#headboard with floating nightstand

[tumblinguists]

Guest Bedroom DC Metro

Mid-sized trendy guest light wood floor and brown floor bedroom photo with beige walls and no fireplace

[looksdegraphistes]

Contemporary Bedroom DC Metro Mid-sized trendy guest light wood floor and brown floor bedroom photo with beige walls and no fireplace

[thestarlightexpress]

Kinktober 2024: Day 2 - Somnophilia - Azriel x Reader

TW: sexual themes including overstimulation and dubcon

word count: 1.48k

NSFW under the cut

The sharp wind and misty rain pelted Azriel’s face as his long flight back from the Continent came to a close. He spent the last week surveilling Koschei’s lake for any useful intel and had unsurprisingly come home with nothing. After 8 straight hours of flying, all he wanted to do was collapse in his fluffy bed and sleep for a whole day. 

He neared the House of Wind, feeling the drowsiness and pull to his bed grow even stronger as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally landing, his tense and taut muscles were able to gradually start relaxing. As he slowly wandered down the hallway towards his room, his ears perked up at the sounds floating towards him from a few doors down. Muffled moans and something that suspiciously sounded like a headboard striking the wall. Cassian and Nesta must be at it again.

He slowly opened his door and was dismayed to find an obstacle in between him and his comfy bed - you, laying on your back, starfished right in the middle of his bed. You were dead asleep despite gripping an open book in your hand. Knowing he was set to come back tonight, you had done your best to wait up for him but evidently couldn’t resist the coziness of his bed. 

A soft smile ghosted his lips as his shadows softly shut the door behind him. He pried the book from your hands, setting it on the nightstand before softly kissing your forehead and heading to the restroom. He quickly shed his sweat-soaked leathers before running a quick bath. His sore muscles sang in relief at the warm water. As he lay in the bath, the light and sweet smell of your arousal drifted through the open door. 

His shadows slinked back into the restroom, whispering to him the name of your book. It was one he and Nesta had been reading a few weeks earlier in their secret smutty book club. Knowing exactly what his sweet little mate had been reading had his blood swiftly rushing to his cock. He had intended to just quickly wash off and curl around you as best he could and go to sleep, but he suddenly found himself changing those plans. 

Azriel hurried to dry himself off and slip on his sleep clothes before wandering back into his bedroom. The forceful waves of your arousal nearly knocked him over. You were still in a deep sleep with a blissful smile on your face. The skimpy camisole you were wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off your perky nipples. Azriel’s gaze raked over your chest and down to your high-waisted shorts that barely covered your ass. He inched closer and closer to you, feeling his now hard cock straining against his sweatpants.

He crawled between your legs, soaking up the smell of your need as you continued dreaming. Azriel slowly gripped your shorts and pulled them down your legs. He was almost on the verge of drooling at the sight of your slick, pink pussy bared in front of him. He trailed up your legs, leaving warm open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Azriel placed a soft peck on the tip of your clit before licking a slow strip up from your entrance. His rough hands reached up to pull your thighs further apart, spreading your cunt for him.

Azriel softly suckled on your clit, sending a new wave of slick sliding down towards your entrance. He shifted down and dove into your pussy, licking up your syrupy arousal. A gentle moan slipped from your mouth as your hips shifted up and chased his mouth. He moved back up and his lips wrapped around your clit while he slipped two fingers inside you. He felt your body shifting above him as he pumped his fingers inside you, stretching you out for him. A small hand landed on his head and laced through his damp hair. 

“Well, this is certainly a way to wake me up.”, your rough, sleep-ridden voice drifted down towards him. Azriel glanced back up at you from between your legs, finding you propped up on your elbows. His free hand grasped your wrist and moved your hand to rest on your stomach. Azriel sent some shadows to weave through your hair and rest around your neck and shoulders. “Go back to sleep, my love. Just let me make you feel good.” He gripped your thigh and dove back into your inviting cunt. Releasing a needy moan, you laid back on the bed and swiftly drifted back to sleep.

Your slick continued to drip between your legs, soaking Azriel’s face and the sheets below you. Even while asleep, his skilled mouth quickly brought you to your first orgasm of the night. Your back arched and your breaths quickened into soft pants as you came in his mouth. The intoxicating taste of your release had his hips bucking up, grinding his swollen cock into the edge of the bed, desperate for a sliver of relief. 

Azriel groaned into your heat as he felt his precum drip down his cock. His fingers inched further inside of you, pressing against the spot that always made you see stars and beg for more. He glanced up at you and grazed his teeth against your sensitive clit when he heard your breath hitch. He promptly brought you to your second and third orgasm until your legs were shaking around his head. Your hand drifted back down to his hair and softly pulled him up from your cunt. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you managed to string together a mumbled plea. “Too much, Az.”, your soft voice lowly murmured.

He rose up and trailed his hands over your body, taking off your camisole in the process. Azriel hovered over you and rested his head on your bare chest. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to get carried away,” You sleepily hummed and cradled his head in your hand. His head drifted up and he nosed into the crook of your neck. “But I think you can cum one more time for me, yeah?” You roughly bit your lip and rapidly nodded against him. You whined at the anticipation of feeling him again. The Mother had certainly given you the horniest male in existence for a mate. His scarred hands gripped your hips in the way he knew you loved as he gently flipped you onto your stomach. Azriel crawled off the bed and stood at the foot of the bed. He outright moaned as he loosened the laces of his pants before pulling them off to release his leaky cock from its confines. He couldn’t hide his smile at the sight of your head resting on top of your arms, already asleep again.

Azriel loved many things about his sleepy girl, particularly how cuddly and pliant you get. But this, this was something you had always talked about doing that Azriel hadn’t been lucky enough to experience. You both loved the idea of him taking you as you slept, letting him use you solely for his pleasure. His cock bobbed in the air as he stared at your supple ass, debating about how he wanted to take you. He crawled on top of you and sat on your thighs a few inches behind your ass. He gripped your cheeks before using one hand to guide the tip of his member through your soaked folds. Azriel angled your hips up towards him before sliding into you and sheathing his cock fully inside of your warm, welcoming heat.

You both groaned at the stretch, Azriel much louder than you. He didn’t even need to give you time to adjust as your body was relaxed enough by your previous slumber. He grasped your waist and pulled his hips back to thrust into you. He had been so pent up over the past week that it didn’t take him much to get close. Getting lost in his own pleasure, he roughly took your tight cunt. Your light moans could barely be heard over his hips slapping into your ass.

Azriel felt his abs straining as he started to approach his release. He shifted his legs further up the bed and caged your torso under his chest. His thrusts started to get harder and erratic as he felt you tighten around them.

Azriel bit down a moan as his hips stilled and he spilled into you, your walls spasming around him as you came for the fourth time. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he slowly clambered off the bed and slipped his pants back on before laying down next to you. He gingerly turned you onto your side and pulled you into his chest. Not even five minutes later, he found his chin resting on your shoulder and felt himself pulled into sleep by your comforting warmth.

Kinktober Taglist:

@honethatty12 @sweet-chai-amore @helo1281917 @scarsandallaz @thatacotargirl @a-courtof-azriel @lmadness @riorgail

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Cough Syrup

written for @steddiemicrofic August

prompt: plug || wc: 437 || rating: M || cws: sick fic, reference to child neglect, references to sex

~~~

"Baby," Eddie sighs, "just plug your nose. I promise it'll go down easier." Steve keeps his mouth sealed and shakes his head as he leans further back into the pillows propping him up against the headboard. Eddie’s very carefully holding the spoon in front of Steve’s face, syrupy red liquid on the verge of overflowing onto their comforter.

“You say that every time,” Steve complains. He moves his head to the side as Eddie makes his move and misses. “But it smells, and it’s gross, and it felt thick and disgusting in my mouth yesterday, and I’ll be fine without it.” 

Steve watches as another thread of Eddie’s patience unravels. After three days wasting away of fever and bone-wrenching aches, he’s surprised Eddie hasn’t just dropped him off on the hospital curb in a cardboard box, sign affixed to the side reading ‘Oversized baby for adoption. May need extra care. Fully vaccinated’.

“Steven James Harrington.” Full government name– with his correct middle name– means he’s in deep trouble. “You’ve inhaled nasty, probably radioactive, floating Upside-Down ash. You’ve accidentally swallowed demobat blood. You’ve drank shitty beer out of a communal bong, had your tongue down every girl’s throat in Hawkins, and inside my asshole–”

“Oh my god Eds, don’t say it like that.”

“–yet for some reason, you refuse a tiny bit of cough syrup to help you sleep.”

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs. In his attempts at being dramatic, he breaks into another coughing fit that has him reaching for the water glass on the nightstand next to all of his used tissues.

“I’ve been sick before and I’ve never needed drugs.”

“Never needed it,” Eddie leads, grabbing his hand, “or have your parents never offered it before?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut. He’d never thought about it that way. How his parents told him he’d get better soon, that he just needed some soup and crackers. If he focuses on being sick, it’ll just make him worse. How if he ate healthier he wouldn’t get sick in the first place.

“Stevie,” Eddie says gently, running his fingertips across Steve’s sweaty, overheated forehead. The fondness floods over him like a tidal wave, washing away all thoughts of his parents’ lack of love and care, something that's always so obvious from Eddie.

“The medicine will help you sleep. And if you sleep better,” Eddie says, and Steve can already see the trap forming, “then I’ll sleep better.”

Eddie smirks as Steve swallows around the spoon, nose plugged. They know Steve would do anything to help Eddie, even if it means helping himself too.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home. 

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt. 

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling. 

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool. 

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming. 

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet. 

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again. 

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams. 

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen. 

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll. 

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight. 

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side. 

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you. 

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you. 

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant. 

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it. 

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man. 

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky. 

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint. 

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool. 

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt - 

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water. 

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips. 

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac. 

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are. 

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them. 

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response. 

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you. 

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in. 

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink. 

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him. 

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?” 

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions. 

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them. 

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers. 

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off. 

There’s someone he has to meet.

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓

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𝐢 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭

𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞…

zoro

“Love?” you mumbled, eyes still hazy with the sleep you’d dragged yourself from. You held a pair of bone white mugs, steam swirling up from them. The bed dipped as you set one knee after the other on the stiff mattress, inching forward to leer over him with a lovely smile.

Zoro was only just conscious enough to acknowledge you, blinking awake and leaning up on his elbows. “What…”

Again, you smiled, leaning over to set one mug on the nightstand before lifting up the covers to slide in beside him. You balanced your mug in one hand and curled into his side, warming your hands on the glass. “I brought you coffee.”

His eyes drifted to the window, alarmed at the brightly shining sun. “What time is it?”

You hummed, adjusting to sit up a bit as you sipped at your own mug. “Afternoon probably.”

Zoro huffed as he shoved the blanket off, ignoring your annoyed puff and rubbing furiously at his eyes. There were black spots in his vision when he dropped his hand. His shoulders ached and the bandage around his arm felt like a shackle of some kind. 

Nearly frantic, he clawed at the tight fabric, digging into his skin when it didn’t budge. Your mug clinked onto the wooden nightstand and the sheets rustled as you followed him, your shoulder at his shoulder, your hand over his. Zoro softened entirely the moment your fingers brushed his own, your movements fluid and gentle as you removed the bandage in one swoop.

He heaved, stiff shoulders drooping over at the light caress of your hand over his worn, tanned skin. Your other hand came to nurse at his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and drawing a softer, more relaxed sound from him. 

Your cheek rested on his arm, your body wrapped around him. “Love?”

He liked it when you called him that. It made him feel loved, despite everything. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” As if you needed to say it out loud. He knew. He knew that above anything else, really. 

“I... me too.”

A little snort left you as you turned to bury your face in the sleeve of his shirt. “Idiot.”

You knew he felt it too, despite everything. His next sigh lifted and lowered your head. “You tired, big guy?”

He grunted, turning his face to brush his lips over your temple, closing his eyes as a draft floated in and out of the room. “Nah.”

You laughed again. Conversation fled the room, leaving your intertwined breaths alone with the quiet. Zoro couldn’t explain this feeling well; if he tried, he’d say it was warm. Like a bonfire, the flickering light reflected in his eyes, the warmth wrapping around his entire being till he could hardly breathe.

But he couldn't articulate all that, so it was just warm.

His eyes fell to the nightstand. “You didn’t need to make me coffee.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” you reminded him, and that was simple enough. 

Zoro reached to take his mug and leaned back against the headboard of the bed, waiting till you took up your own coffee and settled into his side again. Only then did he cast his mug a look, admiring the rich blackness swirling inside. 

A sweet scent filled his nose and his gaze found your coffee, a nice taupe from the cream and sugar you surely flooded it with. You took three long sips before you noticed his lingering eyes. “You do like yours black, right?”

“Mhmm.” He tipped the mug back and drank half the coffee in a matter of seconds, grimacing slightly. That's one way to wake yourself up. Still… “Can I try yours?”

You obliged, of course, lifting the cup to his lips and tipping it. His hand hovered yours to make sure it didn’t spill, and the taste was nearly too much. Whereas his coffee was still scalding and bitter as all be, yours was… warm and sweet. 

Much like you. He offered you a small smile, downed the rest of his drink, and set it aside. He was so bitter much of the time, too angry and sour. But you were consistently different. “You’re… too sweet for me.”

A beat passed, and you sputtered out a laugh. You set down your mug and swung a leg around his hips, straddling him as you cupped his face, your smile incredulous as you shook your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His ears burned red, and he lost his sudden conviction. “You’re just… so nice.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

He didn’t answer, and once more you laughed in his face. 

“Love,” you nearly whispered, your eyes too deep and attentive, leaving him no room to hide. “I don’t know if you’ve met my boyfriend, but he’s very nice to me.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then his cheek. “He’s very sweet to me.” And his other cheek. “I can tell he loves me, even if he’s too shy to say it.” 

Zoro could hardly breathe, trying so very hard to not let out the soft gasp rising in his chest as you grinned like a devil. “He should know by now I’m not too sweet for him.”

His hands found your hips and his eyes darted to the side. He scoffed, “Whatever.”

“Hey.” You hooked a finger under his chin and made him face you again. “I love you.”

“You said that already.”

“I know.”

A piece of hair fell over your eyes, obstructing Zoro’s view of your face, so he reached up to brush it away. Your eyes flickered to his approaching finger, and in an instant your teeth clamped down on his hand. Not too hard, of course, but he still jerked away with pursed lips. “Would ya stop biting me?”

You cupped a hand over your mouth, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up from within you. “I’m—I’m sorry! I dunno—dunno why—” You dissolved into giggles, careening forward into his chest and tucking your head into his neck. 

Zoro didn’t bother fighting his smile, wrapping his arms around your back and resting his chin on your head, completely forgetting that the day was halfway through and that work was a thing to be done.

nami

The sound of humming shouldn’t have made Nami so on edge, but it was only because she knew exactly who the melody belonged to that her defenses were on the rise. 

Slowly, she rounded the final row of tangerine trees. She’d gone there—to the place she used to call home—intending to find her sister. What she had hoped she wouldn’t find was you.

Yet there you were, up on a stool trying to reach the ripe tangerines at the top of the tree. You usually helped Nojiko with the harvest this time of year. Nami should have known to expect you.

Your rose up on your tip toes, tongue poking out, and your fingertips barely grazed one last tangerine. One foot left the stool in a last final effort—your fist closed around the fruit but your foot missed the stool by an inch. 

You hit the ground unceremoniously, landing on your back with a harsh thump. Nami’s first instinct was to run up and make sure you’re all right. Well, no—her first instinct was to laugh at you.

Turning your head to the friendly sound, you ignored the pain in your butt to smile wearily up at the ginger girl now looming over you. Her shadow blocked out the sun and a halo formed around her body. 

“Clutz,” she murmured, reaching out a hand. You took it with a roll of your eyes, jumping to your feet and dusting off your pants.

Your smile was easy even as a bruise formed on your skin. “What’re you doing here?”

“Nojiko,” she replied simply, not wanting to say that really, Arlong was in one of his tempers again. You’d only worry if she said that, and the smile would leave your face, and Nami couldn’t have that.

“Right,” you nodded, ignoring the sting in your chest that she wasn’t there for you. She never was, so you shouldn’t bother hoping, but oh well. “She’s in town.”

Nami pursed her lips. “Right.”

The pair of you locked eyes, sucking all the air out of the moment and leaving it rather suffocating to stand in. Nami knew you knew. You were always around, being Nojiko’s close friend (being Nami’s best friend, once upon a time). Nami knew you knew of her plan. She said nothing about it, and neither did you.

This was only the fourth time she’d seen you in six years. She ached like every other time, her skin blazing where you’d grabbed her hand. In six years, you’d both grown older, taller, stronger… in your case, prettier.

If distance made the heart grow fonder… Nami killed that thought where it stood.

She started to turn and clear her throat. “I should go.”

Nami barely made it three steps before a hand closed around her wrist and she forgot how to breathe. Nami didn’t know you and you didn’t know her, not anymore. There shouldn't be any reason for her to turn around. Nami should be able to rip away from you and storm off with no trouble.

But Nami turned around slowly and met your eyes, losing herself as you smiled softly, hopefully. “Stay?”

“I can’t.”

“I wanna talk to you,” you pleaded. “You’re still my friend, right?”

Yes. Please. “I don’t have friends anymore.”

Your grip tightened. “But—”

“You don’t want to be my friend,” Nami snapped. “Any attachment you have to me is just clinging to the past, okay?”

Hand slackening, Nami nearly breathed a sigh of relief as your hand started to slip, only for your fingers to intertwine with hers. “I don’t believe that. Nami, I am your friend. I’ve always been. And I worry.”

This was the longest conversation you’d had with her since Arlong took her away. Arlong. You gritted your teeth and sent out a curse. If only you were strong enough to do something, to save the friend who gave up her life to save that damn village.

Nami watched the clouds enter your eyes, darkening the lively glow she so admired, and she found the strength to pry your hand off of her. Nami could hardly stand to look at you when your face fell, but she managed. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Nami…”

She couldn’t bare to drag you down a similar path as her. You were too sweet. Too good. The world needed good people you, and so she wasn't about to go around tainting you with her darkness. 

She took a step back, then another, and turned away, hopefully for the last time. “Goodbye.”

[remodelproj]

Wood Panel headboard with attached floating drawer / nightstand. Bedroom interior design.

[ameliaenya707]

Please i want more after punishment Keigo pretty please--

or anything having to do with begging. Either or works (it's the mood of the night, my bad---)

I just want him to be a meanie, yk?

Healing Touch

The scarlet mixing with water and whirling down the shower drain was the kind of sight that made you queasy if you stared too long. Every few minutes Keigo would press a kiss to your temple as he washed your body. A silent reminder he was there. It kept you semi-lucid. Grounded. You were too tired to be mad at him. Too tired to be in pain, the only reminder of the past hours is a dull ache pricking under your skin, leaving any memory of the punishment a complete blur. You didn't fight back a soft moan when he scratched your scalp while lathering shampoo into it. Eventually, the blood disappeared and all that ran down the drain was soapy warm water. Everything felt slow and hazy. His fingers massaged your skin as the warm water cascaded down it keeping you from floating off. He kept your feet flat against the cold tile of the shower floor.

You blinked and he had you wrapped in warmth. A soft towel covered you as he lifted you and brought you to the bedroom. His feathers work in a flurry to change the sheets and grab your favorite blankets and snacks over. You hear him mumbling sweet nothings and cooing over you but it all turns to mush in your head as you slip further and further into the warm fuzzy place in your mind that kept you safe.

Cold.

He pressed the rim of a water bottle against your lips. Once sharp and cruel, now soft and lovesick amber eyes absorb every feature of your face. You part your lips and sip down water until he's satisfied and pulls it away, leaving it on the nightstand for you to drink of your own accord. He left you with a chaste kiss to your cheek before returning with soft plush pajamas, helping you lift your arms to pull the shirt over your head.

"Lift your hips for me, dove." He asked softly, smiling as you obliged. Lifting your hips so he could pull on your underwear and pajama bottoms, before settling back on the bed.

"Juice or tea?"

It was a simple question that required a simple answer. But simplicity to your brain seemed non-existent as you choked on your words before choking on sobs. You weren't sure when the crying started or stopped but he sighed and thumbed away your tears, holding you against his chest. His hand rubs soothing circles against your back as he coos softly.

"Want me to pick instead?"

He gently pulled back when you nodded. Kissing your tears away as a feather came back as quickly as it left with a glass of your favorite juice he always kept stocked in the fridge. He watched you hold it with shaky hands as your lips pressed against the edge and your dry throat thanked you for the cool liquid running down it. You drank half quickly before handing it back to him as he set it down next to your water.

"Good job, baby...m' so proud of you, doing so good for me."

His praise was sweet like honey, sticky and heavy enough to drown in.

"Didn't wanna hurt you, baby, yeah? Never meant to make you cry," his lies are so sweet that you believe. He only wants the best for you. That's true. He does in his own way. That you've always believed.

"Trust me sweet thing, it hurts me so much to punish you but you need to learn baby. Gotta behave for me, right?" He's all smiles and chest swelling with love when you nod and mutter a little 'yes'. He gently maneuvers the both of you further on the bed, his back against the headboard and your back against his chest as you sit up between his legs. His fingers gently play with your damp hair, sweeping it to the left to kiss your right temple.

"How are you feeling, baby,?" His feathers glide around the room, turning on the TV and pressing play on your comfort movie, another setting down a bowl of snacks next to your ankle. He had his feathers do everything that would have made him remove his attention from you so he could massage your shoulders gently as a feather draped a blanket over your legs.

"Better, thank you..." you sighed contently once you spoke. Your voice was still a little horse from crying before but atleast you could speak now, unlike mere hours before. You felt clean now, content in warmth as you rested against him. The sweat washed from your body in the shower and lotion rubbed into your skin somewhere in between which was doing its job in soothing the ache of bruises that were certainly blossoming against your skin. You were grateful there were only a few lacerations. Not that you doubted he would take care of them, but they just tended to be more painful during showers.

Your eyes focused on the movie as his hands molded against the flesh of your hips, his lips pressed against your neck. You could feel yourself slipping as sleep weighed heavy on your eyes. He seemed to notice too because he pulled you closer and pulled the blanket up.

"S' okay baby, go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make you breakfast in the morning, kay'?"

"Mm...okay...goodnight Kei..."

He chuckled softly at your sleepy voice before kissing the top of your head.

"Goodnight, dove."

[iamthecomet]

𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯: "𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

Rating: G Pairing: Dewdrop/Aether Words: 853 Man I just can't resist an Aether sickfic.

Mushy May created by @forlorn-crows Divider by @ghuleh-recs

Whenever there’s some god awful bug going around the Abbey, it’s inevitable. Aether always gets it. Usually toward the end of the outbreak. Exhausted from running around helping everyone else. Pulling double shifts in the infirmary. Swearing up and down that ghouls can’t catch sicknesses from humans. He’s wrong, every single time. He lies to himself about it anyway. 

This one is pretty mild. A sore throat. A cough. His head feels like it wants to float away but also like it weighs a thousand pounds. He drags himself back to his room from the infirmary in denial. Limbs heavy. Exhaustion bone deep.  He’ll sleep it off. That’s all he needs. Twelve hours of sleep and he’ll be fine. 

When he wakes up he is not fine. His head is pounding. He can’t decide between if he’s hot or if he’s freezing. He lays in his bed, throws his arm over his eyes to block out even the idea of the sun and groans into the inside of his elbow. 

Aether swallows, it feels like knives. He lays there for what feels like hours, suspended in sickness, trying to decide what to do. How to fix this. He knows there is medicine in the bathroom. That it,combined with some of Mountain’s tea, will help. He knows all he has to do to relieve his suffering is stand up and take care of himself. He chides patients for it all the time–that all they have to do is drink lots of water and baby themselves for a few days. But Aether rarely has to realize how hard that is sometimes. He thinks, this is fair karma. He will never suggest that caring for oneself is easy ever again. 

Instead of getting up and getting water, or medicine, or even his phone to text someone and ask for those things, he rolls onto his side. Hopeful that he can just will himself back to sleep. That if he could just be unconscious everything would be ok again. 

It doesn’t work. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. Every time he starts to drift off something hurts more. His nose runs. He coughs so hard his chest aches. 

It feels like days later that there’s a knock on the door. A quick rap, just before Aether hears the knob turn and the door open. 

“Aeth?” 

“Hey, Dew,” Aether mumbles into his pillow, voice hoarse. 

“You’re sick. I told you you were going to get sick.” 

Aether groans. He starts to tell Dew that he doesn’t need to be reprimanded right now, but he cuts himself off with a rattling cough he feels in his bones. 

“Did you take anything?” 

Aether shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

Dew doesn’t answer, Aether hears him walk into Aether’s attached bathroom, he hears the medicine cabinet open. Dew drops something, swears. Aether can hear him mumbling to himself as he rumages. The water runs for a while, and then Dew’s at his beside. 

“Sit up.” 

Aether does, it’s an ordeal, it involves opening his eyes, which hurts. His head spins, but he manages to right himself with his back against the headboard. Dew’s sitting next to him on the bed. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. Dew’s holding what looks like a fistful of pills, and a damp washcloth. 

“Dew, I’m ok.” 

“Just take the fucking medicine, Aether.” 

Aether would laugh, make some joke about how bad Dew would be at working in the infirmary, but he finds he doesn’t have the energy. He just takes the pills from Dew. It’s less than a fistful–only four. A couple of Advil and some cold medicine. He takes them all, taking small sips of blessedly cold water to swallow them with. 

Dew settles the washcloth over his forehead. It’s cold. Almost too cold except for the immediate relief it brins. Aether’s eyes flutter closed. 

“I’m going to run you a bath,” Dew says, smoothing his hand over Aether’s flushed cheek. Fingers gentle, and feeling strangely cool against Aether’s overheated skin. 

“You don’t have to–”

“Shut up,” Dew bites with no venom. “I’m taking care of you ok? Let me.” 

“Only if you take the bath with me, keep me company,” Aether mumbles. He doesn’t want to be alone again. He feels like garbage, and as much as he wants to tell Dew he’s ok and can take care of himself–he wants the attention more, the care. Dew bends down and kisses Aether between his horns. Thumb still tracking over his cheek. 

“Yeah, if that’s what you want.” 

“Can you get me some of Mountain’s tea too? And a snack? And–” 

“Hey,” Dew snaps, laughter in his voice. “Don’t push your luck.” 

But when Dew slips out of the door a few minutes later he knows that Dew will come back with everything he asked for and more. He lets himself sink into the bed, still feeling like shit, but knowing that the end is in sight. There’s a cool bath in his future, and more gentle touches from a fire ghoul with terrible bedside manner. What more could he ever ask for?

[vicsy]

They had an agreement, thing is. 

Lance hadn't forgotten even in the midst of getting his brain scrambled and his body feeling like jelly once the last bits of the adrenaline seeped out of him; evaporated like droplets of water on the heated surface of the Singapore race track, streaked with burnt tyre marks and covered in the debris of his car.

His dad caught up with him at the doors of the med center, tugging Lance in for a mindful hug, away from cameras and those media vultures. The doctors had already cleared him of the worst but Lance couldn't fight a jittery feeling, even with Lawrence's hold steadying him in more ways than one. He powered through it, though, managing a quick foray to catering and finding nothing to his liking. 

Lance's phone was a minute or two away from blowing up, messages and notifications piling up. He called his sister instead of texting her back, gingerly sitting on the side of the hotel room bed, the aftermath of his crash reverberating through his bones, a faint buzzing under his skin. When Chloe picked up with envious speed, as if she's been waiting, Lance cut off whatever she was gearing up to say, his voice steadier than he felt. 

Fine. He was fine. He didn't have to see the pics; he's been there, he lived through it. Saved him from the mockery of it all, for sure.

He set his phone on the nightstand beside a pack of painkillers the doctors prescribed and a half-drank bottle of water, slumping against the headboard, floating on the verge of passing out. It took some time to settle in, Lance diligently cataloguing every painful pang and uncomfortable pull of muscles that made him grit his teeth until he settled carefully on his side, facing the panoramic window. 

He hadn't forgotten, even in sleep, and when Lance opens his eyes, disturbed by a familiar noise of the door opening, something stirs at the back of his mind, a warning flashing before his bleary eyes. 

It was their thing. On media day, Lance found himself chatting away with Esteban when Fernando came up to both of them, discreetly palming Lance's ass, then dipping his fingers in his back pocket to fish out a keycard. Este only looked in horror and Lance barely contained a tiny laugh bubbling in his chest. Fernando's nonchalance as he waved the keycard playfully at him and shot a pointed took Esteban's way earned Lance a nasty smack on the shoulder and a frantic tirade half in French, half in English. 

That was Thursday. Lance ended up spread out on the bed, panting into the mattress helplessly, thighs shaking as Fernando took his fill and they fell asleep tangled with each other, sated. On Friday night, he went down to his knees, Fernando's eyes screwed shut and his back pressed against the door of his hotel room, fingers tangled in Lance's hair, the keycard he stole lying on the floor beside him. Two could play this game.

And tonight, they're not supposed to–

There's a muffled sound of footsteps and then the bed dips. Lance moves to roll onto his back, only to stop short as a hand wraps around his middle, strong and possessive. Fernando presses his body alongside his, sure and steady; warm but out of place. 

"Fernando?" Lance calls out, dumbly, in some sort of dizzy disbelief. 

He wasn't superstitious. It was Fernando's forte. Anyone else would have laughed it off but Lance listened to Fernando's reasoning the night after they raced in Spain, stealing two days out of the schedule to be away from their pressing obligations, media shitstorm and judgmental looks. Lance doesn't remember leaving the bed much but the sunset over Oviedo burned itself in his memory, along with every little quiver and moan Fernando wrenched out of him, sealing their lips together as the sun slipped below the horizon outside an open window. 

"Is bad luck," Fernando had said, propped up on one elbow, mouth curving in an easy grin that pulled a lazy smile out of Lance, almost automatically. "Better we always miss one day and meet after the race, no?"

Fernando kissed the corner of his mouth, gripping the back of Lance's neck, and he'd agreed to the terms, never the one to protest. It didn't matter to Lance much back then, setting a tray with their food aside in favor of pulling Fernando on top of him, chasing what neither of them should have ever had.

And yet.

A day before the race, they stay in their rooms; they don't fuck. No funny business. 

They had an agreement and it shouldn't be broken over Lance's own string of bad fucking luck or whatever karmic debt he acquired; over the hunger he knows resides deep in Fernando's soul. Over the one that flickers within Lance, a trivial thing before the real enormity of it swallowed him whole. 

Fernando's palm slips up and down his thigh, fingers passing over the hem of his sleep shorts and Lance's breath hitches. He's never said no, but he's not in the right condition for anything, let alone lying there and taking it. Usually Fernando rolls him onto his belly and Lance goes, pliant and willing and already breathless with anticipation. Now, his body freezes like he's about to crash again and his mind wanders.

Offhandedly, Lance tries to remember if Fernando had called or texted him but what would be the point of it now? He breathes in shakily, staying painfully still. 

"Hey, I don't–"

Fernando cuts him off.

"Shh," he whispers as if annoyed, softly kissing the nape of Lance's neck once, twice, then splaying his palm across the flat plane of Lance's stomach. "You sleep now. Tomorrow, we race."

It knocks Lance off balance, the way he entirely missed the mark. He feels Fernando burrow his face in his hair, breath tickling his sensitive skin. He holds Lance close, his grip unrelenting, borderline suffocating and something cracks open in Lance's chest, spills out and makes him shiver. The tension eases and he tentatively covers Fernando's hand on his body with his. 

Crawling out of the corner Lance backed himself into, he settles in the bewildered comfort. In his eyes, Fernando is two men at once — the one who who isn't scared of means to an end in order to win and the one who comes up with a different nickname to call Lance in private, making his heart flutter. 

And in the never-ending aftermath of his crash, in the face of those who always turn their back to Lance, the latter man claims his victory. Lulled by Fernando's steady heartbeat against his shoulder blades, Lance slips into fitful sleep, hope nestling deep in his ribcage. 

He wakes with a jolt. Feels like he's fallen into a pit, panicky and sticky with sweat, heart hammering away an uneven rhythm. A heavy weight of Fernando's hand is still slung across his back, a solid point of contact. Some semblance of relief lurches in his throat along with nausea. 

Lance knows something is wrong. He sluggishly gets his hands underneath himself, struggling to lift himself up, and falls back on the bed with a pathetic little noise. His alarm hasn't gone off yet. It's barely light outside. 

His limbs won't cooperate, no substantial strength in his muscles, his t-shirt sticking to his skin uncomfortably. Head pounding, Lance blinks rapidly, suddenly out of breath, like he just completed the race. What a fucking joke. He screws his eyes shut, his mind racing.  

A hand pushes on his shoulder to roll him onto his back in a sick reverse of what he's used to. When Lance blinks his eyes open again, Fernando's sleep-rumpled face swims into his vision. He can't read his expression right, just takes in the lines of worry on Fernando's forehead. He must look like hell.

Lance shakes his head against the pillow, the pinprick of tears in the corners of his eyes. Fernando's shoulders sag as he rasps:

"Is fine, Lance."

It's not. He's not fit to race, a hopeless case at this point. 

"I can't," Lance chokes against the unfamiliar lump in his throat. "Fer, I'm– I can't."

He hurts all over, pain erupting in different parts of his body and then flaring everywhere at once. Lance feels so fucking betrayed, restrained, pitiful. He remembers waking up from surgery, groggy and still half-broken but it feels worse now, feels baneful. Lance moves to swipe damp hair from his forehead, hand wavering, laden. 

Fernando takes him by the wrist, lifts his hand gentle enough and Lance allows to be manoeuvred, guided. Then; a kiss placed over the scar there, warm lips pressed to his clammy skin, grounding him. Lance lets an ugly sob free.

"Is fine," Fernando repeats, a hollow look in his eyes. His fingers tighten around Lance's wrist. "I race for us both this time."

He leaves, soon after; Lance stays behind. 

He almost wishes Fernando good luck, out of habit. Almost. Lately, Lance has been all out of it but he'd spare some for Fernando, unprompted. He promises Lance to wear one of his gloves for the race. For luck. Lance's face twist as do his insides. He's always been dismal at masking how he really feels. 

The last twenty laps Lance watches from the back of the Aston Martin garage, tucked safely away from the reporters. His body still feels sore, like a foreign entity that exists outside of him but it pales in comparison to the feeling of his stomach dropping as Fernando spins on the track and keeps losing and losing and losing. 

Perhaps, it's Lance's luck that does him in. Misplaced blame tastes acrid on his tongue. 

As the celebrations unfold, he seeks Fernando out from a distance. He catches him among the sea of mechanics, race suit undone halfway, the same hollowed look from this morning haunting his features. He stalks forward, past where Lance has glued himself to one of the chairs. He makes no move to follow. Fernando doesn't grace him with a mere gaze. In the background, fireworks erupt.

Back in his hotel room, suitcase laid on the floor in disarray, Lance distracts himself and puts his phones aside, itching to shoot a text or anything, really. Fernando has been radio silent since the end of the race, leaving the debrief earlier than usual. Lance isn't some dumb, love-sick teenager, he knows well enough that after today's debacle Fernando would need space. He waits with patience honed with years.

And waits.

And waits.

Then gives up, momentarily scorned. It's almost past midnight. He should have known better; Esteban would be right to laugh in his face. 

They had an agreement. 

It's unfair to the core since Fernando shattered it himself and the reason why was kept implicit, just beneath the surface. Too many ifs cross Lance's mind like someone opened the floodgates of his thoughts. If he was insignificant, Fernando wouldn't bother right from the very start but they're way past the point of no return. If Lance was wiser or older or not himself, he would not have cared at all and even now, he fucking shouldn't. If isn't good enough of an excuse to feel the skin on his wrist burn with a ghost of a kiss; to crave the safety of Fernando's embrace. To be the sole center of his undivided attention.

It's still Sunday night.

They had an agreement. 

Lance downs the last of the painkillers and drags himself under a thick blanket, the aircon cranked to the max and all the lights turned off. 

The door stays shut, the night passes by. His ache grows stronger and doesn't subside.

Morning greets Lance with a taste of defeat and the knowledge settling deep in his bones. He could race with his heart out on the track but could hardly wrestle a win against the clutches the race itself has sunk so utterly deep into Fernando.

Lance's luck leaves him no chances. After all, he was born to lose.

[arkhamabyssfiles]

Loading FILE...RED_HOOD_MEMORY_08 BRUCE WAYNE: AGE, 37 HELENA WAYNE: AGE, 15 JASON TODD: AGE, 17

Jason looked blankly into the TV, unable to concentrate into the movie for too long. It was and old western so he guessed it shouldn’t be too interesting for him anyways. And yes, his body had started to ache some time ago, and perhaps the fever had gone up, but it was nothing that would kill him. If only the burning of his throat was more bearable he wouldn’t have allowed to be bundled up into the sofa at Bruce’s side—who even if he wasn’t as sick as him, he still had been confined by his unrelenting daughter and butler.

“I’m sure you got this bug from one of those stupid parties.”

“Maybe,” Bruce conceded after some moments.

“It sucks.” After all, the medicine that had been given wasn’t helping that much, and no stronger douse would be administered until he went up to bed. Helena had explained some of the reason behind it, but he’d already forgotten.

Bruce hummed at his side. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten this sick, but it was the first time he was at ease while being sick. No anxious thoughts of needing to get out and earn or get whatever he needed for the next couple days, or having someone getting into his place while he wasn’t in conditions to fight the intruder, nor wishing to have something nice, warm and easy to swallow but having only water or not so fresh fruit and bread. Or simply not being alone. Jason knew that Bruce could be in front of the Batcomputer right now—or looking over Wayne Enterprises papers for a change—, even when supposed to rest he probably found it hard to do when doing nothing, something Jason understood too well, and he still chose to sit down here with him to watch TV and listen to his complaints.

This is what having a real parent feels like, huh. Jason thought sleepily, thinking of how Janet and Willis had hardly even noticed when he was sick in the days he was still too small to get by on his own. Gotham’s gravity, boy. It makes everything worse. Janet was too fond of telling him that often, but having said gravity right now sticking him to a comfy couch beside a man that could snap someone’s arm the moment they put you or any innocent person in danger wasn’t so bad.

Jason didn’t notice when he fell asleep, but in that dazed state he heard quiet voices, saying something about dinner, then he dreamt he floated around some stairs with many pictures of cats, dogs, and some bats; and then his dry burning throat forced him to open his eyes. The first thing he noticed is that he wasn’t at the TV room/small cinema anymore but in his room, the second thing was that he was sticky, and the third after he groaned—and regretted it immediately when his throat burning flared up— was that there was someone sitting in the high-backed chair of his room near the bookcases that didn’t have as many books as he wished.

“Are you hungry?” A soft voice asked him. Jason blinked a couple of times, having a hard time making the association of the familiar voice with a tone he hadn’t known it could take.

“No.” He put an arm over his eyes and wished to get back to sleep and forget the discomfort of his body, but he was too uncomfortable to do so. Shuffling made him look over, Helena had left whatever she’d been doing in the vacant seat and grabbed a tray with something on it. “How did I end up in my room?” He asked.

Helena smiled from ear to ear, “Dad carried you up, it was so cute how you cuddled like—“

“Stop. I don’t want to know,” He said filling dizzy and his face hot from the fever and embarrassment.

“Ok, here. Sit up,” Helena’s voice still held contained enjoyment at whatever sorry picture he’d shown while unconscious. She put the tray in his nightstand and waited as he sat up slowly against the headboard, once there she put two pills into his hand and passed him a glass of water. After he had taken them, she changed the glass of water with one of something warm. He took a sip without asking what it was. His eyebrows slightly shot up and he smiled completely forgetting his previous embarrassment.

“Warmth lemonade?” He didn’t know why he found it so funny, maybe because he’d found in books portraying older times that that was one of the remedies often used for the sickly.

Helena sat on the edge of his bed and reached her hand to his forehead as she answered with the same soft voice, “It’s good for sore throats.” Her hand felt nice and cold against his feverish skin and it moved away too soon… Jason looked to the opposite side and took another drink of the lemonade—it did helped a lot with his burning throat.

“You’ve sweat a lot—do you want to change clothes?”

Jason almost spluttered into his lemonade.

“I’m not going to change your clothes,” Helena laughed shortly at his shocked face. “I’ll just bring you some to change into and a wet towel to wipe some of the sweat away.”

Jason took the last of the warm lemonade and after moving and feeling his clothes sticking to him accepted the offer. She passed him the clothes after a little rummaging through his wardrobe and walked into the bathroom to get the towel. While she did that Jason wondered why she was here and not Alfred—he glanced at the clock searching for an answer. 11:13 p.m. It wasn’t that late, but even if the old butler was used to the hectic hours that Bruce kept, that didn’t meant he didn’t get tired, or that he wouldn’t accepted in good grace the help when it came to attending a sickly household. Besides, Helena did was studying to become a doctor. Which reminded him—

“Don’t you have to go to med school tomorrow?” He asked once she put everything in his reach, including a basin of water to rinse the towel—where she’d gotten that basin he didn’t know—. Jason noted as well she was in her sleepwear, some loose pants and a lilac hoodie two sizes too big for her, it engulfed her and made her look smaller—it was kind of cu— What the hell was he thinking?

“Yes, but I’ve been napping. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t,” He answered automatically when he clearly had been at least been feeling guilty about it, but his brain had short quitted after thinking she was—

“Alright,” She smiled knowingly and walked to the door, “Get changed quickly and go to sleep.”

He did and after ten minutes she came back in after two knocks. By this time he’d already laid back again under the covers. Jason wondered what she wanted now, but didn’t ask as she put on his nightstand a thermos and she muttered that it was more lemonade—of course it was. Then she picked up the discarded clothes and towel, and Jason winced mentally, uncomfortable of her having to touch his sweat drenched clothes even when she seemed to not mind at all. After she finished tidying up she pulled something from her hoodie pocket, a patch of some kind—

“What are you doing?” He asked with misgiving, when she reached towards his face.

“It’s just a cold patch,” She answered moving his hair away from his forehead carefully and sticking the certainly cold patch to his forehead. Jason didn’t want to admit it, but this was nice, simply getting cared for because someone wanted you to get better for no other reason than that. He didn’t know if he’d always have this as much as he’d never known he could have something like this, so for now he just allowed himself to receive this without complaint.

“Feeling better?” She asked sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Yeah—thanks…” It took him some effort to say it, but he didn’t regret it when he saw her smile and say an honest ‘you’re welcome’. Jason wondered if the crusade her father carried had passed on to her in a different way, the strong desire to help and save people could come in many ways and forms after all. So he asked, “Is this why you want to be a doctor?”

Helena flopped into her back and looked into the ceiling. “I’ve always wanted to be able to heal people, or at least help them to the limit.”

“So you’ve always wanted to be a doctor?” He asked. The medicine was starting to take its effect, but talking for a while after a day of doing nothing was helping him more than anything to fall back into drowsiness.

She hummed and curled up on her side, now looking at him.

“That’s weird.”

“It’s not weird to want to be a doctor.”

“It is. Knowing what you want to do and how you’ll do it since you’re a kid and going through with it is weird.” Not that all weird was bad, this was the good kind of weird, but it still was weird.

“To be fair, I thought I would be a princess for a time.”

Jason laughed, then regretted it as it made his body ache, “But you are. I guess there’s lucky people out there who do get all their dreams to come true.”

“All my dreams—I wasn’t a princess until you came, Jason,” She said quietly.

So quietly and he thought perhaps a little sadly, that maybe he wasn’t meant to hear that, but he had. Jason swallowed and it wasn’t because he felt his threat ache anymore, the medicine had taken care of that.

“You should go to your room,” He said, it was time for her to go rest, she’d already helped him enough.

“But I already got comfy,” Helena complained.

“You can’t sleep in my room.” Jason wasn’t completely sure why he felt so strongly about it, but he did.

“It’s like a sleep over,” She countered.

“You’ll get sick.” Jason tried to reason, because he currently wasn’t able to bodily remove her from his room.

“I was sick last week.”

“You were sick last week? You seemed fine,” Jason said surprised. She had seemed fine, not that they crossed paths every day with her long schedules at med school, but she’d been there for dinner every day and chatted and pestered him as usual.

“I took some medicine and slept the most of two days. I know when to stop unlike some other people. Besides, only dumb people catch a cold as badly as you do.”

He let the insult slide, because he was still too busy thinking at how he hadn’t noticed it when she had just taken a look at him to know he was sick. Then after some minutes when he’d started to doze off, it hit him—

“Then it was you who passed me this damn bug!”

After a moment of silence in which he thought she’d fallen asleep she said, “Maybe.”

Fuck damn, wasn’t too much like Bruce at times.

END OF MEMORY... For more FILES check previous entries...

[delicateflowerss]

Don't Worry, Darling: Five

After marrying the love of your life, Rafe Cameron, you thought you couldn't be happier. But when a murder shakes the island, you learn you don't know your husband as well as you thought. When does Paradise become Hell?

Warnings: 18+, NON-CON, somnophilia, drugging, mentions of murder, mentions of pregnancy, dark!Rafe, blood, mention of a gun, kook!reader, non-canon ages

Word Count: 3.4k

Series Masterlist

It’s painful to peel your eyes open.

Your vision is still blurry as you try to make sense of your surroundings. You try to move, and your limbs feel like they’re made of lead.

Finally, you lift your hand to hold your head, trying to stop the pounding within it.

You quickly realize that it’s not just your head, an ache spreading throughout your body, feeling like you got hit by a truck.

You wish you could return to the peace you felt when you were sleeping. All you can remember is feeling like you were floating on a raft, all alone in the middle of the ocean.

For some reason, you think of Rafe. Maybe he was there too. There’s something about his touch and smell that lingers in the back of your mind, a soft coo in your ear.

You wince as you sit up, leaning against your headboard.

The last thing you remember is taking a bath. So how did you end up in your bed, dressed in your pajamas?

Maybe you were drunker than you thought.

At least you didn’t fall asleep in the bathtub, you think as you silently chide yourself for doing something so stupid.

Leaving your thoughts, it takes you a moment to realize Rafe isn’t next to you.

The sun shines brightly through the curtains, and you’re unsure of what the time is.

You find your phone on your nightstand, screen lighting up to reveal a text from your husband.

You squint, reading being a little more difficult than usual. But by the time you’re finished, a small smile is on your lips.

He went golfing with Topper and Kelce and didn’t want to wake you, ending the message with “I love you.”

He must have known how much you needed to sleep.

It takes you a while to drag yourself out of bed, popping an Advil before you feel good enough to make your way downstairs.

You sip your coffee slowly as you stare at your phone. You’ve gotten texts from each of your friends. They’re confused, just as you are, checking to make sure you’re okay after last night.

As you stare at the letters on the keyboard, you decide not to answer any of them. You’re not sure why, whether it’s because you don’t know what to say, or if whatever you type, it still wouldn’t explain how you’re feeling.

For some reason, you don’t think they would understand.

Now that you’re sober, the weight of the incident feels heavier. The last thing you would want is all of Figure Eight to think your husband is a murderer.

But if people are suspicious of him, the police must be also.

Now a new fear squeezes your chest.

What if he’s charged with a crime he didn’t commit? All because he was the last known person to see Chase, along with his reputation of losing control.

You sigh, closing your eyes, trying to rid your mind of these upsetting thoughts.

Your moment of relaxation doesn’t last long as your phone starts to ring, your eyes snapping open.

You furrow your brow as you see a number you don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?”

Your confusion isn’t eased as you hear the familiar voice.

“JJ?”

“Yeah. Hey,” he begins. “Sorry to bother you but I think I left something when I was over there the other day.” He barely pauses throughout his explanation, an obvious alarm in his tone. “I know it’s a weekend, but my boss is gonna rip me a new one if I don’t have it back by tomorrow. If Rafe is home, then don’t worry about it. I can just-.”

“Rafe’s not home,” you interrupt, wanting to quickly ease his troubles. “He’s out golfing with friends. He’ll be gone all day,” you say, eyes scanning the empty house. “But I would stop by sooner than later, just in case,” you add.

“O-Okay.” His surprise is evident through the phone. “I’ll be there in 20,” he says before hanging up.

For a second, you wonder how he got your number. But then you remember that the pool company must have yours and Rafe’s for situations like these.

Well, maybe not like this one.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah. I guess these things are more expensive than I thought,” JJ answers casually, holding up a packet of chlorine tablets.

Your lips curve up, following him through the side gate, back to his truck.

“Do you want to come in?”

He opens his mouth, but you speak first, already knowing what he’s going to say. “Rafe will be gone all day. Believe me, he always is when he goes out with his friends.”

You realize that came out more bitterly than you intended.

He shifts, scratching the back of his head. You notice that he’s not wearing his work clothes, a day off for him. You both have stopped on the lawn.

“Uh, not today. But I’ll see you this week,” he finishes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He meets your gaze, a nervousness there that you haven’t seen in a while.

“Is something wrong?”

Your question stops him in his tracks. Turning around to face you, he thinks for a second.

He sighs, eyes finding the ground before returning to your face.

“John B told me about what happened last night.” He quiets his voice, like he’s worried someone is going to hear. “You know, with Rafe.”

“Okay…” You stare at him, brows pulled together. You pretend you don’t know where he’s going with this, but you brace yourself.

He does the same at your response. You see his lips start to move, no doubt questioning your reaction.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe it?” You blurt out, incredulity lacing your tone.

He shrugs, shaking his head. “It’s Rafe,” he says, letting out a humorless laugh.

You hug your arms tighter around your body, feeling your jaw start to tense.

You hear him sigh again, his arms hitting his sides.

“It’s not just me who thinks it, okay? I mean, he was the last one to see him alive,” JJ continues, trying to make you see what he sees so clearly. “How many times has the police talked to him?”

“Doesn’t matter. I thought you said the police don’t know what they’re doing,” you harshly reply.

Something crosses JJ’s face, something you identify as pity, and it makes you feel sick.

“So, you think there’s no way he did it?” He asks, a thickness in his voice that tells you he already knows your answer.

When you don’t respond, he tries again, stepping closer to you.

“Tell me. Tell me there’s no way he did it,” he begs you, almost like he wants to be proven wrong for your sake.

You feel anger bubble up in your chest, your eyes not leaving his.

It hurts you to realize that you’re not angry with JJ.

You’re angry because you can’t say the words you wish you could.

“I want you to leave,” you spit out, eyes hardening as you point to his truck.

His face falls, disappointment washing over him, lips parting.

“Y/N-.”

“Leave,” you almost yell, starting to feel your anger transform into tears. With all your strength, you stop them.

In a moment, the emotion is wiped off his face, a coldness settling in his blue eyes as he swallows.

You watch him through a glare as he drives away, not giving you another glance.

You’re torn between crumpling to the floor or letting a numbness overtake you.

You find yourself back in your bedroom, still going over the events of the last 24 hours, still going over your argument with JJ.

As you peer over the room, you stop on the spot where a framed picture now hangs, covering the hole Rafe made in the wall.

It’s a picture of the two of you.

It must have been taken a few years ago. It was back when Rafe still went on vacation with his family. You think Rose took it.

The orange sunset sits behind you two while Rafe stares at the camera, and you stare at him. An adoration is visible on your face, and you’re never sure if Rafe knows it when you look at him like that.

A moment in time, frozen, to show the love between you and Rafe.

Now it’s been tarnished.

It’s a permanent reminder of his violence, and how easy it was for you to cover it up.

Is it better to live in ignorance like you have been or to finally know what’s been in the back of your mind since you found about Chase’s disappearance?

You’re not even sure what to look for. It’s hard for you to even think about what you could find and where.

You think back to what JJ said about the murderer being sloppy. If that were true, that means he might’ve missed something when he was cleaning up.

You walk into your closet, trying to forget about the heaviness you suddenly feel. You swallow, eyes scanning his side of the closet. You look over clothes, hands grabbing jackets, looking for questionable stains.

You almost breathe a sigh of relief when you don’t find anything.

You look over his shoe rack, finding clean pairs of shoes, most he barely ever wears.

Just when you were about done searching, your eyes catch on a dirty pair of shoes.

The only one with mud caked on the soles.

Bending down, you feel your stomach drop as you reach for them. You frown, inspecting them closer.

Mud doesn’t mean he killed someone. Even if you can’t think of a reason why his shoes would be dirty in the first place.

The gators flash in your mind and you almost wince.

You stand up, bringing his shoes to the kitchen. You scrub them lightly, just trying to take the layer of dirt off.

The mud comes off easily, leaving the shoes clean. Mostly, at least.

You squint at a pattern of stains on one of the shoes. Your harsh scrubbing not doing anything to get them off.

It seems like something splattered onto the shoe and dried, now not coming off.

After a moment of staring at it, a gasp leaves your throat. The shoe falls from your hand into the sink.

The outline of the stain and the copper color finally hits you.

Tears fill your eyes as you stare at the piece of evidence sitting in the sink, the faucet still running over it.

Rafe watches the golf ball fly in the air, hand still tight around the club, as the ball doesn’t land as far as he wants it to on the green grass.

His face twists up with frustration, coldly staring at the failure of his swing.

He’s off today, not getting a single ball in.

His mind is on other things, like the constant tug in his chest. He’s tried to ignore the feeling, swallowing down the guilt.

But he keeps thinking about last night.

All he can do is tell himself that he’s not the bad guy. He just has to do bad things sometimes.

He just wishes you didn’t have to get caught in the eye of the storm.

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he tells himself, the words echoing in his head.

When he finally looks behind him, he notices the uneasiness coming off Topper and Kelce, even if they try to hide it.

“Your turn,” he reminds Topper.

All Topper does is catch Kelce’s eye, asking for silent reassurance before releasing a sigh.

“I think we should talk, Rafe.”

Rafe squints at Topper’s words along with the blazing sun.

“About?” He asks, letting his club hit the ground.

“Well…” Topper pauses, glancing at Kelce again. “Last night looked really bad.”

Concern paints Topper’s features, his fingers gripping the golf club in his hand. He’s met with a blank stare from Rafe.

Topper’s face falls a little, fighting to keep his composure.

“Everyone’s talking about it, bro,” Kelce interjects, watching Rafe with the same concern.

Rafe’s lips part, an understanding crossing his face.

“What are they saying?” He asks.

“It seems…like people think you…,” Topper stops himself. “They think what Jake said is true,” he says instead.

Rafe slowly nods, absentmindedly biting his lip.

“I didn’t do it,” he finally says.

“We know that,” Topper says quickly, looking over at Kelce.

“Yeah. We know you didn’t do that shit,” Kelce adds.

“We just wish everyone else knew the truth,” Topper finishes, his eyebrows raised.

Rafe just looks to the ground, brows pulled together, already thinking about what he needs to do.

He casually shrugs, jutting out his lips.

“Let people think what they want.”

Rafe doesn’t hide his anger when he makes it back to the security of his truck.

“Shit,” he yells, his hand hitting the steering wheel.

His cheeks are red from a combination of the heat outside and his blistering anger.

When his breathing steadies, his eyes look around at the leather interior, not really focusing on it, concocting his plan instead.

He nervously takes the backwards baseball cap off his head, fingers running through his hair.

When he knows what he wants, he puts it back on his head, covering the dirty blond strands and quickly takes his phone out of his pocket.

Just as he pulls up Jake’s contact, his phone buzzes, his dad’s name flashing on the screen.

He hesitates for a second before hitting the red “ignore” button.

He fumbles with the letters on the keyboard, drafting his text.

He doesn’t know Jake as well as he knew Chase. He always knew Jake didn’t like him, preferring Chase’s friendship while working for Cameron Development.

Even if he doesn’t know Jake that well, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard the secret he tries his hardest to keep hidden.

For the last year, Jake has been sleeping with one of the secretaries, cheating on his wife over and over again.

So, if Jake wants to tell the island something damning about Rafe, he can play the same game.

That’s exactly what he puts in his text.

It only takes a few minutes for Jake to send one right back.

Rafe’s lips curve into a smirk, getting the answer he wanted.

His fingers lightly tap the wheel, impatiently waiting for Jake.

He’s late, saying he’d meet Rafe at the storage lockers 20 minutes ago.

An annoyed sigh leaves his mouth as his head hits the headrest.

Rafe has made sure to text you that he’ll be out late with Topper and Kelce. He tries not to think too much about why you haven’t responded yet.

Maybe you’re busy, or tired.

There’s no way you know, he tells himself.

Last night’s events plague him again, and he can’t tell if he finds comfort or torment in them.

He got to you just in time, your head barely going underwater.

He was worried that might happen, letting you take a bath was probably a bad idea. He barged into the steamy bathroom, pulling you out of the warm water.

You were out like a light, not stirring at all as he made you comfortable in bed, drying you off.

He wasn’t sure how well the sedative he put in your wine would work.

But he was satisfied with the results.

As he stared at your unconscious naked body, looking peaceful in your slumber, he thought about how he was betraying you in the worst way possible.

If you ever found out, you would never trust him again.

But then he remembered what you told him.

He believed you could forgive him, maybe not at first, but eventually. That’s the type of person you are.

You’ll love him forever. You said it yourself.

He wouldn’t have had to do anything if you just saw things the way he did. If only you were on the same page as him.

His hungry eyes raked you over, taking in the valley between your breasts to the swell of your thighs.

The moonlight cascaded through the window onto your sleeping body, a blue tint lighting the room.

All he could hear is the whir of the ceiling fan, making the warm room cooler, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin.

He lightly ran his fingertips along your thigh, feeling your soft skin, slowly inching closer to the heat of your core.

It felt wrong, forbidden, but it also gave him an excitement that coursed through his veins.

It was an adrenaline rush, that he could touch you no matter what, that you’re his to have and hold forever.

His fingers finally plunged into your warmth, feeling how you squeeze around them. The quietest breaths left your lips as he felt you start to soak his fingers.

He could feel his pants start to get tighter, needing to release himself.

So, he did just that.

He unbuttoned his shirt too, needing to join you in your bare state.

He settled above you, staring at you again. He was now at the point of no return. Any sort of voices that were in his head telling him to stop had vanished. Instead, all he could think about is how much he needed you.

He kneeled between your legs that he pulled open. He stroked himself a few times, his tip already leaking with pre-cum.

He didn’t waste a moment to push inside you, maneuvering your hips to meet his. He tried to be gentle, but as he felt you wrapped around him, he didn’t stop until he bottomed out, a groan falling from his lips.

He continued to thrust into you, his strong arms holding himself above you.

His blue gaze found where his cock was driving into you, watching through the darkness how you two connected with every snap of his hips.

It’s not just the way your cunt felt around him that kept his intense pace, it’s the way he finally felt like he could do what he wished with you. It was a part of marriage, a part of being his that he had been waiting for since you put on that diamond ring.

He didn’t think about how the strands of his hair fell onto your face as he rutted into you, hips slapping against yours. He could feel you clench around him, body responding to his movements, even when you were asleep.

He brought his lips to one of your nipples, sucking on the supple skin, hand on the other breast.

So lost in his pleasure, he didn’t notice how your eyelids started to flutter. You barely cracked them open, the figure on top of you still a blurry mess.

Even if you wanted to call out to the first person you could think of in your state of confusion and fear, you couldn’t.

All that came out of your throat was a struggled cry.

Rafe didn’t fully stop his thrusting, only hesitating for a second before continuing.

He watched you squint up at him, your face slightly twisting.

He brought his lips to your ear, shushing you, hot breath fanning over you.

“Relax, baby. It’s just me,” he whispered. Shaky breaths still fell from him, in between his cooing.

“You’re okay. You’re safe with me.”

He could see how your eyelids got too heavy again, having no choice but to fall back asleep.

Moments later, he felt your walls spasm around him, bringing you to your orgasm.

It pushed him further off the edge until his cock twitched inside you. He made sure to keep himself nestled deep inside you as his warm, sticky cum flooded you.

He stayed there for a little while, trying to catch his breath, making sure all his work isn’t for nothing.

Images of your stomach swelling with his baby flashed in his mind. A little Cameron made from both of you.

It doesn’t really matter the circumstances around how the baby was made.

He just wanted something to show your love for him. A living, breathing piece of your love that can make the two of you whole.

Why was that so hard for you?

After everything was said and done, he made sure to clean you up, wiping your thighs, getting you dressed.

No one would have known anything out of the ordinary had happened.

If he did everything he could, why weren’t you responding?

Before he thinks about calling you, he hears the roar of an engine die and a slam of a car door.

He can see Jake in his rearview mirror.

Before Rafe gets out, he quickly opens his glove box.

He tucks the gun in the back of his shorts, making sure his shirt covers the cold metal before stepping out of his truck.

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[daaydreamy]

Waking subrry up on valentines day like its always the man that does this but with subrry its her like him waking up seeing heart Ballons flying over him and him covered in roses and then she comes in and gives him gifts and breakfast in bed and he thinks he looks bad since he just woke up but her telling him how beautiful he is :( and afterwards her pleasuring him and her priority is that he gets to cum and he feels bad after since she didnt finish and then she says how important he is for her :( PLS WRITE THAT IM BEGGING U

darling, i will always cherish you

summary: it’s valentine’s day.

warnings: coarse language, handjob

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

•••

As Harry slowly stirred awake, he reached out to the other side of the bed, where Y/N usually laid, a frown making his way to his face when he realized it was cold and empty. He rubbed the remaining sleep in his eyes before stretching his arms out over his head, letting out a big yawn. As he was yawning, Y/N suddenly came into the room, holding a tray of food and two red heart balloons that were floating up in the air.

“Happy Valentine’s day.”

“What? You didn’t have to do this…” He chuckled softly, feeling his face heat up when she placed the tray down on his lap after putting the glass of water down on the nightstand, letting the balloons hit the ceiling when she let them go. She only smiled brightly in return and leaned in, giving him a big kiss.

“Shit, wait… I forgot something.” She said urgently and started rushing out of the room once more, leaving Harry a little dumbfounded with his lips parted, no words coming out of them. He looked down at the food in his lap while waiting for her to come back, finding himself smiling as he stared at the fluffy pancakes with syrup and berries spilled over them, a small tab of butter sitting at the top.

He lifted his head back up when he heard her footsteps and saw a bouquet in her hand this time, making Harry’s face flush even more.

“Y/N-”

“They’re your favorites.”

“I…” Harry took the bouquet from her hand, inhaling the sweet and fresh smell of the flowers, too flustered to even make up a sentence. “Y-you didn’t have to do this, you know.” He chuckled softly, hoping to god that blood would stop rushing to his cheeks.

She shrugged, picking a blueberry off of the pancakes she made, popping it in her mouth. “I wanted to. It’s Valentine’s day, Harry, of course I was gonna do something. There’s a huge bear in the living room.”

“I… Thank you. I love you. I love you a lot.”

She smiled, “I love you more.”

•••

“You’re like my own personal little angel.” Y/N murmured softly against Harry’s neck, listening to Harry’s sweet little moans and gasps. She had been mouthing at his neck while stroking him slowly, teasingly, working him up and making him squirm. She had left a few marks because she thought it looked a little too bare, and when she was done, she pressed her lips against his with a small, pleased smile.

“F-fuck, thank you, thank you, thank you…” Harry whimpered into her mouth, tightening the hold he had on her hips, gasping wetly before he spilled all over her fist, making a mess on his stomach while unable to do nothing but gasp and moan.

“You’re so cute.” She commented after Harry let his head fall back against the headboard, eyes closed with soft pants leaving his wet lips. She ran a thumb over his lower lips, groaning quietly when he sucked it into his mouth in return, running his tongue over the pad of it.

“Come on, I have another surprise for you.” She suddenly said and Harry’s eyes widened.

“What—what? Wait, no, what about you? I’ll-”

“I’m making today all about you, H. Whether you like it or not.”

a/n: sorry it’s a little longer than my usual blurbs but i hope it was alright! :-)

🏷: @crow-i-guess, @planetflos, @harrycanyonmoonn, @bxtchboy69, @sweet-as-lilacs, @lyricalniall, @venusincleo (couldn’t tag you!), @bxbun111, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @emispleased, @goldenhrry, @cinnamongirlrry, @manifestrry, @sadqn1, @judesgfirl, @taylorsreputationsversion, @violetsandfluff, @phoebebridgersforqueen, @a-strange-familiar, @moonlightbea-33 (couldn’t tag you!), @famedrs-blog, @coochiesteak, @blahblahblah-888 (couldn’t tag you!), @milesisntdonewritingyet, @harrysgoth, @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite, @cinnamonlola, @youcan-nolonger-run, @velvetrylie, @vamprry, @ellie-loveshs, @gorlsinmultifandoms

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Not to worry, the decorating is already done for you in this 2006 traditional stone home in Heath, Texas. 4bds, 5ba, $1.6M + $86mo. HOA fee.

Nice grand entrance hall (does the hat on the pole convey?) and already I see a fuchsia room.

Huge open concept space. The kitchen is right there, next to the living room, if you like that kind of layout.

I don't care much for the stone on the fireplace, though.

The kitchen is very large, but are those laminate cabinets?

The living room and kitchen both look like laminate, which reminds me of the '70s. But, it does have a nice backsplash.

The kitchen also has a nice pantry.

The formal dining room has a big floating sideboard with shelving right up to the ceiling.

They have a bar in the pantry and the other side leads to another dining room, the fuchsia one.

Nice mural. So, this must be an entertaining space b/c of its close proximity to the bar. It could be a sitting room, too.

The primary bedroom has a feature wall and I can't tell if that's part of the headboard or the wall. I would hope that the floating nightstands are conveying, too.

This is the en-suite. It's nice. Love the Dale Chihuly knock-off fixture above.

Now, this is cool- laundry, extra fridge, and dog bath station.

Looks like a guest room.

Nice bath, kind of looks like jade.

Now, this looks like a decorated hallway, where you can sit and stare at the wall, I guess.

Family room with a kitchenette.

Looks like a TV room.

Outside is a beautiful pool.

A big outdoor kitchen.

Plus an outdoor living room.

The lot measures 1 acre.

[a-gilded-imprisonment]

“Oh? Hello, little rain cloud. It seems your closeness with the Doctor has sent your dreams to me.”

An eerie voice echoes through the dreamscape. He is floating. And it first, it feels like nothing. Then, in the distance, he notices a vaguely human figure with a face of broken stained glass, each shard playing back the life of someone.

“You shouldn’t look to closely, little rain cloud. Even your luck cannot fight the innate. Now, awaken.”

And just like that, he shot up in bed, breathing heavily. A text message left unread from a certain Doctor buzzed away on his nightstand. And next to it- a letter.

“The universe is vast. And sometimes, little things like you can peer into the abyss. Just don’t be surprised if it looks back.”

- The one derived from chaos

"Little rain cloud...?" *Aventurine mutters, head falling back against his headboard.*

*His heart is pounding in his chest, mind racing a million miles a minute. The dream is so real-- and he hasn't traveled into the Dreamscape, instead curled up in his own bed.*

*Perhaps this was Penacony's way of haunting him even when he thought himself to be safe-- maybe the effects of Sunday's Harmony curse still linger.*

*The gambler holds the note in his hands, trying to identify if he can trace it back to its origins. How strange-- it seems many things in this universe are spying on him.*

*Aventurine grabs his phone, swiping Veritas' text notification away-- what did the doctor have to do with this, anyways? He photographs the letter, sending the image away to Topaz for processing.*

Aventurine: How are you, my dear coworker~?

Aventurine: I found this note on my bedside table this morning... any way you could find out who sent it?

*He sighs-- and against his better judgement, swipes open the message from Veritas with a smirk on his face, wondering what in the galaxy the scholar would desire to reach out to him for.*

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x country star!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: this is an edited repost of the original prologue! i've jiggled some stuff around to do with joel - he's now a gravelly voiced, universally adored country superstar.

if you've read before, it's up to you if you read again. see you soon anyhoo! <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home. 

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt. 

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling. 

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool. 

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming. 

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet. 

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again. 

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams. 

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen. 

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll. 

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight. 

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side. 

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you. 

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you. 

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant. 

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing new NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the venues you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it. 

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to lay down the last of the vocals and earn the seal of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, man of the moment. 

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky. 

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to share his thoughts on the track. A big deal. Critically acclaimed albums, AMAs, BMAs and Grammy Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint. 

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool. 

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. Voice like smoked velvet on his tracks for Red Sky, cradling you through the mixer. Not that you ever thought about him and that voice when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Not his gravelly tone, or his hands. His thick fingers on his guitar, nor the bulge that strained in videos against his low slung belt - 

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water. 

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, holds you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips. 

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac. 

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are. 

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them. 

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response. 

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you. 

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream, even ten years in. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more... intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Jus’ hope she likes it all, so I’m not gon’ be sittin’ there feelin' like -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. You're a pro. It wouldn't have gotten this far if it was bad, Nick or someone would have said something. All you've gotta do is sing your part and say you thought their stuff was great, then get a selfie for Ellie. And that’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in. 

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink. 

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him. 

He can see how her eyes keep flicking his way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?” 

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. Like you. And dude, this is literally your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions. 

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another by fucking Chris Stapleton, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he feels so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them. 

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers. 

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off. 

There’s someone he has to meet.