#give the bruises out like gifts | threads
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who: Lottie & open where: the backyard bus
“I don’t care what time is in New York, when I ask you to do something, I expect it done.” Lottie speaks into her phone in that lilting cadence she’s adopted since leaving this ghost town the first time, the only sign of her annoyance the tiny pucker between her brows. “Well then wake them up.” She closes her eyes, tapping her ring against her glass of shitty gin – god she forgot all anyone drinks around here is whiskey or fucking moonshine. What a goddamn cliché. Lottie sighs, glancing back at the lights of the bar she's walked far enough away from as to not be overheard. “I’m hanging up now, you have until 6am my time.” She misses the drama of being able to slam a flip phone shut – fuck, now she was getting nostalgic for high school? She downs the rest of her cocktail and walks back to the bar.
“Sorry,” she’s not, but that dazzling smile is distracting enough to be convincing. Flagging down the bartender, her attention returns. “What were you saying?”
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where: one man's trash / jr hq who: charlotte and @javier-morata when: quite late at night or very early in the morning, depending
Charlotte is covered in blood. It is not an entirely unheard of situation, however it is one she usually tries to avoid. Particularly when she’s fairly certain a good bit of it is her own blood. Fuck. She’s fine, really fine - she’s been hurt worse, it's the messiness that is the real problem. And so she ends up at the headquarters - a building she generally goes out of her way to avoid as much as she can help it. Its quiet, thankfully, but she’s not so stupid as to assume she’s alone here.
The bathroom door does not lock, a fact added to her mental list of grievances about this place. It’s not that she’s particularly concerned about who might walk in, Lottie just likes to find reasons to complain. She strips down to her bra and reveals a gash across her side - not deep enough to be debilitating but still concerning. She hisses under her breath, then goes in search of the first aid kit, praying to whatever deities might be listening that it still contains a suture kit. Charlotte Astor pouts over a broken nail - Death is about to stitch up her own side in the bathroom of a forgotten antique store.
But there’s someone already searching through the kit, someone vaguely familiar but not so well known that she doesn’t subtly reach for a hidden knife. “Your paper cut can wait.”
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when: 16:45 where: vineyard entry who: lottie & @tendcrbones
“Daph!” Lottie calls out across the arriving, mingling crowd. Of course her twin is in black, and – Lottie’s eyes narrow at the sight of that woman beside her. Kate or Caroline or whatever her fucking name is managed to stick around, and even earn an invite to meet the parents. She half hopes Daphne’s finally grown a backbone and is doing this out of spite. But Lottie knows her sister like she knows herself and the truth is likely much worse. Clearly Daphne needs Lottie to protect her from things like this – she should have pushed harder over the past few months. But for now, at least, Charlotte Eversley will attempt something rarely seen – apologizing.
“Why didn’t you come see me straight away when you got in? Nevermind –“ Lottie throws her arms around her sister and gives her a swift kiss on each cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here, they’ve finally got someone who makes a French blonde the way I like it.” Lottie intertwines their fingers then pulls her in the direction of the bar, without a second glance for her sister’s guest.
“Do you still hate me terribly?” She asks when they are alone. “I am sorry,” a lie, “you know how protective of you I am, I worried she was using you.” Summoning her most sincere face, Lottie faces her sister with a slight pout. “Promise you’ll forgive me?”
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hall of mirrors ; open !
Gemma never could resist a mirror. It's not vanity, though she does little to dispel this rumor. Rather – habit, and perfectionism so deeply ingrained through decades of training that she has little choice but to obsessively check her lines and posture. There is the slightest shift, shoulders drifting back millimeters as she studies herself until she is performance ready. But the usual meticulous self-critique blurs a bit at the edges, champagne maybe, or something else. Anything to dull the knife’s edge of raw emotion constantly tugging from both ends. She loses herself for just a moment, the girl in the mirror shifts into ghost – just another lovely thing to haunt these halls. And then she is not alone, lithe fingers clutching at her chest. “Christ, you startled me – “ Gemma is back on stage, smile balancing perfectly between expressive charm and aristocratic aloofness. “I thought you might be one of the ghosts, places this old and full of history must be haunted.”
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Lottie’s mature enough to admit the one benefit of the estate over her home in London is the expansive ground for Hazel. She’s a good mother, the best mother any dog could want really – and so she’s half-awake nursing a quad espresso whilst her poodle runs free amongst the gardens. This place is always at its best at sunrise and sunset. The colors bleed across the dewy gardens and fountains spring to life – for a moment Charlotte is the only one who exists and everything might be perfect.
She takes another sip of her drink and glances around, searching for Hazel. She turns and walks straight into someone so solidly muscled that she practically bounces off them and loses her balance.
“Fuck!” Lottie screams, flat on her ass in the dewy lawn covered in her espresso. Violent eyes glare up at the culprit. “Literally isn’t your entire job to be aware of your surroundings?” Hazel runs over, alternating between licking Lottie’s arm and barking at the man standing over her. “Hazel, calm.” The barking stops, and Lottie pulls herself to her feet.
“This side of the estate is typically empty until midday, it's why I bring Hazel here so early. She likes to run.” Lottie gathers herself, squaring her shoulders against the man who is now supposedly the head of their security. “What brings you way out here so early, sir?”
Having been called to a potential security risk on the other side of the estate, Theodore had chosen today to walk. He wasn't particular concerned about the so called threat as he had been at this job a long time and could tell the difference between something serious and a waste of his time. There was no doubt in Theo's head that this was a waste of his time, but this was his job and he did his job to the best of his ability. Theodore decided he would cut across the castle courtyard today, a little shortcut he'd learn over the many years of living and working on the estate. Theo was busy texting away on his phone, leaving instructions to his second and third in command for what they were to do while he was away from the guardhouse. Theo was muttering to himself, "No.. no.. no.. that's not- no.."
Therefore, he was completely engrossed in the device in his hands that he hadn't heard nor seen the other individual, so there was no way he wouldn't be able to avoid them if they decided to talk straight into him.
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when: late evening where: charlotte's favorite home in kensington who: charlotte and @asa-m-holland
Charlotte always indulges after a death, particularly those involving so much effort on her part. It's distraction, or perhaps self care - some way to rebuild the facade she sheds each and every time she picks up a knife. Shrouding herself in silk and lace and luxury until she is no longer Death, but the glossy armor that is Charlotte Astor. The knock is expected, but arrives too early - she’s not fully back yet, stuck somewhere in between her two selves. She huffs in irritation, deliberately ignoring the unease that’s plagued her since she landed, or perhaps before that, this building pressure like shaken champagne against a cork.
“A house call? Aren’t I special?” Lottie gives Asa an almost unnerving smile, then steps back to allow him to enter. “You’ll have to forgive the mess,” there is little, “I only landed a few hours ago, the flight was terrible, thank you for asking,” she hums, voice flighty and distracted - that considerable willpower occupied in keeping the creature of roiling emotion and rage locked inside its gilded cage - ritual now fully interrupted. Charlotte drifts into the kitchen and frowns, pulling out a bottle of champagne. “I suppose this will have to do, would you like a glass?” She finally looks at him again, eyes a touch too bright. “Oh! I got you something!” She beams, then slides the men’s signet ring from her thumb, watching vaguely as it skips and spins across the marble countertop.
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day after tomorrow
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joel miller x reader
summary: joel drops you off and picks you up from the airport. you are definitely falling in love with him.
warnings: modern no outbreak au, game!joel or hbo!joel, fluff, really just a fluff fest honestly, new-ish relationship, falling in love, sweet enough to make your teeth ache | 2.7k
A/N: this is a christmas gift for my dear friend @strangerfreaks who makes my life better in every way possible. i love you! hope you enjoy this <3
part ii here.
___
He's leaning on the side of the truck when you hurry outside with your stuff.
"Morning," you call. It's barely that, sky still dark and air still carrying the bite of the night's chill.
Joel straightens up and gives you a tired smile. Most of his smiles are tired but they're always genuine when directed at you. He tugs the backpack from your shoulder and presses his lips to your cheek, beard scratching your skin gently.
"Howdy," he says in your ear before pulling away.
The travel mug Joel pushes into your hands is warm to the touch.
"Tea," he says before you can tell him it's too early for coffee. His voice is deeper than usual, still warming up from sleep. It's not a cup from the local shop -- they're not open yet -- so he must have made it at home. "No caffeine before flights."
"You remembered?"
He gives you an unimpressed look and grabs your bags. They go in the backseat of his truck and he jerks his chin at the passenger door. "Get in. S'chilly."
It's also early. So early you were not going to ask him to drive you to the airport but when you mentioned you had to go on a work trip he offered. Insisted, actually, once he found out what time you needed to get there.
"You ain't takin' a cab that early," he had said. "Hell, you ain't takin' a cab home, neither. I'll pick you up."
This thing between you isn't new anymore, not exactly, but it's not solid yet. It doesn't have a name. But it's been a few months and you know what his sheets smell like and the feel of him pressed against you in the middle of the night and how he laughs with his head thrown back, mouth wide and eyes creased at the corners. He likes to take you on long walks around the lake a few towns over and you know all about his daughters even if you haven't met them yet. Your life feels a little more solid with Joel in it and the swell of your heart in your chest when you talk to him, when you see him, when he looks at you, is a welcome feeling. It's nice to want and be wanted in return.
The inside of his truck is warm, your seat heater already turned on. The radio is down to a low hum and there's a silver cup similar to your own in the holder between the seats. Joel gets back into the truck with a slight groan and glances at you to see if you've got your seatbelt on before he clicks his.
"Ready?" he asks. You nod. He settles his hand on your headrest and looks out the back windshield as he reverses the truck out of the driveway. "Shouldn't hit much traffic," he says.
You take a sip of your tea and watch him as he drives out of your neighborhood and towards the highway. Part of you wishes you would hit traffic so you could look at him longer. Even in the dark you know his face pretty well by now. His hair is getting a little long, the dark threaded through with some grey and falling over his perpetually lined forehead. The scar on the bridge of his nose that you love to run your finger across and the bruises under his eyes from too many nights up late working on site plans and employee schedules. You don't think you've met a man who works as hard as Joel, and yet here he is driving you to the airport when he could be sleeping.
Maybe it's because he's tired or maybe it's because it's dark or maybe it's because you're leaving for a few days but Joel lets you look without teasing. His eyes catch yours for just a second and he smirks.
"Why don't you drink coffee before a flight?" He takes a sip of his own thermos. You watch his throat work as he swallows and look away this time. The sky is starting to look purple out your window, the trees and fields and occasional buildings flying by too fast for your eyes to settle on anything. Joel drinks coffee like it's water. You're still leaning things about each other -- most days you find yourself thinking that you want to be learning things about him for the rest of your life -- and this is a new topic of conversation. You haven't had to be on a plane since you met him.
"I don't really like flying," you say. "Makes me nervous. I figure caffeine will just make it worse."
"Don't like it much either." You look at him again and find see smirk turn to a frown as he merges onto the nearly empty highway. "You gonna be okay?"
He asks like it's within his power to make flying something enjoyable, to cancel your work trip, to squash everything in this world that makes you nervous. Mostly you're just glad he's not teasing you about it. Maybe someday you can take a trip and be grumpy about it together.
"I'll be fine, Joel."
"Hm."
He rests an elbow against the window and rakes his hand through his hair.
"What are you up to this week?" you ask.
He sighs. "Not much," he says. "Lumber shipment but Tommy's handlin' it. Ellie says her shower head is actin' funny so I'll go to her place and look at that. Probably sit my ass on the couch and try to watch a damn football game or somethin'."
"So what I'm hearing is you're going to miss me." It's meant to be a tease but it comes out a bit more earnest than you'd like.
He sends you that unamused look of his but the mirth in his eyes betrays him, tells you he sees through it. You're learning that he's good at that -- seeing what you really mean, what you really want, who you really are, all the way down to the core. "Course I will," he says. "What man wouldn't miss cold hands bein' stuck up his shirt when he gets in bed?"
You scoff and Joel snickers. You could remind him how he usually catches your hands in his before you make it to his hemline on the rare nights he does wear a shirt, how he cradles your fingers and blows on them softly while rubbing them with his perpetually warm palms. The memory makes your breath hitch just a bit.
It's only three days. Some conference your boss wanted you to go to in his stead. It won't require much of you -- you just have to attend a few panels, a dinner or two, and schmooze a little bit. You'll be back before you know it. You tell yourself it's silly to feel this apprehension at the distance, the time apart. But you're used to Joel by now and damn if you won't miss him. Used to him taking up space in your kitchen, used to his arm around you on the couch, used to his short texts and heavy gaze. You know by now that it's only a matter of time before you love him.
"I'll miss you, too," you say softly. Joel eyes you, smirk turned soft again and reaches for you. He settles his palm on your thigh and you cover your hand with his.
When you get to the airport aren't many cars around and you're pretty sure the attendants won't yell at you for idling. Joel seems to think the same thing as he gets out of the truck to set your luggage on the ground. You leave your now-empty to-go mug in his car and throw your arms around him when he gets to the curb with your suitcase. His chest rumbles in amusement but he hugs you back, one palm rubbing between your shoulder blades until you pull away.
"Thank you for --"
"Nope," he interrupts you. "No thanks allowed." He hands you your backpack and you shoulder it. "I'll pick you up on Wednesday," he says.
You wave him off. "I get in way too late, don't worry about it --"
His hand cups your cheek and the words sputter out in your throat. "I'll be here," he says again.
"I'll call you," you say. "When I get there." It sounds like a question.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Please do."
"Thanks for the tea --"
"Now, what did I just say?"
You wrinkle your nose at him and he rolls his eyes before leaning in to press his lips to yours. You sigh into the kiss just a little though it remains chaste, mouths closed as his thumb strokes your cheek once, twice, before he pulls away. It's the kind of kiss that feels fond, feels familiar. A kiss that becomes routine and for a second you imgaine the press of your mouths a thousand times over just like this.
"Safe flight, sweetheart."
You smile at him and grab your suitcase before you stand here kissing him all day. "Bye, Joel."
6:04 am: you make it to your gate okay?
You send him a picture of your breakfast sandwich and the sun rising through the window, painting the sky purple and orange.
6:05 am: don't text and drive!
He replies with a photo of a full mug of coffee on his counter. It's a silly one, a dinosaur wearing a Santa hat. You think Sarah got it for him as a gag gift.
6:05 am: home already. let me know when you land
6:06 am: will do. have a good day!
The flight is pretty okay. You spend the bumpy moments thinking about Joel's hand on your leg and get through it just fine. A shuttle takes you to your hotel and you have to hurry a bit to be ready for your first panel.
You're busy all day. So tired by the time you get back to your room that you flop on the bed with a groan.
"Ugh," you say, face smushed into the sheets. You're tired and hungry and...you miss Joel and feel a little silly about it.
That sense of puppy love, as most people would call it, hasn't faded. Your feelings for Joel are more than the crush they were when you first started seeing each other but they still linger in the realm of infatuation. You like to look at him, to feel the solid warmth of him beside you, above you, underneath you. You like being near him. But you're also starting to love things. You love the way his voice sounds when he wakes up, the way he says your name over the phone, the way he asks you what you want, how you are, how your day was. You love to see him on your couch, in your kitchen, in your bed. You've started to miss him when he's not around.
And what you said to him in his truck is true. You do miss him. It's an ache that sits in the center of your chest, an ache that feels like the best kind of bruise -- because it comes from something good. And because you know it'll be soothed soon enough.
But, because you're only human, you doubt that it's as serious for him. Joel keeps his cards close to his chest and while you feel like you know him pretty well by now you also have so much to learn. So, though you really want to, you don't pick up the phone and call him. Maybe the next time you're away.
7:54 pm: day 1 done! ready to get in bed. why do men talk so much?
He texts back immediately.
7:54 pm: god knows. don't forget to order room service on the company dime. sweet dreams.
You laugh and do as he says.
The rest of the conference goes the same. By day three you're exhausted and your face hurts from smiling at so many people. Your shoes are no longer comfortable and as soon as the closing keynote ends you're out of there, changing into soft clothes and taking the shuttle to the airport. You text Joel a picture of your airport dinner and then your eye bags and he replies with a cute that has you giggling a little too loudly in public.
You just want to get home to him. Your own bed is a bonus.
But then your flight gets delayed. Twice. Joel tells you not to worry, he'll pick you up in the middle of the night if he has to. Once you board you get stuck on the tarmac for another half hour before finally taking off. It's a decidedly less relaxing experience because you're so anxious to be home but you make it. When you land it feels like you're sitting in your seat for ages. You're tired and feel gross and you want to go to bed. Your phone turns back on and you've got one text waiting for you.
10:34 pm: i'll be by baggage claim
That was 15 minutes ago. He must have been checking your flight in the air to get here at a reasonable time. God, you want to touch him. You want to stick your nose in his neck and inhale.
You try very hard not to run through the terminal to the escalator that goes down to arrivals. It seems to move really fucking slowly once you're on it. As soon as it gets far enough for you to see the baggage claim level and everyone waiting there your eyes search for him. You see some families, a few tired children sleeping in arms that hold them tenderly. A group of girls with a sign that reads WELCOME HOME RACHEL!
And then there's Joel.
Once you spot him it's hard to keep a smile from your face. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the escalator. Jeans, jacket, boots, and a firm set to his jaw that might be intimidating to anyone else but to you it's familiar. It's him. Once he sees you he stands a little taller and you see his cheek twitch. If someone wasn't in front of you you'd be down the steps in seconds but you wait until you're at the bottom to race forward.
It's probably a bit dramatic. You drop your suitcase and backpack at your feet in front of him.
"Hi," you say, and then you throw your arms around his shoulders. Joel laughs.
"S'like you're comin' home from war, or somethin'," he says, though his hugs you back just as tightly. "Should'a made a sign."
"Feels like it." Your words are muffled by his shoulder.
"That bad, huh?" His palm drags up and down your spine. "Let's get you home, then."
Neither of you pull away. "I missed you," you say softly.
Joel breathes deep and pulls away, hand on the back of your head as he makes sure you're looking at him.
"Missed you, too," he says gruffly. Then he kisses you. It's less chaste than your goodbye kiss but still perfectly acceptable for airport arrivals, you think.
"You hungry?"
"I sent you a picture of my dinner!"
"Not what I asked." You shrug and tangle your fingers with his. His thumb strokes the back of your hand. "We'll get you somethin' on the way home."
"Do you want to stay over?" you ask in a rush, realizing too late he's got no reason to want to. It's late and tomorrow is a workday. "I'm just gonna shower and go to bed but I--"
Joel's nostrils flare. "If you want me to I will." Simple as that.
"Okay," you say. He squeezes your hand.
You walk in easy silence for a few moments. Once you're in the car you'll ask how his week was, tell him about the gossip you learned at the conference. You'll look at him the entire drive to your place, drinking your fill of him after three days without. Yeah, you're going to love him. It's just a matter of time.
"Thank you for coming to get me," you say.
Joel looks like he wants to argue but he allows it.
"Anytime," he says. It sounds like a promise.
thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!
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where: one man's trash / jr hq who: charlotte and @langdon-peterson when: very late at night or quite early in the morning
She actively avoided headquarters as a point of pride. Trash, as Charlotte firmly believed, should remain as such. ( Niko once called her a snob for such observation, to which she replied: 'of course.' ) However, on some occasions it was necessary. Like when her target had so rudely decided to wake up in the midst of being assassinated, resulting in the loss of her third favorite knife and blood in her hair. She certainly could not go back to her side of town looking like this, thus hq became a necessary evil.
The bathroom door did not lock, a fact added to her mental list of grievances about this place. She wasn't particularly concerned about who might walk in, she just liked to find reasons to complain. Charlotte was never sloppy, but it had been a while since she'd had a job this messy. And she'd forgotten how fucking annoying it was to get blood out of her hair.
The doorknob turned and so did she, knife flying from her fingers to embed itself in the wall, mere inches from the intruder's face. A warning shot she did not often give on the off chance it might have been someone important. Instead... "Langdon Peterson?"
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knackered converse
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a tea & a donut
warnings: fluff monster, smut, piv, fingering, blowjob, the works
word count: 10.1k
His Converses stick against the beer-soaked wooden floors. His plastic cup of his own beer has run to the bottom leading him back to the kitchen-turned bar to fill it up to the brim. The place has already been fairly trashed and he's just thankful he doesn't have to clean it up, even if that means he has to avoid the packet of smashed Jaffa Cakes all over the tiled floors and the bottom of his shoes will be left with a beer residue for the next month.
A guy he doesn't know fills up his cup. This place is filled with people Alex doesn't know, which is mainly the reason he came. It's the whole "making friends" part of university. He has a few mates here helping him not feel completely gangly and awkwardly alone but still he's gangly and awkward and currently alone, even if he's being smushed up against the refrigerator.
He shimmies his way out without spilling any liquor and manages to make it over to the open window for some fresh air. The place feels like a furnace and he's been charged with keeping it burning. He knocks his fingers against the plastic of his cup, listening to the rhythmic beats, memorizing them, and the strange way it makes things feel a little quieter.
The creeping autumn breeze brushes on his back in a gift of relief that prevents a giant sweat patch on the back of his shirt. His shoulders curve forward as he gives into his bad posture in favour of some comfort. He knows that in order to meet people he actually has to talk to them and seem approachable. Right now he probably gives off the appearance of a hunchback with his night off from the bell tower.
He gazes outward to the crowd of people as he tries to find someone to latch onto. There has to be another weirdo here. A person who doesn't knock his insides and intimidate him with their steroidal muscles or caked-on make-up. Honestly, he's just insecure and he knows it. He's still trying to figure out how to live within his skin and meanwhile, it feels like everyone else has.
Alex looks down at his shoes. The front of the left one is about to split open and his mum told him to get new ones before school started but he didn't. He should listen to her more often.
"Did you go to the kitchen?"
"Huh?" His eyes snap up to see where the contributing voice came from. He thinks there's a mere possibility he made it up when his eyes find you standing before him. You have your own plastic cup in hand and a smile that he would definitely deem "approachable." The kind that people gravitate toward.
You giggle at him, probably finding him goofy with his bug eyes and the way his ears stick out with his new haircut. "I stepped on the Jaffa Cakes in the kitchen. Messed up my shoes."
You stick out one of the orange-chocolate-covered messes. You're wearing Converses too, the same kind as his, and he thinks that makes me a bit cooler just by association. They're just as knackered as his pair. Graffiti-covered by friendly scrawl and shoelaces that are missing their aglets.
The bottom cuffs of your jeans have denim threads ripping out of them. You wear a black leather belt that seems to be the only thing that oozes luxury off of you. Your shirt advertises Great Heights Space Camp with a tiny astronaut sitting on top of your left breast.
"Oh." He chuckles with you and lifts his shoe with the slow sound of stickiness. "I've only got beer on mine."
"Yours?" You take a step closer to him, refreshing yourself with a sip of beer.
Alex scoots over as an invitation for you to sit beside him. He watches as you lower yourself. With your face now right beside him, he grows nervous of you seeing him up close and personal. He can't stop thinking of the pimple on his flaming cheeks. "No, I haven't been that clumsy yet."
"I once fell down the stairs when I was drunk. I think I've still got a bruise from it." You spread your knees and sit the same way his dad does when he watches football. You turn your foot out and knock the rubber lining of your shoe with his. It's clearly intentional, enough to make his cheeks flush from the recognition.
"I rarely have control over my body," he tells you. It makes you laugh and his stomach contorts itself at the thought that you found him funny. "And that's not even when I'm drunk." You laugh harder and it's one of those contagious laughters that grabs everyone in the room and makes them want to laugh too.
"I like your shirt." He points to the little spaceman before sipping his drink to hide the embarrassment of having just pointed at your boob.
You gaze down on it and shake your head in shame. "Thanks. I've had it for years. When I was younger I thought I might be an astronaut or a pilot."
"Why aren't you?"
"I'm terrified of heights."
He shares a laugh with you. He feels infected. You've contaminated him from here on out. "I've always liked space. Looking out at the stars with me dad. So close yet so far." It's the way he feels with you now. How easy it could be for him to reach out and touch you but what a terrifying idea.
"We're looking at them and they could already be gone, bursting into a supernova." He doesn't want you to go. Please don't go.
*
Outside the Eastman building, there's a coffee shop where Alex sits and reads—attempts to read. He often gets off-course. Sometimes with more productive things like writing, sometimes with less productive things like doodling. It helps kill time between classes. They also have good donuts but that's neither here nor there.
The most important thing is that on Thursday after the party, you walk over to him. He's doodling by that point with the closed copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man sitting across from him. His head is down so intently paying attention to his pen drawing across the page that he doesn't see or hear you approaching.
"Are you taking that Joyce class?" Once again your voice snaps his head up. You're dressed the same except for the light hoodie you wear unzipped and the backpack hanging off one of your shoulders. Your fingers quickly flick through the book's pages.
He closes his notebook full of nonsense and devotes himself to you. "Yeah, yeah, but I'm kind of regretting it now."
"I almost took it but I went with the Virginia Woolf class instead." You drink out of your cup and warm both your hands on the cardboard. He imagines a world where you two share a class. You'd sit by one another and Joyce wouldn't seem so boring anymore. You could liven up any discussion and you'd make fun of the way the professor spat every time he tried to say Künstlerroman.
"How's that going?" He asks.
You shrug. "Considering I finished Mrs. Dalloway last night and you're here ignoring Joyce, I think I made the right choice."
"Do you want to help me ignore him some more?" He reaches across and clears Joyce away from the table, dropping it into the deep end of his bag.
You accept the seat, placing your cup where the book once sat. "What else are you doing?"
"Just killing time before the Joyce class," he explains. "I forgot about the fact that I would actually have to do work at uni."
"Yeah, they never tell you that," you joke, leaning your head on your hand.
He laughs embarrassingly. "I don't mind it for the most part but I'm terrible at time management."
"I'm the opposite. I hate being late, especially to class. I feel like everybody watches you when you walk and you're the loudest person ever. It makes my skin crawl."
"You would hate me then."
"I doubt it," you reassure with a smile.
You do these things to him. Things that make him feel all funny inside and question what he was thinking and what he was doing before you sat down in front of him. He felt that way at the party too. And after, when you had left with your group of friends and he questioned why he didn't ask for your number. But then you cropped up here. You fell into his lap. He can't help but think that means something.
"I've got a planner and everything but, I don't know, my internal clock is off or something."
"Hm. Mine is perfectly aligned. Biological and the moon and all that."
"You mean like your period?" He read about that once. How women's menstrual cycles are connected with the moon or tides or something.
You laugh into the palm of your hand. "Yeah. I guess so." Your face is red. It's nice to know that he isn't the only one on edge. "I didn't mean to get on that subject."
"That's fine. I'm not afraid of blood or anything."
You double over, completely shielding yourself from his view. "Don't worry. I won't free bleed on you." You lean back with pink cheeks. "Is this the modern equivalent of Joyce writing about shitting for 20 pages in Ulysses?"
Alex shrugs. "I don't know. I never read it."
"Neither did I."
He smiles without a care for how wide it looks. "What else are you reading?"
"I'm taking this Shakespeare class. My group has been assigned to put on a production of Hamlet. Since I'm the only girl I'm both Ophelia and Hamlet's mother."
"Sounds like Hamlet has a complex."
"Yeah, we're going to lean into that whole Oedipus thing. I'm just hoping that I don't butcher the whole thing. I'm not very good at memorising things. Do you like Shakespeare?"
"I love the guy," he fibs. Alex hasn't ever bothered with Shakespeare. Not even in school. "I'm sure you'll be great in it. You'll at least be there on time." He's about to be late for James Joyce. It would be worth it too. But this teacher has already scolded him twice and Alex can't give him any more reasons to hate him. "I have to go to class but if you'd like to give me your number."
"Yeah." You're smiling, which is a good sign. You grab a pen out of your bag and snatch a napkin. "I have to go to this student production of Romeo & Juliet if you'd like to go."
"With you?"
"Yeah. If that's alright. It's Saturday at 7. We can meet outside Neumann."
"That'd be perfect." Alex stands up nervously, swinging his bag over his shoulders.
You stuff the phone-number-covered napkin into his hand. "Good luck with Joyce, Alex."
*
Shakespeare is funny, at least this production is. It lies somewhere between an attempt to retell Romeo & Juliet as a comedy and tragically awful and that's without the whole death part. He tried to keep his laughter under wraps because you seemed engrossed in it but then you let out a snort in the middle of the nightingale and lark scene. Or he should just say sex scene with the way the two actors maul each other.
Alex and you give the production a standing ovation because A for effort. You start whooping cheers just to make him laugh, which he joins in on. Every other attendant gave questionable looks but the cast members looked pleased as they gave their final bows.
"Do you think we encouraged those poor kids too much?" You ask as you leave the theatre. You swing your purse around your finger. You've dressed far too nicely for a production so poor. Your dress falls just above your knees with flowy fabric adorned on it that only the last few days of warm weather will allow. "They're going to go home and think they're the next Laurence Oliviers."
Alex walks with his hands in his pockets. He wore a dark pair of khakis because they are the only trousers he owns that don't have holes in them. "They won't make it far. We gave them one night of glory."
You flash him a smile. It charms him, shooting arrows through him, endearing him to Cupid's uncontrollable spell. "Thank you for coming with me," you tell him. "Sorry that it was so bad."
He shakes his head. "No, no. I had fun."
"Good then you can come with me when they do Macbeth," you joke. "No, I wouldn't do that to you. I'll let you pick what we do next time."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"It can't be much worse than what we just watched. What do you like to do for fun?"
You're staring at him with eager eyes like he's expected to say something like skydiving but for the life of him, he feels like the most boring person alive. "I don't know," he says with a weak chuckle.
You take your eyes away with a nod. "Okay. I'll let you think on that. This is me." You point to the building behind you, inching away, out of his reach. "Thanks again for coming. Text me if you think of anything. See you 'round, Alex."
"Bye." He feels dull and foolish. You looked like you were trying to escape his grunts and indecision. He supposes that it's his fault for feeling so nervous for no reason. He needs to be put at ease. He sighs and walks back home.
*
On Monday he spots you reading To the Lighthouse in the corner of the cafe. You look up and wave with no hesitation. He walks over with his donut and copy of Dubliners. "I've got something for you," he says. "If you'd like."
You stare up at him with a smile. It’s like lightning with the way it leaves him feeling singed and searing and hollowed out. "Is it a gift?"
"Maybe. It's an invitation." He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out two pieces of paper. "I don't know if you like them but Nick Cave is coming in on Wednesday and I was looking for someone to go with and, well, this is what I do for fun."
"I love Nick Cave."
*
You're in the swell of the crowd, pressed up against one another and about 2,000 other people. The music is good but all he can concentrate on is the vicinity of your body to his body. Half his chest touches half your back, which means half his crotch touches half your ass. He shouldn't be expected to pay attention to whatever the fuck Nick Cave is singing about when that's occurring.
"Can you see alright?" You turn around and ask.
"What? Yeah, yeah. Can you?" He can't see for shit but he could give less of a fuck right now.
"Uh, kind of. It sounds good. I guess that's all that matters."
You're moving, you're shimming, you're beating on his bones, knocking on his soul, inviting yourself in. Sure, there's a tall, smelly guy pushing up against his ass but that only pushes him closer to you and you're not inching away. There's no attempt to escape. You lean back into his chest and smile like this was all part of your plan.
He reaches for your hand when the show ends. It's under the excuse of not wanting to lose you in the crowd but you're two blocks away from the venue and still holding hands. "Did you have fun?" He asks. "I thought they were great."
The street is clear but you lean close to him and knock your shoulder into his with only pleasure on your face. "It was wonderful. Thanks for taking me."
"Thanks for coming with me." He looks over at you and feels like he's been knocked off his feet. He's not letting things slip through his fingers again. "Do you want to get a drink or something? Are you hungry?"
You pull from your soda by the straw without lifting the cup to drink, leaning forward with your burger still in your grip. Alex finds it, quite honestly, adorable. He is irrevocably fond of this girl. It's hard for him to believe that he got you here, sitting across from him in a tacky red booth at some shitty 24-hour diner.
"So, Alex, how often do you go to concerts?" You ask before taking a bite out of your burger.
"Depends," he replies. "I've got friends who've knocked about in bands and I go to their shitty little gigs sometimes. Doesn't cost much and makes for some fun nights."
You've already vowed to pay for the meal since he paid for the tickets, though he might insist on paying for his half of the receipt because it's the gentleman thing to do and his mother told him to always be a gentleman.
"Do you work?" You ask.
"I had a job back home, but I haven't found anything here. I'd like to. What about you?"
"I work in the school's mailroom."
"Oh, so you're the one who's been stealing all my mail."
You laugh into a napkin, trying to prevent spitting your food out. "I've done no such thing. Half of the mail is junk anyway. I'm saving you from all the adverts."
"I like the little adverts. Seriously," he says when you pull a face. "I like the bad slogans they have and sometimes they come with a coupon."
You squint at him all playful, elbows on the table, not even close to prim and proper. You are messy, in the way you move, in the way you speak, in the way you eat, and he loves it. "I'll be sure to stuff your mailbox full of them next time."
He wonders if you've noticed how close you've gotten, how you're both leaning across the table. He can see directly into your eyes—into your soul. They are earnest, all intrigue, bright and reflecting light the way the moon does. He thinks he could stare forever and never get tired of the sight. Cars streak past, the city bustles, and he is oblivious to it all. It’s just this, just you.
*
The next time he opens his mailbox it's flooded with adverts, most not even addressed to him. In the middle of the mess is a postcard of the Virginia Woolf quote "I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful." Written on the back of it in beautiful cursive penmanship is "Do you really go through all the adverts? Next donut on me if so."
*
He slides the postcard across the table to you on Monday morning. He crosses his arms with a smirk as you pick up the card. You roll your eyes and slide the card back over to him before standing to purchase him his signature glazed donut.
"I think you're single handedly keeping this place in business," you say as you drop the donut in front of him.
He unwraps it with a shit-eating grin. The glaze melts in his mouth. "They're good. Here. Have some." He breaks off a piece and hands it to you.
You try to refuse but he pushes it closer and closer to your mouth until the sugar flakes are brushing against your lip. You finally oblige, taking the piece into your mouth, the tip of his thumb rubs against your bottom lip. It feels like he's touched the forbidden fruit.
Alex plays it as cool as possible and focuses back on the donut before him. You hum, "Okay, it's good."
"I have good taste. Is that hard to believe?"
"Maybe," you hold your thumb and index finger a hair apart from one another, "just a little."
"You're the one who took me to that shitty Shakespeare production."
"Hey, that was for a class and Shakespeare is classic no matter the form he is done in." It's cute how you get all wound up over this as if it's anything more than a joke. It's in the same vein as you drinking that scalding hot tea with no care for your tongue. All these perplexities about you that he finds deeply entrancing. If there is an end to this fascination, he hasn't found it yet.
"Do you know what classes you're taking next term?" You ask, licking your lips clean of the glaze. The pink shine of them smacks against one another. They are staring him dead in the eyes with no remorse. "'Cause there's this British literature class I was thinking about. I thought, maybe, it would be cool if you took it too."
You look nervous. He's never seen that before. You hug your arms around yourself, leaning on your elbows, and staring down at the black tabletop. "I'm not very good at reading," he says like a dope. Like he's five years old and you're teaching him the alphabet.
You anxiously giggle. "Then you can cheat off of me."
"Sounds like a good plan."
*
Friday nights Alex tends to end up drinking with his mates. It's sloppy and informal, stuck in someone's dorm with a pack of beers snuck past security. Sometimes someone rolls a joint. Other times they stink up the room with cigarette smoke. One day they'll probably get caught but it hasn't happened yet.
Matt's room tends to be the best. He's got the most chairs and this bean bag chair that the guys fight over who gets to sit in and, with the lifelong advantage of knowing Matt, Alex tends to win the claim over it.
He slouches down in it with a beer can wetting a circle into his jean-clad thigh. The guys are having some pissing contest that he can't follow but laughs along with anyway. Matt spins around in his chair and faces him. "Alex has got a bird," he says. "Don't ya?"
"What?" He chuckles with faux obliviousness.
"Oh, come off it. We've all seen her. The way you ogle."
"I do not ogle. We're just friends for now." He toys with the beer can and doesn't dare make eye contact with Matt.
"For now?" Matt questions with a raised eyebrow. "Alright, Al." They back off after that. Thankfully.
*
On a December morning, there are ringlets in your hair. Tight ones that he wants to pull at and watch bounce. You're zeroed in on a stack of papers, one hand fiddling with one of the corners, the other clutching your cup of tea.
"Hey there, Ophelia," Alex says while sitting down with his donut and a hot chocolate. (What can he say? He's feeling festive).
"Shush," you loudly sound off. Your eyes laser in on the paper as if you're trying to scan it with your eyes.
"Shall I get thy to a nunnery?"
You look up with a death glare. "If you're not going to be quiet, you have to leave."
He's amused, a smile crossing his face, which he's sure isn't pleasing you one bit. He reaches across and tugs at your pages. "Come on, let me help you. I'll play Hamlet."
You hum. "You'd be a good Hamlet." You give in and let him take the pages.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
You chuckle at his offense. "You know, you're all brooding and melancholic."
"Wow, thanks."
"You can't deny it if that's how you come off."
"Well, you're certainly no Ophelia."
"Thanks, I don't plan on drowning myself anytime soon."
"'Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,'" he recites.
Your face flashes with surprise. "You know Hamlet?"
He shrugs. "Some." Yeah, he totally looked up quotes the night before and memorized them in the hopes of impressing you.
"You're a total Hamlet."
He pushes his eyes away from your gaze and stares down at the script. "Okay, come on, you only have thirty minutes until you have to perform this."
You groan. "Why did I ever take this class? I don't want to act. I don't even give a shit about Shakespeare."
"Alright, Ophelia, quit your whining. 'Let the doors be shut upon him that he may play the fool nowhere but in ’s own house...'"
*
He doesn't see you again until the barren cold of January in the frigid Felton Hall for British Literature. You're there on time, of course, and you've saved him a seat. With a wide smile and a wave, you summon him over to you.
"Good, I was thinking you wouldn't show." You pat the chair beside you and it's hard for him to wrap his mind around the excitement you show. So endlessly pleased to see him and he wonders why he's ever questioned your sweetness toward him. (He wonders why he won't just suck it up and make a move).
"Now, why would I do that?" He questions as he takes the seat beside you, taking the winter coat off his shoulders.
"'Cause you're a cruel man. But then I remembered you're always late. In fact, I'm shocked you showed up before class started."
He wonders if you know it's because of you. This isn't a regular thing to arrive early. It's for these spare minutes that he can sneak a conversation with you. "What can I say? I'm improving."
"New Year's resolution?"
"Something like that." He smiles.
The professor starts speaking some boring gibberish about the theme of the class and the supplies you'll need. Alex isn't focused on that. You'll give the rundown anyway with all of your note-taking. God. You're taking notes. What a nerd. He's gonna marry you.
Alex spares you one last glance, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the way he’s looking at you this time. The sweater you're wearing is really working for you, fuzzy blue angora that doesn’t quite reach your waist, riding up to expose the small of your back and dipping in a sharp V at your clavicle. He knows you know he’s looking, teeth around his pen, and the thing is… the thing is, you look back. With dark eyes, no care for the way it makes him feel in the middle of Charles Dickens and the Brontës.
Your eyes meet. His lip quirks up. Yours does too. You both look away. What the hell is he doing?
*
Alex takes you to one of his friend's concerts. It's at this shitty bar that you marvel at the whole time like it's the Taj Mahal. You come back from the bathrooms that smell like vomit and talk about the stickers plastered on the door for fifteen minutes. He loves it. Loves that you love all this little detail. How you won't shut up about the PJ Harvey poster hanging behind the bar and how much you'd kill to see PJ Harvey live in concert.
You sip your rum & Coke in tiny segments and you giggle after you burp with a quiet "'Xcuse me." And he's in love. He's deeply entrapped in the prison of you and there's no need to escape. It's quite a lovely thing. He thought it would scare him for the longest time. He always found love to be daunting and the idea of giving it away to someone felt like this massive overwhelming thing but now he feels it with no hesitation. There are no attempts to fight it off. It's the cozy thing. It's not a steaming fire. It's a fuzzy blanket on a snowy day. It's easy. That's the biggest relief of all.
"I always thought these kind of places would be louder!" You shout into his ear over the banging music.
"This isn't loud enough for you!" He yells back.
You shrug. "I thought my ears would be bleeding."
"And you wanted that to happen?"
"It'd be a cool story." You're so close, your breath right up against his ear. He turns his head and stares at you. "What?" Like you're oblivious. As if he isn't obvious in his longing stares or in the way he casts his eyes down to your lips. Like he hasn't been waiting for this moment, for this chance since you approached him with Jaffa-Cake-smeared shoes. "What?"
He moves in. He finds you and he keeps you for himself. His chapped lips land on yours, those smooth glossy pink things that have been staring at him for months. He's careful with it. He doesn't want to come off as forceful. He wants to take this with grace. He wants to lock it in and show you he can take care of you.
You pull back, mildly stunned. He's worried he's misread this whole thing until you let out a little giggle. "I like that."
"Do you now?" He chuckles back.
You nod fervently before pulling him back to you. He wants to take you apart with his teeth. He feels in control now with no worries of rejection. It’s a rough thing, a raw thing. You fall into it, into him, your mouth tastes like cherries and rum and moves against his own with the same ease he feels. He holds your face in his hands and you tug at his lower lip and it’s fireworks in his chest, its sparks flying and embers glowing. It runs like an electric current down the rungs of his spine, felt from the soles of his feet all the way to his scalp. Warm.
*
You don't wait around because he's been waiting for this for months and he gets the feeling you have been too. So, when it's time to go home, you don't resist when he holds your hand and pulls you in the direction of his dorm.
He feels like something within him has been awakened. There's no need to quiet the feeling down, he can just let it flourish. You slot your head on his shoulder while you wait for the elevator and it's crazy how this morning he woke up from a dream about this and now he's here with you beside him in the flesh.
Inside the elevator, you're the one to act first. It makes him take three steps back, his body forced against the metal walls, the leaning bar pressing into his back. He can't help but smile into it, his teeth skimming yours.
When the elevator doors open, you pull away from him like you've been zapped. It makes him chuckle and then he's tugging you down the hall with a skip in his step that is so rushed it makes you laugh. "Eager much?"
"Yeah," he sighs, "I'm beat. Can't wait to go to bed." He leans against his door with an exaggerated yawn, covering his mouth with his hand.
You pull him off the door. "Very funny. I'll just head home then." He's got a hold of your hand before you're even able to take a step. He pulls you to him, knocking your hips against one another. He digs his keys out with one hand and keeps his touch on you with the other.
It's a crash from there. A race to his bed. A tsunami plummeting its way to shore. Your hands tug on the hem of his shirt and his unbutton your jeans. Your touch cascades over his torso and it's a balm to the skin. It feels like no one has ever touched him there before and no one ever will again. That this feeling will only ever exist at this moment with his body up against yours and his lips kissing under your ear, making you squirm.
You pull away to kick your jeans off the rest of the way and he takes the opportunity to do the same. Your blouse flies somewhere over to his desk and then it's just him in his underwear and you in your bra and underwear and he just wants to take this moment to look and not touch. He takes it in and looks so long that you start to shrink under his gaze, covering yourself up with your hands.
"No," he promises, "I just wanted to look."
"You're allowed to touch. If that's alright with you?"
He nods and takes a step forward, one that reconnects, and soon you're back in the swing of things, wrapped up in one another, twisting around one another in some desperate example of making love.
He unclips your bra and it falls to the floor and then you fall onto the bed with you on your back and him hovering above, his hand slipping down, thumbing the hem of your underwear until he slips under and allows himself to touch.
He kisses at your bare chest and you tug at his hair. You raise your hips when he mouths at your breasts, your face tucked away in his neck, his hands on your ribcage. You reach down to rub him over his underwear and, god, he’s hard. You stroke him over the cloth and he moans a little, which makes you grin.
You rid yourselves of the rest of the cloth between you and from there, it’s a sweaty haze. He fills you all up, it makes him feel whole, and you're intoxicating with the way you look at him—all blown pupils and messed-up hair, alternating between rabid and rapt, pulling your hair back to kiss your neck.
It's just right and he hopes it's just right for you too. He tries his hardest. Flicks his hips just right in the way that has you fighting back, tugging on him, digging crescent shapes into his back. You pull him closer and you're moaning in his ear so he thinks he's doing it right.
You utter a tiny "Fuck" and he can't help but come then. He dumps his head onto your collarbone and you moan and tighten around him, arching up and letting go.
"You okay?" He asks, wrapping his arms under your back, holding you close. He kisses your temple, something divine.
"So okay."
You ask to spend the night like there’s even a possibility he’d turn you away. And whether because you don't want to sleep naked or in your underwear or maybe you just want to wear his clothes, you ask, “Do you by any chance have something I could sleep in?”
And so, after a quick rifle of his drawers, he produces a ratty David Bowie t-shirt that’s long enough to cover everything and a pair of boxers.
"I can’t believe we’ve known each other for this long and I’ve never seen your room before," you say. "I was expecting clothes everywhere and posters of half-naked girls. Is it always this freakishly organised?”
He clears his throat. “Helps me think.” He lays back on his bed as he watches you walk around his room, inspecting every corner.
“But you can't show up to class on time?”
He shrugs. His hand lay on his bare stomach and he tries to think of something funny to say but you're too distracting. "What's your room like? Are you messy?"
You snort and point at yourself. “You think I'm messy?”
"I don't know. I thought maybe we'd be the opposite of one another."
"No such luck, mister. I'm too anal. Frustratingly so." You're plucking through his CDs. He wonders if you'll comb through each one, giving them each a rating.
"You're perfect. That's what you are," he says.
You turn around and shake your head. "Don't put that on me. I'd only let you down."
"Doubt it." He stands up and shakes the stiffness out of his limbs. "I'll be back." He heads to the bathroom, half because he needs to use it and half because he wonders what you'll do while he's gone.
When he returns to the room, he finds you sitting on his bed like something that belongs there, like it’s the place you retire to every night. He leans against the doorjamb. “Hi.”
You look up from the book you're skimming. The side of your mouth quirks. “Hi,” you whisper back. “Come here.”
And it’s so easy to listen to. He doesn’t wanna be anywhere else, after all. He joins you on the mattress and you curl up to accommodate him, but he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer.
You turn to him and start saying, "You write little—"
"Your nose is bleeding."
A little red stream escapes out of the left nostril and your hands rush up clutching it. "Fuck. Sorry."
"It's okay," he reassures. He reaches across his bed and grabs a tissue. You clutch it to your nose, pinching the bridge with a giggle erupting from you. "What's so funny?"
“Nothing, just noting the conveniently placed Kleenex box and,” you check over your shoulder, “oh, look at that, a bottle of lotion. Wow, you really are just like every other boy.”
He snorts a laugh and says, “Shut the fuck up, you’re making your nose bleed more." He reaches out and holds your hand to your nose pressing the tissue to it.
“Do you keep glam mags under your bed?”
“No.”
“Computer porn then?”
“None of your business,” he says shortly. “I've already exposed enough of meself to you tonight.”
“Alright,” you say. “I just like thinking about you that way.”
“Stop." He falls on his back and stares up at the ceiling and tries to think of anything else imaginable. Dirt bikes. The Strokes. Shit. Trees turning into paper. "Don't say shit like that."
Your eyes are bright. “Why?” You toss your tissue away and lay down beside him.
"'Cause I'll never be able to go to bed again."
You shrug, all amused. You lay down beside him. “I wouldn't mind." You reach out, tracing his jawline. “I had fun.”
“Me too.���
You reach over him to yank on the lamp chain and stay there after the darkness floods in with your head on his chest, your leg hooked over his hip. He pulls the covers over you and just holds you.
*
Everything you do is the same, except with a kiss. Coffee and tea at the cafe but your feet are entangled the whole time. Class but he sits with his arm around you. Concerts but you rub up against him with no shame. Partying but you leave early to fuck.
He loves it all. He loves how you seep into every inch of his life. He actually starts paying attention in class because you make him. You sit down and read together. Sometimes Alex or you read aloud, sometimes he reads over your shoulder, sometimes you read on separate ends of the couch. But you love coming together and talking about it. You speak with such passion that he wants to get to the end of a chapter just to hear what you have to say about it. And sometimes the end of the chapter never comes because he distracts you with, you know, other things. He likes that best.
Dates happen. He's not sure what qualifies as one and what doesn't—like do all those cafe visits count?—but he knows for sure that the one where he took you out to dinner and you wore that low-cut dress definitely does. And he knows this party that you're at now definitely isn't.
It's a rowdy one where everyone has gathered in the living room to watch two guys arm wrestle on the coffee table. You're sitting on the arm of the couch with your arms wrapped around his waist, cuddling him to you like one of your teddy bears.
When one of the guys pins the other's arm down, you shout out, "I bet I could beat Al in an arm wrestling competition."
And everyone is oohing and awing and Alex is standing bug-eyed and afraid. He taps your arm with a nervous, "I'm sure you could, honey."
"No, no, no." You're so drunk. He's never seen you like this. Part of him is amused and finds it beyond adorable. You scrunch up your nose like a little bunny and he just wants to kiss you all over. He's also terrified of you. You flex your arms out like you're the Hulk and all he can think about is his little noodle arms and Matt shouting, "Oh, come on, Al."
So, you're kneeling on the ground with your arms propped up on the coffee table with a look of determination in your arms. "You have to let me win," you slur your words.
"Why's that?"
"I lose, no kiss for you." You wag your finger and seal your lips.
"No kiss for the winner?"
"Only if I'm the winner."
He goes limp and allows you to instantly push him down. "I win!" You shout.
Alex picks you up off the ground with you cheering behind him. "We're going home now," Alex tells a laughing Matt. It's fun. Going home together. Even if it's his shitty dorm.
*
One night in his room while you're sitting on his bed criss-cross flipping through your flashcards on the Enlightenment and he's trying to focus on his psychology homework but he's more occupied by you, he says it. He kind of can't help himself. It just rolls out. "I love you." It's massive and too soon and for a long time he probably would have shrieked, covered his mouth, and ran out of the room, but he doesn't care. It's more relief than panic. Like it's out and not buried in his ribcage anymore.
You look up, your hands with your flashcards dropping into your lap. Your lips part at first before breaking into a small smile that so softly plays on your lips. "I love you too." It's there. It's funny how so much emotion can be stuck in with so few words. Still, he feels it all. Cupid's arrow and everything.
*
Right when spring begins to crack through the bitter winter chill, the realization of spending a summer apart hits. He used to find people who complained about that to be dramatic. It's only a few months not years but the term break feels dull when all he's returning to is Sheffield without you around.
You've promised to visit, maybe sometime in July, but it won't be long and it won't be the whole summer. The separation aches at him and he feels like such a loser until one night you curl up beside him and say, "I don't know how to function without you anymore."
You're the Sun. Everything revolves around you, at least it feels that way. Maybe it's being young and in love but the idea of going from every day together to nothing at all pulls him. He's a sap, he knows.
For now, you both avoid it—that inevitable terrifying passage of time. You read Wuthering Heights for British Literature and the whole time he does his best Kate Bush impression in your ear.
He starts finding post-its around his room and crumbled-up in his pockets after you hang out. They're covered in quotes from the book like "If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day" and "Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!"
And no matter how many romantic quotes you write down from the book, you both agree you hate everyone and it's not a love story. His favourite post-it is the one he finds stuck to his alarm clock reading, "I love you as much as I hate Heathcliff." It's dorky and makes him laugh so he leaves it there, swearing to get it framed.
It's the first day where it's bearable to go outside without a huge winter coat, so you suggest taking your tea and his donut out onto the grass. You remark how you wish that you could have a picnic with a blanket and a basket instead of risking grass stains on your jeans but nonetheless, you sit against a tree and he sits in front of you, leaning on your crossed knees, and you talk about last hurrahs.
"We could go somewhere," he suggests. "Maybe take the train somewhere?"
"In the middle of finals?"
"We could go to a theme park."
"I'm scared of roller coasters."
He raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"I'm scared of heights," you remind him. "You know that."
Alex nods. "Right. Right. But that could make it a lot more fun. You could cling to me the whole time."
"I'll pass. We could go strawberry picking."
"And pay to do manual labour?"
You sigh. "Or we could just hang out with each other. How lame."
Alex leans closer. His nose brushes against yours. "I know." He puckers out and plants a kiss on your lips. He wraps his arm around you, pulling himself into you. "How lame."
You let out a heavy sigh. "And with nothing to occupy us."
"We could always just barricade ourselves and fuck until break is over." He moves closer, almost straddling you like he's about to take you right here on the grass.
You laugh. "You'd like it that way."
"Yeah." He smirks. "And I have a feeling you would too."
*
You don't quite barricade yourselves. But you get pretty close.
With final exams looming, Alex is able to reason that sex is the perfect kind of stress relief. You're sitting in his lap with his hands running up the back of your thighs to cup your ass over your jeans, and you give a hint of a grin, sitting up. "You're going to have to study at some point."
He hooks his finger through the belt loops, yanking you closer. "I am. I'm studying for anatomy."
You roll your eyes. "You don't take anatomy."
He ducks his head closer and places his forehead against yours. He talks in a soft voice, one that shakes your insides. "I'm getting a head start." He closes the remaining gap, locking lips, and reeling you in completely. You don't refuse then because there's no way to refuse this and how good it feels.
You move your ass just enough to have him groaning into your mouth. He has to do something with his hands. He can't keep trying to feel you up, he has to commit action. He fiddles with the button of your jeans, snaking his hand through, not even bothering to push them off. He has to fight back.
He gets you moaning with the mere touch of his fingertips to your clit. You curl your arms around his neck and duck your head into his neck, whimpering against his neck. Chills run down his spine as you say his name into his skin.
He moves his hand lower, slightly pulling your jeans down to be able to enter. He enters two fingers. Your grip tightens in response. He's confident now. He's done this enough times to know what works. He knows how to please you but this feeling—clutching, moaning, begging—never gets old.
Alex holds your body to him as you squirm. He works quicker, pumping his fingers in and out, flicking his thumb against your clit. You mutter, "Fuck," and he whispers back, "I know, I know" like he can feel it too because he does. He feels like you're conjoined in this pleasure. That making you come is a far greater feeling than his own pleasure (well, almost, you have a very talented hand...and mouth...and pussy).
You buck your hips into him. The open zipper of your jeans grinds into his boner and he’s cursing too just like you are as your orgasm crashes. Your breathing is heavy and you've placed permanent wrinkles in his shirt with how hard you've been clutching it.
"Good?" He checks.
You nod against his skin as you try to figure out how to properly breathe. "You certainly know where the clit is."
"See. I'm guaranteed at least a passing grade for that."
You sit up and look him in the eye. You still looked dazed with flyaways and an unbeatable smile. "I don't think they teach you that in school."
"I'm a prodigy then."
Now is when you would usually tell him to not be so full of himself but your lungs are heavy and he considers that to be a 100% if you're unable to scold him for being pompous.
He lifts up one of your flashcards. "The form of theological rationalism that believes in God on the basis of reason without—"
You smack the cards down. "Shut up," you laugh.
"Come on," he says, lifting them back up. "You're going to regret not going over..." He checks because, of course, he doesn't know the answer. "Deism with me when you get it wrong on the exam."
You straddle his hips. "I'm sure I won't forget it now." You snatch the cards out of his hands, flipping through a few until you ask him, "What are the common features of the Romantic Period?"
"Wordsworth and stuff," he answers."
You slap his chest. "Alex, you can not write 'Wordsworth and stuff' on the exam. Come on this is easy. Give me two more."
He falls back on the pillow with a groan. "An appreciation of nature."
"Okay. Good. And?"
He shrugs.
You scowl at him. "You act like this sometimes," you hint.
"Stop that. I am not a Byronic hero."
"Well, it'll help you remember," you reason. "Now, what are some works within the Romantic period?"
He groans. "I don't want to do this."
"Would you like to fail the class then?"
"I'm not going to fail. I'll wing it and be fine."
"Alex," you whine.
"Let's do something else. Let's go to Matt's or something." He'll try any possible way to get out of this. He's getting a headache from this and he can't pay attention with your boobs in that top.
You cross your arms. "If you do this, I'll give you some incentive." Your brows quirk indicating to him clearly what you mean. Your lips in a tempting smirk.
Yeah, okay. "Lyrical Ballads, Pride & Prejudice, Keats, Byron, Shelley. Do I get my prize now?" He blasts a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but shift down to his thighs and pop the button out of his jeans.
"You'll thank me for this one day," you say as you pull down and free his cock.
"Oh, I'm sure I'll thank you after."
You snort and wrap your hand around him. "I meant studying, idiot."
"I did too!" He lies.
You hum and wrap your lips around the head of his cock. It's ecstasy. This is what humans were made for. Your tongue licks delicately and you move in an infuriatingly slow manner that he knows you're doing just to torture him. He raises his hips to signal more, instead, you move with him never going past the head liking it as if it's an ice cream that will never melt.
"Come on. I've been kind to you."
You pop your mouth off of him and move your hand up and down the shaft of his dick. "I never asked you to do that."
"You weren't complaining." He needs more. He can't handle this. He's just a boy. He doesn't have patience.
You raise an eyebrow as if to threaten him but you take him into your mouth again. You move slowly still but this time you take one more inch in each time until, eventually, you reach the base of him. He tickles the back of your throat and your nose brushes against his skin.
You pull off with a string of spit connecting. Taking a deep breath while you pump your hand, you say, "Good enough?"
He's moaning and biting his lip, trying to not give you complete satisfaction of being right that sometimes that torturously slow start does make for better head and he should not be arguing with the expert. He nods. "Yeah, yeah, keep going."
He shuts his eyes, unable to ignore the pleasure. He hears you laugh before your mouth reattaches. Warmth engulfs him, taking him over completely. He thinks he's going to lose it. That this pleasure will kill him. His grave will be marked Death by Blowjob and you'll be convicted for your deadly talent.
Alex clutches the back of your head just to have something to keep him grounded. He feels like he's floating as you take him completely in your mouth again. He mutters curses and lifts his hips, forming an arch, and being taken over. He empties into your mouth, trying to control his movements and not force his dick straight down your throat. He chants, "I love you. I love you. I love you."
You wipe your mouth and laugh at him like he's your little clown, which he's fine with. He'll put on the makeup and the garb if it makes you laugh like that, especially if he's coming like that. "Thank you," he mutters.
You giggle again. "You're welcome." You reach across him to his nightstand. "Now. From what poem is 'Thou still unravished bride of quietness' the first line?"
He groans but he'll say the blowjob was worth it.
*
On the last weekend of the term, he convinces you to leave your studying nest. You've been holed up inside ignoring the beautiful weather in favour of your exams. His studying has still been scattered but he's managed more than in years past because of you and your incentives.
He drags you out of town toward seclusion. Mainly because he wants to be alone with you but also because people online said this place is supposed to be pretty beautiful. He holds your hand as you walk toward the spot. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of that. Your warmth wrapped around him, fighting off that cold from within.
"Is this the part where you kill me?" You joke. He wanted to surprise you, something he has been notoriously bad at in the past. He has a blabbermouth when it comes to you. He's spoiled presents and date nights, but he just wants to tell you everything. Nothing feels real until you've heard about it.
He squeezes your hand. "No, that'll be next fall."
"Okay, good. I'm glad you're giving my parents time to say goodbye."
Alex breaks into laughter then, nervous and unable to keep up the bit. "Should we stop here?" He asks. The sun is shining just enough through the trees and little flowers pop up in the grass around you.
You shrug in your adorable overalls and hair woven into two braids. He could stay looking at you like this forever. There's no other need in life. "You're the one with the plans. I don't know where we're supposed to be going. Is this the surprise?"
"Kind of." He's nervously laughing. "It's kind of been with us the whole time."
You smile and your eyes shift down to his side. "You mean in that bag, right?" The one you've been trying to peek into the whole way here. "Is it a dog?"
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a blanket. "I couldn't find the proper basket but I thought we could have a picnic."
You’re staring at him. You have glassy eyes, ones he can't quite read but he thinks is a good sign. "We're having a picnic?"
"Yeah," he says, "if you'd like."
You quickly nod, your lips breaking out into a smile that exposes your teeth. You clutch a hand over your mouth to head the glee. You break eye contact away from him and look around as if to process the whole scene.
He lays the blanket out and sits down on it. He pulls on your hand for you to sit down next to him. "I can't believe it," you say.
"I had a good idea for once. Well, I guess it was more your idea."
You shake your head. "You planned it. You listened to me and some stupid comment I made and you made the best last weekend possible."
"I win?"
You kiss him. "You win."
"Wait until after you've had the food. It isn't the best. Just sandwiches and store-bought things."
"I don't care. You could give me anything and I'd love it."
He pulls a container from the bag. "How 'bout strawberries?"
You hug your arms around him and nearly knock them over in the process. "I love you," you whisper in his ear. "Thank you."
"Of course." He holds you back, never tiring of it. "Love you too."
You pull back and pluck a strawberry. You pop it in your mouth and moan. He tried his hardest to find the best English strawberries possible. Ones so sweet they could ruin any other food for you. "I really love you."
*
On the morning before you leave, he sits at your desk chair and watches you finish packing the remainder of your things. He watches as you struggle with the zipper of your suitcase until you exhaustively ask, "Can you sit on it?"
He plops down on top of it with a chuckle. You pull in the zipper and it finally reaches its end destination. You sigh with relief and lean back on your heels. You clap your hands together before leaning forward and kissing his cheek. "Thank you."
Alex stands up and reaches his hand out to help you up. "Is that the last of it?" He keeps his hand in yours even after you've stood up.
You look around with one last gaze at your room, stripped completely of you. "Yeah, I guess so."
He wraps his arms around your waist, bringing your hips to his. "Should we do it on your bed one last time?"
You pull a face and giggle. "Ew, no. Not without any sheets and my parents waiting in the car."
He tilts his head back heavenward. "Ah, where's your sense of adventure?"
"I'm leaving it here. Besides, we were never that adventurous to begin with." It's easy to have the plain locale of a bed when the sex is so good.
"Next year, I guess. We'll have to finally do it in the showers."
"Yuck, stop. I know people who've shit in there."
He shakes his head sarcastically. "You're no fun."
"I know." You lean closer, tapping your forehead against his. "I'm lame and boring and I'm gonna miss you."
"Yeah." He can't even say it. The words have consumed him for days, every conversation ending with "Miss you." He's tired of it and it hasn't even begun. If he speaks it now, his voice will crack. He'll crack. He'll break in two and there will be nothing of him left here, except a puddle and you.
So, a kiss will do instead. He wants it to sear into you. Tattoo it onto your skin, imprint, force it onto, mark you, make you remember him. He wants them on him too. He wants to look down and see a lip gloss mark. He wants a freckle to remind him of his picnic. He wants the taste of cherries to be permanently set on his tongue. He wants the stickiness of a glazed donut on his fingers. He wants you.
On the walk to the car, you talk about a trip to the beach you took when you were ten. It's filled with your laughter and your humour and it dulls the throbbing in his bones. He kisses you goodbye once more before you run off with your parents.
"See you in the fall," you say.
He smiles. "See you in the fall."
*
Before he leaves he finds another Virginia Woolf postcard in his mailbox. This time it's just a portrait but the back reads, "Woolf wrote to her lover Vita, 'It gets worse steadily – your being away. All the sleeping draughts and irritants have worn off, and I’m settling down to wanting you, doggedly, dismally, faithfully – I hope that pleases you. It’s damned unpleasant for me. I can assure you.' I've tried to say my feelings better than that but I can't. I miss you and I love you."
*
a/n: i might do a part two to this. maybe. probably. ignore any errors. i'm lazy. sorry. thanks. bye.
#alex turner#alex turner fic#alex turner x fem!reader#alex turner x oc#alex turner x reader#alex turner x y/n#alex turner x you#alex turner smut#junedenim
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ooh for hazel maybe a fic where hazel is fully oblivious to the fact that reader likes her and misses their very obvious flirting until someone makes a joke about the two of them
idk i feel like that’s something she would do lmao
Oh for sure, she is definitely very oblivious when it comes to someone flirting with her
Tags: Fem!Reader, Hazel is so oblivious, swearing, a smidge of angst and insecure!reader, use of y/n, slightly suggestive at the end but it's no big deal honestly, lightly proof read, girls kissing (giggling and kicking my feet)
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"Friends Don't Look At Friends That Way" - Hazel Callahan x Reader
“Maybe we could go hang out at your place? You could help me study for Mr.G’s final” You say, lightly grazing your fingertips on Hazel’s arm while batting your eyelashes up at her.
“Didn’t he literally give us the test answers as a study guide?” Hazel says, oblivious to your flirtation as always.
This was the billionth time it feels like that Hazel has shut you down, and honestly, you’re sick of it.
You decide to try a different tactic, gently grabbing her hand and admiring her rings, “I just love your rings” you rub your thumb across them and let your other hand rest on her thigh.
“Thanks! Most of them were gifts from friends, and this one was from a cool thrift shop downtown” Hazel rambles on while you sigh as she continues to ignore your obvious attempts at flirting with her.
You genuinely thought all hope was lost…until you heard PJ shout from across the gym.
“Jesus! Get a room you two, have some decency for the rest of us and go fuck in the janitor’s closet!” the girl shouts and your face heats up as a deep blush settles over your cheeks
Hazel scoffs, “What? We’re just friends PJ, don’t be a loser” she says while laughing nervously.
It took all of your willpower not to crumble right then and there.
You’ve had enough of this, you weren’t going to put in all this effort for someone who just sees you as a friend. Sniffling as tears start to form in your eyes from embarrassment, you quickly excuse yourself and practically run out of the gymnasium.
Your feet carry you to an abandoned classroom, where you let yourself finally let out the sobs you were holding in. Of course Hazel didn’t feel the same, why would she? She was amazing in every way and you were just some loser.
You’re so consumed in your thoughts that you don’t hear the door crack open and Hazel slowly walk inside.
“Y/n? Are you alright?” she says in a near whisper, but it still makes you jump and quickly look up at Hazel while wiping your tears.
“Hazel, what are you doing here? The club meeting is about to start, you know how PJ is with people being late” you try to speak in a confident voice, but it comes out shaky and thick from the lump of emotions in your throat and you look away from her so she can’t see your tears.
Hazel shakes her head and sits down beside you, “You’re more important than a stupid meeting” she says softly, “Josie told me about your feelings for me”
You groan at her words and put your head on your knees, looking back at her with a sniffle, “I’m so sorry Hazel, I get it if you don’t feel the same way and I won’t blame you-” your words are cut off by Hazel grabbing your face and hurriedly pressing her lips to yours in a bruising kiss.
You shriek in surprise at first, but quickly kiss back, shuddering as you feel her tongue enter your mouth.
Hazel pulls you onto her lap, your fingers threading into her soft hair as her hands rest on your hips. You both pull away after a moment, pupils blown, breaths heavy as the both of you just stare at each other for a moment.
Hazel is the first to speak up, “I’ve actually wanted to do that since the first time I saw you” she says breathlessly while moving a hand up to cradle your jaw and gently stroke your face with her thumb, “You are so beautiful y/n, I would be lucky to be able to call you mine” she says with a smile that makes your heart melt
“And I’m sorry for being such an idiot” she quickly adds which makes you laugh
You kiss her softly, pulling away just enough so your foreheads touch and you can just live in this tiny moment the both of you have created.
“As long as I can call you my idiot, then that’s all that matters” you say before the both of you dissolve into giggles.
an - meant to post more today, but got hit with a wicked migraine, so I hoped you enjoyed. Go drink water you girl kissers.
#hazel callahan#hazel callahan x reader#hazel bottoms#hazel callahan fanfiction#wlw fanfic#bottoms movie#ruby cruz
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"Save a horse, ride a cowboy" - Tex "Oatmeal" Johnson asking for his.. "breakfast" and some exercise to wake them both up 😌
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Spooky, here’s your breakfast. Tex Johnson x Fem Reader. Gif by @cristinaricci. TW: somnophilia, dub-con, Tex, spanking, anal play, really nsfw
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You should really know better by now; sleeping in Tex’s big flannel and that little thong (or, as he likes to muse, a scrap of cotton on elastic) he loves… just to get him riled up? Tsk.
That’s how you end up with him kissing and nibbling your cheeks while he knuckles over your pussy.
You’re all weak and jello, unable to protest properly when he slaps the band of stinging elastic against you, pulls it aside and flicks your little asshole with his tongue.
“Nah, nuh-uh,” you growl, hands going back to stop him, but not before he catches your wrists and holds them flat against your back with one unfairly big grip—your own personal pair of handcuffs.
“You don’t like that?” He asks, grinning a kiss into your plump left cheek, only letting his teeth graze just a little bit.
You giggle, and it’s stupid that you honestly think you can get out of this by saying, “go away.”
“Oh yeah?” He muses, nuzzling his beard into your pussy lips, sucking and slobbering. The underwear does little to deter his sneaking, slippery, silver tongue.
You try a different bargain. “Tex, I can’t -“
He gives your butt a wicked little slap. “You’re gonna.”
You groan and bury your face into the pillow while he eats the cum out of you.
“Fuckin sleeping in these cute little panties to get me hard first thing in the damn morning. You just wanted to tease me, huh, little girl?”
The generous bastard gifts you two thick fingers curled perfectly.
“Answer me or I’m gonna edge ya til you cry.”
“No no no please. Okay okay yeah. Nah ah ahn oh fu-uh-uck.”
You clench on three fingers without warning, soaking right through those aforementioned cute panties. Fuck, you really liked those.
“Already?” He asks, shaking his head. “Talk about jumpin the gun.”
“Shut uppp Texx—“
“Tell me what I wanna hear.”
“Mmm.”
“Oh, you better fuckin do it.”
“M’ your pretty girl.”
“What honey?” He purposefully ups the force of his fingers to get you louder: “m-mmmmah yuh-ur pretty girlll.”
This is what you get for insulting yourself in front of him that one goddamn time. He had grabbed your cheeks, smushing them between his fingers. “What was that?”
“What?” You challenged, defiance ruined by the comical distortion of your voice.
“Naw, you know exactly watcha said, and if you ever talk like that about my pretty little honey again, you ain’t gonna like me very much.”
You rolled your eyes and batted him away, but he threaded his fingers through your belt loops before you could run. “You hearing me? Only person that gets to be mean to you is me and my cock. Are we clear, pumpkin?” He tugged you chest to chest, usual playful smile turned down into something stern and menacing.
“Crystal.”
And, ever since that moment, he has been making you say it—that you’re his pretty girl. Even in public, around people you know, if he asks, you supply with a bright blush and eyes downcast and pussy clenching.
As he’s stated before, he really likes making you gush around his fingers and then licking it up with his tongue—overstimulate your “poor little kitty kat”. Loves it when you’re swollen and spent, cum dribbling from both holes when he and John decide to make a sandwich out of you. Sure, he can threaten all he wants with edging games, but you know that, if you play cards with this wicked devil just right, he’s going to make you cum many times over, until it fucking hurts—leaves you screaming and crying and kicking your feet, actually missing Wick’s week long edging sessions…as awful as they are.
You’re already sore when he makes you sit on his cock.
“I’m tired,” you whine, draped over his torso so his fat tip isn’t bruising your cervix quite so much.
“Baby,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “You’re always tired. Nappin like an house cat every time I see you.”
“I’m sleepy,” you protest, huffing into his chest. And it’s probably because we fuck like rabbits every six or seven minutes, you think to yourself.
“Aw, poor sleepin beauty.” He gives your ass a sharp smack. “You better start workin on this cock before I do it for you.”
#tex johnson imagine#tex johnson x reader#fuk u tex#john wick x reader#keanuverse#keanuverse fic#IV Drabbles#tex johnson x you
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It was somewhere around a year into the apocalypse when the Lion and the Lamb found what they had long been looking for: a very remote (and thus largely unpillaged) and *very fancy* hotel.
(Lion and Lamb were the names I knew them by, at least. We met at a wedding - always a strange event in the end times - and they did not give me their true names. This was, honestly, a wise move given the kind of entity I am. But they did gift me with this anecdote, which perhaps reveals more about them than a simple name could.)
After scouting the place out - and bloodily evicting a small pack of ghouls that had gotten separated from the horde and (hopelessly lost) wandered into the hotel spa - the pair climbed the many steps to the building’s palatial penthouse suite.
There, they found many wondrous treasures. Fluffy bathrobes. Tiny sachets of shampoo. A bed so large it should probably have been illegal.
And, of course, a little peace and quiet.
---
“What do you think the thread count on these sheets are?” Asked Lamb.
“Do I look like the kind of person who understands thread count?” Lion was already lying in the bed, starfishing her limbs out across the pillowy expanse.
“It’s just…this might be the softest thing I’ve ever felt. This has got to be four hundred. Maybe even five?” Lamb’s brow wrinkled for a moment. “Hey - would you mind if I take this with us when we leave?”
“What’s the matter? You already afraid to go back to scratchy blankets and sleeping bags?” Lion grinned, while twisting the top off a little bottle of Jack Daniels. A small pile of tiny liquor bottles lay beside her; across the room, her axe rested against the sundered mini bar.
“No, I uh-” Lamb looked sheepish. “I was thinking it’d make for good bandages.”
Lion paused with the mini bottle of Jack on her lips. She made steady eye contact with Lamb as she downed the bottle, then threw it casually to one side.
“You want to take the sheets off this bed.” She sat up and calmly took hold of Lamb’s arm, pulling him close. “This bed that may as well be made of clouds. These covers that were probably hand spun by gods or artisanal Shoreditch arseholes. This bed that may be the last gift from a now-absent god, and which - by the way - we have not even hugged in yet…”
“Well, when you put it like that-”
“You want to take the sheets off this bed - this bed that is larger than some countries - and tear it up for stab wounds and bullet holes?”
“I just-”
At this point, Lion yanked on Lamb’s arm and he tumbled awkwardly into the aforementioned bed, rolling over Lion and landing nestled snugly in the crook of her shoulder. It was somewhere between a cuddle and a headlock and, if we’re being honest, Lamb really didn’t mind that.
Some time passed. We need not discuss how it passed, let us simply say that it did and that, for the Lion and the Lamb, its passage was necessary, healing and only mildly bruising.
Lamb sighed happily and said:
“I just thought. Y’know, about the bandages. That … well, dangerous shit happens to us so often. It’s really easy to get used to being scared. To being hurt. So I figured it might be nice, y’know, if when we were patching each other up, we had something soft to do it with. So that even when it hurts the most, we can *practise* being soft. And it’d be something that reminded us of this. This perfect day we stole for ourselves. A happy memory to literally bind up the hurt with.” Lamb looked shyly up at Lion. “It probably sounds silly. Or soppy. But, well. I am those things sometimes.”
Lion leant down and gently and carefully kissed Lamb on the forehead.
“Okay.” She said, in a voice roaring with love. “We can destroy the sheets when we’re done.”
“Thanks.” Said Lamb. “I knew you’d cotton on.”
And, even despite the pun, Lion could not have been happier.
#writing#microfiction#flash fiction#short story#love stories for the end times#love story#honestly even writing this made me make little d'awwww sounds so I really hope y'all like it
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20... on a scar 😏
LKHGLKHGH get your stupid smirk emoji outta here loser. This one is SO long and SO sappy and I think some plot points make it illegible but DING DING DING we have a kiss folks we have A KISS!!!
@punkranger also very nicely prompted me this one, so here goes, thank you both 🫶
20. (A kiss)... on a scar.
2089. (NADEEM)
Implant off—for focus. The silence is entire at last. The light wanes, and the world, for a minute or two, for a minute and a century, in this small shadow room, is pinpricked into the relief of her dark eyebrow. Under my fingers’ work, you see, there is nothing else under my fingers but her speckled skin, as giving as cloth. The needle weaves, in and out, a careful dance, paced with my breathing.
In, and out. She–she breathes too, in and out, and doesn’t speak. I tug on the nylon thread. The smile of her cut purses its lips, and sighs close, a dark red line, neat as an inter-rib stab. I test the line with a stained thumb, and cut the thread, and put down the scissors, and then, only then, I admit back into my world the weight of her gaze, a flash of light instantly stolen away.
“Painful?” I shape out of my mouth, though I don’t hear it at all.
“Of course not,” she signs for me, even if I could have read her lips.
Of course not. Never pain, Una. Never pain but this excruciating, inaudible pain, curled in the swollen space between us.
“Good,” I wink, putting away the surplus nylon. “Wouldn’t want your ugly face to get uglier, would we?”
I get a prize for that; a crooked smile, hooked to her left dimple, almost taken away as she turns—no, don’t turn. I keep her in place, hand-snap against her jaw. Don’t turn; don’t move.
“Careful,” she shapes. “You’ll be uglier than me if I break your teeth.”
I show her my teeth, a gift horse offered, not yet denied.
“But who’ll bite your head off then?” I whisper.
For a while, she doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t look away. She’s ugly, alright. I watch her face unmoving. She’s ugly, ugly, ugly with gashes, old and new, ugly with bruising, with grime, with sweat, made uglier with the beating sun that charted on her too-pale skin the red outline of her eternal siftmask—ugly, spattered deep-fawn, burnt at the nose-bridge, lovely, my traitor, my specter, lovely as a dream, dream of her fox-eyes, edged moon-white, a flash of light—long ago—stolen away.
I remember her eyes, when the shot rang. Wide, before they dimmed. I remember her eyes, and this: still here, under her silly orange hair, at the line of the scalp, unveiled by the hand I push into her hair. Look at that. Exit wound. Head shot. Look at it, on the curve of her skull, its gentle shape now, pink with baby-skin, sweet-puckered, raised like the mouth of a kiss. Just a scar. Just a scar, though it shattered then, though it bled and bled black and bled death, pulsing with my screaming.
When I swallow, my throat is tighter than my clenched teeth. And I—
No. Her hand GRips my wrist before her meaning catches my eyes. Don’t, she enunciates. Don’t. Not a prayer: an order. Her grasp is hard, her gaze is harder. Her face gives nothing away, which gives everything away. Don’t, Nadeem. Cold as stone, clear as glass. Don’t, Nadeem.
Don’t, Nadeem.
For a moment, I’m almost tempted to yield—just so she can look away, stone unturned, glass unbroken. For a moment, I am, almost, tempted to—grant us both mercy. But I don’t. I don’t yield. I never yield, and she neither. I don’t want her to look away. I don’t want me to look away. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.
Instead—instead, I touch the scar, thumb-brushing. Her nails sink into my wrist, and spurred by forbidding I catch her gaze. The silence is entire. The silence is ours. The space between us resorbs. Thumb-brushing, skin-to-skin, and in turn my mouth, mouth-brushing, slow, and low, and pressed, and pressed again, a kiss upon the kiss of the exit wound.
No space now. Under my mouth, the glass of her mask cracks. Around my wrist, the stone of her hand trembles. A kiss, upon a kiss. No space between us, and the silence is ours. The silence… The silence. Inside of it I slide my secret, a secret pressed, and pressed again, a kiss upon a kiss upon a kiss:
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Other prompts here.
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dogged pursuit. part 7 of however many I feel like. you don't need to read the others to read this one. Other parts are here. summary: you’ve been appointed as the bodyguard of one doctor veritas ratio after a failed attempt on his life. he’s easy to get along with, so long as you learn when to plug your ears and focus on his washboard abs. tags. they're just cozy in bed
“Unbelievable.” Veritas huffs. He’s splayed out on his king-sized mattress like a spoiled king, legs tucked underneath the cozy green duvet. The mound of pillows he’s settled against are embroidered with golden thread. Gifts from that Stoneheart, you assume. You'd like to meet him, but Veritas seems to think it would be a bad idea.
“Is it, though?” you inquire sulkily. “I can’t believe you thought they’d give you another guard. No one but me can put up with you, y’know? You’re too much of a brat.”
“A brat–!?” his eyes go wide and wild with anger. He smoothes the agitation down in record time. “I am not a brat. I am an adult who has proven perfectly capable of handling himself. There haven’t been any further threats on my life since leaving Orchestron-IV–and I won’t be heading to any far-flung galaxies for at least the next fourteen cycles!” he exclaimed, voice growing more impassioned with each and every word. Most of these excuses, you had heard before, but it didn’t exactly ease the sting of knowing he wanted you out of his life.
Especially while you were curled comfy in the sheets right next to him. He’s wearing another classy little number. Sheer, buttery chiffon which pools around his elbows, fastened around his waist by a thick sash of the same material. It glistens underneath the dim, warm lamp light. Casts the cut of his jaw in saturated oranges and lovely creams. From here, below him and to the side, you can make out the fan of his lashes.
You can also make out the mottling of lusty bruises which litter the column of his neck. The highest is tucked just beneath his jaw, close to his ear. He had thrown a fit when he looked in the mirror, yesterday, but hadn’t cared enough to cover them during a later board meeting.
“I’m mad,” you sigh like a neglected shelter dog, tucking your face into his side. His anteriors twitch as you nose against the space beneath his armpit, all silky smooth skin and sleepy warmth.
“How, pray tell, could you have any cause to be upset?” he inquires, voice saturated with sarcasm. Despite his derision, his broad hand presses into the space between your shoulders.
“I can’t believe you want to get rid of me,” you mumble.
Then, you pull your lips back and bite. It’s not too hard. Just a light press of the canines, a rasp of your tongue against his skin. Despite your attempts at gentility, he jerks away from you with an undignified sound. You return the iron glare he gives you with a pout of your own, for once not willing to cede the point to him.
His lips furl into a surly frown. You think he’s gearing up to give you a right scolding, but your resistance must surprise him, because he holds his tongue.
“Get rid of you? What gave you that impression?” he scoffs instead, as though you’re being ridiculous.
“I’m your bodyguard.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he repeats, as though you’re dense. His bubbling anger smooths out. He settles next to you. Trusting you not to bite again is an olive branch in itself. “You will accompany me as an assistant. Or a companion.”
“...Does my job title really matter that much?” you ask, deflating. Really? That’s what’s been bothering him this whole time? You thought he was done sulking about all of that! You scuttle downwards and smoosh your face into the space above his hip. He’s still smells fresh from the bath. A mix of his fancy soaps and skin.
“It encourages your already unbearable recklessness. If you are no longer my bodyguard, perhaps you will be more disinclined to throw yourself on the first knife aimed in my direction. Of which there are already remarkably few,” he says. You have a feeling that it’s about his pride, too, but you don’t mention that. Instead, you are indignant about being falsely accused of such crimes.
“I have never done that!” you poke your head out from the blanket just to protest.
“And now you won’t ever have to,” he says, a contented curl pulling the corners of his lips. He reaches over and pulls the chord of the lamp. The room is bathed in darkness. Thin, silvery beams of watery moonlight washes the room, paints him in silvery hues.
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Doc,” you sigh, shuffling closer. You lay your arm across his torso, fingers stroking the warm skin of his opposite hip. It’s tough not to argue with him a little more, just for fun, but it’s getting late and he’ll probably get cranky if you keep him up for too long. “Well. Whatever makes my princess happy.”
“Do not call me that.”
“My darling angel.”
“No.”
“My perfect baby boy.” You hum, admiring the way his pecs look from such a low angle.
He sighs for the twenty-fourth time today. “...Close your eyes, you menace.” Eyes having adjusted to the dark, you admire the otherworldly light that catches off his hair. The silvery glint of it on his flawless skin. His chiffon gown glinting like moonlight on open water.
“...But I like you,” you mumble. Your eyes burn fever-bright in the dark.
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Mini Mac #12 : two monkeys and their hobbies
They're just enjoying a great afternoon and doing their respective hobbies while still talking together! Just peacefull times 😌
Macaque was organizing the various flowers and herbs he gathered during spring to prepare his medicines, at least that's what the golden-furred monkey had been calling his powders and elixirs. Speaking of the sage, he was leaning over him curiously, whispering now and then some questions about the different ingredients. While Macaque took some petals and herbs and brewed them with a sharpened pebble he used specifically for this, Sun Wukong began to busy himself with cloth and threads. Lately, the sage had been fond of needlework, especially since he could gift his creations to Macaque. The black-furred monkey had to admit, Sun Wukong was way more talented than him for this kind of work. His wardrobe had never been so diversified, he had traded his leaves for linen robes, silk shirts and cotton hats. He still wore some leaves, especially during the heat-wave hitting the mountain at the end of spring.
Macaque added some petals of purple phlox to his powder and smelled it, once he was satisfied with the scent he put the powder in a little vial and tied a purple ribbon (or more precisely a bit of the ribbon he cut) at the neck of the vial.
“You know your sleeping medicine is terribly effective. How did you find the recipe?” Asked the sage as he sewed the edges of his new creation, a tiny purple robe embroidered with plum blossom fitted for Macaque.
“Trials and errors.” Shrugged the lil guy, he took some sage herbs and brewed another medicine, one for increasing strength. “I always had some facility with flowers, being born from one and all.” Sun Wukong raised an eyebrow at that, he turned the robe he was working on and began to work on the back.
“I thought you were born from the shadows?” Mumbled the sage.
“Both.” Macaque felt the King's curious gaze and decided to elaborate a little. “I'm born from the shadows gathering inside of a plum blossom bud for one year.”
“Aw, that means you bloomed? That's adorable.” Macaque fondly rolled his eyes at this.
“Then how were you born?”
“From a stone egg gathering the power of the earth, the egg hatched once thunder struck it.”
“Dramatic.” Snorted the black-furred monkey.
“I like grand entrances.” They fell in a peaceful silence after this, each enjoying their own hobbies. Sun Wukong was lounging on his wooden couch while Macaque was on a silk napkin created especially for him by one of the sage hair. The silk didn't hurt his knees contrary to the wood and it was comfortable.
“Maybe I should create a pocket for you in my clothes.” Suddenly said the sage as he peeked over Macaque with an excited smile.
“Really? You want me to go in your pocket?”
“Well, I'm always afraid you'll fall when you're on my shoulder.” Whined Sun Wukong, mayhaps he also wanted the pocket to be on his chest and carry Macaque close to his heart, but the lil guy didn't need to know this.
“If the pocket is comfortable I'll consider it.” Huffed Macaque with the hint of a smile. “I made some powder for the elder who had trouble with his back, the one you told me about, it's the green vial.”
“You know you could give it to them yourself.” Pointed out Sun Wukong, Macaque huffed with flushed cheeks and averted his eyes.
“I may get along with the younglings but still I'm not part of your troop.”
“You could be.” Whispered Sun Wukong with a hint of longing. Macaque stilled for one second before shaking his head and resuming his brewing. It was not the first time the topic of the troop came between them. Sun Wukong was always eager to include him but Macaque had his reluctances. He liked to show off his stories to the younglings and he did see the olders watch him from afar, some even nodded at him, apparently grateful that he entertained the cubs. He also supplied medicines to the King for the bruised and sick, but he never truly interacted with monkeys outside of the sage and the cubs. Some part of him was scared of truly being part of a group. Having a friend was fine, having fans was troubling but he could deal with it, but being part of a troop? Being in an active community? It was something he never did, the unknown at its utmost. Macaque was scared of that.
He was born alone and lived alone for a long time. Not fully fae but also not fully monkey, he had no places. Some giants even chased him because of his oddity, finding his rarity entertaining. Macaque wasn't ready to be part of something bigger than him. Mayhaps, one day he will be ready, but not for now. No. He was still trying to get used to friendship after all. Speaking of friendship, Macaque was experiencing one of his first great crisis with relationships. From what he understood and the specks of conversations carried by the wind, the brotherhood was planning to attack Heaven at the end of summer. And while Macaque had told himself to let Sun Wukong make his own decisions, he was also torn by the need to warn him about the consequences, the dangerosity of this endeavor. He knew he shouldn't dictate Sun Wukong's life, but sometimes he just wished he could lock him behind the water-curtain cave and protect him from the outside world. Those odd urges were becoming stronger and stronger as the planned attack approached.
“Hey… So you still want to follow through with the attack on Heaven and all?” Asked Macaque as he bit his lower lip.
“Yeah of course, man, I'm so excited for it! You know when we will take over Heaven I'll give you anything you want!” Chirped Sun Wukong with a thumping tail.
“I don't need anything.” Sighed the macaque, a little bit fond. “You know it's dangerous, right? The Jade Emperor is… ruthless sometimes.”
“It'll be fine. We're not gonna lose.” Shrugged the sage, Macaque sighed, but he couldn't do anything more than that. Sun Wukong was allowed to do anything he wanted with his life and Macaque didn't want to take this freedom away from him.
He simply hoped everything we'll go well for his friend.
+ cut scenes
Older monkey *At new mom struggling with both her babies* : You know you could leave them to the lil shadow. 😌
New mom : the lil shadow?🤔
Older monkey : a friend of our king, he entertain the younglings with his shadows and they adore him. You could have the afternoon to relax.
New mom : so that's what lil Yue and lil Yong were fighting about!😲
Older monkey : they were fighting?🤨
New mom : yeah for being the shadow club president or something. 😅
SWK : look I made you a new robe!
Macaque : Oh it looks good, let me try it on!
Macaque proceed to shed his clothing
SWK : w-wait let me turn around!! 🫣
Macaque : you know we're both monkeys? 🤨
SWK quickly turns around with flushed cheeks and a puffed out fur.
Ch1 / Previous / Next
#mini mac au#shadowpeach#lmk#shadowpeach fanfic#Wukong is creating a whole new wardrobe for Mac#He has fun with it!#Mac is just like a lil witch#Lot of knowledge on plants and herbs
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Gabriel 1
Summary: It was a cruel idea that you put on the table, you know this well, but you’ve never known yourself to be soft and merciful. If one manages to break Gabriel in, then it should be a simpler task to break the rest of his brethren.
(This one is a… a little extreme. Gabriel torture and the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome. Also probably gonna make an angel OC. Just need to settle on an appearance that appeals to me. His loyalty will be towards the Reader. The man will worship them with every fiber of his being. Probably will be big, like Mammon. Jokingly want to name him Baraqiel. Because, you know… bara.)
This was torture entirely built on the base of selfishness. Your selfishness. You won’t even begin to pretend that this was for the greater good of the devils in Hell. Well, not as though torture was ever anything but self serving, it just feels more… significant that you proposed this idea with the full intention of taking advantage of it.
Gabriel, the angel that phased through your screen, who sliced open your friend and declared you a target of all angel kind, was chained to the floor of a humid dungeon. He was forced on his side, mouth gagged with hands and eyes bound tight with the cloth of his own clothes. Practically clad in blood-soaked threads rather than a uniform.
He growled as all dogs of heaven do when they hear anyone near their cell. He bit down on his gag when the devil keeping watch clinked open the cell door. And he shuffled his back–six jagged lines, uneven skin caked in disgusting black blood–away from you. You didn’t even grant him the mercy of giving him stitches. He’d scar, but he’d heal.
He didn’t have his halo anymore. You had that thing ripped off when it nearly blinded you just a week ago. He didn’t deserve to shine, to cling to this grace gifted to him by this being he worshiped so much.
You stopped before him and watched him squirm and attempt to curl into a defeated ball. You knelt and grabbed his chin before forcing his head up at an almost agonizing angle. The devils that came before you had left marks on them. Claw marks and plum colored bruised all over his neck.
Of course, they couldn’t kill him. Not when that was your right.
You heard a rasp deep from his throat, pushed out of his mouth with a purpose. He’s trying to say words, probably trying to curse you with an anger deep from his bones, but there was nothing.
“Tch,” you clenched your jaw and ripped off the gag. You forced his mouth open with a thumb and peered inside. No tongue, no uvula, and beyond that was fresh and fleshy scarring trailing down his throat. “Someone took your voice, huh?”
And without your permission. You said to those devils that they can hurt, but they cannot take pieces of your toys. Of course someone would get high on their own power and disobey you.
Gabriel didn’t dig his teeth into your thumb, he closed around it instead. He didn’t stuck, and couldn’t lick, but he let his lips fall around your thumb nonetheless. Seems he recognized your voice. You do make it a habit to do some care. Can’t very well have him die on you suddenly.
You scratched through his greasy hair, like you would any pet, and Gabriel bowed his head into your hands.
Isolation certainly has done a number on him. It won’t be long before he’s bouncing right towards your feet.
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