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nnight-dances · 3 months ago

Text

CASUAL

PAIRING: karina x fem!reader

GENRE: fluff, angst, smut (explicit, but not too much?)

TROPES: fwb to lovers except you're roommates and best friends, unrequited love but not really.

LISTEN TO: casual by chappell roan

NOTE: i may be having a bit of a military wife moment rn but i'm still a sapphic at heart yearning for something more... my first gay fic i've posted on this account yay! cannot reveal if ive been in a similar situation but you could say this is based on real life! whose life, i will not say. hope u enjoy and stay safe everyone <3

knee-deep in the [twin bed] and you're eating me out

you want to say you're in control when it happens, but you'd be a big fat liar if you did. truth be told, karina had you wrapped around her finger since she moved in. (in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.)

you met her late freshman year in college when you shared a gender studies course with her – which alone would've been enough of a clue to which ways she swings, if not for the black leather jacket and unnecessary amount of rings she wore to class. she'd sat next to you the first week in and approached you after class. "this class is a bore," she said as a matter-of-factly, "wanna get coffee with me?"

you'd agreed because you were mesmerized (even though secretly, that was the favorite course you took that year) and followed her into a cafe, letting her sweet talk you into all kinds of things from there. she had a big friend group which welcomed you generously when they found out you were friends with karina and eventually, that became your everyday life.

you worked on papers sincerely while karina watched you with an unreadable glint (maybe it was unreadable, maybe you didn't want to read too much into it), swirling her untouched coffee. eventually one day, she asked you, "wanna be roommates next year?"

that was karina. easy-going and confident. she didn't hesitate to ask you to do things with her, even if they were often bending the boundaries of what friends could do. exhibit a: she'd asked you to make out with her at a party just so she could shake off a creep. in general, she was touchier than the normal person, finding a way to cup your stomach under your shirt when you weren't looking. you get the idea.

that's how when she moves into the same room as you sophomore year, you lost all sense of self and reality. you have to thank your mom who convinced you to arrive on campus a day earlier than most, so you could settle in without the bothersome crowd.

you're in the middle of fixing a poster of your favorite band, the strokes, in the wall when she lets herself in with a, "you're already here, jagiya!" you almost lose your footing on your chair in order to face her, heart already a fluttering mess thanks to her shameless flirting.

"karina!" you call out, thrilled to see your friends, complications aside. you step down carefully before throwing yourself in her waiting arms. "you're here earlier than i thought."

she pulls away with a devilish grin, "missed you too much so i came early." she looks around the room, "i see you've already made this place home."

you smile, unsettled by the way she's still holding you in her arms, your bodies attached at the hip as she takes in her home for the next year. she smells like she always does: like grapefruit and spicy cedar. you feel relaxed in her embrace, taking in her appearance. she's wearing a cropped tank with a large flannel that slips off her shoulder thanks to the heavy tote she carries.

with a sigh, you take the tote off her. "your hair grew longer," you comment as you place the bag on her desk. karina does a little spin for you, giving a full view of the wavy locks that came all the way to her navel. it only made her that much more charming (you couldn't resist wanting to know what it would feel like to run your fingers through them).

you watch as karina lugs all her stuff into the room, refusing your help with a strict look. "can't have you spraining something already, jagiya," she quips and that's all it takes for you to sit back obediently. she takes off her flannel, letting you take in her arms. was it just you or did her biceps get bigger? (it wasn't just you. karina spent her summer the gym rat way.)

"you barely have any stuff…" you murmur mindlessly when she's nearly done in half an hour. for reference, it took you three whole hours for two days to set your stuff in place.

"you just have a lot of stuff," karina laughs, closing her closet with a satisfied clap. "thoughts on ordering in for din'?"

you raise a brow, "shouldn't we at least go see if everyone's back?"

she shrugs, "we can just go after we eat." she approaches your bed, resting her forearms next to you. "come on, i don't feel like eating that prison food just yet."

despite karina's exaggeration (your dining hall makes perfectly edible food), you let karina order for you. who are you kidding? the thought of sharing a meal with your newly established roommate in your new room on your first day together… it was sweet, you had to admit. so you give in and tell karina exactly what toppings you want on your bowl.

but where you had expected to bond in all kinds of cozy ways with karina, the night quickly an unexpected turn. you're not sure how it happens but you end up caged under karina's body on your bed. her hot breath is hitting your face, "you got even prettier over the summer, huh?"

her words make it harder to think. to think about how this your best friend slash roommate slash the person you would do anything for. fuck, it's too late and you're too helpless when it comes to her. karina's already sliding her hand down your stomach, eliciting a mewl of her name from your throat.

she looks pleased, chesire grin lighting up her face when she reaches your panties. "mhm, karina–" you claw at her shoulder when a cold finger meets your slick folds. she kisses your cheek and then your mouth, so strong that you can't do anything but hold her closer to your chest till she's ripping a scream from you.

"karina, what are we doing?" you cry out, still coming down from your orgasm. what the fuck, this not a situation to be with your roommate.

"what?" she whispers, lips attached to your neck without a care in the world, "i'm just doing what i've been wanting to all summer."

"okay, that's enough," you push her off until you're both sat. you're breathless so it doesn't help the gravity of the glare you hold karina captive under. she sits back on her palms, eyes hooded.

"we're friends," you start and sensing the protest rising in her, you hold up a hand, "and roommates. you know what they say about that, don't you?"

"don't shit where you eat," she deadpans, "but i don't care. i'm not shitting anywhere. i like you, you like me. that's why we're friends. if we want to fuck around a little, what's the big deal?"

you contain a scoff at how unbothered she is. at the same time, her words stab you in the heart, the subtle friendzoning nature of them not going unnoticed (that's why we're friends? what if you wanted to be more?)

"listen, jagiya," karina shifts dangerously closer, a thumb wiping away the sweat on your lip. "it's chill. we don't have to if you don't want to. but i'll tell you right now; i want to do things with you."

"things?" you breathe even though you know you shouldn't fall into her trap.

"yeah," she caresses your cheek, licking her lips, "want to kiss you. make you come. that sort of thing."

you fall against her weakly, feeling the soft strands of her hair envelope you like a dream. with your eyes closed, all you can feel is warmth of her body and none of the cold of her words (kiss, fuck, chill. no love.)

"only if you let me eat you out, too," you finally murmur against her skin. feel her shake with laughter.

"thought you'd never ask."

you wake up in karina's arms. she'd dozed off in your bed as if hers wasn't two hops away. the thoughts makes you flushed (despite everything) and you turn around to face her. she's still asleep, peaceful as ever. you trace the mole below her lips, envious of how little she was attached to you.

not to drown yourself in self-pity, you had always been too attached to karina for your own good. a week into being friends with her, you would jump at a text from her, dropping everything to meet at her the cafe she had wanted to try or to help her get ready for a party.

but it wasn't without reason. she was sweet to you, genuinely. karina sensed your moods smoothly, knowing when your silence was more than comfortable and when your drunk crying meant you were actually upset over something. she listened to you, no matter how little you claimed the problem to be, her reliable shoulder always yours when you were in trouble.

so you couldn't blame the butterflies in your stomach at waking up with her. right?

"we never made it to meeting our friends," karina mumbles through a yawn later. you're both in the middle of getting ready for the day, thankfully still a grace day before classes start.

"you clearly had other plans," you purse your lips in the mirror, working on fixing a bump in your hair. stupid karina and her arm under your head all night.

she comes up behind you with a playful smile, taking the brush from your hands to rake it through your hair herself. "you say that like you didn't have fun," she says. she brings your hair into a bun, taking a hairtie off her wrist to secure it in place. patting your head with eyes on you in the mirror, "there. you look cute."

you heave a deep sigh at the motions that stir up at her actions, sliding away to pretend to busy yourself with your bag. "we should go meet them today," you say, "or they might declare us dead."

"definitely," karina laughs.

meeting your friends helps you a little. maybe it's because you're seeing them after so long or maybe it's just the fact that you have normal friend feelings for them. but it's nice, you can lose yourself in a nonsense conversation with seungkwan about your recently acquired obsessions with various mobile games.

he's in the middle of offering to show you his brand-new coffee machine when karina shouts, "guys! gather up! minjeongie is driving us to get ice-cream! on her!"

you spot the short blonde attacks on karina at the presumably false declaration. your rommate dodges well, bent in a fit of laughter at minjeong's tantrum. "okay, i lied! everyone buy your own ice-cream."

as it turns out, minjeong's car is definitely not big enough to fit all 8 of your friends. "looks like we're fighting it out the fairest way," seowon declares, readying her fist for rock paper scissors.

"since only five of us can go," karina starts, somehow finding her way next to your side. you shiver when her hands clasps yours. "minjeong, y/n, and i are definitely going."

you watch in shock as everyone wreaks havoc at her words. "now why would we allow that–"

"see, it's technically just two seats taken," she explains calmly, "y/n's sitting on my lap anyway." you gape at her audacity as she holds up your intertwined hands, like a wedding announcement.

you try to weasel out of her grip, mumbling, "that's fine. i don't really want to go–"

"what? of course you do," karina's hand tightens and you curse her strength, "you love ice-cream, jagiya. come on. let's go."

your friends seem dubious of the interaction but with a few statements along the lines of they're in their honeymoon phase as roomies, they return to the rock-paper-scissors battle at hand, now the stakes reduced to four seats now.

"calling shotgun by the way!" karina calls as she pulls you after. you don't know what to say honestly, overwhelmed by her hand in yours. you had expected her to pretend things were the same as always but clearly not: you had never gone as far to sit in her lap with your friends around (alone was a different story. but you swear you'd only ended up in her lap because she'd wanted to hug you through your breakup with your ex.)

"karina, you're crazy," you tell her, finally shaking your hand free. you cross your arms and karina simply takes a chug of water from the brita in geum's minifridge.

"why? because i volunteered my lap so we'd get to go?"

before you can really give her a piece of your mind, minjeong interrupts. "looks like they figured out the winners. we're leaving in the next five minutes or the offer's off the table."

–

two weeks and your mom invites me to [lunch]

"y/n, it's so nice to see you again," karina's mom is saying, sliding a menu toward you. thanksgiving week was around which meant parents were abundant on campus these days. it also meant your own mom couldn't make it because she was swamped with work, no thanks to her job as an on-field reporter.

"of course, you've lost so much weight since we last met, eommeoni," you smile.

this is fine for the most part of it. you genuinely enjoy karina's mom's company. she's kind and sincere, always bringing a gift for you along with karina and treating you like her own. but this time around it's different because it's the first time you've been sleeping with her daughter.

in fact, just that morning, karina had kept you in bed longer than usual, complaining because you had gone to bed earlier than usual. it had been part of your plan to keep your conscience clean for when you met her mother, to make sure you didn't lose her respect. but being the nefarious idiot she was, karina had crawled up your torso, eyes going sweet at you, "please, just once?"

so now you had a dirtier conscience than usual, having been panting in karina's lap just hours before this lunch.

but even if you tried to maintain composure in front of her mom, karina made it impossible. she slid close to your shoulder, hand splayed across your bare thigh (curse you and your decision to wear your sundress out today). it's honestly harmless and even excusable as a friendly gesture, but ever so occassionally, her hand climbs up, reaching closer and closer to a position that was far from appropriate.

"so tell me, do you two have any classes together this semester?" karina's mom asks you between mouthfuls of rice. you take the chance to peel karina's hand off but it ends up at your knee like a magnet.

"not really," karina answers easily as if unaware of the power struggle going under the table. probably because she was winning by a mile.

"i told karina she should take an elective with me but she refused," you complain, deciding if this was the way you could hit back then so be it.

"i think you forgot to mention it was an economics elective," she corrects you, hand basically clawing at your inner thight by now. you shift uneasily and karina's mom laughs.

"you know jimin," she shakes her head, "she doesn't take the serious courses. only painting all day long."

"eomma," karina groans, "how many times do i have to tell you? it's not just painting. i'm an arts major. that's like the second hardest major at this school."

"really? what's the hardest major?" (the only right question for a mother to ask.)

the rest of the lunch goes by quickly, fortunately for you. you're the first out the door, eager to put some distance between you and karina. you pretend to fan yourself out of the hot mess she's made of you.

"i have to say," karina's mom says as she gets ready to leave, "you two seem to have gotten closer since you started rooming together."

"really?" karina wonders as if clueless to the arm around your shoulder, where it had been the whole walk back to campus from the restaurant. (insufferable, you whisper to her. cute, she accuses you.)

"thanks for sticking next to her, y/n. who knows where my little girl would be without you?"

you brush of karina's mom's words of flattery, not voicing the thoughts that arise. where would i be without your daughter?

–

i know what you tell [our] friends

imagining a life without karina becomes terribly real when it becomes clear to you that karina truly has no intentions of treating as anything more than a friend who she sleeps with and not just as roommates.

it's a cold slap of reality that you finally feel one day when you're eating with minjeong and seungkwan. karina's next to you, like she so often is, hand on your elbow for no good reason.

"so everyone's been wondering…" minjeong starts to say and seungkwan shoots her a glare, realizing where this was going.

"...are you two a thing?" she points to the point of contact between you and karina.

"what?" you squeak, pulling away at the call-out. but your mind goes blank, all the excuses you had practiced in your head deserting you. you had expected someone to catch on sooner or later, but somehow right now all you can think of is how you already miss karina's touch. i'm in love with her, it occurs to you to say. (wait, you love her? you wonder distantly as if the answer hadn't been crystal clear the minute she crossed lines with you.)

karina shrugs, "we're fucking. but it's casual. no attachment or anything." she adds with an arm around you, "just girls being girls, right?"

you muster out a laugh to agree with her, ignoring the concerned look seungkwan pins you with. minjeong seems convinced though, "no way! you're sleeping together? i guess it must be convenient… you live together."

"yeah, you could say that," this time it's you responding, swallowing the tremble in your throat. you'd rather die than let karina get a whiff of your true feelings. you stand up.

"it's easy." it's the hardest. "not a big deal." you thought about it every waking second. "i have class now though. see you guys later."

you did not have class. you ran to the nearest bathroom stall to lock yourself in and let out the sobs that had been threatening your system for the past three weeks. you make sure nobody can hear you and then wipe your tears with the spare tissues you carry in your bag.

you leave, hoping nobody notices your red eyes.

that night, you go to your room later than usual, counting on karina to be asleep. you should know better though because she's up, in nothing but her night shorts, sitting on your bed.

it almost frustrates you for a moment, the sight of her curled up so comfortably on your bed like you were lovers. but you weren't. you weren't even close. but she perks up like maybe you are, calling out your name sweetly, "you're so late today. is everything okay?"

"yeah," you say, not making eye-contact for too long as you rest your bag on your desk. you contemplate leaving the room just so you didn't have to feel this hot volcano erupt in your chest. but instead, you undress, aware of karina's unwavering gaze. you make sure to slip off your pants and put on a baggy shirt. no shorts, like karina liked.

"we're a fully dressed person put together," she liked to joke when she'd bring your bodies close. you laughed along but all you wanted was to actually be one person with her. maybe that would justify why you were so attracted to her.

"come on,," she coos when you jump into bed. "i know something's wrong. your eyes are red. your shoulders heavy."

"can't lie for one second with you, can i?" you sigh into her skin when she hugs you.

"sorry, jagiya. maybe if i was a man, you could get away with it."

maybe that would make it easier. if one of you was a man. at least then someone would bat an eye at the concept of a no strings attached situationship between best friends. you were practically begging for someone to object to its apparently platonic nature. (you were begging yourself.)

"i didn't even shower," you complain when she explores your bare stomach with her fingers.

"it's fine. we'll just take one in the morning."

she holds you to the promise, waking you up half an hour earlier than usual just so she could drag you into the shower. two girls showering together, a sight nobody would see because it was dead quiet until an hour from now.

–

i try to be the chill girl

you knew it was too good to be true, your friends-with-benefit situation with karina. but now that your feelings are actually catching up to you, you can barely hold in the tears that overwhelm you when you look at her.

then, when you finally decide to suck it up and show up to dinner with your friends, it all goes south. thanks to some dumb group project karina's doing, a guy named taeyong was at your table. you knew him by name from college gossip. he was fit to be the protagonist of a rom-com, nice guy with the looks to go with it and he was friendly, fitting right in with the group of friends.

bitterly, you reflect on how long it had taken you, in comparison, to warm up to everyone. a month, maybe? plus, he looked perfect next to karina, their unusually good looks matching each other's quality.

you're not the only thinking that because geum pipes up, "you two look good together! when's the wedding?"

seowon hits his arm though most of the people on the table join in laughter. (you don't.) "come on, you can't force it, geum," she says, "they're clearly still getting to know each other."

"so it'll be official in say, a week from now?" minjeong teases, earning herself a blush from taeyong. karina is unruffled but she does smile a little at the teasing comments, side-eyeing the boy next to her.

right. they did look good together.

much to your discomfort, karina and taeyong only seem to become closer, with the latter frequenting your table at every meal. he assimilated easily with the group, already circulating inside jokes that you were conveniently not a part of.

speaking of which you were circulating a word tornado yourself: casual, no attachement, chill, convenient, easy… not a big deal. as taeyong became a regular with your friends, you became increasingly absent, coming up with excuses to take your meals at much earlier or later hours.

you're officially spiraling, doing your best to avoid karina. but avoiding karina meant avoiding your friends. it was a harsh truth but you came to realize you were only friends with them because of her and if you decided to break things off with her, you'd also end up a loner.

it was a cold, miserable place to be in, your mind. you left your room early and came back late to karina asleep. she'd tried to stay up for your sake a few times but you'd made your arrivals later and later, until she gave up and went to sleep.

you know you can only avoid her for so long before she caught you and grilled you but for now, you just had to come up with a way to keep yourself occupied. that afternoon, you get a text from her, asking to talk to you after dinner. you leave her on read for hours before texting back a quick "sure," afraid to go too far. you may be mad at karina for treating you in ways that left you confused, but you didn't actualy want to hurt her.

but come the time when finally face her and you realize it may be too late.

"so… why exactly have you been avoiding me?" more than anything, karina's voice is weary. she appears worried when you first take a seat across from her but when you don't look like you're in actual physical pain, her expression morphs into one of frustration.

"i'm not," you sigh, "i'm just busy."

"busy during every single meal? busy enough to leave before i wake up?"

"i'm taking more classes than usual," you say and though it's the truth, it's far from being the reason why you were acting this way. karina seems to know this.

"i'm taking an art class that has me staying back in the studio till 11," she tells you. only then, you notice the black charcoal marking her cheek. "but i still come home."

"sorry," you mumble, averting your gaze. "i'm not– you didn't do anything. i'm just… thinking through some things. i'll come back to the room earlier today."

"great, so now we're not close enough for you to share your thoughts with me?" this time karina actually sounds hurt. it was the indication of your friendship finally falling apart that has her sitting forward, eyes blinking in panic. "y/n, what the fuck?"

what the fuck, indeed. you try your best to reassure karina but it seems like she's done talking to you after that point so you see yourself out. a small part of you manages to wonder whose jacket was laid across the chair next to her. taeyong?

you find the answer the hard way when you come back to your room at a reasonable hour for the first time in a week. only to run into taeyong himself.

he seems like he's in a hurry when you step in, rushing to put his jacket on (yes, the jacket that you saw next to karina earlier today) and avoiding your gaze. you don't even pretend to seem pleased encounter him there.

you fix your glare on karina, kneeling on her bed. she lets out a sigh when she sees you. "you're finally back."

you watch as taeyong leaves without a goodbye and you scoff, "i feel like i interrupted something. maybe i shouldn't have come back." you feel the blood rush to your head, all your convictions to lay out your unreciprocated feelings out to karina because she deserved an explanation.

right now, you just feel empty. and mad. so as soon as you rest your bag, you get to changing. but not into your night clothes.

"are you going somewhere?"

"...maybe."

"and what happened to our talk earlier?"

with a huff of disbelief, you throw your sweaty shirt on your bedroom floor. "well, i decided it meant nothing when i saw that guy leaving our room."

"taeyong?" karina looks baffled and you want to shake some sense into her so bad.

"yeah, i don't know, karina, the thought of you already replacing me with some dude–" you cut yourself off when your voice breaks. "it's not a great feeling. so i'm just gonna leave."

"wait, what?" karina jumps out of her bed. "is this what you've been mad about all week?"

you pause your angry movements about your space when she comes close to you, touching your arm, first contact in days. you breathe unevenly, "karina, i just need some time–"

"are you crying, jagiya?"

you want to say it's stupid nickname that gets to your nerves finally breaking your walls down. but really, it's the warmth in her tone, the sound of her breath hitting your ear so close. you'd missed karina. that's why you end up sobbing, arms finding her neck to support you.

"karina, i'm–" she rubs your back calmly through your sobs. "i'm sorry."

"what's wrong, baby? why are you crying? please, talk to me."

"i think… i'm in love with you."

your confession is quiet, just like your love for karina has always been. actually no, that's what you want to think but no, your love is loud: you look for her in every room you enter, hands already welcoming hers when she runs over to you. you're the first to laugh at her jokes, no matter how nonsensical or how many times she's told them to you. you may be a flustered mess when things got intimate, but you always made sure karina felt good, too – going far beyond your comfort zone to please her.

karina pulls away with a soft gasp. "that's not what i expected you to say."

"i know," you sniffle. "but it's been killing me. i know you wanted to keep things casual. and i know you and taeyong are–"

"okay, just so we're clear for once and for all– there is nothing between me and taeyong."

you freeze in shock, having been rock-solid in your assumption of their relationship. "what?"

"come on, i barely know the guy. but apparently, everyone's teasing got to his head," karina sighs, "he came here to confess to me earlier today. and i rejected him."

now his urgency to leave the room makes even more sense, you realize slowly. but you realize another thing: karina had looked cold when you'd entered, ending things with him clearly. yet, here you were, standing with her arms around your waist as if you hadn't declared your love for her.

"...and?" you prod her, biting your lip hopefully.

"and?" karina echoes you, eyes locking in yours to understand your hint. "oh, you wanna know how i feel?"

you nod coyly, a stray tear falling down your cheek as if on cue.

"well, let's start with a recap of this week. you ignored me so i felt like shit for most of it. and then you ignored me some more and i had to go to sleep lonely and sad. then, you stopped showing for meals so i didn't even want to eat anymore. what happened next? oh right, this evening. i had to practically beg you to talk to me–"

"okay, i get the idea!" you stop her with a groan, "i'm sorry, but i clearly had good reason to act the way i did."

"did you?" karina is suddenly holding your face, smiling turning bittersweet. "you idiot."

"huh?"

"i wanted to keep things casual because i wasn't sure how you felt about me. i wanted you to keep your options open till someone who you actually liked came along–"

"but–"

"this was long before i knew you were into me like that. you're really hard to read, you know? but yeah, i kept things casual because i'm selfish. i wanted to sleep with the girl i love without losing her friendship. i was obviously an–"

"idiot!" you hit karina's arm repeatedly at her revelation, tears filling up your vision yet again. "you love me?! why would you do that to me, then? are you–"

karina catches your fists in her with a heave, "i know, i know. i'm sorry, jagiya. but–" she brings your first to her chest, exposed by the deep neck of the tank she wore to sleep. "i'm serious about you, okay? i didn't want to gamble someone i cherished over some fucking around."

your body feels weak now that the truth is out in the open. you lean into karina. "you're so mean," you say into her neck, "i thought… you were chill."

she laughs at your complaint, "sorry. i'm dumb. dumb in love?"

you let karina coax you into her bed that night, kissing your body free of the tension you'd carried all that week like she was nursing you back to health. you can't help the tears that escape at her sweet touch, not new for her by any means – but different for you nevertheless, now that you knew how she felt. later that night, when you're falling asleep in her arms, in her twin bed this time, you feel her snuggle closer. warm nose against your cold cheek, she kisses you goodnight. (and a soft love you that you can barely distinguish from a dream.)

#karina x y/n #karina x you #karina x reader #karina aespa #aespa fics #aespa x reader #yu jimin #yu jimin x reader #karina fics #aespa imagine #karina imagines #karina fluff #aespa fluff #aespa scenarios #karina angst #kpop fic #kpop x reader #kpop imagines

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aspirationalpeony · 9 months ago

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Lucky Me

Summary: You and Mel do a little experimenting after she shares a disappointing truth about her past relationships. Content Warnings: Lots of smut. :) This fic is loosely set in the same world as "Finding Beauty," but can be enjoyed independently. AO3 Link

"He wasn't good at it," Melissa says. "Joe. Makin' me come." She blushes.

It's so not her--tough, capable Melissa, fearless and demanding. You touch her cheek, brush a strand of red hair back behind her ear. She hasn't had a touch-up in a while, and there's a streak of gray growing in at her temple. You love that she can be vulnerable with you, admitting these little truths about herself, in words, in body.

"Really?" you say. You have a well, duh moment in your own head: the last time you saw Joe, he interrupted you constantly, derailing your thoughts to tell his own stories, never letting you get to the punchline of a joke. He just feels like a bad lover, inattentive and untrustworthy. Plus, you know the stuff he said to Melissa about her body.

"Yeah." She plays with the band of her smart watch, then leans forward off the couch toward the coffee table, picking up her wine glass. (It's a weeknight, so the liquid inside is grapefruit-flavored sparkling water.) "And 'specially later on, I couldn't get wet, he'd get so frustrated."

"Even though you were telling him what to do?"

Putting her glass back down, she cuts a look at you for the assumption, but it breaks out into a smile, a little sheepish. Your heart does a flip-flop at the sight. "Well, yeah."

Your fingertip traces the shell of her ear. She shivers. You can't believe Joe would get frustrated, impatient, bored of trying to give this woman pleasure. Every inch of her has some private sensitivity: the lobes of her ears, the small of her back, behind her knees, below her navel. Getting to learn these secrets has been the most incredible privilege. And it's been fun.

It's taken her a while to learn to let you, rather than tell you; to give you a chance to explore. She's so used to controlling every moment, organizing her own pleasure and yours. You love when Melissa is the boss, but you also love when she gives up the authority; when she melts into the feeling and lets you be in charge.

"What about Gary?" you ask.

She snorts. "Gary who?" Her mouth twists and she shakes her head, at the question, at herself. "I mean, sometimes I'd take his mustache for a ride, but that's about it. He didn't have, y'know. It." Her eyes flick up to yours again. You haven't missed the way they've been down this whole time, unable to hold your gaze; how her chin is tucked toward her chest, her shoulders up. "It doesn't... Bother you? Talkin' about them?"

You check in with yourself, but end up shrugging. "Not really." You've spent time with Melissa and Joe together, and there's no heat between them, just the friendly chemistry of two people who've known each other half their lives. Gary you did see once, and he looked kind of like an uncooked ham. What is there to be jealous of?

You study her face. She's still pink and a little twitchy. "Does it bother you? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." You drop your hand to her nape, rubbing your thumb comfortingly along the column of her neck. She sways into you with a sigh.

"I wanna," she says. "Talk about it. I feel like I..." Her lips pinch. "Owe ya."

"No," you say, straightening up. The plastic of the couch creaks with your movement. "Melissa, you don't owe me anything. I want to talk about it if you do, but--"

"Nah, that's--" she shakes her head. "It's not what I meant. I mean, I... It's like, it's a part of... Me. Y'know." She pushes her hair back from her face. "And 'cause I love you, and--" she laughs a little--"cause you're stuck with me, I..."

Your always-active heart gives a tremor, hearing the cautious vulnerability of her voice. You slide your arm around her and pull her in.

"It ain't that big a deal," she says, muffled, lying, against your shoulder.

Even if she can't admit it--your tough-girl sweetheart, not wanting to let her soft heart show--you can. "It is to me," you say, and squeeze her.

You loosen your grip, and she tucks herself against your side. It always surprises you how small she really is. Every day she's like a cat that's making itself big, back up, fur on end, daring anyone to come at her; here she gets to shrink back down, turn back into herself, become your kitten.

"I don't get it," you say after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "It's fun making you come. I love it."

"Lucky me," Mel says, very smugly.

"I sometimes think about--" you stop. This really isn't the moment for your fantasies: yeah, you guys were talking about sex, but not in the dirty sense; it was Melissa sharing something important, something emotional, and...

"Yeah?" she says. Her voice has two registers when she's turned on: airy, almost girlish, usually when you've surprised her, and throaty, a rasp. Now it's that fainter, breathless one. The sound of it sends a tickling frisson down your spine.

"Um," you say, and it's your turn to blush. "I think about... A lot of things."

"I'm waitin'."

You huff an embarrassed laugh. It's one thing to fantasize, another thing to tell the object of your fantasy all about it. "Sometimes I think about," you say, and clear your throat, "how sensitive you are. And I want to know how many times I can make you come."

You can feel the way her breathing speeds up, her body against your side, but she doesn't speak.

"We usually stop at two," you say, "but I think you can take more. I think you can take a lot more. And--sometimes, I think about how little it takes, like, when you're right there. Like I can just breathe on your clit and you'll come. I think about getting you there and telling you 'no.'"

Her breath catches.

"I bet you'd go crazy." You're smiling a little. You touch your mouth, tapping your lower lip, thinking of it. "You'd cuss me out, you'd yank my hair. You'd probably try to finish yourself off. I might have to tie you up to stop you."

"Oh," she says.

You risk a glance at her face. She's looking up at you from where she's leaning against your side, her green eyes glassy, her cheeks pink, her lips parted.

"You like that, baby?" You slide your hand down her back and feel the muscles shift as she moves, pushing herself up, then throwing a leg over you, settling onto your lap.

Having her like this is perfect. She used to hold herself up on her knees, not letting you take her weight, until you got her to understand that you loved the pressure of her body against yours, that there was no such thing as too much of her.

She dips her head and kisses you. It's not a starter kiss, warming you up; she kisses you like you're inside her now, deep and filthy, putting her tongue in your mouth with no foreplay. You groan as her hand cups your neck, feeling the prickle of her manicured nails against your skin.

"You think about me like that a lot?" she asks you when she's letting you catch your breath. The words are low, your faces close, like it's a secret someone could overhear.

"Yeah," you admit. Your hands slide over her hips to grip her ass. She gives an encouraging little motion when you squeeze. "I love thinking about what I could do to you..." Her breath hitches again. "What you'd enjoy."

"You get off on it?"

"Yeah, I do," you say. "I get off on getting you off."

Her eyelashes flutter. She makes a noise like a whimper. You have a flash of inspiration, and before you can second-guess yourself, you take her hand from your neck, the other from your shoulder, and pull them behind her back.

She gasps. It's an arrow of electricity right to your clit. Her eyes open wide, searching for yours, as you gather her wrists into one hand. It's not a very strong grip--she could yank away from you easily--but it pulls her shoulders back and leaves her chest thrust forward.

"Is this okay?"

She nods.

"You have to tell me."

"It's okay," she says. Her voice has dropped into that second register of pure arousal, throaty and low. "It's... It's good."

"Did Joe ever do this to you?" You don't know what makes you bring him up. Not jealousy, but... Maybe curiosity. Maybe wondering if he ever took the time to catalogue Melissa's reactions, to think through what would really turn her on, if he ever gave that much of a shit.

She chuckles breathlessly. "Like to see him try," she mutters. Her blush is traveling down her throat and blotching her chest.

You follow its path to the three buttons at the front of her blouse. You watch her chest start to heave as you work them open with your free hand. They expose the center gore of her bra and a hint of the silky curve of its cups.

You palm one breast roughly, squeezing. She groans. You can just feel her hardening nipple through the layers of fabric separating you. You thumb it, pinch hard, to make sure she can feel it, turning her next moan into a whine.

Her hips rock into your lap, trying to get friction. You lean back to look at her: disheveled, red, her hair spilling everywhere, her lip gloss blurry from kissing.

"You're so fucking sexy," you tell her, voice low, making her moan again.

You'd love to finger her, but there's no lube, and she's in leggings pulled up high over her hips, with not a lot of room between the two of you to get inside them. You slide your hand between her legs and over her covered sex.

She pushes down into your palm, hard, as you nose the tender inner curve of one breast, tracing your lips against the edge of her bra. Pressing through her leggings, you can feel the plump shape of her cunt. You trace those folds down, then up, over her clit.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes as you start rubbing. "Oh, fuck..." She shifts restlessly; you think she might pull her wrists away, but instead she arches toward you, drops her head back, inviting a bite to her throat, which you give. You suck soft skin into your mouth, scrape of your teeth, nibble, move down, find another spot, repeat. You can't leave marks, but there are blotches of satisfying pink where you've touched her.

"You getting close?" You work your thumb against her clit.

"Uh huh," she says, weak and needy. She picks her head up again and there's a lost, fogged look of pleasure on her face as she meets your eyes.

You hold her gaze. "Tell me when you're there," you say. "When you're right there. Okay?"

Her brow creases as she tries to focus. You wonder if she's ever tried to do this before, parsing out stages to her pleasure, or if she's always just gone up and over, never thinking about how she got there.

"I--I--I think I'm--" her voice is wobbly.

You pull your hand away. She whines and her hips jab down toward your lap, seeking a touch that isn't there. You rub her thigh, slide your hand up, over the soft curve of her belly and down to press against her mons; her hips jolt again.

"Fuck you," she says feebly.

You rub your thumb back and forth, far above where she wants it. You know she can feel the contact here in her cunt, a phantom pressure to remind her how empty she is, how close she was.

"More?" you ask.

She squirms and nods. When you give her no response, she huffs a sigh, rolls her eyes, and says, "Yes, fine, yes, more, oh--shit--"

You've found her clit again. You know this time she'll already be sensitive, and she might not be able to tell you when you need to stop. You focus on watching her: the glazed look in her eyes before she shuts them, her parted lips, her frantic breaths, her rocking hips.

You time it; you pull your thumb away. She gives a frustrated cry and squirms in your lap. You take pity and give her a distraction, rubbing your cheek against her breast, finding the hint of her pebbled nipple, the one you neglected before, and biting hard. You feel the elasticity of her bra's cup more than you feel her flesh, muting the sting of your teeth, but it makes her keen.

"You've got no fucking clue how hot you are," you tell her. You bite again and tug, drawing out another delicious sound. "I haven't even taken your clothes off. Look at you. I want to do this to you forever."

Your thumb at her clit again, this time so lightly it barely counts. "You want to come, don't you?"

Her wrists twist in your grasp, but don't pull away. She says, all breathless, angry bravado, "What do you think?"

"I think I could stop right now." She gasps, though you don't stop gently rubbing her clit. "Even though I want to make you come. And after that, I want to take you upstairs and eat you out. I want to suck on you and get you all over my face. I want--"

"Oh, shit, I," she says weakly, her hips starting to twitch.

Realizing, you say, "Just from this?" She's really almost there again? "Fuck, you're incredible. Should I stop?"

"No," she whines.

"You want it harder?"

"Yes!"

You give her what she wants. Finally, she pulls her wrists out of your grip so she can grab your hand and shove it fully against her cunt, letting her ride your palm to her orgasm. Melissa's always noisy, but this time, she's loud, the sound of her desperate cry huge in the living room.

"Oh, fuck," she says faintly as she sags down onto your lap. "I, oh..."

"You did so good," you murmur to her and rub her back, grateful to have both hands again. She buries her face in your neck and clings to you, breathing hard. She mumbles something. "What, baby?"

She picks up her head a little. "I said, 'yeah, you too.'"

It makes you snort. It's a funny mix of tenderness, affection, and gratitude you feel, knowing that even after an orgasm that took her like a runaway train, she'll still make sure to remind you of your place. Can't ever get too smug around Melissa.

You trace a hand up and down her back, finding the hem of her blouse and rucking it up so you can touch her bare skin underneath. She's hot against your palm and it makes you sigh.

"You want to go upstairs and keep going?" you ask, mouth against her ear.

"I wanna recover first," she says blearily. "What the hell was that?" She sits up a bit in your lap and you have room to reach around her and pick up her water from the table.

"A little taste," you say.

She brings the glass to her lips and sips, eyes narrowed, watching you the way kung fu heroines watch their enemies, prepared to bust out their fists at any moment.

"Of what I've been thinking about," you add. You rub her lower back. "I think you liked it."

"I think you gotta be crazy to get off on somebody not letting you come," she says, then scowls. "Which I guess makes me crazy."

"I guess it does." You can't smother your smile. "You're okay, though?"

"What do you mean? I came, didn't I?"

"I mean, sometimes emotions can get weird," you say, "after doing that kind of stuff. You get a lot of hormones and chemicals in you and they can make you feel..." You shrug.

"You got a lot of experience with 'this kind of stuff'?" Now her gaze is accusing. "You been holdin' out on me?"

"No, not a lot of experience. A little, maybe." You hold her hips, rubbing your thumbs over their soft curves. "A little experience. And a lot of things I want to do to you."

Her whole body shudders. She reaches back to put her water down, then loops her arms around your neck and kisses you. It's her post-coital kiss, lazy and loving, the hunger more muted.

"Gee," she says breathlessly when you part, and repeats herself, a grin curving her lips: "Lucky me."

#melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #sorry for any editing mishaps... i just really wanted to write but WIPs were a struggle!#so fired this off very quickly #i hope you can enjoy even though it's quite short/slapdash

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 11 months ago

Text

a/n: hi hello i wasn’t expecting to write barzy long fic but those damn musician mat photos KILLED me. also yes, i started this fic literally the day after the photos were posted but here we are. it needed major editing and also i need to like sit on it for a bit before posting. ANYWAY it’s here and i’m happy with it? i hate the title but whatever, it is what it is. enjoy and let me know what you think!! 🫶🏻

word count: 4.3k

tw: semi-public fingering but doesn’t go all the way, public thigh grinding

summary: hanging out in a dive bar on long island, the last thing you expect to see is mat with a guitar over his shoulder, joining the cover band on stage

When you look up from responding to a text and Mat’s nowhere to be found, you’re not really that surprised. He does this a lot - gets distracted and wanders off. Occasionally, he’ll be cornered by a fan, smiling gamely for a selfie and chatting for a bit. Every once in a while he gets roped into a game of pool, chatting with the random men like he’s known them for years. Once in a bar in the city, and this one nearly killed you, he struck up a conversation with Aaron Tveit - your favorite Broadway star and secretly a man that you absolutely would use a hall pass on - without realizing that he was talking to someone more famous in certain New York circles than he is.

All this to say, Mat disappearing in the bar isn’t a totally unprecedented occurrence.

You set your phone back down on the high top table and lean a shoulder against the wall next to you, crossing your legs at the ankle and taking a sip of your High Noon. It’s warm-ish now, starting to taste more artificial, and you look over your shoulder at the bar, scrutinizing the crowd that’s gathered and waiting for the bartender to notice them. It’s not worth it to leave the table since it’ll be snatched up in a second, so you flip your phone over and use your index finger to tap out a quick message to Mat asking him to get you another drink when he gets back from wherever he wandered off to - at this point you’re assuming there’s a major line for the men’s room. The little blue bubble floats up and shows it was delivered. Satisfied, you lean back against the wall, scooping your hair off the back of your neck with your free hand and holding it in a lazy ponytail so your neck can cool off a bit.

Long Island is a humid, swampy mess, August slipping away into a moment in time, as Queen Taylor says. But September is doing her damnedest to remind everyone that she’s still a summer month too.

Not that you mind, having been born and raised on Long Island and intimately familiar with the weather extremes, but it’s particularly gross in the bar tonight. Sweaty bodies packed in for the 90s alt cover band that’s supposed to be playing tonight. They’ve played at the bar before and they’re pretty good you have to admit, but right now you’re just wishing for a little bit of a breeze.

Giving up on your hair, you twist it up into a messy knot, securing it with a thin black elastic that’s seen better days. Three loops around thick hair, and you know it’s going to snap before the night is over, but you can’t worry about that now. There’s immediate relief from pulling your hair off your neck and now you can focus on the fact that Mat’s actually been missing for more than a few minutes. You tap your phone screen, looking for a message, but there’s nothing from him, just a few messages in the girls’ group chat talking about Monday night’s poker event. Wrinkling your nose, you look around the bar again, trying to see if you can spot your boyfriend.

It’s too dark though, Mat’s hair and black tee would blend in with the crowds. After a few more minutes of looking, you give up, rolling your eyes and muttering to yourself, “he better not have found Aaron Tveit again,” before taking another sip of your High Noon. The spark of grapefruit flavour hits the back of your tongue and you pinch your lips together, swiping at your lower lip with the tip of your tongue. Drops of condensation roll down the can, making your hand wet and you wipe your palm on the fabric of your dress, already a little sticky with sweat.

Bored without Mat, you reply to the group chat and scroll through Instagram, double tapping on a photo Sofia posted of Olivia and commenting a string of heart eyes emojis. While you’re on your phone, the band takes the stage, a group of older men that have clearly been on the circuit for a while now. You start to swipe over to the phone app, ready to call Mat and find out where he went, when another man comes out onto the stage - this one much younger, much more handsome, and much more familiar to you.

“What?” The shocked gasp falls out of your mouth and either you’re louder than you thought or Mat just has radar to tell where you are at any given moment, because he looks over as he’s adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder and winks at you, his mouth curling up in that familiar cocky smirk you know and love.

Mat’s been fooling around on the guitar for years now and he’s gotten half-way decent in that time, but you had no idea he was feeling confident enough to play in front of a packed bar. Or that he knew the band well enough to ask or be asked to join.

The lights over the stage dim and brighten simultaneously and the band gets into position, drumsticks clicking together to signify the start of the set. In your excitement and rush to grab your phone so you can record Mat, you nearly knock over your drink, catching it at the last second. Mat grins at you again and tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, looking down at the guitar to position his fingers. You cover your mouth with your free hand to muffle the excited noises that start when the band begins to play - you want to make sure that the video you record has Mat’s playing, not your squeaks and cheers. He looks a little nervous at the start, focused intently on her fingers and the guitar strings, but as the song goes on, Mat gets more into it and relaxes.

The phone shakes in your hand a little from your excitement and the inevitability of you bouncing a bit on the balls of your feet as you get into the music too. Mat’s hair falls over his forehead and curls around his ears, long at his neck, and a flush of heat spreads through your stomach. He’s stupidly attractive up on stage, playing his guitar, and you’re ready to jump him. You lean up a little on your toes to get a better angle, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. Mat looks up while he plays and spots you again. You move your hand from your mouth and grin brightly at him. He responds with another delighted smirk, shaking his hair out of his face.

Around you, the crowd is into the cover, singing along when they know the lyrics and dancing in that lazy way people dance in dive bars. You catch a few mentions of Mat’s name, eyes landing on a handful of younger girls that are staring openly at him and recording. You bite down on your lower lip to prevent the self-satisfied smirk from forming. There’s something extremely satisfying knowing that all these girls are thirsting over Mat, but you get to go home with him.

Mat shakes his hair back again and scrunches his nose up while he plays and the girl closest to you nearly yelps, “fuck, he’s so hot with that hair.”

Her friend chimes in with, “it’s giving Nathan Scott season four minus the depression.”

The first girl replies, “it’s going to be such a crime when he has to cut it for the season.” She’s not wrong - you always hate when Mat does the Lou-approved chop at the end of the summer.

You muffle a laugh behind your hand and focus on Mat’s playing. The song winds down and his grin is immediate and genuine. He shakes the hands of each of the guys and claps them on the back before wandering off the stage. You stop the recording and set your phone back down on the table, clapping and cheering along with the crowd. The band starts back up again and you bounce on the balls of your feet, waiting for Mat to find you.

He ducks through the crowds, still grinning, and appears in front of you suddenly. Before he can say a word, you throw yourself at him, locking your arms around his neck and slanting your lips over his. One of Mat’s arms wraps around your lower back, holding you flush against the front of his body. You grin against his mouth - he tastes like peach flavored High Noon, chapstick, and the salt of his sweat. Mat’s tongue swipes against your lower lip, encouraging you to open your mouth and you do, deepening the kiss and twisting your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed up by your lips. The kiss lingers and fades out as you pull back for air, but then Mat ducks forward and kisses you softly. Your forehead rests against his and you exhale a little giggle.

“Hi, babe,” he laughs, whole face crinkled up in delight when he pulls back, one arm still looped around your waist. You can feel his hand tremble against your waist, betraying nerves or leftover adrenaline from his stint on stage.

“Oh my god! You loser!” You laugh, pushing at his shoulder with the palm of your hand. Mat grabs your wrist with lightning quick reflexes and flexes his fingers around your wrist, tightening gently before he brings your hand to his mouth to kiss your pulse point. Your breath stutters in your chest, but you continue, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going to play!”

Still holding your wrist, Mat steps closer and shakes his head. “I wasn’t planning on it. I went to the bathroom, sort of got talking with the band,” he shrugs, “it just happened.”

“It just happened!” you echo on a laugh. “Well you were amazing.”

“Thanks,” Mat ducks his head, ears going a little pink underneath his hair. He releases your wrist and scrapes his hand through his hair, the sweaty strands holding in place. Your back bumps against the wall and you realize Mat’s still crowding your body, one muscled thigh in between your legs. You hook an ankle around his, dragging his leg a little closer and the faint smile on his lips becomes more salacious, hungry. He leans his hand against the wall next to your head, caging you in. Your stomach flips and heat coils low, throbbing between your legs.

Your tongue darts out and licks your lower lip and Mat’s gaze traces the movement, eyes darkening in a familiar way. His palm is flat over the curve of your hip, but his fingers curl up a little, capturing the cotton fabric of your dress and tugging the fabric up a little. A flutter of a breeze hits your upper thigh.

“Maybe you should quit hockey,” you giggle a little, blinking lazily, “and play guitar full time.”

“Yeah?” Mat raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think amateur guitar playing is as lucrative as professional hockey.” His fingers twist in your dress more, making you glad that he has you backed against the wall and blocked with his body. He leans in, pressing his leg against your inner thigh, knocking it out an inch or so, widening your stance. Your entire body flushes with heat and it has nothing to do with the humid bar atmosphere.

Your head lolls back, hitting lightly against the wall, and you hum. “It’s really fucking hot though,” you murmur, tipping your head up so you can press a kiss to the edge of his chin. “All that fingering,” you giggle the innuendo, finding it cheesy even as you say it.

Mat huffs a laugh against your temple. His fingers loosen their grip in the fabric of your dress, letting the damp and sure to be wrinkled fabric fall back against your thigh. “I already have a fingering side-gig,” he informs you, his hand slipping underneath the hem of your dress. He presses the pads of his fingers up against the soaked fabric of your panties and you gasp, jolting your hips forward. He strokes the fabric slowly, dropping kisses against your temple and down the side of your face. He works you over through the fabric, sticky arousal collecting between your legs. The lace surely can’t be doing much at this point and Mat’s fingers slide over your inner thighs. His calloused fingertips catch and snag on the lace, stuttering his work and making your clit throb.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna let you touch me after that line,” you laugh, choking off into a little gasp when Mat snaps the elastic of your panties against the crease of your thigh.

“You started it,” he reminds you, a cocky smirk gracing his lips. His forehead touches yours as his fingers continue their exploration, trailing up and dipping under the waistband of your panties. Your stomach clenches when he stops inches from where you really want him and you bump his nose with yours. “You’re not supposed to start things you can’t finish,” he warns, pressing closer to you, sliding his fingers lower. Your skin is hot, sweat beading at your hairline from the effort of keeping your legs from trembling.

You let out a harsh exhale. “Mat,” you mumble his name, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, trying to force his hand lower. He shakes his head against yours and doesn’t budge, your muscle strength no match for his. “We’re in public.” As if to punctuate your sentence, the drummer goes into a solo, the beat of the sticks on the drums pounding in time with your heart.

His fingers curl briefly and then they’re gone, leaving you cold and hot and frustrated. “Okay,” he says, shrugging. There’s an infuriating smirk on his face when you manage to look up. “I’ll behave.” He flips the hem of your dress down and smooths his palm over the fabric.

“I…what…Mat!” You stutter, the throbbing between your legs pounding in time with your heart. “You can’t just…” your voice trails off and you press your thighs together - or try to at least - Mat’s muscled leg is still in between yours and prevents you from giving yourself any relief.

Your absolute menace of a boyfriend holds his index finger - the one that had just been making a home in between your legs and is still wet with your arousal - up to his lips and shushes you. “Shh, I’m trying to listen to the music,” he smirks, sliding his other hand down the wall behind you and wrapping it around your shoulders, easily manhandling you so your back is leaning against his chest while he leans against the wall. You’re so stunned by the delayed pleasure that you don’t resist at all. Mat reaches around you and picks up your half-empty High Noon and knocks it back, holding the can lightly and sliding his arm from around your shoulders to wrap around your waist, forearm pressed against your stomach. His broad palm rests on your opposite hip, blunt nails scratching lightly and absently.

He hums along to the music in your ear and you sink back against his chest, still frustrated, muttering, “I can’t believe you shushed me.” Mat exhales a little laugh and kisses the side of your neck, scraping his teeth against your pulse point. Your head suddenly feels too heavy for your neck and you drop it back against his shoulder, giving Mat easier access to kiss your cheekbone. “Take me home,” you whine quietly, silently willing Mat’s hand to drift lower, but it remains stubbornly planted on the jut of your hip bone.

Mat’s nose bumps against your temple and you catch the scent of his cologne, mixed with the citrusy sweet alcoholic scent of the High Noon on his breath. He lazily rolls his hips forward, the hard bulge of his erection pressing against the curve of your ass. You grind back against him, whining low in the back of your throat. “Mat, please, I wanna go home,” you mumble, the vibration of the music rattling through your chest. Your hands wrap around Mat’s forearm, squeezing. “C’mon, take me to bed.”

“Babe,” Mat’s arm tightens around you, pulling you harder against his erection. You push your ass into him again, nearly grinding over the thigh that’s still in between your legs, desperate for relief. He holds you in place. “Thought we were in public?” His voice is slightly strangled, his breathing hitching when you press back harder, slipping a hand behind your back and in between your bodies. It takes a second, but you manage to wiggle your hand into place, pressing the heel of your palm, hard, against the fly of his jeans. Mat sucks in a sharp breath and he pinches your hip in warning, his head dipping down and his teeth sinking into the side of your neck in a matching warning nip. You hiss at the sting of his teeth, knowing there’s going to be a mark there in the morning when he sucks gently at the spot, tracing his tongue over the faint impressions of his teeth.

“We don’t have to be,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles against the ridge of his erection. “You have a very nice car that can get us home in twenty minutes.”

Mat’s breath is harsh in your ear, the empty can in his hand making a crunching noise when he crumples it in his fist. Your arm is starting to go a little numb, twisted behind your back and pressed in between your bodies, and you’re desperately hoping Mat gives up and gives in to what you want soon. His hand flexes over your hip and you grind down on his thigh again, hiccuping a breath at the drag of his jeans and your lacy panties over your swollen clit. Faintly, you wonder if you’re causing a scene, if people are watching you both, but Mat’s hands aren’t anywhere they shouldn’t be and your grind on his thigh could easily be mistaken for drunken dancing.

“Think you can wait twenty minutes, babe?” Mat jerks his hips into your ass, tossing the can back onto the table top and wrapping his other arm around your stomach so you’re caged against him. You wiggle your hand out from behind your back just before it’s completely lost feeling. “Moving pretty good on my thigh,” he bounces it lightly, sending shockwaves up your spine. “Think you could get off like this?”

Yes, is your immediate thought.

You have and can use Mat’s thick, muscled thigh to get yourself off. Most recently two nights ago, lazily grinding yourself over him on the couch while half-heartedly watching a movie. But tonight, with alcohol and lust fogging your brain and the image of Mat’s capable fingers working the guitar strings, you don’t want his thigh.

“Wan’ your fingers,” you turn your head and press the tip of your nose against the side of his neck, nuzzling him. He smells so fucking good. Mat chuckles, kissing your forehead. “You’re so good with your fingers.” Your hands cross your stomach, covering his hands, and you play with his fingers, lacing them with yours.

“You’re good at getting what you want,” Mat grins and you can feel the lift of his cheek against the side of your head. He squeezes you in a hug once, tightly, before loosening his grip. “You gotta walk in front of me to the car, babe. Hide the evidence of what you do to me, don’t wanna get in trouble.”

Your heart kicks up its tempo in your chest and you lift your head from Mat’s shoulder. “Home?” You ask brightly, wiggling and turning in Mat’s arms, your own coming up to loop around his neck.

“Yeah, home,” he laughs, smirking, cupping your cheek with one large hand and dragging your face up to his for a deep kiss. His hips roll mindlessly against yours and you lift higher on your toes to press flush against him, the throbbing between your legs building. When he breaks the kiss off, there’s a mischievous little gleam in his eyes and a slightly mean curl to his lips. “But you don’t get to touch. I’m gonna practice on you, okay, babe?” He taps his fingertips against your cheek, “just these. Gonna practice my finger placement.” Mat’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with lust, obscuring the usual hazel-green color.

Your head bobbles up and down in an agreeable nod. You’ll agree to almost anything just to get Mat’s fingers inside your throbbing cunt. You also know that he’s a total softie and as much as he tries to act stern and tough, once you get into bed with him it’s only a matter of time before he gives up the act and gives you whatever you want. Honestly, you’re both too horny for each other to really commit to the bit. Plus, you roll your hips up into Mat’s, based on the rock hard erection he’s sporting, you’re not even sure Mat’ll be able to keep to the promise of giving you only his fingers.

His hand slides back from your cheek and tangles in the messy bun knotted at the nape of your neck, gently pulling so your face tilts up. “Let’s get out of here,” he grins, kissing the corner of your mouth and turning you around swiftly, one hand resting on your lower back to push you in front of him and through the crowd. You reach back and tangle your fingers with his free hand, a zap of excitement running up your spine when Mat’s hand slides lower and grabs a handful of your ass.

You’re navigating the crowd with Mat hot on your heels, purposely stepping on the backs of your sandals and laughing when you whip your head around to glare at him. His hand flexes against your lower back, warm through the cotton, and he uses his hand in yours to pull you back slightly so your ass bumps against his groin. “Gotta move a little faster, babe,” he teases.

“You’re a fucking menace, Mathew,” you grumble, a laugh startling out of your chest when Mat finally urges you out the front door and crowds you up against the front of the bar. Heat pools low in your stomach and you lick your lower lip reflexively. Mat grins down at you and ruffles a hand through his hair. It’s messy, the little wings sticking out around his ears and neck, and all you want to do is tangle your fingers in it and pull while he eats you out. And you tell him so, watching with delight as his eyes glaze over a little and his mouth goes slack.

“Why the fuck are we still standing here then?” He asks, voice a little strangled.

A giggle slips past your lips. “You tell me, Van Halen.” Your hands slide up Mat’s arms and over his shoulders so your fingers can twist in his hair. Mat hisses when you tug gently. “Why aren’t we in the car or at home where you can get those talented fingers knuckle deep in me?”

Mat groans your name and drops his forehead to your shoulder, growling a little against your overheated skin. His hands slide to your waist, gripping tightly. You grin wickedly, even though he can’t see it, and tug his hair again. “If you get me home soon, I’ll show off my skills,” you murmur into his ear, tongue darting out to trace the shell of his ear.

“Fuck,” Mat grunts, grabbing your hand and nearly yanking your shoulder out of its socket with the force of pulling you down the street to his parked car. Your giggles echo around the quiet street, the humid air enveloping you and making your hair frizz around your temples. At the car, Mat pushes you up against the side, grasping your chin in one hand and kisses you, hard and bruising, his tongue dipping in your mouth. His other hand slides up your dress and he presses his thumb against your clit, the rasp of the lace on your clit providing extra simulation. Your knees go weak and you moan into his mouth, flattening your palms against the side of the car for stability. A rush of heat floods between your legs and the longer Mat’s lips are on yours, the wetter you get. At this point you’re not sure if it’s sweat or arousal that’s dripping down the inside of your thighs. He slides his tongue over your lower lip and rubs his fingers against your damp panties again, eliciting a strangled noise from the back of your throat.

When Mat breaks the kiss, pulling back from your face and breathing heavily, you blink up at him, completely dazed and lust drunk. He kisses the tip of your nose and squeezes the inside of your thigh and you giggle, unable to stop the words from slipping out of your mouth, “are you gonna play Wonderwall before or after I get my orgasms?”

A laugh barks out of Mat’s mouth and he pinches your ass cheek, making you squeal. “Just for that, it’s gonna be before,” he laughs again, reaching behind you to pull open the passenger door. You fold into the seat, making sure to flash Mat a little before yanking the door shut and grinning at him from behind the window.

“Who’s the menace now, babe?” Mat sticks his tongue out at you, laughing, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“Still you,” you tease back, wrinkling your nose at him, knowing he’s going to be so worked up the more you poke fun at him. “Now get in the car, I’m gonna put Wonderwall on so we can get straight to the fingering practice when we get home.”

#mat barzal #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal x you #mat barzal fic #new york islanders

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hearts-hunger · 5 months ago

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Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Join my taglist here!

Summary: Your husband brings you a present.

Pairings: Jake x Reader, Danny x Wife!Reader, Danny x Jake | Genre: smut (minors begone!) | Word Count: 3.5k | Warnings: smut (piv, fingering, oral), open relationships, light dom/sub, voyeurism, slight dacryphilia

A/N: This might be my best smut work yet. Blame the wine I've been drinking. ♡

“Oh, who’s this?”

You watched his face, draping yourself against the doorframe, and the way his wide-eyed gaze traveled over you from head to foot almost made you smile. He was a sweet little thing, soft and round-faced, his brown hair showing a few darling curls as it rested on his shoulders. Heat crept up his neck, and your lips parted as you watched his blush go from the unbuttoned collar of his black shirt to to the apple of his cheek.

“Jake Kiszka, ma’am,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly steady for a boy so pink and bashful as he looked at you. His gaze, too, was bold; you’d have fun with this one, when he looked like couldn’t decide whether to take charge or throw himself at your feet. You’d give him the chance to do both, if he wanted; for now, you gave him a velvet smile.

“Well, Jake Kiszka,” you purred, the train of your silk robe skimming over his Chelsea boots as you brushed past him. “Why don’t you come in? Make yourself comfortable?”

You looked beyond Jake to your husband, and he gave you a shameless smirk. Danny liked to share his toys with you sometimes; out of the lovers he took, he hand-picked the ones he thought good enough to bring to you. He knew you were choosy; only Danny could really satisfy you, but he knew what you liked in a lover, usually things you didn’t get from him. If you had to guess, Jake was nervous, sweet, submissive; he’d take the heel of your stiletto to his chest and ask you for more, and you’d be happy to give it.

“Can I get you a drink?” you asked, venturing out through the french doors to the patio beyond. The night was warm, sultry, quiet; as you made your way over to the bar, the sound of Jake and Danny’s footsteps behind you seemed loud over the sound of the pool and the birdsong from the trees overhead.

“He’ll have a paloma,” Danny said, and you liked the way he showed both you and Jake who was really in charge of how this night went. You and Jake would be allowed to do whatever you wanted, provided you stay within the few rules Danny set, and that made it all the more enticing.

You mixed together the tequila, grapefruit juice, and club soda. “Anything for you, Daniel?”

“Take care of our guest first, beautiful,” he said. “Don’t forget the syrup. Make it nice and sweet.”

You did as you were told, and you met Jake’s eyes as you swiped a lime wedge over the rim of his glass. “Do you like it sweet, Jake?”

“No ma’am.” He took the drink anyway, his fingers grazing against yours. “Not unless you do.”

You busied yourself with making the old fashioned you knew Danny wanted, thinking of how sugary-sweet Jake’s kisses would be. Danny knew what you were thinking, and he gave you a cocky smile. He knew what you wanted and loved to give it to you, and you felt a low heat curl in your belly.

Pouring yourself a glass of red wine, you came out from behind the bar and stood close to the two of them, feeling their desire for you practically radiate from them. You plucked the cherry from Danny’s drink and popped it in your mouth, pleased at the way Jake watched your lips.

“Your band’s called Mirador, right?” you asked, as if Danny had brought him to you so you could make casual conversation.

“Yes ma’am.”

You shuddered at his voice, so respectful and sweet and wanting, but you kept your composure while Danny watched you.

“I’ve heard some of your songs,” you said. “Danny played them for me when he was looking for an opener for this show.”

Jake raised a brow. “What did you think?”

You gave him a coy smile. “I think you’re very rock n’ roll, Jake.”

He looked you over, and for a moment, all his shyness dissolved into a confidence that he knew how to handle you. You liked that, actually; you’d always had a weakness for rock stars, and you’d let him use it to his advantage if he wanted to.

“I’m flattered,” he said. He glanced to Danny, then back to you. “Of course we’re nowhere near as talented as your husband’s band.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were wonderful,” you said sweetly. You traced a red fingernail over Danny’s knuckles. “What did you think, darling?”

He smirked. “I’ve already let Jake know how I felt about his set. From the way he sounded when I had my mouth on him, I’m pretty sure he got the message.”

Jake coughed a little around a sip of his too-sweet drink, back to eager bashfulness at Danny’s deep voice. You gave a soft laugh and moved closer to him, knowing the feeling; you ran a hand over his back, feeling the way he responded to your touch, his muscles tensing under the fabric of his black suit.

“Don’t be embarrassed, loverboy,” you soothed. “Danny and I both want you to have a good time tonight, and from the way it sounds, you and my husband have already enjoyed yourselves. Isn’t that right?”

Jake met your eyes. “Yes ma’am.”

You smiled. “Oh, aren’t you the sweetest thing. I like it when you call me that, loverboy. You’ll keep doing it, won’t you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You twirled a lock of his hair around your finger. “Good boy,” you said softly. Your robe slipped off your shoulder, and you could hear the shuddering breath he took as he watched it fall.

Danny pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and you sucked in a sharp breath too. Caught between them, one in control of you and the other at your mercy, you shivered despite the warmth of the night.

“You’re to do as she says, angel,” Danny said to Jake. His voice was smooth but unflinching, confident that he would be obeyed by both of you. “She’s in charge tonight.”

Jake swallowed. “Yes sir.”

Danny kissed under your jaw. “You know my rules, sweetheart.”

You did, having been told them many times before: use protection, no missionary, no love marks on your breasts. Other than that, anything was fair game.

“Yes sir,” you said.

With a last possessive squeeze of your waist, Danny moved to get one more kiss from Jake; it was slow and deep and messy, with his hand on Jake’s throat, and Danny had both you and Jake blissed out with the display before you’d even really touched each other.

“Be good for my wife, angel.” He pressed his fingers against Jake’s throat. “You’re here for her pleasure, and I expect her to have everything she wants.”

Jake’s lips were pink and kiss-swollen. “Yes sir.”

Danny smirked. “Good boy.” He let Jake go and kissed your cheek.

“Guest room’s all yours,” he said. “Jake’s staying here tonight. You can stay with him if you want, or you can come to bed with me when you’re done.”

You didn’t know which you’d do yet; Danny always made you choose, even if you’d both had the same lover that night, because he didn’t like to share your bedroom with anyone but you. That was fine with you, and he was never upset when you chose to stay with whoever he’d brought you.

Before you had your fun with Jake, though, you wanted a moment with your husband. You brushed his dark curls back from his face.

“I love you, Danny.”

He softened, and for all the desire in his eyes, you saw the gentleness of love he had for you.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he said. He took your hand for a moment and kissed your wrist. “Have fun with Jake.”

He finished the rest of his drink and went inside, leaving you and Jake out by the pool in the lush summer night. You handed him your wine glass.

“Keep my glass full, loverboy.”

He took it, thumbing over the lipstick mark you’d left on the rim. He swiped the bottle of Lambrusco from the bar and topped you off, holding your gaze as he handed your glass back to you.

“Come with me,” you said, gently tracing your fingernails down his chest where his half-buttoned shirt exposed his warm, tan skin.

He obeyed, bringing the wine, following you to the lounger where you lay back and let the silk folds of your robe fall where they may. He finished his drink and sat on the edge of the lounger, his hand hovering near your bare thigh.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

You pressed the heel of your black Louboutin to his chest, taking a cigarette from your silver case on the table and holding it between your deep red lips.

“Got a light, loverboy?”

A ghost of a smirk graced his features. He knew you were teasing him, ignoring his request, and he pulled a lighter out of his pocket for you anyway. The latin phrase carpe noctem was engraved on the surface of it; you felt it was appropriate, since you’d certainly both be seizing the night before too long. He flicked it on and held it out to you; leaning forward, letting the front of your robe fall open a little more, you lit your cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke at him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

You sighed and lay back, toying with your hair. “I’m thinking.” You moved your stiletto to rest on his thigh, bracketing him between your legs, and he pointedly ignored you as well as you had ignored him.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said cooly. “May I touch you, lady?”

Oh, you liked him calling you that. You were pleasantly surprised by his self-control in keeping his eyes on yours; there was plenty to look at now that your legs had been spread, when you wore nothing but your jewelry beneath your robe.

“Such a good boy, asking for permission,” you cooed. “Go ahead, loverboy. See if you can please me.”

He ran his knuckles over your thigh, the metal of his rings cool against your warm skin. You watched him, languid and indolent, enjoying your cigarette as he dipped his head to kiss the inside of your thigh.

“What’s your safeword, loverboy?” you asked.

He looked up at you from under your lashes. “Silver,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m not fancy,” you said. “When I say stop, you stop.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, nipping at the inside of your thigh. “You smell good, lady.”

You hummed. “I taste even better.”

He gave you a knowing smile. “Is that so?”

He pulled back from you, and you were bereft at the loss of his touch until you watched him pull his suit jacket off. He folded it and tucked it under you, raising your hips; you were entranced by the way he rolled up the sleeves of his black button-down. A silver bracelet sparkled on his wrist, and it brushed against your skin when he smoothed the silk of your robe out of his way.

“Don’t keep quiet,” he said. “I want Danny to hear you.”

A shaky little breath escaped you at that. You knew Danny was probably laying in your bed, and you knew the door in your bedroom that led out to the patio was open so he could listen.

“He likes it when I cry,” you said.

A full-body shudder with through Jake. “You want me to mess up your pretty makeup, lady?”

“Give it a try,” you teased.

Kneeling on the stone patio, he angled you towards him and set in on you, slow, passionate, messy. You tilted your head back, taking another drag from your cigarette, feeling yourself warm to him. You had to hand it to him; he was skillful, eager, attentive; by the time your cigarette had burned down, he’d turned you into a breathless, needy mess beneath him.

“God damn, lady,” he breathed. He untied your robe and kissed up your tummy, moving to hover over you. “You were right. You taste even better than you smell.”

“Careful,” you said when he stopped at your breasts. “Don’t leave a mark there. It’s one of Danny’s rules.”

He groaned and pulled himself away with some effort, satisfying himself with sucking a love mark against your throat. You ran your hands over him, hooking your legs around his waist.

“Anything else I should know?” he said, his breath fanning over your chest.

“No missionary,” you said. “And you brought protection, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You pressed your heat against his thigh. “Put your tongue in my mouth, loverboy.”

He did, and you moaned as you kissed him. You didn’t have to play it up for Danny’s sake; Jake’s hands were roaming everywhere, wanting, knowing exactly where to go. He played with your clit as he kissed you, keeping you warm for him.

“Do it again,” you whined. “Don’t let me cum this time.”

He took the end of your cigarette from your fingers and set it in the ashtray. “You want my fingers, lady?”

“Yes,” you breathed. You gave a pitiful little moan when you felt his fingers inside you and his tongue swirling against your clit. He kept at you mercilessly and somehow knew when you were almost there; over and over, he brought you to the edge but never took you over. Sweat-slick, needy, outdone, you felt a single tear trickle down your cheek.

“Oh, lady,” he said in a sweet voice. He brushed the pad of his thumb over your cheek to catch the tear. “You want some more? Or you want me to make you cum?”

“Fuck,” you whined. “Make me cum, loverboy.”

He did, and you wriggled beneath him, overstimulated but needing his touch.

You fumbled with the buckle on his black jeans. “Go to the bedroom, loverboy. Take off your clothes and get on your knees for me. I need another drink after that.”

Though you could tell he didn’t want to leave you, he did as he was told; he stood and unbuckled his belt with one hand while he poured you another glass of wine.

“So sweet,” you said, studying him over the rim of your glass. His dark gaze traveled over you, and you didn’t bother to close your robe.

“Don’t just stand there and look pretty,” you cooed. “I told you what I wanted, didn’t I?”

A sweet blush pinked his cheeks. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy,” you praised. “Don’t touch yourself. I’ll be in for you in a minute.”

He looked a little desperate as you lit another cigarette, knowing you were going to make him wait, but he did what you asked. You finished your wine and your cigarette, thinking of how sweet he would look for you, knowing he wouldn’t touch himself even though he was needy. You were warm and loose with desire, still feeling the pressure of his tongue between your legs, and knew you woldn’t make him wait too long.

You put your cigarette out and heard a low groan from your bedroom. You sighed, feeling a whole-body response to the sound of Danny getting himself off. You’d make sure Jake was satisfied, but you’d be sharing your husband’s bed tonight.

In the guest bedroom, you were pleased to see Jake undressed and on his knees for you. A breathy whine escaped him when you came in and closed the door behind you.

“Oh, so patient, aren’t you?” you purred. “What a good boy. Touch yourself for me, loverboy.”

He groaned when he took himself in hand, giving himself fast, needy strokes, and you thrilled at the desire in his voice.

“Don’t cum,” you said, and he whined. He stopped himself, knowing his limits, and you loved how good he was for you.

You watched his face as you let your robe fall to the floor, standing there in nothing but your stilettos and the gold jewelry Danny had gifted you after his last show. Though Jake had seen you out by the pool, he looked up at you with such reverence and desire that you felt as beautiful as Aphrodite herself.

“Eat me again, loverboy,” you said. You’d never get enough of his tongue, and he was eager as he obeyed you, using his fingers and his mouth to make you moan.

“Fuck, you’re so good for me,” you said. “Get on the bed.”

He did, and you took a long moment to just look at him. He was beautiful, so soft, so different from Danny, and he needed you so bad. You took pity on him and joined him in bed, kicking off your shoes and hovering over him.

“You’re shaking, loverboy,” you cooed, tracing your nails over his flushed skin. “Are you nervous?”

He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “No ma’am.”

“No,” you agreed, wrapping your hand around his length. “Just needy, aren’t you, loverboy? You need to cum so bad.”

His eyes rolled back in his head when you stroked him. You gave his cock little kitten-licks and soft kisses, and you loved the sweet little catch to his voice.

“Please, lady,” he breathed. “Please. I’m try — oh, fuck — I’m trying to be good for you.”

“Such a sweet loverboy,” you praised. “I know you are. Be patient. I know you can.”

You settled yourself on his cock, going as slow as you could, feeling heat curl in your belly when you sank onto him.

“God damn,” he managed, looking up at you with parted, kiss-pink lips.

You drew him up to kiss you, raking your hands through his hair, tugging on those pretty caramel waves.

“Make me cum, loverboy,” you said. “And then you can, whenever you need to.”

He gripped your hips hard enough to leave a flurry of bruises there. “Can I — please, lady, can I ask you something?”

You sucked on his bottom lip. “If you ask real sweet, loverboy.”

He whined into your mouth. “Please bounce on my cock, lady. Wanna feel you take what you want from me.”

You swiped your tongue over his teeth, tasting him all sugar-sweet. “Anything else, loverboy? You’ve been so good for me.”

He gave a sinful groan when you moved your hips, taking him deep. “Be loud. Want Danny to hear.”

You obliged him, and it was hardly a chore as you bounced on his cock like he wanted. Whines and curses spilled from your lips, and you knew they were carrying over to your bedroom where Danny lay listening.

“Fuck, gonna cum, loverboy,” you moaned. “Kiss me.”

He did, and you sighed your pleasure against his mouth, squeezing around his cock. He’d waited like you told him to, so good for you, and followed not a second later.

“Thank you, lady,” he breathed, brushing your hair back from your face.

You kissed his pink cheeks and soothed him down from his high. “You were wonderful, Jake.” He shuddered when you used his name, and when you pulled off of him, he cuddled close to you all gentle and tired and needy for your comfort.

You held him until he fell asleep, running your hands over his skin, feeling your heartbeat settle to match his. After a while, when you heard his soft, sweet snoring, you brushed his soft hair back from his face and kissed his cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick there. He sighed in his sleep; making sure he was covered with the light blanket, you left him to pleasant dreams of you and ventured to the bedroom you shared with your husband.

He was standing at the side doorway, looking out to the pool, a cigarette held between his long fingers. The breeze ruffled his dark curls, and the smell of his cologne drifted over to you.

You moved close to him, running your hand over his back, taking his cigarette for a drag and handing it back. He turned to you, cradling your cheek in his big hand as he brushed a hand over your smudged makeup.

“Look at you, all ruined over some silly boy,” he cooed. “How was he?”

“He was good,” you said. “They’re always good, Danny.”

He hummed. “I know what you want, sweetheart.”

His gaze traveled over your breasts, satisfied when he saw them unmarked, and you wanted bruises from him to match the ones Jake had kissed into your neck.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice low and wanting. “You always do as you’re told, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Only for you, Danny.”

A smile curved his handsome mouth. “You want some more, Mrs. Wagner?”

You gave a shuddering sigh. “From you, husband, always.”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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Comet Donati [Chapter 10: Through The Dark] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, pregnancy, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, AND NO OTHER CLUES, HAPPY READING!!! 🥰

Selected Chapter Quote: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

Word count: 6.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

Thank you for loving the insane and incomparable Comet fam. I hope you enjoy the series finale. 💜

Night sky, string lights, reverberating bass, warm wet verdant air like the earth the dinosaurs knew, swampy and thick with beasts. With his lazy, dreamlike smile—a kind contagious glow, pink sunburned cheeks that match the clinking Salty Dog in his hand—Aegon says: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

You won’t tell him the whole truth. But you’ll tell him part of it. “Sigmund Freud.”

Aegon is intrigued, raised eyebrows and a crooked grin. “The guy who thinks everyone wants to fuck their mom?”

“You would have liked him. He did a lot of coke.” You take a swig of your Salty Dog: rosemary, grapefruit, the singeing bite of gin. “He was the founder of talk therapy. And, yeah, some of the things he wanted to talk about were…unorthodox. Misguided. But still…”

“He just wanted to talk,” Aegon says softly, understanding now.

“This was the turn of the century, okay? This was back in the days when they were pulling people’s teeth out, locking them up in asylums, injecting them with diseases, cutting off parts of women that made them unruly, ungovernable, immoral.” You shudder. “And Freud said no, just talk to them. Just figure out what demons they have chained up in their skulls, dark dusty corners buried way down deep, and help them figure out how to move forward. It’s not about having a cure, a pill or a scalpel. I mean, how ludicrous would that be, thinking I was walking around with some failproof silver bullet to make all the pain of existence vanish? That’s insane. It’s about listening to people, and caring about people, and shining a light on what part of them already knew was there. I don’t have a cure for anybody. Not a single goddamn person on this planet. But I can help them find their own.”

Aegon watches you, contemplates you, studies you like something rare and fleeting. “You are going to be one hell of a therapist.”

“I don’t know about that. But I hope so.”

“I’ll find you. Maybe when you’re done with school you can work on me. I’d keep you busy, I guarantee it. I’m like Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Ghosts everywhere you look.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You are never going to remember me.” He is never going to remember this place, this time, the way he shared his light with me like a long-lost comet clipping by Earth.

“I might,” Aegon says. He sips his Salty Dog with his elbows propped on the table, his blond hair whipping in the indigo wind, grains of salt on his lips, reflections of string lights like stars in his eyes. “I really think I might.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your arms thrown around his neck, your face buried in his black t-shirt, inhaling smoke and dust and the coppery sharpness of his spilled blood. You are sobbing uncontrollably, gasping, shivering, wild prideless tears and clawing fingers. Jace’s words circle in your skull like a moon around its planet: Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret. Aemond is trying to calm you, to quiet you. His hands—large and dangerous and bloodstained and careful—are on your back, in your hair. You have to explain, to repent. You have to make him understand.

“I didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” you moan into him, a jagged rush like a hemorrhage. “I swear to God I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t trying to trap you or fix you or use you. I’m in love with you, Aemond, I wanted you, and I still want you, and I thought you would hate me and I was terrified and I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you,” he’s saying, and more that you can’t catch; his words are a tide, flowing in and fading out. Now there is pain, deep and sharp and collapsing. Aegon is standing a few yards away, tears flooding down his sunburned face; they clear tracks in the dust that coats him, that coats everyone, that sticks to the blood on your legs. Cregan has pushed the others back, but still, you can hear their incorporeal voices: Jace asking what’s going on, Rhaena explaining, Baela shrieking, Criston shouting orders. Now Aegon has a rough hand on Aemond’s shoulder and is telling him something—insisting upon something—but you don’t know what. Language escapes you; language abandons you.

There are sirens and flashing lights the color of rubies, roses, tangled arteries. Aemond scoops you up and carries you towards them. There is only enough room for one person to ride in the ambulance with you; there is no discussion of who it will be. The rest of Comet has to wait for the Escalades to arrive at your parents’ farm. You do not try to steal a glimpse of the damage, felled trees and scattered fence posts, dead cattle and pillaged earth. You are filled with enough wreckage already; you are built of it, bones made out of bent nails, nerves of barbed wire.

Needles into your arms, chemicals into your bloodstream: something that deadens the pain and muddies your thoughts, makes them slow and heavy and unpanicked, like you are watching this happen to somebody else. In an exam room, nurses strip your clothes away and wipe the red from your skin, routinely, absentmindedly, as if it is of no consequence, as if the future you had taken for granted has not just been drowned, immolated, eradicated from existence like a dying star. They give you underwear fitted with a bulky postpartum pad—the same used by mothers of living children—and a hospital gown that Aemond marks with bloody fingerprints when he touches you. Then the nurses leave you to wait for the doctor with your IVs and your fogbank mind and your glazed eyes that stare blankly at the sterile white walls.

Aemond is smoothing back your hair from your face, and you are reminded of how he held Aegon when he was dying on your bedroom floor in the MGM Grand. You remember once thinking that Aemond is like storms and rogue waves, and that’s true; he turns lethal and then goes kind again, strikes and then soothes. He says once you are alone, each word painstakingly chosen: “I’m sorry that because of how I’ve acted, you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I lost the baby.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I must have. I’m bleeding too much.” You can feel it, blood and clots that ooze, gush, drain away leaving you cold and hollow.

The exam room door opens, not a nurse or a doctor but a man in khaki cargo shorts and a filthy neon green tank top and matching Crocs, clop clop clop. “Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, sad and gentle. He holds up a venti-sized plastic cup. “I brought you a Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino.”

You blink groggily, not knowing what to do with it. Aegon puts the clear cup in your hands, the green straw between your lips. It’s sugary, cold, rich, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. It brings you back a little bit, a few unsteady steps towards the real world.

“Where the fuck is the doctor?” Aemond asks him.

“The nurse said she’s on her way. They’re understaffed.” Aegon shrugs apologetically: Missouri bullshit.

“You get somebody in here, right now.”

“What do you want me to do, threaten to stab medical professionals?! How about you punch some of their teeth out, I bet that would help.” Then Aegon sighs shakily and covers his own face with his hands. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t mine, you know?” Wasn’t, isn’t, will never be. ��We haven’t…not since…it’s not…” He looks at Aemond with large, shining, ocean-blue eyes. “It’s not possible. You have to know that. You can’t be the way that you are sometimes. You don’t get a few weeks to come around to doing the decent thing. You have to believe her.”

And Aemond says softly: “I do.”

The door opens again and a doctor steps through it, mid-forties, thick black-rimmed glasses, dark hair secured in a businesslike low bun. Aegon ducks out of the room; the doctor gives him a brief quizzical glance before introducing herself to you. You can’t seem to latch onto her name. You answer the questions she asks you as she readies the ultrasound machine: ten weeks along, blunt force trauma to your back, where and how it hurt before the pain was drugged out of you. She unfastens a tie on the side of your hospital gown and opens it just enough to spread the cool gel across your belly and then glide the transducer through it. She peers at the grainy screen. She’s checking for a heartbeat; she’s checking to see if you’ll need a D&C to help expel a partial miscarriage so you don’t go septic.

“I lost it,” you sob, breaking down again. “Aemond, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” He kisses your temple and then rests his forehead against yours, tears glittering in his river-clear right eye.

“Well,” the doctor says with practiced, vaguely sympathetic composure. “You lost one of them.”

You look to her, not understanding. “One of…?”

She angles the monitor so you and Aemond can see. “Fraternal twins often have separate amniotic sacs and placentas. So depending on the positioning of the fetuses, it is possible to miscarry one but not the other. This one on the left here…” She indicates it with her index finger. “It’s…it’s no longer viable, unfortunately. You’ve already passed most of it. But this one on the right…” She squints at the screen, repositioning the transducer. “From what I can tell, it seems to be holding on. Let me see if I can…” She moves the transducer around, pressing it into the yielding flesh of your belly. And then you hear it: a fierce defiant drumming, a whistling like wind through leaves. “I thought so,” the doctor pronounces, smiling. “There’s the heartbeat. The pulse is approximately 155 beats per minute, which is typical.”

One of them? I didn’t lose one of them? “Aemond…?”

When you turn back to him, he’s staring at the flickering black-and-white whirls of bones and blood flow on the ultrasound screen. And the expression on his face is one that you’ve never seen from him before, serene like when he’s with animals, awed like when he studies the galaxy, and something else too, a great shifting, a clicking into place, tectonic plates and ocean currents and storm clouds unraveling into clear skies. “It’s alright?” he says, not taking his eye from the screen.

“It is,” the doctor confirms. “Measuring a little bit small for ten weeks, but that’s to be expected for a twin. I don’t think you’ll be able to tell the sex for another month, but it’s alive and well.” She freezes the image on the screen, sets the transducer aside, and cleans the gel from your belly. “Based on my experience, in cases like this, I’d say there’s a better than 50/50 chance the surviving fetus can be carried to term.”

You say: “What can I do…? I mean…there must be something I can do to help it…to help it live…”

“We’ll give you medication to stop any residual uterine contractions and antibiotics to prevent infection. I’d like to admit you for observation, just for a day or two. And I would recommend bed rest for several weeks. Until you’ve reached your second trimester, at least.”

“Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“And sir, you’re…” The doctor peers at Aemond through her glasses, really scrutinizing him for the first time, his brutal scar and his blind left eye and his stillness and his wonder. “You’re the father?”

Aemond nods, still gazing at the screen like a constellation in the night sky, like a comet only glimpsed once in a lifetime. “I am.”

The doctor beams. “Congratulations,” she tells both of you. And then she leaves to arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says. “When the band flies to New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll stay here with you.”

“No, Aemond.”

“I’m staying. I’m not going to leave you. You need me, the baby needs me.”

“No,” you say again. “What we have now is wrong. It’s painful and volatile and doomed.” You lay your palm against his scarred face, and he doesn’t finch away. “You have to figure out who you are after Comet. And so do I.” Tears in your eyes, tears on your cheeks; but on your lips is a soft, patient smile. “Aemond, I don’t want me and the baby to be a distraction from the work that you still desperately need to do. I don’t want to be a temporary fix. I don’t want to be your life raft. I want to be…if I’m going to be anything to you…” Your thumbprint ghosts across his cheekbone, tender, reverent. “I want to be your home.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak; drops like rain spill down his right cheek, dyed pink by blood from the fresh lacerations that riddle him, new scars and ancient pain.

“What are you thinking?” you say.

“I’m thinking that you’re right. I fucking hate it, but you are.” He swipes away tears with one bloodstained hand, then he settles it on your not-yet-showing belly, a place of ruin, a place of hope. “When can I come back?”

“When you’re ready. And only you’ll know when that is.”

The exam room door opens again, and your parents rush in like water through a cracked dam. They are frantic and fretting, peering around bewilderedly.

“Lord almighty, what the hell happened?!” your dad booms; and your mom doesn’t even think to chastise him.

“I’m okay, Daddy.”

“You got hit by somethin’? Are they gonna do an x-ray? Your mother and I finally made it back home from church, trees and power lines down all over the place, and that boy was waitin’ on the front porch to tell us where you were. You know, the big one. The one with the godawful ponytail.”

“Cregan,” your mom offers.

“Cregan,” your dad says.

“It’s a man bun, Daddy. How’s the farm?”

“We ain’t too bad off. A couple cows dead, half the herd out wanderin’ since the pasture fence blew away. Me and the dogs gotta bring ‘em on back, but your mother and I had to see you first. Did they check you over good? Can you come home today?”

“Sweetheart, there’s…” Your mom’s voice is alarmed. “There’s blood on your gown, on your face, what happened?”

“Well, I, um, the thing is…” You try to tell them. You begin crying again instead. As you sniffle and avert your eyes—afraid, ashamed—Aemond stands and extends one large, scarlet-streaked hand. Your dad shakes it tentatively. And then Aemond explains for you: the child you’ve lost, the child you’ve kept, what has to happen next.

“I am responsible,” Aemond says as they gape at him, half-ecstatic and half-horrified. “And I know that this didn’t exactly happen in the traditional way, and I know that there is a lot of work left for me to do to prove myself worthy of your daughter. But I hope in time you’ll be able to forgive me. Because it seems that we’re going to be family.”

Your mom squeals and hugs Aemond. Your dad hugs you. They stay until you are settled in your own private room—small bed and clean sheets, drugs trickling into your veins—and only then do they listen to your insistence that you’ll be okay until morning, that they need to go home to take care of the farm. They leave with their arms around each other, exchanging murmurs like vows. Then Aemond asks if you feel well enough to see the band. They want to say goodbye.

“You’ll miss me,” Jace says confidently, then swoops in to smack a kiss on your forehead before anyone can stop him, bouncing dark curls and smirking mouth. Aegon jabs him in the ribs, Criston rolls his eyes, Aemond glowers like he’d enjoy putting Jace in need of another 28 dental implants. “If you ever get sick of mentally ill blonds, just let me know. The kid doesn’t change anything. I dig MILFs.”

“Thanks, Jace. I guess.”

“We’ll still see you around, right? You’ll visit us, we’ll visit you?”

“Yeah. I won’t disappear.”

“Good.” And then again, more somberly: “Good.”

Rhaena is dabbing at her gentle, doe-like eyes with a Kleenex, leaning into Luke for support. Criston is gallant. Daeron is optimistic. Baela is exasperated that you told Rhaena you were pregnant but not her.

“I didn’t tell Rhaena,” you counter. “She just happened to be the person who accompanied me on my ill-fated adventure to procure Plan B in Tokyo at like 2 a.m.”

“Which did not work,” Rhaena adds, sniffling into her Kleenex.

“A cautionary tale,” Jace says to everyone. “You hear that, fellas? When in doubt, wrap it before you tap it.”

Baela nods at you. “Luckily, she doesn’t seem too disappointed.” Her eyes flick reticently to Aemond where he sits in the chair closest to your bed, a presence in the room like skies that could turn in an instant, quiet, preoccupied, protective, dazed. “And neither does he.”

“I’m not,” Aemond confesses. He laces one hand through yours and brings his lips to your knuckles, willing the baby to live, willing himself to be better for you both.

“We’re going to talk later,” Cregan tells him sternly. Talk about what it means to be a father.

“Yes,” Aemond agrees.

And then Cregan says goodbye to you too, his cool greyish eyes growing peculiarly warm, his steely exterior chipping away like flecks of old paint.

Aegon is last, the only person left in the room with you and Aemond. Grinning beneath sad eyes, he presses a hand to his heart, and then to yours, and then to your belly. Starboy, Stargirl, Starbaby. Then he says: “Do you want me to hide under your bed so they can’t kick me out when visiting hours end?”

You smile tiredly, exhausted and in pain, pain of the body and pain of the soul. “You have to go, Aegon. Thousands of screaming fangirls will be waiting for you at Arrowhead Stadium.”

He is stunned. “I can’t perform tonight, obviously.”

“Yes you can.”

“No, I definitely can’t.”

“You can,” you say. “You have to. And more than that, you want to. You’ll regret it if you don’t. You live for being Comet’s disaster playboy. I’m not going to take that away from you.”

And then Aegon whimpers: “You can’t leave me.”

“You’re leaving me first.” You beam up at him, caressing his sunburned face, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair. Aemond observes this with curiosity but no suspicion. “This isn’t goodbye, Aegon. I’ll see you again. You can add me to the long list of girls you FaceTime.”

He laughs. “Okay, Stargirl. Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“For more than a day, right?”

“For all of them. Forever.”

And then he’s gone, riding that elliptical orbit out into all the corners of the world that he will glow for: New Orleans, Miami, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Aemond swears to you: “I’m coming back.”

“I hope so.”

And he tilts up your chin and kisses you, tasting like smoke and dust and blood and desire, and it takes every atom of you, every string of muscle and rusty speck of bone marrow, not to crumble and beg him to stay. You are still at war with the part of you that wants to surrender as he stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back; he can’t without losing his nerve.

In the night, he returns to you, long after visiting hours have ended. Perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars have a way of making formalities disappear. He is only a silhouette in shadows like dawn, dusk, midnight. Aemond climbs into the hospital bed and catches you as you fold into him, whispering to you that everything will be alright, telling you how sorry he is, lulling you into a fitful sleep against his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat. And in the morning when you wake up alone, you wonder if any of it was real.

Did I dream that he was here? Did I dream that I ever met him at all?

But no, he has left you proof, something tangible, permanent. On the nightstand is Aemond’s small square vintage lighter; Targaryen is etched into one side. And there is something else too, a single piece of black paper with two sentences of starlight-colored ink:

I’m coming back.

I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October, and the leaves are turning from emerald to topaz, garnet, tiger’s eye. You carve pumpkins with your parents on their front porch. You bake apple crisps and sweet potato pies. You feed the pigs, brush the Australian cattle dogs, buy baby supplies with Aegon’s Amex Black Card. You decide to let the grad student and her Giant Flemish rabbit keep your apartment downtown until your lease is up in the spring. You’d rather be here on the farm, even when you’re not on bed rest anymore. You’d rather be home.

You listen to Comet Donati, The Script, Coldplay, One Direction. Rhaena and Baela mail you boxes of crochet comets and stars and planets for the baby’s room. Aegon mails you boxes of Comet’s new donut-themed merch. Now your dad sometimes tends to the beef cattle in boy band t-shirts. Aegon FaceTimes you two or three times a week, sends WhatsApp messages nearly every day. But you rarely talk about Aemond. It’s too painful, it’s too much of a temptation. You cannot imagine others seeing him, hearing him, speaking to him without needing to do it yourself in the same way that you need oxygen and gravity.

The week before Halloween, you begin spotting. You sob hysterically as your mom drives you to the hospital, convinced that you’re losing this baby too, that everything you touch is damaged and defenseless and doomed. You’re fine, as it turns out, and the baby’s fine too, but even after you’re back at the farm you can’t stop shaking, can’t stop imaging the wet heat of blood on your thighs.

You break down and call Aemond. And you talk for five hours until the sun rises, you in a rocking chair on your parents’ front porch, Aemond on a hotel balcony in Santiago, Chile in the shadow of the Andes Mountains. He says he’s working on something, but he’ll come back now if you ask him to, he’ll board the jet and land in Kansas City in time for supper at the farm, and you can hear the backsliding desperation in his voice: Please ask me to come back. Please just fucking ask me.

But it’s not time yet. He’s not ready, and you both know it. You agree not to call each other again until Aemond returns to you. If he returns to me. Neither of you can sleep for days afterwards. Neither of you can open the door a crack without the other rushing through.

One morning you shuffle downstairs in your Cookie Monster pajama pants and oversized NSYNC t-shirt to find your dad eating a heap of homemade pumpkin waffles in front of the television in the den. All five Australian cattle dogs are perched expectantly at his feet. “Them boys of yours are on Good Morning America.”

“What? Really?”

Yes, they are; they’re celebrating the conclusion of their record-breaking world tour and teasing a new album with an interview and two songs. You catch the end of the first one, their new single called Magic, during which the boys run haphazardly around the neon-lit studio, Jace tears off his donut-themed tank top in protest, and Aegon flubs no less than three lyrics.

Robin Roberts is saying: “Now stay tuned for a very special performance coming up next after a commercial break. We’ll be moving to our outdoor stage in Times Square where a sizeable crowd has formed, and we’ve been told that Comet has a surprise in store for us! What do you think it could be, George?”

“I don’t know, Robin,” George Stephanopoulos replies gamely. “But no matter what it is, I’m sure it will have all those young ladies out there screaming!”

Lara Spencer chuckles. “And not just the young ladies either. I’ve been known to attend Comet concerts on occasion.”

Robin says: “Oh no, Lara, are you a Cregan girlie?”

“Okay, yes, I confess, I am kind of a Cregan girlie…”

You get yourself a plate of pumpkin waffles and return just in time to see the camera panning over the crowd outside: shouting, cheering, waving posters and showcasing their homemade t-shirts.

Robin Roberts announces: “And now, with a cover of One Direction’s Through The Dark, here is the illustrious, incomparable, incredible Comet Donati!”

“No way,” you murmur, staring rapturously at the screen.

“You like that one?” your dad asks, tossing pieces of waffles to the dogs.

“It’s my favorite.” And Aemond knows that. I told him in Singapore.

The stage is empty as the first acoustic notes ring out. Then Daeron trots into view—radiant and cheerful in his donut merch—to sing the first lines:

“You tell me that you’re sad and lost your way

You tell me that your tears are here to stay,

But I know you’re only hiding

And I just wanna see you…”

Aegon appears next, clopping in his sparkly pink Crocs. He flips his hair around and winks mischieviously into the camera as he sings:

“You tell me that you’re hurt and you’re in pain

And I can see your head is held in shame,

But I just wanna see you smile again

See you smile again…”

And now the crowd is not just loud but deafening, and you’re so shocked the plate of pumpkin waffles tumbles out of your hands and onto the floor for the Australian cattle dogs to devour, because who bolts out onto the stage next is not Cregan or Luke or Jace but Aemond Targaryen, wearing Aegon’s beloved donut merch and his Adidas sneakers and his scar and blind eye bare for the world to witness. They don’t seem to take any notice of his maiming at all. They screech and hyperventilate and reach for him, awed, ecstatic, touching his outstretched fingertips and his sneakers like the relics of a saint. He is focused, perhaps nervous, but he is smiling. His voice is velvet-smooth and pitch-perfect.

“But don’t burn out

Even if you scream and shout,

It’ll come back to you

And I’ll be here for you…”

The others arrive, and now all six of them are singing the chorus in harmony as they traverse the stage, dodging each other’s chaotic spins and leaps, waving to the crowd, checking on Aemond with encouraging furtive grins and squeezes of his shoulders. Luke is beaming. Jace shoves Aemond playfully and almost gets flung off the stage in return.

“Oh I will carry you over

Fire and water for your love,

And I will hold you closer

Hope your heart is strong enough,

When the night is coming down on you

We will find a way through the dark.”

“Huh,” your dad says. “They ain’t no Johnny Cash, but they’re pretty good, I reckon. I thought Aemond wasn’t on stage much anymore.”

“He’s not.” And you smile wistfully as you watch him, right here with you and yet a world away, real and yet intangible, facts and myths and faith. “But now he knows he has a choice.”

On warm nights, you sit on the wraparound front porch and flick Aemond’s square metal lighter to life, shut it, ignite it again, a lonely golden spark in an ocean of darkness, a star in the night sky. And voices circle in your mind like satellites:

I think history is important.

Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

I’ve never met anyone like you.

Aemond would want to be involved.

What the hell do I know about being a decent father?

Our father never cared about us.

It’s not just for me. It’s never been just for me.

“Please come back,” you whisper to the infinite emptiness of the universe, so softly you can barely hear yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November, and you are finally showing more than you can hide beneath hoodies and sweaters. The attendees of your parents’ Southern Baptist church—who glimpse you at Walmart or McDonald’s or Freddy’s Frozen Custard or 7-Eleven—gossip about you ceaselessly, venomously, with pity but no compassion. And your parents, who have been politely ignoring jibes about you for a decade, do more than just ignore it this time. They clear out their church mailbox and walk out the front door together and never go back. They’ve been shopping around for a new place of worship. Your mom says they might get really experimental and try out the Methodists.

Rhaena sends you pictures from her and Luke’s trip to the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Baela has you on speakerphone when she tells Jace she wants to take a break. She’s completed two ballet school auditions already, and has scheduled two more; at least one acceptance seems imminent. You call Cregan to ask him how to prepare for parenthood. You call Criston to ask if he’d be willing to serve as a reference. He writes you a five-page recommendation letter and tells you prospective employers can contact him any time, day or night. You are hired as a therapist by the University of Missouri. For now, to accommodate your high-risk pregnancy and copious doctor’s appointments, it is a part-time remote position. Your parents are at last forced to get internet for the farmhouse. Your dad starts watching beef cattle raising tutorials on YouTube. And oddly, when you begin taking appointments with college students struggling with breakups or parental pressure or substance abuse, you don’t feel nervous at all. You feel like you’re doing exactly what you were made for.

One morning, you receive a WhatsApp message from Aegon: I wonder if bumblefuck Kansas has the Rolling Stone…

Missouri, you reply, and then you go to Walmart to check. Sure enough, there are numerous copies in the magazine aisle, and that’s a good thing, because a plethora of teenage girls are scrambling for them. Aemond is on the front cover, smiling faintly; his scar and cloudy blind eye are neither centered nor hidden. And he isn’t wearing black. His suit is a deep, lush green like jade, summer grass, ivy. The title reads: Aemond Targaryen is Out of Hiding.

You begin reading. He talks about exactly what happened at the Budokan. He talks about the label’s unilateral decision to excise him from the band. He talks about feeling lost, humiliated, pitied, ignored, unlovable. And then he shares what changed him. He says that he met with other survivors of facial trauma: soldiers, professional athletes, people involved in car and motorcycle accidents. He says that he sat down with half a dozen different therapists until he found one that he really liked. He chronicles the process of finding purpose again in a way that is truthful and inspirational and yet—to you, anyway—conspicuously vague. He is still somewhat involved with Comet’s songwriting and will likely perform with them once or twice per year, he wants to advocate for people living with disabilities like his…but what else? What else?

I think what I want people to know is that progress isn’t instant, and that nobody can do it alone, Aemond writes. I’m only where I am today because of the support of a lot of extraordinary people. I want to thank Comet Donati—Luke, Cregan, Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—as well as our tour manager Criston Cole, who is like a father us. I am immensely grateful to my mother Alicent and my sister Helaena. I am indebted to the fans for the unconditional love they have shown me.

But most of all, I owe my recovery to a therapist from the American Midwest. She can be a little pretentious sometimes, but we don’t fault her for that. She’s earned it. Thank you, Stargirl. I hope this planet is treating you well.

Smiling, glowing, you close the magazine, take it to the checkout counter, purchase it along with five KitKat bars. The baby can’t seem to get enough of them.

Two days later, you have another ultrasound done—your fourth—and at last you are able to give Aegon the answer he’s been zealously hounding you for. You message him on WhatsApp: You’re going to have a niece!

!!!!! he replies almost immediately. And then: Name her Aegonella.

Probably not!

As if you have any better ideas??

You share a few from your list: Celeste, Luna, Aurora, Halley…

Aemond literally just said Halley, Aegon types back. Like right before you did. And then: He’s very excited, omg, omggggggg it’s so cute. Thirty seconds later: Wish you were here :(

“Me too, Starboy,” you murmur as you sit on the couch in the den with Belmont sprawled across your lap. Then you send: I’m scared he’s not coming back.

He is, Aegon replies. He’s working on something. You’ll like it.

And you have to believe this, blindly, faithfully, trusting that something is real even when you can’t see it. You have no other choice.

You beg your dad not to slaughter any of the pigs for ham, and he reluctantly agrees. At Thanksgiving dinner, half the dishes on the table are vegan. You’re trying out new recipes. You jot down the ones you like best in a notebook Luke sent you: black pages, white ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December, and there are stockings hung by the fireplace and a blanket of snow on the ground. You and your parents pick out a Christmas tree at a local farm, and your dad chops it down and throws it in the back of the Ford F-150. Inside your mom’s CD player in the kitchen spins David Archuleta’s Christmas album. As your bump grows, you keep running out of clothes that fit; Aegon is always happy to mail you more donut-themed merch. Thanks to his persistence, they stock nearly every size known to humans. Baela gets her acceptance letters. Aegon gets to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum. They are photographed together in Rome by paparazzi one day and then never again. A week later he’s with Selena Gomez in Ibiza. A week after that he’s spotted with Camila Cabello in New York City. The wheel keeps turning, his route through the solar system long and meandering.

Emergency! Aegon texts you one afternoon as you’re sipping hot apple cider at the dining room table and assembling a 500-piece puzzle depicting the sinking of the Titanic.

You know better than to take him too seriously. You reply, in no hurry: ?

Aemond says I can’t hang out with Starbaby unless I stop taking so many drugs?!!?! Fascist?!??!?!?!

Hang out. Like they’ll be going to clubs and Crocs stores together. You grin and reply: I mean yeah, that sounds accurate.

Well fuck, Aegon says. Guess I better start doing those substance abuse education modules again!

On Christmas Eve morning, your parents are at their slightly-less-judgmental replacement church. You are trying out a new recipe in the kitchen: vegan snickerdoodles. The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Beyond the window over the sink, snow falls in fluffy white bundles like rumpled bedsheets, like clouds. The Australian cattle dogs follow you around hoping for dropped cookies, their claws clicking on the hardwood floor. David Archuleta is singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. You keep bumping into things; you forget how big you are. Your belly seems to grow by the day.

Your iPhone buzzes. It’s a WhatsApp message from Aegon that puzzles you: Hey, I promised I wouldn’t bother you guys for the first few days but I really need the Netflix password and he’s not answering my texts, rude, so could you ask him for it please??? And then a few seconds later: Please. I just really want to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

You stare at his message, not understanding. You reply: Ask who…?

After a moment, Aegon sends back: …Never mind :)

“Really?” you gasp to yourself in the hushed peace of the kitchen, not wanting to believe, not wanting to be disappointed. You peek out the window. Nothing.

You open Google and search Aemond Targaryen. One of the first results is an article from the Kansas City Star published one hour ago. The headline reads: Comet Donati Heartthrob Opens Farm Animal Rescue Outside of Kansas City.

“Oh my God.” You scroll madly, skimming the text. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

One of Aemond’s quotes reads: I wanted to go where the need is. A sanctuary like this in San Francisco or Boston wouldn’t be anything special, wouldn’t be as necessary. But here in Missouri, at the epicenter of industrial animal agriculture in the United States? There’s a lot of important work to be done here. There are a lot of lives I hope to be able to save. We’ve been purchasing animals from auctions and taking in others that have been seized from situations where they were abused or neglected. In addition to our own efforts, I’d like to help launch similar rescues throughout the Midwest, and increase public access to vegan alternatives…

There are photos of him posing with animals: a towering, scarred, ancient mule named Vhagar, a three-legged goat called Sunfyre. In all the pictures, Aemond is smiling. And here in the kitchen of your parents’ farmhouse, so are you. Without thinking, you reach back to touch your fingertips to the black-ink words beneath your Comet Donati crewneck sweatshirt. You hear the lyrics— I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I—and you know them to be true like space, time, gravity, love.

You look out the window again and he’s here, speeding down the winding path of the driveway, snow dust streaming out behind his Gold Star like the tail of a comet.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aemond x y/n #aemond one eye #aegon targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you

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baroquepopcorn · 5 months ago

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Can we talk about Paul McCartney twink death

Because here’s the thing — It never even really happened!

No but seriously why aren’t more people talking about how gracefully and beautifully Paul McCartney avoided twink death. He is nearly the gold standard for how to age as a twink

Obviously yeah he’s in his 20s it’s the 60s he’s a twink sure

absolutely beautiful. flawless, loveable, amazing, adorable

we get it

As he aged a bit he got into facial hair

But he still clearly had a beautiful face underneath

He got into his mcbeardy era when he was all sad the band broke up

Obviously not a twink at this point, but iconic for that and still really pretty looking

But he still looked just as good clean shaven well into his 30s

And then

this is a picture of him from 1980. he was 38 then. and he still looked like his younger self. How???

and he just kept going

now its the 90s, he's well into his 50s and still looks like that. Bravo Paul!

And I have to say

there's something about 90s paul in particular...

just gorgeous.

obviously it couldn't last forever though

his beautiful wife linda sadly passed away of breast cancer in 1998

and you can see

his looks

started to take a downturn

culminating in my least favourite paul era aesthetic-wise

the mid 2000s.

He's married to the infamous heather mills, bears a slight resemblance to an overripe grapefruit, and is about to enter one of the nastiest divorces the tabloids ever got their grubby little mitts on

still, quite impressive for a man in his mid 60s

and after the divorce, he seemed to be growing out his hair again, he's got a new wife

quite aged, but consistent figure

and then, what a mercy! He finally stopped dyeing his hair, and allowed it to transition to a gallant silver

and there's something there. There's an elegant repose. A satisfaction. A twink who has made it farther than any twink has come before. A graceful aging

Look at any photo of him now and you'll see a surprisingly dashing old man, now entering his mid-eighties. Obviously his looks can't compare to what once was, but it provides a reassuring model of how twinks can more forward through their years, maintaining an essence of the beautiful

Time at least, hasn't taken a toll on his spirit

though i wish i could still say the same thing about his voice...

#paul mccartney #shitpost #but not really a shitpost #the beatles #twink #twink death #graceful aging #random #thanks for coming to my ted talk

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bonny-kookoo · 2 years ago

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Heyaa Bonny!

Have you thought of doing a siberianhusky!hybrid reader or for BTS? It will be so much fun to read!!

Hm, not really? But I could give some random headcanons for it? Husky-reader x ot7, Let's see...

Let's be real, Namjoon is gonna LOVE going on long hikes, walks, or bike rides with her

Takes her on every trip he can

Researches ways to keep her otherwise occupied with something if she needs to stay alone

Reads up every hybrid book he can find to make sure he's prepared for everything

Always makes sure to give positive feedback to make sure she doesn't ever feel inferior just because she's a hybrid

I can see Jin causing mischief with her 24/7

Don't look once and suddenly he's running around outside at night shooting fireworks

(I imagine like he did in the morning during the soop)

Keeps sneaking treats for her

Like, randomly feeds her a piece or watermelon or something out of the blue

She trusts him blindly though, never hesitates to accept anything he gives her even if it doesn't end up being her taste

Like how he gave her a piece of a grapefruit once and she just went 💀

Laughed but still got her something else she likes as apology

Jimin looooves cuddles and helping her with skincare etc

Brushes out her hair and fluffy tail almost every night

Gets her a stuffed animal every time he's away on a trip

Taehyung I can see being playfully romantic with her

Calls her pretty just to see her tail wag

This guy buys way too many collars for her

We're talking spoiled princess type

Sparkly rhinestones, gems, unique designs and patterns, velvet, you name it

He basically turned a horribly demeaning necessity into something uniquely beautiful

Started a 'trend' (or more a competition) for idols to buy designer collars for their hybrids now

Actually connected her with expensive brands to 'model' hybrid accessories (pretty much in the band's name)

That's when Hoseok comes in

He flaunts her

Like, brings her along to EVERY solo schedule he has just to show her off

Brings her to music video shootings, meetings, everything

Posts so many pictures of her

Yoongi just enjoys the quiet times

Whenever she needs time to wind down she just stays with him in his studio or close to him in general

As soon as something makes her anxious: Yoongi-time

He will quietly talk and reassure her

Bonus points for cuddling, running his hand over her back and head

Best Naps are taken with yoongs

10/10 no matter what time of day

Jungkook = Instant zoomies

He WILL get her to howl randomly just to anniy the other members for fun

Makes a game out of EVERYTHING

Quietly sitting on the floor? He will try and catch your tail out of the blue

Outside for a walk? Sudden game of tag

But at the same time he can just be as quiet as Yoongi

Bath times are spent together

If you're sick he's not leaving you alone ever

If he needs to go to the toilet he'll just holler for someone to look over you during his short absence instead

Overall everyone would love her

I can imagine her being a bit more withdrawn at first, especially if she's newly 'adopted'

And let's be real, they won't be instantly comfortable either

But as soon as the ice is broken they'll all just become inseparable

Maybe she's also special? As in, a floppy ear due to an accident, or her eyes are not the same color, or she's got anxiety and needs meds for it etc

Either way she's gonna be SPOILED like a princess

They Will probably set new standards for hybrids

11/10 will donate and advocate for hybrid-organisations that fight for their rights and better treatment

Everyone always makes headlines like 'member x did something unexpected with their hybrid- and its making everybody swoon' or 'member x sets new standards for the treatment of hybrids with his new Instagram post'

Oh oh and fancams! Yes, of HER

At award shows, backstage, during concerts whenever fans can catch a glance

There's compilations like 'Y/N causing chaos for 12 minutes straight' or 'Y/N's peak husky behavior part 3'

Hybrids are basically fans of HER, if not just the band

Fanmade photocards lol

Oh God and don't get me started if it's her birthday

Billboards, cafes and everything

She's gonna be dubbed the 'nation's best girl' oh my

Oh God what have you done to me please

Have mercy

I love her now

God damnit

🥲

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #hybrid imagine #ot7 hybrid fanfic #ot7 hybrid imagine #ot7 fic #ot7 x reader #ot7 imagine

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inkyquince · 2 years ago

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Have those big ole thoughts about training Kylar properly. Maybe you don't wanna loose your virginity to him, or maybe you just enjoy preparing him properly for your first time together.

content warning. this was written for my VTM oc and realised that I can't just release that dumbass to the blog first, so instead it was changed to Kylar uwu. Kylar being nasty, frotting, sex toys, intercrural sex kinda, training mentions, lots of drooling and lube and fluids.

You didn't even mean to train him at first. It was all Kylar's fault. You two couldn't even kiss without his breath hitching and his cock hardening in his stained sweatpants. Jutting against you as his whined, hungrily mouthing at your bottom lip. Hell, you used to just let him hump himself to completion, but Kylar's eyes would prick with tears, both as how sore his cock would get but also being oh so close to you, your crotch being so warm against him beyond unbearable. Blow jobs were out too, since he had the same amount of self control as a glutton.

So, instead, one trip to Sirris' Sex Shop later, you have the solution to your problems. For him to cum and for you to train him before ever having to sleep with him.

Kylar likes to watch you prep the fleshlight. Parting the silicon to spit into the toy before pouring lube in, the clear liquid rising inside rapidly. Meanwhile, he watches, mouth agape just a bit. His cock juts against the fabric of his trousers, opaque liquid already seeping through the garment.

You kick off your trousers so they don't get stained and slip the toy between your thighs, tucked against your own crotch. Kylar used to whine at you to go without underwear when you two did this, but that discussion was long since dead now. Instead, he just tries to imagine it's all you, the tight, snug fit, the dripping mess over his dick. All. You.

He clambers on top of you, tugging his sweatpants down, tucking the band under his balls. His flushed dick stands to attention, dribbling just a bit as he nudges the head against the "lips" of the fleshlight. He's already sweating as he gazes at you, pupils blown wide, for your go ahead to sink into "your" hole. The little smile you give is more than enough and he gracelessly sinks down, lube pushing out as he pushes in, sticking to his thick pubic hair and balls.

Mouth agape, Kylar just gazes at you, dumb little expression as his cock throbbed uselessly inside the toy. God, he wants it to be you so badly. This is the least embarrassing way he's tried to simulate his cock in your warm hole. Tried the fuck a warmed up grapefruit once, before feeding it to you. Fucked a hole into his soap bar. Used to hump his pillow every night, ripped a shabby hole right into it. But somehow this was far more embarrassing. You, watching him, use a toy and obviously pretend its you, all the while you two are chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs intertwined.

Kylar never had much composure to begin with, but any shreds of it are long gone by the first sloppy thrust. Drool gathering on his tongue, too entranced in the tight fit to even function properly, unable to swallow it down, so it just slips from his lips. The wet squelching of his cock bucking down into the toy, lube flowing out, was not helping, Kylar's lewd imagination kicking into overdrive. Reminds him of the hentai's he would put at full volume with his headphones, settle back and close his eyes and jerk his cock as he imagined you making those lewd noises, both your moans as well as your dripping hole taking his cock.

Yet the toy was just not enough. He came like a virgin whenever you used it on him, but his brain whispered that it would never be enough. Left every orgasm a bit less fulfilling each time. His cock ached as he continued to hump away, curling his body a bit to properly rut into it, almost like a clock wound too tight. His hot huffs of breath fanned over your face, sweat dripping down his face, into his hair and shining in the dim light.

"Please. Please, I want to... I wanna... Please?"

You just laughed softly and gently raised your thighs enough to mimic the feeling of the fleshlight fucking back into him. That was all he needed. Kylar whined and threw his head back, entire body jerking roughly as he came. Cum dribbled over the lips of the toy, seeping over the edges and staining your bare thighs, as well as his own.

Just babbles out his stream of consciousness, saying your hole is so good, that he loves you, that this was always meant to be, that he wants to fill you up up up until you are still dripping his cum days later.

You just stroke his head as he struggles to tug himself out of the toy, knowing that by the time you finally let him fuck you, he'll ruin you properly.

#... is this too short for a read more?#if its not message me and say hey donk put this under a read more ur clogging my dashboard #and i will kiss your head and throw you out of my house #quincewrites #dol #nsft #degrees of lewdity #kylar the loner #apologies to tea #whose really into the oc this was for and maybe would have liked to read smut of their boy #woo guys look inky posted for the first time in a millenia #im on some stuff that peps me up a bit more #and im writing christmas presents for some lads that helped me wanna give you guys more stuff #anyway!!#hi guys!!

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whileiamdying · 5 months ago

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At 70, Cyndi Lauper Has Nothing Left to Prove

At 70, Cyndi Lauper is charging back to action with a road show and “Let the Canary Sing,” a film that tells her life story.Credit...Thea Traff for The New York Times

She’s plotting a farewell tour. She’s starring in a documentary about her life. And she could only ever be herself.

By Amanda Hess June 4, 2024

One Friday afternoon in May, Cyndi Lauper stepped out of her Upper West Side apartment building and into the streets of New York City. She wore glitter-encrusted glasses, sneakers with rainbow soles and a stack of beaded bracelets on each arm. A rice-paper parasol swung in her hand. As she walked, she examined the crowds and remarked when glints of interest caught her eye.

“Of course, up here it’s fashion hell,” she allowed of her tony neighborhood. And yet, every few blocks she rubbernecked at another woman’s look, her famous New Yawk accent lifting and tumbling in pleasure at what she saw:

“Look at these dames, how cute are they?”

“Did you love those pants? I kind of loved those pants.”

“Look at this lady,” she said, stepping off the curb and clocking a passerby. The woman moved nimbly, tomato-red streak in her silver hair, body draped in shades of fuchsia and cherry as she pushed the gleaming metal frame of a walker. “Fabulous,” Lauper exclaimed. “Come on!”

At 70, the pop icon and social justice activist isn’t just charging back into the streets. On Monday, Lauper announced her final tour, the Girls Just Wanna Have Fun Farewell Tour, which will have her headlining arenas across North America from late October to early December. And “Let the Canary Sing,” a documentary about her life and career that premiered at the Tribeca Festival last year, is streaming on Paramount+.

Lauper has not staged a major tour — “a proper tour, that’s mine” — in over a decade. But now her window of opportunity is closing, so she’s leaping through it. “I don’t think I can perform the way I want to in a couple of years,” she said. “I want to be strong.”

Lauper photographed at the Scarlet Lounge on the Upper West Side, the Manhattan neighborhood where she lives with her husband and two pugs.Credit...Thea Traff for The New York Times

And until recently, when she finally agreed to sit for the director Alison Ellwood, she could not envision committing her life story to film. “I wasn’t going to do a documentary because I’m not dead,” she said. More to the point, she did not feel particularly misunderstood. From the moment she danced across the city in the 1983 video for “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” she felt that she had articulated precisely what she wanted to say.

“Everything I wanted them to understand was in that video,” she said of her fans. She has a lot of people who get her: The clip has been viewed on YouTube more than one billion times. Forty years later, she holds it up as a thesis, the key to decoding her artistic perspective and understanding everything that followed. After all, “You never have to wonder where a New Yorker stands,” she said. “They’ll tell you, straight up.”

CYNDI LAUPER, BORN in Brooklyn, raised in Queens, bopped around the house to the Beatles’ songs, her older sister, Elen, singing McCartney’s parts and Lauper taking Lennon’s. It was her earliest lesson in harmony and song structure. But when she left home at 17, it was with a copy of Yoko Ono’s feminist conceptual art book “Grapefruit” in her hands.

Ono taught her that “you can create art in your head, and then you can view things differently,” Lauper told me. This attitude served her well as she tried (and often failed) to work as a painter, a shoe saleswoman, a racetrack hot walker, an IHOP waitress, a gal Friday at Simon & Schuster and the singer in a cover band.

Singing other people’s music in Long Island clubs and dive bars, Lauper struggled to find her place. She tried to channel Janis Joplin, but “I was stuck inside her body, and she didn’t like it, and I didn’t like it,” she said. She tried to sound like Gene Pitney, and “it came out sounding like Ethel Merman.” After a while, “You start to feel that you’re just not good enough.”

Lauper in 1986, the year she released “True Colors,” a song she felt drawn to in the wake of a friend’s death from AIDS.Credit...Pictorial Parade and Archive Photos/Getty Images)

But really, she was just no good at being anyone other than Cyndi Lauper. When she started writing and arranging songs for herself, “I told the stories that I knew about the women that I knew,” she said. “About my mom, my aunt, my grandmother.” They guided her back to the rhythms of her own life, even if, in the beginning, few were interested in listening. “My first concert was to 14 people,” she said, “and I did the encore, OK?”

The documentary’s title is a line ripped from a real-life courtroom drama: Early on, Lauper’s career got entangled in the ambitions of an ex-manager, who sued her to retain control of her music. She sank into bankruptcy trying to escape him. When the judge sided with Lauper, he banged the gavel and said: “Let the canary sing.”

Once freed, Lauper connected with Robert Hazard, who had written a track called “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” He’d arranged it as a rock song from a man’s perspective — the girls were the ones he imagined sleeping with — and Lauper had some edits. She recast it as a gleeful public announcement, calling out a sexist double standard (“Oh mama dear, we’re not the fortunate ones”) while claiming liberation from the workplace, the home and the patriarchy. And she rearranged the notes, pitching her voice so high that it could not be ignored. “I sang that high because I was trumpeting an idea,” she said.

And then there was the video. “That video was what you call ‘inclusive’ nowadays, and that was the most important thing,” Lauper said. In addition to the Italian American pro wrestler Lou Albano, Lauper featured her mother, her lawyer, her manager, a crop of record-company secretaries, and a racially diverse group of singers and dancers. “I was sick of the segregation” of the music industry, she said. “It’s people together that create a style.”

“Everything I wanted them to understand was in that video,” Lauper said of the clip for “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

MTV was still in its infancy in 1983, and it was fortuitous that Lauper’s debut album, “She’s So Unusual,” came out just as the network was ascending. She saw her public image as a visual art form. Her makeup artist was a painter, and her stylist was a vintage buyer.

“People sometimes get the wrong idea that it was very thrown together,” Laura Wills, the founder of the vintage shop Screaming Mimi’s, said of the singer’s style. “People just didn’t look like that.” In the early ’80s, Lauper worked for Wills, often bartering her labor for clothes. When her career took off, Wills started styling her, and the pair often constructed Lauper’s outfits as if sliding chips across a poker table, as in, “I’ll see your polka-dot socks and striped capris, and I’ll raise you a plaid top,” Wills said. “I’ll see your polka-dot socks, striped capris and plaid top, and I’ll raise you a paisley hat.”

Lauper seemed to shoot to fame as a fully formed feminist icon. She refused to tell interviewers her age (“I’m not a car,” she said), and she insisted that they recognize the politics behind her aesthetic choices. “I wore the corset to undo the power of the binding of women,” she told the press. She graced the cover of Ms. Magazine and recorded the 1986 song “True Colors,” which resonated with her in the wake of a friend’s death from AIDS.

“I know that I probably lost business because I talked about AIDS a lot,” she said, but figured “I ought to stand up like any good Italian and stick up for my family, you know?” In 2008, she founded True Colors United to help combat homelessness among L.G.B.T.Q. youth. And in 2022, she created the Girls Just Want to Have Fundamental Rights fund to support abortion access and other reproductive justice movements.

In 1985, Lauper won the best new artist Grammy after the release of “She’s So Unusual.” The album — and songs like “Time After Time” and “All Through the Night” — broke records. But something odd was happening. She looked around and saw versions of herself everywhere. “When I first became famous, I felt like the whole world just kind of went” — here Lauper made a sharp slurping noise — “and sucked everything up. The jewelry, the color, the corsets on the outside, the whole thing. And then used it. Spit it out. Next!”

“I don’t think I can perform the way I want to in a couple of years,” Lauper said. “I want to be strong.”Credit...Thea Traff for The New York Times

Lauper was accused of being a manufactured package. “No, it was me. That’s how I dressed. That’s how I looked. That was my community,” she said. “I have a brain.”

When Lauper got a call that a movie studio was adapting her big hit into a movie, she balked at its fluffy premise. “I guess it was about a couple of girls … trying to have fun,” she said. (Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt starred.) Lauper refused permission to use her song, so it featured Hazard’s version with other vocalists instead. “For me, it sucked,” she said. “You took my style. And it had nothing to do with me at all.”

In the ’80s, Lauper was compared so closely to other female musicians that it was implied there was not space for all of them. She was pitted against other women — mainly Madonna, who released her debut album the same year. On chat shows and in schoolyards (and even on the charity single “We Are the World”), celebrities and fans were asked to choose one. “It was like apples and oranges,” Lauper told me. Or as she put it in Newsweek in 1985: “She’s just doing her thing. My thing happens to be different.” It was a shame, Lauper said: “I would have liked to have a friend.”

Though she fought her battles mainly alone, Lauper has inspired generations of women. Among her acolytes are Nicki Minaj, who in April brought her onstage in Brooklyn to duet on the song that samples her, “Pink Friday Girls.” When an interviewer asked the 26-year-old singer-songwriter Chappell Roan, “How does it feel to be called the Gen-Z Cyndi Lauper?” she replied, “I think Cyndi Lauper is the Gen-Z Cyndi Lauper.”

Lauper made 11 more albums after her debut — among them a blues record, a country record and a dance record. In the early 2000s, she walked over to Broadway, starring in “The Threepenny Opera” and writing the music and lyrics to the musical “Kinky Boots” after Harvey Fierstein, who wrote the book, tapped her for the gig. “There’s a small group of people I consider my children; she’s one of my daughters,” the actor and writer, who turns 72 this week, said. Fierstein told me that he had suspected Lauper’s talents were underused in rock, and he wanted to see what it was like for her to write a song that she would never sing herself.

Lauper accepting the Tony for best score, for her work on “Kinky Boots.”Credit...Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

“My favorite was a recording she made on her phone, in the beauty parlor, with her head in the dryer,” he said. (Lauper was often multitasking.) Her autoharp competed with the salon noise. “It’s really hard to sell a $10 million production on a recording of an autoharp song with a dryer background,” he said. “But that’s what we did.” Lauper won the Tony for best score, the first woman to win alone.

In an industry that requires the rapacious pursuit of the new and the cynical extraction of identity, Lauper was never willing to abandon herself. She had forged the revolutionary style, sang the totemic song. She inspired millions, billions, of fans to be themselves. Why should she have to change who she was?

AS LAUPER AND I traversed the Upper West Side, we ducked into an exhibition about the abstract artist Sonia Delaunay, passed the original Screaming Mimi’s location (now a dry cleaners), and wound back to her apartment, where she invited me up.

Past the doorman, past a cheetah-print doormat and a cheetah-print curtain, two little pugs named Lulu and Ping awaited Lauper’s return. She disappeared to arrange a plate of ginger cookies, the same kind Jackson Browne always sent her on Christmas, while her husband, the actor David Thornton, told me about their meet-cute on the set of the 1991 film “Off and Running.” She played a fake mermaid, he played a murderer. Off the set, he was struck instantly by her winning sense of humor.

“She’s the Rodney Dangerfield of rock ’n’ roll,” he said. As in, she is so funny that she does not always receive the respect she deserves. “I don’t think anybody has any idea how hard she works,” he said.

Though Lauper was accused of being a manufactured package, she was the real deal. “That’s how I dressed. That’s how I looked. That was my community,” she said. “I have a brain.”Credit...Thea Traff for The New York Times

To prepare for the tour, she blasts the stereo in her apartment and dances and sings, vexing the pugs. She works with a vocal coach four days a week. And she trains like it’s a sport. Her weekly exercise routine includes physical therapy, weights, stretching, physical therapy, weights, yoga, more weights, yoga, aerobics, physical therapy, weights again. She’s been chomping on enormous salads that make her feel like a horse.

“But when you’re a singer, you have to be an athlete,” she said. “You can’t [expletive] around. When you’re 20, yeah. But when you get older? No.”

As the tour approaches, she’s been daydreaming about “all the crazy stuff I tried that didn’t work” in the long arc of her career. The butterfly-winged black dress that she was meant to reveal as she stepped out of a cocoon. The bit where she was supposed to change behind a backlit screen like an old cartoon character. A kind of mechanical skirt that resembled a globe, slowly spinning her around as she sang.

She’s not exactly sure what she’ll pull off this time. Whatever changes, one thing remains the same: “Who the hell I am is who the hell I am.”

Amanda Hess is a critic at large for the Culture section of The Times, covering the intersection of internet and pop culture. More about Amanda Hess

#The New York Times #Cyndi Lauper

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themeforgrapefruit · 25 days ago

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yall the band grapefruit is probably one of my favorite bands ever... theyre so good... go listen to them... please... especially if you like the beatles. i need a fandom around them. these grapefruit boys are with the beatles

#grapefruit #beatles #1960s #sigh

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baelonthebrave · 1 year ago

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spearmint and nicotine

sydney/richie [Ao3]

continued in salt fat acid heat

word count: 1,828

rating: gen

summary: Richie thinks about all the things that are difficult in his life and the one thing that's easy.

warnings: mentions of canonical suicide, post Season 2, angst

Kissing Sydney is easy.

It’s like letting waves crash over his head. Just giving in to the current. For once, not fighting.

It might be the only thing in his life that’s easy.

His job is difficult, but Richie tries to perform it with some ease - no, shit, he does perform it with ease. He memorises names like he’d swallowed a phone book, works out who’s an asshole and who’s not by the slope of their shoulders and the set of their mouth. 14 likes spice - don’t hold back, quick but readable on a slip of paper no bigger than a credit card, pressed into Gary’s hand to relay back to expo. Look people in the eyes, but don’t be too intense about it. Drop their names gently, like you want them to know you remembered but you’re not trying to show them you remembered. Manage the front. Manage the back. Just as important to keep the chefs happy as it is the diners.

Being a dad is difficult. He could live to be a thousand and he’d still wake up in a cold sweat, convinced he was doing a terrible job, and Eva would be a homeless crack addict or the next Mussolini, and it’d be all his fault.

Being Tiff’s something is difficult. He rolls his wedding band on his finger like Marcus rolls out pastry - meticulous and anxious and afraid. He can’t say she’s his ex-wife, it just lodges in his throat like a peach pit. He can’t resent her for saying she loves him. She wouldn’t be Tiff if her heart wasn’t two sizes too big.

Working with Carmen is difficult. Depending on the day, Carmen’s head is like ground beef, or a ship taking on water through a canon blast in the hull, or a fucking lit Molotov cocktail. And Richie loves him. Wants to forgive every wretched word he ever said in anger. Wants to reach into his chest and scrape out all the hurt. Wants to protect him the way a big brother ought to.

Missing Mikey is difficult.

Being the one left behind is difficult.

Every time he thinks about Michael on that bridge, he wants to scream at him, who the fuck do you think you are? You think you get to kill yourself? You’re just so special and your problems are bigger than everyone else’s? You think you get to make me bury you? He wants to hold him, kiss his hair, just stand there with the blistering wind stripping away his skin until Mikey stops shaking in his arms.

All of that is so difficult.

Kissing Sydney is easy.

They get a star - Sydney gets them a star. All night, her braids are whipping that way that they do when she’s moving like lightning. Carmen’s fucking yelling because he’s anxious - anxious about the star and anxious about checking his phone to see if Claire’s returned any of his calls. The kid never did know how to let people be good to him. Richie rides it out - busing, greeting, seating, breathing, four in, four out. Cousin, I need you to stop yelling or I might do something dumb like break your nose straight-

They get the star.

Sydney vomits behind the dumpsters. It’s something that still needs work.

He grabs her one of those fancy kombuchas from the walk-in. He doesn’t know if she drinks alcohol, but her dad is sober - could be a preference, could be a sensitive subject - and alcohol probably isn’t the best additive to the potent mix of adrenaline and cortisol running in Sydney's veins right now.

Pink grapefruit kombucha. She’s trying to pull herself together by the dumpsters when he presses the sweating bottle into her hands.

“Thanks,” she manages, peaky and sweaty. She twists the screw cap, swills kombucha around her mouth, then spits it out into her vomit puddle. Richie tries not to look at it - just because he’d cleaned up Eva’s vomit plenty of times before doesn’t mean he’s got an iron stomach. He watches Sydney in silence until he’s sure she’s not going to collapse or start throwing up again, taking small sips from the bottle.

“That was incredible,” he says, jerking his head at the entrance to the kitchen. “I knew you were special, but…” he let out a low whistle.

Sydney smiles weakly. “It’s not so impressive when the comedown is me dumping stomach acid out my mouth and nose.”

“Don’t feel bad about it. We can work on that,” he says, bravely resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose.

Sydney laughs, a little hollow. “Are we gonna do meditation? Deep breathing?”

“Uh, yeah,” Richie says. He lights up a cigarette and tugs at the tie around his neck. Tastes ash and feels a slow sense of medicinal calm drip into his blood. “I’ll become a Buddhist if it keeps you doing that wizardry you were doing in there. I’ll light incense, bang gongs-“

“Will you wear the robe? The orange robe?”

“The off-the-shoulder robe? Maybe flash a little tit? Fuck yeah, I’d do that.”

Sydney is snickering into her kombucha bottle now and it’s a sound that sets him on fire from head to heel. “You’d do that for me?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Convert to a religion I know nothing about and dedicate my life to your wellbeing? Shit, Syd, you’ve got to ask?”

She gives him a smile that’s bordering on soft, and she’s so beautiful when she smiles. Warm eyes, full cheeks. “I meant the tit flashing.”

It’s his turn to snort, and the smoke he pulls into his lungs on the inhale burns a little, but nothing like the way he’s burning up under her gaze, so aware of every nerve ending in his body. “Hey, they’re good tits.”

She’s laughing. Her hand falls on his arm, now-empty bottle swinging at her side. “Don’t wear the robe,” she says. “I meant it when I said I liked the suit.”

And Richie’s forty-five. He might be a moron and a jagoff, he might know jackshit about living a happy and fulfilled life, but he knows a come-on when he hears one. Knows what a beautiful girl with big brown eyes and a kind smile means when she lays a hand on your arm, tells you she thinks you look good.

Kissing her would be so easy.

But he doesn’t.

She doesn’t need it. Not right now. Not when she’s peaky and smells like kitchen, and he’s running on nicotine and fumes. The taste would be noxious. Tobacco and vomit and kombucha. Anyone could walk out here at any time and see them.

And maybe - if he’s very honest with himself - a part of him doesn’t want it. Because kissing her would be easy, and things would start to make sense. Because he would have to make some fucking decisions, and make some changes, because life would make sense and he would be happy. No more excuses. He would kiss her and this house of cards of excuses and fucking misery he’d built for himself would topple in the wake of the fucking lightning storm of Sydney.

He takes her hand off his arm, holds it in his own, and presses his lips to her knuckles. Her hand is a little cold in his. She gives him a funny look. Somewhere between smiling and frowning.

“Can I give you a ride home?” He asks. She shouldn’t be on the L if she was sick.

She raised a brow. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Her hand leaves his but only because she has to set aside her bottle and fix her bandana, pulling her braids over one shoulder.

Richie fights the urge to tell her he could have fixed her hair for her. Instead, he drops the stub of his cigarette into the dregs of her kombucha and listens to the hiss.

“Depends on whether you’ll kiss me at the door.”

Richie gets hit with a crest of stars not unlike what Sydney must have been feeling minutes ago when she was throwing up behind the dumpster. Meet me halfway. Kindle a flame. Do something easy.

Do something scary. Let go of the past - it had already given Richie everything it had to give. Tiffany, The Beef, Mikey - they were still there, still in his soul, in his bones.

The future was The Bear. It was steadying Carmen by the shoulder and patiently giving him love until he realised he was allowed to take it. It was holding Sugar’s baby and being Uncle Richie. It was Michelin stars and long nights and fear and rage and every emotion a human body could conjure, because you can’t ask for the astronomical highs without taking the deep, dark lows.

The future was Eva’s elementary school graduation. Algebra tests and soccer games and rapidly outgrown clothes. First boyfriend - or girlfriend. Falling out of love with Taylor Swift when she was an angsty teen, then rediscovering her later and having fond memories of her dad yelling along to Love Story at the Eras Tour in 2023. Anywhere she went, he wanted to be there.

My kid would like you, he wanted to tell Sydney. Because you’re smart, and you always say what you mean, but you’re also kind. You have such a big heart. You’re brilliant. You’re brilliant, and I don’t know if I’ll ever measure up. But I’d like to try. Fuck… yeah, I’d like to try.

He’d tell her one day.

“I could kiss you right now if you want me to,” he says plainly. Simply.

She glances down at his lips. “What’s stopping you?”

He tucks a braid behind her ear. “Toothpaste,” he says, and she grins, “or the lack of toothpaste, really.”

She’s laughing again. He could spend all day every day just making her laugh. “I have some in my locker. If I use it, will you drive me home?”

He takes a breath - deepest breath he’d taken all day - and nods. She nods back and slips past him to go finish closing, brush her teeth, grab her stuff.

Richie’s heart is thumping in his chest as he closes up front of house. He feels a little nauseous as he grabs his jacket and keys and spots Sydney waiting for him, surreptitiously taking congratulations and goodnights from Tina and Marcus and Ebra.

He turns around, pops his locker once more and takes a stick of Wrigley’s from a discarded pack, because he’d rather Sydney tasted spearmint than tobacco on his lips.

Months later, Richie would realise she didn’t throw up after hellish services anymore. He’d ask her how she managed it, if it was the deep breathing? Or was there a secret gong he didn’t know about in the walk-in? She’d just laugh, say no, no incense, no gongs, no Buddhist monks, and produce a pack of gum from her pocket.

From that night on, the taste of Wrigley’s gum was enough to bring Sydney down.

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#sydrichie #sydney x richie #the bear #the bear season 2 #sydney adamu #richie jerimovich

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