#fuckable old man friday??

[kiiingsnake]

the only thing that matters abt this is the helmet

[widevibratobitch]

happy fuck that old man friday. you know im right.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Me & You & Everyone We Know | Chapter 9 | S.R

Not my gif. Does not depict appearance of reader.

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Chapter Summary - a night spent at Rossi’s leads to some incredibly hot sex and some difficult conversations about your future together.

Pairing - Single Dad! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, smut minors DNI.

Warnings - drinking, swearing, tipsy and horny reader, fingering, handjobs, public sex, car sex, slight cock warming, penetrative sex, protected sex, angst.

WC - 7.1k

Chapter 9 - As it Seems

Well in this life you must find something to live for,

'Cause when the darkness comes a callin',

You'll go back to where you were before.

'Cause this life is as,

Fragile as a dream, and,

Nothing's ever really,

As it seems.

Rossi had happily agreed to let Spencer and you use his cabin for a weekend away, but he wouldn���t be Rossi if it didn’t come with a stipulation. 

He was fine with the two of you using his cabin, if he met you first. 

Luke and Garcia had agreed to sit the girls for the evening and had taken Roxy with them over to Spencer’s that Friday night. 

The girls adored their Aunty Penelope and Uncle Luke and were ecstatic to spend the evening with them. 

So that was how you ended up on the doorstep of an extremely grand house in DC, wearing your best black satin dress and heels, hand sweating in Spencer’s. 

“My entire apartment building could fit inside the house.” You swallowed a lump in your throat as Spencer rang the doorbell. 

“Yeah it’s pretty daunting the first time you see it. But I guess I’ve gotten used to it.” He chuckled breezily, giving your hand a squeeze. 

You looked him up and down out of the corner of your eye. 

He looked positively fuckable in his deep burgundy shirt, black tie and slacks. You felt a heat flood between your legs and you wondered why the two of you hadn’t skipped dinner in lieu of other activities. 

Sensing you looking at him he turned, an amused smirk on his lips. 

“Mind out of the gutter, angel.” He winked at you. “At least for now anyway.” 

You opened your mouth to reply but suddenly the door was opening and an older man with completely silver hair and beard and the kindest eyes you’d ever seen, was smiling at you both. 

“Spencer!” He practically cheered and Spencer let go of your hand so he could embrace Rossi.

Rossi gave him a kiss on each cheek, looking pleased to see his old friend. 

“It’s good to see you kid.” 

“And you Dave.” Spencer stepped back and placed his hand on your lower back, edging you forward. “This is Y/N.” 

“Benvenuta!” He exclaimed, placing his hands on your shoulders and kissing both of your cheeks too. “It’s very nice to meet you Y/N.”

“Likewise sir.” You chewed on your lip nervously. 

“Oh come on now, sir makes me feel old. Call me Dave. Come inside.” He stepped away from the door and motioned you both in. “Krystall sends her apologies but she’s gone to visit Portia for the weekend.” 

“Ah that’s a shame.” Spencer guided you with a hand on your back towards the door. 

He felt your body tense as you moved closer to the house. He thought it was adorable how nervous you got around his friends. 

You were usually so confident so seeing this side of you allowed Spencer a glimpse into another facet of your personality, another thing that made you who you are. 

You weren’t normally uneasy around new people, you’d spoken to him just fine when you’d met. 

So the only logical explanation for your anxiety around his friends was because you were scared they wouldn’t like you. 

And you wanted them to like you because you liked Spencer. 

Rossi ushered you in and closed the door and your wide eyes and slack jaw as you took in the entrance way wasn’t lost on either man. 

The floor your heels clacked on as you walked was a stunning cream marbled with grey swirls. An expansive staircase with large dark oak bannisters rose to the second floor. 

Intricate and what you could only assume was very expensive pieces of art hung from the walls. The ceilings were high and vaulted. 

Rossi took your coats and hung them on a large, ornate silver coat rack. 

He motioned you through to the kitchen where you were met the delectable smell of frying bacon and garlic. 

The kitchen was just as grand as the entrance way, with every possible kind of appliance dotted around the large marble countertops. 

But it was clear they all went to good use. 

Rossi quickly moved to the stove to stir the pasta sauce before turning back and giving you both a large smile. 

“Carbonara alla Rossi, I didn’t think to ask Spencer if you ate meat.” He shrugged sheepishly.

“I do.” You nodded. “I eat pretty much anything.” 

“Favoloso!” He clapped his hands together before slinging a dish cloth over his shoulder. “Can I get either of you a glass of wine?” 

“I’ll have one with dinner but I’m driving.” Spencer replied, wrapping his arm around you again, his palm resting on your lower back. 

His warm touch allowed you to relax a little. 

“Y/N, please tell me you will join me for a pre-dinner glass of vino?” Rossi looked at you expectedly. 

You glanced up at Spencer as though you needed permission to drink and Spencer chuckled. 

“Do let me stop you, angel.” He rubbed your back a little. 

You nodded and turned back to Rossi with a smile. 

“Merlot please, if you have it.” 

“If I have it?” He chuckled heartily. “My dear, I have a wine cellar full to the brim with wines from before you were even born. I’ll be right back. Make sure my pancetta doesn’t burn!” 

Rossi hurried off and Spencer turned you so you were facing him. 

He stroked your hair back from your face and looked down at you with a soft look in his eyes. 

It was a new look, one you couldn’t place. Usually when he looked at you his eyes were full of lust but this was different. 

“He’s eccentric.” You whispered, having to tiptoe to kiss him even in your heels.

“That’s certainly one way to describe him.” Spencer laughed against your lips. “I like this. You meeting my friends.”

Your heart swelled at the happiness emanating from him as he kissed you again. 

“I like it too.” 

He certainly wasn’t ready for you to meet his kids but this was a nice start. 

He kissed you once more, a little deeper than before and you both didn’t notice Rossi reentering the room until you heard a cry. 

“Aye! My pancetta!” 

***

Lily was half asleep on the living room floor, lazily stroking Taco’s belly. Daisy sat cross legged on the couch trying to listen into her Aunty Penelope and Uncle Luke’s chatter in the kitchen over the sound of the TV. 

Roxy was on the couch with her, her head resting in Daisy’s lap while Daisy absent-mindedly scratched behind her ear. 

Eventually she pushed herself up, gently moving the large dog aside and padding towards the kitchen. 

Penelope and Luke had their backs to the door, fussing over how to make the best hot cocoa. 

Penelope was insisting they boil the milk in the pan but Luke was adamant it was just the same in the microwave. 

“It’s just lazy!” Penelope grumbled. 

“It doesn’t taste any different.” Luke argued. 

“We’ll see shall we? You make your heathen cocoa and I’ll make my delicately light and fluffy cocoa and we’ll see which the girls prefer.” She gave him a challenging look through her thick pink frames.

“Oh you are so on woman. Just you wait. You’re about to be a very sore-”

“Does my dad have a girlfriend?” Daisy suddenly spoke up causing Luke and Penelope’s backs to go rigid.

She saw them exchange a look before turning to face her. 

“Uh…sorry?” Penelope squeaked a little. 

Daisy cradled her cast and gave them a look that said, I’m not an idiot. 

Their expressions, no matter how hard they tried to hide them, told her the answer. 

“That’s a yes then.” She smiled a little. 

“Uh…” Luke looked at Garcia before looking back at Daisy.

He had a lot of nieces and he knew to find out the facts before he admitted to anything. He felt a little like an unsub being interrogated.

If he found out why Daisy thought that, he might be able to counter her points. 

“What makes you think that?” He moved across the room towards her.

“I grew up around profilers, Uncle Luke, I know what you’re trying to do.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I saw a lady leaving the house last week and dad kissed her.” 

Luke looked at Garcia over his shoulder and she just shrugged. 

He exhaled before looking back at the teenager. 

“Right. I don’t suppose I can spin that another way, can I?”

“Nope.” Daisy giggled. “So it’s true? He has a girlfriend?” 

“It’s…he’s dating.” Garcia scurried over on her too high heels. “He met someone. She’s lovely.” 

“She’s very pretty.” Daisy nodded. “Is he happy?” 

Luke and Garcia both melted at her question. It was too adorable that all Daisy cared about was her fathers happiness. 

“I think so, kid.” Luke smiled at her. 

“I want him to be happy.” Daisy nodded. “Why hasn’t he told us?” 

Again Luke and Garica looked at each other, subconsciously trying to work out the best way to answer that. 

She was so much like her dad and there was no lying to Spencer. He always saw right through them and no doubt his daughter would too. 

“They’ve just met. It’s still early days. But I’m sure at some point he will tell you. But after your mom…he’s scared.” Luke tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“I just want him to be happy.” She repeated. 

“He is, sweet pea.” Garcia wrapped her arm around Daisy and bowed her head to kiss her hair. “Just give him time, ok?” 

“And maybe don’t tell Lily yet.” Luke added. 

“Ok.” Daisy agreed with a small smile. “Lily’s terrible at keeping secrets.” 

Garcia ruffled her hair a little with a laugh. 

“You still want cocoa?” 

“Yes please!” Daisy cheered. 

“Go in the living room with your sister.” Luke patted her back. 

“Ok!” She turned towards the door but as she reached it, she turned back to look at the grown-up’s. “Oh Uncle Luke?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” 

“You’re bonkers if you think microwave milk is going to taste the same as boiled milk.” She shot him a cheeky grin before hurrying back into the living room. 

“Son of a bitch.” Luke laughed. 

“Told you.” Garcia grinned smugly. “Saucepan please.”

***

“You got shot in the leg?” You glared wide eyed at Spencer over your wine glass, a slightly amused smile on your lips.

“It wasn’t as bad as he’s making it out to be.” Spencer rolled his eyes. 

“You used a cane for months, kid.” Rossi laughed. 

“Ok so it was kind of bad. But it was a long time ago. And it only hurts every so often.” Spencer tried to downplay it. 

Dinner was incredible and after a few glasses of wine your nerves had eased up. Rossi had made you feel so welcome which also helped you relax. 

You were now in his impressive study, sinking down into a large leather armchair with Spencer on his own next to you. 

He’d reached across the space between you and had been holding your hand the whole time. 

You finished the remains of your wine while Rossi swirled his scotch around his glass. 

“I tell ya, the stories I could tell you about Reid-”

“Let’s save that for another time, shall we?” Spencer cut him off. “I’d rather it we didn’t scare Y/N off.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all the good doctors' gory secrets one day.” Rossi winked at you. 

Spencer patted your hand and you nodded, leaning forward to put your empty glass on the coffee table. 

“I should get back and relieve Luke and Garcia of babysitting duty.” Spencer let go of your hand and pushed himself up from the chair. 

You followed suit, as did Rossi.

“How they think the team doesn’t know they’re dating is beyond me.” Rossi chuckled. 

He led you out into the entrance way and handed you both your coats. 

“Thank you so much Dave, dinner was wonderful and it was so nice to meet you.” You smiled a little dreamily, Spencer could see the alcohol had gone to your head a little. 

“The pleasure, my dear, is all mine.” He gripped your face and kissed both of your cheeks with gusto. 

As you slipped on your coat he gave the same treatment to Spencer. 

“She’s great, kid. Don’t let her go.” He whispered into Spencer’s ear. 

“Duly noted.” Spencer smiled warmly. 

He opened the door and placed his hand on your lower back to guide you towards it. 

“Buona notte.” Rossi waved the two of you off. 

You waved back and started down the stairs ahead of Spencer. 

“Reid?” Rossi called him before he got too far.

“Yeah?” 

“The two of you are welcome to my cabin anytime.” 

“Thanks Dave. Goodnight.”

“G’night kid.”

Spencer hurried down the stairs after you, taking hold of your hand and bringing it to his lips before he brushed them over your knuckles. 

You swayed a little in your heels as you looked up at him. 

The moon was peaking between the clouds and caught your eye as you looked at him. 

It caused your eyes to sparkle in such a magical way Spencer almost lost his footing. That paired with the smile tugging at the corners of your lips, the one you seemed to reserve just for him, lit a fire in Spencer. 

And at that moment on Rossi’s driveway, he found himself handing over all the remains of the shattered fragments of his heart to you and praying to a god he didn’t believe in that you were the one who could help piece them back together. 

***

You rambled on on the drive home, your tipsy words making Spencer laugh as he drove. 

You were animatedly gesticulating with your hands as you spoke, almost hitting him a few times. 

He tried to remain focused on the road but your wild arm movements kept garnering his attention. 

“I’m going to get in an accident if you don’t calm down.” He chuckled, easily grabbing both of your wrists in one hand and placing them in your lap. 

“Sorry.” You chewed your lip. “I’m a little tipsy.” 

“I can tell.” He returned his hand to the wheel with an amused smile. 

“A little tipsy.” You repeated, turning your body in the chair so you could look at him. “And a lot horny.”  

Spencer almost swerved the car off the road and gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles instantly turned white. 

“Fuck, Y/N.” His cock was immediately awake. “Don’t say things like that. My girls are home.” 

“Didn’t say we needed to go home.” You reached over the centre console and palmed his already hardening cock through his slacks. 

His toes curled in his shoes and he hissed. 

“Fuck.” He swallowed, tightening his hold on the steering wheel. “W-what are you suggesting?” 

“A dark alley and a bad idea.” You pressed your palm against his erection and he jolted a little in his seat. 

“You will be the death of me.” He growled. “Thank fuck I put those condoms in my bag.” 

He was quick to locate a dark and desolate side street, barely able to see through the lust clouding his vision. 

It was a narrow alley, barely bigger than Spencer’s car and the only light was from the moon still creeping between the clouds. 

He practically slammed on the brakes and shut off the engine, unbuckling his belt in a flash and turning to you with dark eyes. 

“Come here then angel,” he patted his lap. “Or are you all talk?” 

You fumbled undoing your belt in excitement and Spencer had to help you out of it before he was pulling you towards him and having you straddle his lap. 

The seat was already back as far as it would go due to his long legs and a car that wasn’t strictly made for a man of his stature. 

Your dress rode up your thighs and you instantly started grinding his lap while he roughly gripped the back of your neck and crashed your lips together. 

You moaned into his mouth as his free hand wandered your thigh, wasting no time in moving your panties aside. 

He hissed into your mouth when he felt how wet the fabric was already and the heat that emanated from you made him dizzy. 

The two of you didn’t get to be alone often and he was too eager to wait. He dove two fingers inside your waiting cunt and you bucked against his hand, your teeth sinking into his bottom lip. 

He returned the favour by roughly thrusting them upwards and curling them against your bundle of nerves. 

Your tongue hungrily explored his mouth, navigating every inch of his mouth. Your hands swatted at his belt, desperately trying to free him from his slacks. It took a few failed attempts before you got it undone and popped open the button on his pants. 

Your hand sunk inside his boxers, moving the fabric enough to let his throbbing member escape. You stroked his length as he continued fucking his fingers inside of you with force and desperation. 

You tore your lips apart so you could look at him. His lips were swollen and red and his pupils were blown out wide. His messy hair fell onto his forehead and he smiled wildly as you pumped him harder. 

“Fuck angel, you are too good at that.” He panted, his chest heaving up and down. “And you feel so good around my fingers.” 

He dove deeper, causing you to jump a little and throw your head back in pleasure. 

The windows were already steamed up from your heavy breathing, obscuring any previous vision of the dark street. 

Precome leaked from Spencer’s head and you swiped your thumb over it and spread it down his shaft. 

The sounds of your wet slicked cunt as Spencer plunged his fingers in and out of you filled the car. 

His free hand started fumbling behind his chair, trying to locate his satchel. 

He gripped the handle and tossed it to the front seat. Still keeping up your strokes on his cock, you leaned over slightly and rummaged inside for a condom. 

The ripples of pleasure crashing through your body meant it took longer than you would have liked before your fingers brushed against what you were looking for. 

You sat back with it and after a few more thrusts of his fingers Spencer cautiously withdrew them. 

You watched in absolute awe as he drew those same fingers to his lips and sucked your arousal clean of them. 

“Fuck you taste good.” He hummed around his own digits. 

Your thighs clamped together at the sight. 

“God-fucking-damn Doctor.” You whined, squeezing the base of his shaft a little. 

He smirked before pulling you in for another kiss, the taste of yourself on his tongue was electric. 

As he kissed you, you ripped open the condom and held his shaft as you rolled it down his length. You pulled back from his lips and knelt over his head. 

You moved your panties aside again for him while his own hand went to the base of his cock as he lined himself up. Slowly you lowered yourself, keeping your eyes firmly on his. 

Just moments ago he’d been driving and now here you were. It had all happened so fast it made him a little dizzy. But this was the first time he’d had you alone in what felt like forever. He didn’t want to waste a second. 

There would be other times for you to go slow, maybe at Rossi’s cabin. But now the need for speed was prevalent. 

His head pressed against your desperate hole briefly before you steadily sunk down onto him, feeling your walls stretch around his heavy length. 

Spencer’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gripped hold of your hips, blunt nails digging into your flesh. 

Your pussy fluttered around him, tightening as though you might come already. He bottomed out inside of you, taking a few moments just to revel in the way you felt sheathed around his cock. 

“I could stay like this forever.” He moaned, head falling forward onto your shoulder. “I could just fucking live in this glorious pussy.” 

He sucked on the flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to leave behind marks whilst the two of you sat perfectly still. 

Your hands found their way to his hair and entwined in the unruly locks, burying deeply into them. 

He stopped sucking your shoulder and rested his forehead against it instead. 

A wave of emotions washed over him as if out of nowhere. He snaked his arms around your body and held you as he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. 

This was how it was supposed to feel. This was what was missing in his marriage. 

He felt as though in you, he’d found the other half of himself. He’d found what he’d been searching for all these years, what he’d never found in Maeve. 

You were hope. You were a freedom he’d never felt before. You were the air his lungs had been gasping for his entire life. 

He was inconceivably and deliriously in love with you. And that both elated him and terrified him at the same time. 

But he knew now, as he held you, whilst he was buried deep inside of you that you were the one his heart beat for. 

He didn’t even know he was capable of this kind of feeling. But it smacked him in the face like a ton of bricks at that moment. 

You pulled back a little and he blinked away the tears threatening to fall before you noticed them. 

You kept your hands in his hair as you smiled at him and started grinding down on him. 

“Need you.” You mumbled. 

“Need you more.” He quickly grabbed your face and slammed your lips together as you started moving up and down on his length. 

He held your face firmly, kissing you a little sloppily and moaning into your mouth. 

He started rocking in his seat to meet your movements and his belt jingled slightly with the motion. 

His hips bucked back and forth, thrusting deep inside of you and crashing against your g-spot again and again. 

You released his hair and gripped his shoulder for leverage and your other hand slammed against the car window, leaving a near perfect handprint in the condensation you’d both created. 

He pulled back from your lips and moved his hands back to your hips, using them to move you up and down around him. 

Your mouth fell open as wanton moans left your lips and you let him guide your body how he wanted you. Your knees clamped around his thighs and your eyes fluttered closed.

“No,” he panted, manoeuvring you up and down. “Look at me while I fuck you.” 

Slamming hard against your cervix your eyes darted back open, wide and practically black. 

You could feel your arousal leaking down your legs and a combination of the wine and lust caused you to feel light headed. 

“Fuck, Spencer, I’m close.” You whined, gripping the collars of his shirt. 

“Fuck, so am I.” He looked conflicted by this. 

He wanted to come while he was inside of you, more so than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He was wearing a condom but he was still scared by the thought. 

Needing to get you to your peak before he reached his, he moved his hand under your dress and rubbed your clit with his thumb. 

Your whole body jerked, clenching around him and it was almost enough to send Spencer spiralling. 

“Come for me angel, please come for me.” He held his breath, hoping that might stave off his orgasm. 

You hummed and moaned as he continued thrusting inside of you and the added pleasure of his thumb pressing against your clit caused your orgasm to bubble in your chest. 

A moan wracked your whole body as you came, squeezing so tightly around Spencer’s cock that it was impossible for him to hold back. 

With your orgasm still washing through you, Spencer’s hips jut up hard and his head fell to your shoulder again as he came inside the condom. 

“Fuck,” he panted. “Fuck.” 

His cock twitched inside of you as you rocked back and forth on him lazily while you both rode out your highs. 

Spencer felt partially relieved yet suddenly flooded with remorse. 

He helped you off of him and over to the passengers seat where your arousal leaked into the fabric of the chair. 

He didn’t look at you, he stared down into his lap at his slowly softening dick as though it had betrayed him. 

“Spence?” You whispered, squeezing your thighs together to try and stop the mess on Spencer’s chair. 

He didn’t respond, he just kept staring at his crotch. 

You sighed and reached over the console and removed the condom from his limp dick before tying a knot in the end. 

“Condoms are really safe.” You whispered again. 

“Are you on any kind of birth control?” He croaked, still not looking up at you. 

“No.” You shook your head. “But condoms are really safe.” 

“Ninety eight percent.” He mumbled. 

“What?” 

“They are ninety eight percent effective. But taking into account human error it brings that down to about eighty five in reality. Which means fifteen out of a hundred people who use condoms as their only form of birth control are likely to get pregnant.” His voice was so emotionless it scared you a little. 

“Spence, it’ll be ok.” You gently placed your hand on his arm and he suddenly looked up at you. 

Even in the dark you could see the tears behind his eyes. 

“I can’t have another kid.” 

“Of course. I’m not ready for kids either.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I don’t mean I can’t have another kid right now. I mean I don’t ever want another child.” 

His words hit you like a wave. That once sentence sobered you up like an IV filled with caffeine. 

“Ever.” You croaked, slumping back into your chair. “As in…”

“Ever.” He sighed. “Daisy’s a teenager and Lily will be one too before I know it. And running around after toddlers in my thirties was one thing but it’s another entirely to be doing it in my forties. I don’t want any more kids.” 

You cleared your throat and turned to stare out of the window so he wouldn’t see the tears in your eyes. 

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” Your voice betrayed your sadness. 

“I don’t…I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I've not thought about it. My divorce has only been finalised a few months. Until I met you I never thought I’d ever date again.” 

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. 

This wasn’t a conversation that needed to happen now. You’d just started dating, it wasn’t important now, right? 

You didn’t want to ruin what you and Spencer had right now for the sake of some phantom future. 

“Ok.” You nodded, belting yourself in the car. 

“Ok?” He frowned at you. 

“Ok, let’s go.” You turned back to him and he suddenly became aware his dick was still hanging out of his pants. 

He quickly tucked himself away and buckled his belt. 

“Are we ok?” He asked softly before doing up his seat belt. 

“Yeah.” You forced yourself to smile. “We don’t need to worry about stuff like that now.”

“Right. Sure.” He nodded with a slight frown as he started the engine. 

The two of you were silent the whole drive back to your apartment and it was a stifled kind of silence. The tension was palpable, making the air around you thick and heavy, almost choking you on it. 

You watched the passing cars outside the window. You stared intently until DC became nothing more than a blur behind your eyes. 

Eventually after what felt like a lifetime trapped inside the car, he pulled up outside your building. You practically flung yourself from the vehicle, trying to ignore your sticky inner thighs. 

Spencer quickly shut off the engine and joined you in the street outside your building. He was tentative as he moved closer to you, cupping your face tenderly in his large hands. 

“We have an expiration date, don’t we?” You croaked, tears instantly pooling behind your eyes. 

“I don’t know.” He confessed. “Maybe.” 

“You really never want more kids?” A tear escaped your eye and you cursed yourself for it. 

He sighed loudly, moving his hands down your face and onto the sides of your neck. His touch was featherlight, barely ghosting over your skin. 

“I really don’t know Y/N.” His bottom lip quivered a little. “I never imagined having anymore, especially with my girls getting older now. I’m not going to stand here and lie to you and say I might change my mind one day because I don’t know if I will. Maybe I will, but I don’t know. And I don’t want to get your hopes up and say I will when I just don’t know. 

But I don’t want to lose you, not like this. And I know it’s probably really selfish of me to ask but can we just like, put a pin in it for now? Deal with it another day? I’m not ready for whatever this is between us to be over. I’m already in over my head here, I can’t lose you.” 

A few more tears escaped your eyes and you could tell Spencer was close to losing it himself. 

He wished you were the mother of his children. He wished you were the one he married. His wished time and circumstance had been on his side but he couldn’t change any of that. 

But he could potentially stop you from walking away. 

“It’s a pretty big pin.” You replied with a sniff. 

“I know.” He nodded sadly. 

“But I’m not ready for whatever this is to be over either.” You confessed. 

You might live to regret that decision. You might only end up prolonging the pain. But any minute spent with Spencer Reid was worth any hurt it might cause in the long run. 

Spencer’s body seemed to relax at your words and he threaded his hands around the back of your neck, edging his face closer to yours. 

“Y/N?” He whispered, leaning his forehead against yours and his breath fanned across your face. 

“Yes, Spence?” 

“You know I adore you right?” It was the closest he could bring himself to say what he really wanted to say. 

Adore was the most he could allow himself to admit out loud although he was fairly certain you knew what he really meant. 

Your lip tugged at the corner and you wrapped your arms around his waist. 

“I know.” You murmured, lips almost ghosting over his. “I adore you too, Spencer.” 

He closed the small gap between your lips and kissed you with everything he had. 

He spoke silent love songs and sonnets that died in your mouth. But he told himself that you knew. He was sure that you knew. 

When the kiss broke he stroked an errant hair back off your face and watched the way the moonlight danced in your eyes. 

It should have been you, he thought regretfully. It should have been you I got to have a life with. 

But he didn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t speak those words because they seemed far too cruel. 

Instead he stepped back from you and stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pockets. 

“I promise you I am going to get Daisy to her mom’s next weekend whatever it takes. And you and I are going to Rossi’s cabin.” 

“I can’t wait.” Your smile was full of melancholy and he was sure his own reflected it back. 

He took a step backwards, closer to his car.

“See you Monday.” He nodded, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“See you Monday.” You repeated, watching him retreat back to his car and slide in the driver’s seat with a heavy heart. 

***

Spencer was exhausted by the time he arrived home, both physically and mentally. 

He knew the right thing to do was to let you go. It wasn’t fair on either of you for him to string you along when chances were he couldn’t give you what you wanted. 

He was being selfish, he knew that. He knew it was unfair for him to keep this up. But his heart wouldn’t allow him to let go. 

You’d gotten in. You’d snuck past the defences he’d carefully crafted in the wake of Maeve’s affair. You’d bombarded his fortress, snuck in without him even realising his strongholds had been breached.

You’d taken up roots and they grew like vines around the shards of his thread bear heart. For now they were holding him together, but your clutches would only grow stronger, squeezing and squeezing until his heart all but turned to dust.

You were a part of him, embedded deep in his soul. So even if it was selfish, he couldn’t let you go. 

He knew he should. But he couldn’t. 

He sat in his car on the drive, silent tears streaming down his face unwilling to go inside just yet. 

Time passed by slowly. He didn’t know how long he sat there in the dark before he wiped his eyes, put on a practiced fake smile and exited the car. 

His footsteps trailed heavily up the porch steps and he nudged open the door as quietly as possible, hoping at this late hour his daughter’s would be asleep. 

The light was on the living room and he didn’t have to go far to find his children or their sitters. 

Luke was sprawled on the couch, feet resting over the arm. Lily was curled up on top of him, head resting on his chest and he had a lazy arm slung around her while they both snored peacefully. 

Roxy and Taco were curled up together at the foot of the couch. 

Garica was asleep in the armchair, head lolled back against the headrest and Daisy lay soundly sleeping in her lap, head buried into the crook of the bubbly blonde's neck. 

His heart soared in his chest at the sight of them like this. His kids were masters of distraction and very rarely did anyone sitting them get them to bed. 

He hadn’t expected Luke and Garcia to be any different. 

The girls had tactics that stopped working on Spencer long ago. They knew how to wear adults down until they were too tired to convince his errant daughters to go to bed. 

Spencer couldn’t help but smile in pride at how Lily and Daisy could outsmart two FBI agents. 

He crept further into the room towards the couch and crouched down next to Luke and Lily. He reached out and stroked Lily’s curly hair off her face, her lips were drawn into a small smile that made Spencer feel warm inside. 

Luke stirred a little, Spencer could see his eyes moving beneath his lids and then they slowly opened. 

When they landed on Spencer he frowned a little, looking down at Lily before looking back at him. 

“Don’t feel bad, they’re too smart for their own good.” Spencer whispered. 

“Wonder where they get that from.” Luke croaked. “They wore us down.”

“It’s ok, really.” Spencer smiled. 

Lily made a little humming sound before her eyes fluttered and opened. She looked at Spencer, blinking a few times before she lifted her head from Luke’s chest. 

“Daddy!” She instantly beamed, shuffling to sit up on Luke’s stomach, no doubt winding him in the process. 

She got to her feet and collapsed into Spencer’s open arms. 

“Did you have a nice time with Uncle Luke and Aunty Penelope?” He kept his voice low to not disturb Garica and Daisy although he’d have to wake them up eventually. 

“Yes! We had lots of fun and Taco and Roxy are the best of friends.” She giggled, pulling herself from his arms and pointing at the two dogs who were now awake but still stayed close to each other. 

“I don’t know if he’s neutered and they would have some very strange babies so let’s keep an eye on them.” Spencer told Luke. 

“It’s all good, Roxy’s been done.” Luke chuckled as he sat up on the couch. 

“What’s neutered?” Lily frowned.

“Nothing, pumpkin.” Spencer ruffled her unruly hair before getting back up and moving over to the armchair. 

Daisy was a much heavier sleeper than her sister so he was able to cradle her legs and head and  scoop her up into his arms without waking her. 

“I’m going to put them to bed.” Spencer whispered, motioning for Lily to follow him. 

“I’ll wake Penelope.” Luke nodded. 

Spencer headed for the stairs with Daisy in his arms and Lily gripping the back of his shirt. He was an expert at manoeuvring with two children attached to him and made quick work of the stairs. 

“Go get into bed and I’ll be in in a second ok?” He instructed Lily. 

“But I’m not tired!” She whined. 

“Yes, pumpkin, you are.” He smirked. “Go get into bed.” 

“Fine.” She huffed, turning on her heels and scampering to her room. 

At least Luke and Garcia had managed to talk to the girls into their pajamas, it was more than most could do. 

Nudging Daisy’s door open with his hip, he carried his daughter into her room, pulled back the sheets with one hand and laid her down on the mattress.

She stirred a little but didn’t wake. 

He covered her up with the sheet and bowed his head to kiss her forehead. 

“I love you baby girl.” He whispered as he slowly backed out of the room. 

Lily was a little harder to get down, proclaiming she wasn’t tired when she could barely keep her eyes open. 

It took twenty minutes and two stories before she finally gave over to sleep and Spencer was able to leave her. 

He found Luke and Garcia slightly bleary eyed in the kitchen, three cups of coffee on the island. 

He slid into one of the free chairs and took a grateful sip. 

“How was your dinner at Rossi’s, boy wonder?” Garcia grinned suggestively at him, eyeing him up and down. 

Spencer looked down at his attire and it was only then he noticed his tie was off to the side, his shirt was still untucked from his pants and his belt was twisted where he’d done it up in a hurry. 

His cheeks burnt instantly as he looked back at Garcia sheepishly. 

“Cut me some slack, I never have time for sex.” He grumbled, lifting the mug to his lips and letting the warmth comfort him. 

“I mean we kind of figured what you were doing. You texted us almost two hours ago that you were leaving Rossi’s.” Luke snickered. “So you had a good night?”

“For the most part.” He couldn’t help the sigh that left his lips, causing his shoulders to slump. “It got a bit tense at the end.” 

“Tense how?” Garcia raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. 

“We got onto the conversation of the future. I don’t know, I think we want different things.” He swallowed thickly. 

“Because you’ve already done the marriage and kids thing.” Luke nodded. 

“Yeah and it didn’t work out so well for me. So I’m not exactly in a hurry to repeat it.” He shook his head. “It’s fine, we’re fine…what?” 

Luke and Garcia were exchanging slightly guilty looks that cut Spencer off his trail of thought. 

They looked at him sheepishly, trying to decide who would be the one to speak. 

“Uh…” Garcia toyed with her necklace. “Daisy knows about Y/N.” 

Spencer almost dropped his mug from his hands but just managed to steady it and placed it loudly on the counter.

“Excuse me? You told my thirteen year old daughter I’m dating?” 

“No, no, we didn’t.” Luke was quick to speak up. “She saw Y/N leaving the house. Said she saw you kiss her. She drew the conclusions.” 

“And she talked to you about it and not me?” Spencer felt a little saddened by that. 

“She’s happy for you.” Garica tried to cheer him up. “She was super grown-up about the whole thing. I sometimes forget she’s not an adult.”

“S-she is?” Spencer stuttered.

“She just wants you to be happy. And we told her you are.” Luke smiled softly at him. 

“I was really not ready for my kids to know I’m dating.” He leant his elbows on the counter and put his head in his hands.

“If it helps, she did agree not to tell Lily.” Garcia shrugged. 

“Until the next time Lily steals her favourite sweater or annoys her in any way and it will be the first thing she blurts out.” Spencer exhaled, lifting his head back out of his hands. “Thanks for handling it. There was a lot I didn’t think through before I dove head first into this dating thing.” 

“Tell us about it. We did not think through how hard it would be hiding our relationship from the team.” Luke chuckled.

“Yeah about that,” Spencer offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m pretty sure they all know. Rossi mentioned it.” 

Luke and Garcia looked at each other wide eyed.

“We shouldn’t be so surprised. They are profilers.” Garcia shrugged in defeat, slipping out of the chair. “I’m going to use the ladies room and then I need to go home. It’s late and I’m exhausted.”

With Garcia gone, Luke helped Spencer clear up the coffee cups before they went through to the living room where Luke got his coat on. 

“I don’t know how you do it, man.” Luke smiled wistfully at his friend as he fished his car keys out of his pocket. He grabbed Roxy’s leash from the coat rack and whistled to garner her attention. 

“Do what?” 

“Any of it.” Luke laughed as Roxy padded over and allowed Luke to clip her leash to her collar. “Dating’s hard enough without corralling those two girls. You’re doing great, you know that right?” 

Spencer smiled but sometimes it didn’t feel like it. Sometimes it felt like he was being torn in two directions, between his family and his personal life and he was sure at some point he would rip down the middle. 

“Thanks,” he said rather than launch into a self-pity rant. 

Garcia rejoined them and Luke helped her into her pink denim jacket before she hugged Spencer tightly. He waved at Luke as he opened the door and they stepped out on the porch with Roxy in tow. 

“Thanks again guys, I really appreciate you sitting the girls.” he leant on the door.

“Any time! I just adore those little angels!” Garcia beamed as brightly as she could considering how tired she was. 

“See ya soon, super dad.” Luke winked at him as they turned and headed down the front steps. 

Spencer shut the door, chuckling to himself. 

He had no idea what would happen between the two of you, if there were even still a two of you. But as long as he had his daughters, he knew everything would be ok. 

Spencer could conquer anything life had to throw at him as long as his two girls were happy and healthy. 

But why did the thought of losing you make him feel like he could crumble into a million pieces and never be able to put himself back together? 

@andiebeaword @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @foxy-eva @kbakery @chrissyflo3 @simxican @aysixdy @givemeth @its-yagirl-raelynn @loonalockley

[tweeterwilbury]

I Am Looking Directly At That Old Man Into His Beautiful Brown Eyes

[nerendus]

Dateability/Fuckability of every Demon's Souls boss.

Because I have refined tastes, of course, and I am so bored that I have to be doing something.

Phalanx — Literally look at these guys. The sludge polycule is so guarded and paranoid, that they are all shielded and wielding spears to attack anyone coming close to trying to join them. And whilst this will contradict with what I have to say about a certain boss later on, I personally do not find sludge monsters attractive. 3/10.

Tower Knight — Okay, I like big enemies. They usually are very attractive, but I gotta be honest. The man's a little too big for my tastes. If I was 8'10, I would reconsider, but as a measly 5'3 lass, I would not be able to handle the overwhelming stress of going out on a stroll with him in public and everyone pointing and laughing at how short I am. 5/10.

Armor Spider — She is very beautiful, but insectoids usually aren't my thing (Garden of Eyes being the main exception). She's also constantly vomiting flammable blood everywhere, and that's a bit of a turnoff. However, her boss fight has a fun rhythm to it, so if she ever wants to go out dancing, I'm free Friday. 4/10.

Flamelurker — Listen, this guy is attractive. He has this weird, awesome vest jacket that's probably his rock flesh. But fuck him. Playing a melee playthrough and not having magic makes his fight so fucking miserable. At least I read on the wiki to go grab some sticky white stuff to make it not so bad. 2/10.

DRAGON GOD — HIIIIIIIIIIIMMMM!!! He's so strong, and beautiful, and muscular, and has so many eyes. He kept fisting me through the fight which just makes me love him more. I have normal thoughts and feelings about dragons. 100/10.

Fool's Idol — She is one of the first characters I ever saw related to this game, and I just instantly fell in love with her. I have a sinking feeling she'd probably call me slurs, just because Latria is either very right wing or very left wing. Can't be any other way. 10/10.

Maneaters — No. 0/10.

Old Monk — This dude was so cool for the literal five seconds he was on screen. When the boss fight ended, I just kept looking up at the throne like “Okay, c'mon! Where's phase two?” Phase two never came. I never truly got to fight the King in Yellow. 5/10.

Adjudicator — This guy's just silly. Literally, what is he doing in this room. Who's the bird. Nice tongue game, though. 8/10.

Old Hero — YES. HOT MAN. TATOOES! SCARS! PIERCINGS! MUSCLES! THAT FUCKING HAIR CUT! He'd be an amazing lover, I just know it. 10/10.

Sadly, this is the end due to Tumblr's image limit, second part will be reblogged.

[hopefullyababe]

calling all fiddlefans to vote mcgucket in the fuckable old man tournament

on this blessed fiddleford friday may we come together to vote fiddleford in the fuckable old man competition. those of you who have not turned in your vote, consider voting mcgucket!!!

[vote mcgucket here!]

may we hope for a future where this man reigns supreme as the most fuckable!!!!

[caiuscassiuss]

Birched⎮D. Sicheng (M) P.2

Description: There was something that lurked beneath that pretty boy smile of Dong Sicheng— something dark, something dangerous… something you knew you would get pulled into once you got too curious. (Or, your ill-tempered coworker turns out to be your dominant.)

Part One is HERE 

Genre: BDSM/ enemies to lovers winwin! smut | romance | angst WC: 11k+ Warnings: graphic smut (dom! sicheng + sub! reader, BDSM (Bondage, Dominance, Submission, and Masochism) choking, rough sex), taboo relationship, blatant sexism, TW: mentions of an abusive relationship

(A/N: Thank you to my amazing beta @won-markiepooh-woo​ for helping me. This wouldn’t have been possible without you!)

Saturday February 1st, 2020

Y/N’s Apartment

10 AM HKT

The little jingle of a FaceTime call echoed through your silent apartment, and you snuggled into the sheets of your bed.

“Hello? Kun huang?”

A flash black hair and a sweet smile appeared within the view of the camera.

“Huang Gua!” you exclaimed.

Instantly, the happy smile slipped off his face and transformed into an annoyed expression.

“Can you not? We’ve been over this,” he complained.

“Oh come on! It’s so funny,” you jibed.

“It’s not.”

“You only used to eat cucumbers for years. You earned that name yourself.”

“So?” he snorted. “You used to eat shrimp chips as a kid. I don’t call you shrimp, do I?” A devious expression flashed over his face.

“Kun Huang…” you warned.

“Maybe I should start now. Right, shrimp?”

“Oh my god, stop!”

“No, shrimp. I can keep going, you know.”

“Okay, fine, fine. I submit!” You laughed.

He chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

“So how are you now, Hendery? How’s your mom and dad? Oh my gosh, Hengwai!”

“I’m doing fine, as are mom and dad. Hengwai misses her little sister. They all want you to call them more. Sometimes I think they miss you more than me.” He pouted.

“Awww, poor baby. But give them my well wishes too! I miss everyone so much,” you said. For some reason, tears welled in your eyes.

Obviously, Hendery could tell you were about to start crying and started to panic.

“Y/N? Talk to me. Oh, you know I can’t take it if you start crying!”

He never really could. Even after many years spent together in your childhood, he was still awkward as hell around your tears.

You waved him off, swiping the tears. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just so lonely around here.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m fine! I swear!”

“Literally, one word and I’m on a flight to Hong Kong. I’m not playing,” he said gravely.

“Hendery, no. Besides, don’t you have some farms to run? I would never expect you to do that.”

“One word, Y/N. Just one.” He looked you dead in the eye. 

You looked away. “Anyways, how are your farms going?”

A smile split his face and his eyes sparked. “Guess who just got their hundredth farm?”

Your jaw dropped. “No way, you’re fucking joking! One hundred?! I’m so proud of you! Kun Huang!” you squealed.

“Yeah, I know right? It’s so weird knowing so many people depend on me for their livelihoods now. I get sort of scared when I sit back and think about it…”

As Kun Huang went on about his day to day troubles in agriculture, a small, wistful smile played upon your lips. Why didn’t you just stay back and fall in love with Kun Huang? It would have been so easy. Being with Kun Huang was like breathing, and you could’ve spent the rest of your life like this. No Minghao, no BDSM, and most importantly, no… him.

Dolos.

Master?

Sicheng.

You hated how smoothly the puzzle pieces fit together. Sicheng always left early on Fridays, even though he always stayed late. At office parties, he lacked a significant other by his side, even when many would drop everything if he so much as winked at them.

It was hard not to think about him. You had started to feel an increase in your heartbeat whenever you thought of Dolos before Wednesday. You had originally wanted to know who was behind Dolos’ mask and if he returned those feelings. But, fuck, he would be so mad if he found out who you were.

Not to mention, how humiliating it would be if he knew. You had staked everything on being a cold-hearted bitch when Sicheng took particular pleasure in sneering at “the inherent submissiveness” of her gender. So if he found out Dove, who liked to be slapped during sex, and her, the la dame sans merci of the company, were the same person, it would destroy any chance of credibility you may have had in his eyes.

This was all one big mess. One big, gigantic and catastrophic mess. For so long you had rigorously kept your professional and personal lives apart, but the universe had conspired against you: to make the best dominant you ever had to also be your work nemesis.

Some higher being was laughing at you, you knew it.

Sunday February 2nd, 2020

The Dong Family Villa on the Shek O Peninsula, Hong Kong

1 PM HKT

A curl of disgust twisted his lips as he looked down on the lawn party going down below him. 

“Don’t you look happy, Sicheng.”

Sicheng acknowledged ChengCheng out of the corner of his eye and went back to glaring at the party in contempt.

“This is not how I wanted today to go.”

His childhood friend snorted and plopped himself down in a lawn chair, contemplating the blond haired man.

Sicheng spun around and picked up his glass of wine, downing the drink in one gulp. He settled himself next to ChengCheng with a frown.

“I just wanted to come here and fucking relax, but, no, my parents just had to use it for the fucking party. Fete. What-fucking-ever.” He exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair. 

Chengcheng looked over the balcony railing curiously. “Looks like a luncheon to me.”

“Fuck off.” 

“Christ, what’s up your ass?”

“Just some work stuff. It’s nothing.”

The brown-haired man frowned. “Then why aren’t you at Black’s then? Nothing can’t be resolved by a good fuck.”

At the mention of the club, a pained expression flashed over Sicheng’s face and his knuckles inadvertently tightened around the stem of his glass. The tension that had been in shoulders wounded itself up even more and this clued ChengCheng in.

Something other than work had Sicheng in knots. Very rarely did the blond man ever show he was angry—not even when his father lashed him as a child, nor when the family forced him to work for the company—so he was evidently very troubled by this ‘something’.

Sicheng’s phone rang and broke the silence. The man himself fished it out of his back pocket irritatedly.

“Excuse me for a moment, ChengCheng. I need to take this phone call.”

“Sicheng speaking,” he spoke as he stalked into the study.

“Hello sir, how are you—”

“Did you get the information or not?” Sicheng asked, cutting off the family’s retainer. His leg bounced, as he sat against the desk and he ran a weary hand through his hair.

“A-ah, unfortunately, Black’s doesn’t record pseudonyms digitally or on paper…”

“Fuck!” Sicheng yelled. Mr. Lau just had to be fucking careful, he thought irritably.

“... However, sir, I was able to obtain a membership list since the club was digitally updating their monthly list. I then compared it to the list from the previous month and found several missing names, indicative of them terminating their membership. I have compiled a dossier of several females that match your description of Dove and forwarded it to you.” 

Sicheng quickly logged into his laptop, his blood rushing through his ears. The identity of the most perfect submissive he’s ever had could literally be sitting in his inbox right now.

With trembling fingers, he opened the attachment.

Wang Fang, age 25—

“Sir?”

The blond man glared at his phone. “Thank you for your service, Liu Wei. Goodbye.”

Wang Fang was a tall, spindly woman with a face like a horse. The policy of privacy by masks was kind to her at Black’s. However, the jaw was all wrong and he knew in his gut she was not his Dove.

He scrolled to the next page. Leila Williams, age 27—British expat, was absolutely gorgeous. But, even through the screen, she exuded an unshakable aura of self-assurance. A dominatrix, probably, so that excluded her from his search.

He went through 2 or 3 more documents; each one too plain or too ordinary to be Dove.

Y/N L/N, age XX.

Sicheng blinked rapidly, sagging into his office chair.

Y/N is—was—a member at Black’s?

The picture provided was the one from her LinkedIn profile: a professional headshot with a grey background. She was smiling tightly, coldly—just as she was in the office. The other image provided instantly tented his pants.

It was her, clearly on a night out. She was in attire that flattered her body and he could easily see himself running his hands over her. Y/N looked fucking fantastic with her unbound hair, so unlike her tight updos at the office. However, what drew his eyes was the most vibrant shade of red painted on her lips, which was parted slightly as she was laughing.

He recognized that lipstick. The same shade of firetruck red had been smeared across Dove’s cheeks many, many times. YSL Rouge Satin Lipstick—the one he told her he liked and she, like a good girl, had religiously worn.

Could that mean…?

Glancing at the side bar, he noticed there was one more page left in the dossier. Please let the next one be Dove…

His hopes were instantly deflated. Kwon Myunghee was too old and too artificial to be his gorgeous submissive.

With his heart in his throat, he scrolled back to Y/N’s page. Enlarging the picture of her laughing, he put a hand over her eyes and leaned back to observe.

Sicheng would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that mouth. Red fuck me! lipstick on an equally fuckable mouth parted in pleasure, or screaming his name while strung up on a cross. He would be an absolute fool if he did not recognize that neck, covered in purple and red hickies or his fingermarks. An absolute damn fool.

Yet, at this moment, he would’ve given anything to be one.

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Y/N was… Dove? And Dove… was Y/N?

So why did she leave? How did she end up at Black’s? Did she know? Did she end up there on purpose? Why—

Eventually, all the questions piled up in his head until he was left winded. Sicheng buried his head in his hands, pulling at his blond locks and breathing heavily. Something was bubbling in his chest and—

He started to laugh. He cackled, howled, at his shitstorm of misfortune, luck, and confusion until he was sprawled undignified on the Oriental carpet, staring up at the intricate wood carvings on the ceiling.

Monday February 3rd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

6 PM HKT

Shutting the door to your office, you collapsed into your chair and massaged your temples.

Today was the day Mr. Lee had left the office, leaving his official resignation. The top sales officials (including an off-color, brooding Sicheng) gathered in his office to congratulate him and give him an official goodbye. What was supposed to be a quick meet-up turned into afternoon drinking when Mr. Lee pulled out the good liquor from a secret cabinet underneath his desk. You accepted a drink with a grimace, but Sicheng declined and remained uncharacteristically detached the entire time. Granted, you too were detached from the conversation, uncomfortable with the lewd retirement and mistress jeers spouted by the older sales officials as they steadily got drunker and less inhibited.

As the time ended and a consensus to leave had been reached, you thought you could escape and actually work... that was until Mr. Lee walked alongside you and stuck himself in the elevator with you.

The bastard had the audacity to grope your ass in the crowded elevator. You shivered, remembering the awful and grimy feeling as his hot breath whispered in your ear that he was available any time for a “catch-up”.

This day was a mess. You had a shit-ton of work to catch up due to that fucking meeting and you had been sexually harrassed; you were also anxious about the promotion and, on top of that, you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Sicheng.

Huffing, you ate some red-bean bread as you powered up your desktop. This was fucking ridiculous. You knew Sicheng had noticed your odd, reticent behavior around him and this skittishness was impeding your ability to work. Well, no better way to forget about your problems was to solve other ones at work.

For the next two hours, you slogged through work emails and analytics as the sun set over Kowloon Bay. Your hair had been unbound and your blazer had been messily thrown over the back of your chair as your work progressed. Since most of the office had left by now, you figured it was safe to relax in your office.

It was night time by the time you had finished your last project and you sat back in your chair, staring at the skyline. Was this how your life destined to be? At the top, surrounded by the comforts of life, but alone?

A knock sounded at the door, jolting you out of your thoughts.

Who the fuck would be at the office at 8 PM?

“Come in.”

You caught sight of a golden head of hair slipping inside of your office and you sighed. Of course, it was Sicheng.

He took a seat unbidden and stared at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. His eyes roamed the contours and curves of your features.

You arched an eyebrow. “Can I help you with anything, Sicheng? I’m about to leave the office.”

He fought with himself inwardly, his mouth opened and closed several times before he finally settled on what he wanted to say. “I’d like to ask a question.”

You adjusted yourself in the chair. “Feel free.”

From his blazer’s pocket, he pulled out an aged sheet of paper and slowly opened it, before setting it in front of you. Sicheng settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his lap, the lights of the Hong Kong skyline playing across his face and making his sharp features stand out.

“Do you recognize this?”

The blood literally froze in your veins as your eyes caught sight of your handwriting in the letter, along with the tear-stains that blotched the paper and the text. Your heartbeat rose to your throat and all you felt was the blood rushing in your ears.

“Y/N?” he prodded.

You gulped and straightened out your top, your fingers trembling as you did so.

“No, I don’t. W-who’s Dolos? Why does this concern me?” you lied, stumbling a bit.

He watched you, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.

“Don’t lie to me, Dove.”

“I-Dove? My name is Y/N,” you replied shakily. Grabbing your purse, you hurriedly stuffed all your personal belongings in while avoiding catching his seething stare. “Excuse me, I’d really like to get home.”

His jaw clenched and his palm twitched as he saw you had no desire to come clean.

“Look at me.”

Unthinking, you ceased all movements, put your trembling hands in your lap and looked up at him. “Sir?”

Your eyes widened and you slapped a hand over your mouth; your eyes darted around the room in search for an escape. You felt akin to a caged animal as he grinned meanly, incongruous on his cherubic features.

“That’s what I thought.”

“No—”

“You thought you could get away with this? You thought you could fucking play me?!”

You were aghast at seeing Dolos and Sicheng finally merging together in front of your eyes, and the result was grotesquely beautiful. His grin slipped off his face and twisted into a malevolent sneer. The naked fire in Dolos' gaze was finally unveiled in Sicheng’s eyes and, for the first time, you could see who Sicheng really was.

“Answer me, Dove—Y/N! Fuck, I don’t even know who you are anymore!” Sicheng shouted, running his hands through his hair while he paced around your office.

You stared unblinkingly at the bookshelf at the corner of the room. Fuck, this was all your nightmares coming true. You were going to be ruined and he was going to laugh on and on now that he knew you and Dove were the same.

“It was never supposed to end up like this,” you whispered hoarsely, tears welling up underneath your lashes.

“How was it supposed to end, huh? Fuck, you strung me along for six months—half a fucking year—”

“I didn’t fucking know, you ass! I wouldn’t have touched you with a ten foot pole if I knew who you were!” you hissed.

He laughed harshly. “You did a hell of a lot more than touch me, Dove. But after you got your fix, you pretended that this never happened.”

“You would’ve done the same, so this never did happen. Walk out right now and this will have never happened and we can go back to our normal, spiteful dynamic—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, if you think—”

“You don’t understand, Sicheng! Can’t you see I’ll be ruined by this? That we’ll both be ruined by this? I can’t afford that!”

“So you thought to just leave me? With just a fucking letter and nothing else?”

“I didn’t know, okay! I didn’t know what to do!”

“You lied to me, Y/N. Fucking lied to my face!”

“I had to! Because you and I were never supposed to find out!”

Sicheng moved to yell, but clamped his jaw shut. “You lying, cheating, slut,” he seethed.

Your mouth trembled for a moment at the sheer vitriol that sprouted from his lips, but you stood tall. “You know what? Maybe I am. But I can live with that if you’d just fucking let it go!”

“You think I’d be able to let go of this?!” He cupped your jaw roughly and pulled you into a hungry kiss.

It wasn’t a smooth kiss—not one with even a hint of finesse. Lips smashed into lips, with tongue and teeth grappling against each other as his hands bruised your wrists.

Your back hit your desk and he swept your belongings off the desk haphazardly, letting go of your chin to lift you onto the desk with no effort.

“Forget my tongue on your skin? Forget my hands in between your thighs?” he murmured between hungry dips of his tongue. “I’ll fucking show you.”

He kissed down your neck, stopping to nip at your collarbone, and left a trail of stinging lovebites all over your shoulders. Sicheng’s hips pinned you into the desk as he popped each button of your blouse, hurriedly ripping it to the side to leave more hickies upon your chest and breasts.

You moaned as he pushed the cups of your bra down, using his wicked tone to swipe complicated patterns but never once touching your tips. Finally, he nipped at them hard causing you to squeal embarrassingly.

“S-sicheng,” you whimpered, gripping his hair as he pushed up your skirt.

The blond man carelessly pulled your underwear aside and thrusted two fingers in.

“Fuck!” you gasped, as you buried your red face in the crook of his neck.

You couldn’t see it, but you knew he was smirking smugly so your hands drifted down to his tented trousers and gripped his erection hard.

“You wanna fucking play? Let’s play, baby,” he grunted and hastily unbuckled his belt. His glorious cock sprung up in the space between your thighs.

Sicheng pushed your back down onto the desk, leaving him to tower over you. Without warning, he roughly pushed his cock into your slit.

You both groaned at the pleasurable friction. Fuck, how could you forget this? His length stretching you out deliciously? His broad shoulders heaving in exertion?

He bottomed out slowly, stilling as his hips pressed into yours. A sly smile glanced over his face as his hand drifted over your neck.

“Sicheng! You asshole, fucking move!” you said to him, thrusting your own hips weakly for effect.

His devilish smile split his angelic features, and he shook his head. “Wrong name, Dove.”

His hips pushed into yours roughly and you whined, scratching at the edges of your desk. Sicheng withdrew just as quickly and thrusted in again, watching the lust ripple upon your expression. He had missed the way your left eyebrow ticked when he brushed against your G-Spot, your nose scrunching as you clasped his shoulders. Finally seeing your full expressions fulfilled something in him that he didn’t care to reflect upon.

After deep, staccato thrusts that had you gasping for breath, he settled into a smooth rhythm. You slapped a hand over your mouth as your back bowed, thrusting your breasts up to his hungry perusal. Unable to resist temptation—the godless Tantalus he was—he settled his plump lips over your nipples, raised his eyes to yours, and sucked.

Even with your palm practically stuffed in your lips, your keen echoed around the room loudly and slick dripped down your thighs, making the desk underneath your bottom sticky and wet.

He tsked, lifting his head up and looked deeply into your eyes. A slight grin settled over his lips and Sicheng tilted his head mockingly. “Oh sweet girl, haven’t you forgotten we’re in an office?” His eyes darkened even more. “I’ll have to keep you quiet, then, whore.”

His featherlight touches on your rib cage was replaced with a bruising grasp to your throat, stealing the air out of you. His wrist settled into your collar bone and his slender fingers mimicked playing the piano, placing pressure on different parts on your throat to an unheard rhythm. The blood rushed to your ears, the dizzying sensation of it blurring your sight and distorting your thoughts. The veins on his forehand, twisting and rippling in the light, caught your vision and he moved—ever so roughly—into you.

Sicheng set a new pace, stretching your legs even wider and your head fell back onto the desk with a thunk. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe; you just felt the numbing sort of pleasure that radiated from your pussy.

“Fucking slut,” he gasped. “You’ve bewitched me, haven’t you? Wrapped yourself around my brain and haven’t let me so much as breathe without thinking about you.” His grip tightened around your neck. “I’ll show you.”

Suddenly, your phone on the floor rang and you both froze. He released the grip on your neck and bent down.

His back was like one of those old sketches the masters of the age practiced with, the light played upon his back and his muscles rippled under his skin—belying the power hidden within him.

“Who the fuck is Kunhuang,” he said flatly, wrath bubbling in his words.

You sat up. “H-he’s a friend. Nobody. No one.” 

“See you soon, love,” he read mockingly. “Call me when you have time.”

Sicheng crowded into your space, your eyes jumping around to avoid looking at his incensed face.

“Kunhuang.” He spat like it was filth upon his lips. “You left me for him?”

Feeling his constrained fierceness and his frantic gaze, you pushed harshly at his chest and bared your teeth at him. “It’s not like that. He’s my childhood friend!”

His rage bubbled to the surface and his nostrils flared. It was all the warning you had before he suddenly took your hips and flipped, forcing a scream out of you.

Your chest and breasts now pressed against your desk. Sicheng tugged you down to his hips, lifting one of your legs to rest on your desk and exposed your core to him shamefully. 

“I’ll take you from behind like the whore you are,” he stated. His rough tenor the grating upon your ears and scraping upon your skin.

He lined up and thrusted hard and you bit your lip, cheek against your deck and tears streaming down your face. It felt so good to be in his embrace, feeling every vein and ridge of his cock rub against your muscles.

Soon, you felt that feeling rising in your stomach, burning behind his eyelids as your orgasm began to build. His hands grasped your throat and he pulled, bowing your back to his chest and forcing his mouth to yours.

Teeth and tongue clashed and his cock hit this spot in you and you screamed into his mouth, tensing up beneath him as you shuddered painfully.

A grunt left him as he felt your muscles nearly strangle his cock and he only lasted a few, staccato thrusts until his vision went white.

Wednesday, February 13th, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7 AM HKT

You purposely did not look into Sicheng’s office window as you strode briskly down the hall with a coffee in your hand. 

A few days ago felt like a watershed moment, but after you two had caught your breaths, the sheer amount of emotions in the room—frustration, satiation, anger, hunger—weighed upon your lips and forced them shut. He had quickly dressed himself, not saying a word, but he casted a glance in your direction that was undecipherable and left.

You, at the moment, did not know how to feel. Hurt? Angry? Sad? But you settled upon your usual solution: ignoring that anything had happened and resuming the normal.

Alas, the fates were unkind. They neatly disposed of your plans to avoid the man when the two of you were scheduled to meet with other sales heads in the afternoon. Unfortunately, when the time came to be, you and Sicheng were the first ones there.

He studiously avoided looking at you, busying himself by opening up his laptop and flipping to a new page on his legal pad. You ignored him as well, scrolling through the latest news on your webpage. However, as the seconds ticked by, you could not resist resting your eyes upon him. It felt like a damn magnet was pulling your gaze to him.

He looked good today, from the brief glances you stole at him. Freshly shaven, his hair was styled neatly and he was in a dark green, cashmere sweater. Was this your fate? To be shamefully attracted to a man that equally repelled you?

“Interesting.”

The both of you shot a look at the door, where an unrecognizable, lanky man with a proud, straight nose was peering down upon you and swinging a plastic bag in his hand.

“Chengcheng? What the hell are you doing here?”

Completely ignoring Sicheng, he settled his lidded gaze upon you before his eyes lit up in recognition.

“So you’re the one that has shaken him, then.”

Dead silence permeated the room. He looked at the two shocked faces, both ashen. “What? Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? Please. I’d have to be deaf, blind, and dumb to ignore the way you two gravitate to each other.”

Your two quick glances that were meant to be unnoticed clashed, resulting in your eyes meeting. You both turned your eyes away.

Chengcheng snorted, as if that moment confirmed everything for him, and he chucked a bag at Sicheng.

“You forgot your lunch, remember?”

Sicheng’s jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

Once again, awkward silence reigned and ChengCheng’s eyes switched back and forth between you like a particularly exciting tennis match.

“You two need to talk. You’ll both age prematurely at this rate, with the angst you two are producing. Talk.”

He left with a wave, striding down the hall casually and stealing many of your female coworkers’ gazes.

“... He’s right, you know.”

Sicheng’s eyes flicked up to yours and he focused his full attention on you. Intensely, he contemplated you, tongue poking at the sides of his mouth.

“I agree. We can meet—” he cut himself off, looking around surreptitiously. “—at Black’s.”

You sucked your lip in between your teeth. “Fine. Neutral ground.”

He took a good, long look at you, like a man seeing water after seeing nothing but sand. 

“Tonight. At 8.”

Thursday, February 13th, 2020

Black’s

7:50 PM HKT

Strangely enough, you felt comfortable despite the jittery nerves under your skin as you walked into Black’s. 

The receptionist had given you a knowing look as you repeated the guest password, letting you in without question. You strapped on the standard, white lace mask and steeled yourself, opening the mahogany doors.

The club was abnormally busy; the guests and members crowded the couches and loitered on the floor. The quiet string music that could usually be heard was masked by the loud chattering of the people in the room.

“Is that you, Dove?”

You spun around to see the smiling, wizened face of Mr. Liu.

A grin broke out on your face and you took his hands. “Mister Liu! It is wonderful to see you.”

“I am happy to see you as well.” He chuckled with his eyes gleaming fondly at you. “Have you decided to visit this old man?”

Playfully, you lightly smacked his shoulder.

Mr. Liu was an important figure to you. All those months ago, when you arrived at Black’s to be screened, as a potential member and straight out of a relationship with Minghao—broken, shattered, hollow—he took one look at you and said no.

Why? You remembered asking tearfully. Am I not pretty enough? Rich enough?

He searched your pale, wan face, as if seeing the emotional scars Minghao had lashed into you, before sighing.

You shouldn’t be asking me that. Are you enough for yourself?

Confused, you had asked him to elaborate. He sympathetically replied that he could see you were entering the club for the wrong reasons. You were different, he’d said. You looked so innocent that he could not morally allow you into the club, despite the depraved patrons that gained membership. He knew, at the time, entering the club would cripple you.

So, what now? You asked, confused. He said he would keep your file open until you came back ‘at the right time.’

The ‘right time?’

You will know it when it comes.

And somehow, you did. After a few months of picking the pieces of yourself together and stabilizing your life, you had grown into a physically and emotionally healthy person. The “right moment” came and you sat in his quaint little office again, opposite of a smiling Mr. Liu as he stamped his approval.

After chatting a few moments, the volume in the room increased slightly and you frowned.

“Why is it so busy today?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you know what today is?”

“No?”

“Today is the evening before Valentine’s day, dear girl.”

“... Oh.”

New information in hand, you looked at the scene more closely. You could see that some couples in the crowd seemed to curl into each other, the affectionate brushes and knowing glances giving you a sick, sick feeling.

And that’s when you saw Sicheng.

Even masked, he drew attention from the members—attached and non-attached. His lean, fit form struck a figure and you couldn’t turn away from him.

He looked directly into your eyes and only a few seconds passed by as you two observed each other.

“Sicheng somehow found out, hm? Clever, devious boy.” Mr. Liu observed the dynamic much like ChengCheng earlier. His gaze was enraptured how the two of you clashed yet sunk into each other, the way two tidal waves—in a rare moment of offbeat rhythm—struck each other and subsequently merged. Push, pull, push, pull.

“Listen to him and he will listen to you. You two match more than you think,” he advised, bowed, and sunk off into the backrooms.

“Sicheng.”

“Y/N.”

Frustratingly, his face was unreadable. Nevertheless, he offered you his arm (a surprising show of manners) and he led you to a place you had never seen before.

This place was much less pristine than the rest of the club. The wallpaper was older, much more faded, and the wood looked much more worn.

This was one of Mr. Liu’s apartments.

The pair of you entered a comfortable sitting room with the lights low, to which only large candles had been lit.

He made sure you were properly ensconced into an armchair before he turned his back towards you and made his way to the drink carts.

“Would you like something to drink?” Sicheng asked, voice measured.

“A gin tonic would be wonderful.”

After carefully making your drink and pouring himself a healthy 4 fingers of bourbon, he handed your glass to you and sat down in the chair opposite of you.

Silence permeated awkwardly and you turned your eyes towards the tapestry in the middle of the room, giving yourself something to do.

“Were those feelings true?” he asked, not looking at you.

“Elaborate, please.”

“The last night…” He looked quickly at you, before turning his eyes away and clenching his jaw. “The last night we were together.”

“Ah.”

Absolutely, unequivocally. Dolos was everything you had searched for in Minghao and, while your relationship was unusual, you could not deny the string between you two.

Something burned at your eyes and you bit the inside of your cheek.

“Yes. Then and now,” you stated, opening yourself up for an attack.

His eyes widened and the twitching in his fingers stopped.

“And you, Sicheng?” you enquired boldly.

“Always,” he stated without hesitation. “It was never something as trivial as pillow talk.”

Seeing as he was on the brink of closing off, due to his rare moment of vulnerableness, you wrapped your hand around his.

His eyes shot to yours, then to your linked hands, before tightening his grip.

“I don’t know where to start,” you confessed. “I… One thing that has always been on my mind—why did you dislike me so much?”

He smiled bitterly. “Sometimes, I forget that you don’t see the way I see you. You are a smart, dauntless woman, who’s pushed all my buttons. It all just built and built upon each other until I found you—Dove—here.” He pauses. “I projected my frustrations onto Dove—you—here. But never, for a moment, doubt my feelings aren’t genuine.”

You pursed your lips. “Forgive me, but I cannot accept your accusations of me being the office slut—very rude, by the way—were without malice. You constantly pushed me down, clashed with me in the workplace and you were just plain classist.”

Sicheng’s eyes were casted down, but his grip was steady. “I will not lie. Those words I spat at you were with malice. But now, in retrospect, they were nothing more but words of immature frustration that I channeled towards you. I know that I cannot take them back and they will forever linger in the air between us, but I can apologize and recognize those words were completely unacceptable.”

He angled his body fully towards you and clasped your hand in both of his. “I am sorry for my actions. My anger was misplaced and the sentiments do not represent me anymore. I am sorry and I hope you can forgive me.”

“And then what? What do you want now, Sicheng?” An edge of desperation tinged your voice.

He smiled bitterly at you. “Everyday, the smell of you lingers and I, like Pavlov’s dog, cannot help but feel an ache in the marrow of my bones when I see your crimson red lips. Every night, when I go to bed, you are seared across the back of my eyelids and I cannot escape you, even in my dreams.” He paused. “I want you, or whatever scraps you’re willing to toss me.”

A sharp exhale left you nose and you blinked rapidly. “I don’t want to get hurt. You get off on hurting people.”

“With your consent.”

“Say I want a completely vanilla relationship,” you challenged. He didn’t flinch. “What about then?”

Sicheng clenched his jaw and held your gaze fiercely. “Anything.”

“I hate that you are all I’ve wanted in a man,” you admitted unwillingly. He hummed. “Will we be each other’s destruction? Or will we be each other’s maker?” you pondered nonsensically.

“Aren’t we already both?” he retorted.

Slowly, without releasing his hand, you rose from your chair and lowered yourself into his lap. His eyes traced your every movement. For a few, brief moments, you looked into each other’s eyes without the obsurance of a mask or the encumbrance of a workplace rivalry. Your left hand cupped his cheekbone and stroked the skin underneath his eye.

“This will be interesting,” you said.

He gave no sign of reaction, but tilted his head into your palm and closed his eyes. “After us, the flood,” he recited.

Monday, March 2nd, 2020

Sinochen Enterprises, Chater House, Central, Hong Kong

7:50 PM HKT

A secret grin tugged at your lips as you looked across the table at Sicheng, who was intensely focused on the presentation your coworker was giving. Perhaps he’d felt the weight of your gaze on him as he chanced a glance at you and gave you a small smirk.

The past month in your relationship with Sicheng was equally fulfilling and frustrating. There were times where both of you deliberately looked for a fight or misinterpreted each other, but there were also times you could shed your layers and just be yourselves with the other.

Even each fight, where you or Sicheng stormed out, or broke things, you came back to each other at the end. Pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling relentlessly. The flood, indeed.

You focused back in on the meeting and contributed to the smatter of clapter for the end of your coworker’s presentation. As he turned off the projector and people stood up to leave,  Xiao Daiyu—the interim head of the Sales department—stopped you and Sicheng.

“Y/N, Sicheng, please stay back for a moment. I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Lee’s replacement.”

You and Sicheng glanced at each other and you sat back down. A while ago, you had both agreed the decision wasn’t going to break the quiet relationship you had built. It was going to be sour. You knew, when someone was chosen, things could get messy and awkward. But this… this was too good.

Daiyu sat down and put her hands together. “After much decision and going through your interviews, the CEO has stepped in and we are sorry to say neither of you are getting the position.”

You jerked your head around to Sicheng and he did the same—wild confusion and anger in both of your eyes. Both your years of loyalty and dedication are being passed over?

“Instead, we have decided to hire outside the company for some fresh intake. He may be young, but it comes to us that he’s highly recommended and would fit in with our culture well.”

A sour feeling came to your stomach and you narrowed your eyes, resisting the urge to frown. They had decided to hire outside the company? This is how they decide to reward their workers? This was betrayal.

Glancing over, you could see Sicheng felt the same. His right hand grasped the arm of the chair tightly and you could see his knuckles turning white.

“I’d like to meet him and he’s coming—” She took a glance at her watch. “—right about now.”

A knock came from the door and a head of messy black hair peaked into the room.

“Daiyu laoban, great to see you.”

No. This could not be happening to you.

The wire glasses. The tall, lanky frame that filled the doorway. The almond shaped eyes hiding behind pitch-black hair, as black his shriveled little heart.

Daiyu, like the little bitch she was, giggled. “Y/N, Sicheng, please meet your new Sales Head: Xu Minghao.”

His eyes focused on you and your world suddenly felt tilted, careening sideways while the nausea hit you all at once.

“Nice to meet you,” he said cheerfully.

You could feel Sicheng’s concern radiating from him at your ashen face and look of shock, but you couldn't even think as flashes of blood and tears and pain shuddered throughout your body.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m pleased to be working with you!”

(”After us, the flood” or “Aprés nous, le deluge” is an expression from Madame Pompadour, King Louis XV’s lover.)

And it’s finished. Thank you. Please don’t forget to read, comment, and reblog. I love you all and goodbye.

[teeth-farie]

Salem first how are you!!!! Second I just saw Halloween kills and came straight over here to tell you this man is so fuckable I swear I never wanted to fuck this man so bad😤✊ That stupid old man needs to get that good dicking and maybe he will stop trying to hunt Laurie down

Also if I were to start a bottom slasher x reader/oc blog what would you think👉👈🥺

Hi hi!! I’m doing well!! I’m gonna be seeing the movie this Friday, I’m super excited about it! Fr tho Mikey how about you get dicked down and maybe you’ll calm down 🙄🤚🏽

Ooh you better send me the url if you make one, I’d follow you in an instant!

[knowndwarffucker]

TOP 5 DWARVES IN ORDER OF THEIR FUCKABILITY (NONE OF WHICH ARE THORIN)

 5. NORI

listen, i hate for this to be the first line of the post, but nori FUCKS. he fucks HARD. he’s always up to something illegal, so he knows where to get good drugs and how to fucking party. he’s also described as immensely loyal to his brothers, and quick witted, so you won’t be having a bad time fucking him, but he DOES have major commitment issues. hope you dont get attached, cus he’ll be gone by next friday, then hit u up a year and a half later like he was just gone a week with a midnight booty text and go break your heart all over again. he eats ass like he’s fucking built for it though, so it would be worth it. he also plays the flute, and i cant figure out how that fits in, but its worth noting. 

4. DAIN 

first of all, in the books he kills azog before any of the hobbit starts, after HIS father got his head chopped off too, so he’s already committed one incredible feat. THEN, he’s smart enough to be like “fuck pride, we’re leaving” as the new king, and went home to rule a kingdom so great it rivaled sauron. he was nice to the eagles (gave them hats), made alliances with bard and good old thrandy, named his son after thorin after he became king, refused to be bribed by sauron, and died defending bard’s grandad or whatever at age 250 or smth old. this guy is the epitome of big dick energy. this guys dick is so big he gets all his codpieces custom made. unfortunately, he’s a politician and also wasnt portrayed in the movies so he gets a 0 on sexy rating and must be delegated to 4th position

3. GIMLI

I could go on about gimli. gimli son of FUCKING gloin. gimli, who asks galadriel for a hair off her head and gets THREE!!! gimli, who forms unbreakable bonds that cross races, gimli, who ran for DAYS maybe WEEKS straight after two young hobbits simply because they didnt deserve to be left alone. gimli, who’s first reaction to the ring of such great power it nearly destroyed the world, was to pick up his axe and try to smite it. if you dont think he’s hot as fuck you’re wrong, if you don’t think he could kick gods ass you’re wrong, and if you dont think either then you can just unfollow me right now. i could go on and on about my boy, but we all know how great his is. problems? 1. he’s related to the line of durin, however distantly, which is self explanatory, and 2. he’ll spend the whole time you’re together talking about his cool friend legolas and the cool adventures they’ve been going on and “the elf” this and “the elf” that until youre BEGGING him to either shut up or go makeout with his fucking boyfriend. so. :/ 

2. DWALIN

he’s stoic. he’s got a sense of humor. he’s rough, but he’s also loyal. he’s one of the only original company dwarves to make it to the LOTR so he’s clearly not as dumb as he looks. he’s mega sexy with tattoos, and fucks for sure. i mean look at him, he could hammer my anvil any DAY of the week. he plays the viol, so he’s clearly at romantic at heart, and lends bilbo his cloak on the first day of the fucking ADVENTURE EVEN THOUGH NONE OF THEM EVEN TRUSTED HIM!!!! HES THE LEAST TRUSTING OUT OF ALL OF THEM BUT HE DID THAT OUT OF THE KINDESS OF HIS HEART!!! HES THE ONE TO CALL THORIN AN ASS AT EREBOR AND SAVE BILBO DURING THE BATTLE!!! A KING!!! only setback is that he’s thorin’s cousin, and spends a lot of time with him, and if pigheadedness isnt genetic then it must be contagious. 

1. BOFUR 

how could it not be bofur? how could you think this would end in any other way? he’s the most emotionally available, he’s great at a party, he sings canonically very well, he’s always optimistic, and he’s a fucking lumberjack? i mean c’mon? also, his family isnt related to the line of durin at all, and you get bombur as an in-law. he’s literally the perfect man. he joins up with the gang not because he wants his own home back, because he wants “our” home back, he wants to get it back for everyone!!! he’s a blue mountain dwarf, but that doesnt sway his conviction to their cause!!! “Though not especially brave, he will do his best to help those in need, especially those he counts as friends.” !!! when bilbo goes to leave he tries to stop him until he realizes just how homesick bilbo is and then he’s like “good luck, no hard feelings, im not mad” like the ANGEL he is??!! also hes a freak in the fucking sheets and im so viscerally convinced of this that im starting to believe ive had some incredibly crucial dwarffucking visions that were wiped from my hard drive by unspeakable forces

[pb1138]

See Something You Like?

Cable x Overweight!Reader 

Hella NSFW towards the end. I don’t really even know how to attempt a summary with this tbh. Long, 5k+ words.

Cable was one grumpy old fuck, but fuck was he a hot old fuck.

You had been on a mission overseas when he had shown up. Really, you missed all of it, from Vanessa’s death to Russel’s adoption into the X-Men family to Colossus and Wade hooking up at long last. You had heard about it, obviously, since Wade was one of your best friends, but you weren’t able to witness it. And you still hadn’t met the elusive Cable, but everyone else had been on Wade’s Skype with you at some point or another.

The extra blackbird landed in January, and the second the doors opened you let out a pained, “Jesus fuck it’s cold.”

You could hear Wade laughing before you saw him and you squealed in delight, throwing yourself onto him in a giant hug. Piotr and Ellie were there, too, to greet you and you hugged them both (despite Ellie’s complaints. You knew she didn’t really mind. She was like a little sister to you.)

After a second of talking, you finally let out a shiver and gestured towards the door. “Let’s get inside. I’m freezing my ass off here.”

Piotr grabbed your bags and you all went inside, and you sighed in relief to be home. The X-Mansion had been your home for nearly 10 years now, since your parents had passed away, leaving you alone with relatively new powers to sort through and the X-Men had found you. “We have welcome home party in the kitchen for you.”

You smiled up at the giant and nodded, patting his arm which echoed hollowly. “Alright. Lemme just go change out of this damn uniform.”

You took your bags from him and made your way up the stairs to your room. You plopped down on your bed with a groan and fake-cried, happy to be home. After a few minutes, you got up and changed into some comfy, baggy pajama pants and a loose tank top, taking a few minutes to find your slippers. Once you did, you shuffled your way back downstairs and to the kitchen, preparing yourself for the onslaught of physical contact you were about to receive.

You walked through the door to an onslaught of “WELCOME HOOME” and you chuckled, letting your friends hug you and they all asked about your mission and its success. About half an hour into it, a heavier-weighted kid made his way over to you with stars in his eyes. “H-Hi,” he whispered, seemingly star struck.

You quirked an eyebrow at him but let him shake your hand, a little too enthusiastically to be comfortable. “Hi?”

He stared at you with wide eyes before he shook himself out of it. “S-Sorry, it’s just. I’ve never seen another plus-sized super hero before.”

You smiled and nodded, crossing your arms across your chest. “The industry discriminates.”

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID!” he shouted.

You laughed before he realized he hadn’t introduced himself and then told you his name was Russel. You smiled and patted his shoulder. “It’s nice to finally meet you, kid.”

Wade shooed him away, muttering something about “damn kids these days” before he dragged you into a corner so you could breathe, knowing you must’ve been a little stressed by now. You were thankful for it, and the two of you sat down, watching everyone chat. It was funny, considering that most of these people live with each other, that they’d have so much to talk about, but you didn’t mind. You were just happy to be home.

A few minutes later, you heard the front doors slam shut and a few people glanced towards the kitchen door expectantly. You glanced at Wade who was sighing at his Adventure Time watch. “Late, as usual,” he muttered.

You frowned, trying to think of who wasn’t here, but you didn’t have long to guess before the kitchen doors opened and a man walked in. You couldn’t see his face, but you could see he was of average height, just barely not 6 feet, and his hair was shiny but streaked grey and white.

You looked at Wade for an explanation but he was gone, maneuvering through the crowd. A few seconds later, he was emerging, dragging the guy behind him, and when he emerged you positively blushed.

‘Mother fuck,’ you thought.

He was downright fuckable. No, not even just fuckable. Like, it’d be an honor to have him fuck you. If he could fuck you just once, you could die happy. Older, rugged but also weirdly fashionable (dressed like an early 30s hipster, complete with a black scarf set above a very tight grey t-shirt.) You stood when you realized Wade was dragging him to you. The closer he got, the more you could make out that the right side of his face was scarred a bit, and you could see his robotic arm more clearly and where it turned back into flesh. You swallowed roughly, trying not to stare, but damn was it difficult.

“Y/N/N, I’d like to introduce you to Daddy, oh sorry, I mean Cable.”

Cable just let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, grumbling, “Jesus.”

You smiled awkwardly and nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Cable.”

He took your hand in his and shook it once, firmly, leaving your palm burning with electricity. “Likewise.” He turned to Wade expectantly. “Can I go now?”  

You glanced at Wade then back at Cable, kind of at a loss for words. Thankfully, Dopinder broke the tension by practically skipping over to you to drag you into a discussion he was having with Weasel and Logan about something you definitely weren’t paying attention to.

The party went on until the wee hours, and at some point someone brought alcohol, but you ducked out. Other than the occasional server or taxi driver, you had been on your own for basically an entire year and a half, so the amount of socialization you’d just endured had been positively agonizing, and you needed a good sleep. The jet lag was kicking your ass.

Xxx

You did indeed get a good night’s sleep. Or, more accurately, a good two and a half days’ sleep. You stumbled out of your darkened room into the blazing hallway and held a hand up to your eyes, groaning.

“Good to see you’re alive. We were getting worried.”

You parted your fingers and peeked through. Ellie was standing there, arms crossed over her chest. You frowned slightly and grumbled, “It’s like 3 in the afternoon.”

She smirked. “Yeah, on Friday. You got back Tuesday night.”

You dropped your hand, eyebrows raised. “Guess I was tired.”

She chuckled and walked past, patting your shoulder. “Coffee downstairs.”

You sighed in relief and nodded, plodding your way down the hall then the stairs. Glancing around, it was refreshing to see how little the mansion had changed. Maybe a new painting, but mostly it was the same. The people in it, however, were a little more numerous. Kids, mainly. You shouldn’t be surprised. The winter semester had just begun, meaning new arrivals. A shiver ran through you and you tightened your hoodie around you, quickening your pace.

The kitchen seemed empty, and you were thankful. You weren’t sure what your mood was, but it was one that screamed “NO HUMAN INTERACTION!!!”

You sighed in relief as the too-hot coffee filled your belly, spreading warmth all the way to your toes. You leaned back against the island and closed your eyes, holding the mug for dear life.

You hadn’t heard the footsteps coming to the door, nor noticed when they paused. A gruff voice cleared its throat, making you jump, and you looked over at the doorway. Cable stood there awkwardly before he stepped inside and headed towards the pantry. “Didn’t mean to intrude on your moment.” You internally sighed, both because your resolve to speak to nobody else today was obviously just ruined, and also because fuck. He was wearing a tight-fitted long sleeve shirt and a pair of baggy sweat pants that hung low on his hips.

You managed not to stare and shook your head, turning the cup in your hands. “Not a moment, just warmth.”

He nodded slightly and turned to dig for something amongst the shelves, giving you an opportunity to stare at his ass. “Must be nice to be home.” Conversation was obviously not his strong suit.

You closed your eyes again, bringing the coffee closer to your face. “Could do without this fucking cold.”

He turned around, digging in what sounded like a cereal box. “Where’d they send you?”

You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye. “Everywhere, really. All over Europe, but just as it got cold my first year out, I had to move on down through the Sahara, Sudan, Zambia, and finally I ended up in South Africa. Not a drop of snow for 26 months.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” You sipped your coffee, wondering if he thought the sudden silence was as awkward as you did. You were way too out of practice in this socialization thing.

After a moment, you felt his eyes on you and tried not to blush. Meeting his gaze, you were mildly surprised that he didn’t look away. You smirked, sipping your coffee again, suddenly thankful you decided on wearing your good underwear, the ones that make your ass look great, and then your boxers and your favorite tank top. Turning to face him, you leaned against the counter, putting a little too much effort into making your ass pop out. “See something you like?”

Something flickered across his face before he abruptly put his cereal down and walked out of the room. You frowned, watching him go before you scoffed, straightening up. “A simple fucking no would’ve sufficed.”

You topped off your coffee and stomped back to your room, trying not to tell yourself that it was because you were overweight. You fucking hate thinking like this, but sometimes the invasiveness of the mindset with which you were raised is just too deep rooted. After years of listening to your mother and grandmother constantly harping about their weight and how they needed to go on diets and how you shouldn’t eat this or that because it’ll make you fat, that kind of shit really gets into the skin of a person, y’know?  

You passed a mirror on your way back to your room and you stopped, turning to face it directly. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath for a second before you opened your eyes again and smiled at yourself, repeating the mantra that you had developed when you were 19. ‘You are beautiful. You are sexy. Anybody would be lucky to have you.’ You closed your eyes again for a second then smirked at your reflection. ‘If he’s too stuck up to see how fucking fine I am, then that’s his loss. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.’ With a renewed sense of self, you continued on your way, planning to take a hot bath to get the New England cold out of your bones.

Xxx

A month went by before your attempt to hit on Cable and it was like it never happened. Or at least, that’s what you figured, seeing as how Cable put no special effort into speaking to you. Pretty much ever. But, to be fair, he doesn’t exactly seem like the chatty type anyway, beyond the very rare flirtation with Wade which Cable honestly didn’t even seem to be aware he was doing. It was kind of adorable, actually.

Wade had gotten an apartment, a shithole really, but the X-Force team had basically set up shop there. You yourself spent quite a bit of time there, enjoying the more relative solitude that the apartment offered compared to the mansion. You still haven’t quite adjusted back to your social life. It seems your time abroad had affected you deeper than you’d anticipated.

This particular night, it was just you, Wade, and Cable. Wade had ordered a fuckton of pizza and the two of you were sitting on the floor in front of the couch, a bottle of vodka half empty between you. Cable was at the table, fidgeting with his guns, his robotic arm whirring quietly. The tv was on but you honestly had no idea what the fuck you were watching, some weirdass Japanese game show Wade somehow had illegal access to. All you knew for sure was that it was funny, even funnier if you understood Japanese, but you were too drunk to even read the few horribly grammatically incorrect subtitles that they offered. After a while, you realized you had to pee and you groaned, heaving yourself off the floor. You stumbled a little, but managed to make it to the bathroom without incident. On your way back, you realized you were still hungry so you plodded gracelessly to the kitchen to dig around for something other than pizza. You grinned when you saw the box of cookies up on the top shelf, just slightly higher up than you could comfortably stretch to. You looked over at Wade to ask him for help but he was snoring, having passed out already, and you didn’t dare bother Cable while he was working. Instead, you sucked in a breath and heaved yourself up onto the counter, almost squealing in delight at your success. You grabbed the cookies but as you went to step down, you swayed and began to fall, letting out a surprised squeak and squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation. Of an impact that never came.

You cracked open an eye and if you weren’t already flushed drunk, you might’ve blushed. Cable was looking down at you, his arms cradling you gently just inches from the floor. There was something in his eyes, concern probably, before he cleared his throat and stood you up. “You should be more careful,” he muttered before going back to the table.

You stood there for a minute, dumbfounded, before you smiled softly and headed back to the living room, whispering a small, “Thank you,” as you passed him. He only grunted in response.

Xxx

The next weird encounter you had with Cable happened on a mission.

The mission had been a simple extraction, nothing big. Except that the first step of the extraction was a plane-jumping, and fuck that. Instead, you gathered all the details ahead of time and found your own way to the action through the streets. Honestly, aside from Wade’s dramatic flair, there wasn’t really any reason for them to have air dropped in. But whatever.

The fight had gone easily enough. Most of you had managed to make it to the second location without injury. (You say “most,” but what that really means is that Wade took like 47 bullets and someone got punched in the face. Namely, you.) The second location was much more involved than the first. It was a large warehouse with a lot of unnecessarily intricate rooms and places for your enemies to hide. The fighting was rigorous, leaving all of you winded and injured in at least some way, but overall fine, alive. You were having a celebratory moment over the fact that somehow you all survived when you heard the gunshot.

You were confused, mostly. Everyone had dropped their smiles and were rushing towards you, except for Cable. He was yelling, gun raising, charging towards something behind you. And then you were falling.

The ground was cold, but it felt nice. Your skin was on fire, especially on your lower back. Domino was first to you, leaning down to hold your head. Wade skidded on his knees to your side, asking you something that you couldn’t hear. You smiled at them. “Guys, what’s wrong?”

They looked at each other with worry in their eyes. A second or so later, the pain hit you, and you gasped, whiteness taking over your vision.

“Evac, now!” Cable. He was angry, you could hear it in his voice over the searing agony seeping through your body.

It seemed an eternity later that you felt a cool hand on your face and Cable seemed to whisper in your ear, “We got you, kid.”

A few days went by, bringing with them a few ins and outs of consciousness.

The morning you woke up, you assumed the window was open as a cold breeze was sweeping delicately over your body. It was refreshing, especially since your body was on fire. You sighed softly in contentment, shoving the blankets off your lower body.

“Hey, hey, careful now.” You cracked open your eyes, blinking against the light before you smiled. Cable had just reached your bedside and he was reaching for your blankets. You huffed quietly as he put them back over your legs and he noticed your frustration, pulling the upper layer back down. He took a seat by your side and scooted over. “How you feel?”

You looked down at your body, the rest of it waking up with you and you frowned. Your right leg was bandaged, and you had two other bandages on your stomach. “The fuck happened?” you grumbled.

He sighed and surprised you by taking your hand. “There was one guy left. None of us saw him until it was too late. Three shots, two to the stomach but no vital organs, and one to the thigh. He also managed to take out our target before I got him, but you’re gonna be alright.” He smiled gently, confusing you more. You really hadn’t guessed he liked you this much.

Before you got the chance to ask you about his behavior, Wade kicked open the door, dressed in a sundress circa 1860, complete with a hat. He gasped dramatically when he saw you and ran like a fan-service anime girl to your side, throwing himself to his knees. “Thank the stars you’re alright!” he shrieked.

You couldn’t help laughing, and winced at the pain but let him continue.

Xxx

Your recovery was pretty speedy. You were cleared to go home about a week after you woke up, but Wade and Cable both refused to let you back out into the field. They moved you into Wade’s apartment which they had both worked diligently to clean spotless. It was like a whole new place by the time you got back, and you had hugged them both (despite Cable’s protestations) to thank them. It was only a month or two before you could barely feel your wounds anymore beyond a slight twinge when leaning over or stretching wrong.

The boys had been instrumental in helping you heal, Cable even warming up to you enough to speak to you once a day. Domino came and went as she pleased, but when she was there she was by your side 24/7, in fact maybe just a little too often, but you appreciated her concern.

Today had been stranger than most. Weasel had popped by, putting you in a shitty mood because you just couldn’t stand him. But then Dopinder popped by and your day immediately brightened back up with his constant exuberance of sunshine. You were cleaning when Cable came home, Wade having been out on a mission leaving you with very little to do.

He came in with a heavy sigh and dropped his bag, but immediately perked up when he smelled your cookies. “What’s the occasion?” he called, stepping into the apartment.

You were on your hands and knees, scrubbing the inside of the pot-and-pan cabinet. You glanced over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, watching you, and you waved a gloved hand at him. “Hey, just bored. Have at it.” You set back to work but blushed, feeling his eyes still on you. He hadn’t moved after about a minute and you leaned back so you were sitting, and you turned to look at him. “Hey, are you o—” You hadn’t managed to finish your question before Cable was crossing the room, and he dropped to his knees beside you, pulling you into him with a hug. You squeaked, wide eyed at the display and you went to ask him what was going on but his lips were on yours. You were too shocked to reciprocate, which he must have taken to indicate rejection, because he leaned back and stood up without another word, crossing the apartment back to his room.

You sat there for a minute before you frowned, ripping your gloves off. You stood and followed him to his room, standing in front of the door before you knocked. “Hey. What the fuck, man?” He didn’t answer and you narrowed your eyes. ‘Oh hell no.’ You opened the door, stepping into his room, someplace you’d always been to afraid to step foot in. “Seriously, Cable, what the fuck? If this is some kind of fat-hazing thing, I’m not here for i—” You froze in place, blushing at the sight before you. He was stood over his dresser, shirt off, a glass of whiskey in his hand. You could see he was looking at you in the mirror, his left eye glowing.

He scowled, turning to face you. “Fat-hazing? Are you fucking shitting me? You’re fucking gorgeous.”

You raked your eyes across his chest, dragging your eyes around to his back in the mirror, up his neck, back again. Decisively, you kicked the door shut and crossed the room to him. Your hands were around his neck and in his hair within an instant, your lips crushed against his. He groaned softly, one arm snaking around your waist, the other to cup your cheek. You moved your hands to his shoulders, running them down along his arms then to press against his chest and he pulled back, both of you panting. He pressed his forehead against yours, robotic thumb brushing against your cheek. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

You narrowed your eyes and stepped back, watching the disappointment flicker across his face before he realized where you were headed. You slipped your shirt off over your head as your knees hit his bed, and you sat down. You stared pointedly at him and had just begun to worry he was going to say no before he crossed to you in three strong strides and then he was upon you.

He pinned you down, lips crushed against yours, tongue fighting with yours for dominance. He pinned your wrists up near your head, moving his lips down your chin to your neck before nipping the flesh there gently. “Do you know,” he muttered, then licked up to your earlobe to kiss below it gently, “how fucking long I’ve wanted this?” He released your wrists moving his hands down your arms, one to your waist, the other to cup your breast outside your bra, his thumb brushing gently across your nipple.

You moaned softly, turning your head to give him better purchase to your neck, which he eagerly nipped and sucked at. You buried your hands into his air and pulled your head to his ear to whisper, “Then show me.”

He didn’t need to be told again, moving his head to lick and kiss down to your chest. Without a second thought, he had unhooked and pulled your bra off and pulled back to admire your breasts, sighing as he did. He leaned down and caught your nipple in his mouth, sucking and nipping at the bud as his hand mimicked his mouth on the other nipple. You laid your head back, breath deepening, your legs spreading subconsciously to let him closer.

After a few seconds, he kissed your nipple then kissed his way down to your navel, his hands delving lower to your waist band. He paused to kiss gentle kisses to your scars, as if they were precious, breakable. He leaned back and in one fell swoop removed your pants and your underwear, leaving you exposed to him. Your blush deepened and you moved to lean up on your elbows, looking at him unabashedly. He took you in like a starving dog looking at a piece of steak before he ran his flesh hand up your thigh, seeming to marvel at the feeling of you. He moved it up to your knee then leaned forward to kiss your other knee, then pressed another, gentle kiss to your final scar. Simultaneously, he moved both his hand and his mouth slower up your thighs, closer to your core, and you laid back down again, one hand going to your breast, the other to your forehead. He paused, just an inch or two away from where you wanted him to be, and you spread your legs farther apart without thinking about it. He put his hands on your knees and let out a soft sigh.

“Fuck, I could just paint a fucking picture of this,” he whispered. You let out a soft giggle before you moaned, feeling his thumb pressing between your folds gently. You could feel he was looking up at you, gauging your reaction as he slowly, tortuously slowly, slicked his thumb from your opening up to your clit, moving it in painfully slow circles around the sensitive nub. You whimpered softly, moving your thumb against your nipple in a similar motion. “So fucking beautiful.” You grinned slightly, letting your eyes drift shut. He flicked your clit once, deliberately, causing a gasp from you. You giggled softly then moaned as something else replaced his thumb, something hot and wet. You leaned up to glance down at him again, then grinned when you saw it was his face had disappeared downwards, his hands slipping to wrap around your thighs. He licked slow, deliberate laps up towards your clit, then pulled you closer to him. He circled his tongue around your clit for a second before he moved back down to delve it into you, groaning at your taste.

Your breath deepened, and you buried your fingers in his hair, whimpering. He lapped back up towards your clit and flicked the tip of his tongue against it, quickly. Your hips flinched a little, but he held you firm with his flesh hand, his robotic one coming to slip two fingers into you. You gasped at the intrusion but moaned as he thrust his fingers in and out of you in time with his tongue. It wasn’t long before you breathily moaned his name, your grip on his hair tightening. You could feel him looking up at you as he quickened his pace, alternating his tongue between quick flicks and harsh, slow licks. You felt yourself tightening, a warmth spreading forth from your core throughout your body, and you gasped as it washed over you in waves. He helped you through your orgasm before he leaned back, watching you catch your breath.

You scooted back up on your elbows to look at him, face flushed, and he grinned at you, wiping his chin, eye aglow. You pulled yourself to sitting and reached forward, grabbing his face to pull into you. He settled between your legs, hands on the bed on either side of you as he let you kiss him roughly, your nails raking down his back. He pulled your hips to his and lifted you with surprising ease, turning so he was sitting on the bed, you straddling his hips.

You could feel his bulge straining against his pants, settled directly beneath you, and you instinctively ground down against it, whimpering softly. He groaned, a hand moving to grab your ass, squeezing it roughly then massaging it. You reached down between the two of you to grab his bulge, tongues fighting for dominance, and you rubbed him gently, eliciting a low growl from him.

He scooted the two of you back, closer to the center of the bed, then laid back, moving to fumble with his pants. You helped him unbuckle them and then lifted your hips so he could kick them off. You moved your hips so you were settled against him, and you ghosted a hand down his chest, along the line where the virus ended and he began. He moved to grip your hip with one hand, the other laid against your hand. You bucked your hips once, teasing, and the two of you gasped at the friction. He looked into your eyes, moving to cup your cheek before bringing you down to kiss him, his other arm moving to wrap around your waist. You let him guide you to lift your hips so he could position yourself over him, and then you dropped yourself down onto him, making you both moan. You squirmed slightly against him and he lightened his hold on your hips, giving you charge. You leaned back up, gasping at the size of him, but you began to roll your hips against his, slowly, teasingly. He groaned, biting a lip as he looked up at you. Ran your hands along his arm to his hands, and brought one to a nipple which he eagerly began to pinch and roll between his thumb and forefinger, and the other to your ass which he gripped tightly.

You put one hand on his shoulder for purchase, and began to lift your hips up, slamming them back down onto him, gasping at the sensation of him filling you. He moved so he was sitting and he helped you move, leaning forward to suck at your neck, surely leaving a mark. He groaned into you, gripping your waist before he flipped the two of you over. He leaned over you, quickening his pace into you, breathing heavily in your ear, a hand by your head. You moaned and wrapped your arms around him, eagerly meeting his thrusts. It wasn’t long before his hips began bucking erratically and he moved a hand down to your clit to rub it roughly. You were both moaning, feeling your orgasms approaching. You were the first to go, gasping, your body tensing under him, your pussy clenching tight around him, and you whispered his name before he lost it and slammed into you, hard, one last time, emptying himself within you. You both lay like that for a minute, gasping, panting, before he pulled out and laid beside you, his hand moving to hold yours.

Once you both caught your breath, you turned to face him. He looked over at you and smiled slightly, and you grinned back before you remembered.

“So, how long exactly?”

“Hm?”

“How long, exactly, have you wanted to do that?”

He chuckled softly and slipped his arm around you, pulling you into him. “Since that day in the kitchen, when you asked if I liked what I saw.”

You blinked before you let out a sharp laugh, then leaned up to kiss him, body shaking with chuckles. He smiled against your lips and held you tightly to him. The two of you fell asleep like that, naked, in each other’s arms.

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song | part one

You see her first. You think she’s a boy. Someone’s little brother. Tiny little thing, all duck fuzz hair and hand-me-down clothes two sizes too big. It’s not until it’s your turn to get the drinks in and she elbows in beside you then cranes up on tip-toes over the bar, that you realise your mistake.

“How’s the weather up there, big man?” She cracks a laugh around a pink bubble of gum, then treats you to a wink.

The laugh you offer in return isn’t anywhere near as sincere as you’d like it to be, because now you’re brain’s clocking overtime trying to figure out an escape route. One that preferably doesn’t involve the tired old cliche ‘I already have a girlfriend’.

You’re a terrible liar.

She surprises you, however, nudges you in the bicep when all of your drinks arrive, then hooks a firm hand round your neck and pulls you down until your ear meets her mouth.

“My mate fancies the arse off your mate!”

Thank fuck.

“Which one?”

“The one with the hair!”

Hair? You’re not sure why your mouth feels a bit dry as you croak out, “Who? Elvis?”

“Fuck knows! I don’t know his name, do I!” She turns to point through the crowd at your table, ��That one, in the corner, there! In the leopard print. Marc Bolan reincarnated.”

“Oh, Noel…”

Something washes over you that feels a bit like relief.

“'Ere, Specks!” She lets you go. Gestures over a creature that’s all lavender hair and lime green cat eye glasses, and gigantic boobs she could probably give you a concussion with.

You cringe. Perhaps mildly fear for Noel’s life.

Then Tiny-Girl slots her arm in yours before beaming a grin. “Come on, sweetcheeks, you going to introduce us then?”

—-

You know before he does.

Not that it’s any surprise, really. Elvis is thick as fuck on a good day. Never mind five pints in on a Friday night. He’s never exactly been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

But you know. Somehow. Instinctively.

Whether it’s the hand creeping onto Elvis’s thigh, or the bubblegum laugh, you’re not sure. But Mattie likes him. Really likes him. And you can’t quite figure out why the knowledge makes your heart feel a bit sore.

“She’s not bad, is she.” Elvis says later on, when he’s outside, leaning against the pub wall with a cigarette, and you’re kicking an abandoned football around the empty space Noel should be.

“She’s alright.” You’re no good at this. You never have been. You’ve no idea what makes a girl fuckable.

“Think I’ve got a chance?”

“Probably.”

Definitely.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s interested or if I’m just pissed.”

He tips his chin up. Fills the air with lazy smoke rings over head.

The popped collar of his leather jacket scuffs the stone and you beat back the urge to reach out and refold it. Busy yourself with kicking the ball against the wall instead.

“What’s the difference?”

Elvis huffs a laugh, “Not a lot.”

You manage a smile. Shoulder up against him. Ignore the hollow feeling in your chest. “Ask her for her phone number.” It’s the best advice you can give.

He considers a while. You cherish the moments. Nobody else gets to witness Elvis trying to be 'brave’.

“Yeah,” he eventually says, “Yeah, I think I will. Cheers, mate.”

—

You’re the one who makes it happen.

You stumble back to the student digs with Elvis half slung over one shoulder and singing at the top of his lungs. Noel’s well gone, has been for hours. You think he’s with Specks — kinda hope so too — but to be quite honest you really don’t have a clue. He could be anywhere. Could be tied up naked to a drainpipe for all you know.

“You can have Noel’s bed.” Elvis slurs at you, when he finally manages the get his key in the lock without dropping it for the thirteenth time. “Can’t see him coming back.”

“I’ll pass.” You tell him, when a passing glance into Noel’s leopard printed abode makes you feel like you need a bleach bath. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

In the kitchen, Elvis pours you both another drink, “Suit yourself.”

“What’s the deal with Mattie, then? You get her number?” You wait until you’re both sat down in the jumble of second hand furniture, battered guitars and pieced together oddities of drum-kit, that passes for a 'living room’ before you ask.

Elvis glances at his phone on the coffee table, and kind of gives you smirk and a half-coy shrug. It makes him look oddly innocent, you think. Like back when you were just kids and you found out about his first crush. (Josie Greenwood, all dark hair and even darker eyes and skin as rich as winter molasses. You remember her well. You remember every one of Elvis’s crushes.) And it’s a somewhat bitter memory. A sour reminder of just how much the two of you have grown up.

“Yeah… I dunno, though. I don’t think I’ll ever ring her… She was really drunk.”

“Mate, she practically got you in a headlock and kissed you before we left. I think she deserves at least a text.”

“I dunno… she’ll probably regret that when she sobers up.”

You spend another ten minutes trying to convince him he’s worth something before giving up. Later he falls asleep on the couch ('your’ couch) as the sun begins to wake up. You brave a trip into Noel’s room to strip the furry blankets from his bed, so Elvis doesn’t get cold. Then you flip through Elvis’s phone and fire off a quick text to 'Mattie’ before climbing into your mate’s bed.

'Hey, was really nice meeting you tonight. Fancy doing something together soon? Let me know! x’

—

You’re the one who has to pick him up.

Morning after Elvis’s first date with Mattie and you’re idled outside some middle-class town house with a freshly mown lawn and kitschy little yard ornaments. His text hadn’t given you much to go on. Just a standard 'If I give you a fiver, will you come take us home?’ and an address you’ve never seen before.

You don’t know if he’s bailing on her. You hope not. You’ve spun so many 'emergency, sick mother/father/sister/dog/hamster’ tales for him that you’re running out of people to kill off. (Not to mention you’re kinda worried karma might come bite you in the arse.)

It’s a relief, then, when the front door of the house opens and Elvis doesn’t come hurtling out like a bank robber looking for his getaway car.

Instead, you’re the sole audience member to a show of smooching and giggling and cutesy-cutesy cuddling and it just makes you want to smash your face into the steering wheel so the image of Elvis scooping her right up into his arms doesn’t get stuck in your head.

It’s only the aggressive beep of your car horn that gets him to finally disengage.

“Good night?” You ask, when he eventually manages to pry himself away from her and climbs into your car.

He reaches over, tucks a five pound note into the collar of your turtleneck, then gives the top of your head a patronising pat, “First class.”

He smells floral instead of leathery and it makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up.

“You could have just caught the bus, you know. It is a real thing, public transport. It does exist. It’s not just some fantasy thing people make up.”

He messes with your radio. Winds down his window. Gets out his cigarettes. Puts his feet on the dash, then lights up. “I know.”

You breath out through your nose, “Oh I know you do, but course it’s much easier and cheaper, for you to just text chauffer Dom, right?”

A cigarette jammed into your mouth, Elvis’s head against your shoulder, his raw tired laugh, “Mate, I love ya, shut up.”

—

You should be happy.

Elvis is happy. For the first time in what feels like years his smiles now reach his eyes, and there’s sincerity in his laugh. For the first time in what feels like years he walks with his head up. For the first time in what feels like years he’s writing music again.

And for the first time in his life he writes a love song.

“Come over,” he tells you, down the phone at seven o'clock one Wednesday evening.

You try to dissuade him. You’ve been home from work so briefly that you’re still walking around in a cloud of motor oil and exhaust fumes, and your mum’s following you about the house spraying air freshener. But he insists he has something to show you and he sounds oddly excited in just the right way to pique your interest, so you go.

He’s sitting on the floor of his living room when you arrive. Surrounded by crumpled balls of paper and nursing the acoustic guitar that’s seen more than it’s own fair share of artistic tantrums and has the scars to prove it.

“Sit down.” he tells you, gesturing the floor before you even have a chance to speak.

You do as he says. (You always have) Take a relatively clear spot on the carpet, then lean back against the wall. You notice he’s wearing his glasses and you realise it’s years since he’s entertained those too.

“I wrote something.” He pauses for your response.

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s about Mattie.”

When he plays, he doesn’t look at you. When he plays he closes his eyes and you’re glad, because then it’s just Elvis and the guitar and some clumsily sung words, and it’s unrehearsed and raw and inelegant and beautiful.

C… “Babe…” A… G... “You’re too good for me…”

C... “Darling….” A… G... “You’re where I always want to be…”

C… “And honey…” A… G… “I hope you never have to see…”

E… “The dark things inside of me…”

And when he finishes it takes you a moment to become aware of the fact that you closed your eyes too.

Because you should be happy. For him. For her. You really should.

But you’re not.

You’re not because you wish Elvis’s first love song had been written about you.

—

You’re the first person he tells.

And to make the whole scenario even more prominent, he comes to you.

That’s how you know it’s something serious. That’s how you know there’s something incredibly wrong. When a taxi pulls up outside your house and something bizarrely Elvis-shaped climbs out.

He’s all red-rimmed eyes and red-rimmed nose, but at first he doesn’t want to talk. Just throws himself down across the width of your bed and fills up your room with smoke.

You play a few records. Sit down next to him with your bass guitar and jam out a few tunes. You know he’ll tell you when he’s ready. You know he just needs time to pull together enough courage to face whatever’s taken a bite-sized chunk out of his heart.

“Mate,” he manages at a length. Waits until you turn your head to look at him before he goes on, “It’s Mattie.”

The first awful thought that jumps into your head is definitely the one you shouldn’t vocalise, but your mouth gets ahead of your brain and you instantly splutter out, “She’s not pregnant, is she?!”

To which Elvis gives you a glare so deadly it makes your insides wither.

“Fuck. No.”

“Oh, well… thank god for that.”

“Yeah, thank god for that,” His sarcasm is so thick you could chew on it, “No, you knobhead, she’s got fucking cancer.”

Saying it out-loud seems to either shock or hurt him, and Elvis winces, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

You’re so stunned you don’t know what to say. You’re so stunned you rattle out the very first stupid thing in your mind conjures up yet again, “But… it’s treatable, right?”

If looks could kill you’d be dead twice over by now.

You take the curling of his top lip and narrowing of his eyes as a 'no’.

“Fucks sake, she’s dying, Dom…” And his voice is small, and cracks like glass, and the snarling mask falls away and he’s just Elvis. Your Elvis. Hopeless and naive and a little bit scared.

“Said she wanted to tell me before I got too invested. So I could have the chance to back off. But fucking hell, mate, it’s a bit too late for that…”

—

You don’t see him much.

His texts become intermittent, his phone calls white noise. Nine times out of ten, when you ring his number, he doesn’t pick up. Even Noel — who he shares a flat with — admits that Elvis hardly ever comes home.

It’s hard to remember that with university and a new relationship with a dying girl, he’s probably busy. It’s hard not to worry when the last time you saw him there were still the last remnants of tears in his eyes. It’s hard to eradicate that gnawing feeling that you never should have introduced the two of them in the first place.

It had been a car crash waiting to happen.

Considering how perceptive you seem to believe you are, you know you should have seen that one coming from the start.

You start to miss the 3am texts for a chauffer.

You start to miss the dusky heady scent of leather and alcohol in your car.

The coarse bark of his laugh. The snap of his jaw. The busy hands that were never anywhere they were welcomed and always where they weren’t.

Without Elvis’s interference, your life becomes easy and predictable and safe.

Without Elvis’s interference, your life becomes a bore.

And you start to resent him. And you start to resent her.

And when the feelings get so strong they keep you awake at night, you pull down the boxing gloves you hung up years ago, then spend your evenings down the gym, punching out your frustrations until every muscle in your body is sore.

Three months of radio silence before he texts.

“Mate, come pick me up?”

To your surprise your answer comes easily, as though it had been waiting for this moment all along,

“No.”

—

You’re not a bad person.

You remind yourself of this all morning at work, repeat it in your head every time that sharp little mouth of guilt chews a little deeper into your soul. Fifteen years you’ve been Elvis’s doormat. It’s about time he went and wiped his feet all over someone else.

You can’t explain why then, when your boss announces you have a visitor, your heart drops.

It’s him. You think. You know.

But it’s not.

A eyesore of fur coat and sunglasses struts into the garage. The scent of hairspray and a thousand different women’s perfumes sticks in your throat.

You groan, “Pleeeease don’t tell me you want driving somewhere as well, Noel.”

“Me? Oh no,” he leans against the hood of your client’s car, pauses for dramatic effect, then goes on, “I just stopped by to let you know I’m on my way to the police station to pick up your best mate.”

“What? Elvis?” For a moment it doesn’t register. You drop a spanner in your overalls.

Noel doesn’t even give it to you gently. Just fucks you right over. You can already tell from the jutted out hip and jutted out chin, he thinks it’s all your fault.

“Yeah, Elvis. Had an argument with his lass yesterday, went out for a few drinks to drown his sorrows and ended up getting done for being drunk and disorderly. Punched a copper. Spent the night locked up.”

“Fucking hell.” A hand instinctively finds your worktable for support, “And where were you?”

Noel snorts. “Me? What about you?!”

“I’m not his Dad, Noel.”

He tilts his head, peers at you over the rim of his Raybans like he knows, “Could’ve fooled me…”

You frown, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

But Noel only lifts both hands in surrender, “Listen, buddy, I don’t know what happened between the two of you when you were teenagers, during all of your little sleepovers and whatever else you got up to—”

“We didn’t get up to—” You start, decide it’s not even worth it, and give up.

“—but the truth of the matter is, you’re the only wanker in the world that prick actually listens to. And I could really do with your help in sorting him out right now.”

He lets his words sit with you for a moment, simmering, before adding, softly — like he’s actually pretending to give a shit for once, “Dom, he needs you…”

It’s not convincing. It wouldn’t even be a very good reason even it was true. But your fingers find your keys anyway and before you realise what you’re doing you’re tossing them at Noel. “Go start my car.”

—

You remember Elvis’s first run-in with the police.

Nine-years-old, Christmas time, snowflakes coming down the size of golf balls. He stands on your doorstep, bundled up in what appears to be every single piece of clothing he owns. Stuffed school backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes half-downcast half-glaring.

Even with his cheeks tinged pink from the cold, you can tell he’s been crying.

“I came to say goodbye.”

And when you don’t answer fast enough, because you’re still trying to work out what he means, he adds, gloomily, “I’m running away.”

You know why, you don’t need to ask. His mum and dad are going through a messy divorce while still living under the same roof, and Elvis doesn’t have any brothers or sisters to turn to.

Still, you think it’s a pretty stupid idea to tell people that you’re running away. Not unless you want them to stop you. And you’re quite sure Elvis doesn’t want to be stopped. Not from the sixty layers of clothes he’s gone through the trouble of squeezing into anyway. You don’t think he has any intention of taking them off any time soon.

And it’s then you realise, slowly, stupidly, that he hasn’t come by your house to say goodbye at all. He’s come because he wants you to run away too.

“My mum’s probably worried about me.” You say, later on, when the two of you sit hunched together in a closed shop doorway in the dark, blowing on your fingers to chase away the cold. “Your mum’s probably worried about you as well. And your dad.”

Elvis stuffs crisps into his mouth then leans into you. “Fuck 'em.” He growls, “Fuck 'em all.”

You end up spending the night under the branches of the big Christmas tree in the city centre, where it’s a little bit sheltered and a little bit warm and the fairy-lights paint twinkling freckles across Elvis’s nose.

In the early hours of the morning you’re accidentally stumbled upon by a policeman doing his rounds.

Elvis punches a copper then too.

—

You’re the glue that holds everything together. You’ve always known that.

And it’s tiring being Dominic Wood. It’s tiring trying to keep Elvis’s life from falling apart.

You pick him up at the station and take him home. Issue apologies on his behalf. To the policeman he assaulted. To Mattie. To Noel.

“I’m sorry. I should have been there. I didn’t know.”

You gather in the kitchen with Noel and Mattie, as Elvis rides out the worst hangover in history with his head halfway down the loo.

Mattie hauls herself up to sit on the counter top next to you. It’s the only way she can get anywhere near eye-level. “It’s not your fault that Ellie’s a knob.”

Noel raises a sceptical eyebrow. Gives you a 'look’.

You know exactly what he’s thinking because you have the same thought.

It is your fault. You’re his enabler. You always have been. Elvis wouldn’t have grown up like this if it hadn’t been for you.

From the bathroom comes the sound of heaving. Then coughing. Then groaning and what one might misinterprate to be a sob. All three of you cringe. All three of you find a shit ton of interest in looking at the floor.

Noel’s the first to glance back up, “At least he’s paying for it. Maybe it’ll do him some good.”

You doubt it. You’ve witnessed Elvis’s horror-show hangovers before. Cleaned up after all of them too. Elvis never learns.

“I’ll stay the night,” you offer, “keep an eye on him so Mattie can go home and you can get some sleep. It’s the least I can do. Make sure he’s alright.”

Mattie’s tiny hand on your shoulder. Her lips on your cheek. “You’re a good mate, Dom.” You can tell she actually means it too. “I wish I had a friend like you.”

And you don’t know why it is, but in that moment you realise something’s changed.

You don’t resent her any more.

You throw an arm around her shoulders. Give her a side-long hug.

“No need to wish. You already do…”

—

You forget Mattie’s dying, sometimes.

She stands in the front row whenever you play shit songs, to shit crowds, in even shittier bars. She hauls your shitty amps and manages your social media like you’re all already super stars. And whenever you’re too tired, or too drunk, to chauffer everyone home at the end of the night, she has absolutely no qualms at all about driving your shitty car.

Mattie’s a woman in charge of her own destiny, and you admire that.

She also doesn’t mind telling you straight out that your band is actually total and utter crap.

“You need another guitarist.” She says, pacing the floor of the Student Union’s backroom an hour before your show.

Elvis looks offended, you can practically hear the shatter of his proud rockstar ego, “But I’m the guitarist.”

“Well obviously, and you’re great, you really are, but you can’t sing and carry an entire song on your own, Ellie. It just doesn’t work.” And when she perhaps realises she’s been just a tiny bit too harsh, Mattie offers him a simpering smile and plucks just the right string on Elvis’s heart, “Even The Libertines had two guitarists, you know that.”

This seems to placate Elvis.

But you raise an eyebrow as you plug your bass into your amp, and grumble a low, “We’re not The Libertines, though…”

“Tell that to Pete Doherty over there.” quips Noel.

You both watch Elvis, decked out in ratty leather jacket and stained jeans that should have been through the wash weeks ago, down a can of lager then toss the empty on the floor.

You don’t want another guitarist. You’ve got enough on your plate looking after this one.

“We really don’t need a Carl Barat an’ all.”

“So, say we were to get another guitarist,” Elvis goes on, “where on earth are we supposed to find one that’d wanna join this shit show?”

Neither you, Elvis or Noel expect Specks to chime in. But when she perks up from the back of the room, and offers a casual, “My twin brother plays the guitar.”

All three of you chorus a resounding, “FUCK NO.”

To which Mattie only shrugs a shoulder and cocks her head and grins a decisive, “Well that’s settled then. Call him. Get him to come down. I think they’ll get along.”

—

You didn’t expect this.

Julian’s all denim jacket and turned up Levi’s and cigarette propped behind the ear like he’s channelling James Dean. Sandy hair. Quirked eyebrow. Summer tan skin.

He looks nothing like Specks. He looks nothing like Specks at all.

He beams a smile when he shakes your hand, introduces himself as 'Jude’. And you’ve got absolutely no idea why you struggle to keep eye contact. No idea why the glimpse of paint under his fingernails makes your voice wedge in your throat.

“I’m an artist.” He offers, later, when the six of you are sat around a table after the show.

Elvis either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care, “What’re your musical influences? We need to know.”

Noel nods his agreement. You fiddle with the straw in your coke.

“The Rolling Stones…” Julian turns his gaze to Noel. “A touch of The Smiths…” A pointed look at Elvis. “And a sprinkling of The Who.” His eyes settle on you.

It’s your polo shirt, you think. The polo-shirt and parka combo. You’re a dead give-away. That’s how he knows.

Elvis is wearing his Morrissey-glasses.

Noel always looks like he just dragged himself out of an orgy at Woodstock.

“If I’m being completely honest, though,” he’s still looking at you, still eyeing you as though he can see into your soul, “Johnny Cash is my hero.”

An hour later the bar closes. The girls piss off with Elvis and Noel (you could almost swear Mattie did it on purpose…). And you’re the one tasked with driving a slightly tipsy Julian back home.

“Don’t you own a Vespa?” He asks as he follows you out to your car.

You try to explain that it’d be a bit too inconvenient trying to get both a drunk Elvis and a drunk Noel onto the back of a scooter. You’re a mechanic. You’re practical.

“You should get one.” He says, putting his cigarette out before he opens the passenger side door, “You’d look good.”

—

You don’t know how they manage to survive. Elvis and Noel.

Not when their kitchen cupboards are just stockpiles of Pot Noodle and Carlsberg. You’re almost certain they should both be riddled with scurvy.

So you do their shopping. Bring back bags full of anything other than lager and ready meals and cheap fizzy pop.

“We’re poor students,” Elvis explains, as you pull a bottle of milk so sour it’s solidified out of the fridge, “what do you expect?”

“Fucking hell, Elvis, you could make your own cheese with this.”

Noel eyes the fruit on the counter as though the oranges might be the ones to eat him. “Yeaaaah, we’re not posh like you. We don’t have enough money for vitamins.”

“Oh, piss off, Noel.”

You’re the last person on earth to carry the 'posh’ label.

You were brought up in a single-parent household, where your mum worked three jobs to provide for five kids. You started two paper-rounds when you were eleven and mowed the neighbour’s lawns in summer to help your mum with the rent. Sometimes, in winter, when ice made intricate patterns on the inside of the windows, you had to wear your coat to bed.

“What’s you guys take on this Jude bloke, then?” Elvis leans against the counter with his arms folded. Watches you put all of their food away.

“He’s alright.” Noel shrugs, makes a face like Julian’s some kind of furniture he could take or leave. Then adds, as though an afterthought, “Gay, though.”

Elvis frowns. Your mouth dries up.

“What?” You manage to croak, “Did he tell you?”

“Oh, no,” he cracks open one of the lagers you’d put aside ready for a trip into rubbish bin, “can just tell.”

You share a look with Elvis, who arcs a dubious eyebrow at you and then presses, curiously, “You can? How?”

But Noel only shrugs, apathetic to it all again, either unable or unwilling to answer.

He grabs his sunglasses and his coat and heads for the door.

But not before stopping directly in front of you. Giving you a long, discerning look, and adding, in exactly the right tone to make the hair stand up on the back of your neck, “Just do.”

—

You didn’t realise when your mum said she’d invited everyone, she meant everyone.

Including Specks and Jude. Who rock up to your house at precisely noon and who’s presence makes Noel just about as unimpressed with the Sunday Dinner guest-list as you.

Noel doesn’t like to spend time socialising with Specks on the best of days. Sitting around the kitchen table, listening to her talk, you hope he doesn’t fuck her in your bedroom in order to get her to shut up.

You realise Julian’s a vegan when he turns his nose up at your mum’s roast. And you thank fuck the bastard’s got at least one flaw.

Elvis is straight into it like a starved dog though, ripping a leg off the chicken with greasy hands, while Mattie pulls a face and your mum laughs.

She always liked Elvis, your mum. Sometimes, when you were younger, you worried she loved Elvis more than she loved you.

After dinner, Julian finds interest in the old championship boxing belt hanging on your mum’s living room wall.

“I didn’t know you used to box.”

You half-shrug one shoulder and hope to brush it off, but as expected right on queue your mum starts up, “Oh, he did. He was bloody good at it too. Won that when he was fifteen. He used to whine about it, but I forced him to go. It kept him out of trouble and without his dad around and living in a house full of women, I didn’t know what else to do.”

You sink low into the sofa. Try to make yourself small.

Your mum sighs. And it’s the sigh of a woman who’s weary and tired, but undoubtedly proud. “He was always getting himself into bother, our Dom. Running away… Getting into fights… He even a punched a policeman once, you know!”

Immediately you share a glance with Elvis. To your amazement he actually looks apologetic for once.

Nobody knows it was him. Even ten years on.

In the urgency of the moment and knowing what Elvis’s parents were like, it had been easier to just say the one who threw the punch had been you.

Growing up, you happily took the blame for every one of Elvis’s misdeeds.

Growing up, you just thought that was something that best mates should do.

—

You don’t know what love is.

You think it might be going to boxing classes, even though you never wanted to box.

You think it might be letting your sisters cut your hair and put little bows in it, and dress you up for 'fashion shows’.

You think it might be opting to stay at home and get a full time job, while all your mates go to university and start living it up.

You think it might be being in a band when you never wanted to be in a band, because playing the bass in front of people gives you anxiety attacks.

You don’t know what love is.

But when Elvis gets into a fight at 3am with some pissed up knobhead of a bloke on the way home from the pub, and your first instinct is to throw yourself in front of him and knock the other guy out with a single right hook, you start to re-evaluate that thought.

You don’t know what love is.

But scrubbing your hands clean in Elvis’s sink even though there’s no blood, you realise just how dangerous your fists are.

And checking the newspaper obsessively every day to make sure there’s no mention of some dude getting left for dead in the road, you realise just how dangerous it is to let your unattainable best mate take up such a dominant space in your heart.

You don’t know what love is.

But watching Mattie feed Elvis grapes as though he’s an emperor, you think, “it’s definitely not that.”

—

You get lonely. You’re only human.

While Elvis spends time with Mattie and Noel’s off chasing every potential bit of skirt, you and Julian start hanging out.

Sometimes you go over to his studio and play music while he paints. Sometimes he comes over to your house, sits on the edge of your bed and helps you write songs. Sometimes, when your head’s are so busy that neither of you can sleep, he calls you up at three in the morning just for a chat.

He’s got a voice that’s all refined whisky and vintage furniture and The Velvet Underground.

Not like Elvis. Elvis who’s all paint stripper vodka and charity shops and someone getting their face smashed into a wall.

And you realise you really don’t mind listening to Julian talk.

“Have you ever been in love?” you’re laying in bed when he asks, ear pressed against your phone, staring into the half dark.

“I… I don’t know.”

Your eyes immediately track across the room to the picture pinned above your desk of you and Elvis in your early teens, all big crooked grins with matching crooked teeth and you don’t know why it makes your stomach turn.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?”

A beat. A pause. Dread in your throat.

For fuck’s sake, Dominic, you’re almost twenty-one.

Silence that drags on until you finally give in, until you feel there’s nowhere left to turn, because you’re a shit liar and Julian has you exposed.

There’s the phantom presence of Elvis’s hands round your neck, squeezing, as you force out a pathetic, “No.”

And Julian breaths something that sounds a bit like disbelief down the phone.

“But… you’ve slept with people, right? I mean surely. Obviously. You’ve fucked girls and all.”

Pressure on your windpipe. The residual scent of leather jackets and cheap cologne.

“…I haven’t. No…”

—

You can’t pinpoint exactly when it started.

You’ve tried. Spent hours racking your brains, trying to figure it all out. Trying to isolate the moment it all went wrong. The moment something inside you 'broke’.

Only you’ve never been able to find it, because it’s not a minute, or an hour, or a day. It didn’t happen all at once.

It came slowly. Filtered into your life in little pieces. Like a puzzle that would take years to work out.

It’s in milky breath in the classroom on a warm summer’s afternoon.

It’s in several dozen borrowed pencils returned to you, all chewed.

It’s in P.E lessons and scabby knees and growth spurts that made his football kit too short.

It’s in grazed elbows and climbing trees and every nervous birthday present you bought.

It’s in the first cough from cigarettes nicked off his dad.

It’s in the first black eye when Nathan Jefferson calls him a fag.

It’s in cracked knuckles and cracked laughs and a voice that took too long to break.

It’s in a flash of teeth and flash of skin and every single “I love ya, mate.”

It’s in Liam and Noel. Morrissey and Marr.

It’s in Lennon and McCartney. Doherty and Barat.

It’s in every broken guitar string and every practiced autograph.

It’s in every schoolboy crush and every broken heart.

Only you never saw the pieces at the time. It’s just how having a best mate feels, you thought.

You only noticed them when he crept up on you so close he could finally hang his noose around your throat.

—

You know it’s coming before he does.

It’s the night of some cheap little gig at a rundown working men’s club out of town, that Elvis has been banging on about all month, and Mattie’s so pale she looks grey. She struggles to untangle the microphone wires, trips over her own feet, and gets out of breath carrying Noel’s cymbals in from the car.

You collar her in the back room while Elvis is doing his sound check out of earshot.

“Are you alright?” You know something’s up.

At first she looks quizzical. Makes her face scrunch. “Of course.” Chirps a laugh that’s too hollow and tries to push past.

It’s only your hand on the wall in front of her, your arm blocking her into the corner, that makes her stop.

She closes her eyes. Drops her head. Takes a breath so deep it’s as though all of the air has been sucked from the room.

You wait.

(You’re good at that.)

And when she doesn’t give in, you wait some more.

(You’re good at that, too.)

Until she finally expels tension from boycotting bones, melts back into the wall, and looks up.

There’s something glassy in her gaze when her eyes meet yours. And you know what she’s going to say before it’s even come out of her mouth. But hope to heaven’s above that you’re wrong. Because you can’t do it.

You can’t.

Not when she’s dying. Not when it’s going to break his fucking heart. Not when she should be at home or in the hospice, not lugging around heavy equipment and breathing secondhand smoke in the back room of a scummy bar.

The two of you stand in silence for what feels like an eternity before it eventually comes out.

“Please don’t tell, Ellie… Not tonight. He’s been looking forward to this show all month…”

“Mattie…” You cup the sides of her face in your hands, “I need to take you home. I need to take you both home. You’re not well.”

But Mattie only shakes her head, eyes pleading as she begs a tragic, “Please, Dom…”

—

You don’t remember the gig.

You don’t remember the crowd.

You don’t remember the scorching press of Elvis’s back against yours as he leans against you during your solo.

You don’t remember Julian’s accidentally unplugged guitar.

Or Noel magically acquiring a pink feather boa.

You don’t even remember Elvis playing up for the girls in the front row and smashing his lips into your cheekbone at some point during the encore.

(Which is surprising, really, considering.)

What you do remember is ringing ahead to the hospital afterwards.

Elvis carrying Mattie out of the back door wrapped in Noel’s fur coat.

Telling the girls hanging round in the alleyway to fuck right off, when they screech and grab Elvis’s elbow.

Running every red light and then some.

Elvis pacing frantically up and down the hall.

The forbidding tick of the clock on the wall.

“She better not fucking die on me, Dom.”

[emmaseppenwoolde]

How many times am I touched in a week? - a study - Stephanie Ganghi

Stephanie Gangi Records Every Moment of Intentional Contact in Seven Days By

Stephanie Gangi

August 15, 2017

I read an article about how couplehood and the attendant touching, not necessarily sexy, increases good health and longevity. I’m single and on the dark side of 60. I’m fine living alone, it’s fine, but when Trump got elected, for example, I had no one to gather me up and curl around me to protect me from everything incoming, nukes included. In a less grim example, I’m on a regular schedule of imaging tests for cancer, and I have friends, I have daughters, but reaching out every three months to express my scanxiety and beg for hugs seems overly needy. If I had a partner, in my case, a man, in the next room, I could complain at moments of peak terror and get held and hold on. Maybe live longer in better health. After reading the article, I wanted to know how much human touch I was receiving over the course of a week. Like, data-gathering.

Day one, Sunday

Nothing. No one touches me. I feel flu-ish. I revise my premise from human touch to “intentional” touch, so I can count the dog, although he has to initiate. In fact, the rule is all the touch counts have to be initiated by the other person/animal. Sunday goes from nothing to seven times touched: the dog came to me four times with his muzzle to my hand for petting and two times with his paw on my foot to interrupt me as I wrote, and once on the street he purposefully bumped my thigh to herd me along.

Touches on Sunday: seven.

Monday

In the afternoon I have a manicure and pedicure, and impulsively add a lip wax and a ten-minute massage in the special chair. My Vietnamese nail worker, who is name-tagged “Sharon” for the clients, gets to work. She is rough with my feet and I flinch. We smile, she behind a mask. Sharon adjusts her touch. When she finishes—I love the feel of the twisted paper towel threaded between my toes—she takes my arm to help me from the high chair. In the waxing room, she dabs my upper lip. She moves a strand of hair from my mouth and then uses the flat of her palm to smooth my hair off my face. She applies the wax and presses the gauze and rips it off, one, two, three, four times. She taps my skin with something cool, gelatinous, and helps me off the table and over to a manicure chair.

I have to explain about my trigger thumbs, arthritis, a side effect of an oral chemotherapy drug. I wiggle them: please be careful. She wraps my aching hands in hot cloths. My throat tightens. Next she situates me in the massage chair. My nails are wet so Sharon gathers my hair—which, gone and grown back twice now, is newly thick and wavy and unruly for the first time in my life—and clips it up for better access to my neck and shoulders.

I think of my grandmother. Mary. I don’t know why, since I was so small when she died, and only know her through my mother’s memories. My mother, Marie, is dead too, so I can’t confirm anything. But I picture my grandmother with big hands, wide so that a whole warm palm, doughy, could heal eight children. When she finishes, Sharon smooths my wayward hair. I let out a small sob, sort of. My throat is tight and my eyes are brimming when I hit the street. The dog nuzzles me and paws me and herds me on Monday, too, so I tally seven again.

Times touched, Monday: seven dog and Sharon, to hard to count. I’m calling it fourteen.

Tuesday sucks

Tuesday I commute to the office. That cuts down on the dog count, from seven to three, since I am not at home much of the day. The subway is packed, I am touched a million times but not with intent so, nothing counts. There are shoulder bumps and brushing hands and full strange bodies pressing against mine, nearly head to toe, but no. A woman flips her hair and hits me on the side of my face a couple of times. I spend an entire ride with a man jiggling his thigh against my thigh, and it’s hard for me to believe it is not on purpose. I move my thigh a millimeter away, his follows. Maybe that should count. No one touched me at the office. Mohammed the doorman handed me a stack of boxes when I got home and they tipped and he grabbed them and tapped my hand to say, “There you go.”

Tuesday, three dog, one Mohammed: four touches.

Wednesday On Wednesdays, when my insurance is in full effect (there are only so many treatments allowed), I see Shaziya for 55 minutes of lymphatic massage, coded as occupational therapy. I have a little crew of surrogate daughters and Shaziya is tops on the list. I have two actual daughters of my own but one of them, the touchy-feely one, lives on the west coast. The close one is my protector, my supporter, but she is not touchy-feely. Her reserve developed later though, since, first of all, she refused to leave my body when it was time to get born, and had burrowed in so assiduously, she had to be obstetrically yanked out. The nerves along her spine, C5-C6, tore. There is residual deficit, as they say. Also, every photograph I have of this kid when she was little shows her hanging off me, hugging my legs. Yet, when she was four? I went to a Mother’s Day breakfast at pre-school, and the children’s drawings were hung with quotes about their moms, adorable, transcribed by the teachers. My mom lets me bake. My mom takes me to the park. My daughter’s quote was: My mom hates it when I hang on her. I laughed and we still laugh although ouch, then and now. Maybe her quote was her way of processing the doctors and orthopedic braces and surgeries and physical therapy sessions she was enduring. Projecting it on to me, who did not deliver her safely. That’s fair.

Anyway. Shaziya. Shaz treats breast cancer women who’ve had surgery. The surgery—in my case, surgeries—can mess up the lymph system because they remove nodes for testing. Your arm and hand puff up. It’s unsightly and uncomfortable, but also, lymphedema is dangerous. Plain old injuries can go gangrenous. I don’t have that and I don’t want it so every week I take off my blouse and stretch out on her table. She probes deep into my arm on my surgery side. She moves her fingers along my veins. She presses along the striations of scar tissue, pushes into the hollows of my chest and each breast, reconstructed to not great effect. She moves behind me. She moves her hands under my neck and across my shoulders, tight because I write, and also, I hunch them to protect my chest, which has taken the hits. I often drift into tears on the table, not exactly crying, more like expressing whatever from wherever she’s probing.

At some point, I realize Shaz’s big, pregnant belly has been grazing the crown of my head as she works. I wonder if there’s anything out there, myth-wise, about what happens if a baby bump bumps against a head, because I experience an epiphany during Shaziya’s bump bumping against mine. The arm problems, surgeries, physical therapies, residual deficits. My daughter and I share them. I cry for real. Although the belly-head rubs were not touching with intent, they were revelatory, so, yeah.

Wednesday’s touches: two dog, Shaziya, infinity. I’m starting to question my methodology.

Thursday

The dog does his usual thing. In the evening, I have a date, unusual. I have been set up by a friend with a guy, a journalist, a lawyer. “He’s both,” my friend says. “Stay open.” The journalist-lawyer encourages me to pick a meeting place but dismantles my choice, so we go with his choice although he doesn’t even live here. I’m staying open. He’s good looking on the internet. Maybe I’ll have sex with someone other than myself. I would love to. It’s been a while. The prospect makes me feel girlish. I exert special effort, clothes, hair, make-up, to look as effortless as possible. My age but younger. The guy is good-looking in real life, too. We hug. That’s one. He guides me with his hand on the small of my back. That’s two. We find seats at the bar. He pulls my chair out and says, “Is this okay?” and I say “Very okay,” and he then does this thing where he tucks a stray hair behind my ear and I’m thinking, How nice, and that’s three, but at the same time I’m thinking, Too soon. He talks a lot and I sip my wine. Sip. Sip. Sip. He’s still talking. I slug the dregs. Finally he says, “And you?”

I tell a story, a pretty good one, and in the middle of it he reaches over and takes my hands which I have been using to gesture, to punctuate, and he pushes them down into my lap. Holds them there. He gives me a nod and says, “Now go ahead, keep talking.” I try but my face is on fire. I feel like calling the police. He is restraining my hands and smiling as if he’s teaching me a lesson in how to be a better storyteller and a more fuckable woman. I take my hands back, dig in my bag for 20 bucks, lay it on the bar and go home. He doesn’t text or email or anything. I zero him out, no touches. Or maybe I should count four touches? He touched me, with intent, that’s for sure. I hate dating. I don’t want to be a couple. I hate this experiment. I decide to erase him.

Thursday: Seven dog touches.

Friday is black

Friday, there is a nor’easter, although it is spring. Friday, after one measly morning nuzzle and a dirty look, the dog goes to the groomer, an all-day proposition. Back home it’s so dark I need to turn on the lights in the daytime. I spend the whole day thinking about the journalist-lawyer who touched me in a way that felt like an assault. My internal, eternal, infernal man-manager—the me who makes allowances for men from long, long habit—wonders what I did to provoke it. Yet. I can still feel his hands holding mine hostage. I have spent my whole life finding my voice and using it. Using my hands helps, like massaging my words, like guiding my thoughts. I wrote my first novel at age 60. That’s a long time for a writer to not write, that’s some hard-core shutting myself up. I’m done with that. I am so mad from the night before I don’t notice the dog is giddy with relief when I pick him up from the groomer. He is overjoyed, bumping and nuzzling, licking my hand and leaning against my thigh, pushing his nose into my crotch. I forget to count.

Saturday

I love my dog. He is an affectionate fellow. On Saturday, he lays his head in my hand so I’ll scratch his ears, itchy from the groomer yanking the fur out. He head-butts me in the kitchen when I’m making coffee. He wants me to know he’s happy to be home with me after his traumatic salon time. He stares into my eyes, watches me intently. I hug him, and even though I’ve read dogs don’t like being hugged, he stands solid for it. He’s big so I can lay my cheek along his strong back and wrap my arms around his chest, his heart beneath my hand. He breathes into me, hot, damp. His tail wags, just a little, his own dignified choice. I feel liquid, loved, loving, bonded, connected, attached, just like the couples in the article.

I meet my daughter, the close one, for dinner. We embrace hello. She maintains her reserve but we sit shoulder to shoulder at a bar. She shows me pictures. We bend over her phone and our heads touch. We laugh. I rub her back along the bumps of her spine as she digs into dinner. My fingers stop and rest at C5-C6. I don’t think she notices, although she misses nothing. She tells me a story about her dog. We laugh. We talk about my father’s coin collection, my Christmas gift to her. We talk about my new hat, her Christmas gift to me. A hat. We talk about her sister, whom we miss. Let’s visit together, I say. Yeah, she says, let’s. We’ve had a few. We walk out into night and I take her arm, my deficient right through her deficient left. She hugs me hard. I hang on her as we say goodbye.

I go home to the big dog. I clip the leash. We perambulate like old marrieds down the street to the park, him herding me along, thank god. My phone dings, Love you, Ma. My phone dings, When are you guys coming to visit me? My phone dings, We just talked about it at dinner! My phone dings, I’m jealous, where’d you guys eat? She, my touchy-feely west coast girl, posts a picture of the three of us from another time and tags me. The texts and the tag, the tail’s wag, the hat on my head, everything like kisses, everything like hugs, everything like hanging on. It’s Saturday night, the week is over, the task, to tally the touches that carry me through, is impossible. The experiment’s a failure. To do it right, I’d have to start over. To do it right, I’d have to redefine the terms and I am pretty sure after all that, I would still lose count.

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Stephanie Gangi’s novel, The Next, is available now from St. Martin’s.