#and she sang nothing new!

[togrowoldinv]

I SAW TAYLOR ANNOUNCE SPEAK NOW TV LIVE

[eerna]

Not to sound like a broken record but Dylan Wood's Orpheus was Insane

[acourtofquestions]

Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.

Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.

But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.

So hearth to hearth, it went.

To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.

Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, "Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?"

Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords-ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.

Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.

Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.

Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.

Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.

A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.

Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.

Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.

"Fly, fly, fly!" they shouted. "To the queen! To war!"

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

[asthevermincrawls]

the thing is. you can't let anger overtake your heart. it will turn you bitter and helpless, chewing your own tongue till it bleeds while nothing gets done. you have to let your love for the indigenous peoples of turtle island, of aotearoa, of australia, of palestine, to guide you to action, to ignite your heart in hope. justice is possible. many hands make the burden light

[born-to-lose]

Double shift last weekend and this is the only picture I got (which my coworker actually took with me for her Facebook story RIGHT when I looked like shit and it was low effort makeup day because I had to be there early to open the bar)

[penroseparticle]

Imagine watching the Masked Singer and not knowing who the Harp was from the SECOND she opened her mouth, would not have been me

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - ONE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: none (angst) chapter two┆ chapter three ┆ chapter four

The bass from the speakers rattled the glass in your hand as you leaned against the porch railing, eyes scanning the backyard for him—Rafe.

It had been a long month.

Longer than you thought it would be. Usually, when you and Rafe had your little “breaks,” they lasted about a week, maybe two at most. It was always something stupid, a screaming match that ended with slammed doors and his truck peeling out of your driveway. But it never lasted. It couldn’t. You’d known each other too long, been through too much, and deep down, there was this unspoken truth—he’d always come back. Or, you would.

But this time was different.

This time, he wasn’t calling or showing up at your window in the middle of the night, eyes tired and sorry, pulling you into his arms. The space between you had been growing wider since his dad died. And sure, maybe it was your fault for what you said after Ward’s death—But it was the truth.

Still, you hadn’t expected him to shut you out completely. Two months. Two months of silence. And the only thing you’d heard about him since was through Ruthie, Topper’s new girlfriend, of all people. A random comment at Mase’s place—something about how Rafe had been hanging around some pogue girl named Sofia.

You’d rolled your eyes at that. Rafe? With some Pogue? Yeah, right. You’d pretended not to care when she tossed it out like it was nothing

You weren’t stupid.

You’d always known Rafe wasn’t the easiest guy to love. He was complicated, angry, reckless—but so were you. And in some messed-up way, that’s why you two worked. Or at least, why you thought you did. You were just as stubborn, just as damaged. But now, as you sipped your drink and looked around, something felt off. Your gut was tight, and that nagging feeling that’d been growing restless under your skin since the breakup only grew stronger the longer you stood there.

You pushed yourself off the railing, discarding your drink on a table before moving through the crowd, past people you knew but didn’t bother with. Your mind was set on one thing—Rafe. You were done with the break. You had your space. It’s time to get back together. It was never even really a question. It was just the way things worked with you two.

But then there was Ruthie—blocking your path, her wide smile dripping with the kind of smugness that set your teeth on edge. She looked like she was reveling in your misery and that little giggle she let out only made it worse.

"So glad you could make it!" she sang out, her voice too sweet, too bright. Her eyes flickered over you like she was sizing you up, taking stock of every inch of your perfectly put-together outfit.

You forced a smile, “Yeah, well, wouldn’t miss a party like this,” you said, keeping your tone casual.

You weren’t in the mood for whatever game she was playing.

“Oh, I just bet,” she replied, her smile growing wider. She stepped closer, her breath reeking of cheap wine, and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. Ruthie always drank too much at these things.

What the hell was her problem? She always acted like she knew something you didn’t, like she held the keys to all the dirty little secrets in Kildare, and she loved dangling them in front of people just to watch them squirm.

“Ruthie, I swear to God—” you began, but she cut you off, her grin widening.

“Oh, honey,” she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy, “don’t get mad at me. I’m just the messenger. You should really be talking to Rafe about this.” She took a step back, still smiling, and glanced over her shoulder. “He’s around, you know. You can go find him yourself. See how cozy he’s gotten with her.”

You bit your tongue, jaw, forcing yourself to stay calm. She was trying to get under your skin, like the snake she’d always been. You couldn’t believe Top was lonely and horny enough to finally fall into her claws.

“Thanks for the tip,” you gave her a tight lipped grimace, brushing past her, didn’t try and wait for her reply.

You only caught glimpses of empty rooms along the way. You hadn’t seen him since the break, and part of you didn’t want to admit how much that messed you up. How much he messed you up. Your steps slowed as you neared the hall that led to the back of the house, the sound of voices filtering through the air. You recognized some, laughed at the drunken ramblings, until one voice cut through the noise. Rafe’s.

And then you heard hers. No fucking way.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You told yourself you just needed to see him, just talk to him, tell him this break had gone on long enough, that you were done with the games. That’s when you heard it again—her laugh. It was light, flirtatious, the kind of laugh that made your stomach turn into a million different directions because you knew exactly what it meant.

She was there, with him.

You moved forward, the hallway barely lit as you reached the half-closed bathroom door. Your breath hitched, hands trembling as you peeked through the small crack, unable to stop yourself from looking.

There they were.

She was smiling, laughing softly at something he’d said, her fingers brushing through her hair as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched his hands move, tying the knot in her bikini with such gentle precision like he’d done it a thousand times. The kind of softness he used to have with you. And then he said it, his voice teasing, amused like this was some kind of inside joke between them.

"God, this is just landing right in my lap, isn’t it?"

You froze.

He laughed quietly, his lips brushing against Sofia’s shoulder as he tied the last knot, and the way he touched her—like she was something to be savored—sent a rush of pure, burning humiliation straight through your chest.

You stumbled back, your heart pounding in your ears as Rafe’s words repeated over and over in your head. Landing right in my lap. What the fuck was this?

Your heart clenched, vision blurring as what you were seeing slammed right into you. You backed away, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the sob from escaping. But it didn’t help. Not even à little. The tears burned, and you turned quickly, practically running back through the house and out the door before anyone could see the humiliating mess you were becoming.

It was real. He moved on. In two fucking months.

That’s all it had taken for him to replace you. To be done with you. He was over you. Just like that.

After everything you’d been through together, after all the times you had to pull him out of his own darkness, after the nights spent in his arms when you thought you couldn’t breathe because your whole family was gone—after years of being his and him being yours—how the fuck could he move on when you’d been rotting away in self loathing for pushing him away?

Your head spun as you stumbled down the steps, out to the street where your car was parked. You couldn’t breathe. Your breaths were coming out too fast, too shallow, and your hands were shaking so hard you had to press them against your knees to hold yourself up.

What the hell was wrong with you? You hadn’t even had anything to drink.

But your stomach was rolling, twisting in knots so tight you could barely stand straight. You leaned against the side of your car, the cool metal grounding you to reality for a second before a wave of nausea hit, forcing you to double over and retch onto the pavement. Tears stung your eyes as you coughed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt dizzy, disgusted even, everything you thought you knew, everything you thought was yours, had been ripped out from under you.

Without a single warning. Not a text, not a stupid call, just pure indifference. No respect or regard for you. None of them. Everything you’d just seen replayed in your mind—Rafe, her, the way he touched her like she meant something to him.

“Look who’s still standing!” Topper’s voice. He was laughing as he strolled over, hands shoved in his pockets, that same carefree grin on his face that he always had at parties. “Jesus, what did you have to drink? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Normally, you might have had something to say back, maybe a fiery insult or a roll of your eyes. But right now, everything felt like too much. You couldn’t say a word. You could barely breathe.

Your cousin stopped beside you, his grin dropping as he finally looked at you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He leaned down, trying to catch your eyes. “You good? You look kinda—"

You cut him off, the question was heavy, like a lump lodged in your throat. “Did you know?”

He blinked, the confusion spreading across his face. “Know what?”

You swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest as you forced the words out, your voice shaking. “About Rafe and Sofia.”

You hated saying her name.

Hated that you’d been forced to know it by heart. Topper’s smile dropped, his expression changing.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to, you knew him well enough to read his micro expressions. You clenched your fists, it felt like you were the only one in the island who’d been let out of the secret.

Surely, your friends, your only family would’ve told you something right? It’s not like you were on a remote island away from them. You’d spent the last month in New York, not in the fucking jungle. You visited occasionally. You were a call away.

“Did everyone fucking know?”

Topper exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, we didn’t think it was serious. You know how it is with you two—you’ve done this before. Played with other people…”

Played with other people. Like you and Rafe were just some game, a revolving door of heartbreak and hookups. It didn’t make sense. You’d always known how it worked, understood how these things went—sure, you’d had your minor flings, and he’d had his, but it was never real.

You stumbled back, feeling like you might collapse. “Oh my God, I’m going to be sick again.”

He reached out, obviously concerned since he hadn’t seen you in this desperate state in years, “Hey, hey, calm down. Look, it’s not like it means anything. Rafe’s just—he’s going through a lot with his dad dying, and he… he’s just messing around. You know how he gets.”

But the words did nothing to soothe you. They only made it worse—how everyone knew. How they’d all watched Rafe move on, while you were stuck, still reeling from the breakup, thinking he’d come back like he always did. And he was just out there, with her.

With someone else. You pressed a hand to your stomach, your head hurting. The idea of Sofia, of Rafe being with someone else in ways that only you knew—ways that had always been yours—made you feel like you were being torn apart.

Topper was still talking, still trying to rationalize it, but his words were like static now, blending into the noise of the party behind you. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he was saying. “You know how it goes. You always end up back together. He’s just doing whatever to distract himself.”

That word. Distract himself. Like your entire relationship could be boiled down to that—a series of distractions until you decided to come back to each other, to pick up the pieces and pretend everything was okay.

You could still remember the night your life changed—the phone call, the horrible, gut-wrenching moment when you learned that your family’s private plane had gone down. Your parents. Your sister. Gone. Just like that. And Rafe had been the one to pull you through it. He was the one who had held you as you cried so hard you thought you were going to die, who sat with you in silence when you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, who stayed with you every single night because you were terrified to be alone in a haunted mansion that now felt like a mausoleum.

You had been seventeen, and losing them all at once had killed something inside of you. But he was there. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he knew what it was like to grieve.

He knew loss. He understood. Because you’d been there for him two years earlier, when his mom lost her battle to cancer. You could still see the look in his eyes that day—fourteen years old and already drowning in so much anger and sadness, like the world had ripped something essential out of him.

The way he cried at her funeral when he thought no one was watching, and you’d found him, sat beside him in the cold, letting him cry without saying a word. You hadn’t started dating yet, hadn’t crossed that line, but something had changed between you two in those moments.

A connection, a bond forged in shared pain, in the kind of trauma that no one else really got. Maybe that was why you were so obsessed with each other. Maybe it was fucked up, but you couldn’t imagine anyone else understanding you the way Rafe did.

How could it all come down to this? To you standing here, feeling like the world was ending while he moved on, laughing and touching someone else like nothing you had ever been through mattered?

Was that it? Did that one moment, that one argument about Ward, erase everything you’d done for him?

All the times you’d been there, the way you had comforted him when he felt like his life was spiraling? You remembered exactly what you’d said a month after the funeral, when your boyfriend blamed everyone but Ward for his own death. "He wasn’t a good person, baby. I know he was your dad, but you can’t pretend like he didn’t fuck you up."

You hadn’t even said it to hurt him, not really. It was just the truth. Ward had been a terrible father, controlling and manipulative, and you’d spent years watching Rafe try to live up to some impossible standard, chasing his father’s approval like it would ever be enough. But that didn’t make it easier for him to hear. You should have known better. You should have known how raw he was after losing his dad, how complicated his feelings were.

But instead, you’d been brutal. Honest, but brutal.

And now, two months later, here you were—staring at the empty street, wondering if you’d pushed him too far. If that one moment of honesty was enough to make him forget everything else. Now you were just the ex, the crazy one who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.

“Fuck, why did I say that?” you whispered to yourself, voice shaking. Why couldn’t you have just let it go?

But then another clarity of anger took over you, pushing away the guilt that had been building inside. So you’d been too harsh about Ward. So you’d said what everyone else had been too scared to say. It wasn’t like you’d been wrong. Ward had messed Rafe up.

Everyone knew it. He knew it, deep down.

You gritted your teeth, staring out at the dark street, the low hum of the party still buzzing faintly behind you. You were never going to get that picture out of your head. Like they hadn’t just met, like you hadn’t spent years learning how to calm Rafe when he spiraled, how to hold him together when he couldn’t hold himself.

Your chest tightened again, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

You could still feel the weight of his head on your shoulder that night, years ago, when his mom passed. The silent sobs that shook his body, the way he’d held onto you. That was the real Rafe—the one he hid from everyone else. The one who was lost and broken underneath all the anger. And you’d seen him, really seen him in ways no one else ever could. Not Sofia. Not anyone.

"Look, you're emotional, okay? I get it. Maybe it's that time of the month or something. You know how you always get when your hormones go crazy."

The words got to you, but not in the way he probably thought they would. At first, it pissed you off, like it always did when people tried to downplay your emotions. Everyone always said you felt too much. That you were out of control.

But then…

You stopped moving, blinking rapidly as his words spiraled around in your brain. ‘Time of the month’, he'd said.

Your heart started doing summersaults, your stomach dropping as the idea settled in. You grabbed your phone, hands trembling like leaves as you opened the calendar app. You scrolled, trying to think, trying to remember when you’d last…fuck.

You hadn’t had your period in… so long.

Almost two months. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be some kind of fucked up joke.

You felt light-headed as you reached for your car again, your body shaking so badly you could barely stand against the door. "Shit."

How could you not have noticed?

Topper noticed the change in you instantly, his brow furrowing. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked, his tone softening a little. "You okay?"

You couldn’t even form a sentence. Your brain was too full of what-ifs. Two months late.

You hadn't even thought about it until now—everything had taken so much space in your head that you hadn't noticed the most obvious sign. This wasn’t possible. Your hand flew to your stomach, almost instinctively. You had no idea what to do with the panic creeping up your throat.

“Shit,” You hissed, this time louder, trying to push the growing dread down. But it wouldn't go away.

He was still staring at you, “What? What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”

But you were already backing away, shaking your head, “I—I need to go,” You mumbled, barely hearing yourself.

Your cousin moved quickly to block your path as you tried to make your way toward the door. That kind of protective streak only made you want to shove past him even more.

"You’re not driving in this state." he warned you, voice firm, his hands up like he was trying to physically stop you.

You just glared at him, “Fucking watch me.”

He didn’t budge. "You get in that car and I'm calling Rafe," he said, sounding dead serious.

You couldn’t believe it. Your head was already spinning, and he was trying to guilt-trip you like this was some kind of helpful thing to do? You threw your hands up in frustration, voice rising, cracking. "He’s too busy fucking Sofia. Knock yourself out."

The words felt like venom in your mouth, the bitterness rolling off your tongue. You didn’t care how harsh they sounded. You didn’t care about anything anymore except getting away from this suffocating stupid place. Before he could say anything else, you made your move. You pushed past him with all your strength, chest hurting with the urge to feel something other than this suffocating mess of emotions and confusion.

Your hands shook as you fumbled for your keys. You managed to unlock the door, sliding into the driver’s seat, the cool leather biting into your skin.

You needed to think. But all you could think about was that one, terrifying realization: you might be pregnant.

Your breath hitched, terror swirling around your chest. The calendar app was still open on your phone, the dates staring back at you like a flashing red warning sign, daring you to confront the truth you’d been ignoring. Two months. Two months without a period. And you hadn’t even noticed. You pressed a hand to your stomach again, heart pounding as if it was trying to escape your chest. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not like this.

You weren’t thinking clearly—shit, you weren’t thinking at all, but you couldn’t stay here. Not with Topper trying to baby you, not with him out there, living his best life like you didn’t even exist.

You turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and just as you gripped the wheel, ready to peel out of the driveway, Topper bolted in front of the car, planting himself right there like some kind of human roadblock. Fucking idiot. His arms were stretched out wide, like he could somehow stop you by sheer willpower.

“You’re not doing this, I swear to God, you’re not!” he yelled, his voice frantic, echoing off the dark street. He looked panicked, pleading even, like he was convinced you’d actually go through with it.

You gritted your teeth, eyes narrowing on him through the windshield. “Top, I swear, you have three seconds before I run you over.”

“Are you serious right now?” he yelled, his voice cracking with disbelief. But he didn’t move. “You think I’m letting you drive like this? You’re out of your fuckin’ mind!”

Your fingers gripping the wheel so hard it hurt. You weren’t bluffing. You were too wound up, too out of control. The only thing keeping you from flooring him was the fact that, deep down, you knew your cousin didn’t deserve it.

You just needed to get out of here.

“Move!” you screamed, “I’m not joking’, Topper. Get the fuck out of my way!”

His face twisted with frustration as he looked over his shoulder, something catching his attention. He started waving, yelling at someone, his voice cutting through the night, “Rafe! Dude, get over here!”

Your brain stopped. It was like everything had been sucked out of you. Your hands froze on the wheel, your entire body locking up as you looked to your right and saw him—Rafe. Right there in the yard.

And she was with him. He had his arm draped around her casually, like she belonged there.

Like he belonged there, just standing in the open, so stupidly comfortable in his new life. His head turned when he heard Topper call out, and your eyes locked for a less than a second. A moment too long. A moment that broke something inside you.

While Topper was distracted, his attention on Rafe, you made your move. You slammed your foot on the gas, tires screeching as the car lurched forward, swerving just enough to dodge Topper’s stunned figure. You heard him yell after you, but his voice faded into the background noise as you sped away.

You didn’t look back. Not at Top, not at Rafe.

The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, drowning out everything else. You hated this. Hated that you were crying. Hated that you’d let yourself get to this point.

“God, what is wrong with me?” you muttered, your voice quavering as the words tumbled out. “Why the fuck am I crying over him? I shouldn’t be crying over him.” You slammed your palm against the steering wheel, angry, disgusted with yourself.

You’d told yourself you were stronger than this—that after everything you’d been through, you didn’t need him or anyone else. But here you were, falling apart like some pathetic excuse of a mess because of him. Because he had always been there, hadn’t he? After the crash, after you lost everything, he was the one constant, the one person who kept you from completely losing it. You’d relied on him so much. Too much.

“Fuck,” you hissed, tears streaming down your face. Your throat burned as the memories came flooding back, memories of all the nights you’d spent together, of him holding you while you cried yourself to sleep, of the way he’d pulled you out of the gloom when you thought you’d never get back up again. You thought he’d always be that person for you, the one who understood your broken pieces because he had his own. You’d always fit together perfectly.

You pulled into the parking lot of the nearest drugstore, your hands still shaking as you put the car in park. The tears had dried up on the drive over, replaced by a cold determination. You didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to even think about what you were about to do.

The moment you stepped out of your car and into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the drugstore, you felt completely out of place—like a stranger in your own skin. You hadn’t even thought about how ridiculous you must’ve looked until you caught your reflection in one of the store’s glass windows. Your hair, still perfect from earlier, framed your face in soft waves, and your makeup was flawless, despite the crying. The designer dress you were wearing—sleek, red, and worth more than half the shit in this store—with its sticky floors and white lights, it made you feel like an alien. Like you didn’t belong.

You caught the eyes of a couple of people loitering outside the entrance as you walked in, their stares lingering a little too long, murmuring to each other behind smirks. You knew they were talking about you. They always did, kook queen, overdressed, out of touch, bitch, whatever they wanted to call you.

The sliding doors let out a grating beep as you entered, and the air inside was stale and heavy, reeking of floor cleaner and cheap perfume. You adjusted your grip on your purse, strutting past the aisles with your head high even though everything inside you felt like it was falling apart.

You always did this—dressed to kill, head up, like armor. But there was no real glamour in buying pregnancy tests from some random pharmacy in the middle of the night. No way to mask the deep, growing hysteria in your bones.

The girl behind the register clocked you the second you stepped up to the counter, her eyes dragging over your like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. You could almost hear her thoughts: What the hell is someone like you doing here?

You didn’t even look at her. You just wanted to pay and leave without a scene. But of course, people always found a way to make things worse. She hesitated before scanning the tests, looking like she might say something. For her own good, you prayed she didn’t.

You threw the money on the counter before she could open her mouth, two crisp hundreds on top of the total. The cash hit the counter with a sharp thwap and you gave her the bitchiest look you could muster. “Take it. Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

She swallowed hard, her hand trembling as she slid the bills into the register. You didn’t care that she was young or nervous. You weren’t here to make friends. You weren’t here for anyone’s sympathy. The extra money would make sure she didn’t talk, that was all that mattered.

You walked out, your heels clicking against the linoleum, head high, even though every nerve in your body screamed for you to disappear. You slid into your truck, slamming the door shut, the silence finally hitting you. For all the designer clothes, the makeup, the money—none of it meant shit right now. You felt so small. So scared. Terribly lonely.

You sat there for what felt like forever, staring at the stupid bag in the passenger seat like it had the power to ruin your whole life—which, to be fair, it kind of did. You didn’t know what the fuck you were going to do. Not about any of it.

Your foot tapped nervously against the floor mat, the sound too loud in the quiet car. The bag crinkled as you glanced at it again, your stomach twisting all over again. A bunch of pregnancy tests. How had it come to this?

Rafe. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself not to think about him, not to picture his face when he found out. If he found out. Shit, what the hell was he going to do? He was with Sofia now, right? So was this going to ruin his life too? Did he even deserve to know?

It was probably nothing, you told yourself. Maybe the separation anxiety had gotten to you. Maybe your body was just fucked up from all the stress. Maybe your period was just late because you’d been so all over the place lately. There could be a million reasons. You didn’t even want to think about what would happen if it wasn’t nothing.

You didn’t want to cry anymore. Not after all of this. Not over Rafe. Not over your life turning into some fucking soap opera you didn’t even want to be a part of.

The second you were inside your house, the walls closed in around you. Your perfectly decorated place—the one you’d spent so much time making into a refuge, an escape—it didn’t feel like that anymore. Every designer pillow, every carefully chosen piece of art, mocking you.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, you reached for it. Of course, it was Rafe.

“I don’t know what the fuck that was but save the fucking dramatics, okay?”

The nerve. The fucking nerve of him to act like he was the center of your universe, acting like you were some inconvenience. Months of silence and this was the first thing he decided to text you? Knowing how much you despised when people called you a drama queen? Fucking piece of shit.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, a thousand different responses running through your mind. You wanted to tell him to shove something up his ass. But you did the only thing that felt right in that moment.

You blocked him. You stared at your phone, half expecting it to buzz again, half dreading that it wouldn’t. It was done. You cut him off, at least in that tiny, virtual way. You sat there for a minute, gripping the phone, trying to remember how to breathe.

This was supposed to feel empowering, right? You told yourself it would. That cutting him out would help you get back some control. But your mind wouldn’t settle. Those damn pregnancy tests were sitting in the bag next to you.

You were tired.

Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with how late it was or how emotionally spent you were. You kicked off your heels, letting them clatter against the hardwood floor as you sank into the plush couch. Your house felt cold and unwelcoming tonight. Like a showroom. No comfort to be found. Not here, not in the muted tones of beige and white. Not in the sleek lines of furniture that were supposed to exude elegance and sophistication.

Maybe tomorrow you’d feel differently.

Maybe you’d wake up with a clear head, ready to take the stupid tests. Maybe you’d be strong again like you’d been so many times before.

Tonight, you were just tired. You leaned back against the cushions, closing your eyes for a moment, willing the noise in your head to quiet down. Sleep. That’s what you needed. Just a few hours to clear your mind, and in the morning, you’d deal with everything.

All of this would go away.

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[murdockparker]

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

���I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

[logansdoll]

jim beam

navigating life in a new universe was already a bit of a struggle for Logan... and Wade just had to make it worse (or far, far, far better) by giving him a "house-warming gift".

CW: suggestive, profanity, takes place after the events of Deadpool 3, Wade is actually really hard to write for, Logan deserves the world, comfort, angst if you squint, etc.

"Honey, I'm home!" Wade loudly sang, kicking open the door to Logan's apartment with a dramatic flourish.

"Fuck me," Logan groaned from his spot on the couch, closing his eyes and allowing his head to lull back with annoyance.

This defeated the entire purpose of why he got his own apartment in the first place.

To avoid these types of interactions with the most persistently, consistently annoying asshole in the entire multiverse.

"Now, now, is that any way to talk to the friend who's about to bring your long lost lover back from the dead?" Wade tutted, skipping into the living room, taking notice of the bottle of liquor resting in Logan's hand.

'So it's that kinda morning...'

"Jim Beam at 10 am on a Tuesday?" he noted, "Well, I guess it's five o'clock nowhere... so have at it."

"What did you just say?" Logan sat up straight, brows furrowed as he focused on Wade's previous statement.

"Alcoholics everywhere salute you for taking your liver where no organ has gone before."

"Wade."

"I'm honestly starting to believe you do it for the love of the game rather than the expositional, look how sad he is plot device the author is currently using... I mean, seriously? Can we skip past all this bullshit and get to the—"

Quickly, Logan grabbed him by the front of his suit, yanking him closer with an angrily confused expression.

"If anything besides a goddamn answer comes out of your mouth... I will stab you in the face," he growled, spelling out each syllable to further his point. "What the hell do you mean bring her back from the dead?"

To Logan, you were everything

The sun. The moon. The air. The clouds.

Despite seeing all the horrible thing he'd done, and knowing firsthand just how much of an asshole he could be, you still smiled at him.

No matter how many times he pushed you away, you were relentless.

Keeping his room together while he was away finding himself.

Making him meals when you noticed he he'd gone without eating.

Forcing him to take breathers after intense sessions in the Danger Room.

For the longest, he couldn't wrap his head around someone like you caring about a jackass like him.

Until he got fed up and just outright asked.

But, as if nothing, you answered:

"Your past makes think you don't deserve love, Logan," you started, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned up against the counter. "You storm around here with a rude ass attitude and a smart mouth hoping to convince me of that... but if anything, you're only making it worse for yourself."

You smiled, looking up at him with a glint in your eye that sent shocks running down his spine.

"Because in my heart of hearts I know you're a man who wants care and attention, just like everybody else."

With a chuckle, you rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"And I'll keep shovin' dinners down your throat until you realize that."

Despite having everyone else fooled, you saw right through him, and true to your word, you didn't give up.

With every made bed, every meal, every conversation, Logan felt himself falling deeper into your charm, and over a glass of Jim Beam did he finally realize that he was in love with you.

But, like everything else he cared about in this world, you were taken away from him.

Unable to find your body in the rubble of the mansion, he looked high and low, quite literally going to the ends of the Earth to find you.

But after years of searching with nothing to show for it, he returned to the bottle, drowning himself in sorrow and regret.

Or, at least... until now.

"Well, according to the manual, she's not exactly dead, but she is unconscious," Wade answered, matter-of-factly.

"Unconscious?" Logan's brows furrowed, still quite confused.

Freeing himself from the man's grip, Wade stood up, going back around the couch and pulling out a small tablet from his pocket.

"See, I've noticed your humble abode could use a little sprucing, so I went back to our buddies at the TVA and kindly reminded them that you saved the multiverse and, godammnit, you deserve a reward."

"Get to the fuckin' point, jackass," Logan spat, turning to face him.

"So they sent some men back to your universe and found your girl!" Wade cheered, opening up a portal and reaching his hand in, pulling out a cryo-chamber with you inside.

The moment Logan's eyes met your sleeping face, all color and vibrancy seemed to return to the world.

He was at a loss for words.

You were here... not some dream or hallucination of guilt... but actually, truly, physically here.

"Apparently, some science fuckers were keeping her in a black site and testing to see how long she could go without aging. I won't bore you with the details," Wade explained, pulling out a small knife from his boot. "Now, let's break this bad boy open and meet the future Mrs. Wolverine!"

Before Logan could stop him, Wade stabbed the keypad at the side of the chamber, opening the door and sending you falling forward.

In an instant, Logan dropped his bottle and leaped over the couch, catching you just before you could face-plant on the hardwood floor.

"Watch it!" Logan roared, less than happy that you'd only been there for about three minutes and Wade had already almost broken your nose.

"I am so sorry!" Wade gasped, his hands slapping his cheeks in shock. "I didn't think she'd actually fall out the chamber when they told me she'd fall out the chamber... Nice save, though, Romeo."

Turning you over, Logan cupped your cheek, the chill of your skin already beginning to warm.

But you were still out cold, limp in his grasp as he held you close to his chest.

"She's not waking up..." Logan noticed, brows furrowed. "Why the hell isn't she waking up?"

"Easy there, tiger. They told me how long it takes varies from person to person," Wade assured, shutting the portal. "Some take minutes, others hours. It could be a couple of days before she even opens her eyes."

An expression of solemnity slid over Logan's face as he gazed over yours, your skin still so flesh colored, it looked as if you were sleeping.

Just as soft and tender as he remembered.

And he had full intentions on keeping it that way.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, he ghosted his hand over your cheek.

In that moment, he swore to himself that he'd never leave you again.

He'd be a friend, a bodyguard, a lover, whatever you wanted, but no matter his title, anything that wanted to harm you would have to do so over his dead body.

And even then he'd force himself to get back up and fight.

This world was giving him a second chance at life, a second chance at a life with you, and he'd be damned if he let anything ruin it.

Suddenly, you took in an aggressive gasp, scaring the shit out of Wade as your eyes snapped open.

"Holy fucking shit nuggets!" he jolted, jumping from his spot across he room as Logan allowed his shoulders to sink, mumbling a quiet thanks to whatever god or deity brought you back to him.

Feeling a strong set of arms cradling you, you looked up, solace setting into your bones at the sight of the familiar man before you, who was unable to stop the few joyful tears escaping his eyes.

"Logan—"

Without a moment's hesitation, his lips were on yours, making up for what felt like a lifetime of loss by dumping all of his passion, all of his love, all of his devotion into one Earth shattering kiss.

You melted into it seamlessly, your hand finding home in his scruffy hair as he pulled you flush against him, clutching you with a death grip.

Donning a cheeky smile under his mask, Wade turned away to give you both a moment, thought not without making a crude sex gesture behind his back.

'I don't think Miss (Y/N)/Girl Sitting At Home Reading This is gonna be able to walk tomorrow...'

With a gasp, the two of you separated, Logan's hand raising to cup your cheek, relishing how easily you leaned into him.

"(y/n)... I thought I lost you," he panted, his eyes scouring over your face, committing every detail to memory.

"For a while, you did," you sighed with a grin, carding a hand through the few gray strands in his hair, before comparing them to your own. "Time looks good on you."

He chuckled, quietly relieved you still found him attractive after all these years.

Sitting up, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled the man into a bone crushing hug, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

"I'm not really sure what happened... or how I'm alive..." you weakly laughed, starting to get choked up. "But I know that if you go out drinking without me ever again, I'm putting your head on a spike."

Instantly, Logan's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you reverently as if he let go for one moment, the powers that be would part him from you.

"I swear on my life... I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

[inkedinshadows]

Little Rainbow

Pairing: Azriel × reader

Summary: When you can’t comfort your baby daughter, you bring her to her dad, who always manages to calm her down.

Warnings: just lots of fluff

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: I thought I'd try my hand at writing second person pov instead of third. It just felt natural to write this one in 2nd pov. Maybe I'll stick with it in the future idk. This was born out of my baby fever btw, enjoy!

Azriel sensed you right before his shadows whispered of your arrival. He would recognize those steps and those soft wails anywhere.

A smile was already on his lips when the door opened with a small creak and you, his beautiful and loving mate, walked in holding your few-months-old daughter in your arms.

Leaning against the back of his chair, he watched as his shadows shot forward to greet the two of you, writhing around you and caressing your cheeks. You chuckled, but your daughter's soft cries stopped only for a moment before starting again, her little face even redder.

Azriel had spent centuries thinking he would never find love, that he wasn't good enough to deserve it. He was glad for his brothers’ happiness, and yet silently jealous of what they had. Brother, uncle, friend—he was grateful for it all, he truly was, but he longed for something more.

Then he met you.

Even before the mating bond snapped, he already knew you were the one. He had never been so smitten with someone in all his long years. He fell for you as quickly as a stone sinks in water, and finding out you were mates was just the cherry on top. He was convinced he could never love anything or anyone as much as he loved you.

But then you got pregnant. And when you gave birth, one look at the tiny bundle in Madja's arms was enough to prove him wrong. Seeing his mate holding his baby shortly after brought tears to his eyes, and he couldn't keep them from falling when you passed him Iris—named for the rainbow shining in the sky as she came into the world.

It was one of the happiest moments of his life, if not the happiest: looking down at the fragile, beautiful new life he had helped create.

But now, Iris was crying.

“One of those days?” he asked, his arms already outstretched toward his daughter.

“Yeah… sorry to interrupt you,” you answered with a sigh. You passed the baby to him and perched on the armrest of his chair. “But I tried feeding her, playing with her. I sang her all the lullabies I know. Nothing worked. She wants you.”

Azriel smiled down at Iris, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. And to him, to you, she was. You were never interrupting when it was about her.

“You missed me, little rainbow?” he asked softly, a scarred finger trailing down her red, puffy cheeks. His shadows followed suit to swirl around her little face as if they could wipe away her tears.

He'd been scared at first—scared he would somehow taint something so perfect with his scarred hands, hands that had done things he had never been proud of. Though you had reassured him many times, his every concern melted away completely only when Iris had grabbed his pointer finger and innocently put it in her mouth.

It was exactly what she was doing now. Under Azriel's adoring gaze, his daughter wrapped her tiny hands around the finger he had just used to caress her and began contentedly sucking on it, her wails stopping for the moment.

“I don't understand how you do that,” you complained, though your tone was soft, your eyes full of pure love and adoration as you watched your mate and your baby. “She refused her binky when I gave it to her. Every. Single. Time.”

Azriel finally looked up from his child and met your gaze. Amusement sparked in his eyes at your grumble.

“Don't take it personally, love,” he said, curling one of his wings around you and gently nudging you with it. “She said ‘mama’ the other day.”

Catching on to his little wing bump, you slid from the armrest onto his lap, even as you rolled your eyes at him. “She didn't say 'mama’. She was just babbling. She's too young to say words, Az.”

Azriel hummed thoughtfully, but his gaze slid back to Iris. She was still clutching his finger, and even though it had been almost seven months since she was born, watching her was as mesmerizing as the first time.

She had his eyes—hazel with a speck of green—but her hair was the same shade as yours. The two of you had initially spent hours simply gazing at her, whether she was awake or asleep, endlessly debating who she resembled the most. You claimed she had inherited Azriel's nose, he said she had your mouth. The truth was, it was too soon to know for sure, but neither of you cared. She was your rainbow, and she would always be perfect in Azriel's eyes.

The one thing he wasn't sure how to feel about was the lack of wings. After Feyre's tragic experience while giving birth, he had been relieved when Madja announced that your baby wouldn't have them. He never wanted to see you in such pain or risk losing you during childbirth. And yet, he was still Illyrian. Nothing could change that. A part of him longed for the chance to teach his baby daughter to fly, to hear the song of the wind and feel that unparalleled sense of freedom that only came from soaring high in the sky.

“Maybe it's the shadows.”

Your voice dragged him back to reality, and he turned to you with a furrowed brow.

“Why she's always calmer around you,” you clarified, gesturing to the shadows swirling around Iris. You caressed her head, and her eyes tracked back to you as she giggled around Azriel's finger. “They soothe her.”

Azriel smiled, his heart soaring at the sound of his daughter's soft laughter. His wing curled more tightly around you, drawing you closer so he could place a gentle kiss on your temple. “She's just like her mom, isn't she?”

You could only nod, returning his loving smile with one of your own. It was true—his shadows had always been a safe space to you. The first time he had seen you upset, they rushed to you, swirling around you and brushing your cheeks and your neck until you chuckled. From that moment, whether it was anger, sadness, or fatigue, they would leave Azriel's side to cheer you up before he could even take a step in your direction.

Your head came to rest on Azriel’s shoulder and you both watched your daughter's eyes grow heavy, her lids starting to drop as she stubbornly tried to keep them open, her hold on her dad's finger relenting.

“You fall asleep so easily in daddy's arms, don't you, little rainbow?” you whispered as you tenderly booped her cute little nose. “Just like mommy.”

Azriel chuckled, placing his now-free hand on the small of your back to gently nudge you to stand up. “Let's go to bed, love.”

You rose from his lap, and he immediately felt the absence of your warmth against him, but you only stood in front of him with that cute frown of yours—the one that created a small crease between your brows that he always wanted to smooth with his thumb.

Azriel knew exactly what you were thinking.

During the last month of your pregnancy, he had asked Rhys to keep missions away from Velaris to a bare minimum. And after Iris was born, he had stopped taking on any missions that required him to be away for more than two days, because he simply couldn't bear the thought of being separated from you and his baby girl. After centuries, he had finally learned the meaning of the word “delegate”. But sending his spies on jobs he'd usually do himself had led to a high pile of documents and reports on his desk—a pile he mostly tackled after you and Iris had gone to bed.

“I'm done working for tonight,” he reassured you, standing up and rocking Iris in his arms. “It can wait.”

It couldn't, not really. Some of those papers had been sitting on his desk for days, and the Azriel he was until seven months ago would have recoiled at the mere thought of unfinished work. But that was before an eternal rainbow added even more colors to his life than you already had.

You only smiled at him and brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Let's go to bed, then,” you repeated before turning to walk out.

Azriel followed you, his baby’s eyes fluttering open at the movement and darting around as he walked down the pastel-blue hallway. She was always so curious, even when tired.

Not wanting to risk Iris deciding she’d rather stay awake and explore than sleep, Azriel began to hum her favorite lullaby. You glanced over your shoulder at the sound of his deep voice resonating off the walls, a soft smile on your lips as you watched the shadows gently sway to the melody.

He met your gaze when you stopped in front of Iris’s room, where you had painted the walls a light shade of pink while Azriel assembled the cream-colored furniture. He shook his head and gestured for you to keep walking, never interrupting his soft singing as Iris’s eyes fluttered closed once more. You raised an eyebrow but continued toward your bedroom at the end of the hallway.

You had recently started getting Iris used to sleeping in her own room instead of yours, with both doors left open for the rare times she still woke up at night. But tonight, Azriel wanted to hold both his girls in his arms.

Iris was fast asleep by the time Azriel gently placed her in the center of your large bed, careful not to wake her up. She rolled onto her tummy and let out a content sigh that had you both staring in awe.

You turned to him and wrapped your arms around his waist. “You didn't want her to sleep alone?” you murmured, your tone amused.

“I couldn't,” he answered with a smile, his fingers tangling in your silky hair. “She missed me, you said it yourself.”

You chuckled, leaning up to peck him on the lips.

Azriel didn't let you pull away.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since he last had some alone time with you. If it wasn't Iris needing attention and care, it was his duties as spymaster keeping him so busy that you had resorted to dragging your favorite armchair in his study, where you would curl up with a book during your daughter's nap time. Sitting in comfortable silence as you each focused on your own tasks was better than being apart.

He felt you relax, melting against his body as he deepened the kiss, and only then did he pull back to rest his forehead against yours.

“And I missed you,” he whispered. Your cheeks were warm under his touch and he took a moment to just breathe in your familiar, soothing scent.

“Then you should have let Iris sleep in her crib, my love,” you said with a glance at your daughter. A mischievous gleam entered your eyes when they settled on him again. “Because I really miss you too.”

Azriel's soft laugh echoed in the room, and he kissed the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promised. He could make those reports wait a bit longer.

You smirked, stealing one last kiss before stepping back to peel off your clothes. He took a moment to admire you—your smooth skin, the dip of your hips, the soft curve of your stomach that remained from childbirth—but he quickly undressed as well, and soon you were both in bed, with Iris nestled between you.

Azriel placed a broad hand on her back to draw her a bit closer, and his wing draped over you as you scooted over, enveloping the three of you in a warm, dark cocoon, the silence interrupted only by your daughter’s soft snoring.

He felt you move in the dark and guessed you had just kissed Iris when you murmured, “Goodnight, my rainbow. Even though you didn't let me sing you lullabies.”

Azriel didn't need to see your face to know you had a loving look in your eyes and a playful smile on your lips.

“Of course she prefers my lullabies,” he teased, brushing his thumb over Iris's back. “She's her daddy's girl.”

For a moment, he was tempted to fold back his wing and let the moonlight caress your face, just to catch your cute pout as you said, “I used to be your girl.”

“You still are, love. You're both my girls,” he assured you, letting his wing lower over you like a second blanket. “You're my family. There's nothing I love more than you and Iris.”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice now stripped of all playfulness. Only pure, undiluted sincerity remained, warming his heart. “Both of you.”

Silence fell again, and it wasn't long before your breathing evened out as you drifted into sleep. But Azriel stayed awake a while longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his mate's soft sighs and his daughter's occasional snorts.

His own little family—everything he had ever wanted, more than he had ever dared to hope for.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @andreperez11

[shellshocklove]

i wanna be your lover | joel miller

pairing/AU: 70s!pornstar!joel miller x inexperienced!female reader

summary: miserable after losing your job, your friend drags you out to a club to dance away your sadness. on the dancefloor you meet a handsome stranger, who then whisks you away into his fantasy world as his assistant for his porn career. what happens when the lines get blurred?

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! reader is 23, joel is in his early 30s, swearing, misogyny (bc of the times™), accuracies and inaccuracies about the 70s, drinking of alcohol, smoking of cigarettes (it’s the 70s alright), mentions of a bad previous sexual encounter and losing your virginity, use of pet names, porn (obviously lmao), sextoys, only one bed, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, unprotected sex (don’t do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: i had fun with this one, but it turned out to be longer than i first intended. i hope people will like it still! also big thank you to @dustydaddyyy​, for proofreading this

main masterlist / ao3

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

Under a pink and orange Los Angeles sky, your platforms clicked against the sidewalk. Day left an hour ago, dipping behind the green hills of Laurel Canyon. Walking down The Strip, arms linked with your friend Deborah, the street bustled in the awakening night. Music spilled from clubs and bars, seducing the dressed-up crowd passing by this Friday night.

“Do a little dance, make a little love,”

“This,” Deborah emphasized, coming to a stop outside a club, “is exactly what you need tonight to get your mind off everything.”

She clutched your arm tighter to her body, almost like she was afraid you’d run off, and maybe she had good reason to think you would. You weren’t exactly in the right mood to party. Only a few hours ago, you’d gotten fired from your job. Three years as Mr. Cooper’s personal assistant down the drain.

Mr. Cooper was the creative director, and one of the partners at the advertisement agency where you’d worked. He was an important man, and he’d dealt with all kinds of clients on a daily basis. For you, it had been a learning curve of a job. You had no prior experience as a personal assistant, and it had been intimidating.

You’d only just moved to the City of Angels when you’d gotten the job. With next to no money, having left behind your family and your small town, you were desperate for a job. When you’d seen the ad in the newspaper, left behind on the table of a café near your apartment, you’d stepped out on the sidewalk immediately to find a payphone. During the interview Mr. Cooper had looked you up and down and scowled as he’d read your resume. You’d shrank in your seat under his gaze, but even with your lacking resume, Mr. Cooper had hired you on the spot.

Later, during your first full week at your new job, you’d come to discover why Mr. Cooper had hired you so quickly ­– he’d been desperate for a new assistant. Overhearing some of the other ladies whispering to each other during lunch, you’d been able to piece together exactly why. Apparently, Mr. Cooper and his former personal assistant had been having an affair. He’d gotten her pregnant and wanted nothing to do with her or the baby – he was a married man after all. This was where the story had gotten hazy, and the grape vine sang different songs. One version of the story said he’d forced her to get an abortion and riddled with grief over the dead baby and their failing relationship, she’d quit her job and moved back to her parents in Maine. While the other version of the story said that, rightfully angry at Mr. Cooper for not taking any responsibility over their situation, she’d gone to visit his wife at home to tell her about what’s been going on. Which story was the truth, you don’t know. What you did know, was that Mr. Cooper was still married, and his previous assistant was no longer working for him.

Even if the job had been intimidating at first, you’d quickly gotten used to it. You stayed on top of everything: Mr. Copper’s clients, his calls, his schedule. Ordered flowers for his wife, and even sent boxes of chocolates to his various paramours. You’d made sure the bar in his office was always stacked with his favorite bourbon, and most importantly: you’d made sure to be seen and not heard. It’s what he told you, in the job interview, that he wanted.

You had thought you were doing a good job, but clearly, Mr. Cooper had been laboring under a different impression…

Your day had started like every other day – normal. You’d arrived at work fifteen minutes before Mr. Cooper, like always. Dutifully greeting him with a sweet “Good morning, sir!” at your desk, and served him his morning coffee minutes later. The day continued like normal, occupied with calls and speaking to clients, you had no idea what shocking message you’d receive at the end of your day.

Outside the club, you gave Deborah a meek smile which faded when you saw the line snaking its way down the street, “Sure, but… we’ll never get in.”

“Get down tonight, get down tonight,”

The words of KC And The Sunshine Band traveled through the open club door, the music filled the warm summer air.

“Don’t worry, babes!” she beamed, “I know the owner.” With an overdramatic wink and a giggle, she pulled you towards the bouncer.

“Baby, baby, I'll meet you, same place, same time,”

“How exactly do you know the owner of this place?” you queried, as you passed through the door of the club while the music got louder and louder.

“Where we can get together, and ease up our mind,”

“Let’s just say we had a weekend together…,” she giggled, “and I got to know him very… intimately.”

Your eyes widened at her implications, and Deborah giggled even louder.

“Don’t look so surprised!” she laughed, “I’m all about free love,” she joked, putting up a peace sign.

A heat burned your cheeks. Still, after three years in LA you needed to constantly remind yourself that you weren’t in your small rural hometown anymore. No one was going to arrest you for talking about sex. Nevertheless, the habit was hard to shake, and the roots of the rules you’d grown up with – the ones that had taught you to be the perfect student and the perfect daughter – stayed embedded in your mind.

“So…” Deborah started, her back against the bar while she took her first sip of her Apple Martini. She’d ordered you some fruity cocktail you’d never had before that she swore you’d like. “What exactly did that sad excuse of a man say to you when he fired you?”

With a scrunch of your nose, you turned your attention to your drink, taking a sip. It tasted sugary, but fresh, one of those dangerous drinks where you couldn’t taste the alcohol.

“Let’s not talk about it?” you sighed, shooting Deborah another meek smile.

She returned your smile, but it was full of pity. “You’re right! Let’s not– Let’s forget that fucker,” she said, taking a generous sip of her drink, “you’ll easily get a new job! I know it!” she smiled.

Not soon after Deborah had finished her first drink, a man interrupted your conversation. The man was tall, with black wild hair, pork chops and a matching mustache. He was wearing a flower-patterned shirt tucked into a pair of brown bell-bottoms. The top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, revealing dark chest hair and a gold chain. He wasn’t bad looking.

His hand on Deborah’s back didn’t seem to bother her, quite the opposite, she jumped excitedly, throwing her hands around his neck in greeting. You couldn’t hear what he whispered in her ear over the music, but it made her laugh.

“This is Tommy! He owns the club,” Deborah introduced you.

With a friendly smile, you shook Tommy’s hand and introduced yourself. His grip was firm, not like those people that made shaking their hand feel like gripping a dead fish. You decided that it was a good sign.

“So– are ya enjoyin’ yourselves, ladies?” he asked with a charming smile.

“Oh, yes!” Deborah smiled, her painted nails landing on his bicep, “But I think we’d enjoy ourselves even more after another drink.”

With a knowing smile and an easy laugh, Tommy ushered the bartender closer. “’nother round for these two beautiful ladies,” he ordered, “and… they’re drinkin’ on the house for the rest of the night,” he added, sending Deborah a wink.

The bartender served you your second drink just as Tommy convinced Deborah to dance with him. Quickly, she downed her Apple Martini before she turned to you, guilt written all over her face.

“You okay by yourself for a little bit?”

“Yeah– sure!” you nodded, “Go have fun!”

With a sorry smile and a promise to be right back, Deborah left you at the bar, dragged out on the dancefloor by Tommy.

Left to your own devices, you still felt a little awkward. This was supposed to be a girls night. Pushing off the bar, you turned to lean your back against it. You bopped your head to the music, trying to not look so out of place. In your hands, your drink was slippery from the condensation around the glass. Out on the dancefloor, the crowd looked like it moved in slow motion through the blinking lights, bodies twisting their hips and grooving to the beat. You took another sip.

It’s a strange feeling, feeling so alone, while surrounded by a crowd of people. To your, a couple gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes as they passed a cigarette back and forth, a ribbon of smoky white, clouded them in a love fog. They leaned closer, sharing a kiss. You quickly averted your eyes, desperate for something else to rest your eyes on.

Instead, they fell on a man.

You locked eyes with him from across the room. Clad in tight denim he sat casually in a booth in the corner, legs spread slightly. His hand was wrapped around a whisky glass, with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. With a shy smile, you quickly looked away again, eyes back to watching the bodies on the dancefloor. You took another sip of your drink, trying to act casual.

He wasn’t watching you, was he? Why would he? No one usually looked at you twice.

You were no good at this. Flirting. You were painfully awful at it to be completely honest. Too shy to be sexy, and never interesting enough, or pretty enough for a second date.

Your experience with dating didn’t really go further than the few dates you’d gone on with John, from accounting. He’d acted so sweet: opened doors for you, held out your chair, kissed you at your doorstep at the end of the night. He had been a dream. Then on your third date, he’d invited you back to his place for a nightcap. One thing led to another, and soon you were laying under him as he thrusted inside you. It was your first time – and he hadn’t known. It had hurt so much; you’d turned your face away so he wouldn’t see your tears. After, he’d called you a cab, not bothering to even kiss you goodbye. In the office the next day, he’d pretended like you’d never even existed: no more tender kisses, no more door opening, no more smiles. Your dream had turned into a nightmare.

He’d pulled you aside during lunch and told you it wouldn’t work out between the two of you. You were just such different people. You’d deflated like a balloon at his words, sinking into your chair as you watched him walk down the corridor back to his cubicle. To make matters worse you’d overheard him say, to some of his colleges by the watercooler, how awful in bed you’d been. It had been humiliating. And now, every time you as much as attempted to flirt with someone, a bell of shame rang in your ears.

The man couldn’t have looked at you. He’d for sure only looked in the direction of the bar. But something burned your cheek, and you couldn’t fight your eyes from trailing back in his direction.

Dark hair and a tidy mustache. Lips pulled up into a cheeky smile as you locked eyes with him again. He took a drag of his cigarette, and the fire lit up his handsome face. You felt something pool in your stomach. His gaze still on you as he exhaled, challenging you with a raised eyebrow. Again, your cheeks burned, and you had to look away. Suddenly, your own platform shoes looked extremely interesting.

“I remember when rock was young, me and Susie had so much fun,”

The sound of Elton John was the perfect distraction from the alluring stranger. You were sure that if you looked back at him again, you’d only embarrass yourself. You always did. Slurping up the rest of your drink, you pushed off the bar, and headed towards the dancefloor.

“Holding hands and skimming stones. Had an old gold Chevy, and a place of my own,”

Moving your hips to the beat you vanished in the bodies. And soon you were “hopping and bopping” to the Crocodile Rock, singing loudly along with the crowd to “Laa, la-la-la-la-laa”.

The air was clammy and stuffy, and sweat clung to your skin, but you couldn’t find it in your heart to care. You were here to leave your shitty day behind. To dance it away. You moved through the crowd; a smile bright on your face while your feet couldn’t stay still. The handsome stranger in the booth, already forgotten.

As the song faded out, a new song faded in. It was slower. A slightly erotic, but melodic guitar filled the room, accompanied by a luring salsa rhythm. You slowed down your dancing. It felt like you were threading through water.

“Ain't got nobody that I can depend on. Ain't got nobody that I can depend on,”

A pair of hands landed on your hips, making you jump. Behind you, you heard the deep chuckle of a man.

“Relax, darlin’,” he whispered in your ear, moving your hips in time with his.

You leaned back against his body; head tipped back against his broad chest to get a look at the man. Your stranger from the booth. He wore a cocky smirk, but he didn’t come across as full of himself. He was confident. Confident in the way he held your body – big hands splayed over your hips. Confident in the way he danced, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and he did.

“Ain't got no one (no tengo a nadie). That I know of (no tengo a nadie). That I can depend on (no tengo a nadie),”

You let him move your body, turning you around to take your hand in his, pulling you closer to his chest. He smelled like cigarettes and cologne. He’d been watching you, you realized, not the bar. Interested enough in you to follow you out on the dancefloor. It intimidated you, but under the intimidation it also excited you.

He led your movements. You were no dancer, but he made it so easy, spinning you around with ease before pulling you back towards his body. The eye contact was intense, like he was searching for your soul. Santana’s wailing guitar and the stranger’s hand at your waist was the only thing grounding you to the moment.

“I ain't got nobody, that I can depend on (no tengo a nadie),”

The song reached its climactic end. The man spun you one last time before he pulled you tight against his chest. It was like the song’s ending had broken a spell over the two of you, the air of sensuality was gone, and replaced by his genuine smile and breathy laugh.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked you over the funky bassline of Eagles’ One of These Nights.

Wide-eyed, “Please,” was the only thing you could utter.

With a hand resting at the small of your back he led you through the crowd towards the bar, where he got the bartender’s attention immediately. 

“An Old Fashioned for me Doug, and…” he looked towards you with a smile.

“Um… a Tequila Sunrise?” you said with a shy smile.

“A Tequila Sunrise, for this beautiful lady,” he told the bartender.

Grabbing one of the bar stools he sat down and gestured for you to do the same. You’d just about sat down before he leaned forward, grabbed a hold of your stool, and pulled you closer to him. A squeal escaped you before it turned into a giddy laugh.

“Thank you, Doug!” he told the bartender when he returned with your drinks.

“On a first name basis with the bartender– you here often?” you asked him, taking a sip of your drink.

“Not as often as I’d liked– it’s my lil’ brother’s club,” he told you, taking a sip of his own drink.

“You’re Tommy’s brother?” you wondered with a frown, a little shocked.

“You know Tommy?” he asked, equally shocked.

You shrugged, “Yes– well… not really.”

He took another sip of his drink, eyes urging you to go on.

“I met him earlier– he’s… well,” you didn’t know how to explain it, “I’m here with my friend Deborah, and I guess her and Tommy are…” you trailed off.

“Fuckin’?” he finished for you, grin wide on his face.

You only nodded, swallowing down another sip of your drink.

“Yeah, I’ve heard all about Deborah…” he trailed off with a look on his face like he knew a secret, “… but nothing about her beautiful friend.”

You huffed out a laugh and turned your head, heat traveling up your neck to your cheeks, “I’m not sure there’s much to know.”

“How about your name?” he suggested.

You turned back to look at him, really look at him.

Had Deborah set him up for this?

You wouldn’t put it past her if she had. She was always urging you to go out with her. To clubs, to parties in The Hills, on double dates. You wanted to go, you really did, but a voice in the back of your head always held you back. You’d thought moving to LA would be the remedy. All alone in a big city would surely help you come out of your shell, right? The harsh reality had been that LA hadn’t magically fixed you. You’d thought you’d be a completely different person here, but you’d packed your insecurities in your baggage. The only person who was gonna help you out of your shell, you’d started to realize… was you.

Putting on a brave face, disguised as a friendly smile, you gave him your name. The man was silent for a moment, nodding as he brought his lips to the rim of his glass again, taking another sip of his drink. It made you hold your breath.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he said eventually with an easy grin. His compliment sent a warmth to your cheeks, while you fought an urge to squinch your face with embarrassment.

After a second of silence, you raised a brave eyebrow at him, “What about your name? Or shall I just call you Tommy’s brother?”

He chuckled lightly, eyes glinting, before he cleared his throat, “Name’s Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated with a nod, making his cocky smile wider. Tasting his name on your tongue, you decided it sounded pleasant on your lips.

“So– you’re Deb’s friend?” Joel started, to which you confirmed with a nod. “How come she’s never brought you ‘round before?” he wondered with a sip of his drink.

You gave him a relaxed shrug, “I’m not much of a drinker– if I’m honest.”

He leaned forward, like he was about to whisper a secret to you, “You are aware of the fact that you’re in a club, aren’t you?” he teased.

Your mouth dropped open before you playfully rolled your eyes at him, “Shut up,” you said, “I’m not usually much of a drinker… at least not without good reason.”

“So, what’s the good reason?” Joel asked, raising a single eyebrow, “Boyfriend dumped ya?”

“Boss dumped me, actually…” you corrected, “I got fired.”

Joel sucked some air between his teeth, “Ouch… you better get another drink, then.” He turned his body towards the bar to casually raise a hand, getting the attention of Doug.

You let out a scoffing laugh, shaking your head at his teasing tone, “Maybe I will.”

As you finish your Tequila Sunrise, Joel ordered you another one, and one for himself. You felt hot to the touch. The alcohol coursed through your body like liquid courage, it traveled through your bloodstream, greasing the part of yourself where your confidence laid dormant.

“What did you work as?” he asked, sipping his own Tequila Sunrise.

“I am–was…” you corrected, “a personal assistant.”

“A good one?” Joel wondered.

Taking a large sip of your drink, you tried to swallow down your failure.

“You’d have to ask my boss,” you breathed out.

“The one that fired ya?” he returned with a cocky smile, and you fought an urge to roll your eyes.

Sitting up a little straighter you narrowed your eyes at him, “What do you do, then? If you’re so good at your job?”

“Never said I was good at it,” he shrugged, cocky grin not going anywhere.

“You gonna make me ask you again?” you deadpanned, your shyness shedding with every sip of your drink.

Joel looked amused, like he was in on a secret only he knew. You continued to stare at him, raising a challenging eyebrow at his continued silence.

“I’m an actor,” he confessed.

You couldn’t hide the impressed look that crossed your face. Sure, you’d been in LA for three years, he wasn’t the first actor you’d met, and he for sure wouldn’t be the last, but it was something about the way he said it.

“A good one?” you used his own words against him, making him chuckle.

He took another sip of his drink, “I’d like to think so,” he smiled, looking at you over the rim of his glass.

“Anything I’d know?” you wondered, watching him put his glass down.

The corners of his mouth twitched into what looked like an ironic smirk, “God, I kinda of hope not,” he said, eyes trailing the scratches and dents in the dark wood of the bar.

You both went quiet, as you sipped your drinks. You’d started to wonder if you’d maybe said something wrong, when Joel cleared his throat.

“Not to mix business with pleasure–” he started, turning towards you, mouth twitching again at the innuendo, “but I happen to be looking for an assistant.”

“Oh, really?” you deadpanned, convinced he was pulling your leg.

“You don’t believe me?” he breathed out a chuckle.

“Let’s see: a strange man dances with me in a club,” you held up a finger, “then buys me a drink, then offers me a job? I may not be from around here, but I’m not stupid enough to believe that one.” You laughed with a shake of your head.

As you laughed, it hit you how easily you found it to jest with Joel. Usually, you were the quiet one. The one observing or just listening, always too shy to joke freely, especially with people you didn’t know, but somehow, in this moment you felt free. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was getting fired. Or maybe… it was Joel.

“Well, believe it or not, I ain’t fibbin’… it really depends on how much you need a job,” he took another sip of his drink.

“I just got fired,” you said matter of factly.

Joel gave you an infuriatingly innocent shrug, “Then you better start believing me when I say I’m looking for an assistant.”

You couldn’t do anything other than scoff in disbelief. “So what?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “You’re just gonna offer me a job after knowing me for barely an hour? No interview or nothing?”

“Do I need to be interviewin’ ya?” he wondered innocently.

“It’s a job!” you spluttered, “You always interview people before you give them a job!”

He gave you a nonchalant shrug. “Then I guess I will… so what can you tell me about yourself? What makes you a good assistant?” he asked, tone genuine as he placed an elbow on the bar counter and rested his head in his hand.

“I don’t mean now!” you let out in a nervous squeak, and Joel seemed to enjoy the way you shifted nervously in your seat.

He shrugged, “Alright then… you got time for coffee? Say… tomorrow mornin’?”

Ten to ten the next morning you met Joel for coffee.

Wanting to give him a good and professional impression – he could be your new employer after all ­­– you’d worn your brown three pieced suit with a purple paisley shirt under your suit vest. It made you feel strong– well usually, right now you couldn’t seem to shake the pre-interview nerves… Anyway, you were hoping your outfit would make Joel think you had your shit together – at least put together enough for him to hire you.

With eyes scanning the café, you found him at a table by the window, smoking a cigarette. When you approached him, heels clicking against the hardwood floor, he checked his watch.

“Ten minutes early!” he remarked with a grin.

“Reliability and punctuality are good qualities in a new employee, I’ve heard.” You shot him a shy smile before you placed your bag on the floor by your chair.

He hummed, watching you with an easy smile as you sat down opposite him while shedding your jacket. The white smoke danced in front of his face like coiling ribbons. Clad in a striped polo with a Johnny collar he’d tucked into a pair of Levi’s jeans, he relaxed in his chair, shifting slightly, and spreading his legs wider. The movement, like a reflex, drew your eyes to his lower half. His Levi’s were tight, held in place by a big western belt buckle, but it wasn’t his belt buckle that caught your attention.

“So…” he started. His voice startled you, and you flicked your eyes back to his face. His playful smile told you he’s caught you checking him out. Embarrassed, you looked past him, not daring to make eye contact as you fought the urge to cringe.

“How are ya?” he took another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth.

“I’m–I’m good thank you,” you gave him a nervous smile, the confidence from last night gone with the rise of the sun, “how are you?”

“I’m good too, sweetheart,” he nodded, “wanna have this interview…? Or should I just tell you now you’re hired?”

Perplexed, your eyebrows met in a furrow, “What do you mean?”

“Honey, I already decided last night I’d hire you,” he grinned with another drag of his cigarette.

“I–… I mean are you sure?” you stuttered, “I brought my resume and references and everything– don’t you want to take a look at them?” you wondered, a hand dropping to your bag to fish out your newly typed resume and references. You tapped the papers against the table before placing them neatly in front of him.

Retracting your hands, you rested them in your lap, while you watched him. He placed his cigarette in his mouth before he picked up your resume. His eyes scanned the paper, his head nodding slightly.

“Graduated high school in 1970… A year as a cashier at Piggly Wiggly…” he started listing, his cigarette dipping with each word, “A year at Greasy Motors?”.

“Um– yes!” you peeped, “It’s my uncle’s garage shop– I worked as their secretary,” you told him, picking at the skin around your nails.

“You any good with cars?” he asked, one eyebrow raised as he took one last drag of his cigarette.

“No–No not really… I just spoke to the customers, answered the phone and stuff like that.”

You’d wanted to learn some of the basics, but you’d quickly given up. None of the guys had taken you seriously, and they had made sure to let you know where your place was – it was not with your hands deep in an engine.

Joel hummed at your answer and stubbed out his cigarette. “And Mr. Cooper’s the one that fired ya?” he asked.

You gave him a short nod. Your pointer finger burned with pain as you pulled at a piece of skin you’d picked loose around your nail.

“Why?”,

“The honest answer?” you sighed, and he nodded.

“I don’t know,” you told him, “he just called me into his office at the end of the day and told me he was gonna have to let me go– I was honestly too shocked to ask him why.”

“Oof,” Joel frowned.

“Yeah,” you sighed, you didn’t know what else to say.

“Well… you’ve given me a great impression, both last night and right now, so you’ve got the job, sweetheart– if you want it.” He leaned back in his chair, letting your resume fall from his hands.

“It can’t be that easy, can it?” the words fell from your lips before you had time to think. Joel raised a curious eyebrow at you. “I mean what’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.”

He seemed to think about it for a beat, “Unless there is…” Joel’s lips tugged at the corners as he leaned over the table, “Remember I said I was an actor?” he asked, eyes boring into yours.

You gave him a skeptical nod.

“I’m an adult actor…” he lowered his voice, “You understand?” he asked before he leaned back in his seat again.

An adult actor. Your eyes widened with realization.

“Wait… you mean,” you looked around you before you leaned forward over the table like he’d just done, “you’re a pornstar?” you whispered, feeling your cheeks start to burn with embarrassment.

“Is that a problem for you?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Was it? Was it a problem for you?

The question tugged at the back of your neck. Tugged on your childhood, on your upbringing. You’d escaped; had your own apartment now, made your own money. You were trying to come into your own, to finally be your own person.

With teeth digging into your bottom lip, you looked at Joel. He watched you expectantly, head tipping slightly to the right as he studied you. There was no malice in his eyes, and nothing about him seemed grimy or obscene… Nothing about him screamed pornstar. If someone like him could do something so… unusual, for a job, maybe wasn’t so bad.

“No,” you decided, “it’s not a problem.”

“Groovy!” he grinned, “I’ll have my manager draw up a contract for you.”

And just like that you were officially Joel Miller’s, aka the infamous Joel Packer, personal assistant.

Joel sat on the tiled steps outside his house, smoking a cigarette, when you pulled up to the curb. He perked up when he saw you, grabbing his worn leather duffel bag before he waltzed down his driveway.

“Cab for Miller?” you joked through the rolled down window, ducking your head to peek up at him.

He chuckled at your joke, pinching his cigarette between two fingers for one last drag, before putting it out with a twist of his shoe. The smog laid low over LA this morning, like a blanket. It was gonna be a long day, and a long drive.

Letting out a small grunt, Joel got in your car. The smell of cigarettes and cologne – the smell of him – filled the space between you. He twisted around tossing his duffel bag into the backseat, and your eyes couldn’t help but land on his bicep, watching the way his muscles flexed under the weight. You felt a sudden urge to roll down the window a little further.

When he turned back around, the smooth wood of your steering wheel looked extremely interesting.

“Thanks for drivin’, sweetheart. My car’s still in the shop for ‘nother few days.”

The corner of your mouth twisted into a small smile, “No problem, Joel.”

“Are we all set?” he breathed out his question before his hands landed on his thighs with a dull smack!

“Um, yes, it’s just…” you turned to look at him. He was dressed casually in jeans and a Steely Dan concert tee – All-American Tour ’74 – with his yellow tinted pilot sunglasses tucked into his neckline.

“Just what, sweetheart?”,

“I picked up a package for you– it’s in the backseat,” you cocked your head in the direction.

“What is it?” he twisted back around, one hand searching for the cardboard box behind his seat.

Even in the smoldering LA heat, you couldn’t help but feel your cheeks heat up. “Um… it’s your package.”

“Yeah, I got that, honey– but what is it?” he asked again, twisting his hand back and placing the cardboard box in his lap.

You let out a small whine, “Don’t make me say it Joel– it’s your package.” You gestured a hand over your nether region.

Joel looked at you with a mischievous smile spreading across his face, “Oh, now I really wanna hear you say it,” he teased, hooking his finger under the tape.

“It’syourdick,” you said quickly, “–the dildo.”

In another step towards furthering Joel Packer’s success, he’d been asked to model for a sextoy. It’s no surprise he’d been asked. With the women’s liberation movement gaining more and more followers every day, more women had been exploring their own sexuality. Joel was popular with both men and women. He was like a chameleon when it came to porn. He knew just what to give, whether that would be hardcore porn, tossing his scene partners around and making them come until they couldn’t anymore; or doing full frontal nudity for a centerfold for Playgirl. 

With a drag of the tape, Joel laughed, his shoulders shaking. “I can’t believe you’re still shy about that stuff, sweetheart. You’ve been workin’ for me for how long now, huh? And you still can’t say dick to my face– what do you say to my business partners? Wiener?”

“I’m not shy,” you denied rather unconvincingly, making him shoot you an unimpressed look making you flutter. “I don’t know… it’s just different saying it to you!”

“Why?” he asked, pulling out the box with the dildo he’d modeled for.

Your eyes followed his hands, running over the pink packaging, the handsome photo they’d used of him on the front.

“I-I don’t know… it just is.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth as he hummed – not convinced. Instead, he opened the box, pulling out the sextoy. The company had sent him one before they’d hit the shelves at the end of the month. They were being advertised in Playgirl first – to build up the hype. The sextoy looked exactly like him, and at the same time, nothing like him. The size and shape were true to life (8 inches like they’d advertised on the box), but the color was wrong.

“This is so fuckin’ weird,” he laughed, turning it in his hand, “’s this what I look like?”

“The color looks wrong,” you pointed out. He looked over at you for a beat and then back to the sextoy.

“’s a little… plastic-y,” he commented, “and weird lookin’ without the balls…”

He put the dildo back in the box before he handed it to you. You shook your head and turned the car key, “Just put it back in the backseat.”

“No, ‘s not what I meant,” he nudged your arm with the box, “you have it.”

You were glad the car stood still because the shock of his words would’ve made you get in a car accident.

“Why?” you said, a little flustered.

“Exactly what do women do with a dildo, I wonder?” he teased, nudging your arm again.

“No, Joel, that’s just weird– you’re my boss.” You nudged him back before you put the car in drive.

“You prefer the real thing, then?” a teasing lilt still wrapped around his words.

“Shut up,” you huffed, focusing on driving instead.

“I’m just messin’, sweetheart!” he laughed and threw the box messily behind him.

Leaning forward, Joel pushed the play button on your car radio. The cassette deck whirled before a twangy sound of piano filled your car as you started cruising down the road. A few seconds later Joni Mitchell sang the opening lines of the title track ‘Court and Spark’.

“I need you in charge of the map,” you broke the silence between you after a few minutes, “I don’t know where the house is.”

He opened your glove compartment, pulling out your map of California. You focused on the road while he studied the map.

“Looks like we need to get on the 101– it should take about three hours, Ronald said.”

You hummed. Ronald was Joel’s manager. He’d represented Joel for as long as Joel’s been in porn. Ronald was sleazy, and gross, and you tried to only be in his presence when it was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, for you, Ronald was a good manager, and the reason why Joel Packer was as popular a pornstar as he was.

“When we get to Pismo Beach we’ll just stop and ask around for the address.” Joel said, folding the map.

Usually, Ronald was the one who came along to set with Joel. His reasoning being that there was business to attend to, and that he was supportive of his client, but you knew the real (pervy) reason. You on the other hand had only come along to set a few times. Quick to embarrassment, you’d quickly hid yourself away in Joel’s dressing room, claiming you had work you’d neglected to do.

This time, Ronald couldn’t make it because of scheduling conflicts. Joel was gonna go alone, but then his car had broken down on the 405. He needed a ride, and who else to ask other than the person he paid to help him out. The shoot was taking place at a beach house somewhere in Pismo Beach. You’d never been to Pismo Beach before, and neither had Joel. The booking agent had told you it was nice enough and secluded. Perfect for shooting a porno without bringing too much attention. 

Three hours later, you and Joel arrived at the shoot. The beach house was busy and filled with people working like ants to get the film set ready. The shoot was scheduled to last for one day, and as the time flew past 10am, you were starting to get short on time.

As soon as you stepped inside, they ushered Joel straight to make-up and wardrobe. Careful not to be in anybody’s way, you took a look around the house. It was beautiful. Newly built, not more than ten years old you guessed, and right on the beach. Warm wood tones lined the walls and floors, and on the ceilings, sturdy beams met in the middle. A leather couch with matching chairs was turned towards the big floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, and a cowhide rug decorated the floor. They’d set up a step ladder by the windows, all ready for the first scene.

You found Joel a moment later in one of the bedrooms sitting, in a chair as he got his make-up done. You noticed he’d already changed into his costume. A pair of overalls with nothing underneath, and a toolbelt hanging from his hips.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he greeted, his eyes trailing your body.

“Hi,” you smiled, “How you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

He looked at you, a pregnant pause passing between the two of you, “No, not right now.”

“Oh, okay!” you nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip, “Just let me know if there’s anything.”

You moved over to the bed where his clothes were spewed across the bedding. Trying to make yourself useful, you picked them up to fold them.

“D’you know if Tess is ready?” you heard him ask.

Tess was Joel’s scene partner for the day, and also his most frequent scene partner. They’d been in more films together over the past years than you could count, their chemistry always electric. Everything they did was just hot, and this time would be no exception. Tess was playing a neglected housewife all alone in her big beach house until carpenter Joel arrived to help her feel less alone with his tool(s).

“Um, no… I haven’t seen her at all– but I can go find out if you want?” you said, placing his folded t-shirt neatly on the bed.

“No, bless your heart, it’s okay,” he spoke slowly, watching the make-up artist pack up her things before telling him he’s all set.

Left alone with Joel he spoke again, “You gonna watch today?”

His question kicked your heart into gear, stuttering along like a teenager who can’t drive stick. “I-I don’t know yet,” you folded his jeans, “… do you want me to?”

You felt him move closer, but he didn’t answer you. Gathering your courage, you met his eyes. He was watching you with a soft look in his eye, a look he’d sent you more and more often lately.

Grabbing your wrist, his calloused fingers like a warm bracelet, he took his jeans from your hand and placed them down next to his t-shirt.

“I’d like that.”

He said it with a smile, and you couldn’t do anything other than nod.

Joel had started to make you feel lots of things lately. Warm fuzzy feelings bubbled under your skin, just like the warmth from his hand on your wrist right now. Joel was a flirt, cocky and confident. Your complete opposite. You weren’t as shy as you’d been at the start of your job, but you couldn’t help but still be shy around Joel sometimes. Especially when he smiled at you the way he was right now, or when you felt his touch on your body.

The first scene they shot was the intro. A cheesy scene where Joel got invited into Tess the housewife’s home. One too many innuendos about ‘tools’ later, you’d slipped away before lunch time to find the catering table, fixing up a plate for Joel and one for yourself. After lunch, the fun began as the director had said. 

“Hey, sweetheart?” Joel’s fingers brushed over the back of your arm, getting your attention. You were about to go sit in his director’s chair, to watch as you’d promised.

“Yeah, Joel?” you looked at him through your lashes, your face curious. You tried very hard to keep them on his face, and not to let them wander to the outline of his hard cock through his overalls.

“Could you go get me some lube?” he asked you, eyes pleading.

“Oh! Um–” you nervously perked up, “Yes, of course,” you nodded, turning around yourself on the spot like you were already on the lookout.

“Thanks!” His hand landed on your shoulder, turning you to focus back on him, fingers rubbed over the material of your shirt. He was smiling at you, a small glint in his eye as he took you in. It made something inside you flutter, your eyes eclipsing over.

“OK guys! Quiet on set!” the director called, pulling you and Joel from your moment. His hand fell from your shoulder, a sorry smile draped across his face.

Slipping away, you went on a hunt for lube. When you came back you were met with the deep grunts of Joel as he got his cock sucked. He was fully naked, standing at the edge of the bed with Tess naked and dutifully on her knees for him – pleasuring him to heaven by the looks of it.

“There you go, baby,” he praised Tess, his big hand entangled in her hair as he pushed himself deeper down her throat. “You like sucking cock, don’t you? Like cheating on your husband like the dirty fuckin’ whore you are, huh?”

You knew he was just reading off his lines, but he said them like he hadn’t practiced at all, it was all so natural. Stumbling backwards towards his director’s chair, you sat down. You felt drawn to the scene before you, caught up in the moment, in the sounds of Joel’s moans and Tess’ spluttering around his cock. Never had you allowed yourself to watch him this openly before – it sent an electric pulse to your core.

Tess gave him head for a few minutes more, filth and praises fell from Joel’s mouth as the cameraman dutifully got every angle. Mesmerized by the scene playing out before you, a small pit started to form in your stomach – a mixture of pleasure and… jealousy. You shifted in the chair at the thought of you on your knees for him instead, pleasuring him and pulling those moans from his lips. Wondering if the praising words he told Tess, would sound different if it was you he told them to instead. You didn’t realize how caught up in the sight in front of you until you heard someone call your name.

It was Joel.

Shaking yourself from your fantasy daydreaming, you pulled yourself together. They’d changed positions while the cameraman changed the film. Joel was now sat on his knees on the bed with his cock standing to attention. On her back, he had Tess’ legs parted and splayed open in front of him.

Why was he talking to you?

He called your name again, figuring you hadn’t heard him over the humming of conversation now filling up the set. You hopped off the chair and nervously scurried over to him.

“What’s up?” you whispered. Your eyes were glued to his face, not daring to glide them even an inch downwards.

He hooked his fingers around your thumb. On his face he was wearing the widest grin, “Could you grab me some water?”

His touch sent your brain into overdrive, your eyes blinking around his question, “Y-yes– I’ll be right back.” His touch fell, and you scurried away to find him some water before they started filming again.

Back, and with a bottle of water in your hand you allowed yourself one quick look at his naked body. His broad chest, the way his muscles moved underneath his tan skin. Your eyes raked over his body, down his stomach, trailing the happy trial down to his impressive cock.

“Okay, everybody– we’re all set!” The loud voice of the director made you jump. Joel handed back the bottled water, a rough hand wiping the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

If he’d clocked you checking him out, he didn’t show it. Instead, he got ready while you made your way back to his director’s chair. Tess said something you couldn’t quite catch, but it got his attention. He grinned from ear to ear, a quick look in your direction, before he playfully shook his head at her.

The next scene had you squirming in your seat.

With his head between her legs, Joel used both his mouth and fingers to pleasure her – and Tess was clearly enjoying herself. Her hands were digging into his hair, pushing him greedily down onto her pussy. High pitched, pornographic moans and whimpers escaped her. Joel was clearly enjoying himself too, moaning and groaning into her pussy as he ate her out greedily, making sure to pull every ounce of pleasure from her.

Tess came with a cry, withering breathlessly as she squirmed in Joel’s hold. He held her shaking legs in a tight grip, not letting up his licking and sucking until he’d pulled another orgasm from her. With a breathless laugh she pushed him away, big wide smile spreading as he peppered kisses to the inside of her thigh. You shifted slightly in your seat. An unmistakable wetness had gathered in your panties. You crossed your leg over the other, subtly.

With a tap to her thigh Joel encouraged Tess to turn over. He sat up, resting back on his heels as he stroked his cock languidly. Tess moved onto all fours, arching her back and putting herself on display for him. The camera moved in closer, a watchful eye, as Joel ran a finger through her folds.

“So wet for me, baby,” he said, replacing his fingers with the head of his cock. “This pussy’s been neglected, hasn’t it? ‘s just dying to be fucked.”

He thrusted inside her, burying himself in her pussy, moans and groans falling from both their lips. You felt the air stand still for a beat, before he pulled back and thrusted back inside. They quickly built up a rhythm, skin slap slap slapping, as their moans held the tune. They moved in sync. Joel kept up the pace, hands holding her waist firmly, while Tess met them with a breathy moan. When she gripped the sheets in pleasure, you wondered if it really felt as good as she let on, or if it was all just part of the show.

“Face the camera,” the director interrupted suddenly. He wanted a close up of Tess getting fucked.

Joel slipped out of her, the bright lights catching on his glistening cock. The sight of Tess’ arousal reminded you, and the bottle of lube in your lap, about your insignificancy. Joel quickly slipped back inside Tess, a hand gripping her shoulder as he picked up the pace again.

“Just like that, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good around my cock.”

You felt silly, the reality of what you’d just done settling in. Why on earth would you agree to watch Joel? Pornstar or not, he’s still your boss. Your longing for him to be something else, would never erase that fact.

Disappointment was a heavy rope tying you down. You needed to get out of there before you hurt your own feelings. Sliding out of the chair, you left the bottle of lube. Straightening out your suede skirt, let out a quiet sigh. You didn’t want to look at him, but something drew you to him either way.

You locked eyes immediately, his eyes were dark and intense. He picked up the pace, Tess almost screaming with pleasure underneath him, but his eyes still didn’t leave yours. You couldn’t look away. The world narrowed until the only thing you could see was him.

With a grunt and a firm thrust, Joel came inside her, mouth parted in pleasure and eyes never leaving yours.

Squeezed into a flimsy plastic chair, feet planted steadily in front of him, Joel sat smoking a cigarette by the pool. Ripples of blue swam across his face, before giving way to the soft warmth of the burning cigarette. He looked deep in thought as you got out of your car, a plastic bag of take-out swinging from your hand. You slammed the door shut, jolting Joel from his thoughts. The evening wind softly kissed your bare arms as you walked across the parking lot to the fenced in pool area.

The shoot had run long and by the time it was over, it was late. Joel was tired, and when he’d suggested you stay at a motel for the night, you’d been quick to agree. Watching the darkening sky, you’d started to dread the three-hour drive back to LA – you’d rather wait for daylight.

Situated right off the main road Joel had spotted a Motel 6 with the neon ‘Vacancy’ light humming. With tired steps you’d walked together towards the lobby, and the lady at the desk didn’t look up from her magazine when you and Joel approached. Behind her, coming through the door to the back office, you heard a laugh track.

Joel turned on his southern charm, “’Scuse me, ma’am.”

The receptionist still didn’t look up from her magazine.

“Do y’all have two rooms vacant?”

With a sigh, the woman looked up at him, peering over her glasses. “We only have one Queen left.” She smacked her lips together obnoxiously as she spoke, a piece of gum visible in her teeth.

Joel looked over at you, one eyebrow raised. Crossing your arms over your chest, you didn’t know what to say. If they only had one room, they only had one room. You tapped your foot restlessly, made a face like you were thinking it over before you gave Joel a short but affirmative nod. He watched you for another beat, before he turned back around to say, “We’ll take it.”

The room was nothing much; a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room, two chairs and a table tucked into one corner, and a door leading to a small bathroom. First thing Joel did was find a place to put his bag. You didn’t have a bag, only your handbag, you hadn’t planned on not sleeping in your own bed tonight. Joel, on the other hand, always brought a change of clothes to set. He’d told you once he didn’t like to leave in the same clothes he’d arrived in.

As you closed in on Joel by the pool you realized he was still wearing his clothes from this morning. He’d told you he wanted to shower, so you’d gone out to get you both some dinner to give him some privacy. Now you wondered if he’d even had his shower.

“Hungry?” you asked, putting the plastic bag down on the round table beside him.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, watching you through a cheeky smile, “Starvin’.”

“The only thing open was the roadside diner, so I’m afraid it’s greasy burgers.” 

Joel gave you a shrug as you sat down, “Works for me.”

You ate in silence – sloshing coming from the pool and the cicadas hiding in the bushes, filled the air instead. When Joel finished his burger, and started on his fries, he looked up at you.

“So, what’d you think?” he asked you. You were silent for a second, before you looked down at the burger in your hand.

“Er...” you hesitated, not sure what he wanted you to say, “It’s not bad... meat’s a little dry, but–”

Joel interrupted your train of thought with a deep chuckle.

“I meant the porno, darlin’,” he said, using one of the napkins to wipe the corners of his mouth, “not the burger.” A smile pulled at his lips.

“Oh,” you said, and felt your cheeks fire up in embarrassment. You swallowed, buying yourself some time before you gave him a shrug.

“Was good,” you said, clearing your throat awkwardly, “I’m sure your fans will love it!”

“I wasn’t askin’ about them,” Joel said. His gaze felt like it was piercing through you, “Was askin’ you, wasn’t I? Did you like it?”

Despite the desperate embarrassment firing through your veins, you raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking me about porn over dinner?”

“Fair point,” he said with a nod, “You’re deflecting, though.”

A small chuckle escaped you, a smile tugging on the corner of your mouth as you shook your head and looked away for a second.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked him, looking back at him, “It’s porn, I’m human... of course I liked it.”

Bingo.

You can see from the corners of Joel’s smile that he’s happy with that answer, and he lets out an agreeing hum.

“See?” he said, his tone teasing, “Was that so hard to admit?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said through a small scoff, pushing your styrofoam container away from you as you fell back in your chair.

“I am–… what was your favorite part?”

He was grinning hard now. He dug a hand in his back pocket, fishing out his packet of cigarettes and his lighter. You watched him with your head tilted, waiting for him to let you off the hook like he usually did. Instead, he grinned even wider, small splutters of breathy giggles making the cigarette dip as he tried to light it.

“Gimmie that!” you commanded, reaching out your hand for his cigarette. With a surprised eyebrow he took a quick drag before he handed it over. He watched you quietly as you took a breath. Savoring the first tar-y breath filling up your lungs.

“I liked the way you…” you took another drag and exhaled through your nose, “I don’t know…” you handed him the cigarette.

“I’m waitin’,” he teased, making you playfully roll your eyes at him.

“Well,” you sighed, “I liked the way you’re so attentive and made sure she’s feeling good even though it’s acting and everything… Even when you’re like throwing her around, all in charge and stuff.” You waved away the words.

“Yeah, well, that is the most important part of sex,” he gave you a look. Suddenly, he was a little serious. “It’s not fun if she’s not havin’ fun.”

“Not every guy thinks like that, you know,” you spoke, “it’s really nice that you do.”

Joel hummed at your words before a comfortable silence fell over you. You listened to the buzzing cicadas and the burning of Joel’s cigarette every time he took a drag.

“And… the dirty talk was hot too– you’re good at that,” you mused after a moment, breaking the silence, feeling comfortable enough with Joel to tell him the truth. He doesn’t judge you about what you think was sexy, and you realized it felt nice to open up to somebody, to let your suffocating shame die.

“Now, darlin’,” you could hear the smile in his voice, “now you’re just strokin’ my ego.”

“I can stroke more than your ego.”

Joel choked on his cigarette, coughing around the smoke before he looked over at you with wide eyes. “Am I goin’ crazy, or did you just tell a dirty joke?”

Your giggle filled the air between you before you leaned forward for his cigarette again. You brought it to your mouth as you impishly shrugged. Inside, you buzzed with a fluttery feeling. 

You smiled at him. “I don’t know– you tell me.”

He playfully narrowed his eyes at you, leaning over the table to get a good look at you, “I’m not sure I’m likin’ this… where’s my sweet girl, huh?”

My sweet girl.

Your heart skipped like stones over water, and you had to look away. A smile blooming across your face. You heard him let out a sweet chuckle before he stood from his chair. The plastic feet scraping ever so slightly against the concrete. You watched him as he stepped before you, squatting down to be at eye level with you, his big hand landing on your exposed knee to steady himself.

“She’s still here,” you whispered after a moment. The cigarette between your fingers was burning out, but your whole body felt like it was on fire, a burning spreading from under his touch.

“I know she is, sweetheart,” he whispered back, his fingers rubbing gently over your skin. Joel looked at you with attentive eyes, “I love how shy you get for me.”

Before you had time to process his words, he pinched the cigarette from your fingers and stood to his feet. “Let’s call it a night?” he asked you, offering up his hand for you to take.

Feeling brave, you took his hand. It dwarfed your own, but it was strong, and warm in your hold. You watched as Joel finished off the cigarette, and stumped it out in the ashtray on the table, before gathering up your trash. You walked back to your room, hands intertwined and swinging between you. You couldn’t shake the thought of how you wished he’d kissed you.

Back inside your room he let you use the bathroom first. It was small, and the air was damp. You could see droplets of water clinging to the shower curtain. Joel did shower after all, he’d rinsed the day off into the drain. With no toiletries, you made do with what the motel offered. A bar of soap was sufficient enough to remove your make-up, but you knew your skin would punish you for it later. After brushing your teeth, you stepped back out where Joel waited for you on the bed.

“I’ve got a spare shirt if you wanna borrow it.” He held up his hand, handing you the clean cotton shirt he’d packed.

“Thanks,” you smiled shyly.

He watched you for a beat, his eyes soft, but tired. “And I’ll sleep in one of the chairs– don’t want ya worryin’ about nothin’.”

Shaking your head, you protested, “No, Joel, you’ve had a long day! I’ll sleep in the chair!”

This time he shook his head, a small chuckle escaping his mouth, “No, darlin’, you’re drivin’ tomorrow, remember? You’ll need your rest.”

Your eyebrows met in a furrow. He was right; you couldn’t do the drive back to LA tomorrow on no sleep, but you couldn’t live with yourself if he didn’t get any sleep either.

“Let’s just…” you trailed off, “You’re tired, I’m tired– let’s both sleep in the bed?” you suggested.

Crawling under the sheets clad in only your underwear and Joel’s t-shirt, you wondered if you were being unprofessional. This was technically a work trip. Joel was still your boss. You looked over at him where he sat on the edge with his back turned, fiddling with the alarm clock. Your eyes trailed over his bare back, tan and strong. You knew you could stare at him all night.

It was official: you’d left professional at the door.

Finally, the alarm clock set for tomorrow morning, Joel put it back on the nightstand. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he caught your eyes on his body. It made him smile.

“Joel? Can I ask you something?”

He got under the sheets, his foot grazing against yours as he got comfortable. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Can you turn off the light?”

“You needn’t ask me if you can ask me, to turn off the light,” he laughed, “you can just say ‘Joel, turn off the light’.”

You scrunched your face together. This was coming out all wrong. “No, I mean… I don’t think I can ask you my question with the lights still on.”

He looked you over with a warm smile before he leaned over and turned off the light on his nightstand. “There… what you want to ask me?”

Even bathed in darkness, you hesitated to speak. “Um… I guess…” you started, not knowing how to ask what you wanted to ask. You turned over on your back and stared at the ceiling, cursing the return of your shyness.

Joel waited for you patiently to gather your courage.

“How much… of porn, is fake?” you finally uttered.

Joel turned to his side, facing you, “What do you mean?”

“Like… when– when the girls…” You couldn’t say it.

“Come?”, he helped.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “is that real or… like– do they actually like it?”

“Right…”

Joel thought about your question, “’s hard to say… I mean mostly it’s real– at least in my experience– like I can feel it around my cock or fingers… but everybody has off days, and not everybody can come from penetration.”

Mostly it’s real. You went quiet, silently thinking about his answer as you stared a hole in the ceiling. Not everybody can come from penetration.

“Why you askin’ me this, sweetheart?” He shifted a little closer.

You pulled your hands from under the sheets, resting them over your chest. Your thumb on your right hand found your thumb on the left where it picked at the skin.

“Huh?”

“I­– I don’t know… it’s silly.”

“No, ‘s not– you’re not silly, sweetheart.” He shifted a little closer, a reassuring hand falling over your own and stopping you from picking at your fingers.

You didn’t say anything, and you didn’t look at him either. You felt silly. You’d just complimented him earlier about how attentive he comes across in bed, and now you’re asking him if any of it was even real. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Joel asked, breaking the silence between you.

Nodding your head, you hummed.

“Are you a virgin?”

His question almost made you jump. Suddenly, his previously calming hands over yours felt heavy. A fire started in your cheeks. You were mortified, and it felt crazy. If you were back home right now, you’d be mortified to tell anyone you weren’t a virgin seeing as you were unmarried. Now, with Joel, you felt mortified he thought you were one.

“No,” you peeped. It would’ve sounded like a lie if it wasn’t the truth. “W-what makes you say that?” You finally looked at him, your eyes wide as saucers.

Unconvinced, he gave you a lopsided smile, “How many have you slept with?”

“How many have you slept with?” you mumbled.

“Honey, we both know that I’ve slept with way too many to count.” He said it with a teasing lilt to his voice, and a comforting rub of his thumb over the back of your hand. His small touch was enough to relax you, to bring you back from the ledge of mortification. This was Joel for god’s sake. He would never judge you; you knew that.

“One…” you whispered, “Only one person.”

With a hum, Joel shifted over to lay on his back, but his thumb still rubbed circles over your skin. “So– you’re asking me this ‘cause it was bad?” he mused.

“I don’t know… maybe,” you whispered.

“You don’t know if it was bad– or you don’t know why you’re askin’ me if women enjoy sex?”

“The latter,”

“So, it was bad,” he concluded, before he whispered, mostly to himself.

The silence was back, speaking loudly between the two of you as you both processed what the other had just said. After a beat Joel turned back on his side to face you again.

“Tell me– how bad was it?” He said it softly, a tenderness in his voice you hadn’t heard before.

“It just… it hurt.”

You sighed, and for the first time since the light went out you turned your head to look at him. “John–” your face scrunched up in a grimace as you spoke his name, like you couldn’t believe you were telling him this story. “He worked in accounting, and we were going around, you know? Went on a few dates. He was a sweet guy. After the third date we went back to his place, for a drink. He kissed me– and then we were making out, and during everything I just thought ‘This might as well happen’. I thought I wanted to lose my virginity… and I liked John– so why not. But then he just… pulled off my underwear, didn’t even touch me and… went to town.”

Joel sucked a breath through his teeth, his hand gripping yours a little tighter. “Did you– have you ever had an orgasm?”

You shifted uncomfortably under his question and turned your head back towards the ceiling again. “Yes,” you whispered.

Joel moved a little closer, and you felt your body dip towards him from his weight against the mattress. His hand resting over yours traveled down your arm, and under the sheet.

“By your own hand then,” he said it more like a statement than a question.

You felt your heart beat out of your chest, as something in the air between you shifted. Underneath the covers your body burned. Sucking in a breath, you held it for a moment before you nodded.

“Show me.”

His hand grazed over your waist, fingers dancing over the exposed skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of your panties. You reveled in it, his touch, his proximity, his gentle kiss to your shoulder. You looked at him, searched his face for any indication that he was just messing with you.

“No? Ain’t feelin’ it?” He’d watched you too, you realized.

He withdrew his hand from your waist, and you panicked, “No!”

He stopped, instead hovering his hand over your body. “No, you ain’t feelin’ it, or no, don’t stop?” he asked you.

You panicked again. “Yes!” you said before your eyebrows met in a furrow, “I-I’m sorry, this isn’t very sexy.”

Joel withdrew his hand from your body, and your disappointment sank like a rock in water, but then he cupped your jaw and you forgot to breathe.

“Forget about sexy, sweetheart,” he told you, a calloused thumb rubbing against your skin, “not that you ain’t sexy– you are, but I need you to relax, okay?”

You nodded, and a smile spread wide across his face,

“Good girl.”

You almost mewled at the praise, and he noticed, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

“You liked that, huh?” he teased, rubbing his thumb softly over your lower lip, “Y’like being a good girl for me?”

You found it hard to think with him so close, breathless when he touched you like this. You nodded slowly; moony eyes fixated on him. Like a reflex, your legs rubbed together under the sheets, aching to relieve the pressure building.

“You’re so sweet, baby­– and shy,” his voice was low, like he was afraid someone would hear him. Slowly he leaned closer, pressing the softest kiss to your neck. A quiet whimper fell from your lips.

You felt Joel’s smile against your skin, teeth nipping as he pressed kiss after kiss to your sensitive skin. “You make my cock so fuckin’ hard.”

“Joel,” you finally choked out, a wet patch already soiling your panties.

“Yes?” he took your earlobe in his mouth, gently biting down on it before letting it go. You couldn’t think – at least not about something that wasn’t Joel and his touch.

“P-please kiss me?” you tried, your hand landing on his shoulder.

His breath puffed against your skin in a small chuckle, before he lifted his face from his new home in the crook of your neck. He found your blown out face, watching you with a tenderness in his eye. A beat passed and then he leaned closer, brushing his lips over yours. Your hand on his shoulder followed his neck to cup his face, keeping him close to you. His hand pushed gently at the sheets, revealing your upper body to him. The kiss was tender and slow, your noses pressed together. He pulled you apart and then put you together again. One of his hands trailed along the hem of your – his – t-shirt where he pushed at the fabric, bunching it just below your breasts. You broke apart.

“Was that all you wanted, sweet girl? Just a kiss?” His forehead touched your own, words low and taunting. You slowly shook your head, eyes still locked with Joel’s. His hand moved methodically, trailing down your stomach until it reached…

Your breath hitched in your throat.

“No?” he asked with a teasing grin, “What do you want then, sweetheart?”.

He already knew. His open palm cupped you over your soaked panties, the breadth of it pressing firmly down on your clit. You mewled under him, hips bucking up to meet his hand.

“Nah-ah,” he lifted his head from your forehead, dark eyes boring into yours. “You need to show me.”

Joel had started a dangerous fire inside of you. It lapped at your insides, burned away your insecurities, and replaced them with lust. With a shaky hand, your hand found Joel’s. His eyes were still locked on you ­– his gaze burning your cheek and branding you his.

“There you go,” he praised, letting you guide his hand up and down your clothed cunt, feeling your arousal seep through the fabric, “good girl.”

You guided him to your clit, pressing the pads of his finger down on it in tight circles. You were so sensitive – on edge since you watched him filming earlier – a small moan fell from your lips.

“Feels good doesn’t it, baby, getting your clit rubbed.”

“Yes…” Joel drew another moan from you.

Your grip around his hand loosened, and Joel took over. With a practiced hand he circled his fingers just right. He started with a steady pace and tight circles, before he put more pressure on your aching bud. He was bringing you closer and closer to the edge, coaxing small whimpers and breathy moans from your lips as you got more and more lost in the pleasure he was giving you.

“Have you ever fingered yourself, sweetheart?” he asked you, dipping his hand beneath your panties. A bold finger ran through your folds, a finger teasing at your entrance.

Your front teeth caught your lower lip, and you had to bite down to suppress a moan. It was hard to concentrate on what he was asking you when he was touching you like that.

“Y-yes, but…” you trailed off, feeling his finger, now coated in your arousal, back on your clit. It made your brain go blank.

“But what, sweet girl?” he pulled his hand from your panties, and you whined.

A wet trail followed him up your stomach. When you made no move to answer, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Leaning closer he pressed a short but tender kiss to your lips; his mustache tickled your cupid’s bow.

“It’s too messy,” you said when he pulled back, shaking your head.

“Yeah? You’ve got a messy pussy, sweetheart?”

Joel leaned down again, pressing soft fluttering kisses down your throat. When he reached the collar of your shirt, he pulled at the fabric, exposing your collarbone to his kisses. Your hands found his hair, tethering you to the moment.

“Yes,” you whispered, heat burning your cheeks at the confession he pulled from you.

With a wide grin, Joel sat up. His fingers found the hem of your shirt. He helped you pull it over your head, exposing your naked chest to him. Not even a second later he was back to kissing his way down your body, worshiping you with every press. You burned under him, every kiss like a small death.

Shifting on the bed, he settled between your legs. His mustache tickled the skin on your tummy, making you giggle. You felt Joel’s smile against your skin, at the sound of your fluttering laugh. He let his lips brush over your skin, trailing downwards to the top of your panties where he pressed a kiss, teeth pulling at the small bow like you were a present to be unwrapped, before his fingers hooked around the elastic. With a lift of your hips, you let him pull off your panties. The wet spot in the center clung to your cunt, as he peeled them off.

“Fuck,” he cursed, “wanna taste you, baby, wanna taste that messy pussy.”

With his fingers back on your cunt, you jumped a little under his touch. The air filled with a slick sound of your arousal as he ran them through your folds, a finger teasing your entrance.

“Relax for me baby,” he soothed, gently pressing kisses to the soft skin of your inner thigh, “I’ll take care of you.”

Looking down at him between your legs, you let yourself go. His eyes bored into yours. Warmth and lust, and nothing but affection behind them.

You nodded, “Please.”

A wide grin blossomed across Joel’s face as he leaned down, hovering just above your clit. He ducked forward, pressing the softest kiss to your clit, taking it slow and easing you into it with slow licks. You couldn’t help the whimpers escaping you, a needy sound desperate for more – more Joel. He pinned you down with his arm splayed over your tummy, keeping you right where he wanted you, turning you into a withering moaning mess under him.

Joel continued exploring you with his tongue. Changing between flicking and lapping at your clit, circling it just right, and wrapping his lips around it, giving it gentle sucks. He lapped at your folds, the hook of his nose catching on your clit as he tasted you properly. You felt yourself pushed closer and closer towards the edge, coxed by Joel.

Two careful fingers spread you apart, gliding up and down, coated in your arousal. He easily found your entrance to push a finger carefully inside. You felt yourself clench down on him; you couldn’t help it. You were so sensitive and so close. Dropping your mouth open, a breathy moan escaped.

“Oh, fuck,”

Joel hummed against your pussy, the vibrations traveling straight to the coil tightening in your tummy. Slowly, he started thrusting his finger inside, rewarded by a slick sound, telling him just how wet and desperate you were for him. With a moan your head rolled back into the pillow – you were so close.

“Joel,” you panted.

His tongue continued his assault on your clit, and you lost yourself in him. You clamped down on his finger with every thrust. You didn’t know how much longer you could take it. Joel was so focused on you, so attentive, so responsive. Between your legs he drank in every twist of pleasure and whimpering moan.

“Joel,” you panted again.

“You’re gonna come for me aren’t you, sweetheart? Be a good girl and make a mess on my face.” he coaxed.

Joel quickly withdrew his finger to slip in another, and the new stretch had your legs shaking. His tongue circled your clit, sucking it with just the right amount of pressure. Underneath him you squirmed, breathy moans hitching in your throat.

“Oh, god,”

You couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t take it anymore.

With a silent cry, you came. His strong arm over your tummy held you down, as you twitched against the mattress, legs shaking. You’d never felt anything like this before. A pleasure so all-consuming you couldn’t remember your name, or where you were – only Joel. He helped you through it. His fingers kept up their pace, pads brushing right up against that spot of bliss, as you clenched down hard around them. You gripped the sheets, desperate for a lifeline as you came down.

Joel slowed down his fingers, pressing soft kisses to your clit. Your pleasure turning to overstimulation – now you definitely couldn’t take it anymore. Fragile and sensitive, you pushed him away with a shaky hand.

He let you push him around, his lips finding the inside of your thighs instead, where his mustache teased the sensitive skin. With one last kiss, Joel pulled away. You almost didn’t register the dip in the mattress as he laid down beside you. You were somewhere else entirely, floating away on a post-orgasm-cloud.

“Joel, shit, I…” you tried to speak, your voice hoarse with exhaustion.

“I know, sweetheart,” Joel answered. He pulled you closer, wrapping a hand around you. Slowly, you turned to your side, engulfed in Joel’s embrace.

“D-did you want to–”

You could feel the presence of his hard clothed cock pressed against your ass, but his big safe arms around you told you a different story. He nosed at the back of your neck, pressing fluttering kisses to the skin, making goosebumps erupt.

“No, darlin’, not tonight,” his voice was just above a whisper, the bass vibrating against your ear.

“Are you sure­? I-I mean– we can if you want to,” you spluttered. He’d just given you the best orgasm in your life, he shouldn’t have to go to bed without one for himself.

“Not tonight,” he said, pressing a kiss behind your ear, “It’s been a long day– I’m tired, you’re tired­… let’s just sleep, my sweet girl.”

“S-should we talk about this?” you asked, your hand slipping into his, pressing it against your naked chest.

“In the mornin’,” he hummed, voice coated in sleep.

With heavy eyelids, you fell asleep in Joel’s arms. The safety of being wrapped up in him, lulled you into a peaceful slumber. The motel bed was hard and uncomfortable, and the pillow thin and flimsy, but it didn’t matter in Joel’s arms.

Morning came too quickly, and with a screeching sound of an alarm clock that pulled you from heaven. Jolting awake behind you, Joel groaned. His hands slipped from your body; the warmth exchanged with prickling goosebumps. You shifted over on your back, watching as Joel turned off the alarm. The beeping stopped, and with a tired grunt Joel laid down back beside you. When he looked at you – his tired eyes glinting – a sleepy smile pulled at his lips.

“Mornin’,”

“Good morning, Joel” you smiled back.

“It is a good mornin’, isn’t it?” he hummed, turning on his side.

You mirrored him, shifting closer and resting your head on his pillow. He snaked a hand over the dip in your waist, big hand splaying over your naked back.

“It is,” you agreed, locking eyes with him.

Rubbing in slow circles, his hand on your back was soothing. You reveled in it, reveled in Joel, in the bliss of being so close to him. You shifted even closer, resting your forehead to his chest.

“You should probably fire me,” you mumbled into his skin, “I’ve been extremely unprofessional.”

A chuckle came from deep inside Joel, it vibrated through his skin, where you felt it under your fingertips.

“I ain’t firin’ my best employee,” he laughed, placing a dry kiss to the top of your head.

You pulled away with a frown, head back on your own pillow. “This is like the cliché of clichés, Joel– sleeping with your assistant…”

In the bright light of the day, you cursed yourself for your late-night moment of weakness. You’ve never done anything like this before. What if this will be all that Joel wants from you from now on? You don’t think your heart could take it if it was.

Joel’s laugh died in his throat, his eyebrows meeting in a frown. “Who said anything about sleepin’ with my assistant?”

Your eyes widened with mortification. Shit. A hand came up to rub at your face, as you sat up, pulling the sheets around you.

“Hey, no, sweetheart,” Joel grabbed at your hand, stopping you in your tracks.

You couldn’t look at him – afraid tears would push behind your eyes. He’s a pornstar, what were you thinking? You were just a girl. A girl to warm his bed for a night. How could you put your job on the line for something like this?

The sheets rustled as he shifted closer, “Please, lay down, I need to talk to you.”

“Joel, I-I’m sorry– w-we can just forget about it– I’ll quit, don’t worry about it– me, don’t worry about me,” you stuttered out, your back still turned.

“I ain’t forgettin’ about nothin’, sweetheart– shit, d’you think I do this often?”

His question made you turn around. He was propped up on his elbow, carefully watching you.

You nodded, and he sighed.

“It’s been years since I’ve slept with someone outside of work,” he confessed, “Shit, I don’t even seek it out, I ain’t interested in it.”

“I-I’m sorry Joel, I­–” you started, but he cut you off,

 “You’re not listenin’,” he shook his head, “what I’m sayin’ is: I wanna sleep with you.”

Your face scrunched up in a confused frown, “Because I’m someone from work?”

Joel let out a breathless chuckle, “No, sweetheart, ‘s because I think you’re beautiful.”

His words almost didn’t register.

“What?”

This time his laugh is loud and golden, coated in happiness. He pulled at your hand, and you fell, your back hitting the sheets.

“You are…” he emphasized, cupping your cheek, and guiding you back in his embrace. “And you’re a shy little thing, aren’t you? But so smart, and kind, and caring­– someone you can’t help but fall in love with.”

“Fall in love with?” you repeated, you couldn’t believe what he was telling you.

“Yeah, sweet girl,” he smiled at you, all teeth, and crinkles around his eyes in the morning light.

“Oh,”

“Yeah,” he laughed, guiding your face closer to his, his lips brushing over yours, “wanna make you mine, sweetheart.”

His kiss stole your breath and twisted you up inside. He licked at the seam, and you opened yourself to him. He licked into your mouth, one arm snaked around your body, drawing you closer, pulling whine after desperate whine from you and stealing your breath.

Landing on your hip, his hand traveled downwards – over the thick of your thigh, and down the inside in smooth motions. He tugged on your leg, pulling it to rest over his hip, his hard cock rutting into your bare heat. His kiss got more desperate; his tongue melded with yours. It was hot, and dizzying and all-consuming all at the same time.

You grinded against him, feeling his hard cock against you. The fabric of his underwear caught on your clit, rubbing it just right, your arousal darkening the fabric. You moaned into his mouth, a desperate need for Joel building deep in your stomach.

With a rut of his hips, he broke away from your kiss. “You want me to fill up this perfect little pussy, don’t you baby?” His hand on your cheek disappeared between your bodies.

“Yes,” you tried to say, but the words got stuck in your throat when you felt the head of Joel’s cock rub up and down your folds. Your heavy breathing, the slick sound of your arousal the only sound in the room.

“Listen’ baby, y’hear how wet you are for me?” he whispered in awe, the head of his cock caught on your clit. You braced yourself with a hand to his shoulder, breathy pants the only sounds leaving your lips.

“You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” he chuckled. He let go of the grip around his cock, the sound of it slapping against his stomach obscene. A beat later he swiped his fingers through your folds, coating them in your arousal before drawing tight circles to your clit.

Your face squeezed shut in pleasure, your fingers dug into his shoulder. He eased a finger inside, before he quickly pulled out and added another. The stretch of his fingers was easy, your arousal dripping over his knuckles as he thrusted them inside with ease.

You grinded down on his hand, meeting his thrusts, forcing his fingers deeper inside. Always so attentive, Joel curled his fingers where they hit your spot perfectly, just like he’d done last night. A breathy squeal fell from your lips.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let me hear you,” he egged you on.

“Joel, please,” you panted. Sparks traveled through your body, collecting in a pit in your stomach where it coiled in on itself, aching for release.

He curled his fingers again, and hit your spot – his palm snug against your throbbing clit, “Fuckin’ perfect you are, darlin’, so tight and wet around my fingers.”

“Shit,”

He pushed you straight for the edge, your walls fluttered around his fingers. Your panting got heavier, your eyes squeezed shut, you’re so close. Joel chuckled, his breath puffing your face and he… pulled away.

You whined at the emptiness, opening your eyes to see him staring at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

He cupped your jaw, “Poor baby,” he pouted before he pulled you in for a kiss. You sighed into him, desperate to feel him anyway he wanted.

“Turn around,” he ordered against your lips, his hand letting go of your jaw to tap at the top of your hip.

You did as he told you, turning around in his hold to press your ass against him, feeling his hard cock pressed against you. Behind you, you heard him let out a deep and guttural groan. His hand hooked under your thigh, lifting it to your chest and exposing your wet and desperate cunt for him. You let him manhandle you into the position he wants, trusting him to know what’ll feel the best.

He guided the tip of his cock through your soaked folds coating it in your arousal before grazing it over your throbbing clit.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he whispered in your ear, like a hiss. He lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you, and himself.

“I-I need it, Joel, please,” you begged, a hand clinging to the sheets.

“Yeah? You need it, sweetheart? Need this big cock to fill you up?” he asked, pushing just the tip inside.

“Joel, please, please,” you whimpered, almost a squeak. In one fluid motion he pushed inside, burying himself to the hilt inside you. The stretch of him was overwhelming, but the angle had you seeing stars.

“Ah– fuck,” you cried, your eyes immediately squeezing shut. Your hand searched for his where it held your leg to your chest. You needed to anchor yourself to him, afraid you’d fall apart right there and then.

“You alright sweetheart?” you heard him whisper in your ear, and you nodded slightly, “Feel good?”

“Yes, Joel,” you whimpered, mouth dipping open in pleasure. 

Behind you he groaned into your ear, cursing in hushed whispers. “That’s it, good fuckin’ girl, takin’ all that cock inside,” he pulled out nearly all the way, taking his time with it, moving with practiced motions.

“Shit,” you mewled as he bottomed out inside for the second time. Grinding against your ass, he pushed himself as deep as he possible could – you felt him in your fucking stomach, he was so deep.

“You can take it, sweetheart,” he told you, pulling out and thrusting back inside.

Picking up the pace, Joel started fucking into you deep and hard. With each grind of his hips against your ass, with every thrust, he made sure to bury his thick cock as deep inside as he could, angling his cock expertly so the head rubbed up against your spot. Behind you he grunted and moaned in your ear. It was sweaty and hot, and sticky between your legs.

He let go of your leg, ordering you to press it to your chest, as his hand traveled downwards to brush his fingers over your throbbing clit.

“Joel,” you mewled. He pulled a symphony of whimpers and moans from you with every thrust.

“This pussy’s so fuckin’ tight– shit,” he panted in your ear, “You’re so good for me baby, takin’ that cock so well.”

His fingers pressed down on your clit, drawing tight circles, pushing you towards the edge of bliss. You squirmed against him, hips meeting his with every thrust as you start to chase your fast approaching orgasm.

“Need you to come for me, sweetheart– squeeze that cock like a good girl.”

“Joel,” you cried and let go. Your walls fluttered around his cock as you came, back arching off his chest, as your body squirmed and shook in his arms. Breathy gasps and pathetic whimpers left your lips as he kept up his unrelenting pace, fucking you through it, and prolonging your high.

You were far away. Blissed and fucked out as you came down from your moment of ecstasy. Behind you Joel’s grunts bordered on desperate, as his thrusts started to become sloppy.

“Shit, sweetheart– m’close, so fuckin’ close.”

“Come for me Joel,” you pleaded.

“Fuck,” he grunted as he pulled out.

His hand was on you in an instance, pushing you to your stomach as he turned you around. He knelt over you, fisting his cock desperately. Turning your head, you pushed off the bed to look over your shoulder where you found his eyes, locking them with his. Joel came with a guttural moan, the muscles in his stomach tightening and loosening as he coated your ass in his cum. It was hot and sticky on your back, feeling it drip slowly down the side of your waist.  

“God damn,” he breathed out through a chuckle. His breath was heavy, like he’d just climbed ten stories.

You turned to your side to look up at him properly. He looked beautiful; his hair messy from sleep, broad chest heaving, a content smile pulling at his lips as you gave him a smile.

“Took the words straight out of my mouth.”

i hope you liked this! part two -> here

© shellshocklove, 2023 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[signedkoko]

HEHEHHEE OPEN REQUESTS???

Hello koko! I was summoned by your open requests, and I just had an idea, how about headcanons/one shot for Alastor and Vox (separately) with a reader who has powers a bit like Toge Inumaki in JJK?( I saw that you were watching JJK so I assume you know how his powers works) like what do they think about it? how do they react when reader uses her powers? How they communicate with her?

THANKS FOR READING MY REQUEST DEAR KOKO! HAVE A GOOD DAY/NIGHT

-🐚

Alastor | Vox X Reader [Romantic]

In which your speech causes action, so you can't speak unless you wish to control others. Reader is female.

When you first came to the hotel, Alastor was not impressed

You were certainly a gorgeous sight, but it was ruined by the device in your hands that you had your nose buried in, screen lighting ruining your face

It took him quite a while when he heard strings of words emanating from the device to realize you were speaking through it, your fingers pressing on keys faster than he could follow

You introduced yourself to everyone that day, as a new hire for the hotel, and how you couldn't speak but hoped it wouldn't get in the way

He was certainly irked by the device in your hands, but it was funny to see someone so weak that they had to rely on a flimsy device made by an even flimsier overlord

Truly a shame

You learn the hard way not to get too close to him while using your device, or else it starts to act up and get damaged

Alastor still spoke to you; of course he did! Because he was amused knowing you couldn't retort

But eventually, without noticing, he would talk more and more, filling every aspect of the silence between you

You were the best listener, both since you had no choice and because you didn't give any shitty advice

The only thing that weirded him out was the weird clicking he started to hear around you

Something about it was so familiar

J-E-R-K-J-E-R-K-J-E-R

When he looked down at your hand and saw a clicker in your hand, he realized what you were doing

Of course he knew morse code by heart! He studied all sorts of things, but he wasn't sure why you'd do things that way when you had a much easier device

Unless you did it just for him?

R-K-J-E-R-K-J

" And who are we calling names, my voiceless companion? "

Y-O-U

Still, it's very touching to see you go from using your phone to putting it away when you come to him to talk

And not much changes since you can't get out too many words with your morse method

One evening, while on a walk together, Alastor was reciting to you how he'd come to work for Charlie and how she sang on the news for so many to see! When a group of assassins surrounded the two of you, angel steel weapons were on full display

Before Alastor handled them—which, let's be fair, would be no issue to him—you pulled quicker on the draw

" COMATOSE. "

You yelled it with your hands clamped over Alastors ears, and the instant the word came out, they all dropped, beyond unconcious

Alastor laughs, because wow, that was quite the display!

But he's already dragging you over them to continue talking, now teasing you for treating him like a helpless damsel

He was certainly glad that he hadn't made an enemy of you when he first saw you, because you may stand a chance against him with an ability like that

Most sinners had some kind of ability that grew with their power, often souls under contract or training enhancing them

Vox himself had plenty of tricks under his sleeves, and he'd seen the most pathetic of abilities to those worth cowering before

But he'd never heard of something like yours

Overlords loved showing off their resources, which could include people who became very useful in battle

You were a 'friend' of Zestial, though, while most jumped at the opportunity to introduce themselves to other overlords, you only waved

Of course you piqued his interest, because when he ran his servers over you, he found little to nothing beyond pictures

After several days of stalking video feeds, he caught you and Zestial together when—oh fuck! You sign!

While he could have just waited for the next opportunity, Vox was far too invested in your story and opted to pay Zestial a visit, if it meant he could see you

From what he could tell, you were using ASL, so once he bumped into you he began signing his typical introduction

Something about his heart sparked when he saw you smile, the way those curious eyes sparkled

He was immediately embarrassed when you revealed he didn't have to sign because you could hear

But he was all healed when you signed that you were very glad to have met someone else you could talk with

Vox is used to the overstimulation of noises from news, music, footage, all of it always beaming into his head so much that the silence around you is eerie and takes him awhile to get used to

Zestial certainly has an ace; one Vox is jealous of

Since you got along so well, you and Vox schedule meet-ups so you can interact, seeing as he and Zestial are almost exact opposites

The first time he witnesses your powers is when Alastor shows up at one of your meetings, and he was certainly trying to embarrass Vox in front of you

But Vox was your friend, and you had no tolerance for Alastors threats

" Silence. "

From your lips poured a thick fog, which whisped its way over Alastor's mouth, forming a seal that prevented him from speaking

The radio demon wasn't pleased, but he wasn't about to act up a scene right now, so he turned and left

Vox immediately fanboys because, oh my FUCKING GOD, you showed him!!!

Wait, you can talk? You sound like that?

YOUR POWERS DID THAT???

He is about to waste your evening asking all kinds of things, you probably can't sign as fast as he can ask, too

Author's Note - Conch anon gets only the BEST of the BEST!!! I did like writing these anyways though, because i adore Inumaki...thank you for requesting!

[utterlyotterlyx]

Another Love

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Based on this ask

Summary - Azriel knows you'd never leave his side, no matter what, but when his new situationship with Elain takes over his every living moment and he takes advantage of your feelings, you make the only decision you can to save yourself only for him to hurt you in a way you never thought he could.

Warnings - ANGST, mega fluff, swearing, neglect, abuse of feelings, mentions of death, slight grovelling (I’m more of an epic admissions girlie you all know this), lots of sadness.

Word Count - 4.9k oops

The clock ticked away, idly counting the seconds by, seconds that turned to minutes, and minutes that turned to hours, hours that Azriel had seemingly forgotten about the promise he had made to take you to the theatre.

The cobalt blue bow in your hair, that you had chosen to perfectly match him, swayed sadly as you moved about your room with a heavy heart, hanging up the dress you had bought especially for the occasion and changing into something more comfortable to wallow in self-pity.

It had become normal, his lateness, his nightly visits became later and shorter until they had stopped all together, well, that is until he needed something from you, and you would give him whatever he asked for, no matter how much it hurt you.

You had been a part of the Inner Circle for over 500 years, you were one of the originals, growing up in the camps with Rhys, Cassian and Azriel, Rhys' mother protected you fiercely, and you were very close to Selene, your chosen sister. You were the one they turned to for everything, you were wise and brutal, an incredible warrior and tactician, but also soft and kind; you were the blue break in a sky of storm clouds, you were the spring breeze that cut through the edge of winter, you were everything.

A thing Azriel knew all too well.

It didn't surprise you when Azriel had become fond of Elain, like it didn't surprise you when he had pined after Mor for all those years, completely looking over you in the process. Elain was a soft and fragile thing, she was quiet and graceful, and Azriel was completely besotted by her. A fact that made your heart curse your stupidity, cursing the hope you had willed into it that maybe he would finally see you.

It was no secret that you and Azriel were the closest out of all of the members of your growing family, you had shared 500 years of respect and adoration for one another.

Azriel was by your side when Selene had so brutally lost her life, he had held your hand through the depression and brought you back to life. Azriel knew every single thing that you loved and hated, he knew what every facial expression meant, he knew every tick of your body language which silently conveyed how you were feeling. Azriel knew you better than anyone, even better than he knew himself. The map of you laid etched bare on the back of his hand, a map he used to scour daily, but now barely even glanced at.

It wasn't so one sided.

You knew Azriel better than anything, and you knew a lot. 500 years of life pointed to a rich knowledge. You were the one who cleaned him up after a mission, you're the one who mended his broken bones and washed his turmoil away. You were the one who helped him overcome his insecurities with his hands. You were the one his shadows shot to at family dinners. You were the one who sang him to sleep when his demons had become to much. There was nothing you wouldn't do for Azriel, even if it meant standing on the side-lines until he wanted you.

Moonlight streaked along the floor of your bedroom, cascading across the pale blue of your comforter and drifting along the edges of your antique furniture. The dress you had wanted to wear to the theatre hung off the frame of your mirror, rippling softly in the gentle breeze that entered through the slightly ajar window.

It was silly to feel upset, you knew Azriel didn't owe you any of his time, but you had really thought he would pull through, especially after you had told him how much you missed spending time with him.

Interrupting your damaging thoughts, your door opened to reveal Azriel, who looked annoyed and not at all in knowing of his lateness or the promise that now lay in tatters in your chest. From the look on his face, you knew instantly that Elain was the one who plagued his mind, she was the cause of it every time he had come to see you recently.

Huffing, Azriel trudged to your cream living area, propping his feet up on the antique table you had asked him to be careful with far too many times and sinking into the cushions. He hadn't spared you a glance as he entered, he didn't note his colour in the form of a bow in your perfectly styled hair, he didn't see the sadness in your eyes laced with that naïve hope that he may have turned up to apologise for being late. He didn't see you.

"What happened this time?" You inquired, wrapping yourself tighter into your robe and sliding into the seat beside him, tucking your legs underneath you and propping your head in your palm as you stared at him.

Azriel was beautiful, scars and demons and all, the height of his cheekbones, those hazel oceans of a thousand emotions, the golden skin and arched brows, the curve of his muscles under his second skin, everything about him was intoxicating.

"Lucien," Azriel through his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose, "I was so close to kissing her, so close, Y/N. And then Lucien walked in, he ruined it."

The revelation had stung, he'd never admitted to you to being close to kissing Elain before, it was always a myriad of stolen glances and ghosting touches, of hushed words laced with a million differing meanings. But never a kiss.

Azriel paid no mind to the hurt that radiated from you, he knew it was there, he always knew it was there but he couldn't focus on it.

Only an idiot could be blind to the clear feelings you had toward Azriel, the way you looked at him was not the way a friend looked at another friend, no matter how close they were. Azriel knew that he could never truly push you away, no matter how much you were hurting you'd never leave, he knew that, he knew you'd always be there for him to fall into.

It was so awfully wrong, but he lapped in serenity you gave him, in that unwavering loyalty, and he had no intention to stop drinking from your fountain of love.

"Lucien is her mate, Az. He's bound to not like whatever it is that's going on between you," your voice was gentle and full of understanding, your hand rested on his shoulder and he felt any anger disappear almost immediately. That's what your touch alone could do to him, bring him immeasurable peace.

"I know," he sighed, opening his eyes and turning his head to the side to look at you, a small smile tugged at his lips when he noticed how pretty you looked, with your hair parted just how he liked it, and with a bow tied neatly at the back, "I still think that the cauldron was wrong," your face faltered when he immediately continued on his weekly rant, "It gets it wrong sometimes, we know that. It's wrong, it has to be."

All you wanted was for Azriel to be happy, he deserved it more than anyone you knew. Rhys had found Feyre, who you adored tremendously. Cassian had found Nesta, who had become a very good friend of yours. So, you couldn't blame Azriel for believing that Elain was fated to be his, three brothers for three sisters. Even you had to admit that it made sense, The Mother moved in mysterious ways.

You plastered a smile on your face, you vision catching the satin of your new dress moving softly against the breeze, "Maybe it is," Azriel hummed at your words before continuing on, listing everything he adored about Elain.

"I wish sometimes that she was you, you know? That her and I could be like this, with no one watching over us, to be able to spend time alone and do whatever we wanted to do and talk about anything," it was like he didn't realise what he exactly he was wishing for.

Azriel wanted you to be Elain, so that he could have the life he dreamed of. Elain. Not you. Elain.

You weren't good enough for him.

"I hope you get to that point one day, Az," your voice was strained from holding in your strangled sobs, "I'm tired, can we talk about this more tomorrow?"

"Sure," Azriel smiled at you, rising from his seat and heading to the door, standing in the doorway and looking back at your form still glued to your spot, "I like your bow, Y/N. Blue suits you, always has," and then he closed the door behind him, you waited a few moments before letting your sobs flow through your lips and ripping that damned bow from your hair.

Azriel would never see you the way you begged to be seen, and you couldn't sit around and be the one he fell back to when life wasn't going his way.

More days had passed, more days of Azriel complaining to you, more days of Azriel wishing that Elain and you had switched paths so that he could finally get what he was owed.

Azriel didn't care for your tear stained skin, he didn't care for your weary eyes whenever you spoke of Elain to you.

It was awful that he knew exactly what he was doing, he was abusing your relationship with him, he knew you'd never walk away from him, he knew you'd never be able to put your foot down and tell him to cut it out.

The idea of a mate had him completely obsessed, obsessed to the point that he became blind to what was right in front of him, what had always been in front of him. That blind faith in your loyalty crumbled in his fingers once Rhys had told him that you had decided to purchase your own home in the city, a home away from them all.

"What?" Azriel had asked from his place at the dinner table, bewildered by the news given to them once he had asked where you were.

Nesta knew the exact reason why you had decided you separate yourself from them, you couldn't handle the rejection anymore, and you couldn't begin to heal from the decades worth of heartbreak under the same roof as Azriel and Elain. Nesta knew you held no ill feeling toward her youngest sister, you were too kind for that, you knew it wasn't her fault that Azriel came to you each time something went wrong in their situationship, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"She left, Az," Mor had cried when Rhys had pulled her to one side that afternoon to tell her that you had decided to move into the home that Rhys had bought you after you had made it clear that you needed your own space, and Rhys had spent an hour trying to convince his cousin that your decision was not impacted by anything any of them did.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Azriel asked his brother who frowned, Feyre grabbed Rhys' hand and squeezed it in hers, "She can't just leave, Rhys."

"She has every right to after everything she's done for all of us, she deserves some peace," Rhys spoke calmly, snapping his fingers and allowing the sentient home to rid the plates and serving dishes from the table.

Azriel was speechless, he felt a frantic pull in his body, one that was poisoned with desperation at the thought of you being anywhere else than under the roof of the River House, the home you had spent a century redecorating and perfecting, paying special attention to each room to make it feel as homely as possible.

He didn't believe it as his chair groaned against the floor and he took off up the stairs toward your room, pushing his way through the doors to find it completely empty. No pictures hanging on the walls, no lines of hooks containing an array of ribbons in different hues, no dresses draped over your mirror, no antique furniture. It was all gone, and the scent of you that was usually so strong that it drowned him was a whisper in the atmosphere.

You had left.

Anger bubbled within him, how could you leave without saying anything? How could you move out of your shared home without a single word? How could you leave him after 500 years at his side?

Azriel flung open the doors to your balcony, a balcony plush with fresh flowers and greenery, he flexed his wings and hurtled himself into the starlit sky, allowing his shadows to peel from his body and search every inch of Velaris until they returned to him reeking of your scent and pulled him down to a small townhouse along the bank of the Sidra.

It was a charming home, pale brickwork, large bay windows, golden light emitting from them, and a large garden full of rich wildlife and botanicals. Your scent flowed from the closed oak door, lavender and honey with a hint of firewood and he found himself following that smell up the winding path until he was knocking on your door.

Golden light flowed from the home as you opened the door. You were dressed in denim overalls that were spatted with cream paint, you hair was loosely bound on the top of your head, and your face was full of uneasy surprise as you looked at him, "Az, what are you doing here?"

Azriel pushed past you and stood in the centre of your hallway, listening to your deep exhale as you closed the door. The space was pretty, it was very you, the walls were half painted cream from their original sage colour that you were obviously painting over, the coving was white and saturated with intricate little sketches of leaves, the carpet was a rich brown and had clearly been laid that day from how interrupted it looked, the only pattern on it being the imprints of your bare feet. Azriel didn't stop his shadows as they extended from him and scoured each part of your new home, nodding with approval and curling around your fingers in understanding adoration.

White sheets were draped over your perfectly placed furniture, to protect it from the paint no doubt, and the same tarp lay at the foot of the walls to protect the carpet. Music drifted softly about the room, and boxes upon boxes of books lay open, with some of them idly placed on shelves to get them out of the way to be sorted properly at a later date.

"It's true? You've really left," he noted the intricately presented kitchen, white cabinets and exposed wooden beams, just like you always wanted.

You rounded him, walking into your new living space, bending down to pick up one of your plant pots before placing it on the window ledge, your back faced him but he could see the pain in your features through the reflection in the window, "Yes, I live here now."

"No. No. You're coming home with me, this is ridiculous," his heart was beating a mile a minute, he couldn't think straight, all that was consuming him was the reality that his fear had come to fruition, that the one person he believed would never leave him had actually walked away.

"I'm not coming back, Azriel," you told him softly, and he saw your shoulders rise and fall with each deep inhale of breath you forced your lungs to take.

Then you turned to him, in the middle of the home that you were trying to make yours, a home away from him, "I thought you'd never leave me. You can't leave me. You're my best friend, I need you."

"No, you don't. You need someone to fall back onto when life isn't going your way, that's all I am to you now," you felt your heart breaking, you felt it shattering in your chest, "I can't be the one you turn to when something becomes between you and Elain. I can't be the one you wish was her. I can't do it anymore, Az. You've taken advantage of me for too long. You promise me the world and show up empty handed. You don't realise I even exist until you need someone to complain to and I just can't do it anymore."

Azriel knew every word you were saying was the truth, he knew he had been using you, but he never expected you to actually walk away from him, you were supposed to love him too much to leave.

Your heart was in the palm of his hands and he knew it, he knew you'd spent hundreds of years falling deeper in love with him each passing day whilst he pined for someone else. The fact of your departure made a bitter monster appear in his mind, he allowed it to tug on the venom in his heart, he allowed it to control him, "Aren't you supposed to be in love with me?"

Azriel watched your eyes widen and a breathless gasp fall from your lips, "You know?"

The Shadowsinger scoffed, "Of course I know. Only a fool wouldn't be able to see it," he saw your face contort into painful sorrow but did nothing to stop himself from saying, "I've known for years. I've known that you'd never leave, you've always been the one that I come to for anything I need and you never complain or tell me to leave. You made it easy to take advantage of you."

A tear slid down your cheek but Azriel made no move to wipe it away, "I want you to leave."

"I'm not leaving without you."

Fire roared in your eyes, "You have no right to command me after what you've knowingly done. I honestly thought that you didn't know, that it was innocent and that you just needed my advice. Now I know that you've willingly abused my kindness, Azriel, you can rot in hell," the tears didn't stop flowing from your eyes, your voice was strained and sore, your chest was so tight that you thought it may stop beating all together, "Get. Out!"

Azriel had left you then, he had left your door wide open and soared into the skies, leaving you in the home that was now tainted by his deceit.

It had been months since Azriel had seen you, Nesta and Feyre had practically forbid him from going anywhere near your home, that being from the land or sky. But that didn't stop him from allowing his shadows to slither under your front door or linger in the streets, he was desperate to know how you were.

Azriel hated himself for what he had said to you, he hated himself for taking advantage of you. In some way he tried to justify it, you were too good for him, he didn't want to ruin you, but it was clear that he already had.

Your absence had left a void that no one could fill, not even Elain despite her efforts, even the thought of her made his stomach drop and sickness swirl to the point where he couldn't bring himself to be around her. All Elain did was remind him of how he failed you.

Azriel had tried writing to you since you wouldn't see him, he gave the letters to Feyre and Nesta, the latter of which still saw your daily, and grew colder toward him with each passing moment. Even Cassian did nothing to hide his disappointment in him, and Rhys had some very telling words to express once Feyre had told him the truth of what had happened in your home that night.

Nothing was working, things with Elain were strained and difficult, the problems between them so raw and everyone's opinions so disapproving that it created a distance between them that was unmanageable.

Then it dawned on him that nothing was working with Elain because it wasn't meant to. The person who was meant to be his had been under his nose for 500 years, and now wanted nothing to do with him.

Cassian had pulled Azriel from his thoughts by stepping through the threshold of his room, "Are you coming to training?"

"Tell me how to fix it," Azriel lifted his head from his hands and turned his head toward Cassian who sighed in reply, moving to the bed to sit beside Azriel, "I need to know how to fix it."

"Only you can figure that out, Az," Cassian spoke to him, throwing his arm over Azriel's shoulder before continuing, "Y/N loves you Az, she has for 500 years. A few months apart won't change that. You're really fucking stupid for this though, she's the only one of us who knew the exact right thing to do and say every time. Y/N deserves more than the basic requirements of respect, she deserves the world in the palm of her hand and a person who loves her more than he loves himself. Don't bother her unless you can do that."

It was the anniversary of Selene's death, and the day hadn't gotten any easier for you to deal with.

Rhys and you had made a habit of doing something together each year, though, Azriel was the one to accompany you when Rhys had gone Under the Mountain. The location was sacred to you, you and Rhys would bundle yourselves up in blankets and watch the sun set over the Sidra, you'd rehash old memories and stories, ones that you both knew the script to by heart, but that never got old.

Your High Lord had tried to convince you to come home, but didn't push you when you had told him no. Your life had began to feel rather empty without the family antics that consumed your day-to-day life.

"I miss her," you had told him sadly, your head rested on his shoulder as the sun tipped her toes into the water in the distance, the sky grew darker each passing minute.

Rhys hummed, holding you closer to his side, "So do I," he replied with equal sadness, you had all grown up together, you basically were his sister by blood, and when you both had lost her, it only made him clutch to you more, "She'd nail Az's balls to the wall for sure."

A laugh passed through your lips before it died in your throat, you had done your best to not think about Azriel despite him owning your soul, you had done your best to heal from what he had done, but even then, you missed him more than anything, "How is he?"

It was the first time you had asked about him since before you had moved to your new home which was now fully decorated and yours, thanks to Rhys, Feyre and Nesta who made it their priority to help you settle, "He's-" Rhys couldn't lie to you, he was never able to even when you were younger, "-Not great. He misses you, he hates himself for what he said to you that night."

"I'd hate myself too," you had hummed, shifting to stand on the stone ledge where you and Rhys had sat, wanting a better view of the sun as it began to disappear against the horizon.

A familiar cold kiss pecked at your ankles and you looked down to see those shadows you had missed so dearly meandering around where you stood. Cedar entered your lungs and you shivered in painful delight as his warmth curled around your back.

"Y/N," his voice was deep and rough, it was pleading, you looked to your side and found that Rhys had vanished. That damn meddler. "Please look at me."

Not able to say no to that voice, you indulged the Shadowsinger and turned on the balls of your feet to peer upward at him. Azriel had his wings neatly tucked behind his back, his hands dangled at his sides, and his head was hung low. He looked terrible.

"Why are you here?"

Azriel clenched his jaw, he didn't expect you to be happy to see him, but it didn't stop the self hatred from growing in every single cell of his body, "I know how hard today is for you, I just wanted to see if you were alright."

"Well I'm fine, so you can go now," you made a move to walk away, to take the path down the edge of the Sidra to your home which had become your haven away from reality.

Though, you didn't get very far, perhaps two steps before Azriel's fingers curled around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks and pulling you back to him, "Y/N, I don't even know how to apologise in the way that you deserve. I don't know how to say sorry and make you feel like I see and hear you."

"What I did was disgusting, I hate myself for it. I never should have taken advantage of you like that, you've done everything to help me the entire time that I've known you and I ruined everything for someone I don't even want. I've always wanted a mate, you know that, and I got so carried away with wanting it that I completely ignored the only person who's ever truly loved me for me despite all of the horrid things I have done. Elain isn't you, Y/N. No one compares to you. No one makes me feel safe like you do, no one makes me feel alive like you do, and no one can make me hope for death by their void like you do."

"I am yours, Y/N. I always have been. I couldn't be the reason you ever got hurt, I couldn't be the one to risk extinguishing that glorious fire in your soul. You are the only one I cannot bear to lose, the thought of losing you terrifies me, it always has, and instead of protecting you, I took advantage of you and pushed you away because I would rather hurt someone else with everything that I am than hurt you with just a a part of it."

"I'm so stupid for ignoring you, I'm a prick for using you as my security blanket rather than let you in, you know me better than I know myself, you love me more than I could ever imagine, and it terrified me because I couldn't let myself love you. I couldn't let myself taint you."

Azriel lifted his hands, cupping your face in his palms and you could see every inch of despair within him, that conflicted flame dancing within his soul, "I'm not asking you to forgive me, I don't think I will ever be able to forgive myself after what I've done to you. I'm not asking for anything from you. I just need you to know that no matter how severe your storm, I promise I won't leave your side, I'll stay with you through the howling winds that whip my cheeks raw and red. I will stay and hold you when the night leaves you shivering and give you space when when your searing heat pushes you into a fiery rage. I will stay and love you in whatever way you crave, whether that be from next to you or from wherever you cast me to."

"Azriel-" tears flowed freely from his eyes and you knew he meant every word he was saying. Every single word was being plucked from the core of his essence.

"I know that you're scared, and that you don't trust me. I'm scared too. But you're the only one I can face love with because I only want to feel it with you. At the end of the day I want it to be you and me, I want your early mornings and late nights, I want you on your good days and bad. I will never stop wanting you. I will never stop needing you filling my lungs like oxygen and giving me life."

Azriel dropped his forehead onto yours, and you felt your own cheeks dampening from your own tears at his words, "I love you, Y/N. I will always love you, even if you don't want me to, even if you decide to walk away from me I will not stop loving you. I am so thankful for you, and I know I haven't shown that, but if you give me one more chance, I will show you exactly the man you have made me into. I will give you the world you have always dreamed of. My soul is yours until you stop loving me. Please. Please."

"I can't stop loving you, Az. I've tried but I can't and I don't want to," his thumbs wiped your tears away and you found yourself reaching to rest your fingers on the marred flesh around his wrists, "One more chance. Don't fuck it up."

Azriel pressed his lips to your forehead, relishing in your warmth as you bundled into his chest, "You're mine."

"Take me home, Az."

"Yours or mine?"

You grinned against his chest, "How about ours?"

Authors Note

I really hope this does the ask justice x

Alternate ending incoming 👀👀

[thewolvesofthenorth]

Chapter One

Chapter One of Man of Honor

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ House Of The Dragon Masterlist

Rating: 18+ Word Count: 3k+  Summary: Things change, but not necessarily for the better. Warnings: Angst angst angst, language, fluff, slow burn

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Four years after Cregan had sworn his oath to you by the heart tree, she entered your lives.

Arra Norrey.

A noblewoman of House Norrey. She was everything you wanted to be. Brown hair that flowed down her back, honey brown eyes, and a beautiful smile that could capture any man’s attention. And catch their attention it did. Particularly the attention of one man.

Cregan.

That was when everything changed and life as you knew it was turned upside down.

At first it started out small. Cregan and Arra would go out on horseback and upon returning, Cregan would talk endlessly about how great of a rider she was and how he had not expected such skill from someone like her. He’d speak of her love for poetry and songs, mentioning that you should ask for her to sing sometime because her voice was so beautiful. He would bring up miniscule things like how she wasn’t the fondest of the cold, even though she lived in the North. How her needlework was impeccable. The list went on and on.

But then the comparisons started to happen. Cregan would say things about her and then mention how it reminded him of things you would do and how similar the two of you were. Other times, he would make comments stating how different you were from each other. He would offhandedly say things like “Arra sings all the time, why don’t you ever sing?” or “Arra said she learned how to make this delicious duck soup and offered to make it sometime. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to teach it to you.” You were sure that Cregan did not mean them in a malicious way, but those comments had begun to slowly chip away at your self-esteem.

You never sang around him because you hated the way your voice sounded and were always too nervous to sing for others. You knew how to cook, but you also knew how to hunt and survive in the desolate lands of the North. You knew how to skin a rabbit and take down a boar with one shot through its eye. You even knew how to wield a sword and do it while on horseback. You didn’t need some noblewoman from some noble house within the North to teach you anything. But even knowing all those things that you could do that Arra couldn’t, you still felt insignificant when compared to her. She had become the apple of Cregan’s eye, and nothing you did or could do, would be enough.

Over time the distance between the two of you grew and eventually you hardly spent any time at all, his time and energy spent towards Arra and their budding relationship. And then came the news that shattered your heart and solidified the future between the two of you. Cregan and Arra were betrothed. A meager year after she’d entered your lives, and they were now to be married in six moons.

You remembered that day as clearly as a crystal on a rare sunny day. Cregan had approached you with a wide grin on his face and said that he and Arra’s parents had spoken and decided to betroth the two and bring two great houses in the North closer together. He had sounded so elated at the news and told you that he was anxious and hoped he would make a good husband. You had reassuringly smiled at him and told him that he would make a fine husband and that Arra was lucky for such a match. On the outside you presented a cool and collected close friend, but inside your heart was crumbling.

Forgotten was the oath you’d both spoken to each other beneath the weirwood tree all those years ago.

Forgotten was the promise of a future together.

Forgotten was the childhood pledge he’d made to you about becoming the Lady of Winterfell and holding Cregan’s heart, that privilege was now Arra’s.

It was now a mere dream that would no longer come to fruition and your heart grew heavy at the revelation that you had lost your chance at happiness with him. That night was the first time you had cried yourself to sleep since the death of your parents, and Cregan was not there to comfort you like he had been so many times before.

As time went on, you began to distance yourself from Cregan more and more, your heart not being able to take seeing him and Arra constantly interacting. Every time Cregan approached you to go hunting or spend time in the godswood, you’d declined, saying you had other duties to tend to or had promised to spend time with Sara, and you both knew how Sara was.

At first, Cregan had thought nothing of it, believing your excuses, but as time went on, he noticed how you would avoid making eye contact with him, and how you’d somehow slip away when he would enter a room. He’d had enough of your avoidance and wanted to confront you, but you had a talent of becoming invisible and made it impossible find for him to find you. So, he resolved to do the next best thing: speak to Sara about your behavior. The two of you were always close, though not as close as you and Cregan had once been. That had changed since Arra had arrived.

Sara had become your confidante, listening to you talk about Cregan when he and Arra grew close, and had even been there to hear your confession of your feelings towards Cregan. She was the only person who’d known about your and Cregan’s words in the godswood that day and had kept silent when you spoke of your heartache over the broken promise. She listened intently, and as much as she wanted to give Cregan an earful for his obviousness for your feelings, not once had she betrayed your trust. However, after weeks of your avoidance, Cregan had gone to her, she did not hold back on chastising him.

That afternoon, Cregan had watched you abruptly end your conversation with his sister and stealthily disappear as he approached, something that had begun to irritate him. He had quickened his pace, hoping to somehow stop you, but it was no use, you’d once again slipped through his fingers.

He let out a small huff and Sara turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised at his demeanor.

“Care to tell me what you’re so worked up about, Cregan?” Sara asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“I just - ugh - that damn woman,” he began, his voice laced with irritation. “She’s been avoiding me, and I have no idea why! But YOU clearly do.”

Sara hummed in thought before responding in a teasing tone.

“So, what if I do?”

“Tell me why. What have I done to illicit such treatment?” Cregan grumbled.

“You really don’t know?” She quipped back as she folded her arms across her chest.

“No! I wouldn’t be standing here asking for you to tell me if I knew, now, would I?” He retorted in annoyance, his patience beginning to wane.

“Wow,” Sara said as she shook her head. “You really are as thick as the hide on a cow, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have time for your petty insults,” Cregan snapped. “Tell me.”

“Well, I’m sorry your lordship,” she sarcastically replied, finding amusement from his rising temper. “It’s not my fault you’re my idiot of a brother who can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

“Enough with your riddles, please,” Cregan spoke, his tone changing from annoyance to a small plea.

“If you must know, it’s because of YOU.”

“Me? What have I done?” He questioned, confused as to what he did to cause such treatment from you.

“It’s more what you HAVEN’T done, dear brother,” Sara stated, pondering her next words carefully. “Do you not remember?”

“Remember what? What have I not done that I was apparently supposed to do or be doing?!” Cregan exasperatedly exclaimed.

“You’d think that something as big as this would be something you wouldn’t easily forget,” she began. “After all, Starks do not forget their oaths.”

Cregan let her words sink in, unsure of what she meant.

What could she possibly be talking about?

An oath?

What oath?

I never made - oh.

“Oh.”

“Oh. Is that all you can say?!” Sara asked, the dumbfounded look on Cregan’s face enough to ignite her anger.

“I - we - we - we were children!” Cregan answered. “It was nothing but a game the two of us played! Just like any other game.”

Sara scoffed at his words.

“Maybe for you, but for her it was never a game,” she shot back. “Do you often make a habit of swearing oaths beneath the heart tree? Oaths of a false future?”

“Sara - I - again, we were children.”

“All of the North knows how serious oaths made in the Godswood are to be taken. Even children know not to do such things. Especially beneath the heart tree! Not oaths of marriage! And ESPECIALLY not oaths of marriage that are sworn to the old gods. You were both far from children when you’d spoken those words to her, and you know it.”

Cregan recoiled at her harsh tone, surprised that they had not attracted any prying eyes from how tense things were.

“But - but - I don’t understand,” he softly said. “What does that have to do with any of this?”

“You fucking imbecile!” Sara seethed. “It has EVERYTHING to do with this. You’re betrothed to another, with no thought to how it would make her feel. Not only that, but ever since Arra arrived, you’ve done nothing but ignore her. And even worse, compare her and Arra! Are you really that blind? Do you not see the hurt you’ve caused the poor girl? The pain she has had to constantly endure everyday seeing you with another woman? THAT is why she avoids you. THAT is why she wants nothing to do with you. Her heart breaks every time she sees you, Cregan. She sees the way you look at Arra and wishes you’d look at her like that. She has spent the last year suffering in silence because of YOU. YOU made an oath to her that you would take her as your wife and make her the Lady of Winterfell, but now that oath has been forgotten. I am just a Snow, and for that I am glad, because I would be ashamed to be a Stark who forgot an oath. Even one made as a so called child.”

“I - I did not know of her fondness towards me,” he whispered, his heart clenching at the Sara’s words.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Sara spat out. “She has stood by you through everything. Your brother’s passing. Your father’s passing. Getting Winterfell back from your uncle and cousins. Every moment since childhood, she has been there, and you doubt her feelings for you?”

“I did not know she felt that way,” Cregan answered, looking down at his feet. “Felt more than just kinship.”

“Anyone could see that she felt more than kinship towards you. All the damn North could see it! Can you really say that you did not feel the same way?”

Cregan hesitated to meet his sister’s eyes. He could feel them burning a hole into his skull, and he was sure that had he not been the Lord of Winterfell, she would have struck him by now. Although he doubted that would prevent Sara from raining her wrath down upon him, consequences of hitting a lord be damned.

“I - I do not know,” he softly spoke as he finally looked at his sister. “What do I do?”

“That, I cannot answer for you. You must decide that for yourself, dear brother. If you really don’t feel anything for her, then go through with the marriage to Arra. But if you do feel more than you care to admit, then that is something that you must figure out on your own,” Sara said as she patted his shoulder and walked away.

Cregan watched as Sara walked into the snow-covered courtyard and a lump formed in his throat when he spotted you in the shadows on the other side. He let out a sigh as you met his eye and then unsurprisingly slipped into the darkness to hide away. At that moment Cregan realized that that was the first time you had met his gaze in a long time. For exactly how long it had been, he wasn’t sure, but it had been long enough that he felt an emptiness sweep over him when you tore yourself away from his vision and faded into the darkness.

Cregan spent the next several days mulling over everything Sara had told him. Apart from speaking to his council regarding preparations for the upcoming winter and updates regarding the Wall, Cregan spent most of those days alone, often opting to go riding or sit in his study in quiet contemplation. Much of that was him going through every memory you two shared, trying to figure out where things had changed for you. However, during the evenings, in the solace of his chambers, he found himself just thinking about you.

Who you were as a person and how you had grown so close over the years. Arra had of course taken note of his sudden change in demeanor, and he had made up excuses like having important business to attend to with the maesters due to the coming winter being predicted as a longer and colder one. Arra had not pushed the matter, knowing that he had a lot on his shoulders as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, especially when he was still quite young.

Some nights sleep would elude him, his thoughts weighing too heavily on his mind to allow him rest. On those nights he found himself wishing he could speak to you about everything. To confide in you as he once had. To talk about what he had done wrong and how to fix it. One such night, as he laid in his bed blankly staring at the ceiling, his thoughts drifted to a memory where you had been exceptionally happy.

- FLASHBACK -

It was the afternoon before your fifteenth name day, and Cregan had been teaching you how to shoot. You had always been an avid learner and that morning you’d begged him to teach you the ways of the bow, and he had finally relented when you told him it could be his gift to you. He had rolled his eyes at your antics but nonetheless grabbed a bow and told you to meet him in the practice yard.

You had been so carefree back then and Cregan smiled as he remembered the way your eyes had lit up when he appeared with a bow and quiver of arrows. He had started by teaching you the basics, how to hold the bow and draw the arrow back to the proper position, and how to aim. At first, you had struggled, unable to draw the arrow far enough and maintain the hold to aim, so Cregan had come up you to fix your form.

“Your feet should be shoulder width apart with your shoulder pointed to the target,” he instructed, moving your feet into the proper position and your shoulder to line up with the target. “Good, now keep your back straight and push your hips forward. You should be comfortable enough to hold this position for a while. Your inner elbow should be parallel to the ground and when you draw the arrow make sure to pull your shoulders back and lift your elbow. Now bring the arrow back toward your face until the bow feels tight, but keep your arms relaxed. Don’t tense.”

You followed his instructions as best as you could, but he noticed that your stance was still a little off, so he went to stand behind you and pulled your shoulders back, before placing his hands on your hips, shifting you ever so slightly to bring your pelvis forward. At the time he had taken note of how you had sucked in a breath at the action but thought nothing of it as he held your waist and told you to release the arrow. You’d both watched with bated breath as the arrow soared through the air and landed dead center of the target. You jumped with glee and turned to face him; a giant grin plastered on your face.

“I did it!” You proudly exclaimed.

“That you did, my lady,” Cregan replied, your infectious smile drawing one of his own to his face. You continued to jump for joy and expectedly planted a kiss on his cheek, his face growing hot at your act of affection. You then turned back to the target and nocked another arrow, unaware of the blush that graced his face and continued spread across his cheeks and down his necks. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as he watched you shoot arrow after arrow into the target, his smile staying on his face the entire time.

- END FLASHBACK -

Cregan abruptly sat up in bed at the memory. He’d remembered the way his body had reacted at being so close to yours. How he’d felt a tingle in his fingertips when he placed his hands on your hips. He recalled the way your body easily shifted into position as he moved you into place. He remembered how you moved with such grace as you kept shooting, your skill improving with each arrow.

As Cregan continued to think of the events of that day, and the more he recalled, the clearer things became. Not just for that day, but for every day before and after that.

The way the sun illuminated your eyes, showing a hint of mischief behind them, had always captured his attention. The way the cold bite of the North would reddened your nose and cheeks had always made him chuckle in amusement.

The sweet melody of your voice, especially when saying his name, had always made him feel warm inside.

The way you smiled so much brighter - a special smile reserved just for him - when seeing him had always made his heart thump loudly in his chest.

And the way your small hand always seemed to sit so snuggly in his large ones had always made his breath hitch.

It had always been there.

The way your cheery and sweet temperament balanced his more serious and brooding nature.

The way the two of you always worked so well together when it came to hunting or matters of running Winterfell.

The way you each knew when the other was having a bad day and needed extra comfort.

The way you could both communicate with just one look.

The two of you had always fit so perfectly together, like pieces of a puzzle, or two sides to a coin.

It had always been there.

And it had always been seen by those around the two of you. 

Except for him.

Until now.

Cregan’s eyes widened in realization. Your feelings were not one sided. Far from it. He felt the same way for you as you did for him.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

⟸ Previous Chapter ❖ Next Chapter ⟹

[namjooningera]

Ghost face Toji! and his little helper

Characters: Toji, y/n, victims

A/n: hehe. So I read some ghost face JJK ffs and I was just thinking that instead of y/n being the victim what if she helped ghost face instead? 😋 his lil helper. Also first time writing smut so :p

TW: ghost face, death of background characters (by stabbing), lowkey gore, reader is lowkey sociopathic/very much delusional, smutttt, cowgirl, size difference

“Nghhh! Toji! A-ah!” You whined, being bounced on his massive member, trying to claw at anything that would give you some comfort.

“Y-you can take it, yeah? And it’s ghost face, doll.” He gripped your hips and laid below you, as you bounced mercilessly on his cock.

Bodies laid on the floor near you two, blood seeping from them and staining the concrete floors. Beer bottles broken and medr over party supplies littering the floors.

You bounced on his cock around the dead bodies, the knife from your little hand dropping to the floor as you pressed your hands against his chest for leverage.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He chuckled beneath you, breathlessly, his bloody mask halfway off while he fucked up into you.

You stand at the streets of Shibuya, behind chains led by security, watching as celebrities walk past on the red carpet.

You try to squeeze past, to see your favorite movie actors, singers, models, pass you by on the red carpet. Looking as dazzling as ever. You’d like to be them. You need to be them.

It’s been your only wish since you were a kid. You rush over around the squads of people and paparazzi, trying desperately to get the attention of the famous people.

You watch as their heels click on the red carpet, brushing past like the watchers were nothing but dust. No care in the world but their own fame, and you desperately crave that kind of life.

The cameras, the lights, the people. It’s all you wanted.

Ever since you were a little kid, orphaned young and too early. You’d sneak down in the basement of the orphanage where you lived, where a small tv was, and you’d sit in front of it criss-crossed. You’d watch the actors, musicians, models and famous people on the tv, when they’d walk the red carpet, appear in the gala, make their name and grow fanbases. The way the cameras zoomed on them, and the lights framed their faces. The paparazzi that chased them with cameras, flashing lights and the way the celebrities would pose.

You tried everything to be like them.

Signed model contracts, auditioned for background acting roles, you sang and danced, even uploaded videos on social media.

And nothing.

You didn’t get famous, you didn’t have cameras in your face, and you didn’t end up on tv or the news. Well, except once.

You ended up on the news. Once.

You remember it like it was yesterday. The way the other kids and adults taunted you. Telling you you’d never be famous. At first, they gave you the benefit of the doubt. A cute kid auditioning? You might as well get the part at some point. A commercial or some small acting role, something. But you didn’t. And they laughed. Told you to give up and your little dream would never happen. You knew it wasn’t your fault you didn’t get the role, the people you bypassed you were those with connections and nepo-babies. You didn’t stand a chance.

But their taunting never stopped, they probably would’ve if you gave up on your little dream, but you didn’t. You continued plastering celeb posters on your walls, drawing stick figures of you on the red carpet, and singing in the halls of the orphanage. All because you thought, no, you knew you’d be famous at some point.

So they ripped up your posters, your drawings, and would hit you every time they heard you sing or saw you dance. They all thought you were pathetic, and the adults who ran the orphanage started to as well.

At first they didn’t mind signing up some cute kid for these random positions, auditions. Maybe your fame would bring more money to the orphanage? But the more you asked and failed, the more you tried, they got pissed off.

At one point getting physical with you, after calling you a delusional freak they started to smack you around just like the kids. Telling you to give up, and just try to get adopted like any other kid.

But when the adults came in to adopt, they’d meet with the kids to see if they were allegeable.

They thought nothing could go wrong with a cute kid like you, but when they met with you, they lost patience with you, hearing you go on and on about how famous you were gonna be. Showing them photos of your favorite celebs and explaining that you’d make it farther than them. You were only a kid.

“Umm maybe something more realistic? How about a doctor sweetie? Or maybe a teacher?”

You looked at them weird. “Doctor? Teacher? I’m gonna be famous! Actor! Singer!” You sang. And their smiles dropped.

But soon adults stopped asking for you and you became shadowed. Didn’t matter how many cute faces you made or how mature you acted, they’d never choose you.

You watched as kids got picked by happy families, and you grew older as you were left behind. But this just made your dream grow. You know all the best celebs come from darker backgrounds, so you’d probably end up the most famous, right?

But the taunting never stopped. And as years went by it just got worse. It became the worse when you finally got your hands on a signed celebrity poster. A signed one. Your favorite celebrity. You had snuck out of the orphanage to get it signed, and the woman was so nice to you.

She told you she believed in you. And that was the first time you’d ever heard that.

But when you came back with it, shining, your face glowing and a smile wide and happy. They took your poster and ripped it to shreds.

Ripped your signed poster to shreds.

Told you, you were an idiot, and your favorite celebrity was an idiot, and you’d come to nothing.

And how you ended up on the news for the first time? You set the orphanage to blaze. Set it on fire. Years of taunting and torture, you’d burn it all to the floor. And rise above everyone.

You remember the news truck running to you, one of the only kids left standing. Pointing the mics in your face and camera straight at you, the news lady asking you to give a statement, to tell them what happened, how you feel.

Everyone was looking at you.

Everyone was awestruck.

Your remember that feeling like it was yesterday. And you remember the excellent way you played victim in front of the cameras.

All those auditions, those practices when you’d act by script in your little orphanage room, or you’d watch tapes in the basement on how to improve your acting. They all helped that day, that day where you shined on camera, acted your heart out and made everyone’s eyes tear up in how emotional you were. How you explained that a fire started and took out so many of your friends. That you were just some lonesome orphan, a victim.

That same week you got adopted. Well, basically. You were taken in as a foster child. Turns out one of the firefighters at the orphanage that day heard your little ramble, and their heart was quenched. Took you home to their little family and supported you. That’s when you realized how much you could change everything around you with something as simple as acting.

So you acted normal.

And continued playing house.

Now your an adult, void of any job or networking, really. You had a high school diploma, but it didn’t really mean anything in the kind of jobs you wanted.

You lived in the attic of some dweeb you’ve barely seen, rooming with some girl who’s barely around. All you know is that she’s extremely nerdy, and always at some Internet cafe or in her room coding.

You also, couldn’t care less. As long as you got that lone time to plan out your next move, your next plan on how to become famous, your golden.

But you’re starting to lose hope. Even your roommate who you barely see told you to get a real job, that your government funding for being a former foster kid won’t do you much, long term.

Alas, you continue. After having your fun following the celebs and running after the limos they drove off in, you skip your way home. However, passing by a sketchy alleyway, your pulled in.

“Why shouldn’t I kill your right now?”

A deep very gruffy voice asks you.

“You seem like quite a fan. A first kill being a fan might draw some attention hm?”

You look up at him. “Excuse me?”

A mask covers his face, he’s wearing a cloak that covers his head and hair. But did that muscly hand around your neck, and the other holding you around your torso. You could scream.. for other reasons then just murder.

“So… which one is she?”

It turns out, Ghostface, he calls himself, is quite the noob in celebs and fame, news and all that. But you, are an expert.

It also turns out he’s a hired killer, someone made to kill certain celebrities, someone to… send a message. But being someone so closed off he doesn’t know anything about them, and doesn’t feel like doing his research.

“She’s right there. The one in the grey sweatpants and faking her reps?”

He was puzzled when you told him about your expertise in celeb gossip and knowledge. The way you knew exactly where a celebrity would be at the moment.

“First kill.”

Now, you crouch at the window of some elite gym. Ghost face is extremely lucky of you, you’ve done this before. Stalked them, so you know where the cameras are and where the blind spots are, too.

“Wait here, pretty.” He tells you, and his deep dark voice makes you tingle a bit.

You stay crouching at the window, peeking through as you watch this masked man follow the celebrity into the showers. You hear a cut off scream, as if he had muffled her mouth right away. And then he steps back out with blood covering his cloak.

He jumps right out the window, but instead of greeting you like regular he shoved you against the wall, and puts a cloth over your mouth.

“Sorry, lil’ stalker. Can’t have a witness around. But I’ll keep ya alive, for yer’ help.”

And you pass out.

The next morning you awake in some random motel. You can’t help but think last night was some unfortunate weird dream. But by the drops of blood that aren’t yours that stain your shirt, the headache you have from inhaling those toxins, and the man at the counter that tells you your “boyfriend” had carried you in here. You know it’s real.

Now, you’re at another gala. This time, you made your way in. You pulled some strings, and you were able to make it in as a server, helpers to the caterers.

You still think about what that masked man said, about how he was planted to kill certain celebrities, and make a splash in modern media. Some kind of show he wanted to put on. And honestly he was quite good. His first kill, which you helped with, has scorn the news and surprised journalists and the paparazzi. Everyone was confused and concerned. The first kill being in such a private place it made fans worry of their own favorite celebrities. The police searched for clues and evidence, but due to your help in blind spots of cameras and ways to scoot past security, ghost face was never caught. People all over the internet mourn the celebrity’s death, but don’t expect there to be another kill. However you know the truth. The man’s words. How she wasn’t gonna be the last. His message to media.

But you try to forget, and instead focus on making connections. You know the people here are in the big leagues, and if your able to convince them, maybe you’ll be given a chance.

That’s when you overhear some celebs talking. The extremely famous ones. The ones you’ve seen on billboards and trucks, movie posters and more. Your curious, especially when you hear them talking about an extra exclusive party in the gala, one in a private room.

You need to sneak in. And you do. You find out more about it and realize that only the highest of the servers go to cater that small private event, servers who wear a certain outfit to show they that only serve the best. That’s how you’re gonna get in. So you do the unthinkable. Well, it’s not like there was extra uniforms ying around?

So you find one of these special caterers, and break a bottle over their head. You drag their unconscious but live body into a closet, stealing their collared shirt and tie, and that special brooch that shows your elite. You lock the closet and make your way to the private exclusive room.

This is your chance. Your chance to become elite like them, to get on the news again, to be famous.

But as you open the door to the elite room, you hear screams. ‘Please let elite room for celebrities not mean secret celebrity orgies please.’ You think. But as you peek into the door, you realize it’s so much different than that.

When blood seeps through the carpet and spills, as you hear screams and see a certain familiar masked man slash one of the elite celebrities necks, they fall to the floor as they convulse, holding their neck but the bleeding continues.

They all fall to the floor one by one, and you’re stunned. Before you could leave, leave and pretend this never happened, the door is swung open by one of the celebrities, one who is apparently trying to get away, and immediately they are slashed. The blood splatters onto you, and you hold your hands up trying to stop the blood from continuing its spray onto you.

“Well look who it is.” That familiar husky voice says, holding up the head of the victim he just slashed. The blood oozes from his slashed neck, his eyes bulging out his head, eyes rolled back and almost in its skull.

The masked man drops the victim onto the floor.

“I told you I didn’t want any witnesses.” He grabs you by the throat, pulling you into the elite room before slamming your head to the wall, pinning you there with his huge hand.

“W-wait! Wait don’t do this!” You beg. Your eyes scan the room and you see all the elites littered on the floor. Something in you pulses. Something you hope is fear or empathy, but it’s something different. Almost.. satisfaction. The people who’ve ignored you like the dirt on their shoes, people who you sweared to surpass. Dead, bloody, bodies on the floor like they were simple trash.

You accidentally let out a giggle.

“What was that?”

“Umm nothing, s-sorry.” You stumble, his hands increasing its hold on your neck. “W-wait! You- your doing this as some message to the public right?”

He stops, his hand still tightly around your neck, but he softens almost. “Yeah? So?”

“W-well I want.. I want fame. I can help! Like last time! If you let me live…”

You can’t tell what his expression is, hidden under the mask, but you can tell he’s confused, and a little amused.

“And what can you help with, little dove?”

“W-well I know all their info! Every celeb, really! I can nurse you.. I umm.”

“Nurse me? Info? I don’t need that, naive doll.”

“Wait!” You whine, fighting back. “I’ll spread your word. When they see me.. as the only one standing… the news will be everywhere. Asking questions.. and I’ll answer!” He stays quiet, and you know he’s considering it. “If you kill me- nobody will know it was you… but if I live, I can tell your story! How you killed all those celebrities in cold blood… The cold blooded killer Ghostface… I’ll relay whatever message you need me to say.”

His hand softens around your neck, but he still keeps a hold of you. The tip of his knife makes its way up your torso to your neck, right under his hand, where he pokes your skin.

“And what would you get out of that, little dove?”

“Fame. And my life… but fame. I’ll.. I’ll be on the news.” You sigh, almost of happiness at just the thought. “People will be looking to me.. the last standing victim.” ‘-like last time’ you wanna say.

He huffs. “As a victim, you don’t look very disheveled, do you?”

You look at him weirdly, confused, until he throws you down at the only spotless part of the carpet. You gasp, feeling your back thud against it, about to fight until he lands on top of you, pulling and tugging at your shirt.

“Yer’ sure cute. But look way t’satisfied with yourself to be a victim.”

“L-let me be your victim.” You sigh out, shakily. Hearing that, his hands rip your shirt off, and your arms go up to cover your lacy bra, whining at the intrusion.

He’s growling, obviously extremely satisfied with your little statement, and he’s shoving and tugging your pants down. “You’ll be way to disheveled after this- they’ll know you became my lil’ victim.”

“P-please.” You whine. You don’t know why, but his big muscly fucking body, that hand that had clasped around your neck had made you drip with excitement. He was just so big and so much taller, his biceps and muscles just busting through his cloak- god did it turn you on. He was like a monster. And you knew what was hiding in his pants was no less then terrifying.

He tugs down your lacy bra, bunching up your boobs as it bunches under your chest. He chuckles and tugs at your right nipple, smirking at your little whines and gasps as he continues to tug and twist. It leans down to swirl his tongue around your left nipple, giving it some attention, sucking softly and nibbling down a bit. If he’s this good with your nipples, you wonder how good he’d be with his mouth in other areas. However your getting restless, the biting and nibbling on your nipples becoming too much, as you slightly push him away so you can try and get a sense of what his figure looks like.

You start to claw at his cloak, which makes him chuckle, and he unclasps it to show off his tight shirt tucked into sweatpants. You force him to shrug down the cloak, staying around his elbows, as he pushes down his own pants.

You’re so excited. You’re basically day dreaming as he rubs you through your pink little panties. You just know that there will be thousands of news reporters and journalists wanting to interview you. Know your story, what happened. Then they’ll be the fans of the celebs who’ll look over to you for answers, who’ll go crazy at their favorites being murdered. But you’re there. There to anwser their questions and give false empathy, and hopefully, woo those fans as your own.

You’ll be famous over night.

“Come on doll, focus on me.”

You hadn’t even realized he had shoved your panties to the side, rubbing your clit and smooth tight circles. You whine out, back arching just a bit, you also noticed he had taken off his bloody glove, to touch you with his clean one.

His other hand, smears blood onto the side of your face with his bloody glove. He chuckles at how you grimace, the slimy substance dampening your cheek.

He rips that bloody glove off to rub at your nipples again, while his other hand rubs faster on your little clit, he chuckles watching you start to writhe more and try to push him off.

“Ah. Just wet enough, little dove.” His finger makes its way to your entrance, poking at it, gathering some of your essence before entering you. You whine at the intrusion. His fingers, are fucking big. And just one filled you up nicely. Grithy and tall, poking at your sides and your gummy walls.

“Cmon doll, open up.” He chuckles, starting to twist his finger. You whine and start to kick your legs, your head going to the side to try to avoid his burning stare, which you could feel through his mask.

Your eyes look at the bodies, the dead ones that litter the floors at your left. You look at one, recognizing his face. You remember when you had asked him for a photograph together last year. And you guessed perhaps you had pushed him too much, because he spat at your face and shoved you out the way. You grimace at the memory, but then smile at his dead body. He’s dead. And you’re getting finger fucked close to his corpse.

You cry out as the masked man adds a second finger and scissors it inside you, making room. You can’t help but wince at the thought that he’s making so much room inside you for a reason.

As he scissors you, he accidentally bumps into a spot inside you that makes you convulse.

“Ah? Right here? Little victim?” He stabs at the spot with his thick fingers, a bruising pace starts and you see stars.

“Don’t come. Or I’ll make you suck my cock, then you’ll have to explain to the cameras why there’s cum all over your face.” He chuckles darkly, almost amused at the idea.

“A-ah! P-puh-please!” You whine out, especially when his thumb dips into your wetness and starts to coat your clit, rubbing it softly.

“P-please..!”

You dont know his name. But you want to, you desperately want to, do you can scream his name.

“Toji, doll.”

“Toji!” You cry out, so close, almost there, your body quivering and pussy shaking. He wraps his hand around your throat, constricting your airways, chuckling as you claw at his hand that chokes your throat.

Tears start to leave your eyes at just how good he was making you feel, and at the terrifying feeling of not being able to breathe.

“Atta girl. Nobodies gonna believe you without some tears.”

He finally takes his fingers out of you, slick covering them and a string of your essence connecting his fingers to your entrance.

“So wet for someone who was jus’ begging for their life.” He laughs, but your too busy to focus on breathing then his words when he finally takes his hand of your throat.

He pulls down his pants, and god do you gasp. His cock- no, a monster. Flings out of its confines and dribbles with precum.

“Hah.. I guess you got me a lil’ excited too, doll.”

He pushes the tip to your entrance, you can see the veins circle his cock, the angry tip gushing and the slight way it curves.

“W-wait! It’s not gonna- it’s not gonna fit!” You cry out, almost begging him not to ruin you.

“Shut it. I opened you up enough.” He rubs at your clit with his tip, making you kick at him some more. Which results in him grabbing your leg and pulling you towards him. “Nuh uh uh, no running away little dove.”

He nudged his tip in, sighing in the feeling of your pussy already trapping his cock into your tiny entrance. He slides in some more, you can feel every dip and vein and curve of his cock. You whine and claw at his big chest and biceps.

“T-Toji..” Your pussy is crushing his cock, enveloping it and sucking him in, as if you were milking his cock.

He grumbles and turns the both of you over, lying down as he slams you down on his cock, you straddling his hips. You scream out at the sudden full intrusion, and he chuckles, eyes rolling back.

“Come on doll. I’m exhausted. Be a good girl and break yourself on my cock, yeah?”

You whine out, but agree, moving your small hands to his chest, where you slowly lift yourself up and slide yourself back down on his cock. You both gasp, and you do it again. This time you try to add some rhythm, moaning out as you bounce on his cock.

The harder you bounce, the more his mask starts to slip, and that just adds to your excitement. The more you see it slip, the harder you start to go, crying and writhing as you jump on his cock but you just can’t seem to stop.

Your wet gushing insides pull him in, and he’s in a fucking trance. Watching you bounce up and down, looking for some sort of stability or comfort. He laughs, pushing the bottom of your thighs up before shoving into you some more, bouncing you up and down while also fucking up into you.

“That’s it… that’s it.. the cutest lil’ victim f’me…” He babbled, basically pussy drunk.

None of you want this to stop. However, you both feel that chilly feeling of your insides twisting and convulsing, knowing the both of you aren’t gonna last.

“Cmon doll. Come with me.” He holds your hip and your thigh as he fucks up into you. “You’ll be a good girl and come for me, yeah?” He’s basically babbling now, drool leaving his lips, and you can see that by his mask almost completely tips over.

You whine, clawing at his mask. “P-please.”

He chuckles, moving your hands away from his face.

“Fine, since ya asked so- fuck- nicely. And guess we’re teammates now, h-huh?” He stumbles on his words as he feels you milk his cock.

One hand goes down to your pussy, swiftly pressing down on your clit and rubbing fast, as his other hand shoved his mask off.

You gasp as you see his face. Dark lustful eyes, his lips adorn by a scar, his cheekbones and entire face harmony. The way you know with one look you’d pass away, he could kill you with that dark and sinister, evil look in his eyes. And you come at the sight.

Your body convulsed and you cried out, back arching as he tugged and pinched your clit meanly, following you soon after, pulling out and spilling onto his stomach and yours.

He gasps for air and so do you, you whimper as you fall forward onto his body, shivering and still slightly convulsing. You can feel his heart beat, the way it pounds against his chest and the way he heaves for a breath, a groan leaves his lips.

His hand brushed your hair and pulls you up. “Come on little dove. You’ve got a show to put on.”

He pulls you up, but lays you back down. Your still gasping for air, your eyes barely open and your body trembling. You feel your clothes being put on, even the ripped shirt. He cleans off his cum with what you assume is his cloak.

You open your eyes finally, to see him putting his mask back on, which makes you whine.

He laughs. “Don’t worry doll, you’ll see a lot more of me soon.” He carreses your hair, almost whisking you to slumber, your only half aware that there’s bodies littered around you.

He disappears, or rather, you’re too tired to notice he left.

When you open your eyes however, it’s because of unfamiliar people in your face, you’re still trembling, blood on your cheek that isn’t yours and lights in your face.

You’re on a gurney, being rolled away into an ambulance. Your eyes are a bit blurry but you see almost hundreds of people- and then there are the news reporters everywhere. They surround your gurney, the doctors weilding your not actually wounded body into the ambulance.

“Ma’am? Ma’am! Over here!” A man yells, pushing his camera in your face and lay the doctors, taking photos with flash on.

“Ma’am! What can you tell us about what happened? Ma’am?”

“Ghost… ghost face..” you breathe out, making all the reporters and journalists shiver with fright and widen their eyes.

“Ma’am? Ghost face? Tell us more about this cold blooded killer!”

There’s so many cameras in your faces, people talking, the cameras going off and flashing lights in your face.

“Ma’am! Over here!” A man snaps photos, a woman asks you questions, all the reporters and journalists following you and chasing you in the gurney until your put in the ambulance and the workers shut the truck doors.

The ambulance drives away, the siren rings and your ears and the workers ask if you can hear them, if you can answer some questions.

All you can think about was the lights. The people. The fame. How they all chased you down, like paparazzi.

“Am I.. famous?” You ask, a gasp leaving your lips.

“Well ma’am, you’re all over the news.” The doctor replied.

And you smile.

….

Thinking of doing a second part. But idk.

[hedgehog-moss]

Look at the delicious sushi for llamas I made today:

It's courgette stuffed with deworming paste and thanks to Poldine my plan went swimmingly. Pampelune is sometimes distrustful on deworming day, but when they saw Poldine get a treat then try to steal the other treats which were obviously meant for them, the other animals hurried to claim their own medicinal courgette as well.

Except Pampe. (How many times have I written these words.) She looked at her sushi, looked at me, sniffed every side of the courgette, decided it smelled like deceit, and walked away.

I felt daft for not going the muesli route straight away. Like all great tricksters Pampérigouste is suspicious by nature but she can't resist muesli. So I un-stuffed the courgette and used the sticky deworming paste to fashion a little muesli ball.

It was gooey and not very appetising but it's muesli, right? I camouflaged the muesli ball in a dish of innocent muesli and offered it to Pampe, but unfortunately she was now very aware that I was up to something. Instead of mindlessly vacuuming the contents of the muesli dish as she usually does, she examined the strange slimy little ball, pushed it away with her nose with obvious contempt, then ate the normal muesli. I tried (with increasing insistence and frustration) to convince her to eat the damn muesli ball, but no.

New idea: I went to the kitchen to get some pumpkin rinds, and squished the muesli ball between two small pieces of pumpkin skin like a Choco BN (if you're from the US, picture an orange worm-killing Oreo). Pampe likes pumpkin skin! I tried to explain to her that she would be punishing only herself if she refused the (admittedly deceitful) offering out of principle.

Somehow she managed to eat the outside 'biscuits' and spit out the stuffing.

At this point I had to shame her. (I told her to look ashamed for this photo; not sure she understood the assignment)

I had exhausted my creativity and had nothing left but the mean method. I got Pampe in llama jail, aka the school room where I spent many hours trying to teach her to wear a halter and be a good docile llama when she was little, while she spent many hours trying to escape by any conceivable means—high jumps, bribery, tunnels, you name it.

(In the background behind Poldine you can see the bag of hay that I used to get the llamas to follow me into the corral. Pampe naively thought I had given up on trying to make her eat gross slimy things and was about to give her a normal meal)

She tried a strange kind of escape this time around, which honestly might have worked if she were a swift salmon returning to her natal river to spawn, slicing against the current in a series of graceful, forward-arching curves. But she's a llama. It's like she forgot she wasn't all neck and also had a body that needed to clear this obstacle.

I sang her a little song to soothe her, and scritched her face, and managed to get a llama kiss which is more affection than I've ever received from a currently-jailed Pampe—her daughter really is a good influence on her!

So of course I took advantage of this moment of calm and trust to stick my hidden secret syringe in the corner of her mouth and push 2cm of deworming paste onto her tongue.

She was VEXED and WROTH.

We were talking about learning poetry by heart the other day; well, if Pampérigouste did that, "I am rowing (a hex poem)" is the poem she would have invoked in that moment.

After I left, all the other animals hurried into the corral to eat the hay I had used to get Pampe in, while Pampe turned her back on the meal and walked away a strategic distance, far enough to show me that she felt betrayed and would never eat any food I bring her ever again, not so far that she couldn't go back in and fight the donkey for what was left of the hay as soon as I stopped looking.