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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years

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A Fine Line

I've really enjoyed Sami Zayn's paranoid, obsessive belief that there is some sort of WWE conspiracy against him. I'm also kind of persuaded that the company has exhibited a prejudice against him for no reason. So that's where this story comes from.

Pairing: Sami Zayn x OFC

Word count: 2,972

Content advisory: smut and a major dereliction of duty by a professional in a position of power

You’ve come to dread visiting this place. It’s not that the neighborhood is so bad, although you always make sure to park your car in the monitored lot rather than on the street, even though it means you have to walk a couple of blocks. You’ve been in worse places.

But it’s started getting to you, these regular appointments that seem to be getting more and more alarming. He’s not well. It’s not your fault and it’s not really your business. You’re just the Health and Safety officer who’s been assigned to meet with him while he’s experiencing what the company calls a “stressful episode”. You’re just there to determine if he’s healthy enough, mentally and physically, to fight every week and to recommend a medical course of action if you think he’s slipping. Lately, though, you get the feeling that everything that you report is getting distilled down to one word: yes. Yes, he’s fit to work, because he understands who he is, what the job entails, and how to do all the moves he needs to so that no one gets hurt. The fact that for the last three weeks you’ve been saying that he needs a break to stave off any problems in the future seems not to have registered with anyone. So every time you come back here and talk about his health, you feel like you’re failing him. Worse, it feels like you’re being dishonest with him.

You step onto the landing at the back of the house where he rents his tiny apartment. He could afford better but, as he’s told you, he likes it here. He needs his money for other things. What things? He doesn’t like to specify. But he’s certain that there’s a time coming when he won’t be earning what he is now, when he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this kind of work anywhere.

As usual, you knock twice in quick succession and then twice slowly. Yes, you have a secret knock to gain admittance to the home of the man who is officially fine to risk his life and the lives of others in a wrestling ring.

“Come in,” comes the answer from inside.

You squint as you enter the darkened apartment. All the blinds are pulled down and he’s even pushed towels along the window sills so that no light leaks through the bottom. You can make out his figure sitting cross-legged on the floor but that’s about it.

“Lock it behind you, please,” he says, his tone as polite as ever but firm.

You do as he wishes, engaging both locks before turning back to look at him. He reaches over and turns on a lamp that’s sitting near him. It’s not a lot of light but it allows you to see that he looks more or less the same, no visible signs of self-harm or weight loss. His eyes shift rapidly over you, around the room, towards the door, all over the place. They’re feverishly bright, which is never a good sign. Despite his yoga-like pose, he shows little signs of agitation: his fingers tap ceaselessly on his knee, he chews a little on his lip, and he blinks a lot.

There’s a thick, musky aroma to the place, not exactly unpleasant but animalistic, not something that belongs in an urban apartment.

“Hi Sami,” you say, sitting down on the small, uncomfortable sofa in front of him. You place your handbag on the floor and keep your hands flat on your knees where he can see them. You’re not hiding anything.

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“I feel wonderful.”

“That’s good.”

He nods vigorously. “I feel like I’m finally putting everything together.”

“How do you mean?” You hate it when he’s like this. On a selfish level, it means that he’s probably going to talk at you for three hours about the conspiracies against him and the enemies he’s made, and you’ll end up stuck in your office until eight or later parsing through your notes, trying to figure out what’s germane to an evaluation of his health.

“Did you see my match?”

“I saw some of it,” you answer guiltily. Wrestling is not your thing and you shouldn’t need to watch the product, which is fictional, in order to understand the very real health of your clients. But with Sami, it’s different. The divide between real and imaginary is fuzzy in his head and that makes it as real as the furniture in this room as far as his mental health is concerned.

“It looked really good.” You try to sound enthusiastic.

“I lost,” he grumbles.

“I know. Has that been hard on you?”

“It’s what I expected. That’s what the people want.”

“What people?”

“The people! The fans. The ‘WWE Universe.’” He waves his hands and smirks as he says those last two words and you do have to admit that it sounds pretty dumb. He sees your lips twitch in amusement and smiles. “All those weird little faces on screens.”

“They weren’t faces on screens last week, though.”

“No, they were real. Or what passes for real.”

“You don’t think those were real people watching you?”

“They were the chosen ones. The ones that the people in charge wanted to be there. It’s not like it used to be. It’s all controlled. Only people they’re certain about get to see what’s going on. You see what they want you to see.”

He’s getting irritable, you can tell, something which always makes you nervous. He’s never gotten violent or threatening with you, not even close. He’s raised his voice and paced around and that’s been stressful enough. He’s not huge like some of the guys he works with but he’s strong and when he gets upset you can see the muscles beneath his skin. If he turned on you, you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself.

What’s truly horrible is that whenever he does start to get riled up, there’s a part of you that feels a little excited by it. It’s the worst thing that you could be thinking about a client, the most hideous betrayal of your ethics. But there’s something about him, all that energy and intelligence, misdirected though it may be.

“That’s what entertainment is, though,” you counter. “The people producing it always control what the audience sees.”

“Entertainment,” he hisses.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in an insulting way. I know you’re an athlete.”

“No, I am an entertainer. I’m both. But when they say it they mean I’m there for their entertainment. They mean that I’m to do what they tell me. I did this for years and I could come up with my own stories and use my own ideas. I can’t do that anymore. They won’t let me. They’re scared of what I’d do.”

“Has anyone said that to you?”

He laughs mirthlessly. “No one says that to you. No one says anything real, ever. It’s all ‘we think you should do it this way’ or ‘we think this is a good plan for you’. No one tells you what they’re actually thinking. You have to dig it out, you have to look for it behind what they say and then you discover what it is they’re really up to.”

“And what is it that they’re up to as far as you’re concerned?”

He glares at you and leans back a little.

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one they’re paying to interrogate me every week.”

“You think this is an interrogation?”

“Isn’t it?”

It’s obvious that this is devolving into childishness. Every time you’re here, it happens at least once but it usually takes you longer to trip up and give him a reason to shut you out.

“I’m sorry, Sami. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… I want you to be able to trust me, to feel like you can talk to me. Yes, I work for the company but my job, what I trained to do, is keeping people healthy. That’s all I ever wanted to do. Do you believe me?”

“It’s a nice thought. You seem nice.”

You smile, projecting all the warmth and kindness you can muster.

His expression grows suspicious again. “But it’s still them sending you here. Maybe they don’t tell you what to say or what information you’re supposed to be getting from me. Maybe they just figure that they can send this sexy woman over to act like my friend and I’ll forget about everything they’re trying to do to me.”

“I’m not here to be your friend, Sami. I’m here to see if I can help you, professionally. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.” After a moment’s reflection, you add, “Thank you for the compliment, though.”

He chuckles a little. “Are you allowed to think that?”

“You mean, am I allowed to be complimented that I like hearing you say I’m sexy? I don’t know. But you know I’m flattered by it.”

He can’t deny that. He knows full well that you’ve developed a crush on him. He can see it in the way that you blush when he says nice things about you, and how happy you look when he opens up to you a little. It’s uncomfortable that he knows the power he has over you but it’s also helpful because he talks to you more easily than he would to others. He likes knowing that you’re a bit soft on him.

He leans back, propping himself on his elbows so that his shirt falls away from his chest. You’re used to him appearing with his shirt undone so that you can see a bit of his torso, but this is more of a display than you’re used to. You demurely cross your legs at the ankles and focus on meeting his restless eyes.

“What do they tell you to get from me when you come here?”

“They don’t tell me anything,” you insist. “I’m supposed to come here and determine if you’re able to fight or if you need to have some sort of therapy.”

“You mean like electroshock therapy,” he grunts.

“No, there are lots of different things I’d recommend before that. For instance, like I keep telling you, I wish you’d consider medication to help cope with this paranoia you feel about the company and what they have in mind for you.”

“Paranoia?” he snorts. “What does that mean again?”

“It means you have an unreasonable fear or anxiety regarding something.”

“So what’s the opposite of paranoia?”

“I don’t really know what you’re asking,” you stammer. “I guess it would be not living in fear. Or recognizing a real threat and reacting to it appropriately.”

“But there isn’t a word for that, is there?” he sighs. “Paranoia is an unreasonable fear. But there isn’t a nice, concise word for a reasonable fear.”

“No,” you concede, “I suppose there isn’t.”

“So if I feel like I’m being victimized by WWE, if I feel like they’ve prevented me from rising to the top of the company, you tell me that I’m being paranoid. But there’s no word for what I think if I’m right.”

It gets to you that he’s right. Everything that you’re supposed to be talking to him about is predicated on the idea that he’s imagining things, that he’s wrong about how the company has been treating him.

“I want to help you, Sami. That’s all I want, I swear. That’s what I’m trained for.”

“You’re a very nice person,” he says with an ironic grin. “I mean, you’re the sort of person they don’t give a lot of information to.”

You want to feel insulted by that but it’s also true: you know that your bosses tell you the least they can before they send you out to meet with talent. The real decisions are made well away from you. Making him believe that you can accomplish something for him involves having to convince him that you have some power, but you’re not sure you’re in any position to do that.

Sami leans forward, amber eyes fixed on yours, and places his hands on your knees.

“What do they tell you to do with me?”

“They don’t tell me anything. They just tell me to talk to you. And you shouldn’t be doing that.”

As you’ve spoken, Sami has pushed your legs apart and has started planting kisses along your thighs. He looks up at you with a petulant expression before pushing his face deeper, breathing hot and quick against your panties, licking at them until they’re as wet on the outside as they are on the inside.

Sami, we can’t be doing this,” you pant, crying out as he sucks against the fabric hard, making your clit quiver.

“Why not?” he hums. “You want it. I want it.”

He presses two fingers roughly inside you, stroking that spot inside you that makes you scream and thrash against him, seeking release. Even with your panties still on, just feeling him lick and suck at you through the cotton barrier, you come with a force you can’t remember experiencing ever. He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy as you continue to spasm around him, trembling for long minutes until you’re too overwhelmed and have to shove his hand away because you’re so sensitive that any contact hurts.

“Think about it,” he whispers, pulling himself on top of you, “They send you here to look at me and make sure that I’m good enough to fight, to make money for them. They send you in here with the idea in your head that I’m being irrational, that I’m imagining things.”

He grips your face in his hands, staring into your eyes as he pulls your panties away and thrusts his cock into you. It’s true what he says, you think as he starts to move, although all thought is quickly supplanted by pleasure, by the feeling of him stroking at your g-spot and grunting softly as he fucks you. You simply lock eyes with him and let yourself be overwhelmed by their earnestness and honesty. No one at your job as ever looked as convinced of anything as he does staring into you as you both come together, yelping and gasping, then shaking and clinging to each other as you come down from your highs.

“Do they listen to anything you tell them about me?” he murmurs, gathering you close to him and caressing your face.

You tilt your head back, moaning a little and exposing your throat to him, an invitation he accepts, sucking hard at the flesh. It’s true that no one pays attention to what you say, least of all about him. And it’s true that there does seem to be some sort of weird block they have against pushing Sami and some others to the heights they deserve. You aren’t ready to tell him that but the look in his eyes when he meets your gaze tells you that he doesn’t have any doubt what you’re thinking.

“What else do you have on your schedule this afternoon?” he whispers.

“You’re my only plan.”

“So spend some time with me.” He pushes his head against yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth so quickly it takes you a second to adjust and respond, passionately kissing him back, whimpering and moaning to let him know how much you’re enjoying it.

“I’m really not supposed to do this,” you gasp.

“I know there’s a part of you that believes me,” he pants, letting his detumescent prick slide out of your body. “I can tell you don’t think I’m crazy because I think they’re trying to keep me down. Whatever they sent you here to do, I know that all you want is to end up with what’s right. So I say, this is right. Let’s do what we really want and figure other stuff out later.”

“I don’t know. This is a pretty huge breach of conduct for me. Even if I do think you might be onto something.”

He draws a finger lightly along the edge of your bottom lip.

“If you think I’m onto something, maybe you should stay and figure out if you think I’m worth believing.”

Hours later, you’re in his bed, gripping the sheets with all your might. He’s kneeling, hands dug into your hips so hard that you know there will be bruises before he even lets go. He’s pounding into you with the force of a jackhammer, lifting you so that every movement strokes your g-spot until you convulse around him, screaming his name, your orgasm triggering his own.

You can’t remember how many rounds you’ve had. Your body is like one giant pulsing nerve, quivering uncontrollably as he pulls out of you while pressing his thumb firmly against your clit.

“So do you still think I’m crazy?”

You no longer know what you should think of him. Whatever he’s done, you’ve done far worse. So are you even in a position to judge him? Thinking about what your superiors take from your reports, is there any reason to believe that they have a better grip on the situation than he does?

“I think you’re pretty stressed,” you murmur, pulling him close so that you can nuzzle your face against his. “I think that both of us could do with a break from this company.”

The two of you kiss again, passionately, excitedly, gripping each other as if you were the only stable things in the universe.

Professionally, you’ve done something unforgivable. But perhaps it’s something that will be understandable in the long term. Perhaps you’ve chosen to be on the right side.

#sami zayn #wrestling imagine #wwe imagine #wwe fanfiction #wayward wrestle writing

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my-insatiable-appetites · 5 years

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Intrigued

A/N: First fic im posting on tumblr and I’m really new to this, so please! Bear with me whist I try to figure to this out!

Outpost!Michael x reader

My Masterlist

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, daddy kink, sorta mean Michael, think that’s it?

The days down in Outpost Three were dreadful. You had lost count of the amount of days that had passed a long time ago, and every single room was always uncomfortably cold. The long hallways in the Outpost always made you dizzy, all the twists and turns, some hallways even leading to dead ends.

Right now, you were walking down one of those very hallways, mopping the floors. It was established right when you arrived here together with Timothy and Emily that you were a gray, a worker ant as Venable had said, why they got to purple’s and why you had to be a gray, you had no idea. But, as Ms. Venable had said herself, “The grays serve, and are grateful for the opportunity”

And boy, were you grateful.

You always followed your commands, sometime even doing more than you were asked to. After doing this for every excruciatingly long month down in this hell hole, you eventually became Venable's favorite gray. Or, the gray she hated the least.

Walking down the hallway during dinner time, everything was peaceful, at least as peaceful as it could be down here, you were humming a quiet tune you remember loving from before the bombs dropped.

You didn’t have the chance to finish singing your little song, since you were rudely interrupted by the blaring sound of a harsh alarm being projected from the speakers back in the dining room and the lounging area.

Your body picked up the pace as you continued to mop the floors, desperately trying to finish the damn chore. Once the floors looked pristine enough, you propped your mop up against the wall and bolted down the hallway, aiming to head back to your room.

You didn’t have the chance to make it all the way to your room, since the sound if two different voices cut you off.

“You don't sound like you believe me” you could distinctly hear Venable say. Her tone was light for a change, she even let out a light chuckle.

“Why wouldn't I? To me Seems like you've done a wonderful job. The walls are still standing. Your people are alive and healthy. Which is quite a feat, considering” the second voice said, the voice of a man, but not a man you recognized.

By now, you had propped yourself up against one of the walls, leaning against in with your back to the wall.

“Considering?”

“That three more Outposts have been overrun, and the remaining three won't last through the year”

“Why are you here?” Venable asked him, her voice reeking of confusion, but still holding a certain level of authority.

“Because it's only a matter of time before the same thing happens to you. The good news is, there's another facility, a sanctuary. This one's completely impregnable and stocked with enough supplies to last a decade” the male voice explained, his voice being deep, but at the same time holding some sort of boyish quality to it.

“You're here to take us there” Venable said, thinking she had finished his sentence for him.

“Hmm, I've been assigned to evaluate the people here and select the ones most worthy of survival. I could take all of you or none of you” he retorted, knocking down Venable’s previous confidence boost.

“Those who make it, live and will continue on” he continued; his tone of voice however, soon turned dark, almost eerie sounding.

“Those who don't end up like my horses” he finished; his voice having dropped a few octaves.

Only when you heard the sound of footsteps coming towards you, did you hurry down the hallway in the opposite direction you came in. Hoping you weren’t seen.

---

You were on your knees, poking at the fireplace in the lounging area. The rest of the occupants were sitting around, seemingly waiting for something, but what, you weren’t quite sure.

Even though your attention was mostly directed at the fireplace, you didn’t fail to hear the insistent clicking of expensive-sounding leather boots coming towards you from behind. From what you had gathered by now, you knew that Ms. Venable was standing behind you, so it couldn’t have been her boots clicking.

The sound stopped right behind you, Venable stepped down from her spot in front of the Outpost's residents. Venable’s hand found its way to your shoulder, grasping tightly, urging you to stand, and face the Outpost’s new found guest.

You did as you were silently instructed, standing up and standing beside Venable. You let you eyes wander to the man you had eavesdropped on last night, and boy was he a sight to see.

He was tall, with long strawberry-blonde hair the reached just below his collarbone. His beautiful crystal-clear blue eyes were scanning the room, looking at every single person inside the room. When his eyes met yours, you could feel you heart flutter and your moth fall slightly open.

Upon catching sight of his entire face, you felt your breath catch in your throat. You let your eyes wander his face, from his hair, to his eyes, to his beautifully sculpted cheekbones, to his jawline and last, but certainly not least, his beautifully plump looking lips.

He quickly averted his gaze, and faced the elites once again, his large hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“My name is Langdon, and I represent The Cooperative. I won't sugarcoat the situation. Humanity is on the brink of failure. My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth. The three other compounds In Syracuse, New York, Beckley, West Virginia, and San Angelo, Texas have been overrun and destroyed. We've had no contact from the six international outposts, but we are assuming that they, too, have been eliminated” Langdon said, your mind drifting back to last night, the conversation he had with Venable.

“What happened to the people inside?” Andre asked as he looked up at Mr. Langdon.

“Massacred. The same fate that will befall almost all of you” he explained.

“Almost all?” you said from beside Mr. Langdon, your breath once again catching in your throat once your eyes met.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur, we built a failsafe The Sanctuary” he said, not breaking eye contact with you.

“The Sanctuary is unique. It has certain security measures that will prevent overruns" he continued to explain, almost sounding annoyed.

“Excuse me, sir. What measures? Why weren't we given them?” Ms. Mead asked, her tone being firm and assertive.

“That's classified. All that matters is that The Sanctuary will survive, so the people populating it will survive, so humanity will survive” he said while raising his hand to her in a dismissive manner.

“Who are the people who are populating it?” Andre asked again.

“Also classified. However, I have been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us” Mr. Langdon said, dismissing Andre’s question.

“The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning technique we like to call "Cooperating." I will then use the information gained to determine if you belong” Langdon said jokingly, almost laughing at his own pun.

“What is this, The Hunger Games? This is bullshit. I paid my way in here, and that is the only cooperating I plan on doing” Coco whined out to him, sounding pissed.

“You don't have to sit for questioning” He said with a sigh, clearly annoyed.

“What happens if we choose not to?” Andre prodded.

“Then you stay here and die” He said harshly. The tone in his voice was clear and demining, and you weren’t gonna lie to yourself, he was doing a very good job of turning you on.

“I volunteer to go first” Gallant said while raising his hand high into the air.

“I’m afraid that wont be possible, as I’ve already chosen the order of my interviews. The process should only take me a couple of days, so you won't be kept in suspense forever. For those of you who don't make the cut, all is not lost. If the worst should happen and feral cannibals come knocking, down one of these. One minute later, you fall asleep and never wake up. I look forward to meeting each and every one of you” Langdon said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small vial of tiny white pills.

---

“Come, Mr. Langdon has requested to see you in his office” Ms. Mead said to you as you were finishing up your chores for the night.

“Now? But, I’m not finished with my chores yet” you replied to her’ knowing how mad Venable would be if she found out you didn’t finish your chores.

“Now, Ms. (L/N), he said he didn’t want to be kept waiting” she said. You propped your broom up against the nearest wall and hastily followed her down the corridor.

She led you tov the wide, dark sliding doors at the end of one of the corridors, you had been down there a few times, sweeping the floors and whatnot, but you had never been inside before.

Ms. Mead knocked on the door, but then the door slid open on it’s own, neither Mead or Mr. Langdon had laid a finger on it.

��Ah, come in, I’ve been waiting for you. Ms. Mead, you may leave now” said, ushering you inside and shooing Mead away. She nodded politely and left down the corridor, leaving you and Langdon alone.

“Sit” was all he said as he too, sat down behind the desk by the fireplace. You did as you were told, sitting down in front of him, keeping you eyes on the ground.

“Do I scare you?” He asked. You shook your head in response, eyes still on the ground. You heard him getting up from his chair and stalking around the desk to stand in front of you.

His fingers curled themselves around your chin, lifting your face to look at him. You could see his eyes wandering you face, then down the entirety of your body. At this point, you could feel just how much this man was turning you on, and all he had done was talk.

“You’re not quite like the others here, are you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” you whimpered, thoroughly confused, but at the same time, insanely turned on. He hummed, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip, parting you lips slightly.

“You’re so willing” ha said as he let go of your chin and leaned back into the desk, almost sitting on it.

“Willing?” you asked him, now looking at his handsome face willingly.

“Yes, willing. Willing to serve, eager to please” he said, and you couldn’t really dent it either.

“I guess” you mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Langdon pushed himself off the desk with his hips, casually stepping to the side, facing you.

“Sit on the desk for me, can you that?” he said with mock sweetness in his tone, but you knew he wasn’t joking. You nodded your head and did as you were told, gently climbing onto the dark wooden desk and squeezing your thighs together once you had gotten situated on the desk.

“Good girl” he said, but as soon as those words left his lips, you could feel a new flood of arousal was over you, positively soaking your plain cotton underwear. He walked over to you placing his hands on your knees and prying your legs apart, coming to stand between them.

His hands trailed up your thighs, coming to rest on you hips. Your breathing was heavy, and you were positive that Langdon could hear you heart thump in your chest.

“Nervous?” he chuckled while sliding his hands along you waistline. This time, you nodded while slightly squirming under his warm hands. He chuckled a little at your response and reached behind you to undo the tie on your apron, tugging it off you and letting it fall to the floor.

He continued, once again reaching behind you, unzipping your gray dress, pulling the top part of it off of you, exposing your plain cotton bra to him. His hand soon found it’s way to your throat, pushing you back to lay down on the desk.

“Now, you do know that it’s very rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, right?” he laughed, somehow, he knew about how you had accidently listened in to his and Venable’s previous conversation.

“I-I’m s-sorry” you whimpered, finding talking a bit difficult due to his hand being coiled around your throat. He harshly let go of you throat as he started to rid himself of his own clothing, first his lavish jacket, then his undershirt, then his belt.

His bare chest was now on full display, and you were definitely enjoying the view.

“Sadly, ‘I-I’m s-sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, pet” he said, mocking your previous whimpers. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your gray uniform, pulling it off your body, dragging your panties down along with the rest of you uniform.

He stepped in between your thighs again, your glistening cunt now on full display for him. “I’ve barely touched you, and you already so fucking wet for me, dirty girl” you whimpered at his words, becoming even more turned on than you already were.

He reached behind your back and undid your bra, with some difficulty. Now you laid on his desk, completely nude in front of this gorgeous man who was currently unzipping his expensive-looking dress pants.

He let his pants drop to the floor, along wit his boxers, exposing him fully to you.

“Tell me what you want, pet. Naughty girls have to beg to get what they want” he teased as he slid two of his fingers along your slick folds, urging you to call out and beg for him.

“Please…” you whimpered out quietly, color flooding your face out of embarrassment. He grabbed ahold of you thighs, pulling half of your ass off the desk, giving him better access to you.

He raised his hand and brought it down onto your bare ass, hard, making you yelp.

“You can do better than that, pet. Now beg. Beg for me to fuck you” he said, it was more of a demand than an instruction.

“Please! Please, f-fuck me, please Mr. Langdon, please” you said, heightening your voice so he could hear you more clearly. He lowered his head down to your stomach, leaving wet sloppy kisses down your abdomen, teasing you further.

“Good girl, I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” he asked, once again faking that sugary-sweet tone. You nodded your head as fast as you could just wanting him inside you. He came up from your stomach, grabbing ahold of his cock jerking himself a few times, spreading some of his precum onto himself, though you doubted is was necessary.

He lined the head of his cock up with your drenched entrance and slowly pushing into you. One painfully thick inch out of time. His hands wandered from your waist to one hand tightly gripping your throat to the other holding a bruising grip on your hip.

One he was finally fully sheathed inside you, he let out low growling-kind of noise, making you clench around him. He gave you very little time to adjust to his size, since he soon began pounding into you at a ruthless pace. Your moaning was loud, and you were sure that if you didn’t shut up soon, the entirety of the Outpost would hear just how good this man was making you feel.

“You’ve gotta stay quiet for me, okay pet?” all you could do was nod you head in response, but you didn’t seem to be keeping your promise, since you didn’t quiet down. Langdon put both his hands on your waist, leaning down and planting his lips over yours, effectively shutting you up.

His lips were soft, just as soft as they looked. They moved against your lips in perfect sync. The feeling of his lips on yours was almost orgasmic on its own.

You could feel a certain pressure building up in your lower abdomen, and you knew you orgasm was creeping up on you. Langdon must have felt it too, since he soon detached his lips from yours and slowed his pace significantly.

“Don't you dare cum before I say you can. Now, show Daddy just how much you want to cum” he instructed, making you pulse slightly around his cock.

“Please! Please Daddy, I want to cum on your cock, I wanna cum so bad, please!” you begged him for your release, and apparently, that was enough for him, because he came back to his previous pace with a passionate fury.

Thrusting his cock into you as hard as he possibly could, he seemingly stopped caring about just how loud you were being. You could feel his cock twitch inside you, and that was quite enough for you to start clenching around him as your orgasm washed over you.

Because of how much you had tightened around him, Langdon couldn’t hold back his own orgasm either. With a few more hard thrusts, his cock twitched inside you once again as he released his cum deep inside you, filling you to the brim, some of it leaking out and dripping down and onto the floor.

Both of your breaths were heavy, you were borderline panting at this point, but he was also breathing heavily, his face buried in your neck, leaving gentle little kisses along your throat.

“Is this part of my test?” you whimpered out weakly, his cock still hard inside you, twitching and pulsing.

“Isn’t everything?” he asked breathlessly, coming up from your neck to look into your eyes once again, still breathing heavily.

“Well, then do I pass?” you ask, feeling a single tear run down the side of your face.

“Yes, you’ll be coming back with me, pet”

#michael langdon #michael langdon smut #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x reader smut #outpost!michael #ahs apocolaypse #ahs #cody fern #smut #x reader smut

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bravonovel · 3 years

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The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel read online - Grace Jones and Connor Shelby - Bravonovel

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby

https://www.bravonovel.com/the-billionaire-alphas-secret-baby-8246

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel is a romance story about Grace Jones and Connor Shelby.

Blurb : Still reeling from the heartbreak of being abandoned by someone she called her mate after a one night stand, Grace Jones gets a more shocking discovery. She was pregnant. To her horror, she was carrying the child of someone whose name she didn’t even know. Seven years later, Grace saves a young billionaire from the brink of death who also turned out to be someone from her past. After what happened to her seven years ago she loathed men. For someone she felt was her mate to abandon her like that what else could they not do? Alpha Connor Shelby! The CEO of SHELBY REALTOR (UK) LTD, and the Alpha of Lumia pack had his fate intertwined with a rankless wolf and a single mother. Will he accept her? Ride along as we journey through the story of a rankless wolf with a child falling in love an Alpha of a reputable pack and the CEO of the company that took everything from her.

You can read this novel online on Bravonovel and keep track of the latest chapters

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel Chapter 1

ARIZONA COLLEGE

SEVEN YEARS AGO

GRACE

In silence we studied each other on a bed, evaluating, doubting, and considering by turns, because it was so sudden, so unexpected.

We were merely strangers turned drink buddies few hours ago. We didn' t even know our names yet. He only jokingly called me Ms. Budweiser because I said I loved beer more, while I laughed hard and loud, calling him Mr. Chardonnay because he said he only drank wine.

But I and my friends made him take beer . It was a way to apologize for bumping into him and ruining his white T-shirt.

I was going to get another round of drink while he was heading to the rest room as I could remember it. However due to my crazy hurrying, and the excitement of our finals, I had bumped into him and caused him to spill his drink on himself and at the same time holding me from tripping over.

He snaked his firm hand around my waist to keep me steady and our eyes locked.

At that instant, the world suddenly went silent, the deafening music from blaring speakers around us became a distant sound to me

His steel-grey heart-stopping eyes drew me in and drowned me. My head swooned, my heart beat took an unnatural speed, jamming itself against my ribcage. Thousands of angry butterflies sprang up in my stomach, fluttering like they were being chased by a predator.

All that happened at once.

If I was reading my experience in a romance novel, I'd sneer and scowl at the writer for being unnecessarily corny and cheeky. I'd call the book a cliché but still go ahead to read it.

However, this particular cliché wasn' t happening to some lucky female protagonist.

It was happening to me, Grace, the nerdy, boring twenty three year old virgin who was about graduating college without a boyfriend or a mate.

Not that I had one before and broke up with them for some reasons. At all. I never had any.

I would have called what just happened'a love at first sight' and I was sure he would have too, owing to the way he kept his eyes on mine for the thousands of seconds our eyes locked.

Or have I finally found my mate? I wondered vaguely. Finding one's mate was one of the most difficult thing now in the twenty-first century werewolf kingdom. People just get themselves partners and call them boyfriends or girlfriend or wives or husbands and humans did since we were sharing almost the same fate.

After our bump, we had muttered repeated sorrys to each other with effusive awkward gestures. I couldn't let him go like that after all that chemistry between us, so I had come out from my shell of shyness and awkwardness and asked him to join me and my friends on our drinking table.

Now here we are, in my dimly lit tiny college room, inhaling each other's breathe, with our eyes locked and our breathing accelerated, standing so close our noses could meet. We were both drunk but knew this feeling wasn't instigated from alcohol.

I wanted him and wasn't ashamed for the first time in my life to admit it. I had vowed never to do it till I found the one that made my heart flutter in my chest. Or if I found my mate.

I wasn' t sure about the latter, but my heart was a living testimony of the effect of this young beautiful man standing in front of me.

I took two steps backward, to get a fuller and more concise view of the first man I was going to share my bed with.

He was many inches taller than I was, literally towering over me with his firmly squared broad shoulders. Strands of his dark brown hair which fell across his temples accentuated his sexiness. His oblong angular face was never the type I could forget in a hurry.

Should I go on about his full lips and how it interrupts my breathing whenever I stare at them?

As we stood few inches apart, I yearned to press my lips against that bare skin that ran from his throat to his chest and my breast against that white stained shirt.

With a sigh that was really surrender, I ignored my racing heart and took a step further.

We looked at each other and then our lips met and lingered. I felt myself sinking into the bliss of the sweetest sensations and my hands came up on their own to touch his face. I knew I was desired but, just for the moment, I felt loved and it was what I needed.

We both knew it would have been okay to wait, get to know each other and talk more, however, we both also knew we couldn't wait. This felt too right. I didn't feel a single pang of guilt or the need to be cautious.

He didn't give me a chance to change my mind.

He crushed my body to his, one hand on my back, the other on my hips, pressing me against his hard body. I gasped with sheer pleasure and then to my horror, I began to tremble. This was the first time and I wasn 't familiar with the moves and I felt awkward, unable to respond as I wanted to.

“Hey…” he murmured against my hair and his arms loosened, as though he understood, as though he was well aware of the fact that he was my very first. He began to stroke my hair gently, persuasively, so that my eyes closed and I began to relax.

His hands moved to my back, beginning an unhurried exploration that made me shiver again, but this time in the most delicious manner .

I began to respond, my hands sliding up his back and across his shoulders in a thrilling exploration of my own. I opened my eyes, saw his throat where the collar was open and pressed my lips against it. I felt a deep shudder run through him that might have been my own, so deeply did it thrill him. I reached up to thread my fingers through his hair and used it to pull his face down to mine.

Our lips met and fused with an ecstasy that seared me to the depth of my being. We broke apart and gazed at each other, and then he was pressing kisses all over my face and I held my head back to expose my throat for more. I was awash with sensation, but it only built up the urgency for our lips to meet again... and again.

His hands were on the zip at the back of my dress and I began to unbutton his shirt. He shrugged out of it as I stepped out of my dress and kicked it away in a frenzy, and he pressed me against his chest again with only the fragile silk of my slip between us.

He kissed his way down my neck, to my shoulders and slid the straps from them. The slip caught at my hips, but none of us noticed because now, my bare breasts were pressed against his naked chest and we both gasped.

He turned me slightly from him, lifting his face to kiss and then his hands moved down to my breast, grasping, massaging it and then playing with my nipple. My groan of pleasure was lost against his lips and, as I felt my legs go weak, he picked me up and carried me unto my bed.

He kicked back his shoes, threw back the quilt, put me on the bed and stood looking down at me while he took off the rest of his clothes.

The curtains hadn't been closed and a surprisingly bright moon bathed us both in a silvery glow.

"Do you know how lovely you are?" he asked as he lay beside me.

He didn't expect an answer, and I was quite incapable of giving one because his mouth had fastened on to my breast and his tongue was flicking my nipples into a frenzy of desire. He moved to the other breast and the delicious torment began anew.

“Chardonnay…” I breathed, but he took no notice, sliding the petticoat from my hips, and then my stockings and suspenders, and kissing his way over the warm flesh he exposed.

"Chardonnay…" I breathed again, writhing with the most exquisitely unendurable ecstasy I had ever known, but now his own passion overwhelmed him as he entered me, going in real slow and when my core gave passage to his huge member, he began thrusting hard and desperately in the need to quench his own fires.

I held fiercely, pressing his hips against mine as we sought and found the final explosion of passion.

Mr. Chardonnay kissed me with hot, spent and grateful lips and then he collapsed against me , moving down to rest his face between my breasts. I pulled the quilt over us and cuddled him to myself while out breathing turned to normal.

It was a long time before he stirred, then he rolled off my body and propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me.

"I'm crazy about you, Ms. Budweiser," he said huskily. "How do you feel about me?"

I couldn't answer. The whole thing was feeling so surreal to me. "I'm here, and I 'm not a one-night stander." was my response.

"We don't even know each other's real names yet. I'm-"

"Tomorrow," I cut him short with a sleepy tone. "Let's tell each other our names tomorrow and other things we should know about us." I said with finality in my voice.

He sighed.

But he wouldn't understand. Seeing him on my bed by morning when I wake up was going to convince me that this wonderful moments weren't a dream. And that I had found the love of my life.

I had gone through college as a nerdy boring girl without a mate or a boyfriend and a werewolf with zero rank. If not for my two best friends, my life would have been more than the hell it had been here in Stratford College.

But here I was on the last day of my final year making love with the most beautiful man I had ever met, who could possibly be my mate or boyfriend after today.

I felt giddy with happiness and relief. It was all too fast and going too well , I was dreading disappointments.

“Let's know each other wolf's name at least.” he murmured, dragging me from my train of thoughts.

I pushed him over on his back, then propped myself over him, my breast brushing against his chest. "I don't want to talk tonight. Tomorrow will do. Go to sleep." I kissed his eyes shut and then studied, and it almost hurt me how handsome he looked with his face relaxed and the moon turning the sun-bleached ends of his brown hair to silver.

I kissed his forehead, clasped my eyes shut and let myself drown into dream land.

…...

Continue to read the chapter 2 of the novel The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby https://www.bravonovel.com/the-billionaire-alphas-secret-baby-8246/chapter-2-194222

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#The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby #Grace Jones #Connor Shelby #Bravonovel #novels #romance novels #sotries #fiction #book #read online

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jimbuchan · 4 years

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It's Not Proof You Need. It's Faith

On the whole, Cryptocurrency is still perceived as an elusive and complex subject to some, but it need not be. Perhaps the reason for this is due to the many conflicting articles and chatter, or perhaps it’s Bitcoin’s founder (still an anonymous figure) or the notion that you need to be either a computer scientist or Wall Street analyst in order to be ‘in the game’. At the end of the day it is a new asset class, no different than Equities, Fixed Income, Real Estate or Commodities, which equates to different kinds of money. So, what exactly is Money? Simply put, it's a medium of exchange to get the things we need out of life. Anything added (or taken away) from this simple truth does nothing more than get away from the meaning, and authenticity of what money is. That being said, it would seem as though many are trying to put their 'spin' on this fact by leading us headlong into confusion... a story that is playing out today with Cryptocurrency and to which an honest and fair assessment of this asset class needs to be put in perspective. Let's look at the current money heavyweight... the US dollar. It is based on nothing more than trust. Trust that you believe it has value. Trust that you believe there are fair and honest custodians and trust that this form of value will continue to be the dominant currency into the future. Since 1972 with the decline of the Gold Standard, the greenback is the most widely-used method of the ‘honor system’ by a landslide… and it is virtually backed by nothing but your faith. This is no different with Cryptocurrency as it’s value is derived from those who believe it has a future. And if it’s an accounting that you need, just consider that Bitcoin, the first crypto is only 12 years old, and has ballooned to over 18 Million % in value, starting at a modest price of 0.0008/BTC, with a price today of $15,000/BTC at time of this writing (Nov. 2020). So what are some other items to consider when stacking up Cryptocurrency to other investments?

The Evidence Cup Runneth Over Prior to 2017, when the crypto market went bananas, it was more or less a space for fanatics with use-cases just being developed. In the early days of BlockChain and Cryptocurrency institutional investors and banks were considering holding or adopting crypto, with the market mainly propped-up by speculators but since this time, the tables have turned. Want evidence?

Tier-1 Banks (JP Morgan, BofA, Bank of England)

Family Offices (Winklevoss Capital, Galaxy Investment Partners)

Governments (US, China, Sweden)

Endowments (Yale, Harvard)

Institutional Investors (Grayscale / DCG, Rothschild Investment Corp.)

Enterprises (Square, PayPal)

This is of course in addition to the many accredited investors who have in the past balked at Bitcoin and are now singing its praises (such as billionaires Paul Tudor Jones and most recently Stanley Druckenmiller). They understand that the rise in it’s value is due to 2 things… mathematical certainty of the rise in value over time and scarcity of the asset.

On the former, consider of the 21 Million that were available since the ‘Genesis Block’, there is currently only about 12% of Bitcoin left than can ever be mined, with an approximate 4 million lost forever, due to lost passwords or hard drives that were ditched when Bitcoin was just ‘magic internet money’. The confidence the early adopters have gained is simply understanding the inevitability of Cryptocurrency and the Grade 1 math that goes with recognizing it's value over time. Essentially all that these rich investors did was devote a few minutes out of their day with a calculator and ranked it’s past performance with the current performance and compared this to the projected future of Bitcoin and that’s about it. Why don’t more of us do the same? Misinformation or the immaculate perception that it’s a complicated affair. The truth however is that it’s more difficult for the retail investor to understand Stocks or Derivatives than Cryptocurrency. Going into a barn doesn’t make you a cow, and thus, getting into crypto doesn’t command you to be a Cryptologist. You need only apply the basics.

When You Believe It You’ll See It Once you discover the possibilities of crypto, it will be immediately apparent of its cool factor, and to get started only commands a small investment of say $25. For the newcomer in the space, the lights usually come on when making a transaction and then a transfer from your exchange to a hardware wallet, and for a lightning fast example of this would be XRP. Once more folks realize the potential, the game will literally be up as while the institutional investors have bought in, and kept it a secret from the rest of us (to the best of their ability), this is changing and you ain’t seen nothin’ yet until the retail investors flood into the digital asset market. So, the choice that commands your attention is to decide to wait until Bitcoin or other digital asset is far outside of the reach of attainment, or to become a pioneer and get in before the ‘herd’ says so. It’s sort of like investing in Amazon or Google at the dawn of the internet compared to years later. So what’s needed to get started? Just some guts and common sense, a few shekels and some time. The first step is to become familiar with the concept / history of Bitcoin, of which many videos are available on YouTube… too many to mention, but after watching a couple, it won’t take you long to familiarize yourself with the basics. In discovering the space, you will notice that there are many Cryptocurrencies to choose from, but starting with Bitcoin is a general good first step, as it is the first, is the most liquid and is accepted at virtually all exchanges. A common passage that you’ll soon discover is the term DYOR, or ‘do your own research’, which may be the best advice in evaluating different projects. Try to look for ones that have a long (in crypto terms) history, have multiple partnerships with firms you have heard of and which solves a real problem. If it doesn’t pass this litmus test, then it’s likely nothing more than a white paper which may amount to nothing. You can then choose from many crypto exchanges such as Kraken, Binance or NDAX and open up an account. There is no cost to do so, and if you open up multiple accounts, you can determine which exchange is best for you as far at ease-of-use and preference. The exchange is where you will buy your crypto asset either with a bank or wire transfer or credit card. The amount need not be large… just enough to discover the ease of purchasing your first crypto. That wasn’t hard was it?

The final step, and the most critical is to self-custody your digital asset on a hardware wallet. While you trust your local financial institution to safeguard your dollars, with crypto you are the bank, and as such the custodian of your own funds. Remember, the exchange is where to acquire your crypto, and unless you are actively trading (a more advanced undertaking not recommended for the beginner) you need to ensure your funds are as safe as possible by ‘locking it up’ on a device that is not connected to the internet such as a Ledger or Trezor wallet.

The Future Starts Today, Not Tomorrow If the masses knew what was coming down the line in the coming years, they would certainly pay attention, but like many revolutionary technologies that have changed our way of life, the majority will see the light when it’s too late, and by that time the gains will be small in comparison to the (perceived) value of crypto today. If you have paid attention to the rise of Bitcoin over the years, you may say to yourself that its best days are behind you, but hindsight is 20/20, and in many respects, you’re still early to the party. Indeed, if you invested back in 2010, the gains would be staggering but many simply did not see the vision back then as it was in many regards the ‘wild west’. The good news is that Bitcoin, and Cryptocurrency as a whole is still in its infancy and is just getting ready to crawl, and for evidence of this, one need only look at a comparison of the crypto market compared to other investment vehicles, and it will become evident there is still a lot of racetrack to go. Sometimes all that is required is just a leap of faith, and if you gird your loins and make small moves into the market, this is all that is needed to realize the value for yourself. Two final take-aways to consider is that Cryptocurrency is a new asset-class, and the last time one of these were devised was in the 1600’s when Bonds were created by the bank of England. The final item to ponder on is the scarcity. There will only be 21 Million Bitcoin ever created, which is a mathematical certainty as it’s built into the code and cannot be devalued or inflated in the same way traditional money can. We’ve seen first-hand the seemingly endless printing of fiat currency, and this one aspect alone is why so many large institutions, governments and big businesses are hedging their bets with crypto as when the supply diminishes, the value increases. Taking all of this into consideration, the only unknown is your assessment (or more precisely, your ‘final judgement’) of crypto’s true value, but based on the facts, sentiment and respect that digital assets have commanded in just over a decade, the future seems very bright for its longevity and worth, both as a store of value and as a vehicle for answering decades-old obstacles, both monetary and business.

Title image by Crypto Graffiti / Dorian Nakamoto | Quote by Chris Harrald & Nick Willing / Ben Kingsley ₿ Paper Wallet Certificate by BitcoinSuisseAG | All The World’s Money by The Visual Capitalist Ledger Nano S 'Whitepaper Edition' by Ledger SAS

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redfoxwritesstuff · 5 years

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Of Dust and Ashes (Chapter 22)

Hello, happy Friday. There’s a chance I may take next week off and skip posting. I’m going through some things with my daughter’s education and my grandmother’s health and I just... don’t know. I’m having to go to battle to try and get my daughter the special education resources and evaluations she’s promised by law because the school is too lazy to do it and I don’t do confrontation well.

Masterlist here. Feel free to buy me a Ko-fi

Clint x ofc

Series rating: Mature

Chapter warnings: Sexual content and themes. Disney songs.

Chapter 22: Radar

There was some fussing in the living room. Clint stifled a chuckle as best he could. Dee went to pull away but he held her closer, waiting to see if the fussing baby would settle back into sleep or if she would work herself up. A louder squawk sounded from the living room instead.

“I’ll go, you get a shower in.” He smiled down at her and for a moment, she wondered if this is what it could be like, if they kept baby Elsa and turned their back on the world. But that wasn’t right and the pains of being in this house still stabbed at her.

When she agreed, Clint dipped his head and placed a soft kiss to her lips. She didn’t want to shower inside the farmhouse. She didn’t want to do much of anything inside it. It didn’t matter what she did, she always felt like a guest inside another woman’s home.

After her shower, the sound of soft humming drew her down the hall and toward the living room. Clint was humming to the little bundle wrapped in a blanket. His bare back and arms looked so warm and soft in the glow from the woodstove. How could he look so soft when she knew he was nothing but firm muscle?

“You’re a magnificent dad.” She spoke loud enough for him to hear her but not disturb the sleeping baby when their eyes met.

“Babies are great.” He responded. “Sure, they cry. They are tiny factories of poop and vomit but the future is inside of them. The babies will take this shitty thing we’ve let happen, shitty world we’ve made for them, and they’ll make something great out of it.”

“See, magnificent.” She smiled at him.

“But I’m not a dad, not anymore.” His shoulders slumped as he set the bundle down in the crib.

“You’re still every bit a dad as I am a mother. Just because they’re gone doesn’t change that.” As she spoke, she went to his side. Looking down at the bundle, sleeping safe and warm, she rested her hand on his back. It was easier sometimes, to not look at him.

“That would mean I’m still a husband.” The thought stabbed at her heart as he said it.

“You are, in many ways.” She admitted. “And to Laura, you will always be. But she’s not here. We’re parents with no one to parent. You’re a husband with no wife. But does it matter, really? They won’t come back and that won’t change. So we move on.”

“What if I can’t?”

“But you are.” She wrapped her arms around him as he turned to face her. “You’re moving on a little each day. Just like I am. But that part of who we were will always be there.”

“Will it always hurt?” He felt dumb for asking her that. He was the one that had faced battles and waded through the resulting death. He’d lost comrades and allies over the years. She was just her, a normal woman. But somehow, she seemed like she had all the wisdom of the world, locked in her heart.

“Yes.” It hurt her to say it. “But every year it will hurt less and less.”

“How do you know?” He nuzzled into her, clinging to her.

“Because, I still grieved the loss of my marriage, of what could have been. I still miss my parents, though they died a long time ago. Time doesn’t erase the wounds but it heals, leaving behind a scar.”

Her fingers traced over a scar that marred his chest. He'd told her that it sometimes ached when the weather turned bad, though he rarely complained.

“We just have to learn to live with the pain from the scars.”

“I’m used to living with pain.” Silence ticked on before she decided it was best to let these thoughts go for the night. It was better that they move on.

“She’s asleep. We should get some sleep too.”

Clint gave her that boyish grin and he melted her heart. He had that amazing ability to go from sullen and serious to cheerful and full of life at a moment’s notice. It worried her, kept her on her toes at times but she loved him for it. He was always trying to walk on the positive side of the street. Sure, sometimes he stopped and sat in the shadows for a short rest, he always would move on.

He swept her up and she squealed as she found herself tossed over his shoulder. He shushed her and walked with a bounce in his step, making her flop a bit. She tired and failed to ignore the hand holding her steady, gripping her around her thigh, holding tightly right below where her legs joined. He kicked the door closed behind him and tossed her on the bed.

At some point, he had slipped into the room and lit scented candles, giving the room a warm glow. He must have done it while she was in the shower, before tending to Elsa.

She bounced and laughed. The mattress was soft, considering Clint had said it was a guest room bed. She’d never had any nice beds in any of her guestrooms. But, she guessed Clint had enough money that having a good guestroom was something he could afford. The house didn’t scream money but it was there in the details. It was the little things like the comfortable bed or the high end washing machine that gave hint to what he had.

“Come here and get your Christmas present.” She said, propping herself up on her elbows. It was, by far, the cheesiest line she had ever said in her life. But Clint laughed regardless as he crawled over the bed.

“What’s my present?” He asked as he loomed over her.

Leaning down, he nuzzled the crook of her neck. There was a shift in him tonight. Or was it a shift in them both? A weight was off his shoulders or maybe he was using that weight to hold down the ghosts in his memories. She had been joking, mostly, but he seemed to grab a hold of the offer like it was a lifeline. Part of her felt guilty for it, but she found herself needing the reassurance in his touches.

“Is this my present?” he asked, planting a warm kiss on the skin. “Or this?” He asked, kissing higher on her neck as she wrapped her arms around him.

“It could be. What do you have for me?” She joked but feared she had said something wrong when he pulled back, sitting with his weight on his hip and supporting himself with one hand. His other rested on her hip.

“Nothing at all.” He admitted, yet there was a soft smile on his face. “Except, everything I have.” His hand moved from her hip to rest on her cheek, thumb caressing the soft skin of her lips. It all felt like it was moving too fast yet somehow still perfect. “Everything I am, in all my broken glory.”

“Just what I wanted for Christmas.” She ran her palm up his arm and down his chest.

Their lips found each other and what had at first started as a sweet kiss quickly turned heated. Lips moved against one another as hands explored the bodies of the other. Clint clung to her as he sifted, putting more of himself above her.

Fingers took in the firm planes of his muscular back and chest. Under her touch, muscle jumped and bunched. The feeling was almost as intoxicating as the way he kissed her. Eventually, he must have needed air because his lips pulled from hers. She couldn’t dwell on it though, his lips found her neck. He worked his way down, only stopping when he found the place that made her squirm.

“Clint.” She whined, arching into his touch. His hand slipped under the small of her back and he held her. Warmth radiated down from his bare chest. It was a warmth that seeped down into the very core of her, feeding a fire she hadn’t felt in many years.

His hand explored her legs, taking in the length of them. Any stubble that may have grown since she last shaved seemed not to phase him at all. It was a ridiculous thing to even think of when they world has ended, yet she still tried to keep up her shaving. His hand left a trail of fire behind.

She’d felt uncomfortable most of the time she was in this house but in this moment, she didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. She could have been anywhere, any room in any home or out in the open. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. All she cared about was the fire in her stomach, fanned by his breath on her skin and the feeling of his fingertips.

When his fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt, she couldn’t even think about how she didn’t care where she was anymore. As his hand explored her stomach and ribs, hers continued to take in every bit of his skin she could reach.

Blunt nails scratched at his scalp and back. Her shirt inched higher and higher as he shifted to kiss along her stomach. After having two kids, she had been insecure about the slight swell and the pale stripes that shimmered against her skin at places. Like everything else, Clint seemed to accept her body with eager glee. She guessed that the body of a mother wasn’t something he was a stranger to, his wife had birthed children as well.

The thought stabbed at her for a moment, a bitter reminder of the home they were in. But that stab was soothed almost instantly by his mouth, lips placing an opened mouth kiss over a clothed nipple in a searing kiss. A man like him, he could have had anyone. Even now, he could have been in New York and in bed with any runway model that survived but he was here. He was where he felt like he was needed.

Now there was a place he was needed even more. Rushing hands slipped between them and she set to work undoing his pants. He was almost where she needed him. The only way the moment could be better was if he was where she needed him in that very second. He moaned when her fingers wrapped around his shaft.

“I need you,” She panted, pumping him slowly as she used her legs to work his pants further down his hips. “inside me.”

He sounded like he choked at those words, a strangled groan left him. “There is no where else I’d rather be.”

He worked her bottoms down, not leaving either of them a moment to overthink. He was rather thick and heavy in her hand as she guided him to her entrance. The feeling of his head pressing against her opening was better than she had expected.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“Please.” She begged. “I need you. I need this.”

He inched himself inside her at a painfully slow pace. A breath was pushed from her lungs as he was finally seated inside her. Had it always felt so good to have a man inside her? Her toys never left her feeling so full. It was the greatest feeling she had experienced in a very long time. Still, it left her wanting more.

“I swear, normally I take my time before getting inside.” He teased as he pulled her legs higher, opening her wider and somehow slipping deeper.

The bed creaked as he pulled back before once again slowly slipping deep again. Each time he withdrew, he did so a little faster. And every thrust forward was faster than the last. Every move he made left her wanting more.

Pushing herself up on her elbow, she wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed him. He pulled back, using the arm behind her back to pull her up with him. There wasn’t a moment when his strength didn’t amaze her.

He sat back, supporting their combined weight with her in his lap, riding him. He inched them forward, moving a little with each thrust until he could reach out and grab the headboard. That allowed him to be more stable as he held her up by the large hand planted in the center of her back.

Each thrust up into her it hard in all the ways she needed and all she could do was hold onto him. Her legs were wrapped around him tightly as her fingers ran through his hair. His hair had gotten longer, since they’d met and she loved to run her fingers through it.

It took a bit for her feet to find the mattress but once she did, she pushed forward. Clint went willingly enough, falling onto his back. He had thought she looked magical below him and glorious held up in his arms. Somehow, the sight of her perched atop him, knees on either side of his hips was even better.

Candle light danced warmly over her skin, shimmering against stretchmarks and scars. He reached out and took her soft hips in his hands. She was soft in all the best places. When his hands cupped her breasts, he found them as heavy and full as he had always thought.

She rocked her hips and indulged in the way he groaned. When she rose up over him only to sink slowly down his shaft, he outright moaned. It was the best thing she had heard in a very long time. It was a sound she wanted to make him make again and again even if it meant putting off getting herself off a bit longer.

The way the moved together was magical. They each used their body to push their partner closer to their peaks. The bed softly creaked as they moved atop it and soft moans filled the room. The wooden wicks of some of the candles crackled in the air. They were each close now, so close.

At first they didn’t hear it, the sound was lost in the sea of sensations. But than the soft fussing gave way to a shrill cry. The cry garbled and ended with a sneeze as they both froze.

He twitched inside her as each second of silence ticked on. She rolled her hips and he gasped below her. The coil was still there, wrapped tight around her insides but was fading. A warm hand inched closer to her core. A shrill cry pieced the air once again and was quickly followed by a second and third cry.

“Oh god dammit.” Dee whined.

“Give her a minute, she might settle again?” Clint offered only to have the wails of a baby continue to fill the air.

“She’s not.” Deanna laughed, slipping off of him and rolling onto her side. “Babies have a radar- they know when sex is happening.”

“You think?” Clint tried not to laugh while reaching off the edge of the bed for his pants. Dee grabbed his shirt from earlier in the day off the floor from where it sat with his jeans.

“For sure. Babies don’t want want competition too early. All the attention. Greedy little shits.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Shall we see to the little snow princess?”

“Isn’t Elsa the queen?” Clint gave her a look as he opened the door.

“Is she?” Dee asked, slipping out of the room and leading the way to the living room. “I have seen that movie like a million times and I somehow managed to avoid memorizing it.”

“Let it go!” Clint sang, reaching down into the crib. As he scooped up the little bundle, he sang the line again.

“Stop.” Dee complained, a wide smile on her face and a laugh giving way to her voice. “I’ll get a bottle going. Just stop singing the cursed song before it gets stuck in my head.”

As Clint sang the cursed song, she made her way into the kitchen and set to work on that bottle. His voice was soft and carried well. It surprised her that he had such a good singing voice considering the gravel and warmth in his speaking voice. Was there anything he couldn’t do?

As she made it back into the living room, she noticed something odd. On the mantle, above the wood stove insert fireplace was a line of photos, smiling children’s faces looking out at her. Clint was in many of the photos but their mother was missing. Deanna smiled, she knew what it was like to be the one always behind the camera, always taking the pictures.

One of those photos was sitting face down. In the pit of her stomach, she knew what that photo would be. It was larger than the rest and the silvered frame was far more elegant than the others, to the point of being somewhat out of place. She knew better but she couldn’t stop her hand as it reached out.

Trembling fingers lifted the frame, revealing what she knew she’d see. Clint looked so much younger, back then. How long had they been married? That boyish grin she had seen so many times before had a different light to it, a pure joy. He wore a tuxedo, something she couldn’t imagine him ever wearing again.

And Laura? God, she was beautiful. A vision of a bride with her hair pulled back and waves trailing behind her. She had dark brown hair and Deanna imagined she was the type of women who didn’t see herself as others did. She looked like a picture perfect wife and mother.

~~~~~<3

Tag List: @winterisakiller, @usedtobegoodfriend96, @acoholic-muffin, @theoneanna, @alexakeyloveloki, @toozmanykids, @j-u-s-t-4, @missaphrodite23, @bambamwolf87, @nonsensicalobsessions, @tinchentitri, @xoxabs88xox, @queenoftheunderdark, @carissime72, @myoxisbroken, @faemapfae, @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123, @tnystrk-exe

#clint x original character #clint x original female character #clint barton smut #clint x ofc #clint x oc #clint barton x oc

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amgracy · 3 months

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youtube

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puttingfingerstokeys · 5 years

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junkenstein’s revenge prologue

Nanowrimo day 14 Featuring McCree, Hanzo, 76 and Zenyatta Ye olde Sci-Fi/horror Overwatch, violence, gore, ZOMBLES, death Unfinished and unedited

“Hail!” The gunslinger’s voice echoed off the stone walls of Adlersbrunn’s gatehouse. His horse shifted nervously, her hooves adding to the mild cacophony. The gates were closed and the quietude which reigned over it all unsettled the man, if only a little. A storm was brewing and the pregnant silence before it always charged him in a way nothing else could. He adjusted his hat, tipping it back, to peer upward, wanting to be inside before the maelstrom broke upon him.

He knew darn well no one would be opening those gates before sunrise, but the least they could offer was a place in the guard house. He was an honest hunter, plying his trade. His quarry was not stag or boar, however, but something much more sinister. Whispers of such prey had summoned him to this part of the world, in fact.

“Who goes there?” A voice shouted down with sharp, menacing volume, almost like a bark.

“A gunslinger, lookin’ for lodging for the night… an’ maybe some work.”

The face which peered over the wall spared him only a glance before retreating. “We’re full! Come back when the sun is up!”

As if on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance and the low-hanging clouds which had been threatening all day seemed to move. “Have mercy on a traveler,” he pled calmly with the now-disembodied voice. “Ain’t it the custom in these parts to give aid and succor to weary pilgrims?”

“So you’re on a spiritual journey now, eh?” The voice sounded skeptical, but a little guilty for leaving the man outside.

“In a manner, I s’pose I am,” he tossed back, a toothy grin on his handsome face. He could almost hear the conflict which raged within the gate guard. How many had come seeking shelter this evening? Was the place really full, or did the guard simply not want to admit anyone? He had not long to wait, however. A golden sliver of light made itself known where the door creaked open a little ways, just enough for the occupant to see who was outside.

The gunslinger dismounted, holding his beast’s reins in one hand and touching the brim of his hat with the other. “Hail,” he repeated. The door opened slowly and the guard stepped out, armored and tired-looking.

“You’re the fourth one tonight,” he groaned. “Forgive my impoliteness, won’t you?”

“Long as ya let me an’ my mare in, I’ll let ya drink straight outta my flask, stranger,” promised the gunslinger. The guard seemed to brighten at the sound of the word and he eagerly reached out for the mare’s reins. The beast stood calmly as the hunter of dark things passed them over to the guard, who gestured that the traveler should head right inside.

“It won’t be but a moment. Your bunk mates are inside.”

The gunslinger doffed his hat and moved into that warm, golden light just as the first droplets of rain began to hit the ground. From within, the sound was a cleansing, gentle sort of thing; outside, he was sure it would have been droning and monotonous.

A merry fire crackled further in the gatehouse and three individuals sat dispersed about the room, conversing in low tones. These conversations pulled up short as the man entered, spurs jingling, buckles clinking and leather creaking as he moved. “Hail,” he repeated for the third time that evening. “Well met, I hope?”

“Well met, indeed,” came the serene, almost jovial intonation of a strange-looking man whom the gunslinger now realized was hovering a few feet off the ground. His proportions were difficult to gauge, given his posture, but he gave the impression of being quite tall, should he have decided to stand. “Welcome to Adlersbrunn, Mr….”

“McCree,” said McCree, “an’ you?”

“Zenyatta,” replied the doll-like man. In the light of the fire, his beauty was haunting, his face a gentle mask of calm knowledge. The name was as unique as his appearance.

“There’s usually a last name attached, though I’m guessing that is your last name, isn’t it?” The surly voice did not surprise McCree, given that it came from a white-haired gentleman who looked to be in his sixties. His build was something altogether else. He stood and offered a hand and the two were about eye-to-eye. “Good to hear those drawling consonants, though,” admitted the man with a similar accent that marked him as a countryman, but which was sharp enough to differentiate the region of his origin. “John Morrison, friends call me Jack.”

“Jesse,” supplied McCree, shaking the man’s hand with firm vigor. Their camaraderie was evident already, which brought a sigh of relief and a draining of tension from the gunslinger. The fourth and final occupant of the room had, however, not volunteered his name or hand. McCree’s eyes settled upon him.

The man was watching the exchange with sharp, dark eyes. His beard and mustache were manicured to perfection and the scar-like quality of his mouth told McCree that he would be the tough nut to crack. “Howdy,” said the gunslinger disarmingly. He noted the weapon propped nearby, a fearsome recurve bow that did not look like it was from these parts. In fact, the entirety of the man’s presentation, from his carriage to the incredibly elaborate tattoo on his arm suggested to Jesse McCree that this stranger, too, was from far, far away.

“Hmm,” came the man’s response as he looked McCree up and down. His eyes alone settled on the gunslinger’s left arm. He tucked it back a little, resting it more thoroughly beneath his cloak. “How do you do?”

The stranger’s voice was accented as well, but as McCree had first assumed, not in the way the gate guard’s had been. They were possibly the most diverse group that poor man had seen in his entire time of service. It was probably jarring, but McCree was intrigued.

“Glad t’be outta the rain, Mr…” He would allow the stranger to fill his name in as Zenyatta had done to him. The stranger did not. He looked hard at the gunslinger, as if evaluating him. “That’d be the part where ya tell me yer name,” suggested McCree, not without humor. The other two seemed entertained by this, but did not engage, preferring to watch. Morrison returned to his seat at a small table and Zenyatta remained where he was.

“It would,” admitted the stranger, “if I cared to give it. I do not.”

“Well ain’t that just a kick in the ol’ hindquarters!” McCree was not put off by this. If anything, he was more intrigued than ever before. It was only presently that he realized how long the guardsman was taking with his horse and his suspicion as a hunter which drew him away from the bow-wielding stranger to wonder after the guard.

“Johann is taking quite a long time with your mount, Mr. McCree,” observed Zenyatta, doing exactly what McCree thought he might and hovering over, his feet never touching the ground. Fortunately for Zenyatta and all assembled, Jesse McCree had seen many strange things in his lifetime. Pretty, hovering monks were not the strangest.

“I’m gunna check it out,” said McCree. “You fellas stay put; that rain sounds bad.”

Morrison shifted, not liking to be told what to do, but liking the pain in his joints from the change in pressure even less, and liking to admit it least of all. He stayed where he was. The stranger in the corner, too, did not move. Only Zenyatta refused.

“Rain is an act of cleansing sent by the heavens,” he said, gesturing upward with one long, uncomfortably perfect finger. “It will do me no harm.”

McCree noticed the rosary about his neck and wondered of what those beads were made. They were large and appeared heavy. He thought that if he wore something like that, he would bruise. The monk did not seem bothered in the least by their presence, or McCree’s glance. His hands remained folded before him.

“‘Preciate the comp’ny,” admitted the gunslinger, ducking out into the downpour.

Lightning arced overhead and split the night, followed by a violent peal of thunder. McCree heard his horse squeal over the din and caught the sound of clattering hooves at the last moment before she nearly ran him down in her effort to escape. He tossed himself aside, rolling through the mud to avoid her mad dash. As she passed, McCree caught the whites of the poor beast’s eyes and sent up a prayer that she would get far enough away from whatever was scaring her like that.

It was only after seeing her flee this way that McCree remembered he was not alone. “Zenyatta!” He called out to the monk over the roaring storm, turning to see if the monk was behind him or if he had been trampled by the mad beast. He was quite unharmed, but seemed to have frozen to the spot, gentle eyes wide, serene expression all but gone.

McCree turned to see what had caught the monk’s attention and was horrified to witness a shambling, twitching thing coming at him. It was not quick, but it also was not alone. The baleful light in its eyes was joined by others and, despite the downpour, gore was still stuck to faces, chests, and hands. Johann, he thought, dear god.

Energy arced from them, mimicking the lightning overhead, but holding an ugly, supernatural quality that made a shiver run down McCree’s stout spine. He felt on his belt for a flash powder ampoule, determined to drive these things back. His fingers shook, however, and he could not grasp what he sought. One of the creatures raised an arm to strike him.

Something whizzed past the gunslinger’s head, narrowly missing his ear but taking the shambling thing full in the face and near knocking its head off. The blow did enough damage that the monster fell back, twitched once, and lay still. This shocked McCree back into action and he found and tossed the ampoule he’d sought and fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, bringing down two more of the inexorably marching things before retreating back to Zenyatta.

“What are they?” McCree heard himself shouting this over the storm, which seemed determined not to allow conversation. Zenyatta shook his head, a strange expression passing over his features before the passive mask returned. He lifted a hand and, to McCree’s wonder and astonishment, one of the gigantic beads of the monk’s rosary lifted with it. A subtle gesture, barely more than a twitch sent the ball hurtling toward its next target, hitting it dead center in the head and snapping it back.

It fell, but was replaced by another and another. Zenyatta sent two, three more balls into the throng. These projectiles returned somehow, though McCree could not ascertain the method. He was fascinated but understood what little time they had should be spent in retreat, rather than conversation about weaponry and the practical use of psychokinetic magic, for that was surely what this was. McCree was not well schooled in that branch, but he had heard of it and had even witnessed it a time or two. Never, in all his days, however, had he seen it weaponized to such deadly effect.

He was suddenly grateful for the previously observed size and weight of them now. “Thanks,” he grunted, “now let’s git ourselves inside an’ barricade the door.”

They would not be safe until they were within the town proper, but the risk of allowing those things in was too great. The citizens of Adlersbrunn would not be ready for the onslaught which McCree had begun to realize was much, much larger than first anticipated. Well, he thought, ya came here t’hunt dark things; git huntin’.

#CC #CW #AU #Jesse McCree #more like McHelsing #Hanzo Shimada #who's probs a demon #Jack Morrison #idk what his deal is #Zenyatta #he's just a monk but maybe also a hommunculus

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expertpropfirm · 9 months

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anotherdramadrama-blog · 5 years

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Betting Predictions To Be Part Of Fox Sports activities Evaluation

Most of the time, if you ask somebody how they choose their bets, they usually come up with one in all three answers. Afterward, he hired a group of programmers and developed his own automated sports betting system. The highlighted odds are the winning odds which will probably be multiplied with the money that the player guess to compute how a lot they take home. Whereas this works, the professional sports bettors take issues one step additional. V.P. Communications and Public Affairs, National Football League), -paspa-examination-sports activities-betting-america (last visited on July 24, 2019).

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While there's generally casual betting between pals, most wagers are made via what is known as a sports e-book” which is an entity that accepts sports activities betting, In the US, there are solely 4 states the place sports betting is legally allowed. My final piece of cash management advice because it pertains to sports betting is it is best to by no means drastically enhance your guess amounts. A U.S. Supreme Courtroom ruling in May allowed states to legalize, regulate and tax sports betting.

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Beginning with the present 2019-20 NBA season, DraftKings can have entry to official NBA betting information and league marks across its mobile platform and in its sportsbooks all through the United States. The sports books offer a number of completely different sorts of bets, all of that are designed in order that the e-book itself makes a revenue irrespective of the end result of the occasion. I actually lose extra bets than I win - but the costs or odds at which I bet compensate for the losing plays.

Any single-game wager is available in WV, as well as parlays, teasers, prop bets, totals, and even more exotic wagers that you simply might discover in a traditional sportsbook. Sports betting has exploded in the 13 months for the reason that U.S. Supreme Courtroom allowed states to legalize it. Greater than a dozen, together with New Jersey, Mississippi and West Virginia, have carried out so. Usually, on line casino and racetrack house owners have turn into the gatekeepers, with politicians requiring anyone who desires to be in the enterprise to companion with a land-primarily based operator.

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the-years-between-us · 6 years

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Lamplighter

Summary: Stella gets a call from Reed directly following the final episode of The Fall S3. (Stella Gibson/Reed Smith)

Chapter Index 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Warning: This story contains references and descriptions of self-harm.

AN: Big thanks as always to @mobygirl21, @misshadley, and @Nsgnicole. Thank you to those of you who have stuck with this story even though it takes me forever to write. Just knowing it has readers makes it all worth it x

Chapter 8

There’s a distant click of a lock as Reed closes the door to her sister’s flat. She makes sure to notice it somewhere in the back of her mind since the rest of her is blissfully occupied with more important things. Important things like Stella’s mouth and her perfectly shaped tongue. Reed considers herself very lucky to have such an expertly gifted mouth attached to the underside of her ear, dotting constellations down the slope of her neck. It makes everything inside her twist and go weak, small breathy sounds escaping the back of her throat.

Thank god they’re alone - Reed considers herself very lucky for that too. The girls are gone, Lydia’s gone, and she can finally touch Stella without fear of a wandering student or a small set of peeping eyes. And god, she wants to touch her, she never wants to stop touching her.

One of Reed’s hands tangles in the loose waves of Stella’s hair, pulling her in for a messy kiss that’s wet and undiscerning. She just wants her close, as close as she can get and then even closer still. She never knows how to get enough of her at once. And then Stella leans back against the door, dragging Reed with her, pulling lazily at the fabric of her clothes, a cool hand slipping across the taught skin of her stomach.

Knees shuffling, Stella angles her hips and presses her thigh into the juncture of Reed’s legs. Pushing against her, it creates a breathless friction that has Reed’s jaw falling open against the sculpted curve of Stella’s cheekbone, a hot burst of air there. How is she so good at that? She makes their bodies fit together so effortlessly and it always makes Reed want to come in three seconds flat - like some sort of sixth sense.

Suddenly the memory of their last encounter in this hallway slams into Reed’s memory with a jolt between her legs. She remembers how hard Stella made her come against the wall and it’s enough to send her head spinning, enough to make her forget her own name.

But this time has to be different, she can’t forget, not even as Stella moves against her, tongue diving into the shell of her ear. She’d forgotten herself last time and felt like shit for days, guilt consuming her in the knowledge that she’d been reckless and hurt her. She can’t let that happen again, she needs to come to her senses and be careful, tune into Stella’s breathing, watch for signs of discomfort or pain, even if they’re small.

And as if on cue, Reed moves a hand to Stella’s breast that has her jerking almost violently in response.

“Fuck-“

“Stella,” Reed says pulling away as quickly as she can, trying to catch her breath while registering the expression of pain washing over her features. And Stella’s head falls back against the door, a defeated wince at her brow, eyes shut tight.

Reed watches as Stella’s chest rises in a halted sort of way, flinching halfway through each breath. And suddenly Reed feels so incredibly angry. Angry with Spector for ever touching her, for ever existing, and angry with Stella for not letting herself heal. Because this is ridiculous, she’s tired of Stella brushing it off like it’s nothing, tired of excuses. Sometimes a little pain isn’t the worst thing. But sometimes it is.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Reed tries to contain the emotion rearing up inside her.

“What the hell was that?” she asks, and it comes out harsher than she’d meant it to but if Stella says she’s ‘fine,’ Reed might just implode.

Not opening her eyes, Stella must hear the threat in her voice because eventually she admits, “I went swimming this afternoon. Probably for too long.”

Reed’s anger takes hold of Stella’s admission and darts off, stealing into the dark corners of her chest, building a toxic pressure. It fuels her more emotional instincts: to scold her, to shake her (if she could) and tell her to stop running herself into the ground. Because it’s hard to watch something you love destroy itself. There’s a litany of disapproving words tearing through her mind, words she would surely regret if she said them so she bites her tongue to keep them from spilling out.

Then Stella warily lifts her lids, just a crack, like maybe she can sense the provoked flare blazing in front of her. And in her strained lower register, propped up against the door, she concedes, “Definitely for too long.”

And Stella’s words wash over Reed like water, steam simmering through her lungs, dousing the fiery tinder with her small confession. A simple acknowledged truth. Reed hears the vague hiss of hot coals as she looks into Stella’s evaluating stare - a bit guarded after setting her truth free, and it’s then that Reed realizes what she feared all along. The devastating fact that Stella knows exactly what she’s doing and still does it anyway. That Reed’s unleashed lecture won’t do either of them any good. Her efforts are useless in the face Stella’s, and she feels so entirely helpless in that moment she could cry.

“Stella…”

“I know,” Stella says on an exhausted whisper, followed by a more firm, “I know.” Then her hand swings forward like a wandering vine, fingers snaking around Reed’s - a plea to let it go. Holding Stella’s eyes, Reed notices how glassy they’ve gone in the surrounding darkness, tired from a day of emotional battery. Let it go, she hears them say through the buzzing electric current that runs between them. For her own sake, Reed wishes she could, she wishes she didn’t care so much because then letting go might be easier, or even possible.

Stella’s fingers gently tug at her, willing her forward and Reed’s surprised by how susceptible her body is to this soft seduction. Especially when her mind is still charred and fuming, puffs of smoke curling futilely around the base of her skull. But Stella’s eyes slip down to the bruised skin of her lips and Reed feels her heart bottom out. In these complicated moments, this faultless attraction to her feels like a curse, like hypnosis. One look and she’s in a trance, logic and free will be damned.

And when Stella sways forward, kissing her carefully with an open mouth, Reed wonders how much she’s willing to sacrifice to please her. Because she fervidly wants to please her. She wants to heal her and fuck her, make love to her and breathe her in - she just can’t decide which she wants to do first or if that’s the perfect order.

As their lips brush in a mesmerizing suggestion, her brain floods with an overwhelming and intrusive notion that tells her to keep going. But she can’t keep going. She can’t rationalize with her and tuck her quietly into bed, and she certainly can’t push her into the door and fuck sense into her. What’s worse is that she can’t turn her away, her body wouldn’t even know how.

Her options are limited and her mind races to calculate an appropriate solution.

“What’d they give you for it?” she mumbles into her lips and when Stella doesn’t answer, Reed pulls back and clarifies, “Painkillers?”

“Liquor’s fine,” Stella says and it’s not an answer even though it’s disguised as one.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, eyes falling back to Reed’s lips, leaning in to meet them. Not finished with the singular ounce of care that she’s determined to impose upon her, Reed lowers her chin, evading the advance.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Stella’s lips twist. That’s a no.

Reed sighs.

“Liquor cabinet’s in there. I’ll order something - do you have a preference?”

Stella stares at her for a long moment, all of her energy contained in the pilot light wavering behind her pupils, a small blue, appraising flame.

“Whatever’s fast,” she says evenly, the implication burning steadily in her gaze. And then she disappears, lithe steps leading her in the direction of Lydia’s glass bottles, the ones with nice labels and a thin layer of dust from lack of attention. It has Reed biting her lip, questioning herself, unsure if she’s done the right thing.

Doing what she can, she’s going to attempt to nourish her - put food in her body and peace in her mind. She rolls her shoulders trying to erase the guilty feeling forming between the bones and walks toward the kitchen to check one thing off the list. Flicking a switch above the stove, artificial light quickly illuminates a small patch of kitchen, offsetting the moonlight ribboned across the floor. She digs through the cluttered miscellaneous drawer until she unearths a chinese menu (Lydia’s go-to suggestion for mediocre takeaway), and holds the crumpled paper to the lampyrid light. Quickly dialing the number, she places a generic order with a promise of 15-20 minutes until it arrives and it has her feeling unnecessarily accomplished.

When she makes her way into the dining room, Stella’s at the small bar with two healthy glasses of scotch. Sidling up next to her, Reed sees that she’s already had a sip or two - or four, and it makes her smile as much as it makes her worry because she knows how Stella drinks. But on an empty stomach… Reed bites back a cautionary warning to be careful, swallowing it with a silencing gulp.

“You know, fasting is a sacred pillar of various religious communities around the world,” she says as if reading Reed’s mind, as if she’d managed to blurt out her concern into the silence. “Apparently studies have supported finding major physiological and mental health benefits.”

“In most communities, fasting also requires abstinence from alcohol and sex. Not just food.”

Stella gives a non committal hum into her glass and drains it poignantly, a small smirk flirting at her lips as she reaches for the bottle to refill it. There’s the gentle clink of glass against glass and the tinkering sound of pouring liquid. Then her eyes land dangerously on Reed’s, “Well, that won’t do.”

Reed turns, not wanting to look at her too long lest she be tempted to do something stupid, so she takes a seat at the dining room table. A little space might be good, and since they’ve neglected to turn on any further light source, Stella remains half cloaked in shadow. Yes, that’s good. Reed might be able to exercise a bit of restraint if she can’t properly see her.

But then the whites of Stella’s eyes bounce in her direction, and unfortunately the dark surroundings do nothing to lessen their effect on her. Chill bumps call to attention across her arms and Reed’s body goes impossibly still, hyper aware that she’s being sized up as Stella gauges the fortitude of her decision making. How negotiable is dinner? She feels caught, like wandering through the wilderness, immediately arrested by the reflective stare of an assumed predator. And no, Reed doesn’t usually treat Stella like an assumed predator but maybe she should. Maybe she should take caution, move carefully around her.

View her from a distance.

She could be eaten alive.

The thought only gains traction as Stella moves towards her, painfully slow and Reed can’t tell if the pace is a byproduct of her injury or the unpredictable energy between them. Filtered through a thick canopy of embroidered drapes, light shifts over her features as she draws nearer. And faced with the the cat-like slink of her hips and the powerful prowess of her stare, Reed knows the rush of encountering a wild animal, majestic and frightening in equal measure.

But when Stella’s knees bump into hers as she sets her glass down ever so carefully on the hardwood table, she seems inexplicably human. A flesh and blood woman, slender and small, the same one gasping against the front door with a determined look in her eye. And Stella remains silent as she places one leg and then the other on either side of Reed’s chair, a hand dragging blissfully through the strands of Reed’s hair while she looks down at her.

Closing her eyes with an upturned chin, Reed wills herself to find strength or even anger. Anger had worked earlier. Anger just might stall whatever’s happening to her resolve under Stella’s ministrations. But the most Reed can work up is huffy frustration, another pointless sigh. She wants to scoff with the eroding patience of a tired mother. She wants to ask her why, why she insists on doing this.

Then there’s the soft pad of Stella’s thumb brushing her bottom lip and Reed holds her breath. She counts to 3 and tries to will herself into immunity, bracing herself to look at her. Nothing could prepare her for sight of it though: Stella lowering herself into the cradle of her lap, a hitch to her body as she settles there, the definitive straightening of her spine and snag in her lungs.

Wide-eyed, Reed forces herself to breathe and suddenly she doesn’t know what she wants.

Stella looks at her thoughtfully, tracing Reed’s lips with the delicate weight of her thumb, wandering curiously up to her Cupid’s bow and then pausing at her teeth, the small digit poised at the entrance of her mouth. Under the intensity of her stare, Reed’s lips fall open, just barely. And Stella checks in with her, meeting her eyes as she presses her well-manicured nail forward, slipping it easily into the wet heat of her mouth, teeth grazing a knuckle. Instinctually, Reed’s tongue wraps around it, sucking as she watches Stella’s jaw open to reveal a sliver of teeth, her eyes dilating in real time. It’s a look of desire so distilled that Reed doesn’t want to let her go. Resisting the urge to keep her there, Reed lets the thumb escape and Stella swipes its wet tip over the curved plane of Reed’s bottom lip with profound concentration.

Leaning forward, Stella replaces the print of her finger with the sear of her tongue, branding her with the same hovering caress of her mouth. And she focuses on the perimeter of Reed’s lips, outlining their shape with agonizing attention. It’s too much and not enough, and Reed can’t help but grip Stella’s thighs with every ounce of suspense clawing through her body, knowing that she won’t hurt her there but wondering if it will bruise all the same. Reed feels Stella let out an involuntary breath of relief, warm wet air expelled against her parted lips. Then there’s the almost immediate roll of Stella’s hips, the smallest turn followed by an aching snare. And Reed bites down, sinking her teeth into a warning. Nails digging into the strong muscles of Stella’s thighs, it provokes a sound, irresistibly crystalline and so unlike the sounds Reed typically hears from her.

Then Stella’s hand is on Reed’s, moving it from her thigh to her core in a silent but earth-shattering directive. Because there are few things more arousing than concise direction from Stella Gibson, and ‘conflicted’ doesn’t even begin to describe the extremes battling for Reed’s ethical integrity right now. With Stella painfully purring in the crux of her lap, the alignment of her moral compass swivels all over the fucking place; due north almost entirely lost to the perfect weight of her body. And as Stella’s hand slides down across Reed’s throat, stopping possessively over her collarbone, Stella looks down at her with heavy eyes and Reed knows without a doubt that she is positively fucked.

But while Reed’s mind spins and stutters, her thumb presses against the seam of Stella’s trousers eliciting the reward of that sound again. Cursing quietly into Stella’s mouth, she wonders if there will ever be a moment in her future where she’s not dreaming of this sound, thinking of ways to make it happen, obsessing over it. And she can’t resist her, can’t resist taking another pass at her through the material of her pants. Then Reed watches Stella’s eyes drift shut - first in ecstacy and then in spasm.

Reluctantly, Reed’s hand drifts away, roughly dragging down the side of her ass.

And Stella’s eyes drill into her.

The door bells rings.

“Saved by the bell,” Stella says quietly.

She removes herself from Reed’s lap with careful precision and Reed takes a moment to catch her breath before standing to answer the door. And when she returns, she finds Stella sitting innocently at the table looking into the depths of her glass like she might find something more than liquor at the bottom.

“Sustenance,” Reed says placing the bag on the table and Stella doesn’t budge. “If we can even call it that…” and at least Stella grants her the gift of a small smile.

Reed doesn’t bother with plates or silverware like she might if this were a proper meal, a dinner by definition rather than disguise. Because they both know the food is little more than an excuse, a means to an end. And Stella obediently eats it as such.

They make their way through sticky sauce and noodles in silence, and there’s easily enough food to feed four people. When Reed’s satisfied that they’ve done the best their best, she makes minimal effort to tidy the scattered lids and plastic wrappers. Bright eyed, Stella pushes her remaining food towards Reed, who stacks unused napkins and packets into vague piles of ‘keep’ and ‘toss.’ Then she makes it all disappear.

When she returns, Stella’s finished her drink, tipping the glass recklessly at her lips, making a show of catching the last remaining drop along its crystal rim.

“Need another?”

“No,” Stella says with a heavily rounded ‘o’ that’s very indicative of what she does need, and Reed finds it alluring and irritating in equal measure.

“Upstairs.”

Stella’s teeth catch her lip like she’s gotten away with something and Reed thinks that she could absolutely kill her. She’s tempted to make a follow up comment, something petty about sleeping and bed rest but then Stella’s hand slips into hers with a little squeeze. It feels like a thank you and an apology all rolled into one. Once again, Reed can’t bring herself to be upset, not when Stella’s leading her through the darkened house and up the stairs, all soft movements and careful steps.

And when they reach Reed’s bedroom, Stella waits patiently as Reed closes the door. Behind her facade of submission, this absolute calm that she projects standing there, hands folded behind her back, Reed still senses an anxious energy pulsing at their fingertips. Stella’s restlessness and her own hesitation, all masked beneath the convenient veil of a dark room.

The sound of the floorboards creak as Reed approaches her and Stella doesn’t move, not even as Reed’s head tilts curiously to the side, looking her over. Nor does she move when Reed leans in, kissing her chastely on the lips, whispering against them, “Help me take off your shirt.”

Gingerly, Reed rolls up the hem of Stella’s top, curling the fabric under her fingers and carefully ghosting it over the ladder of her ribs, stretching it treacherously over the swell of her breasts. Obediently raising her arms, Stella allows Reed to slide it over the obstacle of her shoulders, and when her hair falls messily around her face, Reed distractedly drops the garment in an unceremonial mess on the floor. But Stella doesn’t blink, not even as Reed steps closer, fingers at the clasp of her trousers, open mouth glistening a few millimeters from her own. And Reed holds her eyes as she tugs Stella’s pants down, thumbs hooked into the waistband, rounding the curve of her ass. She follows them to the floor, freeing them from Stella’s ankles and pushing the perfectly tailored cloth towards her shirt.

Then Stella’s fingers twitch. Unable to stay still for so long, she reaches for Reed’s shirt, fists bunching the fabric at her sides until Reed stops her with the halt of a hand. Stella holds in a breath, biting her tongue as Reed removes her grip with a small tsk of admonishment. And Reed can see the fire in her gaze, the internal debate as her fingers flex and contract. But then Reed’s fulfilling her unspoken request, tearing her sweater up over her head, and she kicks off her jeans with far less care than she’d managed with Stella’s clothes. Shoving them aside, she steps back into Stella’s space, arms circling her torso with a kiss to her shoulder. And she’s careful not to touch her bruised ribs as she unhooks the back of her bra, sliding it cautiously from her shoulders.

Other kisses follow, gifts of tender pressure sprinkled over Stella’s neck, the underside of her jaw, and then her collarbone. Stella hums a small sound as Reed’s mouth travels south, a wet kiss at her belly button dotted by the snap of underwear, teeth and elastic and lace. Stella’s hand pushes through Reed’s hair on a sigh, brushing it back from her face as she looks down at her. Occupied with her task of peeling Stella’s underwear down her legs, Reed concentrates on appreciating the sharp jut of her hips and the impossibly flat plane of her stomach. Looking up at her then, Reed makes sure to catch her eyes as she licks her already wet clit, just once, delivering a chaste kiss to the smooth skin of her apex afterwards.

“Lay down on the bed,” she says and it’s barely a whisper.

Stella’s eyes go as dark as the night sky, swirling nebulas shining in the far off distance as stray comets of rebellious emotion trail across her deep blue irises, the weight of Reed’s command churning there. It vibrates in the astute set of her jaw and the tilt of her chin, this desire to retaliate as strong as the desire to comply. And Reed waits her out, knowing that if she wants this, they’ll both arrive at the same conclusion.

It almost takes a full minute before Stella moves. But when she does, she does it with care, settling herself onto the mattress with diligent attention. Slightly this way and slightly that, her body molds into the comforter and Reed thinks that the picture she makes could be showcased in any exhibit, any museum. The explicit definition of fine art.

In a brief and terrifying moment, Reed realizes how much she truly cares for her. How much she worries about her and how much she craves her happiness. The things she might do to make her smile.

But no, now’s not the time for that, she reasons. Crawling up to meet Stella on the cushy duvet, she suspends herself weightlessly over Stella’s patiently waiting body. “Relax,” Reed whispers against her lips and then seriously, “don’t move.”

“Ridiculous,” Stella huffs when Reed’s mouth glides down her body. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Reed mumbles into her skin, biting harder than she meant to but then smiling when she hears Stella gasp in pleasure. “And it won’t be ridiculous when you come. So, shut up.”

Before Stella can argue any further, Reed takes a nipple into her mouth and sucks it against the flats of her teeth until the only thing Stella has to say is her name. It makes Reed grin, a gloating flash of expression against the soft skin of her breast as she releases her sensitized nipple and moves onto the other one. Then Stella’s squirming below her but she’s trying - trying to obey Reed’s parameters as best she can. And Reed knows that the sooner she can make her come, the better, the less damage she might inflict on herself.

So she plants a kiss to her sternum and moves on, tongue trailing down Stella’s body until she’s at the juncture of her legs. And she parts them gently, settling herself between the strong columns of her thighs.

“Be still.”

“Or what?”

“You really want to find out?” Reed asks, holding Stella’s eyes. And her jaw jumps as Reed wets her lips, the glistening outline of her mouth dropping closer to her cunt. But when there’s no response, Reed hovers there with a lift of her eyebrow and waits.

“No,” Stella breathes and it’s barely audible.

“Good,” Reed says, immediately dragging her tongue from Stella’s entrance to her clit, circling there and getting straight to the point. And she looks up at her, watching the way Stella’s eyes fall closed and the way her breasts rise on inhale, the arresting tension of her muscles as they strain beneath her fingers. Instantaneously Reed feels herself get wet. Humming into the slippery folds of Stella’s sex, she feels her own hips roll uselessly into the mattress and it’s always so surprising, so strangely surprising. She never expects the throbbing pang of arousal that comes with getting Stella off - she’d always thought it was the sort of thing reserved for exaggerated anecdotes, the inflated tales of other people’s sex lives, the sort of thing people say but don’t mean. But with Stella it always happens, every single time, in the best, most frustrating way imaginable.

And before this all started, she hadn’t imagined a lot of things. She hadn’t imagined enjoying the way a woman might taste, she’d never really given it much thought... But then she’d managed to think about the way Stella might taste to varying levels of insanity. Not too long ago, she’s convinced that there was a point in which the thought never fully left her mind. And of course she’s since discovered that she loves the way Stella tastes, looks forward to it even. They’ve only had sex a handful of times but it’s still shocking to enjoy the sensation of going down on her, to welcome the silky feel of her against her tongue.

“Fuck.”

These noises she makes, the muffled curses and punctuated gasps of encouragement, they almost feel like a bonus in comparison. And Reed feels her core clench as she laps at Stella, rhythmically sucking her clit, feeling herself wind up as she watches Stella do the same.

Perhaps this is the best part, watching her unfold from this vantage point. The concentrated crease at her brow paired with the soft bite of her lip, or the way her fingers pinch and play with her nipples. Reed thinks she’s never seen anything more beautifully erotic as the way her hair splays across the pillow, her head sinking deeper into its feathered support while her mouth soundlessly dips open in rapture. But then there are her eyes, those two acute extraordinary eyes suddenly zeroing in on Reed’s for a moment of uninterrupted connection. It fills Reed up, flooding her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and she feels sexy. She feels alive and more powerful than she can ever remember feeling because she’s making this happen. This charged thing between them, it’s her’s. And she wants it to be her’s for as long as humanly possible, she wants this feeling to last forever.

But she knows that forever isn’t in the cards tonight. She’s got to make quick work of this. Even these small movements, the microrotation of her hips and the pace of her breathing - it’s more than Stella should be doing - and it might feel good now but she’ll undoubtedly pay the price later. So Reed shifts her weight and uses her free hand to insert a finger into the wet heat of Stella’s entrance. And she doesn’t move her hand, just barely pushes up against Stella’s wall, and the sensation has Stella’s eyes falling shut and her hips jutting forward messily against Reed’s mouth.

Her own thighs press together as she tries to remain focused, knowing that she’s on the right track. And it’s an awkward angle for her arm but she keeps it there, inserting a second finger and reaping the reward of a neatly pronounced “Fuck. Yes.” God, she wants to touch herself, she wants Stella to recover and she wants to be able to fuck her without hurting her.

Then there’s a hand in her hair and that’s a good sign too because that always seems to happen right before Stella comes. And sure enough, she’s keening that she’s close and moving against her in earnest, a breathy plea sounding from her parted lips. Before Reed knows it, Stella’s legs involuntarily close in on the sides of her head, and she loses whatever sense she had of what she was doing. She just keeps going, knowing that she’s done it because Stella’s coming and she’s tempted to mumble her own “fuck yes” into the wetness of her pussy.

And then Stella’s still, appropriately limp and practically collapsed in on herself.

Reed extricates her limbs as gently as possible, sitting back on her knees and wiping her mouth. She can smell Stella on her skin and she loves this part, the part where she smells her everywhere. In the air, on the sheets, on her hands. And she’s so turned on, so high on this feeling that she thinks she might have to go to the bathroom and finish herself off.

“Thank you,” Stella whispers blissfully and Reed smiles, bending down to kiss the softness at her hip. She breathes her in and feels confident, like there’s nothing she can’t do. As long as she can do that…

God, she wants to come.

It’ll just take a minute.

She pulls away to get up, thinking up some excuse so that she can disappear and come back. But as she does so, something holds her gaze. No, not something. Stella. Stella’s body catches her eye. And it lingers, eyes focusing and refocusing, wandering over the mauled terrain laid out inconspicuously below the place she’d just been. And Reed tells herself not to stare, she tries not to in moment likes these - moments of ‘before’ and ‘after.’ But it’s just so jarring that she can’t help it. Something doesn’t compute. Her brain rejects what it sees. Because the rest of Stella is so visually flawless, so effortlessly perfect, that everything about this feels starkly out of place.

There’s the urge to touch her, to run her fingers over it like braille, uncover the stories Stella’s written there. Maybe they hold the answers she’s been seeking. Or maybe she just wants to prove to herself that they’re real, tactile evidence that they exist beyond the ghost she’s made them in her mind. More than anything, Reed just wants to know her, all of her, including these secret parts that only become visible in the dark.

And she thinks back to their day together, wind in their hair and sun in the eyes, taking in the beauty of the world around them. The sudden insight into Stella’s past, years revealed in just a moment. An unexpectedly small and simple moment sitting on an overlook. Reed cherishes those moments, the brief and weighty opportunities to discover unbridled closeness with her.

Maybe one day they’ll find that closeness here. Laying in a bed, unexpectedly revealed in a moment of ‘after.’

Maybe.

Then she realizes that she’s doing exactly what she didn’t want to be doing.

She’s staring.

Shit.

Her eyes fly back up to Stella’s face, hoping to find her mildly euphoric or possibly even close to sleep. But instead, she’s met with an unreadable look, pointed and vaguely terrifying in its intensity.

Caught.

Fuck.

The last time Reed unwittingly gaped at Stella’s scars, she’d gone cold to the touch, shut down completely and run off to the bathroom. And adrenaline spikes through her veins as she tries to calculate what might happen next. If there’s any way to save this or if Stella will achingly stand to leave, pitifully attempting to gather her belongings. But the silence just drags on, pealing in her ears as she tries to think of something to say.

And Stella just stares. Quietly. Calmly.

And eventually she speaks.

“Come here.”

“What?” Reed asks, not knowing what she means.

“Come here,” Stella repeats.

Unsure, Reed wonders if she’ll get off the hook that easily, if she’ll climb up there and drift off to sleep next to Stella, leaving her stolen moment in the bathroom long behind. But as she slinks up to the head of the bed, an arm tugs her forward.

“Keep going.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Keep going.”

“Stella,” Reed says warily.

“Yes?”

“Come on…”

“I won’t move. That’s the big problem isn’t it. I’ll be still.”

“We should sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep, I want you to come here.”

“I just-”

“Tanya,” she says dangerously, “Move.”

But Reed still hesitates, her mind stalled out, torn between the niggling concerns in her head and the weight of Stella’s command. She opens her mouth to speak, no idea what to say, when Stella cuts her off with a look, incinerating on impact.

“Don’t make me beg.”

Low and gravelly, her voice is authoritative in a way that makes Reed’s core pulse, the need to come resurfacing as quickly as it vanished. And even as she tells herself not to do this, she feels herself ache and she wants to scream. Or slap herself. Something. Backbone - where’s her backbone? She needs to get ahold of herself, tell Stella to go the fuck to sleep and start taking her recovery seriously. She needs to tell her…

She doesn’t know what she needs to tell her.

Because there’s that look in her eyes and that tone in her voice. It leaves no room for argument and Reed’s not proud to discover the visceral, almost primitive attraction she feels toward it.

And when she moves, she feels drunk and dissociative, not like herself.

“Relax.”

She blinks and looks down. Strands of blonde hair curling demurely around her knees as she straddles Stella’s shoulders. Stella’s eyes have softened and look a little shiny as she peers up at her. And Reed sees lust churning there amidst stubborn notes of fatigue, and she doesn’t know what to do with that...

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, scoot up.”

“But-“

“Don’t suffocate me and I’ll be fine,” she huffs, coaxing Reed’s hips forward with her hands. And Reed almost finds it funny until she hears Stella’s voice go soft like velvet when she requests, “Come here.”

And Reed does.

She moves up so that she’s just inches above Stella’s face, her hands moving to the bed frame for support. Sliding up her body, Stella’s hands beckon her down. “Drop your hips,” she says in that husky tone, less commanding and more of a suggestion than anything else.

And Reed knows that if she got up right now, if she really let her concerns take over, she knows that Stella might be pissy but that she wouldn’t push her. Stella craves control, needs it even, in certain areas of her life to function day to day - Reed knows this, and she’s witnessed it enough times to understand it. Just as she knows that this is one of those times, an exercise in resurgence because she’s relinquished so much.

So much for her, anyway.

Besides, Reed won’t deny that her body’s practically demanding this. She can feel her pelvic floor tighten around nothing, releasing in frustration. And it’s as petulant as Stella, pleading with her, begging.

Not knowing when it actually happens, she makes the decision to commit, lowering herself in reach of Stella’s impatient mouth. And it’s only with the first lick of her tongue that Reed realizes how soaked she actually is. Stella breathes and the air feels cool against her folds, completely drenched in her own desire.

“Mm,” she hears Stella hum and then she feels it against her clit, slick and glorious, her head lolling forward. “Knew you’d be happy to see me.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters down at her, trying to think of something to say, anything to erase the smugness from her voice. But nothing follows because everything goes wondrously hazy, melting all around her. Even her annoyance evaporates in seconds because nothing can compete with this feeling, not even that.

God, she feels divine.

She thinks she says it, she doesn’t know what she says, but she feels Stella’s hands on her, pulling her closer. And somewhere in the amalgamous daze of her mind, she knows that she’s not supposed to be making this hard for her. Fast. She’s supposed to make this quick.

So she tries her very best to relax, to fully relax and sink down into this position, giving herself over to Stella completely. And it works at first because she feels so good, so fucking good that it’s almost too good. Reed clutches at the bedframe and then the wall, feeling like she might shatter up here, afraid that pieces of her will scatter everywhere, bouncing carelessly into space with no hopes of ever retrieving them. If only she could anchor herself to something, anything. Because her only anchor is Stella’s jaw working magic against her pussy and it’s not enough, not enough to keep her steady as she soars higher and higher away from her body.

But her hips still roll, unable to fully control them as they make the tiniest movements against the welcoming warmth of Stella’s mouth. And she tells herself to let go, to let this happen, even as her thighs tremble and her knuckles lock.

Then Stella shifts a bit beneath her and Reed thinks she’ll have a break, a moment to collect herself as Stella adjusts her shoulder. But Stella’s not just adjusting her weight, she’s bringing her hand up to insert a finger deep inside her and Reed almost feels herself split in two. And she moves it slowly, adding another as her apt tongue circles Reed’s clit with that same orgasm inducing brilliance.

It’s not long before Reed’s body is calling her to ride those fingers, purling pants wafting toward the ceiling as she grinds into Stella’s face. And Stella’s other arm wraps around Reed’s leg, holding her there, pressed against her mouth as she begins to come.

Radiant spots of color erupt behind her eyelids as her fingertips press into the wall with the force of her weight and her climax bearing down on them. And she tries not to press into Stella, she tries to lift away from her, to keep herself from completely smothering her. But Stella’s arm is like a vice and it keeps her there as she comes and comes, absorbing the aftershocks of her ogasm on her tongue until Reed can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, okay,” she says, flimsily falling to the side and crumbling into a messy jumble of limbs on the sheets. She tries to focus on breathing but soon she hears the telltale tinker of Stella’s laughter and feels the comforter covering her body, placed securely around her shoulders.

“You’re not supposed to move,” she mumbles.

She tries to open her eyes but everything feels heavy.

“I know,” she whispers, “I’m not.”

Reed feels Stella’s fingers tangle with hers, and sleeps.

Coffee drips lumberingly from the pot in Reed’s kitchen, its earthy aroma blanketing Stella in the warm haven of early morning as the sun begins to rise. The room reflects the new dawn, every wall alight with the prismatic beauty of daybreak.

Reed cracks eggs into a clear bowl, piling empty shells off to the side and running her hands under hot water. She’s making omelettes and even though Stella’s not hungry, she likes this ritual - the one where Reed cooks for her. It’s a strange thing to become attached to but Stella finds an unfamiliar and indescribable peace in the gesture, something calming about the simplicity of their lives when it happens. And it’s been a long time since she’s let this happen with someone, breakfast and crying and comfort, this level of access to her own monotony.

Mundane things always become the most important.

She wraps her fingers around a healthy looking grapefruit and slices, sectioning the fruit into pieces. It smells citric and sweet as she cuts, rosy pink juice spilling onto her fingers. And Reed says something but she’s not sure what it is so she laughs anyway. It doesn’t really matter, nothing feels like it matters because she’s just so happy. So unbelievably happy.

But then she realizes, hearing it echo, that she knows what Reed had said.

She wants a piece of grapefruit.

Picking up a ripe ruby hunk, she passes it to Reed who’s busy whisking together a thick yellowy concoction with the concentration her profession demands. She looks up from it and smiles, a brilliant sort of smile that makes Stella feel warm all over, protected in this cocoon of their togetherness. And she takes the fruit and puts it to Reed’s mouth, watching as her eyes flit from the offering back to Stella’s eyes.

Dauntlessly, she bites it, a sugary stream of juice sliding over her lip and down her chin. Stella captures it with her thumb. And then with her tongue. She feels her entire body flush and then vaguely wonders if they’ll have time for this. They have to work today don’t they? It’s a relatively far off thought when Reed is all softness and warmth against her, wet mouths greeting each other, clinging to each other in a promise of eternity.

And she wants her so bad, she thinks she’ll never escape it.

Then they’re at the table, clean plates and lazy smiles. Even the air feels good as she sit there, looking at the radiant way sunlight shines across Reed’s hair. She thinks that she could look at it for hours, studying every nuance that exists within her, every nuance that exists around her. She never wants to move.

But she moves anyway, collecting their plates and placing them in the sink. She rinses everything with hot water. It’s the least she can do after Reed’s gone through the trouble of cooking. She doesn’t mind at all because there’s -

Movement.

Something catches her eye over by the table where Reed’s sitting. And when she looks, everything goes cold, instantly cold. Because it’s impossible.

Impossible.

Her father.

He looks at Reed as he pulls a chair out, sitting next to her, saying nothing. He says nothing. He sits there staring, still and staring. And Reed’s eyes go wide as she looks at him. Wider as she looks at Stella because she knows something is wrong. She knows that her father is dead. Has been dead for 27 years. But he doesn’t look any older than the day Stella last saw him, smiling handsomely as he walked out the door.

Now there’s no smile, that small smile she’d been so accustomed to as a child is nowhere to be found. His expressionless face turns towards her, empty eyes boring into her own, almost black in their vacancy. And it’s unnatural, wrong somehow. So incredibly disturbing.

Because he’s dead.

Still dead.

And maybe he doesn’t know it.

Stella’s paralyzed, unable to think or breathe. Her heart pounds in her ears, blood beating loudly against her eardrums.

She’s so afraid, she can’t remember being more afraid in her entire life because she can’t watch him die.

He blinks. Lifelessly. An animated corpse.

She can’t watch him.

She’s running.

Breathing heavily.

Sweating.

She’s tired but she has to keep going. She doesn’t know why. All she knows is that there’s danger, a threat of some kind, and it’s coming for her. Coming for them.

But Gwen’s falling behind.

And she’s loud, twigs snapping and leaves crunching beneath her feet as they run. She needs to be fucking quiet or they’re going to hear her. They’re going to hear both of them. And that can’t happen - they have to keep going. They need to go faster, pick up the pace, because it’s getting closer. Stella can feel it closing in on them, dread filling her entire body as it nears.

“Stella!” Gwen cries softly, terror coloring the whimper in her voice.

“Shh!”

Stella grabs her hand, trying to pull her along so that they can run together but it doesn’t help. Gwen just stumbles, her legs fumblingly clumsily until she trips completely, falling hard to the ground.

Goddammit. No, no, no.

Stopping her momentum, Stella skids across the dirt, running back for her. And she’s pulling at her, pulling at her arms and her clothes, trying to get her on her feet, trying to make her stand. But she just won’t, she crumbles into a ball and sobs.

“Stella, I’m so scared.”

“Me too. But you have to get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes-”

“No-”

“Yes, you can!”

And Stella uses every bit of strength and adrenaline coursing through her body to pull Gwen a few feet away, underbrush clawing at them as she drags her behind a tree. Her body is leaden with fear, caving in on itself, and Stella has to practically carry her. Pressing her back into the bark, she settles Gwen heavily into her lap as she prays for a miracle.

“Be quiet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop.”

Gwen trembles and Stella holds her, she holds her tight, probably too tight as she pushes against the tree, hoping that it will envelop them in some kind of protection.

It’s odd holding her. As terrified as she is, she can’t help but notice how odd it feels to hold her, to have her this close, breathing into her hair. Because it’s been so long, hasn’t it? Years and years. Decades even?

And she doesn’t hold Gwen anymore. And she’s dreamt of it too many times. So this must be a dream. It has to be.

She feels herself shaking.

Wake up. Wake up.

She begs herself to open her fucking eyes.

White.

She sees white everywhere, it’s so damn bright.

Blinking it out of her eyes, she looks around and she’s in her office.

Thank god.

Thank. God.

She’s in her office, just her tiny mess of an office. She’s alone and Gwen’s not here. She’s just somebody that Stella used to know, and she’s not holding her, there’s no one here. She can breathe. She takes advantage it with a quivering breath, an attempt to leave the panic behind.

It was nothing but a dream. Nothing but a nightmare. Hallucination. A panic attack.

She’s fine. She’s safe.

Fucking hell.

Standing on wobbly legs, she finds herself in the bathroom, splashing water over her face. God, she’s still so hot, sweating. She takes a paper towel and wets it under the sink, putting it against her neck, and it doesn’t do much.

And then there’s fear, stronger than ever. Because someone’s in this fucking bathroom and she knows it. She sees them in the mirror behind her, a set of feet peeking out under one of the stalls.

Maybe she’s being paranoid, anxious. Maybe she’s being crazy.

She wants to leave, she should get out of here, but her body won’t move.

The door swings open and someone emerges from the stall. She spins around.

Greg.

Of course it’s Greg. He’s probably found her card, the small number scratched into it, she shouldn’t have left her initial. Or maybe he’s found out that she had coffee with Gwen, however short-lived and unproductive it was. And now he’s come to confront her in her own fucking office because he’s that kind of cocky. He thinks he can get away with it. But she’s faced him before and she’s stronger now. She’s been through training and learned to fight, and he’s a idiot piece of shit if he thinks that no one will hear her in this building.

But as he draws nearer, she can’t scream.

She can’t scream and she’s on the ground and it’s not Greg at all.

No, it’s Spector, his black eyes looming over her, hateful and mere inches from hers. His putrid breath against her face, his hand covering her mouth, gripping her throat, squeezing.

And again, she can’t breathe, abject terror reclaiming her body as everything goes black.

She struggles and struggles, but she just can’t move. She can’t scream. She can’t breathe.

Without a doubt, she realizes her fate so planely. The most nauseating feeling.

This is how she dies.

Shit-

Reed startles awake in pain, something sharp digging into her side.

Turning over, she realizes that it’s Stella’s elbow lodged there, pushing harder even as Reed attempts to move it. And her movements are tight and jerky. Almost instantly, Reed recognizes that she must be having a nightmare, eyes fluttering madly below her eyelids, moisture collecting at her brow. Reed puts a hand to her cheek, trying to wake her gently, but then she realizes how hot her skins feels and sits up worriedly.

“Stella,” she says, hoping she’ll hear her name and come out of it.

A short gasp of air rattles into the night as Stella twitches but doesn’t wake. So Reed moves her hand, feeling how warm Stella is everywhere, and she must be caught in a fever dream. With a firm hold, Reed grabs her shoulder and shakes her a bit, “Stella, wake up.”

But Stella mumbles wordlessly, deeply lost to some subconscious battle while her breathing goes shallow and erratic. For a fleeting moment, Reed feels illogically frightened, worried even though she understands that there’s probably nothing seriously wrong. Stella’s dreaming, just dreaming, but she needs to wake up. Tossing aside her guilt, she shakes her harder and relief finally surges through her chest when Stella jolts awake.

Cloudy eyes look up at her, confused and blinking wildly.

“Stella, you’re burning up,” she says, bringing the gentle caress of her hand back to her face, trying to ground her back in reality.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, eyelids falling closed as short breaths continue to burst from her lungs. And then she lurches forward so suddenly that Reed barely has time to register the alarmed look breaking across her face. But it’s instantaneous and she’d recognize it anywhere.

Quickly rolling over, Reed moves to grab the waste bin at her bedside and puts it directly under Stella’s mouth before she vomits into the plastic lining. It happens once, and then a few seconds pass and it happens again. Reed tries to brush the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ears.

“Sorry,” Stella says in a dejected whisper, face hovering over the bin.

“You’re fine,” Reed says nervously. “Sit back with this. I’ll get you some water.”

And she leaves Stella clutching the bin to go downstairs and fill up a tall glass at the tap. On her way back, she hurriedly grabs a cold washcloth and some ibuprofen, returning to find Stella slumped against her pillow, the sick bin sitting sadly on the ground next to her.

“Hey,” she says moving it over to sit on the edge of the bed next to her. “Try to sit up and take these.”

Stella’s eyes shut tighter as she breathes out of a pitiful noise that ambiguously tells Reed, ‘no.’

“Please,” Reed tries again. “It’ll bring down your fever.” Reaching around Stella, she adjusts the pillows behind her to make it easier. But when Stella still doesn’t move, Reed doesn’t wait. She puts her hands behind Stella’s back and lifts her into a sitting position while Stella semi-cooperates. “Come on, sit up.”

Weakly, her fingers collect the pills from Reed’s offering palm and she swallows them with a small sip of water. Then she’s sinking back into the comforter, the grimace intensifying at her brow.

“Talk to me,” Reed says, wiping the cool washcloth at her hairline. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

“Nothing,” Stella mumbles, blinking blearily as her eyes fight to stay open. “S’just my stomach.”

“Does it feel any better now?”

“Yes.”

“Stop lying.”

“Tired,” she says weakly, her eyes drifting closed. “I’m just…” And she looks seconds from sleep. So Reed lets her slip away into unconsciousness as she evaluates the seriousness of the situation. She replaces the washcloth with her hand, assessing her fever and decides that it’s relatively low. Next she grabs her wrist and feels for a pulse. Stella groans a little and Reed has to keep herself from laughing - she’s almost completely positive that Stella would never let her do this under any other set of circumstances. And then that worries her. But the pulse she finds is strong, a bit fast but steady, not erratic.

Images of her from earlier in the day flicker through her mind, the exhaustion written across her face, the weight at her shoulders. She’s probably run down, dehydrated and in need of rest.

Fixing the blankets around her, Reed resigns to letting her sleep, knowing that she’s probably fine. Then she collects the lining of the sick bin, replacing it with a clean one, and tries to fall back asleep.

A few hours later, she’s had little luck. Reed wakes in and out of dozing to keep an eye on her fever, and around 5AM, she decides that it’s useless. Fetching her laptop from downstairs, she crawls into bed and begins checking her email. Every so often, Stella’s breathing escalates and she talks nonsense words into the early morning.

Sunlight peeking through Reed’s window, Stella barely stirs, but it’s time for her to take more medication. She’s also sweat through the pillowcase; Reed should really swap it for a clean one.

“It’s time for you to take something,” Reed says trying to wake her gently. She watches as Stella’s eyes blink open, still red and glassy, registering the world around her. “You should take some more of this.”

Without noise or complaint this time, Stella props herself on an elbow so that she can adhere to Reed’s request. Her skin looks clammy and the circles under eyes carve her typically regal face into a gaunt imitation.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Great,” Stella says sarcastically, swallowing the pills that Reed gives her.

“Stella-”

“Like I got run over,” she grumbles, setting the glass of water down on the nightstand.

“Drink,” Reed insists, handing it back to her. “You need to hydrate. And I need to change this,” she says, indicating to Stella’s pillowcase.

Stella takes a deep breath, one that looks like it hurts, and fortifies herself to comply with Reed’s caregiving. And she manages to sit up as Reed swaps out the pillows and drink half the glass of water before retreating back into the covers, bundling herself in bedding.

“Who can I call?”

Giving her a strange look, even as her eyes close on their own volition, Stella huffs out a vague “What?”

“At your office,” Reed clarifies. “I’ll call - tell them you’ll be out today.”

“I have to…”

“No you don’t.”

“I can’t…”

“Well, you can’t go in either,” Reed tries to say without sounding too authoritarian. Self-consciously, she softens. “Tell me who to call.”

Several seconds pass as Stella breathes, probably deciding how horrible she feels and Reed wonders how hard she’ll have to push the subject. She doesn’t relish in the idea of having to play doctor in these situations, but she’s prepared to. There’s only so much she can let go, only so much she’s willing to witness as Stella runs herself into the ground.

So she holds strong while a lecture (for another time) writes itself in her mind. And she can feel herself becoming frustrated and concerned in equal turns because Stella can barely sit up; the fact that she thinks she’s even capable of going to work is laughable at best. Yet she’s still silent, protesting Reed’s request for a contact. And this stubbornness even now, even now while she can barely sit, stokes Reed’s anger from the night before. She doesn’t know how to get through to her, she doesn’t know how to say the things that she needs to say, and she’s been silent for so long. For years she’s been silent and she refuses to sit back in her self-censored prison for much longer.

But then, right as Reed is about to repeat her question, Stella finally speaks.

“James,” Stella says almost inaudibly. “James Colgan.”

“Thank you,” Reed sighs, feeling herself unwind. “What’s the password on your mobile?”

“1934.”

Grabbing her mobile from the nightstand, Reed takes it downstairs and scrolls through her contacts looking for ‘James Colgan.’ It feels invasive to have Stella’s phone at her fingertips and for someone who’s so private, having even momentary access to it feels wrong, like she’s doing it without her permission. So she tries not to infer anything, she tries not to read names - not that she would know any of them - but she tries to do what she came to do and get it over with. And she finds his information with relative ease and dials…

“Colgan,” he answers.

“Hello, this is Professor Reed Smith,” she says, suddenly nervous. “I’m uh, calling on behalf of Stella Gibson. She won’t be coming in today and I wanted to let someone know.”

“Who is this exactly?” He sounds alarmed Reed understands why. She doubts that Stella ever calls out of work, let alone has someone call for her.

“I’m a friend of Stella’s,” Reed explains with a patient finality to her voice. Because while she understands his concern, she would never provide a more extensive explanation of their relationship to one of Stella’s colleagues, especially not without her consent. “She’s sick.”

James does not respond, not for a few moments anyway. And then he clears his throat.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” Reed says, inexplicably glad to hear someone else in Stella’s life express interest in her wellbeing. “But she could use some rest.”

“Okay.” And then, “You’re with her?”

“Yes, I’ll be with her all day.”

“Alright, well thank you.”

Reed’s not sure if he’s thanking her for staying with Stella or thanking her for the call. But either way, she’s glad to know that he exists and that Stella has at least one person in her life that worries about her.

“Of course. She’ll call as soon as she’s able.”

Reed ends the call and locks Stella’s phone.

“Who’s that?” A voice comes from behind her.

“Jesus. Don’t do that.”

“What? Walk around my own home?” Lydia says rounding a corner into view.

“No, I just mean - when did you get here?” Reed asks swiping at her hair because she has no idea what she looks like. She’s been up all night and her guard’s down, she didn’t hear Lydia come home - she thought she was alone. “I thought you were at Ian’s for the night.”

“Well, I was,” Lydia explains. “But then we had a row so...”

“So you came home?”

“Yeah, around 1.”

“In the middle of the night? It was that bad?”

“He’s a prick,” she says offhandedly like anyone would know, but Reed sees hints of hurt lining her frown and knows that it must be more than that.

“I’m sorry, Lyd.”

“It’s fine,” she says, less able to hide the bitterness in her tone this time. Then she returns to her original question. “Who was that?”

“On the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, um, Stella’s here,” she explains looking at the phone and then pocketing it. “And she’s ill so I was calling out of work for her.”

“She’s here?”

“Yeah, sleeping upstairs.”

Lydia’s eyebrows pop up as she smiles a mischievous sort of grin. “Does this mean I finally get to meet her?”

“She’s really unwell,” Reed says with an edge to her voice and Lydia’s smile retreats. “Please don’t get any ideas.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know…” she says crossing her arms. “‘Stress, exhaustion probably. From what I can tell, she’s definitely dehydrated.”

“You’re going to stay with her?”

“I think so.”

“If you need me to grab the girls from school today-“

“No, no. I can get them. Thank you but… I think she just needs sleep.”

Stella’s tired.

It’s hot in her office and she’s unreasonably tired. The kind of tired that wraps itself around your heart and seeps into your muscles. But she can’t lay down. There’s so much to do.

She thinks she needs to clean. Yes, she definitely needs to clean because there’s still paperwork stacked on every fucking surface of her office - she hasn’t gotten the chance to tackle it since her return. And it’s everywhere, her office is absolutely littered with it. How did it get so out of hand while she was away? Had she really left all of it just lying around?

She doesn’t like to leave a mess, not like this one.

Must be Westfield.

They’re sharing an office now and it’s fairly close to hell on earth. Spencer knew what she was doing when she forced them into this cramped room together, it’s a message, a clear sign, a punishment. Stella’s got no space and looking around, his shit is just everywhere. He’s everywhere. Always asking her questions, making comments and conversation. She can’t breathe.

It hurts to breathe, she realizes, it hurts to exist.

God, she feels like shit, she should‘ve stayed home today. She should’ve listened to Reed, why hadn’t she listened to her? Why had she left?

She can’t remember leaving…

She pries an eye open and everything’s so fucking bright that she immediately closes it. And then she drags her arm out from under the comforter because she’s so hot. Christ, she needs some air.

Then she feels something soothing at her scalp and it sends jolts of relaxing energy down neck and into her shoulders. It’s repetitive like a revisiting tide and it must be Reed, running her fingers absentmindedly through Stella’s hair. For a brief moment, it’s the only good thing she can register, warm and tranquil.

Even still, Stella thinks she should move. She doesn’t really let people touch her like this, hasn’t in a long time anyway… But it feels good. She forgot how nice something this could feel. Maybe it’s just that she feels so heinous in comparison.

She needs to move.

Then the feeling at her crown is gone and Reed shifts next to her, realizing she’s awake.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, her voice full of softness and Stella can’t decide if she loves it or hates it. She doesn’t have much time to think it over before Reed’s asking more questions. “Same, better, or worse?”

Stella takes a moment to breathe slowly and find her patience before she mutters, “Same.” After all, she’s not used to being sick and therefore not used to being cared for. And there’s something deep inside of her, buried beneath all of this illness, that yearns for and simultaneously rejects Reed’s caregiving. There’s distant feelings of gratitude down there surrounded by more obvious feelings of absolute annoyance.

She wishes she were in her own bed.

She wishes she didn’t have to think about this.

“You should drink some water while you’re awake,” she says and it pokes at Stella’s nerves even though she’s right. Because of course she’s right, Stella has no doubt, but it’s so unfortunately not the point.

Regardless, she anchors her hands and pushes herself into a sitting position until pain erupts down the center of her skull over the shifting balance of her weight. And if her eyes could shut tighter, they would because everything feels like it’s spinning, and she’s so so dizzy from the pain.

Then there’s something at her lips and it takes her a few seconds to register that it’s a straw, a straw added to her water cup, which is now being held instructively up to her lips. And the instinctive part of her body that knows she’s dehydrated floods with relief while the ornery part of her wants to refuse it on principle. Pride eventually wins out as her hand wraps around the glass because if she’s going to drink any fucking water, she’ll do it herself because she’s certainly not a child. And however she might feel, she’s not technically on her deathbed.

“You can take more ibuprofen in an hour, it’s on the nightstand.”

Stella sips from the straw and says nothing, feeling infantile for drinking this way but it’s so much easier and everything hurts. So she concedes to feeling infantile because it’s better than the alternative, whatever it may be. Pain radiates along her muscles, this dull aching pain that feels like it will never leave and she feels disgusting. Her skin is hot and there’s beads of sweat sliding down her back and between her breasts. She needs to pee.

“How’s your stomach?” Reed asks watching her intently and Stella can’t see much but she senses it just the same. “Do you think you can eat anything?”

“No,” she croaks, setting the glass down beside her on the nightstand with a shake of her wrist. And she’s thinks she made it look relatively easy, like she didn’t have to concentrate to do it, but she’s not sure. Sinking down into the sheets, she burrows beneath them as best she can because suddenly she’s freezing, and there’s no way she could possibly ever find enough warmth.

She wants to die.

Truly, no questions asked, she discovers the absolute clarity that she can’t bear to live like this, shrouded in the oscillating pain of existence for a moment longer. It’s too much, it’s been too much for such a long long time. If only this bed would swallow her whole...

“I’ll fix something incase you change your mind,” comes Reed’s voice softly and there’s something in it that makes Stella hurt worse than the illness coursing through her body. But she doesn’t have enough energy to unravel it. So she sits with it and lets it have her. “Give you some space, stop hovering.”

Stella’s so overwhelmed by this throbbing ailment that she barely notices the hot tear slip from the crease of her eye, forming a small wet spot where her face meets the pillow. Then she feels the cool dampness of it against her fevered skin and the realization is so startling that a few more searing drops immediately follow.

She would do anything to get away from here.

“I’ll check on you in a bit.”

There’s a soft thud of the door closing and Stella turns her whole face into the pillow, letting it absorb the wetness from her face. And the air in her mouth is acrid as she tries to breathe. Part of her wishes that Reed could come back. But Stella knows that she would never be able to make her understand. She would never be able to make her see. And even if she could, even if she could somehow find a way, nothing good would ever come from it. So few things in life are as certain as this. Whatever deep mystery Reed thinks lies within Stella, she’s wrong. It simply doesn’t exist. Because there’s no mystery to what’s hidden away inside her.

And someone as good as Reed wouldn’t be able comprehend it. She shouldn’t have to.

Stella wishes that she’d never met her.

As darkness slips compassionately around her, she hates everything about herself.

Leaves shuffle across the ground and the air feels brisk as Reed pulls her coat a tighter to ward off the chill. Even though it’s a bit cooler than she anticipated, she’s grateful for the time outside and she’s even grateful for relentless breeze. After hours of nesting at home, she’d needed a break from the stuffy staleness of that bedroom. The walls were closing in on her, even from the kitchen downstairs.

It’s not that she minds looking after Stella. Because she doesn’t.

No, it’s just that taking care of people who don’t want to be taken care of is a particular kind of draining, and Stella’s not the best patient. Obviously, that’s not surprising in and of itself - if anything, Reed would have expected her to be worse. But still… Reed shakes her head at her own thoughts and she probably looks crazy, talking to herself on the street.

Shoving her hands into her pockets as she approaches the school, she tries to let it go, this pestering feeling of being unwanted. Her mind replays it without her permission, the moment twisting through her psyche and forcing her to look at it. Stella turning away from her. Simple enough. Certainly not dire. But it has the feeling scraping up against her anew, even as she tries to push it aside. Logically she knows that Stella’s reaction probably isn’t about her, it’s more likely that she’s not used to having someone, it probably makes her uncomfortable.

And Reed knows how cranky she, herself, can be when she’s not feeling well.

But she’s finding an excuse to take it personally. Probably for no reason at all.

Probably.

So when the time had come to pick up the girls, she’d welcomed the excuse to take a much needed walk. After all, Stella had been soundly asleep when she last checked on her, and Lydia was still there on the off chance that she needed anything.

Reed sighs and tries to clear her head. She turns her focus outward and tries to take in the leaves and the trees and the spots where sunlight attempts to poke through the clouds. Then she arrives at the school and waits for the girls. A few children trickle out meeting their parents or sitters, and Reed observes as if looking through a far off window.

“Mum!” Charlotte’s voice rings through Reed’s muddled thoughts.

She turns to find her youngest skipping towards her at rapid pace, a large piece of paper flapping in her hand. Bending down to her level, Reed intercepts her with a hug and the small girl feels good to hold. It feels so good to hold her. But then Charlotte’s squirming, so full of energy and very excited about the picture she drew. From what Reed can tell, it’s a forest scene complete with animals and flowers of various kinds and colors. And her daughter’s not a naturally gifted artist but she’s so imaginative that Reed can’t help but feel herself bursting with pride. She laughs indulgently, rolling up the picture to keep it safe just as she sees Jane wandering over with a friend. And then Charlotte’s calling for her to “hurry up!”

“Not so loud,” Reed reminds because she has a tendency to shout.

“She’s taking forever,” Charlotte insists.

“I am not,” Jane says approaching them quickly, parting ways with the other girl her age and glaring at her sister.

“You’re fine, darling,” Reed hugs her, planting an apparently unwanted kiss at the top of her head. “Who was that?”

“Clara.”

“Oh, Clara,” Reed remembers Jane talk about her. “She’s one of your good friends, yeah?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?” “She’s not like Zoe or Hannah but she’s nice,” Jane says going a little quiet and Reed feels herself fill up with guilt. Zoe and Hannah had been Jane’s best friends back in Belfast and Reed remembers how upset she’d been to leave them behind. And although Reed had tried to convince Jane that they would always remain friends, she knows that distance can be devastating for people at any age, let alone children.

“Nice is a good start,” is all she manages to say before Charlotte begins talking about her day, leaving any and all conversation about Clara in the dust.

Slowly Reed finds herself immersed in it though, wrapped up in the stories of their day, asking questions and letting them ramble. So much so that they’re almost home, rounding the corner to their street, before she realizes that she hasn’t told them about Stella being in the house.

“Girls,” she interrupts through their chatter. “Girls, listen to me,” she says more firmly. “When we get home I need you to be quiet. Stella’s sleeping upstairs and she’s very sick so I don’t want you to wake her.”

“Stella’s home?!” Charlotte gasps while Jane asks a more apprehensive, “Why is Stella at our house?”

“She was at the house last night when she got sick,” Reed explains. “And she couldn’t go home today.”

“How come Stella never comes over when we’re home?” Charlotte whines.

“It was just this once,” Reed counters.

“Nuh-uh, there was that other time,” Jane says and Reed feels her face go red, embarrassment inching up her neck.

“I just need you keep your voices down when we get inside, okay?” she says returning to the matter at hand, hoping to escape further questions about the first time Stella had been at their house.

“Will she stay the night?” Charlotte asks after a beat.

“If she’s not feeling well enough to go home, she might.”

“But where’s she going to sleep?” Jane asks.

“She can stay in our room,” Charlotte offers.

“And sleep where?” Jane rolls her eyes. “She’s in my room right now,” Reed interrupts their arguing. “And she needs rest, which means you aren’t to bother her. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” they mumble.

“When will she come over to play?” Charlotte asks as they walk up the path to the flat.

“Soon.” “How soon?”

“I don’t know, Charlotte. This isn’t our house, we can’t keep crowding Aunt Lydie.”

“Aunt Lydie doesn’t mind,” Charlotte implores and Jane offers a supportive, “Yeah, she wants to meet her too,” which stops Reed in her tracks halfway up the short set of stairs.

“What?”

“Aunt Lydie wants to meet Stella too!” Charlotte continues. “She told us so.”

“When did she tell you so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why were you talking about Stella?” she presses.

“Aunt Lydie asked about her.”

There’s silence as Reed looks from one child to the other.

“After the museum,” Jane explains. “And when we went to her house.”

“Why are you mad?” Charlotte asks.

“I’m not mad,” Reed says turning towards the door but even to her own ears, it sounds mad.

And the girls are quiet as they trail inside.

“Girls,” Reed says after taking a breath and hanging her coat. “Go into the dining room and sort out your homework. I’ll be there to help you in a bit.”

“Can I have a snack?”

“Sure,” Reed says over her shoulder, but she’s already walking towards the living room, her eyes set on Lydia. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks lowly, not wanting the girls to hear.

“What’s the matter?”

“Can I just talk to you upstairs,” she grates out. “Please?”

“Alright, alright,” Lydia sighs, uneasy with Reed’s tone. But she sets her laptop aside all the same and follows her sister upstairs until they’re closed safely behind the door of Lydia’s bedroom.

“What’s all this about?” Lydia asks, her question caught somewhere between annoyed and concerned.

“Why are you talking to the girls about Stella?”

“What do you mean?”

“They told me that you asked about her,” Reed asserts seriously.

“Of course I did.”

Reed’s fingers spring up, pinching the bridge of her nose to keep from crying.

“But not in a subversive way. In a ‘tell me about your day’ sort of way.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m their aunt and it’s my job to ask them about their lives,” Lydia explains defensively trying to get Reed to look at her. But she just nods and it’s a far-off thing, her eyes fixed on the ground as she processes, unable to speak. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Reed says trying to keep the emotion from her voice. “I just - they want to know why she’s here and when she’s coming over,” she explains rapidly. “And then you’re asking about her and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. This whole thing’s been one disaster after another. And they have so many questions and I don’t know how to talk to them about this. I don’t know what to say-”

“Hey,” Lydia says gently, grabbing her shoulder before enveloping her in a hug. “Come here.”

“I’m a terrible mother,” she cries into Lydia’s shoulder.

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Shhh.”

“I’ve completely put myself first.”

“You’re allowed to have a life, you know.”

“Not one that hurts them.”

“Hurts them? How has it hurt them?” Lydia pulls back, wiping a few tears from Reed’s face and tucking her hair into place. “Nothing’s happened.”

“I don’t know how to explain her to them. And it’s so new,” Reed says, her voice going small. “Might not be worth explaining…”

Lydia rubs Reed’s upper arms soothingly. “Let’s calm down, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Especially since she’s still in the house, yeah?”

Reed takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself.

“I’m sorry,” she responds. “I’m just - I’m being-”

“You’re not being anything. You’re fine,” Lydia says firmly. “But maybe over the next few days, you know, once she’s gone… We should have a good think about it.”

Nodding silently, Reed agrees and wipes her face. “I should go check on her.”

“It’s all going to be fine,” Lydia says quietly.

“Thanks, I’m just going to…” Reed motions towards the door and quickly escapes to the restroom.

She locks the door and grips the counter, Lydia’s words repeating like a mantra through her mind. It’s all going to be fine. It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.

Overreacting.

She’s completely overreacting.

She needs to stop, she needs to get control of herself. A piece of advice, the passing words of an old college professor, surfaces to meet Lydia’s assurances at the forefront of her thoughts. When you’re overwhelmed with life’s Great Unknowns, the only certain thing is that they will not be solved tonight.

Everything’s snowballing, getting away from her, and she needs to stop it before she’s buried in the deluge of her own panic. Tonight’s not the night. None of this will be solved tonight let alone over the next few minutes. Her mind is spinning uselessly, self-destructively, it needs to stop.

Tonight’s not the night.

Long exhales leave her lips as she reaches forward, turning the tap, her hand limply falling into the stream of water. And she focuses on that. The sound. The feeling. Water rushing forward. Moving consistently and cool over her skin. And she stays like that for a few minutes, maybe more, before splashing it onto her face, drinking a little from the cupped palm of her hand.

She doesn’t know what’s happening with Stella. She doesn’t know what it means for her life and she doesn’t need to know. Not tonight.

There will be time for that.

Not tonight.

An hour passes and then Reed’s sitting on the edge of Stella’s bed.

Her bed.

All of the color has drained from Stella’s face and she looks small, so much smaller than Reed’s ever seen her. Sweat has tangled and matted her hair over the course of the day, and it’s hard to imagine that this is the same woman; the same woman who so profoundly walked into her life and changed everything, the same woman who’d had her hyperventilating into a washroom sink.

And she’d been antsy to come in here, afraid to check in on her.

Reed feels silly now, stupid even.

But she bats the thought away, trying not to engage in negative self-talk. It’s not what she’s here for. It won’t help.

Not wanting to wake her too abruptly, Reed places her fingers against the damp hair at Stella’s brow, sweeping upward until Stella hums, her eyelids fluttering open.

“Hi,” Stella sighs upon seeing her between drowsy blinks.

“You look better,” Reed says, moving her hand to rest on Stella’s hip.

“I feel a bit better,” she mumbles and then, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense.”

“Really. I should go,” she says into the pillow, and it’s hard to take Stella’s assertive tone seriously when it’s barely above a whisper.

“You should eat,” Reed says and Stella cringes. “You haven’t eaten all day, you need something. And I made soup.”

“You made it?” Stella asks as if it were some insurmountable feat rather than a few ingredients thrown into a pot and left to simmer.

“Mhm.”

“Impressive.”

“Preemptive praise. You haven’t had it yet.”

“Still impressive,” she insists.

“The girls sat a place for you downstairs. But I can bring it up if you’d prefer.”

Pushing herself up into a sitting position, Reed sees her fight not to roll her eyes. “I’m not completely helpless…” she says even though the it looks like it’s taken a lot out of her. “I look like shit though.”

“You look tired. There’s a difference.”

“Would you mind if I showered first?” she asks looking down at herself, and it’s uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“Of course not. I’ll get you something to put on.”

Reed grabs Stella a comfortable change of clothes, a fresh towel, and leaves her to it. She goes downstairs and starts dinner with Lydia and the girls, not wanting to put pressure on Stella’s arrival. But when she hears footsteps softly trotting down the stairs some 15 minutes later, her insides seize with anxiety.

Emerging from around the corner, Stella pads into the dining room, flannel footed and wet haired, sporting a cottony white t-shirt. She looks almost as hesitant as Reed feels.

“Stella!” Charlotte shouts around a mouth full of soup, some of it running down her chin.

“Charlotte, please don’t talk with your mouth full,” Reed says reaching across the table to wipe her face.

“Hello, little one,” Stella says carefully approaching the table. “Hello, Jane.” Jane smiles at her while Charlotte bounces in her seat.

Standing up to get Stella’s food, Reed attempts to keep Charlotte sitting with a stern, “You can hug Stella when you’ve finished your supper.”

“I’m done!” Charlotte groans.

“You’ve barely touched it,” Lydia says next to her. “Keep still.”

“You must be, Lydia,” Stella says holding her hand out. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion.”

“Oh, please, you’re more than welcome. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am,” she says, gingerly taking the open seat next to Reed’s chair. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been dying to meet you, anyway. Heard nothing but good things from these two,” she says scrunching her nose at the girl and Charlotte grins around her spoon.

“Well, I wish it’d been under better circumstances,” Stella admits. “In my own clothes...”

“What’s that?” Reed asks, returning with Stella’s bowl.

“Oh nothing, we’re just talking about you,” Lydia teases.

“Thank you,” Stella says as Reed settles in next to her.

“No they’re not,” Jane says loyally, and Reed smiles at her.

“Are you going to stay the night?” Charlotte asks Stella with a blessedly empty mouth.

“I think I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

“Hush,” Lydia says. “You can stay as long as you need.”

“Stay!” Charlotte says.

“Charlotte, remember when I told you that Stella isn’t feeling well? Please be quiet and let her eat,” Reed says with as much patience as she can muster.

“You made this?” Stella asks after taking a bite.

“Mhm.”

“Impressive,” she affirms and Reed feels her nerves melt under the easy warmth of Stella’s praise.

“It’s one of the five decent things I can cook,” Reed says humbly, looking away to mask her blush.

“Well, you’re much better than I am,” Lydia tells her. “One of the few benefits of having you around.”

“What about us?” Jane asks defensively.

“You too, duckling,” Lydia says winking at her.

And as the five women sit comfortably around Lydia’s dining room table, Reed notices the strange ease with which they all share their evening meal - or in Stella’s case, her only meal. That is until Charlotte practically springboards out of her seat to shower Stella in affection. If she were smaller, Reed doesn’t doubt that she’d climb right up into her lap. It has Reed observing anxiously, watching Stella for signs of discomfort, and she looks absolutely ashen but not annoyed. She pets Charlotte’s hair and gives the energetic child her undivided attention until Reed tells the girls that they can watch TV before bed.

Then they’re both scampering away, distracted for the rest of the night, and it gives Reed the opportunity to notice how much Stella has wilted since her arrival downstairs. Lydia clears the table and when Stella moves to help her, her sister insists that Stella stay sitting - it’s obvious how much the simple meal has drained her. With her children fully occupied in the other room, Reed chances a brush of Stella’s hand, causing Stella to blink in her direction.

“Back upstairs?” Reed asks with as little force as possible, not wanting to impose upon Stella’s right to choose whether she stays or goes. But Charlotte’s right, she should stay. Reed thinks of what might happen if Stella insists on leaving. She wonders if she’d be comfortable stuffing her in a cab, trusting that she’d make it home to her own bed.

She looks so limp.

Stella hums, the corner of her mouth downturned, her eyes red and wet. “I should go…”

“Can you?” Reed asks realistically. Because she’s willing to concede, if Stella’s set on sleeping in her own bed, if she’d really prefer to be on her own.

But she doesn’t answer.

“You can always leave first thing in the morning,” Reed says gently. “If you’re up to it.”

Stella nods, it’s there but barely, somewhere off in the distance as her eyes narrow piercingly onto some insignificant spot on the table. And then they’re on Reed’s with the same icy intensity.

“Thank you,” she says. “For today.”

Reed looks down.

A small smile fights its way onto her face entirely despite herself. And she’s glad that Stella will stay.

#stella x reed #stella and reed #stella gibson #reed smith #gillian anderson #archie panjabi #the fall #fanfiction #fanfic #lamplighter #candicewrites

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