#it is precisely why he deserves nothing less than a boot up his ass

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Re-reading Lorgar's primarch novel cause it's been a minute and it's a quick enough read.

Sorry but Kor Phaeron being angry as fuck and basically shouting "WHO TAUGHT LORGAR HOW TO SAY 'FUCK'??" is a hilarious mental image. Especially since Kor Phaeron is about 17 himself.

Which. By the way. Kor Phaeron is only 17 when he picks up Lorgar. I do not see people really talking about this very often, but Kor Phaeron is a literal child who has an entire entourage of slaves and converts and guards with him.

And then he picks up a genuine toddler who has weird psychic powers and decides "yes, this is my acolyte now".

Kor Phaeron, in a way, had what Erebus had said he had wanted when he was a boy. The fuck.

[jjkpls]

the wishlist (m) - 6 (final)

“Was it worth it?”

> genre : smut, angst, fluff

> pairing : jeon jungkook x reader (f)

> words : 15k (ugh sorry)

> content/warnings : back at it again w/ the bff2l; one sided love, LOTS of pining; sextoys talk and use; explicit language; explicit description of sex; phonesex; masturbation (f); dirtytalk; alcohol drinking; dubcon exhibitionism; ambiguous infidelity

previous - masterlist

There's a lot of forgetting to get done. It wasn't the plan to get drunk. Maybe you should have known better than to confide the slightest about your heart and its aching to your two girlfriends. Because they don't have much of a solution to present you with. You meant to ask of them to divert your mind, make you laugh, feed you so much you'd fall into a food coma and wouldn't be able to think about anything else but sleep. Eventually, share their own dramas of the moment (they always have some) to get you so invested in their shits you wouldn't be thinking about your own.

You made the mistake of sharing, with probably too much preponderance in your tone, that Jungkook was back with his girlfriend.

Without any context clues -they didn't even know that he was single for approximately four days-, they knew. You're not that complicated to read when it comes to him. Only he seems to not get it.

You still remember the first time they found you out. They had a sense that something was up with this kid, that there couldn't just be a platonic, decade-old friendship based on nothing spicier than the tteokbokki you'd cook for him every now and then.

They only started believing, with utter incredulity, that it was true when they saw you, and him, and his girlfriend. All at the same time, sitting around the same table, there was no doubt left. No reason to believe that there's something unsaid existing. They saw your eyes though. The shine they gain whenever you'd be looking at him, laughing hard with all his teeth out, and the glassy look they took on whenever they'd catch a gesture, a touch that was meant only for Jiyeun.

You've never really gone into details. You've never ranted over the feelings, over him, everything that made him the one person for you. They saw you cry over him though, one drunken night, and it was enough to make them understand how deep you were in.

And perhaps it's your fault, that you wouldn't sort of train them to be the better friends they wish to be to you. They don't know what to say, what to do to console you. You don't even know what you need. Really, all you know, it's that you didn't feel able enough to take care of your tormented heart and mind alone tonight.

You are to blame if they dragged you to this bar, with the music too loud and the people too numerous, bumping their hips to yours attempting to coarse you into dancing. You hate every second of it. Every element that was supposed to distract you, help you forget, feel better, served as annoying distractions. You could picture yourself, dipped in a scorching hot bath, with a bowl of ice cream, weeping your eyes out like in the most cliche, most dramatic breaking down of your life. And it felt right, in your mind anyway, a thousand times better than this.

"Here!" Like the good girl that you are, you accept the shots. Min sets one in each of your hand and stares over the rim of her own glass, expecting. You roll your eyes. Swallow them down in one go and she yells, arms in the air, jumping like the night has just been made.

At least, she's entertained. Dancing her life away, kind of wilding out with too much energy, having to apologize every few seconds for knocking someone with an elbow or slapping another with her ponytail.

"Look, who's here!"

Your heart skips a beat then. Until you follow Mary's finger who's pointing rudely at Park Jimin. Park Jimin as in Jeon Jungkook's Park Jimin, one of his closest friends. He's dressed in all black, tight leather pants clawing to his legs, silk shirt half unbuttoned, perched on heeled Chelsea boots, dark black hair gelled back.

For a second, you worry, stupidly, if your friend is not going to appear, emerging from the thick crowd, carrying a drink, catching your eyes in the room. That's another thing you wouldn't need right now: seeing him. When you're in this weird state of sadness, guiltiness, of hopelessness and confusion. You'd probably be a mean bitch again. He doesn't deserve that.

For some time, you're just watching Jimin, being Jimin, dancing languorously, flashing smiles and winks so naturally; making everyone uncomfortable just because he's so attractive and so talented at catching people's attention and making them want him. It's just Jimin, hoeing out, as always. No Jungkook ever appears next to him. And while you sort of spy on him, there are the two dumb bitches next to you, drooling over him. Commenting about his ass, the way he moves his hips and how tight he seems to be in his pants.

"You should have fallen for him, dude!" It's the pinch to your arm that drags you back to the conversation, lets you know that you're the one Min is addressing. "What?" Your brain is already a bit slow. You haven't eaten much before leaving, drunk not much but too fast and forming intelligible sentences, translating your thoughts in their entirety is not a task easily doable at the moment. You meant to say something about how ridiculous they sound. About how it doesn't make any sense. About Jungkook and the things you feel for him, and the way you fell and how even when you suffer, like in this instance, you wouldn't change your heart because it's him, and only him, has been and might as well always be.

Why would you fall for Park Jimin?

"Jimin, you'd just ask him to fuck you and he'll do it."

"You can see he's a very generous slut."

It makes you wince. They're being fucking weird. Obnoxious, in their way of ogling him and quite disgusting talking about him. There's a smirk on the corner of Jimin's mouth and you wonder if maybe he's noticed them and is enjoying it. They don't mean to be offensive, you suppose, but they're still rude as hell.

"Useless Jungkook could never!"

Either you knock your friend out with your newly filled up glass or you drink it and attempt to swallow along your rage and that strange feeling that the open shirt Jimin is wearing has raised in you.

"Don't you wanna try him?" The question is absurd. You don't try people in general. But you'd never, ever, even think about trying someone as close as he is to Jungkook.

What the actual fuck?

"Fine! Don't give me those eyes!" Your brain and face connection is not that great at the moment that you'd know precisely what Mary is referring to. Soon after frowning and pouting through a sip of her drink, she's leaving, straight for the less crowded part of the bar, where people are dancing, where Jimin is showing off.

She needs less than thirty seconds to have him wrapped around her. Min is howling at your side like it's such an exploit. You don't want to bad mouth on your friend but it is, indeed, Jimin. Manwhore Jimin. And just like that, just because she walked in his vicinity, whispered something quickly to him, maybe just a simple greeting and a reminder of who she is, your friend, in case he couldn't make her out, and he's holding her tight, dancing, more like grinding against her, to her greatest pleasure, face buried in her hair, he seems to be uttering things directly in her ear. You catch her fingers reaching for the wide opening of his shirt, brushing against that tattoo you know to be there under his breast but have never gotten to really decipher, and he's leaving kisses on her shoulders. The next thing you see is his wide, wolf-like grin, now aiming straight at you.

You startle, almost let your glass shatter to the ground from the surprise. That seems to make him laugh. He waves a hand quickly your way and for some reasons, it sends a sudden flaming flush to your cheeks. That guy is such a cunt-tease, he's awful. No wonder people talk so crudely about him.

"I need to get plastered." You mumble, probably not loud enough for Min, whose arm you're dragging along on your way to the bar, to hear.

You may have thought, for a split second, of a fantasy. You may have reshaped the scene taking place in front of you to make it more suitable to you, to make it as self-indulgent as you could. With you replacing Mary, with Jungkook replacing Jimin. She made it seem so easy and for the briefest of moments, it felt like it was realisable. As if the only step missing, the only thing making it not real yet, is the first step, the one Mary took by just walking up to him and asking him to dance, maybe for you to be his for a while.

Then Jimin looked over, with his dark eyes and pretty luscious lips, his very sexy aura and everything that makes him him, and it all felt down to the ground. That's ridiculous.

That would never work.

Maybe hot men with the most endearing hearts that you really desire are not to be seduced by you. It just wouldn't happen. Jungkook would never, as she said. What a shame.

You should have fallen for someone easier like Jimin. He's not one person's man, that's for sure, but at least, he would have been great at pretending to be yours for a moment.

Now you really need to get drunk.

There's pure guilt boiling in the pit of your stomach. Because you've never denied your feelings for Jungkook. He deserves them. He deserves to be loved by everyone. Deeply and passionately. And no matter how true, how pure, how intense those feelings are, he never owes to reciprocate, does he? And here you are, greedy stupid little you, sad and angry because of course, he couldn't love you back like that. Not when there's fucking Jiyeun in the way. Jiyeun or any fucking one else, right?

He's not making it easy for you. Everything he does is making your life harder. As if it wasn't enough on its own already.

Everything he does.

Like buying you these fucking toys you need a science degree to operate.

Sort of.

Maybe you don't need a science degree. Maybe a sober head would be enough to make a toy you've never used before function.

You don't have that at the moment. You're in your favourite pyjamas - an extra-large, greyed by time tee-shirt you stole from Jungkook back in high school - and panties - because it sounded like way too much effort to find shorts or joggings and slip them on. You've managed, somehow, you don't even remember doing it, to make your bed all cosy and welcoming, a perfect backrest made of your fluffiest pillows.

The little toy, this orange thing, sort of shaped like a fat bunny, a big, rounded body with two straight little ears, pointed upwards. It's supposed to be fully charged. It's been disinfected. It's just waiting for you to use.

Except it's the last one Jungkook had bought for you, you didn't get to use it yet, to even turn it on once, nor read its instructions. And here you are, past two am, trying, with your sloppy brain, your blurry eyes, and your impatient cunt, to understand how it works. There's an app linked to it. This much you got from the big, unmissable QR code occupying the first page of the three-page long manual that your eyes won't read.

You picked up your phone, went through the violent burning of your eyes when the screen lit up too close to your face, scanned the code, installed the app and here you are, stuck.

The app won't let you turn the fucking toy on. There's a message that keeps coming up every time you try to link the app to the toy. But the message is written in grey, on white, and you can't see shit and you don't have the patience to decrypt it. Maybe if you close it, and try running it again, and try scanning the code again, and just click on the button that appears under the message, whatever it says, maybe it'll work.

Except it doesn't. After a certain number of times (keeping up with the counting is another thing you can't do well right now) the app keeps on being a bitch. Keeps being difficult and reluctant, and unwilling to let you fucking get off and go to sleep.

You're on the verge of tears.

Why would it be so fucking difficult to make a fucking sex toy work?

Why?

You're so annoyed and impatient and angry now and it's all Jungkook's fault anyway.

You can't try to go to sleep, no matter how tipsy you are, because your brain is filled up with this asshole and won't let you alone. You can't fuck yourself to sleep because the toy you've picked - and for totally irrational reasons you feel like you can not switch to another one - won't let you and it's his. His fucking present. Fucking poisoned gift.

He makes everything worse. Everything difficult. And the more your eyes fill up with frustration tears, the more you're reminded that he's also the answer. He's the worst and the best part of your existence.

Of course, you'd call him.

"I could be sleeping." His voice is light and clear. He wasn't any close to be asleep. He's probably gaming or something. You're so thankful for his voice, the lovely thing, the comforting thing, that you don't even get mad at his aforehand teasing.

"Jungkook-" It's not a call of his name. It's a whine, almost a lament at this point. Tiny high tone, overly dragged vowels. Something like Juunggooo, and he must recognize the tone straight away because he starts laughing in your ear. You bite on your bottom lip hard, almost draw blood, squeeze your fist over your heart, as if it could help it handle it better.

You love him, you love him, you love him.

"Went out with the girls?" You hum as an answer. "Had a little too much fun, sweatheart?"

"No fun at all."

He's laughing again. His sly, mocking chuckle. He's too himself for you to get mad at him. He's too cute when he sounds boyish and happy like that.

"No fun?" He's having fun, it's hearable. It might be because you sound like a dumb, whiny kid. "Why is that?"

"Just cause." He hums like he understands. You hear mockery in it. He sounds a bit distant. As if he's not totally paying attention, as if you're really a four-year-old kid rambling some non-sense after school and their parent just barely pretends to be interested. "Junggooo, I'm trying to have my fun now but your thing is being mean to me."

"What thing?" He's definitely doing something else. He speaks a bit slow, you can picture his gaze far from you. And of course, it'd be, he couldn't even see you even if he tried. It's still vexing. He really doesn't want you to have him all for yourself. Why not fucking Jimin?

"The orange bunny you got me." You explain patiently, pouting a bit. You try your best not to have your vexation be too loud but it's hard. "I tried the app but it won't let me."

"The orange-" You hear it when the gears click. He even gasps a bit. You kind of brought it up out of nowhere when you accommodated him with your constant complains and fights pretty much each time he wanted to talk about this subject. And here you are, opening up a conversation on one of them. You kind of get where the shock is coming from. "Oh, the Gala thing." He even knows its name. "What- How isn't it working?"

"The app says I'm too drunk to use it." You quetch, glaring at the toy laying flat on its back next to you. The asshole.

"The app says what?"

"Jeon Jungkook! Are you even listening to me?" Hysteria was to be expected. Because here you are sad and drunk and horny and highly frustrated and it seems he keeps making you repeat everything. And of course, he would because he can't give you his undivided attention now, can he? Because he's not a generous slut like Park Jimin, he's a useless prick. And if he keeps being one, and he keeps upsetting you, you promise to yourself, as an act of self-love and self-respect, you'll tell him he should be better, he should be more like Park Jimin.

"I am, baby, but I'm confused."

Except he doesn't need any bettering, does he?

It's like he's heard your thoughts. Like somehow, even with the distance separating your two apartments, he's been able to read them directly on the lines of your heart. He knows what you need, the soft and gentle and tender Jungkook who takes care of you, the one that doesn't show often, especially now that you don't really go out and get pissed off drunk together, now that you don't expose the sad episodes you might have to him in fear of being precisely confronted to this perfect torture. Maybe he heard your mind calling Park Jimin's name too many times and he tries to ensure his position. You almost tell him not to bother. That it was just a taunt, it's always him, just him, will ever be.

"What does the message say?"

"That I'm too drunk and stupid to use it."

"I don't think that's what's written, baby."

"But-" You're seriously going to cry in a second. You don't even know from what. The app really succeeded in hurting your feelings by not working for you and he keeps calling you baby, it makes your whole inside boil and scorch like a puddle of lava. "It's invisible letters, how am I supposed to read exactly?"

"If you can't read maybe you should just go to bed for now, hm? Figure it out tomorrow."

"No, now." Full brat mode is on. You know if only he was sitting next to you, you would have raised a hand to pinch him right on the back of his upper arm -where it really stings. It works usually. You don't hurt him, the guy is basically made of muscles, he's the kind of work out junkie that's enjoying the pain. He wouldn't fucking mind your tiny attempt of an attack, no matter the amount of anger and frustration powering it.

By telephone though, it's even harder to make him do something. Possibly undoable. The only weapon that you have is your annoying screeching voice. "You fix it! You bought this shitty thing so you fix it."

"I forgot how rude you get when you're drunk." He's still making fun of you. Not taking you that seriously.

"Jungkook, I'm seriously going to cry." The worst part is that you mean it. If regular menaces won't do, surely affection blackmailing should be more effective.

"Don't cry, it's fine. I'll check. Don't hang up."

As if. You did not plan on hanging up. Ever. You've decided.

It's too nice, cuddled up in your bed, with his voice, smooth and soft, saying words that you really like, like baby, in your ear. You've decided this moment won't ever stop.

"Junggoo-"

"One second, baby." You don't have one fucking second. You don't have any fucking second to spare him. When he's made you horny and lonely and longing for so fucking long. Why would you spare him any more? He takes too long. The time he takes, you prophet, will precisely be the time your vagina will need to dry out entirely.

Even his soft voice calling you baby won't serve to make you wet again.

That's a lie.

It makes you groan. Asshole, asshole, asshole.

"Oh." Your ears perk up. He's back with you, his voice closer than before, it seems, when he starts explaining, a hint of guilt shadowing his tone. "Sorry, it's my fault."

"Of course, it is." You mumble, face deep in your pillows. "Jungkook! Everything's your fault, always." You're probably being unfair. Or maybe not. Is he responsible for making you fall for him or are you to blame for doing so? Turns out, it doesn't really matter, because he doesn't even pay attention to the blatant, telling, honest truth you've just spurred.

"When I received the package I tried it once."

"Tried?" Did he really? The cute little bunny-shaped thing you'd dismissed earlier, cursed at and threw daggers at suddenly looks different to you. You want to pick it up and maybe place a kiss on the top.

"Wait- Not like that! I didn't actually try it! I don't have a fucking clit, what-"

"You just said that!"

"I meant, I tried turning it on and linking it with the app, just to see how it worked. Like the options on the app."

"Oh." Makes more sense.

"Anyway, it's not working for you because I used my email with it and you can only have one." So many words. God. "I have to invite you. Or delete my account and then you make one with your QR code."

You turn into the whiniest, most irritating little thing then. Just a jumble of dramatic cries, something almost sorrowful because your issue appears impossible to deal with. It's not that complicated. He explained it. Too many words, too much thinking, too much paying attention, too much to do and too much delay. How does he expect you to do it when you can't even read the invisible font of the app?

"Fucking invite me then."

"Watch your mouth." It makes you roll your eyes. It's not the first time he says that. He says with this menacing growl at the end. Like he means it. Like he's really threatening you. But no matter how far you go, no matter how many times you curse at him, he never acts on it. You want to tell him, you almost do, to stop promising you things he won't ever give you. There's a ping coming from your phone. With a bit of a struggle, you manage to put the speakers on, so that he doesn't leave too far whilst you take a look at the message. A link to click on. Not that hard, it's bright blue, unmissable. It leads you back to the bitchy app.

Now it's all nice to you. It lets you enter, presents even a picture of your own toy, congratulates you for being linked to it and to Jungkook's account. Of course, it would. Now that it knows you're friends, now that he's in the thing, this bitch of an app is being nice.

There are a lot of symbols, every-fucking-where. Some wavier than others. One is shaped like a music note. Some are just little constellations of dots. You click somewhere, just to try and see if anything happens and it does.

Suddenly, the bunny is brought to life and starts purring furiously on the bed. It startles you, looks a bit intimidating. It sounds angry and complicated with all of these fucking options. At least the other toys he's gotten for you had at most two buttons, one to turn it on and off, and the other one to regulate the three levels of intensity.

You might actually need a science degree to use that. Simply to adjust it so it's not attacking you when you turn it on.

You press another button. The setting changes instantly. It starts vibrating in a jerkier way instead of one straight line of frequency.

Tentatively, you grab it, sort of unimpressed and dubious as to the way this would feel good on you. You've already grown grudges against it. It needs to impress you, prove to you that it's worthy of the effort and of you even bringing it to your precious temple.

It sucks at convincing you. You've brought it to your panties and tee covered crotch, pressed it there, waiting, and it doesn't do much. It vibrates. Weirdly. It stops and goes again, in a pattern you don't understand and it doesn't do much for you. Doesn't turn you on, doesn't make you wet. Doesn't stimulate in any positive way.

You reach for your phone with one hand, trying to keep the other one holding it against you, and it's here that the whole thing fucks up for the last time you can tolerate.

How are you supposed to fucking do that?

Don't they understand that? The people that make those fucking things? That they're going to be used mostly by single people, with a single pair of hands? How are you supposed to manage holding it up where you need it, whilst simultaneously, hold your phone up (everyone fucking knows holding a phone up with one hand, and tap on the fucking screen, especially laid in bed, is impossible and the worst fucking idea one could have - except if getting a black eye is the project) and control the intricate dashboard.

"For fuck's sake!"

"What is it?" Jungkook is sighing heavily in your room. And for a second, you're startled almost off of your own bed. You managed to forget he was even still here, on the other line, apparently waiting patiently for- for what exactly? Maybe for you to wish him goodnight and hang up. You literally forgot he was here. You were about to get yourself off -if only this shitty thing wasn't so shitty- whilst he was still here on the phone.

Why doesn't it mortify you?

"How am I supposed to use my phone and the thing at the same time? Why- How? Jungkook!"

"Stop saying my name like that!" You don't ask because you know exactly how you're saying it. There's no proper balance in your tone tonight. Either you're whining his name like a desperate brat, either you're pestering it like a disappointed, aggravated mom.

"I'm going to cry." You say again, lying this time. You've already started. It's not a lot yet. Just a puddle of tears, in each of your eyes that are just about to spill, and the prickling sensation at the tip of your nose, the latter has already starting sniffling uncontrollably.

"Why?" He sighs again. This time, it's gentler. He might have just found the key to the secret safe holding the very last drops of indulgence he hides deep inside his kind heart. "Baby, the app is really for couples."

"But I'm not a couple, I just wanna cum."

"Y/N-" He chokes on your name. "There are buttons on the toy for you to use. You don't have to use your phone, okay?"

"You're lying."

"Why would I be lying? Look! There are fucking buttons."

There are, indeed. But they suck, you think. You do try them. Pressing on them while you stretch your arms out to keep the bunny's ears close to your covered clit. It's so much work. You don't get it. The buttons are hard to press on, when you manage to activate the little monster, it just jabs against your centre, falls over from your hand. You hate the jerking motion, try to change it because clearly, it won't do. It doesn't work. The buttons suck, the toy sucks and Jungkook is cursing at you instead of helping.

"What do you want me to do? Baby, I'm- Just go to bed."

You hate that he's telling you to go to bed, again. He's probably right. You're being a pain, an embarrassing one at that. You can't just go yet, though. First of all, the very reason you called in the first place, for him to make it so you can fuck yourself to sleep, has not been effectively resolved. And on top of that, the very resolution you took earlier, the one of never hanging up, of never drawing a period to this moment, won't let you.

"This one sucks ass."

"It doesn't." He sounds calm, a bit quiet, tone low and collected. You wonder if he'd dropped whatever he was doing, whatever distraction and laid in bed like you, to listen and talk to you only. That would be nice. You're annoying as hell, poor him, he deserves better, but you're thankful for him.

"It's stabbing, how can it be nice?"

"You just- I don't even know why I'm arguing with you. You're drunk."

"Am not, you are."

He scoffs, doesn't bother insisting. He exhales deeply. You sigh as deep. Your lids are heavy. Your brain is fuming too. Your head feels fuzzy. You could sleep right now. You might make a terrible night. You might have nightmares. You might wake up in a few hours, hot and very bothered, frustrated and on edge. There's a little ping messing with an edge of your eyebrow. You know it'll grow into a headache soon.

"Junggoo..." You whimper as if he could help you. As if he's the key to this headache, to lock it away, along with the rest of your tormented feelings.

"You're tired, baby." He comments. You would bite if you were in front of him. He really wants to send you to bed. "Just go to sleep."

You should. Given that you need a good five minutes to find the energy to open your mouth and mumble, "Don't wanna."

"Then what is it that you want?"

"Told you."

"Hm?" You're not saying it again. You could fall asleep right now. With his slow breathing in your ear. It sounds so lovely. Feels like you've never been this nicely enveloped. It's like those ASMR or lo-fi music compilation videos on YouTube. The ones with the short scene, often animated, playing on the screen. It's instant peace, instant chill, purely quiet, greatly pleasant. You love these sceneries. You even have a few printed on your wall. They are great to look at and try to project in, because it seems you could never create this feeling, this atmosphere in real life.

But you've reached it. Now. The perfect peaceful land. With the perfect soundtrack coming through your phone. You're comfy and warm, it's almost as if he was actually there with you, wrapped behind you, stroking your hair. God, you wish he was there stroking your hair and kissing the top of your head. But he's not here. And why? He should be here. If he can be on the phone with you, when he used to come over to make sure the blanket is nicely tucked under your chin, why can't he be here? Life's so unfair.

"What was that?" He's probably referring to the big loud thump, throwing his toy to the ground made. It's not its fault. Even if it hurt your feelings, it's not responsible for him not being yours. Or maybe it is. He wouldn't give you toys if he were yours. He wouldn't need them. That's probably why Jiyeun doesn't like them. Because she wants him to be all that's pleasuring her. The lucky lucky bitch.

"Your stupid toy."

"Don't- do you know how much it cost?"

"Never told you to buy it."

"Sure, but don't break it! I promise it's good. You can't-"

"It stabbed me!" You accuse, petty.

"You- are insufferable." He sounds about done. Except he's not because he seems to want to prove you wrong, still. The toy on the ground starts shaking back to life. Curiously, you roll on your belly, throw a glance to the ground. It's stirring, moving around slowly, getting closer to you as if it's trying to hop back up on the bed. "Pick it up."

You do as you're told. It's vrooming lightly, quieter than you expected. You can hardly feel it in your palm. The movement more noticeable from the timid sound than by the intensity.

"Oh. It's nice now." Maybe it does have a conscience. It's being all sweet and mellow because the remote is in Jeon Jungkook, international heartthrob's hands.

"See?"

It's really gentle. It turns cute. With its bright orangy-red shade, its two cute ears and its belly, a bit domed to allow a better grip.

Your hand has a mind of its own. If he were to ask about it, to demand an explanation, even when you'll come later, and wonder mad and revolted and half dying of embarrassment, what the fuck came over you, you'd blame it all on your hand. The appendix and its own personal free will are bringing the thing back to your crotch. "You can switch the intensity, it was just at the highest before." You're hardly aware of Jungkook still talking in your ear. The phone on speaker is still laying on the pillow next to you and he's selling it to you, while demonstrating, as if he's signed a sponsorship with the brand. It could be funny but you don't really care, more curious about The Gala and finally getting to know it.

Soon enough you realize that two layers of clothing, no matter how thin, are too much. You lift the hem of his tee, exposing your panties and the lines of your mound, showing through the tissue. It makes sense then, the shape of the thing. It has those two straight ears, or poles, with enough space in between, to tuck your clit comfortably. If you'd like. And you're not sure it won the privilege just yet.

For now, it'll have it but still over your panties. They're so flimsy that really the fitting isn't too far from its initial conceptualized use. "And the modes- see," It's jerky again. It goes for a couple of beats very quick short pulses and then there's a long, monotone one until the pulses come back again. You don't like that one. It's gentler than the one from earlier, that tried to attack your clit with an angry strong beating though. "You can just switch. If you don't like the fast pulses, you don't have to use it. You just try it out." You guess he's right. You just have to try it, tame it. Learn its functions and let it learn you. Probably. Sounds like a lot of work though. The other ones were really straight forward. Good, excellent for some - special shout out to the clit hoover, which is not actually vacuuming but blowing air, which made you cum so fast and so hard in the very first two minutes of trying it. You'd turn it on and it'd do the job. Next to your ear, rambling like a radio you'd forget to turn off in another room, Jungkook is explaining how there are dozens of preset patterns and an infinite amount of slots for personal creations.

It's okay. Sounds like it would do the job. You can already tell how you'll use it if you ever decide to give it a second chance after tonight. Pressed tight against your button, turned a bit higher, in a very basic, very classic constant monotone vibration.

He's switched it to another stabbing like pulsing, very fast and aggressive, you can tell they meant to imitate the pattern of a good pounding but it does little to nothing to your excitation. Really all it does is make your eyebrows frown and your premise of a headache is back. "Hate that one."

"Change it." Kindly, he complies. Another one. You can't really identify it. Maybe a slower thrusting. It's better than the last one simply because it doesn't nearly hurt. Doesn't do much good either. But maybe it's not doing much over your panties though therefore curiously, with eyebrows furrowed now in concentration, you lift the waistband up with a finger and slip the bunny under it. Tentatively, you try to set it nicely where it should be resting, your clit out in the open, hugged tightly by the two ears replacing your lips. It's kinda nice. Barely though.

"So is-"

"Wait, turn it up a bit. I can't even tell what that's doing." You mumble maybe a tiny bit petty, a bit bad faith remaining from the bad impression the toy gave you. It's not that you want to hate because you've decided you would. It's more intricate than that. You're too tipsy to even try and explain that though.

"That one is-" After a while, doesn't do much. The higher setting, you suspect he hasn't gotten up a lot, hardly helps. It does vibrate but it doesn't seem to reach enough, your clit hardly feels anything. Your electrical toothbrush from your horny teenage years used to do a better job at being a vibrator -and this even over your jeans.

You're this close to throwing it to the ground again and give up on it, once and for all. Jungkook would need to understand. It's not because he spent a lot on it, it's not because that strange lady he keeps mentioning insisted on its good, that you are forced to appreciate it. You don't see the fucking point of this one. It does look cute and expensive but is pretty much useless. No one needs a pretty, expensive but awful friend.

"It sucks."

For a few seconds, he doesn't say anything. You consider that he might have even hung up. But then, in the quiet, his voice too serious for him not to have taken what you said personally breaks out. "You're mean."

"I think- I think it's a good opportunity to decide- uh..." The toy is still active in your panties, under your palm. The realization slowed your process of thought for a second but the bigger conclusion that it brings is that really, it sucks. So bad you even forgot it was still on -and it's not you being too drunk to have a fully, 360 awareness of your body, honestly. "To decide collectively that you need, you have to stop buying me those."

"They're not all bad! You loved the other ones!" He accuses, apparently not up for the collective decision. You are probably made of confusion at this point. How many more does he feel the need to get you? Is it that great, that gigantic, that tragic of a frustration that he developed by his girlfriend not liking these that he feels the need to bury you alive with thousands of those? The secretive shelf at the bottom of your dresser already holds little to no place left for another pretty box. And as to the satin bag you use to store the toys themselves, in your bedside table's drawer, you can't even close it anymore.

"When have I ever said that? We talked about one, I said it's fine."

"That's not what you said." Honestly, right now, you have no idea what you said. You know that you didn't find great easiness in talking about them. You've never mentioned any and he never did either, apart from the very first one. You did say something positive about it, you think you can recall. "I don't listen to you anyway because I know how bad of a liar you are."

"Well great. Blatantly admitting you don't care about my feelings-"

He bursts out in laughter. You might be a little bit of a drama queen right now. The hand that is not holding the bunny against your mound -for reasons you don't care to address to yourself, probably for you being so lazy that it feels more like an effort to change your hand's doing, take out and put away the toy, rather than just leave it there quiet and not really bothering- did reach for your chest, in a very theatrical embodiment of an offence.

"That's not what I said, you brat."

"That's what I heard though."

"I said I don't trust your mouth when the rest of you is saying something else entirely." You roll your eyes. Hopefully loud enough for him to hear it on his side of the call. "It's my new passion." He starts, giggling like an idiot. "I won't stop for as long as orgasms will look this good on you."

Oh. My God.

Is he allowed to say that? Is he allowed to say shit like that with the most calm you've ever heard anyone speak with? Like it's normal. Like it's a simple fact. Like the word orgasm in itself isn't so foreign in his mouth. Somehow he makes it sound incredible, so delicious you feel the first proper impulse to your pussy.

"You've never seen it." You counter, uneasy, feeling somehow unbalanced and unprepared against what is probably a simple conversation to him but a real personal attack with too great of weapons to you.

"I've seen the aftermath. I told you already." You wish he'd be more explicit. His words are confusing. They're not telling enough. They can be so much, they might not mean anything. He speaks softly, tranquilly, almost whispers in your ear. It's simply late. It's more appropriate, it feels, to speak quietly like that. It's one of those midnight talks.

He wouldn't know whenever he is seducing you. He's doing it constantly without meaning to. It's just him being himself and you being too weak for him. How could you make out his intentions now?

"You really-" The toy twitches in your hand. He clicked on the switch button of his app again. You're not sure why. From the way he speaks, he might not even have realised. He might be playing with the thing, mindlessly, the way he does when he picks at the skin of his fingers when he talks. He must be because he's still in his own head, talking while the thing, the barely interesting thing, turns into something else. Entirely. It's a wave-like pattern. Growing from pure stillness to a slow, growing vibration that ends in an intense climax. You gasp. He doesn't seem to hear. "You really don't want me to get you any more?"

The second wave hits. "Oh- God."

"I mean- I thought, we were- that it was okay." The sensation is incredible. For some reasons, a technology you don't fucking understand, you wouldn't fucking understand now, every single build hits insanely hard. Each time as intense if not better. You're so close to moaning. If you haven't really taken a second to realize what you were doing, actually using the toy with him on the phone, without him even knowing, somehow you know you need to remain quiet. You can't moan out loud. You sigh loud though. You have to. "I swear with you it's so hard to tell-" It's so hard to keep quiet and the realization brings a grin to your face. You're not that vocal usually. Sometimes you are, with some of the surprisingly good sessions Jungkook's presents have been offering you. But it was conscious. It was you enjoying, wanting to build a bigger pleasure, make it more sensational, it turned you on a bit, you had to admit, to hear yourself. The pleasure the toy is bringing you right now is indescribable. The more you leave it pressed to your clit, the more you feel the heat grow. You know it's already too much. You hiss and sigh, and have to bite back moans each time the high top of the wave comes. It's too much and feels like not enough.

The greedy you would want the final hit of the wave to last longer than those very few seconds. Long enough to bring you there, make you fall over the top of the hill. But it's a teasing setting. Probably programmed specifically for overstimulation. You squirm and bite back whines each time it comes, flinch and have to fight to not tear the ears away because you know the sensation is a lot to handle, too much stimulation, yet you're already addicted, unable to act on the very fair, logical, and sensible decision you should make. You shouldn't even be pleasuring yourself with him on the fucking phone.

"Are you okay?"

Jungkook asks, after having stopped talking altogether for a minute too long but it's not like you were really in any state of mind to acknowledge it.

You don't think he's noticed yet. From the noise, hopefully little, that you were making, at most, he should be able to hear some sort of short breathing, for all you know, he might think nausea is visiting from all the alcohol you've consumed and you're heaving, on the verge of throwing up.

"You're not feeling well, Y/N?" It's his concerned tone. The serious one. The one he uses whenever there's no skip button to the conversation. Usually, it leads to him coming over to take care of you like he's your mother. Which sounds great in theory but doesn't always apply wonderfully in practice.

Sometimes you don't want him to see you looking green and gross from fever sweat; sometimes you just want to be alone and recover on your own without having him watching so dramatically concerned over your shoulder. And now, you wouldn't want him to burst in with your hand still in your panties, a sweaty, bothered, horny mess for him to be left shocked and possibly disgusted by. Maybe disgusted is a big word. Or maybe it's not. How inappropriate is it to masturbate with an unknowing friend on the other end of your phone? Is it even legal?

"I'm fi-fine, Jungkook." You lie through gritted teeth. You can't possibly be fine. You've put yourself in the worst situation and you still don't do shit to get out of it. Something is very much wrong with you.

The logical thing to do, the sensible one, would be to either end the conversation, hang up and then eventually finish yourself; or else, take the thing out of your panties, possibly throw it the further away from you and keep the conversation on if that's what you wish to do.

It would certainly not be to ask for him to turn up the setting because you now really much want to come.

"You don't sound fine."

"But I am."

"How much did you drink?"

"Not that much, Guk." He makes you frown, almost rips a curse out of you. Because all this serious talk is diverting you from your pleasure. It's not like you're going to have fucking alcohol poisoning. You didn't drink that much, honestly. The drinks were not even that heavy, except for the two disgusting shots your friend forced in your hands. "Seriously, I'm good." The building up pleasure has brought a new awareness to your brain, and honestly, you feel way more alert than before. You're far from drunk, no matter how much your behaviour seems to contradict that. You're good. You'd be perfect if he'd shut up or if he'd start half seducing you as he does. Maybe he could talk about your nipples again and what you should do with them.

He did say that. Now that you come to think of it. On top of buying you those toys, he did guide you as to what to do with some of them, how you could use them. They were not his direct advice, they were the lady's but still, he felt the importance to share them with you.

"If you are then just answer the question, how much?"

"Okay in a sec but can you turn up the toy's intensity, please?"

"Turn what?" You almost bark then. The whistling f of a very practical, very useful word you shouldn't yell at him rings to your own ear but you're strong enough to hold back. "Ah the thing, yeah, sure." What a sweetheart. A bit slow, but lovely. Your whole body contracts violently when the newly powered wave hits, the beginning of a moan escaping because it's so good, it's almost painful. "I had like two shots of-" Ah. "Something. I don't know what it was, just-" Fuck. "Gross as- uh." Holy shit, that's good.

You can't believe you've judged this intricate, revolutionary technology so bad before. "And then, like, a martini or two, barely and- and-" You're so fucking close. Each time feels like the final ascension except you get back to square one whenever the vibration drops back to stillness too quick to your liking. It's pure torture. And having to make a fucking list of your consumption that's so far back in your brain right now, especially when you know that it's pointless, is not helping.

"Wait-"

"Jungkook-" You don't know if you're begging him to stop thinking now, not get to the conclusion his logical train of thoughts is trying to lead him to, or if you're begging him to help you cum, maybe be nice to the bunny which only seems to be kind to him and make him make you cum.

"Why did you ask me to turn the thing up?" He already knows the answer. You can hear in his tone that he already knows. And frankly, he's a dumb ass for not realizing sooner. "No, you're joking. You wouldn't- not when I'm talking to you."

"When if not then?" Maybe frustration has brought you some bravery, or maybe pleasure has burned the very last remaining functioning cells of your brain.

"Uh?"

It's probably gone too far now. It still feels like he owns the key to the phenomenal orgasm you can smell coming. If you were to hang up now, you wouldn't even know how to make this shitty thing work. And it's not enough. Still.

Shit.

You're definitely wailing in a second now. The next sound you mean to conceal is a sob. Why can't you reach it? And how can you be so hyper-focused on it, it doesn't seem to matter what's going on with Jungkook.

You've gone crazy. Or perhaps you're drunker than you thought yourself to be. The last wave hits differently. It's straight-up overstimulation when you haven't even come once yet. Doesn't feel very nice but at least, it's the push you need to finally lift it up a bit, make a pause and eventually show some consideration to Jungkook.

"So you've been arguing with me, saying it sucks when really you were-"

"It did suck before you changed the setting." You assert again. Because nagging is the thing you're most talented at doing, apparently.

Silence ensues. In the defeating quiet you realize even the discreet humming of the toy has stopped. He's turned it off.

Something akin to shame is finally showing the tip of its nose. It's been fucking late to the party, you note with a growing, you know to become, devastating mortification. Exhaustion and tipsiness are keeping your conscience quite numb but you don't give a chance to sober-you who'll wake up tomorrow with this awful incident engraved in her memory.

Why can't he say something? Essentially, it's his fault. It's always his fault. He makes you feel things you shouldn't and make you do things you wouldn't. You can't think properly. You're being fucking chaotic and he's responsible for that. Even you know it's reaching. You're not that petty and mean.

In a whisper, dipped in sincerity and shame, you apologize. "Sorry, Jungkook."

"For what?" Because he can't let you off the hook that easily, can he?

"Are you seriously going to make me say it? You know why!" Here comes angry-you again. Getting mad and rude for no rational reasons, and here, awfully unfairly. He really deserves better.

"No, I-" You may have broken him. Jungkook has never been the most eloquent person. Between lisping and stuttering and stopping mid-sentence to let you complete for him his missing words, he's never been the best at talking. But even for him, even knowing his history, you find him pretty affected. Possibly all messed up. There's not even the hint of sensible thought. A void filled with "uh" and "tsk" and lips smacking and hums, it's like he's ceased to function. Maybe if you just hang up and from then on, just pretend it's never happened, both of you can get away with the situation. It's an option.

"Jungkook, seriously, I'm sorry. Let's say it was a fucking, uh, drunk lapse of judgment on my part and- yeah, never mention it again."

"Yeah, okay." He whispers after a while. He sounds really shaken up. "But it's fine, I'm not mad, I'm just-"

"Bamboozled?" You suggest, heart constricted, not ready to joke yet but so desperate to obtain at least a smile from him to prove yourself that it's okay and you didn't fuck it up too bad.

"Bamboozled, indeed." He chuckles, a bit breathless on the phone. You can't help the big sigh that escapes you when relief rushes through you. He doesn't sound too upset with you. "I'm really not mad, I just wouldn't have- I wouldn't have expected this, from you."

Of course not. It makes you cringe. You bury your face in your pillow and release the most intense quiet cry you could manage.

"Sorry." You say again, quiet. Your eyes are prickly. This night is such a mess. You can't make out how you're feeling. It's like your reactions and your reflections all come to their own rhythm, inappropriately, unmatching each other's and certainly unmatching the current situation.

"Stop. And don't-" If you're decomposing yourself progressively, at least, he seems to be getting back to his senses. Voice clearer and more present. "You sound so upset now. Are you embarrassed?" It's a smile you hear in his words. You don't have the right to be mad at him but honestly, you would have hit him in the ribs if he were in front of you.

"Is it even necessary to ask?" You grumble face half suffocating still in the pillow. Oh, here's another solution. Suffocating yourself to death.

"I think so. I mean I bought them and I turned it on for you, I should have- I couldn't have known but I should have. It's fine honestly."

"It's not."

Stop pretending, you fucking liar. Even if he acts quite calm, nonchalant, you can hear a very slight difference to his usual tone. He's not sincerely, honestly, a hundred per cent okay and chill with the situation. He's faking casualness but he's not entirely it.

"It is."

"It's not. I'm just gonna die, Jeon." That makes him laugh even though you're only half-joking. You don't know if it's possible to die from embarrassment. One thing is for sure, if it's possible, you won't survive the night.

"No, you're not, baby. It's fine." Jeon Jungkook is the sweetest, needless to say. You should hang up. Apologize again, hang up and pray for him to forgive you and eventually forget all about it. But you remain on the phone because you're so desperate for his approbation and his love and any sign of reassurance from him. And he's giving it to you. When he could probably have a little rest of his own. If it's awkward for you, you can't even imagine for him. But he accepts to stay and reassures you. What a cutie. "Did you cum?"

You choke on your own saliva. More than taken aback, actually shocked. How dares he?

Or can you say that? Can you act offended when you've just done what you did? In any case, how are you even supposed to answer that question?

"You- It's just that I turned it off and we- I was just wondering if you did..." That sounds about right. That sounds like Jungkook being curious and wording this curiosity without necessarily anticipating how you'd take it. It must be part of his plan, his 'let's be the closest, let's share everything' plan he mentioned a few months back. You're not ready, won't ever be if that's what it'll look like.

You are the problem. Apparently, you can get yourself off when the poor boy is on the phone with you unbeknownst, but you still have a hard time talking about sex with him. "...because it sounds awful if you did not."

And it is. It is horrible. You'd imagine that after getting caught, feeling so embarrassed and guilty, your cunt wouldn't still be quivering and begging for you to pay attention to it again. But you've taken it so far. Made it discover new incredible sensations of course it'd still be obsessed with it and with the climax the toy teased it with.

You groan in your pillow again. Not sure how he'll interpret it. Not sure how you want him to interpret it. Should you just talk to him? He could hang up too. If really he didn't want to partake in this mess he could hang up, he could talk about anything else.

"Listen, you don't ever have to be embarrassed with me, you know that." That's reaching. You want to tell him that he can't ever say that to someone, he can't ever become anyone's mat to wipe their dirty shoes on. He should be the one feeling awkward, being mad at you, except he reassures you again. "And when you just proceed on getting yourself off while I was talking- worrying about your fucking health..." He snorts before he can finish. "How dare you act coy with me!" He's just laughing too hard now, contributing wholeheartedly to the burning flush on your cheeks. Well, you deserved it.

"Is that it? You're going to bring this up each time you'd want something from me?" You sound so upset, even to your own ears. It results in his laughter dying down pretty quickly.

"I think so, yeah." You don't add anything. You don't want to be rude. Still hope for any kind of magic word you don't even know that he could mutter to you and that'll help cure your heart and soul. Therefore you can't tell him goodbye and hang up. You wait for him to do it. Except he doesn't. It's late as fuck too. He might be working later today. Why isn't he hanging up? "If I'm talking about it, you should know that it's fine. I don't mind." An asshole and a cutie. "You okay, babe?"

The simple hum you tried to aim for turns into half of a whimper half of a moan. You're not okay. Any part of your being won't let you lie and pretend.

"Do you want me to turn it on?" For fuck's sake. "I'll hang up and leave it on so you just- it'll turn itself off when there's no battery left anyway."

"Jungkook." Your stern voice is a threat. It doesn't have to be further explained, he gets it.

"What?" He sounds aggravated. You can imagine him raising his hands to the skies, upset and losing patience as he's only trying to make it better for you and oh women are so complicated. Something like that. "Oh my God. Just get yourself off and feel better after."

"You don't tell me what to do." Childish but there's not much left of your brain. "Well, you don't even fucking know what to do with yourself right now. Am I right or am I right?" He whisper-yells back at you. Very mean.

"Asshole." It's a tiny whisper under your breath but you're certain he hears it even if he completely ignores it.

"Listen, since you can't even- how old are you, seriously?"

"Fuck you." Barely louder. You definitely know he's heard this time, but still, he decides to dismiss it. He's always been more productive than you.

"I'll turn it on and hang up. You take care of yourself like a big girl, alright?" He probably believes that you can't get yourself to ask for what you want aka a wild night with the fucking toy you can't get to work yourself. But it's not actually the case. Honestly. Now all you can think about -besides the whole very humiliating moment when he caught you in the act- is the way it kept torturing you, bringing you very high but never enough. It started to hurt at the end, brought impatient frustrated tears to your eyes. You don't even think you could finish with it.

Maybe it's inappropriate to seriously consider it. Maybe you won't ever learn your lesson.

Before you even get to word your refusal, the thing is on. It's on the same devilish setting as earlier. The merciless wave. Fuck.

"Don't! It's not- it won't even make me cum, stop it!"

"What? Why not?"

"I don't know the setting is weird." You start explaining through the thicker pout to have ever existed. You're really considering having him solve your climax. You've gone crazy.

"What's wrong with it? Tell me, I'll put on one you like."

Fuck.

You are doomed.

What are you supposed to do with a guy like this?

"I don't think there is." You can hear the frustration from his end before he even says a word. It's written in the stars that in a second he's going to bring it all up, the part when you got off and pester that you can't still be complaining about the fucking toy. "No, I mean it's- the one I liked, the last one you clicked on, it's like-" Fuck, you're really doing this. "A wave. You know? It grows crescendo but it always stops right before- right when it's really good. And I just couldn't- because the good part doesn't last long enough and, yeah."

"Wait, let me look." He sounds a bit further away from you then. He's logged back into the app, you can tell. And with his tiny "hm" and his "so...", he sounds the way he does when your computer is being difficult and he's trying to fix it because you won't pay a professional to do it when you have this nerd populating your entourage. "Ah. You want the high moment to last longer?" "Yes." You can picture him nod to himself, frowning his eyebrows and sucking his lips in the way he does when he's super focused.

"Like that?" You wouldn't know because the toy is lost somewhere, you can hear it but not see it. You ask him to wait for a second and it stops altogether. Doesn't make it easier to find it but it wasn't lost that far. Once you have it in your hand, you gulp, ashamed, not sure if you could ever play with this thing again. But the other guy on the phone doesn't seem to have his motivation falters. You're not the one telling him to try again, on his own, he executes.

It's hard to tell in your hand, the vibrating ears hugged tightly in your palm, if it's going to be satisfactory enough. If it's precisely the thing that was missing from earlier. It follows the pattern you asked him though. Still to a growing intense high that lasts for approximately a good ten seconds rather than the lame 2 seconds from earlier.

"I think so..."

"Okay then. You... mute yourself and then- Uh, no. I should mute myself so- or we both mute ourselves?" He's not really with you anymore. Lost in his own head amongst those seemingly very difficult questions. You don't even get where he's trying to get at. Wasn't he supposed to hang up?

"Why would you stay?"

"It's just- it's me doing it. There's no setting for what you want, it's me doing it. I have to draw the frequency on my phone."

"There's an option for that?"

"Yes. There's even one to have it follow audio!" He points out with way too much enthusiasm. He might have really found a new passion.

"Sounds like high tech."

"Yep."

"Sounds expensive as hell."

He laughs in the mic, snorts even before he brushes it off. Quite frankly, no matter what you'd have to say to him, he'd always do as he wishes. If spending ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculous things for ridiculous you is what he wants to do, he won't let anyone, not even you, tell him not to.

You don't know what to say, he's not saying anything either. He suggested something quite insane: he'd stay. While his finger would be drawing shapes on his screen to actively give you your pleasure, he'd stay on the phone with you. Maybe it's a bit hypocritical or ironical, how it sounds crazy to you now while ten minutes ago, you had no problem doing it without him knowing. That's probably the main issue here, him knowing. That changes everything.

"But if you stay-"

"We can't both mute ourselves because I won't hear if you ask me to change something or- so you, you just stay like that and I'll mute myself."

"Jungkook, you muting yourself won't change my awareness of you being here."

"But maybe you'll forget about it?"

"Jungkook."

"What?" He sounds contrite then. Like an upset child who's being argued with. He's trying so hard but you make it so difficult, it seems.

There's just one thing holding you back. Until now you couldn't quite pinpoint it. And it's hard to resolve an issue you can't name.

But it just hit you. His way of insisting while making it seem like he does it for you only, to help you out and doesn't necessarily find his part in the cake.

"Do you want to?"

"Uh?"

"You sound like- I don't know what you sound like. You're confusing. If you're just trying to give me a hand and solely that then hang up and I'll just- whatever."

"Oh."

"Of course, it makes no sense for you to do this for me and stay if you don't want to, I mean." He takes forever to answer. For a second, you even peek at your screen wondering if he didn't simply quit the conversation.

It's really all you need to know. If somehow, to some extent, he wants you or at least, wants to partake in this genuinely. You don't want it if it's just a bro hand. You can hardly live with what you've done if he's utterly uninterested. But if he does want it, even a little bit, you might be wrong but you feel like everything would turn out to be fine.

"It's not that hard of a question." You try again because it almost feels like he's forgotten you from how long he's remained silent. He had put you on the spot, in this very conversation too, so many times, you have the right to do the same to him, at least once. "Do you want to stay?"

He cracks up. It's the very hard kind of laughter. With the boyish chuckles, mixed with the squeaky intakes of air. The one that always brings a smile to your face and usually drags you along the fit.

You have no idea what it means right now. It's probably the least appropriate time for it to show up. Therefore instead of making you smile it only reinforces the headache slowly growing at your temple.

"Aah." He starts by exhaling longly. You can hear the grin fixed on his face. "Yes." Your heart trips in your rib cage. You should have guessed it but you couldn't have imagined this answer. And him laughing to tears like a fucking deranged infant doesn't help. "Shit, sorry." He apologized when the remnant of what sounds definitely like a giggle resonates in through the phone.

"What's so funny, Guk?" Your words don't match your tone. You're high under pressure, unsure of what's actually going on. Jungkook is not cruel, you've known him long enough to know that he wouldn't deliberately hurt you, wouldn't mess with you so bad, for so long, even for a great laugh. Still, you can't be convinced that he's sincere. Seriously, how could you? The dude won't stop fucking laughing.

"Nothing, I'm just- I didn't realize until you asked me the question that I wanted to." Oh. "I'm an idiot."

"Welp." Could have told you sooner but I thought you knew.

"Mean. And, uh," It sounds like he's tossing and turning in bed again. You bet he's just gotten the exact same position as before. He's like those cats that turn around in circles again and again until they settle for the initial spot. When he starts talking again, his voice is hardly a whisper, you assume he's holding the mic very close to his mouth. "I should ask you too. Do you want to?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want it, moron." Patience has run thin. Now that you're reassured you don't have to be ashamed and embarrassed anymore, you can simply be annoyed as you get with him.

Honestly, you're still feeling abashed but he doesn't need to know that.

"Quit being mean. It's not my fault I'm slow." He says, faking deep pity and it does make you snort. "Okay, well..."

"Well, indeed."

"You're making this awkward!" You roll your eyes. Feels like you can sort this out. If you do take out the very blatant, scorching awkwardness, it's a very regular interaction between you. Sounds like any other day except in a second he's going to press a finger to his phone in hopes to make you cum.

"Your whole existence is awkward."

"Shut up. Let's just fucking start." He groans as if you're the one belating the initial step –you are but so is he.

"I don't have the fucking remote." He tells you to shut up again, and this time, when you hear him hum to himself when he's opening the app, there's a recognizable brushing noise falling directly in your ear.

"You put your earbuds on."

He doesn't answer but you're sure he's registered the question.

Fine.

If he doesn't want to give you an answer you'll just make up your own. Don't you put earbuds on to hear better? Just saying.

"Put the thing on."

"Oh my God, Jungkook-" You take back your own admission. He's the one, solely, all alone, making it painfully awkward. Sounding like a newly pubescent teen trying to initiate sex. "Could you be any smoother?"

"But-" He sighs. "Do you want me to?" How do you ask your best friend you've may have been in love with for officially a couple of months to please act like an ideal lover even if it's just very short-termed? He sounds willing. But asking is the most difficult part. "I can be- or do whatever you want, I just don't know-"

"I like it when you call me baby." Your whole face is scrunched up in a perfect picture of your intense embarrassment. Formalities need to get fucking out of the way and it's precisely what you've just tried to do. But holy shit, it's painfully embarrassing.

"Oh. Do you now?"

Here comes the smirk. Can't see it. Can hear it clearly. It's pretty much louder than his words even.

You want to tell him to forget it all. That it's not going to work if each fucking second he makes you feel like he's going to be using whatever you say or whatever you do against you later on. You decide to demonstrate exemplary patience, reminding yourself that he's not cruel. Admittedly.

Perhaps you're the idiot and it's all your fault. Because you've just admitted (without him even asking) that you like (and into these circumstances, that it turns you on) to have him call you baby. Thing that he does already every time he starts coddling you.

"Okay then." He startles you, clearing his throat. You wonder if he's as anxious as you are, or at least, a tiny bit nervous. For the most part, he doesn't seem like it. Then again, he's quite good at pretending.

It shows soon after when he starts again, this time with the gentle, soft voice he hardly ever uses with you. There's a tiny newcomer, a certain edge that gives it some firmness and that enchants you. That's exactly what you wanted him to be. "Put it on, babe."

You nod wordlessly, omitting that he can't see you and do as told. Slipping the toy under the waistband of your panties, guiding the ears aside your clit. There's a very faint buzzing coming from them. You barely feel it and you suppose it's just there to have you accommodate better.

"Are you still dressed?"

"It's just my panties and a big shirt." Your shirt you'd add if you had a bit more courage. You hope he's going to let you keep it.

"Take your panties off." The part of you who's his best friend wants to nag, tell him that maybe he should have asked that before demanding you place the toy on your cunt but you feel generous and merciful, and also desperate and tired of your orgasm being stalled for so long. "Are they soaked from earlier?" Okay, this shit's going to be hard. There's no coming back. Strangely, it's just now that it's really hitting you. Even if it's going well, there is no way, you'll ever forget his velvety smooth whisper saying those words. There's no way you're helpless cunt ever forgets.

They are, by the way. You don't even get how you've been able to keep them on and ignore the uncomfortable stickiness for this long. Just sliding them along your thighs feels disagreeable.

"Y/N." Sounds like you're getting scolded. And even if you particularly like the way he just said your name, with that same peculiar edge from earlier, a little sharper then, how are you supposed to answer that? "What did you say earlier? That it can't only be for you, is that right?"

"Yes." You admit sheepishly because now you're definitely getting scolded. It brings flush on your only newly temperate cheeks and you don't even hate it.

"Then I'll give you everything, I told you I would but I'll need you to give me some back. Can you do that?" He sounds so strict, how can you like it so much? You can literally feel the electricity along your spine, sliding down to go faint in the hot mess between your thighs and that's ridiculous. You hate being talked to that way, usually, probably because it's never him doing it. Jeon Jungkook might be your ultimate kink. And somehow, he figured it all out. That whatever he'd do would fit you perfectly well. Also, he might be turning like that because undeniably, you're a brat. "Can you?" He insists again because whilst you've been busy trying not to hyperventilate, he's been waiting for one answer.

"Yes. Yes, I can. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's fine." You should want to bite him. Why insist so much if it's to end up leaving you off the hook so easily? You know though, for a fact, awfully bothersome to your ego, that if he were in front of you presently, you'd give him puppy eyes and batting lashes, sad pouty lips and probably tend your neck to invite him to gently pat your hair. "Tell me, are your panties soaked?" "I think I ruined them..."

"You did, didn't you?" He's laughing a bit, kind of full of himself for some reasons. Maybe he knows that it's mainly his fault they ended up this way. Maybe he knows they are not the only pair fallen victim to simply the thought of him. "Was it worth it?"

"You're taking care of me so I'd say yes." A chortle. A purr that you interpret into something you like a lot. It sounds like he's taken your response for exactly what you wished him to. A tease. He makes your belly churns and twists, turns your nerves from your heart to your noggins haywire. The least he can allow you to do, the least you'd like to do, is for him to be affected by you.

It starts with a gentle buzzing. It's nothing much. Nothing at all, you'd say if you'd let your greediness and impatience talk. There's something else doing it for you, for now. Jungkook's breath, sort of heavy, slow, rocking you with warmth. Knowing he's here and here to please you; you're laid in bed, naked from the waist down, wet and about to make it all better thanks to him; the picture itself makes it all for you.

"How is it?" Jungkook asks after some time. It's been silent. You haven't said much, in fact, you haven't said anything yet. Not that ready to demand more, and not feeling enough for moans or whimpers or whatever to be stolen from you.

"Boring." You admit. "S'not what you were supposed to give me." Through a thick pout, you deplore.

It doesn't work. He doesn't care. He doesn't fucking care when he's playing exactly the role you've implicitly asked him to play. "Have you said please, even once?" You hate that he's virtually pinning you down with exactly what turns you on.

"I- Probably." You haven't said much. You haven't been so explicit, so telling simply because you couldn't, but surely, you said please. Didn't you?

"Not probably. You did not. And on top of that, you're complaining." He's figured out exactly what you wanted, what you needed. Therefore, as naturally as it came for him, you fit it your own role easily.

"I'm not complaining. I was just- pointing it out. Sorry."

"You can apologize a lot but you can't even say please. Not once." Well, fuck. You never thought that he could be mean. Awfully mean. You wished, when you let your mind wander there one too many time, a bit too deep, that he'd be like that. Sweet and soft and tender the way he is, always, but also, bad, kind of harsh. "Ask kindly, once."

"Jungkook-"

"I'll give you everything you want. Just once."

"Please, Jungkook." You know he's satisfied with what you offer him because you don't have to wait another second for him to give you precisely what you were waiting for. It's timid, follows the crescendo built you were looking for except it's not intense. It's the first step however it's incredibly effective. It feels as good as the first time. "Plea-please." Manifestly, it is the secret word, the passcode to your pleasure because the intensity you're craving for finally reaches you. It does in an electrifying peak, that lasts long, just like you asked, it's so good, the feeling so perfectly indulgent to your needs, maybe even too much, you squirm, part the little ears from your clit, hissing. "Shit, Jungkook!"

"Too much, baby?" The hypocrite, with his concerned tone, doesn't even take a break from activating the vibration, from keeping on building the intensiveness. You can tell it's he too, him really doing it live, as in it's not absolutely regular, the built sometimes takes longer, sometimes the volume stronger, other times weaker. It's undeniable, every minute of it feels different from the next, you can't even omit for a second that it's him doing it. And he's doing it so well.

"Per- fect, just- sensitive." You moan out. Back arching, right leg twitching. The next brush is particularly nice, goes so far you believe you might come on the spot. Now you definitely can't hold back even if you wanted to. The sounds that come out of your mouth, foreign to your own ears, are not even yours. They come straight from your body, straight from an excess of pleasure you try to deal with, to handle, when you clearly can't. You're alone, and it's you ultimately controlling the power on your own body, you can pull out, even slightly, every time it comes hard and strong and you ought to twitch uncomfortably. You wonder how it'd be if he were here with you. If he forgot just for a while that you were his best friend, the girl who used to be older and taller and has turned, with the years, into this tiny little thing because he just kept on growing and growing, sprouting like a fucking redwood, and now feels like he needs to protect and care for you. If he were there, and he could forget that, you bet, his present voice, heated, scorching, is telling you this, that probably, he'd hold you down, crush your body with his, hand pressing your thighs down and apart, and force you to take the pleasure in its entirety. You imagine him merciless, slipping sweet words in your ear, while he'd have you literally scream from overstimulation.

And then his voice, the perfectly alluring thing, concludes to let you know it won't happen like that. His voice will make you come.

"You sound so good." Especially, if he keeps saying shit like that, with this tone, soft yet strong and highly, terribly affected. He's breathing hot and heavy in your ears. Is he touching himself?

"Please, Jungkook." You implore, vainly, hips slowly grinding against the toy, pressed by your palm on your sensitive centre.

"Especially begging, 'sound so, so good." He's not touching himself. He sounds bothered, but not enough, he doesn't stutter like you do, his voice doesn't jump and dip, stops momentarily like yours does. Shit, you wished he would play with his cock. Fuck, you want to play with his cock. So fucking bad.

"Y-you like it?" You ask, not because you're curious to know, he's said it already, but because you won't ever get tired of hearing him say it, in all those different ways.

"I do, baby. I love hearing you." You can't help the curse that leaves your lips a bit harsh. You're so close. So so close. Eyes filled up to the brim, tip of your nose wet. How many times have you thought, already, that you were seriously going to fall over? "You gonna cum?"

"I can't-" You sob, whine. There's a tear spilling from your right eye. "It's too much." So attentive to your every word, the intensity drops drastically. It still buzzes, discreet, way more tolerable. Ironically, if you can now bear it, you know it's not enough to lead you to your climax either. "Help me, make me cum, Guk."

"Use your fingers." He's been nice, essentially, you can only be good to him. Without even having to think about it, you dip your fingers in the mess that is your cunt. Two fingers slip in between your lips too easily, you could add a third if only there wasn't the bunny taking a bit too much room, and your fingers were longer, and your hips not so twitchy. If Jungkook was here, if only he was here, he'd fit his two fingers and it'd be enough. You bet it'd be enough. You bet his pretty, long, tattooed fingers would stretch you so well and make you come in a heartbeat. "Fuck yourself with them."

It's so gratifying. Having him humming in your ear encouragements and compliments. He's sweet, sweet, sweet. Excellent with his voice. Fuck, he must be unreal with his fingers, with his mouth, with his fat cock.

Diligently, you drag your fingers in and out, it's only mildly agreeable when you're sopping wet, almost gaping. Until he draws on his phone the same magnificent pattern from before.

You wish it'd last longer. It's precisely what you needed, the ideal combination. Along with his words.

You know if you come he'd have to stop. He'll stop calling you baby, stop saying how sexy you are, use all those nasty words he never does and talking like that, with this voice, with this heat in his tone. It's a bothering thought at the back of your mind you have to actively push away.

There's nothing you can do when harshly, yet with a please, he demands you to cum.

You can feel your cunt, wide open from both your spread legs and the excitation, getting wet, growing soaked. You can actually feel it as it happens before you explode. Clenching violently around your fingers, spilling all over them, you might squeak and scream and moan his name continuously, you barely hear yourself through your ringing ears.

"Fuck, Jungkook..." You sigh. Laying there, boneless, hand dripping up to your wrist. He's chuckling. "Fuck."

"Feeling better?" You hmm in response. Words sound like too much effort right now. Your brain is working slow. Extremely slowly. There's a multitude of thoughts forming though, germinating from a strange ground.

One, in particular, does, enlarging ridiculously much next to the others. You could enjoy this luck. You could just bathe in the lovely, perfect haze. Accept that the sky is perfectly blue without a cloud, with even a rainbow somewhere. Maybe a double rainbow even.

There's a very, very dark, very, very large cloud invading your perfect sky though. And because tears, of another kind, have already located your eyes, the new ones fit in, mixing up with them and taking over them with utter ease. What the fuck have you done?

"Jungkook, I'm so sorry-" You start with a tremble in the voice. There's a fat lump in your throat.

"Why? What's going on, baby?" He's sweet as honey, back to his usual self, worried, and you're horrible.

"Your- I didn't even think about her and-" There's a sob bubbling out of your mouth. "It's not me. I didn't mean to-"

"What are you talking about?"

"Jiyeun." The taste in your mouth when you say her name, is unbearable. You know full fucking well you shouldn't say her name. You shouldn't be allowed to. How dare you. Spoil it when you spent way too long virtually getting in this guy's, who's someone else's boyfriend, pants.

"Dumbass." It makes you choke on your own sobs. "It's over. With her, I mean. We broke up." Ah. You want to ask a billion questions. Starting with "again?". Soon followed up by a "why didn't you say anything, dickhead?". You spent the whole fucking night, getting shit faced and spiritually crying in the club over a couple that does not even exist anymore. Then you'd ask for how long they are planning to be over. "For good, this time." You're barely drying up your fat crocodile tears when he calls you an idiot again, says something about how he's not that kind of guy and you should know it.

Feels better. The thunderstorm is gone.

Alcohol and horniness and hardcore loving are such a terrible combo you need to avoid.

"Cuddles." Tiredly, half-dead, but still alive enough to be greedy, to feel sensible, skinned and want him to give you more. "Come cuddle." He's late to answer, delays it as if you don't desperately need his response.

It's terribly quiet and still. The dark of the night seems even more sombre. He can fix everything if only he'd give you the answer you desire.

"You sure?"

"Always." You say, maybe too honest. He doesn't seem to mind, agrees with a snort.

"Alright."

He appears in front of you in the blink of an eye. Literally. That blink does last longer than usual. The orgasm may have crushed you. You close your eyes and when you open them back up, he's here. Standing in the doorframe of your bedroom, dressed in all black and oversized, as usual. You look up, eyes squinted, bothered by the light coming from the hallway. He's staring. Gaze brushing, from your head to your toes, seemingly slowing down when they reach your naked thighs.

"What?" You mumble, embarrassed, one hand sliding down just to make sure the hem of the shirt is covering your crotch. You didn't even put your panties back on. You may or may not have wiped yourself clean enough with the wet wipes wisely sitting on your bedside table -you thought about it really hard but you can’t remember if you actually did it.

"You never mentioned it was my t-shirt you were wearing." You shrug. You'd have a better come back if you weren't so tired and if it wasn't simply true. "Would have been nice to know." He says, kneeling down next to your bed. The latter is low, mattress barely raised from the ground and even when he's crouching down, he's hovering above you, looking down on you. "Easier to picture." He adds quieter the closest he comes to you. It's enough words to know who he is at the moment. In what form, what version of your Jeon Jungkook, has come to visit. It's the gentle one. The one whose voice doesn't raise, doesn't feel as animated as his usual one when he spends his time being a clown to make everyone laughs. The one that made you fall, the first time. Not exactly the one you had on the phone with you earlier and even if you like him, if you adore him in fact, you feel sort of uneasy, worried. He might be gone forever, this one.

Unless it is him. His hands reach forward, large and warm, they lie on your thighs. The fingers brush up a bit, to the hem of his shirt, and they stop there. He looks up from them, straight in your eyes, smiles, digs the tips in the meat of your thighs before he lifts you up, aiming for the border of your bed.

God. You hope it'll happen again. But differently. More in-depth. He'd be less dressed, he would manhandle you, before he'd do some unnamable things to you. But another day. One when you're not almost dead. When you feel hornier and less soft and desperate for direct comfort to your swollen heart. It could be tomorrow when you wake up. If he's up for it. Please God, make it so he's up for it.

Jungkook hops on the bed behind you, huffs comfortably, holding your cover by a corner to bring it up and over the two of you. He fits behind you too naturally for it to be the first time. He doesn't seem to mind that you're so underdressed, compared to the other times, that you still have some remnant of your orgasm on you, that it's different. His arm sliding around you, holding a bit too tight, pressing you a tiny bit too hard, you're still hot from earlier. It's perfect though. You don't want him to move an inch and you hope, the hand that's wrapped on his forearm, makes him understand.

"M'not too clingy?" His own cheek pressed hard to your own, he asks, which is weird. How could he still wonder? He's never ever been too clingy. Even when you were kids and he followed you around before even asking if he could, he wasn't too clingy. The closest, the better. You deny with a uh-uh. He calls out for your name when you're fighting to keep your eyelids open. It's the most comfortable, the warmest you've ever felt. Like a cocoon of pure love and adoration. On top of it, there's his hard arms around you, his hard thigh pushing against yours, his crotch -with the feel of his member, slightly stiff- glued to your butt, and his chest, as hard as the rest, holding your back up like a strong wall. "I promise I didn't plan the whole toys thingy for that."

"For what?" Sleepily, you wonder, actually confused from exhaustion. To cuddle with you? Like you haven't in so, so long. Why would he try to apologize for it? "To use them with you."

"What a shame." You don't think he can understand. Diction is not something you care for at the moment. The hard laugh bubbling in his chest, rumbling, shaking your whole, lets you know he did, in fact, get it.

"You're so-" He starts but the thought dies way too soon for you to even try and complete it yourself. "I'll have a billion questions for you tomorrow."

"No." You whine. Because he's fucking up everything. If he believes you'll say it all to him, there's no way you can. There's no way you will. He chuckles.

Doesn't seem to be taking you seriously.

"Yes. And you'll answer every single one of them." He gives a sweet but pressing kiss to your neck.

"No."

"I adore you." Fucking hell. "I broke up with Jiyeun because I adore you too much. I realized I want to spend all my time and energy on my best friend." You don't even know what he means. You can't even hold your eyelids open now, you can't even keep your hand on his arm, it being too heavy and sleep having taken over most of your body.

You bet he's saying that just because he's guessed it. He's figured you all out and the asshole doesn't mind playing with your soft heart. He knows he'll get anything from you if he's this good. Hopefully, tomorrow, he'll have forgotten about his little interrogation because you're not sure you'll be able to lie. For now, he's holding you way too close for you to care. Whatever. May it last forever, this feeling.

A/N: DON’T HATE ME OKAY?! i know i have an issue with angst and endings, for some reasons, i don’t want to hurt my characters but i can’t get myself to write an actual fully happy, non-ambiguous conclusion, and i’m really sorry for it lmao.

i sincerely hope you enjoyed the last part of The Wishlist! Thank you immensely for anyone who’s followed along, please let me know your thoughts, i really really want to know :)

for now, i’m sending you lots of love and kisses, take good care of yourself and others, see ya very very soon :]

tag list: @safi4x​ @kai-kai-bookshelf​ @somewhereinthestarss​ @hsinmyheart​ @moonchild1​ @monvieesdaebak @pasteljoonie​ @fangirls94​ @jinsalpaca​ @ggukkieland​

[florencwrites]

aphrodite 〚technoblade〛

in which his love finally returns to him, the voices trailing not far behind

(!) voices, mentions of trauma (!)

His mind was running a thousand miles an hour, heart in his throat. He knew very well that he was one of, if not the, most skilled warriors of the realm, however anytime an unexpected guest found their way to his chalet, he couldn't help but worry. Worry for not only his own but Phil's safety, too.

He moved stealthily, a thing he'd always been skilled in, stepping on just the right planks in his home. Letting his eyes roam over the surrounding lands through every window. A single pair of footsteps could be detected in the relatively fresh blanket of snow. It wasn't a straight line at first, it started right by the treeline. Phil was still sound asleep, the sun had barely peeked over the horizon after all.

They've found you.

Not a single noise could be perceived from anyone hiding outside, he was sure of it. He made sure of it. The path ran all the way to the walls of his base, despite that, his front steps were clear of any marks. He held his axe surely by his side, realizing that this might not be just any morning for him, after all.

With careful precision, he pushed his door open while immediately double-checking for any marks on the balustrade. None. They weren't in his house, he was sure there was no other way to enter. He'd learned that the hard way when he came back from one of his little adventures, one day.

They're here.

He remembered it quite vividly, the sweat that ran over his forehead, trailing from his eyebrows to his cheekbones before running down his neck. The blood spatter that had physically and mentally blurred his vision, the way he couldn't get a word in through his own running mind. He had just finished reinforcing his doors, there was no way anyone could've gotten in; how could they if he wasn't even capable of doing it himself?

He'd frozen his ass off that night, having no choice but sleep with his trusty steed in the muddy hay. Thankfully, Phil was supposed to arrive back at the cottage right before dawn, the savior of his own demise, many a time. He'd pulled him from the literal horse feces and dragged him to the stream just a while north, quickly rinsing him before hoisting him back into bed. Phil was nothing short of a father to Techno, he was sure they were meant to be. Phil was everything Techno had always wanted to be, brave, kind, caring, and vicious. Unpredictable, underestimated.

You'll never be half the man he is.

The fresh snow crinkled beneath his sturdy boots, his eyes were wary of any and all movements. Rabbits in the distance, a moaning undead somewhere beneath his feet. The clacking of hooves, restless whinnies. He pressed his back against the freezing concrete of his home, ducking a little before daring to peek around the corner. His eyes hovered over the stable, immediately taking notice of Carl's agitated sighs and disturbed snorts. The prints led right to the gate.

A very faint shush whispered itself out of Techno's mouth, barely loud enough for the horse to hear, nonetheless, it calmed him instantly. He crouched down right behind the shed, letting his fingers trace over the prints that lead into the stall. He delicately hovered over them, inspecting the trail that seemed to run through the footprints. A cape of some sorts, perhaps a dress, had been dragged through the snow. The prints themselves weren't made by any warrior boots, either. They seemed to have been any regular riding ones, leather, most likely. They hadn't been imprinted into the snow deep enough to belong to anyone of normal weight, nor anyone wearing armor. Not even iron armor would be able to lead to these featherlight touches in the frost.

You will die today.

His ears perked at the sound of soft snores coming from right behind the planked wall, rustling of hay, too. His senses were on high alert, his hog-like nose easily discerning the stench of lavender from horse dung at this distance. God, he needed to clean that fucking stable again soon. Perfume, they were wearing perfume. Nobody wore perfume around these parts, any parts really, except for.. L'Manburg.

Slowly, he rose to his feet again, making the tiniest of steps to the entrance of the stable. A deep, silent, breath. His eyes squinted at the sight before him. Right next to the watering trough, that desperately needed a refill, was a small body. Completely cocooned in what seemed like a brown cloak of some sort. Little tufts of hair stood from where their head was situated against the wooden structure. "Erm."

Just kill them.

"Hello?" His voice was still rough with sleep, way raspier than usual. He hid his snout into the seam of his cape a little, not immediately wanting to give away his person to whatever stranger decided to drop anchor in his stable. The body stirred a little at his comment, now revealing an icy hand from underneath the hem of the cloak. A dull undertone to the skin made him realize just how hypothermic they must've been, being out in the cold for God knows how long. he slurred his vowels a little as he tried again, "Hello."

This time the body turned around hastily, complete terror resting on their features. The cloak was still tightly wrapped around their torso, brown riding boots barely peeking from underneath it. A woman. A horrified woman. "Please don't hurt me."

Kill them.

"Give me one good reason why not to." He sternly spoke, not meaning a word he meant. He truly, utterly felt for her, no foe would choose to sleep in a goddamn stable when he was sleeping just two floors up, comfortably surrounded in feathered comforters, shielding him from any harm.

"I won't hurt you." She assured him hastily. He couldn't help but let out a chuckle at her vow, immediately reiterating in a tiny, meek voice, "You promise?"

"You're mocking me." Her voice wasn't any stronger at this point, he could even follow the line of a slight tremble in it as she spoke.

He crossed his arms over his torso, kicking the gate open with his foot. "C'mon." He mumbled, barely resisting the urge to dramatically roll his eyes. No movement from the stable, though, except for Carl's nervous trampling. "If I was going to slice your throat I'd have done it already."

A soft mutter rang from behind him as he made his way up the stairs to his home. "Fair point."

You can trust no one.

He held the door as she stumbled her way into the house, "Why didn't you call for me?"

She stumbled over the uneven planks in his home, quickly being caught by two large hands on her shoulders. He steadied her, meeting her eyes. His demeanor was soft, gentle. "I didn't- don't want to be a bother."

"You're always a bother." His hands still rested on her shoulders, he hesitated. He'd missed her so fucking much, all these weeks he'd been tucked away in the tundra, he'd longed for her warmth on his side. Were it her chest pressed to his back when they were riding through thick blizzards, or her ankles crossing over his when they slept. Her tiny hand in his when they ran from angry shopkeepers, he even missed her cold feet, pressed to his thighs in the middle of the night. Her eyes teared up a little, staring right back at him. He slid his arms around her neck, pulling her into a breathless hug. "You smell different."

"Do you like it better?" Her words were muffled against his chest, silently thanking God for his huge animalistic ears, he let out a croaky laugh. "Haven't decided yet."

❄  ❄  ❄

"She's safe here, Techno." Phil assured him as he hammered away at some sort of new contraction the older man had thought up. "She's safer with you than with them, you know that."

"Do I?" A harsh hit against the wood. "Do I know that, Phil?"

He was the worst-case scenario for her, he knew it. He was a goddamn war criminal, he shouldn't be taking in anyone, let alone her. She deserved a goddamn kingdom, a realm, but all he could offer her was a loosely woven bed in the attic. His bed, that is, but that didn't make it suck any less.

He'd sleep in the snow every single night if it meant she was safe inside. Right like she was right now, he'd pushed her up the ladder to his very own chamber, cladding her in his clothes and tucking her into bed. She hadn't been there for most of it, fast asleep in his arms as he hoisted her into the bed. He made sure to wake her before helping her change, "You've done it before." She softly muttered to him, eyes barely able to keep themselves alert.

He'd smiled down at his lap as he lifted some socks onto her freezing feet, "Just because it was okay then, doesn't mean it is now." He had gently taken her other foot, bringing the sock to almost halfway up her calf. Rather quickly, he exchanged the comforter for a pair of soft, almost corduroy-like trousers. She laid back into the pillow, letting her body fall limp as he handled her into a comfortable position. He crouched right by her head, tucking the blanket in so that she was completely encased in it.

"It's always okay for you." She sighed softly, her eyes closed with a whiff. She was gone, he knew it. He couldn't help but let his fingers carefully push a strand of hair from her face. "Get warm."

"Just because you can't trust yourself, doesn't mean we can't." Phil's mellow voice returned him back into reality, immediately cursing himself for drifting away in thought like that, losing his focus when they were both here. It wasn't just about him anymore, he needed to stay alert, keep them safe.

He huffed in annoyance at the man, secretly rolling his eyes as his back was turned towards him. "That's exactly what it-" Before he could fully finish his sentence, he heard a loud yelp come from behind him. He acted completely on instinct, already wielding his axe above his head, his other hand pressing a glowing, burgundy-colored potion to his lips before he could even truly process the sound. He hastily let his eyes shoot over the scenario, seeing no one near Phil. His eyes perked searching for any trace of the foe, his nose scrunching up; desperate to find a hint of despair in the slight tufts of wind that slid by his face.

"See." A smug expression plastered itself on the blonde's face, not even bothering to look up to meet Techno's eyes from where he was sat, replanting his crops. "She's got nothing to worry about."

Snap his neck.

And for the first time in a long while, he agreed with the voices that echoed through his head.

❄ ❄ ❄

"Morning." He tried his best to wake her as gently as he could, he even practiced it downstairs a few times, but his voice was too.. distinct. The croakiness of his words made her stir in the slightest, not enough, though. He placed his hand on her forearm as she continued her slumber, laying on her side with her arms somewhat crossed over her chest, burying her chin in the blanket. He couldn't help but let a faint smile crack through his normally hard facade as her tiny hand suddenly appeared from beneath the covers to rest itself on his own. "Princess."

A soft hum ran through her body, he could feel the tremble of it on her arm. "Just a little longer."

Nostalgia took over his body, something that had been happening quite often since she returned to him yesterday. Emotions he couldn't even distinguish ran rampant through his head, his veins filling with giddy youth. "Five minutes, that's it." He bit back a smile, taking his hand from hers, steadying himself to disappear down the latch again.

"C'mon, I know you're cold, too." She smiled, suddenly seeming a lot more alert than a few seconds ago. The corners of her lips tugged up almost unnoticeably, her eyes remaining screwed shut. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but she cut him off, "Don't argue, just lay down."

"Fine." He spat out with feigned agitated disinterest, meanwhile, his heart was bonking out of his chest. "Four minutes."

He moved to lay behind her in the tiny, extremely unstable, bed. She immediately went to share her blanket, making sure to cover him in her warmth. She laid on her side, still facing away from him, while he just rested on his back, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening, for him at least, he was convinced she'd already fallen back asleep. He laid intertwined his hands on his stomach, fiddling with the rings on his fingers to steady his unnecessary nerves. He could feel the bed shift from beside him, but he noticed only some of the most minuscule movements, right before he felt her warm hand take his, pulling his arm around her frame. He let it happen. She intertwined her fingers over her heart, keeping him to be her big. spoon. She knew very well that he hated being the smaller one, it made him feel inferior; useless. She shuffled in her place, desperate to feel his entire body flush against her, and he couldn't agree more. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, trying his best to let his soft inhale go unnoticed. God, he'd missed her. "One minute." She whispered softly into the darkened room, he could practically hear the stupid grin playing on her lips, barely resisting a snort at her. Complete silence engulfed them, only their beating hearts and shared breaths filling the room.

She opened her mouth to announce that it was time to get up, moving to free herself from his arms, assuming he had places to be. However, his gruffy voice quickly sounded from behind her. "Don't move."

"God, you've always been so easy to rile up-" He clamped his hand over her mouth, effectively shutting her up immediately. "Don't. Move."

She moved to playfully bite his hand, right as she heard it, the hammering downstairs had stopped for the first time in hours. Phil was adamant about not taking a break before he finished the entire thing, so something must've caught his attention. Techno held his breath, letting his eyes screw shut almost painfully so as he heard his friend's voice from the garden.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Dream."

You should kill them before he does.

And for the first time in forever, the words that ran through his mind scared him. Not because of their meaning, or their tone, no because he hadn't been bothered by them all day. Which was exactly when he realized that they had stopped the second he had safely tucked her into his bed.

When she was safe, so was he.

[weakzen]

Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:

Alex,

What happened to you - you didn’t deserve it. You can be loved, if you let yourself.

Happy Valentine’s Day

(yolo experimental style; alex/mason, early established relationship, angst and fluff; no direct mention of abuse, just oblique circling and fatalistic thoughts; rated m for mason; also on AO3~)

Even though I didn't finish reading it, even though I hid it from sight, imprisoned it in darkness, cast it to the depths of the bottom drawer until the end of shift, when it would be possible to smuggle the thing into the break room recycle bin without risking Tina's eyes or interrogation, that stupid fucking note has somehow still managed to reach up through all those heavy files and twist my stomach into knots.

For hours.

Plucking my nerves hard enough to make my hands fucking shake too. Typos in every report, backspace key pulling overtime without pay. Not helped by eyes that won't stop stinging. Armpits that haven't fully dried either, along with a weird chill, shivers that persist despite the sweater and the cranked-up thermostat.

At least the rose is gone. Snuck it into the arrangement on Tina's desk, the one I get her every year.

It looks better surrounded by friends.

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Can still smell it perfuming the air.)

And if I could get rid of my thoughts as easily, I would. Because after half a day of chasing them in circles, I still can't figure out who the fuck sent that goddamn note, who the fuck would write something like that—say shit like that, to me—who could possibly fucking think or know or say anything about that, or that I-I, that I—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckingfuck.

That sickly feeling wrenches again, hard enough to jerk me forward over the desk, face buried in my hands while my breathing shudders into something unsteady and vaguely gasping.

Fuck.

It can't be Tina.

It can't.

It should be, but it can't.

The writing's not loopy enough to be hers, and it's not slanted enough to be Verda's, and the damn thing isn't covered in nearly enough heart stickers to be from Felix. We all should know. Nate's been sighing nonstop for the past week, scraping them off every available surface in the Warehouse—except for the lacy pink one Felix managed to sneak right between Adam's shoulders.

And the glittery red one I pressed covertly to Mason's ass.

(Maybe not so covertly. Found a few hearts stuck to my underwear later when I slipped outta my jeans, and the secrets of how the fuck he pulled that off are still locked behind his smirk.)

A smile tries to pull at my lips, but the tightness in my gut warps it crooked.

Another shuddery breath.

It can't be from Adam either. If he had something to say to me, he'd just say it, preferably after he finished laying me out on the mats, all sweaty and sucking down air from another session of his gentle ass-kicking. Nate, however, would write a note to me. Has written a note to me. Has written many notes to me and still not made a dent in that stack of expensive stationary, and although the card stock was silk cream, the pigment obsidian night, and the calligraphy swooping in almost a dead ringer, I know it can't be from Nate because he would never leave a rose with his words, not the ones meant for me.

But there isn't anyone else.

There's Mason

And it can't be from him.

It's not his handwriting, to start. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never actually seen his writing, but I can't imagine it would be anything resembling neat or careful. It's gotta be complete chicken scratch. All cramped and illegible. He's left handed too, barely patient enough to sit through a stoplight, much less give ink the time to dry, so there'd be definitely be smears, and there weren't any smears. At all. Can't be him.

Not to mention he'd never do anything like this.

Don't know why he keeps coming to mind anyway. Just because we're…

Together

—for now.

Doesn't mean he'd ever say anything like that—

He already has

(He did. He said I deserved better and I believe him, but I don't, I can't.)

—only because he'd say differently if he knew.

If he really knew.

He'd say different and I'm not gonna fucking tell him and it doesn't fucking matter anyway, it doesn't. Shine's gonna wear off soon enough. Novelty, satisfied. Boredom, returning. And at least the conversation won't be awkward, just… blunt. To the point. A first for us both, in topic, if not style.

I've never been dumped before, at least not in a romantic sense.

Another breath. Another shuddery breath.

Wonder how it's gonna feel.

(It's gonna suck.)

No fucking shit.

If it can't last, why agree to it at all?

I rub hard at my eyes, grinding palms into sockets.

If it can't last, why not tell him anyway?

Because I already fucking know! Don't need to hear it from him, don't wanna hear it from—

If it can't last, why does it matter what he thinks?

“…Stupid fucking note.”

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Someone took the time, wrote it, left it in here. Someone cares.)

Someone's playing a sick fucking joke, more like.

What if it's genuine?

I scoff ragged, squeezing fingers around the back of my neck.

(Tina cares. So does Verda. The whole team, so many others, I know, and I believe them all but I don't. I can't.)

What if you didn't deserve it?

I did. I stayed and I did. My fault. Fucking stupid, like he always said.

(All Mason ever speaks is care. In a thousand different ways of touch, in silence, in lingering looks, he cares.)

What if you can be loved?

What if you can?

A brittle laugh wheezes past my lips and shoots toward something hysterical, boosted by acid burn and cloying petals and that churning, churning tightness. My shoulders hunch high around my ears while the sound pitches even higher, lungs immolated and screaming along, nails digging, cutting crescents as I shake and curl tighter, smaller, compacting into stiffness hard enough to rival diamonds, every muscle verging on a cramp and my throat is stinging and my eyes are on fire, hot, wet, and the door is closed, the blinds shut, and maybe I could just— this time— if I stayed quiet, I could—

I could—

But I don't.

I swallow once, twice, suck down, blink it away, then snap upright and get back to work. There's too much shit, not enough time.

Never enough time, not for that.

For you

(Remember to eat lunch.)

I don't.

I don't really remember talking to anyone either. Or finishing paperwork. Answering email. Clearing the inbox backlog, digital and otherwise, but the stack depletes, the numbers go down, Tina gives me shit from the doorway, and soon the peripheral lights tick off overhead in the foyer, a mop bucket rattles its rounds, darkness crept into my office at some point for a visit and now it's here to stay, just its quiet company along with the monitor blasting eye strain, clacking keys, tight shoulders, a headache, and then—

A familiar ass plops down on my desk and scares the shit out of me.

I jerk back in the chair, wheels rolling, hand over heart to keep it from pounding free and Mason looms above it all, bathed in harsh blues, deep shadows, a deeper frown, and eyes that refuse to obey the rules of any ambient illumination.

Right now? They're crinkled soft, even as they scrutinize.

He looks… worried.

When did he even open my door?

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” I mutter. A lie, an obvious one, but I fight the urge to glance away and dare him to call me out anyway. “You need something, sunshine?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You're late.”

“For what?”

We didn't make plans.

“Getting home.”

Fuck.

I sigh, slumping in the seat, and now I'm looking away, now I'm backing down, running a hand through my hair, mussing and tangling, just like he always does when he's uncertain.

And when the hell did I start doing that?

“Yeah, I'm still behind on shit from my vacation. I was gonna stay late tonight, try and catch up…” I explain, because Tina and I also didn't make plans this year.

(Because she's been marinating in smugness ever since I sighed and told her about the relationship. Because she dropped that shit-eating smirk earlier—that I remember, at least—dripping suggestion all over my office as she waggled her brows and winked and made obnoxious kissy faces until I shoved her out the door, but not before she told me to 'have lots of fun tonight, Alexandra.')

Sure.

“Sorry I didn't text. I… forgot.”

That tightness in my stomach does another loop, and I huff a quiet breath.

Stupid fucking note.

Mason folds his arms. “…The fuck is going on with you?”

Concern blunts the teeth of his words, not that there's any real bite. There never is, not with him, but I tense up anyway, expecting it, expecting to be ripped open.

Blood and pain.

I'd tense up no matter how he asked.

It's okay

(He's not Bobby.)

“Nothing,” I reply, folding my arms, eyes down, “just…”

It's okay

(He's not looking to hurt.)

Probably will anyway, but fuck it. I already know his answer.

Let's just get it over with.

“You didn't leave me a valentine earlier, did you?” My gaze snaps to his. “On my desk?”

Mason scoffs. “Why the hell would I do that?”

This time, it stabs instead of twists, higher up, somewhere in my chest. Something sharp instead of dull.

Disappointment? …Relief? I'm not sure.

Just that it stings.

And it's nighttime, so maybe he feels it too, and maybe that's why he unfolds his arms and shifts toward me, boot heel dangling by the bottom drawer while his voice drops to a softness that matches his accent. “What it say?”

“Nothing,” I repeat, even quieter than him. “Just someone fucking with me. It doesn't matter.”

It does

(Shouldn't lie, not to him. Don't need to. Don't want to, don't like it.)

Mason doesn't like it either, but he doesn't push it. Neither do I.

We look away from each other.

The office swelters around us, too stuffy, too small. Too silent and uncomfortable now to stay. I roll forward to save my work, then turn the computer off and Mason's already waiting for me by the door, a dark silhouette framed by distant fluorescent, my coat and bag hanging off his arms. He pulls me in while I put it all on, yanking me by lapels before abandoning them for the sweater on my lower back, the loose hair at my nape. His lips brush against mine in slow movements, soft nibbling, and he's whispering something to me with it all, with the strokes of his fingers and the circle of our chins, but I can't quite hear.

So ask

(He'll answer—and he won't lie.)

I swallow, then I do.

“…What kind of kiss was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs beneath my hands, breath tickling my face. “I want you to feel better.”

“Oh.”

A shadow flits behind his eyes.

“…And if he's still bothering you, I'm gonna break his fucking jaw again.”

I chuckle softly. “Pretty sure it wasn't him this time.”

“Good.” Mason nibbles another kiss, then smirks. “Might still do it anyway.”

That gets a laugh from both of us, one that sprawls into a pause, grey eyes locked to mine while our grins fade out and our breath catches on everything unspoken and nameless rushing in to take the space.

Honesty. It's what I try to speak. Trailing up from the emotional ooze, raw and sticky.

I hope he can fucking see it, hear it cry, but I wipe it off and whisper the words into shape anyway, cheeks flaming, just to be sure—

“I'm sorry, I just… I don't wanna talk about it now.”

—and he answers me with a brush of his mouth, with his tongue parting my lips, with the way he teases into me before licking deeper, the way he jerks our hips together then shoves, a knee between my thighs, my back into a wall, a door frame, a sharp corner, a low groan rumbling up his chest directly into mine and I hear it all this time, in his breathy panting at the edge of our kiss, the firmness in his fingers angling my face to his, the solid heat of his cock pressed hard against me, grinding slow while I cling tight and moan, I hear it all, but he sucks my lip in with a sharp inhale, rolls me around his mouth before releasing with a drag of teeth, and he murmurs it aloud anyway, just to be sure—

“I know, sweetheart. It's fine.”

—then he nips down hard, and it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh, harder still not to nip that asshole right back, so I don't.

Hold back, that is.

Our lips are swollen and sore by the time the station door swings shut behind us.

[the-cult-of-russo]

Push and Pull (Part 18)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x OC

Warnings: cursing, angst

-------

Daphne sat in a plush chair in front of a large solid wood desk. She was silent as she watched across to Mrs Grimes who was pouring over all of the evidence with silent rage. She'd gone through the file and was now on her fancy ass computer looking at the billion pictures she'd found. One of the large tinted windows in the room was cracked open, birds chirping from outside as a nice breeze came in. The weather was quite warm that day, the sun shining brightly as spring was well under way. Daphne had on a strappy black maxi dress with thigh high slits, her boots on and her deep purple hair was in two French braids. The most effort she'd put into her hair in a while. The nice weather had encouraged her to make an effort. 

She picked at her black chipped nails as she patiently waited for the older woman to look through all of the evidence. The silence was deafening and Daphne kept finding her thoughts drifting off. It had been two days since she'd last seen any of her new friends and Karen's words kept itching at her brain before she opted to ignore them. She’d had a few texts from Foggy checking in with her and thankfully she hadn't seen or heard from Matt at all. It was peaceful.

"That rat bastard! He's making a mockery of me, he's not even hiding it!" Mrs Grimes finally snapped. Daphne had sensed it was coming. She chose not to respond, not knowing what to say. Usually she would say a few mildly comforting words to her clients but Mrs Grimes wasn't heartbroken, she was just pissed at the blatant disrespect. Daphne couldn't blame her. Mrs Grimes stood abruptly, stalking over to the cabinet and pouring some drinks. She didn't ask Daphne, but as the glass full of alcohol that was no doubt the same price as a month of rent was placed in front of her, she didn't argue as she took a large pull from it. It was smoother than what she was used to but she wasn’t surprised since this wasn't the bottom shelf shit she was used to.

Mrs Grimes sat back down gracefully despite her building anger. She took a sip of her drink and looked like she was thinking things over. Daphne just waited patiently as she enjoyed her moment with the fancy scotch.

"I want revenge," the older woman said after a moment. Her voice was calm like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"Oh?" Daphne quirked her brows, curious where this was going. 

"He's making a fool of me and blatantly so. I want a divorce but there’s also another way to hurt him," Mrs Grimes mused softly. Daphne settled deeper into the chair, her curiosity burning.

"My husband has always kept the business from me, said I didn't need to be involved. But over the many years with him I've learned some things and he has no idea," she paused to take another sip of her drink. 

"My husband is a man in power. His job allows him access to a lot of private client information that in the wrong hands would be… catastrophic. But he's also a greedy leech, and I found out a few years ago that the Italian mob had been paying him. He's been selling clients information to them. Some of them would go bankrupt and others...well they just vanished, never to be seen of again. I think we're smart enough women to figure out where they went," she muttered tensely. The bottom of the Hudson no doubt. 

"Why are you telling me this?" Daphne asked bluntly. Mrs Grimes chuckled at her, seemingly enjoying the no nonsense approach Daphne often had.

"He's a criminal, assisting worse criminals to boot. I could take him down, get him locked away. His name would be tarnished and he'd have nothing left. After I divorced him obviously," she said carefully.

"Do you have proof?" Daphne enquired. Honestly, this was pretty big. The kind of thing Brett would like to hear. Mr Grimes would know all kinds of information they could use to try and get the Italians.

Mrs Grimes heaved a sigh and crossed a leg over the other.

"Not here. We have another house, he's stayed there more and more over the years and now I rarely see him. That's where he'd keep it all, in his study," she explained. Daphne pursed her lips. Another house? These fucking people.

"Can't you go and get it?" She asked pointedly. They couldn't do anything without that information and sending the cops to go and search would be useless. They'd need a warrant and she knew that would be difficult when it came to a powerful and wealthy man like Mr Grimes, who could easily pay people to sweep it all away. 

"Can I be frank with you, Ms Weaver?" She asked seriously. Daphne nodded, as if they'd been anything but during this unexpected conversation. 

"He's already taken the other house over. He has security and if I turned up they'd send me away. They have no respect. That's how I know where all his shady business goes down because I'm forbidden to go in there. I think he knows I know something. And I worry if I tried to force my way in, it wouldn't end well for me. All he'd need to do is say the word to the criminals he associates with and I'll be gone," she muttered bitterly. It did sound promising though that there was something in the other house worth hiding from his wife.

"How do we get it then? You're forbidden and it's heavily guarded, there'll be no chance," Daphne sighed. 

"That's where you come in," the older woman grinned. Daphne resisted the urge to roll her eyes and groan. Of course it was.

"My husband is throwing a ball next week, I'm not invited of course, but it's given us a way to get you in. It's mostly upper-class, no doubt some of the Italians, god knows who else. I can pull some strings, get you on the guest list. You can just say you're from a well-off family, no one will really care. But once you're in, you can try to get to his study and get what we need," she explained. Daphne was mildly impressed. It was a sneaky plan. But she also didn't like her part in it.

She stayed silent for a moment as she ran through the options. It was the only plan really, they didn't have another. She gave no shits about Mrs Grimes petty revenge on her husband but she did care about the Italians and this was another way in. That was the only reason why she was considering something like this when it could very seriously go ass upwards. Mrs Grimes watched her carefully as she mulled it over in her head.

"I know it's dangerous, which is precisely why I'm not turning up there. I will pay you handsomely for doing this and I know you can see it through," she pressed on. She scribbled something down on a piece of paper before sliding it to her. Daphne's eyes bugged out of her head for a moment as she saw how much the woman was going to pay her. Maybe it wasn't much since this was her life on the line if things went wrong but $8000 was a huge amount of money. She didn't really need it. She wasn't one for material things and she was fine how she was. She had a steady income that paid her well. She thought back to something Karen had said in passing the night she came over and it was similar to something Foggy had complained about numerous times to her. 

Daphne blew out a sigh, downing the rest of her drink.

"I have a counter offer," she proposed, a stern look on her face. Mrs Grimes nodded to hear it.

"I'm risking my ass by going in there. I have history with the Italians and one slip up, I'm bleeding among sharks. If I do this for you, then when you get the divorce, you hire Nelson and Murdock for it. You pay them the same amount you were going to pay me. And if you like their services, which I'm sure you will, you'll recommend them to your friends. But just so you know, they won't represent genuinely bad people, so be careful who you send there," she gave the older woman an expectant look unsure of what she should say. 

"I know you would have gone to some fancy ass lawyer to get it done but these guys are good and they care about their job. So much so that most of the time they take on cases for barely any money or none at all. They need that money and you need the evidence. That's my only offer," she added with a stern face. She could have taken it for herself, but why? She didn't care about it. But Foggy, Karen and even reluctantly Matt did care. She hated how despondent Foggy would get when he worried about the firm. How they were in the negatives. How he wasn't sure how much longer they'd be able to stay open. They couldn't even afford to pay Karen which is what led her to the Bulletin in the first place. And while she didn't like Matt and she'd never seen him or Foggy in action, she'd heard nothing but great things and praise about them at the station. Not everyone had money for a decent attorney, but that didn't matter to them. Everyone deserved that help. She had a chance to help with that and she was running with it. 

"Deal," Mrs Grimes settled with a nod. Daphne was a little shocked by how easy it was but then again she guessed she really wanted to nail her husband to the wall. She leaned over shaking hands with her before she grabbed her backpack and got ready to leave.

"Here. This is what I owe you from the investigation you already did. And I’ll pay for you to get a dress for the ball so you don’t stand out too much," she handed her $1000 in cash and Daphne stuffed it into her bag, watching as the woman scribbled something down on a small piece of paper. 

"I'd recommend these stores. Tell them I sent you in and it’ll be taken care of. It's a very grand affair, tell them it's a ball and they'll pick some things for you to try. I'll also put you down with a plus one on the guestlist. It might be a little less… conspicuous if you took someone with you," she murmured, gesturing to Daphne's purple hair. She squinted in slight offense but took the piece of paper anyway and put it in her hoodie pocket. 

Once again the driver had been instructed to take her home. She opted for him to drop her off down the street. Now she knew the Italians were involved in this somehow, she didn't want to chance people knowing where she lived. She didn't know if Mr Grimes was having his wife monitored or not. When she did finally arrive home, she was hot and tired. The sun was glaring through her large window by the fire escape and she opened it letting in some air since she didn't have AC. She kicked off her boots and lay on her back on the couch. She tried to run through how the night at the ball would go but there were far too many variables. She just had to hope for the best. It should be busy and filled with self important people who wouldn't think about looking into who she was too closely. Once they were all distracted, she could slip away and leave, hopefully without incident. 

She thought back to Mrs Grimes' advice on bringing someone and she grumbled. It would make her look less noticeable and if she was alone there was every chance guys may approach her to talk. She wanted to slip under the radar as much as possible. Having a date would fix that but she had no one. She wouldn't ask Foggy. Not only because he was in a relationship and it was weird even as friends, but because of how dangerous it was. She refused to ask Brett. She decided not to tell him about the intel she had until she got the proof. He wouldn't approve of her doing this and if the cops got involved prematurely then the evidence would get destroyed. Mrs Grimes would also most likely disappear and she refused to have the death of another client weigh on her conscience. 

The only person that kept coming to mind was Matt and she hated it. He would be perfect. The unassuming blind man, no one would suspect them. He also had his super senses that would prove to be incredibly useful and if things got hairy she knew he'd have her back. It would risk him exposing himself if it really came to it and he had to fight but that was the worst case scenario. She really just didn't want to speak to him though. The last time they spoke had really pissed her off and she'd been enjoying the peace of him not being around lately. Did she really want to disrupt that? As useful as he would be by her side, she didn't want to do that to herself. They'd have to blend in as a couple, dancing and being nice to each other. She didn't need the headache. 

She came to the conclusion she was better off going on her own and saving herself future annoyance when it came to the vigilante. She lay on her sofa for a little while just too tired to move. She wasn't sleeping much at all and she'd found herself going to Fogwell's gym everyday the last two days to take her frustration out on the punching bag. She always made sure to go at a time when Matt didn't tend to go so she didn't run into him. She wondered how long it would be before she burnt herself out completely.

A rhythmic knock sounded at her door that let her know it was Foggy. He usually did a weird little knock when he came to see her.

"Come in," she called from where she lay. The door opened and she glanced at the door as Foggy walked in.

"What is this? You're just too lazy to open the door and greet me now? That hurts," he pouted. She laughed but made no move to get up as he waltzed over and flopped into the armchair. 

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr Nelson?" She yawned softly into her hand.

"A weird thing just happened. We got a phone call from a Mrs Grimes, a real wealthy woman. She asks us to help her with her divorce. Her husband's a cheat and into some illegal things apparently. She says someone recommended us to her. She paid us $4000 dollars up front with another when it's all over with. $4000! Can you believe that?!" Foggy asked incredulously. 

"That's a lot of money," she murmured in agreement.

"Yeah… funny thing though, Karen seemed to recognise her name. Mrs Grimes is the name of your client and her cheaty illegal husband is the guy you've been spying on…" he trailed off, waiting for her answer.

"Small world, huh?" She smiled at him.

"Seriously? You think I don't know you had something to do with this giant heap of good luck?" He scoffed. She groaned as she sat up, rubbing her eyes a little before settling into a sitting position.

"Fine, you got me. She wants some extras for her case and offered me a lot of money. Money I don't need but I know you guys do. So I made a deal with her that you'd be her lawyers and she'd pay what she would have given me," she explained. Foggy still looked stunned and he shook his head.

"What does she need you to do that costs that much?" He asked bewildered. She sighed, wiping a hand down her face wearily.

"Oh god, is it that bad?" He asked hesitantly.

"Kinda. But since I just practically gave $8000 to keep your firm in practice, I expect no lectures from you when you hear it," she asserted with a raised brow. He nodded reluctantly, not able to argue with her. 

"The illegal stuff she said about her husband? He's in bed with the Italians. He sells them client information. She said that some of them ended up bankrupt and some just went 'missing'," she did air quotes and Foggy's jaw gaped a little.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

"She wants to get back at him for cheating. She said he humiliated her with how blatant he was about it. She wants to expose him, get him locked up but she needs proof and she wants me to get it. It's a whole complicated thing… but yeah. I'll be going to a ball Mr Grimes is throwing next week undercover and I need to sneak into his office at some point and look for proof. Some of the Italians might be there and who knows who else so I'll be dressed up and acting as a rich bitch," she blew out a breath after her attempt at explaining. 

Foggy blinked at her for a moment.

"I really want to tell you that this is a bad idea and you shouldn't go. But I agreed no lectures and you did just basically help us keep our doors open at the firm. But I will say that I'm worried. Very worried," he muttered tensely. 

"I'm honestly nervous too. But if it goes well then I'll be fine. I'll be extra careful and if it seems too hairy then I'll get out of there. I promise," she reassured. She meant it too. Mrs Grimes refused to go herself because of the risk so she'd get it if she had to duck out and try something else. 

"Okay… I guess I'll just have to accept that," he said reluctantly. She was happy he wasn't fighting her on this because it was already stressing her out.

"And you can't tell Matt," she pointed at him. He frowned deeply and sighed.

"What do you mean I can't tell Matt? He was there when Karen made the connection, you don't think he's gonna be curious about the amount of money?" He asked incredulously.

"Just tell him it was what she was paying me for the normal investigation. She's got more money than sense. He'll have to believe that. I really don't need him butting in with this, not when Mrs Grimes already thinks I should take someone with me to the ball," she huffed.

"Okay now I'm just confused. Wouldn't Matt be the perfect person to take with you?" He asked with furrowed brows.

"If he wasn't a dick then yeah," she glowered. Foggy nodded, leaning forward with his arms on his knees as he looked at her.

"I don't know what went down after I left the other day, but this feels way worse than normal and I don't like it,"he mumbled forlornly. She rubbed her temples and raked her teeth over her lower lip as she stayed silent. 

"Was it what he said? About Mr Lee?" He questioned gently. She'd almost forgotten he'd been there for that remark. Her lips stayed firmly sealed as she glared at the coffee table, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Talk to me, Daph. You and Matt are both my friends and it's hard being in the middle like this. He's done nothing but mope around doing his Catholic guilt thing since you last saw him and you seem miserable. I care about you. I'm not gonna sit here and force you to like him or even spend time with him, but I want you to talk to me," he implored. She took a deep breath, mulling over if she should tell him. But he’d wore her down and she found her mouth opening anway.

"His words really cut me deep. They hurt me and I didn't expect that. We've said a lot of shit to each other since we met but that was just… it was cruel. And I get it, he was scared and he lashed out. He said sorry and I actually believe him. But I'm mad at myself. I'm mad because I let him in somehow without realising it. I gave him the power to hurt me with his words. I'm mad because somewhere along the way something changed and I actually care about what he thinks of me," she whispered without looking at him. She almost felt ashamed to get it all out, lay it all on the table. But Foggy wasn't Matt. Being vulnerable around him wouldn't get her hurt.

Foggy scratched his chin, looking at her sadly. 

"I wanna say something and I don't want you to interrupt... I think that maybe you need to come to terms with the fact that feelings are involved in this thing with Matt," he started. She opened her mouth to protest but he shot her a look, promptly snapping her mouth closed. 

"You both can deny it until you're blue in the face, but it's there. It's always been intense with you two. Since the moment you met, up 'til now. No matter what emotion it is, it's strong. And there's a fine line between love and hate," he added.

"I don't love Matt!" She protested, unable to keep quiet at that ridiculous notion.

"Maybe not love. Not yet. But something. You both get under each other's skin so easy because you both care about what the other says. You get hurt when he's genuinely been a dick and he's hurt because he knows he's hurt you. I get it's weird and complicated with you both. And now there's intense sex thrown into the mix and its all blurry. But at some point you two stopped being mere annoyances to each other and denying it is just making things worse," he frowned. She clenched her jaw, really not wanting to be part of this conversation. 

"Matt's been through so much in his life. Like a rigorous amount of bullshit and I sometimes don't know how he keeps going. And he's lost a lot of people one way or another. He shields himself because he's scared. He doesn't wanna get hurt again. But you… I think you got to him. I think you chipped at the armor he wears and that terrifies him. So his only way of dealing with it is being an asshole to push you away. And something tells me you're exactly the same way," he murmured. 

"You don't know me," she snapped without meaning to. He looked hurt and nodded.

"Fine," he stood up and walked to the door. She scrunched her face up feeling like the worst person ever. Foggy was the last person she ever wanted to hurt and her chest felt tight.

"You know what? No, it's not fine. You're doing it right now and I'm not biting!" He frowned, whirling  back around and pointing a finger at her. She lowered her head like a scolded child but took it because she deserved it.

"I'm not saying you guys are in love or that anything will come out of it. But I know my best friend more than anyone and I know when someone's affecting him. And I've seen it with you two from the start, even if you both refuse to admit it. But what I'm saying is that maybe it's time you both just stop. Stop with the angst and the bullshit because you're only hurting yourselves. Try to be friends or something. Anything’s better than this endless loop you're both on," he groused and she stood up to face him.

"I'm not like you, Foggy. I can't just… I don't know how to connect with someone. The only way we became friends was because it's you. You just have this way about you and it's so easy to be around you. And I've tried with Matt, I've shared things with him, personal things and he threw them back in my face. So yeah, maybe I do shut down and I'm not easy to be around for him but it's because he makes it impossible. There is no way out of this endless loop. You told me that me and Matt are a lot alike and honestly I think you're right. Which is why it would never work being friends or anything else with him. I know he can be a great guy, I've seen it. But he's not that guy with me," she frowned. 

Foggy hung his head and nodded.

"I just think… if you guys moved past this crap, you could make each other really happy. But I'll drop it," he relented. She stayed silent as her emotions were all over the place. She didn't know what to think any more. 

"We're all going to Josie's tomorrow night to celebrate the money thing. Karen really wanted you to come as a thank you… but no pressure," he murmured quietly.

He gave her a hug before he saw himself out and she just stood there for a moment. She couldn't help but think back to what Karen said and how similar it was. She had no idea why people seemed to think there was something there with them both when they couldn't even manage to be friends. They were both hard headed and stubborn and lashed out when someone got too close. That wouldn't make anyone happy. But she couldn't deny the fact that Foggy had some points that rang true. Because it had turned into something somewhere along the way. If it hadn't then she wouldn't have been hurt by his words and she would have brushed them off like so many times before. Maybe feelings were involved but she had no idea which ones. She wasn't used to having them.

[johnkrrasinski]

Coffee with Cream

Chapter 2: Dream of You

full masterlist

series masterlist

Pairings: Frank Castle x reader x Mad Sweeney

Word count: 2,693

Warnings: cussing, mentions of alcohol, street fight, men being men. 

Summary: Two men, one diner and little old you. Working at a diner had never been your dream job but, fate had a funny way of bringing two contrasted men into your life.

a/n: hey guys! as you all know my obsession over frank castle and pablo schreiber had been exploding these past couple of months. and so, me and @nellblazer decided to write a good old threesome fic involving these two bulky men. hope you like it. enjoy!

You laid in your bed that night with a romance novel that you hadn't had the chance to pick up and finish in awhile due to the weariness of working double shifts. It's the same old pattern for the last few years; you'd get up early for your morning shift at the diner, rushed back home to take a little break, and possibly enjoy your catnaps before your second alarm rings for your night shift. 

And then when the night was ending, you'd take another bus to get yourself home, take a shower and eat your takeout or heat up your frozen pizza, and went to bed. For years, life was merely a repetitive cycle of humdrum. You barely had time for yourself due to your relentless endeavour to stay afloat. 

Living in Brooklyn when you come from a middle-class family means that you really had to fight tooth and nail to pay the bills and fill your fridge. You were raised to be an independent and hardworking person by your parents and that's why it wasn't much of a challenge for you to work double shifts at a diner when you could've taken one. You taught yourself to push through your boundaries in life, and you were aware that sometimes it's not always convenient but at least you were proud of your own effort. 

That also means you didn't have time to swipe right and left on Tinder and find yourself a date. It was nearly impossible to find a decent guy in Brooklyn, let alone trusting a dating app that could possibly be utilized by creeps or murderers to find their next victim. Although your co-workers had suggested it many times to you, you refused to present yourself to the angels of death just simply you were desperate to get laid. 

But tonight was different from the others. It was comical, really, how one, well, two, actually people could walk into your life, okay that was dramatic, walk into a diner and elevated the sour mood that you had grown used to in recent years, and made a difference. A good one.

You couldn't remember the last time you had a genuine smile on your face. You also couldn't remember when was the last time you felt butterflies in your stomach. And here you are, lying in bed, replaying the scenes that took place earlier. In the daylight when the bustle was in full swing and in the nighttime when the city was placid.

You barely knew anything about them and you had only met them in less than 24 hours, but, you could still remember the way Frank Castle made you feel when his brown eyes stared intensely into yours as he shook your hand. The quiet yet magnetic force that he exuded only compelled you to learn more about him. In the brief conversation that you had earlier, you knew that he was a wanderer of a man.

He'd been hoping from one place to another, but he was thinking of staying in Brooklyn for a while and you were hoping that nothing changes his mind about that. You were really hoping that you'd see him again real soon.

And then, your thoughts drifted to the second man that you encountered with earlier. His auburn hair burned the lights in the room, causing a small fire that you didn't light up. But his amorous words had left you starstruck in a way that you didn't know was possible. You weren't one to stumble on a brazenly flirtatious man but something about him was too tempting to be overlooked. And the fact that he had this eccentric thing for coins made you wonder... What else has he got up in his sleeve?

Sweeney hadn't been able to get you off his mind all night.

The grumpy server who'd taken over had definitely not been a patch on your sunny optimism or brimming curiosity. He couldn't remember the last time a girl was so interested in his stories. Usually he got brushed off as a leering drunk or just a plain old letch but you'd entertained him, asked questions and given him a form of fresh cream to boot, all for him. A form of worship as it was.

You hadn't realised it of course, nobody ever believes in gods these days unless they're the Big Three or the Norse pantheon. Little old Sweeney with his Celtic cohort was hardly going to register on anyone's radar. I mean, fuck, nobody could even say his actual name right, let alone believe he was a god.

Even so, he felt refreshed, more refreshed than he'd been in years and when he got absolutely blasted on whiskey, the feeling was not the same as it was. The crippling existentialism was gone to be replaced by joyfulness and he sang most of the way home, thoroughly amusing everyone on his way back with his rude songs. He even danced with an old lady like they used to do in the twenties which he thought had made her night as she blushed furiously and began saying it'd been a while since she'd danced with a young man in the street.

Sweeney was having the time of his life, precisely up until he got in the alleyway and his loud singing got him into trouble.

There was a group of thugs hanging around in the middle, trying to sort something out but Sweeney didn't care to venture too close to find out what precisely.

“-Well I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me, who owns that thing in your thing where my own thing should be!” he belts out, stumbling slightly in their direction and he sees the flash of irritation on their faces.

The next thing he knew he was getting dog piled on. Bodies seemed to leap on him from every corner and all he could think about was protecting his coin at all costs so he sent it in the Hoard, the magical hiding place for his treasure and once he'd taken a few harsh licks to the gut, he tried to pull himself together to fight back.

Drunken brawling was his speciality after all.

He wasn't expecting it when a couple of the gang members were yanked off of him. He took the opportunity to jump back to his feet, delivering a haymaker to the nearest lad who's cheek splintered under his weighted punch. The kid dropped to the floor like a stone, howling about his face.

The next man behind him, he twisted and grabbed around the middle, running them backwards to the edge of a dumpster before letting go and watching his head clang noisily off the metal as they fell backwards.

Oh it had been a good long while since he'd had a fight. He missed the adrenalin, he missed the cracking of bones and the taste of blood. It spoke to his soul that was millennia old when the world was war, ale and feasting.

Sweeney finally looked up to see that another man was fighting with him, a shorter man, stockier and well built, a nose that'd been broken at least once and the buzzcut styling of an ex-military man. The newcomer shifted his position and Sweeney saw a painted skull on his chest. His first thought was that Baron Samedi was expanding his worshipper's network but it didn't make sense for the Baron to recruit a soldier when he preferred his company to be a little more love and less war.

Who the fucking hell was this guy?

“You okay?” the man asks gruffly as he sees Sweeney staring at him. “Get out. Run.”

“I ain't fuckin' runnin',” Sweeney wrinkles his face in offence. “Do I look like a pansy to you?”

“You look fuckin' drunk is what ya look,” Skull Man counters, elbowing an attacker in the mouth. “I'll handle it. Run home.”

“Callin' me a coward?” Sweeney squares up. “I don't run, boy-o.”

“Really?” Skull Man raises an eyebrow. “Ain't the time for pride, Big Red. Fight or don't fight then. I don't care. Just stay outta my way with that one.”

He points to the man who Sweeney had knocked out on the dumpster. His eyelids were fluttering as he started to regain consciousness.

“What's it worth to ya?” Sweeney shrugs.

“Are you fuckin' kidding me?!” Skull Man storms over, coming up until he was chest to chest. “I save your ass and this is what I get?”

“Didn't ask to be saved, lad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, right back.”

Just at the point where Sweeney is curling his fingers into a fist, ready to give a good old right hook, he's hit hard in the head from behind and goes down onto his forearms, scuffing them with pebbles and dirt. He scrambles unsteadily to his feet, feeling a little trickle of blood oozing down the path of his hair and sees Skull Man beating the living shit out of the dumpster guy before finishing him off with his bare hands.

Sweeney, meanwhile, jumps back into the fist fight, taking down every other gang member who'd dared to get back up. They make a break for it, running desperately down into the other alleyways and out of sight.

“You'd better run!” Sweeney bellows after them. “You'd all be fucked if I still had my spear. I WAS A FUCKING KING ONCE, YOU CUNTS!”

“I've heard some drunk talk in my time but you...” Skull Man shakes his head. “You're crazy, huh?”

“I'm a god, mate,” Sweeney holds out his arms proudly, swaying on the spot.

“Sure ya are.”

“And what the fuck are you, murderer?”

“Nobody you need to know about. You ain't seen me. I don't exist. I'm just taking out the trash of this city.”

“Oh aye? Are ya? And what did he do?”

“Shot up a playground.”

“Oh...” Sweeney tails off, looking at the dead man on the floor. “Well....good then. Good work. Bastard deserved it.”

He holds out his hand and Skull Man shakes it warily. Sweeney got the sense the guy didn't interact with people much because the handshake was stilted, unsure.

“Got a name?” Sweeney asks. “Or are ya hellbent on being mysterious?”

“It's Frank,” the guy replies after a pause. “But I was-

“-Never here, I got that,” Sweeney snorts. “I'm Sweeney.”

“Sweeney the God. A'ight, go on home then. I got clean up to do.”

“Nice fightin', by the way,” Sweeney calls over his shoulder. “See ya around, Frank.”

“I fuckin' hope not,” comes the quiet response.

Sweeney didn't care though. He was too elated to care. Good booze, a good fight and the promise of going back to that sweet little diner where you were.

He'd have to come in earlier just to spend more time around you. He wanted to know everything about you and more than anything, he wanted to see your smile again.

A god he may be but your smile was absolutely magical.

He sang the whole rest of the way home, already looking forward to tomorrow.

[aleapoffaithfiction]

XVI.

"You will manage to keep a woman in love with you, only for as long as  you can keep her in love with the person she becomes when she is with  you." C. JoyBell

Rockin' around the Christmas tree, let the Christmas spirit ring. Later we'll have some pumpkin pie, and we'll do some caroling…

Naturally, my own vocals lightly meshed in with those of Brenda Lee while my head bopped back and forth to the infectious Christmas tune as it blared from the Beats Pill, I gifted to my mother a couple of months ago. To take advantage of the majority of my weight being pressed against the kitchen island, I slowly flexed my toes and extended my aches in an effort to minimize the throbbing in my feet. Short hisses turned into a deep sigh of bliss but unfortunately it was short lived once I grasped a knife in my hand again.

“Pass me two stalks of celery out of that bag, please.” My precise instructions were pointless. With her eyes intently focused on the phone in front of her, Celeste aloofly tossed the plastic bag in my direction as if I were a nuisance interrupting the ridiculous number of hours she spends interacting on Facebook. If anything, I avoid it, because once you reach a certain age, Facebook is nothing more than a scroll fest filled with engagement and pregnancy announcements, weddings and post-birth pictures, garbage hot takes from people about the most trivial of topics, and finally older relatives who have nothing better to do other than to be in everyone’s business, including yours.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” If she’s not going to be in the kitchen either helping me or doing something of her own, then the better choice would be for her to exit. She hasn’t been much company because we’re barely spoken since she arrived and I’d rather not be distracted by her sitting there in a trance with a phone in her hand like a mindless teen.

“Not really. You always do Christmas Eve, I do Christmas breakfast, and mommy does Christmas dinner. Don’t act brand new now.”

“I’m not acting brand new. I just see no point in you being in here.” Celeste does Christmas breakfast because it’s the easiest task to handle and I don’t have much of a problem pushing her dry ass pancakes around on a plate in anticipation for dinner later on the evening.

“For someone who claims to be so demure in the manner that you carry yourself, I’m super confused about why you have streams of diamonds glistening and circling around your neck.”

“What?” Thoughtlessly, I stretched my unoccupied hand up to the exposed skin and lightly brushed my fingers over nearly sixty carats of brilliant round cut diamonds that do not belong to me.

The manner in which O layers his many necklaces always grabs my attention and it’s something about the showiness in the midst of the simplicity of them that I continue to compliment whenever I see him donning them. This morning, for whatever reason, he randomly placed two of them around my neck as I stood in the mirror attempting to figure out just how festive my attire would be for today. Once I’d gotten past three unwarranted outfit changes, I found myself admiring the jewelry as it glimmered in the natural lighting cascading into his master bedroom beyond the curtains. I’d forgotten to remove them.

“They’re not real. It’s just costume jewelry.”

“They look pretty damn real to me.”

“Well, they’re not. There’s this new spot that opened up over on West 47th Street. I grabbed them in there. I just thought they looked cute and they reminded me of something Lil’ Kim wore one time. You know Kimberly Denise Jones is one of my spirit animals. They’re not something you wear everyday but it’s the holidays and I’m on vacation until after the New Year, so why not? I’m glad they look real though. That just means they were well made.”

“You seem to have a million alter egos. One minute you’re Florence Joyner, the next minute you’re Lil’ Kim, on another day you’re Angela Bassett, and then you’re Michelle Obama. We can’t forget you being the Oprah of sports journalism, oh and there’s Rihanna and Beyonce, who else?”

“Phylicia Rashard, Eartha Kitt, Regina King, Janet Jackson, Cari Champion, Lisa Salters, Pam Oliver, Jemele Hill. And I’ve never considered any of those women to be my alter egos. They’re women that I admire due to their drive, success, and character. I’ve taken bits and pieces from all of their careers and used them as lessons for my own. What you’ve mistaken is me saying that Lil Kim, Rihanna, and Tracee Ellis Ross are my style icons. Oh, and Mary J. Blige is my boot icon.” I think all women have a mood board of aspirations and inspirations. It doesn’t always have to be specific people. A portion of mine just so happens to contains who I believe are some of the greatest black women of the past and current generation. They’re not alter egos who I attempt to mimic but rather stories of triumph that keep me driven.

“What’s up with you and Kyle? Why are you interested?” I nearly cut into the flesh of my finger while dicing the stalks of celery. Briefly, I paused to gather myself, and immediately moved on to the three cloves of garlic.

“Nothing at all. I’m not interested so please stop pressing me about that. I’m not going to date your husband’s brother. I don’t do that all in the family stuff.”

“He’s really into you.”

“Or maybe you’re just exaggerating things. We’re just cool. We always have great conversations whenever we’re around one another and that’s good enough for me. I’ve already spoken to you multiple times about my disdain for your matchmaking bullshit. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not a fan of it?”

“You continue to hold Shamel against me. Things didn’t work out. Okay. Shit happens. That doesn’t mean that every guy that I attempt to introduce you to won’t be compatible with you.”

“Compatibility? It’s deeper than that.” Parsley and cilantro were next for the wrath of the knife in my hand. I’m going to have to med onions next. I should have just bought all of this stuff chopped already.

“What’s deeper?”

“Celeste, you don’t know shit about what I went through with Shamel. You know the shortened version of years’ worth of bullshit. You think we just had a couple of typical couple disagreements to the point of us coming to terms with the reality that we could no longer be together? I wish it were that fucking simple, so don’t sit in here on your high horse with that matchmaker shit. Focus on your man and your marriage. I’m fine.”

I internalized so much of what I went through with the man. I was never the one to take my household troubles and spread all of it in places that it didn’t need to be. Anyone with the vision could see the tension between the two of us whenever we were out and about together and if you couldn’t see it, then it was thick enough to be felt. As my career began to take off, I chose to move as a single woman, often leaving him behind whenever I was out and about at industry events whether they were sports related or not. Shamel had a tendency to spend way too much time at the open bar, tossing back shots of tequila while slyly entertaining any woman that fawned over his deep mocha presence. He’d then cause a scene if he caught any men paying even the slightest attention to mine.

Beyond the decision to mask our toxicity as best as I could, I yearned to make my mother proud by being the quintessential woman; brains, beauty, a reputable career, and a good man standing alongside me. The pride she wore on her face at Celeste’s wedding stood out beyond any and everything that went on that summer night in Brooklyn. Since my father’s death, that wedding and all of the events leading up to it sparked a liveliness in her that I hadn’t experienced in quite some time although it had absolutely nothing to do with me. I’m not sure if she was vicariously living through my sister or she was simply just thrilled to see her began her own family, but in observing her response to it all, I wanted to give that to her.

After a short lived around of sex that left tears of mental exhaustion pouring down the sides of my face as I lie under him, he whispered in my ear that he intended to make me his wife. I’ll never forget the wave of nausea that rushed over my body and sent me dashing into the bathroom to empty out of the contents within my stomach. I thought of marriage as something beautiful until then. Just the thought of spending the rest of my life in misery with him left my mind in an emotional frenzy as I attempt to figure out when and how I’d end our relationship. Less than three weeks later, I finally mustered up the courage to get it done.

“You want to be alone forever?”

“Whether I do or I don’t, it’s my decision. You may be older, but we’re not kids anymore. We’re no longer in Brooklyn, under mommy’s roof, trying to figure out what we’re going to do with ourselves. You have your life and I have mine. I have time to figure that relationship shit out. I’m not stressed about it. Being single doesn’t bother me at all. For whatever reason, it bothers you.”

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re single. I just think you deserve happiness.”

“And you think that I don’t have it without a man? You give them way too much credit.”

And she always has. Celeste has been a serial monogamist for as long as I can remember her dating history. As soon as one relationship of hers would end, she’d be in another one within a week or two. I can recall a couple of overlaps, but that’s none of my business.

“Don’t put the whole bonnet pepper in there.”

“I know that. I’m only doing half.” The last thing I want is to give our mother heartburn on Christmas Eve.

In the midst of me pouring olive oil into the deep red pot I already had on the stove, I reached into my back pocket for my vibrating phone.

Mrs. Claus, I’m missing you. When are you coming home?

Home? To mask my budding smile, I slowly pulled my lip in-between my teeth.

Home?

This man knows how to put a smile on my face by saying the simplest things.

Anywhere I lay my head is just as much yours as it is mine.

I should have known that when he gave me keys and the security codes last night. I’m still in disbelief about that.

I should be finished here really soon and I’ll be right back at the North Pole to keep your lap warm, Santa.

It’ll be the first time I’m spending Christmas Eve anywhere other than here and to say I’m nervous would be an understatement. Usually around this time of the year, O would be in the midst of the season so his family would make the effort to come to New Jersey to be with him. Even though he’s currently not playing, they still decided to come up and enjoy the chilled weather. For the past couple of days, he’s convinced me to rid myself of my reluctance and to be with him and a few people I’ve yet to meet like his grandmother Mille, his uncle Mike, his aunt Pat, and his step-father Derek.

Naked right?

And don’t even get me started on the lie that I had to tell everyone in this house so that I’d be able to get out of our Christmas Eve tradition of my cooking and us sitting around watching our favorite Christmas classics while bundled up under quilts that we’ve had since Celeste and I were toddlers. That lie involved Taylor, who’s actually in Atlanta right now, and Scott who actually did invite me to his Christmas Eve game night over at his place.

I can make that happen. Not while the elves are awake though. That’s a bit inappropriate, Santa.

My snicker wasn’t soundless. It was loud enough to alert Celeste and her eyes slowly panned in my direction and raised in curiosity at what tickled me.

“It’s Taylor.” I said it before she could ask.

Baby, don’t be mad at me but I already cut the red velvet cake. It was just sitting there and I couldn’t help myself.

I knew he’d do it. The fume enticed him by itself, so his response to the finished product was of no surprise. I didn’t even make him promise me that he wouldn’t touch it because I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself just as he said. It’s why I made two of them.

I knew you would. Enjoy it.  That’s why I made it.

I spent the morning baking as a part of his Christmas request. Renee’s handling everything else, but all of the sweets are my task. When I return, I’m going to make my mini eggnog cheesecakes and cookies.

Try and make it back before the snow starts. I don’t want you driving in that.

It’s not supposed to be enough snow to keep the east coast hiding inside of their homes, but it will be enough to leave traffic dragging and the roads hazardous. I’ve never been much of a fan of driving in the snow, so I do want to be out of here before those flurries began to fall.

Will do. I’ll see you in a bit love.

“I can’t believe you’re about to go and spend Christmas Eve hanging out with your co-workers. Don’t you get enough of seeing them at work?” This is her second time making commentary about this since I’ve been here and I’m not even sure why. Celeste and I barely say much of anything to one another whenever I’m around, unless she’s scolding me about some area of my life that she assumes that I need to improve. It’ll be no different tonight as they’re all curled up in the living room watching classic holiday films while enjoying the dinner that I’m preparing and a shit ton of junk food we bought at Walmart the other day. Besides, her husband is here and when he’s with her, nearly all of her attention is on him.

“What’s the big deal? We’re not kids waiting around on Santa anymore. There are no babies here in the house that we need to be extra festive for. I’ll be back in the morning for breakfast and then we’ll all open up the presents together like we usually do. You won’t even notice that I’m gone.” Maybe my mother will, but she certainly won’t. Whenever her husband’s around, her attention remains solely focused on him. She parades herself on being a so-called traditionalist as a wife; whatever that means. Either way, her head is up his ass and luckily for her, his is just as far up hers.

“What time are you getting here in the morning? I figure I’ll at least be considerate enough to start making breakfast around them so by the time you’re here, you won’t have to eat cold food.”

“Most likely around nine or a half hour after it. It won’t be much later than that.”

“That’s if you’re not hungover, huh?”

“I won’t be. I have no plans to drink, unless it’s like a half glass of some spiked egg nog. Can’t go to a Christmas function and not have some egg nog. I’m driving, so it won’t be much.” I’m not irresponsible with my life and in addition to that, if O smells the alcohol on my breath, he’ll be scolding me all night long for having the audacity to drink and drive.

“Okay.” I never thought she’d leave the kitchen. She’s been in here since my arrival and comfortably settled at a spot in front of the island, while watching my every move. Initially, I thought she was doing it simply to be a critic of whatever I intended to prepare in the kitchen, but now I know she sat there as a mean to try and find her way into my business as she always seems to do. I’ve never been interested in what she has going on with Preston since she met the man. Even when we all went out to dinner a few years back and she first introduced him to both my mother and I, I didn’t have much of anything to say. All I could make of their connection was that she was obsessed with everything about him and luckily for her, he was smitten enough to feel the same way about her. She needed a man who could and world be a bit of a pushover for her and he is exactly that.

My father’s beloved stewed chicken or as he called it, poulet creole, was a breeze to prepare because I’m the only one in our home who learned every single aspect of that recipe directly from him. On a random summer day, while my mom and Celeste were out at the hair salon getting curls put into their hair for Sunday service, he interrupted me from watching ESPN, and called me into the kitchen for yet another one of his many lessons. The manner in which he taught me wasn’t by me looking on at his every task but instead me doing all of the work while he closely directed so I’d my hands would familiarize themselves with the process as he claimed. It was the same method that his grandmother taught him to cook with.

I preferred learning to cook under his guidance far more than my mother’s because she’s like a drill sergeant in the kitchen; barking down on her subject for any mistake or mishap with her directions. He and I laughed, danced to whatever he chose to play in the radio, and compared and contrasted our opinions on any topic we could think of. I will always hold him in the highest regard for allowing my self-expression to flourish. As a West Indian father of two girls, he could have easily chosen the overprotective and absurdly sexist route in raising us, but he didn’t. Rather than doing his best attempt to blind me from life beyond the doors of our home, he chose to listen to my perspective and then teach me about what life has to offer whether good or bad; easy, moderate, or difficult.

I miss him. Actually, that’s an understatement. During the holiday season, that pain that lies dormant within my soul flares up into an intensity that I have to stoically mask for the sake of getting through. As much as he emphasized the need to prepare both Celeste and I for the day that he was no longer with us, none of us ever expected it to be as soon as it was. I want to be the strong and independent woman that he raised me to be, but in some ways, I still need him. My mother needs him because she hasn’t been quite right ever since. Celeste needs him just as much, because there’s a part of her that has always sought him out in the men that she chose to allow into her life since his death.

“Celeste, I’m heading out.”

“Nice coat and hat.”

The caramel wool cashmere single-breasted silhouette was an unexpected gift from Kobe before we went on break for the holiday. Everything about the hand-embroidered embellishments and the manner in which it loosely accentuated my frame instantly made me fall in love with it with the Burberry piece. He encouraged me to open it up while we were standing there in my dressing room so I’d be able to see if I liked it, but I voiced that it wouldn’t be right to open it before Christmas. My curiosity nipped at me all morning long until I fed into its urge by opening it up and like a kid whenever they’re given anything new, I had to wear it immediately. The matching beanie hat is the cherry on top. Before I’m off to bed tonight, I intend to thank him again.

“Thanks. It’s my Christmas gift from Bean.”

“Who?”

“Kobe.”

“So, you’re going to be here around nine, right? You better not be late because I’m not defending you when mommy snaps.”

“Yes. I’ll be here. When she gets in from church, tell her to call me if she needs me.” I still can’t believe she went to Christmas Eve service. Actually, I’m quite surprised that she didn’t pressure Celeste and I into attending.

“Will do. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you. Merry Christmas Eve.” Unexpectedly for her, I leaned in and planted a soft peck on her cheek. We’ve never been the type of sisters who shower one another with a lot of love whether it be physical or verbal, but on there are those random occasions when I do show or tell her how much I love her. I’d like to think in all the ways I help her or come running when she needs me, it’s a reflection of what I feel just as much.

“Merry Christmas Eve. Have fun.”

“Will do. You too. Since mom isn’t here, maybe you and Preston can get a little practice in on that baby that you want.” With a slight scoff, her eyebrows raised.

“Since when are you on the wild side?”

“I’m reserved, not virginal. See you in the morning.”

A gust a wind slithered through the open space as soon as I opened the door to step outside and very faint sprinkles of snow filled the air as they lightly cascaded down to meet my frame. I thought I would have been out of here before it all started but the beauty of it ceased any complaints that I usually would have if it weren’t Christmas Eve. If anything, the snow makes the spirit of tonight even more fulfilling. I don’t have to dream of a white Christmas because it seems like the city is being gifted with one this year. “Happy Holidays stranger.” I didn’t see his car parked across the street nor had I noticed him jogging across the street after locking the doors behind himself and yet here he is, stepping up onto the sidewalk and inching closer to the steps of my mother’s porch to trigger a slight downward spiral of my mood with his presence alone. I don’t know what it is with Quinton and his purposeful choice to remain all in the family despite my resistance towards whatever he and my mother thought they had planned for my love life. Initially, I believed he genuinely viewed us as an extension of his own family and supporters in the neighborhood who he knew he could count on, but now, I’m not sure what the fuck this is or where he’s going with it. “Happy Holidays.” “How have you been?” “Well. You?” I was better just a minute ago. “I’m well enough.” “What brings you around? The holiday? You seem to always show up around here whenever there’s one.” In his hand, he held a gift bag that I’m going to assume is for my mother. It’s not that I mind that he buys her gifts, because deep down, I don’t. I’m mostly concerned with what they mean. “I don’t just show up here on holidays. I come over and check on your mom from time to time. You know I love Mrs. Nazaire.” My scoff was loud and clear. Any time we speak now, he sounds like nothing more than a fame hungry politician, who uses manipulation tactics to garner allies and supporters. I’m sure his antics are no different with my mother. It’s why she holds him in such high regard no matter how much I don’t give a fuck. “Yeah? It’s starting to feel like you’re screwing my mother. I’m not looking for any step-dads within our age range. Sniff around women your own age Quinton.” The sarcasm flowed from my mouth and into his ears; leaving a flustered expression on his face that quickly transitioned into one of annoyance. “I’m not. I’ve only been to bed with one Nazaire woman.” “I’m glad you used the past tense. I barely remember that one and done situation; but I’m glad that you do. She’s not here, but Celeste and her husband are. You’re more than welcome to wait for her and I’m sure that you will.” “I don’t know what it is that Shamel did to you, but you’re so bitter now. Not all men are hood gym owners who fucked you over repeatedly while dipping into women who bought memberships to be trained in doggystyle position rather than on treadmills. All I wanted to do was be a good man to you, but you’re coming at my head as if I’m your enemy.” He said all of that and yet I’m the bitter one? If anyone asked me anything about this man’s personal life, I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything aside from what I know from the days when we’d actually hangout with one another. I haven’t kept up with much about his life story since then and I’d prefer not to know now. That’s the difference between he and I; he remains invested in what doesn’t concern him while I can’t seem to find a reason or the time to concern myself with what he wishes I would concern myself with. “I’m growing a bit confused about who has the pussy between the two of us. Only bored and lonely women concern themselves with what was or wasn’t going on in another woman’s relationship. Damn, you were more invested in what Shamel was doing with his time than I was. I’m bitter because I don’t want to play your political trophy wife or are you bitter because despite my firm no, you’re still sniffing around here and chasing me? Find your dignity Quinton. Don’t go out like a wack bitch, aight?” “I hope you don’t go out like one either. Make sure you keep it classy by not fucking with all of those athletes that you’re constantly around. How many have you been with thus far?” “All of them.” I’m usually not the type to laugh at my own jokes but I couldn’t help but to chuckle at his facial expression. I’ve been slut shammed more times than I can count. It happens every day when random people hiding behind social media accounts on apps decide to accuse me of using my body in order to keep my job, so Quinton doing it isn’t offending me any more than it does when strangers are doing it. Initially, I used to be extremely irritated by it but I’ve come to terms with the reality that people are going to say and assume whatever they want no matter what I do or feel about it. No matter who I do or don’t have in my bed, my bills are paid. “Excuse me. I have some place to be.”

Stepping around him wasn’t the problem; it was the oddness of him standing there and watching me slip into my car. Like a lost puppy, he trudged up the stairs to the house door and continued to burn a hole into my foggy windows with a scowl on his face that I couldn’t see but I’m sure is there. Maybe one day he’ll get it or maybe he won’t, either way, I’m not responsible for what he feels. I’ve been clear with all intentions and lack their off.

No matter how much snowfall happens in the northeast year after year, as soon as flakes of any size begins to fall out of the sky, the snail-paced traffic is an immediate effect and it drives me insane. It’s one of the primary reasons why I was in no rush to get a new car and am currently wishing I had a driver taking me to my destination. Not even the holiday tunes that I love so much are distracting me from wanting to roll my window down and shout at the drivers in front of me who are missing green lights and evoking slight amounts of fear within me with their skidding. What would usually be a forty-five-minute commute turned into nearly an hour and a half.

The relief that washed over me at the sight of the double entry driveway was well received as I slowly inched my way in and focused in on the three bodies standing in the driveway. I reached out to him just a few minutes ago to notify him that I’d need help getting bags out of the backseat of the car, so we wouldn’t have to make multiple trips in the brisk weather. Unlike the other males standing alongside him, the handsome one who belongs to me was hilariously covered in an oversized Santa coat with a black hood covering his blonde mane.

“The traffic was so stupid as I was on my way to the Lincoln Tunnel. I will never understand how people who have been living on the East Coast since forever still fear the damn snow. It’s not even snowing that hard.” My right hand latched onto his and he carefully pulled me out of the driver’s seat and into his awaiting arms. My complaint went into one ear and right out of the other as he endearingly snuggled my frame as close to his as possible while nuzzling his chilled face into the nape of my neck. Admittedly, I needed to feel him in this exact manner for the restoration of the joy that this night is supposed to be and bring.

“And don’t even get me started on this ass wipe in this big ass Navigator who kept slightly skidding. I was caught in between being worried for my damn life and wanting to kick his ass for driving so stupidly. Oh and…” His peck was sweet; subtle and yet enough to leave me yearning for so much more.

“Give me your keys.” To oblige his request, I dropped them into his hand and turned to both Kordell and Derek who were looking on and most likely extremely bored with my rant.

“Hi guys.”

“You finally made it. This guy was about five minutes away from hopping into his Rolls Royce and driving all the way to Brooklyn for you.” I’ve only met his step-father Derek once and in my quick assessment of him I understood that he was more of a reserve man who somehow had a humorous side to him that couldn’t be ignored. He can crack a joke and it usually comes at the right time.

“I told him I was coming. I would have been here if it weren’t for the traffic.”

“And he wanted me to get in the car and go with his lame ass.” After a shared hug with Derek, I threw my arms around Kordell and pecked his forehead despite his maneuvers to avoid it. He’s not exactly the most physically affectionate person so I purposefully shower him with some of my own to worsen whatever annoyance his oldest brother sent his way.

“You weren’t going to come looking for me with your brother? I thought you and I are good friends now?”

“We’re family or whatever, but you and bro are old. I have a lot more life to live. I wasn’t about to catch hypothermia messing with the two of you.”

“It’s not even that bad out here. You haven’t seen a real blizzard yet Louisiana boy.” His dramatics earned a light mush to his head. I’d love to see how he reacts to a couple of feet of snow covering the ground and maybe even a power outage to go with it. Now that’s hell.

“Sarai, what is all of this?” The bewildered expression on his face and him using my first name evoked me to widen my eyes in a confusion about what I could possibly be in trouble about. I don’t believe there’s anything incriminating in my trunk and if there is, I didn’t place it there.

“Gifts.”

“All of this?” Like a nagging elderly man who borders between obnoxiously cheap and being frugal with his money, he extended his arm towards the overflowing trunk and placed his idly hand on his hip to await an explanation that he’s not going to receive.

“What? I told you that I was coming with gifts. Don’t be ridiculous. Just grab them. Oh, and don’t forget the ones in the backseat. I’m going inside. It’s cold.”

“This is crazy. You went overboard.”

“I know you’re not talking about overboard. There’s a Rolls Royce parked right over there. I can start there and keep on going for hours. You really want to do this right now?” If there’s anything I’m ever ready for; it’s to prove somebody wrong. Debating is an essential part of my profession as an analyst and I haven’t lost a debate yet if you let me tell it, so I can and will give him an extensive five minutes of dialog about his spending habits and how he is by far one of the biggest spenders that I know. This man doesn’t even use his washer and dryer. He dry cleans every damn thing and never wears the same underwear, socks, or t-shirts twice.

“Nah, baby, you got it.” Without any further questions or concerns, he extended his arms into the trunk and began to retrieve a few of the many bags that they all needed to bring inside.

“Wow. You know how things go in arguments. Good job, man.”

While on my way to the warmth, my laughter at Derek’s commentary was loud enough for me to hear it but low enough so that the man of my affection couldn’t make it out. Sometimes it’s just best to keep quiet about the reality that your man is willing to put himself aside to please you and, in this case, it was his mouth.

“Sarai!”

Sometimes I’m stunned by my sincere acceptance into his family dynamic. We’re anything but traditional and we’re navigating in a manner that I’m sure they don’t understand because we certainly don’t. Aside from my overwhelming emotional affection towards the man who belongs to them more than he does to me, they’ve been unknowingly responsible for making me feel like I deserve the joy that I feel when I’m with him and around them. In my transition from hugs with Heather, Jazzy, and those who I’ve been led around the first level of the house to meet, I haven’t been able to ease away the smile gracing my face.

“Your outfit and pajamas are upstairs in the room.” I know pasta when I smell it. The fumes coming from the kitchen appealed to my senses quickly and left my stomach turning in knots for nourishment.

“Outfit?”

“Wait until you see what your guy bought for you.” Her amusement was my fear. I tend to like to make him the butt of a couple of my jokes, but I don’t want to be the one on the other end of his tonight.

“Is it a onesie?”

“No.” Suddenly I wish this glass of egg nog were spiked.

“I’m going to head up and see it. If it’s a disaster I’m pulling the feminist card and blaming the both of you because we’re supposed to be united against these men.” I waggled my finger back and forth to point out the mother and daughter duo who found my apprehension to be amusing and began slowly inch my way up the spiraling staircase that leads to the upper level of the house. Though I could hear his voice loud and clear from the foyer, O hadn’t brought my personal belongings upstairs and I’m already up here so that’s out. With that in mind, it seems even more logical to take him up on his offer of my own closet space so that I no longer need to keep trekking overnight backs to and from here.

A blend of the Italian bergamot and clay sage from his beloved cologne meshed in blissfully with the gingerbread scent that I know he purposefully misted into the room just for me. Since December came in, he frequently made note of how my home smelled like cookies whenever he came over and accused me of trying to toy with his already slightly ridiculous appetite for junk food, especially candy. Despite my love for Bath and Body Works and Yankee Candle’s holiday scents, he deemed them to be exceedingly sweet and overdone. Now look at him.

Flutters filled my core at the sight of his master suite’s fireplace being utilized for the first time ever. Unlike my obsession with them, it’s a feature within the house that he hasn’t concerned himself with since moving in. There’s something about the way the flames are curling and oscillating, flickering like gleaming lights, and cascading hues of scarlet onto the wall that naturally warms the space.

“Your stuff is on the bed.” I knew he was in the doorway. The chills trickling onto the back of my neck spoke before he did.

“You put the fireplace on.”

“I figured you’d like it. Thank God it’s electric. I’m no fireplace expert.” As his feet trudged against the wooden flooring, he dropped my monogram Louis Vuitton Keepall Bandoulière duffle bag near the entry way of his closet.

“It’s beautiful.” If it were just us, I’d curl up on the floor in front of it with a good playlist going.

As soon as my Ugg boots were kicked aside, I inched closer to the bed and alongside three bags, was a Snoopy and Woodstock perfectly wrapped present that I certainly wasn’t expecting to see. My curiously instantly peaked but in a swift second, I checked myself for discarding the waiting rule I’ve grown up with. Celeste and I weren’t even able to open one gift at midnight on Christmas Eve.

“You forgot to put that under the tree?” Instead, I reached for the crimson red gift bag and snickered as soon as my hand silky velvet material that is identical to the kind covering his frame. My Mrs. Claus coat was that of something I’d be waiting for Santa in the bedroom in rather than keeping an eye on the elves. It’s lace-up front called for a good cleavage while the pure white faux fur trimming and flared skirted bottom were more along the lines of tradition until anyone notices the split open front. What exactly is supposed to go under this?

“No, that’s for you to open now. You probably thought I was playing when I mentioned it before but I really am impatient on Christmas Eve. I like to open presents the night before and just sleep on Christmas morning. Since it’s our first one together, I figured I’d be fair to your traditions and my own. So, we can open some tonight and then open the first in the morning. Fair?” Like an eager child hoping to get his way, his narrowed eyes slightly widened with hopes that I’d agree to what he calls fair. I don’t see what the big deal is. It all has to be opened either way.

“Fair.”

“So open that.”

Lazily, my body flopped down onto the plushness of the bed and I grabbed the box with a bit of shaking to increase his growing anticipation. The contents inside only slighting moved, throwing off just about all of my potential guesses for what it may be. My first donned a smirk as I commenced with tearing through the wrapping paper to uncover the infamous Christian Louboutin box under it. Shoes? Infinite brownie points already. Much like himself, I adore footwear. I stand by the law that a shoe can make or break a look more than any other article of clothing.

“You didn’t.” Instantaneously, thoughts of a random conversation I was having with Taylor came to mind. Christian Louboutin collaborated with Indian Couture Designer Sabyasachi Mukherjee on an extremely limited-edition collection featuring hand-embroidered sari fabrics and jaw dropping embellishments that left me in awe upon the sight of it online. Every piece of material used to craft the shoes were taken from Sabyasachi’s private archive, leaving only a few pairs of each design to be created.

“Didn’t what?” His confusion was intentional. The grin called his bluff. The lid to the box went flying behind me in an instant and in dramatic fashion, I dropped back onto the bed in astonishment and bliss at the sight of the exquisite thigh high boots that I fell in love with. Their golden delicate leather straps were specially designed harness and highlight the leg. On top of it, they’re made to measure.

“Is this real life?”

“I feel pretty alive, what about you?”

“How the hell did you get these? I called everywhere. No, literally. I e-mailed fucking Hong Kong for them. Supposedly only like six pairs were made.” “Those have been in my closet since October.” The nonchalance in his tone evoked a moisture lightly seep into the seat of the lace under my jeans. I don’t know whether to jump on the bed in joy or discard everything covering my frame allow him to twist and flip me into any position of his liking. Maybe both? Both can certainly be done.

“Come and give me a hug please.” With the box now resting alongside me, I opened my arms and awaited his presence. Like a weighted blanket, a wave of tranquility washed over me at the mass of his body now being closely hard-pressed against mine. My fingers found their way into the platinum blonde curls and few loose dreads dangling from his scalp and our lips met for a kiss that I’d been yearning for since I opened my eyes this morning. The sweetness of his supple lips intoxicated me far more than anything alcoholic ever could and the way his length fingers dug into the skin of my hips nearly blurred the actuality that we’re not home alone.

“I love them so much. Thank you, handsome.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Get up so that I can get one of yours from downstairs.”

“I can wait until after you’re dressed.”

“No, I insist. Let me get it.”

“Another kiss first?”

Without hesitation, I once again pressed my lips into his own for a deep peck and moved in a fluidity with his body as we eased off of the bed. I made it downstairs and back up, with a promise that I’d hurry up and change so the festivities could really begin. I need a quick shower first before I do anything else.

“I hope that you like it. I saw it and you instantly came to mind.”

“Can I just warn you that I didn’t wrap all of your gifts. The only reason why your boots were wrapped is because the boutique did it for me.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care about all of that.” The last thing I expected him to do is be frustrating himself with wrapping paper. His patience would never be able to handle it. For some odd reason, I enjoy doing it. I’ve been the designated gift wrapper in my family for years.

Though it may seem childish to some, I wrapped everything I bought him in Dr. Seuss’ “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” wrapping paper that I randomly spotted and happily picked up from a Hallmark store in Rutherford, New Jersey. Since he deemed it to be his favorite holiday classic, I imagined it would be festive to bring an element of it into the fun.

With my phone in hand, I snapped a photo of him as he tore through it to reveal the Louis Vuitton box, I knew it to be. Within seconds, its lid was on the floor and he drew away the protective paper to reveal the tan cowhide and calf leather “Christopher Backpack” backpack I bought for him. Unlike his ridiculously vibrant Supreme bags, I fell in love with the timeless style of the backpack and the classic solidness of its color. It’s a perfect choice for those game days when he’s more dressed up than down and needs something that’s subtle while still somehow being a statement piece.

“Damn, this is clean. This is perfect for when we’re traveling because they usually want us a little more dressed up.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Yeah, I love this baby. I don’t know about waiting until next season to wear it though. I’ll have this on within a couple of days. Watch.”

Knowing him, he will. If it’s new, he’s in it shortly after receiving it. I don’t know him to be that person who saves things for later. Why should he when he’s constantly either buying or receiving things?

“I’m going to take a short shower. It’ll be quick.”

“You already smell good. What you need a shower for?”

“I was cooking. I can smell it on me. It’ll be quick. Ten minutes.”

“Your showers are never ten minutes.”

“This one will be. I assure you.”

The fib didn’t go without being grumbled about when that ten-minute duration I assured him up turned into an additional ten simply because of the feel of the warm water cascading over my skin left me in damn near a state of slumber as I stood there. My lotion lathering came with assistance and so did pulling up the opaque plaid patterned tights over my thighs. By the way of their fit, they were clearly sewn together to cater to an extremely slender woman’s shape but by the grace of God and my man’s hands they were up and over my ass without a snag or hole in sight.

“I really can’t believe you bought all of this.” We look like we work in the middle of a mall. Instead of having crying babies sitting up on his lap for photographs, he’d have lusty women beating one another to a bloody pulp for daring to cut the line to ruin their chances of sitting upon his lap and asking for his genitalia while I’d be called Santa’s Slore.

“Let’s go outside.”

Intricate patterns of the weightless ice floated downward from the darkened sky. Each flake whirled and twirled as a faint wind blustered them in our direction. Much like the silly man alongside myself randomly dancing for his personal media guy’s camera, I joyfully tracked footsteps into the barely there bed of snow covering the grounds of his driveway and took satisfaction in the sound of it squishing under my boots. I’m no longer camera shy, but being on one with him has awoken what used to be a part of me. I already knew that George would be documenting all of this just as he does for a lot of milestones and random moments of his life, but what happens if I’m no longer what he wants and he randomly comes across this Christmas video and the pictures to go with it one day? How awkward would that be?

“Hey, look.”

“Huh?” Though he only spoke two words, the thick cloud of breath still lingered as I faced him. In following his eyes as they slowly panned up, mine met the mistletoe idly hanging on the door with the red bows that were already there.

“That was not there when I got here.” I saw the bows, but the mistletoe? No. Laughter spilled from our lips at what I knew to be true. I’m slightly fatigued, but I can remember what I did and did not see.

“It was.”

“It was not.”

“Come and kiss me so that we can go inside, open up more stuff, and play cards with grandma.”

“That tone. I like it.” I’m alright with a man taking charge every now and then.

“Come here.”

The frost of the winter air was of no match to the warmth radiating from our bodies and serving as a shield around our affection. I’d often fantasize about moments like this; having a companion to comfortably, and most of all safely, bare my all to without any guards or painful baggage weighing me down. I believed the advice of allowing it to come to me was standard and cliché, but I undoubtedly understand it now. It’s when you least expect it that the unexpected happens in the best way possible. I ruled him out of my life as soon as we had that initial conversation and yet the universe continued to cross our paths, naturally coercing me to allow him in. In the midst of all of my fears from the past and present, I want only him.

“Okay, let’s go. I want to see everything that you got me.”

“You can’t open everything tonight. That’s breaking our deal.”

“Huh?” I trailed behind him as he dashed back into the house and towards the living room.

“You heard me!”

I chose the kitchen counter top as my designated seat for what turned into the most chaotic gift giving presentation. Like a hood Santa Claus, all I could pay attention to was my man and his slightly sagging plaid pants zipping through his home pulling out gifts from seemingly everywhere. They jokingly talked about how much of a grinch he was last Christmas but he’s certainly redeeming himself this year.

I can’t remember the last time I thoughtlessly splurged on luxury designer goods but I don’t need to do so any time soon because he covered that and then some. Being overwhelmed was an understatement. Chanel, Versace, Bottega Veneta, Balenciaga, Saint Laurent, Fendi. I lost track of the rest and the process of just how I’m going to be able to organize all of it in my closet.

In watching him, it’s so easy to understand human purpose. In the midst of being here to seek fulfillment within our own purpose, we’re just as much here to look after our loved ones and even those who aren’t. Fortunately, he’s been blessed to have more and because of it, he spreads not only his love but also the benefits of his wealth among them. There’s a pride within it that has been radiating from him for over an hour now. I too, can relate. I’ve been given just as many hugs and kisses of thanks that he’s been given and I expect that it’ll continue when I am with my own family in the morning.

“Draw 4, blondie.” What he thought was going to be a swift Uno out moment turned into him having fifteen cards in his hand and a scowl on his face that is hysterical. He’d beaten me to the point of embarrassment at Spades because I’ve never been that great at it despite the many times my dad taught me how to play, so I had to somehow coerce him into playing something that I could play by pretending that I didn’t know how to.

“You know what, I’m going downstairs to whoop Kordell in some hoops because you’re cheating.” A snicker slipped past my lips at the playfully aggravated scowl on his face as he used his body’s strength to push his chair away from the round table. In a manner to taunt him, I held out my hands before me and wiggled my fingers to signify my lack of cards and the reality that I’d just won yet another game of UNO. My man being a sore loser isn’t something that he’s modest about. I and many others have known that about him for quite some time.

“Don’t be mad.”

“You’re cheating. You keep making up imaginary rules that don’t exist.”

“Seriously? The directions are in the box. Look at them or look them up on Google. It’s not my fault that you don’t know them all. You just suck.”

“I suck?” The amused expression on Mille’s face tickled all of us as she glanced back and forth, to take in every shit talking word as they left the both of our mouths. She’d been quietly observing the two of us since we joined both she and Jasmyne at the table for a round of card games.

Initially, I thought I’d been intruding on her time with her grandchildren, but the sly smirks and eventual huge smiles gracing her angelic face swarmed me with a warmness that I needed to further soothe me into a comfort zone around those who I do not know well just yet. Every couple of minutes or so, she’d give me either a gracious caress to the hand as a sign of her welcoming or a pat of encouragement to continue beating her oldest grandchild at Uno. I’m going to accredit that to the feminism within her.

“If the shoe fits, babe.”

“I’m going to remember that baby. The mental note is made.” He used his index finger to tap his forehead as I wordlessly ogled over his exterior.

If anyone looked at his attire, it wouldn’t be deemed as anything impressive; a black Supreme sweatshirt and a pair of black loose shorts to keep him much cooler than all of that velvet he had on. Simple. Why my eyes are continuing to embarrassingly bulge out of their sockets every time they land on him is beyond my comprehension. I’ve never seen anyone’s facial structure be as chiseled to perfection as his is. The silhouette of his jawbone is completely shielded by the blackness of his thick beard and yet just the hint of it sends unwavering shivers down my spine.

The glimmer in his faintly slanted and ever so narrowed eyes illuminates any room when that priceless smile arises on his face and every aspect of myself begins to figuratively melt into liquid form; between my thighs is the worst of it. In the midst of his sleep, I love to plant soft pecks down the finely lined bridge of his nose until my lips are gently pressed into the suppleness of his own. I’m addicted. I lose all sense of who I am whenever his warm tongue meets mine.

Handsome is an understatement; it isn’t enough to compare. He is beauty personified. I don’t believe there is another man in sports entertainment who has left me gasping for just a slight breath of air upon my every sight of him. It never gets old. I don’t believe it ever will.

Sometimes I have to wonder if he’s truly mine or if the universe is playing some type of sick joke on me.

“I don’t mind you remembering that.” Whatever payback he has for that may come with pleasure that I am more than willing to accept.

“Alright.” The sly smirk tugging on his lips was enough to leave me on the borderline of tickled and embarrassed as soon as he leaned over to plant a knowing and warning kiss on my lips. Despite the presence of his younger siblings and the elders within his family, he didn’t harbor not even an ounce of regard or bashfulness when it came to his need to have his hands touching some part of my body or any other display of affection, he bestowed upon me at random moments. His actions remained consistent with all that he does when we’re alone; barely any discretion involved.

“I’m not sure if my stomach is churning because of you two or because I want some cake, but I’m going to get some cake anyway. Y’all want anything?”

“You just mad.” And just like that, her brother’s large palms were lightly meshing into the side of her head for a playful mush and she instantly pushed him out of her way.

“I’m just fine with my egg nog.” Mille opted to keep hers virgin along with the other underage beings around. The rest of us had just a teaser of rum to give it a subtle kick.

“Me too. I’m fine.” I stepped on the scale a couple of days ago and I’ve gained five pounds. Between the man in my life constantly feeding me and the holidays, I’ve been overindulging on just about everything that’s offered to me. I need to get my life together.

With yet another shove to her brother’s side, Jasmyne darted away from the table with him hot on her trail with jokes about the size of her head which is no different from his own, but I’ll leave him be. They left the matriarch of their family and I at the table with decks of cards and a “Snow Place Like Home” five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle that she’s beginning to open so that we can attempt to put it all together before we’re off to bed. The peacefulness on her face evoked a solace within me that I’ve been seeking since this day began. My internal mourning subsided for the meantime as I observed her joy in being surrounded by family and most of all, because they’re all doing quite well in all aspects.

“My daughter went from telling me that you have my grandson’s nose wide open to telling me that he’s completely lost into your world and I couldn’t believe it. Odell would always laugh me off when I asked him about girls or women and he’d tell me that myself, Heather, and Jasmyne are the only ladies of value and importance in his life. From the way he’s been floating around here since your arrival and the way he looks at you, there’s officially a fourth.” My mouth moved to speak but the words remained stuck in the pit of my throat as her ash white eyebrows arose in a satisfaction at the believed accuracy of her all too knowing spirit.

“You don’t have to be modest. He’s not sitting next to you anymore.” Immediately, giggles spilled from her rosy lips prompting my shoulders to sink in a relief that I’m not sure why I needed.

“I’m not being modest. I just don’t know what to say. It feels like a lot of this is unfamiliar territory for me but at the same time, it evokes the shy and bashful side of me.” She’s been making little comments since we were introduced. I guess they were all leading up to this moment.

“That’s a good thing dear; a great thing. I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since his momma showed me a video of him working out with his physical therapists and trainers. You’ve built him back up. She gives you most of the credit for that.”

“I wouldn’t give myself any credit. His determination did it. You can’t keep someone with his determination down and he certainly wasn’t going to do it to himself.”

“Determination goes a long way, but often time, there has to be something or someone to ignite the fire behind that determination and that has been you. You cared for him, physically and most of all mentally, during what he calls one of the most disappointing and darkest times of his life thus far. So, don’t sell yourself cheaply because he talks about you like you’re priceless.”

“I believe in everyone having a person; that person that they can go to for laughter and good times or to lean on for a cry session. Whether it’s a close relative or a friend, you just need that person. I wanted to be that person for him because I know what it’s like to not have that person. He didn’t need pity. He needed encouragement that the injury is just a small part of his journey and most of all, he just needed someone to simply be there. That’s what you do for someone you lo-“

My tongue pressed against the backs of my top front teeth as I halted an admission that I’ve been withholding for a short while and coming to grips with on my own. I’ve been overly analyzing what that means for myself and how to navigate it going forward because it’s never felt quite like this before. As with all that I’ve been sharing with him, it’s new and I’ve jumped off of a cliff and into a pit of fear that I’m doing my best not to drown in.

Acceptance needed to come first and now that it has, I’ve been in a wonderment of whether or not those feelings are reciprocated on his end and how I’m going to handle my ever-going emotions if they are not. I cannot berate him for what he may not feel nor can I resent him for not sparing my feelings with lies if he does admit that I am in this alone.

I want to do nothing more than protect him. It’s almost odd because I’ve felt compelled to do that prior to even knowing him. Every attack and biased commentary that came his way felt like a personal attack on the character of a man who the world refused to understand. Now that I’ve experienced him in ways that are far beyond what were in my imagination at that time, I stand firm in what I knew all along. He’s not perfect and yet his imperfections are too what I love about him. He’s the embodiment of a security in his personhood and masculinity that I am irrevocably attached to.

“You could have finished that. Words are powerful but so are body language and actions. Yours have said it all. You know, I used to call you the young lady on TV that he likes so much, but now I call you the young lady on TV that he loves so much.”

Faint tingling nipped at the nape of my neck and the lined crevice of my back as certain aspects of her statement entered my ear like a vibrating echo; hypothetically repeating themselves for an emphasis to my thoughts. The last man I remember genuinely loving me laid down with my mom to create me. Shamel did not love me; I was something to do.

He rarely ever used the word and when he did, it was to emphasize something that he loved for me to do for him. In poor judgement and a lack of character, I accepted that because I was too emotionally exhausted to be combative with him or myself about it. Eventually, I didn’t even want him to love me. There didn’t need to be anything that kept us attached beyond an ignorant familiarity that I clung to for far too long.

“You really think so?”

“I know so dear.”

In an effort to help her, I reached my arms out and used my hands to spread out the many pieces all over the table so that we could begin a strategy to get it done. It’s been quite some time since I’ve done one of these and I’m not even sure my tired body can concentrate enough but I’m willing to try.

“Merry Christmas.” Yet again, the scent of his Sean Jean cologne slithered up my nose as the heat radiating from his body left me leaning back against my seat, relishing in it. His long arms extended over and he placed a navy-blue box down on the table directly in front of me. Upon my eyes landing on it, the all too famous Harry Winston initials were engraved in a bold gold on its surface.

“What’s this?” Along with him, Mille, and myself being in the room, there was also George who was continuing to document every aspect of this holiday celebration.

“Just a little something for my Brooklyn girl to rock with her Timbs.”

“Shut up!” Our regional teasing never ends. He tends edge me out with the Brooklyn jokes because I don’t know how many other ways, I can talk about how country he is. Technically speaking, he’s not even as country as some of the other athletes that I’ve spoken with over the last couple of years. Even his accent, that nearly melted me out of my heels the night we first conversed with one another, isn’t heavily ingrained with that Louisiana flare.

“Open it.” Without any bickering or hesitation, I slowly pulled up the lid on the box to reveal a pair of hoop earrings that instantly left me in a state of breathlessness. The emerald and round cut stones circled their platinum setting with a glimmer that one could not ignore. Every aspect of their make oozed a meticulousness to his taste and Mr. Winston’s talent. Any figure of price that came to mind could not match up with what sat before me and I know better than to ask him for specifics. I can admit to being a gold hoop wearing girl while I was back in high school, but I never imagined myself having a pair quite like this.

“Oh my God.” Circling my fingers over their surfaces solidified the reality of them now being within my possession and his supple lips pressing against my forehead widened the smile I was already donning.

“You like them? They seemed like they were very you when I saw them. Hoops for when you rock those buns in your hair.” Whether it’s a well done or sloppy bun, he always compliments how “cute” it is on me and he takes it a step further by enjoying the open access to my neck while my hair is out of the way.

“I love them. Thank you, babe. Thank you so much, they’re beautiful.” Just as I’ve done with every gift he’s given me thus far, I leapt out of the chair and threw my arms around his body in a physical showering of the love that I have for him. It’s beyond the gifts but rather the reality of him thinking of me and being so intuitive with what I desire and need that has taken his endless gift giving over the edge tonight.

“George did you get that? Now that’s a picture-perfect moment.” Mille’s face glowed in pleasure at the sight of us. I wonder if we’re reminiscent of those old black and white films that I secretly love so much. I hope so, but just in color. Everything about us is vibrant.

“I have it all Mama Millz.”

“I’ll be back.” I couldn’t take another moment of being in that unbearably warm coat or the tights.

I did change. The crimson red fair isle long john was a perfect touch for tonight. Much like earlier, the fireplace distracted me and I found myself sliding down onto the floor to marvel in its heat and beauty. If there were a pillow down here with me, I’d be asleep within minutes. Though he moved into this house not that long ago, for some reason it feels more lived in than my own. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with family right now or it may be the dogs, but I enjoy the way I feel here. There’s an eerie loneliness in my home that can be difficult to ignore sometimes.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the fireplace.”

“Why are you acting like you don’t have one?” Once inside, he closed the door enough just to leave a crack in it.

“I don’t have one in my bedroom.”

“We can fix that.” Yet again, the nonchalance tone and now shrug awoken parts of me that I’ve been mentally taming since my arrival. He talks like he’s more than willing to give me the world in a silver platter if I were to request it.

“I have something for you.”

“I want something for you too.”

“Me first.” Rather than hanging it to him, I nudged the velvet gift bag towards his feet and he flopped down onto the floor to meet it. He dropped his gift for me, Cartier from what I observed, into his lap.

“Patek Philippe? Oh wow.” With no response, I allowed him to have the moment to himself as he pulled the chocolate toned leather box out of the bag. Our eye contact was brief as he pulled open the lid and his silence intrigued me instead of rattling my already racing nerves. Just as I’d done to the hoop earrings, his fingers ran over its surface while his lips parted to leave his mouth agape. It may not be on his arm now, but I’ve envisioned just how incredible it’s going to look on him over and over again.

“The blue isn’t only representative of the team but it also takes me back to the night we both spoke for the first time. You were wearing blue and black. In New Orleans, when we made things official, you were wearing blue. Blue makes me think of you. I know most associate that color with sorrow, but you give it life and joy. You give it character.”  

Only the sound of the fire crackling against the wood served as a tune dancing in the air of stillness between the two of us. His reaction to so many of the other things I gifted to him were boisterous and comedic, but this stole his words and left him to wallow in speechlessness.

“Sarai, I love you.”

The wholeness of his words filled voids that I neglected and accepted as everlasting destruction. His patience has sealed my gaping wounds and rid me of the leftover scarring. The acceptor of my deficiencies and the protector of my delicate soul, in his eyes, for the first time in such a long time, I recognize myself. The duality of being able to love myself and him is as synchronized as my breathing.

“I love you too, Odell.”

Undoubtedly. Irrevocably.

[flaine1996]

Reassignment

Sooo lol! Update on project timeline: slow but progressing 

to the point I have actually written a bit of a story that will be most likely implemented in the timeline with small photoesque pictures on it xD so here goes more under the cut :)

–June of 2183–

Shepard had found herself in an alliance outpost in one of the colonies inside the Attican Traverse. She hated it.

Not that there were places she liked but more so, it felt way too close to home. Causing her hands to clench and unclench repeatedly. She would never admit to being nervous but the feeling of being in rough terrain without a full set of armor and a full arsenal of weaponry made her feel naked and exposed just like before. Her blood boiled as the air around her started to shimmer a comforting soft blue hue.

She took a deep breath. Fortunately enough though for the colony she landed in, it became apparent that the Alliance had not spared an expense in making sure they were fully equipped for any sort of attack or raid by any species. And by any Shepard truly meant the batarians. No one wanted a repeat of Mindoir. No one. She’d make sure of that.

The colony had a firm presence of Alliance soldiers patrolling the areas of the colony in the latest M35 Mako and small bunks of alliance outpost itself lining the outer edges of the colony making sure that any entry or exit would be checked thoroughly and carefully by the Alliance Soldiers. In the center of the town itself was the central hub of alliance personnel. Considering how this was the latest expansion of the Alliance to the Attican Traverse they would do anything to protect it. If only they’d do the same for the rest. But considering Shepard’s status in the Alliance her words amount to the dirt on a soldier’s boot. Not that she ever shared her thoughts. Not that anything mattered to her regarding Alliance affairs.

She took another swig of colonial homebrewed beer. The one benefit of these outposts was that the colony felt safe enough to focus on their own development. Small houses to big buildings lined the area that was not occupied by the Alliance. The effects of it were noticeable from agriculture to infrastructure. Considering how much time would’ve been spent on security now that the Alliance was here people could focus on the important things. Like alcohol. One good thing then.

Shepard knew she had to meet her contact in the central hub of the alliance but honest to god seeing the faces of any Alliance high ranking officials may as well end up with a blood bath. Especially the fact that none of them were ever able to hide the disdain they had for her. Even the Alliance Soldiers would not stop there constant whispering in her presence. Dumb fucks don’t know how to shut up. She’d do them all a favor and sew their mouth shut but apparently System Alliance Regulations do not condone such acts to civilians nor peers. Hypocrites. Which is why she sent her location to the private line given to her by her contact.

Shepard closed her eyes and forced herself to focus on her breathing. The silence of the makeshift pub was comforting if not foreboding. She had taken a seat in the far end closed off to the other patrons. Though patrons is a too generous of a word, after all she was the only one here. That didn’t stop her from drinking though. Though the only sensation she felt was of the metallic floor underneath her which was in an odd sense grounding as if the metal had swallowed her boots and refused to let her float away to the unknown darkness above them. She felt the ends of her mouth twitch, the alcohol must truly be getting to her. As she turned her head to the side she noticed she was on the eleventh bottle by now. “Where in hell was her goddamn contact”, she thought to herself bitterly.

Though it did give her time to appreciate more of the décor of the place with the lights dim enough not to be disturbing and small windows at the side filtering the rays of the sun from getting inside considering it was 8 in the goddamn morning. The owner or atleast bartender was standing in his makeshift bar with a metallic table to isolate himself from his customers and a full closet behind him stacked with common labels to their special homebrewed beer that apparently they had yet to name. Work in progress, he said. She was never the type to refuse a drink. Though in this case a particular strong one with a hint of herbs? One in particular was one her mother often used mugwort was the name. The rest she couldn’t even name, deciding then to might as well talk to the barkeep about the ingredients so as to not go directly to the alliance central hub, find her contact and kick their ass from here and then back to the earth.

She opened her mouth from her seat when a familiar rough but comfortably warm voice rang out, “It’s good to see you enjoying yourself.”

Shepard could not have shot to her feet quicker and her spine straightened as her right hand was raised near her forehead, “Good morning, Captain Anderson, Sir!”

Anderson hadn’t changed a bit his hair still shaved  and cropped closely to his head, his stature still fit and combat ready as ever, and his expression still weary and guarded but she can see a small smirk playing at his lips and his eyes exuding warmth from its natural brown color though a few more extra lines could be seen underneath them.

“At ease, soldier,” he replied without missing a beat and his lips still holding on to that smirk, “Though I seem to recall that soldiers usually raise their right hand rather than their left.”

Shepard had to do a double take to see whether Anderson was lying when she heard a soft chuckle from him, “I also remember you being more guarded than to fall for these kinds of tricks.”

Shepard rolled her eyes as she dropped her stance immediately, “If you have time to joke around then I suppose this isn’t as serious as I thought. You wouldn’t have been using another name to call me here unless…”

Shepard’s eyes turned to slits as her stance changed into one of a prey trapped to the wall. Anderson knew it well especially when he would bring up a conversation, she wanted no part of.

This time it was Anderson’s turn to straighten his spine, after all dealing with Shepard required him to use his full authority and to strong arm especially when she was ready to bolt. “Take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

“To hell with that, I am not ha—”

“Ezner Mason Shepard, Take. A. Seat.”

Shepard shut her mouth hard that the grinding of her teeth could be heard but she did as she was told and sat down. 

Anderson couldn’t help feeling a bit proud of the little victory as his smirk grew a bit wider even as Shepard sat there foot tapping at the metal floor quite harshly, he continued as he sat down and leaned in with a much softer tone to hopefully coax her to being more honest to him and to herself, “This is a great opportunity for you, Ezner. I really cannot understand why you are adamant to not be transferred to the frigate.” the last words were spoken a bit more quietly in case there were ears on the walls, “If this is about what happened in—”

Shepard did not hesitate as she stared Anderson down, “Then there is nothing further to discuss, Captain.” Despite her cold harsh words she still hadn’t moved from her seat.

Anderson then sat straighter deflated but not defeated, “Shepard I will not stand by and watch you ruin your own career by your own sheer stubbornness. The Alliance are already trying to make an official case against you to have you dishonorably discharged. Fortunately all they have is your misconducts not enough to build a case on.” Shepard barely budged from her chair as her posture slackened and her expression remained absolutely neutral, “Let me guess you also vouched for my attitude but the higher ups don’t give a shit for grunts like me and the only reasons the council wont let me go,” a disruption could be felt in the air as a blue hue engulfed the beer bottle lifting it precisely to Shephard’s lips, “Let me guess it was Hackett again? This what i get for fucking his grandau–”

“Shepard.” Anderson’s voice was devoid of its usual warmth that it even made Shepard noticeably sit straighter to the trained eye, “I know you have disagreements with Admiral Hackett but show him the respect he deserves. He helped you on torfan.”

“More like tossed me out of the Alliance as fast as he can,” Shepard muttered.

“Wasn’t that by your request? And then what did you proceed to do? Piss off all your commanding officers to the point you’ve been sent from one ship to the next.” Anderson replied as a matter-of-factly, “And yet here I am, willing to offer you the best second chance you can ever get and you still deny it. What will it take, Shepard, to get you on my ship?”

“Wait… Your ship? Last I heard…”

“Things have changed back in the Alliance. They gave me the ship and allowed me to hand pick my crew personally.”

“No wonder you’ve been hounding me more incessantly. Using another name too, not bad. Wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for him.”

“Javier knows I borrowed his contact. Only way to get you to meet me face to face.”

“He has information on Balak. That’s more important than any damn ship,” Shepard said her face contorting with anger as her hands grip the edge of her metallic chair creating a dent.

“Not just a ship, Ezner, The ship. The best that the alliance will ever have. And I want you onboard,” Anderson’s voice was filled with conviction once more and a fire burning bright.

Only to be snuffed out by Shepards words, “No. I am content with where I am.”

Anderson leaned back and examined Shepard carefully. Her rusty orange hair cut short to the base of her neck, her scar on top of her right eye spanning down onto her left cheek much less pronounced than five years ago, and her built was still as muscular as you would expect a vanguard soldier to be. She was still in better shape than before and her expression still was as cold as stone but the fire alight in those grey eyes was still there ever since he first found her under the rubble in mindoir.

“I see but that does beg the question where is your team now,” Anderson asked as he searched the perimeter for any that looked like an official alliance soldier and found none - aside from a wandering local whose face had met the table after three local drinks in - “As far as I can tell there aren’t any here unless you soldiers have been recruiting civilians in and per regulations i will have to suspend your operations. Making you as they say legally free.”

 “Funny, but no we don’t do that. Ever,” if looks could kill Shepards stare would incinerate a man, “There… Somewhere.”

“In this colony?”

“…..”

“In this planet?”

“Not exactly,” Shepard replied slightly adjusting from her seat trying to hide any body language that could give her away. 

“There not here are they,” Anderson quickly caught on. The fact that Shepard was no longer looking him straight in the eye means she had done something. Quite possibly illegal.

“I left them on Anhur. One of Balaks men was stationed there apparently were gonna be getting more information,” Shepard admitted, knowing for a fact if she didn’t answer him now he’d find a way to get the information and it would be more of a pain in the ass having the team of soldiers she was with believing she was being favored by the amazing wonderful Captain Anderson.

“And you left all of that to come to me? I’m touched,” Anderson replied with a soft smile despite the sarcasm in his words, “Im guessing they do not know you are here?”

“Says the man using a fake name,” She replied brutally honest but a small smile played on her lips as she looked at him, “And no, they don’t.”

“And how did you get here,” Anderson was curious now afterall she had illegally come here of her own free will for the information how did she plan to go back?

“I may have procured a shuttle and a pilot.” Shepard replied cleaning what looked to be dirt on the table.

“Procured,” Anderson suspiciously asked as he raised his eyebrow that hadn’t sounded like shepard at all.

She looked him straight in the eye then, “Fine, I threatened him that id take off his legs and beat him to death with it if he didn’t take me to and from the area I needed to go. And yes, he resisted and yes i broke his toes just 4 of them in one foot. Okay, five one in the other as a warning. Happy?”

Anderson shook his head, “Violence Ezner does not always work out the way you want it too, even if you think it leads to the results you want.”

Shepard let out a huff but said nothing, letting the silence fill the air.

Her shoulders slumped, “Look Anderson, I get what your trying but I really am fine where I am. I don’t need your handouts. I’m doing much better on the frontlines than I am stationed at some decorative ship.”

“It’s not decorative, Shepard. It’s a state of the line frigate war ship co-created by the Tu–”

“Save your lines for the media. I know what it is, You’ve been sending me those damn reports how could I not have known it by now.”

“Then do you know you’ll be working for me as my Executive Officer, You will be on the field when I can’t and lead the crew and advise me when necessary” Anderson said with pride in his tone, “Alongside with the best damn crew you will ever get to know.”

There was a long pause as Shepard stared directly at Anderson’s eyes. This was always Shepards habit everytime she weighed judgement she would always stare down someone’s eyes. Anderson was sure that this time Shepard had finally seen what he could see. Her greatness.

“No,” Shepard replied resolutely as she stood up.

Anderson then heaved a long sigh, “Whatever you think your punishment or redemption or whatever you think your out there looking for, I really hope you find it soon, Shepard. Before it eats you whole.”

Shepard only gave him a glance before leaving the makeshift bar. Shepard breathed the fresh air of the colonial planet looking at it with one more glance and strengthening her resolve as she thinks to herself, “Because she would no longer drag anyone down to the depths of hell she would create and she would keep everyone safe, no matter the cost.”

Anderson sat there for a few minutes both tired and frankly disappointed. He already knew how this talk would go considering her determined and constant disapproval of transferring anywhere near his command. She had completely closed off after torfan much less when the Alliance not only denounced her and shipped her off - per her request- out into the traverse right after finishing her N7 training. The Alliance wanted to wash their hands clean off of her and yet Anderson wouldn’t let them. Shepard was the only soldier he met that could stand their ground against anything and anyone. More than that, the would survive and thrive in any conditions. The perfect soldier just needed a guiding hand and he was more than willing to reach out no matter what it takes. He stood up and walked briskly back to the ship that had brought him here and as he reached his quarters he opened his omnitool to contact the one man who could help him get her under his command and to greater heights. 

Anderson then recorded a voicemail to a private line, “Spectre Nihlus, You may not remember me but we have met during the council meeting of allowing a human spectre into the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. I am Captain David Anderson of the System Alliance Military. I have handpicked personally a potential recruit and would like your affirmation. Attached to this file will be personal data, biography, and achievements they have done. Hoping to hear from you soon. Captain Anderson out.” 

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 4: Erstwhile

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn A03 Story Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration & @sherrybaby14 Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge. Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities. *Re-blogs are welcome. Plagiarism isn’t. *

Five Years Previously…

Bucky was shoved backward into the couch with such force that it tipped over. Going ass over teakettle jarred him, but he popped up quickly, and introduced both his fists to Steve’s ribs and kidneys.

Steve gave as good as he got with a series of jabs and an uppercut, followed by a takedown that, between their combined weight, obliterated the coffee table, and broke the only lamp he owned.

They grappled and rolled until Bucky was pancaked, but he recovered, and put Steve in a chokehold.

“Fuckin’ prick,” Bucky snarled as he anchored his legs around Steve’s waist.

Steve kicked his feet and threw his elbows, “Piece of shit.”

A bite to the forearm made Bucky yelp, and in response to Steve’s childish tactics, he squeezed harder, but Steve didn’t fight back. Bucky thought for a moment he’d lost consciousness, but when he loosened his grip, Steve sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and rolled onto his side.

While Steve busied himself with gulping down oxygen, Bucky got himself upright, and saw the aftermath of their bare-knuckled brawl scattered all over the apartment. The passing of the midnight train muffled their hard breathing, but it did nothing to smother the uneasiness between them.

Bucky shouldn’t have survived what had been done to him, but he had, and all he wanted was for things to get back to normal. Steve, on the other hand, was still hung up on the fact that the Families had planned his funeral and divided up his territories. As soon as he’d gotten back on his feet, everything had gone back to the way it was, but it was still a bone of contention Steve was determined to gnaw at, and absolutely refused to let go of.

He wasn’t sure who had thrown the first punch, and really, it didn’t matter; they’d had it out and he hoped it would be the end of things. They remained silent and still for a long time before he defiantly asked Steve if he was done breaking his balls and his shit. The question was supposed to diffuse the tension, but it didn’t. If anything, it made it worse, because Steve let out a warning sound that prompted Bucky to brace himself for round two.

Steve planted both fists into the floorboards and pushed himself up; it was a slow, unsteady rise, but when he got to his feet, he just hung his head, and pressed a hand to his ribs.

“I love you,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

Bucky sighed and stood up from the floor, “Steve, you know I love you too, man, but--”

“Buck, I’m in love with you – been in love with you ever since we were fuckin’ kids,” Steve confessed lowly. “And I know you don’t feel that way about me and that’s okay, but you almost… And I can’t…”

A pained, haunted expression crept across Steve’s face and Bucky knew exactly what images flashed in his mind because they were the same ones he saw in his sleep.

Although Bucky had accepted his life choices and knew any day could be his last, he’d never had a death wish. He’d been ambushed, beaten to a bloody pulp, gutshot, and left for dead. He’d called Steve that night, not only because he’d wanted to live, but because on the off chance he didn’t, his was the last voice Bucky wanted to hear.

Bucky cared for Steve more than anyone or anything, which was precisely the reason why they’d only ever been friends. He knew he didn’t have much of a soul left, but whatever little remained belonged to Steve, because their friendship -- it was uncommon in their world. It was profound, probably the only pure thing he had left, and he didn’t want it tainted or destroyed.  

Fucking was just fucking. Sex was just sex.

But love?

Love messed everything up because it opened a door to a whole new world of pain. It could be twisted and used as a weapon against both of them, and Bucky couldn’t have that on his already weighted conscience. He’d seen it happen with others in the business. Some made it work, others couldn’t, and the devastation and inevitable havoc when it ended badly or violently wasn’t something he could handle.

He felt it, but couldn’t reciprocate it, and Steve deserved more than half-measures.

It was a brief moment of soundless, despondent vulnerability, and it disappeared just as quickly as it came. Between one blink and the next, Steve buttoned it up, and he pushed it down.

Even though it could’ve waited until morning, Bucky took the lamp and coffee table to the dumpster. Steve got the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and swept the floor with eyes downcast and lips pressed together in a tight line. They both lifted the couch and put it back where it belonged. The cash Steve dropped on the counter far exceeded the value of the furniture, but Bucky didn’t want to start another argument, so, he kept his mouth shut.

Steve made a beeline for the door, and the hinges squeaked a bit as he exited, but it was only shut for a few moments before it was opened back up again.

“Forgot my coat,” he muttered.  

If he’d been smart – if he’d been less selfish – he would have let Steve get his coat and go.

But Bucky had always been a greedy fool.  

As with all things in his life, when he wanted something, he took it, and when he stepped into Steve’s path and took his mouth, it wasn’t chaste or polite. Bucky didn’t wade in, he plundered, and Steve didn’t resist or refuse him. A rough bite to his lower lip elicited a gasp, and that was all the invitation Bucky needed to curl his tongue around Steve’s and deepen the kiss.

It was a warm welcome made even hotter when Steve groaned and kissed him back. It was the kind of lip-lock that left no room for discussion or second-guessing, and it only made Bucky want more.

Hands tangled in Steve’s hair, Bucky moved his mouth down his chin, to the underside of his jaw. The scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin, the thud of his pulse – it was all-consuming. Steve’s shirt was discarded first; it was nothing Bucky hadn’t seen before, but this time, the reveal made his mouth water. When he pulled his hoodie over his head, the first thing Steve did was run his fingertips over the scar tissue of his wounds, and the tenderness of his touch made Bucky gulp.

It was unfamiliar territory for them both, but there was no hesitation. Hands and eyes and mouths wandered. Boots kicked off. Belts undone; pants and boxers shoved down; both of them unabashedly naked in the middle of the living room they’d nearly destroyed only minutes prior.  

Bucky explored every inch of Steve’s flesh; from throat to groin, across every bump, and over each bruise. On his knees, he took Steve into his mouth; disappeared him down his throat; lifted his head; swallowed him again; cupped and fondled and laved. He was turned on because Steve was turned on, and the husky, needy, guttural noises Steve made were the most seductive sounds Bucky had ever heard.

A tug to his hair and a snarled, “bedroom, now,” was followed up by a frantic shuffle, even more ardent kissing, and a tumble onto the mattress. Nightstand drawer yanked open; condom and lube retrieved; Bucky situated between Steve’s thighs. Slow, careful exploration that was just as imperative as it was arousing. It was too much, but nowhere near enough.  

While Steve got on his hands and knees, Bucky tore open the condom, and rolled it on. They were both clamoring and desperate, but he waited in both anticipation and with uncharacteristic patience each time for Steve’s nod of approval before pressing further forward. Soon enough, he was right where he wanted to be, and where he always knew belonged.

Bucky was cautious because it was new, overwhelming, heady, and too fucking good…

And it would never, ever happen again.    

Bucky wanted Steve to come, not because he desired to rush, but because he desperately needed Steve to fall apart before he did. It was strange for him to urgently crave something he knew he couldn’t experience again, but he did, and he wanted to watch it happen.

He wanted to remember it.

Eyes wide open. One hand firmly wrapped around Steve’s kicking erection. The other in a white-knuckled grip on the headboard. Even, steady, deep, and then, deeper still. Soft, yellow-hued light from streetlamps that revealed sweat-slicked skin and worn-out cotton sheets. Nothing to stifle the creak of the bedsprings or the harshness of their breathing.

It wasn’t that Steve said his name, but it was how he said it -- in that baritone, assertive voice he used when he was knocking skulls and telling people what was what. It made Bucky feel as if he were being commanded, possessed, and called out at the same time. It was everything he’d been seeking, but nothing he could’ve prepared for.

Bucky bit his lower lip, close his eyes, and pressed his forehead to the space between Steve’s shoulder blades. Steve wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last, but nevertheless, being connected to him – it made him feel like some sort of god damn virgin.

It healed him. Saved him. Fulfilled him.

It broke his fucking heart.

They showered together afterward. Changed the sheets. Got beneath the blankets.

Bucky had never kissed or touched another man without it either being foreplay or a prelude for another go around. He’d never granted anyone permission to share his bed for more than a few hours, let alone stay overnight. He’d never experienced intimacy, and he knew he was a rat fucking bastard for taking advantage.

Steve’s chest pressed to his back. His arm around his waist. Tangled legs and laced fingers and soft, warm skin. Bucky didn’t permit anyone to snuggle him, but he allowed Steve to.

For one night – just for one night – he allowed it.

He allowed himself to love.

Chapter 5: Game

Everything: @jennmurawski13​​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​​

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth​​ The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​ @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety​ @captain-rogers-beard​​ @lilliannaansalla

[cainegl]

            welcome  back  angels  ,  tODAY  we’re  gonna  be  truly  shunning  the  psycho  pretty  boy  ,    caine  ,  don’t  show  any  affection  to  him  whatsoever  bc  his  fuckass  doesnt  deserve  it  !  i  probably  won’t  b  around  for  interactions  tonight  but  thats  ok  bc  my  goal  anyways  was  to  get  plots  laid  out  w  everyone  before  i  jumped  into  writing  !  i  love  u  all  genuinely  so  much  and  hopefully  ,  caine’s  satanic  ass  gives  u  a  fun  time  w  hating  him  ,  i  know  i  sure  as  hell  do  :’) 

                            𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 !

𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑  𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊  :   caine  giovanni  bratton 𝖓𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘   :   he  mostly  gets  called  by  his  surname  considering  ‘ caine ’  is  rather  un-riffable 𝖇𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖉𝖆𝖙𝖊  /  𝖆𝖌𝖊   :    october 29 , 1996 𝖟𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖆𝖈   :   scorpio 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖞  /  𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖘   :   cismale  identifying  with  he  /  him  /  his 𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓   :   closeted  bisexual  and  biromantic 𝖔𝖈𝖈𝖚𝖕𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓  :   former  leftfielder  for  the  boston  red  sox  ,  now  a  fashion  model  and  ceo  /  chairhead  of  his  own  fashion  brand  supreme 𝖍𝖔𝖌𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖊  :   slytherin  𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞  :          billy hargrove from stranger things , roman godfrey from hemlock grove ,  kanye west ,  cook from skins , tony  stark   &  erik killmonger from the mcu  ,   patrick bateman from american psycho 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖘  :            —     machiavellian  ,  brutal  ,   crass   ,  narcisistic  ,   manipulative           +     opportunistic  ,  intuitive  ,  thrives under pressure ,  straightforward  

𝖉 𝖎 𝖘 𝖘 𝖊 𝖗 𝖙 𝖆 𝖙 𝖎 𝖔 𝖓 

        *   born  to  a  hamptons  housewife  and  the  ceo  of  a  major  sports  marketing  firm  ,  the  dark  haired  devil  had  a  rather  unremarkable  upbringing  .  entitled  as  expected  ,  manipulative  and  cunning  ,  caine  knew  what  people  wanted  to  hear  and  was  sure  to  tell  them  in  his  honeyed  lilt  if  it  were  in  his  favor  for  later  exploitation  .  average  in  school  and  below  average  in  looks  for  most  of  his  life  ,  there  was  a  definite  cruelty  doled  out  to  him  throughout  his  experience  in  the  most  prestigious  private  schools  daddy’s  money  could  afford  (  not  that  his  less  than  welcoming  personality  made  things  any  easier  on  himself  .  )  it  was  his  transition  into  sports  ,  particularly  baseball  ,  that  pulled  him  into  the  direction  of  finally  accomplishing  something  other  than  winning  asshole  of  the  year  defacements  under  his  yearbook  picture  .  with  that  ,  caine  found  that  his  hostility  didn’t  have  to  be  negated  ,  but  rather  selective  —  if  the  male  could  pick  and  choose  his  battles  ,  he’d  find  himself  much  further  along  in  his  desires  than  through  brute  force  alone  .

      and  so  ,  with  precision  focus  and  the  bratton  determination  that  becomes  indicative  of  his  brand  ,  he  rebuilds  .  high  school  finds  their  star  fieldsman  as  a  freshman  with  a  newly  regained  understanding  of  how  to  schmooze  people  ,    dripping  magnetism  through  well  timed  smiles  or  pretentious  humble  brags  .  as  if  taken  over  by  a  well-trained  debutante  overnight  ,  caine  found  himself  with  a  newfound  power  over  those  around  him  and  a  faked  charm  that  propelled  him  to  new  hights  ,  and  with  a  level  of  athletic  talent  to  his  name  that  nobody  could  doubt  ,  he  was  easily  gaining  ground  and  recognition  throughout  his  hometown  of  manhattan  .  with  puberty  catapulting  him  through  his  senior  year  ,  caine  bratton’s  photo-ready  grin  and  laser  focus  on  his  goals  at  hand  made  him  something  of  a  pseudo-celebrity  ,  the  first  taste  of  recognition  that  he  quickly  becomes  addicted  to  .  colleges  fight  tooth  and  nail  to  offer  manhattan’s  pretty  boy  slugger  an  offer  he  cant  refuse  ,  eventually  sending  caine  off  to  duke  university  to  become  one  of  the  top  ranked  college  baseball  players  in  the  nation  .  practically  feeding  off  the  chaos  of  his  newfound  lifestyle  ,  he  thrives  at  the  party  school  and  cements  his  name  into  nearly  every  east  coast  household  —  building  a  following  of  both  sports  fans  and  general  thirst  follows  alike  .  

      obsessed  with  his  father’s  opinion  ,  caine  heeds  his  word  with  furthering  his  brand  and  takes  on  carefully  selected  sponsors  ,  always  ensuring  they’re  for  modeling  gigs  that  won’t  jeopardize  his  student  athlete  contract  .  he  graduates  early  (  thanks  to  a  particularly  notable  set  of  “  tutors  “  his  dad  hired  )  with  a  business  degree  and  as  first  pick  for  the  MLB  draft  that  following  june  .  after  a  stellar  year  pushing  the  minnesota  twins  out  of  the  bottom  of  their  league  rankings  ,  caine  gets  signed  to  the  boston  red  sox  with  one  of  the  most  expensive  fieldsman  contracts  in  history  .  modeling  gigs  and  sponsorships  flood  the  20  year  old  with  a  force  even  he  couldn’t  have  expected  ,  fueling  the  narcissism  years  in  the  making  .  he’s  well  liked  by  the  media—    a  man’s  man  ,  charming  ,  arrogant  but  within  reason  ,  knowing  the  exact  line  to  drop  for  the  exact  reaction  he  wants  .  caine  spends  the  next  two  seasons  with  the  world  exactly  where  he  wants  them  ,  manipulating  his  way  into  and  our  of  every  situation  his  heart  could  desire  .

      one  thing  he  can’t  control  is  a  devastating  complete  tear  of  his  rotator  cuff  during  a  particularly  high  pressure  world  series  game  ,  one  that  completely  shatters  his  chances  of  finishing  the  season  and  just  about  decimates  the  rest  of  his  career  .  the  surgeries  are  GRUELING  and  the  rehabilitation  is  even  worse  ,  leaving  caine  with  far  too  much  free  time  on  his  hands  and  increasingly  nasty  cracks  his  perfect  pretty  boy  facade  .  a  bittersweet  highlight  of  the  year  ,  conflicting  for  a  multitude  of  reasons  ,  is  the  revelation  from  an  on-and-off  fling  of  his  that  caine  is  to  become  a  father  ,  sending  much  of  the  world  (  including  himself  )  into  a  shock  .  expectant  on  the  arrival  of  his  daughter  ,  left  without  a  clear  career  trajectory  ,  caine  finds  himself  spiraling  into  what  becomes  his  black  hole  ,  ultimately  culminating  in  him  beating  the  shit  out  of  some  random  drunk  guy  on  the  street  trying  to  get  a  rise  out  of  him  and  landing  him  with  a  civil  case  .  while  the  charges  were  ultimately  dropped  ,  the  former  golden  boy  was  undoubtedly  in  shreds  ,  attracting  all  the  wrong  attention  ,  chasing  destruction  wherever  it  offered  itself  —  and  thus  ,  piquing  the  interest  of  one  papa  legba  .

      caine’s  predisposition  for  destruction  and  chaos  ,  satanic  in  the  closest  sense  of  the  word  with  a  perfect  photo-op  smile  ,  made  him  a  champion  for  the  causes  papa  legba  piloted  .  the  demon  king  found  itself  with  a  harbinger  of  sorts  ,  a  machiavelli-reincarnate  who  was  beginning  to  attract  the  worst  of  the  celebrity  sphere  into  his  circle  .  it  wasn’t  difficult  to  recruit  caine  into  his  unsavory  doings  ,  repairing  his  shoulder  with  a  ‘  groundbreaking  new  muscle  regeneration  therapy  ,  ‘  but  rather  than  allow  him  to  rest  on  his  laurels  in  the  mlb  ,  he  offers  caine  a  proposition  .  ‘  why  set  your  sights  on  the  horizon  ,  when  the  whole  damn  world  could  be  yours  ?  ‘  and  with  that  ,  his  new  cherub  kaia  toted  in  the  crook  of  his  former  bad  arm  ,  supreme  drops  after  months  of  hype  and  launches  caine  bratton  from  baseball  tragedy  to  fashion  empire  mogul  .  ever  leaning  into  his  newfound  infamy  due  to  his  increasingly  volatile  outbursts  ,  his  brand  is  building  speed  at  unfathomable  rates  ,  with  his  brain  at  the  helm  and  papa  legba’s  influence  behind  it  ,  and  caine  is  relishing  in  the  new  world  he’s  creating  for  himself  —  regardless  of  the  price  .

𝖉 𝖎 𝖘 𝖘 𝖊 𝖈 𝖙 𝖎 𝖔 𝖓  

           icb  u  made  it  this  far  and  if  u  did  so  without  skimming  ?  u  a  real  one  😩✊🏽  sksksk  so  real  TALK  ,  caine  is  the  literal  worst  so  pls  dont  hesitate  to  make  him  the  villain  in  any  plot  u  so  desire  .  he’s  intelligent  but  not  to  an  excess  ,  but  is  incredibly  business  savvy  ,  knowing  an  opportunity  when  he  sees  one  and  fucking  POUNCING  on  it  .  this  plays  off  his  INCREDIBLE  fucking  manipulation  skills  ,  the  man  will  see  an  in  and  exploit  it  to  no  end  in  a  way  thats  ?  equal  parts  terrifying  and  lowkey  impressive  ?  side  note  he  takes  everything  seriously  ,  esp  himself  and  his  daughter  ,  and  isn’t  abt  to  let  any  idiot  drive  his  empire  into  the  ground  .  the  man  is  genuinely  convinced  he  can  take  over  the  world  at  this  point  ,  w  papa  legba  fueling  his  lil  psycho  ass  ,  and  is  gonna  probably  stop  at  nothing  until  he’s  reached  his  peak  .  he’s  destructive  and  has  absolutely  caused  a  fourth  his  staff  to  quit  with  his  office  meltdowns  where  he  goes  the  FUCK  off  but  ppl  can’t  say  he  doesn’t  have  an  incredible  vision  and  a  cutthroat  determination  to  accomplish  it  .  he’s  in  that  weird  sweet  spot  where  he’s  obnoxious  and  arrogant  as  shit  bc  he  knows  he’s  a  big  ole  successful  pretty  boy  that  ppl  want  to  please  but  he  also  has  that  classic  ‘  i  grew  up  rich  ‘  disposition  that  means  he  knows  when  to  fake  it  ?  (  on  that  note  ,  he’d  make  a  PHENOMENAL  fake  bf  👀  for  the  clout  )    also  an  awful  boyfriend  ,  has  prob  cheated  on  every  person  he’s  ever  dated  and  def  cheated  on  his  baby  mama  but  makes  it  a  point  to  be  an  incredible  dad  to  his  kid  bc  she’s  the  only  tie  to  his  humanity  /  soft  side  he  really  lets  influence  him  .  his  defining  features  are  his  absolute  narcissism  and  volatile  desire  to  be  the  absolute  best  at  what  he  does  ,  as  well  as  a  laser  focus  that  doubles  as  one  of  his  greatest  points  of  admiration  .   he’s  ABSOLUTELY  a  tool  but  to  his  credit  he  can  be  deeply  intimidating  ,  i  imagine  he’s  one  of  those  guys  with  just  incredibly  strong  eye  contact  to  the  point  it  freaks  ppl  out  and  that  reaction  always  makes  him  LAUGH  .

      hc’s :  ultimate  peak  caine  look  is  a  supreme  t  shirt  under  a  black  leather  jacket  n  some  saint  laurent  chelsea  boots  PHEW  ,  he  wears  sunglasses  inside  w  out  hesitating  ,  thinks  kaia  is  a  ~superbaby~  and  is  NOT  afraid  to  tell  u  how  much  fucking  smarter  she  is  than  ‘  normal  babies  ,  ‘  he  has  a  sponsorship  w  a  fucking  bougie  expensive  ass  teeth  whitening  brand  and  they’ve  insured  his  smile  for  an  UNREASONABLE  sum  of  money  ,  a  big  mood  for  him  w  how  busy  he  is  would  b  a  hurried  hookup  in  the  back  seat  of  his  limo  with  led  zeppelin  blasting  over  the  speakers  , his  office  has  one  of  those  balcony  golf  sets  except  its  full  golf  and  not  mini  putt  so  his  ass  will  get  PISSED  and  just  .  shoot  fucking  golf  balls  off  the  side  of  the  building  not  caring  who’s  car  they  dent  two  blocks  away  SKSKKSKS

𝖉 𝖊 𝖘 𝖎 𝖗 𝖊 𝖘

UM  quick  plots  ,  basically  im  heavily  searching  for  the  mother  to  his  child ,  kaia  who  would  be  about  a  year  and  a  half  rn  ,  i  wanted  them  to  have  an  incredibly  tumultuous  back  and  forth  relationship  bc  lbr  caine  is  not  a  great  person  but  he  is  a  spectacular  dad  so  it’s  a  catch-22  for  anyone  involved  skskkss

also  looking  for  his  “  in  my  head  “  by  ari  type  ex  ?  i  did  not  name  this  mans  CAINE  for  nothing  cmon  now  kids

i  would  fucking  LOVE  more  than  anything  to  have  ppl  who  work  with  him  in  any  extent  ?  it  could  be  models  who  rep  the  brand  and  he  flirts  incessantly  with  ,  it  could  be  influencers  who  have  a  partnership  w  him  and  see  his  business  side  ,  it  could  be  people  w  ambition  who  work  for  his  company  and  see  his  NASTY  side  but  pls  ,  supreme  inc  is  open  to  any  and  everything  .  

chaos  squad  ,  hookups  ,  party  friends  ,  athletic  rivals  ,  ride  or  dies  ,  ppl  who  SOMEHOW  tolerate  him  ,  ppl  who  proudly  do  not  tolerate  him  at  all  ,  maybe  even  the  dude  he  punched  in  the  street  that  one  time  ?  also  cousins  ,  childhood  friends  ,  on  and  offs  ,  HELLA  exes  ,  ppl  he  torments  ,  close  as  siblings  relationships  ,  maybe  someone  he’s  kinda  soft  for  but  will  never  admit  ?  

[vodkawrites]

Yuuri Week 2017, Day 4: On ice Title: 28 Tuxes Chapter 4 Genre: Alternative Universe Pairing: Katsuki Yuuri / Victor Nikiforov, Jean-Jacques Leroy / Isabella Yang Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov, Jean-Jacques Leroy, Isabella Yang, Leroy Family Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Summary: While planning his 28th wedding, Yuuri begins to wonder if he can ever find love for himself.Or; the victuuri 27 dresses AU absolutely no one asked for.

Read the fourth chapter on AO3

"Ah, Mister Nikiforov. So nice to see you," Yuuri says with a fake smile.  He isn't exactly looking forward to speaking with a reporter and frankly he doesn't even know what to say.

He shakes Victor's hand customarily, trying not to linger on the fact that he is hand in hand with a gorgeous stranger. Well, he supposes they aren’t exactly strangers; they are probably classified as acquaintances at this point. Yes, definitely nothing more than professional acquaintances.

"Please, Yuuri, call me Victor," the reporter - Victor - says smoothly.

Of course the beautiful - no, not beautiful - reporter wants to refer to him by his first name. He tries not to think of how melodic his name sounds coming from his mouth.

Yuuri nods, trying to remain professional during this whole situation, even if Victor isn't. He doesn’t even seem to be taking this entire thing seriously. At least the first few times they had met, he was adorned in a customary, well-pressed navy suit. Instead, he is now in a grey Nike track suit that looks more like he came from the gym than a corporate office. Yuuri tries not to think about how good he looks in something so simple. To be honest, he isn’t sure that something so simple could look so good on the right body type.

Yuuri shakes his head, trying to dispel those thoughts from his mind. He will not ruin this interview for his clients by being distracted by a good looking reporter.

“Alright let's get this interview started.”

"Interview?" Victor asks innocently. He dramatically places a hand on his heart as if he is pretending that a knife has stabbed him between his pectorals.  

Yuuri only rolls his eyes, rather unimpressed with his theatrics.

"Yuuri, you wound me. I thought this was an ice skating date. I brought my skates and everything," he says with a cheeky smile. He holds up a pair of skates just to show how dedicated he is to believing that this is less like an interview and more like a date.

Yuuri narrows his eyes, glaring at the pair of skates. He expects to see the worn pair of skates from the rental desk - the hockey ones with frayed laces and blunted blades that seem to fit no one - but he is thoroughly impressed by Victor’s own pair. They are certainly in better condition than the rental skates at the rink, but Yuuri can’t exactly distinguish any of the finer details to determine their true value. He supposes the gold blade is enough to confirm his suspicions that they are some custom pair of expensive skates. However, he is far too bothered by the fact that Victor thinks this is a date to comment on the quality of his skates.

"You're hilarious," Yuuri quips dryly.

Victor flashes him a crooked smile. "I try," he says.

Yuuri doesn't give him the satisfaction of an answer - he hardly deserves one for being so absolutely impossible. Instead, he turns his focus towards one of the benches, setting himself and his skates down.

Victor follows his lead and sits down on the bench next to him. He is a bit too close for comfort - his arm is basically brushing against Yuuri’s - and it is distracting to say the least.

Victor lazily kicks off his shoes, not bothering to properly unlace them, before squeezing his right foot into the boot. He easily ties the laces with the precision only a professional could possibly be capable of having.

"I can't remember the last time I skated," Victor muses quietly. Yuuri can't tell if he is trying to make conversation or simply thinking out loud.

Regardless, Yuuri ignores that comment in favour of tying his own skates. Victor makes it so easy, but Yuuri knows it is a tedious process to get the laces tied right. He supposes that his is inherently harder given that they are a rented pair from the front desk and not his own (not that he would ever have his own pair willingly but it would be nicer than relying on rentals and possibly getting foot fungus). Yuuri can fully admit that they are hideous and probably more suited for hockey than figure skating. The laces are fraying at the edges and the left one is a bit too snug around his foot, but he persists. Besides, aren't skates supposed to be tight?

"Ready?" Victor asks, already standing up from the bench. He seems to balance himself easily, as if he has done this plenty of times before.

"No," Yuuri admits lamely. He still has another skate to tie, not to mention this one isn’t exactly tied that well to begin with.

"Here, let me tie them." Victor bends down onto one knee, leaning in to Yuuri's feet.

Yuuri, however, kicks his hands away.

"I can tie them myself just fine," Yuuri snaps. He will not have someone - especially someone like Victor - tie his skates for him. He is an adult and adults don’t need help to tie their skates.

Victor raises both of his hands innocently but Yuuri knows he's anything but innocent. "Whatever," Victor assures him, obviously trying not to be offended by Yuuri's comment.

He straightens his back, watching Yuuri as he finishes tying his other skate. He doesn’t say anything but he continues to tap his bottom lip with his finger. Yuuri finds it annoying.

After what feels like twenty minutes of struggling (but is probably more like two) Yuuri wobbles as he stands but eventually balances himself on the carpet. He follows - or rather teeters towards - Victor and the entrance to the rink. Victor slides into the ice gracefully while Yuuri almost stumbles over his feet, trying to find his footing.

"Let us be clear," Yuuri begins, his voice low. He is sincerely trying to be intimidating, but he knows he is failing. It doesn't help that he has to have both hands grasping the wall just to make sure he doesn't fall face first on the ice. He silently wishes he had his sister or Phichit or anyone else conduct this interview for him. At least they wouldn’t be this embarassing on the ice.

"I can't say anything about the venue, the flowers, or their outfits Those topics are strictly forbidden. I also can't tell you who's invited."

"Wow," Victor says with a chuckle. He leans back, evenly distributing his weight onto the boards. He looks so natural on the ice, as if he's floating. Yuuri wonders how often he does this to be so comfortable on the ice. Or maybe it's just a Russian thing.

"So what can you tell me about this wedding?"

Yuuri taps his fingernails on the wooden boards. The sound creates a slow rhythm but he's not sure what song it is.

"I can tell you that the colours will be red and white," he explains, his face neutral. He refuses to have an fodder the reporter can use against him in his article. And he will certainly not lose JJ and Isabella as clients for that reason.

Victor rolls his eyes. "How absolutely Canadian of them," he remarks.

"Or maybe they are popular wedding colours?" Yuuri suggests.

"Well they're also having half their wedding at an ice rink." He gestures to the ice rink with his hands. "That just screams Canadian to me."

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. He doesn't exactly see it that way - JJ chose to have both his love for Isabella and his love of ice skating expressed during their wedding. What is so hard to understand about that?

"Well I think it's cute," Yuuri admits.

"I think it's stupid."

"You're telling me. They want their first dance to be a first skate, which is really the only reason I'm here. I hate skating," he confesses. He cuts up the ice with his toe pick for emphasis. He knows it's bad etiquette but he can't help but to do it.

Victor raises his eyebrows. "You hate skating?" he asks, almost surprised by this revelation.

"Well yeah. I'm a wedding planner not a professional athlete," Yuuri defends with a huff.

"But you're planning Canadian skater Jean Jacques Leroy's wedding?"

"So? Doesn't mean that I automatically love skating. A job is a job."

"But don't you like how weightless you feel on the ice? How powerless you feel at the mercy of the ice?"

"No. And I don't particularly like falling in my ass," Yuuri quips and crosses his arms over his chest.

Victor juts his hip out and taps a finger to his bottom lip. "Well that's your problem. Fear of the unknown. It's common in beginner skaters."

Yuuri scowls, curling his lip as he does so. He doesn’t particularly like being talked down to like this, and by someone who probably knows nothing of skating to begin with.

"Because you're suddenly an expert in skating?"

"Well why don't I show you?" he asks.

He extends his hand out in front of him, practically begging for Yuuri to take it. It seems inviting enough.

However, he narrows his eyes at Victor's hand, skeptical that his friendly gesture isn't just some sort of sabotage. When has Victor ever done anything nice for him aside from offering to tie up his skates. How does he know Victor isn't going to take him to the middle of the ice and leave him to defend for himself all to have Yuuri end up with ice on his ass? How can he even trust him?

"Show me?" he repeats, the words effortlessly rolling off his tongue.

"You know, loop around the rink? I used to know a thing or two about ice skating," Victor clarifies. He even puffs out his chest for emphasis.

Yuuri blinks twice. He can’t be serious. It seems all good to be true: holding hands with a beautiful stranger, clinging on to him as he tries not to fall. What more could he ask for?

He begins to wonder if this truly is an ice skating date more so than an interview.

"Alright," he agrees, reluctantly. He isn’t really sure why, although Yuuri insists it is his charming good looks and savvy charisma skills. Definitely not because he likes him or anything.

"But if I fall, you're coming with me."

He places his hand in Victor's, entwining their fingers together. Yuuri notices that his palm is rather coarse, lacking the same soft and supple feeling as the back of his palm. He supposes it isn’t particularly a bad feeling - it is a rather comforting feeling - and he certainly appreciates how warm his hand is, if anything.

Victor leads him around the ice, taking careful glides as he tries to keep up with his long strides.

"You're pretty good," Yuuri praises as they finish one lap around.

Yuuri can tell from the way Victor is leading him that he may know a thing or two about ice skating. It’s obvious that he is weightless on the ice, almost as if he is a bird preparing for flight. It seems almost natural like he is born for the ice.

"But that doesn't say much seeing how I'm absolutely terrible," Yuuri quickly adds, trying to hide his praise under an insult.

"You're not terrible,” Victor points out as if it’s some sort of compliment. “I just have more practice."

“Oh really?" Yuuri challenges.

Victor smirks. He slicks his hair back with one hand, moving his bangs out of his eyes. "Let me show you."

He drops Yuuri’s hand, leaving him to balance himself on the boards. Victor easily loops around the outside of the rink, his feet crossing over each other as he skates backwards. To Yuuri, he looks rather professional as he does so. He gains speed as he rounds the edge for the second time. and performs a waltz jump. He poses in the center, his arm outstretched as if he is an Olympic performer. It’s rather sweet to see.

He waves at Yuuri, as if he's inviting Yuuri to join him.  

"Me?" Yuuri asks, pointing to himself. He knows Victor couldn’t be gesturing to anyone else - the ice is empty - but he cannot possibly think that Yuuri could skate to the center by himself.

Victor laughs. It's a sweet laugh, one that rumbles from his stomach and makes his Adam’s apple bob. Yuuri wants to hear more of that laugh.

"Yes, you, who else would I be talking to? The ice? Now, come closer."

Yuuri gulps but agrees nonetheless. He skates - or rather waddles - carefully over to Victor, one foot in front of the other. He wishes to mimic Victor's fluidity, they way he seems to dance instead of step on the ice, but it comes out all wrong. He isn't entirely sure how to glide without stumbling over his own two feet. His staggered movements make him look more like a penguin than he would like, but Victor just smiles as he approaches.

He isn't entirely sure how to stop either and instead continues to skate in Victor’s director. He easily takes the hint and catches him before he collides, their hands interlocked together. He likes the feeling of their bodies so close, mere centimeters apart.  

Victor steadies him, positioning Yuuri at the centre of the rink. Yuuri balances himself before letting go of Victor's hands.

“See you’re basically a pro!” Victor cheers as he steps back.

Yuuri glares at him. “Standing on the ice without falling doesn’t make me a pro.”

“Well, I say it does. And I was a professional ice skater, so I know.”

Yuuri scans him. Now it all seems to make sense: the custom ice skates, the jump, even the way he poises himself on the ice. Of course he is an ice skater.

He is certainly built like an ice skater - and at least has the grace and poise to be a professional - so he shouldn't be as surprised as he is. He is slender yet muscular with almost effeminate curves that make Yuuri’s mouth go dry.

He knows little about skating in general - he has watched a bit of the Olympics but nothing more than that. He pictures Victor in one of those sparkly (and extremely tight) skating costumes. He can picture him in a white, feathery body suit, one that glistens under the stadium lights.

"No way.”

"Yes way," Victor protests. He wipes a bead of sweat forming on his temple with the back of his hand. "When I was thirteen, I wanted to be an Olympic skater. I won a few competitions, too."

He grabs Yuuri's hand once more and guides him back to the boards. His hand is warm and a bit sweaty from skating, but it feels comforting the way their fingers seem to perfectly intertwine. Yuuri tries to ignore the way his heart seems to beat against his chest; he hopes that Victor can’t hear it as well.

There is something about him that’s different. He seems almost vulnerable, so innocent and natural on the ice. It’s hard to believe this is the reporter who doesn’t believe in love.

Yuuri feels his his cheeks turn red. He supposes it’s only due to the cold; definitely not because he is flustered and blushing over ex-skater and current reporter Victor Nikiforov.

Yes, definitely the cold.

Yuuri looks up at him through his eyelashes, admiring the way he provides him with a soft smile. "What happened?" he asks innocently.

He doesn't really know why he asks - he knows he shouldn't care about the personal life of a reporter, but for some reason he is quite interested (to say the least) by Victor. He’s mysterious and attractive and absolutely wonderful.

Yuuri decides that he wants to know everything about him.

"Life got in the way, I suppose," he says. He shrugs casually as if he doesn't mind the question in the slightest. However, Yuuri can tell the spark in his eyes is lost, his smile fading just slightly.

He hates that he asked.

"Skating is expensive as fuck, especially at a competitive level. And no one really wants to take a chance with someone who might never win a gold. Besides, I needed a more realistic career; one where I won't have to retire at age 20 from a major injury or whatever. When it came down to it, I liked journalism better but I guess I could never get away from the sport, huh?" he says, tilting his head towards the rink for emphasis.

“You know what they say. The cost of following your heart is spending the rest of your life wishing you had," Victor finishes.

Yuuri blinks twice.

"Huh,” he finally breathes out. “So it's the best of both worlds?"

"Just call me Hannah Montana, I guess," Victor says with a chuckle.

Yuuri laughs - genuinely and unabashedly laughs. He can’t remember the last time he has laughed like this.

Victor clears his throat. "So...the wedding," he begins.

Yuuri pauses.

Oh, right.

The wedding.

JJ and Isabella.

The interview.

"Yes," Yuuri agrees, collecting himself.

For a brief moment, he had forgotten that Victor is only here for an interview; that this wasn’t some sort of first date. He instinctively drops Victor's hand from his own, almost forgetting that his hand was even there. He silently misses how perfectly their hands seem to intertwine as the warmth from his hand lingers.

He feels empty.

"If you couldn't guess, the venue will have an ice rink. It's non negotiable," Yuuri states, icily. He tries not to be offended by Victor's rather abrupt switch from their personal dare he say intimate - prior conversation to his work. He dusts off some imaginary snow from his pants, averting his eyes from Victor's.

Victor snorts. "How very JJ."

"They'll be dancing to Partisan Hope," he recites almost mechanically. He doesn’t really care about the wedding or saying anything of interest anymore. "It's a beautiful arrangement."

"I'm surprised he's not dancing to that stupid King JJ song."

This time, Yuuri snorts.

"What? There's a song about JJ?" he asks. He's certainly never heard of any song called the JJ song and judging by Victor's reaction he is rather thankful that he has devoted himself to his work instead of listening to pop songs.

"You know the song that's like 'I'm the king JJ no one defeats me/this is who I am just remember me'," Victor sings. It's horrible and off-key which makes Yuuri wonder if that is how the song sounds or it is just Victor's terrible rendition. He sincerely hopes its the latter.

Yuuri stifles a laugh. He can't even imagine what a song called King JJ must actually sound like. He half thinks Victor is making up the song because he honestly cannot believe there is a song dedicated to his client but at the same time he isn't all that surprised. JJ seems like the kind of person who has a song like that written about him.

"It's pretty terrible. Come on, you've heard it. It played on the radio like 500 times in the past year."

Yuuri shakes his head once, his bangs falling in front of his eyes. "Sorry, I don't have time to listen to top 40s hits when I'm at work."

"You must work a lot," Victor points out.

He shrugs. He doesn't think that he works that much (as much as his sister and Phichit says otherwise). Sure sometimes he goes above and beyond (and maybe sometimes he works close to 80 hours a week) but it's only so he can create the perfect wedding. He expects the same for his own wedding, if not more.

"Weddings take a lot of work. Rome wasn't built in a day," he reminds Victor.

"Isn't it stressful?" Victor asks. He exhales loudly, trying to emphasize just how stressful it must be. Yuuri however isn’t fazed by his forced dramatics.

"Not really. It's kinda fun."

"Planning a wedding is fun?" Victor asks. Yuuri can tell that he’s obviously mocking his choice of words.

"Yes," he states obviously., trying not to show that he is evenly remotely fazed.  

Of course planning a wedding is fun. What is better than deciding on all of the little details to make the most out of one’s biggest day? Picking out the cake, deciding on the flowers, buying registry gifts; it’s all rather entertaining to do so.

Not to mention seeing them come to fruition is one of the most satisfying feelings in the world. When he watches the couple meet eyes at the alter, it is truly a magical experience.

"Weddings suck."

Yuuri opens his mouth to refute, however Victor beats him to it.

"I just want this wedding to be over. Don't you?"  

Yuuri shrugs his shoulders. He’s never really thought about it that much. Sure it is a bit more stressful having to plan a wedding for a famous celebrity - and one that demands so much of him - but he wouldn’t say that he regrets it. In fact, he sort of enjoys the challenge.  

"Well,” he begins. “I suppose a successful wedding will lead to more exposure maybe more jobs-"

"No," he interrupts. "I mean the spectacle of it all. I don't know how you stand it."

Yuuri scowls. "I happen to like weddings," he protests.

He cannot even fathom why - or how - Victor could even remotely dislike, let alone despise, weddings. Weddings are a time of celebration and bringing two people together. To hate that is like hating sunshine and puppies; it simply isn’t done.

"Ugh," Victor groans. "Don't say that. I thought you were cool."

"Excuse me?" Yuuri asks raising his eyebrows.

"Well weddings are awful. They're just a corporate scheme to squeeze money out of two happy people," Victor scoffs.

"Or a way to join two people together," Yuuri corrects, optimistically.

He can't believe he is even having this argument. He can understand one hating weddings, hating marriage even, but hating the very idea of love is unforgivable.

"So what do you think about Isabella and JJ?"

He blinks twice, trying to understand what Victor is necessarily asking of him.

"I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri asks, dumbfounded. "I don't see how that's related.”

"Well I do,” Victor argues, pressing for some sort of information. “You say it's about love but what about JJ and Isabella?"

Yuuri shakes his head. "Mister Nikiforov-"

"Victor," he corrects curtly.

"Victor," he repeats, almost like a hiss, as if the word itself will cause some sort of disease just by saying it. He clenches his jaw at the sound of his name leaving his lips. "That's highly unprofessional."

He innocently holds his hands up in a mock surrender. "I just want your opinion. I’m not asking for your social insurance number.”

"Fine, I think they're cute together," Yuuri half-lies. Sure they seem to lack chemistry when they are together - although Yuuri is much more focused on Mr. and Mrs. Leroy than them to begin with - but he isn’t about to admit that to a stranger reporter just to get his sanctification. He’s above that.

Victor rolls his eyes. He doesn't seem convinced by Yuuri's rather vague statement. Or maybe he simply knows.

"Oh come on. They aren't cute together," he argues. He expertly leans his body weight onto the boards, someone making himself look casual. It only furthers to annoy Yuuri.

"Oh really?" Yuuri asks.

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Victor's explanation of the situation.

"Yes, Isabella is obviously just dating him for money," Victor points out.

"Are you blind? She loves him," Yuuri stresses.

From the few times they have interacted, they seemed rather happy together. Sure, he could understand if she is still dating him for his looks, or his personality, or some other shallow reason. But for the money? It’s so obviously not the case. Isabella is still with him because she truly loves him. Anyone who can tolerate his signature JJ style brand of annoying can’t be in it for just the money, no matter how rich he is.

Besides, who is Victor - Mr. I Don’t Believe In Love - to say whether they love each other or not?

"Does she?"

"Why are you asking me that? You don't think they're in love?"

Victor shrugs. "No, I don't believe in love," he says casually as if he didn’t just admit that he doesn’t believe in love. He leans down and brushes some built up snow off the blade of his skate, swiping the slush off with two fingers. It creates a small mound of ice below his left foot, but he doesn’t pay any attention to it.

"Don't believe in love?" Yuuri repeats back, as if to ask if he has heard him correctly. How could one not believe in love when it surrounds them every day?

“You heard me. I don’t believe in love,” he states, punctuating each word.

Yuuri looks at him - really looks at him. His confident smirk, his cocky attitude, the way he holds himself. He must be hiding something.

Of course he believes in love; there’s just something that’s making him say that. Maybe it’s his twisted vision of masculinity or some divorce in his past that makes him think this way. Whatever the case, Yuuri is going to find out what it is.

“You know what,” Yuuri begins. He straightens his back in an effort to look intimidating despite being a tad shorter than Victor. “I think this is all a smoke screen."

Victor snorts. "For what?"

"Well your hatred of love is all a lie. You know what it is? It's a defense mechanism. You don't want to take the chance to love something to have it taken away.” He takes a step forward. “You don't want anyone to get close to you because you're afraid of failure. It’s why you quit ice skating too, I bet.”

"Oh really?” he asks. He offers Yuuri a smug grin which only seems to entice him further. “Because after one date you know me so well?"

"Well I think I nailed it,” he says, trying to ignore the fact that Victor referred to this - whatever this really is - as a date instead of an interview. “You should just admit that you're a big softy and that this whole cynical thing is just an act so you can seem wounded and mysterious and sexy and-"

"Wait,” Victor interrupts with a smirk. “Did you just insult me and then call me sexy?"

"N-no,” Yuuri lies, adverting his eyes from Victor’s.

He internally curses. Of course Victor is sexy, but he surely doesn’t need to fuel his rather large ego by outright telling him. How could he possibly let that slip?

“I don't know why I'm arguing this with a stranger,”  he says, gesturing wildly with his hands.

"We're not strangers."

Yuuri scowls. They are strangers - acquaintances at best. He knows absolutely nothing about his aspirations, his goals, his hatred for love. In turn, Victor knows absolutely nothing about him. And one interview/date isn’t going to change that.

"You know nothing about me."

"I think I know you better than you know yourself. You do everything trying to please everyone but the only person you're upsetting is yourself.  I think that you just plan weddings to hide the fact that you’re going to die alone. You live precariously through other people's lives because yours is too boring and miserable."

Yuuri stares at him, mouth agape - actually agape with his mouth hanging open. It’s obnoxious and a bit immature, but Yuuri can’t help but to do it.

How could a stranger possibly be able to read him so well?

"I'm sorry,” he quickly apologizes. He runs his hands through his messy bangs, tugging on the hairs as he does so. “I’m so so sorry. I didn't mean that-"

"No,” Yuuri assures him. He holds up a hand to stop his incessant babbling. “It's okay.”

Victor steps forward in an effort to comfort him. He holds out his arms, hoping Yuuri will accept his embrace.

Yuuri, however, takes one step back.

“I should go anyways,” he insists, coldly. “JJ and Isabella will come back and it’s better if I’m not here to spoil it.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to speak - to say anything to prevent Victor from leaving - but Victor is already gliding off of the ice.

"You're right, you know,” Yuuri mutters, softly.

“About the date?” Victor asks, trying to make light of the conversation.

“About me,” he admits. He kicks up the mound of snow, spreading the ice crystals onto the rink.

Victor looks to the ground, hoping to find some answer there as well.

“Well..if it makes you feel any better, you weren’t that far off about me either.”

[masseffectarchive]

Hi! Id ike to submit a fic for anderson & shepard pre mass effect 1 before they boarded the normandy :) part of a bigger project.

–June of 2183–

Shepard had found herself in an alliance outpost in one of the colonies inside the Attican Traverse. She hated it.

Not that there were places she liked but more so, it felt way too close to home. Causing her hands to clench and unclench repeatedly. She would never admit to being nervous but the feeling of being in rough terrain without a full set of armor and a full arsenal of weaponry made her feel naked and exposed just like before. Her blood boiled as the air around her started to shimmer a comforting soft blue hue.

She took a deep breath. Fortunately enough though for the colony she landed in, it became apparent that the Alliance had not spared an expense in making sure they were fully equipped for any sort of attack or raid by any species. And by any

Shepard truly meant the batarians. No one wanted a repeat of Mindoir. No one.She’d make sure of that.

The colony had a firm presence of Alliance soldiers patrolling the areas of the colony in the latest M35 Mako and small bunks of alliance outpost itself lining the outer edges of the colony making sure that any entry or exit would be checked thoroughly and carefully by the Alliance Soldiers. In the center of the town itself was the central hub of alliance personnel. Considering how this was the latest expansion of the Alliance to the Attican Traverse they would do anything to protect it. If only they’d do the same for the rest. But considering Shepard’s status in the Alliance her words amount to the dirt on a soldier’s boot. Not that she ever shared her thoughts. Not that anything mattered to her regarding Alliance affairs.

She took another swig of colonial homebrewed beer. The one benefit of these outposts was that the colony felt safe enough to focus on their own development. Small houses to big buildings lined the area that was not occupied by the Alliance. The effects of it were noticeable from agriculture to infrastructure. Considering how much time would’ve been spent on security now that the Alliance was here people could focus on the important things. Like alcohol. One good thing then.

Shepard knew she had to meet her contact in the central hub of the alliance but honest to god seeing the faces of any Alliance high ranking officials may as well end up with a blood bath. Especially the fact that none of them were ever able to hide the disdain they had for her. Even the Alliance Soldiers would not stop there constant whispering in her presence. Dumb fucks don’t know how to shut up. She’d do them all a favor and sew their mouth shut but apparently System Alliance Regulations do not condone such acts to civilians nor peers. Hypocrites. Which is why she sent her location to the private line given to her by her contact.

Shepard closed her eyes and forced herself to focus on her breathing. The silence of the makeshift pub was comforting if not foreboding. She had taken a seat in the far end closed off to the other patrons. Though patrons is a too generous of a word, after all she was the only one here. That didn’t stop her from drinking though. Though the only sensation she felt was of the metallic floor underneath her which was in an odd sense grounding as if the metal had swallowed her boots and refused to let her float away to the unknown darkness above them. She felt the ends of her mouth twitch, the alcohol must truly be getting to her. As she turned her head to the side she noticed she was on the eleventh bottle by now. “Where in hell was her goddamn contact”, she thought to herself bitterly.

Though it did give her time to appreciate more of the décor of the place with the lights dim enough not to be disturbing and small windows at the side filtering the rays of the sun from getting inside considering it was 8 in the goddamn morning. The owner or at least bartender was standing in his makeshift bar with a metallic table to isolate himself from his customers and a full closet behind him stacked with common labels to their special homebrewed beer that apparently they had yet to name. Work in progress, he said. She was never the type to refuse a drink. Though in this case a particular strong one with a hint of herbs? One in particular was one her mother often used mugwort was the name. The rest she couldn’t even name, deciding then to might as well talk to the barkeep about the ingredients so as to not go directly to the alliance central hub, find her contact and kick their ass from here and then back to the earth.

She opened her mouth from her seat when a familiar rough but comfortably warm voice rang out, “It’s good to see you enjoying yourself.”

Shepard could not have shot to her feet quicker and her spine straightened as her right hand was raised near her forehead, “Good morning, Captain Anderson, Sir!”

Anderson hadn’t changed a bit his hair still shaved  and cropped closely to his head, his stature still fit and combat ready as ever, and his expression still weary and guarded but she can see a small smirk playing at his lips and his eyes exuding warmth from its natural brown color though a few more extra lines could be seen underneath them.

“At ease, soldier,” he replied without missing a beat and his lips still holding on to that smirk, “Though I seem to recall that soldiers usually raise their right hand rather than their left.”

Shepard had to do a double take to see whether Anderson was lying when she heard a soft chuckle from him, “I also remember you being more guarded than to fall for these kinds of tricks.”

Shepard rolled her eyes as she dropped her stance immediately, “If you have time to joke around then I suppose this isn’t as serious as I thought. You wouldn’t have been using another name to call me here unless…”

Shepard’s eyes turned to slits as her stance changed into one of a prey trapped to the wall. Anderson knew it well especially when he would bring up a conversation, she wanted no part of.

This time it was Anderson’s turn to straighten his spine, after all dealing with Shepard required him to use his full authority and to strong arm especially when she was ready to bolt. “Take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

“To hell with that, I am not ha—”

“Ezner Mason Shepard, Take. A. Seat.”

Shepard shut her mouth hard that the grinding of her teeth could be heard but she did as she was told and sat down.

Anderson couldn’t help feeling a bit proud of the little victory as his smirk grew a bit wider even as Shepard sat there foot tapping at the metal floor quite harshly, he continued as he sat down and leaned in with a much softer tone to hopefully coax her to being more honest to him and to herself, “This is a great opportunity for you, Ezner. I really cannot understand why you are adamant to not be transferred to the frigate.” the last words were spoken a bit more quietly in case there were ears on the walls, “If this is about what happened in—”

Shepard did not hesitate as she stared Anderson down, “Then there is nothing further to discuss, Captain.” Despite her cold harsh words she still hadn’t moved from her seat.

Anderson then sat straighter deflated but not defeated, “Shepard I will not stand by and watch you ruin your own career by your own sheer stubbornness. The Alliance are already trying to make an official case against you to have you dishonorably discharged. Fortunately all they have is your misconducts not enough to build a case on.”

Shepard barely budged from her chair as her posture slackened and her expression remained absolutely neutral, “Let me guess you also vouched for my attitude but the higher ups don’t give a shit for grunts like me and the only reasons the council wont let me go,” a disruption could be felt in the air as a blue hue engulfed the beer bottle lifting it precisely to Shephard’s lips, “Let me guess it was Hackett again? This what i get for fucking his grandau–”

“Shepard.” Anderson’s voice was devoid of its usual warmth that it even made Shepard noticeably sit straighter to the trained eye, “I know you have disagreements with Admiral Hackett but show him the respect he deserves. He helped you on torfan.”

“More like tossed me out of the Alliance as fast as he can,” Shepard muttered.

“Wasn’t that by your request? And then what did you proceed to do? Piss off all your commanding officers to the point you’ve been sent from one ship to the next.” Anderson replied as a matter-of-factly, “And yet here I am, willing to offer you the best second chance you can ever get and you still deny it. What will it take, Shepard, to get you on my ship?”

“Wait… Your ship? Last I heard…”

“Things have changed back in the Alliance. They gave me the ship and allowed me to hand pick my crew personally.”

“No wonder you’ve been hounding me more incessantly. Using another name too, not bad. Wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for him.”

“Javier knows I borrowed his contact. Only way to get you to meet me face to face.”

“He has information on Balak. That’s more important than any damn ship,” Shepard said her face contorting with anger as her hands grip the edge of her metallic chair creating a dent.

“Not just a ship, Ezner, The ship. The best that the alliance will ever have. And I want you onboard,” Anderson’s voice was filled with conviction once more and a fire burning bright.

Only to be snuffed out by Shepard’s words, “No. I am content with where I am.”

Anderson leaned back and examined Shepard carefully. Her rusty orange hair cut short to the base of her neck, her scar on top of her right eye spanning down onto her left cheek much less pronounced than five years ago, and her built was still as muscular as you would expect a vanguard soldier to be. She was still in better shape than before and her expression still was as cold as stone but the fire alight in those grey eyes was still there ever since he first found her under the rubble in mindoir.

“I see but that does beg the question where is your team now,” Anderson asked as he searched the perimeter for any that looked like an official alliance soldier and found none - aside from a wandering local whose face had met the table after three local drinks in - “As far as I can tell there aren’t any here unless you soldiers have been recruiting civilians in and per regulations i will have to suspend your operations. Making you as they say legally free.”

“Funny, but no we don’t do that. Ever,” if looks could kill Shepard’s stare would incinerate a man, “There… Somewhere.”

“In this colony?”

“…..”

“In this planet?”

“Not exactly,” Shepard replied slightly adjusting from her seat trying to hide any body language that could give her away.

“There not here are they,” Anderson quickly caught on. The fact that Shepard was no longer looking him straight in the eye means she had done something. Quite possibly illegal.

“I left them on Anhur. One of Balaks men was stationed there apparently were gonna be getting more information,” Shepard admitted, knowing for a fact if she didn’t answer him now he’d find a way to get the information and it would be more of a pain in the ass having the team of soldiers she was with believing she was being favored by the amazing wonderful Captain Anderson.

“And you left all of that to come to me? I’m touched,” Anderson replied with a soft smile despite the sarcasm in his words, “Im guessing they do not know you are here?”

“Says the man using a fake name,” She replied brutally honest but a small smile played on her lips as she looked at him, “And no, they don’t.”

“And how did you get here,” Anderson was curious now after all she had illegally come here of her own free will for the information how did she plan to go back?

“I may have procured a shuttle and a pilot.” Shepard replied cleaning what looked to be dirt on the table.

“Procured,” Anderson suspiciously asked as he raised his eyebrow that hadn’t sounded like Shepard at all.

She looked him straight in the eye then, “Fine, I threatened him that id take off his legs and beat him to death with it if he didn’t take me to and from the area I needed to go. And yes, he resisted and yes i broke his toes just 4 of them in one foot. Okay, five one in the other as a warning. Happy?”

Anderson shook his head, “Violence Ezner does not always work out the way you want it too, even if you think it leads to the results you want.”

Shepard let out a huff but said nothing, letting the silence fill the air.</p><p>Her shoulders slumped, “Look Anderson, I get what your trying but I really am fine where I am. I don’t need your handouts. I’m doing much better on the frontlines than I am stationed at some decorative ship.”

“It’s not decorative, Shepard. It’s a state of the line frigate war ship co-created by the Tu–”

“Save your lines for the media. I know what it is, You’ve been sending me those damn reports how could I not have known it by now.”

“Then do you know you’ll be working for me as my Executive Officer, You will be on the field when I can’t and lead the crew and advise me when necessary” Anderson said with pride in his tone, “Alongside with the best damn crew you will ever get to know.”

There was a long pause as Shepard stared directly at Anderson’s eyes. This was always Shepard’s habit everytime she weighed judgement she would always stare down someone’s eyes. Anderson was sure that this time Shepard had finally seen what he could see. Her greatness.

“No,” Shepard replied resolutely as she stood up.

Anderson then heaved a long sigh, “Whatever you think your punishment or redemption or whatever you think your out there looking for, I really hope you find it soon, Shepard. Before it eats you whole.”

Shepard only gave him a glance before leaving the makeshift bar. Shepard breathed the fresh air of the colonial planet looking at it with one more glance and strengthening her resolve as she thinks to herself, “Because she would no longer drag anyone down to the depths of hell she would create and she would keep everyone safe, no matter the cost.”

Anderson sat there for a few minutes both tired and frankly disappointed. He already knew how this talk would go considering her determined and constant disapproval of transferring anywhere near his command. She had completely closed off after torfan much less when the Alliance not only denounced her and shipped her off - per her request- out into the traverse right after finishing her N7 training. The Alliance wanted to wash their hands clean off of her and yet Anderson wouldn’t let them. Shepard was the only soldier he met that could stand their ground against anything and anyone. More than that, the would survive and thrive in any conditions. The perfect soldier just needed a guiding hand and he was more than willing to reach out no matter what it takes. He stood up and walked briskly back to the ship that had brought him here and as he reached his quarters he opened his omnitool to contact the one man who could help him get her under his command and to greater heights.

Anderson then recorded a voicemail to a private line, “Spectre Nihlus, You may not remember me but we have met during the council meeting of allowing a human spectre into the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. I am Captain David Anderson of the System Alliance Military. I have handpicked personally a potential recruit and would like your affirmation. Attached to this file will be personal data, biography, and achievements they have done. Hoping to hear from you soon. Captain Anderson out.”