#drained pool politics

[thoughtportal]

Sabotaging of Black People Era

[tododeku-or-bust]

"Black people are the magical faces at the bottom of society's well. Even the poorest whites, those who must live their lives only a few levels above, gain their self-esteem by gazing down on us. Surely, they must know that their deliverance depends on letting down their ropes. Only by working together is escape possible. Over time, many reach out, but most simply watch, mesmerized into maintaining their unspoken commitment to keeping us where we are, at whatever cost to them or to us."

The opening quote of Faces At The Bottom Of The Well, Derrick Bell (1992)

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now?

in which fem!reader is insecure around spencer until she finally asks him to take matters into his own hands (literally)

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: inexperienced reader, fingering, softdom!spencer my sweet sweet beloved angel, sub reader, praise, you know he talks you through it, brief mention of drinking wine, i think that's it a/n: i hope u guys like this ! slightly different dynamic than my other stuff maybe but let me know what u think!! i love feedback and i love YOU!!!

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s the first thing Spencer has said since you two landed on his couch, exhausted from one of Rossi’s extravagant soirées. It was your first of many, if Spencer’s entire team is to be believed. More nights featuring Italian food and wine you could never afford don’t sound half bad—but for now you’re drained. You barely had the energy to kick off your heels and topple into Spencer’s lap five minutes ago. The silk dress still pools over his knees and your hair still falls in curls around your face. He brushes one aside as he continues. 

“I mean—you always look beautiful. But I’ve never seen you all done up. You’re obscenely gorgeous.”

You groan awkwardly, burying your face in Spencer’s collar as your face heats. Taking compliments has never been your strong suit, especially from someone who you perceive to be so out of your league. The relationship you have with Spencer is relatively new, and sometimes you worry delicate; like one slip-up revealing the real you and he’ll go running. So far, though, he seems hellbent on proving you wrong. 

His hand finds the bare skin of your arm, passing up and down gently. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“…I do.”

It’s unconvincing. Spencer scoffs. 

“No, you don’t. You never believe me when I compliment you.”

The cadence of his voice is light enough, but it’s evident that there’s some genuine frustration there, lurking just under the surface. 

Your head lolls over his shoulder and he angles his neck to look down at you. Hair falls over his eyes, and you’d fix it if he didn’t look so damn perfect. Everything about him looks intentional, like he was designed by someone who took great pride in their work. Not at all like you—a collage of features and spare parts you guess whatever force created you had lying around. Nothing about you feels on purpose. But that’s a hard thing to explain.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s impolite. It just feels disingenuous to accept compliments like that.”

Goosebumps arise on your arm where he touches you.

“You being polite isn’t what I’m concerned about. I just wish I could make you understand that I mean it when I compliment you. You’d know if I didn’t. I’m a terrible liar.”

That earns a giggle from you. Your boyfriend smiles, sparkling eyes darting over your face like he’s trying to bottle the sound, the memory—and you realize he probably is. What a terrifying thought. You look away, abashed once more. 

“I’m a woman, Spencer. I’m not allowed to like myself. That’s the whole thing with Eve and the snake and the apple and whatever. Eternal inescapable shame.”

“Are you trying to justify your self-loathing by making it biblical? You know I’m the last person that would work on, right? Both as an agnostic-leaning-athiest and someone who thinks you’re beautiful and wonderful.”

Another groan claws its way from your throat as you slide down in embarrassment. 

“You’re killing me here, Spencer.”

“What can I do to do to make you believe me?” he murmurs, carefully brushing tangles from your hair as you now rest practically prone across his lap. The ceiling light stretches behind him, haloing him in a soft glowing crown and making everything a bit more hazy and tolerable. 

“It’s not your fight.” It’s meant to be playfully dramatic, but it hangs from your lips with a painful amount of earnestness. 

“If it’s yours, it’s mine. That’s kind of the whole point of a relationship, right? Being a team?”

His fingers are nimble and warm between yours as you interlace them, steepling and bumping them together as you speak. 

“Well, if you know so much, why are you asking me? It sounds like you know exactly what to do to make me magically love myself.”

A dangerous twitch plays at the corner of his lips as he gazes sleepily down at you. 

“Oh, I have a few ideas. But I’m asking what you’d be comfortable with.”

“Whoa!” you blurt, giggling self-consciously, covering your face with your (and inadvertently one of his) hands. “Where did that come from?”

He smiles at your response to his mildly suggestive comment. “I lose my filter when I'm tired. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

You sigh gustily, dragging his hand down to fall over your collarbones. His fingers twitch over the delicate skin, like he’d graze it if your hand wasn’t weighing his down. 

“No, no, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you just… surprised me. I’m really bad at talking about this kind of thing.”

“Sex?”

You yelp, slinging your arm over your face and hiding in the crook of your elbow. “AH! Don’t say it!” 

He laughs again, a little less reserved this time. 

“What? You can’t even listen to me say the word?”

“No! Too scary!”

Eventually you peek out from under your arm to find Spencer still watching you. The humor has faded from his eyes and been replaced by a kind of serene calm. He brushes a lock of hair from your shoulder. 

“Come here,” he says—a request more than a demand. With some wriggling and a bit of help, you manage to reorient yourself into a sitting position across his lap once more. His touch is warm even through the fabric of your dress when he kisses you, hand sliding over your waist before moving to trace your jaw and ending up on the back of your neck, urging you closer ever so slightly. You kiss him back without hesitation or restraint, as you delight in doing when he gives you the opportunity. What you may lack in experience and refinement, you make up for with affection and enthusiasm. He pulls away after a minute, much to your dismay, and brushes his thumb over your lips. For the first time, you think you see a hint of worry in his eyes. Guilt claws at your heart when he quietly asks, “you’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No!” You assure quickly, looping your arms around his neck. “No, it’s not you. You’re perfect and I’m sure you really mean all of the nice things you say. But I just… sometimes I worry I’ll scare you away once you realize I’m not as pretty or… good as you thought.”

“That’s impossible.”

Once more you let your head fall onto his shoulder. “You don’t know that.” 

His hand begins running up and down your back, soothing your sympathetic nervous system in a way that all the deep breaths in the world never could. 

“I know that I really, really like you. And there’s not one part of you that I don’t find genuinely beautiful. I can’t imagine not feeling that way about you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you hum against him—a non-answer, but he doesn’t push it. Minutes go by quietly, ticking later into the night as he continues mindlessly rubbing your back and watching you breathe. “Do you want me to take you home?” He finally asks after a long while. Again, you don’t respond. He smiles. “I know you’re awake.”

The corner of your lip twitches as you attempt to suppress a grin. Spencer sighs. 

“I guess if you’re already asleep you’ll just have to stay here. But it would be convenient if you’d sleepwalk to my bed so that I don’t have to carry you.”

When you begin stirring and sitting up (one eye cracked to navigate) he laughs, hands on your waist. “Would you look at that. Who knew she would be so suggestible in non-REM?” You snort as you push yourself to a standing position using Spencer’s shoulders to support yourself, and ruining the whole act. He smiles up at you like you’re something divine and lets his hands trail over your hips. 

“I sleep with my eyes open.”

“Do you often have coherent conversations in your sleep, too?”

You shrug. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m sure you are,” he agrees, finally standing himself. “I’m assuming you don’t want to sleep in your dress?”

“I have shorts on underneath I can wear, but a shirt would be helpful.”

“Then we’ll get you a shirt.”

———————————————

Ten minutes later you’re in Spencer’s bathroom, wearing your shorts and one of his sweatshirts (you cannot imagine Spencer in a hoodie), and wiping black sludge from your eyes with makeup remover he claims was left by a friend after a particularly festive Halloween party. Hopefully he’s telling the truth—you can think of more dubious potential origins of the eye-makeup remover in his bathroom. No toothbrush—you use your finger and a generous amount of toothpaste until the red wine stains fade. 

Spencer is fixing the pillows when you exit the bathroom. You hold up your hands which are completely obscured and then some by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Fits like a dream,” you say. A smile tugs at his lips as he finishes his task, before raising his eyes to you. The smile promptly fades and it’s like the sun disappearing behind an oppressive gray cloud. In an instant your stomach curdles and you feel like crawling out of your skin. 

“…what?” you mumble, absolutely terrified that the thing he’d said was impossible just minutes ago has already happened. Without makeup, without a fancy dress, you’re just you, and maybe that’s not good enough.

“Uh…” He blinks, as if he’s buffering for a moment, before snapping back into action, and notably looking away from you. “It’s—it’s nothing. Do you, um—here, I tried to make it—“

“Stop. Just tell me what that was. You got all weird.”

Another pause—he looks back up at you reluctantly with a sigh. 

“I did not get all weird.”

“Yes, you did. You’re still being weird. It’s freaking me out.”

He’s utterly unreadable, which drives you fucking insane, when he eventually says, “come here.” This time, you think with a chill as you shuffle on your knees across the bed to sit in front of him, it really sounds like a demand. Spencer grabs your face in his hands, studying you intently. “I know you think I’ve finally decided you’re hideously deformed, but it’s actually just the opposite. I’m trying to figure out how to keep things polite for you.”

Realization dawns on you and the swarm of new butterflies in your stomach. The usual molten gold of his irises has been encroached upon, masked by blown pupils. Your face gets hot and your voice caves when you speak. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he agrees quietly. “Do you believe me now?”

And to his credit, you really do. The hot skin, the vibrating cells in every fiber of your being, the racing heart—your body knows he means it. Part of you, the more confident, more desirous part, drags you closer to him, ghosts your lips over his. He chuckles. 

“Now you’re getting brave?”

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?” you whisper, draping your arms over his shoulders. 

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

The words make you shiver—the lowered, gravelly tone of his voice you’ve never heard before snaps your resolve and you lean into him, connecting your lips with a deep urgency. Spencer inhales sharply, hands wandering to your waist and bearing down firmly as you press against him. When you lean back, he follows you, insists without saying a word that you don’t stop kissing him. It sends a thrill down your spine and between your legs, which both gives you pause and eggs you on. In the end, after a very brief internal struggle, curiosity and desire win. You drop to the bed and drag him down with you—he, your willing follower, blindly searches for purchase on the plush comforter. Now he’s on top of you, legs slotted together so that his thigh is temptingly close to your core. Too shy to actually do what you want to do, you clamp your thighs around his and tilt your hips, desperate for friction. He exhales heavily, slowly pulling his lips from yours like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, not enough to ache but enough to draw your attention to your movements. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, firmly, but not like you’re in trouble—it’s a probing question. He’s trying to figure out if you’re aware of the way you’re nearly riding his leg. 

“I don’t know,” you admit breathlessly. 

“You just told me you couldn’t even listen to me say the word sex,” Spencer reminds you. “You said it was too scary.”

A frustrated whine seems to catch him by surprise, and he laughs. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”

“Is that what happened?” he teases. 

“Honestly, I’m just really turned on right now, please—" you cut yourself off, crashing your lips into his once more. And he almost relents. 

Almost. 

“Slow down.”

He ceases kissing you for a second time and you’re starting to really get annoyed. 

“What?” you groan. “I thought you wanted this.”

His thumbs brush over the apples of your cheeks, demanding your attention. 

“I want you. In every sense of the word. If you make a bad choice tonight and it means you don’t like me anymore tomorrow, that is the opposite of what I want. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking you to think about it for a second.”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and attempting to steady your mind and see beyond the thick fog of lust. What you find is a (mildly surprising) complete lack of fear. You’re not scared, like you thought you’d be; you feel utterly safe underneath him, with his hands on you and his heartbeat against your chest. This is a kind of intimacy you want to have with him. 

Your eyes open to reveal his, close enough you can see the tiny flecks of green. And so much warmth. Everything about him is warm. 

“This is what I want,” you assert. “I promise.”

His gaze flits between yours for a moment, pulling the truth from your soul like he might be able to find an imperfection there. But you mean it—and he seems satisfied. He trusts you, like you trust him. 

“Okay.”

A sigh of relief never quite finds completion before he’s kissing you again. Immediately the fire is stoked once more, the heat between your legs getting warmer when he experimentally pushes his thigh against you. You breathe into the kiss, pressing down on him and surrendering to the unconscious rhythm of your hips. He lets that go on for a minute or two until you’re so distracted that you can’t kiss him back. 

Unexpectedly he pulls away, disentangling himself from your legs. You stammer in frustration until his fingers hook under the soft material of your shorts. “Hips up.”

Wordlessly you comply, succumbing to his gentle words and touch. He bows to kiss you as he slides the fabric down unhurriedly. Once the shorts are gone, he sits up, and carefully lifts one of your legs over his lap, gaze unabashedly glued between them. 

“Eyes up here,” you try to joke, but it’s steeped in self-consciousness and your heart is pounding. He manages, stroking the inside of your knee with a thumb as he leans down again. 

“But you’re so pretty,” he murmurs, before he’s kissing you again. “Just like I knew you would be.”

You whimper when his hand skates over your stomach, lower, and lower, and—

“Tell me one more time, sweetheart.”

Your plead is just as hungry and yearning. “Please, Spencer?”

It works for him. 

When his knuckles brush over your clit, you forget to breathe. When they barely skim your entrance, collecting arousal to drag back upward, your brain malfunctions. It is not enough, maddeningly so, but when he finds a careful, introductory rhythm, it’s immediately bordering on too much, too good. 

Your stomach tenses and you are surprised by your own sighs and hesitant gasps as you try to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s hand between your legs. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Mhm,” you chirp. Slow but insistent circles elicit a cry that gets caught in your throat, melting into a hum. Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the smile in Spencer’s voice. 

“You’re sensitive, huh?”

“S—sometimes.”

 He hums contemplatively. 

“Sometimes? Can you tell me about that?”

You can’t hardly think around those gentle movements of his hand, let alone speak. He touches you like you’re something delicate. It’s torturous and perfect. But you try to answer anyway, managing to keep the stammering to a minimum. 

“About what?” 

“I want to know what you think about when you touch yourself.” The smooth words in tandem with an incremental increase in pressure earn your first real moan. Timid and unpracticed, but very genuine. 

The answer comes immediately afterward; thoughtlessly and on a shuddering exhalation.

“You.”

“Yeah?” he smiles. “Good answer.”

Your eyes open fractionally to study his expression. You’d felt so much shame every time you’d imagined him in your bed late at night.

“Really?” 

“Really. And now look at you. Letting me do it for you.” As if to remind you, he speeds up the motion of his hand. On instinct you bring your fingers to your lips as you moan through a closed throat, partly to stifle the noise and partly because you don’t know what to do with the hand that’s not gripping the duvet. “Do you only touch here?” His fingers slide down to your slick entrance and your hips buck, mourning the loss of stimulation. “Or do you touch here, too?” 

You shake your head, breathing hard as he teases a finger around the soft place you’ve never really bothered to explore. “Never feels good when I try.”

“We’re gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod hesitantly, leaning back into the pillows when he kisses you again. 

His lips are so distracting, so intoxicating you almost forget what he’s doing until he does it. It’s a foreign sensation—not entirely pleasant or unpleasant. For a moment or two your brows furrow as you focus on the feeling, worried that maybe you’re broken just as you thought—until you feel a slight stretch and you realize he��s pushing a second finger into you now. A kiss lands on your cheek when you grab his arm with a choked gasp, and he mutters, “deep breaths,” into your ear. “I know it’s new, honey, just breathe.”

“Fuck,” you whimper as you look down, and you didn’t realize you were going to say it until it’s already passed between your lips. Pressure begins melding with the promise of pleasure, and something about watching his hand move between your legs—the tendons flexing and wrist bending as he eases into what is clearly a perfected motion—arouses you so much you moan at the sight alone. Flipping pages is all you thought that hand was meant for. It’s like a secret revealed as you watch it do something so salacious, and to you. 

A hot spark of pleasure flares deeper in you than you’ve ever felt. It catches and grows faster than you’d of thought—suddenly you can feel everything and it all feels better than you thought possible. Your jaw drops and a surprised huff of air blows a strand of your hair away. 

“Oh my god,” comes your breathy little whisper, unprepared for and intimidated by how good he’s making you feel. Filthy noises come from between your legs and you clench around his fingers. You had no idea you could make those noises. You had no idea you could get so wet. 

“Yeah, there we go.” His voice sounds a little further away now. You manage to tear your eyes away from all the action to his face. Much like you, he’s transfixed by the sight, brow furrowed and pretty lips parted in what could be concentration, or some sort of empathetic pleasure. His face has more color to it than usual and his breaths come heavier—it’s a very pleasant sight. Suddenly his fingers brush against a spot deep within you and your hips cant upward, a mewl pulled from the depths of your throat that has more control over you than you do it. Spencer’s eyes flash back to you, a grin playing at his lips. He does it again, looking right into your eyes, and you whine so pitifully your face flushes. 

“Too much?” he asks. You shake your head firmly, arching your back when he unconsciously slows down. At your response his fingers begin rutting into you again, committing to that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “Of course not. You’re gonna take whatever I give you, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. You’d do just about anything for him right at this second. Spencer holds an immense amount of power over you in this moment, and potentially in all future moments moving forward. But you trust him with it. 

“You don’t have anything to prove to me. I just want you to feel good. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

But it’s really not too much. It’s exactly right. Your verbal capacity is acutely limited right now, so you can’t exactly say it, but you lock eyes with him and whine shamelessly, hips twisting against his hand. You think he gets the message. 

Hair falls over his face and he doesn’t fix it, opting instead to alternate his gaze between your cunt and face, cursing to himself lowly. You wouldn’t want him to stop and fix his hair—what you want is this, for him to keep pushing you toward that elusive edge and to keep looking at you like you put all the stars in the sky. 

“Look at you, my pretty girl. I’m so proud of you. I know this isn’t easy. I know you were scared. Thank you for letting me do this, honey.”

It’s the unexpected tenderness of the words, perfectly misplaced in the context of the moment. It’s the devotion, the honesty in his eyes, shining through the haze of lust, which makes your stomach drop and all your muscles tense. A million thoughts jumble in your head, dizzying and thrilling and confusing, but mostly all you can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. Is this how it always is? Your hands tangle in the sheets—and then all the thoughts vanish. Everything is warm and fuzzy and sparkling clean, no worries, no lingering thoughts, no self-awareness at all. It’s nirvana. It’s revelatory. It’s ridiculous that he did this all in under five minutes and you haven’t been able to do it once even with very concerted effort. 

Slowly you float back into your body, breathing hard and watching through half-lidded eyes as Spencer gently pulls his hand away. Without him you feel weirdly empty and cold, like he should have been there all along. But his touch isn’t absent for long—he runs his hand over the bridge between your hips, little finger dipping into the crease of your thigh. 

“That’s never… I’ve never done that before,” you admit, slurring your words only slightly. 

His perfect features contort into a half-frown, half-smile. 

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” You nod. His head tilts. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“When would I have told you?” you laugh, finding his waist with your hand and encouraging him to settle his weight on you. He does, burying his face in your neck and exhaling heavily. 

“Well?” you ask shyly, skating your fingers over his back. “Did I do it right?”

Spencer snorts, but presses a sickeningly sweet kiss to the curve of your neck. 

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit, voice smaller than you’d have liked. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and kisses you softly. 

“Then we both did it right.”

“But…” you stare up into his warm honey eyes, searching for any bits of hidden truth you can find. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, utterly unconcerned. “You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” he agrees, “and I’ll say this because I know otherwise you’re going to worry about it forever.” He studies your face reverently for a moment, before parting his lips to speak. The words are slow to come, like he’s trying to figure the sentence out as he goes along. “You… are going to be, problematic, for me.”

Your whisper is almost as small as you feel under his heavy gaze. “What d’you mean?” 

“I mean,” Spencer begins, voice low, “I think I liked that too much. Do you see why that’s troubling?”

The flame you thought had been quenched flickers back to life like a pilot light. Your thighs press together to alleviate a growing ache in a still sensitive area and you answer, “no,” with a small shake of your head. His thumb tenderly traces your jaw, ever-patient despite the fact that you’re obviously playing coy. 

“Because I can’t have you all the time.”

“Yes you can,” you say without hesitation, though your eyes are fluttering. “You can have me whenever you want. Right now.”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“Not tonight. You’ve had enough. You’re tired.”

“I’m wide awake,” you slur, tangling a hand in his hair even as you lose the battle against your eyelids. 

He sighs good-naturedly, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrist and brushing his lips over the delicate skin. 

“You’re shockingly precocious.”

You hum. 

“You just unleashed the beast. You’re like Doctor Frankenstein.”

He chuckles, sitting up and finding your shorts. You manage to be semi-helpful, lifting your legs at appropriate junctures as he tugs your clothing back on. “And you’re a nerd.”

“I don’t need to take that from you of all people.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Spencer says, and the smile in his voice makes you smile, a quarter asleep as he leans over to turn off the lamp on your side of the bed before tugging the covers over both of you. 

He pulls you close in the dark, releasing a deep sigh as you curl into him. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, his arms warm around you. You can imagine making a home for yourself here. And you don’t know if he’s thinking it, but you hope he is, as you are silently repeating to yourself with every beat of his heart;

I love you

I love you

I love you. 

-

part two

[davdcorenswet]

🌪️ whirlwind.

scott miller x reader Synopsis: the bar has always been a safe haven after a long week of storm-chasing, but when tyler owens decides you’re his lucky charm for the night, you find that scott’s control has its limits. Word Count: 6.4k (pls don't look at me) Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, mentions of near-death experiences, tornadoes (obviously), brief insinuations to cheating, tyler is a pot-stirrer, public sex, dry humping, fingering (f!receiving), degradation, nipple play (f!receiving), orgasm delay, biting?, scott miller has a whore mouth, minor choking, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), lots of dirty talk, no use of y/n A/N: my first time posting fic & writing for scott so pls go easy on me 🥺 sometimes you just have to let a smug little asshole take over ur entire life, am i right? if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! 🤍

It’s been a grueling week, one tornado after another hammering Oklahoma into a state of disarray.

You’re still shaken from the last one, the anxiety of being alone in a motel with your thoughts almost unbearable. You’ve tried to avoid being alone since then, afraid that something worse is always on the horizon, and the thought of being isolated in a room while the rest of the team is out doesn’t sit well.

The bar, though, is a familiar sanctuary. A small comfort amidst the chaos. Even though you’re drained and the idea of socializing feels monumental, tradition is tradition. Javi’s sad puppy eyes and the inevitable guilt trip on the drive back to HQ tomorrow is enough to push you out of bed and into the shower.

And, as much as you don’t want to go, it feels wrong when even Scott makes an effort to go.

By the time you step into the dimly lit bar, clinking glasses and the hum of chatter soothe your worries quickly away. Whirlwind may have seen more than its fair share of fights and other throes of debauchery, but it was a frequent, favorite stop.

And it’s already packed. Between the locals and the other storm-chasers crowding the space, you can’t find Storm Par anywhere. A roar of laughter strikes from the pool tables, and you quickly pocket your phone, realizing you’ll have no luck calling or texting when it won’t even be heard over the noise.

Oh, well. You’ll find them soon enough. Making your way to the bar to greet Jack, the burly bartender who’s been running the place for years and has grown more familiar to you the more you frequent, you hear — rather than see — one of the storm-chasers you were hoping to avoid tonight.

Tyler. God damn. Owens.

You weren’t struck by his Southern charm — your days of easy flattery were past you — but he was hard to ignore. Then again, you should’ve known better by now. Tyler always seemed to be at his best when he had a crowd buzzing around him.

“I thought tonight couldn’t get any better, and then you walked in,” he drawls, finding a space alongside you as he sets his empty beer bottle down, his voice smooth. “Can I buy you a drink, darlin’?”

You consider turning him down, not sure if you’re up for his ego tonight, but you also know Tyler. He wasn't swayed easily, especially if he saw a challenge. Besides, a free drink was well, free, and as grating as he could get, you supposed one couldn't hurt. So you nod. “Sure, why not.”

Jack, who’d wordlessly gotten your drink as Tyler approached, sets a bottle of your favorite down in front of you, his brow raising to get your attention. You hesitate before taking it and catch his gaze shift slightly past you.

Before you get a chance to follow, Tyler steals your focus with a grin, the ever-present pain in your ass. You can’t fight your instincts to be polite. “So tell me. What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

You meet his gaze, all swirling hues and open attraction. Maybe if you were that kind of girl, his smooth, clichéd lines would work on you. But you weren’t that girl. You preferred sensible. Practical. Safe. It was why you’d joined Storm Par in the first place, rather than one of the many other crews. This tornado wrangler just wasn’t for you.

Unfortunately for Tyler, he always seemed to miss that memo.

“Same as everyone else, I guess.” You laugh half-heartedly. Maybe if the conversation is light enough, you can slip away without it turning into a spectacle. “Just looking to unwind.”

If Tyler notices your lack of enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he makes a show of settling into his spot next to you, grin stretching wide. The beer in his hands is fresh and cold, same as yours, though unlike yourself he’s already taken a few drinks while you start to pick at the label. Javi would've poked fun by now, but your friend is nowhere near. Typical.

Tyler takes another drink, resting his arm on the bar, your eyes drifting to his tanned bicep. His grin stretches when he catches you looking, and you try not to scowl at falling for his display.

He continues with a well-used, “Well, you sure do brighten up the place.”

Thank god. Playing along, you don’t waste a second as your gaze wanders eagerly around the bar. From your new position you spot a cluster of tables on the other side of the room, Storm Par filling out the seats.

Scott sits alone at one of them, as he always did, but his posture is rigid, and even from a distance you can tell his focus is far from the game of darts Javi tries to include him in. Unsurprising. But rather than being distracted by his phone, worrying about the next job the team would have to take, his eyes are locked in on you.

The intensity makes you shiver. A few bottles sit empty next to him, and you only know they’re his by the unmistakable Guinness label adorning the side. A half-empty glass rests in his hand like he’d meant to take a sip before catching sight of Tyler.

Since joining Storm Par, the number of things you knew about Scott could be counted on your fingers. And in that time, you’d never seen him unwind. Not truly, anyway. As frustrating as it could be, you'd come to respect Scott's unwavering demeanor.

Amidst the chaos, no matter how intense it got, Scott was the stoic anchor of the team. There was a reason for his lectures and regulations. He was as dependable as the code he lived by, but most of the team often dismissed it as rigid and unnecessary. You knew it took strength and reliability to remain true to your values.

Much like you were forgoing now, your polite smile tight on your lips.

Beyond Javi, the rest of the team is scattered around Whirlwind, some dancing with reckless abandon on the makeshift dance floor while others clink shots over a job well done with the other storm-chasing crews. Scott is still firmly planted on the barstool, setting his glass down with a white-knuckled grip.

Tyler, of course, pays no attention. He leans in, casually inching closer to you, wrapping up some story of an exaggerated Wrangler exploit. Close enough to brush against you. When you glance down at the contact, Tyler notices where you’ve grown distracted, that easygoing grin slipping as he takes in your view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tyler says with a sigh, head shaking in disbelief. “Just admit it — I’m a hell of a lot more fun than Storm Cloud over there.”

You disagree, but keep it to yourself. Tyler and his crew were reckless, and, sure, while there was some level of risk that came with what you all did, there was a clear difference between you and them. 

It was part of what had drawn you to Scott in the first place. He was meticulous and no-nonsense, quick to call out mistakes whether you were out in the field or back in the office. But even Scott wasn't immune to a lecture or two — something he'd gone to great lengths to keep under lock and key.

And you only knew by accident.

Another sleepless night had driven you out of your room in search of coffee, leading you to a diner where you’d stumbled across him and Riggs in a heated discussion. Your Mama had taught you manners about eavesdropping, but you were frozen in place, listening to Riggs furiously drill into Scott over another fuck up (not his fault) and whether he was serious or not about the work they were doing. Before you could slip away unnoticed, not wanting to be lectured too, Scott’s eyes met yours, giving you a small, subtle shake of his head.

You’d run straight back to your room after, hoping that maybe it'd been a weird nightmare and you’d wake up to business as usual. But after another hour of tossing and turning, Scott’s familiar knock sounded at your door, and when you’d gathered the courage to meet him face to face, he’d looked just as conflicted as you felt. After what you’d heard, the way Scott took responsibility for every mistake and didn't throw anyone under the bus, keeping it between you two was the least you could do.

Something changed after that night. When a particularly nasty tornado touched ground a few weeks later and nearly swept you up in it, nobody questioned Scott’s decision to reassign you to Scarecrow. Nobody questioned why your partner had quit shortly after, either.

Scott still hadn’t asked why you’d been awake that night, just the same as you didn’t ask about Riggs.

You glance over at Scott again now, the memory fresh in your mind. His knuckles are just as white as when you’d found him in the diner, expression still shadowed, like he’s torn between intervening and letting it play out. But even with a crowd between you and the two men, the tension is thick, crackling in the air.

Tyler leans in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as glances over at Scott. “He’s got that brooding thing down to an art, doesn’t he? Don’t you ever crave a little spontaneity?”

You shift away from Tyler, the weight of Scott’s gaze growing heavy. From the corner of your eye you can just barely make out the hard set to his jaw, no longer working the cinnamon gum he obsessively kept on him. You manage a tight smile, distracted, as Javi’s voice rises briefly above the noise — your attention divided between the brewing storm on the other end of the bar and the eye of the one you were currently stuck in.

“I… I think we all have our reasons for sticking around.” You say, just as Javi finally notices you, his smile dimming as his gaze slides to Tyler.

Shit.

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Tyler’s drawl is playful, almost teasing, and if he sees that you’re not even looking at him anymore, he doesn’t seem to care. “I’m just saying. If you ever want to get away from Clipboard over there...”

This time you do look with a flash of agitation. “If I wanted that, I’d be part of your team, Tyler. Not his.”

“Now, hold on, just hear me out for a second.” Tyler takes another pull from his drink, but when he sets it back down, he’s too close yet again. Fingers brush unwarranted against you, his touch lingering in a way that immediately makes your skin crawl. “How about we make a deal? Let me show you a good time tonight, and I promise you won’t even remember his name by the end of it.”

The suggestion hangs heavy in the air. You're only just barely aware of the way your features shift as background noise fades and you’re left with a high-pitched ringing in your ears, each emotion rolling through you longer to process than the last. By the time disgust sets in, flinching away from his wandering hands, you see past the red just enough to catch his grin widening in amusement.

And you realize, with terrifying clarity, that he’s been toying with you the whole night, just to start something with your team. You try not to tremble, swallowing your rage, and remind yourself that you'll be kicked out if dump your drink on him.

A stool scrapes loudly from the other side of the room. Whatever semblance of peace snaps.

“Uh oh.” Tyler notices Scott’s approach, and has the audacity to flash you a smile. “Looks like we’ve got company. He sure knows how to kill a mood, doesn’t he?”

You don't have a chance to respond, Scott stopping beside you, barely restrained anger coming off him in waves. You instinctively step closer to him, your drink forgotten and unwanted on the bar. His eyes flash with anger as he regards Tyler, that muscle working overtime in his jaw — and you know he's seen everything, from Tyler whispering into your ear to the look of repulse that you'd tried to hide.

“We need to talk.” Scott’s gaze shifts to you. You recognize the silent message he sends, the urgency in his voice as he fights to control his composure for your sake. “Now.”

“Ouch, Scotty. Not even a hello? And here I thought manners came with that fancy degree.” Tyler whistles low, appraising Scott like he’s not seconds away from getting his nose broken. “I was just getting acquainted with your friend over here. Giving her the whole Wrangler pitch. You know how it goes.” His smirk growing, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “Come to think of it, wasn’t that how Gabby left? Told me she was over all the huffin' and puffin', especially after—”

“Enough.” Scott's interjection is loud and clear, your heart stuttering at the icy tone. When he slides an arm around your waist, the weight unfamiliar, you can’t tell if it’s to keep you from lunging at Tyler, or himself. You glance between Tyler's satisfied grin and the glare Scott sends him, confused. Who was Gabby? “Shut the fuck up for once, Owens. Seriously. Do us all a fucking favor.”

You still swim with questions as Scott pulls you close, no longer waiting for Tyler’s approval or response — not that he needed it in the first place. Lights cast long shadows as he navigates you between tables, the ringing in your ears lessening the further away from Tyler you get. Scott ushers you out the nearest exit, his palm warm against the small of your back.

The back door slams shut with a final click as you spill out into the alley together. It’s as dimly lit as the inside is, a singular dying bulb flickering just a few steps away. The sounds of the bar are muffled here now that your hearing has returned to normal, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and your ragged breathing.

The chilled air immediately hits you as Scott pulls away, and you watch, lost, as he paces angrily while you try to sort your thoughts out.

“What the hell was that? I thought you said you weren’t coming tonight.” Scott’s voice is sharp, cutting through the night like a knife. He turns to face you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, his scowl reflecting the look he gets when he's about to unleash on someone. “You said you needed space, time to clear your head… So why are you here? With him?”

“I know. Plans change,” you reply, caught off-guard, hoping to sound casual even as you hook your finger nervously under the strap of your dress. You’ve never seen Scott this worked up before, and it’s unsettling.

“Plans change?” Scott scoffs, his voice rising with every word. “That’s your excuse? You say one thing, and then do the complete opposite? What was your plan, then? To drink with Tyler and maybe let him drive you home? Was that the idea?”

You’re taken aback by the sharpness of his words. “It was just a drink, Scott. I needed to get out and clear my head.”

“Just a drink?” Scott’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer, his frustration barely contained. “Do you really think I’m that naive? Tyler doesn’t just do ‘just a drink.’ He’s always looking for something more. And you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “He makes a mess of everything he touches. You know what he’s like. Hell, you’re smart enough to see through his bullshit. So why are you letting him get close to you?”

“Scott, it’s not like that,” you protest, your voice wavering slightly under his scrutiny. “I needed to get out. It had nothing to do with him.”

“And you couldn’t find another way to clear your head? Without him? Without the guy who’s known for causing chaos?” His voice is thick with emotion, the carefully controlled mask he usually wears slipping away to reveal the raw frustration and fear beneath. “You think I don’t see what’s happening here? I’ve been through this before, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you make the same mistakes.”

“What are you implying?” You ask, confused and angry.

“I’m saying I think you’re using Tyler as a distraction,” Scott says, his voice sharp, “A way to escape from everything you’ve been dealing with.”

Frustration prickles at his words, and even though you try not to, it’s hard to keep the edge from your voice. “Escape? That’s not— I’m not running away from anything.”

“We’ve had a rough week. I know it’s been hard on you,” Scott says, his tone softening slightly, though he still looks on edge. His jaw ticks again, and your gaze immediately darts to the pack of gum you know he keeps in his right back pocket. “But if you’re letting someone like Tyler pull you away from what really matters, it’ll only make things worse. I’ve seen too many people get hurt by him.”

Your anger flares at his scolding, hating that you found yourself in one storm, only to be led willingly into the next. “And what, Scott? You think you know me so well that you can just decide what’s best for me?”

“No, I’m just—” Scott shakes his head, taking a step toward you, then rethinking it. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” You try to suppress a laugh, but it comes out bitter. “Safe doesn’t really exist in our line of work, and you know that.”

Scott’s eyes flash with a mix of frustration and something else you can’t quite place. He takes a deep breath, struggling to steady himself. “You think I don’t know that? When things go wrong, I need to know that I can count on the people around me to handle their shit.”

You raise an eyebrow, uncertain where this is going. “And what exactly does that have to do with Tyler or me?”

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his tone almost pleading. “When you’re involved, everything gets complicated. I can’t think straight when you’re involved. I can’t focus. Hell, I can’t even sleep at night.”

Scott runs a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping tightly as if trying to ground himself. “That tornado— When the equipment malfunctioned because Dale failed to follow the calibration protocols I specifically fucking outlined— I was frozen, just paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I knew we couldn’t make it to you in time.”

You still, remembering how quickly Scott had cornered Dale when you got back. You’d thought it was because of the readings and the instructions he’d ignored that had nearly cost you both your lives.

Scott’s breath hitches as he continues. “It would’ve been my fault. My responsibility. My orders. I was convinced I’d lost you. And I thought if I could just keep you safe, try to control the chaos, that it might make things better. But seeing you with Tyler tonight... It’s like I’m back in that moment, feeling helpless, and I—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Look, I’m not going through that again. I can’t.”

His voice cracks, and you see the depth of his internal struggle. “I’m just… trying to protect you,” he admits quietly, “but I don’t know if you even see it that way.”

His words weigh heavy, the shock of it ripping right through you. Scott Miller didn't go out of his way to be kind.

You're pulled back through the last few months: the coffee, just the way you liked it, that Scott always had waiting for you after a chase; his lack of scorn when you fell asleep on him in the van the next morning, when exhaustion wins and his silence becomes safety; the lingering, unasked question on his lips every time you were tasked to go out onto the field again and you agreed, over and over, despite the very real fear of the very thing you chased.

For a moment, everything else fades away — Tyler, the bar, the noise.

“Scott.” Your voice breaks through the quiet in a whisper, drawing close to him. Your hands glide gently along the black fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. “I’m here,” you say, your voice steady but soft. “I’m with you.”

For a moment, that vulnerability continues to swim in his eyes. And then he steps closer, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. You think, for a split second of panic, that he means to push you away and close himself off the way he usually does; instead, his thumbs rub tenderly at your palms, the action so gentle and unlike him that it makes your breath stall.

Instinctively your gaze meets his, forgetting (as you often did) just how big he actually was. Tall, broad, and deliciously toned; when you thought of Scott, you thought of him behind a desk, not running laps around his neighborhood and clocking in hours at the gym. Your uniforms did an amazing job of hiding his physique, but it’s impossible to ignore now. His black undershirt clings to him like a second skin and reveals the hard, taut muscles of his body, further evidence of the control he wielded so effortlessly.

His eyes search yours, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you. You’ve never seen him so open before, and as his hands smooth down your arms to the curve of your waist, there’s a sense of urgency in his touch that he doesn’t vocalize.

Fear. Longing. Desire. His jaw sets again as his gaze drops to your mouth, and you think, for one terrifying moment, that he won’t do it. Would he regain his composure, push you away, then act like nothing had happened the next morning? His brows furrow, as if reading your thoughts. Maybe you’d be reassigned just to avoid the awkwardness of it all. Scott could send you packing with just a phone call.

Your heart pounds, frozen in place, each second lasting an eternity. His fingers flex on your waist, the electrifying touch causing your lips to part and your lashes to flutter. The sight makes his throat bob.

“God damn it,” he groans, his voice guttural.

It’s the only warning you get before his mouth descends onto yours. Though his lips are smooth, there’s nothing gentle about the way Scott kisses you. His mouth moves hungrily against yours, devouring and demanding and all-consuming, like you’re the very air he needs to breathe. You sigh, aching for more, that dull fire inside you growing hotter at the groan that escapes him. As he fists a hand in your hair, he wraps a strong arm around your middle to pull you closer, deepening the kiss.

“Scott…” Bunching his shirt in your hands, you’re helpless when he nips at your bottom lip, pulling desperate, needy sounds from you. As he trails hot open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, finding every spot with ease, his fingers wrap gently around your throat, your pulse racing against his thumb.

“God, I’ve wanted you like this for months,” Scott murmurs against your skin, his voice a low growl that makes your thighs clench. A soft moan escapes as you tilt your head to give him better access, his noise of approval rumbling deep in his throat. “I’ve dreamt of this.”

He presses you into the wall behind you as he ravages your neck, all teeth and tongue and the kind of marks that you’ll have to find excuses for in the morning. A shiver sends you arching up into him, fingers slipping into his hair as he palms your breast, lowering his mouth to suck a greedy mark there. You whine at the friction you’re missing, hips circling the air, desperately hooking your fingers into his belt loops to drag him closer.

“Shhh,” Scott pauses to hitch your leg up, slotting his knee between your thighs. Dark blue eyes drink in the sight of you as he squeezes your ass, a cocky smile spreading on his pink and swollen lips. “I know, sweetheart. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” You mewl when his knee brushes against your heat, enough to have you rolling helplessly against him but not enough to satisfy your desires. “So pretty, so desperate.”

“Yes,” You grip him harder for some semblance of a tether, that condescending, degrading voice only adding fuel to the fire. Did he know what you fantasized about late at night? The shower running to muffle your moans while you touched yourself to his deep voice, lecturing you over a simple mistake? Open desire swirls in your eyes, pleading now, every want laid bare for him. “Please, I want it.”

Scott’s low noise of approval sounds in his throat, pressing closer to give you what you need. You’d be half-ashamed at the way you eagerly grind against him if his own arousal wasn’t hard against your hip, straining, large and throbbing with every roll of your hips. The material of your panties do nothing to stop the delicious ache of his worn jeans against your clit, too many pieces of fabric between you, trying to quiet pretty sounds as you bite your lip.

“Look at you,” Scott growls, your dress inching higher as he seizes your hips, helping you find a rhythm. Hooking the lace of your panties under his fingers, he tugs the material up tight enough together to elicit a hiss, a dimple playing at the corner of his mouth as he smirks, “Is this all for me, baby?”

Barely managing a nod, you meet his eyes through thick lashes and whimper at the expression on his face. That intense gaze drinks in every inch of you like you’re a piece of art and the last thing he wants to remember, his usually stormy eyes hazy with desire.

“God damn... You just can’t get enough, can you, baby? When you touch yourself at night, do you think about me? Rubbing that needy little pussy on your pillow ‘cause you just can’t help it?” You press harder into him in response, his answering laugh dark against your ear. “But it’s never enough, is it? You always crave more, something thicker, something stronger.”

You whine against the loss of contact as he drops his knee, the sting of your panties snapping against your skin quickly forgotten when he trails his digits along the swell of your mouth. You open up greedily, the salty taste of his skin on your tongue intoxicating as you wrap your lips around him. 

“I bet you look so pretty,” he continues, his voice ragged, “Spread out like a top dollar whore with your cunt in the air, gagging on your fingers and wishing it were me. Wondering how many you need to suck on to fill you up just right. How many do you think, baby? Two? More?”

Scott pulls his fingers out with a pop, nuzzling against you as you try to remember to breathe. “Would you even be able to use that brain of yours, baby? Or would you be so fucking desperate to fill your hole that you’d use however many fit?”

He hikes up your dress while he pushes his hand in your panties, fingers slipping through your soaked folds. Fuck. He slowly circles your clit, stealing the breath from your lungs as you arch up into him. “Oh, I know, sweetheart. It doesn’t feel like this, does it?”

Not even close. Worst of all, you weren’t even sure if Scott knew just how true it was. Other men may have excited you, but nothing compared to this — not you, not the others you took to your bed, not even the fantasy Scott you envisioned. You buck helplessly against him, eager for more, whimpering out some sort of half-reply as you grip his wrist in a pathetic effort to keep him there.

Scott just grins. “What’s wrong, baby? Am I going too slow for you?” When he softens his touch, your nails dig into his skin, leaving little crescent moon marks. Lips desperately search for his, your eyes half-lidded and hazy. “I knew you’d be greedy,” he hums, gripping you roughly by the chin, his thumb swiping over your parted lips. “Letting me play with your pussy like this, where anyone could walk out and see how much of a slut you’re being.”

You bite back a moan as you remember where you are, glancing frantically at the door like it might open any second. Your pulse skyrockets when he resumes teasing, circling your clit then dipping down to press at your entrance. Fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, meaning to push him away and only pulling him closer with another desperate whine. “Scott, please…”

“Fuck.” There’s a dark look that flashes across his face, voice rough and ragged, and you watch, with nothing to shield his gaze, as his control snaps.

Sliding his hand over your mouth, it’s the only warning you get before he sinks a thick digit into your weeping cunt. The growl that escapes him when you automatically clench around it only makes you wetter, paralyzed with lust as he works you into pliancy. You pant, chest heaving, as he finds a steady rhythm that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, every moan muffled against the palm of his hand as you arch into his touch.

You cry out when he adds a second finger, rocking your hips desperately as he angles his hand just right to rub against your clit. “Harder— Please, more—” The words are strangled, spilling out of you mindlessly now, unable to think beyond the way Scott stretches you out. You grab a fistful of his hair as he groans against your neck, dragging teeth and tongue along your skin, freeing your breasts from your dress before covering your mouth again.

“So god damned sexy,” he growls, quick to lap at your hardened nipples, the flat of his tongue spilling another pretty sound from your throat. He curls his digits deeper inside you, the wet schlick of your heat loud in your ears as he sets a brutal pace, switching his attention to your other neglected nipple.

Breath hot against your skin, Scott relishes how you become putty in his hands, holding onto him for support as he strokes that burning fire in you.

“Perfect fucking tits. Perfect fucking pussy. Jesus, sweetheart,” he nips at your skin, soothing the bite with his tongue. “Is this what you like? Being used like my own personal fucktoy? What would the others think if they saw you right now, fucking yourself stupid on me like a bitch in heat?”

He slips his fingers out long enough for you to beg, his smile dark against your skin while you whimper in desperation — and then he’s pushing back into you, stretching your hole with every rough thrust of his fingers. “Hear that, sweetheart? Even your body knows it’s meant to be mine.”

Scott kisses you hungrily as he drops his free hand to your breast, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you scream. His fingers slick harder into you, his cock thick and grinding into your hip while you try to breathe against his storm, your own control slipping as you fist his dark curls in your hands, looking for leverage.

“That’s it,” he growls, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “This is my fucking pussy, isn’t it, baby? You wanna cum for me? Let the whole bar know you’re my toy to play with?”

“Please, please, please—” You can’t think beyond the brutal pace he’s set, not even sure that your voice sounds human as you babble, eyes big and watering. “Wanna cum for you, please, I need it—”

“You need it?” You gasp as the pain on your nipple subsides only for him to pinch the other, something dark and destructive swirling heavy in his blue eyes. You shiver at the expression, the carnal desire written so clearly over his face, every word out of his mouth deep, commanding, leaving no room for debate. “I’ll tell you when you get to cum. This is mine.” Pressing the heel of his palm hard against your clit, he watches with glee as you clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming, obeying his command even as your body fights.

Your knees nearly buckle at the growl in his voice. Every thrust of his fingers brings you closer to the edge, the heat overwhelming. How many nights had you spent with your fingers in your cunt, picturing scenario after scenario of him taking you in the van, in the bathroom, on his desk after hours? 

“Say it,” Scott insists. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You meet his gaze, the intensity of it nearly sending you over the edge. “I’m yours,” you say, caught between a moan and something stronger, your words choking off.

“Again.” His expression tightens, picking up speed. “Louder.”

“I’m yours!” Your body trembles with the effort to stay upright, writhing against him. The words feel like a vow, your grip on Scott tight as you sob them into him. “My pussy is yours, my body is yours— Just a pathetic, dirty, worthless hole for you to fuck— Fuck, Scott, please—”

Scott growls in response, fisting his hand in your hair as finds the spongey spot inside of you. His digits work you hard, the veins in his arms on display as you bite back a scream, waiting, begging, needing. “Cum,” he grunts, the sound of his fingers driving into you loud and damning, “That’s it, sweetheart. Cum for me.”

You fall over the edge hard and fast, crying out as all the tension from the night finally snaps. It feels like an eternity as he continues fucking you through it, every filthy promise spelled out clearly with his lips at your ear.

By the time you come crashing back down, you’re shaking and empty, blinking back stars as Scott steps back. “Oh my god,” you gasp, fighting to catch your breath, mind still a mess as you try to piece together everything that happened. “That was…”

You watch, mesmerized, as Scott sucks his fingers into his mouth, a groan of approval sounding deep in his throat. And when he squeezes at his bulge straining against his zipper, your core clenches tight at the thought of his weight on top of yours, fucking you into submission again and again until he gets his fill.

“Just the beginning,” Scott promises, stepping toward you to tilt your chin up, his free hand coming down to tighten around your soaked panties and pull. They rip easily in his strong grasp, his grin triumphant as he stuffs them into his back pocket. “You won’t be needing these anymore.”

“Why?” Your body tenses with anticipation, noting the defined dimple in his cheek, the kind of grin he only wore when he was about to be incredibly, infuriatingly smug.

“Because,” he hums, full of condescension, “I didn’t hear a thank you.”

Before you can fix your mistake, Scott silences you with a kiss, his mouth patronizingly gentle as a wicked laugh sounds in the back of his throat. “Don’t worry,” he says, dropping another chaste kiss to your mouth, your nose, the space between your creased brows. “It won’t happen again. I’ll teach you, sweetheart.”

Goosebumps rise on your flesh as Scott adjusts your dress to cover your exposed body, the act so gentle and unbecoming that you freeze enough to let him. The moment only lasts a minute, your eyes meeting as he squeezes the curve of your ass when he’s done, all that vulnerability you had seen locked away again, like he’s guarding himself as reality comes back to life.

A muscle feathers in his jaw as his gaze shifts from you to the back door you’d spilled from. You’ve known Scott long enough by now to know he won’t be the one to say what’s hanging in the air. It would be easier, safer, to walk back in like nothing had happened and return to the motel alone, hitching a ride with anyone other than Scott the next morning.

But if you turn away now, you’ll never see that side of him again: the side that stayed up with you when he could be sleeping, the kind that comforted you without words, the kind that lit your world on fire with every bruising mark he’d left on you. The chance of knowing the man behind the mask.

You don’t miss the way his muscles tense under your touch as you reach for him or the flash of relief that flickers through him. “You think I’m teachable?” You ask, turning big eyes up at him, begging him to see the way you lay yourself bare for him — hoping, praying, that he doesn’t turn you down even still.

“I’m not an easy teacher.” He says, low, still guarded. Still giving you one last out.

You shake your head, a laugh tumbling out. His throat bobs at the sound. “I don’t want easy.” The truth of that hangs heavy in the air, zipping between the two of you as recognition passes through his eyes. “Now are you driving, or am I?”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he presses his tongue into his cheek and takes a step back. “My van, my rules,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm, and you hear the familiar rumble of the Storm Par van coming to life. His keys jingle in his hand as he adds, “You should know that by now.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile, and follow him out of the alleyway.

You did know. And as you settle into the passenger seat, the scent of the van enveloping you — a mix of old leather and Scott’s cologne — anticipation crackles in the air. The night stretches ahead, full of unspoken possibilities.

You couldn’t wait to test how far those rules went... and just how much you both were willing to bend them.

[pure-smut]

the taste of you.

featuring: Laios Touden x f!reader

contains: you're a succubus and Laios wants to eat you (out), cunnilingus, mention of death

word count: 1.4k

note: all characters are 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

series: 1. the taste of you | 2. the feel of you

masterlist

You’re lounging in the small, rocky pool of your home, dipping your head back in the water to clean your hair. Your floor of the dungeon resembles a mini paradise, all fresh water and cherry blossoms and soft, vibrant grass. You love living here, your own space shared with no one – except the odd dungeon crawler, traipsing through your home with their dirty boots and loud voices.

You don’t mind though. You have to eat sometime.

You’re not a bad monster, you just get hungry. And it’s not like the men who stumble across you aren’t willing, they just forgo all logic and think with that thing between their legs. Once you’ve had your fill, drained the life from their bodies as they spill their seed inside you, you leave their bodies by the entrance as a kindness.

You’re starting to get hungry again, starting to wonder when someone new will visit, when you hear the rasp of metal armour. You smooth your wet hair back and turn to the source of the disruption.

A tall man with fair hair stands at the edge of your pool.

Perfect.

You rise from the water, exposing your bare chest, and smile sweetly at him.

“A weary traveller,” you say. “In need of refuge.”

The man only stares at you, a notch between his brows. It’s not the same hungry look that men usually give you, their instincts already taking over before you even touch them. You wait a moment for him to say something but he doesn’t, only studies you.

“Your name?” you ask, trying a different tact.

“Laios,” he replies.

“Laios,” you repeat, rolling his name around your mouth.

“And yours?”

You smile. Only a few men have ever asked your name, some of them thinking it will save them from their fate. It doesn’t.

“Y/N,” you tell him and he considers this.

After a beat, he offers his hand out to you. You take it, stepping out of the pool to stand naked in front of him. When Laios looks you up and down, it doesn’t feel the same as the other men. It feels… curious.

“Come, Laios.” You keep holding his hand, guiding him to a clear area of soft grass. “Sit with me.”

Laios does what you say, kneeling politely in front of you. You sit opposite and spread your legs for him, leaning back on your arms. Laios’s eyes trail down to your glistening lips, making you smile. He is still a man after all.

“You’re tired,” you say sympathetically. “Your body is sore, your mind is weary. Take some respite with me, Laios. I’ll take care of you.”

Laios’s golden eyes flick up to yours.

“You’re a succubus,” he states. You smile and shrug.

“I am.”

He holds his chin in thought as you wait for him quietly.

“Will my body be recovered? he eventually asks.

You huff a laugh in surprise. No one’s ever planned their death in advance before. There’s always a hint of hubris, of thinking they can pull back at the last moment, not knowing you have them as soon as they’re inside you.

“Yes.” You reward his honesty with your own. “I leave the bodies by the entrance so they can be found.”

Laios looks pleased, gifting you his first smile since he arrived.

“Not many monsters care about that,” he says.

“Well, I have to eat, that's all.” You shrug again. “Otherwise I’ll starve.”

Laios’s eyes brighten.

“I’m hungry, too,” he says.

Huh, that’s a weird thing to say. You shake the thought off as Laios moves closer to you, gently pushing your knees apart to make space for himself. His eyes are glued on the fruit between your legs, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. You grin and rest back further, sinking onto your forearms. You’re looking forward to your meal – little do you know that Laios is as well.

Laios stands to tugs off his armour, carefully laying the pieces down in a neat pile, leaving himself in his undershirt and drawers. When he falls back down to his knees between your legs, you expect him to pull his cock free, to sink himself into you as soon as possible.

You don’t expect him to bend down and run his tongue along your pussy.

You inhale sharply, nearly pulling back in shock. You stare down at him as Laios raises his head, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Sweet,” he says, rolling his tongue in his mouth. “A slight tang and… hm. Something else.”

It takes you a second to realise he’s talking about you. About your taste.

With wide eyes, you watch Laios as he lies down on his stomach to get more comfortable. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you to him and licks another stripe along your folds. His broad tongue splits your lips as he finds your hole, the source of your nectar. Laios makes a content noise as he pushes his tongue inside you.

You shudder with pleasure, reaching down to slide your fingers through his hair. His strong nose nudges your clit, heightening your enjoyment.

Laios laps at your hole, delighted by the taste of you, your flavour dancing along his tongue. You’re not like he expected, much sweeter and earthier, but delicious either way. And he’d be lying if he said he isn’t enjoying the noises you make, the little quiver of your thighs. Eating is an experience, he knows.  The way you whimper and scratch at his scalp is part of the experience, part of why you taste so good.

Laios moves away from your hole, licking his way up to your clit. He finds it swollen and slippery with more of your arousal so he flattens his tongue and swipes broad strokes over it. You tug his hair a little tighter, your moans a little louder.

You’re leaning back, supporting yourself on one arm as you look down at Laios, watching him feast on you, his lips flush to your mound. His eyes are closed in bliss, his brows pushed together in the middle.

Laios sucks softly on your swollen bud and moans into your pussy. You cry out, pleasure seizing you in a vice grip. You squeeze his head between your thighs, the dungeon echoing with your ragged moans. When you’re too sensitive to continue, Laios moves back down to your hole, lapping at you once more, eager for the juices he just caused.

You lay back, chest heaving as Laios continues to lick you deep. You let him, enjoying the feel of his tongue against your less sensitive nerves. Laios only pulls back when his jaw cramps, stopping him.

You prop yourself back up on your forearms to look at him. Laios’s mouth and chin is shiny with your arousal, which he doesn’t bother to wipe off.

“Definitely sweet,” he confirms, his eyes alight and a grin on his face. He absently rubs his jaw, trying to work away the cramp. “Which makes sense – succubus tend to eat a lot of fruit.”

You listen to him, still slightly dazed from your orgasm, as Laios continues thinking out loud, theorising your taste and growing more animated by the second. His excitement is palpable and you can’t help but smile at him but you’re distracted. There’s a strange feeling in your stomach, something familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. You’re still trying to place it when Laios interrupts your train of thought.

“I’m curious about something though,” he says, flexing his hands and looking down at them. “Why haven’t I died?”

You scrunch up your face in confusion.

“What?”

“I thought I’d be dead.” Laios looks equally confused. “Isn’t that what a succubus does? Drains energy?”

Huh. You guess you’d never thought about what would happen if someone had sex with you without penetration.

“You know, I’m not sure,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve only ever drained them through their…”

You pointedly look down, noting that Laios is sporting a sizeable tent in his drawers despite his curious enthusiasm.

“Oh.” He looks down before glancing up again, his knuckle pressed against his lips in thought. “That’s interesting. Would it need to be genitals or would fingers work? I definitely had my tongue inside you so we can rule that out.”

Laios goes onto another tirade again, his face alight. You watch this adorable weirdo enthuse about what appendage he could safely put inside you and feel your face breaking out in a smile.

You enjoy being alone, being in your own company, but it’s been a while since you were this entertained.

“Laios,” you say, interrupting him gently.

“Hm?”

You beckon him closer, brushing your thumb across the light stubble on his jaw. He’s quite handsome, you think. How did you not notice before? You grin at him.

“Why don’t we try some of your theories out?”

[san8ny]

robber ellie falling in love with victim reader😭

Something.

?: tried experimenting with angst / Older!Divorced!Reader x Younger!Robber!Ellie / Bi!Reader

“and you decided on here of all places?” You ask for what seems like the hundredth time, cleaver in your hold waving in the air all too closely for Ellie’s liking.

“Fuck— yes, lady, like I said, I just get paid to do this shit.” She groans, struggling against the ropes you had her embraced in, “What kind of knots even are these?..”

“Now, i’ve never really had to use this up until now..”

She feels her eyes widen, color draining from her face at the implication, “Woah! H-hey, you wouldn’t need to. We can find a compromise—

“You tried stealing my father’s urn.

Ellie’s winces at the weight of your words, her soiled plan gone to waste, “I thought it was a regular vase.. but— but with that being said, I didn’t succeed so you don’t need to be so brutal! Eh?‘Whaddya say?”

You stare at her for a rather long time before taking the knife and inching it towards her,

Ellie’s entire body tenses up, teeth clenching and her eyes shutting to prep for her seemingly inevitable demise—

Instead, you lightly poke her chest with the knife experimentally, “You’ve got like, no boobs.”

“WHAT THE FUCK? O-oh my god, you’re a pervert..”

“You’re in my house.”

“THAT DOESN’T JUSTIFY IT!”

“Back on topic! Why my place?”

“Needed the cash, how else?” She spits, gaze still never meeting yours fully

“That bad?”

“Wouldn’t be robbing people if I didn’t, would I?” She snaps aggressively, though it was expected

“You know, you should be nicer to me.” You say, reaching over back for your knife threateningly. She seems to quiet down at that, relaxing her shoulders as she obediently nods,

“I think i’d rather you just call the police at this poin, lady..” Ellie whispers, not having the willpower to deal with your manical interrogations, “My dad is sick, alright? He’s on the verge of dying, and I need that money for his treatment. Content now?”

After a brief pause, you speak up,

“Tell you what, you give me proof of this.. and I might be graceful enough to do something for you.” You thumb her bangs, separating each strand to reveal the glistening beads of sweat that pool at her auburn hairline.

“Huh, why?” Her head raises at your all-too gracious proposal, what exactly were you playing at? Pay the person trying to rob you? It’s laughable.

“Well..” you tilt your head, “You’re interesting”

Eventually, you do let her go, informing her of an easier way out than she came in. However, a deep pit in her stomach tells her she’d had been safer with cops than with whatever you were.

The following week, she’s being put to absolute work once she’d validated her father’s bills with you— from scrubbing floors to literally helping you wash your hair in that stupidly huge bathtub you have— she wants to hate you. no, she does! She hates you with every fiber in her. So, why does she feel so strongly opposed to seeing you interact with your husband everytime he’s back from his job? Maybe she hates him too? Yeah, that must be! Ellie hates everything to do with you by proxy, including your husband.

“Have you ever considered marriage, Eleanor?” You ask out of the blue, politely cutting your steak as you two sit across from each other at the dinner table, your husband not being present, per usual, not like he ever is. “My name is Ellie, not..whatever that is.”

You grin at her response, “Aren’t you too old to be going by a nickname though? Especially one as infantile as Ellie? It sounds like a pet-name if i’m being honest.”

She feels a vein threatening to pop as she points her fork at you, “Well, it’s my name so either call me it or not.”

There it is. The way you stare at her even when she’s slightly out of line. It’s a mixture of both amusement and surprise. Like she was some sort of entertainment for you.

“Ellie it is.” You softly say, smiling as you chew your food.

She hates the way it rolls off your tongue smoothly, no sign of condescension in it despite your previous words.

She hates how she feels something else stirring other than supposed hatred.

The other time she’s noticed this odd-feeling of hers rear it’s ugly head, was when you two had visited a bath-house, you stripping with ease as you walk the small steps they have before relaxing into the steamy water. Ellie stands there awkwardly, watching as you let your hair-bun down, all stress exiting your body once the sensations of the water settle around you.

“Well, aren’t you joining me, Ellie?”

She bites her bottom lip in an anxious fashion, almost fighting herself whether or not she’d let herself get that close to you. Regardless, one overpowers the other so she, like you, quickly sheds her clothing, stepping into the pool experimentally, however, she maintains a moderate space inbetween you two, careful not to ever let her body even touch a bristle of hair on yours.

Facing across from you, she studies the way your eyes are closed, soft crows feet at the corners— you were only 31 as she learnt, and already seemed so tired of the life you lived, having to run an entire estate while your— fuck, she couldn’t even recall his name— husband, ran business elsewhere. Ellie saw and took care of you more than she’d ever seen him done. I mean, what did you even see in him— ..what is she saying?

At the realization, she turns her gaze away from your face, eyes instead busying themselves with the small ripples the water makes.

“You never answered my answer.”

She doesn’t seem to want to avert her gaze from the water just yet, but speaks, “I don’t answer alot of the questions you ask if you haven’t noticed.”

“So will you answer one if I ask now?”

“Why should I?” She scoffs at your bluntness, if she didn’t want to answer a question, it’s not like you’d force it out of her.

“I see.” You say, before standing up to dry yourself off with a towel. At this, Ellie seems alarmed. What happened? Why’d you leave so suddenly? Why— why does she seem to care recently more than she’d like?

A reasonable amount of time had passed since the bathhouse, and you seemed to forget about it reasonably quicker. Almost immediately, actually. Currently, you were hauled up in your study while Ellie sweeped the hallway flooring. Upon arrival to your door, she’s met with a quick ‘I’d like to be alone, thank you!’ She rolls her eyes, knocking again. When ignored again, she opts for a 3rd time, before you open the door in irritation, “What— Oh, it’s you, Ellie! Hello!”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, can I come in? I have to tidy up this room before I can clock it for the night.” She says briefly, attempting to enter the room before you block her way with a nervous smile, “I don’t think this room is obligatory, you can just skip it and leave.”

“Uh, no, I’d like to it now rather than have it pile up tomorrow.”

“That’s really not necessary, I mean it, i’ll clean it even.” You try one last time of persuasion. However, this earns you a blank state and an occasional eye-twitch.

Sighing, you step to the side, “If you insist..”

Ellie looks around as you return to your desk, massaging your temples as you seem focused on a slight-stack of documents. I mean, she hadn’t seen you this stressed since the time you were told the oak-tree in the grand-garden had to be cut down because the neighbors were complaining about it obstructing sunlight to their meek vegtable plants. You went though with it, with the help of Ellie’s shoulder and a couple of shirts she had to run through each time you soaked them with your tears.

“I thought you said you had an accountant for taxing?” she asks, dusting the bookshelves, “I do,” You say, biting the cap of your pen as you twirl yourself in the swivel-chair, “these are divorce papers.”

It’s almost like time itself stops when those words dawn on Ellie. You’re..divorcing whatshisname? It’s like a fever dream. Almost surreal. Sure, you two never seemed all that in-love but you had your moments like when you’d kiss his cheek before he departs for whatever country he had shit to do in, I mean, that’s..romantic, right?

“12 years i’ll never get back down the drain. This, is why I ask you if you’d ever marry. Could you ever dedicate your life to another for it to be wasted like this?” You snap your fingers to signify time, bitterly laughing at Ellie’s solemn expression, “Don’t look at me like that, I liked you better than the others because we mutually agreed not to pity eachother.”

There it is, that feeling she faces when these moments spring up on her.

It’s not pity, it’s more like understanding where you’re coming from— but that’d be sympathy. Ellie doesn’t feel quite sympathetic about it, I mean, rich people don’t exactly feel that anyways but, she wants you to be the exception. You’re not like whatever the bunch are. You don’t frequent country clubs and you don’t go seeking elaborate affairs to spice your life. You’re an unsatisfied woman.

“I was young, you know? When my family heard of the marriage, they immediately called me mentally unwell— his family? Even worse. Guess what they immediately came to as reasoning? Witchcraft. It’s comical, isn’t? Me using spells to make a man of all things want me. If I did that, i’d be with Christian Bale, I tell ‘ya! I should’ve taken my signs then when he wouldn’t defend me, but I chalked it up to his fear of confrontation. ” You share, sipping your tea, “Older Men do nothing but leech off your youth. Don’t be like me, Ellie.”

“I won’t.” She finally says, though her throat tightens up, making her voice extra quivery rather than the assertion she was going for.

“Oh dear, don’t tell me my cautionary tale scared you?”

“No! No! It didn’t. I was just wondering, does your rule .. also apply to women?”

A brow is raised in response to the question, “I’d say so, though it’s a more common practice among that accursed other gender.” You kid, smiling. Ellie’s lips slightly pull into their own smile, her worrying expression now relaxing when she thinks you hadn’t caught onto her words yet.

“Do you like older women?”

At that question, Ellie feels the embarrassment return double the amount, slightly ruffling her short hair as she feels the hotness reach her cheeks, “I’m indifferent.”

Ah.

You look out the window before looking at your ring, “I don’t suppose your answer is supposed to imply dual-affection?”

She sighs, continuing to sweep, “I only like women, miss.”

…

“I suppose a women as a lover would be nice.”

Ellie’s heart races at this, is..this an opening? What exactly were you trying to do by saying this?

“Have you ever been with one, Ellie?” You tease lightly

Oh, how she wished the ground would swallow her whole.

After a brief pausing to catch both her breath and recollection of thoughts “..No, ma’am.”

“Want me to be your first?”

How this turnt into many illustrious nights with Ellie warming your the bed had become something both of you couldn’t come with an answer for other transactional sex.

How scandalous would this be if it got out? A well known older, recent divorcee seeking comfort in the arms of her 20 something year old house-hand. It would only intensify rumors, not that you ever cared, but..

“I won’t let you ruin yourself.” You softly whisper, sweeping a light tucking of hair behind her ear, “You’re too sweet for your own good, Ellie..”

That night, while Ellie slumbers, you pull together her seemingly last paycheck, wads of cash together into an envelope that could easily total above 20,000 as you place them near her pillow.

When she does awake, she’s brought to the empty idea of you, slot next to her feeling cold and empty. Where did you go?

Instead of a verbal answer, she’s given one in the form of payment and a brief letter:

‘Will be enough for your father’s bill. Collect your stuff at once and leave.’

Even when she does leave— she says nothing, catching a glimpse of you sat on the stump of the old oak-tree in what seems to be deep thought.

As per usual, Ellie’s last to saying everything

“Anyone could have seen she wasn’t in the right of mind.” The elderly ladies exchange amongst themselves, “I just didn’t expect it to be in such bad taste. Nobody is going to buy that home.’

Ellie’s fingertips brush against the ‘SELLING HOME’ sign they’ve posted up, the other 20 she’s ran off with clearly not stopping the process of this house being sold.

How long has it been since you left her behind again?

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Him and I

Summary - Bound by a passion that thrives on violence and chaos, they eliminate anyone who dares to cross them. Their love becomes both their greatest strength and their most dangerous weapon, a perfect match in their shared madness.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Arryn reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), violence (mentions)

Word count - 2044

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

He's out his head, I'm out my mind we got that love, the crazy kind.

"He can keep his tongue," Daemon declared, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. 

The expression settled on his face as he rested his hands on the hilt of his sword, slick with blood, which seemed to meld with his hand as though it were an extension of his very being, a dark instrument of his will.

The man's life had drained away at his feet, but Daemon seemed untroubled, as if violence was as natural to him as breathing. A crimson pool spread slowly beneath his boots, the thick blood glistening under the flickering torchlight like a river of molten rubies, each drop a silent witness to the carnage.

I flinched, a fleeting reaction to the brutality that had just unfolded before me but then, a slow smile crept across my lips. My gaze found Daemon's, his eyes already locked onto mine. 

There was no need for words between us. We understood each other in ways that transcended language, our bond forged in the crucible of blood and sharpened by the steel we wielded.

I licked my lips, savouring the metallic tang of blood, his blood. The fool had dared to speak ill of me, and now his life was nothing more than a bitter taste on my tongue, a reminder of the sweet vengeance.

I raised my thumb to wipe away a crimson smear, aware that the rest of my face was likely speckled with droplets, but I found I couldn't care less. 

This was the price of our love, a love that thrived in the shadows of violence, a love as dangerous as it was intoxicating.

The King had decreed that anyone who questioned me, the sister of his late wife, regarding the mysterious death of one of Alicent's ladies-in-waiting would lose their tongue. Daemon, ever the enforcer of our twisted justice, decided that wasn't enough. 

He wanted blood, and he had taken it without hesitation.

"Your Grace," Otto Hightower's voice cut through the tension, thick with anger as he turned to face the King. 

The man's indignation was palpable, his eyes flickering between the lifeless body on the floor and the King who had allowed this to happen but even Otto, with all his political manoeuvring and cold calculation, knew better than to challenge Daemon directly. 

Not when the bond between us was so absolute, so terrifyingly complete.

He saw the madness in our eyes, a madness that could not be swayed by reason or threats, and I could sense his hesitation, a fear born not of cowardice, but of knowing he was outmatched by a love that defied logic and thrived on chaos.

Daemon kills for me, I kill for him. We're both out of our minds, lost in a love so consuming it leaves no room for fear, no space for mercy. 

We've got the kind of love people whisper about in dark corners, the kind that burns too brightly, too fiercely, and leaves only ashes in its wake.

"This matter cannot be ignored," Otto declared, his voice edged with disgust as he turned his gaze toward me. His eyes bore into mine, seething with contempt, but I simply bit my lip to keep from laughing. 

He was so predictable in his self-righteous indignation, so easy to provoke.

"What would you have me do?" Viserys snapped, his frustration bleeding through every word. 

The burden of the crown weighed heavily on him, and Otto's relentless prying was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

"It is common knowledge that Prince Daemon's wife was present when the body of Lady Elia was discovered," Otto pressed on, his tone growing more insistent. "Merely a day after the lady had slandered Prince Daemon's name."

Viserys ran a weary hand over his face, his patience thinning, frayed by the constant tension between loyalty and fear, between the brother he loved and the monster that Daemon had become. 

I clenched my teeth to keep from lashing out. The accusations were nothing new, just more whispers and rumours in a court that thrived on such poison.

"Prince Daemon's wife has a name," I spat, crossing my arms over my chest. 

Otto turned to me, throwing his hands up in exasperation, clearly irked that this was the only part of his condemnation I had chosen to acknowledge.

"There is no proof that my sister-in-law killed Lady Elia. These are merely rumours," Viserys said, his voice calm but resolute as he met my gaze. I offered him a small, knowing smile, and he continued, "She would do no such thing."

"You say this only because she is your late wife's sister," Otto retorted, his voice sharp with accusation.

"Precisely," Viserys replied, his tone softening as he spoke of my sister. "Aemma would never have let it get this far... my Aemma."

Otto turned back to me, his eyes narrowing in disdain, but this time I didn't hold back. I allowed a proud smirk to spread across my face, mouthing a single word "Oops." His jaw clenched in response, but he had nothing left to say.

"Your Grace, I do not wish to continue this conversation," I said, feigning an upset tone as I glanced at Viserys with wide, innocent eyes.

"Of course, my dear," he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. His affection for me, the last living reminder of his beloved Aemma, was a powerful shield against Otto's accusations.

"There will be no further discussions regarding Lady Elia's death," Viserys declared, his voice carrying a finality that brooked no argument. His gaze shifted to the lifeless body at Daemon's feet, the head severed cleanly from the shoulders. "Let Lord Tarly be an example."

With those words, the matter was settled. Daemon, with a flicker of something dark and satisfied in his eyes, turned to me. 

Without a word, he took my hand, pulling me from the throne room and through the winding corridors of the Keep. His grip was firm, and possessive, as if he needed to feel my presence.

We moved in silence until we reached our chambers. The door closed with a solid thud, sealing us in our private world, away from the prying eyes and judgmental stares of others. 

The moment the latch clicked, Daemon pulled me to him, our bodies colliding with a desperate intensity. My chest pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping through his clothes as he held me close.

"The blood of my enemies looks absolutely beautiful on you," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, smearing a trace of dried blood. 

The touch was possessive, reverent as if he were admiring a work of art.

"Your enemies?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, a teasing smile playing on my lips.

"Any man who speaks ill of my wife is my enemy," he replied, his tone firm and unwavering. His fingers threaded through my hair, pulling gently as he rested his hand on the nape of my neck, holding me in place.

"That's exactly what I like to hear," I whispered, my fingers slipping beneath his tunic, desperate to feel the heat of his skin.

I began tracing the contours of his muscles with a feather-light touch. Feeling him shudder beneath my fingertips, the tension in his body turning to something darker, more primal.

In truth, those words were my lifeline, the assurance that no matter how deep we descended into darkness, he would always be there with me.

"Lady Elia?" he questioned, his voice a low rumble. There was no fear in his eyes, only a dark curiosity.

I smirked, looking away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. Rising onto my tiptoes, I leaned in close to his ear, my breath hot against his skin. 

"She insinuated that you were aggressive and unpredictable," I whispered, biting gently on his earlobe before pulling back to my given height. "I don't like it when people talk ill of my husband, so I killed her."

The admission hung in the air between us, heavy with the weight of our shared madness. Daemon's eyes darkened, his lips curling into a wicked smile. 

Without another word, he crushed his lips against mine in a kiss that was hungry, fierce, and unyielding. It wasn't a kiss of tenderness but one of raw passion, a fire that consumed us both. 

We stumbled backwards, our bodies entwined as we lost ourselves in the moment, in the shared understanding that we were unstoppable together. 

"Tell me what you want, darling," I murmured against his lips, already knowing the answer but craving the sound of his voice. 

His hands were impatient, already tugging at the fabric between us, desperate to feel skin against skin.

"You," he breathed, his voice thick with desire. His lips moved to my neck, trailing sloppy, heated kisses down my body, each one sending shivers of anticipation through me.

"Then have me," I whispered, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as I surrendered to the inevitable. "Take me."

His hands parted my legs, spreading them wide as he positioned himself. When he began to push inside me, the sudden intrusion made me gasp, my body reacting instinctively. My walls clenched around him, drawing him deeper, as that familiar, aching need built in my core.

He moved with a rhythm that was both demanding and intoxicating, each thrust driving me closer to the edge. I arched against him, meeting his movements with my own, our hips colliding in a primal dance that spoke of love, possession, and the insatiable hunger we had for one another.

"Yes, just like that," I murmured, my voice breathy with pleasure as he adjusted his angle, the tip of his length grazing a spot deep within me that made my entire body shudder.

His eyes locked onto mine, dark and intense.

"You feel so perfect," he growled, his voice thick with the kind of desire that bordered on obsession. "I could stay buried inside you forever."

It wasn't just lust, it was a desperate need, a hunger that could only be sated by knowing that in this moment, I was his and his alone.

A shiver ran through me at his words, my heart pounding in sync with the fierce rhythm of our bodies. 

"Then don't stop," I breathed, my nails raking across his back, leaving red marks in their wake. "I need you, all of you."

Each movement was precise, as though he were playing me like an instrument, drawing out the sweetest music with every thrust, every deep connection between us.

"You have all of me," he rasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of prolonging the pleasure for both of us. "I'm yours, always."

I could feel the climax building, an unstoppable wave that threatened to crash over me, to pull me under and drown me in its depths. My grip on him tightened, nails biting into his flesh as I rode the edge of oblivion, his name spilling from my lips in a fervent chant.

"Let go," he urged, his voice rough, his breath hot against my ear. "Let me feel you come apart for me."

His words were my undoing. With one final, deep thrust, he pushed me over the brink, and I shattered. Pleasure exploded within me, a white-hot blaze that consumed every inch of my being. 

My body convulsed around him, my voice breaking into a cry of ecstasy as the world shattered into a million dazzling pieces. He followed me into that abyss, his own release crashing over him as he buried himself deep inside me, our bodies locked together in the throes of passion.

As the waves of pleasure slowly ebbed, we clung to each other, our breaths mingling, hearts pounding in unison. He pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, a contrast to the wild passion that had consumed us just moments before.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice a vow in the quiet aftermath.

"And you're mine," I replied, my voice full of contentment as I nestled closer to him, our bodies still intimately connected.

In that moment, we knew that this was where we belonged—in each other's arms, bound by a love that was as dangerous as it was beautiful.

I am his, and he is mine. In the end, it's him and I.

A/n - Is somebody gonna match my freak (listen to Him and I by Halsey and G-eazy)

[swappermanent]

Life In Retrospect (Part 2)

I ran my fingers along my neck again, as if expecting it to suddenly materialize, but all I felt was smooth, muscular skin. If the necklace was gone... did that mean this was permanent? The thought hit me like a jolt of electricity, raising my cock to attention.

I hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought I wanted something so drastic. But now that it had happened—now that I was staring at the face and body of a man who was young, powerful, and exuded raw sexuality—I could see exactly why this was the wish the necklace had granted. Deep down, beneath the polite smiles and quiet resignation of age, I’d wanted this more than I could admit.

And seeing it, feeling it now… I knew it was right. This body was wasted on Mikey. But now, the thick mustache, the powerful jaw, massive shoulders, the rich, dark hair—they were all mine. All mine.

My hand drifted lower, sliding down over my—his—flat stomach until I felt the warm thickness of his cock, already hard in my grip. I moved to the bed, sinking down onto it as I leaned back and let my hands continue exploring. With one hand stroking my cock slowly, I used the other to feel up my smooth, firm chest, indulging in the primal thrill.

The pleasure built quickly, my breaths coming in shallow gasps, my new voice low and rough as I gave in completely. I stroked myself with a steady rhythm, feeling the warmth pooling in my core, spreading through every muscle, every inch of skin. The sensation was dizzying, almost overwhelming. Finally, I cameMy body tensed, a shudder running through me as waves of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless and grinning at the ceiling as I ran a finger across my stomach and brought it up to my mouth for my first taste. Fuck I could get used to this.

---

I settled into Mikey's life with surprising ease. The next few days were a whirlwind of hanging out with his friends, hitting the gym, running around town, and just enjoying the energy that came with this young, powerful body. I felt more alive than I had in years—every step felt strong, every laugh deeper, every meal tastier. Even the simplest things, like the weight of this body as I moved, brought me a thrill of satisfaction.

But about a week and a half in, the glow started to flicker. It was subtle at first—brief flashes of weakness, a strange sense of disorientation that hit me out of nowhere. I’d chalked it up to the gym, maybe pushing myself a bit too hard, but the feeling grew worse, and by the third day, it was undeniable.

One morning, I got home from a run, feeling the most drained that I had since the swap, and sat down heavily in front of my computer. A thought nagged at me. I pulled up the site where I’d first looked up the necklace and scrolled through the pages, scanning the text with growing dread. I found the entry that had originally described the necklace’s powers and read the section again, the words coming into sharper focus than they had the first time.

"The Amulet of Wishes grants the wearer the temporary experience of their deepest, subconscious desire. The magic is designed to fade with time, gradually encouraging the wearer to take action toward meaningful changes in their own life."

Shit.

I kept reading, my eyes darting over the ancient text as I searched for a way to make this last. My heart pounded with urgency as I came across the section I’d been hoping for: the conditions for making a wish permanent.

“In most cases,” the text read, “the wishes bestowed by the Amulet of Wishes cannot be made permanent, as they are based on creation—an inherent violation of the natural laws of the universe. Thus, the magic is destined to dissipate.”

My stomach sank, but I kept going.

“However,” it continued, “there exists one exception: the wish of a body swap. Unlike creation, a swap is an exchange of essences, preserving the balance of natural order. To make such a swap permanent, the grantee must transform their new body to better reflect their unique essence—through altering mannerisms, attire, personality traits, and any distinctive aspect that marks their identity. This process convinces the amulet that the body’s former inhabitant is no longer suited to reclaim it. Only then will the necklace bind the grantee to their new form forever.”

A spark of hope flickered in my chest, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet. The entry concluded with a note on how to summon the amulet if it had already disappeared: an incantation, ancient and direct.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I whispered the words aloud. The room seemed to shift, the air crackling around me. I felt a familiar weight settle against my neck—the amulet, its cool metal pressing against my skin.

I exhaled slowly, a mix of awe and anticipation coursing through me. The first step was complete. Now, it was time to begin the ritual to claim this body as my own for good.

I stood up, looking at myself in the mirror—the sharp eyes, the rugged face, the powerful build that I’d inhabited over the last week and a half. This would take more than superficial changes; it would take commitment, subtle shifts in behavior, and the kind of confidence that came naturally to Mikey but had always eluded me.

“Alright,” I murmured to my reflection, feeling a surge of determination. “Let’s get started.”

Stay tuned for Part 3.

[shadowsandshapes]

𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 | afab!Reader/Geto Suguru

◇ summary: Sometimes you forget Geto is just a guy. But then he shows a sense of vulnerability that surprises you. After a particularly emotionally draining battle, you run him a warm bath and take care of his aches. ◇ contains: Friends To Lovers, Pining, Reverse Comfort, Splish-Splash Water Activities, Casual Nudity, Fluff ◇ tag: @the-milk-anon ◇ wc: [4.1K] (Ao3)

Suguru Geto was just a man.

You tended to forget about that fact every once in a while. To most people, he was this mysterious, enigmatic Buddhist priest — a healer who never turned away a soul in need. A kind, smiling man who received the ill and distraught and cured their worries with a simple wave of a hand. It was a carefully crafted image that came almost naturally to Geto. You had to admire his acting skills. The truth was much, much darker than that. Geto was building an army of curses and those people were merely tools he used to achieve that, a means to an end. Their pain meant nothing to him. Only a select few people ever got to see the real Suguru Geto, the man behind the polite smiles and unparalleled poise — and they better pray to whatever god was listening they never crossed him in a bad way.

He was so kind, patient and understanding with fellow curse users. There was a deep, caring fondness in his eyes whenever Geto looked at you or the little girls he had adopted all those years ago. Every sorcerer under his wing had his seal of approval. More than just that, you were a family in Geto’s eyes — with him as your just but stern patriarch. He cared for you in his own way and built his entire philosophy on wanting to see his fellow curse users thrive in a world that had been cruel to their very existence.

A beautiful wish — in theory.

It was easy to forget that only a lucky few received such gentle treatment from him.

Each time Geto cut down a civilian, you were reminded of how monstrous he could truly be. They were ants beneath his boot. Inferior, useless beings not even worth keeping as a pet. He didn’t even blink as their blood tainted the earth beneath his feet, pooling toward him and staining the bottom edge of his robes. Their cries for mercy went unheard, morphing into a chilling scream as one of Geto’s many curses tore them limb from limb. No matter how often you witnessed the man’s cruelty manifesting like this — it never got any easier to digest. The crunching of bone and snapping of tendons sent a chill down your spine, each brutal rip of flesh echoing in your brain as you closed your eyes to the horrors. 

Curses were easy to kill — humans were not.

Geto’s eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion as their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground. He didn’t care. They weren’t people in his eyes. Dealing with them was as easy as snuffing out a candle or flipping a switch. You approached him, as you always did, and placed a hand on his shoulder. A subtle tension settled in his muscles as you touched him — like every inch of his body was on high alert, burning with adrenaline and subdued rage.

Those people, those insects, they were inferior to you and him in every way. Monkeys. Nothing but the scum of the earth.

But Suguru Geto was a man. And no matter how much he liked to pretend the faces of the people he killed didn’t haunt his dreams, he couldn’t lie to himself forever. You saw the emptiness in his eyes and knew it was difficult to distance himself from what he was doing to these people. Even if he genuinely believed it was necessary. 

“Let’s go home,” you offered, wanting nothing more than to take him away from the nightmare he had created. Geto nodded — the movement of his head was slow and sluggish like he wasn’t quite there, present in the moment with you. You couldn’t blame him. 

As soon as your soft fingers brushed against his palm, Geto blinked, regaining some of his senses. A smile returned to his face but you couldn’t help but notice how the shine didn’t quite reach his eyes. This was merely a feeble attempt at saving face — he wanted to show you how strong he was for you, for everyone, but you knew better. 

He followed you in silence, using the grasp of your hand as a tether to keep him grounded in reality. No matter how dark things got, Geto could always rely on you to bring him back to the light. How did you do it, he wondered, shuffling after you as you led him back home, staring at the back of your head while his mind came down from the mental paralysis brought about by his misdeeds. Killing the weak, shaping humanity for the next step of evolution — it was easy to get lost in his own head doing what he did. All for the greater good. Some days Geto wondered if and when he’d lose his mind. It was a grim prospect.

Perhaps he already had.

It wasn’t until you made it back to Geto’s borrowed estate that the man was able to come back to earth. His eyes locked onto his reflection in a hallway mirror as he passed by. The blood and sweat caked to his skin burned like a raging inferno as he caught sight of it. He looked — cursed. Monstrous and vile. It wasn’t right. Geto didn’t want to feel this way anymore — this soiled, broken image of a tyrant wasn’t how he wanted to be perceived. But even he couldn’t deny the truth the mirror was showing him. 

Something had to be done.

“Would you draw me a bath?” His voice was quiet, barely rising above a whisper. You almost thought your ears were deceiving you when he first asked the question.

Such an honest request — its simplicity caught you off guard for a second. When you looked at him now, you didn’t see your fearless leader or the enigmatic priest – Geto just seemed lost instead. His brow was furrowed, taut with concern and uneasiness. Deep lines, ones you had never noticed before, carved their way across his forehead, making the man look much older than he really was. Your hand tightened its grip on his palm and he smiled at the touch. It was a small and insignificant gesture, but it was enough for him. For once in his life, Geto was asking for help. He needed you.

Maybe not you, specifically, you told yourself. But you would not deny him this vulnerability.

“Of course.” You tugged the man along behind you as you headed for the bathroom without delay. Geto followed quietly, letting you be his guide both mentally and physically. You wouldn’t lead him astray, he trusted you in that and more. His sweet, loyal little sorcerer. The world was desperately yearning for more people like you. It was starved for the type of tenderness your touch could provide — Geto himself could relate to that sentiment, more than he would ever admit out loud. 

You sat on the edge of the bath, waiting for it to fill up and making sure the water's temperature was to his liking. Suguru came up behind you and gave you a pat on the back, a tired smile tugging at the edge of his lips. He was exhausted but your presence felt like a comforting blessing. This life would be miserable for a regular person but you were one of the few people able to understand his struggles.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Suguru disrobing. Without another word, you left the tub to fill up and assisted in removing the layers upon layers of ceremonial garb. His eyes softened as he watched your deft hands loosening his robes. It was always such a hassle getting them on and off—you knew he tended to struggle with that. He didn’t even have to ask for help, you just appeared whenever he needed you. 

Your brow creased as you tugged at the silks, your frustration apparent in the soft huff that escaped your lips.

“I know, I know—why do I wear this thing in the first place?” Suguru asked, anticipating the question floating around in your head.

“I know why. Showmanship. It sells the whole holier-than-thou act.” You slid the first layer off his shoulders, carefully folding the garment so it wouldn't crumple. “Doesn't make it less annoying to take off, though.”

Suguru laughed. “It's a good thing you're here then. I can use the extra hands.”

You were so adorably meticulous as you helped him undress, Surugu couldn’t help but smile at the way you carefully folded and stowed away each layer of clothing. For all your complaining about his little priest get-up, you sure did show it a lot of respect. Even though you knew it was essentially just a prop, you moved his clothes onto the bathroom counter with the utmost care. Suguru noticed the way your fingers lingered against the fabric as you smoothed out any wrinkles.

So gentle. Soft. 

In contrast, Suguru was jagged. Marred with blemishes that would never truly heal. He was willing to risk life and limb for his cause and the evidence of that could be found within the deep, unsightly scars on both body and soul.

You caught sight of these marks as Suguru removed his hadajuban—laying himself bare. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen him naked and you knew better than to pry about his healed injuries. Sorcerers who could heal others were in short supply, doubly so for your little family of rogue curse users. As a result, any injury sustained in battle would have to heal the natural way—which left a myriad of scars behind. This time, he’d gotten away with just a few bumps and bruises but that didn’t mean Suguru would be as lucky next time around. You couldn’t help but release a sigh. He looked tired. Dried blood crusted his hair and trailed down the side of his neck and chest. You made a mental note to take care of that as soon as possible. 

When the bath was full, Suguru didn’t waste time sinking into the warm water and closed his eyes with a satisfied grunt.

"Do you want me to leave you in peace or should I wash your hair?" you asked, moving a little side table closer with all kinds of soaps and shampoos, brushes and sponges. If he wanted to be by himself, you would respect his wishes but a part of you really wanted to be there for Suguru. He didn’t seem quite himself tonight.

"You can stay, sweet girl," he replied simply and opened his eyes to meet you with a faint smile. As much as Suguru loved being alone, he was always comforted whenever you decided to stick around. "Your company is nice," he added as your eyes followed the movement of his hand as he splashed the bathwater, the realization of what Suguru was implying slowly setting in. “Why don’t you join me?”

Oh. Okay.

"Give me a minute," you said and scooched to the corner of the room to unrobe.

His eyes never left you—you could feel his gaze in the back of your head as you shed each and every layer of clothing until you were completely bare. Despite this sense of awareness, you felt comfortable. Suguru had that effect. Any other man laying eyes upon you like this would make your skin crawl, but not him. The bond of trust between the two of you was stronger than that. You didn't feel the need to hide from Suguru—there was a sense of respect to his gaze, an appreciation for your body as if it were a priceless artifact.

After safely stowing away your own garments, you climbed into the warm water right alongside him–leaning on the opposite side of the tub with a blissful sigh on your lips.

"You may be the prettiest sorcerer I've ever seen," Suguru commented, the heat of the bath and the exhaustion of the day making his voice raspier than normal. Damn–he was exhausted.

"You're just saying that."

"Am I?" Suguru questioned back, staring as you waved a hand, dismissing his compliment, and grabbed a sponge to lather your skin. “Am I lying?” he prompted again–pushing you to look at him and truly think about it.

This was not the first time the two of you had bathed together–and in that time he had always found a way to steal a glance or two whenever he could, discreetly admiring just how utterly breathtaking you were. But there was no hiding his appreciation this time. There was a raw honesty to his expression that took you by surprise, making your hands pause mid-scrub as you let out a quiet chuckle in response.

"You're not lying, you're being polite," you said. "Come here, you've got blood on you."

You leaned forward in the tub, placing the sponge on his chest and rubbing it in small circles to loosen up the grime stuck to his skin.

Each stroke and drag of the sponge had an almost ritualistic quality to it. With these gentle, careful touches you managed to banish all of Suguru’s burdens and aches. If he didn’t know any better, Suguru would have thought you were casting a spell on him. He let you clean him, his heart skipping a beat as he felt the gentle touch of your hands. In the midst of everything he does, this moment, this feeling was the closest thing he had had to being human in a very long time. You were careful and concentrated as you worked, taking care to clean and wash him properly. His chest, arms and stomach all got a gentle scrub. When the grime and dirt were all gone, you turned your attention to his injuries. Nothing too serious at first glance but your brow still furrowed with worry. Your focus then shifted to his older injuries, scars that told of many battles. Your fingers reached out and traced them gently, almost absentmindedly as you quietly admired his strength.

"You know, you deserve a little tenderness every now and then," you said. It almost sounded like you were scolding him for being so rough all the time but Suguru knew you didn't mean it that way.

"A little tenderness, huh?" he echoed—wondering if he truly qualified for such a luxury.

"Mhm," you hummed in agreement, placing the used sponge back on the side table. You would take care of yourself later—right now Suguru needed some attention. Something to wash away not just the literal grime of the day, but also soothe his mind and soul. If you could help with that, you would. You scooted a little closer into his arms, sitting on your knees. "Let me wash your hair...c'mon. Then we can get out of this tub."

He was surprised by your forwardness and your little maneuver to get into his arms in particular. Suguru did not mind it one bit. He had always been curious to see just how far you'd take things between the two of you. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, nothing made him feel as safe as letting you be near him.

"That sounds nice," he replied, smiling softly at the idea.

Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, running through his long hair to detangle it gently. Your eyes remained focused on Suguru as you worked, soaping up his hair and running your fingers along all the little pressure points you could find. The touch was soothing and relaxing, rubbing away the tension on his brow and scalp with each pass of the fingers.

The more you worked, the more his stress melted away. After a while, he couldn't help but let out a quiet moan from the satisfaction your hands provided. Your touch was different—it felt genuine. There was something almost otherworldly to it.

He let his eyes drift closed, allowing the sensations to overcome him as he leaned his head onto you for more comfort. Seeing him this blissful and happy did bring a smile to your face. When his hair was thoroughly shampooed, you took a small cup from the side table and filled it with bath water. One of your hands rested against Suguru's forehead, preventing water from cascading down his face as you rinsed the soap from his hair with the little cup.

"Feeling good?"

"Very," he replied with a smile, his eyes still closed in blissful relaxation. There were few people in the world who could make him feel like this. Few people he trusted so deeply that he'd ever put himself in a situation where he was truly relaxed, vulnerable and at your mercy. "What about you? Are you feeling well?" he added with a tilt of his head, his breathing slightly shaky from your touch.

You nodded quietly, fishing a bottle of leave-in conditioner from the side table. It was yours, but you didn't mind sharing it with Suguru for once. You spread the product between your fingers before gently running it through his hair. It smelled just like you.

"I'm just glad to see you finally relaxing a little," you said, massaging the leave-in conditioner onto his roots.

Normally he would be against the idea of someone taking care of him like this. He was the strong one—the protector, after all. But he decided to surrender his pride to you and let you be the one in charge for now. You were a special case. You were the one friend that he trusted so dearly.

"I was only able to relax because..." he trailed off, deciding to show his vulnerable and honest self for once and finally admitting the truth. "Because of you, sweet girl. You always go above and beyond for me," he added, letting out another satisfied sigh.

The gravity of those words made you halt your movements for a second. But only for a second. Suguru could see you took what he had said to heart—a small, genuine smile forming on your lips as you continued to pamper and care for him. As soon as you were satisfied with your work, you rinsed off your hands in the water.

"I'm glad I can bring you some peace," you whispered. 

"I'm glad too."

You were done. Bathed, pampered and cleaned from top to bottom, which meant it was time to get out of the tub. He watched as your smile flourished and found himself smiling back as well. You always managed to brighten up any room, just by being you. No matter what misery Suguru found himself in, you were a spark of hope. Of love. And if he were a braver man he’d tell you this.

Suguru took hold of your hands and helped you up, a warmth growing inside his chest when you took his hand. "Shall we get out of here?"

"Yeah," you said being careful not to slip and fall on the slippery surface as you rose from the tub. One of the racks on the wall held clean towels: you handed Suguru one and took another for yourself, then returned to the tub to drain the water and stow away all the things you had used. Suguru took the towel and started drying himself off. Once he was finished, he returned the towel to you and put on his robe before stepping over towards you.

"Come here. I have something I'd like to show you," he said in a low tone of voice. It felt different when he spoke to other people. He had such a way with words when it came to you, and it caught you off-guard every time.

You had retrieved one of the robes too, wrapping it around yourself and tying the ends of the waist shawl to keep it closed. Your eyes found Suguru's as he approached you: they widened ever so slightly when he placed a hand on the back of your neck.

"What is it, Geto?"

He continued to gaze at you quietly, a slight grin tugging on his lips.

"Close your eyes," he said after a small pause. His voice was soft and quiet. There was a different kind of warmth to it now, a hint of intimacy that he had yet to display with you. "I have...something I feel like showing to you." Suguru could feel your skepticism even as you obeyed this command, chuckling at the suspicious little pout on your lips. You were wary of him–but decided to place your trust in his hands regardless. "No funny business. I promise."

Suguru was being a little disingenuous right now, he knew that. All he really wanted in this moment was to admire you for a moment, to work up the courage to speak on what was in his heart. But it was hard. He'd faced countless horrors and consumed the rot of the world all for the sake of his unfathomable dream. In that pursuit, he'd felt lonely. And then you came along. You meant the world to him—and the fact that you weren't aware of this was a most unforgivable deception. 

What are dreams if they’re not shared with the one you love most?

He sighed. His hands moved to cradle your face, gently resting against your cheeks as his thumbs stroked the soft skin beneath his palm. You were so beautiful—Suguru could stall no longer. He should bury these feelings. Really. It was the safer bet, but it would kill him to keep lying to you.

"Open your eyes please." As soon as you did what he asked, a smile spread across his face and his eyes immediately locked with yours. "What do you see when you look at me?" he asked. The question carried something raw–a vulnerability you were not used to seeing from Suguru. You immediately knew this was serious. "Do you see someone worthy of your time? Worth your trust?"

"What–of course I do, Geto. You have my trust and time. Always."

You could hear the relief in his breath. The pure affection shining in his eyes was in such contrast to the coldness he normally expressed that it was difficult to grasp the truth. This wasn’t one of those fake, practiced smiles he had mastered in the name of manipulation—no. Suguru looked thoroughly smitten—almost miserably so.

"I just... wanted to make sure." His voice was shaky and unsteady. "I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me," you assured him.

"Promise me you won't leave me," he replied, his voice shaking with intensity. Too many people had let him down—too many souls had left his care.  "I don't have anything without you."

"I promise," you affirmed—voice steady and certain. The only thing you wanted was to make him happy. To bring him relief and peace when he needed it. Leaving him was the furthest thing from your mind. You were in this together.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You have nothing to thank me for, Geto," you said, brushing your thumb against his cheek. This must have been difficult for him to do, you realized. Confessing one's true feelings and desires was never easy. For a man like Suguru, doubly so. "Now that your cards are on the table, what's next?"

"I...I want to kiss you more than anything," he replied quietly. "I want you and I need you. Is that too much to ask?"

How could you refuse him? You couldn't. Not when he was this vulnerable and real for once in his life. The hand on his cheek continued to gently caress his face, even as you leaned in to grant his wish. Your lips found his as you kissed him, answering his question in the only way you could.

Suguru Geto was just a man. And he would never be too much for you.

He wanted this more than anything, and the moment you felt his lips on yours, a wave of relief washed over him.

Suguru wasted no time pulling you closer as he let out a quiet moan into your mouth. It felt almost unreal that he was showing this much intimacy to you. All other thoughts were lost as you let the moment wash over you, allowing yourself to sink into his kiss. Suguru felt like he couldn't possibly get enough of you. This was love. It couldn't just be a passing fancy or lust. You meant so much to him that the very thought of anyone or anything taking you away from him made him sick.

Suguru allowed himself to be weak—just this once.

"...I want you," he said, breaking the kiss with a breathless sigh.

Hearing those words, that spontaneous admission of desire, made your heart skip a beat. Suguru, who was always so deliberate and collected, was desperate enough to say something like that in the heat of the moment.

"You already have me."

If you liked this, please leave a little reply or reblog | [Masterlist]

[gothhabiba]

The economy of Israel has benefited from the changes it has created within the economy of the Gaza Strip. The availability of a large pool of unskilled and semi-skilled workers has provided Israel with a reserve of labor that it can utilize or marginalize without great risk to its own economy. In periods of economic prosperity, for example, the availability of large resources of labor has had a stabilizing effect on wages inside Israel and in periods of recession has acted as a repository for surplus labor. Given the state's control over the economy of the occupied territories, wages paid to workers from these areas do not drain Israel's economic reserves since the consumption expenditure of Palestinian labor is directly tied into the Israeli economy.

The resulting state of dependency of the Palestinian labor market on the economy of Israel renders the former vulnerable to the political, social, and economic exigencies of the latter.

– 1987. Sara Roy, "The Gaza Strip: A Case of Economic De-Development." Journal of Palestine Studies 17.1, pp. 56-88.

[wardenparker]

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 1

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 14.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Not much for this chapter! Mostly fluff, a little flirting, and playful but on-point use of the term 'tramp stamp'. Summary: On a failed date at the local market, Marcus runs into an old friend and gets an invitation to visit. The beautiful inn and fantastic food were explicit in the invite -- but you are a complete surprise to him. Notes: Welcome, welcome, welcome my lovelies! As a girl who grew up on The West Wing and fosters an unapologetic love of all things romance, a story like this has been on my wish list to write for a very long time. I hope you're all ready for a cast of new characters and the grand appearance of Pedro's character from Graceland, because it's time for Marcus Pike to meet his soulmate! ���🧡🧡

There’s something about the hustle and bustle of D.C., that while it can invigorate someone and inspire them to live life as fast as possible, it can also drain them. At least, that’s what Marcus Pike has learned from the last three years of therapy. That and he’s prone to rushing into relationships, being in love with love, as Dr. Barnes would caution him.

It seems sometimes as if he’s unlucky in love, despite the universe providing a perfect match for him, he’s never found her. Always looking, but also being open to loving someone who doesn’t share marks or scars. Someone who just wants a stable and steady man to worship them and give them the world.

He hasn’t dated in almost three years. His therapist had advised him to focus on himself. To work through his emotions of a failed college marriage, a failed engagement. To make himself happy with who he is before introducing another person into the mix. He had thought that’s what he was doing, but apparently he had been wrong.

Finally feeling ready to date again, he had dipped his toes back in the water. Only to have it backfire tremendously. So much so, that he finds himself walking around the Eastern Market on his own. His idea of a farmer’s market casual date obviously not a good one, according to the woman who had tossed the drink he had bought her on the trash and stomped off, abandoning him to feel like a fool.

Smiling faces beam back at him from the covers of glossy gossip magazines, flashing headlines critiquing fashions worn to the recent inauguration ceremony and parties. The new president and her family wave from above the fold of newspapers — the happy family that Marcus himself doesn’t have. Ignoring the rude reminder, he wanders through the stalls and vendors of Eastern Market aimlessly until he reaches the family-owned sweet shop that he’s been coming to for years now. They know him, and like him, and his sweet tooth knows no bounds. There’s another man at the counter just before Marcus so he stands back, but Jenny waves hello from behind the counter. “Morning Marcus! Gimme one second and I’ll be right with you.” She says, turning back to the order marked Juan in her big, looping handwriting. “Six cannoli, right? Two pistachio, two double chocolate, and two cherry chocolate?”

“Right.” The man in a corduroy jacket with his short hair trimmed neatly nods. “Thanks, Jen. The girls are going to be over the moon.”

Another reminder of a life he craves. Marcus frowns slightly and tries to remember what his therapist has told him. Everyone moves at their own pace. Just because he’s not juggling two kids, a dog and a lovely wife with his workload doesn’t mean he’s failing. It just means he’s not met the right person, soulmate or not.

The other man pays for his order and turns to leave but stops dead in the middle of a cordial nod when he sees Marcus standing a few feet away. Sure he had heard Jenny say hi to someone…but he hadn’t looked. Now though? He huffs a laugh at the ghost of his past. “Pike?” They’d been mistaken as brothers — or for each other — so many times back at the Academy that it would be impossible not to recognize Marcus Pike.

“Badillo?” It’s amazing to see the other agent, although he had heard that he had left the Bureau after a friendly fire shooting. He looks good though, and Marcus cracks into the first real grin of the morning since being left high and dry. “What the hell? How are you doing, man?” He asks, coming in for a friendly hug while being mindful of the box in Juan’s hand.

“Good! Good. Errands.” Juan huffs, returning Marcus’s hug with equal surprise and affection. The men had been quite good friends at one time, more than a few years ago now. “Pregnant wife gets whatever pregnant wife wants, ya know?” He grins, bright and shining. “When did you get back to DC?”

“Pregnant wife, huh?” Despite the knife to his heart, Marcus paints on a grin, happy for his old friend. “Three years ago.” He shrugs slightly. “Heading up Art Crimes now. How about you? I heard you got out.” He lifts his eyebrows, allowing Juan to talk if he wants or brush it off if he doesn’t.

“I did.” Juan nods, knowing that various stories circulated after he left the Bureau. Most of them false. “Decided to take a little road trip vacation to clear my head and ended up meeting my soulmate in Yosemite on day two of the whole thing, and I followed her East.” He shrugs, ever the unapologetic romantic just like Marcus. They had had that in common. “How’s Lara?” He asks, remembering the woman that had been Mrs. Pike during their Academy days. Marcus had been over the moon for her. “Is she liking being back?”

Marcus grimaces a little and shrugs. “She’s, uh, we got divorced about ten years ago.” He tells him. “She found out she did have a soulmate.”

“Ah shit.” Blowing out a breath and shuffling his feet, Juan rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I’m sorry, man. That’s—there’s just no easy way to get through something like that.”

“It’s okay.” Marcus had loved Lara, but he wasn’t going to stand in the way of soulmates. It wouldn’t be right. “It was actually a very easy divorce; she hated hurting me. More than I can say for the last date, or last fiancée I’ve had.”

“Shit.” Juan huffs again, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s eleven in the morning but I feel like I ought to be buying you a drink, man.” Hearing that someone as genuinely good as Marcus Pike is has had his heart bashed so often is a fucking bummer, and Juan chews on his lip for a second before his head tilts in that Universal signal of natural curiosity. “I’ve got time today. If you want to hang out? Catch up?” He offers, knowing that drinks will most likely come later if the two old friends spend the day getting back on the same page.

Marcus chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do I look that dejected?” He asks, even though he’s not really looking for an answer. “I was supposed to be on a date, I figured a farmer’s market/brunch date would be easy enough and yet thoughtful, but I was ditched.” He snorts. “I have zero luck it seems.” He nods his head towards the cannoli. “But you can’t leave your pregnant wife waiting on those.”

“No, I can’t.” Sydney is waiting back at the restaurant with bated breath, he knows that, but he does offer Marcus a smile. “But she does run a restaurant, so you don’t have to be brunch-less unless you choose to be.”

“Yeah?” He perks up at the idea of trying out a new place, always loving brunch foods. “Where at? I might have to take a spin over there.”

“Her place is called Il Corvo.” It takes a second, but Juan digs a business card for the restaurant out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. “It’s the in-house restaurant at The Inn at Jones Point in Alexandria.” He reports proudly, always ready to brag about his soulmate’s amazing success. Running a restaurant is no small feat. “I know the card says the dining room opens at 4pm, but ignore that. She does brunch for guests at the inn and for special guests from time to time.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus frowns slightly. “I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not imposing, trust me.” Knowing his wife as well as he does, Juan is more than certain she’ll be doting on Marcus in no time. “As long as you’re on board for Italian food, come by any time you want.”

“I’m out on the bike.” Marcus tells Juan, remembering how the other agent also loved to ride motorcycles. “I might swing by sometime. Normally go for rides on the weekend.”

"Anytime you want," Juan repeats, and he hopes Marcus understands how entirely he means it. "It's good to see you again, man."

“Good to see you too.” Marcus means that, smiling at the former agent. “Nice to see that you are okay.”

The two men part with a smile and a nod, and Juan hustles away to get his precious cargo back out to his soulmate. Maybe he'll pitch the idea of inviting Marcus to their next board game night if Sydney and her best friend don't mind the extra company. Not that they ever mind extra company.

Marcus doesn’t mean for it to be two weeks from the chance encounter with Juan before he steers his bike down the country, winding roads towards this inn that he had been told about. He had a case that required him to travel. Then it was reports and the never ending budget fiascos that new presidencies always bring, his boss wanting a new projections for the fiscal year for some reason.

Now though, he’s enjoying the scenery as the wind blows over his face and he leans into the curve, enjoying the small thrill that races up his spine from the inherent danger.

The winter has been mild so far and all the snow left behind by the storm the area had gotten while he was traveling has melted, making the ride an easy and calming one. He had intentionally driven a long route around Alexandria and the surrounding area, letting him arrive at his destination a little after noon on that cold, sunny Sunday. The inn is a large brick farmhouse, probably originally colonial but it looks like it was redone sometime during the Federalist architecture craze of the early 1800s. Now its clean white painted window frames and front porch are as welcoming as the pristinely kept front garden. The Inn at Jones Point proclaims a sign out front, which is accompanied by a smaller complimentary sign with an impressionist painted black bird that reads Il Corvo in an artistic script. There are cars in the lot with a plethora of states listed on their license plates, another motorcycle that he has to assume is Juan's, and a very government-issued-looking black car parked close to the building.

Marcus is enough of a romantic to fully appreciate the appeal of the property and more importantly, grounded enough to be able to appreciate it without having a partner here to enjoy it with. Since working with his therapist, he's spent a lot of the last three years 'dating himself'. Instead of waiting to make a date to try out a new restaurant, he goes by himself. Not limiting himself to new experiences with partners, he has found that he enjoys the hunt for the perfect spots to eat. The little Indian restaurant he had found is an absolute gem and he is looking forward to discovering a new little brunch spot. If this place is half as good as Juan says, he might make it a monthly habit while he can spend some time with his old friend.

Inside, the lobby of the inn is bustling. Guests sit in plush chairs with travel brochures or excitedly type on their phones. A family is gathered around a display of pamphlets for different travel experiences and tourist attraction. Another guest is hovering around the front desk, seemingly waiting for someone to return.

From the rooms off to the left, wave after wave of stunning smells wafts past Marcus as he looks around. A set of French doors stands open but the hostess stand for Il Corvo stands empty while a small number of diners sit inside, happily chattering over their meals. The scent of fresh coffee permeates everything else just a second before he can see why, as a woman in a blue silk shirt comes around the corner with two travel cups — presumably full of coffee — for the guest standing at the desk.

“Here we are, Mrs. Richards. Thank you for your patience, the pot was just finishing brewing. These will keep you nice and warm while you walk around Old Town.” Smiling as the woman walks away, your eyes survey the room and land on the new arrival with a touch of confusion. “Good afternoon,” you greet, in your typical sunshiny tone. This man isn’t a guest and you genuinely almost thought it was Juan for a second — even though you just saw Juan in the restaurant. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi— uh, I—” Marcus realizes he knows you. Your mother’s picture hangs on his office wall next to the current FBI director’s, and furthermore, it’s hard to not see the darling First Daughter in some news story – although it doesn’t seem like you enjoy the press. “Yeah, sorry, Juan said that brunch is served here?” He asks with an apologetic smile. “I’m Marcus, uh, Pike. We were in the Academy together and I ran into him a few weeks ago.”

You’re prettier than he ever imagined the pictures and news reels, your voice curling into his stomach pleasantly. In true, Marcus Pike fashion. He finds himself instantly intrigued by you.

“Oh, you’re Marcus!” As bright and cheery as you sound, something flips in your stomach and clenches at your chest and you swallow down the oh god he’s really hot impulse that you haven’t felt in…well, in years. This guy looks like someone took Juan and gave him broader shoulders and better hair, and put a little bit more James Dean in his style. “It’s really nice to meet you.” You introduce yourself, probably unnecessarily, but it’s good manners and keeps you from getting nervous or going off track. “Come on this way. Juan said you might be stopping by but he wasn’t sure when.”

“I’m sorry, should I have called first?” He asks, feeling guilty and slightly in the way. The last thing that he wants is to cause an imposition.

“Not at all.” You slip out from behind your desk and wave for him to follow you. “He’s been excited to introduce you to everybody.” The inn is a decent size, with the ground floor being public spaces and all the rooms upstairs being ready-made for guests except for the attic apartment, and you quickly lead the way through the rooms toward the restaurant kitchen.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve caught up.” Marcus admits. “We were close in the academy, most people through we were twins to be honest.” He chuckles slightly.

“I almost thought you were him when I saw you,” you admit, glad to know you aren’t alone in it. Juan had said they look alike but it really is extreme. “Here we are.” Humming as you push open the door to the restaurant’s bar, you huff a soft laugh when a woman slightly taller than you with masses of curls in a tight bun at the nape of her neck in a black suit sidesteps the pair of you and opens the kitchen door to look inside before letting you in. “Thank you, Agent Bailey.” As odd as it is to have constant supervision like this, you’re doing your best to be patient and understanding with it. “Come on into the kitchen,” you offer to Marcus. “Brunch is almost over and this is where Juan sits when he hangs out.”

“Really? The inner sanctum already?” The tone is joking, but Marcus knows that for a lot of chefs, the kitchen is their sacred place. He wouldn’t know, because his kitchen is used to make coffee, but he’s had a few relationships with amateur gourmet cooks.

“Marcus!” There’s no question that this is where he’s supposed to be, when Juan is waving from a corner of the kitchen and immediately zips over to say hello. “How are you, man? Good to see you!”

“Hey.” He grins when he sees the other man, obviously happier here than any time in the Bureau and he’s happy for him. He seems like a completely different man, just from the quick glance. Perhaps it’s the fact that he found his soulmate. “Sorry it’s been a few weeks. Got caught up on a case.”

“I completely get it,” he assures his friend. “It’s been kind of crazy around here anyway. Weddings booked every single weekend and the restaurant stuffed full with reservations.” He beams, proud as a peacock, and waves slightly as you disappear back out through the bar to return to your counter. The inn is full up with last night’s wedding party and you have your hands full. “I want you to meet my wife,” Juan says, clapping Marcus in the shoulder and pulling him further into the kitchen.

There are only two people cooking right now and they are both winding down. Enough that the petite woman with tied-up hair and a look of intense concentration on her face can look up and smile. “I hear you talking about me,” she warns with a laugh.

“Syd, this is Marcus Pike.” Juan introduces, bringing his friend out in front of him. “Marcus, this is Sydney. The gorgeous goddess the universe decided to grace me with.”

“Nice to meet you.” Again that pesky pang of longing lurches inside Marcus but he throws her a smile and takes her hand after she offers it immediately. “I’ve only heard angelic things about you, so rest assured, he’s not talking ill.”

“He’s does nothing but tell stories about you since you guys ran into each other at Eastern Market.” Sydney tells him honestly. “Can I make you something to eat?”

“I was hoping to experience the brunch option that Juan was bragging about.” Marcus admits as he glances around, admiring the state of the art kitchen. “Didn’t expect to see this from the historical facade.” He admits. “It’s charming though.” He adds, hoping that neither one of you take offense.

"Charming is her specialty." Sydney points her thumb in the direction of the door, indicating the main lobby of the inn. "We took over running this place about three years ago now. The previous owners weren't able to keep up anymore so they sold to her and we updated the restaurant. Modern Italian dinners and brunch for the inn's guests. It's a big step up from the B&B that this place used to be." Grinning proudly, Sydney moves over to the nearest counter and plops a paper menu down at the stool beside her husband. "What would you like?"

Marcus looks at the menu and lifts a brow, impressed by the sophisticated menu. This isn’t some little spaghetti shop that pretends to be Italian. “It’s been so long since I’ve had good Uova in Purgatorio.” He moans. “Since the last time I was in Naples.” He clicks his tongue. “But I want to try the ricotta pancakes too.”

"Then you will get both," Sydney insists, clicking her tongue and getting to work. "A G-man in Naples, huh?" She barely glances up from her work as she moves. "Art crimes must be the fancy branch of the Bureau."

“I work on international cases with Interpol and Scotland Yard.” He explains as he sits down and admires the fluidity of her movements in the kitchen. She’s completely at home in her space and it’s evident she’s in command. He’s slightly envious of her comfort in a kitchen, if he’s honest.

"Oh, so it definitely is the fancy branch." She laughs. Juan hops up from his seat to grab coffee for himself and Marcus, brushing a kiss on her cheek as he moves past, and the other woman who had been cooking moves away to the other end of the room to work on cleaning up from the brunch rush.

"Fancy branch of what?" The kitchen door swings open again and you come strolling back inside looking infinitely more tired than you had just a few minutes ago but still in a generally good mood. "The wedding party is finally gone. I am officially taking my break."

Marcus stares at you for a moment and then looks down at his hands, feeling like he might be bragging if he were to tell you what they’ve been talking about. There’s something about you that is knocking him off kilter, he’s normally a little more confident than this.

"Art crimes is swanky, apparently." Sydney tells you, never stopping or slowing as she moves around like a controlled whirlwind. "Eggs in purgatory and ricotta pancakes for your brunch? I'll make up a big batch." They're two of your favourite things anyway and it's easy enough to just make a double serving of each when she knows that your break time is always mealtime.

"That sounds incredible," you moan in agreement, making a beeline for the industrial refrigerator in the corner of the room to make yourself an iced latte that is far more espresso than milk. A generous swirl of flavored syrup joins your cup before you plop down on the edge of the counter and sip your drink with a happy sigh. Normally people exclaim over you when they realize they recognize you but Marcus Pike hasn't said a word — and you wonder if he doesn't recognize you from the papers or if you even care. It's nice to not have someone make a fuss for once. To just be nice and not suck up to you for being the President's oldest child.

“Weddings take it out of you, huh?” Marcus asks, smirking a little at the drink in your hand, although it looks delicious. “Or were they just demanding?”

"It was a big party. Very specific needs." Sipping your drink and finally sitting is immediately relaxing, and you're always ready to meet new people. Especially when they're someone that your best friend's husband speaks of so highly. "Nothing I can't handle, but weddings are always tricky. It's the most important day of at least one person's life, so you always want to try to make it as perfect for them as you can. Thankfully," you gesture around you. "I have an incredible team. Syd is the best Italian chef in the Chesapeake Bay and Juanito is an incredible event coordinator."

Marcus snorts and cuts his eyes over at Badillo. “He always did have an eye for details.” He admits, snickering at the nickname you’ve bestowed on the former federal agent. “Although it’s surprising that it’s manifested in wedding planning.” He teases playfully.

"Event planning," Juan clarifies, but he's grinning regardless. "We host a lot here. Weddings, anniversaries, holiday parties, all kinds of personal events. I get to put my organizational mind to work on it. It's actually pretty rewarding."

"Don't let him sell himself short. Juan plans a hell of a wedding." There is pride on your face, pride for your friend and in your work "We've gotten written up in a bunch of bridal magazines and on websites the last few years."

“Good job, Juanito.” If there’s anything that Marcus enjoyed more than the courses in the academy, it was busting his friend’s balls. All in good fun of course, he had taken his share of ribbing as well. It was par for the course. “That sounds like a hell of a job, making people happy and sharing in their special moments.”

"We do our best." Juan will never take the credit for himself, always attributing the effort to the team as a whole. This time, though, he flashes a knowing grin at you. "Although the next one we plan might be a hell of a lot bigger than what we do here."

“Oh?” Marcus asks, turning towards you. “Are you getting married soon?” His eyes drop discreetly to your hand and he tries to remember what he’s read about you but for some reason, he’s drawing a blank.

“No, Juan just likes to tease.” You shake it off with a roll of your eyes, knowing that — unfortunately — your friend is completely right. If or when it does happen, it will be a damn circus. “It’s this…guy that I met last year, and it’s been really good and he really took all the stress of the last year in stride, and these two love to tease.” In truth, you’ve been intentionally moving forward slowly with the junior Congressman from Maryland that you met at a campaign event you attended with your mother last year. Sam is a good guy and has big ideas for the future. It’s just that you normally dive into relationships so fast and so deep that your heart does all the talking before your mind can catch up. And now that you’re a public figure, you can’t afford to have that happen again. “I’m perfectly content to watch other people have their big days for now.”

“I can imagine that it’s hard to have a relationship right now.” He sympathizes. “The press either treats you like a darling celebrity or some kind of public spectacle, right?” He asks, curious as to your view on the entire thing. Personally, he hated the idea of politics taking on a celebrity flare and you aren’t on politics, your mother is.

“I’m honestly lucky that my younger siblings take some of the focus,” you admit. So he did recognize you. It’s nice that he didn’t fuss. You’re grateful for that. “My brother is in law school and my sister is in undergrad and they’re both living in the White House while they study but…yeah. We all agreed to give up our privacy for a while so Mom can do some good work. That means relationships aren’t easy right now.”

“It’s good you had a choice.” Marcus admits. “Sometimes I watch the campaigns for some of the politicians and it’s obvious the family would rather be anywhere else and are putting on a facade.” He shrugs, not wanting to delve too deep into a subject you probably are uncomfortable with. “Nice that you don’t have too much interference here, except for the Secret Service agent.”

"Agent Bailey's okay." In fact, she's sitting outside the kitchen door right now, giving you a bit of space and privacy to try to pretend you still have a halfway normal life. "We're still getting used to each other. I had somebody else during the campaign, but she's been assigned to my sister now. It all works out in the end." Smiling, you take another sip of your coffee and wonder why your stomach is fluttering over this very kind man who has been introduced into your lives very much by chance. It's...unsettling. To say the very least. "But that's plenty about me. How about you, Special Agent Marcus Pike? Where're you from? How are you liking Art Crimes?" You grin, throwing him a mischievous expression. "Who'd you vote for, for president?"

Marcus laughs, a real laugh that comes from his belly and he relaxes. “Let’s see…I’m from the great state of Texas - Go Rangers.” He ticks off. “I love Art Crimes, especially when we can recover sentimental pieces and keep “collectors”,” he uses air quotes, “from locking away art from being enjoyed by all.” He grins at your last question. “And my momma told me never to discuss politics or religion in social settings….but….my candidate is currently hanging on my office wall.”

"Rangers, huh?" Glossing over the not insignificant tidbit that he did, in fact, vote for your mother, you find yourself thoroughly enjoying getting to know this friend of your friend. It's usually not this easy to click with a new acquaintance, although you've become an expert at seeming interested just to be polite. That doesn't seem to be necessary at all with this man. "When we get our Phillies/Rangers series this year we'll have to come up with a bet of some kind."

“It’s gonna be a losing bet on your end.” Marcus predicts. “We’ve got Darío Álvarez and then Elvis Andrus is going to continue stealing bases.”

"Oh thank god," Sydney huffs, flipping ricotta pancakes on her griddle top and grinning as she throws you a wink. "She's finally got someone else to drag to baseball games. I'm free!"

"My alleged best friend," you smirk and decide to tease her back. "And her husband are both hockey people. So I'm generally either stuck watching the game on my own or dragging Syd along with promises of beer and ballpark dogs."

“Nationals aren’t my favorite team. Since they are National League.” Marcus smirks. “But I have season tickets since it’s too expensive to fly back to Texas for every game.”

It would be bragging to admit that you've been asked to throw the first ball out at the Nationals opening game this season as the most vocally baseball-loving member of the new First Family, so you just smile. You know it can feel like a big sacrifice to leave something about home behind. "Maybe I'll see you there," you offer instead. "The Nationals aren't my team either, but the game are pretty fun."

“Oh they always are.” He admits wholeheartedly. “Plus the Navy Yard is close so it’s always interesting.”

"Heeeeere we go." Onto the counter in front of you, Sydney heaps four plates of food – making each of you identical breakfasts. "The fruit compote for the pancakes right now is cranberry lemon. And I threw a little extra chili into the sauce for the eggs." She grins. "Some folks who stay at the inn say it's too spicy but it's how we like it," she tells Marcus.

Marcus chuckles and Juan snorts, hooking his fingers towards the agent. “This man ate his way through a five alarm chili contest and didn’t even touch his beer.” He boasts to the two of you. “If it’s not spicy, I don’t want it.” Marcus confirms with a grin. “Thank you. It smells amazing.”

"Then next time you're getting Calabrian chili instead of just the wimpy flakes." Sydney promises with glee. "That's how our girl likes it, but that's too much even for me most of the time. I have to be in the mood for it."

“You like spicy?” He asks, smirking towards you. “How do you feel about the Indian food around here?”

"There's a place in DuPont Circle that is probably the best Indian food I've ever had in my entire life." Even as you're getting ready to dig into your best friend's comfort Italian fare, your mouth starts watering thinking of curries and dal. "The kind of place where they don't make it really spicy until you've been there a couple of times and they know you can handle it. I swear I've eaten there more than I've cooked my own food since moving out here."

“Rasika’s?” Marcus groans, nodding. “I love that place. They make the best curry I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m sweating, but I never tell them to bring me the yogurt sauce.”

"If you don't sweat while you're eating there, you're doing it wrong." It's a slight point of contention with Sam, who generally considers mustard to be too spicy most of the time, but you ignore the side eye you're getting from Sydney and dig in to your brunch. Having come in early today, this is halfway through your shift and you're going to be excited to head upstairs to your little attic caretaker's apartment when the time comes this afternoon. "Mmmmm," you groan happily and do a little wiggle in your seat unconsciously. "Syd, I swear. If you hadn't already married Juan, I'd marry you for your brunch."

Marcus takes that as the best kind of advertisement and cuts into his own meal to fork up a bite of the eggs. “Christ.” He groans as soon as the flavors hit his mouth. “That’s amazing.”

"I told you," Juan boasts, sitting up in his seat a little taller with pride for his soulmate. "She's amazing."

“You weren’t kidding.” Marcus huffs, taking another bite. “If this got out, you could run on brunch alone.”

"We're considering offering an incentive package for events." Starting to clean up, Syd watches the two of you eat while she wraps the kitchen up from brunch to get everything prepared for dinner service. "Wedding brunches are coming back in fashion, but a lot of people are wanting to do morning after brunches for their families before everyone goes their separate ways."

“I can see that.” Marcus nods. “Lara and I had a lunch thing before we all said goodbye, but that was casual.”

"Your wife?" You guess, struggling to remember if Juan had mentioned that his friend was married. He's not wearing a ring, but some men don't — a habit that generally rubs you the wrong way because those men are always the ones who basically want their wives to walk around wearing a giant 'I'm married' sign but will never show any outward signs of commitment themselves.

Marcus gives a small shrug and smiles self-consciously. “Ex-wife.” He admits, knowing that soon enough the pitying looks will start. “We divorced a while ago.”

Sydney clicks her tongue, having remembered that fact, and says nothing more. You, though? For some reason you can't help yourself. Something about Marcus Pike compels you to offer comfort in whatever way you can. "If you ever find another Mrs. Pike, you let us know. We've got you covered."

Marcus chuckles. “So far, that search has been in vain.” He admits. “Apparently it’s not in the cards for me.”

"She's out there." Juan offers with confidence. "If I remember correctly, you've even got a couple of tattoos to prove it."

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I do.” He snorts. “If I ever find her, I want to know why there is a hummingbird tramp stamp on my lower back.” He laughs. “I get why, but why???? Why a hummingbird?”

A glare of questioning moves soundlessly between you and your best friend — the perpetually meddling woman who sat next to you when you were eighteen and challenged you to answer trivia questions while you had your own hummingbird tramp stamp inked onto your skin in celebration of your high school graduation. "Oh yeah?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at you while you furious try to communicate with nothing more than wide eyes that you do not want her to ask what she's about to ask. "What kind of hummingbird? How trashy are we talking?"

“It’s not exactly trashy.” Marcus defends. “It’s actually a pretty blue and green.“

"Interesting." Sydney hums, practically giggling with glee as she cleans up the kitchen and you bury your face in your meal like it will help you escape the entire conversation. "Maybe hummingbirds are her favourite bird?"

I'm going to kill you in your sleep says the glare you send your best friend's way.

“Totally trashed my punk rock image.” He laughs. “Although I didn’t think of that at the time. Thinking I’m this hardcore next Kurt Cobain rocker and I’ve got a hummingbird tattoo on my lower back.” He snorts, shrugging slightly. “But it’s always been a question I’ve wanted to ask. What made her choose that? What’s special about it to her?”

"Hummingbirds symbolize love and devotion," you murmur next to him, not quite looking up and wondering if the world is really turning on its ear right now or if it's just that you've been thrown off kilter by the possibilities. It's not like you're the only girl in the world with a hummingbird tattoo, after all. Far from it. "And they're supposed to be good luck."

“I like that.” Marcus hums softly. “It’s wistful, hopeful.” There could be a thousand different reasons why his soulmate chose that symbol to etch on her body and in turn, his, but he would rather it be a loving sign. You aren’t looking at him, and miss the small smile he throws you. “Poetic.”

"So she's gotta be out there somewhere." Sydney needles the point a little bit, sounding breezy as hell but just about ready to pounce on any clues Marcus offers up. "Maybe a hopeless romantic with a stubborn streak and an encyclopedic knowledge of Lost Generation authors and impressionist painters?" She shrugs like she's just pulled the example out of thin air. "Who knows?"

Throwing Juan a look, Marcus smirks. “Sounds like your husband has been talking about favorite kind of woman.” He jokes, although he’s pretty sure that he would love it if his soulmate turned out to be just that. “I just want to have someone that wants to be build a lift together. A partner.” He shrugs. “Most people think that it’s crazy, but I think that your significant other should be your best friend and your lover.”

"Absolutely crazy." With as clearly sarcastic a tone as she can possibly muster, Sydney practically deadpans in Marcus's direction. "So weird. How dare you want to spend your life with someone you loves you as much as you love them?" Every single thing she's described has been about you, and while neither of the guys are picking up on that for even a single second, the fact that you have your head down over your plate means you're reading her loud and clear. "I bet your dream girl will even have a thing for your old rockstar days," she goes on, as if she's stringing out a hypothetical and not explicitly describing your opinion that musicians are sexy as hell. "Don't tell me. You were a bassist, right?"

“And vocals.” He admits, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s alright if she doesn’t like that. God, it’s been years since I’ve picked up my bass.” He realizes. “I should do that. Between the bass or the motorcycle, I just spent more time on the bike.”

Bass. Vocals. And motorcycle? You practically groan out loud but barely manage to swallow the sound and instead hop up from your seat immediately to hopefully combine the noise you just made with all manner of other commotion. "Just grabbing another drink," you explain, when all three of their heads turn toward you at once. "You, uh...you should do what makes you happy, Marcus. If that's not overstepping things for me to say. We just met today. But I've always heard that the best things in life tend to fall into your lap when you're not looking for them. So maybe just...enjoy yourself? And who knows what can happen."

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” Marcus admits. “My therapist agrees with you. That we need to enjoy ourselves and not just search.”

"Our therapists agree with each other, then," you admit with a chuckle. "I started seeing someone when Mom decided to run for president. I figured it would be good to have someone to check in with and make sure I was handling my stressors in a healthy way." The conversations you had had with them about whether or not to factor your soulmate into future plans when you had never met them were slightly less straightforward.

“That’s always a good thing.” He nods quickly. “I’ve never been one to think that therapists are a waste of time.” He shrugs. “My mom was a therapist all my childhood.”

"It's an incredibly important profession. And an incredibly important resource to have." Seeing as Marcus's mug was empty as well, you bring back two glasses of water to the counter and sit down again, hoping that Sydney won't keep pushing. Or at least that she won't reveal things if she does. "My little sister is a psychology major. She's thinking about medical school next, and talking about different paths she might taken with her studies. Therapist being one of them."

“It’s a good profession.” Marcus admits easily. “Just- let her know, most therapists have their own therapists they see. It’s draining to take on everyone’s secrets and burdens, trying to do the best you can to give them the tools to help themselves. So tell her that there’s no shame in that.”

"I will." It isn't worth negating the kindness of Marcus's thoughts and advice by telling him that all three of the First Kids started therapy at the start of the campaign. It's the care he has for other people — people he has never met and may never meet ever in his life, that touches you so very deeply. "Thank you, Marcus. That's very kind of you."

He nods and picks up the glass of water, needing to wash down the remnants of the eggs before starting on the pancakes. “So, Juan, how did you and your lovely wife discover you were soulmates?” He asks curiously.

"Uhm..." Juan chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking to Sydney for her permission to tell the story.

"Go ahead," she laughs. "I've go to start dinner prep. Tell him as much as you want."

"It's not exactly PG," he admits, still laughing softly to himself. "The polite version is that we compared tattoos."

Marcus isn’t the head of his department because he’s dimwitted. “One night stand?” He asks, lifting his brows in surprise. It wasn’t like he had never had them himself, but both men had preferred to be in relationships rather than sleep around. Not that he’s judging.

“I was willing to take whatever that goddess was willing to give me,” Juan admits without shame. “One night would have been a memory to cherish. But the universe said it should be a lifetime, instead.”

“I’m happy for you.” Marcus promises with a slap on the back for his old friend. “You deserve it. Glad you found her.”

“You say that now.” His friend smiles happily though, beaming at the commendation. “But now it’s going to be my mission to find you that girl with the hummingbird tattoo.”

Marcus smiles, a little sadly, but he just shrugs. “I’ll find her when I’m supposed to.” He reasons. “Knowing my luck, she’s happily married.”

“Not as happily as she would be with you.” He’s confident in that, and Juan looks to you to bolster his encouragements. “How could anybody not be ecstatic to have a guy this good, right?”

It feels rude. Like a trick from the universe that you do not like one bit. Like the powers that be are rubbing your nose in your defiance of their plans. “They’d have to be blind.” You offer, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Sam is a good guy. He’s been a good boyfriend and has made you happy. Why are you suddenly thinking about someone else after an hour of knowing them? That’s utterly ridiculous. “You…never really know how the universe is going to have things work out.”

She’s just being polite. Marcus realizes that when he sees your smile, his stomach churning unhappily. It doesn’t matter, you’re seeing someone. A woman in a relationship has always been off limits to him. He doesn’t like, nor respect cheaters and yet he’s upset that you don’t seem that attracted to him. Or, you’re reluctantly attracted to him. He stares down at his pancakes and sighs. “All that matters to me if that my soulmate is happy.” He decides.

Juan and Marcus talk about this and that for the next few minutes, but you quickly finish your pancakes and excuse yourself. It was very nice to meet Marcus, and you tell him so, but you’re a little rattled by the possibility that was just laid out in front of you and you need a few deep breaths of fresh air before your break is over and you have to go back to solving guest’s dilemmas.

Juan doesn’t miss the way Marcus’s eyes follow you out of the room and he smirks. “Thinkin’ about it?” He asks, knowing you are the other man’s type.

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “I mean, I would if she were single, but she’s not.” Deciding to change the subject, he leans in. “Did they heighten security here, or just the one agent?”

“Updated cameras and increased security personnel. We turned the spare office into a surveillance room but her Secret Service detail doesn’t butt in on anything they don’t need to.” Juan shrugs, knowing that things always change over time. “So far.”

That’s good and Marcus nods. “Sounds like you might have had some input.” He knows that Juan is very analytical, he would know what the weakness were in a place like this.

Juan snorts, taking a sip of his drink and shrugging vaguely. "My wife's childhood best friend is the First Daughter of the United States. If I can help her be safe, I'm going to."

“I can certainly understand that.” Marcus admits.

"It's a good system." Juan acknowledges. "She always has a detail agent nearby and the place needs the security because we've gotten a hell of a lot busier since the campaign last year."

“I’m sure.” Marcus snorts. “Everyone wants to claim they have some insider pull.” He says, a little cynical, but he looks around. “And I’m sure a lot of it is the fact that this place is a little gem.”

"272-year-old farmhouse with restored gardens and a barn and a gazebo from 1823. The place has had so many owners and been used for so many things." It's clear that Juan has nothing but affection for the place, and that he really has leaned into a fully civilian life. "I'm glad you came out to say hi," he tells Marcus honestly. "Hopefully we'll see more of you around here."

“With food like this?” Marcus groans, throwing his buddy a grin. “Those are the best damn pancakes that I’ve eaten in forever.”

"And considering you're a certified pancake expert, that says something." Juan chuckles. When Marcus hadn't shown up for a few weeks he was afraid that maybe he had said something wrong or that his old friend had moved on from the comradery they used to have, Apparently, neither was the case.

“Still love pancakes. It’s finding the time to eat them, that’s the problem.” He snorts. “It’s getting better now that I run the department, but after I ran into you? I was flying out two days later.”

"Sounds like you earned a day to relax." Sounds like he earned a lot more than just one day, but Juan knows how the Bureau works. A single day can sometimes be a miracle to come by. "There's books and board games in the library if you want to stay and spend some time relaxing."

“What do you have going on?” Marcus asks, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s…board game night.” As silly and domestic as it sounds, it’s a nice tradition that they’ve managed to keep going among friends. “Every month we have a group of friends over and we do a potluck for dinner. Just to unwind and be social. Just catch up, eat some good food, and play board games. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Marcus shakes his head, wondering if he’s so desperate that it sounds like great evening or if it just really was.

“It’s not imposing,” Juan assured him. “We bring new friends all the time. There’s about six of us usually, so it fluctuates depending on how many other people we bring or if someone can’t make it.”

“Well, is there a store or something?” He asks. “I can pick up some wine or something to contribute.”

“Old Town has some good liquor stores.” The historic district of Alexandria has become increasingly popular in the last several years, and the revitalization of the neighborhood has helped the inn as well.

“Anything else you could possibly want?” Marcus asks seriously. He’s willing to go get anything that could be thought of, the prospect of not spending the night alone incredibly cheering.

“Get whatever you want,” Juan encourages. “Every once in a while someone will show up with something they’ve never tried just try to it together. So really — anything you want.”

“Okay.” Marcus grins, excited about this and reaches out to slap Juan on the back. “Do you still ride bikes or have you given that up?”

"Hell no." Juan tuts, glad to see the smile back on Marcus's face. "My Indian is back at our house. We take rides when we've got time off together."

“That’s good. Although the rides have taken a pause since the pregnancy, right?” Marcus asks. “I can’t imagine a doctor signing off on a pregnant woman on the back of a bike.”

“Yeah…these days we take rides in the station wagon.” He chuckles at that, and Juan knows how ridiculously domestic it sounds but he really doesn’t care. He’s in love with his life in a very unexpected way, and that’s okay. “It’ll be nice to have someone to ride with again.”

“I can imagine.” Marcus is missing that, but on the bright side, he rides when and where he wants. “Do you guys know what you’re having yet?” He asks.

“Not yet.” Juan is excited, though, as evidenced by the way he lights up when asked about it. “It’s still too early to find out. Obviously we don’t care, as long as they’re healthy and happy.”

“Congrats, man, you’re living the dream, you know that?” As envious as he can admit to being, he’s also incredibly happy for Juan. “You deserve it. Especially after, you know…”

“Life is totally different now.” Leaving the Bureau is what was best for Juan. He knows that now, even if it was a painful decision to make back then. “I’m not going to ever downplay the things in my past, but the future is looking pretty fucking good, man.”

Completely understanding the fact that Juan doesn’t want to talk, he nods. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”

“I appreciate that, man.” Juan grins and pats Marcus on the shoulder. “Enjoy some time in town and come on back here around seven tonight. Syd isn’t working the dinner rush tonight so we’ll all be able to relax.”

“That sounds good.” The comfortable jeans and a sweater will still look sharp enough for game night and he sends his friend a smile before he walks out of the kitchen.

Things have calmed down in the lobby when you return to the front desk to pick up a few papers and check in on your concierge before retreating into your office for the rest of your shift. The inn may have calmed down but you're still spinning wildly on the idea that your soulmate might have walked through the door of the inn this morning with absolutely no fanfare and a nervous smile on his incredibly handsome face.

Nope. Stop it. Sam is coming for board game night tonight and you really fucking like him. Don't give up your whole stance on freedom of happiness just because some absolutely dishy FBI agent has your tattoo.

"Everything going okay, Malachi?" You will be professional, and not a blithering mass of nervous energy. Even if it takes all the energy you have to force it.

“Everything’s fantastic, we had another couple call to book a room for next weekend. So we officially will have no vacancies.” He reports proudly, like he had recruited the couple himself.

"Good. That's actually excellent. That means we have no vacancies at any point for two week on either side of Valentine's Day unless someone cancels." It's always possible. After all, break up happen around that particular holiday. But with the way they've been booking rooms lately, they should be able to fill a hole more easily than not. "I'm going to go to my office and work on the schedule. If you need me, just call."

“Of course.” Malachi cranes his neck as that handsome guy walks out to a beautiful motorcycle. “But before you go.” He hums. “Who is that?”

You can't help but chuckle, your concierge's obvious interest making you recognize the ridiculousness of the whole situation all over again. "That's Juan's friend," you tell him, gathering up your paperwork. "He'll be around more, and he's allowed into the kitchen. So you know he's special."

“And does Juan’s friend have a name?” He asks, smirking slightly.

"Special Agent Marcus Pike." You smirk right back at him, giving Marcus's title along with his name. By now Agent Bailey has probably done an entire workup on the agent. Why wouldn't she?

“Special Agent.” Because it’s the two of you and there’s no guest around, Malachi watches out the window with unabashed interest. “He can mount me like he mounts that bike any time.”

"Mal!" There's no reason for you to be taken aback by that comment considering how well you know Malachi Debose, but you still find yourself stifling a laugh with wide eyes. You tell yourself to joke, ignoring the twist in your chest at the idea of Marcus with anyone else. It's not up to you. He's his own person. And he might not even be your soulmate to begin with! "I'm pretty sure he's straight, honey, but you never know. It would not be the first guy you've swept out of the closet who didn't even realize they were in there in the first place."

He sighs dramatically, even though he’s smirking proudly. “You’re right.” He admits. “We’ll see how mister Special Agent Marcus Pike acts and then I’ll decide.”

"Behave yourself." Is the playful warning you give him before turning and nodding to Agent Bailey. "Time to sit in the office while I swear at my computer," you tell her. As the Secret Service agent who is with you most of the time, Kendra Bailey has learned your past, your friends, your job, and your habits like a book. She appreciates that you're not throwing yourself into politics because it means her days are a little calmer than they could be, but the coming and going of all sorts of people through the inn on a daily basis presents its own challenges.

She nods, already curious about the FBI agent that she’s encountered here. It’s not unusual to run background checks on people who continuously hang around the inn, and it sounds like he will become a fixture for the foreseeable future. “Of course, Hummingbird.”

You groan softly, realizing that that is going to get said around Marcus Pike at some point or other, and just try to shake it off for now. "You can call me by my name around here, you know." She won't. You've had this conversation more than once, but sometimes you think you'll never get used to being ma'am or Hummingbird at all times to your Secret Service detail.

“Yes ma’am.” She nods, both of you aware that she’s not going to break protocol like that. Instead, she’s turning to the chair that has been placed outside your office, tucked into a discreet corner so it’s not completely obvious that you are being guarded. Giving you the illusion of privacy.

"Someday I'm going to get you to at least come into the office." There are rules. A hell of a lot of them, in fact, and you know that they exist for a reason. But Agent Bailey is allowed to be in your office with you, and you hope it won't take your mother's entire first term in office for her to get comfortable enough with you to do that.

“I understand that, but if I’m in your office, you won’t concentrate.” She reminds you with a small, unseen smile. The first time you had insisted, you hadn’t gotten anything done.

"Too social for my own good, I guess." With a small smile exchanged between the two of you, you nod in agreement before heading down the hall to your office. She's right, and you both know it.

Outside, a snazzy sports car pulls up. Not too flashy, because a junior congressman from Maryland can’t be seen throwing money away frivolously, but sporty enough to make him grin as he changes gears. The door pops open, sunglasses tossed on the dash and Sam hustles out of his car, eager to see you.

"Hey Sam." Malachi looks up from the desk when the door opens and offers up a smile. Professional, but friendly. So far, Congressman Chase hasn't done anything to warrant the cold shoulder. "Is she expecting you?"

“Not until later, but I was hoping to surprise her.” He admits, sending the concierge a wink. “She in her office?”

"Just went in to work on the schedule." Malachi reports, but his smile morphs from professional to earnest in half a second. "The new software is giving her a headache and a half. I bet coming in with a cup of coffee with also be a welcome surprise."

“You are a good man, Malachi.” Sam slaps the antique reception stand and grins. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He lifts his brows and points at him as he changes directions to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee from Sydney.

A knock on the kitchen door is odd but not unheard of, and Sydney glances back over her shoulder when the swinging door pushes open to admit the six-foot Congressman she now affectionately calls, "Sam Sam! As happy as I am to see you, your lady friend is not in the kitchen."

“I know.” Sam tosses the chef an easy grin. “A little birdie told me that she might appreciate a cup of coffee, so I’m here to be her runner.”

Sydney smirks, never ceasing in her work but nodding to the coffee pot in the corner of the kitchen. “Go right ahead. I’m sure she’ll be grateful.”

“Thank you.” He immediately beelines for the coffee maker, intent on also making himself a cup. Though he would prefer a cocktail. “It smells great in here, like always.” He tosses over his shoulder.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She hums happily in return. “I made a lasagna for game night. Are you staying?”

“Unless an emergency session is call.” Sam snorts. “And you know half those crusty old bastards don’t want to work.” He adds some creamer and sweetener to his, doctors yours and turns back. “Is this the lasagna with the pancetta?” He asks, giving her a pleading look.

“It is, and I did a little something different with the ricotta layer this time, so you’ll have to tell me what you think.” One hand shoos him playfully away, but she does laugh. “I’ll feed you later. Go see your lady.”

“Thank you!” He laughs as well, zipping out the door to head in to see you. Hopefully you aren’t working on anything too important that you can’t steal away some time for him.

Two short knocks on your door could be anyone, but you save your progress in working on next week’s schedule and call for them to come in. It’s probably Malachi with a guest accommodation question, which is no problem. You can hit pause on scheduling the housekeeping staff around their various class schedules to answer just about anything.

After getting the okay to enter, Sam juggles the cups and pokes his head in the door. “Can you spare a few minutes, beautiful?” He asks.

The grin that spreads on your face is surprise and relief, and you hop up from your dream to open the door fully. “If that’s coffee in your hands, I can spare more than just a few.”

“Of course it is, fixed just the way you like it.” While he doesn’t drink it nearly as sweet as you do, he also doesn’t make fun of you for it.

“To what do I owe the early visit?” The door clicks shut behind him and you sit back in your chair with a happy sigh.

“We let out early.” Sam explains. “Figured we could spend some time together .”

“I’m always glad to see you.” It’s true. It genuinely is. Which is why you hate the nagging guilt of the fact that you had just been telling yourself to stop speculating about your possible soulmate and focus on work.

“That’s a good thing.” Despite the idea that dating the First Daughter was good for his career, Sam genuinely cares for you. It might not be the passionate love he had imagined years ago, but he’s mature enough to understand that a solid connection was a good thing.

“So your meeting went alright?” The committee that he’s on had an unofficial lunch meeting today, which must have gone well if he’s already here saying hello. “I was afraid they’d have you all day and you’d miss out in lasagna and the new Clue game that Sydney’s sister picked up.”

“No.” Sam snorts. “They wanted it done as quickly as possible.” He tells you. “I’ve got to admit that I’ve never seen people that hate to work more than politicians.”

“Well that’s hardly encouraging,” you snort, and shake your head before taking a sip of hot coffee. “I guess you’ll just have to whip them into shape, Congressman. No two ways about it.”

“I’m trying.” He laughs and shrugs. “Right now I equate it to herding cats.” He jokes, sitting down on the other side of your desk and watching you for a moment while you savor your coffee.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever called a member of the House of Representatives.” The two of you share a laugh, and you shift in your seat a little with an awkward expression before talking again. “I…got an email this morning. From Mom’s office. Informing me of my first few expected photo ops as First Daughter.” It’s a big part of the job, for you at least, to look the part and play the part and help the country to see your mother as not just the president, but a family-oriented professional as well. Being the first female President has its challenges and your mother is plowing into them head on. Which, honestly? You give her a lot of credit for. “They asked if I would be willing to release some social media photos from our Valentine’s date…” The fact that you hadn’t planned one yet is slightly beyond the point. Now you pretty much have to.

“Well, what kind of pictures would you like?” Sam asks easily, aware that you don’t relish the attention, but it’s part of the job. “We can do a dinner at home, appeal to the base of Americans.” He suggests.

“I don’t love the idea of someone recognizing an aspect of your house or neighborhood and you getting doxed for it,” you admit ruefully. It would have to be Sam’s house, since you don’t actually have one. You can’t exactly put out photos of your attic apartment and expect the White House press core not to make noises. “I was thinking we could put the spotlight on a minority-owned small business or go to some low-key arts event? If they’re going to ask me to be in the spotlight then I want to use it for good.”

“Do you want to decide?” He asks, aware that you can be quite choosy at times. He doesn’t really mind. “Or do you want me to come up with something?”

“It’s probably easier if I figure it out.” You admit. It’s not your favorite option, all things considered, but since it’s dumb for you to be even vaguely upset that your boyfriend didn’t announce he had secret plans already in the works — which your stupid romantic comedy loving brain had hoped for but knew was a longshot — it’s better to just be practical. “So the Secret Service can tell me if wherever I pick is insecure or something like that. Even though I can’t imagine that anybody is out to get me. That’s absurd.”

“You’d be surprised what humans are capable of.” Sam reminds you, having read some of the most horrific reports imaginable. He likes that you are practical, even if you are a bit naive.

“Not a super fun thing to hear from your boyfriend, but okay.” It’s nothing you can’t brush off, and you do so with a wave of your hand. “There is also a state dinner coming up in a few weeks that I definitely do not want to go to without you.”

“I’m available.” He promises. “I’ve got a couple of events in my district coming up. But I’ll mark that on my calendar.”

“Thank you.” Though you aren’t blind to the ways that attending these things helps him, you appreciate the company. You aren’t effortlessly charismatic like your brother or a star student with enigmatic insights like your sister. You’re the least comfortable in the public eye out of your whole family, and that is what it is. At some point in the night when he inevitably veers off to shake hands and schmooze politically, you’ll sit quietly at your table and smile politely while you wait for Sam to come back, and that’s okay. “I really really appreciate it.”

Sam huffs, sending you a small smirk. “A night where you are wearing a beautiful dress, we eat an elegant dinner, what’s not to love?” He leaves the part about making connections unspoken, both of you know how this game is worked. “And maybe you can come spend the night at my place after.”

"What an absolutely scandalous suggestion." One hand clutches your nonexistent pearls, pretending to be aghast, but you throw him a wink. Intimacy in your relationship unfortunately does have to be scheduled at a certain point...just on the basis that you have a Secret Service agent you can't simply ditch, and he has a personal assistant that might be even more invasive than the Secret Service. "I love it."

“Good.” Sam smirks back at you and sends you his own wink. “I’ve missed a cute little snore, and I need to get some cuddling in.”

"I do not snore." Despite pouting at him – and knowing that you do, in fact, snore – you end up grinning. "But we have been low on cuddle time lately, I agree."

“Yeah, I know my job is hectic and yours isn’t a walk in the park.” He acknowledges wholeheartedly. “But I want this to work. Maybe we just need to move in together.” He hadn’t meant to just blurt that out, but he’s been thinking about it.

“I—what?” You nearly spit out the sip of coffee you had just taken and sit up arrow straight in your chair, staring at him without the ability to stop yourself. “You—you want me to—to move in with you?” It’s never been discussed. Not really. At least not with a timeline, and that’s probably your fault. You’re so prone to jumping into relationships head first that you had told yourself you would move slow with Sam. That…seems to not be the case now.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” He promises. “Just something to consider. That’s all. We would get more time together.”

"I can honestly say I was not expecting that today." It's shaken you up a little, if you're honest, but you reach over your desk and squeeze his hand before leaning out of your chair to kiss him.

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?” It’s not quite the reaction he was expecting, if he is honest with himself.

"No, not at all!" You're quick to reassure him, realizing that Sam's expression is a little more guarded than usual. You've disappointed him. That's not a feeling you like at all. Not even a little. "I'd say the fact that my boyfriend wants to spend more time with me is a very good thing." If it's such a good thing, why is your mouth dry and why are you all tense with nerves? "And I want that, too. You just surprised me, that's all."

“Of course we need to talk about it more in depth.” He relaxes slightly, happy that you are at least open to the idea.

"Is that...something you want to talk about soon?" There are ideas rolling over in your head with varying levels of comfort, but the fact is that you hadn't realized that Sam was already there. Sure you had said your I love yous already, but you really had been trying to go slower this time, and that pace had seemed to suit Sam just fine. And why is it suddenly now that your mind is stuck on the idea that he isn't your soulmate? Is it just because you met a man who could be? You had always told yourself it didn't matter before now...

“We are coming up on our one-year anniversary of dating.” He reminds you, wondering why all of a sudden you look like you’ve seen a ghost. He’s been patient, letting you move slowly since you were afraid of diving in too much too soon, but this is the natural next step. Otherwise, it will be random sleepovers whenever you can manage it for the rest of your lives and Sam doesn’t want that. “I figured we could discuss what our next steps were.” He smiles softly. “I want the next steps, whenever you’re ready.”

"You're right." He is right. The logic is there, and the sweetness, and you do genuinely like him. In fact, loving him came easily and naturally. It's just that today has you a little shaken up and you don't want to admit it to yourself. Any other day and you would have been ecstatically throwing yourself into his arms. "You're absolutely right. This is definitely next." Composing yourself into a smile and reminding yourself to goddamn relax, you pick up your now cold coffee and finish the cup. "Why don't we pick a night this week to cook dinner together and talk through what we want our future to look like?"

“That works.” He flashes you the boyish grin you claim to love and nods. “Little food. Little wine, little….cuddling while we talk. It’s exactly what we need. You’ve been peddle to the mettle lately, and so have I. It will be good to decompress and hash out our concerns.”

"Perfect." And you will, you tell yourself sternly, get your shit together by then.

“But tonight…” he winks at you. “I’m going to whoop your ass at Clue.”

Because it's your turn to host, your small apartment has been cleaned top to bottom in preparation for the night. Sydney took care of making dinner, you have dessert in the refrigerator, and you have it on the authority of the group chat that garlic bread and salad are both coming as well. Juan said he and Marcus were supplying drinks, so everything is set up with plenty of time for everyone to arrive.

Agent Bailey is sitting on the couch waiting for her evening relief so she can go home to her own family and Sam is setting a stack of mismatched plates on the dining room table when Juan, Marcus, Sydney, and her sister Anna Leigh all show up very promptly on the turn of the hour.

Marcus is a little nervous aware that he has a tenuous tie to the game night, but he is quickly at ease when everyone starts greeting people like old friends. He hadn’t quite known what to get, so he had bought several bottle of whiskey and wine, figuring someone would appreciate it. The bottle of ‘76 Statesman Reserve a personal favorite of his and the little store he had stopped at had one last bottle.

"Hey, we didn't scare Marcus off!" Maybe you're a little happy to see him, but you excuse that as being glad that Juan has his friend back and ardently ignore the way your chest clenches when he walks into your little apartment.

“Hope you don’t mind.” He offers instantly, holding back from flirting like he wants to. You are seeing someone. “But I brought gifts.” He holds up the bottle, the others in his bag.

“Statesman.” You practically groan with delight at the sight of the bottle. “When we were campaigning in Kentucky, my little brother and I toured their distillery, I love this stuff.” Fighting the instinct to offer him a hug — and it really is an instinct — you grin and wander toward the kitchen to complete introductions. “You already know Syd and Juan, of course. The beautiful agent of chaos currently throwing garlic bread in the oven is Syd’s sister Anna Leigh, and the intimidating lady on the sofa with the New York Times crossword in her lap is Agent Bailey. I don’t know if you two officially met earlier or not. Looking around, Sam is not in sight, but you chew your lip for a second and smile. “My other half seems to have disappeared, but I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay.” He shouldn’t be disappointed that your boyfriend is here. That’s what he keeps telling himself. “Congressman from Maryland, right?” Okay, he might have read up on you.

“Right.” There’s a note of something off in Marcus’s voice but you can’t figure out what, so you just smile. “I promise we don’t use official titles over board games.”

“Good.” He cracks a lighthearted grin. “I hate when I’m made in charge of the jail in Monopoly.” He jokes. He hands you the bottle and looks around the little apartment. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I think we’re just waiting for Issy and then everyone will be here. So for now if you want to maybe pour drinks while we all get settled?” This is always an informal setting and you want everyone to feel relaxed as much as possible. “Let me give you the grand tour first?” What a stupid thing to say in your little, tiny space. But now you’ve said it, so you just have to pretend it was something charming to say instead of awkward.

“That sounds good.” Marcus quickly agrees, although it’s obvious that there’s not much to the small space. “The private sanctum.”

“Eat it kitchen.” Is the space you’re standing in, with a too-big dining room table that is also your prep counter because there is basically no counter space — just enough to put a few grocery bags on and nothing more. “I have an unholy love of dinner parties, hence the big table. Over here is the living room. Mandatory bar cart with the tv, and as many throw pillows as the couch can hold.” Agent Bailey currently has her arm resting on the head of a pillow shaped like a horse that you brought back from a campaign trip out West. “Bathroom is down the hall, just here.” The door is closed, so that must be where Sam is. “And just turn the corner and you’re in the bedroom-slash-library.” You have to call it that — you really have to, because the entire room is covered in wall to wall bookcases that are pretty much entirely full. The only exceptions are where your sleigh bed and writing desk sit on opposite ends of the tight room. “It’s more library than anything else.”

“Obviously like to read.” He nods. “What genre? Or is it too embarrassing to mention in company?”

“I’m not embarrassed at all to read romance novels.” A whole section of the shelf by your bed is dedicated to them, in fact. Healthy sexuality and healthy explorations of that sexuality are vital, but you won’t get that far into the topic. “I have a lot of various things here, but the majority are probably mystery, thrillers, and classics from all over the world.” The shelf you’re standing by has your collection of writing by both F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, and you smile. “Of course, some of the classics are romances. That’s to be expected.”

“They are. I find that if you limit yourself in what you read, you are missing out.” He looks over your shelf with interest. “It looks like a wonderful collection.”

“Thank you. A compliment for my books is the highest compliment possible.” There’s a warm smile on your lips when the bathroom door pulls open a few feet away and you feel like you’ve been caught although there isn’t a single thing wrong about showing a new friend around your apartment. There’s no reason to jump out of your skin, but here you are with burning cheeks feeling embarrassed.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Sam doesn’t frown, but he wonders who this man is and why he is in your bedroom.

"Hey." Your smile does widen of its own accord, and you motion between the men in a sort of vaguely formal way that is definitely odd for you. "Sam, this is Marcus. One of Juan's old friends. He came by the inn earlier today and we thought it would be nice to introduce him to the group." It's awful, and very unnecessary, how heavy your tongue feels when you go to make the introduction the opposite way. "Marcus, this is Sam. My boyfriend."

It’s a little awkward, Marcus can admit that but he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam.” He offers, smiling in a friendly, first meeting kind of way. “My connection to the group is through Juan.” He explains. “We were at the academy together.”

"Ah, a government man." That seems to win Sam's approval, though his handshake might be just a hair tighter than it would otherwise be based on the tension in the air. "Well, welc—"

"Babe!" Sydney's voice comes loud and clear from the other room as the door opens and the sound of chaotic friends can be heard. "Issy's here! Let's gooo!"

The introductions are interrupted and it’s probably not a bad thing. Marcus lets go of Sam’s hand and immediately makes for the door. “Guess that’s our queue.”

“Coming!” You call back, eager to be standing anywhere but your doorway between these two men. “Issy is a friend from college.” That’s the easy explanation you give Marcus as Sam steers you back to the kitchen with his hand on your back. “Syd, Anna Leigh, and Issy and I were suite mates at Mount Holyoke.”

Marcus nods, committing everyone to memory. “Nice to meet all of you. Thank you for letting me join you tonight.”

Getting everything set up doesn’t take much longer, and a buffet of cheesy garlic bread, a huge salad, Sydney’s pancetta lasagna, and the lemon tiramisu you made for dessert is all laid out on the counter. Everyone digs in and says a loud chorus of rowdy good nights when your Secret Service detail has its changing of the guard in the middle of it all. It’s a lot, and it’s chaos, but it’s so comforting because these are all people you love to spend time with. Even Marcus, as new as he is, fits right into the group effortlessly.

“Oh! Sydney.” Marcus dives back into the bag and pulls out a bottle of sparkling white grape juice and some sodas and grenadine. “I figured you might like my family’s version of Shirley Temple’s?” He offers. “So you can have a mocktail with the ladies?”

“Absolutely!” Syd’s eyes light up at the offer, and she brings her overstuffed plate over to the table to sit beside her husband. In her favorite baggy sweatshirt, no one could ever tell she’s pregnant, but one of her hands rests on the side of her belly anyway. “That sounds fantastic.”

“So my grandmother used to make these for all the kids, so we could feel special too.” Marcus explains as he grabs a wine glass and starts to mix together the non-alcoholic drink. “It had to be sparkling grape juice because of the bottle shape.” He chuckles now, but back then? He had felt grown up. “When she died, we served these at her wake.”

“That’s so sweet.” Sydney awes softly as Marcus carefully pours out the drink. “These are Birdie’s favorite, actually,” she points her thumb back at you while she chats at him. “We usually spike them with rum, of course. To be a Shirley Temple Black. I can’t remember the last time I just had a regular old Shirley Temple.”

“A dirty Shirley?” Marcus gasps in faux horror. “The best way to spike that is with Statesman.”

“On it!” You hop up from the table immediately to grab a glass and line up next to Sydney at the counter. “I’ve heard of people doing them with rum and vodka, but never with whiskey. I have to know.”

He chuckles and nods. “You won’t regret it. The grape juice plays off the smoky, oaky flavors very nicely.” He tells you. “It’s almost better than a robust bouquet on a red.”

“I can’t claim to know anything about wine, but I’m trying to learn.” Sam prefers wine, and you’ve been trying to not feel foolish when people discuss wine pairings at official dinners. It’s been a fairly deep learning curve. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“More of a whiskey girl?” Marcus asks, filing away the information even though it’s not like he’s going to use it. One of those odd little quirks of his time in the Bureau, he tries to read people.

“Always have been.” As evidenced by the Whiskey Makes Me Frisky sweater still stuff in your closet from college, which won’t see the light of day again until your mother is out of office. “You too?” Your eyes widen immediately and you stumble over correcting yourself. “Guy, I mean? Whiskey guy?”

Marcus laughs and gives you a guilty grin. “I learned to enjoy wine. My ex was a wino to the point where we honeymooned in Napa Valley.” He snorts. “But my first love was a Jack and Coke.”

“The next time you’re sick, have a whiskey and ginger beer.” The advice comes as he hands you your glass but he looks skeptical. “I mean, it’s a good drink no matter what, but I swear it knocks out my colds faster than anything else.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Marcus hums and decides that he will make one for himself. “Tell me what you think.”

One sip has you groaning, and you bring the glass back to the table like you’ve found the Holy Grail. “Sammy, try this. I know you’re not usually big in whiskey, but this is fantastic.”

Sam wrinkles his nose, really uninterested in trying it, but he politely takes a sip. Pleasantly surprised, he makes a face. “Huh. That’s not as horrible as I imagined.”

“And that,” you look back at Marcus and laugh. “Is the highest compliment he’s ever given a whiskey drink.”

Marcus chuckles politely and motions towards the table. “There’s a nice Cabernet that he might like better.” He offers.

“That sounds perfect.” You move back to the counter to collect a wine glass, corkscrew, and the bottle to bring back, knowing that Sam will open it far more neatly than you can.

“So how has everybody been?” Prompting conversation once everyone is at the table gets the ball rolling nicely, and conversation starts as everyone starts to eat their dinner.

“Well, everyone knows that Sydney is expecting.” Juan boasts proudly, obviously loving the prospect of becoming a father. “But she started experiencing her first cravings.”

“Oooo, what are they?” Issy sits up in her chair immediately. “Please tell me it’s something non-gourmet. If this baby is a food snob I’m not going to have anything to tease you about.”

“Right now….” Juan grins and sends his wife an utterly besotted look. “Ranch flavored bugles.”

“Oh my god!” Both Issy and Anna Leigh practically scream with laughter immediately and your jaw hits the table with maniacal giggle.

“I know,” Syd moans in embarrassment. “I know! The baby likes ranch!”

“There must be a joke there somewhere.” Marcus laughs, enjoying the lighthearted atmosphere of the group and how they are all so easy with each other.

"Syd's current greatest fear is having a kid who doesn't care about food." You explain, picking up a forkful of lasagna. "If they turned out to not like food or hockey, she'll be doomed."

“I see.” He chuckles, although he himself had a less refined pallet when he was younger. Now he enjoys trying new things.

"They're exaggerating." Sydney promises, not wanting her husband's old friend to think she's that much of a snob. "Obviously no kid comes out loving caviar and oxtail."

“No, I can see why you would expect your child to give you cravings for something like this.” He praises, lifting a forkful of the lasagna. “I gave my mom cravings for salami and bologna. Which she couldn’t eat.”

"My mom had a lot of cheese cravings." Not expecting baby-oriented conversation was probably an oversight on your part, but it's fun and your best friend just absolutely glows whenever it's brought up. "With me it was gruyere, with my brother it was cheddar, and with my little sister it was asiago." The memory makes you grin, and you laugh a little, mostly to yourself. "She ate so many asiago bagels when she was pregnant with June."

“Ohhhhh I could see how that could be an easy craving.” Issy snorts. “I have cravings for those all the time and I’m not pregnant.”

"Right?" You're nodding in agreement instantly. "I'm honored that my pregnancy craving was gruyere. That's quality cheese."

“Maybe the craving will change to truffle cheddar fries.” Marcus suggests with a grin. “With ranch.”

“See, this is the kind of encouragement we should be thinking about. Positive thinking all the way.” Sydney grins, beaming across the table to her husband’s friend. Even if her hunch about the true nature of Marcus’s soulmate marks isn’t true, he’s still a good addition to the group. “What’s everybody else been up to.”

Everyone starts talking and Marcus leans back. Watching the dynamic of the group and it’s obvious that everyone is comfortable with each other. Talking over one another and laughing, poking fun in a gentle way. It seems as if Juan - and you - have a solid friends group.

The tempo of the night is unchanged from any other — there is as much laughter and fun as any game night you’ve had in years. The joy of having your friends nearby is never tempered, but tonight it is…just a little bit different. As for first time ever — with your boyfriend sitting next to you — you have to wonder if maybe your soulmate is actually sitting there at the table. And what will you do when it isn’t the man with his arm around you?

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid

My Masterlist!

[ozzgin]

I was pondering on what horrors to write for Halloween and when I remembered how many times I’d hoped for Valak content…I ran and whipped out my Grimoire and started typing in delirious inspiration.

Yandere! Valak x Reader

Featuring the Infernal President and a blissfully unaware reader backpacking through Romania. Warning: NSFW, blasphemy, non-consent

[Horror Masterlist]

“Mommy told me something

A little kid should know

It’s all about the Devil

And I’ve learned to hate him so

She said he causes trouble

When you let him in the room

He will never ever leave you

If your heart is filled with gloom”

"Now, you can't really say you've visited Romania until you see at least one monastery! Most Romanians are very religious, so churches and monasteries are popular attractions for tourists and locals alike." The tour guide is awfully enthusiastic for a cloudy Sunday morning. You nod politely and follow the group, although you can already feel yourself become distracted.

You're mostly interested in the old castles and bucolic hiking trails that Transylvania has to offer. Religious places...not so much. Alas, it's part of the experience. You check the flyer containing today's travel plans and google the location mentioned by the guide. Cârța Monastery. Seems to have some ruins included, and you'll be right on time for the Sunday chorus service, huh. Maybe that's why they picked today for a visit. 

You hurry along the cobblestone path until the first traces of a building come into view. Somehow you can't shake the feeling that something is off. You scan over the visible windows, wondering if someone is watching from above. Nothing. Once you lower your gaze again, you notice the tour guide vigorously waving his arm and encouraging you to enter the church with everyone else. You were at the very front of the group, so how long did you stare at walls? You flash an apologetic smile and rush inside. The wooden door closes with a grating creak and you fumble to the first available seat. There's a few coughs and shuffles and eventually the Liturgy begins. Your eyes wander until they find a clear window, so you entertain yourself with the sights outside. It's not like you understand the words of whatever is currently happening, and you're not religious to begin with. 

"How long is this going to take?" you groan internally and switch your focus to your hands, intertwined and resting in your lap. The monotonous chants cause your eyelids to feel heavy and they gradually lower themselves until all you see is black. It's okay, you're not sleeping. It's just a short nap, until...huh...the voices of the singing men diffuse as if distorted by distance and now everything is quiet. 

"Took you long enough." 

You jolt awake. You turn your head to check if whoever is sitting next to you has just spoken, but the room is suddenly empty. You jump from your seat and the thud of your feet hitting the stone floor creates a cavernous echo that sends a shiver down your spine. Ah, could it be that you're dreaming? The candles of the chandelier flicker, as if startled by a breeze, and abruptly go out. 

"I don't like waiting. Especially for mere humans like you."

The same voice as before reverberates through the chamber. It's deep and jarring, sounding almost unnatural. You don't like it. You tilt your head, afraid to find the source of speech but too curious nonetheless. It's a person dressed like a nun. For a brief second you relax your shoulders, assuming it's one of the people living here. But after one step ahead the figure becomes vaguely illuminated, and you can discern the features bearing on this creature's face. Blood drains from your face and you can feel the bile pooling at the back of your throat. A blasphemous deformity, oozing with blight and evil. From within the hollow, dark sockets, two yellow orbs glisten with raw malice. You realize you've held your breath until now as your lungs contract in a pitiful attempt to pump more oxygen. The movement brings back your senses and your flight instincts kick in. You immediately sprint for the door and use your elbow to slam it open, nearly collapsing to the ground. Your eyes squint under the flash of bright light. 

As you pant for air you notice you're back outside. There's people taking photos and talking cheerfully, and inside the church your group seems to have gathered before the iconostasis, listening attentively to a hearty discourse from your guide. The liturgy ended. What on Earth did you just witness? Before you can ponder the event, you feel a tug at your sleeve. It's an old lady, short and comically hunched. She's dressed all in black, with a head covering that hides most of her face, though you can still see the deep wrinkles that cross her features. 

"Oh? Sorry, I don't speak-"

"L-am văzut și eu. Diavolul, maică. Aici nu mai e demult casa Domnului. Pleacă cât mai poți, am să mă rog pentru tine." 

Her voice is shaky and she seems in distress. She strokes your arm once before limping away hastily. You blink and spend a moment trying to collect your thoughts. There's no one else nearby to ask for a translation, so you can only hope she finds help somewhere else. You return to the group and hope you won't have to deal with any other adventures. 

"This is the annex. You can still see some details in the arches." Your guide points around the pillars and mossy brick patches. You take out your phone for some photos and your arms tremble slightly. 

"It's suddenly very cold here, don't you think so?" you remark to your neighbor. 

"Really? I'm quite literally sweating right now" they respond, baffled.

"It's a shaded area, that's probably why."

"Or you're just that excited to see me again."

Your eyes widen. It's the voice. You blink, and you find yourself in the empty church once more. No, no, no, this isn't happening. No. You're dreaming. This is an absurdity. Some hallucination of sorts. You try the door handle, except this time it's locked. 

"It's not often I become interested in a mortal. In fact, this is the only time."

The nun is sitting on a bench, hands together in a praying motion. There's a mocking grin on its face. 

"Maddening, truly. Deplorable, disgraceful, outrageous. Humiliation would await me if they suspected my intentions with a perishable being like you."

"Who the hell are you?" you interrupt the erratic monologue. The nun stands up and locks eyes with you, instantly making you nauseous. 

"The Sixty-second Spirit, President Mighty and Great. His Office is to give True Answers of Hidden Treasures, and to tell where Serpents may be seen. The which he will bring unto the Exorciser without any Force or Strength being by him employed. He governeth 38 Legions of Spirits."

"What?"

"Valac." the creature extends a hand, as if expecting a handshake. "At least that's how they introduce me in the Lesser Key of Solomon." The fingers spread out and you feel a gravitational force pull you closer. It chuckles.

The cold fingers sink into your back and feel like claws digging your flesh. You let out a scream of protest and try to push away without success. It hurts. The touch burns your skin and spreads out like a wicked plague. What would this fiend even want from you? You search your mind for potential meanings and explanations. Truth be told, however, you're not well-versed in theological fantasies. 

"You can't just possess someone's body. I won't accept it. You don't have my permission."

The creature erupts in hysterical laughter and you feel your knees weaken at the sharp, grotesque teeth that creep their way out. Everything about it is vile, scandalous. Unholy.

"If you want to call it like that...Then sure. But for this kind of possession I don't need your input, I'm afraid."

Your limp body is picked up and sloppily thrown over the altar table. The impact of the hard surface against your stomach causes you to gasp. You try to turn your head and look behind, but the large, clawed hand locks around your neck and keeps you in place. You can only glance ahead. You can sense your garments being ripped apart with one swift move and shudder at the unexpected contact with the cold air on your bare body. The creature's other hand slides over your forms before stopping on your bottom, adjusting it. The realization sinks in and you begin to panic. Is this the time to say a prayer? You don't know any. 

"Our Father..." you mumble, trying to remember the continuation. 

"Go on. I'm sure He'd love to hear from you while you're being fucked on His altar. Send Him my regards."

He forces your hips upwards, exposing your intimacy. Without any further delay he thrusts his member in, painfully stretching your entrance around it. Tears well up in your eyes at the sudden discomfort. The iconostasis in front of you blurs and sways with each violent plunge into your frail body. 

"Oh, God" you sob.

"God ends here."

[youhaveraybies]

Heaven knows i’m miserable now 🍂

@sarcastic-cookie wanted to be tagged so!!

More jeremy appearances..

Tw ; death discussed..murder discussed… murder..suicide mentioned..Manipulation?

The cold air hits you almost instantly, almost as instantly as the thoughts of murdering your mom and step dad swarm your head. Causing you to shakily take a breath and slide up , back against the pillows as you move to sit up, watching as the outside fog pools into your room..your window was wide open…you could have sworn you’d shut it.. You shake it off, maybe your mom opened it before she left to go shopping or maybe Alan had before going about his moving duties…? It didn’t matter..what mattered now as the fact you were alone…home alone with these new..horrible, disgusting and….somewhat interesting thoughts .

You could murder your mom and step dad…you could get away with it..it wouldn’t be hard to cover up either..no one knew you here , they didn’t know your family ; no neighbours had introduced themselves, your mother kept to herself when shopping..even back home so it’s not like she’d be making any friends here…and Alan hadn’t started work yet..he was just setting up the garage…a quiet place…sound proof too.. That’s how the kid before had murdered his father…luring him into the garage and asking him to help him with some wood work project before turning the electric saw on and ramming it into-

You snap out it , gulping as the thoughts spin around your head, causing the colour to drain from your face and..well..your entire body to shake..? not with fear but with interest..? you could actually get away with murder.

“You look awful today…did you sleep well.?” A voice whispers to you..but you’re too in your little murder trance to even notice that the voice doesn’t belong to your mom or Alan.

“y-yeah..i slept fine…” You mumble back , eyes stuck as you zone back into the world. Snapping back up and towards the voice…you gasp out , eyes stuck on the pale, thin, ghost like boy. Watching as he laughs and moves closer , putting his hands up dismissingly

“not gonna hurt you..” He hums out , smirking as he chuckles , “just wanted to check on you…see how you’re settling in..to..my room.” He stares , eyes stuck on you the same way a wild dog stares down at a helpless little rabbit.

“i…uh..-“

“what do i want? is that your pretty little mind is wondering ? hm?..” He laughs , moving to kick a box out of his way , it flies against the nearest wall causing him to flex his wrists before he jumps to sit on the bed…perching on the edge as he smirks at you again, laughing, “oh well…you know..kinda want you out…it’s not like i’ve been so obvious with it..!” He sarcastically states, you move to slide away.

His hand shoots up, forcing your body back down, “not so fast…i was just about to convince you to kill your stepdad..don’t ruin this for me, pretty…” He laughs , evil shining deep into his pretty brown eyes . His hand drops from its ghost trance , he moves closer .

You open your mouth to speak only for him to roll his eyes , his expression no longer happy or even cocky…he was bored, almost tense by how you raced to speak and leave .

You stare at him , “convince me?” You scoff , glaring at him, disgust and..well shock playing on your face since..this was the psycho who’d murdered his parents in the house…who was now a ghost? who was now…sitting so politely onto your bed..

“yeah..? come on..it’d be fun…” He laughs out , “just do what i did…get him alone -“

“alone in the garage…show him my wood work project i need help with and..”

“drive the electric saw right into his skull…and don’t stop until he’s limp and bleeding out..” He finishes your interruption , laughing loudly as he rolls onto the bed , evil radiating from him as he continues to laugh at his father’s demise and his own actions . He sits back up once he realises you’re not the slightest impressed or even…laughing with him. You were scared, you had every right to be…he was trying to convince you to murder your step dad.

You stare at him, quickly moving away from the bed, moving like some sort of prey..worried he’ll attack you or even stop you with his powers. He sits up, watching as you scramble off the bed and over to the window , clearly panting as you try convince yourself you were still hallucinating.

He rolls his eyes , moving over to his old records and record player , bored of your behaviour and now trying to play a song…one of his comfort songs..maybe one he played before he butchered his parents . He looks back over at you before sliding open the record player , placing the vinyl inside before playing it . Putting the sleeve back on the table , slinking next to you as he scoffs at you.

The music hits your eyes..you’d heard the song before The smiths ; Back to the old house . It’s distracting..it’s only on a low volume but it’s loud enough to overwhelm you in this situation. Your eyes snap downwards, over to Alan who’s not messing around in the yard with power tools, obviously aiming to cut down the treehouse himself.

“he’s gonna kill himself….” Jeremy laughs, his hand ghosting over your shoulder before he pulls at your hair , not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to pull your head towards him, your hand shoot’s up to dismiss him only causing him to laugh at you as he now messes with the strand .

“Get off..!” You mumble at him

“i will…if you kill him.”

“i’m not gonna kill him.”

“you should.”

“why?”

“so you leave my house ? let me go about my ghost business and…actually..” He smirks , pulling you along with him as he grabs a book ; the handbook for the recently deceased…

He flicks through it , pulling your hair so you can read it with him, he smirks before pointing to a page , “murder him…sacrifice him so i can swap with him…i can come back to life..and..we…pretty girl…can murder your mom together..!”

“i am not killing my step dad and i am not…helping you come back to life so you can go on another murder spree..!!” You gasp at him, which causes him to groan out of anger , throwing the book down on your bed before grabbing a fist full of your hair and pushing you back towards the window .

“you don’t even like him…!” He scoffs before his eyes return to Alan..alan who’s now..messing around with an axe ..

Alan who’s now…too weak to handle the axe..Alan who’s now fallen over , the axe stuck in the tree before it drops from a branch, falling before it hits his flesh…a wet squelch cutting through the air , bones crunching as the axe finds its way comfortably sunk into his neck, slicing it as his head rolls and hits the path below. Causing you to scream out , shaking your head as you quickly rush to grab your phone .

Jeremy laughs , “wow…guess we don’t even need to kill him-“

You’re quick to call the cops…screaming about Alan killing himself .

——————-

You return home after the local cops had interrogated you. Slowly slumping into the house , your weeping mother behind you. Her cries echoing through the house , tainting each room and..well filling the house with an incurable sadness. You look over to her, now hunched over the kitchen counter , stood right next to the..- no no this wasn’t about the ghosts you could see..this was about your mom. Her hands gripping the wine glass as she messily pours the wine bottle into the glass. You sigh out before pushing up stairs .

Blinking a couple of times, your eyes stung from all the lights and well…the image of Alan’s dead body . You sigh out before a familiar chuckle fills the small room

“there she is…!!!!” Before you can even speak, an arm snakes around your waist , lips ghosting against your ear , “hi..” He whispers against you, you don’t push him off. You don’t even speak, too traumatised to move . Almost slumping into him as he pushes you onto the bed, his free hand running through your hair

“look at you..huh…”He whispers against your ear, nuzzling into you as he practically cuddles you, “i’ll leave you alone if you sacrifice someone for me..!” He almost sings into your ear, chuckling but stopping once you don’t even respond .

He rolls his eyes, “you didn’t even like him.”

That snaps you out of it, your eyes dart back towards him as you try move away, almost crying .

“sh sh sh…pretty baby..poor baby..hm..” He whispers, cradling you as he cuddles more into you, “aw..poor baby can’t handle a little death…the death of a dickhead she didn’t even like..god you’re pathetic..” He laughs again before rolling his eyes , “fine fine..maybe you should just kill yourself if you’re gonna be so pathetic , huh? join me that way..?” Your eyes scan him for a moment before you push him off, watching as he scrambles up. He quickly disappears, leaving you to cry and sink lower into the bed as you hide under the covers; Jeremy’s words echoing through your mind once again .

[stareiiez]

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 --- three.

simon ( ghost ) riley x female reader.

content : dark?? ghost. fingering. orgasming. voyeurism. modern settings. mentions of stalking. obsession. drinking. sex. female genitals. unhealthy attachments. violence. blood. implied death. blood. smut in later chapters. dark topics. this is just my version of haunting adeline but for ghost. adult cis female reader. MDNI. 3.9k words.

note: FINALLY we get to the beginning of the juicy bits. Rip Graves. I never liked him anyways :o. reblogs and notes are always loved and appreciated!

The number of times you were right, was very slim to none. You were right about hot tea being nothing but assaulting to your tastebuds the few times you tried to give the drink a chance. You were right about how stupid politics, and the government were just how they chanted about making your country amazing and equal again. You were right about how hot cocoa and hot chocolate were two different drinks. One was hot milk and cocoa powder, while the latter involved actual chocolate being involved in the process of making the delicious beverage. You were lastly right about seeing Graves again. Manifestation and crossing your fingers had nothing on your ability to predict that you'd manage to get the man into your home and sitting across from you.

A cooling mug of bitter coffee sat in the curve of his palm while he laughed over the details again about the night he first saw you at the club. Thanks to the help of a flirty intoxicated Izzy, she left yours as well as her and Veronica's numbers written on a liquor-damp piece of receipt paper for Graves' boys to fight over who could have whom for late-night hookups if they so wanted. Graves had called you during your lunch break at work, somehow he had known in the universe that you were thinking about him to take the time to call. You never answered unknown numbers, but this time you had. Your cheeks flushed when you heard his drawl over the phone's speaker. His tone sends your heart to flutter in its trapped cage of your ribs. Your coworkers must have thought you were weird for smiling and giggling like a schoolgirl who was talking to their quarterback crush over the phone for the first time.

You two had chatted about the hour break you had during lunch. Your three-day-old takeout leftovers were left untouched in favor of flirting with the man and trying to work out a day and time to have him come over for a cup of coffee as an excuse to catch up on the missing details of the rest of the night. The sound of idle laughter filled your home's warm living room/kitchen area. You covered your giggles with your coffee mug while Graves went into detail about how he found his friends' clothes missing after Izzy and Veronica had convinced them to skinny dip in the pool of the Air B&B the boys were staying in for however long. Their clothes were hidden among the crooks and crannies of the house while the boys played drunk Marco Polo in the pool temp water.

Veronica and Izzy had soon left them after that, miraculously striding out of the home just as Graves had been dropped off by his Uber. He graciously bought them both a ride home, none the wiser to the panicked voices of his friends outside in their rented pool. "I've never seen anything quite as pale as the White Sands in New Mexico than Ox's bare ass streaking through the place trying to find his clothes. " Graves laughed over your small giggles the image had brought both of you.

Comfortable silence lingered between you two as you both sipped from differing tastes of coffee. His eyes never left you, nor did they hide the way they watched your throat move as you swallowed a mouth full of overly sweet coffee and cream.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I never asked my guest." Graves' eyebrows rose when you set your mug down, a change in your expression caught his attention. You were now standing. Coffee mug drained to bitter grounds and sugar granules. The stain of your lipstick imprinting on deep green ceramic. "If he wanted a tour of my home, you've been here for an hour but your story was so funny I didn't want to interrupt. "

Pretty blues swept over your small place. A lofted house isn't much to get lost in, but there was more to just a chic-looking home in the middle of nowhere. What's he got to lose? A pretty woman taking him on adventures that would give him excuses to have his hands on you so you don't stray away. Count him in. "Alright, darlin'. " The harsh push of his velvet-lined barstool squeaked against the floorboards when he stood to rise as well. An arm extended in such a gentleman-like way, offering it out to you. As if he wasn't charming enough for someone you've known for a night and one day.

His muscles were strong against your smooth skin when you wrapped your arm around him. Ignoring the flush threatening to surface on your cheeks from the smell of his cologne teasing your nose, you guided him to the backdoors of your home. French doors opened to greet you with the interior of your large greenhouse. Your aunt sure had a green thumb in her youth, and nothing was more convenient than having nature practically share doors with her. In honor and overwhelming gratitude you had for her giving this house to you, you decided to take up the art of gardening and plant caring. You weren't the best at it. Then again you just moved in and you only started with little seedlings of seasonal flowers and already potted house plants. Veggies and fruits were another challenge you'll learn after you can manage to not overwater or uproot your aloe vera plants for the third time in a month.

Outdoor paper lanterns cascaded in swoops over both of your heads. It cast a warm, soothing glow that contrasted your evening's dark, rainy gloom. Rain splashed down on the thick glass of the greenhouse; only achieving a cozier feel to your little slice of nurtured nature. Plush loveseats of dark and white colors decorated the corners of the space and openly invited you two to sit down and chat more with one another. Thankfully, Graves had better ideas and had plopped himself down into the dark green loveseat. He practically sunk into rich velvet, as he dragged you by the arm you linked with his, downwards. You didn't have the chance to protest or even outright gasp when your back collided with the strong contours of his chest.

"It's lovely. " Graves' hummed into the curve of your ear. His blue eyes fell from the stoic gold lanterns above you, to now the curve of your neck. He couldn't help the temptation of leaning in to place his lips against sweet-smelling skin. "But. I have something lovelier." His voice husks out, words muffling into whispers against the back of your neck.

Ample kisses, slow and steady cause rows of pinks and reds to bloom along the thin skin. His large hands settle on their rightful place on your hips. Just like those nights ago, they decide to squeeze and paint beautiful bruises under the fabric of your short skirt. He's a multi-tasking pro for letting his mouth ravage the curves and bends of your neck with his hot tongue and lips; while his hands decide to paw and knead the more tender flesh of your inner thighs. His large palms cover your thighs so nicely enough, that they ward away the chill of the falling rain outside solid glass windows.

Your head falls back onto the curve of his right shoulder. The angle is a little uncomfortable and hard to get used to, but it's so worth it when he licks a wet stripe down the slope of your exposed throat. Your breath hitches. Cheeks flush a cherry red when you feel his lips curve against your wet skin from your reaction. Sure, thinking about picking up where you last left off wasn't in your mind when you decided to invite him over. You couldn't even begin to predict how a simple chat over coffee, would lead to those rough hands pushing your skirt up enough to let the smooth planes of your panty-covered mound. Both the forest's and Graves' hungry eyes soaked in the black satin underwear you wore. Thank god for doing laundry before he came over, or else he would have seen the crustiest pieces of fabric that were held together with two pieces of thread and a wish. The storm outside had taken the chance to have thunder drown out the deep bellow of a groan from Graves' throat at the sight. All for him. Only for him in this moment, and by God was he glad he didn't decide to go fuck some other chick than follow through with your plans today. He was so lucky.

So lucky in fact that his luck happened to attract another lucky individual to this show you and him were putting on together. You really should consider where you were and who could be potentially watching you getting your panties ripped off of your thighs and tossed in some random direction.

The fold of Simon's hood shrouded his face in black shadows, but it didn't obscure the sight of those thighs parting at the large palm that encompassed your clothed cunt. Hidden lips curved into an amused smirk when he watched you start to hump the stranger's hand. His fingers tingled at how your pretty spine curved upwards, lips parted in silent moans that he would burn down cities just to hear on repeat. Such a pretty thing you are, letting yourself be touched in ways that only looked like soft-core porn compared to what images were running through his fucked mind right now.

The grass squished under his boots, imprints of his soles pressing the greenery into perfect evidence that he was watching. It wasn't hard to find you if you were to find these footsteps later when you're doing your yoga outside in the afternoons on sunnier days. It's not hard to run through every single female owner of your type of branded red car. He found the name and credit card information that you used to buy your vehicle too pleasantly quickly. Child's play as Alejandro liked to say with bright white teeth and brown eyes winking in mischief. He knew your age, your blood type, your eye color, home address, date of birth, fuck even what size of bras you like to wear. It's especially easier to have someone hack streetlight cameras, and every building that owns security cameras, to watch your car drive through empty city streets to get home. Fewer cameras, and less technology surrounding your dusty roads home. He's a man with connections, thank the stars for the 141 and Alejandro's buddies. He'd kiss the man on the mouth with ruddy tongue and all if it meant getting to watch you get off for his eyes every single night.

The humidity in your greenhouse seemed to kick up a notch when your cunt made the filthiest noises against the grooves of Graves' palm. Your breaths were storm clouds of lust and babble of pleas that rained down over your heads. Your moans were thunderous claps of straight energy that made your ears ring and muscles string taut with arousal that pooled warmly in your stomach. Graves' touch was the strike of lightning hitting dry trees in your barren forest. His fingers were electricity that curled through sopping folds to press against your G-spot and alight you with hot flames that crackled and popped under your skin. It was everything that led to a disastrous wildfire that overtook your body and made your legs snap wider when you burned hotter and hotter in his hands. Your body danced and wriggled under his strong grip. Graves was the idiotic man that made this wildfire of yours worse, he was the one to pour gasoline on your inferno when his thumb rubbed hurried circles to your clit and watch you fall apart in crackling embers of charred wood and soot when your body couldn't handle its heat any longer.

The evidence of Graves' arousal rubbed against the swell of your bare ass. Rough denim chaffing silky skin a blushed pink. He wasn't giving you much of a break to let your thoughts become coherent. The sight of his slick-covered index and middle finger scooping up your sweet essence and shoving them in his mouth only encouraged the aching thrum in your belly to begin all over again. You could taste yourself on his tongue when greedy hands wrapped around the back of his neck, and you forced his head to bend down to sloppily kiss you over your shoulder. Tongues swapped spit and remaining salty tangy slick that stained Graves' tastebuds happily. It wasn't even qualified as what your kisses were at this point. It was heavy petting of flicking tongues and hungry moans into the hot caverns of your mouths'.

Between the heavy petting and Graves' shameless rutting against your ass. One of your hands crept behind and between your writhing bodies to fumble blindly with his zipper. His moving hips aided in his zipper pulling down. The release of pressure made Graves groan out in relief, his head falling back with a sigh; allowing your spit-covered lips to press wet kisses along the column of his throat as best as you could at this angle.

Just as your hips had lifted to allow yourself to finally spin around and pull Graves' jeans off his legs; a loud bang echoed over your lustful activities and the thunderstorm outside. It sounded like someone or something had made an impact with the curved glass of your greenhouse. Whatever it was, it was heavy and had enough force to send both of your gazes to the direction of where the noise came from. Graves stood up from his loveseat, eyes still shiny with desire. Jeans threatening to fall around his ankles comically. "Probably a stupid deer. Things run into your damn headlights if you drive fast enough." His voice drawled out to the back of your head. Too nonchalant compared to you. You would jump at any loud noise or shadow if it was too scary-looking.

Blame it on the realistic horror movies that get put out nowadays for your fear and paranoia. "You sure? It doesn't sound like it was a deer. We'd hear it scream or cry in pain." Your head whipped around to look up at him. Shoulders taut once more like they had been when you were alone in your car and found that flower in your passenger seat.

A snort left the man. A shit-eating grin threatening to overtake kiss bruised lips. He found this hilarious. Much to your annoyance, he was going to patronize you like you were some kid afraid that there were monsters in your closet and under your bed. You could tell the next words he'd utter would turn your mood sour in an instant.

"Awh, lil darlin' afraid of a big bad buck?" You were right. "You want me to check it out, sweetheart?" Yes. No. Yes. Maybe? You've got to be overreacting, right?

Your round eyes and shallow breathing were much of an answer to him than if your pretty mouth had opened and half begged half whispered for him to go see if some brain-dead animal had rammed its thick cranium into your glass window and killed itself willingly. A shake of his head and a small breathy chuckle left his lungs. He fixed his pants with an amused sigh. "Suit yourself, darlin'. Wait right here. Won't be long."

His steps thudded out of your greenhouse, and back into your home. You could hear your front door opening and closing. You could hear the muffled stamping of his boots walking down the couple steps of your front porch. It was so quiet if you had the will and ability to, you could hear the crunch of dirt and gravel crunching under Graves' soles. Instead, you were deafened by the trickling of rain and the occasional clap of soft thunder that rumbled in the distance. You stood there, waiting and listening. Two minutes went by. Then another minute passed. Then another; and another; and another. Five minutes, you stood there. Skirtless, with your slick cool in your goosebump-flecked skin. Graves wouldn't take that long to walk around your property, right? He's not an idiot to go wandering into your forest at night and lose himself in the thick canopy of branches and pine needles. He was just going to go around the side of your home and check out the perimeter of your greenhouse. It doesn't take five minutes to do that. You would know, you've done that a couple of times in the past to embrace the outdoors on your yoga mat.

Hastily you bent over to collect your discarded panties and skirt. Heart skipping a beat here and there while you got dressed. The uncomfortable stick of your panties to your lower lips made you shiver in more than just fear for your sanity. You were becoming too aware of how alone you were and how long Graves had been gone. You swallowed, fists clenching at your sides. Damp palms being creased in half-moons from your fingernails while you turned your head to gaze outside to the dreary moonlight night. Your mouth opened, nerves steeling for your voice to call out to Graves.

What didn't come out of your parted lips wasn't Graves' name in a questioning manner, however; but a scream that was ripped from your shaking lungs when lightning ripped seams through the sky and illuminated the very large handprint spotted with watery crimson that stained your glass wall temporarily. The quick flash of bright light had you screaming for something far different than what you wanted to be screaming for that night. Awash tiny rivers of red and the imprint of a stranger's bare hand had been more than a sign to ditch waiting around for Graves to show up. Your heart had leaped into your constricted throat as you bolted into your living room. The door separating your home and the greenhouse was slammed behind your body. It was hard enough to rattle the frame and the wall of your house.

Sweaty fingers fumbled blindly in the dark of your home to turn the lock on the door. Your breaths were harsh and coming out faster and faster. In some fucked sense, you wanted to scream out in the open that you were right once again. You were always right. You were scared out of your god damned mind, on the verge of having a panic attack but you were right. Graves was out there. Maybe that was his handprint on your glass and some animal had decided to hurt him for making fun of it. Maybe it wasn't an animal.

Your mind screamed logic and facts. It couldn't have been an animal. Animals that were killed were noisy to some degree. They would snarl or cry out before attacking their prey. It would have made Graves scream in pain if he got bit or ripped apart in the jaws of some bobcat or wolf if they even have those where you live. If the forest surrounding your home was even home to such dangerous creatures that stalked around your home every night. It had to be something human. Someone was out there. A homeless man crazed on drugs and was able to hurt some innocent person for the money in their wallet just to score a new high. Maybe a serial killer who got off on killing vulnerable people who were out in the dredges between night and evening; just waiting to bury their blade into their victim's throat and hack away till they were lifeless and bloody on the ground.

You spun around on your heel, pressing your spine against the sturdy wood of the door. Something to help you ground your senses and coax the terrified screams that were clogged in your esophagus. The back of your head thunked back, your eyes squeezed shut. Just breathe. You can focus on trying to breathe even if there was some knife-wielding maniac perusing around your estate just waiting for you to be dumb enough to go after Graves in hopes of finding him. You weren't stupid, sure a little dumb at times, but not stupid enough to die like every annoying side character in a slasher movie.

Inhale. Exhale. Tick tick tick goes the clock hanging above your head.

Inhale. Exhale. Ba-dump Ba-dump Ba-dump goes your heartbeat that slows microscopically. Good, progress.

Inhale. Exhale. Open your eyes and look around to find the cellphone you left on the counter next to your coffee cup so the cops can come and save you.

Inhale. Exhale. Feel your entire face go white and mouth open in silent screams when you find a lone red peony placed right on top of your phone screen. Your stomach twisted in knots over and over again till everything in your gut curdled. Next thing you knew, you were vomiting in your kitchen sink from adrenaline and fear. A slurry of coffee and lunch and breakfast painted the sterling silver tub.

This isn't happening. There's no way that this could be happening to you. Some sick freak that not only broke into your car but now your house and could have hurt Graves just to leave behind flowers for you isn't possible. Yet the chill of the now-becoming night air only confirms your delusions into a sick reality. Your head turns over your shoulder, not bothering to rinse your mouth out. The whites of your eyes threaten to pop out of your skull when you see the front door is wide open. Blooming constellations and the expanse of your dirt road greet your bulging eyes. Again, does your heart race ever faster, the color and feeling in your entire body threatening to drain at a rapid state that leaves you uncoordinated.

With legs equivalent to jelly, you cross the expanse of your small home. Eyes trained on the young night sky that taunts you with its ever-calm presence. Even if your world is starting to crumble and fall into ruin, the sky and gentle breeze in the air remain ever the same as always. You told yourself you wouldn't be the dumb blonde that wanders out and gets killed by the crazy slasher in movies, but yet you find yourself standing in the open doorway. Your eyes can't focus on staring in one place for long. Always flicking in every direction at the smallest of noises that nature makes. Your ears strain for the crunch of footsteps that are somewhat human. Your fluctuating pupils fought to try and find the silhouette of a man out in the growing shadows between the thick bark of the trees. Still, you could find nothing of the sort, no crazy killer. No dead body of Graves strung up in a taunting manner there to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

However, what you did find when your head had tilted down just enough, was a crudely carved ' S ' in the painted black steps of your front porch. The ragged edges and points of the single letter tarnished your quickly dissolving sanity, your home, and your plans for the rest of the night. The single letter stared up at you for just a second later. That was until you turned tail and retreated into your home, the front door slamming shut behind you, so you could finally call the cops.

[pablitogavii]

Vacation Mornings

Summary: What does it look like when you get to spend mornings together when pablo is on vacation <33

Pairing: Pablo Gavi x Reader

Warnings: none just pure fluff <33

You woke up first so you turned around in Pablo's arms smiling at his peaceful sleepy face knowing just how much he needs sleep after the draining season he had.

When you look at him, he was only your Pablo, an 18 years old sleeping baby, but then you remember all of his achievements and how he has to spend most of his year being the professional player.

When he finally had a break, you wanted him to rest up and recover as much as possible so you decided to let him sleep in for as long as he wants to in the next month.

Your hand touch his face gently careful not to wake him up as you slowly start leaving kisses to his cheeks, then his neck and chest getting a little too much into it. You heard his giggles looking up feeling guilty for actually waking him up but he didn't seem to mind.

"Mmm I love vacation mornings..." he said and you blush moving up and kissing his lips lovingly as he pulled you on top of hi deepening the kiss and holding you tightly in his arms.

"I'm sorry I woke you up cariño.." you say but he shook his head kissing your lips again while his hands went through your curls down your back slowly.

"I could never complain being woken up by your kisses anjo..if only I can always wake up like this" he said sighing and you smiled touching his face and pecking his lips.

"Then I am going to wake you up like this every morning during this vacation.." you said and he smiled nodding his head before you kissed some more.

"Y/n! Should I wear this dress?" Aurora just rushed into the bedroom and Pablo jumped putting the blanket over you on top of him instinctively although you weren't even naked.

"Don't you know how to knock!?" Pablo said and you giggled when Aurora flipped him off and walked to show you the pictures of the dress she was talking about. It looked very nice on her and you said she should wear it.

"Oh and I knew you weren't naked since for the first time there was no noises and I could sleep!" Aurora said before rushing to the door as Pablo threw a small pillow at her.

"I love staying at home for vacation with you but maybe we start locking that door preciosa.." he said and you giggled nodding your head kissing him again.

"This is where we left off, isn't it cariño??" you said and he smiled kissing you again this time with a bit more strength and you moaned quietly.

"Mhmm..morning besitos..I'm going to get hooked on them" he said and you smiled into the kiss nodding your head before laying down on his chest and just cuddling up some more until it's the time to start your day.

When you walked downstairs finally meeting his family already done with the breakfast, you walked up to Belen who giggled at her sleepy son who saw searching for a cup to make himself coffee.

"So grumpy in the morning..like his papa" Belen said and you chuckled walking up to Pablo taking the cup and telling him you'll take it and he should go eat something.

"Te amo princesa..graciass" he said like a whiny child and you giggle nodding your head as he pecked your lips and sit down with his dad to eat some breakfast. You asked Sr. Gavi if he wanted coffee but he politely declined saying he already had his earlier.

"Made you and me some oats, hermanita" Aurora gave me the bowl and I sent her a kiss before finishing Pablo's coffee while munching on it and then bringing it to him kissing the side of his head.

He took it smiling and pulling me to sit on his leg which I obliged as we talked to his dad while finishing our breakfast. He kissed my shoulder softly before sipping on his coffee and finishing his breakfast.

"You kids want to have a pool day today??" Belen said and Aurora nodded at the same time as me while Pablo whined but seeing how excited I was about her he also agreed.

"You're lucky yo te amo muchisimo princesa!" he said and you giggled nodding your head and kissing his lips before you both went upstairs to change into some swimsuits and have another amaizng day on vacation together <33

I know it's short but I really like this idea of Pablo being grumpy in the morning hehe <33

[macaroonff]

This Autumn, - Shin Ryujin

Genre: Roommates x lovers, College +Domestic Au, Autumn feels Pairing: Shin Ryujin x fem! Reader ↪Content warnings: Mentions of a dysfunctional families, slight angst, mentions of homophobia, mention of insecurities Word Count: 7k+ words Suggested Songs: We found Love in October- Girl In Red I wanna be your girlfriend- Girl in Red Bubble gum- Clairo Duvet- Bôa October Passed Me By- Girl in Red Girls-Girl in Red Softly- Clairo You know where this playlist is heading- feel free to recommend more ↪not proofread

Sometimes fall meant that the clarity of summer had ended, and that the dryness wasn't accompanied by sweat, but by the heaviness of hoodies and the bareness of barks. A bore compared to the freedom and excitement that summer offered; a dispirited time when you look back to the last three months. 

Of course autumn wasn't all bad. The colours took on a warmer palette as the trees bore themselves devoid of its warmth: warmth which could be found in campfires and cosy sheets; in people's hugs and weighted blankets; in hot lattes, crunchy leaves and early sunsets.

But when assignments piled up from the start of the season, finding opportunities to revel in such warmth seemed unsuccessful. You hurriedly tried composing yourself from last month's activities: internships, staycations and pool parties, returning from a whirlwind of adrenaline. It was exhausting, and you were burnt out before the semester even started. 

But a student you were; a decent one you tried to be, as you file your assignments, albeit slowly due to sleep deprivation. The first week of autumn went by with professors dumping assignments immediately as you try to ease the pace at which you deal with it. Clearly, autumn had you drained from day one.

Autumn hated you more than you hated it.

Autumn, two weeks in wasn't too bad. You took time to catch up on deadlines, you made plans with friends, went on walks and you got especially close to your new roommate. Her name was Ryujin, a dark haired divinity with prominent features that meshed gently. Someone who never forgot to get you your daily dose of iced latte and her favourite mocha bread from the café opposite your dorm.

It started when she came back from her evening lectures on a Thursday, holding one mug in her hand, a woolly scarf tucked into her shirt. She came in to see you with hands knitted in your hair, frustrated at the work you had, feet bobbing in concentration. 

A small 'hi' was all that you returned when you noticed her presence.

"Another stressful assignment?," she asks, concerned. Her low timbre is soothing and takes you out of your sums for a brief moment, a sigh escaping your chapped lips.

"It’s calculus." You make eye contact for the first time since she entered, a polite smile greeting her, though the frown almost tilted the other way. 

She waved her hands in a light motion acknowledging your concern, the room key in her palm dangling in it to make a soft clack. 

"Understandable, it's a real headache, especially since you're in Mr Lee’s course. Anything I could help you with?"

"I just need a break," you reply dejectedly, hoping to get away from your monotonous, monstrous tasks. 

"Wanna watch a movie?" she asks, a soft grin hiding on her face. She watches your ears perk up and your eyes shine at the suggestion, to which a chuckle remains stuck in her throat.

"Why don't you choose something and I'll join you after I'm done freshening up." she hands you the remote before walking into her room, grabbing her white towel from the laundry rack.

You sit in silence and wallow in contemplation. Choosing a movie, should be easy. 

Would a sappy rom-com distracting you from your lamentable, gapingly non-existent love life suffice? Or did you need another of those poorly directed and filmed action ones, which would, undoubtedly help you fix your sleep schedule. But then again, would Ryujin watch it? What’s a movie she’d like? Slice of life? Coming of age? Horror?

A change in the lighting of the room, and Ryujin’s tap on your shoulder was what eventually brought you out of your dilemma, and you take your vacant stare off of the blank tv screen towards your roommate instead.

The warm lights had blurred everything in the background in a way that it brought Ryujin’s face into focus, a soft glow emanating from her cheeks. Her hair was wet, the towel lazily wrapped around her supple hair, doing a measly job at keeping it from seeping into her t-shirt. Her oversized black t-shirt had patches of darker spots that clinged to her because of it, making you worried she might catch a cold. You rush to hand her a new towel, one that would actually help. 

“Don’t catch a cold, not the best time of the year to fall sick.” you whisper.

She smiles in appreciation and holds your arm, accepting the fabric for you. "You're cold too y/n. It'd probably be best for us to grab some blankets." 

After ten minutes of rummaging through your creaky cabinets and five minutes of popping corn, you were ready to distance yourself from your headaches, with new-found warmth in your newly washed duvets. 

Snug and pressed against the cushions of the sofa, with your head on her shoulder. Snug as she pats your back until the television's whisper no longer has your attention and you find your heavy eyelids closing on their own. 

Snug as you embrace sleep after months of running away from it.

Snug, however, wasn't what you felt when you woke up in the morning, blankets tangled between your legs, and an annoying ache in your ribs, due to the crushing weight of your favourite cushion. 

Snugness was replaced by the bitterness of another new day, and your long forgotten assignments weighed heavier than they did before. 

All of a sudden last night's peace was something you regretted. And you regret having been swayed by someone you considered an acquaintance.

If Shin Ryujin hadn’t offered, you'd never have taken a break. You'd never have given yourself the opportunity to be wasteful with time. You shouldn't have been tempted by the thought of a moment's freedom. 

Freedom that remained a mirage. A mirage that showed you a time of comfort. Comfort that would last one evening until you'd have to revisit everything you ran away from.

What's the point in having comfort if it's given by someone you interact with for three hours a day? What was the point in comfort if it was momentary?

Shin Ryujin was a roommate you'd have for only two more months until her grandparent's apartment was done with renovations.

Shin Ryujin was temporary.

Autumn three weeks in, was no different. Except that your backlog had increased, your sleep schedule got worse and all that you cared about was getting over with your to-do lists. How you had energy to do everything one by one remained a mystery, but you soon realised that it wasn’t energy that drove you to finish work, but the fear of running out of it sooner or later. As if it wasn’t already obvious, you were on the brink of burnout.

Not that you hated burnout. For some reason being burnt out meant that you'd be forced to take time out for mental health sooner or later. You would be forced to slow down like you did last week. 

Sitting down and finally looking back, last week felt like a distant memory so far away from your reality. It was a privilege you gave yourself, and it was so worth it, contrary to what you felt immediately. She was right, the movie did help, the movie did get you back into a safe space from your anxiety; and you never cared to thank her for it. 

You’d do it today. Thanking her. You absolutely had to.

You spent the next ninety minutes planning the best way to return the favour. Essentially, you spent the next ninety minutes going back on all the little things Ryujin did for you. Which led to the realisation that her love language was a careful amalgamation of acts of service, quality time and physical touch. 

“Maybe I’ll just bake mocha bread. I couldn’t go wrong with that,” you contemplate. You weren’t the best baker on earth, however you had enough experience to go ahead with it.

All you needed was milk, eggs, flour, yeast, sugar and coffee. Everything you had at home, really not much could go wrong.

Until it did. There was no way the universe would let you have anything good before your semester tests. Of course it had to sabotage you when you tried to do one thing with actual love behind it.

The microwave oven she brought in with her beeped once before a loud pop stopped you in your tracks. It was overheated, and nothing you did brought the irksome device back to life. No matter how many buttons you pushed vigorously, or hit the back of it tiresomely, the empty  black box on the door showed no sign of the tiny numbers signalling time left.

Time left. You look at the Ikea clock hung on the wall. Ten minutes more for the bread to be baked until completion, and thirty minutes until she’d come back and discover this mess and the damage to her microwave.

And boy does she love that microwave.

Shin Ryujin knew something was wrong when she entered later at night, almost too late for you to be up right now, just a little before midnight, the smell of sweet coffee greeting her. She’d gone to visit the apartment her grandparents had bought for her, a half hour from here. She was so caught up in finalising the layout that she forgot to mention that she’d be late home. What’s worse was that she had got caught in heavy traffic, and her phone lost charge in the middle of dialling you. 

And when she got up here, completely spent from the work, it took very little for her to be consumed by frustration. Not particularly because of you. None of it had to do with you. She knew that the tedious microwave was ancient and that her parents only gave it to her to get rid of it. She also knew that she should’ve told you about it sooner, before it actually became a problem. So no, in no way was this your fault. 

She looked at your head buried under your arm on the dining table with a mitten on one hand and a post-it under your elbow. The post-it didn’t say much, just scribbled and crossed out words that all seemed to resemble different “I’m sorrys" and “microwaves". You had multiple other post-its crumpled nearby and she picked all of them up and carefully opened them one by one. Between the creases, one said, “I’m so sorry for the microwave Ryujin, ik you treasure it because your parents lent it to you. I just wanted to thank you for last week and I thought I’d bake your favourite but -” it stopped there at which point you must’ve crumpled it. 

Ryujin let her sight wander across the baking utensils washed and stacked neatly on the drying rack and a box of half baked, burnt dough nearby. She smiles, both grateful and apologetic, an urge to caress your head settling in. She takes a closer look at you, trying to figure how she could deposit you to your bed. 

She slowly lifts your head up, wiping excess dough from near your frowning mouth, and her eyes wander up, to your slightly fluttering eyelids facing the yellow lights. It was then under the warm lights that she noticed semi-dried tears under your lashes. Another surge of guilt ran through her, thinking of how worried you must’ve been. 

In the cold kitchen, she lifts you off the chair as carefully as she can and gently drags you across the living room. It was when she’d propped you against the headboard that you stir awake.

Through half-lidded eyes, you take in whatever you can. Ryujin was holding on to your hand gasping slightly.

“Ryujin?” you whisper.

“Shit I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she looks at you a little surprised.

“I’m so sorry-” you mumble in desperation.

“Shh," she places a palm over your eyes, "don’t worry about it love. Go to bed, we’ll talk in the morning”

You aren’t convinced but you also realise that now isn’t the best time to talk. Ryujin’s eyebags seemed deeper in the warm light and you knew both of you needed a decent rest. It had been a hectic time for the two of you, and all you needed was sleep.

Ryujin still had the benevolence to pull the blanket over you and stroke your hair until you fell asleep.

It was the second time you fell asleep in her arms.

The following weekend you were on a shopping trip.

At a semi-large Ikea warehouse about forty minutes away from the campus. It was Ryujin's idea to come out here despite you convincing her to find a shop closer, but she insisted.

"Trust me, it'll be fun. We can look at furniture too."

Of course, she needed new furniture. It slowly dawns on you that you have very little time to spend with her in your home. Home.

You don't remember the last time you called your dorm a home. For all that you knew, it was a messy damp space that you couldn't wait to escape from, an absolute nightmare with it's cramped furniture. But it was cosy, something you couldn't deny now.

Maybe because you were with her. All her little habits that grew on you, her impeccable daily routine that had become a source of stability in your life, even her lesser known quirks such as keeping a picture of her two cats at home framed on her desk and kissing the before going to her classes in the morning.

You admired all of it, and it wouldn't have been the same if it were someone else. You never felt like this with your previous room mates. They were just people who lived in their own solitary spaces. But with Ryujin, somehow you were involved in most housework together. You felt involved, and somewhere more loved than in your own home.

Your family wasn't bad, at least on the surface. They never compromised when it came to your education or your standard of living. But somewhere between those lines were impossible expectations they wouldn't hold themselves to either. And you got tired of them easily. They hid toxicity behind "criticism", where criticism only meant negatives beyond your control. Your last year of high school, particularly faced extreme criticism, and you felt your confidence dipping. You managed though. You're not entirely sure how you coped, but with support from school, you managed a scholarship, a meagre one but still enough to get away from your family.

You hadn't seen them in three years.

Ryujin, on the other hand, had a lovely family, and you were, at times jealous of how perfect she seemed; how perfect everything around her seemed.

She seemed to have every aspect of her life in order. Whether it be top of the class majoring in Business, or being captain of the girl's football team, or the fact that she could spare three hours to stay with her paint brushes and that they would come out having the entire beauty of the universe encompassed in them. She could manage being both a homebody, while still being popular in school, she could be assertive when she needed to be without actually disturbing the fragile ego of most in her class.

She surpassed every definition of balance mentioned in the dictionary. She was living it, breathing it. Stability.

You admired her, a lot, but you couldn't stop this ridiculously miniscule base of malevolence in your heart. And every day you were scared it would become worse.

Especially now, when all she wanted was to spend precious time with you, constantly putting effort into your friendship whereas you were held back by bitter thoughts. And you hated yourself for it.

You force back your envy, distracting yourself by browsing through the shelves of cutlery displayed. You notice the absence of Ryujin's presence, and slowly find yourself lost in this maze of a shop. Maybe it was better that she wasn't in this aisle now, or else you wouldn't be able to face her with the guilt of having thought of her so poorly.

You find yourself interested in the array of pretty pink melamine plates stacked in front of you, in the stainless steel spoons with animal handles, and little napkin holders shaped like boats. You pick up different pans, weighing how heavy each is, looking to keep your brain unnecessarily busy. If you spend a second more comparing yourself with Ryujin, you knew you wouldn't be able to think of anything else for the entire day, or week.

You remember what your therapist told you, all the comfort and validation that you needed pouring in through words. You open up your notes, all the affirmations typed out one by one. You repeat them in your mind, with a new goal in sight.

You wouldn't let your insecurity ruin another good relationship. Especially not with Ryujin.

She emerges after some time, holding in her hand, a grey device, and a grin painted on her face. "I think this is the one. It's a cool toaster cum oven sort of thing, and it's cheap," she winks at you.

How was she so decisive? you think again. It had only taken her fifteen minutes. If it were you, you'd have taken forty minutes more.

"I trust your decision," you reply, giving her a soft smile. You notice her eyebrows raise a little. "You sure?," she asks. "You usually don't agree this fast. You have this terrible habit of sitting on decisions for ages." she rambles on.

You take a moment to process this. You knew it was true, and she probably didn't mean malice, but it was not something you'd accept easily.

Ryujin never had to think twice about what she wanted. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she always got it. Whereas every decision you seemed to make bore consequences you didn't want. And often, the times you didn't heavily weight them out was when things backfired. The last time being with the microwave oven.

It was the only way you knew to trust yourself.

So it irks you greatly when Ryujin calls it a "terrible habit". Because for you, it was a habit that gave you security. Certainty wasn't achievable, but you'd try as fucking close as you could get, and Shin Ryujin won't tell you otherwise.

She'd never understand how imperfect you were. She'd never understand the little complexities that hold you back. For the most part, she had life easy. What would she ever understand?

You ignore her comment, instead picking up a ceramic mug from the shelf, thumbing on the floral patterns glazed onto it.

Ryujin barely senses your predicament, instead grabbing onto the mug placed besides the one you hold onto. "These are pretty, it's like a cute matching set. We should get them," she winks.

The rest of the day follows with more furniture in your cart, and mostly unnecessary plushies plaguing your living room. New pillows, potted plants, wardrobe organisers, a work desk and the biggest Djungelskog bear lying near the couch.

It dawns on you the next morning, after waking up to the chaos, that she was shifting out in two weeks.

On the first of October.

All of a sudden she was busy, very busy, and the two of you barely met, with bigger gaps in your schedule. Part of it was because of Ryujin arranging her main furniture in her new house, and part of it was because you were busy with academics, only that it was voluntary this time. It just so happened that you needed a few more credits to retain your scholarship, the only thing weighing your new found freedom. Along with that, you busied yourself so that you didn't have to face Ryujin later at night.

You were scared. Other than the obvious rent that you'd have to pay by yourself, you also avoided other parts of this change that bothered you. Which was spending time with her. You were scared you'd miss her a bit too much.

Sure, you were friends who were only half an hour away, but now that her colourful room started fading into a bleak white, the emptiness of it reminded you of why you hated autumn. The fall orange left you feeling lonely, and like the very leaves that craved pigmentation, you craved more life. Regardless of the minimal time you spent with her in the evenings, she slowly integrated herself into your life in the smaller ways.

Now they weigh too much in your life for you to be able to cope without it. You ended up distancing yourself from her, in a pathetic attempt to cope with the anticipation of absence. Maybe you just needed more friends, the thought crossing your mind a lot more these days. But you had plenty of them at uni, most of who you loved. But none of them were Ryujin.

None of them cared for you as much as she did. None of them taught you how to care for yourself like she did. None of them held you in their arms throughout the night, until you felt rested and loved. Nobody inspired you as much as Ryujin did.

Maybe Ryujin wasn't just a friend, something you were scared to consider in the past few weeks. It was a feeling completely new. Other than a failed situation-ship in high school, you never considered the possibility of a relationship, much less exploring your sexuality.

It was an intimidating prospect that you hadn't considered. Something that initiated urgency more than curiosity. Unlike the diverse spectrum that your feelings for Shin Ryujin belonged to, your thoughts focused on just one. She was important in more ways than platonic, and the distance that was to be would be extremely difficult to cope with. The distance that you had created seemed silly, but at the same time there was nothing you could think to resolve the conflict. You were going against this wall you'd built for yourself, and the facade of distance only grew day by day. So much so that at one point, Ryujin stopped approaching you first.

In a way, you deserved it. For someone who had been so unreceptive to her life as a coping method, this is the least you deserved for being a little jerk. Why would someone pursue any relationship, even platonic if you'd put yourself back into the mega cage you thought you'd escaped from. Something you'd escaped from only temporarily in her presence. Something you're going back to by the next week when she's gone.

You suffer multiple sleepless nights, the mid terms only a catalyst to your loneliness, when all you remember is Ryujin and her quirks.

You do accept another roommate later on, a mutual contact in your friend group, someone who was introduced to you by Ryujin herself. She'd dropped in a small text at 8 in the morning, on the way to class, you'd assumed. All it did was talk about how a common friend, Yeji needed a room to stay.

You accepted it of course, because you didn't have to foot the entire month's bill but also because you thought having someone else would curb your loneliness. And this loneliness was stupid. Ryujin wasn't the only thing you had in your entire life, and she should've been inconsequential, the same way the daylight hours gradually decreased. But it isn't too hard to notice once the sun's gone down.

The new roommate was like a transition from summer to winter, but unlike Ryujin , who helped ease the transition between the seasons, this one only reminded you that it would be cold. She wasn't a bad roommate, no she was perfect, did the laundry on Wednesdays, did the evening dishes at 6 and gave you lots of personal space. She was nice, but not like Ryujin.

You hated how you compared her to Ryujin, how you compared everything to her. "She isn't your entire world," you remind yourself. "Shin Ryujin was only temporary."

You'd decided that your feelings for her were only a means for you to be validated. That was all you'd craved from her, and that was all she'd given you- validation.

On October 15th, you feel relieved. Your mid terms were over with and you had a little bit of free time. Were you going to spend it wisely? Of course not.

You were going to sit in bed all day, scrolling through Youtube, a luxury you'd afford yourself rarely in the last month. You went home early, to a somewhat excitable Yeji. Another rare sight.

"What's up?" you ask her, noticing her vibrant demeanour.

"Nothing much, Ryujin's coming over today."

You're surprised to hear this, and a little disappointed that Ryujin never told you herself. Or maybe there was no reason to, it's not like you kept in touch with her.

"That's cool, are you guys ordering something? Or should I make food for you two?" you offer, realising the amount of free time you had.

"We'll just order pizza," she replies. She hesitates for sometime, as if she has something to say. "Y/n?" she calls out slowly.

"Hmm?" "...you're nothing like what Ryujin described you as."

You still in your spot.

"It's just that you're really kind you know. I thought you'd be more distant, and cold."

"Ryujin said that? About me?"

She nods her head.

Is that really how she saw you? Distant and cold? Sure you were closed off towards the end, but is that really who you were to her? After all the good memories? You weren't sure anymore, insecurity creeping inside you.

It hurt. Was it this easy for people to be unforgiving? But then again, you never apologised, so in a weird way what Yeji relayed sounded justified.

You offer her a stiff smile.

"I'll be in my room then, tell me if you need anything."

Dejected, you go back to your blank room, where even the orange of autumn feels comforting, something you hated previously. You stay inside the entire evening, occasional sounds of muffled laughter behind your walls being all that you focus on for the duration. Every time you heard her laugh loudly from behind the door, you wondered if she ever laughed like that in front of you. Did you ever make her feel happy? The same way she did to you?

You want to go out and say hi, but after what Yeji said, you stop yourself. She must hate you now, there was no other way.

It isn't later at night, after you're sure the laughter was no more, and only when the silence of the room becomes comforting, you step out to see a dim blue light in the darkness of the living room, Yeji working on the dining table. "Y/n, didn't come out to say hi to Ryujin?" she asks, with pity that sounds forced.

"Yeah, no I was just napping," you lie, "did anything fun happen?"

"Mhm, we were discussing Ryujin's blind date tomorrow with a senior from the engineering department. Apparently, he's handsome," she shrugs her shoulder.

"Ryujin likes boys?" you ask without realising.

"Hmm, I'm not sure actually."

A small part of you feels dejected as you get a glass of water, all while contemplating if you should have reached out.

"You like her don't you?" Yeji whispers, looking up from her laptop.

It's the second time you still in your spot. Yeji had brought up something you never thought was prominent.

"Your lights were on, I could tell from your slightly ajar door. You weren't sleeping were you?" she gives you a knowing smile.

"I'm not judging you- it's just that it's obvious that you miss her. It may or not may be romantic- but you do miss her don't you?". You don't know how to reply to her. You barely knew Yeji, but somehow she very accurately read your emotions.

As if she knows what you're thinking, she continues.

"You know, every time that I've tried bringing up Ryujin, you've always changed the conversation, instead isolating yourself in your room."

Looking back, it made sense. You didn't want to think about her anymore. Your meeting with Ryujin's was temporary and never mattered. It was almost crazy how dependent you were on her within just a few months.

" I realised that I don't know much about Ryujin, nor does she about me. Sure I know she loves mocha bread, she loves her big Ikea Djungelskog soft toy, that she's watched the perks of being a wallflower more times than she can count; but I don't think I could be truly vulnerable with her. I'm scared to be vulnerable with her."

Yeji sighs, almost disappointed. She went back to working, despite her twitching lips, like she had more to say.

That night, you reflect for longer. Why was it that you felt scared to lean on Ryujin? Technically you told her about troubles with academics, problems with some of your classmates- that is considered being vulnerable right? Then what was it that you wanted her to know, but you never wanted to admit? Was it your insecurities? Was it the thought she'd never understand it?

It was like your mind had accepted that you and Ryujin had come from two different worlds, and if you invited her into yours, she would run away, like your family. Despite you coming to terms with it, the distance with your family was a wound still fresh. And nothing would change, until you could put it behind you.

25th October, Yeji handed you an invite to one of her friend's Halloween parties.

After your confession, she'd been a little nicer; she was more active in initiating conversations, and you realised she was more extroverted than your first impression. Eventually, you did watch the Maze Runner with her again, and you appreciated how she gushed about Dylan O'Brien throughout it, dispelling any awkward moments.

"I designed this invitation by the way, cool isn't it?", she asks about the party invitation in your hand. It had black bat details engraved in a glossy reflective paper. "Please come, we've had a difficult week, one party won't hurt will it?" she states, the question more rhetorical.

You agree quietly, excitement bubbling in you.

Until it did hurt, a week later.

Barely five minutes after you enter the loud, congested apartment, with strangers in costumes, you felt a part of your heart drop. There was a tight feeling in your chest, something you were sure wasn't because of the new corset you wore. Because you felt comfortable seconds before you saw Ryujin with her hands wrapped around this guys neck, kissing him on the couch as if he were her entire life. At first, you weren't even sure it was her- her hair was shorter, dyed a platinum blonde. She wore a leather jacket and a white skater dress, dressed so differently than what you were used to seeing her in.

You weren't able to comprehend how good she looked in his arms, with all her attention focused on him, smiling. The same smile that you'd missed for a month. When she does look away from the vampire- you assumed was her boyfriend, her eyes scan the crowd and she almost looks bewildered. You were stood so motionless near the entrance from where you could see them, that even the crowd that pushed past you couldn't bring you to move. It was suffocating, and unconsciously you head for the exit, looking to get away.

But fate wouldn't be so kind would it? The universe wouldn't just let you be would it? "Are you leaving already y/n?" Yeji screams from across the room, which you were sure was audible to everyone. She finds her way to you, a smile on her face. "You just came in, why are you leaving? Cool outfit by the way."

"Thanks," you offer her a stiff smile, eyes going back to Ryujin, who because of Yeji, had finally found you.

Yeji, who just noticed the tension, holds your hand and pulls you towards Ryujin.

"Atleast say hi, y/n, it won't hurt."

Yeji's assurance of "it won't hurt" was what brought you here, it was indeed what hurt you. Her saying this now wasn't helping, and you scoff. It was almost like Yeji knew this was going to happen. It was like she knew how much it hurt you, and may even enjoy it.

"Why did you invite me Yeji? You knew about this didn't you? It hurts, I..I shouldn't have come." you spit out, trembling.

"Y/n, there's something you need to know."

"What? that she has a boyfriend?" you spat, annoyed by her deception.

Yeji sighs, holding onto your shoulders, somewhat urgent.

"No, it's something only Ryujin can tell you. Please, just talk to her. This once."

At this point, you couldn't trust anyone, neither Yeji, Ryujin, nor yourself. It was like you were at different crossroads- to run away, or to confront her again. She hadn't even done anything wrong, all she did was kiss a guy. She didn't owe you anything.

You choose to run away, until you notice Ryujin approaching you with her boyfriend. It's like she withheld any decision you make, with her forcing you into a circumstance you would not choose for yourself.

"Y/n?" she asks softly. Her otherwise comforting voice now made you uncomfortable, almost bringing you to tears by how much you missed it.

"It's been so long," she holds your hand gently.

Her hands felt colder than before, and before you could say anything, the tall, matching vampire spoke up.

"Hi y/n, I'm Jason, her boyfriend. I've heard a lot about you." he looks friendly, and he doesn't seem to hold any malice. But you still hated this guy.

"You have?" you ask saltily. "...good things I hope." you couldn't help but say drily, hands fiddling with the witch hat you'd worn.

"A moment please love," Ryujin signs to her boyfriend, who goes towards the bar with Yeji.

Ryujin takes your hand and drags you towards what you assume to be the bedroom, away from the crowd.

You enter the bedroom with her, with your head ringing because of the way she called him love. You remember how she'd called you love the day you'd tried baking, the day you'd fallen asleep in her arms. You thought the word "love" meant nothing, that it was an endearing term with no implications. But if that was the case- why did she address him as love?

Jealousy eventually overrode the confusion, and the hurt that stained you previously had multiplied. You couldn't feel more stressed, it was so much more than any calculus assignment you'd ever come across.

"Are you crying?" she eventually speaks, eyes concerned. You didn't even realise the visible tears falling down your cheek slowly, your mascara ruined in the reflection of the mirror behind her.

"What do you wanna talk about Ryujin?" you huff. "Y/n, do you need time to calm down? I don't think you're in the mood to talk."

"I'm fine. Just get to the point please." you say, barely concentrating on what was going on. She comes in to hug you, but you step back.

She looks upset by this, seemingly as confused as you. "I...I thought we were friends y/n," she whispers in the same tone she'd always used to comfort you. "We weren't this far apart were we? Why do you hate me?" she raises her voice in desperation.

This was an accusation you could not believe she had made, hate was too strong for what you felt for her.

"I don't hate you Ryujin." you speak, resigned. "Then why do you look so upset, why can't you even say hi?" she emphasises, her voice breaking in between.

"Because it hurts... I can't"

You fall against the bed post. Eyes finding the bear plushie you bought her. You slowly realise that this is her bedroom, and that you were in her new house- the apartment you'd never come to before. You were barely able to process all of this when she speaks up again.

"You can't what y/n? You can't accept the fact that you like me?" You look back at her, eyes widened, as though whatever little sanity you had remaining was destroyed like the branches of an autumn tree- fallen, and weak. It was almost humiliating.

"I don't like you Ryujin," you hide behind your words like a coward. "Don't lie to yourself y/n, is it that difficult to accept that you like me?"

You don't know where this was coming from. If she knew you liked her, couldn't she just let you down gently?

"What does it matter? You have a boyfriend. Even if I did like you; no even if I loved you, nothing would change." you say dejectedly. It must have been true, because there was silence that persisted for longer than you wished it would be.

"What if it did change? What if I said I liked you too? Would you believe me?" she asks quietly, reverting back to her calm persona as she takes a big breath. You scoff, noticing how different she had become in a month. The audacity she had to ask you if you believed her, right after making out with her boyfriend in front of everyone in the room disgusted you, something you don't think you'd ever be able to comprehend.

"Why would I believe you? I saw your boyfriend. Besides, if you did like me, you'd be honest with me. I think that's the least I'd expect from you, so don't play with my feelings; because unlike yours, I can say with conviction that mine are real."

You see her expression change, her eyes becoming teary.

She sits beside you, against the wooden footboard. "I can't be honest, because I'm scared. There's so many people watching me- so many people who my family knows. I barely had, or still have any privacy in my life. Do you know why my grandparents left me this apartment? Because they don't trust me." she pauses for a minute. Taking another deep breath, eyes now fixed on to the floor.

You don't know where she's going with this, but don't say anything because this may be the last time you'd get any closure.

"There was a girl I really liked in high school, but we could never be together, because my family refused to let me meet her. They pretend to be liberal in their thoughts- but they're as homophobic as they get. There's no way they'd understand. The only time I felt safe was in our dorm, because there was no one who would snitch on me, nobody who cared. It was utopia- where you were my solace, and I just basked in the temporary peace.

But when my grandparents asked about you, they'd worry I'd gotten too close to you, refusing to believe you could be just a friend. Two months after I shifted in to our dorm, they made preparations to isolate me in this house of theirs."

She couldn't continue, as tears you'd never seen from her before, collected as a tiny stream between the cracks of the tiles on the cold floor. You understood what she meant. In an evening's moment, you realised that she wasn't this perfect being that she always projected. Yes, she was amazing, but she had her own challenges, something you thought she'd never had. Unlike the two different worlds you thought you were in, your access into her world made you realise you were more similar than you could've imagine. All of a sudden you hated your past self for being so mean to her, for harbouring insecurities that in hindsight were not worth the pain.

"Jason, is my neighbourhood friend, and he's the one of the few people I can trust. He's pretending to be my boyfriend, so that if my family ever found out, they wouldn't doubt me." she explains, trying to resolve your distrust.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, leaning your head against her shoulder, gently holding onto her hand."

The two of you sit their in silence, reflective, though relieved.

She gently kisses your forehead, arms wrapping around your waist.

"I missed you y/n. So much. But I'm also scared to go back to you, to our place. I don't know what we're going to do. I'm sorry too, for the situation I put you in. For the situation I've put both of us in."

You rub her arms gently,

"It's ok, we'll figure it out slowly. I'm sorry too . You were always there for me- and I, like the coward I am was scared of being attached to you, your generous love . I was also so insecure of how perfect you were- but now it's all so inconsequential."

To this Ryujin laughs, and she wipes her tears. "It's funny how both of our insecurities hurt us in the end. I promise, I wont' let it affect us in the future. I won't ever hurt you again y/n. I love you, so much."

"I love you too Ryujin."

You know that it's going to be a long road ahead of the two of you, but you'll be alright. You comb through her hair, leaning in to meet her lips. Her quivering lips are not soft as you expected, but slightly chapped, brushing against yours. She drags a cold finger down your spine, causing you to lose your breath. Her pulling you closer, slipping behind your corset, unzipping it. Your hands are tangled in her short locks, and you pull away in between to breathe.

With the kiss, and this new path, the autumn you hated so had come to an end. Autumn had become easier to think about, among the loneliness of the dry leaves and the warmth devoid in the air, you'd treasure the warmth that she provided. Shin Ryujin, unlike autumn wasn't temporary. Autumn will come and go, but Shin Ryujin would always stay, and you'd treasure her in every season. In the end, autumn didn't hate you as much you did, because despite everything, autumn gifted you Shin Ryujin.

Am I actually posting an autumn fic when its almost summer? Yes, yes I am. This is long overdue and idk why it took me this long to finish it ahhhh.

I appreciate any feedback, feel free to interact with this post!

Thanks for reading <3

-Macaroon