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selfetishizing · 3 months

Text

the nearness of you

loid forger/yor briar | rated T | oneshot | 5.7k words

mild hurt/comfort, mutual pining, romantic tension, scars, tending to wounds, identity reveal (sort of)

A wife in tatters.

AO3

In the hour before Anya’s bedtime, Twilight had come to the startling realization that his daughter is growing up. The hem of her favorite onesie had hiked up to the bump of her ankle, bump of her wrist. Anya, heedless to many things, the intricate and crucial things—a father’s silent suffering, a mother’s concerning absence—hugged him good night, telling him that he’d be in “big, hugiant trouble” if she caught him staying past midnight waiting for Mama. Bond, whom he wished could speak and voice the wisdom that seemed to be held within his marble eyes, nudged his nose against his calf as if to show his sympathy for his companion’s indifference. Then, they had left him in a quiet apartment to fill the Yor-shaped spaces with his thoughts.

The first hour after the first snore, Twilight contemplated calling Yor, whom he presumed sat lonely at her desk, saving the country one file, one staple, one document at a time. It could be no one else. It had to be Yor to help carry this obfuscating weight that their precious girl was outgrowing her clothes—that they were becoming older themselves. That they were drifting apart.

Tomorrow, he'd tell her, they’ll go shopping together as a family for shiny new dresses, skirts, blouses, and pajamas. He will buy them in bulks—small, medium, large—so that he will never have to experience this silent heartbreak, this wearying awareness that he, shrewd and tenacious as he was, was powerless against the hands of Time. WISE would have to understand the incoming banknotes; this agony would last him for the entirety of Operation Strix.

Twilight dialed the phone and watched the numbers reel back and reset. He listened to each ring and hung up, assuming that Yor must have been on her way home.

He grieved the onesie in his lonesome. It would have been nice to hear Yor’s voice.

The second hour, he tidied up the apartment. Watered the plants. Wrapped leftovers in plastic. Played with his daughter’s toys. He created homes out of blocks, families out of plush—a fox, a bunny, a kitten.

Hearing footsteps outside, Twilight darted to the door, knocking the blocks over in his haste. His hand hovered over the knob. He listened a beat longer and knew by the slow drag of feet, by their unhurried stride that it was not Yor. Yes, he knew her by step, by breath. She would have silently stepped across the hall, keys jangling in her pocket. She would hum on particularly nice nights or mumble to herself when she was especially exhausted.

It was past midnight. Yor was not home.

Twilight wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay up that particular night. Yor had been late before. He knew that she could take care of herself. She had brought an umbrella to work that morning. She wouldn’t come home shivering. No colds would be carelessly caught.

As he cleared the rest of the dinner table—a silver candelabra, blown-out candles, unopened wine bottles—the answer he had swallowed whole made itself known. Somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, it was there anchored by reason. It would tremble at the raise of her lip, travel far enough to the heart where hundreds of buzzing bees would prick at his arterial lining for the chance of release.

Release had come close many times: mornings when she’d asked how he’d like his coffee; Saturday afternoons as she napped on the couch; nights he’d bandage the tip of her fingers after prepping dinner. It was a seed burgeoning into honeysuckles—honeysuckles that, as far as Twilight knew, had already grown in parts of his body and made his blood sweet as sap. They were honeysuckles that nearly sprouted from his mouth at the sound of his name or the touch of her palm.

Twilight could cut the vines and twine the flowers. He could dress up, slick his hair back, and have his shoes shined downtown. He could bow down like a gentleman, kiss each of his darlings’ dainty hands. A bouquet for Anya and a bouquet for Yor—their names written in his neatest penmanship on parchment. Anya would snap the honeysuckles from the vine and break their pistols off, supping them of their nectar. Yor would bring the flowers to her face and take in their scent, and Twilight, absently staring, would catch himself and clutch at his chest. Then, they would know everything. They would know all of the words he doesn't say.

It would be so simple to tie those feelings up with chiffon lace. Surely, it would save him the embarrassment of voicing those stubborn emotions that more often than not translate to knuckle biting, bedroom pacing, and worried, sleepless nights like tonight. But he knew by now that every day spent with them had watered the garden hardly contained within the bed of his skin. Giving each of them a bouquet would not capture even a fraction of how much he yearned to truly be on their side of the world.

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Yor returned home at three in the morning.

The rain had stopped two hours ago. She was drenched. Her umbrella, dry, dropped to the floor as she stumbled in her heels looking for her lost balance in the lightless apartment. Before Twilight could open his mouth to speak, she clutched at the breast of his shirt with the abject fear of falling, pleading with him through ragged breaths to hold her, to not let go.

He didn't. Twilight hugged her close, arms fastened around her back just beneath her coat. She winced. Her body burned hot from shivering, and her cheek, pale and wan, was cold on his collarbone.

Twilight called to her softly, called again to stir her. She could only sigh.

A hand slid from her back, up to her side, trailing to trace the curve of her face. Twilight hesitated. Yor pushed herself against him as if to feel for pressure, for validation that this warmth was his. The grip on his shirt loosened when she was sure that she had made it home. After a deep breath, Twilight stroked her jaw, coaxing her to spare him a look—just one—to know that all was right.

All was not right.

When she finally moved her head up to stare at him, Twilight nearly gasped. The color had wrung from her skin. Her eyes, usually so bright with curious wonder, had shrunk half a flame. The lip that would whisper his name could only quiver with dread. She shook in his embrace as she discerned his expression, anticipating a question and readying a stolid defense. Twilight would not have it. Yor, always so strong and resolute, felt so small in his arms. He absolutely would not have it.

He caressed her cheek and he swore his heart had stopped. Red smeared over her skin. But where? How? His hands cautiously slipped down the plane of her back. Yor mewled, and he knew.

All at once the corpuscles in his body rushed in surges to the tips of his fingers down to his toes, to the heart, the head. He must have been flushed red with how quickly the blood ran in his veins—how quickly rage consumed him. Twilight inhaled shakily, tempering those thoughts of twisted necks, mutilated legs, snapped elbows, and headless torsos; of bodies cold and ashen as Yor was now in his hold.

“Who?” he whispered sharply, using the last of his constraint as he eyed the front door. Ask, and she’ll answer.

“An accident.” Ask, and she’ll lie. But the eyes? No, they never lie. She smiled despite it all. This he knew was true. He slipped her coat off from her shoulders, letting it pool at her ankles. She held on tighter. “I’m so tired. I just wanted to come home.”

Twilight could have cried from the tenderness she seemed to have saved just for him. Gone was the wickedness in his body, relinquished to the dark, dark, night. He took her face in his palms, tucking the errant strands of her disheveled hair behind an ear. One of her earrings was missing. Twilight, shattered by this disquieting and crucial detail, waited for his tears to come. They never did.

“I’m sorry, Loid. You must've waited so long,” she murmured in his neck as he delicately lifted her up into his arms. “You even lit the candles for dinner.”

“How did you know?” Twilight asked, redirecting her guilt to the shadows where it could vanish alongside vice. He clung to softheartedness, to goodness, to kindness. Tonight, he'd give it all to her.

“I smell smoke on you.”

“You can?”

Yor cupped her hand over her mouth. “You haven't been doing anything naughty, have you?”

“Heavens, no.” Twilight forced a chuckle. “I guess I should have put on cologne before welcoming you home this evening. You're exhausted, and you come back to a reeking husband. How flippant of me.”

“Silly.” She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he carried her to the couch. “It’ll stain,” she rasped, too exhausted to put up much of a protest. Yor sunk into the cushions.

Twilight kneeled down to remove the heels from her throbbing feet. His fingers glided down the bend of her calf, noting the runs in her black stocking that weren’t there this morning. The heels, he imagined, had worn down from frantic mad dashes down crowded hallways to deliver reports and proposals. Yor must have tripped somewhere along the way knowing how clumsy she could be. It would explain the scrape on her right knee.

Twilight didn’t allow himself to think anything else of it. He'd crumble the very second he did.

“May I go into your room, Yor?”

She seemed to have enough energy left to flinch at the otherwise innocent query. “I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. Surely you weren’t thinking of changing without me tending to your…?” He could not bring himself to say it. To speak the very thing into existence would mean acknowledging the suppositions he had previously dismissed as soon as they were conceived.

Twilight, insisting that she give in to his request, kept his hands on her knees as looked up at her imploringly. The more she turned his words in her head, the more flustered she became. The implication made the hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stand. Surely, she wasn’t thinking something so unseemly.

He counted the moles dotting along the sides of her face and neck—five—as she pondered the question, connecting them to constellations he’d read about as a boy.

Cassiopeia—Queen of Ethiopia. Boastful and vain, she had boasted that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful than the Nereids. Angered by Cassopeia’s remarks, Poseidon, god of the sea, had unleashed a disgustingly powerful sea creature, Cetus, onto her kingdom. Ethiopia would sacrifice Andromeda to the beast by chaining her to a boulder by the sea to restore order to the kingdom.

Twilight pondered the tale—the bonds between a mother and her child, the consequence of vanity, the peace offering that is a daughter. He thinks of Cassiopeia and Andromeda, Yor and Anya. The hero Perseus, who had rode upon the Flying Horse to save the princess, would cease to exist. Had Yor been Cassopeia, Twilight knew, she alone could have protected Andromeda. There would be no need for epic knights in shining armor. A mother would have been enough.

Twilight imagined a woman with Yor’s features—a pale woman with a black cape for hair, pursed red lips, crows feet at her eyes. He thought about a mother, about death, and the selfishness in succumbing to it. Does Yor forgive her mother? Does he forgive his own?

And perhaps Yor had been Andromeda this entire time, chained against a rock as the sea rages and tears her hosiery, her skirt, her skin. Her kingdom—the house she once knew with the iron fences and rose bushes— was reduced to rubble by manmade terrors unbeknownst to myths and their slithery beasts. Only a cellar with a frightened boy cowered in its dark corners remained, waiting for his dear sister to come back.

Yor didn’t need a Perseus to fight this battle for her. But maybe, Twilight naively supposed, it wouldn’t be so bad to have one fight alongside her. A Perseus to patch her wounds. A Perseus to listen and to hold her when words succumbed to sobs.

"There’s a nightgown folded on my bed,” she instructed carefully, voice hoarse, as if it were some secret mission.

“Alright.”

“My pillows and blanket too, if you could.” She bit her bottom lip, thinking a request as simple as that could be a burden to him. “I think I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“I can carry you to your bed, you know.”

“I’m so heavy, and—”

“Light as a feather.”

“But if you touch me again, Loid, who knows what I’ll do? I could kick you, or, or… I could slap you! You’d definitely bruise or bleed.” She was hysterical. From blood loss? Fatigue? “And if I melt?”

Twilight raised a brow, amused. “Melt?”

“Yes. If you touch me again, I fear my flesh might slide right off my bones. Might turn to goo.” Yor looked down at her lap, making sure that she was still all together. Then, she imagined herself liquified—a wash of taupe and pinks sluiced over the carpet—and gasped. “It would take forever to clean me up.”

Yor shifted on the couch, letting all of her weight fall to one side. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The entire room stilled. An austere foreboding, cold and misty, crept into the chasm that separated them. Moonlight caught in the dark curtain of her undone hair, sanctifying her with faint halation. Twilight clasped his hands together and called upon the angels—pulled them down by those golden threads stitched to billowing clouds— to do everything in their power to keep Yor awake.

“You mustn't fall asleep,” he said. “Not until I’ve dressed you.”

“Just a little tired.”

“Yes, darling, I know,” cooed Twilight, slipping her hand in his. He rubbed the smooth swath of skin above her knuckles with his thumb, absolving her of the unspoken remorse that was written all over her, that was slashed onto her back. He would take it from her. He would bear it all. “It will only take me a moment.”

The fondness that he never knew he could possess with Yor shocked him, terrified him. What would be more difficult, he wondered? To turn his shoulder and leave this sentimental mood? Or for a subliminal confession he so desperately wanted her to understand to plague her mind?

Every red flag was raised and yet here he was, groveling before his fallen Madonna. One word and it would be done. Yes—Twilight took that risk, a leap of faith. He chose the latter—the novelty of infatuation, of being completely and thoroughly consumed by the off-chance that Yor, too, harbored symptoms of a heart starved of the kind of feelings reserved for two.

Yor swallowed thick and squeezed his hand weakly. She nodded, and Twilight, the ever loyal husband, obeyed her command.

Quickly, he minced to his room, careful to not wake Anya. Underneath his bed was his personal first aid kit of gauze, sterilized needles, tourniquets, adhesive plaster, tweezers, wound washes, and antibiotic creams in a worn cardboard box so cleverly labeled “TOOLS'' in hasty print. Somehow one of Anya’s pink star-printed bandaids had made its way inside. The alarms went off in Twilight’s mind before he remembered that he had absently slipped an extra band aid that was in his pocket in there after he had patched up Anya’s knee. (Just the other weekend, she had somehow fallen off a bicycle with training wheels. It was an understated art how kids seemed to find the danger in otherwise safe devices.) He gathered an arm-full of these things and pushed past his bedroom door with his back.

Then, Twilight’s hand hovered over the doorknob of Yor’s bedroom, bracing himself for the metaphorical crossing between flatmates and something more. Her room, steeped in the indigo night, pulled him in before he could reconsider. The lace curtains billowed out toward him, swathed him in dove white. Before he knew it, he was caught in a whir of Yor.

This room was indisputably her. It was furnished simply: a bed, a dresser, a cabinet, and a vanity. A patched pilled quilt Twilight presumed had been from her childhood was tightly tucked down under the sides of her mattress. Her uniform—an impeccably ironed button down, a green vest and skirt—hung from a hanger on the corner of her cabinet. Anya seemed to imprint herself here too; another fox plush toy sat against her fluffed pillows, waiting to be cozied up against a warm, beating heart. Adorned on the walls were not posters or prints, but rather Anya originals in crayon, pastel, pencil, and acrylic.

Yor didn’t seem to hold on to a lot of things—or perhaps there wasn’t a lot of things to hold on to—before she lived here, but he knew by the multiplying photo frames—water-stained shots of Yuri, Forger and Briar family portraits, picture day at Eden Academy— that slowly, she was carving a permanent home here.

Capless tubes of lipstick—reds, pinks, nudes— were strewn across her vanity along with ticket stubs to matinees they’d seen together after work. Lacquered dishes with tableaus of rolling fields and carnivals held her precious pearls, her golds, her handmade beaded bracelets. A green perfume bottle with a tasseled pump spray shimmered under starlight. Like a gem, its glean enchanted him into a sandalwood-induced stupor.

Twilight stared into the looking glass as a mirage of Yor nimbly braided her hair into a neat side-plait. She patted her face with loose powder and slid pink lipstick over puckered lips. Yor then dabbed the pad of her finger on rouge, dotting along the curves of her cheekbones and tapping the excess at the corners of her eyes. So mundane was the act, so effortless and easy, that Twilight felt apologetic for having peered into such a private ritual.

Clearly, he had overstayed his welcome. Twilight nearly tripped over his feet as he moved to gather her beige nightgown and pillows, refusing to let curiosity get the better of him. Beneath her pillows, however, was a familiar trinket.

His engagement ring to her—that grenade pin! Twilight was unsure why she had decided to keep it after all of this time: he had wedded her properly thereafter with golden bands and bridal bouquets. He blushed immediately at the prospect that Yor wanted him to see it. Though slim, there was still the statistical probability that her request for her pillows was a subtle declaration of love—that the ring signified everything she had locked away in her heart and in his own. Could she have planned this? Left the ring under her pillow that morning for him to find? Did she anticipate working off hours so late into the evening? Orchestrate this entire scenario down to the last cut?

It was no accident, this much he knew. But how else would one rationalize those injuries? Why was she soaked when it had stopped raining hours ago? If someone had attacked her tonight, did she not have enough trust to confide in him? If she did not care enough to tell him, then what was that grenade pin doing under her pillow?

Twilight all but stumbled out of her room. He was WISE’s most cunning agent—its most calm and calculated—yet his mind could not quite wrap itself around the idea of Yor potentially reciprocating the feeling he knew he had concealed in some taped-up cardboard box tucked away in his house of bones. There, compartmentalized, were all of the trinkets he thought he'd forgotten: wooden guns, jazz records, a bloodied eyepatch, and burned polaroids. Underneath the old items lay a letter with his heart, scrawled and signed with a name long discarded:

Yor,

I love you most ardently.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Rowan

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Wound wash in popcorn bowls. Heart-printed face towels for rags. Gauze cut by pink blunt-tip kiddie scissors. A wife in tatters and a husband desperately attempting to stitch the remnants back together.

“I have to—”

“You can't.”

And for five minutes, they exchanged various iterations of these very words. Yor had managed to unbutton the first three buttons of her blouse before stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest, refusing any treatment from Twilight.

Twilight scooted to the edge of the wooden table he sat on, close enough for their knees to nudge. Their eyes met briefly.

Yor much preferred the Moon’s gaze. Moonglow, Twilight figured, could not touch Yor in those damning ways she'd come to know about during the war or in cautionary tales. It could not bruise, breach, break skin. It could not promise her love but at least it gave her assurance of forever. And who was Twilight to contend?

“Yor,” he started futilely, voice softer than he would have liked, “you can trust me.”

The words, like steam, evaporated from her tongue. She clutched the bust of her blouse shut.

“I do.” She was red in the face. He could feel her jittering. “It's just—oh!—I don't know! You weren't supposed to… No, not like this.”

“I’ll close my eyes, touch you only where I should. I’ll be gentle, quick, so please,” plead Twilight, weary and desperate, “let me care for you.”

“You've cared for me the entire night—every day I’ve lived with you. You've welcomed me so into your home, your family, and yet here I am,” she rasped, voice caught on a chord, “proving time and time again that I—”

Twilight's heart dropped to his belly; he felt as though he ought to apologize. For what, he was unsure. There must have been some kind of shortcoming from within him if Yor was unable to articulate her troubles.

Her vagueness, though, seemed purposeful: she would trail off before giving him any indication as to where the root of her problems lay. Twilight secretly thanked her for it. They could, even for a while longer, keep up this charade. He could still love her with her back turned—love her in sight.

“You’ll hate me,” whispered Yor. “You'll despise me. I know it.”

“There’s nothing in this world that could ever make me hate you.” The statement unknowingly gave way to the garden tucked away underneath the surface of his skin. Could she smell the roses on him? The freesias? Yor could not be so dense to not understand his heart with the way he leapt at her assumption, fitting himself to the gentle carve of her profile. Twilight is close, so close that he catches the moon’s glimmer on her eyelashes. He resists the temptation to eclipse it with a kiss.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Then help me to.” Twilight just could not stop at words, no. When did his hand connect with her knee? When did his fingers move to guide her face back to him?

Yor forced herself to look once more at his gaze, agonizingly adamantine. Resolute. She began the process of unbuttoning her shirt once more, keeping her eyes trained on him.

“Anya grew out of her pajamas, you know,” he droned—a distraction—as he anxiously watched the tips of her fingers. “Wrists and ankles and all. They’re poking out the sleeves. I was thinking,” Twilight swallows thickly, “we should all go out this weekend. Buy some new clothes for her.”

Yor stilled, staring at him with unblinking eyes. She bit her lip and, almost as if to present herself to him, laid her hands beside her thighs. The dark sweep of her hair fell over the hunch of her shoulders. Twilight followed its movement.

Anger was a lit match that burned through the sprawling cord that maps over the expanse of her skin. He stared at the curve of the chest, her heart. Twilight traced the long jagged line of white raised skin down to her right side. Pink stars exploded and dwindled down her hip, dying dust disappearing underneath the waistband of her skirt.

Twilight could stitch a disjointed timeline from the color of her scars alone: faded cat-scratches from her childhood, raised cuts from debris, bullet wounds red and unforgiving, and knife lacerations that had just begun to scab over washes of blue and purple.

Perhaps she could see it on his face, his steely countenance. He had become all hard edges and wrinkles as he scrutinized the marred canvas of her skin. The irony was cruel. Yor, always so gracious, so kind, was seamed with silvery stitches, stained with colors that belonged on sprigs. He was in pieces.

“They grow up so fast,” said Yor wistfully, almost as if to lament the skin she had no choice in claiming. “They come and they go, don’t they?”

Twilight knew all too well that her words meant much more. Yes, he wanted to say, we did. And he’d hold her the way his mother had when days were brighter—the way he holds his daughter now. He’d hold the girl as long as she needed to be held: late into the morning, late for work; in the afternoon when the sun laid over them thickly; into dusk with the stars shut off, dark and still.

There were things Twilight could never understand about Yor, things that she would never divulge to him. But there was nothing as certain and true as the kindness of skin, of a hand over hers, of a brush on the curve of her cheek.

“I’m going to take your…” Bra felt too vulgar of a word. He improvised. “This off.”

Resigned from her initial embarrassment, Yor simply nodded, moving to rest her chin on Twilight’s shoulder. She held onto the sides of his shirt, a half-hug.

Faceless women. Powdery perfume. Wine-stained lips agape, mouthing different names on the nape of his neck. Bodies full in contour, stuffed with down in all the places meant for squeezing. It was muscle memory at this point—the snap of a clasp, the inevitable plunge into passion, and the hangover in the morning. But when it came to Yor, he couldn’t help but feel as though it was an act most sacred. There was no other urge than to press her wholly against him, to feel the pressure of her entire being on him as he wraps his arms around her, merging into one. Deeper than lust, than desire. This much, he longed for Yor Briar.

The straps slid off her shoulders, leaving pink indents in her flesh. His mind blanked. He stopped breathing.

Hands moved on their own, wetting towels in washes, laving it over her back. She’d wince. He’d whisper something sweet. Rinse and repeat. He created a cage out of action, keeping all thoughts and emotion locked away.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Not so bad,” Twilight assured. “Nothing that needs stitches, at least.”

“Oh.” It was empty exchanges like this as more and more questions hung over them. Together they cowered under their weight.

“I know that this is… uncomfortable.” It was awkward, to say the least. He tended to her back, arms rigid so as to not touch her more than he needed to. She leaned forward, chest to chest, so that he could somewhat peer over her shoulder to see what he was doing. Skinship didn’t seem to bother her—rather, she was too exhausted to care or give it any deeper thought. The turmoil within Twilight, though, waged. “Just a while longer. I need to dress your wound. You’ve been a very good patient up to now.”

“I’ve been good?” It warranted a chuckle from Yor.

Twilight flushed, conscious of his entire existence. Too embarrassed by his words, he froze, hands dropping down to the small of her back. “Are you…making fun of me?”

“No. Not at all.” She laughed halfheartedly once more, pulling back slightly to look at him. “So this is what you’re like with your patients. You’re kind and your hands are warm. It’s hard to not like you.”

“Oh, please.” Briefly, he met her gaze, tore from her immediately once he remembered the precarious position they found themselves in. He looked past her. He would be a gentleman.

“That’s who you are. You’re warm wherever you go. You’re warm when you’re here, warm when you’re away.” He looked past her even as she moved to touch his face. “You’re warm even now, when I’ve been so cold. Yes, I’ve been cold to you, haven’t I?”

He said her name, so he thought. She closed her eyes. All it took was this for Twilight see her for who she was. Goodness, through and through.

“Sometimes I think… I think I was born like this. Cold-blooded. ” A beat of silence. “That I might be the way I am forever.”

“I know you, Yor.” He blazed a trail to the side of her face, flames lapping her skin. She shuddered as he whispered low against her ear, lips brushing with every word. “I know you. And if... If you're cold now,” Twilight said, “I'll wrap your blanket around you.” It sounded like a promise—one Yor was sure she would not be able to keep.

“That's the thing.” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure you do.”

This he could not refute. Her past was a mystery to him. Dead parents and a younger brother. She had only herself. Twilight often chose not to speculate about her life; he knew he’d go down a downward spiral coming up with many iterations of her girlhood—rather, lack thereof. What kind of jobs did she take to support her younger brother? Who did she meet? How did she remain soft despite it all—the war that had unknowingly brought them together?

How did she get hurt tonight?

Who had hurt her?

Her eyes, glassy, stared at him in resignation. “I’m scared, Loid. Terrified that one day, you'll come to realize who I truly am."

Yes, he did not know the crucial makings of Yor. Didn’t know the smell of her childhood bedroom. The names of lovesick suitors that, over the years, tried to win her hand. He didn’t know the stations she’d tune in to as a girl on lazy Sunday afternoons under the syrup sun when all the initial excitement of the weekend had worn off. But what Twilight did know was the scent of her shampoo as they drove down cobblestone paths, top down, hair tickling his face as she watched the scrolling scenery in awe. He knew the way her face would glow as she smiled, how everything about her flowered. The feelings Anya, he harbored were certain. Wasn’t this enough?

Twilight gently wrapped around her. It was the best he could do despite the uncertainties that continued to gnaw at him. She melded into him, and, perhaps swept by the moment, did exactly what he had been thinking of doing the entire night.

They kindled, and the fire spread.

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It was relatively quiet as he cared for Yor. The small cuts she visibly had on her arms were covered in Anya’s pastel bandaids. He tied the wedding white gauze around her bust as if it were a ribbon to a gown. She was pink in the night, hot with pining much like Twilight.

Sucking on a breath, Yor raised her worn arms as Twilight slipped her nightgown over her head.

“You’re staying home tomorrow. No ifs or buts,” he directed as he slipped her skirt off from underneath.

Yor hummed in compliance, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to acknowledge the audacity of that act of utmost affinity—the chaste press of lips.

Twilight was no better. He’d gone too soft, sappy. Too stupid. To make up for the many missteps of the night, he would be calm, collected. The anger and contentment conflicting within him would have to wait until he’s in the confines of his room where he could turn in his bed over thoughts of Yor.

He tossed the blood-soaked rags in the bowl and stood up, moving to position her pillow near the arm of the sofa so that she could finally lay. Twilight pulled the pilled quilt from her room over her body. She looked so small, so snug.

“You were out in the rain too. You most definitely caught a cold.”

“Definitely?”

“Yes.” Twilight swept his palm over her forehead. “Definitely. I’ll be here with you, though. I need you there with me this time. I need you strong when you see how fast Anya has grown.”

“It must have been hard on your own, seeing Anya grow.” Yor smiled with mirth and his heart swelled. He looked away, lifted his chin, and cleared his throat. “I’ve always been strong, though, so you don't have to worry—"

“No,” he interjected, a little too strongly. He kneeled down next to her, and he said, in the most tender voice he could muster, “Did you forget that you’re married? Married to me?”

“I didn’t,” she mumbled timidly. “But there's no one here to watch us. Nothing to prove to anyone.”

With a knowing smile, Twilight responded, “Precisely.” Yor blushed, turning to the other side to face away from him. He reached out one last time before retracting his hand out of contemplated bashfulness. “Get some rest. I’ll be in my room reading. Don’t hesitate to call out to me if there’s anything you need, alright?”

He waited ten heartbeats, waited for a last minute request. Waited to hear the inflection of her voice just before she’s taken by slumber—the voice that would lull him to rose-scented dreams.

As he got up, he imagined that she had said his name. Then, again, “Loid?”

“Yes?”

Her back was still turned away from him, face toward the back cushions.

“I’ve got so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin."

“We’ve got the morning,” he told her, himself. “We’ve got the rest of our lives for me to learn all of you.”

Yor turned to him. Twilight bowed before her, laced their hands together. She squeezed.

"For now," Yor said, closing her eyes, "thank you."

He leaned down and tucked a flower behind her ear. A wind overtakes them. Pink petals flitted.

#my writing #fic #loidyor #twiyor #sxf #sxf fic #spy x family #loid forger #yor briar #this is an old fic #but i'll post it here anyway!#yknow. for The Archives #header is “a continent bridged” by franklin booth #listened to a lot of laufey for this one #fic named after laufey's cover of the song

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vampire-matcha · 2 years

Text

Blood in the Wine-4

Chapter 4: Botanicals

A/N: I know it’s been a damn long time coming, but here it is! thank you all for your continued patience. i hope you like this chapter. it was a labor of love for sure.

Reader x Vampire!141

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: descriptions of vomiting and sickness, knife mention, vampirism, Soap gets what’s coming to him, suggestiveness (barely)

Song for this chapter: In Bottles by Aurora.

MASTERLIST, CH1, CH2, CH3, CH5, CH6, CH7

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You woke again in the same bed, but with none of the comfortable peace of the last morning. You jolted awake, blood running cold, and sat bolt upright. You were alone in the room this time, and sunlight was streaming through the window. It must've been around midday. They had done it to you again. You were haunted by that underwater feeling, that loss of control; the violent peace that was forced upon you by honey-dripping lips.

You felt sick.

You ran to the bathroom as you felt the telltale sign of your mouth salivating as your stomach turned; stinging nettles stabbing their way up your esophagus. You barely made it to the toilet before your abdominal muscles clenched painfully and you emptied the contents of your stomach into the bowl.

It was bitter, the acid biting you the whole time while you heaved and heaved, until you had nothing left to give but thick, green bile. You closed your eyes and flushed. Maybe that cheese wasn't so edible after all.

But it wasn't the cheese- or maybe it was, it probably was- but that wasn't all. You felt sick from the way Soap had controlled you like a puppet, shoving his fist into your chest and manipulating your very emotions. You felt hollowed out, mummified. You wouldn't let it happen again.

You stood on shaky legs and hobbled over to the sink to rinse out the bad taste left in your mouth. You still felt sick. The only food you had eaten in four days was now making its way down the drain. How were you even still walking? Maybe it was some sort of residual healing from Soap's mouth on you. Yeah, that had to be it.

You couldn't let them do that to you again. They'd told you that today would be your rest day, but they would feed on you again tomorrow. You couldn't risk it. You couldn't have their mouths on you like that again. You had to get out of there- tonight.

You hurried back to your room and went straight to the window and wrenched back the curtains to find- bars. The windows were barred with intricate cast iron. Of course they were. You cursed loudly to yourself. You'd have to find another way. You'd just have to wait a little longer.

You went to try the door next, and found it unlocked. You stepped over the threshold slowly, glancing back and forth and listening, trying to determine if any of them were nearby. Nothing. Down the hall was a staircase which you descended before pausing once again. You heard two distant voices talking down the hall somewhere. Two voices you recognize: Gaz and Soap. You heard them laughing, and the sound of it made your blood boil.

You followed their voices, bare feet padding ever so softly as you crept up on them, picking up bits of their conversation.

"... bet you had fun…"

"...tasted so good…"

"...good as me?..."

"Even better."

"Don't be a fucking tease…"

You heard a clatter and a groan, and you rounded the corner into the kitchen, where Gaz had Soap pinned against the counter. Gaz's hand was hooked on a leather choker around Soap's neck, pulling their faces close as Gaz pushed his body flush against the other man. Soap was shorter than Gaz by a few inches, but Soap had Gaz beat in muscle; the taller man was more of a lean build in comparison to Soap's bulk.

Gaz was smiling wolfishly down at Soap when he noticed your figure hovering in the doorway and his smile faltered. He stepped back from Soap, releasing his hold on the collar.

"Your girlfriend's awake," he muttered. Soap turned to you with a wide grin, approaching you with arms wide open.

"There's our bonnie las-" His words were cut off by a sharp smack against his cheek. He froze just a foot away from you. Your palm stung deliciously. You felt vindicated. He slowly turned his head to look at you, absolutely stunned.

"How dare you? You fucking bastard!" You were livid, just looking at Soap's annoying face. Soap. What a ridiculous name for such a horrid man.

"Calm dow-"

"No!" you cried, snapping your hands up to your ears and scrunched your eyes shut to block the syrupy words from infecting your mind again. "Don't you dare! Not again, this is my turn to talk, understand?" You paused for a moment, your own heartbeat drumming away in your plugged ears. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes and met Soap's hard eyes.

"You don't get to do that to me anymore. You can keep me here, and you can feed off of me, but don't you dare try to control my fucking emotions! You don't get to just- just fucking hypnotize me into being happy with all of this! That's bullshit!"

You finished with a huff, breathing hard after your outburst. Your face was mere inches away from Soaps, both of you fuming. Gaz was off to the side, just watching- always just watching- but you paid him no mind.

"Anything else?" Soap asked, voice clipped and measured as he tried his damnedest to remain calm. You both stood in wretched, furious silence, each waiting for the next shoe to drop. And by God, you weren't just going to drop it, you'd throw it right in his face.

"Soap is a stupid name for a vampire."

"Alright ya wee cun-"

"Soap, settle down-" Gaz finally interjected and threw an arm between you two.

"No, no! Let him finish, what were you gonna say, huh?"

The kitchen quickly dissolved into chaos. Soap throwing words at you that you could barely comprehend through his accent; you egging him on, ecstatic to finally give him back a taste of his own medicine; and Gaz, poor Gaz, in between the two of you, trying and failing to get you both to calm down.

"What the bloody hell is going on in here?!" A booming voice rang throughout the kitchen shocking you all into silence. Soap quickly composed himself, barely putting a lid over his simmering anger, as Price approached the three of you. Gaz stepped away quickly, but Soap was reluctant to move, and so Price pulled him back with a rough hand on the shoulder.

"Yeah, Soap, what is going on?" You teased. Price shot you a warning look, but you didn't care. They'd promised not to hurt you, right? So you were going to push as many buttons as you could get your vengeful little fingers on.

"She just walked in and hit me!" Soap complained.

"Did you deserve it?"

"No!-" "Yes!-" you both answered at the same time. Price sighed.

"Gaz, did he deserve it?"

"I have no clue what's going on, sir" Gaz answered, putting up his hands in a mock surrender.

"Soap, explain."

"No, I'll explain," you interjected before Soap even had the chance to open his mouth. Soap glared at you. Price turned toward you expectantly. "Last night, after our meeting, I let Soap feed on me. I held up my end of the bargain. And what does he do? He gives me food poisoning, yells at me, and then fucking hypnotizes me when I cried, and then- and then forces me to sleep!" You vented, getting your heartrate up once again. You almost thought you saw Price's nose flare as he listened to you. Maybe he was listening to more than your voice.

"Is this true, Soap?" Price asked without taking his eyes off of you. Soap shifted uncomfortably.

"She was hungry and tired. Was only trying to help, sir."

"So you compelled her to get her to stop crying?" Price clarified, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. Soap remained silent. "Yeah I'd say you deserve a lot more than a slap in the face for that."

"Sir, I-"

"Take a walk, Mactavish. I'll deal with you later." Soap hesitated, looking between you and Price in frustration. "Now, Soap," Price added sternly. And with that, Soap turned on his heels and exited the kitchen without another word. You stared daggers into his back as he walked away. Price turned to you once he was gone.

"I apologize for him. You'll have to give him time, he hasn't had a meaningful conversation with a human woman since the 80's."

"That explains the hair," you snarked.

"You're one to talk," responded Gaz from across the room. He had a point. Throughout your adolescence and into adulthood, your hair had been dyed nearly every color of the rainbow and cut to various lengths. Currently it was a navy blue, cut into a shoulder-length shag. Still, you weren't about to take any lip from him. You still hadn't forgiven him.

"Oh shut up, Kyle. You sneered his name like it was a bitter taste on your tongue.

"It's Gaz."

"You told me your friends call you 'Gaz.' We're not friends, Kyle. Friends don't kidnap each other to recruit them into some fucking- I don't know- undead death cult!" You had rounded on him now, the hatred that was aimed at Soap moments ago now laser focused on the man who had betrayed you.

"That's quite enough," Price demanded, stepping between the two of you. "Gaz, get out." Gaz took a deep breath, giving you one last regretful look before exiting the kitchen, same as Soap.

"You shouldn't be so hard on him. He cares about you," Price said with a sigh.

"He lied to me!"

"What would you have done if he'd told you the truth, hm?"

"I'd be home safe," you bit back. Price just looked at you, expression unreadable. A tense moment passed before Price spoke again.

"Let's get you something to eat," he suggested as he turned and walked further into the kitchen.

"If it's moldy cheese again, I'd rather starve," you mumbled. Price tossed you a look, and muttered a fucking hell, Soap under his breath.

As he moved about the kitchen, you saw what Soap and Gaz must have been doing before you'd interrupted. There were bags of groceries littered across the counters: fresh produce, dried pasta, frozen dinners, anything you could've been craving was laid out in various stages of organization.

Before you could stop yourself, you hurried over to one of the bags and grabbed an apple, immediately biting in. Fuck, you were hungry. You ate ravenously, barely chewing before diving in again. Juice was running down your chin but you couldn't care less. How the hell had you gone so long without eating? Especially after being bled last night.

You barely registered Price's eyes on you. He watched your mouth working, chewing, eating. Once you noticed, you stared at him- stared at him staring at you. Then he noticed you staring, and he cleared his throat with a nervous smile.

"Sorry, just- haven't done that in a while. Eat, I mean." There was something in his eyes as he averted his gaze. Longing, maybe? He went back to putting away the groceries.

You finished your apple- core and all- and moved to dig through another bag. You found a microwave pizza and ripped open the package without hesitation. You pressed a button on the microwave, not caring about the cooking instructions. It would probably be cold in the middle, but you couldn't find it within yourself to care.

As you waited for the microwave to finish, you took in your surroundings with greater detail. The kitchen was clean, lacking any grease stains or food splatters anywhere; but at the same time, it wasn't clean at all. A thin layer of dust covered nearly every surface. There were no signs of life in this room, save for the new addition of human groceries. It made sense. Why would vampires have any use for a kitchen? Price continued to work quietly beside you.

The microwave beeped, and you snatched the pizza out, immediately taking a bite and burning the roof of your mouth. You dropped it on the countertop.

"Easy, love. Food's not going anywhere," Price scolded. He handed you a glass of water, and you gulped it down greedily. Fuck, you were thirsty, too. You were so dehydrated. You felt Price's eyes on you again, and as you finished the water and set the glass down, you turned to him.

"Could I just have a minute, please?” you asked. You tried to find the right words. "You keep watching me eat, and it's a little… it's making me nervous."

"Right, yes, of course," Price said, appearing just as flustered as you were. "I'll just… I'll give you some time to yourself. Be back in a bit, give you a tour of the place. Eat up." And then he left you alone.

You filled the glass with water again, and then went back to your little pizza. You settled on one of the barstools at the kitchen island and let your mind wander as you ate.

You needed to get out of this place. You weren't safe here. Sure, Price had promised they wouldn't hurt you physically, but they were clearly still capable of compelling you to do whatever they desired. And who knew how long they'd keep their promise, anyway? You haven't even met the one named Ghost, the one who had come the closest to killing you. It was only a matter of time before one of them lost control and bled you dry. This was the last day you'd stay here.

You wracked your mind trying to think up a plan when your eyes landed on the knife block. You thought about taking one but hesitated. They'd surely notice it missing from the display. So you set about digging through the drawers looking for silverware. One, two, three drawers you opened and then you found it. You retrieved a butter knife and slipped it into your pant leg. You prayed to whatever was listening that they wouldn't notice it. This house was old, maybe the locks were too.

You slipped back onto the barstool just in time, because soon after Price marched into the kitchen once again as you finished the last few bites of your food.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you were sure he heard it, judging by the quirk of his eyebrow, but you hoped you played it off as surprise at his arrival, rather than from getting caught doing something you're sure Price would not approve of.

"Alright?" He checked.

"Yeah, just snuck up on me is all," you lied. "You're pretty quiet on your feet for such a big guy." And he was a big guy. Over six feet tall with a broad chest and even broader shoulders that looked like they could carry the weight of the world. You wondered how long he's lived, how much weight he really did carry, how many lives he's taken with his bite. You hoped you'd never get the chance to find out.

"Get enough to eat?" He asked.

"For now, at least," you confirmed with a nod.

"I'll have Gaz cook you up something for dinner later. Soap is getting the video player set up in your room so you can watch something when you're done eating."

"I don't want Soap in my room," you protested. Price gave you a pointed look, clearly getting fed up with your non-compliance. He ignored your protest.

"Come on, I'll show you around the place. He led you out the kitchen door on the other side of the room, which led to a hallway with doors along one side. "Servant's quarters. Though, we haven't had servant's living here for a century." You followed him to the front of the house. "Library in this corner. Gaz mentioned you liked to read. Use it freely."

He turned the corner into the grand foyer, an ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a large winding staircase led up to the second floor. The floor was marble, but was in need of polishing. Cobwebs stretched across the arms of the glittering chandelier above you.

"The staircase will lead you back to the bedrooms, or you can use the back staircase again. Either will do. Back in the day, the back stairs were only used by the servants." How long ago was "back in the day?"

He continued across the foyer to the hall on the other side. He showed you the dining room, the ballroom, and finally the conservatory. The plants were all dead. Eventually you came to the servant's stairs again at the back of the house, and you followed him up.

"This is your room, obviously. The rest of the rooms are empty. My study is at the end of the hall around the corner, towards the front of the house. If you ever need me, chances are you'll find me there," he told you. "During daylight hours, you may walk in the garden. Use the door in the conservatory." Then he turned to you with a stern look, his steely eyes hardened and cold like a glinting knife. Like the knife you'd hidden on your person.

"You must go out only in daylight. And you must never leave the garden. Don't wander off, don't try to leave. We'll know." He placed a massive hand gently on your shoulder. "I tell you this for your own safety. As Lord of this manor, I have absolute authority. But if you leave, then I can not protect you.” He was leaning over you, eyes boring into you, daring you to defy him. His face was so close to you, his breath wafted over you, and you could smell the tobacco on it. Aged. Expensive. You could practically count the individual hairs of his beard, his eyelashes.

“Do you understand?” he asked softly. You only nodded. It was a lie, of course. You were planning on going into the garden and beyond tonight. But what he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him, right? “Good.” He leaned away from you again, and you felt something tug in the pit of your stomach- something like yearning. You choked it back down. “The last thing we need is you getting any big ideas,” he added. It was all you could do to keep your breathing steady. Does he know? But then he turned and walked towards his study, you supposed.

“Oh,” he paused and turned back to you. “There’s also a sizable pond in the garden. You’re welcome to swim if you like.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you responded. Price just smiled wryly, looking at you with hunger in his pale blue eyes.

“Shame.” was all he said, and then he turned the corner down the hall. Oh.

You weren’t quite sure what to do now that you were left alone. You stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering what to do next. You decided to check out the gardens. It would be wise to get a lay of the land before you made your escape. You descended the stairs once again and soon found yourself at the glass door of the conservatory. You turned the brass handle and stepped in. The floor was smooth, cut stone. There were hanging baskets and standing pedestals with pots of dead, dried plants. Withered, wilted leaves drooped sadly over the sides of terracotta left and right. The room smelled of mycelium. The air was stale. There was an overturned cast iron pedestal off to the side. There were traces of dirt and broken pottery around it, as if someone had lazily and hastily swept it up, but they hadn’t really cared about cleaning it thoroughly. You walked forward and reset the pedestal.

You opened the french doors onto the patio and breathed in fresh air for the first time in days; since you had gone to the club with Gaz. No. Kyle. you walked out into the garden. There was a large stone fountain in between two rows of flowerbeds. The fountain looked like it hadn’t run in decades. The flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds. Further out, the garden extended down a hill. There was a creek running perpendicular to the slope. The babbling water seemed to be the only sign of life in this whole place. A small arching bridge crossed over it. As you wandered the grounds, you took note of the fruit trees planted here and there. None of them were bearing fruit.

You crossed the bridge and took the wandering path along the hillside until you came across the pond Price had mentioned. Based on the state of the rest of the garden, you had expected it to be muddy and full of algae, smelling like rotten fish and dead frog spawn. Instead, you were happily proven wrong. The water was crystal clear and sparkling in the light of the slowly setting sun. on the far side of the pond, beyond the shore, was a tree line: the beginning of a thick forest.

You decided to take advantage of your bare feet and waded into the water, just up to your ankles you closed your eyes and the feeling of the cold water lapping at your calves and the soft silt settling in between your toes. You felt… peace. You finally felt at peace, and it wasn’t due to Soap or Kyle manipulating you this time. You felt stinging behind your eyes and your breath hitched. A hot tear traveled down the side of your nose and settled in the corner of your mouth. It tasted salty.

A gentle breeze rustled your hair and tickled the back of your neck. The sound of leaves rustling in the trees across the pond. A fish splashed against the surface, probably catching a waterbug for its dinner. A moment passed and then you felt the tiny waves wobble up and down your leg. You breathed deeply. Your tear dribbled off your chin and landed in the pond. You felt electrified.

Your body always felt like it woke up whenever you were surrounded by nature like this. You’d lived in cities your whole life, but when you were able to get out in the countryside, or when you took a walk in the woods of a state park, everything seemed so much sharper. The sky was bluer, the grass greener, the flowers more fragrant. You dug your toes deeper into the saturated soil beneath you. It grounded you. Even in a barren place such as this manor, the energy of nature brought out your soul from the hardened shell of your body. You felt alive in this moment. A bird took flight from an apple tree somewhere far off to your right. Some little creature deep in the forest burrowed beneath a log, searching for seeds or bugs.

“Hey,” a voice suddenly interrupted, “sun’s setting, you need to get inside. Dinner’s ready.”

“Christ, Kyle!” you shouted as you whipped around, nearly slipping in the mud. But Kyle’s arms were there to steady you. You shrugged him off and ignored the subdued pain in his maroon eyes. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” You had been so in tune with the sound of life around you, how had you missed his footsteps behind you? Maybe because he isn’t alive.

“Sorry, I thought you’d heard me.” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, refraining from eye contact. “Seriously, though, you need to get back inside before dark.”

You digested his words and looked up at the sky. Sure enough, the sun was already behind the tree line to the west. You’d completely lost track of time, lost in the magic of nature around you. You stepped out of the pond and felt that your toes had become pruney. How long had you been out here?

“Come on,” he demanded with just a touch more urgency in his voice as he turned back to the house and started up the path. You followed after him silently. Before long you were back in the stuffy old house, breathing in that dusty old air. Gaz glanced down at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, then out again at the window, taking in the quickly darkening sky.

“Head up to your room now, I’ll bring your food up to you.” You didn’t move quickly enough for him, just looking at him with a challenging curiosity. “Hurry!” he commanded, ushering you towards the back stairs, tossing another anxious glance outside. You finally listened to him and bounded up the steps. You reached your bedroom door, but before you opened it, you paused to listen. The house was so quiet. Not even the floorboards settled to make a noise. It was like the building itself was holding its breath. You entered your room and locked the door behind you.

Walking to your bed, you fished out the knife from your pants and planted it beneath the mattress, just in case any of the boys- Soap specifically- tried to get handsy again. You didn’t think they would, not after your spat this afternoon; and Price had told you today you would be off from feeding; but you were slow to trust these men, and you couldn’t be too safe.

You stood back from the bed, smoothing the covers back over the mattress to remove any trace of tampering, when something caught your eye. A large, very large flatscreen television was mounted to the wall opposite your bed. You didn’t know the exact size of it, but it covered a greater portion of the wall. A small table had been placed beneath it with a DVD player connected to the TV with various wires. At least Soap can keep one promise.

There was a knock at your door, and slowly you moved to open it. Kyle stood there, tray in hand.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t need permission to enter,” you challenged.

“Well, I was just trying to be polite,” he countered. “But since you wanna be difficult…” he trailed off, and then he was pushing past you into the bedroom.

“Hey!”

“Here’s your dinner,” he announced, dropping the tray unceremoniously into your nightstand, not dissimilar to what Soap had done the night before. He must have sensed your guard going up again, because he turned to you with a sigh and a soft maroon look. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, taking a tentative step toward you. When you didn’t retreat, he continued forward until he was standing before you. You found yourself longing for him to touch you, to hold you like he had before this mess. He did not touch you.

“I’m sorry, I just…” he drew in a deep breath. “This is all new to me. And I know it’s not easy for you either, I just-” his hand twitched at his side. “I’m sorry. For everything.” And then he left, locking the deadbolt behind him. He left you confused and frustrated once again. He had a habit of doing that to you, it seemed.

You turned your attention to the tray on your nightstand. A ceramic bowl sat in the center with a glass of water to one side and silverware to the other. You stepped forward to get a look at the contents of the bowl: a simple bowl of pasta with pesto sauce. He remembered. You had only mentioned your fondness for pesto once over the phone. You felt the cage around your heart loosen just a tiny bit. But you wouldn't let this convince you to stay.

Without another thought, you sat at the edge of your bed and dug in. It was good, Christ was it good. Had Gaz made the sauce from scratch? Before you knew it, you were twisting the last bit of pasta around your fork. You were satiated, but not satisfied. You wouldn’t be satisfied until you were out of this dreadful manor and away from these men.

You wondered if Soap had fulfilled his other promise of retrieving the rest of your clothes. Replacing the bowl onto the tray, you stepped over to the wardrobe, and sure enough, it was packed full of ripped jeans and various tee shirts. You rummaged through the hangers until you found one of your heavier jackets and shrugged it on. You found a pair of your chunky black boots and then moved to the dresser to dig out a pair of socks, and then put both articles on. The sun had fully set by now.

You checked the door. Sure enough, it was locked from the outside, not that you’d let that stop you. You retrieved your knife from under the bed and wedged it between the door and the doorframe, wiggling it back and forth, up and down, nudging it gently to keep it quiet. Finally, you felt something shift with an audible click. You tried the knob once again, and it turned. You were right, the locks were old. Opening the door slightly, you listened for any movement, any creaking floorboard or squeaking door hinge. You were met with nothing but the sound of your own breath.

You moved silently down the stairs and thanked the deity if your choosing that the door to the conservatory was so close to them. The handle squeaked ever so slightly when you turned it, and you froze, listening intently. But no gnashing teeth emerged from the shadows of the hallways, so you continued. Once inside the conservatory, you hurried to the outside door, and breathed in the sweet fresh air once again. There was nothing holding you back anymore. You said a bitter goodbye to the old house.

You sprinted past the fountain, down the hill, nearly tripping over gravity, and down the path to the pond. The stars sparkled overhead. There were no lights of the city to pollute them away from your view. Orion’s belt lit your way, and you swore you'd never run this fast in your life. You ran and ran, around the shoreline of the pond, slipping once, twice on the soft ground, but you continued. You reached the tree line. All you had to do was get away, make it to the next town, or maybe a nearby farmhouse. You were closing in on the last base on your homerun. Then you hit something dark and unmoving.

People always talk about fight or flight responses, but few remember to mention the third option: freeze. That’s what you always seemed to do when faced with danger. You’d always hated the way you’d freeze. Your limbs would lock up, your lungs would contract. Whenever your mother screamed at you, or a customer at work would get angry with you, all you’d ever do was stand there. That’s how you found yourself sprawled out of the forest floor.

You were face-to-face with Death himself. An enormous black shadow towered over you, the face of the Grim Reaper floating well over six feet in the air. Bright, searing red eyes burned into you almost painfully. Whereas Gaz’s eyes were a deep burgundy, these eyes seemed to glow with hellfire. Its chest heaved, arms shaking as it looked down at you. You could practically feel the rage radiating off of it. You’d never felt so small, not even when your mother sat you down on the couch to berate you for whatever she’d deemed you’d done wrong.

The shadows seemed to be drawn to him, dark fog swirling at his feet, threatening to cover you, suffocate you. All you could do was sit there in the damp grass and look up at the hulking creature. Its death-face stared back at you, and it muttered only one word, its voice so deep you felt it reverberate in the dirt beneath you.

“Run.”

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innovativesourcing · 3 months

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daisyrb-gvf · 6 months

Text

Wet Ink and Burning Ice-DRW

d.r.w. x f!reader

Words: 9.7k

Okay, you guys. This is the reason I haven't posted chapter 4 of "Cruising Into Love." Ya girl got too feral and needed to let some stuff out....so here you go!

Summary: Your boyfriend Danny has been bulking up, and you have some new ideas for how to break in those new muscles.

Warnings: 18+ readers only!!!!

explicit sex, unprotected penetrative sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, arm riding(!), edging, orgasm denial, bondage, spanking, slight degradation, ice play, foul language, some cheesy love because I can't help myself, INSANELY HOT DANIEL WAGNER!!!! Let me know if I missed anything!

“Alright, you two. I’m heading out,” Sam says to you and Danny, slapping his hands on his knees and pressing himself up off the oversized chair in yours and Danny’s living room. The credits from the movie you were all watching roll across the screen as Sammy slips on his Birks and heads toward the front door.

“Bye, Sammy!” you say with a smile.

“See you tomorrow, Sam,” Danny says, gently shifting you off of his chest and placing a pillow underneath you.

“See you then, Daniel,” Sam calls out, closing the door behind him with a click, as your beautiful curly-headed boyfriend heads toward the kitchen.

“Do you want another glass of wine, honey?” You hear him open the fridge and crack open a can of beer.

“Yes, please! Thank you, baby!” you call out, sitting up on the couch.

Danny rustles around in the pantry and pulls out an unopened bottle of wine. You and Sam had finished off the first one throughout the course of the evening, all of you laughing and enjoying another one of Sam’s amazing meals before settling down to watch a movie. You hear the cork pop off and the liquid pour into your glass before Danny makes his way back into the living room.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” He hands you your glass with that heart-melting boyish smile that makes you weak in the knees. You wonder if you’ll ever get tired of that-if that feeling will ever fade? Definitely not you think to yourself as he leans in to kiss your forehead. No, after two years together, you still feel that same delicious heartache that you felt the moment you laid eyes on him. Gazing at him from across the bar, watching him laugh that goofy little laugh while he got drunk with his brothers, not a care in the world. His eyes met yours and locked in and that was that. Love at first sight, as cheesy as that sounds. Maybe it is, but you don’t care. You knew at that moment that he was the love of your life, and he knew it too.

“What are you thinking about, angel?” Danny asks, sitting on the floor between your legs, his body halfway turned to face you, and his head resting against your knee.

You caress his sweet face with your hand, tracing your forefinger along his perfectly chiseled jaw as he gazes up at you with an expression that can only be described as pure love. “The night we met,” you smile, leaning down to kiss him on his sharp, angled nose dusted with the most adorable freckles.

He leans over and kisses your knee opposite the one he is resting on. “That was a good night,” he replies, gazing up at you again, gently stroking your calf with his free hand, the other still holding his beer.

A laugh bubbles up out of your chest. Danny looks at you curiously, chuckling. “What’s so funny?” he smiles, sitting up straighter.

“Just imagining how grossed out Sam would be if he were still here. You know he thinks we are the cheesiest, most nauseating couple on the planet,” you giggle again.

Danny chuckles back, “In his defense, he’s probably right, but he’ll get it one day when he finds the right person.”

“Oh I can’t wait to give him shit the day that happens,” you say with a smirk.

“You and me both!” Danny laughs, leaning back again, his shoulder in between your legs leaning on the couch cushion. “You want to watch something else?” he asks, grabbing the remote off of the coffee table.

“Yeah, sure! You pick.”

Danny scrolls through the list of movies on the screen, settling on one you’ve both seen a thousand times.

“Caddyshack? Again?” you groan, tossing your head back and running your hand over your face.

“Hey! You said I can pick!” he laughs, turning up the volume.

You play with his soft, dark brown curls tickling your knee while you drink your wine, lovingly rolling your eyes at your boyfriend as he laughs at the same lines he’s heard thousands of times. You would be perfectly happy if you never watched this movie again, but you do love that goofy laugh, and the way his eyes crinkle when something really gets him belly laughing. You finish off your wine and hand the glass to him as he tips his can of beer back, swallowing the last few drops. He leans over to set the glass and can both on the coffee table, the muscles in his shoulders and arms more visible with his reach. The few glasses of wine you had already made you clench and shift slightly in your seat. Danny knows you get extra horny for him when you drink red wine, and you know that’s why he offered you another glass earlier. Not that you would have needed it. You’re fucking feral for this man stone-cold sober 24/7. He extends his arms above his head and then out to the sides, stretching with a yawn before leaning back to his previous position. Oh, for fucks sake. You’re already feeling flushed just from his stretch. You lazily run your finger across his shoulder and bicep, tracing the outline of each beautiful muscle. Ever since he started hanging out with Dave, Danny has started to bulk up. They’re “gym bros” now, as you love to call them, poking fun at your boyfriend. But you can’t deny, you are loving the results of the work he is putting in. You bite your lip, shifting in your seat again.

“You doing okay up there?” Danny asks, turning his head slightly, but keeping his eyes on the screen.

“Oh yeah. I am just fine,” you reply suggestively, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek as you slide your hand down the front of his white “The Thing With Feathers” band t-shirt. He cut the sleeves off the sides, exposing his arms, shoulders, and the sides of his torso. Everyone thinks he’s so sweet and humble, and yeah, sometimes he is, but he also loves to show off for all of his screaming fans, and for you, of course. You feel the ripples of his pecs and obliques under the soft touch of your fingertips and he shudders. Turning around, he looks up at you through his long, dark lashes, the sparkle of gold and green flecks in his eyes making your breath hitch.

“Does my girl want to play?” he grins wickedly, licking his lips.

“You know I do. And I know you do by how wine drunk you got me tonight,” you giggle.

“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby,” he winks as you giggle again. “What are you thinking about?”

“How I’m really glad you and Dave became friends,” you reply, your eyes exploring every inch of his upper body.

“Interesting thought to get you all worked up, but I suppose he is pretty hot,” Danny smirks.

God, that makes you want him even more. The way he can just openly talk about his guy friends being attractive with no weird stigma around it. He just calls it like he sees it, and he sees it for what it is: Dave Welsh is, in fact, pretty hot.

“You’re definitely right about that,” you giggle as you lean in to kiss the shell of his ear, his head lolling off to the side, giving you better access. “But I’m referring to how bulked up you’ve gotten since you gym bros started hanging out.” Your voice is low and sultry in his ear and his eyes flutter in response.

“Do you have to call us that?” he chuckles, his voice low and soft and his eyes still fluttering as you nip at his ear lobe.

“What would you prefer I call you, hmm?” you ask, speaking barely above a whisper as you kiss his neck softly.

“I don’t know…I think maybe ‘friends’ would suffice,” he chuckles, his breath hitching when you bite his neck, soothing it with a swipe of your tongue.

You giggle and reply, “No…that just doesn’t fit quite right. See, you’re friends with Sammy and the twins, but you don’t have that special homoerotic ‘gym bro’ connection that you have with Dave. I’m sticking with gym bros.” You giggle and wrap your arms around him, feeling the strong, sinewy muscles across his chest and kissing his impossibly soft, freckle-dusted shoulder.

“Homoerotic, huh?” he smirks, gently caressing his calloused hands over your arms.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” You shift to the other side of his body, peppering kisses on his other shoulder.

“And does my dirty girl like that? Thinking about her ‘homoerotic’ boyfriend and his ‘gym bro’ lifting weights, standing over each other to spot one another, our faces dangerously close to the others’ crotch?” he laughs.

“You say that like a joke, but yes, in fact, your dirty girl does like that,” you giggle, running your hands down his abs before moving them back up and over his shoulders. “But right now all I can focus on are these shoulders and arms. Fuck, they are just doing something for me.”

He chuckles, “You know you’re gonna give me a big head talking about my body so much.”

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, pulling back to sit up straight on the edge of the couch. “You got a big head during your last tour when all of the girls started losing their damn minds over you and that hot body.”

“Maybe so,” he smirks, “but you’re the only one who gets this ‘hot body.’ He turns around to kneel before you, running his hands slowly up your thighs. “So tell me, angel, what do you want to do to it? I’m all yours.”

“Well, I…I have this idea,” you start as your face turns a deep shade of red.

He looks at you concerned for a moment. “What is it, baby? You know you can tell me anything. You don’t need to be embarrassed with me.” He cups your cheek and you lean into his touch.

“Um, it’s…well, it’s kinda different, I suppose,” you fidget with your hands.

“Sweetheart, it’s me. You know I just want to make you feel good. I want to give you what you want, okay?” He leans in to kiss your forehead, his lips warm and soft.

“Okay,” you start, your nerves relaxing a little, “well, you know how I love to ride your thighs, right?”

He flashes that beautiful bright white smile, “Oh, yeah I do.”

“Do you think maybe…um, maybe I could…try to uh…ride y-your…arms?”

He releases a sharp exhale from his nose, his body tensing, causing his muscles to flex oh so deliciously. Grabbing both sides of your face, he goes in for a deep, passionate kiss, groaning into your mouth. “I fucking love you, you know that baby?” he says as he pulls back, resting his forehead on yours.

You’re so relieved by his response, your nervous tension immediately fades away as you drape your arms around his shoulders and pull him flush with your body. “So, is that a yes?” you giggle.

“That’s a hell yes,” he replies with that ridiculously sexy smile, kissing you again. “I’m not completely sure how to go about it, but we will figure it out together, okay?” His eyes are so full of adoration, you wonder why you were nervous to ask him? Your heart feels like it could literally burst from how much you love this man. He pulls back from the kiss and you gaze at him, just taking in his beauty that you will never tire of. He allows this for a moment, gazing back at you and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear before he just can’t hold back anymore. He presses you back against the couch a little roughly and you bite your lip with a wicked grin, loving how eager he is for this. “You’re so fucking sexy, y/n,” he groans as he kisses and bites along your neck, licking a long strip from the base of your neck up to your ear. “Say it,” he commands.

“I-I’m so fucking sexy,” you say, breathlessly, feeling a little silly, but already so lost in him that you don’t care.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he whispers, biting your earlobe just enough to sting before gently sucking on it. You whimper at his praise and start to tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head haphazardly. Grasping his shoulders, you pull him in and kiss him deeply again, letting your hands roam all over his perfectly sculpted torso, arms, and shoulders. “Mmm you just can’t get enough can you?” He licks his bottom lip and flashes that devilish grin again.

“You have no fucking idea, Daniel,” you moan, reaching for the fly of his pants, fumbling to undo the button and pull down the zipper. He groans when you slide your hand into his tight, skinny jeans, cupping him while sucking on his bottom lip.

He grips your wrist and pulls your hand out, pinning it above your head. “Not yet. I’m going to take my time tonight. Make sure you get off on my arms, you filthy little slut.” You whimper and arch your back, begging for him to touch you, lick you, kiss you, bite you…anything. You just need to feel more of him. “Mmm nope. Not until you say it. What are you, y/n?”

You turn bright red as your breathing intensifies further. “I-I’m a filthy little slut.” The way he talks to you when he gets like this sets your whole body on fire. It’s so unlike him to talk to you this way. In fact, he was uncomfortable with it at first when you told him you liked it. He didn’t like calling you names or doing anything other than adore and praise you, but once he saw how hard you got off from it, he was on board 100%.

“Yes you are, angel. My filthy little slut.” He gives you a wet, messy kiss, so desperate to taste as much of you as possible, before moving down to lick and suck down your chest, biting your peaked nipples through your cropped tank top. You shove the straps down your arms, rolling down the top until your breasts pop out with a bounce. He looks so desperate to taste you as he dives in, biting, sucking, practically abusing your chest, leaving bite marks and hickies-marking his territory. He’s animalistic right now. Your hands grip his silky soft curls, tugging on them with each excruciating bite. Fuck, he makes the pain feel so good. Working his way down your stomach, he rips your shorts off of you roughly, exposing your completely soaked light pink cotton panties.

Danny sighs and his eyes flutter for a moment, taking in the view. “Oh, baby…such a good fucking girl. So wet for me already.” He dives in, running his perfectly angled nose along your heat, his tongue following suit. You moan louder than expected, considering there is still fabric between you and his mouth. “Yeah? You like that, baby?” he goads, rubbing his thick middle finger in feather-light circles over your clit.

“Yes, Danny,” you whimper, “Oh God yes,” you say louder as he increases the pressure. You thrust into his hand, but he pulls back and grips your hips, slamming you back down onto the couch cushions. Your brow furrows and you whimper pathetically, so desperate for his touch again. He leans in and bites the skin just below your belly button, causing you to cry out and wince. Yanking you by your arms back into an upright position, he stands and towers over you, gripping your chin and tugging it up so you can look him in the eyes.

“You’re going to cum exactly four times tonight-no more, no less. Do you understand me?” He’s an angel straight from hell, bound and determined to drag you down with him, and you have absolutely no desire to fight against it.

“Yes sir,” you reply shakily. He roughly glides his thumb across your bottom lip, dragging it down before sliding it into your mouth so far back that you gag. He grits his teeth at the sound, and you can see his cock twitch through his jeans.

Danny moves to sit on the floor again between your legs, as you sit on the edge of the seat. Moving sideways, he positions his right shoulder in between your thighs, just inches away from your throbbing clit, practically pulsing through your panties. You sit still for a moment, waiting for direction, not sure what to do and a little nervous.

“Well, come on, sweetheart. This is what you wanted, right? Do it,” he demands, looking up at you through his dark, long lashes, smirking and biting his lip.

You slowly inch forward just a bit as Danny tenses and flexes his arm, glancing over and smirking. Such a show off. You take a deep, shaky breath, suddenly feeling embarrassed again. This is so weird, right? Wanting to ride your boyfriend’s arms?! He seems into it, but what if he gets freaked out?

“Angel,” his soft, kind voice pulls you out of your spiral. Reaching over with his left hand, he caresses your calf and looks up at you with those beautiful, sparkling hazel eyes filled with so much love . “Please don’t ever feel uncomfortable with me, okay? I love you. This isn’t weird if we don’t want it to be. Don’t think. Just feel,” he presses his shoulder in between your thighs, closing the gap. You gasp at the sensation, realizing just how badly you needed to feel any part of him between your legs. Gripping at his left arm that has moved up to your thigh, you slowly start to grind on him, right on top of his new tattoo, a symbol he created to represent the moon phase on the day he was born. It’s beautiful and unique and so…Danny. It feels incredibly intimate and almost forbidden to ride that particular part of his body. The sight of it causes your eyes to flutter as a moan escapes from your lips. Even through your panties, you can see his shoulder starting to dampen. His jaw drops as he takes in the scene before him, gripping and kneading your thigh. He fucking loves this. You roll your hips faster, your other hand gripping the silky soft curls on his head as you feel your orgasm start to build.

“Oh my God,” you whisper in shock. “Already?” Your voice is so quiet you didn’t thank Danny could hear, but he did.

“Oh, I knew it wouldn’t take long, sweetheart,” he smirks, looking up at you. “Come on, angel. I want to see you cum all over my shoulder. Right on this tattoo.” Glancing back down, his jaw drops again, a smile breaking through, so pleased and eager to see you fall apart around him.

Loud whimpers and moans escape from you as your legs start to shake, just on the cusp of your orgasm. Danny moves his arm up further, digging his fingers into your hip, surely leaving bruises for you to blush at later. A reminder of this moment with him. He works your hip, urging you to roll your body faster onto him. You cry out his name, repeating it over and over mixed with a string of expletives as you fall apart around him, your nails digging into the sinewy muscle of his other arm, head falling back lazily as you come down, riding out the last few pulses of your orgasm. Leaning forward, you rest your cheek on top of his head, your breathing ragged. He runs his hand over your arm that’s resting on your knee, his right arm tracing an unknown pattern on your calf.

“Fuck, baby. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Why didn’t I think of this?” he chuckles.

You giggle as your breathing starts to regulate. Sitting up, you caress his face as he looks up at you in adoration. “I’m just glad you didn’t think it was too weird.”

“Y/n I would get much weirder than that for you,” he laughs, leaning his head against your knee.

“Oh really? I’m going to hold you to that, Daniel.” You lean down to give him a chaste kiss.

Pulling his arm away slowly, you get a clearer view of the mess you made on his tattoo. Seeing it glisten in the lamplight made you clench. Daniel Wagner is the only man who could make you this horny mere minutes after an orgasm. You’re dying for more already.

He looks down to admire your work as well, in awe. “Wow. And with your panties still on? Baby, let’s see the mess you can make with them off.” He flashes that wicked grin again, turning to face you on his knees, and grasping your hips to lift you up off of the couch into a standing position in front of him. Glancing up at you through those dark, long lashes, he licks a stripe from the waistband of your panties up to your belly button, then moves to kiss and lick along your hips. You close your eyes with a soft sigh, relaxing into him, feeling him, committing every single movement of his mouth against your skin to memory, your hands roaming along his arms and shoulders again, your fingers lingering on his damp tattoo. Hooking his thumbs over the waistband of your panties, he begins to pull them down slowly, continuing to feast on every inch of you, but he stops just short of exposing you and turns you around somewhat aggressively. You gasp in shock. Thankfully, he kept a firm grip on your hips to keep you from falling.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he murmurs, almost like he is just talking to himself. You smile, turning your head to glance at him as you caress your hands over his, still resting on your hips.

“That’s good because you’re stuck with me, Daniel Robert,” you reply with a wink. He glances up at you through his lashes again, but this time he has that adorable lovesick puppy expression plastered on his face. Your heart aches for him and you can’t decide what’s sexier: that look of adoration and longing, or that predatory look of hunger he switches to so quickly.

He peppers the tenderest kisses along the small of your back, his arms dropping to caress your legs, causing goosebumps to prickle up in his wake. Switching from kisses to soft bites and licks, he then slides his big, warm hands up the sides of your thighs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties again. His mouth follows the slow descent of your panties over your ass, devouring the plush skin. You feel his smooth cheek rub against the swell of your ass as he lets out a quiet groan. Switching sides, he repeats his actions on your other cheek before moving down to taste the backs of your thighs.

Whimpering, you tip your head back and whisper, “Please, baby.”

“Please what, angel?” he chuckles, pulling back to remove your panties from around your ankles.

“Please, I need more. Can you give it to me? Give me more, please?” You are whimpery and pathetic, but you don’t care. All sense of pride is thrown out the window and you are putty in his hands.

He groans and kneads his hands into the supple skin of your ass, just barely running his angular nose up your crack, ending with a kiss on the small of your back. You gasp and let out a shaky whimper as you clench. “Is my sweet girl already so eager to make a mess of my other arm?” he asks. God, how is his voice this fucking sexy?

“Yes, baby, I need it. I need you. Please let me cum again, Daniel?” He loves it when you say his name while you beg.

He sighs out a groan before smacking your ass and aggressively turns you around again, shoving you back down on the couch in a seated position. Sitting on his knees directly in front of the sofa, he extends his left forearm along the couch cushion with his palm up, and elbow bent a little wider than a 90 degree angle right next to where you are sitting. “Straddle my arm, y’n,” he commands. You obey and shift to the side, swinging your leg over his head with a giggle as you sit on his forearm. He tenses and flexes all the muscles in his arm to give you a show and create some friction in between your legs. “Scoot forward.” You wiggle your way toward him until your clit is pressed against his bicep, your ass all the way on the edge of the couch. The veins in his arm are popping out as he continues to flex and put on a show for you, and the feel of his forearm underneath you along with your aching clit up against bicep is so fucking delicous your eyes flutter in anticipation. Danny leans forward and grips the back of your neck with his free hand to pull you into a hot, messy, deep kiss. You moan and instinctively grind on him, but he quickly slaps your thigh, leaving behind a sharp sting. You hiss and whimper from the shock of it. He grips your throat, his thumb digging into your pulse point as he leans in, his nose barely brushing yours. “Wait,” he says barely above a whisper through gritted teeth. His dominance makes you clench and you know he felt it because of the wicked chuckle he let out afterward. Keeping his hand on your throat, he moves his thumb to your jaw, jerking your head to the side so he can bite and suck on your neck. You whimper in pain, but it feels so good. His arm underneath you starts to feel slippery and you clamp your eyes shut to focus on staying still as he moves down to aggressively devour your breasts, biting, sucking, licking all over your tits. His free hand moves down to grip your thigh, presumably to keep you steady so he doesn’t have to punish you again. Although he loves to be dominant for you, you know deep down he just craves being sweet to you. You smile for a moment thinking of how tender his action is, even if his fingers are digging so roughly into your thigh that you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

“Come on baby, please?” You whine again, this time your breathing heavy and ragged, choking back a sob. “You feel so good underneath me. Please let me do it? I promise I’ll make a mess just like you want me to. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?”

“Fuck, baby yes. Ride me,” he groans, his jaw dropping again as he watches you immediately roll your hips on his arm at a quick pace, rubbing your clit against his flexing bicep. You dig your nails into his shoulders, feeling his muscles tense and flex with every roll of your hips as he holds himself steady for you. “Does that feel good, sweetheart? Riding my arm like the depraved little slut you are?” He licks his bottom lip and bites it, feigning a cool attitude, but you see him shift and grind his hips into the sofa. He’s aching for release too. How is he going to wait for two more orgasms? You pick up your pace, thinking about how badly he needs to cum right now, eager to get off so that you’re one step closer to getting him off.

“Yes, Danny,” you moan, staring at his bicep as you grind on it, seeing your juices coat his skin and hearing how wet you are with each slippery roll of your hips against him. He starts to move his arm forward and back, creating more friction, and helping you chase your orgasm since your legs are already shaking. “Oh, God yes, yes yes…” you repeat over and over between whimpers and loud moans.

“There it is, beautiful. Come on, just let it happen. I want to see my arm dripping wet by the time you’re done.” His eyes are hooded and his jaw is dropped again, taking in the sight of you, his fingers still dug deeply in your thigh.

You beat your fist against his shoulder and throw your head back, going rigid as he continues to furiously move his arm beneath you. Your mouth opens in a silent moan, holding your breath until you reach your peak, coming down with a loud cry and whimper of Danny’s name as you flop backward onto the couch, sweaty and spent.

“Oh, fuck,” Danny chuckles with wide eyes.

“What?” you reply, barely able to open your eyes. You twitch as he slowly slides his arm out from under you. It is completely drenched. You turn bright red at the sight of it, your eyes going wide.

“You are a good girl, aren’t you? Doing exactly as you're told,” he leans forward to kiss you on the forehead. “Now taste it.” You blink your eyes at him confused for a moment, still trying to bring yourself back to reality. He swipes two fingers along his arm and brings them to your lips, dipping them into your mouth. “Tastes good, doesn’t it, baby?” He lifts his arm up to lick a long, langued stripe, keeping his eyes on you. Your jaw drops watching the scene. He’s so fucking sexy your head is reeling. “Come on, y/n. Lick it up.” You slowly bend down, and lick all the way from his forearm up to his bicep, tasting the salty sweetness you left behind. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath, using his other hand to shift his painfully hard length aching to break free from those tight jeans. Kissing him deeply, you moan, tasting yourself on each others’ tongues.

“Come on baby, please let me take care of that for you?” you beg, glancing down at his crotch. “I need it. Please, Danny?” Your whine is pathetic and you know that makes him crazy.

He kisses you roughly, groaning into your mouth and gripping your hair before standing in front of you, your face eye level with his dick. His hands move to tenderly caress your shoulders as he gazes down at you, watching you practically pant in anticipation.

“Well, go ahead, pretty girl. Take what you begged for,” he smirks, licking his bottom lip. God, you love it when he towers over you like this.

Gripping the waistband of his already unbuttoned jeans, you haphazardly tug them down his legs. He kicks them off the rest of the way, helping you out. Wasting no time, you grip his length through his boxer briefs and lick from the base to the tip, dampening the fabric with your tongue. Tipping his head back slightly, he lets out a low groan, one hand resting on his stomach while the other lazily plays with your hair. He twitches when you suck on his tip, already able to taste the salty precum through the fabric.

“Come on baby, give me more or you’ll pay for it later,” he says, already breathless.

You pull back and start to kiss his hip bones and strong, slender thighs, licking a stripe up the inner part of his leg until you reach the hem of his underwear.

“Oh, so my girl wants to be tortured a little tonight, does she? Okay, then. Guess we will find out later if you are going to regret this.” His voice is soft and smooth, but the threat behind it makes you shiver at his words.

You continue your movements for a few more minutes, softly running your lips all over the skin around his underwear, but never getting near his throbbing length except for one little kitten lick over his tip.

“That’s enough, y/n,” he growls, gripping your hair roughly and yanking your head back, causing you to yelp. “Take. Them. Off. Now.” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes dark and animalistic.

Whimpering, you start to pull down his underwear, your hands shaking, not from fear but excitement. He’s about to get rough with you. As soon as they are off, he grips the base of his length and shoves it past your lips, hitting the back of your throat until you choke. He moans and purses his lips, nostrils flaring as he glares at you, pulling out and shoving himself into your mouth harder the second time. You cough around him and he pulls back out, giving you a moment.

“Relax your throat, baby. I’m not going to stop,” he warns. You know that’s not actually true. With two taps of your hand on the back of his calf he would stop immediately and take care of you, but the threat of it has you wet all over again. You drop your jaw and open your throat and he thrusts back into you a bit further. This time you don’t choke, so he starts a steady rhythm, holding the back of your head, but releasing his grip. You hollow out your cheeks and suck hard, sliding your tongue along the underside of his shaft before pulling off with a pop sound. You move to take one of his balls in your mouth before he can push his way back into you. He groans as his other hand slides further down his stomach, the trail of hair beneath his belly button peeking through in between his fingers. Moving back to his dick, you add your hand, moving it in tandem with your mouth, adding a twisting motion as you swirl your tongue around the tip. He moans and tips his head back, gripping your hair as drool starts to drip out of your mouth and gather under your hand, warm and wet. After a minute or so, he grasps your wrist and rips your hand away, shoving himself deep into the back of your throat with his hand gripping the back of your head again. You choke and gag around him, but keep moving with him as he fucks your face furiously, drool dripping down your chin, tears leaking from your eyes, and snot starting to run out of your nose. You’re a fucking mess, and he loves it. Peering down at you, his eyes flutter and his jaw drops, his breathing loud and uneven in between loud moans and whimpers.

“Yeah, that’s it baby. Take it. I love the way it sounds when you choke on me like that,” he groans. You try to moan around him, but it’s impossible with how deeply he is fucking into the back of your throat. “You’re such a fucking mess right now. Such a good girl for me…” He trails off into more moans and whimpers for a few seconds before you feel his hips start to twitch and his rhythm falter. Thank God, you feel like you are going to pass out if he doesn’t finish soon. “Yeah, baby. Right there, oh fuck yes, right there.” The pitch of his voice gets higher with each phrase until he moans loudly and repeats your name over and over, holding himself steady in the back of your throat, the warm liquid spurting out as you feel him twitch inside of you. He chokes out one last moan as you swallow around him, slurping up every last drop when he slowly pulls out of your mouth. He pulls you close to him, his hand tangled in your hair still with a looser grip, your cheek resting on his hip bone as you move your hand up to run your fingers through the soft hair on his stomach, his skin just barely damp underneath your fingertips.

“Oh, you did so good baby,” he praises as his breathing starts to stabilize.

After a moment, he grins down at you and then swiftly picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, slapping your ass as he carries you down the hallway to your shared bedroom. You giggle and reach down to squeeze one of his buttcheeks that you lovingly make fun of all the time. He has the tiniest little butt, especially compared to the Kiszka twins.

“Stop that,” he chuckles, slapping your ass again as he turns to enter your bedroom. You giggle when he throws you down on the bed. He hovers over you for a moment, swiping away the pieces of your hair that had dried and stuck to your face. He gazes at you for a moment. That heartbreaking look of love and adoration in his eyes courses through your veins and makes your breath hitch. After a minute or so, he sits up, straddling you as he takes both of your hands to move above your head. He attaches them to the velcro cuffs that have become a permanent addition to your headboard. You lift your head up and kiss his chest as he leans over, making sure the straps are secure.

Moving back down, he tenderly kisses your forehead. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” He walks into the bathroom and you can hear the cabinet door open and the faucet run. He has a damp washrag in his hand as he approaches the bed, laying next to you. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up a bit.” His voice is so tender and soothing, matching the way he runs the rag over your face and chest, wiping off the dried tears, saliva, and snot. If it were anyone else you would feel embarrassed and gross, especially as he gently wipes around your nose, but…it’s Danny. “There, that’s better,” he says, running his eyes over you to make sure he didn’t miss anything. “You okay? Comfortable and everything?” he asks, setting the washrag on the nightstand.

“Yes, baby.” Your heart is pounding as you smile up at him. Not from nervousness or excitement. No, this is from pure love.

He sidles next to you, tracing his finger along your cheek and jaw, leaning in to give you the sweetest, softest kiss you could ever imagine. Moving his finger down to trace along the center of your chest down to your belly button, he leans in and whispers in your ear, “Are you ready for more?”

“God, yes,” you breathe. You are so worked up from getting him off, and you are aching for more. Sweet Danny is tugging at your heartstrings, but you want dominant Danny back for just a little longer.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pressing on your pulse point and traps you in a kiss that steals all of the breath from your lungs. You moan into his mouth, already clenching and squeezing your legs together.

“Mmm my sweet girl is insatiable, isn’t she?” he chuckles against your lips. “So greedy,” he groans before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking away the sharp pain right afterward.

“You are the one who told me I was going to cum four times tonight, remember? ‘No more, no less’?” you goad.

Danny removes his hand from your throat and slides his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. “From now on, this mouth is only going to be used to let me know how good I’m making you feel or,” he moves his lips to your ear and whispers, “how badly I’m torturing you. Understand?” You whimper and nod your head, unable to respond as his thumb is still pressed down in your mouth. He slides it out pulling down your bottom lip as he bites your earlobe, enough for it to sting and make you yelp. He pulls away and grabs the tank top that’s still bunched around your waist. “Let’s get this off.” He wiggles it down past your hips and over your legs, throwing it on the floor, leaving you completely naked and bound. “You are so fucking beautiful tied up like this for me. Just my little plaything, aren’t you?” He spreads your legs and kneels between them, smirking as he watches you squirm. “Answer me,” he commands in a stern tone.

“Yes. Yes, Danny I’m your plaything. Please just do something? Please touch me?” you beg, clenching around nothing.

“Pathetic little thing already this worked up? And after cumming twice already. Oh, what am I going to do with you?” His smile is so wicked, you know torture is coming your way. He makes his way back up to your face, his nose and lips mere centimeters away. You lean up to close the gap, but he grips your throat tightly and presses you down into the mattress. He chuckles evilly and leans down to tease his lips against yours, swiping his tongue across them before making his way down to your chest, releasing your throat. Soft curls tickle your skin as he leans in to taste you, but he never does. He hovers his lips so close to your body that you almost think you can feel it, but it’s just your brain tricking you. He hovers over your collarbone, neck, breast-spending extra time around your nipple. He even labors his breathing so you can’t feel the sensation of his hot breath on the sensitive buds aching to feel any part of him. Even just a brush of his stomach or something would ease the ache for a moment, but you feel nothing. You want so badly to arch up into his mouth, but you know if you do it will be so much worse. He repeats the action on your other breast and you whimper and jerk on the cuffs, begging him without words. He chuckles again and sticks his tongue out to lick your nipple, but it’s so soft and so fast you wouldn’t even be sure it happened if you weren’t looking. It’s even more infuriating than not having his mouth on you at all.

“Please, Danny. Please,” you whine, pulsing and clenching around nothing again.

“Keep begging, angel. I can do this all night.” He flicks his eyes up at you and grins as he moves down, continuing his movements all over your belly and hips. You do your best not to squirm, but when he hovers over your core you can’t help but roll your hips into his mouth. He immediately sits up and slaps the inside of your thigh. Hard. So hard you know you’ll see a handprint there in the morning. You cry out and whimper, your lip quivering from the sting and the denial of his lips on you where you need them most.

“Oh, such a shame. You were so close to getting what you wanted, but you had to go and get impatient on me,” he mocks, standing up and walking out of the room. Where the fuck is he going? You know better than to ask, but you whine again and squeeze your legs together for just a tiny bit of relief.

What is he doing?! You wonder after a few minutes of laying there naked, tied up, and alone. Wait..is he…laughing? He’s fucking laughing!

Danny is in the living room, checking his phone and laughing at a video that Sam sent to him as he leisurely drinks a beer. After about five minutes or so he moseys into the kitchen, gets a cup from the cabinet and fills it with ice cubes before heading back down the hall. His phone is still in hand as he rounds the corner and steps into the bedroom, eyes locked on the screen as he chuckles at something he is reading-completely unbothered. You look at him with the most pathetic, pouty expression, silently begging him to take mercy on you, but he won’t even look up. He just keeps on reading whatever is on that fucking phone of his. You’re almost on the verge of tears when he finally sets his phone down on the dresser and walks up to the foot of the bed, setting the glass of ice down on the floor next to him.

“So, you think you’re ready to try again, y/n?” he asks, hands on his hips, looking down at you with that evil grin again.

“Yes,” you breathe, doing your best to stay completely still.

“Good girl.” He leans over to grab your hips and flips you over to your stomach. “Get on your knees.”

You wiggle your way up to your knees as quickly as you can, staying completely still once you’re in position, your face against the mattress and your hands gripping the rail of the headboard that the cuffs are attached to. Danny pads over to the bedside table and pulls out the black, silk blindfold he keeps in the top drawer. “Turn your head,” he commands. You turn away from him, facing the other side of the room as he gently wraps the fabric around your eyes and secures it behind your head with a double knot. He makes his way back down to the foot of the bed and you hear him grab the cup of ice, the cubes too loud for him to be very secretive about what he’s going to do-hence, the blindfold. You shiver and tense, trying to prepare yourself for the icy chill that could start at any part of your body, but it’s not happening. It’s hard to gauge time in this predicament, but you know it’s been at least a couple of minutes. He’s really testing you tonight. Finally, you feel the ice press against the back of your thigh and you hiss and flinch from the sensation. He holds it in place long enough for it to melt a bit, causing a droplet of water to run down your leg and land at the back of your knee. Your head is reeling from how intense this feels. It’s overwhelming to the point that you don’t even know what your body is craving anymore. Suddenly, you feel the ice land in between your shoulder blades, another drop of water trailing toward your neck, quickly getting absorbed by the mess of hair around your shoulders. He moves to the side of your breast, another drop of water rolling down and dripping off of your nipple down onto the bed. You whimper again, unsure if you love or hate the sensation. He chuckles, then places a cube at the small of your back, dragging it down achingly slow in between your cheeks all the way until he reaches your clit. You cry out once he lands there, holding it in place. Your brain is scrambled, but you think this hurts. As soon as you register that it does, in fact, hurt, he pulls the ice away and replaces it with his mouth, wrapping his lips around your swollen clit and soothing it with his warm tongue. You choke out a sob, realizing just how badly your body was craving him. You had forgotten while you were so on edge, waiting for his next torturous move. He pulls back and you whine as you hear him pick up another ice cube. He doesn’t place it anywhere on your body, though. No, you feel it when his mouth envelopes your clit again. You scream and pull away, but he grips your hips hard, holding you onto him. The mixture of hot and cold against your most sensitive part is too much for you to handle, and you feel like you may pass out. Right when you think you can’t take it any longer, he drags the ice with his tongue back and up along your crack again, the opposite direction this time. Your legs are shaking and your arms are sore. Your entire body is screaming, begging for some relief. The silky smooth fabric against your eyes starts to dampen with your tears as Danny pulls away, soft sobs escaping from your lips.

“Shhhh it’s okay baby,” he whispers, placing his large, warm hands around your hips, moving them up along your back and shoulders. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he assures again as he gently unties the blindfold and turns you back over. Your eyes try to adjust to the light for a moment before he captures your mouth in the most perfect, relieving kiss. His tongue is still cold from the ice, but it feels so good tangling with yours. “I love you, angel,” he whispers, pulling back to move down to your neck and chest, lovingly licking and kissing all over your skin that was actually physically aching for him. You sigh and whimper, more tears escaping your eyes, but this time from relief. Danny makes sure to take his time lovingly devouring your breasts. Sucking, licking, softly biting your nipples just how you like it. You try to take in the scene as long as you can, but it just feels too good. Your head falls back and your eyes close as he moves down, kissing along your belly and hips.

“Oh, thank you baby,” you say with a sigh, so happy to finally be feeling his mouth all over you. You don’t think it’s ever felt this good before.

“Don’t thank me yet, angel,” he chuckles as he moves down to kiss and lick along your inner thighs. “I’m not finished with you.”

You whimper and your eyes flutter at the sound of his voice. So soft and velvety, not too deep, but with a deep timbre. The only sound more beautiful than his voice are the sounds he makes when he’s deep inside of you, your voices harmonizing together in a melody sweeter than any song he plays with Greta Van Fleet. You get to hear this private concert almost nightly (and sometimes daily), and you couldn’t feel luckier.

Danny continues kissing, licking, sucking, biting all over your thighs and hips, torturing you like you did to him earlier, not putting his mouth where you need it the most. Your whines and whimpers release from you louder and more frequent the longer he keeps this up. Your arms are aching so badly from being tied up for so long and you feel like you are on the verge of tears again.

“Baby, please. It hurts. Please just show me a little mercy?” you beg. And as much as Danny loves being in this zone, knowing how hard it makes you cum, he just can’t resist giving you what you want right now. He dives his tongue inside of you, groaning as he tastes how sweet you are, dragging your wetness up and over your clit, alternating between flicking his tongue and sucking on it so sweetly. “Oh, fuck! Shit, you do that so well, Danny. God, I need you. I need this forever. I need you forever.” He moans in appreciation, never faltering with his movements. Being the cheesy, sappy man he is, you know this urges him on more than anything else. He slides his two middle fingers inside of you, curling them, hitting that sweet spot just right as you tremble around him and cry out his name. “Yes, just like that, Danny. Just like that. Please don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!” you beg, pathetically. His tongue on you and his fingers inside of you create the most delicious unholy sounds that send you over the edge. Your entire body goes rigid for a moment before your legs twitch and squeeze around his head. His fingers fuck into you hard and fast until you start to come down, softly whimpering and whispering his name. He smiles proudly as he crawls back up on top of you, his face almost dripping with your juices as he leans in to kiss you.

“Taste how sweet you are, baby. I could just eat you all day and all night,” he whispers before kissing you again.

He reaches up to release your wrists from the cuffs and you whimper with relief, immediately wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close to you, savoring the feel of his skin on your hands and against your body. You feel how hard he is again, surprisingly. He usually doesn’t cum more than once a night. Now you’re so eager to get him off, you reach down lining him up with your entrance, but he pulls your arm away, trapping it by your side.

“Don’t let my sweetness confuse you darling. I’m still in control here.” He licks your lips and moves back down between your legs. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he dives back in and starts aggressively eating you out, even giving the softest bite, causing you to grip his hair with both hands and pull him away. He grabs your wrists and pins them to your sides, relentlessly continuing to devour you. It hurts so badly, but feels so fucking good at the same time. You can feel your orgasm building again, but then remember you only have one left. If you cum now, you can’t fuck him, and that’s what you’re aching for the most.

“Danny, please stop. Please, I want to feel you inside of me. I don’t want to cum yet. Please, baby, please?” Your breathing is uneven as you whine, sweat forming on your brow as your eyes squeeze shut, focusing hard on fighting off your orgasm.

He chuckles evilly and continues his pace, adding in his fingers again, stroking you perfectly. You start to sob and shove your one free hand into his hair, trying to pull him off of you, but he’s strong, and you aren’t able to.

“Fuck, Danny please! Please, I’m begging you! RED!” you scream at him. Your safe word. He instantly stops and crawls over you, kissing away your tears and cradling your head.

“You okay, angel?” he asks, his expression so full of concern as he shifts his eyes back and forth quickly, searching yours.

You sob harder, pulling him close to you. “I just need to feel you. All of you. Can you be sweet now? I just want to make love to my boyfriend, okay?”

“Fuck, yes baby. That sounds perfect. I want that more than anything.” He kisses you more tenderly than you’ve ever felt before and rolls over, pulling you on top of him.

You lean down and kiss softly all over his face. Each freckle on his cheeks, nose, and eyes, his forehead, his jaw and chin, his soft, swollen, plush lips, still coated with your wetness. “I love you so much, Daniel,” you whisper, resting your forehead on his, wiggling your nose on his as you both smile.

“Oh, angel you have no idea,” he whispers back, cradling your face with his hand and kissing your forehead, tears welling in his eyes. Sam is definitely right. You two are the cheesiest couple of all time.

You sit up and raise yourself higher on your knees so he can line himself up with you, allowing you to sink down slowly onto him. You steady yourself with your hands on his toned stomach, your head tipping back and jaw dropping with your brow furrowed and eyes shut. It’s the most beautiful sight Danny could ever imagine. His brow is raised in the middle, hands on your hips and jaw dropped, as well, moaning once you sink down onto him fully. You move on top of him slowly, wanting to make this last. Wanting to feel him inside of you as long as possible. He reaches down to rub circles on your clit, but you pull his hand away and move it up to your breast.

“Please, not yet baby. I’m already close and I need you inside of me longer than that.”

“Of course, angel,” he says, sitting up as you wrap your legs around him. He holds you against him, chest to chest as your arms roam all over his back and shoulders, thrusting up into you slowly. Your breathing is slower, but still labored, matching his as you gaze into each other's eyes. You have to look away to make this last, so you lean down and kiss every little freckle dusted on his shoulders. He sighs, leaning down to kiss yours as well, his hands caressing all over your back and hips. You feel his rhythm start to falter as his breathing intensifies, soft whimpers escaping from his lips. He’s getting close. “Baby, I’m trying here, but I’m so close,” he whispers in your ear.

“It’s okay, Daniel. I am too.” You increase your pace, rolling your hips onto him as he slides his hand down to gently press on your clit, pulsing it softly. Looking down, you see the large vein in the center of his wrist shift with each movement of his hand, the dainty silver jewelry swaying around it. The sight sends you over the edge as you grip the back of his neck, your foreheads and noses pressed together. Through shared breaths you both moan and whimper, whispering each other’s names into each other’s mouths between soft, deep kisses, riding out your orgasms together. Once you reach your peak, you let out one more loud, high-pitched whimper, sweat dripping down your brow and chest as you continue to look into his eyes, your eyelids fluttering and brow arched up in the middle. His face matches yours as you feel his hips twitch, spilling inside of you. Holding each other tightly, and as closely as possible, your chests damp from sweat, you both steady your breathing and come down together.

“You know, as much fun as we had tonight,” Danny breaks the silence, “I think what we just did was the best time we’ve ever had.”

You kiss his nose and forehead, eyes welling up with tears from the painfully intense love you have for him. “I completely agree, Daniel. Thank you.”

“For what, sweetheart?”

“Just for being you.”

@dazeebean @spark-my-nature @geekgirlinthegreen

#danny gvf #danny wagner #greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van fleet fic #daniel wagner #danny wagner fic #danny wagner gvf #daniel wagner gvf

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mellowsadistic · 2 years

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Debbie tilted her head back and guzzled greedily from her baba. Daddy always came into her room to leave a warm bottle of milkies by her bedside, so she’d always have something yummy to drink first thing after her nap. She liked her bottles. They were sweet and nummy. Not like her icky baby food.

Debbie shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her wet diaper crinkling beneath her bottom. Her bum-bum still hurt a little from the spanking she’d gotten two days before, when she’d pouted in her highchair at dinner and asked why she couldn’t have steak and wine like Daddy was having. Why did she have to eat yucky mush instead?

But she’d learned her lesson after that. Daddy had made things clear when he’d been turned her naughty bottom bright red. Grown-ups got to eat steak and drink wine. Dumb babies like her got to eat baby food and drink formula, and that was just the way it was. Daddy didn’t like when Debbie pretended to be a grown-up. He said it was important for her to remember her place.

There was a hiss of air as Debbie finished her bottle, and she dropped it to the bed, smiling. She always felt better after her baba. She got to her feet, her bare boobies sloshing about on her chest, and her legs spread wide apart by the bulk of her nappy.

She looked at her body, and at the thick, white padding between her thighs, frowning slightly. She had big boobies. Little girls didn’t have boobies, she knew. But big girls did. She’d seen them. When they’d been out in town a few days ago, she’d pointed to a woman passing them and said “Dat lady’s got big boobies wike me!” and Daddy had found it very funny. She liked making Daddy laugh, and she was very good at it.

But even if she did have boobies, big girls definitely didn’t wear nappies. They wore boring big girl clothes instead, not like the pretty dresses and tutus Daddy dressed her in. Big girls could use the potty, but dumb babies like her just went pee-pee and poo-poo in their pants.

Debbie pressed her legs together and felt her nappy squelch between her legs. She wrinkled her nose. Yucky! She’d done quite a lot of wee-wees during her nap, just like she always did. She didn’t know how grown-ups used the toilet. It didn’t make any sense to her. When she needed to pee, she peed. And when she needed to poo, she did a poo. It was a good thing she had her nappy on to stop her making a mess. And it was a good thing she had her Daddy to change her when she was stinky, because she wouldn’t know the first thing about how to do it!

But still, Debbie had a strange feeling she hadn’t always worn diapers. She was sure, if she tried really hard, she could remember a time when she hadn’t even been Debbie at all – she’d been Deborah, and she’d been Daddy’s wife, a grown-up who wore big girl clothes and ate big girl food and sat on the grown-up’s potty. But that was silly! She was too stupid and immature to be a grown-up. Daddy said so.

Then she realised someone was standing in the doorway to her bedroom. Daddy!

“What are you trying to do thinkies about, sweetie?” he chuckled, for her face had been scrunched up with the effort of trying to use her head. “Or are you just making poo-poos?”

She grinned at him vapidly, not really sure how to answer his questions. He strode over, and pulled out the back of her nappy’s waistband to look inside. “No messes yet,” he said, “but I think I know a certain little girl who’d done a lot of wet-wets. Daddy’s little princess smells like wee-wee!”

Debbie giggled. She was a little stinker.

Daddy pulled her into a cuddle, and Debbie sighed happily as his strong arms wrapped around her body. He squeezed her topless body tightly against him, and after a minute or two he pulled away to plant a kiss on her forehead and run his fingers through one of her long, dirty-blonde pigtails. Debbie felt a lovely tingling in her boobie when Daddy’s fingers brushed against it. It felt good when Daddy played with her big boobies. She was sure they used to do that a lot. Daddy had called them her udders once, she remembered. Like a cow. Debbie giggled again. She was sure that had made her angry once, but she couldn’t think why.

“There’s a happy girl,” Daddy cooed, and Debbie squealed happily at his syrupy tone.

“Cows go moo!” she told him, and she could tell from his expression that he was impressed.

“What a clever girl!” he said, and she felt a rush of pleasure through her body.

“Mooo!” she cried, desperate for more praise. She jostled her big boobies. “I gots udders, Daddy! I’m a cow!”

Daddy laughed, and Debbie giggled along delightedly, shaking her silly boobies vigorously for her Daddy’s amusement.

“Yes you are, darling,” he said, his eyes glittering. “But Daddy’s put you in your place now. No more nasty attitude. You’re just a big, dumb baby now, and Daddy likes you much better this way.”

Debbie just grinned. She didn’t really get what Daddy was saying, but that was okay. Stupid babies like her didn’t need to think. All she knew was she loved her Daddy, and her Daddy loved her.

Shoving her thumb between her lips, she fell into a squat and got to work making her afternoon poo-poos, knowing she was right where she belonged.

#mellowsadistic

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hanuh · 10 months

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Do you love movies? Do you love Gojo Satoru? Have you ever watched a movie and wanted to live in the shoes of the actors on screen? Well, look no further. To celebrate the end of my longer than anticipated hiatus I've come up with a little event. I'll be taking inspo from beloved rom-coms and turning all of you readers and Satoru into the leading couple.

I introduce to you, The Wanna Watch A Movie? Collection.

I have a few movies picked and already written/planned, but I will be taking some requests (it's not guaranteed all requests will get picked). If you'd like to be tagged in all future posts from this collection please say so in the replies.

TAGLIST STATUS: OPEN REQUEST STATUS: OPEN

Well, now is the time for you to all sit back, relax, and grab some popcorn. Enjoy the trailers, the featured presentations are about to start.

Man of Honour [Release date: 12/27] inspo: Made of Honour (2008)

If you went back in time and told your younger college self that the notorious playboy, Gojo Satoru, who snuck into your dorm at 4 AM searching for your roommate would somehow become your ride or die best friend for the next ten years; you'd think that you're insane. Not to mention that the very same Satoru would be the one you choose to be your 'Man of Honour'. Yeah, you'd put yourself in a straight jacket for that one. If you told Satoru that the freshman girl who totally freaked on him for coming into her dorm would end up being the only woman in his life he's ever loved, he'd think you're lying and walk away. You'd have no time to tell him that it took you getting a pretty diamond on your ring finger for everything to finally click into place.

Fake It Till You Make It [Release date: 01/09] inspo: The Proposal (2009)

Gojo Satoru, your boss, expects the world out of you. The requests (demands) range anywhere from "Pick up my grandmother from the airport." to "Pick out the brown M&Ms from this bulk bag." You thought being an assistant to one of the most reputable music label executives would give you an in into the industry. The only thing this job has given you is a stomach ulcer and a "marriage proposal" from your very own boss for the demon to get a green card. With a metaphorical gun to your head, you agree. Maybe this will finally get your foot in the door, or maybe it will give your ulcer a little friend.

Quarter Life Crisis [Release date: 01/21] inspo: What's Your Number (2011)

"Experts say that 91% of women who have slept with 15 or more people are unlikely to find a husband" That was the clickbait title that sent you into an existential pit, well, that and a bottle of wine. Now you find yourself back peddling through your entire dating history with the insane notion that if you can make it work with one of your exes then you won't reach that percentage. That'll guarantee you a fruitful marriage, yeah? Cue Satoru.

MANY MORE TO BE ANNOUNCED WILL UPDATE LIST FREQUENTLY

#gojo satoru x reader #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #jjk #satoru #satoru x reader #wanna watch a movie?

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darklydeliciousdesires · 8 months

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For the Love of Dogs - An Alfie & Beth Solomons One Shot Story.

I think writing that long overdue check in with these two made me realise how bloody much I'd missed them, besties. Here, another installment in their story. I do hope I will have more ideas for further stories to follow :)

Words - 7,890

Warnings - Mention of death, but lots of fluff!

She entered the house on complete, brain disengaged autopilot, her outstretched finger finding the keypad to the alarm system, punching the code in and then simply standing in the welcome hall, a home much, much too quiet for her liking. The heaviness of it squeezed her heart, sniffing hard, rubbing her thumb over the soft leather of his collar. A collar now redundant.

Her beloved Cyril. Their beloved Cyril.

“Come ‘ere, darlin’.” Beth wouldn’t have been able to get through it, the last goodbye with their faithful family dog, without her husband at her side. Sinking into the comforting bulk of Alfie’s embrace, she wept against his chest, hearing him sniffing back further tears of his own. He hadn’t been afraid to cry as they’d both sat out on the grass behind the veterinary surgery, Cyril wrapped in soft blankets in a dog bed provided by the staff, the birds tweeting as they’d told him how he was loved, how much of a good boy he was.

The gargantuan mastiff had taken his last breaths feeling warm, calm and safe, his mum and dad right there with him. Thirteen years had come to a peaceful end as loving hands stroked his soft fur, leaving a hole behind in the lives of his family that far eclipsed his own huge size.

“If it’s anything to you, thirteen is simply unheard of for a Bullmastiff to reach. You both cared for him exceptionally well, truly.” the kind vet had offered sympathetically. She’d also been the one to suggest they put him to sleep outside, a practice that they’d had to develop over the Covid-19 lockdown, and one she now offered as a much nicer alternative to pets being euthanised upon a table, in a room so many of them felt anxiety towards.

The children were with their auntie Magda, their parents feeling it best they didn’t attend. It was heartbreaking enough for them as two adults; it would have been much too upsetting for the little ones to witness. Abe and Flora had said their goodbyes to him earlier that morning, sitting with him in their pyjamas, Beth calling the school and explaining they would not be attending on account of the event that afternoon, explaining she felt they would be too upset and distracted to concentrate in class. Luckily, the secretary had been understanding.

Instead, Magda had booked a day off work and taken them out to keep their minds off it, Thorpe Park being her chosen destination for them to visit. “Ain’t no bother at all, sweet. I could do having a day with me kids, unwind a bit. Poor little mites. Don’t you worry at all, and I don’t want no money, either. I’m treating them, whatever they want, they get.” Beth had been eternally grateful to her children’s godmother for her kind assistance.

Venturing into the house, Alfie pulled her wine bottle from the rack when they reached the kitchen, pouring out two glasses. He seldom drank, but felt like he needed something in that moment. His heart was truly broken, to be without the loving dog he’d had in his life for so long. Watching girlfriends come and go, his business empire going from strength to strength, meeting the woman who would eventually become his wife, adding children to their family, it had all been with Cyril by his side.

His loss was profound, sitting down at the island, passing a glass to Beth. “To the best bloody dog who ever was, baby beast.” They chinked glasses, smiling sadly as they remembered Cyril fondly. Their first child, as they always called him. Beth still hadn’t released her grip upon his collar, and for the rest of the afternoon she held onto it, thumb still stroking the leather.

“Would it be wrong of me if I decided to blow off my article and get pissed out of my face?”

Alfie’s smile tilted his lips, reaching to stroke her face. “Nah, treacle. Did Mags say she was taking the nippers for dinner an’ all while they’re out?”

“Yeah, she just texted me, actually. They’re currently at TGI Friday’s awaiting a plethora of their favourite foods.” She smiled at the thought, knowing how Magda loved it there just as much as the kids. “I don’t feel much like cooking for you and I, though.”

“Ain’t no bother to me, darlin’. I was gonna suggest we order from that new Italian place we like. I ain’t much in the mood for eating, but a bit later I could probably see off a piece of that lasagne they do. Tell you what, why don’t you go for a nice, long soak in the bath. I’ve got a few calls I need to make anyway.”

She took him up on his suggestion, kissing him before sliding from her seat, placing a kiss upon the collar still in her hand, too, before putting it up on one of the shelves behind the breakfast nook. She’d get to putting away all of Cyril’s other belongings at some point, but couldn’t face it right then. His bed they’d had to throw away that morning, the dog having an unfortunate bladder accident upon it. It had sealed to them that they were doing the right thing in putting him to sleep.

His toys remained, Beth looking at them mournfully where they sat in the basket for that storage purpose, deciding to move them to a place the kids wouldn’t see upon their return. Picking up his plush frog, she couldn’t resist sniffing it, smelling his lovely fur upon it, her eyes filling with tears all over again. They had decided to have him cremated, the vet advising that his ashes should be back within the next ten days. She knew she’d be in floods all over again then, too.

Trudging up the stairs, she felt weary with grief, knowing that she had to brighten by the time the children got back, for their sakes. She was expecting them to be upset, returning to a house without Cyril in it, although Magda had stated during various text check ins throughout the day that they seemed to be taking it well. Thorpe Park had proven to be a good distraction, it seemed.

While the bath ran, she tidied up her little office area, smiling as always when her eye was caught by the framed article from The Times, her very first being published within the newspaper. It had been a gift from Alfie upon her moving in with him. She could scarcely believe it had been ten years since her move into St Mark’s House. It sometimes still felt like ten weeks ago.

The smell of her Jo Malone bath oil caught her nose as she shuffled the last stack of papers, the notes of English pear and freesia crisp in their aroma, Beth stripping off her white shirt and jeans, placing them into the laundry hamper. “Need to get a load of laundry done.” she noted to herself, seeing the basket just over half full. It could wait.

The hot water provided a nice, comforting surround of relaxation, her eyes flitting over to the wall by the stained-glass windows, once again viewing her paint swatch choices. She tired of white, wanting something a little different for the space. So far, the smoky blue was a definite front runner, but she also did favour the deep, mustard yellow, almost a dark gold in hue. Hmm. She’d live with the dashes of paint a little longer before deciding. The pink which Flora has suggested was a definite no.

Once done, she got out, dressing in her favourite, comfortable loungewear set, heading back downstairs. The doorbell sounded just as she was about to head to the kitchen, her path swerved back out towards the front door.

“She fell asleep about half an hour away,” Magda whispered, passing a sleeping Flora into her mother’s arms, kissing her cheek. She turned, giving her to a suddenly present Alfie, her husband stating that he would see to putting them straight to bed since Abe also looked shattered. “Got bellies full of pizza and chicken wings, they have. Had a right ole’ feast, we did. I swear, I reckon I’ve put on a bleedin’ stone and I only had the Jack Daniel’s chicken!” She then paused, reaching for Beth’s face, her thumb skimming the apple. “Bloody horrid, ain’t it? Coming back to a house without ‘em in it.”

Of course, Magda understood the pain only too well, losing her beloved Claus only five months before to cancer. Luckily for her and Dennis, at least they still had Marley and Karma. She nipped that little slither of envy immediately, though. “It is, mate. It really is.”

“Well, I know it ain’t much, but I got you a little something.” Reaching into her gorgeous Fendi tote, Magda pulled out a bottle of her favourite Casamigos tequila, handing it over with a smile.

“Awww babe, love you,” Beth cooed, giving her a kiss.

“Love you too, sweet. Open it up, get nice an’ sloshed, and thank me later. Right, I better get moving, gotta go feed his highness and walk the pups.”

“Thanks again for taking them today, Mags. You made a hard situation just that little bit easier,” she spoke fondly, Magda waving her hand.

“I had a right good time with them, babe. Always do.” Beth waved to her from the door as she drove away, thinking herself so very lucky. A little while later, the doorbell trilled again, Alfie answering it that time. The cause was in his arms as he entered the lounge, handing her a gigantic bouquet of beautiful flowers.

“Whoever sent these fuckin’ mugged off half the Chelsea flower show, bloody ‘ell!” he exclaimed as his wife took the blooms, pulling the card from the top.

“Sending all our love to you, Alfie and the babies. We loved darling Cyril so much, too. Lots of love from Mimi and Kinga xxx”

Her heart was beyond touched at the generosity of her girls, getting together like that for her to gift something so lovely in her grief. They understood, though, how dogs truly were family. Those surprises didn’t stop coming in the wake of Cyril’s passing either, Beth’s breakfast with her dear Oliver a few days later yielding another beautiful surprise.

“I hope you don’t get upset, darling, but Brett and I wanted to do something nice in his memory, so this is for you.” He passed the brown paper Habitat bag across the table, Beth pulling out a well wrapped, rectangular shaped gift from within. Tearing open the chic wrapping paper, her throat pinched with emotion, seeing a beautiful black and white photograph of Cyril that Oliver’s husband had taken of him the previous summer, lying outside on the patio, looking so regal in the fading evening light. “Brett says he was the most photogenic dog he’s ever met, and I quite believe that to be true.”

She couldn’t speak for a few moments, sniffing hard, flapping her hand as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you, sweetheart. I love you both so much,” she eventually managed, placing the framed picture down and exiting her seat to give him a huge hug.

“And we love you too, baby. He was a splendid chap, old Cyril. Remember how scared of him I used to be, back when I first visited you at home? And then by the end of that night, he was sitting next to me on the sofa, resting his massive head on my shoulder?” His fond words sparked the memory, Cyril indeed taking to Oliver very much.

She nodded, taking her seat again. “I do, yes. Gosh, it was so long ago. I remember when he first met Brett too...”

“And humped the hell out of his leg!” Oliver finished, clapping his hands together with mirth. What he shouted, too! “Oh, my Jesus, he’s going to give me ligament damage! Queen down! Queen down!” Her emotional wobble was forgotten as she burst into hysterics, remembering Brett literally knocked to the floor while she’d wheezed, Oliver in tears, Alfie having to detach a rampant Cyril from the object of his affections. To Brett he had been known primarily as big gay dog ever since.

They shared a few memories of him before their conversation moved on, both discussing work, Beth enthralled by his tales from New York Fashion Week, from where he had not long returned. He’d also brought with him another gift he alerted her to in the bag, some of her favourite American sweeties, two big bags of Milk Duds present when she looked again. How well he knew her.

After breakfast, she had work commitments to attend, calling in at London Life and Style to discuss an article she’d submitted, her little sheen dented by the fact that the viper, also known as Madeline Arlington-Smith, had dissected it thoroughly.

“I feel that if we leave this part out, this part too, it shall be more in accordance with the overall opinion and not merely a fanciful display of the world according to Beth Solomons.”

She remembered back to being much more novice in her journalistic endeavours, seated in that very chair ten years before, taking the heat for an article Madeline had thoroughly given the bloodletting treatment to. It has preceded her first meet with her now husband, seeking refuge and Cabernet Sauvignon in a bar that belonged to him. “Then why on earth ask me to write the article, Madeline, if not from my own perspective?”

“Because you are commenting on the zeitgeist from the perspective of your peers, not simply you, you, you. How does the subject make women of your age feel, what emotions does it drive, how does it affect you all on a whole? I would like a little more of that. We go to print in two weeks. Please have your corrections submitted within the next seven days.”

The viper was not aware of it, but she narrowly avoided an outburst, Beth physically biting her tongue as she rose from her seat. “I will make sure of that.” Striding from the office, she felt her chest thickening, nodding and smiling at a few of the staffers as she passed them by on the way to the elevator. She knew it was because she was still raw over Cyril, she knew that, not being able to take her critique on the chin with her usual good nature. When she arrived home, though, she succumbed slightly.

“That bloody bitch effing bloody woman!”

Alfie raised his eyebrows, looking at her as he clicked a pen against his teeth. “Madeline’s well then, yeah?”

“She’s right on bloody form, she is! Oy!”

He chuckled at his wife’s continued exasperation, making a motion for her to take a seat on his lap. Welcoming her into his arms, he kissed her head, rubbing her back where she was tense. “How about I take you out for lunch, ay? Somewhere fancy, then we’ll go pick up the babies from school? I know you’re still heartbroken over Cyril, and as such you ain’t takin’ whatever the fuck the cobra woman told you...”

“Viper,” she interjected with.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever the fuck they call her, she’s still a bloody snake, innit? So yeah, you ain’t taking it as good as you normally do, right, so let me take you out and get your mind off it.”

Her face crept into a grin. “Can we go to Jean-Georges?"

He could have guessed that’s where she’d request. “You bloody want caviar, don’t ya?” Her rapid nodding confirmed. It was only in the last few years that she’d really relaxed her moderately Kosher diet to such a degree, telling Alfie it was his influence, turning her into an equally bad Jew as he labelled himself. “Good job I’m worth a mint, innit? Fuckin’ wives and their disposition for pricey fish eggs, I dunno. Let me call Stace and see if she’s got a table.”

Stace, or rather Stacy, was the Maitre'd at Jean-Georges at the Connaught, the hostess always taking good care of them when they visited, as she did with all of her exuberantly wealthy clients. “Stace! How are ya, flower? Yeah, ain’t bad, sweet, ain’t bad. Yeah, you gotta table for about an hour from now? You do? Lovely, treacle, yeah put me down, just me and the missus. Alright, love. See you in a bit.” He then turned to his beaming wife. “You’ve got twenty minutes to go and faff. Hurry up.”

She placed a big smacker on his lips, rushing upstairs to quickly check her face, refresh her deodorant and perfume, and change into something more suitable for a restaurant with three Michelin stars. One pair of leather leggings were pulled on, along with her beautiful, grey cashmere sweater, her red Birkin bag selected, and contents transferred from her other bag, her feet jammed into her black Louboutins, and she was good to go.

“Oh blimey, my hair!” Circling back, she quickly picked up her brush and gave it a once over, hearing her husband boom from the stairs.

“Five minutes, Bethany!” He entered the bedroom, pulling off his sweatshirt, giving her an approving once over. “Love them lovely legs wrapped in leather.” A smack placed to her bum echoed through the bedroom, Alfie chuckling with mirth as he shed the rest of his clothes, heading to the ensuite and getting into the shower.

“You said five minutes!” she yelled, giving his nudity an appreciative once over while leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

“I’ll be out in twenty seconds, darlin’.” She had to envy him sometimes, how he could go from casual to restaurant ready in a matter of minutes. Styling his hair took him all of a minute, whereas for her, she’d battled through her thick mane with the straighteners for half an hour that morning. He dressed in a grey suit with a black shirt, not bothering with a tie, handsome, yet sophisticated and casual. A spray of aftershave had him ready with forty-nine seconds to spare. Yes, Beth had counted.

One drive across London later, and they were being seated at one of their favourite restaurant by Stacy herself, who was as attentive and polite as ever. He ordered his usual sparkling water, Beth a large vodka over ice, since it went best with what she was soon to be enjoying. The way he worded it too, when her caviar arrived, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Enjoying that, darlin’, having a load of sturgeon reproductive goo in your gob?”

She almost sprayed half of them back out again. “Stop it! And yes, I am.”

He chuckled, winking. “Anything I can do to put a smile back on your face, petal.” He paused, sipping his drink and taking another bite of his souffle. “Kids are taking it better than I expected ‘em to, ain’t they?”

“They really are, yes,” she confirmed, smoothing more of the beluga onto a toast point. “Better than me, I think. I burst into tears as soon as I opened Oliver’s gift earlier.” She’d shown it to him before they’d left, Alfie placing it upon the hallway table, next to one of their wedding pictures. He’d loved it, assuring her he’d call Oliver and Brett personally to offer his thanks later that evening when they’d both be at home.

“Kids are so much more resilient than we give ‘em credit for, I think. Flora had a little wobble this morning on the way to school, but she was fine by the time we got to the gates. Told her about rainbow bridge, she seemed to like that.”

The rainbow bridge story. Her heart fluttered at his tenderness with their youngest. Leaning over, she gave him a kiss, Alfie accepting it, albeit with a slightly affronted look.

“Ugh, get away with your fish eggs! Bleedin’ stink horrid, they do!” No, he was definitely not a fan of the delicacy. Still, it didn’t stop him from buying them for his wife whenever she wanted them, though. They followed their starters with a steak for him, Beth choosing the grilled lamb, much too full for dessert. He did, however, stop by at her favourite chocolatier on the way back to Chelsea, spoiling her a little more, purchasing a few treats for the kids, too.

Once home, Beth sat with the children in the lounge, going over their homework tasks with them while Alfie returned to his office. While there, he found himself periodically checking his watch, the habit pure muscle memory. At 5pm every night, he’d leave his desk to walk Cyril. Sighing, he ran a hand down his face, absently stroking his beard as he leaned back and thought of his furry best friend.

God, he missed him.

They’d known for a while that his declining health meant only one thing, both making the decision not to keep pumping him full of painkillers for his arthritic hips, and eventual failing organs. It wouldn’t have been fair, they’d decreed, to keep him going just for the sake of their hearts. He’d outlived his life expectancy by three years, it was his time.

Rather than continuing viewing his acquisition profits for the last month, he found himself looking through various dog rescue sites, smiling at the sweet, hopeful faces of the residents. He decided right there and then that when the family were ready, they’d rescue as opposed to buying a puppy. Maybe they could take in more than one? He’d only been looking for a few moments when he felt uncomfortable, knowing it truly was too soon to even consider any dog other than Cyril being in the house, no matter how cute they all were.

Weeks passed, the family getting used to the lack of his presence within the house, life carrying on. For Alfie, with the kids being on their half term break from school, he threw himself into being a present dad, knowing his empire wasn’t going anywhere and would certainly not crumble for him taking time away from it, enjoying days out with them in abundance.

It was while he was out with his offspring one morning that Beth decided to take up an offer extended to her and try something new. Mimi had been raving about her love for Thai boxing for a good few months, attending both mid-morning and evening classes at her local gym, finally talking Beth into attending one with her.

“You know Abe thinks you’re a ninja now, don’t you?” she spoke as they ran through warmup stretches, Mimi chuckling softly.

“Well, if you enjoy it and keep it up, he’ll be able to say you are, too!”

“Oh no,” she scoffed, reaching to her toes. “I’m still smelly fart head. And Nagatha Christie, thanks to him overhearing Alfie calling me that.”

Mimi all but exploded laughing. “Oh my god, he doesn’t change!” She remembered back to when she’d been dating him, him calling her exactly the same whenever she incisively bent his ear over something. “So, where did you say they’ve gone today?”

Taking to the floor, they sat opposite each other, legs wide and feet pressed together, taking turns to pull back on one another’s hands to experience the deep stretch. “Chessington World of Adventure. They’ve never been before, you should have seen them this morning. God, Mims. The squealing!”

“Awww,” she cooed, leaning back as she softly gripped Beth’s hands. “I can’t wait for Lis to be big enough to appreciate all of this and go there, too. I was actually talking about it to Josh a while back, but I can never remember it’s called Chessington, so I was calling it Chesterton Theme Park and he was like, “erm, what, babes? Where’s that?” until I realised that I was flubbing the name. Typical me.”

It truly was. Mimi would not be Mimi if she wasn’t getting her words confused. Beth still wasn’t over her recent blunder of calling chicken pasta Alfredo, “the Alfred pasta.” Her and Kinga had fallen apart completely while a totally nonplussed Mims had continued browsing the menu. She was a pure joy if nothing else.

As Beth very rapidly discovered once the gloves had been put on and focus mitts brought out, Mimi was also one hell of a mean shot with her fists. Then the kicks happened.

“Jesus bloody Christ!”

“Oh, don’t be daft, mate. I’m not that strong!” Mimi exclaimed, a well-placed kick sending Beth a couple of feet backwards.

She gathered herself, holding the kick pad firmly once more. “I beg to differ!”

By the time they were done and meeting up with Magda for a little shopping and lunch, the latter having enjoyed a blissful morning of nothing due to her booking some time off work, Beth could barely move.

“Alright, tin man.”

Magda’s words earned her a scowl, Beth kissing her cheek. “It isn’t funny, she beat me up!” Turning, they both witnessed a triumphant Mimi flexing her muscles, cracking up at herself and moving to greet Magda.

“Tiny, little blonde Bruce Lee, is it?”

“Not quite,” Mimi muffled from the crush of Magda's usual, warm, bone crunching hug. “But you should come!”

She should have expected the face she got in reply to that. “My love, the only exercise I get is running me gob. You know that. Right! Let’s go be fancy bitches then, shall we, ladies?” The women were heading to Mecca, otherwise known as Covent Garden, their favourite place to shop. Magda’s contact at Chanel and subsequent discount didn’t hurt either. Not everyone was a wealthy as Beth.

She still found it bizarre, though, even ten years into being the girlfriend and then wife of a billionaire, to be able to spend an unlimited budget on herself. She and Alfie did offset it by giving an awful lot of it away to charity, though. Or, as Beth often did, heading to the bank, withdrawing a few hundred pounds and giving out little wedges to any homeless people she happened to see along her way. It made her feel better about the huge divide in the country between the very wealthy and very poor.

Still, the Chanel employees relished in seeing her name down in the appointment book, knowing they were about to receive a very nice commission.

“Mrs. Solomons, welcome,” she was greeted by Leighton with, the chief sales attendant. “Oh, this cardigan is a dream! Is it an Oscar?” he asked courteously, smoothing the black cashmere of her sleeve.

She leaned in close to whisper. “No, it’s actually M&S!”

His mouth dropped open. “Oooh, I love a good bargain! Can I offer you ladies a drink? Coffee, juice, champagne?” Of course, they all chose the latter. Once furnished with drinks, Leighton allowed them to browse unassisted, Magda deep in conversation with her friend Hannah, who managed the store while Mimi picked up a bottle of her usual perfume, and Beth browsed the bags.

She ended up choosing two of the boy bags, quilted effect design with a chain strap, one in grey and another in pink. The pink one was hidden, though, since the recipient wasn’t her. She ferried her choices to Leighton, asking him to gift wrap the pink one, moving to the shoes and selecting a pair of turquoise sandals she liked, too. Those, a skirt and pair of trousers later, and she was done.

Once Magda was done chatting, choosing a scarf and a new pair of sunglasses for herself, and another item also not destined for her, they paid for their purchases and left, hopping into a taxi and heading over to Shoreditch. They had a table booked at Camino, Mimi’s favourite tapas restaurant, a meal she had no idea she was being treated to by her friends in lieu of being able to celebrate her birthday with her on the actual day, Josh taking her for a long weekend in Italy the following week. Hence the purchases at Chanel not destined for their own wardrobes.

“Right then, little miss almost thirty-two,” Magda began, bobbing her tongue between her teeth as Mimi cringed.

“Oh, don’t remind me! I was twenty-one five minutes ago, I feel old!”

Beth snorted, lifting her eyes from the menu. “Oh, stop it. I just turned forty!”

“And I’m hitting the big five zero in six months, so you’re still the bloody baby of the group, ain’t ya?” Magda chimed, giving her a soft poke on the wrist. “Anyway, as I was saying, since you’ll be enjoying pasta and cannoli's over in the motherland on your actual birthday, you get your gifts from us now. Happy birthday, babe.”

Mimi’s mouth fell open when from beneath the table, two double C branded boxes were pulled out and passed to her, a long, high pitched squeak emanating. “Oh my fucking god! You didn’t!”

“We did, now shut your gob and get ‘em opened!”

She did, choosing Magda’s first, her mouth flying open again when she pulled out the long, gold and blue Chanel nameplate style necklace within.

“Oh, darlin’,” the lady herself cooed, Mimi in tears as she immediately put it on and then rushed to hug her. “You like it, then?”

“I bloody love it, Mags! Thank you so much, I love you!”

She was so touched, Mimi always so sweet when presented with gifts. “Love you too, sunshine, and you’re welcome.” Taking her seat again, she then moved onto Beth’s present, almost passing out when she saw the bag she had so coveted within, her hands flying to cover her open mouth with a gasp.

“Beth!” Those hands then began to flap, more tears coming. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Once again, she was out of her seat, wrapping Beth in a huge hug. “I love it, and you! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, darling,” she told her warmly, kissing her cheek a few times. “We know you’ve had a rough year, so we wanted to spoil you a little.”

Indeed, it had been a bad year for Mimi, finding out in January that she was pregnant again, but sadly losing the baby just a week before her first scan. She’d been so sad for months about it, her friends trying hard to pull her out of her funk and be there for her during her period of grief.

Beth knew the pain well, she and Alfie suffering the same between her having Abe and conceiving Flora, so had been a pillar of support for her during that time. It was also one of the reasons why she’d taken up Thai boxing, needing something to take out her anger at the injustice of losing her baby on, choosing the sport to help in catharsis. The fact that she happened to be very good at it and already training for her orange belt was a mere bonus.

After enjoying their lunch, they were about to get a cab back over to Chelsea, since the women were heading back to Beth’s for a girl’s night that evening, when one of them saw something in the near distance she couldn’t ignore. Thai boxing had also made Mimi very brave where conflict was concerned.

“Oi! Oi!” She shouted, pointing. Her heels were off, Mimi sprinting barefoot up the street, Beth and Magda turning to search for what on earth had caused their friend’s sudden reaction.

“Oh, shitting hell,” Magda quietly hissed, beginning to run after her as they witnessed the object of Mimi’s anger, Beth hot on her heels. “I know she’s got all this newly found Thai boxing mettle, our Mims, but she can’t take on some scummy roadman by herself, fuck!”

A roadman was Magda’s preferred slang term for an undesirable man, usually donned in sports clothing, who stank of weed and thought himself to be some kind of hard arsed gangster. A large dog upon a lead that was much too large for purpose was usually involved, too, which in this instance was what had drawn Mimi’s attention. Or rather, the way said roadman treated the animal in question.

“Stop it! You can’t treat a dog like that, what the fucking hell is wrong with you?” she exclaimed, the young man of about twenty yanking the poor, skinny but still sizable, dark grey dog by the heavy choke chain around his neck. “He’s just a baby, you bastard!”

“Yo, what’s it to you, though, yeah?” he spoke, sucking his teeth. “Ain’t got nuttin’ here, girl. No business with me, ya get me, blud?”

“You’ve got a bloody chain about the size they use to secure fucking motorbikes around his neck and you’re yanking him up the street! I’m not standing by and watching that shit, mate! Fucking stop pulling him!”

The man even had the gall to smirk. “Ain’t nuttin’ to you. Yo, don’t touch me, fam!” He tried to shake her grip on his arm loose, Mimi fighting to secure the lead from his grasp, people all around stopping to stare. “Fuck, I’ll fuckin’ stab you up, bird. Ya get me?”

Magda and Beth arrived with them, the former immediately imposing herself. “Threaten her with a knife again, boy. Go on, sunshine. Fucking dare ya.”

“And who are you, old lady? What ya gonna do, yeah?”

Magda laughed, still imposing into his space. “Who am I? Someone who grew up on the fuckin’ roughest estate in Brixton is who I am, you little roadman twat. I’ll take the chain you’ve got round that poor animal's neck and fuckin’ knock every single one of your fuckin’ teeth out your mouth with it if you threaten me or my friend again. Ya get me, blud?”

Her mimicking of his vernacular drew a few laughs from those watching, Magda unblinking, Beth feeling her pulse escalate with nerves. Just then, her focus was drawn by the sudden feeling of softness pushing against her hand. Looking down, she saw the dog moving closer to her legs, Mimi successfully yanking the lead free from the grip of the man still facing off with Magda.

She crouched to him, stroking his crinkles. He was shaking. “Hello, lovely boy. Are you alright? Goodness, this chain is cutting into your neck, you poor soul,” she cooed, checking him over. He was in a state, that was for sure. She recognised his breed, but he looked the furthest from how the huge, proud looking Neapolitan Mastiff should have appeared. He was young too, she noted, nowhere near the full-grown size but still, so undernourished. Looking into his big, soulful eyes as he softly thumped his tail and licked her hands, covering her in a generous slick of slobber, her ears caught the tail end of Magda’s tirade.

“Now, I’ll give you a choice, mate. Walk away and leave the dog with us, or I’ll fuckin’ get the law on ya for animal abuse and threatening my friend with a knife. What’s it to be? Because you ain’t lookin’ after that dog at fucking all, are ya? Look at him, barely out of his puppy months and he’s skin and bone! What’s it to be?”

She stood firm, the man shrugging before cussing under his breath, his teeth sucked again before he simply walked away. He didn’t even fight for his dog, so little was the care for the creature beyond having a status symbol at the end of a lead. A few people applauded, a man coming forth and offering his hand to Magda, telling her how well she’d handled it.

She then turned to Beth, taking the lead from Mimi and handing it to her with a curt nod. “Don’t say I never give you nothing.”

Immediately, tears spilled from her eyes, hugging the dog as she cried into his soft, yet dirty fur. He stank of cigarettes and weed. “Oi, come on, babe. Hold it together, eh?” Magda continued, crouching to put her arm around her, Mimi dipping too to offer support. “Right, nearest pet shop. He needs a bit of proper dog clobber and not this nasty chain. Look at it! You could tow a fuckin’ Jeep out of a bog with it! Poor puppy, Christ! He can’t even be one yet.”

A quick hail of a black cab got them the transport they needed to reach the nearest pet shop, the large puppy more than happy to head along with the three kind ladies who made such a fuss of him.

“He’s a lovely chap, ain’t he?” the cabbie chirped, looking in the rear view. “Please make sure he don’t slobber on me seats though, girls! How long you ‘ad him for?”

“About five minutes,” Beth quipped, the cabbie looking confused. “My besties here commandeered him from a roadman lad who was mistreating him, so yes, I went out handbag shopping and ended up with a couple of them, and a dog, too.”

“Bet you couldn’t pick one of them up in Chanel either, right?” His words had them laughing, obviously noticing the branded bags they all carried from their little splurge in that very store. Once at the pet superstore, they paid him with thanks, Beth taking some tissues from her blazer pocket and wiping up where the dog had dribbled on the floor.

“I can’t take you in on this,” she spoke, removing the chain. “Are you going to be good and stay with me, or do I have to put my back out and carry you?” He must have weighed a good twenty plus kilograms already, Magda noting on the way over that he was probably under a year in age. “Come on.” She made a kissy noise with her lips, the dog tilting his head before lolloping along with them, pinning himself at Beth’s side.

Just twenty-five minutes into his new life, and he seemed to feel safe enough to revert to how he should have acted. Carefree, silly and happy, as all puppies should. He drew a few questions from the staff, Magda explaining the story while Beth sorted him with a new collar and lead, another member of staff coming over and advising on a harness, too.

“You’ll of course need to come back and fit him with a larger one once he’s fully grown,” he spoke, making adjustments, noting the state he was in. “Flipping well done to you all, too, taking him away from that vile person. I can’t bear to see animals mistreated.”

It was one of those pet superstores that also contained a veterinarian clinic as well as a groomer, Beth pleased to learn that they actually had a few appointments spare for each a little later, waiting around for forty minutes after making the purchases of food, a new bed, toys and everything else he needed before going in to see the vet.

“From his teeth, I would estimate he’s around eight months old, no microchip either, so we can pop one of those in for you, too. I’m going to say I very much doubt he’s had his vaccinations either, so I can start a file for you with a card. I will recommend a course of wormer and flea treatments as well which we sell down in the store. Can I take your details please, Mrs. Solomons?”

She duly gave those details, the vet speedily typing them into the file. “And the dog’s name?”

Oh. She had no idea. Thinking for a few moments, she felt a little on the spot, feeling like it should have been a decision she consulted Alfie and her kids over. It then came to her in a flash, the perfect name for her brand-new companion.

“Wilson.” she smiled. After all, they had been on Wilson Street when they’d found him. Once his microchip had been sorted, the little wounds caused by the chain upon his neck bathed and flushed, the vet made a few more recommendations, Beth taking Wilson’s new vaccination card and thanking him.

They then went to the groomers section of the store, Beth remaining with him while he was attended to, for the sake of it all being so new and not wanting him to feel like he was being abandoned. The colour of the water that ran off him made her insides pinch. She guessed he’d likely never been washed. She was only surprised he didn’t have fleas or skin conditions, the state he’d been in.

Once bathed, Beth held him while he was dried, Wilson swiping at the nozzle for the dog dryer with his paws, comically trying to bite it as well, his large, floppy ears he hadn’t quite grown into flapping around all over the place. He tilted his head back, his big, blue eyes staring at Beth with all the love and trust in the world, his tail thumping. He knew he was safe, and it melted her heart to see him accept his new life so willingly. She could only imagine just what the hell he had come from.

With some flea treatment and wormer purchased, another cab was called for, Mimi calling for an Uber pet service, the girls and Wilson all piling in.

“Oh god, I hope Alfie doesn’t go mental at me for bringing him home. Thank the stars you two are staying for dinner, he’ll make less of a scene with his best mate and the woman he’s terrified of there,” she exclaimed, both snorting with laughter.

Magda pointed at Wilson, reaching to rub his ears. “How the flip can anybody go mental at this face? Look at him! Bloody lovely thing, he is!” He was, that much was true, but just nine weeks after Cyril’s passing, Beth worried that it was much too soon to consider another canine companion. Then again, what were she and her girls meant to have done? Let the poor creature remain with the scumbag who previously owned him? Taken him to Battersea? He had a new start right there waiting for him. It seemed silly to bypass such a fated meeting.

Once back at home, Magda grabbed as many bags as she could, Beth leading Wilson to the front door while juggling his new bed under her other arm, Mimi bringing the rest. Placing everything in the kitchen, Beth unfastened Wilson from his harness, the three standing back while watching him begin to explore his new surroundings.

“Might be a good idea to steer him in the direction of the back door, just in case he isn’t house broken,” Mimi suggested, Beth widening her eyes.

“A very good point, my friend! Oy, could you imagine if he pissed up the sofa before Alfie even gets home to either love him or shout at me?”

Magda snorted. “Babe, he ain’t gonna shout, you’re fine! Look at him, bloody little smasher, he is! Besides, didn’t you tell me you guys wanted to rescue? Well, he was rescued, so there you go.”

Following the dog, they all herded him in the direction of Alfie’s office, Beth jogging to open the door that led to the garden. Once outside, his nose didn’t leave the floor, tail wagging, letting out a few excited baby barks as he sprinted across the patio, chasing a butterfly. Three hearts all melted immediately, Beth’s then catapulting into her chest when she heard the front door opening.

“Stay out here with him, let me go and face the music.” Turning she strode through the office, welcoming her family, Alfie’s eye as eagle as ever.

“What’s with this, this shifty look on your mug, ay?” he spoke slowly, pointing at her face and giving her another kiss.

“Um... something happened today. Kids, go and take your coats off and wait in the kitchen. Abe, sort you and your sister a juice each, there’s a good boy.”

His eyebrow rose. “And?” he spoke, the kids obediently trotting off down to the kitchen.

“And...” she began, hearing a little commotion, and a soft yapping bark before turning to see Wilson slip out of Magda’s grasp and come hurtling towards them. “And we have a puppy.”

“What the fu...” he began, his eyes widening as his mouth dropped open. “Hello, you! Fuck, look at you, bloody hell! Little tank, innit? Bit thin though, ain’t ya, ay? Hello mate!” Reaching down, he easily lifted him into his arms, Wilson showering him in puppy kisses. “Oi, no biting the beard, yeah?” More washing continued. “Where’d ya get him from? I thought you birds was off up Covent Garden? Last time I checked, they didn’t sell no mastiff’s up there!”

“You’re not cross with me?” she asked, her hand rubbing Wilson’s wriggly legs.

“Nah, darlin’! Bit surprised, like, but I ain’t mad. Look at him, he’s a right little champ, ain’t ya?”

“Told you,” Magda called, ducking her head back in from where she was smoking a cigarette, swiftly going on to explain what had happened, Alfie and Beth joining them outside.

“Bleedin’ might’ve known you two would have something to do with it!” he exclaimed, pinching Mimi’s nose between his fingers. “Thinking you’re some kind of street fighter, takin’ on roadmen, you fiery mare!”

Mimi beamed, giving him a few playful punches. “Worth it though, wasn’t it? Puppy boy here got himself some lovely new parents and a lovely new home!”

“Yeah,” Alfie began, setting him down on the ground again, Wilson lolloping off, “a home he better not bleedin’ take to chewing. Ain’t having none of that game, I ain’t. You got him toys and all that, baby beast? Or we gotta go out again?”

“Nope, all sorted. Hold on, let me go and get the kids.” Rushing back to the kitchen, she retrieved her children, telling them there was a surprise waiting for them outside. When they saw him, oh, their little faces. Excited squeals filled the space, happy tears were shed, and a very big, very wriggly puppy introduced himself with lots of kisses.

Suddenly, the house wasn’t so quiet for the new member of the family settling in, the girls night turning into a family night as they all watched Wilson happily acclimatise to his new surroundings. He played with the kids for a full two hours before flopping into his bed, asleep within moments. Since it was the weekend as well as half term, the kids were allowed to stay up late, their dad treating them to pizza while Beth ordered in a Chinese takeaway for her and her friends, eating it upstairs in the cinema room while they watched Pretty Woman.

While taking a pause between that and the next film, she came downstairs to grab another bottle of prosecco from the fridge, pausing at the entrance to the lounge. There, all snuggled up on a nest of blankets and floor cushions, her husband sat with the children stroking Wilson, who was stretched out on his legs. Noticing his wife there, he smiled, winking. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. All four of you.”

And by god, how she did. With the arrival of one dog who needed them just as much as they did him, their family was whole again. Wherever the spirit of Cyril was, she couldn’t help but think he’d approve, too.

The End.

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