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jerzwriter · 1 month ago

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I was inspired by this OTP Question from @kyra75 : How would they react to someone flirting with them? Flirting with their significant other. Kyra asked for all four of my pairings, and I decided I'd write a little fic for each one. Tobias x Casey's can be found here. If inspiration hits, I'll write one for Trystan x Carolina (CoP) and Eli x Zoe (WTD), too. Thanks so much for the inspiration, Kyra!

Book: Open Heart (Book 3 Timeline) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Kaycee MacClennan (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,005 Summary: Ethan and Kaycee are on their way to the first conference they're attending together since making their relationship public. But it seems that everyone didn't receive the memo. Fortunately, they don't get jealous.

A/N: Participating in @choicesprompts Flufftober #7 - Acceptance.

The sun was just starting to peek through the Boston sky when Ethan and Kaycee emerged from the lobby of their apartment building, causing the befuddled doorman to do a double-take as Ethan nodded his way. Seeing him up at this ungodly hour (for a morning jog... of all things) was commonplace, but a Kaycee spotting this early in the day was almost unheard of. Still, she was all but glowing as she hopped into their waiting cab.

Once nestled in the back seat, she leaned over and planted a kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek. “Finally! We're attending a conference where we don’t have to pretend we're not together anymore!"

Ethan smiled, but there was a hint of judgment in it. “Why is that so important? It’s not as if we intend to put on a soft porn performance in the reception area?”

“Which is really a pity,” Kaycee laughed. “I’m sure some of the old fuddy-duddies in attendance could use a pointer or two. It would be a public service, really."

This time, he smiled genuinely, pulling her under his arm with a chuckle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“Oh, I have some ideas,” she teased. “But seriously! Aren't you excited? We can hold hands, acknowledge each other, and we don’t have to pretend we’re unbothered when others flirt with us.”

“Well, that was never an issue," Ethan insisted. "I don’t get jealous. Jealousy is for people with trust issues, and I trust you.”

Kaycee raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smile. “And you should trust me, but, babe, you do get jealous sometimes."

“No," he insisted. " I don’t."

“All right,” she smiled with amusement. She didn’t push further, but in her mind, it was game on.

Santa Monica was beautiful at this time of year, and their resort was already bustling when they arrived, filled with tourists and conventioneers alike. Doctors from all over America were milling about, networking over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. It was an atmosphere that Kaycee thrived in, but Ethan did his very best to avoid. But one thing was certain: the atmosphere was ripe for flirtation, and Kaycee was already thinking of the long game.

She was the first to experience it, only moments after they arrived. As they headed toward the registration table, a tall, handsome surgeon from New York spotted Kaycee and all but jogged over to greet her. His hazel eyes were alight as he neared her. “Dr. MacClennan, correct?” he grinned with a bit too much confident charm. “We met at the cardiothoracic symposium in Chicago last year, and I’ve been looking forward to running into you again ever since.”

Kaycee politely returned his smile but stepped closer to Ethan, trying to give the suave surgeon an easy way out.

“That’s so kind of you to say,” she replied. “And you are?”

“Dr. Barrington from NYU-Langone,” he smiled, so taken in with Kaycee he never even saw Ethan standing by her side. “I was wondering if you’re free tonight. My hospital is hosting a private dinner, and most of the convention’s keynote speakers will be there. I’d love for you to join me if you can.”

Kaycee opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out, Ethan spoke calm, but direct. “We have plans,” was all he said, but Kaycee swore his tone brought the temperature in the crowded room down ten degrees.

Suddenly aware of Ethan, the surgeon blinked. “Oh. Well, I see.” He turned to Kaycee, undeterred; there may have even been a wink. “Well, next time?”

Ethan cursed under his breath as Dr. Barrington walked away, and Kaycee stifled a laugh. “But you don’t get jealous, right, hon?”

“I’m not jealous,” he shot back. “I was just doing my part to save you from an extremely boring dinner when you have much better plans with me.”

“Oh, that's what that was,” she grinned, straightening the collar of Ethan’s linen shirt. “And what do those plans involve?”

He dropped his lips to her ear, whispering in a way that made Kaycee forget all about this little game. “It involves you, me, a bottle of champagne, our bed, and very little clothing.”

“You’re right,” she giggled, looping her arm in his. “Your plans sound much more appealing.”

Throughout the conference, there were many more flirtatious encounters, each more entertaining than the last. At one of the panel sessions, a beautiful conference organizer set her sights on Ethan. A statuesque woman with long, dark hair and dazzling blue eyes moved to Ethan’s side. The compliments she bestowed on him were flowing faster than the wine, and she leaned in just a little too close.

“Dr. Ramsey,” she beamed. “I’m Dr. Monica Rivera. I’ve been dying to meet you in person.”

“Have you,” he replied. “Then I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Doubtful,” she simpered, eyeing him from head to toe. “I’ve always found your research to be so inspiring,” she said, brushing her hand against his arm. “I’d love to discuss some thoughts I have with you. Perhaps over a drink later?”

Ethan, who was entirely focused on his presentation, didn’t have the time for this. “I don’t drink,” he stated flatly.

Dr. Rivera’s face faltered, but she recovered quickly. “Well, then, over coffee?”

Ethan glanced at her, annoyance etched on his face. “I don’t drink coffee either.”

Kaycee, who had been observing the exchange from a few feet away, bit back a laugh as the woman walked away, clearly confused and discouraged. Ethan, focused as ever, was already looking over his notes when Kaycee appeared at his side.

“You don’t drink alcohol or coffee?” She laughed. “Are you about to tell me you aren't really a doctor? You don't like opera? Because that’s all that’s left of your identity, sir!”

He turned to her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Were you jealous, my dear?”

“What?" She laughed. "Not at all. Entertained? Yes. Amused? Without question. But jealous, nah. She’s got nothing on me.”

Ethan leaned over, the scent of Kaycee’s perfume intoxicating as he surreptitiously placed a kiss on her cheek. “Now, that’s the truth.”

As dusk began to fall, they met up at a cocktail hour by the pool. They had spent the majority of the day attending separate workshops, and Kaycee was looking forward to catching up with Ethan. But before they could enjoy a drink together, another attendee, this time a young doctor from Johns Hopkins, slid up next to her.

“You must be Kaycee MacClennan,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “You’re even more beautiful than I heard.”

Kaycee raised an eyebrow. “It's Doctor Kaycee MacClennan,” she retorted. “And, really? That’s what you heard? We’re at a medical conference with our peers, and that’s what you’ve heard about me?”

“Well, among other things,” he replied smoothly, his eyes lingering on her. “I also hear you’ve been doing some groundbreaking work at Edenbrook. Perhaps you could fill me in over dinner. What do you say?”

Kaycee crossed her arms, amazed the man couldn’t see how annoyed she was. “Well,” she began when she felt a strong arm encircle her waist.

“We’re not available for dinner,” Ethan declared, his steel blue eyes daring the charlatan to say another word.

The young doctor blinked, clearly thrown. “Oh, uh, I didn’t realize—”

“Well, now you do,” Ethan said dismissively as the doctor scurried away.

Kaycee couldn’t help but chuckle as they walked away. “Thanks for the save, babe. But I had it under control.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Ethan replied.

“But you had to step in,” she grinned. “Because you might have been a little jealous?”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “He was wasting your time, and I wanted to be with you."

“Right,” she teased, nudging him playfully. “Jealousy had nothing to do with it.”

The day continued the same way, with Ethan maintaining a stoic front as others flirted relentlessly with Kaycee, and she quietly relished watching him jump in every single time. She couldn’t wait to tease him about it later, but that would have to wait until after the final reception – where everything was about to change.

Dr. Allison Porter was the star of the conference, the main keynote speaker, and a world-renowned cardiologist with a smile that could light up a room. She was holding court tonight, and everyone wanted her attention, but she was only interested in one doctor from Boston. When she spotted him alone at the bar, she knew it was time to make her move.

“Dr. Ramsey, I presume,” she grinned, extending a well-manicured hand as she approached.

“Dr. Porter,” he nodded politely while shaking her hand. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, I’m sure. And please, call me Allison." Her eyes twinkled as she assessed Ethan, though he didn't seem to notice. “I’ve been watching you from afar for some time now. The work you’ve done at Edenbrook is truly awe-inspiring.”

“Well,” Ethan laughed softly. “I’m very proud of the work we've achieved, but awe-inspiring may be a bit of hyperbole.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Dr. Ramsey. You should hear how others speak of you at the conference.”

“Really?” he smirked, raising his glass of Scotch to his lips. “I’m usually better off not knowing what my colleagues are saying about me when I’m not in earshot.”

Allison tossed her head back, laughing much too enthusiastically, and that caught Kaycee’s attention from across the room. Amused, she grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and shifted positions so she could get a better view of the show taking place. She wondered how long it would take for Ethan to become flustered or have that familiar scowl take over his face. But as she continued to watch, it never occurred. Instead, he seemed taken in by the conversation, which was fine... until Dr. Porter placed her hand on Ethan’s arm.

“Excuse me,” Kaycee said with a plastered smile as she turned on her heel and made her way across the crowded room. Allison’s voice was lithe, almost sultry, as Kaycee approached from behind.

“Ethan, I think you and I should definitely...collaborate... sometime. I have no doubt that we could...accomplish great things together.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Kaycee announced as she took her place at Ethan's side. “I’ve been looking for you! I should have known to check the bar first!”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first thought. Kaycee, this is Dr. Allison Porter, Dr. Porter, my teammate and partner, Dr. Kaycee MacClennan.”

“Oh,” Dr. Porter said, attempting to hide her surprise. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve read your work as well, Dr. MacClennan... didn’t realize that you two were...”

“Yes, we are,” Kaycee beamed confidently. “Very happily so.”

Allison’s eyes narrowed slightly before she took her leave, and Kaycee turned to Ethan with a sarcastic smirk. “Collaboration, huh?” She said, taking a sip of Ethan’s drink. “Collaboration, my ass. She wanted... something else.”

Ethan cleared his throat, obviously amused. “Are we... what’s the word... jealous, Dr. MacClennan?”

“What? Me?” Kaycee replied. “Absolutely not! I don’t get jealous. I trust you!”

“OK,” Ethan smiled softly. “Whatever you say.” He moved in closer. “Why don’t we get some fresh air? I'd like to get away from all these people lusting after us.”

"Hmm. We do have that effect on people, don't we?" She smiled. "But you can be honest. You just want to get me alone. Don't you?"

"Always," he growled in her ear.

They left and walked along the beach hand-in-hand, their footsteps mingling with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. As they recounted the day’s events, Kaycee nudged Ethan with her shoulder.

“Admit it,” she said, smiling. “You got jealous. More than once."

He glanced at her, his face still stoic but his eyes warm. “Jealousy is beneath me. But you, you may have turned a slight shade of green when you saw Dr. Porter speaking to me. But don't worry, I think it’s kind of cute.”

"What! I was not jealous!" Kaycee insisted, contemplating kicking sand at him if it wouldn't have made her look like a child. "I was not jealous at all!"

Ethan gave her a long look, and finally, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Kaycee's mouth. “All right. Maybe... a little," she grinned. "But admit it, you got a little jealous today, too."

"Fine," he surrendered. "I did."

Kaycee grinned, slipping her hand into his. “Thought so.”

Kaycee shook her head as they continued to walk. "What is it about these things? The minute the lectures are over, it's like someone pumps an aphrodisiac into the air."

Ethan laughed but agreed with her assessment. "I never understood it," he said. "These are professional events. People should act... professionally. I would never lower myself to behaving that way."

Kaycee's eyes flicked to his, the moonlight showing the shadows of her smile. "Seriously? Do you remember Miami? I was there, you know."

"That's different," he insisted. "That was... you."

"Mmm-hmm. But you had been with me in Boston plenty of times, but it took Miami for you to finally come to - then quickly take loss of - your senses."

Ethan stopped in his tracks, his hands finding Kaycee's waist and pulling her near. He kissed her so passionately, so intensely, that she forgot what she was saying - which may have been the very point. He pulled away with a playful grin.

"Enough of this. What do you say we head back to our room and remind ourselves why no one else here stood a chance?"

"Sounds good to me," she said, jumping into his arms. "And Ethan?"

"Yes?"

"I really wasn't jealous."

"All right, Kaycee," he winked. "Whatever you say."

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

#open heart #open heart fanfic #open heart choices #choces open heart #choices fanfic #choices #choices the stories you play #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x kaycee #playchoices #playchoices fanfic

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visit-new-york · 2 years ago

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100 Most Fascinating Facts About the Empire State Building

The Empire State Building, located in the heart of Manhattan, New York City, is an iconic skyscraper and one of the most famous landmarks in the world.

Construction of the Empire State Building began on March 17, 1930, and was completed in just 410 days, opening its doors to the public on May 1, 1931.

Standing at a staggering height of 1,454 feet (443.2 meters), including its antenna, the Empire State Building was the tallest building in the world when it was completed. It held this title for nearly 40 years until the completion of the World Trade Center's North Tower in 1970.

The Empire State Building has 102 floors, with 86 of them being used for office space, and it houses numerous businesses and organizations.

The building was designed by architect William F. Lamb, who worked for the architectural firm Shreve, Lamb & Harmon Associates. The design was inspired by the Art Deco style, which was prevalent in the 1930s.

It cost approximately $40 million to build the Empire State Building, which would be equivalent to over $700 million in today's money when adjusted for inflation.

The building's construction was completed during the Great Depression, and it was often referred to as the "Empty State Building" during its early years due to the difficulty of finding tenants for the office spaces.

To finance the construction, the Empire State Building was funded by a group of wealthy investors, including John J. Raskob, a financier and businessman.

The building's exterior is clad in Indiana limestone and granite, giving it a distinctive and elegant appearance.

The Empire State Building's famous Art Deco spire was originally intended to serve as a mooring mast for dirigibles, but the idea was quickly abandoned due to safety concerns and strong winds at such heights.

The building's construction progressed at a remarkable rate of four and a half stories per week, an unprecedented speed for that time.

During the construction, five workers tragically lost their lives, and they are honored with a memorial plaque inside the building.

The Empire State Building has a total of 73 elevators, including service elevators, and it takes just 45 seconds to reach the 86th-floor observatory from the ground floor.

The building's 86th-floor observatory offers breathtaking panoramic views of New York City and has been visited by millions of tourists from around the world.

Notable visitors to the Empire State Building include several world leaders, celebrities, and even fictional characters like King Kong in the classic 1933 film.

The Empire State Building was the location of several daredevil stunts and record-breaking feats, including the famous race to the top between a man and an elevator.

The building's official lighting system can be programmed to display various colors and patterns during different events and celebrations, making it a striking presence in the New York City skyline.

Every year, on Independence Day, the Empire State Building participates in the Macy's Fourth of July Fireworks display, illuminating the night sky with a colorful show.

In 1964, the Empire State Building was designated as a National Historic Landmark, recognizing its cultural and historical significance.

The building's observatories are open to the public year-round, and they are especially popular during the annual Empire State Building Run-Up event, where participants race up the stairs to the 86th floor.

The iconic scene from the movie "Sleepless in Seattle," where Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan meet on the observation deck, has become a quintessential romantic movie moment.

The Empire State Building has been featured in numerous movies, TV shows, and music videos, cementing its status as a symbol of New York City and an emblem of urban life.

On a clear day, visitors to the observatory can see up to five states: New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Massachusetts.

The building has experienced several incidents of lightning strikes, but its construction materials safely disperse the electrical charge, keeping it relatively safe during storms.

The Empire State Building's Art Deco lobby is adorned with beautiful murals and decorative elements, transporting visitors back to the glamour of the 1930s.

A famous photograph called "Lunch Atop a Skyscraper" was taken during the construction of the building, showing construction workers casually sitting on a steel beam high above the city.

The Empire State Building has appeared in various video games, becoming a recognizable virtual landmark in games set in New York City.

The building's famous spire has undergone several alterations and changes over the years, including the addition of a television broadcasting antenna.

An observation deck is located on the 102nd floor, offering an even higher vantage point for those willing to climb a few more flights of stairs.

During the annual Empire State Building Run-Up, the fastest recorded time for ascending to the 86th floor is just under 10 minutes.

The building's exterior lights are often coordinated to support important causes, such as lighting up in specific colors to raise awareness for charitable events and holidays.

The Empire State Building's lobby houses a scale model of the building, offering visitors a close-up look at its architectural features and design.

The Empire State Building's design and construction techniques were considered innovative for their time, and many of its principles have influenced the development of future skyscrapers.

The building's façade features intricate stone carvings, depicting various animals and mythological creatures, adding a touch of artistry to its exterior.

The Empire State Building was the first building to have more than 100 floors, making it a true marvel of engineering and architectural achievement.

The building's steel frame weighs around 57,000 tons, and the total weight of the building, including its contents, is estimated to be over 365,000 tons.

In 1945, a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building's 79th floor in dense fog, resulting in 14 fatalities and significant damage to the building.

The Empire State Building's architecture has served as inspiration for various skyscrapers and buildings around the world.

The building's height, including its antenna, is precisely 1,454 feet and 8 9/16 inches (443.2 meters), making it an engineering marvel to achieve such precision during the 1930s.

The Empire State Building has been featured in numerous songs, poems, and works of literature, cementing its status as a symbol of ambition, progress, and the American Dream.

The building's main lobby features a stunning ceiling mural titled "American Progress" by artist Roy Sparkia, depicting the rise of New York City.

A bronze plaque on the ground floor commemorates the visit of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who turned on the building's lights with a push of a button on May 1, 1931.

The Empire State Building was the location of a unique event in 1951 when Kathryn Johnston became the first woman to be married on the building's observatory.

In 1980, the exterior of the Empire State Building was designated as a city landmark, ensuring its preservation for future generations.

The Empire State Building's prominence as a symbol of American industrial prowess and architectural excellence was further solidified by its inclusion in the Great Seal of New York City.

The building has been featured on several postage stamps issued by the United States Postal Service, further showcasing its iconic status.

The Empire State Building played a significant role in numerous movie plots, and its imposing presence has served as a backdrop for memorable cinematic moments.

The building's immense height allows it to be visible from various points across New York City, making it a guiding landmark for many residents and tourists.

The Empire State Building was depicted in the 1983 video game "King Kong," where players climbed the building to rescue the titular character.

The building's observation decks have hosted numerous special events, including weddings, proposals, and even a high-wire walk by daredevil Philippe Petit in 1974.

The Empire State Building is an energy-efficient building, and it has earned a Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) Gold certification for its sustainability practices.

The annual Empire State Building Run-Up attracts participants from around the world, with many athletes and fitness enthusiasts challenging themselves to conquer the stairs.

The building's 86th-floor outdoor observatory has been featured in movies like "An Affair to Remember" and "Sleepless in Seattle" as a place where couples can share special moments and breathtaking views.

The building's observation decks have been the setting for several world records, including the highest concert and the highest-flying paper airplane launch.

On a windy day, the Empire State Building sways gently, and the topmost floors can sway up to several feet due to its flexibility and structural design.

The Empire State Building has appeared in numerous comic books and graphic novels, often serving as a backdrop for superhero battles and epic showdowns.

The building's observatories are equipped with high-powered binoculars to allow visitors to get a closer look at various landmarks and attractions across the city.

The Empire State Building has been featured in various virtual reality experiences, allowing people from around the world to explore its heights without leaving their homes.

The Empire State Building's façade lighting is often used to commemorate special occasions, such as holidays, national events, and philanthropic initiatives.

During the Christmas season, the Empire State Building is illuminated with festive colors, and a large Christmas tree is displayed in the lobby.

The building's observatories are open until midnight, offering visitors a chance to experience the stunning nighttime views of the city that never sleeps.

The Empire State Building's central location in Midtown Manhattan makes it a convenient starting point for tourists exploring the city's many attractions.

The Empire State Building has been featured in video games like "Grand Theft Auto IV" and "Crysis 2," allowing gamers to interact with a virtual representation of the iconic structure.

On a clear night, the Empire State Building's lights can be seen from miles away, creating a mesmerizing sight in the New York City skyline.

The building's annual lighting of the tower in blue on April 15th marks the start of Autism Awareness Month, showing its support for autism-related initiatives.

The Empire State Building has been depicted in countless postcards, souvenirs, and artworks, becoming an emblem of New York City's skyline.

The building's iconic mast and tower were originally intended to serve as docking points for airships, but advancements in aviation technology rendered this idea impractical.

In 1947, a United States Army Air Force B-25 Mitchell bomber successfully made a round-trip flight between New York City and Bermuda, proving the feasibility of commercial transatlantic flights.

The Empire State Building was featured in the climactic battle scene of the 2012 film "The Avengers," where the superheroes fought off an alien invasion from the top of the building.

The Empire State Building has appeared in numerous disaster movies, where it is often destroyed or damaged by earthquakes, tidal waves, and alien invasions.

The building's observatories offer a clear view of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Central Park, and other iconic New York City landmarks.

The Empire State Building's interior spaces have been used as sets for various film and TV productions, including commercials, documentaries, and music videos.

On special occasions, the Empire State Building's lights synchronize with music, creating stunning light shows visible from various vantage points around the city.

The building has served as a popular backdrop for fashion shoots, with models posing on its observation decks or in front of its grand entrance.

The Empire State Building was the tallest building in the world when it was featured in the classic 1933 film "King Kong," where the giant ape climbed to the top.

The building's annual Empire State Building Run-Up attracts participants from various backgrounds, including professional athletes, firefighters, and fitness enthusiasts.

The Empire State Building has been a popular destination for marriage proposals, with its breathtaking views providing a romantic setting for couples in love.

The building's observation decks have hosted a variety of events, including live music performances, book signings, and art exhibitions.

The Empire State Building's design incorporates setbacks, creating a distinctive and recognizable silhouette on the Manhattan skyline.

The Empire State Building has been featured in numerous post-apocalyptic movies, symbolizing the endurance of human architecture in the face of catastrophe.

The building's height makes it an ideal location for various telecommunication antennas, broadcasting radio, television, and mobile signals to the city.

The Empire State Building is lit up in blue and white in honor of the annual International Day of Peace on September 21st, promoting global harmony.

The building's interior lobby and halls have appeared in several period dramas and historical movies, evoking the elegance of the Art Deco era.

In 1994, a Norwegian base jumper successfully parachuted from the top of the building, landing safely on the streets of Manhattan.

The Empire State Building has served as a focal point in various New Year's Eve celebrations, with its lighting being an integral part of the festivities.

The Empire State Building has been used in art installations and performance pieces, exploring themes of urbanization, identity, and human experience.

The building's observation decks have been visited by numerous celebrities and dignitaries, from movie stars to political leaders from around the world.

The Empire State Building's Art Deco style has inspired interior designs, fashion trends, and architectural elements in buildings worldwide.

The Empire State Building has been depicted in animated movies and TV shows, capturing the imaginations of younger generations.

The building's grand entrance features exquisite decorative bronze doors, with intricate reliefs and ornamental details.

The Empire State Building has been featured in numerous books and documentaries that explore its history, engineering, and cultural significance.

The building has been the subject of various art projects, including paintings, sculptures, and installations, showcasing its allure as an artistic muse.

The Empire State Building has served as a symbol of resilience, representing New York City's ability to recover and rebuild after the tragic events of September 11, 2001.

The building's observatories have been visited by prominent figures in history, including Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Diana, and the astronaut Neil Armstrong.

The Empire State Building's annual Halloween lighting event sees the top of the building bathed in orange and other eerie colors, adding a spooky touch to the city's skyline.

The building's observatories have been used to conduct scientific research, such as atmospheric studies and meteorological observations.

The Empire State Building was featured in the 2005 film "King Kong," where the giant ape climbed to the top once again in a modern retelling of the classic story.

The building's exterior and observatories have been a popular filming location for various TV shows, commercials, and music videos.

The Empire State Building has been featured in the backdrop of countless wedding photographs, becoming an iconic symbol of love and commitment.

As one of the most recognizable buildings in the world, the Empire State Building continues to be a symbol of human achievement, architectural excellence, and the spirit of New York City. Its enduring appeal and timeless beauty ensure its place in history for generations to come.

#Empire State Building #New York City #new york #newyork #New-York #nyc #NY #Manhattan #urban #city #USA #United States #buildings #travel #journey #outdoors #street #architecture

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bllk-after-dark · 2 years ago

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ARCHANGEL.

an angel of greater than ordinary rank.

pairing. michael kaiser x fem!reader

content warnings. MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI, nsfw, heavy christian mythology/theology, sex on sacred ground (church), kaiser is the archangel michael, reader is an altar server, sex on altar, loss of virginity, fingering, missionary & doggy style, not proofread/edited

summary. you've been serving in the st. michael church for many years, a simple duty in your life and yet you pray to him, the patron of the church you serve. and one day, heavenly flesh made mortal, he stands in front of you and asks for a serving.

word count. 3.9k

fallen angel. masterlist

Altar serving was something you do every sunday. Not because you loved it, that has passed a long time ago, when you were still a kid in awe, but because it was a duty and at this point, part of your routine. It was part of your life, born into a christian family that went to church every sunday. Your father has been an altar server too, long before they allowed girls to serve, and now your younger siblings were too. It was tradition, and tradition was not meant to be broken.

You were one of the eldest in the group, guiding the younger ones through their service, whispering their tasks during the mass. Having almost ten years of altar serving under your belt, you were not only allowed to help prepare and teach the new generation, but also assist the acolyte every sunday.

And while you may not love altar serving, it still brought you peace being here, in the church that has been named after the Archangel Michael. Saint Michael Church, a relatively big one for the small number of people in your commune. An old one too, with the ceilings filled with paintings with angels, but especially Archangel Michael. In fact, this church was the only one with paintings of angels who had other wing colors than white in your country.

This attracted some tourists, but the church was never overrun. It was a shame, then you often let your gaze wander during your servings, with your back straight and hands on your lap, taking in the Archangel Michael with his flaming sword, long blonde hair that takes the color of the sky at the tips and the feathers of his wings ruffled, blood and dirt sprinkled across them, but it could never hide the true beauty of his wings. Even the statues had wings that span at least two meters, and their tips, just like his hair, dipped in blue. Here and there was a golden feather found, as if someone had dripped molten gold on the wings.

Yes, the art in the church you served was unusual but truly beautiful. You may not believe in the Holy Father, not like your parents did, but you did find peace here. Maybe it was the sheer presence the angel radiated in his own church, maybe it was because you had so many memories here, practically grown up with him gazing down at you, but you liked it here.

You may no longer love the altar serving like you did as a child, but you still loved to stand here on holy ground, where only the priest and other servers were allowed, so near to the altar, so near to him. It made you feel special, maybe just for an hour, where you stood in a white robe, bringing bread and wine before the Archangel Michael. One of the statues was on the altar, taking more than half of the sacred table, leaving just enough space for the bible and the communion to be placed. It was a true artwork, just like all the other statues and paintings in the church, but the artist paid special attention to this one.

It was unknown why it stood here, when normally only a holy cross would be placed, but the statue has always been here and no one dared to change its place. You didn’t mind, because most sundays you could take in every detail of the artwork, sitting near to the altar.

And like many sundays in the past and possibly in the future, you’re the one helping cleaning up. Blowing out the candles, collecting the left behind songbooks and of course cleaning up after your fellow altar servers.

Yet unlike other sundays, you’re alone. The acolyte had to leave early, very apologetic but still asking you to finish everything up. You couldn’t deny her request, fully knowing how stressful her private life was with her family. And so you start doing all the task, a bit slower than usual now that you’re alone.

Cleaning up and tidying the altar is the last thing on your list and then you could finally go home. You watch your steps, carrying the bucket with wine first, then followed by all the other things you had to lock in the safe, since they’re made out of gold. In the end, you would put a big white clothing over the statue, preventing the light and dust from damaging the artwork. But you aren’t that far yet, still carrying bowls until the communion cup is left.

A gasp left your lips and the cup fell out of your hands, the sound of its impact on the marble floor ringing in your ears. Wings ruffled, feathers shifted and suddenly he looked at you. The statue made flesh. Archangel Michael.

He was kneeling on the altar, a white robe clinging on his frame, no sword or armor in sight, while his wings started to unfold themselves. So pretty, you could only think. The occasional golden feather almost glowing in the candle light, silver ones shimmering, white feathers almost blinding you but it was the blue ones that held your focus.

A chuckle ripped you out of the trance you were, enchanted by the beauty of the wings- real wings. He was grinning at you, eyes lit up in delight and a grin spreading on his lips.

“Little mortal, I see you’re serving on Holy Grounds named after mine,” he says, voice oh so angelic but also raspy, as if a mere whisper. But he speaks so clearly, his words ringing in your ears and you blink, shake your head, trying to get rid of- what is happening?

“I- I am… your Holiness,” you try. You don’t know how to address him, no one has ever told you how to address an angel. But he just shakes his head, another chuckle escaping his mouth and slips off the altar. He’s barefoot, you realize and he strides over to you, the end of his wings dragging over the floor. They seem heavy, you realize and as if he heard your thoughts (maybe he did, he is an angel after all, can they read the minds of mortals-) his right wing stretches first and the left one soon follows, and so you end up staring at the pair of wings, looming over you and showing hints of the true might Archangel Michael owns.

“You have no need for this, my devotee,” and your heart skips a few beats, eyes going wide when he calls you his devotee. Never have you thought of yourself as one, but now he utters those words, how can you deny it?

“I wish for you to call me Michael, it is my given name after all.” You can only nod and he seems satisfied by that. He stops a few steps in front of you, so near but so far away. Your brain tries to progress the situation, try to understand what your eyes see, but it’s your body that reacts in the end.

You sink on your knees, hands clasped in front of your chest and you bow your head.

“I am not worthy,” you murmur, because you aren’t. You do not believe in god, you do not pray to him, all your prayers, if you ever pray, go to him, to the Archangel Michael. “I am not worthy to see you, your- Michael. I am not worthy to be in your presence, I am-” The words stop and you press your eyes shut. A hand on your cheek makes you snap them open again, not being able to stop the gasp that leaves your mouth.

“Oh, but you are, little devotee of mine. You who are the only one who truly serves me, ever since she was a young girl. You are the most worthy of all.” He kneels in front of you, and still, he towers over your frame, his wings frozen in movement. At this moment, he looks so angelic and sinful at the same time. You shudder at your thoughts, suddenly infesting your mind, spreading and creating pictures in front of your eyes.

The ruffle of feathers makes you snap out of those filthy thoughts, eyes going wide when he pulls you closer, practically lifting you up. You’re frozen in his arms and can only watch in silence how his wings curl around the both of you.

“There is also no need for you to kneel,” he rasps right next to your ear and you shudder, suddenly aware of your hands placed on his half-nacked chest. “A follower so loyal… is allowed to stand in my presence.” But before you can answer him, before you can ask him all the questions you have, he sneaks his arm around your waist and pulls you even closer. A sudden gasp escapes your lips once more and you tremble in his arms, when he suddenly lets his hands wander to your neck.

“A follower so beautiful… little one, will you do me one more service?” He asks this as if you have the choice to refuse him. So you nod, thinking he will ask you to bring bread and wine, or to proclaim your belief in him.

But then he tilts your chin up and you stare at his beautiful blue eyes, enhanced by his long lashes and eyeliner. Who would’ve thought angels have eyeliner, you think hysterically, yet your thoughts go silent, when he presses his lips against yours. You don’t react, your whole body frozen as the angel continues to kiss you. And then the arm around your waist pulls you even closer, bodies pressed against each other and his wings curling tighter against the two of you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lean onto him, your arms circling around his neck. Your fingers brush over feathers and he moans against your lips, so sweet and sinful. And then- and then you finally return his desperate kiss, his tongue sneaking into your mouth, and you lose yourself. The simple soft kiss turns into something filthy, with your panting and his soft noises and oh what noises he makes. Small gasps, choked moans, all because he’s kissing you. You, nothing more but an altar server, nothing more than a mortal. Leaning closer, you let your lips move against his, inexperienced but it doesn’t matter. Not when he lowly groans or when you pant against his lips, trying to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe it. A man kissing and touching you, for the first time in your life-

“Allow me, devotee of mine. Allow me to see your naked skin, allow me to taste your flesh, allow me to feel your love,” he rasps, close to begging, eyes oh so pleading and you can’t deny him. You would never deny him and if it’s his wish to see, to taste and feel you, then you will strip naked, spread your legs and love him with all your heart and soul.

“Michael,” you whisper, close to his lips and press yourself closer to him. “Michael, take and use me to your wishes, and my heart will listen. I will love you, with mind, heart and soul, and only you.” His pupils are blown wide when you whisper your oath, binding your whole life and soul to him. You don’t even realize what you’ve done, but he does. He feels it, down to his core, the oath you gave to him, on his sacred ground. It makes his essence soar, his wings flutter and his cock harden.

A squeak escapes your lips, when he lifts you up, marching over to the altar and lays you down, all while he drapes his body over you, wings unfolded and feathers gleaming in the candle light. His breath fans over your face and your eyes widen, when he slowly crawls on the holy table.

“Michael, shouldn’t we-,” you try to ask him, mind no longer clouded by his kisses but he just slams his lips on yours again and you forget your protests. Throwing your arms around him, your hands start to wander, hesitant at first to touch his bare skin. He grinds his hips against yours in response and he finally lets you breathe. Only now do you realize that he’s propping himself up on his arms, when he starts touching you with one hand as well. You shiver when he touches you below your shirt, riding up the fabric while he continues to ravish you. Moans leave your lips and you lift your legs to wrap them around his waist, trying to keep him close.

Canting your hips up, you grind onto him but it’s not enough. A whine escapes your lips, you want him closer, you want to touch all of him, you want him in you.

“Normally I am someone who is patient, but for you,” Michael starts to speak, voice raspy next to your neck, where he has pressed kisses and bites on your sensitive skin. “I want to take you, here on this holy table, here in my church and I will.” He rips your shirt off first, fabric flying off without resistance and you gulp at his casual show of strength. His eyes fixate on your simple bra, hiding your tits from him.

Michael looks feral to you, wings shifting every second, pupils blown wide but completely focused on you and your body below him. He doesn’t hesitate and rips off your bra, completely ignoring the fact he could simply open it and latches immediately on your right tit, sucking on your nipples and gently pulling on the other.

You gasp and moan at the new sensations, skin feverish and hot, while you bury a hand in his blond locks. He bites you and you tug his hair, making him groan while you beg for more. It’s new, it’s different, it’s filthy and dangerous, lying on the altar of the church you serve in, half naked while the Archangel Michael leaves his marks on your skin.

If anyone could see you right now… you and your whole family would lose face in the community. Even more than that. But you didn’t care, only caring about Michael’s hands and lips on your body, feeling him and his body and-

He suddenly kneels up, your own legs still between his, over you and shrugs off his white robe, revealing his whole form to you. Your eyes widen and you blush when he takes his cock in his hand without shame, slowly stroking it and watching you with half lidded eyes. His wings are once again spread and they flutter, when you sit up and place your hands on his thighs all while claiming his lips. Curiously, you start kneading his muscles, letting your hands wander until you can finally pull him closer. But he has other plans for you, sneaking his own hands to your waist and lifting you up, only to turn and seat you on his lap. He vanishes your last clothes as well, leaving you naked against him.

A pant leaves your mouth when he stretches his body over yours again, rutting his hips against yours, his cock against your pussy, making you gasp when he spreads your wetness and even touches your clit.

“Oh lord,” he groans close to your neck, lips ghosting over your skin once again and you feel so overwhelmed, overwhelmed with his presence, his touch-

“Michael,” you moan, a desperate sob bubbling out when his cock continues to rub against your pussy and not in you. “Please,” you start to beg. “Please, take me- Michael, have me, I’m ready, please-” and you are. Ready and open for him, your untouched and virgin body ready to have him but he just doesn’t take you. Tears spill in your eyes, frustration filling your mind and your body, but he just slowly continues to caress your body, hands wandering until his fingers dip into your pussy.

You cling onto him, nails ranking down his body, and you beg. You beg and plead, but he ignores you, humming when his fingers finally enter your pussy and start massaging your warm walls. It’s not really new to you, you’ve touched yourself several times, always in the darkness of your room, but it never brought you to an orgasm.

Yet Michael’s fingers make your cunt tingle, your thighs shake when his movements become faster and your moans louder. And when his thumb presses on your clit, you shriek, and start rutting against his hand. “More,” you pant, cheeks flushed and your legs spreading even more, so close-

He claims your lips, mouth parting and tongues dancing, while he presses another finger into you. With a gasp you remove your lips from his, eyes closing in ecstasy and head falling back. Another press of his thumb and a bite into your neck has you shrieking again, cumming for the first time in your life, on the fingers of Michael.

“What a darling you are,” he grumbles lowly, licking your reddened juices from his fingers while you try to blink the stars in your sight away. You whine his name, when he doesn’t touch you again and only stares at you. “You’re such a pretty creature, all for me and for me only.” He leans closer, his mouth almost kissing yours but only brushing against it.

“To think I was the first to ever touch you like this… oh, little devotee of mine, you’ve pleased me so well and you don’t even know it.” His words make you whimper, or maybe even his teasing lips that don’t kiss you. In the end he does, making you taste yourself and you can’t help but moan.

“Can you please- please, in me?” you try to ask, suddenly shy in actually voicing your desires. Getting fucked on an altar, what was wrong with you-

Head thrown back again, mouth wide open in a silent scream and he’s suddenly in you. Cock already moving, slowly but surely working into you, more and more. You just cling onto him, gasps leaving your lips and babbled pleas.

His hips move slowly first, so you could get used to his insane size, but it doesn’t take long until he pistons into you, driving hard and fast, and you can only hold onto him, legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

You can feel yourself getting close again, your voice echoing in the empty church and- his wings fluttering above you. Oh god, his wings. The feathers were ruffled, chaotic and they seemed to spasm, every time you clenched around him.

“Beloved mine, look at me,” he says to you, but you don’t hear him, so close to your orgasm and eyes fixated on his wings.

“I said,” he suddenly spat, voice ringing in your ears, “look at me.” The feral look in his eyes, his widened pupils and wings looming over you make you cum again. Your whole body shakes, all while you scream his name.

Instead of letting you rest, he grabs your right leg and hoists it over his shoulder, picking his pace up and chasing his own orgasm. You beg him to stop, oversensitive to a point where it’s almost hurting, your hands scrambling for anything to hold yourself but he doesn’t listen, doesn’t stop, fucking you stupid.

Tears start pooling in your eyes and your whimpers and moans turn into sobs. Michael is a monster, for fucking you so hard, fucking you so good, destroying you and your pussy. You don’t know if you want him to stop or not, want him to continue until you cum again or let your poor, aching pussy rest.

He doesn’t let you rest at all, only leaves your pussy for mere seconds, to turn your body on your stomach and you try to pick yourself up, but your limbs are weak. In the end it’s him who picks you up, hands on your waist, planting you on your knees and hands, only to drive into you again.

The hard material of the altar already makes your knees ache, but you forget about the pain as Michael fucks into you again. It’s fast and hard, punching the air out of your lungs and leaves you moaning and crying for more. Tears are running down your cheeks, and you have to lower your arms, now leaning on your elbows. You beg for him to finally let you cum, you beg for him to cum, to touch you, to hold you and he gives you all that, if not more.

Draping himself over you, he whispers praise into your ear and you shudder, when his fingers find your clit again.

“One more, my devotee. Just one more, for me. Come for me, my beloved.” Hearing his praise, calling you beloved, calling you his and the fact he’s still fucking you, paired with his circling fingers has you cry out and cum with a shudder.

Your legs shake, your whole body seems to quiver, but he holds you strong and steady, only to follow you. His hips pressing onto yours, he fills you up and you can hear the rustling feathers over you, while swears and praise fall from his swollen lips.

Thrusting into you with his slowly softening dick, he draws some last whimpers out of you. It’s soft, how he turns you in his arms and keeps you close, his one wing draping over the both of you and hiding you from the world. He presses kisses on your front, cheeks and nose, leaving your lips for the last. Hands wander over your sweaty body and you blush under his half lidded gaze, suddenly ashamed of your nudity.

“There is no need for that, devotee of mine. You’ve taken me, and this well.” His voice suddenly drops. “You’ve taken me so well and you will take me again. And again and again.” His words make your eyes go wide and suddenly, you realize what exactly happened.

You just fucked someone on an altar. In a church. You got fucked by an angel, by Archangel Michael himself, on a freaking altar. You got ravished and stolen of your innocence– Michael took your virginity, here in a church and you had sex.

You can feel his cum dripping out of you, slowly running down and you press your legs together. Why did you suddenly want to make sure no drop of his cum would leave your pussy? Why did you have the sudden desire to-

But Michael doesn’t seem to realize your dilemma, still peppering kisses on your skin and face, absolutely blissful in the afterglow.

“I apologize for being so harsh but my desires got the better of me,” he suddenly speaks up again, completely ignoring his previous words. “Yet… will you allow me to take you again?” Seeing your surprised look, he chuckles and gives you a small peck on the lips.

“Not today, I shall let you rest,” he assures you, as if he just didn’t completely destroy you. But you didn’t care. The promise of another fucking, of another time like that, where he made you scream and cry, makes you shudder. You snuggle closer to him, wiggling your body against his, while the altar uncomfortably presses against your other side. Yet you don’t care, not when you’re being held by the most gorgeous man in the world, an angel and maybe… someone you would learn to love.

But that is something to worry about in the future. Now you enjoyed his fleeting touches, listening and blushing to his praise, oh his praise, and the warmth of the wing that acted like a blanket.

taglist. @scftbunni , @kaiser-samaa , @mikeysonlywhore , @dervaaas , @mi-kage , @yumik00001 , @miraculouscorazone

if you wish to join the taglist for this series, please send this blog a message/ask or comment below the masterpost! all other applications for joining the taglist will be ignored.

anne. woo, i finally posted it. i'm so glad i have this monstrosity finally out and no longer in my drafts... already fearing the next part. dunno why i'm doing this to myself but then i think about angel!kaiser and i no longer question my sanity. enjoy!

#blue lock smut #michael kaiser x female reader #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #michael kaiser smut #bllk michael kaiser #bllk smut #blue lock x female reader #blue lock x reader #fallen angel — the series

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shunin-gumis · 3 months ago

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Mistery on the Moonlit Passage - Track 02

Seasonal Event Story

I've translated chapter 2, Hope you enjoy!

~~~(flashback)

Ryui: Toi, you’re fine with 3 sugar cubes for your milk tea, right?

Toi: Yes! Thank you, Ani-sama!

Netaro: Ah! I am fairly certain I mixed in some of my special invention of “Wasabi Cubes that look Identical to Sugar Cubes” in that sugar pot there.

Ryui: Pfghtt!!

Muneuji: Hm, a tea ceremony. Allow me to participate as a break from my studies.

Nanaki: …..

Nanaki: …*glance*

Chief: Yuki-nii, what did you want to talk about?

Kafka: It better be important enough for you to disturb my cozy tea time with the Chief.

Yukikaze: Indeed. This may lead to a new business opportunity for us.

Nanaki: (...I wonder what it is…)

Yukikaze: The other day, my father was approached by the president of a cruise liner company for a discussion on reopening the Night Cruise, which had been out of operation for some time now.

Chief: A Night Cruise…! We do have a special tourist zone that’s facing the sea after all, it’d be great if we could make cruises more popular too!

Yukikaze: I thought that perhaps there was something we could do to help after hearing this from my father. Would it be difficult?

Kafka: Difficult? Who do you think you’re talking to? If we receive an official offer, HAMA Tours will promise to deliver.

Yukikaze: Thank you. I’ll let him know.

Chief: It’s rare that we get a chance to help out on a cruise. Yuki-nii, did you get to hear any specifics about the discussion from Uncle?

Nanaki: (Chief’s eyes are sparkling…)

Yukikaze: The liner itself is ready to go, but since it hasn’t been in operation for a long time, they’re looking for advice on what they could offer as onboard services.

Chief: I see… Then how about we have a soft opening with the members of HAMA Tours as guests?

Kafka: Good idea~♪ We can offer consulting after seeing how the soft opening goes.

Chief: Right, Yuki-nii, could you ask Liguang-san for his opinion as well? We could use the cruising sector from ward 4 as a reference.

Yukikaze: Alright. Liguang himself probably won’t attend the soft opening, seeing as he’s been busy lately.

Nanaki: (Their conversation is progressing so smoothly… Kamina-san and Ooguro-san both know the Chief from childhood, huh…)

Yukikaze: I’m excited to go on a cruise and see the night view of HAMA with you…

Kafka: No one asked.

Chief: We can discuss the specifics later in a meeting… Is there anyone here who’d be interested in participating?

Muneuji: I would like to participate to broaden my horizons. It would also be beneficial if the swaying of the boat would help strengthen my core.

Chief: Um, I’m not sure about that… I’ve heard that they use AI to control large cruise ships such as these, so there shouldn’t be much swaying.

Netaro: Ooh~ I would love to see the internal structure myself! I’m coming too~

Yukikaze: There’s a sky deck as well, according to the pamphlet. It’s on this page here, Ryui.

Ryui: Who cares.

Toi: Wow, I’ve never been on a ship as big as this. I want to try it~

Ryui: Oi Kamina, hand over that pamphlet.

Chief: How about you, Nanaki-kun?

Nanaki: Um… I want to join too.

Nanaki: (Seeing the night view with the Chief… Maybe it could help set the mood…)

Nanaki: (–No, what am I thinking? There’ll be others on board too, there’s no way it’d turn out like I want it to…)

~~~(end flashback)

Location: Cruise Liner - Party Venue

Nanaki: (Way to set the mood…!)

Nanaki: Chief, please, wake up…!

Chief: …..

Nanaki: What should I do at a time like this… Hey, Andy!

Andy: …..

Nanaki: Wait, huh…? The reception was fine till just a moment ago…

Ryui: Toi… Toi!! Dammit, where’s the captain!?

Yukikaze: I’ll go search for him. The rest of you, look after them.

Muneuji: Everyone, please calm down.

Ryui: How the hell am I supposed to calm down!?

Muneuji: It appears that they’re all simply asleep.

Ryui: Huh…?

Toi: *soft snoring*

Ryui: …You’re right. That’s Toi’s usual angelic sleeping face.

Kafka and Kinari: *soft breathing*

Akuta: Guoh… Pumpkin… Noodle soup… Pollock Roe… Espetada…

Yachiyo: Munya munya… I can’t eat anymoooore….

Yodaka: There’s no need to rush… Take it in slowly… All the way inside…

Muneuji: Isotake and Fuefuki-san are both still clutching their plates… Looks like they’re enjoying a buffet in their dreams too.

Yukikaze: Yodaka-san seems to be conversing with Yachiyo in his sleep… What an amazing technique.

Nanaki: I-If it’s even the same genre…

Chief: *soft snoring*

Nanaki: (I didn’t think I’d get to see the Chief’s sleeping face… Their eyelashes…)

Nanaki: None of them look like they’re in a bad condition, so… I guess it’s okay?

Ryui: Like hell it is.

#18trip #18tlip #18trip translation #event story translation #mistery #nanaki nanamegi #nanamegi nanaki #yukikaze kamina #kamina yukikaze #ryui shiramitsu #shiramitsu ryui #netaro yowa #yowa netaro #kaguya muneuji #muneuji kaguya

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trealamh · 6 months ago

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Albatross

Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Arthur is a sailing instructor and Alasdair is a local marine carpenter who likes taking his smoke breaks on the pier. There is an accident.

He doesn’t think twice and wouldn’t have had the chance to change his mind even if he had tried. One hand on the forestay, one foot on the gunwale, only barely; moving so quickly that he loses his sandals and cuts a gash across his knee on something and does not feel it. His life vest is upstairs, dry and hanging from a coat rack in the office. Arthur had left it there this morning, a radio clipped to his hip, and said to their admin, Michelle, that he’d missed the sunrise by an hour, his phone dead and unplugged, silent between his matress and the headboard.

She’d shown him a picture she’d taken on her way to work that morning, the harbour crowned in crimson so deep it looked like dusk.

Arthur has worked at the sailing centre every summer-to- fall for the last three years and in that time, they’ve had a fair share of accidents. Only a handful of major injuries, including three concussions. Arthur has never been involved in any; the worst he’s ever had have been blisters, rope burn, bruises that bled green across his skin and healed over a week. Usually he’s one of a pair playing rescue, confident enough in what they’re doing that they have never had to call in the rescue service. They have two dinghies that they use to herd in their youngest students and chase after their racers, heavy enough that they whip against the waves as they cut through the contrails of the commercial vessels that dock further down the coast, where the strips of piers give way to industrial docking. They can tow students and stranded tourists in no trouble. On slow days, if they have enough gas to spare, Arthur takes the larger of the two on joy rides, packing in his youngest students like sardines and riding waves out to the cove to make them squeal.

The first thing he does most days when he clocks in is pick up the keys from Michelle. Only this morning he was late, so he’d arrived to find he keys gone, and their storage half-cleared of equipment, boats by order of size and the age of their crew lined up on the slipway already. Arthur had waved as they set off, dry and tasked with putting together reams of lesson plans and patching up the hull of their oldest Vaurien instead of shouting orders against the wind. His kids had waved back, smiles wide, and during his lunch break he’d come to see them back into port, letting them recount the hours they’d spent drilling short manoeuvres like while they sorted their lines and pulled their boats up over the tideline for a couple hours, waiting out the worst of the sun and giving them all a chance to rest. The forecast

(Arthur had been mindful, then, of the eyes on him, watching from the railing overlooking the public slipway the centre uses. In the three years Arthur has worked here they have talked properly maybe twice, enough at least that Arthur to know his name. Alasdair.

He works a trade, somewhere on the coastline, and runs a shop right across the street, keeping hours during the height of tourist season and watching over the centre like a disgruntled gull. He smokes sometimes, and the parents complain when they catch him at it, like there is anything the centre can do. Arthur is sure that if it didn’t require him walking up the office to Michelle, Alasdair would file as many complaints about them. It’s not rare that they have an audience and Alasdair is as good as a dock-cleat by now. He greats Arthur with a nod, if at all, eyes dark and set under the seemingly permanent burrow of his brow. He makes Arthur feel clumsy with his silence and hot in the face when he has to walk past him. Last summer Arthur thought he saw him sitting by the bar of his once-favourite pub and was so absurdly, inexplicably shy that he’d walked right out the way he came and spent the rest of the summer sober.)

So, Alasdair had been there at midday, rolling his tobacco with a filter between his lips and catching Arthur’s eyes. Arthur had walked past him on his way back to the office, and had considered (briefly, briefly) stopping on his way up the slipway, right below where Alasdair stood. He almost had, hesitating for a moment before picking up the pace and filling in quickly for another instructor. It’s just that he hadn’t known what to say and had felt in that split second that it would have been worse to trip over his words than walk away. Alasdair would be back tomorrow, or if not then next week. Next month, before the season ended, or next year. Time enough for Arthur to find something clever to say. Alasdair would be there, forearms resting on the railing, his hair whipping in the wind. There would be time.

It is strange, but it’s the last thing Arthur thinks of before he hits the water. Alasdair’s hands and the weight of his attention.

In Alasdair’s opinion, he’s the best they’ve got.

He has lived and worked by the water his entire life, coming and going with the seasons since their small town turned from trade to tourism some twelve years ago, now. In that time, he has watched the marina grow from salt-rot to fresh planks on the boardwalks. Late last spring whoever is in charge of things like gave the iron railways in fresh black coat, glossy and cool to the touch. There is no chipping rust off with his thumb anymore, eyes lost on the horizon. Maybe in a year or two the paint will wear, and the iron will flake again, eroded by the sand and salt that blow into the bay.

The children like the railings that run from the sailing centre down to the promenade leading into town. They hang off them, chasing gulls and waving out the smaller fishing boats when they set out in the morning. Alasdair is not much better, coming down here with a pouch of tobacco he should quit on and a faint excuse.

It’s not that Alasdair comes down to see him; he’d been coming down to smoke and watch the boats for longer than he’d care to remember and would continue to do so long after the lad moved on, as he would inevitably. He’s southern and pale and leaves every autumn with some warmth leeched into his skin, stark tan lines on his shoulders from his life vest and the uniform shirt he wears beneath it. The first time Alasdair had seen him had been his first day at the centre; couldn’t have been older than twenty-and-some, tripping over his own feet like he hadn’t expected Alasdair to turn to look at him when he did. Alasdair isn’t sure why he had, truth be told but since then he’s had a hard time looking away.

Alasdair has seen him head out in one of the sleek racers, late in the afternoon. He’s also been around to watch him tow wrecked boats in a few times. What’s more is the children like him; the older ones try to impress him. He’s good with them, the right amount of involved and patient with them. None of them seem to notice how he keeps out of the way with the rest of the instructors, subtly awkward in a way the weans can’t pick up, not like Alasdair has. They look at him with, with poorly-disguised awe and make up in heads who they expect him to be and will remember fondly come autumn. Summer gold and brave.

In this too, Alasdair is not much better.

The old radio he keeps on the counter tunes into the forecast. Around half past, he half-pays attention to talk of a windstorm and resolves to pack up for the day. This time of the summer anyone who needs him already knows where to find him and he has an early start tomorrow working on a luger someone’s towing in from Balliemore. It’s late enough that the fleets will be turning in, clearing the horizon for the larger commercial vessels and making way for the last ferries to dock before dusk. The centre will have gotten word on the windspeed, and he is half expecting that he will walk past to find the slipway cleared already. Turns out he is half right.

From across the street the view is half obscured but Alasdair can see enough to know that something is wrong before he hears shouting and the splitting crash of metal. Arthur is already sprinting from the centre, faster than Alasdair has even seen, and it must be bad, if even from a distance Alasdair can make out the fear in the clench of his jaw.

He is running after him before he even realises he’s made the choice to.

It still happens too fast. Later the girl from the office, Michelle, will tell him it started when two of Arthur’s students, anxious and off-kilter, had lost control of their boat. The instructor in charge of them had left them to it, only realising too late that with the wind coming at the speed it was, and with another three boats, there was no getting the dinghy in between them. They had crashed, first into another Vaurien, mast to mast, and then into the side of the slipway. That’s when Alasdair had spotted Arthur running blind down when one of his students had screamed his name. Alasdair had missed him jumping onto the boat closest to the slipway, line in hand to lock it in place while another instructor and two of the parents waiting rushed to his aid. He had managed to get a hold of the second boat, somehow, and grab onto the forestay to keep it close enough for the kids to climb from one boat to another and into their parents’ waiting arms.

That might have been it; some injuries, Arthur’s bleeding knee and bruises on the weans, and damage to the hulls of both ships. But in the panic and rush to bring the boats in, the instructor on the motor boat had turned in at full speed, missing a turn and ramming into the boats and Arthur, who’d been standing on the gunwale.

Alasdair had watched it happen without slowing his pace, feet slipping on the wet stone of the ramp. The mast had tipped, giving under the strain of Arthur’s weight and the impact of the dinghy on its hull. Arthur had gone under between the boats, silent under the audible fracture of one of the hulls when the boats knocked together again. Alasdair had felt sick, the whole useless lot of them frozen in terror as they all realised that Arthur might have drowned then, knocked unconscious by the impact or killed by the blow outright.

The children had been rushed away, adults crowding near the top of the ramp where Michelle was shouting to make herself heard over the wind, directing people away and screaming someone’s name. No one tries to stop Alasdair when he scrambles onto the dinghy, soaked up to the thighs and reaching shoulder deep into the water while someone holds on to his trousers to keep him in the boat, all in a mad dash to push the boats out of the way as best they could, clearing the space to try and catch sight of Arthur under the surface. The second dinghy wouldn’t dare come close and risk Arthur under the sharp blades of its propeller.

When Alasdair feels skin and then fabric under the surface he makes a strangled sound and pulls up, desperate and hopeful.

Arthur coughs, half limp in Alasdair’s grip once he realises that someone has him and knowing in some dormant way that struggling now would do more harm than good. Already he can feel his shoulders starting to shake, reedy tremors from deep in his muscles which come from the adrenaline crash. He kicks against the side of one of the boats to help Alasdair bring him into the dinghy and only realises then that it’s him who’s got him, broad and panting almost as hard as he is, still trying to catch his breath. Rather than let him go, Alasdair goes from gripping his side to the front of his shirt, letting him settle and spit saltwater while keeping him at arms-length.

His nose and his ears hurt. He’d hit the water so hard he lost half the breath in his lungs and held onto the rest out of instinctual desperation. He had let his body sink out of shock, feeling the temperature drop with every inch he lost to the depths, eyes stinging and set firmly on the last refraction of light under the surface. The crashing boats miss him by a handspan and even then, he does not recall feeling afraid; only a sense of stillness. He remembers thinking that if he’d been wearing his life vest he would have stayed afloat and that would have been it. But he wasn’t, and so he slipped deeper, eyes to the sky, and only started kicking up when a silver of light had come back into view.

On the boat, now, he is barely aware that someone is talking. Speaking to him, harsh and loud and shaking his shoulders. Arthur blinks saltwater away from his eyes and blinks up at Alasdair like he is seeing him for the first time. Looking up like he had earlier, from the slope of the slipway up to where he’d been standing on the gangway.

Alasdair cannot help his anger; the way it hardens his voice and makes him grip Arthur tight. He is vaguely aware of the other instructor in the dinghy, so he turns to him as well, calls him an imbecile worse than Arthur for having caused this god-forsaken mess in the first place. He would have cursed them both out hoarse if it weren’t for Arthur hand just then, reaching to up to grip his forearm where it is still crowding Arthur in close to his body.

“Thank you,” he says, working hard to collapse his breathe and release the tension from his body, eyes falling to half-mast and back coming to rest in the cradle of Alasdair’s body.

Sitting on the floor like he is, he can tip his forehead against his own knee, so he does, feeling for the first time in his life something like motion sickness. Alasdair letting go of his shirt feels like coming unmoored, but it is only for a moment. Alasdair puts his hand on his arm, squeezing gently and murmuring something that gets lost under the wind and the breaking waves but feels reassuring nonetheless. Arthur still has a hold of his forearm and does not even think of letting go. They breathe in tandem with the rocking of the boat beneath them and Arthur shivers. Alasdair presses closer and when Michelle runs down the slipway, a clean, dry fleece jacket in hand he reaches out to grab it and wraps it around Arthur before helping him to his feet and back onto land.

He sticks around. Some of the parents approach them to thank Arthur and shake his hand; a few others have concerns they want addressed and Michelle quickly steps in to lead them away. Some of the children cry, frightened. A handful of the older crew disguise their worry under banter but linger until they see Arthur standing with his freshly bandaged knee and then offer him a ninety-nine from the ice cream truck that rounds the pier every day at five. Arthur accepts, awkward and tired and mindful of the fact that they are watching him. Alasdair doesn’t get any ice cream but does get one more glare in when the second instructor comes to apologise with a few of Arthur’s other colleagues, who slap them both on the back.

When Arthur goes to collect his things Alasdair is still there, standing in his wet boots and his damp jeans. Arthur stays in town and offers his shower and tea. Despite the fact that Alasdair’s home is closer, he accepts, and they walk in silence.

Dusk comes late in the summer and bleeds gold-red. Alasdair’s clothes smell like Arthur’s detergent, and his skin like the bar of soap in his shower. Arthur’s temple smells clean and his hair is softer than Alasdair would have thought. He brushes a kiss there before he goes and can’t place the scent that lingers on his nose after. He sleeps deeply that night and wakes up thinking of something sharp and sweet.

He greets dawn on the deck of the luger, a smattering of clouds in the sky tinged gold in the first hours of the day.

(Lingering by the fenced boardwalk, a figure watches him work, lazy and listless, forecasting mild winds and clear skies; waiting patiently for midday when Alasdair might be tempted to step away and take his Saturday easy and slow. They have time.)

#scoteng week 2024 #scoteng #hws england #hws scotland #based on a true albeit much less romantic story #I'll add a link to AO3 when I cross post it! after some proof-reading

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hapan-in-exile · 7 months ago

Text

Volume 4 - Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by dindooku

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 5.6K (fourth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

IV. “Hey! Watch it! I–oh…I, um…” the Trandoshan’s words died on his lips the moment he looked up to discover who he’d bumped into.

The Mandalorian hated working on Coruscant. It was noisy, crowded, and endlessly labyrinthian. Most of the filters in his helmet were rendered useless due to the sheer number of life forms in such close proximity. Continuous vehicle traffic across every level of the city overloaded his motion sensors.

The frenetic energy of the megalopolis set him on edge.

But what Mando really hated, what he absolutely loathed, was visiting the Uscru District. It was all the worst parts about a place like Daiyu—gambling dens, night clubs, garish neon lights, vendors shouting, the flashing, stochastic holograms—made somehow worse because it was repacked for gawking tourists.

Acrobats hung from cables crisscrossing overhead, their lithe bodies shimmering, while street musicians played for coins. Instrument cases littered the walkway, and goods were hawked on the pavement.

He felt uncentered. The next idiot who tripped over him to stare slack-jawed at some fucking juggler was getting bodied.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that. Mando couldn’t afford the delay.

The Mandalorian turned onto Daring Way, toward the sky bridge that would take him to the Floating World. Tourists liked to keep to well-lit thoroughfares, so the foot traffic here was sparser, and he made better time. Soon, the soft, glowing lights of the pleasure quarter came into view.

Music spilled out from decadent parlors where the doors and windows had been flung open to lure passersby. Beings of every gender and species could be seen lounging, sprawled out on display, wearing little more than scraps of fabric and gaudy jewels.

Each house catered to a different clientele, their specialty made known by the facade of the building or else the costumes worn by hosts welcoming their clients inside.

Most tourists never entered the brothels of the Floating World. They just came to take in the scene and watch the crowd, which was a sight in itself. Amongst the extravagant fashions and decor of the houses, many visitors donned elaborate masks or robes to conceal their identities.

So the Mandalorian was surprised to discover that the Dark Garden had no hosts waiting in the doorway and nothing on display in the windows. Instead, they were closed, sealed tight behind intricately carved black shutters.

The whole building was black. Its gleaming stone exterior looked more like a palatial mansion than a pleasure house.

The woman stationed behind the desk in the entryway was also dressed in black. It was a stark contrast to her pale pink skin, white-blond hair, and nearly colorless gray eyes. She looked up at him from between two onyx vases overflowing with vibrant red blossoms that matched her painted lips.

“Welcome, sir. We appreciate your business. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I’m not in need of your…services. I’ve come to see Mistress Anassa. She’ll know why I’m here.”

“Mistress Anassa is very busy,” she smiled apologetically. “Her clients book months in advance. I cannot promise she will have time to—”

He slid several gold peggats across the highly polished surface of the reception desk.

“Tell her a Mandalorian is waiting. I’ll be here until she finds the time.”

“Very well, sir. Please come with me.”

She led him through a dark passage to a lounge filled with curved sofas and circular ottomans, where clients–some wearing masks, others with their faces bared–sat huddled in conversation, drinking from elegant carafes or smoking ornate water pipes.

The hostess directed him to an alcove beneath a cluster of illuminated, floating orbs.

“Can I offer the Mandalorian anything while he waits? Company, perhaps?” She lowered her voice as she leaned in to place a pillow behind his back. “We cater to every desire here.”

“My desire,” he said evenly, “is for solitude.”

“As you like,” she smiled again, leaving him to wait for Mistress Anassa.

But he was conspicuous sitting alone, and it wasn’t long before another hostess dressed in black strode toward him. She walked over on towering heels he imagined Thuli would have loved to see if the Mandalorian needed attention.

She artfully placed one of the gilt carafes onto the lacquered table beside him and poured a drink. “May I offer the gentleman anything else?”

Her voice was as supple as her corsetted leather dress.

“No. Thank you, I–”

The sight of two luminous violet eyes caught him by surprise, and his heart stuttered. He turned sharply to see a woman entering the parlor. On second glance, she looked nothing like Thulindhara. But the eyes were unmistakable—their iridescent sheen, how they glowed bright like full moons. She was Hapan.

“Perhaps the Mandalorian sees something to his liking?”

It wasn’t her, yet the thrill that rose inside him didn’t ebb. It clutched the breath from his lungs and twisted his stomach into knots.

Mando knew he would miss her, but he hadn’t expected to feel her absence as a physical pain.

“No,” he said. “Thank you. But, no. I’m here to see Mistress Anassa.”

He watched as the woman who wasn’t Thuli walked up to a Keshiri couple at the bar, gesturing them to follow her down a long corridor hidden behind a pair of lush velvet curtains.

Beside him, the hostess offered the drink she’d poured, and he accepted it. Not for the sake of politeness but because he felt compelled to hold something in his hands. Sensing his discomposure, she looked meaningfully towards the curtains as they fell back into place and whispered, “They say to lie with a Hapan is to open the doorway to heaven.”

The Mandalorian had heard that said many times and always dismissed it as a self-serving rumor. He didn’t pay for sex, but mercenaries loved to talk about how they would spend their take on Hapan courtesans. The most expensive pussy in the galaxy, they said. Once you’re between her thighs, you’ll forget your own name.

Now, Mando understood the truth of these stories. Well…he hadn’t forgotten his name, but she did taste like heaven.

For most of his life, sex had been about release. Lust was simply another physical need. Like hunger or sleep, he met those needs for the sake of his body. When a woman felt so inclined, he obliged—helmet sealed, armor intact—to let her take what satisfaction she could find.

With Thuli, he learned that sex could be something beyond physical pleasure. They shared a connection unlike anything he’d experienced. Real intimacy. Mando hadn’t kissed a woman since…he’d barely been a man. Still a child, really.

To be with Thulani, naked and vulnerable as he had never been before, was not about release. It was fulfillment. Satisfaction of body and soul. And, yes, part of that was being between her thighs.

In the abstract, he’d been a little intimidated, but in the moment, it had felt entirely natural. He wanted to linger over her every curve, to put his mouth over every inch of her body, and he had loved all of it—the way she tasted, her fingers tugging at his hair, how her hips lifted with his touch.

It made him feel powerful in a way he hadn’t expected, drinking her in until she was soaked and breathless under his tongue.

Then, a door had opened—a door between their consciousness, when he’d felt her pleasure cresting through his body, rippling over his skin in waves that matched the stroking of his fingers. She’d lost all control, and his whole being was suffused with her ecstasy, so intensely passionate that he saw stars behind his eyes. Maybe it was heaven?

Thulani’s trick was making people believe in her openness, yet Mando recognized how rigidly she held herself in check. He sensed the wild, fierce nature in her heart that she constrained. It made him feel both immeasurably powerful and deeply gratified to be the one who made her unravel.

“The Mandalorian asked for me?”

A woman in a crisply tailored black suit stood before him. He did not immediately recognize her species, but the horns that spiraled around her long, folded ears and convex nose reminded him of a dray goat.

“You’re Mistress Anasssa? The proprietor of this…establishment.”

“Mmm, the Mandalorian is polite for a mercenary,” she sat beside him on the bench and reached out with slender fingers (no hooves) to take the glass from between his hands. It struck him at once how artfully the gesture was both sensual and dominating. “In answer to your question…” she drank deeply. “Yes. The gentleman would be wise not to let the crystal and chandeliers fool him. This is a dungeon. And I am its master.”

“I see.” It was all he could think to say. “Boss Set’ki said you’d be expecting me.”

“My apologies. I was otherwise occupied when the Mandalorian arrived.” She looked at the untouched carafe on the table. “I am sorry my vintage is not to his taste. And none of my ladies, either, I hear. If it is males he prefers, the gentleman need only—”

“That is beyond my purpose, Mistress Anassa. I’m here on business.”

“I doubt the Mandalorian would burden himself with such formality if he intended to capture me,” the mistress smiled curiously. “What is his business?”

“I’m interested in one of your clients.”

She scoffed. “The gentleman must realize discretion is an essential tenet of my profession. Why would I betray my client to help him?”

“Because Set’ki owes me a debt. And while you may be the master of this dungeon, your master is Boss Set’ki.”

Her features became resolute. “Then let us discuss this matter in private.”

The Mistress rose and walked toward the velvet curtains. Mando followed her down the long corridor until she stopped before a door with gold flowers embossed along its hinges.

She placed a tasseled fob against the keypad. “I hope the Mandalorian will appreciate that it is to everyone’s benefit if he appears to be another of my clients?”

“Very well,” he said and stepped inside.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected. The black walls did not surprise him, but the abundance of those same red flowers, blooming from vases and wall hangings did. They matched the illuminated floor tiles that pulsed with crimson light.

Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished to accommodate the…equipment. There was a saltire cross with a rack of whips and paddles positioned beside it and a polished steel beam with manacles chained to its post. A length of rope dangled from one of the ceiling beams overhead. Instead of a bed, a quilted leather couch sat in a far corner of the room.

Plastered across one of the walls was a diagram of knots with cautionary notes about circulation and nerve damage.

“I’m sure the Mandalorian must be very accomplished at tying knots,” Mistress Anassa said from over his shoulder.

“I prefer cuffs.”

“Mmm…” He felt her eyes rake over him with heightened interest. “I have never met a Mandalorian before, but I begin to see why you inspire so much fascination. The armor, the brute force, stalking, capture, imprisonment—all potent themes for bondage role play.”

“I am Mandalorian. Violence is my trade. Weapons are part of my religion.” Mando turned to face her. “I’m not playing a game, Mistress.”

He could tell Anassa enjoyed hearing him call her that.

“Of course. Though I’m sure someone has offered to suck your cock in exchange for their freedom. Can you honestly say their begging has never aroused you?”

Her tone was frank, not seductive. A businesswoman appraising a commodity.

“I think the Mistress has a false impression about the sorts of people I’m sent to collect.”

At that, she laughed. “Still…I see the appeal. If you’re ever interested in a new line of work, I believe the Mandalorian and I could make a great deal of money together.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mando recalled that Thulani had said much the same thing. A Mandalorian would make good coin at one of those Keyorin brothels.

He suddenly wondered if this was something Thuli might enjoy. Bondage? Role play? The clamps and paddles didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he wouldn’t be opposed to tying her up if that’s what she wanted.

Mando looked at the steel beam, and his mind couldn’t help but stray towards fantasies of throwing her over it and fucking her senseless.

“About your client, Mistress Anassa.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“This man, Ronan Carr,” he said, taking the holo-puck from his pocket and activating its profile. "I’m told he makes use of your services when his wife is out of town.”

Mistress Anassa schooled her features, but it was too late. He’d seen the look of panic cross her eyes the instant she recognized the man’s face.

“The Senator will be leaving on a diplomatic mission. Does Carr have an appointment scheduled for her departure?”

The Mandalorian suspected that Ronan Carr had an appointment booked for later that day. He’d been following Carr for the past week. Yesterday, the man had reserved an entire hotel floor under a false name and given his personal assistant the night off.

“He does,” the Mistress confirmed. “But I won’t help you. Boss Set’ki may kill me for my refusal. I will accept that punishment. A political assassination would condemn every soul under my care. That I will not accept.”

“I have no intention of killing Ronan Carr,” he assured her. “It’s information I want.”

“I suppose that is his trade,” her eyes weighed the Mandalorian, and she dropped the artful persona. “You won’t harm him? No kidnapping or torture?”

“If those are your terms, then I will agree. I only want to talk to him.”

“What if I have other terms?” The Mistress asked shrewdly.

“Name them.”

“I don’t want any of my people harmed.”

He nodded. “Do you know who you’ll send?”

“Yes, there are a few he favors.”

“Then give me some token or signal. But tell no one of this.”

She paused before coming to a decision. “I will go with them tonight. To ensure all will be as you promise.”

“These are your terms?”

“He’s a good client,” she waved her well-manicured hand vaguely, “And if word got out? If he thought I’d helped you?”

“Ronan Carr won’t risk the Senator discovering his…hobbies.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Here,” he pulled out a folded wallet and handed it to her. “To compensate for your loss of business. Though I expect a man with his proclivities should be back before long.”

“Thank you,” she gave him a curt bow. “You know where to find him?”

“Carr has gone to great lengths to conceal his plans, but yes, I know where he’ll be tonight.” And without really intending to, the Mandalorian said, “His desires make him weak.”

Mando was surprised at the scorn in his voice. Surprised to hear himself say that. Did he believe desire made him weak? His desire for Thuli?

It certainly made it difficult to concentrate. How many times did he think about her each day?

Maker, if he was being honest…he woke up thinking about Thulani, and the thought seemed to last all day. He worried about whether she was safe. He’d make some stray observation and imagine her reaction. He saw something beautiful in a window and wondered if she would like it.

When he lay inside the sleeping compartment alone, surrounded by her scent, he thought of Thuli’s mouth on him, those delicate fingers stroking his cock, and his body ached. He could not bring himself off without thinking about her.

Mistress Anassa looked at him with genuine sympathy as though she could sense his turmoil.

“Shame is Ronan Carr’s weakness,” she said. “If he were honest about his desires, you would have no power over him. His wife might even oblige. But shame feeds arousal. Maybe you can understand that?”

“Excuse me?”

Shame. Was that at the root of his sudden anger? The Mandalorian was not ashamed of his relationship with Thuli. He did not believe she made him weak.

But he did feel shame about his own selfish cowardice. That in her absence, he’d realized how deeply he cared for her, and it killed him knowing he could never say those words.

Why? Because they gave her power over him? No. Whether he said the words or not, didn’t change his feelings. But to say them aloud would be a promise. One he couldn’t make.

She’d met him on those terms, yet he felt ashamed he couldn’t give her more. She deserved better than a man who could not share his name or his face or his life with her. It would always come back to that.

“Shame is one of the most effective tools of repression,” Mistress Anassa shrugged. “But repression simply fuels temptation. Temptation transforms into desire. Desire generates more shame.”

Anassa opened a hidden panel in the wall and beckoned him forward. Lightly placing her fingers over a wooden slat, she slid it open, and a pinhole of light pierced through the room. The muffled sounds of moaning grew louder.

Gesturing toward the peephole, she said, “It’s only when we embrace our desires that we become free of this endless cycle.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, the Mandalorian looked. What he saw was the Keshiri couple from the parlor. The man was fully clothed, on all fours, his hands and knees braced against the ground. His partner was naked, splayed on his back, while the Hapan woman fucked her roughly with a strap-on.

“They were honest with each other about their desires. Now, it creates a bond rather than a wedge.”

Mando hadn’t anticipated that visiting a sex dungeon would prompt so much soul-searching. His eyes strayed back to the peephole, towards the Keshiri in the throws of climax, eyes shut tight as though she might die from ecstasy.

While he felt ashamed that he could not tell Thulani he loved her, he could at least ensure she felt loved. When he worshipped her body, when he fulfilled her desires, when he made her unravel—she would know the depth of his feelings.

“I’ve heard it said that true Mandalorians do not remove their armor. Perhaps the gentleman prefers to watch?”

He pulled the slot closed. “I’ve seen enough.”

**********

One thing the Mandalorian did appreciate about Coruscant was the simplicity of bribing government officials. As with any vast bureaucracy, front-line New Republic workers like the port operatives were overlooked and underpaid.

Flush with cash from Ryun Vos, Mando was able to dock under fake tabs at a shipyard centrally located in a safe and discreet area. Money made all things possible on Coruscant.

“Please tell me something in that bag is fried?” Nito moaned as the Mandalorian stepped inside the Razor Crest.

“I got some of everything, so your odds are good.”

The Ardennian was sitting at a makeshift table of stacked cargo containers with the Child seated in his lap. He had his mechanic’s apron on while the kid was stripped to his breechcloth. And they were both covered in paint.

“There better be a bath planned for after this,” Mando growled, reaching to wipe the Child’s talons clean with a take-out napkin.

“What? Yeah. Sorry,” Nito said dimly. “Yes! Oil bread. And rice balls! Fuck yeah!”

The Mandalorian thought vaguely that Thulani would try to curb Nito’s swearing, but he only had so much paternal energy left in him today, and he needed it for the baby.

Mando pulled the fried bread out of reach and replaced it with the box of bean pods. “Hey, kid, you need to eat at least five of these.”

His enormous ears wilted in disappointment.

“How’s the programming going?” Mando asked, searching for the sweet and sour broth.

Nito shoved a rice ball in his mouth and swallowed it whole. “Do you have any idea how complex a unified operating system for an industrial plant—with residential facilities can be?”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s why I’m paying you.”

“Paying me in more than dumplings, I hope.” Nito laughed cheerily. “Assuming it’s the Imperial coding language, I think it is…”

“We’re going to find out tonight.”

“You got Carr?”

“I know how to get to him,” Mando said. “We leave in three hours. Spend at least one of those cleaning up the kid.”

“Okay. Okay.”

The Mandalorian was relieved to have such a tidy solution for Ronan Carr. It wasn’t in his nature to wait for reconnaissance or planning. He was a blunt instrument—brute force, as Mistress Anassa had said. But Nito proved that hacking the man’s communicator could be useful. Coruscant was not the Outer Rim. Best to be cautious here.

Months ago, he would have stormed the hotel, shoved a blaster in Carr’s face, and broken the man’s fingers until he talked. Now, when Mando considered this approach, the crew from Dark Garden weighed on his conscience. Not everything needs to end in a shoot-out, Thuli had chided him. She wasn’t even here, yet her memory was wringing these little bits of decency from him.

Nito snapped his fingers in front of Mando’s viewplate. “You in there?”

“What?” He shook his head.

“You’ve been staring at those dumplings for an eternity. I want to eat them.”

Mando passed the container.

“I was telling you about this utter stroke of genius I had.” The Ardennian lifted the kid onto the table and pulled something out from his apron pocket. “So, he’s green, right? Well, I painted his face. And when I put on the bonnet…See! He’s Mirialan.”

Underneath the paint splatters, Mando recognized the geometric facial markings.

“That’s–sure, that is pretty genius.”

Nito beamed. Thuli told him things would be easier with the kids if he put in a little effort. So far, it was working.

“I mean, he hates having his ears tucked, but it’s only temporary, buddy. Just to keep you safe.”

The Child squirmed and pounded his fists against his thighs.

Mando had to suppress a laugh. “Bean pods and bonnets. Guess you got it pretty rough, kid.”

The baby stopped mid-tantrum to glare at the Mandalorian.

“Anyway,” Nito went on. “We had the paint out, so I found some packing paper…and look what he made.”

Mando tilted his head and squinted, “It’s a…bantha?”

“It’s the Razor Crest,” Nito snorted.

“If you say so.”

The kid squealed until Mando handed him a meat pie.

“I miss her too, you know.”

“What?”

“Fish dumplings are Thuli’s favorite,” Nito said quietly. “It’s hard not to miss her when she makes everything so…” he shrugged, “cozy when she’s around.”

The Mandalorian nodded. “You heard from her today?”

His heart twisted painfully in anticipation. It did every day when he asked that question. But he knew she must have checked in that morning. Nito would be inconsolable if she hadn’t.

“Yeah, I got the signal.”

Good. She's alive. Hopefully safe. “We’ll see her soon,” Mando assured them. “We’re stocked up on supplies, weapons, equipment. Once we get what we need from Carr, we can make a course for Lakaran.”

“Did you get a gift to bring her now that you guys are, you know, sleeping together?”

The Mandalorian choked on his soup. The steel jaw of his helmet caught him painfully on the lip, and he had to pound his chest a few times before he could breathe again. “Did she–ahem–did she say something…about…?”

“Didn’t have to,” Nito waved a furry hand. “For months, you’ve both just wreaked of longing and frustration. Then you came back and smelled…satisfied. Pretty logical conclusion.”

“You can smell that?”

“Oh yeah! It’s kind of funny that humans can’t since all of your emotions get communicated through hormones and sweat glands.”

Mando shook his head again. “I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this,” he sighed. “But while we’re on the subject, there are some…things I should…we should probably…discuss before we leave to find Carr.”

“What? Like, sex stuff?”

The Mandalorian groaned. Where do I even start…?

**********

The hotel Ronan Carr had booked was elegant enough for his aristocratic tastes while also offering the assurance of privacy. There was a separate entrance and elevator for the penthouse floor so he could avoid bumping into anyone from his social circle—or his wife’s senatorial colleagues—in the lobby.

Mando opted to gain entry from the roof.

“You hear something?” One of the bodyguards asked.

But just as their partner began to answer, the Mandalorian slipped behind him and placed a blade to the man’s throat. In an instant, he had grabbed the guard’s wrist and raised his blaster. Mando shot the other bodyguard before they could cry out in warning.

To stage this right, the knife needed to go in at just the right angle. But the man continued to struggle under Mando’s grip, trying to break free from his hold. The guard tried everything—stomping on the Mandalorian’s foot, slamming his head against the Beskar, thrusting his shoulders against Mando’s arm around his neck.

The bounty hunter might as well be a statue for all the give there was in his frame. The guard’s death was inevitable, but he refused to make peace with it.

Mando hooked his leg around the man’s ankle and sent them both hurtling toward the ground. The force of impact drove the knife into the guard’s throat.

A wet splatter hit his view plate when the man coughed blood onto the Mandalorian’s helmet. Yet he still fought. Hands flailed blindly until Mando drove the blade deeper, severing the spinal cord. And finally, the fingers clawing at his wrists fell limp.

He rolled the bodyguard onto his back and returned the blaster to the man’s right hand. Should be enough to cover my tracks.

Mistress Anassa had left the south-facing balcony doors unlocked, just as he instructed. They slid open with a soft rolling hush before he made his way silently through the suite. She was waiting for him in the study, hunched over a display monitor.

“You look a sight,” she arched an eyebrow at him. “Can I get you a towel?”

“No.” The blood was war paint. It would make what came next that much easier. "I staged the guards. You can claim a fight broke out, and you had to get your people to safety."

Anassa cleared her throat and nodded. It was the first time he’d seen her unsettled. “The false name on the hotel reservation avoids a paper trail, but I can’t decide whether Carr realizes Set’ki is tracking all of this.”

“Do you record him every time?”

She glared at Mando. “No, but I had a feeling my master wanted some insurance. I don’t expect Ronan Carr will be making any future appointments with Dark Garden after tonight.”

Involving Set’ki and Anassa—at all—was an unnecessary risk. The Mandalorian had done it to ensure the safety of her employees, and he didn’t feel any remorse about the Mistress’s bottom line.

“Tell them to leave the room.”

She crossed her arms with a frustrated sigh. “I know I don’t have a say in any of this, but it shouldn’t go unspoken, this is a gross violation of my professional ethics.”

“You’re arguing ethics after admitting to blackmail?”

“Those restraints are intended to aid his submission. He needs to feel safe to surrender control. And instead, you’ve co-opted them for violence.”

Mando huffed. “Are you referring to the silk scarves tied around his wrists and ankles?”

“The type of restraints are irrelevant. Bondage is a kink that depends on trust. It’s a choice to be helpless. Consent is based entirely on trust. This is a violation of trust. I feel the weight of what this will do to his psyche, and I ask you to acknowledge that before you step inside that room.”

The Mandalorian couldn’t fathom why she was looking to him to absolve her guilt.

“And I told you, violence is my profession. Get—your people—out.”

From the display screen, Mando watched as the Mistress entered the bedroom. Her sudden presence startled the other women, but she quickly ushered them into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

When he was confident they were gone, the bounty hunter opened the bedroom door. The first thing he did was drape a towel over Set’ki’s camera. Mando didn’t want any record of his presence on Coruscant.

He approached the chair Carr was bound to without bothering to stifle his footsteps. The man had a sensory deprivation mask covering his eyes and ears. He hadn’t sensed the ladies from Dark Garden leave the room, and he was becoming agitated, sitting in a puddle of urine, confused as to why they didn’t end the session.

Ronan Carr paid to be tied down and tickled until he pissed himself. The kink wasn’t inherently sexual. It didn’t make him hard. He didn’t come, and nobody brought him to completion. The tickling made him laugh and his muscles spasm, and eventually, the stress on his pelvic floor emptied his bladder.

Then, he slept for ten hours. It simply…relaxed the man.

“Whoa!” Nito said when the Mandalorian explained this. “So it’s like getting a massage? But, like, a really extreme massage.”

It wasn’t not sexual…he paid to be tickled by beautiful women, after all.

As he ripped the mask off, Mando tried not to think about Anassa’s sanctimonious pleading. He felt no remorse for Ronan Carr, either.

The bounty hunter unholstered his blaster and pointed it in the man’s face so it was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. On cue, Carr jumped, recoiling in terror at the sight of the Mandalorian.

“Don’t cry for help," Mando said, his voice cold and stern. "You don’t want anyone coming through that door to find you like this, do you?”

Ronan Carr shook his head.

“Good. Do what I say, and I won’t have to hurt you,” he growled. “Tell me you understand.”

Ronan Carr took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand.” The man’s voice quavered, but he didn’t panic. Some people became paralyzed with fear, which made interrogation that much harder. If Carr could keep it together, this would be over quickly.

“Untie yourself.”

Despite Mistress Anassa’s speech about trust and surrender, her words were meaningless sentiment. Ronan Carr had never given up control. The scarves were tied with enough slack that he could easily lift his hands over the headrest and pull free the knots at his wrists. After that, he only needed to lean forward to release his ankles.

“Where is everyone?” Carr asked nervously, massaging his wrists.

The man was wiry, more muscular than the bounty hunter expected from someone who spent his life behind a desk. Intimidation was his best tactic to keep Carr in check. Use of physical force would only complicate things. And he made a deal with Anassa.

“You don’t need to know what I did with them. Worry about yourself.”

After a lifetime of doing this work, Mando knew most people’s imagination was far darker than any threat he could make. The man looked at the blood splattered across his helmet, and all the color drained from Ronan Carr’s face.

“What is it you want?”

“I need something, and you’re the person who can get it for me.”

“My wife—”

“This has nothing to do with the Senator. And it doesn’t have to. You give me what I want, and she won’t discover what you get up to under the name ‘Kirk Satu.’” Carr’s eyes went wide with horror. “The piss play makes for an awkward conversation, but I think all the bank transfers will be harder to explain.”

Now, he had the man’s full attention. “What do you want?”

“First, I want you to put some clothes on. Meet me in the study when you’re ready.”

The man’s suit hung neatly from the bathroom door, yet he stared at the garment like it might transform into a torture device.

“You’re not—you aren’t going to lock me in?”

“We both know you won’t run,” Mando said. “You’re going to do what I tell you. Then you can forget all about this.”

The look on Carr’s face when he walked into the study made it clear this encounter would haunt him for some time.

“Is your communicator on?” Nito asked from behind his data-pad. “Your real one. Not the burner?”

“What?” Ronan Carr stammered. “I–yes.” When the notification bell chimed, he pulled the device out from his pocket.

“Okay, read me the security code.”

“Wait! This is about work? You want something from the Archives?”

Carr looked between Nito and the Mandalorian.

“You do realize the New Republic Library doesn’t store any military or intelligence records. This is not…what could you possibly need that isn’t already publicly available?”

Mando thrust his blaster in the man’s face. “Ask me about my business again and see what happens to you.”

“The security code?” Nito drolled.

Mando grabbed the communicator from Carr and handed it to the Ardennian.

“I’m just…we have a records request system online…”

“For redacted documents!” Nito howled. “If you guys just uploaded everything onto the Net, you could enjoy your tickle party and we wouldn’t be here.”

Ronan Carr’s face turned scarlet. “It’s our responsibility to make sure sensitive information doesn’t fall into the hands of…criminals.”

What a fucking hypocrite. “Can we hurry this up?” Mando barked. The fact that the bodyguards in the foyer hadn’t burst into the penthouse meant that Mistress Anassa had done her part. But their luck wouldn’t last long.

“Well, it’s not my fault the file structure isn’t intuitive,” Nito looked at Ronan Carr with disgust. “And you call yourself an Archivist?”

“I–I don’t oversee information architecture.”

“Ah! Okay…security question for the download. What is the name of your first pet?”

When Nito had the files he needed, Mando thrust a disc into Carr’s hands.

“What—?”

“I lied when I said this didn’t involve your wife. That’s for her. From a former Rebel fighter, Ubaa Dir. Remember the name. The next time you hear it, give the Senator that disc. You’ll know when.”

“How will I explain—”

“You’d rather explain the sex workers and money laundering? Figure–it—out,” Mando snapped, and Ronan Carr jumped.

This time, the Mandalorian did lock him inside the bedroom.

He found Mistress Anassa in the living room, offering the Child sugar cubes from an abandoned tea service tray.

"I'm done here," Mando said, watching as the kid delightedly crunched the crystals between his teeth. "He's unharmed, as per the terms of our deal. Are you satisfied?"

"Very," she smiled serenely at him. "I thought I'd be spending the night cleaning brain matter off the walls. Instead, I got to play with an adorable baby."

Anassa lifted the Child from her hip and handed him back to the Mandalorian.

"You still want me to bind and gag you?" Mando asked. "I could just lock you inside, like I did with Carr? It might take him a while to break out, by the way."

"No," she shook her head. "I've got to sell this if there's a chance I can retain his trust. And he'll need a witness to help explain what happened to the guards." Mistress Anassa looked thoughtfully at the Mandalorian. "When life hands you an opportunity, it's best to seize it with both hands."

"Very well." Mando reached for the plush, decorative rope tying back the curtains—he could at least ensure that she was comfortable.

"Speaking of which," the Mistress grinned. "I do hope you'll reconsider my offer. There are a number of ways we could leverage your particular talents at the Dark Garden."

The Mandalorian offered her a chair.

"After listening to the ruthlessness in your voice saying, You're going to give me what I want..." she shivered rather theatrically. "Fear is a very potent form of arousal. I'm confident we could find clients looking for nothing more than degradation."

The audacity of her proposal impressed him, and his mouth quirked into a begrudging smile beneath the Beskar helmet.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

"And what knots do you plan to use?"

Mando huffed—not quite a laugh. This was beginning to feel like an audition. "A bowline. But I can use a hitch knot if you prefer?"

"Merely professional curiosity," Mistress Anassa grinned, sitting in the armchair as though it were a throne. "Do you have a suggestion for the gag?"

The Mandalorian cocked his head, "Give me your necktie."

He wasn't entirely comfortable with how much keen interest lit up her face. A businesswoman through and through.

She hurriedly fished something out of her suit pocket. "Take my card. You're a working father, after all. It pays to be flexible when there are mouths to feed."

****************

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #5: Wish You Were Here!

Back to Volume 4 - all posts

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando smut #sexy mando #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #star wars smut

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assortedvillainvault · 2 years ago

Note

ok if acceptable I'm dropping one more before closing time

"I remember you" with a reader being the reincarnation of someone the Horned King once loved

*Clutches chest* ROOOSSEEE-

This hurts me. In like, the best way. Here we go, modern reincarnation because I low-key would like to get lost in the Welsh Mountains forever (I have deadlines).

Also please forgive the Google translated Welsh at the end I did not have the time to look up proper medieval Welsh and asking someone real to translate would have been good to think of before I started operating on 5% brain. If anyone following me is a native Welsh speaker pls DM me or leave a comment and I'll correct Google's attempt.

The Horned King x Reincarnated!Reader : 'I Remember You'

You have no fucking clue why you're here.

'Here' being the Ass-End of Nowhere, Wales. No phone reception, no services, no people and no tourists. Except, uh, yourself. Obviously.

You got up, drove out, picked a random direction between two hills and. Started walking. You don't even know why.

You just know that there's something further into the mountains that your soul is ITCHING to get to. You've always felt it, but recently ignoring it has started to feel like being pulled through barbed wire.

The ground is rough and uneven, tussocks and hidden rocks threaten to turn your ankles every other step. The trees that twist their way along the crevices of the high moorland are all but draped in moss and thorns. The mountains arching up behind them are unwelcoming, cold and cragged.

It's...eerily quiet. No birds, no people...even the sheep seemed to stop at some hidden border a few miles back. Just the low moan of the wind accompanies you.

As you walk, you find yourself stealing glances at the sky. You tell yourself it's for birds - Kites and eagles maybe - but you have to keep a strange disappointment down that it's nothing larger. What are you expecting for fucks sake? Dragons??

You're so busy scanning the skies that you topple arse over tea kettle down the next scree slope like a graceful spaghetti mannequin with a screaming feature.

You manage to scrabble and hiss to a stop, skin on your arms and legs scraped raw. And upon looking up suck in a breath that has nothing to do with your sliced up hands.

It's as though a giant scooped the earth away and set it on fire for good measure. Bare reddish black rock contends with a bitter snarl of dead grasses and lonely tree corpses. Beyond lies a dessicated crevass that looks like a lake drained away overnight.

Beyond that, is a castle.

You blink and tear the vision that seared across your eyes - of a fully fleshed gothic fortress - away. What lies before you is a ruin. The bones of the structure, at best.

The barbed wire in your soul is all but yanking you toward the ancient structure. You don't notice that the path you tread towards it is one you can find without looking, despite the terrain.

The bridge, rotted and rusted as it is, is mostly secure. You keep your weight to the bolted metal crisscrossing the wood as you make your way across, slow and steady and feeling as though phantom archers have their sights on you from atop the wall.

As you pass under the archway to the courtyard, you shiver violently. The feeling of passing under so familiar that it almost clawed it's way out from your skin.

The very air seems to hold it's breath as you make your way deeper into the crumbling structure. Water drips from the stonework, the doors all long since rotted from their hinges. Tools lie forgotten on the cobbles. If it wasn't so creepy it would be an archaeologists dream.

Why does no-one around seem to know this is here? Why is this place so undisturbed?

You stumble into what must have been the Great Hall.

Cold sunlight shafts through holes in the ceiling, the corners in absolute darkness. Skeletons lie in piles across the floor, roughly around where large tables should have been, weapons scattered akimbo as though they didn't even get a chance to use them before they fell.

Your eyes are dragged to the dias. There's a body on the throne.

It's slouched, slumped, as if whoever this was had thrown themselves back on the seat and collapsed in exhaustion. The mothbitten red robe and fur stole is strung with spiderwebs connecting them him to the throne, but this isn't what yanks on the barbed wire in your soul.

The pair of great, regal thorn like horns protuding from the figures hood are angled towards you.

Your feet carry you forward.

The figures face is obscured but you know it, the fingers curled loosely still with flesh, after all this time, no weapons around the dias but no evidence of wounds on the body as if he would need them, as if they could ever lay a finger on their King-

Your hand trembles, reaching out to touch the nearest horn irrestisably, not even daring to breathe.

The corpse lurches.

An arctic vice closes on your wrist, bones grinding as he yanks you to your knees on the stone. His fist is impossible to pry loose even as you scrabble at it, nails ripping at leathery hide- heart pounding-

His second hand closes on your neck and you freeze.

Twin red lights blaze from under the hood. Pupils in a black socket that focus hazily on your face, blinking as if rising from a dream that still has its hooks in him. The hand on your neck squeezes and you gasp, eyes bulging, wrist forgotten as you plead with your hands against the unstoppable force around your neck.

Brows twitch as he watches you struggle. Marginally, the fingers loosen and you suck in air, sounding like a broken bellows compared to the cathedral-esque empty quality of the air passing through his chest.

Gently, reverently, knarled fingers parse hair from your forehead. You didn't even realise he'd released your wrist. Your throat remains in his grip.

You meet his gaze as the last of the fog clears from his sockets. His voice, rusted and broken from disuse, still rumbles from his throat like a shuddering landslide.

"Rwy'n eich cofio, fy annwyl."

"I remember you, my dear."

#thalassa responds #rose this is one of the best asks ive ever gotten thank you #i hope you like this!!#the horned king x reader #disney villains x reader #the horned king #disney villains #x reader #HOOOO let me tell you this was a major self insert moment #what will it take to get me a lich king bf honestly #lich simps arise

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autisticrosewilson · 5 months ago

Text

In Trouble

Um. This is a joke that's not a joke that spawned from a conversation with @perseus-jackass about Nurse! Jason and Red X! Grant, that spiraled into a Miraculous Ladybug style love square situation lmao. OG's will remember when this was an ML blog, you could say I'm going back to my roots. Also this story is omegaverse! It's not really mentioned till Jason's pov but I don't want to blindside anyone

"Scream if you have to." Robin says gently, before wrenching his shoulder back into place. Grant does scream, he jerks and writhes but gloved hands hold him in place while his bones shift under the skin. There's a white hot pain that spreads through his arm, an aching relief as everything is realigned, and then everything goes prickly and numb.

Grant lays there panting, staring up at the smoggy night sky. Gotham doesn't even give him the courtesy of stars after subjecting them all to her madness. Robin had at least been kind enough to lay down his cape before his impromptu field med session, but goosebumps are spreading up his arms the longer his bare torso is in contact with the New Jersey air. At least Robin had helped him remove his shirt instead of cutting it off, as he'd threatened to.

"Good job," Robin praises, "you took that so well!" He grins, a certified Robin smile. Suddenly, Grant knows where all the stars went.

"Uh, thanks." Grant says absently, eyes tracing over the glint of too-sharp canines peaking out from cracked lips. Robin's a lip biter, he notes, the flesh has been scraped off. They'd probably bleed with little to no effort.

Grant wants to try, wants to taste it.

Slade clears his throat, and Grant remembers that his family is in the room, among several other hostages, and about twelve previously armed men who are now very unconscious. Robin himself has moved onto taking stock of everyone in the room, likely doing a head count and checking for any other injuries, but he signals for Slade to wait. He tilts his head slightly, finger coming to rest on the communicator in his ear.

"Okay folks, police are en route and the parameter has been cleared. I'm going to lead you all to the nearest exit, keep your head low and try not to make any noise. Listen carefully and stay behind me." Robin pops out of his crouch, helping Grant up as he gives the group orders.

"Look, kid-" Slade starts, and is promptly cut off by multiple snorts from the other hostages. The Gothamites, Grant realizes when he notices how calm they are. The collective reaction seems to throw his father off for a moment, but he continues. Grant feels a flash of second hand embarrassment. "Shouldn't you let the professionals take care of this?"

Robin smiles placatingly, it's got customer service written all over it. "I understand this is an upsetting situation, especially for a tourist, but we have everything handled." He assures.

Slade goes to say something else but Robin doesn't spare him a second glance, pulling out a handful of zip ties from one of the pouches of his belt. He gets to work ridding the men of weapons before tying their hands behind their backs, and then looping more zip ties through those to fix them all firmly together. None of them would be going anywhere anytime soon. He kicks all their guns to a far off corner anyway for good measure, but pockets a hunting knife one of them had been carrying.

"Secured," Robin chirps to whoever is on the other side of his comm, "Where to next?" He rolls his shoulders, resting his hands on his hips. After a moment Robin nods to himself. "Got it, meet you outside."

Grant watches as he heads towards the door, most of the hostages easily following his orders, they stay close together and seem to default to herding the omegas and pups in the middle. He almost gets swept up in it, shielded by the crowd, but then Slade's big hand is on his back bringing him and Joey to the front of the group just behind Robin.

He's shorter than he seemed earlier, when he was looming above Grant, backlit by flashing red lights like a blood soaked angel. He's slimmer without the cape wrapped around him, but with his gaze stuck to the muscle flexing in Robin's thighs he can tell the dark haired boy is stronger than he looks.

Robin leads the way, crouched low and keeping to the wall. The crowd does the same, unusually calm as they gently shush the children and tourists who aren't quiet enough. The implicit trust is breathtaking, the easy way that Robin commands the crowd with a cocksure smile and easy confidence. They only run into trouble once on the way to the exit and Grant barely has time to flinch before him and Joey are both shoved behind dad. Grant strains to see how Robin reacts to the two guards rushing at them but all he can make out is a flurry of movement and flailing limbs. There's the cracking of bone and then Robin's ringing laughter and then the hallway is still and quiet again. Slade's grip on his shoulder is still tight, Joey still pressed to Slades back. Grant nudges forward in time to see Robin securing the unconscious bodies.

He turns back to the crowd, hair a little messy and cheeks a little red but hardly even out of breath, and motions for them to keep going. They do, the group easily parting around the crooks before clustering back together. Like fish, Grant thinks, absently reminded of a trip to the aquarium not long ago.

They all file out in a straight line when they reach the exit, Robin holding the door open and checking behind for any stragglers before breaking away from the group to stand beside Batman. He looks even smaller next to the imposing figure of the Bat, but the cops seem to take his orders seriously.

Grant is pulled away by Slade and he barely realizes where they're going until he hears his mom's voice. She pulls him into a hug, all warm tobacco and vanilla but it almost doesn't register. She pulls Joey in next, peppering his face with kisses and surely staining it with her dark lipstick in the process. Her and Slade are talking about something over his head, but everything sounds like it's underwater. His attention is pulled back to Robin, sitting with some of the younger pups who are having their statements taken, someone's chubby toddler being bounced on his knee. He assumes the man in the nearby ambulance is the child's mother if his intent gaze and round belly are anything to go by.

Without thinking he clutches the fabric around his shoulders tighter. It's heavier than it looks, soft but tough. The outside is plastic-y, like a raincoat, but the inside is silky fabric slips pleasantly over his skin. He feels a tug on it from behind him, tuning back into the immediate conversation.

"Now what is this?" His mother frets.

His mouth opens but he doesn't say anything at first. "Robin gave it to me." He manages, the first thing he's said all night. He clutches the cape tighter, unwilling to let it go. It's a comforting weight, it feels like all that's keeping him on the ground, like if he lets go he'll simply float away.

His mother reaches for his face, tilting towards her. Her eyes are sharp but not angry, studying his expression and the look in his eyes carefully. Whatever she sees makes him purse her lips and glance towards the ambulance. "Oh my baby, you're in shock." She tells him, but the meaning behind the words doesn't register.

"First time getting his shoulder reset, he'll be fine." Slades voice, an attempt to be reassuring. Grant tenses before the words fully compute.

"WHAT!" His mom's voice is loud and shrill enough to make his ears ring and he knows they're going to start a fight.

He's shaking, he realizes, gaze dropping down to the trembling of his good hand where it's resting on her elbow. He doesn't remember moving it. Her skin is warm under his hands, he can feel the way her muscles are tensing as the voices around him raise.

He turns back to Robin, but the boy is already staring at him. At least Grant thinks so, hard to tell where he's looking with the white lenses, but he's facing Grant's direction. His lips are twisted, displeasure or concern maybe, and Grant wants to soothe him but he doesn't know how. Then his head tilts, just slightly, and Grant realizes that Robin had been looking at his parents. He can feel Robin's attention on him fully now, settling over him like sunlight. It's warm and grounding and he can feel his body again. Robin smiles, small and proud and encouraging. A secret just for Grant, to keep and cherish and own. And then Robin is turning, attention maddeningly taken by the others that Grant has just remembered. He feels cold, the kind of cold you feel in the early morning when you've just slipped from your warm blankets, the kind that settles on your skin and then sinks into your bones.

Grant's eyes don't leave Robin until the car pulls away, and as he's craning his neck to catch one last glimpse he sees Robin standing on his tip toes to wave Grant goodbye. He waves back, but the windows are tinted and they're already too far away.

Jason has a secret, and an embarrassing one at that. He knows if anyone ever found out he'd never be able to live it down. Jason doesn't even know how it started really, it's not like he's ever been interested in the latest trends or celebrity gossip.

Jason will blame Rena, because it's easier than analyzing the alternative. Technically it started with a routine hostage situation, but for deflection purposes, it starts with a link to an app that's trying too hard to be Vine. He'd squinted at it, toothbrush still in his mouth, half convinced it was a rickroll.

Jay: Why are you up?

Ren: Why are YOU up?

Jay: I asked you first.

Ren: I messaged you first

Jay: Not how that works.

He had rolled his eyes at the time, finishing up his nightly routine, reluctantly chewing on the multivitamins he's supposed to take every night before bed. The gummies only, never the pills.

Ren: did you watch the video

Jay: I'm not clicking an unknown link, Rena.

Ren: wow full name

Jay is typing...

Ren: Not an excuse for you to use my real full name

Ren: seriously watch the video!!

Jason remembers huffing, he probably put it off till the last second, until he was curled up in bed and on the cusp of finally getting some rest. It's all secondary to the video though, the familiar face split into a wolfish grin, those pretty eyes catching the flash of cameras and sending a wink towards the viewer. It's obviously some kind of rich person event, paparazzi lined up and a carpet laid out on the damn ground, but you wouldn't know it from how the boy is dressed. The orange and blue jacket over the button up would probably make him snort usually, but all he can think about is broad shoulders and warm skin under his hands. Unwarded he remembers what Grant's bare chest looked like, and then the image of strong shoulders wrapped in Jason's cape. He doesn't know how many times he watches the video before the next message comes through.

Ren: isn't he hot?

Jay: Who is he?

Jason already knows of course, but Rena doesn't know that, and he's not keen on informing her. She might start getting ideas.

Ren: Grant Kane, he's some old money CEOs son from New York or something

Jay: And?

Kentucky, Jason corrects mentally, Adeline Kane is from New York but the Wilson family lives in Kentucky.

Ren: I heard his mom is coming to your charity gala next week

Jason's heart skips a beat, teeth sinking into his lip to bite back the giddy grin trying to break through.

Jay: Once again, and?

Ren: And? C'mon when do we get to see new faces at these things? Especially ones as pretty as his!

Jealousy twinges in his chest, churning hotly in his stomach for a moment before he's hit with a flash of guilt.

Jay: oh? You interested

Ren: Pft nah

Ren: this is for you

Ren: my ducks are in a row

Jay: Hurtful, but whatever. I don't even know him. Maybe I don't want that duck in my row.

Ren: Start being real with yourself rn

Ren: I'm coming over tomorrow so we can decide on what you're wearing<333

Usually he matches with Bruce, or Dick if he shows up. He can only imagine what Rena is going to try to talk him into. Technically, Jason is unpresented, even though everyone else his age has already. Most pups present around thirteen, Jason is turning sixteen soon. Leslie says it'll be any day now, that with time, and love, and a steady three meals a day Jason will come into his own in no time. Jason isn't so sure.

Rena herself is a beta, but she's always been a bit of a rule breaker. More so than Jason anyway. She always goes above and beyond with her outfits for these things, with the kind of passion obviously bred from living with the biggest fashion mogul in Gotham. He can only imagine what her plans to play matchmaker are going to entail.

Ren: I've enlisted Eddie to help me

Jason stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard, jaw slack. The indignity! He doesn't need a- an intervention to help him get a date!

Jay: When did you guys even start talking?

Ren: YOU gave me his number

Jay: That was a courtesy! You weren't actually supposed to use it!

Ren: 😜

Jason scowls at his phone. He switches over to his chat with Eddie, certain the omega is still awake watching a terrible obscure movie he's going to tell Jason all about when they see each other again.

Jaybin: I've been betrayed, forsaken, abandoned.

KD: Ok edgelord lmao

Jaybin: STOP laughing I've been the victim of a conspiracy!

KD: Are people on Twitter calling you guys vampires again or do they have something more interesting?

Jaybin: Not that kind of conspiracy.

KD: ???

There's a pause as Eddie stops typing, Jason assumes to go Google it, before his speech bubble pops up again.

KD: Is this about me and Rena wingmanning for you

Jaybin: SO YOU ADMIT TO IT! FIEND! SCOUNDREL!

KD: Weird way to say thank you but okay

Jaybin: I don't need help.

KD: ok well we would LIKE to help

KD: please let us

Jason purses his lips. He hates when Eddie does this. Like he's the one being difficult here. Sometimes he feels like everyone treats him even younger than he is. Just because he hasn't presented doesn't mean he's a baby. He can't wait to be sixteen, hopefully by then he'll know his designation too.

Jaybin: Fine, but I retain full rights to veto anything you pick or any plan you make.

Eddie's response is a gif of a cat doing a happy dance, and though he rolls his eyes he likes the message. He's added to a new chat immediately, one with the three of them in it. Rena sends the video to this new chat, apparently named Operation: HONEYPOT. Jason finds quickly that his lack of admin rights means he can't change it.

He huffs, watching the two messages back and forth. Sending photos he's already seen and telling him information he already knows about Grant. The screen slowly goes dark as his eyes flutter closed, burying his face in the milky hazelnut scent just barely managing to cling to the shirt he's been using as a pillowcase, the MCTC logo pressed against his cheek.

It's a guilty pleasure, he supposes, Grant's smell in his nose as he imagines what his voice sounds like, of Grant pressing into his touch instead of flinching away. He switches to an app easily passing as a calculator, inputting the password without thought to pull up the tracking grid.

He skims over everyone else's - Bruce and Alfred are in the manor, Natalia is in her manor on the boundary of Little Italy and Summerset, Dick's phone is at least in his BludHaven apartment, Barbie is still staying at her dad's house until she gets used to her wheelchair - the one he's looking for is marked with the Robin symbol, blinking steadily, somewhere in Kentucky. The sky is probably clear for him, a star filled sky unobstructed by the pollution of the city. He imagines Grant staring out at the sky, red lip caught between his teeth, thinking about Jason. What he might be doing as he does.

Jason nods off, eyes fluttering shut, matching his breath to the gentle pulse on the screen.

#jason todd #Grant Wilson #dc #my writing #love square au #jaygrant #crack treated seriously #Ask me about my lore for this au. please. PLEASE.#70% chance I respond with a snippet because that might be the only way I post content for this again #Red X #don't ask me about timelines or ages that's not what this is about #Rena cameo!!#oh hey I think I made Jason more of a freak than Grant for once #there's no out stalking a bat okay if you go Stalker 4 Stalker you're gonna lose #btw this is the prologue of sorts so it takes place in the past #this is circa like 2016 or so #if it wasn't clear the Robin cape is what had the tracker on it not Grant himself #Trouble verse

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adore-laur · 10 months ago

Text

BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy |

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake up the rest of the sleeping nature around them.

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight.

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy, but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons.

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture.

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in the past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of the foreign fields he wishes to visit one day.

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey.

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories, with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone, with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert because of how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own.

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight, with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues.

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos.

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else.

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything that is wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky, guiding him toward better days.

——

| The Girl |

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the gray city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village.

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets.

The girl, whom suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall.

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it.

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system.

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it—a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left.

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air.

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables.

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult.

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air into her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her.

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has silver hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers.

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names.

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met.

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to."

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear.

The boy, whom Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw.

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though.

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?"

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle.

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?"

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help."

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body."

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her.

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp.

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her.

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better.

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle.

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla."

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. There's no need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, his eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?"

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you."

"No problem." He raises his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up."

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line.

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?"

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again.

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about.

——

| The Boy |

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts.

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl who's not annoying, whom Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand.

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horses to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be.

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile.

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in.

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks.

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps."

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother, and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom.

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders stiffen. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she becomes silent the rest of the way back.

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show.

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could pretend to care about her, at least.

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute.

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him.

——

| The Girl |

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell.

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in.

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking.

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of laughter make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen.

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets her, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy.

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?"

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires."

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person.

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush.

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla."

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here.

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. After lifting it in the air, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today.

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste.

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them.

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent."

Shyla peeks at the dart board in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees, with a hint of something floral.

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn."

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board.

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers.

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses.

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width, and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open."

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that."

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely.

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?"

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall."

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?"

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation.

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible."

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?"

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion."

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing.

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still, like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart.

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink.

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stands behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?"

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling."

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs.

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping.

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off.

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse.

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist.

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish."

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it."

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness.

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?"

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip."

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" He says it monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting."

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious?

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me."

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day."

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight?

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more."

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends."

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone."

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she says, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?"

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there."

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go."

——

| The Boy & The Girl |

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie.

They reach the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles.

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen—a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside.

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards.

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area, where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance.

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight."

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?"

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone has been at his house. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels?

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today."

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame."

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own."

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player.

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor."

"Shit, you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?"

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations.

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, and the black ink on his chest and stomach stands out.

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this.

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss him every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him.

Except for Shyla.

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt.

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep, and he dreams of being held by someone.

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real.

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns, moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages.

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite.

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself."

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?"

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart.

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering.

Mirror in the sky, what is love?

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid."

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him?

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is."

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him?

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful."

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time."

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer."

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier."

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony.

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, with the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly.

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car.

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly.

"Yeah?"

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me."

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem."

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet.

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could give you a pair of boxers to wear. Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—"

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course."

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining.

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of gray boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there.

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet.

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time.

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side.

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right.

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension.

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse."

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone."

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going to get a bullseye next time we play."

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?"

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either."

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her and act like she's a burden.

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers.

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers.

Enough of the tension.

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes, like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure.

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?"

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly.

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle.

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that."

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him.

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess."

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part.

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply and moans, the sound getting caught in his throat. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close.

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention.

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it."

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh.

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you."

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh have Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms.

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through the boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins to build.

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me."

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs.

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist.

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness.

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky.

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity.

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am."

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels."

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser.

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy.

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps away from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else?

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years.

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves."

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks.

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, with Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see.

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside.

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m.

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace.

That's just cruel.

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right?

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes.

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching.

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night."

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby."

That damn nickname makes her weak.

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest."

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says.

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number."

"I-I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?"

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes."

"Don't worry. I know self-defense."

"Good, but please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise."

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something—maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot who screws things up every time.

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn.

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her.

——

| The Girl |

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn, where she managed to get a room.

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was.

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where.

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them.

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment.

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable.

——

| The Boy |

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind?

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical memory he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else.

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood.

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table.

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere.

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long—nervousness, desire, and sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life.

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all—until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name.

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles #adore-laur #bullseye

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