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ecto-american · 3 years

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The Bachelor

Phic Phight oneshot for @skellagirl: To help raise money for education, Vlad lets a date with himself be auctioned off. To his surprise, Harriet was quite a persistent bidder, and to his bigger surprise...he actually had a good time. Vlad/Harriet

On FFN and AO3

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"I don't need help getting a date, Jack," Vlad told him shortly. Why did he even come over to FentonWorks? He couldn't even remember why. At least he had some coffee to sip on. If Jack was actually good for anything, it was brewing good coffee.

"Oh come on, V-man! It's not like that! It's to raise money for education!" Jack tried to persuade as he was pouring himself his own cup. Vlad made a small face at the idea. "There's going to be lots of bachelors up there with ya, it won't be just you!"

"I don't think so." He had much better things to do than be paraded around.

"Please Vlad?" Jack nearly begged.

"You know, Vlad, you'd be quite the crowd-drawer," Maddie finally spoke up. Vlad glanced over at her. She was focused on some ectoplasmic samples that were on the counter, dangerously close to some chicken that was marinating for dinner. Mental note; do NOT stay for dinner tonight. "You're likely Amity Park's most sought after bachelor." She looked over her shoulder at him, and with a clearly fake smile, she added, "It'd be really good for you to have a nice woman who's interested in you."

Vlad frowned at her emphasis. He took another drink. It would look good if he showed up for appearances, got it over with and wowed some whatever woman into helping his media image. Election season was coming up, and he was up against the ex-mayor. Doing something for the children would definitely boost him.

"...It is for charity," he said slowly. "And after all, a man like me could fetch for a nice price."

"Of course!" Jack boomed excitedly. "You were voted sexiest billionaire by Cosmopolitan this year!" Oh god, why the hell did Jack know that? And say that? "Trust me, the crowd'll got mad for you!"

Vlad forced a smile.

"I cannot wait."

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He really could have waited. Friday night had come, and he found himself very reluctantly walking around the Casper High gym, looking at all the silent auction items up on display on cheap collapsable tables. Vlad mentally thanked himself for making sure Daniel would be too busy all night with Skulker to even have the time to come around to laugh at him.

Ugh, nothing really that good was around up for auction in here. Except for him, obviously. He could tell who was a bachelor for auction just by seeing who else was way overdressed to be standing around in a public high school on a Friday night, and Vlad already knew that he was the best option. He spied another one of these men as the individual picked his nose and wiped it on one of the tables. Vlad made a grossed out face. Easily, the best option.

He glanced around more, boredly trying to waste another twenty minutes before he had to go to the auditorium for the bachelor auctioning. This was the worst. Why did he agree to this? His eyes scanned for any familiar face.

"Harriet!" Vlad instantly recognized the journalist. She turned to face him, giving a small smile and wave when she realized who it was. He took a few steps over towards her. "What are you doing here?"

"My niece goes to Casper High," she replied. "So I decided to come around." She nodded her head at the silent auction she was seemingly considering. It was a high end camera bundle, including not just a high end camera but extra lenses, batteries, the case, the whole works honestly, donated by a local electronics store. "Check it out. Maybe even buy a date so that my mother stops asking me about when I'm getting married," she lightly joked. Vlad chuckled.

"You should consider just buying me," Vlad half-joked back. "I'm by far your best option." Harriet gave a hum as she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" she inquired. Vlad motioned to himself as if it was obvious, flashing a smile.

"Of course. Self made billionaire, tech industry pioneer, scientist, mayor of this fine city, and that's just the beginning," he bragged. She lightly shook her head with a smirk.

"Part time Dairy King worker that somehow caught the ice cream machine on fire, Skunk Punks lead singer whose voice cracked every time he sung anything and guitarist who couldn't play guitar," she listed off. Vlad rolled his eyes with a frown. "Idiot who kept sticking his head into the lab equipment machines and lost his eyebrows for six months. Skater wanna-be that broke both of his ankles trying to do tricks on the campus fountain." Vlad scowled.

"You can stop now," he complained. Harriet laughed.

"Oh, I almost need to buy you purely so that I can remind you that you're not all that and a bag of chips," she replied. "And I can finally corner you into an actual interview. You keep pushing me off." She faked a pout. "It's almost like you don't wanna be around me."

"Don't you have to be nosy somewhere else?" he asked.

"Hmm, not tonight." She glanced up at the clock on the wall. "I should go find a seat for the auction. You should probably get up on stage, make yourself look all nice and presentable."

Vlad rolled his eyes, waving her off.

"I need to use the restroom first," he replied. "You head on out."

"See up on the stage. Too bad this isn't Chippendales," she joked. Vlad felt his cheeks flush, and he glared at her. She walked off. Vlad glanced down at the camera bundle she had been eying. He glanced at the auction sheet, and he could tell by the handwriting that she had put in a bid that he knew somebody would eventually counter-offer. Vlad wrote his auctioning number down, and a bid he knew nobody would go over before he made his way to the auditorium.

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Finally, it was his turn. They put him last, which he completely understood. Always save the best for last. He nearly had dozed off in boredom in his seat while everybody else was auctioned off for barely a hundred dollars.

"We'll start the bidding, as always, at fifty dollars," the overly enthusiastic host said. Vlad mentally scoffed. He was definitely worth more than that. Ugh, this was the last time he did anything to help children. Fuck those little brats. "Fifty-five!"

A bunch of the auction fans shot up in the air. Vlad smiled in satisfaction.

"Oh wow! Okay, well how about sixty-five?" None of the hands went down. "Seventy-five." Two hands went down. "Eighty-five?" Three more hands reluctantly went down. "A hundred?" Most of the hands kept on standing. "Well!" the host chuckled, before directing his attention to Vlad. "You sure are a popular fella!"

No shit. He was a billionaire.

"Let's jump up a bit! One hundred fifty!" Finally, a good amount of the hands went down, leaving only a handful up. "One hundred seventy-five!" No hands down. "Two hundred!" A few reluctantly went down, leaving only four. "Okay, okay! How about-"

"Three hundred!" one of the women called out. The auctioneer looked surprised.

"Oh! Oh um. Okay! Does anybody wanna go higher than three hundred?" he asked.

"Three twenty-five!" Harriet's voice was instantly recognized by Vlad, and he stared in surprise.

"Three-fifty!" the first woman rebutted. Vlad studied her, only to quickly notice that this was a woman he really hadn't ever met before.

"Three seventy five!" Harriet wasted no time putting in her counter offer.

"Four hundred!"

"Four twenty five!"

"Four fifty!"

Vlad watched Harriet as the reporter's jaw clenched. She was staring at the competition with a hard stare.

"Five hundred!" she finally spoke. The other woman studied her, before giving a defeated sigh.

"No counter offer," the unfamiliar lady finally spoke. The auctioneer grinned, pointing to Harriet.

"Well! Looks like our highest prize of the night goes to bidder number seventy-four!"

Harriet met Vlad's eye, and she smiled. He smiled back.

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"So," Vlad asked, giving a coy smile. "You sure were an insistent bidder." Harriet flushed.

"I did it for the schools," she argued. "My niece goes to Casper High, remember?"

"Oh, I mean, if you did it just to help the schools," Vlad lightly teased. "Then we don't have to go out on the date." Harriet scoffed.

"No way, dude. I spent five-hundred dollars on you, and I'm going to get my money's worth." She poked him in the chest. "Which also means that you're buying me dinner, and some nice wine." Vlad rolled his eyes.

"Alright, alright," he reluctantly agreed. "What time shall I pick you up?" Harriet smiled.

"Uh, depends. When are you free? Tomorrow around seven? Ah, who am I kidding." She smirked at him. "You're probably free whenever. What else do you got going on? Be honest."

Vlad flushed red, scowling.

"Okay, I do happen to be free tomorrow night, but normally I'm not!" he insisted. Harriet snorted. "So you need to make sure you check with me before you schedule something."

"You got nothing," she teased in a sing-song voice.

"Oh? And what do you do?" Vlad challenged. She hummed.

"Well, typically on Mondays I visit my grandmother, Wednesday is girls' night with my friends, Thursdays I have my yoga class, and on the weekends I normally get friends with friends or co-workers, go hike, short trip. Whatever I feel like," she replied without missing a beat. Vlad hated Jack for convincing him to do this stupid auction. "And of course, several days a week I go to the gym."

"I go to the gym too," Vlad insisted. Harriet raised an eyebrow at him. "I do! I'm in excellent shape."

"Are you going to the gym, or do you use a home gym in your mansion?" she pressed. Vlad didn't reply. "Thought so. Guess we're on tomorrow at seven?"

"...Tomorrow at seven."

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Vlad had opted to simply drive himself in one of his flashy, yet more modest cars. It was honestly kind of hard to go to many places in a limo anyway, and not very intimate when there was an unintentional third party hanging out in the car. Harriet had texted him her address earlier, and he showed up right on time, pulling his car up to the curb of her house. A gentleman was never late, after all.

He parked, not bothering to lock his doors as he stepped up to her house. It was a typical small home in a decent little neighborhood. Not one that Vlad could ever imagine himself living in however, but it was cute. He stood at her front door. He exhaled harshly, mentally preparing himself.

He'd be lying to himself if he said that he wasn't nervous. It was one thing to date a new woman he had just met, but this was Harriet. She knew him when he was still a broke college student that worked part time at Dairy King and was in that terrible punk band with Jack.

Vlad rang her doorbell. He absentmindedly wondered if he'd have to wait on her for long, but thankfully, Harriet answered the door fairly quickly.

"Hey! Look at you!" she greeted cheerfully. Vlad knew he flushed a bit at the compliment, which made him...feel weird. That never happened before. "You really cleaned up for me." Okay now he had to roll his eyes a little. Vlad was in a nicer suit compared to normal, with a darker shirt collar and cufflinks, more polished shoes and the like.

"Ah, I'm nothing compared to how lovely you look this evening," he returned the compliment, and he could see Harriet's cheeks brighten a bit under her porch's poor lighting. They had texted each other about their plans, and so she had dressed appropriately for the five star restaurant; a black dress with dark green detailing that came to her knees, matching shoes and her hair done up. She had a formal black jacket over her arm, as well as a clutch handbag. "Are you ready?"

"Uh, one second!" Harriet turned to her door, checking to ensure it was locked. Once she did so, she turned, slipping her arm into his. "Now I am."

"Well, off we go," he smiled. "I think you'll like where we're going. It has the most divine sushi in Amity Park."

"I can't wait," Harriet replied. "I love sushi. Remember that campus sushi bar?"

"Absolutely," he replied. He walked her down the porch to his car. "Maddie worked there. She used to sneak us huge takeout boxes of leftovers."

"Oh I nearly forgot about that," Harriet laughed. "I'd help her smuggle out the boxes in my backpack."

"And you got soy sauce all over your bag four times," he chuckled. Harriet grumbled.

"Yeah, I had to re-print my final paper," she complained. "And eventually get a new bag that didn't smell like sushi all the time."

Vlad opened the car door for her. She slipped her arm out, giving him a thanks as she slipped inside.

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Naturally, he had made a reservation for the best seat in the house; a table in a more private area of the place, indoors but near a large window that had a good view of the beautiful landscaping in their limited yard-area.

After giving his car to the valet and getting seated, Vlad glanced at the menu, immediately spying his favorite, rock shrimp tempura. However he looked around to see what else was available. Hmm, he was somewhat in the mood for BBQ Unagi…

"What do you normally get?" Harriet questioned as she looked over her options.

"...Know what? Since this is your first time, maybe we should just get morimoto omakase," Vlad suggested. He gently pushed her menu down so that he could look at it, and he pointed to the option. Harriet scanned the description. Essentially a dish with a little bit of everything.

"Ooo, that sounds good," Harriet mused.

"It's delicious, and it pairs well with white wine," Vlad told her. She smiled.

"Let's get that then," she agreed.

When the waiter came by, they ordered just that. Quickly, the waiter had come back to bring them the bottle of white wine, pouring them their first glass for them before leaving the bottle at Vlad's request. They each took a sip.

"Mmm, this is pretty good," Harriet spoke first. "I typically just get a red wine."

"I do too," Vlad replied. "But white wine goes well with fish." Harriet gave a surprised hum before taking another drink. "You probably know too much about me though. Tell me about your work. Amity News." She nodded.

"Yeah, I'm one of the main news anchors," she replied.

"Oh trust me, I know. I get to watch you tell me the news every day, it's a highlight of the day," Vlad complimented. Harriet rolled her eyes with a flush.

"Alright, cheesehead," she teased. "But yeah, I really love it. When I was younger I really enjoyed investigative journalism, since it let me go all over, but I'm really liking being in one place. Though I occasionally go out on the scene, but it's kinda dangerous to cover ghost fights here. And what we have Lance for."

Vlad snorted. He knew the news man too well. He was, as the kids called it, a meme at this point. He knew Daniel and his friends constantly posted these memes of Lance Thunder on social media, making fun of his on the scene appearances.

"What do you make of all these ghosts?" Vlad questioned. Harriet shrugged.

"Well, they certainly exist. Honestly thought Jack was stupid to try and build that one ghost portal in college. Even though. Ugh, Jack is such a buffoon sometimes," Harriet grumbled. "I still haven't forgiven him for costing me my job in Milwaukee, especially since I used him as a reliable source. Ugh!" She stopped herself to finish off her glass of wine. She exhaled deeply as she put the glass down, half-smiling apologetically. "Sorry. I know he's your friend."

"No, no no," Vlad replied eagerly. "I understand. After all, it was my home he destroyed, remember?" Harriet nodded.

"He had to have done thousands in damage," she said sympathetically. "Especially to your library. Oh, and it was a beautiful library too."

"It was one of my favorite rooms in that house," Vlad sighed. "I rebuilt the room, but it just wasn't ever quite the same. My new library, however, it's simply gorgeous."

"Oh?" Harriet questioned. Vlad took it as a sign to continue.

"It's a two story library, for once, like a true two story library. The lighting is fantastic, but also on a dimmer so the mood can be truly set," he began to describe. "I managed to slowly rebuild my collection of the classics, and there's a wood burning fireplace. Oh and of course, my favorite, the small reading nook with the most comfortable chair you will ever sit in next to a huge window. It's simply perfect."

"Oh, I would probably sit in that nook and read forever," Harriet sighed dreamily. Vlad smiled, picking up the bottle of wine with a raised eyebrow. Harriet picked her glass up, holding it for him to pour her some more. He did so, before refilling his own glass. She took another long sip of her drink.

"I would more often, but unfortunately, it's also the cat's favorite spot, and I can never bring myself to move her," he confessed. Harriet beamed.

"Vlad! You never told me you had a cat!" she exclaimed. "What's his name?" Vlad felt a cold sweat hit him. Wait.

"Maggie," he lied. "When I adopted her, that was what they called her, and it didn't feel right to change it." Harriet nodded understandingly. She set her glass of wine down to dig through her clutch, and she pulled her phone out.

"I have the most handsome little guy, his name's Taggy. Short for Maytag," she said. She showed Vlad her phone, exposing a picture of a grey and white cat stretched out in a cat hammock near a window. But that name...

"...Maytag? As in the company?"

Harriet flushed a bit.

"When I moved into my first apartment, his previous owners had left him, and so my old roommate and I began calling him Maytag after the refrigerator, since he came with the apartment, and we put food in him," she explained. "Then my roommate got married, and her husband's cats didn't get along with Taggy, so I just kept him, and he's moved six times with me since then." Vlad cracked a smile.

"Mad-ggie's name has kind of devolved into me just calling her Princess," he admitted. "I've bought so many luxury cat things for her and beds, the drinking fountain water bowl, wet food, the best vet in all of Illinois. Only the finest."

"I do the same for Taggy, much as I can afford. He's my special guy."

The waiter shyly interrupted them, bringing them each a huge plate of food. Harriet eyed hers hungrily, thanking him cheerfully.

"Oh, this does delicious," Harriet beamed. She took her chopsticks, and grabbed a bite. Vlad took another sip of wine before he did the same. "It tastes great too!"

"You think I'd steer you wrong?" Vlad lightly bragged.

"Who knows," Harriet shrugged. She gave a sly smirk. "You're the one who steered us all so wrong that you got the van stuck in a snowbank." Vlad glared at her, making her burst into snickers.

They ate in silence for a few moments, savoring their meal. Harriet took another long drink of her wine, and Vlad refilled it for her. She gave a smile.

"Thank you," she said. "Do you like your food?"

"Very much so, it's delicious," he replied. "How's yours?"

"Great, I never had such delicious food!" She ate another chopstick full of food. "I guess this is how five star dining is, huh? I made a good date investment. But next time I gotta take you to a diner."

"Oh?" Vlad raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I get the feeling that you eat too fancy," she explained. "Sometimes you just need the greasiest burger and saltiest fries that you wash down with cheap soda."

"Hmm, wouldn't you prefer I take you to a five star steakhouse?" he questioned.

"You can take me there on our third date," Harriet replied. Vlad raised his eyebrow again. "But for date too, I think you need a greasy burger."

"Third date?" he echoed. He took a drink of his wine, finishing it off.

"Yeah, I think you'll wanna take me out again," Harriet hummed. She reached for the wine to refill his glass for him.

"Thank you, dear. But really?"

"Absolutely, I'm a catch," she replied. "I've travelled the world, I'm very educated, financially stable, have my own house, am very pretty." She jokingly flipped her hair.

"Ah, I'd say you're more of a beauty than just very pretty," Vlad mused. Harriet smiled.

"Aww, thank you cheesehead," she replied. "But yes. So naturally, I think you're not going to be able to resist asking me to accompany you out again. I did you a favor by bidding on you, actually."

"We'll see how the night ends, and who's wanting a second date more," Vlad said. "I mean, yes you are quite a catch, but I think you're forgetting who was voted as sexiest billionaire by Cosmopolitan magazine." Harriet nearly choked on her wine from laughter.

"Oh my god, you read Cosmo?" she giggled. Vlad flushed red.

"N-no, I was told this," he insisted. "When I got voted as such." Harriet had to put her chopsticks down, covering her mouth as she tried to contain her laughter. Vlad slammed back the rest of his wine, refilling his own cup.

"Oh man, you really haven't changed all that much." She took a deep breath to get her laughter under control. "Same ol' cute Vlad." This peaked his interest.

"You thought I was cute?" he asked. Harriet flushed, picking her chopsticks back up to continue eating.

"Eh, kinda. In that nerdy sorta way," she confessed. "I tried getting your attention a few times, but you never seemed too interested. You were always really distracted by that portal project."

More like distracted by Maddie, as she was a huge reason why he was so interested in helping with the proto portal project. Remembering the woman of his dreams made him pause. He suddenly felt guilty that he was out on a date. And Maddie's college best friend of all people!

Of course, he had dated here and there. Maddie was, unfortunately, married, so he knew that rationally he had to somewhat try and move on. But nobody had ever truly clicked with him, or made him feel like she had. His mind was often distracted by her the entire time but...until now he had actually forgotten about Maddie.

"Ah yeah, I was...really focused on school," he half-lied, taking another bite of food.

"I could tell. Nerd," she jibbed. "Even now I can tell you're super busy with all your business stuff."

"Not as busy as you'd think, but also yes," Vlad corrected. "I have a lot of meetings to attend and business decisions to make, but I at least get a lot of help and feedback."

"That's true," Harriet said. "But I'm glad we're able to do something now. Even if we just never got around to it back then." She poked at one of her foods with her chopstick before taking the bite. "I mean, I've been kind of all over too. I don't think anything would have even worked out had we even tried something."

"Ah, yes. I remember Maddie mentioning that you were never in one place for more than two months for a long time," Vlad said.

"Yup!" she confirmed. "That's investigative journalism for ya. Takes you all over. But I really liked it. I'm glad I had that opportunity, and that I did it. Don't regret a bit of it."

"Business too," he agreed. "Especially when you're starting an empire. I don't think I was truly home for months at a time, I was going from place to place to oversee offices being built and products being made. Seeing how progress is being made on research. It was a busy first fifteen years or so. I don't think I was truly relaxing and enjoying what I'd made until the past six years or so."

"Yeah, I remember reading about your progress," she said. "Fascinating story. You had such amazing charisma to get all these companies to go with your plans." Vlad felt a bit of a nervous wave hit him, but he didn't show it, or really even have to reply. Harriet had already moved on. "Ugh, this was so good. I can't believe I was able to eat all of this."

Her plate was empty, and he had just taken his last bite.

"Would you like dessert?" he asked. She shook her head no.

"Nah, I'm good. I've eaten enough," she replied. Vlad just nodded, and he called their water over.

Instead of waiting to get a receipt book from the waiter, he simply handed him his credit card. Vlad never checked the bill when he went out to eat. The price tag never bothered him.

The waiter accepted it, soon coming back for Vlad to sign. Vlad quickly did, and for his trouble, he also handed the young man five hundred dollar bills as a tip. It made him nearly tear up and stutter as he thanked him, but quite honestly, it was more to show off to Harriet his generosity more than any genuine kindness, which, judging by her expression, absolutely worked.

Vlad gave him a half smile and waved him off, and the pair collected their things to leave, heading towards the front of the restaurant arm in arm.

"You know, the night's still young," Vlad mused. He opened the door for her, and Harriet slipped through.

"Thank you," she replied. "But oh? You don't have work?"

"Nothing that can't be rearranged," he replied. "Do you?" Harriet smiled.

"Nope, I have tomorrow off. So what are you thinking?" she asked. Vlad glanced at his watch. Hell, it was only ten-thirty.

"Have you ever been to the Amity Park Country Club?" he questioned. She nodded.

"Oh yeah. I've been there as a guest twice, for interviews," she explained. She glanced at her phone. "Doesn't it close soon though?" Vlad chuckled.

"On midnights on the weekends," he replied.

"Hmm, okay," Harriet agreed. "But we won't stay too long."

Vlad went up to the valet, informing him of his car make and model, and the young man nodded, jogging off to fetch it.

"My dear, I'm a high priority member. They'll stay open for me," he insisted. Harriet rolled her eyes.

"The workers wanna go home too, Vlad," she reminded him. "We should be respectful of their time and leave when it closes."

Vlad resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was above having to follow those kinds of petty rules. When you had billions in the bank, you could easily just toss a few thousand out to make workers let you stay past the closing time with no issues. He had never heard a single complaint after he flashed a few thousand, a drop in the bucket for him. But what Harriet wanted, she would get. He supposed, anyway. After a few dates, she'd likely just begin agreeing with him and allow him to bend the rules for her.

After a few dates? Vlad thought on it. Yeah...after a few dates.

"Whatever you wish," he replied.

His car pulled up, and Vlad immediately opened the car door for her.

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"And it just kind turned into a semi-permanent offer until I got kinda homesick," Harriet finished her story off as she hit another ball with the golf club. Vlad hummed lightly as her ball went off towards somewhere in the dark. "But it was amazing. I'd love to return to China sometime. Kinda unfortunately, Amity Park doesn't really cover international news like that. It's very local only."

"Maybe you should just come with me next time I go," Vlad offered. He grabbed another golf ball from their large bucket of them, setting it on the tee before lining himself up. With an experienced swing, he hit the ball, and it flew off. "To China, I mean. I go there about twice a year or so for business. Sometimes more."

"Ugh, that'd be awesome," Harriet agreed. She leaned over to pick up her drink, a pink margarita, that was resting on the tables that were set up near the driving range. Her jacket and clutch were on the table too, her heels tucked under the table. Vlad had also folded his suit jacket neatly to rest next to hers, allowing himself to also unbutton and roll his sleeves up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt. He also had his own drink, a rum and coke, that sat near hers. "I can show you all the local spots from my time there."

"Hm, that would be very nice," Vlad mused. He hit another ball. He was somewhat glad that Harriet had talked him out of doing the full course. While he didn't care (and Harriet very much did) that it would have taken far past closing time to finish a game, it was much more relaxing to just do this. Especially with nobody else being around. "I typically do only business."

"Oh boo, that's boring," Harriet said. She already had another ball on her tee, and she wacked it again. The ball went soaring. "What's the point of all your money if you're not enjoying yourself and your life?"

Vlad didn't reply. He focused on another swing. The ball stayed close to the ground, quickly rolling on and on and on before he couldn't see where it went anymore.

"You were married before, weren't you?" Vlad questioned. Harriet snorted.

"Oh, we're already at the 'let's talk about our exes' part of the relationship?" she teased. Vlad chuckled, grabbing another ball. "Eh, for about seven years. Nothing bad happened, we just realized that we weren't really as compatible as we thought. I enjoyed traveling the world and being out, and he was a big homebody that hated planes and trains. Started to realize that I wanted a family one day, he preferred it to be just us. We didn't see each other that much cause I would go cover stories all over, and it just felt like we'd be happier. So we just kind of had a mutual divorce."

"I can understand that," Vlad replied. He lightly tapped his ball twice before swinging the club as hard as he could. The ball straight up disappeared in a blink of an eye.

"So what's your excuse for never having a girlfriend before?" Harriet questioned. Vlad was grateful about the lighting, as he knew that his face was dark red. "Too busy with work, too nerdy, what?"

"I've had a girlfriend before!" he argued. "I've dated women plenty before. Don't you remember Stacy?"

"Nope," Harriet replied. She hit another ball.

"Yes you do!" he insisted. He took a break from swinging, leaning on his club. "I was with her for four years! Out of all the women I dated she was the one the papers and articles talked about the most. Don't you remember all the rumors swirling around about why we hadn't gotten married already?"

"Hmm, must have been a figment of your imagination," Harriet replied, and he exhaled dramatically. He finally noticed the shit-eatting grin, and that she was just pulling his leg. She giggled, grabbing another golf ball. She tossed it up into the air, catching it before putting it on the tee. "Okay, okay. So why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I what?" Vlad questioned. He took a step towards their table, grabbing his drink. He needed it right about now.

"Marry Stacy," Harriet clarified.

"Eh, it just wasn't really meant to be," he dismissed simply. He took a long gulp of his drink, sighing softly when he finished.

"Oh?" Harriet pressed. He frowned. He should have known that she was going to be nosy about it. Typical journalist.

"...I could tell that we didn't really like each other all that much," he confessed. "We were just both lonely. We would go places together but never actually be together. We lived together but never saw each other outside of bedtime, though towards the end, she began to just sleep in a separate room since our schedules would be so different. We talked about getting married on and off, but...I don't know when it clicked for me that this just wasn't what I truly wanted. I wanted a wife and children that I spent time with and that I loved being with. So we just kind of broke up, and she moved out."

Harriet nodded understandingly.

"At least you realized it before children potentially got involved," she said. "I'm glad I divorced with no children. I'd hate to put them through something like that."

"Agreed," Vlad replied. He picked up another golf ball. Instead of bending over to put it on the ground, he lazily dropped it and hit the ball on the bounce. "How many would you want?"

"Hm? What? Kids?" Harriet questioned. Vlad gave a 'mhm' noise to confirm. "At least two. A boy and a girl. What about you?"

"As many as possible," he said. He got another ball. "I always wanted a big family."

"Hmm, well I'm not a clown car," Harriet replied. "Regardless of how often I'd let a clown like you in." Vlad rolled his eyes. "Besides, you have Jasmine and Danny right? Maddie and Jack's kids?"

"Yeah, they're my godchildren," Vlad confirmed. He reached over for another quick sip of his drink. "I bought Jasmine her car. When Daniel gets his license I'll be getting him one too. And of course, paying for college. I have a few other godchildren too, same deal. I've gotten them all a car and paid for college. Can't let them have any of that dreadful student loan debt."

"Aw, you're just a big ol' softie," Harriet teased. "I'm not a billionaire, so I can't really do the same, but I'm pitching in to help my sister get my niece a decent used car next year. By the time her little brother's getting a car, I'll likely be doing the same."

"You're looking for cars for her?" Vlad mused. "I can get her one." Harriet shook her head.

"No, that's not necessary," she replied. "It's a lot to ask."

"Nonsense, I have the money to spare," he persisted. "A decent used car. Children don't need brand new ones, they're still learning." Harriet bit her lower lip as she pondered the offer.

"We'll discuss it another time with my sister," she said. Vlad nodded in agreement. He grabbed a ball. Their bucket was nearly empty now.

"I understand," he replied. Harriet picked up one of the last balls. She tossed it up in the air and swung her bat. She missed, but she quickly was able to redeem herself by hitting it on the third bounce. "I just hate to see children go without. That's why I was auctioned off, afterall. For the sake of the kids." Harriet gave a skeptical hum, getting another ball. "...Well, you know, if we're going to go out again, I need to make a good first impression on your family."

"That's better," Harriet replied. "If we're going to hang out more like this, we need to be open and honest with each other."

Vlad picked up the last ball. He stared at it for a moment, and he put it on Harriet's tee for her. She shot him a thankful smile, and she wacked the ball into the night.

"There'll be more, right?" Vlad asked.

"Well, if you're free next Friday, we can go see a show," Harriet suggested. She went back to the table, slipping into her heels again. She downed the last bit of her drink. "Local theater's opening weekend is soon."

Next weekend was terrible. Vlad had so much to do that following week that he'd have to spend all weekend preparing for. Many meetings, lots of documents to read and write and revise. Moving anything around would be an absolute headache.

But it could be moved around.

"Sounds lovely," he agreed. He finished off his drink before rolling his sleeves down again. He slipped his jacket back on. "Ready to head home?"

"We have to take the cups and clubs back up to the office," she said, nodding at the country club. Vlad made a face, and he began to protest, but a Look from Harriet made him shut up.

"Alright, alright," he sighed. Harriet grabbed their cups, and he took their clubs.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Next Friday, right?" Harriet asked as they took the final step up onto her porch.

"Yes, I'll call you tomorrow to organize a proper time," Vlad told her. He paused as he suddenly remembered. "One second."

He did a half-jog back to his car, opening the backseat and pulling out a basket. As he returned to the door, it became clear as to what it was. It was the camera bundle she had been bid on at the auction, and she stared at it.

"Here, I had noticed you bid on it. I wanted to make sure you got it," he explained, handing it out to her.

"You bought that?" she questioned.

"Yes, I knew that you'd be outbid. So I just made sure that you could get it," he replied. Harriet smiled warmly, accepting it.

"Thank you," she said. She set it on one of the porch chairs for now. "This was honestly such a great night. Gotta admit, I was kinda skeptical, but you really impressed me."

"Of course, didn't you say yourself that you made a good investment," he joked. Harriet snickered.

"Yeah, but I think even I surprised myself," she said. "I thought I was just going to buy a nice, fancy one dinner, but I'm pretty sure I actually did buy somebody that I'm going to be introducing to my mom." She gestured to her front door. "Did you wanna come inside for a bit? Pretty sure you're too tired to make the long drive home."

"I don't live too far," Vlad replied. "It's about twenty minutes, I can easily get home."

"Oh?" Harriet lightly pressed. "You sure you're not too tired though? Don't need a coffee or anything? Or want to take a nap before you go?"

It finally clicked.

"Ah, you know, I think I would like to rest a bit before I go," he agreed. Harriet smiled, turning to unlock her door. Vlad grabbed the camera basket for her, and they went inside.

#phic phight 2021 #harriet chin #vlad masters #the bachelor #my phics #phics

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neverendingstories00 · 4 years

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you guessed it...another round (unfortunately) of BoB headcanons in the middle of the night because sleep is for the weak but I am weak

Luz has...a unique sense of style. We’re talking clashing patterns, neon crocs with jibbits, sunglasses and fedoras, you name it. Urban Outfitters who? He was wearing it before it was trendy🙄✋🏽 GET on his level. A wonderful example of his fashion sense is the time the company had weekend passes (modern au) and he decided to wear his best outfit; a white shirt with an horribly outdated meme, cargo shorts with a chain, nike socks, and neon crocs. To top it off; a fedora and sports sunglasses with a purple tint. Yeah, it’s BAD.

To add to the Luz and his horrible fashion sense, do any of you remember icarly and the penny tee’s saying stuff like “my cheese my rules” and “fries matter?” HE OWNS A WHOLE DAMN CLOSET OF THEM

I can see Speirs LOVING Lana Del Rey. He has a secret Spotify and has a whole playlist of his favourite songs by her. Actually not just Lana Del Rey, all the sad girls like Lorde and Mitski. If you catch Speirs singing in a velvet robe to Millon Dollar Man, no you didn’t. You would be dead by then.

Speaking of music tastes, let’s move onto Lewis Nixon. First of all, brace yourself. Lewis Nixon has reverted back into his college phase (like he ever grew out of it). He’s a huge fan of Alternative eighties rock like The Smiths, The Pyscadelic Furs, Talking Heads, The Cure, etc. He has all his old vinyls and it’s a cool collection. However, Nixon hates Morrisey, which is good. He complains about the Smiths, with The Queen Is Dead blasting in the back.

Speirs kidnapped Carwood Lipton one time. Carwood works as an English teacher and Speirs is his boyfriend who works as a real estate agent meets ex mafia hitman but he doesn’t talk about it. Speris one day was like “we’re going camping” and took Carwood...camping. But like the thing is...Carwood told NO ONE. And plus he had a job to teach so yeah. Let’s just say that Carwood might’ve been a missing person’s case for like two weeks. But he kept posting on his Facebook like “what a lovely hike with my lovely boyfriend😍” or “look at our rv? isn’t she something🥰” and George Luz would comment and be like “BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED HELP WHERE RU”

Eugene wanted Babe to start eating healthier, so he took him to Trader Joe’s and made him buy a bunch of healthy snacks because in case you have forgotten, Babe is a literal baby. So Babe picks out a bunch of snacks but doesn’t realize it’s baby food, nor does Eugene. So Babe is casually munching on little yogurt bites and Guarno is like “Franny feeds that to our baby what the fuck” and Babe spits them out, mortified.

Floyd Talbert was apart of the dance team in middle. Like, he was the only guy on the team so it was insanely akwared. I can imagine him having a solo for “Womanizer” but getting kicked off the stage bc he started full on strip dancing in a glittery fedora in front of his prince pal. High school Floyd is an absolute nightmare.

Joe Liebgott eats Hershey Bars, Meat, and monster energy drinks only. No wonder he’s skinny. He’s such a picky eater, it’s horrible. Like he also loves weird food combos, like cheese and Oreos. Which is nasty.

Dick Winters LOVES Water Skiing. I’m not joking, it’s his favourite hobby. Catch your daddy Quaker in a pair of tight speedo shorts and Nixon’s aviators, gliding across the water.

HARRY!! How could I forget. I can see his man owning a bunch of cat’s and calling them “sweetie”, “honey”, “sugar”, and a bunch of cutesy names. All of the name’s were kitty’s idea. Speaking of Kitty, I can see her being a big girl, like height and weight. Harry worships her and calls her “my big beautiful Amazon” and Nixon thinks it’s weird BUT IT’S CUTE

Johnny Martin has a secret Twitter account that nobody is allowed to see. Instead of typing like a normal person, he smashes the keyboard. Nobody knows what he’s saying except for Bull. It’s very concerning.

For Halloween, the mortar trio have really strange costumes. One year, they were a rollercoaster. Other years they were the three musketeers, Alvin and the chipmunks, and the powderpuff girls. There costumes are genuinely terrifying to look at. Did I mention there the sexy versions as well? There worse costume was sexy rock, paper, and scissors. Mega yikes.

#band of brothers #speirton #winnix #carrie chats

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cognacdelights · 4 years

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Teenage Dirtbags | 001. — Welcome To Exile

Summary: In which, an out of control teenager is sentenced to a summer in the Outer Banks to come to terms with her mother’s untimely death, and reform her rebellious, troublesome ways before she does irreversible damage.

Author’s Note: So this is the first chapter of Teenage Dirtbags. I really hope that you enjoy. Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist and all my masterlists will be linked below if you feel like checking out my other fics. Also, I’m doing a celebration cocktail night at the moment so feel free to get involved with that!

Warnings: This series may contain mature themes/content throughout including but not limited to swearing, sexual language and/or scenes, substance abuse and mentions of death.

Word Count: 2999.

Teenage Dirtbags Series Masterlist.

Fill The Void General Masterlist.

This gif is not mine, all credit goes to the owner.

001. — Welcome To Exile

The sweltering, mid-day sun was unforgiving as it stared, ceaselessly, down upon the unkempt, sandy shorelines of the island. It was typical for temperatures to reach an unbearable eighty-five degrees fahrenheit in the Outer Banks during the summer months, however the subtropical jet stream had brought with it an exceptionally merciless wave of blistering heat this year. The old, mercury thermometer that hung proudly beside the entrance to the ferry deck read one hundred and two degrees - or, perhaps, it was one hundred and three. The thermometer's glass had clouded over due to the extensive build up of dirt over the years and had obscured the faded markings. Whether it read one hundred and two or one hundred and three was merely a trivial discrepancy; either way, it was still miserably hot and insufferable.

As Marnie Sinclaire stepped outside onto the ivory-painted decking, the salt-laced, ocean-scented air overwhelmed her petite silhouette. It was uncomfortably thick and oppresively muggy - and the occasional oceanfront breeze was feeble, offering little relief against her fair, freckle-littered complexion. A content cluster of perspiration droplets adorned her forehead, causing her pale skin to glisten under the relentless rays of the North Carolinian sun. She could feel the prickling, burning sensation as the ultraviolet rays graced the high points of her doll-like features, and anticipated the inevitable rosy tinge that would develop in their absence. It would take some time for the dark-haired tearaway to adjust to the Mid-Atlantic climate; her blanched complexion was far more accustomed to New York's much milder conditions.

Her piercing, indigo eyes followed the labyrinth of cracks between the wooden planks as she stepped nonchalantly towards the bustling dock. The queue before her was fast-paced, and had dwindled down in just a matter of minutes as the eclectic array of passengers disembarked the privately-run ferry. Those trapped behind her sighed haughtily, and proceeded to roll their eyes in an obnoxious display of disapproval, as Marnie continued to move painfully lackadaisically in the direction of the dock. It was her final exhibit of reluctance to spend her summer vacation on the Outer Banks islands before she officially arrived, and she was determined to savour every last millisecond of her much-loved freedom.

"Have a nice day, Miss," a greying, middle-aged member of the ferry's crew bid her a pleasant farewell. The full, hearty smile - which had been plastered across his ochre complexion since his first interaction with the auburn-haired lady at the front of the long, winding queue - remained genuine, as he proceeded to address the insufferably impatient couple next in line. He seemed to be such a cheerful, sanguine man; in fact, everybody aboard the hell-bound vessel appeared to be detestably overjoyed to be on the island - well, except for Marnie. The bitter brunette had likened the experience to being ordered to serve a life sentence in the solitary confinements of Alcatraz - cruel, painful and inhumane.

After several hesitant steps towards the silt-covered tarmac strip which somewhat resembled a road, she halted. Her wary, sapphire eyes examined the chaotic hustle and bustle for any distinguishable sign of either of her grandparents. Although, truthfully, Marnie wasn't sure she would recognise them if they were stood centimetres in front of her and brandishing a luminous, neon sign; she hadn't physically seen her grandparents since she was four years old. Her parents' hectic and manic work schedules, and the uncomfortably long travel time between the Outer Banks and New York, meant that visiting for both parties was simply not an option. Yet, here she was, contrived to make the dire eight and a half hour journey alone - with just last month's crumpled edition of Vogue to keep her company.

"Marnie, is that you?" the sweet, honey-like voice of an elderly lady captured Marnie's attention. Her face was weathered - presumably due to the sheer amount of time she had spent under the constant and relentless gaze of the Mid-Atlantic sun, and the lack of adequate ultraviolet protection. Nevertheless, a cordial, welcoming beam still upturned the corners of her retreating lips. Her silver-tinted locks brushed against her cardigan-covered shoulders, and the dried-out ends curled upwards in a natural kink. The two front wisps had been tucked behind her pearl-baring ears, secured into place by the over-sized, diamonte-encrusted sunglasses that sat atop the crown of her head. She bared resemblance to Marnie's mother slightly; she had the same piercing, ashen eyes and high, prominent cheek bones that were decorated by a natural flush of rouge.

"Grams?" Marnie responded in a casual manner, although the answer was undoubtedly, blatantly obvious. An unidentifiable pang of emotion filled her stomach at the sight of her estranged grandmother, twisting and turning her insides in a sickly, tornado-like whirl. It was such a bittersweet reunion for the grandmother and granddaughter; Marnie had craved a reconnection with her mother's side of the family ever since her untimely death almost three years ago, however, she had always anticipated that it would be on her terms and not at the hands of her at-a-loss father.

"Doesn't she look just like Della, Graham?" her grandmother cooed in her saccharine tone, as she took in the petite, fair-skinned beauty before her. It was almost as if she had been transported back twenty years prior, to when her own daughter was sixteen years old and had the whole island in the palm of her hands. Neither Marnie, her grandmother, nor her grandfather could deny that Marnie was a doppelganger of her mother. From the infamous, prominent cheek bones, to the luscious, peach-tinted lips, to the lustrous, cinnamon waves - she was a complete carbon copy of Della Baker-Sinclaire. To Marnie this was both a blessing and a curse; whilst being gifted with her mother's charmingly beauteous looks came with it's obvious perks, every time Marnie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror she was reminded of the devastating tragedy that utterly devoured her life. That took a toll on her, as it would anybody in her position.

"The spitting image," her grandfather agreed, taking a second to indulge in marvelling at his one and only granddaughter. A solemn expression etched itself into his dappled, ageing features as he remembered his late daughter in all of her unprecedented beauty. His sparse, silver eyebrows furrowed together in objection as his sunken, chartreuse eyes fixated on the silver, metallic ring protruding from Marnie's septum. "What's that in your nose?" he questioned almost immediately, the tone of his voice exuding absolute disapproval. There it was, what could have been a beautifully sentimental moment between a granddaughter and her estranged grandparents ruined, all because of a two dollar metal ring extruding from her septum.

"My septum piercing," Marnie's voice was impassive, and lacked emotion as she answered her grandfather - a vacant, deadpan expression occupying her doll-like features. The sporadic, coastal gust picked up ever so slightly, brushing the out of control teenag's tangled, chestnut locks across her pale face. The gentle wisps tickled against her reddening complexion, forcing the unruly brunette to turn against the direction of the much-appreciated draught.

"Did your father consent to you mutilating your face like that?" her grandmother interrogated. A disapproving glare contorted her haggard features, as her intense, oyster eyes clouded over with the unmistakable fog of condemnation. Despite her typically gentle and innocent nature, her grandmother could be a ruthless and malevolent woman at times. Raised solely by the word of the bible, Eileen Baker stood by the preaches of the lord to determine what was right and what was wrong in life. You would be damned to oppose the word of the bible, particularly in the eyes of Eileen; it was the law of the land in the Baker household.

"He almost had a heart attack when he found out," her granddaughter admitted with an apathetic shrug of her petite, denim-covered shoulders. Although she remained nonchalant and dismissive, Marnie was cautious of her grandmother's reaction. Her mother had told her many a story of her unruly, teenage escapades on the Outer Banks islands, and how they were to the utmost discontent of her grandmother. Obtaining a ticket back to her concrete sanctuary was a game of tactic and strategy - divulging further details of how she had actually pierced her septum herself, during a booze-fuelled weekend across the river, would condemn her to the island for the rest of eternity. That was simply a life Marnie could not fathom, nor was she even willing to bear.

"Well, there will be no more of that, young lady. You must ask our permission before you do anything," the ageing lady enforced her regime, an earnest glint occupying the cobalt speckles of her smokey eyes. She was resolute in straightening out her wayward granddaughter, just as she had with her own rebellion-filled daughter. It was her expectation that a bit of tough love and discipline would do the trick - however, the incessant niggling suspicion at the back of her mind urged her to prepare for an all out battle with the doe-eyed hellcat.

Marnie merely responded with a sickly-sweet smile of compliance. You had to choose your combats wisely with a woman like Eileen Baker if you were to ever reign supreme; it was an insignificant surrender to aid in a much more momentous war. At this moment in time, the element of surprise was her only weapon. Her grandparents would be expecting resistance, defiance and contention - anything but a submission. Giving in to their demands so effortlessly was a certified means of coercing them into loosening their restraints. Perhaps it would even compel them to question why she had been exiled to the Outer Banks in the first place. Well, she could only hope.

The tearaway teen had counted thirty seven steps until they had reached her grandparents' battered and bruised pickup truck. It was parked perfectly parallel to the sand-covered stone curb, a mere stones throw away from the main dock. It was an old make; the wheel alloys were scuffed and scraped to glory, and the North Carolina sun had faded the chipped, maroon paint over time. An almost invisible line of dints graced the side of the trailer - which Marnie only noticed when she struggled to haul her over-packed, stuffed-to-the-brim duffle bag over the side. She was thankful that her grandfather had opted to lift the offensively-bright fuchsia suitcase she had also dragged down the coast with her as she knew exactly how much that weighed. Whilst boarding her bus in Brooklyn, the driver had informed her that her suitcase was drastically over the permitted twenty kilogram weight limit and had issued her with a twenty five dollar fee to cover the extra weight of her case.

Clambering into the passenger side of the pickup truck, Marnie fished around in the pocket of her over-sized, denim jacket for her headphones. The wires were knotted together after being carelessly shoved into the unzipped pouch of the acid-washed jean. It took her a few frustrating seconds to free the entangled wires, but, nevertheless, it was a victory. Placing the buds in her pierced ears, Marnie turned her attention towards the window; a pattern of splatters decorated the glass, indicating that the truck hadn't been cleaned in some time. However, her luminous, cerulean eyes could still peer out and admire the picturesque scenery. In actual fact, the battery on Marnie's phone had died several hours previously and there was a steady wave of absolute silence blasting through the old, well-used wires. It was merely a successful ploy to deter her grandparents from launching into the impending lecture on her reckless and impulsive behaviour. She was sure to receive the reprimanding speech at some point, but for the duration of the journey to her grandparents' house she desired to be alone with her thoughts.

The drive across the island was considerably longer than Marnie had expected. Her idea of the Outer Banks islands was a series of small islands which you could walk the length and breadth of in a matter of half an hour, where everybody lived in wooden, beach-front huts - but she couldn't have been more wrong. Of course, there were your standard, shanty shacks that lined the shoreline, but there were also rows upon rows of enormous, architectural properties with beautifully landscaped gardens and extravagant yachts docked on their private jetties. It was almost as if the island had been split in two; it was a contradictory clashing of a vacational haven for the financially privileged and the mundane existence for the menial working class. Her grandparents lived on the cusp of both extremes - owning a newly-built house with a small plot of land. Nevertheless, they hadn't quite met the highbrow criteria for acceptance into the island's country club. Despite his retirement, Marnie's grandfather was a working man at heart and had spent the majority of his life earning a living as a commercial fisherman in the local waters. Her family very much belonged to the working class side of the island and were very much proud of their humble beginnings.

As the beat-up, old pickup truck pulled into the paved driveway, Marnie caught a fleeting glimpse of a boy stood on her grandparents' porch. Through the dust-coated windshield, she could make out his vague silhouette; he stood approximately six foot tall and had broad, square shoulders. His arms appeared to be sculpted and muscular, showcasing the signature, subtle bulging around his biceps and triceps. A washed-out, salmon snapback sat comfortably atop his head, as the remnants of his untamed, dark curls peeked beneath the brim of his hat. His jawline wasn't particularly defined, but Marnie could make out it's squared-off outline from the glaring rays that penetrated the shelter of the porch.

"John B, what can I do for you?" her grandfather's deep, assertive voice projected towards their house. His tone was inquisitive as he proceeded towards the two-story build, the cluster of keys to his beloved pickup truck clasped firmly in the palm of his calloused, well-worked hand. A concerned, yet quizzical, expression graced his wrinkled features - mimicking his intrigued inflection.

"Mr Heyward sent me with your groceries," the boy - who Marnie's grandfather had identified as John B - answered neutrally, holding up the unbranded, plastic carrier bags of groceries he had been tasked with delivering. His muscles tensed under the strain of lifting the hefty bags, the contours of his muscles being ever more evident as his bronzed complexion glistered celestially under the harsh light of the subtropical sun. He was a polarising contrast to the boys in Brooklyn, especially the boys that Marnie had acquainted herself with. Her male friends tended to be worryingly pasty, ridiculously gangly, and often came with one type of serious drug addiction or another.

"Thank you, son," her grandfather acknowledged the boy before him, retrieving the several bags of essential groceries. The greying, olive-skinned man took a few moments to inspect the neatly-packed groceries - confirming that he had indeed received the entirety of the goods he ordered. A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his dry lips, flashing an appreciative grin at the young Routledge boy. "You let Mr Heyward know that I'll square it with him when I see him, won't you?"

"Of course, Mr Baker," John B nodded politely, before proceeding to make his way down the painted, wooden porch steps. His off-white Converse padded lightly against the painted, cedar wood steps, as he adjusted his salmon snapback. The boy flashed a cordial smile at both Marnie and her grandmother as he passed them by, and nodded once again in a polite acknowledgement of both ladies. He may have been raised by his single father, but John B had been raised right. His father was a stickler for manners; if there was one thing he would instil in his only son, other than his intimate knowledge of the local waters, it was good manners.

"Oh, John B," the sugary, dulcet voice of Mrs Baker attracted the wavy-haired boys attention once again, compelling him to turn on the heels of his worn-in, off-white sneakers, "this is our granddaughter, Marnie. She's staying with us for the summer." In response to her grandmother's sudden introduction, Marnie plastered an evidently forced, caustic smile across her fair features. She raised her dainty palm in an impassive manner, and waved almost sarcastically at the sun-kissed boy before her. It was her grandmother's improvised attempt to make her granddaughter feel more at home on the island - introducing her to the local kids would aid her in making friends, and having friends would make the place more bearable for the New York native. Well, so her grandmother thought.

"Uh, hey," he spoke a little uneasy, unsure what to make of the situation that was abruptly unfolding in front of him. His dark, umber eyes peered downwards at the girl before him; her glossy, mahogany wisps cascaded down her back - yet to be touched by the moisture-sucking salt suspended in the ocean's playful waves, and her light, blemish-less skin exhibited a healthy glow. Her doe-like, ultramarine orbs reflected the suns rays, yet still managed to hold an unidentifiable darkness within their malachite speckles. She was, undoubtedly, beautiful - as insinuated by her model-like features and svelte, athletic figure. "Me and my friends are having a get together at the boneyard later, you should drop by."

Marnie's cold, callous eyes followed her grandmother’s nimble silhouette, watching intently as the short, silver-haired lady leisurely strolled up the ivory-painted porch steps and towards the front door. Sure she was out of earshot, the fair-skinned girl relaxed her prominent features from their strained contortion, "no need to roll out the welcome wagon, I'll be gone by this time next week. You won't even remember I existed by the end of summer."

"Suit yourself,” John B responded with an apathetic, slightly confused shrug of his broad, shirt-clad shoulders.

Taglist: @drewsephsmiles @spilledtee @bellaguarneri @outrbanks @ilovejjmaybank @milamaybank @jjtheangel @shawnssongs @jayjaymaebank @jjouterbanks @ptersparkers @jjcultmain @summerintheobx @captainpogue @rudyypankow @rudypankow-whore @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch

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nalgenewhore · 4 years

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Too Late To Turn Back Now - Two

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter

Elide Lochan has been living and working in Doranelle for years. Unknowingly, she let her visa expire and now must leave the country for a year - including losing her position as Crown Counsel. Without thinking, she ropes her associate, Lorcan Salvaterre, into her scheme to let her stay in Doranelle and announces that they are to be wed. As they fumble their way through their new relationship dynamics while visiting Lorcan’s family deep in Doranelle’s northern isles, they must keep up pretenses while their intentions change, all under the watchful eye of the immigration bureau.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: just a quick lil thing! so, i headcanon lorcan to be native and the nation i use for inspiration is the Lakota tribe, this will be more apparent in the following chapters, but just wanted to let yall know! happy reading 💛

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“Lorcan? Did you hear me?”

He hadn’t said a word in the past five minutes and Elide was getting worried. Finally, he opened his mouth, “I quit.”

Elide scoffed and rolled her eyes, “You can’t quit.”

Without another word, Lorcan stood and walked out, passing the rows of cubicles as Elide walked quickly after him, trying not to cause a scene. “Lorcan. Lorcan,” she hissed, her heels click-clicking on the marble floor of the building.

She followed him into the elevator and he pushed a random floor button, glaring at the paneling as if it had somehow grossly insulted him as he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. Elide tracked the way his jaw ticked and his nostrils flared, his eyes ablaze. Sooner than she could react, he slammed the emergency stop button and whirled on her. “You told them we’re getting married? Elide, you’re a fucking prosecutor, do you even understand that’s a crime? Like, punishable by the law.”

“They’ll never figure out it was a scam and besides, you can’t quit.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have the power to ruin your career and make sure you never get a job practicing on the continent and you know it.”

He did know it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Lorcan fumed silently and said, expertly calculated, “Fine. Say I say yes to this. I have some conditions.”

“Naturally.”

Lorcan shoved the urge to snap her neck down down down and breathed deeply, “First of all, a fifty percent pay raise, effective immediately. Secondly, after I finish articling, I get Cairn’s job with an added thirty percent pay raise after the first raise. And I want your office.” The last one he threw in for fun, knowing she would fight tooth and nail to keep her coveted corner office.

Elide seethed silently, tapping her foot on the floor, glaring up at him. Gods, she was an itty-bitty woman and he’d never been more terrified by anyone. “Thirty-ten percent raise. Promotion, Cairn’s office.”

“Eighty-sixty. Promotion, your office.”

Elide spoke through gritted teeth, “Forty-five-thirty, promotion and your choice of office besides mine.”

“Deal,” he said, holding his hand and they shook on it. “I’ll get the necessary documents.”

“Really?”

“Nope.”

Elide muttered something in her first language that he chose to ignore as he restarted the elevator and they traveled back to their floor. News sure traveled fast because the moment they stepped out, everyone was staring at them with semi-horrified expressions.

She pretended not to notice while Lorcan stared ahead, stony-faced. As he stopped at his desk, Elide informed him they’d be leaving in fifteen for the immigrations office. Lorcan groaned and hit his head on his desk, wondering just what he’d done to deserve this.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide’s pert nose wrinkled as they stepped into the crowded office and she took in the long line up. With a sigh, she snapped her fingers at Lorcan and bypassed the line. “Elide, you can’t do that,” he said, trying to get her to stop and wait her turn, like everyone else.

Of course, she dutifully paid him no heed and slid in front of the person who was stepping up to the counter, “Hi, I’m sorry, do you mind if I just? No? Good.” She plastered on her case-winning smile as she put her papers down. The tired man keeping the desk looked at her unimpressed as she said, “I have a marriage visa I need processed.”

She tapped her sharp nail on the folder and the man gave her a dirty look before he picked up her papers and moved to the back to process them. Elide blinked and turned to Lorcan, “Rude.”

Lorcan bit his tongue and ushered her into an empty seat as they waited for their fraud to be processed. A few minutes later, their names were called and Elide stood up excitedly, clapping her hands before she tucked her hand in his elbow and tugged him back to the front desk. “Hi, thank you so much-“

“Ms. Lochan, Mr. Salvaterre, if you two would just follow me please,” a serious looking man said, clearly no time for any games as they walked at a brusque pace to a dreary little office in the back. They both sat in the uncomfortable chairs, hands clasped on their laps.

“Is something the matter?” Elide inquired, a picture-perfect air of innocence on her stunning face. Though Lorcan loathed her most of the time, he wasn’t blind. Her high cheekbones and angular, uptilted eyes paired with a button nose and round, bee-stung lips made for a breathtaking image, especially with her molten brown eyes and hair that was black as a starless night.

Her figure wasn’t bad either, sinful curves in all the right places, lean legs that looked like they went on for miles and miles – Elide would be exactly Lorcan’s type, if only she wasn’t like this.

The man looked up from their file, his dark eyes lingering on Elide too long before flicking to Lorcan and sliding right back to the petite woman. He addressed her breasts as he spoke, “I am Agent Benson and it’s come to our attention through anonymous tip that this wedding might be a scam so that Ms. Lochan can keep her position as Crown Counsel.”

Elide tensed as his gaze never dropped and Lorcan reached over, gently taking her hand in his before she could commit yet another crime, one that she would never see the sun again for. She gave him an almost grateful smile and turned to Benson, “Mr. Benson, did this anonymous tip come from a man named Cairn Beinn, by any chance?” The agent hesitated to answer and inadvertently showed his hand. Elide chuckled and shook her head, “Mr. Beinn is nothing more than a disgruntled former employee. It’s merely a coincidence, nothing to worry about.”

Lorcan nodded, squeezing her hand once. Benson looked unconvinced and rose a brow, flipping through their papers once more. “Five years in federal prison and a fine of two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“When I find out you’re lying, Mr. Salvaterre here will go to prison for five years and you’ll both pay the fine. Ms. Lochan, you will be deported and never allowed in the country again.”

“I guess it’s a good thing we aren’t lying then,” Lorcan said, pulling Elide’s chair closer. She squeaked in surprise at the sudden movement. “Ain’t that right, sweetie?”

She smiled uncomfortably and he subtly shook his head, nodding as her smile grew more natural. “You know it.”

Benson sighed and leaned his elbows on his desk, “Let me explain what's going to unfold. Step one will be a scheduled interview. You’ll be put in separate rooms and I’ll ask you each and every question a real couple would know about each other. Next, I dig a little deeper, start going through phone records, emails, interview your friends and families. If your answers don’t match up at any point, it’s over.”

Neither of them said a word and he pressed again, “So, which one of you is going to tell me the truth?” Elide refused to break and leveled him with a cool look. Benson turned to Lorcan. “Well?”

“Mr. Benson, the truth is that we started dating six months ago and kept it from our coworkers and friends. We fell in love and we’re getting married. That’s it.” Lorcan gripped Elide’s knee and she gave him a loved-up smile she’d seen her parents give each other all those years ago. “We weren’t supposed to fall, but we did. Nothing we could do about it.”

“Hm. Have you kids told your parents about your… love?”

Elide said bluntly, staring with deadened eyes, “My parents were murdered when I was seven, so no.”

“How convenient.” She sucked in a breath and Lorcan squeezed her knee harder as Benson turned to him, “How about yours? Your parents dead too?”

“My mom, very much alive. Don’t know about my dad, haven’t seen him since I was eleven so.”

Elide cut in, “We’re telling her this weekend.” Lorcan choked on his breath and coughed, growing red. Elide patted his back and went on, “Yeah, it’s his sisters’ birthday, so we’re making the trip and letting everyone know. We thought it’d be a nice surprise, the whole family’s coming together.”

“And, uh, where’s this taking place?”

“Lorcan’s mom’s place.”

“And where might that be?”

Elide laughed coyly, “It’s Lorcan’s mom, why are you asking me? Come on, darling, jump in.”

Finally, he had his breath back and said, “Otȟúŋwahe*.”

“Otȟúŋwahe,” Elide repeated, nodding. She hadn’t stopped rubbing his back and Lorcan realized it was rather soothing in the situation, her long nails scratching over the material of his suit jacket.

“Northern Isles.”

“Yup, Norther-ern Isles?”

“You’re going to the Northern Isles this weekend?”

Elide and Lorcan nodded along, the former trying to control her look of utter fear. “Mm-hmm. Cause that’s, that’s where Lorcan’s from. The Northern Isles.”

The agent just laughed humourlessly, “Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, fine.”

“Perfect,” Elide said, “my fiancé and I will see you then.”

She turned primly and walked out of the office, holding herself as though she had done nothing wrong and doing the interview would be an inordinate waste of her time.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Elide was tapping away on her phone when Lorcan came out of the building and walked right past her. “Lorcan, excuse me, Lorcan!”

He slowly turned around and looked down at her with an extremely displeased look in his eyes. “Yes, dear?”

“Funny, anyway, we need to talk about what’s going to happen when we get up to Oto- Ota-“

“Otȟúŋwahe.” The fact that she couldn’t remember, despite having a near photographic memory made what he was going to demand of her so much sweeter.

“That. So, I’m thinking, we play girlfriend-boyfriend, tell your family we’re engaged-“

“Ask me nicely.”

She arched a brow, looking up from her phone, “’Ask you nicely’ what?”

Lorcan smiled and batted his eyelashes. “Ask me nicely to marry you, Elide.”

Elide made a face and gestured vaguely, “What does that even mean?”

He tilted his head to the side, a strand of his hair falling over his harsh cheekbone. “You heard me. On one knee and everything.”

Elide glared at him and he glared right back, not budging an inch, so Elide tucked her phone in her purse and held out her hand. Lorcan took it and helped her down to her knees, her dress not allowing for anything but a two-kneed approach. “Is this good?”

Lorcan swallowed his laugh and nodded, “Mm-hmm, I like you like this.”

Scowling up at him for the implication, Elide rudely asked, “Will you marry me.”

“Mmm, nope. Try again, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” she spat before closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. Her gaze was true and deep when she swept her eyes open, smiling serenely up at him, “My darling Lorcan?”

“Yes?”

“If you would, please, do me the greatest honour of any woman’s life, and marry me? Please, with a cherry on top?”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, but fine. See you at the airport tomorrow.” With that, he left, leaving Elide to fend for herself on the pavement.

+*+*+*+*+*+*+

*Otȟúŋwahe is Lakota for town!

@mythicaitt @tinywolfofeyllwe @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @westofmoon @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @city-of-fae @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tangledraysofsunshine @ttakeitbacknoww @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere e @queenofxhearts @maastrash @superspiritfestival @yikesitsmaddie @flowerspringsea @queen-of-glass @sleeping-and-books s @b00kworm @bat-wing-rhys @poisonous00 let me know if you want to be added/taken off the tag list!

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poisxnyouth · 4 years

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bad influence dave part 5 (d.d)

A/N: I KNOW 3.8K ISN’T SHORT BUT I FEEL LIKE I’VE CONDITIONED MYSELF TO THINK IT IS. ANYWAY. ENJOY. LMK WHAT YOU THINK. TALK TO ME WHILE YOU READ. I LOVE YOU. LET’S CHAT. -HAILEY

Word Count: 3.85K

“David,” you whine his name, bucking up into his touch and grabbing at his hair, “We have thirty minutes before we have to go.”

“Hush,” he says gruffly, fingers twisting inside of you and grunting slightly, “You’re going to cum before we leave this house.”

Neither of you are even dressed, still in pajamas, and yet: you woke up late, kissed each other good morning, and you barely had a second to think before he was sliding his hand down the front of your sweatpants.

This behavior of his seems to be routine on weekends, now. You stay over at his place Friday to Sunday; every Sunday, he attempts to make you cum before having to leave for church. It’s an increasingly frustrating task for him — he knows he can, and he knows he knows how to do so, but you’re not complying with him. It’s not your fault, either:

Sexual repression is fucking difficult to fix, apparently, and David wants to kill himself. He cannot count on both of his hands the amount of times he’s been between your legs and had to tell you, “Stop putting pressure on yourself to be able to cum. You do that, and you’ll never cum. Knock it off and let me do this. I know how to. Shut up.” It seems as though his words are finally beginning to click this time, and he can tell by the way you’re tugging so tightly at the roots of his hair as he works his mouth and fingers against you.

After pushing his sexual ego to the side, David got the balls to buy you a bullet vibrator – an amazing decision he couldn't regret even if he wanted to. Now, he pulls away from you before you whine again, tugging him closer.

He continues to pull away, harshly pushing your hands off, “Stop it. Let me do this.”

David grabs the vibrator and flips it on, settling back between your legs and starting his work again: vibe on your clit, fingers inside, and mouth on you. As far as he’s concerned, for any other woman, this is the Holy Trinity of what it takes to orgasm, and he feels you getting so close beneath him that his heart begins racing in excitement. He watches your face twist up and you pull tighter at his hair, bucking up against him.

This is the closest he’s gotten to making you cum so far, and he wishes he was surprised when you exhale deeply and groan, gently pushing his touches away. He knew it was too good to be true.

You cover your face with your hands, wanting to cry of frustration and embarrassment as David switches off the vibe. He haphazardly (and grossly) wipes his fingers on his t-shirt, wiping at his mouth before lying back down next to you. He sighs, too, pulling you into his arms and moving to grab your chin, “Look at me, babygirl.”

“It’s okay,” David promises and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, even though he’s just as frustrated as you are, “That was the closest we’ve been. Progress, honey. Baby steps.”

“I’m so mad at myself,” you say dejectedly, rolling over to get out of bed and begin getting ready, “I feel fucking broken.”

“Noooo,” he drags out, shaking his head and tugging off his t-shirt, “Don't feel that way, my love. Patience. It’ll come! I promise. We can always try again later.”

David’s been trying so hard to remain optimistic, and he still is, but it's mentally draining, and he's spreading himself thin. He gets out of bed and lazily pulls out his Sunday best clothes: wife beater, t-shirt, dress shirt, slacks, dress shoes. At first, he had hated wearing church clothes again – as the weeks pass, though, and however unfaithful he remains, it’s his routine now.

He’s moving more drugs than he ever has now that he has the guise of salvation; so, to him, two hours every Sunday morning and Wednesday night in stuffy clothes is worth the extra ten grand a week. David’s already made fifty racks since being with you – a little over a month – and he has more money than he even knows what to do with. He never thought the Catholic church was his answer to being able to deal more.

“Babygirl, have you seen my raz – Nevermind,” David has exactly ten minutes to shave his face and pull his clothes on; he’s stood in front of his mirror in his tank top, crowded next to you as you both attempt to hurriedly get ready at the same time. From his cheeks down, he’s covered in shaving cream, quickly running the blades across his skin. He leaves the faucet on as you lean over the counter next to him, in your bra and underwear, attempting to do your makeup as quickly as you can.

“What time is it, honey?”

“Seven-oh-five,” you reply, checking your phone in the middle of your mascara, “Ten minutes.”

It’s a forty-five-minute trip into the city, and David hates waking up so early on one of his two days off – but God, is the money worth it. Church is practically a job he gets paid two and a half G’s per hour for. Call him a priest.

You brush your teeth simultaneously, his arm draped around your waist as you rest your head against his shoulder. You spit, rinse, and spit again at the same time before you’re both racing to tug on your clothes; David tucks his dress shirt into his slacks and slips his belt through the loops, quickly buckling it and flipping his collar up, reaching for his tie. He wraps it around his neck, not bothering tying it yet as you ask him to zip up the back of your dress.

He does, slipping his shoes on and tying them as you gather your belongings. God, he hates church.

David stashes the vibrator in his pocket when you’re not looking, grouping it in with his wallet, keys, lighter, and cigarettes. Somehow, you manage to make it out of the house and into his car on time – and you’re both exhausted.

He makes a mental note to himself to never do an eight ball of cocaine by himself the night before church again – his throat’s raw, and every time he speaks, it feels like he’s getting facefucked by a hundred and eighty grit sandpaper.

You did not participate in his festivities, but you had been all over him, drunk, in the bathroom of his friend's house as he cut himself a few lines on the granite countertops with his debit card. You watched him as he pulled out his wallet for the second time, precisely rolling up a hundred-dollar bill and bending over the counter, shamelessly snorting a line at a time. Half-way through, he stopped, tipping his head back and rubbing at his nose, sniffling and groaning quietly.

Someone had attempted to come through the door without knocking, and David quickly shut it on them, locking the door, “Go the fuck awaaaay, dude.”

Handle of his pistol peeking out of the back of his shorts, he bent over again, finishing the rest of his lines and running his fingers through the numbies. David rubbed the excess dust into his gums, wiping the dampness on his fingertips on his shirt aimlessly.

You drunkenly hung off of him, arms wrapped around his shoulders and kissing at his neck as he tipped his head backwards again, sniffling and wiping at his nose. His fingers reached for the baggy, hundred-dollar bill, and his debit card, slipping the items back into his wallet before tugging you closer and kissing you sloppily.

Of course, David doesn’t regret it – he regrets very little, after all – but he does feel like a hot, steaming pile of garbage, and he knows you must be hungover. He wants nothing more than a cigarette and a blunt, but God forbid-

“Hey, are we dealing today?” You snap him out of his own head as he drives, sunglasses over his too-sensitive eyes – a result of the liquor he also put in his body the night before.

“Um, yeah,” he nods, one hand on the wheel at six o’clock and the other laced with yours. “I’m moving two ounces of coke upstate today. You’re just tagging along. Fuck, everything in my body hurts. I need coffee or something. Do we have time?”

“I think so?” you reply, digging through his center console for an aspirin, a Tylenol, a Motrin, anything to ease the headache that the sunlight’s presence is making a million times worse. “The traffic is worse than usual, so maybe we shouldn't.”

David’s mouth and fingers are itching for a cigarette, but he knows the stench is immediately recognizable – he untangles your fingers as he gets stopped at a light, leaning over you into the passenger side and opening his dash. He rifles through it quickly, placing the spare Glock in your lap as he feels you rub at his back affectionately. He finds a pack of mint toothpicks – he knew he had some somewhere – an aged relic of when he attempted to quit smoking two years prior, opens the package, and places one in his mouth.

David's oral fixation momentarily relieved, he hits the gas and tells you to put the gun back. He's yet to give you a full tutorial, supplying you with sporadic explanations here and there; but you do, very carefully and very slowly, before he interrupts you.

“Jesus, baby, it's not a bomb. You know the safety is on,” he takes it from your hands, tossing it into the dash and telling you to shut it.

David chews on the toothpick until the flavor is gone, rolling it between his lips as he drives, fingers laced with yours again. You speak, entirely too hungover to be going anywhere, but wanting to appreciate him, “Thanks for never judging me with the whole orgasm thing, babe. You’re too patient.”

He tuts, squeezing your hand and hoarsely replying, “A judgmental man is a weak man, sweetheart. Gotta do what you gotta do. I’ve got you, regardless.”

You don't know what to say to that, going silent at his words and leaning over to put your head in his bicep, shutting your eyes. “Ugh, God. Can we call in sick?”

“Oh my God, can we?” he replies, mentally crossing his fingers, “Please say yes. I didn't know we could do that.”

“Oh, fuck it,” you move from his arm and reach for your phone, quickly texting your family and fibbing you and David don’t feel too good. It’s not a complete lie.

David quickly tosses out the toothpick and reaches for his cigarettes, lighting one and rolling his window down. He gets stopped at a light again after making a U-turn, subsequently rolling his sleeves up, loosening his Windsor knot, and undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, cigarette loosely between his lips.

He looks so hot, and you tell him so. He scoffs and doesn't acknowledge your compliment, smile playing at his lips as he takes a drag and untangles your fingers, free hand sliding up the inside of your thigh.

“We need to talk, sweet girl,” David says vaguely, side of his knuckles rubbing gently against your underwear, “Don’t be a stupid whore and make yourself a target later today. Do as I say and nothing else. I’ll leave it at that.”

“I always do as you say,” you reply, spreading your legs slightly, “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because,” he shrugs, index finger hooking at the hem of your underwear and tugging, “Some part of you has a death wish, babygirl. You don’t like to listen to me. Get these off.”

He tosses his cig out of the window and pulls the vibrator out of his pocket, rolling the window up and spreading your legs further apart as he continues driving. David ignores you when you ask the reasoning behind him bringing the vibe as you push the clothing down your legs, flipping the switch and placing it on you.

“David!” you exclaim, going red in the cheeks, “We’re still in public!”

“My windows are tinted,” he replies coolly, throat still scratchy, “Just let me.”

He presses it harder against your clit, before ordering you, “Hold it there for me, sweetheart.”

You listen to him and do as he says, as he previously requested, just to slip his middle finger and ring finger inside of you. There's only so much he can do as he drives; his limited mobility is a struggle, but he glances between the road and between your legs as he moves his fingers with a certain finesse you can't quite do by yourself.

“Come on, sugar,” David presses, feeling the way your fingernails are sharply digging into his biceps as you get closer, “You can do it. Do it for Daddy, baby.”

He tries his hardest for a few minutes before you make a louder noise, crying out and finally releasing, and he can't believe it – he didn't think it would actually work. He always waits until you give up on yourself, sighing heavily and nearly crying of frustration.

You push his hands away as you catch your breath, eyes looking up at the ceiling of his car as he chuckles slightly, both hands on the wheel and another toothpick between his lips, wagging slightly as he speaks, “How was that, honey?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you curse, groaning quietly, “They’re all like that?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, rolling the stick between his lips, “Proud of you. Good job, babygirl.”

David has a genuine look of indifference on his face as he gets a gun pulled on him after asking for a higher sale price of the two ounces coke, cigarette between his lips. His eyes roll as he exhales the smoke carelessly down the barrel of the gun, speaking, “I carry. My girl carries. Don’t try it. You’re outnumbered. You’re not a big boy yet, man. It’s okay. Just give me the extra cash.”

“I won't shoot you if you don’t give me a reason to,” he promises, taking a drag as he pulls out his Glock, “Point that at her, though, and I will. Give it.”

“Fuck,” the man curses – David’s nonchalance is one of his best attributes – eyes rolling and taking the gun off of him, “Fine. I hate you. You’re a little shit.”

David gets in the car with five grand more than he thought he would come back with, casually sucking his teeth and tossing the gun in the backseat. He places a toothpick between his lips, tutting, “That guy’s an asshole. Fifteen bands, though. You want something nice?”

“Don't spend your money on me,” you say, “Not worth it.”

“Liar,” he chuckles, beginning to drive, “Sweetheart, I’ve made seventy-five thousand dollars in the past month and a half. I have almost four hundred thousand dollars to my name in cash. I have more money than I know what to do with. Let me buy you shit.”

“I’m not going to ask you for anything,” you promise, “Not with you for the money. I don't give a shit. I like when you're successful.”

“Riiiiiight,” he says doubtfully, “Okay, so when you come home to expensive packages you 'didn't want,’” he air-quotes mockingly, laughing slightly, “I want a picture of you and whatever I buy you and you saying, ‘No, thank you, Daddy. I don't want this Versace dress, I promise.’”

“I hate you so much,” you shove playfully, “Of course I’ll accept...but is that shit worth getting a gun pulled on for?”

“Ha,” David actually says, glancing between you and the road, “Anything for my girl.”

“God, baby. What are you doing?” David gripes in a whisper, eyeing the bong in your hands, “Putting that shit through college? Light the bowl and get on with it.”

You’ve had David in your life for three months now, dating him for one, and somehow, there are still things you haven't been taught how to do. Unfortunately, this includes how to use a bong, and now you’re under pressure, sitting in his lap. You’re both squoze in a shitty plastic chair, everyone arranged in a circle in one of David’s jerkoff friend’s backyards.

David is the only man in his friend group who has a girl.

David wipes at the corner of his mouth quickly before his hands are on your waist, mouth by your ear, “I’m telling you how to do this once, and only once.”

“Thumb over the carb. The back hole, baby,” he clarifies, “Mouth in the top hole. Seal. Light. Now, pull.”

You do as he says, his voice quiet as his friends make small talk with each other, eyeing the way he aids you, “Pullpullpullpull. Take off your thumb. Inhale all of it.”

You do, inhaling as much as you can, cough-free, quickly exhaling before he’s clearing the chamber for you, wiping the mouthpiece with the sleeve of his t-shirt before passing the glass to his buddy next to him. No one is saying it, but all they can think of when they watch you two is a charity case. They would never dare speak it – David would probably kill them – but he was never the type for good girls.

He’s sweet, for the most part, sure – but he’s also fucked every other girl sitting in that entire circle and none of them come close to being the same species as you. David’s wearing his cross again, something he stopped doing years ago, and you’re wearing one too. They also know he’s moving more coke and MDMA than he has in his entire life – it’s no coincidence.

He’s not manipulative, never has been, so it’s not that. He’s truly interested, and they can’t figure it out; you’re an odd match for him, and David seems especially enamored as you light his cigarette for him, eyes on his. He exhales the first drag quickly before kissing you, wholly on display for everyone who cares to see as he shamelessly tugs you closer after taking another drag. He shotguns the cigarette smoke with you, and judging by the way you’ve got your arms wrapped around his neck and the hickeys on his skin are peeking out from under his wife beater tank top – you’re enamored with him as much as he is with you.

They’ve all seen this man rail lines of ketamine and cocaine right after one another off of a random broad’s ass and continue his night doing shots, girls at his fingertips wherever he went; so, to see him so voluntarily committed to one woman – a woman who’s good for him and a woman who’s not like him at all – is staggering. They understand David well enough to know he doesn't force himself into anything; if he’s in a situation, it’s because he puts himself there, and if he wanted out, he would leave.

The most substantial evidence of this thought process of his is every girl’s experience with him in the bedroom behind closed doors. Not bad, performance wise, of course – but he’s selfish. One particular anecdote cites him pulling out, tearing off the condom, getting dressed, and asking said girl to leave. ‘Fuck, this sucks. You can go home now, sugar. Thanks, anyway, though,’ he had supposedly said, bathroom door shutting and shower turning on before she was even able to get her bra back on. He ended up cumming down his shower drain to the thought of Blake Lively’s tits, free hand holding himself up against the wall of white porcelain tiles as his free palm and fingers worked over himself, not feeling one inkling of guilt for that poor girl – who’s now bitterly sitting across from you and David in the circle, watching you cluelessly kiss the taste of Coors Light off of his lips.

You and David are hardly paying attention to anything besides each other, and it’s been this way every time he's visited, and you’ve tagged along. Cigarette between his fingers, he whispers comments to you to make you giggle, resembling rebellious teenagers at a shitty house party as the fingers of his spare hand creep up the hem of your (David’s) t-shirt.

It comes as a shock for everyone, including you, when David pushes your hair out of your face and murmurs a quiet admission without thinking twice about the meaning of it, “I love you, my sweet girl.”

Even while stoned, you feel yourself go breathless in his hold as he continues to nonchalantly play with the ends of your hair and kisses your forehead, ensuring, “Say it back whenever you want to. No pressure, babygirl. I’m just saying.”

A quiet but not unnoticed interaction, it’s painfully obvious to everyone how beguiled he is with you – a scarce but not entirely unfamiliar feeling for him to experience. He’s a grown man; he’s been in love before. David’s best quality is his self-awareness; he knows it’s too early, and he knows himself well enough to understand that he will be wholeheartedly, emotionally fucked if something, however much unanticipated, goes wrong with your relationship.

It’s a chance he’s willing to take, and he’s not ashamed of it – he’s too comfortable with himself to be ashamed of any of his desires. That being said, it doesn't take the surprise out of him when you reciprocate his words following a moment of silence, leaning in to kiss him.

David’s previous projects look on amid their conversations, covetous eyes rolling while he smiles into your kisses and lets you affectionately run your fingers through his scruff. Adorning one of his t-shirts, his signature scent of weed and sweet cigarettes is slowly becoming engraved into your skin and your hair, scarlet and plum hickeys almost always smattered against your collarbone and shoulders as evidence of his residency in your personal life.

At the recognition and confirmation of your mutual attraction, David’s ready to go home, heart eyes taking over his desire for social company as he flicks his cigarette and stands with you, murmuring a quiet, “You wanna get the fuck outta here?” into your ear.

You nod, and David quickly bids everyone goodnight, leading you by the small of your back to the car, sighing, “Fuck, I’m glad to be outta there. They were on some other shit tonight.”

“They seemed pissed at you,” you comment as he turns the key in the ignition, lacing your fingers together and resting your head on his shoulder, breathing him in, “Why?”

“I don't give a shit,” he shrugs, absentmindedly driving, “I don't think about them at all anymore.”

“I love you,” you say randomly a few minutes later, squeezing his hand, “For real. I’m so grateful for you.”

“I love you, too, my sweet girl,” David promises, eyes switching between you and the road, “You make me so much nicer.”

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seat-safety-switch · 4 years

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If necessity is the mother of invention, then procrastination is the milkman that keeps coming by way more frequently than his schedule would suggest. Ever since I adopted my cat, Lord Fluffbottoms, he's been using the litter box about eighty percent of the time. The veterinarian suspected it was either stress (he sleeps endlessly and is fed moist turkey treats three times daily) or that the litter box wasn't clean enough. I cleaned it like twice a week, I told her, to frowns.

I've got a busy schedule, especially now that we've got the whole nanotech supervirus coming out of our wifi antennas or whatever. There's just no time in my day to be constantly scrub-a-dubbing the piss palace of my puss. Finally, while I was cleaning out the litter box this last weekend, I tripped over a two-stroke engine that I had left partially disassembled on my kitchen floor. Ah, serendipity.

With a six-horsepower gasser, an electric start from a snowblower, and a couple highly tuned thermal sensors, I was able to make a self-cleaning litter box. While normally one of these would cost hundreds of dollars, my unique form of accounting allowed me to pretend that it was completely free, because it was made out of thousands of dollars of parts I had purchased previously and left lying around the house in anticipation of becoming a totally cool project.

The setup was really clever. I propped open one of my windows nearby, just a crack, for the exhaust (can't go around poisoning my little fluffy butters buffington) and also to emit the oil-soaked cat shit. If I remembered to place the compost bin just right every week, and the wind wasn't particularly strong that day, the poop would complete a perfect parabolic arc and land in the bin, ready to be disposed of by elite government agents. Now, the wind was a little strong this weekend, officer, but I think if you give me a chance to tune this you'll find that I'm much less dangerous in my own house than I would be in prison. It's my understanding that, in there, they offer actual engineering classes for free.

#lord fluffbottoms

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h4rin · 5 years

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dragon owner!chenle x dragon vet!reader - 1.3k

In a world full of heroes, villains, mermaids, vampires, werewolves, and all sorts of other creatures, it was difficult to live a simple life. For most of your existence, you had wanted to be taken away in the night(romantically, of course) by a vampire or a werewolf; to be their soulmate, to be loved by them forever as long as either of you lived.

Of course, that didn’t happen, and when you were seventeen, you decided on a more realistic career path. Having always had more empathy for animals than others around you, you decided to become a veterinarian. You moved from your small village to be closer to a large city a few days’ travel away, and set up shop just on the outskirts of the downtown area. Your specialty was dragons, and as the species became more common as a housepet, your practice was booked up weeks in advance.

There were no other veterinarians within a few miles of you, so you were quite popular. Your secretary, another human named Jisung, was strangely calm in these situations. You had been trying for months to find another doctor to work with you, your building had plenty of space, but the “trend” of being a dragon veterinarian had started to die out. Fortunately, that meant that more people were adopting dragons now, rather than buying them from breeders.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that people knew more about what they were doing with them.

On a rare slow day, you were relaxing in the waiting room, talking with Jisung about your weekend plans, when your door /slammed open. The bell atop it barely had time to ring before the person who had entered so suddenly spoke. “I need your help, I think Flamingo is dying.”

Before you turned your head, you started to speak. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not trained to help avians. I can refer you to another veterinarian, if you’d like.” You turned your head, eyes widening as you finally saw the animal in his arms.

A small dragon, most likely a Dragonette, was sleeping soundly in the man’s arms. Its scales were a light pink, one that matched the blush on its owners face as well as his hair. “Jisung,” you started, turning your head again, “do I have any more appointments today?”

“Nothing until four.” You glanced at the clock; it was barely eleven in the morning.

“Alright, come on back.” You stood up from your chair, stepping towards the back room and holding the door open for the young dragon owner. “Can I get your name?”

“I’m Zhong Chenle.” You blink.

The Zhongs had been dragon owners for as long as dragons had been in the country; there were even rumors that they had introduced them as pets in the first place. They were constantly showing them off in competitions, and to own a Zhong dragon meant to own a dragon of the highest rank. You had never heard the surname outside of that family, and had to assume that Chenle was related to them some way or another.

“And this is Flamingo?” He nods frantically. “Why did you bring her in today?”

The tips of his ears flush red. “She won’t hoard.”

You nod your head slightly. That isn’t uncommon for baby dragons, the only issue with dragonettes is that it can be difficult to tell how old they are. Most dragons grow a new horn every year that they live; others every decade, every century, but some don’t grow any at all. “Do you know how old she is? What have you given her to hoard?”

“I don’t know how old she is. She was a birthday gift last year,” you wince at that, “and she hasn’t grown any horns that I can see. I’ve given her lots of things; all types of gold, opals, diamonds...I’ve spent a few million dollars on her in the past month /alone.”

You nod again. “Can I see her?” You hold your hands out. Chenle hesitates for a second before carefully laying her in your arms.

You hold her cautiously, turning her over slightly to look at her belly. Counting the pure white scales that match her wings and claws, you quickly realize that she’s not quite a baby, but she’s not mature yet. Only three years old, she’s just learning how to hoard properly, and what she likes to hoard.

“She’s three years old,” you tell Chenle, handing Flamingo back over to him. “I wouldn’t worry about her not hoarding. Are there any older dragons at your residence that could teach her? Another Dragonette would be ideal, but any kind of hoarding dragon would be at least slightly helpful.”

“Wait, do some dragons not hoard?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Most tend to, but Drakes, Wyverns, and some Zomoks tend not to.” You let out a small laugh. “Sorry, I heard the last name Zhong and figured you’d know all about dragons. You must get that a lot, right?” You smile at Chenle, but he presses his lips together.

“Yeah, uh…” He trails off for a second, looking at Flamingo. “I wasn’t really focused on dragon studies in school, I was more interested in music. That’s why I just got her last year, my brother got one when he turned ten.” He looks up at you, a gleam in his eyes. “I’m learning, though! I want to take good care of Flamingo for the rest of my life.”

You smile at him. “Good! Dragonettes tend to live eighty years or so, so you probably will.” You laugh again. “Do you have any other questions? I still have a few hours before my next appointment.”

He pauses for a second. “Yeah, uh… are you sure nothing’s wrong with her? Mother said that her dragons all started hoarding gold as soon as they could open their eyes.”

You nod. “Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry! The gold doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is how the dragons feels. If Flamingo doesn’t have an emotional attachment to gold, she won’t hoard it. I’ve heard of dragons hoarding everything from stuffing to wine glasses. I would only be worried if she doesn’t start hoarding in the next two years or so. Even then, it wouldn’t be that big of a worry, just take her to a few department stores and see what catches her eye.”

Chenle looks at you with sparkling eyes. “You know so much about dragons.”

“I studied them for so long, it’d be kind of weird if I didn’t.”

“Would you like to meet mine?” The words seem to tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Not mine-mine, uh, I mean my family’s! We have a whole hoard of Wyverns, a Drake, and even a Fuzanglong! He doesn’t come out of his cave much, but he’s really friendly, I swear!”

A grin breaks out on your face. “I’d love to! I’ve only met two or three Drakes in my time as a veterinarian, and I never even got a chance to study Fuzanglongs.”

Chenle smiles back at you, eyes transforming into crescent moons. “Alright, perfect! I’ll give you my phone number, and we can set something up whenever you’re free.”

You pull your phone out, handing it to Chenle as he does the same. After the two of you have added your own numbers to each other’s contacts, you trade phones once again. You slide it in your pocket as it buzzes. “That’s me!”

Flamingo wakes up, yawning and exhaling a little bit of smoke. She flaps her wings slightly, more trying to stretch than escape. “Ah, she’s up. I guess I should take her on a walk.” He pouts down at her before looking back at you. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

You smile at him. “Of course! I’ll text you as soon as I’m off work.” He flashes a grin back at you.

“Okay! Uh...bye!” He quickly walks out the door, muttering something to Flamingo as she starts to whine. The bell rings again, signalling his departure from your building, and although you weren’t in a bad mood when it rang earlier, you’re much happier now.

#chenle fluff #chenle #chenle scenario #nct dream fluff #nct dream scenario #nct fluff #nct scenario #i love #this baby.#writing

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winterromanov · 5 years

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we will grow taller together - bucky x reader

PART THREE - YOU’RE VERY LOUD FOR SOMEONE SO SMALL

parts: masterlist

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

extract: He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

genre: nanny x single father!au

taglist: @blindedbyyourgrace17 @verygraphicink @chubby-dumplin @igotkatiepowers @welcome-to-my-studylife @bi-bi-bi-bisexualz @mywinterwolf @mychemicalimagines (still open, message to be tagged)

The following week or so is swallowed by the pre-Thanksgiving rush, so other than a quick text to confirm his number and a Facebook request you’ve not heard all that much from James. Work is mayhem as you try to learn at least eighty holiday drinks combinations and you go shopping with Natasha for Thanksgiving tableware, as her and Steve are hosting Steve’s parents for the first time at their apartment. Your whole family lives on the West Coast so you’ve decided not to make the trip to your childhood home this year. It makes you sad in a constant, throbbing kind of way, to spend Thanksgiving without them, but you’d mutually decided with your mom and dad that the trip just isn’t economically or temporally viable. Even the cheapest flights exceed two hundred dollars and you’d end up spending most of the vacation cramped in a plane seat and listening to babies screaming anyway. Natasha offers a place at their table but you can tell she’s a little anxious about impressing Steve’s family and you’d rather not add any hassle. Looks like it’ll probably be white wine and Friends re-runs for you this year, but at least you’re not fucking working for once.

You think everything has returned to normal. So much so, in fact, that when the weekend rolls around and you turn up to Steve and Natasha’s place in a party dress for their pre-Thanksgiving do it doesn’t cross your mind that James might also turn up. Or what will happen if he does.

“Looking sexy, (Y/N),” Natasha clicks her tongue approvingly when she answers the door, hand on her hip. Your frock is dark blue velvet and long-sleeved, hugging your figure in a way that makes you feel more self-confident than you actually are. It is pretty sexy, you think, but your attempts are always nothing compared to Natasha’s. Her dress is elegant and black and split all the way down the front to enhance her already impressive cleavage, and combined with the gentle curl of her red hair and matching lipstick she looks like a rebellious Hollywood starlet.

That’s always been Natasha, though. She always looks beautiful, exuding a natural class, but also in a dangerous kind of way. She looks like she could break your neck and smile while doing it. It’s pretty fucking powerful, to be honest.

“Nothing new there, then,” you remark, stepping inside. Natasha smirks and hands you a glass of champagne from the table by the door. Tipsy laughter and a Taylor Swift song play from the kitchen, so you follow Natasha’s clicking black heels to the main room of the party.

So far, it isn’t so crowded, but Steve and Natasha are pretty popular (Steve because he’s A Really Nice Guy, Natasha because she isn’t) so you expect the couches and corners will fill up as the night draws on. You recognise most of the people chatting over bowls of chips and hummus but you only know Steve by name, so you naturally gravitate towards him once Natasha’s elbow is caught by a well-built man with brown hair.

Steve is talking to a broad, dark-skinned guy with cropped black hair that you keep seeing around. Both of them look at you when you come over, the unnamed man scanning you discretely up and down with a half-smile on his face.

“(Y/N)!” Steve announces excitedly, squeezing your shoulder. “You know Sam, right?”

“I do not,” you reply, shaking his hand, “But I’m always happy to meet new people.”

“Likewise,” Sam replies. He scrubs up well in a smart shirt and shoes, Steve sporting a similar garb. As is usually the case with these things the girls have obviously made more effort, but in your experience, if a man has combed his hair and put on cologne they’re already too good to be true. “Steve may have mentioned you a coupla’ times.”

“He has?” You quirk an eyebrow, and Steve shrugs. He doesn’t look embarrassed about the fact. “All good, I hope.”

“Mostly. Although, there was an incident at one of Natasha’s parties in your junior year that you might—“

“Okay, so what happens in a crappy basement apartment during college under the influence of extremely cheap beer stays there,” you interject, the two men laughing, “I’m an adult now. All that stuff is behind me, I can assure you.”

You chat to the two of them a while longer, you and Sam mostly swapping funny stories about Steve—he feels like your safety conversation starter, the thing you have in common. Eventually Natasha drags Steve off into the kitchen and you’re left with Sam alone. What is it with Steve and abandoning you with his friends? Not that Sam is a problem. He’s attractive and funny, your sense of humour instantly clicking with his.

“So, (Y/N),” Sam says seriously, “Would you like another drink from the Rogers free bar?”

When you look down at your glass you realise it’s empty already. You’re not a big drinker, not anymore, but another glass to ease any surface anxiety wouldn’t hurt. After all, you think the guy in the jarringly expensive suit by the window might be Tony Stark, the tech billionaire, and the sheer amount of wealth that pours from his figure has left you on edge. That, and the fact you have always strongly believed that billionaires are unethical. Maybe another glass would give you the confidence to tell him that.

(You have no idea how Steve and Nat know Tony Stark, because you know enough about both of them to acknowledge he’s not their typical company.)

You shrug your shoulders and let him take your glass. “Sure. Thanks.”

Sam disappears and you trail after him at a distance, hovering outside the kitchen. You nod to the beat of a Vampire Weekend track, not really paying attention when the buzzer goes off, because people are expected to come and go. Natasha smiles as she slips past you to the door, deftly pulling the latch aside with a flick of her fingers.

Your body straightens from your slouching position against the wall when you realise who is waiting in the hall.

James. James is there, a small child clinging to his neck, the metallic frames of her bright pink sunglasses catching the hallway light.

“Hi,” you hear him say breathlessly, “Sorry I’m so late. Clover has—Clover wanted to see you both, so I couldn’t… Well. She wouldn’t let me leave her with the babysitter.”

“I don’t like Mrs Mary.” A child’s voice—Clover’s voice—responds, her tone low and sullen. “I like Auntie Nat.”

“It’s a good job that I like you too then, huh?” Natasha’s arms reach out and James hands her his daughter. “Nice sunglasses. Always useful in November.”

“If you wear sunglasses you can cry and people won’t notice.”

Yikes. The comment leaves the two adults stunned for a moment, before Natasha combs a strand of blonde hair out of Clover’s eyes, smiling fondly. “Let’s see if we can find you some cookies.”

You move out the way when Natasha comes back down the hallway, watching as James closes the door behind him. He starts when he sees you standing there, but his edges soften when he realises it’s you who is watching. He looks even more exhausted than the evening in his apartment, his eyes grey and hollow, shoulders dipping. He still manages a watery smile for you.

“Tough day?” you ask, even though it’s obvious. His mouth opens. Nods wearily.

“You could call it that.”

“If it’s any consolation, an old lady shouted at me for putting a snowflake made out of chocolate sprinkles on her mocha because she doesn’t like cold weather. I was like…I’m not paid to be psychic, Brenda, or whatever your name is.”

He sniffs what could be a laugh if he had any energy whatsoever. “I wish you were psychic. Then you could maybe tell me what goes through a six-year-old’s head.”

You smile gently, sympathetically. “I think a lot of people would have a hard time telling you that.”

Sam then reappears with your drink, but takes one look at James’ expression before sighing and disappearing again. Moments later he emerges with a second glass of champagne and shoves it into his grip.

The party returns to normal for about thirty minutes after, Clover bouncing comfortably between her dad and Nat and Steve and Sam, bright and funny and charming all the guests she doesn’t know with her gap-toothed grin. But it’s like—it’s like a light flicks in her head and suddenly she’s having a meltdown in the bathroom, screaming through tears she doesn’t know how to control. You can hear James talking to her and trying to calm her down, but his voice keeps wobbling, like he’s on the verge of breaking down too. Taking a deep breath for courage, you twist the knob on the bathroom door and invade a conversation you should probably stay out of.

James eyes glance up at you in desperate surprise. The shock also freezes Clover, like the lull in the middle of a hurricane. Her tiny face is red and wet with tears, pained in a way that is heart-breaking to see on any child. Your hand brushes across James’ back as you crouch to meet her height. Blue eyes scrutinise every single inch of your body.

“So. You’re Clover Barnes.” You delicately offer your hand and Clover looks at it, faced scrunched, before slotting hers into yours. “I’m (Y/N). I’m a friend of your dad and Uncle Steve and Auntie Nat.”

Clover blinks back, but doesn’t say anything. She’s not screaming though, so at least that’s something. You’ve done that, at least. Even if it’s just out of shock.

“I have to say, Clover, you’re very loud for someone so small.” You try not to smile as she looks mildly offended at this observation on her height, because six year old priorities, right? That’s what’s really going through her head. The fact that she’s perhaps half an inch shorter than the other girls in her class. “But people used to say that about me, too. There’s nothing wrong about being loud, but there’s no point in having such a big voice if no-one can understand you. You gotta talk to your dad if something is upsetting you—I’ve been told you’re super clever so I’m absolutely certain you can tell him what’s up.”

Clover is silent for a moment, and you wonder if your spontaneous pep talk (which you somehow pulled straight out of your ass) will go totally ignored, but she takes a shaky breath and looks James straight in the eyes.

“I don’t wanna go to grandma and grandpa’s for Thanksgiving,” she sniffles, “I heard you talking on the phone and I don’t wanna go. Please don’t make me go. I wanna stay here with you. Please don’t send me away.”

James almost crumbles away into nothing when he grabs her into a hug, squeezing all the air out of her lungs. Her hands slowly curl around his neck, meeting at the nape, her face burrowed deep into his shoulder.

“I won’t send you anywhere, I promise,” James murmurs. His eyes catch yours and he looks at you in a mixture of amazement and thankfulness and more prominently relief. “Sweetheart. Baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

The tantrum must have tired Clover out because slowly, gradually, she flops in James’ arms; her eyes flutter closed while still pressed in James’ shoulder, so he rises and gestures for you to open the bathroom door. Natasha and Steve open up their spare bedroom so you follow him in quietly, pulling back the bedsheets so he can slot Clover in to sleep the rest of the evening off. She looks so peaceful and relaxed, like a normal six-year-old girl, like she could wake up again and everything would be normal and okay.

But you know—nothing about this is normal. You thought that Steve was being a bit over-the-top about them needing help, but you can see it now. It’s not so eccentric. They need something. Something.

When James pulls the door so only a small shaft of light from the hall glows on Clover’s tranquil face, his hand curls round your wrist.

“I take back what I said, that time at my apartment.” His eyes are frantic. Pleading. “I do need your help. Please, (Y/N). I need so much fucking help.”

You turn your hand so that it clasps his, squeezing tightly. “I’m here.”

#ugh im emo #mcu #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #we will grow taller together #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes au #fanfic #fic #marvel fic

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katedoesfics · 5 years

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Shadows of the Yiga | Chapter 11

Unsteady - X Ambassadors

I know you're trying to fight when you feel like flying. If you love me, don't let go. If you love me, don't let go. Hold… Hold on… Hold on to me, 'Cause I'm a little unsteady. A little unsteady.

It took almost a half an hour for Revali to get to the bar. He pulled the car to the curb and stepped out. He looked down at Link with a frown and shook his head. “The tables have turned,” he said. “Guess I did owe ya one.” When Link didn’t respond, he reached down and grabbed his arm, pulling him up to his feet.

“Let’s go. Get in.” He pushed Link toward the car.

“Keep an eye on him,” Kit said. “He’s not okay.”

“I’ve got two,” Revali said, turning to Kit.

Kit frowned. “I’m serious.”

Revali met his gaze. “So am I.”

Kit nodded once. “Don’t let him do anything stupid, alright?” He hesitated, turning his gaze to the car. “Keep him away from pill bottles.”

Revali nodded silently. They shook and he thanked him before sliding in behind the wheel, pulling into the street and navigating the city. He glanced over at Link briefly before speaking.

“Are we gonna talk about this?”

Link gave no response. His arms were folded across his chest, his head against the seat as he gazed out the window.

“Yes,” Revali said simply. “Yes, we’re talking about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Link muttered.

Revali’s brows furrowed. “So, why does Kit think you’re going to kill yourself?”

Link didn’t respond. Revali slammed on the breaks at a red light and sneered at him.

“This isn’t fucking funny!” he shouted at Link.

Link met Revali’s gaze wordlessly.

Revali’s gaze softened. “Come on, man.” He turned his gaze back out the windshield as the light turned green. “You can’t do this shit. You know that.”

“You’re right,” Link said. “I can’t do anything I want to do, because I always have to do something for someone else.”

“You’re being an idiot,” Revali muttered. “Being dead doesn’t do anyone any good. Especially Aryll and Mipha. You can’t do that to them.”

Link’s brows furrowed. “I know.” Revali was right, after all. He couldn’t do that to them. He wouldn’t. But at the same time, it didn’t seem fair. It seemed his whole purpose in life was to do what everyone else needed. Not once did he ever have a chance to do what he wanted. “Everyone else got to leave,” Link said softly. “Everyone got to do what they wanted. And I had to stay here. I had to give up what I wanted to take care of everyone else’s shit.” His voice hardened as he grew angry. “I save the world, and for what? To get left behind?”

Revali frowned. “You could have -”

“Could have what?” Link snapped. “What should I have done? Sold the house? Pawned her off on someone else? There was nothing I could have done. I had to stay home to take care of Aryll. I had to be a parent. I had to be a fucking adult with a mortgage and bills and two jobs and it still isn’t enough.”

Revali’s brows knit together. “So, you’re mad because everyone else got to live their lives?”

Link’s expression softened. When Revali said it out loud, it sounded petty. He knew that. But it didn’t change anything. “I’m mad because… this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I didn’t want to be stuck here like this. Everyone got to escape but me. Now…” His voice trailed off. “I just wanted one thing I could control. One change I could make. I wanted my escape.” He sighed softly. “I don’t expect anyone to give up their lives like I had to do. That’s not what I wanted. Mipha already has. I don’t want that.”

“What do you want?” he asked. “Because now you’re starting to contradict yourself.”

“I don’t know,” Link muttered.

Revali’s lips pinched together. “Alright,” he started. “I get it.”

Link glanced at him.

“So, here’s what you do,” he continued. “Stop trying to be the damn hero. The way I see it, the only one who needs saving is you. And you’re not letting anyone do it. It’s not your fucking job anymore, alright? So just give it a fucking rest already.”

Link’s brows furrowed. “Is this a joke? Are you and Kit stealing each other’s notes or something?”

Revali’s gaze flashed to his. “Huh?”

“I’ve heard that twice already,” Link muttered.

“Well, then maybe that fucking means something,” Revali said in an obvious tone. “Goddesses, you’re dense.”

Link sighed. “That’s easier said than done.”

“You’re not getting your one way ticket out of here,” Revali growled. “Sorry, pal. It’s not happening. Not while I have something to do about it. Besides, you’re not a quitter, Link. If there’s one thing I know, you’re too damn stubborn to give up.”

“So, what?”

“So.” Revali sucked in a breath. “So, what? What do you want? Don’t think of what you need to do, or what you think the world wants. What do you want?”

Link thought about this for a moment. He realized then that he didn’t know what he wanted. He was so busy doing everything he thought he had to do that he lost sight of what he wanted. And what he wanted was Mipha.

“I want Mipha back,” he said softly.

Revali smiled. “What else?”

Link glanced at him. He thought further. “A dog.”

Revali shrugged. “Alright. Sure. A dog. What else?”

“A new job,” Link muttered.

Revali grinned. “That all seems pretty doable, dude.”

He hated to admit it, but Revali seemed to have a point. Though, a part of him felt angry at Revali for pointing these things out, as if he were just an idiot that couldn’t see the bigger picture. Still. The more he thought of it, the more he wanted it all, and the worse he felt for wanting to give up. In truth, he cycled through these various emotions so quickly that he didn’t really feel any better, but just confused. And still, his heart was hurting. Hurting for all the ways he seemed to be fucking up. For the terrible life he was giving his sister. For giving up on Mipha. And in the midst of it all, he just wanted his father back.

Link realized only then that he was crying.

“Man, no, what?” Revali frowned. “I thought we were making progress.”

Link sighed and slumped back in his seat. “I’m tired.”

Revali nodded. “One day at a time,” he said. “One issue at a time.”

“Where do I start?”

“Where do you want to start?”

Link hesitated, then pulled a ring box out of his pocket. He opened it and examined his mother’s ring. “Mipha,” he said simply.

“You have a ways to go before you can do that,” Revali pointed out, but he was smiling smugly.

“Yeah,” Link said with a sigh.

“This weekend,” Revali said. “We’re getting together. You can start then.”

Link hesitated. He was eager to see his friends again. But he wanted to make things right with Mipha as soon as he could. He was ready to stop being the hero. He just wanted to live his life.

*****

Aryll was already in bed when Revali and Link got to the house. The house was dark, but Link didn’t bother turn any lights on. He headed straight for the couch, letting himself fall against it with a heavy sigh. Revali joined him, kicking his feet up.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “No making moves on me in the dark.”

“You can leave,” Link said. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Agree to disagree,” Revali said. “I canceled all my plans for you. I’m staying.”

Link snorted. “Like you had plans.”

“I always have plans,” Revali said. “But my best friend is more important.”

“When did that happen?”

“When I decided I could ride your coattails into fame.”

“How’s that working for ya?”

Revali frowned. “Not as well as I’d hoped,” he said. “I thought we’d be knee deep in babes and cold hard cash.” He shrugged. “Well, I am, anyway, but I had to do that all on my own.”

“You must have it so hard,” Link said, rolling his eyes.

“Eh, I’m doing alright, all things considered.”

“Good for you,” he muttered.

“Have you given up on milking the hero bit?”

“No,” Link said dryly. “You haven’t noticed all the babes running around my mansion?”

Revali grinned. “You almost have me beat.”

“Don’t worry,” Link muttered. “The bank will be kicking us out any day now.”

His grin faded. “You know we’re here for you,” Revali said. “You’re not alone.”

“I kind of am,” Link said. “Besides. I don’t need anyone’s charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Revali said, his brows knit together. “You’re allowed to ask for help.”

Link sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I just wanted to keep it all together until Aryll graduated.”

“My company’s opening an office here,” Revali said with a smug grin. “They sent me here to finalize the plans. I’m running that bitch. But, I don’t have an apartment set up yet.”

“You’re not living here,” Link said.

“Aw, come on,” Revali whined. “You need money. I’ve got it.”

“All the money in the world wouldn’t be enough for me to live with your ass.”

“A thousand,” Revali said. “I’ll sleep on the floor in the basement. I’m hardly around, anyway.”

Link raised a brow. “You would pay that much for a room with a concrete floor that you’ll spend no time in?”

“Assuming I can bring chicks.”

Link opened his palm. “Let’s see it, big shot.”

Revali shrugged and pulled out his wallet. He then proceeded to count out the money, his smug grin returning.

“What the fuck do you do? You just carry around this much money on a daily basis?”

“Don’t worry about what I do,” Revali said. “I’ll be hiring in our new office. Interested?”

Link regarded Revali with hesitation. “Doing what, exactly?” he asked carefully.

“Those details are on a need to know basis,” Revali said.

“Don’t I need to know the job?”

“You do your job as I tell you to do it.”

Link raised a skeptical brow. “That sounds shady.”

“That’s why I’m hiring Urbosa as my lawyer.”

“What the fuck do -”

“Don’t worry about what I do! For the love of Hylia. The less you know, the better.”

“Uh-uh,” Link said, shaking his head. “I’m not getting involved in your shady ass business.”

“Name your price. Salary. Paid sick time, personal time. Four weeks vacation. All holidays. Company car. Paid mileage.”

“You can’t do that,” Link muttered.

Revali grinned. “What’ll it cost? Fifty big ones?”

“Fifty?” Link said slowly.

“Sixty? Seventy?”

“You’re insane.”

“Eighty?”

“Is this a joke?”

“The money is no issue. Top dollar. And most of the shit you’ll be doing, you won’t even know about. And if something goes wrong, we’ve got Urbosa.”

“Are you a hit-man?” Link whispered.

“Please,” Revali said, though he pause to consider this for a moment, scratching at his chin. “I would be so good at that, though. I’ve got that whole Matrix thing going for me, yanno?” He smirked at Link. “You, on the other hand…”

Link crossed his arms and turned his gaze to the tv. “Right.”

“So, think about it?”

Link sighed through his nose. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Revali said with a nod. “Then you’ll be able to actually afford a ring for Mipha instead of giving her hand-me-downs.”

Link frowned. “Aryll says it’s romantic.”

Revali laughed sharply. “Right,” he said. “Nerd.”

“Can I go to bed now?”

“Sure. We spooning? Or is that reserved for Daruk?”

“I… what? We don’t spoon!”

“I have pictures that say otherwise,” he said with a snicker. “And one of you in an adorable little skirt.”

Link groaned loudly. He pressed a pillow to his face. “End me.”

“Not today, man.”

Link let the pillow fall onto his lap with a sigh. After a moment, he propped it up against the couch and lay across it, letting his feet stretch out to kick Revali.

“What are you doing, idiot?”

“Going to bed,” Link said with a yawn. “I have a feeling you won’t let me be alone in my own room.”

“Two eyes,” Revali said. “I promised your boyfriend.”

“Hmph.” He closed his eyes and groaned when he felt Revali drape a blanket over him.

“Do you want a bedtime story, too? Some warm milk?”

“Bite me,” Link muttered. When Revali didn’t tease him further, he let his mind quiet as he listened to the tv, and eventually, quite unexpectedly, sleep came to him.

#soty11 #soty #shadows of the yiga #loz #botw #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #fic #fanfic

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harryandmolly · 6 years

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The Long Way Home -12- FINAL

A/N: what a brilliant journey! thank you ALL for your incredible support and feedback. you all mean the world to me. I’m extremely proud of this whole series and I hope the ending satisfies you all. (A note for the end: I am not a lyricist so I stole Sugarland’s “Little Miss” and made it Emma’s. Highly recommend you give it a listen to give yourself the full picture while you read)

Summary: His world is a little rocked when Shawn is joined on his 2019 world tour by Emma, a former child star with a chip on her shoulder and a voice that haunts him.

Warnings: Language, family angst, Finality (TM)

Word count: 7.9k (ta daaaa!)

“Now put yer teeny little fingers there… and there.”

Emma obeyed. Emma always obeys.

Grandpa Norm stroked the strings and a pretty noise came out. Emma looked down, eyes wide.

“See, lil girl? You can do it.”

Emma lies in bed, bare feet planted on her Ravenclaw duvet, staring at the ceiling. She’s blasting Shawn’s latest album from her multi-thousand dollar stereo system with her hands folded over her stomach and she’s never felt more like a moody teenager.

She’s never been allowed to be a moody teenager, so maybe this was some sort of box she had to check to level up.

She closes her eyes and he’s there again, face red and panicked, fingers gripping her car window as he jogged to keep up. She didn’t look back when they drove away toward Reagan National for the red-eye back to LAX. She couldn’t.

She drafted six different long-winded texts between the security line and landing in Los Angeles. She sent none of them.

It’s not so much that she had to leave him – she knew that was coming in a few weeks when tour ended anyway. She’s been emotionally preparing for that. It’s more the disappointment she knows he felt at her giving in to Sandra. That’s why she was so desperate to explain it to him – he has to know about the trump card. He has to understand.

She waits until she’s striding into her house, Sandra trailing behind tapping away on her phone, to call him. It’s 4am in LA which means it’s 7am in Boston but she’s betting it doesn’t matter because she doesn’t imagine he slept either.

He answers on the first ring and listens while she sobs out the whole story, the whole sordid affair. He spits curses about Sandra in between her ragged breaths but lets her get it out. She knows he wants to protest, wants to tell her she should’ve stood up. But Emma knows Sandra. She knows when she’s bluffing. And she wasn’t.

“So… that’s it? You’re confined to your room?” he whispers.

She looks around. “Yeah. Or the house, at least. Ashley’s called me about eighty times since we were papped at LAX this morning. I’ll give you one guess who arranged that Kodak moment.”

Shawn sympathizes as much as he can, but he’s angry and she can hear it in his voice. She understands. She’s angry too. She’s so angry she can’t see straight. But she’s so tired. He talks to her until she falls asleep and then he leaves for the gym, sending her a text with a heart emoji and a promise to call her again later.

It’s been eight days since Emma has left the house. She’s trying to do the math in her head of how many hours that is when something taps her leg. She looks over at Georgie who’s lying in the same position, her bony knees pointed up at the ceiling, looking pensive. Georgie nods at the speakers. Emma turns down “Where Were You In the Morning.”

“Are you hungry?”

Emma nods. Georgie nods back and hops off the bed, scurrying in fuzzy purple socks out the bedroom door, closing it on her way out.

Georgie arrived the evening after Sandra and Emma got back to Hollywood. Emma was asleep – she slept all day after she and Shawn talked. Georgie crept into Emma’s room, turned on the lamp and crawled into bed.

Emma stirred. “G?”

Georgie’s wise old eyes stared back at her. She was expressionless, a face only a sister, another half of a soul could read.

Emma’s face crumpled until she was racked with sobs. Georgie dragged her face into her shoulder and rocked her until she calmed and fell asleep again.

The next morning, Sandra announced she and Georgie would be moving in and they’d all be spending time at home for a while to “regroup.” It was essentially Sandra-enforced house arrest. Georgie screamed, slammed doors, threw a fit unlike Emma had ever seen. But she was too tired to fight. She just watched.

She doesn’t leave the room now. She can’t look at Sandra’s face. She’s afraid she may claw it off. Georgie calmed down after her initial outburst and plays liaison now, occasionally relaying messages and couriering food.

Georgie returns to her sister’s boyfriend’s voice blasting through the wall. She closes the door again and climbs on the bed, offering Emma a plate of grapes, cheese and crackers. Emma plants a wet kiss on her cheek and Georgie sneers and giggles.

Georgie waves at the music again. Emma turns it down reluctantly, wanting to drown herself in the emotion of “Why.”

“Can I ask you something?” Georgie murmurs, smacking her lips like she always does when she eats. Emma shrugs and pops a grape in her mouth.

“What was your first time like?”

Emma’s jaw goes still mid-chew. Without meaning to, she relives her first sexual experience in fast-forward mode in her head, raising her eyebrows and wincing slightly.

Georgie snorts. Emma hears an anxious tone in it.

“That bad?”

Emma runs her tongue along her bottom lip, considering how to answer. “Honestly? Yeah. It hurt. I wasn’t ready. And it didn’t mean anything to him. It didn’t really mean that much to me, either.”

Georgie schools a calm look on her face. Emma takes another grape between her fingers, studying it.

“What’s up, G? Are you having sex?”

Emma’s heart pounds when she asks like she’s a nervous mom. She feels like one sometimes. Someone ought to around here.

Georgie’s quiet a beat too long. “I might be about to.”

Emma wants to crawl under the bed. She’s so horrified that she knows nothing about this, has no clue who her sister could be considering sleeping with. She’s been so wrapped up in her own shit, insulated by fame and Shawn and her own fucking ego. She feels nauseous but keeps a straight face as she encourages Georgie to go on.

“I’ve been talking to Holland Dittrich’s older brother Josh.”

“Jooooosh,” Emma teases in a deep voice, rolling her eyes, “That’s such a teenage boy name. Where do all the Joshes go after they turn 21? It’s like they disappear.”

Georgie snickers. “Shut up. He’s cool. He’s a rising senior at Belfort. Captain of the lacrosse team. He wants to go to Stanford pre-med. He’s like, perfect. He likes the same music as me. I even played him “Lost in Japan” last week and he really liked it. Like, I could tell he was into it.”

Emma picks at her grape and smiles gently. She kind of loves that liking Shawn’s music is a metric Georgie’s using for boys now. Shawn will like it too when Emma tells him.

“Have you been out with him?”

“Not yet. We’re catching a movie this weekend. I think he’s going to ask me to Homecoming in the fall.”

Emma nods like seasoned big sisters are supposed to even though she’s never been to a school dance in her life. Well, that’s not strictly true – she’s been to a set of a school dance for Fake It and had her first onscreen kiss there. She doesn’t think that experience counts, though.

“And you’re thinking about having sex with him.” Emma’s repeating it out loud more for herself than for Georgie. She’s trying to wrap her head around the idea.

“I mean, yeah. Seems like a good idea. He’s nice, he likes me. He’s had girlfriends before so he probably knows what he’s doing.”

Emma sews her mouth shut over the words “THAT’S NO GUARANTEE” springing up.

She stays casual. “Yeah, if he’s good to you, if you want to do it, sure. I have condoms. Always bring your own.”

Georgie smiles in that unnervingly wise way she does. “That’s not what I mean, Em. I just… I don’t know if I want to wait for someone I love.”

Shawn’s rosy face and perfect smile appears in Emma’s mind. Her heart aches. It’s all she can do not to reach for her phone and call him just to hear his voicemail.

She nods, sighing. “I hear that. I get it. Sex is a personal thing. But it doesn’t have to be with someone you love. I think it should at least be someone you like. I…” She trails off, shrugging.

“What?” Georgie prods.

Emma hesitantly continues. “Despite… everything, I don’t regret any of my sexual history. Yeah, my first time sucked. Most first times do. And I didn’t have sex with someone I loved at all until Shawn. And it was mind-blowing and so different,” she feels herself grinning and watches Georgie mirror it, “But there was a lot I learned about myself and men and sex before I got to that point and I don’t regret any of it.”

“Was… was it perfect with Shawn?”

Just there, Georgie goes from wise old owl to actual 16-year-old girl and Emma gets to feel like a competent older sister for once. She lends her a crooked smile.

“As close to perfect as anything can get. He was so… he was so gentle. And affectionate. And just… everything I wanted. Everything I deserved.”

Georgie nods thoughtfully. “I want that too. Someday.”

Emma pops her grape in her mouth and pats Georgie’s knee. “Hopefully you won’t have to wait too long. If Joooooosh feels right for the first time, do it. Enjoy it. Know it’ll probably get better, but learn from it. Learn what you like, what you’re into. And don’t be shy to tell him, boys like that, I promise.”

Georgie’s nodding again. Emma’s phone buzzes against her hip. Georgie snatches it away before Emma can answer.

“Hi Shawn!” Georgie quips, her voice going up an embarrassing several octaves that Emma will mock her for later.

“Hey Georgie,” Shawn chuckles, “How’s house arrest?”

“Fine. Emma and I are eating grapes and sulking in her room. How’s tour?”

Emma stiffens. Georgie immediately regrets the question. Shawn feels the change in tone and bites his lip.

“It’s ok. Not as fun now. Can I talk to Em?”

“Yeah,” Georgie murmurs, nodding, “Bye, Shawn.”

Emma takes the phone. Georgie takes the plate of food and scampers out of the bedroom.

Emma curls up on her side. “She’s asking me about sex.”

Shawn giggles. “Oh no.”

“Don’t laugh at me. Your sister’s not that much younger than mine.”

“Oh god, don’t say that,” Shawn whines, “I’m so not ready for that.”

“Yeah, well, when she starts asking questions, send her my way. Apparently I’m the guru.”

“Good to know,” Shawn hums, “What did you tell her?”

“She asked about my first time. I told her it was garbage and most first times are—” Shawn interrupts her with a snort of agreement, “But you learn and you grow and it’s better with someone you love but you don’t have to wait for that if you don’t want to.”

Shawn bobs his head. “Very wise.”

“She asked about us.”

She can hear Shawn’s reflective smile through the phone. She returns it.

“What did you say?”

“I told her it was as close to perfect as anything is in this stupid world.”

Shawn’s quiet. It’s a weighty silence – it’s an I love you silence, an I miss you silence, a why did you leave silence.

“I can’t lose her, Shawn. It would end me,” Emma whispers, closing her eyes and feeling threatening tears rub at her throat.

He’s quiet again for a few seconds. “I know. We’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out.”

The words are simple and seemingly unhelpful but from him, they feel good and real. They talk for another few minutes before he has to go to soundcheck and tries not to let her know that because he doesn’t want to remind her what she’s missing but he’s in the venue and does a lousy job of hiding from the loading in noise. She wishes him a good show and they exchange blushing I love yous like a couple of kids who are still getting used to the words.

Shawn’s little fingers curl into his fists. He can’t quite catch his breath. His jerking heaves of air are fluttering the sweaty curls on his forehead as he stomps out of the rink.

He’s never felt this before. He barely knows what this is. He thinks it’s rage, despair even, but he’s never seen it before, doesn’t know how to recognize it.

He’s been practicing so hard. He was in three different hockey camps this summer. Not making the travel team is the worst thing that’s ever happened to anyone, and it’s just happened to him. He has no idea how to deal with this feeling. It’s swallowing him.

Shawn and anger are admittedly not well acquainted.

He’s seething on the sidewalk after he loses sight of the D.C. cab’s taillights. He can feel the heat radiating off him as his blood boils. He takes enormous steps back into the hotel. He doesn’t hear a word Andrew’s saying, only a dull ringing in his ears as the elevators carry him up to their floor. It’s not until Andrew follows him into his room and Shawn gets the chance to sit on the bed and gather himself that he even understands what he’s saying.

“You should’ve told me,” Andrew almost barks. Andrew doesn’t really get mad either. Especially not at Shawn. Shawn’s brow furrows.

“Told you what?”

“That you’re fucking Emma Kingston!” Andrew cries, throwing his hands out.

Shawn’s jaw juts out, clenching hard. He presses his balled fists into the bed.

“I am not fucking Emma Kingston. I’m in love with her.”

Andrew is silent, flabbergasted. His jaw hangs open. “You… what?”

“I love her. I’m in love with her. She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. She’s got more talent in her little finger than I have in my whole body. She knows more about music and the industry than anyone I’ve ever met, including you. She is so sharp and so funny and so thoughtful and so sexy and I’m crazy, stupid in love with her.”

Andrew suddenly looks exhausted. He has this way about him where he’s all energy until something hits him too hard and he just slumps. He sinks into a chair and hangs his face in his hands. Shawn bristles.

“Why does this fucking matter?”

“Why does it matter?” Andrew repeats in a half-crazed chuckle, “Because it does, Shawn! Because everything you do matters. Especially the romantic stuff. The driving force of your fanbase is female. Females that want to date you. So when you’re dating someone, it fucking matters.”

Shawn balks. “I’m not gonna not date someone because it’ll hurt business, Andrew!”

“I’m not saying that! I’m saying there’s a process to these things. One of the things we talked about when I signed on was honesty. Honesty always. I can’t do my job if I don’t have all the pieces. You should’ve fucking told me.”

“I couldn’t. If anyone on her team knew, especially once the Kyle Dillon thing started…”

“Yeah! The Kyle Dillon thing! You realize if this gets out it’s going to look like a weird love triangle? Or worse, like you stole Kyle’s girlfriend. Is that what you want?”

Andrew’s getting hysterical and it’s really pissing Shawn off. He hangs his head and closes his eyes to breathe.

“You know that’s not what I want. I… fuck, I didn’t mean to make your life harder, man, I just… I wanted to be with her. This was what she needed from me. I’m… I’m sorry, dude.”

Shawn’s apology seems to quiet Andrew’s frazzled brain. He nods his acceptance. They’re both quiet for a while, raking hands through their hair and thinking too hard.

“Well… it’s probably better she’s off the tour, then.”

Shawn perks up. “What?”

“Until we figure out how to approach this, you guys can’t be public. Every day you were together was a risk. You can’t see her again until we set up a strategy.”

“A strategy?” Shawn cries, “What the fuck? This is my life, Andrew!”

“Yeah!” Andrew bites back, “Your life! And you hired me to manage it. This is how this stuff goes when you’re Shawn Mendes. Dude, we’ve talked about this. You know we have. You knew this was never going to be easy. It’s harder when it’s someone like Emma who’s out there in the public eye with you. We need a strategy.”

Shawn fumes. He has half a mind to jump on a plane to LA and be seen making out with Emma very publicly somewhere just to buck the system but he can’t and he feels impotent and small. He’s not used to that.

Andrew leaves him there after a few minutes. He’s lying face up on his bed missing her so much already he can barely breathe.

He didn’t know it was going to be like this. He didn’t know that the shitty things that happened to her would feel like they happened to him too. He didn’t know he’d feel her wounds as deep as he feels his own. He’s tethered now and she’s across the country so he feels stretched and uncomfortable and breathless.

He closes his eyes, tries to play her song in his head. He hums it, bounces his knee, wills it to distract him.

His eyes open. He has an idea.

The tall, spindly woman kneels in front of Emma. She’s held in place by her father’s rough hands on her shoulders so she can’t run and hide behind her mother’s dress. Emma blinks.

“Hello, Emma. I’m Margaret. I’m going to help you become a star.”

Emma frowns and sees something she doesn’t like in the flat brown eyes staring back at her.

“Ok,” she whispers.

The other shoe had to drop eventually, Angelique reminds herself. It was all going too well. The transition from Margaret to her had been too seamless. With her finely honed senses and slight paranoia, she should’ve felt this coming. Her hackles should’ve been up.

She let her guard down. She finally felt comfortable with what she was doing, like she was in the right place at the right time managing the right person. Emma felt like her teammate.

She was loading into the bus when Shawn first sprinted past her red-faced looking like he’d just seen a ghost. Andrew followed quickly after, shooting her a firm glance.

“Call your client. She’s getting on a fucking plane.”

Angelique felt her stomach fall into her shoes. Whatever this is, it can’t fucking happen.

But it did. Emma went home without a fight. Sandra smugly responded to every email about tour cancellation details. She patronizingly yammered on about Emma needing “mental space” and “time with her beloved family” like she was writing a fucking press release instead of just lying to Angelique.

She’s between a rock and a hard place now, the rock being Emma, the hard place being the rest of Emma’s team who are clamoring for answers.

Emma was apologetic, to her credit. She explained the whole situation. Angelique was about to launch into a somewhat unprofessional and probably really inappropriate tirade about getting Georgie legally emancipated when she heard something in Emma’s voice that gave her hope.

She doesn’t have a name for it, whatever it was. It was a small tinkling of something underneath that told Angelique in her gut that this isn’t over yet. Angelique had been thinking of Emma like a boxer who’d been hit hard and was waiting for the countdown so the round could end. After that phone call, she realized something – Emma isn’t down for the count. She’s waiting. She’s resting up. She’ll come out swinging.

She’s not out of this yet.

“I don’t want another lesson,” Shawn insists in the middle seat in the back of his mom’s Volvo, “I just learned notes. I want to play a song.”

“Love, you have to learn the notes to play a song,” his mom says softly.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I can learn on YouTube faster than a lesson. Seriously.”

Karen relents. Let him learn on YouTube, she thinks. Maybe that’ll hold his interest.

Shawn sits cross-legged at the end of the stage, knees bouncing as the FaceTime ringtone blares at him mockingly.

Her face is warm and pink when she answers him. She’s just finished Pilaticardio, it looks like. He flushes at the idea of her in her tight Lululemon pants and shakes the idea from his head before it can sprout.

“Hey, you,” she greets. Her voice isn’t tired so much as her whole being seems tired. It makes him want to wrap her up in his arms and shut it all out. He can’t do that, so he tries something else.

“Got a surprise for you,” he says breathlessly, a little giddy, nodding and biting his lip.

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he nods at someone off camera and suddenly he’s not holding the phone, “I’m passing you off to Geoff. I want to show you something.”

He hurries adorably to the center of the stage and thanks Joey the tech for the guitar he’s handed. Emma smiles, watching him get ready to command his space. Maybe he’s written something new.

He starts first. She knows within two seconds what he’s playing. And he didn’t write it.

She did.

He plucks expertly at his acoustic, bobbing his head, feeling her song in his bones. The breath leaves her body in a sweeping exhale. She doesn’t remember to breathe for a few seconds until the pounding of her heart races over the deep tones of the accompanying piano.

He closes his eyes and steps into the mic, brow wrinkling as he sings her words, sings her heart to an empty stadium. Each piece of her arrangement comes in like she told him, like she envisioned. The drums shake the song, indicate something big is coming. Shawn carries it forth, leading steadily into the throbbing pre-chorus, tapping his foot and shrugging a hand around the mic. The piano climbs with him, the drums steadily increase in volume until the song reaches a climactic pause. When it comes back in, she folds her hands over her mouth in shock.

It's everything she wanted, everything she imagined it could be. It’s big, it’s bold, it’s emotional, it’s her.

And he did it for her.

He plays through the whole song and she falls in love with it all over again. She recognizes every beat, every note, every choice made as her own. He’s playing it for her not as himself, but as her proxy. He’s made no customizations, no little twists. It’s just hers exactly as it’s meant to be.

As the last note fades out, Emma finally uncovers her mouth. Geoff comes around the camera to peek shyly at her reaction. She offers him a watery grin and he smiles back sincerely for the first time since she met him. He moves his head so Emma can see Shawn hustling to the front of the stage to get his phone back.

He’s rosy, a little sweaty and grinning with a mad look in his eye.

“So? Did you like it?”

Emma opens her mouth. A choked sob escapes where words were meant to be. She claps a hand over her mouth and coughs a laugh.

“It’s… it’s perfect. That was it, that was what I wanted. I… oh my god. I’m so—”

She cuts herself off, shaking her head. He gets it. He’s been blessed to have had this moment himself before – to watch his brain child songs get the live treatment, to feel real and big and beautiful. He knows how this feels. That’s why he wanted to give it to her.

“It’s yours, Em. You did that. You did all of it.”

Emma swallows. She tries to regulate her breathing, muttering about thanking his band for learning it, for playing it so beautifully, thanking Geoff for holding the damn phone. Shawn laughs.

“Face it, Emma Kingston. You’re a fuckin’ rockstar.”

Emma’s laugh bubbles and spills as her tears do. Shawn walks off with his phone for some privacy as she gets it out of her system and wrenches at her self-control.

“Thank you,” she manages through a throat full of snotty tears.

He bobs his head shyly. “It’s be alright, Em.”

Emma held Georgie’s pudgy little hand as they walked into Somerset School for Georgie’s first day of kindergarten. Being a rough and tumble second grader, Emma felt big and cool. She’s never seen a real first day of school before, only on sets. She’s glad these aren’t kids her age or she’d feel a lot less cool.

Georgie tugs at her hand. “What if I don’t make friends?”

Emma shakes her head. “You’ll make friends. Plus, even if you don’t, I’m your friend.”

On the 12th day of confinement, Emma and Georgie lie side by side on Emma’s bed. It’s not an unfamiliar position to them now.

Emma’s trying so hard not to feel it, but there’s something in the air. She tries not to think that it’s the last day of tour and Shawn’s playing the Barclays Center in Brooklyn and she tries not to feel like a part of her is there and she needs to go get it back.

But Emma doesn’t always get what she wants, so her efforts are pretty useless.

With a shaky sigh, she reaches her foot out and kicks Georgie’s leg to get her to turn down “Ruin.”

Georgie turns onto her side to regard her big sister. Emma looks a little less tired now. And resigned, somehow.

“G,” Emma whispers, and it’s the same voice she used when she told Georgie Grandpa Norm died while she was at camp, “It’s time to go talk to mom.”

Georgie shakes. She doesn’t know why. This is Emma’s fight, she’s just back up.

Even as she thinks it to herself, she knows it’s flatly untrue. Any fight of Emma’s is a fight of hers. And this, this fight, this cosmic inertia of mother and daughter, she’s a part of this too.

She’s a few paces behind Emma as they pad into the living room, unintimidating in pajamas at 11am.

Sandra is sitting on the couch in gym wear typing away at her phone with E! News on in the background. She doesn’t notice when they walk in.

“Mom,” Emma prompts. Georgie feels relieved not to hear a quiver in it.

Sandra’s head snaps up. She hasn’t seen or heard from her eldest daughter in days. She beams at her two girls who’ve come to see her.

“Hey babies,” she coos, setting her phone down, “Want to go get some lunch? Might be time to get Emma Jean back out in the world.”

“Mom, I love you,” Emma states.

Georgie’s eyes blow wide open. Sandra’s mirror them. To be honest, neither of them is sure of the last time Emma said that. Or any of them said that. They aren’t that kind of family.

“Babygirl, I love you too,” Sandra hums, her voice lowering, misunderstanding the direction of this.

“I love you and I don’t want to hate you anymore. So you need to leave my house.”

Sandra’s brow furrows. Her eyes briefly touch Georgie’s – she’s equally stunned. But Emma is a mountain that will not be moved. Not this time.

“Honey, we talked about this, I know it’s been a hard few months, a hard few years even, but this—“

“No. We’re not doing this again. I’m not gonna do this dance with you.”

Emma takes Georgie’s hand and tugs her forward. Georgie stumbles along behind her until they’re both sitting on the oversized ottoman facing their mother, who’s sitting straight as a rod.

“I’ve spent the last couple weeks thinking. I’ve been thinking about why it was easier for me to say the things I said to Margaret than it was to say them to you. I’ve been going over it and over it. It didn’t make sense. She was as much my mother as you ever were,” a flash of real human hurt crashes across Sandra’s face for a split second, “so why was it so different?

“The truth is, Margaret has always respected me a little more than you have. Maybe because I was always her client and I was always your daughter. And at the end of the day, she was never going to be permanent, no matter how entwined in my life she was. Not like you are.

“I think because you never respected me, I always feared you. Because I didn’t know what you were capable of. I didn’t ever really know until you threatened to take Georgie away from me.”

Georgie stares at Emma, feeling her face heat. It takes her a full few seconds before she can lift her eyes to Sandra’s. Sandra is looking back, pale as a ghost.

It’s not like Georgie didn’t know. Georgie knows all. Before Emma even told her why she agreed to leave tour, Georgie had an inkling. She knows Emma wouldn’t leave tour, leave Shawn for anything but her. Georgie is the trump card.

She stares at her mother, her unfeeling, judgmental wisp of a mother. She sees years of signed permission slips, missed band concerts, nearly forgotten birthdays. She sees a vapid hole of a woman who nearly sucked the life out of the person Georgie holds most dear. She sees nothing in Sandra.

“Emma Jean, don’t do this.”

It’s not a plea, it’s a warning. Sandra Kingston’s never backed down from a fight. She’s not about to start with her 19-year-old headstrong bitch of a daughter.

“Mom,” Emma breathes, leaning forward and taking one of her mother’s frigid, veiny hands in hers, “I have to do this. It’s all that’s left.”

Georgie didn’t know she was about to cry until the tears fell. She sniffles gently, sweeping them away, trying not to make a scene as the culmination of her entire family’s angst hangs over them.

“Do what you’re going to do,” Emma whispers. Georgie blinks in surprise. Emma lets go of Sandra’s hand. Sandra looks bowled over.

“I can’t stop you, I can’t control you. If what you really want is to place a restraining order on me so I can’t see my sister, do it. Or try. I don’t necessarily trust the American justice system, but I think I still trust it more than you. So if that’s what you want, to separate us, to use her as a pawn to make me your dancing monkey, fine. Because guess what? Georgie turns 18 in 17 months and there’s your only power over me, gone.

“Margaret is gone, mom. She signed a girl band in Sweden. She’s happy. Angelique is leading my team now. She is my teammate. She collaborates with me and listens to me and we have a way forward that I’m really, really excited about. I’m more excited about this than any move I’ve ever made in my career. I want you to be excited, too. I know you had a plan. I know you wanted to take charge when I was younger, wanted me to succeed. I can’t do it if you threaten my happiness and my family.

“I want you to be a part of this someday. Not today, probably not any time soon, but someday. I know as well as anyone how savvy you are. I don’t discount that. But you don’t know how to be a teammate, mom. And you don’t know how to be a mom, either. So for now, you’re off my team until you figure those things out.”

Emma glances at Georgie for the first time in minutes. She wraps her hands around Georgie’s and smiles softly.

“Georgie’s going to go home to dad’s. She’s going to go to Belfort Homecoming with Josh Dittrich. She’s going to make lacrosse captain and start visiting colleges. You’re going to stay home, at your home in Beverly Hills, and go to her games and take her shopping for her dress and get her for dinner every Wednesday night and on every other weekend.”

“I’m going to get on a plane.”

Georgie’s eyes lift from their hands to Emma’s face. She looks… serene. Georgie’s never once seen her look serene. She blinks quickly, feeling her fingers unfold from her sister’s. Emma plants a hand on her head.

“C’mon, kid. We have somewhere to be.”

Emma watches the lights of the New York City skyline glimmer off Georgie’s shining eyes in the back of the speeding cab. Emma promised him a $100 tip if he could get them to the Barclays Center before 10:30pm. He’s taking his challenge very, very seriously.

Emma and Georgie slide into each other during another scary hairpin turn. They both giggle, a little giddy from adrenaline.

Emma tucks a chunk of hair behind her ear and looks down. She’s in an oversized plaid shirt, Daisy Dukes and checkered Vans. Her hair is muddy with grease and dry shampoo. She’s breaking out a little on her chin. She feels fucking great.

Finally, the cabbie dumps them off outside the artist’s entrance. Emma makes good on her promise and throws in an autograph for his niece with a grin and a wink.

Emma and Georgie hustle up to venue security. Suddenly, Emma vanishes into Emma Kingston. Her face goes cold, eyes go dark and vacant. She strides up like she belongs there.

“Excuse me,” she says in that soft velvety tone of disdain.

Venue security doesn’t look impressed. She lets the corners of her mouth fold down further.

“Name?”

“Emma Kingston.”

“You’re not on the artist roster,” the guard says boredly. Emma cocks her head.

“I’m the tour opener. I was here two hours ago,” she groans, sounding convincingly exhausted. She spots a tour poster and points at her name and face splashed helpfully beneath Shawn’s. She quirks an annoyed eyebrow.

This seems to work, because they’re letting her in. She still has to find a couple crew members to swipe passes from to keep this alive a little longer. She hopes she hasn’t stirred up too much ill will with her formerly bad attitude. She needs this to work. She has to see him.

Georgie’s along for the ride, gawping at the backstage like she’s never seen one before. She waves at passing crew members and roadies. She’s charming enough that they wave back even when they’re rushing or their hands are full.

Emma lunges for Shawn’s favorite tech Joey when she sees him. “Joey! I need a pass.”

He beams. “Emma! Hey! Wow! Yeah, c’mon.”

Georgie’s teeth start to chatter with nerves as they wind their way through the labyrinthian tunnels. As they grow closer to the stage, Shawn’s voice becomes clearer. He’s nearing the end of his set. Emma’s growing fidgety, wants to watch his last few songs and be there when he walks off stage.

Joey very helpfully gets them passes and leads them up through the backstage, doesn’t ask questions when he helps them dodge Andrew, who Emma knows to avoid due to Shawn’s explanation of the “strategy.”

Emma’s nerve endings are buzzing all over her body when Joey leads them to sidestage and she catches sight of Shawn under a spot. He’s pounding hard at his guitar, dripping sweat, thrashing around like a fucking rockstar. Her stomach releases a team of butterflies that don’t stay put – they feel like they’re exploding out of her ears and cheeks. Emma reaches for Georgie’s hand, gripping hard.

She looks over. Georgie is grinning so hard her face might just break. She’s bopping up and down, singing along like she’s at her favorite artist’s concert. Emma smiles, remembering that she is. Georgie looks over and squeezes her hand.

The Kingston sisters scream and dance along to “Particular Taste” under Joey’s watchful eye as he stands guard from Andrew or other interferers.

When the song ends, Emma’s adrenaline-laced heart pumps straight into overdrive. Shawn breaks for water and turns toward them, glancing around casually as he brings the water bottle to his lips.

The bottle almost falls from his hand when he spots her. She’s smiling that perfect, quiet Emma smile, the one that first made him wonder who she was underneath. She’s standing there, a vision in plaid and denim, with bouncing, screaming Georgie nearly vibrating next to her.

Shawn bares a toothy grin and starts to laugh. His band members look up to stare at him like he has three heads. Emma and Georgie giggle along with him until the three of them are nearly doubled over, laughing at nothing.

Finally, Shawn straightens up. The music has long since faded out and the crowd is wondering what the hell is going on. Shawn chews on his lower lip, one hand around the neck of his guitar, one gripping the mic. Emma watches him curiously.

Shawn returns his gaze to the crowd. He can’t see them over the house lights, but he can hear them, can feel them. He smiles softly.

He plucks the first few notes, just to give her a taste, get her blood moving. He doesn’t look at her reaction, just down at his guitar as the crowd cheers for something they don’t recognize.

“Brooklyn,” he crows, a smirk in his voice, “Have I got a surprise for you.”

He backs away from the mic so he can see into sidestage. Emma is laughing again and Georgie is looking between Shawn and Emma so quickly she’s going to give herself whiplash.

Joey, being Joey, takes his cue and hands Emma a tuned up acoustic. It’s not her little yellow guitar, but it’ll do. She smiles gratefully and looks back at the stage as Shawn races around to inform the band that a change is being made.

When all is settled, he nods to Joey and strides back to the mic. As Joey approaches, he lifts off his guitar and hands it to him.

“Thanks, Joey.”

Shawn stands in front of the mic, hands folded behind his back. “This is my last night on this tour,” Shawn begins, sounding a little nostalgic and a lot proud. Emma looks up from fiddling with a guitar pick to watch him.

“This was the best tour ever. I want to thank my incredible band and crew for all their hard work. You guys are everything. I couldn’t do this without you, obviously, but I also wouldn’t want to. Thank you.”

He steps back from the mic and applauds, looking to each member of his band gratefully. The crowd’s roaring dies down as Shawn takes the mic again.

“I also want to thank my tourmate,” he chuckles and Emma knows it’s because “tourmate” doesn’t even begin to cover what they are to each other now, “Emma Kingston.”

The crowd shows waves of recognition, they think they know what’s coming.

They don’t.

Emma turns to Georgie with bated breath. “Want to see something cool?”

Georgie nods. Emma grins. “Stay here. You’re gonna love this.”

Georgie squeals and stands back. When Emma looks back to the stage, Shawn is turned toward her, smiling in anticipation.

Emma grips the guitar for dear life.

She’s never been on a stage as Emma before. She’s been on who knows how many hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Pageant stages, sound stages, arena stages. She has stood at the back or the side putting on her mask, lacing up her persona. She became Emma Kingston for them because that’s what they wanted from her.

She’s never been this Emma before – this Emma in a shirt from Goodwill and ratty sneakers without a stitch of make-up. This is Georgie’s Emma, Shawn’s Emma.

Emma’s Emma.

And now it’s all that’s left.

Emma takes a deep breath and it feels like new life. It feels like a promise. It feels like she’s finally present.

She takes a step, then another. Shawn starts to clap and whistle as she takes the stage, scorched by the bright lights. She’s grateful, then, that all she can see is him.

She walks up to him, watches his smug smile grow. She shakes her head, laughing again, turning to the elated crowd to wave. They shake the damn stadium with their applause. Something new is happening. They can feel it.

Shawn’s gentle touch on her arm brings her back. He leans into her ear.

“You good?”

Emma leans back and looks up at his sparkling chocolate eyes. She nods meaningfully. “I’m ready.”

Shawn grins wildly, curls bobbing as he jogs back to take a seat at the piano.

Emma takes her time adjusting the mic stand, feeling the intensely weighted quiet of the crowd as they wait for her. They think they know who she is, but they haven’t seen this before. They’re curious. Who is she?

Emma looks down at the guitar as she plucks out the first chords slowly. She repeats them a few times, not as much getting her bearings as she is falling into this.

This, what she’s worked every day of her life for since she was five.

This, what she’s dreamed about through years of misdirection, of pampering, of bad attitude, of tight jeans, of broken promises.

This, what she’s built with her own two hands.

Emma lifts her head, tips it back and forth as her eyes slide shut. She starts playing to tempo, hears Shawn’s first notes on the piano come in shortly after.

“Little miss down on love… little miss I give up… little miss I’ll get tough, don’t you worry ‘bout me anymore…”

Her voice is hers. It’s not sweetened, it’s not tuned, it’s Emma Jean. It’s generations of southern heritage, it’s years of Tammy and Patsy under the covers in bed, it’s a little twangy and it’s fucking perfect.

“Little miss checkered dress… little miss one big mess… little miss I’ll take less when I always give so much more…”

Her eyes are shut, pinched tight as she feels every word like they’re getting tattooed on her skin as she sings them.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, sometimes you gotta lose till you win…”

“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’ll be alright again.”

Her eyes open. The chorus crashes in. She rocks along with it, crooning into the mic, strumming hard.

“It’ll be alright again, I’m ok, it’ll be alright again…”

As the chorus fades back into the first chords, Emma feels the crowd with her. She has them – an artist knows when she has an audience, it’s like feeling the wind at her back. But this is Barclays Arena so it’s not wind. It’s a goddamn hurricane. And it feels so good.

“Little miss do your best… little miss never rest… little miss be my guest, I’ll make more any time that it runs out.”

Shawn’s impressive at the piano. She grins around her words as he strikes hard at the keys, feeling this as much as she is.

“Little miss you’ll go far… little miss hide your scars… little miss who you are is so much more than you like to talk about…”

With the build-up of the next chorus, Emma stomps her foot along with the piano and drums. The pause before the chorus breaks and Emma slashes at the guitar, going full rockstar like she’s always wanted to but never could. It gets even more of the crowd behind her. She’s a born performer. It’s hard to ignore.

The bridge is simple, but it’s big. It builds like the chorus, but it’s more climactic. Emma feels it rising in her. It shows her true chops as a singer. She holds her note, grinning around it again as the crowd reacts in waves of cheers and applause.

“Hold on… hold on, you are loved, are loved…”

Emma’s voice fades out after an impressive vocal run that has at least half the stadium on their feet. If she looked behind her, she’d see the band exchanging shocked looks of delight -- all but Shawn, who knew for certain she had it in her. He’s smiling that perfect proud smile, eyes glued to her like the first time he saw her perform. He remembers her blue spangly dress, her bare feet, her mismatched voice. There’s nothing mismatched here, now. This is right. This is her.

Emma steps back from the mic for a moment, regaining her breath after her impressive display of vocal prowess. She gasps breath, lifts her hand to her mouth, shaking her head in amazement as the crowd grows even louder in reaction.

She stares out at them. She wonders about every face, every story behind every life, every song in the hearts of these people who didn’t expect this today but got it anyway. All these people who are making this memory with her. All these people who took a perfect dream and made it real.

She smiles wide. It’s projected stories high onto the screen behind her. The crowd continues to cheer.

She steps back to the mic and the song returns to its quiet beginning. Emma is solo, strumming the guitar, bobbing her head and scuffing her sneakers on the stage floor. She turns to face Shawn, lifts her head and flips hair out of her eyes. He’s sitting proudly at the piano, staring at her. He ducks his head shyly when she catches him. He knows what’s coming.

“Little miss brand new start… little miss do your part… little miss big ol’ heart beats wide open, she’s ready now for love…”

Fuck a strategy. Fuck Kyle Dillon. Fuck Island. Fuck Sandra.

Emma’s looking at Shawn and Shawn’s looking at Emma and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes. And they don’t fucking care.

The chorus builds again, bigger than before. It takes Emma a minute to realize why.

It’s because they’re singing along.

The crowd is chanting with her, “it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

They’re singing her words back to her and it’s so much better than she imagined it would be. Tears catch at the corner of her eyes. When she glimpses Georgie jumping up and down sidestage, crying like a 13-year-old at a Bieber, concert, her tears come loose. Her throat grates, but she sings through it.

Emma sings “I’m ok,” Shawn echoes “it’ll be alright again” and for the first time in her life, Emma believes it.

She doesn’t want to let go when the song draws to a close, the last chord reverberating but barely audible under the mass of screams, of delighted cheers, of chants of her name.

Emma steps backward away from the mic, trying to catch her breath. She drops her pic and claps her hands over her mouth, shaking her head. The cheers grow louder as she gets emotional.

She recovers enough to swing her guitar behind her back and lift her arms to wave. She’s choking back sobs, biting her lips, wishing in the back of her head that Sandra could see this.

Emma looks to Georgie, who’s crying harder than she is. When Georgie realizes she’s spotted, she waves hysterically, cheering and jumping up and down again. Emma laughs, lifting her hand to wave back.

A big, warm hand catches her wrist. She looks up instinctively. He’s there beside her looking at her like she handed him the world.

Slowly, like she’s watching from above, he drops her wrist and steps into her, cupping her neck in his big, rough hands. The crowds roars are deafening as they see what’s about to happen. Emma holds onto his ribcage as Shawn leans in and gives her a searing kiss.

He holds nothing back. He slots their lips together, pulls her up on her toes to deepen it, dropping his hands from her neck to wrap around her waist and lift her slightly. She swings her arms around his neck and holds on desperately, gasping into his mouth, whimpering gently.

With the ground-shaking din of the crowd’s reaction ringing in his ears, Emma’s mind is perfectly blank, clearer than it’s been since she was small. She has one thought in her head. A memory.

She sighs, resigned. She sweeps a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. She leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet. It lasts only a moment. His lips are soft and taste like morning and lemon. She shudders.

He has lost any sense of the world around them. He shrugs an arm around her, uses the other to move some hair out of her tear-streaked face. He leans back in and she shuts her eyes, waiting for another kiss. Instead, he trails his lips over her hair, her cheekbones, her nose, her fluttering eyelashes.

“Emma,” he breathes into her ear. Her body tightens against his in response.

The name doesn’t sound so scary anymore.

Emma smiles into his lips, overwhelmingly grateful.

Her hero’s journey for independence was a long affair, one Shawn arrived for the tail end of. He can’t be attributed much credit for Emma’s departure from her team, from Margaret and Sandra. He was a background figure in all of those scenes.

But Shawn did something just important, just as crucial to getting Emma to this point. He taught her how to be loved.

When Shawn releases her, they smile big and toothy in unison and start to laugh again like they did before, too filled with love and hope and plain, stupid youth that it comes out like explosive carbonation.

Shawn tucks hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead. The girlish shrieks are deafening. They make Emma chuckle again.

“Wait for me?” Shawn whispers in her ear.

Emma nods. “I’m not going anywhere.”

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#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fluff

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sybvrites · 5 years

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hi angels! im bee, 20, a general mess... u get the picture. this is hugo and he’s... idk what he is but he’s my baby :))) this is really long so you the best if you read it in full && as always my discord is the uk's weird farmer cousin#1697 if y’all want speedy replies for plotting !

tw: death & drug use.

( xavier serrano, cismale, he/him, twenty-two ) — have you seen hugo talbot, the history and politics student around oxford yet ? i hear they can be acerbic and meticulous, but those who know them insist they’re reminded of driving too fast on an empty road, the whipping wind in a thunderstorm, cashmere turtlenecks & worn poetry books when they’re around. rumour has it that his parents died during the execution of an insurance scam. is it true ? only time will tell…

FULL NAME: hugo byron talbot DATE OF BIRTH: november 3rd, 1996 PARENTS: gregory talbot & marianne cunard-talbot NATIONALITY: english IMPORTANT LINKS: statistics & pinterest.

BACKSTORY

hugo was born on november 3rd, ironically the same day as his mother’s birthday, born twenty-six years apart. marianne cunard-talbot was, to put it bluntly, not the motherly type. her own mother left her and her father when she was one, and since kenneth cunard had no other possible heir to the family business ( and fortune, mind ) the proverbial crown was laid on her brow. with no mother figure in her life, it seemed the capabilities escaped her, as they escaped her husband too. gregory talbot, as a second son to a wealthy family, had little to inherit but a mind for business. when they met at cambridge, both studying literature, in the eighties it wasn’t a match made in heaven, it wasn’t love at first sight, but they made a good team — it was enough. two more children followed after hugo, and while they lacked a significant amount of guidance from their own parents ( or any sort of guidance at all, really ), they made do with themselves. while hugo and his siblings stayed in london, his parents continued to live in southampton where the headquarters for cunard corporation was, and let the nannies that they’d hired handle the raising of their kids. the lack of supervision and general parenting only served to create an air of entitlement around hugo. he knew from a young age that he was going to be an important man when he grew up, that he would be a powerful man. it was only enforced by the fact that when marianne and gregory would visit it was mainly to nitpick at their children, enquire after their grades and ensure that nobody was stepping out of line. at thirteen hugo had to leave his siblings behind to attend eton. despite the fact he would return every weekend he still felt the separation from his siblings keenly, they had after all barely been apart for their whole lives. on his first day at eton, he tripped over someone else’s suitcase as he exited his car, and when he turned to angrily confront the owner of the case, he came face to face with thomas. they became fast friends despite the fact that hugo couldn’t help but remember, and wish to rebel against, his parents wish for him to befriend the heir to the throne. the tom he knew wasn’t the crown prince, but rather the boy who had never been allowed his own freedom, a boy who was only just beginning to discover who he was without his parents telling him who he had to be. by the time hugo was sixteen, and tom seventeen, both had begun to dabble in illicit substances. their reasons were different of course, but it wasn’t as if they necessarily needed reasons to get high and pretend they weren’t going to have the weight of the world on their respective shoulders in ten years. but while hugo usually kept sober unless there was a party, tom seemed to want to spend his time being perpetually high. it was easy to ignore it, his best mate seemed happier after he’d done a few lines, but he also seemed flirtier. tom had come out almost immediately after they’d met, and it was like all the weight had lifted off of his shoulders, sharing his secret with another person seemed to help him immensely. hugo couldn’t say when he began to realise that tom had a crush on him, maybe it was from the very moment they’d met, but throughout the years it started to become abundantly clear. at a friend’s twenty-first birthday party he still felt completely blindsided when tom got high and wasted, and then tried to convince hugo to sleep with him.

he was eighteen when his parents passed away, it was strange to him because despite their lack of presence it always felt like they were hovering nearby, just waiting for him to mess up, or for his brother or sister to, so they could blame him. it was an accident they said, something went wrong on one of the ships and unfortunately, it took his parents with him when it sunk. his grandfather pulled him aside at the funeral to tell him what happened, he claimed it was hugo's right now, considering once he left university, it was all his. he told hugo about how the cunard fleet was losing more money that it was making, how there was a plan to sink the least valuable to bring in more money, to supplement the loss of money. he told hugo how the plan went awry and the ship didn't sink when it was meant to on its return from australia, and when they went to inspect the ship and why it didn't go down, it sank with them on it. the money was still going to be beneficial to the company, and now the insurance company would be hard pressed to believe that the ship was tampered with, considering who was aboard. the secret had to be kept, he was going to have to keep it for his whole life if he valued his handle on the company and their resulting wealth. it was hard, losing his parents and being burdened with such a secret. his only solace was tom, who didn't know what it was to lose family, but understood what it was like to feel so disconnected.

he would never admit it to his best friend, hell, he’d never admit it out loud, period, but while his mate had been harbouring feelings for him, hugo had a crush of his own. tom’s sister eleanor was quiet around him, he wasn’t sure they’d ever really had a proper conversation and yet every time he caught sight of her when he’d visit tom his heart would kick up and his palms would sweat. it all came to a head when, at tom’s cousin’s twenty-first birthday, he rescued nora from a handsy party-goer and began seeing her in secret, namely so tom wouldn’t find out. their relationship was easy enough to hide, he would stay with tom and sneak off to eleanor’s room once he’d passed out, she would arrive at his door with a hermès scarf to shield her face and hair from those who might recognise her. by the time it had become abundantly clear to the both of them that it was a completely serious relationship and decided that it was time to go public and share their news with tom, and scheduled a press conference ( because an instagram debut was awfully uncouth ), they’d been together for almost a year and a half.

with the press conference scheduled for the monday after their respective birthdays, and having resolved to sit down to dinner on sunday with eleanor’s family to tell them the truth, both hugo and eleanor went into the weekend confident and happy. tragedy was never far away though, it always seemed to loom on the horizon. after a wild saturday night, tom and hugo found themselves back at buckingham palace, hugo drunk and tom exceptionally high. a quick slip of the tongue ( “ god i’m going to regret this in the morning, nora’s going to kick my ass if i go back to her in this state. ” ), had him thinking he’d ruined everything before nora could present her arguments to her family. instead, tom gave his blessing and sent hugo off to his sister to enjoy the rest of his birthday. he’d thought it was the best weekend of his life, he went home to get ready for dinner and was interrupted by his phone ringing — it was the phone call that he felt turning his life upside down. his girlfriend told him how the maid came to wake him, he was late for breakfast, she shook him and he didn’t wake up. a heart attack, nora told him. the press conference planned for them was used to announce his best friend’s death, the best weekend of his life so quickly turned into the worst.

CURRENTLY

hugo is still trying to work through losing tom, he’s not about to admit to anyone that losing someone who he’d just assumed would be there for… well, forever, was taken so quickly. it also impeded the announcement for his and eleanor’s relationship and forced them back into the dark when they’d been preparing to be able to not sneak around, and now they’re back to where they were before.

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: astute, meticulous, loyal NEGATIVE TRAITS: acerbic, calculating, imperious hugo is, above all else, extremely sharp. when it comes to people it usually takes approximately a sentence to leave their mouth before he's made his judgement on them. this also applies to his schoolwork and actual work ( on the occasion that his grandfather requires another set of trusted eyes ). in all things he does he is exceptionally precise, mostly a result of the scrutiny he faced with his parents expecting every move to be absolutely perfect. above all else, and probably the trait he would tell a person he possesses, he is extremely loyal, mostly to his family. there are few people he would go to the ends of the earth for and without a doubt his siblings are the first two ( and eleanor ). he was never raised to be soft, he was raised to run a multi-billion dollar corporation, and as such he never learnt to edge his words with honey, his words always tend to sound as if they have an edge to them, almost confrontational. if a person knows him well enough, they would understand that he usually means nothing by it, he doesn't care enough about most people for it to mean anything. when approaching any situation, his cunning is one thing he has no problem in using, it's often little more than a means to an end as long as it benefits him or someone he cares about. he also has a habit of coming across as quite pompous, he's lived a life where he hasn't ever wanted for anything, everything is served up on a silver platter. as such his view of the world is also quite skewed and his knowledge of simple things like grocery shopping is nonexistent. it makes him come off as conceited and haughty, once the layers are peeled back he is definitely a different person, alas he's hard pressed to let anyone close enough to see him.

PLOTS

okay, i'm definitely spitballing because connections for him are genuinely hard, i can almost guarantee that while i don't think he makes enemies, he's certainly not making friends with many people. he's probably friendly with most people in the riot club, but nowhere close to someone he actually considers a close friend. in saying that, here are a list of connections i can see, but i'm so happy to brainstorm some fun things up !

close friends ( 0/2 ) — would have also been close to tom, and i imagine each of them brought a different dynamic/layer to the group ( for instance i definitely think tom was hooking up with one of their mates ). past hookups ( 0/? ) — obviously he isn't hooking up with anyone right about now but i definitely think he was a bit of a fuccboi before eleanor. childhood friends ( 0/1 ) — hugo never really got out much as a child, but when he did it was usually with this character, their parents were likely friends of his own parents and thus, this character would have been ' approved '. party friends ( 0/2 ) — i imagine that these two were the ones who helped him get through tom's death where eleanor couldn't, he had, and still has, a lot of frustration regarding his friend's passing and i can see him just wanting to go out, drink far too much and forget about things for a little while. riot friends ( 0/? ) — he's not very... chummy with many people, but considering everyone in the riot club are of a similar calibre, he definitely feels more comfortable calling most people in riot more than acquaintances.

#oxfordintro #º ✧ 。hugo / information.#º ✧ 。/ introduction.

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