#closed distilleries

[maltrunners]

Littlemill 20 (1984) Scott’s Selection

Review by: Raygun Another first from a closed distillery for me. Littlemill shut down in 1996. There are still independent bottlings around, but this is a dusty one from Scott’s Selection, which coincidentally has also shut down, I’ve heard. It was run by former Speyside master blender Robert Scott. Reviewed from a sample thanks to Federal Agent. Rested about 15 minutes. Distillery:…

[uwooyoungs]

//

[wonderlanddreamer]

I was wondering if you could write something on Alfie? Alfie seeking comfort in the reader after a bad day? Or soft seduction after a long day, either works

His Serenity.

[Alfie Solomons x Reader]

Summary: After a bad day, Alfie just wants to be alone, or so he thinks. But then there's you, with your own sensual way to bring him serenity.

Warnings: Explicit content. Oral sex [m receiving]. 18+MDNI.

Word Count: 3086

The faint, musty scent of old books and aged wood fills every corner of Alfie Solomons' office as you meticulously sort through the stacks of paperwork on his cluttered desk. The hum of the bustling distillery outside seeps through the walls, a comforting backdrop that provides a steady rhythm you've grown accustomed to over the months. Golden sunlight filters through the small, grimy windows, casting long shadows that stretch across the room, signalling the end of another arduous day. Just as you finish organising the last stack, the door slams open with a force that sends a shiver down your spine and rattles the windows.

Alfie strides in, his presence like a storm brewing in the confined space. His face is a mask of fury; his eyes are wild, and his teeth are gritted as if he's biting back a torrent of words. Papers cascade off his desk in a chaotic flurry as he sweeps an arm across it, sending documents flying. The sound of glass shattering pierces the air as he hurls a bottle against the wall, the remnants glittering on the floor like jagged stars.

"Get out!" His voice is a thunderclap, reverberating through your bones and echoing in the small room.

You freeze, your instincts screaming at you to obey, but something deeper holds you rooted to the spot. Leaving him like this feels wrong, unbearable, as if abandoning a ship in the midst of a storm. Despite the danger radiating from him, you step closer, your heart pounding so loudly you fear he might hear it.

Alfie's eyes narrow on you, his breath coming in heavy, ragged bursts that speak of barely contained rage. He snatches a bottle of whiskey from a nearby shelf, the motion abrupt and aggressive, and slumps into his worn leather chair. The fury in his movements still simmers just beneath the surface as he takes a long, hard swig, the tension in his frame almost palpable, like a coiled spring.

Ignoring the voice in your head that begs you to leave, you move behind him, your steps careful and deliberate. Your hands rest gently on his broad, tense shoulders, and you start to knead the tight knots of muscle with a practised touch. He tenses beneath your fingers, a low growl escaping his lips, a sound that mixes frustration with reluctant relief.

"I said, get out," he mutters, but the command lacks its former bite, sounding more like a plea than an order.

His protests grow weaker as your fingers work their way into the tension, soothing the rage bit by bit. The knots of stress begin to unravel under your touch, and you remain gentle, your hands a source of comfort to him and a balm to your own worry. Gradually, you can feel the tightness leaving his muscles, his breaths becoming more even and less ragged, as though the storm within him is slowly abating.

Feeling the tension slowly ebb from his body, you continue to massage Alfie's shoulders with a gentle, reassuring touch. His breathing steadies, the furious edge softening as the anger drains away. You can sense him becoming more receptive to your presence, his body relaxing under your ministrations as the tempest within him begins to calm.

After a long, silent moment, Alfie leans back slightly, his eyes closed as he savours the relief your hands have brought him. His rough exterior seems to crumble ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerable man beneath the tough facade. Without warning, his hand reaches up to cover yours, holding it in place as if to anchor himself in the newfound calm.

He lets out a low, rumbling sigh, and before you can react, he gently pulls you around to the front of his chair. The look in his eyes is different now, softened by exhaustion and perhaps something more profound. He guides you into his lap with surprising tenderness, his strong arms encircling you protectively.

For a moment, you hesitate, unsure of this sudden shift in his mood. But the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear offer a strange, unexpected comfort. Alfie's rough hand strokes your back in slow, soothing motions, his touch seeking out the solace you provide.

"Stay," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper that carries the weight of unspoken emotions. "Just for a while."

You nod, relaxing into his hold, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest.

As you settle into Alfie's lap, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, your hands continue their gentle caress. The heat from his skin radiates through the fabric of his shirt, mingling with your own warmth and creating a cocoon of intimacy. You can feel the tension leaving him in waves, replaced by something softer, more intimate. Your fingers trace along his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch, a soothing cadence that matches your own.

In the quiet of the office, the only sounds are the distant hum of the distillery and the soft, steady breaths you both take. You become acutely aware of the subtle shift in Alfie's breathing, the way his chest rises and falls more deliberately. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly, and you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against you. A flush of heat rises to your cheeks, your skin tingling with the electricity of the moment, but you don't pull away. Instead, you let your hands explore more deliberately, your touch both soothing and inviting, each stroke a silent promise.

Alfie's eyes meet yours, dark and intense, searching for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But you hold his gaze steadily, your own eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity, acceptance, and something deeper, an unspoken understanding. The corner of his mouth twitches into a small, almost vulnerable smile, as if seeking your permission, a rare glimpse of the man behind the hardened exterior.

In response, you lean in closer, your lips brushing against his ear with a feather-light touch as you whisper, "I'm here, Alfie. I'm not going anywhere." The words hang in the air, a vow as much to yourself as to him.

He closes his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he pulls you even closer, your bodies fitting together as if they were meant to. His arms encircle you with a protective strength, and the tension melts away, replaced by a profound sense of connection. Your hands slide down to the small of his back, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the heat of his desire and the depth of his need, a silent communication that passes between you.

Feeling the palpable tension and desire between you and Alfie, you decide to take things further. Your hands slowly slide down his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles with deliberate, tender movements. You shift your position with care, easing yourself off his lap and sinking to your knees between his legs, your eyes never leaving his. The intimacy of the moment deepens as you look up at him, your touch a blend of reassurance and invitation.

Alfie's eyes follow your every movement, dark and intense, filled with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, a silent communication that speaks volumes. The atmosphere in the room seems to thicken with every passing second, the air charged with a palpable tension. Your hands, now trembling slightly with the gravity of the moment, fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you work to free him from the confines of the fabric. The sound of your breathing mingles with his, creating a symphony of shared anticipation. Alfie’s hand reaches down, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture.

"Are you sure?" Alfie's voice is a low, gravelly whisper, laced with both desire and a hint of uncertainty. The question hangs in the air, a delicate balance of vulnerability and need.

Looking up into his eyes, you nod, your own voice soft but firm. "I've never been more sure about anything." The conviction in your words seems to resonate with him, his eyes darkening further.

His hand gently cups your face, his thumb tracing a slow, path along your cheekbone. With a sense of newfound determination, you finally manage to undo his trousers, your hands moving with more confidence as you begin to explore the warmth and hardness beneath. The fabric parts easily under your touch, revealing the intense heat and the throbbing evidence of his desire.

With Alfie's trousers undone, the anticipation between you grows thicker, almost tangible. You take a steadying breath, your lips trailing soft, exploratory kisses along his shaft. Each touch is a silent promise of what's to come. The warmth of his skin against your lips sends a shiver down your spine, your senses heightened by the intimacy of the moment.

Alfie's breath hitches, his fingers tightening in your hair as you continue your tender assault. The sensation of his touch, the way his breath catches, fuels your confidence. You take your time, savouring the moment, allowing the tension to build like a slow-burning fire.

As your kisses reach the tip, you feel a surge of electricity pass between you both. Your tongue flicks out, tasting him, eliciting a low, guttural moan from Alfie. The sound spurs you on, your movements becoming more confident, more purposeful, your touch a blend of reverence and hunger.

Your tongue begins to work along his length, tracing patterns, exploring every inch of him with desire. Alfie's hands, once tense, now cradle your head, guiding you gently, his breath coming in ragged gasps that speak of the pleasure you're giving him.

"Christ," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper filled with awe and desire. "You're fuckin' magic, sweetheart." The words, spoken with such raw emotion, sparked your ignition, your movements becoming even more deliberate, more intense, as you seek to bring him the pleasure he so clearly craves. You look up at him, your eyes locking onto his, and you see the raw need and admiration there. The intensity in his gaze seems to fuel your determination to pleasure him, to bring him relief from the storm that had consumed him earlier.

With each stroke of your tongue, each gentle suck, you feel him responding, his body tightening, his hips subtly moving in rhythm with your ministrations. The room feels charged with an almost electric energy, the air thick with the scent of his arousal and the sound of your shared breaths.

Alfie's grip on your hair tightens, his breaths turning into soft, broken moans. The sounds he makes, the way his body reacts to your touch, is a symphony of pleasure that echoes in the quiet room.

With Alfie’s moans echoing in your ears and the palpable tension between you, you decide to take the next step. You pause for a moment, looking up at him, ensuring that this is what he truly wants. His eyes, dark and intense, meet yours, and the gentle pressure of his hand in your hair is all the confirmation you need.

Slowly, you part your lips and take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before gradually taking him deeper. The warmth and taste of him fill your senses, and you feel his whole body shudder in response. Alfie’s hand tightens in your hair, not forcefully, but in a way that guides and encourages you, his fingers threading through your strands with a tenderness that belies the raw desire between you.

You start with slow, deliberate movements, your mouth creating a rhythm that matches the rising and falling of his chest. Each time you take him deeper, you feel his body tense and hear the soft, husky sounds escaping his lips. The way he responds to you, the way his body reacts, pushes you to give him everything you have.

"Fuck," Alfie groans, his voice rough with pleasure. "You're fuckin' incredible. Don't stop." His words are a command and a plea, filled with a desperate need that resonates with your own.

Your hands find their place on his thighs, gripping them for support as you continue. The muscles beneath your fingers are tense, coiled with the anticipation of release. You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction, and you can feel him responding to every move you make. The taste of him, the feel of his hardness against your tongue, and the sounds of his pleasure create a heady mix that drives you to go further, to push him closer to the edge.

Alfie’s hips begin to move in time with your motions, his breathing becoming more erratic. You can feel the tension building within him, his body on the edge of release. Your mouth works him with a determined rhythm, each movement designed to bring him closer to the brink, to draw out his pleasure.

As Alfie’s moans grow louder, you look up at him, your eyes meeting his. The connection between you is electric, charged with a shared intensity that transcends words. In this moment, you are his anchor, his solace, and his desire, all wrapped into one.

His grip on your hair tightens one last time as a deep, shuddering moan escapes his lips, signalling his impending climax. You brace yourself, ready to take all of him, determined to bring him to the release he so desperately needs. The anticipation builds within you as you feel him teetering on the edge.

Alfie’s body tenses, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. With a final, deep moan, he climaxes, his release filling your mouth. The taste of him is a heady blend of salt and musk, a testament to the intensity of his desire. You do your best to take all of him, savouring the moment and the intimacy it brings.

As the waves of his pleasure subside, Alfie gently but firmly pulls you up to his lap. His eyes have softened, now a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, more profound. He cradles your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheeks as he helps you clean up. The intimacy of the moment lingers, a quiet testament to the bond you've just deepened.

"Come ‘ere," he murmurs, his voice still rough from the intensity of his release. He reaches for a handkerchief from the desk, carefully wiping away any remnants with a gentleness that contrasts with his earlier ferocity. His touch is tender, each stroke of the cloth against your skin filled with a reverence that takes your breath away.

You sit straddling his lap, your arms resting around his neck, allowing him to care for you. There's a vulnerability in the way he tends to you, a silent acknowledgment of the connection between you. The room feels smaller, cosier, as if it has been transformed from the earlier chaos.

"Thank you," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. The words are simple, yet they carry a weight of sincerity that resonates deeply within you. "You have no idea how much I fuckin’ needed that."

You smile softly, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I’m here for you, Alfie. Always." The promise in your words is solid.

His eyes meet yours, filled with a complex mix of emotions—relief, gratitude, and a burgeoning affection. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace. The world outside may be chaotic, but in this moment, you both find a rare, fragile peace in each other’s arms.

Nestled in Alfie's lap, you find a comforting rhythm in the gentle sway of your bodies. His fingers trail up and down your back, leaving a path of warmth and tenderness in their wake. The roughness of his hands contrasts beautifully with the softness of his touch, each stroke sending shivers down your spine. The feeling is intoxicating, grounding you in the moment.

You lean in closer, resting your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your touch is a soothing lullaby. Alfie presses a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin, a silent promise of his presence and devotion.

"You're somethin’ else, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice a quiet rumble that vibrates through your entire being.

You lift your head to meet his gaze, a smile tugging at your lips. "I could say the same about you, Alfie."

He chuckles softly, the sound deep and rich, filling the small space with a rare sense of contentment. His eyes soften as he looks at you, the hard edges of his usual demeanour melting away to reveal a man capable of profound tenderness. The transformation is striking, and it fills you with a sense of awe and affection.

You shift slightly, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. "It's nice to see you like this," you admit softly, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. "At peace." The admission is vulnerable, but it feels right, a reflection of the honesty that defines your relationship.

Alfie leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if to savour the moment. "You bring out the best in me, darlin’," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. "I dunno how, but you do." The admission is raw, honest, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

Alfie's hands continue their gentle exploration of your back, each touch a silent promise of safety and affection.

With a tender smile, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips, feeling the way he melts into the kiss. It's not urgent or passionate, but slow and lingering. The sensation is intoxicating, a perfect blend of tenderness and desire.

When you finally pull back, Alfie's eyes are half-lidded, a serene expression on his face. "Stay with me," he says quietly, his voice carrying a vulnerability that tugs at your heartstrings. "Just like this."

You nod, your fingers threading through his hair as you lean in closer. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you whisper, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The two of you share a lingering kiss, a reaffirmation of your promises and the unbreakable bond between you. As you sit there, wrapped in each other's arms, you know that this—right here, right now—is where you both truly belong.

[jmdbjk]

Well...

I've always harped on their "chemistry" and its no exaggeration. They fit together so naturally. They are so very in tune with each other, when you are with that person and you feel like everything is right and it doesn't matter what you are doing, where you are going or if you are doing anything or nothing at all.

This episode was completely different than any of the previous episodes.

By the end of November they both knew what was going to happen and embracing the idea that they were about to "go in" and they were doing this together. They flat out said they were making memories to take with them while they served their military obligation.

Jimin and Jungkook clearly see themselves as just ordinary people living extraordinary lives, and they want to and expect to experience ordinary things.

The convenience store visit.

They ran like kids sliding on the ice, stomped in the snow, threw snowballs at each other, even though occasionally, Jimin's pragmatism burst their cozy little bubble:

Jungkook: "When it snows during our military service I think I'll recall this moment."

Jimin: "Right now, we're watching the snow from a hotel window but soon we'll have to sweep it up."

Ever the romantic, that Jimin...

Walking on the street with the general public, getting coffee, making their way to the train station... just like everyone else...

Yes, they had a crew with them, leading them and following them through the streets of Sapporo. But everything they did was ordinary.

When they are ordering food or drinks, their attempts at reading and speaking Japanese are endearing. They just dove right in. I love them. See? Don't let language be an obstacle when traveling in a foreign country!

I don't know if that's his personal little round furry money purse or if the staff used that for this trip's spending money and just handed it to him... but it was cute as fuck.

There is nothing pretentious about them. Yes they can whip out the black card to pay for expensive whisky but Jungkook took pleasure in choosing what he wanted himself, carrying his armload of 18 year old whisky to the counter and paying the $4000 for it himself at the distillery. He could have had someone else do it for him.

We saw these purchases in his refrigerator during his live on Dec. 8:

As ordinary as it was, there were still some very WTF moments that everyone has already pointed out:

That moment from the car ride on the way from the airport to the hotel at 11 o'clock at night, no seatbelts, Jimin practically sitting in Jungkook's lap and both smushed against the door. Jungkook looking like he is about to get lucky or just did.... man, I don't know what that was all about and how it stayed in this episode instead of getting edited out. I mean... there is a cut so we are not seeing the entire thing but what they left in was... ok?... I guess?

The train ride sequence (even though it was highly manipulated in post-production to wipe out all the other people)...

That culminates in this... we hope it ends up being a selca in the photobook. The moment was so sweet.

At the distillery, cosplaying their pickup lines at a bar...

Jimin's moment of clarity when he envisioned himself a girl dad and Jungkook thinking "uhhhhh... ok, Jimin, whatever you say"...

Gotta say though, Jimin envisioning himself a father at some point in the future was very sweet.

They reminisced a lot, talking about how much they and the other members have changed over the years and still remarking to each other how young they both look when back outside in the cold air, cheeks flushed from whisky and beer and a hot meal.

Their point of view regarding their looks, "they enjoy watching us gradually get raggedy and fat."

Yet, their age difference is exactly what makes them click. Jimin being older, caring, watchful, responsible in the early years, and Jungkook, so young, still socially awkward, always watching Jimin, always sticking close by him, learning how to maneuver the situations they faced in their profession. Through the years they evolved and matured personally and professionally into the men they are today.

If they had been same-agers, the outcome may not have been the same.

Again, props to the staff for everything they did to make this happen for Jimin and Jungkook. It appeared that some of the time they remained outside in the cold while Jimin and Jungkook were indoors eating or getting coffee.

This trip was their final trip before that "rite of passage" that every Korean male is obligated to fulfill. There was a poignant edge to a lot of this episode, in what they talked about, in the imagery. Jimin has always seemed to want to hang on to his "youth" and now he was about to cross that line and he knew it.

I also keep harping on the fact Jimin and Jungkook are together as we speak and I am thankful for that every day. I firmly believe they are thankful for each other, even if they are not same age friends.

Two more episodes.

[latenightagain]

drownsuguy is based on the european folklore archetype of "guy has the worst name you have ever heard and sits in a pond and don't go too close because he'll GET YOU" (see jenny greenteeth, nelly longarms, rawhead-and-bloody-bones, peg powler, etc) he wasn't even supposed to be a qdex mon! i laughed a lot at his stupid name but thought it'd be too silly for other people, but then i showed my community some of my extended non-romhack mons and they seized him like some sort of guy in a pond. people are usually unnerved to find out that's a standard distillery barrel and drownsuguy is enormous.

[naughtyneganjdm]

Love's Second Chance: A Holiday Reunion - Chapter 9

Summary: Joel is having a hard time coming to terms with Y/N not wanting to be with him and Tommy tries to help him through his tough time. Negan sets up a surprise for Y/N's children and lets them get an idea of what his life normally is like.

Characters: Joel Miller, Tommy Miller, the reader (OC), Negan Smith, Elizabeth, Peter, Dale Horvath, etc.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60501985/chapters/155702092

Warnings: 18+, Swearing, angst, depression, drunk Joel, Joel jerking off, smut, public play, unprotected p in v, etc.

Notes: This chapter probably takes a deeper dive at Joel's depression that he has in this story. If that's a trigger, I will warn people of that ahead of time.

Days had passed since Tommy had gotten that call from Y/N asking Tommy to watch over Joel after things went down with them. At the time? She had been very vague and when Joel came home that night, he tried to blow off like everything was okay, but Tommy knew better than that. No one knew Joel better than he did. So he could tell something was off with Joel. During the day, Joel would bury himself in work and during the night, he’d drown himself with the bottle.

Lately, Tommy had been spending a lot of time with Maria so he hadn’t really been around Joel much. When Elizabeth and Peter were home, he had nothing to worry about. But over the last few days, he knew that they would be with Y/N for something she had planned out. That’s when Tommy truly had to worry about Joel. Being alone meant that Joel would be alone to his thoughts and Tommy didn’t like the idea of that. Even though he had planned to spend time with Maria, he knew that he needed to check in on Joel. Especially with Joel being so closed off about everything.

Moving down the stairs, Tommy stood at the bottom of the steps when he saw Joel sitting sprawled out on the couch. There was a nearly empty bottle of whiskey in Joel’s hand. Both his hair and clothes were a mess. Whatever he was watching on the television was incredibly loud causing Tommy to cringe at the sound of it. Reaching the first floor, Tommy moved across the room and reached for the remote to turn down the volume getting a scoff from Joel.

“You look like shit,” Tommy commented, tossing the remote next to Joel on the couch who pulled himself up slightly from where he was seated on the middle cushion. Joel’s eyelids were heavy with an irritated expression covering his features. Pointing to the bottle that was in Joel’s hand, Tommy tried to get his brother’s attention. “Did you drink all of that in one sitting?”

Dropping his head down, Joel lifted the bottle of whiskey that was in his hand to look it over. Dramatically shrugging his shoulders, Joel dropped the bottle back down. Not giving Tommy an answer, Joel just went back to watching the television ignoring Tommy in the moment.

“We need to talk,” Tommy announced, moving around the coffee table to sit on it. Blocking Joel’s view of the television had him grumbling under his breath. Annoyed, Joel tried to look around Tommy, but Tommy leaned over to get in his line of sight again. “What’s going on Joel? What’s wrong?”

“Who said something was wrong?” Joel sneered, bringing the bottle up to his lips to take a swig of the alcohol. Hissing out when he dropped the bottle back at his side, Joel shook his head. Avoiding the answer was a common thing for Joel. Over the years he had gotten good at shutting himself down, but he didn’t usually drown himself in his woes with alcohol. “I’m just watching a movie.”

Leaning in, Tommy immediately groaned out and threw his head back after he got close to Joel, “Jesus, Joel! You stink. You smell like a fucking distillery and…you just overall smell bad.”

“It’s not that bad,” Joel grunted to himself, lowering his head down. Pulling his shirt forward, he took a whiff of himself and grunted. Dropping the material of his shirt back down, he dramatically shrugged his shoulders and grumbled. “It ain’t that great either, but what does it matter? I got no one to impress. I’m alone.”

“Give me that,” Tommy snatched the bottle of alcohol from Joel’s fingers. Standing up from the coffee table had Joel scowling out. Trying to reach for the bottle, Joel fell to his knees from the couch. Pushing his hand into the center of the coffee table Joel tried to balance his weight. That alone proved that Joel was severely inebriated. Stumbling over his feet, Joel tried to get the bottle from Tommy who easily avoided him at every turn. “It’s time to hide this shit…”

“Don’t do that!” Joel called out after Tommy who was swift to move into the kitchen in search of anything else that Joel could drink.

Grabbing every bottle, Tommy realized that his brother was having a very bad problem and he needed help. A loud crashing sound filled the air evoking Tommy to jump and pushed the bottles aside. Heading back into the living room, Tommy sighed loudly when he looked down to see that Joel was face down on the floor. The coffee table was flipped over with Joel’s leg still laid out over the top of it.

“That’s it…” Tommy was infuriated with his brother right now as he headed over in the direction of Joel. “This has to stop.”  

“I’m fine,” Joel growled with Tommy turning him onto his back to make sure that he was okay. After confirming that he was fine, Tommy went over to the coffee table to pick it up and clean what had fallen off of it. Lifting his head, Joel noticed that the room was spinning causing him to groan out and drop his head back against the floor. Soon he felt Tommy returning, hooking his arms firmly underneath Joel’s armpits. With his strength, Tommy managed to drag Joel’s body toward the bottom of the stairs. Pulling him up into his arms, Tommy turned backwards toward the stairs so that way he could pull Joel up the steps. A thud filled the air with Joel’s boots hitting each step with every pull upward Tommy made. Hisses were escaping Joel’s throat with his ass colliding with the edge of each one of the steps. “Goddamn it Tommy! Let me go!”

“If you weren’t drunk, you’d easily be able to stop me,” Tommy reminded Joel, bringing attention to the fact that Joel was the stronger one between the two of them. But in this state? Joel could barely hold his head up. So he was in no condition to be making any kind of demands from Tommy. Each grunt from Joel’s throat grew louder until they got to the top of the stairs. Starting to swat at Tommy’s hands, Joel seemed pretty desperate to get Tommy to let go of him. Flopping much like a fish out of water would. “You’re drunk as a skunk big brother. You’re not gonna be able to stop me.”

“This is bullshit!” Joel slurred, his feet kicking against the floor of the hallway while Tommy dragged him toward the bathroom. As they reached the door, Tommy dropped Joel back onto the ground eliciting a loud groan from Joel. Anger flooded his veins, but at the same time Joel felt his stomach turning. Closing his eyes, Joel’s main focus at this point was not letting himself vomit everywhere. Right now? He was losing the battle. “Tommy? Tommy! Help!”

“With what?” Tommy was quick to look back over his shoulder after pushing open the bathroom door. Desperately trying to pull himself up to his knees, Joel was looking at the toilet. In that moment Tommy saw all of the color leaving Joel’s face and he swiftly reached down to try to assist his brother in getting to the toilet. The moment he was near it, Joel’s arms hooked around it. Thankfully they were able to get there in time for Joel to start throwing up immediately. “Fuck Joel!”

Standing up, Tommy brushed his fingers through his longer hair, slicking it back. The sounds that Joel was making proved to Tommy that Joel was miserable. It had been a very long time since he had seen his brother get this drunk.  Noticing that Joel was having a hard time staying up on his knees, Tommy reached to brace his brother up. Doing his best to not get any throw up on him.

By the time Joel finished, he was hovering over the toilet heaving. Breathless, Joel’s body was shaking. Guilt was eating away at Tommy that he let his brother get this bad without realizing it. Brushing his fingers through Joel’s damp hair, Tommy got Joel to tip his head back so he could take a look at him.

“We need to get you into the shower,” Tommy announced, stumbling as he stood up. Moving for the shower, Tommy turned it on. Testing the water, he made sure it was warm before heading back for Joel. Reaching for the bottom of Joel’s t-shirt, Tommy tugged at the material, but Joel simply groaned and dropped his head to the side. Instead of focusing on that, Tommy reached for Joel’s boots pulling them off in a firm tug. Then he easily got Joel’s socks off. Trying to turn Joel, Tommy felt a large amount of restraint and he hissed. “Goddamn it Joel.”

Huffing out, Joel couldn’t put up much more of a fight with Tommy starting to undo his belt, “What in God’s name are you doing?”

Forcefully pulling off Joel’s jeans had Tommy pulling Joel toward him against the bathroom floor. Tossing Joel’s jeans aside, Tommy gave Joel a glare and then went back to work on getting the dark blue t-shirt that Joel was wearing off of him. Not being sensitive with it, Tommy yanked the shirt up causing Joel’s limp arms to go with the movement and Tommy tossed that to the ground too.

Leaving Joel in his boxer briefs, Tommy dragged Joel toward the shower and braced him against the corner of it. Directing the water at Joel had him hissing out in anger with the water flowing down over him. Kneeling down beside Joel, Tommy was doing his best to make sure that his brother didn’t pass out.

“The hell happened to you?” Tommy inquired reaching for the shampoo to pour a large amount in over Joel’s head. It had Joel’s dark eyes locking with his and if looks could kill, Joel’s glare would have killed him. “It’s been a long time since I found you like this.”

“I’m not a baby,” Joel huffed with Tommy caressing the shampoo into his hair to lather it up. In this position Joel felt like he was a child being reprimanded.

“You’re acting like one,” Tommy’s deep southern drawl echoed throughout the room. There was frustration in his eyes while he took care of his brother. Swatting at Tommy’s hand, Joel hissed when Tommy smacked back at him. “You don’t want to be treated like a child? Then stop acting like one!”

“I’m not!” Joel growled, dropping his head down while Tommy worked his fingers through his hair to help get the shampoo from it.

There was a whole lot of bickering and trying to push Tommy away. Until finally Tommy stood up. Instead of leaving, Tommy just reached for the bottle of body wash. Holding it over Joel, Tommy started to squeeze the bottle covering Joel’s body with it.

“Now either clean yourself up, or I will do it for you!” Tommy snatched the clean washcloth that was sitting on the counter of the bathroom sink. Tossing it at Joel, it landed at the center of Joel’s chest. Biting down on his bottom lip, Joel did his best to pull himself up enough so that he could scrub at his body to the best of his ability. When Tommy thought the soap was washed away from Joel’s body he turned off the shower and tossed Joel a towel.

“Dry yourself off,” Tommy demanded, leaning against the sink. Joel was still sitting in the shower looking rather pathetic. Right now Tommy’s heart was pounding inside of his chest. That whole thing was quite the workout and he was furious that it had to get to this. This wasn’t normal for Joel. Tommy couldn’t even recall the last time he found Joel this drunk and in this kind of condition. Joel looked like a wet dog just sitting there with the towel in his lap. Joel’s hair was in front of his face and there was a pathetic expression over his features. “Now Joel!”

Rolling his eyes, Joel lifted the towel to start wiping at his face and his chest before dropping the towel back down. By the way he did it? Joel just seemed to give up and Tommy didn’t know what he was going to do. It looked like Joel was about to explode, but instead he dropped his head down and started sobbing, “It’s over.”

“What’s over?” Tommy was confused, his eyebrows furrowing with Joel’s sudden outburst. Joel was not the kind of person to cry like this. Even if he was drunk, so Tommy just stepped forward and stared down at Joel. This was not a situation he knew how to fix.

“My relationship with Y/N,” Joel buried his head into his hands. Lowering down, Tommy knelt beside his brother, tipping his head to the side.

“That’s been over for four years Joel,” Tommy reminded his brother with a shake of his head. Tossing his right hand out, he tried to get Joel’s attention but he was lost inside of his misery and his tears. “You’re kinda late to react big brother.”

“No! You’re not listening to me!” Joel whined, dropping his hands down at his sides causing the towel to drop in his lap.

“Well you’re not making much sense now are you?” Tommy fought back with Joel who reminded Tommy of a child with the face that Joel was making.

“She doesn’t want me anymore,” Joel responded with a whimper, his cries broken. Tommy had never really seen Joel act like this before so he was still tense. Joel was not known for having meltdowns. “I did the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. I reckon you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you what I did.”

“Try me,” Tommy shrugged, waiting to hear his brother’s story. “You’d be surprised what I would believe these days.”

“The other day? I bought this dress for her. When we were married, we were walking through this shop and she was breath taken by this dress, y’know? But it was so expensive. We couldn’t afford it at the time. So I thought by buying it for her, she’d appreciate it. I laid the dress out on her bed with a flower and a note with directions. I sent a car to pick her up. I had it take her to the high school. I put up signs for her to follow. It took her to the planetarium where I explained to her the first time I fell in love with her was in that room. I explained how much I loved her,” Joel rambled having to cover his mouth for a moment when he thought he was going to throw up again. It took a minute for the feeling to go away before he started up again. “I sang to her. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve sang?”

“I imagine a long time, hmm?” Tommy replied back seeing Joel drop his head into his hands again. “What has you so sad Joel?”

“We slept together. It was romantic. It was perfect,” Joel rambled on, his head shaking while he spoke. “But then after? She told me that she thinks that I only want to be with her again cus’ Negan is there. That the only reason that I want her back is because she has someone else in her life. She doesn’t think I genuinely love her,” Joel explained with a broken breath, his whole-body aching while he sat what felt like in a puddle with his soaked boxer briefs.

“Do you wanna get back with her because Negan is in her life?” Tommy questioned, his eyes curious with Joel throwing his hands up again. Even though Joel was frustrated, Tommy was going to push the subject. “It’s a good question Joel. You didn’t make a move for four years. I could see why she would think that since you never made a move before.”

“But see! That’s not true!” Joel stressed to Tommy knowing that he didn’t always tell his little brother about their relationship. “We had sex all the time after we got divorced. So many times. Even when I was with Tess. So I’ve obviously still been clinging onto her. It’s not like I never truly made a move.”

“But did you ever do something like you did at the school? Something romantic? A gesture that would sweep her off her feet?” Tommy pressured Joel to answer the question, but by the way Joel looked at him, Tommy had his answer. “She loves you more than anything Joel. Except your kids. Y’know that. Anyone with eyes knows that. I’ve never seen a gal look at someone the way that she looks at you. I could only wish to have Maria love me that much in the future.”

“Then why doesn’t she want to be with me?” Joel bit down on his bottom lip, the droplets from the water falling from his hair trailing down his face. Sadness was eating away at Joel and Tommy could visibly see that his brother was shattered over all of this.

“Joel, I love you. You’re the man I look up to the most in this world, but you forget the things that you did to her. You left her Joel. You broke her heart,” Tommy claimed, recalling their past together. Outstretching his hand, Tommy pat Joel on the side of his face to get Joel to look up at him. “You were everything to her. There wasn’t a person that questioned how much she loved you. I saw it when I was a kid. I see it now. But when you left her? I don’t even know if you realize how much you truly broke her.”

Hearing this from his little brother didn’t help. Dropping his head, Joel swallowed down hard with Tommy explaining things to him, “You have to understand what a shock everything was to everyone. Your relationship was so good for so long. The two of you were like the town super couple. You fought all the obstacles and you won. You both gave up your lives to take care of me. And then she got pregnant with Elizabeth and her parents disowned her. The two of you had to face the world completely on your own and you succeeded. You made a life for yourselves. Most couples never accomplish that. No matter how much help they have.”

“Tommy…” Joel breathed out, the reminder of the past causing the ache at the center of his chest to grow.

“No, you don’t understand Joel. You and her? You were the couple that everyone wanted to be like. The two of you? God it was sickening during the first half of your marriage. The way the two of you looked at each other? I’ve never seen a love like that. It was why you two won that stupid snow king and queen every fucking year big brother. You were a team. But not only that? You two were so in love. And your family was perfect. You were like a couple that walked right out of a television show. Yeah, you were young but it was beautiful.”

The sobs of Joel started up again, his head burying into his hands to try to hide from Tommy that he was having a break down about his past, “You never fought. You never got angry at each other. And then all of a sudden after how many years of perfection, you just started getting so angry. And it was bound to happen at some point. The fighting. All couples fight. No one believed it when you separated. It was never Joel. It was never Y/N. It was Joel and Y/N. Together since their teen years.”  

“I got confused,” Joel declared, shaking his head when he thought about his past.  “I made a horrible mistake. I was depressed and I let that cloud my judgement. I didn’t seek help and…it made me make poor decisions.”

“Then why did you wait until now to do something about it Joel?” Tommy was asking the same question that Y/N did which frustrated Joel.

“I don’t know!” Joel growled, grimacing when he thought about that answer. “Tess and I broke up because I never showed her affection. I didn’t tell her I loved her even though I did care about her. I just…I always loved Y/N. Tess knew that. I knew that. No one I slept with was gonna get from me in a relationship that Y/N did.”

“Which honestly isn’t much at this point Joel. The old you? Sure. This one? It’s not the same man that I grew up with,” Tommy informed his brother with a frown. Even though Joel was an amazing human being, he failed at certain parts and Joel needed to hear it. “You are the best big brother. I owe everything to you. I do. And I’m gonna look up to you until the day I die. And you’re a great dad. If I have kids? I wanna be just like you. Pete & Ellie love you so much. You’ve been an amazing dad. But you? You’re lacking in the emotional department.”

“Thank you,” Joel didn’t appreciate that comment, but Tommy was just being honest with him.

“After our parents died, you just shut down. I’m surprised that you did so well with Y/N for so long,” Tommy declared wondering how they made it as long as they did in the first place. “I just never thought it would be you leaving her. I thought it would be the other way around when you started getting so fucking angry. That woman loved you endlessly. If I have someone love me that much in my life, I could only be so lucky.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Joel spoke quietly, trying to faintly dab at himself with the towel. “I want her back. But there is Negan…”

“Joel,” Tommy started, going to say something but then stopped. Biting down on his bottom lip Tommy considered what he should and should not say. “Do you love her? Like really really love her?”

“I do,” Joel answered quickly without missing a beat.

“Then maybe you need to let her go. I’ve seen her with Negan,” Tommy stated with a frown, knowing this was likely not the advice that Joel wanted. “He makes her happy Joel. Real smiles. He makes her laugh.”

Hearing that gutted Joel and he forced himself to look away from his brother with his jaw flexing, “Every time she is with you, I see her crying. I know she loves you. I do. I see it. But you broke her heart. You hurt her. Without meaning to Joel. Maybe if you want her happy, you have to let her go.”

“But what about me?” Joel blurt out having Tommy inhale sharply. “What am I supposed to do when the only one for me is her?”

“Joel,” Tommy began, his words stopping. Reaching for his brother’s hands, Tommy pulled Joel up to his feet. Leading Joel out of the shower, Tommy was careful with not getting Joel to slip. Once he had him on the rug, Tommy pat his brother on the shoulder. “I think you’ve had so many chances at this point that you’re just gonna have to find a way to make things work.”

Instead of responding to his brother, Joel wrapped the towel around his waist. Carefully working off his boxer briefs, Joel kicked out of the wet material. Bracing his hands on the counter beside the sink, Joel looked at himself in the steamed over mirror. He really did look terrible.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” Joel grumbled under his breath attempting to wipe at his face with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, sure,” Tommy dug into his pocket to reach for his cell phone. “I was supposed to go out with Maria, but I’d rather be with you right now. Keep you from drinking more.”

“No, no. Don’t,” Joel shook his head, struggling to keep himself up. Turning to face Tommy, he kept himself braced on the counter. “I don’t want you to be like me. You go out with that girl and you be happy. Because one of us needs to be.”

“It’s okay Joel,” Tommy went to continue to call Maria, but Joel reached for Tommy’s phone. Shaking his head again, Joel swallowed down hard and sighed. “We can watch the movie together. I can go out with her tomorrow.”

“Little brother, I’ll be fine,” Joel tapped Tommy on the side of the face while handing him back his cell phone. “I reckon I’ll go lay down. Close my eyes and try to rest.”

“You sure?” Tommy confirmed with Joel, his dark eyes worried about his older brother. “I don’t mind.”

“I insist,” Joel winked taking his time to balance his weight. Slowly moving to the bedroom, Joel did his best to make it to the bed. Dropping onto it, Joel noticed behind heavy eyelids that Tommy was watching him. Confliction filled his body before Tommy went to go get ready. Reaching for a pillow, Joel buried his head underneath it. Trying to focus on something other than the sadness he was feeling, Joel eventually heard footsteps in his room. “I’m fine Tommy.”

“Just call me if you need me,” Tommy begged of his brother having Joel push the pillow away from his head. “I will be here in an instant if you need me.”

“Will do,” Joel gave a sign with his hand that it would be okay. “Go enjoy your girl. I’ll survive.”

It looked like Tommy thought he was making a mistake in leaving. But when he did, Joel stretched his arms out. Hearing the front door open and close, Joel gave it a few minutes before pushing himself up into a seated position. Reaching his hand out to grab his laptop that was on the dresser, Joel opened it up and put in his password. Looking through his folders, he stopped on one that he looked in often. Swallowing down hard, he opened it up and scrolled through until he found the file that he wanted.

Setting his computer on the bed, Joel rest back on his elbow and sighed staring out at the video. Stretched out on their old bed, Y/N was naked while Joel set up the camera. In their past years, Joel was always very big on recording things and she allowed it. Although, she had always requested him to delete the videos after so the children would never find it but Joel had a hard time getting rid of their past together.

Biting down on his bottom lip, Joel grumbled under his breath when he watched a much younger, leaner version of himself entering the screen in just a pair of light jeans. Maybe it was wrong watching something like this, but Joel didn’t give a fuck at this point.

Keeping his eyes locked on the screen, Joel watched the video closely. His pulse leapt in his chest when he heard her moans start to flood from his laptop when the younger version of himself started going down on her. Even though the video wasn’t the best of quality, Joel could remember perfectly what this moment was like. The taste of her. The sounds that she made.

Unhooking his towel, Joel lowered his hand and started to palm in over his length. Closing his eyes, he pictured what it was like to be with her. That it was her hand touching him and not his own. The sounds of her crying out his name in the video had him hissing out. At this point he would have done anything to be with her like this again.

Opening his eyes, Joel watched as his younger self stood up from the bed and pushed his jeans down his legs. Even back then the way she looked at him took his breath away. Tommy was right. The way she looked at him was unlike anything he had ever felt before. In the video he crawled in over her and the sound she made sent chills throughout his body. There was something in the way that Y/N touched him in the video that made him bite down on his bottom lip.

“I love you, so much,” Joel could hear her words lingering when they started making love. Their breathing was loud with her telling him how much he meant to her.

“I love you,” Joel groaned, curling his fingers around the shaft of his erection after hearing him whisper the same thing back to Y/N in the video.

Maybe this would be the only sexual interactions he’d have with anyone from here on out. Maybe this was all he deserved and he would have to learn to accept it. Now that he was alone, there weren’t many options really at the end of the day. And that was his own fault.

----

“I don’t understand why we have to wear these, but mom doesn’t,” Peter complained with the pressure of Negan’s hands over his shoulders leading him in the direction that he needed to go. Today Negan told them that he was taking them somewhere special, but halfway through the drive both Elizabeth and Peter had to put blindfolds on. Elizabeth was being led by Y/N and Peter was being led by Negan. “Why can she know where we are going?”

“Because I asked her if she would be okay with it, so she knows where we are,” Negan’s deep raspy voice grumbled from behind Peter who huffed loudly. “Just a few more steps and you are going to be okay,” Negan instructed and it felt like they were walking for quite some time. “Watch your step. The ground is gonna feel weird.”

“When can we take these off?” Elizabeth stammered, letting out an uncomfortable breath. Keeping her hands out in front of her trying to prepare herself from not running into something.

“A few more steps,” Negan instructed finally stopping and patting Peter on the shoulders to alert him that they were ready to go. Wherever they were, it was cold out. So Peter easily figured out that they were outside, but what was weird is he thought they had walked into a building at first. “Okay. I think you can take them off now.”

“Finally,” Peter groaned, dramatically pulling the blindfold off letting out an astonished sound when he realized that they were standing at home plate of the baseball stadium that Negan’s team played at. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Peter,” Y/N laughed, helping Elizabeth get her blindfold off. By the expression over Elizabeth’s face Y/N could tell that Elizabeth was in awe of it. Both her children loved sports so when Negan asked her if he could bring the two of them here, she was eager to allow it. And by the looks on their faces? That was all she needed to know that she made the right decision.  

“Mom, this is so fucking cool,” Peter retorted with a snort throwing his hand up in the air to stare out at the slightly snow-covered ground of the field. His big, brown eyes were full of amazement and he bounced somewhat in place. “We’re on the actual field. Most people that end up here go to jail for being where we are. Unless it’s the team, obviously! But we’re nobody and we are standing on the field.”

“Hey,” Negan hushed getting Peter to look back at him. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re not a nobody. None of you are. All three of you are someone.”

With a smirk, Y/N reached out to squeeze faintly at Negan’s shoulder appreciating hearing him say that to her son. Giving her a wink, Negan leaned in to press his forehead to hers before leaning back.  

“What do you think?” Negan stepped forward, loosely wrapping his arms around both Peter and Elizabeth’s shoulders. Both of the children stepped in closer to him as they gazed upon the stadium from where they were standing on the field. “Obviously, this will be cooler in the summer and spring when I can bring you out here and maybe you will get to enjoy it without the snow.”

“This is really cool,” Elizabeth noted, gazing over at Negan who gave her a wink. Giving them both a firm squeeze, Negan released them and then stepped back to reach for Y/N’s hand to hook his fingers with hers. “How did you do this?”

“Well, I kind of work here,” Negan snickered drawing Elizabeth to roll her eyes and turn away from him. Snorting out, Negan shrugged his shoulders and swallowed down hard. “I thought you two might want to see this since you both love baseball so much. I called in a favor with my coach to let the two of you come here. I have an apartment in the city that the four of us will stay at tonight. So…yeah. I thought you might enjoy getting to experience this.”

“Can I run around?” Peter begged of Negan, looking over his shoulder. Smirking, Negan gave a single nod and watched Peter immediately take off running through the small amount of snow to run around the field.

“You can check out anything you want too,” Negan offered to Elizabeth who stood there for a moment trying to act like the older more mature person over her little brother. That didn’t last long though because soon she was running toward the middle of the field to look out at all the seats that were surrounding them.

“You have provided these two with so much bragging material over these last few weeks,” Y/N declared letting go of Negan’s hand so she could wrap her arm around his waist. Almost instinctively Negan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer to him. “Do they really let you come here whenever you want?”

“Not really,” Negan stammered, smirking with the way that Peter and Elizabeth seemed to be getting a kick out of being here. Peter did a roll on the ground that had Negan snorting out at his antics. “The coach just owes me some favors. I also told him that I was looking to impress my girlfriend’s children.”

“And that worked?” she was surprised to hear that, tipping her head to the side so they could lock eyes with one another.

“Yeah. The team has been trying to get me to date since I lost Lucille. They thought I would play better if I had someone I was with,” Negan claimed, recalling what things were like over the last few years. “Hearing that I had a girlfriend, he immediately jumped on it.”

“So you’re telling the people you work with that I’m your girlfriend, huh?” she inquired, her eyebrows bouncing up in curiosity. Pressing her hand in over the center of his abdomen, she turned in closer to him and couldn’t help but smile. This was all starting to get very official between them.

“Well, you are,” Negan countered leaning down enough to nuzzle his nose in against hers. Depositing a faint kiss over her lips, Negan hummed and lifted his head back up to watch the children. Pointing to the camera that was hanging near Y/N’s chest from the strap, Negan tried to bring her attention to it. “You should be taking photos of them. They are gonna want that bragging material and since their mom takes good photos? Go for it.”

“Yes sir,” she tipped up on her toes to kiss Negan once more. Stepping away from Negan, she started using her camera that she brought to take photos of Peter and Elizabeth while they played. Noticing Negan’s silence, she looked back at him to see that he was eyeing over the stadium. Instead of having that excitement that Elizabeth and Peter had, there was a sadness lingering in his eyes. Snapping a few photos of him without him realizing, she knew that it had to be him thinking about this upcoming season being his last.

“They look like they are having fun,” an older voice called out to them causing them to look back to see the coach of the team approaching them. Moving in beside Negan, the man pat Negan on the shoulder and sighed loudly. Seeing Elizabeth and Peter running around seemed to impress the coach and he couldn’t help but smile. “I take it this means it was a success in impressing the girlfriend’s children?”

“You tell me,” Negan held his hand out to where Elizabeth and Peter were now tossing snow at each other from where the pitcher’s mound was. Y/N lowered the camera and moved in when Negan waved her forward. “Dale, this is my longest friend and my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dale outstretched his hand to take Y/N’s in his politely to introduce himself. “You have to be a very special one to finally land this one. I never thought I’d see the day when he’d get with anyone after he lost Lucille.”

“It’s still new,” Negan informed Dale with a whisper causing his eyes to bounce up. “But we’ve known each other most of our lives. We just lost contact for a while. We were best friends growing up.”

“Ah, so we can probably share secrets,” Dale teased Negan elbowing him in the ribs eliciting an uncomfortable laugh from Negan. Bringing his attention back to Y/N, it looked like Dale was searching for something to talk about with her to keep the conversation going. “I take it your children are fans?”

“Big fans,” she explained with a bright smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you after watching you on the screen for so long. Or out in those seats. I’m sure once Peter and Elizabeth realize you’re out here they will be excited to meet you too.”

“I’m not much,” Dale assured her, waving his free hand about. A hearty laugh fell from his throat and it was charming. The coach actually seemed like he was a pretty nice guy and that impressed her. “So…is this guy treating all of you good?”

Negan’s arm hooked loosely around Dale’s shoulders, his thick eyebrows bouncing up after Dale’s question.

“Very good. Negan is an amazing man,” she stressed knowing that Negan was beyond good to her. Clinging to her camera, she sighed loudly and shrugged her shoulders. “Do you two want a photo together?”

“He’ll break the camera, but it’s not a horrible idea,” Negan joked letting out a hiss when Dale elbowed him firmly in the ribs. Both of them laughed, pushing slightly at each other in a moment of fun. The two of them posed for one of the photos before Dale playfully shoved Negan away again.

“You’re a photographer, huh?” Dale was curious when he moved in beside Y/N to look at the photo of the two of them that she took. By the way he was squinting, it looked like Dale was having a hard time focusing on them. Putting his glasses on, he let out a long exhale when the photos became clearer. “Are you any good?”

“She’s very good. And she’s a great writer too,” Negan answered for Y/N, wanting to bring attention to her talents. It had color flooding into Y/N’s face, her eyes lifting from the camera to look up at Negan. “She always wanted to be a journalist when we were growing up. You’d be surprised just how talented she really is.”

“May I?” Dale pointed toward her camera. With a nod, she allowed him to take her camera to look through the photos she had taken. Truthfully? Over the last few years she had gotten self-conscious about the things that she had done. So having this stranger looking at her photos made her feel nervous. Especially since he was Negan’s boss in a way and the coach of a professional baseball team. Taking a moment to look away from the photos, Dale’s eyes looked over his glasses and he locked eyes with Negan. “Why aren’t you hooking her up with a job Negan?”

“I guess that’s a good question,” Negan snickered stepping forward to move in beside Y/N. Curling his arm around her waist, Negan gave her a firm squeeze. The way he smirked drew attention to his dimples and it sent a warmth throughout her body. “It’s one I will have to consider.”

“I have a job,” she alerted them, speaking up with Dale going back to looking at her photos. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to say that. It was a job, but it wasn’t much of a job. She knew that it wasn’t one that would impress others.

“As a photographer? Or a writer?” Dale wondered, giving her his attention in that moment. It had her lips parting and she was considering telling him the truth. But? What would be the point of that? It wouldn’t impress him and it probably would have him thinking less of her. Negan was this famous baseball player. And what was she? So instead of giving him an official answer, she just shook her head and looked away from him. “Then why not use your boyfriend to get what you want in life? He’s got the connections. It’s the least he can do for you.”

“Truthfully? I just appreciate having him in my life,” she claimed, locking eyes with Negan who gave her a smirk. Winking, Negan extended his hand out to hook his fingers with hers firmly. “Just getting to be around him is helping me enjoy my life. I don’t need him to hook me up with something else. I just want to be near him. Negan has brought me a sense of happiness that I haven’t felt in a very long time.”

“Oh, I like this one,” Dale noted, pointing at her before lowering his head back down to look at the photos. A laugh fell from Dale’s lips when he turned the camera to show one of the photos that Y/N had taken of Negan in his black boxer briefs and his opened black button down on the first night they slept together. “Can’t keep your clothes on, can you?”

“Forgot to delete those,” she announced with a warmth flooding to her cheeks when she reached for the camera to politely take it back from Dale who was snickering. Looking to Negan, she lowered the camera down at her side and felt bad that she left those photos on the camera. “Sorry.”

“Oh, he’s not embarrassed,” Dale assured her with a wrinkle of his nose. Pointing to Negan, Dale snapped his fingers together as if he was trying to remember something. “I’ve seen worse from Negan. I was there for that photoshoot of yours that they had you do Negan. Remember that?”

“Ah! Yes! Dale here was perving,” Negan stated with a laugh, stepping in closer to Y/N after she hooked her camera back around her neck to let it rest against her chest. “Giving the photographer ideas for poses. Neither him nor I are shy.”

“This is very true,” Dale rubbed his hands together nodding his head back toward the building. “Do you have a minute to talk about something Negan?”

“Sure. Just let me get the children to come inside with us. I want them to see the locker room,” Negan motioned Dale to wait, looking back over his shoulder. “Liz! Pete! Do you two wanna meet the coach and see the locker room?”

“Fuck yes,” Peter blurt out excitedly eliciting a groan from Y/N with how her son had no filtering system right now. Both of her children ran back to introduce themselves to Dale. Small conversations came from it where it took a while for them to get back into the building, but when they did both Elizabeth and Peter seemed happy to see everything behind the scenes. “This is so cool Negan.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Negan found amusement in how eager both Elizabeth and Peter were to look at everything they could. This was a place he had gotten so used to over the years that he barely noticed the things that they did. They were just part of his environment, but for them? Everything was so new and exciting. “Come on, I’ll show you the clubhouse.”

Waving them to follow him, Negan led them into the area and over toward his player stall where his things were hanging, “This is where I spend a lot of my time, obviously.”

Peter dropped down into the seat that was in front of Negan’s area and spun around letting out an excited breath, “This is so cool.”

“Did you show them the batting cages?” Dale spoke up drawing their attention again with Negan shaking his head. “We have them here for training. I think before you leave you should take them there so they can play around a bit.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Negan motioned Dale to a wait a minute with him turning to Y/N and the children. “You guys can look around. I need to talk to Dale about something real quick here.”

“Take your time,” Elizabeth was gazing over all of the players’ names that were over their individual cubby area, her eyes big while she read each one of them.

Snapping his fingers, Negan pointed at Peter and got him to raise his eyes from where he was looking, “Don’t steal anything, okay?”

“Hey! Why are you pointing at me?” Peter placed his hand in over the center of his chest like he was feigning being offended by what Negan was saying. With a wicked smirk, Negan’s eyes narrowed and Peter chuckled. “I swear, I won’t.”

“Good boy,” Negan winked, back stepping toward the office at the back of the room to go have a discussion with Dale.

Like her children, Y/N walked around the clubhouse, taking her time to admire what everything looked like. Out of the corner of her eye, Y/N could see that Peter was gazing over something that was on one of the benches.

“Hey!” she called out noticing that Peter looked like he was about to swipe it. “What did he just say?”

“I was just kidding!” Peter scoffed with his cheeks blushing over. Lowering it back down to where it was previously, Peter back stepped away and held his hands up in the air now that his mother’s eyes were locked on him. “Seriously mom.”

“I’m not taking my eyes off of you,” she declared, turning to face her son. When she did that she could hear the sounds of Negan and Dale talking through the crack of the door that was left open.

“I kind of need an answer kid,” Dale pushed causing Y/N to look over her shoulder to see that Negan was slouched over in the seat that was in front of Dale’s desk. His head was buried in his hand and Negan looked tense. “The owner is pushing for some kind of response from you. Everyone here wants you to take the offer. I want you to take the offer.”

“I don’t know yet,” Negan grunted, his head raising slowly with him throwing his hand out in the air. “You know I would prefer to play. This is a big decision for someone like me who was just meant to play.”

“I think everyone knows that you would prefer to play. You’re a God out there. You were destined for this shit kid. But we both know that if you have one more serious injury to your knee that you could be walking with a cane for the rest of your life. You’re testing your limits even playing a final season,” Dale reminded Negan who slid down further in the chair. Nervousness overcame him with Negan bouncing his good leg. “You will still be making the same kind of money. You know this sport just as much as I do. If not more. It’s my last year. It’s yours. We should end it right.”

“I really wanted some time to think it over,” Negan exhaled loudly, his eyebrows furrowing with the lines in his forehead growing.

“They’re going to pick someone else Negan if you don’t given them an answer soon,” Dale assured Negan, placing his hands over the top of the desk when he leaned forward to get closer to Negan. “What’s holding you back?”

“A few…things,” Negan swallowed down hard lifting his fingers to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Whatever they were talking about sounded serious and it made her wonder what it was. “Give me until New Years and I’ll have an answer for you.”

“I’ll try and get them to hold out until then,” Dale offered throwing his hands up in the air, confused as to why Negan seemed so uncomfortable. “I think you need to take this offer Negan. It’s the best for your future. It’s best for the team. This was the life you were destined for. The fans love you. The players love you. I think this is the best option for you.”

“Yeah,” Negan bit down on his bottom lip, humming to himself for a second. “Let’s say I answer yes, do you think they will do a few favors for me?”

“Like what?” Dale’s eyebrow arched in curiosity causing Negan to shrug. “If it’s within reason, I’m sure they would. They’ve already pulled so many strings for you as you know. When you wanted to take that time off to be with Lucille, a lot of people wouldn’t have gotten away with that.”

“And I’m thankful for everything they have done for me,” Negan placed his hand in over the center of his chest, patting where it was rested.

“Hey mom!” Peter was loud calling out to Y/N causing Negan to look toward the door. It had her stepping away with a nervous breath knowing that Negan had just caught her eavesdropping on the conversation. Great. She should have just minded her own business.

Shuffling over to Peter, she went to join him to see what he was calling her over for. A few minutes later Negan came back out drawing all of their attention as Dale followed him behind holding two baseballs in his hands that were in protective cases.  

“Come here,” Dale urged the children forward noticing the way their eyes got big when they saw the baseballs were covered in signatures. “Now I usually save these for auctions to make some money for things, but since Negan here says the two of you are such big fans, I thought you might be interested in having these. Just don’t tell anyone how you got them. Or if you do tell them, say this guy got them for you.”

“Seriously?” Peter was thrilled, reaching out to grab the case to look over the ball that was inside. “You’re giving this to us?”

“Do you like it?” Dale was curious and it had Peter nodding immediately. “Then yes. It’s a gift.”

“Thank you so much,” Peter turned to Y/N to show his mother the ball causing her to laugh at how excited he got.

“Here you are,” Dale held the second one out to Elizabeth who gazed between Dale and Negan.

“This is so nice,” Elizabeth finally accepted the ball having her eyes gazing over it with adoration. “Why give us this? We didn’t do anything to deserve it. And I’m sure these cost a ton. Wouldn’t they be better off with someone else? Why us?”

That question got Peter to glare out at Elizabeth making it obvious that he wasn’t ready to give it back after he was gifted it.  

“Why not you?” Negan stammered back, his eyes narrowing when she lifted her head to look at him. “At least we know it’s going to two people that are going to cherish it for the rest of their lives, right? They aren’t going to try to sell it to make a profit.”

“Totally!” Peter answered before Elizabeth could and he eagerly jumped forward to hug Dale. It had the older man gasping out, then letting out a big belly laugh at the excitement from Y/N’s younger son. “Thank you!”

“You remind me of my grandson,” Dale explained with another hearty laugh. Peter pulled back, looking up at Dale with a big cheesy smile. “I like you.”

“At least someone does,” Elizabeth piped in, teasing her brother eliciting an angered breath to fall from him when Peter stepped away from Dale. Reaching out with her free hand that wasn’t holding the ball, she playfully ruffled Peter’s dark hair.

“You two want to see the batting cages?” Dale inquired getting both Elizabeth and Peter to nod. “Follow me then…”

Instead of following Dale, Negan remained standing in the middle of the clubhouse and it made Elizabeth stop, “Are you coming?”

“I want to show your mom something real quick. We’ll be right there,” Negan winked, pushing his hands into his pockets. Dale led the children toward the door and it had Y/N’s head tipping in curiosity.

“You trust him with the children?” Y/N wondered looking back toward the door to see that they were gone.

“I trust that man with my life. He’s a good man,” Negan assured her, moving around Y/N to close the door so they had a moment alone. Having him do that made her nervous. Was this because he had seen that she was eavesdropping? “I need to ask you something.”

“If this is about what I heard, I swear I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on purpose,” she stammered immediately having Negan’s eyebrows bounce up in amusement. Throwing her hands up, she tried to think of a good excuse, there just wasn’t one. “It’s just…I heard you two talking and I kept listening to it. I know it was wrong, but…”

“I don’t mind,” Negan hushed her, holding his hand up to stop her from continuing. Once again he appeared to be amused with her instead of upset over what happened. “This has nothing to do with that. I just want to ask you something kind of important.”

“Alright,” she felt awkward with Negan stepping in closer to her, towering over her.

“I know you said that you don’t mind all the baggage that comes with being my girlfriend,” Negan started, tipping his head from side to side. Dragging his hand up over her arm, Negan stopped at her shoulder to give it a firm squeeze. “But with this being my last season, I’m going to have a lot of paparazzi, reporters and fans around. All the time. I need to know that you are okay with that. People might start trying to get into your personal life. It will probably be short lived, but people are…intense. I need to know that you will be okay with that.”

“What exactly are you expecting?” she outstretched her hands to caress in over Negan’s arms hearing him breathing loudly. “Are you going to dump me if I have a certain answer?”

“God, no,” Negan shook his head, refusing the idea of that. “It’s just, I really want to be with you. I want us to try something here and give it a chance. But I know my life is hard. Lucille hated it. A lot. At first she thought it was cute, but people suck sometimes and they will get in our business. Even if we try to be private. It can be overwhelming.”

“I’m not with you because you’re a celebrity Negan,” she reminded him, it had Negan nodding his head about sucking in a sharp breath of air. “I’m with you because you make me smile. You make me happy. You bring a lot of happiness to my children. And it’s only been a few weeks. You could be a celebrity. You could be poor. I don’t care because all I want to do is be near you. I don’t care what comes with it. As long as I’m with you? That’s all that matters to me.”

“I love you,” Negan breathed in a low rumble of a voice causing her heart to hammer in her chest. Sweeping his index finger in underneath her chin, Negan tipped her head back and lowered down slowly. Clearly he liked her answer. “So much.”

Bringing their lips together in a passionate sweep, Negan hummed against her lips when she braced her hands against his chest to balance herself. Palming down over the center of Negan’s chest had him smiling when he broke the kiss.

“You have no idea how much I’m in awe of you,” she insisted, stroking her fingers over the side of his face. It impressed her the man that Negan was considering where he was in his life. There were a lot of things that could have made him a horrible person, but he wasn’t. At least not with her or her family. Taking a look around, she swallowed down and bit down on her bottom lip. “Are there cameras in here?”

“I…what?” Negan snickered, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in curiosity since that was a very random question to be asking him. Nodding her head about, she waited for and answer and he gazed back over his shoulder. “I mean, considering the teams gets naked in this room, not really…”

“Good,” she bit down on her bottom lip reaching her hand out to hook her fingers into the waistband of Negan’s black jeans getting him to stumble forward in closer to her. Tugging firmly on his belt had his lips parting with his eyebrows bouncing up in curiosity. “You deserve the world, you know that?”

“Hey,” Negan rumbled while she pulled apart the belt in his pants. Grunting, Negan realized she wasn’t gentle about the way that she was pulling apart the material of his pants. Fluttering his eyes to a close, Negan felt her dipping her hand beneath his pants to palm over his manhood through the material of his boxer briefs. Cupping her face in his large hands, Negan got her attention back on him and he shook his head. “I have the world right here in my hands.”

“Fuck,” she slurred out, her eyes locking with his. Hearing him say that took her breath away. With him saying that, she actually believed that. It had been a long time since she had felt that from anyone. Meeting Negan’s lips in a desperate kiss had him wrapping her up in his arms. There was something in the way that Negan looked at her and kissed her that made her feel like the only person that mattered in the world. “Everything about you is perfect.”

“Not everything,” Negan mused against her lips, his words vibrating against her flesh. Again her hands tugged at his pants getting them further open with her pushing down the front of his boxer briefs to get his semi-erect manhood in her palm to caress over it in slow, firm strokes.

“You have such a nice cock,” she commented eliciting a wicked smirk from Negan who lowered his head to watch her touching him. “I can’t believe I didn’t jump on it sooner.”

“To be fair, you tried. Many times,” Negan reminded her, sweeping his thumb over her bottom lip. Growling out with her lips sucking at the tip of his thumb, Negan’s long eyelashes fluttered to a close. “The world just didn’t want it to happen.”

“Completely unfair,” she gave Negan one final kiss before carefully lowering down to her knees. Stroking over his body, she enjoyed watching his reactions to her touching him. Negan was a very verbal and visual lover. If he liked something, he let you know. Sure, he could still be cocky at times, but he wasn’t afraid to show you what he liked. Pressing faint kisses against the tip of his manhood had him licking his lips with his fingers loosely curling around the back of her head. Each kiss grew in wetness having Negan breathing heavily before her stroking his free hand against the side of her face while she pampered his body.

“So good,” Negan grunted with her wet kisses that had the warmth of her tongue dragging out against the sensitive tip. Starting to take the tip between her lips, she swirled her tongue around his body having his muscles in his ass and thighs flexing drawing him forward toward her. Humming against his flesh, every bob of her head she allowed more of him into the damp heat of her mouth. Dragging her tongue along the underside of his shaft with every pull back had him moaning out. Taking her time to vary between giving him a blowjob along with pressing hot, sloppy kisses against the head had him bucking his hips up toward her. Having her starting to take him back further in her throat had Negan biting down on his bottom lip firmly trying to hold back the sounds he wanted to make. “Enough.”

Urging her from his body with a wet popping sound had her staring up at him with her big eyes waiting for what it was that he wanted. With her lips shimmering and her breathing heavy, Negan leaned down to hook his arms around her to get her up to her feet.

“Everything okay?” she licked her lips, letting out a surprised sound with Negan turning her to face the wall. Bracing her hands against the wall, her eyes closed tightly with Negan swiftly pulling at the back of her pants to get the material down over her bottom. Hooking his left arm around her hips, Negan pulled her flush back against him having her whimper with the warmth of him pressing against her flesh. Faint kisses were being pressed at her neck with Negan using his free hand to reach between them to lead his body into hers. Gasping out, her eyes closed at the stretching sensation she felt and she hummed out. Tipping her head back giving Negan better access to her neck and her jawline with his moan vibrating against her flesh.

“Fuck,” Negan winced, his right hand reaching up to hook his fingers with hers. Starting with slow, steady thrusts, Negan nuzzled his nose in against the side of her neck sporadically pressing kisses against her skin.

Closing her eyes, she tried to stifle her moans with every forward thrust he made against her with his hips bucking up against her bottom. Squeezing her fingers tighter around his, she knew that they were stepping into dangerous territory considering where they were, but it was a moment where he truly had her swooning over him.

“You mean everything to me,” Negan grunted, nipping at her jawline drawing a cry from her parted lips. “I would do anything for you. I hope you know that.”

Reaching back with her left hand, she curled her hand around his body to urge his movements to go faster. Winces filled the clubhouse with her starting to meet his thrusts, bouncing her hips back against his leaving a smacking sound filling the air.

“Fuck,” Negan moaned, doing his best to stay quiet with her movements determined against his. A whine fell from her when he pulled his hips back leaving her with an empty feeling. A moment later, she was being turned so that he could press her back against the wall. Breathlessly, Negan stepped forward and curled his fingers around her wrists to press them back against the wall firmly. Hovering his lips over hers had her whimpering involuntarily wanting him to kiss her. “You are fucking beautiful.”

“So are you,” she tipped up, dragging her lips over his having him smile against her lips. “We need to make this quick because the last thing we need is the three of them coming back looking for us.”

“Yes ma’am,” Negan hummed, finally bringing their lips together giving her what she wanted. Working her pants further down her legs, Negan adjusted his position. Adjusting her wrists, he made sure to clasp them in one hand while his other hand reached down to grab a firm hold of his erection. Breaking the kiss to look down between them, Negan teased the swollen tip of his cock over her clitoris having her arch her hips forward toward him. “You’re something else. Y’know that?”

“And you’re teasing me,” she frowned letting out a gasp. Leading his length back between her thighs, it had her head tipping back when he sank into her. Having her thighs close together made it a tighter fit and it had Negan moaning out immediately. Pressing his forehead to hers, Negan started thrusting into her again and again working to get them both to a release. Whimpering out, she did her best to wiggle at her wrists wanting to touch Negan, but he was keeping her where she was. There was some force being squeeze at her hips helping to aide her hips forward and backward with him fucking her face to face. Lowering her head, she watched his lengthy cock thrusting into her time and time again with her muted cries falling from her throat. “Holy shit.”

“Too much?” Negan started slowing down his thrusts which caused her to immediately shake her head begging him to keep moving. Dropping his head back drew attention to the prominent vein at the side of Negan’s neck that was bulging with her gasps growing louder with every movement he made inside of her.

“Let me finish,” she begged knowing that while she enjoyed this position, there was a position that she wanted to try in here. Stepping back allowed his length to pull from her body with his cock bouncing. Allowing her hands to drop at her sides, she shakily led Negan over toward the seat in front of his locker area. Shoving him into the seat let her look him over and it was so attractive with the way he was staring at her. Turning her back to him, she carefully moved in over him balancing her hands on his hairy thighs. Helping her lower herself down over his swollen erection had her whimpering out with the sensation of him filling her again. “That’s good.”

“You’re so wet,” Negan slurred against her earlobe, his right arm hooking around her hips to help aid her movements while she bounced herself over Negan’s cock leaving a wet smacking sound to fill the clubhouse. Hearing her cries getting louder, Negan knew she was reaching that point where she was right on the verge of orgasming.

“Fuck,” she panted, dropping her head back against Negan’s shoulder having him kissing in over her jawline when she took all of him into her. Simply circling her hips in small motions had him moaning against her flesh and it sent chills throughout her body. Knowing that they had to quicken this, she went back to rolling her hips firmly over Negan which had him moaning out. Almost knowing that she was right on the verge, Negan reached around with his other hand to circle her sensitive bundle of nerves with his rough fingertips. “Negan…”

“That’s it,” Negan growled, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth with the sensation of her warmth contracting around his cock. Breathlessly she continued to move her hips over him, not allowing herself that moment of pure ecstasy with her eagerly trying to get him to reach his orgasm. Wincing, Negan felt his body tensing up, his member starting to throb and twitch inside of her. Her movements slowed down with the warmth of his release filling her. Her fingers were digging so hard into his thighs at this point that he was certain she’d leave a mark, but he was okay with it.

Shakily pulling her hips up had her whole body trembling and Negan helped her carefully raise to her feet. Turning her to him, he peppered her with loving kisses before reaching down to pull his pants back up over his hips.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Negan picked her up in his arms surprising her with just how strong he appeared to be when he took her to sit on one of the sinks in the bathroom. Cleaning her up, she couldn’t help but be impressed with him and the way that he took care of her. Once he was done, he helped her pull her pants back up her legs and pampered her with a few more kisses. “Will you be okay for a minute? I probably need to clean up my area just in case we got some body fluids in places they aren’t meant to be.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a smirk, playfully reaching out to smack his ass. It had him stopping and looking back at her with an amused expression. “I can’t help it, you put it in front of me and I’m going to react.”

“I’ll remember that,” Negan chuckled, leaving her alone to herself. Squeezing her fingers around the sink, she took notice of how her legs were still tremoring. It was certainly a different experience having sex with Negan in a very public place like this. Sure, when she was younger she had sex with Joel many times in a locker room, but they were still young. It had been a very long time since she had ever done something like that. Great. There she was thinking about Joel again. That seemed to be happening all the time no matter how often she tried to get herself to stop doing that. Footsteps entered the room making her lift her eyes up to see Negan rubbing his hands together. “All clean. You wanna go check on the kids?”

“You might have to hold me up. My legs feel like Jello,” she declared having a wolfish smile expand over his lips. With a single nod, Negan moved in beside her to wrap his arm around her mid-section, helping to brace her against him.

Walking unhurriedly with Negan, they went to where Dale was allowing both the children to take turns with the batting cage so they could watch each other. After a few tries, they asked Negan to do it so they could see him do his work in person. By then she could brace her weight on her legs and she let him go. It was kind of amazing how strong Negan really was. Every hit that collided surrounded them with a booming sound with the baseball hitting the metal with a firm thud. If Negan didn’t have a bad knee, she was certain that he still had plenty of years still left in him to play the sport.

After Dale announced that he had to leave, they stopped at the batting cages. Finalizing things, Negan gave them a quick tour of the places they hadn’t seen yet. Negan promised that he would bring them back during the season and then they left.

Inside the car, she listened to the children excitedly talk about what just happened along with calling a few of their friends. This was a big deal for them and she knew that. So she allowed them to have that moment. Before they got to Negan’s apartment, Negan picked up some pizzas for them. When they pulled up to the building that she assumed Negan’s apartment was at it actually gave her a sense of anxiety. It was high end. Very high end. In the expensive part of the city and in a way she felt like she didn’t belong there. Having Negan taking them up on the elevator had the children excited to know that Negan had the whole top floor to himself.

“Holy shit,” Peter walked off the elevator, stopping in his tracks with Negan walking off into the apartment like it wasn’t a big deal. Surprise flooded her veins at the sight of Negan’s apartment. It had had a high ceiling, with large glass panels to serve as full length windows to stare out at the city. It was the twenty-sixth floor so they were high up enough as it was. Looking at both her children, they were just as shocked as she was. “This is fucking huge.”

“This time, I agree with him,” Elizabeth noted with Y/N stroking her fingers over the top of Peter’s head. Walking around the corner, Negan stopped in his tracks throwing his hands up motioning for them to follow him further into the apartment. “This is your home?”

“For part of the year. I have this, a small waterfront property and then a home that my late wife wanted really bad. It’s a lot of land in the middle of nowhere. That’s probably my biggest place and the home I spend the most time at,” Negan informed them waving them to start moving with him toward the kitchen area of the apartment. He had a dining room area and a few stools that were lined up along the side of an island which is where they all took a seat.

“And by small, what do you mean exactly?” Elizabeth was curious because small obviously meant something very different to her than it did Negan. “Like bigger or smaller than my mom’s home?”

“Smaller. It’s just one floor. I don’t need much when I’m by the water. Give me a seat, sit me down next to the ocean and I’m in my happy place,” Negan explained, handing out the pizza, but he noticed that everyone was eyeballing every part of his apartment.

There was a large sectional couch in the living room area with a gigantic television. In the distance they could see that there was a door open to an entertainment area that Peter was desperately trying to wiggle back and forth on his stool to get a look at.

“Before you break one of your bones by falling, go on. Go look,” Negan instructed Peter who eagerly shot up from the stool to run across Negan’s apartment to go take a look at everything that was inside. There were multiple arcade games, a ping pong table, a pool table and a video gaming area off in the far corner.

Elizabeth joined in beside Peter at the door finding herself amazed with Negan’s set up as well, “This is insane.”

“You should see the balcony,” Negan grumbled with a mouthful of pizza, pointing off in the direction where they could go out onto the balcony. Scrambling to go look had Negan chuckling and Y/N could tell that her children were no longer interested in pizza. “Well at least they are having fun.”

“Sure,” Y/N didn’t know what to say with Negan polishing off his first piece of pizza and reaching for another. “Negan, you are…fucking loaded.”

There was a silence between them with the chews of Negan slowing down. His hazel eyes seemed uncomfortable with his thick eyebrows bouncing up, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I just…” she felt stupid considering she knew that he was a famous baseball player that was the main draw of the team that he was currently on. Especially now that he announced his early retirement from his injury. “I just think about the house you rented back at home and you…”

“This isn’t me…” Negan threw his hand up in the air looking around at the place. “I mean yes, I really like the view from the balcony, the game room is totally me and the bedroom is mostly me. But I didn’t need something this big. They just persuaded me to get this apartment so I could do some kind of special for a magazine.”

“Elizabeth probably has that around somewhere,” she attempted to make a joke knowing that she was actually uncomfortable being here and it was hard to explain or even think, but she was. “You have three homes?”

“For now,” Negan answered her with a slow nod of his head. “Sometimes I need a change of scenery so it’s nice having the three of them, but I think when I’m done playing I will probably sell this apartment. It’s lonely here anyways. I don’t like how cold everything feels here. This is just the place that I would have interviews at. Photoshoots. Lucille decorated the other two homes to feel homey and they are much more comfortable.”

“I bet you brought a lot of women back here to get laid,” she commented having Negan swallowing hard and lowering his pizza to give her an awkward glance. “I’m sorry. I’m just saying you bringing anyone here would probably have someone immediately wanting to have sex with you.”

“Is everything okay?” Negan inquired, pushing his plate slightly forward having her let out a tremoring breath.

“Mom!” Elizabeth called out to her mother, waving her hand to have Y/N come out with them to see the view. “This is amazing. You have to come see this. It’s crazy.”

Getting up slowly from her seat, Y/N noticed the way that Negan seemed tense when she walked away to join the children out on the oversize balcony that overlooked the city. It was near sunset so the light was hitting the skyline a certain way that had light reflecting and it looked absolutely beautiful being there.

Out of the corner of her eye, Y/N could see that Negan came out onto the balcony with them and was leaning back against the glass paneling watching them with his arms folded out in front of his chest. Both children flooded Negan with questions about this apartment which Negan happily responded to. After all the questions, they went back to eat their food and then had Negan give them a tour around his apartment. Negan set the children up with the rooms that they were going to be staying in and toward the end of the night the children were in the game room while she was sitting out on the balcony with Negan. It was dark outside with the lights of the city drawing her attention.

“So…” Negan breathed out cuddling his nose in against the side of her neck having her laying in his arms in the lounge chair they were sitting on. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s going on? Or am I gonna have to guess?”

“It’s complicated,” she explained to him feeling guilty that she had immediately shut down when she entered Negan’s apartment. “I was poor most of my life Negan. Even now, I’m just keeping my head over water. And then I come here and I’ve never felt like I didn’t belong somewhere more.”

“That’s silly. You’re always welcome in my home,” Negan assured her letting out a disappointed breath when she turned to face him, her eyes full of worry. “I don’t care about money. Or this whole status idea that people put on things. You and I grew up in the same place.”

“Yeah, but I can see the headlines now. Negan Smith hooks up with a gold-digging gutter slut,” she caused Negan to choke with how she vented about things.

“If someone says that about you I will happily fucking knock them on their pathetic asses for saying something so fucking stupid,” Negan suggested reaching out to hook his fingers with hers, bringing her hands up to pepper kisses over the backs of them. “You’re not a gold digger. I know that.”

“I don’t belong in a place like this Negan. You should be with someone…” she began feeling very down on herself, but Negan curled his finger in underneath her chin to get her to look at him. “I’m a nobody, Negan.”

“You’re very much a somebody,” Negan huffed out, sliding in closer to her to sweep his fingers over the side of her face drawing her closer to him. “In fact, you’re one of the only people I give a fuck about in this world. So you’re one of the most important people in the world for me.”

“Negan,” she frowned knowing that he was really stressing how special she was and with him palming in over the side of her face it had her leaning into his touch. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the way his fingers sank around the back of her neck to sweep at her skin. “You’re one thing.”

“I’m the only thing that matters,” Negan cut her off before she could let her thoughts linger any further about things when it came to money. “This was the life that you wanted. Isn’t it? To live in the city, be a famous journalist and focus on your skills in photography? What makes you believe you don’t deserve this life?”

“The last thirty plus years?” she suggested with a frown hearing Negan snort and let out a long sigh. “I’m trash Negan.”

“If anyone else was saying that about you, I’d knock them on their ass,” Negan retorted with a scoff, hating to hear that she was talking about herself like that. “You’re not that. At all. You’re special. You’ve made a good life for yourself and your home is very nice. You just had a stone thrown in your river and it changed the direction you wanted life to go, but that doesn’t make you any less special. Y’know?”

Staying silent, Y/N wasn’t exactly sure what to say to Negan. Getting up from the chair, Negan held his hand out to her. Accepting it, Negan pulled her up to her feet and led her over to the edge of the balcony. Outstretching his hands, Negan held onto the railing while standing behind her allowing her to look out at the city.

“If anyone deserves a life like this, it’s you,” Negan informed her with a long exhale, depositing faint kisses over the side of her face with her leaning back into his warmth. “You’re hard working. You’re a good mom. You’re a good person. You’ve gone through a lot of shit. Stop thinking the worst about yourself and for once realize that you deserve good shit in your life. Allow yourself a fucking break. Because if you don’t give yourself one? No one else is gonna.”

----

Tags: @chainsawsangel @fancypeacepersona @violent-darkness @negansbestie @elegantfanficluv

@sanctuaryforthelost @dead-of-niight @dilfsandmartinis @jennydehavilland

[recklessmark]

Unfaithful

Summary: It doesn’t matter that you are Jeno’s girlfriend, you’ve always want something else. Read Part 1 Here

Pairing: hockey jock Mark x female reader

WC: 4k+

Smut Warning: heavy dubcon/noncon elements (don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable), cheating, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex, degradation

a/n: Mark is an asshole and you’ve been warned.

It took you more time than needed to realize why Jeno wanted you to be as far away from Mark as possible. He’s a menace to society, and a dangerously hot one.

You stood in the kitchen, mixing vodka and soda together for another drink. Jeno was at the pool, having fun with Haechan, Jaemin and Jisung. Johnny, Taeyong, Jaehyun and Yuta were outside, too, and they seemed to get along pretty well without the tension of the captains whenever they’re six-foot away from each other. You smiled and waved at Jeno when he caught your gaze through the glass door.

Averting your eyes, you downed the liquid in your red Solo cup before your boyfriend noticed how distressed you were at the sight of Mark sucking a chick’s mouth on the couch while she’s grinding his clothed dick like a bitch in heat.

The match had ended with a tie. Jeno would have lost if Mark hadn't missed that last shot. You’d been restless from the beginning, not knowing what end the championship would come to. Certainly, there would be a rematch another day, but you’re safe from the downfall of their bet for now.

But did you want ‘safe’?

With the alcohol buzzing in your system, the sight of Mark lewdly licking and sucking that girl’s tongue started to get too much for you. Images of you in that position crossed your mind. How you would run your fingers through his hair, how his hands would grab your ass instead of hers, how addictive he would taste.

You had been so busy lost in your train of thought that you didn't notice the group of kids stumbling towards you until it was too late. One of them tripped over your foot and before you knew it, the t-shirt you wore was completely soaked in beer. The kid squeaked out an apology before the group scurried away. You looked down at your shirt and groaned. There was no way you could just stand around here like this, not smelling like a distillery. Your only option was to find something to change into.

Pushing through the crowd of teenagers you made your way upstairs. Finally finding an empty bedroom, closing the door behind you. You looked around the room, taking in the mess of beer cans and empty cigarette packs. The room smelled of sweat and cigarettes, which strangely wasn't off-putting. This is the fraternity house of Mark and his team, so you really have no idea whose room you’re in.

Your eyes landed on the closet and you walked over, throwing the doors open. You pulled out a black Mötley Crüe shirt and shrugged, it would do. Whoever owns this probably wouldn’t mind. Pulling your own shirt over your head, you tossed it onto the dresser before pulling his shirt on. It was a little big on you, but at least it was dry...and it smelled weirdly nice. You pulled it to your nose and breathed in. Expensive cologne mixed with tobacco. A voice from behind you startled you out of your thoughts.

"You're going to have to give that back."

Spinning around, you found Mark standing in the doorway looking you over. How he had managed to enter the room without you hearing him, you weren't sure.

"Oh…sorry, I just needed to borrow it. Some idiot spilled beer on me. I'll wash it and send it back."

Mark just stared at you, arms crossed as he leaned against the door frame. You shuttered under his gaze before you stepped forward toward the door.

"Anyway, I should get back out there."

He made no effort to move out of your way, instead leaning more into it, his gaze still fixed on you.

"Mark? Can I go please?"

A smirk spread across his lips. “Do you really want to? I saw the way you were looking at me out there."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a step back and looking at him. "I was checking on Jeno."

Mark scoffed, dropping his arms to his sides and stepping towards you, closing the bedroom door behind him.

"Last time I checked, Jeno wasn't on my face, which was exactly where your eyes seemed to be fixed every time I looked your way."

"I…I was…well it's hard not to look at you when you're putting on such a big show out there."

He took another step towards you, causing you to step back away from him. "Oh yeah? You liked that?"

"Didn't say I liked it. I really have to go."

You stepped to the side and headed towards the door. Just as you reached for the knob, a hand reached out and grabbed your wrist hard.

"I didn't say you could go yet."

You tried to pull your arm away but his grip just tightened as he pulled you away from the door, shoving you towards the bed. "Mark, what the hell?"

"Oh don't play shy now, this is what you wanted isn't it?"

"You're drunk. Come on, let's go back out there."

You tried once again to push past the male, this time to have him stop you with an arm. He spun you to face him, grabbing your jaw roughly and making you look into his eyes.

"Don't think I don't see it, princess. The way you look at me in class. The eyes you make at me across the room at parties just like this. You want me, you just don't want your boyfriend to know his girl has fallen for the bad boy."

Shit. Had you really made your attraction that evident?

Truth was, you’d always had this huge feeling for Mark long before you started dating Jeno. Almost everyone on your campus knew Mark, and when your freshman year began, he was the first thing to catch your attention. You remembered clearly that he was leaning against a tree, sucking on a cigarette while you were eating your lunch on the grass, unknowingly close to where he was. Only when a girl passed by, flaunting her next-to-nothing clothes as she purred, “Looking uber-sexy, Mark Lee'', did you notice the notorious hockey captain. He then unleashed a rogue grin and a provocative whistle that made every girl who happened to be around whipped their head in his direction. You almost choked on your food there, as he was the sexiest man you’d ever laid your eyes on. Almost thankful that he didn’t notice you and terrified that you’d embarrass yourself if he ever looked at you.

It was at one of Mark’s games when you met Jeno. You were shocked that a man like him would be interested in you. To say he’s out of your league would be an understatement. One thing led to another, after a few weeks, he asked you to be his girlfriend and you couldn’t find a reason to say no. Jeno was kind, caring, and good-looking.

Thinking about it made you mad at yourself. You had a boyfriend that every girl could only wish for, and you’re still thinking about another man, who’s obviously a walking red flag. 

"Mark, let me go, I need to go check on…."

Before you could get another word out, his lips were pressed harshly to yours. The kiss was sloppy, and tasted like beer and cigarettes, but it still sparked something inside of you. He broke from the kiss, still gripping your chin tightly.

"Now you're going to shut up and let me do what I want with you."

"I…."

"Are you saying no?"

You should. You should say no, go back out to the party. You’d go home with Jeno, have dinner together, sleep on the same bed and forget about everything that happened today. But your mouth seems to run on its own.

"N-no…but you're drunk…"

"I saw the look on your face when it was a tie." He stares at you in the eyes, holding your gaze. “You look almost…disappointed.”

He pushed you backward towards his bed, and you let him. As you reached the end of the bed, you fell down onto your back, eyes fixated on the ceiling. This felt so wrong, yet so right. He dropped to his knees at the end of the bed, his hands sliding up your thighs. They came to rest at the waistband of your pants. Your stomach was turning. There were so many problems with this. Mark was your boyfriend’s worst enemy, and even worse he was a fucking asshole. Your breath stuttered at the feeling of his hands on your legs. The pressure over the denim causes you to prop yourself up on your elbows and catch his eyes.

“Mark, please,” your words come out shakily. “This is wrong. Don’t make me do this.”

He ignored your plea, a wolfish grin plastered on his face. “You’re right, this is wrong. But I think you want ‘wrong’.”

He brought one hand up to your chest, pushing you back down to the bed. You let him, without an ounce of resistance. His hands moved back to your waistband, making quick work of your button and zipper. He pulled your jeans off in one swift motion before tossing them to the side.

You squirmed against the bed, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and trying your best to cover the lacy pink panties you had chosen to wear today.

“Such a pretty girl,” he chuckled at the sight. “But a really bad one, lying to everyone. Pretend to be a doting girlfriend when you’re nothing but a slut.”

He slid a hand between your legs, almost amused by your lack of restraint. You said no, but you made no real effort to get away from him. "Hmm, seems like someone is a little more eager than she wants to let on. Your panties are soaked for me already."

Whining a little, your arms came up, forearms wrapping over your face to try and hide yourself from the truth of it all. That Mark Lee was making you wetter than you'd ever been before.

Your legs shut around his wrist now, a feigned attempt at reinforcing that he was the disgusting one. He was beyond amused at this point. Grabbing your legs, he pried your thighs apart again and brought his face between your legs, inhaling deeply.

"Fuck, you smell so sweet."

Bringing his hand close to your clothed core, he hooked his fingers into the crotch of your panties and pulled them to the side. "Look at you. So fucking wet. Need to taste you."

You huffed out, knowing there was no way of really getting out of…this. Whatever this was.

“I…fuck, fine. But you’re not…. you’re not fucking me." You decided in a weak attempt.

You were panting a bit now, shrieking a little when he practically yanked your legs apart and shoved his face so close to your core. “Don’t...o-oh my god..”

And then his hands were on you, cool air causing your entire body to erupt in goosebumps.

“I...shit…”

Mark chuckled, your words just egging him on. Grabbing the top of your panties, he pulled them down, giving himself full access to your wet hole. "So fuckin' pretty."

His hand moved to spread your lips apart so he could get a perfect view. "Fuck."

Mark was practically drooling at this point. He almost came off as more needy than you. But he wasn't the one laying on a near stranger's bed, practically dripping. His free hand found its way to where you needed him, even though you would never admit it. Before you could even try to protest, his middle finger slipped inside of you. It was all happening so quickly. You could have sworn you didn’t want this. Could swear you're a good person, a faithful girlfriend. You're not currently in Mark Lee's bed, wearing his shirt and nothing else. His hands were enough to bring you back to reality. Your hands twisted into his bedsheets below you. The scent of cigarettes permeated your lungs and sent a rush of slickness between your legs.

“Y-you’re...We need t-to stop Mark. I’m… fuck!”

Mark's eyes were blown with lust, all the times he'd thought of this exact situation. You, Jeno’s girlfriend, in his bed. Let him do whatever he wanted to you. He could feel his cock start to throb in his pants. Sliding another finger inside of you, he slowly started to pump them in and out. Your slick completely soaked his hand, and soon the stubble that adorned his face as he leaned in and took your clit into his mouth.

“Oh my god!”

You screamed out the moment his lips touched you. That was it, you were a goner. Hips rolled back, a half-assed attempt at seeming to pull away from his touch. Choked out moans giving away your true wants and desires. Your body admitting to all those nights you wished your hand was replaced by his. And now, all those filthy, perverted dreams were coming true. Your eyes started to water over, a lump growing in your throat now before a sob rippled through the room… you'd begun to cry. Overwhelmed by the shame, and how fucking good it felt.

“D….don’t stop, please.”

He smirked against your clit. He'd won. He knew you'd give in. His tongue swirled around your clit as his fingers started pumping into you harder and faster. If there was one thing Mark was, it was a giver. Before he went any further, he wanted to make sure you came for him. He made it his mission to make you come undone with just his mouth and hands. You could already feel it starting…that aching burn in the very pit of your abdomen. Body flushing hot and eyes fluttering shut. Feeling overwhelmed already from the few minutes with the blonde between your legs. How long has it been? Three weeks? A month and a half? A long time. It’s been a long fucking time. A shaking hand inched down into the soft mass of loose curls. Your nails weaving through till they scratch at his scalp.

“Fuck…shit, Mark…”

Your hips began to achingly slowly rock against his face. Minute movements that were just enough to amplify that growing high. He could feel your walls getting tighter around his fingers, a telling sign of your impending orgasm. Not even a full ten minutes, he was impressed. Hooking his fingers against the spongy spot deep inside of you, he started sucking on your clit a little harder, his tongue flicking back and forth as he did so.

“I’m…m…Mark...m’gonna..*”

You were so close, so fucking close. At this point your own hands were betraying you…trying to pull his mouth closer despite it being physically impossible. Your crying never ceased, only slowed down to occasional whimpers and sobs while tears slipped down your cheeks. Mark pulled off your clit with a wet pop, just long enough to whisper.

"Cum for me." Then he attached himself to your clit again, fingers starting to brutally assault your sweet spot.

“Fuuckkk! Shit! Mark!"

That was it, your vision went blurry and a mix between a sob and a moan ripped through your throat as you climaxed around his fingers. Thighs coming up around his ears and caging the poor bastard between them. Chest heaving and falling rapidly as you attempt to come down from your high.

He pulled off of your clit, sliding his fingers out of you. Prying your legs off of him, he sat up and looked down at you. "Look at you. You're a damn mess and I'm not even done yet."

Grabbing you by the chin, he leaned in and licked a tear off of your cheek. "Poor thing, already fucked out from just my fingers. Now the real fun begins."

Grabbing your hand, he brought it to his crotch. His cock strained painfully against his jeans. "See what you've done to me? Now, you've gotta fix it."

His grip on your chin pulled your attention back. A shocked gasp leaving parted lips when you felt his tongue drag across your cheek, flinching back a bit at the hot, wet streak left behind.

Unknowingly, you pulled your hand back from his own but stopped when you realized just how hard he is. “Wait..What? No, we’re not doing this.”

"Oh? You thought this was just about you? Silly girl." He smirked, letting go of your hand to move down to his belt buckle. "You think you can just look like that and I'm not going to want to fuck you?"

He quickly undid his belt buckle, and then the button on his pants before he kicked them off, leaving him in his boxers. The outline of his length didn't leave much to the imagination. He was huge to say the least, something he prided himself on.

A look of concern washed over your face. This was really happening wasn’t it. If Jeno found out, you’d be beyond fucked.

“Looking like what? It’s not my fault some drunk douche spilled his drink all over me. I didn’t exactly bring a backup…. change of clothes…” Snarky words slowed to nothing as your eyes trained on his hands, working rapidly at his belt and jeans till he was in just a thin pair of boxers.

“Shit..Mark, I don’t think.."

"Roll over and get on your hands and knees. Now."

Your protests fell on deaf ears. His barked command made your thighs squeeze together. Swallowing hard and shifting up onto your arms so you could roll over. Ass pushing high into the air now and shivering at the shift in temperature. Mark took this opportunity to rid himself of his remaining piece of clothing, tossing them to the floor.

"Good girl." He mumbled as he climbed up the bed, positioning himself on his knees behind you. "I don't have any condoms, don't worry, I'll pull out."

Though the tone of his voice told you he had no intention of doing so. But before you could say anything, he was sliding the tip of his cock between your lips, collecting your juices before stopping at your entrance. Then he pushed inside of you, he gave your ass a hard smack.

“Wait, what? No you can’t without a–fuck!”

Before there was any real time to get away, he was already pushing into you. Feeling like he was splitting you apart at the seams. “Shit...shit, fuck it hurts!” Despite your whines of pain, the harsh slap resulted in your body pushing back involuntarily against his own. Fists twisting in the sheets as tears begin to soak the mattress.

"You can take it."

He pushed deeper and deeper inside of you until his hips sat flush against your ass. Giving it another harsh slap, his hands moved to your hips. His fingertips dug in so hard you knew they'd leave bruises behind. Pulling all the way back, he slammed deep into you again. His head fell back in pleasure at the feeling of your pussy squeezing him.

"Fuck, your pussy is so perfect. Should have just done this long ago."

It wasn’t long before your forearms gave out underneath you. Upper body shaking as you collapsed against the fabric. Knees digging harshly into the mattress on either side of Mark’s waist while trying so hard to keep your lower half up. Despite your constant protests, you wanted to hear him call you a good girl again, praise you. Tell you that you make him feel good. His words were enough to gather another rush of slickness between your legs, groaning quietly and burying your face into the smoke-permeated sheets to muffle the sounds. That was useless though, the perverted noises of skin hitting skin and squelching from your near sinful arousal was probably enough to tell the entire town what was going on behind that closed door. All while your boyfriend was busy partying outside.

“I’ll tell you a secret.” He whispers darkly into your ear. ““I’d purposely missed that shot. Winning is too easy, and it feels like you’re doing this because you have to.”

A rough slap landed on your ass and you whined. “As much as I like seeing you helpless, I love making you beg more.”

He continued pounding into you. Grunts and soft moans falling from his lips. As you collapsed onto the bed, he reached down and grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking you back against him. "You're such a little slut. Just letting me fuck you, not even putting up a fight. You like this don't you? Like the idea of me fucking you with so many people out there." With your body pulled close against his own, he leaned in and bit down hard on your shoulder. "Everyone is going to know just who makes you feel this good."

Scream ripped through the room at the sharp tug of your hair. Head falling back against his shoulder now and leaving the vast expanse of your neck free to his assault. Hands scrambled back, latching onto his forearm and hip to try and ground yourself. Though his taunts were enough to push you deeper and deeper into that deliciously fuzzy headspace.

“Maybe I should call Jeno, hm? Let him see how much of a cheating slut you are.”

Your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack when that all too familiar burning sensation began building up once again. His words only made your pussy clench more, tingled with desire.

“Please, Mark…I’m close…”

Mark chuckled darkly. "Oh yea? Already gonna cum for me again? Such an easy little whore aren't you?"

His hand snaked around and grabbed your throat.

"I'm not a…"

Your words were cut off by a choked out moan as the male grabbed at your throat. Rough fingers against the soft skin enough to make me desperately whimper — actually beginning to grind back against him now and actively chasing my own climax.

"Say it. Say 'I love your cock, Mark.'"

His thrusts were growing sloppier, a telltale sign that his own orgasm was approaching fast.

“L-love your cock, Mark, love having you inside me. Splitting me open, need you all the time…always need you. Dream about you Mark.”

The rambles continued, eyelids fluttering and swollen lips continuing to spew out all of your secret desires.

That was enough to push him over the edge. "Fuck. T-take my cum like the little slut you are."

Bottoming out inside of you, you could feel his cock throbbing as his warm cum filled your hole. His hand let go of your throat and moved between your legs, toying with your clit while still buried inside of you.

"Go ahead, cum for me again and then we're all done."

You whimpered almost pathetically at the way his grip tightened on your hip when he came. Mouth falling open in a long, languid moan that quickly shifted into nearly pained cries as rough fingertips found your sensitive bud. Hips jerked back away from his touch but of course, your body betrayed you. Walls clenching around his length, a filthy mix of fluids slipped out between your thighs as you came hard around his length. Quiet sobs falling from quivering lips and your shoulders and hips occasionally convulsing from the overwhelming stimulation.

Finally Mark fell onto the bed next to you, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked up at you.

"Guess I forgot to pull out." He motioned between your legs, where he watched the mixture of fluids drip down your leg.

"I'll get you a Plan B or something. Don't want any little shits running around."

Sitting up, he reached for his pants. "We should do this again. Don't worry, Jeno doesn't have to know."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the bedroom door swung open.

"Hey, I...."

Jeno paused, taking in the scene. His expression instantly turned cold and hard. Mark turned to you and shrugged, an infuriating smirk tugged his lips.

"Oops. Guess he knows now."

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟕 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐰𝐨.)

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark."

slight cw panic sequence. (I) reader agonizes after yesterday's kiss and of course the ball is today. blue mages haunt you, red wing captains stalk you, the wrong prince finds your hiding place (II) bkg will not let you embarrass yourself alone. ballgowns, blue fire, champagne, pearls, a song from home, relief and peruro. dance my love, or die. 7.7k

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Captain Hawks has one job and you’ve made it so much more difficult than necessary. He’s had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place he’s made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touya’s room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. You’re rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyone’s so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watch– you, the girl with wet eyes and hair full of hay.

You kissed your prince last night. He knows the feeling.

Hawks takes a sip of coffee and grips the barrel of his mug to keep ocean wind from throwing it off the roof. The king is right to worry about you. You have spent one week wandering palace grounds, greenhouses, pantries, walkways and stables and never once guarding your prince. Weird bird, are you the chicken or the egg? Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected? Because you know better than to keep close to your charge when something is stalking? Hawks winces in a particularly strong breeze. It’s the latter.

Two eyes burn suddenly from your gloom to the parapet fifty meters outside your window where the captain spills his coffee in a rush to stay out of sight. What he wouldn’t give to be warming a bed back in town but instead Hawks rolls his eyes, flat on his wings behind a gable wall. You rise and jerk your curtains closed, glare like black fire.

Princess Fuyumi runs clear through a ten foot portrait propped up in the hallway to be dusted. She’s cold, she’s sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Uraraka’s finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because he’s good for nothing else. The princess shakes paint flecks from her hair. She rips canvas from her belt and throws the standing frame to the ground.

Kirishima has never dressed for a ball like this before because parties in Aldera usually require armor. What do you do at a Ball if not wrestle? Do Takobans dance Peruro? Sero and Kaminari assure him he doesn’t look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.

In the king’s rear guard, Shinsou nurses a broken finger. Enji derives gross entertainment from screaming at soldiers all dressed in blue and it smells like the king came home for this party. The queen cannot be found. Few people think to look for you. No one minds blue fire.

An already tedious afternoon dissolved when a boy crossed your path on turret stairs, your hiding place from prying eyes. You didn’t have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasn’t helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your prince’s hands still danced on your skin the longer you let thoughts linger.

The little footman continued, melting, as you raised your head from between your knees. He carried a box under his arm and waited for your permission to move in the tight stairwell, “From Princess Fuyumi.”

Inside the box under the arm of the boy on the spire stairs was a dress.

You spent last night between pickle barrels in the distillery and hid in the morning where you knew your prince wouldn’t think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. It’s why the princess ordered you a dress and it’s why you’re pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawa’s training pit echos pretty like the sea when it’s empty and the uniform room has a mirror. It’s a dark little annex off the main ring without those Takoban windows Captain Hawks loves so much.

All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.

Soldiers can fight armed or barefisted, fire cannons and crossbows, deliver first aid, hunt, guard, salute. You would be the head of your kingdom’s army and so you must know one thousand more important things, like how to string a corset and when to use forks in a line on pretty tables. Silk the color of blood gathers all the heat of your chest and keeps it close. Does the heir of Aldera waltz Takoban? You take the buttons at the ends of your sleeves in your teeth to fasten them closed. What will he look like in their blue costumes dancing with their pretty ladies? Can you remember how to count rhythm in threes? Can you even look at him?

More important than a soldier, court mages, even more important than a champion, you are trained as Head of Royal Guards. You are poison tester, navigator, weaponmaster and seaman, you judge the safety of the room by the shoes of its hosts and you wear fine clothes at fine parties to accompany your masters like a trophy. A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

“Steady,” you whisper to the gods.

It’s been a few years but you know how to wear these clothes and you know how best to move, and you wince when the sheath of a dagger chills the skin under your ribcage where it hides. You sparkle unsettlingly in the gown and grunt through the effort of untucking stubborn skirts from hilts and scabbards. Wielding a candle to examine yourself more closely in the mirror, you judge the shapes impractical clothes make when they’re meant to fit only you. Pleats of red fall over themselves from your waist to your ankles and in your reflection a bit of fire stirs, because in a cold kingdom this gift was made of love.

You are blood red tonight from neck to heel. Gold tassels align themselves like military badges across your shoulders and the sleeves of the gown bleed to lace at your wrist where two green buttons wink. You can’t help staring. Jeanist’s dragontooth gleams on your breast.

This is an overstuffed week. Hedonistic, anxious like a blood clot heart attack. You are stalked, you are tested and attacked, you’ve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldn’t a ball punctuate this disaster? Something about preparing for war in the dark makes this bearable. Something about fastening a knife to your thigh keeps you from thinking about Bakugou Katsuki and the formalities waiting for you upstairs. Someone is watching you.

A man clears his throat outside the doorway, careful not to stand where you might see him but you are too focused to be caught by surprise. “What do you want?”

“Apologies, Captain.”

At that, air falls loose from your nostrils. Your lips don’t dare part to make a sound. Your self-important posture doesn’t have time to settle before red pleats freeze and the candle cracks like a knuckle in your palm because the horror of this hadn’t occurred to you. That voice will never leave.

“Y/n?” the flame mage murmurs again.

Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing you’re spied upon and letting Bakugou find you, day after day, letting him help you house spiders, letting him spar, letting him smile, letting him sit beside you– you knew what was watching you– something worse than flying captains. It’s why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. It’s why the queen hides in stables and why your blood runs black in the instant you understand yourself through your reflection.

Your two shoulders fly through the doorway first so that when the blue mage attacks your legs will be spared enough to carry you upstairs. You can outrun him, you can outrun anyone. You should have paid more attention to ball preparations this month instead of languishing in your prince’s backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldn’t an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldn’t it be him? Unkillable.

The candles inside the changing room are doused and shattered so that you are the only possible flammable thing in this dusty arena and you pull the knife from your hip as you soar over the threshold.

It would have flown hard when you released it– might have even killed a ghost– if you hadn’t seized up as the figure came into view. White hair, tall with sunken eyes, only slightly shorter than his father. You right yourself to land on your new dancing boots, and their heels wail two lines through the sand at the edge of the arena.

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

Like a cat your eyes go wide and your knife clatters to the floor. Half-fresh braids fall over your shoulders in a deep and rigid bow. Your fists bunch the soft material at your hips and you consider dropping to your knees in the silence and dust of the sparring pit so far away from any party he should be attending. Your heart beats to a new fear, “Highness,” you stammer to the ground, “I–”

“Do you dance, Captain?”

You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. It’s becoming increasingly clear, for how threatening this country is, that its eldest princess actually took all the reason at birth. Swallowed it from the room with her first cry and left kings and countrymen to stumble on their words, for even when you are not threatening him at knifepoint there’s a dread just behind the prince’s every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry, sir,” you lift only your head from the stiff bow, “I don’t understand.”  

Prince Natsuo’s suit is blue trimmed silver. He is white trousers and shining bells, military honors, rope tassels, broad like his father, beautiful like his mother and dressed like a blue glass bottle. He’s never spoken to you and seems to have trouble even looking at you now, like a rabbit the dog runs past in a hunt.

You soften, “May I escort you to the party, sir? You’ve made a wrong turn,” rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from you– no. Less away from you and more just to himself. Like pouring a cup just full enough to tease the tension at the rim, Prince Natsuo is bursting with nothing to say.

All week you hid from spies and all week Alderans made it their job to find you, to be near you. Today you hide from just one man and suddenly every person in the cold kingdom knows exactly where you are. Winged captains weather the winds to watch you and squire boys can retrieve you from tall towers. Maids predict which hidden paths you’ll take from the kitchens to ask if you’ll need a bath– intercepting you without issue or sweat. Are you that predictable? Unsubtle? Obvious and lacking, or does horrible Takoba deserve a little more credit? Her skittish prince can track you down to the darkest corner of his castle like it's only natural to hide from festivities instead of attending them.

“Please excuse my being started.”

“It’s your job,” he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. “Thank you– for your job.” He’s fidgeting, not murderous, and his voice no longer sounds like a monster. The prince scratches gently at a bauble on his chest as you peer through the dark, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry, Bakugou’s heartbroken voice parrots. Don’t cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You can’t change what you’ve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you don’t get to hide from him.

“Your Royal Highness, it would be my pleasure to escort you upstairs.” You square yourself to the blue bottle prince, “Humble Y/n, apprentice to the Captain of Her Alderan Majesty’s Royal Guard. My apologies. You had to come all this way just for a proper introduction.” And extend your hand to him, a polite smile on your lips. To death then. You’ve survived worse than a party.

Natsuo does not take your hand. He pops something off of his chest, drops the something in your hand and straightens his suit jacket, content with or oblivious to the fact that his sister inherited all his good social reason. You eye him first and then study the metal on your palm that glints in dim moonlight– candlelight– and tense as the room’s circle of sconces suddenly blink to life one by one.

Of the fifty candles in the training room ring, the first five from the entrance miraculously catch bright warm fire. Six, then the seventh, one by one around the edge of the room. Natsuo rushes to pat out your panic, “Magic candles.”

“Magic candles,” you repeat, which makes much more sense than a drowned magician. You exist at the edge of complete catastrophe, always prepared to fight that man who was too bored to kill you, but magic candles make sense. When have you ever seen a servant in this cold place spend their time lighting candles?

“And a medal,” Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. It’s silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you don’t know but what is clearly the moon sits in the center. A comet streaks across it and together they make the emblem of the House of Todoroki. “The medal of honor.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“It certainly is not,” you say, the air sort of floating from you instead of being pushed out by your voice. Eleven, twelve candles, a quarter of the room is lit. The badge warms in your fingers but you no longer look at it and extend your hand back to the prince in a gown that already makes you too ridiculous to breathe. He shakes his head and you push your open palm a little farther like a plea.

“I’ve seen you. I heard about…my father’s arrival in your training exercise and I, I didn’t, I don’t think my sister’s champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadn’t. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I just– my father wouldn’t allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.” He straightens his jacket again and continues to struggle with eye contact. Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven candles come alive in the cold arena and the ring of light reaches the pair of you at the far end. “It’s much less than you’re owed.”

Prince Natsuo bows to you deeply and turns so quickly that arena-sand clouds his feet. He does not accept your escort and he doesn’t turn around. He only strides across the room, thirty-three candles, and out the dark but open doors. It’s easy to imagine him judging his own performance just where you can’t see him; he exudes the nervous energy of someone who cringes when they turn your back to you. You’re smiling before you realize. Fourty.

It’s slightly warmer than you’ve felt all month, in clinging red skirts and candlelight. Aldera is always bustling so Takoba is loney in comparison, but maybe there is comfort where you have never looked before. Comfort in red gowns. Comfort in sweaters beside the sea, comfort in silver soldiers and a training room where you are not their commander. That thought is a shock and you clutch the comet in your hand at the edge of the room. Forty-five.

Aizawa’s training pit warms by candlelight under its glass ceiling. Oppressively tall and so much like drowning, the stars blink down at you from their thrones like dappled moonlight on waves. You fasten the comet pin to your bodice with eyes tilted to the sky. Your first night here the sky was the only one who knew you. You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation. There was comfort in that, under the threat of death. Comfort in your loss of rank here, in anonymity.

Rescued from a crowd, rescued from punishment, rescued from the sea, from cliffs, from sickness, from solitude. Saved by magic, saved by strength, by yourself and by your prince, over and over again in this wet kingdom.

There is comfort in teaching strangers to fear you and you blink through the memory of your cherrywood halberd soaring through a dinner party. The loss of its weight at your back makes you ache and your ears start to itch as the rest of the night replays itself. Forty-seven. Bakugou pressed close between your legs at the lip of a table. His thumbs smoothing your cheeks over like parchment and his cheeks flashing red at a realization– at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. You’re grateful for the privacy of the stars again so that no one can ask why you smile in an empty room.

Forty-eight. Dying for a person is so much worse than dying for a cause. You thought it might be the end when the blue flammed mage forced his hand around your mouth or when a garden screamed in ashes under his boot. When he– he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socket– everything, all of it came so much easier than the moment your prince stepped forward to face him. Easier than Bakugou collapsing in a burning clearing, easier than counting the decline of his heartbeat through the clothes on your back, easier, so much easier than retching up seawater together on the sand.

Prince Bakugou is agonizing. Forty-nine, he’s upstairs, gilded, waiting for you.

You shake your head like unnecessary thoughts might come loose with the movement. For one night your worry can be in not staring after your charge– not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the party– and not in hallucinations of murderous mages. A comet and a dragontooth remind you of the weight of a heart. The last candle around the glowing arena beats to life beside the first and it is time for a ball.

You would have smoothed your skirts over the daggers hidden among them. You would have checked your hair again in the mirror and tested the fit of your boots with a few secret skips. You’d have imagined the warmth of Bakugou’s hands and his magic, to ease the ache of watching pretty blue ladies waiting to dance with the barbarous and beautiful prince. You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

Fifty.

“Find cover!” you hiss at the squire who collapses to the floor rather than get knocked down the stairs in your charge, “Douse the rugs!”

You call over your shoulder and hurdle the staircase railing rather than waste time sprinting to the bottom. If all of your training boiled down to a single skill, if there was only one chance, one thing you could be trusted to do in the blink of an eye it was arming yourself.

A shortsword shines in your fist as you sprint, its wall hooks worse for your wear after being ripped from the armory on your warpath. The scabbard is fastened sloppily to your left hip. Cruel images of half-scorched bodies, croaking victims that need both your hands to carry them to safety, your prince– they necessitate the holster which whips your thigh as you tear through a quiet castle. Quiet, so quiet, too quiet for a ball, idiot, you should have known. Every single light in the castle blinks to life in the very last lilacs of sunset, and every single one of them quivers with blue fire.

Seed-sized wall carvings flow through their forms, animated by your speed. Stone does not creak when you step over it, hardly any servants linger in empty hallways and the thought that one squire boy will be the firefighting force for the whole castle is horror compounded by horror. “Captain Hawks!” You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.

He’s watching you, he didn’t abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servants’ paths onto the exact blue rugs you knew the stairs would lead to; your Alderan senses might be dulling but this castle is no longer a maze. Takoban cluelessness can take over all it wants. All it needs to do is get you to the ballroom in this stupid fucking dress. One by one, sconces yawn in innocent blues and burn so hot and so quickly that wax weeps to the floor.

A window in the line takes your pommel to its pane as you retch the sword’s hilt through the glass and shout, “Hawks!” louder, between flying shards, into the night, “Fire!”

Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you don’t know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you can’t waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

You soar down two flights of twisted stairs and lurch at a tight corner before colliding with a laundryman and his blue candlestick. “Run,” you seeth without stopping, vaulting over both the man and portrait strewn across the floor beside him, ripped at the center and trailing flecks of paint. The last turn is towards the right leg of the grand staircase, entryway and ballroom dead in your sights. Red wings don’t appear and so you hook your hips, and your gown with it, over the lip of the banister.

Hardly a breath escapes the closed ballroom doors. Why are there always too few guards here? What ball makes no noise? What kind of monster could kill a room of people without making a sound? There are clicks, you panic as the banister ends and dismount the slide into a sprint. There is the bone chilling image of the blue mage clicking over corpses with the heels of his tall black boots– the body of your prince lying charred and bloodless before he could even let loose a spark.

Your dancing boots make the loudest sound in the entire palace as you run your legs harder, to carry you farther, until finally your hands are flat on the ballroom doors and your biceps scream under orders. The elven silver budges only slightly. There should be footmen outside to let guests in and the anxiety of their absence gives you an unnatural strength, enough to force one gilded door open a crack and slip into the destruction with your weapon raised.

Find him, find him, find Bakugou first, soft sunny hair and pomegranate eyes, the boy who barks laughter, he who wields the magic of old gods, your heart, find your prince, get him home.

Silver foot bolts shriek over marble as you force your way inside. You are a cacophony always. You are blood splattered across the edge of the dancefloor when you burst into the party.

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.

Balls in Aldera breathe life to the city. Any comfort you felt for Takoba dies with your entrance. Waiters roll between guests with trays of cake and wine, and the winter floral decorations must have cost a fortune for petals to be sewed and draped and weeping from the walls because this certainly was meant to be a ball. Your fingers ache for the weight of your halberd for the first time since you lost it in the sea.

There is no mage when your heckles fall. No mage when your shoulders droop and your sword with it, not when you search the ballroom for your Alderan sun, not a single shock of white hair taunting from the windows. Every candle in every abra, every chandelier, sconce, cup, spike, or lamp, is a melancholy flickering blue above the sea of silent guests.

Your weapon falls slack. You exhale as the swordpoint chips the floor.

The queen sits on her throne beyond leagues of distracted dancers and servers and bards, with her hands folded and her husband beside her tense, hunched, and licked by fire where you startled him out of his seat. The great ballroom window blinks with its audience of stars. Just outside and over the cliffs, the maws of the sea applaud.

You jolt, as do the guests closest to you, at the sound of metal crush but it is only Uraraka in her uniform, catching the tray of a server who panicked at the sight of you. Shinsou’s hair isn’t hard to pick out from his post beside a waitstaff door and he thins his lips instead of speaking. No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, green– silver like sea foam. Their hair obeys them and folds into smooth shapes at the tops of their heads so that their noble throats can be struck sick by the air of a room above the sea. You are the only foul red thing here.

The flame of worry collapses in your chest along with your heart. Quietly, blue fire watches back without laying a finger on anyone.

Oh.

“Y/n?”

There you are.

The ring of dancers at the center of the room curl around in their timid waltz, revealing new faces from the back of the crowd. Kirishima in a fit white suit, too focused on not crushing his Takoban partner to even realize you’ve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumi’s and both perfectly placed in the seaside painting with their layered dresses of white. She makes to break away from the current, to rescue you, but her prince beats her to it.

The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.

He is cloaked in red. An abandoned partner jingles angrily as he drifts through the tides and calling your name is the easiest thing in the world, “Y/n.” He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him. 

The Sun approaches, he glides to you like picking up a stray is part of this dance. He takes up your swordhand in his, weapon clattering to the polished floor and with a magic-heavy hand at your waist the scabbard belt falls away. Hair pushed straight back and two red earrings dangling, Bakugou rolls his eyes, “It’s a dogshit party,” and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, “but I doubt a swordfight will fix it.”

You don’t understand and you don’t try to speak through volley after volley of embarrassment. 

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroidery– each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.

“Highness,” he steps to a rhythm in fours, heel toe, toe, toe heel forward into the fold of your dress to guide you back into the stream of dancers. “I didn’t– I–” Your feet barely make the proper shapes to keep up for your Alderan heart is a grease fire not a hearth. Bakugou holds his head high to the side with the posture of a king. His pupils occupy their lowest corners so he never need take his eyes off of you.

You, his war criminal.

“Sir,” you manage and wince when you dare a peek past his shoulders towards onlookers.

He is embers, “I have a surprise.” He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark. Bakugou Katsuki’s ears are scarlet even as he stares ahead, sweat pearls between your fingers and he sweeps you close, albeit awfully tight, through the steps of a Takoban dance. His face catches light from the candles above and the shadow of his pale lashes sweeps over both cheeks. 

A corded thigh slips between yours and back again to the tune of one sad string. The rhythm doubles for four steps and calms again. You could dance the continent around for all the etiquette training you’ve endured but something about the lack of ghosts here, something about your heart beating out of time with the song, about red eyes and a clenched jaw, the hand fingering notches on the small of your back like it might a cello– you are suddenly on the catwalks again with your lips smiling into his, you are holding back tears, you are clicking teeth and stumbled steps and hands cupping cheeks, and your heart bleeds all over the dancefloor. Your voice cracks, “I’m so sorry,” and it is the loudest thing in the room.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.” Bakugou raises his right shoulder in invitation for your hand to rest there but your fingers lift from his arm as he turns you both, and settle on that small new wound at his cheek. You breathe deeply as your chests slot together, no fight in sight. Your relief almost comes in tears.

Party guests do not stop staring, especially now that the foreign royal has spirited his beast to the dancefloor. At a distance, familiar faces train gazes your way. Little doctor Shuzenji and Aizawa beside her nursing a pink champagne flute, both ribboned in their bests. Uraraka offers you a tight lip at the edge of the dancefloor. Fuyumi boxsteps in line nearby, the lonely violin picks up pace, hand in hand with her youngest brother and attempts to lean in to whisper to you before Bakugou cages them both out with his shoulders.

He clears his throat, “Captain,” the second-loudest thing in the room, “will you dance with me?”

It’s not your best, admittedly, but the thought your four-step is poor enough your partner needs to clarify does lighten the mood, and you nod. Half your focus is sacrificed to keeping calm in such a full room and the other half is completely at his mercy.

“Peruro?” Bakugou raises those flaxen eyebrows, his lips led by yours. The dance peruro. Destructive and certain to give the Takoban King an aneurysm. Something like comfort slips in. Your eyes widen suddenly and your prince with you. What does he see? you wonder. You nod again.

The waltz will reach its climax soon and Bakugou leads you through a perfect Takoban rhythm until the second he dips forward to whisper, through your hair and over the silence of this cursed party, “Mind your ears, dragonne.”

You shudder immediately at the name, hand in hand, chest to his. Something in your perfect center bursts in white flame and you throw your eyes down to your skirts.

“Dance!” Bakugou’s voice cracks like a whip of thunder above the soggy party and he lifts his chin over your head. The vibration of every syllable rumbles from his ribs to yours and his growl is smoke on water, “or die.”

The next second a horn howls one crescendoed note and every hair not squeezed into your silk dress, prickles. You jerk your gaze back up to Bakugou, unsure what expression you might be making, “How?”

But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. “Bribed em,” he leans close and as one confused violin trails off, another trumpet joins the fray. Dancers look around distractedly and onlookers whisper, louder, slightly louder, to be heard over the addition of percussion to the building swell of tuning instruments. A pair of cymbals crash like earthquake, a waitress topples over.

Shinsou shakes his head in the corner of the room and rubs his face, fondly entertained. The king is out of his seat again. Suddenly a fifteen piece band is making the sound of home. The band vibrates under an arc of camellias and the small woman seated at the front pulls a flute from her suit jacket. The herding call of her shepherd’s pipe gathers the cacophony and just as quickly as the group disrupted the peace, they hush behind seventeen beautiful whispers of the pipe, clear and bright as stars. It is the quiet start of Mitsuki’s favorite drinking song. Fear of crowds melts from you like bedtime stories.

faire of the fields

the girl who plays for me

dance and i will watch you

dance and i will join,

you who

teaches beasts to love

send us all to war

She draws the final note long and low, violins become fiddles, trumpets repeat the tune, a drummer growls, two pipes build, and the flute cheers back atop a flirty melody of three before the brilliant song erupts. Bakugou clasps your hand tight and throws you from his grip so that you might twirl and glow under his arm but the rules of peruro dictate a little more focus than that.

The closest dancers to you shriek when Mina barrels through them and pulls you out of his hold. She squeals with two gloved hands on your waist, “Miss firelight!” Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesn’t stop until you’ve tripped a man at the edge of the dancefloor and very nearly toppled over yourselves.

Over the curve of her shoulder you snort, shocked by your own glee, as Takobans try to adjust their waltz to the Alderan rhythm and inevitably four-step themselves into a fervor. Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm. Shinsou is no longer brooding at his post. He is hand in hand with Kanminari, flecked all over with petitfour cream, who has led him into the fray.

“Lady Mina!” you bellow and take up her hand in yours. You fasten your waists together and both of you fly into the tide. When was the last time you put the blue mage’s voice away? How long has it been since you last danced Peruro? Singing while stepping, laughing, diving for bystanders and squealing when drunk guests toppled over themselves to be the one to lift you into the air. You steal your partners in peruro, and fight to keep them. It keeps the room from feeling small, from crushing you. When you are thrown whoever catches you gets the next dance and the songs never end.

Euphoria threatens to spill over the fire Katsuki started in your heart. Flame mages are far from your mind under blue candlelight.

The queen does not move, but she might be smiling. Fuyumi yelps when her champion scoops her up from behind and places her on her shoulder. Even the youngest Todoroki and his freckled champion tut about together to the rhythm. You hope no one tries to steal the blue prince; he might not survive it; and make eye contact with Natsuo while you completely butcher Mina’s three step dips. He stands at the base of his parents’ thrones, unmoving, but pink with excitement.

Takobans, even servants, lingering at the edge of the crowd cannot outswim the rip current. They belong to a quietly stubborn nation who will attempt their delicate hop skips even to the bleat of an Alderan horn. Only cowards leave a dancefloor and it is the first respectable tradition you’ve seen here.

In a flash of red across the room, your prince takes up two stiff women in each arm and you almost spit in laughter as they go purple under the instruction of the barbarian prince. The polished floor vibrates. It’s too loud to think, a mix of happiness and screams of indignation as pretty lords and ladies are pulled into the fray by those countrymen only slightly drunker than they.

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain. The flutist roars her approval and her fiddlers breathe life into the happy song behind her. Trumpets pluck, bleat, and howl complex harmonies that prove you’re Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.

Sero’s long arms wrap behind you and you’re off your feet before you can speak. “Return of the Red Captain!” His grip on your sides is more ticklish than hell and you giggle and squirm as you fall into a dip. His palms hit something hard, the dagger concealed in your gown, “Are you armed?” He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.

“Me? Never.” You peek over your shoulder, both laughing, and he peels you from him so tight you spin away three times fully and far enough away from him that Kirishima poaches you without difficulty.

His Alderan fire rolls off the warm parts of him in waves of pine smoke and happiness. How many yards of fabric it must have taken for Takoba to stitch his suit– the cost– you can’t imagine. He hoists you onto his shoulder before you can think a moment longer.

Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. “Are you armed?!” He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair. Princess Fuyumi covers her mouth to hide laughter and you beam at each other from your shoulder seats, over the sea of Takoban heads. The champion shrugs you into his arms and back onto your feet. The new heels of your dancing boots click like bells every step you take.

Eijirou is a wonderful dancer, and difficult to burgle. He throws his hands above his head and the pair of you clap, kick one leg out and turn, eyes always locked and teeth shining. With your next kick, your hip checks a short man attempting to dance Takoban and knocks him into another pair. Eijirou’s next clap, behind his back, startles a woman so badly she covers her ears and the whole room reeks of home. Drown in it Takoba, dance or die.

Your friends are safe. There’s nothing to fear from shitty parties and you spare a thought for the servants you must have traumatized on your rampage down here. Wers and mers, the window you broke– Kirishima’s hands are at your waist because you are distracted, you are searching, and before you can brace yourself he has thrown you clear into the air.

No matter how much you hate it here, the ballroom is beautiful and Natsuo might be a wonderful king. His decorations shine in the queen’s candlelight. Early winter flowers are strung by the thousands to garnish balustrades and window frames, they erupt from iridescent vases and hang in an arch over the howling band. Bundles of pearls dot every corner and swallow the moonlight. Silver shells and whistles, inlaid cuffs, white wigs, Takoba is most beautiful by moonlight. There’s no sun here. Did you ever think you’d hate him? That you’d miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because they’re sour and he blows on dandelions when no one’s watching and he works construction with his men when the city needs repair and he hates how dry paper feels on his fingers. The daggers at your hip cool in your descent.

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares. He is terrible at piano and walks with his head down after rain to keep from stepping on worms. He mends his own clothes because his father taught him how to sew. “You,” he attempts to speak, “Captain, you,” but the high of the dance dissolves from him even as the music swells because you stare and bring your fingers to the wound on his cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathe. He does not find his words in the space between your faces. Your prince goes pink. Enough of the room is dancing now that you need to read lips to truly hear anything but he understands your every thought without effort as he lets you down. There’s a hand on your back to keep you close. I’m afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.

The prince rolls figure-eights against your forehead with his own. Two much less focused dancers jostle your duet and Bakugou sweeps a foot forward to trip the leader before lifting you over the pile of men and returning to the dance. You glow red in his arms above him, halo of the moon.

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks. Your prince beams below you, king of the sun. It's a pretty party. It is perfectly loud. A polearm is readied on a scarred arm in the dark and no one minds blue fire.

The flutist picks up speed, spurred on by the tambourine, and each note from each instrument cuts itself off to make time for the next. Every place you touch one another aches. If it would just stay like this forever, dancing, knowing without speaking, you could kill any enemy. The sky would learn to kneel, if only you could keep the adoration of winespilt eyes.

A series of gasps, a yelp, and Kirishima’s sweet laughter punctuate the thought. Bakugou was meant to wear fine clothes like these. Sparks like fairy lights twinkle where sweat beads on his jaw and you would have given nine lives to kiss him one more time. He will be a good king too. There is a scream.

Your hand on his shoulder bunches the fabric of his cape, and you lurch forward to lock your other hand around his back. Your foot is dead behind his before he can blink and with a surge of momentum from the dance, the last swell of fiddle, a prayer for old gods, luck from the sea and something like love, you knock the prince over your shoulder and onto the ground into the thickest thrall of dancers.

He laughs the whole way down and holds you where he can to keep from knocking your heads together. The sound is molten gold. You would sin to hear it always.

He is still laughing, howling, bursting with joy when he hits the ground and you with him in your perfect dance peruro. He doesn’t notice the whine of dropped instruments or revulsion of the crowd because he cannot look away from you. On his back, on the floor, beneath you, Prince Bakugou lifts his arm to cup your face and freezes in the new and sudden silence.

The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.

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[second-wife-playbook]

@helluvaoutlaw

It had been two months since they had moved to Featherscale.

That had been the charming name carved on the gate, made by Striker himself. Her belly had been a small lump under her dress when she rode here, newlywed and with tears of joy in her eyes.

Two months had done a lot, and she had grown.

What had been a firm bump was now swelled double in size. She was aware the eggs would grow a little larger for another month and then stabilize in the sixth month, but she was experiencing her first time in dealing with pregnancy at its fullest.

And Coronis had been busy. There had been several buildings surrounding the farmhouse, for housing horses, as well as a butchery and smokehouse for keeping them fed. Then there had been another large storehouse that Coronis had set up her distillery in. She was very cautious with working in it thus far; aside from not being able to drink alcohol just yet, there was a lot of heavy lifting she simply couldn't do. But she was working, bit by bit. By next year, she would have it completely functional.

This morning however, was not for working the distillery.

Cori had developed a new routine. To wake up, kiss Striker on the cheek, and then do what morning chore she'd picked. She was improving on the cooking, and was diligent about reading recipes through and following the instructions to prevent burning or from things going bad. But when she wasn't doing breakfast, she was setting up the nursery.

There was already a large crib, close to the ground and suitable for the incoming twins. Coronis was simply setting up the linens, hanging curtains to shield them from twilight when they needed less light for sleeping in, fitting the baby mattress with the sheets. There was a rocking chair in the corner, and the progress of a pair of knitted blankets on either side.

And humming softly to herself, she worked on them, needles clacking as she knitted away.

[call-sign-shark]

Day 2: Cut Your Wings || Alfie Solomons x Reader

Requested by a lovely Anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- cut, dubcon, blood, inflected pain, masturbation?, enemies with sexual tension, canonical violence, dirty talk, sexual torture, kidnapping

Words: 2K

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. Also this one ain't as smutty as I thought because I got carried away by the narrative?? Shark please, that ain't the goal of Kinktober??

A grunt escaped from your lips as you desperately tried to free yourself from the heavy shackles imprisoning your wrists. You moved them back and forth, then left and right, turning your hands in every position possible, and yet nothing worked. The handcuffs were too tight for you to slip from them. Another painful moan echoed in the damp and dark room of the distillery in which the jew's henchmen had locked you a few hours ago. The cold metal bit your flesh again. "Fuck". When loud footsteps resounded behind the heavy wooden door of your prison, you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat and prayed to God for a quick and painless death because you knew that Alfie Solomons wasn't a forgiving man. Quite the contrary, his quick temper, and frightening antics only fueled his reputation as one of the most dangerous criminals in London.

"So that's the fucking little rat my men told me about." He stated, standing in the middle of the open door, both of his hands resting on the handle of his cane and a black hat hiding one of his hazel gray eyes.

"Fuck you, fucking cunt! When Tommy will know about this y'all going to regret it!" Words passed your thoughts, spitting their venom at him and yet the man remained silent. You even wondered if he had paid attention to what you just said or if the voices in his head were louder than yours. His gaze, intense and unfathomable, was observing you attentively as if he was trying to decipher the secrets of the most unique precious stone he had even held in his palm. After what seemed to be an eternity, Alfie Solomons pursued his lips, stroked his scruffy beard, and nodded, coming to an agreement with himself.

"See, my mates here told me that Tommy Shelby had sent a few men to London, but here's the problem – He said 'men'. And not 'little girl', which is definitely what you are. A bloody and nosey little girl. Hmhm." He agreed with his own statement before walking to the dusty furniture that was leaning against one of the brick walls. Then, he took off his hat and his long dark coat, and put the cane aside before walking towards you. He stopped in front of you, tattooed arms crossed on his muscular chest. The unusual amount of greenish ink deeply engraved in his skin caught your attention for a short while, you curiously observing the pattern it formed. Of course, both Tommy and Arthur had tattoos, but not as many as the mad baker.

"Would you look at ya. Haven't you something else to do instead of following a Birmingham scumbag's orders? Like finding yourself a man or something like this, y'know. 'Cause I don't see why such a young lass like ya puts her own life into danger for Tommy fucking Shelby." As he talked, Alfie had closed the distance between you and him. He was now leaning above you, so close that his scorching breath was fanning over your skin and the hairs of his beard were almost tickling your face. "So can you tell me why? The only reason I see is that Tommy Shelby sticks his cock in you and it has magically bred some loyalty." The right corner of his full lips curled into a mocking grin when he noticed how his words had lit a fire of rage in your eyes. Bang on, he thought, "No. It's more complex than that, innit? He doesn't want you and yet you remained devoted to him in the hope that one day, maybe, he'd look at you differently. He'd look at you like a woman to fuck senseless and not a pawn of his game."

"Kill me, Solomons. Kill me now or I'll fucking cut you once I'll be out of this shit-stinking place." You hissed, baring your teeth like a cornered animal, the truth hurting you more than a gunwound. For a split second, Alfie swore you would have dug your fangs into his throat, sinking them deep until you tasted blood if you hadn't been restrained by chains and handcuffs.

"Cut me?" The baker repeated these two words, pretending to be surprised while the tone in his voice betrayed how amused he was, "And what kind of tool would you use to cut me? This?" As he said so, Alfie pulled your grey beret out of the large pocket of his trousers, holding it to have a good grip at the base of the razor blades that were sewn to the fabric. "You Peaky girl like to cut people with this right? So come on, threaten me again little bird, I dare you." He said with both of his eyebrows raised in a taunting expression.

"D'ya think you're scaring me? I'm not scared, I'm a Peaky Blinder and I'm going to make things clear again: you better kill me now because if you miss this chance, I'll fucking cut your face the next time we meet–" You didn't finish your sentence, your words replaced by a scream of pain when Alfie, without a single warning, slashed your arm with your peaky cap. Blood soon filled the gash and overflowed from it, soaking the white fabric of your shirt in a crimson stain.

"Go ahead, dove. Say it again." This time you remained silent, staring at him in horror. He had cut deep, deep enough for you to feel the sickening pulse of your own heart in the wound. Your refusal to obey led Alfie to burst into an unexpected rage. His face reddened, and his brows furrowed, casting their shadow eyes. With one strong and brutal movement, Alfie's free hand grabbed your face, his calloused fingers sinking into your cheeks until your jaw hurt. "SAY IT AGAIN AND I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING WINGS!" He barked, a bit of spit spilled in his beard and bloodshot eyes staring at your very soul. "See, you don't stand a chance here my sweet dove. You're just a little girl playing gangsters". In an unsettling mood swing, his temper had gone quiet again.

"I'm not gonna kill you peaky girl, that would be too easy. I see your eyes, and what I see in them is that you ain't afraid of death and I reckon this is a trait I particularly fancy in someone. So what should I do with you? We might..." He made a short pause when he noticed a tiny detail he hadn't spotted before. Alfie's hazel grey eyes abandoned yours and dropped to your bosom where he could see the round shape of your hardened nipples pointing through the fabric of your shirt. Licking his lips, Alfie's iris darkened with mischief and something you never expected to witness in the eyes of an enemy – lust. An unpleasant shiver ran down your spine as the baker's smirk suddenly turned into a wicked and threatening smile, "I know, dove. I know what I'm going to do with you. Everything's clear in my mind". A sparkle of pure madness enlightened his face, just like an artist struck by inspiration. With his words followed his hand, that came meeting your trembling body. His strong palm roamed all over you, the friction it created snatching a whimper from your tight throat while you understood his obscene plans.

"No, no! Please! Alfie--" You wanted to scream but you couldn't, petrified from the moment his fingers trailed down your belly and ended their exploration between your legs. The noisy juggling of the chains you produced by struggling sounded like a melody in Alfie's ears, who hummed in satisfaction at your cunt's warmth he could feel through the fabric of your trousers. His fingers pressed a bit more against your core, shooting a wave of forbidden arousal through your entire body and making your legs shake.

"You're in heat, lil' dove." He noted with an amused tone before closing the distance between your ear and his lips. You squeezed your eyes shut at the overwhelming scratching sensation of his gruff beard against your skin and the blazing blast of his breath. The room spun as you found yourself intoxicated by the fragrance of his cologne. Musky, and with a dab of cedarwood. His scent was as raw and wild as him. "I'm pretty sure you're all wet, aren't you?" He cooed in your ear. His rough fingers, applying pressure at the exact spot where your throbbing clit was, started to rub it in slow and circular motions. As much as you hated the thought of it, his skillful caresses lit a fire of desire within you, so much that you felt your own wetness soaking your panties, "How long since a man stretched that lonely pussy?"

"Don't touch me!" You growled, but as convincing as you had tried to sound convincing you still failed judging by how Alfie's brow arched. He let out a dark chuckle. Doing the exact opposite, his fingers kept fondling your sensitive bud but this time his wet and warm tongue licked your neck just like a predator would do to get a first taste of his freshly caught prey.

"Oh I'm not gonna touch you dove." The muffled sound of your cap falling on the concrete ground made you open your eyes again. You had barely lifted your eyelids when your gaze met Alfie's other hand, who was kneading his massive bulge. As afraid as you were, you could not help but let out a soft yet needy moan "I'm not gonna touch you. What I'm going to do cannot be described, no no it can't because I don't want God to hear it. What I can tell you though is that you'll never come back to Birmingham once you'll know the feeling of my cock buried deep inside you." His words' immediate effects upon you had your teased pussy clenching onto nothing and reminding you how desperately empty you were. An emptiness Tommy would never fill, "Are you thinking about him now?"

You weren't.

Alfie didn't need you to answer, for the way you brought your hips closer to his fingers and grind against them was enough. The mad baker's mouth sucked on the sensitive flesh of your neck, pinching it between his lips to leave a bright red mark on you, claiming his newly acquired property. All these sensations soon became unbearable: the friction of your shirt against your erected tits, the cold bite of the handcuffs on your wrists, and the increasingly faster rubbing of your clit destroyed what remained of your will of fighting. Never in your life you had been touched for you had always kept your virginity unspoiled for Thomas. A stupid and fruitless devotion.

You gave in to the pleasure and surprised yourself by thinking about how big Alfie's dick looked, unable to look anywhere else.

"Don't s-stop." You muttered under your breath, your climax building as Alfie kept assaulting your sweet bundle of nerves: he was nothing but gentle with it, almost hurting you with how rough he rubbed you. With your mouth parted and your breath quickening, you felt the delightful warmth of an orgasm coming but, all of sudden, Alfie stopped.

"Enough for today. We'll see if you deserve more tomorrow." He said.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

tags: @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @mollybegger-blog @hwangrimi @munson24 @tommyshelbywhore @devotedlyshadowytheorist @stevie75 @brummiereader @triplethreat77 @sebastianstangirl01 1 @izzy10369 @kimvolturicullen @peakyltd

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 1.3 | Bradley Bradshaw x reader

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

the pain of not knowing is weighing heavily on you as you arrive to your next destination. The people around you prove themselves.

warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, the italics at the very beginning indicate a scene involving brief attempt at sexual assault. The chapter deals heavily with themes of SA, and its aftermath. Pls take your own triggers into account while reading and feel free to message me for further info 🫶

…

“C‘mon, man, not so much as a test drive?”

Malcolm’s not in his right mind. Finals week pushed him to the brink and beyond. He’s been killing himself proving to his father that he’s worth being taken on at the firm. College is coming to an end and it’s almost time to be a man — as it grows closer, there seem to be more and more voices in his ear telling him what that entails.

Sex. Money. Power. Everything in the world is about sex, but sex is about power. Or whatever Oscar Wilde had said — he had only enrolled in that class for the credits and the added study time with you.

“Don’t talk about her like that.” He brushes the comment off with a wrinkle of his nose, bringing the bottle of whiskey to his mouth, tipping his head and pouring it back.

You’re not a possession — he’s in good enough mind to know that much. His buddy’s test drive metaphor leaves more than a sour taste in his mouth. It also leaves a sickness in his stomach and a venom twisting through his nerves.

The mention of this is already grinding at him, his blood growing hot and his feet growing restless, tapping against the aged wood below them.

“Because she’s such an angel that she won’t even let you lay a finger on her? — Yeah, she sounds like a real prize, Ashworth.” Another guy snorts. Malcolm’s head whips around to face him, his eyes narrowed.

“Has she even let you get to second base or are her tits off limits too?”

“Damn shame that she’s got that pretty mouth and you don’t have a clue what to do with it.”

“She scared that it’s going to hurt or something? — You packing a big one, Mac?”

He pushes himself swiftly up from that stiff leather armchair despite its creaks of complaint. Damn thing is older than he is. The dark liquid swishes in the bottle as he staggers away from his so-called friends. He’s heard enough.

He knows where to find you, pushing through the sea of already drunk co-eds and wrapping an arm securely around your waist, slotting himself into your gossip session with a friend.

You’re so excited to see him, greeting him with a polite kiss to the cheek and leaning into his touch. You’re always so kind to him. He has to lean in close to whisper in your ear, his voice sullen and serious, “Could I talk to you for a minute? — In private.”

It isn’t until he closes the door to one of the guys’ rooms, that he notices exactly how drunk you are. You gasp and wobble and drop down onto the bed, bursting out laughing.

He doesn’t laugh with you. Instead, he brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips and takes a long drink. Lurking in the doorway, watching you.

As the bottle drops back to his side, Malcolm just remembers watching you. He doesn’t remember walking any closer until he’s sat beside you and holding your face in his hands.

“God, Mac — how much have,” You have to pause to hiccup, covering your mouth with your hand, unaware that you’re slurring your words too. “How much have you had to drink? — You reek!”

“Just a bit.” He mumbles, the bottle heavy in his hand as he leans forwards and kisses you. You comply happily at first. Well, you seem happy enough to him, even if he does smell kind of like a distillery.

Maybe the two of you talk more, maybe you don’t. The only thing Malcolm knows is that he has securely rounded the corner into second base before you start to fuss at him. You’ve let him get this far before, what’s the big deal now?

The dress you’re wearing is a flimsy blue satin thing, not particularly festive for the holiday party, patterned with expensive looking shimmering detailing. One of them has slipped off of your shoulder to make room for his hand to slip under the velvet fabric and cup at your breast.

“Stop it — what if someone comes in?” But you’re still kind of giggling with him, grabbing at his shoulders. If you wanted him off of you, you’d say so. You have before.

You’re not that kind of girl. Malcolm scoffs to himself at the idea. Your neck is soft against his lips and your perfume drives him crazy.

“It’s just sex, it’s not a big deal.” He mutters into the crook of your jaw, and the mood flips. He feels you pushing weakly at him, all it does is bunch his sport coat and make it fall back off of his shoulders.

“Sex? — Here?” You’re not making much sense, losing your composure and your ability to form a real sentence at once. Not so classy now.

As Malcolm sits back to shrug his jacket off and looks down at you, your chest halfway exposed and your eyes struggling to track him, he feels a pang of guilt strike him. Slowing himself, his heartbeat is in his ears as he fixes your dress to cover you once more and leans down to kiss at your lips.

“I’ll marry you,” He whispers against your mouth, pleading. “I have a ring. I was going to ask you anyway. Your father loves me, you know he does. You believe me, right, honey?”

You had said yes once before. You were going to let him. After prom night, your senior year; you were going to the same college and your families liked each other. He’d gotten too drunk and screwed it. Couldn’t even get it hard. It seemed to freak you out, after that you’ve barely let him close. Now, you’re seniors again. He just needs you to say yes once more.

“Not here.” Your face wrinkles and turns away from him, maybe it’s just the smell of whiskey but the rejection damn near makes him see white. He remembers how uncoordinated your efforts to shove at his hands were.

The next thing he remembers is Catherine stumbling in looking for you, and you trying to bolt. He had caught you the first time.

You were screaming at him, shoving him, calling him a pig. He was arguing right back at you. He’s always known exactly what to say to make your argument feel paper-thin.

The second time you had run, he had let you go, picking up his half-finished whiskey and pouring it into his mouth. He knew you wouldn’t say a word to your parents, you would be too ashamed.

The last thing that you remember from that night is being downstairs, laughing with your friends, with his arm around your waist.

The drive down to the farmhouse is a little over an hour from Florence, one of the shorter journeys of your trip. No need for stops or bathroom breaks. You had settled into your seat, covered your ears, and turned the volume on the Walkman as loud as it would go.

When you were packing tapes for the trip, you hadn’t once considered to bring Christmas music. Now, you’re wracking your brain trying to remember the song that had been playing. Remember any part of that night at all.

Once she had realized what she had said, Catherine had grown defensive and apologetic. She wouldn’t tell you much. Like she was covering something.

You’ve been staring unseeingly at the Tuscan countryside as it passes you by, Kate Bush as your soundtrack. I should be crying but I just can't let it show.

He wouldn’t hurt you. This is the same man who took you out to his mother’s rose garden and gave you the most stunning Tiffany necklace you’ve ever seen as a gift. The man who hugs you so close against him, and sits through your chick-flicks with you.

Your parents adore him, and it’s their job to protect you. Your father is a wonderful judge of character, and Malcolm won his seal of approval years ago.

All these miles of land whizzing by, outside of this ugly little minivan, are starting to make you sick. You close your eyes and listen to Kate.

Oh, darling, make it go

Make it go away

Your eyes burn under your eyelids, prickling with tears. Even worse, it makes your face burn with furious heat to think of any one of these people seeing you cry. Your stomach is trembling with unease, a static feeling in your fingers and toes is the only thing reminding you that you can feel them at all.

Breathing in shakily, you squeeze your eyes more tightly closed, gritting your teeth to will the tears away.

You just need to remember. You can’t go accusing him of something awful. He’s always been so good to you. He’s your future. You just need to get your bearings, and figure it out. Maybe you had led him on. Given him the wrong idea.

It’s such a short drive, and for once, there doesn’t seem to be any drama that requires his attention. Bradley has let himself get so behind on his work that he spends the duration of the drive with his papers sprawled out across the bench, making annotations and edits.

“Whoa, look at this place!” Zoe gasps, leaning over the seats to get a look at the sprawling driveway, lined with green trees and shrubs, marking the way toward the farmhouse. It’s an incredible building, sprawling and stone, dotted with climbing plants along the walls and planted flowers in the window boxes.

Bradley closes his notebook and looks up finally, then looks across at Pasquale with a small smile.

“Did I ever tell you guys that this is where Pasquale and I met?” Bradley announces to the group, turning around in his seat to face them.

“All the way out here?”

“Yeah. We worked here together one fall.”

Bradley had heard of Alessandro’s work early into his studies. It was Natasha who got him the job here. He arrived in September and left in December, this place gets cold as the months go on. Now, it’s warm and everything is in bloom. It smells sweet and citrusy. Sandro had always sworn that the apricots grown here were the best in the country.

“Then, when Mr. Bradshaw had been accepted for his summer work here with the university, I was the first person he called to be your tour guide.” Pasquale adds with a grin as he pulls up in front of the old house. Bradley hums. Pasquale has always been a good friend to him.

As soon as the engine stops, the heavy wooden front door is thrown open and a tall man with long, dark curls comes jogging out, grinning.

“Bradley Bradshaw!” His accent is thick, but mixed. Not entirely Italian. His cheeks dimple as his grin stretches across his olive toned skin, watching Bradley tear out of the minivan and head for him.

“Sandro,” Bradley grins, grabbing hold of the slightly shorter man by his shoulders and dragging him in for a hug before leaning in close and shaking the man a bit as he chuckles out something in Italian that makes them both laugh. You miss it, barely pulling your headphones off of your ears as you step out of the van.

“I don’t know what that means but I know it was a swear word.” Abigail announces, making Bradley laugh as he turns to her again. She’s not wrong, he had happily just called Alessandro something not too dissimilar to a son of a bitch. Endearingly.

He hooks an arm around Alessandro’s shoulders and turns him coolly towards the group. “Guys, this is Alessandro Gabris. Not quite the man of the house but a hell of a storyteller.”

Alessandro turns his head and whispers something back that can only be as filthy as whatever Bradley had said to him, because it makes them both double over laughing. Their inside joke makes Pasquale laugh along with them. That autumn had been such good fun, the three of them.

Alessandro glances behind him as an older man walks out of the building, wheeling an elderly woman in a wheelchair. He smiles as he gestures to her.

“And this is my mother, Teodora Gabris.”

“Oh, I remember,” Bradley’s lips stretch into a warm grin as he breaks the haphazard formation of the group, unwraps himself from Sandro and steps towards her, crouching in front of her wheelchair, slipping his sunglasses off. The woman’s face changes, brightening with recognition. “Don’t break my heart, Dorie, you remember me too, huh?”

The crinkles beside her eyes deepen as she lifts her hand and rests it against his cheek, tilting her head to examine his face.

“The artist.” She remembers, making Bradley laugh fondly. He’s familiar with her in a way that makes both of their grins broaden as he leans in. He’s far from an artist, and she knows it. But, he has a way with words and a way with women, and that had amused her all of those years ago.

In her youth, Teodora traveled from the Kefalonian countryside to the centre of Paris, where she had trained with oil paints. She’s the real artist.

“How have you been?” He asks.

She just looks around her, gesturing to her little slice of Tuscany, blooming into the July heat, and back to him finally. Bradley nods his head, unable to shake that smile from his face. She has her little slice of heaven already, how could she not be happy?

“You haven’t aged a day.” He tells her, his large hand resting softly against her now frail wrist.

You stare between the two of them. The affection they have for each other, and the joy on her face as she remembers the boy he was. His hand sitting so gently on her skin.

“You have.” She teases, pinching his sunwarmed red cheeks. He laughs, sharing her gaze for a beat before he stands upright once again.

Of the six places that you have visited so far on this trip, Bradley has been greeted warmly by someone who once knew him in every single one of them. Even Natasha, who hates him for his betrayal, finds it in herself to revel in the safety of still being near him.

You don’t remember your interaction with him that night either. He could have done anything. He could have left you there. You can only imagine the look your mother would have given him when he took you home. You weren’t ever even particularly nice to him, you’d talked through his class all through first semester. He took you home and made sure you were safe anyway.

“Hey, are you okay?” Suddenly there’s a hand on your wrist and it feels like scalding water. You pull swiftly away from it and whip your head around to find Abigail leaning towards you, her features creased with concern.

Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Fuck, they’re wet. Quickly, you bring both hands to your face and start wiping hurriedly at your tears. You can’t bring yourself to do anything but blink dumbly at her, your shoes dragging across the dirt below you as you stumble a step back.

As he hears the question, Bradley turns and shoots a glance over his shoulder. His face falls, turning completely to do a double take as he notices your teary face.

“Hey, hey — what’s the matter?” Bradley’s size thirteen converse tennis blancs trample across the dirt and stones, long strides and heavy footfalls. Your stomach churns at the thought of those heavy hands on your skin, of his frame up close and looming over you, of getting stuck between him and the minivan behind you.

He slows as your foot slips back and fumbles for purchase in the dirt, muddying your white sneakers.

Everyone behind him is looking at you now. You’re painfully aware of the twisted up look on your face but it’s the only thing keeping you from sobbing.

Humiliation stings. All of them looking at you like you’re ridiculous. Not being able to remember. Simultaneously wanting to throw yourself into Bradley’s chest and beg him not to touch you.

Bradley lowers his voice just slightly, also well-aware of all of the eyes on you suddenly. “Look at me. What’s the matter?”

Your lip trembles, trying not to look at anyone around you. Your eyes steady on his, your throat thick and your heartbeat thundering.

“Can I talk to you about something?” You croak out.

There’s a study downstairs, just off of the living room. Bradley clicks the door shut behind him, his brows drawing together as your pace away from him.

“Honey…” He says softly, like he’s trying to soothe a cornered animal. You round on him like one, eyes wide. He’s never seen you so spooked. “Talk to me. What happened? — I can’t fix it if—“

“You can’t fix it.” Your voice cracks and gravity grows stronger, forcing you to the ground. Crumpling like a piece of paper, you curl your knees up to your chest, a sob wracking your body.

“Okay, alright,” Bradley breathes out, clicking the lock on the door and following you to the ground. You flinch as his heavy hand comes to rest against the back of your neck, stroking softly over the top of your styled hair. “Let me hear it, it’s no good keeping it to yourself.”

“Please don’t touch me,” You whisper into your knees, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. Your skin crawls, trying to picture Malcolm on top of you, wondering how you couldn’t remember. “Could you… could you just please not.” You decide finally, wiping hurriedly at the damp spots under your eyes.

He doesn’t follow. It was just last night that you were so comfortable in his arms, staring up at him with that electric, trusting look on your face. But he gently takes his hand off of you anyway.

“Is this about that phone call?” Bradley asks gently, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. His instinct is to hold you.

Light pours in from the tall, wide window to your side. It’s far too warm, and too sunny in here for you to be feeling this awful. It feels like the ground is going to swallow you whole, if the weight in your chest doesn’t take you out first.

“Talk to me, honey. Tell me what happened.” Bradley encourages, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head to try to meet your gaze.

“I think Malcolm — that night that you found me in December, I think— I think that he—“

Bradley’s eyes go round, the concerned frown on his face falling all of a sudden. He stares at you as you sob into your hands. He remembers that night so clearly. From waking up face down in a textbook chapter about Pre-raphaelite attitudes towards monogamy, to squinting to figure out what that figure in the snow was. Seeing you there, barely conscious. Practically deadweight in his arms as he had lifted you.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

You lift your head to look at him, the colour drained from your skin, eyes pleading.

“Did he tell you this?” Bradley asks you softly.

“No. Catherine said — she said something about finding— fuck, she said something about finding him… on top of me.” Your throat is hoarse and your words are barely coming out as you try to hold back floods of tears. If you let yourself keep crying, it feels like you might not ever stop.

Bradley lifts his hand and pinches at the bridge of his nose. He inhales for six, exhales for seven. Then, he reaches out slowly and rests the tips of his fingers against the outside of your ankle.

“I don’t remember.” You choke out. He looks across at you, thinking of how proudly you had been showing off your engagement ring. No clue what an animal your fiancé was. Your lip trembles. “I don’t remember it.”

His gaze flickers immediately to your hands covering your face as the midday sun catches the rock on your ring finger, glistening in the light. You never would have said yes if you had known.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry,” He whispers, curling his fingers softly around your ankle. It takes everything not to wrap himself around you and shield you from everything outside of these four walls. This dusty old office, sunlight shining across ever single chip and dent in these old floor boards, just you and him.

“If I wasn’t such a mess, then—“

“Hey,” His fingers squeeze softly at your ankle, prompting you to look up at him, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. He gives a soft shake of your head. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A few seconds pass between the two of you. His fingers don’t dare inch from the safety of your ankle, if that’s as much of you as he is allowed to touch, then that’s what he’ll take.

He can’t imagine the fear in not knowing.

You swallow softly and push onto your knees, crawling closer and pushing yourself into his chest. Bradley tucks one arm around your waist, doing his best not to cage you against him as you bury your face into his neck. You can feel him giving you room to retreat.

It’s such a strange thing, not wanting him to touch you but at the same time wanting to be held by him until the rest of the world stops. The thought of his hands on your skin makes you sick, but you want nothing more than to bury your face in the crook of his neck and pretend that none of this is happening. Like he’s not a separate man, not something to fear — just an extension of self, almost.

“It’s not your fault.” He tells you again, running his hand along your back, finally letting his eyes fall shut. Your breathing is jagged and gasping with the sobs, coming out quickly against the skin of his neck. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I should remember. I — I thought I’d know, or… feel… and I don’t remember any of it.”

His stomach knots, his palm resting between your shoulder blades as he cradles you against him.

It wasn’t that long ago that he couldn’t stand the thought of you. He had taken what he had seen of you in his classroom and come to the decision that you were selfish, and spoiled, lazy. He had no idea.

Since then, he has grown to know that you’re none of those things. You’re defensive, sure, he can be too. You’re a product of your upbringing, to an extent. But you’re witty, and smart, and you’re far from selfish. Bradley has seen your curiosity up close for weeks now. Your potential weighs on his mind, it keeps him up at night thinking of the future you’d have if you just had someone tell you that you could.

He hugs you against his chest and turns his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re gonna be okay.” He promises. There’s no way around it, or over it. He couldn’t have stopped it from happening. This isn’t about him or the way that he feels for you. He holds you close, rubbing firm circles across the length of your back for as long as you’ll let him.

“I’m sorry.” You choke out, your face buried into the warmth and familiarity of his neck. “You — You should be out there with everyone. I just need a minute.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Bradley whispers.

And he doesn’t. He sits there and holds you until he feels your breathing start to get slower and longer against him. Then, he strokes a strand of hair gently off of your face. “You feeling tired?”

“Exhausted.” You whisper.

He nods softly and kisses the top of your head. If he could, he would happily have carried you upstairs and put you to bed himself. Instead, under the watchful eye of the rest of your class, he has to point your directions from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll be upstairs to check on you in a bit. Get some rest.”

And he does come up a bit later. You’re not sure exactly how much later, but it’s dark when the first knock wakes you up.

See, the first knock doesn’t warrant pulling yourself out of this unfamiliar bed. The pillowcase is damp but for now, you seem to have run out of tears. The second knock is more tempting, if only to make the sound stop.

Bradley doesn’t knock a third time. Instead, he takes a quick glance at the empty hall around him and leans in close, “It’s me. Can I come in?”

You already knew it was him, there’s no real need for him to announce himself. Still, you grace him with a tired sound of acknowledgment and force yourself out of the fetal position. The old doorknob creaks and clicks, then the door itself creaks as it opens. It would be pretty difficult to sneak around in a big old house like this one.

“Hey.” Bradley greets you softly, cautiously. You offer him a tight-lipped smile. He brings a hand from behind his back and shows you a plate with roasted potatoes and vegetables — something else that you can’t quite see, a starchy baked dish.

Through no fault of his own, he doesn’t get much of a reaction from you at all. You make no effort to reach for the plate. He crosses the room and sets it down on top of the dresser.

“Brought you some dinner, and uh…” Bradley hasn’t felt sheepish since his second day of basic training, and yet, his eyes are on the floor as he pulls his other hand from behind his back. “I brought you this.”

You watch as he sets the blue fabric in front of you, folded neatly.

“Your shirt?”

He scratches at the back of his neck, walking right on by you to sit against the window ledge. Cool air bristles his nape and makes him sit up a little straighter, letting you catch his eye.

“I don’t know, I thought…” He stares at the blue fabric in your hands and gives his head a soft shake. “I don’t know what I thought, but keep it for tonight.”

He knows what his thought process was, he just can’t bring himself to say it out loud. It sounds selfish now. I thought that since I can’t be with you, maybe a piece of me might help. How ridiculous of him to make himself so important in all of this.

“Here,” He remembers, pushing himself away from the window and taking the plate in his hand again, “Come on, you should eat something, while it’s still hot. It’s good.”

You pull your knees to your chest as he perches himself on the bed beside you, setting the plate down. You settle down, crossing your legs and lifting the plate into your lap, picking up the fork.

He watches, chewing at the inside of his lip as you push the vegetables around the plate.

“How’re you feeling now?”

“Stupid for bawling my eyes out like that.” You answer him meekly, spearing the fork through a grilled red pepper, pushing it through some of the juice from the baked dish.

His eyes search across your features.

Neither one of you says anything for a moment as you shake the pepper from your fork and stab it instead through a piece of eggplant.

“You’re not stupid.” He tells you, his brows drawing together as he watches you periodically wound the food on the plate.

“He was clearly unhappy, and I didn’t even notice. My own boyfriend and I didn’t have a clue,” You jam the fork into a particularly stubborn chunk of zucchini and letting the fork clatter to the plate. Bradley stares back at you. “If he was happy then—“

”Don’t defend him to me.” Bradley interrupts you, his voice calm but grave. In a roundabout way, he understands how your thought process has led you here, but he can’t listen.

”No, I’m — I’m not. But it’s my responsibility as his partner—“

”Stop it.” Bradley deadpans. He lowers his head and meets your gaze. His tone suggests that he is growing frustrated but his eyes are another story, soft and warm, honeyed as they search across your face. “You were blacked out drunk. Whatever you think you owe him, it wasn’t his in that moment. You get that, right?”

He’s trying to help. You know that he’s trying to make it better, but it isn’t. Your nape feels hot and your throat feels sore. If he’s right, if that’s really true — if it was never your fault — then where do you go from here?

Your wedding is eighteen days after you fly home. The dress, the centre-pieces, the bridesmaids and the venue — everything is already all set up.

You suck in a soft breath and bury your face in your hands. Bradley lifts his palm and smooths a hand softly over the nape of your neck.

“Look, I just—“

“Can you go?” You breathe out shakily, dropping your hands from your face and meeting his gaze. His mouth hangs open, and you just know that he’s going to keep on talking. “Just go. Please. I want to be alone.”

Finally, he closes his mouth and gives a solemn nod.

“Okay,” He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze before standing up from the bed. “I’ll come see you tomorrow morning.”

With him gone, the quiet is worse this time. Out here in the country, there’s nothing but you wracking your brain for answers that just won’t come. At some point, you make yourself eat some of the now cold food Bradley had brought you just to settle the rumbling in your stomach.

Then, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. It’s a tall thing with a wooden frame, angled to face the bed. Your fingers reach down and curl into the hem of your nightgown, thinking of the blue Dior dress sitting in your closet at home now. It’s around this length, one of your shorter articles of clothing. You had been so excited to find that dress.

Standing in it that day in the floor, you had felt like Cinderella, right out of the pages of a storybook. Ridiculous.

Quickly, you grab at the hem and tear it off of your body. Almost naked, you examine yourself in the reflection. Something makes you walk forwards and your eyes squint, scrutinizing the flesh before you. Wondering how much of it Malcolm has seen, really.

You wonder which parts of it come to mind, when the two men who have seen your body think about it. The softness of your stomach? The way your breasts sit? — Something different entirely, maybe. Your self-examination is short-lived and exhausting all at once.

Turning back around, you spot Bradley’s shirt sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s a soft, heavy cotton, and it smells wholly of him. It slips easily over your shoulders, your fingers working nimbly to fasten the buttons.

You tilt your head, observing the way you look wrapped in his clothes. Then, you look around the room. Without Bradley to occupy your evening, the sudden lack of television or alternate entertainment strikes you.

Stuck with little other option, you grab your walkman from the dresser and head over to your suitcase. Armed with the cassette, wrapped in Bradley’s shirt, you cross the room and settle back into this unfamiliar bed, setting the headphones over your ears. You click open the cartridge and look down at the new tape in your hand.

Written across the front of the plastic in red marker, calligraphy: Our Wedding Tape 1986. It was a parting gift. Something from your future husband to lift your spirits when you were feeling low over here.

You lay back against the pillows, closing your eyes and hitting play. Slowly, the opening chords of The Commodores’ Three Times a Lady start to play in your ears. Your stomach flips, but you inhale, squeeze your eyes tighter and it’s almost better.

It’s soft, and slow — almost like a lullaby. But, your blood is coursing so hot and fast through your veins, it feels more like you’re running a marathon. Hot tears burn behind your eyes once again, reminding you that you haven’t actually run out of them. That they might never really stop.

To touch you, to hold you, to feel you, to need you.

There’s nothing to keep us apart.

You’re once, twice, three times a lady, and I love you. I love you.

As the lyrics pause and piano chords once again fill your ears, you realize that you’re gritting your teeth. You inhale sharply and snatch the headset off of your head, tossing it harshly onto the floor and causing the walkman to bust open. The cassette falls to the floor, but at least the music stops.

You’re breathing like you’re being chased. You wipe hurriedly, wanting the tears off of you, kicking back the covers, wanting everything off of you. As you wipe the salty tears from your jaw, you remember the metal on your finger.

As with the Walkman, you tear it off and throw it. It lands atop the dresser, the light catching the diamond, it sparkles back at you like a wink.

You had been so ridiculously happy on the day that Malcolm had proposed. Surrounded by your friends and family, wearing a beautiful dress, the centre of attention. Ridiculous.

You sink back down and turn onto your side, facing away from the dresser and the winking reminder that sits atop it. Sleep comes for you quickly, taking place of the crying-induced headache and drowning out the faint Commodores chorus lurking in your mind.

You’re awoken by a soft knock on the heavy wooden door. Sunlight is already pouring in through the curtains and something tells you that you missed breakfast. This will be Bradley. You let him knock again. Then, a third time. Eyes still closed, you groan softly and press your face into the pillow as a fourth and fifth knock ring out.

Stubborn asshole. You tear the covers the rest of the way back and push up from the bed, padding across the hardwood floor and pulling the door swiftly open.

Abigail and Zoe stand outside, dressed in tank tops and shorts with bathing suit strings peaking out. Your mouth falls slack as you try to close the door to cover yourself a bit.

“Oh—“ Your eyes widen, lips parting. It’s obvious to the both of them instantly that they aren’t who you were expecting to see. “Sorry, I thought you were Bradley.”

Zoe glances at Abigail, Abigail glances at Zoe, they both look down at the slightly wrinkled blue button up that falls down to your mid thighs. Bradley wore something really similar in Venice.

“We, uh — well, we’re just heading down to the lake. We were going to swim, and get some work done. Sandro gave us some snacks and some lemonade,” Zoe has a real talent for cramming as much information into as short a breath as she can, showing you the contents of the little cotton bag on her shoulder at the same time. She stops finally, allowing herself to smile in her pause. “If you… maybe wanted to come with us.”

You neither retreat or reply. For a second too long, you just look between the two of them, completely wordless.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Abigail answers quickly, she looks at Zoe and they both quickly offer you nods of agreement. “Don’t feel like you have to—“

“No— I-I— yeah. Thanks. That would be cool.” You shift your weight from foot to foot, balancing one one, toeing at the aged floorboards under you. It feels strange, wanting so badly to go with them.

Up until you reached this threshold, you were so certain that you didn’t give a damn about the way they felt about you. Maybe you don’t, really. You sure wouldn’t if you were back home. But here, the feeling of finally being invited is something weightless.

“Cool.” Zoe smiles awkwardly back at you. You wonder if your smile looks half as apologetic as hers does.

Abigail bristles to attention, shrugging her tote closer to her body and reaching down to take Zoe’s hand. “Well, we’ll wait for you downstairs? We can all head out there together.”

They’re wearing swimsuits. You should dig your swimsuit out of your case. Maybe they’ll be upset if you make them wait too long.

“Thanks, I’ll be quick.”

And then you’re walking around the left side of the house and heading across the fields, they’re explaining how wonderful Teodora is, how she told them about a wild swimming spot just over the hill.

They’re curious about you. You were so angry in the beginning, so restless and unhappy. That seems to have faded away now. They still don’t know a single thing about you really, not as much as they would like to.

“Are you feeling better? — Bradley said you weren’t feeling well.” Abigail is tall and dark-skinned, with round glasses and her curly hair usually in two French braids. Today, she’s wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt that belonged to her father, and a pair of denim cut-offs.

“It’s not contagious, right?” Zoe adds as she trails alongside you. She’s shorter than Abigail, with dark hair and green eyes. She’s the only sophomore on the trip — you wonder what she had done to impress Bradley enough to let her come.

You shrug your shoulder bag closer to your body and make yourself smile. “Much better. I think I just didn’t drink enough water and I was tired. Just… out of sorts, I guess.”

“It’s good that Bradley was so kind to you about it,” Zoe hums absently, adjusting her thick-rimmed sunglasses. Red runner shorts and complimentary red and white striped adidas sneakers, and long tanned legs. She looks right out of a commercial — but one of the well done ones. Not cheesy or anything. “Called his office once to tell him that I couldn’t take an exam because I was super sick, that fucker didn’t believe me until I dragged myself in there and puked on those old Nikes he used to wear.”

You hum out an amused sound. That makes two of you who have puked on his shoes.

“He feels bad for me because my fiancé’s a jackass.” Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s the truth. You believe both sides of it, in part. Bradley does feel bad for you. But he would have held you in his arms yesterday even if he didn’t.

To them, it makes sense. There has been plenty of gossip about you over the last five weeks. Some of it, admittedly, they had engaged in. Everyone is pretty curious about why you’re getting married so young, and equally curious about all the time you’ve been spending with their cool, cocky professor.

Watching you stumble away from the group sobbing yesterday, there had been a few whispered rumours about the cause. Maybe Bradley dumped her because she wouldn’t put out. That one was especially cruel.

To Abigail, someone that heartbroken didn’t deserve to be made fun of. It had looked like your heart had been clean ripped out of your chest. She had whispered to Zoe about it last night in the darkness of their room, from the top bunk, and the two of them had decided to approach you today.

”How long have you two been together?” Abigail toes the line between prying and learning enough about you to potentially calling herself your friend. You probably should mind, but this is standard practice back home — girls who don’t care wanting information they don’t deserve. Something tells you she’s not like that.

”Since high school.” You tell her.

She slows slightly and turns her head to look back at you over her shoulder. You’re looking down at the dirt and grass and wildflowers, setting one white shoe in front of the other, denim shorts and a green blouse, that sad look on your face again. It’s different than the kind of sadness she saw in you yesterday — but it’s a look she has seen on you before.

A kind of acceptance to it, like you’re at peace with the sadness you’ve known.

”People grow a lot after high school.” It’s wonderful that you have managed to stay together. It’s probably time to call it quits. Her sentence seems unfinished and leaves you guessing, but it doesn’t condemn you to her own decision on the matter the way that Bradley’s black and white had.

You look up from the ground and meet her gaze. You smile and nod. People sure do.

Bradley gets caught up in the kitchen with Teodora as he is fixing you a plate of breakfast, guessing at your favourite morning foods. He only really dines with you in the evening.

“Is that for the girl?”

Bradley hums and nods, frowning at the cooked mushrooms. He can’t remember if you love them or hate them. After five dates, he should probably know that. He shouldn’t have been on any dates with you. They’re just mushrooms—

“She left already.” Dorie shrugs without looking up from the morning paper. Bradley’s fingers curl tighter around the plate. He turns slowly, to face her.

“She what?”

”Yes, the girl with the tattoo and the girl with the long legs,” Dorie tells him, glancing up and taking note of the panicked expression on his face. Abi and Zoe. He swallows a bit. They’ll be good to you. “They all went out by the lake to work. They’ll be back in the afternoon.”

The last time he had been here, Bradley had been hopelessly in love with another. He kept a picture of her in his wallet. Pretty little thing with her middle finger pointed right at the lense as she sunbathed topless on a beach in the south.

Teodora won’t pry, but she suspects there might be a new picture in Bradley’s wallet now.

“Oh. Right,” He sets the plate down and stares at it, unsure of what to do with the extra food now. “I… I guess I’ll get started with some work. I’ll be in the sitting room.”

She nods politely at him, he sets the plate in the fridge and leaves to gather his work things. God, he hopes they’ll be good to you. He had been so afraid that Dorie was going to tell him you had jumped on a flight back to the States. He has more time.

He was up practically all night, thinking of that loser’s hands on you. It makes him sick to remember how limp you had been in his arms when he had first picked you up from the snow.

The sitting room in the Gabris estate is sprawling — it’s a real space to entertain. There were a lot of parties here back in the day. Now, there’s a dust sheet over the piano and the nude portrait of Teodora’s lover is gone from above the mantle.

Bradley settles down into an armchair and pulls together his notes, sun pouring through the windows, a fog settling across his thoughts. 3pm. Three PM. That’s when he hears the eruption of laughter, bubbling up and spilling through the house. After that, comes the sound of wet shoes squeaking on the hardwood.

His chin propped against his fist, he cranes his neck as Zoe appears first in the hallway. She spots him and stops like a caught kid, her mouth falling open. Then, you. Then, Abi. All three of you are soaked head to toe, dripping water onto the floors.

You stare back at him dwarfing the patterned armchair, surrounded by papers, peering at you over the top of his reading glasses. He doesn’t say a thing, taking his time in looking the three of you over. Finally, his lips twitch.

”We went swimming.” Zoe breathes out, laughing.

Bradley hums against his hand, his eyes visibly flicker from your bare feet to the soaked clothes clinging to your body, and finally at your face. From behind his fist, a smirk toys at his lips.

He’s so grateful to see you look so mischievous. Anything but the way you were looking at him yesterday.

”I can see that,” He agrees, amusement dripping from his voice. Your smile turns sheepish as you cross your arms in front of your hips and shift your weight from left to right, and back again. “Did you get those pages that I asked you for all done.

”Most of ‘em.” Zoe nods. Eighty-percent still counts as most. Besides, you know that Bradley will listen if you plead your case. He hums again, a sound of understanding this time, and inches his knees further apart as he sits upright.

”Well, I take it that you’ll be a bit late to our study session.” He’s looking right at you with that devilishly handsome smile on his face, and a softness to his eyes that makes you want to pour yourself right into his lap.

“Shit,” You snap out of it, whipping your head around to look for a clock. Bradley glances down at his watch, already fully aware that you’re forty minutes late. He looks back to you, smiling. “I’ll get changed.”

”I’ll be here.” He tells you, looking back down to his work.

You glance down at the puddle you’re leaving on the floor, and then back up at the girls. They watch you blink like you’re remembering that they’re there.

“We’ll come up with you.” Abigail nods for you to go ahead and Zoe slips her palms into yours.

Bradley glances at the exchange over the top of his workbook, her hand in yours. The smile on your face as you peer back at them and head for the stairs. He bites the inside of his cheek and finally exhales.

His next breath in feels a little bit easier.

“So, how long do you usually have to spend with Bradley every afternoon?” Zoe asks, padding up the wooden stairs behind you. They creak with every step, but not enough for you to pretend not to have heard her question.

You shrug your shoulders, trying to at cool about it. Bradley would at cool about it. He doesn’t seem ashamed at all.

“It depends. He gives me different tasks to do. Sometimes we get through them quickly, other times he decides to be an ass about it.” That feels about right.

“Like class work?”

“Yeah,” You glance back over your shoulder as you reach the landing. “I’m not much use to him as a research assistant if I still don’t understand the class material. You know?”

“Right.” Abigail nods along with you.

“Well, I’d better go get dry…” You remember, gesturing to your door. They both nod along, but you don’t move. You hug your shoes and your bag to your chest and try to smile. “Thanks for inviting me today. I appreciate it.”

“Any time. You’re a good time.” Zoe grins, lifting her arm and draping it casually around Abigail’s shoulders.

Your goodbye is a brief nod and a pleased smile, before you turn and head back to your room. You strip out of your clothes and leave them to dry against the open window, then throw on something dry.

Bradley hears your shoes racing down the stairs and closes his book. You grab the archway and swing around the corner into the sitting room.

“Okay — ready.”

He braces his elbows against his knees and gives a small shake of his head, lips quirked. “Not here.”

The two of you walk along the dirt path in the opposite direction to the lake. Up ahead of you is a mile long stretch of trees, behind you is the Gabris’ courtyard. Bradley’s two paces in front with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his books tucked under his arm.

His shorts make his legs look even longer, up high on his thighs and stretched around the muscle. His sneakers still aren’t something a college professor would wear, but you’ve grown to like them. They’re very… him.

His oversized shirts and his white sneakers, and the gold pendant that sits between his collarbones are all parts of him that you have grown to adore. The curls at the nape of his neck and the way his broad shoulders slope down into his waist.

There are plenty of things that you could name.

The smell of tobacco that follows him isn’t one of those things.

“That’s a filthy habit.” You call ahead to him.

Bradley turns his head and looks at you over the top of his gold-rimmed sunglasses, grinning amusedly, “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of those. You might be familiar with a few.”

Your mouth twitches. You almost smile at him, briefly considering that downright awful habit he’s got of delving between your thighs. Then, your face twists into a strictly unamused scowl.

“Did you pick it up when you were in the Navy?” You ask, jogging to keep up with him.

“Kinda.” He answers you, looking down at you briefly before he checks ahead again. It’s not important to mention the cigarettes behind the science building in high school; that was more an act of defiance than an addiction.

“Have you ever tried to quit?”

“Is this you asking me to?” He replies, crossing over into the tree line, shade pouring over the two of you. You watch as he takes the cigarette between his fingers and flicks ash onto the floor, branches crunching under his feet.

You follow alongside him. “Would you, if I asked you to?”

“Would you put up with me being a lot grumpier?” He asks in return.

“Probably not.”

He huffs out a dry chuckle. Finally, he stubs the cigarette out. You follow him through the woods like his shadow until you reach a clearing. It’s a pleasant mix of sun and shade, a nice place to wait out the glaring afternoon heat. This is routine by now, you sit down beside each other and he tells you what you’re doing, then you each get to it.

He’s working on his book. His face gets real serious when he’s working on his book. Makes him look older, more mature. Almost makes you forget how deviously handsome he looks when he’s grinning at you, when he looks so handsome like this.

You’re translating prose. Poetry about lust and temptation. He would have switched out the curriculum but resources are limited out here, and you don’t say a word about disliking the work he has given you. He’s afraid to ask.

To burst this bubble of blissful ignorance you’ve got going, like yesterday never happened.

”So, Zoe and Abi — did you guys have fun today?” He asks without looking up from his work. That feels like a safe enough question. You’re laying on your stomach and don’t bother to stop working to look at him either.

”Mhm. Zoe’s clothes fell off the branch and got soaked, so we figured we’d all just jump in dressed. Cooled us off on the way home.”

He glances up, smiling softly. “Look at you — walking on the wild side.”

”I know, right?” You scoff.

He looks back down to his work, examining the artwork on the left page.

“So… how are you feeling today?” He asks cautiously. About Malcolm, of course. Bradley has noticed that you aren’t wearing your ring. You’d barely remembered taking it off. It doesn’t feel any different without it. It’s not exactly life-altering. It’s just jewellery.

”Mixed up,” You owe him honesty at least, considering your complicated relationship. You shrug your shoulders weakly and frown at the page. “Confused. Angry.”

He just nods.

She turns her head to look at him. Laying on his side, pretending to organise his notes, his sunglasses masking his expression.

”I don’t want it to change things.”

”How?” Bradley answers a little too quickly for a man pretending to be otherwise occupied. His brows draw together as he meets your gaze through those darkened lenses.

“Between us,” You tell him, resting your cheek against your hand and tilting your head just slightly. Laying in the grass, about a foot away from him. Close enough for him to reach out and trail his fingers from the centre of your back to the nape of your neck, and back again. You smile softly. “I like you, you know?”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchele @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @cherrycola27@ahoyyharrington @kmc1989 @sugarcoated-lame @mshistorylover

[maltrunners]

Port Ellen 22 (1974) Signatory Vintage

Review by: Raygun Courtesy of an extremely generous friend, I was gifted a set of samples from one of the virtual masterclasses from the 2021 Whisky Show: Old and Rare run by The Whisky Exchange. A set of six drams selected by Angus MacRaild, Jonny McMillan, and Sukinder Singh. This is a Port Ellen released by Signatory Vintage in their Silent Stills line. Had one other Port Ellen, but not from…

[something-tofightfor]

On Deck Part 1: Hot Corner

Pairing: Jack Daniels x Female Reader Baseball AU

Word Count: 8,117

Rating: M (language, general adult thoughts, etc.)

Summary: Taking your best friend's little brother to a minor leage game to see his favorite player just might lead to a lot of changes in your life.

And you're ready.

Author’s notes: 

This story has been in progress for more than two years. I've written about Baseball Jack many times before ... but only the "after". It's time to see how - and where - it all began.

(On Deck universe masterlist for all the extras!)

Thank you to everyone that convinced me to work on this and to keep this pairing going / to flesh them out more. I have had so much fun with this because I have such a love for the MLB (and the men who play in the league) - and I'm so excited to share it.

While there are a lot of baseball references within this story, you only need to know the basics to enjoy it and understand them - we're not getting overrly technical here.

As always, if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to reach out. I hope you enjoy this as much as I am.

Third base is often called the ‘hot corner’ due to the prevalence of right handed hitters - and subsequent on-field action - in the league. The third baseman is typically the infield position player closest to the batter, so to excel in this position, players need to display quick reaction times and exceptional hand-eye coordination. 

“We’re going to be late.” He stood next to you, arms crossed over his chest. “We still have to walk to the stadium.” 

“Caleb.” You sighed, closing and then locking the car door before sticking your keys into the small bag you’d bought specifically for games. “We’re here. We’re parked. The stadium is right there.” Pointing with one finger, you raised a brow and grinned. “The parking lot is only half full, and we’ve already got seats, so -”

“Yeah, but we’re going to miss warm ups and the pregame.” He rolled his eyes, turning away from you and heading toward the ballpark. “And those are the best parts.” 

You agreed, but for a very different reason than the twelve year old you were with. 

You’d been to games with him and Erin before. You and your friend sat a few rows back while the pre-teen hurried down to field level, a baseball and a pen clutched in one hand, hoping to meet at least one of the players after they’d finished warming up and stretching. 

From your vantage point, the two of you had been free to whisper about the players - pointing out the way their uniforms fit, discussing whether or not their asses were in mid-season form yet, or even commenting on the stretches they chose to warm up with before the game. Typically, you didn’t have a thing for men in uniform - but baseball pants were a different story. 

You loved the game, and had been visiting The Distillery - your local team’s home park - since you were a child, attending games with your family and friends and even dates as the years passed. Baseball games were the perfect summer activity no matter who you were with, and that was even true when your company was the younger brother of your best friend… and the game wasn’t a Major League competition. 

“She’s got the tickets.” He made the announcement when you reached the gates, the boy pointing back over his shoulder at you. “Two of them.” You smiled at the attendant, sliding your unzipped bag across the table so she could search it, and then returned your eyes to Caleb. He’d already removed his ballcap and the wallet he carried, pushing them forward and stepping through the metal detector. 

“He’s excited, hmm?” 

“Yeah.” Letting her scan the ticket barcodes, you laughed. “He really is.” Caleb waited for you to follow him through the turnstiles, his hat flipped backwards on his head, and you could see the impatience on his face. “Caleb, do you want to get something to eat before we -”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not yet. Before the game starts, but …” He glanced over his shoulder and you looked down at the field, where the grounds crew were still getting everything ready. “Can we go down there? I want to try and meet him. He’s playing today. They said it on the news.”

“Go.” Your smile widened, head moving up and down in a nod. “I’m right behind you, kid.” 

Caleb took off running toward the stairs that led down toward the third base line, and you followed him slowly, taking your time and eyeing the seating situation. There were people already waiting; a handful of kids and their parents, along with a few women that looked to be your age or a little younger, but there were still plenty of seats open adjacent to the field. 

You sat closer than you normally would have, deciding to take a seat in the row directly behind the boy. Just in case. For the next ten minutes, you paid no attention to the field, instead scrolling through social media and waiting, the music pumping through the speakers fading to background noise as you mindlessly browsed and clicked ‘like’ on a few posts. 

You also let Erin know that you’d made it to the game, and that Caleb was exactly where he wanted to be. But when you glanced up, ready to take a picture to send to her, you were distracted by the sight of the team taking the field. Caleb was too, the boy bouncing up and down in place as he leaned forward, resting his hands on the low wall in front of him. 

You watched for a few minutes - eyeing the players as they did their sprints and stretches, your lips twisting into a small smile at the sight of some of them utilizing their trainers for extra resistance during a few of the exercises. “He’s not here.” Caleb turned back to look at you, disappointment on his face. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Maybe he’ll come out late.” You shrugged, still looking at the field. “You never know, kiddo. You said he’s in the lineup, right?” 

“Yeah.” He turned back to the field, leaning forward. “They talked on the radio about how he was coming back today, because they want him to back in Louisville by the end of next week, and -” Caleb stopped mid sentence, straightening up. “There he is!” 

You couldn’t help it, your attention snapping in the direction that he was pointing. Sure enough, Jack Daniels and one of the trainers - a woman with short, dark hair and glasses - were taking the field to a low chorus of cheers, many of them coming from the section you were sitting in. There he is. 

Despite yourself, you leaned forward to watch him, staring as Jack began his warm up. He started with a few stretches - knee hugs and focusing on his quads, carefully extending and testing his arms, and then bent forward at the waist, the man almost able to press his palms flat against the ground without bending his knees. 

You didn’t take your eyes off of him, because like Caleb, one of the reasons you liked going to the Statesman games was looking at Jack Daniels. And there’s so much to look at.

The trainer watched him closely as he continued to warm up, speeding up his movements and then doing a series of static stretches. But when Jack started to do lunges, you actively fought back a groan, settling against the backrest of your seat and chewing on your lower lip. That’s hot as fuck. 

He looked healthy, and you were happy to see it, because the truth was that the Statesman needed him to be. “He didn’t warm up yesterday.” You turned your head toward the voice, watching as another woman next to you stared at Jack, her smile wide. “He stretched a little, and took batting practice, but he didn’t warm up.” 

“Oh, you were here yesterday, too?” She nodded, and when you glanced back at the field, you saw that Jack and the trainer had switched to more arm exercises, warming up the muscles of his upper body. 

“He pinch hit late in the game.” She leaned forward, her smile widening as she watched Jack start arm circles, the trainer standing a few feet away from him with her arms crossed. “So I knew he’d play today. And that’s why I’m here.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Gonna shoot my shot when he comes over here to sign for the kids. Why not, right? We both know he goes for it sometimes.” 

The girl was pretty - and definitely dressed to get his attention. She wore one of his t-shirts artfully slashed to show off her cleavage and had her legs on display in a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Good for her. “Yeah, why not.” You smiled, turning your head away from where the players were sprinting into the outfield and back to give her your full attention. “Even if he’ll be back in Louisville pretty soon, you might as well. See what happens.”

“It’s only 40 minutes away.” She shrugged, looking out and pointing at where the man was laying on the field, one knee bent and his other ankle resting against the top of it. The trainer was applying extra resistance, and you hummed in approval as you watched. I wish I was that trainer.  “I’d drive there if I needed to.” 

Her eagerness didn’t surprise you. Jack was a notably eligible bachelor, and one of the most desirable men on the team. Unlike the others, though, he didn’t often publicly date. But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hook up. And … You returned your attention to the field, watching as he stopped to talk to the woman, pointing at the front of his left shoulder and grinning. And I’m sure he’s got his pick in every city he visits. 

“Oh, I think they’re coming over now.” 

She adjusted her shirt and you watched her posture change, the woman’s shoulders straightening and her smile widening. Instead of staring at Jack’s strut toward the seats, you looked at Caleb. The boy was buzzing with excitement as he turned toward where the man was headed - about ten people to your left, where a small crowd had gathered. “Do you think he’ll come over?” Caleb said your name, frowning. “There’s not much time, and -”

“He will.” You leaned in, reaching out to touch his arm. “You’re wearing one of his shirts, right? He’s gotta stop for you.” Caleb grinned, turning back toward the field, though he kept his head turned to the left. 

You watched Jack then, smiling as he interacted with the fans. He signed autographs and posed for a few pictures, his smile genuine. But you noticed that he was really only focused on the kids and teenagers, spending more than a few seconds with them instead of moving along as quickly as was politely possible the way he did with adults. He took pictures with a few women, the man leaning in but keeping both hands behind his back. He puts his hands on the kids’ shoulders, but doesn’t touch the women… interesting. 

“Keep your phone out. I’m gonna need you to take a picture.” Caleb was excited, the boy happier than you ever remembered seeing him. You laughed but did as he asked, leaning to the right and angling the phone so that you could snap a picture of the two of them, though Jack was barely in the frame. 

The girl next to you leaned forward when he was only a person or two away, and then seemed to second guess that decision. You bit back a laugh as she stood and climbed over the seats, standing next to Caleb and effectively blocking your view of the man on the field. Gee, thanks.

He finished with the little girl that he’d been speaking to, handing her back a signed baseball and a pen, and then took a step to the side and in front of the woman, saying hello. 

Clearly hearing his voice in person shocked you - the man’s accent thick, even in the few words he spoke. You desperately wished that you could see him, but you didn’t want to shift in your seat and draw attention to yourself. I’ll see him when he talks to Caleb.

“I heard you were playing and had to come today.” She leaned forward, fingertips resting against the wall. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah?” He laughed, reaching up to pull his hat off and then set it back down on his head, taking a few seconds to think. You caught a glimpse of the bullseye tattoo on his hand, biting down on your lower lip at the sight. “Well thank you for comin’ out. It’s good to be back on the field.” The woman giggled and then held her phone up, tilting her head to the side. 

“Can we get a picture? I’ll tag you in it on Instagram, and -”

“Sure.” You watched as the woman spun around and then leaned backwards, holding her phone up to take a selfie. “Hope it’s a good one.” He smiled, peering at the phone from over her shoulder, and you fought back a roll of your eyes at how wide and practiced her smile was - the woman’s head cocked to the side - and toward his. 

When she straightened up, he took a half step toward Caleb, already tipping his head down and toward the boy. But the woman spoke up before he could fully move on, reaching out to touch his arm. “Thank you, Jack. You have no idea how much I -” He flinched - just barely, but you saw it, his shoulder jerking back slightly as her fingertips made contact.

“No problem. Thank you, and enjoy the game.” She stiffened, but you didn’t focus on that. You turned your attention to the boy in front of you - and in turn, Jack, whose face split into a grin, the man’s dimple on display, even beneath the shade from the brim of his hat. “Well hi there. I’m Jack, what’s your name?” 

“Caleb.” He leaned forward and you opened your camera app again, your smile widening, too. Caleb’s going to be so excited later. “I had tickets to see you play in Louisville and then you got hurt and I didn’t know if you’d be back this season but then my mom bought me tickets for today after I found out you were going to play again, and so we drove all the way here -” 

“Slow down there, big guy.” Jack laughed, giving you a glimpse of his teeth, and then gestured to Caleb’s hand, the boy holding a Sharpie tightly. “You want me to sign somethin’ for you?” 

“Yeah. This ticket, please.” Caleb held the marker out, looking up at Jack. “And I’ve got your jersey, but it was too hot to wear it today, so I picked this t-shirt instead.” 

“Of course I will.” He nodded, taking the Sharpie and the paper, scrawling his name across the front of it. “Turn around and I’ll sign real big on the number on the back.” Caleb spun around and you were thrilled to see that he was almost delirious with excitement, his eyes wide and his smile nearly splitting his face in two. 

“Can I take a picture of you signing for him?” Jack glanced up at the sound of your voice, his smile faltering for a split second and a confused look passing over his features. “I didn’t want to just do it and have the flash go off, and…”

“Go right ahead.” He smiled again, giving you a nod. “Thank you for askin’.” It only took a few seconds for him to sign, but you took multiple pictures, and then as Jack capped the marker, you decided to speak up again, not wanting to make Caleb ask. 

“And can I get one of the two of you looking at the camera before he turns around again?’

“You’ve already got your phone out.” Jack smirked at you, and then reached up to tilt the brim of his hat back, showing you more of his face. Holy shit, look at him. “I’m more’n happy to take a picture with my new buddy Caleb.” 

You couldn’t help smiling at that, and when Jack settled his hand - the Sharpie poking out from between his fingers - against the boy’s shoulder and squeezed, it widened. “Got it.” You lowered the device, mouthing the words ‘thank you’ at Jack at the same time Caleb spoke them out loud, turning back to face the man. 

There were only two more kids to the right of you waiting to talk to Jack, but before moving to them, he hesitated, looking between you and the boy. “Where are you and your mom sitting today, Caleb?”  Mom? Do I really look like -

“She’s not my mom, she’s my sister’s friend. And we’re over there.” He pointed at the outfield. “Somewhere.” Why is he asking? 

“The section right at the end of the dugout.” Jack pointed, but looked directly at you. “First row. Aisle seats, 23 and 24. They’re mine, and if you want ‘em, today they’re yours.” 

“What? Jack, that -” 

“I’ve gotta go.” He nodded, looking at Caleb and grinning, and then back at you, his smile softening. “Enjoy the game.” He didn’t say anything else before he stepped down the field and then stopped to talk to the other kids waiting. What the fuck just … “That was so cool!” Caleb spun back to look at you, his eyes wide. “He signed my shirt and took a picture with me and now we get to sit in his seats, and -”

“Caleb.” You took a breath, still trying to process what had happened in the previous few minutes. “I don’t -” 

“We’re going to sit in them, right?” You didn’t know how to answer him. Should we? You sighed and then looked to your right, watching as Jack signed a baseball and handed it back to a little girl before laughing with an older man that was with her. “I mean he told us to, and -” 

“I definitely would.” The girl next to you spoke up, and when you looked over, you saw that she was jealous, her eyes narrowed as they looked you over. “Do you know him? Is that -”

“I’ve never spoken to that man before just now.” You shrugged, unsure of what else to say. “I have no idea what … or why, or …” You would have been lying if you’d said that no part of you was a little smug at the fact  that he’d offered the seats to you and not to her, but you didn’t want to be that woman. “He must have liked you, Caleb.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Whatever. I’ll just see him after the game at the players’ parking lot.” She stood then, but didn’t say anything else before she spun away from you and headed down the row and toward the aisle. 

Caleb watched her go, his head tilted to one side.“What crawled up her butt?” You snorted at his question but there was no way you could give him an actual answer - so you gave him a partial one. 

“She’s probably just sad that you get to have a great view of the game tonight, kiddo.” With a sigh, you stood up, sliding your phone back into your bag and zipping it. You looked at Jack, watching as he said goodbye to the last of the fans and then headed for the dugout. 

But he didn’t go straight there - instead, he stopped and spoke to one of the security guards, pointing at the stands. Oh, he’s… And then you were stunned when both men looked back in your direction, Jack raising one arm to point at you while nodding. The security guard caught your eye and nodded too, and you then watched as Jack gently smacked him on the arm and smiled again, finally turning away to disappear back into the dugout. 

“Can we go and see the seats? And can I get french fries? Will you send the picture to my mom? And Erin? And -” He was excited - and you couldn’t blame him - but you still laughed, gesturing for Caleb to follow you down the row and toward the opposite aisle, closer to your new seats. 

“Yeah. We’ll do all that. Let’s go.” 

There was plenty of room for the two of you to walk to where Jack had indicated, and when you got close, the same security guard that Jack had spoken to stepped forward, gesturing with one hand. “You’re right here tonight.” 

You thanked him, letting Caleb choose which seat he wanted, and when you dropped into the remaining one, you pulled your phone out again as the boy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of the wall in front of him. 

You had just enough time to send off a few quick texts to Erin - the pictures of Caleb and Jack, as well as one that you took from the seat and a message that said we got upgraded, I’ll explain later before the National Anthem started. 

You rose to your feet again, keeping your eyes on the field. Once the music faded and the announcer began to give the starting lineups, you were excited, your smile just as wide as Caleb’s. 

And when they announced Jack and the man trotted out onto the field to even more cheers from the crowd, you clapped along with them, pulse quickening. I love watching him play. 

He and the shortstop tossed a ball back and forth a few times while the pitcher made his way from the bullpen, and the grin never left the dark haired man’s face. By the time the ump signaled the start of the game, he was settled in place and standing a little behind the bag, knees spread and both hands resting on his thighs. 

It took a few batters for him to see any action, and when you heard the crack of the bat, Jack sprung into motion, moving toward second and bending over to scoop the ball off the infield before tossing it to first for the out. 

You cheered just as loudly as Caleb did, clapping your hands without looking away from the field - but you weren’t expecting to catch Jack’s eye when he turned to move back into place at third… and you definitely weren’t expecting him to grin at the sight of you. 

The moment was over quickly, and as the players ran off the field after the third out, you turned to Caleb, clearing your throat. “You said you wanted fries?” 

— 

You made it back to your seats just in time to watch the bottom of the second, both of you carrying a drink and a snack. Jack was batting 8th, so there was a good chance he wouldn’t hit until the next inning, giving you time to eat before he headed to the plate. 

You also checked your messages, a series of exclamation points from Erin and a thumbs up from her mother the only two you had waiting. You showed Caleb, the boy laughing and then scrolling up to look at the picture of him and Jack, his smile so broad that you thought it must have hurt. 

There were no seats in front of you, which meant that you had an unobstructed view when the man finally headed to the plate, the familiar sound of his walkup music - Hungry Like The Wolf - blaring through the stadium’s speakers. Here we go. C’mon, Jack. 

He took a few practice swings and you were relieved to see that he didn’t wince or hesitate. His swing looked comfortable, and when you leaned forward, resting your hands on your knees, you nodded as he took another, pointing the bat outward before settling it on his shoulder and waiting. 

He swung at the first two pitches, making contact on the second one and hitting a long foul down the first base line. But Jack ended up walking, taking his place on first and then getting into position as the catcher stepped to the plate. 

You watched him closely - taking in the way the dark blue jersey fit him, the V of upper chest skin - and a peek of the gold chain he wore - visible thanks to two of the buttons being undone, his socks pulled high to accentuate his muscled calves. He always looks fucking great. 

You knew it meant nothing that he’d offered you and Caleb his seats that day - that he’d just done it to be nice. But you would have been lying to yourself if you said that it didn’t make you feel good, Jack’s momentary attention a confidence boost, especially after the reception he’d given the woman next to you. 

The batter hit a single, and when Jack advanced to second and stopped, you cheered again, the man clapping his hands and shouting something that you couldn’t hear at his teammate. But it was all for nothing, because the following player popped out, ending the inning. 

Jack trotted across the field and toward the dugout, the disappointment on his face evident - but again, when he saw you he smiled, the expression only there briefly … though you certainly didn’t miss it. 

As you settled back against the seat, halfway listening to Caleb as he recounted team stats, you wondered why Jack was making so much of an effort when nothing would come of it. You thought of the woman’s comment about the players lot, wondering just how likely it was that you’d be able to meet him if you went, too. But not with Caleb here. 

The night would be a good memory at least - for both you and the boy, and that would have to be enough. 

By the time Jack stepped to the plate, you were more than ready. The setting sun shaded the sky in hues of orange and purple, the stadium’s lights brightening up the field. Your eyes flicked from where Jack stood to the scoreboard, scanning over the information about him that was displayed there and lingering on the giant image of his smiling face. 

But when you heard the groan of the crowd, your attention snapped back to home plate, where Jack was arguing with the umpire over the previous call, his head shaking back and forth. He stepped back into the box, but you could see his irritation, though it didn’t last for long.

He swung on the next pitch and made contact again, sending the ball straight through between first and second. It rolled halfway into the outfield before anyone got to it, and you got to your feet and cheered, the sound signaling that a run scored loud through the speakers. Not only had he gotten his first hit after the injury, but he’d batted someone in, giving the Cavalry the lead. 

And when the next player swung hard, sending the ball up and out and over the center field wall, the stadium erupted - Jack raising his arm and pumping his fist as he rounded third, before stopping to wait for his teammate to make it home. They celebrated for a few seconds and then off the field, and you slung an arm around Caleb as both of you cheered, too. 

They took a three run lead into the next inning, and then handled their business, setting the batters down 1-2-3 thanks to a double play that Jack initiated. You could see his confidence in every movement; his body remembering exactly what he needed to do to be successful on the field even after weeks away. And he’s good at it, too. That makes a difference.  

Caleb left the seats to fill up his cup from the fountain at the top of your section, and by the time he came back the game had started again. It was a productive inning. You spent more of it on your feet than sitting, joining the crowd in cheering as the Cavalry scored three more runs. But when Jack’s turn to bat came, you realized what the celebration meant. 

“They took him out.” You looked down at Caleb, watching as he frowned. “They’ve got such a lead, that it’s better to rest him, and …” 

“That’s stupid.” Caleb crossed his arms, sighing. “He only batted twice.” You agreed, but you also weren’t the manager of a baseball team. You figured he had a better idea of what the right strategy was when it came to Jack’s rehab … even if it did disappoint you that you wouldn’t get to see him at the plate or on the field again. 

The rest of the game went by quickly, and though they gave up a few runs, your team ended up winning handily. Caleb requested to stay and watch the on-field celebration after, and as the players lined up for high fives and handshakes before leaving for the locker room, you focused, too. Maybe he’ll come back out for a second. 

It was stupid and you knew it, but the moment the field emptied, it meant that the night - and the experience in Jack’s seats - was over… and you didn’t want it to be.

He took his place in line - still wearing his uniform but without his hat - and you watched as he greeted the other players, smiling and laughing with them as they interacted. You couldn’t hear him, but you could tell he was happy, and that made you smile, too. Maybe he really will be back in Louisville by next week. 

The handshakes ended, and when Jack headed back toward the dugout, he didn’t look in your direction again - until right before he made it to the top of the steps. 

It was then that he stopped, eyeing the seats until he saw the two of you. You tried not to react, but Caleb didn’t hide his response; the boy raising his hand and waving wildly. Jack laughed at the sight of it, lifting one of his hands in a wave, too. 

You thought that was it, but then his head turned just enough that he made direct eye contact with you. 

Even from the distance, you could see one side of his mouth lift into a half smile as he nodded, raising one hand and touching the tips of his fingers to his temple before tipping them toward you. Your smile grew and you nodded in return, but before you could do anything else, Jack disappeared into the dugout, leaving the two of you standing in front of the seats. 

Well that was something. Biting your lip and letting out a breath through your nose, you turned your attention toward Caleb, saying his name. “Alright, kiddo. We’re going to go to the bathroom before we head out, because I am not stopping twenty minutes into the drive to let you pee.” 

— 

You’d expected Caleb to talk your ear off the entire drive home. Instead, he fell asleep before you made it back to the highway, leaving you with your thoughts on the drive back. 

And you would have been lying if you said that most of those thoughts weren’t of Jack. 

The interaction with him had been limited, sure. But it had been meaningful in more than one way, for both you and Caleb. He had a cool story that he could tell his friends, and pictures that he could show them. You’d look back on the way his gaze on you had felt and remember the thrill of being on the receiving end of one of his bright smiles. 

You didn’t know him any more than any other person that had ever seen him play or interacted with him briefly, but that didn’t matter. Even if you never spoke to him again, and never saw him in any capacity aside from on the field, you’d have that night as a memory. And a damn good one.

After dropping Caleb off and promising Erin a recap the following day, you drove the short distance to your house and parked in the driveway, turning the car off and enjoying the silence for a few seconds before unbuckling your seatbelt. 

Your house was quiet and dark as you moved through it, leaving your shoes and bag by the front door and grabbing your phone before heading upstairs. You tossed that onto your bed and went into the bathroom, scrubbing your face and changing into your pajamas before staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

You’d been single for six months, and though you’d talked to a few men through the same dating app Erin had used to meet Troy, none of the conversations had led anywhere past the first awkward meetings. It wasn’t that the men weren’t interested, it was you that was selective, opting not to waste your time with anyone that reminded you of the time you’d spent with your most recent ex. 

You knew that you were being picky, but you were content with that knowledge, even if it meant a longer period of being on your own before you found the right person. And Jack couldn’t ever be the right person. You wrinkled your nose while you brushed your teeth, still watching yourself in the mirror. Because he’s been consistently single for his entire career. 

Jack kept much of his personal life private, but Janie was the exception to that. 

And after climbing into bed and plugging your phone in, you searched their names, refreshing your memory of the story that you’d become familiar with when The Statesman had first drafted Jack. 

They’d been high school sweethearts, opting to go to college together. He was going to play ball and major in engineering, and her chosen field was communications. It was clear from all of the pictures of the two of them you found that though they were young, they were in love. 

Everything had gone well for the first few months; Jack and Janie settled in on campus, started classes and began making friends. They’d come home together for Christmas, and Jack was set to begin baseball in January with the rest of the team. 

But only a few weeks into the pre-season, the unthinkable happened: Janie stopped at a convenience store to buy coffee on her way to meet her study group off campus while Jack was at a team workout, and was caught in the middle of a robbery. She hadn’t even made it to the hospital, and Jack had considered quitting the team due to his grief. 

Her parents had convinced him otherwise - reminding him that he’d worked hard for years to get to where he was, and that she wouldn’t have wanted him to give up on his dreams on her account. His parents had agreed, though there were interviews where they admitted that they would have understood if he’d chosen to take a break or even quit outright. 

And Jack had taken a few weeks off, but was ready to go on opening day, dedicating his season to Janie and her family. He was a skilled player, there was no question about it, but the coverage of a D1 athlete losing his girlfriend in such a shocking manner helped draw attention to the man and his performance, and it hadn’t taken him long to grab the attention of scouts. 

He’d had some attention in high school, too, though nothing had panned out - aside from the offer of a partial athletic scholarship. That all changed in his sophomore year when everyone really took notice of his exceptionally high fielding percentage and his infectious enthusiasm toward his teammates. 

Jack declared for the draft that was to take place a month after finishing his junior year - only days after his 21st birthday, and The Statesman had taken him with the fourth overall pick in the first round. 

The rest was history. 

He’d played with The Cavalry for almost four seasons before getting his first call-up, and though it had been toward the end of the regular season, Jack had received an invite to Spring Training the following year … and he’d never gone back. 

In his second season with The Statesman, he’d been named the starting shortstop, making a name for himself with both his agility and personality. His teammates loved him. The community loved him. The cameras loved him, and in the five seasons he’d played in his original position, he earned two gold gloves and got voted into the All-Star Game once. 

But he was injury prone, and after careful consideration, they moved Jack from shortstop to third base. It was an adjustment period for everyone involved, though after a few years of playing the position, it seemed almost natural for him, and there were fewer injuries. 

Until earlier that season, anyway, when Jack had misjudged a slide into second and jammed his shoulder, spraining a muscle and knocking him out of all baseball activities for weeks. He’d gone on the 60 day injured list, though you’d seen him at more than a few games in the dugout before he’d headed down to rehab with The Cavalry. 

He was lucky he hadn’t needed surgery, and even luckier that there’d been no complications with his healing. According to the newest articles you read as you scrolled online that night, Caleb was correct and the team was aiming to have Jack re-activated by the following weekend so that he could finish the final 7 weeks of the season in the majors. Which is where he deserves to be.

You sighed and rolled onto your side, eyes still on the screen - and on a picture of Jack that had been taken a week or two earlier during a Statesman season ticket holder event. He was grinning from behind the bar, one hand holding a glass and the other pulling on a tap to pour someone a drink. 

“Enough.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of your nose with your free hand. Doing a deep dive on Jack wasn’t going to change anything, even if it was keeping you occupied as you wound down for the night.

But before you put the phone down and rolled in the opposite direction, you couldn’t help opening his instagram page and checking his tagged photos, just to see if the woman from next to you had posted the picture like she said she would. 

There were countless pictures of Jack in his uniform posted - everything from on-field screenshots to pictures of him with his teammates and family - but those were dotted with more personal ones; people tagging him in photos of themselves, edited photos, or photos of Jack alone that had been taken from other sources. You didn’t have far to scroll before you found the picture of Jack and the woman, tapping it with one finger to make it bigger. 

She’d put more than one filter on it, smoothing out her features and his, and when you zoomed in on it, you wrinkled your nose. Why would you filter him? He doesn’t need it. Even with the filtering, you could see the bored look in Jack’s eyes, his smile small and tight. Not like it was with Caleb. 

She’d captioned the picture with a black and a yellow heart bracketing the number 7, and it already had more than a few likes. She also had a story, and even though you knew that she’d be able to see who viewed it, you didn’t care, hesitating for only a second before tapping on it. 

The girl - whose name was Brittany - had posted a few times throughout the game; pictures from in her seat, a video of Jack walking up to the plate, her grinning at the camera at the end of the game with the scoreboard behind her… but the final story post was clearly a picture of a parking lot with a tall fence around it, and what looked like a security guard in the corner. She went to the lot. 

You sighed, backing out of the story - and her profile - and going back to Jack’s, eyes lingering on his account’s picture. You followed him, and had for years - liking and commenting on the pictures he posted as well as tagging him and the other players in the occasional ones you’d taken at games. He’d never replied or acknowledged them in any way, though. 

And he won’t, you admitted to yourself as you closed out of the app and opened your alarm, making sure that it was set. “Good luck, Jack.” Closing your eyes after setting the device down on your bedside table, you rolled away from it and got comfortable. As you settled in, you let your thoughts wander back to earlier - to the way Jack’s eyes had warmed when he’d smiled at you, and the way his smile had widened when he saw you and Caleb sitting in his seats. 

You would have been lying if you’d said that the memories didn’t make you feel good. It didn’t matter that he’d likely smiled at hundreds of others in the same way. He’d made the night special for you and for Caleb, and that was the important thing. 

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep - and Jack followed you into your dreams… which you didn’t mind at all. 

— 

You didn’t have a meeting until 10:30 the following morning and so you slept in a little, taking a shower and getting dressed before you even checked your messages. 

There were a few from Erin, asking for details, and you promised you’d reach out once you had a break. But before then, you needed to focus and settled in in front of your laptop, clicking open your first email of the day. Back at it. 

You worked steadily until almost 1 PM, checking things off of your to-do list and scheduling a second consultation with the same client for the end of the following week. You typically worked virtually - and had since your uncle had hired you a few years prior - but there were occasional accounts that required your presence in person. And this one’s going to be one of them. 

That wasn’t an issue. Their offices were located in New Orleans, and you were looking forward to potentially spending a few paid days in the city. But we’ll see. 

While you waited for your lunch to heat, you called Erin, your friend picking up on the second ring and groaning into your ear. “Whatever happened yesterday must have been incredible because Caleb hasn’t shut up since he woke up this morning.” 

“It was pretty great, Erin,” Taking a seat at your kitchen table, you laughed. “I sent him the pictures, did he -”

“He’s already set the one of him and Jack as his phone background. And he’s been bugging me to take him to get them printed.” You weren’t surprised; Caleb loved baseball, and the opportunity that he’d had at the game the previous night had likely meant the world to him. “So how did that happen? He just offered you the tickets?” 

“Pretty much. He stopped to sign for Caleb, and just out of nowhere, asked where we were sitting.” You wet your lips, laughing. “And then once he knew we were in the outfield seats, he just … pointed at the dugout and told us that we could sit in his instead.” 

“He offered them to Caleb? Or to -”

“Well… sort of.” You stood, looking out your back window. “He asked your brother where we were sitting but he was looking at me when he offered the tickets…” You pulled your food out of the microwave and set it down to cool. “And then when we were in the seats, he made eye contact with me a couple times, but -”

“How hot is he up close?” You snorted, but she continued. “Because that picture of him and Caleb? That man’s hand is -”

“Really hot.” Humming in agreement, you reached for a fork. “And he seemed really nice, too. Paid more attention to the kids than to the adults. There was this girl sitting next to us and she was clearly trying to catch his eye, but he barely looked at her.” You figured that he was a professional and wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize his reputation while on the field - and in front of younger fans. But still. She made it obvious. “He was polite, but he was just … going through the motions.” 

She hummed again, the sound non-committal as you took your first bite. “But not with you. And not with Caleb.” No, I guess not. “You should post those pictures and tag him.”

“Erin, I’m not trying to -”

“No, just hear me out. Maybe he’ll see them. And maybe he’ll remember you. And maybe he’ll -”

“Erin, come on. That’s a fantasy. I’m sure he’s got a million people tagging him every day. He won’t even see it if I do.” 

“You never know. It can’t hurt.” She said your name, the tone teasing. “And since Caleb’s account is private since he’s twelve, it makes sense you’d post ‘em for him. He really had a lot of fun with you. He’s already asking if you want to go to a game again.”

“Yeah. There’s still a little over a month left this season, so I’m sure we can figure out a weekend to see the Statesman. I’ll third wheel with you and Troy.” She laughed at that, agreeing. “I’m going to go, though. I need to eat. I have to run and analyze metrics for two campaigns this afternoon, and it’s going to take forever.” 

You hung up soon after, but as you ate, you contemplated what she’d said about posting the pictures. It was really no different than any of the other games you’d been to or posted about. You’d taken pictures that weren’t of Jack, and those could go up, too. Why not post the one of him and Caleb? It’s a good picture. 

After sending the final email for the day, you shut your laptop and changed into more comfortable clothes before stretching out on the couch. You needed to go to the store, but figured it could wait til later … and you had pictures to post. 

You chose five of them - one of the field from the concourse, one of the scoreboard, a picture from the seats, and then two of Jack and Caleb - one while he was signing and the other of them looking at the camera, which you made the main image. Choosing a caption was harder than picking the pictures themselves, but you finally opted for something extremely neutral: First @The_Cavalry game of the season. Great game, even better seats, and @CalebOnBase got to meet his favorite player. 

You tagged the picture - adding Jack and The Statesman’s accounts - and thought about adding one of Jack’s walk up songs to the post. No. That looks too desperate. So you posted it without, taking one final look at the images - and lingering on Jack’s smile - before you checked the Cavalry’s account to see if they’d posted that night’s lineup. 

Jack was starting again, but instead of being in at 3rd, he was the designated hitter. So he’ll get to bat, but can save his arm. It made sense, and you figured that if all went well, he’d only play in a game or two more before being called back up to the majors. And he’ll be back here. It made you smile, and the expression widened when you got a comment on the post from Caleb - four baseballs and the thumbs up emoji. 

You’d done your part, and that was that. Caleb could see that you’d posted the photos, and if by chance Jack saw the tag, he’d also see that you appreciated the seats he’d allowed you to sit in. With one final look at the pictures, you nodded and then sat up, sighing. 

“Alright. Grocery shopping’s not going to do itself.”

— 

You were stunned the next afternoon when you got an alert that The Cavalry tagged you in a story, and didn’t even try to hold back your grin when you saw that they’d reposted your pictures. You got a comment from their account a few seconds later - Glad you had a great time, thanks for coming! - the words accompanied by a blue heart and a baseball. 

After sending the link to Erin so that she could show her brother, you set your phone down, returning to the work you were doing. You stayed busy throughout the rest of the day, and even though your phone kept lighting up with new alerts - strangers liking the pictures and commenting on your post, it didn’t break your focus. 

And by the following day, things were pretty much back to normal. The story was gone, strangers weren’t still finding your profile, and you’d opted to work for most of Saturday morning to get ahead, which meant that you could take Monday off. And I can take a nap. I haven’t been able to do that in weeks. 

You pulled the drapes shut and then climbed into bed, the darkened room helping you to relax much faster than you anticipated. There was no need to set an alarm, and so you didn’t, figuring that you’d wake up on your own when you got hungry… which you did, just after 6 PM. Maybe I’ll order food. I don’t feel like cooking. 

You stretched, pointing your toes, and then reached for your phone, mentally flipping through restaurant options. But you froze with the device in front of your face as the screen lit up, eyes zeroing in on the alert in the center of it. 

Whiskey_Jack7 liked your post

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[notbecauseofvictories]

Hi Sarah, I'm going to visit Chicago in a couple of weeks and when I think of Chicago I think of you. What would you recommend I visit/do?

Unfortunately, Chicago is not its best self for a couple months---while I maintain that the city is for all seasons, summer is undoubtedly when it's most alive. However, there are a couple things I will definitely recommend for the unseasonably warm spring traveler:

(1) Eat some food

A friendly word of warning: do not be tricked into eating Giordano's or Lou Malnotti's. Perhaps your companions might try to win you over with promises of Chicago-style hotdogs---do not be swayed! You must manfully resist! (Harold's Chicken is that good though, and if you're close to the one in Hyde Park, feel free to devour the three piece dinner of your choice. Cheap bottle of the too-sweet wine I preferred as an undergrad optional.)

A much better option is to find a place that serves whatever food you love, but does it really really well.

Do you like sophisticated twists on a brewpub menu? Try Moody Tongue in the South Loop

Or are you really more of a tapas person? Highly recommend mfk in Lincoln Park

Would you prefer something a little....meatier? My favorite steakhouse in Chicago is Tango Sur (though I would argue their empanadas are really the showstopper)

There's nowhere in the city that does Hong Kong-style barbecue like Sun Wah in Uptown---I just stopped by after the parade for the Lunar New Year, the duck is to die for.

Are you on the West Side? First of all, do not go to Big Star. I mean, it's fine, but....come on. I'd pick Forbidden Root instead, or head over to Pilsen for Rubi's if you can't survive without tacos.

There are so, so many different bars I would recommend. Chicago was the home of bootleggers for a reason, goddamn it. Still, if you can't get to Wang's (look, I like Violet Hour too, but sometimes you don't want to drink in near-darkness), Koval (the rare distillery in Chicago), or any of the many, many craft breweries we have in the city right now, you probably can stop by one of the many, many, many bars we have in Chicago, and get a drink anyway.

There are more---of course there are more!---but we don't have all day. So instead I will leave you with this bit of wisdom: don't eat at Navy Pier or anywhere too close to Lincoln Park Zoo. If you are at a bar, don't settle for a burger when sometimes, the chicken tenders are actually better. And if you absolutely must go somewhere for pizza, choose Pequod's.

(2) See a thing

Chicago has many things in it! So many things! A hundred thousand things! Unfortunately, I don't know what you're into, so I will just talk about them in general.

MUSEUMS: I am a devoted museum-goer, and Chicago has blessed me with an endless feast. There are the big ones, of course---the Field Museum of Natural History, the Adler Planetarium, the Shedd Aquarium, the Museum of Science and Industry, the Art Institute of Chicago. However, my favorites are smaller, more unique: the International Museum of Surgical Sciences, Intuit (though it's temporarily closed, more's the pity), the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures at UChicago, the Lincoln Park Conservatory. That's not even all the museums in Chicago! That's not even all the museums that I've been to. It's amazing.

EVENTS: I once joked that I was a person who needed to schedule her enrichment like a blue-haired senior, but the joke was on me---I am that person! Fortunately, Chicago supports me in this endeavor by publishing many, many different calendars of "what to do this week or weekend". Do you want to see something onstage? Well, here you go. How about some classical music? I have a trusty guide. What about non-classical music? Always go to the Chicago Reader for that. Are you thinking of catching a game? Well, we're still in spring training for the Cubs and Sox, but the Bulls are doing okay even if the Blackhawks aren't, and we've got soccer (male and female) now too!

(Unfortunately, the Chicago Sky aren't playing right now, they're my favorites.)

OTHER: Unless you are extremely efficient, coming here and eating good food, doing one other thing, is more than enough. I promise it is! However, if you have more time, I definitely recommend just---wandering around. The Loop in particular is great for this, because it's reasonably small and everyone there is busy doing things. Going places, talking on phones, getting into or out of ubers, protesting outside of the Daley center, etc. etc. It's amazing to watch, and the buildings are pretty neat too.

Or you could wait a couple months, and take the Chicago Architecture Boat Tour, which I think should be a requirement for all Chicagoans. Maybe even everyone alive in the world. Just saying.

(3) Walk along the lakeshore

Chicago offers many delights, but I really do believe that Lake Michigan and its vast expanse of water, sky and space, is a unique gift to the city. It is beautiful in winter, in spring, in storms, in sun. It is free. You can sit in the grass or the sand or amble along its broad paths for miles, looking at unexpected art installations and waving grasses and the way the beaches slope to the water; you can talk to a friend or watch bikers and joggers pass you by. In the summer, there are a dozen different stands offering warm elote or cold soda, and cheerful men on jingling bike carts that will sell you neon orange push pops. In the winter, there are still bikers and joggers but also Canada geese, and you can stare mournfully at the slate grey water and ponder existence.

It is the heart of Chicago. Nelson Algren called us an "October city, even in summer"; Carl Sandburg described us as a shirtless dude who gives great oral. Personally, I think of Montrose Beach in the setting sun of winter, the sand almost too cold to touch---and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

[feefymo]

Heart Deco; James Patrick MarchxF!Reader

summary: James Patrick March is still alive and well. Prohibition reigns but he doesn't conform to the rules. With the intention of satisfying his alcoholic whim, he will make your acquaintance.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5953 words | murder, sex, violence, blood... it would be easier to indicate what is free of warnings!

a/n: little reminder that English is not my mother language so be gentle, please! I hope you'll enjoy this... long thing(!!!), especially @taintandviolent , to whom I want to dedicate it. Bye, little hummingbirds!

Year 1926.

Prohibition dried up the throats of Americans. It spread like a stinging disease, too bad James Patrick March liked the itch. He knew not to scratch but he hated the restrictions, so he was ready to relieve the tingling with a metal rake if necessary - even if it wasn't, in fact. If you're reading this, you know James Patrick March's special habits: he was a serial killer of the worst kind, sure. But that doesn't mean he didn't indulge in "surface" pleasures as well. Gentleman's pleasures, denied by society but still more accessible to the higher ranks. What hypocrisy! James, still alive and well, had received a tip-off and so here he was, heading to his car with fascinating cunning. Delighted by the pale sun that hit his figure, he was preparing to leave, arousing the interest of the ladies and the envy of some gentlemen. He knew the destination: he had decided to go to an isolated distillery in Calico, Ghost Town. A Sunday concession that brazenly opposed religious objections: a pair of sunglasses and the magical disappearance of the car hood were enough. James felt he was being watched, his ego picked up the signals and basked in it. At the same time, Mr. March succeeded in the fleeting attempt of not giving importance to anyone among those who remained entangled in his less dangerous net. Therefore, he set off enjoying the feeling of leaving anyone who bored him behind, there, to get intoxicated in the cloud generated by the exhaust pipe of his car.

The distillery stuck out of nowhere like the only tooth left in a homeless man: rotting, decadent, a building whose exterior was so ugly and run down that it aroused very little suspicion in the rare customers who passed by. For James, however, it was a picnic like any other that didn't affect his ginger mood at all. Indeed, the darker side of his spirit gradually took over, hoping to get much more than a sip of alcohol.

"Mr. March, it's a pleasure to have you here. We've heard about you!" "We've heard great things about you!" Mrs. Holland entered, interrupting her husband. The couple, too warm in their welcome for what James knew about the Dutch, stumped him with idle chatter. Pleasantries, useful insights into his constant thirst for blood which, if he wanted, he could have indulged in the blink of an eye. The man, treated with kid gloves, observed the two foreigners taking turns and competing to see who could best ingratiate him. For his part, the owner of the Hotel Cortez was experiencing a strong intolerance that he would keep at bay for a little while longer, behind a pair of wide, black eyes. Behind a plastic smile that his mustache shaded with surgical precision. While the types of alcohol available were explained to him, James soon realized that he was once again afflicted by the disease of boredom. A boredom that took him down, down, down into a spiral void that met and matched his homicidal instincts. Then came a first taste and his expression lit up faintly: "Aaah!" he croaked smugly, glancing at the bottom of the glass. "I was just impatient to savor what you praise so much." he turned on his heels with a movement tinged with theatricality, determined to take his own space and explore that dusty labyrinth of barrels and bottles.

He needed to stifle his bloody impulses out of mere opportunism and staying close to Mr and Mrs Holland made it unbearable. Almost impossible. So, whistling a dark tune that made him a recognizable target, he continued as if he were at home until a staircase aroused his feline curiosity. "Oh, it goes even lower! Are you perhaps going to distill all the way to Hell?" the man joked before biting the dusty air and performing a sizzling descent into the underworld. He wasn't greeted by a very different scenario, except for one detail that took his breath away once he understood it in its entirety. An arch had been carved into the wall in front of him. A blasphemous niche, made inaccessible by the glass that separated its "contents" from the rest of the distillery.

The content in question? You. Just you: disheveled, wild, ethereal. An otherworldly creature yet so seemingly fallible. Fragile and candid. You sat backwards on an old wooden chair, dressed only in a long cream-colored nightgown. In the center of the chest, sewn onto it, was a very red anatomical heart detailed with inlays and disturbing sparkles. Clinging to the back of the chair, you seemed twisted like the trunk of an olive tree to study the intruder without your expression being able to be deciphered.

For his part, James had been pierced in the chest by the poisoned arrow of a corrupt Cupid. Still, in a sculpted dictator pose, James let your bottled essence seep and nourish him. It seeped into his veins and electrified his brain. He gave you a stunned expression, as if your existence were an irreparable disgrace. "Well I'll be blessedly darned."

"Ah, you have found our Heart Deco." Mr. Holland congratulated, as if it were a treasure hunt. "We brought a gem from Amsterdam." The owner of the shack was pleased with the way James reacted to that vision: no judgement, no disappointment, no threat of turning to the police. What a morally healthy person would have found disgraceful at the very least, aroused in James an atavistic energy that he was just channeling onto this Heart Deco in its entirety.

It was as if Mr and Mrs Holland had totally disappeared from the planet: they spoke to him but James didn't turn around. His attitude had changed, he excluded them. He barely moved from the spot where he was pinned to observe and study you maniacally. For your part, you didn't show any kind of reaction: you didn't seem scared or infatuated. Curious, perhaps. You returned that oily look with equal intrusiveness. Imprudence, perhaps. There was something profoundly naive about you but that naivety was polluted and James picked up on it. He could feel it and appreciate it greatly. That day, he suddenly decided to turn his back on you, as if he had been burned by the mere image of you.

However, he returned. He came back and came back and came back. "Leave us alone." he commanded, his voice no longer composed solely of velvet but also of nails. A multitude of rusty nails. Your meetings, on the surface, were similar. Beneath the surface, something different, growing and perverse simmered more and more. James' ritual was always more or less the same: he also used a chair very similar to yours. It moved slowly, as if you weren't trapped and could escape.

He perceived you as wild and he was right. He sat calmly, sipped his cordial and smoked. Slowly. He stared at you like an artist stares at his unfinished work for hours, searching for the detail that would make it perfect. That same search afflicted James like a disease and made him more and more frustrated. By now, you were able to notice it from small details such as the pulsation of the jaw or the dilation of the nostrils. The very black, compact tuft that fell on his forehead and the pallor that increased on his marble face. You could even glimpse the muscles underneath his clothes so much so that, one day, you stood up.

You took him by surprise, forcing him to straighten his posture and roll his eyes. A few centimeters from the obstacle that separated you, you waited for him until he understood and stood up to meet you. Dazzled by your presence, he would have drawn a hundred fountains of childish blood just to hear you speak and his anticipation grew. It modeled his facial expressions, increased his breathing. In fact, you opened your mouth but to breathe on the glass and plant a kiss on it while your left hand slid in a squeaking sound until it rubbed at the crotch of James' pants.

There was no contact that wasn't imaginary, and yet, the man's erection grew instantly. James exhaled a tremulous sigh as he rested his forehead on the cool surface; he almost didn't notice that he had pushed himself against the glass to rub his cock against it. An uncomfortable, unsatisfying yet necessary friction. It hurt, it tugged at the intimacy of his skin but this increased his raging pleasure. He hated you and, at the same time, he depended on you. From the question he asked himself: "how fast does his heart beat?"

With a fist, he hit the divider and retreated but you were able to cut off his fury by holding on to the long pearly skirt of your dress. Wrinkle after wrinkle, you picked it up, revealing your legs and, after a few seconds, your pussy. Wet and luminous, you pressed her against the glass as well as your breasts hidden by almost transparent fabric. So, James fell to his knees with an expression halfway between disdainful and subjugated, venerating what you conveyed. "Oh, my precious creature…" he opened his jaws and licked nothing as if it were your cunt. He followed the lines of your crotch and worked his way into your tender center. His destiny was already written: he would eternally remain a murderer with the spasmodic urgency of authentic love. Devoted, if not downright submissive.

///

"And yet, we were convinced that you were interested in alcohol. You're ruining us like this!"

"If I really wanted to ruin your suffocating rat existence, I would already have burned you alive in this building. Without wasting even an ounce of creativity on it."

"Please, Mr. March. Leave these grotesque jokes aside. It's not something we can afford to give up!"

"Indeed. It's not a 'thing'… and neither of you take me seriously."

"You force me to be adamant, March: Heart Deco will not go away with you, that's out of the question."

"Adamant, you say? Mh! My dear gentleman, this negotiation has become very tedious and time, alas, is a tyrant. I apologize if the request has got you so… tangled up. On the other hand, you two are not even compelling interlocutors, therefore, thank you. Ad majora! If you allow…"

Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum. To err is human, but to persevere is diabolical, asserted Augustine of Hippo. And the Dutch had erred while James merely persevered. He traced his allegorical crop circles, pointing out the obvious, in reverse, on the only Bible he has left. What the couple had taken as a joke in bad taste, accidentally exploded together with their Ghost Town and without Heart Deco inside. Heart Deco, you, had sped away together with James, in the car that would take you to the Hotel Cortez. A silent but vibrant journey of adrenaline that, in different ways, you shared electrifying the road.

///

"Mr. March? Mr. March, wait!" a small nervous looking man chased James until he caught up with him but James didn't stop walking along one of the corridors on the first floor of the Cortez. "Forgive me Mr. Shaffer, I am desolated but, as you see, I have an unbreakable commitment." the owner of the hotel began by pronouncing his words. He sped up his march in long, elegant strides that distanced him from any mix-up. For his part, the little man in question was responsible for managing some projects relating to the building and, although he was intimidated by the figure of the other, he tried to insist: - But Mr. March, I need… -

"I must ponder, inept!" James interrupted him with a theatrical gesture of his hand, as if to chase away an insistent fly. "I'm not convinced about the color of the pool lining." he murmured with a caricatured thoughtful expression: although he seemed to be addressing someone, he was talking to himself, appearing and disappearing among the cones of light emanating from the walls. "Cerulean or Powder Blue? Cerulean or Powder Blue?" captured by that Hamlet-like doubt, James stroked his mustache and continued in his vicious circle. Mr. Shaffer stopped, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and took a breath but the hotelier burst out: "PALE TURQUOISE! … Perhaps." and then he disappeared, swallowed up by the dark secrets of Cortez. One, in particular, who fed his blood with trepidation.

///

Click.

Your breath flickered like a fish, simultaneously with the sound of a pause being pressed. Gradually, the huge room you had been led into began to light up. Small detail of no small importance: you could perceive the light but you still didn't know where you were because you were blindfolded. Blindfolded and with your wrists secured to two heavy iron rings stuck in the floor. Only later, you would discover that there were many others around you. Meanwhile, they kept your arms slightly open at the sides of your torso, in a gesture of false welcome. You remained still as long as you could, then you started to get agitated and not with the aim of escape. You fretted, smiling left and right in hopes of receiving more clues. "Mister… Mr. March?" you ventured, boldly, without receiving an answer. At least not immediately because, shortly after, the echo of slow footsteps began to spread and allow you to guess the owner of the shoes.

"Oh, but look at this. Look at yourself." the man began, as if it wasn't him who placed you at the bottom (extremely deep) of the indoor pool. "You are the Emperor's Nightingale, aren't you? I have always asked myself numerous questions about that fairy tale." James spoke, syrupy, feline and you heard him far away. You felt him close. You felt it everywhere, yet not there with you. "Freedom. A golden cage and no hunter will ever slaughter him. But if a mechanical bird takes over, precious, tireless, without feelings… what do I do with anything else? The mortal one?" a metallic noise interrupted James' prayer for a few eternal moments and a sense of bewilderment assailed you. "There, there dear: I'm here, with you. Who are you?" the strides lengthened and the man reached you, crouching in front of you. Despite exuding the heat of a living being, a drop of icy sweat ran down your vertebrae as if they were stairs. "Are you the living nightingale or the mechanical one? - it came naturally to you to make a gesture in support of your prompt response but this reminded you that you couldn't move your arms.

On the other hand, James was already thinking about it: you could smell the stupefying scent. The alcoholic notes on his breath that blended masterfully with the cologne he was wearing. Which he would soon impregnate you with. "Come closer. Come closer and feel how my heart beats, my Emperor." at that point James took a sharp breath through his nostrils and moved quickly against your chest, to make sure you weren't lying. To make sure there were no squeaky gears inside you. He was a serial killer and not a watchmaker for a reason. So, combined with the palpitations with which you were spoiling him, the man expressed himself in a low moan that was the soundtrack to his hands. He kept them open, caressing your nipples until they became hard enough to scrawl his palms. At that point, he grabbed both of your breasts, pressing his nose between them. You felt the ring he wore on his little finger create an inlay in your flesh and it was a pain that didn't seem enough. "Your ventricles flutter like little wings. Delicious." he noted, panting between his teeth, before grabbing the blindfold over your eyes and slowly but firmly pulling it down. "Good evening, my darling." James greeted slyly, tilting his head perfectly nestled in the hair jelly. A grin opened slowly, like a fan of premises to which you responded with a reverential nod. "Ooh, I like women who are a little formal and have hard nipples. How do you know it? You read my mind, maybe?" James, kneeling between your thighs, straightened his back in order to rummage through his kit.

“Are you going to kill me, Mr. March?” you asked without fear of the answer you would get, so his night gaze darted onto you. "I have the impression that it will entertain you more if I don't reveal it. " quick and imperative, he grabbed your ankle so that it rested on his shoulder and the fabric of the dress slipped, revealing a calf caressed by thick, weak and pale hair. Mr. March didn't care at all if and how much hair covered your gorgeous body, he was already incredibly aroused but he found it useful. They tested his lucidity like Russian roulette. Then, he began to touch your leg with the solemn touch of someone who comes across the fleece of some Greek deity; so typical of James. A master in veneration as well as in sugarcoating the pill. That could mean a night of his more conventional devotion to you or the calm before a storm.

Seeing the sparkle you saw in his fist, a tangle of dread expanded in your stomach. James held a razor in his hand. From the kit, he had taken only that. He slowly raised it so that you could get into visual confidence while he bent over your leg, lightly rubbed one cheekbone and then began to lick it in long stripes down to the knee. His irises, wells of black water, stared at your face, becoming opaque with growing eagerness. "Sometimes the pen hurts more than the blade… do you agree?" James asked in a slightly contemptuous whisper. Swallowing before going back to licking you. He stared at you expectantly, in a position that made his trousers extremely constricting. “Do you want the honest answer or the one you would like to hear?” your ulterior question bounced off the sinister and apparently pleased grin of the man, who snapped the blade and passed it over the (deliberately) insufficient layer of saliva. Once, twice, three times: the aim was not to shave you but to exhaust the viscosity and make you react to the burning. Craving it with the composure of a heartfelt gentleman, until you tried to withdraw and his grip became steel. James' idolatry of blood, your blood, could be read in his expression: "Oh, look at you Deco: I was so certain of your merit." Tiny blood gems decorated you like aristocratic stockings and, for each one, you suffered a little. However, the presence of James Patrick March continued to dominate the rest and your body, which reacted with pleasure.

The luck inherent in that individual lay in his wearing of many masks. Every day a different James, always methodical and lethal but often subject to boredom. He also put your other leg on his shoulder but he wasn't going to torture it, the idea had already tired him - exactly. He would bend over, literally lay between your limbs as the wrinkles in your robe rose and pooled on your contracted belly. Semi-prone, he seemed ready to swim in the absence of water, but instead, he gave himself the momentum to catch you by surprise and lift you up. Pushing yourself off the ground, more than half of your body was raised to his will. He had taken you away from the Dutch couple but not to free you. He had moved you from one prison to another, however, you loved every bar of this one. You stared at your warder with languor in your eye sockets: it seemed that his finely drawn lips were now made up with the blood you gracefully shed. He, however, did not return the gaze: ensnared by your shiny pussy, he had actually made sure of the absence of underwear. You weren't wearing any and it was as if your wetness were reflected shimmering in his dilated pupils; surrounded by the tiny splashes of blood now transferred to his facial features like freckles. He was exasperating you: he studied your sex with growing veneration but only his breath deigned to barely touch it.

"Mr. March… ?"

"What, my dear?"

"Please…"

"What. My dear."

“If you free my wrists, what can I offer you in return?”

Slowly, softly, James's frown became…pitying. He cocked his head to one side again and his eyebrows curved downwards. A vibrant "aaaw" tickled his whiskers. Whether it was a joke or not you wouldn't have been able to define it, especially since his aura made you numb. You were the clew of a sagacious cat whose canines terrified you more than the razor.

"As much as I love seeing your waiting cunt cry…" Mr. March could utter iniquities as if they were arabesques on silk. The premise sounded sinister and tempting: the ellipses were filled by the intrusion of his thumb, which approached your clit but circumnavigated it. It descended in two parentheses between the labia, then collected your juice with the linearity of a surgeon. You meweld impatiently and your thighs trembled. "…I don't see why not." he was indulging you and, even if you trusted him like a scrap of velvet decorated with splinters and glass dust, you couldn't help but rejoice.

"Of course, an exchange is an exchange. Calling it a "barter" sounds higly vulgar to me, so let's see…" he proceeded, crawling against your shaken torso until he stopped near your left breast. He caressed the nipple with a kiss before unsheathing the razor and cutting the edge of the areola in a dry line. Immediately, his mouth returned to collect the blood that rained down along with your squeal. He drank like Romulus with the She-Wolf, at the dawn of the birth of Rome. His eyeballs rolled, showing clearly visible capillaries. In raptures, he insisted on the wave of your snorts and your truncated syllables. As soon as he freed the first wrist, you brought your hand to his hair and, between spite and passion, closed it into a fist. You messed them up and tugged at them, eliciting a joyful, guttural laugh from the man's throat. "Some… milk is a fair price, don't you think? A favorable price." he had transformed you into the mother of sin. That milk had corrupted him and you, under hypnosis, were grateful for it. Electric, you closed like an oyster around him, licking away the crimson traces from his lips that had become your slave. The man's euphoria in seeing you as an accomplice, not at all impressionable, began to crumble his staid movements.

You were quickly reaching the same overwhelming rhythm of desires to express and this was underlined by a kiss that he dared first. His tongue, cryptic, pushed past your teeth in search of its twin. It swirled around it with the exasperation of a lightning-fast, toxic, iron-like love, bringing with it a long, hoarse groan. His beastly verse got caught in your throat and mixed with the notes you sang. Messyly, you grabbed onto James' suspenders and tugged on them in an attempt not to break the now soaked kiss. For his part, Mr. March stepped back with an air of surrender and opened his trousers. He lay down at the bottom of the pool with the sole purpose of dragging you onto him with primordial ardor. His grip on your hips was as merciless as that of a pincer: he was the one orchestrating your movements. The rubbing of the sexes, still hindered by his underwear.

“Are you confused, little creature?” he murmured, like a breathless movie actor. He smiled, though. He experimented, he pressed you against the veins of his cock in a shameless but still elegant dance. He raised his pelvis, rubbing his length between your melting folds. You, sometimes exasperated by the adrenaline rushes that James inflicted on you, tried to unbutton his shirt. "Do you wonder if… I will make love to you like a gentleman or… hm! Like a criminal?" with an abrupt interruption, he slide between your legs until his face could rest between them. “Should I treat you like a goddess or a prostitute?” he spoke deliberately close to your femininity, meeting it in a lustful stroke that turned into wide, slow lapping. He stared at you; he wanted a dirty answer of your reactions to his impromptu meal. He was entranced by the taste of you and he let you know by the moan that preceded the action of his right arm. He grabbed you by the throat but tightened like an hedcherkief.

"I can be… I can… a Greek goddess or not… there will be no difference between grace and dissoluten- oh James… James!" your desire to argue was overwhelmed by the pleasure offered to you. James had understood what you were trying to say and, appreciating your fine brain, had intensified his care. Small flicks of his tongue tapped on your clit, alternating with sucking. He stuck his tongue as deep as he could, fucking you through it before returning to the tangle of nerves. The middle finger took over immediately below and, shortly after, the ring finger. A cry strangled you and you almost lost your balance but the man bent a knee so you could lean against it. You swayed against his face and his fingers in blind desperation, so much so that you spontaneously grabbed the razor abandoned near you. James didn't feel threatened, on the contrary, he let you do it by curving his phalanges and detaching his mouth from your cunt from time to time, to observe how you melted on him. He stretched his solid neck, grinning with exposed fangs and nodding. He followed your moans but without adding sound; the wet chin jutted out and the nostrils dilated.

"Are you a mirage? Hm, are you darling? Prove to me that you're not at all…" you both knew what that meant. The grip around your slender neck intensified and the fingers, inside you up to the knuckles, became ever so slightly faster. Unstoppable like Mr. March's tongue that tirelessly slapped your clit until you heard yourself scream. Your sex pulsating furiously around the offending phalanges, dripping with scorching juices. For a moment you thought you would never recover. It certainly wasn't your first orgasm but you had never, ever experienced one like it and, at the mercy of delirium, you moved your right arm to the left and then quickly returned to the right and thus opened a cut in your lover's cheek. - HA-A! -the hotelier let out a long baritone growl bringing his hand, made slippery by your orgasm, to the wound. He stared at you with his eyeballs poised in their sockets, a furious bull who almost came in his own pants. Disoriented, you felt the need to rest that fought with the expectation of continuing and facing the consequences. You felt James Patrick March's impatience bubbling beneath you as before Pompeii was submerged by lava and you would not disappoint his expectations. Not after seeing him slowly lead the weapon of your defeat to his jaws to test it. Cleaning it of suspicious evidence as he scrutinized you and red flowed from his face. You curled up and licked it.

You looked like a dying candle and the dress contributed to the image, so you raised yourself on tremulous limbs and let it slide over the feline figure of your lover. Completely naked, you allowed yourself to look him up and down, still dripping onto his designer clothes. Juices, blood, tears, sweat. This created a growl in the back of his throat and he decided to get on his knees in front of you. Just like when a glass obstacle separated you. You preceded him, going back down and emulating his position before bending over at his crotch and unsheathing his thick cock. While you were admiring it, the owner of the Cortez proved to be prepared: he equipped himself with a cigarette. He turned it on and he took a greed drag from it. "You're also a warrior, then." The fact that he appeared relaxed was false, however, he guided his figure in sinuous nods that untangled your hair. He caressed your cheek before his cock was grabbed at the base and gently slammed against your cheekbone. Next, the tip passed over your lip perimeter like an obscene lipstick: consumed by haste, you tried to interrupt James but he hit you again with his cock. Harder. "Ah-ah-ah… greedy." he scolded in a grainy voice, as if he wasn't the first to have an insatiable hunger. In a mock bored manner he began to masturbate, his fist away from your initiatives: "Okay, lost creature: eat." March spelled out the order disguised as an invitation, slightly hunched over, before gathering your hair and giving you the go-ahead. You, out of breath, limited yourself to titillating only the frenulum, forcing James to stiffen like a statue of Italian marble.

"I am capable, Sir." you announced with renewed confidence, insisting on that very thin strip of skin. "I know how to pleasure a man with my mouth" you added, hotly, starting to dedicate yourself in great detail to the entire tip of the length. "And with the blade." James added as he studied you with clenched teeth around the cigarette filter, but his eyelids swayed heavily on his voluptuous gaze. Heart Deco, your stage name, emerged more and more from your arched body so that your captor's attention slid down your back to the roundness of your buttocks. "I know how to give an unforgettable blowjob." the punctuation of your provocation was replaced by March's dry groan. You began to repaint each raised vein with saliva, until you deemed it appropriate to go further. You began to swallow James's sex inch by inch, gradually. At the same time, your lover's no longer immaculate shirt fell from his muscular shoulders. He exhaled smoke like a dragon, taking a plastic pose as he held up what was left of the cigarette. Upwards, like a kind of torch to illuminate your sensuality. "Everything, Deco. Swallow it all. More. Mmmmore." declared the rich American, wetting his lips. "I believe you." he added hoarsely, blowing out a nicotine moan that accompanied his hand among your rebellious locks. He forced himself, thrusting his hips forward with the bluntness of a stab. The now extinct cigarette butt fell next to you as you expertly suppressed a retch. Your left palm crashed into James Patrick March's abdomen, enticing him to hold you by the skull. To ruffle you, indulge you…

He didn't warn you. He pulled back and positioned himself behind you in the span of an instant; you almost struggled to realize it. You preferred not to turn around, in fact, the sensation benefited you: now beyond your endurance limit, Mr. March grabbed you under the ribs and entered you in a tearing way. He remained still for a few seconds, exhaling ragged breaths and enjoying the suffocating welcome of your pussy. This allowed you to get used to it before the man began to pound you with the impetuosity of someone who discovers Eros giving in to Thanatos.

"OH MY GOD!" you yelped, snapping your head towards the kidnapper. You found him already looking at you with a pitch black strand cutting his forehead in two. With a caressing movement he pulled you up and leaned close to your ear: "Call upon me, not him: I killed God some time ago." what he said, how he said it, only made you more excited and needy. While he fucked you, vigorously massaging your breasts, you found purchase in his clean-shaven nape, naming him. Making you an echo of yourself. After a while, he responded to you with a roar and walked out of you gracelessly. He forced you to stand up and slammed you against the pool wall. You felt like an orphan but not for long because James came back to fill you, taking the breath away from both of you. Still between your walls moisted with longing, he brought your arms up. Up, up, up in a double and lascivious caress due to which you found yourself tied by the wrists again. You were the longest hand on a clock that now showed another hour.

"Please, James. Can you… hurt me? Can you do me ah-more? More? I'm begging you."

"If I can?" a sharp laugh filled your ear as he backed away with the aim of thrusting back into you like a slamming iron door. "I must." he huffed, continuing to push and push and push. His teeth clinging to the flesh in the crook of your neck: he was now transfigured into a pure beast, his claws stuck in your buttocks as he spread you apart with the sole imposition of his body. He wasn't a stingy or selfish lover, he had proven that to you. Now, however, his hasty descent into the Underworld of an unhealthy form of enjoyment was evident. You were his deadly river. You were his Styx and he had nothing but delirious, hissed compliments for you. One for each thrust into your now happily broken body. He squeezed your hands into fists and you, smiling, cried.

It was when an inhuman noise gradually exploded from James' lungs enough to fill the pool that he pressed his hot seed into your pussy. You, shocked, touched erotic epilepsy through his ecstasy. The tendons in his red neck ready to snap like whips as "Mr. Cortez's" knees buckled in a little snap and his temples threatened to explode. He directed his growl first at the blasphemed God then, with a movement of his head, at his mentor Demon. He fucked you beyond the climax until he suddenly stepped aside and staggered. He stepped back, trying to focus on you as a whole with the tip of his tongue at the corner of his swollen mouth. He nodded. He laughed, softly at first, but you only understood when his shoe hit the ground and made a watery sound. Now that he was settling down very calmly, March's laughter was louder and more theatrical: he was filling the tub and you were tied up. And even if you weren't, you couldn't swim. The color given to your cheeks by sex disappeared, turning into grey. Without the strength to struggle or the saliva to soothe your throat, you simply stared at your tormentor in astonishment. He approached you one last time, gently grabbing you by the chin and bringing your gaze up to his. He kissed you with the sweetness of a good and normal man.

“I could ennoble you with purpose.” James stated from an iron ladder, as if there were an audience watching the scene. "A subversive purpose: the end of Prohibition in America! AH! I could leave you here, soaking in water like the forbidden fruit that rots to transform into something far more diabolical. You could become the secret ingredient in my personal liquor." he insisted lewdly. Subtly morbid but blatantly thoughtful. From the opposite side of the pool, along its decorated edge, he watched you smugly as the water level rose. To the even number of jets, the same number were added. “Let me stay and look at you. Let me… think about it some more. Maybe-maybe, instead, you deserve our hearts hammering together…”

The degree of your agony would have increased along with the pure bliss of the memory. The ghost of James Patrick March's body, still stuck inside you. His cum still dripping down your thighs. His earthly version that studied you and, sadistically, toyed with your life. For you, nothing would have made more sense within the screaming walls of the Hotel Cortez.

"Oh, darling? I really need some advice." James awoke, as if from a long torpor and he grinned. "What color would you make this pool?"

taglist: @silverzoomies @doll3tt33 @wh0re43van @fear-is-truth @lacucarachapisser @nahoyasboyfriend @marchsfreakshow @coentinim (I took the liberty of tagging you but, if you prefer to avoid it, let me know! This tagging thing is unngfhdidsj ouff)

[wordywarriorwrites]

Life's a Dance

Title: LIfe's a Dance | AO3 | Rating: T Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x You Summary: Jack finds a second chance at love. Will he take it? Warnings: Alcohol consumption. Swearing. Mentions of grief/death. A/N: This fic is for @burntheedges "Roll a Trope" challenge (sorry I'm a day late!) and is an AU (obvs). Tagging @jolapeno, who gave me an inspirational and dare I say it, MOTIVATIONAL, "ooo," when I shared a snippet on a WIP Wednesday post.

My trope. Songs referenced in the fic: 1, 2

Jack watches – wide-eyed, with his heart in his throat – as you complete the clover pattern, quicker than lightning, bolder than brass. Fearless, you and that horse of yours, maneuvering around the barrels at an almost impossible-to-follow speed.

Now, he’s gnawing on his nails, knee bouncing, waiting for the results as the digital scoreboard goes blank. A hush has fallen over the crowd of some 19,000 spectators; they’re right there with him, with you, as the camera pans in close to your face, capturing your anxious expression in the moments before the announcement.

Eyes flickering back and forth between you and the screen, waiting, watching as your name ticks to the top of the leaderboard. The announcer barely says it’s ‘a record-breaking run’ before the crowd goes wild. And Jack is swept up in it – on his feet, bursting with pride, whistling and clapping and sharing in your career-defining achievement.

Thunderbolt is just as triumphant, receiving pets and kisses from you as he excitedly prances around the sand during the victory lap. The rodeo may be over, but the night has just begun; there will be press, a fan meet-and-greet, and then, an afterparty. Jack knows you’ll be busy for several hours, but that’s okay.

He can wait.

“So,” Tequila drawls, shuffling out of the stands and towards the stairs leading up to the exit. “How long you two been datin’?”

Jack nearly trips over his own boots, hand shooting out to grab the rail for balance, “Datin’? No, we aren’t datin’. We’re just friends.”

A quirked brow is all the response he gets – for now. Jack knows the meddlesome man is just biding his time. In fact, it’s nearly midnight at the honkytonk when he brings it up again.

“You may be retired, but your name still gets flagged when you travel,” Tequila points out, all casual as he drops truth bombs while sipping his beer. “You’ve been following the circuit. And for a man who didn’t even know what the hell barrel racing was a year ago… Well, I find that real interesting.”

Jack sighs and signals the bartender for another drink, “Look, I invited you here to help me spread the message about my distillery – not to comment on my friendship with--”

“You know, I see her picture pop up when you two text,” he interjects. “And I can hear you talking to her on the phone late at night. I mean, have you really watched all 17 seasons of Heartland?”

Jack grunts. Rolls a mouthful of Johnnie Walker across his tongue before swallowing hard and muttering that Tequila is one nosy motherfucker, who has absolutely no business listening in on his private conversations through the damn hotel room wall. But arguing is pointless – especially since saying anything otherwise would just result in him pushing the issue even more.

The purpose of the trip to Cheyenne was two-fold. First, Jack wanted to see you. Second, the biggest rodeo event on the circuit drew a lot of sponsors (aka: potential investors) known for putting their money in a variety of different cookie jars, and he hoped they’d want to partner with him on a whiskey distillery. Tequila, still in the game, knew all the players and was exceptionally good at schmoozing. It seemed like a win-win, but now, he can’t help but regret asking his too-observant friend for help.

“And the first thing you did when she walked in?” he carries on, all ‘ah-ha, got you now’ in tone. “You put your stinky Stetson on her pretty, little head. And if that’s not stakin’ a claim…” 

It’s the verbal equivalent of a knockout punch, causing Jack to pause mid-sip, but before he can counter, you sidle up between him and his buddy, effectively disrupting the sparring match.

You’re an all-Western cowgirl; from the boot heel to the ten-gallon he’d plopped over your brow after hugging you tight in congratulations. Long-sleeved shirt tucked into jeans. Winners buckle the size of his fist just below your navel. Shiny eyes and a toothy grin. You’re in high spirits, clapping Tequila’s shoulder in greeting before propping an elbow up on the bar and jutting your chin toward the teeming dance floor.

“How ‘bout it, cowboy?” you quip.

Jack should’ve known Tequila, the jabber-jaw, wouldn’t allow him to get a word out in acceptance or refusal. Like a dog with a bone, he buts right on in – says Jack doesn’t dance (at least, not very well). And he grins while he says it - as if pointing something like that out when a woman is asking you to bootscoot for the first time is somehow helpful.

Head tilted slightly, you look at him from beneath the brim of his Stetson, “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Tequila strikes again, this time, with something pithy Jack doesn’t entirely catch, but his ears pick up every, single detail of the asshole offering to take you for a spin. And it’s fine. Jack is completely prepared to let it go, to be the well-mannered man his mamma raised, but Tequila does the one thing guaranteed to illicit a baser response.

“Won’t be needin’ this,” he states, plucking the hat from your head and discarding it down on the bar top. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s boogie.”

Jack’s not sure how much time passes. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds? Like stones skipping along a pond, those seconds come and go so quickly, but they ripple and expand. He recalls his dead wife and son, and how he would be the man he is without having had and lost them. Then, the job, and the purpose it had given him until he’d nearly lost himself in it. Then, meeting you. If someone had told him he'd find a second chance at love at a random truck stop in Kentucky, he'd have laughed in their face.

But that's exactly what happened.

That syrup-sticky counter. The scent of cheap coffee and overcooked bacon. Clanking silverware and Coal Miner's Daughter playing over the speakers. You'd been watching barrel racing on your phone and taking notes on an egg-yolk-and-strawberry-jam-stained paper napkin when he’d asked if the stool next to yours was free.

A simple question. A polite answer. A shared glance that lingered a bit longer than was strictly polite. Chit-chat that somehow morphed into you showing him how to download Instagram so he could follow you – which had seemed a bit untoward of him, doing such a thing, but you’d laughed in that bright, sunny way of yours and assured him was normal. Ten minutes spent showing him how to scroll, and then, you’d dropped cash on the counter and tipped your hat. Bid him farewell. Headed out the door.

But you hadn’t left his mind.

Calls and texts and video chats. Red-eye flights and sunrise breakfasts. Lunches at small-town fairs and dinners at dive bars. Exchanging birthday and Christmas gifts. A year had come and gone, and in that time, Jack had gotten to know you. Knew what channels you’d be on. That your horse loved organic carrots. That you sometimes slept in the barn when your nerves wouldn’t allow you to rest in a hotel bed or even your trailer. You told him things – painful, private things – and in return, he shared feelings and thoughts with you that he hadn’t expressed to anyone else in nearly two decades.

You’d opened his eyes to a different way of existing; proved to him that life could be balanced between wildness and safety, excitement and the every day, and sorrow and joy. You showed him moments were to be cherished, and losses weren’t supposed to keep him locked in a perpetual state of grief until he either got taken out by an enemy or found a grave to lay down and die in.

Of course, there was something there. A flame, unfanned. A torch carried, but unacknowledged. You’d be going into the off-season, soon; still working and training, teaching breakaway roping lessons and riding classes and such, but not traveling. And God knows he’s got the freedom and capital to do what he wants and go where he pleases…

But it’s Tequila’s hand on your shoulder that brings all that chaos, all those ‘what if’ thoughts in his head, to a resounding halt. The seemingly innocuous touch of another man shouldn’t bother him, but it does because he knows it’s a challenge, and his own hand reacts – goes right to his hip on pure instinct – and if he’d been carrying openly, his palm would’ve been atop of one of his revolvers.

Tequila clocks it, but doesn’t back off; in fact, it emboldens him and prompts him to move his hand to your waist. A friendly smile. A guiding touch. A few words to encourage you to head toward the dancefloor and a narrow-eyed glare for Jack to either take a stand or stand down.

Jack is no coward, but he’s also no fool. And he’s not willing to risk losing your friendship over a pissing contest, so, he backs off. Inclines his head. Plasters a smile on his face that’s faker than a buckle bunny’s spray tan.

“Whatever the lady wants,” he says.

Whether the flash of disappointment in your eyes is real or imagined doesn’t matter because Jack ignores it all the same. Just as he ignores Tequila’s muttering fucking idiot as he passes.

The opening chords of Life’s a Dance ring through the air, and he manages to make it to the chorus before deciding he’s taken enough of a beating for the night. He doesn’t say goodbye – just shoots off a lame excuse text to you about an early morning meeting that doesn’t exist, followed up by one to Tequila, telling him to find his own way back to the hotel.

By the time he gets to his pickup, he’s spitting mad. Mad at Tequila. At himself. At you, for making him feel things he hasn’t felt in such a long, long time. For making him feel both safe and afraid to take that leap again. For making him realize wanting you didn’t mean he was being disloyal…

Keys rattling, he jabs the unlock button with his thumb and jerks the door open. Habit has him reaching for his hat, which is no longer there. His Custom Stetson. The one he’s had for ages. The one he spent an obscene amount of money on to have made just right. The one that fits his big ol’ dome so perfectly that there’s no way in hell he could ever hope to replace it.

Jack slams the door so hard, it rocks the frame. Then, uncaring of the fact that it’s a rental, he kicks the front tire with his boot, and that scuffs the rim up pretty good. That old, familiar darkness rears up, and his chest goes tight with it, but expletives and fists are literally reined in by a rope suddenly winding around his shoulders.

Arms pinned to his sides, he whirls, and spots you. A stationary target may be easier to rope, but the distance is impressive. So is the strength you display when you cinch him tight and give a forceful tug to his tether. Passerby-turned-on-lookers think so, too because they clap at your display. Some even whistle as he’s forced to walk toward you or else be dragged.

“You done, cowboy?” you ask, toes nearly touching his as he stands before you. “Or am I gonna have to put my spurs on?”

The glint in your eye is one he’s come to know quite well, and when he doesn’t answer, the rope goes tighter. It doesn’t hurt, but it gets his full attention – takes his mind off his anger, makes him focus, and has him realizing that you’ve not only roped him in, but you’ve got his Stetson on, too.

“S’my hat,” Jack blurts.

You grin. Cup his cheek in a leather-worn palm. Jack meets you in the middle, and it’s like slipping into a hot bath after a long, hard day. A first-time, we-waited-too-long-to-do-this kiss that carries on just long enough for it to mean something.

A slow parting. Your thumb ghosting along his lower lip. Lips curving into a smile, you say, “Hat’s mine now, cowboy.”

And he laughs.

And kisses you again.