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wonderlanddreamer · 2 months

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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.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinder fanfic #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons smut #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons x you #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons

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latenightagain · 7 months

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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.

#LOOK OUT IT'S THE GUY WHO DROWNS YOU #fakemon #pokemon #quarantinedex #quarantine crystal #romhack #qtdex

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recklessmark · 1 year

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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."

#nct smut #mark smut #mark lee smut #nct 127 smut #kpop smut

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ohtobeleah · 9 months

Text

Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Four: [Parental Guidance]

Summary: Jakes Mother simply cannot understand what he saw in you, your mother simply cannot comprehend why you left Jake.

Warnings: Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Overbearing mothers.

Word Count: 4:1k

Author Note: Mothers…Especially boy mothers can just be the worst when they’re in LOVE with their sons.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

November 1st

Bradley Bradshaw never thought he would be the person Jake Seresin called when he was in a situation and needed help, but here he was. Sitting in his Bronco outside the house of a woman he didn't know in the early hours of the morning watching Jake stumble down the small overgrown cobblestone path. The Halloween costume Rooster had seen Jake in early that night was long forgotten as the fighter pilot wore nothing but a pair of boxer briefs with his wallet and keys in the palms of his hands.

Immediately as soon as Jake sat in the passenger's seat of Bradleys pride and joy, he could smell the liquor trying to expel itself from Jake pores.

“You smell like a distillery and we have a HOP at 8am.” There was a very evident disdain for Jake's current state in Roosters' tone, Jake wasn’t drunk enough to miss that. “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night to pick you up anyway? What did you do this time to warrant getting kicked out?” Jake didn't respond right away as he kept his eyes staring blankly out the window, the two had only just recently been given new orders to remain in North Island permanently. But when he did speak up, Bradley's heart ached.

“I accidentally said my wifes name while uh–yeah.” Jake didn't think he needed to explicitly tell his wingman that, during one of the first and what Jake would consider the last one night stand he’d engaged in during your separation, he’d called out your name. “Vanessa didn't really like that.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Bradley agreed as he drove down the street. “That's rough dude.” Bradley knew of yours and Jake's separation, Jake had told him one night at the Hard Deck after he’d asked how the family was. The two hadn’t always been on good terms but Rooster liked to think you and him were close enough to send Christmas cards to. When Jake had told him you’d left? Bradley didn’t reach out—he assumed it was for the best all things considered.

“Yeah—but you know what’s rougher?” Jake sighed as he let his head fall back against the headrest.

“What’s that?”

“Knowing your wife won’t ever believe you’ll change.” Bradley knew without even looking at Jake that between the mix of alcohol and his desire to win you back that the naval aviator sitting with slumped shoulders beside him was holding back tears. “And proving her right by sleeping with some badge bunny who looked an awful lot like her.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Your home had never been so quiet with all three of your children gone. You stood in the foyer of the entryway just looking around at the mess that had been left behind. Forgotten toys yet to be put away, discarded shoes, dirty plates and cups. Pine needles that fallen from the faux Christmas tree that was essentially hanging on by its last thread. The reminisce of three young children that were allowed to be children inside the safety of their own home.

As you wiped away the tears that you had let fall freely down from your puffy eyes, you made an effort to tidy up the house you’d be leaving in only a few short hours to leave for the hospital stay you had planned. Tiny shoes with no feet to fill, toys left unattended over the holidays simply to be replaced by newer shiner ones.

Between now and new years while Jake had the kids in Texas your treatment plan would increase tenfold. You were scheduled for aggressive rounds of IV chemotherapy that you knew you’d have to stay in hospital for to go through, your body was barely tolerating the oral medication as it was. You were scheduled for a double mastectomy in your time at the hospital which would hopefully stop any cancerous cells from spreading to more lymph nodes and areas of your body that remained untouched. Did you have high hopes? Not particularly. But you were ready and willing to do just about anything the oncologist assigned to your particular case had recommended.

It was going to be a rough stint, but hopefully by the time Jake returned with your children, you’d still be able to mask your diagnosis. How you were going to explain the symptoms like hair loss and suddenly having no breast tissue to Jake was something you had yet to come up with.

But ‘New year, New me’ was looking like the best possible explanation. Maybe the new look would get him off your case a little when it came to working on your marital issues.

As you put things back in their rightful places and tidy up, you felt your phone ringing in your back pocket. The call ID immediately made you want to cry even more than you already had been.

“Hi mum—“ You cooed softly as you stood alone in your empty home. “I uh, I just got home.”

“How was Jake?” Your mother asked as she drove over to yours, you could hear the difference in her voice because of the shitty ass bluetooth system she barely knew how to work properly. “Did the kids kick up a fuss?”

“Jake was–” You would never be able to find the right words to describe your husband, well, ex-husband. “Jake was Jake mum you know how we are right now.” Your mother knew about your diagnosis. She had been the one who urged you to see a doctor after you told her you had found a rather large lump on your left breast. “And no, actually the kids were super excited to go with their dad for the holidays, I think they still don't really understand that I'm not gonna be there at all, maybe they just think I won't be there for a day or two, but uh–yeah, they were good.”

“And how are you feeling?” It was surprisingly a rather hard question to answer as you sat down on the lounge. For the longest time you had always put your family first, made sure all their needs were met before your own. From your kids to your husband they always came first, but now? Now you had to focus on your health and put yourself first if you had any chance of getting through the next few weeks.

“I threw up this morning–” It was your way of saying you werent travelling well at all. “After I slept with Jake–” You knew your mum would be shocked at your admission, so you closed your eyes and braced for it. The scolding, the “never sleep with an ex speech” But it never came. All that came was a sigh you couldn't tell was laced in disappointment or approval.

“You need that man in your life darling, he's a good man, the two of you just need to work on your differences.” Your mother had always had a soft spot for Jake Seresin, for a few weeks after your initial breakup he stayed in her spare room. Jake loved your mother like his own and you knew that if you ever gave her a moment on the soap box, your mum would scream it to whoever would listen just how much you and Jake were made for one another.

Which in your opinion was a little shitty. Jake had his own mum. You needed yours.

“I know he's a good man mum, that's why I married him to begin with.” You sighed heavily as you laid on the lounge to ward off the dizzy spell that was threatening to throw you off balance. “But I haven't been his priority in a hell of a long time, and I owe it to myself to not go back to being a married single mother.”

“Okay okay, well–” You knew your mum was only trying to help but it felt like the two of you had this very same conversation every time you spoke, it was like deja vu. “He won't wait around forever darling.” That fact you also knew, according to Jake himself her name was Violet or Vivian or Vanessa. Something that started with a V. Either way you knew very well that Jake wouldn’t wait around for you to take him back on his hands and knees begging.

But at the end of the day you weren’t sure if you even wanted him to wait for you. Of course you loved Jake, with your whole heart. But right now nothing made sense to you, you were dying after all.

“Trust me,” You rolled your eyes thinking about how Vanessa or Vicky or Veronica looked. If she looked anything like you or maybe completely different. If she had blue eyes you'd surmise that he probilby date her. “I know he won't, but he's not the priority right now, my health is.”

“I'll be there in about an hour or two depending on traffic.” For a split second you wished it might take a little longer. Although you loved your mum dearly and appreciated everything she ever did for you, her favouritism towards your husband made your blood boil.

“Okay, I might have a bit of a nap while I'm waiting for you, I'm feeling pretty shattered.” No word of a lie was spoken, you were exhausted to say the very least. Finally being alone and not having to be in constant caregiver mode for three young children truly had your body calling it quits. You needed sleep and so much of it.

“I'll see you soon alright?” You mum spoke through the bluetooth that crackled and broke with the failing reception, but you heard her just barely.

“Alright, bye mum.” You paused hesitantly as you let your eyes close “I love you.” It had been a while since you told anyone you loved them besides your kids, and for a second you wished it was Jake on the other end of the line. You did love him, probably more now than you ever had. Everything was just so messy, it wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

“Bye Darling.” Your mum replied. “I love you too.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“My babies!!” Janeen Seresin was in Jake's opinion, one of those women who never should have had kids, let alone four of them. Jake was the youngest of four Seresin children and the only boy. His father, Rodney, was a hard task master who no matter what Jake accomplished in his career or personal life, never seemed to be proud of the man he had become.

“Hi Ma.” There was a pretty simple explanation for that, Jake never took a beating without getting a few punches in himself. He wasn't the kind of guy who you could beat into submission even as a teen. “Merry Christmas.”

“Jacob oh my boy it's so good to see you.” Janeen took her youngest child in her arms in the threshold of the Sersein estate. Lavish gardens surrounded the old exposed red brick home that had been in the Seresin family for generations. Jake knew when his parents died it wasn't going to him, but to his eldest sister Julies. “Come in come in! You guys must be so tired after your flight.”

Jake, despite being a fighter pilot who had flown some of the most suicidal missions, was a nervous flyer when he wasn’t in total control. Commercial flying wasn't something he typically enjoyed. It made him anxious at the best of times and whenever he added his children to the mix he was sure that the way his heart pounded inside his chest during takeoff was early signs of an underlying genetic heart condition he probably inherited from his father.

“The kids are definitely a little tired, I think Sam's ears haven't really pooped either.” Jake cooed as he and his kids entered the house Jake grew up in, the overly eccentric, far too big, the annoyingly in your face house he knew you always hated. It always seemed to exemplify the two worlds you and Jake grew up in as children.

“Grandma!” Lucy interrupted. “Mum said that Santa will know exactly where we are if we put out cookies and milk for him and carrots for his reindeer like we do at home.” Janeen chuckled at her granddaughter as Jake placed Sam on the ground to walk off with his brother to explore the mansion style home that was far bigger than the one they were used to.

“Your mother would still have you doing those silly little things wouldn't she?” Jake bit his tongue as he watched his mother soothe a hand over his daughter's head. “Of course we can put out cookies and milk, but if I get ants you better be ready to clean them up little miss.” Lucy simply smiled and nodded in response, the dig had gone right over her six year old head.

“God Ma you'd think you never had kids of your own before.” Jake argued in an attempt to remind his mum that his kids were only young. The magic of Christmas was important to you and him. “I'm sure Santa won't leave cookie crumbs all over the house.”

“Santa isn't who I’m worried about making a mess–” Janeen tried to say the loud things quiet while around Jake's children, but the intent in her words was still as loud and as obnoxious as ever. “How is your mother Lulu? I’m sorry she won’t be joining us for Christmas and new years.”

“She’s been sick the past few weeks.” Jake frowned at his mothers smile, she left little to the imagination about her opinion of you. “But she’s better now.” Jake wasn't so sure of the statement his daughter made, the way you were only on your knees this morning throwing up into the toilet bowl made him frown in response. Jake had this gut feeling he couldn’t get rid of it no matter how hard he tried not to think about it. Was something wrong with you? Like, more than just a long winded flu? Who even gets the flu for three weeks these days?

“Oh I’m sure she is dear, right before her big trip away hey?” Ever since you and Jake separated, Janeen Seresin had been pushing for Jake to file for divorce and full custody. No one got to leave her perfect angel boy. In her eyes Jake could do no wrong, he was her angel, her precious baby boy that no woman could ever be good enough for.

“Yeah! She’s going to the snow with a bunch of her friends Grandma.” Lucy replied, she didn’t understand her grandmother’s resentments just yet. That or it went right over the little girl's head, either way Jake was thankful for her innocence.

“Oh I know your dads told me all about your mothers grand plans.” Janeen rolled her eyes pretty heavily at the idea you were off whoring yourself out on a ski trip out of the country while her son was tasked with looking after the three children you had with him.

“Ma, drop it will you?” Jake urged. “She’s allowed to go away for the holidays, she’s pretty much had the kids all year.”

“And why is that?” Janeen retaliated as little Lucy walked off to find her brothers. Jake followed his mother into the dining room where festive decorations dressed the dining table. Perfectly set and prepared. A stark contrast to your old chipped four seater dining table that had soggy cheerios spilled on the top just this morning. Jake much preferred the cheerio-covered table to his mothers perfectly decorated one.

Fuck, Jake thought to himself the more he looked around. His kids were about to mess this place up. He knew deep down that would bring you a little solace. You knew Janeen was sour on you. The idea of the kids making her life just a little more chaotic would normally make you chuckle.

“Because I live and work in North Island now, I don’t have the proper work schedule to take three kids on by myself.” That was the appropriate and only answer, but Jake knew his mother saw it differently. “I don't have to means to look after them myself–Y/n does, we both agreed on that when he split.”

“She’s keeping those kids away from you sweetheart.” Jake couldn’t have rolled his eyes harder if he tried, he’d been home for all of what? five minutes and already his mum was disrespecting you. “You don’t see those kids nearly as much as you should and it’s her—“

“Don’t you think that’s more on me then it is on her?” Jake argued back. “Come on ma you know exactly why we separated, I wasn’t putting in what she was giving and it damn near killed her. The last thing she needs is a custody battle.”

“What you ever saw in that woman I’ll never understand sweetheart.” Janeen cooed as she reached up to touch her son's cheek. “I always knew she was never good enough for my baby boy.”

Jake wanted to argue, he really did, but it was Christmas and his entire family would soon be filling the Seresin estate. So Jake pressed his lips together and leaned in to press a kiss to the top of his mothers head. He didn’t want to ruin yet another family holiday. He didn’t want to be dubbed the family disappointment because of his separation. Although he knew that's exactly what he was.

He just wanted to be loved. And at this point Jake was gonna take that love whenever the hell he could get it from.

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

“Y/n–” At first you didn't respond, but as your mother shook you as you slept on the lounge and called your name a few more times, you finally woke up. “Y/n, babe jesus have you been asleep since we got off the phone.?” It took you a moment to come back into your body as you wiped the dry drool that had leaked from your mouth onto your cheek. The discombobulation was clearly evident to your mother as she stepped back a little to give you some space.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You mumbled as you sat up. “I'm just really–” The all too familiar feeling of bile rising came hard and came quickly. “Oh god mum, get me a bucket!” The look of panic written in the tired lines on your face was enough for your mum to realise what was going on.

“Oh shit hang on.” Your mother hurried into the laundry nearby and searched high and low for something you could use, but you decided soon thereafter that it was quicker if you booked it into the kitchen and puke right into the kitchen sink. “Y/n! Oh god are you alright darling?”

For a single mother of two children, yourself and your older brother Carson, your mother did alright for the hand she was dealt. On the younger side, your mother always seemed a little ‘Childish’ in her nature and mannerisms. But she was your mum and you wouldn’t change her for anything.

“I'm fine–I just–” You couldn't keep anything down to save your life right now, so when your body wanted to expel any form of bile it was just stomach acid and remnants of whatever you had most recently eaten. Your mother did her best to comfort you as you coughed and splatted your gagged in the kitchen sink for dear life, she could tell your body was weaker than it ever had been just from the way you trembled under her touch.

It broke her heart to see you like this, so sick and fragile. You did well to hide it though, for what it was worth she thought you looked relatively healthy still. But it was still early on in your journey.

“I'm so scared mum.” You cried out through gags as you stayed bent over the sink coughing and crying. This wasn’t fair, you had a family to think of, kids to watch grow, a husband to hopefully fall in love with all over again. How could whatever god was up there do this to you? Why did this happen? Why you? What had you done so wrong to deserve this untimely fate?

“It's okay I've got you baby.” Your mother cooed as she rubbed circles into your back with her open palm. “Im here, I’ve got you now, let's get you ready to go up to the hospital hey, you wanna take a shower or?”

“Let me just brush my teeth–” You sighed as you spat into the sink to clear your throat. “I should ring Jake, make sure they got in safe.”

“I'm sure they’re just fine, he’d call if there was a problem, let's just focus on you for once.” You didn't want to feel like you were neglecting your children but you already felt like you were. They were your entire world, putting yourself first just wasn't in your nature. But as you thought about calling, thought about just sending a text, you looked at your phone to see a missed call from Jake about twenty minutes prior and a few text to follow.

:Lover: “Kids and I are here safe, ma’s on her fuck the ex campain already and dads nowhere to be seen.”

:Lover: “Hope you're enjoying your kid free afternoon, safe flight tonight, text me when you get into Calgary.”

You couldn't help but to smile as you pocketed your phone, you'd call Jake later once you were settled into your hospital room. Right now you just needed to finish packing, brush your teeth and get over to the hospital for your admission time.

“He loves you so much.” Your mother reminded you as she followed you up to your room to help you finish packing.

“I know he does.” You really weren't in the mood to be discussing the state of your marriage right now. “He deserves better, someone not riddled with cancer cells.”

“Is that why you won't even consider the idea of getting back together?” Your mother was nearly flawed when you silently nodded in return. “Y/n, don't you dare–” Again, you didn't want to talk about it. Between Jake's mother not being your number one stan and your mother playing devil's advocate what seemed to be twenty four seven, you were just over everyone having an opinion.

“Mum! He didn't care about me enough when I was healthy and happy and his wife! What makes you think he’ll care now that I’m literally dying!” You shouted as you threw a pair of extra soaks into your luggage bag. “It's not fair, none of this is, but I left him well before I got sick and me getting sick doesn't change the reason I left.”

Your mother didn’t respond, all she did was stare at you worryingly from across your bedroom room in silence. It looked as if she was trying to figure something out, read your face, understand what was going on. Then, after a few short moments of silence she spoke.

“Your father and I went through something very similar before he died.” Your parents had been divorced for three years before your dad died in an awfully unexpected car accident. It shattered your mum, you knew it did. “We never did get to a point where we could resolve our differences.” She explained softly as she walked over to help you pack the last few items. You let her help you fold some T-shirts, Jake's old T-shirts, as she spoke. “This past year watching you and Jake go around in circles about how much you both still love each other and how desperately he's willing to change in order to keep you is so infuriating because you, my baby girl, have already decided you're not worth loving because you’re unfortunately going through something I can't even begin to comprehend.”

“He couldn't love me before mum.” You simply sighed in defeat, god it was like you were going around and around on a ferris wheel. “What makes you think this changes anything?”

“That man has never stopped loving you Y/n, he just got a little lost, we all do.”

“If you had a chance would you take dad back?” It was a question you'd never asked before purely because you were afraid the answer would be no. now? As you tried to navigate the best thing to do for yourself, you desperately hoped the answer would be yes. Perhaps then you wouldn't feel so torn about hating to love Jake Seresin and his ability to captivate your entire being.

“Without a shadow of a doubt my dear.” You’d never seen your mother have to hold back tears so hard before in your life. She was watching her only daughter go through a battle she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy as well as trying to help you through your separation. Although sometimes unwarranted and unsolicited, she was still your mother.

“Without a shadow of a doubt.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~**

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#was it over? // jake seresin #tw: cancer #tw: breast cancer #jake hangman imagine #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman fic #topgun maverick #top gun fan fiction

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sunlightmurdock · 7 months

Text

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

#could be fixed???#will be running into the void if it isn’t #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #top gun smut #professor bradley #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x you

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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don't know if you're doing it for him but au request for country club!steve and comfort! like reader has to calm or soothe him

Only five seconds seemed to pass between the front door closing and Steve throwing himself down into the armchair across from you with a heavy sigh.

He looked weary, tired, but no less handsome, his suit jacket thrown over the back of the seat and his tie loosened, top three shirt buttons undone. He swiped a hand over his face, rubbed at the corner of his eyes and then met your gaze, his smile tired and soft.

“Hey, honey,” he murmured, looking over at your lounging on the sofa.

“I take it the meeting didn’t go well?” You were gentle in how you spoke, sympathetic.

Steve scoffed, a breath of humourless laughter leaving his lips and he tugged on the ends of his hair, making a mess of it. “That’s an understatement. Mr Laing is tryin’ to play hardball as if this share is worth be chasing it. He’s got Harvey and Paulson talking to me like they’re Wall Street big dogs and I’m just—“ Steve broke off, sighing. “And my dad’s on my ass getting me to close and he won’t fuckin’ listen when I tell him it’s not worth it.”

You pouted, brows knitted together with concern because your boyfriend always lost his cool when his father was involved. So you kicked off the cashmere blanket you’d been using to stay warm and offered a hand to Steve instead. “C’mere, baby,” you cooed. “Lemme help, huh?”

You didn’t know shit about stocks and shares or the inside workings of Mr Laing’s scotch distillery, but you knew how to make Steve feel better.

It didn’t take much coaxing and Steve rose from his slump, crossing the living room to nudge himself between your legs, his shoes kicked off on the rug. He groaned as he lay over your, head resting on your tummy, a pretty, humming noise leaving his lips when your fingers delved into his hair. He rubbed his nose along the cotton of your shirt, just above your belly button and he sighed, much more satisfied than the last one.

It was soft, so incredibly fond, the way you skimmed your fingertips over the planes of his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, alone his jaw. You watched his eyes slip shut, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks and you grinned, smoothing his wild hair back from his forehead.

“Have you had dinner?” He asked into the soft of your stomach, his wide hands coming up to coast along your waist.

“Not yet,” you told him. “Was waitin’ on you.”

Another groan, luxurious and loving, a kiss to the space between your breasts. “You’re too fuckin’ cute,” Steve whispered. “Wanna order in?”

“We can do that,” you agreed and you knew then rhat there wouldn’t be any plans for either of you to leave the couch that night - not that you minded. “Someone’s gotta call though.”

Steve shuffled closer, eyes still closed, pouting. “No, no, no.” He found your wrist blind, guided your hand back to his head. “Not yet, keep playin’ with my hair, m’almost cured.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #Steve harrington fanfic #Steve harrington fanfiction #Steve harrington blurb #Steve harrington oneshot #countryclub!steve #Steve baby blurb

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maltrunners · 7 months

Text

Coleburn 19 (1981) Signatory Vintage

Review by: Raygun Another closed distillery up, at least for now. Coleburn was mothballed in 1985 and so far remains that way. Murray McDavid bought the brand and uses its warehouses, and I hear has plans to resume production. When and whether they will use the original site and equipment, I don’t know. Whether they plan to use weird finishes for all of it has also yet to be announced. Reviewed…

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#closed distilleries #Coleburn #Independent Bottling #Rated 80-84 #Raygun #Scotch Review #Sherry Cask #Signatory Vintage #Speyside

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notbecauseofvictories · 7 months

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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.

#city of the big shoulders

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something-tofightfor · 4 months

Text

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.

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feefymo · 3 months

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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)

#american horror story #evan peters fanfic #james patrick march #ahs hotel #james patrick march fanfiction #nswf content #reblog if you like it!#feefymo #the fic is not a request

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roseghoul26 · 5 months

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Chapter 5: Your Opal Eyes Are All I Wish To See

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, First Kiss, Tags Updated Per Chapter Author's Note: this is a short chapter sorry! Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay Chapter List

It was comical, the way the cricket chirping filled in the silence as you stared at the older man. Your mouth formed the words but nothing came out, leaving you looking like a fool. You glanced between the two men, Hosea having a sympathetic look on his face. You couldn’t see Arthur, as he was behind you, but you quite honestly didn’t want to see his reaction. A sinking feeling formed in your gut. Did he know the entire time?

“I… what?” You finally found your voice, barely. You had to admit, it did make sense. You knew so little about his work, only knowing that he did distillery work, but made a surprising amount of money from it. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was actually invested in more… illegal means of work.

“If there’s a moonshine shack in the western states, then Mr. Kerrigan is tied to it. Either he owns it, supplies it, or gets a cut from it. No matter where you look, his fingers are all over it.” Hosea spoke, he and Dutch had moved closer to you now, now that they realized you wouldn’t lash out angrily at the information.

“Alright…” you took a breath. “So how does this include me?”

The two gentlemen looked surprised at your willingness, and that predatory smile returned to Dutch’s face. “You see, Arthur told us you might be willin’ to help us… deter your husband from further illegal endeavors… while we get our own cut, of course.”

At the mention of Arthur, you turned to look at him, finding him glaring at Dutch. “I thought I told you I don’t want her involved in this.”

“I know. But we couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

Another sinking feeling formed, this one stronger than he last, and the thought was dizzying. Did he only get close to you to secure a job?

You had to turn away from Arthur, no longer able to look at him. You didn’t think he’d be that cruel, right? Still, you couldn’t help the hurt and anger swirling in your mind.

Silence hung in the air now, and even the crickets seemed to realize the gravity of the situation, halting their songs. “Let’s continue this conversation inside,” you said through the lump in your throat. Climbing up the stairs of the porch, you held the door open, gesturing for the men to come inside. “Go ahead and take a seat in the living room. Just take your shoes off,” you added as they entered.

Arthur stayed put, looking at you with an indistinguishable expression. He murmured your name gently, but you just shook your head. Sighing, Arthur slowly climbed the stairs, halting in front of you in the doorway. When you still didn’t look at him, he continued on inside, glancing back at you with guilt in his eyes.

Dutch and Hosea sat on one of the couches, chatting between each other, and Arthur sat on the one beside them. They stopped their conversation when you walked in, and you shook your head, signaling for them to continue. “I’ll go get some tea,” you murmured, heading to the kitchen, and you heard them resume talking, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying.

You took a shaky breath once you were alone in the kitchen, bracing yourself against the countertop. You felt like you should’ve been more surprised about your husband's true business, but that wasn’t what was causing the negative emotion you weren’t feeling. Those two questions were playing on repeat in your head, and left you analyzing every moment you’d had with Arthur, questioning the authenticity of them.

The clinking of his gun belt moving as we walked brought you back to the present. Straightening up, you grabbed the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove, and began the process of boiling it. You didn’t even look at Arthur, not even when he said your name again.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” you responded, grabbing teacups and saucers. You hated the way your hands were shaking slightly.

Arthur didn’t respond, and you thought he left, until you felt him beside you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the proximity of his body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and that all but confirmed your thoughts.

“So you knew?” You stepped away from him, grabbing the tea leaves, strainer, and a few sugar cubes in a small bowl. Tears welled in your eyes, his silence speaking for him. You laughed bitterly. “You didn’t think that was important to tell me?”

“I didn’t know it was moonshine.”

“But you knew he was doin’ somethin’ illegal.”

Again, his silence spoke volumes. “I could care less if he was breakin’ the law. I don’t care that he’s sellin’ moonshine, or whatnot. But imagine if someone found out. I mean, y’all were able to. That would wreck my family. Any credibility gone, like that. And then what? I’m married to some old sack of shit with no income who can’t help my family and who doesn’t give a damn about me!” You really tried to keep your voice down, but you still found it rose in volume as the words spewed from you. “Those two years I sacrificed, worth nothing. So I apologize for my anger, but I don’t think any of you realize how ugly this could get.”

You barely felt the tears streaming down your face, panting as you caught your breath. There was still one question that burned in the back of your mind. Finally turning to face him, he stared at you wide eyes. “You know, you’re a damn good actor, Arthur Morgan. I guess I should’ve expected that from an outlaw. For a moment, I really thought you actually cared about me.”

That seemed to get him out of whatever shocked trance he was in. “Whaddya mean?” He asked, genuinely confused. Or at least you thought it was genuine. You couldn't trust your judgment anymore.

“Don’t lie. All this, gettin’ close to me, little touches, nearly kissin’ me. It was all a ruse, wasn’t it? Just to get the money, and once you get it, you’re gonna vanish, leaving me heartbroken and alone and stuck.”

“Darlin’,” he muttered, and you scoffed.

“Don’t. You don’t get to call me that like you… like you mean it.”

“But I do mean it. I know what this looks like, but please… please don’t think that the past weeks have been fake.” Arthur slowly moved toward you, and when you didn’t back up, he continued until he was right in front of you, just like he had been a bit ago.

“Then what should I think, Arthur?” You whispered.

“I can’t tell you that,” Arthur admitted. “But I can tell ya what you should know. You should know that I fought ‘em both on this job. You should know that I’ll make sure that nothin’ happens to you and your family. And you should know that I truly do care ‘bout you, darlin’. More than I can put into words.”

The kettle whistled, but it was all background noise to you. You also noticed the way Dutch and Hosea had ceased their conversation, blatantly eavesdropping on the two of you. You didn’t care. All that mattered was the man in front of you. It was hard to stay upset at him though, when he was looking at you so fondly, so softly.

“You mean it?”

Arthur smiled a bit, relieved. “I do.” You felt him bring his hands up to your face, gently brushing away the tears. “I hate seein’ you cry. And I hate that I was the reason why.” He held you for a few moments, and you felt the tears subside, your cheek only slightly damp.

The kettle’s noise finally registered in your brain, and you gestured to it with your head. “Mind takin’ that off for me?” You croaked out, voice still recovering.

Without another word, Arthur did as you asked, the annoying noise disappearing. You grabbed the teacups with their saucers and set them on a tray, along with the other components needed. You walked past him with the tray in your hands, heading to the living room. You walked with the confidence of someone that wasn’t just crying, and you prayed that your eyes weren’t puffy.

“Go ahead and bring that kettle with you,” you called over your shoulder.

Setting the tray on the coffee table, you took the kettle from Arthur. Pouring out cups for each of the men, you sat once you’d finished, leaving the kettle in reach of the men. Sitting across from them, you observed them preparing their drinks, and Arthur stood around, not quite sure where to sit. Moving over, you patted the cushion next to you with a soft smile.

With an equally soft expression, he sat next to you, and you resisted the urge to burrow yourself in his side. “Mrs. Kerrigan, thank you for inviting us into your home-”

You cut Dutch off with a light laugh. “No need to be so formal. We’re alone, ain’t we?”

“That we are,” Dutch agreed. “Should we get straight to the point, then?” You nodded. “As we said, Mr. Kerrigan runs the moonshine business in this part of the States. As you were made aware, we ain’t exactly upholders of the law, so we ain’t exactly looking to stop him. We only wish to sabotage him a bit. Attack his supplies on the road, destroy a few of his distilleries. That way, he starts looking for guns to hire. And that’s where Arthur and the rest come in. We’ll offer our services, protect his goods, and we’ll get paid.”

“Alright, that sounds like a decent enough plan, but how does this involve me?” You watched Dutch set the drink down on the tray, halfway drunk.

Hosea spoke now. “We have no idea where anything is at. We have no idea where the caravans are, where the shacks are, who he gets his supplies from. Nothing. We need you to get information for us.”

“You’ll probably have better luck doin’ it yourself, to be honest. He tells me nothin’.”

“We know that. We’re talking about physical evidence. Letters, logbooks, stuff like that.”

“That’ll probably be in his office, but I ain’t got access to that. Again, why don’t you go ahead and just break in yourself and I’ll just, I dunno, not pay attention.”

Hosea sighed. “Because the man sitting beside you would kill us if we broke into your house.”

So that’s what he meant when he said that you weren’t to be messed with.

You still didn’t think that they needed your help, but a new thought had you grinning. “Are… are y’all askin’ for my permission to rob my house and husband by havin’ me do it myself?”

“In a backwards way, yes,” Hosea conceded, and you snorted. “Arthur did also say you might be interested in… getting back at Mr. Kerrigan, in some way.” It was Hosea’s turn to set the cup down, this one completely empty. You noticed that Arthur hadn't made a move for his own cup, which sat steaming where you’d set it.

You had to admit, the thought was appealing, and you told them that. “It’s just, I’m afraid how this might end up affecting my family. What if he stops sendin’ my them money ‘cause he doesn’t want to lose more?”

Dutch and Hosea looked at you, confused. That’s when you realize you said too much; the only person beside you to know what was actually going on with your family was Arthur. It did mean that he had upheld his promise that he wouldn’t tell anyone else, though, and you were grateful for that. Still, you explained to the two men your situation, withholding details you deemed they didn’t need to know.

“I see,” Hosea shifted in his seat, giving you a sympathetic look. “We can’t promise that he won’t stop sending money, but we don’t plan on asking for a significant sum. Just enough to… help us.”

“And I want to help you, too. But you have to understand where my priorities lie. The minute he even debates ceasing his help to my family, then this is done. You stop attackin’ his supplies, his shacks, everything. If I find out you’re continuing afterwards, then I will be involvin’ the law.”

Hosea nodded, content with your response. “So you’re willing to help us?”

I want to help Arthur. You nodded, and Dutch extended out a hand. “It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

You took his hand, shaking it. “You too, Mr. Van Der Linde.”

You could feel Arthur’s eyes on you, unknowing that you knew what his last name was. You weren’t stupid. As soon as Arthur began to talk about the group that he associated with, it was pretty easy to link them to the Van Der Linde gang that's been headlining the newspapers Hans read. You didn’t mind the headlines; you knew this world was vicious, you had to do what you had to do to survive and protect your way of life. Maybe in another life, you’d be with them, escaping the confines of “civilized” life.

Dutch raised a brow. “Are there gonna be issues in the future, Mrs. Kerrigan?” You knew there was a threat under the disguise of a question, and you smiled sweetly.

“As long as you keep your end of the deal, then we won’t have an issue. I promise.”

The tension dissipated from the room instantly, and Arthur visibly relaxed in your peripherals. Hosea leaned into Dutch’s ear, speaking too quietly for you to make out, and you felt him drop your hand. “Now, I believe that it’s a good time to mention that Hans will be arriving back any day now. He had eyes on him during his travels, and last we saw he was in Valentine, heading back to Rhodes.”

You expected his trip to Tumbleweed to have taken significantly longer than that, but you realized that he was most definitely not there, probably somewhere in New Hanover instead. “I appreciate that. I’ll… I’ll try to get the information to you as soon as I can, but don’t expect it when he’s home. I can’t tell you how long that’s gonna take, so be patient.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Dutch reassured, but even you could tell that he was lying through his teeth.

“Good. Now, was there any other business we wished to discuss?”

“Not today. Thank you for the tea, ma’am.” Hosea smiled at you, and you were surprised to find how genuine it seemed. Out of Dutch and Hosea, you liked the gray haired man more. But maybe that was all a trick, you were talking to the leaders of the most silver-tongued gang in the States.

“It was my pleasure. Arthur, go ahead and wait down here. I’ll get that payment for you.” Without another word, you stood, collecting the tray and the different components. First dropping those off in the kitchen, you then made your way upstairs. You saw the three of them still in the living room, chatting amongst themselves as they got ready to leave. You failed to notice the way Arthur’s eyes trailed after you, Hosea and Dutch exchanging a look between each other.

Entering your room, your hands shook as you grabbed the money. It was ten dollars this time, payment for last time and today. You would be a liar if you said you weren’t scared to do what you were about to do. You’d never done anything that even hinted on being against the law, at least now knowingly. But you’d also be lying if the thought of it didn’t excite you, doing something to get back at Hans for the two years of hell.

The other reason your hands shook made his presence known with a light knock on your open bedroom door. Snapping your head over at him, startled, he stood in the doorway, leaning with his arms crossed. In the dim light, you could only see his silhouette, unable to make out any expression on his face. It had your heart beating, even more so when he slowly made his way into the room.

“How long have you known?”

“That you run with the Van Der Linde gang?” You shrugged. “Since you showed me the drawings.”

Arthur just hummed. “I don’t mind, you know,” you continued.

“You should,” Arthur countered.

“Why?”

“Because we ain’t good men, darlin’.”

“I dunno. From what I’ve seen, y’all are better than most.”

Arthur didn’t respond, unable to disagree with your statement. Tucking the lockbox back into its hiding spot, you met him halfway, holding out the bills for him to grab. He looked down at them, then back up at you. “You don’t gotta pay me anymore.”

Was… was he stopping his visits? Did he lie to you earlier? Dejected, you tossed the money on the bed, taking a step away from him. “So you’re not comin’ back, then?”

“I never said that. I only said you don’t gotta pay me.”

“Why?”

“You sure are askin’ that a lot tonight,” Arthur teased. “Would you believe me if I said your company is payment enough?”

“I’m sure my company is incredible,” you scoffed. “Sad married woman in the woods, nothin’ interesting’ ‘bout her besides being rich.”

“Are you callin’ me a liar, then?” Arthur challenged.

You almost wish you could. It would make things so much simpler. Instead, you found yourself shaking your head. “Why do you keep comin’ back?”

The atmosphere of the conversation shifted when you asked that question. The conversation had started out almost confrontational, but now it was shifting to something more… tender.

“I can’t get you outta my head, darlin’. Every single thought I have is of you. Even in my dreams, you’re in them. I can’t stop comin’ back to you, it’s like I’m fuckin’ addicted to you. And just when I think I’ve got it under control, you take my breath away with one of ‘em gorgeous smiles, those soft touches, those shy glances, and I’m hooked again.”

Arthur had closed the distance between your bodies sometime during his little speech, large hands grasping your hips with surprising gentleness. One of them danced up your body, caressing your side, then over your arm, causing you to shiver. You could see him smirk, loving the way you responded.

He eventually settled on your jaw, tilting your head back lightly. His eyes were dark, but you felt warm under his attentive gaze. Your lips parted, a small gasp leaving them. “Beautiful,” he murmured, almost awestruck, before his mouth was finally on yours. They were soft and overwhelming and they felt like home, and you felt yourself immediately melting against him. It was almost hard to believe that he was an outlaw with how gentle he was being.

He pulled you in closer, and you wrapped one of your arms around his shoulders, your other hand cradling his cheek. His beard prickled the delicate skin, but it just led you to think about what that would feel like elsewhere.

The way he kissed you was gentle, but the tightening grip on your hip and jaw was telling you he was quickly losing the battle with his restraint. Before you could push him further and lead to something more, he broke away, resting his head against yours. At least, as well as he could, his hat mostly got in the way.

Joy unlike anything you’d ever felt bubbled inside of you, escaping you in a small laugh. You’d just kissed Arthur Morgan, the man you thought was unobtainable. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you confessed, breathless.

“Me too, darlin’.”

He moved a bit, kissing your forehead, before resting his chin atop your head. One of his hands cradles your head to his chest, the other wrapping around your waist. Neither of you said anything, simply savoring the moment, and Arthur rocked you slowly. Taking a deep breath, it was mostly the scent of him that filled your senses, making your head spin even more.

He held you like that for a few moments, until you heard the voice of Dutch break the bubble the two of you had created. “Arthur! We’re leaving!”

You felt him sigh, leaning his head back to look at you again. “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s alright, Arthur.” You wanted nothing more than to have him stay with you, but he had responsibilities. You couldn’t fault him for that. “Just… kiss me again?”

He chuckled, holding both sides of your face now. “Don’t gotta ask me twice,” he whispered before reconnecting your lips, a pleased sigh leaving you. Fingers curled against your head as he deepened the kiss, pulling away when he heard his name getting yelled again.

You chuckled “Go. Before they come up here.”

With one final short kiss, Arthur pulled away, walking backwards to the doorway, eyes not leaving you for a second. “Have a good night, darlin’,” you heard him say before he went to turn, about to head downstairs.

“Wait.”

He did, almost immediately, turning his head to look at you with confusion on his face. You really weren’t quite sure what you were about to say, but you needed to say something to him. “Come back to me, alright?” It wasn’t what you really meant to say, but it would have to do for now.

“Always,” he responded with a smile, before vanishing from the doorway. You heard the sound of the stairs creaking as he headed downstairs, the voices of Hosea and Dutch audible soon after. Eventually, you heard them leave, leaving you in stunned silence.

Another light laugh of disbelief left you, holding your fingers to where Arthur’s lips had been. Everywhere burned where he’d touched you, and your whole body felt like it was on fire. The whole meeting with Dutch and Hosea had practically vanished from your mind, the only thing playing on repeat was the way his lips felt, the way he held you, the words he uttered.

Those memories continued to repeat themselves as you got ready for bed, your thin nightgown doing little to cool you off. They caused you to lay awake in your bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. The heat hadn’t subsided one bit, and you groaned frustratedly, sleep coming nowhere near you.

Getting out of bed, the cold floor felt nice against your bare feet, but it wasn’t enough. You debated grabbing a cigarette, the lighter Arthur had given you in your hands but you decided against it. For once, you didn’t want to forget the way someone’s hands were on you, and so you placed the lighter back into your nightstand.

Still, you stepped outside, the air of the night cooling your skin. Your mind still raced with thoughts of Arthur, but you were cooling down. Eventually, the air caused goosebumps to appear on your skin, and you took that as your sign to try and go back to bed.

Like you always had to, you had to pass the locked door of Hans’ office, and you finally remembered the meeting you had that night. Setting your hand on the doorknob, you debated trying to get in right then, but you realized you had no idea how. You didn’t know how to pick a lock, and breaking it down would be difficult and obvious. A problem for later, then.

Getting back under the covers, you felt better than you had the first time you went to bed. Sleep was closer now, and as you turned on your side, about to succumb to unconsciousness, you saw the empty side of the bed.

How you longed for Arthur to be there instead.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

You didn’t wake up alone.

It took a moment for your sleep-addled mind to realize that, nearly turning over and going right back to bed. But when it clicked, you nearly bolted out of bed, dread and sadness chasing away the happiness that came from your dreams of Arthur.

Hans was asleep next to you, his suitcases stacked in the corner of the room, snoring lightly as he slept. You knew he had to come back eventually, but it still wrecked you. Getting out of the bed as quietly as you could, you snuck downstairs, not ready to face reality yet.

You paced around your kitchen, running your hands through your hair. You weren’t ready to put on the act again. You weren’t ready to pretend like you were content being Mrs. Kerrigan. You weren’t ready to pretend like Arthur hadn’t just kissed you last night.

Groaning, you slumped against one of the counters, burrowing your head in your arms. That familiar feeling of guilt returned, but you fought it. You weren’t hurting anyone, being sweet on Arthur like you were. It’s not like your husband actually loved you, so you doubt he’d be too upset. He’d be more upset that something that was ‘his’ was ‘being used’ by someone else. Besides, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

And if you were happy, who was to tell you that that was bad?

Standing up, you rolled your shoulders, forcing a smile on your face. You could do this, you told yourself. This wasn’t any different than the last two years. Just suck it up and pretend. And then before you’d know it, Hans would be gone again.

You got to work cleaning up the kitchen from last night, washing the dishes used by the guests last night. Next, you started making breakfast, the smell of it probably being the reason Hans woke, walking downstairs blearily.

He sat in his chair at the dining table, and you served him a glass of coffee with a soft ‘good morning’. He didn’t respond, just sipping on the steaming beverage. It was hard to not look at him in a different light, now that you knew what he was really getting up to behind closed doors. But you kept your face impassive, heading back into the kitchen before the food burned.

Eventually, you served him his food, and you sat in your respective seat, much farther than you had with Arthur. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence, assumedly too tired to do so. “Sorry for wakin’ you,” you apologized, and he grunted.

“How was your trip?” You tried to engage him in a conversation, but were immediately shut down with a glare. All right, then. It took everything in you not to laugh at him. I mean you weren’t a morning person either, but at least you didn’t treat others like this. What an ass.

You turned your attention back to your plate, poking at it with your fork, appetite now gone. The two of you ate in complete silence, the only sounds being your silverware against the china and the scratch of your chair against the floor as you stood to refill his cup.

About fifteen minutes passed before Hans left the table, leaving his dishes for you to take care of. You didn’t have to look up to know where he was going, and you heard the sound of his office door shut moments later. When you confirmed that you were alone, you sighed, tired of just pushing the food around your plate.

You found that you desperately missed Arthur’s warmth, both physically and emotionally. The house seemed to agree with you; it had never felt so comforting, him being there making it so. Now it felt like a prison, your only company the memories of the last weeks.

You stared at the now empty seat across from you, forcing yourself to eat a few bites of breakfast, hating when you wasted food. You found that you were glad you agreed to Dutch and Hosea’s scheme; you were excited to make Hans hurt.

But for now, you had to push those plans out the window. You couldn’t do anything right now, at the risk of you getting caught. All you could do now was play his little housewife and wait for the moment that Arthur’s lips were back on yours.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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