#and the underlying expectation that it *should* be him at first

[kiko---random-stuff-probably]

Infection

How Kallamar got his scar on his left eye.

For context: Kallamar is seveteen and got recruited by Shamura (who is around 30).

Kallamar did not expect, after being recruited by War themselves as a poisoner, to be in any way met with open arms by the other soldiers, for several reasons.

First of all, he was not a warrior. He only stepped foot on the battlefield after everything was done, and some of the soldiers considered him way too fragile and weak to actually help.

Second, he was a foreigner, and had some problems with the language barrier, even if luckily he came from a place where Silk Cradle's language was pretty used and he even read it on some medical tomes. Still, he had a certain accent (that he was actively trying to lose) and some words were still unknown to him. He was pretty sure thatsome soldiers referred to him with a slur, bbut he was not sure. He wasn't the only foreigner in Shamura's army, but this was not going to stop it.

Also, the fact that he poisoned his ex village was considered by a lot of soldiers as a clear sign that he was, and he could quote the exact words a soldier used behind his back, "a psychotic piece of shit who will not hesitate to stab the Spider's back". Which, obviously, was not true: he had no reason to hurt Shamura! After all, they gave him a home, a role, hot food and sometimes they even talked to him! Way mroe than anything he could had ever wish for!

So, he knew he was not in any way welcome there.

Still, slashing his left eye was a little too much.

Right now, Kallamar was sitting on a brand bed in the medical bay, holding an hand over his now bandaged face.

The doctor was reassuring, once again, that his wound was not going to get infected and that he was going to have a quick recovery, before excusing herself and leaving when Shamura entered.

War glanced at the squid, their expression indecifrable and cold. Disappointed, maybe.

Kallamar looked at the ground, as his mind started to race.

- I was informed of what happened. I still want to hear your side.-

- I didn't... I was not the one to start it.-

- I have no doubt in that, but I still want to hear your version.-

Kallamar was shaking, as he tried to find the words.

- I didn't... I was just... they attacked me out of nowhere, and said i had to "earn my right to live" and things like that, and others were inciting them, and... and... and they had a knife, and...- he was more than omce interrupted by a few sobs - I was scared... I couldn't...-

- You managed to take their knife away and then stabbed your opponent, right?-

- They putted it down, saying something about "a fair fight", and I knew they could had easily snapped my back, I just...-

- You stabbed them in the neck. Precisely in the carotids.-

Kallamar still didn't loook at them.

- And than you stabbed them other fifteen times. Some of the soldiers even report that you started laughing during your rampage.-

Kallamar holded back a sob. As they needed another reason to hate him. He was going to be executed, or thrown in the prison at best. All for a stupid fight.

- I really can't see why you were scared. Honestly, I'm impressed.-

Kallamar looked at the spider, trying to catch an underlying sarcasm. Instead, he found something akin to pride - Do not worry, I am not mad about their death, it was self defense after all.-

- I killed them.-

- They attacked first with the intention to kill you. I can forgive your reasonable outburst of adrenaline. We will have to work on your emotion management and teach you how to incapacitate an opponent without killing them, even if I doubt someone else will decide to try something similar to this.-

Kallamar was sure he must had misheard them.

-... Why aren't you mad? You should be mad that I was the one who survived. You should...- towards the end, he slipped in a swear word in his language.

Shamura's expression was filled with genuine confusion.

- Why would I be mad about that...? You are an important asset in my army and also a good kid with a promising future. I would had been really upset if you actually died.-

Bullshit. They must be lying. He was just a stupid weakling who could not do anything right and who's only role in life was to die and-

- Regardless of whatever your old village made you believe, you matter as much as anyone else. I'm happy you're alive, kid.- the spider gently patted his head, and that was it.

The squid bursted into tears, overwhelmed.

War let him cry, fully knowing how much he needed it.

[odysseys-blood]

literally how i feel any time i read this line. absolutely NOT

i think he's a great mirror type character for the mc depending on how much you draw on the default ra-on and their characterization, but more specifically their feeling of inferiority to solomon (which i take for my mc loyal). both the mc and bael are stuck filling in for a role for a king that neither feels they're well equipped for or were even born to hold and the fact that bael's so used to taking the fall that he's automatically ready to do it for you too is just. man. orz

[malfoyscoffee]

call me theo ౨ৎ theodore nott

pairing theodore nott x fem!slytherin!reader about fluff, angst | 1.7k words | exes to lovers warnings mentions of time skip, use of y/n, and a dumb theo

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

That marked the end of your two-year relationship with Theodore. As he said his final word, you turned away, walking down the winding steps of the Astronomy Tower, holding back the emotions until you returned to your dormitory.

The night blurred into a haze of tears, finding comfort in Pansy’s shoulder as both of you nestled on the dorm floor. Hours passed in a cocoon of sadness before Blaise, Mattheo, Lorenzo, and even Draco appeared with snacks and muggle movies, trying to lift your spirits.

Wrapped up in your distress, you didn't think to ask how they found out about your breakup. Unbeknownst to you, amidst his own pain, Theodore asked his friends to comfort you instead of him.

Three weeks had gone by since the breakup. As promised, you and Theodore went back to being friends, just like before, merely two friends within the same tight-knit circle. But beneath the surface of friendliness, your friends noticed the underlying tension between you and Theodore, silently wishing for a reunion.

It was a random morning in the Great Hall when you announced to your friends that you would be occupied before dinner to take on the extra credit assignment for Herbology. Your friends looked at you strangely, the assignment was unnecessary for someone with such high marks, but inside you wanted a distraction from everything. 

Back in the common room, the attention shifted to Theodore, the elephant in the room finally about to be addressed. 

“So, what led to the breakup?” Blaise relaxed in his chair while Theodore sighed, looking at the ceiling. 

“She didn’t say why, but she mentioned that you initiated the breakup,” Draco said casually, trying to hide his interest in the situation.

“I told her she deserved better.”

Silence.

Suddenly, Lorenzo burst into laughter.

“Salazar, Enzo,” Pansy stood, disregarding Lorenzo's reaction. “So, let me get this straight,” she pointed her finger at Theodore, “You're saying the reason the group has been down is because you decided she deserved someone better?”

Mattheo set aside his cigarette, “Didn’t expect you to be so naive, mate.”

Blaise nodded, “Thinking that's an explanation. Y/n adores you, where will you find a girl better than her?”

Theodore’s face paled, “She’ll find someone better and eventually leave me. I couldn’t handle that.”

Draco stayed composed, “So you ended it first. Well done, Theo.”

Theodore buried his face in his hands, letting out an exasperated groan. “You all know she has a promising future after graduation. Why should she stay with me and be held back?”

“Did you talk to her about this, or did your insecurities make the call?” Lorenzo’s words made Theodore freeze, lost in thought.

Pansy packed up, checking the time. “Dinner’s soon. Let’s go.”

The boys followed Pansy, leaving Theodore alone, contemplating if his decision was right for your relationship.

"I got the job!"

Strolling around Hogsmeade with Blaise and Pansy, you stumbled upon a new place—a wizarding coffee shop. Your liking for muggle coffeehouses sparked your curiosity, pushing you to ask about potential employment.

Excitement bubbled as you shared the news with your friends in the Great Hall.

“We’ve got a place to visit now.” Lorenzo grinned, aware it might bring some joy after a while.

Pansy nudged Draco, "Let’s study there. OWLS are coming up and some muggle coffee might help."

Draco glanced at Theodore, who sat in silence, unsure of what to say. “That sounds like a plan. I could use some muggle coffee.”

They all knew Draco was convincing Theodore to join.

"When do you start?" Mattheo asked between sips of hot chocolate.

You remembered your upcoming schedule, “Next week, Wednesdays and Saturdays? Once I’m trained, next Saturday, I’ll treat you all to some amazing muggle coffee."

The group agreed, planning to meet at your workplace next Saturday.

“Five cups of regular iced coffee, please.” You operated the muggle machine, engrossed in fulfilling the order.

“Oh, hey, Theodore. Are the others here?” You looked around, causing Theodore���s shoulders to slump slightly.

“They're at the big corner table. Enzo insisted the natural sunlight would help with studying…”

A soft chuckle escaped, “You can go back, I’ll bring the drinks over when ready.” Theodore nodded, returning to the café’s corner.

Blaise grabbed the first cup but stopped when Pansy teased him. “Don’t hog! Share!”

“How does it taste?” you asked, turning to your friends.

“Y/n, muggle coffee is amazing.” Mattheo praised, soon followed by Blaise signaling he finished his drink.

“I should tell my father about this place,” Draco chimed in, and before you knew it, all the cups were empty.

“I should get back to work, see you at dinner.”

“What time do you finish?” Theodore's sudden interest surprised everyone.

“Y/n?”

"I'm done around six," You said while feeling a bit overwhelmed inside.

Theodore nodded, indicating your return to work.

Numerous customers kept you busy. Though you didn’t need money, the experience was enriching.

While your friends left at five, Theodore stayed. He moved to a quiet spot facing the counter where you worked.

Ignoring his shift, you focused on the new customers who walked in.

“Y/n, it's six, you can leave,” your boss said, offering a pastry.

“Thanks,” grabbing your coat, you started to leave the kitchen.

“Are you done?” Theodore was poised by the counter, waiting for your response.

“Theodore, did you wait?”

Signaling to walk together, he said, “I had a few assignments that I wanted to finish early so I stayed longer.” His nervous fidgeting gave away his lie, his habit you remembered from your past relationship. 

You hummed, touched by his waiting. 

“I might visit often. I didn't mention earlier, but the coffee’s great.”

Walking back to Hogwarts, feelings for Theodore surfaced since the breakup.

How could you move on when he acted this way?

For two months, Theodore kept his promise, visiting the café every Wednesday and Saturday, bringing schoolwork, and leaving with you.

You felt the emotions returning but you were scared to get hurt. After all, he initiated the breakup, right?

Your friends noticed Theodore’s absence on your workdays, understanding where Theodore was without verbal explanation. 

“One large iced coffee, please.” You prepared a cup, “And your name?”

“Theo.”

“Oh,” You looked up at Theodore. “One large iced coffee for Theodore.” You repeated his order and placed the cup down. 

“Why don’t you call me Theo anymore?” His disappointment was evident.

Meeting his gaze, you explained, “Because we’re just friends.”

Theodore observed the cup, then you.

“You know what, I think I forgot something at my dorm. I’m going to go.” His tone was sharper than he meant, leaving the café abruptly.

“Now you're the clueless one. Salazar, why do I have two of them?” Lorenzo dramatized, earning an eye roll from you.

Theodore disappeared after the café meeting. Unaware of his whereabouts, your friends gathered in the common room, waiting for his return.

“I mean, Y/n, Enzo's right,” Pansy said, sipping the muggle coffee you brewed for the group.

“He ended things months ago. I don’t see why you're all on his side.” Frowning, you didn’t grasp their empathy toward Theodore.

“Y/n, listen,” Blaise interrupted, “Regardless of who initiated the breakup, Theodore has come to your café twice a week for months, just to spend time with you.”

Draco echoed Blaise’s sentiments. “OWLS were done a month ago, yet he still visits. Give Theo credit for trying.”

You sighed, “I care for him, but I don’t want to be hurt again. He should just tell me. His actions are misleading if he doesn’t want to reconcile.”

Lost in thought, the warmth of the common room enveloped you, the crackling fire providing a soothing ambiance.

As evening approached, your thoughts circled Theodore’s sudden exit from the café, leaving you unsettled, your mind in disarray.

Unnoticed, the common room door creaked open. Theodore entered, visibly anxious. His eyes met yours, a blend of hesitation and resolve painting his expression.

The room fell silent as Theodore approached you, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Without a word, you got up and led him out of the common room.

The two of you reached the Blake Lake, facing each other, as the tension filled the air. Theodore struggled with his thoughts, torn between holding back and speaking up.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he started, a hint of regret in his tone. “I didn’t mean to leave abruptly. I've been struggling, Y/n.”

“Struggling? With what, Theodore?”

Gathering his thoughts, he spoke earnestly. “With everything between us. The breakup wasn't about not caring about you. I was scared.”

“Scared?” Your voice softened, understanding blooming within.

Theodore nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was scared that you would realize I was holding you back and leave me. So I thought if I let you go, you would be better off.”

Your heart ached, his honesty striking a chord with your own doubts. “But, Theodore, you never gave me a chance to choose. You made that decision for me.”

“I know, and I regret it every day.” Remorse filled his words, and his vulnerability was evident. “I visited the café because I wanted to be near you. But I understand if it’s been confusing for you.”

Silence hung, emotions swirling like a storm.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered, emotions stirring within.

He met your gaze, “I don't want to lose you again, Y/n. I want us to start over, I'll do everything to make things right.”

“Let's take it slow, Theodore. Start over and let's see where it takes us.”

A soft smile appeared on his face, relief in his eyes. “I promise, I'll do everything.”

"I've missed this," Theodore confessed softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions.

You gently squeezed his hand, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Me too. I think we both needed this time to figure things out."

Theodore stopped walking, turning to face you with resolve. "I want us to try again, to be together, properly this time.”

Your heart skipped a beat, warmth spreading through you at his words. You looked into his eyes, seeing a depth of sincerity that reassured you more than any words could. "I want that too, Theodore. Let's give us another chance."

With that shared agreement, a sense of relief and joy washed over both of you. Walking hand in hand, Theodore smiled for the first time in months.

“Now, will you call me Theo?”

[libraford]

I'm not bothered by the conversation so much as I am a growing approach to activism which makes it impossible to interact with other people. Which echoes a lot of that conversation I had with Ginger this week.

He refuses to have friends that are not faithful to Jesus. Like, he can have a productive conversation with a non-believer and nearly connect with them socially, but if he learns that they don't go to church or don't believe in christ, he finds it difficult to take them seriously because their words were not god-inspired.

Ginger was in a cult. I do not mean this colloquially- Xenos/Dwell is a prominent pseudo-christian cult in central Ohio that preys on college students in need of community. There are rules about who you can date, who you can hang with, they practice gay coversion therapy, and will tell you not to visit your family if they're not Christian.

There is a lot of focus on purity. Actions, thoughts, social groups- it's very controlling about what you can and cannot do.

So. When he goes out into the world with us sinners, it becomes difficult to interact with general society.

We were talking about Merve, one of our foremen, and I said: "the first time I was in a car with Merve, he introduced himself as a Democratic Catholic Pervert. And honestly- yeah that's a good summation."

Ginger didn't like that at all. "Well he's not a very good catholic with all that talk of pornography, he should be ashamed of himself- honestly shouldn't even call himself Christian."

Merve is very much a womanizer, but it's all talk. He's gross about it sometimes and it rubs me the wrong way, but in all fairness- he warned me. Outside of that, he's what I expected from a 60-something landscaper.

"Well, I think whether he's a good Christian or not is up to God, not us."

And he got a little pissy over that comment because I caught him judging.

He only hangs out with 'the faithful' at work, which consists of three guys who are religious in a similar way and it's caused a bit of a rift in the culture. It's gotten a little... preachy. It wasn't preachy before.

So I am making... parallels to this behavior and a particular strain of activism that's been affected by purity culture.

Nothing is ever good enough. If it touches racism, it's banned forever and you have to spread the word about how it's racist. Where doing things that are well-intended puts you in the spotlight for the underlying and actually bigoted reason you're doing a nice thing. And prevents you from doing the nice thing in the future.

Because yes you did a nice thing, but it wasn't enough- you could be doing more.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you did this nice thing instead of tackling this bigger issue.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it was through this program that you didn't know was funded somewhat unethically.

Yes you did a nice thing, but your motivation for doing it wasn't the goodness of your heart, it was motivated by guilt.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it took a horrible event to do it when you should have had the morals of goodness ingrained in you and you should have done this from the start.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you only did it when it started impacting your life and you should be thinking of others first.

Yes you did a nice thing but the nice thing doesn't align perfectly with my worldview.

The goalpost is forever moving backwards.

No one likes to be called 'racist.' It's a really easy weapon to use when something does something you don't like. If you look at anything closely enough, you will see it's racist roots. You could say the same for misogyny, homophobia. Our society is built on hatred and inequality. Untangling it and living a morally pure life free of ridicule is impossible.

Recognizing the roots of an action to be bigoted is the first step. The second step is knowing it when you see it. Step three is pointing it out.

But there are more steps.

Pointing it out, or calling it out, and chastising someone for ignoring or not knowing something actually isn't all that helpful. Because it leaves you to wonder- okay, now what? What can I do to remedy this situation?

Which is the next step- actionable items. Yes, I have done something wrong- I am sorry.

I am sorry. Now I will try to make it right.

I will try to make it right by donating, by volunteering time, by listening to the people who have been hurt and lifting their voices.

Part of healing from an oppressive Christian community is realizing that people are going to sin whether you like it or not. And barring harm to themselves and others, you're gonna have to let them.

If my tarot practice is derived from a 15th century racist, then it was derived for a 15th century racist. Refusing to participate in a past-time that helps me connect with my family doesn't make it not racist. It will still be racist. But I'm not sure who it's hurting in 2024 and I don't have a time machine and I'm not being given clear instructions for how to unracist it.

[writingwithcolor]

Not all Second-Language Speakers are Made Equal.

@waltzshouldbewriting asked:

Hello! I’m writing a story that features a character who’s first language is not English. He’s East African, specifically from Nairobi, Kenya, and is pretty fluent in English but it’s not his primary language, and he grew up speaking Swahili first. I’m struggling to figure out if it’s appropriate or in character to show him forgetting English words or grammar. From what I’ve researched, English is commonly spoken in Nairobi, but it wouldn’t be what was most spoken in his home. For context, this is an action/superhero type story, so he (and other characters) are often getting tired, stressed, and emotional. He also speaks more than two languages, so it makes sense to me that it would be easier to get confused, especially in a language that wasn’t his first. But I’m worried about ending up into stereotypes or tropes. For additional context: I’m monolingual, I’ve tried to learn a second language and it’s hard. A lot of how I’m approaching this comes from my own challenges correctly speaking my own, first and only language.

Diversity in Second-Language English

You seem to have an underlying assumption that second language acquisition happens the same for everyone. 

The way your character speaks English depends on so many unknown factors: 

Where does your story take place? You mention other characters; are they also Kenyan, or are they all from different countries?

Assuming the setting is not Kenya, is English the dominant language of your setting? 

How long has your character lived in Kenya vs. where he is now? 

What are his parents’ occupations? 

What level of schooling did he reach in Nairobi before emigrating? 

What type of school(s) did he go to, public or private? Private is more likely than you think. 

Did his schooling follow the national curriculum structure or a British one? Depends on school type and time period. 

Does he have familiarity with Kenyan English, or only the British English taught in school? 

Is this a contemporary setting with internet and social media?

I bring up this list not with the expectation that you should have had all of this in your ask, but to show you that second language acquisition of English, postcolonial global English acquisition in particular, is complex. 

My wording is also intentional: the way your character speaks English. To me, exploring how his background affects what his English specifically looks like is far more culturally interesting to me than deciding whether it makes him Good or Bad at the language. 

L2 Acquisition and Fluency

But let’s talk about fluency anyway: how expressive the individual is in this language, and adherence to fundamental structural rules of the language.

Fun fact: Japanese is my first language. The language I’m more fluent in today? English. Don’t assume that an ESL individual will be less fluent in English compared to their L1 counterparts on the basis that 1) it’s their second language, or 2) they don’t speak English at home. 

There’s even a word for this—circumstantial bilingualism, where a second language is acquired by necessity due to an individual’s environment. The mechanisms of learning and outcomes are completely different. 

You said you tried learning a second language and it was hard. You cannot compare circumstantial bilingualism to a monolingual speaker’s attempts to electively learn a second language. 

Motivations?

I understand that your motivation for giving this character difficulties with English is your own personal experience. However, there are completely different social factors at play.

The judgments made towards a native speaker forgetting words or using grammar differently are rooted in ableism and classism (that the speaker must be poor, uneducated, or unintelligent). That alone is a hefty subject to cover. And I trust you to be able to cover that!

But on top of that, for a second language speaker, it’s racism and xenophobia, which often lend themselves to their own ableist or classist assumptions (that those of the speaker’s race/ethnicity must be collectively unintelligent, that they are uneducated or low class due to the occupations where they could find work, or conversely that they are snobby and isolationist and can't be bothered to learn a new language). Intersections, intersections.

If you want to explore your experiences in your writing, give a monolingual English speaker in your cast a learning disability or some other difficulty learning language, whatever you most relate with. And sure, multilingual folks can occasionally forget words like anyone else does, or think of a word in one language and take a second to come up with it in the other language. But do not assume that multilinguals, immigrants, or multiethnic individuals inherently struggle with English or with multiple languages just because you do.

~ Rina

[coco-loco-nut]

loml part 2

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

summary: it’s time for you to finally have some happiness, even if you’ve sworn off drivers

part one masterlist ttpd masterlist

——————

A year after the break up, you are still living in George’s Monaco apartment. You keep to yourself, sticking to a simple routine and avoiding Formula One when you can. You could’ve gotten your own apartment with the divorce settlement and your job salary, but George insisted that you take care of the apartment for him.

George and Carmen were with you every step of the way, helping you pick up the pieces and bringing you back to as close to normal as you can.

“I’m done with drivers, I will never date one ever again,” you tell George one afternoon. George was almost offended but you added on the second half.

You go out for a run like you do every morning before work, and on your way home you stop in a bakery you’ve been eyeing. After placing your coffee and pasty order, you accidentally bump into someone.

“I am so sorry, I- Charles. Hi,” you look at the equally stunned man.

“Hi, how are you doing,” Charles says gently, sounding concerned. That isn’t what you expected out of your ex’s friend.

“Better, how’s, um, how is he?” you ask a little bitterly, internally cringing at the clear discomfort on Charles’s face. His name is called alongside yours, so he picks it up and sets it on a table, silently inviting you to join him, and you do.

“I don’t know. After the whole Kelly thing, I argued with him and we haven’t really talked since,” Charles admits, you look stunned.

“I’m sorry that happened,” you can’t really hide your bitter expression as the thought of Kelly runs through your mind. Not even a month after you separated, Max was off playing happy family with his new girlfriend. Your divorce wasn’t even legalized yet.

“I’m not. He lost someone incredible just because he wasn’t willing to put in the work for a good and healthy relationship,” Charles looks you in the eyes. You finish your pastry and process his words and his underlying meaning.

“Charles, everything is still so fresh, I don’t know,” you look out at the streets. You couldn’t deny he was attractive, but you didn’t want to reinvolve yourself with Formula One.

“One date, we can take it as slow as you want to. I know it must be hard, but you deserve to be happy,” Charles reaches out and touches your hand gently.

“I have to get to work. You should have my number, Charles,” you softly smile, leaving the cafe. Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Naturally, he asked George for permission first. He knew George was acting as your overprotective brother, and George knew you better than anyone at the moment. Despite you swearing off drivers, George felt that Charles might be what you need.

The first date goes well, and so does the second, and the third. Charles prioritized privacy, and you were grateful. He shows up to your door for the fourth with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, ones that Max always forgot to get. He always gave you chrysanthemums, fitting that he would choose a funeral flower seeing as how he killed the relationship.

“Cheri, are you okay?” Charles asks, seeing you tear up a little.

“Max never did this, and when he did they were always the wrong flowers,” you shake you head slightly, fending off the anger and sadness.

“Well, if he wanted to treat your right, he would. I want to treat you right,” Charles presses a kiss to your head. You invite him in while you find a vase to put the flowers in.

“I want that,” you tell him, his hands find yours.

“Be my girlfriend?” Charles asks, you nod happily.

“There is this restaurant that I’ve been wanting to try, down the street. Maybe I can take my boyfriend there,” you smile, heart racing.

“Lead the way, mon cœur,” Charles tells you. You lock the apartment behind you and take his hand as you lead him down the street to a restaurant that opened a couple months ago. The two of you are so caught up in each other, you don’t notice the table across the restaurant.

Max watches you walk into the restaurant, hand in hand with Charles - the guy who used to be one of his closest friends. You look stunning, and happier than you were the last few months before the separation. Of course Max saw you for divorce meetings, but this is different.

“Max is here,” you quietly tell Charles.

“Don’t worry about him, he won’t cause a scene,” Charles reassures you, knowing his old friend. You are grateful for the man sitting across from you.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you ask, causing Charles’s hear to soar. can’t believe he is finally happy.

Charles is by your side during the rough days, especially the day that should’ve been your wedding anniversary with Max. You couldn’t help but to be upset, and healing takes time. Charles didn’t push you to do anything, he just kept you company and followed your lead.

When you were together for six months, you felt comfortable enough to reintroduce yourself to Charles’s friends and family. It helps that the two of you adopted a dog.

“These are my sons, Ollie and Oscar,” Charles tells you as you stand in the kitchen, watching over the dinner you had been working on. He would’ve invited Liam, but that would be awkward for everyone.

“It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Y/n. I suspect you know Leo from social media. Would either of you like wine, or anything from the fridge? Please, help yourself,” you stop yourself from fussing. Charles recognizes it as your hormones kicking in, making you fuss over them.

“Thank you, need any help?” Ollie asks as Oscar plays with Leo.

“Thank you, but you are a guest. I couldn’t let you. Now, I think Charles has a really expensive bottle that will pair well with this meal, let me grab it and pour a couple glasses,” you wink.

“Only the best for you and the kids, Cheri,” Charles yells from the dining room where he is setting the table. Ollie takes the glass you poured for him, he wouldn’t mind you being his grid mom.

“Charles, come help me bring food in while the boys sit down,” you tell him, giving Oscar and Ollie a little glare when the move to help you.

“Of course, mon cœur,” Charles smiles, carrying the heavier plates in while you grab the wine bottle and the two empty glasses for you and Charles.

The two boys try to make sure they don’t come off as interrogating you, but you don’t mind. They are avoiding the elephant in the room, and both you and Charles know it.

“You can ask, I don’t mind,” you say gently, knowing it’s eating Oscar alive. He’s like you and George if you two had an idgaf attitude.

“Is it true that you and Max, um,” Oscar pauses looking for the words.

“Yeah, he’s my ex-husband. He did me a favor though, without him I wouldn’t be with Charlie,” you look adoringly at your boyfriend.

“Ask George and Carmen, they will give you the best version of the story,” Charles laughs and so do you.

“This is really good, I might need you to cook after races for me,” Ollie changes to topic, groaning a little at how full he is.

“She’s our mom, of course it’s good,” Oscar replies, you can’t fight the grin on your face.

“Of course I will. I can send some frozen meals for you to heat up along to the with Charles,” you tell them.

“Or you could come to the races and keep me company,” Ollie says, looking at you hopefully. You are one hundred percent adopting him. Charles looks at you a little panicked, you never really talked about being in the paddock as his girlfriend. Of course, he has publicly talked about how he has a girlfriend who he adores, but no one knows it’s you, except for a few people.

Max never told anyone about your relationship, despite him seeing your date and reporters asking him about you. It would be an asshole thing to do after he moved on so quick, and you deserved better than what he had done to you already.

“I’d love to, but don’t regret it when you are being mothered,” you point your fork at them.

“Wait, why only Ferrari,” Oscar pouts.

“I can visit you too, I’ll even bring cookies,” you tell Oscar. He pumps his fist in celebration.

Charles is happy to hear you are okay going to races again. You have to be a little stealthy about it at the start. You go the first couple times as George’s guest, and slowly increase how long you are with Charles each time.

Things change when you miss your period. You and Charles have always been very careful, but there have been a couple time that you forgot a condom.

“What does it say, mon cœur?” Charles sits beside you in bed, rubbing soft circles on your shoulder. You take a shakey breath and turn the stick over, ready to be shown another negative.

“Positive, I’m pregnant. I thought I couldn’t have kids,” you feel Charles brush tears from your cheeks.

“We will be the best parents, I’m so happy,”he reassures you, and you can see how happy he is. From then on you go as Charles’s partner, Ollie is happy to have you with him in the garage, and even accompanies you to visit Oscar. Ollie claimed it was to protect you and the baby against Max, but that doesn’t work when Max is talking to Lando at the same time you visit Oscar.

“Hey, how are you doing?” Max asks a little hesitatily.

“I’m really well, how are you?” you ask, pushing down the bitter parts of you. You truly are very happy now.

“I’m okay. Do you think we could talk at some point this weekend? I think it’s been long enough and you deserve closure for yourself,” Max scratches the back of his head.

“Message me on Instagram. We can find a time,” you agree, needing to get a couple things off your chest. That time is the next morning in an open room in Red Bull hospitality.

“You wanted to talk,” you say as you sit down across from Max. Charles was apprehensive when you told him of your plan, but he trusted you and was supportive of your choice.

“I wanted to apologize for how I treated you at the end, it was unfair to you,” Max tells you, clearly pushing through his pride. “So, I’m sorry. I can’t say it’s easy seeing you happy with someone who isn’t me. Are you happy?” Max asks, needing to know.

“Of course I am. It was really hard to move on. Charlie makes me extremely happy, and he’s given me the greatest gift I could ask for,” you smile, subconsciously putting a hand on your stomach. Max feels his stomach swirl with jealousy. Charles is living the life he should be living, Charles is doing everything he should be doing for you, but he fucked it all up.

“I, uh, wow. Congratulations, I know how much you wanted a kid. I’m happy for you, schatje,” Max says, pushing down his jealousy. It’s his fault he lost you, now he has to live with the consequences and be mature about it. Maybe if he hadn’t gotten with Kelly so soon he would be with you, but it’s too late now.

Max did try. He constantly asked George where you were, or to convince you to talk to him. George was protective though, he saw how hurt you were and knew you needed to heal on your own time. So he did what any overprotective best friend would do, talk reasonably and show Max why he needed to stay away.

“Thanks, Maxie, that means a lot,” Maxie, a dagger through Max’s heart. “I can’t be friends with you right now, but maybe someday. I like this version of you, maybe Kelly was the right one for you after all,” you can see the pain in Max’s somber eyes, the same one you see from the end of your relationship, and the same one that haunts you.

“I really am sorry,” Max’s voice cracks. “You’re the love and loss of my life,” tears well in his eyes as he looks at you.

“You’re the loss of mine as well,” you stand up and move towards him, pulling him into a hug. “You are going to be okay, Max. We weren’t right for each other, but now you can move on,” you say softly. In your heart you can feel the closure you’ve needed. Max felt it too, and when the day came, he would be ready to be a good friend.

Until that day, he is publicly supportive of your family with Charles. Max repairs his relationship with Charles first, then he slowly repairs it with you. When Julianna Herveline Leclerc graced the world, he was one of the first people to send a gift and well wishes. And when you and Charles finally make it to the alter, Max is standing beside Charles, happy to support the two of you.

[radiance1]

Just remembered about the Vortex's lil guy au and decided to write a lil about it.

***

When the Justice League arrived to stop a newly risen villain's scheme, which involved taking holding an entire city hostage with the use of a machine that could control the weather, which also involved expanded after successfully taking over the city.

When they achieved victory, they did not expect a child to be powering the machine.

Shazam, surprisingly, was the first one to react. "Danny!?" He said as he flew over to the boy, gently picking him from the confines of the machine (after they it had been deactivated) and into his arms. "Danny...?" He said a moment later, unsure of himself as his voice wavered a bit.

He shook the boy a bit, not too hard though, so as not to do any accidental harm. Blearily, the boy blinked opened his eyes, staring up at Shazam's worried face. "Shazam?" He murmured, voice rough and scratchy, as if it wasn't used often.

Either this boy-Danny-didn't speak much beforehand, or he was trapped in that machine so long that his voice became like this from a long period of disuse.

Shazam seemed to have thought so as well, and by his expression, it seemed to be more of the later as he floated down beside the rest of the League.

Danny blinked slowly before looking around the area, eyes glancing over every member present, then his surroundings and then finally back to Shazam and, with a curious tilt of his head he simply asked. "Did I get possessed again?"

A wave of concern washed over the group at the way the boy so casually asked such a question. As if it happened often enough that he grew used to it and, if the 'again' was any indication, it might just be the case.

"No." Shazam shook his head, readjusting his hold on the boy as he started to try and wiggle himself out of his arms. "Are you okay?"

"Yep." Said Danny, not even taking a moment to consider the question. As if he didn't just come out of a machine that feed upon his powers for who knew how long. Shazam's eyes narrowed in a glare that could almost give the Bat's a run for his money.

"Danny." The Champion of Magic chided, and the boy's eyes glazed over for a moment as Shazam simply readjusted his hold again. A moment later the boy blinked, a small purse to his lips and the vaguest amounts of concern slipping onto his face. "Oh," The boy said, no longer trying to wiggle himself from Shazam's hold. "My magic is acting weird, that's not good."

"Well yea since you, you know, had your powers drained and all?" Green Lantern said, the end of his question dipping into a question as the boy turned his head in his direction with too empty eyes that, for some reason, unsettled him.

"Who're you?" He asked with passing interest.

Whatever unsettlement Green Latern felt, it was immediately replaced with the vaguest amount of offence as the boy's words somehow wounded his ego more than such a simple question should have once it registered.

Who then immediately proceeded to ignore him.

The boy then blinked again, turning to Batman and giving the man a small wave. "Hello again, Batman." The Dark Knight simply grunted in his direction and nodded. Then pointed to each and every member present and slowly called out their names.

"Wonder Woman, Superman, Martian Manhunter, " Both of the aliens names were whispered with an underlying awe. "The Flash and Aquaman." His finger than landed on Green Lantern, and the boy furrowed his brows. "So who're you?"

"How do you know spooky but not me?!" Green Lantern ignored the Bat's glare in his direction at the use of the nickname, wounded pride and genuine bafflement allowing him to do such a thing.

"We met before." Danny state simply, as if that was the answer to all questions. "You?" He asked again.

This could not get worse. Green Lantern thought.

It could get worse. Green Lantern realized a few moments later after trying-and failing-to get the boy to recognize him as the members present were snickering at his plight.

Even Wonder Woman was trying to hold down a smile.

His eyes accidentally wandered in Batman's direction to see his reaction and he let out a quiet sigh of relief to see the man unmoved with only the slightest amount of disappointment that he didn't crack. Though it was wildly overshadowed by his ego being salvaged-

Batman's lips quirked up into a smirk before falling so fast that he had trouble believing if it was even there in the first place.

Green Lantern's jaw dropped as he stared at the Bat incredulously, who simply stared back. Unmoved, like a stone. As if he didn't just smile at him.

[sturnioloszn]

ICE BOUND (2) - M.S

summary; you go watch one of matt's games, which he loses, and you allow him to take his frustration out on you, but what you didn't expect was underlying feelings to be revealed.

warnings; smut, unprotected sex (don't do it ho), oral (eating pussy), dirty talk, praising, leaving hickeys.

a/n; this is part 2 to my most recent fic, so I recommend reading the one before this (ill have it tagged below). also, feel free to send thru any suggestions for future fics, i'd be more than glad to hear them and try to write them!!

P1, P3

★ ° . *　　°　.　°☆ 　. * ● ¸. 　　　★ 　° :. ★　 * •

3 - 3

They were tied. It's been a close game, and there were now five minutes left of overtime.

I was sitting on the furthest bench away, surrounded by people. This was the first game of playoffs, and it meant that many people were here to support their family and friends. I was here to 'support my father', but in reality, I was here for Matt.

Ever since me and Matt hooked up that one time after practice, it had become a regular thing. At first, he'd come over after practice or games for blowjobs or sex but then the visits became more frequent. He started coming over to watch tv and eat together. We even went out to lunch once. Of course, my father doesn't know about this. He'd kill us both.

We aren't anything official, but if you were to ask me whether he didn't mean anything to me, I wouldn't be able to answer you.

So, I was currently watching Matt glide on the ice, keeping his focus on the puck. I had to admit watching him play was a huge turn-on. They way he'd get all sweaty or even how he was visibly angry each time the other team scored had me soaked.

I watched the timer count down the seconds left, and my heartbeat sped up, hoping that someone on Matt's team would score. With ten seconds left, the other team had possession of the puck, and they flawlessly scored the winning goal.

My eyes flew to Matt to see his reaction, and it was just what I'd thought it'd be. He swung his hockey, stick at the ground, and pulled his helmet off as he skated off the ice. Matt had a tendency to be a bit of a sore loser, especially considering this was the first game of playoffs.

I stood up to go search for him, hoping that I won't find my father instead, but he should be preoccupied with talking to the team.

I leave the rink and head to the locker rooms. I find him stuffing his skates into his bag and mumbling under his breath. I walk up to him and place my hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me to acknowledge my presence before going back to what he was doing.

"You played well," I reassure him, even though I know he won't care. He scoffs before turning back to me.

"If we played well, we would've won... I can't believe we lost to those fucking amateurs," he says, speaking the last part under his breath. I watch as he pulls his jersey off and heads to the showers. It's best if I just wait outside and let him cool down.

It's been about half an hour since I left the locker room, and I finally see him exit with wet hair, fresh clothes on, and his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He has a frown on his face as he walks over to me.

"So what y'doing now?" He asks, looking me up and down. His hair was dripping onto his blue hoodie. Fuck, the way that hoodie made his eyes look even colder did unimaginable things to me.

"I don't know, I don't really have any plans..." I reply, trying to keep my composure. "...we could go to yours?" I continue. He squints his eyes at me before replying.

"Didn't you come here for your dad? What would he think if you just randomly left?" He says, raking his eyes over my body again.

"I'll text him saying something came up," I say, already thinking of an excuse.

"Yeah. My dick," he grins. What an idiot. I roll my eyes, and we make our way to his car.

The journey was pretty tame until he dropped his heavy hand onto my thigh. His thumb caressed the inside of my leg as he kept one hand on the steering wheel. I tried to sneak glances at him, but I was far from subtle. He was driving me insane.

We eventually reached his apartment, and we just about got through the door before his hands were already on me. He snaked his arms around my waist and pulled my mouth onto his. The kiss was rough and sloppy, to the point where our teeth clashed together.

"Let me help you," I offer, pulling away from the kiss just enough to speak.

"Help me with what?" He huffs, a confused look drawing on his face.

"Take your anger out...on me," I say, looking into his eyes. A smirk plays on his lips as he moves his hands to under my thighs, lifting me off the ground. Our kissing resumes as he walks us over to his bedroom.

He kicks the door open and sets me down on the bed, never breaking our kiss. He lifts my sweater high enough to place a few delicate pecks on my stomach before pulling it off completely. My jeans and bra follow until I'm left almost bare infront of him.

He's between my legs with his head pressed to my collarbone, leaving sloppy kisses all over. I feel his mouth latch onto my neck and start sucking but I pull away almost instantly.

"You can't..." I whisper, pulling his head away. He looks up at me with confusion. "My dad will find out if you do," I clarify.

He's annoyed by this, but regardless, he doesn't continue. He peppers kisses down my body until he reaches my clothed pussy. I let a sigh of relief out when he places a kiss right on my clit, and a whine when he continues moving down.

He reaches my thighs and throws my legs over his shoulders. He's so close than I can feel his breath on my skin.

"He won't find them here," he smiles slyly, before attaching his lips to the soft flesh of my thighs and sucking. I moan at the feeling of him sucking bruises into my skin and marking me.

I watch him work his mouth, leaving hickey after hickey on my legs. He eventually looks up at me before pulling my panties down, drinking in the sight of my pink, wet pussy infront of him.

He wastes no time bringing his tongue to my folds and licking up my wetness. My hand flies to his now damp hair and my moans become louder.

He's eating me like I'm his last meal, and he's trying to savour every moment. His tongue laps over my folds and his teeth graze my clit causing jolts of pleasure to run through my body.

"F-uck Matt, don't stop," I moan, and just as those words leave my lips, his mouth stops moving. I whine and buck my hips at his face for him to keep going but he pulls away, letting my legs drop from his shoulders.

I watch as he slips out of his clothes, revealing his thick and hard cock. He then brings his lips to my ear before speaking, "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name, pretty girl,".

With no warning, he shoves his cock into my hole, filling me completely. He begins to rock his hips into me harshly, forcing me to grab the sheets for support.

"Fuck, s-slow down," I stutter but his thrusts just become harder and harder.

"No fucking way, y'wanted this you slut, and now you're going to fuckin' take it," he grunts, pounding into me roughly. His large hands were gripping my hips so hard it felt as though they'd leave bruises.

I moan louder, his words pushing me closer to the edge. He looks down at my stomach and sees his cock fucking me from the outside.

"Fuck, look at that, you're taking my cock so fucking good," he growls, pushing his hand onto the bulge on my stomach, feeling his own dick.

"I'm s-so so clo-se Matt," I fumble my words. He was literally fucking me senseless. He then lifts one of my legs onto his shoulder again, reaching even deeper.

His cock was striking my g-spot over and over again and I just couldn't hold it anymore. I let myself go. I screwed my eyes shut, and I screamed at the pleasure coursing through my body. Matt continues to fuck me, chasing his own high.

"Fuck, fuck, yes, you're so perfect," he says, throwing his head back. I gained my vision again, coming down from euphoria, and saw he was close to coming. I squeezed myself around his cock and that tipped him over the edge.

"FUCK, I love you so much," He grunts, letting his hot cum fill me. My face drops. He didn't just- I was hearing it right?

His thrusts slow down, and he lowers his head to look at me. I try to conceal the shock on my face as he's looking at me. Did he even realise what he said?

His forehead drops to mine as we both recover from the intense sex we just had. I look into his mesmerising eyes, looking for a sign that he knows what he just let slip.

He eventually lifts away from me and goes to his bathroom to get a towel to clean both of us with. He comes back and wipes the cum spilling from my pussy.

I threw his jumper on, and he changed into clean boxers. We laid in bed together, enjoying eachothers silence, but my head was a mess. He just claimed he 'loved' me during sex. I wonder if he even heard himself say it?

The questions are eating away at me, and I can't keep it together anymore.

"Hey, do you remember what you said before?" I ask, shifting on his chest to look at him. He meets my eye contact before answering.

"No, what did I say?" He asks. Fuck. He doesn't even know what he said. He doesn't feel that way. There's no point asking.

"Nothing," I mumble, turning my head away from him. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Why was I upset? I don't care if he doesn't love me. We aren't together. I don't love him either.

Except.. I do. Without even realising it, I fell for him. Each time, he bought me my favourite takeout or cuddled with me after giving me the best dick of my life or even when he'd look at me while he was playing hockey and wink. It all made me fall for him, and I didn't even realise.

"No, something is up. What's wrong, pretty girl?" He asks, forcing me to look back up at him.

"It's just... while you were coming, you said that... you loved me..." I say, hoping that I don't scare him away for good. His face blushes red and he seems embarrassed.

"Well... it's how I feel," he admits. My jaw drops open, but I close it quick enough so that he doesn't see. "I'm sorry if that ruins things between us, I know we're jus-" I cut him off with my lips crashing into his. He hesitates for a moment before kissing me back.

"I feel the same..." I whisper, pulling back slightly from his lips. He's staring deeply into my eyes, trying to test if this was some kind of joke, but it wasn't. I truly felt that way, and it felt good to admit it.

After a few moments of us silently staring at each other, he speaks up, "do you want to give us a chance?"

I feel a smile take over my face, "more than anything,"

The rest of the day was spent being wrapped up in each other and uttering the words "I love you" every other sentence.

We didn't know how this would work, considering his coach was my father, but we weren't about to give up. Even if that meant more sneaking around...

★ ° . *　　°　.　°☆ 　. * ● ¸. 　　　★ 　° :. ★　 * •

a/n; woooo, done! also guys, ...200 followers?!?!?! what the fuck. that's insane. thank you, everyone, I can't begin to express how much it means to me. i am so beyond thankful to everyone who follows, reposts, and likes. i am so so grateful. love you all. 💙

Taglist; @idrk2292 @mattsfavseason @aalicats87 @045696

[crescenthistory]

you are my favourite silence

Pairing: Paul Atreides x Reader

Summary: Jessica's lecture and the eventual nightmare-catalysed-reunion, from Paul's tortured, yearning perspective. Based on "in the silence, there is an us".

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: not proofread, angst, hurt/comfort, references to nightmares, intense yearning, descriptions of anxiety and panic, feeling like the world is demanding too much of you, being super in love but not able to say it out loud, cuddling, lady jessica being a c*ckblock/heartbreaker

***

In the face of change, of being pushed into the final phase of growing up, Paul wanted to cling to you like a lifeline. To the gentle rhythm that once existed between him and you, the one he felt becoming more and more unbalanced as the world around dumped expectations on you both. He almost had not noticed it happening at first. You had grown up beside him, a constant presence, and yet now, each time he glanced your way, he was increasingly aware of what could be taken from him. He was only just beginning to grasp how much he cared for you, and the idea that you might feel like you did not belong here, or worse, being shown you do not, made something twist deep inside him.

Sitting beside you in the library, Paul could hear his mother’s words – sharp and pointed, even as he believed they were meant to guide. His whole body felt tense, not because of Jessica’s talk of duty, or the future he would soon shoulder, but because of you. Because he knew what her gaze did to you, how it picked at the part of you that never felt enough. When Jessica moved on to discuss personal relationships, the weight of her underlying meaning came pressing down, and Paul could barely keep his attention on her. His eyes flicked toward you, searching for any sign that her words were cutting too deep. Even when scolded himself, all he could think about is how it would affect you.

He hated this. Hated the way his mother’s eyes would linger on you, as though you were being measured and found wanting. It wasn’t true, but he knew you felt it. He could see it in the way you lowered your head, trying to hide from the sharpness of her tone. His jaw clenched. You were not some distraction, you were his best friend, and that should count for something. You were the reason he could breathe when it all felt either too small or too big.

When the speech was finally over and Jessica left them alone, Paul let out a breath, half-realising he did not listen to a word she said towards the end. The silence between the two of you felt heavy, thicker than it should have been. You should have been able to laugh it off together, snicker at his mother’s dramatics, but he knew you would not do that anymore. He risked a glance at you. His heart sinking at the way you avoided looking back. 

“She didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice low, unsure how else to cut through the tension. When you didn’t respond, he moved closer, needing to bridge the growing distance. “She’s just worried. That’s all. My mother –”

“Your mother is always worried,” you cut in sharply, and Paul flinched. The tone in your voice was one you rarely ever used on him, only in your worst moments. He knew what it meant. You were pulling away, not just from the conversation, but from him. He could feel it. He wanted to stop it, wanted to reach out and pull you back to where you belonged, beside him. “Maybe she has a point. I’ve been distracting you. I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t keep coming to you.”

No.

Paul’s chest tightened as you began to move, began to slip from his grasp. Before he could even think, his hands moved on their own, gently but firmly gripping yours, desperate to ground you. “No,” he said aloud, his voice more forceful than he intended. “You haven’t been distracting me. You’ve... you’ve been keeping me sane. It’s not the same thing.”

He didn’t have the words. Not really. Not for what he was trying to say. All he needed was for you to understand, to know how important you were to him, but no words were worthy in the moment. His mother could never see it the way he did, she was too caught up in her visions for his future to realise when the only future he cared about was right in front of his nose. She didn’t understand how all the qualities that could make him a good duke were the ones you brought out of him.

He could see your brows twitch in the way they do when you are holding back tears. “But your mother thinks –”

“I don’t care what my mother thinks.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and for a brief moment, Paul felt a surge of panic. He blinked, startled by his own admission that he had not realised rang so true for him, but he didn’t let go of your hands. His grip tightened slightly, and he looked at you, willing you to understand all he could not say. “I don’t care what she thinks about the time we spend together,” he continued, trying to keep his voice level. “She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning, like the world’s pressing in from every side, and you’re just. Alone.”

She doesn’t know you’re the lifeboat. 

“Whenever I’m with you, it’s the only time I don’t feel that way,” he confessed, his voice raw. He was laying it all out, unsure if he was saying the right things or making things worse, but he couldn’t stop himself. It felt like he was pleading a case. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing that keeps me steady.”

He saw the way your eyes briefly squeezed shut, the blush still remaining in your cheeks, the slightly quivering curve of your mouth, all that internal struggle on your beautiful face. It tore him apart. You wanted to argue, he could see that, but something held you back. Paul wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. He felt you giving up instead of giving in, as you softly said, “We just need to be more careful.”

Careful. That word grated against his every instinct. Paul didn’t want careful. He wanted you, the way you had always been – close, inseparable. 

But then you said, “We can’t keep hiding away in each other’s rooms. We can’t... we can’t keep acting like kids.”

Paul’s heart sank, his body sagging slightly as he was giving up, too. Not on you, on himself, on his situation. He rubbed at his face, trying to shake the helplessness threatening to take over. You were right, but it felt painfully wrong.

“But we’re not acting like kids,” he muttered, trying to keep you from slipping too far away. 

“Aren’t we?” you whispered, your voice filled with something that sounded like heartbreak. “We’re literally sneaking into each other’s beds in the middle of the night, Paul. We’re still pretending like nothing’s changed.”

Paul didn’t have a response. Not immediately, too caught up with the ache in his chest as his disturbance turned existential. Why must sharing a close connection with someone, being tethered by someone, be a thing of only childhood? He felt he needed it more and more the older he got. Yet, he knew better than anyone all he had to do and all he had to be, and that it was time to step up to the challenge. But that didn’t mean he wanted to lose this, lose you, at least this part of you it felt he had always possessed. The idea that things had to change, that you couldn’t be the way you had always been – it was unbearable.

“Nothing has changed though,” he finally said, aiming for conviction. “Not between us.”

Deep down, Paul knew you were right. Everything had changed, just not in the way you were currently discussing, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He was not ready to face it. 

When you stood up to leave, the panic flared again in his chest. He wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to pull you back down beside him. Show you why you had to stay. He did anything but, he could only watch as you walked away, leaving him behind with the oppressive atmosphere of the library. His finger tips lingered on your seat as he clung to your promise: I will see you tomorrow. Even that small promise felt like a lifeline made of plastic.

Paul stared at the spot where you left, the weight of the future settling heavily on his shoulders. 

The following weeks, Paul did everything in his power to bury the gnawing unease that twisted inside him. He cherry-picked from his continuing lectures from his mother, trying to keep only the positives and leave out all the doom everyone seemed to hand him these days. The tension that hung between you only worsened in the silence of the castle’s long nights. You had always shared a restlessness after dark, a sort of curse that made sleep seem impossible unless you were together. But after his mother’s warnings about appearances and responsibilities, Paul felt obligated to put distance between you, to keep his emotions in check. At least for as long as you claimed that was what you wanted, too.

God, he hated it.

At first, he tried to do everything right, tried to focus more on his studies, his duties, his pretenses. He could not afford to slip up, not when he was being watched so closely, not when he was meant to prove himself a future Duke. But the more he tried to be the person he was expected to be, the more he felt himself, Paul, not the future duke of House Atreides, unraveling. 

Every moment spent apart from you gnawed at him, like a thread slowly being pulled loose from the fabric of his mind. His concentration splintered; during meetings, his eyes trailed to the door, wondering if you would ever walk in, during training, his movements felt sluggish, his mind always wandering to whether you were okay, whether you missed him too.

The longer you kept your distance, the harder it became to focus on anything but you and the looming elephant that was your friendship.

He soaked up every interaction you had like a parched man trying to survive in the desert. Even something as simple as sitting beside you during meals or brushing past you in the hallways felt like a lifeline. He clung to those moments, storing them away like precious memories, replaying them in his mind when he found himself alone. He knew you still saw each other a relatively normal amount, the amount usual friends dedicate to each other – but it was far from enough.

During it all you kept up your facade too well for Paul’s state. It was like you practiced it all when you could not sleep at night, you were polite, composed, like nothing had changed between you. Paul knew you better, of course. He could see through it, see the cracks forming beneath the surface. The bags forming under your eyes, the strain on your smiles, the flickering of your gaze when met by any member of the Atreides family now. You were just as affected by this distance as he was, but you were better at hiding it from everyone but him. It only made him want to reach out more, to break through that wall, to remind you that you didn’t have to carry this alone.

Paul sat beside you at the long wooden table in the dining hall, trying to act as though nothing had changed. The usual hum of formalities and business between his tutors, his mother, and the few remaining nobles blurred into a background buzz. All of it felt irrelevant compared to the tension sitting between you and him. He tried to tell himself the change was not that large, out of all the seats in the room, you were still sat together. 

He sneaked a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You were sitting perfectly still, your posture as composed and graceful as you had been trained to be, eyes downcast as you picked at the meal in front of you. On the surface, you looked calm, indifferent even, but Paul could see it so easily. The way your fingers gripped your knife a little too tight, the way your shoulders tensed as if trying to make yourself smaller, invisible. It’s not the same.

Despite his appetite having long since vanished, Paul tried to take a bite of his food. Beside him, you sipped your water, eyes flicking up just once to meet his before darting away again. The briefest connection, but it hit him like a shockwave. He was desperate for more of you, the real you, not this version that was carefully packaged to meet the standards of the room.

A thought ran through his head and before he could compose himself, Paul’s foot nudged yours lightly under the table. A small, almost childlike gesture. His heart raced, wondering if you would acknowledge it, if you would look at him like you used to. When you glanced his way, a flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, a sign that you were still there, but it withered away fast.

You straightened in your seat, breaking eye contact, your attention turning back to your plate. A clear signal that you couldn’t do this, not here. Not now.

Paul’s stomach twisted, and he gripped his fork tighter, his knuckles white against the silver. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. There had been no distance between you before. You used to laugh together, share inside jokes over dinners like this. You used to sneak glances that said everything without needing words. Now, there was just this unbearable restraint. The longer it stretched on, the more suffocating it became.

He wanted so desperately to just be your best friend again, like when you were younger, when things were simple. When sharing a bed was not plagued by conventions or the expectations of his mother. Back then, it had been about adventure and laughter. Now it was about survival for poor Paul, it was all he needed to secure him. He wanted you to know how much he cared, how much he needed you. 

He remained silent.

When night fell, it became unbearable. Alone in his room, Paul felt the weight of everything pressing down on him—the responsibilities, the expectations, the growing distance between the two of you. Sleep evaded him. Each night felt longer than the last, and the silence of the castle, once comforting, now felt suffocating. 

He thought of you constantly. 

He wondered if you were having nightmares, the way you always did when there were no storms to distract you. You never reacted well to the stillness of nights like this, and Paul knew it. He knew you too well. 

Should I go to her? 

The thought flickered in his mind more than once, the worry gnawing at him more than usual, but something held him back. His mother’s words still lingered in the air between you, but more importantly your words. You asked for space, even if the reasons felt as tragic to him as they did. He could not risk making things worse, could not risk losing you completely by overstepping. Nevertheless, the longer he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the more unbearable the thought of doing nothing became.

The hours drifted on, whisking away into the night air streaming in through his cracked open window. He had zeroed in on the sound in hopes it could form a lullaby, but to no avail. In the silence of his room, he heard footsteps in the hallway.

Before he could finish thinking, he was up and out of bed, hand on the door. He was fully expecting to open the door and be met with a wall of nothingness, forced to face how truly delerious he was becoming, but the possibility of any other outcome made him throw the door open without hesitation. 

His pounding heart all but lit up as he saw you standing in the doorway, almost hidden in the darkness. Surprise was etched onto your features and your hand was half-raised, presumably to knock on the door. A relieved smile made it onto your lips, and Paul briefly wondered whether you were aware, or if it was instinct. He breathed your name as a silent thank you to whatever forces brought you back to his doorstep.

In the half-shadows, you looked haunted, and he immediately stepped to the side to make room for you to step back into his world. He had been waiting for you. Hoping, somehow, that you would come to him, that you still needed him the way he needed you. 

You slipped inside quietly, and Paul closed the door behind you, sealing the two of you away from everything – his mother, the expectations, the fear that had been building between you for weeks. His chest tightened as he watched you, taking in the way your shoulders tensed, the way your eyes flicked to his like you weren’t sure if you should be here.

Paul had never been more certain of anything. He needed you here. 

As if your muscle memory controlled your actions, you moved toward the bed, and Paul followed hot on your heels, not willing to let you get too far away from him. There were no words, but there didn’t need to be. You both knew what this was. 

As he watched you climb into his bed, Paul felt something settle in his chest, something that had been fraying ever since the distance had started growing between you. He slid in beside you, immediately wrapping his arm as tightly around your waist as viable and pulling you close.

The quiet of his room that had just felt so suffocating now felt like a refuge. You were his anchor, his constant. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside didn’t feel so heavy. 

He heard your breathing slow as you nestled against him, your head resting on his chest. Without any real thought behind the action, he buried his nose in your hair and breathed you in, feeling every part of his body that was touching yours. He could feel the tremors in your body start to fade, and with them, the knot of worry that had been coiling tighter and tighter inside him began to loosen.

“Are you okay?” Paul whispered, his voice soft, almost afraid of shattering the moment.

You nodded against him, but Paul could feel the weakness in the movement, could feel the words you did not say. In response he held you tighter, his thumb tracing slow, gentle circles on your arm, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it almost didn’t reach his own ears. He had not realized how much he needed to say it until the words were out. “I wanted to come to you, but—” He trailed off, guilt wracking his mind while trying to somehow silence yours. His hand began to trace up and down your bare arm, needing to feel the warmth of your skin to remind himself that you were real, that this moment was real.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with emotion. “I wanted to come sooner.”

Paul didn’t say anything, but his heart ached at the truth in your words. You had wanted to come sooner, but something had kept you back. The same thing that had kept him pacing his room, wondering if he should break the unspoken rules and go to you. Although he had always known, being told that the distance was killing you too felt oddly good.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence between you now felt different, like the quiet after a storm, when the air is charged but peaceful. Paul’s hand drifted up to gently stroke your hair, the motion instinctual, as his other hand held your waist. It was one of the most intimate embraces you had had, and it felt so right, to the point where he did not even question it. He wanted to offer you more than comfort, more than just a place to escape your nightmares. He wanted to give you the world, guaranteed safety. Not just a reprieve or a shelter, but a true home, a good life. But the words weren’t there yet. He didn’t know how to say the way he cared for you, that it was more than just… caring. That you were the only person who had ever made him feel like everything might be okay.

Instead, he whispered, “I’ll always be here. I swear it.” It was close enough for now.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim candlelight, burning low. For a moment, Paul’s breath caught in his throat. He saw everything in that look – your fear, your doubt, your hope. Your care. He craved to kiss you, to close the distance that still felt like it hung between you. Instead, he pressed his lips to the top of your head, a tender, quiet gesture that said everything he couldn’t yet.

Neither of you spoke after that. You simply held each other, the world outside disappearing as you both drifted into a peaceful sleep. Paul finally felt safe.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + twenty two

authors note: this one may leave people a bit confused by certain things.....that's intentional.

cw/tw: fluff, angst, and smut

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 9k

“Nu uh!”

“Uh huh!”

“Nu uh!”

“Uh huh!”

“Girls.” To his credit, Roman does his best to not interfere or get involved in the midst of his girls arguing. He prefers letting them work it out among themselves, and they typically do. But, there are times, like this, where he just doesn’t have it in him to listen to their bickering. “Stop arguing.”

Lina is the expected one to protest, and she doesn’t disappoint or prove his prediction wrong. “But, daddy—”

“Lina, be nice to your sister.” He looks over at his other twin daughter. “Leya, you have to share.”

The quieter of the two looks less than pleased at his instruction and is clearly in one of her few talkative moods, protesting like her sister, “But, it’s mine, daddy.”

“It’s gonna be mine if ya’ll don’t stop fighting.” Rarely does he have to be strict with them, but they’ve both been on one all day, and Roman is going off barely four hours of sleep because their baby brother decided to make it one of those nights for his parents. “I’m not gon’ tell ya’ll again.”

A shared set of downward gazes followed by another shared ‘yes, sir’ leads to them both switching their attention from the tablet to one of their playthings in the backyard. 

Roman runs his hand over his face as the backdoor opens, revealing Solana’s smiling but tired face. She’s operating off just as many fumes as she is.

“He finally go down?” She nods at his question, moving to sit on his lap, Roman wrapping his arms around her. 

“Eventually.” She chuckles, placing her phone on the rattan chair next to them, Roman seeing the footage of the nursery showing their son sleeping. Finally. “Could be worse. Remember when we had to do it with the both of them?”

Roman offers a small smile. He certainly does. “He takes after his sisters.”

Solana’s smile dims a bit as she caresses his cheek. “You should go try to take a nap. I can watch them.”

That’s an immediate no. “I’m fine.” A default answer for him. He gestures to the now laughing twins, explaining, “especially since they seem to be in one of their moods.”

Solana frowns and then rolls her eyes. “Wonder where they get that from?” Giggling, Solana kisses his cheek and again tries to convince him to do what he’s absolutely not going to do. “Seriously, Ro, I can handle it. They tend to get like that sometimes when you’re out of town anyway.”

At that, he looks over at her. “Really?” She nods. “You want me to talk to them?” Cause as much as he loves his girls, he has never and will never put up with them disrespecting their mother. That will always be where he draws the line.

With anyone. 

Solana shakes her head and instead moves to settle her head in the crook of his neck. “Let them just be kids.” Roman grows quiet, picking up on the underlying meaning to her statement. An agreement they both made with each other during her first pregnancy.  

That they would give their kids the childhood they never had.

“They’re happy, baby.” Years of being together has allowed both husband and wife to practically learn and know each other like the back of their hand, which is why Solana is so easily able to hear Roman’s unspoken concerns. “We all are.”

Her words, like her mere presence and everything else about her, are comforting to Roman. He holds her a little tighter, lips gazing over her temple. 

Solana, however, overhears the return of the argument between their twins, the sixth or seventh time this morning alone. And right as Roman goes to handle it, she shakes her head. “I’ve got it.” 

Watching her walk away, Roman allows his gaze to linger on her a little longer. One thing for certain, two things for sure, Solana only gets finer with age. Three kids later, her already curvy body has filled out even more, giving him all the temptation and stripping him of all resolve whenever she tells him she’s ready for another baby.

He’s just counting the days for that request, already accepting the fact that it’ll only be a matter of time before she’s showing him the next sonogram. 

It’s just a continuation of his inability to ever deny her of anything she wants. 

Roman grabs his phone, hearing it vibrate. Most likely an update from—

“Roman!” 

The phone is dropped, and Roman has never moved so quickly, shot up so fast as he sprints off in the direction where Solana went only to find there’s a vacant space, yard void of any and all items, play equipment, greenery, even the pool. 

What remains is the girls sitting on their knees, on the dirt, a piece of clothing between the two of them, but it’s the red dampness of the clothing that makes his heart stop. That makes Roman go dangerously still.

Blood. 

It’s blood. 

Dropping to his knees, the girls are on either side of him, his voice is eerily calm as he asks, “where is she?” Unlike his tone, Roman is anything but calm. Every single vile, evil, violent thought is crossing his mind at just the thought of someone daring to hurt his wife.

To take her.

Leya sniffles to the left of him. “You have to save her, daddy.”  His head snaps to her, confused by her words, confused by the fact that he’s not freaking out more, by the fact that he just somehow knows that Solana has been taken. “She won’t have much time.”

“Mommy can only fight with us for so long.” His attention switches to Lina, her comment leaving him just as perplexed as her twin. “You’re gonna have to trust them, daddy.”

“What?” He breathes. The weight on his chest is intensifying by the fucking second. “I don’t—”

“It’s the only way to save her.” Leyah reaches for his arm, her little mouth formed into a frown. “They’re gonna kill her if you don’t.”

His chest nearly explodes at that one word.

Kill

But, it's when the next statement that leaves their mouths, at the same time, that does him over.

“And they’re gonna kill us too.”

Roman shoots up from the bed, half expecting to find Solana startled awake by his sudden movement, only for him to snap his head to the right to see the normal rise and fall of her body as she continues to sleep. Peaceful. Content. 

Alive.

Roman shuts his eyes and runs his hand through his wavy hair. What the fuck was that?

Taking advantage of the fact that she’s still asleep, Roman is careful with how he peels the blankets off of him. He grabs his phone off the nightstand and makes his way out the room. Down the hall and descending the steps, Roman finds placement outside on the patio, away from it all so he can try to make sense of what just occurred.

The dreams of what feels like some type of alternative reality have become the norm for him. He has them at least a couple times a week, and while he’s still not sure what to make of them, they haven’t really bothered him. Until now.

Because how can a dream–turned–nightmare in which his wife is taken and possibly worse not bother him? Not to mention the strange, almost foreboding warning of his fictional children.

Trust? Roman doesn’t do trust. Shit like that gets people killed in his world.

It has gotten people killed in his world. 

But despite the heaviness of the latter half of the dream, there is one thing that Roman picked up on. That he has this weird almost sentimental reaction to.

Lina.

Leya. 

This is the first time in any of the dreams that names for the girls were used. 

There’s a strange sense of contentment he feels at the thought of it, a sense of clarity provided at no longer dreaming about two nameless children but two children, named and identified. 

Lina and Leya

Pretty names. Roman can admit that, but they feel…..shortened. Like that’s only part of their names. Nicknames. 

It makes him wonder what the full names are.

And before Roman realizes it, he’s grabbing his phone and opening up the notes app.

Lina Reigns

Leya Reigns

He’s not sure why he’s writing them down. He just knows that he wants to.

“Roman?”

Solana stands before him in one of his shirts, arms crossed over her body, a worried expression on her face. 

She doesn’t wait for the usual invite, for Roman’s long arms to extend and settle her on top of his lap. She does that all on her own. Brown eyes searching his face, she pushes back some of his hair. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

His answer is more default than anything, not an intentional deflection but still one nonetheless. “Nothing. Just….can’t sleep.”

“Bullshit.” Solana cussing is such a new experience for him, Roman having to fight back a small smile at how innocent the profanity sounds leaving her mouth. Like it’s too lewd for someone so innocent to be stating. “Talk to me.” She shifts on his lap, asking in a gentle tone, “was it a bad dream?”

Bad is an understatement, but he’s not too keen on letting her know the depth of what it included. Nor does he necessarily want to reflect on it. “Something like that.”

“Roman…..” And right away, without her even needing to say it, he knows. Knows what she doesn’t need to say.

He’s not entirely ready to tell her the extent of these dreams, so he’s intentional with leaving out the not so little fact that it includes them having children and focuses on a part of this latest one. “It was about you.”

She looks taken back by that but still encourages him to continue, her fingers now moving to massage his scalp. “Go on.” But he’s certain that it’s when he looks away, when he focuses on the dark, almost obsidian night sky that obscures the forestry surrounding the house, he knows that she knows. “Oh….”

“Yeah.” Roman doesn't know what else to say. Doesn’t want to say anything else. He doesn’t even really want to fucking talk about this, wants to forget the damn ‘dream’ ever happened, wants to just go back to bed and try to get some fucking sleep.

But, that would be too easy, and rarely in his life are things ever easy.

“Roman, look at me.” Solana’s soft, caring tone pulls him from pessimistic cognitions. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Ro,” she whispers, bringing her hand to his bearded chin, forcing his unsettled gaze on her. “I promise.”

He wishes that her words provided more comfort. There’s some level, just not a lot, because Roman has had his fair share of nightmares over the years. Most from after that night. Some…..some before. Some he’s never once spoken about and never plans to. Too…..too many bad, difficult, unmanageable emotions attached to them. 

“You’re thinking a lot,” she whispers. The way she’s learned to read him so well feels almost too impossible to be true. He’s always prided himself on being an enigma, but with her? His inscrutable disposition melts away into something transparent and lucid.

He chuckles, but it’s void of any emotion. “I’m always thinking, Sol.” Always thinking. Always planning. Always strategizing. Just always in a state of always.

Solana shakes her head, gently protesting. “Not with me. I don’t….I don’t want you to think when you’re with me….just…..just be.”

Be.

Roman is unsure if he even knows what that is anymore. 

If he ever did in the first place.

And he admits as such. “I don’t….I don’t know how to do that.” A strange, uncharacteristic admission from the man who always has everything together. Because he has to. Because he’s never been granted the space to not have to. 

Solana ghosts her lips over his forehead, his eyes shutting as he holds her a little tighter. “Then we’ll learn together.”

________

Roman has a high sex drive. This is something Solana has always heard through the grapevine, among…..other things. But, her finding out about his sex drive is something she’s experienced herself. Is currently experiencing.

His large, strong hands remain placed and seated on her back, exploring her soft skin that has a soft sheen of sweat that’s built up from the exertion of her body. Her thighs ache a bit as does that sensitive space between her legs, both from the current stretch of him inside her as well as not being entirely recovered from their passionate lovemaking session just hours prior.

Truthfully, Solana hasn’t a clue just how she’s ended up engaged in intimacy yet again, possibly him needing a distraction of sort form his dream. But Roman occasionally sliding his hands to her hips, guiding her up and down, back and forth on his impressive length seems to be just enough, more than enough, to keep her hands on his shoulders, her fingers pressing into his skin, her teeth gnawing into her bottom lip to keep her from alerting his aunt and cousin just what they’re doing this fine early morning.

But, it’s that thought that has her trying to express said concern, to share the slight level of guilt she feels at doing this under his aunt’s roof. It feels almost….disrespectful? And maybe that’s too strong of a word. Regardless, she just has a feeling about it. 

“Roman…..” Solana hates that his name on her lips is more carnal than anything, a moan, essentially. Far from what she needs. Still, she pushes through. “We—we can’t—”

His deep chuckle under her followed by another slight lift of her body as he continues to fill her, physically and figuratively, “can’t what?”

Damn. It’s so hard to resist the devil when he makes the sin feel this good. “Th—this.” She’s not sure she’s even making any sense right now. “It’s—disresp—shit.” Roman is forever adroit, knowing just what to do and how to do it, because one minute he’s licking his bottom lip, the next minute his mouth is latched onto her breast, sucking on her areola in a way that makes it exponentially more difficult to not scream her pleasure from here to kingdom come.

“Ro….” Her hand shifts to the back of his head, his soft, wave locks intertwined in her fingers as Solana manages to keep her steady pace rocking atop of him. He’s so deep inside of her, reaching her stomach it damn near feels like. “Oh my god.” Head thrown back from the erotic of it all, a deep chuckle leaves his talented mouth as he detaches and switches to kissing along the swell of her heavy breast.

“You really wanna deny me this?” His voice is both teasing and curious, hands massaging her sides, gently helping her continue to ride him. “Could watch you and this beautiful body ride me for the rest of fucking time….”

Solana seems to hone in on two words. Beautiful body. She still somewhat struggles to wrap her head around just how a man who looks like Roman could be so enamored with her physically. Even with all the scars, the cellulite, the stretch marks, the fat, he looks at her like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He makes her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s overwhelming and fills her with so much love, Solana bringing her hands to his bearded face for a sensual kiss to express that love and adoration.

Kissing Roman is also moving its way up her list of favorite things to do. A list that almost entirely includes him, because as much as he indicates and even shares how he can’t get enough of her, she feels the absolute same way about him.

Roman deepens the kiss, Solana loving the feel of their chests pressed together, how he almost protectively clutches her close to him. They hold onto each other almost, so deeply entwined, two troubled souls who somehow found each other in the midst of chaos and sorrow. A joint healing of sorts.

Not even half an hour later, both having found their release, Solana lays on his chest, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the tattoos that’s etched onto his chest, one of her favorite things to do when they’re together like this. She loves everything about Roman, his body included, but his tattoos hold a special place for her. She knows it’s part of his cultural background, but a large part of her would guess that the placement was intentional. The ink on his arms to help shield bad memories, a night of unfathomable loss and trauma.

She knows what that’s like. Knows what it’s like to carry around those scars. Another area where they can relate, shared loss that they can find comfort for, in each other.

Eager for her spent body to be one with his, she moves even closer, a small smile on her face when he tugs her nearer and kisses the top of her head. His affection with her always adds yet another layer of safety and protection she feels with him.

Feelings she hasn’t had in forever. If ever.

“I wanna ask you something, but if it’s triggering for you, then we dead it, okay?” Solana is obviously taken back by his statement, and while there’s a small chunk of her nervous about what he’s about to ask, she doesn’t want to shut him down.

Eyes focused on the window beside the bed that unveils the rising sun and subsequent kaleidoscope of dawn colors that paint the sky, she answers, “okay.”

“How were you mentally on our wedding day?”

Solana frowns. That’s the last question she expected to leave his mouth, but the more she thinks about it, thinks about the worksheets Gail had told her she showed Roman, Solana can almost bet she recalls one of those questions asking about the last time she felt suicidal prior to her attempt.

And she’d answered honestly.

On her wedding day.

Something she’s almost certain he knows and is referring to. In a slightly indirect way. To avoid being too……raw. “Roman—” She doesn’t quite know how to address this, how to explain it in a way that makes sense to him but is also not too heavy for her. “I—there was just….there was a lot going on.”

“Because of me.” Her eyes shut. She hates the tone of his voice. Low and subdued. Like he feels guilty about something, like he did something wrong. “Because I sped everything up without actually giving you time to….” Roman takes a deep breath, and she opens her eyes to look up at him. “If I had known—“

Solana sits up and brings her hand to his face. “But—but you didn’t—” She wets her lips, hating that he seems to feel somehow responsible for years worth of trauma that brought her to that place mentally. Not him. “I—I struggled for years with those thoughts, and it was just…..it was a combination of things. I was scared and confused, but mostly because of the plan and what they wanted me to do. I hadn’t eaten in days. I just…..it wasn’t your fault.” She kisses him, lips hovering over his as she whispers, “at the time….it felt like the saddest day of my life, but—it was the best, Roman. I got you….and that’s all I need.” She moves to lay on top of him, burying her head in the crook of his neck. “Te amo, mi amor.”

He still sounds guilty. "But, it's not the wedding you deserved."

"I don't care about that, baby." She moves her hand to his arm, gently massaging up and down his bicep. “Roman, I don’t—I don’t want you worrying about me. I’m better, not all the way, but I’m safe, and I want you to focus on you.” And she means that with everything in her. He puts so much into everything else. It’s beyond time he shifts some of that focus onto himself. 

“Solana—”

“I mean it,” she cuts him off, a hint of determination and borderline assertiveness present, something that takes them both by surprise. Truly. “Healing is…hard work, but it’s….it’s worth it. And you deserve it just as much as I do.” A thought crosses her mind, prompting her to share it with him. “Photography.”

He looks skeptical. “What about it?”

“I want you to start doing it more. You’re good at it, and it…..you looked happy doing it.” Because he is. Because there’s so many things that Roman is good at that he has to do. She wants him to have something that he gets to do.

“I was happy because I was with you,” he corrects. It’s kind but also not entirely true.

“It was more than that, Ro,” she counters softly. “If you want….you….you can take pictures of me.” In taking and sharing occasional selfies of herself while away from Roman, that discomfort  has waned ever so slightly with having her picture taken. Enough to have her willing to be his muse, if that's what it takes.

Roman chuckles underneath her, his hand on the small of her back. “You know I can’t say no to you, right?” Solana giggles, pleased mostly at his less solemn tone, at his agreement, at what type of relief it could provide to him. Even if they both know it’s something that obviously can’t happen until she’s done with treatment. Regardless, it’s something, and that’s all that matters.

But, it’s when Solana settles back on top of him, head on his chest that she feels it. Feels his semi-hardened length against her, prompting her to gasp.

They just….

Confused, she looks at him, brows furrowed. “How are you……do—do you have an addiction?”

Roman’s laugh is deep and makes her smile. A rarity but one she hopes to one day to increase the frequency of. “To sex? Shit, maybe.” She’d say definitely given the fact that they’ve already gone three rounds, and yet he’s still looking at her like that. “To you?” Solana’s breath is sharp as he carefully switches their position so that he’s hovering over her. “Absolutely.”

“Roman….” His mouth is already on the move, trailing down and in between the valley of her breast. “I’m—I’m sore.” And this time, it’s to the point where she can’t afford to bypass it, to push past it, even if there’s a small part of her that isn’t entirely opposed. That feels an almost…..excitement at being with him again in that way.

Even if it will be the fourth time in less than 24hrs. Not even 12. 

“I know.” And yet as he continues downward, Solana realizes he already knows this and is well aware of this fact. Hence him desiring an equally desirable alternative. “But, it’s like you said, baby….” She moans when he braces his big hands on her hips, his mouth kissing her inner thighs, thick fingers separating her swollen, tender lower lips. “I’m addicted.”

________

By the time Solana convinces Roman that they can’t spend the rest of the day locked in his bedroom, thrusted in the throes of sweet intimacy, it’s nearing 11am, and Fetu and Ava have already consumed their breakfast, discussing what they’ll have for lunch. 

Solana walks in first, wearing a warm smile aimed toward the two women, one of which she’s now seeing for the first time.

Ava stands up from the kitchen table and walks over with a small smirk. “My cousin finally got off you, huh?”

Roman rolls his eyes, muttering, “fuck off, Ava.”

Solana blushes. Ava is tall, only a few inches shorter than Roman with a thin build but soft curves. Her onyx black hair is shoulder length, and her smile and brown eyes give away her kinship to Roman. Even Fetu. They all look related. 

“It’s—umm, nice to meet you.” Solana is taken back a bit when Ava hugs her. It’s so interesting to her how the women in Roman’s family are so physically affectionate. It seems almost ironic given just who their family is. The way the word Bloodline strikes fear in the hearts of even the strongest. “I’m Sol—”

“Solana,” Ava laughs, stepping back. “I know. Heard a lot about you, and like I said last night, I’m sorry you got stuck marrying big ears over here.”

Roman is quick with it, retorting back before he downs the coffee he just brewed, “not as big as that big ass forehead.”

“Children. Literal children.” Fetu shakes her head, looking over at Solana. “Do you see what I have to deal with? Why I need you Solana?” She gestures with her thumb, “if this damn disease doesn’t kill me first, Dopey and Tyra Banks over here damn sure will.”

At that, both Roman and Ava look slightly irritated. “Don’t talk like that, Uso o le tinā.” She glares at Roman, lifting up her middle finger to flip him off. “Who else is going to keep me from killing our Tribal Chief?”

Roman scoffs, big shoulders lifting as he shakes his head. He sounds and looks so amused at just the thought of it. “You can certainly try.”

Ava sucks her teeth, angling her body towards him. “Don’t tempt me, asshole.”

Roman smirks, looking at her over his mug. “You know I love a good fight.”

“I’m about to kill both of you if you don’t shut the hell up!” Fetu snaps, Solana looking over to see she’s holding her slipper in her hand. “Embarrassing me in front of my friend, sweet Solana.”

“It’s—it’s okay,” Solana cuts in, unable to contain her smile. She’s not used to seeing Roman like this, so…..relaxed, almost…..almost like he’s at peace. She likes it.

She likes it a lot. 

“It is not.” Fetu drops her slipper back on the ground, shaking her head. “Since both of you have so much to say and clearly energy to expel, you can handle the wood in the back that needs to be chopped up?” Solana’s confusion must be evident as Fetu gestures to the living room. “Wood burning fireplace. I don’t like that new shit.”

“You mean the safest shit?” Roman mutters. 

Ava shakes her head, whispering to Solana. “Our aunt can be a little……old fashioned.” Solana says nothing, seeing no issue. With everything she’s been through, she truly deserves whatever she wants, in Solana’s opinion. “Roman’s been trying to convince her to let him replace it with an electric one for years.”

“And my answer will keep being no!” Fetu calls out, clearly eavesdropping. “Now, I mean it, I want that wood chopped. Both of you.”

Roman scowls. “I don’t need her help.”

Ava glares in his direction. “And I don’t need help from Samoan He-Man over here.”

“I–I thought you guys actually liked each other?” Solana intended to keep that in her head, but it somehow bypassed her speech defenses. Immediately, she feels bad, going the recompense route. “I didn’t mean—”

“They do,” Fetu answers, sharing. “It depends on the day. Today is just clearly not one of those days.” She plasters on a sickeningly sweet smile. “Now get to it, before I embarrass both of you.”

It’s slightly comical to Solana how both people, formidable in their own right, fold so easily at the direction of this older woman. Solana goes to fix her late breakfast along with Roman, the two sharing it at the table along with Ava and Fetu until it's time for them to depart and get started on their joint task. 

That leaves Solana with Fetu, a wonderful arrangement because it allows her time to get to know the woman who means so much to Roman better.

And that is done in a way Solana didn't expect, because she ends up in Fetu’s room, a large bin that Solana pulled from her closet exposing a world of welcomed surprises. 

Solana is overcome with an abundance of photos, a mixture of dated polaroids' and the type of photos one got developed at a kiosk or drugstore back in the day. She’d like to say that they’re photos of smiling, happy faces, but that would be a lie. Many of them are clearly of people taken off guard by a camera in their face. 

One in particular captures her attention, Solana reaching for the polaroid that shows a tall, handsome man. Sharp facial features with an almost stoic expression. Familiar. Very familiar. 

“Is this…..”

Fetu chuckles, nodding, “it is.” There’s a sadness both in her gaze as well as her voice. “He looks so much like him….”

Solana swallows. She agrees. Roman shares a striking resemblance with his father. It makes her wonder if they have similar personalities as well, but another photo steals her focus. A tiny gasp leaves her mouth as a small smile grows. “That’s—”

Fetu also laughs, nodding and reaching for the photo, handing it to Solana. “You can tell by the big ears.” Solana giggles, holding the photo and staring with borderline amazement at Roman when he was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 years old, so young, so innocent looking, but she knows better. Knows that his smile in the photo was probably short lived. 

“I had taken him and the twins to the water park. They had so much fun that day.” One glance at Fetu, and Solana can see she’s reflecting back and mentally reliving that day. “I did my best to give him as much of a normal childhood as possible.”

Solana is quiet, her own sadness seeping in at the depressing reality that as much as she didn’t have much of a childhood, neither did he.

He never stood a chance. 

“Look at this one.” Fetu reaches her another photo. It’s Roman, but it doesn’t look like him. It’s of him as a child, looking far too serious for a boy no more than 8 or 9 years–old.

Studying the photo a bit more, Solana shares with all honesty, “he looks…..little?”

Fetu laughs. “Because he was.” Solana gasps quietly, as the woman explains. “Believe it or not, that big, strong husband of yours was the runt of his siblings. He was small for his age, and it always bothered him.” Solana has a hard time conceptualizing any part of roman being small. Fetu's lips slip into a small, forlorn smile. “I always knew he would be something special. I just—I wish it could have happened differently.”

Solana says nothing, already knowing what she’s referring to. What she doesn’t need to say.  “He’s…..he’s a good man.”

“He’s a better man with you.” Fetu places a comforting hand on Solana’s knee. “You are good for him, child, and I think he’s good for you too.”

“He’s the best,” Solana murmurs, emotion building at just the thought of the man who’s completely changed her life around. For the better. “He’s—he’s everything to me.”

And even that is putting it lightly, fails to fully encapsulate just what Roman means to her. What he is to her. 

Fetu’s grin shifts into something appreciative. “You know….I always prayed he would find someone before I closed my eyes. Someone he could love and who would love him back the way he deserves. The way anyone deserves.” Solana’s stomach coils a bit, a strange foreboding sense coming over her. “You’ve given this old woman a tremendous amount of peace, and for that, Solana, I cannot thank you enough.”

It’s been relatively easy to pick up on how close Roman is to his aunt, largely due to his own vulnerable worlds. She’s the closest thing he has left of a mother, and the thought of her no longer being here….

No.

Roman can’t lose anyone else.

Especially Fetu.

“Solana.” Pulled from her thoughts, Solana looks down to see that Fetu has moved their hands so that Solana’s palm is outstretched. “I need you to do something for me, but I need it to stay between us for now.”

And just like that, goosebumps sprout all across her arms. “You—you don’t want me to tell Roman?”

Fetu shakes her head, Solana looking down when she places a white, sealed envelope in her hand. “I need you to give this to him when the time is right.”

Questions. Solana is full of them. What is contained within this envelope, and why is Fetu giving it to her and not Roman? And why can’t he know? Just so many questions, but for some reason, Solana can only settle on one to ask.

“How—how will I know when the time is right?”

There’s despondency in the older woman’s eyes that contrasts her smile. “You will.”

Something about this rubs Solana the wrong way, and not in a bad manner, per se. Just something very heavy. Very sad. “Fetu, what—”

“Enough of all this sentimental shit.” Fetu clears her throat and wipes at her eyes, changing subjects as she goes on about something Solana can only partially pay attention to. There’s a bit of envy there. Envy at how she can carry on like nothing just happened. 

If only Solana could do the same.

________

The conversation with Fetu is something that weighs heavy on her chest, something she wants to inquire more about from her husband’s aunt but knows won’t give her the answers she’s looking for. It’s why the younger woman is grateful for a brief respite, one that she hopes will serve as a much needed distraction.

Solana settles herself onto the chair outside, looking over her shoulder to make sure the door is closed. 

She props the phone up against the back of the chair and adjusts her top just as the screen fills with smiling faces.

“Solana!” She smiles at Mickie’s excited greeting. “Oh my god, I told them he didn’t kidnap you!”

Solana giggles and shakes her head, frowning a bit as she explains, “no, I’m—I’m sorry. We….we had to leave suddenly.” That’s a nice way to put it. To refer to the way that Roman escorted and signed her out of the facility without her having a chance to explain to her newfound friends what was going on.

And unlike herself, Mickie, Cam, and Melina don’t have mafia head husbands who are allowed to break and stretch the rules for her the way Roman does. So they don’t have their phones at all times with unlimited and unmonitored usage. 

It’s why Solana has made the active effort to break away and call them during the slot of time she knows they’re allowed phone time.

Melina moves into the frame of the phone camera asking, “are you okay?”

An easy answer. “I am now.” Because had they asked just slightly over twenty-four hours ago, her answer would have been very different. “Just needed to handle something, but I’ll be back sometime tomorrow afternoon.” Roman shared they would have to get on the road tomorrow morning, something she could tell he wasn’t happy about. He clearly enjoys being here. Enjoys the freedom here. It’s a palpable thing, and she loves it. She loves seeing how at peace he seems in this safe space.

“Good,” Melina nods, clearly pleased by this. She smirks, “we miss you.”

Cam scoots closer so she can share, “it’s boring without our residential artsy bae.”

Mickie gasps, snatching the phone, sharing with an excited tone, “And Paxley had a total breakdown, ripped the head off her dolls and everything. Apparently her girlfriend broke up with her.” It’s clear she’s trying to hold back an amused smile. “It was actually kind of funny.”

Cam sucks her teeth and shoves the woman next to her. “Mickie, please.” She directs her focus back to Solana, adding, “Dr. S had to have her sedated and everything.”

Solan frowns. She knows what that’s like and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Melina snatches the phone away, expression shifting into something almost concerned. “You’re gonna finish out the program, right?”

“I am.” It’s something Solana has actually thought about since Roman’s confession. She hates that he’s been struggling, but what she hates even more is that she hasn’t and won’t be home to help him in the way that he deserves. Maybe even needs. But, she also knows that she’s not exactly where she would like to be yet. Getting there. But not yet.

And she wants to be at her best when she comes home. Roman deserves that much. But, so does she.

So, as much as a part of her would like to come home now, she knows that what is best is ultimately her finishing out her treatment. 

Melina looks relieved, offering a small smile. “Good.” 

Solana picks up on it, the unspoken thing hidden behind her question. “What is it?”

And the frown is back, Melina sharing in a solemn tone, “there…..there are whispers that the facility is shutting down at the end of the year. Something about lack of funding.”

‘What?” Solana didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t that. “But—but it….what about….what about people who need help?”

Cam scoffs, almost bitterly. “Three steps forward. Eight steps back.” Solana feels for her the most. She knows this is the second time Cameron has entered residential treatment at the very facility where the four women seem to be finding so much healing. 

Mickie shrugs. “There are other treatment places…..none that are reasonably close and for women only.” Solana winces at that, at the almost bitterness that laces her tone at the end of the sentence. Being in a place to heal surrounded by women only truly makes the biggest difference when tackling sexual trauma. 

Trauma caused by men.

“I heard Dr. Stratus is seeing if she can get another grant or investor, but….” Cam shakes her head. “I don’t think we should hold our breath.”

Melina rolls her eyes. “Especially with how much money she probably needs to keep this place running. Has to be in the millions.” She smirks, sarcastically remarking, “and you know investors are just dying to put all their sweet money into a bunch of unstable bitches.” 

Solana’s frown deepens. She wasn’t expecting to hear this news. Definitely didn’t expect it to have her heart feel so heavy at this update. It almost seems silly, like she shouldn’t be so sad about a place closing that she only ever heard about a month ago, that she plans to never once again visit and be entered into.

It was a one time program that’s clearly serving its purpose.

And maybe that’s the thing that makes her sad. To know how helpful its been for her, a type of healing occurring she never thought possible. Healing that she knows so many more people need and will need. So many women.

Melina manages a grin that doesn’t meet her eyes. “Well, we started this together, at least we’ll get to finish it together.” And Solana gets it, understands why Melina wanted to see if she’s coming back. Because if this is the last time they’re all in the same setting, as strange a setting as it is, she wants it to be something they can do together.

“And we can still connect once we’re out of the hammer,” Mickie suggests with the biggest, brightest smile, “assuming we don’t get locked up again.”

Solana can’t help but to laugh. Mickie is a hoot, but she never fails to put a smile on her face. 

They all do.

And in some strange connection that she doesn’t quite understand, the smile and sisterhood of it all, it brings about a thought, spurs an idea that she otherwise would never consider. It’s a massive ask, much beyond a favor, the biggest and grandest thing she could ever ask for.

And yet she’s going to do it.

Going to ask it.

Going to ask him.

________

“Get the hell away from me!”

It’s the first thing Solana hears when her eyes snap open. The second thing she notices is the absence of a set of strong arms around her or the equally strong chest she was laying her head on when she fell asleep. Confused, Solana rubs at her eyes and tenses at the next sound to make its way to her hearing.

“Go away!”

It’s this second time around that Solana realizes she recognizes the voice, and it has her hopping out of bed and heading for the door.

“Uso o le tinā, please, it’s me, Ava and Roman—” Solan’s concern grows to match her confusion as she follows the source of the voices, having a good idea of what's happening without even needing to see it. “Just let us—”

“I don’t know who you are! Help!”

Solana finds the three of them in the living room, the sight similar to what she had already guesstimated. Ava and Roman are on opposite sides, both wearing pained, concerned expressions, focused on Fetu who’s in the middle of the room, in her robe, crying, a knife in her hand, arm stretched out toward them. However, Solana focuses on the red liquid pooling on the handle of the knife. Fetu is cut, most likely a self-caused injury when she went for the knife. 

Solana’s stomach drops. She’s clearly in the midst of an episode, unaware of who she is, who they are. And it breaks her heart. The amount of pure fear and terror in her face toward the two people who would no doubt lay down their lives for her.

Solana takes a step forward, and Fetu’s frantic eyes land on her, shifting into something almost relieved. “Please—you can help me!” 

Roman is the first to pull his attention away from Fetu, focusing on Solana who can so clearly see the distress in his eyes. How difficult this situation has to be, to see her like this and not be able to do anything. 

He reaches his arm, clearly trying to keep her back. “Sol, go back—”

“No!” Fetu cries out, bringing both husband and wife’s gaze onto her. Solana swallows as Fetu begins to cry again, shaking finger pointing back and forth between Roman and Ava. “They—they want to take me!” Her crying intensifies, Solana slowly starting to make her way toward the older woman, ignoring Roman’s subtle attempt to keep her away. “Please—please don’t let them hurt me.”

Fetu’s pleading breaks Solana’s heart and would bring tears to her own eyes if not for the fact that she’s focused solely on the scene before her. “I—I’ll help you, okay?” Solana doesn’t take her eyes off Fetu, mindful of any sudden action she could take, movement that could potentially and unintentionally injure her. “I’m—I’m Solana.” She introduces, offering a warm smile when she’s closer, very much aware of Roman and Ava whose eyes are burning into her back. “Can you—can you tell me your name?”

Fetu seems to try to think for a moment, her face painted in terror, only to shake her head. “I—I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Solana immediately reassures, tensing a bit when she feels movement behind her, Ava and Roman trying again to approach, which only prompts her to hurriedly wave her arm to shoo them back. To tell them to leave without actually telling them to leave. “Well, I’m gonna help you, okay?”

She understands they just want to help, but their attempts to help will only exacerbate the situation. Fetu doesn’t recognize them, sees them as threats. But for herself, that is not the case. Thus, Solana needs them away to deescalate the situation. 

Solana is relieved when she’s finally able to stand directly in front of Fetu, gently reaching to move some hair out of her face. “It’s okay. You can trust me. I won’t hurt you.” The words seem to be registering, Solana gesturing to Fetu’s cut hand. “Looks like you hurt yourself.” She smiles warmly, gently, and patiently. “How about I clean that up for you and then maybe we can have some tea? Hmm?”

Standing in front of Fetu, obscuring her vision of the niece and nephew her disease has her convinced are strangers, Solana briefly turns around, catching both of their gazes. “Go.” She mouths it, eyes pleading in a way her voice cannot. “I’ve got her.”

Both look torn, Roman especially, but when Fetu drops the knife and reaches for Solana’s arm, clutching tightly, both indifferent to the blood that’s now stained on Solana’s skin, it seems to send a message that she is very much in good hands.

Solana gives the cousins a nod and refocuses her attention on the elder woman. “It’s okay,” she comforts, offering a warm smile as she moves her arm around her, pleased to see that the other two have left. 

It’s for the best. 

Solana is able to escort her into the kitchen and pacify her enough to get her seated at the kitchen table while she pulls out the medical kit under the kitchen sink. 

“Jealous.” Solana turns around, necessarily supplies in hand as she faces Fetu. “I—I told Nakoa we couldn’t trust him.” The next fit of crying returns as she shakes her head, injured hand formed into a fist that she hits on her thigh repeatedly. “I told him!”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Solana drops to her knees in front of Fetu, placing the supplies on the floor as she reaches for her hand, trying to stop her from further injuring herself. “It’s okay. I know—I know you did.”

Solana, in fact does not know, has no idea who this Nakoa person is nor the other unnamed man. Nor does she necessarily care very much right now to know. She just knows that her number one priority is keeping Roman’s aunt as calm and stable in this position as possible.

“He was…..he was jealous. Always jealous.”

“I know.” Solana nods, determined to not invalidate her, even if she’s making no sense. “Is it okay if I wrap up your hand?”

Fetu seems to take a second to think about it, eventually nodding. “Y–yes.”

Pleased at this acquiescence, Solana finds herself humming and singing softly as she works to clean, disinfect, and tend to Fetu’s wound. Fetu, who, in a much calmer voice comments, “you—you have a pretty voice.”

Solana’s smile is warm. “Thank you.” She’s happy it worked, worked to settle some of Fetu’s fear and anxiety. “My mother used to sing me to sleep.”

“Your…..mother……” Her voice is distant, as if she’s trying to put the pieces together. “I—I was never a…..mother.” She swallows, opening and closing her mouth a couple times before she speaks again. “Are you—are you a mother?”

A question she’s been asked twice now. Each time bringing up a sense of sadness. “N—n–not yet.” 

Fetu makes a sound, head tilting a bit as Solana clears her throat of the emotion that’s suddenly built up. “You will be.” The younger woman stills, lifting her eyes to meet those of Fetu’s that suddenly seem so knowing and insightful. “Nakoa….he…..he will be a good dad.”

Again, Solana is confused and suddenly a bit more curious about who this person is. And what connection he has, or Fetu thinks, he has to her. Regardless, she just continues to work seamlessly transitioning into her next task, fixing the older woman a warm cup of tea.

Solana sits silently in the chair next to Fetu, stifling a yawn as she catches a glance at the time on the microwave. 4:45am.

Her mind gravitates to Roman and Ava. Ava more than Roman. How often does she have to deal with these sorts of episodes? Roman as well, but with Ava living here with Fetu, surely, she has to face them more.

It makes her heart heavy. 

And it stays that way even as Fetu finishes her tea and asks to go “lay down.” Solana holds her arm, carefully helping her up the stairs and into her bedroom. She’s pleased when Fetu asks her to braid her hair for her, Solana feeling a sense of nostalgia, reminiscing on times when she was younger and her mother would braid her hair before bed. 

Some of her fondest memories with her mom.

Solana is helping Fetu get settled in bed when the older woman asks in an almost childlike voice. “Will you—will you stay with me until…..until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.” Gently caressing her forehead, she gives a comforting smile and moves to grab the chair against the closest wall. Dragging it to the side of the bed, Solana has barely sat down when Fetu reaches for Solana’s arm, her mouth shifting back and forth from a smile and frown as she clearly struggles to verbalize whatever she wants to say. “Promise me…..promise me you’ll look out for him.” Solana herself is frowning, confused by just what she’s asking. “Promise me you’ll stay with Nakoa.”

That name again. It confuses her just as much as it did the last time it was used. 

Fetu continues, shaking her head. “I can’t—I can’t walk out the door without—without knowing he’ll be okay.” There’s something about her statement and the one that follows that makes it click for Solana. That helps her to realize who Nakoa really is. “I—I left him all alone o–once. I—I can’t do it again.”

Roman

Fetu is talking about Roman and something else that Solana can’t even bring herself to verbalize, the thought itself devastating enough.

“I’m not going to leave him,” Solana vows, taking Fetu’s hand in hers, conjoining them. “And neither are you.” Tears fill her eyes as she reiterates, “he needs both of us.” Because he does. Solana knows and believes that with everything in her. The humanity and kindness Roman still holds is solely because of the woman before her. Solana has just so happened to build upon it. “And besides….you’ve gotta be here when we finally have a child. You’re…..you’re the closest thing he or she will have to a grandmother.”

Because it’s true. Because Solana wants her and Roman’s child to have the loving, supportive family that both of them were deprived of, and for more than just a short period of their life. It’s another vow on her part. 

To do better.

To be better.

“A child…..” Fetu trails off, loosening her grip on Solana’s arm, settling hers at the side of her body. “Yes….soon….soon.”

Solana can’t take her gaze away from Fetu, studying her face from the moment her eyes flutter shut to when the steady rise and fall of her chest indicates a much deserved peaceful sleep. Solana is absolutely prepared to stay in that chair the entire night, by Fetu’s side, no protest whatsoever. 

But, it’s not even forty five minutes into Fetu’s slumber that the bedroom door is slowly opened, Ava clearly checking that her aunt is sleep before she walks in and kneels at Solana’s side. “You can go. I’ll—I’ll stay with her.”

Solana looks at the woman, the red, puffy eyes that she knows all too well. She shakes her head, placing a hand on her shoulder. “No. You….you get some sleep. I don’t mind.”

Ava makes a sound, her nose turning up ever so slightly. She’s staring at Fetu. “It’s so—it’s hard seeing her like this, ya know? I—I just want to help, but I can’t—” Solana shakes her head, as Ava closes her eyes, clearly trying to hold back tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Again, Solana knows grief and heartache better than anyone. “She loves you. And in her heart, she knows who you are….she always will.”

Ava is visibly moved by the kind words, nodding and wiping at her eyes. “Thank you, Solana.” She sniffles, laughing with a small scoff. “You’re way too good for him.” Solana smiles. Not a chance. “Please….I’d prefer to sit with her, if….if that’s okay?”

Solana has no room or place to deny Ava anything, especially this. She just didn’t want her to feel like she had to. But hearing her reason, she’s more than happy to get up. “Of course.”

Solana is by the door when she stops and calls out Ava’s name, waiting for the woman to look at her as she asks, “who—who was Nakoa?”

Ava’s shoulders drop, the change in her disposition evident as she answers in a sad tone. “That was my uncle......Roman’s dad.”

Solana’s eyes shut, her mind gravitating back to the picture she saw just earlier today. Of course. Nodding, she reminds, “if you need anything—”

“I know.”

A final shared smile among the women, and Solana quietly closes the door. Making her way back to Roman’s bedroom, she half expects to find him up, pacing, wearing a hole into the floor. She instead is met with the complete opposite: room dark and Roman’s big body sprawled across the bed. He’s on his back, laying on top of the blankets. It’s obvious he fell asleep while doing that waiting she correctly called before even entering the room. 

Shutting the door, Solana moves over to the bed, careful movements helping her position her body so she’s tucked next to him. Her arm over his stomach, and her head on his chest. 

Despite her carefulness, it’s not even a full two minutes before he’s stirred awake. 

“Shhh. It’s just me.” She whispers, kissing his bearded jaw. Even in the darkness of the room, she can still slightly make out his features as he looks down at her. 

“Fuck.” His voice is deep with the slumber he so desperately needs so much more of. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Good. You need that.” He’s been nonstop the past couple days, not to mention the fact that they have to be up in a couple hours to get back on the road. Solana makes a quick mental note to see if he’ll let her drive back. Even if just for a portion. “Go back to sle—”

“Fetu—” 

Solana feels his body tense underneath her, prompting her to soothingly move her hand across his abdomen. “She’s okay now. Sleep. Ava is sitting with her.”

He says nothing, but she watches the way he lets his head fall back against the mattress. “I’m—I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t—”

“I’m not.” Because she’s not. And truth be told, what occurred tonight rests devastatingly low on the list of worst things she’s ever experienced. “I’m glad I could help her. Help you guys.”

Roman hesitates before asking in a thick voice. “How did you….”

“My mom worked at a nursing home when she was in medical school. She used to tell me about her patients with Alzheimer's. How she had to help them. She used to write about it in her journals too.” Not to mention random information Solana has read and learned over the years in her vast pursuit of acquiring medical knowledge after being denied the chance to go to college and pursue her nursing dreams. “She just….she needed to feel safe. I know what that’s like.”

Again, Roman is silent for a couple minutes, Solana eventually feeling him tug her closer, her eyes shutting when he kisses her forehead.  

“Thank you.” There’s so much held behind those two words, an immense amount of appreciation and love that’s felt on such a palpable level. “I love you.”

She could never tire of hearing him say that. Ever. “I love you, too.”

Today was a lot, in so many different ways, Solana feeling perplexed by the many happenings. The letter from Fetu. Fetu’s maybe incoherent, or not so incoherent, warning about someone being jealous. Her almost ominous way of speaking about herself, about her future.

It was just…..a lot. 

And Solana knows there’s so much to digest and try to make sense of. Just not tonight.

Tonight she just wants to fall asleep in the arms of her husband.

Tomorrow, and whatever it entails, can come later. 

[guiltyasdave]

i can see the end as it begins

chapter 1 • series masterlist

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

summary: You meet your father’s new friend for the first time, but he’s a lot different than you expected.

word count: ~5k

tags/warnings: explicit smut -> 18+ mdni, dbf!Dave, unhealthy relationship dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, angst, daddy issues (reader’s dad isn’t a nice person), able-bodied reader, reader has hair, no use of y/n, divorced Dave, unprotected p in v, semi-public sex, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, spanking, pet names, let me know if i missed anything 🫶🏻

a/n: my favorite person on this app @joelscurls planted the idea of dbf!dave in both our heads and after many many feral dms, porn gifs, plotting and just generally freaking out, we have finally managed to put the first chapter together :) we’re currently planning with 4 chapters in total that we’re gonna take turns posting, so go follow jess if you don’t already (criminal behavior tbh)! i’m beyond excited to be able to do this with someone whose writing i adore sooo much, we’re both beyond excited about this story, and we hope that you enjoy it 🫶🏻

follow @joelscurlsupdates and @guiltyasdavenotifs for updates and find jess’s masterlist here and my masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics!

“I want a divorce.”

It’s been almost a year since Carol spoke those words into the tense silence of their dining room and they still echo in Dave’s mind as if it happened yesterday.

He doesn’t mourn the marriage, doesn’t miss Carol, not in the way he probably should. But he mourns the life that he had, the perfect suburban family, the stability. A little boring maybe, but safe, calming. Predictable.

And he misses his girls. He misses the sound of small feet on the hardwood-floor greeting him as soon as he opened the front door, giggly exclamations of “Daddy’s home!” and tiny hands grabbing at him, begging to be picked up. Now he opens the door to an empty, silent apartment. He has them every second weekend, which he rationally knows makes the most sense with his often irregular working hours, but it’s simply not enough. It’s like time is constantly running through his fingers and he just can’t make it stop, can’t bring his life back under control.

He’s doing what he can to keep himself busy, anything to keep his mind occupied and his thoughts from spiraling into that pit of loneliness that he’s found himself in. He started reconnecting with friends, going out with his colleagues and contacting people from his army days that he hasn’t spoken to in years, trying to build a social life outside of his family and the neighbors that he no longer lives next to.

It’s tedious, making him realize that he really doesn’t like people all that much, but it’s better than spending his evenings by himself and wondering where things went so awfully wrong.

He spends a lot of time with Jim, one of the guys that trained with him and that he always got along with rather well. Jim was delighted when Dave called, promptly inviting him to join him at golf the next day, which somehow turned into a weekly event on Dave’s schedule. It’s nice enough, giving him some sense of routine and he finds that he’s rather good at it. Jim runs his own company by now, the thing that he invests all of his time in, which got him a lot of money, but also a divorce.

It’s all he talks about, too, but it’s fine with Dave, not being forced to contribute that much to the conversation – because really, there’s not much worth mentioning happening in his life anyway – and he’s content to just nod along and hum in agreement most of the time.

Jim has a daughter too, a lot older than Dave’s though, already out of the house, attending law school. He can tell that Jim is proud when he talks about her, but it always seems to be connected to achievements, an underlying pressure to their relationship that leaves Dave a little uneasy and he silently vows to himself to never apply any sort of conditions to his love for his daughters.

But he's never met the young woman and he probably never will, so he doesn’t dwell on it, because what does it matter to him, really?

You huff a sigh as the familiar sight of the country club that your father loves to frequent comes into view and hand the Uber driver a tip before sliding out of the car.

You had thought you’d be getting a night out with your Dad, just the two of you, a rare occurrence. Not that you had been particularly looking forward to being grilled about law school, your grades, networking and internship opportunities, but at least he would be listening to you, paying attention. Joking that he was making sure that the money he put into your education was well invested, a joke that felt less funny every time you were reminded just how financially dependent you were on your father.

If the topic of conversation wasn’t school, it was what kind of acquaintances you’ve made, if maybe you’d met a guy with good connections, someone who could introduce you to the right people. Cautionary warnings not to get involved with the wrong sort, not to get on the wrong track.

Just once, you would like to talk about if you were enjoying school, what living on your own was like, how you got along with your roommate, the fun times you had with your girlfriends, anything about your life that wasn’t somehow connected to success or keeping up appearances. But your relationship wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about these sorts of things, he never had.

You continuously swallowed down the heavy feeling of envy in your stomach when your friends talked about their parents, painting a picture of unconditional love and support that was foreign to you, telling yourself that everything was fine the way it was.

“I invited Dave to join us tomorrow,” he then told you yesterday morning, offhandedly, sipping his coffee and his eyes already glued to his phone. You nodded silently, forcing your lips into something that resembled a smile. He had mentioned someone named Dave before, an old friend from his army days that he had recently reconnected with, if you remembered correctly. It didn’t matter, really, your father’s countless acquaintances blurred into a mix of vaguely familiar faces in your head anyway. If you had mixed feelings about the evening plans before, this new development made it clear that you wouldn’t partake in the conversation much, just smile politely, sit pretty and let the grown ups talk.

Steeling yourself, you walk in, your heels clicking against the floor. After spotting your dad almost immediately and waving in his direction, you make a beeline for the bar. He was sitting alone, you think, furrowing your brow in thought. You’re running a little late yourself, maybe that Dave guy couldn’t make it? You don’t hate the idea of that.

Dave had been reluctant to come out tonight, couldn’t help the feeling that he was intruding on his friend’s father-daughter time, something that he was desperate to have more of, but Jim had insisted.

“Lots of women you could meet there!”

He had scoffed under his breath, not able to picture himself meeting someone new, going through the motions of getting to know them, opening up, adjusting his routine to someone else’s again. He could much less picture himself meeting a woman he’d be interested in at a fucking country club of all places. Eventually, the thought of another evening in his silent and empty apartment with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company made him accept anyway.

He’s drumming his fingers against the polished wooden bar, waiting to pick up the second round of beers for Jim and himself, when someone slides up to the counter beside him. He glances over, eyes focusing in on the woman who is studying the drinks menu.

He feels an inexplicable pull towards her, couldn’t look away again even if he tried. She’s beautiful, he thinks as he takes in her features in the soft warm light, lingering on the shape of her lips, before his gaze trails down her body, over the short black dress that’s clinging to her in the most enticing way. She’s also younger than him; too young, the responsible part of his mind argues. Not the kind of woman that he should be interested in meeting. He still can’t look away.

“Evening.” The greeting comes out before he can stop himself. She looks up, a hint of annoyance on her pretty face, but her gaze softens as her eyes meet his. A smirk plays on her lips.

“Hi.” Her eyes flicker down his own body and up again, something akin to excitement taking over her expression. He’s rusty, hasn’t done this in ages, but her interest is palpable, and it shoots a thrill of pleasure through him.

“I’m David,” he introduces himself. No one has called him David in… god knows how long, but it feels better than Dave in this moment, right somehow. Like he can be a different person, just for a little while.

“Pleasure,” she grins, tells him her name and shakes his hand, her eyes glinting in the warm lights of the bar. Her touch on his skin, even just his hand, is like electricity is flowing through the air between them. She feels so soft and his life has been so devoid of softness lately that he has to force himself to let go of her hand again.

Something tugs at the back of his mind, like this name should ring a bell, but he shoves the thought aside. He’s too busy picturing himself taking her home this evening, imagining how soft her skin would feel in other places, how she would look splayed out underneath him on his sheets, how her breath would sound when he–

“I’ve never seen you around here before, are you new?” her melodic voice interrupts the vivid daydream playing in his mind. She has taken a step towards him and hints of the sweet notes of her perfume are beginning to surround the air around him. It’s getting a little hard to think straight.

“I– yes. First time actually,” he laughs and delights in the way her face lights up at the sound. “You come here a lot, then?” The cliché line makes him want to cringe, but she doesn’t falter, only shrugs and lets her eyes slowly trail down his body once more, obviously wanting him to notice.

“Depends. I might be here more often if it means I get to see you.”

She reaches out until her fingers softly graze his wrist and it demands a great amount of willpower not to take her home right this instant.

The heartbeat in your chest is thrumming along to the butterflies that are erupting in your stomach. You’ve never been this bold, too shy to flirt at all most of the time, but the stranger in front of you is clouding your sense of judgment and has your insecurities flying right out of the window. His interest is written over his face clear as day and you feel an immediate pull towards him that you can’t explain.

He’s so handsome that your hands are itching to touch him more, to find out if he’s as broad and solid as is large frame suggests, if that jawline would feel as strong under your fingertips as it looks, and if his deep brown eyes would soften before you press your lips against his. No wedding ring either, you note in the back of your mind, sending another surge of excitement through you.

The fact that he seems old enough to be your father, something that your therapist would probably have a few words to say about, is only adding to the arousal that’s coursing through your veins. You want him.

You almost jump when your drinks arrive in front of you; you had all but forgotten where you are, and that you’re very much in eyesight of your actual father. Suddenly, you feel silly, reality catching up to you. Surely he was just being nice and you read way too much into it, making a fool of yourself.

“Well, I–I’ll see you around then.” You hastily grab your glass and are ready to make a run for it, when his large hand wraps around your elbow.

“Looking forward to it,” he purrs, before he takes the two beers off the counter in front of him.

Awkwardness slowly sets in when you start walking in the same direction, but it doesn’t fully hit you until you both stop at the same table, your father beaming up at you.

“Sweetheart, you already met Dave I see, that’s great. Come, sit!”

You’re frozen, stupidly blinking between your father and the man beside you a few times. The man who introduced himself as David.

David. Dave. Oh. Oh.

“Y–yeah,” you stutter out eventually and plaster a smile on your face as you take a seat beside your dad. David looks just as dumbstruck as you feel when he slides into the chair opposite from you, quietly handing one of the beers over to your dad. His friend.

Your father launches into a story about their army days together and you’re nodding along, but not one word actively registers in your brain. The conversation eventually moves on to your dad’s recent work projects, the majority of the talking done by him, with the occasional question from David, while you’re silently sipping on your drink.

The initial embarrassment of the whole situation makes you want to sink down into the ground, but still you can’t keep your eyes from flicking to David again and again. They linger on his lips, constantly in a pout that you would give anything to feel against yours, the slight shadow of stubble on his cheeks at the end of the day that you know would scratch against your skin so deliciously, the way his hand dwarfs his beer on the table, thick fingers that could stretch– No. No, you’re not going there.

Your cheeks are burning and you stare down at the tabletop in front of you.

When your gaze lifts back up, David’s eyes are already trained on you, glinting like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking about. You reluctantly look back at your father, who’s still rambling on about some big client that he’s currently dealing with, completely oblivious to the charged energy between his friend and you.

David shifts in his seat and his leg bumps against yours under the table. You grasp your drink tighter, forcing yourself not to react in any way, but you don’t move away either. Neither does he. You shoot him a look and the hint of a smirk plays around his mouth. He looks too damn good like this, so excitingly wrong in a way that makes your pulse flutter.

It feels like you’re burning up from inside and as little attention as your dad is paying to you, you’re certain that he’s gonna notice that something is off with you eventually. You hastily scramble to your feet and excuse yourself to the bathroom. You feel David’s eyes on you as you walk away until you’re out of sight.

The cool water that you run over your wrists and splash onto your cheeks does a poor job of calming you down. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you admonish yourself. It’s certainly not more than a tiny bit of flirting to him, if at all, just some harmless fun to amuse himself probably, and you’re getting this worked up about it.

No. You need to get out of this situation. You’re gonna walk back out there, make something up about a headache and catch a cab home. It will probably earn you a lecture about politeness later in the evening, but you’ll gladly take that.

When you approach the table again, your dad is just getting off his phone, his expression already far away. You know that look all too well, being subjected to it almost daily.

“Work emergency?” you ask, without a real question behind your words.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, getting up, barely looking at you, already all business. “Sorry, I gotta get to the office, Dave will drive you home. Right, Dave?”

Your eyes fly to David and you catch him swallowing hard, but he nods regardless, lips quirking up in a forced smile. “Of course.”

You both silently watch your father’s retreating back, already speaking into his phone again. The fabric of Dave’s pants ghosts against your bare leg below the table once more. You wish it were his fingers instead.

You hadn’t anticipated to be alone with him and all the reasonable thoughts that you’ve come up with in the privacy of the bathroom are wiped from your mind. It feels like you’re buzzing, a rush of excitement thrumming through your veins, like your body knows that you’re on the brink of doing something really stupid and really fucking tempting.

“I’m sorry, about earlier,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes. He smirks, a knowing glint in his eyes as he takes in your expression. He still hasn’t moved his leg.

“I don’t think you are.”

Your stomach swoops at his words. You bite your lip. He wouldn’t be acting like this if he didn’t want you, would he? His eyes dart to your lips at the movement and darken. Fuck it.

“No, I’m not.” You pray that he doesn’t catch the slight tremble in your voice. He’s fucking intimidating and this is wrong on so many levels and you want him so badly to want you.

The tension between you is a palpable thing, almost making it hard to breathe when he leads you out of the club, his hand at the small of your back and causing you to shiver. Will he really just drive you home? Will he say something, do something, touch you more? You don’t know how to ask for any of it and desperately wish that he’ll take the reins, that somehow he already knows what you want. You have a feeling that he does.

He opens his car door for you, another thing that really shouldn’t affect you this much, before he walks around the vehicle and gets in beside you. You catch a hint of his cologne in the confined space and press your thighs together before you can stop yourself. Your heart is racing and you just know that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

He clears his throat. “We gotta stop at my place, I have some paperwork that I’d like your–” He interrupts himself, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles are white, “that I’d like Jim to look over for me.”

You nod, a small hum leaving your throat. The implication of going to his place has you reeling. He nods back, stealing a glance at you before he starts the car. You can’t help watching him as he drives, the subtle control that he exudes, the way the muscles on his thighs are flexing underneath the fabric of his pants. He looks over at you a few times, and you don’t have it in yourself to pretend that your eyes aren’t glued to him.

“See something you like?” he asks eventually, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Yeah,” you answer, so breathless it’s embarrassing and you shift a little in your seat. Your dress rides up at the movement, revealing more skin, and his eyes fly down instantly.

“Me too,” he rasps.

When he stops the car in front of his building, you decide that it’s time to be brave.

“Do you want me to come up with you?”

“No,” his answer comes instantly. His tone isn’t cold, but determined, not to be argued with.

“Oh.” Your cheeks are heating up again. You hate how small your voice sounds. “I thought–”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, avoiding your gaze.

“I can’t. You’re– You know why. You know I can’t.”

“I don’t care. I’m an adult, I can do what I want.”

He shakes his head, still not looking at you.

“Sweetheart, stop. Trust me, I want to, but–”

“Please?” You’re begging, no dignity left in you, only want want want. “Just one time. Please, David?”

His eyes fly up to your face at that. You can see the shift, the way his expression hardens, turning into something feral that has heat growing between your legs.

“Just one time,” he repeats, his voice dark with desire, no longer trying to conceal it.

His hands find your thighs, grabbing at you roughly, moving you until you’re in his lap, legs spread wide, his breath fanning against your lips. One hand is in your hair, the other gliding under the hem of your dress, his touch turning you into a trembling mess.

“This is what you want?” he growls, the grip in your hair tightening. You don’t think that you’ve ever wanted anything as much as this.

“Please,” you whine again, and he presses forward, lips clashing against yours, the kiss all tongue and teeth and desperate need and you’re melting into him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands all over you now, grabbing at your dress, your skin, any place he can reach.

Your mouth travels over his cheek and down to his neck, sucking kisses and bites into his skin. The stubble scratches against your face just like you thought it would and you start working on the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, rolling your hips, desperate for friction. His grip steadies you, pulling down the neckline of your dress, kissing along the lace of your bra before he pulls the cups down too. A groan rises up in his throat as he cups your tits, thumbs circling over your already hardened nipples before he leans forward and sucks one into his mouth.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps, breath hot against your damp skin. You arch into his touch and he chuckles, sucking on the bud again before he bites down, eliciting a loud moan from you. His touch travels up your thighs, leaving a burning trail behind, until his fingertips rub over the soaked fabric of your panties and you gasp at the barely-there touch.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos, pressing down harder. “Already dripping for me, huh? You want it that bad?”

You nod eagerly, pushing down onto his fingers.

“Alright.” He sounds just as wrecked as you feel. He starts undoing his belt buckle and his pants and you lift up just enough to allow him to shove them down his hips.

At the first glance at his cock, your mouth falls open, a silent breath escaping you. He’s big, certainly the biggest you’ve ever had, and maybe you should think about how you’ll take all of him inside of you, but you find yourself craving him, craving the stinging stretch, craving the feeling of being as close as possible to him.

“Don’t worry.” He seems mildly amused, catching your lips in another kiss. “We’ll make it fit.”

Another shudder runs through your body at this. “I’m not worried,” you admit in a whisper.

He laughs at that, a breathless sound that you instantly want to hear again.

“Good.”

He pulls your underwear to the side and thrusts one thick finger up into your slick heat without warning. His thumb rubs around your clit and you already feel an orgasm creeping up on you. He adds a second finger, his rhythm relentless, and you cry out, grabbing his shoulders, trying to steady yourself, but it’s pointless. You’re already clenching, so close to the edge, when he pulls out of you and fixes you with a hard glare.

“Not yet. You’re only gonna come on my cock tonight, understood?”

You want to scream, want his fingers back, but you realize that you also want this authority, want him to take control, to take whatever he wants from you. It’s a heady feeling, one that you’ve never experienced before, but you’re already desperate for more.

“Okay,” you agree, and his responding smirk is enough for another wave of wetness to gather between your legs.

With one steadying hand securely on your hip, he leans over to the glovebox, mumbling about protection, but you stop him, fingers looping around his wrist.

“I’m on the pill, and I’m clean, I promise. You don’t need–”

He leans back, the grip on your hip tightening again.

“Fuck sweetheart, are you sure?”

You nod quickly, another “please” falling from your lips.

The grin on his face is downright feral as he hikes your dress up higher, eyes raking over your body. You’re sure that you look a mess, all intimate parts of you on display, your skin damp with sweat, your hair a wild nest. You curl in on yourself a little, but David won’t have any of that.

“Hey,” he growls, fingers digging into your thighs. “If I’m gonna do this, you’re gonna look at me and beg for it, are we clear?”

You lift your head, wide eyes searching his. Desperate to do what he asks, desperate for his approval. He’s gorgeous in the low lights, his cheeks flushed, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face and chest.

“Please,” you whine. “Please David, I need you.”

His movements turn frantic at your words, moving you around until you’re positioned just above him, your panties pulled to the side, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, already soaking him.

“Just one time?” he rasps once more.

“Just one time,” you agree. You’d agree to anything right now.

He pulls you down slowly, beginning to part your walls. You whine loudly at the stretch. It burns, but you relish in the feeling of getting filled by him, and his responding groan has your lips pulling up in a smile.

You keep sinking down, moving until he’s completely sheathed inside you and your eyes fall shut at the overwhelming sensation. His fingers are on your chin in an instant, giving your head a light shake.

“Nuh-uh, eyes right here, sweetheart,” he reminds you, gritting the words out. He twitches inside you and you force your eyelids to open again.

“Feels so good,” you whine, your voice reduced to a broken, breathless thing, but then he starts moving and you’re not able to form words any longer.

He rolls his hips up into you and you meet his thrusts with your own movements, clinging to his shoulders for dear life. His hands are everywhere, digging into your hips, pinching your nipples, gripping your chin whenever your eyes are starting to slip closed again.

So you keep your gaze obediently on him, your eyes locked, delighting in the way his face scrunches up in pleasure, in the sounds that are falling from his lips, matching your own.

“Good girl, taking me so fucking well,” he groans, his hand connecting with your ass in a light slap. An obscenely loud moan escapes you in response and you clench around him, more wetness covering his length and your thighs.

He stills and leans back to take in your heated face and blown pupils, an amused smirk forming on his face. “You liked that, huh?”

You nod, once again unable to meet his eye.

“Hey,” he demands, his fingers grabbing your face again. “Eyes on me, remember?”

Your gaze reluctantly trails up and his smirk grows.

“So…” he drawls, slowly picking up his thrusts again, “what exactly did you like, huh? When I called you a good girl… or when I did this?”

He smacks your ass again and you grind down onto him almost instinctively. You’re burning up in shame, but you obediently hold his gaze.

“B–both,” you whisper, in disbelief that you’re admitting this to him, but you feel too good to hold back now.

“Fuck,” he growls, his movements speeding up and his grip on your hips bordering on painful, “knew you were a dirty little thing.”

Another slap lands on your skin, harder than before, at the same time that he thrusts deep into you. The combined sensations are enough to throw you over the edge that you had been teetering on since he first touched you and you scream out his name as you fall apart.

He holds your shaking body close, cock grinding into you as you pulse around him and he groans, burying his face in your neck, spilling his own release deep inside of you.

“Fucking perfect,” he whispers, mouth pressing against your skin. “Can’t believe that you let me–”

You barely make out the words, ecstasy still coursing through your veins, but you lean into him, holding onto his broad shoulders, feeling like his body is the only real thing in your world right now.

You stay like this, entangled in each other’s embrace until your breaths even out and he carefully lifts your face, pressing one more kiss against your lips. It hits you suddenly, that this might be the last kiss that you share with him. Just one time, right?

He helps you to properly put your clothes back on, supporting your weight as you slink back into the passenger seat, before he pulls his pants back on and jogs up to his apartment to gather the paperwork for your father.

Your father. His friend. Fuck. Now that the lust-induced haze has lifted a bit and you’re able to think more clearly again, the weight of tonight’s events starts crashing down on you. He would kill you. He can’t know, no one can.

Dave returns within minutes, his brow furrowed as he takes you in. You think that he clocks the growing panic that is probably written all over your face. He reaches for your hand, slowly enough that you could retract it if you wanted to, but you long for his touch, for the reassurance of it.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.” You nod, trying to convince yourself as much as him.

He nods back, not prying, which you are grateful for, and starts the car, making his way over to your house. Your hand still clasped in his. Both your release and his pooling in your panties.

You only let go of him when he pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. You don’t think that your dad checks the footage from the security cameras regularly, but it’s a risk that you’re not willing to take.

“Thank you,” you mumble, once again unable to meet his eyes. “I– I had a great night.”

He smiles, appearing more relaxed than he’d been all evening.

“Me too, sweetheart. Good night.” You feel his eyes on you as you walk up to the door.

You shower, reluctantly washing away all traces of the evening and crawl into bed. You still feel his hands on your skin, the sensation following you into your dreams.

When the morning comes, hushed promises of just one time echo in your head, but the desire to do it again, for more, is burning through your body, consuming your thoughts.

“Hey Dad,” you ask, stepping into his office where he’s brooding over documents, “I think I left my jacket in Dave’s car, could you give me his number? Maybe I can go pick it up.”

if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending in an ask – it’s really the thing that keeps writers going :)

[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Tim was waiting for them at the door, sitting one the steps of the Manor's entrance, when they arrived. He grinned an jumped up when he saw the car, not quite running down to meet them. Danny nearly jumped out of the moving car to catch Tim.

"Hey, Danny!"

"Hey, Tim!"

Dick got out of the car after turning it off. He rolled his eyes at the two kids. "Hey, Dick." Tim and Danny snickered at him, ditching a handshake in favor of a high five. "You two have met in person once, why are you so close?"

"Occupational hazard," Danny answered.

"Why? Are you jealous?" Tim teased.

"I am not!" Dick protested, "I'm just curious."

The two didn't believe him for a second. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm not!"

The large oak doors to the Manor opened slowly, not creaking once, pulling the three's attention to the top of the stairs. Just inside of the open left door was an older gentleman in a pressed, three piece suit. "Master Dick," he smiled, "Welcome home."

Dick smiled up at him. "Hey, Alfred. It's good to see you."

"You as well," he stepped to the side, inviting the three inside. Dick walk in first, followed by Tim. Danny took up the rear.

Holding out his hand, Danny said, "You must be Alfred. I'm Danny. It's nice to meet you!"

Alfred closed the door before taking Danny's hand. "Likewise, Master Danny."

"Oh, please, none of that 'master' stuff."

"'Mister' it is, then."

Danny didn't like Bristol, Gotham, New Jersey. It was plastic and fake and reeked of money. The trees and lawns and bushes were all exactly alike, and each property was marked off by wrought iron fences nearly ten feet tall that stretched on forever in every direction.

Wayne Manor, though, had a different feel to it. It still smelled of old money, and the greenery was all perfectly plastic looking, but it felt warm. No. It was almost as cold as the other properties in the area, but there was an underlying warmth to it that was slowly being choked out. Like red dye in a glass of water.

Alfred, Danny decided, was not human. He was perfectly human in every way, but there was something about him that nudged at Danny. His posture was perfect, his clothing pressed and not touched by even a speck of dust. His shoes were shiny, his gloves whiter than snow, and his hair lay perfectly. Danny knew for a fact that Wayne Manor was this man's haunt, even if the man is still of the living. The building was perfectly cared for, and he was sure that Alfred knows where everyone and everything are as long as they're within the Manor property lines.

"Thank you for having me," Danny bowed his head slightly. Alfred's smile grew ever so slightly.

"Please," Alfred nodded, "I must thank you for taking care of Master Dick while I have been unable to.."

"It's not problem, really," he said, "I like helping people."

"Should we be worried about whatever..that is?" Tim whispered to Dick.

"I don't think so?" Dick whispered back.

"You don't sound so sure."

Alfred was the first to move, stepping naturally in front of the group to take the lead. "If you'll follow me to the drawing room, I will bring in refreshments while you all talk."

Dick laughed politely, "Don't be so stiff, Alfie! I'll come help you in the kitchen; leave those two to chat." He winked like he knew something neither Danny or Tim did. They ignored him.

"Very well," Alfred accepted, "I expect Master Tim to show Mister Danny the way."

"Yeah, sure," Tim nodded, "C'mon, Danny, it's this way."

The Manor was large on the outside and inside. The foyer was easily thirty feet tall, a crystal chandelier and white frosted wall scones brightening up the black marble floors and beige walls. A pristine, dark green rug ran up the stairs. On either side of the stairs, imbedded into the walls under the landing, were birch double doors. Dick and Alfred went through the ones on the left, presumably to the kitchen. Tim led Danny through the ones on the right.

The hallway Tim and Danny were no in was only ten feet tall. The floor had become dark oak planks covered by a long, dark red carpet. The walls were the same beige as the foyer, but these were decorated with pictures and paintings of landscapes and cityscapes. Potted plants on small tables and short benches were spaced along the walls. About fifteen feet from the birch doors was a dark wood archway leading into another room.

"This is the drawing room." Tim introduced.

The room followed a similar theme as the hallway. Dark wood floors and beige walls. There was an unlit, red brick fireplace directly opposite the archway, a TV a few inches over the mantel. Bookshelves that were obviously only decoration lined the right wall. A white, circle area rug covered most of the space, accompanied by dark blue and oak furniture, and scratchy white throw pillows. The decorations all matched the hallway, too.

It was all very impersonal.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked after a moment of Danny looking around.

"Nothing," he said, "it all just seems a bit.. manufactured?" He looked at Tim. "Don't take that the wrong way! It's a beautiful building! I'm just- I'm not used to this is all." A lie, but Tim didn't need to know that.

Tim laughed. "It's not my house, so don't worry about it."

Danny's head tilted to the side. "Oh? Then where do you live?"

"Why?" he smirked, "Gonna follow me home if I don't tell you?"

"Maybe." he shrugged back.

The single birch door on the left wall opened, letting Dick and Alfred into the room. They put two trays on the coffee table, one with different snack foods and the other with a few drinks. Alfred was quick to leave the room again.

"Welp," Dick clapped, "I'll leave you two in here to talk. I'm going to-" Danny leveled a glare at him. "-sit here and join your conversation."

Tim stared between the two for a second before laughing again. "Dude! You have to teach me how to do that!"

"Why? Think it'll work on Bruce-man?" That got both Tim and Dick laughing.

"Only one way to find out."

Danny laughed along with them for a few moments before sighing. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I did drag Dick here for a reason." He stepped back a few feet, motioning to Dick.

"Er- Right." Dick cleared his throat. "Tim, I'm sorry for yelling at you when you stopped by Bludhaven."

Tim blinked, giving Danny the impression that he was not used to apologies and the like. Hm. That'll have to change. "It's, um, okay?"

"Great-!"

"No it's not." Danny interrupted, "He yelled at you. You don't have to say it's okay."

"But it is?" Tim reasoned. "I'm used to it."

That's going to change, too.

Part 11 Part 13

[cheriladycl01]

Ghost - Oscar Piastri x UnknownDriver! Reader Part 3

Plot: Reader is the first female F1 driver of the century, however no-one knows that as you are a ghost on the grid. You started in 2022, coming in P12 in the championship. You get moved to Red Bull Racing in 2023 with the off year for Sergio Perez.

Standing up on the podium, not being able to do anything as you watched Oscar run off was torture. You had to stay there while your national anthem played that should have been amazing considering it was you, Lewis and Lando all up there together.

And of course, there were no breaks for you afterwards. Everyone wanted you, from SkySports, to F1, to Netflix. Everyone was throwing questions at you and asking how different your achievements feel now knowing that your the first woman to have completed many of them.

You were fine answering them, because like they said. All of your previous achievements were now bigger than they were as Ghost. People could tell that you weren't fully with them, you were a little spacey and sometimes struggled with hearing and answering the questions.

Most of them put it down to the post race fuzz of the win and revealing who you were, but upon getting to the Sky Sports Team who consisted of Jenson Button, Nico Rosberg, Natalie Pinkham and Danica Patrick questions turned sour.

"So Y/N aside from racing we caught light of Oscar Piastri's quick depart after the reveal, any insight on this?" Danica asks, making you look down.

"I don't think these questions are necessary" Jenson says just as the Red Bull PR manager was about to ask for racing related questions only.

"Yes please stick to racing questions only" the Red Bull PR backs up, nodding before taking a step back. You look back up, straight to Nico who had a soft look on his face.

"I'm just interested, you raced for Alpine last year when he was a reserve driver... for Alpine and you've been promoted to Red Bull this year while Piastri's made the move to Mclaren. Can't help but wonder if its underlying sexism that's made him this mad, you all cant deny he was blunt and rude in his interview with us earlier" Danica pushes and you head snaps up. You feel a hand on your shoulder as if to stop you from what your about to say but you go ahead anyway.

"I've hurt a dear friend. So how dare you stand there and try to victimize me, when he is the one that I've hurt. He knew me as Ghost's assistant and media manager... we were close and I've not been truthful to him for obvious reasons. So don't stand there and try to make him out to be a misogynistic twat when he isn't. I don't know what you experienced in NASCAR Danica but in F1 all I've experienced today is love and support. Just because your sport sucks doesn't mean mine does" you snap, and recoil shocked that you'd just said all of that. She looks at you also in shock, Jenson and Nico were trying to stop their laughter.

"Well, some strong opinions there from Y/N Y/L/N" Jenson says as he watches you turn away and walk off. You were done with interviews for the day. You just wanted to find Oscar and talk to him now.

"Lando! Lando" you shout as you see the curly haired boy ahead of you walking into the Mclaren motorhome.

"Hey, Y/N or should i say Ghost" he smiles before pulling you into a hug.

"I was not expecting that bombshell today, and I will admit I'm sorry for assuming you were some ugly guy... your very obviously not" he laughs.

"Where's Oscar" you ask, you didn't want to seem rude but of course he was your priority right now.

"Y/N, I don't think its a good idea to see him right now. I think maybe just wait for him to come to you. He's upset and" he starts but you look him dead in the eye.

"He upset me too, he just ran off... at my first race win" you say as selfish as it was... but he also ruined that experience for you.

"I know, but you did like lie to him for just under 2 years" Lando says softly not wanting to rattle your already unstable cage of self hatred.

"And what was i supposed to do Lando, tell him a secret that Red Bull had me sign an NDA over and break my contract and risk loosing my seat?" you ask, hoping he would start to understand.

"Look Y/N you really should go..." Lando pushes looking around the area you were currently in. He put a hand on your lower back as to guide you back out, but you planted yourself still.

"No, I'm not leaving till i talk to him" you grunt.

"Y/N I'm telling you this as your friend and your co-worker. You need to go" he says, you'd actually never seen his eyes this serious before and it had your head cocking to the side in confusion.

As your about to ask him why the hell he's being so twitchy, two people stumble out of the next room a little disheveled and both laughing. You eyes lock on them.

"O-Oscar?" you ask in shock, the girl looks up at him confused and his face turns red but also a sour expression comes onto his face.

Before any of them can say anything your turning away from them, everything feels slow motion, all the voices around you blur and your heartbeat comes erratic.

You couldn't understand why it hurt so much, the thought of him not even for a moment being happy for you up on a podium that he come here to be with some other girl ... or was it because in the time you'd spent with him you'd fallen for the racer.

You round the corner, stumbling behind the Mclaren motorhome so that you could just breath. You crouch down, your head leaning back against the side.

"Fucks sake" you say to yourself, once you'd calmed yourself from the initial shock you fully sat down on the metal edging outside the Mclaren motorhome.

"Y/N?" you hear a voice ask, your head peaks up and you spot Alex and Logan.

"Oh, hey guys. Great Race today!" you smile.

"Why are you just sat outside the Mclaren motorhome?" Logan asks raising an eyebrow at you.

"Oh, erm no reason. I just got lost on my way back to Red Bull" you smile standing up and walking to the long strip and turning left.

"Your still clearly lost, Red Bull's that way" Alex says pointing to the right hand side, that you weren't facing.

"Right, yeah i knew that" you smile, turning round and scuttering off the other way.

To say that the UK was the start of something spectacular was an understatement. You didn't go out and celebrate that night, you stayed in with your family.

The next race was Hungary where you proceeded to take the win away from Max in the last 3 laps, being on the fresher tires. They asked you to let Max take the win but you begged for them to let you fight it out. You shared the podium with Max and Lando, in Spa you came second, sharing the podium with Max and Charles and in The Netherlands you came 4th.

Throughout all of this Oscar hadn't reached out to you. You'd kept in contact with Lando, asking how he was and what had been going on. However Monza changed things.

An article came out about an interview Oscar had done about you and how you hadn't spoken to him since. He hadn't spoken very nicely about you when all you'd done was stick up for him. You guys got into a massive argument outside the garages that of course people caught on camera.

You had a really bad qualifying, the car just didn't have pace and your mind wasn't in the right place. So you were starting P14 on the grid, after a cry to Christian that you were so overwhelmed and him assuring you that it was today that really mattered.

You had turned off everything when you got in the car on the Sunday. No thoughts in your head just the racing. On the start you managed to get yourself to P12 overtaking Liam and Nico right of the bat.

"Excellent start Y/N lets keep pushing"

Martin Bundle - I have to say that Y/N is incredible with these races where she starts down in the back of the grid, and she gets those amazing starts where she slips in the middle of the two drivers ahead and is able to confidently get herself up too places

"Okay, and Alonso are ahead, you have DRS" your engineer tells you, and you are able to overtake Yuki who doesn't go as aggressively into the chicane as you do. You have a little spin but recover enough to pull up aside Alonso on the straight, going for the overtake.

"Amazing Y/N, that's P10 right now. Keep pushing"

Eventually you were left fighting Carlos, Max clipped a tire and was now down in 4th fighting with Charles.

"Y/N this has been a fantastic race, from P14 up to P2, Carlos is 1.8 second ahead. Lets get him and bring home a double podium. Max is fighting for P3 right now. 5 laps to go" he advises.

"Tell him to speed up, I'll give him DRS we can overtake Sainz together so its a 1.2" you advise looking seeing the Ferrari behind you. You slow down on the hairpin, breaking early, which Charles didn't expect where he was concentrating on defending from Max. You speed up, watching as he spins out a little leaving room for Max on the inside.

"Okay, Sainz has sped up there's now a 2.6 second gap"

"Copy that" you say, Max was using your slip stream, but didn't go for the overtake, you easily defended from Charles together while gaining on the other Ferrari.

"Okay last two laps, Sainz, 0.3 second gap"

"Yeah i can fucking tell I'm riding his rear end" you say, the minute you get onto the straight you and Max both go either side of Sainz, sandwiching him in as your about to go into turn 11. He breaks early falling back leaving you to take the optimal racing line and get ahead of Max.

"Is Max fighting this last lap?" you ask.

"He's been told is free to fight. Mode push and bring us another win" your race engineer advises, you breeze through the final lap, it was a close call but you came first.

"Y/N Y/L/N winner of the 2023 Italian Grand Prix" your race engineer says a big grin coming onto your face as you flip up the visor holding your fist up as you see all the Red Bull crew cheering for you on the fencing.

"Where did Oscar place?" you ask, you hadnt thought about him up until now. Even as you passed the orange 81 car, it was just another car then.

"Not a good race for Piastri, P12 behind Lawson"

"Okay. Thank you for the great drive today. Thank you Christian" you say before preparing yourself for the podium.

Would Oscar be there?

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle

[seongwars]

ardently | {TBD}

Pairing: Viscount!Choi San x Countess!Reader AU: non-idol | regency Summary: After falling victim to one of Choi San’s many wagers, you vowed to a life of eternal spinsterhood. However, when the Choi family faces the imminent threat of losing their estate, the very man you swore you would never forgive re-enters your life.  Word Count: 2.1K Warnings: you were a bet trope, some violence, misogyny, men being disappointing, some angst

a/n: I'm gonna let this marinate because i don't know what I want to do with this yet

“The Choi’s have sent a letter of proposal,” Yeosang announced, stepping into the drawing room. His voice was tinged with hesitation as he approached you with the unopened envelope. The weight of the situation seemed to hang in the air, palpable and heavy.

You remained seated on the sofa, eyes fixed on the novel you were reading. Without looking up, you replied, “Perhaps they sent it to the wrong address.” Your tone was measured, but the underlying bitterness was unmistakable, a sharp contrast to the calm exterior you maintained.

Yeosang sighed, clearly grappling with how best to navigate this unexpected development. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you recognized as one of his tells when he was deeply troubled. 

“I assure you, the address is indeed correct,” he said, his voice softening as he placed the envelope on the small table before you. The Choi family’s wax seal was unmistakable.

You finally looked up from your book, meeting his eyes with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “Please send them my regards,” you bristled, flipping the page with a deliberate nonchalance that belied the turmoil brewing inside you.

“Y/N,” Yeosang’s voice softened, almost pleading. 

You scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Choi San has an assembly of ladies to choose from. I cannot fathom why his father would send a letter to our household.” The mention of San brought a flicker of anger to your eyes, but you quickly masked it with a carefully crafted indifference.

“The Choi’s risk losing their estate and fortune. They view this marriage as a strategic endeavor to ensure their survival.”

“How unfortunate,” you replied flatly. “Perhaps the Viscount should not have squandered all of his investments in trade with the East Indies. It seems that the gamble did not pay off as expected.” The words came out more cutting than you had intended, but the frustration was evident in every syllable. 

Years before the letter arrived, a different kind of gamble was afoot, one that involved Choi San and his circle of friends. Known for their competitive spirit and reckless dares, San’s friends wagered that the future Viscount Choi could not successfully court you—a wallflower who stuck out like a weed in the garden of the ton. This challenge both intrigued and amused them.

“I bet you couldn’t win the heart of the most unassuming lady in the ton,” one of his friends declared, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You mean the wallflower?” San said with a casual shrug. “Consider it done.” 

His friends, lounging comfortably around him, erupted in a chorus of laughter and cheers. The challenge had been laid out, and San’s assurance that he could win the bet sparked a round of applause. 

San had always been adept at winning people over, and this challenge was no different in his mind. To him, it was just another game to be won and bragged about later. His friends, intrigued by the prospect, eagerly awaited the outcome, unaware of the repercussions that would ensue.

For you, who had long been a wallflower in the grand halls of social events, his interest was both bewildering and flattering. You found yourself drawn to his charm, his seemingly sincere gaze, and the way he made you feel seen for the first time in a long while.

As the days turned into weeks, the lines between the dare and reality began to blur for San. He found himself genuinely enjoying your company, your conversations, and the way your eyes lit up when you spoke of your passions. Yet, the shadow of the wager loomed over him, a constant reminder of the deceit at the heart of his courtship.

The turning point came on the night of your mama’s ball, a night that was meant to be filled with joy and celebration. The garden, usually a haven of soft moonlight and the scent of blooming roses, now felt like a cold and unwelcoming expanse. 

You had sought a moment of solitude, desperate to escape the crowded ballroom and the superficial conversations that had begun to wear on you. The tranquility of the garden was a brief respite, a chance to catch your breath away from the prying eyes of high society.

“I can’t believe she fell for it,” one of San’s friends said, his voice dripping with mockery.

San’s voice was unmistakable. “Pay up gentlemen, I told you I could do it. It was only a matter of time.”

Your heart sank as you listened, your breath catching in your throat. “It was all a wager,” you whispered to yourself, the words a bitter echo of the shock that coursed through you.

Another friend chimed in, his tone sharp and dismissive. “You really had her convinced, Choi. No woman in high society has a future unless it’s with child-rearing!”

San’s chuckle was a cruel sound in the night. “It was almost too easy to get her to talk about her ambitions. She was so desperate for someone to care.”

The tears that had been threatening to fall now streamed down your face, unbidden and hot. The entire courtship, every moment of tenderness and trust, had been nothing more than a dare, a game designed for their amusement. The weight of the deception crushed you, making your chest tighten with anger.

Unable to bear the sting of their laughter any longer, you stepped out from the shadows. “Is this true?” you demanded, your voice quivering and strained, each word punctuated with the raw pain and disbelief that surged through you. 

San’s eyes widened in shock as he saw you, his confident façade shattering before your very eyes. “Y/N, wait, I can explain—” he stammered, his voice faltering as he grappled with the gravity of the situation.

“Explain?” you echoed, your voice rising in a mixture of fury and pain. “Explain how you toyed with my feelings for a wager? How you led me to lay bare my vulnerabilities only to use them as fodder for your amusement?”

The friends who had been complicit in the bet fell silent, their earlier laughter abruptly stifled. San took a hesitant step towards you, his outstretched hand a tentative attempt at offering comfort or perhaps an explanation. But you flinched away, the gesture feeling like a further violation of the trust he had already so deeply betrayed. 

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking, the hurt and betrayal pouring through. “Leave me be.”

The words were a plea and a declaration, a desperate attempt to reclaim a semblance of self-respect in the face of overwhelming betrayal. The idea of confronting him further, of allowing him to come closer, felt like it would strip you of the last fragments of your pride.

San’s eyes were filled with regret and guilt, but it was too late. The damage was done, irreparable and deep. You turned and walked away, each step echoing with the finality of your shattered trust. The path back to the ballroom seemed impossibly long, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the person you had trusted was just another player in a cruel game.

A few nights later, Yeosang arrived at the club, his heart pounding with fury. The night air was heavy with tension as he pushed open the club’s doors, the clamor of conversation and music suddenly silenced by his forceful entrance. His eyes scanned the room until they locked onto San, who was lounging with friends at a corner table, seemingly oblivious to the storm approaching him.

San’s expression shifted from casual amusement to surprise as he noticed Yeosang closing the distance in a few swift strides. His fist swung through the air, connecting solidly with San’s face. 

“My sister!” he roared, his voice filled with a raw, piercing intensity. “Of all the people in this damned world, my sister?”

San’s eyes darted between Yeosang and the crowd, his shock turning to regret as he slowly began to comprehend the magnitude of his actions. He stammered, “I never meant for it to go this far.”

“Did you think you could just make a fool out of her and walk away unscathed?” he spat, his disappointment palpable. 

“I’m sorry–”

“Apologies won’t undo the damage that has already been done.”

With a final, scathing look, Yeosang turned and stormed out of the club, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. The room remained frozen, the tension thick in the air. San stood there, feeling the eyes of everyone upon him, the full weight of his actions crashing down on him.

“I’ll have to eventually send a reply, Y/N,” Yeosang sighed, his voice heavy with the weight of the situation. He stood by the window, staring out at the twilight as if seeking answers in the horizon.

You leaned back on the sofa, the letter from the Choi family lying unopened on the coffee table like a looming storm cloud. “Why don’t you marry San? You both seemed to have made up after you nearly dislocated his jaw,” you said with a wry smile.

“Ah, yes, because nothing says true love like a fistfight at the local club,” Yeosang quipped, shooting you a bemused look.

You leaned forward, your voice taking on a serious tone. “Their troubles are not my burden to bear. I’ve already been a pawn to their son before, and I won’t let myself be used again. The last thing I want is to be part of another arrangement that diminishes my worth.”

Your words were more than just a rejection; they were a declaration of your resolve. The Choi family had been close to your father, but their offer now felt like a cold, calculated move rather than a gesture of genuine concern or respect.

The grand halls of the Choi estate were alive with activity, but not in the usual festive manner. In the midst of this flurry, the family’s domestic staff worked with a practiced efficiency. Their hands deftly placed the covers over the delicate upholstery of the sofas and the intricate designs of the armchairs. The rich tapestries and decorative vases were carefully wrapped, their vibrant colors and intricate patterns momentarily hidden beneath plain, protective fabric.

The Viscount's usually composed demeanor was marred by the strain of their financial predicament. His brows were furrowed, and his hands rested on the edge of the polished desk, gripping it as if for support. Across from him, San’s normally confident air seemed overshadowed by the weight of their current situation.

Maps and financial reports were scattered across the desk, the papers bearing the marks of multiple revisions and frantic calculations. The flicker of the fireplace cast long shadows on the walls, adding to the somber mood.

“We’ve exhausted most of our resources in trade and investments,” the Viscount said, his voice weary and resigned.  “A proposal might be our last viable solution.”

San’s shoulders tensed as he listened, his gaze shifting between the documents and his father’s troubled expression. “Father, I know you’re trying to protect our legacy, but I’m not sure if this is the right approach. A marriage proposal, especially one of convenience, might not be received well. It could damage our reputation further if not handled delicately.”

“Our estate and name has always been at the heart of high society and we can’t afford to lose that standing! This proposal might be the only way to secure the financial support we need,” Viscount Choi sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “The Kang’s have a daughter who is a suitable marriage prospect.”

San’s heart sank as those words settled in his mind, a cold dread spreading through him. The guilt he had managed to bury beneath layers of rationalization and distraction surged back with an intensity that made his chest tighten. He could vividly recall the way he had toyed with your emotions, how he had made a cruel wager out of your genuine feelings. The memories of his laughter with his friends, the mockery hidden beneath what he had presented as genuine affection, all came flooding back.

“Father,” San began, his voice cracking slightly as he struggled to maintain his composure. “It would be improper to involve her in this matter,” his words tumbled out in a rush, his eyes pleading for understanding.

Viscount Choi’s expression softened further, a hint of regret in his eyes. “San, I know this is difficult for you. I do not take this lightly, nor do I wish to cause anyone harm. But our family’s future is at stake. Your future is at stake.”

[luveline]

hiiii, I miss Eddie and Roan so much. Could you write something about them pleaseee? ❤️❤️❤️

eddie and roan try not to fall asleep while (almost stepmom) reader bakes a tray of brownies, 1.5k

Eddie can't sit on the couch, he lays down. He has ever since he can remember, and while he tried to be polite when he first moved in (unlike Roan, who made herself at home delightfully quickly), you're way past that now. 

"You look uncomfortable," you fret, tilting your head to the side as you look down on him in concern. "You want a pillow?" 

"I want you to lay down with me immediately," he says, making grabby hands at your stomach. 

You refuse him with a stunning, angelic, beatific smile, the kind that makes him think fuck I should marry her, before he remembers he's already going to. If there's one thing about Eddie Munson, it's that he wholeheartedly believes that you're the prettiest woman he's ever met. Maybe you started that way, maybe he loves you so much you've metamorphosed into an intoxicating creature of good looks, but whatever it is, he's obsessed with it. 

"Lie down with me," he demands. 

"I'm gonna make little brownies," you say, shaking your head, "but I know someone for the job." 

He's half expecting you to scoop Mr. Porterson out of his tank and hand him to Eddie in a cup, but you head upstairs to Roan's bedroom. He can hear your voice through the floor, and his daughter's answering gasp. She all but runs down the stairs, demarcated by you and Eddie shouting the same thing, "Don't run down the stairs, Ro!" 

She's huffing and puffing by the time she gets to the living room, rounding the couch to stand in front of Eddie. "Hello," she huffs. "You need a hug?" 

Eddie opens his arm and drags her in. He should say something cheesy and loving, like, don't I always? He's not a super serious guy, but it's been on his mind a little more often as the wedding approaches and Roan gets taller how lucky he is to have you both, and how things could be totally different. He never expected to be a dad and he honestly didn't want to be before he saw her little face.

Eddie remembers picking her up when she was still smaller than his arm, two inexperienced hands under her armpits raising her up because he realised he could. 

Her legs scrunched up toward her chest and he thought, oh, my god. And now she clambers on his chest and does her pill bug curl with her knees, reminding him so much of her baby scrunch and the way her head smelled. He drapes a gentle arm behind her and tries to pour every ounce of love he possesses into his touch as he pats her shoulder, a steady thump, thump, thump. 

"You smell nice," Roan accuses. 

"That's weird. Maybe check again." 

She sniffs him. "You smell yummy, like Y/N's shampoo." 

He may have ran out of body wash, and he may have used a dollop of your shampoo. He doesn't think it'll matter in the grand scheme of things and all you're sharing, but he puts his finger to his lips. "Shh," he whispers, "don't tell." 

"You said I'm not supposed to have secrets," Roan says. 

"You're not." Eddie draws a line down her back just to hear her giggle. "Except this one." 

"That's what you said about the last one." 

"This one and that one, then." Not like she managed to keep that one secret, either. What was he thinking, telling his five year old he wanted to propose? She lost her mind aloud. 

Then again, she spilled the beans and you immediately told Eddie he had to move in with you (he can't remember it perfectly now, but he's pretty sure you said, 'I think you better move in', which was just bossy enough to have him falling in love twice over). 

"I don't like secrets," Roan says.

Her voice strengthens as she gets older, and her pronunciation of things grows smoother. Occasionally she speaks and she sounds much older than she is. Currently, she talks with a funny cadence, emphasis on things that don't need it and, and an underlying sense of awe like she can't believe what she's saying. 

"Fine," Eddie says, pulling her closer still, "we won't keep this one secret. But if she shouts at me I'm going to have to sleep in your room tonight." 

"I'll sleep with Y/N." 

"No, because I'll need you to dry my tears." 

Roan nods into his chest, the faux silk of her sleeve shushing against his shirt as she brings a hand up to his hair. "Okie dokie," she says, twisting one of his curls around her fingers. "But don't cry." 

"I'll try not to, sweetheart." 

She smiles and relaxes fully into his arms. 

"Are you tired?" he asks. 

"Don't think so." 

"You've already got your jammies on. You don't want a bath tonight?" He's feeling affectionate for his life, adding, "Mommy has new bubble bath, it smells like chamomile. I'm sure she'd love to share with you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm-hmm." His eyes are getting heavy. Maybe he's tired. The thought of a bubble bath almost puts him to sleep. 

"Don't fall asleep," Roan whispers. 

"I'm not, Ro. Just resting my eyes. You don't have to stay and cuddle if you're busy." 

"I like you," she says. 

"I like you too." 

— 

Little brownies are the best thing ever. You make a very wet brownie batter and pour it thin in a big baking sheet. You barely cook them, and then when they're cooled and cut you freeze them, and when they defrost (at a time of your choosing) they're perfect for eating or putting into Roan's school lunchbox. You set the last tupperware of them into the freezer and wipe your cold hands on a dish towel, happy. 

It's a bit strange, but before you met your Munsons, you had no idea how peaceful it could feel to have done something for someone else. You weren't an overly selfish creature but there's this unnameable feeling that comes with doing this kind of 'chore'. Taking care of the people you love… 

Well, it feels good. Not as good as this is about to feel, you guess, turning off the kitchen light and locking the front door as you go. Eddie and Roan lay on the couch with the TV set to a loud volume. You'd assumed they'd both be awake, but it seems they've fallen asleep despite the odds. You're gonna languish in it with them just as soon as you can tetris your way into the pile.

Roan has crawled up the length of her dad's chest to press her cheek to his, and Eddie's wrapped his arms around her tightly, tucking her in with nowhere to turn. 

You can't fit into their cuddle pile without disturbing the peace, but you can't be expected to abstain, surely. 

You sink down onto the floor by Eddie's head, bringing your hand to his sleeping face. Careful, you stroke a twisted baby hair against his forehead, the dark kink of it like a thread through pale skin. 

Roan stirs, or wasn't as asleep as you thought. She yawns wide, lips smacking as she asks, "What are you doing?" 

You grin at her loud whisper. "Just looking. You okay?" 

"He's squeezing me." 

"Too much?" 

"No, I like it. I feel like a sardine." 

"Yeah?" You rest your upper body on the couch, her pyjama top satiny under your hand. "You like it? You're not claustrophobic?" 

She gives you a daunted look.

"It means squished, pretty much," you say.. 

"I like it," she reaffirms. Roan pulls her arm out of Eddie's grasp to touch yours. "Dad says I can have some bubble bath." 

"Of course you can, princess. You know you can have anything of mine." Except the top shelf stuff, but she can't reach that high. "I left you some brownies for ice cream." 

"You did?" 

"Yeah, I did." You meet her eyes, formidable baby browns that you never stood a chance against. Her cheek is warm as you lean in for a quick peck. "You're beautiful. I love you." 

Roan gasps happily. "You're beautiful-er!" 

"Thanks," Eddie mumbles, smirking as he starts to wake from his nap. 

"Time d'you call this, Eds?" you ask fondly. 

He turns his face one way and the other, agonised. "Oh, but I was so cozy! My girl is so soft and she's pretty much my blanket, and she was being so nice to me!" He sighs, a picture of distress, his voice croaky with the edge of sleep. "Can you ever forgive me?" 

"Sure!" Roan says, laughing. 

"Just this once." 

He squints at you. "This is pretty much your fault anyways." 

"You'll forgive me. Please?" He leans up for a kiss. "S'what I thought," you say into his lips.

You nudge him back and squeeze onto the couch. He has to go on his side for you to for and Roan ends up half on top of you, a knee jabbed into your stomach. Still, it's fine for now. Your quiet desire to be cuddled with them is abated, a strong arm behind your back and a much smaller hand sneaking inside your shirt sleeve to warm the attached, similarly small fingers. 

[moonsandmobilityaids]

First Kisses

Pairings: poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: Your first kiss with each boy Warnings: N/A Series Masterlist

Sirius has never been one to shy away from a challenge, and tonight is no exception. The common room of the Gryffindor tower is nearly empty, save for a few stragglers who linger, unwilling to give in to the pull of sleep just yet. You're settled near the fireplace, the warmth seeping into your bones as you sit in your wheelchair with a book.

Across from you, Sirius lounges on the couch, a similar book discarded beside him, its spine untouched by eager hands. He's watching you instead, his gaze intense yet soft, like the glow of the fire that dances in his grey eyes. The distance between you seems to shrink under the weight of his attention, and when he leans forward, his hand covering yours where it rests on the arm of your chair, the world outside ceases to exist.

"Y'know," he says, his voice low and laced with a familiar charm, "you're far more interesting than any book."

A soft laughter spills from your lips as you close the novel, placing it aside. You gently nudge him with your elbow, a playful rebuke in your eyes. "And you, Sirius Black, are incredibly distracting."

His grin widens, unapologetic and utterly charming. His gaze dips momentarily to your lips, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features. It's unlike Sirius to second-guess, to pause in the face of potential rejection. But then again, this is different. This is you.

Slowly, as if not to startle you, his hand reaches out. The rough pads of his fingers glide along your jawline, tilting your chin up ever so slightly. For a moment, his expression softens, eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. It's subtle, almost imperceptible—the unspoken offer for you to pull away now.

But you don't.

Instead, you lean into his touch, closing the distance between the two of you until there's nothing left but the shared anticipation of a kiss. And when it comes, it's as if time itself holds its breath—the world outside falling away to leave only the warmth of Sirius' lips against yours. The kiss is tentative at first, a careful exploration born from the uncertainty of new beginnings. But then Sirius deepens it, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a hunger that mirrors your own.

It's everything you'd expect from him—passionate, intense, a fire that threatens to consume—but there's an underlying tenderness in each brush of his lips against yours, a silent promise that speaks louder than words ever could.

When you finally part, both breathless and flushed, Sirius grins at you, his grey eyes alight with mischief and something deeper. "You're right," he says, his voice husky. "I am distracting."

You chuckle, feeling the residual heat of his kiss lingering on your own lips. "You're impossible, Black."

"Impossible to resist, you mean," he retorts, leaning in for another taste of your lips, and this time, you do not shy away.

****

The library is quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire, its warmth a gentle caress against the chill that lingers outside the castle walls. Remus sits beside you, his face illuminated by the flicker of candlelight as he pores over the parchment in front of him—a potions essay he promised to help you with. His attention is divided between the lines of text and your presence, his eyes flicking up occasionally, always drawn back to you.

His hand brushes against yours now and then, a touch that should be accidental, but feels anything but. It's not like Remus to be so... distracted. He's always been steady, reliable—a pillar amidst the chaos that often surrounds life at Hogwarts. But tonight, there's a tension in the air, a silence filled with unspoken words since the confession a few nights ago.

He's been careful around you since then, as if walking on eggshells, afraid of crossing an invisible line. But Remus doesn't know—you're already well aware of what lies beyond that boundary. And it doesn't scare you. Not anymore.

When he looks up from the paper, his golden-brown eyes meet yours, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. No words are needed to decipher the thoughts behind those depths. You can feel them, tangible as the parchment beneath your fingers, reflected in the slight squeeze of his hand around yours.

"Are you sure?" His voice is barely above a whisper, the words hanging heavy in the air.

You nod, heart pounding a staccato rhythm against your ribs. "Yes."

His approach is slow, almost hesitant, allowing you every opportunity to pull away. But you don't. Instead, you lift your chin, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air between you. Your breath hitches as his lips finally meet yours, a soft brush of skin against skin that sends warmth radiating through your body.

The kiss is gentle, just like everything else about Remus—careful and measured, yet full of an intensity that leaves you breathless. It's a slow exploration, a dance of lips and emotion, communicating what words have dared not say. His hand cradles your cheek, thumb tracing small circles against your skin, grounding you in this moment of shared vulnerability.

There's no urgency, no rough demand for more. Just the mingling of breaths, the quiet hum of connection that deepens with each passing second. When at last you part, it's only by a fraction, both unwilling to sever this newfound intimacy completely. Remus's eyes find yours, a soft smile playing on his lips—a silent promise that this, whatever it may be, has only just begun.

"You're incredible," Remus murmurs, the words laced with an awe that suggests he's still grappling with the reality of your existence.

Your smile deepens, not out of pride but from a wellspring of affection that refuses to be contained. "So are you, Remus."

****

James is usually the vibrant heart of any room, drawing you into last-minute plans, showering you with compliments that make your cheeks flush. But tonight, he's different—quiet, intense—as if the world has narrowed to this singular moment between the two of you.

You're cocooned in one of his oversized Gryffindor scarves, the wool slightly itchy against your neck. James sits beside you, his fingers grazing the armrest of your chair as if he longs to reach out but can't quite bridge the distance. The castle looms behind you, its warm glow spilling out into the night, yet here on the outskirts, it's as if you and James exist in a universe all your own, painted with shadows and starlight.

James has been stealing glances at you throughout the evening, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of his shirt—a telltale sign of nervous energy. The air is thick with unspoken words, and you can feel the anticipation humming through your veins like a second heartbeat. For once, James Potter seems unsure of what to say, and the silence stretches between you, taut as a bowstring.

You finally turn to him, an arch lifting your brow in silent question. "What's on your mind, James?"

His smile wavers, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his usual confidence. He runs a hand through his windswept hair, the action only adding to its tousled charm. "Just... how lucky I am."

The statement is so unexpected you can't help but chuckle, the sound soft and low in the quiet room. "You say that like it's some grand revelation."

"Perhaps it feels that way." His gaze lingers on yours, the intensity of his green eyes never wavering. "Not because I didn't know it before, but because... it seems different now. More significant."

His hand moves from the arm of your wheelchair to your forearm, thumb tracing circles on the fabric of your shirt. The gesture is tentative, yet there's a certainty in his eyes that anchors you. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don't.

The kiss is warm, like everything about James—from his sunny demeanour to his passionate speeches about Quidditch and magical creatures. His lips move against yours with the same fervor he puts into every endeavor, his hand cupping the side of your face as he deepens the kiss. It's not rushed, but there's an energy to it that mirrors the beat of your heart—a rhythm fuelled by joy and the thrill of something new and exciting unfolding.

When you finally pull back, you're both grinning, slightly out of breath, and you can't help but chuckle at the look of pure delight on his face.

"See? I told you I was lucky," James says, his voice raspy from the kiss.

You roll your eyes playfully, though your heart is pounding in your chest. "Perhaps I'm the one who's lucky."

His fingers trace your jawline as he winks at you, a hint of mischief playing in his eyes. "Well then, let's just agree we're both rather fortunate, shall we?"