#could the paradise thing even last a year

[poorrichardjr]

As a musician who lives in rural America, a lot of the hate for rap music is definitely because of the racism. Same went for blues, soul, and jazz.

I used to tell people I like everything from opera to punk, as I have music from all genres. However, even with that there are styles of music I don't vibe with. I don't generally like rap, though I will admit I haven't listened to much of it in the last twenty years. With that being said I think Ganster's Paradise is a masterpiece, and I used to have NWA and Dr. Dre in rotation when I was in college. I love heavy metal, but I don't really care for many of the extreme genres though there are some artists in them that I enjoy.

I don't expect people who like metal to enjoy all of the rap styles out there, and most of them would absolutely hate most of the non-metal music I listen to - especially the disco, folk, jazz, and classical. Just because someone doesn't like a style of music doesn't mean they are racist, and it shouldn't be the first thing that pops into your head, though if you have spent some time with someone you might know that the reasons they dislike something may be because of racist BS. Almost every person around here listens to country, which by and large I cannot stand at all in most cases, and most of those people will say they hate rap music. I could guarantee you most had never listened to rap with a critical ear. Though at least 50% of them won't listen to it because it is "black" music.

With the whole rap thing I think a lot of people don’t know its fine to just. Not like something. You don’t need a reason. Like I listened to a bunch of rap and found a few songs I liked but overall it wasnt for me. It’s not inherently racist to like and dislike music genres

the thing is that I think there actually is a pretty distinct line between people who just Don't Vibe With Rap and people who can't vibe with rap because its proximity to Blackness scares the shit out of them. like I've gotten plenty of people in my replies who just haven't found rap that clicks with them and feel whatever about it, and while I definitely think a lot of people should take stock of how their tastes and interests can be shaped by white supremacy, I genuinely don't think it's racist to not generally enjoy rap any more than it's racist to not enjoy, like, kpop or reggaeton or whatever. nothing is for everybody!

but then I get these clowns who feel the need to like. stand up on a chair and announce that they don't like rap because of [insert antiblack stereotypes here] and still desperately want someone to coddle them and kiss their little heads and assure them that it's okay to hold some super racist beliefs as long as it's just a ~preference~ like. fucking miss me with that, fix your life.

[solarhysm]

DUST OF US - 09

> synopsis: 7 years ago Y/N broke Jungkook’s heart when she decided to end their relationship without an explanation. When they meet again at a friend's wedding, after almost a decade, Jungkook needs answers to move on.

> pairing: Jungkook x reader

> genre: romance, ex to lovers au

> warnings: explicit languages, violence, smut, cheating, nsfw, angst, +18 minors dni !!

> word count: 4.3k

*french writer, i apologize in advance for my awful english!

It feels like the world is falling on Jungkook.

He’s let things drag on, and now he’s stuck. Hina traveled all the way here to see him—because he neglected her. Spending those weeks with you felt like living in his own little paradise, and even though he texted Hina sometimes, she was long forgotten the moment you were around. And now, Jungkook feels like an asshole. He became what he always despised: a player.

Slowly, he sits up on the bed, palming his face as he looks at the sleeping body next to him. Neither of you deserves the way he’s treating you. 

He knows where his heart lies—it belongs to you. But he can’t just sneak back into your life like nothing happened with Hina still unaware that her ‘fiancé’ is the villain in this story.

He gets out of bed, giving one last glance at Hina before walking to the living room, soaked in darkness, and collapses on the couch. He has explaining to do. To both of you. 

He scrolls through your messages—each one asking if everything is okay, to call you when he can. He didn’t reply to a single one. And he knows he has to, before you knock on Jimin’s door, worried.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters, throwing his phone aside and burying his face in his hands.

“Is everything okay?” Jimin’s voice pulls him out of the spiral.

Jungkook lifts his head to find his best friend standing in the doorway.

“Does it look like it?” he breathes, watching Jimin grab two beers from the fridge before heading out to the balcony.

Jungkook follows him silently and sits next to him, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” for the bottle. The cold beer is a pathetic contrast to the heat burning in his chest.

“I’m going to lose Nabi… And hurt Hina.” He mumbles taking a sip of his beer, jaw clenched as Jimin nods slowly, looking at the city above them. “I’m a fucking asshole. I deserve neither of them.”

“You’re right.” Jimin hums without hesitation.

“You’re supposed to comfort me.” Jungkook turns to him, frowning.

“I’m your best friend, not your fan. I’m supposed to call out your bullshit.” Jimin corrects him making Jungkook nods in defeat. “I told you to end things with Hina before starting something with Y/N. I told you to tell her the truth. Didn’t I?”

He sighs, nodding again. Jimin has told him. Again and again. He knows it.

“I was supposed to buy that plane ticket weeks ago… to end things with Hina. But I let time pass, and now it’s worse.” Jungkook whispers, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“What are you gonna do?” Jimin asks quietly, letting his friend find his own answers. 

“I can’t lie to Hina. I don’t love her. I don’t want to drag her into a loveless marriage.”

“You didn’t want to marry her to begin with.” Jimin points out.

Again, his bestfriend is right. He had no intentions to marry Hina to start. Jungkook is a people-pleaser, especially when it comes to the people he dates. When Hina found the ring he had hidden, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t for her.

“If she didn’t find the ring,” Jimin asks, “would you have ever proposed to her?”

“No.” Jungkook admits, looking at the floor. “I never imagined marrying anyone but Y/N.”

“That’s your problem. You always let life make decisions for you.” Jimin sighs, staring at his friend. “What are you scared of?”

Jungkook looks down, taking a deep breath.

“Hurting them.” He replies in a whisper.

"You're hurting them more by lying." Jimin shakes his head. "When Hina found Y/N's ring, you could have told her it wasn’t what she thought and told her the truth. Instead, you let her believe the ring was for her when it clearly wasn’t. And now you have to watch her wearing the ring of your first love."

“You’re right.” Jungkook pinches his lips together. “I’m a fucking loser who runs from his problems.”

But he wants to fix that.

“I’m telling Hina the truth tomorrow morning. I’ll pay for her return ticket,” Jungkook says. “And then… And then….” He swallows hardly before hiding his face in his hands. “Fuck, Nabi is going to hate me.”

“You don’t know that,” Jimin says, trying to comfort him.

“No… I know it. She told me.” Jungkook shakes his head. “I can only blame myself. Fuck… I feel like the day she left me.”

Jimin sighs and looks down at his beer.

“She’s not a kid anymore. Y/N’s mature. She knows you.” He gives Jungkook’s shoulder a small squeeze. “She knows you’re a dumbass, even when you’re being genuine.”

Jungkook nods slowly, but it doesn’t make him feel better. He knows Jimin is just trying to be kind.

“Kookie… you’re not a bad person. Some part of you was just too excited to have her back, and you stopped thinking with your brain,” Jimin adds, and Jungkook lets out a dry chuckle. “But you’re not sixteen anymore. Be honest. Tell her the truth. She’ll explode, yeah, but once she calms down, she’ll come back to you.”

“I don’t really think so,” Jungkook mutters, taking a breath.

“Dude. We both know her. She plays tough, but she never loved anyone the way she loves you. She’ll come around—with time. Just… don’t push her.” Jimin tilts his head to catch Jungkook’s eyes.

He knows Jimin is probably right. If you didn’t love him back, you wouldn’t have let him come back into your life. It only took a few months, a few dates and one trip to Busan, to ignite something again. 

Even after seven years. Because deep down, Jungkook will always have a special place in your heart. Just like you in his. You’re meant to be. And it was written a long time ago already.

Jungkook reads your messages but doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he has to have that conversation with Hina first.He sleeps on the couch that night. At least he had a few perfect weeks with you.

That’s the only comfort he can afford right now. Jimin gives him space for that big conversation he’s about to have, dragging Kentaro out of the apartment.

Jungkook stares into his coffee, hands clasped tightly around the warm mug when Hina walks into the kitchen with a soft smile.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," he replies, avoiding her eyes. She leans in for a kiss, but he gently pulls away. "Hina... I-I have something to tell you." He adds, stepping back to grab a mug for her.

Hina tilts her head curiously as she watches him pouring her a cup of coffee before setting it on the counter in front of her.

"Did something happen?" she asks, her voice laced with growing worry.

"I... I saw her."

Hina’s face falls. She knows exactly who he means. She’s heard every story, seen the pictures at his parents’ house. You’ve always been there, like a shadow, like a memory he couldn’t quite shake.

“I see.” Hina says, swallowing hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding.

“I understand.” It’s all she manages to say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Hina has never had a problem living with the ghost of you hovering behind Jungkook. When she met him, they were two heartbroken souls trying to heal. She turned the page. He never did. And she knew that.

She envied the love he had for you. And a part of her always hoped… that one day, he might love her like that too.

“I love you,” she says, softly.

He pinches his lips together, staring down at his coffee. Silence hangs between them before he finally lifts his gaze.

“I love you too… but not in the same way.” He swallows, standing straighter. “Hina… I can’t marry you.”

His eyes fall on her as she’s silent, chewing the inside of her cheek. He wants to punch himself for hurting her. She doesn’t deserve what he’s putting her through.

“Hina—”

“I heard you.” She nods. “Does she love you back?”

“She does.” His voice is low. He looks like it’s physically hurting him to say this to the only genuinely good person he’s ever known.

“I’ll never be the one to stand in your way.” She takes his hand in hers. “If it’s meant to be, go. I want you to be happy.”

Jungkook gets up when he sees the tear fall from her cheek. He walks over and pulls her into a hug as she starts sobbing.

“I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” His voice breaks as he tightens his arms around her.

Hina pulls back and looks at him as he gently wipes the tears from her cheek with his thumb. He feels horrible to hurt her. Jimin was right, if he did that earlier, he wouldn’t be here right now.

“I want you to find someone who’ll love you… completely.” Jungkook says as she nods, sniffing. “That person isn’t me. If I marry you, I’ll always think of her. You don’t deserve that.”

“Thank you… Jungkook.” She whispers, looking down. “And I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you.”

He wants to say she’s wrong. That he’s just a coward who cheated on his fiancée with his first love because he can’t keep his dick in his pants. But this isn’t the time to make it about him, and he knows he’d look even more like a narcissistic asshole if he talked about himself right now. So he stays silent. 

“Well,” Hina takes a deep breath, wiping her cheeks. “I’m here for five more days. I’m probably asking too much, but can I… at least have you for that time?”

“W-What?” Jungkook blinks.

“Not as your fiancée. Just… as your friend.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. She should hate him, but instead she wants to make the most of the days they have left.

“You did promise to show me Seoul,” she adds with a sad smile.

“I did.” He gives her a soft look.

“She’s lucky to be loved by you,” Hina says again, then hesitates. “I, uh… I’ll move my things out of your room—”

“No. Stay. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jungkook insists. “You’re not going to spend your last days here stuck in Jimin’s living room.”

She nods. And maybe Jungkook is the lucky one—for having known someone like Hina at all.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends after I go back to Tokyo?” she asks quietly, playing with the spoon in her coffee.

“Do you… want that?” Jungkook frowns. “I disrespected you. I cheated on you. Lied to you.”

Hina chuckles softly, her fingers caressing the wood of the counter as she takes a deep breath.

“I won’t lie, I’m a little upset that she came back in your life. But I also understand that you love her. You were still healing when we met. I knew what I was walking into when I fell for you.” Hina explains as Jungkook nods.

He looks down at his mug, guilt crushing him.

“But… thank you,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper. “For not letting me be the other woman.”

That hits him hard. Because she could’ve been. So easily.

“Maybe… if she hadn’t come back, you would’ve moved on. Maybe it would’ve faded with time,” Hina adds, chewing her bottom lip.

He doesn’t agree. Not even a little. Because he never forgot you—even before seeing you again at Hyesun’s wedding. He had actually hoped never to meet you again. Because he knew. He knew he could never erase you from his memory. You were, and still are, the love of his life—now and forever. And Hina couldn’t change a thing.

You were never going to fade. Not from his skin, not from his bones.

“I need to call her now… to… explain.” Jungkook says simply, exhaling deeply before leaving the kitchen.

He knows Hina is probably still watching him. Raking a nervous hand through his hair, he grabs his phone and starts pacing in Jimin’s room. He sits on the edge of the bed, thumb between his teeth, praying, just a little, that you won’t pick up.

But you do.

And he hears your voice—slightly breathless like you were waiting for his call and ran to your phone, slightly worried.

“Kook? Why didn’t you reply to my texts? I tried to—”

“Nabi…” he murmurs, and you go quiet. He can feel your silence in his chest.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls and texts. I had something going on here, and—”

“Is everything alright?” you cut him off gently. “Are you okay?”

“I am. Please, don’t worry about me,” he says, wishing he could just teleport into your arms and kiss the worry off your face. “I’m okay. Just… yeah.”

He presses his palm against his face. Hina was the easier part. You… you're going to be the hardest truth he’ll ever have to face.

“Do you want me to come?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head instinctively, as if you’re standing right in front of him.

“No. I’ll be back at the end of the week. I just… I have something I need to finish here.” His voice drops. “Nabi… I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

“What?”

“Just… trust me.”

Silence.

“Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you whisper. He wonders what you’re doing. Are you sitting? Standing? Crying?

“Don’t worry, okay? It’s nothing. Really,” he lies, swallowing his own guilt. “I love you, Nabi.” His voice cracks. “I just wanted you to know.”

And before you can say anything before he can hear something that might break him further, he hangs up.

You only just found each other again. You haven’t said it back yet, and with the way things are now, he doesn’t want to hear it. Not like this. Not when he knows he still has a storm to confess. He doesn’t want to break his heart harder once he’ll tell you the truth.

When he steps out of the room, Kentaro and Jimin are unpacking groceries. Hina’s still sitting at the counter. Silent. Like she has been all day. Jungkook sinks into the stool next to her and feels the weight of everything crash back down. But he knows that he’s the only one to blame. Jimin glances a few times in his direction, without saying anything.

The rest of the afternoon blurs. He dissociates, barely notice when Kentaro put a beer in his hand. His brain is somewhere between regret and memory. Somewhere between your laugh and Hina crying in his arms.

The sound of Kentaro’s voice yanks him back.

“Why do you look like someone just died?” he groans playfully, tossing a pillow at Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook blinks, barely registering.

“You’ve got your fiancée, your best friends, and you still look like you’re on another planet.”

He is. He’s on your couch, in your arms, watching some dumb drama with you and stealing glances every time you laugh.

“Sorry.” He sighs, rubbing his face and taking a sip of the beer.

“Let’s play a game!” Kentaro suggests.

“We’re not in college anymore,” Jimin groans, playfully shoving him.

“So? You’re not fifty or something either.” Kentaro replies, pushing him back in return.

The doorbell rings.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay fixed on the droplets sliding down his bottle. Jimin gets up. Hina squeezes his hand, still trying to be the gentle one. He doesn’t deserve her kindness.

Then he hears you.

“Where is he?”

You sound breathless. Worried. Urgent.

“Y/N—” Jimin starts, but you’re already through the living room.

You freeze.

Jungkook is sitting on the couch. Hina’s beside him. Her hand is on his. Her other hand rests on his back. And when your eyes lock on his, the world stops.

“Hello?” Kentaro raises a brow.

“I came here as soon as the shop closed,” you say, voice tight, eyes darting between their hands and Jungkook’s blank face. “I thought something was wrong. I thought you needed me.”

“Y/N…” Jungkook breathes, getting to his feet, panic crawling up his throat.

You take in the setting: half-finished beers, snacks, music humming in the background. It’s not the emergency you pictured when he said he couldn’t see you until the end of the week.

“So you’re here, partying with your friends?” you ask, your tone sharper now. “That’s why you couldn’t see me?” You step closer. “Cuddling with… who are you?”

Hina stands up, understanding who you are without being told.

Jungkook’s brain short-circuits. He wanted to tell you this...not like this. Not with everyone watching.

“We weren’t—” Hina starts.

“Of course you weren’t,” you cut sarcastically, shaking your head.

“Nabi…” Jungkook reaches for your arm.

You step back.

“Wait. The Nabi?” Kentaro stares like he’s seen a ghost. “You're the Nabi?”

You frown at his words like they’re absurd, and yet Kentaro is staring at you like he’s seeing a ghost. Of course, all of Jungkook’s friends know who you are, even the ones you’ve never met. Jungkook can feel the dominoes falling.

“Can we talk in private?” he asks, gently, stepping toward you.

You’re trying so hard not to explode. You want—need—to believe there’s a logical explanation. That you misunderstood. That this isn’t betrayal, not really.

“Are you okay with that?” Kentaro asks, worried for his friend, as Hina who widens her eyes and shakes her head for him to not say too much. “What? You’re his fiancée after all.”

Your brows widen, your gaze falling on the other woman in the room, right behind Jungkook. Jungkook sighs, closing his eyes.

“Fiancée?” You repeat. Your gaze whips from Hina to Jungkook. “Fiancée?”

And just when Kentaro opens his mouth, Jungkook raises his voice.

“Shut your fucking mouth, man. For God sakes!” Jungkook snaps making Kentaro freezes.

It’s the first time that his friend sees him explode like that.

Jungkook knows that Kentaro is loud, it’s not his fault. He’s not aware of the situation here. He doesn’t even know half of the story.

“Y/N…” Jungkook says your name in a breath as he takes a step to you, taking your hand. “Let me explain—”

“Explain what?” you hiss, yanking your hand from his. He sees that you’re connecting dots in your head. “That story about your friend juggling two girls? That was you, wasn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I knew something smelled off,” you laugh bitterly. “But I told myself, ‘Jungkook would never.’” You glare. “And yet… here we are.”

Jungkook’s heart clenches at your words, and he swallows hard. His throat is so dry he almost coughs, though he’s not sure if it’s a cough or a cry he swallowed in that moment. The look on your face right now is exactly what he tried to avoid. But deep down, he knew that with all the shit he did, it was only a matter of time.

“And you’re okay with it?” You turn to Hina, who takes a deep breath, her eyes dropping to the floor like she’s intimidated by you, and Jungkook can understand why. “I can’t believe it,” you say, letting a dry chuckle escape your throat as you take a step back.

Jungkook is bleeding his emotions through every pore. His skin burns. His throat aches. He can’t breathe.

“You should dump him. In that story, he said you were just someone ‘special.’ Someone you’re about to marry shouldn’t think so little of you.”

Jungkook’s eyes fall on his thumb, which he’s nervously scratching, ripping the skin next to his nail until it bleeds.

“He played both of us.” You shake your head, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Don’t try to contact me ever again,” you spit at Jungkook before turning your back and walking to the door.

Jungkook takes a tentative step forward, but he’s stopped when the door is kicked closed. He’s torn between apologizing again to Hina, showing her the respect she deserves, and running after you. But when his eyes meet Hina’s, she gives him a small nod, silently telling him to go after you.

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers to Hina, not waiting for anyone’s reaction as he rushes to the door.

He stops at the elevator, jabbing the button with shaky fingers. You’re probably already inside. His mind races—no, panics—and he doesn’t waste a second before sprinting to the stairs.

Jungkook catches your arm just in time, right before you reach the front door of the building.

“Nabi, let me explain,” he pants, out of breath.

You push him away and keep walking, stepping out into the night.

“I’m not with her anymore!” he shouts, chasing after you.

“I should give you a medal, then,” you snap, yanking your car door open. But before you can get inside, he slams it shut, trapping you between him and the car.

“Get off.”

“Y/N,” he pleads, steadying his breath. “I’m not letting you go until you let me explain.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, probably hard enough to taste blood. Your arms cross tightly under your chest, and Jungkook exhales shakily. You're not walking away. You’re angry. But you’re listening. That flicker of hope nearly kills him.

He reaches out to touch your arm, then stops himself. You don’t want him touching you. Not right now.

“You’re the only one I want, Y/N,” he says softly. It sounds more like a beg than a declaration.

“You played on two boards, Jungkook.” Your voice is cold. “You lied to me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He swallows hard. “But that wasn’t what I wanted. None of this—”

“What?” you cut him off. “Sleeping with me? Or asking her to marry you?”

You try to open the door again. He blocks it.

“Shit, Y/N, listen to me.” His voice raises instinctively. Your eyes widen. He instantly backpedals. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

His tone softens.

“Nabi…” He gently cups your face to make you look at him. “Have I ever made you doubt that I love you?”

Your eyes meet his. For a moment, nothing exists but the two of you.

Then you shake your head slowly. No...he’s never made you doubt that.

He never hid that you were his entire heart.

“I never thought I’d see you again after you left. I tried to move on, date others... but fuck, Y/N. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to marry. You know that.” He swallows. “When I saw you at Hyesun’s wedding... I didn’t even think. I had to. Because our story wasn’t over. We both knew it.”

Your eyes close briefly like his words cut too deep.

“But that girl,” you take a deep breath, reopening your eyes. “She was still your fiancée. Maybe not now, but she was—when you asked me out. When we kissed. When we fucked.” You gesture wildly; your voice full of fire.

Jungkook sighs, his head falling forward as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Things got out of control. I hurt both of you, I know. That was never what I wanted.” His voice breaks. “I was just so fucking happy to have you back, I lost sight of what I needed to do. I should’ve broken up with her the second I realized it. Wherever you are, I’ll be there too. That I will never love anyone the way I love you.”

You shut your eyes. It’s too much. You feel it, he knows you do. But will that be enough?

“Please, Y/N. Forgive me. I fixed it. I swear. I told her everything—I’m with you. Only you.”

Jungkook sees the way you take a step back, bumping into your car. His stomach drops.

“I don’t date cheaters,” you say quietly, lifting your chin. “You should’ve never come back into my life, Jeon Jungkook.”

“Y/N…” he breathes, taking a step back like your words physically knock him down.

“You think because you broke up with her recently, I’m just going to smile and open my bed to you again?” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re a fucking liar. A narcissist who thought he could have both. What was I, huh? A side chick?”

“How could you say that?” Jungkook frowns looking at you, rolling your eyes. “I’ve never treated you as a ‘side chick’. You were never that to me. Never. Fuck, Y/N. What should I do to prove to you that I’m genuine about my feelings for you?”

He watches as your gaze drops, your jaw tight. A tear slips from your eye, trailing down your cheek.

“Disappear from my life.” You reply with difficulty before wiping your cheek angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“No…” He shakes his head, his view blurring slowly. “You can’t ask me that.”

You take a deep breath, pulling your car door open again. He grabs your wrist—not hard, but desperate. This conversation isn’t over for him. He wants to fix everything; he wants to go back to how perfect you two were a few days ago.

“Let go.” You warn making him frown. “Let go, or I’ll punch you. I’m not kidding.”

Jungkook’s hand fall back on his side at your words. Not because he fears your punch. But because he fears your hate more than anything else in this world. He watches your car drive off, the red of your taillights disappearing down the street.

And even though his heart is in ruins, he clings to one thing: This isn’t the end. You both just need time to cool down. He just got you back. he’s not going to let you go. Not again.

< previous - MASTERLIST - next >

WATTPAD.

[bunny-jpeg]

crisp mornings

simon "ghost" riley

tags: smut/pwp, morning sex, age gap (20s/40s), oral sex, cowgirl position, size difference/kink, retired!simon

sun gleamed through the window in the bedroom. despite living in london, you had seen yourself quite a bit of sun. but this fall day only had streaks of light between grey clouds. you rolled over against your lover and pressed your cheek against his hard chest.

the solid mass of him made you feel protected as you snuggled up against him. he huffed and wrapped his tattooed arm around you. he pulled you closer to him and buried his nose in your hair. he exhaled deeply, feeling content as he held you.

"mornin'." he said as he slowly opened his dark eyes, "lights botherin' ya?" he looked towards the window.

you placed your hand on his chest. the little diamond on your wedding ring gleamed in the morning light. you replied, "nothing your cuddles won't fix." then kissed his muscular chest.

simon curled up closer to you and cupped your behind. he snuggled up closer towards his sweet wife. even gave your behind a small squeeze which made you playfully slap his chest. he only chuckled in response, "aw, i thought you liked when i played with your behind." his voice was like honey and it made your body feel hotter.

"i do. now, do you want some morning tea?" then cupped his scarred face for a moment before you tried to get up. but you didn't get far as he pulled you back into bed and kissed you on the mouth.

"could think of something else to have. something much, much better, lovie." he took hold of you tightly, "something to wet the throat." then licked his lips, his tongue grazed across the scar on his lip.

you cupped our older lover's face and looked him in the eyes, you smiled at him, "i think tea and a blow job will get your going." then pulled away. simon wasn't going to say no to that.

simon was used to the rough and tough of life. so to have a cute little missuses bring him tea in the morning was a bit of a shock at first. but now, he had grown to accept it. you wanted to do things for him, just as he did for you.

you were a marriage of equals after all.

but, he did like the sight of his padding out of the bedroom and return soon after with a mug of tea in hand. dressed in simon's shorts, baggy sleeping shorts and fluffy socks that were pulled past your ankles. you looked comfortable, and simon loved it.

he wondered if there were panties under the shorts, the pair you had on last night were over the desk chair at the corner of the room.

"here you go, honey." you smiled at simon who took the cup from you. before you could sit down next to him on the bed, he gentle pushed you down on your knees. you giggled as you put your hands on his thighs, "someone wants it."

"for you? always, i always want you." he said as you moved your hands to the waistband of his sweatpants. he admired you on your knees, he enjoyed the view. you looked good. you could feel his erection through his sweatpants. you pulled it down and you shifted a little on your knees to get more comfortable.

you took his quickly, lips wrapped around his cock as deep as you could take it. he was big in so many ways, broad shoulders, strong neck, large arms and a massive cock. it took years of dating to take him properly in your aching cunt. you took him beautifully now, you knew exactly how to make him feel beyond amazing. you shifted your knees once more and felt the ache in your core. a want for him.

"oh, hell, love. ya feel like heaven. my little slice of paradise. glad i put a ring on you." he combed his rough fingers through your soft hair as you continued to suck him off.

"si..." you said as you pressed your hot cheek against his thick thigh.

"let's get this shirt off of you, love." he said as he pulled the t-shirt off of you, it left you near naked. you then quickly got your shorts off before you got you got your mouth back on his cock.

the throb of want was felt to your core as you orally pleasured him. he held onto your head a little tighter. you looked like a dream on your knees with simon's cock in your mouth. he loved the feeling, felt perfect around his cock. that was why you're the good wife that simon knew you were.

"my good girl, right, angel?" he kissed you on the top of your head. then continued to move your head up and down his cock. he felt the staggering heat in his stomach. made the fire in his blood only grow hotter. you were damn near perfect, electric as you moved your head up and down. he was painfully in love with you, everything about you.

you were his younger wife that he slipped a ring on when you failed your military entrance exam for the fifth time. simon thought you were a better wife than a soldier.

now you were on your knees, giving your husband the wake up he deserved. drool coated your chin as you pleasured him. you felt the curl of want in your soul. the throb was in the back of your head as you continued to move.

"my fuckin' girl, my missues, my cock hungry little thing." he shuddered as he gripped your head a little tigher as he took a sip of his tea. you knew exactly how he liked it. a bit of milk and a little sugar, perfect.

you moaned from his words as you felt the pleasure between your legs. you moaned as you moved faster. the intense heat left your core throbbing, you felt painfully hot with sweat on your skin. you held onto his thick thighs tighter and moaned around his cock.

soon, simon took your mouth off of his cock and you whined. he picked you up with relative ease and got those panties off of you before you seated yours on his cock. he sipped into you with every more ease.

he groaned as he placed a hand on your hips and picked his cup off the nightstand where he put it before he picked you up. he sipped his tea while you rode him. he admired you as he said, "always make it perfect, love." he kissed your collarbone, his lips warmed by the morning drink. you moved yourself against him and he loved the feeling. he felt the emotional high only increased at the feeling of you/

your cute cunt around his cock as you rode him like you had done so many times. you held onto his shoulders while he drank his warm tea. he admired you and you felt sweat along your backside. you looked beautiful to simon, such a sweet little thing. he couldn't get enough, that was his wife.

the only mrs. riley.

he groaned through a tense jaw and you moved faster. he felt his pulse pick up at the sensation of your cunt around him. "my, my, mrs. riley. most probably feel bad for you. seein' my ugly mug every day." but his words were silenced for a moment before you pulled him in for a moment. he had to steady himself so he didn't splash tea all over you.

"enough of that, sir. i just want you, only you. no one else could be my husband." you held his face.

"mmm, you spoil me." he said with a heavy amount of love in his tone, "i'm spoiled by my sweet little wife. fuck, you feel so good. you feel like a dream. all mine." usually a man of so little words, he was often mouthy with you in the bedroom, he allowed his love to spill from his lips.

simon loved you and wanted you to know very clearly his feelings towards you. you still drove him mad,he was so lucky to have you by his side. he sipped his morning cup once more and you quickly moved against him.

poor thing he knew that angle might have left you feeling particularly achy as you straddled his waist. you looked like an angel on top of his cock, you took him so well even with the slight aches and pains. the pleasure still was immense.

he finished his cup and put the cup on the nightstand then started to really worked himself against you. both hands on your soft hips and he worked his cock up against your lovely pussy. he filled it perfectly as you continued to move against him.

"my wife."

"my simon."

the title sounded delicious a sit came off your tongue. it sounded perfect. he was yours and yours only. why would he anyone else when he had you? he didn't get many miracles in life, but you were certainly one of them.

"my pretty wife. can't get enough of you. this pretty cunt of your, they don't make them like you. so good for your husband, so well behaved for me. fuck, my love." he groaned as he thrusted up into you.

you clutched onto him, his praise made you turned on in a way that made you see stars when you closed your eyes. simon simply kissed at any inch of skin he could get his lips on. his lips on you made our heart race as you neared climax. it didn't take much longer before you held onto him tightly and finished.

"si!"

"got you, beautiful. always got you." and you believed him because it was the honest truth. he wrapped those strong arms around you as you continued to try and meet his pace post climax. you felt the excitement all over.

simon was in love with you, his beautiful lover. even with the size different and the age gap. he loved the sight of you. you continued to look like heaven on his hefty cock.

"fuck." he kissed you as he moved you against his cock while you were panting from the heat of climax. he held onto you tightly and moved with you. you could feel the inferno in your gut, the same as him. you brought him to climax with a few more strokes of your hips. you sent him over the edge and he spilled himself inside of you.

you both slowed to a stop after he finished. you stayed in his lap with his cock inside of you. he gave you gentle kisses across your heated skin. eventually you were put into bed with simon. he gave your stomach a good pat and smiled at you. he admired you lovingly for a moment and said, "love, didn't make yourself a cup. let's fix that." then leaned in to give you a soft kiss before he got up to get you a morning cup.

you watched him go, stark naked and scarred. his stomach back o display as he left the bedroom. you remained cuddled up in bed at peace. you'd always be there for your husband, and he would always be there for you <3

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Waking Up in Vegas"

Prologue, Chapter one:, Chapter 2,Chapter 3, Chapter 4:

ok guys! we're back and reader's hot girl summer has started! Sorry I was gonna put this chapter out earlier today but i've just been so busy today plus i'm cooking up a 3rd part for "older" I got my period AND i have a math test and english essay coming up. If some parts don't make sense, its on purpose. Reader is disoriented and drunk half the time, the days blur together for her. Lmk what yall think of readers hot girl summer and what you want/think will happen in the next chapter .Sorry for any mistakes! Comments, reblogs and ASKS make my dayyyy and encourage me.

Saint-Tropez wasn’t just a place, it was a playground, a haven for those who didn’t care about consequences or anyone else’s rules.

And you? Well, you were done with rules.

For the last two weeks, you’d been living like this, untouchable, free, and completely lying to your family.

You had told Bruce you were staying with Ariel and her father, which was true, for the first two days anyway.

Ariel's father is a busy man, he couldn't take 2 and a half months off work to babysit two 16 year olds who would do what they wanted anyway. As soon as he left, Ariel began calling your two other close friends, Claire and Rory. Together, all four of you were unstoppable at school though it was an unspoken rule that you and Ariel were the dynamic duo. All four of you stayed in Ariel's ocean front villa, relaxing, tanning, and just getting settled.

God, let's not even start on how drastically everything changed while you were at boarding school and the family found out Tiffany's true colors. They were all so.....protective now. You got calls everyday, from each of your 'siblings' separately, dozens of texts asking you what you ate, who you were with, and what you were doing. You didn't entertain them. The only person you replied to was Bruce, and that's only because you knew if he wanted to, he could call off this whole trip.

You didn't answer Tim's random, vague questions like, "Who's that on your story? Do you know them? Are you sure they're safe to be with?" He was asking about a simple sunset dinner picture you posted with Ariel, so you blocked him. He's way too nosy.

You didn't reply to the groupchat the girls, Barbra, Steph, and Cass added you in called "The girls!!"

What a creative name!

You left after you saw 'Tiffany was removed from this conversation'. Maybe you were being petty but they obviously had this chat before and didn't bother to add you to it before Tiffany was exposed. It was your turn to ignore them.

You definitely didn't reply to Damian's outright threatening messages that he sent almost every other day, they all sounded something along the lines of "You will regret this. You cannot simply leave and run away from your family. Come home or else."

He's such a strange little boy, he spoke and acted like an angry Victorian prince. He texted you like you were close before, like it wasn't him who pushed you away. You were coming back in two months and yet he acted like ran away and changed your name.

Jason, Bruce, and Dick were the most consistent and annoying, in that order exactly.

Jason texted you every morning at 8 and every night 11, like clockwork. His texts were daily updates what he was planning on doing that day, asking you the same, and reminding you that he's sorry and that he loves you. It tugged at your heart not to answer him, and sometimes, you gave in and you could feel the joy in his response when you replied. You and Jason's conversations went like this, on the odd occasion you replied,

"Good morning." - Jason

"How are you? No trouble in paradise I hope."- Jason

"My days gonna be pretty dull today, nothing much except patrol. Might go to that bookstore you used to like." - Jason

Your cold heart would melt when he said things like that and you would reply,

"awww! jason, thats so sweet." and follow with "I'm good!! how bout you??? staying out of trouble?"

Jason was your softest spot and he knew it.

Bruce texted you three times a day. Morning, afternoon, and evening. His messages were dry and authorative, demanding answers. He wanted to know who you were with, what you were doing, if you left the house, and if you were okay. The fatherly care and authority isn't something your used to, it was strange. You weren't sure if you felt cared for or suffocated. You answered Bruce once a day, your tone straight to the point, answering only what he asked, nothing more.

Dick is by far the worst. He texted you constantly, as if trying to make up for 11 years of not texting you at all. He texted you when he woke up, when he slept, when he ate, what he ate, and sent you pictures of everything. Once he sent you a picture of a tiny bird saying it reminded him of you. You nearly blocked him after that, the only reason you didn't was because you liked how desperate he was. Not long ago, it was you spamming him like that. Plus he can be funny most of the time. You don't even want to think of the constant selfies he sent. You only ever replied once.

Dick sent a selfie of him hanging with some of the Titans, you forgot why or what he said along with it, but you do remember seeing Connor Kent shirtless in the background. You giggled and showed Ariel how hot he is. You replied to Dick almost instantly hearting the picture, screen shotting it, and drawing a heart around Connor saying something like, "WHO DAT IN THE BACK????" and "Tell superboy to hmu".

Dick was not happy about that, that was the last group selfie he ever sent. He got more frequent with his texts after that. He must've snitched to Jason because not even five minutes after you got a text from him.

"Remember what I said. No boys, i'll kick his ass." - Jason

You ignored him of course.

The sun beat down in the south of France, but you were far from concerned with the blistering heat. Not when there was a private yacht at your disposal, a poolside filled with strangers and familiar faces alike, and the soundtrack of Drake keeping your pulse racing. You felt the vibration of your phone against your palm for the third time in ten minutes. Another text from Bruce. He was becoming more insistent you answer him the longer you were gone. It's only been two weeks! Another "where are you?" or "be careful." As if you were gonna listen. Or reply to him.

Bruce. The man who'd ignored you for the better part of your life, suddenly acting like a worried father because Tiffany, the perfect sister, had betrayed them all. Tiffany, the adopted daughter who had somehow replaced you in their world. Now, she was the enemy, the traitor, the spy, and she was gone. That meant you had all the freedom you could ever want.

The more you thought about Tiffany the angrier you got. She had everything. How many summers has she spent on yatchs partying? How many times has she blown thousands of Bruce's dollars? Why were you forgiving them so easily? Why were you even listening to him?

Just because he apologized and said he'd change?

Why should you forgive Jason so easily and respect his rules, he ignored you for years and replaced you with Tiffany. The more you drank, the more you thought and the angrier you got. Who do they think they are? You've always been too nice, too obedient, and they're still taking advantage of it. You'd show them, show them what its like to be ignored and forgotten and made fun of.

For the next two months, you were going to ignore them. Bruce and jason included. You've been too nice, too good these two weeks, your friends were begging to party but you didn't want to, you were scared of disappointing them.

You were so angry nothing changed in you that you finally caved and decided to do what Claire and Rory were doing, give your phone to a worker here and have them turn the location on and send updates to Bruce. You still used the same icloud so you could read their messages and make sure they weren't suspicous.

He'd think you were always at the villa or just going into town, they won't know what hit them.

You turn to Ariel and grin, "I'm free. What are we doing tonight?" You were done obeying their rules and living your life for them. Who knows when you'd be alone in Europe with your best friends again.

Ariel hopped off her chair and squealed, her dark skin glowing from the sun, she grabbed you and twirled you around, your giggles echoing through the yacht and drawing Claire and Rory's attention.

Ariel grinned and explained to Rory and Claire, "Little Miss good girl finally came to her senses and went M.I.A with her dad. Now we can finally party! Hot girl summer starts now."

All three girls start squealing and join Ariel in her celebration.

You rolled your eyes feeling guilty, "I told you, you could've gone without me!"

Ariel wrapped her arm around you, "Nonsense, it's not a party without you. Now, come on we gotta go shopping if we're going out tonight. It's lucky that we both have daddy's black cards. It's really lucky that they have Dior, Hermes, and YSL down the street."

You weren't sure how much you spent and the drinks kept you from feeling guilty. Bruce is like, a bajilionaire, what you spent won't make a dent.

Somehow, you ended up on an even bigger yacht filled with guys, in your brand new Dior bikini with a matching bag.

By the time night fell, the yacht was buzzing, the VIP lounge overrun by people who hadn’t even been invited. The bass was so loud you felt it in your bones. You didn’t care. You've never felt so alive.

Your new phone wasn't getting any messages except DMs, and the woman you hired confirming Bruce thought you were sound asleep in the villa.

You can practically taste the summer air as you step onto the deck of the boat, laughing with Ariel and your friends and the others you’ve met along the way. No one cares about where you’ve been, where you’re going, or who your family is.

As the DJ cranks up the volume, a cute guy with long blonde hair catches your eye. You wink at him and saunter over. This summer is all about freedom, and you’re ready for it. His hands are already on your waist, pulling you close, and suddenly you’re lost in the rhythm, spinning and laughing, his lips brushing against your ear.

The night wears on, you drink more, laugh louder, flirt harder. The yacht turns into a blur of lights, drinks, and music. As midnight rolls around, the party shows no signs of slowing. You could stay here forever, with no rules but your own.

But then it happens. You wake up in a completely different city.

London.

You’re sprawled on a plush couch in a ridiculously luxurious flat, a half-empty bottle of champagne next to you. The room smells like expensive perfume, and the decor is all sleek lines and minimalist chic. You sit up slowly, your head pounding from last night.

You sit up straighter, rubbing your eyes.You vaguely remember a private jet, but it’s all blurry. One moment, you were on the deck of the yacht, living it up, and the next, you're waking up in an entirely new country.

You look around the room in panic and spot Ariel sleeping on the couch and a random guy, butt naked on the floor next to her. You sigh in relief at Ariel being okay and the fact you weren't kidnapped.

There’s a knock at the room door, and when you answer, it's a random guy from last night, British accent, disheveled hair, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He grins at you sheepishly. “Hey, you good?”

You, Ariel, the naked boy named Christian, and the Brit named Thomas, have breakfast and exchange stories of what you remember from last night. It was fun, but you and Ariel flew back to St. Tropez where a jealous Claire and a worried Rory were waiting.

Last night was fun, but it couldn't happen again. It was dangerous and if anything happened Bruce wouldn't know.

Except it did happen again, and again, all summer long.

The next weeks were a blur, Venice, Monaco, and Madrid, with stops in Dubai and Los Angeles along the way. Each city more vibrant and intoxicating than the last. Every place you went, you had the freedom to be whoever you wanted to be. There was always a fresh crop of people, and you reveled in not having to answer to anyone. No father, no brothers, no sisters, just you and your friends against the world.

You and Ariel lived your lives like you were gonna die tomorrow. You were unstoppable, no family, no rules, no responsibility. Your abilities weren't acting up at all, everything was perfect. Bruce and the family were off your back, being made to think you were at the villa all day.

The “No Boys Rule” was completely disregarded, though. It seemed that whenever you let your guard down for just a moment, you’d end up surrounded by someone new. Whether it was a guy from a club in Monaco or a guy you met on a private yacht in Venice, you were always finding someone new

Despite all the parties, the alcohol, and the private Instagram posts, and funny Tik Toks, there was still a growing sense that you weren’t living this life for you, you were living it for the rebellion, to spite Bruce.

It wasn’t just about freedom anymore. It was about finally being seen, even if that meant drifting away from everyone you once called family.

You only had one month left of absolute freedom, and you were gonna make the most of it. With Ariel, Rory, and Claire by your side, you partied in just about every city.

The final month of your wild European escapade had arrived, and things were only getting wilder.

The clock had no meaning anymore. Days and nights blended into each other as you danced from one city to the next, your world a whirlwind of music, champagne, and endless laughter. Ariel, Rory, and Claire had become your partners in crime, literally when you got arrested, but thats not important.

Each morning you woke up in a new place, groggy and confused, only to remember the night before—flashing lights, pounding beats, and the promise of more. Cannes, Monte Carlo, Paris, or Dubai, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the freedom you’d found in them, and in yourself. You were more than the neglected, ignored girl from Gotham; now, you were the life of the party.

there was always someone waiting to whisk you away to the next nightclub, the next gala, the next beach party where the world’s richest men tried to get your attention.

First, it was Paris. You could feel the eyes on you as soon as you entered the hotel lobby. The air smelled of expensive perfume, freshly polished marble, and the faintest trace of guilt, because in some corner of your mind, you could still hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your ears. But it quickly faded as the first private yacht rolled up to the dock. The deck was crowded with Parisian socialites and half-drunk billionaires, but it wasn’t about the crowd, it was about the feeling of being wanted. Being worshipped.

It was in Paris that you really started feeling the distance between you and the life you’d left behind. The champagne flowed easily, the laughter came effortlessly, but there was an ache you hadn’t anticipated. A pang that struck at the edges of your satisfaction, the kind you couldn’t drink away.

You thought about Bruce. His pleading words, his desperation, and how, for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him. But only for a moment. You couldn’t let him win. Couldn’t let them see that you’d needed them. Because that would mean giving up everything you had now, the freedom, the endless nights, the city hopping, the boys who adored you.

You let it all sink in, just for a second, how much control you had over them now. How much they wanted you back, how much they needed you back. It felt good, knowing that you could walk away and have them chase after you, like you used to chase them.

Maybe it was the brief, fleeting moments when you thought about Gotham, about Bruce, about your family, and how none of it felt real anymore. They’d played their games, ignored you, and now it was your turn.

Meanwhile, your phone was a constant buzz of messages. Tim had sent at least five texts, each one more urgent than the last. Jason called twice, his voice sharp and filled with that annoying overprotectiveness he just developed. And Bruce… well, Bruce sent you one long, pleading message, something about understanding, about giving him another chance, and answering his calls. You didn’t even bother reading it all. You didn’t need to. You didn’t care enough to respond.

You had no intention of being tied down by anyone, but when a French prince with dark, tousled hair and eyes that burned through your soul offered you a glass of champagne and a seat next to him, you took it.

You didn’t even have to look for him, he found you. He was the one with the perfect jawline, the one who could be a model if he wasn’t already a prince. His eyes, blue locked onto yours the second you entered the VIP area. A raised brow, a subtle smirk, and you knew that for tonight, he was yours.

You didn’t speak much. He didn’t ask questions, and that was the kind of energy you craved. A few words, some flirting, fleeting touches, and then you were in his Lambo, the leather seats smooth under your skin as the city sped by. He went as fast as you wanted, loving the thrill and impressed look in your eyes.

The thrill was intoxicating, the feeling of being someone else, someone free. The kind of person who didn’t have to answer to anyone. A few hours later, you were standing on a balcony, watching the sunrise, your lips tingling from the kiss he’d stolen.

Your mind was a haze of laughter and the aftertaste of expensive whiskey. The view of the French Riviera was far too beautiful to appreciate right now, and your thoughts wandered back to Gotham, to the family you’d abandoned, the ones who had never cared for you.

But as the days wore on, it was harder to ignore the hollow feeling creeping in. The message from Dick, the one where he told you that he loved you, stayed in your mind longer than it should have. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You didn’t owe him anything. But you couldn’t help but wonder, just for a second, what it would have been like if things were different.

You turned away from those thoughts quickly. You couldn’t afford to get attached. Not now. Not when you were on the verge of something bigger. The freedom you had now was everything you wanted. No one could take that from you.

You couldn’t let them control you. You wouldn’t let them.

You and Ariel were inseparable now, pulling Claire and Rory into your whirlwind of recklessness. You all had your roles, Ariel was the carefree partier, Claire the quiet one who always managed to keep ya'll out of trouble, and Rory was the one always ready with a camera and a new Tik Tok idea. You were the star, the one they all gravitated toward.

Each day was a new city, a new set of challenges, a new set of eyes who wanted to be close to you. You knew the game, knew how to play it. You knew how to keep them guessing, how to make them want you more.

So, you danced. You partied. You lived in the moment and let your life spiral further from Gotham’s grasp.

From there, it was off to the next city.

Las Vegas; Sin City, there was no place like it. You couldn’t even remember how you got there, your mind fuzzy with a mix of adrenaline and whatever was in that last glass of tequila. The strip was lit up like daylight, people everywhere, the air thick with smoke and the sound of slot machines ringing through the night.

You woke up in a penthouse suite that could have been mistaken for an entire floor of the Bellagio, the morning sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And there he was, a prince. The same French prince, draped in a robe embroidered with gold thread, a fresh glass of mimosas on the table beside him. He was smirking, lounging on the couch like this was all part of his daily routine. You couldn’t even remember how you got to the suite. What had happened between the bar and now? You didn’t care.

He didn’t seem to care either, his hand casually tracing the rim of his glass, his eyes never leaving you. You laughed, feeling the surrealness of it all wash over you, the weight of your last 48 hours in Ibiza and Monaco still fresh on your skin. One minute, you were dancing at a celebrity’s secret after-party in Monaco, and the next, you were here, on the other side of the world with some mysterious prince who had probably already forgotten your name.

The rest of the night was spent taking private jet rides to exclusive clubs, partying with people whose names you couldn’t even pronounce, and waking up to the flashing lights of a casino floor. Vegas was the kind of place where everything felt fake, but that didn’t matter. You really are Brucie Wayne's daughter.

Next stop, Ibiza, the heart of Europe’s clubbing scene. Ariel and you slipped into the club, stepping past the velvet ropes like it was second nature. The security guard practically bowed as you walked by. The crowd parted for you, the clinking of champagne glasses and the hum of expensive conversations filling the air.

This was where you belonged. The heat of the island, the night that stretched into forever. You and Ariel danced on top of the table at Pacha, popping bottles like they were nothing, the music vibrating in your bones, the crowd chanting your name like you were the star of the show. It was your second night there, and you had already met a Spanish duke who was more interested in buying you a yacht than actually getting to know you. There was white powder everywhere, tempting you to try but you didn't give in. Who knows what could be in it. Your friends and most people at the club didn't share the same idea.

You just wanted to enjoy the view and keep the party going but you were worried, maybe this was too much.

“we’ve got to live for the moment,” Ariel grinned, taking a shot of something that made her eyes water. “Who cares if we’re in a foreign country surrounded by dangerous people? It’s the best kind of chaos. When else are we gonna do this?”

Somehow you ended up on a private yacht again, this time surrounded by Ibiza’s elite. You weren’t sure how many shots of tequila you’d had, but you knew that the man at your side had given you a diamond bracelet to match your dress. You accepted with a grin asking him to put it on for you, your hair wild, your makeup smudged from hours of dancing, but it didn’t matter. You were untouchable.

It was getting close to 3 AM, and the music hadn’t stopped. The drinks kept flowing, and the Duke’s yacht you somehow ended up on was finally leaving the dock. You couldn’t remember how you ended up on the boat, but you were there now, floating on a million-dollar boat with peopl you’d only seen on TV. One of the men from the night before was already making eye contact, his glass of sangria in hand.

It was hard to be shy in a setting like this. Rory, who’d never been afraid of attention, was deep in conversation with a couple of supermodels who were likely on their third or fourth drink. Claire was wrapped up in a flirtation with the duke who owned this yacht, and Arie was in her own world, laughing with a group of guys who were definitely not short on cash.

The next morning, you woke up on the yacht, the sun blazing over the Mediterranean. You stretched lazily, your body still buzzing from the night before, and found yourself face-to-face with the man from last night.

He smirked, “Care for another round?” he asked, his accent thick, the sound of the waves crashing against the boat providing an oddly peaceful background.

You laughed and agreed. It was all so easy, this life. This endless, carefree abandon. No rules, no family to answer to, no obligations. It was just you, your friends, and a bunch of gorgeous strangers who only saw you for the party girl you had become. And for now, that was enough.

Next, Monaco, the grandest of them all. You didn’t just go to Monaco, you ruled it. You, Ariel, Claire and Rory crashing the most exclusive gala in the world; rich industrialists, F1 drivers ,tech moguls, the faces that appeared on the front of every magazine. But to you, it was just another game to play. Every conversation was a carefully curated performance, everyone vying for your attention, for your approval.

The days blurred together. Each city more beautiful, each party more decadent than the last. Monaco was wild, filled with the world’s elite and their very bored children. The private yacht parties were nothing short of a movie set, jet skis, champagne, drugs, and the sun beating down relentlessly. The thrill of it all never left, and every night you found a new billionaire, actor, or race car driver to distract you. It wasn’t about them, not really, it was about keeping the power in your hands, it was about feeling good. Taking away the pain that came with your powers, fortunately, men were jumping into your bed.

You didn’t even have to try. One wink, one smile, and suddenly you were in a Bentley, whisked away to a private after-party in a hidden corner of Monaco’s coastline. The prince of some oil-rich kingdom was at your side, and the night was long, filled with laughter and stolen kisses under the stars. You didn’t care what his name was, where he came from, or who he was, he was just another prince who could buy you anything you wanted.

You met guy, almost as rich as Bruce, who you beat at poker, he was more than happy to throw a yacht party in your honor. The invitation was clear: “Come party with us. No rules. No limits.”

Ariel had already decided to make a game of seeing how many men she could flirt before sunset, while Rory was doing her usual thing, charming people with her wit. You, on the other hand, had become the center of attention, as if the whole event was designed around you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a conversation that didn’t involve someone trying to buy you a drink, or a private island.

As the weeks stretched on, you could barely keep track of all the cities you had visited. You spent one night in Berlin, dancing until dawn in one of the city’s most infamous clubs. The next, you were in Milan, draped in designer clothing and laughing with the most influential fashion people in the world. Every day felt like a new chapter, filled with new people, new parties, and a new sense of power.

It was intoxicating. Everyone loved you here, you were the life of every party. You had so many friends, you'd never be alone again.

There was something so exhilarating about being surrounded by people who knew your last name, who were used to rubbing elbows with people like Bruce Wayne, but didn’t realize you were his daughter.

You felt it in your bones now, the distance between you and Gotham was growing wider. The weight of the past, the guilt that had once threatened to crush you, was nothing more than a distant memory. Each city, each new face, each new party was a reminder that you didn’t need them. You didn’t need anyone.

But deep down, something shifted. Maybe it was the late-night conversations with Ariel on the balcony of a villa in Santorini, the wine flowing freely as you discussed the future, her dreams, your dreams, how you’d never go back to the way things were. Maybe it was the quiet moments alone on the edge of some private infinity pool, staring out at a horizon that seemed endless and just… empty.

You didn’t know when you started to feel it, but you knew one thing for sure: when you finally did come back to Gotham, you weren’t going to be the same person who had left.

The Final Stop, St. Tropez. You did a full circle. Your last hurrah before you returned home, or where your family assumed you were all this time. The private beach parties, the yachts that lined the harbor, the whispers of billionaires in their private jets. You danced in the sand, surrounded by flashes from cameras and jealous glares from women who had no idea who you were, but wanted to be you all the same.

A private villa awaited you, and there, amidst the most extravagant décor, you found yourself facing yet another prince, yet another man eager to claim you as his own.

You turned to find a prince—probably from denmark—standing next to you. You immediately recognized his face from magazines. He was the one who was always pictured at galas with his equally famous family. He was beautiful, dark-haired and dangerous, with a body like chiseled stone. But the only thing you could think about was how long it would take before you got bored of him, before you moved on to the next.

His thick accented voice cut through your thoughts, "Well, if it isn't the infamous party girl." He smirked eyeing you up and down.

"Oh, so you've heard of me" You said smiling. You had no idea how he knew you, all your socials were private and theres no way you had mutual friends. You froze for a second, just how far has your reputation proceeded you, did Bruce hear?

You brushed the thought away as soon as it came, Bruce didn't exist. Not tonight, your last actual night of freedom. Not when you were boarding the flight to gotham after tomorrow.

"Hard not to. You've been everywhere. Paris, London, Ibiza, Monaco, Dubai, Vegas. You're practically the princess of Europe." He grinned leaning closer.

After two months you were finally starting to feel the rush of it all catching up to you. But for now? Who cared? You were a 16-year-old filled with confidence, chaos, and fun. The world was yours, and there was no one who could stop you, least of all, your father, who were still clueless about your whereabouts and secretly obsessing over your every move. You were too busy living in the moment to care about that.

You were officially the European Party Girl, the one everyone wanted to be friends with, the one they all wanted to take selfies with.

Ariel once called you a prince magnet, she wasn't wrong. You woke up next to him the next morning, his strong arms around your waist.

When you went back to Gotham, you weren’t just going to show up. You were going to treat them like they treated you all these years, you were going to laugh in their faces, ignore them like they ignored you.

As you and Ariel spent your last night together packing, you couldn't help but smile. In these two months with her, you lived more than you had in your entire life.

When you boarded the plane back to Gotham, you were different. You were someone new, someone who had tasted freedom and wasn’t sure if she could ever go back. The Waynes had no idea what was coming for them, but you were ready. The game had shifted, and you were about to play it all the way to the end.

Taglist:

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@angelunatic @littledollete @cutelittlesugarfairy @darbystrange @sxftiebee @zealous0mouse @trashlanternfish360 @galaxygirlsblog @euphoria-looney @1simpchunkygirl @a-lurking-fae @analuixxy @naturallyspontaneous @horror-lover-69 @pastel-mouse @ladyrosemone @frankie-moon3 @catley1011 @justannie18 @yandereaficionado @ithoughtthinks @asdfghjklgayblog @shadowyknightbeargoth @peche4et3chocolat @boredselkie @rogueofbullshit @iamabeaner @rosesunderthegarden @nommingonfood @ninihrtss @type-ink @iamabeaner @astterrial @awawage @ironsaladwitch @boredselkie @rogueofbullshit @couldeatthatgirlforlunch @rosesunderthegarden @raging-stars @sulleha @s1mppp

[cherryheairt]

Last Time (I Seen the Sun)

req: HI! could you do a remmick imagine but instead of him coming for Sammie's voice he comes for his sister because he feels a soul tie to her almost like soulmates

Remmick x f!black!reader

Everything about looks left to imagination, but obv is Sammie's twin sister lol

This really ran away from me.

wc: 10.3k

cw: remmick, religious disbelief, ultimatum, (don't like dont read), thirsting after sketch men, f!r is an adult, dark!remmick? kinda but not crazy? you'll see

You avoided Sammie's knowing eyes as the Juke started to come to life.

Bo was busying himself setting up the bar while Grace steadily worked at the sign that would be the finishing touch on the old mill.

Annie was flittering between the back of house and the trucks outside to get a head start on the cooking for the night: prepping vegetables and mixing the seasonings that would later garnish the heavenly plates of catfish that you remembered oh-so-fondly from your childhood. That was, before Smoke and Stack left for Chicago to find their way in the world. You didn't see much of her after that, especially not after the loss of Smoke and her went through years back. You don't think either truly recovered from it—or if anyone could.

Delta Slim was at the little stage in the back, humming to himself and smoothing aged hands over the second hand piano like meeting an old friend again.

Your cousins were who-knows-where, counting beer and cash and whispering to each other about complicated things you'd rather not stress yourself about. You had a good hunch that a lot of their new money was come by in less than favorable ways, and sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.

You sat in your sunday best, feeling slightly out of place although tonight you knew you'd have to be the center of attention. At least you had Sammie, still. Your pillar when things got rough, especially at home. You were both the eldest of your parent's children, deemed the caretakers and the legacy followers. Sammie more so than you, who was expected to follow in father's footsteps and become the next town Preacher. Though, you weren't let off lightly and allowed to slack off. All of the young Clarksdale girls looked up to you for example, and all of the older women expected you to be the epitome of a perfect and pure young lady since you were nothing but a babe.

Still, although your father forbade it outside of the Church choir, you and Sammie found time in your late nights to practice. After everyone had gone to sleep for the night, the small Church was a secluded paradise where everything else seemed to fade away. Good things could only last so long until they were ripped from under your feet.

The betrayal to your parents was eating away at your stomach. The image of your father's dark eyes glaring at you as you followed Sammie outside of the Church and into the twins’ car haunted you every time you blinked. The frown that tugged at your mother's face tugged at your own unconsciously.

“You're not gonna throw up all o'er the stage, now, are you?” Slim asked, noticing your expression and knuckles tightening against your guitar's neck.

“No, sir.” You managed, swallowing back bile and reminding yourself that the bitter taste on your tongue was just your mind playing tricks on you.

“Good. ‘Cause I'm not the one that'd clean it up.” Even if it was your first day with Slim, you could tell he had a good heart. A good soul. Checking on you subtly while he was busy tuning the piano.

You smiled weakly in response, brushing your tongue over your teeth in some attempt at grounding yourself.

‘You keep dancing with the devil, girl, one day he'll follow you home.’ Your mother's warnings were a gentler version of your father's preaching. You'd be wise to listen to your parents, yes, but then you'd also be stuck in the outskirts of Clarksdale your entire life, being reduced to the Preacher's sister and the wife of some faceless man.

You'd never played in front of a crowd before, not like Slim had. Not without the rest of the Church singing with you. Even then, your voice was hidden beneath the masses and your tone muted and dull with the repetitive hymns.

Smoke and Stack were practically throwing you to the wolves with tonight's opening performance. One mistake, and it could affect their business as well as any future you could have possibly gotten a chance at. Just one chance, that's all you needed. Prove to everyone, and yourself, that you weren't just blowing smoke up your ass about your talent.

A drink appeared in front of your eyes, and you looked up to see your brother holding out one of the twins’ Irish brewed beers.

“The people are gettin’ antsy.” Sammie spoke up casually, walking up from a conversation with one of said people from the faceless crowd. It was all too much and yet nothing compared to your dreams.

You took it, wetting your lips with a slight peak of tongue before popping open the bottle, clinking necks with Sammie's own and taking a hearty gulp. Cringing at the bitter toffee flavour and tracing your fingertip over the narrow rim in favor of taking another.

“You need me to go solo?” He asked after a beat of silence. He could, he really could. Sammie had a certain talent of captivating people, getting lost in his music and transcending the Earth. You stayed grounded in times he was up in the clouds, all too aware of everything to be carefree.

“Nah.” You assured, nudging his knee with your own. “I can do this.”

He smiled, and let his gaze follow the mingling crowd and the individuals making it up. A particular lady caught his eye—perhaps a bit too old for him to be biting at her heels, but who were you to judge your brother's whims?—and he never took them off of her for more than a few seconds as she weaved around men and women like a dove.

And even with a million things racing through your mind, you could always make room for a bit of teasing. Especially with Sammie, the only one who would tolerate it. “That's the woman from the station, ain't she?”

Sammie's brows lifted to his forehead like he'd been caught in a scandal. “Could be. There's a lotta folks from the station here.”

“Right.” You hummed. “Her husband didn't join her, what a pity to dance alone.”

Before Sammie could stammer out some urged reply, the elephant in the room caught both of your attention. A woman, skin pale and cheeks rosy, striding through people like no one m's business.

“Is that. . .?” Sammie trailed, sounding nervous at the implication.

“Stack's girl.” You narrowed your eyes, shocked but not entirely disappointed at Mary's appearance. From Mary and Stack's encounter at the station, you had figured she wanted nothing to do with him or his new joint. Nothing to do with her past at all. You'd never met her up front, but heard of her from murmurs throughout the town about her white husband saving her from the prejudice her mama went through. She was furious, and understandably so with how he handled their ‘break-up’ years prior. Marrying her off like some broodmare and calling it protection. You couldn't personally understand her tribulations, but they were certainly an underlying fear of yours. Being hidden behind a man was the last thing you wanted, and as much as you loved your brother you would sure as hell work your ass off to be on the center of your own stage.

“I wouldn't let ‘er hear you say that.” Sammie huffed, dusting himself off and moving to approach her, likely to convince the woman to leave before the twins caught wind of her arrival. You snickered as you watched her get defensive immediately, shouldering past him on her way to the bar where Grace was pouring drinks. It only took a minute of them sitting down and speaking in hushed tones for Stack to catch sight like a hawk watching his skies and all the prey within his sight, swooping down and taking Mary aside to deal with their matters alone. Sammie shuffled his way back to you, looking more like a scolded child than he had been when you left the church with your father’s scornful stare on your necks.

Patting his shoulders, you welcomed him back without a peep, despite the effort it took.

It was Smoke who approached you, leaving Annie's side from the stockrooms to urge you up on your feet.

“It's gon’ be dawn before the two of you stop draggin’ your feet.” He started, exasperated though you could tell it wasn't stemming from you and Sammie. You didn't pry, just stood up and straightened your shoulders, trying your best to appear collected.

Shaking your hands out, you rested them atop the strings of your old guitar—a double gift from the twins, of course—and felt Sam move to do the same beside you. You met his eyes, noticing how his nerves began to wash away even when eyes turned to the two of you. People surrounded you from all sides as you stepped from the stage and onto the leveled floor of the mill. Stack and Smoke stood at opposite pillars, wearing eager and somber expressions respectively. Annie stopped serving plates and fixed her attention on the two of you like her customers did, an expecting look on her serious face. Slim was still up on the stage, allowing you your own time to shine before he touched the piano.

A strum, then another.

Sammie plucked at his guitar, silencing the room until it was nothing but your music and quiet leftovers murmurs.

“Something I've been wanting to tell ya.” He reverberated, deep voice pulling the crowd in. “For a long time.”

Your head bobbed in time with your foot as you kept time, backing him up with chords.

“It might hurt ya, hope you don't mind. Well, I was just a boy, ‘bout eight years old. Threw me a bible, on that Mississippi road.”

Finally, you joined him, voices harmonizing with his vibrato baritone and your own melodic one. “See, I love ya papa, you did all you could. They say the truth hurts. So I lied to you.”

“Yes, I lied to you. I love the blues.”

The hums filled the room, and soon the crowd started dancing and flowing like water all around you, breaking off into pairs or trios, or simply dancing all alone like no one watched. Grace brought Bo out from the back, enticing her husband to dance with her with large grins on their faces. Mary and Stack two-stepped under the warm lights and for one night they could finally be together after years apart, laughter breaking through music and stomps. Annie glided through the dancefloor with Smoke close behind, never distant for too long and always making some kind of contact as they swayed to their own rhythm.

“Somebody take me in your arms tonight,” The Juke grew impossibly hot, sweat beaded on your brow and exposed neck and chest but you kept on. It was exhilarating to be surrounded by so much movement and familiarity, a place where no one could stop you or hold you back.

For the first night of your life, you felt alive.

Alive in a way you never could back home.

Alive in a way the church could never make you feel within those caging walls.

For once, the blood rushing through your veins and heart pumping against your chest like it was trying to escape wasn't because of fear or frustration, but jubilation and acceptance.

The Juke continued to grow in heat and noise as bodies mingled and danced, feet stomped, and voices sang to their heart's desire. It felt like raging fire burning through around you and throughout the old floorboards. Your body was weightless, floating from your spot and rising up to the stars when your eyes closed to revel in the novel feeling.

Sammie’s back was against yours as you hummed and sang in tandem, grounding you and bringing you back to earth.

“So preach on, speak your words.”

For a moment, a mere millisecond in that Juke, you swore you saw a glimpse of the impossible. Dancers dressed in large ornate gowns dancing like they'd burn a hole through the floor from their passion alone, guitarists striking foreign chords with shining, sharp instruments and dressed in tight, glossy clothing, and twirling women who weaved gracefully around people like they didn't need to see their surroundings to understand it. Within the same moment they were gone, replaced by the same people you'd seen all night. You blamed it on the strange beer although you'd only taken one sip, ignoring the tightening feeling in your stomach from your mother's words. They weren't true, devils and spiritual communicators were simply traditionalists’ way of coping with the things not yet understood. Your music was life, never death. You'd stand by that belief ‘til the day you died.

“I love the blues.”

Looking around the Juke Joint, experiencing the best night of your life thus far, you knew for absolute certain that you'd never let yourself be trapped in that small, forgotten corner of Mississippi.

You went upstairs to take a small breather when Sammie went off with the train station woman, letting the cool night's air wash over you before you went back down to dance again.

A smile tugged at your lips as you sat at the opened upstairs docking dock door, the vulnerable position not bothering you but instead freeing you. Your legs swung from the second floor, crossing at the ankles while you wrapped a borrowed silky shawl around your shoulders. From your view you could see cars parked in the dirt and gravel, and all the stars blanketing them. It was hard to see in the near pitch-black, but the Juke's entrance light illuminated at least thirty feet out, slowly fading into dark the further from the joint you watched.

It was only a few minutes of your solitude before it was interrupted. Not directly, but the shadows of distant figures gradually growing as the light cast onto them caught your full attention. Grasping your hands around the edges of the old wood, you carefully leaned to catch a better look.

It was three people, all dressed fairly fine and modestly and striding up to the door where Cornbread was guarding dutifully. They seemed to carry an easy air of confidence and self-assurance, though any white person walking around in Clarksdale and surely any other town in the South was the same. They all were carbon copies of each other: cocky, predictable, prejudiced, and spiteful even as the laws progressed in favor of you. If anything, it made some even angrier at the very idea of black folk being equal to them. In their eyes, there was nothing worse.

Were they here for trouble?

“. . .don't mind us coming in, right?” The center man asked Cornbread. “We hungry as dogs.” The other man and woman laughed at his quip, trying to ease the obvious tension and apprehension that they created just by approaching.

They each carried different instruments leisurely either strapped to their backs or held under their arms. A banjo, a violin, and a guitar. Not an odd choice, but definitely a calculated one. Easy to travel with and even easier to claim as stolen.

The twins’ voices carried from the doorway as the conversation went on. You only heard bits and pieces when Cornbread spoke to them, but now it was clearer.

“I don't think so.” Smoke said firmly, set in his decision to not bring any trouble to his joint. Especially on opening night, which would make or break the business for the rest of its time. Folks saw that white people were welcomed and pushing themselves into their sole weekend escape and they'd never see the walls of the place ever again.

“We just wanna sing.” The woman pressed on, using her best sweet-girl voice. Nothing like that would ever work on Smoke, who quite possibly the most loyal man in the entire town and was not quiet about that fact.

“We came all this way,” the center man added. “It'd be a damn shame to go all the way back home without gettin’ a few dances in.”

Stack hummed, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. “Yeah, a shame.” Though no one made any move to let them in.

“Got money to spend and hungry bellies.” He offered, pandering to the twins directly, like three people's cash would make a large effect on the place's funding. Though, who knew, people like him seemed to have wealth growing from their backyards.

You didn't hear what exactly was said next by the people inside, making you lean slightly more and scooch your thighs off the edge just slightly more. You flinched when a stray splinter found it's way digging into your fingertip, immediately taking it to your mouth to attempt to pry it when you couldn't see it in the shadows of the second floor. Still picking at it, the bead of blood on your tongue turned metallic quick and the taste was all-too unpleasant, you'd have to return to your abandoned beer to wash the taste out before your next song.

When you turned your eyes back to the doorway, your heart dropped to your ass when the banjo-carrying man was staring right at you. Instinctively, you curled your legs up towards your body and away from the open air. Even if he couldn't reach from the ground, it just felt necessary.

You heard Sammie from behind the twins. “Stack, y'all alright?” In his deep drawl, always worried for family before anything else.

The man smiled, breaking eye contact with you and looking to Sammie instead. “You must be the voice I heard from out here.” He put a pondering finger to his bottom lip, subconsciously dragging it slightly down. “Is she part of that lovely duet we heard?” The finger moved slowly up to you, where all eyes that could see from the doorway glanced up. Smoke squinted, shifting on his feet with growing annoyance. He ignored the man's question.

“Like we said, you guys can find any other place to play. Jus’ not here.”

The man waved his hands, shaking his head along with them. “I think we got off on the wrong start, here. Let me introduce myself.” He placed a gentle hand to his chest, where the strap tightened against his white shirt. “My name's Remmick. This here is Bert and Joan.” Like the movement was rehearsed, the three of them whipped up their instruments into position, wasting no time to be interrupted as they started singing.

“Oh, I picked poor robin clean.”

If you weren't already creeped out by their insistence and synchronization, you definitely were now. The song was good, great even, you'd admit, but the lyrics rubbed you the wrong way right off the bat.

“Picked his head, ‘n picked his feet. Would'a picked his body but it wasn't fit to eat.”

A hunting song, a gambling song. Not a party song, like they apparently thought would be appropriate to sing after they heard the blue's being played.

Slowly, while they still played and swayed to their own music, you stood to your feet and held onto the doorframe while listening. Remmick's gaze met your own again, and his pearly teeth shone in the lamp's light even more, flaunting sharp canines and perfectly straight teeth. Despite yourself you refused to shrink back again and instead held his gaze, watching his grin tick upwards even more when you did.

It's fine, you assured yourself. He couldn't get up here or even past the doorway. Soon he and his little ragtag group of singers would be back on their way home and out of your sight.

Finally, when their eerie song had been interrupted after the joint owners had enough, Smoke asked a low question that you couldn't quite catch behind his cigarette.

Remmick suddenly seemed shocked, and his silver tongue stuttered over his words. “Sir. We believe in equality, and—and music.” You could put two and two together, and wondered the same thing for a moment. The twins did mention something about buying the joint from an old white man, and who knows what strategies they employ these days now that the Klan was technically outlawed. No one ever stopped, really, just had to get creative.

More words from Smoke and Stack, before eventually Remmick seemed to reluctantly get the idea. Not before getting a good last word in though, when he chuckled and rubbed the top of his wrist. “Oh, I get it.” Earning a solemn nod from Joan beside him, who seemed almost offended at the implication. “This ‘cause we. . .?”

Silence was his answer, and it said everything it needed to.

“Right.” He hummed thoughtfully, resting his hands over his banjo. “So, how'd she get in?” You could only assume Mary was standing somewhere behind Sammie and the twins, and the question made you snort before covering it, hoping no one heard it amongst the immediate defense.

He had a point, even if it was not asked for. The only reason Mary got in was her past with the twins and Annie. Still, family to the twins was famly to you.

“. . .family—” Came from Annie, solidifying your thoughts. Smoke quickly hushed the rising voices behind him, firmly stating his position one was time.

“So y’all sayin’ we aren't welcome?” Remmick asked, almost pouting.

“Y'all have a nice night.” Smoke smiled, waving him and the others off finally.

“We can take a hint,” sighed Remmick.

“We'll get out of yer hair.” He moved the banjo over his back again, turning to walk off. “But we'll walk real slow. . .just in case yall change your mind.” And he stayed true to his words, walking away at a snail’s pace and turning his head slightly. You watched him walk on looking like a kicked pup before deciding that he wouldn't be dumb enough to linger around a Juke filled with people plenty fit enough to dispel them if they tried anything, disappearing into the juke and rushing down the stairs to meet your brother.

The moment you touched down on the last step, it was Stack that met you instead of Sammie like you'd expected. He was leaning on an old banister, watching Mary walk away from him and back to the entrance where Cornbread was.

“What's up with those guys?” You asked in a huff, mind still lingering on the intense stare Remmick had set on you while fixing your shawl tighter against your shoulders.

He shrugged, unbothered by them like you'd expect from Stack. If you wanted concern, you'd go to Smoke for answers. “You ready to get up again?”

“I was gon’ look for Sammie.” You sniffed. It was odd that he disappeared so quickly.

He smiled like he knew something you didn't. “Sammie's fine, got busy with something else. I'm asking about you,” this earned him a raised brow and an unimpressed face.

“Yeah. I'll be up in a beat. Gon’ go make water.” You brushed past him to where Mary had disappeared to. Why had he let her go outside so soon after the three's departure? They couldn't have gotten far.

He scrunched his nose up briefly. “Don't gotta tell me that, just hurry back.”

You snorted, the words reminding you of a much younger Stack—the boy he was before Stack even existed. You didn't forget to grab a beer on your way to the exit, popping the top off and taking a breathless few gulps to steady your mind. The old bottle was probably long gone by now, anyway, discarded near the stage and making a sticky mess.

You felt like a creep following after Mary's footsteps, but the curiosity struck you deep.

“I'll be right back in.” You patted Cornbread's shoulder on your way past him, loosely holding the bottle by its neck and letting the coolness of it spread to your palm. It was hot tonight, as always, and the mix of bodies and movement didn't help. You just hoped you didn't look a sweaty mess in front of the whole joint when you went on stage again.

Your steps were hesitant and slow as you walked straight, staying in the light and approaching a small half-wall made of old concrete brick. You were sure you saw Mary in that fine dress of hers, just before seeing her disappear behind the overgrowth of the forest.

“Mary?” You called out, stretching up on your toes to catch a further glimpse.

No reply.

“Looking for someone?”

You flinched away from the voice behind you. Facing him, you clenched your hand tight the bottle, glancing between him and the door over his shoulder.

It wasn't too far. One smash over the head and you could run back to your cousins for safety.

“Where's Mary?” You asked. Bert and Joan were gone, too, and though that made it easier for you to run it made you worried for Mary. Would you be leaving her out here alone with them, when it was so easy to disappear into the thick of the woods.

He smiled, teeth showing past his pale pink lips with no worries in the world. “Mary?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. “I'm afraid I don't know any Mary's.”

“You know,” you grit, taking a careful and miniscule step back. “She just went past. The white girl in pink, hard to miss.”

“Hard to miss, indeed.” He muttered. “You, on the other hand, are much more worthy of remembering. Got a name to go with those mesmerizin’ chords of yours?”

A lie would be easy, though perhaps useless. If he went asking around he'd never find you anyway. No one knew your name or did you much kindness without the mention of the twins. Beyond your little community, your name wasn't remembered.

In one short, small breath, you introduced yourself.

“Suits you. I'd reckon everyone from here to Jackson is raving about the little starlet from their home.”

You didn't bother replying, he seemed perfectly happy to talk and talk and talk his way into and out of anything, completely ignoring your tense figure and defensive stance.

“I ain't heard a voice quite like yours in. . .” He stops to think, looking to the stars like they might have an answer somewhere up there in the vast darkness. He trails his eyes right back down, and somehow it feels like they glow from the moonshine. “Well, I think it's safe to say never.”

What did he want from you? What could you possibly give him besides good word to come into the joint. Unless it wasn't stemming from his want to get inside anymore, and simply a want for something else. If that was true, you feared you might not get to go back inside. “Thank you,” you managed to choke out, furrowing your brows as you looked through your dark lashes up to him.

Appease, appease, appease. That's what every woman was taught to do. Not that it always worked, but sometimes it was better than immediate offense.

He inched closer, walking right past your shoulder and parallel to you, looking sideways like inviting you to follow. “Why don't we have a seat? I'm sure your feet are killin’ you in those shoes.”

You glanced down at them, shifting slightly. Maybe, but no foot pinching from old shoes were as bad as the things a man is capable of.

Did he change accents? Just for a moment, his r's rolled off his tongue differently. Whatever it was, a slip of tongue or genuine effort to hide something, you'd never heard anything quite like it.

You could run now. Run and get Smoke or Stack or even Cornbread as unarmed as he might be. But then Mary would still be out here alone. And he hadn't threatened you yet, just gave you an eerie feeling. Listening to your gut was the smart thing to do, but something compelled you to sit with this strange man.

Reluctantly, you sat at the half-wall a few feet away from him, noticing his smirk as you did. He didn't close the gap, which you were grateful for. Still, your back was rod-straight and body faced forward while your head faced him. Your hands stayed on both ends of the shawl, bringing the bottle to sit on your lap, slightly out of his sight although it never left either of your minds.

“How's that cut?” He asked.

“Cut?” You didn't catch on.

Remmick nodded towards your hand that wasn't holding the bottleneck. “Saw you got cut by that old wood upstairs. Nasty thing, to get wood out in the dark.”

His words were so casual that it was almost like catching up with an old friend. On his part, at least. You didn't move your hand to inspect it again, not taking your attention off his figure. “Just a splinter, I'm fine.”

He seemed satisfied with that, glancing to your hand and then right back up. No blood, no problem. The simple fact that he noticed your quiet exclamation of pain was astonishing. You didn't quite recall being so loud that even the cicadas didn't drown you out, but some people just had that sixth sense.

“Where'd Mary go?” You start, breaking the silence.

His shoulders moved like he sighed, though you couldn't hear the exhale. “Joan said something about her asking ‘bout a song.”

“A song?”

He hummed, “they're a real talent, aren't they? Singing in harmony like that. I'm new to their little night act, haven't quite found my place yet.” His eyes never left your face. Didn't oogle or stare at your legs or chest, and somehow that wasn't any better. His gaze felt like it looked straight into your soul and past flesh and bone. All-knowing and omnipotent, anticipating your every action.

“I'm sure you know about that.”

“Why d'you say that?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes at the implication. You weren't out of place in your music, and certainly not new to playing with Sammie. There was no comparison.

Remmick leaned back, tucking his ankle over his knee and resting his hands on the top leg casually. “You ‘n that boy.” He said sagely. “Your brother, I assume?”

It was best not to answer that, wasn't it?

“He's good. Real good. Sings from the soul and holds a room.”

“He's a real talent.” You nodded.

“Are you?” He tilted his head again.

“Am I talented?” He's the one who said that by the entrance. “Isn't that vain to admit? I enjoy it, that's enough.”

“But you're good. You know it, too. Nothin’ wrong with a little pride.”

There was, in the eyes of the ‘Lord’. Pride, the acknowledgement of your own accomplishments and the want to gain more; to be more than a humble servant to the Lord. You were greedy, prideful, envious—a sinner. Maybe you knew, deep down, that your father's preachings were true and simply didn't want to believe for the fact that you were digging yourself a path straight to hell for your actions. If you were to sin, you'd do it without regret.

Heaven knows how much your mother's fate might condemn you more than the devil would.

“That depends on who you ask.”

“It does,” he breaths through his nose, amused. “If you ask me, I say to make the most of life while we're still livin’ it.”

The words left you sitting in silence for a while. A few moments, a few minutes, it didn't matter. You shrugged, laxing your shoulders slightly. The night cooled down significantly, leaving little heat on the earth under your feet. Remmick didn't seem to mind the chill, simply throwing his head back and enjoying the earthy scent it carried. Music was playing from the joint, still, loud and lively. A woman's voice rang loud and clear, and stomps vibrated the ground so strongly that you felt them from outside.

“I'm good.” You finally said. “But I think Sammie's better. He makes the room feel like it's got no walls, like something otherworldly. . .it comes like breathing to him.”

“On the contrary,” Remmick says. “You make it feel alive.”

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips and make your cheeks burn, running a nail over the rim of the bottle to distract yourself from his stare.

Playfully, he raises his hands in the air. “On my momma's grave, I wouldn't lie to you, darlin’.”

“Mmhm,” you chuckled quietly. “I'm sure.”

“If there's one way to describe it, it's like seeing spirits from the other side dancing and singing right by your side.” He really believed what he was telling you, and that almost made it worse. You denied the same feeling a hundred times before, playing it off as the spiritual remnants and heavy aura of the Church. Tonight, it was just the mix of dancing bodies and heat.

Your throat felt tight again, and you chewed at your cheek thoughtfully. “I don't believe in that stuff. It's just a feeling, a fleeting moment when adrenaline influences you like liquor. ‘S a nice thought, but that's all it is—a thought.”

“A thought,” he nodded, taking in your words and looking at the lively building. “No one in there can appreciate your gift. One night of fun is all they're after.”

“Escape isn't a bad thing.” You mused. “Everyone in there is coming from their dead-end jobs or screaming kids. One night is nothing compared to the week's labour. If I can play just for a few hours a night to make them forget the day, then it'll be worth it. Don't need it to be appreciated.”

His lip quirked up in a small smirk, one that you interrupted as his relation to them.

“What do you do during the week, mister?” You asked. “What toils your body so and makes your soul yearn for song?”

The upturn falls faster than it rose and suddenly Remmick was downcast. It takes a while for him to answer, and his tone sounds reminiscent when he finally does. “I was a farmer.”

“Was?” You ask tentatively.

“Was.” He confirmed. “It was hard. Long, hot days. Restless nights.”

“What was your solace?”

“Well,” he smiled, almost bashfully. “I didn't have anyone to come home to. No wife or kids. The thought of all of it paying off one day to give them a good life was my solace. I suppose my hope woke me up every morning and gave me sweet dreams every night.”

“What made you quit?” Your hands played with the hem of your dress rather than the bottle, indulging yourself in conversation.

“Someone took it from me.”

“Oh,” you hummed. He didn't explain, and you didn't ask further.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Your escape. What're you running from?”

“I'm not running from anything.” You defended quickly. “Can't I just have dreams?”

“Every dream comes from somewhere.” He shrugged. “No escape, then. What about. . .destiny?”

Again, you shook your head. “I don't believe in whatever faith you're tryin’ to sell me.”

“Not a preacher.” He assured. “Just a man, humbled by life. You don't believe in destiny, either?”

“I believe that our choices are the only thing that leads us down the road. No predetermined fate that gets set for us before we're even born. What's the point of living if it's all drawn out for us?”

“I can't argue with that, lass.”

A faint, almost drowned-out screech led your attention to the forest behind you. “Mary?” You murmured, standing and wildly looking around the pitch-black to see movement.

“What's wrong?” Remmick asked, unmoved.

“You—you didn't hear that?” All the progress you had made with Remmick felt like it dissipated into the air. She went off with two strangers and you'd just sat conversing casually with the third.

That's when he did stand. Taller than you, broader, with not a worry on his face. “I didn't hear anythin’. You feelin alright?” The hand that reached out to you was slapped away, and he had the nerve to look shocked.

“Don't touch me.” You panted briefly, head fogging with fear and regret. Get Smoke and Stack, then find Mary with them and their guns. You should've done it the moment you saw her disappear into the bramble.

Hands up, Remmick nodded firmly. “I won't do anything. Thought we was just having a nice chat. Guess I was mistaken.”

Stiffly, you nodded. “Excuse me.” You turned heel to slide away from the half-wall and towards the Juke Joint, glass gripped in your hand like a vice ready to be wielded. If you had to, you would. He didn't make any move towards you and it almost felt like a home run.

You got halfway before he spoke again. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Almost there. You could see Cornbread in the door, but he was turned around and clearly talking to someone that you couldn't see.

In a flash, you were physically halted. Flinching, you looked up to see Remmick right in front of you with a light touch on your shoulders. Too light, unrestraining but imposing. There was no way he could've sprinted in front of you like that in the split of a second, not unless he wasn't human.

Your name came softly from his lips. Familiar and tender in a way you'd never heard before. Frozen, you didn't move a muscle in his grasp nor take your eyes off his. You weren't mistaken when you saw his eyes flash for the first time in that doorway. Everything about him seemed more menacing, from his teeth to the browns of his eyes glowing unnaturally red even when faced away from the light.

“I believe it's rude to ignore a question.” He clicked his tongue like you were nothing more than a disobedient child. His smile was cool and lazy, trusting that you weren't getting out of his hold.

“Let me go.” Your voice shook despite yourself. Your resolve wavered and stomach twisted with fear, and he soaked it up like fine liquor.

“That's alright, maybe you didn't hear me the first time, hm?” He purred out. “I asked: do you believe in soulmates?”

“I need to get back inside.” To Sammie. To safety. You were stupid to indulge in this man's whims despite your gut feeling.

“What's in there that's not out here, lass?” He twisted, waving one hand towards the decrepit building and keeping the other on you. “They're not gonna make you famous. They won't remember your face come morning, and certainly can't appreciate that gift you got.”

Remmick almost sounded angry for you. Like he was the one getting stubbed.

“I never said I wanted to be famous. Just wanted to sing, that's it.”

“Oh, baby.” He tutted, teeth flashing behind his pink lips. “I know exactly what you want. Maybe even more than you.”

The world was still. Has the cicadas and crickets been silent all night, or were you just noticing now, when your heartbeat replaced all other sounds? Without another prolonging moment, you swung your hand up and broke the half-empty bottle over his head.

He didn't stumble, but his eyes widened after the initial hit and let you go. Blood poured from his temple and over his ear, dripping in rivers down the side of his face and to his neck.

He laughed.

Remmick laughed, and you ran.

It felt like you carried a thousand pounds on your shoulders as you did, but you didn't stop or look back until you got to the door.

“Whoa there, little lady.” Cornbread soothed as you ran right into his chest and wrapped your arms around him in heaving breaths of terror.

“Close the door!” You shouted, relief unpalpable.

Bemused, he did as you commanded and called behind you both for either of the twins.

It was Smoke who came for you, Annie trailing behind him. With wet eyes you started to sob out incoherent explanations. “They got Mary, Smoke. I don't know what they are but they ain't human. She followed them and I heard her scream. God, Smoke, I think they killed her.” You panted out, clutching your stomach as bile rose to your throat.

Annie reached out for you first, her warmth a welcoming comfort despite the heat overwhelming your body already. “Calm down, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack like that.” She rubbed your back up and down, firm and slow.

“Who got her?” Smoke asked, hand reaching for the gun in his jacket.

“The guys you sent away. I saw Mary and Stack talkin’ and followed her outside. Those two led her into the forest and one of them stopped me before I could get to her.”

Smoke shared a glance with Annie, narrowing his eyes at your words. “You said they ain't human?”

You shook your head quickly. “The man—Remmick—he came in front of me from twenty feet away in the blink of an eye. His teeth are sharp, and he didn't even flinch when the glass got stuck in his head. His eyes were red and glowing.”

Annie tensed. Smoke, on the other hand, seemed to relax even just slightly. “You sayin’ those three are some kind of demon?”

“Something!” You exclaimed, exasperated. “I don't know what, but they got her. We need to help her.”

Smoke resolved to a simple nod and beckoned across the room for Stack to come down from the rafters. “We'll find her.” He leaned above you, muttering something in Annie's ear that you couldn't make out. Annie's hold on you tightened and began leading you to the back rooms.

A light knock sounded on the wooden door. Everyone in the entrance froze, eyeing the door carefully.

Cornbread, who had been a silent observer this entire time, waited for permission from Smoke to move before he slowly cracked open the door. Smoke pointed his gun right at the door, head-level, waiting for an opportunity.

There, right as rain, stood a perfectly intact Mary.

“What's everybody standin’ around for?” She smiled, and it seemed all too familiar to you. “You gon’ let me in, Cornbread?”

“Of‐of course, Mary.” He stammered out, opening the door wider for the young lady to be let in.

“Mary?” You whispered out, clinging to Annie's arm tighter. “But. . .”

“You feelin’ okay?” She tilted her head slightly, brown eyes lit with concern for you. You flinched when she felt a hand out to your forehead, and she slowly withdrew it back to her hip. “You're not looking too hot.”

Smoke kissed his teeth, putting his gun away just as fast as it got brought out. Cornbread closed the door again and the tension was thicker than the previous fear. “You been drinkin'?” Your name came from his mouth like a curse, which surprised you. He'd never turned his anger to you, or been angry at all, really. “Get back to the stockroom, I think you're done for the night.” He turned away, steps long and heavy as he met Stack half-way across the room. They shared a small muted few words before Stack nodded and went to Mary's side, discreetly glancing at you as he did. If you saw guilt in his dark eyes, it was gone a moment later. Mary grinned as he approached, their own conversation out of range for you as Annie led you to the kitchen's backroom.

“Annie, you gotta believe me.” You pleaded as she left you to sit on a crate. It wasn't a moment later that she brought you a glass of lukewarm water. She leaned on the crate next to you, folding her hands over her chest and simply observing.

“I believe that you saw something that scared the life out of you” She said, voice soothing and slow. “You're sure it wasn't just the light or the liquor?”

She was asking, but not in the condescending way you thought she might. Annie was cautious, always wary of her surroundings and looking out for the people she loved. She had been spiritual since the day you met her when you were both younger, and though you didn't believe her words of warning before and hoodoo bags of protection, you sure as hell did now.

Annie was trying to figure out what she was dealing with and how big of a threat it might be.

“I haven't drank anything, just a half-bottle of beer.” You persisted. “I walked away from him and he was right in front of me like a ghost. Hell, Annie, I smashed that bottle right over his head and he didn't even flinch. What kinda man doesn't react to blood seeping down his face?”

She pursed her lips, glancing to the open doorway and to the dancing people. They didn't have a clue in the world. You wished you could say the same and live in blissful ignorance again.

“You said you heard Mary scream. That she went off with those people?”

“Yes! It wasn't some jumpy screech, she was terrified, like they were hunting her down.” How was she alive, if Joan and Bert were indeed the same thing Remmick was? She couldn't have outrun or outfought them any more than you did.

She took your words in carefully, considering her options and opting to straighten up. “Finish that and stay right here. I'll be right back.” With that, she was off before you could get another peep out. It was easiest to guess she'd be right by Smoke's side, telling him her genuine concerns and getting brushed off when he insisted stuff like that simply wasn't real.

You weren't gonna wait around for her to come back with bad news.

The only way to find out what really happened was from the source. Or rather, victim of the source. You weren't crazy. Nor drunk or disillusioned by the night and it's tricks. You crept out from the room right behind Annie, merging with the crowd to slip back out of sight and towards where Mary and Stack last were. Near the entrance, parallel to the door you'd so desperately ran to, was one of the now-closed store rooms.

Gingerly, you twisted the knob open and called for her. “Mary?” The lighting wasn't too dim, a single oil lamp lighting the entirety of the area from the doorway and allowing you to see her straddling Stack on the floor. For a minute, you thought you had walked in on something you weren't supposed to, but the stillness of Mary's shoulders made you stiffen.

She slowly rose from her leaned-over positioning, face no longer buried into his neck. It's then that you saw the blood pouring from the side of it, watching him writhe in pain and bring his hand up to stop the bleeding. Your jagged breath caught in your throat as you took a step back to get help.

The music was too loud. The floor buzzed with the vibrations. The people were too densely packed to move through. Cornbread was missing from the door. You had to get Mary off Stack and stop the bleeding, and then simply hope that someone will come running in when they hear the commotion.

You ran up to her, reaching for her arm to tug her lithe body from Stack's, only to barely graze her skin with your nails when she jumped up. While he still twitched and gasped for air, Stack tried his best to look down at you and shake his head. The world spun around you as you got pinned to the floor, Mary's frame now hovering on top of your hips to hold you down. Blood dripped down her face and onto yours as she leaned over you, and you clawed at her face to get her off.

After a few moments of struggle Mary caught your wrists and held them tight. Blood and skin caught beneath your nails and you could taste the bile in your throat rising from the metallic scent that plagued you. She giggled airily at your plight and sighed. “You weren't s'posed to see that.” The words didn't sound like their own, wrong and dark out of her mouth. "I wanted to charm you the traditional way, but this works too."

Stack stopped moving by your feet.

“He'll be okay.” She reassured in a soft coo. “Little Mary just couldn't live on without Elias. Sweet, isn't it?”

“Mary. . .” You swallowed, willing all of this to be a dream. Stack was dead. Your cousin was dead right at your feet and Mary killed him. The woman he loved and thought loved him, too. His blood was on your face. You were next. No one would come to help you in this dinky little storage room. You'll die and then she'll kill your brother next. Smoke, Annie, Grace and Bo—every soul who just wanted one night of bliss wouldn't even make it to their own beds.

For once, you missed those cold church pews that made your ass sore and legs fall asleep. If you had to die, at least you were free for just one night.

Her grin only widened, stretching unnaturally wide and showing red-stained teeth. “We won't hurt ya’. You, or anyone else in here.”

Your hands trembled as you whispered, “I thought you cared for him. For all of us.”

Mary sneered, smile downturned like the flick of a switch. Claws dug into your arms as she seethed. “I do. You have no—” She paused, righting herself back up out of your face and loosened her harsh grip on you. “You don't understand yet, that's okay. We'll show you, won't we?”

“What happened to you? What'd they do to you?” You asked. Your limbs felt hot with pain but the fear of worse had your adrenaline pumping faster than a greyhound's.

Mary looked behind her to Stack, eyes tender despite the massacre she was looking at. “Nothing that you won't understand. But, honey, you need to make a choice real fast before he wakes up.”

“Wakes up?” You scoffed. “You fucking killed him!” She should have never been let in, and you should've never gone after her. The crazy bitch deserved to be alone.

She squeezed your wrists warningly. “I could go out there right now. I could tear a hundred necks right off without being stopped. But I'm bein’ generous tonight. You can come with us outside or let them all die—and then get dragged outside anyway. I don't particularly mind either way.”

You sucked in a breath. “Go with you where?”

“Not her, hon’.” She laughed.

“You?” Remmick.

“You're a smart girl, aren't ya? Smarter than most.” She, he, purred. “And I'll bet you're clever enough to make the right choice.”

The right choice. There wasn't a good choice for you, but instead the lesser of two unknowns. Why Remmick wanted just you to follow him without question was something you wouldn't know until you were in his clutches. Would he kill you, or perhaps do something much worse? There was no buffer or protection, no Sammie to look to when your father scolded you and no cousins to hide behind when grown men started growing bold. Just you and the devil staring into each other's soul. The devil who stole Mary's face and corrupted her soul.

Your mother was right, and you were foolish to think yourself above old wive's tales. Every one of them was rooted in truth, after all.

“If I come, no one else gets hurt?”

“Not a soul.” She grinned. You wouldn't forget the bloodthirsty glint in her eyes for as long as you lived.

“And if you're lying? If I walk out there and you choose to kill ‘em all anyway?”

“Cross my heart, sweet thing.” She sighed. “You just gotta take a leap of faith. Trust me, and you'll get trust in return.”

There was no reason you wanted them to trust you, for the same reason a wolf doesn't need to trust that a deer is faking its limp. It just doesn't matter in the end when the prey is dead in its maw anyway.

“Okay.” You said, relishing in the release of your limbs and the pressure of her body finally getting off of you. You slowly stood up, warily watching Mary dust herself off and hum.

“You can get up now, baby.” She laughed.

When Stack's deep laugh reverberated throughout the small room, you nearly fainted. Was it all a prank, or were you dead alongside your older cousin? Whatever they, or he, did to Mary and Stack, he'd surely do to you.

“Took you long enough to convince ‘er.” He said, wiping blood off of his neck and standing up as if nothing happened. But it was there, and it was real. A gruesome bite into the dark skin of his neck that had stopped bleeding the moment his heart did.

“Stack?” You sobbed out in disbelief.

He smiled, a more genuine and soft one than he had before. “I'm alright. Better than I've ever felt.” He placed his hands atop your trembling shoulders sympathetically. “You ready to say your ‘goodbyes’?”

Mouth agape, you slowly shook your head. How could you ever be ready to leave your family?

His jaw ticked. “Me neither.” But he guided you out anyway. He found a small, out of place looking scarf to cover his neck up, motioning for Mary to leave the Juke through the open entrance while he did. She rubbed your back as she passed, striding out of the building like she hadn't just upturned your entire life.

Stack headed to Smoke immediately, finding him huddled with Annie and whispering out of earshot from everybody else. You made way to Sammie, feeling your stomach churn with every step. He was just stepping off the stage from his second performance, sweat making his forehead gleam in the light and eyes shine twice as bright.

“Where've you been?” He exclaimed when you approached, boyishly smiling as he adjusted his guitar around his back. “We were supposed to play together, flake.”

You wished more than anything to tell him the truth, to beg him for forgiveness and never leave his side. “Wasn't feelin’ too great.” You said instead. “Stack's gon’ take me home so I can get some sleep. Heard you, though. You don't need me to share the spotlight.”

He shook his head with a playful scoff. “Don't be so dramatic, course I need you to play. That's what we promised, right? Two-man band.”

Born twins, just like your cousins. Always together, always having each-other's back when shit got to be too much at home. You had no clue what you'd do without your other half.

“Two-man band.” You agreed, blinking away tears from your waterline. You tugged Sammie into a tight hug, laughing when he patted your back in confused consolation.

“You sure you're okay to go home?” He asked quieter. “It's not long before we're all drivin’ back anyway.”

“I'm sure. Joint's too loud to get any sleep and my head's poundin’.”

He pulled away, inspecting you with a scrutiny that matched your mother's. He always had her face and kind eyes. “I can come with.” He said. “Make sure you're okay?”

“No.” You denied quickly. “No, I'm okay. Just a headache. ‘Sides, I think someone would burn a hole right through me if I took the showman away.”

When his face scrunched up in confusion, you nodded to the train station woman yet again, snickering when he noticed her intense stare on the back of his head.

“Stack's got me.” You offered. “You enjoy the rest of the night, okay?”

“Okay. I'll see you at church.” He said lightly.

“I love you. Be good, Sammie.”

He scoffed and lightly shoved your hands away. “Don't gotta tell me that. Love you, too.”

When he turned and went to the awaiting woman's vicinity, you finally let your face fall. Stack's hand was brought down onto your shoulder, a firm reminder of your promise.

“I know.” You grit out. But one look on his face, and you knew he felt the exact same way.

“I know.” He repeated. You stiffened your lip and looked forward.

The fresh air hit you like a warm embrace.

Remmick's knowing smirk welcomed you like a hyena finding a sick fawn. You could only feel like the prey in the fables, the ones that never quite learned their lessons about avoiding sharp teeth. No matter how much you cheered the little rabbit on, it always got too cocky and couldn't outsmart the fox.

Your hand was taken first. Remmick pulled it to his hand and placed a feather-light kiss upon your knuckles. No matter how much your mind screamed at you to pull away and run again, you were frozen in place. Nothing could save you out here in the open field. He didn't mind the tenseness of your arm nor the rigidity in the way that you stared up at him. “Smart girl.” He greeted with a satisfied grin. “You don't have to worry that pretty little head about a thing no more. I'll take care of you.”

“I don't want this.” You bit. “I don't want to be like you.”

Even as regret and fear slithered its way into your very soul, you couldn't help feel no disgust toward the affection he granted you. He hadn't stared untowardly, hadn't immediately forced himself upon you when you walked out the door, hadn't even threatened your life or your body.

He uprooted your life, though. And you couldn't forgive that.

He hummed thoughtfully. “You can't see it yet. But you will, dove, you will. You'll feel it just as I do.” He nodded towards the very happy couple off to the side. “Just as they do.”

Stack held Mary by her shoulders lovingly, and she snuggled her head into his shoulder with a content smile.

“Y'think I'm gon’ be like them?” You hissed. “I don't know what you did, but they aren't themselves no more.”

Remmick chuckled at your supposed petulance. “I just showed them what they could have. An eternity together. All I ask of you is a little cooperation and an open mind.”

“You're a damned fool if you think I'm kissing your feet and calling you a savior.”

He only laughs again, more genuine and less antagonistic. “I'd sure hope not. We're equals, ain't we? That's what soulmates are for.”

“You keep saying that.” You glanced to Mary and Stack, who were listening with thinly veiled amusement at your insistence. “That type of thing doesn't exist. M'not a child you can tell tall tales to and expect me believe them.”

“I agree.” He shrugs. “You're smart. You did what you had to do to save your brother. A hard choice, but you'll thank me for it later.”

“Thank you—!” You fumed, appalled at his quip and mention of your family. “It was either watch his throat be ripped out or walk into a snake pit!”

He wet his lips briefly, pink tongue just showing a sliver before disappearing back behind his teeth. Hands in his pockets, he stepped forward just a bit. It wasn't meant to be threatening, but it was all the same and he had to know it. Wordlessly, Mary and Stack left to his car to presumably wait for you.

“Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I had to do. Didn't get much of one, really, when the sun was risin’ and I had to hide away from my own folks and never see ‘em again. I know how you feel, really, I do.”

Your eyes were wet all over again, unable to be concealed even in the face of the devil. Or, especially in the face of the devil.

“So why'd you do this to me?” You whispered.

“Because,” he matched your low and even tone. “I wasn't meant to die a human. N’ neither are you. Once you wake up, you'll understand exactly what I'm feeling right now just lookin’ at you. When I heard your voice, that sweet, honey-like song you sang in there, I knew it was you I've been waiting for all these years. Every single moment I've spent wandering aimlessly has been worth the mind-numbin’ loneliness that's kept me company. That's why I had to show you, to save you from mortality.”

“Do I get a choice?”

Remmick smiled bittersweetly, eyes more human-looking than they'd been all night.

“‘Fraid not, mo chroí. Don't you worry that pretty little head o’ yours, it'll be over before you know it.”

was very tempted to write a small epilogue timeskip of her and remmick visiting Sammie's bar years later and showing mc/reader's happiness in her new life with her soulmate but it already went over 10k words and I'm alr doubting this will do well lmaoo

man idk the exact order of events that happened this means i need to go rewatch Sinners about 4 more times in cinema. also idk who manned the bar, Bo or Grace? or Annie? But she did the food so ughhh I just went with Grace.

Sammie's pretty ooc but I imagine he's a lot different with a sibling than the cousins he hadn't seen in years. Different levels of comfort bring out different sides from all of us.

it's so frustrating i genuinely could not find clips of smoke and stack speaking during remmick's intro scene its all just the ‘sir, we believe in equality’ clip so the dialog is horrible on the twin's side. i cant wait for the movie to stream!

this one-shot is my longest single fic yet. she's a mammoth, of course

[phantasm-ae]

cw: suggestive writing, afab reader x soap

HEADCANON: Soap almost loses goes feral it when he sees you in a milkmaid dress holding his little niece. Giving him some ideas and thoughts he shouldn’t have in his mam’s backyard get-together

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

now Johnny had seen you in a lot of things even in nothing that was a given.

You in his shirts. His hoodies. His pretty pretty lass in that one tactical vest during a Halloween party that nearly ended the night early. But nothing. And Soap means NOTHING could have prepared him for this.

His sweet sweet minx in a bloody milkmaid dress. All soft cotton and wispy ribbons. The material cradling your frame just perfectly. Hugging you in all the right places. Cinched at the waist. Flowing just enough to tease but not enough to hide. Sleeves slipped delicately off your shoulders. Water running sinfully down glass is what it was.

Clinging and catching just long and sultry enough to burn.

Artemis in his fucking childhood backyard. Steamin' Jesus.

And to top it all off. As if just to ruin him completely -- you were barefoot in his mam's garden, holding his wee niece on your hip like you'd been born for it.

Smiling. Glowy. Bright and so fucking beautiful that Johnny almost passes out with how fast blood rushed down south to his groin. Brain absolutely short-circuiting at that.

Almost dropping the plate of his gran's mash he was holding too. Some poor sausage roll already clinging to gravity as his mouth parts a bit in utter, primal disbelief.

Johnny stood there, frozen, jaw slack, brain gone smooth. You hadn’t even noticed him yet -- busy chatting up his mam and sister by the garden fence, bouncing the babbling baby gently as sunlight hit your hair like something out of a painting. Like some goddamn pastoral fever dream. The kind of visions that made his knees weak and his thoughts utterly unsalvageable.

Rocking his chubby-cheeked niece gently in your arms, cooing like some divine, barefoot angel conjured from some kind of paradise in Tunisia.

Then -- Fucking THEN -- you lift the baby higher, nuzzle her soft little cheek, and say something sweet in that voice of yours that makes his entire soul leave his body.

Done. He’s done.

Funeral's next Thursday. Bring flowers.

He swore his bloody soul ascended.

His body though? Stranded on earth, bloody rock-hard and tragically overdressed in cargo shorts.

“Jesus Mary Joseph -- ” Johnny hissed under his breath, still frozen by the garden path, mouth dry, thighs clenched, gripping his gran’s ceramic dish like it was the last link to his mortal tether. One wrong look from you -- just one, he swears -- and he’d be spilling mash and something else right there on the bloody grass.

You turned, then. Bright, carefree, holding his niece like you’d been practicing for years. And when your eyes found his -- when you gave him that soft, warm smile that screamed home in a way the Highlands never could --

Johnny staggered.

Just a half step. A little foot wobble. Barely recovered. Didn’t matter.

Your brows lifted, concerned and confused. “You alright, darling?”

Oh no.

You said it like you didn’t know you were dressed like the wet dream of a fevered Scottish farmhand.

He opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. There was a whistle in his brain like a kettle left too long on the stove. Every single survival instinct screamed “do not pop a boner in your mam’s garden.” Every. Single. One.

And then you bounced the baby on your hip again.

His niece giggled.

His mam laughed softly and said something about how good you were with kids.

And that’s when John 'Soap' MacTavish, elite sniper, tactician, demolitions expert, and renowned special forces operator... blacked out from sheer lust.

No, not really. But close. So very close.

He stumbled forward like he’d been summoned, forcing his legs to work, cock already straining at the worst possible time. His brain screaming be normal while his dick whispered breed her right now.

“Love?,” you asked again gently as he reached you, the baby tugging playfully at your neckline, unaware she was the only thing keeping you from being pinned to the side of the garden shed like a poster.

“You alright, Johnny?” you repeated in concern, brushing your fingers along his forearm, completely unaware of the meltdown behind his eyes.

He looked at you. Then the baby. Then the milkmaid dress. Then back at you.

And said, with all the composure of a drowning man clutching his last breath:

“Y’ever think about havin’ like... seven?”

You blinked at his words. “Seven what?”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“Bairns.”

You choked. “Excuse me?”

But his mam. Nosy. Gleeful. Loud and always knowing, was already shouting -- “I told you he was gon’ propose one day soon!” -- at the top of her lungs like the whole of Glasgow, Scotland, and even bloody England at that needed to know her prophetic gifts had finally borne fruit.

And if Johnny’s gran finally noticed her plate of mash had been sacrificed in the name of horny spiritual warfare. She didn't need to say a word through her smile.

masterlist

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Retiring the US debt would retire the US dollar

THIS WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

One of the most consequential series of investigative journalism of this decade was the Propublica series that Jesse Eisinger helmed, in which Eisinger and colleagues analyzed a trove of leaked IRS tax returns for the richest people in America:

https://www.propublica.org/series/the-secret-irs-files

The Secret IRS Files revealed the fact that many of America's oligarchs pay no tax at all. Some of them even get subsidies intended for poor families, like Jeff Bezos, whose tax affairs are so scammy that he was able to claim to be among the working poor and receive a federal Child Tax Credit, a $4,000 gift from the American public to one of the richest men who ever lived:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-secret-irs-files-trove-of-never-before-seen-records-reveal-how-the-wealthiest-avoid-income-tax

As important as the numbers revealed by the Secret IRS Files were, I found the explanations even more interesting. The 99.9999% of us who never make contact with the secretive elite wealth management and tax cheating industry know, in the abstract, that there's something scammy going on in those esoteric cults of wealth accumulation, but we're pretty vague on the details. When I pondered the "tax loopholes" that the rich were exploiting, I pictured, you know, long lists of equations salted with Greek symbols, completely beyond my ken.

But when Propublica's series laid these secret tactics out, I learned that they were incredibly stupid ruses, tricks so thin that the only way they could possibly fool the IRS is if the IRS just didn't give a shit (and they truly didn't – after decades of cuts and attacks, the IRS was far more likely to audit a family earning less than $30k/year than a billionaire).

This has become a somewhat familiar experience. If you read the Panama Papers, the Paradise Papers, Luxleaks, Swissleaks, or any of the other spectacular leaks from the oligarch-industrial complex, you'll have seen the same thing: the rich employ the most tissue-thin ruses, and the tax authorities gobble them up. It's like the tax collectors don't want to fight with these ultrawealthy monsters whose net worth is larger than most nations, and merely require some excuse to allow them to cheat, anything they can scribble in the box explaining why they are worth billions and paying little, or nothing, or even entitled to free public money from programs intended to lift hungry children out of poverty.

It was this experience that fueled my interest in forensic accounting, which led to my bestselling techno-crime-thriller series starring the two-fisted, scambusting forensic accountant Martin Hench, who made his debut in 2022's Red Team Blues:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The double outrage of finding out how badly the powerful are ripping off the rest of us, and how stupid and transparent their accounting tricks are, is at the center of Chokepoint Capitalism, the book about how tech and entertainment companies steal from creative workers (and how to stop them) that Rebecca Giblin and I co-authored, which also came out in 2022:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Now that I've written four novels and a nonfiction book about finance scams, I think I can safely call myself a oligarch ripoff hobbyist. I find this stuff endlessly fascinating, enraging, and, most importantly, energizing. So naturally, when PJ Vogt devoted two episodes of his excellent Search Engine podcast to the subject last week, I gobbled them up:

https://www.searchengine.show/listen/search-engine-1/why-is-it-so-hard-to-tax-billionaires-part-1

I love the way Vogt unpacks complex subjects. Maybe you've had the experience of following a commentator and admiring their knowledge of subjects you're unfamiliar with, only have them cover something you're an expert in and find them making a bunch of errors (this is basically the experience of using an LLM, which can give you authoritative seeming answers when the subject is one you're unfamiliar with, but which reveals itself to be a Bullshit Machine as soon as you ask it about something whose lore you know backwards and forwards).

Well, Vogt has covered many subjects that I am an expert in, and I had the opposite experience, finding that even when he covers my own specialist topics, I still learn something. I don't always agree with him, but always find those disagreements productive in that they make me clarify my own interests. (Full disclosure: I was one of Vogt's experts on his previous podcast, Reply All, talking about the inkjet printerization of everything:)

https://gimletmedia.com/shows/reply-all/brho54

Vogt's series on taxing billionaires was no exception. His interview subjects (including Eisinger) were very good, and he got into a lot of great detail on the leaker himself, Charles Littlejohn, who plead guilty and was sentenced to five years:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/charles-littlejohn-irs-whistleblower-pro-publica-tax-evasion-prosecution

Vogt also delved into the history of the federal income tax, how it was sold to the American public, and a rather hilarious story of Republican Congressional gamesmanship that backfired spectacularly. I'd never encountered this stuff before and boy was it interesting.

But then Vogt got into the nature of taxation, and its relationship to the federal debt, another subject I've written about extensively, and that's where one of those productive disagreements emerged. Yesterday, I set out to write him a brief note unpacking this objection and ended up writing a giant essay (sorry, PJ!), and this morning I found myself still thinking about it. So I thought, why not clean up the email a little and publish it here?

As much as I enjoyed these episodes, I took serious exception to one – fairly important! – aspect of your analysis: the relationship of taxes to the national debt.

There's two ways of approaching this question, which I think of as akin to classical vs quantum physics. In the orthodox, classical telling, the government taxes us to pay for programs. This is crudely true at 10,000 feet and as a rule of thumb, it's fine in many cases. But on the ground – at the quantum level, in this analogy – the opposite is actually going on.

There is only one source of US dollars: the US Treasury (you can try and make your own dollars, but they'll put you in prison for a long-ass time if they catch you.).

If dollars can only originate with the US government, then it follows that:

a) The US government doesn't need our taxes to get US dollars (for the same reason Apple doesn't need us to redeem our iTunes cards to get more iTunes gift codes);

b) All the dollars in circulation start with spending by the US government (taxes can't be paid until dollars are first spent by their issuer, the US government); and

c) That spending must happen before anyone has been taxed, because the way dollars enter circulation is through spending.

You've probably heard people say, "Government spending isn't like household spending." That is obviously true: households are currency users while governments are currency issuers.

But the implications of this are very interesting.

First, the total dollars in circulation are:

a) All the dollars the government has ever spent into existence funding programs, transferring to the states, and paying its own employees, minus

b) All the dollars that the government has taxed away from us, and subsequently annihilated.

(Because governments spend money into existence and tax money out of existence.)

The net of dollars the government spends in a given year minus the dollars the government taxes out of existence that year is called "the national deficit." The total of all those national deficits is called "the national debt." All the dollars in circulation today are the result of this national debt. If the US government didn't have a debt, there would be no dollars in circulation.

The only way to eliminate the national debt is to tax every dollar in circulation out of existence. Because the national debt is "all the dollars the government has ever spent," minus "all the dollars the government has ever taxed." In accounting terms, "The US deficit is the public's credit."

When billionaires like Warren Buffet tell Jesse Eisinger that he doesn't pay tax because "he thinks his money is better spent on charitable works rather than contributing to an insignificant reduction of the deficit," he is, at best, technically wrong about why we tax, and at worst, he's telling a self-serving lie. The US government doesn't need to eliminate its debt. Doing so would be catastrophic. "Retiring the US debt" is the same thing as "retiring the US dollar."

So if the USG isn't taxing to retire its debts, why does it tax? Because when the USG – or any other currency issuer – creates a token, that token is, on its face, useless. If I offered to sell you some "Corycoins," you would quite rightly say that Corycoins have no value and thus you don't need any of them.

For a token to be liquid – for it to be redeemable for valuable things, like labor, goods and services – there needs to be something that someone desires that can be purchased with that token. Remember when Disney issued "Disney dollars" that you could only spend at Disney theme parks? They traded more or less at face value, even outside of Disney parks, because everyone knew someone who was planning a Disney vacation and could make use of those Disney tokens.

But if you go down to a local carny and play skeeball and win a fistful of tickets, you'll find it hard to trade those with anyone outside of the skeeball counter, especially once you leave the carny. There's two reasons for this:

1) The things you can get at the skeeball counter are pretty crappy so most people don't desire them; and ' 2) Most people aren't planning on visiting the carny, so there's no way for them to redeem the skeeball tickets even if they want the stuff behind the counter (this is also why it's hard to sell your Iranian rials if you bring them back to the US – there's not much you can buy in Iran, and even someone you wanted to buy something there, it's really hard for US citizens to get to Iran).

But when a sovereign currency issuer – one with the power of the law behind it – demands a tax denominated in its own currency, they create demand for that token. Everyone desires USD because almost everyone in the USA has to pay taxes in USD to the government every year, or they will go to prison. That fact is why there is such a liquid market for USD. Far more people want USD to pay their taxes than will ever want Disney dollars to spend on Dole Whips, and even if you are hoping to buy a Dole Whip in Fantasyland, that desire is far less important to you than your desire not to go to prison for dodging your taxes.

Even if you're not paying taxes, you know someone who is. The underlying liquidity of the USD is inextricably tied to taxation, and that's the first reason we tax. By issuing a token – the USD – and then laying on a tax that can only be paid in that token (you cannot pay federal income tax in anything except USD – not crypto, not euros, not rials – only USD), the US government creates demand for that token.

And because the US government is the only source of dollars, the US government can purchase anything that is within its sovereign territory. Anything denominated in US dollars is available to the US government: the labor of every US-residing person, the land and resources in US territory, and the goods produced within the US borders. The US doesn't need to tax us to buy these things (remember, it makes new money by typing numbers into a spreadsheet at the Federal Reserve). But it does tax us, and if the taxes it levies don't equal the spending it's making, it also sells us T-bills to make up the shortfall.

So the US government kinda acts like classical physics is true, that is, like it is a household and thus a currency user, and not a currency issuer. If it spends more than it taxes, it "borrows" (issues T-bills) to make up the difference. Why does it do this? To fight inflation.

The US government has no monetary constraints, it can make as many dollars as it cares to (by typing numbers into a spreadsheet). But the US government is fiscally constrained, because it can only buy things that are denominated in US dollars (this is why it's such a big deal that global oil is priced in USD – it means the US government can buy oil from anywhere, not only the USA, just by typing numbers into a spreadsheet).

The supply of dollars is infinite, but the supply of labor and goods denominated in US dollars is finite, and, what's more, the people inside the USA expect to use that labor and goods for their own needs. If the US government issues so many dollars that it can outbid every private construction company for the labor of electricians, bricklayers, crane drivers, etc, and puts them all to work building federal buildings, there will be no private construction.

Indeed, every time the US government bids against the private sector for anything – labor, resources, land, finished goods – the price of that thing goes up. That's one way to get inflation (and it's why inflation hawks are so horny for slashing government spending – to get government bidders out of the auction for goods, services and labor).

But while the supply of goods for sale in US dollars is finite, it's not fixed. If the US government takes away some of the private sector's productive capacity in order to build interstates, train skilled professionals, treat sick people so they can go to work (or at least not burden their working-age relations), etc, then the supply of goods and services denominated in USD goes up, and that makes more fiscal space, meaning the government and the private sector can both consume more of those goods and services and still not bid against one another, thus creating no inflationary pressure.

Thus, taxes create liquidity for US dollars, but they do something else that's really important: they reduce the spending power of the private sector. If the US only ever spent money into existence and never taxed it out of existence, that would create incredible inflation, because the supply of dollars would go up and up and up, while the supply of goods and services you could buy with dollars would grow much more slowly, because the US government wouldn't have the looming threat of taxes with which to coerce us into doing the work to build highways, care for the sick, or teach people how to be doctors, engineers, etc.

Taxes coercively reduce the purchasing power of the private sector (they're a stick). T-bills do the same thing, but voluntarily (they the carrot).

A T-bill is a bargain offered by the US government: "Voluntarily park your money instead of spending it. That will create fiscal space for us to buy things without bidding against you, because it removes your money from circulation temporarily. That means we, the US government, can buy more stuff and use it to increase the amount of goods and services you can buy with your money when the bond matures, while keeping the supply of dollars and the supply of dollar-denominated stuff in rough equilibrium."

So a bond isn't a debt – it's more like a savings account. When you move money from your checking to your savings, you reduce its liquidity, meaning the bank can treat it as a reserve without worrying quite so much about you spending it. In exchange, the bank gives you some interest, as a carrot.

I know, I know, this is a big-ass wall of text. Congrats if you made it this far! But here's the upshot. We should tax billionaires, because it will reduce their economic power and thus their political power.

But we absolutely don't need to tax billionaires to have nice things. For example: the US government could hire every single unemployed person without creating inflationary pressure on wages, because inflation only happens when the US government tries to buy something that the private sector is also trying to buy, bidding up the price. To be "unemployed" is to have labor that the private sector isn't trying to buy. They're synonyms. By definition, the feds could put every unemployed person to work (say, training one another to be teachers, construction workers, etc – and then going out and taking care of the sick, addressing the housing crisis, etc etc) without buying any labor that the private sector is also trying to buy.

What's even more true than this is that our taxes are not going to reduce the national debt. That guest you had who said, "Even if we tax billionaires, we will never pay off the national debt,"" was 100% right, because the national debt equals all the money in circulation.

Which is why that guest was also very, very wrong when she said, "We will have to tax normal people too in order to pay off the debt." We don't have to pay off the debt. We shouldn't pay off the debt. We can't pay off the debt. Paying off the debt is another way of saying "eliminating the dollar."

Taxation isn't a way for the government to pay for things. Taxation is a way to create demand for US dollars, to convince people to sell goods and services to the US government, and to constrain private sector spending, which creates fiscal space for the US government to buy goods and services without bidding up their prices.

And in a "classical physics" sense, all of the preceding is kinda a way of saying, "Taxes pay for government spending." As a rough approximation, you can think of taxes like this and generally not get into trouble.

But when you start to make policy – when you contemplate when, whether, and how much to tax billionaires – you leave behind the crude, high-level approximation and descend into the nitty-gritty world of things as they are, and you need to jettison the convenience of the easy-to-grasp approximation.

If you're interested in learning more about this, you can tune into this TED Talk by Stephanie Kelton, formerly formerly advisor to the Senate Budget Committee chair, now back teaching and researching econ at University of Missouri at Kansas City:

https://www.ted.com/talks/stephanie_kelton_the_big_myth_of_government_deficits?subtitle=en

Stephanie has written a great book about this, The Deficit Myth:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/14/everybody-poops/#deficit-myth

There's a really good feature length doc about it too, called "Finding the Money":

https://findingmoneyfilm.com/

If you'd like to read more of my own work on this, here's a column I wrote about the nature of currency in light of Web3, crypto, etc:

https://locusmag.com/2022/09/cory-doctorow-moneylike/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/21/we-can-have-nice-things/#public-funds-not-taxpayer-dollars

[the-modern-typewriter]

I think I saw that one of your fav authors is VE Schwab. I actually found your blog while I'm waiting for one of her books at the library. I love how you both do power dynamics and flow! I 💕 your blog!!!

I would love to see a possessive king who has to keep recovering a prince that's betrothed to him but keeps running.

Thanks for giving me my fix while I try to last the months long wait at the library! 😂

"You're clever enough to keep escaping despite all odds," the king murmured. "Why aren't you clever enough to realise that will never end where you want it to?"

The prince glared at him.

The king helped himself to another sip of tea, before he finally deigned to glance up from his breakfast table. Implacable. So seemingly genteel among the fine trays and silver, as if he were not a thing of avarice and dominion made flesh.

"Even should you make it all the way back to your kingdom," the king said, "they'll send you straight back. They gave you to me, remember? You are my betrothed by right."

"They don't know you. If they'd known who was truly asking-" The prince bit himself off, his fists curling.

The king hummed.

"And you think telling them of my true nature will spare you it. That they'd fight for you?"

"Of course they would."

"And would they fight for you like I would?"

The prince stared.

The king smiled, pleasantly, and slid a plate of hot bread rolls across the table towards him. An indication to sit.

The prince did not, though his legs felt jellied with the exhaustion of running. He said nothing.

"I'd fight for you like a holy war," the king said, voice too soft for such dark eyes. "Like laying siege to paradise. I'd fight for you in a thousand year campaign. I'd reduce your kingdom to a citadel of bones and ash before I let them keep you from me. I'd begrudge you no amount of bloodshed, no horror, because you are mine." His head tilted. "How would your former people fight for you?"

"Honourably," the prince snapped, mouth dry. "Kindly. I am their prince!"

"Perhaps." The king shrugged. "Or perhaps they'd begrudge. Resent the ordinary lives wasted and the livelihoods ruined by their pretty little princeling who thought he had the right to marry for love. As if he were just a man."

Bile burned up the prince's throat, at that.

"Merely something to think about," the king said.

"Maybe I won't go home then! But even five minutes away from this place, away from you, is a blessing."

The king did not seem offended or bothered by that, any more than he had the prince's glare or numerous defiances. It made the prince want to shake him until his teeth rattled.

"Do you not care that I do not love you?" the prince demanded. "That I do not wish to be yours?"

The pleasant smile flickered off the king's face for the very first time and what was left was terrible.

The prince took an automatic step back, though he did not consider himself a coward.

The king rose from his chair, rounding the table. The prince looked around at the guards but they were the king's guards, no matter their official job title, and they only stared ahead unmoving. No doubt, they would stare even if he started screaming. Crying. Pleading.

The prince backed up another step before forcing himself to hold his ground. His shoulders squared as the king came to a stop in front of him. He braced for - he wasn't sure what.

"I will say this once, and only once, my clever prince." The king stroked the backs of his knuckles gently down along the prince's jaw, nudging his gaze back when it tried to slide away. The prince's breath hitched. "If I did not care, I could keep you with broken legs in a straight jacket, blind and dumb and mute until I felt you'd learned your proper place here. I could marry you tomorrow without care for your own customs, rituals or comfort. Do you understand?"

The prince felt a little dizzy.

"There a worse fates in the world than being mine," the king said. "The sooner you understand that, the sooner you might make a home in this place that you are not so eager to run from."

"So I should thank you?" It came out hoarse.

"I do not expect you to thank me. I know who and what I asked for when I asked for you."

The king's hand dropped and, for the first time, the prince felt strangely bereft of its heat. Its grounding presence. He swallowed.

"Get some rest," the king said, his pleasant smile back, "if you will not join me for breakfast. You have had a difficult night, from what I've heard, and I'm sure your next attempt to flee this place will be no less gruelling. You'll need your strength, love."

The prince let himself be led back to his chambers in a daze.

[stylesispunk]

"The one that got away"

outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

summary: the one where you lose joel and must say goodbye.

wc: 4k>

warnings: extreme angst (shocking), mentions of blood, grief.

a/n: since i wasn't able to work on chapter ii of blind faith, here you have this. The trailer (when it got leaked) made me feel things. reblogs and comments are always appreciated.

dividers by @/enchantings-a

A soft, breathy laugh pulled you from sleep.

You stirred, the warmth of the blankets heavy around you, your body resisting to leave the beauty paradise of dreams. But then a rough palm smoothed over your arm, soft lips pressing against your temple, and you let out a slow, contented sigh, as if you had just found pleasure on a tiny action.

“You were whispering my name,” Joel murmured, his voice sounded rough, still thick with the morning sleep. Amusement laced on his words, his chest rumbling softly as he chuckled. “Should I be worried about it?”

Blinking awake, you turned onto your side, eyes adjusting to the grey light of the cold winter slipping through the curtains. He was already looking at you, that boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the one you had become use to look at, the one you always cherished.

“I was dreaming about you,” you admitted, your voice rasping slightly from sleep.

Joel hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw, as he always did every morning of the last 6 years, “Good things, I guess.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, your fingers brushing the silver at his temples. “I always dream good things about you,” you murmured between his kisses, “but I love waking up to the real you better.”

Joel stilled for a fraction of a second, his forehead resting against your temple. His hand slid to your waist, holding you just a little closer, like he was trying to imprint this moment to memory. There was something in his eyes, something deep, serious, real.

A man who had never let himself love this way before. A man who had lost too much to believe he could ever deserve something like this. A man who never though he would have had a chance to love someone as much as he loved you.

That’s why he had let himself love you completely. He was devoted to you in body and soul.

“Damn right, you do,” he finally said, smirking as he stole another kiss, trying to mask the weight settled in his chest.

You had become his favorite person, his favorite sight to wake up to.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, as if he didn’t want to let go, “Love you too, baby.”

The words never lost their meaning. They had never come easy for him, but for you, they always did.

But then the morning caught up to you both.

The sound of hooves outside. The faint voices of patrolmen gathering. Joel sighed, pulling away, but his hand lingered on your waist like he didn’t want to leave.

“I should get going,” he muttered.

You didn’t like it. He wasn’t even supposed to go today. He’d filled in at the last minute, and something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Still, you didn’t stop him. You just reached for his wrist, fingers tracing over the rough, scarred skin. “Be careful.”

The moment Joel pulled away, a weight settled deep in your chest, thick and unshakable, like something was pressing down on your ribs. You swallowed against it, willing the feeling away, but it stayed.

Something wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right.

You watched him sit at the edge of the bed, tugging on his boots with slow, movements. You he didn’t want to go, not really. You knew he didn’t want to go, but lately he had feeling he had been making strange choices. Volunteering for extra patrol shifts he didn’t need to take. Fixing up broken fences on the outskirts of Jackson, long past sundown. Riding out to check on the dam when it wasn’t his turn. It was as if he was trying to keep moving, to keep doing something—anything—to drown out the thoughts he wouldn’t say out loud.

You knew why. Ever since that fight with Ellie, he had been different.

He hadn’t said much about it, but he didn’t have to. You had heard enough through the walls of your home, Ellie’s voice, shaking with the hurt of his betrayal, and Joel’s, rough with the kind of pain only a father could know.

Silence had filled the house after that. She hadn’t spoken to him since. Not really.

At least not until last night. Ellie had come to your house and both of them talked. There was something, a flicker of hope on Joel’s eyes the moment he stood back inside the house. Like someone had given him a chance to feel things would be better. He would try to make them better.

After all, Joel had spent so long building something with her, who had softened for her, who had let himself become a father again and the weight of her absence felt like an open wound.

You had seen it in the way he carried himself. In the deepening lines on his face, the nights he sat on the couch, staring at the front door like he was waiting for her to walk in and forgive him. In the way he pulled you closer at night, held you longer, kissed you slower, like he was terrified that if he let go, he’d lose you too.

You tried to remind him, over and over, that he wasn’t alone. That you were here. That you loved him despite all the choices he had made.

But it didn’t stop him from throwing himself into things that didn’t make sense, like taking a patrol shift at the last minute.

You wanted to believe it was just his way of coping. That he would come back, tired but safe, like he always did. That he would walk through the front door, set his rifle against the wall, and pull you into him like he needed to feel something real again.

But the feeling in your chest told you otherwise.

Still, you didn’t say anything as he reached for the doorknob. You just watched him, memorizing the way he looked in the early morning light. The way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. The way his hair fell, a little messy from sleep. The way he turned back at the last second, as if he knew you were still watching.

His gaze softened, and he took one step back toward you, leaning in to kiss you, slow, familiar, warm.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.

You exhaled. “I love you too.”

The words left your mouth easily, instinctively. The way they always did. But this time, they felt heavier, like they were holding something bigger than just love.

Maybe he felt it too, because when he pulled away, he hesitated.

Only for a second. Joel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be back before sundown.”

It wasn’t a promise. It never was.

You nodded anyway. “Be careful.”

He gave you one last look before stepping out the door.

And as it shut behind him, the weight in your chest didn’t leave.

It only grew.

The fire crackled softly in the quiet night, sending flickers of warm light dancing over Joel’s face. The air smelled like damp earth and wood smoke, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. Ellie was curled up in her sleeping bag, her soft breaths steady and even, lost in a sleep neither you nor Joel had the luxury of most nights.

You sat beside him, your knees nearly touching as you both nursed the last bits of coffee he had brewed over the fire. It was bitter, but warm. Comforting.

Joel had been quieter than usual that night.

“Something on your mind?” you asked, voice hushed so as not to wake Ellie.

He glanced at you, then back at the fire. “Not really.”

You hummed, not convinced. “You are though”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Okay, I’ll leave you with it” you continued.

Joel sighed, shifting to lean his forearms on his knees. “I hope so.”

It was the most honest thing he had said all day.

You watched the flames lick at the dry wood, letting his words settle between you. This journey had been wearing him down. You could see it in the lines on his face.

Maybe he was.

“I think about my family.” you admitted.

Joel glanced at you again, something softer in his gaze now. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Not even the big memories, just… little things. Like the way my dad used to hum while he cooked. Or how my mom always burned the toast in the morning” You smiled faintly. “Stupid stuff.”

Joel was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, voice lower than before. “It isn’t stupid.”

You turned to look at him, and your heart ached a little at what you saw. The man who had spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, guarding himself with gruff words and cold distance, was letting you in—just a little.

Something about it made your chest tighten.

Joel held your gaze for a beat longer than he usually would.

Then, before you could think too much about it, before either of you could break whatever this was, he reached up, his rough, calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was so gentle, so unlike the hardened man you had come to know.

Your breath hitched.

“Joel—”

And then he kissed you.

Slowly, he hesitated at first, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. But when you didn’t pull away—when you melted into him, letting your hand rest against his chest—he deepened it. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but they fit against yours like they had always been meant to.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes were still closed, his breath warm against your lips.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you murmured, even though you didn’t mean it.

Joel exhaled a quiet laugh. “Yeah. But I wanted to. For a while, really.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything else after that.

You just sat there, the fire crackling between you, while the weight of the world felt just a little lighter for once.

You had become each other everything ever since.

Back then, you hadn’t known what the world had in store for you both. You hadn’t known that the man who had kissed you under the flickering light of a campfire would become your home, your heart, the one thing you couldn’t live without.

And now, five years later, that same man had kissed you goodbye in the early morning light, promised to be back before sundown, and left you with a weight in your chest that refused to go away.

You stood, wrapping your arms around yourself, as if that would shake the feeling, but it stayed.

Something wasn’t right.

You went through the motions of the day—feeding the animals, checking in at the dining hall, helping with repairs on the greenhouse—but it all felt distant, like you were moving through water. People spoke to you, and you answered, but your mind was somewhere else.

With him. With Joel.

By the time the sun started sinking below the horizon, a cold knot of dread had settled in your stomach.

Joel wasn’t back.

You paced near the gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You told yourself he was fine, that patrols ran late all the time, that he would walk through that gate any second, grumbling about how he was too damn old for this shit.

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, and the other men started trickling in—without him—the weight in your chest grew heavier.

Something was wrong.

The moment you saw Tommy and Ellie passing through the gates, you knew.

The weight in your chest turned to ice, spreading through your veins, numbing you before the truth could even reach your ears.

Tommy’s face was grim, his jaw tight, his usual steady presence shaken. His hands were covered in dried blood. Not his.

Ellie looked worse. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale beneath the dirt smudged along her cheek, adorned by purple bruises. She was stiff, walking like each step was too much, like if she let herself stop moving, she might collapse.

They were alone. Joel wasn’t with them.

Your breath hitched. The world around you blurred, the sounds of Jackson—chatter, hooves, the clang of metal—fading into nothing. All you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat.

No.

No, no, no.

Tommy stopped a few feet in front of you, and for the first time in all the years you had known him, he couldn’t meet your eyes.

Ellie, though—Ellie did. And in them, you saw the truth before either of them had the chance to say it.

Joel was gone.

Your knees nearly buckled, but you forced yourself to stay standing.

“What—” Your voice cracked. “Where is he?”

Tommy inhaled sharply, ran a bloody hand down his face. He was struggling to find the words.

Ellie’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, as if she wanted apologize for what she was about to say but nothing came. Her whole body trembled, and her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.

She was waiting for you to say it. For you to ask the one question you weren’t sure you were strong enough to hear the answer to.

But you already knew. Still, the words clawed out of your throat, raw and broken.

“Is he—?”

Tommy swallowed thickly and Ellie squeezed her eyes shut.

And your whole world shattered with those actions.

The bed was cold when you woke. For a moment, disoriented and lost in the haze of sleep, you reached out, searching for warmth, for him. Your fingers skimmed over empty sheets, and confusion settled in your chest like a fog.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Then you turned your head. And you knew.

News coming back like an ice bucket falling over you.

The hours before came crashing back—the blood on Tommy’s hands, the hollow look in Ellie’s eyes, the weight of his absence innating fire on your heart, threatening to crush you.

He was gone. Joel was gone.

The sob tore out of you before you could stop it, raw and broken, shaking through your entire body. You curled in on yourself, pressing your hands to your face as if that could muffle the sound, as if that could stop the pain from swallowing you whole.

But it was too late. Footsteps. A door opening.

Maria's voice, soft but urgent. "Hey, hey—"

Then Ellie.

You felt her before you saw her, hesitating in the doorway, breath uneven. You knew she was hurting, too, but all you could see was the space where he should be. The bed that was too big without him. The emptiness.

Your grief turned sharp, boiling into something else, angry and fury.

Ellie had been with him. Ellie had come back, but he hadn’t.

And suddenly, you were screaming.

"Where is he?!"

Maria tried to reach for you, but you shoved her away.

"Where is he?! I need to see him!"

Ellie flinched. Her silence was an answer in itself.

"No," you choked out, shaking your head, refusing it, rejecting it. "No, he—he's out there, he—he wouldn't just—"

But your voice broke before you could finish.

Ellie's face crumpled. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sorry wasn't enough. Sorry wouldn't bring him back.

The room blurred, the walls closing in, your breath coming in gasps, but the one thing you knew, the one thing you couldn't ignore, was this—

“You hurt him” you told Ellie, you knew those words would kill her but you still told them because you wanted to make the pain go away because you didn’t know how to live in a world without him.

Ellie flinched like you’d struck her. Her breath hitched, her already red-rimmed eyes widening, and for a split second, she looked like she might shatter right there in front of you.

But you didn’t care.

You wanted her to feel it. The same gut-wrenching, all-consuming pain that was eating you alive. You wanted to rip it from your chest and shove it into hers, make her carry it, make her understand what it had been taken from you.

Because the truth was, she had hurt him.

You’d seen it in the way he carried himself, in the haunted look in his eyes every time she walked past him like he was nothing. He had given everything for her, died for her in every way but the physical—until now.

And she hadn’t forgiven him. And now, she never would.

Ellie’s mouth opened, then closed. She shook her head, taking an unsteady step back. “I—” She swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t—”

But you didn’t let her finish.

“You did,” you seethed, your chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. "He loved you more than anything, Ellie. And you both broke each other’s hearts.”

Ellie sucked in a sharp breath like she’d been stabbed.

Maria reached for you again, her grip firm on your shoulder, trying to ground you. “Enough,” she murmured. “That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t. It would never be enough.

Ellie stood there, her body trembling, her face twisted with sorrow and guilt. She was broken in a way you didn’t know how to fix, but right now, you didn’t care. The anger that had built up inside you seemed to melt into something else—something softer, more fragile. The fury drained away, leaving only a hollow emptiness that ached.

You stepped toward her, your breath ragged, hands shaking as you reached for her.

For a long moment, Ellie didn’t move. She just stared at you, eyes filled with pain, but then, slowly, she let herself collapse into your arms.

The two of you stood there, clinging to each other, silent but for the quiet sobs that wracked your bodies. The pain was raw, unbearable, but somehow, holding Ellie in that moment made the crushing weight of your grief feel a little more bearable.

You kissed her hair, your lips trembling as you whispered, “I need to see him, Ellie. Please… take me to him.”

Ellie’s arms tightened around you, and for a moment, you thought she might pull away, refuse. But she didn’t. She just buried her face in your chest, her breath uneven, the tears soaking through your shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and you felt the sincerity in her voice, the regret. But it was too late for apologies.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and then, with a shaky breath, Ellie finally pulled back, looking up at you. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes swollen and red, but there was something softer there now, something vulnerable.

“I’ll take you to him,” she said quietly. “But... it won’t bring him back.” Her voice cracked as she spoke the words.

You nodded, wiping your own tears, your heart pounding in your chest. She was right—it wouldn’t bring him back. But you needed to see him. You needed to feel him, even if it was just for one last moment.

Ellie took a deep breath, then nodded, turning toward the door. “Come on,” she said softly, her voice raw but determined.

You followed her out, feeling the weight of every step, each one pulling you further away from the life you had known, but also one step closer to what you had lost.

As you and Ellie made your way toward the small area behind the main house, the world seemed to grow quieter with every step. Your mind was a blur, a chaotic mess of fragmented thoughts, but the one thing that remained clear was the need to get to Joel, to see him. To make sure he was real, that you hadn't imagined all of this—that the man you loved wasn’t really gone.

Ellie stayed by your side, her hand occasionally brushing against yours, but you were too consumed to notice. The air felt thick with tension as you reached the clearing, and there, standing beside Joel's body, was Tommy.

He was kneeling on the ground, his hands trembling as he gently wiped away the dried blood from Joel’s face. The sight of him—Joel, unmoving, cold—tore at something deep inside you. Your chest tightened, your legs almost giving out beneath you as the weight of it settled in.

Tommy's back was to you, but when he heard your footsteps, he froze. His shoulders shook with a quiet sob, and for a moment, you thought he might not turn around at all. But then he did, and the look on his face... It was like a mirror of the agony you felt, raw and unfiltered.

"He's gone," Tommy's voice cracked, but he didn't need to say the words. You already knew. You had known the moment you had seen Ellie’s face, the moment you had heard the silence in the house. It seemed like you both needed to face the truth.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you forced them back, holding yourself together. "Tommy," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "Can I… can I do it? Can I... clean him?"

Tommy looked at you, his eyes swollen, bloodshot, and broken. He hesitated for a long moment, as if he couldn’t bear to hand that responsibility over to you. But then he nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the blood-stained cloth in his hands.

"Yeah," he said, his voice hoarse. "He loved you. He’d want you to do it."

With a shaking hand, Tommy placed the rag in your palm. It felt foreign, unnatural—like you didn’t deserve to touch him this way, to be the one cleaning him up when you had never even gotten to say goodbye. But you did. You knelt beside him, the dirt under your knees digging into your skin, but you didn’t care. Not now.

The first stroke of the cloth against his skin felt wrong, felt like a sin. The blood had dried, dark and thick, clinging to his skin like it didn’t want to let him go. You carefully wiped it away, your hands trembling with every movement, each one another painful reminder that this was real. He was gone. The man you had loved, the man who had held you, kissed you, lived with you, was gone.

You couldn’t stop the tears. They fell, hot and fast, mixing with the blood on his face, and all you could do was whisper his name over and over.

"Joel... Joel, please..." But there was no answer.

You cleaned him, as carefully as you could, your fingers gentle against his skin, wishing you could bring him back. Wishing you could do anything—anything at all—to make this all go away.

But nothing worked.

When you were done, your hands were covered in blood. You felt numb, empty. There was no relief, no closure in what you had done. It hadn’t brought him back. He was still gone.

Tommy was still beside you, watching, his face contorted with grief. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His presence was enough.

You leaned over Joel, pressing your forehead against his, as if by doing so, you could feel the last remnants of him. The weight of your loss felt unbearable, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You had to say something. Anything.

“I want you to know, that it doesn’t matter you broke your promise.” You paused, taking a shaky breath, your chest tight with the weight of the truth, with the weight of saying goodbye. “I... I’m angry, Joel. I’m angry because we didn’t get enough time.” Your hand shook as it rested on his chest, your fingers brushing over the faint rise and fall of his breathless body. “You gave me the best five years of my life with you”

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your breath, trying to find the strength to say the words that had been haunting you ever since you found out he was gone. Every part of you screamed to turn back, to beg for him to wake up, but you knew. Deep down, you knew this was the final goodbye.

You placed your hand gently over his heart, as though you could still feel him there, still feel the rhythm of the man you loved.

“Have a good journey, my love,” you whispered, voice barely audible, but filled with every ounce of love, sorrow, and regret you could muster.

You kissed him once more, softly, as if the kiss could carry the words, you couldn’t speak aloud, the message that even in death, he had a piece of you, just as you had a piece of him.

"Thank you... for everything," you added, your voice trembling. "I’ll never forget you. I will never stop loving you, even if you're not here."

Your tears fell freely now, streaming down your face as you slowly pulled back. It felt like a physical ache, this separation, but you knew it was something you had to do, for both of you.

Tommy was still there, his face an unreadable mask of grief, but his eyes held something else—something softer. He nodded at you, a silent acknowledgment of what you had said, of the love you had for Joel. Without a word, he stepped forward, putting a hand on your shoulder as you looked down at the man you had loved so deeply.

“Have a good rest, my beautiful old man.”

[piastappies]

hiiii, could i request smth like going to a race with oscar for the first time OR moving in with oscar into monaco!!! if not, all good. have a good day <3

moving in ♡ oscar piastri.

EVER SINCE HIS MOVE TO MONACO oscar had been dropping various, subtle—but not too subtle—hints of his possible excitement and contentment if you moved in with him. at least that’s what you think he’s been doing for the past months, ever since he moved to the tax-paradise.

you had already been dating for a while, when he did, hence it was no surprise that he was asking you stuff about what would you like to have in your dream apartment—would it have a balcony? would you make the inside a little jungle/forest? would it be spacious or smaller and cozy?—you didn’t think much of it at the time, it felt like his way to get to know your perspective on things, especially since the conversation never taken place before.

but somehow, everything clicked once you visited for the third time, after a longer period between seeing him due to some crazy triple header. all those questions he had ask over the time seemed to be put in life, seemingly because of you, or rather for you—to make his apartment a place you’d feel at home in.

you didn’t say anything at the time. who knows? maybe you were just imagining things, while oscar was just trying to get an opinion on how to decorate stuff, since he wasn’t exactly the sharpest crayon in the box when it came to stuff like that. however, there were times—those slow mornings—when you’d wake up a bit earlier than your boyfriend during your stay, you’d make a fresh pot of coffee (or tea, depends on a day) and take everything in.

images of you and oscar would cloud your mind every time. like for example, having cozy nights after he would come back from the airport, his carry-on in hand as he’d walk through the door. looking all tired and exhausted, his hair messy, eyes hooded, and possibly a slight stubble, while he steps closer. smile stretching across his lips as he’d notice you on the couch, just to drop beside you, his head in your lap with your hands finding its way to his hair. he’d cup your cheek in his and and pull you down to a kiss, and that would happen at least ninety percent of times.

after a few months, when you were commuting from your workplace back home, it striked you—that feeling of loneliness, making your chest ache. you have been in love with oscar for years, something that never changed, even after you fought about something, he was the only constant in your life, one you couldn’t let go of. your shoes barely touched the ground as you got off the tube, and you were already reaching for your phone.

“hey.” you breathed out as your boyfriend—surprisingly—picked up his phone. you could hear people around him, but you didn’t mind, and neither did he, considering he picked up. “i’ve a crazy thought.” you could swear to god—or any deity at that matter—that oscar rolled his eyes at your words, especially the crazy part.

“oh god.” you chuckled, trying to move past people on the stairs. “tell me about the insanely crazy thought, baby.”

“hey, i didn’t say insanely crazy.” you huffed, though annoyance or offence were nowhere to be found in the tone of your voice. “we should move in together, though.” you added, the excitement audible in your voice, causing your boyfriend to smile on the other end.

“yeah, we should.” was oscar’s response to your words. did you expect him to say something else? maybe a ‘good idea, baby’ or something along the lines. “you suck at crazy thoughts, i wanted you to move in with me last year, already.”

“i’ll book tickets to help you pack.” his voice was dripping with amusement and affection. “buy some cardboards, alright?” and before you knew it, oscar was at your flat, putting all the essentials in the boxes.

you didn’t speak much during—surrounded by comfortable silence, while listening to some songs, exchanging looks, and nods, and head shakes. you didn’t need any words, that’s how it was with you and oscar. the evening came fast, interrupted by a call from oscar’s mum, who, surprisingly (or not) didn’t know about your decision.

“what? you didn’t tell your mum?” you gasped, nicole noticing the way your head immediately turned to look at her son, giving a small punch to his chest, almost in exasperation. “oscar!” the act of an annoyed girlfriend broke apart and you giggled, while trying to scold him.

“okay, i might’ve forgotten.” he lifted his free hand in a defensive manner, enticing a sigh from his mum, and a small groan from you.

“yourname, sweetheart, if something important happens, just tell me yourself.” nicole hummed, shaking her head with a small, amused smile. “i’ll let you two get back to packing, remember to send me a picture of how the flat looks like.”

“we will, i promise.” oscar sighed as you held the phone with an excited look on your face, because beside packing, he promised the two of you would go to ikea and buy some homey stuff for his (now yours, too!) place. “have a good day, mum, we’ll finish packing and head to bed.”

“we need to wake up early for ikea!” you grinned, while nicole—despite the early hours in melbourne—seemed to match your enthusiasm about going to the store.

after the ikea date, the flight down to monaco, and a few days during which you had to wait for the boxes with your stuff (and the one you bought) would arrive, you were done with everything. it was the first evening in the apartment you’d spend fully living with oscar—your clutter scattered around the house, small touches of you and him together, your coat on the hangers, shoes standing next to his—you couldn’t help but love it already.

oscar’s strong arms sneaked around your waist, his chin resting on too of your head after having pulled your back flush against his chest. “i’m never letting you go.” he hummed as you turned to face him.

“i don’t think i wanna leave.”

nikola i am so sorry it took mi so long to write it anon 😣 i promise i was thinking about it every day ever since u requested that 💔💔

[darknight3904]

tommy going down on fem reader for first time (Jackson era) she’s a little nervous and he reassures her💗

Nerves

Jackson!Tommy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Two years into your relationship with him, Tommy Miller realizes he's missing a crucial part of any good relationship.

Warnings: Language, Smut so 18+, oral F! receiving, Tommy is a munch.

TLOU Masterlist

Word Count: 1.5k

You’re not sure when you got so comfortable around Tommy Miller. 

Perhaps it’s because he makes you feel safe, always looking out for things you didn’t even notice, just yesterday he’d caught you after you stumbled on the last step, your shoelace getting caught up between your feet. Or maybe it was because he’d lazily lie in bed next to you, running a warm hand through your hair as he read from a book you found on patrol. 

All you know is that you’re comfortable around him, trusting him to take care of you and in return giving him all of your love. 

Tommy likes to watch you. Not in a creepy way, just in a, make sure you’re safe kind of way. He’ll stroll around Jackson, keeping an eye on you as you pull crops up and harvest the vegetables and fruits. He’ll make sure that if you’re ever on patrol, he’s the one with you; if not, you’re not leaving the safety of the walls. 

Tommy knew he was in love with you the moment he saw you. Fresh out of the Fireflies, he’d stumbled across Jackson by accident, or rather picked up by a patrol that probably wanted to kill him. You had somehow convinced the council that he was harmless, despite the Firefly pendant that hung on his neck, along with the backpack with their symbol sewn into it. Fast forward a few months and he was chatting you up in the Tipsy Bison, eventually winning you over enough that you agreed to a dance. Since then, he’d been hooked.

Tommy knew you loved him, you said it often and regularly showed him through your actions that you were just as mesmerized as he was. Each night before bed, he’d regularly whisper those three little words into your skin, content with telling you over and over again so you wouldn’t forget it. 

Despite this little slice of paradise and your love for him, Tommy got the sense you weren’t entirely comfortable with him. It was nearly two years since you and he had gone official, linking your hands together as you walked in Jackson, and about a year ago moving in together. 

It wasn’t that he went out of his way to make you feel odd, he could just tell you weren’t fully on board with some things he did, particularly his love for physical touch. You’d gotten more used to it in the past months, probably because the two of you now shared a bedroom but Tommy couldn’t shake the fact that something was amiss. 

Now, most people in Jackson would probably tell him he was being crazy, making a mountain out of a mole hill but they didn’t know the inner workings of you and Tommy. 

Yes, there was certainly something wrong, Tommy knew exactly what it was, and he was going to address it tonight. 

You sip at the broth in your bowl, the chicken noodle soup you’d made turned out perfect. There was even enough for you to scoop into a thermos for Tommy to take out tomorrow when he left for patrol. You think about what you should cook for dinner tomorrow or if you and Tommy should just go down to the community hall and get dinner there. 

“Why don’t you let me go down on you?” 

The crass question leaving your oh so blunt boyfriend’s mouth has you sputtering into your bowl. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” You sheepishly ask, of course, he’d eventually notice your aversion to receiving oral sex. 

“Y’never let me go down on you. You’re always the one givin’ me a blowjob but you never let me return the favor.” Tommy says 

Your eyes flick away from him and down to your lap, your soft grey sweatpants staring back at you.

Tommy reaches across the table, taking one of your hand in his bigger ones, “Do you…not want me to?”

“No!” You blurt out, “It’s not that, it’s just…” 

“Just what?” The kind eyes of your boyfriend stare back at you as you try to find the right words.

“It’s just…you don’t think it’s gross?” You ask timidly 

Tommy snorts, a laugh escaping his lips as he shakes his head like you’ve just told him the funniest thing in the world. 

“Gross? Baby I’ve been fucking dreaming of it since we started sleeping together.” 

You shake your head, no that can’t be right. What man would want to put his mouth between your legs like that? You’d had three boyfriends before Tommy, all of them were still here in Jackson, and none of them were ever interested in you like that, always pushing your head down to their own crotch, asking you to open wide. 

“You’re lying.” You breathe 

“Wanna go upstairs? I can show you how much m’ not.” He softly says 

“But what about the dishes?” You squirm, hoping he’ll drop it 

“Dishes can wait,” Tommy smiles, standing up to offer you his hand, “Let me show you how much I love ya. Let me worship you, sweetheart.” 

You let Tommy guide you upstairs, hand on the small of your back as he pushes the door open to your shared bed. You fall back onto the soft mattress, Tommy planting wet kisses down your body as he pulls your clothes off. Soon, you’re down to just your panties, arousal pooling in the cotton fabric as Tommy looks up from between your legs. 

“You sure?” You ask breathlessly, too turned on to think clearly 

“I should be asking you that, pretty girl.” Tommy hums, “Are you sure?” 

“I think so…” You look at him where he eagerly awaits your consent, “Yes, M’ sure.” 

You want to do this for him, Tommy seems like he wants to so badly, who are you to deny him? Besides you bet he’s going to regret it and stop after a few seconds anyway. Your underwear inch off your body slowly and your hand flies down, grabbing Tommy’s. 

“Wait! I haven’t…I haven’t shaved, let me go to the bathroom quickly.” You sit up on your elbows 

Tommy is quick to push you back down, a dark glint in his eye as he stares at you, “Stay right where you are. Little hair never killed anyone before.” 

“You don’t think it’s gross?” You sigh 

Tommy smiles down at you, softly like he can sense your nerves and the way your heart pounds. 

“First off, nothin’ that has to do with you is gross. Second, this isn’t some shitty porno, we’re real people baby, I don’t care what she looks like, hair isn’t gonna bother me, I’m not those shitbags you used to date.” 

Tommy pulls the last bit of clothing from your body, hooking your legs over his shoulders, you’ve never felt more exposed. You shiver and feel your cunt clench as he blows air onto it. 

“There she is, pretty little thing,” He presses a kiss to your folds and you let out a soft sigh, “Needy too, never had a real man to take care of her.” 

Tommy’s ramblings has your face heating up in embarrassment, you wiggle your hips, “L-Let’s just get this over with.” 

“Get this over with? Actin’ like m’ gonna cut your leg off or something.” He teases, “Get this over with..,you hear what she’s saying? Doesn’t even know how badly this cunt needs my mouth.” 

“Tommy, you’re being weird just–oh”

His patchy facial hair tickles your delicate skin as his tongue licks a wet trail from your hole to your clit. A kiss is pressed to your thigh, whispering something that sounds like praise before he sucks your clit into his mouth. 

Your hips jump at the sudden onslaught of pleasure, his name leaving your lips as you fist the sheets. His tongue slips down to your hole, a groan leaving his lips as he laps at your wetness. Tommy’s thumb draws circles over your clit as your hips begin to stutter into his face, your mind a clouded mess. 

“T-Tommy, fuck…” You whisper into your room, you’ve never felt quite this good before, your climax is coming, fast.  

“C’mon baby, fuck my face, give it to me.” He encourages, his deep voice and southern drawl sending a chill up your spine.

An embarrassingly loud moan leaves your lips when your cum, your hips pulling up off the bed as Tommy slings an arm across your stomach, keeping his sinful mouth pressed to your center. 

You push at his head as you come down, his tongue sending painful twitches across your sensitive cunt. Tommy falls down on the bed next to you, chin damp grinning like a mad man as he looks over at you. 

“Still think I don’t like it?” He coyly asks 

You roll your eyes, he’s too damn smug about this whole thing, “You do know you’re going to be doing that alot more now, right?” 

Tommy laughs, wiping at his messy face before pressing a kiss to your lips, his facial hair smelling of you, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

TLOU Masterlist

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

what friends do | f. odair

masterlist

summary: you were a simple town girl. finnick odair was the crown jewel of panem. both of you needed an escape and found it at a secluded beach just outside district four. these were three ingredients that created a year-long friendship. but were friends supposed to have… impure thoughts about one another? you weren’t so sure.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: smut, wayyy too much detail, dirty thoughts, friends-to-lovers, mild angst, mostly readers pov, pre-rebellion, HEAVY dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v (big no no), multiple orgasms, so much pining, creampie, cock-warming

notes: i’m so sorry this took me so long. life has been up my ass lately and, as y’all know, i’m a slow writer. but thank you sm to everyone who patiently stuck around, i love y’all <3 this was supposed to be a short smut fic but um, apparently not. anyway, this has taken long enough to come out so imma stop rambling. ENJOY <3

word count: 11.7k

Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.

Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.

Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.

District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.

You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.

However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.

But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.

Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.

"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.

Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."

Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.

"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"

"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."

You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.

He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.

The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.

He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.

Finnick Odair.

The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.

The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.

That was what everyone made him out to be.

Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?

It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.

His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.

"I'm Finnick, by the way."

The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.

You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.

Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.

You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.

At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by. 

When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did. 

As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...

**********

As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.

Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.

"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."

Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.

Finnick was very much a gentleman.

He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.

All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.

But there was more to it than innocent adoration.

The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.

Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.

All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.

A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.

Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.

But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?

Maybe.

However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.

Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.

Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.

He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.

There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.

You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.

It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.

You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.

This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.

As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.

"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.

Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.

That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.

"Look at thi—"

Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief. 

Damn that stupid seashell.

He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"

You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"

Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.

"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.

He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."

"No, you just don't think, Finn."

He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."

"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."

Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.

You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.

Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.

One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.

Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.

And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."

The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—

"I think..."

—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.

The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.

Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.

Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.

So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.

When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.

As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.

The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.

You sighed.

The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.

Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.

"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.

Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"

"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"

With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"

"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"

Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"

You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."

"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.

Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?

Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.

Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.

Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.

And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.

You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.

"Thinking about anyone in particular?"

You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?" 

How did he keep doing that?

Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"

As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.

Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.

If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.

Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.

You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."

Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...

Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.

You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."

"Who could've guessed."

Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.

Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.

Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.

There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.

Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."

You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."

With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.

The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"

"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."

You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.

Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.

He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.

How could he?

The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.

You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.

First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.

"Stop moving."

You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.

"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.

His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.

You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?

In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"

"Fuck," he breathed out.

Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.

That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.

But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.

"...Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."

Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.

As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.

What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—

Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.

You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.

"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"

That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.

Finnick was silent.

The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.

Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.

And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."

Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.

You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.

It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.

Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.

"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.

"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"

You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.

Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"

A wave of chills ran down your entire body.

What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.

Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.

You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.

He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.

Finnick murmured your name.

"Yes?" you managed to whisper.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.

You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.

His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.

There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.

You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.

It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.

Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.

Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.

With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.

"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.

His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"

Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.

Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.

You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.

You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.

So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.

It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.

"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.

"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.

If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.

Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.

Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.

"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.

The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.

"Yes,"you practically whined.

He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.

You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.

His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.

Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.

But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.

Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"

He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.

You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."

And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.

"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."

Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.

To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties. 

He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.

Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."

He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.

His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.

"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.

How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."

"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."

Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.

At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.

The moan you let out was positively filthy.

"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."

Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.

"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."

"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."

A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.

Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.

The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.

It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.

"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.

"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.

You nodded fervently.

"Say please first."

"Finn," you whined in frustration.

You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"

His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.

Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.

"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."

He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.

Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.

That is what did it for you.

You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.

"Taking it so well."

"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."

"Such a good girl."

As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.

"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.

You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.

"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."

If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.

You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him

You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hey, stranger."

He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.

You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.

Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."

You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."

A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."

And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.

You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.

You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."

Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.

Then came the explosion.

His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.

Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.

A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

You stayed like this for a few seconds.

"So big," you gasped against his lips.

His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"

"Never."

This was so not what friends did.

He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.

At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.

All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.

The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.

He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.

You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.

"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."

You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?

He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.

"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."

He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.

Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.

He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.

His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.

You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.

Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.

His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.

He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.

Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.

That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.

Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.

Finnick chuckled adoringly above you. "Too fucked out, sweetheart?"

He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.

"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.

You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.

Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.

"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."

The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."

"Come inside you?"

You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.

"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."

Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.

He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.

And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.

It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.

He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.

When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.

With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.

You were gone.

"Oh fuck!"

The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.

He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.

You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.

A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.

There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.

But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.

It was a new moon.

Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal. 

You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.

Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.

He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.

Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.

"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.

Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."

"For an entire hour?"

"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."

You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."

"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."

"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."

You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.

Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.

"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"

The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?

A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.

There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.

Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.

Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.

Maybe.

"That's a long time," you said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."

And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.

"I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."

You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.

A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.

You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.

You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.

He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.

"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.

Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?

"I love you too."

His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.

...roll credits

[reasonsforhope]

Legit though, we should start turning ecosystem restoration and work to make our world more tolerant to the effects of climate change into annual holidays and festivals

Like how just about every culture used to have festivals to celebrate the beginning of the harvest or its end, or the beginning of planting, or how whole communities used to host barn raisings and quilting bees - everyone coming together at once to turn the work of months or years into the work of a few days

Humble suggestions for festival types:

Goat festival

Besides controlled burns (which you can't do if there's too much dead brush), the fastest, most effective, and most cost-efficient way to clear brush before fire season - esp really heavy dead brush - is to just. Put a bunch of goats on your land for a few days!

Remember that Shark Tank competitor who wanted to start a goat rental company, and everyone was like wtf? There was even a whole John Oliver bit making fun of the idea? Well THAT JUST PROVES THEY'RE FROM NICE WET PLACES, because goat rental companies are totally a thing, and they're great.

So like. Why don't we have a weekend where everyone with goats just takes those goats to the nearest land that needs a ton of clearing? Public officials could put up maps of where on public lands grazing is needed, and where it definitely shouldn't happen. Farmers and people/groups with a lot of acres that need clearing can post Goat Requests.

Little kids can make goat-themed crafts and give the goats lots of pets or treats at the end of the day for doing such a good job. Volunteers can help wrangle things so goats don't get where they're not supposed to (and everyone fences off land nowadays anyway, mostly). And the goats, of course, would be in fucking banquet paradise.

Planting Festival and Harvest Festival

Why mess with success??? Bring these back where they've disappeared!!! Time to swarm the community gardens and help everyone near you with a farm make sure that all of their seeds are sown and none of the food goes to waste in the fields, decaying and unpicked.

And then set up distribution parts of the festival so all the extra food gets where it needs to be! Boxes of free lemons in front of your house because you have 80 goddamned lemons are great, but you know what else would be great? An organized effort to take that shit to food pantries (which SUPER rarely get fresh produce, because they can't hold anything perishable for long at all) and community/farmer's markets

Rain Capture Festival

The "water year" - how we track annual rainfall and precipitation - is offset from the regular calendar year because, like, that's just when water cycles through the ecosystems (e.g. meltwater). At least in the US, the water year is October 1st through September 30th of the next year, because October 1st is around when all the snowmelt from last year is gone, and a new cycle is starting as rain begins to fall again in earnest.

So why don't we all have a big barn raising equivalent every September to build rain capture infrastructure?

Team up with some neighbors to turn one of those little grass strips on the sidewalk into a rain-garden with fall-planting plants. Go down to your local church and help them install some gutters and rain barrels. Help deculvert rivers so they run through the dirt again, and make sure all the storm drains in your neighborhood are nice and clear.

Even better, all of this - ESPECIALLY the rain gardens - will also help a ton with flood control!

I'm so serious about how cool this could be, yall.

And people who can't or don't want to do physical stuff for any of these festivals could volunteer to watch children or cook food for the festival or whatever else might need to be done!

Parties afterward to celebrate all the good work done! Community building and direct local improvements to help protect ourselves from climate change!

The possibilities are literally endless, so not to sound like an influencer or some shit, but please DO comment or reply or put it in the notes if you have thoughts, esp on other things we could hold festivals like this for.

Canning festivals. "Dig your elderly neighbors out of the snow" festivals. Endangered species nesting count festival. Plant fruit trees on public land and parks festival. All of the things that I don't know anywhere near enough to think of. Especially in more niche or extreme ecosystems, there are so many possibilities that could do a lot of good

[milksnake-tea]

━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would��ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, careful sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he thought to himself - he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[rgwriteshockey]

summer on the lake w/ jack hughes ⇨

jack hughes x reader

summary: jack hughes invites you to spend the summer at his lake house, hoping for a break from hockey life. as you both hang out by the water, kayak, and have late-night talks, you start to feel something more between you. when his brothers, luke and quinn, show up for the weekend, things get even more fun and chaotic. with the relaxed vibe of the house and the laughter of his family, you feel right at home. by the end of the summer, you realize it’s not just the lake house that’s special—it’s the start of something real with jack.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: kinda a slow burn, mild language, and light angst

a/n: my first fic omg!! i am so excited to finally start fic writing. leave any comments or suggestions in the comments and i hope you enjoy! send requests!!

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the warm summer breeze carried the scent of pine and fresh water through the tall trees that surrounded jack hughes' secluded lake house. the new jersey devils star had spent countless summers here in the past, the tranquil escape offering the perfect retreat from the high-paced life of professional hockey. but this summer felt different. with the end of another hard-fought season, jack was ready for a fresh start—a fresh start with you.

you had known jack for a few years now, meeting through a mutual friend, and after spending some time together last summer, the two of you had grown closer. it wasn’t a traditional friendship—at times it felt like something more, but neither of you had ever said anything. you had a comfortable bond, one that came easily, filled with laughter and late-night talks, but both of you had been hesitant to cross that line.

when jack had invited you up to his lake house for the summer, you had been hesitant at first. the idea of being stuck with one of the most successful player in the nhl in an isolated house on a lake sounded like something out of a dream, but you couldn’t help the anxiety creeping up in the pit of your stomach. what if things changed between you? what if that easy comfort was lost when there were only the two of you, day after day?

but there you were, standing in front of the house now, watching jack unloading his car from the deck. the lake sparkled in the distance, surrounded by the dense woods, making the place feel like a hidden paradise. the nerves settled a little as you spotted jack smiling at you from the front porch, a carefree, relaxed expression that you hadn’t seen in a while.

"hey," jack called, waving his hand as he jogged over. "you're here!"

you smiled, grateful for the ease he carried with him. "yeah, finally. this place is amazing."

"right? i love it here," jack replied, his voice full of pride. "it’s the perfect spot to relax, you know?"

as he dropped your bags onto the porch and ushered you inside, you could already feel the stress of your daily life start to dissipate. the house was exactly as you remembered it—a mix of rustic charm and modern comfort, with large windows that looked out over the lake. it felt like an oasis.

"can i get you something to drink? we’ve got everything stocked," jack asked, already digging through the kitchen. "want a beer or something? or i’ve got some iced tea."

"iced tea sounds perfect," you answered, setting your things down on the couch. jack returned with two glasses, handing you one as you both settled into the cozy living room.

"i’m glad you came up," jack said quietly, a little more serious than usual. "i know it’s kind of a big ask, but i think we’ll have a good time."

you nodded, taking a sip of the cold, sweet iced tea. "i’m glad i came, too."

jack leaned back on the couch, his usual relaxed posture taking over again. he looked comfortable, at ease, but there was something else in his eyes—a curiosity that hadn’t been there before. it was like he was waiting for something to shift.

"so, what do you think?" jack asked after a moment. "it’s just you and me here for the next couple of weeks, and i figure we should make the most of it."

"i think that sounds amazing," you replied with a smile. "what do you usually do when you’re here?"

"oh, you know," jack said with a grin. "i swim, kayak, go for a run in the mornings. but i’m sure we can find something fun to do. i’m open to whatever."

you both laughed, and for a moment, the nerves melted away. you were here for an adventure, and you were sure it would be the kind of summer you’d never forget.

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the next few days passed in a blur of sunshine, cool drinks, and lazy afternoons by the water. jack had shown you the lake, introducing you to his favorite spots—the hidden cove, the cliff that overlooked the vast expanse of blue. you had spent hours kayaking, the two of you racing to see who could get to the other side of the lake first, only to laugh when you both ended up falling into the water anyway. there were nights by the fire pit, roasting marshmallows and telling stories, the stars overhead so bright they seemed like they could touch you. the days were simple and full of joy, but something was starting to linger in the air, something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

it was on one of those lazy afternoons when the tension finally broke. jack had invited you for a walk down a trail near the lake, the sound of the water rippling beside you as you walked side by side in comfortable silence.

"this place is really special to me," jack said softly, his voice almost lost in the rustling of the trees.

"i can tell," you said, looking up at him with a soft smile. "it’s beautiful here. i can see why you love it so much."

jack glanced over at you, his expression a little more serious than usual. "it’s more than just the place. it’s like... i can just be myself here. no pressure, no distractions. just peace."

you nodded, unsure of how to respond to that, the weight of his words hanging between you. there was something intimate about what he had said, something raw. you had always seen jack as this happy-go-lucky hockey player with an easy smile and carefree attitude, but in that moment, you saw another side of him—one that longed for simplicity and connection.

"you know," jack continued, stopping in his tracks and turning to face you, "there’s something i’ve been meaning to say for a while now."

your heart skipped a beat. was this the moment? was he about to say what you’d both been dancing around since you’d gotten here? before you could open your mouth to ask, jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off the moment.

"sorry," he said quickly, checking the screen. "it’s just my brother. he’s probably asking if i’m going to show up for the family bbq this weekend."

"don’t worry about it," you said, a little disappointed but understanding. "you should probably get back to him."

jack hesitated for a second, staring at his phone with an unreadable expression before slipping it back in his pocket. "actually, maybe i’ll just forget it for a bit," he said, a playful grin returning to his face. "we’re here. let’s enjoy the moment."

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later that week, jack’s brothers—luke and quinn—showed up for the weekend, bringing a whole new dynamic to the lake house. you had met them a few times before, but never in such a relaxed, laid-back environment. luke, the youngest brother, was full of energy, constantly trying to get jack to do something competitive, while quinn, the eldest, was a bit more reserved but just as charming in his own way. the house was suddenly buzzing with the chaos of their arrival.

"finally, you invited us up here!" luke said, tossing a bag on the porch and giving jack a playful shove. "figured we’d have to track you down to get some family time."

jack grinned, rolling his eyes. "you guys are lucky i actually like having you here."

"yeah, yeah, i’m sure," luke shot back, raising an eyebrow. "where’s your friend, though? didn’t think you'd come up here without them."

you stood a little awkwardly on the porch, unsure of how to respond, but jack gave you a quick glance and then a reassuring smile.

"they’re inside," jack said, nodding toward the door. "you’ll meet them soon enough."

"nice," luke said, his voice full of sarcasm. "we’ll give you two a minute, but the bbq is happening, and you can’t miss quinn’s famous ribs."

quinn smiled from the porch, his deep green eyes lighting up with a grin. "trust me, you’ll want to be there. nobody does ribs like me."

"we’re coming, don’t worry," jack said, clapping quinn on the back as he walked inside to grab a few things. luke followed suit, but you were left standing there for a moment, taking in the sound of the lake and the easy laughter that echoed through the air.

jack’s brothers had this effortless, playful vibe that immediately made you feel comfortable, like you had known them for years. the conversation was light, the jokes were easy, and it felt like family, even though you weren’t technically a part of it—yet.

as the evening went on, the bbq was in full swing, and the tension from earlier in the week seemed to disappear entirely. you found yourself laughing with the three brothers as they tried to one-up each other with ridiculous stories and impromptu challenges. jack’s laughter was contagious, and you couldn’t help but feel more and more at home with each passing hour.

later, after everyone had eaten their fill and the fire was crackling in the pit, you and jack stood by the water, quietly watching the sunset. luke and quinn had disappeared inside, leaving you two alone again.

"how’s it been so far?" jack asked, his voice soft.

"honestly?" you said, turning to look at him. "i didn’t think i’d have this much fun. your brothers are pretty great."

jack smiled, his expression a little more serious than usual. "i’m glad you’re here. they really like you, by the way."

you laughed. "i like them too. they’re... a lot."

"yeah," jack said with a chuckle. "but they’re good guys. and it’s nice to have you here with me. it feels... right."

the air between you shifted again, and for the first time all week, you could feel the distance between you closing. jack’s words were simple, but they carried so much weight. the summer, the lake house, his brothers—it all felt like it was leading to something bigger.

as the sun dipped below the horizon, you turned to jack, the words on the tip of your tongue. this moment, this summer, was something you’d never forget. and, maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something real.

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the summer at jack’s lake house was more than just a vacation. it was a turning point. the days spent by the water, the laughter shared with his brothers, and the quiet moments between you and jack—it all came together, and it felt like the start of something much bigger. something full of possibility. and with each passing day, you couldn’t wait to see where it would lead.

[mimicmimikyuwrites]

The First "I Love You" - Adam (Hazbin Hotel) x Fem!Reader SMUT

Summary: You tell Adam that you love him for the first time, the first of any of his wives to tell him that. Your confession of love leads to Adam showing you just how much he loves you back.

Contents/Possible Warnings: P in V sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cream pie, Adam being his usual insufferable self, SMUT, MDNI

The world outside of Eden's garden was a dangerous one, but your husband never failed to keep you safe. Adam had told you stories of the garden and how he lived there with Eve, years before your creation as his third wife. His tales of the place he described as Earth's own heavenly paradise where your every need was met always enamored you; for you too wished you could experience it with him by your side.

The possibility of that happening was long gone as soon as Eve bit into the forbidden apple, but without the actions of your predecessors, you wouldn't have come to be. In a way that even you admitted was a little fucked up, you were grateful that things happened the way they did, and you were grateful you got to meet the love of your life.

Adam was an asshole with an ego that was far too big, but at the end of it all, he was the same man who kept you safe during the day, and who held you at night, keeping you warm despite the cold night, just as he was in the present moment.

You snuggled up to him, your head laying on his chest while his hand absentmindedly combed through your hair; the two of you attempting to get some sleep, gazing up at the stars in the night sky. You certainly weren't in the Garden of Eden, but being with him was like your own personal paradise.

You looked up at him. His eyes were half-lidded and threatening to close from his quickly growing need for sleep. He yawned, pulling you closer, an action that earned a gentle smile from you. You leaned up, kissing him softly.

"Fuck was that for?" He questioned. "You tryin' to fuck, babe? Usually, I'd be thrilled, but I'm exhausted as shit right now."

You shook your head. "I just wanted to kiss you, is all." You replied, smiling at him warmly. He gave you a curious look, unfamiliar with the concept of a kiss that was more chaste in nature. Whenever he kissed you, or his previous wives, in the past it was in the throes of a lustful exchange.

"...Why? Do you want something else, or...?" Confusion filled his voice in a rare moment where he wasn't his usual confident, boisterous self. You shook your head. "I wanted to do it because I love you, Adam." Those last four words played on repeat in his head. "I love you, Adam."

The phrase "I love you," had been uttered by a human before; he had said it to Lilith, and then Eve, but never to you. Yet here you were, the first one to say it to him, all of your volition. The feeling in his heart was indescribable to him, something he never felt before, and it felt better than anything else. Knowing that the one he loved felt the same for the first time ever made him feel almost euphoric, and he was determined to get as much out of that feeling as possible.

His lips crashed against yours in a passionate kiss. He climbed on top of you, moving his lips down to your neck where he sloppily kissed and nibbled, earning a light moan from you; one of his favorite noises.

"Let me show you just how much I love you back," he said, voice low, his hands moving to your thighs. "You want that, don't you? Tell me just how much you want that, sweetheart." Your legs spread instinctively as he loomed over you, the pale moonlight of the night reflecting off of him and giving him an alluring glow.

"Adam, please," you breathed out, pulling him down, your faces nearly touching. "I want you so much. Make love to me, fill me up, do whatever you want to me—" He silenced you with another kiss, pushing into you slowly. You moaned into him, your arms wrapping around him in an attempt to get as close to him as you possibly could, savoring the intimacy of it all.

His thrusts were slow, yet deep, and the pace had you feeling every single inch of his cock inside of you. It was a welcome contrast to the usual way he fucked you; with quick, rough movements and an eagerness to reach only his climax and not yours. It seemed for once he was fully enjoying the pleasure shared between you, and in no real rush.

"Say it again," He told you, burying his face into the crook of your neck as his speed increased just slightly. "Say you love me, baby." With your mind clouded with pleasure you barely heard him, your only focus being on the way his cock fucked into your pussy. Unsatisfied with your response, he grabbed you by the chin, forcing you to look into his eyes filled with arousal, love, and a twinge of desperation.

"Say. It." He growled, each word followed with a sharp thrust that hit your sweet spot head-on.

"I love you—fuck! Adam!—" You threw your head back, arching your back as he rewarded you by speeding up, thick cock stretching you out perfectly with each movement. "Love you—fuck, yes!" You let out a loud moan as his fingers found your clit, rubbing it in a circular motion.

"Gonna fill you up," He groaned, the sound of his hips smacking against yours filling the air. "'I'm gonna get you pregnant, have you do what those other unfaithful bitches couldn't do for me. You probably want that more than anything, to be my perfect little wife who only loves me."

You only nodded at his words, practically drunk off of the feeling of his cock fucking into you so deliciously, your mind clouded with pleasure. Your nails dug into his back as you attempted to ground yourself, your orgasm barreling towards you; its arrival sure to be at any moment.

"Gonna cum—" He warned, moaning out your name in a way that made you even wetter than you already were. "Y-You gonna let me fill you up? Let me–oh shit—" He moaned again as you wrapped your legs around his waist, burying him in deeper and locking him in place at the same time. There was no pulling out now, not like he was going to anyways.

"Loveyouloveyouloveyou—Ah! Fuuuuck!" He growled, his hips stilling, warm cum spilling deep into you. The feeling of him filling you to the brim sent you over the edge, your climax consuming you.

You two remained in silence for a long couple of moments, looking into each other's eyes in a shared adoration before he pulled out, laying next to you. You closed your eyes, satisfied, yet tired.

"Come here," He said, voice gentle, pulling you closer and wrapping an arm around your waist. "Let's do that shit you always want to do after I fuck your brains out."

You furrowed your brows in a slight confusion before quickly realizing what he meant. You let out a giggle. "You mean cuddle, Adam? You usually just go to sleep afterward. What changed?"

He rolled his eyes in response to your question, trying to hold back the smile sneaking its way onto his face. "Trust me, I'm going to sleep, babe. Might as well hold onto you so you don't sneak off or some shit like all fucking women seem to do."

You ignored the implications of his comment, snuggling up to him. "I love you, Adam. I mean it. I'm not going anywhere."

He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth in his heart from your words. "Love ya, too. Now go to sleep, the man needs to get his rest."

You closed your eyes, the feeling of him tracing imaginary patterns into your back lulling you to sleep. You loved him, and he loved you, even if he was still struggling to fully accept it.