#has done. Not the face or hair or freckles but the most expensive the most OPEN thing about Marco aka his eyes

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Swimming | Sebastian Sallow x OC #59

Summary: ;)

Words: ~8,400

Tags: Confessions, Mutual Pining, Smut Adjacent

Timeline: Early September

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Evangeline froze, her mind momentarily blank as Sebastian’s shirt hit the sand. She hadn’t expected him to take her seriously. The idea of swimming had been a passing remark, something to fill the silence between them and steer them away from the weight of their earlier argument. And yet here he was—barefoot, bare-chested, and completely unapologetic about it.

The fading light cast a soft glow that caught on the planes of his chest and shoulders, highlighting every defined muscle and faint scar. He’d grown broader in the past few months, and it was all on display—the hard edges and smooth planes of him, the breadth of his chest and the angular cut of his abdomen.

Her eyes couldn’t help but wander, tracing the faint smattering of freckles that dotted his shoulders, subtle and almost boyish against the otherwise sharp lines of him. Her gaze lingered, catching on the faint trail of hair below his navel that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, and heat crept into her cheeks despite the coolness of the night air.

Evangeline swallowed hard, tearing her gaze away and forcing her thoughts back into order. She hadn’t meant for things to go like this—not after the way she’d stormed off, her emotions raw and exposed. She knew why Sebastian had followed her, why he’d come looking for her. He’d wanted answers. Closure. Something to mend the fracture between them. And yet, since the moment he’d arrived, he hadn’t pressed. He’d been patient, careful even, letting her dictate the pace of their conversation.

That patience was what had thrown her off the most.

Evangeline knew Sebastian. She knew his pride, his stubbornness, his instinct to charge headlong into everything, to fix things with grand apologies and passionate words. But tonight, he hadn’t done any of that. He’d stopped short of an apology, stopped short of pushing her to talk. Instead, he’d waited. For what, she wasn’t sure—her temper to cool, perhaps, or for her to make the first move. Maybe even for her to tell him to leave. And now, this strange in-between had settled over them, fragile but strangely comforting.

She’d been talking so calmly with him—not because she wasn’t still hurt, but because she wasn’t ready to face the inevitable. The confrontation they’d been skirting around all evening. The confrontation she knew she couldn’t avoid forever. It would come, and when it did, it would leave them either stronger or broken. And she was terrified of the latter, so she’d kept things light, conversational, even teasing. Anything to delay the moment when everything might come crashing down.

“Well?” Sebastian said, his voice breaking through her thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes glinting in the fading light. “Don’t tell me you were bluffing.”

Evangeline’s mind raced as she tried to summon a coherent response. “I—uh…” She cleared her throat, dragging her gaze away from him and fixing it firmly on the lake. "Do you really expect me to... to just jump in?"

Sebastian's eyes narrowed. “What’s stopping you?” he asked. “You were the one lamenting the lack of swimming in our lives.”

“That was hypothetical,” she countered, crossing her arms defensively. “You’re the one who's turning it into a reality.”

“Exactly,” he replied, now reaching for the button of his trousers. “So come on."

Evangeline blinked, averting her eyes. "I can't just go into the water in my dress Sebastian," she managed to retort. “The, um. The boning in the corset will get ruined, and do you have any idea how expensive these things are?”

Sebastian blinked, clearly not expecting the sudden turn into practicality. “Expensive,” he echoed, looking vaguely bewildered. “Right. Of course. You dress has boning… and it's expensive.”

“Yes, and I’m not about to ruin it just because you’ve decided tonight’s the night for an impromptu swim,” she replied more steadily now, folding her arms and glaring at him.

He tilted his head, studying her for a moment before realization dawned on his face. A flicker of something she couldn’t quite place passed through his expression—nervousness? Determination?—but he quickly schooled it into his usual smirk. “Alright,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “Then we’ll fix that.”

She raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Fix what, exactly?”

Sebastian stepped closer, his confidence faltering slightly as he cleared his throat. “The dress. I can, uh… help you take it off.”

Evangeline’s eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks. “What?”

He held up his hands, his face turning a faint shade of pink. “Look, I’m just saying—if the corset back is the only thing keeping you out of the water, then I’ll help. That’s all."

She stared at him, caught somewhere between mortification and disbelief. “Sebastian, are you seriously offering to—”

“Undo the laces? Yes,” he interrupted, though his tone was uncharacteristically careful. “I’m not about to let you sit this out because of a stubborn bit of boning.”

Evangeline bit her lip, torn between laughing at his audacity and retreating entirely. But the truth was, she didn’t want to leave. For all her inner turmoil, being here—just here—with him was better than the alternative. Better than walking away entirely, better than facing what the world outside this quiet moment demanded of them.

"Okay," she said slowly, her cheeks burning as she glanced down at the lake rather than meet his gaze. "But... you do realize that under this, I’m only wearing…" She hesitated. "You know… ."

Sebastian, who had taken a step closer, visibly stiffened. For a moment, and she could swear his ears turned a shade darker under the moonlight. But instead of retreating, he cleared his throat and nodded, doing his best to appear unbothered.

"Yeah, it's fine," he said, though his voice was just slightly too quick. He gestured to his trousers, his smirk returning but with an edge of bashfulness that made it feel less like a tease and more like a reassurance. "I won't be diving in fully dressed, will I? So, you’ll be in your underthings. And I’ll be in mine. Completely fair. No big deal, right?"

Evangeline blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. No big deal? He was saying it so casually, as if the thought of both of them standing there, practically undressed after they'd just had a shouting match, wasn’t completely mortifying. "Right," she said faintly, trying to sound more composed than she felt. "No big deal."

Sebastian stepped closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried, as if he were giving her every chance to stop him. Evangeline felt the shift in the air before she heard the faint crunch of sand beneath his feet, his presence settling behind her like a steadying force. The warmth of him, so close yet not quite touching, sent a ripple of awareness down her spine.

Her breath hitched as she sensed his hesitation, a momentary pause that felt like the calm before a storm. Then, with a touch so light it was almost imperceptible, his fingers brushed against the ties of her dress.

Evangeline had been in love with Sebastian for so long that she’d imagined him undressing her countless times in the privacy of her own thoughts—moments steeped in longing, tenderness, and stolen intimacy. But she’d never, never expected it to happen in a scenario like this: standing barefoot at the edge of a moonlit lake, her cheeks aflame and her corset undone by his hands under the guise of practicality after they'd just stumbled out of a heated argument that neither of them had truly resolved.

Her breath hitched as his fingers worked at the laces, each pull sending a jolt of something unfamiliar through her. She couldn’t deny the thrill of it, nor the longing it dredged up, raw and unrelenting. But with it came a rush of self-consciousness—her mind spinning with the thought of him seeing her, really seeing her, with nothing to hide behind but her own vulnerability.

The ties loosened one by one, and her pulse quickened. Of course, this wasn’t the first time they’d shared an intimate moment. The memory of the Prefects’ Bath flickered through her mind, that night when they’d both shed their clothes and submerged themselves in the steaming water. But there had been bubbles then, clouds of froth that had kept her modesty intact.

Now, there were no bubbles to shield her, no warm water to obscure the curves and imperfections she tried so hard not to dwell on. It was just him, her, and the moonlight, casting its soft glow over everything she wanted to hide.

“There,” Sebastian murmured, his voice low as he finished untying the last of the laces. He stepped back, giving her space, though his fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “You’re free.”

She swallowed hard, clutching the loosened bodice to her chest as she turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his expression out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly—his gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder, his jaw tight, as though he were making a conscious effort to give her privacy.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice barely audible.

Sebastian cleared his throat, stepping back further. "Sure."

Evangeline stood motionless for a moment, watching as Sebastian now worked at the button of his trousers.

Steeling herself, she glanced around for somewhere to place her dress. Her eyes landed on a flat, dry rock a few feet away, its surface smooth and clean. Perfect.

With trembling hands, she finally let the rest of her dress slip away. The cool night air kissed her exposed skin, and a wave of self-consciousness hit her like a crashing tide. She was bare now, save for the lace of her bra and underwear, and every one of insecurities clawed its way to the surface.

The stretch marks she bore from the rapid weight loss and gain after fifth year—the ones that etched themselves across her hips and stomach and thighs—seemed glaringly obvious under the moonlight. The soft curve of her belly, the rolls on her back, the dimpled skin of her thighs. The scars from Quidditch mishaps and childhood scrapes. She felt the weight of it all, the imperfections she had long tried to accept but never quite could. Here, under the stars, it felt as if the world could see them all, and most painfully, so could he.

Sebastian, having finished unbuttoning his trousers, let the fabric slide down his legs before stepping out of them, leaving him in nothing but his briefs. The moonlight caught on the lean strength of his frame—the broad shoulders, the taper of his waist, the long lines of his legs. His hair, dark and tousled, fell slightly into his eyes as he reached down to gather his trousers, balling them put before tossing them up the beach.

Swallowing hard, Evangeline started toward him, hoping to slip into the water before he could get a proper look at her bare form. The cool sand pressed against her feet as she stepped closer to the water’s edge, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection in a subconscious attempt to shield herself.

But Sebastian turned at the sound of her approach, his gaze instinctively flickering toward her before quickly darting away, as if realizing too late the vulnerability of the moment. His jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat. "Uh, tell me how the water is?"

She let out a breathless laugh, part nervous and part exasperated as she waded into the lake. The coolness bit at her toes, and she focused on the sensation, letting it ground her as she moved deeper into the lake.

Sebastian, to his credit, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the water in front of him. His posture was stiff, his usual air of nonchalance tempered by a rare, palpable awkwardness.

“It’s cold,” she said finally, her voice cutting through the silence. “Refreshing, though.”

He nodded, still not looking directly at her. "Good. That’s… good."

Evangeline couldn’t help but smirk, despite her own nerves. “You can stop pretending you’re suddenly fascinated by the lake, you know. I’m already in the water.”

Sebastian glanced at her, his expression sheepish. “Just trying to be a gentleman,” he said, his smirk returning, though it was softer than usual.

“Well,” she said, now swimming toward the center of the small lake, “if that’s the case, you’d better get in before I change my mind about this whole thing.”

His laugh was low and warm as he followed her, the ripples of the water spreading outward with each step he took.

"You're right," he agreed. "It's refreshing."

They swam in companionable silence for a while, the cool water easing the sharp edges of their tension but not erasing it entirely. It still hung in the air between them, weighty and unspoken, like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

Meanwhile, the quiet sounds of the lake surrounded them—the gentle ripple of water as they moved, the distant call of an owl, and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Evangeline tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the endless stretch of stars above them. The sky seemed alive with shimmering light, so vast and serene that, for a moment, it almost allowed her to forget the weight in her chest. Almost. But the knot of their unresolved argument still coiled tightly within her, tugging at the edges of her calm. It was in the way Sebastian’s movements in the water were just a touch too deliberate, in the way he kept glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was waiting. And she knew why.

Sebastian, maintaining his patience, let out a contented sigh. “You don’t get skies like this in London,” he said, his voice low and reflective. “Too much smoke. Too much noise.”

Evangeline turned her head toward him, tracing his features as he gazed up at the sky.

“You miss it, don’t you?” she asked, her voice soft as her eyes traced the stars above. “Feldcroft, I mean.”

Sebastian nodded slowly, still gazing upward. “I do. The peace. It’s hard to find a place like this anywhere else. London’s too loud. Too busy.”

“It’s nice that Feldcroft will always be here for you to come back to,” she replied lightly, her tone tinged with a wistfulness she hadn’t intended. Their conversation slipped into a comfortable quiet again as they floated, the water cradling them in its cool embrace.

But the serenity didn’t last.

The splash caught her off guard, a sudden burst of cool water striking her arm and sending a shiver through her skin. She flinched, startled, her eyes snapping to Sebastian, who wore an expression of feigned innocence that only made her suspicion grow.

It wasn’t much—just a small, lazy flick of his hand through the water—but it shattered the fragile tranquility of the moment. For a second, she didn’t move, her mind racing to catch up with the unexpected interruption.

“Did you just...?” she began, her brow furrowing as she stared at him.

Sebastian shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as though he couldn’t quite hold back a grin. “What? I didn’t do anything.”

Evangeline narrowed her eyes at him, her confusion giving way to incredulity. “Oh, you didn’t, did you?”

“Not a thing,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. But there was something beneath it, something she couldn’t quite name—a tension he was trying to hide behind the playful glint in his eyes.

For a moment, she just stared at him. The shock of the gesture had faded, replaced by a flicker of realization. Maybe he wasn’t just waiting for her to bring up the inevitable—maybe he was delaying it too.

The thought unsettled her, but it also... softened something inside her. The weight of their argument, the tension that had lingered all evening, hadn’t disappeared. But maybe neither of them wanted to face it just yet.

Narrowing her eyes, she cupped her hands and sent a splash of water straight back at him. He yelped, sputtering as it hit him square in the chest.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said, his grin widening as he retaliated with a much larger splash.

Evangeline shrieked, laughing as she tried to shield herself from the spray. “Stop!” she cried, though her words were punctuated with giggles.

“Not a chance,” he called back, dodging her next attempt and kicking up another wave.

The fight escalated quickly, their laughter ringing out into the quiet night. Evangeline managed to land a few solid splashes in retaliation, sending water cascading over Sebastian’s shoulders and face. He grinned, his eyes alight with mischief, and waded further out, using the deeper water to his advantage as he sent another wave her way.

Evangeline shrieked as the cold water hit her square in the face. “Sebastian Sallow!” she yelled, trying to sound indignant, though her laughter betrayed her. “You are so dead!”

“Catch me if you can, Sterling!” he shot back, already swimming toward the shallows.

Without thinking, she followed. Her legs churned through the water as she tried to close the gap, but Sebastian was faster, his strides growing longer as he reached the shore and took off running along the sandy bank.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she called after him, determination sparking in her chest as she splashed onto the shore and gave chase, her earlier self-consciousness forgotten in the heat of the moment.

The cool sand shifted beneath her feet as she sprinted after him, the night air whipping around her damp skin. Sebastian glanced back over his shoulder, his grin wide and triumphant even as he saw her gaining on him.

But then her foot caught on an uneven patch of sand, and her balance wavered. She let out a startled yelp as she stumbled forward, her arms flailing in an attempt to steady herself.

Sebastian turned just in time to see her slip, his instincts kicking in. In a heartbeat, he was there, catching her around the waist before she could hit the ground. The force of her momentum sent them both stumbling.

In the aftermath, Evangeline froze, her breath catching as she registered what had just happened. She was sprawled against Sebastian, their bodies tangled together on the sand. His arms were wrapped firmly around her, his grip warm and steady as if to shield her from the fall. Her hands, instinctively braced against his chest, registered every inch of lean muscle beneath her palms, slick from the water.

Her chest was pressed to his, her damp bra and doing little to disguise the softness of her. His legs bracketed hers, their bodies aligned in a way that left no room for misunderstanding. She could feel the heat radiating off him despite the cool night air, the firmness of his hands pressing into the plushness of her waist, grounding her.

They had been close before—hundreds, perhaps thousands of times—but there had always been layers between them. Layers of fabric, propriety, and unspoken boundaries neither had dared to cross. Those layers had always been a buffer, a safety net that kept them tethered to a careful kind of intimacy, one that teetered just shy of something deeper.

Now, though, every one of those layers was gone. The cool water dripped down her skin, and the air between them felt impossibly thin. Her head swam as her gaze flickered, unbidden, to the damp hair clinging to his forehead, dark tendrils framing the sharp angles of his face. Her eyes trailed lower, to the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, and the way his lips parted slightly with each steady breath he took.

It was intoxicating, and for one fleeting moment, she allowed herself to linger in the feeling, to imagine what it might be like to let herself give in completely to the warmth of his touch and the intensity of his gaze.

But then, like a bucket of ice water, her insecurities surged to the forefront.

She was too much. Too vulnerable. Too exposed. And he could see everything. Feel everything. The softness of her body, usually hidden beneath structured corsets and flowing skirts, was now pressed against him with nothing to conceal it. Her curves, her imperfections, her vulnerability—it was all right there, melting into him. She could feel the press of her stomach against his abs, the way her thighs seemed to mold against his. Her stretch marks, her scars—everything she tried to ignore or downplay felt glaringly obvious.

Her thoughts spiraled in chaos, screaming at her to pull away, to create the distance that might save her from unraveling completely. But her body betrayed her, frozen in place, refusing to let go of the warmth and solidity of him beneath her.

Sebastian shifted slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, low and rough with something she couldn’t quite name. “Evie?”

“I—” she began, her voice faltering as she felt his thumbs brush against the curve of her waist, sending a jolt of warmth through her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It's fine,” he interrupted gently, his grip on her tightening just slightly, as if to steady her—or maybe himself. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

She let out a breathless laugh, but the sound felt hollow. “Yeah."

I should move. She knew she should. But she couldn’t. And she realized with a start, that he wasn't moving either.

Sebastian’s voice broke the silence again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Was this part of your grand plan? Throwing yourself at me like this?”

Her cheeks flamed instantly, and the mortification snapped her out of her daze. “What? No!” she blurted, scrambling to push herself away from him, her hands bracing against his chest for leverage.

But as she moved, Sebastian’s grip reflexively reached for her hips to steady her—or at least that’s what she assumed he intended. The result, however, was nothing short of disastrous. Instead of breaking free, her movements shifted her forward, leaving her straddling his hips as her knees sank into the cool sand on either side of him.

Evangeline froze, her breath catching as the new position sent a shockwave of awareness through her — the warmth of his abdomen radiating through the damp fabric of her underwear, the firm grip of his hands still pressing into her sides. Her entire body felt exposed, laid bare in a way that made her chest tighten and her breath hitch. And the angle—Merlin, the angle—made it so much worse. He was beneath her, looking up with an unobstructed view of everything she tried so hard to hide.

Sebastian, meanwhile, let his head fall back into the sand, the cool grains pressing against his damp hair as he shut his eyes tightly, a soft, almost pained groan slipping past his lips.

He needed to ground himself. To stop his thoughts from spiraling into places he couldn’t afford to go right now. But it was impossible.

From the moment she’d landed on him, sprawled and warm and so real, he'd been done for. Sebastian was drowning in her, in the feel of her, the weight of her on top of him, the heat of her against him. His hands spanned her hips, plush beneath his fingers, the kind of softness he’d dreamed of countless times but never dared to hope he’d actually feel.

When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted with the sight of her above him, framed by the silvery glow of the moonlight. She looked ethereal, her damp hair clinging to her face and shoulders, a few dark strands curling against the curve of her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from embarrassment or exertion he was unsure, and her hazel eyes were wide, darting between his own and his mouth as if she couldn’t decide where to look.

And then there was her body, her glorious body that left him breathless. Her thighs framed his hips, plush and firm in a way that sent heat pooling low in his stomach. The curve of her belly rested just above the waistband of her panties, soft and utterly mesmerizing. Instinctively, his thumbs brushed against the supple give of her hips. It was all he could do not to drag his fingers lower, to let himself explore the curves and dips that had haunted his thoughts for years.

And her chest—Merlin, her chest. The damp fabric of her bra clung to her like a second skin, the delicate lace barely containing her obnoxiously full breasts as they rose and fell with each shallow breath she took. Sebastian swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his fingers tightening to anchor himself to reality.

It was too much. The feel of her, the sight of her—he felt like he’d been pulled into one of his dreams, one of the countless fantasies he’d entertained over the years when he let himself imagine what it might be like to have her like this. But this wasn’t a dream. Evangeline was here, her body soft and real beneath his hands.

"...Sebastian?" The way she said his name, so quiet and full of uncertainty, nearly undid him.

Sebastian swallowed hard, his voice caught somewhere between a hum and a sigh as he tried to focus on her words instead of the overwhelming reality of her warmth against him.

“Hm?” he managed.

Evangeline’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you… alright?” she asked, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Was he alright? No. Absolutely not.

“I—” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he forced himself to look at her. “Well, Evie, you’ve just tackled me into the sand. Do I look alright to you?”

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a moment, she stared at him, her expression torn between indignation and something softer—something vulnerable. “I didn’t tackle you,” she retorted, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.

“Oh, really?” he teased, his lips quirking into a faint smirk despite the tension coiling in his chest and low in his abdomen. “Because it feels a lot like you tackled me.”

Evangeline’s gaze darted away from his, her hazel eyes fixing somewhere over his shoulder as though the horizon suddenly demanded all of her attention.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she looked as though she might say something sharp to counter his teasing. But instead, she ducked her head ever so slightly, her dark hair slipping forward to frame her face like a shield.

“Well, sorry. Just… um. Don’t look at me too closely, okay?”

Sebastian blinked, his brows furrowing as her words hit him. He felt the tension in her body, the way her shoulders seemed to curl inward as if she were trying to shrink away from him even while her weight remained firmly atop him. Despite the heat pooling low in his stomach, an ache bloomed in his chest at the quiet vulnerability in her voice.

She wasn’t just embarrassed. She was worried.

She was worried about him seeing her. She was worried about how he would see her—worried that what she thought about herself was what he might think too. And in that instant, something inside him irrevocably shifted.

In the past, Sebastian would’ve been horrified to admit the hold she had over him—the way she could unravel him with a single glance, a soft laugh, or the briefest brush of her hand against his. For years, he had fought to bury those feelings, to shove them deep into the corners of his heart where they couldn’t hurt either of them. He told himself it was for the best, that admitting how much he wanted her, how deeply she affected him, would only complicate things—ruin what they had, because he'd never be good enough for her.

So, he had kept it hidden. He turned his attraction into half-teasing quips and fleeting, stolen moments of closeness that he knew he could laugh off later. He flirted with other girls, chased fleeting distractions, anything to fill the void.

But now? Now, with her sitting atop him, her cheeks flushed and her body trembling with an uncertainty she couldn’t quite hide, every feeling he had fought so hard to suppress came crashing to the surface, relentless and impossible to ignore, demanding to be spoken.

Because this wasn’t just about his lust for her. It wasn’t just about wanting to touch her, to hold her, to watch her come undone by his hand. It was about how deeply it hurt him to see her doubt herself. To see her sit there, beautiful and radiant in the moonlight, and think for even a second that she wasn’t enough. That she wasn’t everything.

He knew admitting the truth was risky, he'd always known it. That's why he'd never done it. It could change everything between them, destroy the delicate balance they had maintained for so long, destroy this unspoken thing between them—the blurred line they had walked for months now, somewhere between friendship and something so much more.

But he couldn’t keep lying to himself, and he couldn’t keep lying to her. Not when he saw the way her insecurities gnawed at her, the way she tried to shrink away from him as if she could hide all the things she thought weren’t good enough—things he had long ago fallen irrevocably in love with.

He didn’t know what to say or how to say it. He had dreamed about this moment countless times, but now that it was here, every word he’d ever rehearsed in his head felt inadequate, clumsy. He knew he would stumble, that he probably wouldn’t say the right thing or make her feel the way she deserved. But fuck it. None of that mattered anymore.

Sebastian’s hands flexed against her hips as he let out a soft breath, trying to steady himself. “...Evangeline?”

She stiffened at the sound of her name, her hazel eyes reluctantly darting back to meet his. There was a mixture of hesitation and uncertainty in her gaze, and he could see her battling whatever thoughts were swirling in her head.

“...What?”

His own voice came out low and rough, strained with the effort of keeping himself in check. “If you back your ass up just a little,” he continued, the words deliberate, their weight unmistakable, “you’ll realize exactly what happens when I 'look closely'.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parting slightly as his words sank in. The air between them grew heavy, charged with a tension that neither of them could ignore. Sebastian held her gaze, his own unwavering. “I promise you,” he said softly, his tone laced with raw honesty, “my body isn’t exactly subtle about how it feels about you right now.”

For a long, breathless moment, she didn’t move. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath catching audibly in her throat. Sebastian waited, his heart pounding in his chest, unsure of what she was going to do. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d pushed too far, if he’d crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.

But then, slowly, her hand lifted from his shoulder. Her movements were hesitant, trembling, as her fingers brushed lightly against the waistband of his underwear. A spark of heat shot through him at the simple contact, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

Her hand moved lower, her palm pressing against him, and the world tilted on its axis.

Sebastian's breath left him in a sharp, ragged gasp, every nerve ending lighting up as her warmth seeped through the thin fabric separating them. His grip on her hips tightened instinctively, his fingers curling into the soft flesh.

Evangeline’s hand froze there, her palm resting against the hard, unmistakable length of him, and her eyes widened in surprise, her breath coming faster as though she hadn’t actually believed him—hadn’t truly expected his arousal.

“Oh,” she murmured, the single syllable escaping her lips like a startled exhale.

“Oh?” Sebastian repeated, his voice breathless, almost incredulous. “Oh?”

Her cheeks turned a deep crimson, the color spreading down her neck, and her lips parted again, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Her hand moved away, and Sebastian nearly groaned, the absence of her hand leaving him aching and desperate for more. He couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound was rough and uneven. “What did you expect?” he asked, his voice low and heavy with need. “I’ve been telling you for ages how beautiful you are. Did you think I was joking?”

Her blush deepened, and her fingers twitched as if she didn’t know what to do, whether to pull away entirely or press closer.

“I just…” she started, her voice faltering before she finally let the words out in a rush. “I didn’t think—well, I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? It would probably happen with… with any girl, right?”

Sebastian blinked at her, and for a moment, he simply stared, the disbelief washing over him like a wave. “Evangeline,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense, “you can’t seriously think that.”

She flinched slightly at the weight of his tone, and her gaze darted to the side, her fingers tightening on his shirt as though bracing herself. “Well, I… I didn’t think—”

“—You didn’t think you were my type,” he finished for her, his voice soft, laced with a quiet tenderness that balanced the exasperation flickering at the edges.

“I—well, whenever you said I was pretty, I just... I thought you were being nice,” she mumbled.

Sebastian didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. He shook his head. “Nice?” he echoed, his voice rough with disbelief and a hint of frustration. “Evie, you have no idea.”

He shifted beneath her, his body rising as he pushed himself upright, bringing them face to face. The sudden movement made Evangeline inhale sharply, her hands instinctively gripping his shoulders to steady herself as she remained perched in his lap. He didn’t give her time to pull away or retreat—his hands moved with deliberate care, sliding up from her hips to cup her face gently.

Her brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering in her eyes. “What are you—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted, his voice low but steady, a quiet intensity in every word. “You have no idea how hard it’s been pretending. For years, Evie. Pretending I wasn’t completely attracted to you. Pretending I didn’t notice every little thing about you that drives me absolutely mad.”

She froze, her breath catching audibly, but Sebastian wasn’t done. He swallowed hard, his gaze unwavering as he continued. “Since fifth year, Evangeline. Since the day we met and you obliterated me in that duel,” His voice softened, his words carrying the weight of all the years he’d kept them buried. “You’ve no idea what it’s been like. Being so drawn to you, wanting you so badly, and forcing myself to act like it wasn’t there. Like nothing was happening.”

“And now?” he continued, his voice growing quieter but no less raw. “Now that we’ve been sharing a bed for months, do you know how torturous it’s been? Having you so close, knowing you’re right there, and pretending it doesn’t affect me? Pretending I don’t want you?” He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “And now, when you’re literally on top of me... How am I supposed to hide it, Evie? How am I supposed to pretend this doesn’t feel like I’ve slipped into one of my dreams?”

Her face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson, and her hands trembled slightly where they rested on him. “Sebastian...” she whispered, her voice fragile, but he pushed forward, determined to get it all out.

“I get it,” he said softly, his tone shifting into something more vulnerable, almost apologetic. “I understand if this is a lot for you. If it’s too much. And I’m so sorry if you feel like I’ve been deceiving you all this time. But I didn’t know how else to handle it—I didn’t want to ruin things between us. But I... I couldn't let you think for another second that you needed to hide from me. Let you think you weren't good enough."

“In all the flings I’ve had,” Sebastian pushed forward, his voice quieter now, raw and honest in a way that made his chest ache. “All those girls... I imagined you.” His dark eyes searched hers, desperate for her to understand. “It was always you, Evangeline. Not them. Not anyone else. Just you.”

Her expression softened, her wide eyes filling with something he couldn’t quite name—shock, maybe, or disbelief, or something more vulnerable. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak, her hands hovering now as though she didn’t know whether to hold onto him or pull away.

The silence stretched and Sebastian’s caught the unmistakable glimmer of tears in her eyes. Panic surged through him, sharp and relentless.

He’d said too much.

The thought gripped him, twisting in his chest. He had gone too far, laid bare feelings he had guarded for years, and now he was watching her unravel beneath the weight of his confession.

His pulse thundered in his ears. Why hadn’t he stopped? Why hadn’t he held back like he always had, like he was supposed to? This wasn’t how things were meant to go—this wasn’t how he’d imagined her reacting if he ever mustered the courage to tell her the truth. Maybe he’d overestimated her feelings, maybe this was too much for her, maybe—

Her hands, hesitant but warm, slowly rose to his face, fingers trembling as they brushed against his cheeks, as though testing if he was real.

Sebastian froze.

“Evangeline,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, rough with emotion. “I—”

“Stop,” she murmured, cutting him off. Her voice wavered, soft and unsure, but there was no anger in it, no rejection. If anything, she sounded... overwhelmed. “Just… stop for a second.”

He obeyed instantly, holding his breath as her hazel eyes darted across his face. “You’ve... thought about me?” she asked, her voice unsteady, almost disbelieving. Her fingers tightened slightly against his cheek. “Like... that?"

“Every day,” he admitted instantly, his voice hoarse. “Every bloody day, Evie. For years. And you—” He let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, and I’ve been too much of a coward to tell you because I couldn’t risk losing you.”

Evangeline certainly didn't miss the way he'd worded it, calling himself a coward. He could see it in the way her eyes searched his, darting across every line, every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, as though adding pieces to the puzzle she'd been trying to solve. And Sebastian held perfectly still, his breath shallow, his heart pounding so hard it drowned out the night around them.

Her brows drew together, a faint crease forming between them as confusion and disbelief flickered across her face. “Sebastian…” she began softly, her gaze dropping for a brief moment before lifting again to meet his. “How you feel… Is it just... a physical thing?”

Her words landed like a blow, and Sebastian’s heart clenched painfully, panic igniting in his chest like a wildfire. “No—” The word burst from him sharper than he’d intended, the urgency in his voice startling even himself. Her eyes widened slightly, and he immediately winced, his tone softening as he leaned closer. “No. It’s not just that. It’s not even close to just that.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he fought to untangle the mess of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. His dark eyes locked onto hers, pleading silently, desperately, for her to understand. “Do I think you’re beautiful? Merlin, yes. You’re stunning, Evie. You drive me absolutely mad, and you have for years. But it’s so much more than that.” His voice cracked slightly, and he leaned closer, his hands cupping her face in return as if afraid she might slip away.

“It’s you,” he said, his words trembling with the weight of everything he’d kept bottled up. “You’re everything. Everything I never knew I needed until we met. Everything I’ve been too afraid to want. And it’s not just about how you look, or how much I want you—though Merlin knows I do.” He exhaled shakily, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s about you. All of you.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Heavy. Crushing. It stretched between them, every second of her quiet pulling him further into the churning void of fear. His heart thundered in his chest, the sound almost deafening in his ears, and though his hands stayed steady against her cheeks, his mind was unraveling.

Why wasn’t she saying anything? Had he said too much?

When he couldn’t bear the silence any longer, his voice broke through it, raw and pleading. “Evie,” he whispered, his throat tightening around the name. “Please. Say something.”

Her breath hitched audibly, and she let out a shaky exhale before covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes darting away from his.

Sebastian’s stomach plummeted. Dread sank its claws into him, dragging him down into a pit of despair deeper than anything he’d ever known.

She’s upset. She’s hurt. I’ve ruined everything.

“I—” he started. “I didn’t mean to—”

Evangeline let out a shaky breath. “You—” Her voice wavered, muffled by her hand as she turned back toward him. Her eyes shimmered, not with rejection or anger, but with something else entirely. “You absolute idiot.”

Sebastian blinked, stunned. “What?”

Her hand dropped from her mouth, and she let out another incredulous, watery laugh, her chest heaving as she tried to collect herself. “You’re daft, Sebastian Sallow. Completely, utterly daft.”

“I—what?” He stared at her, his confusion mounting. This wasn’t what he had expected. Not even close.

Evangeline shook her head, her laughter breaking into a soft, almost broken sob, her expression an aching blend of joy and frustration. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “For you to say these things? To finally hear what I’ve been hoping for?”

Sebastian stared at her, his mouth slightly open, completely unprepared for the torrent of words that followed.

“Years, Sebastian,” she continued, her voice cracking on the word as her emotions poured out, raw and unfiltered. “Years. I thought—I convinced myself—you’d never feel the same way. But then… then after the Prefect’s Bathroom, after the Equinox Ball…” She paused, her hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her voice barely holding steady. “I let myself hope. I thought maybe… maybe there was a chance.”

Her breath hitched as she tried to steady herself, shaking her head as if fighting back against the weight of it all. “And all summer, I hoped that you’d say something, that you’d give me a sign.”

Her hands trembled as they cradled his face, her touch warm despite the cool edge of her desperation. “But you didn’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking again. “You never did, and the silence... well, I started doubting everything again, doubting us. It felt like… like I’d been foolish to hope at all.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her expression twisting with a mix of relief and pain. “That’s why I said yes to New Zealand. Because I thought… I thought this moment would never come. That I’d spend my whole life waiting for something that was never going to happen.”

Sebastian’s heart stuttered in his chest, her words crashing over him. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Shock and relief warred within him, tangling with a sharp pang of guilt that twisted in his stomach.

“You’re serious?” he managed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Evangeline gave him a watery smile, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Merlin, yes, you idiot. I’m serious.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, shaking his head as the weight of her words crashed over him. "Evie..." he began, his voice hoarse and unsteady. Guilt clawed at his chest, raw and unrelenting. How had he been so blind? How had he let her believe, even for a moment, that there was no future here? No future with him? The thought that she had accepted New Zealand because she thought she had no other choice made his heart ache in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out with desperate urgency, his hands instinctively reaching for hers. His grip was firm but careful, his fingers curling gently around hers as though trying to hold her together—or maybe himself. “Evie, I’m so sorry. For making you wait. For not saying something sooner. For letting you think I didn’t—” His voice cracked, his throat tightening painfully as he searched for the words, his dark eyes locked onto hers with a kind of raw intensity.

“For letting you doubt, even for a second, how much I feel for you,” he continued, his voice trembling. “You’re right—I’m an idiot. I’ve been an idiot for years. But I—”

And then she leaned in.

Her lips were soft against his, warm and urgent, like she’d been holding herself back for far too long and couldn’t bear another second of restraint. The moment their mouths met, Sebastian’s usually sharp mind went scattering, his thoughts fracturing like glass under the weight of this impossible, beautiful reality. She was kissing him—Evangeline was kissing him.

The fantasies he’d conjured in stolen moments—before sleep, during quiet spells when he let himself hope—were pale, fragile things compared to this. His imaginings had never been able to capture the way her lips moved against his, how soft and inviting they were, or the way she tasted, faintly of lake water, a whisper of salt from her tears, and something so distinctly her that he knew he’d crave it for the rest of his life. Nothing had prepared him for the feel of her body against his, warm and yielding, her curves fitting against him so perfectly it made his heart stutter.

His fingers slid into her hair, threading through the damp strands as he gently tilted her head. His lips found hers with a tenderness that felt almost sacred, parting them with a care that spoke of quiet devotion. She met him with equal fervor, her lips moving against his in a rhythm that felt like a rediscovered melody—unfamiliar, yet instinctively known, like a song he’d been waiting his entire life to hear. The world around them melted away, the lake, the trees, the cool whisper of the night air all fading into insignificance. There was only her. Only this. Only them.

When they finally broke apart, it was only because their lungs demanded it. Their foreheads came to rest against each other, their breaths mingling in soft, uneven gasps. Sebastian’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto hers.

Her hazel eyes were wide, the moonlight catching on the unshed tears that lingered there. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and slightly parted, and the sight of her—so close, so vulnerable, so achingly real—took his breath away all over again. She looked beautiful, painfully, heartbreakingly beautiful, and he couldn’t stop himself.

"I'm in love with you, Evangeline." he whispered, his voice rough and uneven. "I always have been."

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, her lips curving into the faintest smile as her fingers lightly traced the line of his jaw. "I'm in love with you too."

Sebastian let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his heart hammering against his ribcage as her words settled over him. It was almost too much to process, and yet it wasn’t enough—

“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading.

Evangeline’s smile widened slightly, her hazel eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and tenderness. “I’m in love with you, Sebastian Sallow,” she repeated, her voice firmer now, more certain. “Utterly, hopelessly in love with you.”

A low laugh, more like a sigh of relief, escaped his lips, willing the air between them with something soft, something that felt impossibly fragile and yet unshakably certain.

“I don’t deserve you,” he admitted quietly, his voice raw. “Not after everything I’ve put you through. But Evangeline, I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”

Her hands moved to his wrists, her fingers curling lightly around them as she leaned into his touch. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve, Sebastian,” she said softly, though there was steel beneath her words. “That’s for me to decide. And I’ve already decided I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you?” he repeated, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he tilted her chin up slightly, his dark eyes searching hers. “Evie, I’ve been yours since the moment I met you.”

A soft laugh bubbled from her lips, the sound light and full of something that felt achingly like relief. Before he could say anything else, before he could even begin to process the sheer joy of hearing her laugh like that, she kissed him again, softer, slower, as though they finally had all the time in the world.

She fit so perfectly against him, her body pressing into his like it had always belonged there. Every sigh, every shift of her weight, sent warmth coursing through him, settling low in his abdomen and making him ache with need. He couldn’t think, couldn’t form a single coherent thought beyond her.

And when they finally broke apart again, Sebastian pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there as he whispered, “Stay.”

Her breath hitched, and she pulled back just enough to look at him. “Stay?” she echoed.

“Here. With me. Don’t go to New Zealand,” he said, his voice steadier now, his hands tightening gently on her waist. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever the Muldoons throw at us, whatever comes next—we’ll face it together. Just... stay, Evangeline. Please."

Her gaze searched his, the uncertainty flickering in her eyes softening into something calmer, something resolute. She nodded, her hands brushing against his jaw again as she whispered, “Okay.”

Sebastian’s chest swelled. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him as if to make sure she was truly there, truly his. The lake shimmered in the moonlight beside them, but all Sebastian could see, all he could feel, was her.

FINALLY IT HAPPENED. FINALLY. TIME TO CELEBRATE. THEY DID IT. THEY STOPPED BEING SO STUPID.

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[twpsyn-who]

"Mikasa is more beautiful told from Eren's perspective" you know who else is more beautiful told from another character's perspective rather than Armin? Marco Bott.

- while Armin was there, he's been in shock during the whole talk up until Mikasa showed up (which is right after Marco says this). That means someone else told Armin what happened exactly and that's most likely Jean. You can literally see the lost hope in Marco's eyes, an extra detail I doubt anyone else would've pointed out. But Jean did because he took notice.

- Which brings me here, because I doubt Armin paid that much attention to the other cadets at the start. Not enough to point out the hope and admiration in someone's eyes to such a detail. However Jean was standing right next to Marco and took notice of it.

- This one is just me seeing things because this is most likely from Armin's memory of the moment, but Jean was right there and I want to think he's the one seeing Marco like this. It would explain that shining hope in Marco's eyes, something that doesn't show often (and when an emotion shows clearly in Marco's eyes, is usually from Jean's perspective not Armins)

- this WHOLE ASS MOMENT and that shining hope and admiration in Marco's eyes. But especially the moment when Marco talks badly about himself (mentioning he's slow) and when he talks about Jean being a better leader- he looks different than other moments. Is like that's when Jean sees Marco like more than just his best friend. At his lowest and at his brightest. When there's no hope in those eyes and when they're shining with hope.

- Not explaining this one

- And do not let me forget this masterpiece and how Marco's eyes might lack their hope, but there's that soft smile on his face too. Marco also looks even better here, like his beauty in Jean's eyes aged like fine wine. It got better and better with the passing of time, rather than dying away.

This was supposed to be me pointing out Marco's moments told by Jean, but it ended up in me pointing out just how obsessed Jean is with Marco's eyes ups. Didn't notice until now.

[undercovercameron]

hole in one

summary: you're a server at the island club, and you may or may not have a favorite customer.

notes: i'm back baby! haven't written anything in a good while but i suddenly had this image of a girly reader and a flirty golfer rafe with that season 3 buzzcut... i HAD to make a pun with this title and i'm so glad i did. also i always write rafe a little more attentive and well-meaning than he is, so take this headcanon of nice rafe with a grain of salt-- and this shit is hella dirty so please enjoy and let me know what you think ;) (also im coming back to edit this fully in a little bit but i wanted to post just to prove i still love and use this account kajddjd)

tags: rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count: 4453

Some things in Rafe’s life were simple pleasures. 

A cocktail during dinner, a night where all the TV he watched was reality shows, a cigarette on a night out. The silence of his childhood home. 

Golf, coincidentally, was also one of those things. The course he frequented was just a ten-minute drive from his house, and he had priority parking. As a donor and a club-member of course. The drinks were cheap, the company was even cheaper, and he had a killer swing. There was rarely an afternoon out on that green that he didn’t enjoy. He felt closest to peace when all he had to work for was getting that tiny white golf ball sunk into a hole. 

They were often sweaty putting sessions, as the North Carolina heat in the summer was no joke, but the traveling drink cart was a brief respite from that. 

“What can I get you?” You ask, bright and long-lashed. Your hair was done in a tight updo, your makeup was flawless, and not a single spec of dirt or turf lay on your uniform. You took pride in your appearance and the effects it had on the loose wallets of the Outer Banks’ finest real estate investors and offshore bank account holders. Most of all, you enjoyed a certain someone’s attention. 

Rafe peeks under the overhang of the cart and stares at your selection. He stands with his hands on his hips, gold rings flashing in the hot sunlight. You take a look at him for the first time today, eyes taking over his bent form. He has gray slacks on with a dark blue polo stretched over his well-built back, unbuttoned to show the tiniest glint of blonde chest hair and his gold chain. He spared no expense when it came to his appearance, you’d come to notice. 

“I think,” he starts, standing back up, and fixes you with his blue-eyed stare. It makes you hold back a shiver despite the heat. “A double tequila soda.” 

He gives you a once-over, admiring the way your skirt hugs your waist and the sparkle of your earrings. He always likes when the girls have their hair up— gives him a sneak peek of what it’d look like if he pulled it. 

“Three limes? Just how you like?” You ask, breaking his focus, and reach for a plastic cocktail cup. You have a freckle behind your ear, he notices. 

“Exactly right,” he says, folding his arms over his chest, and his face splits into a grin when you glance at him and blush. He could be back with his friends from highschool, talking shit about their shitty swings or increasingly high scores, but he’s not. He’s right here, watching closely as you carefully measure the ice and pour a perfect double shot. 

“How’re you guys playing today?” You ask, a humiliating attempt at small talk, and you feel sweat bead on your lower back. 

“Shit, honestly,” Rafe laughs. “These jack-offs couldn’t get a hole-in-one if it was right in front of their fucking faces. And I’ve been distracted all day.” He looks down at you over the bridge of his nose, liking the way you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Heat getting to you?” You squeeze the final lime and turn away from the cart, holding it out with a polite smile. He takes it carefully. 

“Something like that,” he says, cocking his head, and takes a sip. Tart. Just how he likes it. “Hey.” He digs a hand into his pocket and the tips of your cheekbones heat again for some reason. “Keep the change.” He hands you a fifty. 

You take it between hesitant fingers, peering up at him. 

“The drink is $6, Rafe.” 

He always does this. Pays cash with big bills and tells you to keep the change. He gave you a twenty for a packet of peanuts one time. “I don’t know if I can legally take this.”

He just shrugs. 

“Consider it a personal donation.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” 

“Makes me feel better. I think you deserve a little extra for your services—it takes a lot of work to look that good for a bunch of old geezers in sweater vests and loafers. I know I appreciate it.” He turns and starts off towards his group, yanking his sunglasses out of his shirt and jamming them onto his face. “I like your bra, by the way. ‘S my favorite color.”

You glance down the collar of your shirt, heart thumping, and look back up. 

That stupid fucking swagger he has. He’s going to throw out his back walking around like a peacock like that. 

You tug your shirt up, hiding the red bra you’d chosen for today, and hop back on the cart. Off to another hole where another old man will look down your shirt and ask for his Manhattan with two cherries instead of one. 

You think you’ll either quit this job or start wearing a fucking monk robe. 

The next time you see him is back at the club. Your boss had you on pool bartender duty, opposed to the drink cart you favored, and you were a little out of your element. 

The customer demographic was different, which you enjoyed, but they all seemed to want a lot more and a lot quicker. There was no loitering around to small talk; you had to work quickly and attentively to earn these housewives’ measly two dollar tip on margarita pitchers. 

You had spilled raspberry purée on your company-approved golf dress more times than you could count in your six hour shift. Near the end of it, however, Rafe had made his way to the end of the bar and watched as you ducked to put away the umbrella toothpicks and quickly and secretly downed a shot of Tito’s. Drinking on the job. Hm. 

(It’s not that you like to be drunk at work; it’s more of a little ‘fuck you’ to your boss, you think.)

“Hi,” you say on an exhale, coming over and wiping the already-spotless counter with a black rag. “What can I get you?” You have dangly earrings on today, and a different shade of lipgloss than he is accustomed to.

“Two grapefruit High Noon’s.” He folds his arms and leans on the counter, so close he could smell your perfume. “I could report you for that, you know,” he says, voice as low as a whisper. You peer up at him, lips pursed, and scan his face. No ill intent. Just an easy smile and dirty eyes. 

“Oh, yeah?” You reach for the fridge underneath the mixing mats and pull two cold cans from the shelf. You sit them on the counter and stare up at him. “You’re a real upstanding customer, huh?”

“Mhm.” He twists his pointer-finger ring mindlessly. “You owe me.” The corners of his lips quirk up. 

“Oh, do I?” You ask, giving him your best ’I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. You know he likes that. 

The fact is that you and Rafe had countless conversations exactly like this one. Whether it be at the drink cart, on the way out of the building, or back inside in the restaurant bar. He always somehow leaned over you, smiling like the flirtatious bastard that he was, and making you feel like he’d like nothing more than to take you to his car and show you how much he actually enjoyed being served by you. That’s how you imagined him in bed, at least. Proving a point. 

He takes the two cans in one hand and straightens up, fixing you with a dangerous look. 

“Your shift ends in ten minutes, yeah?” He asks. 

“Yes.” You square your shoulders and stare back. 

“Good. I’ll take you home. Well, mine.” He backs up closer to where his friends are sitting at a covered patio table, mischievous smile flashing white in the sun. 

“I have a car, you know,” you say, leaning on the counter with folded arms. You ignore the hot rush of blood in your veins from his words. “And I have to shower.”

“What makes you think I don’t have a shower?” He purses his lips, faking the wildly confused look, and turns back around to his friends. 

You just sigh, exasperated with him, and work on cleaning up your station. God, it has to be him? The boy you had a crush on in elementary school? You’ve had plenty of hookups in your adult life, but none as close to home as this one. (Literally. You live down the street.) You feel his eyes on you as you scrub a particularly defiant streak of Grenadine from the counter, and feel his gaze on your back when you turn around to get a fresh rag. It makes your face burn hot. 

You know he’s not talking about just hanging out at his place. He probably has a huge shower, for God’s sake, and probably a humongous bed. California king if you can guess. 

You bet he tastes like summer.

After your replacement comes to the bar, you take your lanyard to get into the staff locker room from a hook under the bar and make your way slowly through the gaggles of people to your designated locker. It takes a brief conversation with your boss Angela about if you left the tip jar or took the contents to finally shoulder past the last group of people. 

You tug your bag from the hook, a change of clothes and your shower stuff already packed (as you had been planning to go to the gym after work). You now know you have other forms of exercise coordinated. You give yourself a final look in the little mirror on your locker. Here goes nothing. 

Rafe is waiting outside the swinging door when you push past it, button up shirt and shoes haphazardly thrown on. He immediately takes your bag from you and slings it over one massive shoulder, starting for the exit. 

“I can carry my own things, Rafe,” you say, slightly out of breath with the effort it takes to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, well, I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He casts a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised seriously. You roll your eyes. 

His bedroom door pushes open and you stumble back, hand tight on his bicep as he walks you further. His hand circles your waist as he ducks to kiss you again, mouth hot and commanding over yours. 

He tastes exactly how you imagined. 

His room is bright with sunlight and slightly messy when you glance behind him, but you’re pretty fucking sure you won’t be focused on how his room is decorated when he keeps grabbing at you like this.

The back of your knees hit the bedspread and you fall into a sitting position, posture curved up into his as he leans and holds you by the side of the neck. You make a pleased noise into his mouth and tug at his shirt, suddenly irritated that he is wearing so many clothes. You snake a hand up his shirt and claw at his skin with your sharp nails. 

“Save that for my back,” he breathes, and your fingers fumble to unbutton his shirt as you finally pull it down and off his body. You rejoice at his newfound lack of clothing and smooth a hand over his chest, eyes trained on his toned and tan stomach. 

He’s huge like this, up close, and the warmth radiating from his skin makes your heart jump into your throat. Your fingers splay across the middle of his abdomen, just appreciating the way he breathes under your touch, and you lean back up for his mouth. 

He threads his fingers in your hair and pulls your face so hard to his own that your neck smarts. Between your legs throbs. You protest, grabbing at his wrist, but settle when he shuffles closer to the bed and tilts you back into the sheets.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs. Your back meets silk, and he lifts your open legs up and around his hips as he settles between your thighs comfortably. Right where he should be. 

The feeling of his heavy weight where you’ve been needing it makes your back arch. He breaks away from you and slides a hand down your chest, laying the route that his mouth will take. 

“You smell like cherries,” he says as he presses his mouth to your collarbone and sucks. 

“I know.” You shudder through a laugh and bring your hand up to the back of his head as encouragement. “Spilled Grenadine.”

He hums noncommittally and shoves the hem of your dress up past your hips and to your midriff in one fluid motion. You wriggle for a second, so exposed so fast, but sigh contentedly when his lips meet your stomach. His mouth is so unexplainably hot, and as his tongue meets you your whole body erupts in goosebumps. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s even better than you imagined. 

“Knew you’d taste so good,” Rafe practically moans, eyes darting to yours, and his fingertips curl around the waistband of your underwear as you watch. Your cheeks flush at his word. You’re honored to be the recipient of words like his— it’s not often Rafe finds himself giving someone a compliment. He lays a final kiss on your stomach and surges back up towards your chest. He mutters gibberish to himself, probably something like “I hate this fucking dress” and yanks your dress up past your tits. 

His fingers find your left nipple and squeeze as his tongue finds the other. You arch again, unused to the sensation, and let loose a groan. His fingers are so soft and light, but his teeth nip. 

You make a noise of surprise, eyebrows furrowing, and tug at the short, blunt locks of his hair. 

“Impatient,” he reprimands, tongue rolling as he glances up at your pink face. You’re strung so tight you might snap. “Needy.” He releases your nipple with a pop. Your lips are so pink and shiny, he just has to kiss you again. You whine into his mouth when he comes back, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and your legs wind around his waist. 

But he lets go of your hip with his left hand and creeps closer to the crotch of your underwear, fingertips dancing. Your grip on his hair tightens. Between your legs pulses with heat and need, hot on his clothed crotch, and he knows he could calculate your BPM just by laying with you like this. 

“Rafe,” you breathe, staring up at him as your chest heaves. 

“Relax,” he shushes, ducking down to press a kiss to your neck, and you gradually relax the muscles that lock your legs to his abdomen. “There you go.” You think you hear a “good girl” fall from his soft lips but it’s in that moment that he pushes past the cotton and digs his hand into your underwear. 

You immediately spur into motion, back arching and mouth dropping into an ‘O’, and he just bites his lip and watches. You’re so responsive, and it makes his dick fucking ache. 

“Thought about this? Hm?” He pants, releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth, and grins. “So wet, this pussy’s been begging for me for weeks.”

You struggle to nod, movement interrupted by the slew of noises and ramblings of “please” and “yes” and “Rafe” falling from your lips. His middle and ring fingers push past the slick resistance your pussy gives him, and you go silent and slack-jawed as he pushes all the way to the hilt.  

And he’s got big fingers. You wonder if they’re the same size as his dick. If so, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you nearly cry, head falling back into the sheets, and you’re slammed back into reality and consciousness of your surroundings. The coolness of the AC makes your nipples peak again, and the sweat on your lower back cools almost as soon as it’s created. But Rafe makes you hot. Your chest and cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and your lips are swollen into a bigger size and slick with his saliva and your own. We don’t even have to discuss how flushed the other parts of your body are—he already knows. 

His fingers curl slightly up and to the right, and your abdomen jerks at the unfamiliar feeling. You curl up slightly, eyebrows furrowed, and try to catch a glimpse of his large hand in your underwear. God, you wish you could take a picture. You lock gazes with him momentarily but fall back down at the look in his face. It’s nearly animalistic. 

“Rafe, please,” you beg, grabbing onto his wrist with both hands. You meet his eyes. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling his fingers out, and clambers off of you for a second. You sit up, quickly ridding yourself of the dress bunched up to your shoulders, and watch as he rips his shorts off and nears the bed. You don’t even have enough time to gape at the size of him before he’s grabbing your bicep and jerking you onto your stomach. 

You have half a mind to protest his man-handling of you but stay silent as you look up at the angle he positions you. 

There’s a full length mirror opposite this side of his bed, and you just stare at the pair of you as you catch your breath. 

“Like it, huh?” He asks quietly, dipping down and pressing a kiss to your hair. His hand finds your neck and he moves you to face the mirror head on, watching your face closely. You really like the feeling of his fingers around your throat. He can tell, now; your shoulders relax and your lips move into the shape of a smile when he squeezes. 

“You always keep this here?” You ask, head falling onto your folded arms when he releases you to just admire your body. His fingers trace your spine and the curve of your ass, never losing focus. 

“I moved it this morning,” he murmurs, gaze never straying from you. 

“Oh, so you knew you’d be fucking me tonight.” Your face splits into an easy grin, head tilting mischievously. His eyes find yours in the mirror, and he bends again to press his mouth to your lower back. 

“Always teasing me.” His voice is muffled by your smooth skin. He can’t get enough. “Knew it’d happen sometime soon. You can’t stay away forever, you know.” He straightens up but doesn’t find your eyes in the mirror. His large, warm hand maneuvers your hips into a tilted position, and you move up onto your feet. He has you flat on your stomach on the bed, but your ass and legs hang off and the soles of your feet just barely press flat into the floor. “Knew this pussy would get me at some point.” He smacks at an asscheek lightning fast; and your whole body jiggles with the force of his hand. You squeak involuntarily.

A large hand grabs at your shoulder as the other one jerks himself steadily. Once, twice, three times, and then he’s spreading you open and pushing into you. 

Your spine stretches and relaxes when he gets halfway in, and your thighs start to shake when you’re filled all the way to the hilt. 

“Shit, Rafe, you’re fucking big,” you complain, but the tail end of your protest bleeds into a desperate whine. Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and your head falls onto your folded arms. “Please,” you say, reaching back to frantically find his hips. “Go slow.”

“Stretching you out, hm,” Rafe comments, breathing hard already, and relieves the pressure by sliding almost all the way out. His tip almost breaches the seam of your slit but he pushes back in, pulling your asscheek away with a thumb to watch. “Fucking sexy.”

You squeeze around him like a vice, but the intrusion is welcome. You will yourself to relax and accept his huge fucking dick, and the thought of yourself getting fucked by him sends a gush of slick between you two. 

“There you go,” Rafe sighs, and pulls out only to fuck back in to you quickly. You cry out, fingers squeezing extra tight on the sheets, but you will yourself to look up.

His chest is flushed in the mirror as his chain swings in the open air, and the pure concentration and pleasure on his face prompts a pleased noise from your throat. You tentatively jerk back into him and his head whips up in the mirror, blue eyes meeting your own. 

“Oh, yeah?” He mutters, teeth catching his lip, and his hips snap into yours. Your mouth drops open only momentarily before you close it and tilt your head to the size coyly, biting your own lip and pushing back into his hips. He watches you carefully in the mirror with squinted eyes, half-impressed and half-challenging. “You think you can take it?” His fingers squeeze at your shoulder tight. 

You just silently nod. Cocky. 

His emotionless gaze locks with yours and his blood pumps hot in his veins. He’s going to make you eat your words. 

His hips surge forward in a suddenly-steady rhythm, skin slapping skin ringing out in the room. You just stare at him, defiant, and push back with every thrust he gives.

Rafe grunts and lets go of your shoulder, replacing his touch with an arm slung around your neck and the other hand between your legs. His warm fingers nudge your clit, finding it immediately, and his hips snap punishingly quickly into yours. 

It’s brutal, having him like this. You hope you bruise. But you challenged him, and somebody has to lose. Except it’s not really a loss when Rafe fucking Cameron is genuinely fucking you into next week. 

“Shit,” you exhale, choking on the inhale that accompanies it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers rub you in circles. “Fuck, Rafe, that’s so good.” Something hot coils tight in your stomach and your thighs suddenly warm almost in preparation for the wave of sensation. 

“Yeah?” He pants, hot in your ear. “You like that?” His chest sticks to your sweaty back, gluing you together as his strong hips and legs pound you into the mattress. You stay strong, along for the ride, and provide all the verbal encouragement he needs. Your stomach feels hotter and hotter and your throat runs dry. 

“I love it,” you whine, head tilting up as if you’re praying he won’t stop. “Fuck me like this forever.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, too lost in the squeeze of your pussy around him and the warmth your body grants him. You pulse even more, so close. 

You gather some strength and struggle to push up into an elbow, head tilting further and further until you can feel his forehead brush the crown of your head. Your muscles strain. 

“Just like that. Just like—God, shit, right there.”

You squeak when the hot coil in your abdomen snaps and you fall twitchingly onto your stomach. His fingers rub quickly at your clit and you feel suddenly a hundred pounds lighter, eyes rolling back into your head. It’s so fucking good you wonder how you’ll ever masturbate happily again. Your fingers don’t compare in the slightest to this fucking dick. Your chest heaves with the effort it takes to fill your lungs with clean air, and your legs start to shake miserably underneath him. Your thighs feel like jelly and you barely did anything. 

“Please, Rafe,” you beg, turning your head to the side to look innocently up at him. “Give it to me.”

“Yeah?” He pants and leans down to kiss you messily. You groan into his mouth and push back once more into his hips. Your pussy is still buzzing with feeling, and it fades slowly into a pleasant ache the more he fucks into you. “You want it on your back or in your mouth?”

You blink wildly and push onto your palms, signaling that you want to turn over. He pulls out but jerks himself steadily until you scramble onto your knees in front of him, face level with his pelvis and tongue out. You look up at him with the most earnest and well-meaning eyes, and he just has to close his eyes when the tip of his dick finally meets your tongue and he fills your mouth. His chest loosens with the most pathetic noise he’s ever made, a mix between a raw groan and a whimper. Your soft mouth accepts him and cleans his dick, humming contentedly, and when he catches his breath and manages to open his eyes you’re staring up at him, an immensely pleased look on your face. 

You crawl closer and lift onto your knees, arms coming around his neck and pulling him to you. You press a kiss to his mouth. He can almost taste himself on your tongue, and he smoothes a hand down your side to grab onto your asscheek as you just kiss him. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling away slightly to give your face a once-over. “You haven’t even showered yet.”

“And whose fault is that?” You sigh, exasperated. “Someone couldn’t make it up the stairs without shoving his hands up my dress—we barely even made it to the bed.” You smooth a hand down the back side of his head, liking the way his hair feels. 

Rafe just purses his lips. 

“Sounds like a really cool guy to me.”

“Mhm,” you say, rolling your eyes, and sit back on your heels. 

This room is a mess.

The corner of the well-made bed’s sheets and bedspread is yanked from the far corner and lies bunched up in the middle, dark with sweat. It smells like sex in here, the ceiling fan doing nothing to mitigate it, and your work dress is hung haphazardly on the closet door handle. With a dark Grenadine stain down the middle. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Rafe says, interrupting your inner monologue. His warm hand comes to rest on your thigh. 

“What?” You ask, eyebrows drawn. 

“Don’t even think about putting on clothes.”

You scoff.

“Like those would do me any good right now.” You wind your arms around his neck and smirk up at him. “I still haven’t even shown you what’s in my bag.”

His smile grows. 

“What’s in your bag, baby?”

[jolenes-doppelganger]

Sunlight (Trick or Treat #1- Kinktober)

Lady Jessica x Fem! Reader

MINORS DNI 18+

Summary: A quiet day in involves reminiscing and slow, devoted sex.

Kinks: Erotic lactation, sensual coupling.

Warnings: This is a trick or treat fic, so you might be in for more than you've bargained for. Read at your own risk, any kinks listed are the only kinks in the fic.

A/N: (See the bottom of the fic).

Word Count: 3.9k

Since the Holy War had begun, there were few places that felt untouched by the tragedy. Untouched by the despair that drew places and people into bitter vigil. All of Arrakis felt hollow, years of battle making the ever present sun almost ghostly. The sun no longer warmed your skin like you remembered it had on your first visit to the land of sand and spice. There were a few places that held onto memories from before Arrakis, places carefully crafted to remind the occupants of better, slower times. The quiet that had come before the storms.

Walking into Jessica’s chambers was like walking into a room at the old Atreides fortress on Caladan, so well constructed was the sentiment. The walls were lined with dark blue tapestries depicting waves and soft seascapes, each handmade and meticulously crafted to imbue that nostalgia. The floor was made of wood. It had been imported for a pretty penny, but it was real wood. Paul had done it for his mother when the fortress was being built. He’d done a lot for her, and it was clear from the craftsmanship of the room how much he loved her, how much you all loved her. The walls were exposed stone, artificially weathered to be smooth and inviting. It wasn’t the dark stone of the porous boulder that Castle Atreides had been carved out of, but it was a good substitute. And it smelled clean. Not stuffy and overpowering like the rest of the Fremen sietches, grainy and polluted by sand and sweat. Most beautiful of all was she, long brown hair falling down her back in soft waves as she read a book. Blue eyes scanning the text, lips pursed in her signature way. She looked good. Relaxed.

“Jessica.” you smiled, settling beside her on the couch.

Her eyes locked onto you, recognition devolving into tender affection.

“Lover.” 

Her arms were thin, but sculpted, and they cradled your body with soft reverence. The fabric of her dress was expensive, another luxury awarded to her by her ever-devoted son. One glance up and it was like you were back on Caladan again. Jessica’s face no longer bore the markings of the Fremen ritual, the markings that you’d memorized and traced on so many sleepless nights. She was no longer a Sayyadina, she no longer carried that burden, thus her face was free of such markings. The demotion hadn’t affected her, to what you could tell. She would always carry the burden of the Reverend Mother’s knowledge, that much she seemed to accept. And maybe that was why she didn’t need the duties, she had enough with Alia and Paul. Enough memories to keep her occupied for as long as she could bear them. But in this moment it was clear she wasn’t reminiscing, rather she simply existed in the moment. She almost hummed with soft energy. It was a beautiful thing, while it lasted. 

“I’ve been reading up on the tribes in the South. Paul has refused to let me see the death tolls, but I fear so many have been-” Jessica spoke, spiraling softly.

“Jessica, that’s not your concern.” you dismissed her, cupping her face. 

It was smoother than you remembered, but still littered with those soft freckles. Her face contorted into a soft frown, and her blue eyes didn’t land on you for some time. Cutting her off in the midst of one of her soft monologues wasn’t something you did often, but you did it frequently in recent months. She was no longer a Reverend Mother, she didn’t carry those burdens, she wasn’t meant to.

“It was once.”

You nodded, gently guiding her into her lap. She bent like a reed in the wind, resting into your comforting embrace. All of the little burdens she carried on her back, endless worries her mind created… You hated it. The Jessica you loved should never carry such troubles. 

“I was a lot of things.” Jessica finished, staring blankly at the far wall.

“Jessica, I want you to focus on something else.” you firmly spoke, leaning forwards to kiss her.

Her slow descent into depressive spirals was often contagious, so it needed to be stopped. She let out a startled sound as you kissed her, eventually melting into your advances. Her lips were soft and warm, but a little stiff. The distraction was old, a trick she was used to by now. But it caught her every time, causing her arms to droop, the muscles in her shoulders to go lax, even her breathing evened. Jessica’s tongue was wet and dexterous, if not a bit clumsy. But her hands were soft and warm against your cheeks, her nose brushing yours in that familiarly comforting way. And that was what broke your inhibitions, the need for propriety and distance in your love. Her hair felt like silk as you ran your fingers through it, her lips sweet, breath tinged with the smell of coffee. Every soft stroke of your cheek, the small little inhalations of breath she gave in between your sweet caresses of tongue and teeth, it reminded you of simpler times.

You focused on a particularly bawdy memory as you continued to kiss, one that inspired mood. A hot summer as your lady’s handmaid, the slow descent into nakedness as the two of you fought to cool off in her humid yali. The rise and fall of her breasts, how gorgeous she’d looked postpartum, a year or so it had been. And the smile she’d given, the flicker of amusement in her eyes as her finger cocked forwards, gesturing you to the bead of milk sliding down her breast. It had all been sweet, a forbidden delicacy partaken in during a moment of weakness on both of your parts. A minor relapse into the human; the selfish and carnal. 

“Suck, yes.” Jessica gasped, tangling her hands in your hair.

You remembered how the warmth of her breast had seeped into your face, more insufferable heat. Sweat dripped down your back, mirroring the sweat that dripped between her boobs. Salty and invigorating. Nothing like the bead of milk that landed on your tongue. You remembered how sweet it had been, how rich and… How Jessica’s.

“God, they’re so heavy, Alia isn’t weaning properly.” Jessica breathily complained, holding up her other breast to attempt to cool herself off.

She looked positively miserable. You both were. The sun penetrated everywhere, and you swore it wormed its way into the Fremen sietch. She was carrying too much fluid. That was bad. Storing it in your body was a temporary measure, one that would help Jessica. Her fingers tangled themselves in your hair, aided by the sweat of your scalp. Sweat everywhere, sweat and milk. You gulped down the first mouthful, the embarrassment of such a debaucherous act fading as you tasted the unforgettably delicious commodity that was her milk. Jessica’s back relaxed while her grip on your hair tightened, urging you forwards. The coming and going of others outside of Jessica’s yali hadn’t concerned you, neither did the threat of a hungry Alia. All that mattered was the soft pull and release of nursing, of nutrients, of passion.

This memory inspired mood.

The bed beneath you was cool, the internal arrangements of the rebuilt stronghold of Arrakeen were far more accommodating than her yali had been. Some nights you managed to feel a chill. Those were the nights you didn’t spend with Jessica, the nights where you weren’t tangled in her arms, trying to match the rise and fall of her chest as you slept.

Jessica was atop you, breathing heavily as you aligned your thigh in between her leg and hers in between yours. It should have alarmed you, how quickly the two of you devolved into such passionate entanglements. But this was the way you were designed, after all. This was the Jessica you remembered.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Jessica admitted, beginning to rut against your thigh desperately. 

Sunlight streamed through the upper window, filtered by layers of tint. It was beautiful, and it covered Jessica’s body in a gorgeous glow. Of their own accord, your fingers began to trace each vertebrae of her spine, providing gentle stimulation to Jessica’s rutting.

“You’re not very receptive.” she teased. “I’m doing all the work, it’s very rude.”

Your eyes snapped up at hers, and you understood the hidden challenge.

“Oh, I’m not very receptive?” 

Jessica shrieked with laughter as you rolled her onto her back. You began to tickle her, starting behind her neck, then down her abdomen. Each little tickle caused her body to twitch and convulse, arms flailing uselessly as she gasped and giggled. Her neck craned upwards, face growing pink like the cherry blossoms of your home world. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, each little gasp causing her entire body to vibrate with contagious joy. She was beautiful like this, a magnificent creation of soft edges and hard foundations. It made you forget the evil of the world, the tragedies of the starving, the fate of the dying.

And then she began to moan. 

“Oh… Oh… Oh!” she gasped, eyes rolling shut as the tickling turned erotic.

All thoughts of melancholy, the inner guilt you carried on your shoulders at all hours of the day faded. Sisyphus was granted the momentary relief of falling, of sliding down the hill with his boulder before the toil began anew. That was the hold Jessica had on you. One sweet, muse crafted moan and you were set free from the realities of your environment. You ducked your head down, tasting the salty sweat that dripped down her sternum, like all those years ago. She’d long since weaned Alia. Her breasts sat small and firm against her chest. Sure, they had once been larger, more inviting, but they were still pretty. The change surely didn’t stop you from leaning forwards and capturing one.

Her nipple was soft and warm between your lips, as soft as the sounds that fell from her lips. Jessica’s hands drew over your back, fingernails digging into your skin just ever so, leaving their mark. You would leave your own mark, teeth softly nibbling at her nipple until it grew puffy and engorged, until her whines grew insistent and upset. Soft kisses and licks soothed the flesh, and her moans returned, breathier and husky. A subtle dance of teasing and torturing, one the two of you knew well.

“Other side.” she sighed, though her voice lacked the commands that had made up every word during her time as a Reverend Mother.

You complied slowly, pressing kisses to her sternum, taking a moment to feel her heartbeat against your lips. The beat was solid and familiar, one that momentarily distracted you. Only momentarily. You continued on, trailing kisses under her breast and wrapping your lips around an already stiff nipple. There was no milk to be had, no burst of sweetness, but there was the memory. You began to suckle, your hands splayed over her ribs as you worked, rolling the nibble in between your teeth, not half as rough as you’d been with the first side. Jessica sighed, adjusting her grip on your hair to slowly massage your scalp. Sensual, loving, comforting. You looked up, seeing the column of her neck elongate as she threw her head back in a moan that reverberated up from deep within her core. 

It was temporary, this particular attention. One sharp tug from Jessica, hand and your kisses trailed lower. The path was slow, you took your time to nibble at each of the defined valleys of her abs, flexing at your attentions. They almost stuttered in response to your soft kisses and nips, like the fluttering of bird wings. Her skin was less flavorful here, unaffected by the sweat that clung to her chest. You took a moment to savor her touch, tracing your tongue into her belly button to elicit a sweet giggle from her. The smiled you shared subverted the passion momentarily. Love made lovers, after all. She was perfect, soft and oh-so remarkable. Your mouth trailed lower.

The pubic hair that snuck up from her pubic bone was slightly damp, carrying a certain musk. It was different. She’d changed since she’d stopped feeding Alia, since she’d purposefully allowed menopause to set in. It hadn’t affected her sexual appetites, though. Yet. Another reason to savor this moment.

“Hand me that big pillow.” you murmured, kissing the crux between her torso and hip, nibbling softly at the divot there.

It was addicting, finding new places to love this woman, to honor the force that was Jessica Atreides.

Jessica obeyed your soft command, but in her own way. A thick pillow smacked across your head, and your chin hit her pubic bone. You both yelped in discomfort, and the two of you shared a glance.

“Stupid.” you glowered.

“Shut up and eat my pussy.” she retorted, giving an embarrassed smile.

You lifted your hands in mock surrender, slipping the thick pillow beneath her hips. It raised her up and did a lot for your neck. But you weren’t going to give her what she wanted just yet, oh no.

Taking a deep breath in, you leaned forwards starting just above her knee. Soft kisses working from her inner thigh up to her outer labia drew out the sweetest whines from her, and it gave you time to acquaint yourself with the new smell of Jessica. It wasn’t bad, just different. But her skin was still fun to nibble, and nibble you did. Jessica tangled her hands in your hair, pulling and jerking impatiently. She began to mutter under her breath in Chakobsa, a remnant of her past, you supposed. It didn’t bother you that she was cussing you out in a language you didn’t have true proficiency in, what bothered you was that she wasn’t moaning.

“Baby, what do you want?” you spoke, letting your breath hit her inflamed pussy.

Jessica’s breath hitched, and you swore her eyes dilated as she felt the first sliver of true stimulation. But that indicator of arousal was overshadowed by the curl of her lip as you refused to lean in further.

“Get to work, or so help me, I will do it myself.” she huffed, face red and upset.

“Empty threats.” you giggled.

It was enough teasing, really. With agonizing delicacy, you placed the tiniest kiss on her clit before parting her labia with your fingers. The smell hit you then, and you didn’t wince at its unfamiliarity; you wouldn’t dare. You dove in, as was instinct, and began lapping fervently at her fluttering entrance. The reward was the softest, sweetest moan she’d given that evening. It spurred you on further, until you were lost in her, lost in the sounds she made. Grunts, gasps, moans. All interspersed with the taste of her, the constant tugging of your hair. Her pubic curls tickled your nose, the smell of her sex concentrated. 

“Please! Yes… Right there, deeper.” Jessica huffed, desperately grinding her face against your mouth. 

Every undulation of her hips, every cuss word, both known and foreign that fell from her lips was proof of your success, the pleasure she was feeling. Your jaw ached, your nose moved from side to side as she ground her clit against it, but the feeling was worth the mild discomfort. No, the experience was worth the sensation. Jessica, your poor, sweet, tortured Jessica, thighs rippling as she clenched every muscle in her leg, abs rising and falling in time with her frantic breaths, nipples as hard as diamonds… It was a sight to remember. 

“Close, so fucking close… Oh.. OH!”

Her thighs clamped around her hair, and the threat of suffocation was one you shoved down in practiced disinterest. What mattered was holding her steady, holding her hips down so she didn’t buck too violently, rolling your head side to side so she could continue to grind her clit against it as your tongue plunged inside of her spongy canal. Her back bowed, head falling backwards in a tender curve of ecstasy. What mattered was her pleasure, the long moan that reverberated off of the walls, the sighs of relief as she slowly came down from her orgasm. Every muscle in her body went lax. You didn’t bother savoring her taste. Not this time, not when she was sprawled so organically in your bedsheets.

The world went still, and you just observed Jessica. The slowing rise and fall of her chest, the way her pelvis rested contentedly above the thick pillow beneath her hips. Sunlight streamed through the small windows above, bathing her in golden light. Your hands trailed up her stomach, you felt the softness there. Her ribs were hard and defined beneath the skin, and you traced over them, trying to recall if this too had changed. Her eyes flicked upwards, a confused pout on her face. The sun made this look natural too.

The desperate way you crawled upwards and embraced her wasn’t quick enough to subvert your grief, or the rising despair that crawled up with bile from your throat. It wasn’t the intimacy that triggered your cognitive dissonance, nor the underlying truth of Jessica’s lack of tattoos and minimal scars, it was the cognitive dissonance of seeing her so human.

“Jessica, come here.” you managed, wrapping your arms around her desperately.

Her eyes landed on you, and you tried to press your ear to her heart, trying to hear the soothing beat. It was firm and comforting, and it took away the ache for just a moment, but as soon as you buried your face in her neck once more, you could no longer fight the truth. 

Jessica didn’t smell like Jessica. 

And of course she wouldn’t. This wasn’t Jessica. Not really.

For all the months Paul had spent painstakingly creating the various pieces of the thinking machine, what he had never been able to get right for you, or anyone else, was the way Jessica had smelled. There was no way to capture her smell, after all, Paul had taken one mold and several scans of her body initially, but she’d been buried soon after. There was no one in your small inner circle that could bear seeing her face slowly fade from color, body growing bloated as the hot sun of the desert began to accelerate the natural decay of flesh. Paul was a genius, and he’d worked several miracles getting the machine to perform so faithfully. But as beautifully as the machine could replicate her laugh, her smile, the way she could flush and respond to stimulation, it couldn’t mimic her smell.

“...God, I miss you so much.” you whispered, fighting the urge to cry into its shoulder.

If you listened intently you could hear the whirring of the gears as it tilted its head, reaching up to stroke your hair in soft, too familiar gestures.

“I’m right here.” it whispered.

“No. Not really.”

The machine hugged you tighter, as you reflected. Its creation had been a blatant violation of imperial law, creating and shaping a machine that not only resembled a human mind, but attempted to mimic the mind of a woman long since lost. A crime such as this could have the machine dismantled and Paul under further fire, but Paul had been as heartbroken as you. As desperate.

“... I have her memories. Paul managed to give me those. I remember you. And I feel things for you.” it whispered, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“It’s not the same.” you sniffled, sitting up.

You pointed to a spot on her right arm.

“She had a birthmark right here. Small, like a bit of wine dropped and stained the skin a purple-brown.”

The machine blinked up in confusion at you. Such things could be fixed, and easily. A small bit of paint, and it would look more like Jessica.

“I know. I remember.” it said, voice soft and artificially intoned.

“You’re not her.”

The machine looked to the side for a moment, an imitation of the human process of collecting one’s thoughts. It was convincing, but from this angle you could see the way its eyes changed, the optics zooming in and out of the various possessions Jessica had around the room as it “thought”.

“No. Not completely.” it agreed.

It took all of your willpower to refrain from slumping into the bed. The thinking machine reached for you, manhandling you into the cuddle Jessica had so often put you in.

“I know this.” it said, voice hopeful.

You shut your eyes, stroking the back of her head. It was solid, but not quite her head shape, so you avoided the gesture most of the time. That was another thing Paul wasn’t able to replicate in addition to the minor scars and birthmarks. You were adding those as you remembered them, but the rock that had smashed her skull ruined any hope of an authentic reconstruction.

“Was she in pain when she died?” you whispered, pressing your face into her neck again.

It was a question you asked often, and the machine’s response was never dissimilar. You wondered if it had been programmed, or if the moment had been quick enough for Jessica to not ruminate on the sensation of her skull being cracked open by a rogue Sardaukar. 

“No.” the machine said simply. “Not the physical pain you think of. She thought of you. And Paul, little Alia. And Caladan.”

I shut my eyes, sniffling once. A hand came up to cradle me closer to it. Caladan. Jessica’s Caladan with the sea echoing off the cliffs and rain battering the metal roofs. 

“We did the right thing, burying her there?” 

The machine paused, gauging your mental state. It was capable of lying, you knew this. You’d caught it in lies several times, faux pas Jessica would never partake in. But you could tell that this answer was truthful.

“Yes. You did.” it answered, tilting its head to press its nose in your hair.

You shut your eyes, taking a deep breath in. The room really did look like Castle Caladan, and you could swear for a moment that Jessica’s personal touch had been here. Perhaps it had slipped out of you when you picked out different decorations, when you’d placed trinkets that she would have enjoyed here and there. You pressed your ear to the machine’s artificial chest, listening to the heartbeat until you could believe it to be real. Until you were with Jessica again. It was a slow, exhaustingly long process to descend back into denial, but you did it. 

You shoved this moment down into your mind, into a box with other memories you wanted to forget. Finding Jessica dead in the sand, taking her hand and feeling it cold for the first time. Those awful things. But right now her hands were warm, and they cradled your face just as they had always done so. You looked up through teary eyes, and the eyes that looked back were without the stain of melange. Against your hand now, that was where you felt her heartbeat, the slow animation of life. The dimming light of evening blurred her features even more, and the warmth of her body became pronounced as the room rapidly cooled.

She didn’t speak a word as the two of you lay curled together in her large bed. Her arms never left your body, and the soft puff of breath upon your cheek lured you in further to the oblivion of sleep. 

In and out. In, out. In. Out. In… Out…

Jessica’s breathing evened.

<---->

A/N: This will be the only gut-wrenchingly sad fic of Kinktober. THis was a very dirty, mean trick, and I apologize to my fellow Jessica enthusiasts. Stay tuned for week three for a far more sexy and fun Jessica fic.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses @marvelwomenrule @midnight-lestrange @rosiesthehat

[biscuitblinkeu]

Exceptions to The Rules [7]

Chaennie x Fem!reader

Yeah…she can’t really control herself.

Word Count: 2555

………………………………………………………………

“You’re required to train for the dances, and learn advanced manners…” Minai tried to say but Chaeyoung cut him off.

“I don’t need to learn it again if I remember it.” The angel said, walking forward.

“Manners? Training? I’m not some princess.” Chaeyoung speaks her thoughts. She’s probably gone through the manner training at least six times. She’s been going to the Golden Banquet since she was seven and she’s tired of it.

“Well…that’s half true.” Minai says, not adding the other half of his sentence that would be, “You are the daughter of a Dove, which Mr. Rose is too. So you're basically a princess.” He wants to say, but doesn’t.

He knows Chaeyoung would rather die than hear the word “Rose” in her family name. She hates it— despises it. That man’s name mustn’t be spoken around her.

Clearing his throat, she sprints, trying to catch up to the girl further ahead, making her way to her room.

“I know you’ve done the classes multiple times, but you have to at least attend- and if you don’t you’ll have to stay in your room.” Minai said as she opened the door for her. “You have to stay in your room because your mother said so, she can’t have you running off to visit the human.” He added.

“Okay.” Chaeyoung responds lazily, plopping onto her bed. She closes her eyes and lets out a dramatic sigh, then rolls onto her back. She’s thinking.

She doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t want to see the rest of the arrogant angel families there, and she rather not run into someone she doesn’t want to see.

“Can I just stay in my room?” Chaeyoung decides. At her request Minai scrunches up his nose, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line— likely to conceal her complaints.

“Okay. I’ll be right outside though, I was told not to leave your side.” He says bothered, most likely annoyed with her uncooperation. Chaeyoung knows she makes his job harder. A second later Minai walls outside and shuts the door.

Now that he’s gone, she has time to think. Chaeyoung wonders if she should just summon you, make you teleport to her room. She could keep a better eye on you— but it’s not like Jennie isn’t capable of watching you either. It’s Lisa and Jisoo. Those two flirts— they are unpredictable. She doesn’t want them touching you.

At that thought, Chaeyoung is considering being you here. There’s no rule saying she couldn’t bring you to her, the only rule is she can’t visit you personally.

Will she get in trouble for it? Yes. Is her mother going to scold her? Yes. Is it worth it? Yes.

Hee mind is a back and forth about what she should do to keep herself entertained. Today will be the only day she can miss the practices.

Minutes later she heard voices outside, Minai’s and one other.

“Come in.” She calls, thinking it’s Seulgi or Nayeon. She hopes it is. They can cure her boredom.

But as the door opens, she’s not greeted by one or two of her lovely friends, she’s met with a man. He has a white suit with gold trim, an angel wing pin on the breast pocket. He has lilac hair and brown eyes, freckles on the bridge of his nose, just like her. Their appearances would be alike if he didn’t have a white stripe of hair in the front.

He strolls inside and stops when he’s in front of Chaeyoung, his hand going to her cheek. Her expression falls for just a second, before she slaps a realistic, but fake smile back on. She feels uncomfortable— sickened to her core. She wants to slap his hand off, jerk her face away. But she won’t.

She can’t.

“My, you’ve gotten more beautiful. Just like your mom, yes?” He mused, his voice serene and expensive. He smiles at her expectantly, waiting.

Chaeyoung smiles painfully at the newcomer, forcing it to look presentable— the corners of her mouth lifting like she’s happy to see him, which it’s quite the opposite.

“Hello, Father.” Chaeyoung says, flashing her perfect smile, though it looks like a grimace more than anything.

Chaeyoung doesn’t like the way the word “father” rolls off her tongue, it’s not right to her. It gives her an uncomfortable feeling, something she can’t describe. All she knows is that he doesn’t deserve to be called “father”.

“I’ve missed you so much, you know? You have barely come home since you started guarding that human.” Mr. Rose says, his tone unreadable. His eyes have turned dark and cold at the mention of the human.

Did he actually miss her? Or was it something else? She knows he’s here for other reasons.

Chaeyoung knows her father doesn’t enjoy the fact his daughter had been taken away from him, he also doesn’t like that she doesn’t visit. He doesn’t enjoy that she chose to spend time with a human.

Chaeyoung could care less.

Seconds go by, and Rose stares and stares at Chaeyoung, expecting something. And she knows what— just like always, he wants to coddle her. Sucking up her pride and discomfort, Chaeyoung leans into his touch, nuzzling her head in his hand, allowing him to pat her hair. He hums softly, looking at her with, dare she say, warm eyes.

He’s fake, just like plastic roses.

“Why are you here so early?” Chaeyoung asks, annoyed by the fact he was here. Hee father wasn’t even supposed to arrive till the banquet day. He rarely comes to this part of the palace, let alone stays at home. Most of his time is spent at the council.

“I heard news of you attending this month’s banquet. Of course I had to come and visit, along with other reasons.” He said as he ran a hand through her hair.

He’s going to ask about (Y/n) isn’t he?

“Now, why would you change to a guardian role? You and that grim reaper of yours are always doing something.” He questions with a scowl. It’s amusing to her how easily his personality switched up.

Of course.

“You could've got a higher status— a status like your mother.” He says exasperated, “And that demon should’ve stayed in her precious role—”

“Don’t go there. Jennie isn’t—”

“So why?”

Chaeyoung lets out a sigh, pushing his hand off her cheek. A frown painted on her beautiful features.

At the action her father’s eye twitches, and his mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“Because I wanted to have my own human— I wanted the responsibility of taking care of something that’s mine.” She answered.

Nothing is hers. Everything is handed down by her mother— or she has to prove herself. Which she did. She achieved the role of an Archangel— she achieved making her own division and guarding a human.

Chaeyoung thinks being a guardian is more interesting than sitting in a council room all day, having meetings with grumpy old people.

When she answered her father scowled some more, his once handsome face now ugly. He couldn’t bear the thought of his daughter choosing a job unfit for her title.

“Humans are fascinating. Not to mention when we help them, we get a lot of things in return.” Chaeyoung adds, thinking about the kiss. Everything is worth it— you’re worth it.

“And those things are more important?” Her father says bitterly, running a hand through his hair. Chaeyoung nods, too tired to give him a response for his ignorance.

He didn’t get the answer he wanted.

“I see.” Mr. Rose says after a few minutes. He adjusts his tie and regains his composure. “We will see how that goes in the long run. Make sure you attend the banquet.” He bowed and then left the room.

Chaeyoung doesn’t like the way he said that.

Once he’s down the hallway she tells Minai to shut the door. She then lays back on her bed, staring at the grapevine painted ceiling.

Chaeyoung is exhausted after that encounter, bored as well. She wants the presence of her human as being away makes her feel empty. The contract connects your souls, so if she’s far away for too long it’ll start to hurt her.

The angel sighs, turning over and burying her head in the fluffy pillows. She’ll have to think of a way to get you here.

…

“What do you think about Chaeyoung’s human?” Jennie asks Jisoo and Lisa as they were playing on your game console.

“I have a name,” you spoke up as you finished the beef stew they made you. You happened to hear their talk from the kitchen because of how loud they were.

You realized these otherworldly beings have a habit of talking out loud about you when you’re in the same area as them. They need to fix that.

“I’ll be quieter, sorry (Y/n/n)!” Jennie yells from the living room. You sigh, rubbing your eyes. They’ll never learn.

“As I was saying…”

“What do you think about her?” Jennie asks again, watching Jisoo kill Lisa on call of duty.

Lisa groans, pausing the game. You could hear her mumble, “You cheated while I wasn’t looking.”

“She’s cute,” Lisa said, earning a smack from Jisoo. She glared at her, basically telling her to watch her mouth.

“I think so too.” Jennie piped happily. The cat-eyed girl continued, “She’s got a nice personality, and really pretty eyes. And hair. And lips and— guys look!” All of a sudden Jennie summoned her reaper scythe, the blade pointing right in the middle of Lisa’s eyes, too close for comfort. They noticed a cute teddy bear dangle wrapped around the handle area just below the blade.

“(Y/n) bought me this! Isn’t it cute?” Jennie smiled widely, unaware she almost made the two angels shit themselves.

Lisa gulped, giving Jennie a watery smile and pushing the blade away from her, “It is.” Jisoo agreed as well. When it turned back into a necklace, the two let out a breath of relief.

“I think Chaeyoung has a special liking for this human. She treats her differently.” Jisoo spoke up. Chaeyoung treats you well, better than any other humans she’s protected part-time, but it could be different because now she’s a Guardian Angel full time.

“I know right? It’s rather interesting.” Lisa responded, and before Jennie could comment they were interrupted by a loud noise.

The trio shot up, completely shaken when they heard you scream. It lasted so short. All of them exchanged looks, and shrugged, not bothering to check.

The lingering presence in the house was safe, meaning you weren’t taken by demons.

Chaeyoung obviously took you.

You found yourself screaming as you were pulled through a white portal. Someone had grasped your shirt, pulling you backwards as you were in the middle of putting a spoonful of food in your mouth.

The portal was blinding. By the time you were through, you landed on something soft— someone’s lap. You felt arms wrap slither around your waist.

“Traumatized?” Chaeyoung spoke, pulling you onto her chest. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you realized it was her.

“You scared me!” You hissed, trying to steady your breathing. You heard the angel mutter an apology, but you knew it wasn’t sincere from the laughs coming from her.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna see you till three days, aren’t you busy?” You asked, relaxing. Your heart beat didn’t though.

“That’s true. You’re really not supposed to be here.” She mutters, squeezing you closer. You felt like a large teddy bear to her, just something she can hold and cuddle.

“Okay… so why am I here?” You said, trying to get out of her grip, wiggling furiously. You noticed the angel was trying to keep you in her arms, but the position was a bit too close for you.

You managed to get to the edge of the bed, until she pulled you back.

It was hot being that close, and to add on the room was already warm.

“Stop being so stubborn, human.” You just nodded, too exhausted from your failed attempts of getting free. Chaeyoung smiled.

She wanted to tell you to beware of her father, but it’s not the greatest time. It can wait. There’s something better she can do.

“Did you know you are going to have to give me a bit of yourself if you don’t make any wishes? I’m unable to wait any longer than I did…” Chaeyoung whispers.

You know yourself you don’t make a lot of wishes, partially because you're a human that doesn’t need a lot of things, and the fact you’re stuck with a list angel.

“Are you serious?” You lean away, only for her to tighten her grip. Chaeyoung nods, playing with your fingers.

“I won’t ask for anything but a kiss, or… do anything more. I still have a limit to what I can do to you if you don't make a wish.”

“Okay, just one. One, Chaeyoung.” You say, turning around to face her. She laughs at your response, mumbling gratitude. You don’t believe her.

So you’ll take control.

You close your eyes and lean forward, pressing your lips against hers. The angel kisses back instantly. After some time you pull away. It’s too short for the angel though. Chaeyoung pouts, and before you know it she’s pulling you back in by the collar. You let out a surprised moan.

Chaeyoung nips at your bottom lip, slipping her tongue in. You let out a whimper as she sucks lightly on your tongue. You should’ve known better that this was “one kiss” to the angel.

The angel threads her fingers through your hair, thinking she might as well savor this moment because she won’t see you after today for a little while.

Too caught up in the kiss, you fail to notice Chaeyoung pushed you down, sitting on your hips. She held you hands above your head with one hand as she kissed down your jaw, sucking lightly on your neck. She made sure to leave at least one visible mark, so everyone knows you’re her’s.

“My human…”

You're a mess in a matter of seconds. Chaeyoung keeps switching between kissing you and placing open mouthed kisses on your neck. You can’t help but moan and whine helpless when she grinds her hips against yours— creating friction below.

“Chaeyoung you have a meeting with your mother and…” Minai trailed off.

What an interesting sight.

Clearing his throat, he walked up to Chaeyoung, who still didn’t notice him and pulled her off you.

“Control yourself.” He murmured, glaring at her. “You’re in the palace.”

Chayoung scowled, “Don’t you know how to knock?”

Minai scoffs, “I’ve been knocking for the past two minutes and you haven’t answered.” He responds smartly, into which Chaeyoung flushes.

“You know, if I didn’t stop you… how far would you have gone?” He wonders, glancing at the flushed human with worry.

“Far.” The angel admits, lips tugging into a slight smirk, “I want all of her.”

Minai sighs at her response, a smirk on his face too. “Alright, but take it slow.” He finds it interesting how much Chaeyoung likes this human.

So much she’ll even sneak her in.

Would you like to continue? o(｀ω´ )o

[ch4rryc0smos]

I WOULD RIP MYSELF APART / IF IT WAS GONNA HEAL YOUR SOUL ! — BREAK MY HEART | MATT HANSEN.

── .☘︎ ❝ M A R I O N V A L E N T I N E R O S E V E L T . ❞

𖦹 — xx | cancer | infj | british ⏳

appearance ; pale skin with freckles over shoulders and face, mole under the right corner of her bottom lip, forest green eyes, 5'11 [180 cm], athletic [or sleeper] build. barely noticeable scars on hands and knees, scars over most of her body, most visible on back. dimples when she smiles hard. dimples on her back when she stretches. ombre [brown-blonde] hair.

beliefs ; things happen for a reason. lingering on what is done does not change it. made of stardust, why do you let yourself burn out? you exist infinitely, in all things, do not forget yourself.

⋆ ─ life will love you, if only you love yourself first. it is there for you to live, so don't just exist. ⋆ ─ your heart is beautiful, even when you think it is not, it is fragile, and you must tend to it, tape those cracks back together, and live.

personality ; gentle, intuitive, charismatic, vigilant, observant, meticulous, calm, collected, diligent, loving, realist, nurturing.

positive traits ; compassionate, selfless, empathetic, kind, voice of reason, accountable, notices other's emotions & fluctuations in behaviour[s].

negative traits ; anxious, bottles up her emotions, skeptic [has trust issues], struggles with boundaries, overworks, cares too hard.

quirks ; fidgets all the time | stutters when nervous | bounces from heel to heel when waiting in queues | gets louder and faster when talking about passions | has an oral fixation | tilts her head when she's focusing.

likes ; nature, psychology, sociology, anthropology, freedom of speech, anarchy, deep conversations, late-night car rides, coffee, biology [many branches of it], museums, gardens, aquariums, deers, red pandas, art of living, art donaldson.

dislikes ; arthropods, heights, loud noises, narrow-mindedness, extreme temperatures, snobby people, arrogance, dishonesty, being under pressure, confrontation, disorganised places.

deepest secrets ; just wants to be someone's first choice, wants to be the person someone chooses to share their joy with first, wants to be seen for more than whatever is seen at first glance.

⋆ ─ she's always wanted the best for everyone around her, she thinks she owes them that, and tries to supplement a need that was never fulfilled for her. ⋆ ─ she hates big expensive parties, all thanks to her parents hosting them.

── .☘︎ ❝ B A C K S T O R Y . ❞

ORIGINALLY from manchester, u.k, marion rosevelt is born to two rich parents, with the world in their hands, and power in their hearts. she grows up, a spitting image of the perfect prodigy she is expected to be, she is born into the world and from the moment she learns how to walk, the expectations pile on her shoulders.

she grows up, studying in the most esteemed schools in london, having moved there early on so she could receive the best education. she was forced to attend parties, receptions, every event her parents could think of, she was not allowed to befriend just about anyone.

she spent a lifetime having her life nitpicked by the second. everything she'd ever know about herself seemed to be a lie. at least that's how it seemed until one faithful business dinner. sitting awkwardly in her seat, she stared ahead at her untouched plate. nothing about the adults piquing her interest until a daughter is mentioned. a young girl, much like herself.

she finally listens, learns about this tashi, who is promised to meet her the next time mr. duncan (she learnt is his name) visited. and he became the only adult to have ever kept a promise, with marion. so, the next summer, her life finally felt like flowers that blossomed in the spring and not the dried up leaves that scattered the pavements in autumn. she met tashi, tan skin, eyes filled with the same warmth her movements radiated.

for the first time, marion has a friend, a friend who actually likes her too. who she likes as well. it felt like a dream. even more so when tashi somehow convinced her father to take marion along to the u.s. wildly enough, she's never travelled anywhere else. and from going to the u.s for vacation, it turned to her father having a staple business there, to living there for months on end, if possible.

she moved schools many a times, never bothering to befriend people because she knew she'd get hurt when she did finally leave. but just one time, at fifteen, probably one of the worst years of her life, she made a mistake, of not ignoring her seatmate, who for once, wasn't tashi duncan, her best friend. instead it was, art donaldson. who somehow, someway, found his way into her guarded heart.

the rosevelts never liked him, but she did. it didn't last long though. she should've known, she bared her heart, and all that happened was that it broke. and tashi was there, to console her, but her parents thought her a fool.

she tried to not think of the blond boy that used to sit next to her in physics and biology, the one who'd share his food with her, the one who somehow was the only other person (other than tashi) to know when she wasn't feeling her best.

the years passed, and soon enough, she had graduated, simultaneously moving between the u.s and u.k. but then tashi wanted to move back to the u.s for university full time, or as she called it, college. she wanted to go to stanford, play tennis professionally soon. marion didn't want to be left alone again.

when she finally moves to the u.s full time, along with tashi. the last person she expects to run into is art donaldson.

── .☘︎ ❝ C U R R E N T . ❞

ONLY second best to someone like tashi, marion rosevelt takes the world by storm. from her first year at stanford, she's been the one to look up to academically, the one to be. she came from the u.k, and she has the u.s wrapped around her little finger, they say. but they don't know the truth. tashi does, and she scoffs every time her best friend gets catcalled.

of the many things marion might've expected while studying at stanford, the last would've been to run into art donaldson again. something about seeing him in statistics, and noticing him walking with this other guy she'd learnt from tashi is called patrick zweig, it tugs at her heart strings.

she tries to put it off, every time in class when their eyes meet, when tashi takes her to tennis games, when she's cheering on her best friend. and the one time she noticed he was cheering on her too. marion doesn't know how to feel. especially about the way patrick keeps on grinning at art, about tashi. marion's best friend. the looks don't feel right.

and she vows that the next time she sees him do that, she'll punch him back into his place. she hopes she won't have to see him again, but then tashi has a party, she's been sponsored by adidas, and for some reason, despite knowing that marion values her scores and her peace, she forces her to accompany her.

the boys (art and patrick) approach tashi, marion's noticed them staring, they'd been doing it the whole night. she scowls every time. she leaves her best friend alone for just a second to get a refill, and when she's back, tashi's gone off somewhere, and when she finds her, she's talking to art and the guy he's always with for some reason. it's like art and patrick are connected at the hip.

marion builds up the courage and finally approaches the back of the mop of strawberry blond hair. she taps on his shoulder. he turns back, and her heart is suddenly stuck in her throat, but she ignores it and smiles at tashi, averting her gaze.

that night, she has to accompany tashi, and the boys to the beach. her best friend practically has them dancing around her finger, hearts in their eyes. something about the way art looks as he smokes and grins, while marion is sitting away on the sand, further away. the way she looks away every time his blue eyes meet hers, she can't bear to keep on looking.

she doesn't want to stay a second longer, but then tashi agrees to come over when the two ask for her number, and marion doesn't trust the dorms that aren't theirs. so she walks her best friend to their door, leans on the wall beside her and tries not to laugh when she hears all the scrambling, the yells of 'oh shit!' and a few things dropping.

and then the door swings open, two breathless boys, a brunette and a blond, staring, lips parted, at her best friend. she tries to shrink into the wall. thankfully for her, they don't seem to notice. she doesn't know what tashi does in there, but she doesn't leave, she stays.

waits.

her best friend walks out, grinning, lips red. marion eyes her up and down. tashi mentions art, blond boy, whatever. tells marion that she knows her eyes have been on him since the first time she noticed him around campus.

marion doesn't say anything, she isn't forced to, not until she visits art's games with tashi, finding out that the latter had made some bet with the boys, and now she's going out with patrick. that leaves marion in an awkward position, lots of time alone, with art.

but something about their silence feels natural, something about him is so alluring, all these years later, well, three. but still, ever the charming.

apparently, all of this is in tashi's plans, that's what marion finds out one night, but she can't care to complain, not when she's with him.

not when she can have him for more than a just a few fleeting moments. when her arms can hold him, and he lets her.

she can learn to have him around again, and she will.

── .☘︎ appears in selcouth [complete], scent of summer [complete].

★ ; finally another s/i post, thought i could push out two, but i BARELY managed this one, not even kidding, one of my friends watched me make practically the whole thing, you can ask them. this is mad, i'm telling you, but anyway, meet marion <3 i love her.

ch4rryc0smos © 2024

[justsome-di]

Andy & Syan: Modern AU (excerpt)

A delinquent breaks into her sick best friend's home. I've been writing a modern short story for my own Fairest of All Stars bc I think these funky lesbians are cool

So, Andy goes about her favorite past time—going through Syan’s stuff. There’s nothing new on her shelves and dresser but one necklace. Most likely from her mother. It’s not Syan’s style, and nothing her mother ever buys for her is. It still sits in its box on a square of cotton. The silver chain blends in with it. But a dainty gem of amethyst stands out. Bright purple against stark white. Andy will ask later if Syan wants to pawn the necklace or sell it online for twice than what it’s really worth, making up some significance about its origin or forging. They can use the money to buy junk food and nicer booze than Andy usually has in her apartment. She thinks about pocketing the necklace, but she decides against it. Syan might want to keep it after all.

Andy weaves her way to the bookshelf by Syan’s bed. Never a great reader, Syan has shelves of graphic novels and fantasy series meant for young children. Along the top shelves are rows of sheet music from years ago, never touched after high school. Andy reaches for one, but the shelf is a little too tall. There’s no stool around because Syan is tall enough that she doesn’t need things like stools. Andy stretches and gets to her toes and her fingers just barely brush the folders. She pulls one forward after snagging her finger on the edge, but instead of carefully pulling it down, it topples to the floor with three other folders. Andy grimaces at her casualties and then raises her head to see Syan staring at her, her usual frown peeking out from her pink blanket. “You’re awake!” Andy says. “Good.” She climbs onto Syan’s bed and claims a pillow about half the size of her body. “Sick?” Andy asks.

She wishes she has more capacity for outward sympathy. The way she asks if Syan is sick sounds too casual and too flippant. Anyone else, Andy wouldn’t care. Caring about people isn’t really something she has ever been good at. Syan nods pathetically, rubbing her fingers over her eyes. Like this, with her hair in a messy bun half-fallen out and with her face pale and dull, she still manages to look beautiful. Freckles line her cheeks and nose. Her eyelashes flutter as she tries waking up. The extensions she got last week are holding on strong. Andy thinks all the beauty stuff Syan gets done is a waste. Not because she doesn’t need them—which is true. Syan has a sort of freaky, ethereal beauty about her. But because they always get ruined. Her nails were manicured last week but are now jagged and uneven from their beach trip that weekend when they dug through the sand and climbed on the rocks. Her lashes never hold as long as Andy thinks they should, and she suspects Syan plucks them off herself. She gets all these expensive treatments for her hair, but ocean water washes them all away.

Syan spends her parents’ money just to spend it. She’s always resented their wealth and by extension, has always resented her parents. In retaliation, Syan buys stupid stuff and goes through continuous beauty maintenance that costs roughly the same amount as Andy’s rent every month. It’s benefited Andy more than a few times. She gets fancy dinners out of it though she never fits in at the swanky joints Syan takes her to. For her birthday one year, Syan bought her a cool antique sword. While it was supposed to be for display only, Andy and her roommate took turns swinging it around their apartment and putting nicks in their second-hand furniture. “Do you want to do any sick activities?” Andy asks. There are about a dozen sick activities they can do depending on how well Syan can move around. “We can listen to Chappell Roan.” “No.” “We can listen to Mitski.” “No.” “We can… play a video game? We can play Doom?” “No.” “What do you want?” “For you to stop asking me questions.” Syan throws her arm over her eyes. Andy rubs her own shoulder. It’s tender from a fading sunburn. The skin has started to lift and peel off, and Andy has been leaving little pieces of herself everywhere she goes like a disgusting lizard. She wiggles off the bed and continues going through Syan’s things. On her desk is her laptop for her part-time gig as an editor for musical scores. Andy doesn’t understand what she really does, but she knows that every time Syan talks about music—good music, not the shit her family has forced on her or the stuff she edits—Andy can’t look away. Syan’s face softens from its usual stone-hard roughness. Her shoulders relax, and her fingers twitch in time to the melody or time signature she’s describing. Or whatever she talks about. Andy doesn’t listen. She can’t listen. she’s always too captivated by Syan herself to focus on her words.

Next to her laptop is a rock that Andy picked up for her during their last beach outing. It looked cool to Andy with one jagged edge and a smooth body. There’s little flecks of something sparkly on the edge where it had cracked. “Do you want to watch a movie?” Andy asks. Syan doesn’t respond right away, and Andy thinks that she got her. “What movie?” Syan asks. “What do you want to watch?” Andy knows her favorite comfort movie. “The Exorcist?” Syan nods. She owns a pirated copy, ripped from Andy’s collection of MP4 files on her trusty computer. Syan wanted to buy a copy. After half-listening to Andy’s usual rant about how art should be free, how the movie made millions already, Syan had told her to burn a DVD for her (if only to get Andy to stop talking). Andy slips the disc in Syan’s DVD player and finds the remote for the flat screen TV mounted across from her bed. She climbs back into bed with Syan.

[therealnightcity]

Character Study--Hiro

Layer 1: The Outside

-Name: Hiro Oda

-Eye Color: Originally brown, and replaced with blue optics

-Hair Style/Color: Hiro has messy black hair, kept shorter on the sides. It’s usually worn in a bun or a short ponytail. He has black hair, and spends an embarrassing amount of time on it.

-Height: 5'4

-Clothing Style: Hiro's style isn't easy to categorize--he wears whatever catches his eye from crop tops and leathers, to button up shirts that are open down to his waist. He isn't afraid to wear color, or loud patterns, and showing skin, even if it's not always the most practical. When on missions or out and about, he disguises his face using his old Tyger Claws mask. He has two–one in red and the other in black. It’s a chore trying to get him to wear formal clothing, he hates getting dressed up and prefers fabric with a shine/interesting textures (especially leather, but he wouldn’t say no to a dash of latex on occasion, anything that catches the eye). His look is very much influenced by his upbringing, and there's no mistaking from for a Corpo or Nomad.

-Best Physical Feature: He’s attached to his tattoos, despite that they represent a part of his life he’s very much done with. He keeps them as a reminder, of sorts. He’s confident about his appearance and spends a lot of time working on it, and is slightly vain. If you asked someone else, they'd say his freckles are one of his most distinct, or his vibrant blue optics

Layer 02: The Inside

-Fears: He’s afraid of more than he likes to let on. He’s afraid of water especially if he can’t see the bottom of it–he never learned to swim. He’s definitely afraid of losing people he cares about–there’s not very many of them and he’s afraid of his defection from the Tyger Claws painting a target on them. While not exactly a fear he finds the Badlands unsettling–there’s so much open space and it’s oddly quiet, especially after the noise and lights of Night City.

-Guilty Pleasures: Real coffee (even though it’s a frivolous expense), baking, and trying to pet every stray cat he can find.

-Biggest Pet-peeves: How people tend to treat joytoys/dolls, as if they’re disposable. As someone’s who’s past is a bit spotty, it’s a sensitive topic and he gets grouchy/tight-lipped if you push him too much

-Ambitions for the Future: Beyond finding a way to extricate the chip and keep both him and Johnny in one piece? He’d like to eventually make enough doing merc work to be able to just make a living fixing stuff. He’s a good mechanic and would love the time/financial stability to be able to work on his hobbies more. And if he was fantasizing? Finding somewhere that feels like home, and where he's safe

Layer 03: Thoughts

-First thought waking up: I don’t have nearly enough coffee for this (in the event he managed to actually sleep in the first place)

-What they think about most: Trying to keep himself alive and fed, in NC this is a constant job and requires a lot of vigilance

-What they think about right before bed: So much–they have terrible insomnia so post-sleep anxiety is fairly common.

-What they think their good quality is: They’re generous and have a strong moral compass–will occasionally not charge people for gigs despite the monetary loss, especially if it seems like he’d be taking advantage of the situation or it doesn’t feel right. He’s kind, even if he does come off as rather prickly.

Layer 04: Either Or

-Single or group dates: Depends on what his partner prefers. He’s not one to set up formal dates though. He’d rather just go out for a casual cup of coffee or a late night bike ride. He only realizes it’s a date after the fact, usually.

-To be loved or respected: He’d rather be loved. He’s seen where only wanting respect gets you and he’d rather not turn out like his corpo older brother

-Beauty or Brains: He definitely coasts by on intuition, luck and good looks at times so he’s a bit biased but in regards to a partner, it doesn’t matter much to him? A sense of empathy/loyalty are more important to him than either.

-Dogs or Cats: Cats! He loves them (and owns two–a Sphinx named Kira, and a black cat he’s dubbed Goro–as it seems to share the same look of general disapproval

Layer 05: Do They…

-Lie?: Yes, if it's to keep himself safe. He tries not to lie to friends or family though, especially if it's only for his own benefit.

-Believe in themselves?: It depends on who’s asking. They come off as very confident but it hides a lot of deeply rooted insecurity. They’re more sensitive than they like to let on.

-Believe in love?: A bit. They admire the idea of it but don’t think it’s for them. It’s something they secretly really crave though. -Want someone?: Yes--whether or not he stops being stubborn enough to admit it is another matter entirely.

Layer 06: Have They...

-Been on stage?: Yes, it’s a common thing (or at least, previously had been) and he’s fairly desensitized to it.

-Done drugs?: Tends to try really hard to stay away from them. Both his parents had issues with them and definitely played a role in their death. He uses airhypos/anasthetic grudgingly but that’s it.

-Changed who he was to fit in?: Not to fit in, per-se but to slide under the radar better. He knows that it’s safer going unnoticed in Night City most of the time and that’s the way he likes it. He’s good at putting on masks for people though. It takes a lot of patience, and a bit of a thick skin to get him to drop it and show facets of his real personality. He’s a lot softer than he first lets on though.

Layer 07: What's their...

-Favorite Color: He'll wear pretty much anything but leans towards black, blues, red and pink.

-Favorite Animal: He loves cats (and has two that he dotes on like his children)

-Favorite Book: It would be challenging to get him to admit it, but he can’t read very well, but he really enjoys when others read to him. Poetry is some of his favorite.

-Favorite Game: Not a game per-se but he’s really into racing. Bikes are a hobby of his and he’s damned good at it, and has very little fear (and more than a little recklessness). He also wouldn’t say no to a game of pool once in a while, particularly if he can rope his friends into a game of it. He's not fantastic at it, but has fun anyway.

-Day their next birthday will be: He doesn’t know his birthday so he decided on Oct. 31st.

-How old they will be: 25 (at least he thinks so)

Layer 08: I…

-I Love: The people I’ve let get close to me

-I Feel: Determined. We’ll find a way where we get to decide our future, whatever the cost.

-I Hide: My fears and ugly bits of my past. I don’t like letting other people know and making them worry. I don’t want their pity.

-I Miss: Jackie. There’s still a lot of guilt there.

-I Wish: We had more time, or at least a more clear solution. I feel adrift.

[jotunkhiicha]

I can remain somewhat consistent! Another chapter for Fran has been done! Here it is

(● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾

Chapter 3: Squalor’s Retort.

November 6th 12:39:38AM.

The steady thrum of the station lights remind her of spring, reminding her that she’s about to enter the callous season of winter because there are no butterflies, no bees and no wishes to bloom and become something more.

There’s the metamorphosis of her mind as it delves into darkness while the nights grow longer, stretching out to infinity.

When Fran first walks in, behind Hank and Connor, she spares a glance towards the reception desk to look for April, but she isn’t there. Of course she isn’t there, but the childlike hope isn’t lost on her—she wanted her friend there to tell her that she agreed with her philosophy, to hear her laugh and chide her for her eagerness.

Chris escorts the android into the interrogation room, the only one on this floor, and Fran takes the time to retreat to the break room for some sub-par coffee. It certainly isn’t pleasant, but it matters not what the taste is, she needs the caffeine as an addict needs their fix.

She’d had this discussion with an old friend, back in the academy; they’d said that it’s the most common addiction in the world today, even though androids do most of the laborious tasks of the world, people were still exhausted, they still needed a fix to cast them from their stupor. It’s a vice, pure and simple, but it does no harm, so surely it can’t be that bad, right?

As the liquid sloshes into the shoddy paper cup, Fran basks in this partition of paradise, saved from the monotony of paperwork and from the presence of Gavin Reed.

“You shouldn’t drink that.”

It’s him. Again.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sets down the pot down with a definitive clunk, the mechanism inside groaning under the weight of her anger.

“What’s it to you?” She turns so she leans against the counter, cup in hand as she takes a defiant sip, challenging him, “Don’t you have a suspect to interrogate?”

Her defiance never truly left her, a kindling flame that burns forevermore.

It’s here, under the weight of silence and the unspoken, that Connor takes the time to look at her—truly bask in her nature.

Fran Everdeen Green, a decorated narcotics detective, wrapped up in death’s embrace like a lover’s cage. Beneath the dimly lit break-room, he can spot the freckles dusting her face like stars upon the expanse of the sky, each one an uncharted implosion of cosmic proportions that someone could trace and create a constellation. Her emerald green corneas like that of leaves in the beginning of autumn, dyed yellow and brown with the hint of death, a twinge of necrosis as the season tapers off, welcoming Persephone into Hades’ arms. The burning nature of her ginger locks looks as if she had set the canopy ablaze, the mossy green leaves igniting against the natural order. While her face is rounded, it is still defined in the rounded jaw and narrow nose.

Her hair is carefully maintained and, upon her turtleneck, he can spot the trace elements of the shampoo she uses; it’s an expensive brand, one he wouldn’t have anticipated of someone as a Detective for the DPD. Her fringe is jagged, clearly she takes care of it herself and allows it to frame her face like vines on a tree.

All these factors together, her clear skin and the remnants of a brown eyeshadow and mascara, as well as some eyeliner, he concludes that she is easy on the eyes; a pleasant find in the drab ugliness of the world.

Why did he think that?

Fran raises her brows questioningly. “Uh… hello?” She waves at him, attempting to get his attention as his LED cycles from yellow to blue and he looks back at her coffee cup.

“You really shouldn't drink that.”

There was something unsaid there—something undeniably real about it all. It feels a mere touch away from human, even with his false flesh and plastic chassis, and she steps back from it all, unable to stand being so close to it. She fears she'll be beguiled and so she retreats.

She rolls her eyes and briskly walks by him, narrowly brushing by him and leaving her words at his feet, left to rot in between code and the margins of error. She still holds her coffee and, as she enters the room with Gavin there, he notices the glare he receives from the latter while he stands there, watching the space she had just been in.

There's something more there, like an ember in the darkness that desires friction—that longs for a spark to ignite the darkened foliage ablaze, yet she doesn't seem the type to partake in such frivolity, regardless of what her choice of hair products would reveal.

Inside the observation room, Fran sits atop the table with her feet on the chair, having spun it around so the back of it would face towards the door, as a shield of sorts to safeguard her from the evils that may enter the room, and she merrily sips on her coffee.

Gavin grins and folds his arms while he leers at her from the wall. “What was it that plastic prick said? You shouldn't drink that.” He laughs at his own joke, having been proud of himself for stringing together a coherent sentence in the dead of night.

Her lips twitch and her fingers flex around the brown padding of the paper cup. “What was it the better detective said? Shut the fuck up.”She hisses at him, striking at him and injecting him with her venomous words.

No matter how many times he tried, pathetically, to woo her and have her be wound around his fingers, Fran remained forever out of reach for the simple reason that she loathed him. She would sooner spend time, encased in thorns and have her veins ran dry, than to interact with him as anything other than a colleague. While she cannot deny his acumen for solving cases and his relentless ambition, she cannot feel anything other than meagre recognition for his efforts. He is the mouse and she is the snake and she will always be the one to win in the end.

The door slinks open and Connor walks through as Hank attempts to interrogate the android. He glances at her, and she can see it on the cusp of her vision, but she doesn't look at him, she doesn't even acknowledge him, save for her ignoring her coffee.

“It looks really badly damaged.” She murmurs as she hops off the table and takes a few steps to the observation window, her fingertips splayed on the glass as she zooms in on the android.

Pity washes over her heart and she sighs pensively, catching Gavin's attention.

“What? Don't tell me you feel sorry for that thing. It's not like it can feel pain. It just got roughed up for fucking up; it got taught a lesson.” He callously remarks and he leaves his contempt at the forefront of his words, uncaring of how they may sound to present company.

Maybe people like him are what’s wrong with the world.

“Excuse me?” Fran has a look of disbelief on her face as she turns around to face him, the bay window resetting back to its previous position, “What if that was a human in there? What would you say then? That it deserved to be punished for doing the best it could? You didn't see that fucking house—although, I suppose that if you did, maybe you would've felt right at home with the fucking filth, you dickhead.” She seethes at him while she points at the android, parts of its innermost workings peeking out from its broken chassis.

Connor watches the two of them with rapt attention, his eyes drifting between them as Fran goes out of her way to make him feel insignificant, playing the mind game as her words turn into thin daggers pushing into his eardrums. Her brows are furrowed, her fists her clenched and her heart rate is elevated, not so much that it’ll present a problem, but it’s high enough to allow it to climb further. Hormones rush through her blood and her presence is thunderous, and there’s a warning in her eyes; one that tells him she’s had her fair share of spats with Gavin and that this won’t be the last.

If Connor had to transcribe what he was witnessing, it’s like watching a hurricane against a windmill—forcing it to spin wildly until it breaks and flames billow from the ruins.

Until Hank walks in.

“Pack it in!” He yells, gruff voice accentuated by hints of alcohol that plague his system, “Fucking-A.”

Fran grits her teeth, unsung words linger on her lips and they, nearly, escape her cage as she turns away from Gavin, folding her arms as she does so.

Grumbling something inaudible as he plants himself down, next to Chris, Hank leans back with a pensive sigh. “We’re wasting our time questioning it; we’re getting nothing out of it!” He hisses, defeated in the wake of his failure.

Gavin scoffs. “‘Could try roughing it up a little,” he offers a small shrug, one that belies the depravity of his words, “After all, it’s not human.”

Fran shrugs and rolls her eyes. “Typical.” She grumbles, her words rumbling beneath the ocean of his arrogance and enticing a tsunami to come and drown them all—wash them all out to sea to be amongst the filth of untouched memories.

“Androids don’t feel pain. You would only damage it,” Connor interjects and blesses the darkened room with the light of his thoughts, “And that wouldn’t make it talk.”

The tension builds; it ascends another rung of the ladder as Gavin steps forwards, removing himself from the wall to challenge him, in all his false glory atop a throne made from the recycled remnants of human prosperity. How could he ever hope to compete with that which was made to be perfect in every single way?

“Deviants also have a tendency to self-destruct under stressful situations.”

“Alright, smart-ass,” Gavin gallivants over to him, his arms outstretched and Fran pays him no heed as her phone vibrates, “What should we do then?”

“I could try questioning it.”

It wasn’t a question, nor was it a request. He cleaves through the deluge to find the reflection of light across the water’s edge, glissading the essence of tranquillity—regardless of how it was born—across the flame of Gavin’s fury.

Fran’s face illuminates from the light of her phone screen, lines of information, a promise of tomorrow when the clock has already struck a new day, all of these pointless frivolities explode against her eyeballs and inform Connor that she isn’t all too pleased with what she reads.

Her brows furrow and her lips purse, an untold weight has been placed before her as she tenses and sighs.

Hank notices the shift in her disposition and glances to her. “You okay?”

Fran raises her head to him and offers a cheap smile, pennies in the face of a gruelling debt. “I’m fine.” She hums half-heartedly as she tucks her phone back into her pocket and reclines, bringing her coffee to her lips, “Just another day in paradise…” She bemusedly mumbles into the paper cup, drowning her thoughts beneath caffeine—that Connor looks at her pointedly for—and the regret of consumption.

They all watch with rapt attention as Connor interrogates the android, unravels the framework that is so deeply entrenched into their false minds.

The android tells a story of woe, one that would likely make April weep if she were here.

Pursing her lips, Fran groans as she moves to stand, leaving her cup on the front as the others move to go into the interrogation room.

“You sure everything’s okay?” Hank murmurs as he stands in front of her.

Fran raises her brows. “I told you, Hank; I’m fine,” she chuckles dismissively with a shake of her head, “I just have something to take care of, that’s all.”

And, with that, she saunters out of the observation room and retreats into darkness.

[lexryuu]

HOW TO DRAW AN ANIME PERSON

💔💔💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💔💔

Today, we are going to create a simple Anime character... and no, that does not mean we are going to make an animation on the computer. In fact, it's actually a type of art style that originated from Japan, and has got people pondering about it, everyday. An easy example of Anime can be that Naruto show that aired on Cartoon Network. BUT! That doesn't mean we have to draw any character from it. This is what you will need so far:

!Your mind and imagination!

First, create a character in your mind. They could be a pirate, a boy, a girl, an alien from another universe -ANYTHING as long as they're human. Most likely, someone who isn't a baby or this tutorial won't work for you. It's because; you can't draw a person without knowing who they are. So, take some time to visualize a person.

The second thing, we want to do, is give your person a pose and some kind of attitude. This means, that no one will understand what kind of person you are trying to make. It's like writing a story, but in picture form. Like, if your're trying to draw someone who is gothic or mysterious, you might want to give them a lot of makeup, maybe, put their hair in their face and clothing that's dark and sort of medieval century.

Next, find a comfy workspace where you won't be bothered. If you want to draw in peace, take my word for it; noisy places aren't your friend, at this time. THey would just bother you, mess you up, and your imagination might just blow up, in irritation.

Note: What I mean by that is, so many people could come over, and talk to you, saying, "What are you drawing... and... "Oh, that's amazing..." and all these other things that could make you lose your whole character idea! Plus, there are so many random conversations; you won't be able to concentrate on your amazing character.

Fourth step, relax! So, okay, some of you are probably thinking; what does relaxing have to do with drawing? A lot of things! Drawing isn't just boring, with a pencil and a paper. So, come on! Turn on your favorite music and take out your supplies -as listed in step 5. But wait, I'm not done yet!

Notice: not everyone needs a music device- so if your have one -great! If you don't, please do not run off to some electronic store and find an MP3 Player or an I-Pod -it's too expensive and has you on a rampage for loose change. THis is just part of relaxing and focusing on your storybook character.

THE HEAD:

Start by drawing a circle -I know, circles are hard, but here's a tip: draw two parenthesis and then connect them. There, circle.

Next, we draw the guidelines for the eyes. It's just line going across the face.

Then, we draw the chin, which is just two straight, yet curved lines going down from the circle and connecting to each other. BOOM! FACE! Now, you can add facial hair or moles or whatever you like. Freckles are pretty cute, too! <3

THE BODY

Now, we will do a skeletal body. I'm not going to do the face and hair yet, since they play a big part in the body, because if their hair is way too long, and goes down their neckline, it could lead to bad looking shoulders or a small body.

Instead, we will make a quick sketch o the pose. This will include only lines and circles. The first line will be the neck. All it is is a straight line that is about an inch.

The second line will be the collarbone. So, create two diagonal lines from the neckline.

Another tricky part includes the upper body. It looks kind of like a diamond and starts from the circles to the arms.

Depending on the pose you want to make two circles on each diagonal line, but if the arm bends up, you want o make another line going up. If the line goes down, you make the line go down. If it's diagonal, resting on the hips, make it diagonal. When you do this, you will begin by making a line. Then, make a circle. Then, make another line -a little longer than the first one, followed by something like a trapazoid or a mitten. The trapazoid/oval/mitten will be your hand. (Don't make it ttoo big. It's length should be from the chin of your person to the eye.) The fifth line and shape will be the torso. You start off with connecting a straigt line below the diamond-like shape. Then, you make a medium sized circle -or oval underneath the straight line.

The last and final shapes will be the legs and feet. First, you want to make a cicle on one corner of your oval or circle. Then, do this on the other side. Connect a straight line to it. Again, depending on the way your person is standing. If their leg is a little bent or kneeling, make the line diagonal or curved. Then, make a medium/small circle -the size as your arm's circle. THe next line will be, bent to the side and up, with a half trapezoid behind it -again, talking about kneeling.

If they're standing straight, make a straight line, then a circle. Then, a line longer than the first line. if you include feet; here's what you do, make a trapezoid/oval, but slightly linger than the hand.

OUTLINING THE BODY

-the worst part. Remember when I said things would get ugly Well, this part is where you want to draw light.

First, find your necks line and make it into a tubeshape around the line.

Go to the two diagonal lines under the neck (the collarbone) and conect them by making a curved line in between them.

Second, find your arms and circles and connect each and everyone of them by making tubes and circles.

Find the toro and connect the diamond shape to the oval shape by making a line outside of where the line is.

Repeat what you did to the arms and do it to the legs.

Now, here's what we're going to do for the bust. The part I do NOT waht to talk about, but have to. Draw two circles -if they're a girl. Don't worry, we can do some erasing and not have anything there! If it's a guy, you don't have to draw anything.

Enough of that! We need to go to step 11, erasing.

Erase the lines in between the tube-looking arms. Erase the bottoms of the circles.

Do the same to the legs.

Make the first line we ever made into a neck and collarbone.

Now, for the upper body. We need to erase the top of the circles.

Find your torso and erase the lines.

Moving on:

CLOTHING

If you're making a cloth shirt:

Remember how e made the line, connecting the two collarbones? This can be used as the beginning of a shirt. To draw a shirt, you want to start off with a curved tube and from the tube, then you want to draw something like a tank top with no sleeves. Make two diagonal lines from the tube-like thing and end it where you want the sleeves to end.

If you're making armor, you can use the steps above, or you can use these steps: If they're like a robot or something, keep drawing curved lines, but split them up into sections. If they have armor like a shield-kind-of, you could've kept the diamond shape and use that.

SHADING CLOTHING:

If it's cloth, don't make the shading too dark.

If it's armor, you want to have a mix of darks and lights because it's shiny.

PANTS OR SKIRTS:

Pants are pretty easy, as long as you start at the hips or torso, you're fine, but remember pants aren't skirts, so use the legs.

If they are sweat pants, all you have to do is make them look like the same materal as the shirt.

If they are jeans, you have to draw the button, the belt hooks and the pockets.

Button: Draw a circle at the top center of the pants.

Belt hook: Make a straight line at the left and right of the button, and then make a bottom to it and give it some sides like a rectangular shape, but curved.

Pockets: Make curves at the corners of the jeans.

Material: Make a couple lines down it like strokes made from a paint brush.

Skirt:

Start at the same spot you did for the pants

End it where you want it

Pleated skirt: make squares and then define them by making them look like ruffles.

Simple skirt: put it where you want it, but shade it like cloth

Here arruves another amazing step! The eyes, the mouth and the nose! I hope you still have your circle and other lines for the faqce, because right now we're going to use them!

We're going to start with the eyes and eyebrows.

Note: Eyes mean everything! They're personality, their look upon the world and the windows to the soul! Enough chit chat, lets show you how to draw one!

Start by making a straight line above the straight line on the head. Draw straight diagonal lines and then a circle in the middle for the pupil.

Draw your nose. Noses can be button noses, snub noses, cute little undetailed pig noses -what I mean by pig nose, is just draw two little curves below the eyes and there you go! it looks like a piggy. Think Terra's nose from Teen Titans. Pig nose. It is SUPER simplified, but if you want to make it more detailed, then just make two curves and a line up between the eyes and eyebrows.

For the mouth, you want to draw two hill-like curves and an opposite facing curve underneath it, but if you want to go super simplified, you can simply draw a line.

FOR THE HAIR:

GO CRAZY! Hair is very fun! Just look a Yu-Gi-Oh's hair! It can be as insane or as liney as you want it! I usually give my girl's very long hair, because it's very pretty!

You start by making the hairline. It's just a curved line in the center of the head, above the forehead. Think of pretending you're designing your very own wig for your character! It can be as nutso or as amazing as you want it to be! Hair is everything for your character! It blows in the wind, it gets in their face, somethimes -unless they have bangs and it really defines your character. Or, you can go One-Punch-Man style or ATLA Style and make them completely bald like a monk! The choice is all yours! <3

AND YOU'RE DONE!

Have a nice day!

Drink plenty of water and take care

of your bad self!

💔💔💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💔💔

[yandere-dandelion]

Can you do yandere shoto todoroki headcanons please ?

Absolutely!!!

There is no NSFW in this. Reader is gender-neutral, as usual.

Hope you enjoy!

Shoto is very… let’s say he’s observant, when it comes to you. He knows every habit and tic, every beautiful facet of you, every minor detail you think no one notices.

It’s just because he really loves you, and he wants to be the best partner he can be.

He doesn’t realize it’s a little bit creepy that he knows the exact number of freckles on your face.

He thinks his obsession is completely normal.

Shoto will just randomly say creepy shit and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s not.

Before he kidnapped you, Shoto would often take you shopping. It was pretty much the only way he knew to show affection, because he had never received much.

He has a ridiculous amount of money, so he puts it to good use buying you expensive gifts of jewelry, food, clothes, furniture, anything you ask for.

If you so much as look at something for more than a second, it’ll be yours by the next morning, and he always notices when you look at something.

After you’re kidnapped, his gifts become much more extravagant, but he also tries to show affection in ways other than buying things.

For one, he starts trying to cook for you.

Even before the kidnapping, Shoto liked buying you food, but now that you’re married, he wants to try making it himself.

At first, he’s terrible at it, completely clueless in the kitchen. Over time, though, he gets a lot better, to the point where you actually look forward to meals with him.

He always stares intently at you while you eat. It’s kinda creepy.

Actually, he stares at you literally all the time, but it’s especially off-putting when you’re eating.

He makes you eat every last bite of food.

Before he kidnapped you, he just encouraged you to eat more and more, but now that you’re together, he can force you to eat, and you’ll have no choice but to obey.

You definitely gain a few pounds after he kidnaps you.

He likes it. He likes it a lot.

He sees it as physical evidence that he’s done well caring for you.

Also he thinks it’s adorable

And really hot

He would love it if you cooked for him, but he doesn’t want you to have to lift a finger for him.

He would chain you up to keep you from exerting yourself even slightly, because you should never have to work.

You don’t deserve to work, you deserve rest, happiness, and love. Don’t worry, he’ll take care of everything.

Another way Shoto expresses his love is through physical touch.

He wasn’t the most physically affectionate guy before he kidnapped you, so it was a big change. It was awkward for both of you at first, but it becomes second nature for him.

Seriously, he’s always touching you. Cuddles, massages, hugs, holding hands, playing with your hair, just touching you in general.

He had always been starved for affection and kindness, so in a way it’s like he’s making up for lost time.

That’s how you had enraptured him— kindness. You were sweet to him, unconditionally kind and patient with him.

He needs kindness.

And you deserve to be treated with kindness.

Shoto doesn’t want to be like his father, so he would never raise a hand against his darling, even if they misbehaved— unless, of course, you say he’s like his father.

Usually, he only punishes you by chaining you down and leaving you there for a day or two. He can’t bear to stay away for longer, and he would never forgive himself if he ever hurt you.

If you say he’s like Endeavor, you’ll immediately feel the room get a few degrees colder.

Shoto would stick you in a block of ice and leave you there to shiver until he’s cooled down (pun intended) enough to unfreeze you.

Or, a darker Shoto might completely snap.

Days of solitary confinement in harsh chains, without food and with very little water.

A large brand on your body. “Property of Shoto.”

He’d tenderly bandage and treat the burn afterwards, as if he wasn’t the one who put it there.

He’d apologize, and gently kiss the burn, ignoring your hiss of pain.

I wouldn’t put it past him to burn your name into his own skin, too.

[superhero--imagines]

A/N: this is another piece I wrote for the bat boy zine (and personally my favorite) we still have leftover copies on our Etsy if you’re interested

“-said, there’s only three ways to get good at golf, take lessons, practice constantly, or start cheating.” The table roars in laughter, and Damian bites his cheek once again to keep from grimacing.

I hate everyone here.

His eyes glance from the large sphere of ice bobbing in the pool of whisky, to the faces around him. The first one his gaze settles on is Portia, sunkissed skin bright and vibrant and that blonde mane of hair she’s so proud of pulled into a bun resting on the nape of her neck. A senator’s daughter. Damian thought, maybe that sort of social standing, that mantle, may come with it’s own price. After all, he knew just how painful the gaze of the public eye could be. But it became glaringly obvious that Portia Baldwin had never done anything remotely hard in her entire life. The delicate skin under her eyes and across her palm didn’t remain unmarred through expensive creams and meticulous care. No, they remained without flaw because the most difficult thing Portia had ever done was come up with that awful golf joke.

She’s fighting a smile as the boy next to her, Andrew ‘just call me Drew’ Augustus the third has apparently whispered something offensive enough that she can’t laugh openly at the table. Next to him is Bradley Cooper, no relation to the actor, but instead to the industrialist that’s responsible for undertaking most of the metro renovations here on the East coast.

He watches Bradley’s sparkly white teeth as he looks at the waitstaff with a rather wolfish grin. No doubt the most vile and repulsive thoughts filling his mind. And next to him, Angelica St. James, as in the St. James of the string of hospitals her family manages across the country. She keeps to herself mosty, flaming red hair always held loosely around her shoulders, mouth always pulled into a firm line. It’s somehow worse that she’s quiet, that she sees things and hears things, but never says anything. He wouldn’t be surprised if she were keeping a mental tally of all the obscene things she saw, to use against her friends when they take their parents' positions.

The collective net worth sitting at this small circular table in the back of D.C’s most noteworthy restaurant is likely more than the entire city. Damian’s disgusted to admit that he’s part of it too. At least from the outside looking in.

Bruce Wayne’s one and only biological son, the heir to the Wayne empire, at least that’s how it looks. He almost snorts at the thought. He really doesn’t have any aptitude for technology, with business sense coming in at a close second in tees of incompetence. As much as it pains him to admit it, Tim is the most likely to succeed their father, though Jason could probably give him a run for his money if he ever bothered to get serious.

But outward appearances aside, Damian still thinks it’s telling that he’s the darkest person at this table. He wouldn’t consider himself all that dark, passing as white in the colder months. It’s only in the summer, when the sun hung in the sky for a solid 14 hours, from six in the morning to eight at night, that his skin glowed brilliant golden brown.

But when he looks down, silently comparing his arm to Angelica’s, the pale milky white, littered with freckles, he knows he’s not passing for anything at this table.

Not that he would want to anyway.

No, he’s glad he doesn’t look anything like them. That while the shirt on his body costs more than their waiters’ weekly salary, it’s littered with flecks of paint. That while his hands are clean, they’re littered with calluses from years of vigilante work. That even though he got this expensive haircut, at your insistence because it’s always good to put your best foot forward, it reeks of the dye and acrylics he’s used to repaint the racist mural in the capitol building.

No, he’s not like any of the ‘art’ interns here, because unlike them he’s the only one that actually paints.

He didn’t know, when he signed up and breezed through the application process with little to no scrutiny, that this internship was really more or less a vacation to keep bored, insanely rich teenagers entertained for the summer.

It’s his first year participating, he only worked up the nerve to submit his application when you encouraged him. He feels his mouth twitch, recalling your eyes when you pushed the application towards him--

‘I know you think it’s a long shot, but don’t you at least want to try, Dami?’

Of course, how could either have you known that the ‘intensive artistic regimen’ was just a blank spot in the city that you were free to change as you saw fit, or that the ‘immersive environment’ meant that you would get a comfy suite at a famous tower, so you could stumble back home at four in the morning after staying out all night in the city. Or that the ‘selective’ process was really more about pedigree than talent.

No, neither of you could have known that while there was a mural that you got to paint over in the city, which seemed like an amazing opportunity, no one really had to paint anything. In fact, it was almost as if the organizers expected interns to leave the murals as they were.

That far too often Damian heard terrible things in that suite, from the whispers of the staff to the muffled noises from the other side of the wall. That the ‘selective’ process wasn’t all that selective as these four had been recipients of the ‘internship’ since their freshman year of high school, despite not having the slightest talent when it came to the arts.

For them it was just another summer in D.C, staying out too late, light jogs through the monuments in the day, and gourmet meals at night. And if they were to get into any trouble, any sticky unforeseen incident, well-- their parents could always clean it up with their money that never seemed to run out.

Damian hates to admit it, but he would have forgiven it all-- Portia’s increasingly vapid mind, Andrew’s gossip, Bradley’s sadistic tendencies, and Angelica’s complacency-- if any of them actually bothered to make anything. If Portia’s hand’s still held flecks of pink paint from a morning of painting bouquets, if Andrew was careful with his hands not because ‘these are the hands of a future scion’ but because if he hurt his hands he wouldn’t be able to draw, if Bradley has charcoal lined under his fingernails instead of blood from picking fights he knew he would win, if Angelica kept her hair up from habit, because otherwise it would get into clay.

But they didn’t.

And so Damian found himself hating them all. For their privilege, for their ignorance, for their beauty and complacency, for their vast amounts of wealth that created opportunities they didn’t deserve.

And most of all, Damian hated himself because it felt like he was one of them too.

Just a swing away from retreating into his wealth and privilege. A single decision away from letting his brain rot, because why worry when you should enjoy yourself? From being careful with his body, because this was the body of an heir. From picking fights, because why not? What would it harm him, he knew he wouldn’t lose. From being complacent in a system that favored him.

Why shouldn’t he? No one deserves a comfortable life more than him, after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s still going through. And just as that warm, hazy feeling comes, finally giving up, he hears his name.

“Damian’s actually painting something though.” He feels their eyes swing to him, and his gaze lifts up from the cup of amber liquid in front of him. He meets Andrew’s brown eyes, he’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

For a long second no one at the table says anything. Silently questioning if they heard right. Portia’s the first to break the silence.

“Like actually painting? Don’t you have to get it approved? I asked if we could put up some Britney lyrics once and it got rejected.” Portia huffs, and Damian has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Of course she did, not that Britney Spears lyrics wouldn’t be a step up from most of the racist slander painted on these murals.

They talk amongst themselves for a second, regaling rejected applications that they submitted as a joke, something to do on a particularly boring day when it was too hot to go outside. For a second, only a moment, Damian can see the appeal. The fun it must have been to sit around coming up with the most absurd requests just to see if they might get accepted. But then Bradley says--

“Well what did you submit that got approved?”

Damian feels his mouth twitch. He’s sure they think it’s a miracle he got anything approved at all. Probably wondering what strings he had to pull, never once thinking that he might actually have some talent.

“It was sort of a trick,” he admits and for the first time he can feel every member's gaze on him, weighing each word carefully. He knows for the first time all summer, he has their full and undivided attention.

He won’t lie, he’d pondered writing something profane over the canvas out of anger for his situation. But he knew it wouldn’t go over well, despite her complacency, Angelica had done a small sculpture her first year at the internship. It wasn’t anything monumental, a small bird that she posed next to each year so they could post the picture on their website. And though Damian may still be a bit rough at socializing, nothing compared to his parents or Grayson, he did manage to understand that the only reason Angelica had anything to show at all was because a bird was the only thing the organizer would let her make.

“I wanted to do my family’s shield,” she had confided in him with a slight huff. “But apparently that was too ‘politically charged’.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that though this internship was only for the wealthy and privileged, the founders of the Gale Hawthorne Art Internship didn’t want anyone to think that. Something as indulgent as a family shield wouldn’t be allowed, even if it was rather in character. No, he was going to act with a bit more tack. So when he submitted his proposal, no one batted an eye.

“I told them I wanted to paint a self portrait,” and under other circumstances they might have refused. They would have said it was too indulgent. But, as luck had it, having a brown boy’s face in a flattering light, was a much better look than the derogatory depiction underneath it. So it was approved, along with all the colors he said he would require.

But he didn’t paint a self portrait.

“Well what did you paint then?” Angelica asks, she does her best to look bored, but her curious eyes give her away.

And for the first time tonight, Damian finds his mouth stretching into a grin.

There’s only been one thing worth painting.

Only one thing that kept him sane, from losing himself to the hedonistic environment he’s become submerged in. Because when things seemed hopeless, when the people around him became a reflection of what he would inevitably become, it was only your voice that reached out to him, as if calling him back from whatever world he drifted off to, tethering him firmly to the ground.

“The light of my life,” he says simply, like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t pay a single thought to the gaping faces around him. They didn’t think Damian had anyone special like you, let alone that he could smile like that when he talks about you, or that he could smile at all really.

But how could he not, when he thinks about the creamy colors he mixed to paint the flesh of your face, the galaxies he made in your eyes, the shadows from your eyelashes, and the universes in your hair. He bathed you in pink camellias, dotted your nose with stars, and made you into his act of rebellion. Because loving you was nothing short of a rebellion, an act to keep true to himself instead of becoming what the world saw him to be.

“There’s no way Hawthrone lets you keep it up,” Bradley says before taking a thick swig of his drink. Damian only smiles wider at that point.

“No, probably not.” It would be easy enough to scratch by without punishment, Damian’s an artist, and artist’s can be fickle. He would just claim that halfway through he was turned by a rather strong bout of inspiration. They wouldn’t say anything. What could they say to Bruce Wayne’s fickle youngest child?

No, they wouldn’t reprimand him for it. In fact they might even throw in a compliment or two about his technique, but come next year they would cover it up. Unless, of course, it happened to get a lot of media attention.

It sure would be a shame if, say, a certain college student with a rather strong aptitude for technology, algorithms, and hacking happened to make his painting a viral piece. It would, hypothetically, pain Damian a great deal to have to even ask this of the student, especially if the aforementioned student made him say his request twice with a ‘pretty please’ and a comment about who the best robin was. He’d stomach it though, complying to the request through gritted teeth because-- because it would be worth it.

It would be worth people knowing you were here and alive, for someone to gaze at his painting a century from now and look at your beauty in awe that something so magnificent existed.

Damian watches the eyes of these terrible people, knowing he’ll have to see them again next summer, to protect his mural and any others he chooses to paint. To borrow some of their privilege and strength so he can use them as a stepping stool to create a world he can be proud of.

But for now, he’ll settle for this small, final word.

“I don’t think they will though.”

[saintshigaraki]

HERE, IN THE MORNING LIGHT, IS WHERE WE’LL BARE OUR SOULS

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader 

words: 3.2k

excerpt: Really, how many times can you blame Ushijima for breaking your heart when you’re the one who can’t seem to stop handing it to him -- on a silver fucking platter no less. 

a/n: this is...a bit too similar to my bakugou drabble i’ll admit. but i could see a relationship with ushijima having some of the same problems. he’s not purposely cruel, but god, doesn’t that just make it so much worse?

tags: angst, mentions of alcohol, implied sex, reader is full of rage, ambiguous/open ending

in case you want to read it on ao3!

You greet Toshi at the door, as you’ve made a habit of doing when he manages to come home before you’ve fallen asleep.

(Like a well-trained dog, you think, with only the most bitter sort of amusement.) 

When you lift your hand up to cup his face, a sweet hello, love, how was your day? on your lips, he sweeps it aside (gently, of course. He's always so sickeningly gentle when he brushes you aside. You think that might just make the hollow sting of his nonchalant rejection that much worse.)

“Have you made anything for dinner?” he asks, already walking away before you have a chance to pull him down for a kiss. Your arm falls unceremoniously at your side. A deadweight, swinging. 

I think I might hate you, you want to say, so,  so badly. The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue as you stand frozen in the darkened entryway, his shadow stretches, eclipsing you, as he walks further and further away.

But these moments of sweet burning-hot rage pass as quickly as they come and soon -- too soon, maybe, or not soon enough -- you find yourself turning on your heels and shining a too-bright smile, the one that shows too many teeth and leaves an ache in your cheeks. 

“Not yet, love, but I can whip up something real quick.” 

The words taste like lead in your mouth.

(Or maybe that's just the blood from biting your tongue.)

Who knows, you muse, bitterly, bitingly. What does it matter anyway? 

You make your way towards the kitchen.

+

Later that night, after he’s finished fucking you into the mattress, he grunts out an I love you, before rolling over and promptly falling asleep. 

His cum is sticky and uncomfortable as it cools on your burning thighs. 

You stare at the lights sweeping across the ceiling from the passing cars and try to remember days when you didn’t feel as though someone had hollowed out everything that made you and filled in the empty space with barely contained rage. 

Rationally, you know you weren’t always so unhappy with Ushijima. You loved him -- you still do -- you have for years. You could barely contain your tears of joy when he asked you to marry him and you didn’t manage to contain them at all the day you officially tied the knot. 

You were so happy then. So, so, happy. 

What happened? 

(You know exactly what happened.)

You’ve made sacrifice after sacrifice for him. Moved from country to country. Left your family and friends behind more times than you can count. Because you love Toshi. Because you love him more than anything. And because he loves you, though you know he doesn’t love you more than anything. It’s a selfish gripe to have. A rather dumb one too. Of course he doesn’t love you more than volleyball. Why should he? He’s dedicated his whole life to the sport. Countless hours, countless injuries, and setbacks, and he’s persevered through it all because that's what he does. Because that sport, that court, that stupid fucking ball, is what he loves above all else. 

It’s not as if you jumped into this marriage wholly and totally blind. You’re not dumb. You knew volleyball was going to be a priority in his life,  the priority. And you thought you could handle that. You did handle it. For 5 years you’ve handled it, the constant moving, the last minute canceled plans, the weeks of him traveling that have left you all alone for near months at a time in a cold home with a cold bed. You’ve handled it all with a too-wide smile plastered painfully across your face. 

But things have -- shifted, recently. Maybe it’s the pressure of what could very well be his last Olympics coming up in these next few years, maybe it’s the fear of someone younger, better, stronger than him taking his place, or maybe, he simply doesn’t give all that much of a  fuck about you anymore. 

(You know that’s not true. Wakatoshi loves you. You know that. Which is what makes this all so much worse.)

I love you, isn’t that enough? he’d said bluntly, and maybe a bit confused, last time you brought up your concerns after the third canceled date in a row. 

His words had made you pause. Was it enough? Why isn’t it enough? Shouldn’t it be enough?

At the time, you’d thought, maybe. Maybe I can make it enough. 

A year later and you’ve come to the realization that it simply -- isn’t enough. Maybe if you were a different person, a slightly better person, it’d be enough. But you’re not. You’re you, a strange, toxic concoction of hollow fury and selfish desires (for comfort, for love, for anything more than whatever this is).

You roll over on your side to face your husband. He’s on his back, like he always is when he sleeps, completely dead to the world. 

He’s statuesque, unmovable, untouchable, even now. 

You gently brush your finger over his brow, sweeping his hair to the side, and tracing his strong jawline. You’ve done this a thousand times. You’ve memorized every curve, every freckle, every scar. You’ve mapped countless constellations across his skin. 

You don’t hate him, you realize, in the dark suffocating silence of the night. Not yet, at least. There’s still too much love for him in your heart. Still too many memories of brighter days. Sweeter days. Gentler days. 

He’s been good to you. As good as a man like him is capable of being. And you love him so, so dearly for it. 

He has tomorrow off, maybe -- maybe you should talk to him. There’s still time to salvage this. There’s still so much love for him in your heart, enough to drive out the hate. You know it. 

He has tomorrow off, you repeat to yourself. The first full day he’s taken off in a month. 

You’ll talk to him then. 

You have to. 

+

The morning light is what wakes you. The gentle rays kiss your cheeks so sweetly. 

Without fully opening your eyes, you reach towards Ushi only to be met with -- cool sheets. 

Your stomach drops painfully and it's as though he’s taken your heart in his hands and just squeezed. 

You open your eyes, wearily, tiredly, and the morning light no longer seems so sweet. It’s mocking. A cruel, bitter reminder of better days and broken promises. 

You crawl out of bed, trying to stay optimistic -- maybe he just went for a morning jog -- even though you know that on days he has off he likes to sleep in. You try desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt, because he promised and you want so badly to still be able to believe him, even after everything. 

He used to have every Saturday and Sunday free, then around three years ago it turned into every Sunday, then a year and a half ago it turned into every other Sunday, and recently -- well, it’s been a while. A long, long while. 

But he promised he’d stay home today. 

He promised, you repeat as you stumble around the apartment only to find it painfully silent, empty, and so, so cold. 

You collapse on the couch, hunched over, your head hanging pitifully into your hands. You take a deep, pathetically shaky breath. 

And then you laugh. 

You laugh so hard you nearly heave. 

Two years ago, you would’ve cried. A year ago, you would’ve screamed. 

But now? Who do you really have to blame, but yourself? How can you not laugh? How can you not laugh at just how stupid and gullible you are? 

Really, how many times can you blame Ushijima for breaking your heart when you’re the one who can’t seem to stop handing it to him -- on a silver fucking platter no less. 

This is your fault. And it has been for a long while now. 

It’s time to move on. 

+

You book a one-way flight home -- you haven’t been back in so long. Too long, you know. You stuff as much as you can into your single suitcase and pitiful carry-on bag. It’s all strangely methodical and robotic. You’re calmer than you’ve been in months. 

This is how it was always going to end. Honestly, you don’t think there was really supposed to be another option, any other way out. You don’t think this mess was ever going to be fixed. It was stupid of you to ever believe otherwise. 

By the time you’ve managed to compose yourself, get your affairs in order, and meticulously pack away as much as you can, the sun has started to dip below the horizon. 

The clock reads 9:18 PM. Your flight is in a few hours. You’ll have to get going soon. 

You pick out the nicest, most expensive bottle of red wine in your home. You were going to save it for when Ushi made the national team again but, as you’ve learned rather painfully, sometimes plans change. 

You pour yourself a glass, but in the end, can’t bring yourself to take a single sip. 

That’s how Ushi finds you, sitting at the kitchen table, toying with a glass of wine. There’s only the lone kitchen light lit in the apartment. The shadows dance around him, dark and monstrous, ready to swallow you both whole. 

Wakatoshi has never been particularly skilled at reading social cues but you can tell from the slight tilt of his head that he knows somethings wrong. You wonder if he knows exactly how wrong. 

(Not that it would really change anything if he did.)

The thud of his gym bag hitting the floor echoes too loudly in the silent apartment. 

He steps into the kitchen like he does all other things -- with purpose, with confidence. It will never not leave you in awe, even now, how sure he always is of himself. He’s a blunt force weapon, he always has been, and you can’t imagine a time where he’ll be anything but. 

He stops at the opposite end of the table. It’s the beginning of the same song and dance you two have done time and time again when he breaks his little promises. 

His big ones too. 

(You think of when he had missed your five-year anniversary dinner for a last-minute practice. He hadn’t forgotten about the reservation, he’d told you after he’d returned home to you sitting alone at the kitchen table, half-drunk and livid, but people were relying on him, is what he’d said, and there’s always next year.)

This routine is comforting, if only in the cruelest way. 

We can put on a show, just this last time, you think. For old time’s sake. 

Your eyes fall back down to your glass as you speak. “You said you’d stay home today.”

You look back up just in time to see him opening his mouth. No doubt getting ready to cycle through the same set of excuses he’s been using for the past four years. 

A teammate called. 

I needed the extra practice. 

There’s a skill I need to perfect. 

The Olympics are 4 years away...3 years away...2 years away....you know that, love.

And, of course, no matter his reason, his excuse, he always makes sure to add, I’ll stay home next Sunday, I promise. 

He doesn’t intend for that last part to be cruel, you’re sure of it, but God, if that doesn’t make it so much worse. 

You cut him off before he can even start. “You promised.”

His brows furrow at your exhausted, weary tone. “There was a team meeting today, I’m sorry I forgot to mention it to you. It went on longer than I expected it would. We can still go out to dinner if you’d like.” 

You give him a sad sort of smile. You’re too tired to give him any other. “I don’t think I’ll have time for that, love.”

Ushijima’s left brow twitches, as it always does when he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. 

He takes a step forward, around the table. “What do you mean? Are you going out tonight?” 

You shake your head softly. “No, Toshi.”

You can’t help but wish more than anything, that it didn’t have to come to this, because you have loved him so much, so deeply, and you think that for it to end like this is a disservice to you both. 

His jaw clenches, no doubt already trying to contain his frustration. He’s probably tired after his long day. An argument over something like this is probably the last thing he wants. A good wife would care more. A good wife might’ve persevered, smiled through her husband's little lies and shattered promises. A good wife might’ve tried harder. A good wife might’ve dug her heels in, instead of letting go completely. 

But you’re not a good wife. Not now, at least. For all you know, you never were. You’ve always been just a bit too bitter, too selfish, too flawed. Not willing enough to throw yourself on the metaphorical altar for him. 

He’s close enough now that he can see the suitcase at your side. It stops him dead in his tracks. 

“What’s going on?” His tone is hard, demanding, but you know him too well to miss the fear that pulls at the corner of his eyes. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi is a lot of things. But he’s certainly not dumb. He has to know what’s going on. He has to have known that, eventually, this was what was going to happen. 

You stand up slowly, bracing your palms against the rough wood of the tabletop. 

“I-” you let out a harsh, mean breath. You hate that you’re doing this. But you’d hate yourself more if you didn’t. And you know you’d grow to hate him too, eventually, if you stay. You’re burning up here in this home, each broken promise and cold night add fuel to the already raging fire. You’ll be nothing but ashes soon enough. “I can’t do this anymore, Wakatoshi.” 

His pretty olive eyes narrow. The look he gives you is practically glacial. His fury has always been so, so cold. A stark contrast to your burning rage. 

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand.” His words are slow, methodical, and too even.

They crack open something violent inside your chest, something with teeth. Something mean and ugly and so, so sad. 

Too many years of biting your tongue have culminated into this moment. It’s time to strip yourself to the bone, to the ugly marrow. No matter how painful or awful. 

Don’t you two deserve that, at least? Don’t you two deserve to part ways having seen the worst of each other? 

“Of course you don’t understand, Ushijima,” you spit out, caustic and cruel. “How can you?” The laugh you let out is ripped from the very bottom of your heart, mean and poisonous. “Or more accurately, why would you? Why would you even bother understanding? It’s not like my unhappiness has ever really meant anything to you before-”

He cuts in sharply. “You know that’s not true.”

“No,”  you hiss. “I don’t. How can I? I’ve been miserable for years now, left to beg for scraps of your attention like a fucking dog. I’ve reduced myself to this pathetic creature. I-” tears cloud your vision, far faster than you can blink them away. “I don’t even recognize myself anymore, Ushijima. I’m so--I’m so angry all the time and if I stay here that’s going to be all that’s left of me.”

It’s silent after your outburst and in the air is something awful and too great. You’re both teetering on the edge of something terrifying. 

“If you stay with me, you mean,” he says, finally, and far too soft for a man like him. All signs of his previous fury have fled and in his eyes is a painful sort of vulnerability.

Your anger dissipates with his, mostly because you’re so fucking tired of being angry. 

Is it really his fault, anyway? What exactly were you expecting of him, when you took his last name? Were you really wanting him to change something so fundamental, so ingrained in his soul, just for you? How unfair of you, you realize now, how cruel. 

“Toshi.” You’re exhausted. And so sick of being second best. “This is more my fault than it is yours. I thought I could handle what being married to you would entail but I was,” -- you laugh, far less biting than before-- “very wrong.” You close your eyes, unable to look at him. “And now I suppose we’re both paying the price for it.” 

“I love you,” he says, bluntly. “And you love me.”

You’re finally able to meet his eyes again. You take in the planes of his face, the subtle pain etched into every corner, a brutal, beautiful reflection of the years you’ve spent by his side. 

“I do love you, Ushijima. More than anything.” 

“Then why are you doing this?” 

You swallow hard. “Sometimes, that just isn’t enough, Toshi. Relationships require more than love. They require work, and compromise, and some semblance of care and dedication, and you just-- you just don’t have the time for that right now, and I understand that. But I can’t keep doing this to myself. I deserve-” you stop and give yourself a moment to choose your words carefully, lovingly because you’re desperate for him to just understand. “We deserve better, don’t you think?”

He shakes his head, his hair falls in his eyes. You sweep it aside, a force of habit after all these years, something you’ve done a million and one times. Before you can jerk your arm back he grips it in his large hand. His fingers wrap around your wrist, unyielding. 

“I need you,” Toshi says, uncharacteristically desperate. You can feel the heat radiating off his chest. It's a twisted sort of comfort. Knowing this may very well be the last time you’ll be in this position. 

You smile, sweetly and a bit sadly. “No, you don’t, Ushi. You need volleyball. You need the thrill of the game and the taste of victory but you don’t need me. You’ve never needed me. And that’s okay.” You lift your other hand up to brush the stray tear that’s fallen from his eye. He nuzzles into your palm before you can move it, clinging to you like some sort of lifeline. “It’ll be okay, Toshi, we’ve just reached the end of our road. That’s all.”

He raises a shaky hand to trace the dried tracks of tears on your cheek, it’s startling to see him so uncomposed. “Please,” he nearly begs, “don’t do this.”

In your heart, there’s an odd brew of grief and rage and pain and love so mean you know you’ll feel the ache of it for years to come. 

You think of all the shattered promises he’s left at your feet, you think of the gentle way he’s held you through the years, you think of his string of nonchalant rejection, you think of yourself, bright and burning. 

Your mind spins from it and all you can do is rest your head against his chest and close your eyes.

a/n pt 2: there is some untapped potential in the fed up housewife genre and i am determined to unearth it. also i love ushi i promise i think he’d be a great husband under most circumstances

[jbreenr]

Trust –Chris Evans

Pairing: Bodyguard!Chris Evans × Famous!reader

Word count: 5.7k

Summary: Chris has worked for many artists. All, counting on him to keep them safe. Why don't you? (Here's the second part)

Warning: Poorly written smut (+18 only, please), choking, unprotected sex (don't do that, kids. be responsible), mentions of an alleged stalker, reader being a bit stubborn, slight angst (???), cockwarming at the end. This is a RPF AU so, don’t read if you don’t feel comfortable with that. I think that's it.

A/N: Damn, I got a little carried away. Sorry. This is the longest shit I've written so far so, I hope it's not as boring as I think it might be. Anyway, I had so much fun writing it for @buckyownsmylife 's 1st anniversary challenge! Why am I always writing for you? I don't understand, but I like it 😆. Also, yes, I posted this on Chris' birthday, I'm that kinda person. As always, lack of vocabulary and grammatical mistakes abound. *apologizes en español*

Wheel results (just attaching evidence):

ᴹʸ ᵍⁱᶠ

“'MARVEL'S AVENGERS' STAR, Y/N Y/L/N IS ATTACKED BY A CRAZY FAN AFTER LEAVING A RESTAURANT!”

“DISCONCERTING VIDEO OF A MAN PUNCHING HIS FAVORITE ACTRESS AFTER HARASSING HER. CLICK THE LINK BELOW.”

“EMMY NOMINEE, Y/N Y/L/N, SUFFERS MINOR INJURIES WHILE TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM AN AGGRESSOR.”

All captions said the same. The press, as always taking advantage of the misfortune of others to create gossip and gain followers and reads on their sites.

You shut the laptop and took your face in your hand.

It all started the day before, when you were waiting for a cab outside an overly expensive Thai place, after having a meeting with one of the most acclaimed thriller film directors to discuss a role he was offering you for his next project.

With the deal made and dessert finished, Mark, your manager, offered to take you home, but you declined his offer, telling him that you had to run some errands before. He left with the promise of calling you during the week.

The ringtone you set for your best friend sounded loudly in your back pocket. Answering her call, you covered your eyes from the sunlight.

“Hey, babe. How's it going?”

“I should be the one asking that, but given your apparent good mood, I think things went as planned.”

Raising your arm, you called for a taxi, but the driver ignored you. “It went better than planned! Not only did I get a role in the movie. I got the role in the movie. So, you better greet and bow to the new Mistress of the Underworld next time you see me!” Your voice went from arrogant to excited as you spoke, letting her know that you were joking.

“That's awesome, dude!” your friend exclaimed. “Damn, there'll be no way to get you out of your throne now.”

You fake laughed and asked, “Do I really have to get the drinks? I mean, it's me who we are celebrating.”

“Hey, your achievement, your liquor.”

“Hi. Are you Y/N/N?,” A guy you vaguely remembered having seen some times behind the security bars of different events shyly approached you. “Yes, you are! I love your movies. Can I… can we take… is it okay if…?” Phone in hand, he tried asking.

“Hold on a second, girl. I’m taking a photo with…” you didn't finish the sentence, waiting for the man to complete it.

“Oh uhm, Bern.”

“With Bern. I’ll be right back.”

“Do it fast, we gotta toast because you’re paying the bills again.”

“Shut up.” You giggled and then turned your attention to the red headed in front of you.

He was taller than you by a few inches. His green eyes, small, and his nose and cheekbones covered with hundreds of freckles. He seemed nice.

“So, how would you like the photo?” you asked as you fixed your perfectly combed hair. “Do you want us to pose or just a simple selfie?”

“A selfie is fine.” he stood beside you, close enough for both your faces to fit on the broken screen of his phone.

Raising your hand, you made a peace sign and gave your biggest smile to the camera. He clicked the button and it was done.

“Well, it was so nice seeing you, Bern but, I better get going. People are waiting for me.” You waved at him and turned to start walking, but he stopped you by taking your wrist.

“Can we repeat it? I don’t like how I look.” His insisting eyes, trying to convince you.

“Sure, why not?” Your friend was still on the line and you told her to wait for a little longer.

You got in position and showed your teeth once more, but your smile faltered when you felt his cold fingers touching your lower back from under your top.

"That hand.” You warned in a playful voice.

His touch disappeared, but the feeling was still there.

Once the photo was taken, you stepped away and shakingly said your goodbyes, in hopes of getting away from him as quickly as possible.

“No, wait! Let’s take another one!” His hand gripped your waist. “Just one more.”

“I'm gonna be late. My friends are--.”

He dragged you closer to him and you stepped on his feet accidentally, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes, big and sparkling.

“The lighting is not good.” He looked around. “Let’s go somewhere else to make it perfect.”

Fear ran down your body, the closeness of his face to yours, disturbing you to the point of wanting to start running.

“Please, let go of me.” Calm flew from your mouth, even though you were feeling the opposite.

“Not until we take another photo!” His tone was contundent, nothing like the one he used while asking for the first one.

“You’re hurting me!” A few people were passing by, only turning to see if you were really that actress they had seen somewhere, none of them knowing what was going on.

“You really want to leave me?” You pulled, intending to shake him off. “Then, leave.”

Instead of just freeing you, he shoved your arm. The unexpected force, bringing you to the ground on your side. Your whole weight, falling on your left hand.

Screaming in pain, you heard your friend calling for you asking if you were okay, while with teary eyes you saw Bern running away and a lot of curious people forming a circle around you.

“Hey girl, uhm,” You took your phone to your ear and brought your other hand to your chest. “I think I’m gonna be late for the party.”

After some X-rays, a movement test and a bunch of medical terms that you didn't understand, the doctor told you that you only had a slight sprain and that you'd only need to wear a wristband for two to three weeks, take some painkillers and anti-inflammatories, and avoid movement as much as possible.

Luckily, you were already done filming the second season of your series. Your only concern, the pre-production of the new movie that started in a couple of weeks.

Those events led you the next day, sitting in front of Mark’s desk, being given a speech of how you should be more careful while talking to fans.

“… And that's why I consider it appropriate for you to take an escort with you.”

“But I don’t need protection!” you yelled at your manager. “I can defend myself.”

“Yeah? How did that go yesterday?”

Licking your lips in exasperation, you tried to come up with a compelling argument so you could persuade him to put his crazy idea aside and let you be.

“Look, Mark, I’m just saying that I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Y/N, understand, I don’t want anything like that happening to you again. While that lunatic is still out there, you cannot go out alone."

“It was not a big deal. I don’t know why you’re all acting like he beat the hell out of me.”

“He could have.”

“But he didn’t!” You stood up and wandered around his office. “I’m tired of telling people that I can handle these kinds of situations just fine.”

“I don’t care what you think.” Pointing at the chair in front of him, he signaled for you to sit again, which you did recultanty. “I found a guy. He’s supposed to be the best of the best; good recommendations, excellent resumé, and an impressive knowledge of, what seems to be, martial arts." He said as he held an open folder. "Just... give it a chance, would you?" He handed you the folder. "If after a month you feel uncomfortable with someone following you around twenty four seven well, we'll find another solution."

You looked at the information printed in the piece of paper, not paying attention to it and sighed in defeat, throwing your head back. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Of course, you should have known better than to think that.

Two days later, Monday morning, during breakfast –or study time, as you usually called it, your doorbell rang.

Still in your pajamas, you went to open the door. A half empty bowl of fruit, held between your left forearm and ribs. Your hand, immovile, caught in the wristband.

Mark stood in front of you, looking as if someone had dropped ice cream in his favorite pair of shoes. Right eyebrow raised and lips pressed in a tight line. He was mad. At you, specifically. But it was not his expression what caught your attention. It was the man behind him; a hundred and eighty-two pounds of pure muscle and six feet of gorgeousness remained silent and still, wearing an immaculate black suit and showing no emotion in his handsome face.

“What did I tell you?” Mark asked as he showed you his phone. A picture of you and two other girls adorned the screen.

“I don’t know.” You took a grape from your plate and turned to walk to the living room again, both men, following you inside. “You’ve told me plenty of things since we met.”

The other man looked around unimpressed, hands behind his back and an analytic glint drawn on his pupils.

You dropped to the couch, taking the script and marker again to continue with your previous task.

“I specifically said that I didn’t want you to expose yourself by going out alone.” He sat on the coffee table. The other guy, rigid and impassable a few steps away. “And, what do you do? You decide to go for a walk, wave at paparazzis, give autographs and have long conversations with strangers in the street.”

“They’re not strangers.” You threw the script aside. “They’re my fans, and if it wasn’t for them, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.”

“One of those fans is the reason we’re having this conversation right now.” He inhaled deeply, as if it helped him calm down. “I’m not here to argue with you.” He stood up.

“Lucky me!” Your sarcasm had him shaking his head.

“I came to introduce you to the newest addition to your team.”

For some reason, you felt as if they had practiced that part, with the man walking in your direction and reaching out his hand to you the second Mark finished the sentence.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name’s Christopher and I'll be the one taking care of your safety.”

You eyed him up and down from your seat.

My safety. You thought, chuckling. He's way too cute not to be an actor… model, if not.

“Well, Chris, welcome aboard.” You shook his hand with your healthy one.

“I would appreciate it if you called me Christpher, if you don’t mind.” He straightened, the tone of his request calm, but firm.

“Sure, Chris.” He narrowed his eyes in discomfort but did nothing to correct you again.

With an eye roll, Mark moved to sit beside you and invited Christopher to have a seat as well.

“Let's start, shall we?” Your manager asked, putting out a notebook full of post-its. Your new shadow, doing the same.

You spent the rest of the day checking your activities for the next week, preparing security measures and a contingency plan, in case it was needed.

Your script reading, delayed until dinnertime.

The first two weeks were not as boring as you thought they'd be. Rumors of a certain actress dating a mysterious guy blew the internet as soon as he was spotted helping you get out of your car in the parking lot of a mall. Gossips about your love life, breaking social media when photos of you two carrying your shopping bags were published. Speculations regarding him moving in with you were heard the day he accidentally appeared in the back of a video you posted. All of them, dismissed during an interview, answering a question about the incident that caused it all.

Although you were having the time of your life, calling him "Chris" in every chance given, teasing him, he didn’t flinch even once.

The only problem you found was when it came to greeting people that approached you asking for a photo. Chris would create a barrier between you and your fans, and ask them to step back, scaring most of them. He took his job too seriously. That did not mean you didn’t manage to sneak out of his trained ocean eyes to get closer to them every now and then, getting on his nerves every single time.

Week three was here, which meant that you had run out of food, therefore you needed to go to the store to get some supplies for the rest of the month.

It was nine o’clock when the doorbell rang. Still in bed with eyes closed, you groaned in disbelief and covered your face with the blankets. It had been like that since his hiring became official… kind of. The first day, he arrived at six am with the excuse of needing to inspect your apartment to rule out possible access for intruders. Deep inside, you suspected it was his retribution for ignoring his wish of being called by his full name during your first reunion; The second day, he was at the door at seven, with the argument that his working hours started that early; On day three you decided to shorten his duty time by asking him to show up at ten thirty in the morning and gave him a key so he wouldn’t interrupt you with whatever you were doing.

Yet, he thought that it was better if he was there earlier in case an unexpected event arose. And if it was not enough, he clung to the idea that waiting to be invited in was the right thing to do.

The shrill sound echoed through the house again, making you want to disconnect it and knock him out with it. Instead, you got out of bed and with slow, heavy steps, went to open the door, leaving your robe and slippers behind. You gave up your efforts of looking presentable on day six.

Unlike you, with tangled hair, morning breathing and wrinkled pajamas, he was wide awake, prepared to start the day with his batteries fully charged.

“You know where the coffee is.” You let him in and closed the door behind him, knowing damn well that he didn't need a cup as much as you did. “I’ll be right back.”

Dragging your feet on the floor, you walked directly to the bathroom, not ready to say goodbye to the comfort and warmth of your bed and replace them for the awakening effect of a shower.

Your voice accompanied the music coming out of the radio on your way back to your apartment, hands playing simultaneously an imaginary guitar and the biggest air drum someone could imagine. Singing the guitar solo and shaking your head to the beat of the song from the passenger seat had Chis peeking at you, successfully hiding a smile behind a weary face.

Right when the chorus started, your stomach roared, ruining the moment and your performance in the process.

“We can go get you something to eat.” He suggested, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yeah, I’m starving!” Unlocking your phone, you searched for a place nearby where you could have a pizza. “Bet you too.”

“I’m good.”

“I doubt that.” Clicking on the pin of a pizza and pasta restaurant, you said. “This morning you rejected my kind breakfast offer,” Sarcasm, coming out easily. You offered him a bowl of cereal with barely any cereal on it with no milk. “And I hadn’t seen you eat anything the whole day.”

“I’m good.” He repeated, shaking his head, putting the conversation to an end and turning right when you told him to.

There was no explanation. No apparent reason for it to happen the way it did. Maybe you had bad luck with food establishments, maybe you should resign to home deliveries and never step on a restaurant for the rest of your life.

Chris had parked a block away from the pizza place due to the lack of space in front of it, which meant that you had to walk a couple of meters to get there and then to your car when you were finished.

Halfway to your car, with Chris on your right facing forward, you felt a hand stopping you by your shoulder from behind and jumped in surprise, letting out a sight.

Faster than light, Chris placed himself between you and the stranger and with brute force, one of his fists collided with the guy’s stomach while the other pushed him back by the neck, sending him to the ground. You swore you saw him falling in slow motion.

“Oh, my God!” someone said. A bunch of teens quickly approached the scene.

Looking down, you saw a boy not older than nineteen, holding a napkin and a black marker.

No amount of words could describe how embarrassed you were, no amount of autographs you were to give could make you feel better.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You apologized to him and his friends, sending a deadly glare in Chris’ direction, who stood impassive as if it was nothing. “This won’t happen again, I swear.” You vividly imagined next day’s headline: “FAN IS SENT TO THE HOSPITAL WITH INTERNAL BLEEDING AFTER TRYING TO SAY HELLO TO Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Don’t worry.” The guy on the floor said as you helped him stand up, his hand covering the side of his abdomen. “I read what happened to you, it’s good that you have backup.”

“What can I do to compensate you for this? I feel horrible.” Your concern, showing as you bit your lip.

“We can always take a photo and forget this happened?” He asked with a smile drawn on his lips, which made you relax your shoulders. The weight of guilt, slowly disappearing.

Taking a look at his friends, they all nodded in agreement and signed up for a photo themselves.

As punishment, you proposed that Chris took the photo this time to make up for the misunderstanding, making them all laugh. He didn’t like the idea but did it nevertheless after he decided that they were harmless.

You two would have a conversation as soon as you were alone.

“Are you crazy?” You had barely entered your apartment when you started with your lecture. “Why did you think that punching a fifteen year old was a good idea?!”

“I didn’t know he was fifteen.” he said, as composed as always.

“Exactly. You didn’t know.” You pointed your finger at him. “Because you didn’t stop to check who was ‘attacking’ me.”

Slapping the door closed, you marched to the living room, willing to start an unlikely discussion.

“He shouldn’t have touched you in the first place.” He left the bags in the aisle of the kitchen. “I was just doing my job.”

The coolness of his statement sent you over the edge.

“Attacking people is not your job!”

“And, what exactly is my job, then?” The tranquility with which he had handled himself up to that moment fading little by little. “You have treated me as your assistant all this time. I am not here to do your grocery shopping, I am here to protect you!” He yelled at you, His anger and frustration, evident. Until now, you were not sure if he was able to show any sort of emotion.

“How many times do I have to say that I don’t need protection?” You yelled back.

“If so, why am I here?”

“You, my friend,” Shortening the distance, you poked his chest with your index finger. “Are here because my manager is a paranoiac grandpa who believes I’m too naive to put my trust in everyone.”

“In everyone but me.”

“I. Don't. Need. To. Trust. You.” You added force to your touches with each word.

“Stop it.” He said, taking your hand in his.

“What? Can’t stand a girl telling you that she doesn’t need you to be her knight in shiny armor?” With your other hand, you resumed your poking, with less force thanks to the pain it caused you.

“I’m serious.” He caught your other hand, making you whine in an ache.

“Yeah, me too.” You got closer to his face. “Go terrify teenagers elsewhere.”

Attempting to step away from him in a dramatic way, you pulled your arms down, not giving a damn if it hurted, but he didn't let go. Instead, he held you with more strength. You did it again but ended up with the same result. The only one thing you thought would set you free, spitting from your mouth like poison: “You're fired.”

He tilted his head, contemplating if you were kidding or not. When he decided that you weren’t, he huffed. A dry and somber action that sent chills down your spine.

“You don’t get to decide that.” His hold on your wrists relaxed, giving you the opportunity to step away.

“No, I don’t. But I’m calling Mark to tell him that this,” You gestured circles with your hands. “Didn’t work.”

One second you were reaching for the phone and the second, being slammed against the wall next to the couch by Chris, whose right hand was firmly placed in your throat. The amused look on his face and his head shake, had you voiceless.

“You really are a pain in the ass.” he affirmed. His face was so close to yours that you could count the hairs of his beard if you wanted to, see the almost imperceptible tint of green in his eyes, kiss his plump lips if he just leaned enough…

His eyes explored your face, absorbing every inch of it, learning your features, like trying to memorize them. When you parted your lips to exhale and your breath hit his face, he closed his eyes. His long lashes brushing softly above his cheekbones and his bicep, looking more prominent under his tight ironed black shirt, thanks to the growth on strength of his grip.

“What are you doing?” The tremble of your voice brought his gaze to you once again. The way you practically moaned the question, had his cook twitching under his trousers.

“When I accepted Mark’s offer to work with you, I did not expect you to be as difficult as he described you.” The sides of his thumb and index finger dug in your jaw, forcing your head up and the rest of your body to be supported by your tiptoes. “I thought I’d be able to do my job as I’ve been doing it all these years but you had to make it complicated, hadn’t you?”

You wanted to answer him, oh, how much you wanted to give him a smart comeback to lower his guard, but given the predicament you were in, with your back flat against a cold wall and your panties damped for an inexplicable reason, you decided to wait for the perfect moment to do it.

With his other hand, he removed an unruly lock of hair that covered your face, tucking it behind your ear. The gesture felt so sweet, so intimate that you almost forgot what his other hand was doing.

“Being close to you has been torture.” The ghost of his words grazed your face. “Watching you roaming around in nothing but those extremely thin pajamas of yours, listening to you sing while taking a shower,” His lips made contact with your cheek ever so slightly that you wanted to move forward to feel it again, something impossible at the moment. “Having to put up with all those hormonal high schoolers undressing you with their eyes and standing there as if it didn’t affect me.”

“Are you saying that you find it offensive?” Collecting all the lucidity you had left, you asked. “Or that you also want to undress me?”

He smirked. An incredulous smile adorning his charming appearance.

The fingers of his left hand drew your collarbone, passed over the hem of your sundress and stopped above its first button.

“I think the answer to that is obvious by now.”

He was still keeping you glued to the wall with his big hand wrapped around you. Not that you were to move an inch if he wasn’t.

“And, what are you waiting for?”

For the second time during your discussion, he analyzed you, looking for any mockery or sarcasm –since it came natural to you. What he found this time, surprised him, pleased him; the words desire and hunger were written all over you. Not a bit of disgust or discomfort about his grip on you was visible. And it clicked to him. You liked it. It was the reason why you hadn't tried to escape or push him away.

Sadly for you, his hand left your hot flesh to get at the neckline of your dress, taking the piece of fabric in between his fingers, as well as with his other hand.

In the blink of an eye, he pulled, ripping the buttons from their seams and making them fly all over the place, leaving your dress open and hanging from your shoulders as if it were a cape, displaying your almost naked body to his view. You were not wearing a bra, but it was not a surprise, he had been purposely looking up and away from you the whole day. Your underwear was not so different whatsoever, the smallest thong he had ever seen was kept in place by two thin threads hugging your hips. It was not difficult for him to get rid of it, putting it on his pocket.

Not wanting to stay like that forever, you reached for his belt, willing to undo it with shaky, slow fingers since your wrist still hurted. As you did so, he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it somewhere near the dining table.

He was tattooed; an eagle was drawn on the right side of his chest while a legend was written in the left, various pieces adorned the upper part of his arms and some others were scattered around his abdomen, a bigger one was visible near his v line. You felt the urge of licking every single one of them, recreating the patterns which the artists probably used to ink him.

“Like what you see?” He asked. Having had your mouth opened, you would have most likely been drooling.

“I think the answer is obvious.”

He took your face with both his hands and stamped his lips to yours in a heated kiss. It was all tongues and teeth, your faces moving in different angles to have better access to each other’s mouths. His beard scratched your cheeks, tickled you, but you barely registered that, too immersed in the battle of dominance your tongues were fighting.

For a second, you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing, but resumed their task after his went to your now ruined dress and slipped it down your arms.

Pulling down his pants you ended the kiss to gather some needed oxygen. Looking down, you saw his length had formed a tent in his boxers and you throbbed.

“Is it too late to say that this is utterly unprofessional from you?” your breathless question was just finished when he dug his fingers on your neck again, spun and threw you to the couch with enough force to move it minimally.

“It is.” He climbed on top of you, opening your legs with one hand and keeping himself up with the other, holding onto the back of the couch. At some point, he found the opportunity to take off his remaining piece of cloth.

His cock stood proud resting against his lower belly, its red tip, already leaking with precum. The sight of it, of all of him, had your hips jolting forward, searching for that which would end the torment you were being a prisoner of. You closed your eyes, attempting to compose yourself and don't seem too eager to be one with him.

You were soaked. Your arousal going down your ass and wetting the surface of the couch.

“Well, I think--” He cut you out in the middle of a sassy comment. “Shit! Chris!” You screamed when he shoved inside of you with no warning. His hips, stopping when he bottomed out, not precisely to let you adjust to his size. Your hands, flying back to hold onto the arm of the couch, your left wrist, complaining in pain as you bent it.

“Say it again.” the hand that held your waist, now was on your throat, tightening its grip once more. “It’s been driving me crazy this whole time.”

Suppressing the need to remind him all those times he told you not to call him that, too afraid of letting out a whimper, you obeyed, repeating his name like a prayer, wishing that he started moving.

He did. Slow. Agonizingly slow.

With each unhurried thrust you wanted to drag him down hard, but him, having the back of your head buried in the soft material of your couch, made it impossible.

“Isn’t it funny?” He looked down at you. “How you wouldn’t forgive me for kicking the air out of someone but would beg me to do exactly that to you?”

His fingers squeezed your flesh, making you whine.

You swallowed, the difficulty of it evident for both of you. “I didn’t beg.” Your raspy voice came out as a whisper, but he listened. Of course he did.

Fire came out of his eyes, an almost primal groan left his lips right before his hips started moving back and forth with an animalistic determination.

“Oh, God!” you moaned.

“Do you have any idea of how frustrated I felt every time I caught you running away from my side to risk yourself getting hurt again?” His peace was ruthless, the slapping sounds of his hips colliding with the back of your thighs, getting louder as well as your cries, filling your ears in the most sinful way. “How useless I thought I was when my most important task was to hold the door open for you?” The vein in the side of his neck was more visible than usual, popping up due to the effort to which he was subjected. “How I felt like garbage when you saw me as if I was a monster for doing precisely what I get paid to do?”

He sounded hurt, brutally honest and it made your heart sink. The contrast between his words and movements, lighting a dilemma in your head. You were not going to justify yourself for what you did, but you also felt like he deserved an apology for putting up with your shit. After all, it was not his fault, he was just following orders.

Too lost in your thoughts and pleasure, you didn’t notice his hand had left the couch to find your clit. Only when he applied pressure, rubbing fast circles, did you decide to enjoy what he was giving to you and to feel bad for your recklessness and childish behavior later.

“Please, keep going!” high pitched pleads fell from you as your hands abandoned the soft material of the couch and gripped on Chris’ wrist.

“Are you being nice now?” He somehow managed to fasten his assault, causing your breasts to bounce up everytime his pubic bone hit you and raising the sound of your squeals. “Let’s see how nice you can cum.”

Every time he pushed inside, you saw from the corner of your eye the painting hanging in the wall moving away. Or, was it the couch what was moving? At this point, you didn’t mind. You only cared about the immeasurable pleasure Chris was giving you and the knot forming in your stomach, telling you that you were close to your release.

“I’m--” You tried announcing but a particularly deep shove stopped you.

“Me too.” He inhumanly doubled his efforts rubbing your bud with two fingers and tightening his other hand around you, nearly having you seeing stars without pausing his thrusts.

“C’mon, baby, cum for me.” The term he used, snapped the coil inside of you, bringing you to the strongest and more powerful orgasm of your life with a raw scream that came from the top of your lungs. He could feel your fast pulse coming back to normal.

Squirming under him and clenching your spasmic walls around his still hard cock, you heard him curse. His hips faltered and he twitched inside of you.

Throwing his head back, he kept moving, reaching his own climax, something your over sensitive body resented.

“Chris…” moaning his name was all it took for him to paint your insides with his hot seed.

Both of you were out of breath and covered with a thin layer of sweat, and while he looked like the personification of a greek god, you imagined your appearance was not so different from when you got out of bed, with your hair a mess and your voice raspy –only, for a whole other reason this time. Yet, he looked at you as if you had been hours in front of a mirror, getting ready for a red carpet.

Still buried inside of you, Chris took you by the waist and moved to the side, laying on the couch, putting an arm behind your shoulders, hugging you to keep you from falling, and placing one of your legs on top of his thigh to be more comfortable.

The white mark of his hand was slowly fading from your skin and he explored it with his fingertips, making sure that he didn’t hurt you for real.

“You’re still fired.”

He laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. It had been the first time since you met him that you heard him laugh. And for some reason, you didn’t want it to be the last.

He took your injured hand and interviewed his fingers with yours.

“The hell I am.”

[angeli-marco-writes]

Tom Felton - Baby on the Brain

A/N - First request! I hope this is what you wanted, I really like this idea. I don’t know Tom, nor do I claim to, and the other characters are fictional figments. To celebrate 100 followers, I'm uploading this early. Thank you!

Warnings - overloads of fluff, mentions of baby sick, mild language, slight angst, hints to a breeding kink whoops, lightly implied smut.

Summary - Visiting Tom’s brother and his new baby should be a walk in the park, really, but some unwitting truths come to ahead that you can’t refute. You’ve always wanted a family, but does Tom? (Request for Tom Felton: you guys meet his brother's new baby and then decide to have your own.)

Tom’s bruised knuckles rap thrice against the oak wood of his brother's front door, squeezing your smaller, trembling hand in his, running his fingers over the band of the ring in pride of place. Taking a deep breath in sync with yours, he turns his twinkling blue eyes towards you, lending you a twitch of a reassuring smile.

“Why are you so nervous? It’s only my brother,” he says, his voice gruff following the cigarette he smoked in the car.

“It’s the baby I wanna see,” you breathe, “less nervous, more jittery.”

“Maybe you should’ve gone for tea this morning instead of a double shot coffee.”

You nudge his ribs with your elbow, and then his overly sensitive hip bone with yours, coaxing a gentle chuckle from his lips, “Maybe I wouldn’t have needed it if you hadn’t kept me up so late.”

The devilish, shit-eating grin creeping onto his lips tells you that he feels no remorse, but then again, you’d take tiredness and a night like that over anything. His fingers twine tighter around yours as footsteps begin to shuffle behind the door, followed by an ear-piercing, blood-curdling screech, absolutely unholy.

“See he’s having fun with the kid, then?” you begin to whisper, but your words trail off as Tom’s very exhausted looking brother appears in the doorway, feeding bottle in hand, burping rag over his shoulder, deep purple bags beneath his eyes.

“Alright mate?” Tom greets, stepping one loafer-clad foot over the threshold, offering his brother a man hug.

“Tired, yeah. How you doing, man?” he responds warmly, patting Tom’s back.

“I’m good, I’m good, Jon.” Tom says, though you can feel him almost imperceptibly tense beside you.

Turning ever so slightly, all eyes are cast on you. Naturally, you offer Tom’s brother your warmest smile, teeth and all, sympathy welling both in your eyes and your heart. Kids must be tough if he looks like this with a three-week old.

“And who’s this?” Jonathan asks, sweetly, inquisitive more than anything, though he does look at you a bit peculiarly, scrutinising you, perhaps your outfit, the mom jeans you paired with a cropped cardigan perhaps not his style.

“This is my fiancée, Y/N.” Tom says, his words holding an inflection or pride perhaps, but whatever it is, it sends a pang of excitement shooting down your spine, a smirk creeping its way onto your lips, one you have to bite back, “I’m sorry I haven’t bought her over before, but you know what it’s like.”

“Yeah, course. Nice to meet you.”

“And you! Where’s the baby?”

Tom chuckles softly, and he curls his arm around your body, hip to hip. “She loves kids.”

Jonathan stands aside, a welcoming hand to beckon you into his home, the laminate floors covered in baby commodities, pastel blankets strewn everywhere, but other than, surprisingly clean considering Tom mentioned his brother was a hoarder and was always the most untidy of the bunch all throughout their youth. Considering how bad Tom is and how often you’re stuck cleaning away his dirty dishes and putting his laundry on, you were expecting far worse, but maybe Tom was the worst of them all along.

He tickles between your ribs as you wander through the halls, greeted in the back room by a tiny blonde headed baby, cradled in two arms of a just as exhausted looking lady donning a kind smile, stars dancing in her eyes as she stares down at her temporarily placated child. Tufts of blonde hair pair with enamoured hazel eyes to compliment the soft yellow of their clothes and the rosiness of their chubby cheeks. The hair, the nose, the tiny dimples; this baby looks just like Tom - and all his brothers - did when they were little dots themselves. The same little treasures. You, however, were an unattractive baby compared to this ball of sunshine.

“This is Ainsley.” Tom’s sister in law says lazily, her words falling off as she gapes in adoration at the gurgling blob of joy in her embrace. “And I’m Zara.”

“I’m Y/N.” you smile widely.

Should he not know better, Tom would quite possibly think you’re going to either collapse of hyperventilate, judging by the flush of your cheeks, your elevated pulse, heart beating out of your chest, the tiny, delightful, desperate whimpering noises from the back of your throat, elicited from a single glance into the babies eyes.

Said baby begins to make some indistinguishable noises and flails its arms around faintly, feebly, in your general direction. You’d be lying if your heart didn’t do a somersault in your chest.

“M- may I hold Ainsley?” you stammer out, extending your covered arms in a similar cradle to that of Ainsley’s mother.

“God, you’d be doing me a right favour,” she retorts, her accent broad, Geordie.

She shuffles softly down the pale green sofa, so perfectly complimenting the oak floors, to make a room for you that you take gratefully, and position yourself astutely against the back of the sofa. Before retrieving the baby, though, Tom grasps for a muslin cloth and affectionately drapes it over you, affectionate in the manner that he does it with such care, grazing his thumbs over your collarbones as he goes, ever so gently, barely even a touch, but enough to let you know he’s there. He holds your gaze for a moment, his lips twitching into a smile. This alone sends butterflies to your stomach and sets a sheen of fog about your head, taking you even more by surprise when the baby is laid in your arms, writhing and smiling and blinking so sweetly.

“Hiya darling,” you coo, “aren’t you just the most precious thing.”

“Gender neutral name and clothing...” Tom interjects, sidling up on the arm of the sofa beside you, “may I ask their sex and the pronouns you’re using?”

“Male, but we’re trying to be as gender neutral as possible so they can grow up not feeling pressured.”

You can’t wipe the beam from your face, or prevent the small ‘awwh!’ from escaping under your breath, curling the cloth slightly around the child, “That’s a wonderful attitude. Tommy, would you fetch my bag from the car, please?”

In a second, he’s bouncing up, his hand thrust deep in his chinos to fish for the car key. “You asked me to grab it before we got out as well, sorry sweetheart. Back in a minute.” With a nod to his brother, he’s racing out the door, his footsteps thundering through the house. Your attention, however, remains glued to the baby.

“Would you like me to set them down for tummy time afterwards, or is he going back to sleep?” You ponder aloud, eyes glued to the wry tufts of hair so soft and silky between your fingers.

“If he falls asleep in your arms, that’s fab. We’re just livin’ minute by minute.”

You release a small laugh, “Fair enough.”

Jon sits beside you tentatively, between yourself and his wife, his arm wrapping around her as she leans her body weight against him, her hair--held in a bun before, now just kind of flopping into her eyeline--tickling her shoulder and causing him to wince a little.

“How do you know so much about babies?”

The sigh you don’t mean to release is wistful at best, plain pining at worst--and probably most obvious. “I’ve always wanted them, kids, but Tommy’s the first guy I’ve settled down with, but despite being engaged, we’re still taking things slowly.”-- You shrug, as best as you can with the baby in hold, and cock your head to the side to peer down better at every tiny freckle on Ainsley’s skin.--“I love him to bits, but he wants to wait, and I’m still young, a good chunk younger than he is.”

“If it helps,” he starts, “I’ve never seen Tom as in love with someone as he is you. He’s besotted. You say the word, he’ll do it.”

“I know. I just don’t want to make him do anything unless he’s 100% sure.”

“And that’s what makes you his perfect girl.”

Your heart swells. There’s a beat, a pause of silence, filled only with the zapping of the car outside, no more than a couple of seconds before Jon’s wife speaks again.

“Enough of that. Show us the ring!”

If they’re all this excitable at something as simple as your engagement ring, perhaps you’ll fit in with his family better than you anticipated. ** Certainly, if their amiable gasps are anything to go by as you display your hand to them, your ring finger held out, supporting Ainsley’s head in the crook of your elbow as they gawk at the diamond glistening in the sunlight streaming in from their floor-to-ceiling patio doors. You have to admit it’s a pretty damn beautiful ring, the one you always dreamed of. An oval cut 0.5ct diamond held in place by a delicate split-shank 18ct gold band. It glows ethereally in whatever light there is, but most spectacularly in Tom’s eyes.

“It’s the most gorgeous ring,” she gushes, “apart from mine.”

A smile creeps its way in. You’re not entirely sure what the hell you’ve done right in your life to deserve this incredible, expensive ring, or even Tom for that reason. This is the life you’ve always dreamed of, the one that Tom’s brother has, and if you’re even half as happy as they are after being married for 5 years then you’ll consider your life to be a great success. You always wanted the quiet family life in the suburbs, with a lovely house and a nice garden and a couple of kids, working a part time job that pays well and allows you time for your children and your husband… then you fell in love with him. Loving Tom, though, that’s the true gift in your life, and you’d take him over that life any day. He’s the best, truly.

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive, since Tom comes puffing into the room, his heavy footsteps coming to a halt in the doorway as he hands over your abnormally large handbag.

“Here,” he gasps, but turns his gaze upon your hand, witnessing their marvelling at the rock he put there, “it is a pretty boss ring, isn’t it? Worth every penny.”

He bends down to ghost a kiss over your lips, his slightly long dark-blonde hair tickling your cheeks, smiling warmly down at you before deciding to sidle up next to you in the small gap between you and the arm of the sofa. However, half way down, his hip bones are digging in, and he winces up like he’s just been shocked. You know how sensitive his hip bones are, a fat you use against him incredibly often for all the best reasons, but today, he’s been so good, and you shan’t make him sit uncomfortably.

Keeping your hold on Ainsley--who’s almost asleep already, quieter than he was before with only faint gurgles escaping, their eyes droopy--steady, you begin to stand, and shuffle yourself up a bit, allowing Tom to take your previous seat, before placing yourself back down with as little ‘umph’ as you can manage, hooking your thigh over tom’s in the process. He knows what to do, it’s always been your calling card at home or at a party: as soon as you sling your leg over his, he pulls you into his lap eerie time, and today is no different. Well, perhaps it is, as he furrows his dark eyebrows inquisitively, gazing adoringly at you and the child in your arms, waiting for your nod okay before he hitches his arms around your waist and tugs you, as gently as he possibly can with his delicate grip, into his lap, giving you both ample space.

“Babe,” you whisper, “can you fetch the gift out of my bag?”

He’s instantly ferreting around until he finds the presents you neatly wrapped in polka dot paper, and hands them to Jonathan. Eagerly, they're unwrapped, and it seems that your many arguments over what to get Tom’s niece or nephew were worth it, considering the fact their eyes begin to brim with tears.

A soft grey elephant plush, holding a yellow heart, embellished with ‘Ainsley Felton, love Uncle Tom’, and a Peter Rabbit china crockery set for when they’re older.

“Thank you,” Zara exclaims, the way only a mother can, in gracious relief, “they’re adorable, so perfect.”

And before you know it, both you and Tom are being embraced wholeheartedly, as though you’re already their family. It’s been a life since anyone besides Tom hugged you, but this, this is nice.

“Well, lunch?”

Said lunch is a tumultuous affair, with a delivery pizza being ordered from the local dominoes, but with Ainsley so comfortable and calm in your arms, it was an elected decision not to move him, and instead, Tom fed you your pizza. It isn’t the first time, his love language seems to be feeding you things, but normally it's strawberries or chocolate truffles. Never before have you covered an entire medium pizza being fed to you while trying to avoid dropping any toppings or tomato sauce onto a peaceful baby, but that is just an indicator for the rest of the afternoon, Tom’s hands or eyes never once leaving you.

Completely accidentally, Jonathan and his wife drift off to sleep. You smile sadly at the sight, unable to blame them, they must be knackered, the problem simply lies in the fact that Ainsley begins to stir just as they drift off.

“See if there’s any milk in the fridge, please, I think they’re using formula.” you hiss to Tom, standing up cautiously.

Aghast, he grapples for words, “I-I’m sorry, what?!”

“Forget it,” you sigh, “take the baby and change him, please.”

“Change him?!” Again, that same tone of staggered surprise. “I don’t know how!”

“You have four nieces and nephews already, yes you do. He’s going to start screaming in a minute and wake your very tired, very groggy brother. Change the baby.”

When your eyes begin to thin, nostrils flaring, eyebrows raising, he knows not to mess with you, so he swallows thickly, his throat bobbing up and down, and scoops a crying Ainsley from your arms. As he treads upstairs, you find your way back into the kitchen, and find on the counter the bottles done with their sterilisation. This is okay, this is great, you know how to do this, and years of babysitting taught you exactly how to do this. It’s almost like that scene from Outnumbered, assembling the bottle with your eyes closed, muscle memory taking over from your brain. When your eyes flutter open, you almost let out a little squeal at your achievement. If only you could learn this all over again, have this life with a little child of your own, with Tom being as good a dad as he’s acting right now. When you handed him the baby, though, you couldn’t help but notice the fear that flashed over his face, paling him a shade, his pupils dilating to erase the blue. You wish he wasn’t so scared…

A few minutes later, with the kettle boiled and the formula made, you appear in the front room where Tom is swaddling Ainsley, holding the bean against his beating heart, making only the very slightest movements to entertain them.

“Give him a bit of tummy time while the milk cools, do you want to feed him?” you offer, stepping over the threshold .

“N-no,” he exhales slowly, “I think you’d best do that. Can I just put them down?”

“I’ll grab the mat from the corner”--you spied it as you walked in, a colourful crinkle mat rolled up and tucked away from view against the cream walls, behind the flat-screen on its grand stand--“and then yeah.”

Even as he puts Ainsley down, stomach first, onto the playmat, he looks petrified. Taking a seat on the floor to watch over them, you tug on Tom’s tan trouser leg. Indecisiveness gnaws at him, tugging him away from you, but he concedes to your widened puppy eyes, and tumbles onto the shag pile rug next to you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders like its second nature.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah, course. You?”

“Yeah.”

You let your head fall to his arm, a blissful smile creeping its way onto your lips when Ainsley looks you dead in the eye, hazel orbs twinkling, full of hope.

“I love you.”

“I know,” he hums, “I love you too.”

“Then why are you being so… prickly with me today?”

He shifts away from you the most miniscule amount, “I’m not.”

“We’ve been together for years, Tom. I know when you’re bloody lying.” you lower your voice for the final words, “now tell me why you’re being such a pouty puss.”

You mimic his frown, knowing full well that he hates it when you do so. He hates seeing you sad, even if it's just pretend, so makes a swooping move to kiss the frown away.

“Would you leave me if I said I didn’t want kids?” his voice breaks on the final word, little more than a whisper, but his next move is so animated that it almost startles you with the bottle in hand. “I mean, you know I want them. I love kids, I want us to have a family, but…”

“Nothing would ever make me leave you, Tom. You couldn’t do anything that’d cause me to fall out of love with you.”

The pain in your statement sends a shock through you, singing your heart, poisoning your mind, sending a sour bile running up your throat. No matter how many daggers shoot at your heart, it remains to be true. You’d do anything for him. If, tomorrow, he turned around and said he wanted the two of you to stay together but never marry and never have children, you wouldn’t back down without a fight, but you’d accept it. Despite all your lifelong hopes, nothing trumps Tom.

“I’m gonna feed Ainsley now.”

Picking the baby up from the rug, you put a bib around his neck, and throw another cloth around you, taking a seat in the corner chair to feed him.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” he says, and walks out, shoulders slumped.

You watch him wistfully as he leaves the room, and even when he returns--refusing to look at you--your gaze is still trained on his every move, slumping into the shag pile rug to watch the TV on a low volume. You can feel his eyes on you, that burning pair of eyes that follow you everywhere, your every movement, his ears honed, trained to your every shift and whisper. The second you turn upon him though, he’s looking away.

“I’ll put Ainsley down now,” you announce after burping him, “we need to leave soon if we want to make it home before dark.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye as you sashay past him, Ainsley’s cries muffled by a dummy, but the second he hears your footsteps heading back downstairs, his own begin to thunder, pounding against the stairs to meet you halfway.

“Wait,” he whispers, “come on, sit down, talk to me. I love you.”

A sigh heaves your chest, “I love you too. Talk about what?”

“You’re being arsey with me.”

“Because you said you don’t want kids!”

“Well I didn’t mean it, I’m just”--he pinches the bridge of his nose, and ushers you up on the stairs, your calves hitting the carpet--“there’s a lot to think about. We just met the kid, and I saw how your face lit up when you held him.”

“You know I want kids, Tom.”

“I know, but can we not talk about kids for a second? I want to talk about you. You’re my fiancée, I want to make you my wife. I’m just scared.”

“What of? You have nothing to be scared of. I’ll be here no matter what.”

“That’s why I’m scared!” he exasperates, flailing his arms about, “I don’t want you to senselessly follow me and love me if I can’t give you what you want. I’m scared of fucking this up, fucking you up. I’m scared of this going wrong, with children or marriage or saying something wrong, because I can’t lose you.”

“Tom,” you murmur.

Your hand flies up to cup his jaw, grazing your thumb over the stubble growing there, the faintest shadow.

“I love you. I- I need you. Y/N, sweetheart, please. I just wanna stay how we are, just stay this way for a bit, slow down because the world is moving too fast, and I’m gonna fall, but I can’t drag you down with me.” he croaks, cradling your neck with trembling, callused hands. “Can we stay how we are? Just us? Just you and me?”

“Babe you aren’t gonna lose me. Everything else off the table, we’ve got this, we’ve got us. We can stop the world and get off if that's what you want. Nothing is immediate, everything can wait.” you promise, your eyes boring into his.

All at once, his lips come crashing down onto yours, swallowing any inhibitions with his lavishing tongue, his hot breath slanting and fanning over your lips, leaving innocent adoration in their wake. Until a piercing scream resounds.

“Except maybe that.”

You duck from his grip skilfully, and slip into Ainsley’s room, two fingers reaching out to tickle their stomach, causing the scream to hiccup in their throat momentarily. Then, as if wondering what to do next, he just stares up at you imploringly, questioningly.

“Come on Ainsley, I just set you down to sleep. Be good and let mummy and daddy sleep too, okay?” you coo, tucking his blanket back up to his neck, slipping his cuddly toy closer, “go back to sleep.”

This child is already one with an attitude, you can tell that by the vehemence with which he yells out. You don’t even have to think twice before you’re stooping into the cot, swathing him in blankets, and lifting him to your bosom, where his screams fall to mere gurgles.

“Do you think he’s sleeping in the bed with them?” you ask Tom, keeping your voice at a steady whisper even with the slight bounces you’re offering the baby, “because I think that causes parental problems above all else because they’re being kicked in the back all night. Still, decreases the risk of SIDS. Why do they have a cot up if they are? He can’t sleep without contact…”

You don’t even realise you’re thinking aloud until Tom presses his thumbs into your shoulders, buckling your whole body. It’s the instant tension reliever, truly, and your shoulders do seem tighter today, perhaps from all the baby wrangling.

“Lets just sit, shall we?”

You do, taking up refuge in the front room once again, with an extra blanket of his, as well as a supply of cuddly toys, rattles, and dummies. Tom watches you with fascination for the rest of the afternoon, everything you do drawing his full attention; enticing, entrapping. His heart swells at the sight of you bouncing Ainsley around to make him laugh, cooing and giggling with him to coax a smile back after a wail that you hushed down, holding him so closely as he sleeps. He’s finally seeing it, after all these years, you, in your true home habitat, caring for a child, so kindly, so motherly, so naturally. Everything you do instantly seems to set the infant at ease. He knows it should be him, Ainsley is his nephew, but… you’re just better.

In fact, before he even realises it, he’s craving what he doesn’t have. Not that he can’t have it -- you’ve been together for a long time, you’ve discussed a future with children more times than he can count, and of course he wants it. Tom, he’s always wanted to be a dad, to read his kids books and sing them lullabies and show them what daddy did for work… but it's always been a pipe dream. Your wishes of a family have never come to fruition, and all because of his selfish fears.

The world can’t stop turning just because he’s getting cold feet and wants to climb off for a minute to catch his breath. That’s not how life works. If you want something, you’ve gotta grab it by the balls, because the opportunity will be gone before you know it. And with Tom? He won’t lose you because he won’t take a chance to make you happy and give you what you want. If anything, seeing the crestfallen look that settles between your brows when you actually have to give Ainsley back to their parents just further instils and confirms the idea in his head. There’s his future, in his mind's eye, as clear as day. This is what he needs to do, but better still, this is what he wants.

The drive back to your home is spent in relative silence, and a pensive one at that. You know like instinct that Tom is replaying your final conversation with Jonathan and his wife the same way you are. After all, the simple words did put a dampener on your reconciliation. Your hand is on the gearstick the whole way, though, your fingers entwined with his, the simple contact enough for you. You were right at lunch: all day it's been his hands or his eyes on you: you like it when it's both simultaneously, the way it was when you said your goodbyes.

Tom’s hands settled on your hips, his chin atop your head, and you just fell into his enveloping warmth, smiling lazily at the couple you rescued for the afternoon.

“Thanks so much, we owe you one.” Jonathan said, giving Tom another one of those manly hugs as you stand in the dusk-darkened wooden porch.

“Really,” Zara chimed in, her feet shuffling on the tiled floor as she held her husband's hand, “you’re welcome to have him any time. That is, of course, if you don’t have a little one of your own by the time you’ve recovered from that blighter.”

You forced a dry chuckle at her words, an awkward sound, but you seemed to recover well enough, “Well Ainsley’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad we could give you some respite. Take care.”

“And you. Drive safe.”

“We will,” Tom said, offering them a smile, flashing his keys, keeping his grip on you resolute, “thanks for having us.”

Their words still loom over you like a dark cloud. It was a throwaway comment, one they’d have thought nothing of, and most people, and even you on a good day, but you’d had that… spat earlier on that changed everything. Dredging it up would just put an even further dampener on your mood, though, and with a drive home in the semi-darkness already hanging over you like a massive impending storm cloud of fear, that’s definitely not ideal.

“Nice baby, Ainsley,” Tom mentions, turning his indicator on to pull off the dual carriageway.

“Yeah, and he’s cute.”

“Nice eyes.”

And a couple more comments like those are the only conversation you share as the journey goes by, but soon enough, you’re on the home stretch, and your street rolls into view. With your head comfortably rolled back against the headrest, your eyes shut from a tiring day of exertion and childminding , you don’t notice Tom stepping out the car and unravelling his grip from you. Only does it become apparent when he opens your door and unclips your seat belt, kissing your lips tenderly, the chapped skin arising you from whatever zoned out, thoughtful state you were in before.

“Come on, let's get you inside sweetheart.” he murmurs, taking your hands in his as he helps you out the car, His chivalry never fails to astound you--he even carries your bag.

“Thanks darlin’.”

You follow him inside, kicking off your shoes routinely, shrugging off your coat to hang on the peg with your name etched above it. What happens next, though, is what shocks you the most: this isn’t part of your normal ‘returning home’ routine, not if you’ve had a day as tiring as this one. You’re neither complaining nor disappointed, though. How can you be when Tom’s lips latch onto your pulse point and he has you writhing in seconds, only his arm around the small of your back there to support you.

In one fell swoop, he has you spun around and pinned to the wall, his figure with lust-blown eyes hovering above you, every line in his face so loving, even the subtle part of his lips. They only do that when he’s so desperate to kiss you he can barely breathe, when he’s so eager to confess his love again and again that all other words are inconsequential. This is your Tom.

“Let’s try for a baby.” he says, completely resolutely, no trace of hesitation anywhere in his perfectly, delectably gruff tone. “I want one, I want us, and I don’t wanna wait to build a family with you.”

You can feel tears begin to form in the corners of your shock-widened eyes. This… this is- What changed his mind? Just hours ago, he was hell bent against the idea, but now? His cheeks are glowing at the mere prospect. Courtesy and patience be damned, that is if you can get the words out with how choked up you are…

“Really? Y-you mean it?”

His faint smile widens into a full blown grin, one that confirms everything for you. This is it, this is the Tom you agreed to marry, the happy Tom, the smiley Tom, the one who can barely contain his excitement even as he nods, a stray lock of dark blonde hair falling into his eyes as he does so.

Reasonably, you can’t be expected to hold back, and when his hair gets long enough that it falls into his eyeline? That’s your main weakness, so who can blame you when you catapult yourself up onto him, your legs joining around his wait, your arms settling around his neck. He holds you right back, catches you like he was already waiting, and pins you against the wall again. Perhaps the serotonin is too much as you both grin into a searing kiss, the every press of his lips against yours holding more passion than you can fathom a cohesive thought about. He’s… incredible.

And besides, with this enthusiasm, his kiss alone leaving you gasping and clutching onto his hair for some kind of grounding, perhaps it’ll be the first time lucky…

[thearchivist-if]

Learn more about the six available romance options available in The Archivist below! All characters are available to be romanced by any PC, and there will be some availability of polyamorous relationships in later novels!

Abigail Marivaldi (she/her) | The Heir | Human | 38

5’9 (173 cm) | ENTJ

Heir to the newly ascended Marivaldi Family, Abigail Marivaldi is the portrait of everything the elven nobility fears; confident, determined and charismatic enough to charm members of the aristocracy. It’s curious though, there seems to be something hidden behind those warm brown eyes and melodic laugh. Who knows what secrets she keeps, or what she did to get her family here.

When in a ballroom at an event in the Orichalcon Quarter, all eyes are first drawn to the statuesque human woman in the center of the room -- dressed in reds and golds that compliment her sun-tanned skin and intricately done long brown hair. The most noticeable feature on the Marvaldi heir, however, is the arcane prosthetic that is attached above the elbow on her right arm - she makes no point to hide it, her clothes all tailored specifically to show off her cousin’s handiwork. The prosthetic itself is adorned in more jewels than any commoner would see in their lifetime.

Riordan Marivaldi (he/him) | The Arcanist | Human | 30

6’ (183 cm) | INFJ

New to the city, Riordan was summoned by his father’s brother to join the family in their new estate within Syrillon. Often found in his workshop or sneaking off into the throngs of the market far below the upper echelons of the city, Riordan spends his time pondering new inventions, or at the very least, a way to keep himself entertained while so often put to pageant for the rest of the nobility.

Oft found in the workshop within the bowels of the Marivaldi estate, Riordan is a tall but sleight man, his almost black hair often greased back with whatever was in his hands as he runs it through his hair in thought. In the candle and soft magic light of his workshop, the freckles across his face and arms look like stars against his pale skin. Unlike many of the nobility, Riordan is almost always found in plain woolen clothes, he jokes that it’s better that he not ruin anything expensive with his tinkering, his soft laugh will fade off as his blue eyes turn back to whatever project is on his workbench.

Lucian Siannodel (he/him) | The Beholden | Elven | 417

6’4 (193 cm) | INFP

Youngest son of the Siannodel family, Lucian had joined the archives of Syrillon at a young age - learning and growing into what he had been told would be his role, Primicerius, the head of Syrillon’s Archive. He had accepted this, it was his duty. However, things have changed since his childhood three hundred years ago. His fate now hangs in the balance of the city itself, and all these years later, the choice is still not his own.

Wearing the dark blues and silvers of the Siannodel family, Lucian has this air of easy nobility; his umber skin tone often looking ethereal in the soft glow of the magic lanterns that float around The Archive. Breathtakingly tall, even among the elven nobility, there is a grace in how Lucian is able to move, even in the complex attire that he always finds himself agreeing to wear - he can’t help but agree when his older sister asks him to wear yet another bracelet or ring, they do seem to have the best taste. It’s also easy to understand why he is so often sought after -- it’s so much more than just his family name, but the way that he sits in rapt attention during interviews with members of the nobility and common people alike, his soft but confident voice urging people on while making sure to keep his attention on them.

Rowan Evenwood (she/her) | The Apothecary | Half-Elf | 27

5’4 (162 cm) | ISTJ

You can almost always find Rowan Evenwood within the small Apothecary she inherited from her father in the Footpath -- the store is one that most adventurers find, as their prices are affordable, and if she’s in the mood, she may even read your fortune. Rowan is also well-known in the Footpath for healing those who need it, often bartering her services to families who have little to offer in the way of coin, determined to alleviate as much suffering as she can from her humble place among the people.

During hours of operation, there can almost always be laughter heard from inside the Tangled Roots Apothecary in the Footpath, dark brown eyes of Rowan Evenwood glowing in mirth at some latest adventurer’s tale of misfortune. Seemingly always dressed in bright yellows and oranges she is easy to pick out when wandering The Footpath -- her long black braided hair is often filled with flowers from her shop - tiny magicked sunflowers and daises, that no matter how much she moves, they stay in her hair.

Cillian Evenwood (he/him) | The Altruist | Half-Elf | 27

5’10 (178 cm) | ENFJ

Twin brother to Rowan, Cillian has dreamed of adventure from the time he was a little boy - hearing tales of pirates and thieves and heroes from his father, wanting to be the one to help, to save those who needed him. He joined the city guard hoping he could help, and was disillusioned by the treatment he received from being a half-elf, and those he watched walk by those who needed them most.

Cillian likes to joke that he is the paragon of practicality -- often found in leathers and warm wool clothes, a staple for his position in the city guard. However, Cillian often finds himself the most comfortable when out at the tavern with Sara and Rowan, soft white linen shirts and comfortable trousers and boots match his easy laugh and effortlessly long hair, which if he pays little enough attention will end up braided by the end of an alcohol-filled evening.

Sara Ward (she/her) | The Nobody | Half-Elf | 30

6’2 (188 cm) | INTJ

A cloaked figure entered the city recently, cautious and careful with every step she takes. Sara Ward is a difficult woman to find, and even more difficult to get any information on. She appears to be no one, from nowhere, and no one you ask seems to have any more information on her - no matter how hard you dig. However, when she thinks no one is looking, there is a sadness that seems to permeate her very being.

It is impressive how deceptively tall Sara is; exceptional at hiding her height she often slouches, hunched over or purposefully sliding into a corner to let the attention be drawn to either of the twins that have attached themselves to her side -- she appreciates that about them, their ability to effortlessly be the center of attention. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t watch them carefully, soft emerald eyes so cautious as she watches these people she’s attached herself to. Her features are sharp and carefully taut, refusing to give anything away - the porcelain skin with faded freckles contrasting her red hair, always tightly pulled into a simple bun.