#been working on this for an hour and now I can go DONE

[muwapsturniolo]

Raw Dawg 𐂯 M. Sturniolo

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

⟢ NSFW CONTENT AHEAD, smut, fingering, condoms/raw sex, snowballing (or some version of it?), that's it me thinks. let me know if i missed something please!!!!

part 1 here (you don't have to read part one because it's chris. this is just the matt version!!)

Dividers are made by @bernardsbendystraws (as usual)

Needy.

That's what you and Matt were both feeling.

It had to have been something in the air. The two of you woke up that morning with an anxious feeling in the pit of your stomachs. However, it wasn't anxious in a way that made you feel sick, no, it was something good.

As the two of you went about your day, the touches lingered, and the glances lasted longer than they should have. There were a few times his words seemed to have a double meaning, and there were also a few times when you shot him your famous bedroom eyes.

The day was filled with strong sexual tension - neither of you could handle it anymore.

The door shoots open as both of you tumble into his bedroom, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, and clothes falling - you couldn't get enough of each other.

As soon as you both land on the bed, his fingers find their way to your excessively wet cunt. It's not an exaggeration, you were dripping. You could feel it all day, the slimy liquid seeping out of you, squelching softly between your folds.

"Shit-" he hisses as he pulls away from the feverish kiss, looking down between your bodies. Your inner thighs were drenched with your own mess, his middle and ring finger looking the exact same. His mind was going crazy trying to figure out if he wanted to taste you, or simply fuck you. Both seemed like wonderful options, but with the way you're looking at him, he knew which option to go with.

He shoves his soaked fingers in your mouth, letting you taste your own juices as he haphazardly reaches into the nightstand for a condom. He tears it open with ease, having done it many times before. It was second nature to him, the two of you deciding it was the best contraceptive.

He rolls the condom on quickly, your hands holding the back of your knees as he lines himself up. In one swift motion, he was inside of you, both of you moaning at the first sense of relief. He grasps your thighs, starting to give you the pleasure you both so desperately crave, however, an issue occurs.

You whimper as he slips out of you, his tip prodding at the lower entrance you two don't indulge in. "Shit- I'm sorry sweetheart!" He grabs his dick once more and slides it inside of you, but it happens again,

and again

and again

and again

"Matt," you whine, tears of frustration already building in your eyes. He was frustrated too, all he wanted to do was fuck his girlfriend for hours on end - and he couldn't.

"Fuck sweetheart, I know I know. You're too fuckin' wet, I-I can't stay in!" He rakes his brain trying to think of a way to make this work.

"Get on top."

He catches the glare you give him and he groans, "Dawg, I don't know - Did you just call me dawg?" You stare at him in disbelief, there was no way he just called you, his girlfriend, dawg.

"First you tell me to get on top, and now you're calling me dawg?"

"Ok ok I'm sorry! I don't know what you want me to do! You're too fuckin' wet for me to actually fuck you and you being on top is the best thing I can think of!"

The two of you stare at each other, breathing harshly and frustrated. Both of your minds are buzzing with ways to make this work. The tension has been building all day, and you both were determined to make this work. It was only a few seconds later when Matt got an idea, his body language becoming shy.

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

"Matt- I know! We never go raw, we agreed on that, but baby I don't know what else to do. I really need you." His hands rub over the back of your thighs needily. You look over his face with an unsure look. Of course you wanted to have sex with him, you've been waiting all day, but would you risk going raw?

"...Fine, we can go raw. Just make sure you pull-" You're cut off with his lips slamming against yours, your body already melting into the kiss.

"Pull out, I know."

In one swift movement, he takes the soaked condom off, throwing it to the floor with no care. He was eager, he finally gets to experience sex with you raw.

Just like the previous times, he lines himself up, slowly pushing in.

It was shocking how much of a difference condoms made. You could feel everything, his warmth, the vein running up the side of his dick. He could finally feel the real warmth of your velvety walls, the sponge-like texture.

You two felt close - Connected.

He starts off with a few slow thrusts, trials if you will. When he realized that he was finally staying inside, something in him changed.

He pushes your legs to your chest, his grip harsh as he begins slamming into you vigorously. Your eyes roll back, your jaw dropping at the new and incredible feeling. The headboard was slamming into the wall, surely leaving dents and scratches into the plaster.

His moans combine with yours, creating a pitch-perfect harmony. Your bodies are covered in a thin layer of sweat, the heat between you too making the room smell like a mixture of lust and love.

You felt good, so good to the point where you no longer cared.

You manage to push his hands away from your thighs, your legs collapsing on the bed as you pull him closer. Your eyes are half-lidded, glossy as you give him those puppy dog eyes.

"P-Please, need you to c-cum in me!" You urge, pleading for him to give you something you usually would never want - but it was a craving, you were feigning for it.

You needed it.

You miss the way his pupils dilate due to him slamming into you with newfound vigor, your eyes rolling all the way back as your body lurches with each thrust. You could feel the tip of his dick reaching your cervix, nudging the sensitive spot and making you see stars.

"Fuck- god m'so close!" He grunts, his jaw clenched as he tries to get you closer to the edge.

He doesn't have to work that hard, all it took was him moaning in your ear and you were releasing all over him. You let out a small scream as your juices splash between you both, wetting the sheets beneath you as well as both your bodies.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving deep scratch marks on his milky skin as he continues to rut into you. It was becoming too much and he knew it. He whispers sweet words into your ear as he pumps into you relentlessly

"Gonna cum soon. You want me t'fill you up? Give you my babies?"

"Gonna look so pretty preg- oh fuck!"

The idea of you being filled to the brim with his seed, and being pregnant, was enough to send him over, his body shaking as he moans and groans into your ear.

The two of you lay there, fucked out and sweaty as you try to catch your breath. He sits up and pulls out of you, pushing your legs back to watch himself drip out of you.

You were a sight for sore eyes, you looked so pretty like this.

He couldn't help himself.

Despite knowing you're sensitive, he lowers his body and attaches his mouth to your cunt. You jerk and grab at his hair, yanking harshly as you feel his fingers dipping into you. Thankfully it wasn't long, but you still had no chance to catch your breath.

It was something so new and erotic, the way his lips met yours and his tongue pushed the warm salty liquid in your mouth. You moan at the taste, swallowing each drop eagerly.

He pulls back from the sloppy and lustful kiss, staring at you with hungry eyes.

"No condoms for the rest of the night. Hands and knees, now."

[random2908]

Ok, I have a lot to say about scientific glassblowers.

First, luckily, there are a lot of them in China who are very good. If, like me, you work in private industry, the government has rules against buying Chinese components. But there's at least one American company (FireflySci) that launders Chinese custom scientific glass components, so you can still get them. If you're in academia you can buy direct from China and save a ton of money, if you or a colleague knows enough Chinese to be able to find these glassblowers on your own.

Within America, you have to know, the quality varies immensely. Scientific glassblowing is one of those trades that takes like 20 years to master. So there is a huge tension between the old masters who are really really good but have significant limitations in their capabilities because they're using old techniques; and the younger glassblowers who are learning or inventing new techniques but don't have the hand-skills to pull them off successfully. In larger shops, you can have a mix of ages, and so get around this a bit--but larger shops mostly don't do (serious) custom work. And often these larger shops are an in-house shop within an even bigger company.

For a lot of things, though, any scientific glassblower will do. In which case, you can still find them scattered all over the country. When I was dealing in glass a lot at a previous job, we had a long-standing contract with a glassblower about two hours away, who did all of our simpler stuff. There was a closer one, too, 20 minutes away, I'm not sure why we didn't go with them, I think because they had too much work already to take a long-term contract with us. So, yes, you can still find glassblowers, although not in large quantities.

But sometimes you need something really precise. This is science, after all. And your local glass shop just can't do it.

So then you have to find an old master using newer techniques. (I recommend Mike at Spectrocell in Pennsylvania, careful of the spelling--there are many similarly named companies--but he sounds very old over the phone.) (I know a lot of scientists will say Jay at Precision Glass Blowing in Colorado is the only guy they will go to for serious work, and I have some rude things to say to such scientists; not that Precision Glass Blowing does a bad job (...at the glassblowing part, that is--buyer beware if you ask for extras from them, but their willingness to offer extra services, such as chemical handling, is why everyone uses them in the first place), but they're not the only, or best, option out there.)

Get talking with an old master, and they'll constantly complain about how they've run out of apprentices. It is a real problem. It is a dying art, within the United States. (And, despite "scientific" in the name, it is very much an art; "scientific" refers to the customer base.) When I was collaborating with the University of Michigan at a previous job, the Chemistry Department's glassblower, Roy, was complaining that he was in his 70s and it had been several decades since he last had an apprentice, and he was going to retire any day now and the university would have no one to replace him with. (It wouldn't at all surprise me if he's retire by now, and if you could no longer get custom glass in-house at the University of Michigan.)

The irony is that there's still significant demand! Not as much as there once was, because you can buy mass-produced beakers now, you don't have to go to your local scientific glassblower for some of the simpler components. But for anything at all custom? For anything at all delicate? That's still done by hand. There's still a glassblower, somewhere, probably in China, whose handicraft that is. But like all trades, scientific glassblowing in the US has been almost entirely undercut by the availability of cheap labor (even cheap skilled labor, even cheap mastery) in other countries.

the world is running out of glassblowers and yet you want to become a fucking doctor

[bblairxe]

— ୨ৎ lawyer ! abby x reader . mdni

abby’s been typing at her laptop for hours, literal hours. every once in a while you’d ask her how much longer or if she’s done. but she’ll still give you that same response: “5 more minutes.”

    you were fed up at this point. storming over to her desk and planting your hands in front of her. she looks up at you with a confused expression, but her eyes soften when she realizes why you’re here.

    an abundance of complaints were about to leave your lips until your eyes started focusing on something else. you noticed how her face framing pieces sit perfectly on her glasses, her muscles being shown off through her white button up, and the way she leans back, man spreading in her chair. 

    it’s dizzying, intoxicating even. it makes your annoyance falter for a slight second until you remember her white lies. you clear your throat, preparing for a tone to set her straight, but it comes out more pathetic than demanding. 

    “abs, can you take a break? i miss you, need you, please?” 

    she lets out a long sigh. she would give the world just to be with you right now but her mind won’t stop drilling her about a case. 

    “i know baby, come here.” her arms open wide, inviting you into her lap. they wrap around your waist like instinct, holding and whispering sweet nothings into your ear. 

    a few moments pass, the two of you so engulfed in each other that abby forgets she even needed to work. her hand smooths over your back, planting kisses on your cheek. she wants this moment to last, and it does, until a message from her client pops up on her laptop screen.

    “shit, i-i gotta do this love, i’m sorry.” 

    her words make you groan, you didn’t want this moment to end so soon. of course you were thankful for these few minutes of peace but you wanted more. 

    you lean further into her, nuzzling your head into her shoulder. you stay like that for a while, happy with the warmth of her arms around you, but the longer she types, the more impatient you get. on top of that, your back starts to hurt from the curled up position. 

    she notices almost immediately, stopping her work to make sure you’re alright, “what’s up? you keep moving.” she whispers in a soft tone, her voice laced with concern.

    you shuffle again, trying to find a comfortable angle but nothing works, “back hurts.”

    her lips form into a pout at your troubles, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i’m sorry baby, i’ll be done soon.” her attention focuses back onto the bright screen in front of her, keeping one arm wrapped around your waist. 

    you mentally roll your eyes at her words she was ‘almost done’ two hours ago. your eyes flicker to the floor then turning your head to see the gap between the desk and her legs. it’s just enough space for you to slip down, so you do — scooting off her lap and settling between her legs. 

    abby hums in acknowledgment, barely glancing away from her screen. her fingers don’t stop typing, but her free hand drops down to your cheek, cradling your face in her hand. 

    your pupils dilate, mind going blank at the feeling. it’s not until now you realize you’re at her feet, craving for attention and the need to please her intensifies.

    you start slow, not wanting to distract her from her work that’s ‘oh so important.’ your head rests on her thigh while your hand runs up and down her inner. it’s close to her core but never exactly there. 

    your gaze flickers back to her face, checking to see if she’s noticed but nothing’s changed. her expression remains focused, jaw tight, glasses sitting at the bridge of her nose. you didn’t notice but her white buttoned up is slightly unbuttoned and her sleeves are rolled up just to her elbows, showing off her veiny forearms. 

    the sight makes your thighs press together, searching for relief. you need her, but you continue playing slow, needing her to feel the same amount of desperation you feel now. your hand moves further up, just to her belt buckle, and that’s when she notices. 

    abby tenses, her fingers pausing on the keys. “what are you doing?” her tone is steady but her voice is filled with hesitation. 

    “helping you relax,” you murmur, holding eye contact as your hand tugs at her waistband.

    “baby, i—“

    “just keep working abs.” 

    her eyes dart between you and her screen, but the look you give her makes her fingers fumble against the keys. you nudge her legs further apart, palms pressing against the inside of her thighs. you relish in how pliant she becomes, letting you play with her however you want. 

    your hands move up to her belt buckle, undoing it and letting her pants pool at her feet. her body sinks into chair, her bottom half completely in your face. “impatient are we?” you tease, smoothing your thumb along her clothed slit. 

    a low groan escapes her throat, her eyes rolling in the process. “love, as much as you— i want this, i have to work. it’s very important and i need to work,” her words became nothing but background noise to you. you’ve grown tired of waiting for her to finish, and you were determined to get what you want. 

    your tongue presses against her clit, lingering for a moment before teasing with soft, deliberate kitten licks. her words falter, cutting off as her fingers tighten around the armrests, grasping for stability. she knows she should stop, should focus, but her body betrays her—every flick of your tongue erases any train of thought. hell, if it feels this good with her boxers still on, she can only imagine how it’ll feel without them.

    you let up and you could melt from the view. her glasses all foggy and her lips are full and pouty. “see what i mean? let me help you relieve all of this stress.”

    she huffs through her nose, clearly upset that you proved her wrong. a big part of wants to be stubborn and insists on working but she knows she won’t be able to resist you for long. “fine, but only one round.” 

    “that’s all i need, sweetheart.”

🏷️ : @ellieslosttwofingers @polarhues @pornoangelz @sapphichounded @macabremilieu

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER

After Harley being turned into the system of Playtime co

After the hour of Joy, both Sawyer and you got separated and while he was secured to a system and manage to strike a deal with the prototype, you were still human and very much in danger.

After what happened Sawyer became more obsessive, more paranoid. Searching for you through every camera and sending Yarnaby to expeditions to try and find you.

Harley and you were basically the only ones who had interacted with Yarnaby so far so the yarn lion knew you pretty well and was happy to search for you.

But really, the doctor searched for your presence in every camera, every sensor detector. Hell he even started setting traps for Doey because he though he would know were you are.

Of course, you were hiding in places with no camera because of the less amount of toys that lived in that areas. Therefore, much safer.

You would try to go upstairs again to search for food and for Harley, or at least of what happened to him. Of course you found nothing since there was not really that much time for paperwork after your stunt.

You only found a black tape with the title "the doctor" in it but so far you haven't found any system to plug it in so you can watch it.

And Harley, well, unlike you he has all the information of Playtime Co at his very whim.

When he is not searching for you or trying to hunt the remaining of Doeys group, he look at your files. Your photos before entering the company in your curriculum vitae; the ones when you were working in the company, some of which you are accompanied by him and other researchers; and the ones of the recent days before the hour of joy.

Talking about Doey, he also searched for you, scared for your well being. He knew you would go alone and even if he doubt the doctor would purposely harm you, he knew others will.

The children are just worried for their adoptive parent friend

You weren't aware yet of what Sawyer had been turned into. But you were aware that whatever living creature in this factory was a potential threat to you. That's the reason you tried to save every bullet of the only gun you had.

You would sometimes remember some of Harley's habits. Like for example his insistence of not eating sweet pickles. You remembered how, one day you went to get food for the food of you per his request and picked to burgers.

When you came back to the office to eat your dinner and started to bite in the food Harley made a unpleased look.

Do they have pickles in it?- he asked disgusted- I swear I cannot stand this things. So horribly disgusting...

Oh, yeah sorry, I didn't know. You can give them to me if you don't like them. I love them so theres no problem.- you responded, playing down the pickle problem

He loocked at you, frowning. With the plastic fork that was next to him he withdrew the remaining pickles on his burger and gave them to you.

Of course now that Harley knew you in fact like those pickles then he would ask for them in your food when it was his turn to go upstairs and pick your lunches.

Members of the stuff were absolutely amused when they saw Dr Harley Sawyer up on the cafeteria, he almost never ventured to the upper levels. And they were even more amused when he asked not for one but two lunches and one of them with pickles.

After a former assistant of his was fired for adding sweet pickles in his lunch almost everyone in the company new for his aversion for that food.

You didn't knew that then but most of the stuff at Playtime Co just guessed that the second lunch was for you so they assumed you both were dating or seeing each other.

Other thing you didn't know was how, after being turned into a computer system, Harley wouldn't stop asking the other employees for you. What had they done to you, if you had been relocated or if you had been "taken care off"

The only one who responded to him was Leith, who wasted no time bragging about your new relocation and how you were growing in your new job.

Also, Leith made sure to tell the rest of the employees to not tell Sawyer about you asking about him. And of course not to say a word to you about the new "AI" assistant.

Sometimes you felt a little bit dumb, remembering all of this now. Most possible situation was that Harley was already dead. And surely it would be your fault.

But Harley also thought the same thing of the memories he was holding on to. So yeah basically mutual pinning over each other. This is my definition of a long distance relationship.

And addressing the hour of joy... Poppy doesn't really know what yo think about you. Sure you have freed them but why? She doesn't know if to trust you but believes you are a better option than the doctor so if the situations ever comes she could be able to work with you.

When the doctor got himself a body (those robots with TV heads) he felt nude in some way. Even though he was only metal and cables.

To solve this he took some old lab coats to make himself a cover. The only lab coat he kept intact was yours. He found a way to incorporate it on his new coat. The pin with your name still on it.

And strangely you have done something similar. You found Harley's old lab coat while exploring the company searching for food. Resting in his old office chair. You put it on and took it with you. It was bigger than you but hey, long coats never get old. Sure,.you had to roll up the sleeves but nothing that can't be solved.

This one is shorter than usual but I'm working on chap 3 so I wanted to drop this off first. Thanks for the support. All of you are amazing and deserve the best. 🥰😭

-Unedited head cannons-

I made some updates in chap 2 because I wanted reader to spend some time wondering were Sawyer might be

[arcadia-smith]

It had been a grueling 48-hour mission, the kind that left you sore in places you didn’t even know existed. But there you were, walking across the darkened compound with the rest of the team, carrying the weight of a job well done. The silence between you all was heavy, save for the occasional grunt or sigh from the other soldiers.

You weren’t really sure how you felt about your current position. You were a soldier, but you were also something more—always having to prove yourself in a male-dominated field. You’d been through it all, the mockery, the doubts, but you’d earned your place. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that some of the men you worked with still saw you as the new kid, regardless of your combat experience.

Then there was Ghost. Simon Riley. You knew his reputation before you’d ever set foot on this team. The cold, brooding soldier with a sharp edge and an even sharper wit. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to care much about anyone, but he had a knack for seeing through you. No one could read you the way he could.

And that’s when it happened.

The squad was gathered, unloading the gear, taking a break, when Simon, ever the enigma, suddenly shot you a glance. It was just a quick look, one that seemed to linger longer than necessary. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he did it.

The bastard winked at you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a split second, you didn’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the arm. The audacity. You fought the grin tugging at your lips, focusing on your pack instead.

“Don’t let it get to you, Sergeant,” he said, voice muffled by his mask, but there was no mistaking the smirk that came through.

“Get to me?” you repeated, trying to keep your composure. “You’re real cute, Ghost.”

He stepped closer, his imposing frame blocking the light overhead. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Sure, if you want to keep thinking that.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

You glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

And just like that, you were sucked into his orbit. For all the tension, for all the unspoken words, there was something about his presence that was oddly comforting. Sure, he was a bastard, but he was your bastard.

Later that night, while the team was celebrating their success, you found yourself on the balcony of the safehouse, staring out into the distance, lost in thought.

"You know, you looked like you were going to explode back there," Simon said, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You turned to face him. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed. "What can I say? You’re annoying."

"Come on," he said with a grin. "Admit it. You liked the wink."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at your lips. "I liked the part where I almost punched you."

He chuckled, stepping closer. "Careful, Sergeant. You might start giving me ideas."

You met his gaze, the teasing energy still crackling between you two, but there was something else now—something that didn’t need to be spoken.

"You're lucky I like you, Riley," you said, leaning against the railing beside him.

He raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping lower. "Oh, I know."

The bastard had a way of making everything feel like a game, but in that moment, you realized you didn’t mind the challenge. Not one bit.

[rivalsispunk]

Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating. 

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him. 

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted. 

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust. 

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again. 

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus. 

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.” 

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement. 

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear. 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you. 

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again. 

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you. 

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch. 

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause. 

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again. 

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid. 

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick. 

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin. 

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat. 

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead.  “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag. 

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare. 

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him. 

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before. 

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words. 

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you. 

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall.  A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook. 

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam. 

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan. 

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre. 

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business. 

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan. 

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.” 

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?” 

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one? 

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library. 

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?” 

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest. 

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.” 

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.” 

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?” 

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip. 

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall. 

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you. 

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time. 

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan. 

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this. 

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

[messers-moony]

SONG TWENTY-ONE: IS IT OVER NOW? | T.D

Pairing: Ex!Tim Drake X Fem!Reader Summary: Tim finally gets caught. Word Count: 2.6k

It was a hard breakup. She couldn’t deny that, even if she wanted to. 

Their breakup was like the worst plane turbulence. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She just hoped they could ride it out, but after too many mishaps, it was like cutting the ribbon on a finished building. Relief rolled off her in waves. Her shoulders were no longer to her ears. 

When she passed the newsstand every morning, she saw the rumors in the headlines. They were misleading and slacking in detail. 

“Tim Drake-Wayne seen with a new girl in a coffee shop?”

“The Drake-Wayne betrays his girlfriend!”

“Drake-Wayne, new playboy prince?”

She couldn’t help but scoff. The girls looked exactly like her. It was depressing to get the call from one of Tim’s brothers. Y/n could remember seeing Jason’s contact name on her phone late at night. Her papers were scattered on the island in the kitchen. The knot in her neck tightened. She reached for the phone vibrating and clicked the green button. Jason’s voice echoed in the familiar empty apartment. 

“Y/n?”

“What’s up, Jay?”

She flicked her pen back and forth. It wasn’t entirely unusual for Jason to call. However, it was usually Dick or Stephanie who called the most. Jason sighed, “You’re not gonna like this.”

“I’d like it more if you cut to the chase,” She retorted, “I have a shit ton of work to do and would like to get at least half of it done.”

“Tim’s cheating on you.”

The pen slammed on the countertop. The paperwork blurred in front of her. Suddenly, she seemed to have tunnel vision. Her mind had stopped working. She forced words from her mouth, “Excuse me?”

“He’s in a coffee shop.”

“Are you sure it isn’t Tam?”

“I can assure you it isn’t.” Jason sounded upset, “I was just passing by and saw him inside. I almost went inside to say hi until I saw a girl who looked almost exactly like you kissing him. I genuinely thought it was you at first until I noticed her hair was off, and it wasn’t your bag at the table.”

She bit her lip, “Thank you for telling me, Jay.”

“This- This isn’t-“ He stuttered, “This won’t be the last time I talk to you, right? Are you going to cut contact with the family because of this? Dick might flip. Stephanie will literally bother you till you block her, which might break her heart, and I-“

“Jason, relax,” Y/n interjected, “I’m not going anywhere right now. But I’m gonna need to get my things out of this apartment. Maybe stop by while he’s on his date and help me?”

“Of course.”

That was one week ago. She was living with Jason in the best safe house he had. It honestly wasn’t all that bad. It was clean, had some decorations, and he kept groceries stocked. Jason had been a wonderful roommate. He cooked and made sure she was okay. Y/n had appreciated it. However, the press got other ideas. Rumors began about her leaving Tim for his elder brother. 

She didn’t have time to address every rumor. Truth be told, she didn’t really care either. It was another night of late work. This time, her work spread on top of the birch coffee table and sitting crisscrossed on the rug. A mug of hot chocolate Jason had made about half an hour ago was placed on a coaster, still warm. 

He didn’t sit far. His place was in an armchair with a book in his hands. The company was pleasant and soothing. Jason didn’t talk. All she heard occasionally was the slick of a page-turning. Sometimes, he’d steal a highlighter or a pen and gently place them back on the table. However, it wasn’t bad until a knock echoed in the apartment. 

She heard Jason sigh and place his book face down on the coffee table. His socked feet drifted across the wooden floor. The door opened, and she could see the legs of the figure through Jason’s. It didn’t take long for her to put together who was outside the door, “What do you want?”

“I need some help with a case.”

“You couldn’t have called?” Jason asked, “I’m a little busy.”

Tim sighed, “Look, I’ll owe you one, okay?”

“I can’t, Tim.” Jason sounded exhausted, “I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Tim scoffed, “Too busy fucking my ex-girlfriend?”

Y/n jumped from where she was sitting, “Oh, you absolute piece of shit.”

Jason slowly moved away from the door, and Tim stepped in without permission. The door slammed behind him, “Oh, I’m the piece of shit now? How fucking ironic is that.”

“Yes, you are!” She screamed, “You’re a fucking cheater! Please don’t deny it either! You’re just pissed off this was the time I decided to call it off. Don’t act like I didn’t find lipsticks and underwear around the apartment when I went on business trips.”

“At least I’m not fucking the next family member in line!”

She narrowed her eyes, “That’s all you have for your defense, don’t you? Cause you know damn well I didn’t cheat, so all you have for ammunition is those fucking rumors. Do you honestly think I’d do that to you?”

“What am I supposed to think!” He replied, “I came to the apartment, and all your shit was gone one day with a note and a key saying we were over.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Y/n murmured, “Your face is plastered everywhere with a girl that looks just like me. A girl your family fucking hates for her attitude. A girl who isn’t even successful! Maybe, just maybe, instead of finding a clone for me, you should’ve just kept me instead.”

“Now get the fuck out.”

“But I-“

“Timothy, get the fuck out of this apartment building.”

She could see the fire in his eyes. He picked up the cross-body bag and pulled open the door. It slammed again, announcing his departure. Y/n walked back to her spot on the floor and sat down again. She grabbed the mug and downed the rest of the liquid. It felt warm against her raw throat from screaming. She saw Jason sitting in the armchair from the corner of her eye. 

“He cheated on you multiple times?”

Her grip on the pen increased, “Yes, I tried to keep everything under wraps. But the press finds out, and rumors go out. I denied them every time.”

“Why didn’t you-“

“Dick. Damian. Stephanie. Cass. You.” Y/n clicked the pen back in, “You guys are everything. Movie nights with Dick. Drawing with Damian. Gossip sessions with Steph. Teaching Cass bigger words every day. Talking about books with you. It keeps me afloat. I’m not a vigilante, but I have a stressful job and a shitty life. I wasn’t about to lose the one good thing I had.”

“What about Bruce?”

She let out a small laugh, “Bruce always treated me like a daughter. He was always so happy to see Tim smiling again. And I knew that I couldn’t ruin that for him. Bruce had seen Tim suffer too much, and I didn’t want to be the reason Bruce had to see Tim falter again. He supported me. Nobody knows this, but he paid off all my student loans for one year on Christmas. I didn’t even ask him. He just did it as a thank you. 

“Even though I knew Tim’s smile was no longer because of me, I couldn’t stand to see Bruce look at Tim with that longing look anymore. Every time Bruce mentioned marriage, I would see Tim’s smile drop and be replaced. It hurt. But it helped Bruce see a future for his son besides working his whole life.”

“You went through all that suffering for us?”

“And I’d do it again.”

He didn’t talk much after that. She was grateful. The papers in front of her distracted her enough. It was a blur of words and bright-colored highlighting. It felt like seconds before Jason stood again and grabbed the mug from the table. She heard his feet dash away, and her highlighter swung in her fingertips. The sink ran in the background and shut off with a squeak. Jason came back around the table and began collecting the papers into piles.

“Jay, what are you doing?”

“It’s almost one in the morning. You’re working with Dick in the gym tomorrow, remember?” He replied, taking the highlighter from her hand, “He wants you there at six.”

She sighed, “Fine, fine.”

Sleep came easily. As soon as she had hit the bed, sleep came over her. It was early in the morning when she heard clinking in the kitchen. Y/n swept her feet onto the floor and opened the bedroom door to smell the sweet scent of coffee brewing. Jason was in the kitchen in the same shirt and sweatpants. His curls were touseled, “Mornin.”

“Good morning,” Jason said with a soft smile. There’s coffee in the pot for you.”

“Thanks.” She reached for a mug and filled it with the smooth coffee. 

It was five in the morning. The sun was barely rising through the windows in Jason’s safe house. She watched him make breakfast while she stewed over the cup of coffee in her hands. It was five-fifteen when she went into her room to get dressed. She left the safe house at five-thirty with her keys, coffee in a thermos, and phone in her hand. The car unlocked with a click. The coffee was in the cupholder, the seatbelt clicked in, and the phone connected to the radio. Music played the entire way to the gymnastics gym. 

Y/n shifted the car into gear once she parked in the parking lot. The car door hadn’t even been locked when she heard the clicking of a camera lens. She sighed before turning to see a man not too far away with a camera. He was snapping pictures of her in front of the gym where the notorious Dick Grayson worked. She could practically read the headlines now. 

Regardless, she went into the gym to see Dick smiling brightly. He wore a white tank top, black pants, and old sneakers. His hair looked a complete mess. He sat on top of the receptionist counter, feet swinging back and forth, a cup of cereal in his hand, “Hey! How are you?”

“I’m good,” Y/n said, “How’re you doing?”

“Doing great!” Dick smiled, “You sure you up for today? I know you probably have some casework to do for Bruce and whatever evidence analysis you have to do for the GCPD.”

“Yeah,” She swayed the coffee in the thermos, “I should be fine. Plus, gotta spend time with my favorite Wayne.”

Dick snorted, “Shhhh, don’t let people hear you, they might start thinking when they aren’t used to it.”

“You’ve seen the headlines then, I suppose?”

“Of course, they’re all liars, of course.” Dick waved his hand, “You and Tim wouldn’t ever cheat on each other.”

Her keys fell to the floor. Dick perked up, “You okay?”

“Oh,” She swallowed and grabbed her keys from the floor, “Dick, Tim and I broke up.”

“What?”

“I thought Jason would’ve told everyone,” Y/n muttered, “The stories of Tim cheating aren’t fake. They are very much real. I’ve been rooming with Jason in his safe house.”

Dick jumped off the counter and put his cereal on the desk. His arms wrapped around her body tightly, “If I would’ve known you could’ve stayed with me, or I would’ve had a movie night.”

She smiled. Dick’s cologne surrounded her like a weighted blanket, “It’s okay, Dick. I thought Jason told everyone."

“Would you like me to make a statement in the family group chat?” Dick pulled back to look at her eyes, “I will if it’s easier for you.”

“Yes, please.”

It didn’t take long for the word to get out after that. She had her phone in the gym locker with all the other belongings. It was nice to leave the safe house and get away from work to teach the kids with Dick. It made her feel refreshed. To finally get her mind off of something and embrace something completely new. The kids absolutely loved her. She visited the gym once a week to say hi and help Dick out after rough nights on patrol. 

She was covered in chalk when the day ended, and the kids were gone. Dick threw her a towel for the sweat. Y/n put it around her neck, “Jason said Tim’s been doing this for a while.”

“Yeah,” Y/n sighed, “Not something I went out advertising. Especially with the press.”

“I’m sorry he did it.” Dick said, rubbing his hands on his shorts, “I know I have no reason to be sorry. A part of me feels responsible. I practically raised him and feel like I raised him better than this.”

“It’s not your fault, Dick.”

He blew a raspberry, “I just hope this doesn’t mean we’re never gonna see you again.”

“I’ve been around for years,” She drawled, “I’m not going anywhere. You guys are the only family I have. If Tim doesn’t like it, too bad.”

“That’s my girl.” Dick smiled and ruffled her hair. 

She smiled and walked back to the locker room. The towel around her neck was used to wipe sweat drips from her forehead. She twisted the lock, and it popped open. Her hand reached for her phone, which was unlocked by the facial recognition software. Her messages were blown up with texts from the Wayne family about the breakup. The replies came quickly, telling them it wasn’t their fault and she’d still be around. 

Once she replied to the messages, she grabbed her belongings and left the gym. The car ride to Jason’s safe house was smooth, and light music played in the background. Thankfully, no cameras were flashing or clicking when she left the gym. The safe house was an old abandoned apartment waiting to be gentrified in the neighborhood. Her car was parked behind the building, safely hidden away. 

The door clicked open with her key, and it closed behind her. Y/n washed her coffee tumbler and put her keys on the island. A morning’s worth of sweat and grim on her skin, she stepped into the shower and thoroughly cleaned herself. The bathroom was steamy when the water turned off. She wrapped a towel around herself and combed through her hair. She grabbed an old hoodie and a pair of pants. They slid on easily enough. Her eyes caught sight of her desk. Her hands gripped two of the folders along with her pencil pouch. 

She pulled the bar stool out with her foot and placed her belongings on the island. Her body relaxed as her eyes scanned the forensic reports from the latest crimes in Gotham. 

It took two months for her to find her own place finally. She still had her days with the Waynes when Tim was working or away. Jason had indeed been her rock throughout it all. He provided her with a place to stay and a friend in the darkest times. Dick had provided her with the best coffee and crimes for her to investigate. She spent a lot of her time in the lab at the GCPD. Sometimes, he even brought Damian to keep her company while he sketched away in his notebook. 

Bruce had set down the last box in her brand-new apartment. It wasn’t extravagant. He offered to buy her a new apartment, but she declined. She wanted to start anew by herself. Y/n needed to know that she could do it. That she could move on from Tim. They had been dating for five years. She couldn’t precisely place when the cheating began. Her estimate came to somewhere after three years of them being together. She had her hands on her hips as her eyes gazed around her new apartment. 

A smile came to her face, “I’m so glad it’s over now.”

[cleolinda]

SILENT HILL 2 UPDATE: At this point, I'm recording gameplay for my own reference while muttering softly to myself, because my voice is still weak from that sore throat. I'm now in Toluca Prison, which has four sections that you access through a puzzle involving weights that you have to hunt down and THEN a scale puzzle and THEN a gallows puzzle and I am going to be here for A While.

The thing about the prison is that it's got timed lights—you switch one on, you try to run as far as you can in like, idk, thirty seconds? And then it flips off and you're in the dark in this giant prison hoping you reach another switch soon and monsters are gurgling all around you and also NOW there are some crawling down the walls. And I just went, you know what? Fuck this. I'm a new gamer. I don't do well with panic, and I don't do well with light-reactive monsters swarming me. I'm doing this whole-ass prison in the dark.

And so help me, it's working? I'm able to move through it slowly, using my tiny but trusty flashlight, shoot things from half a block a way, and get everyone else before they get me. Apparently I have a very cautious, thorough play style? But also I would rather methodically take down all the monsters and know they’re dead (for now) than run away from them. So I am just… stalking all these gurgling, croaky, leggy motherfuckers through the dark. (I keep telling James I’m gonna get him through this, but he still makes scared breathing sounds a lot.) If you listened to me taunt lying figures in a parking lot, it’s a lot like that, just a bit hoarser.

And it's delightful to me that I’ve developed a play style. I've only been able to play the game an hour or two at a time a few days a week, which is why it's taking me so long (and I'm still nowhere near done yet), and that’s fun in its own way. But I've played it enough that an actual gaming personality is emerging, and I enjoy that.

[fawnhart]

sugar and rafes first time meeting ! ㅤ⭑๋ ࣭

You remember the moment your whole life started to crumble. It was a Tuesday, you think. Maybe a Wednesday? Doesn’t really matter. The days just blur together when you’re stuck in a house where you’re not allowed to live

You were listening to Jeff Buckley. You had it on repeat for weeks now, hiding it under a loose plank in the floorboards of your room. Your parents would never allow it. Not in a million years. Especially your mom. She’d explode if she ever found out. Everything was so god damn evil to her

But that day you thought you had time. She was supposed to be gone for at least another hour. It was Wednesday. Church group meetings. It was always a Wednesday.

You slipped the CD into your player old and busted up, the kind with the cassette tape thing but with a CD attachment, so it wasn’t completely outdated. You sat on your bed, staring out at the little slice of sky visible through your window, not really thinking about anything in particular just thinking. Then you heard the door downstairs.

“What the hell is that noise?”

You froze. Your heart dropped into your stomach. You thought your mom wouldn’t be home yet. You’d been so sure. You asked Mrs. Maggie to 1000% sure. But she was early. You scrambled to hit stop, but the music kept playing. Her voice, firm and pissed, was coming closer.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your pulse raced. You shoved the player under your pillow just as she stormed into the room, her eyes narrowing. She was already clutching that look the one that meant something bad was about to happen.

“What did I tell you about this?” Her voice was tight and screechy.

“I wasn’t doing nothin’” you said, your voice shaky. You didn’t even believe yourself. You knew exactly why she was upset. But you had to try. You had to try to be normal for once, even if it was just for a few minutes in your own room.

“Nothing?” Her lip curled, disgust in every word. “Baby, you think you can just fill ya’ head with that filth and call it ‘nothin’?’”

You bit your lip, holding back tears. She stepped forward, pointing at the CD player under your pillow.

“This is demonic! I knew it. You’ve been listening to the devil behind my back. It’s not enough that you’re dressing like... like one of those whores at school. But now you want to be dirty on the inside, too?”

Your throat felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe. Your mind was racing. What were you supposed to say?

“You’re going to ruin everything I’ve worked for. Everything your father and I have taught you,” she hissed, her eyes wild with something you didn’t recognize. It wasn’t love, not even close.

“it’s just music,” you whispered, too quietly, but she heard you.

She grabbed the player from your bed and yanked the CD out.

“It’s. not. just. music,” she said, her voice cracking. “It’s a gateway. It’s corruption to the brain.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell her that all you wanted was to be normal, to have what everyone else had. a life outside of this house, outside of her rules. But the words never came.

She was moving now, pulling open drawers, emptying them onto the floor.

“all that filth you’ve been hiding from me and I’ve been lenient on is done for. I’m taking it all.”

She tossed your music cds, your makeup, your books. Everything you’d spent months gathering, everything you’d used to try to feel like you were an ordinary girl, was being thrown away.

And then, the worst part.

“Your father won’t stand for this. We’ll have you cleansed”

You faltered. Cleansed? It was such a cold, clinical word. But you knew what it meant. The prayers. The rituals. You couldn’t let that happen. You couldn’t live through that.

Your eyes were filling with tears, your chest tightening.

“I’m sorry!, I didn’t mean to. I won’t listen to that again, okay? I swear,” you pleaded, though you knew it didn’t matter.

But it was too late, she was already at the door

“You know honey, my church group has been just how ungodly you’ve been acting, but I didn’t believe them….. I hate that you proved them right”

locking it behind her with that final click that meant you were trapped.

You pressed your back against the door, the tears finally spilling over. You couldn’t think straight. Your whole body was shaking, your mind was screaming. I need to get out of here.

You knew what you had to do.

You waited for what felt like hours, listening to the muffled sounds of your mom in the kitchen. The smell of dinner wafted under the door, and all you could think about was how your entire life had been planned for you. You were supposed to be a good girl. A good Christian girl. But you weren’t. And you were never going to be.

Finally, when you thought your heart couldn’t take any more, you got up. You grabbed the little bag you’d hidden in the closet. Nothing but a few clothes, and the money you’d saved up from waitressing at ‘sticky’s’. Quietly, carefully, you pulled out the plank in the floor, grabbed the rest of your hidden things, and shoved them into your bag. You didn’t think twice.

You climbed out the window, holding your breath, praying that she wouldn’t hear you.

Once you were outside, you took off running.

You didn’t know where you were going, but it didn’t matter. You had to get out.

You ran for what felt like forever. The night was cold, but you didn’t care. It was better than being to the place you once called home.

You didn’t notice him at first.

You glanced around realizing you were for sure not on the cut anymore, the big tall houses made it clear to you were on figure eight now.

then you saw him

Rafe Cameron.

You’d seen him around, of course. He was one of the rich kids, always walking around with that stupid confident smile, like he owned the whole island. You’d never paid him any attention. You had enough of your own problems to deal with. But when you saw him standing at the end of the street, leaning against his car smoking god knows what, you froze.

You’ve heard the stories about Rafe Cameron. He’s the kind of guy everyone talks about but no one truly understands.

He’s always been a mystery, and he still is. But there’s something about him, something that draws you in, even though you know you probably shouldn’t get too close.

You never really expected to see him again, not after the way he disappeared seven years ago.

Rafe left figure eight right after that night, the night he ended up in jail. No one knows exactly what happened, but everyone has their theories.

Some say it was a huge mistake, some say it was just a matter of time, others say ward himself drove his only son out of town. But whatever it was, it was enough to make him walk away from everything. His family, his life there, his whole world.

He packed up and drove five hours away, living on his own, far from the memories and the mess the pouges he hated had caused.

In the time since, he’s built himself up. People talk about how he’s thriving now, working as a firefighter or something like that. Hard work, steady pay, and no one really bothers him anymore.

It’s like he’s trying to rebuild his life, piece by piece. But even though he’s been gone for so long, when he talks about his baby sister wheezie, there’s this soft, almost protective vibe about him

Now, he’s back in town, just for her birthday. It’s strange seeing him like this, but there’s something different about him. He’s older, quieter, and maybe even a little lost in his own way.

He was looking straight at you, his brow furrowed, like he knew something was wrong.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice muffled by his blunt but clear in the quiet night air.

You stopped in your tracks.

“Are you alright?” he asked, taking a step toward you.

You didn’t know what to say. Of course you weren’t alright!. You were running away from your own life, from your own mother. But you didn’t know how to tell him that.

“I... I’m fine,” you said, but even to your own ears, it sounded like a lie.

He took another step forward, still studying you with those eyes that seemed too kind for someone like him.

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice softer now. “You look rough.”

Your breath hitched. ‘Gee thanks’ Yeah, you looked rough. You had been rough for years. But hearing it from someone else...it hit different.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know him. But you also didn’t know anyone who would help you, not like this. So you warily followed him

You stared at him, confused, trying to figure out if he was serious or playing some sick joke on you.

Then it hit you. He was talking to you like you weren’t just the religious girl with the crazy parents. He wasn’t weirded. He wasn’t judging you.

The last time someone came up to you, the whole town heard about it. Your parents tried getting them expelled from school for harassing you.

That was the last time anyone ever talked to you

“I know you know Wheezie,” he said, a little chuckle in his voice as he opened the door. “you can’t be all bad, right?”

Wheezie? then it clicked, the girl with glasses who could down 6 cherry milkshakes in a row, nice.

“Come on,” he said, the smile slipping from his face for a second, a real one this time. “Let me help you.”

You didn’t know if you were ready for help, but you were so damn tired. Tired of pretending everything was okay. Tired of running. Tired of fighting your own heart every damn day.

You took a deep breath and took up his offer.

He didn’t even look like the guy everyone made him out to be. Sure, he still had that wild, unpredictable look to him, but he wasn’t hostile. He just… asked if you needed help. Simple as that.

You didn’t know what else to say. You didn’t know where else to go.

He didn’t press you with questions. He just turned on the engine, his eyes flicking over you like he was checking to see if you were really serious about getting in.

"You're Wheezie's friend, right?" he asked as you climbed in.

You nodded, glancing at him, trying to gauge whether or not you were making a huge mistake. "Yeah... kind of, she’s always at the diner" you added, almost too quietly. You didn't want to give him the wrong impression, what 18 year old is freinds with a 13 year old?

He smiled just a little, but it was different from the smirks you’d seen on his face at school or around town. “That sounds like her” It wasn’t mean. It was soft

You can’t help but wonder what really happened in those seven years, what it was that changed him, but for now, you’re stuck here in the passenger seat of his truck, staring at his side profile as he drives.

Something about being around him feels oddly comforting, even though you know there’s so much you’ll never understand.

The ride was awkward, the kind of silence that felt thick enough to choke on. Rafe had the radio low, some song you didn’t recognize playing in the background.

You focused on the streetlights flashing by, the pavement blurring, but all you could think about was the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. You didn't belong in this car, in this moment. You should have been running in the other direction, but... for some reason, you weren’t scared. Not yet.

You had no idea where the hell you were going. That’s when he asked.

“So, do you have anywhere to go?”

You looked at your lap, clutching the bag tighter. You couldn’t tell him the truth, not completely. Not yet. "yeah" you said, your voice barely above a raspy whisper.

He didn’t say anything at first. But then you heard him exhale, like he was thinking it over. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been through but….but you’re safe now,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle, like he’d somehow sensed how scared you really were. “Ok?”

“Ok” You swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears. He wasn’t wrong. You were scared, terrified even, but for the first time in forever, someone wasn’t judging you for it.

No one in your family ever told you you were safe, ever told you that everything would be okay. You sniffled, the tears threatening to spill over.

You didn't want to break down in front of him.

The car slowed to a stop, and you realized you were at a diner, the neon lights buzzing softly. Rafe looked over at you, almost like he was waiting for you to protest or make some excuse. You didn’t. You just followed him out of the car, not saying a word.

Inside, the place smelled like burgers, fries, and cigarettes. The warmth was a stark contrast to the cold night outside, and it made you feel a little safer, like you were stepping into something straight out of a movie. Rafe led you to a booth and slid into the seat across from you. For a second, you both just stared at the menu, neither of you speaking. You didn’t know if you were supposed to order, or if he would. But then he broke the silence.

"What do you want?" He didn’t sound like he was expecting an answer right away. Like he was just making sure you were okay.

You looked at the menu, but your mind was elsewhere. You didn’t care what you ate. You just... didn’t want him to feel like he had to do this.

Like he had to take care of you.

“Just fries and a water,” you said, you didn't even know why you said it. It wasn’t like you had much of an appetite.

He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment on it. He called the waitress over and ordered for both of you. A burger, fries, and a milkshake. When she left, he turned to you, his gaze softer than you thought he’d ever let it be.

"How are you holding up?" His voice was quieter now, the edge gone. He wasn’t the Rafe Cameron you’d heard about, the one everyone warned you to stay away from. He seemed... almost normal, it was freaking you out.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I don't know," you muttered. "Just tired, I guess."

He nodded, leaning back in his seat, but you caught him glancing at you every few seconds like he was still trying to figure you out.

“What are you running from” he said bluntly, his stare showing no signs playfulness, just a full serious look

you looked away, your tears sticking with your mascara and glitter eyeshadow “Home”

“Been there” he nodded taking in your appearance in, how could such a pretty girl like you be so alone and lost?

The food came quickly, and Rafe pushed the plate with the burger and fries toward you. "Eat," he said simply. “I’m not going to let you go hungry.”

You picked at the fries, not feeling hungry but not wanting to make him feel like you didn’t appreciate it. The milkshake was so cold and thick, and when you took a sip, you felt a small sense of comfort settle in. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As you ate, Rafe kept glancing at you, almost like he was waiting for you to crack. When you sniffled again, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve, he frowned. "I already told you, you don’t have to be scared," he said, his voice dropping a little. “You’re safe here. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It was a strange thing for him to say, considering who he was. But in that moment, you believed him. You really did.

When you finished the milkshake and most of the burger, you felt a little more alive again, but the weight of everything of your family, of the lies, of everything that had pushed you to this point, was still there.

And you still had nowhere to go.

you just had a sparkly sack and a dream.

Rafe didn’t say much after that, just leaned back in his seat, and let you gather your thoughts. But when the waitress came by to take your plates, you stood up, and swung the creaky glass door open feeling that familiar unease creep back in.

"I’ll just go to the docks, the ferry leaves at 6am," you said, Turing around to see rafe as he followed right behind. You were going to take the ferry to the mainland, with the little money you had left. You weren’t sure where you were going from there, but it was something.

Rafe’s expression turned serious, almost annoyed. “No,” he said flatly.

“what?”

“I’m not letting you go to the docks. It’s dangerous, and I doubt you even have enough money to get anywh-.”

“You can’t fix everything!” you snapped, feeling all the frustration you’d been holding back suddenly spill out. "You can’t. fix. everything"

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I can’t fix everything,” he said, his voice firm. “But I can try to make sure you’re okay. I can’t just let you go off like that.”

You glared at him. “You don’t even know me. Why do you care?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at you like he was weighing something in his mind. Then he exhaled, running a hand through his buzzed head. “I know enough.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. Your whole world was falling apart, and yet, here was this guy, this person you should’ve never trusted, according to everyone you knew

but then again why does it matter what everyone says? if you’re going by that logic then you would be at the bottom of the barrel.

“You want to runaway right?” he said, voice steady. “I have a place, it’s 5 hours away, that far enough for you?”

“Do you even know how old I am!? Hello, I could turn you in right now for being a weirdo” you asked with sass, anything to get him off of your case

“ ‘sticky’s’ won’t hire under 18.” He said nonchalantly rolling his eyes, “unless you lied or where getting paid under the table? Then I could turn you and your employer in”

You didn’t know if it was the exhaustion in his voice, but something in you cracked. “i didn’t lie, I’m 18” you said your voice trembling slightly. “I’ll go with you. But no funny business, I will jump out of the freaking car” you said crossing your arms

“Whatever you say, sugar”

Was this a good idea? Probably not. You’re parents would ironically raise hell over this town once they found out their precious daughter had run off with Rafe fucking Cameron

© 𝐅𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[darnell-la]

Hopefully not to gross. But, I just have been thinking about Logan forcing his cock down his girls throat but he’s so big and rough it makes her vomit. Then instantly going from rough to apologetic when she’s upset

note: PLEASE READ ^^ this is unlike any story we have posted before, and we’d like to make sure whoever reads this will not give any kind of complaints. Thank you!

———

“C’mere,” Logan grabbed a handful of y/n’a hair and pulled her into the bathroom. They had been arguing for what felt like hours in an empty hallway about the mission Logan almost blew because of the way another man touched y/n’s hip.

“Logan, we’re undercover — Shit happens!” Y/n shouted at the man, which instantly put her on her knees. “Don’t fucking care,” Logan growled between his teeth as he reached into his pants to pull himself out.

“Logan, we’re working-“ Before y/n could’ve finished her sentence, the man pushed through her lips. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he was still hung. That was one good dangerous thing about him.

“You think you’d enjoy this if it was him? Huh!?” Logan asked as he snapped his hips, making sure all that came out of y/n’s mouth were moans and saliva that made its way down her jaw.

“Oh, and believe I’ll send you right back out there to him, looking just like this,” Logan said as he wiped across y/n’s face a few times, smearing her makeup until she started slapping his hands away.

“Now do you think he’ll still want you after seeing you like this? Huh? Huh!?” The man asked as he kept pounding into y/n’s mouth relentlessly.

“No, he won’t — Only I like you like this, Bub, and only I can fucking see you like this,” Logan said right as his cock twitch. As soon as he got fully hard down y/n’s throat, he couldn’t hold himself back.

Y/n slapped Y/n Logan’s lower stomach, trying to tell him that she couldn’t breathe and that he was too far down her mouth, but he wouldn’t put his thrusts to a halt.

“Right there,” Logan growled as he spilled into her mouth. It felt good for a while until y/n began to cough. Within seconds, everything came up, and out of her mouth.

Logan quickly pulled back, not knowing what happened first until he watched her vomit over the bathroom floor.

“Oh, shit,” Logan said as he got to his knees and put a hand on her back to comfort her in some way. The man shook as y/n got everything out that needed to come out.

“Fuck, y/n- I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking-“ Logan tried saying until he was pushed away. “Fuck off!” Y/n’s voice died halfway through her speaking. She could feel the slight pain, and taste of what she had just let out.

“Baby, I didn’t- Baby, I’m sorry,” Logan said as he got up and got a bunch of wipes from the cabinet that was in the fancy bathroom. “Are you okay? Babe, please speak to me — Tell me, are you okay?” Logan asked as he began cleaning the floor.

Y/n didn’t answer the man. She continued coughing to make sure everything was out of her system.

Tears filled Logan’s eyes, feeling like he had done something he could never come back from. “Baby, please — I’m so sorry,” Logan said as he grabbed y/n’s face softly to wipe her down and clean her up.

“I-I didn’t know you couldn’t take it — I was just- I was thinking of myself and thought you’d be okay, because we always go through, and I couldn’t think about another man on you, and I just-“

“Logan, shut up! Please, just- God, relax — I’ll be fine,” y/n grabbed some towels from Logan before pushing him away. “God, you’re just so fucking annoying,” was all y/n could say.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said, wanting to break down right then and there. Y/n looked at Logan, hoping he wasn’t actually crying, but he was. That instantly made her roll her eyes and pull him into a hug.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Y/n said as she softly rubbed Logan’s back. Logan couldn't stop apologizing and bringing up how horrible of a person he was for not seeing the signs of her actual struggle, but she shut him down quick.

“Hey, I’m fine with you being rough — Just make sure it’s not after I eat ten deviled eggs,” y/n joked, making Logan let out a slight laugh, but he still didn’t feel too great.

“Let’s just go back to the hotel — He’ll be here tomorrow,”

[00valentina-writes00]

Greyson who has a wife that calls her mommy while going at it (headcanons)

♡♥︎Callin her Mommy♥︎♡

♥︎ The first time you call her Mommy, she freezes for a second—processing it, rolling the word over in her mind—before a slow, knowing smirk spreads across her lips. “Is that so, darling?”

♥︎ That one little word flips a switch in her. She was already dominant, already in control, but now? Now, she takes full ownership of you.

♥︎ The moment it slips from your lips, she immediately starts treating you differently—firmer, more possessive, more attuned to every little noise and reaction you give her.

♥︎ She leans into the title completely, using it against you in the filthiest ways—“Mommy knows what’s best, doesn’t she?” or “Come on, sweetheart, be a good girl for Mommy.”

♥︎ It absolutely ruins her when you whimper it while you’re right on the edge—gripping onto her for dear life, pleading for her to let you cum.

♥︎ She loves how it makes you more submissive without her even trying—just the way you melt under her touch, the way your voice gets all breathy when you say it.

♥︎ But if you ever try to use it to get out of trouble? That smug little smirk appears as she tilts your chin up, “Oh, you think that’s going to work on me, do you?”

♥︎ She starts using it to establish even more control—“Say it properly, love. What do you call me?”—and she won’t touch you until you do.

♥︎ If you say it in a needy, desperate voice, she might take pity on you… or she might decide to tease you for another hour just because she loves seeing you squirm.

♥︎ She adores the contrast—how strong and commanding she is, how completely she dominates you, but the moment you call her Mommy, you’re nothing but a whimpering mess in her hands.

♥︎ If you try to fight it, acting like it doesn’t make you weak in the knees, she’ll absolutely push you—whispering it in your ear, saying things like “You like when Mommy takes care of you, don’t you?” just to watch you fall apart.

♥︎ If she’s in a particularly soft mood, she leans into the caretaker aspect—stroking your hair, murmuring praise, holding you close while making you feel so small under her touch.

♥︎ But when she’s rough? Oh, it turns into something else. She has you on your hands and knees, gripping your hips tightly as she growls, “Isn’t this what you wanted, baby? To be fucked by Mommy until you can’t think straight?”

♥︎ She uses the title against you outside the bedroom too—resting a hand on your thigh at dinner, murmuring, “What’s wrong, love? Feeling needy for Mommy already?” just to see you squirm.

♥︎ If you ever tease her with it in public—maybe leaning in and whispering “Thank you, Mommy” in her ear just to see her reaction—oh, you’re in trouble. She’ll lean in just as close and murmur, “Just wait until I get you home, sweetheart.”

♥︎ She has a very strict rule: if you call her Mommy, then you have to listen to everything she says. No exceptions.

♥︎ If you slip up and say it in a bratty tone when you’re begging? Her smirk grows, her grip tightens, and suddenly you’re being flipped onto your stomach with a firm “Say it again, baby. Say it properly.”

♥︎ If she’s feeling extra mean, she makes you earn the right to call her Mommy—won’t let you say it until she decides you’ve been good enough for her.

♥︎ On the rare occasion she lets you take control for a moment, she absolutely melts if you cup her face and say, “Mommy looks so pretty like this.” It wrecks her. Completely.

♥︎ But the second she regains her composure? You’re done for. She’s pinning you down, making you repeat yourself as she ruins you.

♥︎ If you ever try to deny that you like calling her Mommy, she’ll get you so deep in pleasure that you say it instinctively—then she’ll smirk down at you, “Told you so, sweetheart.”

♥︎ She adores the contrast between how strong she is and how small she can make you feel—tipping your chin up, making you look her in the eye while she murmurs, “That’s my girl.”

♥︎ She loves holding your wrists above your head while she takes her time with you, whispering, “Mommy knows exactly what you need.”

♥︎ If she catches you staring at her hands while she’s working, she’ll chuckle and say something like, “You keep looking at me like that, and you’re going to have a real problem later, baby.”

♥︎ She has a habit of tugging your hair back when she’s in control, just to hear you gasp out “Mommy” with that breathless little whimper.

♥︎ She’s a very patient tease—if you get needy, she’ll simply stroke your cheek, kiss your forehead, and say, “Good girls wait for Mommy, don’t they?”

♥︎ The way you say it affects her mood—if you say it in a bratty way? She’s pinning you down, making you beg properly. If you say it in a soft, needy voice? Oh, she melts and gives you exactly what you want.

♥︎ She always makes sure you feel taken care of afterward—pulling you into her arms, stroking your hair, murmuring, “Mommy’s got you, baby. You did so well for me.”

♥︎ If you ever try to keep quiet during sex, she’ll grip your jaw, forcing you to look at her as she demands, “Say it for me, sweetheart.”

♥︎ She gets a thrill from hearing you say it when she’s taking you apart—especially when it turns into a desperate, helpless whimper against her skin.

♥︎ She absolutely adores when you bury your face in her neck and moan, “Mommy, please”—it makes her instantly feral.

♥︎ If she catches you daydreaming about it—getting all quiet and flustered—she’ll smirk and say, “Thinking about Mommy again, aren’t you?”

[hemmyrooney]

Uh, hi?

You’ve known me for a lot of things, and most of those things I do deeply regret coming into the new year with. So I’ve taken it upon myself to be more open to the community, rather then being a figure once feared.

I will not be starting anything, I will not be participating in anything, everything I do and say will be heavily regulated to fit my interests and my interests only for the safety of myself and others in the near future. My apologies goes out to the crit and sparkle community for causing so much out roar and hatred when I used to be a beacon for the exact opposite. That changes going forward, even if my apologies don’t get accepted, I’ll keep walking the eggshells till I one day show the world that I’ve indeed learned from my mistakes and become a better person. What better way to start then to start being more open about my identity.

Who I Was.

hemeruni, unicritcornelius, a burner account poorly written and covered up by me, the Hemeruni archives account. Those are all the documented accounts I used to run during the period of time where I was pushed away from the community for my actions, all in a attempt to rectify a situation that only got worse with time the more it was pushed, which was a result of my bitter hatred and anger towards the community at that time. Being pushed away from a community that truly felt like a home for me for the longest time was painful. All of what I worked for gone in a single instance because I used by creditably to hurt others, including my own partner, which I’ll never forgive myself for. Thankfully I’ve been able to get in contact with someone that I’ve hurt a lot from this whole situation, someone who was very angry with me for valid reasons. We talked for a good few hours about what can be done, and after a back and forth, I apologized both to him and the community I’ve been arguing with for around a few months now. For the safety of people involved, names will not be said, as I don’t want this post to come off as an attack, rather a post catching people up who are out of the loop.

What are you doing now?

Same thing I was originally doing. Posting art and ranting/rambling about stuff I like. I’ll occasionally answer asks whenever I feel like it and I’ll take requests whenever I have time. I’ve been very busy.

So yeah. Welcome to my page

[cambriancrew]

Things we've been fakeclaimed for:

Having Crew in our name and referring to each other as Crewmates, as this apparently can only refer to Among Us and hasn't been a general use term for the last thousand years

Not using fronting indicators

Using fronting indicators

Using fronting indicators "the wrong way", ie, at the beginning of statements, which apparently means we're roleplaying.

Being "too old"

Sounding too similar over text

Sounding over text like a completely different system

Sounding over text like a DIFFERENT completely different system

If I had a nickel for each time.... Y'all know the rest

Defending our plurality, cuz apparently real systems don't care when people insist they're wrong?

Giving general information about our headmates and not including anyone's race... When our racial differences are structured after a whole different planet's races or different species even that doesn't correlate with Earthly races. Or are otherwise complicated, like how Anna and Shiloh have partially brown skin from being literally made of tree bark and not due to melanin

Caring enough to have sources ready to go to share

Being willing to bet real money against anyone having an actual source backing up anti endo views

Taking time to argue our stance which means not only are we faking but we don't have a job (and apparently also aren't actually disabled), when we actually have a full time job and a couple of side gigs, all of which can be done sitting down.

The fact that we're openly plural at work (not said by anyone at work)

Using "big words to sound important" including such big words as "criterion" and "causation"

Not being able to squeeze big thoughts into ten words or less

Having a Code of Conduct for all our fronting members

Switching in the middle of a multi-hour-long discussion because the switch was obviously done only to try and convince people we're plural and not part of our schedule of events outside of that discussion

Switching and the next fronter being able to carry on the discussion... Despite the discussion being over text where it's really easy to read back and catch up on things... And of course our lack of amnesia

Having "made up" names instead of all common ones

Before Little Alice was born, not having littles

After Little Alice was born, having a nonfronting little

Probably more, this is all I could think of for now

[kotegiris]

[Card Story - Shiro] Inheriting Life

Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter 1

-Before daybreak-

One day a little after Shiro became a Devil Butler…

While it was still dark out… I suddenly woke up.

Not in the mood to go back to sleep… I went to the window and looked outside.

Out the window… I saw Shiro carrying his sword and heading to the forest.

> I wonder what he’s doing.

I was curious, so I decided to go after him. 

【Nearby Forest】

Step… step… step…

Shiro: Hm? You…

> Good morning, Shiro.

Shiro: ………Why are you here?

> I saw you and got curious.

Shiro: ……… Curiosity killed the cat.

Shiro: As long as you are my lord… Refrain from acting on your emotions.

> S-Sorry…

Shiro: ……… I am only giving you advice.

Shiro: I am not upset. 

Shiro: Do not be frightened and… Do not needlessly apologize.

> G-Got it.

Shiro was being harsh this morning, but… When I looked at his indifferent expression, he did not seem upset.

He has an intimidating air about him. I don’t know much about him yet.

> What are you up to?

Shiro: I haven’t done anything yet. I’m about to start training.

> At this time?

Shiro: Yes. Normally, I train at a later time, but…

Shiro: Today in particular… I felt like training by myself.

Shiro: If I train at a later time… …Bellen will come.

Shiro: If he sees me… He’ll say, “Let’s train together,” and persistently follow me.

Shiro: I had no other choice… Thus, today I woke up early.

> I-I see…

“But if you can train by yourself at this time, then why don’t you train at this time every day?”

That question suddenly came to mind. 

> Then why don’t you do this every day?

Shiro: ……Hmph. A good question.

Shiro: There is danger in the forest. The same goes for when it’s nightfall and dark…

Shiro: Some animals are also more active early in the morning.

Shiro: To avoid them… I normally do my training at daybreak.

> So that’s why.

Shiro: You… Don’t treat this like it has nothing to do with you.

Shiro: …Entering the forest this early in the morning…

Shiro: From now on, no matter where your curiosity may lead you… Do not enter the forest at dangerous hours alone.

Shiro: Understood?

> Y-Yeah.

Hearing that the animals are more active at this time…

I suddenly felt a little scared of the forest that I was currently in.

> ……… > (Following him might have been a mistake.)

Shiro: ………

Shiro: …Don’t be scared. I said, “Do not enter the forest alone.”

Shiro: There are no problems if you’re with me.

Shiro probably sensed that I was scared, so he told me that with a calm voice.

> Thank you.

Shiro: Let’s go. If we go a little further, there’s an open space ahead.

Shiro: I’ll do my training there.

After he finished speaking, he turned around and began walking.

I followed him from behind.

-A few minutes later-

As we walked through the forest, Shiro, who had been silent, spoke.

Shiro: Hey. Watch your step.

Shiro: In the middle of the path, there are flowers. Do not, by any means, step on them.

> O-Okay.

Just as Shiro said, there were small flowers blooming on the ground.

They were so small that if I just walked normally, I might have missed them…

Observing him from behind… I noticed that he paid attention to the ground and his surroundings as he walked.

> (He probably cares a lot about nature…)

While I was thinking about that… Once more, Shiro spoke.

Shiro: We’re here. This is the place.

Shiro: …Hmph. Then, I will start training.

Shiro: It’ll be bothersome to take you back to the mansion.

Shiro: So be quiet and stay close to me.

> Got it.

And thus… I ended up watching Shiro train.

-A little later- 

Shiro’s training was so beautiful that I couldn’t help but stare at him.

I lost track of time listening to the sound of him powerfully swinging his sword and watching him move so effortlessly. 

Shiro: ……Hah. That’s enough for today.

Shiro: It’s been a while since I was able to focus on training.

> Nice work.

Shiro: ……Yeah.

Looking satisfied, Shiro wiped his sweat and sheathed his sword.

Shiro: Now then…… I’ve kept you waiting. Let’s return to the mansion.

> Alright.

I reluctantly nodded, feeling a little disappointed I couldn’t spend more time with him.

At that moment… I suddenly heard a loud sound from the thicket close to me.

Rustle…

> W-What is it!?

Shiro: Don’t make any noises…

Saying that… Shiro protectively stood in front of me.

Shiro: I said that if you’re with me, there are no problems. Don’t tell me you already forgot.

> I-I didn’t forget… but…

Shiro: Then, don’t make any noises.

Shiro: If we make a racket, they will only be more cautious.

Shiro: …Don’t worry. You stay there.

> O-Okay…

Rustle…

Shiro: ………How unlucky of you.

The moment Shiro muttered that… A huge bear appeared from the thicket.

Huge Bear: Grrrr…

> A-A bear!? > I-It’s huge…

Shiro: …Listen. Do not move. Understood?

> Yeah… I won’t.

Shiro: ……Hmph…. Seems like it’s quite hungry.

Shiro: There are no signs of it being intimidated by us.

Seeing us, the bear came closer while drooling.

Huge Bear: Grrrr…

> …!! > (I-It’s coming towards us…!)

The bear seemed so intense that I unconsciously took a step back.

Chapter 2

Shiro: Hey. I said don’t move.

> S-Sorry…

Even as I said that… The bear came closer, swaying its huge body. 

Shiro: Do not leave my side by any means. Understood?

Shiro: If you try to run… you’ll die.

Shiro: If you don’t want to die, do not move from there.

> …Okay.

The bear was breathing heavily and seemed like it would pounce at any moment…

Shiro kept his gaze on the bear and quietly pulled out his sword.

Shiro: …You must be hungry before your hibernation. You’re quite agitated.

Shiro: ……Leave immediately.

Shiro: If you do… I will forgive you for baring your fangs at us.

Shiro: However…

Shiro: If you come any closer… I will show no mercy.

For a moment the bear seemed to hesitate, but…

As if to shake it off, it roared loudly and… With its eyes on Shiro, it pounced.

Huge Bear: GRRR!!!

> Shiro!!

Shiro: …So you’ve lost your reasoning…

Muttering that, Shiro moved towards the bear and swiftly swung his sword.

Swing…!

……Thud.

After the sound of his sword… Came the sound of the bear’s huge body falling to the ground.

> W-What just happened…

It all happened in an instant, and I couldn’t comprehend what I just saw… Dumbfounded, I stared at Shiro, who was splattered in blood.

Shiro: ……Don’t think badly of me. You should have left when I gave you the chance.

Shiro: No matter who it is, I will not forgive anyone who tries to attack my lord…

Shiro approached the now motionless bear and quietly closed his eyes.

Shiro: …Your life was taken by me.

Shiro: I will not let this life go to waste.

After he came up to the bear and closed his eyes for a moment… He turned to me.

He was covered in blood.

Shiro: …Are you injured?

> I’m alright…

Shiro: I see… Good.

> Are you okay, Shiro?

Shiro: A creature like that could never injure me.

> I’m glad…

Earlier, Shiro had faced the bear and closed his eyes, but… I wonder what he was doing.

Curious, I decided to ask him directly.

> Why did you close your eyes earlier…?

Shiro: ……I was praying.

> Praying?

Shiro: After taking a life, we Folk of the Valley will always offer a prayer.

Shiro: And as those who are still alive… We inherit that life.

> Inherit a life…?

Shiro: …Is it easier to understand if I say we “consume” it?

Shiro: The only two situations in which we would take a life are…

Shiro: When it's to protect our comrades or for sustenance.

Shiro: For that bear’s life too… I swore to inherit it as sustenance.

> So that’s what you were doing…

Shiro: Protecting comrades or for sustenance… For these purposes, taking lives is an unavoidable part of life.

Shiro: However… There are people like the Seiran family and angels…

Shiro: Who toy with human life and take them in vain.

Shiro: ……There is no such thing as a worthless life in this world.

Shiro: I will not forgive those who take lives so easily and unsympathetically… 

> Shiro…

Shiro: Of course, not only the lives of humans…

Shiro: But animals, birds, and bugs too… All lives are equal.

Shiro: There is no excuse for killing in vain.

> …Yeah, you’re right.

Shiro: …I’ve talked a little too much.

Come to think of it, ever since he entered the forest… He was walking while paying close attention to the ground and our surroundings.

(Flashback)

Shiro: Hey. Watch your step.

Shiro: In the middle of the path, there are flowers. Do not, by any means, step on them.

(End of flashback)

At that time, I listened to his warning and avoided stepping on any of the flowers, but…

Since he said that the lives of bugs are also important…

He may have been warning me so that I would be careful not to step on any bugs too.

> You’re very kind.

Shiro: …I only do what I think is right.

Shiro: Kindness or whatever you think… Don’t apply your values on me without my permission.

> ...Thank you for saving me.

Shiro: ………Hmph.

Even though he values life, he went as far as to take one to save me.

I felt a little sorry, but at the same time… I also felt a little happy…

Shiro: ……My clothes are filthy.

Shiro: Follow me. I’m going to wash the blood off.

> Okay.

After he said that, Shiro began to walk away… I hurried after him so that he wouldn't leave me behind.

-A little later-

Shiro walked without hesitation… And we came to a calm, flowing river.

Shiro: Normally… I would not do something so improper, such as removing my clothes in front of you, but…

Shiro: I cannot leave you by yourself while I wash my clothes.

Shiro: …Stay there.

> A-Alright.

Once Shiro saw me nod… He took off his top.

His body, coupled with his pale skin, was as beautiful as a sculpture.

However, more than his beauty… The strength from his well-toned body was more prominent.

Shiro: …………

Shiro: ……Hey. What are you staring at?

> U-Uhm…

I couldn’t tell him that I was admiring his body… Flustered, I looked away.

Shiro: ……Hmph. Well, it’s fine.

Shiro: …How long are you going to keep standing there for?

Shiro: Come closer.

> Huh?

Shiro: Sit near me.

Shiro: Unless… You want to be attacked by another wild animal like earlier. 

After saying that… Shiro began to clean the blood off at the river.

With my heart slightly racing… I sat down by his side. 

END

T/N: The flashback indicators are not part of the actual text, but I added it to make it more clear for people who are only reading this translation.

[xwiedzmax]

okay. so. i said i will not shut up about this song and.. well here we are

analyzing Watch Me Soar by Willemijn Verkaik (and Scott Alan) (guys i love Willemijn shes such a great singer and me when her Elphaba and i could rant about her for hours and-) [basically] line by line, here we go

"I know that it's hard for you to imagine That I'm not that young girl you once knew I'm no longer 12, what you see is a woman Standing in front of you"

first line and it starts off *strong*. like. 'im not that young girl you once knew, im no longer 12'. thats literally what would happen when Icarus came back, everyone only remembered them from the times before they first died. dropping the age like that is crazy everyone would remember them as that small child (we dont look at Chronicles of Wonder i found this song before that came out guys i promise this is still coded) and the first line just straight up calls that "And I, I have been patient, I have been kind I paid all my dues and I gave up my time I can't be confined to the past anymore My wings have grown"

the first two verses are just about them being Quixis. about trying their best to do their job, trying their best to just do the right thing and come back as fast as possible and- 'i cant be confined to the past anymore' is so- cuz like- theyre not the same person they were as a child. theyre not the same person they were during all the seasons. theyve changed, many things have changed, they want to be better than what they were before, they want to be a good brother, a good friend, not be remembered as the person who killed multiple of their friends, the person who hurt so many of their friends and family. they want to redeem themself and the line 'my wings have grown' is just so- because they dont have wings in the worldport. and their wings are important to them, theyre such an important part of them, and they dont have that in the worldport. and they finally get to experience having wings, experience the freedom of flying

"Everyone says just to be thankful, just to be grateful Or just let it be But I'm tired of this waiting, it's always tomorrow I'm done with perceptions that you've had of me"

something something Icarus just having to wait and wait and wait. wait for their job as Quixis to be over. with the knowledge that their family doesnt remember them, many of their friends dont even know who they are

"I've given you blood, you've given me tears I've given my heart and so many years It's finally time to fend for myself And open my wings"

now. first two verses are about their time as Quixis again. about how long theyve had to spend, waiting, working, alone. theyve given up so much, spent *so many* years alone, watching over the universes, with no one but a chicken to keep them company

the last two verses are them just being happy about being back. finally being able to do the things they *want* to do not the things they *need* to do they can open their wings again, fly, experience weather, nature, be themself again

"It's my time to soar, yes My time And I don't need you to love me, that's not what I asked I just want you to see that I'm more than my past"

its their time, they can soar the skies, experience things again, make bonds but they dont immidiately ask for forgiveness, they know theyve done a lot of bad stuff in the past. they just want people to see them as a new person, not what they were before, want people to see past the things theyve done. and this just fits so well

"You have expectations, well they're just too small And I'm dreaming big So watch me soar Watch me soar Watch me soar"

theyre so excited to be back, after being stuck for years. they just want to experience joy and do everything they werent able to do before

"It's time to let go, take a leap, touch the sky Feel the wind press against me as my wings learn to fly Then soar, I will soar Watch me soar"

they deserve to be a happy birb boi me thinks. 'feel the wind press against me as my wings learn to fly' because they would need to get used to that. they dont have their wings in the worldport and theyve spent so long without them, it would take some learning and figuring out muscle memory to fly like they used to

"Yes, I know that it's hard for you to imagine That I'm not that young girl you once knew I'm no longer 12, what you see is a woman Soaring in front of you"

this entire section is just so Icarus after coming back from being Quixis, especially singing to Rae, but just to everyone too- and.. even tho this is the wrong gender, its still *so frickin coded*. perfect ending to this song and honestly im actually amazed how coded this whole song is. especially because i know it only because Willemijn sings it (im normal i promise im not hyperfixated at allll-)

and in general the way this song sounds is just so hopeful, its giving new energy and happiness and just- pure joy of experience, and i love it if you for whatever reason read this all, have a nice timezone<3 hopefully some of my rambles actually made sense <- local guy is eepy and totally not writing this at 5am- totally-

[garyroachsandersonsbf]

Cowboy Hat Rule Part 1 - Ghostroach

SFW | Minor Violence

—

Currently the 141 were stationed in good ole’ Fort Worth, Texas. The hot and humid weather of mid July was harsh, and being in a full tac kit only made things more miserable. Two days already in the city and Soap was begging to go home. But they couldn’t, not just yet. The reason why they’re currently holed up inside of a van with a barely working AC unit, was because an anonymous tip gave the team a possible hit on El Sin Nombre. Said he was running large trades through the traveling rodeo, so here they are now, waiting outside the ongoing rodeo in Cowtown.

Ghost actually advised against deploying to Texas due to the lack of legitimacy in the tip’s claim and not much proof to back it up besides a half torn letter from El Sin Nombre himself that could’ve been a fake anyways. But as they were incredibly desperate to catch this guy for intel on the missing missiles, they took any chance they were offered to get him, and so Price and Laswell approved the mission and sent out the lieutenant with the three of his sergeants to meet up with Colonel Vargas, Sergeant Major Parra, and Commander Graves. It was only their second time meeting, but it felt like they’ve all known each other for much longer, guess that’s what happens in war.

“It’s so fookin’ miserable in here.” Soap pulled at the collar of his shirt that was drenched in sweat. “Cannae wait any longer before I gaun get heatstroke.” He then attempted to fan himself with his hand.

Ghost sighed and tossed a water bottle at him, “Shut up Sergeant. Rodeo should be done within the next hour, you can be quiet and wait until then.” Ghost tugged at his mask, repositioning it as the sweat caused it to cling flush against his face.

Soap scoffed, “Away n’ bile yer head!”

Suddenly Gaz’s voice perked up from beside Soap, “It is hot in here though, Soap’s not wrong about the heatstroke either.” He looked around the van at the miserable and sweaty men.

“We can’t risk opening any doors and exposing our cover over needing a little bit of air. Just drink water, you’ll live.” Ghost was very irritated that night. Having to come to Texas was the first thing that ticked him off. Then it was the weather. And then there was the plan they had. It was flimsy, nothing very solid to go off of in the first place, so naturally there’s a lot of room for error and danger, and Ghost didn’t like that.

Roach leaned in beside him, “What about a window?” His goggles rested on top of his helmet, allowing Ghost and the rest visual access to his eyes where currently Roach was lifting one eyebrow up expectantly.

“Negative Sergeant. You’re just gonna have to suffer.” His monotone voice showed no sign of sarcasm or humor. The sergeants all sighed loudly not being able to get their pleas through to the lieutenant.

“Heads up,” Rudy knocked on the metal mesh separating the back of the van with the two seats up front. “Two armed men just got out of a truck near an emergency exit at the rodeo. We may have something here.”

“About fucking time. Get ready boys.” Graves clapped triumphantly. Surprisingly to Ghost, Graves has managed to become more insufferable and obnoxious than Soap! And unfortunately for Ghost, he had the honor of sitting right next to the mercenary commander.

“Not yet,” Alejandro chimed in. “We don’t see any package, they’re only just standing around, no need to engage yet.” Then he whispered something in Spanish to Rudy, too quiet for Ghost to make it out.

After about 20 more minutes of waiting and various complaints about the heat, they finally got the green light to engage. “Eyes on a woman being escorted by three other heavily armed men.” Rudy called out, binoculars pulled up to his eyes.

“ID?” Ghost asked, trying to shift his body and look through the mesh and out the windshield.

“I think we got a hit on El Sin Nombre’s personal sicaria, Valeria Garza.” Rudy responded, tension in his voice.

“That’s the bitch who slipped through us last time in Las Almas, isn’t she?” Graves asked furiously. Back in Las Almas during their first meeting, they attempted to seize Valeria but they ended up being outnumbered and she was able to escape and go back into hiding.

“Easy there, Graves.” Alejandro warned from the driver’s seat.

Suddenly Rudy, who still was looking through his binoculars, yelled out, “Target getting into the truck, more men behind her loading crates into a black suburban, possibly the package she has to deliver.”

“Copy that, calling it in.” Ghost switched his comms to the channel with Laswell, as did the rest of the men. “Laswell, we have eyes on Valeria Garza and the package. Permission to follow and engage if needed?”

Laswell’s voice crackled through his earpiece, “Affirmative, you have the go ahead. Try to make it out of the city before engaging with them, we want to keep a low profile.”

“Copy. Going into pursuit.” Ghost stood up and reached over to bang on the metal mesh signaling it’s time to go.

Alejandro put the car into gear and began rolling out of the alleyway and down the narrow street a few hundred feet from the targets. They anxiously followed behind the cars, waiting for them to arrive at their destination. After about 10 minutes of driving, they turned onto a private dirt road where they were more exposed than before.

“Drop back following distance, they’ll be able to spot us much easier than before,” Rudy advised and Alejandro complied, slowing the vehicle down and leaving another couple hundred feet between them and the targets.

“Losing visual on Valeria and the package, too far back and too much dirt being kicked up,” the colonel warned. Suddenly their tail lights disappeared completely and the soldiers were unable to make out the cars through the dust. “Command, we lost complete visuals with targets. I repeat, we have no visuals on targets.”

“Something isn’t right…” Roach muttered anxiously.

“No,” Ghost agreed. “Pull over the van and-“

All of the sudden the truck and suburban came into view and were parked horizontally over the road, multiple of the armed men standing behind the vehicles, gun trained on their approaching van. Alejandro slammed on the brakes, causing the van to swerve and stop horizontally on the road as well, bout a hundred feet away from their enemies.

“GET DOWN!” Alejandro and Rudy yell, ducking below the windshield and windows as bullets begin to fire and hit the van. Ghost was extremely thankful for the armoured van Price gave them, a reinforced body and chassis, and bullet proof glass. It was enough to handle some firepower for a good amount of time, much longer than a normal van.

“Laswell, targets have opened fire on us, we’re pinned down.” Ghost yelled out through the comms, hands on his weapon waiting for an opportunity to engage.

“Shit! Get out of the van as quickly as you can and engage. We’ll try to send in reinforcements.” Laswell then went silent as she made her other calls for backup.

“We don’t have time to wait around for others! Ghost, are you able to get out the back door?” Alejandro yelled out over the loud gunfire.

“It’s risky but possible!” Ghost got up from the bench, still keeping down low in the van. “Moving out!” He swung open the door which was immediately hit by dozens of bullets. He waited until there was a minor pause in fire, as they were reloading, to leap out and run behind the van, quickly making his way to the front of the vehicle. He positioned his gun around the very front of the van and began to shoot at the cartel. He immediately downs one man who falls off the bed of the truck. “Need more power!” Ghost urgently called out, and a few seconds later Roach is behind him, laying down fire from over the hood of the van.

A couple more men drop dead but not enough to try and advance further. Gaz was the next to come out, staying at the back of the van, shooting from under the opened back door. He was able to pick off another guy, leaving about five cartel members and Valeria left. Each side continued to exchange bullets for another 5 minutes before the other side halted fire completely. Suspicious, Ghost peeks around the corner to try and spot them but is unable to see a single enemy. “Gaz, visual on anyone?”

“Negative, LT. Looks like they ran.” Gaz moved over to Ghost and Roach, Soap on his heels right behind him.

“Or they’re all dead.” Soap chuckled.

Ghost shook his head, “Don’t get too excited just yet, Johnny. Something is off.” He squatted and leaned against the tire, “Alejandro, you see anything?”

Alejandro picks his head up and peaks through the cracks in the window, “Nothing Ghost.” The van’s door creaks loudly as he opens it slowly, and steps out. “I think we’re clear. Rudy, come out.” Rudy on the other side of the van hops out and joins the other four soldiers still hiding behind the van. The men gather around to regroup and figure out what they need to do next. Valeria had once again slipped right of their grasp. “Hold up, where’s Graves?”

Ghost whipped his head around and walked carefully over to the back of the van where the door was still open, he peered through and saw Graves holding up a radio, speaking quietly into it. “Hey, the fuck are you doing? We’re regrouping, Valeria’s back in the wind.”

Graves turned sharply on his heel, an odd grin on his face, “Quite the opposite Lieutenant Riley. While y’all were shooting at the cartel, I called in some of my Shadows for reinforcement. They caught her and took down her escorts about half a mile out from here.”

Ghost didn’t praise his efforts, he only grilled him more, “And where’d you get the clearance for that, Commander? Hadn’t heard you over the comms at all.”

“Shepherd gave the go-ahead. Turned on a different frequency and asked him directly.” He began to step out of the van, bumping his shoulder against Ghost’s harshly, “No need to worry, Lieutenant.”

“Well,” Roach walked up to Ghost, “Think we’re going to need a new ride.”

Ghost looks at the van full of bullet holes and shattered windows, smoke emitting from under the hood. “Think you’re right about that, Bug.”

—