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nichuuu · 2 months ago

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Beats Me - 7: Emails I Can’t Send

ft. Kim Minju

Word Count: 10k+

The first few minutes of your meeting are spent by Yeji and Yuna to catch up on life.

You sit by the side, detached from the conversation as you sip on the latte (what did they put in this thing? It’s so damn good). They relive some highschool memories, ask each other what they’ve been studying—the usual stuff. The croissants at the counter look really good, and you’re wondering if they’ll taste as good as they look. Maybe you should buy one later.

Yuna reminds you of Ryujin, only if Ryujin looked friendlier and less intimidating upon first glance. Her voice is distinct, her laugh even more so as she does that thing where she moves her feet like she’s running while she doubles over. Her eyes stay focused on her senior who—for the first time since you’ve seen her—is smiling. Yeji’s lanky fingers stay affixed to the straw, moving every now and then to disturb the ice as she stirs the drink. The coffee swirling in milk leaves light brown streaks against the side of her glass, creating these streaky patterns that look like they probably belong on an art piece. There are some details in her life that she briefly touches on but never delves into, probably because you’re there next to her.

Then it’s finally time. You’re dragged back into the conversation when Yeji says, “So you want to join the band?” and suddenly the cat that’s situated just outside the glass door doesn’t have your attention. Yea. Been looking for a chance to play, is Yuna’s reply, I saw you guys play at that bar the other time. You guys were great.

Eunbi should be here. She would’ve been ecstatic to hear that.

Yeji nods her head, stirring her drink idly as she silently looks at her junior. You hope that Yuna’s stratagem to enter isn’t just flattery. A sinking feeling tells you that it just might be, judging from the way she’s shifting under the gaze of her senior.

“Remind me Yuna: how many years have you played the saxophone for?” Yeji inquires. Yuna’s response is quick, almost rehearsed—five years now. Never stopped playing for a single moment in my life—and Yeji seems rather pleased by it. Yuna sips on her grapefruit ade, casting a glance your way as Yeji drums her nails against the table. You shoot the younger girl a reassuring smile, and hopefully she gets the message that she’s doing great in your books.

Then Yeji unfolds her arms, taps a nail before your crossed arms that rest on the table to get your attention. The same nail points towards Yuna, and its owner simply gestures with her chin. You get what she wants you to do, though you would’ve appreciated it if she’d just told you what she wanted, and you clear your throat while sitting up a little straighter.

“Um… Yeji kinda has me here to… Talk about my experience.” You internally cringe at your opening statement. What is this? An alumni sharing session? you chide yourself, all while you’re continuing on to whatever it is you have to say, “When you join this band, do expect yourself to be pushed a little. The hours aren’t all that taxing, but you gotta be able to… You know, strike that work life balance, as they say.”

And that’s just about all you have to say. Yeji neither smiles nor glares at you, only giving the smallest of nods as she focuses her attention on her junior. “If we give you a chart, you better learn it by heart by next practice. If we have a gig, practice will get more intensive. There’s a lot of things you need to be able to do Yuna. You can’t just think that you’re up to it; you have to be sure that you can shoulder all of these responsibilities.”

She’s making this sound like military recruitment, you’re thinking. Yuna’s definitely feeling a slight shift in atmosphere, and she’s fiddling with her glass as she stares straight into Yeji’s eyes. If you’re being honest: Yeji is definitely exaggerating the rigor of the band, and it’s probably scaring the poor girl. Your guitarist’s gaze isn’t at its peak intensity, but it’s enough to make Yuna purse her lips in silence, her smile fading from her face. Yeji greets her junior’s silence with a grim expression.

“So. Let me ask you again.” This time, Yeji’s tone is the furthest thing from gentle. “Are you ready to join us?”

Yuna stares at the melting ice in her glass. She takes a sip of her coffee, lets it sit in her mouth for a bit, and then swallows. “I’ll… I’ll text you when I’ve made up my mind.”

And all at once, it feels like all the happiness in the world has been sapped out of this cafe. Yeji stands up, leaving the rest of her latte untouched as she shoulders her bag and pushes in her chair.

“I’ll pay you for the latte,” she says, albeit a bit too nonchalantly after she’d single handedly brought down the mood. “Text me how much it costs, then text me again once you’re sure that you want in.”

She doesn’t even wait for you, doesn’t even look at you; she just turns on her heel and leaves. And for a moment, you sit there in awkward silence with Shin Yuna. You can’t help but feel bad for the poor girl who’d just been subjected to unwarranted coldness; and you want to comfort her, but you don’t know how. With a sigh, you take the straw out of your cup, bring the glass to your mouth and down the rest of your latte. Yuna’s eyes stayed trained on her own latte, which was close to untouched. She watches as a single drop of condensation rolls down the side of the glass, landing on her coaster and getting absorbed into the material.

“The band’s… Not as bad as she makes it sound,” you pipe, pausing for a brief moment to consider your words carefully. “Yeji tends to be a little… Mean sometimes.” Now that she has her eyes on you, you can’t help but feel a little shifty in your seat. She’s the type of girl that turns heads when she walks down the street, the type of girl that could probably get scouted by a model agency just by standing at a bus stop and looking at her phone. Not that her gaze is piercing or anything, but it’s just that she’s a little too breathtaking to make you feel okay sitting opposite her in a one on one. “Don’t think too much about it. I think you’ll make a great fit in the band.”

And then you decide to leave. It’s with great embarrassment that you state that you should take your leave, and it’s with great clumsiness and lack of grace that you stand up, bump your knee against the table, mutter a small and push your chair in before making a beeline for the door. The bell on the door chimes as you pull the door open, and it chimes again when you step out, and again when you close the door shut behind you—almost like it was laughing at you. So much for not being awkward.

“Thought you’d stay in there for a little longer.”

Hearing Yeji’s voice makes you jump, and you turn to find her petting the cat at the windowsill of the cafe. She isn’t even looking at you, not even a glance in your direction as you walk up to her and stop just before her.

“What the hell was that in there?” you can’t help but question. “You make us sound like we’re a fucking concentration camp while simultaneously making her feel like shit. How the fuck do you even do that?”

She gives the cat one last scratch between the ears, and the feline purrs under her touch. She rises from her squatting position and looks you in the eye. “That’s why I brought you here: to make her feel better.” She lets that linger in the air for a bit. “Okay. I’m going home.”

And she walks right past you like you aren’t going to be traveling in the same direction as her. A grunt of frustration slips out of your lips as you turn and catch up with her, matching her pace step for step.

“Did you seriously think,” you ask as you match her stride, “that a small ‘it’s alright’ from me would be enough to make her join?”

“Yep.”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Same goes for you.”

“What?”

The two of you stop at the traffic light, and she takes the time to adjust her hair over her shoulder and crack her neck like there isn’t someone talking to her on her immediate left. At this point, you are as good as a ghost to her.

“Why can’t you just be nice for once?” you don’t bother hiding the aggression in your tone, nor did you ever intend on doing so. “Is it really that hard? Do we have to go through a trial to earn your kindness?”

The light turns green and she puts away her phone. “I’m only nice to the people I trust, and neither you nor Yuna fall into that category.”

You bite your tongue, and you stay where you are as she walks across the road. She doesn’t look back, and you never expected her to. This conversation is hardly worth your time and emotional battery. You’re better off talking to some moss ball behind a dumpster, and the silence that you’ll receive is more welcoming than anything Hwang Yeji will ever say.

And so you walk elsewither from where she’s going and you just walk. You know for a fact that there’s no point in fuming over her behavior, and there’s definitely no point in figuring out how to get to her. Instead, you walk down a stretch of shops, letting your eyes wander across the various items that are being displayed at the windows: the jewelry, the clothes, the facial products, the bags, the—

Someone calls your name, and her voice is all too familiar. You’ve heard it just recently, over the phone with club music blaring over her voice. So yeah: you don’t need to turn to know who's made you stop in your tracks, but you do just because you need to see it to believe it

Kim Minju looks dazzling in her outfit:a set of black and short shorts that cover up the skin that’s exposed beneath the shirt-dress she wears. The lime green knitted Prada bag she has in her hands is a little bit jarring, a tad out of place on her monochrome outfit, and you guess that she probably grabbed it in a rush to get out of the house. Still: it looks like a purposeful mismatch, and perhaps your sense of fashion is just so bland that you simply just can’t appreciate the complexity of her outfit.

“Hey,” she greets—a mix of shock and surprise and glee on her face as she takes small steps towards you. It isn’t that big of a distance to cross, and she’s right in front of you in two-to-three small steps. She stops for a moment, lets her eyes wander across your face for a bit. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Same goes for you,” you tell her. “Thought we’d just rub shoulders in the club and call it a day.”

Minju giggles, fidgets a little with the strap of her bag that sits nicely on her small shoulder. “You uh… you going somewhere?”

“Well um…” it’s hard to phrase what exactly it is you’re doing right now, because: a) you don’t exactly have a set location in mind and; b) you don’t know how to tell her that you were going away from somewhere that you were going to just now—ugh, it’s confusing to even think about. In the name of reducing the complications of your explanation, you opt for the best response you can possibly give at the moment: “No. Not really. How about you?”.

It’s not a lie; it’s half of the truth… Sort of? Ah fuck, why bother fretting over it?

She smiles, a toothless one where the corner of her lips gets tugged up by a set of invisible strings. It’s a charming little smile, and you have to admit that you love seeing the way it makes her eyes glimmer a little. “I just met my groupmates, and before you ask: it was a horrible session.”

You chuckle. “My condolences.” You rub your palms against your jeans as you speak, “must suck to be the smartest person in the group.”

She’s consistently been the brightest person in the room, perfect GPA, Valedictorian and everything. Sure: she already stands out because of her looks, but her smarts make her the whole package deal. The whole reason you met her in the first place was because you were failing Chemistry so badly in your first year that the teacher had to get her and her straight-As to step in and tutor you. She did a pretty good job, pulled your marks up from an E to a B and kept it there.

“Oh shut up,” she sighs, though the smile on her face never fades, “you know I hate it when you say shit like that.”

“Do you? Could’ve sworn that you lived off compliments back then.”

She clicks her tongue in annoyance, slaps your shoulder with the back of her hand. She hasn’t changed one bit. “Fuck you. You always were too damn cheeky.”

You shrug in response. She pushes back a strand of hair.

“You wanna grab a coffee?” Her question is one you’ve expected from the moment you bumped into her.

“I just had a latte, but I wouldn��t mind getting a Croissant.”

***

“You were one mark away from an A—this close to breaking your B streak.”

“It was an A in technicality. Careless mistakes that fuck me over don’t count, Minju.”

“Tell that to the Chemistry department then.”

“I think they would've dunked me in a vat of acid.”

“What type of Acid? Can you still remember which ones can melt skin off bone?”

“Welcome back Little Miss know-it-all.”

“The information will save you one day, mark my words.”

“Well I doubt I’ll ever come into contact with skin-melting Chemicals any time soon.”

“Don’t jinx yourself.”

“Hey, don’t tell me that when you were the one who was dubbed ‘bearer of bad news’.”

“It’s not my fault that I always have to relay the bad news to the class! I was the fucking class president!”

“Oh right.”

“Oh right. You sound so stupid.”

“Says the one giving me a lecture.”

“I’d hardly constitute this as a lecture.”

“Look at you using big words.”

“I’m going to throw this fucking coffee at you.”

“It’s a good latte. I wouldn’t recommend you wasting your money like that.”

“You’re a child.”

“Aren’t we all young at heart?”

“Young at heart is one thing. Immaturity is another.”

“I’d argue that you’re the immature one here.”

“Says the one who’s always getting himself involved in some shit every other day.”

“I wouldn’t blame that on my immaturity.”

“So you do admit that you’re immature.”

“Now you’re just putting words into my mouth.”

“It’s not my fault that you say stupid things.”

“But it’s you that uses my stupid things to… Fuck. That won’t sound right.”

“Did you just lose your train of thought mid sentence?”

“I was running what I was about to say through my head.”

“You do that while you speak? You’re so weird.”

“Oh so you’d rather me spit out nonsense all the time?”

“Yea, so I can insult you over it.”

“Ugh. You’re so kind Minju.”

“Thank you. I pride myself with my heart of gold.”

“The same one that made you a pushover with your ex?”

“We both know that he manipulated me.”

“And you kept making excuses with him because you refused to see the bad in him.”

“Okay, I admit that that was a bit of a misplay on my end.”

“You dated him for two years.”

“I didn’t want to be lonely, okay? Everyone in the damn friend group was dating, I felt left out!”

“But we were in healthy relationships. Yours looked like the physical embodiment of type two diabetes.”

“Oh. So you’d consider your relationship with Kim Chaewon a healthy one?”

“It was till… You know.”

The silence that follows is deafening, and Minju’s smile fades.

“Shit. I went a little overboard with that one,” how apologetic she sounded made you feel bad. Not that you ever intended to be a wet blanket, but the hesitance in your voice must have killed the mood or something. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

You waved it off. “All jokes,” you assure her with a forced smile. “Nothing was or has been taken to heart. I promise.”

She purses her lips, and when she parts them, they make a small smack. You take a moment to take another stab at your croissant and send another bit into your mouth. And yes: it does taste as good as it looks.

“How are things with you and her anyway?” She asks, setting down her half-full glass of latte. “Are you guys doing alright? Talking now?”

You imagine the look of shock on her face when you tell her that you made out with your ex and fucked her after you took her home, and make the executive decision to skip the details and give her a more vague (and untrue) answer: “We’re uh… Reconciling I guess.”

She nods, and you can’t tell if it’s one of approval or one of disappointment. She’d been the number one supporter of your relationship with Chaewon; imagine her shock when you told her one fine morning over the phone that the two of you had broken up.

“Forgive me for continuing on this subject, but,” the addition of that but really spoke volumes of how she wasn’t gonna let you interject, even if you really wanted to just stop talking about it. She’s not one to be self-centred, but when she has something to say, you have a guaranteed earnings if you bet on the fact that she’ll get it out one way or another. You always let her get away with it, only because you have a bit of a soft spot for her, and she has a bit of a soft spot for you too—you did spend a large amount of time in your first year of highschool in the library with her after all. “I always thought that you and Chaewon would be, you know, a ‘forever couple’.”

“Well I’m sorry we ruined your drama fantasies,” you reply, trying to bring the conversation back to the light-hearted talk it was just a couple of minutes ago. “Some things just don’t work out in the end—the relationship was just one of those things.”

This time, you decode her nod as one of understanding and sympathy. “Well… As long as you’re okay now.” she rolls her straw between her forefinger and thumb, watching as it twists left and right in her fingers and disturbs the latte before her. “You seem to be doing well with your whole band gig and all.”

“You could say that.” You set down your fork and dab the corners of your mouth with a napkin while you swallow the rest of your croissant. “Chaewon and I will learn to… Coexist eventually. I hope so at least.”

“You guys better sort it out,” she muses. “I doubt I can keep baby-sitting her at the club for much longer. I have a life too, you know?”

“I feel like that’s more of a problem for her to settle than us.” you’re barely hiding the disdain in your voice as you stare at crumbs that are left on your plate. “It’s not my problem if she gets drunk. She made the choice to go drinking herself.”

“But you made it your problem just a day ago,” Minju points out.

“Only because it was the only way to get her out of that damn club.”

“You could’ve chosen not to come.”

“And leave you guys to deal with her?”

“It was me and Eunbi. We could’ve dragged her out.”

“But—“

“Just admit that you actually cared. You and I both know that you’re too much of a fucking sweetheart to ever let someone struggle when you can help.”

And she stumps you with that one, because you don’t know how to reply to that. Is that a compliment or an insult? Frankly, you didn’t know, but you do know that you’re surprised by the fact that anyone can ever use the word sweetheart in such an aggressive manner. It’s like telling someone you love their outfit before punching them in the face.

Okay, maybe not that extreme… But you get the gist.

“Maybe I did have a soft spot for her,” you mused. It’s half self-realisation, half-reply. “But even so: you guys would go through all nine circles of hell just to get her up and out of the club.”

Minju draws her lips into a thin line. She lifts her straw to her mouth, lets it hover just in front of her lips for a bit, then places the glass back down on the table heavily. A small, substantial thump sends a small tremor through the table. She stares into her glass. “What even happened when you took her home anyway?”

You shrug and put down your fork to wipe your mouth—actions that mask the fact that you want to cringe at yourself over what happened. You’ve done a lot of lying today (what would your mother say?), and you’re pretty sure that all of this will come back and bite you in the ass some day. But for now, you’d like to save yourself some embarrassment as you say, “Helped her with her hangover. Gave her a meal. Then she left.”

Minju looks at you for a moment. Then she sighs and shakes her head.

“You’re too kind for your own good,” she mutters. Her fingers stay wrapped around her glass as she speaks, beads of condensation slowly running down the clear walls of her cup and sliding down her knuckles. She raises her head, just enough to establish eye contact with you. “Then again: your soft little heart was the reason I had a crush on you.”

Okay. She skipped a lot of ground there.

You blink. You blink again. She stares straight into your eyes throughout—doesn’t break eye contact or anything. Not that you didn’t take her seriously, but just that you were a little… Well, stunned.

“Bottom line: you care about her. Don’t let her manipulate you okay?” Minju tells you, finally raising the star to her mouth and taking a nice long sip from her latte. When the straw is released from between her lips, she smacks her lips in satisfaction and leans back in her seat. You’re still staring if anyone’s asking, and yes: you are indeed thinking, what the fuck?

Minju shoots you a look of disdain. “What?” she asks as she straightens the collar of her shirt dress. “Why are you looking at me like that? Cut it out.”

Okay: aside from the fact that you’re shocked by the fact that she isn’t addressing the elephant in the room (the one that she placed there by her damn self), you’re reeling over the fact that she’s just casually dropped this hell-of-a piece of news on you like it was just an update on life or something; oh I used to like, you know, see you more than just a friend, but no biggie.

You blink. You blink again. She grabs the straw and tosses it out of the glass, gulps the rest of her latte in a single swallow and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

“If you’re wondering if the feelings are still there, the answer is no,” she tells you, picking up a napkin to clean up the corners of her mouth. “The keyword was had you big dummy. Stop thinking so much about it. You look stupid.”

The faculties to reply return to you, but you can’t do much but sputter a very confused wha? as Minju examines her nails for a bit. She smirks, then grabs her bag and rises from her seat.

“If my news is killing you that bad, why don’t we talk about it over a nice dinner?”

***

True to her word, she does open up about everything over the course of the meal, albeit after a couple of glasses of wine.

“You were so cute and so damn loveable,” she muses, unashamed as she pours herself another glass. She took you to some nice restaurant a few streets away, and you’re kinda regretting your decision to eat that croissant for tea because fuck does the food here taste good. Minju settles into her seat, glass in hand as she stares at the scarlet liquid. “You bought me dark chocolate on my period, got me a snack after we had a session because I was hungry… You’re pretty fucking handsome too, you know that?”

All of this is, of course, news to you, and you’re struggling to internalise the fact that she would ever think about you in such a way. Your own wine glass has remained full for the entire duration of your meal, and you choose this time to take a sip to help you process all of… Well, this.

“So… How long did you, you know, like me?” you can’t help but ask. Not that it was the first question on your mind or anything, but more of the fact that you needed to say something to prevent this conversation from descending into awkward silence. Comfortable was the last word you’d use to describe how you feel.

“Huh…” Minju mutters. She swirls her glass for a bit. She takes a sip, swirls more. Her gaze turns inwards and her mouth moves in a soundless count. “If you don’t count the summer break where I figured out that I wanted nothing more but to kiss you? About a year and a half.”

You do the maths in your head and come to an epiphany. Minju beats you to it and verbalises your thoughts: yea, yea… I liked you while you were dating Chaewon, which means that I liked you when I was dating that deadbeat baseball player, which meant I was unfaithful by technicality, but I stuck with that sick fuck to try and make you jealous.

Frankly, you’re not too sure why you are being thrown into emotional situations with people of your past over the course of the last two days. You want this to be some sort of dream, and you want, so badly, for Minju to burst out laughing and hit you with a, this was all a joke! I just wanted you to accompany me for dinner, that’s all, and call it a day. Maybe you two could get ice cream afterwards, laugh this silly prank off on a bench somewhere and then bid farewell for the night. But judging from the way Minju stares solemnly at her plate, you can pretty much infer with full confidence that she means every word she says. Even as she chews her steak slowly, you can feel her lingering on some thoughts that she won’t verbalise—not now at least. Maybe she’ll text you about it a couple weeks for months down the road, and all of this will just resurface for, like, a day or two at most. Bottom line: she’s pretty serious about everything she just said, and she’ll most likely remind you of this conversation in this nice restaurant that you can never come back to again. The food is nice but it's nowhere in your tax bracket.

“So uh,” Minju brings your attention back to her. She leaves you hanging for a bit as she pokes a cherry tomato with her fork and sends it into her mouth. You hear a soft crunch as she chews, and you can’t help but feel a little bit uncomfortable with the presented silence that follows. She dabs the corners of her lips with a napkin. She swallows. “About what happened with Chaewon after you took her to your place: did you leave out the part where you fucked her in the ass on purpose? Or did she drug you and you forgot everything?”

And it feels like time freezes as she picks up her wine glass and gulps down the rest of the scarlet liquid in there. When she looks at you with those piercing, knowing eyes, you wonder how much she knows about you and Chaewon; what does she know and what are the details she has sitting in some locker in the corners of her mind.

“Chaewon has a pretty big mouth you know,” Minju remarks, a small—almost mocking—pout on her lips as she plays with the vegetables on her plate. “She tells me just about anything and everything that goes on in her life, just saying.”

So that’s enough to tell you that she knows more than she should. You wonder if there are any other people Chaewon runs her mouth to.

“If you’re gonna call me a loser, just do it,” you mutter. You suddenly find the urge to down the rest of your wind irresistible. You act on your impulse, and you grimace a little as the alcohol burns your throat on the way down. It’s probably not recommended to consume liquor the way you are drinking it right now, but you couldn’t care less at this point. You kind of need this drink right now. This day has been full of unexpected things: unexpected meetings to unexpected feelings to god knows what else is on its way. “But before you say anything, she started it. I was the victim.”

Minju chuckles. You don;t really find anything about this entertaining right now, but there will certainly be an element of humour to this conversation that you will probably discover after some hindsight. Minju sets down her cutlery and folds her arms. “I understand”, she tells you, making sure to hold your gaze as she rests her cheek in her palm. “Trust me. Calling you a loser is, like, the 2nd thing on my mind right now.”

“And what’s the first?”

She looks left, then right, then leans in a little. “Was the sex good?”

Honestly, you shouldn’t be shocked. She’s always been a bit cheeky in nature, a little bit lickerish and maybe a little indecent. You’ve seen it, heard it, known it for the longest time—yet you can’t stop yourself from raising both eyebrows when she drops the question on you. MAybe it’s the lack of hesitance; the question coming right at you like a fastball after you gave her your end of the situation. It’s a little devious: the way she just gives it to you straight without any room for silence and pondering. You’ll give her that.

“I mean,” she continues, not even giving you time to even try and rationalise the question. “I imagine that her pussy’s already tight as fuck. Her ass? God I can only imagine what that was like for you.”

Now it’s getting a little confusing. The lines between wry and genuine interest are being blurred here, and you’re not even sure if this is really a conversation you’re having with her right now. Her bluntness and lack of consideration towards you is a little appalling given her remorse in the cafe. Maybe it’s the wine. Yea, it’s probably the wine…

“What the fuck?” Is all you can manage as you affix your gaze on her with a look of shock that could probably win you an award if this was a movie. Minju pushes back some hair, fingers deftly tucking them behind her ear as she fixes you with a look. You have no idea where this conversation is going, and you really, really hope that she doesn’t continue on this line of talk. Of course, you have a bad track record of getting what you wish for.

Minju leans in even more, gets even closer. You’re not sure if you should move or do anything at this juncture. She cocks her head a little, smirks.

“Wanna find out if I’m a better fuck then her?”

***

Why did you follow her back to her apartment? You don’t even know. Best guess: you weren’t really thinking after she spoke and just went with it. Or maybe: you might have looked at her all weird and somehow ended up agreeing (she’s a sweet talker and you certainly wouldn’t put it past her). There are about ten possibilities that you can think of—eleven if you added the one that just formulated in your brain about a second ago—all of which are equally confusing and hard to fathom. It’ll take some time and probably a cup of coffee or two to figure out.

But focus up: there are a lot more pressing matters right now, matters like the fact that her lips are firmly pressed against yours while your back is against the closed and locked door of her apartment. Frankly, you don’t even know how the hell you two got locked in this kiss; could’ve sworn the two of you were just talking at the restaurant a couple of minutes ago. Everything’s a little hazy, and it’s a little worrying considering that you only had one or two… Maybe three? Yea, probably three… Let’s just say there was a couple more glasses of wine after she asked if you if she could potentially be a better fuck, and here you are now. It seems like your relationship with alcohol and women all lead to the same destination. It’s a problem for sure, but you can settle that later.

There’s a rather loud smack as she removes her lips from yours—for air of course. Gazing deep into your eyes, she smiles as she tells you, god I’ve always wanted to do that, before she re-establishes the connection of lips. The kiss is aggressive: nothing short of fervent and definitely not holding back on the restraint. If there was a way to properly kiss someone, Kim Minju was certainly taking it up another step. Her tongue pokes through your lips, invades past your teeth and pushes itself deep into your mouth till it dances with yours. It’s starting to get a little messy, a little more raunchy and, uh… Well—you get the gist. Your brain’s certainly not functioning the way it should be.

Are you drunk? Probably not.

She starts to pull you by the shirt—away from the door and towards the living room. Her place is pretty big, and there's enough space for the two of you to stumble and fumble around till you find a flat surface that you can proper her up on and spread her legs. The surface in question is a table. It’s probably her dining table, and it creaks as Minju undoes the clasp of her sheer shorts that really shouldn’t be classified as shorts in any world. The article of clothing comes off together with your jeans, and they’re both tossed aside before your hands are on her hips and pulling her towards you. Her ass slides over the wood, hissing as her skin drags along a small distance so that she can grip your face in her palms and crash her lips against yours. You close your eyes, enjoy the feel of her warm body pressing against yours while those gentle hands sink fingers into the flesh of your cheeks. A dark part of you takes a little pleasure in the pain.

“Fuck.” You love the lilt in her voice after she breaks the kiss. “I see why Chaewon likes to kiss you now,” she lets her hands roam across your face, brushing away the bits of your hair that fall in front of your eyes, almost as if she wants you to see her and only her. “You kiss so well. Feels like I’m kissing a marshmallow with lips.”

“Do I even want to know how you came up with that analogy?” you question. She grins.

“Just trust it. I did get a higher score than you in just about every subject except music.”

You chuckle. She goes in for a kiss; you make a beeline for the column of milky skin at her neck, savour the sharp inhale that sucks air through her teeth and sounds like more of a hiss. You kiss her jaw, trail it up to her neck then back down to her collarbone. Every touch of your lips on her skin makes her sigh.

“Try not to mark me where people can see,” she whispers. “There’s only so much skin that makeup can cover without ruining my outfits, and foundation is really fucking expensive these days.”

(Now there’s the debate of whether that was a challenge or a precautionary measure. She’s always been a bit of a cheeky one: trying people on and giggling as she does so. You’ve been the victim of her antics before, but it’s kind of hard to deduce whether she’s telling you, don’t do it or inviting you to leave hickeys all over her neck and wherever you could get your lips on.)

“And if I do?” you can’t help but ask. Minju chuckles and pushes you away by your shoulders.

“Don’t.” She’s firm when she says it, almost like she’s chiding you for ever considering it. For a moment, you look each other in the eye as your breaths poke holes through the silence. It’s a little chilling yet a little thrilling, and you can’t help but take in the way she looks in the dim light of the night. In the midst of stumbling in, neither of you ever considered turning on the lights. She’s painted in soft strokes of moonlight, eyes shimmering in the gentle glow of night. Beautiful. She’s always been so beautiful, but never this beautiful. “I know you want to, but don’t,” she reiterates. You’re a little disappointed, but there are, of course, other ways to leave your mark on her.

And so your hand snakes down and finds its way between her parted legs. Your other hand slithers around that small waist, and it holds her in place as your fingers press against the fabric of her panties. In your arms, she tenses—bristles as you start to feel the outline of her lips against your fingertips. You increase the pressure against her heat. Minju tilts her head back and moans.

Fuck. You don’t think you’ve ever heard such a sound: angelically filthy, airy and soft. It’s already hard enough to grasp the concept of her, one of your closest friends that you haven’t seen in a few good years or so, propped up on her own dining table while you trace the outline of her pussy through her panties and leave her squirming atop the wooden surface. Add the small choked up cries she’s making into the mix and by God do you have a recipe for a haze. Where to begin? This situation shouldn’t be real at all; none of this should be real, this should be a dream. This heat against your fingers. The sight of her mouth parted and her body twitching with each stroke of your fingers. The very realisation that this is as real as it gets, and it’s unfolding right before you by the second.

“Why are you so fucking wet?” you ask, noting the way she shudders as you let your finger hover over the base of her opening for a bit. Her thighs—pale skin painted in the lightest shades of moonlight—twitch in anticipation, almost as if the blood in her veins is loading up inside there and would shoot forward the moment you start moving again. She can’t predict what you’re gonna do next, and it’s killing her in a way that brings you this sick satisfaction. Minju whimpers; you chuckle. “Do you really want it this bad Minju? Has no one touched you like this before?”

(Her bottom lip quivers as she struggles to compose herself. She breathes: raspy and staccato. Strands of hair hang in front of her face, the same one that has this pleading look superimposed over bratty frustration. It’s hot, really satisfying and really challenging you take some liberties with her. Sure: it’d be really fun to just stuff her full of cock and just have your way with her right here and now, but where’s the fun in that? You’ve known her as this smart, preppy girl who’s always gotten what she wants because she’s smart and rich. You can't remember the last time you saw her fail. Maybe she did face a bit of a setback when she was starting out in university, but as far as you’re concerned, she’s in need of a bit of humbling.)

It’s all enough to drive anyone mad really. So you can’t really blame her when she cries oh god just fuck me already! at a volume that would probably get her a noise complaint from one of her neighbours. It’s a little jarring, and it makes you stop and look at her for a second or two. She looks back at you, giving you those fuck me eyes that you didn’t know she was capable of as she starts to bite down on her lower lip.

With that face and that aura, she—whether unwittingly or not—painfully reminds you of Chaewon. That same bratty persona mixed with that undeniable look of need—it’s killing you to look her in the eye a she starts to grind herself against your fingers, pleading you to get on with it—please, please, please just strip me and fuck me and make me your good little toy—while she fixes you with that pleading look. Her doleful eyes coax you, and it feels dangerous to even look into them, let alone gaze into them as pulls you closer with her legs and grabs your shaft through your underwear.

“Tease me all you want later,” she squeezes your cock—sweet, sinful pleasure. Those weapons of a pair of eyes slice into the deepest depths of your mind, appealing to the darker part of you to let loose and take control. She wants it, needs it more than anything else right now. “You can finger me, eat me, whatever… Just put this fucking cock inside of me and make me scream before you do anything else.”

She’s given you a list of priorities, and they really speak volumes of her personality. Funnily enough, it’s pretty in line with her character: goal oriented and focused on that success rather than the process. You wonder what would happen if you refused to give her that final goal she so desperately craves; what it could do and to what extent would it break her. You take some time to consider this as you slip your hands into the spaces between the upper buttons of her shirt.

“Minju.” You call her name out of politeness in wake of what you’re about to ask her. “How much was this shirt?”

The glint in her eye when she catches your implicit message is enthralling. She pushes her bottom lip behind her front teeth; fixes you with this look that tells you that she's' about to say something that’s gonna satisfy your desires just because she can and she gets off on it.

“It’s Prada,” she tells you. “But I can always get another.”

You grin, and with more strength than intended, you pull against the fabric of the shirt. Unfortunate buttons go flying as the fabric parts forcefully like velcro ripping apart. Nothing tears (surprisingly), but the shirt is most definitely unwearable for a while. You hope she knows how to sow.

She gasps when the cold air of her apartment suddenly hits her skin. You can’t really blame her — it all comes in a rush after she is stripped from her sole piece of clothing. She takes a moment to assess the damage done to her clothes. Her eyes wander along the naked strip of fabric her shirt buttons once called home. Then she looks at you, smirks.

“Hot,” she muses, lowering herself down till she’s on her elbows. “But I think you can do better than that.”

You like a good challenge. And with not too much kindness in your voice, you tell her to get rid of the rest of her clothing. There’s a smouldering look in her eye, and a smirk on her face as she tosses her hair out of her face. Then while she holds your gaze, she hooks her fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulls them down — keeps going till there somewhere far enough down those long, creamy legs for her to kick them aside.

“That was a limited edition piece, can’t have you tearing that,” she explains, looking at the freshly discarded article of clothing. “My bra though? I got it at a convenience store in Japan. Do your worst.”

The bra doesn’t survive. It’s a shame really… It looked kinda nice.

And basking in your gaze is a very naked Kim Minju, her skin practically glowing on top of her table as she looks up at you with those eyes of want. You take a moment – admire the supple curves in all the right places and the way her skin seems to ripple a little as she shudders. Three’s no doubt in your mind that the surface she has her back against is cold as hell, but Fuck… this probably was the best place to have her like this – she looks like a fucking meal.

“You know,” you whisper, your index finger roaming up her body – starting from the base of her belly button and making its way up an imaginary line that you’ve drawn on her body. “You’re kinda fucking perfect.”

She chortles. “Um… Contradictory much?”

“Spare me the lesson,” you mutter, cupping her cheek firmly yet tenderly. You have no idea what this feeling in your chest is right now, but you do know that it’s gonna take you down a path you never explored before. “Now I just wanna make a mess out of you.”

You don’t wait for a reply. Heck, you don’t even give her time to craft a reply. No teasing, no testing the waters; you just get your cock in your hand, line it up with her slit and pump yourself into her for the first time.

And even though she has this look of offence on her face, you know that this is probably the hottest thing she’s ever experienced. It’s a non-verbal statement that tells you that: her eyes burn with a heat you often see in Chaewon when she’s just being a downright bitch, yet her lips part and her head tilts back to let a moan be drawn out from the deepest parts of her. You don’t quite know how you’re processing these cues with the novel sensation of her hot cunt around your cock (it squeezes and pulses at just the right places that make you twitch inside her and it’s like… So fucking hot in there) that welcomes you into the depths of the woman beneath you. Every little thing is just hitting like a fucking sledge hammer now. You can feel her heat around you, burning like fire in this cold apartment. Alcohol must really be setting in.

Minju takes a moment to collect herself, and after she does, she looks at you to send another non-verbal cue your way.

This one means fuck me.

This whole situation is far from sophisticated; a little more filthy than you care to admit. It’s not what you’re used to with the other women you’ve been with. Eunbi likes teasing, Ryujin likes to play around a little; Karina is just downright submissive, Yeji a little more subservient than she lets on; Chaewon is… well, Chaewon – bratty and really whiny when she fucks.

But Minju? This is a whole new chapter for you.

First impressions tell you that she’s just downright needy; a little bratty like Chaewon as she starts to whine a little while you start pumping in and out of her slick heat. Her legs lock around your waist, feet crossed behind your back. She pulls you in each time you thrust into her – pulls you deeper into her warmth and moans a little louder when you hit the right spot. You match her speed, and soon you're thrusting her with firm, fast strokes. It makes her throw back her head for a bit, a cry leaving her straining throat as she sets rolls with this tempo.

Her torso remains supported on her elbows, her small breasts that sit proudly atop her chest bouncing with each smack of your crotch against hers. She realigns her gaze with yours. Her eyes stay wide open, gazing right into yours as she holds your attention with this debauched gaze that makes your mind fill with wild, wild thoughts. You’re fucking her on the table, but you’re thinking about what it’d be like to have her against the wall, against the counter, on her knees; riding you on her couch, jumping on your cock on her bed…

This woman is gonna fucking ruin you.

“Chaewon said that the dick was fucking good,” she’s quipping between her moans, and you know it’s taking considerable effort for her. She has to close her eyes when she speaks, and in doing so she frees you from her hypnotic gaze. “No that it’s actually filling me… I think she could be downplaying how good you feel.”

And you have to smirk. “You think so ?”

Her eyes snap open, traps you yet again. “Do you have any idea how fucking hot you feel inside me?” she gasps. You have to admit that it sounds a bit more like she’s demanding you to figure out how good she feels right now/ ow fucking good your dick feels in my pussy? How–ngh… How good you fuck me?”

Emphasis on ‘fuck’ tells you that she likes this pace, this no-nonsense playing field that you’ve established from the moment you filled her for the first time. She never struck you as one to like it rough, someone who likes it when it kinda stings when you fill her. Then again, you didn’t expect her to hold feelings for you either, so you guess the world just has a bunch of mysteries that you have to unpack in your own time.

Currently, you’re just trying to unpack how fucking good she feels around you.

“You’re fucking filthy,” you hiss through your teeth. “Never knew Miss valedictorian liked being railed like this.”

She smiles through her pleasure – a half-curl upturn of the corners of her lips as she lets the sighs and gasps freely depart from her open lips. It would be a cute smile if it weren’t for the fact that you’re literally fucking her on the same surface she eats on. Not that she has any problem with it; it’s just kinda telling of how badly she wants you right now. Pretty hot honestly – feels a little dark but you like the fact that she just couldn’t wait and just found the nearest flat surface she could spread her legs for you on.

“I’ll let you in on something,” and it really looks like she’s pushing back moans in her throat. She isn’t very successful. Effort is commendable though. “As sweet as any girl looks, we all kinda like being fucked like a slut.”

You manage a chuckle. “And does that apply for you?”

You love the way her eyes gleam. She lets herself lie flat on her table.

“That’s for you to find out.”

And you understand why she’s laid herself across the table for you. It’s an invitation to her body, a request for you to touch the parts of her and hold her like she’s yours. She’s watching you intently, waiting to see what you’ll do while you keep pumping in and out of her. You respond by grabbing her shoulders, pulling her up straight till her chest flushes against yours. Her hands wrap around your neck, her breath in your ear.

“Come on you pussy,” she drawls. “I’m not Chaewon or Eunbi, so stop fucking me like you’d fuck them.”

Your hands find purchase in the firm flesh of her ass. Your fingers dig into the skin.

Then you’re fucking her – hard, fast. It takes her by surprise, by storm. Her gasp is strained, her voice louder in your ear now that she’s dug her chin into your shoulder. Her arms tense around your neck, her thighs tighten around your waist. You can feel her start to tremble as she struggles to keep herself upright. She holds you tighter, closer. She starts to moan more than she gasps. Her sighs turn to whines, her whines to cries and then to keening.

In a matter of seconds, she’s found herself lost in her own pleasure, willingly and blissfully letting herself slink beneath the steadily growing stream of perverse want and need that flows from her mouth. She doesn’t have any smart quips left in her, no lessons or lectures – just this burning ache for you and the meat between her legs. You can feel the throbbing in her pussy, hear the squelch of your cock sliding between her lips getting louder as you go faster. You want—so badly—to lose yourself in her warmth and her heat. You want nothing more than to just put your lips on hers and kiss her through this wave of passion you’re feeling.

So—against her wishes—you put your lips on her neck, starting sucking. You sense hesitation in her body, but it quickly fades and she tips her head to the side. She lets you have your way with her, relenting against you and letting you nibble on her skin as you piston yourself in and out of her.

“I hope you’re giving me something no other girl will experience,” she rasps. She’s shaking a little, her nails starting to dig into your back. “Fuck me like I’m the one that matters. I need it.”

You lift your lips off her neck. The skin is starting to change colour. “Minju,” you don’t know how you manage, but you just do. “You’re the best woman I’ll ever fuck.”

“Mhm?” she hums. It’s a little shaky and it’s high-key hot. “Is—mphm… is my pussy better than Chaewon’s?”

And there’s that common thread between her and your ex: that desire to know that they’re better than someone else. You’ll please her for tonight. “So much better.”

She quite literally twitches at that, reeling in the thought that she’s taking cock better than her friend ever would. “Ngh– am I tighter? Am I wetter?”

You move so that you can look her in the eye. “Shut up and let me fuck you, would you?”

The look in her eyes tells you that she’s proud of what she’s done. She lets her forehead press against yours. Her eyes close. “Okay… But only because I still kinda love you.”

How are you going to deal with her? With this?

You don’t. You dive back into the crook of her neck, lengthen your strokes into her. It’s all too much to handle right now. Too many emotions are in play; too many thoughts need attention. You just want her, no strings attached and no need to spout all this nonsense about love and wanting to be loved. You kinda hate her for it, so you fuck her harder. You don’t like that she’s bringing feelings into this like Chaewon, so you fuck her harder and harder till she’s almost crying.

She loves it, every second of it.

“Yes,yes,yes…” you can tell that she’s trying not to lose it all together, or maybe you’re just projecting. You can’t shake the feeling that your silence in response to her confession tells her that you’re gonna let her live this fantasy down right now. “Oh god you… Oh my fucking god.”

For long minutes, there’s nothing on your mind except her. You love the way she tenses and relaxes in your grasp, how she lets her body respond freely to your movements; the way her milky, smooth skin starts to bead with sweat, her hair sticking to her back; how her voice is kinda hoarse, how her lips claim your earlobe and she bites a little. As much as she’s frustrating, she’s entrancing. She’s hot, admittedly tighter than some of the girls you’ve fucked but also charming in her own way. Her moans aren’t the guttural type you get out of Karina or Eunbi, but more like a gentle yet kinda sordid exclamation of pleasure. Her breath is hot on your skin, a little hotter than you expect, but hot nonetheless. Her slim figure rocks against you, jolting when you get yourself nice and deep in her cunt, turning her into a nice bundle of nerves.

“I… Fuck… I’ve wanted this for so long,” she gasps. “But you’re here, actually here and… Fuck you’re just so fucking hot.”

And you know that’s her way of telling you that you’re better in real life than you ever will be in her wildest dreams. She’s turned on by the fact that you’re here, in the flesh and fucking her the way she likes it. Even though she surrenders to you, she’s gotten her way tonight. You’re fulfilling her desires just by being here, and your rock hard shaft drilling its way inside of her is really just a cherry on top.

(She’s kinda right: as sweet as she is, she likes being fucked like a slut.)

Even though it’s kinda her fault, Minju is your distraction, your break from it all. You give in: lose yourself in her smell, in her skin, in her flesh. You let yourself get absorbed in it all — her gasps, her cries; the way her pussy only gets tighter, the way her legs shake around you; the fire in your chest that drives your cock in and out of her cunt in firm, long strokes; the heat of her body against yours as she starts to tense in your grasp.

Then she’s cumming — a hot mess on her dining table as cock spears into her through her orgasm. Her walls clench around you, her nails claw at your back. She cries your name. She says she loves you over and over and over till the faculties of her speech give way and she goes a little slack in your arms. You revel in it, do your best to block out the parts that make you ache a little on the inside; fuck her through the wave of an orgasm she goes through and relish the feel of her tight pussy getting tighter and wetter. You don’t know how to put it into words, but all you can really say is that she’s fucking beautiful through it all – smutty art or maybe even straight up porn.

When you join her, you don’t even ask if you can cum in her; she’s gotten enough of her way tonight. With a final few pumps into her, you relent to the tingling in your shaft and bury yourself inside her. Your grunt is rather guttural, your load hot inside of her slick wet cunt. She sighs, almost as if she’s welcoming it into her body. You savour the moment. It’s a treat for yourself.

You stay like that for a bit — leaning against Minju and panting while you gather yourself again. She gently strokes your hair as she smiles at you, more than happy to keep you with her as you regain your bearings.

And just because she can, she kisses you on the cheek.

You can’t meet her gaze much longer. You turn your gaze downwards as you remove yourself from her pussy, watching as the mix of your juices flow out of her freshly-fucked cunt. She hums as it flows down from her slit.

“Forget what I said okay?” she requests, sounding remorseful as she takes your cheek in her hand. “You’re good at not taking things to heart, so do that for me, would you?”

You manage a small smile and nod.

Then she kisses you, softly.

“Thank you…” she breathes. “You just helped me delete some emails to you that I can never bring myself to send.”

***

You’re kinda in shambles to be honest.

Minju’s showering, which means that you have enough time to think about what your life has become. All these emotions are coming forth so suddenly, so quickly. You barely have time to process your school work and now this has come along and fucked you sideways. It makes your head hurt.

You decide to leave before she can get out of the shower. You can’t bear to see her again, but you do drop a text—Thanks for letting me crash. See you around—once you’re out of her apartment complex. You’re ashamed, but you were raised to know better than to leave without saying anything. But even though you do what you feel is right, something about what you’ve done doesn’t quite sit well with you.

And you’re in the park when the realisation hits. On the bench, you bury your head in your hands.

You’ve done to Minju what Chaewon did to you.

Had this one sitting in the drafts for quit some time. Realised I actually never posted it so here it is I guess. Happy New Year everyone! Have this unedited work as a gift while I work on another fic because I can.

#kpop #fanfic #smut #kim minju #minju smut #izone minju

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nnight-dances · 7 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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louisupdates · 3 months ago

Text

By Ed Power | Sat Nov 30 2024 - 05:15

During the pandemic the songwriter and producer James Vincent McMorrow would rise early, go for a run and write songs for Louis Tomlinson, of One Direction.

“I actually made half of a record for him,” he says. Tomlinson’s team “had a lot of songs but maybe not a lot that he was as into as he wanted to be. I think they were maybe looking for a weirdo. So they reached out to me. I love him. He’s a fascinating human being. I absolutely loved making that album,” adds McMorrow, who is about to start a tour of Ireland.

When it comes to potential collaborators with a boy band megastar, McMorrow’s name is not the first that springs to mind. He’s an indie songwriter whose open-veined, falsetto-driven pop has been compared to that of folkies such as Bon Iver and Sufjan Stevens. But Tomlinson was a fan of the Dubliner’s beautifully wrought music. He wasn’t alone: Drake famously sampled McMorrow on his 2016 track Hype.

One of the tracks they wrote together, The Greatest, would serve as the opener to Tomlinson’s second LP, Faith in the Future. As is often the way with the music industry, the rest are in a vault somewhere. Still, for McMorrow the opportunity to work with a pop star was about more than simply putting his craft in front of a wider audience. The call from Tomlinson’s team had come at a low point for the Irishman, who had become mired in confusion and doubt after signing to a major label for the first time in his career.

Executives at Columbia Records had recognised potential in McMorrow as an artist who bridged the divide between folk and pop. The fruits of that get-together would see daylight in September 2021 as the excellent Grapefruit Season LP, on which McMorrow teamed up with Paul Epworth, who has also produced Adele and Florence Welch.

The album was a beautifully gauzy rumination on the birth of his daughter and the muggy roller coaster of first-time parenthood. It went top 10 in Ireland and breached the top 100 in the UK. Yet the experience of working within the major-label system was strange for McMorrow, who at that point had been performing and recording for more than a decade. He didn’t hate it. But he knew he didn’t ever want to do it again.

“It was a weird time. I stopped touring in 2017. My daughter was born in 2018. I signed with Columbia Records at the same time and made a record that ... There were moments within it I was proud of. But fundamentally, I think if I was being very honest, I would say that I definitely got lost in the weeds of what the music industry wanted for me rather than what I wanted for myself.”

[…]

McMorrow grew up in Malahide, the well-to-do town in north Co Dublin; as a secondary-school student he suffered debilitating shyness. In 2021 he revealed that he had struggled with an eating disorder at school, ending up in hospital (“Anorexia that progressed into bulimia”). He was naturally retiring, not the sort to crave the spotlight. But he was drawn to music. “It was definitely a difficult journey,” he says. He wasn’t alone in that. “The musicians that tend to cut through and make it ... A lot of my friends, musicians that are successful, they’re not desperate for the stage.”

The Tomlinson collaboration was part of his strange relationship with the mainstream music industry. It went back to McMorrow’s third LP, Rising Water, from 2016. A move away from his earlier folk-pop, the project had featured engineering from Ben Ash, aka Two Inch Punch, a producer who had worked with chart artists such as Jessie Ware, Sia and Wiz Khalifa.

That was followed by the Drake sample in 2016 and by McMorrow writing the song Gone, which was at one point set to be recorded by a huge pop star whom he’d rather not identify.

“Gone is the red herring of red herrings in my entire career. I wrote that song for other people. I didn’t write it for myself. The whole reason I signed to Columbia Records and I had all these deals was because of Gone. I was very happy tipping away in my weird little world. And then I wrote that song, and a lot of bigger artists came in to try to take it,” he says.

“I won’t name names. There were recordings of it done. It got very close to being a single for someone else. I would go in these meetings with all these labels, and I would play it for them – just to play. Not with any sense of ‘This is my song.’ And they were, like, ‘You’re out of your mind if you don’t take this song. This is the song that will make you the thing that is the thing.’ And I was, like, ‘You’re wrong.’ For a year I basically was, like, ‘I disagree.’ And if you go in a room with enough people enough times and they tell you that you’re crazy ... I loved the song, but I did not love it for me. I never felt I fit. There was a little part of me that wanted to believe.”

As he had predicted, Gone wasn’t a hit. He received a lot of other strange advice, including that he cash in on the mercifully short-lived craze for NFTs by putting out an LP as a watermarked internet file. All of that was swirling in his brain when Tomlinson got in touch. To be able to step outside his own career was exactly what McMorrow needed.

“With Louis it was like boot camp. I had a very limited time with him. I had to wake up every morning, go for a run, write a song in my head, go to the studio. We made songs all day long. It lit a fire in my head again. I loved the process. I like sitting and talking to someone like Louis, who’s had this unbelievably fascinating lifestyle – so much tragedy in his life,” he says. Tomlinson’s mother and sister died within three years of each other, and his 1D bandmate Liam Payne died in October. “So many things have happened to him. I chatted to him and then write constantly. That was a lovely process.”

Because life is strange and full of contrasts McMorrow ended up working with Tomlinson around the same time that he was producing the Dublin postpunk “folk-metal” band The Scratch, on their LP Mind Yourself. “Totally different animals,” he says. “The Scratch album was an intense period in the studio of that real old-school nature of making music. A lot of fights. A lot of pushing back against ideas. A lot of different opinions. And you have to respect everybody’s opinions and find the route through.”

During his brief time on a major label, McMorrow was reminded of the music industry’s weakness for short-term thinking. In 2019, the business was obsessed with streaming numbers and hot-wiring the Spotify algorithm so that your music posted the highest possible number of plays.

“Everyone was driven by stats. ‘This song has 200 million streams.’ ‘That song has 400 million streams.’ I went into my meetings with Columbia Records ... the day I had my first big marketing meeting was the day my catalogue passed a billion streams, which, for someone like me, who started where I started, was a day where I should be popping champagne corks. Instead they immediately started talking about how they have artists that have one song that has two billion streams. So by their rule of thumb I was half as successful as one song by one artist on their label.”

Five years later he believes things have changed. He points to Lankum, a group who will never set Spotify alight yet who have carved a career by doing their own thing and not chasing the short-term goal of a place on the playlist. They are an example to other musicians, McMorrow says.

“I was in Brooklyn, doing two nights, a week and a half ago. In the venue across the road from where we were, pretty much, Lankum were doing two nights and had [the Dublin folk artist] John Francis Flynn opening for them. Those are two artists that, if you were to look at their stats, you wouldn’t be, like, ‘These are world-beating musicians.’ You start aggregating to this stat-based norm and you miss bands like Lankum, bands like The Mary Wallopers, people like John Francis Flynn.”

McMorrow is looking forward to his forthcoming Irish tour, which he sees as another leg of his journey to be his best possible self.

“The last two, three years have been a process of building it back to a version of me that actually made me happy rather than making me cry at night-time – a version that was making music because I liked it. Within this industry there’s so much outside noise. It’s quite overwhelming. I was overwhelmed. It’s been nice to reset the clock.”

In November 2022, McMorrow posted this now deleted Instagram post:

Text: late 2021 I got a phone call asking me if I wanted to come to London to meet @louist91 and possibly write some songs. A few years ago he released a statement talking about changing his path musically, instead of the immediate search for hits, he’d start with music he genuinely loved and see where it got him. Seems like a simple and obvious thing to say, but considering the amount of people just chasing hits with little regard for vision or artistry, a statement like that struck me when I read it. So I was excited to meet him and see what he was about. First day we met we all wrote Common People, second day we wrote Lucky Again. In December of last year we went back in again, finished those ones, wrote and produced 3 others that are also on this album. It was the studio line-up of dreams, @mrfredball @jmoon1066, @riley_mac. Shouts to Louis for letting us do our thing, letting a dork like me come write some weird lyrics and weird melodies, trust us to shape the vision that he had. These last few years were dark at times, but it was moments like that where I remembered why I’m obsessed w music and why it’s all I’ve ever understood. incredibly proud of the work, Holding on to Heartache is genuinely one of my most favourite songs I’ve ever been a part of.

Also I was reading something about the album and it mentioned something about the gospel choir on the bridge of that song… nah man thats’s just 200 stacked of me singing super super high in the studio out back of Fred’s house😂]

#james vincent mcmorrow #louis press #louis update #18.12.2024 #music industry #Louis songwriting #faith in the future #louis tomlinson

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aspirationalpeony · 1 year 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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treason-and-plot · 3 months ago

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Roy persuades Anya to try a complimentary Flaming Waylon at the upstairs bar overlooking the stage. She drinks it slowly, not really liking the overpoweringly bitter flavour of gin and grapefruit, but determined not to ruin the vibe. The band is impressive, the double bass player setting the groove with smooth and polished flair, the interplay between himself and the pianist causing spatters of applause to spontaneously erupt around the room.

“I didn’t know you like jazz,” says Roy, appearing at her side with a tall glass of something acid- coloured. He takes a long swig and gives her an exaggerated, leery wink. "I know you like jizz, though."

“Roy!" Anya tuts him and giggles, slapping his arm. They pause to listen to the band for a few moments. "My father's a big jazz fan and gave me an appreciation for it," she says. “But let’s not talk about him, okay? I want to enjoy our holiday.”

“Fine with me,” says Roy.

“What are you drinking?”

“A screwdriver,” he says. “One of the classics. Just like me. Do you want to try one?”

“Pass. I don’t think I like drinking at this time of the day.”

“We’re on holiday!” says Roy. “Time to kick back and let your freak flag fly, baby!”

“We haven’t even left the airport!” she protests, but then quickly laughs. “Okay, maybe I should try something that’s a bit sweeter and fruitier? This Flaming Waylon or whatever it’s called tastes like arsenic.”

Roy goes up to the bar and comes back with something that is bright green and fizzing and tastes like being hit in the back of the head by a drunken honeydew melon. He's on his third screwdriver and his eyes are bright and glittery and his grin contains more teeth than usual.

“I remember the first time Joël and I went into a bar when we were underage?” he says. “We caught a bus to the next town where nobody knew us and snuck into this dive bar except we suddenly realised we had no idea what to order, so Joël just blurted out '‘two whisky and vodkas’ when the bartender asked him what he wanted. We ended up with highball glasses that were half whisky, half vodka. And we sat in a corner trying to be cool and inconspicuous and shit and drank them and we were completely smashed in about ten minutes flat. And then we went and got two more. Neither of us could even remember getting home. I vaguely remember Joël puking at some point though and it coming out his nose. Ha ha! Good times.”

“A double whisky or a double vodka might have been slightly better tasting,” says Anya, but Roy’s attention is no longer focused on her but somebody else who has just entered the room, somebody whom he greets with a bellowing cry of “BOOYAH!! Johnno, you handsome fucking devil!”

#Roy #Anya #Back to Bridgeport #5 years later #sims 3 story

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heylittleriotact · 5 days ago

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𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

Emmrich works, Rook shops, dinner is imminent

Link to ao3 or read below the cut.

“Three times?”

“Yup.”

“And then this morning too?”

“Mhmm.”

“Damn. He must have been thirsting after you for ages.”

Rook tried not to look too pleased with herself as she regarded the shelf of dried pastas in front of her, purportedly deciding what shape she wanted, but in reality her mind was wandering down the enthralling path of recently forged memories from the night before.

The feeling of his lips on hers.

His scent.

The way he moaned while he was fucking her: not forced or put on. Instead, it was like he had never enjoyed anything in life quite so much as being entangled with her…

I’m in the grocery store with my best friend, picking up supplies for dinner - now is not the time.

Too late though: thoughts of Emmrich had already taken root, and sinful need slithered through her organs, twining around her guts and settling deep in her belly, impossible to ignore.

Later. Soon…

“Does he have Instagram? Facebook? I wanna see this silver-fox-fuck-machine for myself.”

“He doesn’t,” Rook said quietly, her lips curling at the absurdity of Emmrich having any kind of social media accounts. Most funeral professionals had nearly invisible online footprints - in an age where everyone you ever met was likely to look you up online, remaining largely unsearchable was the only sure way to guarantee your privacy.

“LinkedIn?”

Rook wrinkled her nose and pulled a box of linguine off the shelf, tossing it in the basket Leon held. “What? Cuz he’s old?”

“I mean… yeah?” Leon shrugged, his soft, dark brown eyes widening innocently.

“Shut up, Leon,” Rook squeezed past him, bumping her shoulder against his pointedly despite the abundance of space in the empty aisle.

“What?” He giggled, falling into step behind her, shaking his luxurious mane of thick black hair. “Nothing to be ashamed of - you were the one that couldn’t shut up about him at the Mussels Absinthe show a few weeks ago. You bagged yourself a sugar daddy - good for you! Wish I had that pull.”

Her cheeks heated as they wandered towards the produce section, “Can you maybe try not using your fucking radio voice while we’re discussing my sex life in the grocery store on a Thursday afternoon?”

“Just sex then?” Leon forged on, not bothering to lower his warm, booming voice at all. “Or have the seeds of romance been planted and fertilized?”

“Leon.” Rook ground out, looking around to make sure no one else was being subjected to this.

“Oh yeah,” he remarked observantly, “You fucking like him, don’t you?”

“What’s not to like?” Rook retorted, manhandling a practical, sound-minded bit of dignity into the conversation as she selected a basket of mushrooms. “He’s stable, supports himself, has a functioning vehicle that’s not filled to the windows with garbage, doesn’t bitch when I tell him to wear a condom, and knows how to get a girl off.” She dropped a mesh bag of garlic bulbs into the basket with unwarranted spite. “Bet he won’t ask me to buy weed for him and his band buddies, or go running to Mummy for rent money each month either.”

“I love it.” Leon said, rubber voice adopting a whimsical tone, as he switched the basket to his other hand and squeezed a grapefruit because Rook knew he’d eyed it and felt like he needed to. “The complete about-face rebound from pie-in-the-sky wannabe rockstar burnout to sophisticated man-about-town is truly inspiring. Tommy is gonna shit himself.”

“It’s not a rebound, and Tommy’s not gonna know a damn thing about it,” Rook snapped, sounding just as harsh as she intended to. “That fucking dickhead doesn’t deserve a window into whatever happens to be going on in my life. He lost that privilege when he fucked that stupid waitress at The Hanged Man… and that was after the shithead already fucked around once and got caught.” She shoved a few shallots into a bag, pretending she was shoving them down Tommy’s throat. “I know he asks around about me - I’m not stupid - and you’d better not be fucking telling him anything about me: I don’t want him knowing where I work, what I’m up to, who I’m fucking, or even what I’m doing with my fucking hair these days. He’s a piece of shit and I hope he chokes on his fucking tongue.”

“Point taken,” Leon raised his eyebrows. “And just so you know: I haven’t said a word to him - and I never would. I haven’t even seen him around at shows or anything for the past month at least.”

“Good,” Rook quipped, calm entering her voice. “Maybe he’s finally made himself useful and gotten a fucking job. Or better yet: done us all a favour and dropped dead.”

It was always one thing to make arrangements with a family that clearly didn’t know much about their loved one in life, but it was quite another thing altogether to sit in an arrangement office with the overwhelmed family trying to guide them towards decisions while simultaneously steering them away from ones that their loved one was blatantly disagreeing with in real time.

“Next! I really don’t care for gerber daisies and I haven’t a clue as to why they think I have some sort of attachment to them.”

Emmrich subtly glanced up from the pages of the binder of floral arrangements into the ghostly visage of the recently deceased octogenarian hovering around it with the rest of her family.

Over the years he had mastered the art of subtly urging the living towards the decisions of the dead, but it wasn’t always easy: it was a balancing act on both fronts that to his knowledge, no other funeral professionals but himself had to manage: the rest only had to worry about satisfying the living. Emmrich had to make sure everyone was pleased.

Try explaining that to the dead, though: the average person rarely considered it in life, but the reality was that funerals were - and always had been - just as much for the living as they were for the dead. Of course celebrating the life and legacy of the departed was of utmost importance, but the communal event itself: the ritual of a funeral, be it Andrastian, Qunari, non denominational, or anything in between was arguably more for the people left behind than the ones who did the leaving: an opportunity for the bereaved to come together and support each other through the heaviest days of their grief. To weep, and laugh, and share stories and regrets. But the world was changing, and fewer and fewer people saw the value in said rituals. Thought them trite and old-fashioned and impractical.

It was a shame, really. But as it stood, society seemed to prefer to grieve privately… or not at all, preferring to bury their sorrows in busy things like work, and commitments; happy to deny that they felt anything at all in favour of letting that vacuous wound inside of them fester and scar rather than accepting the laborious journey of grief and the healing that came with it. No one liked saying goodbye. No one enjoyed losing a loved one. But… that was life, wasn’t it?

And of course, what came after death was a mystery to everyone. Even Emmrich, who had been able to commune with the metaphysical imprints of the recently deceased since childhood was unable to say for certain what followed that final breath: not everyone became a ghost, it seemed, and those that did tended not to linger overlong - less out of choice, he knew: the echo of a soul could seemingly only sustain itself in this realm for a finite time, becoming progressively less substantial before eventually fading away forever. Where it went after that, he couldn’t say.

That was what kept him awake at night. Not the awful music someone might choose, or the fear that his funeral would be poorly attended. No - it was the creeping, uncaring entropy of death itself. The utterly dispassionate way it claimed everybody and everything. The way it would eventually claim him too.

“While we were working on your Mother’s obituary, I recall that you indicated she kept a garden at your childhood home in Cumberland. Are you able to remember if there were any flowers that she particularly enjoyed growing there?”

Of course he was asking her surviving son and daughter, but he was most certainly asking the ghost of Maude Laviolette as well. Something to go off of from any of them would be helpful at this point - they had been in arrangements for nearly two hours by then, and it was clear that everyone was growing tired.

“Delphiniums. Stock. Snapdragons.” Mrs. Laviolette ticked off garden flowers on her ghostly fingers, her voice an echoing melody composed of emotion and memory.

As the Laviolette siblings looked at each other over the table, trying to work out exactly what flowers their mother might have grown all those years ago, Emmrich flipped a few laminated pages of the binder, allowing himself to idly wonder what sort of flowers Rook liked - or if she even cared for them at all. It was so difficult to tell with her - assumptions almost always turned out to be wrong in her case, but she clearly had an affection for things that grew, so surely she appreciated the beauty of flowers?

“Perhaps an arrangement similar to this one here? The ‘Garden Stroll’ casket spray?” He tapped a ringed finger over the picture of a stunning arrangement of delphiniums, spray roses, mums, and iris that ranged from a delicate, powdery blue, to deep violet, to white.

“Oooooh you clever man!” The echo of the elderly woman clasped her hands under her chin and joy crept into her voice. “This is lovely! Could we swap out the mums for stocks and add in some snapdragons?”

“Oh yeah! Some of these look a lot like what Mum grew. The blue ones especially!” Eve Laviolette looked at her brother and pointed at the delphiniums in the photo. “Remember these ones, Aiden?”

Aiden Laviolette scratched at his dark brown beard and squinted at the binder.“I do. I do remember those. But there were others too that were kind of similar…”

“Snapdragons?” Emmrich prompted, for all intents and purposes, a senior mortician who was very well acquainted with flowers after so many years of doing this.

“That’s it!” Aiden exclaimed, “Snapdragons!”

“May I suggest if you’re adding the snapdragons, for the overall shape and spirit of the arrangement, you might consider switching out the chrysanthemums for some nice, gentle stocks? I’ve seen a similar arrangement where it was done to great effect.”

It wasn’t lying. Not really. Just… massaging the truth such that everyone - whether they had a pulse or not - was happy… or as happy as they could be given the circumstances…

He flipped to another page to show them an arrangement that featured some stocks.

“Eve, don’t you think that maybe Mum grew these too?”

Eve leaned over the page to take a closer look and gasped. “She did! What are the odds?” She looked up at Emmrich, her thin lips curving into a generous smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was giving you instructions from beyond the grave!”

Emmrich returned the smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling warmly as his face took on the oft-used expression that imparted comfort and peace to those living through dark days.

“A happy coincidence only, I’m afraid, but one that Mrs. Laviolette would be pleased with, I hope.”

His eyes strayed ever so slightly over Eve’s shoulder to see the phantom of Maude Laviolette, looking chuffed as anything as she looked over her daughter at the picture of the chosen floral arrangement.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, rubbing her daughter’s upper arm with the tender familiarity that only a mother could impart. Eve’s expression changed to one of surprise as she looked up at the touch, looking over her shoulder and seeing nothing. “You really are a credit to your profession. Thank you for taking such good care of my kids - Maker knows they need it right now.”

Emmrich entered the customizations for the casket spray into the file, went over the remaining details that needed to be decided that day, and printed the contracts to the administration office.

Taking the navy blue garment bag containing the clothing that Mrs. Laviolette’s family had brought for her to wear, he excused himself, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. He would see to the contracts and give Eve and Adrien a few minutes to chat openly amongst themselves and have some space without the pressure of a near-stranger sharing the room with them.

Rebecca (‘Becks’ as she was known to most) handed him the itemized clothing intake form he’d gone over with the family and printed out, and he folded it in half and placed it inside the garment bag before writing Mrs. Laviollete’s name on a manila tag and attaching it to the clothing hanger with a rubber band.

“Thank you, Rebecca,” he handed the permanent marker he’d used to sign the tag back to Becks and took the contracts from her next. “Oh, could I trouble you for a jewelry envelope? They also brought her glasses, her wedding rings, and a pair of earrings if memory serves.”

The relief admin reached into a drawer under the desk and surfaced with a self-sealing, manila envelope, adding it to Emmrich’s growing pile of paperwork.

It was always strange seeing someone else sitting at Rook’s desk. He’d gotten so used to seeing her there over the past months. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rebecca - quite the contrary: she was very good at her job, and a lovely person, but she wasn’t Rook.

“Did you get permission to post the obit on the website?”

“Ah! I thought I may have forgotten something… my apologies, Rebecca - I’ll be sure to ask before they leave.” He treated her to an apologetic smile and scrawled a few x’s on the contract to better indicate where the family needed to sign.

“Forgetting things, Emmrich?” Remarked Joan, the other permanent chapel administrator from her own desk. She was in her forties and had tightly curled hair the exact colour of nutmeg. She twirled her pen in her hand and smirked at Emmrich - this sort of harmless teasing was not unusual from Joan. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fight you clearly lost with an octopus last night, would it?”

Oh dear - his collar must have slipped down, revealing the deep mauve love bites Rook had left on his neck.

“That’s hardly any of your business, dear Joan,” he retorted curtly, adjusting his collar with dignity as he continued to review the funeral contracts.

“You gonna bring them to the Wintersend dinner?” She demanded, and Emmrich threw a cautionary glance at Becks as she failed to subtly lean over her desk to try and catch a glimpse at his neck.

“Perhaps,” he flipped the page, circled the price of the casket upgrade that they had discussed. His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, heralding the arrival of a text message - he already knew who it was from, and his stomach fluttered pleasantly. “We shall see.”

“You haven’t brought a date in years,” Joan said. “Was just talking about it with Wayne-“ ah yes, Wayne: Joan’s husband who worked at the nearby cemetery - somewhat rough around the edges, but a lovely fellow all the same. “- last one was that uh… what was she an art appraiser or something?”

“An art dealer,” Emmrich sighed, focusing intently on the contract hoping that Joan would take the hint: he saw little reason to stand around discussing a former flame with colleagues. Not with a family next door.

“That’s right!” Joan pointed her pen at him. “Any idea what she’s up to these days?”

Emmrich bit back his annoyance and forced his expression to remain stoic. “I haven’t any reason to, so no.”

He preferred not to think about Philomena. Preferred not to think about how the avant-gardé and eclectic Orlesian patron of the arts was initially swept off her feet by his charm and eccentricity; his passionate need to understand death and all of its facets, and his almost poetic talent for finding splendour and hope amongst decay and putrefaction.

He felt terrible about himself whenever he thought too hard about her, and he was reminded by his subconscious that she’d gone back to Orlais about a year into their relationship and stopped calling him, texting him, and emailing him without a word of warning.

He never really understood why - never got a tidy explanation - but he had a few guesses: likely a culmination of many things - one too many cocktail or dinner parties amongst the elite creatives of Nevarra where he misread the room. One too many anecdotes about death or decomposition delivered with the casual ease of someone describing the process of preparing an omelette: “It’s a commonly held misconception that rigor mortis is a permanent affliction, however, the stiffening of joints and muscles after you pass on only lasts for a few short hours. Admittedly it can make it challenging for one to manipulate the extremities during that time, but simply massaging the affected areas causes rigor to subside in short order, restoring flaccidity and range of movement so the limbs can be moved freely once more.”

“… Ohhh!” Someone would say with feigned enthusiasm after too many moments had passed without anyone saying anything. “How… interesting!”

The slightly agape mouths and raised eyebrows told a different story.

Add to that one too many declarations of love and romantic intent: words trotted out in flowery verse; expensive gifts lavished with the unspoken hope that they could make him enough in her eyes: I can provide, see? You will never want for anything. I am safe. I am kind. I love you, I love you, I love you - will you love me?

He knew he got too attached too quickly and too easily. He always had, and when he was inevitably left to clean up the aftermath of another lover’s hasty departure from his life, his old friend and colleague, Johanna was always quick to point out that of course he had managed to frighten yet another one away with his saccharine yearning - as if he needed reminding.

Not that he cared what Johanna thought, but he could practically hear her calling him a cradle-robbing pervert upon learning about Rook.

And would she be wrong?

Sighing again, he marked up one more place on the contract before heading back to the arrangement office.

As he vanished around the corner, he heard Joan say to Becks too loudly for it to be accidental, “Seems pretty miserable for a dude that just got laid.”

I really should have taken her out for dinner first. How thoughtless of me…

The guilt hadn’t subsided by the time he arrived home to shower, change, feed Manfred, and return to Rook’s apartment.

She’d messaged him twice throughout the day. Once in the morning to say she’d had a nice night, and once in the afternoon to say she was looking forward to seeing him again shortly - that one had been accompanied by a picture of her wearing nothing but a towel, the curves of her perfect breasts just barely concealed by the grey terry; drenched hair dripping tantalizingly over her skin.

He was grateful he’d waited to look at that one until after the Laviolette family left, because within minutes of opening it, the utterly gorgeous still frame of her had him rock hard, and he found himself shamefully jerking off in a stall in the staff bathroom, desperate to finish so he could refocus himself and concentrate on his final arrangement meeting of the day like he wasn’t some sort of lurid sex obsessed deviant who had successfully reduced a woman like Rook down to a vapid sex object.

He was grateful for a change that the family he was assisting wanted a direct cremation with no service, no viewing, and no obituary. The sole executor brought the will, and was the only person attending the meeting. Everything had been prepaid in advance by the deceased, so there were no changes nor any new decisions to be made: simple, quick, and to the point.

Despite this, Emmrich still managed to spell the word ‘preparation’ incorrectly three times in a row, and almost gave the son making the arrangements Rook’s business card instead of his own.

There was nothing for it: he was a mess.

A besotted, smitten, horny mess, and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before he frightened her away too. What was he thinking? That this young, beautiful creature with a lifetime of promise and possibilities before her would be in a hurry to tie herself down to a man old enough to be her father?

That she would happily embrace the strange looks they would almost certainly get in public as people drew conclusions they had no business drawing?

That she would quickly come to know the worst of him that dwelled beneath the thin veneer that was the ‘best’? The insecurity and loneliness and self-loathing; the irrational fears and anxieties that kept him awake at night and overwhelmed his mind at times, leaving him little more than a quivering, hyperventilating wreck, curled up under the blankets and praying for the Ativan to kick in soon.

She would figure out that he was too much. Too different. Too weird - even by the very broad definition applied by morticians.

He would have to tell her that he could see and speak with the dead.

He would have to tell her that more than anything in life, he was afraid of dying - a wildly contradictory fear for one in this profession.

She was going to know before long that the carefully crafted facade of Emmrich Volkarin was a lie - brazenly thrust into the world, and effective only because of the sheer amount of time he’d been insisting upon it.

She doesn’t deserve this.

She deserves a future full of joy and potential and dreams that are entirely attainable, should she only dare to wish for them.

I didn’t even ask her to dinner before I slept with her…

It seemed stupid to get hung up on that, but he was: mutual feelings or not, it fell to him to take the lead, and rather than controlling himself and treating Rook with the respect she was due, he took her to bed and didn’t even have the decency to spend the entire night.

She deserves respect, and here I’m treating her like a fantasy…

Tuning out Manfred as he twined around and through his ankles, coating the hem of his pant legs with white fur, Emmrich sighed and pulled out his phone, preparing to call Rook and tell her he couldn’t do it - he wasn’t coming over.

But before he could place the call, a banner appeared at the top of his screen.

Another message from Rook.

‘Are you on your way yet?’

A reasonable and fair question - that wasn’t the part of the message that made his eyes prickle unexpectedly. It was the words that followed.

‘I miss you.’

‘I just made it home - I’ll be over soon - close to 7:00. I miss you too, Rook. I missed you all day.’

Just as he said he would, Emmrich arrived right at 7:00. Rook had spent the last twenty minutes stationed at the window again, staring down the length of her street, her stomach leaping whenever she saw headlights turn off the main road.

When she finally saw the recognizable shape of Emmrich’s lights, her stomach flip-flopped even harder, and she pushed away from the window, taking a moment to check herself over one last time in the mirrored closet doors to make sure she had dressed herself properly: her hair was nicely pinned up in a bun with stray wisps pulled loose to frame her face, and she turned her back to the mirror, looking over her shoulder to check for the twentieth time that she hadn’t accidentally tucked the hem of her stretchy burgundy velvet mini dress into her thong. Her stockings were free of runs, and she hadn’t managed to soak sweat stains under her arms yet - though she suspected that was about to change. Her makeup still looked pristine, and the softly tinted gloss she’d chosen over her traditional matte red lipstick still looked good.

Satisfied, she slipped out of her apartment and down the stairs where she waited at the front door for Emmrich to appear, emerging from the dark to stride up the walkway, as elegant and refined as ever.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight she’d been waiting all day to see: him - with his perfectly styled silver hair and his angular, distinguished face. He wore the same black pea coat from the night before, and had switched out the brown chinos for charcoal grey tweed trousers that bore the same impeccable tailoring. With his expensive looking Antivan wingtips and his cream coloured scarf he looked like a bougie fashion journalist or something.

He looked fucking hot.

“Fuck me…” she murmured under her breath before flinging the door open and grinning at him. “Hey.”

“Hello, Rook,” he beamed, stepping inside and taking the weight of the door from Rook, letting it close shut gently behind him.

He was holding a white paper shopping bag, and his glasses fogged up again the same way they had before, and for a moment she was at a loss for what to do with herself as they occupied the small vestibule.

Making a decision for both of them, he swept her against him with his unburdened arm and brushed his lips over her left cheek, then her right, before releasing her.

“I’m sorry it took me so long - traffic and Manfred, you see.”

Hoping he couldn’t see her sway in place as the elation of being touched by him again negated her ability to balance properly, she unlocked the main door and he followed her inside and up the stairs.

“Oh no… no problem at all. I know it’s a long drive. How was Manfred?”

“Oh he managed to break into the pantry today and ate an entire loaf of bread. I think he’s rather upset that I was absent last night for far longer than I usually am.”

Guilt wrung Rook’s gut then. “Sorry,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, offering a sympathetic grimace as they continued their ascent. “I’d say you could bring him with you next time, but there’s a ‘no pets’ policy and my landlord is a real prick about it - last year the old man in 204 got a hermit crab to keep him company after his wife died and the prick made him get rid of the little guy.”

“How sad,” Emmrich frowned, looking genuinely sorrowful at this.

“I brought him a house plant - a cutting of Perry, actually - and I try to visit him once a week for coffee. He’s grateful, but I think he’d be happier with his hermit crab… or his wife for that matter.”

Emmrich’s mouth curved in a soft smile, though the melancholy didn’t leave his eyes. “That’s very sweet of you, Rook.”

“It’s not,” she argued placidly. “It’s just the right thing to do: people should look out for each other, but for some reason they just… don’t and it annoys the fuck out of me.”

“That makes two of us,” Emmrich agreed, wincing slightly as they made it to the landing of Rook’s floor.

“Shit, sorry - are you okay?”

“Oh yes, just the ever-present protestations of knees that I should have cared for better in my youth.”

Rook didn’t know what to say to that. She certainly couldn’t render solidarity in the form of a believable ‘Ugh! Me too! Fucking achy joints amirite?’

She didn’t have achy joints: she was 25.

So instead she just nodded and opened the door to her apartment, ushering Emmrich inside with the same elevated politeness that she ushered families into visitation rooms with.

“What have you got there?” She asked, pointing at the bag that he had set down in the entryway so he could undo his scarf and slip out of his coat.

“Give me a moment to sort myself out and I’ll show you,” he retorted with the tempered ease she’d come to know. He hung his coat and the scarf on a hanger and put them in the closet before removing his shoes. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Damn right I do - I don’t dress up in my own house for just anybody.

“Thank you.”

Emmrich straightened and pushed his shoes to the side of the mat with his foot. He was wearing dark green dress socks with a beige diamond pattern on them, and a black turtleneck that made for a decidedly Warhol-esque look.

They regarded each other silently for moments that lasted far longer than they had any right to, clearly both at a loss as to how best to proceed.

“I uh… haven’t started dinner yet, but if you want some wine, I—“

Something seemed to snap into place in Emmrich’s brain and his eyes widened at her words. “Wine. Right!” He scooped the white paper bag up from the floor and reached inside, withdrawing a visibly dusty bottle and handing it to Rook. “You must forgive me - I didn’t think to ask what was on the menu tonight, so it might be a poor pairing - foolish of me - but the… the wine I brought you last night is… well it’s…“ he sighed wearily, “This will be far more palatable, trust me.”

Rook looked at the bottle in her hands, swaths of dust cleared away to reveal dark, shining glass where her fingers and his had touched it.

She was far from a connoisseur of wines, generally opting to drink anything that had a price tag of $10 or less - or came in a box - and would surely get her drunk faster than beer.

“This is… this is… really nice wine, isn’t it?”

Emmrich made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, “Hardly the nicest, but a definitive improvement on anything with a screw-top.”

Rook swallowed, feeling out of her depth: poor… stupid… uncultured.

Seeming to pick up on her discomfort, he plucked the bottle from her hands and wiped the remaining dust from the label. “It’s from my personal collection: one of a few that I have left from a good year. I think I purchased a case of these for eighteen dollars per bottle, so it’s less that I broke the bank, and more that I stumbled upon something good and decided I wanted to hold onto it.”

“I don’t even know if I have a corkscrew,” she admitted, still feeling sheepish.

“Well we’ll sort that out if we need to,” he treated her to that easy, nonjudgmental smile again and picked up the bag again, handing it to her. “For you.”

Rook’s eyebrow raised when she accepted the bag. She peered into it, then back to Emmrich, then she abandoned the entryway, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and reaching inside.

Her fingers closed around a hard ceramic pot, swaddled in cardboard and plastic. Carefully lifting it, she set the pot on the counter and pried the plastic away, revealing a plant with deep green leaves and a woody stem. Its delicate limbs curled prettily upwards, and small white buds were nestled in the fragrant greenery.

She gently rubbed a leaf between her thumb and forefinger, saying hello to her new friend.

“You brought me a plant?” She asked, staring at the fledgling creature, her heart filling. “What florist is even open at this hour?”

“Odella’s, of course,” Emmrich answered, naming the florist that McDermott & Rafferty had contracted out for funeral flowers for years.

She felt his presence drawing close to her, heard him place the wine bottle on the counter gently, then felt his hand on the narrow curve of her waist - almost tentatively at first until it became obvious that she was not going to flinch away… only then did it settle. With his other hand he brushed a sprig of leaves and stooped slightly behind her, placing his face alongside hers.

“I thought to bring you flowers at first, but this seemed a more fitting offering than an impermanent and fleeting bouquet, given your passion for growing things.”

She didn’t understand why at the time, but the fact that he remembered - or even cared - about her affinity for houseplants made something tighten in her chest.

Tommy hated them. He thought they were a waste of time. Told her if she was gonna bother putting so much energy into growing something, it might as well be smokable.

“Do you… like it?”

Rook realized that she hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t said anything. Not so much as a ‘thank you’.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, though she hadn’t any clue what it was. “It’s… it’s a…?”

“A jasmine plant,” Emmrich assisted. “It will bloom for you in time, so the flowers are forthcoming.”

Rook pulled her gaze from the small potted plant and turned against the edge of the counter so she was facing Emmrich.

“Something to look forward to, then,” she smiled, looking up at his kind face. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Thank you. For the plant, and the wine… you didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he entreated, his sweet, spearmint scented breath washing over her cheeks as she fixated on the enticing shape of his lips.

She still needed to start dinner. She hadn’t even put music on. She promised him a meal, and here she was, wasting time…

“You been tested recently?”

The amorous look in Emmrich’s eyes vanished, replaced with confusion. “Tested? I—?”

“STI panel.”

“Oh!” The faintest blush crept over the bridge of his nose and he looked at the cupboards over her shoulder. “Every year, or after a new partner, whichever comes first, but… I haven’t had a new partner in some time and-“

“You’re clean?”

The flush deepened, diffusing over his cheeks. “W-well yes, of course, but-"

Satisfied, Rook pushed away from the counter enough to drop to a crouch, one knee brushing the floor as she undid Emmrich’s belt buckle and slipped the button of his trousers loose.

Catching on, he managed to babble, “Rook, darling, y-you don’t have to-“ before she dropped his zipper and pulled his dick out of his underwear, casting one cheeky look up at the stammering man in front of her before taking him in her hand and dragging her tongue up the underside of his cock.

“Ah!” He moaned unbidden at the sudden wet warmth when she took him into her mouth, buckling slightly against the counter behind her. “R-Rook!”

Her other hand found the back of his thigh and she locked him in place, filling her mouth with his semi-hard length, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him in, her pussy immediately responding to the high pitchy breaths - little half groans and whimpers - that poured from his lips.

He was surprised by this sudden turn of events, yes, but he didn’t pull away; didn’t tell her to stop. Instead, his gasps gave way to deep elated sighs as she worked him with her mouth and her hand, taking her time and worshipping his long, thin cock, tracing every handsome vein; revelling in the salty tang of his skin and the slickness of his precum on her tongue as she knelt in front of him.

“S-so good…” he whispered, carding the fingers of one hand through her hair, his head tipping back, “Oh… that feels so, so good…”

I know it does, handsome…

Rook hummed approvingly around him, feeling him throb against the roof of her mouth. She let go of his cock, wrapping her wet fingers around the back of his other thigh before slackening her jaw, opening her throat, then taking him deep, deep, and deeper still until she felt him butt against the space just beyond her tonsils. He squirmed in her hands, biceps femoris fluttering coyly under her fingertips. His hand tightened in her hair, but not enough to hurt.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, filling her lungs and belly, lost in the cathartic victory of the bliss she was subjecting him to; the smell of him; the dainty sweetness of the viscous, anticipatory fluid that continued to seep from his sensitive slit...

He moaned her name quietly again when she eased him further down her throat, exhaling slowly… so slowly through her nose as she went, bobbing her head slightly and going further with each stroke until he was fully seated and her nose brushed skin beneath the coarse thatch of hair on his lower belly.

He positively vibrated in her hands - ass clenching, thighs spasming, hips jerking, the nails of his free hand scrabbling over the smooth surface of the counter as Rook swallowed around him and fucked him with her throat, each lewd wet thrust punctuated by the unseemly sound her vocal cords made as they were repetitively prodded by his intrusive length.

“Darling…” he whined, a man toeing the chasm of abandon. “D-darling please… I can’t… oh - I’m going to— ohhh!”

His words were cut short and he went rigid as a corpse before uttering a strangled yelp and collapsing against the counter with a thud, propped on an elbow as his hips jerked gracelessly against Rook’s face and she felt his hot, thick cum spill down her throat - one satisfying, relieving pulse after another.

She moaned as she swallowed him, cunt aching as she drank him deep, his warmth spreading through her, her name falling raggedly from his mouth over and over and over, each repetition more reverent than the last.

When he was done, she twitched her jaw, let him slip wetly from her, traced her lips with her tongue, and smiled up at his fucked-out face.

“I was looking forward to an appetizer, and it was delicious…” she rose, tucking his cock back into his pants and doing them up. “So… how about that glass of wine, handsome?”

It was actually pretty funny, the way that Emmrich was gaping at her with his unusually clumsy fingers absently trying to configure his belt buckle, his face flushed and shiny with post-orgasmic bliss.

“Wine,” he swallowed, throat bobbing, hazel eyes blown out behind the lenses of his glasses. “Yes, yes… allow me.”

He seemed to grasp onto some scant flotsam of rational thought amongst the pitching sea of post-nut clarity and finished with his belt, sliding his sleeves up his forearms and clearing his throat before saying (roughly), “If you did happen to have a corkscrew, where might it be?”

#emmrook #emmrich x rook #modern funeral home au #emmrich #emmrich volkarin #dragon age emmrich #this is an emmrich thirst post #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #rook is a grimy mall goth #dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fan fiction #dragon age fan fic #this old man needs to have his mind and dick blown frequently okay

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huellitaa · 2 months ago

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bee's 2024 favourites 🎀

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 music!

🧁𓂃 ࣪˖ singers & bands

tomorrow x together

avril lavigne

pinkpantheress

chappell roan

millionares

pierce the veil

nirvana

girls generation

amy winehouse

megan thee stallion

tommy february6

gwen stefani

kali uchis

charli xcx

🎀𓂃 ࣪˖ albums

strawberry cream soda pop daydream, tommy february6

bling bling bling, millionares

the best damn thing, avril lavigne

tomorrow, tomorrow x together

eternal sunshine, ariana grande

boa, megan thee stallion

nevermind, nirvana

a brief inquiry into online relationships, the 1975

brat, charli xcx

big juicy, ayesha erotica

bleach, nirvana

sanctuary, tomorrow x together

⭐️𓂃 ࣪˖ songs

candyman, christina aguilera

lonely boy, tomorrow x together

eternal sunshine, ariana grande

cherry, lana del rey

beaches, beabadoobee

worthy, megan thee stallion

lottery, kali uchis

hands up!, 6arelyhuman

good luck, babe!, chappell roan

tinnitus, tomorrow x together

supernatural, ariana grande

obsessed, mariah carey

lucky girl syndrome, illit

its not living if its not with you, the 1975

ordinary things, ariana grande

cool, gwen stefani

i like money, millionares

tears dry on their own, amy winehouse

its a wrap, mariah carey

bet u wanna, sabrina carpenter

love, lana del rey

imperfect for you, ariana grande

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 beauty!

🍭𓂃 ࣪˖ bodycare

imperial leather, mallow and rose body wash (🎀🗒 note: one of my signatures!! ♡)

garnier rice water & starch hair mask ♡

barrym pink grapefruit lip scrub

beauty of joseon glow serum ♡

skinny dip london creamy vanilla sugar body scrub ♡ (🎀🗒 note: one of my signatures!! ♡)

💬𓂃 ࣪˖ makeup

no.7 shimmer face palette (highlighter, blush, etc.)

MUA metamorphosis lip & cheek oil (og extra) (🎀🗒 note: one of my signatures!! ♡)

maybelline new york, the colossal (mascara)

barrym "thats swell!" lip plumper

rimmel london sculpting palette (002 coral) (🎀🗒 note: one of my signatures!! ♡)

rimmel london maxi blush ♡

charlotte tilbury collagen lip bath kit

charlotte tilbury pillow talk lip lustre (🎀🗒 note: my autumn / winter signature ♡)

⭐️𓂃 ࣪˖ scents

miss dior, blooming bouquet ♡

sweet tooth, sabrina carpenter

jimmy choo, rose passion (🎀🗒 note: one of my signatures! ♡)

victoria's secret, bare vanilla (🎀🗒 note: my autumn / winter signature ♡)

avon, far away ♡ (🎀🗒 note: my summer signature ♡)

so, strawberry frappe (🎀🗒 note: my summer signature ♡)

so, flower bloom (🎀🗒 note: my spring signature ♡)

👛𓂃 ࣪˖ clothing

leg warmers ♡

low cut long sleeves

long coats ♡

subtle lace and frill accents ♡

tiered skirts

glitzy belts

dangly earrings

beaded jewelry

lots of accessories! ♡

long scarves (🎀🗒 note: my winter /autumn signature ♡)

hairclips hairclips hairclips ♡

flared, low waisted jeans

plaid halter tops (🎀🗒 note: my summer signature ♡)

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 entertainment!

🍬𓂃 ࣪˖ tv shows and series

my little pony!!!!!!!!♡

rick and morty

strawberry shortcake

gilmore girls♡

monster high

inside job♡

true beauty

kimi ni todoke

gossip girl

🧁𓂃 ࣪˖ movies

princess diaries

legally blonde♡

kiki's delivery service

arrietty♡

princess and the frog♡

🎀𓂃 ࣪˖ video games

the witcher 3♡

kirby's return to dreamland♡

animal crossing: new horizons

infinity nikki♡

sky: children of the light

wuthering waves

legend of zelda, tears of the kingdom

honkai star rail♡

genshin impact

project sekai♡

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 misc.!

🍮𓂃 ࣪˖ favourite trinkets

my melody tea party series figure blind box ♡

all the little sanrio trinkets i got from my advent calendar!

sylvanian family baking baby party series blind bag ♡

lalaloopsy sew magical! sew cute! pink button doll

lalaloopsy minis limited edition golden princess figure (🎀🗒 note: i dont remember the series name😭)

my melody afternoon tea series figure blind box ♡

funko pop! my melody lolita limited edition figurine ♡

lalaloopsy sew magical! sew cute! pink button doll mouse

🐧𓂃 ࣪˖ favourite plushies

👛𓂃 ࣪˖ favourite cds

the best damn thing avril lavigne cd ♡

live through this 1994 hole cd ♡

formula of love twice cd

tomorrow ethereal txt cd ♡

this is how tomorrow moves bea cd

norman fucking rockwell lana del rey cd

all my love, and happy new year! 🎆🎀🫶🏻💗

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haveyoulistenedtothisalbum-poll · 14 days ago

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Tracklist:

Stardew Valley Overture • Cloud Country • Grandpa's Theme • Settling In • Spring (It's A Big World Outside) • Spring (The Valley Comes Alive) • Spring (Wild Horseradish Jam) • Pelican Town • Flower Dance • Fun Festival • Distant Banjo • A Glimpse Of The Other World (Wizard's Theme) • Summer (Nature's Crescendo) • Summer (The Sun Can Bend An Orange Sky) • Summer (Tropicala) • The Adventure Guild • The Stardrop Saloon • Luau Festival • Dance Of The Moonlight Jellies • Fall (The Smell Of Mushroom) • Fall (Ghost Synth) • Fall (Raven's Descent) • The Library And Museum • Stardew Valley Fair Theme • Festival Game • Spirit's Eve Festival • Winter (Nocturne Of Ice) • Winter (The Wind Can Be Still) • Winter (Ancient) • Winter Festival • A Golden Star Is Born • Country Shop • Night Market • Submarine Theme • Mermaid Song • Calico Desert • Playful • Buttercup Melody • Pleasant Memory (Penny's Theme) • Piano Solo (Elliott's Theme) • Land Of Green and Gold (Leah's Theme) • A Stillness In The Rain (Abigail's Melody) • Starwatcher (Maru's Theme) • A Sad Song (Alex's Theme) • Pickle Jar Rag (Haley's Theme) • Echos (Sebastian's Theme) • Grapefruit Sky (Dr. Harvey's Theme) • Frozen Pizza And Eggs (Shane's Theme) • Song Of Feathers (Emily's Theme) • Dreamscape • Emily's Dance • Alex's Keepsake • Band Practice • Sam's Band (Electronic Version) • Sam's Band (Pop Version) • Sam's Band (Bluegrass Version) • Sam's Band (Heavy Version) • A Dark Corner Of The Past • Music Box Song • Jaunty • Violin Solo • Wedding Celebration • Mines (Crystal Bells) • Mines (A Flicker In The Deep) • Mines (Star Lumpy) • Mines (Icicles) • Mines (Marimba Of Frozen Bones) • Mines (Cloth) • Mines (Visitor To The Unknown) • Mines (The Lava Dwellers) • Mines (Magical Shoes) • Mines (Danger!) • In The Deep Woods • Journey Of The Prairie King (Overworld) • Journey Of The Prairie King (The Outlaw) • Journey Of The Prairie King (Final Boss & Ending) • Load Game • Sun Room (Alone With Relaxing Tea) • Grapefruit Sky (Pasta Primavera Mix) • The Happy Junimo Show Theme • Movie Theater • Crane Game • Wumbus (Movie Theme) • Exploring Our Vibrant World (Movie Theme) • The Zuzu City Express (Movie Theme) • Movie Theater (Closing Time) • JunimoKart (Title Theme) • JunimoKart (The Gem Sea Giant) • JunimoKart (Slomp's Stomp) • JunimoKart (Ghastly Galleon) • JunimoKart (Glowshroom Grotto) • Ginger Island • Professor Snail's Radio • Volcano Mines (Molten Jelly) • Volcano Mines (Forgotten World) • Mystery Of The Caldera • The Gourmand's Cave • Pirate Theme • Leo's Song • Summit Celebration

Spotify ♪ Bandcamp ♪ YouTube

#hyltta-polls #polls #artist: concernedape #language: instrumental #decade: 2010s #Video Game Music #Sequencer & Tracker #Digital Fusion #Ambient #Bluegrass #Comfy Synth #Modern Classical

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sdv-confessions · 25 days ago

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I kind of wish that the dateable characters had secondary themes and that members of the town had their own themes. I want musical motifs from the romancable NPC's songs to come back in a new version showing their growth. I want to know how Jodi sounds. What song plays in Alex's heart when he's not sad. I wish Marnie and Lewis had leitmotifs that could compliment each other yet are fill with discords when overlayed.

The closest we have right now to that are:

Saloon Theme being considered Gus's theme

Museum Theme being considered Gunther's theme

Adventurer's Guild theme being considered Marlon and Gil's theme

Wizard's theme when you walk into the tower

Pasta Primavera Mix for Grapefruit Sky (Harvey's theme)

Leo having his own theme

Sun Room Theme being Caroline's theme

Sam's you could argue becomes the Happy Junimo Show theme song, since his theme is usually "Sam's Band" and that can change depending on playthrough

We need more of this for the rest of Pelican Town.

(Also, anyone else notice similarities in Caroline and the Wizard's themes I feel like they share similar leitmotiffs).

#sdv confessions #sdv #stardew valley

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thewintersoldierdisaster · 1 year ago

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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 · 9 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 · 2 years 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.

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