couldn’t say no.

Neither could you.

Yoongi is not the most modest person alive, but he is at his humblest when he drives the long way home just to delay the inevitable. He’s happy to the point he could be sick. He can’t tell if it’s the joy or the anxiety in his chest that makes it tighten, almost unbearably so, that he makes Haneul reach up to his forehead to check if he has a fever.

Yoongi’s home.

Not Los Angeles home, and not New York home. Not his home with a closet that’s the size of his childhood house’s living room, and not his space with the big windows and concierge downstairs.

Yoongi’s home — where the streets are narrow and the stairs are creaky; where this time, it’s all of him and none of you.

.

.

.

Enduring is different than working.

You’ve realized that the two concepts are drastically different as soon as Yoongi left, leaving you to survive the remaining years of your degree before you had to face the reality that you had to work to the bone for the rest of your life if you wanted a shot at living an average, food-stocked-in-the-fridge kind of life.

You didn’t know anyone who was connected to someone of importance one way or another, your family had zero ties, and you graduated from a university that raised more eyebrows in confusion than it tilted heads in awe. Your degree does havehigh promises as far as everyone in your town was concerned — it does and it should be, if only you were born and raised in different circumstances.

There’s not one acclaimed and high-profit company that would ever accept the likes of you. You worked hard and even if there were no exchange student agreements and Latin honors to show for it, you really did. You gave your best to graduate with a degree you never really liked and was only forced upon you, all for the promise of a future. It didn’t matter if it was extremely good or bad — everyone else just said you had to have one.

Your misfortune is what it is. It’s empty and haunting and the two weeks you had spent in the city right after graduating is truly something you never want to relive.

In hindsight, gambling the rest of your pocket money on a bus fare in your last day of job-hunting in the city at the time was a stupid decision. It was impulsive and irresponsible and everything your family scolded you for, what Yoongi hated you for, but it ended up being the single best gamble you’ve ever made, even above entry-level lottery tickets.

The same circumstances that held you back from where you’re supposed to head ended up propelling you to somewhere far, far different. Your degree became completely irrelevant, and the fact that you had nobody of significance in the city– no person to pass malice and gossip onto— made you a manager.

It had been a gamble to go work for an unknown entertainment company, much more a sinking one. It was an insult to have busted your ass back in your hometown, studying and working at the same time, only to work professionally in the city for a field that you didn’t even study about.

Your fate is what it is. You’ve endured and worked hard enough to the point that you had finally lucked out. Being the manager of someone who had later turned out to become the biggest actor in the industry, even in Hollywood, became your biggest break up to date.

Your way back home feels like an embrace you’ve denied yourself for far too long. You’ve mainly stayed in Seoul apart from the several hundred times you had to come with Jungkook for filming outside of the country, yet you could only count on one hand the amount of times you came home without anyone telling you to.

Coming home had become foreign to you as much as leaving it had become familiar.

“I’m near, Joon,” you hum to your phone, taking a quick glance at the cake you’ve strapped to your front seat. “It’s only us, right?”

“Yeah. Just us.”

Maybe it’s your fault for changing what us meant throughout the past five years, but Namjoon’s definition never changed. Maybe it’s your fault for not clarifying what he meant when you’re still kilometers away, when you can still leave, but nonetheless, you were cornered.

Us meant what it used to be when you were a kid in your childhood home — when Yoongi was still in the picture and you didn’t hate him for it.

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing them against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

.

.

.

You’re numb if that’s the word for it.

Your chest buzzes emptily the same way your fingers clench around nothing. You look at everywhere and everyone but Yoongi and his son. It’s nauseating to even think that everyone’s eating dinner as if everything’s okay; what’s even more sickening is that somehow, you’re willing to settle for it.

Yoongi is your mom’s cross-stitch project of a teddy bear that she hung up in your room one day when you were in school that you never took off by the time you came home. He’s a dent at the corner of your gate that could’ve only been made by Namjoon when he was practicing his soccer skills. He’s a Snellen chart that nobody really uses, stuck to the side of the refrigerator that you walk past.

Yoongi’s here, there, and everywhere, but you don’t question it. He’s simply there in your orbit and even if he exists, you don’t follow up on him.

You stay quiet at the talks of the sleeping situation because it turns out that Yoongi’s family had long sold their house. You never knew that throughout the several times you came down to visit.

Frankly, you’re relieved to barely know anything about Yoongi these days.

“You and Haneul can take my room,” you half-heartedly offer, not because it’s Yoongi who tugs at your heartstrings and demands your pity, but his child instead. The two, three (?) year-old baby (read: you’re too hesitant to ask what his age is because if it’s anything higher, then that meant Yoongi had moved on earlier than you did) you didn’t even know existed because you’ve completely cut off Yoongi from your life and refused to listen to Namjoon every time he talked about him, will be sleeping in your room; it just happens that he’s with his dad.

Yoongi’s awed at your preposition but he’s even more worried. He can’t tell a single thought that’s going on behind your eyes nor a single hint behind your tone. You’re formal; neutral. You’re detached even when you utter Haneul’s name and gesture them to your bedroom as if he hasn’t spent years and years of his life in your home.

“Where will you sleep?” he furrows his brows, his hand that had been rubbing circles on Haneul’s back faltering.

He’s asking because he doesn’t know anything about you at this point. He can’t tell if it’s the indigestion he has from resisting to talk your ear off at the dining table (like he’s always did when you were young) because you barely even spoke to him, or if it’s the overwhelming feeling of being back home with everything feeling familiar but you — either way, Yoongi thinks he’s gonna be sick.

“I’ll sleep at my mom’s,” you purse your lips, leaving him at that.

Between the yearning, demanding looks you get from Yoongi, the nosy and concerned glances from Namjoon, and even the guilt that you get from keeping all of your emotions from your mom when you used to confide in her religiously when you were younger — you’re drained. The urge to wash off all your anxiety can’t be done in your childhood home’s small bathroom. You can’t with the faulty water heater (you have to keep one finger pressed on the button at all times to keep it running) because you can’t even cry in peace under the either scorching or freezing water.

You can’t evade everything by grabbing a drink from the fridge that runs loudly as if it’s excavating oil from underneath your floors. You can’t curl up on the couch that’s become worn with age because there’s dents of you and Yoongi, the only two people who had sat on it the most every late night for years on end. You can’t romanticize any of the things in your home that have brought you joy all your life at this point in time.

To sleep under the same roof with your mother and brother again after so long feels foreign. It’s a language you can perceive but can’t translate and the frustration that comes with it seeps into your bones. There must be some common ground between the three of you; it should be anything and everything. With Namjoon being a world-renowned football player and you being somewhat accomplished and decorated in your field, you’ve managed to retire your mom early.

The three of you are doing fine. Not one interaction in the past five years has ever felt this tense and unfamiliar, but if you could pick just the odd one out, the very reason why you feel like falling to the floor and crawling your way out of your own home because you feel like you don’t belong to it — it’s Yoongi.

You feel awkward in your own four walls, whereas Yoongi finds your nightlight that you keep tucked in your closet without breaking a sweat.

Namjoon tugs you right when you’re about to call it a day in your mom’s room, his hushed whispers taking you back to when he pleaded for you not to rat them out whenever he and Yoongi crashed at the couch drunk.

“Give them this,” he shoves the can of bug spray into your hands, your immediate reaction making him wrestle with you just to push you closer to your own bedroom.

“No, Joon. You give it.”

“Y/N, no. You give it,” he whines, purposely having given Yoongi extra sheets and blankets earlier without the bug spray so you’d have something to take to him.

“I don’t wanna see Yoongi,” you whisper, trying to pathetically regain your footing even if you know your attempts go futile against an athlete for a brother.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snarks, giving you one last shove with a stern finger. “We’re gonna talk about whatever the hell happened between you and him, but right now, you’re gonna offer him bug spray like the gracious hosts that we are!”

You crash too far to your door that it could be mistaken as a knock, making you hiss because you know you can’t retract it. You actually knock this time, being met with nothing but a quiet Yoongi behind your own door.

Even when he opens it fully, even when it’s your own room — you enter hesitantly.

Yoongi’s already made a home out of your room. He knew where your nightlight was, knew which good extension cord (that didn’t spark every time it shifted) to plug into the wall, and even knew where you kept the magazine that you had to wedge between your windows whenever they didn’t fully close.

“Namjoon told me to give you this,” you put your hand out, looking at everything but Yoongi. You could look at Haneul who’s sprawled in the middle of the bed, but it isn’t any different than looking at his dad himself.

Yoongi, on the other hand, can’t see anything but you. He feels like an intruder who just happened to know the confines of your life almost better than his own, holding bug spray and the remainder of whatever recognition you have left for him.

“Will we ever be alright?” he whispers, not for the sake of keeping Haneul asleep, but for the sake of his sanity. If he makes his voice any louder, he’ll spill all his grievances and question if he had ever meant anything to you.

“We’ve always been alright,” you smile tightly, wrapping your hands around your back.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he pleads, swallowing the lump in his throat. “When did you ever give me bug spray? When did you have to knock on my door, o-or when did you ever have to treat me like I’m some guest and not a huge part of your life?” Yoongi stumbles over his words, correcting himself with a huff. “Most of your life.”

The sarcasm that coats the last of his words makes you twitch, the clench in your jaw being unmistakeable. Yoongi almost forgot what you looked like whenever you argued with him — talked to him, even. “Why are you only bitching about this to me and not to Namjoon? He’s the one who told me to give you the bug spray.”

“This is not about the bug spray!”

“What is it about then? Is this, is this some sort of long-winded euphemism that involves bug spray? What is it Yoongi, are you gonna hound me for an essay about it?” you spit, exhaling heavily. Haneul twitches in his sleep from the corner of your eye. “You grew up and so did I.”

Yoongi flinches like you’ve shot him.

“Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t do this to us.”

You flinch because anything is better than to have him dig up his old nickname for you as if he’s close; as if he’s still the Yoongi that you chased, as if you’re still the Y/N he looked out for.

“Don’t call me that.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi’s in the kitchen with your mom.

He looks domestic this way, hair tousled and pajamas loose. Even if you have unbridled internet access (courtesy of the high-speed package you split with Namjoon for your mom even if the most she does online is repost motivational quotes, reels of Namjoon and his team, and clips of Jungkook where you’re seen), you can’t muster the courage to search Yoongi’s name and what he’s made of himself.

You’re too scared to search up articles about his success as a producer because if you do, you’re terrified by the thought of accidentally clicking a link that leads you to a page of him and his ex-wife.

You’re too weak to search up the songs he’s had a hand in (that is if you hadn’t heard them before) because you fear that if you even listen for a single second, you might hear how perfect his life has been ever since he left behind everything that he’s ever known.

Even now, you’re too uneasy at the sight of him. He’s in your home and he looks like the version of himself that had never left. The Yoongi in front of you, sitting on your seat at the dining table and peeling tangerines with your mom, resembles the Yoongi that would top off your glass with water whenever you ate with him.

It’s as if you’ve always been in touch for the past five years; it’s as if Yoongi has never aged and you never drifted apart.

“You’re awake,” he remarks, greeting you first before your mom could even register your presence.

“You’re still here,” you reply, the exhale that leaves you making you deflate in reflection. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but Yoongi’s already slid over a plate to you.

“There. Just how you like them.”

There’s tangerines with barely any pith on them, and iced tea that had more ice cubes in them than there are in the freezer.

Yoongi smiles at you like you’re the old you again; the one who is more forgiving, and the one who is more hopeful.

( ♡ )

If it wasn’t for your brother guilt-tripping you into joining the impromptu road trip, you never would have come.

You didn’t want to come with them in the first place because the very thought of hanging out with Namjoon and Yoongi like old times, this time with the addition of the latter’s son, was too close; too familial. The three already knew each other and had kept in touch and you’re the odd one out. You’re the only planet out of the system and once you’ve come to think of it, that bit of their galaxy never failed. Whether you were in it or not didn’t matter — atleast that’s what you thought.

Yoongi got everything he ever wanted and you’ve heard nothing about it.

You blocked his number and on every social media account he had to his name. Even with Namjoon as a prominent variable, you’re amazed to how you’ve heard little to nothing about Yoongi ever since he left your hometown. You still talked to your brother, of course, but there was an obvious difference to how your conversations went because none of them ever went to Yoongi.

You didn’t tell him to not talk about Yoongi at all. You didn’t instruct him to never utter a single word about his closest friend whom you also grew up with. You never told Namjoon anything concerning Yoongi and what unfolded between the two of you before you left, and yet, it’s almost as if he had already been in your mind and knew exactly what to do.

You’ve come to realize that the prospect of growing up never used to be in your cards. The whole concept of it sat at the very back of your mind, the only times you used to pay attention to it being whenever Yoongi picked at your brain.

You thought your world would have ended when you were 19. You didn’t think you would grow up and see past high school. You didn’t think you would finish college, much less pick a degree to pursue in the first place. You didn’t think of having a future — you didn’t think you’d be living it now in this way.

“Joon,” you mutter, voice barely being heard at the expanse of the balcony you’re in. It’s his balcony in his vacation house he barely stays in, overlooking the waves by the beach he isn’t even that fond of to begin with.

Yoongi and Haneul are already asleep, the father-son duo knocking out way ahead than everyone else. They stayed with the two of you in the balcony hours ago, the bug spray in both the adult and kid edition being proof of it.

Tonight, alone, felt different. It’s as if the younger version of you was gazing out to what was supposed to be your future, except neither the past nor present variant of you could have ever had it for yourself.

“Hm?” he hums, sipping the last of his drink while he’s sat at the far end. You know about each other’s presence, and while years ago, the two of you would’ve been giddy staying in a house as grand as this whilst drinking behind your mom’s back, you and Namjoon grew up. You didn’t fight or anything — you simply grew up and grew apart.

“I never said it before, but thank you,” you exhale, clenching Haneul’s towel as you try to warm your hands. You may have spent the better part of the day not even acknowledging his dad, but you did fawn over him like you would with any other child. “Thank you for not telling me a thing about Yoongi.”

“You’re welcome,” Namjoon finally speaks as soon as he grasps what you were talking about, the smile on his face only lasting for a second. “If it were up to me though, I would have told you everything.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you, hm?” you laugh uneasily, running your hand through your hair. You didn’t know how much you had to be grateful for until Yoongi came back and reminded you of how little you knew about him.

Namjoon breathlessly laughs, looking up at the sky to try and condense everything that has happened through his words before you leave again. “I would have told you that he confessed what happened that time you ran away from home a couple years back, and I beat his ass. We didn’t talk for like, I don’t know, three months? Even when I was still training in the US that time.”

Your lack of a reply is what makes him take notice, the stunned look you have on your face making him snort.

“What?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed as he throws a stray bottle cap at you. “Why are you so shocked? I love him like a brother, but you’re my actual sister,” he confides his loyalty to you, yet you don’t even have a second to express your awe before he opens his mouth again. “I would have told you that I became the best man at his wedding. Even mom was there.”

“You can stop telling me these things now.”

Namjoon exhales, already feeling deep in his chest that you’re gearing up to leave. He wants to get the last word in, not to prove himself, but to try and vindicate you and the quiet suffering you endured without telling anyone.

“I would have told you that Yoongi kept trying to come back to you.”

( ♡ )

Haneul wakes up before Yoongi does.

You’re confused for a second because the moment you hear the lightest footsteps that you ever could pad along the kitchen, you become completely disoriented. There’s a child that looks like Yoongi, wandering off to where you are.

For the briefest second, your heart drops because the whole situation resembles a vignette. In another lifetime, it could’ve been your child, your Haneul, waking up before his dad, trudging to the kitchen where you are is if you’re his mom.

He’s an observant kid, far too trusting unlike his dad who used to scold you to hell and back for even entertaining strangers that asked you for directions. He’s friendly to you; to someone Yoongi had introduced as appa’s close friend. There isn’t even a single hint in how he introduced you to Haneul that the two of you stopped being close. Yoongi didn’t leave the faintest indicator to him that you most probably hated his guts and would probably choose a lifetime where he hadn’t even been in your life at all.

Haneul is innocent to yours and Yoongi’s history and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t meant to change whatever he introduced you as because by the time your mom’s birthday week is over, or by the time Yoongi takes the hint and leaves your hometown again, you would be a fleeting persona in Haneul’s life.

You’re not his mom. You’re not anyone of significance to either him and his dad.

“Good morning,” he greets shyly, his diction telling of how just attentive Yoongi is as a dad. You mostly listened to whatever Namjoon told you last night anyway, tuning out the parts where he rounded to how Yoongi had been miserable not having any contact with you (you don’t believe that at all), and instead zeroing in on the large details that you’ve missed. “Auntie.”

You smile tightly, patting the empty seat beside to you to which he climbs effortlessly.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you do know him. You know that his dad is a doting, slightly paranoid one whose current dilemma is whether or not enrolling him in kindergarten early or waiting for one more year. You know that Yoongi doesn’t want him to know about the existence of iPads for probably ever, so he spends almost every waking moment talking to him to the point that Haneul’s eloquent at speaking for his age. You also know that Namjoon’s his godfather, and that he had looked after him for a whole day by himself when Yoongi went to settle his divorce.

Haneul doesn’t know you, but you know his parents. You know Yoongi is his dad, and more importantly, that Hyewon is his mom — the same Hyewon who had been with him in your room before, and the same woman Yoongi shared his success with when he made it big.

“Hi,” you greet him softly, handing him his bottle for him to drink from. It’s a warm, domestic vignette for a split second. You’ve watched Yoongi far too many times at the corner of your eye to know where he gets the distilled water. “Why are you up already?”

“Uncle Joonie promised yesterday we can watch the sunrise together,” he says in between sips, letting you comb his hair into order unconsciously. You didn’t even think of it before your hand sweeps the strands scattered on his forehead, the hum you have at the back of your throat pausing when you realized what you’ve done.

“He’s still sleeping right now. He had uh, a long night,” you mutter, at a loss for a child-friendly alternative word for hangover. You keep your hands to yourself because you fear falling into the domesticity that isn’t yours to relax into; if you think about it for a second longer, you’d think that Haneul is yours and Yoongi is the final piece to your puzzle.

“Oh. But I, I wanna watch,” Haneul frowns, brows softly furrowed at your revelation. He’s not close to throwing a tantrum, but the upset expression on his face keeps tugging at your heart to cave.

“You can take your dad with you,” you offer, willing to knock on Yoongi’s door if it meant his son smiling again.

Haneul shakes his head at that, looking up at the ceiling as he recalls the events of last night before being tucked in. “Nuh-uh. Appa had a long night too. He just kept crying.”

A part of you wishes that Haneul didn’t speak so clearly.

“What?” you clarify, heart skipping a beat the more you replay his words in your head.

“Crying?” Haneul repeats, tilting his head as he tries to figure you out. He says it again for a third time as if you needed any clarification of the word and not because of your disbelief that his dad was capable of it. “Like this,” he adds, pretending to bawl with his hands wiping at his eyes.

The scene before you is your brief moment of reprieve, making you chuckle breathlessly as you try to regain your senses. Whether or not Haneul was sure of what he was saying, if Yoongi had cried, it’s most probably not because of anything that has to do with you.

“Oh. So that’s what it means. Thank you, Haneul,” you laugh lowly, patting him on the head until you retract your hand again in realization.

Haneul thinks nothing of your trepidation; he thinks nothing of the yearning behind your eyes, and thinks nothing of the tremble in your voice.

“Can we watch the sunrise together?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as if doing so would be the equivalent of hanging the stars up for him in the sky.

(Read: it probably is, and in another lifetime, or in the far-shot that it happens in this one, you’d do it if he asks you to do so.)

You want to ask Haneul why it’s you who he wants to accompany him, but you don’t. You can wake up either Yoongi and Namjoon to go with him instead, but you won’t.

In another lifetime, this would have been your son, your Haneul asking to watch the sunrise with you. There’s a Yoongi-shaped hole and a Haneul-shaped vacancy in your chest, but you don’t prod about it further.

You don’t question what’s happening, and maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of you that wants to fully accept it instead of hesitating to do so.

“Okay.”

Haneul puts his hand in yours, but you don’t pull away. You just hold him tighter.

( ♡ )

A large part of you forgot that for as long as Yoongi’s here, he’ll treat every interaction you have with Namjoon as an open invitation for him. He had always been this way; for as long as you could remember, he’ll include himself even if he isn’t needed nor wanted.

You can’t count the amount of times your mom had berated Namjoon for something and oddly enough, Yoongi also happened to be there. Whether it was to rat out on his own best friend or being at the receiving end of said scolding, Yoongi jumped at every opportunity to come along as a package deal.

When you asked Namjoon to drink with you at the balcony two days ago, Yoongi butted in and asked what brand of alcohol he should buy you at the convenience store. When you were on the way home and asked your brother what he wanted from the rest stop, Yoongi said he wanted the biggest can of coffee you could find.

And when you asked Namjoon what time you should come to the stadium to watch him practice, Yoongi said he’ll pack you an extra cap while Haneul bonded with your mom.

Sometime long ago, you and Yoongi saw each other eye to eye. You can’t determine when and how exactly, but there was a point in your life where everything you had to say to each other was what the other was thinking all along. Nowadays, you can’t even look at Yoongi in the eye while all he wanted was for you to return his gaze.

If there’s just one thing though, one single variable that remained unchanged between the two of you, it would be Namjoon.

The way Yoongi engages you in conversation this time around is not to trap you and to ramp himself up to apologize again, but purely, it’s to talk about your brother. Namjoon’s a lot of things, and one thing you pray would remain unchanged is the love you have for each other.

“Who would have thought, right?” Yoongi nudges, asking you sincerely. “Who would have thought that the Namjoon who had knockoff cleats years ago would become this world-famous athlete?” he chuckles, shaking his head as he once again tries to digest the fact that this very stadium in your hometown had been built and refashioned in his honor.

You laugh genuinely, the sound being the first he’s ever heard in such a long time.

“Abibas.”

Yoongi has his lips parted, shocked that you were even answering him.

“Abibas. That was the brand of his knockoff cleats,” you chuckle, bowing your head as you try to contain your laughter. “He could’ve bought the original with his allowance and everything, but he split it so he could also buy me knockoffs.”

Yoongi laughs at the memory you jog up in his mind, remembering distinctly how Namjoon kept asking for his opinion repeatedly on which colorway of the knockoff pair he should gift you.

Even if things are still tense between you, even if Namjoon is the only salvation that Yoongi could bring up in a conversation to which you don’t run from, nothing from the past five years could ever take this moment away from you.

The three of you have grown up. Some faster than they’d like, and some because they had no choice but to — nonetheless, in this moment, it’s the three of you back at home like it used to be.

“Namjoon was always meant for greatness. Even from the start,” you murmur, your attention waiting on Yoongi’s response even if your eyes were on Namjoon in the field.

“You are too,” he interjects quickly, voice defensive at the lack of your name to your own sentence.

“No I’m not,” you snort, crossing your arms. You’re not angry when you say it; in fact, you’re calm as if you’ve always seen it coming. “You told me I’d amount to nothing.”

You’re calm, seemingly at peace with what you just said and what Yoongi had ingrained in your head before, but he’s the furthest thing from it. His mouth hangs open, chest tightening impossibly as he shakes his head eagerly.

“I never said that!”

You’re about to counter him when you hear a familiar holler reach you at the lower section of the bleachers, eyes perking to see a familiar figure who isn’t blood-related to you.

“Y/N!” Jimin runs up to you faster than to whenever he passes the ball to Namjoon, engulfing you in a massive hug that forces you up to your feet before you know it.

“Oh my god, Jimin! I didn’t know you were gonna be here!” you awe at the sight of him, unwilling to break away from the embrace until he does so. It’s been ages since you’ve seen him, the second-best player in the team (you’re biased because of course Namjoon had been the best player to you since you were kids) being the closest member to you out of everyone.

Jimin doesn’t care for Yoongi. He knows of the guy and he doesn’t want to know any more than he already does. He doesn’t even acknowledge the guy’s presence; all he does is squeeze you tighter and twirl you briefly in his arms.

“Fuck, me neither. Heaven must’ve healed my ankle quicker so I could come here and see you,” he flirts playfully, earning a well-deserved eye roll from you.

“And you know, play for Korea.”

“Eh. That too, I guess,” he shrugs, sitting at the seat beside you. He looks straight at you and only you — Jimin only pauses to snort to himself when he notices that Yoongi’s squirming in his seat, beyond annoyed and frustrated.

( ♡ )

On the fifth day of Yoongi staying over at your house, there’s a power outage.

The sound of everything shutting off together in sync makes you jolt, the collective groan you hear outside from the neighborhood comforting you in solidarity.

You can only make out a grunt from Namjoon and a gasp from your mom until you hear the trembling voice of Haneul, the sound of a cry that crawls up his throat putting everyone on their feet.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just a little dark, that’s all,” Yoongi pipes up instantly, scooping him up in his arms without having to fumble for where he is because he could practically locate his son in his sleep.

You didn’t want for it to be a power outage, but oddly enough, you feel sorry that it happened while you’re here. “It’s okay, Haneul,” you whisper as consolation, the dark of the night shielding you from how Yoongi’s eyes widen at your cooing for his son. “Mom, where did you put that generator I got you?”

“About that,” she sheepishly shrugs, turning on her phone to illuminate her shyness. “I donated it last year to the public school nearby.”

“It’s gonna get so hot,” Namjoon groans, the sound of him clumsily feeling around for the lights alerting Haneul briefly. He comforts him instantly, finally turning on the torch in his phone instead of relying on his instincts. “Don’t cry, Haneul, alright? Uncle Joonie’s gonna get the candles and the flashlights.”

“I’ll go try to find a guy,” you get up as soon as Namjoon hands you a flashlight, your contribution to help instantly being shut down.

“You can’t just try to find a guy, Y/N. That’s dangerous,” Yoongi scoffs, putting a hand on your forearm to pull you.

“I meant on my phone, Yoongi,” you grit. “I was gonna go outside to try and look for a signal.”

“That’s still dangerous,” he narrows his eyes at you as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Give me a break,” you mutter, removing his hold from you. You’d save your pride and actually go outside if not for your mom interjecting that she knows an electrician from her contacts.

Namjoon comes back after his quest for battery-powered fans and flashlights, unaware of how Yoongi’s protective streak for you practically never disappeared; in fact, it came back twofold. “Whole neighborhood’s out. Must be a broken transformer or something.”

Your mom consoles Haneul in her arms.

Namjoon waits by the gate for the electrician.

You and Yoongi clean the fridge up before anything spoils.

In between getting food out and embracing Haneul every now and then who insisted on obediently sitting atop the counter so he’s closer to his dad, Yoongi holds your hand.

“That’s my hand that you’re holding,” you murmur, assuming that he had mistaken yours for Haneul’s as he’s always chuckled how yours always seemed to be small against his.

Yoongi only hums.

“I know.”

( ♡ )

You’re falling back into your old routine.

Maybe it’s how your mom has to shake you awake because otherwise, you’d sleep through the afternoon and would therefore be unable to sleep through the night. On the other hand, it could be Namjoon who either hounds you to hang out with him or tell you off for clinging to him too much.

Maybe, it’s just Yoongi. It’s him who’s tricking your brain into thinking that has nothing changed with the way he keeps peeling fruits for you and telling you to be safe even if you’re only buying ice cream from the convenience store.

It’s only been a week and a half of almost normalcy, save for the fact that there are certain things and connections you can neither reverse nor rekindle.

You’re convinced, almost fully convinced that history is repeating itself except for the bitter, ugly parts of it that you never want to pop in your head again.

Like the past, Namjoon blocks you for whatever reason in his head but this time he does it to you while you’re on the way to your room, on the quest to retrieve your charger for your phone that you barely even used for work purposes.

“It’s my room. Why can’t I go in my room?” you furrow your brows at him, your amusement turning into annoyance the more that Namjoon pushed you with actual strength instead of playfulness.

“Are you hungry? Let’s go out for dinner,” he changes the subject quickly, turning you towards the stairs.

You shouldn’t have questioned him further — you should’ve left it at that.

“I guess? I’ll just get my purse,” you concede, dodging his attempts to haul you downstairs.

“I’ll pay,” Namjoon insists and although it’s not out of the blue for him, his franticness is what keeps you on edge.

“I still need my-…” you counter, being interrupted when he holds you firmly as you attempt to walk towards your door. Namjoon grips you with a silent plead, one that you can’t even decipher. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You finally break off his grip at once, walking into your room with a renowned determination.

It’s not only your routine that falls back into place, but it’s your whole worldview that does.

Love is terribly human. It’s a loose thread on your shirt that gets snagged on your doorknob. It’s a coat in your closet waiting to be worn for the supposed perfect time, and when you do, you realize that it no longer fits you.

Love is terribly human, and it is terribly Yoongi, Hyewon, and Haneul.

Love is terribly human and fragile, and it’s Yoongi, Hyewon, and their son sleeping on your bed.

[notjustjavierpena]

Hiii!!! Can you do some phone sex with dbf!joel? I’ve seen it around but I’d love your take on it 😈

Pillow

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: I love you, anon. This is so fun to write! Keep it coming.

Summary: Leaving for college after fucking your dad’s best friend a whole summer is sure to bring along some withdrawals symptoms.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut (MDNI!), pillow humping, f masturbation, daddy kink, phone sex, dirty talk, m masturbation, mutual masturbation, somehow also a bit of fluff

Word count: 2.3k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48953992

Pillow

Physically, Joel is annoyingly far away from you when you finally leave for college again, but in your mind, he is very much present all the time during classes. He floods your brain with filth, sweet nothings, a sudden memory of how it feels to kiss him and how his fingers feel inside you.

You miss him and it’s frustrating.

Frustrating to a degree that you haven’t quite experienced before, one that makes you want to say a naughty word just to see him drive across the country to tell you off. It must be withdrawal symptoms, you think, as a result of spending a whole summer being so close to him. Every day bouncing on his dick with his hand on your throat, able to see him, have him, whenever you wanted.

Yes, you have his number in your phone’s contacts, but so far all you have messaged him is that you’ve arrived safely, and his dry response of a simple smiling emoji and a thumbs up tells you that he is not the type to text regularly. You’re surprised he even knows how to use emoticons.

It’s Friday night after your first week back and you are alone in your room. The dormitories are quiet, empty of students who have gone out to celebrate the so far successful survival of being back to having their noses in the books again. Even your roommate has gone out despite her being notoriously known for staying in to read ahead. You wonder if something’s happened to her over the summer that’s changed her — just like you have changed from enthusiastic to filled with dread, unable to say why to anyone. 

“Just don’t feel like going out to get hammered,” you’d said instead, head in your pillow as you had tried to hide your blues. Is this heartbreak?

Your face is still squished into your pillow, arms wrapped around it to feel something close to an embrace. All the other decorative ones have been thrown onto the floor. Your blanket has been discarded too since it’s still warm at night. You have one leg tucked under your body as you scroll mindlessly through your Instagram feed and watch stories of people in bars, singing loudly and drinking beer.

It’s been an hour since you texted Joel, the famous non-texter, that you missed him. The radio silence is driving you insane, even more so because you do not wish to be the person who demands constant attention. 

But the text has sent your heartbeat skyrocketing. Yet the pulse isn’t just evident in your chest; it’s moved down south so quickly. You miss him, yes, but fuck, you miss his mouth, soft tongue on your clit, pads of his fingers rubbing against that little spot inside you that made you a believer. Though above all, you miss his cock that fits perfectly inside of your, now wet, cunt.

Eyeing the floor, your gaze falls upon your new silk pillow. It was a birthday present from your roommate, something about the silk covering being good for your hair’s health, but right now, it’s going to serve a greater purpose. 

You snatch it from the floor and haul it onto the bed, impatiently getting onto your knees to pull your hoodie over your head, exposing your chest, and tug your underwear down to your knees. It’s not like you’re in a hurry since it’s still early, but you are too lazy to take your panties all the way off.

You consider getting up and locking the door for a moment, but you should be able to hear if your drunk roomie stumbles towards your shared room, so the need to get off wins over your laziness once again. 

From previous experience, you bunch up the pillow how you like it. The silk is tricky since it’s smoother than your normal pillow, but you manage to straddle the fabric how you want it after holding it in place. It’s so soft and comfortable against your very sensitive skin, cooling against your wet heat.

You reach down between your legs to spread yourself open a little, letting out a soft sound as the bunched-up stuffing of the cushion settles right where you need it the most. Your heart is beating out your chest as you start rutting your pussy against the silk, seeking out some kind of disappearance act for the constant ache and dread in your body from being exposed to missing Joel fucking Miller. 

You get lost in the sensation quickly. Warmth spreads across your chest as your breathing becomes heavier. Your sensitive clit throbs, earning friction that gets you humming in pleasure. If you close your eyes, you can almost feel his lips ghosting along your neck and you imagine that he is the one touching you between your legs, chest towards your back, and arm around your waist, so he can cup your mound and plunge two fingers into you. Your walls clench, a higher-pitched moan bouncing off the walls.

You grind harder against the pillow. Your thighs tense a little as you rock back and forth, cunt fluttering as you feel closer to the edge by the second. Oh, how you wish to have his face between your thighs right now. His warm, thick tongue fucking you open as his nose bumps against your swollen nub. 

Your hips stutter. Not yet. You wonder if you could wait long enough for a reply. Probably not.

You move to get on your hands and knees, looking down between you and the pillow. There’s a stain on the silk, your arousal having seeped onto the fabric and made a darkened wet patch. Your cunt clenches once more, and another sticky drop of slick drips from you. 

“Shit,” you moan quietly at the sight. You are about to reach for your phone to cheekily snap a photo of your mess to send to Joel, but before you can open the camera, a message from Joel ticks in. 

You almost come at the mere sight of seeing his name on your phone. It’s still coded in as Joel (dad’s buddy). There’s no need to open it as you read it at the top of the screen. 

I have some time. Can I call you? -JM.

You don’t reply. Instead, you call him without a second thought. The beeping sound of your phone ringing has you shivering, but he picks up on the third ring.

“Joel,” you breathe shakily into the receiver. 

You hear Joel’s breath hitch in his throat at the tone of your voice. You imagine that he has tensed up since there’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then, “What're you doing?” 

“Thinking about you.”

“What are you wearing?” From his tone, you can hear that it’s meant as a joke with a tinge of mockery too. You suppose that you deserve that, but you won’t let him get away with being snarky about this. He needs to know this isn’t just to get adventurous with him, but rather to relieve you of misery. 

“Nothing, Daddy, I miss you… It hurts,” you pout despite him not being able to see. 

“Where does it hurt?” He plays along. All mockery has vanished. He clears his throat, it sounds dry.

“My little pussy. She needs you,” you make sure your bed squeaks as you start moving on the pillow again. Joel is quiet except for a deep exhale as he listens. It has your head swimming once more in record time, clit throbbing impatiently as you’ve already edged yourself once. 

“Fuck, baby. I can hear ya. Got anythin' between those pretty legs?”

“Not my hand,” you say truthfully. You put your phone on speaker to grip the edge of the pillow, snapping your hips forward in your seat. 

“What then?” 

“My pink silk pillow,” you moan softly as heat starts pooling below your navel again. You want him to join you, but you’re not going to ask.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel breathes deeply in through his nose, a half sigh and moan, “We’ve been apart for a week and you already do this. Gettin' out of hand, baby girl. Don’t ya think so?”

“I can’t function without your cock, Daddy” you feed his ego. It won’t harm anyone because you’ve found your statement to be absolutely true, “Miss being sore. You made me hurt so good, Joel.” 

“And now you’ve replaced me with… bedding?” Joel teases, but you hear him shuffling around like he is moving through his house. 

“Yeah,” you giggle breathlessly, bunching the pillow up even tighter. You wiggle your hips to seat yourself against the silk as before, a little crease of it nudging against your clit. It makes you push your pelvis harshly yet slowly into it. An idea pops into your mind, “Wanna see?”

You hear the sound of sheets, the clinking sound of his belt being unbuckled, and then the pull of his zipper. That was quicker than you thought. 

“Hold on,” he replies and moves his mouth away from the receiver. You prop up your phone against the wall on the floating shelf above the head of your bed, listening to the faint sound of pants being shoved down.

When he finally calls you and the FaceTime logo appears on the screen,  you press the green answer button and stare right into the camera. If this was a planned call, you would have thought about your looks and your pose, but Joel will see you just how you are right now. 

He isn’t disappointed. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he says instead of hello. You cannot see his cock, only his broad naked shoulders, mouth that’s slightly agape, and his eyes, which have become a darker brown with his arousal. 

“Daddy’s so potty-mouthed,” you reply innocently, sitting up a little straighter to show off to the camera. You move slowly up and down on the pillow, back arched to push out your chest and one hand curled around your breast. 

“How long have you been draggin' your cunt all over that pink cushion, young lady?” He asks in a low voice. His shoulder is moving in a way that tells you enough, and if you could close your eyes without feeling rude, you’d be able to see how it looked when stroked his dick.

“A while, a little after I texted you,” you reply. In the corner, you can see yourself moving on the pillow as your tits bounce slightly. It turns you on to see yourself masturbating more than you’d like to admit, “I’m so horny for you.”

“Bet you are,” his eyes roam hungrily over the screen, “So what are you waiting for?” 

“What do you mean?” You pant. 

“You want me to see you come, ain't that the plan?” His breathing is accompanied by the sound of his fist pumping his cock, “To show me how good you can treat her when I’m not around to do it?”

You nod as you moan loudly. Sweat has started to form on your chest and breasts, glistening prettily for him as you thrust your hips faster to chase your climax. It climbs steadily, like a coil tightening in your abdomen, starting from behind your cunt. 

On the other end of the line, Joel’s heavy breathing is slowly turning into moaning as well. He is getting closer as well, trying his hardest to get to where you are. 

“Daddy,” you cry feebly, “I’m gonna fu— come.”

A tingle is creeping up your spine. You’re so close, letting go of your breast to pull the fabric taut with both hands as you rock against it. Where you’ve been panting before, you hold your breath right before you come.

Every single drop of tension in your body seeps out of you as the coil finally snaps. Your orgasm hits you like a runaway train. Your world fades from view for a few seconds, your mouth hanging open in a loud groan. You ride it out without hiding your pleasure from the world, hoping that you truly are the only person in your dormitory right now, concentrating on staring into the camera lens as you gain your vision back. 

Joel swears at the sight, speeds up his hand. He scrambles for his phone to angle it towards his dick. 

“I’m gonna wreck that little cunt when I see you next time,” he promises through gritted teeth, suddenly letting out a deep grunt of satisfaction as he comes. He paints his hand, nearly dropping his phone amid the intensity, “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You’ve collapsed into your bed, pulled your phone down to hold it away from your face, and stare lovingly at Joel as the camera returns to his face. He looks a little flustered, cheeks slightly pink from the blood coursing through his veins. 

“Stay on the phone with me for a while. I promise not to fall asleep,” you plead, swinging a leg out over the edge to pick the blanket up from the floor with your toes. You throw it over yourself, suddenly chilly when the air hits your sweaty skin. It’ll be easier than hiding the evidence by cleaning up too. 

“Alright, lemme go wash my hands first,” he says, leaving the frame. You hear his feet patting across the bedroom floor, but then you hear nothing else.

When Joel returns, he gets under the covers as well, “So, how was your first week at—“

You’re snoring ever so slightly. He smiles to himself but doesn’t end the call just yet, watches you fall deeper into slumber for a while before deciding it’s enough. He shoots you a text before plugging his phone in for the night.

Fell asleep on me, Sleeping Beauty. I miss you too. Props to you for not getting foul-mouthed like me. I’ll remember that. -JM.

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[navybrat817]

Negotiations

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Andy Barber x Female Reader Summary: You meet with Andy to discuss the terms of your potential contract. Word Count: Over 4.2k Warnings: Slow burn, reader is broke (is that a warning?), sugar daddy offer, tension, slight insecurities, negotiations, inner monologue, Andy Barber (he's a warning, okay?) Graphic talent and thanks: Banner - @sgt-seabass, Divider - @firefly-graphics , Header - yours truly A/N: Welcome back to my Terms and Conditions AU! Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby (thanks!), but any and all mistakes are my own. ❤️ Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Work felt like the longest shift even though it was only a few hours. You saw the customers through a different set of eyes as you served them. You wondered how many of them struggled like you or what they would do if someone like Andy entered their lives. If you came to an agreement with him on everything, you weren't sure if you'd ever step foot in the diner again after you quit. Not because you were embarrassed.

It was merely time to look forward.

And look my best.

You turned to the side when you checked your reflection. Estelle had way too much fun picking out an outfit for you. After carefully searching and sneakily looking at the price tag so she didn’t splurge, you opted for a sleeveless, blazer style dress. Nothing over the top or too fancy. You still wanted to look like you while looking professional.

Though she insisted it was your birthday gift, along with the surprisingly comfortable black heels, you planned to pay her back. Whether from the money Andy gave you or once you got your paycheck months from now at your new job. If she refused, you’d tell her the only gift you needed was her support and she gave that to you. Like she knew you were thinking about it, she messaged you.

“Good luck! I know you look hot! Knock his socks and pants off! He better give you everything you deserve!”

You had to smile at her enthusiasm. “It’s his office. His pants are staying on.”

“You say that now, but he’s the boss. You’ll change your tune once he has his hands on you.”

Laughing as you tucked your phone away, you couldn’t completely disagree with her. Andy robbed you of your breath whenever you saw him and it surprised you that you could maintain logical thinking when he was close by. You had to maintain that rational headspace today. He was a man used to people telling him what he wanted to hear. As an ex-lawyer and businessman, he could sway things in his favor if you weren’t careful.

Considering what he was offering you, it didn’t once feel like he was taking advantage of your misfortunes.

You stopped yourself from messaging Andy that you were on your way. He was a busy man with more important stuff to deal with than a check-in from you. It would be one of the topics of discussion shortly anyhow. Would he want to know where you are at all times or would he be content with the occasional message?

How much control will he want over me? How much do I want to give him?

Thanking and paying the cab driver as you arrived at the building, you didn't feel as out of your element the way you did at the restaurant. The office setting was familiar. It was bittersweet going inside though for something that wasn't work or an interview. Maybe this was better.

You held your head high as if it was.

I can do this.

You handed your bag over for the security officer to check while he verified your identification. Satisfied once he double checked your name and ID, he handed you a guest badge and allowed you to go to the elevators. It comforted you that Andy and his employees were safe when they went into his building. You wondered how often you'd be here or if he'd keep you away from his office outside of functions.

You avoided looking at anyone as you got into the elevator, though you felt the eyes of a couple of men sweep over your body. It didn’t matter what they thought. Andy was the only one you wanted to look good for. As you passed by each floor, the more you worried about breaking into a sweat. You shifted back and forth until the door opened.

One step closer.

It took you a second to move your feet forward and turn down the hall. It seemed to stretch on for miles, the door at the end of it was large and daunting. It was like entering the lion’s den, but you weren't afraid. Even if you did pause again before you turned the handle and walked in.

An older woman, Irene according to the nameplate on her desk, sat outside of a set of double doors, giving you a kind smile as she looked up from her keyboard. You didn't let her appearance fool you. Anyone who worked for someone as powerful as Andy likely had thick skin and a "take no crap" attitude.

"How may I help you?"

"Hi. I'm here to see Andy Barber," you replied, giving her your name and inwardly wincing. Of course, she knew you were there to see him. Why else would you be there?

"Yes, Mr. Barber is expecting you," she smiled, pressing the intercom on her desk. "Mr. Barber, your 4pm is here."

"Send her in, please."

It isn't fair that he sounds sexy through a speaker box.

"May I get you anything to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you," you smiled, following her as she opened the double doors.

This is it.

The office was just as you imagined, the walls lined with a mixture of art and accolades. A small table and chairs sat on one side with a couch on the other. It was elegant, but the man behind the desk drew your attention. Sunlight filtered in through the floor to ceiling windows behind Andy, casting a halo around him as he stood up. A symbol of power and authority in his black suit with the skyline behind him, you found it difficult to take your next breath.

He looks like he was born to be in charge.

"It's good to see you again," Andy smiled, walking around the desk and gesturing to the table. "Why don't we sit over here? Did Irene offer you a drink?"

"Of course, I did, Mr. Barber. And before you remind me, I know to hold your calls," she chastised him, which only made him chuckle before she smiled at you. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."

I knew it. Take no crap.

"Thank you," you said, giggling as you walked to the table. "I like her."

"I do, too. She keeps me on my toes," he said as he pulled out the chair for you. "How was your day?"

"Uneventful," you replied, setting your bag beside you. It was nice that he asked. "How are you?"

"My day was just fine," he said, taking a seat. He had a notepad waiting there, similar to yours.

"That's good."

He gave you a half smile and you debated whether or not to continue with small talk. "Nervous?"

“A little bit,” you said, refusing to lie to him. It wouldn’t start things off on the right foot if you did. “I didn’t have ‘Sugar Daddy Negotiations’ on my BINGO card this year.”

He chuckled, the sound beautiful in the large space. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t either," he joked. "And you don’t look nervous.”

“It actually does,” you smiled. “How do I look?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Oh,” you said, your cheeks growing warmer the longer he gazed at you. While you wanted that to be his reaction, it was somehow unexpected. “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, by the way.”

“And I wasn’t taking the bait. I’m telling you what I see.”

“Thank you. This was a birthday gift from Estelle,” you said, smoothing out the dress even though you were sitting. Why you felt the need to tell him, you weren’t sure.

“It’s a beautiful dress, but I was talking about your smile,” he said, his lip tugging in a small smile of his own before he cleared his throat. “As much as I’d like to sit here and continue to shower you with praise, maybe we should save that for another time.”

Your throat went dry at the implication, but you didn't want to get ahead of yourself. “Of course."

"Today is about figuring out our terms and setting expectations. I plan to take notes as we go along, if you don't mind."

"That's fine because I plan to do the same," you explained as you took out your notepad. "I’ve made a list of things I believe we should discuss and agree on before moving forward."

“You’re prepared,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "And getting down to business like last time."

“I do what I can,” you said, glancing at the first item on your list. “First thing is the length of our contract. You mentioned Mr. Huffman’s merger could take a few months, but there’s no definitive timeframe. My proposal is six months or when the job becomes available, whichever comes sooner.”

He considered your words carefully. “I spoke with Scott again and a merger like this may take a minimum of six months due to the range of variables. I propose a year or when the job becomes available. It hopefully won’t take that long, but I’d feel more comfortable if we have more time as opposed to less.”

A year was a long time, but you understood his perspective. “Why don’t we meet in the middle? Nine months.”

“Nine months, but if the merger is still pending at that time, we can revisit the contract and extend it if needed,” he proposed.

“Agreed,” you said, jotting down your notes on your pad while he did the same. “My job. You said I would need to quit and I’d be unable to take another position while under contract. I have no objections to that, but I won’t flat-out quit the diner. I’ll put in my two week notice. If they tell me not to come back, that’s on them.”

“I think that’s the respectable thing to do,” he said, nodding to your pad. “I don’t know where living arrangements are on your list, but I’d like to discuss that next.”

You wanted to discuss your free time since you wouldn't have a job any longer, but you would circle back to that. “Okay. You said over lunch that you’re not comfortable with me staying in my current place.”

“I did and I stand by that. I understand that my building doesn’t guarantee complete safety over yours because anything could happen anywhere at any time, but knowing you’re close by would help put me at ease. I have a loft ready to go and you can treat it as your own place. If something isn’t to your liking, we can change it within reason.”

“Within reason?”

Andy smirked slightly. “I can’t exactly take a sledgehammer to the wall if you want to make the space bigger,” he said, taking out his phone and pulling up an image. “But it’s a nice place. Feel free to swipe through it.”

The photos were beautiful and the living room alone looked larger than your entire apartment. “Is spending time at your place an expectation?” you asked.

“I’d like it if you did for an occasional dinner, but I understand if you'd rather not. I'd also like to meet you once a month outside of contractual obligations to talk.”

Sounds like a date. Is it though?

“I agree to the loft, the occasional dinner, and meeting with you once a month," you agreed. It wasn't overwhelming or demanding. You'd still have a sense of independence. "But I’d like to keep my current apartment. If I take this job in the upcoming months, I can't expect you to cover the loft anymore and I doubt I could afford it even with a decent salary. I’ll need a place to go back to until I find something better.”

"I own it," he said. He wasn't bragging in your mind. He was stating a fact.

"I doubt I could afford your rent then. I keep my apartment."

“Done,” he said after a moment. You were glad he agreed. Your apartment was still yours. “Which is a good segway into expenses. As a reminder, I plan to cover the rent for your current apartment, along with any bills associated with it such as cable or internet. If you prefer to shut those off during the contract, we can. I’ll also cover your cell phone, insurance, credit card bills, student loans, any debt you pay on a monthly basis. Oh, and groceries.”

Tears filled your eyes as he opened his mouth to continue. The more you tried to compose yourself, the more your face scrunched up. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. You hadn't expected to get emotional, but actually hearing him say he’d cover your monthly bills and help you stay on top of everything was unreal. You'd sleep better at night knowing you had nothing to worry about.

I probably look ridiculous.

“Don’t be,” he said gently, handing you his handkerchief so you could dab your eyes.

“I’m just,” you stopped to take a breath. It was okay to be vulnerable. That was part of communicating. “I’ve carried this stress on my shoulders and knowing that you’re going to take some of that weight away is… I’m never going to be able to repay you for that or thank you enough.”

“I don’t expect a monetary repayment nor would I want that. I told you, honey. You're an honest and kind person. Your company is going to be more than enough.”

He sounds too good to be true.

“You say that now, but you'll grow tired of me,” you teased, holding out your hand to give him the handkerchief. “Thank you.”

He shook his head and refused to take it back. “Keep it. And considering I offered a year for this, I know I won't grow tired of your company,” he said, a bit of concern in his eyes as you sniffled. “Are you okay to continue? We can take a break.”

“I'm fine,” you promised, straightening up and feeling lighter, like the weight was already gone. “We were discussing expenses.”

“Yes,” he smiled, gesturing to your outfit. “I plan to take you shopping so you can have a few outfits, jewelry, shoes, make-up, and whatever else you need ready for the planned upcoming events, as well as some dressed down outfits so you’re comfortable when we travel and to spruce up your wardrobe if you’d like.”

Careful. You’re going to spoil me.

“I’m also going to deposit two thousand dollars into your account each month for your leisure,” he added, writing it on his pad as if that was the final say in the matter.

“Two thousand dollars?!” you nearly shouted. You weren’t trying to sound hysterical, but you failed. “I’m sorry, but who spends that much on clothes each month?!”

Andy looked like he was trying not to laugh at the incredulous look on your face. “You don’t have to spend it on clothes. It’s for you to use as you wish.”

“But you’re already buying me a whole new wardrobe AND covering all of my bills and expenses for nine months. I’m assuming you're covering travel expenses, too?”

“I will,” he confirmed.

“Then there’s no reason why I’d need that much money,” you said with a shake of your head. Estelle would probably tease you for not agreeing, but it was too much. “I can’t possibly need more than five hundred a month.”

“One thousand,” he said firmly as you narrowed your eyes. “Humor me, honey. Please?”

You tapped your pen against the pad as you thought it over. You really didn’t see a reason for that much, but you could put any leftover funds each month into savings. It would be good to pay Estelle back.

Plus, how could you argue when Andy gave you a sweet smile?

“Fine. One thousand each month,” you said, ignoring the look of satisfaction in his eyes. “Okay. We’ve discussed the length of the contract, my job, living arrangements, expenses, which includes traveling. How about traveling itself?”

“Is your passport current?” he asked.

“It is.”

“Good. Some of the traveling will require us to go out of the country and you’ll need it handy. We’ll need to coordinate our schedules so you can block off dates in your calendar. We’ll most likely share a suite for any non-local events, but I’m not going to make you share a bed with me. You have my word.”

You nodded as you wrote that down. It was a bit of a surprise that he didn’t expect you to sleep with him. “Thank you, Andy,” you said, pointing at him with your pen. “But I’m planning to tell Estelle about every function, big or small, so she knows where I am. I won’t budge on that.”

“You’re allowed to give her the details. You said you trust her and that she can be discreet.”

You could never picture Andy as a creep, but the confirmation that he wouldn't force you to sleep with him and that Estelle would know what's going on helped you relax. "If I'm not working or going to functions with you, what am I doing with the rest of my time?" you asked.

Does he expect me to be at his beck and call?

"I'm glad you asked. It's your time to do what you want. Relax, hang out with friends, pamper yourself. Minus the days you'll have blocked out in your calendar, the time is yours," he explained, lightly twirling his pen in his hand. The motion momentarily distracted you. "I only ask if you plan to leave the city to tell me, that way I know you're unavailable if anything last minute comes up."

You weren't sure what you were going to do with that extra time. While a nine month long vacation sounded nice, you didn't want it to be all leisure. You needed somewhat of a routine. Maybe you could take some self development courses to prepare for going back to the office.

"That's fair. I don't have any plans to leave the city, but I'll be sure to let you know if I do," you said, hoping you weren't missing anything as you looked over what you had written down. "What if I’m sick or there’s an emergency and I can't be with you?”

“Then you won’t go," he said as a matter of fact. "I’d never ask you to choose between this arrangement and your well-being or family. Depending on the situation, I could miss it to help you.”

That was unexpected. Andy shouldn't have to put you ahead of any of his obligations. The offer though, even if it never came to fruition, warmed your insides. "That's kind of you, Andy," you said softly before you cleared your throat. “The last topic I have written down is sex.”

“No,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes at the suggestion. “Sex is not on the table because I’m not going to pay you for that.”

“Oh,” you said, quickly scratching it off your list. It was admirable on his part, but also slightly disappointing. Clearly you misread some of the signals. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply-”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assured you, placing his hand over yours before you could pull it away. “If I sounded harsh, I’m sorry. I understand sex is an expectation for some arrangements, but it isn’t for me and I would never want you to feel pressured to be physical with me. I also have no judgments against anyone who pays for sex. My preference regarding intimacy is for it to happen organically.”

“I appreciate the explanation,” you said. This was a business transaction to him. That much was clear. But knowing his reasoning behind it did help. “As far as being affectionate at functions, what’s your take on that? Or going on dates?”

“I may have my arm around you or keep you close to my side, but nothing more if you’re uncomfortable with that. If you are, please tell me and I’ll stop immediately,” he answered before a moment of silence stretched on. "You're asking if we're going to go on dates?"

"You mentioned meeting once a month. Is that a date?"

He waited a few seconds before he answered. "It's a chance for us to meet up and talk. I don't want to demand a title for those moments. That isn't fair to you."

It wasn't a "yes" or "no" answer. Maybe after his divorce and not knowing if people genuinely wanted to connect with him, he wasn't interested in the dating scene. "Okay."

He leaned back in his chair with a hum. “You deviated from the sex discussion quickly.”

“You said it wasn’t on the table,” you reminded him. You weren't about to make a fool of yourself by pushing.

“I said I wasn’t going to pay you for sex. I never said sex wasn’t on the table at all,” he pointed out. You jumped to the conclusion that he didn't want it because it wouldn't be part of the contract. “Any discussion we have regarding that, I’d prefer not to be in a contract form.”

“So if it does happen, we’ll work through it together naturally?” you asked, not wanting to get your hopes up.

His gaze softened considerably. “Yes, we would. And I’d hope you’d trust me enough to know I’d treat you well and take care of you.”

"I do," you said.

"But sex and a relationship aren't expectations of our agreement or outside of it," he said, taking his hand away from yours. "I want to make that clear."

Andy driving the point home was what you needed, as saddening as it was. At the end of the day, it was a contract. He was paying you for your company. Surely he didn't want anything else. "Thank you for reiterating that. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss that I missed?"

His expression remained neutral, but you imagined it disappointed him that you shifted the conversation back to business. Wishful thinking on your part. "Yeah. The only other thing I wanted to discuss is the possibility of you having a driver."

"A driver?" you asked. Wasn't that a bit much? "I don't mind taking cabs or Ubers."

"I understand that, but I'd prefer if you had a driver. If you have to meet me for an event and I can't escort you myself, they will know exactly where to go. You also won't have to pay for someone to drive you around if you want to go anywhere."

"But you're paying them," you said.

"My job is to cover your expenses," he shrugged, leaning his head back and reaching up to loosen his tie. You stared for far too long. "Told you I want to take care of you, honey."

You shifted in your seat, hoping he didn't take any notice. "I want to pick the driver," you said, a little more breathy than before.

That poor driver is likely going to be bored for the next three quarters of a year being my chauffeur.

"From a selection of my choosing. They're all trustworthy."

"I'm giving Estelle the details of that, too," you said.

"I expect nothing less," he smiled, catching your eye. "Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Not that I can think of," you said.

He tapped the notepad with his pen. "I'm going to have a contract drawn up, but I won't ask you to sign it for a week. This will give you time to back out if you need to and it will also give you a few days to contact me should you think of anything else."

"One week," you whispered. Could you wait that long? What if you did think of something else?

"Until then," he said, standing to walk back to his desk. He came back with a letter sized envelope. "So you know I'm serious."

Your eyebrows shot up when you opened the envelope. It was a cashier's check for two thousand dollars made out to you. He had it ready for you. "Andy, this-"

"I know we agreed on one thousand, but I was set on two thousand before we talked it over. Even if you decide not to move forward with this, I want you to take it."

Afraid you might cry again, you set the check down and stood up to hug him. He stiffened in your hold and you wondered if you overstepped before he exhaled and wrapped his arms around your back. You thanked him already with your words, so you wanted to do it again with a hug. The way he held you in return, it felt like was saying "you're welcome".

And that you weren't alone.

"I wish we could have that dinner tonight," he whispered, his mouth close to your ear. You shivered before you reluctantly pulled away. "Unfortunately, I have to get drinks with a few executives."

"That sounds terrible," you teased, drawing a chuckle out of him. "I should get going then."

"It is terrible," he agreed, making sure you had the check and your other things as he led you to the door. "I'll see you back here in a week at the same time."

"And I'll hopefully speak to you before then," you said, not wanting to sound clingy.

But the smile he gave you was a sign of hope. "I'd like that."

This is going to be the longest week ever.

I don't need to wait a week. I'm signing on the dotted line! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Andy Barber Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

I'm BACK, my Darlings!

Link to full AO3 fic

Tags and CW for this chapter: murder; rigged gladiator matches; the Baron being the fucking worst; mentions of child abuse/CSA/incest; the Bene Gesserit; mentions of smut/exhibitionism (no actual smut in this one, sorry there will be soon) early pregnancy; Feyd's mommy AND daddy issues; I take a couple of minor liberties with Feyd's birthday arena fight; blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied sexual assault; implied/references sex trafficking; Geidi Prime's culture; mentions of matricide

CHAPTER ELEVEN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY

You reach the box, noting that the more obscure sisters have sat in one section, while Margot and the Reverend Mother sit in the other booth, with room for you in between them.  All stand and turn to you when Idrisa announces your arrival.

Behind her veil you can see the Reverend Mother’s eyebrows raise at your dress, your painted-black lips.

“I imagine the na-Baron had a hand in your outfit?” she asks as you all sit down.

“He had an idea for how he wanted me to look on his birthday, your Reverence,” you say.  

“Have you spoken with him?”

“A little, your Reverence,” you tell her.  “I just finished helping him prepare.”

It’s safe to assume that she’ll be observing you as well as Feyd.  You wonder if she wonders how much leverage you’ve truly gotten with him.  You wonder if she’ll want the graphic details when the two of you speak in private later.  

“How did he seem?” she asks.

“While we haven’t discussed it much, he’s pleased about my recent development.  He seemed indifferent to the prospect of the match, however; he’s participated in so many since he turned eighteen I think it’s somewhat routine for him.”

“It’s reckless, sending the na-Baron into the arena when he’s only just secured the bloodline,” one of Bene Gesserit sisters says.

Both her Reverence and Margot glance your way in a silent invitation to explain your husband’s people’s customs.

“He’s in no danger, Sister,” you say.  “The na-Baron’s matches aren’t traditional matches so much as they’re executions.  His opponents aren’t fighting at full capacity, so it’s impossible for them to have the upper hand.”

“And you’ve seen these executions in practice?” she asks.

“Yes, Sister.  Just once, the night before my wedding,” you tell her.  It was ostensibly a gift, but meant to serve more as a warning .

“But these other matches…?” she starts.

“Are real,” you finish for her.  “The victor gains their freedom, should they survive.”

You explain the figures clad all in black, their faces obscured with headpieces resembling curved horns and armed with long hooks, as Picadors.  “They essentially act like sporting referees,” you tell them.  “But by and large they don’t interfere in any of these matches; just about everything is allowed.”

And then the festivities, as they were, begin.  The announcer’s voice is amplified so loud the echoes of it reverberate in your chest and nearly make your teeth rattle as he gives the name of not each individual fighter but their Houses and planets, succinct enough that anyone can understand, accompanied by the sound of drums. You can sense the distaste from some of the Sisters, the ones who sound younger, as the first match commences.  For your part you try to give nothing away, face schooled into a mask of neutrality, and keep silent other than to answer polite questions about your home world and how the cultural differences between it and Geidi Prime.  ( “Oh, there are many, Sister.  Our culture’s also militaristic and public executions aren’t uncommon but we don’t have arena fights like these.” ) There’s little audience bias from the crowd; they just want to see two men trying to kill each other.  The closest it gets is when a non-Harkonnen who’s nonetheless from Lankiveil is pitted against another fighter.  For a brief moment you assume that the crowd will favor the Lankiveil fighter.

That moment passes, because throughout the crowd many start shouting something that you’re pretty sure means “ traitor. ”  You shouldn’t be surprised that here, Abulurd Rabban’s defection hasn’t been forgiven, and neither has anyone who’s refused to fall in line with Harkonnen governorship in their claimed territories.  You wonder what Feyd thinks about that and watch as the Lankiveil man puts in some good offense–before one of the Picadors shuffles closer and catches him in either side of his neck with both hooks, leaving his opponent to finish the job.  As the man gurgles, blood spilling from his throat, you hear the loudest cheers so far.

Time narrows down to Feyd’s showing.  He’ll be armored by now, dressed, ready to make his first proper public appearance in a month, and even as the cheers die down from the past match and the blood is swept to the ends of the arena, the audience can feel it.  Horns sound, and you gasp as you notice what look like bursts of black plasma exploding in the air with splattering noises.  Fireworks, or the closest thing Geidi Prime has to it, stark against the plain white sky.

You’ve been practicing the Harkonnen language every day, but you’re far from fluent yet.  Not even conversational.  You understand only bits and pieces as the excitement in the announcer’s voice ramps up, booming throughout the colosseum. 

"Under sljdgkjo our ghiel black sun, we welcome iwelkgnle sljeifgwaln our beloved leader Baron Vladimir Harkonnen,” the voice booms. “His lwkejlw jkslanlwe fjldklwel of blood and honor, pwoerl the holy birthday of our beloved na-Baron, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen!"

You hadn’t realized what the word for blood was a month ago when you saw your first arena match, or that that’s what the crowd was chanting for.  You feel a chill run down your spine as you keep your posture straight, your face impassive.  

“Do you know what they’re saying?” her Reverence asks.  You wonder if she knows the language and just wants to know how much you understand.

“Some, your Reverence,” you say.  “They’re introducing him now as the main attraction.”

And when the cheers get even louder, chanting Feyd’s name, you look down and there he is, moving in long-legged, purposeful strides with a blade in each hand.

You take a breath as you pull up your binoculars and watch as Feyd-Rautha takes to one knee, bowing deep in the direction of the Baron.

“He doesn’t bow to you?” one of the Sisters asks.  “You’re his wife.  You’re carrying his child.”

You shake your head.  “He wouldn’t.  That’s not how they do things here,” you tell her as you can’t look away from Feyd, who raises his head for a moment, trying to focus in on his face.  He looks up not at you, but at his uncle with a cold glare before rising and getting into stance.

As Feyd activates his shields, and you can’t help but think he looks reptilian under the Geidi Prime sun.  

“In celebration of our Na-Baron Feyd Rautha, we slheo a lwehfoew tueigh , the alsg three lsgjwoq of House Atreides.”

Atreides .  Geidi Prime managed to drag the last of the Atreides military into their dungeons, their fate to be drugged and killed in front of the House that caused their destruction.  A straightforward execution would be more dignified than this pretense of a match.

You can’t help the unease, even growing disgust brewing as you watch three doors slide open to reveal three men, all shirtless and wincing against the harshness of the infrared sun, and as Feyd’s eyes slide towards each door with a detached, calculating look.

You can sense the Bene Gesserit Sisters watching you, wondering what you actually think of your brute animal of a husband as you try your best to keep a straight face.

Two of the men are broader and bulkier than Feyd, not like it will make any kind of difference as they trudge forward, stumbling, trying to adjust their grips on their blades.

“Do you… like seeing this?”

You force yourself to stare ahead.  “It doesn’t matter if I like it or not, Sister,” you say.  “I’m expected to support my husband in this.”

Of course you don’t like seeing this.  But from the way Feyd paces, swift in his execution, gnashing his teeth and snarling like a beast desperate for a challenge and still riled up with pent-up energy, it doesn’t seem like he takes any satisfaction in doing this. 

He’d seemed like he was getting some amusement out of his last arena showing, playing with his opponents and taking as much time with them as he felt would be entertaining for the thousands of fans in the audience and disturbing for you and your family.  

He appears to get no such amusement now as he prowls, frustrated at the utter lack of challenge.  Maybe it’s because the chance to slaughter the greatest of his House’s enemies is hollow and unearned this way.  He’s an adult and yet the Baron’s been so quick to keep him safe from any real danger other than himself.  Maybe it’s finally getting to him that he’s not even expected to be able to beat members of the Atreides army in a fair fight, especially since it looks like the dungeon-masters selected burly, powerful-looking men for the spectacle even as the drugs render them weak and sluggish.

But then there’s the third man.  Although he’s leaner and, from what you can tell, older than the first two, as soon as he gets his bearings of the unforgiving Geidi Prime sun he strides forward confidently and with purpose.

That can’t be right , you think.

“That last fighter isn’t drugged,” Margot says, gaze sliding over to you as if to ask, Did you know about this?

“No, it would appear that he isn’t,” you tell her as your heart speeds up and you can feel yourself blanche.  “They must’ve been keeping him healthy for this.”

“Do you know why?” another woman asks.

“I do not,” you admit.  Maybe Feyd wanted a proper challenge.  Maybe he wanted to grace his audience with a real fight this time to show his own merits.

But then you zero in on Feyd and the flash of open incredulity on his face as he tilts his head and seems to realize the situation, when the soldier swipes and evades him with far more ease than the others, gets in a strike to the chest that would’ve killed him without his shield.  You’re pretty sure that had he not been distracted with the first two soldiers he would’ve noticed the difference immediately.

Feyd didn’t plan this .

You look, horrified, across the arena into the Baron’s stadium box.  The Baron doesn’t notice you, of course, but he smirks as he glances down into the arena.

What’s the purpose of this, you sick, awful man? you want to ask him.  Are you trying to get him killed?

You look back down at Feyd, who you realize must’ve been looking at his uncle thinking the same thing before he looks back at his opponent, who he fixes with a smile.  The monochrome landscape makes his black teeth look nonexistent within the cavern of his mouth as he acknowledges the Atreides fighter, turns off his shield, and unclips it from his armor for everyone to see before tossing it and his second blade to the ground.

You want a fair and honest fight, you’ll get a fair and honest fight, he seems to tell his opponent, the Baron, everyone in the audience.  The two begin to circle one another, reevaluating each other and the best way to strike.  The Picadors step in closer. 

You inhale, exhale, in the second before their match starts in earnest.  He’s been training since he was a little boy; he spars every day.   He’ll be fine, you think, as Feyd and the Atreides soldier look each other in the eye.  You’ve seen him do drills before; he’s well-coordinated.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s fast.  He’s good .  You’d taken it for granted that of course, he’d be competent with a weapon, but you’ve never seen him properly fight before.  You hadn’t realized how graceful and swift he is, a good match for the lean and limber soldier he’s fighting, who goes on offense with the hatred and desperation of a man with nothing left to lose but the chance to take one last Harkonnen down with him.

Feyd looks like he’s having the time of his life.  

The smile never quite leaves his face as he counters every move, and you’re sure there’s an excited gleam in his eye that your binoculars can’t quite pick up.  He smirks and winks at the other fighter, like this is a fun, improvised dance rather than a fight to the death.  Almost like he’s flirting.

Your heart pounds.  The Atreides fighter’s undeniably skilled, has all the same strengths as Feyd, and has adjusted quickly to the unpleasant atmosphere and harsh light of the Geidi Prime sun, not to mention the Picadors taunting him with their prowling.  No other opponent would do to make Feyd seem like a genuinely credible fighter.  You watch as Feyd sweeps the legs out from under the Atreides soldier and go in for the kill, only for his opponent to evade him and get back up to resume fighting.

You wince as one of the Picadors pierces the Atreides soldier’s shoulder blade with their hook, thinking, That will make Feyd look weak.   Feyd must be thinking the same thing, because the moment the soldier cries out in pain Feyd snarls and bellows at the Picadors for their interference. Like cockroaches they recoil and scatter, releasing the soldier and leaving just a small piece of metal lodged there, presumably to keep the man from bleeding out before Feyd has the chance to kill him.  No interference, no cheating, no advantages.  Man to Man .

It’s not lost on you how inhuman Feyd looks, especially against his opponent.  You also don’t care; you just need him to win, you think as Feyd disarms the Atreides soldier, only for the ensuing scuffle to land them both in the sandy ground, grappling for the remaining blade.

For a moment they’re both flat on their backs, and in that moment, you realize that the soldier has the blade and the upper hand as they both slowly get up, locking in, equal force and resistance in a perverse embrace. 

The blade’s so close to Feyd’s eye; the Picadors encircle them but don’t dare get any closer as he keeps the tip mere centimeters away.  You can’t breathe, your sweaty hands shaking as you clench one fist in the skirt of your dress and force yourself to hold the binoculars with the other as you watch Feyd, from his coiled frame to his narrow face and can hardly believe what you see as you flutter the setting in closer.

He’s laughing .

And then he stops laughing as he pulls the knife to the side, past his head, turns it around in their combined grip and plunges it into the other man’s stomach.

The moment lasts for what feels like years, the Atreides soldier’s expression turning from shock to disbelief to growing horror as the light starts to fade from his eyes.  You think Feyd says something to him as he gently cradles the man’s face with one hand, as if he’s trying to reassure him even as his other hand has a blade wedged in him, and you’d give anything to know what he’s saying.

And then the other soldier’s dead, finally going limp, and Feyd pulls the knife out, getting up and showing it to all of the arena.  The crowd erupts into elated, blood-thirsty cheers that don’t let up as he silently strides away, one arm still raised in victory.  The fireworks go into a frenzy as the crowd chants Feyd-Rauth-A! like the beat of a war-drum.

It’s not until Feyd’s returned to the Colosseum's underbelly like a monster that was summoned from it only to return from the bowels of the underworld from whence he came, that anyone in your booth finally speaks.

“Your husband is impressive, indeed” Lady Margot says.

You won’t see Feyd for a while; apparently he is to bathe and change before having a private meeting with the Baron, while you are to speak privately with her Reverence, at least according to the attendant who leads the other Bene Gesserit back to the guest wings to rest before the upcoming celebrations.

Maybe the Baron will provide a decent explanation for surprising his nephew with an opponent who actually stood a shot at killing him .

Idrisa trails behind you and the Reverend Mother as house servants lead you to a room with expansive floor-to-ceiling windows offering an excellent view of the black sun and sky that from the interior resembles a sickly gray.  More servants come in with herbal tea with lemon for the two of you and you sit in silence for a moment, the Reverend Mother ignoring her tea as she watches you and you let her, wondering what information you’re giving her in your fixed posture and delicate sip from your cup.  You glance over at Idrisa, who stands in the corner with her head bowed.  

“Your husband’s showing in the arena was quite revealing,” her Reverence finally says.  Even more than your dress .

“I apologize.  I had no say or knowledge of the fight.   I don’t believe the na-Baron did, either,” you tell her.

“The Baron acted in an unorthodox manner,” her Reverence says.

“I’m sure he must have been confident in the na-Baron’s odds of winning in a fair fight, even if it was...a high risk,” you say, trying to sound diplomatic and keep the anger and desperation out of your voice, “to put him in such a situation.  Surely he must know how important the na-Baron’s role is both for the sake of Geidi Prime and for his service to you.”

Her Reverence almost smiles.  “We’d prefer to keep the na-Baron alive as long as we reasonably can; he has the markings of a Great House leader, and of course your safety is more intact with his protection, but our main requirement of him is securing a son, and he’s accomplished that.”

Were her words supposed to be comforting?  Your hands feel clammy and sweaty as you try not to wring them in your skirt.

“Yes, of course, your Reverence.  I agree, I’m safer with him, much as I found that hard to believe at first.  We’re,” you hesitate, “more compatible than I think either of us anticipated.”  You try not to blush as you say it, can’t quite look her in the eye.  

“Even powerful men are malleable,” the Reverend Mother says.

“He and I spend time together outside of the marriage bed as well, so I think he likes my company well enough,” you add.  

You can hear your mother’s voice clear as day in your own head, warning you, Think very carefully about what you’re going to say and who you’re saying it to .

You find the words as if sounding them out, “Still, I cannot help but be concerned,” you say, “about the role the Baron will play in my children’s lives, especially any sons I’ll have.” 

You realize that she knows what you mean without you having to say it as she hardly blinks.  “The Baron’s health has been declining steadily over the years,” she says.  “It appears that as of late he hasn’t quite had the stamina to indulge in some of his baser inclinations.”

So you also knew and let it happen?  Did Feyd not have a single adult in his life actually looking out for him?  Revulsion swirls in the pit of your stomach.  “All the same, I don’t want to take that risk,” you tell her.  

The Reverend Mother’s gaze grows sharper.  “Walls have ears, young one,” she says, and you recoil, briefly.  For a woman who must be at least seventy, even without using the Voice on you she intimidates you more than most men you’ve met. 

“I understand, your Reverence,” you say quickly.  “But if I’m to provide my firstborn son everything he needs to grow into the man he’s meant to be, everything you need for him to serve you and the Empire, then he’ll need a safer upbringing than that of his father.”

The Reverend Mother purses her lips for a moment, and you try not to wince, realizing how transparent and sophomoric your attempt at manipulation is.  Still, you’re desperate.  She can sense it, and lets you stew in your own juices for a moment.

“Feyd-Rautha’s father was and remains reviled on Geidi Prime,” she says eventually.  “Elsewhere he’s seen as a decent man brave enough to distance himself from a cruel House and forge his own path.  And yet he was still cut down in his forties, his legacy erased.  Much like the Duke of Atreides recently.”

Why are you telling me this? you want to ask.  Are you implying that it’s better that Feyd was raised by a pedophile than by a pacifist?

“Tell me this, do you honestly feel you have his devotion?” she asks.

You want to say a definitive yes.  You think about how he holds you close at night, remember him nestled against you.  You think about how diligently he trains you, insists on eating with you, encourages you learning to speak his language with him when he could ignore you except to come inside of you whenever he so chooses.  “I…I think so?” is what you manage, though, when you think of his fervent loyalty to an uncle you’re pretty sure he despises.  “I think I’m getting there, earning it,” you add.  “I know part of his wedding vows was to keep me safe and I think he intends to keep it.  But he is still Harkonnen.”  And the Harkonnen who taught him all about politics has devotion to no one but himself .

You expect the Reverend Mother to berate you for your only middling success for a moment.  Instead, and whether it’s to comfort you or for her own purpose, she picks her tea up, considering it but never lifting her veil to actually drink it.  “The Baron did everything in his power to mold Feyd-Rautha exactly to him.  In the mind, anyway.  And in some ways he succeeded.”  He took a seven-year-old boy and turned him into a bloodthirsty sociopath like him , she doesn’t need to say.  “But I’ve heard and now have finally seen it for myself that despite all this, he has a sense of honor.  And that comes from Abulurd Rabban, a decent man who loved the family he chose and forged for himself.” 

Your throat feels dry as you think about how this woman has shared more about Feyd’s father than Feyd ever has, and yet your tea sits forgotten on the table in front of you.  Your heart beats faster.  You try and find the words.

“So…if my husband had to make the choice between mine and my children’s safety…and his uncle’s demands…”

“I think you know,” the Reverend Mother says.  “The Baron’s time is coming to a close, once he’s served his purpose.”

“And what,” you clear your throat.  “What is that, exactly?”  

“Laying the groundwork for his nephew’s success,” her Reverence says.  “Lady Fenring told you about how we tested your husband.”

“Yes, your Reverence,” you tell her.

Her gaze pierces through her veil as she looks at you.  “It’s not just a test to determine pain tolerance, or self-control.  It’s a test to determine if someone has elevated themselves above their animal nature.  Neither the Baron nor Rabban have ever taken such a test,” she says.  “Neither of them would survive.”

You look at each other, an understanding settling in between the two of you.

There’s a knock at the door and you both look towards the door, which opens to reveal two guards and Feyd, who’s changed into long robes that cover him from his Adam’s apple to his boots.

He inclines his head towards the Reverend Mother.  “Your Reverence,” he says, the gesture polite but his tone clipped.

“I trust your meeting with your uncle was enlightening?” she asks as you both rise to stand.

“It certainly was, your Reverence,” he says, and you can sense an unspoken topic simmering under the surface, something you’re not yet privy to.  Something they haven’t shared with you yet .  But you’ll find out.  If you’re to play a part in their greater schemes, all the plans within plans that they make, you need to know what you’re in for.

“I understand your festivities are imminent,” the Reverend Mother says.  “So I’ll take my leave.”  She practically glides past the servants on her way out.

Before she leaves, though, she turns to Feyd once more.  “Oh, and congratulations on winning your match,” she adds.  

Feyd shakes his head when a servant wordlessly offers him a fresh cup of tea and looks back at you.

“It’s a shame we won’t be alone for long,” he says.  “Uncle wants us in the banquet hall soon for my celebration dinner.”

“Did he provide an explanation for what he did earlier?” you ask him.  

Feyd says nothing for a moment, compressing his lips into a thin line.  “I saw the look on both your faces,” you tell him.  “No one told you about the undrugged soldier; your uncle ambushed you.”

“He claimed it was a birthday gift, the chance to prove to my people that I’m a warrior and not an entertainer.”  He seems to hesitate before adding, “It’s far from the worst gift he’s ever given.”

That I very much believe.  “You accomplished it,” you tell him.

And then he adds, “The other gift is governorship of Arrakis.”  

You do a double take, hoping you heard wrong.  “You’re replacing Rabban?” you ask.  

“They’ll announce it soon,” he says.  “He’s been hemorrhaging both spice and soldiers.  It’s embarrassing.”

“Does he know?” you ask.

“He’ll find out soon enough,” Feyd says.  

Then you’ll be gone , you think, heart sinking.  I don’t want to be left alone with the Baron here .  “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re to do no such thing,” he says.  “I won’t bring you and our son into enemy territory in the middle of war; it’s too dangerous.”

“The Reverend Mother said herself that I’m safer with you,” you tell him.  You feel yourself flush, desperate and angry.  I need help.  I need protection.  Everyone says they’re looking out for my and my child’s safety and yet they deprive me of what I really need .  You can hear yourself raising your voice as you say, “No offense, husband, but you’re the only Harkonnen man that I trust.”

Feyd reaches out and you flinch before he can cup your face in one hand, his eyes darting across your face.  Your breath comes faster, straining against the straps that barely cover your breasts.  You think about the Litany Against Fear and think, no.  He needs to know that I’m scared .

“No harm will come to you,” he says.  “Not here, especially not after your pregnancy’s announced.  The people will be overjoyed to know we’ve succeeded in continuing the Harkonnen line.  The first royal birth on Geidi Prime in over sixty-five years.”  His hands move to your waist.  “You’ll have the best medical care the planet has to offer.  I’ll keep in correspondence with you whenever I have the time.”

He leans in closer, gently presses his forehead against yours.  “Make no mistake, Y/N Harkonnen,” he says.  “I wouldn’t be separated from you if I didn’t think there was a risk.”  You exhale, closing your eyes.  

“Ever since I’ve come of age I’ve been used for spectacle, ornamentation.  Fighting rigged matches with no real risk, used as a mascot and an image and not for what I was made to do.

“But now I get to live my purpose; I get to extend the Harkonnen line, I get to lead my men into battle.  For the first time I have real responsibilities and I’m going to fulfill them.”

You listen to his words, hear the conviction in his voice, and think about how there’s a part of Feyd not molded by the most cruel and depraved parts of this planet; an albeit twisted honor code, a sense of loyalty.  Perhaps the Reverend Mother was right in thinking it comes from his father, because it’s not his uncle or brother.

“Will I see you again before our son is born?” you ask.

He moves his hands to yours, taking them in his grasp.  “I swear it,” he says.  “And I swear I’ll never allow any harm to come to you and our children.”

Would you kill the Baron for us? you want to ask, knowing you can’t.  Not here, not now.  But soon.  

Do you have his devotion? 

Yes.  I’m certain.

“Now,” he says, pulling away.  “Tonight, we make our first public appearance as husband and wife since the wedding.  You said something last night about your years of training for the political aspects of marriage?”

“We wish to thank you all for attending my dear nephew’s twenty-sixth birthday,” the Baron says, hovering in a manner that makes him loom over even the tallest of heads as all stand, him at the seat of honor and his nephew on his right side and you beside his nephew.  Of all the Bene Gesserit guests, only the Reverend Mother and Margot are here for the banquet.  You imagine the always-veiled Sisters have to eat in the privacy of their quest quarters.  You notice Count Fenring as one of the distinguished guests–he must’ve only arrived today.  The age difference between him and his wife is all the more noticeable when you see them together.  There are other non-Harkonnen guests--it is a prominent birthday for a member of a prominent House, after all, but for the most part it remains, like in the arena, a sea of bald heads and black fabric.

Before anyone is permitted to sit down and eat, the Baron calls for a toast.  Everyone else has wine, and the ruby-red juice in your own wine glass looks enough like the real thing that people won’t ask questions yet.  We’ll give it a few weeks time, you think.  Stagger the news in between this and when Feyd’s officially given governorship of Arrakis.  Wait until a test from a Harkonnen doctor can confirm it and then we can announce it to all of Harko .

“To the na-Baron, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and to his prosperous future!” the Baron says, raising his glass and taking one long sip as everyone cheers Feyd, and finishes his sip with a flourish before passing his glass to a servant to set down on the table for him.  His thin lips are already tinged red as he turns to his nephew, takes Feyd’s face in one hand, holding his chin, and presses a quick kiss to his lips.  Feyd doesn’t react beyond a slight twitch of his jaw.  You look down to stifle a flinch.

“Now, let us truly celebrate,” the Baron adds, and people cheer again in response.

When you all sit down Feyd turns to you, takes two fingers under your chin and raises your lips to his.  It’s not a passionate kiss, probably won’t even smear your lipstick, but it’s a slightly longer kiss than the one he just had from his uncle.

Maybe it’s for show; he wants to pass on the image of obedience.  Maybe he wanted to get the taste of his uncle off his lips.  You see the Baron look at you with a brief look of distaste before the food and drink can distract him and the courses can start flowing.

Either weddings by design are much more formal and quieter on Geidi Prime than birthday parties or the Baron wanted to show as much decorum as possible towards your House for the one occasion.

The banquet makes up for a small portion of the evening, quickly giving way to drinks and more food passed around as people disperse from tables to either stand around in the middle of the room or lounge on chaises and oversized armchairs that line the walls.  The fireworks continue in earnest outside, while inside people feed on delicacies passed around on trays and drink wine out of goblets and harsher liquors out of metal tumblers.  You make do with distilled water and sips of the same wine-colored juice from dinner.

Generals and off-world politicians alike toast Feyd both in the Imperial Standard and Harkonnen Battle Language.  Once again Feyd stiffens in the presence of Margot Fenring perhaps even worse with the Count present, his interactions with both of them polite but tense on his own end.  He never directly looks at her, you notice.  Funny thing, she doesn’t seem surprised or uncomfortable at his coldness.  Neither does her husband.

( “Isn’t it strange,” you overhear one of the Harkonnen captains say to another, “That they have three daughters together and I hear none of them look like him.” )  

You try to file away the growing discomfort of it.  I’ll unpack it later, you think, as today’s discoveries have been pretty illuminating towards why your husband claims to dislike the Bene Gesserit.  You try not to dwell on it for now, just trying to act the part of the demure and effortlessly poised political wife.  With Harkonnens you stay silent, to the side and slightly behind Feyd.  With other Houses you engage a bit more, agreeing with the compliments people give Feyd, who for his part plays the statesman rather well.  The Baron has, much as you hate to admit it, a level of wit that if he were another man you might occasionally find charming, but it’s always clearly manufactured.  While he still carries an intimidating presence, Feyd uses his combination of quick-thinking and brevity to his advantage.  He offers the occasional wry quip among the required pleasantries.  You think to yourself that, despite superficial appearances, the two of you make a decent-looking couple.

That said, you do catch a few people frowning at your hair, clearly wondering why Feyd hasn’t insisted on shaving it all off.

Yeah, well, not that it’s any of your business, but he happens to love my hair and can’t keep his hands off of me , you think, offering a polite smile and raised brow at one such bewildered-looking Harkonnen man, who quickly looks away to avoid being caught staring at the na-Baron’s wife.

Through it all slaves either mill around or weave in and out silently bearing trays either to serve food and drink or to take away used glasses.  They’re discreet, as they’re meant to be, but you can’t help but notice a couple of differences, things you’re certain hadn’t been present at your wedding reception.

Some of the slave girls who stand against the wall are in transparent dresses under which they’re all nude.  A few don’t look like some of the attendants you’ve seen; they’re curvier, with distinct markings you can see under the gauzy fabric.  There are also a few men, young and fit, wearing only loincloths.  Their body types also range in size, some slight and lean, some built with thicker, denser muscle.  You glance over as a Harkonnen soldier approaches one of the men with his wife trailing behind him.  It doesn’t surprise you that the higher-ranking women only ever approach any of them in the company of their husbands, but that when they do it’s not for one specific type.  Women, men, both appear to get used.  You glance at Feyd, who seems indifferent to it all; politely accepting congratulations on his arena match and happy birthday wishes.  He must be used to the implied debauchery of it all.

After a while it starts becoming uncomfortable, standing around in boots meant more for ornamentation than practicality, and Feyd senses it.

“Come now, wife, I think we’ve earned a bit of a sit-down,” he says, as if you also fought in the arena earlier instead of just standing for a while, and gives you his arm to guide you to an armchair wide enough to serve as a couch.

“Thank you,” you whisper in his ear as you sit down, before he sits down beside you and wordlessly pulls you into his lap.  In your surprise you shift, trying to make sure that you don’t expose any more skin than you already have, pulling the skirt of your dress over the slit along your thigh and hoping your breasts don’t fall out of the scraps of fabric meant to cover them.  Feyd doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, his hand coming to rest over your ribcage.

You weren’t entirely sure how he’d present you, but weren’t expecting him to have you front and center, silently demanding that all who approach him show their respects to you as well.  Maybe if things were different he'd have you kneeling on the floor beside the chair like an obedient dog.  Maybe the thought occurred to him; probably, if it occurred to you.  You shake the thought loose, wondering something else.

“What’s the informal term for ‘ father ’ in your language?  I haven’t been able to find it.”  Not that you can quite picture Feyd ever actually playing with any of his children, but the idea of it, the idea of all of you in a reasonably normal family, is a nice one you’d like to keep with you.

“There isn’t one,” Feyd says.  “It’s just ‘vasta. ’”

You frown.  “Nothing more casual than that?  Something a child would use?”

“Nothing,” he says.  “It’s either ‘vasta’ or ‘ father .’”

You consider this.  “So there’s no equivalent to something like ‘ Papa? ’ That’s what I called my father almost exclusively until I was four or five.”

“So did I,” Feyd says.  “But Lankiveil’s different from Geidi Prime.  Or it was until Rabban took over and started using it as a Harkonnen outpost.”

You pull back to get a better look at his face.  He’s never talked about his father, nor Lankiveil other than the once, and that had been at your prompting.  “You did?”

He looks at you as if he isn’t sharing something more intimate about his childhood than anything he’s ever discussed with you.  “That surprises you?”

“A little,” you admit.  “It’s easy to forget you had such a different life from this once.”

“It is, after enough years of separation,” he says.

You’re not sure quite what to say to that.  You think about how reviled the name of his father is on Geidi Prime, how begrudgingly respected he is on other planets.  You think about what the Reverend Mother told you, the information she gave you that Feyd never has and wonder if he ever will, or if like in matters of the bedroom, he needs to get to know you better before he shows you that kind of vulnerability.

But then he nuzzles against your hair, the shell of your ear, and you notice that in certain corners, seemingly unnoticed, some couples are getting closer and there are fewer of what you must assume are Fortress pleasure slaves than there were before.  Feyd has a tumbler glass of a harsh-smelling amber liquid that might be one of your parents’ birthday gifts in one hand, but the other holds you to him.

You think about that one morning in the Training Halls when he’d fucked you against the wall as everyone had been dismissed but aware of what the two of you were up to.  You doubt he will, but it also wouldn’t surprise you if he’s thought about pulling his cock out and having you sit on him for the entire party to see.

Maybe after he’s crowned you’ll do it–not in front of an audience, but in private after the throne’s been thoroughly disinfected you’ll take him inside of you while he sits on it.

He sets his glass down on the side table and lays his hand on your stomach, low on your belly, just where the tight bodice ends.  He brushes his thumb along the material.

“I’m glad to finally show you off,” he says, voice quiet enough that no one will hear except anyone foolish enough to try and eavesdrop on him.  “The picture of a Harkonnen bride.”

“Even with the hair and eyebrows?” you ask.

“Anyone who has a problem with it has to answer to me,” Feyd says.  “You are exactly as I want you; poised, capable, carrying my child.”  He slides a hand under the slit in your dress.  “Just curious, what sort of undergarment are you wearing under this?”

You feel yourself flush, a nervous laugh escaping you.  “About that…” you start, leaving the implication clear.  There’s another reason you’ve been sitting and standing so carefully all day.

Feyd’s eyes blaze.  “Because you want me to be a gentleman, I’ll wait until we’re in private before I rip this off of you and leave you in nothing but your necklace.”

“Trying to be a gentleman?  Is that the only reason why?” you ask, still flustered, trying to keep up.  The other bodies inhabiting this vast space are far easier to ignore this way.

“No,” he says simply.  “None of these people deserve to see you moaning as you take my cock like the beautiful, desperate cockslut that you are.  It’s only a twenty-minute walk to get back to my bedroom.  Fifteen if we walk briskly, and that’s about how long I’ll be able to last without being inside of you.”  He shifts you in his arms like he means to carry you and another giggle escapes you.  

“Leaving your own birthday party?” you ask.

“The party’s become a full Bacchanalia,” Feyd says, the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip turned up in a coy smile.  “I hardly think anyone will notice if we slip away.”

You smile back, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, picturing all the positions you’ll only be able to fuck in for another few months, before you start to swell.  You think about your breasts crushed against his solid chest, his abdomen against yours when he kneels and pulls you on top of him.  

“Alright,” you tell him.  “For the sake of propriety–”

“My apologies, my lord and lady na-Baron and na-Baroness, for the interruption,” a voice says, and you startle away, jerking your head towards an embarrassed-looking man in gray robes–a servant, to be sure, but a higher-ranking one.  He keeps his head inclined, eyes on the floor, and you’re certain it’s out of awkwardness just as much as respect.  “I have a message from the Baron.”

“What,” Feyd says, looking like he wants to rise from his seat and sucker-punch the messenger in the stomach.

“The Baron requires a private audience with the na-Baroness.”

Why? Your mouth opens in silent question and you furrow your brow.  You look at Feyd, whose expression is thunderous.  A muscle feathers in his jaw.  You turn to look back at the servant, knowing that no matter how much you don’t want to, there’s only one acceptable response.  “I accept.  When?”

“Presently, Na-Baroness,” he says.  

Feyd holds you tighter for a moment.  “What was his reason?” he demands.

“To congratulate her on her success so far and inquire about her health,” the messenger says.

You sigh and disentangle yourself from Feyd.  The mood had soured the moment the messenger showed up and mentioned your uncle-in-law; Feyd will be able to wait a little longer.  

The Baron’s lounging in his private throne room, with what looks like a hookah in one hand and a large goblet of wine in the other.  Two guards flank him, their heads downturned, but other than them you’re alone.  You curtsy as discreetly as your dress will allow as you acknowledge him and keep your head down.  Ostensibly it’s out of respect but you’re honestly grateful to not have to look at him any more than required.

“Congratulations on your new development, young Y/N,” he says after your show of deference.  “The Bene Gesserit are most pleased with you.” 

“Thank you, Baron,” you say, keeping your gaze on the floor.

“You’ve satisfied my nephew,” the Baron adds, setting both the wine and hookah down on either side of him.

“That pleases me to hear, Baron,” you say, trying to feel proud of how you’re not taking the bait even though you know he’s enjoying his ability to embarrass a woman from a Greater House.  You wish you could control the heat burning in your cheeks and ears.  I hate you, you think.

“As your condition progresses and after you bear the child, I’m sure he’ll do his best to temper his…biases…against mothers for your sake,” the Baron adds.  “Although it runs deep within him.”

You can’t help but look up at him in confusion.  What biases?  Feyd’s never mentioned his mother once.  Never mentioned any of what he’s been through.  

The Baron sees your confusion and his smile when he realizes the added power he has over you is truly awful to look at.

“Did my nephew not tell you about his mother?  I suppose I can’t be surprised.  He must not have wanted to upset your delicate sensibilities.”

You had her killed so you could keep him isolated.  So you could keep molesting him without interference.  I know you, you sick bastard .  And if you’re threatening me I swear on my family’s legacy I will find a way to make you suffer for it .

“He has not, Baron,” you tell him.  “He doesn’t speak of her.”  

The Baron tilts his head as much as his jowls will allow.  “So you know nothing of her?” he asks.

“I know she was a member of the Bene Gesserit,” you tell him.  “I know my husband and Rabban were the only children she produced with your brother.  I know she took your brother’s surname and was known as Emmi Rabban.  I know she’s been dead for nearly twelve years.”

The Baron straightens up a little, eyes glinting.  “So you did some research, and yet you don’t understand my comment about Feyd’s issue with mothers.”

“I can imagine the separation from her at such a young age must have taken a toll on him,” you say.  Maybe created some attachment issues, you don’t say.  You don’t want to offer up any more vulnerability, especially not on Feyd’s part.

“So you know she died when Feyd was fourteen,” he says.

“Yes, Baron.  Shortly after his attempt on your life.”  

“And what,” he asks, “based on what you’ve read, do you think her cause of death was?”

Your mouth feels dry.  He’s trying to provoke you.  Try not to let it show that it’s working .  “She was killed by Harkonnens,” you manage.

The Baron sits forward as much as his bulk will allow, looking happier than perhaps you’ve ever seen him before.  “ A Harkonnen, some claim.  One who was young and impulsive and carrying a grudge against his mother for sending him away.  But we cannot prove that, since no culprit was ever convicted, so we’ll never truly know, will we?”

You hear your own gasp as if it’s happening from outside of your body.  Pressure builds behind your eyes.  The words, I don’t believe you , die before they can reach your lips.

The Baron looks downright gleeful now.  “I can see why my dear nephew finds you so amusing.  You really had no idea?”

You lower your head, mouth opening and closing.  

Do not cry.  Under no circumstances are you to ever cry in front of this man .

It’s awful.  It’s so horrifying it never occurred to you and yet it also makes a sick kind of sense that makes you wish you could vomit out the information the Baron’s just given you, purge it from your mind and go back to several minutes ago, when even with such unexplored territory ahead of you at least you felt a level of safety, even optimism.

“The coroners say she was stabbed in the neck four times,” he adds and that’s the moment he wins and you feel yourself begin to double over, letting out a sob before covering your mouth and belatedly realizing that you’ve wrapped one arm around your belly.  Stop.  Please just stop, you want to say, and no words come out but tears do.

The door opens and the Baron’s eyes flicker to something behind you.  

“Feyd!” he calls out.  “What excellent timing.  We were just talking about you.”

You slowly turn, not wanting to look at either of them and needing to know.  Tell me it’s not true, Feyd.  Please tell me that it’s a sick joke .

Feyd inhales sharply when he sees the look on your face and glares back at his uncle.  His expression, looking stricken and then quietly furious, is his admission of guilt.

“I must say I’m a little surprised, nephew,” the Baron says and your ears ring as you see that beyond the now-opened door the servant who’d brought you here now lays motionless, bleeding out on the floor.  “I’d assumed you’d want to be honest with your delicate wife about your history, even the less savory bits.”

“You try to poison my own wife against me,” Feyd snaps.

“I’m not doing anything that wouldn’t have happened anyway, nephew,” the Baron says, reaching for his hookah again.  “She’s not stupid; she was bound to figure it out eventually, even if you were never going to tell her.”

He wasn’t , you think.  Would he have lied if I’d bothered to ask?  Or just hoped that I’d never be curious?  

Feyd looks at you.  Neither of you speak.  What is there to say?  You can’t think of anything.  You turn and start walking, needing air, needing to get away.  Feyd reaches for your arm as you pass him and you wish you were Bene Gesserit so you could properly use the Voice on him when you scream, “ No! ”  All the same he drops his hand, flinching, silent, as you leave the room with tears streaming down your cheeks.

Behind you, distantly, you hear the Baron chuckle.  “Make sure you’ve properly tamed your pet before you tame Arrakis, Feyd.  Oh, and happy birthday again.”

That is all for now but I am very much back and at close to 100k words.

Tagged: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich

For anyone else who'd like to be tagged please lmk!

[punkshort]

Chapter warnings: language, mild violence, angst, weakly implied SA (not explicit at all)

Chapter Six

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, pre-outbreak and post outbreak

AU (the only thing I kept was the outbreak, Joel, and Tommy's characters. Joel's backstory is different, and the way he finds Jackson is different. I may include Ellie one day, I just haven't planned that far)

Fic Summary: You worked for Joel and Tommy a few months before the outbreak. The outbreak happens, and you and Joel get stuck traveling the country and keeping each other safe. Neither of you spoke about the feelings you had for one another pre-outbreak, and in a post-apocalyptic world, it seems like survival should be your only focus. But feelings can't be ignored forever.

Fic tags: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Smut, Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader is 10 years younger than Joel), slow burn, mutual pining, angst, trauma, SA referencing later but I will put a big warning on those chapters

Joel sat stunned at his desk after you left. He had never seen that side of you before, always so meek and mild mannered. He shouldn’t have called you a whore. He realized now that was a mistake, letting his unhealed wound caused by another effect the way he treated you.

He rubbed his hands over his face, rethinking the conversation you just had. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, trying to soothe his temper so he could think straight. Ok, so you were flirting with some other guy. That wasn’t a crime. He held no claim to you, you had only just kissed the night before, and you were both drinking. Does that even count?

Even if he disregarded the kiss last night, you still had been giving him signs showing your interest, right? Did he misread everything?

Frustrated, he stood up and paced the room again, recounting every interaction he had with you, trying to figure out if the way you acted towards him was just because he was your boss, or if you felt something more.

That one night in the conference room, he swore he saw your knees press together under the table, and he thought you were looking at him like you wanted to take things further, but maybe he came on too strong. Maybe you didn’t know how to react.

He was over analyzing everything now. The way you stepped away from him when he got too close picking up that box for you. How you purposely left his office door open when you came up to see him. Shit, has he been making you feel uncomfortable this entire time?

No, you grabbed his collar and kissed him, he didn’t make that up.

But you were drunk.

Fuck, this was confusing. Joel ran his hands over his face again, pausing to stare out the window. He turned around to head towards the door, and that’s when he spotted it: the small blue package on the floor.

He didn’t even notice you dropped it on your way out, his anger giving him tunnel vision on your retreating form. He reached down to grab it now, easily tearing open the tissue paper. Inside was a keychain: the Texas state flag in the shape of the state it represented. His home.

He stared at it for a moment, imagining you picking it out this morning, having only just known it was his birthday for a few hours. You went out of your way to get him a gift. No one else even bothered to acknowledge his birthday yet today, and here you were, coming into his office to surprise him. And what did he do? He called you a whore.

He was a fucking idiot. He had to find you. He wasn’t sure what he would say, but he had to try to smooth things over.

Joel ran out of his office, jabbing the ‘down’ button on the elevator.

“Joel, I have security on the line, they need to speak with you.” Ruby called out to him from behind her desk, but he waved her off, giving up on the elevator and running towards the stairwell. Once he made it to the 6th floor, he jogged down the aisle that headed towards the accounting department. It took his anxious fingers two tries before his security code worked, pushing the door open, his gaze immediately traveling to your desk.

You weren’t there. He approached it slowly, noticing the picture of your parents was missing.

“Mr. Miller? Can I help you?” the girl he now recognized as Debbie rolled her chair out of her cubical, surprised.

“Yeah, when did she leave?” he gestured towards your desk.

“Maybe 5 minutes ago? She didn’t say anything, she just left. Is she ok?” But Joel ran out of the department, the door swinging back open before Debbie could even finish her question.

Joel raced towards the stairwell. He passed the women’s bathroom, hearing some yelling inside. Right before he opened the door to head downstairs, he heard something crashing to the ground. He didn’t bother to look back, he had to find you.

Gasping for breath, he pushed the door open that entered the lobby. He hurried past the receptionist desk, when a thin girl with curly blonde hair piped up from behind the desk.

“Mr. Miller! The police were just called, something happened upstairs, people are hurt! Security is-”

Joel didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. He forcefully pushed the front door open and stood in front of the building, breathless and frantically looking around trying to spot you. There you were, about half a block away, your hair blowing in the wind as you hunched over the box you were carrying.

Joel called your name, but you didn’t turn around. He called it again and again, and still no response. You probably couldn’t hear him over all these people yelling on the street. Why were they yelling?

Finally, on the fourth attempt to get your attention, you slowed your pace, but still did not turn to face him. He couldn’t blame you. He ran to catch up with you, reaching out to put his hand on your shoulder. Finally, you turned around to look at him, your gaze distant and face carved with fury.  He could see the tears in your eyes and the pain on your face that he caused. His chest tightened. He hated seeing that, and he hated even more that he caused it.

“Please, just stop and listen to me,” Joel panted, desperate to make you stop so he could catch his breath. Running down ten flights of stairs really made him feel his age.

He opened his mouth to make a poor attempt at an apology when six trucks rolled up to a screeching stop in front of his building. Dozens of armed soldiers with FEDRA adornments spilled from the trucks, charging into the office. The two of you stood together, stunned at what you were seeing. Then Joel heard the screaming, followed closely by gunfire. He grabbed both of your shoulders now, realizing this was serious and he needed to get you to safety. “Run!” he yelled at you, but you just stood there before him, a dazed look on your face. He gave your shoulders a quick shake and repeated himself: “Run!!”

That seemed to do the trick. Your gaze cleared, dropping the box you were carrying as he grabbed your hand, hauling you as far as he could in the opposite direction.

Joel nearly pulled your arm out of its socket dragging you down the street, careening around groups of people on the sidewalk, and ducking when bullets sounded too close. You clutched your purse against your body with the opposite arm, and briefly looked across the street to see crowds of people running in the same direction as you. You occasionally bounced off of bodies as Joel dragged you further away from your building. Finally, you reached the end of the street, about to cross, only to see more FEDRA trucks and soldiers bearing down on the crowds of people surrounding you from around the corner. You both paused long enough to see soldiers tackling and pinning down innocent civilians, their screams of terror filling your ears.

Joel yanked you in the opposite direction and around the corner, fleeing down a secluded alleyway, desperately trying to find someplace safe to hide. You heard yells and snarls somewhere in your wake, but you didn't dare turn and look, you had to keep pushing forward.

You both stumbled into a small courtyard, scattered with random pieces of patio furniture and surrounded by buildings. The two of you paused a moment to catch your breath and get your bearings. Joel whipped his head around and looked up at the sudden deafening noise of a helicopter overhead. Before it could spot the pair of you, he hauled you down another small alleyway that was empty, and even had a bit of aerial coverage due to a fire escape.

You both gasped for breath, frantically looking around to make sure no soldiers were nearby. As the roar of the helicopter faded and your breathing evened out, you finally looked at one another.

"Why is this happening? Is it a terrorist attack?" You asked him, your hands were shaking and you didn't realize you had been crying.

"Those were FEDRA soldiers attackin' people, I don't think it's terrorists," Joel said, letting go of your hand for the first time so he could rub his face. He glanced around again. You were between to a two story building and what looked like a hair salon. He took note of the fire escape above your heads.

"Alright, there must be offices or apartments or somethin' up there, let me see if there's anyone on the street first, then let's see if we can get in and wait this out."

He moved to poke his head out, but you grabbed him by the shoulders, yanking him back in a panic. He looked at you, taking in the fear on your tear streaked face and your trembling hands.

He picked up both your hands and grasped them in his own, holding them against his chest. "Look at me. Breathe, c'mon," he mimicked deeply inhaling through his nose and exhaling out his mouth until you did the same. He waited until your hands steadied a bit before saying, "Now I need to see what's goin' on out there, we need to get off the street. I promise, it will be OK."

You nodded, letting your arms fall to your sides and out of his hold. As Joel slowly peeked his head out, you kept your eyes glued to the other end of the alley to watch for anyone sneaking up on you.

"Alright, looks quiet. The door's just a few steps over, I think it's a bodega. There must be apartments up top we can get to, c'mon." He took your hand again, carefully exiting the alley and only bringing you out behind him once he confirmed no one was around. He pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. He gave it another shove, this time more forcefully. You could hear the bells on the other side of the door jingling. Worried you were too exposed and making too much noise, you pulled on Joel's arm, begging him to give up and think of another plan, when you both froze. You heard the lock clicking on the other side, and the door pushed open a crack.

An elderly man peered out through thick framed glasses, eyeing you both up carefully. "Either of you sick?" He asked, still keeping the door mostly closed.

"No, we ain't sick, we're just lookin' to get off the streets, soldiers are killin' folks out here," Joel replied, "please, we won't stay longer than we have to, you got my word."

The older man considered Joel's words for a moment, and then pulled the door open all the way, hurriedly ushering you both inside. He locked the door behind you, and pulled the diamond shaped metal security door in place after. You noticed he already had the windows secured with the same measures.

Joel was right: it was a little bodega. Your eyes swept around the shop, aisles filled mostly with snacks and other sundries. Along the back wall was a refrigerated and frozen section, towards the front where you entered was the cash register, and behind it a wall packed with cigarettes, some first aid, electronics, razors, and other items that were frequently pilfered. 

You were not alone in the store. There were four others sitting on the floor against the wall. Two men roughly middle aged, one girl a little older than you, and an elderly lady, who you assumed was the owner's wife. The others must have been customers in the shop before the shooting started.

You introduced yourselves to them, sliding down against the wall to the floor next to Joel to rest.

The elderly shop owner rifled behind the counter and procured a bulky radio. He placed it on the counter, tuning it to find a station that could give you some clue as to what was going on.

One of the men, Dan, addressed the room: "Anyone know what's going on out there?"

Paul, the other man, spoke up. "I don't know, man, but I've heard some freaky fuckin' shit. Someone I ran into out there said people are biting other people, makin' them go all crazy, tryin' to eat each other."

Joel scoffed, "C'mon, that's bullshit. Ain't no way that's happenin'."

"Man, it's fuckin' insane out there. The news was talkin' about the hospitals bein' overrun with some virus, then this happens? I'm just sayin', it ain't as crazy as it sounds." Paul replied, shaking his head.

"I saw it." The girl, Lindsey, spoke up quietly, staring distantly at the ground. "I saw someone bite another person. But they didn't look like a person anymore... their skin was gross, and they were missing hair. They looked almost like an animal or something, the way they jerked their body around."

The room fell silent for a few moments, everyone taking in what Lindsey said. Colleen, you thought to yourself, as you tucked your knees up against your chest, resting your chin on top, and clutching your purse to your side. She was bit, and she looked sick. Was FEDRA at your building because she was biting people? You shuddered at how close you came to being a victim. Joel saw and whispered, "You ok?"

You nodded sharply, not wanting to look him in the eye. You still remembered those words he said to you, those words so filled with hate and disgust all because you wouldn't put out. And now you were depending on this man who couldn't stand you to get you to safety. The only man you knew in this city that for sure was still alive.

A robotic voice from the radio filled the quiet room. It was announcing an emergency, clarifying it was not a test. It advised listeners to stay inside with doors locked, that the federal military has been deployed and to not open your door for anyone except them.

The message repeated over and over. You sighed, the events of the day catching up with you. The kindly bodega owner told you all to help yourselves to the food available, so you grabbed a few bottles of water, some granola bars, a bag of chips and a candy bar. You were starving, realizing you hadn't eaten lunch and it was getting late.

You returned to your spot against the wall, and halfway through your second granola bar, Joel rejoined you. He had grabbed some water as well, but picked up some beef jerky, trail mix, and a couple other things. The others had begun to mill around and stretch their legs, chatting amongst each other to keep their minds off the horrors outside.

"You sure you alright?" Joel asked softly while biting into another piece of jerky.

"Fine." You said curtly, keeping your gaze down. You knew this wasn't the time to unearth your problems, not with the world conceivably ending around you. "Thank you. For, you know, finding somewhere safe and all that."

He paused, looking at you for a moment like he wanted to say something, but didn't know how. "You're welcome, sw-, uh," Joel stuttered, almost using his pet name for you, but remembering the way he said it last time, decided it wasn't a good idea. "I'm just glad we made it. We'll figure this out and get you back to your family."

Your family. You hadn't even let your thoughts drift to your family, they must be worried sick. Your mom especially, who always tried to talk you out of moving here. You had to try to call them at the very least.

"Do you have your cell phone?" You asked Joel, looking him in the eye for the first time since you entered the bodega.

"Yeah, 'course, here." He reached into his pocket and handed the phone to you. You flipped it open and dialed your house phone, but all you heard on the other end was 'We're sorry, your call cannot be completed. Please hang up and try again.'

So you did just that, several times. You groaned in frustration, flipping the phone shut and handed it back to Joel. "Thanks anyway," you said.

"Phone lines must be down, dear," the owner's wife spoke up after seeing you struggle. "Our landline isn't working, either."

You looked in her direction and nodded sadly. The only hope you had now was to make it to a safe zone the government hopefully sets up, and you could try to contact them that way.

It turned out, Lenny and Maria, the bodega owners, lived in the apartment above the shop. They went upstairs and brought down as many extra pillows, blankets and cushions as they could find. They explained their apartment was small, only one bedroom, but they did have a couch. The group unanimously agreed Lindsey should take the couch. The poor girl was there alone, and it wasn't courteous for Dan or Paul to claim it, so it was a no brainer. They left the key to the bathroom on the counter by the register and headed off to bed.

You had created as comfortable a bed as you could, laying down a thick blanket against the wall on the tile underneath, and covering yourself with another. Luckily, the bodega had a few shirts for sale, as well as toothbrushes and toothpaste. You snagged a shirt that had the NY Mets logo on it and changed out of your work top in the bathroom, folding up your blouse and placing it gently near your pillow.

Joel had chosen to make his own bed next to yours. He gave you a little space, but not much. He didn't know these two men you shared the room with: they seemed like they were trustworthy, but things can deteriorate quickly when people realize no one is around to enforce the rules anymore.

You turned on your side to face the wall, tucking the blanket under your chin. Joel looked over at you, the dim glow from the refrigerators casting over your form, as he watched the steady rise and fall of your breath. You were so scared earlier, the way you grabbed him in the alley with that wild look in your eye, probably in shock after what he put you through, and then the chaos that ensued. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his tired eyes.

He needed to apologize. When the time is right, he needed to explain himself. Right now would not be that time. He could tell you had been through too much today and needed your rest. It was then that Joel vowed to himself to get you to safety. If he ruined his chance with you, the least he could do was make sure you were safe.

He laid on his side and faced your direction, watching your breathing slow when you fell asleep. In a different world, right now he would be out with Tommy celebrating his birthday, and hopefully riding the high of you accepting his date. Instead, he yelled at you and the world went to shit. Christ, was Tommy ok? Did he know what was happening here? Was it happening anywhere else?

His eyelids grew heavy. He shifted so the keychain in his pocket didn't dig into his thigh. He took one last look at you before shutting his eyes and falling asleep.

The group of you spent the next three days holed up together in the bodega, sharing handfuls of dry cereal and snacking on the food from the shelves. At dinnertime, Maria was generous enough to make everyone a meal in the little kitchen upstairs. You all huddled around their modest dining table, occasionally flipping through the channels on the television, hoping something would appear other than static or the station’s sign-off announcement.  Sometimes at night, you could hear gunshots and yelling, but it was far enough away that it didn’t worry you too much. It wasn’t until Tuesday that you heard patrolling soldiers from their trucks, encouraging citizens to come out of their dwellings to be taken to the safety of a quarantine zone.

Joel hesitated at first, remembering how he saw FEDRA soldiers tackling innocent people in the streets, but he didn’t see any other option. He couldn’t reunite you with your family if you stayed holed up in a bodega, and even if he could make it to his car and drive you himself, the entire city was on lockdown.

The group of you filed out of the bodega slowly when you heard a FEDRA truck approaching down the street. A few soldiers jogged up, inspecting you all carefully, asking questions like “Does anyone have a fever?” and “Was anybody bit or attacked?” Once it was clear you were all healthy, you climbed into the back of the truck, clutching your purse, your folded work blouse shoved inside.

The makeshift quarantine zone was set up at a high school on the edge of the city. The soldiers explained it was less populated in that area, and therefore less infected people. You connected the dots: the questions about bites, the infection, the fever. It seemed like the crazy rumor Paul and Lindsey talked about was true, people really were going insane and hurting others.

Everybody stood in a line and waited to be processed at the entrance of the school. The soldiers took turns taking each of you into a small room to inspect you closer for any bites and checked your temperatures before allowing you to continue. At the next station, you were each handed a thin blanket, a pillow, and a small bag of essential toiletries, then led through the doors into the school’s gymnasium.

The room was enormous; filled with people, bags and cots. Beside you, Lindsey cried out in joy, bolting across the room when she saw a man she recognized, presumedly a husband or boyfriend. Dan and Paul wished the rest of you well, thanked the older couple again for their hospitality, and drifted away into the crowd.

You gave Maria and Lenny each a hug, thanking them over and over for keeping you safe, and promised to return to their shop once everything went back to normal. Then it was just you and Joel again.

He led you around the various clusters of people until you found an unclaimed cot. You tossed your provisions and your purse on one end and looked back up at Joel.

“Well, I guess this is it,” he said, glancing around the room trying to think of something else to say. Neither of you had talked about the argument you had, and the more time that passed, the more difficult it became. You stared down at your hands while fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, all the words left unsaid just kept getting pushed further and further down.

“Uh, once you get settled in, go find one of them soldiers at the entrance and see if they can’t contact your folks for you,” Joel said, shifting his weight. “I’m sure they can find someone out there.”  

You nodded, keeping your head down and biting your lower lip anxiously. The only person you knew who was alive in this city was leaving you. You tried to keep him from seeing how nervous you were, so you turned to spread your blanket out on your cot, and began to sift through the bag of toiletries to occupy yourself.

Joel watched as you slowly unpacked your things, the words he so desperately needed to say stuck in his throat. Just say it, say you’re sorry, you will never get another chance again.

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t say it. Maybe because he thought it wouldn’t matter, maybe the seriousness of the situation everyone was in took precedence, or maybe because you had hardly spoken a word to him since the outbreak. Instead, he turned and walked towards the opposite side of the gym, setting his stuff down on an empty cot next to another man. He was wearing a Yankees hat on top of his bald head, sporting a full, dark beard and hiding a beer gut under his worn out white T-shirt.

"Hey, man," he stretched his arm out to Joel, "Louis."

Joel shook his hand, "Joel." He muttered, glancing back towards your direction.

"If you wanted a spot closer to your girl, I can switch." Louis offered, following Joel's gaze.

Joel shook his head. "She ain't my girl," he said sadly.

"Ah, yeah, man, I get it." Louis replied, scooting closer on his cot so he could lean closer to Joel. "Let me give you some advice though: if you care about her at all, you won't leave her alone here, you get me?" His voice was lower now, capturing Joel's attention away from you.

"What do you mean?" Joel asked, eyebrows raised. Louis looked back in your direction as you stood up to follow Joel's advice about speaking to one of the soldiers.

"I mean, I've heard some shit, at night. We all have. There's a couple girls who are here without anyone, and some men around here have noticed." Louis put emphasis on the last word to imply something dark.

Joel frowned, leaning back and glancing around the room. He did notice there were hardly any women that were alone, most of them were with family or friends. Then he saw a small group of three men diagonal across the room, their eyes following you as you exited to speak to the soldiers about your parents.

He looked back at Louis, shocked. Louis nodded subtly towards another group behind the two of you, who also had been looking in your direction. Jesus, things really went to shit quickly.

"What the fuck?" Joel whispered towards Louis angrily, his jaw clenching. "Why haven't you told the soldiers?"

"We do, man. Every time. I don't think they care, they are more worried about infected than stuff like that. I'm starting to wonder if some of the soldiers are in on it, too." Louis shook his head, adding "When my wife gets here, we are leaving fucking immediately, I suggest you take her somewhere else."

Joel rubbed his hands over his face. "Where else is there?"

"I don't know, man, people are saying this virus is all over, not just the city. But I'm not letting my wife stay here. I'd rather take my chances out there." Louis hitched his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards outside.

Joel sighed. "Alright, thanks. D'you mind swappin' with her? I'll get us outta here tomorrow."

Louis packed up what little items he had, and headed over with Joel towards your cot. You had just sat back down, looking defeated and lost. The solider said they would try to help you out if they could, but they weren't making promises, that everyone in this place was looking to contact someone.

"Hey, c'mon, get your stuff, you're comin' over by me," Joel said gruffly, still angry about what was happening here. You looked up at them both, confused. "Why?"

"I'll explain later, just hurry up before someone else takes the spot." Joel avoided looking you in the eye and instead glanced back over his shoulder, noticing the group of men from earlier were watching.

You wanted to argue with him, but thought better of it. He's been sleeping next to you for the past three nights, what difference did it make now.

Nodding at Louis, who shot you a tight smile and set his stuff down on your now vacated cot, you got up to follow Joel across the room.

The next morning, you woke up early, before the sun, to see Joel with his back to you, sitting on his cot, alert and wide awake. You laid there for a while, running your eyes up and down his back and across his broad shoulders, taking in his striking side profile when his head turned. Even though you were so badly hurt by his words, you were still undeniably attracted to him, which was incredibly frustrating. You let your eyelids flutter back closed, and replayed the kiss you shared over and over in your mind. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it gave you some comfort, ignoring everything that happened after that kiss.

When the sun filtered in through the gymnasium windows, you begrudgingly pulled yourself up, stretching and yawning, finding Joel was packing up his things. "What're you doing?" You asked sleepily.

"We're leavin', get your stuff." He replied, not looking up.

Joel hadn't told you why he wanted you to switch spots closer to him, and you didn't ask again. You weren't sure you wanted to know. You just packed up your things quickly, and stood to follow him out of the room. You passed by Louis on the way out. Joel reached out to shake his hand once more, and Louis nodded to you, saying, "Stay safe out there, sweetheart."

You gave him a small smile, trying not to show the sadness that filled you to hear the term of endearment Joel used to use, and exited the school the same way you arrived.

Chapter Seven

[bucktommyscones]

WIP Wednesday

So this is the Tommy calls Buck "Buck" fic, that deals with Margaret because I'm obsessed with the idea of Tommy being a little bit bitchy toward Buck and Maddie's parents. The beginning is the snippets that I wrote for the ask game the other night then I added to it a bit so it's all in one place.

tagged by the lovely @desert--moonchild

Tommy's never said this to Evan's face but he really, really dislikes his parents. He and Maddie commiserate, when they visit and bother to see Evan, about the condescending way they say 'Buck,' about the little digs and comments about his relationship with Tommy. He finds he has to bite his tongue more often than not. This visit happens to be for Jee's 5th birthday and, at the moment, Tommy's watching Evan play Barbies with her. Jee giggles and Evan laughs and Tommy watches fondly. But it's also then that he overhears Margaret's comment to Maddie where they're standing behind him. "I wonder if he'll ever grow up," Margaret says, like she's a long-suffering mother and Tommy seethes. He doesn't think Evan heard her, he's still happily playing with his niece. So he turns to Margaret and says, "I can attest that he's plenty grown, thank you." Maddie damn near does a spit take of the drink that she'd, unfortunately, chosen that moment to take a sip of. Margaret's face goes red and Tommy inwardly grins, but works to keep his face outwardly pleasant. "And just what does that mean?" Margaret splitters. "Oh, you know, just that he's a thirty-three year old man, in a dangerous job, in a relationship with another person for the last two years. I'd say that's pretty mature, don't you think?" Margaret is looking at him with an expression akin to polite hatred when he feels Evan wrap an arm around his waist. “What are we talking about?” he says brightly, kissing Tommy’s cheek. “Oh, nothing much,” Maddie breaks in and Tommy can see she’s struggling mightily not to laugh, which is good because he was afraid for a minute that he might have gone too far. Not for Margaret's sake, but he probably shouldn't start something at a five-year-old's birthday party. But from the look on Maddie's face, he's safe. “Tommy was just telling us how great you are.” “He is,” Tommy agrees. “He’s my favorite person. He worked hard to help organize this party too.” Evan shrugs a little shyly and Tommy marvels at how much different his demeanor is when he’s around his parents, as though he’s trying not to take too much space. “It was fun.” “You did a good job,” Maddie says fondly. “I helped a little too,” Tommy says, which is true. “Right, Buck?” Even Maddie looks surprised at that. Evan blinks at him slowly. Then says, “Yes, you did, and, no absolutely not on the name.” Tommy looks at him innocently. He knows he's going to have to explain himself later, but he's almost looking forward to it. “Sure, baby.” Margaret looks extremely confused.

edited because I always forget to tag people: @kinard-buckley, @aringofsalt, @tiltingheartand

[avatar-anna]

hi! could i request something in which y/n and harry are childhood best friends and one day harry confesses that he is in love with her but y/n rejects him because she doesn’t think she’s good enough for him so she lies and says she doesn’t love him so that he will move on and find someone better, but instead he still lines for her and eventually she tells him the truth and they end up together? ty!

this is about as smutty as i get so...enjoy!

"I—You what?"

Y/n felt like her stomach had dropped all the way to her feet. She felt like she was glitching, like her brain couldn't compute her life as she was living it. Harry was standing in front of her outside her house, jade green eyes wide and earnest as he implored her to respond. His hair, which now curled all the way down to his shoulders, looked unkempt, like he'd been running a stressful hand through it the whole way to your parents' house.

Harry smiled, a small hopeful one that looked like he didn't even know he was doing it. "I love you. In—In like a not-just-a-friend kind of way. I know we've been friends since we could walk and that this might make things complicated, but I just had to tell you before I left for tour."

It was safe to say Y/n was speechless. All her life, she never expected that she would be in this position. Harry was her best friend, the boy she'd grown up with and did everything together. Until his career took off massively, of course. But even then Y/n and Harry considered each other best friends. It was all she ever thought they would be.

"I don't know what to say," Y/n finally said. Part of her wanted to run back into the house, another wanted to run over to Harry and launch herself at him. But her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor, frozen as Harry's confidence wavered.

"That...doesn't seem like a promising reaction," he said, trying to laugh it off. But you knew him, and she could already feel her heart breaking as his own closed itself off to her. "I—It's okay if you don't feel the same, I just—I just couldn't keep it a secret anymore."

Y/n bit her tongue, keeping a lid on what she actually wanted to say, what her heart was practically beating out of her chest to say. "I'm sorry."

Harry's face didn't fall, not in front of her. No, he was too good for that. He would never make Y/n feel bad, not if he could help it. She knew good and well that he would wait until his back was turned or he was in his car to let his face betray how he really felt. And she knew how he was feeling. She felt the exact same.

Since she could make sense of complex feelings, Y/n had been in love with Harry. She loved him when he got her in trouble for passing notes in grade school, she loved him when they exploded flour all over his mum's kitchen when they tried to make a cake for her brother's birthday. She loved him when he made her sit through his band rehearsals, and even when he auditioned for the X-Factor. And she continued to love him despite his other relationships and breakups and everything in between.

"I mean, there was a fifty-fifty chance you'd say you didn't feel the same, right? I knew that," he said. "I just feel like I wasted so much time, and—Shit, I had a whole speech planned and now I guess I don't need it."

Harry was always better than her, in so many ways. Y/n had always been the pale moon to his bright sun. He would get invited to things, and she would tag along because he asked if she could come too. She sat backstage while he performed for the whole world. Y/n had appreciated Harry as a friend growing up, had cherished his companionship, but in recent years she realized she was dead weight. As his friend, Y/n traveled the world, met the most interesting people, made the most amazing memories. Harry did it all for her, and what did she do for him, exactly? Harry deserved more, deserved better. No matter how much she loved him or how long, the best thing she could do as his friend was let him be with someone better.

"Harry, I—"

"No, it's fine, um...Listen, I know the next thing I'm supposed to say is that we can still be friends after this, but I think I might need some time."

"Of—Of course."

For the first time since they'd known each other, neither of them knew what to say. The last time Y/n could recall them not speaking was when she got her period for the first time and she was too embarrassed to talk to Harry. She had a feeling they wouldn't be talking for longer than a day now.

four months later

It wasn't uncommon for Y/n to not see Harry, but this time the distance felt different, quieter. There were no long text chains, silly Snapchat videos, no phone calls just before he had to go onstage. Her only contact with Harry was through his occasional Instagram posts or talk show appearances. She knew that was coming, Harry had told her plain and simple that he would need some time, but she didn't think the hole in her heart would ache so terribly.

Even when they were apart, Y/n could always count on him to be there for her. Now they were practically strangers. It was her fault, of course, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"You're an idiot," Gemma said over the phone. Y/n had been avoiding Harry's family like the plague the last few months. She'd gotten away with it, probably because Harry wouldn't want to talk about what happened, either, but he must've, and now his older sister wouldn't leave Y/n alone.

"I'm looking at the bigger picture here, Gem," she said.

"What bigger picture? The only one I see is the two of you being disgustingly in love and everyone back home having to see it at Christmas."

It was embarrassing to say, even if it was the truth. "He's... He's outgrown me. There are people who would fit into his life much better than—"

"Really? This is about him being famous?" Gemma asked incredulously. "God, you really are an idiot sometimes, Y/n."

"Maybe, but I know he can do better," was all you could think of to say. "He'll get over it."

He'll get over me, she thought glumly.

Y/n heard Gemma's long, exasperated sigh. "Oh yeah? Is that what you think?" she asked, voice sharper now. "I don't know what you're afraid of, Y/n, but Harry is in love with you. He doesn't have a crush, he doesn't just want to have sex with you, he is in love with you. And you have been in love with my little brother for years. So pull your head out of your ass and tell him before he resents you for breaking his—"

Gemma's scolding paused, though Y/n wasn't really sure why. It was definitely deserved. She needed to hear it, especially from someone close to Harry. They hadn't spoken since he came to her parents' house to tell her he loved her, and she perhaps hopefully assumed that he would be okay afterwards. Hearing that he wasn't made Y/n feel worse, but it also made her realize that maybe she and Harry could work.

"Hey, I have to go," Gemma said in a rush.

"Why? What's—"

Y/n couldn't even get anything else out before the line went dead. She looked down at her phone, utterly confused. "Hope everything's okay," she murmured before going back to staring at the TV in front of her. She'd been doing a lot of that recently.

Later that night, Y/n was in her room getting ready for bed. She applied all her serums, and spent some extra time with her face roller, trying to ease the stress of her conversation with Gemma out of her forehead. As she did so, Y/n considered herself in the mirror.

She was pretty, she supposed. Not beautiful, like the models Harry dated or was friends with. She remembered feeling so intimidated and so insecure the first time Harry invited her out to meet some of his "industry friends." But now she was okay with the fact that she wasn't exotic looking or had fluttery eyelashes or a toned stomach. Y/n knew how to enhance the features she did have and was perfectly fine with not dating outrageously attractive individuals.

As she was putting crescent-shaped masks beneath her eyes, Y/n heard pounding on her front door. Startled, she carefully went downstairs, peeking through the peephole before opening it. Her eyes widened when she saw who was on the other side.

"Harry? What are you doing here?"

"Why did you tell me you didn't feel the same?" he said, not bothering with an explanation. "You stood there as I poured my heart out to you, and, what? Weren't brave enough to say it back?"

"I—"

"I just don't understand why you would just wouldn't say it if you feel the same way," he continued. "Do—Do you think it was easy for me to admit that I was in love with you? Because it wasn't. But I didn't anyway. I just—I just don't understand—"

"I was afraid, okay?" Y/n finally said. She couldn't stand hearing her best friend be so upset with her. "I've—I have...loved you. For as long as I can remember," she admitted, her hands shaking as she spoke. "Since we were kids, you know? And I knew...I knew you didn't think of me that way back then. And then you become this person that everyone loves, and I—I'm not like them, Harry. I'm not."

Harry took a couple steps forward, toward where Y/n was standing in the doorway of her home. He didn't look as angry as he did before, the harsh crease between his brow easing to a soft furrow. "Like who?"

"Don't make me say it," Y/n said. She felt ridiculous enough explaining it to herself. She wasn't like his model girlfriends or heiress companions or artist friends. She was Harry's friend from the small town he grew up in.

But she didn't have to say anything. Harry had known Y/n long enough to realize what she was thinking without her having to say a word. She was honestly surprised he never discovered how she felt about him all these years.

"You really think I'm that shallow?" he said, sounding hurt.

"You deserve someone who's from—who can—"

"I deserve to be with the person I love," Harry told her. "Stop trying to dictate how I feel. Just let it happen, Y/n love."

Harry's voice took on a tone Y/n didn't recognize. It was soft, delicate. Like a caress. And then he did caress her, one knuckle grazing all the way down the side of her face from her temple to her chin. He held her there, his thumb brushing across her bottom lip while he searched for the answer to a question she didn't even know he was asking. Y/n felt breathless as Harry looked down at her, his gaze heavy lidded as he took in every inch of her face. She caught the nearly imperceptible smile as he looked at the patches beneath her eyes, but his expression turned into something that made her stomach turn into knots when they finally reached her mouth.

When he began to lean down, Y/n froze. She'd wanted this so bad for so long, had sabotaged herself and Harry into thinking it wasn't possible. But she didn't stop him, didn't move out of the way or turn her head to the side or tell him not to. Just let it happen, he'd said. So she did.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"I—oh—I really want to. Please, Harry."

"Tell me how you want me, love."

"I..."

Y/n was slightly embarrassed by how quickly Harry had seemed to light her entire body on fire. When they made it to her bedroom, he was all over her—kissing whatever skin was exposed while his hands rid her of her clothes. And she let him, eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling open the whole time. Harry was relentless as he kissed a collar of bruises around her throat, one hand bracing himself above her while the other cupped her breast so casually, like he'd done it for years.

It was hard to imagine that this was what Y/n was cheating herself of when she told him she didn't love him four months ago. No one has ever made her feel this good, and they hadn't even done much of anything yet.

But in the haze of her own pleasure, she wanted to make sure that Harry felt as good as she did. He asked her how she wanted him, and now that she'd taken a minute to think, she knew.

"Lie down for me," she said.

"You sure?" Harry asked, understanding what she meant.

Y/n merely nodded before easing him down against the bed with a gentle hand to his chest. She held his face in her hand, looking down at him and admiring the face she'd loved forever. He probably had somewhere to be, and yet he was here. With her. She kissed his forehead, then worked her way down, down, down. To his nose and lips, to his jaw and the elegant slope of his neck, to his chest, where her stomach flipped when she felt it beating hard in his chest. She kissed his stomach and all the tattoos on his torso, each hip bone and the waistband of his black briefs, and the bulge in them that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. But she continued on, kissing his thighs and all around them, unable to stop herself from making one little mark in the sensitive flesh.

"Y/n."

Harry was patient, his pants and breathy groans encouraging. When Y/n had had enough, she dragged her nose all the way back up to his underwear and began to tug them down, easing him out of them and tossing them unceremoniously off the bed.

And then she continued kissing him, loving him the way she'd dreamed about late at night more times than she cared to admit. Her focus zeroed in on Harry, on the sole objective of his pleasure. Nothing else mattered more than making him feel better than anyone had ever made him feel. Y/n got lost in it—in the noises he made, and the feel of him in her mouth, and the dull graze of her nails on the insides of his thighs.

"Y/n."

Harry's voice sounded strained as his hand reached for her hair, his grip gentle but firm enough to get her attention. She almost didn't want to stop, but she eventually did, smiling sheepishly when she met his gaze.

"What?"

"I don't think I'm going to last, and I—I need to—"

"Oh." A blush stained her cheeks.

"So get over here. Please."

Y/n crawled over to him, but not before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She was about to awkwardly ask Harry if he wanted to be on top or not when he grabbed her chin a little harshly, pulling her lips down to his.

Every kiss until now had been slow, sensual, passionate but delicate. This one was bruising, toe-curling. Harry's tongue pushed its way into Y/n's mouth, his hand gripped firmly in her hair at the nape of her neck. She didn't even have the chance to whine or whimper, as he devoured each one in a kiss. His teeth dug into her lip, he sucked her tongue into his mouth, he pinched the inside of her thigh and soothed it over with his thumb. And all Y/n could think was that she wanted more.

"Promise me," she managed to get out. "Promise me you're mine." Y/n didn't think she could be with anyone else again knowing Harry made her feel this good. And she knew that part of it was because she loved him so much that enhanced every kiss, every touch of skin against skin.

"I'm yours," Harry promised, easing himself in. "I'm yours, Y/n."

He kept saying it. Over, and over, and over again. That first time, and the second and third that followed later into the night. He kept promising, like he knew she needed to hear it, needed to know that this wasn't going to be a fleeting moment.

And she said it back, mumbling into his shoulder as she clung to him, afterwards when they were just staring at each other because yes, they'd known each other forever, but they were something different. Harry was the boy she'd loved for as long as she could remember, but now he was the boy who loved her back.

[604to647]

Safest with You (Ch. 14 - The Subway)

4.8K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: You and Din take the subway home after Boba’s birthday gala; an incident on the train requires Din to step in.

Warnings: 18+ content (MDNI please), public harassment of women (not directed at reader but includes derogatory language), description of physical force, established relationship, dirty talk, major public making out, fingering in the back of a car with a driver in the front (so a little noncon for the driver I guess), minor exhibitionism (to reader's surprise and delight), pet names as usual (pretty bird, sweetheart, baby, etc.)

A/N: An incident of harassment is briefly depicted, but neither the incident nor the aftermath are described or dealt with in depth; not because this type of thing isn't serious, but that wasn't the story I wanted to write (nor do I think I could do it justice). The victim chooses not to report and wishes to put it past her, which others are understanding of; there is no such thing as perfect victims or a "right way" to deal with a situation like that - the relevant belief reflected in the story is that we should just keep on showing up for each other as fellow human beings the best we can. Again, it's not written about in depth or with much nuance in this chapter, but better to tag and be safe. 😘

Series Masterlist

The evening breeze feels cool on your skin as you step out into the street from the hotel.  You breathe in a deep breath of fresh air and sigh happily; it’s honestly been such a lovely evening, even with the incident upstairs after dinner.  You smile just thinking about the remainder of Boba’s birthday party: dancing and drinks, laughing with Din’s friends, and Din’s ever-present attention and whispers of sweet nothings in your ear:

“Prettiest girl in the room tonight, can’t take my eyes off of you.”

“That slit on your dress is such a tease, pretty bird.  Just want to slide my hand all the way up to where I know you want it.”

“Can’t wait to get you home and out of that dress.  Show you how lucky you make me feel.”

To be honest, you’re not sure you’re ready to go home and take this dress off yet.  The last few rounds of champagne have you feeling giddy and there's something so fanciful about being about town in a beautiful gown, a handsome tuxedo clad man on your arm.  On a whim, you suggest that instead of catching a cab, you and Din take the subway home, just so you can extend this urban fairy tale feeling a little bit longer.  It’s a very tipsy suggestion. 

“Are you sure, pretty bird?”

“Yes!  I want to show off this dress a little longer,” you say, doing a little twirl, “Don’t you think my dress is nice?”

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.  You’re a dream.”

You smile gratefully at Din when he drapes his tuxedo jacket over your shoulders, but your expression turns to shock as you take in his broad frame and crisp dress shirt, “You’re wearing suspenders?!”

Din laughs, “What’s wrong with suspenders?  Too old man-ish?”

Shaking your head, you take one in each of your hands, rubbing the soft black bands between your fingers and thumbs before using them to yank him towards you, “Nothing’s wrong with them, old man.  Gives me something to hold on to.”

Din’s mouth meets yours, palms pressing down on your waist to pull you closer, so your hands are trapped between your bodies as he ravages your mouth.  After an evening of mostly sweet and chaste kisses, he is more than ready to have his fill of you; to show you with his lips, his tongue, his hands, his cock just what you and that very nice dress have been doing to him all evening.

You grapple internally with the part of you that wants to skip your subway suggestion and get home with Din as quickly as possible, and the one that wants to extend this magical part of your evening a little longer.  You opt for the option with the most public making out.  The normally short walk to the closest subway station takes three times as long; every few steps taken interrupted to allow for the increasing need to press lips together, to overlap tongues, to grip arms and waists and hold them hostage within needy hands.

On the platform, Din hugs you close as the subway arrives, bringing with it a tunnel of wind; Din holds down what he can of your dress so the fabric doesn’t blow up and instead, flutters harmlessly around your ankles.  Hair blowing gently around your face as Din looks down at you with a goofy grin, you feel like you’re in a movie.

Luckily, the subway isn’t too busy tonight and you readily find seats.  Sitting next to each other in the middle of an empty bench that runs along the side of the car, you twist to face Din and cross your legs and tuck your skirts under so the slit doesn’t cause your dress fall open scandalously.  With your right arm, you rest your elbow on the top of the seat and reach your hand forward to lazily let your fingers trail up and down the back of Din’s neck.  Ever so lightly twirling the curls at the base of his neck around your index finger, you delight in observing Din’s subtle expression of pleasure grow with every little tug.  With your left hand, you’re holding onto Din’s right suspender, slowly running your hands up and down, enjoying the feeling of security it inexplicably gives you.  You really do love these suspenders on him so much; his already distinguished look tonight elevated even more with these two black straps that snugly frame his impressive chest. 

Unable to take your eyes off the handsome man in front of you, you’re well aware of the silly, dopey look of pure satisfaction and contentment on your face.  It’s a look Din mirrors back.  His right hand is resting on the thigh of your leg that’s crossed over, ready to catch any fabric that slips from under your leg; lightly rubbing and squeezing your thigh as a reminder that he’s here (as if you could forget).  His left hand is tenderly stroking your right cheek and jaw, alternating between cupping your chin and stroking it with his thumb, and grazing your jawline with the back of his fingers. 

The two of you are in your own little world.  Eyes only for each other, sweet longings whispered only for the other’s ear, an intimate bubble suspended amidst the bustle of the late-night commute.

“What are you thinking, pretty bird,” Din asks, when you’ve been leaning into his touch on your face, eyes closed, for a minute.

Opening your eyes and giving him a playful smile, you lean forward to whisper low in his ear, “I’m trying to figure out how you’re going to keep those suspenders on when we fuck tonight.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Obviously, you’ll keep them on while I blow you.  That’s a no brainer.  Just pop that delicious cock out of your trousers and I’ll be ready on my knees with my mouth open.  No need to take off your pants or the suspenders,” you feign a look of deep thought, as if pondering a long form mathematical equation.

“Fuck.  Baby, I swear… your mouth…”

You pretend to pay him no heed, continuing with your musings, “Right.  My mouth.  Your cock in my mouth is covered.  But what about when that cock is stretching out my cunt?  How can you keep the suspenders on then?  I want hold on to them and ride you, baby, but if you have your pants on when I sink down on that dick won’t I make a wet mess all over your lap?”

“You can’t just say these things to me in public, pretty bird.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might get so riled up and snap.  Turn you over on these seats and lift up this pretty dress of yours so I can pound into your slutty pussy in front of all these people.”

Fuccckkkkkk.  You let a soft moan slip as you close your eyes and feel Din’s forehead touch yours, his slightly heavier than usual breathing fan across your lips.  You want him so much, and you don’t care if everyone on this subway knows it.  Closing the distance between the two of you, you bring your lips to his.  Gently molding yourself to the rolling plains of his body, you block out every other person and sound on this train and just melt into Din, blurring the lines of where you end and he begins.

You don’t know if it’s instinct, or just too much time in your life as a woman spent being aware, of being cautious, but out of the corner of your eye, the movement of a young woman further down the subway car from you and Din, pulls you out of your daydream state.  Din feels you stiffen before seeing it, a reversal of your roles from earlier in the evening.  You turn your head to see the young woman being walked backwards into the closed doors by the advancement of a man who’s stalking towards her, arms gesturing aggressively. 

“Din,” you whisper.

He stands at your unspoken command; following your eyeline that’s still fixed upon the girl, Din assesses the situation with his trained eye before quickly deciding on a course of action.  Gently pinching your chin as he passes you on his way down the car, he placates your concerned look, “Don’t worry, pretty bird.  Stay here.”  You reach up to hold the same hand, giving it a little squeeze before letting him go with a “Be careful please.”

As Din makes his way towards the situation, the offending man’s voice gets louder and suddenly you can hear his increasingly hostile tone and disturbing words:

“I said you were pretty.  You’re supposed to say ‘Thank you’ when people compliment you.”

“You think you’re too good for me, bitch?”

“Look at me!  I’m fucking talking to you!!”

Your heart is pounding, and you feel so deeply for the girl; she must be feeling so small and scared right now.  You know that Din is on the way and that she won’t be in any danger, but she doesn’t know that.  Din is not the only man that’s making his way over; three younger men who were roused by the ruckus join Din in a makeshift group, striding towards the opposite end of the train from you. 

“Get away from her,” yells the man on Din’s right.

The harasser looks up to see the group of four men making their way over to him, and sneers, “Fuck off, mates.  This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Wrong, mate,” shouts another of the men.  Din reaches the scene first and immediately puts himself between the offender and the girl, bracing his arms outwards to maintain a distance between them.  The other three men busy themselves with surrounding harasser and containing his movements while Din asks the girl if she’s okay.  Once he’s assured that she’s not hurt and that doesn’t want anything to do with this man, he tells her she’s safe and ushers her down the car towards you.  You hold out your arms and call out to the girl; she flees into your embrace, crying.  Stroking her hair, you tell her it’s okay, that she didn’t do anything wrong and she’s safe now.  Meanwhile, back at the end of the subway car, the offender is getting more agitated, clearly not doing the smart thing and settling down.  It’s taking all of the young men to restrain him as he struggles and continues to yell obscenities: “Get the fuck off of me, mates,” “She liked it!  She smiled at me,” “All this for some dumb slut?”

Covering the girl's ears so she doesn’t have to listen to his insults, you’re watching Din reach to get a more strategic hold on the man when, in horror, you see the harasser’s spastic movements break through the arms of the young men and he comes sprinting down the subway car towards you.

In a flash, you scramble out of your seat to round the girl, deliberately sitting yourself down in the seat on her other side and covering her body with yours.  Turning your head, you see Din hauling the man back down the car by the scruff of his neck, never knowing if he even got anywhere near you and the girl before Din took control of the situation.  Din slams him against the partition next to the doors and you hear him growl, “Don’t go near her.”  From the tone of his voice, you know that Din doesn’t mean the girl who’s still trembling in your arms.  Turning your attention back to her, you continuously reassure her that she’s safe and that the man won’t get anywhere close to her.  You can no longer hear what’s being said down at the other end of the car, but you see that Din still has his hand on the offender’s chest, restraining and talking down at him; he holds the man’s now terrified gaze while the other three men form a semi-circle behind them.  When the train comes to the next stop, the offender is shoved off the train, with Din and the three men also stepping off to discourage any attempts to re-enter.  Only when you hear the announcement that the doors are closing and see Din step back on the train do you breathe a sigh of relief, letting the girl know that it’s over, her aggressor is finally gone.  She's able to give a small laugh through her tears and throws her arms around you.  You pull back from her hug only when you feel Din sit down behind you, his palm gently curling around your waist. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you.  I wasn’t even looking at him, and then he just started screaming at me!  I didn’t know what to do!  Thank you so much for helping me.”

Both you and Din smile at the girl and continue to reassure her that it’s no problem and that she’s safe now.  When she’s calmed a bit, she feels better enough to wave her thanks at the three young men that have since returned to their seats; one of the young men gives her a friendly salute and a nod of solidarity to Din.

“Will you be okay to get to where you’re going, hun?” you ask, not sure if you feel okay leaving the girl alone yet.

She looks unsure but nods slowly, “I’m the next stop.  Omigod, I thought he was going to follow me,” before her eyes start to well up.

“Do you want to report it to security?  We can go with you.  There are enough witnesses and cameras-” Din stops when the girl starts shaking her head furiously.

“I just want to go home,” she says tearfully.

You’re full of understanding and sympathy; you know Din’s thinking about it from a security protocol standpoint, but as a woman, you understand what this girl is feeling: the preference to put it behind her, to move on, to get home and feel safe again.  You look at Din and he instinctively defers to you here, understanding that there are emotions and fears that he will never truly know.

“Do you want us to walk with you?” you offer, “We don’t even have to walk together if you don’t want.  We can just hang back until you get to where you need to go.  Be there for you if you need us?”

She seems to think about it for a moment before nodding, “Yes, thank you.” 

The three of you exit the station in triangle formation and continue this way as you walk in the direction the girl’s heading.  You’re holding your skirts in one hand, your other hand clasped firmly in the girl’s, having not let go since she grabbed it when you stood up in the subway together.  Din walks a few paces behind, your personal watch dog, while you keep the girl talking and occupied with light hearted topics (reality tv shows, pets, pop music).  Finally, you reach a building that the girl says is hers, and you give her one last big hug, as well as your phone number; she gives Din a hug as well and many more thanks before going in.

Once you feel like she’s safely inside, you exhale and then turn to launch yourself into Din’s waiting arms, “Oh, thank you, thank you, Din.  Thank you for helping her.”  You love him so much; not only can you always count on him to keep you safe, but he steps up at every opportunity to care for strangers as well.

Din pulls you in tight and buries his face in your hair, “You don’t have to thank me, pretty bird.  It was the right thing to do.”

Pulling back to look at him, you need him to understand what a good man he is, “But not a lot of people would have stepped in.  In fact, most don’t.”  You hold his face with your hands, gently caressing his jaw, “That girl was so lucky you were there tonight.”

“She was lucky you were there, baby.  You saw the problem first, then you took care of her, protected her too.  You’re her hero tonight, sweetheart.”

Putting your hand in the one Din holds out to you, you smile at him, eyes shining and heart overflowing with fondness for him.  Walking back towards the subway station, hand in hand, you reflect on Din’s strength.  How he wields it without fanfare, no false bravado, just a quiet, commanding confidence.  How the other men in the subway naturally deferred to him, unquestioned.  How he took care of the whole room.  Took care of you.  He’s powerful.  Magnificent. 

Din catches you looking at him with a deep-set look of affection, “What’s that look for, pretty bird?”

“Just thinking about you and how strong you are.  So protective and capable.  You’re fearless, Din.”

“I do get scared, though, baby.  Got scared tonight on that subway. When that guy broke away and started running towards you,” he looks at you, with an almost wounded look, “And I saw you switch spots with that girl and cover her, I was afraid he was going to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry, Din.  I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Don’t be sorry, pretty bird.  You put her well being ahead of yours because that’s the type of person you are.  And I love you for it.”

“I learn from the best,” you smile at him, eyes full of warmth.

“I’m never going to let you get hurt, sweet girl.  Ever.”  Din stops walking to look at you, and you can tell he’s being serious.  You lace your hands on the back of his neck, “I know, baby.  I know I’m always safe with you.”  And you kiss him reverently, as if to seal in your trust and belief in him.

It doesn’t take long before your kisses turn passionate; the events of the evening catching up to the both of you and unleashing the long building tension and want you’ve been harbouring.  Your mouth opens up to Din and he eagerly licks in, mapping the slope of your tongue with his own; he drinks in your soft whimpers and gentle cries of pleasure, and when his mouth gives yours a brief respite so he can take a breath, you sigh, “My hero.”

Din braces his hand against a nearby lamp pole, and walks you backwards until your head rests against the back of his hand; his other curving around your waist and pulling you flush against him.  He bends to kiss your neck and instinctively, you tilt your head to allow him more access; pressing soft, breathy butterfly kisses from the base of your neck up to your ear, Din can practically feel your body pulsing beneath his hands.  You whine a little when he nibbles on your earlobe and murmurs, “How do you plan on rewarding your hero, baby girl?  Do I get to play with your pretty pussy?”

“Oh god, yes, Din,” you gasp shakily, “Please. Take me home, baby.  I don’t want to take the subway anymore.”

“No?” he murmurs against your lips, “Want me to call a car?  Or just wait until we see a cab?”

“Whatever gets us home fastest, Din,” you plead, desperation evident in your eyes and tone.

Din looks up and down the street, empty save for some local traffic with no cabs in sight; he pulls out his phone to check the cars in the area and smirks when he sees the make and model of one of the closest cars to your location and selects it. 

It doesn’t take long for the black Suburban to pull up to where you and Din are waiting; Din holding you close with your head tucked into your favourite nook under his chin, perfect for you to press the periodic kiss to his neck whenever the fancy strikes you (constantly).  When the driver confirms he’s here for Din, you look up at Din, amused, “This huge car for just the two of us?”

“It was the closest one,” he shrugs, but you catch a slight uptick in the corner of his mouth before you turn and let him help you in.  Din gently steers you past the pilot seats to the spacious third row seating far back in the car.  With you seated behind the second-row pilot seat, and Din taking up most of the exposed middle seat, you’re afforded a fair amount of privacy for the ride. 

As soon as the car starts moving, Din is on you, hands grabbing at your upper waist, thumbs pressed up to draw circles on the underside of your breasts, mouth licking your neck in hot stripes.

“Din!” you half giggle, half gasp, “The driver!”

Din moves so his body covers part of yours as he peppers kisses across your collar bone; one of his hands circle behind you while the other trails down your body, searching, “We’re all the way in the back, pretty bird.  No one can see.”

Swallowing a moan when Din’s hand finds the slit of your dress, your legs part as he starts to slide his way up your thigh, “Is this why you chose this car? To give us privacy?”

“The privacy is for other people, sweetheart.  I know if it was up to my slutty bunny, we’d be putting on a show for the driver and every car at every stop light.  Isn’t that right, baby?”

As Din’s fingers inch closer to your core, you feel yourself dripping in your underwear, so turned on by the idea of other people seeing Din have his way with you.  You hum in pleasure as Din discovers your soaked panties and runs his fingers over the fabric; he kisses you greedily, murmuring against your lips, “Such a dirty girl, already wet for me.  So ready to be fucked, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Oh, fuck yes, daddy,” you whimper against his lips.

Din’s fingers slide further and press down on your slit, shallow thrusting the soaked lace of your panties into your tight hole before curling his fingers up to your clit and drawing firm circles that leave you panting into his mouth.  He takes great pleasure in feeling you squirm beneath him and hearing your breathy gasps as he repeats this pattern over and over.

“Daddy please,” your eyes widen to beseech Din for some mercy.  His touches are setting you on fire, but you need more. 

Din kisses you hurried and hard, “What does my pretty little slut need?  Use your words, bunny.”  He lightly pinches your clit over your panties and your cry out at the sudden pressure.  After you hear what you think is your driver turning up the volume of the radio in the front, you whimper into Din’s neck, “Need you inside me, Din.”

“Is this what you’re so needy for, baby?”  Din pushes aside the gusset of your panties and glides his fingers through your wet folds, teasing your slit with each stroke. 

“Yes, yes, daddy.  That’s what your dirty whore needs,” you moan softly, closing your eyes and letting your head fall back on the headrest of the seat; spreading your legs further to give Din’s hand more room and full access to your pussy.

Din slides two of his fingers through your arousal, finding and toying with your most sensitive pleasure points; the ones that have you whining with desperation when he brushes over them, again and again.  “Look at my slutty bun, letting her big bad wolf finger fuck her in front of a total stranger.  Moaning like a whore for everyone to hear,” he whispers hotly in your ear as he slips his two fingers deep into your cunt, meeting no resistance with how riled up and wet you are from his filthy words.  As you cry out from the sudden stretch, Din covers your mouth with his, nibbling at your lower lip gently; a sweet contrast with the hard push and pull of his fingers.  Feeling your slick drip down his fingers onto his palm, Din stuffs a third finger into your cunt and is rewarded with the arch of your back and a barely choked out whine of his name.

Lowering his head to suck on the sweet spot on your neck, Din continues to pump in and out of you as he watches in awe as you fall apart from his efforts; your are eyes closed and mouth open, letting jagged breaths and sounds of pleasure slip while your chest heaves and your lower body grinds into his hand.  He’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Your eyes flutter open and when they focus, you make direct eye contact with a pair of eyes reflected in the rearview mirror at the front of the car.  The driver averts his eyes quickly as you gasp, half in surprise, and half from the thrill that runs through you of being watched.  It’s depraved, but you feel a fresh wave of arousal coat Din’s fingers as you clench around them, “Din, he’s watching,” you whisper.

Din’s fingers slow, and his voice is soft, caring, “Is that okay, baby?”

Oh gosh you adore him.  Even in this compromising position, both of you heady with desire, his priority is still your comfort, your safety.  You beam at him, “It’s okay, daddy.”

“Dirty girl,” he groans as he crashes his lips to your, pulling from you moans and whimpers as he resumes thrusting into your wet heat with a quickened pace.

Your tongue clashes with Din’s and your kisses become sloppier as passion overtakes your bodies.  The familiar coil in your abdomen tingles as it tightens, your entire body flushed with anticipation and desire.  Din knows your body by now and recognizes the signs of your impending release: the tightening of your walls around his fingers, the shortening of your breaths, the unfocused look in your eyes.  Right hand stretching out to brace against the side of the car while your left grabs onto the suspender closest to you, you hang on for some semblance of control while Din presses down on your clit with his thumb.  Your entire body lurches as far forward as Din’s hold will allow as he draws firm circles timed perfectly to his thrusting fingers. 

“Din, I-I-I’m so close,” you breathe.

“I got you, my pretty bun.  I got you, I got you,” Din venerates, his punishing pace never wavering; the squelching sounds of his hand driving into you over and over, only getting louder, begin to push you over the edge.

As your cunt starts to flutter, he rounds his body over yours, placing himself between you and the front of the car like a shield, growling, “No one sees you come but me, pretty bird.” 

His possessive tone sends you careening over the edge; grabbing his other suspender and pulling him towards you, you come hard.  Your chest presses against his as your body shudders, you cry so high pitched it’s nearly soundless, and you soak Din’s hand with your release.  Din slows his hand as he sees you through your high, kissing you tenderly and telling you what a good girl you are, “You did so good, baby.  Always come so pretty for me.”

Resting your head on his shoulder, you watch Din slip his hand out from underneath your skirt and bring his shiny fingers up to his mouth; he sucks his fingers clean with an obscene pop and smirks to you, “So sweet.”

Once clean, he uses that hand to reach behind you and pull his jacket back over your shoulders from where it had fallen.  Snuggling under Din’s jaw, you sigh happily as you feel him pull you closer, “I love you, Din.”

“I love you more, pretty bird,” Din presses a loving kiss to your head.  You close your eyes, boneless and pliant, curling up and resting in the comfort of Din’s arms.  You could have easily fallen asleep in your sated state, rocked to a slumber by the smooth motion of the car, if it did not pull up to the front of your building when it did.  As you exit the car, you bid the driver a soft ‘thank you’ before letting Din help you down; he pulls you into his embrace, making sure his jacket keeps you warm as he closes the door behind you.

Once the car drives off, you slip your hand into Din’s, making to walk towards the front doors, but look back when he doesn’t move with you.

“Huh.” Din’s stands in place, still holding your hand, looking down at his phone with an amused expression.

“What’s that?” you ask.

He faces the phone towards you, chuckling, “He rated us five stars.”

Laughing, you shake your head as you slip your fingers under one suspender, then slide it over to grab the other with the same hand, pulling Din in for a sweet kiss before turning to head into your building with him still in tow, “Come on, Mister Five Stars.”

[racinggirl]

Collision of hearts - 01

Lando Norris x OC (Fayenne Jackson)

word count: 2k warnings: none notes: I hope you like the first chapter, please let me know what you think about the piece at the end, I'm planning on incorporating that a lot more! Any way of feedback, whether it's positive, negative, in the comments, in my asks, as a reblog in the tags is very very welcome <3 If you want to be added to the taglist, read the bottom of this post 🧡

masterlist (will be up somewhere this week)

prologue

next part

🏎️ = Lando

⛸️ = Fay(enne)

⛸️

‘’You go first, I don’t want to be the one falling through the ice, that’s cold!’’

I let out a soft chuckle as my friend, Melanie, stood at the edge of the lake, a scarf around her neck, gloves around her fingers as she looked from the ice to me, very quickly. See, I loved to skate, it was something I used to do when I was little, something to escape the world for just a moment. No, I wasn’t a professional skater, I wish I was, though. I started on some home-made skates my father made me for my 6th birthday. I fell, a lot, but that’s part of life. You fall, get up, fall again, and keep trying till you get better and better, and that’s exactly what I did.

I’m 23 now, and my best friend is holding her phone with her right hand, positioning it so she’d capture the perfect content for when I’d fall through the ice.

‘’It’s been freezing for almost a week straight, Mel, the ice is thick enough!’’ A smile appears on my face when I hear the metal of my skates touch the still untouched ice. It was a beautiful sound, soft, but it pierced through my ears like it was the only thing I could hear. A few steps onto the ice, and I slowly turned around, watching how Melanie slowly put away her phone.

‘’Damnit, that would have made some great content to be fair.’’ She looked over at me with a smirk, a playful one, because I knew she didn’t mean that.

Melanie, she has been my best friend ever since kindergarten. We basically grew up together, only under very different circumstances. We finished primary school together, and even secondary school. However, after that, she went into a different direction for her career, one my parents would never allow me to take. She started modelling, and I was lying when I’d say I wasn’t jealous of her. She started of doing a few shoots for some of her boyfriends at the time. I know what you might be thinking, but Mel would never do THOSE kinds of shoots. She wasn’t your everyday influencer Instagram model, not at all, she’s smart, and made sure to have a backup while modelling.

‘’Come on! It’ll be fun, and totally safe.’’ I teased, skating around the lake to make sure every bit of the water at the top was frozen. I felt like a fish in the water, but on the ice, and not a fish, because that would be… You know what I mean. I felt like home on the ice. Like I said before, I’m not a professional skater. I’m actually a lawyer. I ended law school this year, and I couldn’t be happier to have finished it and never look into those books ever again. I’m a terrible lawyer, at least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

‘The only way to do great work is to love what you do’

And well, I don’t love it. I hate it, even. I know many people would want to have a law degree, I know many people would want to finally have that paper and help people, help the innocent ones. But that’s the thing, you don’t get to choose who you defend, especially as a beginner. You take every job you can get, and that’s mostly not the one of the victim’s defenders. You’ll have to work with stubborn people, criminals, the so called ‘bad guys’.

‘’Okay, okay, fine, hold my hand.’’ I skate towards my best friend and hold out my hand for her, making sure she would be stable on the ice before we moved on the slippery surface.

‘’You’re doing great, Mel, just remember, lean forward, and focus on where you want to go.’’

Melanie has supported me every step of the way, even when I finished my degree and got a job at the local skate centre instead of being a lawyer, the path my parents set out for me. It was a hard decision, and one that came with consequences, but it was the first time I had actually gone against my parent’s commands. I felt torn, because they were the ones that paid for my university, they were the ones that made all the effort and what did I do? I just chose my own way, my own path, after everything they did for me. I know they want to see me happy, but telling them I wouldn’t be happy pursuing my career as a lawyer was the hardest thing to do, and they didn’t take it well. That’s why I moved out. That’s why I took the job as a skate instructor for the little kids, ages around 7 to 9, at the local skate centre.

‘’I have a better idea, why don’t we grab a hot chocolate and have dinner at my place tonight? I heard there’s this new club opening, and guess who got tickets for the grand opening?’’ She tugged my hands slightly, mostly to keep herself balanced on the ice, but also because of the excitement.

That’s the thing of having a well-known friend, she always knew where to go and where to be, receiving invitations for one of the biggest club openings, and me always being her plus one.

‘’One more round on the ice, and we have a deal.’’

‘’Okay,’’ Melanie groaned, holding my hand tightly. ‘’Fine, but just one!’’

🏎️

‘’What’s up chat! I’m back! I know, three times in a row, pretty mint huh?’’ I positioned myself in the chair, the headphones on my head, a snack on the side, next to my bottle of water. I scan through the chat, trying my best to read some of the comments, ignoring most of them.

The season ended, not the best way possible, but it could have been worse. The upgrades we brought the second half of the season made a big improvement to the car, and I’m quite glad about that. We’re going into the direction I wanted, which is up, and times like these are the moments I’m grateful for the patience I’ve had with McLaren.

‘’It’s gonna be a shorter stream though, chat, cuz I have somewhere to be after this.’’ I take a bite from the biscuits I held on the desk, immediately taking a sip of water after it.

‘Do you have a date?’

‘Where are you going after this?’

‘What are you eating?’

I quickly scan through the reactions, not really answering any of them. I loved to stream. I wasn’t able to do it a lot because of the busy season we had. Because of the busy schedule I had, but right now it was a little more toned down, meaning I had found a few free hours I could sit and talk to the camera on Twitch.

‘’Thanks for all the gifted subs, everyone! Holy shit, I can’t even keep up with them.’’ I laughed, trying my best to thank every single person that popped up on my screen. I never could get used to the amount of support I was getting from the fans. People chanting my name, the thousands of bracelets people would make for me, taking the time and effort to create something for me, it was surreal.

As the chat buzzed with questions and comments, I couldn’t help but smile at the energy radiating through the screen. The support from my fans was overwhelming in the best possible way. I glanced at the clock, realising time was ticking away faster than I anticipated.

‘’Alright, let’s jump into a quick Q&A, chat!’’ I announced, grabbing a handful of questions popping up in the chat. ‘’First up, where am I headed after this? Well, I’ve got a charity event lined up. Gotta give back when I can, right?’’

The chat exploded with emojis and words of encouragement. I chuckled at the flood of enthusiasm, feeling grateful for the platform that allowed me to connect with such an incredible community.

‘’Next question,’’ I continued, scrolling through the comments. ‘’What am I eating? Just some biscuits, nothing fancy.’’ I reach for the packaging of the biscuits, showing them to the camera. ‘’Not sponsored!’’ I joked afterwards.

Time flew by faster than expected, and as the charity event drew nearer, I reluctantly announced the stream’s conclusion. The chat flooded with messages expressing gratitude and excitement for the next stream.

‘’Thanks everyone, it’s been fun! You’re the best, love ya. I’ll catch you in the next one.’’ I said, creating a heart with my hands before I ended the stream.

I quickly gathered my things, leaving the streaming setup behind as I rushed to the charity event.

⛸️

It’s been a while since I went out to a club, especially one where a basic pair of jeans and a nice top weren’t ‘good enough’. The club we were headed to wasn’t your ordinary ‘I’m bored with my friends so let’s go out’ kind of club, not even close. It was a higher-end, new, influencer filled kind of club, one where normal people like me wouldn’t usually get access to. At least, if you didn’t have a model as a friend.

Melanie had been modeling ever since we finished secondary school, she got scouted by many modeling agencies across Europe, but she always chose the one near London, near me. She was like an older sister to me and when times were rough, she’d be there and vice versa.  

‘’You know? I’m quite jealous of you, actually.’’ Melanie got me confused by that comment, she, jealous of me, what for?

‘’Oh?’’ I furrowed my eyebrows slightly but remained focused on applying my mascara.

‘’Your natural beauty, your eyebrows, your lashes, and oh my god your lips.’’ She said, sipping her wine as she applied some nude lip-gloss on her plump lips. I knew where she was going with it all. I never had surgery, not once in my life. I never wanted to, because maybe I was a little proud of my so called ‘natural beauty’. I barely wore make up, and whenever I did, it was a simple clear brow gel and a lip balm. My lashes were dark, black, long and they had volume without me having to do anything about it aside from curling them. My eyebrows weren’t black, but a nice dark colour of brown that matched my hair. My lips, never done anything about them, no fillers, nothing. I’m not saying anything is wrong with having fillers, I think it’s beautiful on Melanie, really natural as well, it just wasn’t something I’d see myself doing.

‘’Your lips are so.. urgh, plump, I wish I had that.’’ She says as she finished her make up and moved on to pick out an outfit from her never-ending closet. ‘’What do you think, this Versace dress? Oh, or this Elisa one?’’ She says, holding out two black sparkly dresses.

‘’Left,’’ I start the beginning of my next sentence. ‘’You have gorgeous lips.’’ I say, full honesty. ‘’Yeah, but they’re fake.’’ Melanie says and simply grabs the Elisa dress and starts putting it on, making sure every one of her curves and pros of her body were nicely hugged with the expensive fabric.

‘’Mel…’’ I sighed, closing the tube of mascara, and placing it back in her vanity as I almost always used her make up. ‘’I know, I’m just kidding, I’m just saying, maybe you should start to model too, it’s gonna give me competition, but if it’s you, I can handle it.’’ She teases with a smirk, making me roll my eyes.

‘’Come on, Fay, let’s go.’’

...

taglist

@smoooothoperator @itsjustkhaos @tpwk-cherie @skynel09 @peqch-pie @aphroditeisamilf

a/n: if you want to be added to the taglist, comment ❤️ down below

[godzillaswaisttrainer]

ur kori is so gorgeous!! do you have any particular inspiration on how u draw her, either from the canon comics or other fanartists?

Yes! George Perez is the goat for me when it comes to Kory.

NTT is one of my favorite comics(rip) and I think that he balances the alieness of her with the very recognizeably human. She's very human! But she also is kind of catlike which is dope because tamarameans evolved from felines!

I of course picture Kory as black and w/ very coily hair but I do appreciate the way her looser curls flow into a very cool trail of fire behind her in his art.

It's hair but it's a cape and an accent to help track her across the page and a speed trail like it's genius!!!! Also, the really really saturated dark red contrasted to the more yellow tone of her skin makes her look like a living flame, which I kinda love and miss now that her hair tends to be more on the orange side. Like.

Stunning. I see the vision. I like to keep her very feminine but also more muscular definition but otherwise he's really what I'm trying to emulate. With a closer texture and warmer skin of course.

Tbh I can't even name all the fan artists that are doing sick shit with her but safe to say the starfire tag is wall to wall bangers. I especially like when people do really cool dark skin with pink/purplish red hair. It's a completely different kind of flame but still v evocative of the original concept!

Anyway this is very long, thank you for the ask and happy belated birthday George Perez your memory is a blessing!

[fullscoreshenanigans]

You know, at the beginning of the story, Connie says that she has probably a total bad score to the exams "like always". If she had very bad (or the worse) results since a while, then his shippement days was decided for a while, since she has been shipped two weeks after her birthday. And Isabella knews who will be the next shippement three or four months before it happens. She knew that Connie was the next. She knew, when Connie reached 6, that she had only 2 weeks to live. And then, she took the time to make a plushie for Connie's birthday. And Little Bunny isn't a little plushie, it is kinda big. Isabella created a big toy for a kid who was going to enjoy it for only 15 days.

She wanted to make her happy, to give her joy for the little time that she still had. She wanted Connie to live those days in happiness. And i'm sure that she did that for any kids who was going to be shipped. (a lot of kids receive a gift for their 6 years old, the goods as the bads but maybe it's for cover why the bad scores kids has spoiled this famous day)

It's the biggest proof that she loves all her kids (even Ray, even if she has more mixed feelings toward him). She can't do anything to save them or she would be the next dinner and with no garantee that the woman who will replace her will be as loving then her. She is as much captive than the kids (even more, because she knows and she has the cheap in her heart.)

She had to see them die every time. Clearly she is still here after Connie's death so she has witnessed everything. She has seen so much of her kids diying while being unable to protect them because nothing could have been do, except make their too short lifes as much happy than possible.

(I'm sure that she was suffering with the idea to shipp the Full Score Trio soon (very soon for Ray, some months for Norman and in a little more of half a year for Emma), even Ray, and she was probably in denial about her son)

I think that Norman and Emma were too betrayed and angry to really understand that her affection was geniune and real. It's only thank to the distance, during 2 years, that they were able to think about it. For Ray, i think that a part of him knew that she really loved them but still sees her as the ones who sacrified his siblings. A part of him must have been in denial for a while about it too (like mother, like son).

The distance was good for everyone. The kids were able to understand that Isabella loved them for real, Ray was able to be willing to forgive her and eventually start over (realizing that he loved her too), Isabella realized that she loved her son.

And then came that asshole demon

Obnoxious pedantry but Conny's birthday is the third of September (@just-like-playing-tag put together an invaluable birthday chart here. September is one of the busier months with five birthdays in it.) So she had a bit more time with Little Bunny, but it's negligible in the grand scheme of things. There were two years' worth of low scores sealing her fate.

Based on that, this answer in the mystic code book, and all the toys we see in her hidden office in chapter 17/S1 episode 6, it's a safe bet she either made or had gifts delivered from headquarters for each of the children. The demons wouldn't question it as an easily justifiable and paltry expense to further cultivate a positive environment for the children's development, and with them not caring what became of the presents afterward even if a child packed it with them in their suitcase when they were shipped out, Isabella could keep them as mementos of all the children she raised.

It's the biggest proof that she loves all her kids

This I think depends on an individual's definition of love though, and whether Isabella could truly, fully love her children in such an oppressive framework.

(S1 Episode 8 | S1 Episode 10)

I will always come back to and obsess over the sequences of Isabella silently smiling as Ray struggles against her before locking him in Krone's old room and Ray looking completely disillusioned and despondent as Isabella walks off and smirks that they added into the anime. No one else is around who would be cognizant enough to notice. She doesn't have to put up an act to maintain a sense of calm and normalcy for anyone.

Yet here she is, quietly relishing in having seemingly defeated the children's plan to upset the status quo and her lifestyle. It's entirely for herself.

During this era of the story, she loves the children in her charge, but only to the point that they don’t inconvenience her; only to the point where they don’t impede her goal of survival ("longer than anyone"). It's impossible to live under such an oppressive, violent, monotonous, stagnating system and not have it fundamentally alter your perception of the world around you and how you interact with it to some degree. She even makes the distinction herself in one of her most memorable quotes.

(Chapter 37)

To love them normally, as opposed to the love that would always be tainted as long as it was within the confines of the farm system where she justified walking at least sixty children to their deaths over the course of her tenure to maintain her sense of cognitive dissonance.

To quote @nullaby, who phrases it very poignantly in this post:

 for  as  much  as  isabella   did   love  her  kids,      as  nice  as  it  would’ve  been  to  just  raise  them  all  like  a  normal  mother  should,       the  backbone  of  her  character  journey     &.    ultimate  redemption  was  laid  out  plain  and  clear  right  to  ray’s  face  that  everything,     including  his  birth,      was  all  just  collateral  damage  of  isabella’s  desire  to  survive  in  this  world  as  according  to  the  demon’s  rules,        longer  than  most  ever  could,        and  find  some  sort  of   meaning   to  all  this  sacrifice  in  the  only  option  that’d  ever  been  available  to  cattle  like  them.      the  tragedy  is  that  the  prioritizing  of  her  own  position  trumps  that  love  of  a  mother  more  times  that  it  ever  didn’t,        and   that’s   the  mom  that  ray  was  left  with.  

(Chapter 7 | Chapter 16)

Even if she found herself slipping into the illusion that had been crafted throughout the rest of the day, on days where there were no shipments and everything was fine, maybe even great, every night she would be reminded of reality. That she was ultimately a pawn. A caged, useful dog, if you want to have what she says to Ray in chapter 24/S1 episode 8 be her projecting her self-loathing of what she's stooped to onto him (and then going further, making his affirmation of his humanity in choosing his death an incensed retort back at her as much as the demons).

Ray is the living, breathing reminder of one of the worst acts of violence the farm system inflected on her. For a six years, she may have been able to push aside any memories and thoughts of the child she bore, but on his sixth birthday (his false birthday; if she doesn't think of it in the moment, then surely afterward when they're celebrating it at the house), he "robbed Isabella of that easy, blissful delusion," to again quote nullaby. Such potent, aggrieved anger mixed with relishing her dominance over him bleeding into her tone and body language and tinging the framework of this scene; I really love how Cloverworks adapted it with their budgetary constraints.

I think that Norman and Emma were too betrayed and angry to really understand that her affection was genuine and real. It's only thank to the distance, during 2 years, that they were able to think about it. For Ray, i think that a part of him knew that she really loved them but still sees her as the ones who sacrificed his siblings. A part of him must have been in denial for a while about it too (like mother, like son). The distance was good for everyone. The kids were able to understand that Isabella loved them for real, Ray was able to be willing to forgive her and eventually start over (realizing that he loved her too), Isabella realized that she loved her son.

I do agree that being free of the suffocating environment of Grace Field would give everyone different perspectives on their relationship with their mother, with Emma being the most understanding of Isabella's circumstances and accepting her in her totality; the kindness and love she was always capable of just as much as the violence and cruelties she inflicted to maintain the status quo.

For Norman, the utter chaos his nervous system was in as he was walking to the gate, fully believing he was about to die only to be handed off to another cage and subjected to experiments as his mother sent him off with one last gentle hug, would heighten his senses and emotions and in turn make this a visceral core memory for him.

(S2 Episode 8)

He undoubtedly dwelled on it during his fifteen months at Lambda, grappling with coming to logically understanding her circumstances more over time with that distance, his stark morality, and, no matter how much he might try to squash down his feelings to avoid confronting his own vulnerability during such a precarious period, how deeply her betrayal hurt him. I don't know if he'd ever be able to fully let that go, even if his immediate reaction to her death was one of sadness due to how sudden it was and being robbed of the chance to see what kind of relationship with her would be possible.

Similar to Norman, Ray can logically understand her circumstances, and I do believe deep down there was a part of him that desperately desired a normal, loving relationship with her, as much as he also tried to squash it down. It's part of why he's so confident she wouldn't throw him away, why he looks so devastated when she cuts him off,

(S1 Episode 5 | S1 Episode 8)

I was doing a good job. To you, I’m…

(Even after all this time…you still can't find it in your heart to love me as the child you gave birth to. | Chapter 181.1)

and why even after all of that pain and loss, he still hums the lullaby she sang to him in the womb as a way of consoling himself before his attempted suicide (because it's the only way he believes he can atone for what he's done).

Ray's vast library of knowledge comes from his research. His memory is one of his most powerful assets; his blessing and his burden. Isabella had proven time and time again to him that she was willing to sacrifice children for her own survival.

And yet there was still some selfish part of him that hoped maybe, just maybe, she would have carved out a little niche in her heart for him after spending all that time together, after sharing the burden of the secret of the house with him, after finding out about their shared blood. That all of that had to mean something to her.

But tragically all they shared engendered a unique ire toward him instead, born from a deep self-loathing that, once she replaced her own mother as Grandma, she allowed herself to reflect upon more thoroughly and came to deeply regret.

(TPN Light Novel 2: Moms’ Song of Remembrance - “The Starry Sky and Leslie’s List” Chapter 9; Isabella being an unreliable narrator and forcing a mental wedge between her and Ray as both a child in her charge in general and specifically as her biological son. She "held no particular maternal feelings for Ray" being as much a denial of any love for him as being a moment where she tries to place herself above the petty anger and resentment she has for him | Chapter 181.3; the framing of the bottom right panel confirming she did view all the birthday gifts she gave her children as treasures)

The damage was done though, between that and losing Norman, one of the two most precious people in his life he spent six years bearing the pain of loneliness and sorrow for. Even with Norman proving to be alive, like him I think it would be hard for Ray to untangle logically, pragmatically understanding Isabella's circumstances from the abuse he endured.

(Chapter 169; the conflicting feelings he held for her even two years after escaping Grace Field)

People aren't their trauma, but it would be disingenuous to say it didn't shape him. A learned response and association with her etched into his mind that I don't believe would be shed so easily. He wasn't by Isabella's side as she made her two-year journey of redemption as Grandma. He only saw the final result weighed against years of memories of her calculating iron woman persona, of every happy one his siblings had tinged with the knowledge that she would eventually set them up for slaughter.

(Chapter 174)

To quote nullaby for a third time:

there’s  a  whole  big  thing  about  late  story  isabella,     how  she  interprets  ray’s  address  as  forgiveness,      but    .    .    .         it’s  maybe  just  more  speaking  to  how  their  worst  qualities  are  the  ones  that  they  share.     not  as  much  a      “  you’re  my  mom  and  i  forgive  you   ”         as  it  is  a         “   i  get  it,     i’m   there  too,     it  doesn’t  matter  anymore  anyway,    stop  feeling  sorry  for  yourself    ”        and  it  just.     tapers  off  into  something  impersonal,      something  more  like just  a  person  speaking  to  a  person  than  a  son  to  his  mother.

He can acknowledge the love she held for her children, acknowledge that she changed and wanted to do better by them, but that doesn't equate to reconciliation and letting go of all those painful memories at the drop of a hat.

(Chapter 177 | Sunny's post)

The mental scars she left on him would be with him for years—potentially forever—and had she lived I don’t think he’d ever have a relationship with her in the way Emma might, but in that moment, he desperately wished for just the opportunity to try, even if it ended in failure or an impasse. And yet again fate left him without any say or control in the situation to determine his own path of healing.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 1

• Gen Tags. Found family, Daddy issues, Hurt and comfort, Gore.

• Summary. Harley D. Dixon is a tough yet sweet little girl who until the dead started eating the living, thought she had seen it all. Alongside a mismatched group of survivors in rural Georgia, Harley and her Dad are forced to leave their small life behind and learn how to survive all over again through the horrors of the apocalypse.

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

❤️Cross-Posted from Ao3.

Author's Note. Here we gooo! Argh, I'm so excited.

I've been wanting to write something like this for a long, long time. I've read just about every 'Daryl has a daughter' story out there, and now I've finally got my own to share. I just love Daryl, and Daryl with a kid is a whole other thing. We all know he wouldn't be the perfect parent, so you bet I'm gonna play right into that. He's gonna swear, he's gonna be strict, and he's gonna mess up. As for Harley (Yes, as in the motorcycle brand), I love her too. So ready to write her.

This story will cover the general plot of the show. To keep things fresh, I've made sure that almost every canon scene has undergone at least one small change. Plus, of course, many new scenes. Occasionally, I'll make bigger changes just to keep you on your feet! Nobody's safe! I'm also gonna be expanding on all the characters. And lastly — FOUND FAMILY! Piles and piles and piles of found family, eventually. I live for found family.

Please enjoy reading! :)

My Uncle Merle died today.

I'm sitting in a crinkly green camping chair, watching embers die.

I don't wanna think about my Uncle right now, so I think about something else.

The fire was built last night by Glenn and Morales. Then Lori came along this morning very quietly and made it alive again with logs and wads of notebook paper. Thinking about facts is easy. It's like sucking on a plain candy that tastes like nothing. There's a navy-blue blanket across my lap with three holes in it, perfect for nibbling, poking, and ripping. Dale gave it to me when the cold settled in this afternoon. He told me he reckons it's around June, as he covered my shoulders, which used to be his niece's birthday.

He says she looked a little like me. That means she's dead. So many people are dead, now.

A thin log in the campfire cracks and tumbles over after trying to stay upright all morning. I hope I don't look like that log.

I can hear Officer Rick approaching. My stomach becomes a stone.

I can tell it's Rick because he's got one of them power walks that you can hear coming from a mile away, which I think makes him pretty stupid. He's loud, and loud is dangerous, and dangerous is stupid. My Dad's not like that. Unless he's angry or running, ain't nobody hearing my Dad coming; especially not no squirrels.

He's almost as big as my Grandpappy Dixon, who people used to say was as big as a house, and he wears super heavy boots from a hunting store near our house — but he's still not loud, or dangerous, or stupid. Not like Officer Rick.

"Hey, Harley."

I think I hate Officer Rick. I think I hate everyone.

And I think I might be crying now, too. I focus on twirling the blanket strings around my finger so I have something very simple to think about, which is that it hurts real bad when I twist it tight. I see Rick crouch down in front of me. He takes a while to say anything else, and it's prolly 'cause he's tryna be real careful, so he don't make me cry even more.

If my Dad weren't out hunting, he'd prolly slap Rick and everybody else that's tried badgering me today dead for tryna do his job for him. I feel like, just by sitting here, I'm disobeying him. Rick ain't my Daddy.

"We, uh..." He clears his throat. "Me and Lori, and some other folks are uh... Well, we're all a little worried about you, honey, okay?"

I imagine a small group of folks gathered by the RV right now, watching me and Rick; wondering if he's gonna be the one to get through to me.

I'm worried for when my Daddy comes back. When he finds out about Uncle Merle, he's gonna be fuming. He's gonna be like one of them cartoon characters with the bright red faces and the smoke comin' outta their ears, stomping all around, and he's prolly gonna kill somebody. It's prolly gonna be Rick. He always told me cops are bastard liars, and that they can't help us.

I look up at Rick. Yep, I've been crying.

Rick's all blurry, but I can still make out his ugly Sheriff's badge and his scary blue eyes and his frowning eyebrows that look like clenched fists, and I can tell he's been waiting to be the one to talk to me. I bet he thinks it makes him better than everyone else; better than my Uncle Merle, who he left to die just 'cause he ain't like him. I wanna kick Rick right in the face. I think he knows this, but he doesn't move.

"First off, I wanna say that I'm sorry about what happened to your Uncle Merle." Rick says all nice and gentle.

Nothin' happened to him.

It weren't no freak accident, which is what Uncle Merle used to say happened to my Momma.

Rick killed him.

"I know he meant a lot to you. And I'm sorry. If I had'a known he had a niece to come back to, maybe I woulda been a little wiser with my decision makin'. But Harley," He tilts his head and puts a hand on my knee for this part. "You gotta know, like I know, that your Uncle was a danger to us all."

There's a little angry parasite inside of me. It's been growing and growing ever since the group came back from Atlanta, and I couldn't find my Uncle Merle in the crowd. I've never noticed my Uncle Merle so much than when I realised he wasn't there. It was like there was the wrong amount of space left in the air and Rick was taking up the too much of it. Ever since the cars showed up, everything has been wrong, wrong, wrong.

Ever since Rick showed up.

"If I hadn't stepped in when and how I did," Rick says, "Your Uncle wouldda gotten us all in a lotta trouble."

Another log crumbles in the campfire. My finger aches and pulses around the string.

That hungry little parasite — hungry for Rick to hurt like I'm hurting, needing it more than anything — makes me tell him, "I wish he did." And again, because it feels good. Rick becomes even more blurry, as my voice makes an embarrassing hicking noise. "I wish you died."

I expect to be hit. That's what happens sometimes, when little girls don't know their place.

Tellin' adults I want them dead — That ain't my place. And I know it. I just don't care.

My Uncle Merle wasn't a danger, he was just Uncle Merle; Has been since I could talk. He used to feed me bits of his sandwich out on the deck back at home, like the tomato, 'cause he ain't like the taste. He used to fix my bike when it was broken. He used to make sure I was the first one to open presents at Christmas, and help me wrestle the wrapping when there was too much tape. He used to pull my wobbly baby teeth out for me and let me outside without shoes. He wasn't mean, or bad, or loud, or dangerous, or stupid; at least not always. He wasn't the one that got my Momma killed. He was good. And now he'd dead.

If someone had to die, I wish it had'a been Rick — Stupid, noisy, idiot Rick who ain't shed one single tear after what he done to my Uncle Merle.

I wanna get hit. I want him to hit me so bad that I'm allowed to hit him back.

"Okay." Rick says, and I can't breathe.

I feel like everything goes silent throughout camp, like the chairs and the cars and the people are all holding their breaths like I am. He actually looks a little sad, which feels really, really bad, because I wanna be angry.

"Okay. That's okay."

But as I think about my Uncle Merle, and the tomatoes, and my old bike, and what Christmas used to feel like, and my Daddy, and how he ain't even know about Merle yet, I realise I'm just really, really sad.

I can't even see Rick anymore, my eyes are so watery. My whole body hurts from being sad. I feel like I'm sick and I need to go to the doctor, but I don't even know what for. There aren't even any doctors here. Just two bastard liar cops, some campers, and a space where my Uncle Merle should be.

I think, after a while, Rick leaves.

My Dad still keeps his wallet.

It's in a backpack under his sleeping cot. He says that everything inside that bag will keep us alive some day, if we ever need to leave the quarry camp. He said I need to know exactly where it is so that I can grab it if he can't. He showed me everything the night we got here, because he forced me to, because it's important. The other kids don't learn stuff like this from their parents. It makes me feel smart. I'm in on a secret. He showed me the bug spray, which keeps our skin healthy from bug diseases, and he showed me the flashlight, which has two batteries and a big black button. He showed me the compass, the box of matches, the big knife, the little knife, the rope, and the map. It's like a Jenga tower. If we lose even one thing from the backpack; everything topples, and we die — I die. You gotta listen t'me, chicken. My Daddy's always been like this.

But the wallet made no sense.

We don't gotta pay taxes no more, like Merle said. I don't know what taxes are, except they're bad, and gone, and nobody liked them anyway. And I saw my Dad burn all his money in a campfire one night, so it can't be that.

It's the pictures, Dad told me. He flipped it open like a book, and we looked at 'em together on top of his sleeping bag. I felt like crying for a second because we forgot all my storybooks when we left our house, but Daddy hates it when I cry, so I dried up. Crying is for babies, and I'm a big girl. He showed me a photo of an actual baby, and after he touched the baby's face with his fingertip, he said the baby was me. I didn't think I could look like that. He stopped talking for a while. I listened to the cicadas in the trees to pass the time while he touched the photo. Then it was bedtime.

I'm looking at the photo now, waiting for him to get back.

I was a very pink baby. I was only the size of his forearm, which in the photo, hasn't been tattooed yet. The tattoo of my name is missing, which goes up his wrist in curly letters. Harley Davidson Dixon. It's the name of a motorcycle. The tattoo of the skull and the bleeding angel are missing, too. He's fixing my baby blanket around my chin. I guess he's been doing that since the day I was born. Every night, at least up until last week, my Dad tucks me into bed and sings me the same song. Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird. I like his voice when he sings to me. Usually, he's yelling, or grumblin', but in those twenty seconds before I have to go to sleep, and nobody else is listening, he's softly whispering the lyrics to me, and touching on my ears and my cheeks. In the photo, he's crying down into his smiling mouth. That's something he doesn't do anymore.

The next photo is of us at the zoo. I know it was taken on one of the weekends I was at my Dad's house, because my Momma's not in this one. Just my Dad and two of his friends, I think, who are throwing rock star hands in the air. I'm wearing a black shirt with a videogame character on it that my Dad likes, and brown pants. I'm sitting on my Dad's hip as we pose in front of three giant elephants. My Dad's got a tiny purple backpack over his shoulder that makes him look sorta funny. It used to be mine. I'm looking at the elephant's long, silly-straw trunk as it tries to sniff us, but my Daddy's lookin' at me. I wish I remembered this day.

The third photo is a school photo with a swirly blue background. I remember this one. My Momma did my hair that day.

I know why he keeps his wallet, now. Just like how we need the bug spray, and the matches, and the rope, and the knives, and the map, and the flashlight to stay alive — I think my Dad needs these photos. They won't keep him warm or stop bugs from chewing on him, but he needs them.

I shove the wallet back where I found it, 'cause I'm not meant to be goin' through my Dad's things.

My Dad comes back while I'm vomiting under a tree.

At first, he doesn't see me. He calls for me to come get my little butt over there, so I can help him and Uncle Merle stew up some rabbits for dinner but when he hears me retch, he comes running over. I hear his crossbow drop and some more people call after him.

One minute, Lori and Amy are holding back my hair and patting my shoulders the best they can, and the next, my Daddy's forcing his way in. I'm rocking and I'm swaying like I'm on a life raft in the ocean, and I can hear Rick's voice and then Shane's and then Dale's. My Dad grabs the back of my neck and squeezes it, the way Lori and Amy would never know how to do, and tells me to lean forward some more. It works. I vomit up a chunky puddle of peaches and jerky into the dirt.

Then, I'm empty, and I'm crying — crying hard — into my Dad's lap.

"Someone wanna tell me what the Hell's goin' on here?" He snarls at whoever's around.

Feels like half the camp is here.

"How 'bout we all just try—" Shane's suggesting, but my Dad cuts him off.

"How 'bout ya'll just spit it out? And where the Hell's my brother?"

That makes me bury deeper into my Dad's legs, moaning and hiccupping. He puts a hand over my head. He's clocked the problem.

"Where the Hell's my damn brother?"

"Look, Daryl," Shane levels, "I'm just gonna come out and say it, alright? There was a problem in Atlanta."

My Dad's panting, now. "What fuckin' 'problem'?"

"Listen—"

"He dead?" Underneath me, my Dad's muscles are lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, like he wants so much to just jump up and knock Shane to the ground, but he won't bring himself to leave me. The camp has gone completely silent.

Shane stammers. I've never heard Shane stammer. "We're— We're not sure."

The silence just keeps on goin' and goin' and goin', and somehow, it's even scarier than the yelling.

"There's no easy way to say this," Rick says, voice lowered. I wonder what my Dad looks like; if I was right about the cartoon thing.

Dad presses my head further into his stomach. "Who're you?"

"Rick Grimes."

"'Rick Grimes'." He spits, like it's an insult. It is. Bastard cop liar. "You got sum' you wanna tell me?"

"Your brother was a danger to us all." Lies Rick. "So I handcuffed him on a roof; Hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there."

After he says this, something in the air must have changed; something must have snapped without even makin' a sound, because Lori's whispering to me that I should follow her back to camp, like we're running out of time. She tries to pull me away, but I kick her; kick her hard, in the shin. She tries again. I realise she's trying to separate me from my Dad. Then, I realise he's sorta shaking. Lurching, stopping, lurching stopping. Silence, silence.

"Lemme get this straight." Dad whispers, and it's not the nice kind, like when he sings. "You're tellin' me that you handcuffed my brother to a roof."

Glenn's pulling at me now, too. Nobody else moves a muscle.

"And you left him there?!"

This time, he lurches and he doesn't stop. Glenn catches me as I'm flung from my Daddy's hip, and he passes me off to Lori as Dad goes lunging at Rick. The brown pebbles go flying up into the air. My Dad tackles Rick at the waist, and they crash into the leaves and the twigs, and his fist — The one with my birth date tattooed on each knuckle — goes smack, smack, smack, into Rick's cheek. There's yelling; scrambling. Glenn and Shane pull my Dad off of Rick, and that smacking sound stops. Dad beats Shane offa him and then, — 

"Watch the knife!" T-Dog yells. Now there's a swishing sound, and grunting sounds, and I was right — My Daddy's gonna kill Rick.

My Daddy's killed someone before. He did it on accident, 'cause he got so angry that he didn't stop until the guy was dead and gone, which means that it was aggravated manslaughter. It was in the afternoon, just like it is right now, and I was playin' in the front yard in the sprinklers. My Dad and Uncle Merle were in the open garage, smoking and poking at their bikes with tools. Ronnie lived two trailers down. I was small, and easy to pick up, so I don't remember much, but Ronnie snatched me up right there in the yard. My Daddy says he was gon' take me. But he didn't let him. Ronnie got chased into the woods, and for two days, my Daddy and Uncle Merle searched for him. Then they beat him so bad his Momma ain't recognise him when the ambulance people dragged him out in a big black bag, and the cops took my Daddy away while the sun rose. I wasn't allowed to see him for four and a half years.

I need my Dad. Suddenly, I'm shrieking at him to stop, even though I want Rick dead so bad. By now, Shane's got my Dad in a chokehold up against a tree. Are he and Rick allowed to take my Daddy away? Lori and — I think that's Amy — are shushin' me, but I just keep hittin' on them and shouting.

I writhe in the dirt. "Stop! Daddy!"

"Damn pigs!" Dad growls. "You're stressin' out my kid, now! Lemme the Hell go!"

Shane laughs. "Nah, I think it's better if I don't." Then he turns to Lori, because what my Dad said is true. "Get Harley out of here."

I don't let her move me when she tries.

Dad struggles. "Chokehold's illegal, bastard!"

"You can file a complaint later." Shane scoffs. "We got all day here."

Rick steals my Dad's knife off the ground and gets in his face. His cheek is all red and purple. The fight's over. "What I did was not on a whim," He tells my Dad straight. "Your brother does not work and play well with others. I did what had to be done in the moment, to keep us all alive."

He's lyin'. He's lyin' again. My Uncle Merle chopped these people's firewood and brought them meat. He worked well.

My Dad shoots out a foot to try hit Rick in the crotch. He misses. Shane pushes his face harder into the tree.

"It's not Rick's fault." T-Dog holds up his hands, coming close. "It's mine. I had the key. I dropped it."

"You couldn't pick it up?" Dad sasses.

"It fell in a drain." T-Dog serves up this answer like it means anything at all. I hate him.

"If that's 'posed to make me feel better, it don't." 

"Well, maybe this will." T-Dog's lookin' at me, now, too. "The door to the roof — I locked it with a padlock so the geeks couldn't get to him. There's a good chance he's still alive."

I heard this all before, when all them people kept coming up to me at the campfire. Lori told me to get some food in my stomach; the peaches and jerky. Shane tried to make me go play with Carl. T-Dog said sorry over and over again. Dale gave me the blanket. Rick made me cry. I know how this goes, though. Gettin' someone killed and killin' them with your actual hands are the same thing. I know that.

"To Hell with all'a ya'll!"

He shakes Shane off and beelines for me. He takes me from Lori with bloodied hands — Rick's blood — and I let him yank me by the back of my shirt to my feet, and I fall into his chest when he crouches. His breath is heavy on my neck. Even his skin is hot.

Lori's pale as an egg. I think she's scared of my Dad.

He takes a big breath, stands up, and drags me by the hand back to our tent without sayin' another word.

[holymountdias]

Love triangle pt. 2

Erling Haaland x (fem)reader x Jadon Sancho

Summary: A past relationship of yours broke you to the point that you weren't being yourself anymore, but what happens when your ex's best friend takes interest in you and he helps you take revenge ? Will it all just be a game for you or become more than friends ?

Word count: 4k

Notes: angst, a bit steamy (?), but lets say implied smut to be safe

PARTS: 1.0 2.0 3.0

"Aaaand we are here" your friend cheerfully announces after parking the car right outside the club where Jason's party is taking place.

You let out a sigh before silently twisting your head to glance at the place where a line of people seems to be formed right outside the entrance, probably hoping to get a chance to be let inside or maybe Jadon invited them. Either way you don't recognize anybody from them and that makes you slightly anxious about how this whole thing is going to turn out for you.

"Stop overthinking about it, you are going inside, drink a bit, dance with whoever the fuck you want, preferably Jadon but that's just me" she mumbles teasingly the last part which makes you giggle a bit.

"...and have fun. You won't even have to try to do anything, except enjoy your time there and the douchebag will be fuming in jealousy with a full hard on." her encouraging words genuinely seceed to bring a smile on your face but you still can't help but drown in anxiousness.

Were you really ready to face him? What if he tried to talk to you or worse, what if he wasn't alone and you just ended up looking all stupid and pathetic..

A small frown made it on your face once the thought of him passed through your mind again.

It's been some time since you've last seen him and you are hesitant to know your reaction now that you are about to be in the same room as him, for the first time in a while.

The only positive thing from the whole situation is that you were both able to keep everything to yourselves or at least the part regarding your identity since last time it turned out that Erling tended to talk about his hookups with the other players in general, so at least you won't be getting any awkward looks from anybody you are familiar with.

"Are you sure you don't want to tag along?" you asked her with a slightly pleading expression, hoping that she would finally give in. You have been fighting her on this since the moment she made you abandon your bed nest, but apparently based on her words, it wasn't "her scene" or it wouldn't be appropriate cause it's for "higher class people". You tried reasoning with her, but at this point it only made you think that this was just her way of making you get out of your shell.

"Girl If it was your neighbor's birthday party we would already be inside, but it's Jadon fucking Sancho's event, the dude will think im some crazy fan or something. I can't just go inside with you just because you know me." You roll your eyes at her jokingly but decide not to argue about it anymore.

"Besides, you won't be all by yourself" she brings up teasingly and you only furrow your brows in confusion as you look at her with question in your eyes.

"Jadon will be a very much comforting company" she says while wiggling her brows, hinting at Jadon’s possible interest in you and you just shake you head in annoyance.

"I already told you; I'm not gonna fall for his shit. He is so close with Erling that I'm pretty sure he is no different than him when it comes to girls" you tell her seriously and she looks at you with a devilish smile in response.

"Then why not use him first?"

"What?"

"I mean if your mind is so determined that you are going to end up being used, then why not use him first ?"

"Use him for what? Erling?" You asked her intrigued by her idea.

"Exactly, and the fact that they are best friends or whatever is going to make it even better for your, lets call it, revenge. His ex and his best friend flirting and being all over each other.....ohh that will be a blow below the waist if you ask me" You smirk while listening to her words and thinking it through.

There would be no harm in doing that right? I mean he is just a friend so he could help another friend out? Even if it was to make his best friend jealous.... it doesn't mean that he should know about it.

I can come up with some lame excuse I guess

“You got this, i will be one phone call away, but still make sure you don’t call too soon” she tells you before you finally open your door to get out of the car. After saying your last goodbyes, you start approaching the entrance of the luxury club. 

With your invitation on one hand you stand in front of a very intimidating bulky and tall man that seems to be guarding the entry of the place. His strong facial features hold a blank expression as he eyes you up and down, making you feel uneasy in a instant.

Nevertheless you attempt to distract yourself by playing with the edges your hair as you hand him the black envelope. Once he runs it over with his eyes for a good minute, he then steps aside to let you inside without giving you a second look.

A satin black dress was decorating your body, the cleavage hanging low, almost at the bottom of your chest with a high slit showing just the right amount of skin on the outside of your left thigh.

Damn should i have worn something less revealing ? What was that look for, am i overdressed or underdressed ?

You can’t even remember the last time you wore this dress and you must admit that when you looked at yourself in the mirror back at the house, a rapid wave of confidence overtook you, which ended up disappearing by the one single look this bodyguard just gave you…your mind filled with negativity right away and honestly that’s what it always has been like for you.

People’s looks always manage to steal every last bit of reassurance you have in yourself and you hate that for you but of course once upon a time Erling was the prince charming to make all those doubts go away.

 Fucking erling

Honestly fuck him, fuck everything about him, every moment he made you feel so good about yourself and every moment he made you believe you meant something for him. If you are going to see him tonight, you will make sure he has something to remember of you.

Tonight you will make sure its worth it for the both of you.

As you walk inside the club you are met with a huge dark area whose only form of lighting is those small spots on the roof that keep changing colors every minute or so. You can sense how the loud volume of the music is pounding against the walls causing your heart to ache with every beat of the songs. 

You walk through the swarm of bodies that is standing in your way, while you look around in search for a familiar face. The closer you reach the bar area the sooner enough, you are able to finally detect the same regular group of people you hang out with, in cases like this. The girls were sitting next to the bar and they all greet you warmly, once they take a notice of you, welcoming you in their conversation.

“Soo y/n how come that you brother hasn’t arrived yet?” one of the girls suddenly asks you, bringing all the attention back on you once again.

You haven’t really met this girl before so you don’t know what kind of relation she might have with Mason to ask about him straight up and out of the blue. No matter how many times some random girl will ask about your brother, you will never not feel weirded out or uncomfortable.

Its quite often that this happens, since your brother was quite the target for many of those girlies that wanted to be the next it couple or the next housewife of a famous footballer but oh God did it make you frustrated. And that was also another reason why you had trouble trusting others and creating close relationships; people would always try to manipulate you to get to your brother.

“He had a tight schedule so he couldn’t come” you bluntly reply as you take the last sip of your drink. However your answer didn’t quite satisfy the noisy redhead so she keeps on throwing questions, which only manages to annoy you further.

Sophia, Kai’s girlfriend senses your uncomfortableness and quickly comes in to your rescue, by cutting her out and saying something about ordering more drinks.

You mentally thank her and smirk to yourself after you glance at the redheads annoyed expression.

“Have you guys seen Jadon?, i haven’t wished him happy birthday yet”You then ask them.

“I only saw him like about an hour ago hanging out with some guys back where the sofa is but i can’t tell you for sure now.”

“He’s got a lot of people to entertain so he can be anywhere right now” two of the girls reply and you chuckle.

“Great, i will leave him a birthday card or something then” you joke, causing the rest of the group to laugh.

When they proceed to start a new conversation you excuse yourself, heading to the bathroom. After asking the bartender for directions, you finally find it and enter one of the stools

A minute right after you, you hear people laughing and talking while entering the bathroom and you right about to ignore them, when one of the names that is being mentioned catches your attention.

“So how did it go with Erling?” one voice asks

“I don’t know, we hooked up and it was perfect but he hasn’t called or texted since then and i don’t know what to do to get his attention back.” another voice says

“Oh damn it, is he a playing hard to get type of guy ? maybe you should text him first now”

“I did and the fucker hasn’t replied, i guess he only does one night stands”

Typical Erling Haaland, at least he didn’t lead her on for months

“Has he come yet?”

“Yeah he is sitting with some of the city guys at the back"

Your brain blanks after this last sentence, your thoughts working through the image of him sitting somewhere in the room next to you. You ignore any last hints of hesitancy are left in you and get ready to put your plan to work.

After you open the door to your stool and exit, making sure to ignore the stares from the girls next to you, you stop in front of the sink to wash your hands, running your fingers through your long locks to tame them down and back in place.

Once you have finished you exit the bathroom and find yourself in the loud room once again. A long sigh escapes your lips as your eyes shift in between the unfamiliar people around you but thankfully you won’t have to tire yourself any further.

“Here you are” A voice whispers next to your ear loud enough for you to hear through the club's music while a hand wraps itself around your waist, making your breath get caught in shock by the sudden presence behind you.

You quickly turn around to finally be met with the person you were searching for this whole time, Jadon Sancho. He hadn’t changed one bit since you last saw each other in person in one of his games.

His curly hair look freshly trimmed on the sides while he is wearing his usual style of clothing. A t-shirt with both his arms exposed showing off his long sleeve tattoos, a pair of jeans and of course the extra expensive chains around his neck while the flickering club lights in the dark room makes them shine.

“Heard you were looking for me” He speaks again with an evident smirk plastered on his handsome face while his eyes are traveling all over your appearance. His behaviour makes you blush a bit and you thank heavens for the low lightning in the room that hopefully helps out with covering it up. Nevertheless you can’t fail to notice how he still has his arm around you making the distance between you two very small.

“I wanted to wish you happy birthday” you tell him honestly with a curved smile onto your mouth before you lean into him to leave a slow kiss on his cheek with your arms moving around his neck.

His body automatically lowers down to you due to your height difference and you can feel how his arm tightens around your waist when your lips come in contact with his cheek. 

“Happy birthday Jadon” you whisper close to his ear after the kiss and when you finally lean back to look at him, his smirk has turned into a huge grin and his eyes are bored in to yours with interest.

“Can’t wait for my next birthday so that you can do that again” you laugh at his response.

“Shut up it was just a kiss on the cheek, besides i can give you that any day you want” your flirty answer makes him smirk and you can’t help but draw your lower lip between your teeth since his handsome face only gets nearer you, making you feel weak at the knees. 

You don’t know if its the alcohol is causing you to feel this way or something else. You are still definitely very much attracted to Jadon so that is playing its role for sure. However his questionable intentions had forced you to limit your excitement over him all this time and you honestly believed that you would be able to handle your plan like a pro, with no affects overall, but i guess it's going to be more complicated than that..

“Oh i will definitely hold you to that, after all you also owe me a birthday gift” you raise your eyebrows as the corners of your mouth twitched, almost making you laugh.

“Well then in that case, i will give the birthday boy whatever he wants” you dare to challenge him while you are looking up at him through your lashes. You notice how his gaze on you turns darker to the sound of your words; his hand suddenly cupping the side of your jaw to tilt your head upwards to him.

It’s as if everything slows down around you while his steady breaths brush against your skin and his eyes are staring right into yours; you can feel your mouth slightly opening due to the feeling of his touch on you.

“So you will say yes to everything i want for tonight?” he whispers to you and you nod in response, not really trusting your voice at this moment. He gives you a nod and his eyes shift to glance at your lips for a second before he slides his tongue across his mouth.

“Can i kiss you then?” 

“Yes” you immediately whisper back and he nods in response again before proceeding to lean into you.

“Yo Jadon” a voice comes up from behind you making Jadon pause. A light sigh of disappointment breaks through his lips before he lets his arms fall from your body. He is moving to now stand beside you with his arm resting possessively around your shoulder while you have also turned around to meet with the person that interrupted you. 

To your surprise your sight catches with the devil himself, Erling, among Jack and Rashford. 

The last two seem to be staring at the both of you with smirks on their faces looking all smug for the fact that they caught you almost kissing. Erling on the other hand only holds a sour expression on his face, with his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed on his best friend and his cosy behaviour while being next to you. His eyes get to lock with yours only for a few seconds before shifting back on Jadon.

“Sorry for the interruption lovebirds but we are about to play some body-shots and we needed our birthday guy” Jack says 

“Yeah we are both playing” Jadon answers for you as well and you furrow your brows in confusion, twisting your body to look at him better, ready to interject but Erling beats you to it.

“She can’t play” all of you now turn your attention towards him, taken aback by his statement which you makes you scoff at him as you feel yourself slowly fuming in anger.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what not to do?” you argued with him, folding your arms in front of your chest.

“I don’t think your brother would appreciate you doing this kind of stuff with his friends” his annoyed tone only hit more into your nerves. 

The audacity of this guy as if he has any right to speak about anyone else but himself. Deep down you already know that this is an act of jealousy and you are happy to make him feel so disturbed but his attitude was ridiculous. 

You actually are not sure if you were going to participate in the first play in this stupid game but his snarking remark immediately makes you change your mind. 

“And i don’t think that’s any of your business, i am my own person and an adult, i can do whatever i want” he can only keep glaring at you and you serve him back with a satisfied grin.

“Well the lady spoke so, shall we?” Marcus spoke up after a moment of silence and then you all make your way towards the bar where the group has gathered to play. 

“Alright guys after you pick your pair, you spin the bottle to choose the body part” Ben speaks up and everyone starts getting ready.

“You will be playing with me, right?” you hear Jadon close to your ear and you nod in response, while he is standing before you with his arms around you neck, almost hugging you from the back, so you take the chance to lean into his strong form as well and relax within his arms.

After everything is settled up, the game finally begins. You watch as each couple licks the salt off of their partner’s body before taking the shot and of course sucking the lime though their parters mouth.

Everyone looks so pumped from the sexual tension thats erupting through the game; shouting and encouraging everyone to make it as nastier as they can.

You start becoming a bit tense as your turn nears up and to your surprise Jadon is quick to notice it so he starts drawing patterns on your skin with his fingers in his effort to make you relax.

His gesture genuinely makes you smile so you decide to thank him with another kiss on his cheek but before you can see his reaction you have already shifted back to your original position but you get to hear a chuckle from him.

When its finally your turn, you move forward to spin the bottle which after a few seconds stops on the word stomach, while for Jadon lands on the word neck. 

Without wasting another second he removes his shirt and gets on top of the bar counter and proceeds to lay down on it to make the process easier for you. Everyone yells in satisfaction while you almost gawk at him not expecting this kind of boldness but it only makes you more excited. 

Not wanting to delay the game any more, you quickly get on top of the chair to stand on your knees; the new angle makes you come in sight with Jadon’s naked torso while he is gazing at you with a smirk on his face. 

You grin at him with as much confidence as you have, not wanting to let him see how intimated or affected he makes you feel on the inside. Soon enough you find yourself slowly licking a stripe across his stomach before you sprinkle the salt while someone else gives him the lemon. For the cherry on top and to cause some more reactions, you dare to balance the shot on top of his crotch. 

After you check on him one last time, you bend down once again to lick the salt from his stomach. An unpleasant sourness already invades your mouth but it is gone as soon as you lift up the shot with your mouth and drink it down on one go. In the end you hover over Jadon’s face to finally lick the cut piece of lemon from his mouth. 

You can’t concentrate on anything happening around you, your instincts completely focused around the feeling of Jadon’s lips barely touching with yours. The only thing that prevents you from actually kissing is that piece of fruit and you can’t help but curse at it in your head at this moment. 

You make a move to seperate yourself from him and the next thing you know his lips are on yours, the lemon completely gone this time, giving you both finally the space for your mouths to lock with each other. Your eyes are closed while Jadon takes the time to sensually suck on your lips and tongue, offering him to taste everything that entered your mouth from the body shot. 

You hear him groan one last time into the kiss before you decide to break it and move yourself to stand on your normal height. Jadon doesn’t wait another second before he brings himself to sit normally on the bar counter with his legs open and hanging from the counter. 

“Get on” he almost growls at you and you instantly comply, twisting your body to sit on the space between his thighs. You can feel your back coming in contact with his front and your body arches in reaction causing the man behind you to let out a quiet curse; but only you are able to hear it since the people around you keep cheering loudly for the both on you. 

“Tilt your head to the side baby” he whispers to you and you follow along without hesitation, your eyes close and your mind abandons all the control it has, completely giving in to the desires of the man behind you. His hands are gripping the side of your waist when you feel his wet tongue rolling down the side of your neck. You hold yourself back from moaning but you soon get interrupted by his voice again. 

“Put the lemon on those lips and hold the shot for me” he instructs you and your body automatically obeys. 

Once you are ready you feel his tongue on your neck licking off all the salt from your skin in a slow and sensual way. Next you raise your hand up to his face so that he can drink the shot before he grabs your chin to twist your head to the side. Your face meets with his and he instantly suck starts sucking on the piece of fruit between your swollen lips. 

Your senses are once more consumed by the light touch of his lips on yours and after a few seconds he finally pulls back to look at you as you take the chance to remove the lemon from your mouth. 

As soon as you have taken it out, your face is being forced towards him as he goes after your lips once again. His lips are softly sucking on yours while his tongue is teasing you at the entrance of you mouth. When you pull back from him, you open your eyes to look at him while his hand is softly caressing the side of your face.

“You know what they say; sit on my lap at parties and you will sit on my face in private” His bold words cause you to blush and laugh at the same time. While there were people around you staring at your heated interaction you both felt so wrapped up in your little moment that you didn’t seem to care.

“Well i’m sorry to break it to you but technically I'm not sitting on your lap” you respond and he nibbles on his lips while looking at you lustfully.

“You will later, don’t worry” his tone sounds serious and dark probably from how turned on he is, not bothering to hide his attraction towards you, not even in front of all this people and you can already feel your heart fluttering from that.

And to be honest that scares you a lot for what's coming.

[godofclosure]

TOA Anniversary Munday!!

I, too, have stolen this from Neffi. I’m sorry you keep getting robbed crime has truly become such an epidemic in TOA it’s a shame really. Will no one keep our streets safe 😔 (if it wasn’t obvious that was a joke ty neffi)

Name: Metal

Pronouns: She/Her

Birthday (no year): 10/6

Where are you from? What is your time zone? PST! (So like 3 hours ahead of TOA time), AMERICA RAAAAHHHHHHH‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥🗣️🗣️🗣️🦅🦅💥💥

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How long is your roleplay experience? That. Is complicated. Not entirely sure but let’s just go with 3 years i think.

How were you introduced to roleplaying as a whole? Okay so like looking back I was totally roleplaying with friends in elementary school via text but like we didn’t call it that so that didnt even register until I’d already been in TOA for a year so idk if that counts

How were you introduced to TOA? Mindlessly scrolling the Fire Emblem Three Houses tag and for some reason some random acceptance post caught my attention and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it

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Do you have any pets? One dog, two cats!! Do not ask for pictures you will never stop receiving them this is for your own good

What is your favorite time of year and why? (Season, holiday, general period) Winter because the bugs are dead and I can live without fear!!! (+ I live in some weird climate vortex where the temperature never gets lower than 60 or higher than 80 so I don’t have to deal with whatever temperature nonsense is going on everywhere else)

What is your IRL occupation? Student x2 😔

Some interests and things you like/enjoy? Hatsune Miku has me in a death grip. My world is a shrine to her being. So is yours. So is everyone. Hatsune Miku is all. The world is hers. SEKAAAIIIII DE—

What non-Fire Emblem games do you play? Genshin, pjsk, pokemon, sometimes I stare longingly at persona 3 but I haven’t had time to actually play it yet, whatever random farming game has decided to trap me in my room for the next month straight

Favorite Pokemon type & Pokemon: Fire and Torchic :)

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How did you get into Fire Emblem? I’m ashamed to say I’m one of the smash players who was confused by the random anime men 😔 at some point mentioned it to a friend while playing and he was like “oh the mobile game is a good starting point” and forced me to download it which started the spiral (my disappointment when I learned Sakura is not actually a cat and it was just a Halloween alt was immeasurable)

What Fire Emblem games have you played? Three Houses, Heroes, Fates (all three), Awakening, Engage (+I own Shadows of Valentia but I haven’t opened it I’m sorry I’m a fake fan)

First & Favorite Fire Emblem games: First: Heroes 😔 but if that doesn’t count then Birthright, Favorite: Three Houses

List your 5 favorite Fire Emblem characters across the series! No particular order: Edelgard, Plumeria, Líf, Yuri, Kagetsu

Who was the first character ever to make you go “ooh I like this one in particular” and why? Can be any context and reason! Ashe. I have no idea why. I do not feel this way now I forget he exists frequently sorry buddy

If you’ve played (or are familiar with) the following games, who was your first S support? Who would you S support nowadays? - Awakening: First: Chrom (accident, wanted Henry), Now: Chrom (on purpose)- Fates: First: Jakob, Now: Kaden- Three Houses: First: Ashe, Now: Yuri- Engage: Kagetsu. And I’d do it again. Love that guy.

Favorite Fire Emblem class? Dark Flier

If you were a Fire Emblem character, what would be your class and stats? Would you be playable? I want to say “random village npc that lives a peaceful life and doesn’t get involved in the war” but every school I’ve ever been to has had the stupid house system so I cannot deny the truth. I am random academy phase npc that dies on the first mission.

If you were a Three Houses character, what would be your affiliation? Realistically Golden Deer but my heart lies with you beagles

If you were an Officers Academy student, what would be your boons, banes and potential budding talent? Boons: Reason & Riding, Banes: Faith & Gauntlets, Budding Talent: Heavy Armor

If you were an Engage character, which nation would you originate from? Probably Firene if only because I would die in any other climate

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How do you pronounce TOA? 🤔 letters. It took me months to understand why everyone kept talking about toasters

Current TOA muses: Elise and Embla!!

Past TOA muses? Constance, Sothis, Kaden, Kagetsu

Who was your first TOA muse? If you no longer have them, can you see yourself picking them up again? Constance, but I don’t see that happening. The more I looked into her character the more I made connections to stuff irl that I felt like I didn’t have the right to talk about and that fear of accidentally offending someone slowly killed her off

Do you believe you have a type of character you gravitate towards writing? I have three moods: “blonde girl that dyes her hair purple sometimes”, “hyperactive man”, and “what”

Do you have characters or types of characters you don’t think you can handle writing, but wish you could? Plumeria my beloved writing you would make me so uncomfortable which is technically IC but I can’t put myself through that I’m sorry girl I’m not strong enough 

What kind of scenes, situations etc do you believe you enjoy writing the most? I like the silly. I do very much enjoy the drama of course also though. Haha emotional pain :)

Do you have any scenario in mind for your muse(s) that gets you thinking “man I hope I get to write this one day”? TOAAAAA!!!! DROP AN ASKR MUSE, AND MY LIFE, IS YOURS. (No pressure to anyone though of course!)

Favorite TOA-related memories? So many. Too many. Cannot list them all here this is long enough as is. I love you TOA :)

Normal size text, small text, no preference? Small text is too much effort for me but I don’t ever notice the difference unless it’s right next to normal text tbh

Got any potential muse delusions to share? 😉 He lurks. Every day he grows stronger. I don’t know how long I can fight off his return. He has a sword and he is strong and he knows it. Also Metodey for some reason??