#it is really well maintained and 12k

[ironsleep]

I think I'm gonna buy a 3b2b mobile home....

[holybatgirlz]

The Cluedo Incident of '19

Read on ao3 here.

Summary:

Or: That time Bridgerton Family Game Night left five of the spouses contemplating the idea of divorce.

Words: 12k+

Notes: Been worked on this since January and finally finished it 😮‍💨😮‍💨. All credit to @bridgertonbabe for this.

“Unit 1813, please respond.”

“Go ahead, dispatch.”

“We’ve got a potential stabbing, an active labor, a few cases of smoke inhalation, and what looks like appendicitis at a home fire in Mayfair. Firefighters have made sure the fires have been put out and we’ve got a few units on the scene as well, but they’re requesting additional back up. Family on sight is giving them problems.”

“What’s the address?”

As Harriet continued driving the ambulance, listening to dispatch relay the address of the emergency, she glanced towards her partner Pete, an older and more seasoned paramedic, let out a loud laugh. Chuckling to himself, Pete told dispatch they were on route and were only a few minutes out.

Noticing her confusion, Pete only chuckled more. “Don’t worry. I’ve been to this address before.” 

“You’ve been there before?” Harriet asked, still concerned. 

“It’s the Bridgerton family’s address. Had a few calls to their home in my career. They're a nice bunch,” Pete explained. “And given the situation, my guess is they had another game night.” 

Now, Harriet was really confused. She vaguely recalled the last name.

“Game night?” she asked, clarifying.

“Every once in a while they have a family game night, which usually ends in some level of chaos. With injuries to match,” Pete continued. “Eight kids. All a bunch of high achievers and also incredibly competitive. Do not get into an argument with any of them. In fact, don’t talk to any of them when we get there. Two of them are solicitors, and another one used to be, and a fourth one is training to be. So, I’ll do the talking.”

As they pulled up at the scene, Harriet was taken aback by the amount of ambulances parked in front of a grand, white stucco home with pillars and a painted black metal fence in front, with a beautifully maintained garden of rose bushes outfront. Firefighters were coming in and out of the front door, which had soft trails of gray smoke escaping out from. They’re were two police cars parked in front as well, the lights of the cop cars along with the ambulances lit the home in blue hue. There was a noticeable crowd of people both watching from across the street as well as a small cluster by some of the ambulances, all of whom appeared to be arguing with one another.

“This was because of a game?” Harriet asked, stunned. 

“Yep,” Pete told her as he turned off the engine and hopped out of the ambulance. 

Making their way towards the home, and the crowd of arguing adults, they passed an elegantly dressed, yet soaking wet, woman sitting on the front steps of the home, unperturbed by the firefighters moving up and down the stairs next to her.

“Evening Mrs. Bridgerton,” Pete nodded. “How have you been?”

As he spoke, Mrs. Bridgerton held up a finger as she took a long swing from the wine bottle held in her hand, chugging a few gulps before pointing her thumb towards the other parked ambulances. A cigarette was burning between her pointer and middle finger. Harriet noticed that while she was soaked to the bone, she had no ash or soot on her. Let alone blood on her anywhere.

“There all over there,” Mrs. Bridgerton told them once she was finished drinking.

“Another game night?” he asked, knowingly.

Mrs. Bridgerton nodded sullenly, taking a drag of the cigarette before speaking. She didn’t even look up at them, just continued giving a thousand yard stare to the rose bushes in front of her. 

“Unfortunately.”

Receiving all the information they needed (and were going to get) Pete hoisted the large medical kit higher over his shoulder and made his way towards the group of arguing adults.

“This happens every other year?” Harriet said slowly, still shocked as she looked around the scene.

“Roughly. We’ve been getting calls here because of the Bridgerton Game Nights since the late seventies. You should have seen the father and his siblings when they lived here,” Pete whistled as he recalled that time. “They flooded the entire downstairs one year and blew up a microwave another time. This lot just seems worse because there's more of them.” 

As they got closer, Harriet was able to make out some of the arguing coming from the crowd. A group who all looked to be disheveled and soaking wet. Some even had blood on their clothes. Half the group was yelling at each other, while the others were silently observing. Looking, frankly, embarrassed and exasperated by what was happening in front of them.

“I cannot believe you would accuse my wife of faking contractions !” 

“Benedict, please get in the ambulance.” 

“Who has eyes on Hyacinth?!”

“ She stabbed my husband, Anthony !”

“Daphne, I’m fine. Now get in or we leave without you.” 

“At least”– cough cough –“At least I didn’t start a fire !” 

“Eloise, be quiet and let the paramedics help you!” 

“Who's driving Mum to the hospital?!”

“Where the hell is Hyacinth ?!” 

“Like I said,” Pete told her. “Let me do the talking.”

| Fourteen Hours Earlier |

BSSG Chat

Penelope: Good morning my fellow spouses. Are we ready for tonight? 🙂

Kate: Yes 😀😀😀

Simon: Not particularly, no.

Sophie: I guess.

Sophie: Ben and I may be late tonight. Our sitter canceled at the last minute, so Posy is going to watch Charlie after she gets off work. 

Phillip: Eloise made it sound like a lot of fun so I’m excited to see how this goes.

Michael: Yeah, same here.

Simon: …

Penelope: Well, we’re excited to have you guys. ☺️☺️☺️☺️

Kate: You guys are going to get crushed 😈😈

The Sane-y Bunch

Penelope: Before anyone asks, yes I have the first aid kit. 

Penelope: I got the biggest one I could find.

Penelope: Like almost professional grade.

Simon: Oh thank Christ.

Sophie: Is Violet really planning to stay for this? I thought she was going on a spa retreat with Agatha?

Simon: Canceled. Apparently the place flooded due to a burst pipe, so they had to close. Agatha’s trying to reschedule them somewhere else but at this point all they can get is a post-game night retreat next weekend.

Penelope: Lucky them.

Penelope: Alright. We all know the plan.

Penelope: Sophie you're on Violet watch tonight. The last thing we need is to call an ambulance for alcohol poisoning. She’ll be too busy fretting over your pregnancy to focus on drinking, and that way you don’t need to be on your feet too much or get involved in the game. We can keep you both in the lounge.

Sophie: 👍 That sounds absolutely fine to me.

Sophie: As much as I love Ben. I do not enjoy watching the man he becomes when game night happens. 

Penelope: I’ve got team pairings I think will work, so we just need to make sure they happen. Especially Kate and Anthony. They have to be paired together or God help us if they are on opposing teams. 

Simon: As much as I hate when they team up, they are better managed when they’re together then they are apart. 

Sophie: I do feel kinda bad for Phillip and Michael. They seem so excited. I really don’t think it's fair for us to not warn them.

Simon: Sophie, there is nothing you can do for them. The only way they will understand the hell that is about to break out tonight is by experiencing it first hand. 

Simon: WE all had to experience it blind ourselves. 

Penelope: You know they would never believe us if we tried to explain it.

Sophie: Still. I did warn Phillip that Eloise can get a little intense when Game Night happens. 

Penelope: I told him not to let her have any sugar before she gets there. 

“Pen! Have you seen my bag for tonight?”

“No!” Penelope yelled back, staring down at said missing bag.

The small plastic bag was filled with items that her husband had bought off Amazon to help him cheat at tonight’s game. How? Penelope had no idea, but she was currently looking at a small bag filled with items found in a Cluedo board game box, along with a packet of invisible ink pens.

He’d initially hidden the bag (and quite stupidly) under their bed, after excitedly informing her about how he planned to cheat and finally win at Game Night. Penelope had had to plan it perfectly how’d she’d get the items before Colin had enough time to replace them. 

Stashing the items into her Mom’s old, Valentino bag, one she’d given Penelope after Phillipa let a lipstick melt in it, knowing full well Colin would not dare go through her mother’s stuff after the last time he’d done so and found items he’d never needed to find in her mother’s possession, Penelope then shoved the bag deep into the back of the hallway closet as her husband came into the room. 

“I could have sworn I left it in our room,” he told her.

Penelope plastered the sweetest, most sympathetic smile she could as she watched him. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it where your siblings could see it?”

Colin cursed. “You don’t think Gregory took it?” 

“I don’t know,” Penelope shrugged, then faked a gasp, eyes wide with alarm. “You don’t think he’s in cahoots with Anthony?”

“You’re right,” Colin told her, falling for it. “He’s always been a stickler for doing what Anthony wants.” 

“You know, we should probably make sure they don’t team up tonight. I was thinking we do couple pairings,” Penelope suggested. “If he and Kate are together they’ll be too busy arguing to focus on winning.”

“You. Are. Brilliant,” Colin told her, coming over and placing his hands on her shoulders before kissing her on the forehead. “I love you. And I love when you get manipulative.” 

Oh, you have no idea how manipulative I can be, babe , Penelope thought to herself as she continued to smile sweetly at her husband. 

Familia Bridgerton Group Chat

Colin: All right Gregory made his pick. 

Colin: It’s Cluedo

“Daddy?” 

Phillip looked up and found his daughter standing in the doorway of his greenhouse. Amanda, only nine years old, was still dressed in her pjs. He let out an exhausted sigh, it was now almost one in the afternoon and Marina was going to be here in an hour to pick the twins up for the weekend. 

“What is it Amanda?” he asked as he continued misting his orchids.

“Mama Eloise has gone crazy ,” Amanda replied, dragging out the last word in an over the top tone. 

“It’s she always crazy?” Phillip teasingly returned, smiling fondly. 

Amanda thought it over for a second. “Well, yeah, but this time she’s gone really crazy.” 

Phillip frowned. That did not sound good.

Putting the spray bottle down, Phillip exited the greenhouse, Amanda following close behind, and made his way back into the house. Which was when he entered the home and found Eloise pacing through the halls, muttering to herself. Held in her hand was a bag of jelly babies that she was currently munching on. 

“–complete and utter incompetent ass,” he heard her say to herself as she popped another candy in her mouth and aggressively chewed it. 

“Good morning, Eloise,” Phillip said with forced cheer as he tried to hide the concern in his voice, slowly approaching his wife like she was suddenly a wild animal. When she began stress eating, it was never a good sign. 

Eloise’s head snapped up towards him. 

“There you are!” she said, suddenly charging at him, making Phillip quickly take a step back in surprise. “What’s your experience with Cluedo?”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Cluedo,” Eloise repeated. “You’ve played Cluedo before, yes?”

“Um…yes,” Phillip told her, hesitantly. It had been a few years, but he’d certainly played the murder mystery board game before.

“And you're good at it?” Eloise asked next.

“I mean, I’ve only played it a few times. It’s been a while since I last played it,” he answered. 

“Damn it,” Eloise cursed, turning away from him. “That ass. I knew it. I knew he would try to do this.”

“Do what?” Phillip asked. “Who are we talking about?”

“Gregory. It’s Gregory’s turn to pick the game and he chose Cluedo,” Eloise told him, furiously. “The little ass picked the one game he knew I hated.” 

Phillip’s frown deepened. “Don’t you love mystery novels?” he asked her. He had an entire shelf worth of them now in the library upstairs. 

“That’s different,” she snapped, as if it should be obvious to him his error. 

“Okay,” Phillip said slowly, watching Eloise continue to pace back and forth through the hallway, until he stepped in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, are you alright?”

Eloise frowned. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, you seem…stressed,” he told her.

But his wife only rolled her eyes. “It’s fine, Phillip, you obviously don’t understand the importance of game night.” 

“I don’t?” he asked her. 

“Yes,” Eloise replied with an exasperated sigh. 

🐝 The Children Group Chat 🐝

Violet: Good morning, children ✨💗✨💗

Violet: I hope you are all ready to be on your best behavior tonight. Before you all arrive tonight. I wanted to make sure you all remembered the rules. 

Anthony: Of course, mother.

Violet: Would you all like to remind me what they are?

Anthony: No cheating, no weapons, no cursing, no threatening family members or significant others and no emotional manipulation or targeted insults.

Anthony: And especially no cheating.

Eloise: Love how you of all people feel the need to remind us about the no cheating rule. 

Anthony: Because I cheat???

Eloise: YES

Eloise: All the time!!

Violet: …

Violet: I will see you all tonight.

“Honey, did you really need to bring this much food?” Simon asked as he placed the stack of baking trays he’d been made to carry down.

Every available space in the kitchen at Number 5 was now covered in baking trays and containers Daphne had brought from their house. It was enough to feed a small army. 

“We could have just ordered pizza,” he added.

The glare his wife gave him over her shoulder was enough for Simon to be reminded that silence was the best option for him right now, as he watched Daphne continue to unpack the food and turn on the oven.

“Oh, Daphne,” Violet awkwardly laughed as she walked into her kitchen and saw the sight before her. Her pale blue eyes were wide with concern. “My…you’ve brought so much… food .”

“Well, whatever is left over you can save Mum,” Daphne told her as she continued preparing. “Everything is really good as leftovers.” 

Violet gave Simon a panicked look, but he only shook his head at her. A warning that Daphne was in no mood right now to be critiqued or questioned. 

“I’ve got a few more things I need to get out of the car. Be right back,” Daphne told them cheerfully as she left the room and headed back outside. 

Once she was gone, Violet looked towards him and asked. 

“How long has she been baking?”

“Since um…two nights ago,” Simon told her, having had to deal with his wife’s stress cooking as today’s game night got closer and closer. He’d woken up at two in the morning to find her baking a croquembouche, a bloody croquembouche , in their kitchen while she muttered away about how she was definitely going to win game night this time. 

“Well, she unfortunately gets stress baking from me,” Violet informed him, apologetically. 

THE Children Group Chat

Hyacinth: Alright, we placing bets on tonight or not??

Francesca: On who??? Ourselves?? We all ALWAYS vote for ourselves every time this question is brought up.

Colin: Tbh I think Kate might have a chance this year. We all know she spends most of her time plotting how to kill Anthony, she’s probably an expert at it by now.

Anthony: You win Cluedo by process of elimination not whether or not you know how to kill someone.

Colin: So you agree? That Kate knows how to end your life?

Anthony: I’m not dignifying that with a response.

Colin: You literally just responded to my question 😮💨 

Benedict: I’m calling dibs on being partnered with my wife tonight 🥰

Eloise: Omg we get it Benedict. You're whipped. 

Benedict: 🖕

Hyacinth: You ASS. You said I could be partnered with Sophie this time!!

Benedict: I have no recollection of ever having that conversation. 

“I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s really that big of a deal.”

“Honey, I love you, but I’m starting to think you just don’t understand how important it is that we win tonight.”

“Why? So you can laud it over your siblings that you’re better than them at Cluedo?”

“Yes.”

Sophie couldn't hold back the eye roll she gave her husband, but still accepted his hand as he helped her up the short staircase leading to Number 5. The closer she got to her due date, the more her round stomach and swollen ankles slowed her down, and stairs in particular had become quite cumbersome in recent weeks

“Benedict, it’s a board game. You’re supposed to have fun, not fight your siblings to the death like you're in the Colosseum,” she told her husband as he rapped his knuckles on the front door, watching as he bounced around in a manner that looked as though he desperately needed to use the restroom.

“Don’t you remember Pictionary?” he asked, smiling dreamily at her. 

Ah, yes, the Pictionary Incident. She'd conveniently blocked it from her memory given everything that had happened that night.

She'd been dating Benedict for a year when she got invited to her first Bridgerton Game Night. Right after everything with her stepmother finally hit the fan, culminating in her spending three days in jail before Benedict and his mother had found her and got her released. They'd helped her file a lawsuit against her stepmother for the fraud and harassment, but that very lawsuit had left her overwhelmed and unable to sleep. Add to it Benedict yelling at her for her quote, “abysmal” drawing skills and casting her aside in exchange for teaming up with Kate, she’d come to believe Benedict wanted nothing to do with her. 

And then Anthony and Colin purposefully dropped a mini keg on Benedict’s hand while she’d been wiping tears away in the bathroom, almost costing him his career (and the ability to use his right hand), and Sophie had been so exasperated by that point she ended up punching Anthony in the face hard enough to give him a black eye and slapping Colin. 

She’d been mortified by her actions. Sophie had thought she’d never be able to face his family again after what happened, but Benedict thought otherwise. As did his siblings, who had all lauded her as a hero for what she'd done. It had still taken Kate and Simon, along with Penelope, to convince her they weren't upset with her. 

Benedict proposed to her twice in the aftermath. First time after he woke up the next day and was still a little groggy from the morphine, which had led to the famous “soap bucket my finance” text that her in-laws still teased her about, and the second time after he’d been discharged and they had gotten back to the apartment. When he’d finally been able to give her the ring he’d been hiding in their side table. 

“You were so hot that night. Not that you aren’t always but God, when you sucker punched Anthony, I swore I could hear a choir going,” Benedict continued. 

She raised a brow up at him, unimpressed. “Honey, that might have been the morphine the paramedics gave you. Or the pain from having your hand crushed.”

“Or maybe you are just a literal angel,” Benedict replied, swooping down to give her a quick kiss before she could retort. And right as the front door finally opened. 

The sight of her mother-in-law, Violet Bridgerton, wine glass in hand, and a pained, forced smile on her face as she opened the door for them, was the first cause of concern for Sophie. It didn’t do anything for the mounting worry she felt in the pit of her stomach. That she’d had for the past two weeks, since the idea of tonight's game night had been suggested in the main family group chat.  

“Evening, mother. You look as lovely as ever,” Benedict said excitedly, greeting his mother with a kiss on the cheek before quickly bypassing her and throwing his coat off. Tossing it over the staircase railing as he passed by it and went straight into the living room.

A room where arguing could already be heard already coming from. 

Violet blinked as her son disappeared, turning to Sophie before sighing, giving her a tired smile. “How are you Sophie?”

“Well,” Sophie told her as she entered the Bridgerton family home, giving her mother-in-law a quick side hug (given her pregnant stomach made hugging tricky at the moment). “All good?”

“They are still deciding teams,” Violet told her flatly. “It’s been an hour.” 

“Sophie, come on!” Benedict called out from the living room. “You’re going to be on my team!” 

“Great,” Sophie commented flatly. There went her plan of staying out of the conflict. 

At least she’d be able to reign him in if they were on the same side, and things started to get out of hand. 

Violet, meanwhile, downed what remained of her half full glass of wine. “Good luck. I’ll be in the lounge watching Love Island if you need me. Do not find a need for me.” 

She then disappeared into the room across from the one all of her children were in, closing the door and returning to her marathon of reality TV in the hopes of distracting her from the noise which was her insane children.

Sophie sighed, pulling off her coat and hanging it up (along with Benedict’s) in the front hall closet, before making her way to the living room. Which was where she found her fellow Bridgerton spouses looking exhausted (Penelope) and exasperated (Simon), and a very alarmed looking Michael and Phillip. Kate, it turned out, was one of the loudest arguing voices at the moment.

Benedict, seeing her, patted the space next to him on the couch like an excitable golden retriever. He’d already grabbed another pillow to support her back. And thankfully, Sophie would be next to Francesca and Michael, meaning she wouldn’t have someone screaming in her ear for most of the night. 

Penelope flashed her an apologetic smile as she passed by, as Kate and Anthony continued to argue over being on a team together. From what she quickly gathered, the pair had unfortunately ended up on opposing teams. Kate with Gregory and Anthony with Hyacinth. And neither would agree to changing. 

“Alright, can we please just play the game!” Simon shouted suddenly, silencing the pair and the room. He blinked, realizing how snappish he’d sounded as everyone stared at him, then took a deep breath, saying in a calmer and quieter tone. “Now that Benedict and Sophie are here, we have everyone. Shouldn't we just start?” 

“Let’s. Please,” Phillip added, gently.

It was going to be a long night. 

| 20 Minutes Later |

Hyacinth Bridgerton to The Mothership

Hyacinth: Mother. I am texting you this because I wanted to make sure you knew that Gregory is a punk ass liar and anything he tells you or texts you tonight is nothing but a malicious attempt at slandering my name.

Gregory Bridgerton to Mama

Gregory: Hyacinth is the one who lost your diamond earrings last month. She wore them out to go clubbing and then lost them in Regent’s Park when she went skinny dipping with Gareth while drunk. 

Gregory: I should clarify that at no point did Gareth make her do any of this. Nor did he get in the pond with her. I’m also pretty sure it's the reason she caught a norovirus. 

Gregory: Also, do we have any antacids in the house? My stomach is killing me.

| Half an Hour Later |

The Sane-y Bunch

Sophie: And here I thought tonight wouldn’t be so bad 🙃🙃

Penelope: Literal clown behavior.

Simon: 🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡 

Agatha Danbury to Violet Bridgerton

Agatha: How goes it with the chaos octonary?

Violet: Bickering and threats mainly, but the night is still young.

Agatha: What glass of wine are you on?

Violet: My fourth but I’m prepared to shift to hard liquor if they don’t stop yelling profanities at each other as if I’m not home right now. 

| One Hour Later |

“You are the biggest liar on the face of the earth!” 

“Well, at least I didn’t crash Mum’s car when I was fourteen!” Hyacinth yelled back.

“That was you?” Anthony shouted at Eloise, who only rolled her eyes and slumped back against the couch.

Putting his head in his hand, rubbing a hand over his face as he rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa, Simon desperately tried to think calm, relaxing thoughts before he finally snapped and went on a killing spree. If he didn’t, his in-laws were going to put him in the ground. Or he would put them all in the ground. It had been almost an hour of arguing, with no one being able to roll the dice or move they’re spots until the debates that had broken out had been resolved. 

Then, his phone vibrated in his back pocket. Simon pulled it out, hoping it was a call from work so he could get out of here.

It wasn’t.

Spouses (Minus Kate because WTF Is she on something???) 

Michael: Hey, Michael here. 

Michael: What the fuck is going on?

Penelope: Game night 😊

Penelope: And to answer your question. No Kate isn’t on anything.

Michael: I’m beginning to see that.

Michael: Again.

Michael: What the fuck???

Michael: Is this normal???? Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Francesca this mean spirited. 

Michael: I didn’t even think she could be mean.

Sophie: Yes. This is normal.

Penelope: Unfortunately, yes.

Sophie: Does someone want to check on Phillip? He looks ill.

Penelope: He looks catatonic.

Simon: I think he’s a lost cause.

Sparing a glance towards his brother-in-law, Simon found Phillip staring straight ahead, looking stunned, with his hands clasped together on his lap, back stiff and straight as a board as he sat in a perpetual state of silent shock. Ever since Eloise had threatened to throw weedkiller on his ghost orchids. All because he dared to second guess her about the dagger being the murder weapon. He’d been sitting there like that for the past twenty minutes, since the threat had been made. The constant buzzing of his phone in his pocket, vibrating from each text it received, appeared to do nothing in snapping his attention back to reality.

“It’s Ms. Scarlet,” Benedict repeated for the sixteenth time, even louder than the last time he said it. 

“No it isn’t!” Kate (who it should be noted was currently Ms. Scarlet with Gregory) yelled back. Even louder than the last time she had yelled it. 

“Yes, it is,” Benedict snapped back. 

“I think Benedict’s right,” Sophie calmly said, from where she sat next to her husband.

“Sophie, I love you, but no one asked for your ditzy opinion,” Kate shot at her. 

Sophie’s dark blonde brows shot up to her hairline as she stared, stunned, at her sister-in-law and close friend's remark. 

“Ditzy?”

“Don’t call my wife a ditz,” Benedict ordered loudly. 

“Hey, hey ! Don’t yell at my wife!” Anthony shot back, pointing a finger at his brother from where he was sitting on the sofa chair next to his brother. His finger hovering inches away from his brother’s face.

Benedict only slapped his hand away. “Don’t point your finger at me Anthony. You’re not my father.”

For the briefest of moments, Simon was certain that Anthony was capable of shooting laser beams from his eyes with the glare his friend shot his younger brother. The vein in his forehead was certainly bulging right now and he looked ready to lecture Benedict about respecting your elders (i.e. elder brothers ), which would have gone on for the next twenty minutes if he wasn’t stopped, but Sophie interrupted them both before he could. 

“I think–” she announced loudly, moving to push herself up from her seated position. “–I’m going to get some water. Honey, can you help me up?”

Benedict was on his feet in seconds, having forgotten all about his brother as he moved to help his wife.  Offering out his hands for her to take and pulling her up to her feet once she’d grabbed them, and moving one hand behind her back to help support her while she found her balance again. Simon had to give it to Sophie. She was pretty good at knowing when and what to say to diffuse an argument between the siblings. 

“I’ll go with you,” Penelope said, rising to her feet as well. “I need to refill my glass.”

“Here too,” Simon quickly commented, jumping up to follow and snatching his bourbon glass off the coffee table. 

“I think I need another beer,” Michael announced. “Francesca, you want something?”

“Not now,” Francesca snappishly replied over her shoulder, before returning to her argument with Colin. They’d been arguing for the past fifteen minutes over whether or not his notepad had invisible ink on it. She'd apparently seen him flashing a UV flight over it. As had Daphne. 

“Alright then,” Michael said to no one in particular, before turning to Phillip, grabbing his elbow and pulling the man up to his feet. “Come on, Phil. Let’s get you a drink.”

“Sure,” Phillip replied weakly, still looking rather out of it. 

Dragging him to his feet, Michael subsequently was the one to pull Phillip along behind him as the spouses all made a quick exit and headed into the kitchen. They found Violet in the middle of pouring herself another very large glass of red wine, which was empty by the time she finished pouring. 

“How goes the game?” she asked them as they all entered. 

“No injuries yet. We’re still at the sin list period of the night,” Penelope told her. “Eloise was the one who crashed your car and Anthony’s the one who washed all your passports before your Bali trip that one time. I also want to make sure you knew it was Colin who accidentally killed Daphne’s hamster. Not Benedict. That didn’t come up tonight but I wanted to make sure you knew.”

“Oh, I know about the hamster,” Violet told her before taking a long sip of her wine. “Colin admitted to it during the Pictionary Incident.”

“Is there by chance any more wine?” Penelope asked. 

Violet lifted the empty wine bottle. “This,” she started, which was when they all noticed how flushed her face was. “Was the last bottle.” She then studied the bottle for a few seconds, lips pursed as she stared down the hole and into the bottle. “I should probably go get more.”

“I can drive you,” Simon offered quickly, before the other. 

“I think I’m going to walk to the store actually,” she announced to them. “That way I can stay out of here longer.”

Simon visibly deflated. There went his only escape, even if it meant abandoning the others. He was forced to watch as Violet left the room and headed towards the front door. 

“I’m going out!” her voice called out to her children, which was quickly followed by the front door slamming before any of them could reply back. 

Not that they did. 

“Well, this is turning into a wonderful evening,” Penelope commented.

Simon took a seat at the kitchen table, with the others following. Michael, after grabbing another beer from the fridge, pulled out a chair for Sophie, who slowly lowered herself down, one hand over her round stomach and the other clutching the chair as she slowly sunk down, before he took a seat next to her. Penelope made sure to get both Sophie and Phillip a glass of water before taking a seat next to Simon on the opposite side. 

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked the group. All of whom gave her varying looks of discomfort or awkwardness back. “What? We all know this needs to end before it gets out of hand.”

“Sophie, you don’t think there is a chance Benedict Jr could come a little early?” Michael suggested. 

“Michael, I can’t just make myself go into labor,” Sophie told him. 

“Well, if you fake contractions that will at least get you and Benedict outta here and he looks prepared to strangle Anthony right now,” he informed her. 

Sophie only ignored him, shaking her head as she turned towards the still catatonic Phillip. 

“Phillip, are you alright?” she asked him. 

“She threatened my orchids,” Phillip muttered slowly. 

“Yes. We all heard,” Sophie responded worriedly. 

“My orchids. My rare dendrophylax lindenii ghost orchids. Do you know how long they took to grow ?” Phillip looked at her fearfully. “Months. It took me months to grow them. I even had to get permission to grow them in the first place.”

Sophie, not the expert on rare plants the way Phillip, with his literal doctorate in botany, was, only nodded along politely, gently and supportively patting his shoulder. Simon pulled out his flask from his back pocket and offered it to Phillip, who took it with shaky hands and took a quick sip, before passing it back to him.

“So, let me get this straight,” Michael said to them. “This is normal for a Bridgerton family game night?”

“Yes,” Simon, Sophie, and Penelope all said back in unison. 

“Jesus Christ,” the Scotsman muttered, shaking his head in disbelief as he leaned back in his chair. Taking a moment to think, then asking. “Why are they like this?”

“No idea,” Sophie told him.

“I think they chose doing this over paying for family therapy sessions,” Penelope explained. 

“I think they're all just insane,” Simon said. 

“They’re an endangered species!” Phillip suddenly yelled, evidently still caught up on the threats to his prized flowers and surprising them all with his sudden outburst. “Does she even realize how much trouble she could get in?! How much trouble I could get in?!”

“There, there,” Sophie gently said, patting his shoulder as Phillip put his head in his hands. “There, there.” 

“Maybe we can get one of the babysitters to make up an emergency,” Michael suggested next, eyeing Phillip apprehensively as he spoke. A suggestion that had Simon bursting out into a brief fit of laughter, wishing he was as naive and innocent to this all as Michael was. 

“Trust me when I say, we will not be able to do that,” he informed Michael. “Agatha’s got my kids right now and she will not help us. She’d rather sit back with a glass of merlot and enjoy the outcome of tonight then willingly involve herself in this chaos. And Edwina’s babysitting for Anthony and Kate’s and I know she won’t help us either.”

“Edwina was present for the Password kerfuffle back when Anthony was trying to date her,” Penelope explained, seeing the confused look on Michael’s face. 

“Do I even want to know what happened?” Michael asked. 

“Besides it being the night Anthony and Kate finally hooked up by hate-fucking in the gazebo out back, and Gregory slashing Simon’s tires, not the worst game night we ever had,” Penelope answered with a shrug as she looked to Simon for agreement. “But it was enough for Edwina to never want to deal with it again. In any capacity.”

“You’re forgetting Hyacinth nearly falling out of the upstairs window and breaking her leg,” Simon added, impassively. 

Penelope blinked. She was silent for a moment as she recalled the minutes they’d all spent in a panic outside, watching on in horror as the youngest Bridgerton daughter, only ten at the time, clung to the railing of the balcony outside her room. If it hadn’t been for Simon racing upstairs and pulling her back over when they’d heard her all screaming, she probably would have fallen and broken something. Or worse. 

“I think I actually suppressed that part,” she remarked to him and Simon nodded back his understanding. 

“Posy might help us if I ask,” Sophie offered as she absently rubbed her hand up and down her swollen stomach. “Benedict would definitely believe something was wrong if she called.”

“The only problem with that idea, Sophie, is that you are a terrible liar,” Simon said.

Sophie gasped, appalled. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” Penelope told her. “Benedict might be blinded by your beauty and kindness to think you’d ever try deceiving him, but the others will see straight through it.” 

“And during Game Night of all nights, they’ll already be suspicious,” Simon said and Sophie frowned at him. “Their paranoia increases tenfold.”

Before she had a chance to respond, another voice interrupted their conversation. A voice that had them all tensing in their seats, like school children who’d just been caught misbehaving by the headmistress. 

“Oh, there you all are,” Daphne said, smiling, as she wandered into the kitchen. “I was wondering where you all had gotten too.” 

The redheaded Bridgerton daughter immediately bee-lined straight towards the oven, which had been on during this time cooking the little appetizers Daphne had made. Deviled eggs and a charcuterie board were already sitting on the kitchen island, with a smaller matching one in the living room, but Daphne (the uncontested queen of hosting) had also brought some impressive bite-size food items like little sliders and savory tarts that she’d been cooking throughout the night. 

If there was one benefit to the Bridgerton Game Nights, it at least came with good booze and Daphne’s amazing cooking. 

But Simon still eyed his wife suspiciously. When he’d left her in the living room minutes earlier, she’d been arguing fiercely with her brother and sister over an alleged invisible ink pen and now she was standing before them, the picture of perfection. Cheerful in fact.

Abnormally cheerful.

Concerningly cheerful. In the manner that Simon recognized as when his wife was going to get particularly passive-aggressive about something.  

“Hey, honey,” Simon started slowly, trying to act natural. “Need any help?”

“I’m good,” Daphne replied in her typical, cheerful bravado, but Simon could still hear the edge in her voice as she opened up the oven, pulling out the tray of food that had been cooking inside. 

“Can I just say Daphne,” Michael started, flashing his trademark charming smile. “You’ve done a wonderful job with the food tonight. Truly spectacular.”

“Oh, thank you,” Daphne replied sweetly with a nervous giggle. 

In any other situation, Simon might have been jealous of the subtle pink hue that developed on his wife’s cheeks, which only made her look even more beautiful, but if Michael’s compliments and charm kept his wife happy tonight, he was welcomed to endure it. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Simon asked again, watching as his wife used a spatula to move the little pastries she’d been warming from the metal cooking tray to a small plate. 

“Yep,” was all she said.

“Daphne,” Penelope started. “I just want to say that I really did try to make sure Colin didn’t bring any invisible pens tonight. I made sure I had all of them.” 

“Oh, it’s fine Pen,” Daphne said back with her cheerful, mom voice, smiling brightly back at her sister-in-law. “What with your history with my brother, I knew you had a like 1 in 10 chance of reining him in. It’s not like he has a good track record of noticing you when you're speaking to him.”

And there it was. 

Penelope blinked as she registered the insult Daphne had directed toward her. The others sitting around her all watched on in stunned surprise, eyes all wide in shock. Even Phillip had lifted his head to look at Daphne in shock as the air around them became awkwardly uncomfortable. 

But Simon only closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, wishing he’d pushed harder to escort Violet to the liquor store earlier.  

“See you all back in there,” Daphne cheerfully said in a sing-song voice and a wide smile as she carried the tray out of the room. “Don’t want everyone to think you guys are strategizing behind our backs.”

And then she was gone.

After a few moments, Simon sighed. “Penelope, I’d like to apologize on behalf of my wife for–” 

But Penelope only held up a hand, silencing him. She took a deep breath. “It’s fine. We all agreed to excuse anything that lot says on game night.” 

“I’m still more than welcome to call Posy,” Sophie offered again.

“If it comes to it, we’ll call her,” Simon told her with another sigh, relenting. They could make it work somehow if they had to. 

“We should all probably get back in there,” Michael said. “Before Daphne throws us all under the bus.”

“Which she will gladly do,” Simon replied in agreement, rising up from his chair. 

As he went to stand there was a sudden crashing sound from the other room, followed by loud and shocked expletives and shouting. Things were being tossed about and spilled, glass was shattering, as a loud high pitch scream was heard, followed by the other Bridgertons all yelling simultaneously. 

“Oh my God! IS THAT A KNIFE ?!” Daphne shouted. 

“Where the hell did you get a knife from?!” Anthony yelled.

“Hyacinth, put it down!” Benedict ordered. 

"Why does she have a knife!" Francesca screamed.

“That does not sound good,” Simon said, rising from his seat. 

As they all rushed to the room, Simon and Penelope were the first ones to make it in. Phillip and Michael had stayed behind to help Sophie out of her chair, meaning they were not witnesses to the sight that was Hyacinth holding a small switchblade in her outstretched arm as she stood on one side of the couch. Gregory stood on the other side, clutching his lower arm, a small trickle of blood slipping through his fingers as he stared at his younger sister in stunned shock. The rest of the siblings were all standing a safe distance away from the two, hands out in front of them as if they were handling feral dogs. 

“You bitch!” Gregory yelled. “You fucking stabbed me!” 

“You told Gareth about my lisp?!” Hyacinth screamed back furiously. 

“I thought he knew!” Gregory shouted back. “He’s your friend! I thought you told him everything!” 

“Not things he could use against me!” was the youngest Bridgerton loud, shrill reply. She tried to move around the couch to get him, but Gregory only moved at the same time as her, keeping the large sofa between them both as a makeshift barrier against his sister’s assault.  

“Hyacinth, put the knife down!” Francesca ordered this time.

“Where the fuck did you get a knife from?” Anthony shouted again, trying to approach them before stopping, unable to see a clear opportunity to get in between them.  

“Oh my God!” Sophie gasped as she came up behind Simon and Penelope, and saw what was going on in the living room. 

“Sophie, honey, stay out of the living room,” Benedict, hearing his wife, ordered. He was clutching his hand tightly from where Hyacinth had cut him after he tried to grab the knife from her. 

“Is someone going to stop her from killing me?!” Gregory shouted in a panic at his siblings. 

“Who gave Hyacinth a knife?” Michael asked, not to anyone in particular. And not that anyone answered.

But Penelope knew. She knew exactly who it was that had given Hyacinth a switchblade. A certain dumbass named Colin Bridgerton who’d bought the knife for his sister while he was in Japan, after Penelope explicitly told him not to. After she'd told him that it was a terrible idea to give Hyacinth her own personal weapon. 

And her dumbass husband currently could not meet her glare as he kept himself on the outskirts of the group. To remain, hopefully, unnoticed. 

Gregory, seeing an opening now that Penelope and Simon had moved out of the doorway, made an attempt to escape the room. With his sister hot on his heels. He dodged and weaved between the spouse with the skills one could only expect from a rugby player and fled out into the hallway.

And Hyacinth almost caught him as she went after him, getting close to grabbing him when she suddenly tripped over her feet, flying forward, the switchblade still grasped in her hand–

And stabbed the knife straight into Simon’s upper arm. 

An audible gasp was heard through the room, before it went dead silent. And it didn’t help that Simon barely even flinched, grunting as the knife stabbed through fabric and skin and into his arm, sliding through the muscle like a hot knife through butter. He was too caught up in the shock of what had just happened that all he could do was stare at Hyacinth in disbelief, brows furrowed and mouth partially open. And Hyacinth only stared back, equally just as surprised. 

The silence lingered a few more seconds, with Simon and Hyacinth both staring at one another in shock while the others watched on, before it was broken by Daphne screaming. 

“Did you just stab my husband ?!”

The noise immediately amped up again as the siblings all began to frantically yell and admonish their youngest sister for what she’d just done. Penelope slipped from the room to grab the first aid kit while they were all busy focusing on Hyacinth. 

Who said nothing as she let go of the knife, leaving it stuck in Simon’s arm, before fleeing the room and racing towards the stairs.

“Hyacinth!” Anthony roared, charging after her. 

As he rounded the coffee table and chased after his sister, followed by Kate, Benedict, and Colin, he accidentally knocked over the candle that had been burning on the table, which quickly started a small fire when the flame caught the alcohol soaked paper scattered over the wooden tabletop. 

Something that was overlooked in the chaos.

“Simon, are you alright?” Francesca asked.

Daphne rushed over to his side, hands hovering over the knife. “Oh God, oh God, oh God–”

“Honey,” Simon gently told her. “It’s alright. I’m fi–Do not pull out the knife!”

“But she stabbed you,” Daphne said, hand still clutching the handle of the knife. 

“I’m aware,” Simon replied, panicked eyes trained on her hands. “But when someone is stabbed with something you leave the object in. You do not pull it out .” 

“But she stabbed you.” 

“I’m aware, Daphne.”

“I got the first aid kit,” Penelope yelled as she rushed back into the room, carrying a medium sized red duffel bag with ‘first aid’ in bold white letters on the side. It certainly didn’t look like the tiny plastic ones you could get from the store. More like the ones professionals would have. 

“Where did you get that from?” Colin asked, confused.

“Phillipa. Her friend’s an EMT who told me where to buy these ones,” Penelope answered. 

“Why do you have it?” he asked next. “You could have just taken the one from upstairs.” 

Which was a simple store bought one that hadn’t been replaced in years and one Penelope knew did not have enough supplies to handle the stabbing that had just occurred in the home. And while Violet was smart enough to have enough first aid supplies for all eight of her children, she was the only one who knew where they were and was currently absent. 

But there were more important issues going on right now. 

“Um if I could just have everyone’s attention–” Michael started behind them, eyeing the growing flames building on the table.

The flames had begun to lick the arm of the closest sofa, blackening the fabric as it too began to catch alight. Smoke had slowly begun building in the room. Somehow unnoticed by the seven people still standing in the living room. 

“Because I suspected we would need it,” Penelope told her husband, looking at him in disbelief, as she ignored Michael. 

Colin’s brow furrowed deeper. “Why did you suspect we would need a professional level first aid kit for game night of all things?”

“Excuse me, if I could just–” Michael started again.

But Penelope waved a hand to what was going on in front of her, still oblivious to the growing problem behind her as she placed the bag down and began to unzip it. 

“Because of this!” she hissed at her husband. “Do you not see what is happening, Colin?!”

“I’ll just deal with it myself then,” Michael muttered under his breath, getting the sense he was on his own, as he hastily exited the living room and headed towards the kitchen. 

“Where’s Gregory gone?” Penelope asked. 

“Gregory!” Simon shouted. “Gregory, you can come out now!”

“Oh!” Sophie quietly gasped behind him as he yelled, pressing a hand to her stomach. Grimacing as she felt a thousand little needles stab into her groin before her eyes widened in panicked realization. “Oh no.” 

“Gregory!” Penelope called out again. “Gregory, seriously, she gone–”

She was suddenly interrupted by a loud shushing noise, which sounded like compressed air being released from a metal canister. They all turned to find Michael spraying the coffee table and curtains with the fire extinguisher kept in the kitchen. White smoke burst from the painted red can as it was released, the carbon dioxide lingered briefly in the air as it extinguished the flames, rolling over the furniture in soft waves as it slowly faded away. Leaving behind the burnt black evidence of fire damage; which was mainly on the table and the sofa that had been left at the mercy of it. 

“Mum is going to kill us,” Francesca remarked as she saw the destruction. 

“Yep,” Colin said, popping the ‘p’ as he spoke.

“Gregory?” Penelope called out again. "Gregory, come on! It's safe now!"

Down the hall, the door to the lounge cracked open. 

“Is she gone?” Gregory asked them, not poking his head. 

“I think the others are chasing her through the back of the house,” Penelope told him, which was followed by the sounds of glass shattering. As if right now cue.

The door creaked open further before Gregory stepped back out into the hallway. He looked pale and clammy, clutching his arm where his sister had gotten him.

And immediately threw up into the vase next to the door.

“Oh my God, Gregory, are you alright?” Penelope asked, worriedly as she came to his side. But Gregory only continued to heave into the porcelain vase.

“No,” he groaned out, clutching his side. “My stomach’s been killing me all evening.” 

Simon looked concerned as he studied the young boy’s symptoms. He’d noticed Gregory had been complaining of a stomach ache all evening. Add to it the vomiting and nausea, the fact he hadn’t seen him eat any of the food Daphne had brought when he usually plowed through them at the same pace as Colin did, only raised his suspicions. 

“Gregory, you’ve never had your appendix removed before, have you?” he asked and his brother-in-law only shook his head. 

“I think we should call an ambulance,” Penelope suggested. 

“Well, I think we can just get in the car and drive to A&E. It will definitely save us some time,” Simon replied. 

“Simon, you were stabbed,” Penelope pointed out. 

“I’ve already stemmed the bleeding and it doesn’t look like it hit anything vital,” Simon retorted as he studied the tourniquet he wrapped around his arm. “And Gregory’s wound isn’t too bad either.”

“Maybe it would be a good idea to call them,” Sophie said weakly.

“Sophie, I’m fine. It’s not too bad,” Simon assured her. 

“Oh no, not for you Simon. I meant for me,” Sophie replied politely. Which was an immediate cause for concern.

With the attention shifted to her, they all saw she was leaning against the sofa, gripping it tightly with one hand while the other was pressed against her stomach. She was breathing slowly. Slow, long exhales out her mouth and deep inhales through her nose.

And there was a wet stain on the carpet by her feet.

Penelope gasped, eyes widening as she noticed the stain. “Oh my God. Sophie, did your water break?” 

Sophie took another deep breath, grimacing. “Yeah...I think so.” 

“I’ll get Benedict,” Michael told them all before speedily exiting. 

Seeing his sister-in-law and dear friend going into early labor had apparently been enough to snap Phillip back to reality, and he quickly pulled out his phone to dial 999 while the others crowded around Sophie. 

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” Penelope said rapidly as she came to Sophie’s side, taking the blonde’s arm and leading her around the sofa so she could sit down. “You’re having a baby?” Sophie nodded. “Right now?”

“Yes, Penelope, right now,” Sophie returned, exasperated. 

“Hi, yes, I need an ambulance at Number 5–” Phillip started to say into the phone behind them. 

Sophie squeezed Penelope’s hand as she felt another wave of contractions hit, gritting her teeth as she tried breathing through the pain. She could feel herself begin to panic, her mind begin to race. She wasn’t due for another three weeks. Her baby was coming a month early. A month early!

“It’s early. It’s too early,” she said weakly, voice quivering. 

“You’re going to be fine, Sophie,” Penelope assured her. “You and the baby are going to be just fine.” 

“ Oi !” Michael’s voice was heard yelling over the arguing in the other room, which was quickly silenced. “If you all are done trying to kill each other, Sophie’s in labor.” 

“ What ?” Benedict’s voice yelled, followed by a quick scuffle, the sounds of something large being thrown and Hyacinth screaming. 

Before they knew it, Benedict was racing into the room, nearly colliding with the doorway as he did. A panicked look on his face as he scanned the room for his wife, spotting her immediately where she was sitting on the couch, and rushing to her side.

“Sophie? Are you–?” he started and she quickly nodded. “Okay, okay. This is fine. We’ll just call an ambulance–”

“Already on it,” Phillip told him, covering the phone with his hand as he did.

Benedict nodded, before turning back to his wife, crouching down and taking her hand from Penelope, much to the redhead’s relief. Sophie had been squeezing the life out of it. 

“I’m here,” he told her gently as Sophie began squeezing his hand. “I’m here. It’s alright.” 

Sophie took another few deep breaths as she gave him a worried look. “It’s early. It’s too early,” she told him this time. 

“It’s fine. You’ll be fine,” Benedict assured her. 

“You asshole!” Hyacinth suddenly screamed as she charged into the room and immediately threw something at Benedict. 

Whatever the hell it was that she'd thrown, it impacted directly with Benedict’s eye, causing him to curse loudly as he flinched back, slapping a hand over his injured eye, before bending over in pain.

“Ow, fucking hell, Hy. I think you got my eye,” he hissed, clutching his face. 

“That was for throwing me!” Hyacinth screeched. 

“For God’s sake, Hyacinth,” Anthony shouted as he came into the room, out of breath. 

Realizing she’d been cornered, and knowing she was in for one hell of a lecture from her elder brother, Hyacinth made another run for it. Speedily racing out of the room once more and in the direction of the kitchen. Again.

“HYACINTH!” Anthony yelled, chasing after her. Again.

“Hyacinth, stop running!” Daphne shouted. 

“So, nobody thinks that it's weird Sophie suddenly went into labor?” Colin remarked suspiciously. 

“Babe, shut up,” Penelope told him.

“I mean he’s right. I just think it's a little odd that right now is when the baby decided to come,” Eloise commented as she looked into the room and saw Sophie. 

“Eloise!” Phillip snapped at his wife, aghast by her indifference. 

“What?” Eloise looked back at him with confusion (and a little defensive as well). “It’s just a little too convenient. Isn’t it?” 

Penelope only sighed. Again. 

“Eloise. Please stop talking,” she told her friend. 

But Sophie was already crying at this point, her breaths becoming more ragged. It wasn’t apparent if she’d heard her sister-in-laws remarks but she was certainly descending into hysterics and panic. 

“It’s too early,” she gasped out. “Three weeks? That’s a month! That’s too early, isn’t it?” 

“Sophie, breath, it’s okay,” Benedict told her, trying to comfort her while also holding a hand over his still painfully injured eye. “You’re okay. The baby will be fine.” 

Sophie's distressed had seemed to be able to bring some sense back to the Bridgertons. Well, two Bridgertons. The other one besides her husband, who arguable was the second most likely to keep a level head.

Francesca.

“The baby’s going to be fine,” she assured Sophie, coming to her sister-in-law’s side. “I was two weeks early. So was Hyacinth.”

“Hyacinth was a breech birth,” Sophie hissed back. 

Francesca ignored her, taking deep breaths as she continued. “Following my breaths, Sophie.”

“Does anyone smell smoke?” Phillip, still on the phone with 999, asked them all. Seconds before the house’s fire alarm went off. 

“My quiches!” Daphne screamed before rushing out of the room to the kitchen. Eloise followed her sister to see what was happening in the kitchen.

“I got it!” Michael yelled from the kitchen.

“Shouldn’t the sprinklers have turned on by now?” Phillip commented, glancing up at the chunk of metal sticking out of the ceiling above them. 

“They’ve been broken for months and Mum’s still waiting for the handyman to fix them,” Francesca replied quickly as she gently pushed Sophie towards the front door. “But I think right now, the best course of action is for us all to leave before we get smoke inhalation.” 

They all nodded in agreement, beginning to make their way towards the front of the house, Simon and Penelope were assisting Gregory, who was still vomiting into the small bin, while Sophie was helped by Benedict and Francesca. 

“I mean at the moment I think we just have the three issues,” Phillip said politely into the phone as he followed them. “So, if you could just send two ambulances that would be greatly appric–”

Before he could continue, there were the sounds of an explosion from the kitchen, a loud bang followed by a multitude of expletives being yelled, and more screaming. Everyone currently in the hallway and living room could only stare in the direction of the kitchen with horrified concern and shock. None of them knew what it was that had just happened and frankly, none of them really wanted to know.

“You know what,” Phillip added, voice calm as he stared down the hallway. “Just send everyone. Fire, ambulance, police. Everyone you have.” 

As he continued to relay information to emergency services, the remaining Bridgertons began making their way down the hall and out of the smoking kitchen, all coughing and choking on smoke. 

And Anthony was missing his eyebrows. 

“Good lord,” Simon remarked. 

“What?” Anthony choked back, still trying to recover from his coughing fit, as he reached out and grabbed the back of Hyacinth’s shirt before she could make another attempt to run. 

Not seeing it worth telling his friend what had happened to his face, Simon just shook his head. “Nothing,” he told him. “It’s nothing.”

“What the hell just happened?” Penelope demanded. 

“Kate and Anthony just blew up the kitchen,” Hyacinth answered through her own coughing fit as she struggled against her brother. 

“We did not!” Kate shot back. “It was Daphne’s bloody quiches that did it.” 

“My quiches were already burnt to ash,” Daphne retorted, furiously. “You threw a rum soaked towel on to a candle!” 

“I need you to understand that that does not explain the explosion we just heard,” Simon told them flatly. 

But as Daphne opened her mouth, most likely to explain, she was interrupted by a panicked Francesca yelling. 

“Where the hell is Michael?” she asked them, alarmed. 

“Where’s Eloise?” Phillip added, looking concerned as he saw his wife was also not amongst them either. 

Before anyone could guess, there were the sounds of a pair of people coughing loudly as they came down the hallway. Seconds later, Michael and Eloise both appeared, choking as they covered their mouths, gasping for clean smoke free air.

“Fuck,” Eloise cursed as she choked, doubling over to rest her hands on her upper legs as she continued coughing. 

“Oh, thank God,” Phillip breathed out a sigh of relief as he saw his wife. 

“So no one here thinks it’s weird Sophie’s suddenly in labor?” Kate suddenly asked loudly to the room. 

“What the fuck, Kate?” Benedict yelled, appalled. 

“DON’T YELL AT MY WIFE!” Anthony shouted.

“FUCK OFF, ANTHONY!” Benedict shouted back. 

“Benedict, please–” Sophie started, breathing heavily. 

“I just think it’s a little odd that now is when she’s in labor,” Kate continued loudly and stubbornly. “Like, obviously, I know they were losing and everything but–”

“Kate. Shut the fuck up,” Simon ordered curtly, but another shouting match had started between Anthony and Benedict, with Sophie pleading for them to stop. 

“That’s what I said,” Colin told her and Penelope looked about ready to kill him. 

But Penelope focused on doing a quick head count, noting that everyone was now present in the hallway, and with the smoke still coming from the kitchen, it was probably a good idea that they all leave. 

“Okay, let’s all get outside,” she shouted over the alarm to all of them. “We can all wait for the ambulances outside.” 

“Well, now that the fire is out, we should all probably–” Simon started. 

“Oh no, Simon, the fire’s still going in there,” Michael interrupted him, still coughing.

“The fire is still going?!” Penelope yelled.

Michael nodded. “Fire still going,” he repeated back. Which was when it became apparent there was too much smoke coming out of the kitchen for it to have been extinguished.

“Okay, everyone– ” Simon started to yell but was cut off before he could order them out of the house. 

“What on earth did the eight of you do?” a voice boomed suddenly. 

They all froze, fourteen heads all turning to look towards and finding Violet staring at them all in horror as she stood in the front doorway, an unopened bottle of wine in one hand and a plastic bag from Tesco’s in the other. 

(A plastic bag that seemed suspiciously like it was concealing a box of cigarettes.) 

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), none of them had a chance to respond. Because the moment Violet had walked into her home and found her living room curtains smoldering, with smoke billowing out from her recently updated kitchen down the hall, two of her children injured (one of whom was also throwing up into a vase) with a son-in-law injured as well, and a daughter-in-law experiencing full blown contractions as she sat on the staircase—

The broken fire suppression system finally decided to turn on. 

Violet Bridgerton to Edwina Sharma

Violet: Hi Edwina. I tried calling but I must have got you at a bad time. Anthony and Kate are fine but they both landed themselves in the hospital tonight. They’re completely and utterly fine. There is no need to worry about them, but neither one is going to be able to come home tonight since the doctors want them to stay overnight for observation. Are you alright watching the boys and Newton? If not I can come get them or call a sitter.

Edwina: Hi Mrs. Bridgerton. Don’t worry. Kate told me you guys were hosting game night when she asked me to babysit so I sort of assumed something would happen. I already called Mum and she’s here with us right now. The kids are fine.

Violet: Wonderful. I’ll let them both know. If anything changes, do not hesitate to call me.

Edwina: When you talk to my sister again please tell her I said ‘I told you so.’

Violet: Will do.

Sophie Bridgerton to Posy Reiling

Sophie: Okay don’t freak out. 

Posy: What happened? 

Posy: Where are you? 

Posy: Are you okay?

Posy: Is Ben okay?

Posy: Omg it is the baby!?!? Is the baby okay?!?!

Posy: Pls tell me everything's okay. 

Posy: Sophie??

Posy: Sophie answer me!!!

Sophie: Posy breathe. It takes time to type up a text and I’m currently experiencing full blown contractions while texting right now so it’s taking me a minute. 

Posy: Omg Sophie. Are you in labor???

Sophie: Unfortunately yes. The little peanut decided tonight’s the night he wants to come into the world so I’m currently heading to the hospital with Ben. I’m really sorry to put this on you but can you watch Charlie a little longer?

Posy: Absolutely. It’s totally not an issue at all. Charlie’s already had dinner and is asleep upstairs right now. I’ll text work that I’m taking tomorrow off. You're sure you're okay? Cause I can grab Charlie and be at the hospital as soon as possible.

Sophie: I’m okay. I promise. ❤️❤️

Posy: ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Sophie: Ben and I will try to keep you updated as much as possible but it may be a little difficult as both of us are going to need to get checked out by a doctor. 

Posy: Is Benedict okay?

Sophie: It’s a long story. 

Phillip Crane to Marina Thompson

Phillip: Hey. Can you keep the kids till Monday? 

Marina: Of course. Is everything okay? 

Phillip: Besides currently sitting in an ambulance on the way to the hospital with Eloise, who is getting treatment for smoke inhalation right now, I’m doing great.

Marina: Omg is everyone alright?

Phillip: We’re fine. Don’t worry. Just please don’t tell the kids.

Phillip: And can you also please go to my house and lock my greenhouse?

Marina: What happened?

Phillip: Marina. You do not want to know.

Agatha Danbury to Violet Bridgerton

Agatha: How many casualties this time?

Violet: Nine. Do you mind watching the girls longer?

Agatha: Not at all.

| The Next Day |

🐝 The Children Group Chat 🐝

Violet: I know I already said this at the hospital but I am saying it again here.

Violet: I will never EVER host another game night. Never again. And to make certain of this I have stripped this home of every board game, deck of cards and bloody party game we own or have ever owned. You aunts have graciously taken your father’s old poker set and blackjack set and so help me if any of you use your children as an excuse to bring new games into this home I will write you out of my will.

Francesca: Mum, I want to say again that I am so so sorry about what happened last night. It will never happen again. 

Violet: I would hope so since five out of the eight of you ended up in the hospital last night. 

Violet: And the damages. Good lord I don’t even know how I’m going to fix this. 

Anthony: I’ll take care of that Mum. I’ve already called the contractor to come look at the house on Monday.

Anthony: I also want to say that I’m sorry. It was my responsibility to keep everything in order. I should have controlled the situation better and instead, I allowed it to reach the chaos it did last night. 

Colin: Sorry again Mum.

Daphne: I’m really sorry about the kitchen Mum. I swear I’ll pay for all the damages. I promise.

Violet: Hyacinth do you have anything you would like to say right now??

Violet: Hyacinth I know you have your phone with you.

Anthony: Hyacinth Amelia Bridgerton, answer your mother. 

Hyacinth: Omg jesus christ. I’m literally hooked up to oxygen right now. 

Daphne: As if Anthony, Eloise, Kate, Michael and Gregory aren’t as well.

Daphne: Michael was literally almost intubated, that's how much smoke he got in his lungs!

Daphne: Not to mention what you did to MY HUSBAND!

Francesca: I would like to clarify that Michael is fine. He didn’t need to get intubated. The doctors were just concerned about the swelling. He was discharged this morning. 

Hyacinth: 😮💨😮💨😒😒😒 

Violet: I’m still waiting.

Hyacinth: Fine

Hyacinth: I’m sorry I stabbed Simon.

Hyacinth: and Gregory. 

Anthony: And???

Colin: I believe you also stabbed Benedict

Hyacinth: I grazed him.

Colin: You hit him in the eye with the dagger piece after slicing open his hand. 

Hyacinth: AND????

Benedict: I’m glad to see that you're so guilt ridden by it. 

Violet: Benedict! 

Violet: How are you and Sophie??

Benedict: Mum. Firstly, I just want to say how sorry I am for what happened last night. We were all incredibly immature, unruly and out of line. Myself included. The damage we did to the house you made with Dad was inexcusable and our actions towards one another was appalling. It was completely unacceptable what happened and I promise it will never ever happen again.

Benedict: And if it helps.

Benedict sent a photo .

Benedict sent a photo .

Benedict sent a photo .

Benedict sent a photo .

Benedict: Alexander Richard Bridgerton got here about quarter after one this morning. Six pounds and five ounces and perfectly healthy. So is Sophie. She did wonderfully. We just got home. 🥰🥰🥰

Daphne: Oh, he’s adorable Benedict. Congratulations x 

Anthony: Congratulations brother.

Francesca: He looks so content. And Sophie looks as beautiful as ever. 

Violet: This certainly helps. Thank you Benedict. ☺️☺️☺️

Violet: But I’m still upset 😤

Violet: WITH ALL OF YOU 😡😡😡

Colin: Congratulations Ben.

Colin: And might I add I’m loving the eye patch.

Benedict: Shut up.

Hyacinth: Yeah Captain Hook. When are you returning to Neverland to get Peter???

Colin: 😂😂 I was going to say he already has with Charlie, but it looks like he’s too busy being Mr. Smee.

Benedict: Captain Hook is missing a hand not an eye.

Colin: Let me know when you find Captain Flint’s lost treasure? 

Benedict: Okay. That's enough. 

Anthony: Knock it off you two. 

Violet: The two of you. Stop harassing your brother. 

Hyacinth: 😂😂😂 Any ghost ships on the horizon?? Found the kraken yet. 

Colin: how’s captaining the Black Pearl been for you???

Benedict: All right. That’s it. Sophie told me to me to be nice but fuck you both. 

Benedict: Mother. The reason Hyacinth had a switchblade is because Colin bought her one while he was in Japan. I told him not to but he didn’t listen to me. She’s had this weapon for months and has periodically threatened us with it. Especially Gregory. 

Benedict: She also, for those who do not know, has an illegal taser hidden in the shoebox under her bed.

Anthony: THERE’S A TASER!!!

Francesca: Jesus Christ Hyacinth.

Hyacinth: You DICK!!! 

Hyacinth: Who told you??

Benedict: Gregory

Benedict: I went to check on him when Sophie was being discharged. He was high as a kite but very willing to tell me ALL of your secrets.

Violet: Hyacinth Amelia Bridgerton. When I get back to the hospital you and I are going to have a very long and frank conversation about safety and attacking your siblings. 

Violet: with WEAPONS!!!

Violet: And Colin. I don't even know where to begin with you on this.

Hyacinth: Well you’ll have to find me first. 

Colin: ✌🏻😔✌🏻

Colin: All I did was try and be a good brother and this is what I get. Betrayal. 

Benedict: Colin also refused to believe Sophie was in active labor and was just faking it. 

Colin:🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻

Benedict: As did Eloise and Anthony. And Kate too.

Eloise: what the FUCK Benedict??? 

Eloise: We all nearly died of smoke inhalation!!

Benedict: MY WIFE WENT INTO LABOR!

Benedict: I had to meet my son three weeks before he due date while wearing a fucking eye patch because SOMEONE has such severe anger issues that nearly resulted in a murder charge being issued last night. 

Benedict: Sophie had a panic attack last night because she thought our baby was dying. I have not gotten any sleep between getting treated for my eye/hand AND worrying over Sophie. At this point I’m running solely on very shitty hospital coffee and sheer spite! 

Benedict: And I also almost missed Alexander being born because of all this and now Charlie keeps demanding I play pirates and sword fight him while Sophie tries to get some sleep because Posy was so worried about him being emotionally scarred by all of this she told him I became a pirate!!

Eloise: I’m guessing you're making Barbossa the godfather.  

Colin: 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Benedict: Banned. You all are banned from visiting us save for mother. I don’t want any of you near Sophie or my children right now. And I don’t care how much you beg. None of you are ever allowed to be near us again. 

Benedict: And I’m not even going to start about being completely and utterly fucking right about Ms. Scarlet being the murderer with the fucking candlestick in the fucking library. I cannot believe you all almost convinced me I was wrong!!

Eloise: Omg did you check the damn envelope while we were being loaded into ambulances?!?!?

Benedict: Of course I fucking did!!!

Violet: Benedict. Sweetheart. I’ll come check on you and Sophie after I’ve dealt with the taser currently sitting in my house and then the owner of said weapon. Please get some rest and take it easy.

Benedict: Thank you Mum ❤️ Can I just say how incredibly grateful and blessed I am to have gotten you as my mother? You do a wonderful job every day at managing us and it is forever a testament to your strength and character. I truly do not know what I would do without you.

Violet: ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Colin: Kiss ass

Eloise: Mama’s boy

Benedict removed Colin and Eloise from the chat.

Benedict: And one more thing.

Benedict: How are your eyebrows doing brother???

Anthony: You absolute piece of shit.

[thehauntedinfirmary]

Fic Rec Friday Edition 24

Welcome to Fic Rec Friday! We're in the mood for some longfics for this cozy December evening, so settle in and read along!

Hell for the Holidays by ma_malice Complete | 23k words

“There will be no sacrifice,” Shane said for the third time since they’d landed in Illinois. “Not so much as a chicken. Stop being weird.” Shane takes Ryan home for the holidays. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

Santa Daddies by drunkkenobi Complete | 3k words

“I really think we should just tell her,” Shane argued. “Kids find out anyway, might as well have our girl be ahead of the class.” “Shane, she’s three!” Ryan shot back. “All kids should believe in Santa at three!” Or: Ryan and Shane vs The Santa Problem

The Young and the Hopeless by mccxxvi Complete | 54k words

He lifted the towel to wipe his small mirror, when he saw it. There was writing on the mirror, a single word wiped into the condensation, written with a finger, a set of tidy, straight letters. Alexander. Ryan almost screamed. The ghost wanted Ryan to find his murderer and bring him to the light. Alexander must have been whoever murdered him. Ryan sighed, resigned to be the detective responsible for it. “Fine, I’ll find this Alexander you want. But I don’t know what to do afterwards,” he said to his empty room. A 1960s Professor!Shane/PhDstudent!Ryan gothic novel flavored AU fic, because i know a market gap when i see one.

A Ghoul's Guide to Life, Death & Afterliving by MercurySkies Complete | 70k words

'Shane was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that, to quote ‘the’ Charles Dickens with an emphasis on the 'dick'. They didn’t tell you the great Victorian novelist was also a grade A asshole in high school but then again what do they tell you in high school? Shane Madej was dead, as dead as one disembodied soul standing seemingly above his own corpse probably can be.'

The Last Days Of The Bergara Gang by PhyllisDietrichson Complete | 41k words

“Plus,” and he smiles with all of his white teeth, “if we’d left you there much longer to cardsharp that crew, likely your night would have ended with a knife to the throat.” He reaches out as if to graze his fingers over Shane’s clavicle, then remembers himself at the last minute. His hand hovers in the air. “And what a shame it would be, to mar that throat.” “Do you—what do you want, Bergara?” Shane stammers out. He winces at the waver in his voice. “You,” he responds, his eyes sweeping up to meet him with a gaze that pierces Shane between the ribs.

hey boy, take a look at me by weakspots Complete | 18k words

Ryan is 27, for Christ’s sake, and he’s not exactly hideous, so there’s really no reason to spend his money on a dude — a dude — whose face he’ll never see but whose livestreams he’s been jerking off to for roughly 4 months now. He should be going out and partying and fucking random chicks. Or a guy, whatever, just to get it out of his system and confirm to himself that he really is 100% straight. Because he is. This is morbid curiosity, if anything.

Whatever The Opposite Of Lesbian Sheep Syndrome Is by orphan_account Complete | 9k words

Shane was the one who kissed, not the one who was kissed. Shane was the one who did the holding, not the one who was held, and that was fine.

made it so far in time by addandsubtract Complete | 12k words

“I’m, uh. I’m pretty sure the you I’m friends with is older,” Ryan says, and then winces.

use somebody by bodhirookes Complete | 10k words

“You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met,” Shane says over the sound of Ryan’s workout noises, which are equal parts distracting and hideous. “Why can’t you just be a lazy asshole like the rest of us?” “I have a figure and reputation to maintain,” Ryan grits out, not even pausing to look at him. “Can’t be a big, bad ghost hunter without my guns.” Or, Shane has a thing for Ryan's muscles and Ryan has a thing for Shane having a thing.

a child's answer by deerie Complete | 2k words

“You know, it’s kind of sad about the Queen Mary,” Ryan says as they make their way to the mess hall. “That’s where I saw a ghost for the first time.” Shane stares at him incredulously. Ryan can tell that he wants to say something, but is refraining. He’ll have to find the video of the tube of toothpaste being knocked off the counter as proof to show Shane. Ryan remembers the panic he felt in that moment: the revelation that something existed outside of the realm of what he understood. It’s the same feeling that he had when the Kaiju first appeared, thrashing and tearing and ripping buildings and bridges to shreds.

A Symptom of Time by fightingfuries WIP | 12k words

"Sure," Shane says easily like he doesn't believe Ryan for a second. "You're living out the plot of the 1993 Bill Murray vehicle Groundhog Day. Now where does the kissing factor in, exactly?" "You were all like 'I'm Shane, I don't believe in magic but you should find a tall brunette to kiss.’" Shane laughs again, helplessly. "I'm the tall brunette? I obviously meant Andie McDowell." He catches himself. "If I had said that, which I didn't, because time loops aren't real."

Want to learn more about The Haunted Infirmary? Check out our pinned post!

[daisychainsandbowties]

20k?!?!? I've always been kind of stocky so I figured in a fight or flight situation I would need to at least look like I can put up a fight hence my goal toward pull ups and broad shoulders but damn the stamina you must have (in a non sexual way)

my dad was kind of a long-distance running champion when he was younger so he used to take me out on circuits and then i did cross-country running in school (predictably because a girl i liked was too scared to join up by herself. same reason i played basketball and camogie for years lmao) so i guess i built it up over time.

the long runs are really nice actually and sometimes a 5k can be harder because with the long runs i fast to carry as little weight as possible and after about 8-9k it doesn’t feel like running at all, like an airplane reaching cruising altitude. it’s the first few kilometres that you have to fight through.

and yeah there is a pace that just… might as well be a stroll to me. and you have to maintain it really carefully especially with uphill/downhill. can’t charge up can’t let yourself breeze down the other side. but there’s nothing more peaceful than 12k into it out in the plains with my music or just the wind. i’ve missed it so much 🥹

[chocolate-ganache-cake]

Today starts my journey of eating basically 1k or less calories every day, hoping to lose at least 4 kg in 4 weeks (can I do it???) I was going to eat 800-600kcals, but I will start easy bc my fat ass wants to eat their mouth stuffed

Today 17. 06.

High protein Pudding(20g protein) 160 kcal

Burger (homemade, I don’t think it’s more than 500 kcal but I count it as 600 kcal for shits n giggles) 600kcals

Juice 200 kcal (imma kms idk why I drank it)

Banana 100 kcal

Total: 1060 kcal.

Honestly, not so bad? I wish I wasn’t such a pig to eat this much, but at least I ate high protein food(?)..

Anyway, I will also drink 2 liters of water with that-plus I plan on doing HIIT workout to burn 500 kcal, and jumping rope, it burns 200 kcal in 10 minutes.

Unfortunately I only walked 5,7k steps, 140 kcal burned. The next days I have to maintain at least 7k, idk why it’s so hard when it was so easy before, I got 12k and 8k on an average day, now only 5-6k.

My headaches have gotten really bad (who cares) and it’s basically an excuse to eat more food, which I shouldn’t, and won’t. (Hopefully).

Also, my classmate noticed me counting calories😬😬

Like shit. She stared at me, and said “you don’t have to worry about the calories, just eat” bit in a sweet tone. SHIT SHRIEYRHDH because noo😭 she shouldn’t have found outtttt I was trying to be discreet omgomgogmgomg. To be fair, i saw a few tendencies of hers to count calories as well, so🤨

Thanks for reading this useless rant

[beenherewaytoolong]

aye aye aye

had a procedure on Monday, recovering well but also it's still a recovery so I've been like napping throughout the day and operating at about 40% capacity.

Anyhow, chapter three is up and this time I remembered to grab the graphic for the @steddieholidayexchange. My actual post date isn't until the end of the month, but I'm still finishing up my Big Bang piece and also holidays and the aforementioned recovery so we're getting started a smidge early and posting every/other day until then!!

I really loved this prompt for a lot of reasons. My recipient requested no miscommunication and no awakening of sexuality, which I felt fit in perfectly with their Heartstopper AU prompt. I've just gotten into Heartstopper in the last year and it is truly such a balm for the soul. I think I've done it justice in the transfer to Hawkins.

off and away with the good stuff:

The Chambered Nautilus

For: @stobinesque

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson early on Eddie/Ben Hope (Heartstopper), Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley

Rating: E BUT! This story jumps back and forth between "Then" and "Now", and all explicit content is kept to the "now", in order to maintain Heartstopper's sweetness, and to keep all sexual content 18+.

Wordcount: Still in progress, but 12k ish

Warnings: Emotional abuse between Ben and Eddie, but it's over fairly quickly. Sexual content, discussion of sexual content among minors.

Tags: HeartstopperAu, Heartstopper crossover, oral sex, high school AU?, Post-Vecna. I'll add more as I finish up the fic!

Summary:

THEN: Eddie's optimistic about school for the first time in a while. But Steve Harrington finds out about his secret relationship with Ben Hope, and for some reason Steve won't stop meddling. And for some other, unrelated reason, Eddie can't stop thinking about Steve no matter what. When they find themselves on a school trip to Toronto, they fall so fast and hard for each other that it scares them off in opposite directions. Until... NOW: Steve and Eddie fall back into each others' arms pretty quickly at the end of the World. Now that they've traveled along the big ol' spiral of life a few more times, their feelings aren't so big and scary. All that's left is face their friends.

This fic is a part of the @steddieholidayexchange

[piracytheorist]

Macabre Theme and Variations (4/15)

Fandom: Spy x Family Word count: 4k for this chapter | 12k so far | 64k in total Rating: T Warnings: Non-permanent character deaths, graphic violence

Summary: Twilight wakes up. He works on his mission. He dies. He comes back and does it all over again. Each time a little different. (Inspired by the film Happy Death Day)

AO3 Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

~

Chapter 4: Tune-up

~

Borf!

Twilight wakes up gasping, his hands clutching at his shirt. The ceiling looks as if it's moving, coming closer down to him to smother and crush him.

With shaking arms, he drags himself into a sitting position. His hands have a firm grasp on his blanket until he hears the sound of Yor's door opening.

He leaps out of his bed and swings his door open, startling Yor who was just about to stumble onto the wall.

“Yor...” he breathes.

She looks at him through half-closed eyes, a sleepy but confused “Hmm?” her only reply.

He walks to her, still gasping for air. His trembling hands reach for her, and as her eyes open and her face grows concerned, they settle for her shoulders instead of her face.

He examines her up and down. She looks fine—she looks whole. No sign of blood or injuries, or even bruises.

“Loid?” she finally says.

He drops his hands and retreats, leaning onto the door frame once his back collides with it. He sighs, though his lungs don't seem to get enough air in to feel relieving. He looks at his arms; no sign of burns or even scars left from healed burns.

His body sags, knees barely holding him up.

“Loid, are you alright? Did you have a nightmare?” Yor asks, stepping closer to him. She looks wide awake now.

Yor... he'd spent the entire day doubting her and near the end of it she saved his life, at the expense of her own. He has no idea how the hell she'd known that that man would want to kill him, but she didn't hesitate for a second to protect him.

She was dying. There was no way she would have survived the amount of injuries the bomb caused to her body, no matter how strong she was.

Then another bomb went off, no doubt killing him as well, since he was right next to it that time.

And yet here they are, alive and unharmed, Yor apparently not remembering a thing. Nothing from the past three days.

“A nightmare,” Loid says, having half a mind to maintain his cover. “I'll just go back to bed.” He turns back to his room and shuts the door.

He leans on it and slides down to the floor. His body is frozen in shock.

The day keeps repeating, over and over. At the end of it he dies. He wakes up and remembers everything, while everyone else has forgotten everything. At least, he thinks no-one remembers. Could he really be the only one to notice it's the same day?

And things... reset?

He looks at his forearms again. That was no illusion, no dream; he felt the burns on them, smelled the stench of his own burned skin. Now they look intact, with the same scars and spots he remembers, no different than they've been for a long time.

Is this real? Is the day just resetting on its own? No mastermind behind it playing with him and drugging everyone else to comply?

He waits to hear Yor's door open and close, then he's up. Within a minute he's dressed and this time, without even writing a note for them, he leaves for the hospital. There's no trains so early in the day, so he has to walk all the way, jogging when his impatience gets the better of him.

The nurses and doctors of the night shift gesture at him as he runs past them, and he manages an excuse about an emergency patient for some of them.

He reaches his consultation room. Without even locking the door, he opens the secret passage. He checks the small dent on the wall.

The note isn't there. No traces of glue or paper stuck to the wall, either.

He feels drenched in cold sweat as he walks to his desk and looks at the stack of note papers on it. The paper he'd picked up the day before had a tiny crease, imperceptible to the untrained eye.

The paper on top of the stack has the same crease, on the exact same spot. The pens in the pencil case are arranged in the exact same way they were before he picked up the pen the day before to write his note.

He plops onto the couch, focusing on his breathing.

The day resets. The very same day. He dies – as do other people – and then he comes back unharmed. He's already gone down the list of possible natural explanations for this, and by now they've all been crossed out.

Alright.

Encounter with the supernatural, then. It's happening, and there's no point in losing his mind over it. He has to maintain his sense of logic if he's to somehow escape it.

But how is he supposed to do that? Nature has its laws, and though deviations are expected sometimes, they usually center around a certain, given set of rules.

Whatever force controls this time distortion, it doesn't follow one single rule of nature. Entropy, for one thing. Action and consequence for another. So how does he begin to understand how to beat it?

The air in the room feels stale, suffocating. It feels too small to hold the size of his realization.

His legs pull him up and out, into the cold morning air. Only a small glimpse of bright blue appears from the eastern sky, just like the day before, and the day before...

He struggles to put his thoughts in order. For three days he skipped parts of his usual morning exercise routine, yet today his body doesn't feel lax and slow like he remembers feeling the counted number of times he'd skipped exercise during his years. Does this mean that whatever happens to him leaves no lasting consequences? From the biggest – actually being blown up – to the smallest – not exercising?

Same goes for everyone else. There wasn't a speck on Yor's face that morning, even though the way she looked after the explosion still haunted him.

Apparently, the consequences still maintain their mental nature. Even his worst nightmares cannot leave the lasting impression that the real horrors he's witnessed have. Yor's state definitely belongs in the latter.

He looks at the sky. The moon is in the same waning gibbous phase, getting closer to the horizon as it prepares to set. By his calculations, today should have been a full moon.

So... the entire world resets? Astronomical events and all? In the entire globe? In the entire universe?

And he's the only one to notice? Why him? Does he even have the power to stop something like this?

Somewhere in the back of his mind a proposition appears, as he now finds himself outside Franky's tobacco kiosk. Since he walked in a slower pace after leaving the hospital, it's now nearly twenty past six. In about twenty minutes Franky will arrive to open up shop.

Twilight sits at the edge of the pavement, holds his head in his hands, and waits.

He's about dozed off when he hears Franky's voice.

“Loid? You alright?”

His head snaps up and he checks his watch. 06:42. Five minutes till the radio announcement. He gives Franky two to open up before he starts explaining the situation.

“The day resets?” Franky says, eyes narrow behind his glasses. “And you're the only one to notice?”

“No one remembers what happened the day before. And an important event that happens, Franky, is that a suicide bomber attacks a foyer full of people. People, including me, die.”

“And you're sure it's not your brain confusing a dream with reality?”

He clenches his teeth. “Even if I hadn't studied psychiatry for this role, I'd still know what a damn déjà vu is.”

“Yeah, but perhaps you don't know what a damn day off is.”

“Alright.” Loid checks his watch. 06:46. “Turn on the radio on Berlint Central.” He grabs a note paper and a pen, writing down the headline he's heard too many times by now. He gives it to Franky, who takes it with the same critical look he's had ever since Loid started talking today.

06:47.

“The city of Bonnburg is increasing its security exponentially as it prepares for Mr. Windsor's expected visit on Tuesday.

Franky's eyebrow raises.

“The foreign minister will be meeting with Minister Brantz

His other brow joins it.

“to discuss a new proposal regarding Westalis' foreign affairs policy.”

He looks back at him, grunting softly. “Alright. If you have people inside radio news stations, what do you need me for?”

“Franky, please! I knew what the announcement would be because I've already listened to it three times!”

“So, you know what's going to happen today.”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to know the winning lottery numbers?”

“What?”

“I wouldn't say no to some good cash.”

Loid shakes his head. “That's none of my concern! My concern is that someone is trying to kill me, and I have no idea who or why!”

Franky sighs. “I would normally advise you to make a list of the people who wish to kill you, but I suspect that would take too long.”

“Hah,” Loid snorts.

However, Franky grows serious. “You said he's a suicide bomber? That would narrow down your list to people who are so desperate for your death that they're willing to accept their own. Not even just risk it, but outright take their own lives to take you down.”

“And he even has a fail safe. If the first bomb doesn't kill me, he predicted that I'd step closer to examine my potential murderer, only to be taken out by the second bomb that detonates some seconds later.”

“He's smart.”

“He uses a disguise. A latex mask, like the ones I do.”

Franky raises one knowing eyebrow at him.

Twilight looks back. “What?”

“Who else is he willing to take down?”

“What do you mean?”

“What kinds of people does he consider acceptable collateral damage to your death?”

He swallows hard. Yor. Anya and Damian. Donovan Desmond.

His skin crawls at the thought that it's the latter most people would try to avoid taking down in such a case. In his list of suspects, it's not the ones that are willing to kill innocent civilians or children that stick out; it's the one that wants to kill Westalis' best spy and doesn't mind taking down one of Ostania's most powerful and influential politicians in the process.

He leans his hands on the counter, looking down. “What kind of person would want to kill both a spy and his target? And himself?”

“Your target is a dangerous man, correct? Why is taking him down yourself out of the question?”

Assassinating Desmond wouldn't solve the issue. He might already have plans set in motion, and if he dies, all information about those plans will disappear with him.

Suddenly, the idea of no lasting consequences is starting to form in his mind. If Desmond thought Twilight wouldn't survive to tell the tale, just how much would he gloat about his plans to him? Is he such a pompous man when it comes to facing his enemies? Would he spill the details about his plans, then kill him... then the day would reset, with Twilight remembering everything and Desmond being none the wiser?

Oh, that's a very dangerous game to play.

Twilight is not that self-centered to think that he's single-handedly maintaining the peace, but the loss of one high-ranked spy would make that mission significantly harder.

On the other hand, the death of Desmond would not guarantee peace, and it would make gathering intel about his possible war plans harder.

“So,” he says out loud, “it's someone who wants to mess with our intelligence gathering. And since he dies in the process, he doesn't care if war breaks out or not.”

“Looks like someone has it in for your agency,” Franky offers.

“And he's desperate enough to go on a suicide mission for that.”

“Someone who has nothing to lose.”

“Nothing? Or nothing left? Does he blame us for it, and wants revenge?” He shakes his head. “But why kill me? If he's good enough at this to plan it all out, why not simply gather enough evidence to expose me, and live to watch the world burn?”

“Live to watch the spies that ruined his life watch the world they're trying to build crumble into pieces.”

Twilight's finger starts tapping on the counter. “He's desperate. That would make him easy to predict and manipulate.”

“And well, don't you have an infinite amount of tries to test him out?”

He finally looks up at Franky. He's resting his chin on his hand.

“If the day resets every time you die, all you have to do is find out as much as you can about him. Change the circumstances every time to test his reactions and see how he handles the different scenarios. When a plan fails, you try another one.”

“Yes...” he says, voice going low. “But why is this happening? Why did I wake up after the first time in the first place?”

Franky shrugs. “Maybe, after all, this is an elaborate, extremely long vision you're having as you lie dying. A fantasy to keep your mind away from the fact that you failed to anticipate that assassination attempt.”

Twilight raises his index finger. “He knows I don't know him. He knows he can catch me off-guard because he knows I won't anticipate him.”

“Aren't you always on your guard?”

“Not for a damn suicide bomber in a place full of innocent civilians and children.” He grits his teeth. “And do I really have an infinite amount of tries? This doesn't follow any natural rule. How do I know this time isn't the last time? Am I willing to risk so many lives on a guess?”

“Since you're the only one conscious of the loop, it stands to reason that you are the center of it. Your death breaks continuity, so the time resets. It will only keep going normally if you survive.”

“That's still only a guess. And I cannot work on guesses.”

“Do you have any better idea?”

He doesn't. He's already monumentally lucky he's survived as many times as he has. It's damn unnatural that he's alive... so maybe 'natural' logic won't work here.

Damn it. He's out of his depth.

The radio chimes the hour, and he suddenly remembers his family. Anya will have woken up alone. Luckily, it wouldn't take long for Yor to wake up too, and hopefully reassure her that her father probably left early because of an emergency at the hospital.

Guilt sets heavy in his stomach. He was wrong about the consequences. Since he remembers everything, he'll never forget how quick he was to doubt and suspect Yor, when her first instinct was to protect him with her life. And he'll have to face her today with her not remembering any of that.

It should make things easier for him. He shouldn't care for her feelings that way. She doesn't remember, so no harm done.

But it's still a reminder of how little he deserves what he's fighting for.

“Thank you for the talk,” he says in a quiet voice and turns to leave.

“You're still coming this afternoon?”

He shakes his head. “I already know what's in that envelope.”

“Oh, right. Well, good luck.”

He stops, looking at Franky as more guilt starts weighing him down.

“What?” Franky asks.

“You won't remember any of this tomorrow.”

Franky is silent for a moment, then cocks a smile and says, “But I'll be here to hear all about it again.”

Twilight tries to mimic his smile; he fails.

“All the more reason to solve your own murder, then. And quick.”

Easier said than done.

He's not dealing with an amateur, and he doesn't have forensic evidence at his disposal, since the moment the murder happens the day resets. Besides, Desmond's death is merely a bonus to his killer, not his actual mission. He could be hiding anywhere in the theater, and if Twilight were to search the place to catch him off-guard, all he'd need to do to kill him is let go of the detonator.

The detonator was already pressed by the time he appeared, which means he's prepared for any kind of attack.

He's willing to take innocents down with him, but not that many innocents. Otherwise he'd approach him during the play, sit next to him and detonate the bomb there and then.

No, he only approaches him when he's close to Desmond. Maybe then, while Desmond's death is a bonus objective, it's still very high on the priorities list; just under Twilight's death.

His mind wanders off when his eyes catch the window of a bakery. He can still make it home before Yor and Anya leave.

Two pieces each of apple tart and caramel nut cake in the bag in his hand, he rushes back home. He cannot apologize to the past Yor and Anya that he hurt, but he can at least make their present selves’ day.

Even if they most likely won't remember it tomorrow.

His hand hovers over the handle on the front door.

Them being happy on a day they'll forget doesn't benefit Operation Strix... but that mission is only secondary now. His main objective is to escape this loop, and the family getting upset will only make it harder to concentrate on his own murder case.

He opens the door, ignoring the guilt forming a lump in his throat so he can plaster a smile on his face.

“Good morning, I'm back.”

“Papa!” Anya exclaims, standing up on her chair. Her eyes immediately light up at the sight of the bakery bag.

Well, it's no bacon, but...

She jumps down and runs to him, hands reaching for the bag.

“Wait, wait, Anya. You should eat on the table,” Yor says.

What would it matter? Any crumbs she throws on the floor will be gone tomorrow.

Yor is smiling at him, and he has to suppress a guilty cringe of his face. “Were you at the hospital?” she asks.

“Yes. An early morning emergency.” He sets the bag down on the table.

“Everything alright?” she says, then leans a little forward to whisper. “You seemed upset earlier.”

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out, looking at the two of them.

Could he tell them about his experience? How would they react, and what would it take for them to believe him?

He's certain that there was a part of Franky that still doubted him. What would those two think?

And if they believed him, would he feel worthy of their trust? As if his guilt of the previous day wasn't enough, now he's also feeling guilty for making Yor worry about him.

“It's alright,” he decides to say. He takes out the apple tarts for Yor and his stomach clenches at the way her face glows when she sees them.

Oh, come on! Just how much guilt is he going to feel for something with no lasting consequences?

No, it's alright. It should remind him that he's not trying to buy their forgiveness. He's only keeping things in balance so he can focus on catching his murderer.

Anya is once again first at the door, shaking with anticipation as she waits for them, though it takes less time for Loid to get ready as he's already dressed.

“Be careful not to injure yourself today at school,” Loid tells her as she gets on the bus. “It is your big day after all.”

“Yup! See you later, Papa, Mama!”

One, two, three, four, five. The engine finally starts up and the bus leaves.

“Well, have a good day at work!” Yor tells him.

She smiles wide at him, and his replying smile is almost too automatic. “Thank you, Yor. You too.”

Sometimes it's easier than one can imagine, to make someone else happy, isn't it?

The thought of no consequences from earlier this morning gives him an idea on how to handle this repetition. It's always a risk; how does he know this time won't be the last time? But it's his job to keep a clear mind and estimate what's in his power to do.

Right now, the only thing in his power is to die. Reset the day and start over with new knowledge.

And his first step is to test his murderer. He must be pretty good to get Twilight... but just how good is he?

He contacts his Handler for information on any possible suspects against WISE, keen to use face masks and explosives. The list he receives is way too long to help.

After he spends his morning and afternoon preparing and making future plans depending on what knowledge he gathers from tonight, it's lunch time with the Forgers. He thinks of his plan over and over, making sure he's taken every possible obstacle into consideration, and he suddenly notices Anya's thoughtful look at him.

Yet again. It's like she somehow knows that this time he won't actually be in the audience, though everyone will think he is.

He swallows his bite. He's already seen her perform three times. Future plans include him being in the audience again.

She asks if she can wear the prince costume from now, and for a moment he contemplates indulging her.

Maybe one of these repeated days. But not today. Today I need as little attention on me as possible.

They reach the theater, Yor offers to help Anya, and just before they part, Loid leans down to Anya.

“You'll do great. But promise me something, if one of your classmates forgets his lines, don't hesitate to help him, alright?”

Anya's brows furrow a little, then she simply nods.

Twilight walks away, then gives an almost imperceptible nod to a certain security guard.

Security is alerted. No man with Andrews' face and a blue cravat will enter.

Twilight goes straight for the less crowded men's restroom on the first floor.

As he predicted, it's empty. Almost.

He knocks the door of the second stall; two long, one short, two long.

The door opens. Three minutes later, a man wearing Loid Forger's face and clothes comes out.

Twilight is still in the stall, preparing his own disguise.

He waits for the final bell to ring before he comes out.

Having memorized the building's structure, he walks down the corridors with confidence – the key to blending in even in places one doesn't belong in. Just in time, a distraction calls one of Desmond's bodyguards to his direction.

The man freezes for a second when he turns the corner and faces what he thinks is an identical copy of himself. It's long enough for Twilight to knock him out and carefully drag him into an empty box seats section.

He joins the other bodyguard outside Desmond's compartment.

He's close enough to the door that he can hear the voices from the stage. Damian stops mid-phrase. After a pause that lasts a little too long, Anya's booming voice is heard.

“Oh, Sec—Princess, tell me again about that curse!”

He can't stop the corner of his lip from perking up.

He tenses at the sudden sound of steps; the other bodyguard does the same a second later. This is a bad spot; the corridor isn't long enough, and whoever turns from that corner will be too close for comfort.

Twilight concentrates, trying to memorize the sound those steps make; their intensity, their pace, the distance between each step.

His murderer turns from the corner. Black suit, white shirt and blue cravat. Two sets of bombs strapped under those clothes. Was he hiding in the building all along?!

Twilight gets his gun out, aimed straight at the man. “Stop right there!” he shouts.

The man runs. Twilight shoots.

Four bullets are fired before his finger freezes on the trigger.

He's... dodged them?!

Flash. Burn. Crack.

BANG!

~

A/N: I think that there's no desk with all the typical desk paraphernalia in the consultation room we see in episode 20. There is a desk but I couldn't clearly tell if it has the stuff I describe here. For the sake of this fic, let's say it does.

Also, the way Loid's stomach reacted to Yor's bright smile had nothing to do with his guilt... but no-one tell him that.

[quinloki]

Omg i just read the kid forget me not! it was amazing. How on earth can you write like you do? Its always so well written, the way you personify the characters is like they are speaking through you and i feel like there's like 30 updates every time I get on. Like bro how? is it really a whole team of writers or something? do you just not sleep? I need answers!

Ah... ^^; oh man, thank you so much for the kind words ^^;;;

I don't know what to say, um... I've been writing stories since I was like eight, so when it comes to WPM I'm relatively fast? My job requires a lot of typing too, and I was one of those horrible procrastinators in school, so I'd end up having to type up 2k word essays in an hour before class started.

My job currently has a lot of down time due to automation processes I develop, maintain and debug, so I write on my phone when I can't do anything else on my company computer. This gives me a LOT of extra time to write, plan, outline, etc. On top of that I just write a lot in my free time.

It's not easy, and I really only average 26-33 WPM depending on how much focus I can maintain, but it is enjoyable, and at my age I've learned how to plow through most emotional blocks and just get the words on the paper. Once I do that, I can fix them, but I mean, again, we're talking like three decades of trying and failing and learning and scrapping etc.

One Piece just... feeds me, I guess. I love a lot of anime and media, but this world and these characters just have me by the short hairs. I can't think about anything else ^^; I had to fight against it for a while to just make sure it didn't negatively impact everything else.

I mean, I can't risk my job just to write.

But no, it's just me. No team. Just a dash of insanity and the dumb luck to have a relationship, a home, and a job that make it easier to devote obscene amounts of time to writing. Which turns x WPM into like 2-3k words a day on average. (12k in one day is my current record. I do not Ever Expect to Break that, I nearly forgot to eat that day I was so over-focused ^^; )

I sleep ^^; I promise. <3

[clearprincetimetravel]

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[wmarximoff]

Reader being Pietro’s bestfriend and Wanda having a crush on them but is too shy to say anything because she is popular and reader is apart of the unpopular dirtbags kind of group. The n reader confronts Wanda and it leads to Wanda’s first time. Pretty please with a cherry on top🥺🥺

freaks | w. maximoff

summary: high school isn't easy at all, especially for a kid as misfit as you. but just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a bomb is dropped in your lap; because Wanda Maximoff, the popular, perfect girl with the kindest heart of all, actually has a crush on you. and she just happens to be your best friend's twin sister.

warnings (18+): underage characters, smoking, secondary characters using illicit drugs (weed), cursing, first time, smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), penetration (Wanda receiving).

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 12k

A/N: sorry for the delay anon but i'm lazy as heck kjsfkjfs

anyway, this was fun to write (and actually pretty cute too). it's practically a romcom, really. hope you enjoy it!

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The cushions of the narrow couch you were sitting on felt cozy and comfortable under your thighs clad inside the material of a beat-up denim. But perhaps it wasn't for the furniture itself, which, although distinctly well maintained by a taste of carefully carved work, in no way appeared to be an expensive or even onerous piece in its cheap springs and foam.

It turns out that ever since your presence became something made frequent inside the Maximoff residence, you had found between those walls an air of coziness and reception that, like a warm maternal hug, dissipated the tense weight that was usual to fall on the muscles of your shoulders and your back.

The house of the family of four (just a mother and her three children, two teenagers and a child) was situated in one of the areas inhabited by the low-income citizens of the small town of Westview, beyond the gas station and the railroad tracks, a few blocks up from that trailer park that everyone knows from bad legends, but it's not like you need more than that to snuggle into the blandishments of that dark brown fabric sofa.

After all, it was enough to be accompanied by the presence of Pietro Maximoff, the eldest son (for twelve minutes, his sister occasionally reminded him of the fact in front of you), for you to know that the upheavals of the world would disappear inside your chest and, immersed in a bubble of comfort being with your best friend for about nine or ten months, there would be nothing that could hold you back for so long.

Pietro just had that effect on people; he was a good guy, a receptive young man of your age who used to be an esteemed figure by those who came in contact with the recurring good humor that guided him – but, like a typical misfit high school kid, there was nothing about him that pleased everyone at all. Not like his sister did so masterfully, at least.

The boy, dressed in khaki shorts and a long blue blouse as thin as a sapphire stone that showed off his similarly colored irises, was thus sitting half sprawled with his legs spread as if he had fallen there and not gotten up for a long time, parallel to you, in a small dark armchair that was only distanced from the sofa by a scrawny coffee table set there, of cheap pale wood that he used to prop his heels put into a pair of worn out running shoes.

To your right and to his left, perched in a chair pulled out from under the dining table, Darcy Lewis was the girl with long brown hair who had her upper back leaning against the back of her chair. Her clear, intent eyes so solemnly bound to the phone screen she kept blinking close to the tip of her nose, behind the thin glass lenses of a pair of dark plastic-framed prescription glasses.

Pietro and Darcy, then friends almost out of convenience because no one else was close to them (she being a weird amalgamation of a know-it-all geek and a half-inconvenient sarcastic little shit, he just an immigrant kid with a weird accent who slipped up at times and a sense of humor doubtful), they took you in because the others didn't seem all that interested in keeping you close – not when you were the only new kid around with a tattoo hidden somewhere on your body and a few more pairs of piercings than was acceptable for your neighbors dangling stylishly from your ears.

The boy dressed in the blue shirt, then seated opposite you, was expertly rolling a thin weed cigarette with his fingertips curled towards his athletic pecs in an intent gaze at the action exerted on his digits.

He then stuck his tongue out, sliding it down through the crack in his parted lips, using his saliva to glue the loose end of the rolling paper against the skinny little body of the cigarette which, when it was finally ready to be smoked, he tried to tuck it into the corner where his lips ended as if he wanted to perform a mobster from the height of the twentieth century.

But he was only sixteen-almost-seventeen, as young as he could be, and that was why Pietro only appeared to be what he was at that moment; a disheveled kid with poorly homemade bleached hair done with the help of his grumpy sister (the brown roots were showing in the crook of his head, giving him an air of sloppiness) with a long joint lying in the corner of his mouth.

He then leaned with his spine forward so his right hand went for the small pale blue plastic lighter set on the coffee table, before pouring his thumb across the stone so that the spark ignited the flame that lighted the end of the weed cigarette, from which he drew a long, lingering drag to spread the thick smoke through his nostrils in a state of mind imbued with a zealous tranquility, leaning his back against the armchair.

Behind your own red-filtered cigarette dangling between your lips, you raised an amused brow at your friend's slouched figure.

“Fucking stoner, man,” you mussed, albeit in airs of morose jocularity that inferred a little chuckle on Darcy's part, “That shit gonna fry all your brain cells someday, you know that? Make you dumber than you already are.”

He took another swig of the joint before fixing you with a pair of droopy blue eyes, since this was the second or third of the day he'd smoked – around his firm chin, the tiniest fuzz of an occasional dark beard was already threatening to arise with the emergence of age, each day closer to adulthood. One day, he would be a handsome man, because for now he was just a boy who promised to be a good-looking adult.

“And that shit gonna kill you someday,” with a little finger movement, waving his limp left hand, he pointed to the nicotine cigarette that was blistered between the index and middle fingers of yours, raised right at your face.

You smiled and so did he, half on his side, still lying on the armchair cushions like a misplaced decoration.

“At least I won't die stupid like you.”

“Just kiss him already man, for Christ's sake,” Darcy grumbled in a tone of shared humor, before reaching for the joint from Pietro's hand and bringing the small cylindrical body to her to draw a swig of weed for herself.

“Nah,” you expressed a small smile flanked by smoke, “As much as I know Piet wants it so much, he's not really my type, sorry.”

“What do you mean he's not your type, huh?” Darcy gave you a funny look from behind the glasses placed in front of her sharp blue eyes, as if she wanted to poke a small lump hidden inside you.

“I thought his last name was Maximoff. That sure is your type, sister.”

There was a second puff of smoke until the boy, then already in a somewhat lethargic action when clouded by the cognitive effect of the cannabis he was smoking, lifted the back of his head from the backrest and lowered his chin, squeezing with his eyelids that wandered from Darcy's smile to your brow furrowed in a bewildered slant, only to redo the act once again a little more confused, cinching a flash of fur from his forehead with the thick, dark-haired brows above the blue eyes sort of gleaming with a curious blaze.

“Y/n, what’s she talking about…?”

“Your mom, duh,” was your immediate response, a mock-masked deliverance dripping from your throat, a smirk taut in the unnaturally twitching muscles on your face, “Ms. Maximoff's got it going on, right? I mean, gosh, she really looks hot in her waitress uniform.”

“Dude, I always knew MILFs were your type, you totally look like you would do a MILF.”

Darcy looked back at you with an air of laughter as her chin tipped in your direction, the lack of sobriety evident in her airy actions, which in no way complied with the implications of the first comment bestowed on you.

“Well, and who doesn’t like MILFs?” you smiled burlesquely, to which Darcy readily acquiesced with a sharp nod.

“But yeah Pietro, your mom is like, hot. The hottest MILF among all MILFs. So hot.”

“So hot,” you repeated in a profuse drag of a cigarette, pointing to the girl sitting next to your right knee that showed a beam of skin through a long slit in the fabric of your pants.

“Very, very hot.”

“Like, super hot.”

The platinum-haired boy, meanwhile, only let out a loathsome grunt as his drunken face contorted in repulsive distaste for the idea you and Darcy offered him about his own mother, shaking his head firmly as if he wanted to shake off these thoughts as if they were really mosquitoes pestering him to sleep at night—something that brought on you, of a good-natured nature, and on Darcy, just too stoned for her own good, a long round of loud, juicy laughter that caused the muscles in you abdomen to ache in hot cramping.

“Dude, gross! That's disgusting, she's my mom! What the fuck!"

Though a little unsteadily, his left fingers hooked against the fabric of a red pillow that was brought up and then hurled toward him with just a flick of the tendons of the young man's strong shoulder, which depended on minor physical labor to add a little more on the household income.

It was a quick if somewhat lingering half second, when your gaze only caught a glittering blur pouring air to shatter against your face.

The fluffy object then collided with a soft thud against the top of your left cheekbone, pushing the muscle of your neck back against the back of the sofa, as your senseless fingers detached from the still-lit half-smoked cigarette, whose butt fell against the pillow that soon had its fabric sprinkled in a small hole with burnt and blackened edges.

“Shit, Pietro–!”

Darcy, with cheeks as rosy as a pair of ripe tomatoes against her usually pale, lifeless alabaster countenance, seemed a second away from writhing into a convulsive laugh that would soon take the form of a fit of choking vomit, and you soon treated catching the remains of the cigarette between your right index finger and thumb, before pressing the tip against the pale porcelain pot that was the makeshift ashtray to then stand on your knees, scrutinizing the damage done to the mobile.

“Shit,” you repeated, albeit in a slightly lowered tone, the palms of your hands resting on your bent and exposed knees, “Shit, see what you did, dickhead? You ripped a goddamn hole in the pillow, you jerk!”

“What–?!” the boy then scrambled to his feet in exasperation, suddenly slipping into a layer of momentary sobriety, rounding the coffee table to walk over to your side in rather worried steps, “What the– oh my God, oh my God, my mom’s going to kill me—”

The sound of the front door being opened so close and then being closed as it was before, was what spread throughout the house of close rooms, succinct and with a small and short square footage composition.

The walls of your stomach collapsed in on you as Pietro shot you an alarmed look that flickered a troubled blue, turning pale as if the blood was suddenly draining from his cheeks. For a second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car on the road.

“We're fucked.”

“I know.”

But desperation didn't rage among the three of you for as long as it would have; like a bucket of water dispersed in a still-igniting spark, putting out a coming fire, who came into the living room was not the figure of Ms. Maximoff dressed in her signature red and white ketchup-stained waitress uniform, but only a young Wanda Maximoff, Pietro's younger twin sister, who had a pair of headphones screwed into both her ears, under the profuse bundles of her dark-brown hair.

“Pietro…?” the low voice came from far away, as footsteps approached the room with heavy combat boots high-laced on her ankles, “What are you…?”

Wanda's irises wandered from Pietro to then you and Darcy, as her index and middle fingers, with extensions adorned in a series of silver rings, hooked onto the long wires of her headphones to pull them down from inside her ears.

“Wanda!” you muttered under your breath, because your unconscious was taken over by the image of her standing there, and there was nothing else to say but call her to you, “Wanda. H-hey, Wanda. Hi.”

“…Hi, Y/n.”

You gasped for a bit as you opened and closed with your lips, saliva hardening in the back of your throat at the pretty figure of the girl dressed in dark clothes and chains dangling from the belt that threaded around the waistband of her black skirt and around her milk-white neck, with pointy pendants that alluded to the mysticism she held dear.

And she just brought out something inside you. After all, Wanda Maximoff was affable, soft, beautiful and gentle as a bouquet of red roses, the prettiest of them all.

At Westview High, everyone knew who she was when she walked through the halls, the only girl who could walk shoulder to shoulder with the cool kids clique even if she hadn't gotten out of her Evanescence listening phase – even if her wealth was not as capital as theirs. Everyone wanted a little bit of her, from the kind, generous, gorgeous girl, essential member of the academic decathlon team and debate group.

A keen library goer, consumer of thick, hard-to-read books, who kept high grades as well as the good will of the people like it was second nature to her. A school prodigy. A popular necessity.

And Wanda went out of her way to be extremely considerate of her requirements. It just so happens that she was never quite able to share that said kindheartedness with you, something that has always given you doses of discontent inside your chest – after all, even after almost a whole year of seasons all past since your permanent installation in the small-town blandices, Wanda never bothered to look you straight in the eye for more than three or so seconds.

“This–this isn’t what it looks like, Wanda,” cried Pietro, who raised a hand to his sister across the room.

“We’re just,” you tried, “Well, we were—”

“Of course we sure as hell weren't smoking pot in your living room,” Darcy muttered to the ceiling, still sitting in her chair, “I mean minus Y/n, because she's such a boring bitch,” there was a snort on the part of the bespectacled girl.

“Darcy, shut up!”

“C’mon, what a fucking surprise Piet, everybody knows you smoke pot!”

And then when Wanda's gaze woven in a curious green latched onto yours, an air-tied knot whose ends met between you and her, you pressed your lips together in a single line, because a thin layer of blush turned pink on her high cheeks, which flushed like a little porcelain doll.

You straightened your posture, but the girl with the long, silky dark hair only looked away, aiming for the dirty porcelain bowl set on the cheap wooden table.

“I,” she whispered, like a shy little mouse with rosy cheeks, “I won't… I won’t say anything to mom, don't worry about it. Just… just clean this mess up before she gets home.”

There was a flash of green gaze that flashed into your eyes like a beacon on the horizon, but then it faded in less than a second because Wanda seemed to relinquish eye contact with you, again lowering her gaze away from your face, hiding her pretty pale eyes behind a thick curtain of dark hair.

She suppressed her lips in a thin, rosy line, seeming to shrink into her blackish-brown, long-sleeved blouse. Wanda opened her mouth as if to say something, but then clasped her lips together again in a sign of resignation.

“I–I'm going to my room.”

And the girl barely waited for an answer from any of the three parties before she left for the house, leaving like a deserting spirit. You blinked once, and then turned your nose towards Darcy.

“Dude, did I do something wrong…?”

“She’s probably just scared of you,” teased the girl with the glasses, “You know, she dresses all edgy and stuff but she's just so sweet and kind like this little black bunny and you... well, man, you spilled cigarette ash all over her mother's couch, what the heck.”

When she laughed at her own joke, something in you faltered for half a second.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” you mussed awkwardly, screwing the palm of your right hand against the skin of the back of your neck, “I… I guess.”

“Whatever, Wanda’s a weirdo,” Pietro's voice came from your side, even if half muttering to himself, “Just–just please help me clean this up, dammit. My mom’s going to kill me, I swear...”

ᗢ

A gust of annoyed air had left the gap between your lips open for what was perhaps the tenth time in a row allotted to that meager period of time that spanned a lengthy fifteen minutes of a rather dull morning – at least that's what you was, when your weary gaze sagged across the raised square screen of your phone, towards the upper right corner, and there you were faced with the digital clock marking the scorching hour of nine thirty-seven on a hot morning in Wednesday.

You sighed slowly, warm air draining from your lungs and your chest deflating into your unbuttoned flannel shirt, through the straps of your thin tank top, because there was nothing to do other than that.

You might as well proclaim your notes in your notebook as Miss Harkness, who was standing right in front of long rows of other bustling teenagers who, like you, huffed bored air out of their mouths into their faces, dictated to her history class to all the school kids in their seats.

However, as much as you were interested in the class (as, in fact, you were), it turns out that Miss Harkness just had a habit of getting quite carried away in her classical prose, and even though the middle-aged woman in the lilac waistcoat was one of your favorite teachers, nothing there was enough to capture your diverted attention.

Because you, moreover, barely had any thoughts floating around in your head that weren't entirely focused on Wanda Maximoff and the esoteric wonder that came along with her, as if it were her own shadow.

And, given the situation similar to yours in which Wanda found herself in that same class, it was she who was sitting there next to you, taking note of everything the teacher said about that historical event that honed the details of the modern country founding; Wanda was just a pretty smart type of student, it's true. The girl urged you on in a superhuman way.

Yet, at that morning and like every other morning before, the two of you hadn't even exchanged enough sentences for you to actually engage in a conversation with the other girl. In fact, you hadn't even spoken to her at all.

You knew she was deep enough in her notes to having someone to piss her off. With the chin supported by the hand supplanted by the left elbow raised to the face of your table, your gaze headed towards Wanda, who was seated to your right and attracted you like a damn lodestone, in an inevitable magnetic dazzle; in the same room in the company of several people, Wanda was always the one who caught your attention under her fingertips to keep.

Just the appeal, the idea, the unknown, they were enough to find you rambling about your classmate – Wanda interspersing her diligent attention between Agatha and her own dark-covered notebook where the digits of her fingers, lined with rings, wrote so cunningly in a black ink pen, one opalescent knee crossed by the other under the table, the miniskirt exposing her pale, firm thighs that were suddenly engulfed by high dark stockings that rose above the confines of her knees.

And it admired you, how her brown hair seemed to modulate accentuated shades of honey color when laid out by the rays of sunlight that entered the room through the thick glass windows that adorned the walls adjacent to the tables you occupied respectively. How her irises looked like two sparkling emerald stones when highlighted by a profuse smoky dark eyeliner liner around her waterline – her naturally thick, long lashes adorning her stylish, heavy makeup.

There was the leaf-shaped pendant in dark silver dangling from a thin chain that flowed across her attractive bosom, between the sharp collarbones that poked out of her thin black blouse, adorned with strands of long, silky light brown hair; the necklace between her breasts, the exposed skin there looking so soft, a tiny mole situated high on her right breast that you just wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss and feel through your tongue.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The teacher's voice called out of your thoughts between the heads of young people, which caused a sea of eyes to all turn to you, like creatures from another world, a pack of animals in the forest looking to a flashlight.

Even Wanda's gaze got caught, which for half a broken second turned to you only for when, upon catching your face already turned towards her, she only turned to the filled pages of the notebook placed between her forearms, like if you really were just an eminent pest. She doesn't know who I am and yet she doesn't give a damn about me, huh.

“Can you answer the question, Miss Y/l/n?”

Miss Harkness's tight, dark curls swayed in your direction when you look at her, standing there on the other side of the classroom and in front of the blackboard cluttered with notes made all in powdered white chalk.

“Eh,” you mussed, somewhat unimpressed by the teasing smirks that were beginning to form on unfriendly faces, containing in your grunt a sudden roll of disinterested eyes.

“What's the question again, please?”

“Pff, sucker.”

A voice pierced the veil of silence that had fallen over the other youngsters, the voice of that smug boy Tony Stark, which soon erupted into group giggles that spilled back and forth into the classroom like a flock of flustered parrots.

“Alright, alright, cut it off for Christ's sake!” Miss Agatha Harkness cried out somewhat aggravated, waving both her hands in front of her body in a rather weary way.

“None of you here is in position to laugh and you all know it very well! Would any of you like to answer the question for Miss Y/l/n instead, huh? Somebody? Nobody? Well, that’s what I thought.”

The teacher's simple, elaborate tone sounded an octave higher than usual, drawing your attention towards the woman in question. You looked at her, but Wanda's gaze burned to the flesh of your right cheek, before glancing at Miss Harkness another time.

And then, a hand with nails tinted in dark polish rose above the others' heads, not at all hesitant in her actions as she did so. Wanda, of course, was willing to speak up when no one else did. You looked at her with an air of interest, straightening your posture against your hard, clear plastic chair.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” Agatha nodded, to which the young girl immediately lowered her right arm.

“The Church created the Court of the Holy Office in the thirteenth century, and it was supposed to prevent people who had deviated from Christianity from leaving. They used various mechanisms of persecution and punishment for that,” narrated Wanda with exquisite mastery.

“That's what led to the Inquisition and, after some time, the Salem witch hunt, which actually started in France in the fifteenth century.”

You focused your eyes on her for a couple of seconds longer than what would be considered healthy for the habit to do. It was because of looking at her so intently, however, that you found the other girl giving you a single, chaste glance out of the corner of her eye, which then retreated away, as if in an internal game with both parts of her brain; one wanted to look at you, and the other didn't.

“Finally, great,” Agatha brandished.

“At least someone here is paying attention in class. You are correct indeed, Miss Maximoff. See, Miss Y/l/n, this is what happens when you actually listen to your teacher and not just daydream looking at your classmates all morning.”

"I– what?! I didn't—!” A heat spread from the tips of your ears, all the way down to your cheekbones, your neck, and your shoulders inside your unbuttoned shirt.

Someone stifled a laugh on a cough from behind your seat. Fuck.

Wanda remained silent, and you wouldn't even dare look to the side, at her, who so relentlessly strayed her curious gaze in your direction, her chin slightly tilted at a broken angle to the side of her left shoulder. Mortification in bright crimson still burned the flushed skin of your cheeks at the pretty girl's gaze.

“That's what you heard, heartbreaker,” the teacher waved her witch-like hand, “Now, please, everyone pay attention here for another fifteen minutes until class is over, will you? I swear I want to be here as much as you kids do.”

And then there was another bout of chatter from Miss Harkness in a waistcoat buttoned over a white shirt printed with corny light blue flowers. Perhaps, if you hadn't covered your eyes with the open palms of both your hands, you would have caught the tiny fond smile that tugged at the corner of Wanda's peachy lips.

ᗢ

It didn't take long, with some minutes passed right after lunch time, for you to sneak into the four closed walls of a second-floor women's bathroom stall so that, in such a way, you could give yourself the courtesy of blowing smoke from your cigarette, scorching in peace. With your back resting peacefully against the laminated plastic of the scrawny cabin wall, you leaned your back, staring sluggishly at the pale plaster ceiling. It’s not like the time and space around your miserable existence matters all that much.

The cigarette that appeared between your parted lips had a flickering tip like a firefly in the night flickering in the dark night, and the smoke that just sailed up to the ceiling was thin and wavering, fading from reality like a utopian idea.

Near the flush valve, painted onto the white tile, an elaborate graffiti in black marker pen penned two names joined by a mathematical plus sign – something like “KATE + YELENA” etched near your right elbow, a promise perpetuated in the inerasable act of a young heart lacerated by a still budding idea of what warm love would be pulsing inside someone’s chest.

Behind an opaque veil of cigarette smoke, you considered doing the same with your own name and Wanda Maximoff's, until you suddenly gave up on the idea as it was supposed to be an impulsive lapse in need.

So you just sighed, shaking your head from side to side, getting rid of those silly thoughts as if you had quaked them out of your brain. The only sound that erupted through the silence encrusted in the cabins was that of the avid drip of a poorly closed sink. Dripping. And dripping. And stopping. Until a trio of female voices burst through the front door.

“Shit–!”

In an act of open desperation, you just dropped your still lit, half-smoked cigarette down into the open toilet, into the still water.

“I swear, that's what she said,” the evident tone of voice that reached your ear was distinctly that of Pepper Potts, the girl a year older than you who was the head of the cheerleading squad.

“Rogers dumped her because he's dating Barnes!”

“That's weird, I thought it was Wilson this time.”

Just behind her, the second voice couldn't be anyone other than Monica, the only child of principal Rambeau and that, like her friend, everyone knew who she was; a genuinely nice girl from the lacrosse team who turned out to be Pietro's crush for as long as you knew him.

“No, Wilson used to date Barnes who now dates Rogers. It’s hard to keep up, I know.”

Pepper clarified it to her friend, and for a second it sounded like she was planning to start a new sentence about the ups and downs of her peers' social-love life when, after a broken half lapse of silence within those with walls, the strawberry-blonde girl’s voice was then charged with a queasy tone, which indicated a nose twisted in repugnance that you couldn’t see behind the cabin’s closed red door.

“Ugh, what is that smell…?”

“Cigarette smoke, I guess.”

Your heart slammed and disarmed inside the middle of your chest, because the answer was based on Wanda Maximoff's delightfully low voice. She was there, in the company of her friends who reapplied makeup to their faces. Well, fuck. You gulped like a criminal in trial.

You scarcely dared to breathe accurately between your nostrils, but it's not like your lungs, at the sound of her melodic voice, know how to do anything but just inflate and deflate sparingly like a pair of flat tires.

“That’s disgusting,” Pepper clicked with her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

“It must have been Y/l/n, everyone knows she comes here to smoke after lunch,” said Monica, who seemed to have a crooked joyful smile in her voice.

“I swear, Wanda, she was practically drooling on you earlier today. Heart eyes and all, totally head over heels. It was actually kinda cute to watch.”

“She… she was?” it was small, almost inaudible from your listening hiding position, away from the eyes of those who spoke.

There was something shy that could be pointed out in Wanda's voice, but there was something also glistening with the tiniest glimmer of hope that you couldn't help but notice. Something that lulled your senses and made you ponder about the direction of this conversation so intimate that, for a second, you felt like you were crossing an invisible line of common sense. Maybe it was wrong. A mistake. Or perhaps it was just a weird type of unconventional luck, even.

It was like you couldn’t be there at all. Because you, in the wrong place at the wrong time, were just invading Wanda’s privacy; that’s how it felt, at least. It was as if the walls of the cabin were going to swallow you and squash you to death like the stomach of a dark creature.

“I really don't understand what you see in that girl, Wands,” it's Pepper's turn to say, “You should just give Jarvis a chance. He asked you out to eat Indian food, didn't he? You love Indian food.”

“I hate Indian food,” Wanda reiterated to the other girl, “And he doesn’t give a damn about me, anyways. He just likes hanging out with people who have high grades. And you just want me to date him because he's Tony's brother, and if I do date him you'll have someone to go on a stupid double date with.”

“It's not that, geez,” was the head cheerleader's reply, “It's just that he's on the decathlon team like you and he's graduating this year, so you can date a college boy in your senior year. Damn, I'd like to date a college boy my senior year."

“You're already in your senior year,” Monica reminds her, “And you’re dating Tony.”

“Yes, for that very reason.”

Something about that suggestion didn't appeal to your taste at all, still tucked inside the cabin as you were. Just the thought of Wanda dangling from Jarvis Stark's arm, a known prick among the students other than those who made up his intimate circle of handpicked relationships, was enough to ignite an acrimonious revulsion in you, which even seemed to want to devour your muscle cells from the inside out.

That bitter feeling running down the side of your tongue, pouring out between your teeth, was nothing to do with your half-smoked cigarette which then floated down the toilet like a sunken ship. And you just didn’t want to think so hard about why the slightest mention of the idea of Wanda dating Jarvis fueled such a revolting feeling within your ribcage.

“Besides,” the Potts girl continues her own line, oblivious to your deep displeasure.

“Unlike that Y/l/n girl, Jarvis has a guaranteed future in his father's company for when he finishes his graduation. And look, don't get me wrong, but that girl is either going to end up in jail or dead or both, and that's probably before she even turns thirty. Ugh, c’mon Wanda, she's just another freak. You can do way better than that. I mean, you even have a shot to be prom queen this year if you start dating Jarvis.”

“I don't wanna be prom queen, Pepper. Everyone already knows it's going to be you and Tony, anyways,” said Wanda, in a tone that emulated lapses of discomfort towards the other young woman, “And don't say that about Y/n, that's not true.”

And it surprised you, in fact, because you had never heard Wanda be so incisive with her words before. Or even someone using such a tone of voice when addressing Pepper Potts.

“She's not… a freak, she’s funny. And smart. And she’s actually pretty sweet when you really get to know her. I... I never talk to her much when she comes over to my house because she's always hanging with Pietro and Darcy, but... she just... she just seems nice to have around, you know? Something about her is… soft. She once made me laugh until juice almost came out of my nose.”

Your heart skipped a beat as your memory traveled back to that day, at a dinner night guided by the traditional house stroganoff, were Ms. Maximoff made sure that your presence was there, at the dinning table with her and her children. The tips of your ears and the skin of your shoulder burned to embers that carried the ashes of that night, but it was as if that heat itself soothed the anxious twinges in your bristling veins.

It was the first time your eyes were ever pleased to witness a sincere laugh burst from within Wanda’s lungs.

And no one had ever looked as stunning in front of you as she did back in that day so many weeks ago, with her head thrown back and her eyes squinted, cheeks flushed in such a lovely rosy layer of flesh, shoulders swaying inside an ancient rock band shirt, peach mouth open only to reveal the two front teeth partially larger than the rest, like a scrunched nose bunny.

So genuine and so pure that your heart turned on itself – and if you dared to do so, you would say it was that day she usurped the rights of your feelings.

“And, uh...” Wanda's voice was small this time, in a timid, measured edge, “She's... she... she's pretty. Like, really… really pretty.”

It was like an electric current that ran from your ribs to the flesh of your cheek, heating the tops of your cheekbones. The saliva in your mouth, still vicious like a full-bodied drink, only evaporated and disappeared, making the wetness pooling in the palms of both of your sweaty hands even more evident. It was as if fireworks erupted in a hot red roar inside the walls of your stomach.

“She’s hot! I once heard that she had a hidden tattoo somewhere,” it was Monica's turn to cry out in an air of laughter.

“She’s a freak,” growled the Potts girl again, in an eye roll, “And you two are just too squeamish for your own good. She’s not the only person with earrings out there, Jesus.”

“Seriously, Pep, look at Wanda, her type is obviously not those preppy boys like that Stark douche. Girl, her type is delinquents. Bad girls. You know, just girls as a whole. Someone to listen to, I don’t know, Iron Maiden with her or whatever emo shit she listens to.”

“Yeah, got it, geez,” muttered the older girl in a bad way, “It's just what I think.”

“Well, you thought wrong then.”

“Really, Monica, just shut up–”

A few more frivolous conversations drifted over the trio of girls, who took off out of the bathroom minutes later, striding farther and farther away when the subject in question strayed into something that was of no interest to you at all. You blinked once, and then twice. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and coming back to the surface abruptly.

You breathed. You just breathed. Soundlessly, your right hand slipped to the latch of the laminated plastic door, which opened out in a continuous squeak.

You gulped down the saliva sitting on the back of your tongue. Meeting your eyes in the quadrangular mirror placed in front of the cabin from which you exited, the air still reeking of the remnants of your cigarette mixed with Wanda's perfume, it did not surprise you at all that your cheeks reflected in the glass were like two reddish cherries burning over your boiling flesh.

“…Fuck.”

ᗢ

A few succinct days were passed one after another in front of your secret incident in the girl's bathroom stall (there was no more dignified labeling for such an occurrence than an incident as pleasant as it was also uncomfortable, it's true).

The entire seventy-two hours that followed were then grounded in several thoughtful cigarettes burning between your aching lips, the lighter's flame flickering in the ashes of broken reasonings, considerations and daydreams taking puffs of smoke, all which circled in your brain as if it were the moon that gravitates around the planet, as if space itself had usurped the oxygen from your bloodstream and changed it to Wanda’s name.

Wanda. Your cigarette smoke burned Wanda's name in your lungs. Your eyelids blinked Wanda's emerald gaze out of your sleepy eyes. Just Wanda. Only Wanda. Wanda Maximoff, red, green and black, a dream and a doom.

Your everyday contemplations then became the shelter of the other girl's tender jadish irises blooming in shades of a cordial green, like the green of spring pastures, and only the Maximoff girl could have been able to capture your attention even when you were within the walls of your own room, away from her piercing vision.

You couldn’t help but glance so assiduously at her when she was wearing nothing but partially buttoned black shirts on her chest and increasingly revealing miniskirts, whose fabric didn't even bother to cover the hollow of her soft, pale thighs worn down in tall, dark stockings.

Like a delightful reverie, she came in a spectral crimson form at night, only to disappear early in the morning sun. Four days were enough for you to bury your face in the middle of your pillow and let out a cavernous and frustrated yell vanish there, in vain trying to engage in a battle already lost since its beginnings against something that.

 Like the addictive nicotine contained in the extensions of your countless smoked cigarettes, every cell in your body clamored for more of her. It was as if your lips would bleed if you lacked the taste of her kiss for even one more day.

If Wanda were a witch endowed with mystical gifts, you would sure be bewitched by her addictive charms with an intangible scarlet grip around the outline of your neck – for the length of the halls between class periods, the cafeteria packed with students heads at lunchtime (campaigns for prom royalty were starting to brew little by little) or even on the bleachers smeared out of the faculty buildings by the warm sun, you searched with intent eyes for the slightest trace of her stunning presence, like a hungry dog hunting something down to satisfy its starvation.

And you could barely be sure in your own limping functions of what it was that led you there when it was that your feet, in untied shoes, marched under a stifling blanket of the scorching spring sun, even if the excuse paramount was that you just wanted her brother's company by your side to smoke a cigarette – even if Pietro wasn't into smoking conventional cigarettes at all, just like you also weren’t into smoking what he had to offer either.

 Stepping hard on the concrete of the sidewalk without a definite purpose at the heart of your rash actions, like a maze with only one exit, your feet instinctively led you up the two entry steps of the Maximoff residence – the newly painted one storey house that contained within its structures two bedrooms and only one bathroom.

That's where your right index finger, so accurate, searched for the bell to press with the tip of your digit and, after the miserable seconds that followed the act, who came to meet you was that same brunette girl who stole the gift of sleep during the nighttime.

Wanda looked a little different on that scorching Sunday afternoon of sunny skies and wispy clouds sprinkled around the cerulean sky dome, without any hint of dark makeup to adorn the moss-colored puddles that flanked her sharp pupils to be found in her natural beauty, albeit the long coffee-colored strands that were tucked behind the contours of her ears, in the usual casual way she liked to stylish them.

“Y/n?” it was a stunned tone at your offered smile as her chin tilted toward her left collarbone, one corner of a dark brow cocked in an expression nothing short of stupefied, her eyes enlarged in size.

“Hey, hi Wanda. How’re you doing?"

“I–I,” she huffed for a bit, “I'm fine... I'm fine, thank you. You?”

“Oh,” you smiled, “I’m great, thanks.”

Wanda's rosy mouth tightened into a line at your sight, and you couldn't help but notice the fact that the way she shifted her weight from one bare leg to the other beneath the dark material of her front-buttoned skirt, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do there at the door of her own home – surely you weren't a face she expected to find there.

Seconds passed in a slow swoop when a bird hummed in a nearby tree. Wanda just played fidget with the handfuls of rings that adorned the pale extensions of her right fingers, twisting, pulling and touching them with her left fingernails carpeted in dark nail polish chipped at the tips. There was a cigarette leaning behind your right ear.

“So,” you then began rather casually, and your voice drew her attention from her own clean shoes, as the other girl saw herself as being imbued with a somewhat restless silence, “Is Pietro at home? I sent him some texts, but he hasn't replied for a while.”

“No, he… he left a while ago,” she hissed a little too quickly, like a hamster's squeak, “He's grounded. You know, from burning a hole in the pillow that day.”

You cinched a flash of fur between your brows in a funny way, breaking a curious little smirk at the corner of your lips.

“He's grounded,” it was echoed slowly, as if to get your bearings, “But he left...?”

“Yeah,” Wanda shrugged into her plain blouse, “My mom took the afternoon shift at the diner and Lorna went out to play at her friend's house, and he's been bugging me for ages about setting up a date with Monica... and she agreed to go out with him today, so… he went out with her.”

“Huh,” you mumbled thoughtfully, “That's cool, I guess. I mean, he talks about her all the damn time… it’s kinda annoying actually. Even if it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” she half-chuckled, not moving her lips that much, “I know.”

There was a silence that bordered the two of you for a few more seconds as in an intangible fence made of mutual discomposure, a view a bit awkward to witness from afar, almost like a lighthearted conversation taken disinterestedly between two strangers inside a crowded bus or in a long bank line just to pass the time.

Wanda was still fidgeting with her own fingers, soundless in a dull quietness as if a lump stuck in her throat forbade her to speak words to you, and you just unpretentiously shoved the palms of both your hands into the back pockets of your baggy jeans, your side teeth nibbling the flesh on the inside of your cheeks as you did.

“I,” you muttered under your breath, nodding your head at an unasked question, filling the gap of silence between you and Wanda, “I think I'm gonna go home then—”

“You–you can wait for him here if you want!”

You blinked for a second, lifting your eyebrows to the middle of your forehead, almost touching your hairline. Wanda's pink lower lip was pressed between a wall of her upper teeth, and her cheeks flushed with a remarkable heat. Cute, you thought with yourself. So goddamn cute, oh my God... you wanted to hold her in your arms just to place a warm kiss in the middle of her forehead skin.

“Fine,” was a casual agreement, “I'd like to stay, then. If that doesn't bother you, of course.”

She then shrugged, “No, being alone at home is kinda boring sometimes. And, well,” her right fingertips swept behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose from its previous spot there, “You… you're cool, Y/n.”

Your lips tightened when, even with her head aiming halfway down the floor, Wanda looked at you in a flash of moss green that flowered between her dark, thick, heavy doll-like lashes. Into the crop top you wore over your shoulders, your chest heaved and deflated severely against your ribs.

“Right. You're cool too, Wanda.”

She smiled in a singularly kind way because you did too, before closing the door behind you as you entered your newfound hostess's house together. As you passed close to her shoulder, there was the scent of strawberry shampoo and a cheap, lightly woody perfume like cinnamon that intoxicated your bloodstream as the scent wafted through your nostrils.

There was at you core the stimulating temptation of your perceptions to stick the tip of your nose through her long locks, only to further indulge your senses with her scent, but you held back your actions before skidding into a lapse of daring to definitely do it.

“You... You want something to eat?” Wanda spoke a little tenderly, half-cumbersomely even, not sneaking a glance at your face as you followed her into the walls of the small house, “I baked a cake.”

“Wait, wait, you cook?” you turned your gaze to the girl next to your left shoulder, who let a chaste smile crack between her lips.

“Well,” she muttered, “Sometimes, yeah. Not as often as I would like to, though. It's usually only when Lorna asks me to do it.”

“Cool,” you reciprocated her small grin, “I'd like a slice, if it's not too much trouble.”

When you went to sit on the springs of the dark sofa, out of the way of Wanda, who in turn headed for the nearby kitchen, your eyes proceeded to a small square television set in the corner of the room, above a somewhat rustic wooden furniture with silver handles, which on its monochromatic screen flashed a reprised episode of some old sitcom in shades of an artificially colored image like in one of those advertising flyers from sixty years ago.

Wanda came over to you a few minutes later all filled with a corny, fun-to-watch script between a blonde actress and a tall actor wearing a suit, in rather quick strides in her converse sneakers, carrying with her, in her right hand, a glass plate that contained a generous slice of white cake that looked like a feather-flavored pastry.

“Here,” she then handed you the utensil that was gladly accepted by your hands along with a grateful smile on your face, before sitting in the sofa to your right, with her bare knees joined together like a pair of magnets.

“Thanks, really. But hey, Bewitched, huh?” With a jerk of your chin, you pointed at the television in the corner of the room, under the open glass window that let aureate glimmers of a cozy sunlight take over the room.

Wanda acquiesced with a nod that shuddered her soft, dark locks, her lips twisted into a shy little smile. The rehearsed laughter of an unseen audience cluttered the four walls of the living room.

“Yeah, my mom always liked all that old American stuff when I was a kid, so I guess it got passed on to me somehow,” she finally looked at you, sounding even a little more undisturbed when engaged in narration about her most intimate tastes.

“I mean, Pietro doesn't like it very much… he says it's boring. And Lorna is just too small to pay attention to anything that lasts longer than five minutes, so… someone had to keep my mom company when she got home late from work. But it never bothered me, really. I... I like sitcoms.”

When a chuckle escaped between your parted lips at her own revelation, Wanda soon tried to justify herself in a quick, slurred speech, like a sinner validating her confessions in the eyes of the Lord.

“I–I mean, I, I know it's silly, but–”

“Hey, who said it's silly?” you offer her a succinct, complacent look that has her reaching for a sip of oxygen, “That's actually pretty sweet of you, Wanda.”

“You… You really think so…?” she looked at you, waiting for a hesitant answer.

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged, “My mom used to watch these old sitcoms all the time too when I was younger. So I think it's cool. It's really nice of you, Wanda.”

“Right,” there was a blistering twinge that brushed her pale cheeks, as her lips echoed a “Cool,” rather pleased with herself.

The tines of the tip of the aluminum fork in your possession, then pressed between the face of your right index finger and thumb, made to dip and break the loose dough of the plump cake placed right on top of the small plate that was supported by your left hand, before taking a significant amount of the sweet dessert so that it could be taken all the way up to your half-open mouth.

You hummed fortunately against the softly sweet taste on the face of your tongue. It was delicious on the palate, in fact, still warm as if fresh from the oven, with a comforting touch of nostalgia for something you had never experienced before – it was as if Wanda was sharing a tiny fraction of her Sokovian childhood with you. It tasted of sunny country afternoons and homemade desserts dotted with a coat of maternal affability. Tasted like pure, simple happiness of old infantile days to the sharpest feeling of the sentence.

Realizing that you were indeed eating something she had so selflessly prepared just a few minutes earlier, an emerald spotlight with an expectant green gaze engaged your facial expressions, as in an analysis project by Wanda, whose subject matter of study was none other than yourself.

“Man, this is really, really good!” it was a cry bordered by a half-child affinity, before you went back to reaching for more of the cake with the tines of your fork.

“You liked it?” Wanda's face glowed with exultant euphoria, shimmering a veil of pale green on her pretty irises, “It’s ptichye moloko, my mom used to bake it all the time when Pietro and I were kids back in Novi Grad.”

“Right, don't tell her I said that but I'm sure yours is better.”

“What?!” Wanda smiled a little dumbfounded, as her left shoulder bumped against your right bicep in a light-hearted way, witty in her comfortable good-humor that was slowly unfolding in front of you, “You haven't even tasted hers, Y/n!”

“Yeah, sorry, but as much as I’d be willing to literally die for your mom's cooking, you baked it, so I'm automatically sure yours is better.”

The high flesh of her cheeks burned in deep shades of rosy-crimson at your utterly sincere statement.

After a few episodes of the old television series (no less than five, but certainly more than two and a half), with the walls of your stomach already satisfied in your abdomen with that generous piece of cake made with a strictly followed recipe in the traditional Sokovian style, Wanda's gaze, who was then chuckling softly at some harmless silly joke made by the main character, dropped to your right profile, burning the bone in your jaw in scheming thoughts.

“When did you start smoking?”

Sweeping your eyes away from the colorful figures on the television, you glanced at the girl sitting next to you, finding a pretty face brightening before your gaze, “Sorry, what?”

“Your cigarette,” her index finger pointed at the small cylindrical object blistered behind your ear, skimming against your silver earrings, “When did you start smoking? If... if you don't mind talking about it, of course. Sorry if I'm being invasive."

“Oh, that,” you recalled suddenly from the presence of your addiction, bringing your right fingers to pick it up between your digits.

“It’s okay, I don't mind talking about it. But... I think it's been a while, actually. When my mom left my dad started smoking again and, well... I wanted to sneak some from him to see what it was like. About two years ago or so, I guess. Something like that."

You shrugged it off, because the matter had been over for longer than you cared to remember, and there wasn't much you could do if your mom just didn't want to stay anymore. But a warm grip slid across your skin as Wanda's right hand settled over the bare skin of your forearm, and there the tip of her thumb gave a cordial caress in affectionate circular motions, when her eyelids flicker so courteously into your face.

She was just a sweet girl after all, albeit under dark, torn clothes and dangling chains. Such a virtuous soul in the face of the oppressions of such an overwhelming world. When your eyes locked in midair, one trying to understand the glimmering behind the other, even the rehearsed lines coming from the television in the corner weren't enough to loosen the knot that was tied between you and Wanda.

“I… I get it, Y/n,” she mussed, leaning a little closer to your body, “I mean… it was hard when my dad left as soon as we arrived in the country. Quite hard, actually. My mom, she... she bought wine, for a while. Lots of wine bottles. I mean, she's better now, but I think that's when Pietro started doing... those things he does.”

The girl nibbled on her lower lip, and you, up close, just followed her with your eyes as she did.

“I didn't mean to bring you bad memories, it's just that...” her voice trailed off, getting smaller and smaller, as the tips of her ears reddened like two ripe peppers, “You... you look pretty when... when you smoke.”

Your heart missed a beat, and the oxygen just became unpalatable there inside that scrawny room filled with some disembodied laughter chuckled by the television set long forgotten in its sunny corner.

Setting the unsmoked cigarette aside, your right hand then dared to reach up on your forearm to search for what you've been searching for in the last few months, just snuggling your open palm against Wanda's soft cheek where, like the caresses bestowed by her finger, your own thumb tried to stroke a tiny freckle high up on her sharp cheekbone.

“Hey, look at me,” you asked in a tone bathed in tenderness, which she matched in a trace of pale green in her flickering irises, “It's okay Wanda, you didn't do anything wrong, don't worry about it. And on top of that," you half-giggled, “I think you're pretty too, you know.”

The thick dark lashes flickered out of her eyes, a half-formed mantilla of limping anguish, setting the stage for a color imbued with traces of what would be dizzying hope, flushing bright red on the pale alabaster skin of her accentuated face.

“You think I'm pretty...?”

“Of course I think so,” you nodded, your pupils dilated in close juncture with hers.

“You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, Wanda. I wish I could make you laugh every day of my life just to see you smiling. Your... your smile is beautiful. And the way you sit and fiddle with your hair, or the way you care so much about everyone… everything about you is beautiful. Not a single day goes by that I don't notice how beautiful you are.”

She swallowed when you did too; an abyssal gaze that slanted magnetically down your face, to the outline of your lips as close to hers as they were.

“Can I…” she breathed beneath her ruffled voice, “Can I kiss you, Y/n? I really want to kiss you...”

What happened next, on the initiative of a Wanda who didn't even wait for half a second when you nodded in restraint, was a needy kiss that tasted like cake, cinnamon, cigarettes and, at the end, a hint of crystalline need not contained. Your upper teeth kind of clashed with each other at first, though that didn't stop you or Wanda, who just hooked her gentle fingers into the outline of the skin on your neck. Your brain needed oxygen, but your chest just needed her; her touch, her tongue, her red.

“Please,” Wanda mussed with her swollen lip against your, her eyes heavy, warm air caressing the pulp of the commission in your mouth, “Please tell me this is as important to you as it is to me.”

“It is,” you muttered, going back to more of the taste of her tongue, “God, Wanda, you don't know how long I've been wanting to do this…”

The girl kissed you again with excruciating need, as if she really wanted to keep your soul tied to hers between the flicks of your tongues, as you felt the commission of her lips against yours twitch in a goofy smile, both hands roaming in search of the strands of your hair to hold them between her fingers, as if she wanted to breathe in from them the scent of cigarettes that so soothed her heart.

Wanda ran her hands down the length of your back, the roll of frigid rings feeling icy against your warm, bristly skin, hugging you around the waist as you wrapped your arms around her waist, your noses touching, mirrored smiles on your lips broken by kisses that were increasingly equipped with a mutual meaning that pointed to a need pulsing in your veins. 

“Can I...?” she understood the meaning behind your little question when your left palm brushed lightly against her enclosed breast, covered by the thin material of her dark blouse.

“Yes...” was a breathy sigh, “P–please, yes...”

There was consent in a tiny nod of the head, and a tiny groan breathed out from the back of her throat that reverberated through your bones as you pressed your palm lightly against her mound, one erect nipple protruding behind the fabric for, there, you've found her lacking the material of a bra to slip between your skin and hers, massaging the warm, soft flesh between the lengths of your cunning fingers.

“Fuck Wanda,” you groaned because she did too, “You're so beautiful…”

You just can't help but do it when your teeth came into contact with the pale sensitive skin of Wanda's throat, where you captured between your lips a pinkish lump of flesh glistening with a thin layer of sweat and buffed it with the tip of your tongue as if it were just a sweet dessert, feeling the burning saccharinity of the girl's naked skin as the caresses aimed at her breast became somewhat more continuous and erratic in the movements of your left forearm.

But you caught yourself surprised, when you felt a gentle grip on both your shoulders and saw that Wanda, with care as if handling the most fragile of flowers, was pulling you to fit over her, guiding you to the top.

She laid the length of her spine against the inconvenient length of the sofa, causing your wandering eyes to land on the piece of alabaster skin that had become exposed as the hem of her blouse rose, revealing, there, a band of abs marked by tiny dots sprinkled here and there, like a particular galaxy.

“You're so fucking beautiful, Wanda” was said between kisses and strokes of tongue over Wanda's abdomen, when you writhed inside the clothes that seemed too stuffy for her there, laying under your body.

“Y/n...” she moaned, but there was no word that could complement your own name whispered through her peachy lips.

Blood burned hot on the sharp red cheeks of Wanda's ivory face, her lids closed as if to hold back the tears of arousal that threatened to slip down her doll face. The rosebud mouth with the brief traces of your lustrous saliva was, every now and then, moaning in the form of a shy, smothered request.

Her lips were apparently forming delusional words, but your conscience no longer registered them, because you were too busy just watching her. Wanda was rosy, dusted with droplets of sweat, covered by the veil of ardor without realizing she was surrounded by a red haze of lust. Perfect, really. Your fingers hooked on the hem of her dark blouse, and in a slow flick of your wrist you pulled it over as you tucked the garment under Wanda's bared collarbones, revealing a pair of bare breasts there.

Watching with delight the flushed girl's unrestricted enjoyment of her satisfying freedom from the pieces of cloth that covered her silhouette, you propped yourself up on your elbows for a voluptuous view of full breasts partially covered by cascades of dark hair, blushing breasts in its perfect contours, of clear and erect nipples which you found yourself seized by a desire to squeeze between your lips and encircle it between your tongue.

However, as you threatened to resume the posture so that he could have those desirable breasts between your teeth, Wanda put a hand on your collarbone, preventing you before you even completed the act. You blinked at her face, lifting your head.

“Are you okay…?" you whispered, to which Wanda only looked away with her dark green gaze to the side, “Wanda, what is it…?”

“It's just that I've never,” she stifled, but at your encouraging gaze, something in her compelled to continue her speech, “I've never done… you know, that… with anyone… before.”

You bit your bottom lip. Well, fuck.

“It… It's all right. I've only done it once or twice, too, and I don't think one of them even counted properly,” and then, a hesitant half second passed, as you looked at her again, “You… do you want me to stop here? I don't mind stopping if you want me to. I want this to be pleasurable for you, not that you feel pressured to do it.”

“No, it's just that,” Wanda looked at you with two dark pools outlined in earnest green, pink eyelids and puffy lips, “Could this… not be a one time thing? I… I don't want to do it if it's just a one time thing.”

Your heart rose high in your chest as the idea dawned on you that Wanda wanted more than you did because you were willing to do what she wanted.

You just smiled small as you brought your face close to hers; you studied her carefully in a brief sunny moment (your crush, half-naked and fragile, had a lock of dark hair falling over her forehead and her brows furrowed, but her eyes were simple and sincere), drinking in her radiant red beauty like a drug addict – the feminine silhouette splashed with sun and, in a way, even with a synoptic veil of purity that accompanied your muse in the utopian world of dreams, like a poor helpless girl.

Gently, you kissed the corner of her rosy mouth.

“It was never intended for this to be a one time thing, Wanda,” you kissed her again, and then again and again, “I… I really like you, you know? I... I care about you. Much more than you can imagine, I promise.”

“I like you too, Y/n,” she mussed in a low voice, her forehead pressed against yours, “Really like you.”

But then, your touch approached the hollow of her groin.

“Y/n...” Wanda's tone softened, as if she was slightly embarrassed, “Y/n, please...”

“You touched yourself before, Wanda?”

The middle of her legs fluttered as it was that, even if in a partially measured way, Wanda just nodded shyly, her warm forehead still touching yours.

“Damn, you're so hot… so hot, pretty girl…”

Mouth wide and swollen, you let out a knowing smile, and gently lowered your head in a languid, lingering action, a withdrawn ecstasy making you feel compelled to bring your full lips to Wanda's soft mouth, who returned you in a wavering and sloppy kiss.

Making yourself helpful, you dipped your fingers towards the legs not completely closed under the hem of the other girl's skirt, locating between them, shrouded by the thin silk of an underwear, the fragile and swollen aroused clit, inciting a delicious moan that popped out of the girl's mouth to crash into your parted lips.

Your mouth throbbed at the sight of her like this, the gloomy, empty pupils doubling in size at the work of art that was born out of Wanda's orgasmic experience – her dark hair swept back in a purely sensual gesture, the tight mouth swallowing desperately sucking in a hiss of air, the length of her pale neck completely exposed. Her round, perfect breasts with erect nipples of a strong rosy hue, her eyelids closed and her dark brows furrowed. So desirable. So intoxicating.

You wanted to have her right there, on that little couch that would be the witness of your willingness to give her everything you had in you. You increased the pressure on Wanda's little bundle of nerves through the rising damp garment, almost even torturing her at your whim, only to see her writhe beneath your own body and groan indecently and disconnected.

A yelp was raised as your mouth closed around her right nipple, which you pampered for a while, still lingering in your low caresses, until you migrated to the other to lick and suck it into the hollow of flesh inside your cheeks. But something in you wanted more; you wanted to taste her, feel her run down your throat. And she shivered in anticipation as your mouth sailed south of her body, fitting your nose beneath her dark skirt.

“Red, huh,” you thought aloud, at the tiny wet wedge of clothing that was the only barrier erected between you and Wanda's source of pleasure; a thin lacy panty of crimson fabric, whose middle gained wet tones that made it darker at that specific point, “It suits you.”

Fingers tightened in a firm grip on the ridge of your scalp as you placed a chaste kiss on Wanda's clit, albeit over the fabric of her panties, who choked on a sudden loud yelp.

“Y/n, fuck–!”

“I don't think I've ever heard you curse like this before,” you mussed, licking the skin of your own lips, “This is new. I'll take them off, okay? Wanna taste you.”

You threaded your fingers around the inside of Wanda's black skirt, and bringing the straps of the red underwear to you, you had the girl completely naked, exposed, desirable, as soon as you moved your elbows and made your way towards what you were looking for.

From that intimate region flowed a honey of pleasure, exhaling a bittersweet odor, pink as the inside of a strawberry, bringing water to your predatory mouth. Wanda's fidgety pale legs were spread apart, and her partially shaved pussy was on display. You took your index and middle fingers to the sensitive area, and dragging the tip against the entire pink and wet extension of the inside of Wanda's labias, you collected the viscous liquid with strong flavor, drawing a strangled moan from the other girl.

You brought your smeared middle finger to your lips, fervently sucking Wanda's nectar, tasting just as you supposed it would be on the tip of your tongue; as addictive as the nicotine in your cigarette. You took them out of your mouth with a violent pop, only to then unroll your tongue to slide it into the other girl's untouched hole, which pulsed and throbbed, rubbing against the purest nothingness.

Wanda moaned, dripping against your chin. Your pace was slow at first, but you searched for more of her, and Wanda gave you what you wanted. She squirmed and grunted and squeezed your hair between her fisted hands, tangling them in the circulation of her silver rings. And your tongue wasn't very experienced indeed, but you knew what to do. The tip of your right index finger pressed against the rosy entrance as your head came out from under her skirt.

“Can I put in…?”

You felt her cunt pulse against your digit.

“Y-yes,” she yelped, “Please–!”

You kissed the inside of her thigh before carefully dipping your finger into that warm grip. And there was some resistance at first, her furrowed brow glistening in a layer of sweat, and you kept your wrist steady when it was when you again got on top of Wanda, who buried her head in your chest as you did.

“It hurts?” you asked against her ear, and she just shook her head in a hesitant move.

“N–no, but it's... it's weird,” she sighed, “I never... when–when I did, I never...”

“It's okay, pretty girl” you kissed her hair, “Gonna move now, okay? Let me know if it hurts or if you want me to stop.”

A cunning finger reached across Wanda's intimate region, reaching for what you begged to be reached, making its way towards what it sought, and, as an inevitable consequence, penetrated her through her point of entry.

In the face of the action, Wanda arched her entire spine, splitting a visceral groan from her vocal cords – for she had barely become familiar with the finger when the movement began, giving her something new to feel.

You skimmed her, filled her and understood her as nothing more than a girl with needs (needs that only yours could supply). Then Wanda squeaked; the hungry hands for something to keep within themselves searched for your shoulder blades tucked inside your crop top, and there, over your back muscles, the nails dyed in black dug breaking into the skin. Your foreheads supported each other, because during the carnal act, each other was just what you both had and what you both were.

Your forearm pumped down Wanda's skirt towards a hot, dripping grip, and as you hooked your single finger inside her tight walls, there was a moan from the other girl as you kissed it back down the inside of her throat. You kissed her sweaty forehead, then the prominent cheekbone of her flushed cheek, and a sliver of skin down the tip of her jawbone.

“Here?” touching her on a specific spot that caused a dizzying reaction, that's what you asked.

“Y–yes, please don't stop Y/n, please don't stop, please... I–I, I'll–”

“Fuck, come for me, pretty girl.”

“Y/n!”

Her velvety walls squeezed your finger before Wanda came in a loud weeping moan against your ear, pressing you against her body as if this were the last day on Earth, and she would never see you again. Silently, you just held her back, inhaling her scent from the shirt balled up over her exposed chest. You just stayed there, drinking from the moment, because you belonged to her.

The serenity that came from the unspoken heartbeats coming from Wanda's breastplate was enough to establish, at your core, the most complete and genuine feeling of latent rest that you could bear.

With your eyes closed, the room immersed in a pool of accentuated silence, you were able to hear her breathing for much longer than you could count, as she brought you unparalleled peace and immeasurable calm as nothing else had done before. She was there, and she was yours.

With your head resting on the girl's chest, lying on top of Wanda was like basking in a ray of sunlight – tender and cordial like coming home after a long journey.

The unclothed skin superimposed over the open palms of both your hands was warm and sunny, as smooth as the finest silk, and your hips were hitched in a precise, if not perfect fit—the remnants of the apex ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of her thighs, like a ghost of what had once been the height of the carnal act in which you were so vividly engaged minutes before.

The austere digits of your fingers amused themselves with ruffling the ends of her dark hair, cradling them around your index and middle fingers, until finally Wanda descended from her apex, her chest heavy beneath your face.

“Y/n,” she called out to you, as the seconds ticked by and the minutes settled in, “I think I wanna date you.”

Because you couldn't help but smile at such a modest return, bordering the ethereal innocence of a legitimate child, you brought your mouths together so that you could press, to the pearly lips of Wanda, a long, tongueless kiss. You ended it only to laugh, the tip of your own nose brushing the other girl's.

“You think?”

“I-I’m sure of it,” she blushed.

“I wanna date you too, Wanda,” you confessed, even though it wasn't a secret, “Is that okay with you?”

 “Yeah...” she smiled – weakly and languorously when in a wave of post-orgasm fatigue, but still a genuine and sincere smile, “Yeah, it is. You’re cute.”

“Nah, pretty girl,” you shrugged, “You’re cute. I’m… something else. I’m a freak.”

“No, no, don’t say that. You’re the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever seen, Y/n,” she whispered, “And I wanna kiss you again.”

“Well, then,” you smiled towards her jadish irises, “Let me do the honors, pretty girl.”

In such a way, you approached Wanda so that you could kiss her jaw, while your hands, clasped between the sofa and the shoulder blades of your beloved, held her in a soft and pleasant embrace. Then you kissed Wanda on the patch of skin that joined her neck to her shoulder, her collarbone and her throat. And on her lips, over and over again.

And neither of you, in that newly found little bubble of love in each other's arms, even heard the front door open.

[lavienjin]

switching positions | ksj

summary: Your job at the House of Lust is simple, really; you please the men and women that walk into the room, and they leave happy and content after you take care of them. But somewhere along the way, you have lost the joy; and you're left to go with the motions. And when the complaints started to pour in, your boss saddles you with an annoying co-worker to "change your perspective" in hopes you get that spark back.

part of the house of lust collab hosted by @btssmutgalore

title: switching positions

author: lavienjin

p: seokjin x reader (ft. jungkook x reader; for a tiny bit)

wc: 12k

genre/au/rating: 18+ | sex work, friends to ? au | smut, tiny angst

warnings: switch!reader, switch!seokjin, sub!jungkook, sex toys, hair pulling, unprotected sex, safeword usage but everything is okay, slight manhandling, panty stuffing, hickeys, biting, fingering, grinding, seokjin's lap :), oral (m & f receiving), multiple orgasms, squirting, lots of praise, all kinds of titties are worshipped here, grinding, multiple sex positions, cum eating

a/n: thank you to @orangie-drabbles for reading through the first lil bit and helping me through my impostor syndrome 😭

m.list | ao3

The office you're currently in does not feel like it belongs to the notorious owner of the House of Lust. Unlike the gaudy exterior of the brothel that's created to entice lost souls to wander in, Min Sohee's work area is sleek and clean; with white marble floors underneath black, modern furniture.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Her words are clipped and punctuated with the rustles of papers as she scans through a series of complaints. All of them are directed at you. Instead of answering, you hang your head in shame whilst offering her a quiet nod.

Madame Sohee sighs as she throws the stack of papers on the desk. The individual sheets flutter about, some falling onto the ground. She stands to lean over at your cowering figure, steel eyes scrutinising every flinch you make.

"What's gotten into you?" she tuts, not really expecting an answer. "You're our top-selling girl!" The Madame taps her finger from one end of the desk to the other to make her point. "Are you no longer interested in working with us? Do we not treat you well?"

You can hear the palpable grief in her voice, and your eyes widen as you snap to attention.

"No, of course not!" you exclaim, following a series of shakes from your head. But you can't maintain eye contact with her searching eyes, so you look away as you mumble, "I just feel like I'm going through the motions, that's all."

An uncomfortable silence greets you. After a few seconds, you cover it up with an explanation. "Madame Min, you know that I'm very grateful for what the House has done for me. I love the people here, and I love my clients, and I can promise you that I can do better." You didn't mean to sound desperate, but without this job, you'll be losing your main source of income and a roof over your head.

The Madame's pink-coated lips turn into a deeper frown. "I'd like to believe you, but just in case, I've asked for someone to help you through this funk. Maybe a change of… perspective will give the energy you need to do your job."

She's assigning a supervisor to you? In all your years working at the House since it opened up, you have never had another expert coach you in your area of expertise. Though you're apprehensive, you have a feeling that this is the only way to get her off your back. And who knows? Maybe she's right, it might be the change you need to find your spark again.

—

"Oooh, someone's in trouble."

An annoying figure comes into view as you exit the office. He is leaning idly against the wall with an irritating smirk on his face.

You move past him without a word, eyes focused on the tile in front of you while you mentally get ready for your 1 o'clock appointment. There's no way you're letting him ruin your already shitty day further. Ignorance is key for this sort of thing.

Yet, long legs match your quickened pace with ease, and in three strides, Kim motherfucking Seokjin falls into step with you, leaning forward so you can see his shit-eating grin from your periphery.

"Ugh, what do you want?" you grunt with a roll of your eyes.

"I heard what happened in Madame Min's office. Could it be that our most beloved dominatrix is actually falling from grace?" Seokjin mocks, followed by a bout of squeaky laughter. "I can't wait for this to be the year where I make the most earnings."

"In your fucking dreams," you hiss. "This is nothing more than a blip. I'll get back on my feet in no time."

Seokjin's broad shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug. "Now, we'll definitely see for ourselves, won't we?" At your silence, his wolfish grin grows bigger, taking up the majority of his, you admit begrudgingly, handsome face. "Hey, how about a little friendly bet between coworkers, hm? At the end of the month, when it turns out I have crushed your earnings, will you swap rooms with me?"

This makes you stop, and you can almost feel the wave of annoying energy that vibrates off of Seokjin. Your room is your sanctuary, and the biggest one available; a gift the Madame gave you as one of the first few people to join the House. For you to give it up, should you lose, would mean that you're biting the hand that feeds you, and you doubt she'd be happy to hear that you lost against Seokjin of all people.

It takes all your willpower to force your legs to move, right foot then left, but Seokjin blocks your view. "Hello? Do we have a deal?"

That does it.

You curl your fist into his t-shirt to slam him into the nearest wall. "Listen here, asshole," you growl. "How about you bother someone else for a while? I don't have the energy to deal with an attention whore right now."

Much to your irritation, Seokjin's lazy grin persists to stay on his face. His hand gently plucks your fist away from his shirt, and as he's smoothing out the wrinkles on the fabric, he says, "Ah, you're finally looking at me in the eye. I knew that if I'd get you angry enough you'd finally face me. I don't care about the room, you're more than welcome to keep it. But I do know you're in trouble."

You cross your arms in front of your chest, still suspicious. "So? How is that any of your problem?"

"So," he mocks your tone with a raised brow. "A pretty client of yours actually deferred to me and told me everything you've been doing wrong in the bedroom. And as much as I enjoy our petty little squabbles, I would really hate to see you leave the House, so I figured that since I'm such a nice guy," he chuckles when he sees you gagging, "I figured I could help."

That's rich. Sure, you and Seokjin would often compare numbers at the end of the month, but all the petty little jabs you aim at each other doesn't necessarily equate to friendship.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm good. You don't even know what I'm going through."

But as you're walking away, Seokjin stops you, his hand circling your wrist. "Well, unfortunately for you, it's by the Madame's request. Did she not tell you?"

A deafening ringing noise resounds in your ears as you stand there, mouth hanging open. "What?"

Seokjin shrugs. "Yeah, she called me in before she met with you. We're starting tomorrow."

"You're kidding? You? I started this job before you."

"So? That means jackshit if all you've been getting lately are complaints from our clients," he scoffs, leaning on the wall with an elbow. Jutting his chin towards you, he says, "You need re-education, my dear."

When the Madame mentioned that you were getting some additional help, Seokjin's not your first choice. Not only did he start out later than you did, but this is the guy that only has 6 or so clients on rotation. What does he know? There's absolutely no fucking way you're going to be getting lectures from him.

You manage to collect yourself enough to spit, "Yeah, maybe, but it's certainly not from you. Tell the Madame whatever you want, I'm not going to come crawling to you for help," and wiithout looking back, you shove past him and stomp away.

———

You've dimmed the lights in your chambers so as to not see the hopeful doe eyes that stare up at you from the floor. Your mind is filled with what Seokjin said – about needing a helping hand, and your anger flares again. Sure, these past few weeks have not been your best, but you always bounce back.

The thought that the Madame doesn't trust you enough to think so stings the worst. Not just because you have to report to Seokjin's chambers tomorrow to begin your training.

"Does it feel good, mistress?" he whines between gasps, disintegrating your daydream.

A half-hearted "Hmm…" is all you utter before pushing his head back between your legs. The wooden chair you're sitting on is starting to dig into your back. This sub of yours has been kneeling on the cold floor for an hour, lapping away at the juncture between your thighs. It's impressive – that he hasn't lost that spark yet. Most of your other clients would have been bored by now.

Moreover, he's undeterred, despite your lukewarm response; using his mouth to please you without the use of his hands. You can see from the corner of your eye how he's rutting into the carpet, but you just can't seem to care that he's disobeyed your orders to sit still.

The clock on the opposite wall suggests that there isn't much time until his session is over, and though you're apathetic, you can't leave a customer unsatisfied, especially since this one hasn't booked a next session with you yet, so you raise him up from his rightful place with a yank of his hair.

He whines pathetically, still drunk on your taste, tongue lolling out of his mouth to lick the last droplets of nectar from his chin.

Your lips pull into a lazy smirk, your hand still fisted in his hair. "Jungkook," you whisper softly.

"Yes, mistress?" comes his automatic response, but it's far too dazed and quiet for you to be convinced that he's fully present.

"Eyes on me, pet."

The young man blinks a few times before his eyes finally slide over to yours. He matches your smile with a half-grin of his own, the dimples on his cheeks making him seem innocent; as though he isn't trading his hard-earned cash for a few hours of your time.

"Good boy. You've worked so hard today."

Lies. Aside from the last five minutes, you can't even recall how his performance has been. Yet, you continue with the sweet nothings anyway.

"Would you like your reward?" You make sure to change your voice so it drips of honey, and you witness your result in the way his spine locks upright. Jungkook releases a quiet gasp as his eyes droop shut, returning to that heady haze of lust and sweet promises.

"I… Yes. I want my reward, please." His words come out in pants of air.

His flushed cheeks brings you back to reality, and you feel the familiar ache returning to your legs. But this is about your client's needs, so your grin grows wider as you ask, "And how would you like that reward?" You drag your long nails down his sculpted chest, purposefully catching a pebbled nipple between your fingers.

Your lovely pet attempts to keep still, but when you scratch lightly against his shaft, Jungkook can't suppress the shudder that wrecks his body. He fits his plump bottom lip between his teeth, hissing at the dull pain that you're inflicting upon him.

"Answer me, pet, or this is how you're going to cum."

You've got to give it to this client – he's really helping you out of your funk. It's been a while since you've felt this thick tension, and you find it easy for you to slip back into your old self; your lazy smile morphing into a sadistic grin. When Jungkook still doesn't answer, you release him with a push, and he crumples onto the floor in a messy wail.

"M-Mistress!" he sobs, the pain of rejection clearly etched in his eyes.

Oh, you're having fun. Fuck Seokjin, he doesn't know you.

You turn your back towards him, so Jungkook can't see the grin you're wearing. You hum as your fingers trail along the dozens of whips and paddles that hang on your wall. "I asked you a question, sweet thing, and I can see that you're not interested in playing anymore." Your hand closed around your favourite paddle; the long rectangular one with a heart-shaped cutout on the end. Behind you, Jungkook pleads his apologies. You feign ignorance, and his cries grow louder when you pluck the instrument from its hook.

"Mistress, please, mercy!"

You tut over his cries, shaking your head side to side to mock him. "I can see that I've been too lenient." You brandish the paddle and slap the wood against your palms, testing its weight. "Get on the bed, angel."

The fear in Jungkook's eyes fuels you. You strut towards the kneeling man and graze the paddle along his jaw. He shivers under your gaze, tears pooling beautifully in his eyes as he surveys the heavy toy.

"Come on. You don't want to leave me waiting, do yo–"

"Peaches!" Jungkook interjects with a cry. As the tears fall down his delicate cheeks, your heart sinks into your stomach. You drop to your knees and discard the paddle under the bed, before pulling the whimpering man into your arms.

"Hey, hey, look at me, Jungkook. Scene is over," you whisper gently. You wipe his damp hair away from his face while you pepper kisses all over; his neck, his cheeks, and finally his lips.

Jungkook drinks in the kiss, and the guilt has you keeping your eyes open until you notice that his breathing isn't as erratic any more.

"What do you need from me, bun?"

"How many more minutes do we have…?" Jungkook asks, worry nestling in his frown.

You smile at him as you caress his back. "Don't worry about that. I need to make sure that you're feeling safe and okay when you leave this room." When he tries to get up in protest, you put a hand on his chest and force him to lie back down, this time with his head falling onto your lap. "No, Jungkook. You're in my hands now, and as your mistress, I command you to stay. Take it easy, and when you're ready, let's talk about what happened, okay?"

Jungkook looks up at you with such trust that the guilt resurfaces once more, and when he nuzzles into your stomach, all you taste is the bile that has risen into your mouth.

Maybe Seokjin had been right. Maybe you do need a helping hand.

—

You're disgusted with yourself.

You stare and stare at the simple wooden panelling separating you from this side of the door and a decision that could possibly change your life forever. You're in a band shirt and shorts, not even bothered with impressing him.

The question is… should you really be doing this? Seokjin did say that he has a way to help you, so why not take the figurative offer of an outstretched hand? Worse comes to worse, it's a lecture and you can just slam the door behind you when you walk out.

Either way, though, the fact that you're seeing him for help is a tough pill to swallow. You're frustrated and embarrassed, having yet had another bad day with a client, and at this point, he may really be your last resort.

Which is saying something.

"It's just a one time thing. Yep. A one time thing," you mutter to yourself as your hand wraps around the handle of the door.

You count your breaths before pushing the door open to reveal Seokjin's room. Except for the large, fluffy cream rug underneath the four poster bed, every piece of furniture is the same shade of blinding white, especially with the sheer white curtains allowing the light in, so it wasn't hard for you to find the speck of black hair belonging to the man who's currently staring with a shit-eating grin.

"Wow, what a welcome surprise." Seokjin closes the book he was reading and saunters over towards you. God, even the way he walks is irritating. "So soon too? I didn't expect you until tomorrow, if I may be honest."

You temper the boiling rage. "Let's just get this fucking started, shall we?" You whip around from his gaze to plop yourself on the bed, tapping your foot impatiently on the plush carpet below.

"Get down from there."

You freeze from playing with the edges of the blanket you're currently sitting on. Was it you who imagined the coldness in his voice?

When you remain seated, your body locked in place, Seokjin clicks his tongue. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The instinctual fear that resides in your bones causes you to spring up from the bed, away from the plush comfort as though it's made of heated metal.

"On your knees."

As the words leave his mouth, you drop to the floor, feet tucked neatly underneath you. Seokjin must have bewitched you with magic as soon as you entered the room. Or else, how do you explain the stark obedience that suddenly appears out of nowhere?

"Oh… you're trained, after all?" he smirks.

Relief washes over you when he no longer adorns the cold mask… and then you catch yourself sighing in content as Seokjin stifles a chuckle. What is happening? You're supposed to be the best dom in the House of Lust, but it seems he has you beat.

Seokjin seems to be thinking the same thing as he pads over to where you kneel on the cream carpet. He holds your face in his palm, his thumb swiping against your cheek. The urge to bite his fingers off just to get that damn fucking smirk off his face has you nibbling on your bottom lip.

This is truly humiliating.

"Here's my theory." He squats in front of you and pushes your face from side to side before finally pinning it so you're forced to look away from him. Seokjin trails a long slender nail down your neck, and once again you're conflicted; part of you wants to spit at him and tell him to shove that finger somewhere deep inside, but the other… the one that has been neglected from the frustration and stress that's been building over the past few weeks…

You curl your fingers into your palm to avoid shuddering or making unnecessary noise that would give your position away. You can't hand that sweet victory to him that easily.

Lucky for you, Seokjin doesn't seem to notice. "You started this job as a dom, but you've never learned what it means to be a sub, huh?"

"No," you admit, but when you remembered who's floor it was you're kneeling on, you snap, "Why does that matter anyway? I'm a fucking great dom, and my numbers show too."

"They say that the best doms are those that know what it's like to have control taken away from them."

He threads his fingers through your hair, and his face leans closer until you can smell the mint in his breath.

"Sure, I'll admit, you have a lot of clients, and yeah your numbers are good. But let's be real, how many of them repeat their visits?"

Your heart hits against your ribcage in a loud thud. He's right. You have met up with the rich and famous, but they've all been one time flings. You assume that it's because of their hectic life and a desire to seek out something more meaningful, but could what Seokjin insinuates be the reason why they don't keep coming back?

You hide your bruised ego behind a scoff. "Ha, you're all talk, I bet your clients are also a "one and done" type of deal too."

Seokjin is amused when he raises his left brow. "Do you remember Nia?"

The name sounds familiar, but you can't pinpoint on where you would've heard it.

"She's my first client in the House of Lust."

Ah, that's right. The pretty girl that shyly pointed to Seokjin instead of the other dazzling array of performers. "I remember now. It was when you first joined… what– five years ago now? What does she have to do with anything?"

If his playful smirk irritated you before, this one drips of confidence and ego, and it has you digging your fingers into your leg to stop yourself from lunging at him and throwing a punch.

"She still comes back every Tuesday at 10pm. Never been late to a single appointment."

You can taste the air when your mouth hangs open. Five years? 260 something meetings and she's never been late to an appointment? Is Seokjin threatening her or something?

When you voice your question to him, he smirks before leaning closer, and stupidly, you close your eyes as you wait for the crash of his lips against yours, but at the last moment, his head veers to the right to instead whisper in your ear, "I'm just that good. Maybe even better. And that's why I guarantee that I can help you through this predicament of yours."

When he parts, you shiver, restless from the lack of touch. And though Seokjin hasn't really done anything besides some light touching, there's a growing wetness in your panties.

"So, what's the first thing we're doing then? Don't tell me you're just going to make me sit here on the carpet." It's a poor attempt at disguising just how rattled you are, but you hope Seokjin doesn't see the building desire.

Seokjin stands and cups your face with his large palm. "Maybe I should, but before anything happens, do you have a safe word you'd like to use?"

You shrug. It's standard BDSM procedure, and you're not surprised he's asking about it, but he's not being delicate at all.

Maybe that's his charm, your brain offers. Yeah. Maybe.

You look around the room to find something suitable to use when your eyes land on a can of tea leaves. "Jasmine," you reply.

Instead of moving on to the next thing, Seokjin frowns, and then sighs, and you feel like you've been caught cheating on a test by a teacher. Then an even bigger problem emerges, why was his disappointment affecting you so greatly? The instant his eyes no longer contain the playful mirth, you were about to rise from your knees and promise that you'll try your best to temper the snark. It only takes a good chunk of your willpower to stay planted on the ground.

"I mean, if 'jasmine' is your word, that's fine, but I typically prefer if my subs choose a word that they'll be able to recall easily. It's not like you use the word 'jasmine' often in real life, plus it's too long. Try to find something with just one syllable."

Seokjin sighs again, running his fingers through his black locks. "If this is what you've been doing to your subs, I suggest you stop."

"Well, my subs have been able to use two-syllable words during our playtime with no problem," you counter. "I don't see what the problem is."

"It's about best practises, my dear dominatrix. If you haven't encountered a problem yet, that's great, but we're not waiting for a problem to happen, we're trying to prevent it." Seokjin walks nonchalantly to his desk as he talks, never once looking back. When he's settled in his chair, he looks over at you and smiles, "So, your job right now is to find a one-syllable word that has a connection to your daily life. That way you can instinctively yell it when you want me to stop."

And with those words, he resumes to his book, ignoring your squirming figure on the floor.

In the silence that's only broken by the occasional tick of the minute-hand of the clock, you strangely find that it's hard for you to concentrate. At first, you count the minutes as they tick by, wondering if Seokjin would ever get impatient and ask you to speed things up, but the insolent man continues to read without a care in the world, and after a while, you actually started thinking about the assignment you've been presented with.

A one-syllable word that has bearings on your real life…

You shift in your kneeling position, alleviating some of the pins and needles you're starting to feel.

"Sock."

Seokjin looks up from his book with that half smile. "What was that?"

A twinge of irritation throbs in your head. You know very well that he could hear you, but he's just pretending not to. You avoid gritting your teeth when you speak up, "That's my safeword. It's 'sock'."

After closing his book, Seokjin returns to the floor in front of you, and this time, he's sitting criss-crossed, with his arm outstretched, palm facing towards the ceiling. "Hand," he commands gently.

You tilt your head to the side as you obey, placing your right hand into his palm. Seokjin's warm hand closes around it, and soon that same warmth travels to your body. When he pulls you up from the rug, you topple over, having not yet realised that you've been sitting for some time.

"T-Thanks," you mumble into his chest, cheeks heating with how close you are to him.

His chest rumbles as he speaks. "Don't mention it. I always take care of my subs."

A sub.

That's who you are to him right now. Not a co-worker that he's been competing with when it comes to sales numbers and is currently seeking his help. No, just a sub without any control of the situation.

You quickly mumble an apology as you peel yourself away from his chest, but Seokjin pulls you onto the bed, sitting you down on the edge as he kneels. He begins massaging your calf, his strong fingers relaxing the sore muscles underneath.

"At any point in time where you don't feel comfortable with what I'm saying or doing, don't hesitate to use it. In the event that your mouth is full," Seokjin reaches up to thumb your bottom lip with a smirk, "just make a peace sign with either hand and I know to stop. Got it?"

"Got it."

"You know I didn't think that you'd listen so well," Seokjin hums. "I'm impressed. This one has learned her manners after all."

The compliment is one you've uttered to your own clients, but hearing Seokjin using it towards you has you squirming again as you feel the weight of his gaze.

"How are your legs?"

Distracted, you offer him a, "Hmm?"

"Maybe I was too quick to compliment you," he snickers as he stands. Seokjin raises his hand, and you brace yourself for a hit, but it never comes. Instead, his large hand pats your head lightly, and it's only when you look up that Seokjin moves it so it fits under your chin instead.

"Why do you flinch like that? I'm not going to hit you. In fact, you shouldn't be hitting anyone when they're distracted – there could be myriads of reasons why your sub isn't paying attention."

Leaning forward, Seokjin holds your gaze and the two of you move lower, lower, lower, until you feel your back rest against the fluffy mattress. With a hand by your head, and the other lifting your chin, you can't really look away.

"This is the last time I will repeat any questions for you," he whispers the warning. "How are your legs?"

"Fine," you whisper back.

"Are you all right to continue?"

"Yes."

"And the safeword is?"

"Sock."

Seokjin nods, seeming pleased at your clear responses. He moves towards his desk and opens a drawer. You can hear the rustling of paper, and then in a few seconds, his hand returns to your side, palm outstretched, ready to raise you back up. In Seokjin's hand is a clipboard, and when he hands it to you, the words "Kink List" are written in bold and all caps at the very top.

"What's this?"

"You… don't recognise this?" Seokjin gapes at you. "Well, it's no wonder you need my help."

Once again, you had to dig your nails into a fist to avoid punching him.

"Like the title says, this is a list of the kinks that I feel comfortable performing. Some of them are basic – classic bondage, degradation, mirrors–"

"Mirrors?"

His gaze turns cloudy again. "Stop interrupting me when I'm talking."

This time, when you clamp your lips shut, it's to swallow down the retort that has been clouded over with intimidation.

"Anyway, tell me what's not okay by crossing things off the list. If you're unsure, put a question mark next to it so we can explore. Take all the time you need."

Seokjin walks towards his desk again – probably to read that stupid book, but you call out to him just as he's about to sit. "Do you do this with all your clients?"

To your surprise, he doesn't come out with a snarky response, but there is a glint of disappointment in his gaze as he studies you. "Yes… It's a basic procedure to keep your subs feeling safe and satisfied. Your goal is communication, and you can't do that without first knowing what they want."

"Won't it cut into their umm… 'play time' with you?"

"It does," he nods in agreement. "So, I usually sit them with this list during our trial session. It incentivises them to return, and allows me to answer some questions if they're nervous. But more importantly, I will now have a list in my hands of what they want so I can maximise the… as you put it, 'play time'."

You give him a non-committal hum as your gaze returns to the sheet, marking it up as you read it through, but your thoughts are currently on the blonde haired dom sitting on the chair. You can't help but feel a bit jealous that he's clearly been taught first-hand by an actual BDSM expert compared to your frantic googling late at night when you first got this gig.

And maybe, just maybe, there's the tiniest twinge of jealousy of all the subs that have been lucky enough to be treated this well under his watchful gaze.

———

"Huh. Would you look at that?"

Seokjin is currently looking through all the notes you made in the kink list sheet as though he's trying to commit them to memory, and after spending the last half an hour or so in his presence, however, you wouldn't be surprised if that were really the case.

"Is something wrong?" Since when are you one to feel shy? And of all people, why are you feeling shy towards Seokjin? Yet your heart is thumping heavily against your ribcage while you study his never-changing bemused expression.

He opens another drawer and slips the paper inside. Turning to you, he smiles, "You checked off a lot in that list. Are you sure you'll be able to handle it?"

This time, you can't resist but roll your eyes. "Oh, please! I can take on anything you give me."

"Anything?"

You meet the challenge in his eyes with a smirk. "Anything."

"Okay then." Seokjin doesn't move towards you though, instead, he pats his lap. "Let's start the scene. Come here, pet."

Well, if this is the only way for you to be a better dom…

You stand from the bed and take a step foot towards him, only for Seokjin to raise a brow, and you take it as a signal for you to stop. The silence stretches as you regard each other.

"What?"

Seokjin's eyes fall to the floor before he brings them back up to you. "Is that how a pet would walk up to their master?"

Your eyes squint at him in irritation. He can't be serious.

"You did check off 'pet play', but I guess it's too much for you," Seokjin sighs as he inspects his list again. "Next time, don't list things you can't handle. You may like it as a dom but–"

"No. I can do it." The words come through gritted teeth.

With steely eyes that stare straight into Seokjin, you sink to your knees. Your scowl deepens when you place a hand on the carpet, and the other in front of it. It's beyond you how anyone, let alone a sub, can handle such humiliation, and under Seokjin's amused gaze, there's an unsettling pulse of an emotion stirring in your belly.

You could have stopped– should have stopped, but inch by excruciating inch, you crawl towards him; that dangerous pride of yours is unable to let yourself look weak in front of Seokjin when he's issued you a challenge. Though the distance between the bed and the desk isn't far at all, it still feels like aeons have passed by the time you reach the leg of the chair.

Oxygen leaves your body when you stare up at him from the floor, sitting on the balls of your feet. There's a strange twinkle in his obsidian eyes and a menacing aura seems to surround him. Has Seokjin always looked so intimidating? This guy? The same person that folded up two pizzas together and fit them in his mouth during the staff dinner?

You let out a gasp when Seokjin slides a cool hand towards you, thinking that he was going to touch you, but his slender fingers stop in front of your face.

"Good. You listened well. Do you need help getting up?"

With a deepening scowl, you bat the outstretched hand away, embarrassed that a small part of you was actually disappointed by the lack of touch.

"Feisty," Seokjin tuts with a shake of his head, though that smile is ever present on his face. He leans forward, so close that you can see the delicate moles on his skin. "I'm gonna have fun breaking your walls down."

Heat sears your cheeks, but instead of looking away, you murmur, "I'd like to see you try."

You're surprised to find Seokjin laugh – a genuine 'head thrown back slightly and shoulders shaking' laugh. If your positions were switched, you would have whipped him for making such a statement, and it gave you a sense of superiority. You were right. Seokjin doesn't know what he's doing.

The triumphant smile appears easily on your face, though you do your best to hide it. You can go with this. Just go with the flow, and when he's had his fun, you can claim to the Madame that you've had your seminar and be on your merry way.

This, of course, doesn't happen.

No sooner did the thought cross your mind, Seokjin picks you up from the floor and sets you onto his lap. You didn't even have time to shriek because once you realise what was happening, you're already facing him and his smug grin.

"Ah, much better. My neck was getting sore since I had to look down on you."

"Hmm yeah. I like you better when you're looking up at me. Right where you belong," you retort.

"Angel, angel. You don't seem to know the kind of position you're in at the moment." Seokjin brings the back of his hand to your cheek, stroking the skin gently. "You're not in your chambers, but in mine. Let me introduce myself again. I'm not the same 'Seokjin' that you know right now," his hand moves down to grip your chin. "And I'm going to make sure that you walk out of here having learned why they call me 'master'."

"Who calls–"

For the second time that day, you swallow your reply. Not just because there's now a loose hand wrapped around the back of your neck, ready to squeeze if necessary, but Seokjin's now scowling, full pout turned down in disappointment. You whimper out the last syllable, and your shoulders rise in an attempt to shield yourself from his gaze, but there's a part of you – the one that refuses to be tamed, that ends up winning the war in your head. But as you're ready to attempt to speak again, it all melts away when Seokjin's plump lips attach to the base of your neck, taking a nip at the tender flesh.

"As I said before," he says, low. "Know your fucking place, brat."

"Mmmh," you sigh.

Your hands depart from your side to take hold of his broad shoulders as Seokjin continues to leave behind blues and purples on your skin. You've never felt this kind of heat – it burns you from the inside and leaves you begging for more. Has your neck always been this sensitive?

"Singing so sweetly for me already? Where did all that bravado go?"

"F-Fuck you," you hiss, but the words leave no sting – not when your legs are shaking and your head is tilted away to give him access to more of you.

"Later," he chuckles. Seokjin pushes your shirt up just a little past your navel and places a hand on your tummy. "Right now, I have a job to do."

His hand snakes up and up until you feel a lazy finger touching the underside of your breast. The muffled sighs you've been releasing up 'til now is no match for the howl that rips out of you when he pinches the flesh. You move away slightly as your back arches, pain and pleasure coalescing into this mind-numbing sensation. How has no one ever made you feel this alive? There's magic in his touch, it's the only explanation that makes sense, because he's rendered you close to useless.

Close, but not enough. "If this 'job' you're talking about is in regards to me begging, you'll have to try a bit harder," you smirk, even through the trembling voice.

"I had a feeling. You don't seem like the type to break easy."

Seokjin places his arm under your butt and stands, carrying your shrieking form in his arms before throwing you on the bed.

"Lucky for you, I'm also not the type to give up," he grins from between your legs.

Oh. This is getting fun. Does he think he can make you cum?

You help him discard your shorts with your bottom lip fitted into your teeth. The anticipation is getting stronger. A small part of you is worried that Seokjin's all talk, and he's not actually going to follow through with anything decent. You suppose it's not that bad, considering that you have an array of toys waiting for you in your chambers should it come to that.

But now that you're just in your underwear – some cotton white thing that isn't sexy at all, you wonder why he's just staring at you from below.

"What's the hold up? Don't tell me you're scared of eating me out."

A brow shoots up to the sky. "Why are you in such a rush? You and I have the rest of the day off, so it doesn't really matter."

Waiting's a clever tactic, you too love the image of your subs squirming in their seats on the floor, but it's nothing revolutionary either. Well, if Seokjin's taking a while, the bed is comfortable and your eyes are calling you to sleep–

"Oooh…"

The touch was faint, the barest of rubs against your clit, but your body jolts awake all the same. You grip the sheets tighter, anticipating for another faint touch, but it never comes. A second turns to two, and then three, and four, yet Seokjin continues to lean on your thigh, grinning at you irritatingly from below.

It's when you close your eyes again that the touch comes.

Again, your eyes fly open and you prop yourself up to stare him down.

Again – he looks up at you with an innocent smile.

"What are you doing?"

"Whatever I can to break you out of that shell," he says simply.

"And that involves teasing me until I beg?" you huff with a roll of your eyes. "I thought you're supposed to teach me how to be better. Not play around with the basics that anyone could have learned from the internet."

Seokjin shrugs. "We all have to start somewhere, and for you, maybe it's best to go back to the basics." Two of his fingers pretend to walk on your skin before he tugs at the waistband of your panties. "Plus, you have no idea what I have planned for you, so how can you be sure?"

He pings the elastic against your skin, pulling harder with each tug.

You bring your legs together and pull them close, trying to stop his mischief. "You're going to ruin my underwear," you groan in complaint.

"How much do you care about this pair?"

"I mean, it's only $5 but still–"

A stern gaze silences you. "I don't care how much it costs, I want to know if you have any attachment to them."

"No," is your reply, voice meek.

You watch as Seokjin bends down to the seam, eyes locked on yours. He fits one side of the seam in his mouth, and the other in his hand. Your heart is stuck in your throat; your slow brain picking up the pieces of what he's going to do. Before you have another chance to stop him, the flimsy threads rip free with a solid yank, some frayed strands falling onto the bed.

He sits slowly up, the ruined garment in his mouth, before crawling towards you. Seokjin makes little sound as he climbs on top, but there's a ferocity in his eyes you've yet to be acquainted with.

"Open," he mumbles through gritted teeth.

You want to retort – to regain what little control you have left. But in this caged state, with his hair tickling your forehead, and his arms on either side of your head, you've left little choice but obey. Your jaw opens with great reluctance, and when it does, Seokjin deposits your underwear into your mouth.

Does it count as a kiss? His lips sure are touching yours, pulling out unwilling moans from your throat, as he fucks the garment into your mouth with his tongue, but it's simultaneously too lacking and too overwhelming all the same. The panties in your mouth gradually become wetter, the mixtures of saliva seeping into it, and in a few seconds you can taste yourself; the astringent bite of ecstasy.

"Mmph…" You're not sure when your hands circle his neck, but they slip away and return to the bed when he sits up. With your hands unbound, it should be easy for you to take the gag away, and throw it in his face, but the way he kissed (or not kissed) you left you breathless – mind reeling as you wondered what it was.

Seokjin tilts your chin this way and that, admiring the line of drool that's begun to dribble to the pillow. "So much better when you're not yapping away. Snap your fingers once."

Though your fingers shake, you obey.

"That's a good girl," Seokjin coos, brushing away the hair that's fallen on your face. "Snap once for 'go', twice for 'stop'. Got it?"

You snap once.

"A quick study, huh? I'm impressed," he chuckles. Seokjin returns to his spot between your legs. "Let's see if you remember what you're supposed to do."

It's like you have no energy left to argue. You're left pliant and subservient, not willing to put up a fight anymore. In this hazy state, your eyes close gradually, and you let yourself sink into the mattress, waiting for him to begin.

Your hands remain fisted by your side, opening and closing around the sheets while he pets your cunt in circular motions. The whines tumble easily when his slick-covered fingers slide up and down, pinching your clit in between the spaces. Seokjin is purposefully missing the places where you need him most, and it's frustrating, but just as you're about to complain, he fits a middle finger inside, and your back arches at the sudden, yet welcomed, intrusion.

He angles his finger upwards, the rough pad of it caressing just below the patch of nerves. Your thighs threaten to crush his head with how bad you're squeezing, yet he doesn't mind, and he can't seem to hear the whining complaints coming from your stuffed mouth.

Like the kiss, it's a push and pull; underwhelmed by the lack of sensation, yet fulfilled with how intentional he's being. Could you ever do what he's doing with your own subs? You're starting to realise why the Madame assigned him to you. He has a completely different style from you, but maybe this is what you've been missing all along.

"You're distracted."

Sure enough, you hadn't realised that he's stopped moving with half his finger still inside you. He fishes the underwear from your mouth and massages your jaw after noticing that you've been clenching it for some time. You've never known Seokjin to be so… soothing.

"'m fine."

Of course your lacklustre response isn't going to convince him. Seokjin sits you up and places your head on his chest, with the rest of your body between his legs.

"You wanna tell me what's on your mind or just sit here in silence for a bit until you feel better enough to continue?"

You wouldn't think that he'd give you an out so easily. "Aren't you worried that I would just sit here and tell the Madame that I've completed my training with you?"

His response is a chuckle. "Nah, you're not that dishonest. You're thinking about it now, but when it comes down to it, I doubt you're actually going to do it."

"You don't know me," you grumble.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "But I've watched you long enough to have an idea of what you're like."

A silence stretches. What did he mean by that? Before you can ask though, Seokjin's already talking.

"Now, I know that this may be training for you, but I genuinely want it to be fun. Can you tell me what's on your mind?"

You shuffle to sit up further, resting the back of your head against his shoulder. "I'm… scared I won't be able to get that spark back. Maybe it's time for me to switch roles, or something. I'll be losing a lot of clients, and I guess that will risk my livelihood."

When you look up at Seokjin, you're surprised to find he's already looking at you, his eyes encouraging you to continue.

"The House is my everything." Crying in front of him was not on your to-do list this morning, but the tears came up all the same. "When the complaints started coming… I tried my hardest to push through the fog, but that only made it worse somehow."

The ball of stress and anxiety has grown large enough that you feel utterly defeated. What if you don't get the spark back? Where will you go? The House of Lust is all you've known. You doubt any employer in the real world would ever accept anyone that has worked in the sex industry.

"I don't even have any family to turn back to," you admit quietly, balling the hem of your shirt in your hand. "There's literally nothing left for me to do if I'm ever fired."

Seokjin brings his arms around your stomach and pulls you in tighter. He doesn't speak for some time, and instead rests his chin on your head. "Have you thought of a change of perspective?" he asks softly. "It doesn't have to be a permanent thing, but you can just try the non-BDSM route for once?"

Madam Sohee did mention a change in perspective, though you're not sure if Seokjin's suggestion is really what she has in mind. "I've never really considered that…"

"I think you should try talking to her about it. You know Madame Min is very strict on our potential clients for our own safety, so I doubt you'll get any weirdos. You just won't be able to see your old subs."

Of course! The Madame will guarantee your safety. You're seriously considering the offer and with every passing second, that warm hope comforts you… until it's quickly replaced with harsh insecurity. "But what if I can't?" Your voice cracks as you try to keep the tears at bay. "All I've known about sex is just… well… this." You gesture at your half-naked state.

"Well…" Seokjin starts, but doesn't continue after some time. You look up to see that his head is tilted to the side, lips pursed as he thinks. "If you want to try, I'd gladly help you through it. But at the end of the day, if you don't want to do this line of work, I'm sure there are other ways you can stay in the House and help out."

"Really?"

Seokjin smiles. "Really. Trust me."

"I do," you blurt out, sitting up to face him. And it's only because you're mildly offended that he doesn't think so that you realise how true it was.

Seokjin doesn't seem to notice your flustered expression. He gives your midsection a squeeze before he goes to his wardrobe, and tosses you a pair of shorts. "Here. Wear this. How about we end it here for today? I'll let Madame Sohee know about the change of plans."

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you pull the shorts over your hips and leave the room a bit hurried, but you do turn back to offer him thanks.

"Don't mention it," Seokjin grins.

And when you reach your chambers, you throw yourself onto your bed, nervous and excited. You pray morning comes soon because you're actually looking forward to tomorrow.

———

You are no longer looking forward to today.

It's the familiar scene – of you standing in front of Seokjin's room, only this time, instead of reluctance, you are terrified.

"No… I can't do this," you mutter to yourself, turning away from the door. But just as you fish your phone out to text Seokjin that you're backing out of the plan, the door opens, and said man leans on the door frame with an amused grin… and in less clothes than you saw him last.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, crossing his arms.

You look at the floor; the ceiling; the creepy painting in the hallway; anything so as to not look at Seokjin's naked chest. "I forgot something in my room…?"

"If you're going to lie, maybe don't end the sentence as though you're asking a question," he chuckles. He steps towards you, flexing his muscles not-so subtly. "Why so nervous? Never seen a half-naked man before?"

"That's not it," you grumble, still refusing to look at him.

Seokjin hums. Deciding that this short burst of torture was enough for you, he takes a step back and gestures to his room. "Well, come on in. It's not like you haven't been inside yet."

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod before following him inside. The room this time is darker, blackout curtains pulled over the windows. Seokjin had lit candles around the room, the soft glow making you feel at ease immediately. Did he do all this for you? It's almost… romantic.

While you're looking around the now unfamiliar room, Seokjin's already making his way to the bed. It's the gentle way he calls your name, followed by an equally gentle, "Come here," that has you moving towards him with stiff limbs.

This time, when he offers his hand, you take it.

Your knees sink to the plush material as you sit on his lap. The shadows move strangely across Seokjin's face, and you find it difficult for you to look away.

"Do you still remember your safe word from yesterday?"

You nod. "Sock."

"That's right." His smile catches you off-guard and you long for more praise to spill from those plush, pink lips. Seokjin tucks your hair behind your ear as he says, "Just because we won't be doing anything BDSM related doesn't mean that we stop being safe. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, you say that word, hm?"

Is it just you or is Seokjin's face so close? You're starting to get lost in the abyss in his eyes. "Ah… Yeah," you respond, slightly distracted.

"I'm also going to leave you in charge of the pace since–"

Seokjin doesn't get to finish his sentence, not with your hands on the sides of his face and your lips shutting him up.

You sigh into the kiss. There's electricity in the air that you were missing yesterday when he kissed you with your panties in the way. Once Seokjin gets over his shock, he pulls you close to his chest. His right thumb has snuck underneath the hem of your shirt and is now caressing the small of your back, causing tiny little fissures of pleasure to erupt. The simple touch has you craving more, so you kiss him harder, before biting his bottom lip.

A low grunt emits from his throat when your teeth sink into the soft muscle.

His hands capture your body in a tight embrace, half your shirt riding up with how anxious he's exploring your skin.

"I… fuck, I've been thinking of you last night," he admits between gasps. "I wanted today to be slow and romantic, but look at you," Seokjin's lips quirk into a half-grin as he holds your cheek in his hand, "so eager to get things started. Let go and let your instincts take over."

It's the permission you need to tackle him to the bed. In two seconds your shirt is gone and you're back to kissing him, your fingers tangled up in his hair. Seokjin's quiet grunts is the fuel that keeps you going, and though this type of sex isn't one you're familiar with, you find yourself craving for more.

"Fuuuck… These hips…" he hisses when you grind against his growing erection. "Keep it up and you're going to make me cum in my pants."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

You double your efforts by tracing your lips onto his neck, in a similar manner that he did yesterday. Soon the pale skin of his dons on a similar hue to yours – with matching blues and purples. Your fingers trail down to pinch his nipple, and you're delighted when Seokjin releases a drawn-out moan.

"Sensitive?" you chuckle, moving lower to fit the other one in your mouth.

Seokjin throws his head back with a long whimper. "Very, but you're not supposed to find that out this quickly."

Although he's breathing hard, Seokjin manages to take control and roll you onto your back, your hands raised high above your head in his grip. "Now, now, I can't let you have all the fun. I wanna continue where we left off yesterday. Now, do you remember what you're supposed to do to get me to touch you?"

With an excited sigh, you close your eyes.

"Good. Keep those hands high above your head."

Your back arches as he kisses down your chest, his teeth grabbing the hem of your shorts and panties to expose yourself. He wastes no time with teasing, facing your cunt horizontally with your leg over his neck. Seokjin licks a long stripe from your winking hole to your clit before he kisses your folds as though they're your lips. His tongue glides up and down, ready to catch the arousal before it drips onto the sheets.

"Shit…" you gasp, body straining with need.

Even with your eyes closed, you can feel the heat of his gaze watching your every reaction. Your body burns with humiliation, and it's only made worse when his fingers make their way inside, crowding your tightness with their girth. The sounds you make rattle off the walls – a mixture of the wet sounds between your thighs and your moans.

"This pussy… I've been dying to taste it."

"Is it to – ah – your satisfaction?"

You gasp when Seokjin nips at your folds. "You taste just how I would have guessed; incredible."

The compliment tempers the humiliation somewhat, but you have no time to bask in its glow. You feel the bed dip and then your body is being pulled forward until you feel his lap underneath your ass. His left arm supports your thrashing lower half while his fingers continue to slam into you.

"Seokjin!" His name is embedded in a scream, your eyes squeezing even tighter as you beg and beg for him to not stop. Your body tenses with anticipation of your upcoming release – toes curling with how tightly you're wound.

"Show me how you cum." A command, followed by his thumb pressing circles around your clit.

Within seconds you obey, body thrashing in his grip; streams of arousal on his fingers.

Tears fall from your eyes as you whine, and a white noise dampens your hearing after the release. The room spins behind your closed lids as you lay there with a sweaty arm draped over your eyes. The aftershocks of your orgasm still cause your body to flinch, and a particular one has you whimpering at the onset of soreness between your legs.

You've never felt anything like that before.

The bed dips as Seokjin comes to gather you in his arms. "How's that?"

"Good."

"Oh, we're being honest now? What a major development."

You're about to scoff when you feel him place two of his fingers on your lips.

"Clean me up?"

Your mouth opens wide enough for him to slip his fingers inside. Unlike when you tasted yourself through your panties, there's a hint of sweetness this time around, and you gladly lap up the remaining stickiness as though it's a drizzle of honey.

"How do you taste?" Seokjin asks after removing his fingers.

"Sweet," you pant

He hums in affirmation. "That's right. I could eat you out for days." Seokjin fucks your mouth in earnest with his fingers, the pads grazing the back of your throat. "You're about to be my favourite drink."

Your tongue dances between the spaces of his fingers. Hearing him praise you has your whole body buzzing, and despite the soreness, you're already eager to do more. When you peek at his face, whatever discomfort you felt completely disappears. His ears are a deeper shade than his slightly parted pink lips; eyes drawn into the way his fingers disappear into your mouth. How can a man look so cute and hot at the same time?

He removes his fingers and in a slight daze, he asks, "Are you set to continue?"

"Yeah," you whisper, wiping the drool with the back of your hand. "I'd like to keep going."

Seokjin just grins as he flips you on top of him. "Use me to satisfy your greatest desires. Just let your instincts take over."

His words echo in your head. You gulp, heart pounding against your chest as you move lower – towards the waistband of his pants. When his cock springs free, it takes all of you not to gawk. You won't say it's the biggest dick you've seen, but there's a heaviness to it when you hold him in your hands. Fuck. You're salivating at the thought of how those protruding veins would feel inside of you.

"Like what you see?"

Smug bastard has returned. Seokjin stares with his arms underneath his head, nonchalant and carefree.

You say little else before placing the head on your tongue. No matter how wide you open your jaw though, his girth makes it almost impossible for you to swallow him whole. Yet you're determined to make him succumb to the haze he's left you with, so you spit on your hand and begin to pump his length while your mouth tries to take in as much of him as you can. His groans delight you, and urge you to increase your speed.

"Feels so fucking good," Seokjin groans, loud. "Shit. You want me to fuck my cum down your throat? Want a taste of my seed before I fill you up later? Fuck it. I'm going to make sure you clean me up once we're done; and whatever else that spills out of you."

His taunts have you clenching your lower muscles with need. You nod furiously, not trusting yourself to speak with him inside your mouth.

Seokjin pushes your head down and begins fucking up into your mouth in earnest, his grunts ringing loudly in your ears. Oxygen is a precious commodity, leaving you sputtering and gasping from the lack of it.

But just as you think he's about to explode, Seokjin yanks you off of his dick by your hair. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, saliva dripping down to your cleavage. It reminds you of the time you had with that sub of yours. Did Jungkook also feel the same desperation to please you? Why does that moment feel like a lifetime ago?

Your thoughts scatter the instant Seokjin taps your cheek not unkindly with his palm, and you're pleased to see that he's breathing hard.

"Focus on me and nothing else."

He doesn't have to tell you twice. Seokjin kisses you like a man starved, catching your moans in his lips as he slowly makes his way on top of you again. You spin at the ferocity of his tongue against yours, and the heat of his palms massaging your breasts.

"Ngh…" you whine, pulling away to inhale much needed air. "Seokjin…"

"What do you need from me, baby?" He asks into your skin, remarking the places he's been before so they bloom anew. His teeth graze your pebbled nipples and you cry out with a clutch of his hair.

"More," is your hazy response.

"More of what? Hm?" Seokjin sits up and splays his hand over your tummy to stop you from jumping up as he glides his cock over your swollen pussy. Your whines only spur him on, body moving faster. "Do you want to cum like this?"

"No!"

He removes himself away from your heat to sink two fingers into you. "Oh, I get it," he coos. "This is what you want, right?"

You squirm in his grip. He has one leg over his arm and the other is holding you down. With your brain a mess of lust and need, you don't have any coherence left in you to speak.

"Tell me or else I'm leaving you to cum with just my fingers."

Bastard! you curse in your head. Yet your voice is weak when you whimper, "Need… you…"

"Well, you have my fingers. What more could you possibly need?"

You cover his dick with your hand, stopping all his movements. Raising your hips, you push the tip of him inside you. "Does this answer your question?"

"Fuck," he hisses as you slowly join your bodies together.

Just as you predicted, you can feel the delicious stretch as you have your fill, and even when the blunt head of cock moves past your g-spot, there's still a sizeable chunk of dick left. Will he truly fit inside of you?

Seokjin moves to stand and drags your body with him. Your ass hangs off the edge, held up firmly in his arms.

Spit dribbles past his lips and onto your pussy, and Seokjin uses the tip of his cock to smear it around. With a grunt he pushes in, and though you've had a taste of it before, it doesn't stop you from crying out.

"Shit!" Your grip on the sheets tighten. "Fuck, Seokjin…"

"Yeah, fuck. Does that feel good? Just me sticking my dick in has you seeing stars?"

"Please… move." You grip his forearms tighter, your nails leaving half-moons on his skin; a perfect accompaniment to his marred neck.

Seokjin obliges readily, whilst whispering sweet taunts in your ear; "Tighten up for me, darling. Just like that, oh fuck. Can you feel how hard I am? Does it feel good?"

Over and over you're rocked into bliss, your numb legs helpless in his arms. If this is what sex is supposed to feel like, you're not sure if you can go back. Even if you do end up switching roles, would you be able to find such ecstasy in another's arms? No, you decide, it has to be Seokjin.

He doesn't move too quickly, but goes deeper than any toy you've had. His thrusts spring forth a slow ember that gradually becomes whiter; hotter.

"I'm–"

"Yeah, me too," Seokjin gasps before he kisses you.

That's how you came for the second time, in the midst of a kiss, moaning his name and spilling it into his open lips.

Seokjin increases his speed then after flipping you over so that you're on your stomach. He plasters his chest to your back so he can groan directly into your ear. Every long-drawn out moan tumbling past his lips causes you to do the same; your voices mixing and growing louder and louder.

"One more time? Can you cum one more time?"

You don't know if you should. One more and there's absolutely no way for you to return to your previous role. It's so easy for him to pull pleasure seemingly out of thin air, and you succumb to the depths for a final time, your mouth opening in a silent scream as the waves crash repeatedly against you.

"I'm gonna fill you up. Make you walk around with my cum all day, shit," Seokjin grunts, biting the shell of your ear. "Oh, fuck, the way you tightened up for me just now. You want that? Want me to fuck you full of cum until your tummy swells?"

"Seokjin. Fuck."

"That's right, angel. I'm sure you can't wait to go about your day, squeezing your thighs together? Fuck. I'm going to cum in this gorgeous pussy, shit… I'm gonna turn you into my personal toy."

Seokjin holds your thrashing form in his firm arms, and after a loud groan, he spills his seed inside you. Your walls spasm as though you're milking him dry, and maybe some part of you wants to make sure that he gives you everything until there's nothing left.

If you weren't sure before, you're certain now – there's no way you can go back to your old ways. The Madame is right, you were due for a different position.

With a gentleness you didn't know he possesses, Seokjin carries you back to the bed. He rests your head on the silk pillow sheets before propping your legs by his head.

"What… are you…" you ask between bouts of heavy breathing.

A softer version of his smug smile returns. "I'm about to clean the mess I made."

You moan weakly when his tongue makes contact with your puffy lips. Seokjin takes his time drinking it all in, and the loud smacks of his lips against your sopping cunt has you grasping the sheets.

"No… no more…"

But Seokjin doesn't listen, and his thumb returns to press tight circles on your swollen nub. After a shuddering gasp, you cum, spurting out your mixture of juices right in his tongue. Your mind is a blurred mess of shapes and sound; your eyes having a hard time keeping the room still.

"Ah, Seokjin…" you groan into the pillow.

"That's it. Give in and give yourself to me," he mumbles, licking the last remaining drops. "I'll make sure your body only remembers me."

It already does, you think, but you don't need his ego to grow tenfold. Instead, you whimper, and wait until he's had his fill.

When Seokjin rises from between your legs, the sight almost makes you beg him for more, if your pussy isn't currently throbbing from oversensitivity. The lower part of his face is covered in slick, and he's licking everything his tongue could reach as though it's sweet cream.

"Satisfied?"

How can he even ask you that after just turning your world upside down?

"Yeah, I guess," you reply, avoiding his eager eyes.

Seokjin only chuckles, and from the corner of your eye, you watch his broad shoulders rise and fall. "Well, if I can't convince you, that's fine. We can go back to our original plan. Maybe over time I can train you to be a good sub for any personality that walks through those doors."

"There's no need for that," you murmur. Not just because you still don't feel like you won't be good at the role, but because you don't think you want to have sex with anyone else. Which could be bad for your job. But then you remembered what Seokjin said the other day; about the possibility of still contributing to the House without the sex.

"Do you think the Madame will let me take on a more administrative role?"

Seokjin hums in contemplation. "I don't doubt that she'll agree, but your services are a valuable asset to the House," he contemplates. Turning to you, his smile is soft when he asks, "Will it help if I'm there when you talk to her about it?"

You nod, relieved in the midst of uncertainty. "Who would have known that you'd be someone in my corner?"

He holds you close to his chest as he mumbles into your hair, "Mmm… you just never gave me a chance."

The silence stretches. You're so comfortable in his arms, that you realise with a start how long you've overstayed your welcome. Seokjin must have been itching to kick you out, but felt it impolite to voice his concerns. But when you try to wrestle free from his arms, you find yourself fighting a losing battle.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Back to my chambers?" you question with a foot already halfway off the bed.

He tightens his hold and drags you back onto his lap. "Mmm… how about you stay? You're so warm and I'm exhausted."

"Well—" you try to argue, but the words catch in your throat when you can't meet his stare.

"You don't want to?"

It's not that you don't want to, but this is getting into a territory you're not sure you're ready to broach. Does he do this with all his subs? There's no way – not when there's a time limit, and you find yourself reluctant to ask him, afraid of what the answer may be.

So, you let Seokjin help you into his clothes; let him cover you in blankets after he turns out the lights; and let him cuddle you close, your head atop of his heart.

You let him do all this because you don't really want to part with him either.

And safe in the blanket of night; nestled deep in your delusion as you hear him slowly succumb to sleep, you pretend that you belong to him; and him to you.

saturn's notes: ah it's so good to be writing a fic again, especially one i've been dying to write for some time. thanks so much for reading, my beloveds. you inspire me. oh, and before you start, let me sate your curiosity: no, there's probably not a sequel to this. if i do decide to write one in the future, great! but tbh, i am much to busy with so many other fics :)

[hangmanssunnies]

Let's Drink Coffee At Midnight

Summary: The truth was, in many ways, Carole understood Pete like no one else ever would, and the same could be said for vice versa. Pete understood Carole in a way no one else ever would. It's no mystery where it started; their shared love, their shared tragedy. Goose dying was the epicenter for them.

Pairings: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x Carole Bradshaw

Fandom: Top Gun: Maverick 

Word count: 12k (phew don't look at me)

AO3 link ( broken into chapter view)

Warnings: Maverick centric, Dad!Mav, Young Bradley Bradshaw & Teenage Bradley Bradshaw, Maverick has PTSD, part 5 is Dad!Mav and Brad centric, Drinking, Grief, Mourning, Mentioned Nick "Goose" Bradshaw, Implied/Referenced Character Death, minor modern history references, Canon Compliant technically at least close ish, Carole Bradshaw is strong and tired, Rarepair

Authors Note: I don't know what to say about this. This work has been haunting me for weeks. These two haunt me, I really never shipped them until suddenly I was writing this, now here we are, I guess. IceMav. Please forgive me. I hope you enjoy this! My inbox is always open if you want to let me know your thoughts. Likes and Reblogs with your thoughts and tags are always appreciated as well! I love reading through them.

–9 months– 

The truth was, in many ways, Carole understood Pete like no one else ever would, and the same could be said for vice versa. Pete understood Carole in a way no one else ever would. It's no mystery where it started; their shared love, their shared tragedy. Goose dying was the epicenter for them. 

It's almost 11:45 when Maverick hears his phone ringing. He ignores it at first, hoping the person will realize they are calling at an entirely unreasonable time. Then he hears Carole's voice on the answering machine, hardly stringing a complete sentence together for her message, asking him to call her back when he can. 

Pete launches himself out of bed, trying to shake sleep and drowsiness away. He picks up the phone and immediately calls Carole back. 

Her name is the first word that spills from his mouth when she answers. He can hear the way her breaths are catching, and the way sobs are shaking her body. 

"Carole," he repeats, "Are you okay?" 

"No, not really." She manages to tell him after a few shaky breaths. "I don't think I will ever be okay again."

"I know," Pete sighs, leaning against the kitchen and living room doorway with the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. 

"Are you physically okay?"

"Yes," she whispers. 

"Bradley too?" 

"Yes," she answers between sobs. Pete feels some tension built up in his chest release, but not all the way. 

"Take some deep breaths with me?" Pete doesn't wait for her to respond and instead starts to count them out. 

"In," he counts five seconds out for her. Then tells her, "Out, one, two..." Mav maintains the cycle and pace of breathing, counting into the phone. After a while, he can tell that Carole's sobs are less all-consuming. 

Cutting him off mid-number on an inhale, Carole says, "I miss him." 

"I miss him too," Pete whispers like it's a secret. He may have gotten his head on straight enough to fly again, but that doesn't mean that Maverick isn't still filled to the brim with grief. 

"I always knew the risk. He did too. I just never thought it would hurt this bad." She stops speaking to cry more after saying that. 

"Thank you for calling me back. I just didn't know who else I could call now." Pete suddenly remembers the time difference and that it is three in the morning for her. 

"You can always call me Carole. I'll pick up if I can."

"Thank you."

"What can I do to help you?" 

"No, there's nothing." He can hear her hesitate, it's in the way her breath catches, and she draws out the o slightly in her response.

"Come on, Carole, there's something I can tell."

"My mind is racing, and everything is piling up. Which doesn't make sense; there have always been times I did it all alone when y'all were on the carrier."

"Nothing is the same anymore. Even the same familiar actions feel heavier." Pete supplies. He empathizes. He knows precisely where she is coming from. 

She just cries, but Mav knows it's a confirmation. 

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?" He asks her. Carole had always struggled with insomnia, and Pete couldn't imagine the condition had improved in the last 8 months. 

"No."

"Okay, forget everything piling up, and let's try and let go of a little bit of weight. Right now. How can I at least help you get some rest tonight?"

"I just need a distraction."

Pete looks around his living room trying to find something to distract himself and her. Finally, he lands on the manual sitting on the coffee table he had been going through that evening. "How about I read to you? I've been studying anyway. Big test coming up."

She hums into the phone for a moment. It's a sound that briefly raises gooseflesh on his arms. "What for?"

"The F-16."

"Yeah, I've always wanted to know about those." 

Pete laughs at the comment and almost recoils when a broken sob falls through the other side of the phone. After a shaky inhale on her part, though, Carole descends into an almost chuckle. 

"Okay, I just need to make some coffee." He tells her as he turns in the doorway to the kitchen. It only takes a moment more of fumbling before he starts heating the kettle. 

"Coffee at this time of night?" Carole asks, almost chastising. Using a tone not dissimilar to what he has heard her use with Bradley. 

"Steadies the hands," Maverick tells her. "A splash of Bailey's never hurts anything either." 

It's a small but real chuckle that falls from her mouth now. "You better not be wheels up in less than 8 hours."

"No, Ma'am. Tomorrow is my day off." Maverick reassures her. 

"Oh, good," Carole sighs. 

He pours the water not yet boiling into a mug before adding a packet of instant coffee. He is in a bit of a rush, so he just impatiently swirls it waiting for it to bubble. When he determines it is mixed enough that he won't gag, he adds a splash of the beige liqueur. 

Making his way to his couch, he asks, "Are you ready to learn all about augmented pitch control?"

"Well, I was hoping to learn about the landing gear, but I think I can live with that."

"If you really want," Maverick seriously tells her, with a heavy sigh,  adding a touch of sarcasm. Then, taking a big gulp of his gritty coffee, Pete flips open his manual.

Carole's laugh was genuine and authentic at his lackluster joke. Pete isn't sure that the flash of warmth in him is just from the alcohol, but it is gone as soon as he considers it. 

"Thank you, Pete," she sighs into the line. 

"It's no problem."

Mav flips open the manual, starting to read. 

He hears a few more stifled sobs from Carole, but they are sparse. She occasionally peppers in tired questions asking about something he read. However, the longer he reads, the less frequent her questions. Eventually, all she makes are drowsy hums, and her breathing evens into the phone. Pete keeps reading to her for ten more minutes while finishing his coffee, even though he knows she is asleep. 

"Goodnight, Carole," he finally whispers into the phone before hanging up. 

 Pete absentmindedly rinses his mug in his tiny sink, staring out the window into the dark night. He promises to call Carole more to check in.

He muses how it's not fair for her to do this alone. Pete knows he should try to help her and make up for some of the weight —the loss —she is bearing. That he is failing Goose, letting Carole freefall through all of this alone. After all, wasn't Carole, in a way, his responsibility? As his Godfather, Bradley certainly was. 

 Turning off all the lamps and making his way back to bed. Pete also briefly thinks it's not fair he has to do this alone either. 

— 2.5 years— 

Pete' Maverick' Mitchell is a broken man. He knew that but tried his best to be a good man. So Maverick started visiting the Bradshaws as often as manageable.

He wasn't at top gun anymore. However, Maverick has been working hard at playing friendly and responsible long enough to finally secure a position in the Atlantic fleet. It was going to allow him to be significantly more present. 

Maverick was always trying to make up for what he had done in the smallest ways. But, he knew it would never make a big enough difference, never replace what was lost. Regardless, he had a responsibility to Carole and Bradley to help them. 

After all, Pete often thought ruefully, wasn't he the reason the man who was supposed to help them died?

The first-day Maverick would spend with the Bradshaws was always dedicated to chores. The laundry list of things that Carole would mention or Pete knew needed to get done. Getting things done for them helped ease the guilt that bubbled in his chest and made him feel like he was compensating for his stay. 

Today was one such day; Maverick spent all day with Bradley in the garage, tuning up the Bronco and Carole's Jeep, changing oil, and checking everything on them so he knew he wouldn't have to worry about them driving until his next visit. He didn't mind the work and keeping his hands busy, being useful.

 It was an added bonus that time with Bradley in the shop was one of Pete's favorite things. Mav would talk Bradley through every step of what he was doing. Letting him help with the smaller, simple tasks. Bradley would still sit close to Mav, watching intently, even if he was playing with his toys; otherwise, the boy would be perched on Pete's hip or hugging his leg. Rock would fill the garage, punctured only by Pete's explanations and answers to Bradley's hesitant questions, along with the sound effects Bradley liked to make with his toy cars and planes. 

Days in the shop, doing chores, making dinner, and other similar moments on his visits, are what he secretly treasures the most. In the night, long after, Maverick is back on the carrier, and his mind feels more timorous than the raging sea he lives in; he will briefly masquerade as a pirate, not a sailor, and steal some of that treasure to tide him over. Pete would think back and savor those moments, recalling what a blossom of peace feels like.  

Then Carole had come into the shop kissing Bradley's cheek and loudly informing them she made dinner; it was a hearty lasagna. Pete scooped Bradley onto his hip. Walking them to the sink, Pete washed the grease and dirt off their hands before settling at the table to eat. 

After only two prompting questions and Pete's extra encouragement, Bradley animatedly told Carole about the things he learned in the shop that day. Bradley was getting more talkative again. A colossal comfort to not just Carole but Pete as well. After Goose had died, it was two months later when Bradley stopped talking entirely for a while.  

When Carole had taken him to the doctor, their best explanation was that the little boy might finally understand that his Daddy wasn't coming home this time. So, when Bradley started to talk again, they were as encouraging as possible. Encouraging his small words to the full-blown sentences, he was at again now. It made Pete appreciate every word the little boy decided to bestow on him. 

When they finished eating, Maverick picked up all their plates and started to clean them in the sink. All the while staring at the mother and son sitting at the table. His heart squeezes so hard in his chest that it feels like it might burst. Not wholly dissimilar to the feeling of fighting G-lock, Pete briefly considers if he is too young to have a heart attack. 

Then Carole laughs, that enchanting, consuming laugh of hers. Where she throws her whole head back, and it's reflected in her body. Where her shoulders shake, and her eyes crinkle almost closed. The laugh that comes from deep in her belly filling the extra space in a room. It is quickly followed by Bradley copying his mother. He has almost the same laugh — his miniature body following the same actions. 

Bradley has Carole's laugh, not Goose's. 

And Pete finds it a beautiful realization. His heart squeezes even tighter at the idea. Carole helps Bradley dip their spoons into Pete's ice cream bowl, still on the table. They share a secret look like they are getting away with a crime, stealing the ice cream. It's followed by both of them laughing again. With that sight in front of him, his heart gives one, then two, beats more before it bursts in his chest. 

Warmth floods his whole chest spreading throughout his body, and it all feels so simple: he loves his family. He had always loved this little family, but this is like everything has changed —no shifted — because they are his family. Pete realizes he really loves this woman, and there is no denying that Bradley is a son to him in everything but blood. With his hands covered in dish soap and water and a kitchen full of warmth and laughter, Mav's heart knits itself back together two sizes larger. 

As soon as that realization fully settles with Pete, he lets go of the plate he was holding. It clatters in the sink, and two pairs of eyes, both concerned and searching, look over at him. He doesn't know what the look on his face is showing, even though he likes to claim he only had one. However, the way Carole was looking at him says otherwise. The joy on her face is instantly shadowed by concern. 

He picks up the plate from the bottom of the sink and shoots them a forced apologetic smile. "The plate slipped." he supplies and then rededicates himself to cleaning the kitchen as quickly as possible. 

He can tell Carole is still worried, but she returns to her conversation with Bradley. While he finishes cleaning, that weight of guilt on his shoulders triples, pressing so hard into him that he feels like he can hardly breathe. 

Pete feels like he might break apart at the drop of a pin. He had killed his best friend, his brother. And now Maverick is here —in love with his wife, loving his son more than anything else. And Pete may love even more than he loves the Navy, more than he loves flying. 

What was he even doing here? Trying to replace Goose? How fucked up would that be? The more Pete considers the idea, the more his stomach flips. He regrets having such a large portion of dinner. He excuses himself to go to bed soon after the kitchen is clean. 

 He doesn't even read Bradley a story like he usually would before tucking him in each night. Reading to Bradley is something he typically insists on doing during his visits. Pete always justifies the action is to give Carole a break. Not because he loves the little sleepy sounds and questions Brad makes, insisting that he can turn the book's pages. Or how Bradley likes to explain the pictures to him. Not the heavy feeling of Bradley's head pressing into Pete's arm when he can't fight sleep anymore. 

It was a sight Maverick knew he couldn't take, not tonight. Not when the fantasy of Carole on the other side of the bed pops into his mind. Bradley sandwiched between them, angled into his side, Pete's arm over Carole's shoulder, her making silly sound effects to accompany the characters in the book. He tries to banish the vision to the far recesses of his mind, but it refuses to dissipate entirely. 

The ideas had been planted, and some part of him knows he will never be free again. 

That night, he dreams of kissing Carole, her warmth pressing against him, the sun shining. A dream where they are having a picnic at the park, and Bradley is flying a kite, shaped just like Pete's Nighthawk, moving around like it was caught in jet wash. Maverick wakes up in a cold sweat. He wakes up and packs all of his things, filling the duffle bag he had emptied the day before. 

Pulling the sheets off the guest bed and remaking it with the fresh set Carole kept in the guest closet. The crisp edges of a perfectly made bed. The other sheets, still damp from sweat thrown into the laundry hamper. He knew he should throw them in the wash for her instead of leaving more work. However, more than that, Pete knows he can't stay any longer. 

It is still night, and he wonders if he should wait or leave a note before hightailing it on his motorcycle. If he waited to start the bike until the end of the street, Maverick knew he wouldn't wake anyone with his departure. Maybe he could call later and tell Carole he forgot about some emergency orders or other semi-plausible excuse. 

But then there she is, sitting in her knitting chair with the lamp on at her side. It paints the living room in soft light. The shadows all creeping in around them, around him, sliding around Carole. A safe harbor in the storm, the lamp providing a gentle glow.

Pete is a deer in the headlights, looking into Carole's tired, resigned face. A cup of coffee next to her. She hates coffee, only keeping it in the house for when Maverick comes to visit. So, the sight of the steaming mug next to her can only mean she is waiting for him. 

"Good morning Pete," she says quietly, her voice the tiniest bit rough from the night and however long she has been waiting. The record player in the living room is playing a Dolly Parton album softly. 

He doesn't say anything, only waiting and ready to flee at the barest sign of weakness from her. It is a fool's errand on his part. 

Carole Bradshaw has never been weak. Not one single day in the years Pete Mitchell has known her. When the world shifted when they lost Goose, she was the better of them because she was strong. Only becoming stronger because she had to deal with it herself. Then Carole had to deal with it for Bradley, too, bearing the extra weight of his heartbreak. It was a battle he would never have won; A battle against Goose's ghost, Maverick was still losing.

"I made you coffee," she says then, turning her eyes back to the yarn in her lap. Her southern accent felt a little thicker and a little slower, coating his ears like honey. 

Maverick gingerly sets the bag on the floor. Carole is like a lighthouse or fog light —some guiding presence — drawing him through the dark home. Pulling his feet forward until he enters the safe bubble she creates in the living room. 

Pete perches on the edge of the couch, close enough to her side that she won't have to raise her voice. His chest is filled with a sinking feeling, free falling towards the ground. His heart already preparing for the crash and subsequent burn to follow. If he were a lesser man, his hands would have shaken, reaching for a sip of coffee. The warm liquid has a little extra kick telling him she added a splash of whisky. It was how he would always take coffee in the evening. The intimacy of her knowing him so well only makes his heart feel rawer. Pete isn't able to take his eyes off of her. 

"What's wrong, Mav? I need you to be talking to me, sugar."

That was a question with a dangerous trajectory. Maverick can never tell Carole what has happened. If he put it into words, it wouldn't be just a thought; it would make it real. It would be alive and fragile, a heaving little thing that would claw Pete apart from the inside out. 

He knew because he had seen it before; loving Carole Bradshaw is nothing short of all-consuming.

He rips his gaze away from her and stares into his coffee instead. Carole sighs heavily and shifts the yarn and hooks from her hands to the basket beside her. She faces her whole body towards him. Those shining blue eyes betray how tired she is, and yet, she is patiently waiting for him. 

"I need to leave," he grits out. 

"You don't need to leave."

"I need to leave," he repeats again. 

"Don't do this, Pete." She says, almost begging him. The kindness in her face fading from the surface. 

"I'm not doing anything. I just have to—" Carole cuts him off, which is good because Pete doesn't know where he was going with that thought. 

"You don't get to do this to Bradley or me."

"I have to, Carole. I can't. You don't understand." His words are halting and jumbled. 

"No. I think I do understand," Carole says the words slowly.

It couldn't be possible for her to know that he loved her, could it? Was Maverick so far gone that it was written all over his face? How his eyes would constantly seek her before anything else. Did she see the twitch in his arms, resisting the desire to pull her close? Can she know that most of his waking and dreaming thoughts are now consumed by her and Bradley?

"If you understood, you would be throwing me out on my ass," Pete tells her, staring down into the coffee he is gripping. The dark liquid threatens to slosh over the sides, prompting him to take another drink. 

"You think it's that terrible then? I should kick you out of the house?" 

"Yes. Carole, what I am doing is wrong." 

"Why, because of Nick?" Carole asks him not unkindly, but it still feels like a slap across his face. 

"Of course, because of Nick," Pete tells her. 

Pete is surprised to see her burst into tears. The saltwater baptizing the blue of her eyes, making them shine brighter in the dim living room. He can't identify anything similar to the feeling her tears inspire in him. 

"You're right. It is wrong for you to help care for a lonely, hurt little boy. And it is so wrong for you to be there for a struggling widow. He would have detested you for all of this. The worst thing you've ever done."

"Taking care of you two isn't what the problem is. If I was just taking care of you, with no alternative motives; if I was doing it because it is the right thing, then it would be okay." 

"So, the problem is that you–" Maverick quickly cuts her off mid-sentence. Refusing to let her say those words, refusing to make this conversation's realities worse than they already are. 

"Stop, Carole. Don't say that. It. I don't." The words come out so jumbled that Pete feels like a sock is in his mouth.  

"You don't?" She raises one eyebrow, not believing him. 

"No, I don't."  

"Don't pretend I don't know you."

"I'm not," Pete defends himself. They sit in silence for several long minutes after that. The ticking of the grandfather clock and the Dolly Parton album were the only thing disturbing the quiet. Then Carole finally decided to speak again. 

"It eats at me, too, Mav. You know that, right? Because sometimes it seems like you don't think I miss him." 

"I would never think that, Carole." Of course, he wouldn't; Maverick knew if there was anyone who missed Goose more than him, it was Carole. 

"It's been almost three years. Have you had alternative motives the whole time or just the last few visits?"

"It's more recent."

"I know," she sighs. Carole runs a hand through her hair in frustration. Pete can see the agitation lingering under the exhaustion in her. 

"Well, maybe you can answer this honestly. What's more messed up, Pete? What you are doing or what I am?" 

Pete slouches heavily into the couch, briefly pressing his hands hard into his eyes until stars spark behind them and then fade. Only then does he find the energy to look at her again. "Carole."

She holds up a hand, stopping him. Then, standing up from her chair, she stretches, causing her back to pop. Then she levels him with a melancholic look, "Enough, Mav. I'm tired, too tired to deal with this."

She set about turning off the music tidying the yarn in her bin and then drifted towards the hallway. The way she exits the space sucks all the warmth with her. Pete immediately lost that feeling of safe harbor. Carole was at the edge of the living room when she turned back to look at him. 

"I can accept you leaving me in the middle of the night. But if you ever leave without saying goodbye to that little boy?" Carole points in the direction of Bradley's room. "Don't come back." 

Pete stays. 

He waits for Bradley to wake up and then makes him breakfast before taking the boy to a local Baseball game. Carole doesn't leave her room until the late afternoon. His heart only hurts a little bit when she pretends like nothing happened in the early hours of the morning. Just another one of their conversations drifting into the wind. 

The want in his chest doesn't abate, nor does the echoing of Carole's question. Maybe they are both equally wrong, or maybe it isn't as wrong as he thought. One thing is clear to Pete on the minimal list of things Carole could do wrong in his eyes, the possibility of her loving him isn't on it. 

And it's okay that they don't talk about it, that it doesn't come up, because he never said that he loves her. Maverick had made damn sure those words didn't pass between lips. So, maybe these things can just go away. Give them a little time, some space to breathe, and the tension would dissipate between them. Maverick was sure of it.  

The part of him that now only craves her thinks about pursuing it. The traitorous part of him wonders. Hasn't Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell always craved relationships with just the touch of forbidden flavor? Whether with an admiral's daughter, an instructor, or his equal and rival. Pete never considered it genuinely deterring. 

On the contrary, some part of him saw the taboo as encouraging. But his best friend's widow? That was pushing it too far for any man —even for Maverick.  

The tension does dissipate, and the hopes he hides close to his chest don't matter. Not even three days after their unfinished conversation, Maverick is deployed to Panama. The realities of combat snapping him back into the realities of loss.

Maverick tries to give up those moments of 'dress up' of playing pretend and plundering his hidden treasure filled with laughs, too much food on the table, and slim arms holding him close. He is too afraid of tainting the memories with his stained touch. 

But to forget the Bradshaws? Let them go? That is impossible. One way or another, Maverick knows he will always return to them. 

— 4 years—-

"Who would it go to?" Maverick asks her one night. 

He silently thanked God that Bradley was already asleep when he got to Carole Bradshaw's front door that night. He had walked 8 miles from the bus stop. Maverick hadn't registered any part of the walk except the eight turns he needed to get to her door. 

She didn't say a word when she opened the door, just widened it for him and went to start a pot of coffee, and pulled a bottle of Baileys out. They were sitting together on the porch swing. It was swaying just enough to be soothing in the still of the night with the cicadas buzzing around them. 

Pete's hands still have the slightest bit of a shake to them since he had left his friend's funeral that morning. And he clutches the coffee cup Carole gave him like a lifeline. Its warmth provides more comfort than any of the liquid inside of it. Jim hadn't even been an aviator, but the image of his sister sobbing and holding that perfectly folded flag was burned behind Pete's eyes. 

The humidity in Virginia made him feel like his ghosts really were connected to his skin. They were hanging right there off of him. He had gotten better at pushing them away. Better at not letting his ghosts shift his hands and mind, only listening to them. It was a practice he only perfected in the sky. 

It is always so much harder on solid ground anymore. A fresher, newer hurt, one Maverick has not even started to examine, feels like he is back under the middle east sun. Pete has to remind himself that it is nighttime and that this humidity doesn't have the same oppressive force. He reminds himself it's okay because he is here with Carole. 

"Me, of course," she tells him, no question in her voice. 

He saw it the moment she said it; the image tweaks his soul, like when you suddenly hear a flat note in the middle of a melody. Two perfectly folded flags, sharp, crisp edges, red, white, and blue triangles, pressed behind glass. Pete's portrait and flag, sitting right next to Goose's— a home with more flags than men. Bradley growing up with not one but two looming shadows over his back. 

"No," it falls out of his mouth unsolicited. He moves to stand up from the chair, haphazardly setting his cup on the porch. He feels like a caged animal. He leans heavily against the nearby porch post, gripping it tightly. 

"No, it can't go to you." Maverick finally chokes out. He tries to take a few deep breaths to calm himself and banish the new image flaunting around his mind. 

"Who else would it go to but us?" She poses it as a question. 

He knows the answer, and so does she. There is no one else anymore, not really. 

And had there ever even been anyone else since Pete's mom died? 

No. Pete refuses to look at the horror blooming in his chest or the little voice whispering the truth:  It had always been Carole. Hadn't it?

Pete can only slowly shake his head. There is nothing he can say. Anything appropriate exits his mind to make more room for the idea of her being left alone again. The raw acceptance on Carole's face reflected in her eyes is too much for him. So, Pete closes his eyes, refusing to stare into her gaze any longer. Those blues were piercing his soul. 

Carole's eyes reminded him too much of the sky. A perfect clear sky, glistening blue. The blue that is born where the ocean and sky meet to form the horizon. That blue is the one thing he can't ever seem to stop himself from returning to. The blue that calls to him understands every part of him. That same blue: the defining characteristics of what he loves most in this world. 

"No one, but you two." Pete manages to force it out of his throat. Then brokenly, immediately, he has to remedy the words he allowed to slip out. "Anyone can have it, but not Bradley. And never you, Carole." 

Pete flinches in anticipation, registering the reverence with which he just spoke her name. He waits for the loud manifestation of his guilt, one he hears in Goose's voice, but it isn't there this time. Instead, it is drowned out by the dread of hurting this woman again. The idea of still making her pick up the pieces he has been dropping for years, even after he dies. 

Carole is still swinging in the porch chair, her feet brushing the ground just enough to continue the momentum. She looks thoughtful, her hands shuffling in her lap, absentmindedly pulling at a loose string in her skirt. 

"Would you like to be cremated or buried?" Carole asks him like she is asking what he wants to have for dinner tomorrow. 

The sound Maverick makes is one he isn't sure he ever heard before, an odd mix of a whimper, growl, and sob. Carole continues on though not waiting for a response. 

"Do you prefer Lieutenant Commander Peter Mitchell or Lieutenant Commander Peter 'Maverick' Mitchell? Maybe Pete over Peter?" 

"No," Pete manages to growl more firmly this time, forming the word with a scowl. His hands scramble to find something to grip, knuckles turning white as his nails dig into his palms. 

"Is there anything specific you want saved for Bradley?"

"Carole, stop," Maverick begs her. 

"No? Nothing for Bradley, okay. No worries. What about for Ice?" 

"Enough," he bites it out harshly, with a mean edge, desperate for her to cease this conversation. 

"No, I won't stop. These are things I need to know." She is firm in her answer. Her voice remains steady, but Pete can see how much this conversation is also affecting her. 

"You don't need to know."

"I do need to know."

"No more funerals. I promise," his voice breaks. Pete thinks he might fall apart or be blown away by the gentle summer breeze just from this conversation. 

"Will you ever stop making promises you can't keep, Mav?"

The question hangs in the air between them, and Maverick can feel all of the broken promises he has made crawling just under his skin. People think he is cocky and confident and only cares about himself; that's how he got his call sign, after all. But the truth is, Pete is more aware of his flaws and more haunted by his mistakes than anyone else he knows. 

"I always keep my promises to you, Carole. I promise you won't plan my funeral."

"You won't let that happen, will you?" She asks it almost jokingly, a clear indication of disbelief in her voice. 

"No, Ma'am. I won't," Maverick whispers. 

He is serious, his jaw set firm gaze so heavy it could almost be interpreted as a glare. They hold eye contact for a long moment, waiting for the other to look away first, borderline a staring contest. Then Carole deflates a bit, shoulders sagging like he had pressed a needle to a balloon. Finally, she shakes her head at him and shifts her gaze to look away and up as if she is sending a quiet prayer. 

"Good," she finally sighs. Carole pats the seat next to her, indicating he should sit again. 

Maverick releases his death grip on the banister he adopted at some point and sits stiffly next to her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him close, her side pressed against his. Three breaths later, he sinks into her hug, shifting so that he can pull her closer to his side. So that he can breathe in her sweet honeysuckle scent.  

Carole holds him until he stops shaking entirely. His hands are steady where they grip her, and the sun starts to make its presence known. Every moment with Carole in his arms strengthens Maverick's resolve and determination. Then, when the sun crests the horizon and the sound of Saturday morning cartoons on the TV drift out to them, Carole finally releases him. 

After delicately untangling herself from his grasp, she cups his cheek, staring at him fondly. The blue of her eyes taunt him stealing his breath. She presses a gentle kiss to the corner edge of his mouth. It captures more of his lips than his cheek. The warmth lingers long after she heads back into the house, telling him to join them for breakfast when he can. 

It's a kiss that seals the promise in Pete's heart and mind. A kiss that has branded him. Pete would never let a flag be put into her arms again. He had already cashed that check. 

Maverick would be the best. He would beat the odds every single time; through every test flight, training, mission, deployment, and crash. He would make it for the chance to glimpse that color blue again. 

He wants to imprint that blue on every aspect of his life. It was already tattooed on the inside of his chest. 

When he enters the kitchen, he immediately accepts a running hug from Bradley. The boy smashes into his side and grips him tightly. He is practically vibrating with excitement. 

Holding Bradley, his eyes met Carole's again across the kitchen. Pete decided to indulge and take pleasure this time in the rush those blues give him before hiking Bradley up on his hip, hugging him close, and walking him back to the table.  

"You are getting so big," Maverick tells the boy who is hanging tightly to his neck. Bradley refuses to let him go after that sitting in his lap and sharing a plate of waffles with Pete. Maverick cuddles Bradley close to his chest on the couch for the rest of Saturday morning, Cartoon time. 

Pete feels a strange sense of calm he couldn't even fully imagine this time the day before. His resolve is absolute. He had a flight path set before him, a mission to fulfill: Carole Bradshaw would never have to plan his funeral. He was a cockroach, the world could keep smushing him, but Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell would continue on regardless.

–6 years —

Maverick had made many 'it will never happen again' promises to Goose. So many that he broke, and because of that, he doesn't know how to repent for this sin. He can't promise to never do the thing he just did again because it would only doom the moment. It would create a certainty rather than a likelihood that Maverick would fail Goose again. 

They had been drinking wine, which was the best way to start every night. That morning they had just dropped Bradley off at a weekend-long summer camp. It was the perfect opportunity to let loose, which Carole rarely had the opportunity for. 

It's easy for their nice early dinner or late lunch to shift to something more. It was easy with the way Carole hugged his waist on the back of his bike. Squealing when he reeved the engine or took a fast turn. Turning his head just a little further to the left was easy when Carole kissed his cheek. 

It is easy for one half brush of lips to become one kiss. And it is oh so easy for one kiss to turn into two, to three, until suddenly Pete had lost count. 

It wasn't easy to undress her. The back of the dress she wore had what felt like a million ties. Maverick had no idea how she got it on in the first place. It was easy to carry Carole to her room, her legs wrapped securely around his waist. It was easy how they fit together. 

Then for a while, it was blissful. For a little bit, nothing existed besides the two of them. It was easy when not a single thought ran through Pete's head except her name. 

It was now that things weren't easy. Carole had her head pressed to his chest, and she was tracing random shapes on his skin. In this quiet space, the guilt starts trying to crawl back into his skin. How, even though everything had felt so easy and so wrong. What Pete just did was wrong. 

"We should talk about what just happened," Maverick decides to broach the topic. He squeezes his arm and hand that has draped across her back and settled on her hip. 

Carole props her chin on his chest to look at his face and into Pete's eyes. The moment those blues entrap him, Pete wishes she hadn't looked at him at all. It's so easy for those eyes to pull his vulnerabilities out of him. 

"What is there to talk about, sugar?" A slight smirk shows her lips. "Round three, I hope?" 

"No, we can't ever do this again," Maverick tells her slowly. 

"You better be joking right now, Pete." 

"I'm not."

She rolls her eyes at him and pushes herself up off his chest. Before asking him, "How many years have you been in love with me now? Two?" 

It had been over three since Pete knew. But that didn't really change anything, did it? 

"Carole," he tries to say her name sweetly, placatingly. 

"It's probably been almost four for me. I don't know when it happened. But it did. Then suddenly, I just noticed one day. Like when you are used to seeing something all the time until you forget it's there. But once someone else points it out, now that's the only thing you can see. That's how I realized I was in love with you. It wasn't really any one moment."

"Please don't," he begs her. This isn't a conversation that can end well. They have done so well, never directly bringing things like this up. Only a few close calls over the years. Now, not only did they have sex for the first time, but Carole had also pulled out the L word. 

"It's not a secret, Pete. So why do you want to keep pretending that it is?"

"If we say it, then it's real."

"You don't want anything real with me?" She sits even further up on the bed, and the sheets pool around her waist, momentarily distracting him. 

"That's not the problem," Pete sighs, slamming his eyes closed. 

"I want an answer that isn't connected to Goose, Maverick." 

"I could leave you just like he did."

"You think if you died, I would be any less hurt because you never said you loved me? Because you refused to love me how we deserve? Sugar," she drawls out the word so Pete knows that while not condescending, there was every ounce of judgment she possessed behind the word. 

"If you leave me, I will hurt. It always would have hurt, no matter the situation. Plus, you made a promise to me."

He snaps his mouth shut at her reminder flashes of flags, guns, and flyovers, temporarily invading his senses. Then, with three steady breaths in and out, he returns to the present with her. Carole's blue eyes search his face intently, but for what he doesn't know. 

"I don't know how to stop feeling guilty, Carole." Maverick tries to explain. 

"No," she declares, rolling to the side and dragging one of the blankets to cover herself until she reaches the edge of the bed. "Enough of this, Pete. Stop with the perpetual guilt. I'm tired of it." Carole throws on his shirt that had been tossed aside earlier and starts looking around the room, he assumes, for pants. 

"Here is the truth. If my husband were still alive, this never would have happened. But he's not. He left both of us." A few angry tears are spilling from her eyes, and her voice raises an octave. She points a finger harshly at him. "And no matter how much you loved him, I loved him more. I still love him more."  

She shimmies into some panties and then stares at where Pete is still frozen in bed. Carole starts to button up his top. It seems silly to him that she now wants to cover up the skin Pete had just spent the entire evening worshiping and memorizing. 

"We are still here, Pete. We have been alone for years. So why aren't we allowed to be happy? I think Nick would have wanted me to be happy."

Her words punch a hole straight through his chest. Maverick isn't sure how else to comfort her or how to deal with this situation. So Pete sits up further in bed, pulling the sheet with him, and pats the open space to his side. "Carole, come back to bed."

"No," she says, scrubbing at her tears with the edge of his shirt. Carole gives him one last desperate, hurt look before exiting the room. 

He curses under his breath at her exit, turning his face into the pillows to let out a frustrated groan. But the pillows smell like Carole, and the bed smells like her honeysuckle perfume mixed with sex. It is suddenly too heady there for his emotional state. 

Pete pulls himself from the bed, finding his boxers to throw on. He goes to the attached bathroom and washes his face with cold water, trying to think of a plan to rectify this situation. However, all that turns into is a useless staring contest with his reflection. 

Carole is cooking in the kitchen when he joins her. He fights the urge to tiptoe, which is ridiculous because they are the only two people in the house. 

Carole slams a mug of coffee down on the breakfast bar with more force than Pete would recommend when handling pottery. She motions for him to sit with a flick of her hand. Pete sees her drinking a cup of coffee herself, taking quick gulps of the stuff. Carole sets her own mug down only to add more baileys to replace the new space in her cup.  

"You're cooking?" He asks hesitantly, taking a seat. 

"Yes. Sex makes me hungry," Carole responds matter of a factly. She flips the quesadilla in the pan but doesn't look at him. 

"Three," Pete finally says, deciding to broach the silence between them. Carole doesn't respond, though, only taking the quesadilla out of the pan and starting to make another. 

"It's been three years since I knew I was in love with you."

"I know, she says quietly. She doesn't turn to acknowledge him still. 

"It was your laugh," Pete shook his head at the memory. "I love your laugh. Maybe I always have, and then I realized Bradley has the same laugh. It's what finally did me in. I didn't know I could love as much as I love the two of you." 

"I thought he had Nick's laugh," Carole responds quietly. Pete is pleasantly surprised to find hearing his name only leaves a small squeeze of hurt in his chest. 

"Nope, his real laugh, when he finds something actually funny. That's all you, sweetheart." 

Carole finishes cooking the second quesadilla. She sets it on a plate in front of Maverick. Carole gulps down more of her coffee, which Pete estimates is now eighty-five percent whiskey. Then digs into the quesadilla she made for herself. 

"Are we going to wait three more years? Do you think the guilt will be less then?" She asks him in between bites. 

"No," Pete says. "No more waiting, even if he would hate me for this. Because you deserve to be happy, Carole. We have each other. And I love you more now than I love him. "

"What if I can't give you that?" Carole asks him quietly. 

"I would never ask for that from you. Can I just ask you to love me as much as you are able?" Pete still hadn't eaten any of his food, but he got out of his chair, rounding the edge of the island. 

"Are you going to let go?" She asks, resting her hands on his bare chest when he comes to a halting stop in front of her. Maverick cadges her against the counter with his body dipping his head into the crook of Carole's neck and shoulder. 

"No, Carole Bradshaw. I don't think I will ever let go of you," he mutters into her skin as Carole's fingers thread into his hair. 

There is more to talk about, but it is also oh so easy to fall back into bed again. Pete silently repents and worships at the only alter he has ever found solace. His mind consumed only with the thought of her again: Carole's skin, Carole's thighs, Carole's sweet voice, Carole's sweeter taste, Carole... Carole... Carole... 

— 13 years—

Pete is the lighter sleeper between the two of them. So when the phone started ringing, he was jogging towards the kitchen to pick it up by the next ring before it could wake up Carole. 

"Mom?" The voice on the other side of the phone asks. It only takes Pete's sleep-ridden mind a few moments to recognize Bradley's voice and shock his mind into full alertness. 

"It's Mav. Are you okay?"

"Is my Mama there?" Bradley's voice is heavy and slurring just a bit. 

"Are you okay, Brad?"

"I'm drunk, Mav," Bradley giggles like he is eight years old again. 

"I can tell," Mav says with a chuckle, making Bradley laugh harder. Then Pete hears voices talking loudly, muffled on the other side of the phone. 

"Shut up! I'm on the phone." Bradley yells, and then there are more muffled voices. Pete waits patiently, his amusement almost equal to his worry about the teen. 

"Mom," Bradley sings into the phone again. 

"Mav," Pete gently corrects him, but Bradley continues, not even acknowledging it. 

"I'm at the barn past the other side of the tracks of the east river. Leech won't let me drive. Can you have dad pick me up?" 

Before Maverick can say anything else, the line clicks dead. He sighed heavily and went back to the bedroom. Carole is blinking up at him tiredly. She moves to sit up from the bed, but Pete stops her with a gentle hand on the shoulder. 

"Is Brad?" She asks him blearily. 

"He's okay. I'm going to pick him up right now." 

She sighs and settles back into the pillows. Pete presses a kiss to her lips and then an additional one to her forehead. Then, giving her a wink as he throws on some jeans and a random shirt. Carole laughs and gives him a sleepy smile before nestling back into the pillows.

Pete grabs his jacket off the hook by the door, shrugging it on. He closes the door as quietly as possible on his way out of the house. 

Maverick speeds across town on his bike. He is thankful that he and Bradley took the top and back off the Bronco last weekend in preparation for summer. When he gets to the barn, he puts his bike in the back of the Bronco first. Strapping it down tight before setting off to find his wayward teen. 

Bradley is at a beer pong table, chugging down whatever is in his solo cup, when Maverick finds him. Brad slams his drink down on the table and gives Pete a full-blown goofy grin. Pete raises an eyebrow but smiles back at him. 

"You ready to go home, kiddo?" He asks. 

Bradley enthusiastically nods and starts walking toward Pete but doubles back to finish whatever was in his drink and almost falls down in the process. Bradley's friends laugh at him, and Pete checks on them, too. He is pleased to find them all significantly more sober. 

Leecher, Brad's best friend, helps Mav lead Bradley out of the barn and into the Bronco. Once there, he fishes the keys out of his front pocket, pressing them into Maverick's hands. 

"I had to take his keys," the young man admits to Mav. Pete pats Leecher on the back kindly. 

"Thanks for not letting him drive, John."

"No problem, Mav. I'm glad you came and picked him up. He didn't think anyone would." Leecher responds. Pete has to clench his jaw hearing the comment. 

"Are the rest of you kids going to get home safe? I can swing back and give rides."

"No, Sir. We are good. I haven't been drinking tonight and am driving everyone else home."

"You're a good man," Pete tells him. 

Leecher ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. "Thank you. I made him drink some Gatorade. And Mav? Don't be too hard on him." 

"Have a good night, Leecher," Mav says, shaking the boys' hand. When he gets into the cab, Bradley looks at him like a kicked puppy dog.

"Are you mad at me?" He asks in a small voice.

"No, I'm not mad. You can always call me." Pete tells him evenly. 

"Not mad but disappointed, right?" Brad asks, leaning his head against the car's headrest and closing his eyes. 

"Bradley," Pete sighs softly, shaking his head. 

"Forget it," Bradley says, not opening his eyes. 

Pete is quiet for the rest of the drive until he pulls the Bronco into Brad's parking spot next to the shop at the house. They sit there in silence for a while before Bradley starts trying to fuss with his seatbelt. The action puts an end to Pete's quiet contemplation on how to best deal with this situation and how Goose would've approached it. 

"Hold on, Brad. We can't avoid this anymore. We need to talk."

"Come on, Mav. We can talk some other time."

"No, we are talking right now."

"You promised we would always talk in the mornings when I was sober."

His statement was true. Carole and Pete had always told Bradley that he could call them no matter what, and they would pick him up, no questions, no fighting. And then, in the morning, they could all deal with the aftermath together. 

"I know we did,' Pete sighs and grips the wheel a little tighter. "But this talk isn't about you being in trouble for sneaking out and drinking. And I'm not taking you back into your mother's house tonight until you are sober."  

Pete starts the Bronco back up and pulls it out of the driveway, driving through town until he pulls up at the small 24-hour diner. He helps Brad inside and orders them both waffles, bacon, grits, and eggs, with two cups of coffee. 

Bradley doesn't say a single thing the whole time, except for how he wants his eggs cooked and echoing Pete's "thank you, ma'am" as their waitress walks back to the kitchen. 

Pete switches his water with Bradley's empty glass when the teenager finishes his own in three long gulps. Maverick sips his coffee, savoring the bitter flavor on his tongue. Shitty coffee like this reminds him of being on the carrier. The thought makes him sigh. He would be leaving on another cruise soon, and it felt like all the time was just sand slipping through his fingers. 

"Why don't you talk to me anymore?" Pete asks once the silence has stretched long enough that Bradley is shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

"We talk all the time."

"No, we don't. Not really, not like we used to. You don't talk to me. You don't talk to your mother. We don't even know who you are anymore. You are sneaking out to parties you know we would let you go to if you asked. You're drinking and getting into fights. The coach called and told us how you've been skipping practice."

"I'm just having some fun, Mav." 

"Look, it's one thing to have fun, Bradley, but it's another to risk your future. You almost got behind the wheel tonight. The only thing that stopped you was Leech taking your keys. You were risking your life!" 

He wasn't expecting Bradley to visibly recoil at his words. "You risk your life all the time, and so did Goose."

"That's different than drinking and driving."

"Of course, it's different," Bradley scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

"Flying a plane and drunk driving are not comparable, Bradley." 

"Sure, Mav. Only one of those things killed Goose."

Pete sits further back in his seat. Not letting the hurt and anger show in his face that he feels in his chest. He has to remind himself that Brad is lashing out, trying to hurt him. "Well, your father only did one of those things."

"You know, you can drop this whole duty, obligation, tough love, act you have towards me because you feel guilty or whatever." 

"I don't love you out of guilt or obligation, Bradley."

"You don't love me at all! " The teen hisses back at him. "You loved Goose, and with my mom, you just—" 

"I better not hear one disrespectful thing come out of your mouth about your mother, Bradshaw," Maverick warns him lowly. 

Brad's face flushes, but he does close his mouth for a moment, reconsidering what he was going to say. Pete knows that Bradley loves his mother more than anyone else in this world, and he would only regret saying whatever was about to spring out. Finally, he seems to settle on kinder words.  

"You only put up with me because you feel guilty about my mom."

"You think I 'put' up with you?" Pete didn't ask the question accusatory. Instead, he asks it because he really wants to know what Bradley feels. That is much more important than any of the reactionary feelings bubbling in his chest. 

"Yes. Why else would you bother with me?" Brad says the words plainly like they should be the most obvious thing in the world to Maverick. 

"I know you feel trapped by this idea of your dad hanging over your head. God knows your mother and I haven't helped as much as we should have with that. But you aren't him, Brad, and you never will be." Pete says gently, trying to see where the root of Bradley's problem is where he suspects.  

"Fuck you. Goose was an amazing man."

Maverick sighs and pulls a hand through his hair. So that approach wasn't going to pan out. "Yes, he was. He was my best friend. You aren't him, though. Bradley, you are trying to fit yourself into the shape of a ghost."

Bradley's jaw clenches, averting his gaze to stare out the diner window. Pete remembered the same look he used to have, the one he catches Bradley with sometimes; how his eyes would linger over pictures and then in the mirror, how it felt trying to pick out similarities and measure the differences. The way it hung over him.

Now here with Bradley, Pete finally understands what people were always trying to impress on him when they said to let it go. He understands what Viper saw while Pete struggled against his father's shadow. 

But how do you tell a tall, gangly boy who desperately wants to be a man to let go of his father? His father you killed?  

So, maybe he finally understood where they were coming from. However, he didn't understand what letting it go actually meant. Pete knew he would never let it go. He now understood the want to let go, though. The want for the young man in front of you to understand you; The want to not watch him make the same mistakes you did. Wanting to shield him from suffering under the crushing, unbearable weight of loss and expectation. 

"Look, Brad, you are going through changes and growing up. Right now, you are deciding the man you want to be. It's a choice you can't make for anyone but yourself. You have to be your own man. If that includes parts of him, great. But don't make your goal to try and fill his shoes."

"What do you want from me?" Bradley finally spits out, his face lighting up red in anger. Before Pete can respond, Bradley is barreling onwards, not even letting him get a word in. 

"I know," Bradley's voice cracks, "I know I'm never going to be Goose. Okay? I don't need you to tell me that."

The quiet between them stretches. The classic 50s and 60s music humming in the background, the kitchen sounds, and the few other scattered patrons' conversations fill the space. Bradley starts to sip his coffee now and rearranges his silverware under Pete's heavy stare. 

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You always call him Goose now." 

Bradley pauses at that. Setting the silverware he was fiddling with down. Instead, electing to start folding his straw wrapper, making a tiny accordion before he answers. 

"I don't know. That is all I really know him as. I guess… I realized he isn't really my dad anymore. You are."

A lump forms at the back of Maverick's throat, and he desperately tries to swallow it down. He feels tears start to well up. Bradley's eyes refuse to meet Pete's own searching gaze, but his eyes flit over his face trying to gauge his reaction. 

"I am so sorry, Bradley. "

"You are sorry? Sorry for what? That you are my dad?"

"No, not that! Nick would have done such a better job than me. I love being your dad so much. I'm trying, but I'm sorry you missed out on having an amazing dad in your life."

"I don't feel like I missed out on having a fantastic dad. You have been here the whole time. I just feel like I'm missing out on having known Goose. And it's so hard. Sometimes when I do something, I can see it on everyone's faces that I didn't do it the way they expected. 

"I see it in mom's face, and I see it in yours. When I don't react like y'all thought he would have reacted. Or I don't say something like he would have. I'm being compared to a man I never knew. Everyone looks at me and sees his distorted reflection."

Pete feels shame and guilt fill him. He knew part of what Bradley was saying was true, and he knows that has never been fair to him. Their waitress brings them their food and sets it down, asking if they need anything. Pete brushes her off with a quick thank you and watches Bradley start to cut into his waffles, the exact same way that Pete does. That hard lump of emotion rose up in him again at the sight. 

"I do love your parents. Your father was my best friend. Your mother is the strongest and kindest woman I have ever met. But you, Bradley Bradshaw. I love you for so many other reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with them.

"I am proud of you. Watching you grow up and getting to see the man you are becoming; it has been the greatest honor of my life. Being in your life..." Pete's voice almost catches, but he clears his throat to continue. "It is a joy. I know you are figuring out who you are, but I am here for you, Bradley. Every step of the way, to support you in any way I can. 

"There is no one I would rather spend a Sunday in the shop with. No one I would rather go to a baseball game with. I love hearing about your classes and piano lessons. I was so proud last month when you refinished the Bronco. I love how you always try to take care of your mom. That you don't think it's embarrassing, even when your friends rib you. I love that you hate meatloaf just as much as I do. That you would rather do any chore than go to the grocery store. I love how you try to find humor in every situation. 

"I love you, Bradley, with or without your parents involved. I will keep loving you, no matter what. It's not something that is going to change because you snuck out to a party or because you don't like something Goose would have. I don't put up with you. I am thankful every day that you put up with me. That you have let me be in your life."

Tears are dripping down Bradley's face, and he is quick to scrub them away. His naturally ruddy cheeks, which were already red from alcohol, are flaming now. The color spreading down the length of his neck too. Brad hangs his head low, pressing his face into his shoulder and taking some big breaths. When the tears subside and Bradley has sufficiently scrubbed them away with the back of his hand, he pulls his face up, looking right at Pete. 

Then Bradley grins, cheesing at him. "Pete?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"It is okay if I call you dad? Right?" The grin hasn't fallen off Bradley's face, but his vulnerability is still written all over his eyes. 

"Of course, any time you want."

A few beats of silence pass. 

"Hey, Dad?" Pete doesn't know how to identify the emotions whirling in him hearing that phrase from Bradley. 

"Yeah?" 

"If you don't want your waffles, can I have them?" 

Pete laughs and smiles at Bradley shaking his head. "Absolutely not. These are my waffles."

The grin starts to fall off Bradley's face, and he looks down at his almost empty waffle plate. Despair and sadness slowly starting to overcome his face. 

"But you can order a milkshake," Pete tells him, finally cutting into his own waffles. He is rewarded with Bradley's grin again. 

They eat in silence together, and Bradley does steal one bite of Pete's waffles. A feat he only accomplishes after an epic fork fight that ends with both of them having a laughing fit. 

Walking back to the Bronco, after finishing their food, Bradley drinks his milkshake in a huge to-go cup. He throws an arm over Pete's shoulder. Brad has been taller than Pete for almost a year and still revels in it.

Pete doesn't mind it, though. It's a comfortable feeling that reminds him of Goose. He tries to dislodge that thought, instead enjoying that it's Brad, pushing the ghosts away to focus on existing in this moment with his son. "You know we will still have to talk with your mom when she wakes up." 

"Yeah, I know." Bradley groans, jumping into the cab. 

"Dad?" Bradley asks as Mav is starting the car.

"Yes, Brad?"

"I love you too. You know?"

"Yeah, son, I know," Pete replies gruffly. 

If Pete has to wipe some tears off his face at the next stop light on their way home, that is between Pete, Bradley, and God. 

— 16 years–

Pete and Carole rarely fight, but when they do, it's normally quiet, solemn, and serious. Not the blow-up, screaming, while throwing things fight they have had tonight. The kind of fight where they aren't even fighting about what they started with anymore, stuck on some twisted tangent. 

Pete is in the middle of an angry monologue where he is puncturing every sentence with a slam of his finger into the table when Carole interrupts him and asks him to bring her coffee. The request resets his brain, short-circuiting whatever thought he was in the middle of. It's a request to allow them both to cool off more than anything, but it also lets Pete know he is in for a longer night than he was already planning.  

Maverick has failed to deny Carole anything she has asked for a long time. He knows this fight is no different, which just works the anger and hurt deeper under his skin. Pete doesn't want to hurt Carole, but he wants her to know how much he is hurting. So, making sure to slam the screen door extra hard on his way out, he leaves the house and hunts down a place that can make her coffee.

Maverick orders the drink sickly sweet and extra hot since that is the only way Carole will drink it; it is a drink order he has always joked would send most people into diabetic shock. He starts to feel his blood pressure lower to a stable level when he has the drink secured. Pete then asks for a cup of Carole's favorite tea too. By the time he gets back to the house with two cooling drinks, he already has a sense of hollow acceptance beating in his chest. 

Carole takes two whole sips of the coffee when he returns to her side with it. She wrinkles her nose during each gulp and then presses the cup back into his hands. 

"You can have it," she tells him with a smile like she had gotten away with a little trick. 

"Thank you," Pete plays along like he hadn't always known that the coffee was for him. He takes a long drink of it despite the sweetness making him want to wrinkle his nose. He will drink the whole thing; drink it for the same reason you have to stomach through cough syrup. 

"We can finish our fight now," Carole tells him after watching him take a drink, setting the coffee down again.

Pete shakes his head and leaves her side to go into the kitchen. He adds a generous amount of honey to the extra cup before returning to her. 

"I got it just in case," Maverick tells her. She knows he's lying but does say anything. Carole only accepts the cup with shaking hands after she gives Pete a soft kiss, cupping his cheek and stroking her thumb along his cheekbone. 

He settles on the other side of the couch, and she sips the tea before setting it aside. Carole doesn't breach the silence between them again. Instead, she waits for Maverick to be ready. 

His chest aches, and he loves that she has always been the one thing, the one person he could take his time with. 

"You know, my dad is the reason I didn't go to Annapolis." He finally says. 

"Yes, I know," Carole tells him with apparent disinterest. 

"Are you okay with Bradley being like me?"

"He already is like you."

"Like me when you met me," Maverick clarifies. 

"Yes, Pete. I am." 

"Why?" The question falls out of his mouth and shatters on the ground at their fragile feet. Pete's vulnerability laid out in front of them. A young Peter Mitchell is one of the worst things he can think of Bradley being. 

She looks at him like he is crazy then. Her eyebrows creasing with confusion. "Because you lived. And Bradley will live." 

The words echo between them, resonating deep within Pete. She says it so simply like it is a given. Something to never question. And it's true; Bradley will live. Maverick knows it, knows it like how he knows Carole won't, knows it how he knows Goose didn't.  

"Haven't you realized yet?" She finally asks him, taking one of his hands and holding it with both of hers. 

"Realized what?"

"We look at him, and all we see is Nick, and he is on the outside. But inside, Bradley is your son Pete. You raised him with me."

"I know," Pete breathes the words, afraid of what owning them too loudly might do. 

"Nick wouldn't be mad, you know. Not anymore." Carole laughs, shaking her head. "He's going to be thankful Brad grew up with a Dad."

It's a conversation that they have had many different times in many different ways. How Goose would feel. How Goose would have reacted. It feels even more raw now than ever before, which Maverick finds a bit funny since time has only stretched. It has been many long years since Goose died. 

"I try to think he would be," Pete says with a sigh. 

"Why won't you do it then?" Carole asks him. 

"I'm going to do it, Carole," Pete tells her. He expects the words to taste of bitter defeat in his mouth, but they don't. He takes another swig of the coffee and sets it on the table. Pete knew he would do it from the first moment she asked. Maverick had accepted he would do it while driving home with their drinks. 

"Do you promise?" She asks him, and it is oh so rare for Pete to hear Carole sound this small.

"Yes, I promise." 

"Why didn't you want to?" 

"Because he is so much better than me. Because I didn't want him to ever go through the hurt, I did. Because I love him too much to not break my own heart while breaking his dreams." 

"Am I wrong, that he isn't ready? That this will protect him?" Pete considers her question for a long time. 

"No, you aren't wrong. It will make him decide if he actually wants to. If he is serious, he will do NROTC. Give Brad the chance to search for something besides Goose's legacy." 

"He's going to hate us," Carole says. 

"No," Maverick says quickly, cutting off her words. "He will hate me, Carole. Just me."

"I'm the one asking you to veto his application."

"He doesn't need to know that. "

"That's not fair to you or him."

"It is fair to him because he loves you, Carole. And I'm not going to let him convince himself otherwise. I don't matter." 

"You do matter, Pete."

"Not more than Bradley. Nothing matters more than Bradley."  

Tears spill from her eyes, and she grips him tightly in her arms. Throwing them around his shoulders and pulling him close. She is thinner and frailer than ever before. No one wants to address the reality that her treatments aren't working. And Pete hasn't even started to prepare for the type of ghost she will be hanging over his shoulder. 

"I don't want him to hate the only person he is going to have left," Carole cries into his neck. "I don't want you to lose him." 

Maverick just holds her tighter. "I'll get through it. I always do. Someday, he will understand." But that was something he didn't know. It is just something he hopes.  

"I don't want to fight anymore," Carole tells him. 

"No more fights, I promise," Pete tells her. It is yet another promise he manages to keep to her. Pete never has another fight with Carole Bradshaw before she dies. 

And Rooster does seem to understand, 16 years later, drinking a cup of black coffee in the hanger that Maverick calls home. Both of them are still sore and exhausted from the mission they flew together. Maverick is sure that he looks borderline haggard.  

While drinking his coffee, Pete thinks it feels like putting on a shirt you forgot you had. One that got lost in the back of your closet. The unexpected joy of finding out it still fits, maybe not the same way it used to fit. But it fits regardless. 

It fits how Bradley cuts his waffles the same, that he still lovingly dedicates time to the Bronco, and roots for the same sports team. But he is different in so many ways too. Pete hasn't adjusted to the hulking filled-out frame, the type of beer Rooster likes, or his favorite artist to play in the shop. 

But Maverick has no concern about learning what's different. Nothing feels too out of reach now that Bradley is talking to him again. Now that he tried to sacrifice himself for his son. Now that Bradley didn't let it happen. When they beat out impossible odds of dying, the trials of repairing their relationship don't seem so insurmountable anymore. Especially not when Pete finds a picture of a ten-year-old Bradley hugging him and Carole tucked into the passenger visor of the Bronco. Bradley's blocky neat handwriting on the back:  Mom & Dad - March 1995.  

[whiskeynwriting]

Insatiable - Chapter Five: Let Me Savor You

Oberyn Martell x OFC Reader “Savia”

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Word count: 9.9k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) dirty talk, praise kink, oral (m and f receiving), heavy petting/grinding, masturbation, slight voyeurism, spanking, cum play-ish, exhibitionism.

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Summary: Your courtship reveals personal self-doubt, but the prince’s love for you continues when he sees you with his children. Unbeknownst to you, Oberyn plans for a big decision.

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A/N: God, what a fucking sugar daddy. Oberyn Martell absolutely OWNS ME.

Side note, do y’all like longer chapters (8-12k)? I really enjoy writing them, but let me now your thoughts! (:​

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“Oberyn, my prince.” You express, eyeing him lustfully. “You look ravishing.”

He turns away from his servant, smirking at you from over his shoulder. The prince is currently being dressed in a brown, leather suit of armor for his training. He’d taken time off from such activities due to your presence but would like to keep his form and skill. You hardly mind, though. Getting to watch the prince of Dorne conquer the arena set before you, hailing victory over his opponents as he dominates the small battlefield… what better way to spend the day?

The market’s celebration won’t be until later this evening, allowing you to relax at your leisure while the sun rests high above Dorne. Your booth had been prepared diligently by your helpers as well as Oberyn’s artistic eye, making sure your beauty and intellect are truly honored as you’re shown to his people. This day is to be a marvelous one, indeed.

Your eyes are set on the prince as he grins, eyeing his prominent muscles even from beneath the outer layer of protection that adorns his toned frame. He looks magnificent, the shade of brown perfectly complimenting Oberyn’s dark features. He’d been freshly shaven this morning, the dark hair of his scruff lining his sharp jawline while his mustache sits cleanly above his upper lip. The corded muscles in his glorious neck tense beneath his bronzed skin as he eyes you. You continue to scan his body, eyes rising up to land on his wavy, brown locks. His dark hair grays on the end, only adding to the prince’s mature appearance and wildly attractive appeal.

“As do you…” he mutters, his voice alluringly low. “Lovely girl.”

His eyes drop from yours, now staring at your exposed cleavage. You’re wearing a short dress with a low-cut neckline, detailed with small sleeves that hang off your shoulders and over your biceps. It’s quite loose, and very obviously revealing.

He walks over to you, now fully leaving the servant attempting to finish his dressings. His large hands immediately find your breasts, cupping them lightly. A loan groan rumbles through his chest as his tongue peaks out to wet his lower lip. He then looks to you, slowly smirking as he grips you a bit harder. You gasp softly, maintaining eye contact with the passionate prince.

Your sweet hands reach up to hold his face just as he leans into you. His hands curl around your breasts as you kiss resting on your back as they fall lower. He squeezes your round cheeks, pressing you further into him as he grins against your lips. One of your hands trails to the back of his neck, the other up the back of his head to intertwine with his beautiful, dark brown hair.

“My prince,” the servant speaks, “your first opponent has arrived.”

“Go,” you whisper, pulling back enough to rest a hand on his chest. “Let me see you fight for Dorne.”

You know this isn’t real; he’s not out to kill these men, as they aren’t even true enemies. This is all practice, an exercise to refamiliarize him with his combat strategies and swift skills, further increasing his strength and muscle memory. But you can’t help yourself; he looks amazing like this. So strong and broad, so menacingly fierce as he walks away with his signature Dornish spear in hand.

You exhale excitedly, staring at him for a moment before turning to walk over to the cement seating. Ambrose waits for you, standing at the edge of one of the seats. His hands rest behind his back as his fingers link together, slightly puffing out his armored chest. He appears tall and robust while clothed in the dazzling metal; you’re so proud of him and what he’s become.

“Ambrose,” you say softly while approaching him. “I’ve missed you.”

He embraces you fully once you reach out to him, holding you tightly against his large frame. His reply is warm as its spoken, full of genuine love for you as his assumed sibling.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Due to your busy calendars, the two of you had been unable to converse over the past few days. You’d been quite busy with Oberyn, not only fulfilling your sexual desires but your professional responsibilities, as well. Furnishing your display for tonight’s festival, attending Lord Doran’s meetings, and studying up on your lectures, was quite the load of work. Ambrose found himself betwixt a hectic schedule as well, doing his best to live up to the Dornish guards’ expectations. And to your knowledge, he was successful in doing so.

“How have you been?” he asks, moving aside to allow you a seat.

“Quite busy.” you retort, crossing your legs as you rest on the stone bench. You place a hand next to you on your seat, leaning against it for support as you begin to relax.

“And Prince Oberyn?”

“Quite busy.” you repeat, glancing up at him with a teasing smirk.

Ambrose sighs loudly, rolling his eyes in a dramatic show of annoyance. “You are rather irritating, little sister.”

“Oh yeah?’ you reply, blurting out an abrupt laugh at your knight’s blunt statement. “Well, what about you? What have you been up to?”

“That woman you saw me with earlier this week, you know, during your first celebration?”

“Yes.”

You do recall her, though not in detail. It had been a fleeting moment, the recollection of seeing a woman pull Ambrose toward the dancefloor while you munched on treats at the head table.

“I’ve seen her since.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she’s quite appealing.”

“Ambrose, that’s great!” you exclaim, smiling up at him. “The Dornish are quite a treat.”

You sigh, a small shiver of excitement running through your body you as you recollect this morning’s endeavor. The prince’s lips and tongue had roamed the entirety of your body at least twice before your morning meal. He reveled in your receptiveness, savoring your small whines and moans as he licked and sucked over the pointed peaks of your nipples. He’d lightly drag his perfectly straight teeth over the sensitive skin, biting down gently before sucking it into his fervent mouth. He’d cupped you roughly, massaging you plump flesh beneath his large hands while he ground his clothed erection over your hip.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled against you, sighing deeply. “So divine.”

He continued his praise, entirely aware of the effect his sincere commendations have your wanting sex. He ripped himself from your breast, glancing down at your colliding hips. The wetness growing on his pants wasn’t just due to his leaking cock, but your dripping slick as he rubbed himself against you. You bucked your hips up at the lack of friction, earning a small chuckle from the older prince.

“Oh…” he sighed out, his tone mockingly sweet as he spoke to you. “Such a needy lover…”

Ambrose grins, nodding slightly as he stares ahead. Due to his sudden silence, you follow his gaze, landing your eyes on the prince as he stands a few yards ahead. His opponent is large, slightly taller than him with bulkier muscles, too. You wonder how the prince will do when fighting against this man.

“Can I service you, madam?” Amabel offers, rushing over to your side. She’d just finished washing your bathrobe and is returning to tend to you while Milena works on sharpening Oberyn’s weapons.

“Yes,” you reply, lolling your head to the side with a lazy smile. “Wine would be magnificent.”

“Of course,” she nods, gracefully curtseying before walking off.

A courtyard off to the side holds a set of tables and carts, all filled with scrumptious treats of fruits and vegetables, along with bread, mead, and wine. The sets are shielded beneath a single, large canopy in order to say cool in the Dornish heat. Amabel fills a glass, returning it to you in a matter of minutes.

Wine in hand, you relax into your seat, enjoying the contended feeling blossoming within you. The day is bright, full of beautiful rays and glowing expectations of the hours to come. Your tropical surroundings create a place so magnificent you swear it could have been made by the gods themselves. Dorne truly feels like home, but no, that doesn’t do it justice. Dorne feels like heaven.

Suddenly, the prince’s adversary approaches, fiercely swinging his sword at the beautiful Dornishman before him. Oberyn is swift, shifting to the side in response before twirling his spear upwards. He easily knocks the man’s weapon from his hands, scattering it across the stone floor. Oberyn then turns, using his staff to shove the man forward and forcing him to stumble to the ground.

“Please.” Oberyn sighs dramatically, “Do you truly think I’ve been out of practice so long?”

The man growls, shoving himself up from the ground to face the prince of Dorne once more. There’s a wooden case of multiple weapons off to the side of the small arena, to which the man takes advantage of. He marches over to it, grabbing a dagger and lunging at his opponent. Oberyn’s feet are quick as he jumps backward a few times, dodging his attacks before moving to strike with his own weapon.

Oberyn is flashy with his style, displaying his illustrious strength and speed as his energy heightens with each advance. You can see his brow furrowing as he contemplates his next move, concentrating on formulating his steps to victory. Sweat begins wetting his brow as he continues to fight, swiftly leaping through the air before moving to strike. Oberyn’s opponent eyes the prince’s cockiness, grabbing hold of him before their eyes meet and shoving him to the ground. The prince stumbles, falling to his back and dropping his spear. The taller man lunges at him, surely thinking he now has the upper hand.

Your heart races as you attentively observe the scene before you, watching the prince’s every move. Even from the ground, he’s confident; so sure of himself and his knowledge and strength. He stares up at the man, baring his teeth as he quickly shifts his body.

He rolls on the ground and away from his rival, speedily moving his body and lifting himself to stand behind the man. The nobleman is now weaponless as the man turns, dagger in hand as he moves to attack the prince once more. Oberyn leans to his left, sidestepping the strike and reaching out to grab the attacker’s wrist. In the blink of an eye, Oberyn disarms him, ripping the small knife from his hand before turning to slice the man’s arm. He shouts in pain, grabbing the fresh wound on his outer bicep as he turns toward Oberyn, who is already delivering his next blow. Oberyn’s strong arm shoves itself to the right as he kneels, gracefully cutting through the skin along the man’s outer leg. The man then falls to his knee once his calf is sliced. The prince rises to his feet, languidly circling the man before kicking his lower back, hailing victory above the wounded fighter.

“Stay down.” Oberyn’s low tone demands, panting as he tosses the dagger to the ground. “Bring me another man. One who is interested in a proper duel, not hand-to-hand.”

Oberyn continues to fight, and you continue to watch. Opponent after opponent, glass after glass, time begins passing quicker than you’d like. Your enjoyment is obvious as you watch your lover, excitement rushing through you at each advance he makes, each victory he claims. His confidence is something you admire greatly, endlessly entrancing to your beautiful mind. His strength, his power, his dominance… each impressive trait showing in more ways than one.

You opted to give Oberyn some privacy once he finished his training, surely off to bathe and relax before dinner, and ultimately tonight’s later events. He had denied your offer, though, insisting on your presence.

“Have I done something of concern?” he asks softly, curiously. “Something to upset you, little one?”

You smirk up at him, both the nickname and his tender words waving butterflies through your stomach. He pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, looking down at you as a small smile begins sliding across his lips.

“No, my prince,” you reply, staring up at him lovingly, “You have done nothing wrong.”

Though you wanted to give Oberyn some time alone, his decision to keep you by his side made your heart grow fonder. He led you to his chambers, hand in hand, walking down the path you’ve grown all too familiar with. His bath had already been ran, the steam filling the room laced with a flowery perfume.

“Who should I call upon?” you ask, scanning your reflection. Your fingers comb through your hair, a bit tangled and in desperate need of a wash.

“Milena has always been fantastic with hair.” Oberyn responds, already relaxing into the warm water. He rests his head back on the stone, closing his eyes.

Within a few moments, Milena is by your side. She sits you in a chair near the sink, laying you back as she washes your hair. Her fingers feel graciously soothing as she massages the soap through your now wet strands, rinsing and combing them to perfection. Though Amabel did your hair and makeup, she’s yet to wash your hair. Maybe you could see how she does it next.

“Hm?” you reply to Oberyn, who has questioningly called your name.

“Would you like to meet two of my daughters tonight?” he inquires, his eyes still closed as he continues to ease his muscles in the hot bath.

Your heart leaps at the offer, nervousness quickly flooding your veins. Of course you want to meet his daughters, you’d absolutely love to, you’d be honored to. It’s possible, though, that you’re worried they’ll have the same distaste for you as Oberyn’s niece does. You also wonder what they look like, if they have their father’s eyes or his charisma, if they have a Dornish personality or one similar to their cousin, Trystane. Though, you suppose you’ll never know unless you meet them. It’s a good sign, you think, that Oberyn wants you to meet his daughters. Surely, this would mean your significance is growing in the prince’s eyes.

“I would love to.” You respond, once you’ve swiftly sorted through your thoughts.

He opens his eyes, leaning his head forward to look at you. You’re just barely able to see him from out of the corner of your eye as he stares.

“Two of them are quite eager.” He informs, “The two eldest that remain in the palace.”

“Really?” you ask, so shocked that you lift your head from Milena’s fingers.

“Oh!” she shouts, sudsy water now splashing onto the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Milena.” You respond, quickly leaning back down to rest your head in the soapy water.

“Yes,” prince Oberyn responds once you are settled, chuckling a bit at your surprise. “Sarella and Elia share your love of art.”

You smile up at Milena, and she returns the look, more than happy for you and Oberyn as you continue to grow fonder. “How old are they?”

“Sarella,” the prince begins, sitting up from his relaxed position. “Is eighteen. Elia has turned fourteen within the past month.”

“Oberyn,” you sigh out, slightly shaking your head in Milena’s grasp. “I’m so excited to meet them.”

He chuckles, tilting is head at you. “Does an introduction over dessert sound appealing to you?”

“That sounds perfect.”

After a few more minutes, Milena is finished with your hair. She dismisses herself before you undress, allowing you to bask in the prince’s company in private. Oberyn calls you to him, in constant demand of your attention. You love this, truly, his explicit desire for your affection.

“Oh, my prince…” you sigh out, slowly striding over to him as you lower yourself into the water. “You were quite impressive today.”

He grins at you, due to both your words and your naked form. His eyes scan your curves, running along your breasts, your waist, and your hips before hitting the water’s surface. He lets out a small breath, almost sounding frustrated as he adjusts in his seat.

“I enjoyed watching you,” you continue, now close enough to run your slender fingers over his smooth chest. “Watching you dominate those men with such power and strength, such speed and skill…”

Your hand trails up, lightly cupping his jaw and staring into his beautiful brown eyes. “Was almost as breathtaking as when you dominate me.”

Oberyn’s smile grows, his large hands finding the skin of your hips and curling around to your back. He brings you in, pressing your body flush against his. Those marvelous hands trail lower to grip your backside. He then gazes at your plump breasts and pointed nipples as they rest before him, moaning lightly at the sight. You move your legs, crawling over him and resting on his lap. You wrap your delicate arms around his neck, sliding one down his chest and scraping lightly at the muscles that lie beneath his tan skin.

“I never knew my combat strategies sparked such arousal.” He teases, amusement in his voice as he grins. His gaze then meets yours, his mouth parting slightly as he stares in awe at your beauty.

“Liar.” You retort, playfully smirking down at him.

There’s a pale off to the side that holds various soaps, sponges, and wash rags. You lean forward, taking a bar of soap and a small cloth. He watches you as you dip the rag into the water, rubbing the soap along the fabric before laying it over his chest. With the bar now set on the edge of the stone tub, you begin rubbing the wash rag over his skin, lightly cleansing him of any dirt and grime he built up during his earlier activities. You’ve worshipped his body since the first night of your stay, but you desire to do more, to show your adoration for him in ways that go beyond your physical desires. And you do, continuing to move the washcloth across his skin and caring for the prince’s body with the veneration and attention he undoubtedly deserves.

“Oberyn?” you ask, your eyes staring at his broad chest.

“What is it, little one?” he replies, his voice savoringly sweet. He lifts a hand from beneath the water, lightly pushing some wet strands from your face and behind your ear.

“What will you do tonight, during this festival?”

“What do you mean?” he inquires, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll be by your side, Inamorata…”

The tips of his fingers find the skin beneath your jaw, softly urging you to look at him.

“Presenting the magnificent masterpiece that you are.”

You smile at this, his words and actions causing an ungodly amount of love to fill your bones. Your hands continue moving the soapy, wet cloth over his body, rubbing along his tense muscles and helping to soothe their dull ache.

“You’re so good to me.” You sweetly sing, sitting upon his lap with your long hair cascading down your back.

He watches you, watches your eyes as they scan his body. The same doting eyes that have greeted him each morning, that have lulled him to sleep each night. And your skin, the same skin that adorns your adorable freckles and provides your soothing touch, resting just over his. It drives him wild how absolutely ethereal you are, how gentle yet powerful you can be. He swears that if you let him look into your eyes a little deeper, for a little longer, he’d see everything that makes the night sky so beautiful, all the stars and planets and galaxies within your loving soul. He’d see that you are made up of everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever wished for, everything he’s ever loved.

“How can I not be?” he questions, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never been so taken with anyone, with anything, in the way I am taken with you.”

Your eyes find his once again, heat flushing your face as your heart races just inches from his. The hand washing him momentarily stalls, resting over his right pectoral.

“Is that true?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice full of sincerity as his brow furrows slightly. “Of course it is.”

You look back down at his naked body resting below yours, scrubbing your cloth with more soap before moving on to his right bicep. As you swirl the dripping fabric over his lean muscles, your thoughts begin to wander.

“Sometimes…” you begin, hesitantly sharing your reflections. “When we lay at night, resting in each other’s arms, I look at you. I watch the little movements you make in your sleep, the way you sometimes giggle or speak… and I can’t help but stare at your handsome face.”

Oberyn hums happily as you go on, a small smile lifting in his cheeks. His large hands hold you, gently circling his thumbs over your hips. You rest comfortably in his tender grasp beneath the warm bathwater, always content with your body against his. Though you aren’t looking at him, he is looking at you, offering every ounce of his attention to you and your hesitant expressions.

“I ask myself if I can remember you… if I know you, somehow.” He watches your brow crease as you concentrate, doing your best to explain your abstract thoughts. “If my soul knows yours, if we are connected… in a way. Like when the Gods made us, did they make us together?”

You sigh, growing a bit frustrated with yourself and the clarity your words lack. Your hands continue cleaning him, washing his beautiful body as he listens to your random babbles.

“Everything feels so natural with you, Oberyn, so comfortable and warm. I feel like I was meant to find you, in a way… like I was drawn to you. I feel so happy here with you… I feel like I belong here.”

As you continue to express your inner emotions, another thought crosses your mind, a quote, actually.

“I heard something, once.” You say, smiling to yourself, “‘I look into your eyes and I’m sure that some divine artist dipped her brush in the same soul and used it to paint us both’.”

Your smile widens as you say it, the words blossoming a happy warmth in your heart. You’ve always loved that quote; it sounds so spiritual and pure, so loving and comforting.

“And do you believe it?” he asks upon your sudden silence.

“Hm?”

“Do you believe this divine artist used the same medium when creating our souls?”

The prince asks this genuinely as he continues his loving strokes, his heart pounding beneath his chest as he awaits your response. His soothing circles along your hip bones have now turned into passionate, yet slow brushes along your thighs and up to your waist. Oberyn’s love for you continues to grow with each word that leaves your lips, with each passing second spent in your company. He longs to endlessly hold you in his arms, not only on this day, but for all his days.

“I do.”

Supper strolled idly by as thoughts of Oberyn’s daughters filled your mind. Arianne tried her best to pick at you, but it’s as if you had ears for everything but her. There were more important things to give attention to.

So, here you sit, gathered beneath a designated canopy at Oberyn’s request as you wait for him and his daughters to arrive. Dessert has yet to be served, which is proper; it should be provided when the royal family arrives. Though, Oberyn’s daughters are not royals, regardless of their father’s title. They are Sands, bastards of Dorne, therefore they can never hold the title of Martell. Nevertheless, they are treated as monarchs; entirely granted the rights of noblewomen in every way but legal. And this, you choose to respect.

The day is hot, hotter than the previous ones you’ve experienced. The combination of the intense temperature and your rising nerves cause sweat to form on your brow, which you quickly wipe away before the prince and his daughters approach. You see them; Oberyn walking down the center of the stone path with a daughter on either side. One is taller, reaching the height of her father’s shoulders and neck, causing you to assume her identity as Sarella Sand. His other daughter, Elia, walks to his left, lovingly holding his hand. Oberyn looks beautiful like this, so full of love and pride as he escorts his daughters through the water gardens, the three of them happily conversing as they approach you. Oberyn then looks up, meeting your affectionate eyes before speaking your name. His daughters then look up, too.

“My prince,” you respond softly, looking to him and then his daughters.

You let your gaze fall to the stone floor, lifting the edges of your dress as you respectfully bow. When you look up, you find them mirroring you, each of them smiling as they realize your ironic actions. The three of you stand, smiling shyly as you admire the other’s polite gesture.

“My daughters,” Oberyn then says, “Sarella,” he motions towards her, then turning to his other side. “And Elia.”

“It’s so nice to meet you both.” You express, genuinely pleased to finally meet two of his gorgeous children.

Sarella is absolutely stunning, a true lady as she stands before you. Her body adorns a lavender colored halter dress, lengthy as it rests at her feet. Her short, black hair is thick and wavy, just like her father’s. Also similar to her patriarch’s features are her eyes, entirely his in their color and shape. However, her skin is much darker, and her nose much straighter.

Elia is whimsically lovely, her little white dress flowing over her effortlessly. The dress’s style is empirical, with small ruffles draping over the skirt. Her hair dark and curly, her ringlets noticeable even through her tight braid. She has skin like her father, and eyes like him, too. While they’re a different shape, they share the same chocolate brown that greet you each morning and night.

“We’re very pleased to meet you, too.” Sarella responds, nodding lightly.

“Father says you like art.” Elia says, much lighter in tone than her older sister.

“I do.” You reply, smiling kindly.

Elia then looks to the hand not held in her father’s. You follow her line of sight, now noticing the small folder she’s grasping at her side. She brings it to the front of her, quietly whispering as she speaks.

“Would you like to see mine?”

They’re entirely polite, both of prince Oberyn’s daughters. Elia eagerly displays her works of art as the four of you sit at the table, giving the younger daughter your full attention. She shows you papers full of designs made from acrylic paint, chalk, charcoal, and pencil. She’s quite creative. Oberyn and Sarella scan the pieces, too, verbally admiring her imaginative work.

“I’ve never worked with chalk before,” you admit, lifting the piece of paper in your hand.

“Really?!” Elia exclaims, no doubt excited to have used a method you haven’t yet dabbled with.

“Nope,” you giggle, shaking your head. “This is quite impressive, Elia.”

The young girl blushes beside you, ultimately putting away her art as dessert arrives. Each of you has your own plate set before you, every single tray adorning a separate dish at that individual’s request. You’re quick to notice the matching of your and Sarella’s plates, both of you ordering the exact same cinnamon-covered sweet; a rare spice in the land of Dorne.

“Do you enjoy cinnamon?” she asks, acknowledging your likeness.

“I do,” you respond. “I discovered the spice on a trip to the Summer Islands in my childhood.” You explain, lifting your utensils to begin cutting into the tasty dough.

“That is where I was born.” Sarella states, sounding a bit surprised.

“Really?”

She scoffs, laughing to herself as she says, “Father probably told you.”

“No, he didn’t.” you shake your head, eager to keep her attention. "Is that why you like it?”

“Yes,” she replies, lifting her eyes. “I love it. It smells amazing.”

“Have you ever been to your place of birth?”

“I haven’t, not yet.” She admits, eyeing her father.

“You haven’t been mature enough to travel.” Oberyn states, popping a berry into his mouth.

“But I am now!” she whines, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe I could bring you on my next journey to the Isles.” You offer, shrugging innocently. “You’re of age. It’d be useful for you to see the world.”

Oberyn turns his head, observing you with a small smirk. He shrugs, pouting his lip as he ponders your statement. Sarella smiles at you, turning her gaze to her father’s thoughtful look.

“I agree.” He admits, “It’s a big and beautiful world. Most of us live and die in the same corner where we were born and never get to see any of it. I don't want you to be most of us.”

Oberyn looks at his daughter as he speaks, earning an excited shout from the now-mature child. He speaks so eloquently; you could listen to his beautiful voice for hours. But while you’re listening to him and conversing with his daughters, he’s looking to you. His heart beats in his chest as he watches you bond with his children, more than eager to introduce you to the rest of them, each introduction leading you closer to unity.

The four of you continue to nibble at your desserts, pleasantly swapping stories from the past and various interests you each possess. Elia immediately returns her papers to the table once your plates are removed, boasting about her artistic creations with much more verve than before. She’s energetic and lively as she continues bragging, reveling in the combined attention from you, her sister, and her father.

“When will you meet the others?” Elia asks, finally finished with her presentation.

“What do you mean?” you ask, taking a sip of water.

“My other sisters, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza.” She clarifies, looking up at you with all too familiar eyes.

Elia chose the seat beside you, with Sarella across from her and her father across from you. You look to Oberyn, an expectant expression washed over your face.

“Maybe even Obara, and Nym.” She continues quietly, “And Tyene.”

Wow… that’s eight. You count eight daughters of Dorne, including the two in front of you, as the names continue from the little one’s mouth. While you were aware he had multiple daughters, you did not know there were that many to meet, and to say the least… you have quite a bit of work ahead of you.

“Elia…” her father speaks, sounding a bit saddened. “You know your three eldest sisters have gone.”

“I know.” She sighs, staring at her hands.

“Hey,” you quickly say, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes meet yours once more, now a bit teary at the mention of her sisters. “I’ll meet your sisters, little dove. Don’t worry.”

The name comes out unexpectedly. You suppose its due to her small form and white dress, her charm and elegance not dissimilar to that of the peaceful bird. Regardless, it makes her smile, and that makes you happy.

“You should meet her mother.” Sarella snickers, taking a quick sip from her own cup.

You assume from their few dissimilar features and Sarella’s comment that the two have different mothers. You are also aware that Oberyn has bed many women, but only claimed one paramour before you, Ellaria. She, presumably, appears to be Elia’s mother and not Sarella’s.

“I assume I’ll eventually meet her, as well.” you agree, nodding as you laugh along at her sarcastic remark.

“How did you like it?”

“Hm?” you inquire between kisses, gently placing them along his clean jawline.

“Your introduction.” He clarifies, his large hands stroking your sides.

“I feel more than blessed to have met them.” You respond, still intent on mouthing at the prince’s jaw and neck.

“They are beautiful, just like their father.”

He hums at this, tilting his head slightly and giving you better access. After dessert, you had parted ways with the girls. They returned to their nursemaids and their remaining sisters, staying within the palace walls as the festival’s hours emerge.

“My younger ones,” he begins, slowly but surely unraveling under your touch.

“Obella, Dorea, and Loreza?” you ask, your soft lips ghosting over his taut skin.

“Yes,” he responds, grinning once more. He is always appreciative of your attentiveness, and this admiration heightens as you apply it to his daughters. “You could meet them tomorrow, if you’d like.”

The older nobleman grunts beneath you, his breathing picking up as you roll your clothed body against his. When parting from his children, you opted to spend your remaining hours in the library until it was time to visit the city. You’d been in the lavish space many times since Oberyn gifted you with its key, finding the area quiet, private, and comfortable. A second level to the large bookkeep was accessible through multiple sets of spiraled staircases, which the two of you had climbed in order to access the larger sofas that rest in the lofts above.

It came as absolutely no surprise to you that Oberyn pulled you onto his lap, eagerly grinding your small frame onto his sturdy body. Your hips greeted pleasurably, but there was the small sting as you sat that could only be the memory of him. And you told him this, told him that you needed to wait until tonight so he could pleasure you more thoroughly when the dull ache subsides.

And so, this is what he continued with, the fervent grinding of your bodies coupled with your soft lips and wet tongue, rolling against his beautiful body as you lightly stimulated your abused sex. It was quite teasing, though, grinding on the prince’s lap while denying him entry. It’s not something he’s used to, either, and you can tell by how flustered he’s become.

“Let me taste you, pretty thing.” He requests, feeling you just barely run your lips over his jawline.

You pepper the scruff along his jaw with kisses, soft and small and so very playful as he hardens beneath you. He tightens his grip on you, stalling your motions entirely. A deep groan resonates within him as he tries to keep his composure.

“Inamorata…” he says it lowly, almost as a warning. You meet his eyes, intense in their stare as he speaks. “The prince of Dorne does not beg.”

“He does for me.” You whisper, smirking mischievously before moving your hands over his.

He lets you intertwine your nimble fingers with his own, allowing you to lift them higher. You guide him along your body, holding his gaze while leading him to your breasts. With your hands against his, you cup them, so full and round beneath his wide palms.

“Inamorata…” he whispers again, sighing out as he drops his look from your tantalizing eyes to where his hands now rest.

With him now seemingly distracted, you move over him once more, swaying your hips along his clothed crotch as he lays below you. You look beautiful like this, utterly enthralling as you tease the prince of Dorne, grinding down on his lap in the dimly lit space. When your hands fall, his stay, gently weighing and massaging your breasts in his hands, occasionally sweeping his thumbs over your aroused nipples as they rise beneath the fabric of your dress.

It's almost ungodly what you’re doing to him. You appear stunningly breathtaking above him, gracefully sliding your smooth body over his own, feeling him grow and throb and ache between your legs. He whines your name, nearly sounding boyish as you fully make him beg.

“Please,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling with hopeful anticipation.

“My love,” you respond, cupping his face. “If you have me now, you cannot have me later. And I want you to ravish me later.”

He moans at this, momentarily closing his eyes as he tries to gather his bearings. You smirk, leaning in to lick a stripe up the cuff of his ear before whispering inside.

“Is that not what you want, my prince? To dominate me? Overwhelm my body and take my cunt… to pleasure my being and drink from my sodden core once you’ve made a mess of me?”

He release a long, slow exhale. “Naughty thing.” he mutter, the air fully leaving his lungs.

You hum at this, absolutely reveling in the power exchange you suddenly have.

“Am I being naughty, my love? Being disobedient to the prince of Dorne?” you ask innocently, leaning back to look into his eyes.

“Do you not like it, my prince? Not like the way I feel?” you lift your hands as you speak, laying them over his own and urging him to squeeze your tits.

“Do you not like the small whimpers and moans I sing to you? The wonderful pleasure I bring your body?”

Oberyn growls lowly, staring up at you with a concentrated brow as you continue teasing him. He then leans up, connecting your lips in a harsh kiss. You whine at the contact, moaning into his mouth as his large hands fall to your backside and slither beneath your loose dress.

“Oberyn!” you cry out, feeling the first sting of pain as his palm hits your ass.

“Naughty.” He repeats, grinning before reaching up and biting your lower lip.

He spanks you again, causing you to gasp against his mouth. The prince smirks playfully at your reaction, grabbing harsh fistfuls of your ass before spreading your cheeks apart. You grin, sighing out and giggling girlishly as he smacks you again.

“You like that?” he asks, his tone light and teasingly tender.

You nod, staring at him with innocent eyes as he rips the power right from you, fully seizing it and returning it to its rightful owner. His palms lay over your cheeks, suddenly shoving you forward. He grips you tightly as he begins guiding you over his lap, urging you to continue rubbing your thin, wet panties down onto his royal robes.

“I want to taste you…” he says, his voice rough as he moves your hips. “I miss your flavor.” He looks at you, eagerly awaiting your response.

“You wish to taste me, my Viper?” you whisper breathlessly, holding onto his shoulders for support as you continue swaying your hips with his guidance.

You remove your right hand from his broad shoulder, lowering it to your wanting sex. A single finger slips past your folds, slowly pumping in and out of your slick channel. You loll your head to the side, rolling it back as you sigh out. He throbs beneath you, the act of watching you pleasure yourself before him only heightening his overwhelming desires.

Once you’re satisfied, you remove your finger, fully resting yourself back on his lap. You look at him, his puppy dog eyes staring desperately into yours. This causes you to smirk, slowly raising your hand up to his soft lips before speaking.

“Then taste me.”

His mouth parts slightly, a look of awe washing over his face at your erotic proposal. He opens further, allowing you to slip your finger past his lips. You watch his mouth close around your digit, his tongue immediately swirling and sucking over you skin. You bite your lip as he does so, moaning slightly at the gentle throb in your pussy. Oberyn closes his eyes, sighing lowly at your taste, at the sliver of satisfaction you’re finally giving him.

You gently retract your finger before pushing it back in, watching him suck on it fervently as you massage it against his tongue. You lean further into him, a devilish smirk splaying across your lips as you watch him suck on your finger, licking the sweetness he so often craves. You place a gentle kiss on his forehead as he moans, fully enjoying himself while you continue grinding over his lap.

The rapid rate at which your pulse beats floods your veins with adrenaline, causing you to rip your finger from his wanting mouth before attaching your lips to his. He moans into you, sitting up further on the luxurious lounge while your mouths move together.

“Are you sore, sweet thing?” he grumbles, your quick breaths fanning over the other’s lips. “Have I taken you too many times for your liking?”

“No,” you quickly reply, “never. I like it…” you sigh breathlessly before him, kissing him once more before continuing.

“I like feeling the remnants of your passion… seeing the discolorations you mark me with along my neck and chest, the slight sting of my walls from your fervent cock as you claim me each night, it brings me joy to know I am claimed.”

He grins at this, shoving you even closer to his handsome face. You believe in your independence, your power as a woman. You aren’t an object to be owned, but you do recognize the belonging you share with the prince and yearning to be held and kept in each other’s embrace.

“Let me claim you... in more ways than one, sweet thing.” He begs, “I want more…” he exhales, his eyes lowering to the space between your thighs.

“Let my mouth sooth your aching core.” He asks once more, his desperate eyes lifting to yours.

You’d enjoyed the power struggle you experienced moments ago, enjoyed making him beg and moan beneath you, but now… you need him. And so, you give in, letting yourself go to the euphoric waves slowly rolling through your hips, more than eager to feel his handsome face between your thighs.

“Please me, Oberyn.” You request, allowing him full access to your body.

Without skipping a beat, Oberyn’s hands slide down to cup your backside, immediately moving to slide off the couch and onto his feet. He drops you back down, kneeling in front of you before grabbing your shoulder and throwing you to the side. He flips you over, resting you on your stomach as his eager hands find your hips. He then yanks you back toward his face, his curved nose running along your clothed cheek. You gasp out at the action, lightly giggling as he flips the edge of your loose dress up and over your hips. He continues to kneel behind you, sighing deeply at the sight of your smooth sex as his large hands spread you open.

Oberyn then leans in, his soft lips kissing yours as he begins to mouth at your sensitive core. The prince’s warm, wet tongue rolls over your slippery lips, gliding along every fold of skin that surrounds your desperate heat. Gradually, he dips his tongue inside, kitten licking at your entrance before sliding delicately into your inner channel. He’s gentle with it, so soothingly slow as he licks at you languidly, thoroughly enjoying himself while releasing long, satisfied sighs.

“Oh…” you moan, closing your eyes as you revel in the feel of his talented tongue.

His strong hands wrap around your hips, grabbing your ass and spreading you wide before his handsome face. He laps at you, sloppily spitting on your sodden core before sucking gently on your folds.

“Fuck,” you whimper, resting your forehead on the cushions below. “Oberyn…”

He continues, his pace beginning to quicken as he eats you like a man starved, even though he’d had a taste just this morning. His large palms grip your backside, spreading you open before letting go, allowing them to bounce against his face before he massages them to his cheeks. He shakes his head back and forth, his desires growing absolutely feral as he consumes you entirely.

“Oh gods…” you sigh out, your eyes rolling back in delirious pleasure.

The prince’s tongue dives further down, fervently flicking your sensitive bundle of nerves. He moans as he suckles on your clit, eagerly moving his head side to side, rolling it against your body and absolutely reveling in the obscene sounds he yanks from your core. He keeps you spread open behind him now, relentlessly working your clit as he sloppily mixes his spit with your arousal. You roll your hips back against his face, stimulating your sex in the best of ways. Your body reactions to him so eagerly, the behavior never before displayed for another man.

“Cum on my face, pretty girl.” He begs breathlessly, “You know how much I like it.”

You release a loud whine at this, crying out as his lips reattach themselves to your throbbing clit. He licks at it, wrapping his lips around the reddened peak and fervently sucking. His lips are soaked as they move against your dripping core, due to both your slick and his saliva. His chin and jaw adorn your juices as well, something you know he absolutely loves. He makes little mouth sounds while he licks your orgasm from you, small sucking noises as he takes what he wants.

“Yes, yes! Yes, baby… just like that…” you gasp, your entire body forcefully shivering against his.

The prince’s sturdy frame and strong hands keep you in place, cementing you to his mouth as you cum on his face. You claw at the cushions as you do so, reveling in the euphoric quivers that ring throughout your magnificent body. He moans into you, truly enjoying everything about this moment. The way you feel, smell, and taste, have become sensations Oberyn absolutely craved.

“Oh yes,” he sighs happily, using two fingers to spread open your folds to dip his tongue directly inside as you begin to come down.

“Oh…” you moan, your body relaxing into his touch as he prolongs your post-orgasmic bliss.

He then shifts, his curved nose lightly pressing against your entrance. Oberyn lightly inhales, sighing contentedly as he closes his eyes at your tangy scent.

“Oberyn!” you giggle, feeling his warm breath on your sensitive skin.

“Let me savor you, sweet thing!” he groans, chuckling mischievously and smiling brightly against your sex.

Oberyn’s strong arms wrap themselves around your waist, pulling you further against him. The prince’s gorgeous face then dives back in, licking and smelling every inch of the sensual space between your thighs. The intimate area between the prince’s thighs is also still very much aroused, and even further than when you began due to his current actions.

“Let me bring you bliss, my prince,” you beg, looking back at him from over your shoulder.

“Hmm…” he hums happily, overjoyed at your willingness to please him.

Suddenly, you hear a voice. Someone from the royal guard has entered the library, calling out for the prince you’re currently riding. You look up, your face running red with nerves. Oberyn sees this, chuckling lightly and placing one last kiss on your rounded cheek before folding your dress back down. You roll to your side, grabbing his waiting hand and allowing him to pull you up just as a man ascends the spiraled steps.

“Prince Oberyn.” He says, bowing before him. He also chooses to address you before continuing to speak.

“I’m here to inform you of tonight’s schedule. Both of your servants are ready to dress you for the Dornish festival, awaiting your arrival within your respective chambers.”

Oberyn responds with a short statement, waving the knight away before thanking him. You look up at the prince, and he looks down at you, your loving eyes sharing a tender moment. His face still glistens with your slick, causing you to blush and giggle below him.

“What?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

You reach up, standing on your tippy toes in order to access him. Your tongue peaks out between your lips, lightly running over his wet skin.

“Such a messy boy.”

Oberyn led you down the staircase and through the palace halls. You were each due to be refreshed and prepared for the meeting of his people, so off you went, momentarily parting ways as you strolled to your private suites. Amabel was already waiting for you once you had arrived, eager to do your hair and makeup for the night’s event.

“Beautiful, as always.” You express, looking at her with genuine gratitude. “You have a true talent for this.”

“Oh,” she blushes, “Thank you, madam.”

“Am I set to be off then?”

“Yes, Ambrose is waiting to greet you at the front entrance.”

“Perfect.” You reply, standing and leaving, but not without thanking her once more.

You’d rather not arrive alone, so instead of going directly to the front entrance, you take a detour, happily striding to your lover’s door. Small spikes of adrenaline shoot through your veins as you imagine the activities yet to come. Your excitement grows at the prospect of meeting new residents and dancing the night away once more in the land of Dorne.

Your thoughts are interrupted, though, as you near prince Oberyn’s door. There’s a rhythmic sound coming from behind those large, wooden doors. It grows louder as you approach, slowly stepping toward the royal chamber’s entrance. It sounds like… smacking. The all too familiar noise of skin against skin echoing through the stone walls of prince Oberyn’s room. The worst immediately comes to mind, but you do your best to push those thoughts away. Your efforts are useless, though, as soon as you hear the pleasurable song of prince Oberyn’s moans.

Your heart races, leaping into your throat as your nerves go wild. You place a hand on one of the handles, gently pushing it open. You do your best to not make any noise as you enter the room, your eyes curiously scanning the familiar space. Off in the corner stands Oberyn, completely naked with his back turned to you. You’re immediately relieved to find the absence of another, the room entirely empty aside from you and the prince.

A small smile washes over your lips as you approach him, watching his muscles tense and flex with each pump of his hand. One strong hand is placed against the wall, while the other eagerly tugs at his full erection. His head is hung low as he moans, eagerly pleasuring himself.

“Oberyn,” you coo, causing him to jump with shock. He looks back at you, chuckling slightly.

“What are you doing?”

He stares at you as you ask this, turning to face you while watching you step closer to him. You lay a hand on his chest, the other falling to his stiff cock. You lightly shove his hand out of the way, gripping him in your palm.

“Is your hand better than my mouth, my prince?”

“No…” he sighs out, shaking his head. He’s breathless as you lower yourself before him, holding your gaze with lusty eyes.

“Are you sure, my love?” he asks, his voice full of genuine concern. “I know how I’ve tired you so.”

You laugh at this, shaking your head. “I’m sure, lover.” You then look to him as he rests in your hand, his clear precum leaking from his slit.

“I can never have enough. But, if you don’t want me to…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorts, his hand moving to rest on the back of your head. “Pleasure me, sweet thing.” He requests, smirking down at you as you rest on your knees below him.

You smile, more than eager to please him. A small part of you feels grief, guilt sitting heavily in your stomach at the thought of Oberyn thinking he’s too much for you. He’s never too much… he’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

You lean in, angling your head to lick a long stripe up the bottom of his shaft, provoking a relaxed sigh from the older man. Knowing he was already fully aroused when you had entered, you move quickly, widening your lips and taking him in your mouth. His hand guides you, hurriedly thrusting his hips against your beautiful face.

“Yes…” he sighs, throwing his head back in bliss. “You’re so good at this, sweet girl.”

His praise makes you hum, the vibrations only adding to his euphoria. Your soft hands rub up and down along his thighs, bobbing your head in unison with his fervent hips. You realize how hard his muscles are working, and you remove your mouth at the realization.

“Oberyn, please,” you request, “Sit my love, relax while my mouth brings you pleasure.”

He stares down at you, a wide smile appearing across his mouth, his tongue barely poking out to wet his bottom lip. You look over to a chair seated near his desk, and rise. With his hand in yours, you lead him to it, seductively swaying your hips as he follows. He allows you to guide him, sitting him in the wooden chair and spreading his legs wide. You resume your position, now fully resting on your knees as you take him back into your mouth.

Oberyn pushes away any strands that fall from behind your ears, always yearning to see your pretty face. You bob up and down on him, eagerly sucking and licking as you push him further and further toward the back of your throat.

As if the gods live to torment you, you hear Doran’s voice. He calls for Oberyn just outside his chambers, pounding his fist onto the wooden doors. You lift from his lap, allowing his length to rest against his toned stomach.

“The gods have a sense of humor, indeed.” You mutter, glancing up at him. He chuckles while looking down at you, smirking as his enticing eyes scan yours.

“Keep going, my love.” He coos, “Keep going…” A single large hand running over your long hair.

“But –” you begin, only to be stopped.

“Keep going, my pretty thing. Give me what I want… deliver me my release.”

Your face slackens at his tone, utterly entranced at his lovey voice as he asks for more. You’re obedient, utterly submissive to the prince of Dorne. So, you continue, quickly urging him further toward his high. His command makes you shiver, the tantalizing tingles stimulating your core once again.

Doran continues pounding on the door, demanding that Oberyn let him in. The prince sighs above you, clearly annoyed at his brother’s intrusion. His hand then moving to the back of your head as he lightly guides your actions.

“Come in.” he responds, his baritone voice laced in that beautiful, Dornish accent.

Debilitating amount of adrenaline fire throughout your limbs, your excitement heightening at the lack of Oberyn’s shame. Although you figure, if he wants to come in so bad, then he can.

Doran enters, loudly stomping inside and slamming the door shut. He immediately looks to the right and over to the two of you, fully realizing why Oberyn wasn’t answering his demands. He quickly looks away, muttering a curse he dare not repeat.

“What is it, brother?” Oberyn inquires casually, looking over to the Lord with his hand still resting on the back of your head.

The Lord’s presence only encourages you, your modesty vanishing at the prince’s request. You do your best to suppress your giggles, though, and focus on pleasing the prince. You suck even louder as spit drools from your mouth, cascading down his thick length and over his full balls.

“Oberyn!” He shouts, his expression full of shock and anger even from the side.

“What is it?” he asks, slowly rolling his hips upward as his breathing picks up.

Doran stutters, his tan face turning red from both anger and embarrassment as he continues to look away. He steps back toward the door, stalling his movements once Oberyn calls out to him.

“Doran, you insisted upon entering.” He states, “What is of such great importance?”

The Lord of Sunspear sighs, clearly aggravated by his younger brother’s remarks. This is nothing new to him, though, he’s fortuitously witnessed Oberyn’s sexual acts many times. They were easier to brush off when they were with common whores, but not with his honored guest. If Doran wasn’t so small-minded, you might’ve felt shame, or even guilt as you continued your sinful acts before him. Oh, how exhilarating it is to own your sexuality in front of such a misogynistic man.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Oberyn asks, turning his head back to you as he grabs your jaw.

He lifts you from his cock, forcing you to look up at him as he smirks. You’re trying to calm your breathing, to steady yourself below him as he stares deeply into your eyes. Oberyn’s gorgeous face then contorts in pleasure as his hand leaves your jaw to find himself, urgently jerking himself off onto your chest.

His warmth blossoms over your skin, the pearly liquid shooting out over your chest and dripping down over the swell of your breasts. He groans loudly as you push them together, placing a hand on either side of your tits as he continues to cum. His hips jut forward as he continues to fist himself, his throbbing cock finally finding its release. You moan out, the warm liquid feeling heavenly as you’re coated in the prince’s spend.

Oberyn sighs loudly as he finishes, lolling his head backward as his hand relaxes. You let go of your breasts, your slender fingers roaming across your chest and dancing through the sticky liquid.

“Oberyn, this is ridiculous!”

“You wanted to come in.” he immediately responds, his voice calm and casual as he steadies his breaths.

Oberyn turns his head to face the man once more, but you continue. You can’t help yourself as you rise, climbing over his lap and mouthing hotly at the corded muscles along the prince’s neck. Oberyn reaches to the side, grabbing a cloth from the stack on his desk. He lays it over your chest as you kiss his neck, gently wiping you clean.

“Your caravans are waiting.” Doran finally huffs out.

“Really?” Oberyn inquires, lolling his head to the side to give you better access. He innocently raises his eyebrows as he asks, “Is it that time already?”

“Yes.” Doran spits, absolutely furious and entirely awkward as he continues to stand at the room’s entrance.

Oberyn then sighs, rolling his eyes before lifting you from his neck. You find his eyes focused on you once you meet his gaze, something between lust and love filling them in their entirety. He smirks at you, chuckling slightly as you return his humor. Then, you lean in, reaching out and biting his lower lip. He smirks once you release it, trailing his hand down and smacking your backside.

“Naughty.”

Detailed Chapter Summary

Oberyn displays his knowledge of battle skill and his strength and technique, training while you watch from the sidelines. As always, he impresses you.  Afterwards, you bathe together, discussing his daughters again.

When Ellaria left, three of Oberyn’s eldest daughters left with her. So, he decides to introduce you to the two oldest that remain in the palace - Sarella and Elia. They take quite a liking to you; they’re incredible kind and talented girls. 

Afterwards, the two of you return to the prince’s chambers, with Doran soon interrupting your affairs. But neither of you stop what you are doing, prompting his shock and then eventual exit. 

Chapter Six: Let Me Keep You

Insatiable Taglist: @pascalslittlebrat @serenaisavillain @yourwonderbelle

General Taglist: @anaaaispunk

[meetmymouth]

AUBADE ; HARRY STYLES

WORD COUNT: 12k

warnings: smut, smoking, alcohol consumption.

thank you @harryandhockey​ and @burberryharold​ for beta-ing this baby, you guys are the sweetest angels! 

When the doorbell goes off for the third time that night, she groans and tosses the lipstick on her bed, then makes her way towards the door. Through the stained glass, she sees a tall figure and rolls her eyes.

“Look, this is the third time- oh. It’s you.”

The blonde raises her eyebrows, “Who were you expecting? Also wow, I feel so welcome, thank you.”

“Sorry,” the door closes behind Charlotte, and they walk inside.

Once in the tiny kitchen, kettle already on, she takes time to coat her eyelashes with mascara.

“Who did you think I was, that was quite the welcome.”

“Couple of girls kept knocking on the door. Something about a survey. I’ve no idea. Hey, can you help me put this on?” She takes a necklace out of her jean pocket and hands it over.

It’s Thursday, which means happy hour at their local pub and after that, they’d take N31 towards Camden to listen to a friend of Charlotte’s, an upcoming indie artist. She usually didn’t like going out on weekdays since she worked 8 to 4 and she would need to wake up at 6AM sharp to get ready and leave her flat for her Friday shift. But ever since Charlotte started working for the touring musician Harry Styles, they saw each other twice- once when they toured England and the second one being right before Charlotte left for tour. Being close friends since school, it was safe to say that she felt her absence and missed her friend dearly but were also so proud of her for everything she’d achieved.

So when Charlotte came home during their break, she wanted to spend as much time as possible with her friend and if it meant spending her Friday shift hungover while cleaning up animal urine and puke from all kinds of animals, then so be it.

“There,” Charlotte pats her on the neck after she clasps the necklace and she turns around, hand reaching to turn the kettle off.

“Ta. When are we leaving? And do you think I should go for my Adidas or the boots?” She points at the heeled boots, half white half black by the kitchen entrance and Charlotte follows her gaze as she sips the hot beverage.

She looks at the boots, then her, then the boots again, “The boots for fuckin’ sure. They’re sick- where’d you get them?”

“Depop,” She lets out a chuckle, “Think they’re Topshop, ‘m not sure. Should we leave? Y’know I walk dead slow and now that I’m wearin’ the boots…”

“You really do...go get your shit, I’ll wash this.”

They’re gathered around a round table, the green paint of the wooden table beginning to chip, and everyone’s got drinks of their own, G&T being the most popular choice. There are only five of them, Charlotte, her, Phoebe and her girlfriend Jamie, and they’re chatting about anything and everything until Charlotte turns to her, straw between her red lips.

“So-”

“Oh dear, what have you done,” she cuts her off and earns a glare from her, and from the corner of her eye, she sees Phoebe and Jamie cross their arms as if they’re getting ready for their usual bickering.

“Fuck you,” Charlotte sighs, “I didn’t do anything. I just invited some more people to Julien’s show and wanted to...kinda ask if that’s alright with you”

“Oh,” she looks around the table, finding the other girls looking at their phones and she turns to Charlotte, “It’s fine. Who are they?”

Phoebe snorts at that and her eyebrows raise in question. She gives Phoebe a look, but Charlotte’s quicker as she throws a damp tissue at the blonde and Jamie laughs when it lands back on Charlotte’s lap. “You know Sarah from the band?”

“Oh, yeah!”

She remembers meeting Sarah at Charlotte’s new flat after she moved to London, the brunette bringing a cute snake plant and a weird- but cute tea set as a housewarming gift and they got on well. They talked about plants, Sarah giving her tips on how to keep certain plants alive, and she asked her lots of questions about her experience being a woman, especially a drummer in the music industry. Sarah was very soft spoken; she spoke as if she was talking to a baby, but she always made sure to maintain eye contact when she was having a conversation with you, listening and nodding when appropriate so that you felt special and...understood. She was lovely, which was why she found it weird how Charlotte was acting awkward about her joining them tonight.

“And her boyfriend, Mitch, of course,” Charlotte adds and she nods, motioning for her to keep going. “And Harry.”

“Harry Styles?”

“Oh boy,” Jamie whistles.

“Obviously,” Charlotte sucks on her straw, slurping her drink, “Yeah, him,” she repeats, this time softer.

“I...why?” She chooses to ask, surprised as she’d like to think Harry Styles as this unreachable, ever-so-busy person who wouldn’t be interested in a night out like this. She turns to Phoebe, and then Jamie, and they respond with a shrug as Phoebe goes back to cuddling into Jamie’s side.

“What do you mean why?” Charlotte places her drink on the table, “It would be rude not to since I asked Sarah and Mitch.”

“Well, I just mean, isn’t he busy?”

Jamie whistles again and sings her name, “You got a crush, babes?”

“Nonsense, never even met the guy- which,” she looks around the table, “-is one of the reasons why I was confused. Anyway, it doesn't matter,” she shrugs and turns to Charlotte, “I’m not bothered, Lotts, it’s totally fine.”

“Y’sure?”

She gives her a nod, “I just find him intimidating and don’t think he’d be into indie, that’s all.”

It was true. Despite having not met Mr. Harry Styles, deep down she knew he’d be intimidating because he was so good looking and well, just like most people, she loved One Direction. She was a big fan, she even got told off by her stepmother once when she was younger because apparently the tape she used to hang her One Direction posters was ruining the walls. She often referred to them as twinks, and she didn’t even know what it meant until she was older. She remembers how she got made fun of at sixth form because one of the girls found her old Tumblr and told everyone about it. Harry’s never been her favourite though. Not because she didn’t find him attractive, not at all. It was because he was too attractive and was everyone’s favourite so whenever asked, she’d shrug and tell people how she found Louis funny, and then Zayn because ’he’s the hottest’.

Long story short, despite her friendship with Charlotte, she’d never met Harry, never had the opportunity to attend one of his shows because she was either too busy or they were playing in a different country and she simply couldn’t afford it. So tonight would be the first time they’d get to be in the same place and to say that she was nervous would be an understatement. And her, she always thought she was awkward. Way too awkward for social gatherings but she liked going out regardless, drinking cheap alcohol and dancing to shitty songs in an equally shitty pub. She loved being a student. Loved the freedom the title had given her. What’s your occupation, she’d get asked from time to time. Student, she’d say without hesitating. She was a student. She didn’t have to be anything else for three years. Sure, she was also working part time at an animal shelter but for the most part, she loved being a student. That’s how she met Phoebe, and then Jamie. In a way, she was their matchmaker.

She remembers meeting Phoebe last year when they had a class together. She was the first person to smile at her in the overcrowded lecture theatre and she remembers thinking how nice Phoebe’s green fringe looked. Meeting Jamie though, was funny. Phoebe usually got weird when they joked about it since she met Jamie before Phoebe did on Tinder, even went on a date with her, and then right before she was about to ghost her, she thought of how similar Phoebe and Jamie were. It was then that she made Phoebe go on a date with Jamie, and after a month of pining, they got together. Even though they were similar, she always thought that they actually completed each other, Jamie being the logical one and Phoebe encouraging Jamie to let loose from time to time and live in the moment.

Charlotte reaches and boops her nose, “He’s a musician, he loves all kinds of music. He won’t eat you, babe. He’s nice, I promise.”

Phoebe knocks on the wood, getting everyone’s attention, “Can we get a picture with him? An autograph?”

She feels a throbbing pain in her feet, toes in particular once they’re in and they wait for Phoebe and Jamie to buy their drinks, knowing she’d wake up with blisters in the morning. Charlotte takes out her phone and presumably texts the others, letting them know they were already here. She felt nervous. Nervous because she always thought she was rubbish when it came to meeting new people; they either thought she was too intimidating or rude but in reality, it was only because she always felt anxious meeting new people and would rather stay quiet than talking nonsense.

She takes time to analyse her outfit, a pair of black mom jeans and her boots, oh the boots who were currently grilling her feet. Then she tries to adjust her lace bodysuit, all of a sudden feeling super self conscious about the ”revealing” outfit. She adjusts the top, hoping her tits weren’t out before, and sighs when she touches the oversized blazer, rolling up the sleeves a bit more since it was beginning to get warm, too warm for her liking inside. Considering how she often felt self conscious about her arms, she felt more comfortable with the blazer over the sexy bodysuit.

“So,” she starts, eyes studying the crowded bar before her gaze stops at Charlotte, “Are they here?”

Charlotte looks up from her phone and nods, leaning her head on her shoulder. She feels her arm going around her waist and smiles, nudging her head with hers and she looks up, giving her a smile of her own. “What’s up, blondie?” she asks, hand coming up to ruffle Charlotte’s fringe.

She sighs, “Just tired, to be honest. I’m glad I wore trainers.”

“At least one of us is happy about their shoe choice.”

They watch as Phoebe and Jamie walk towards them, the brunette handing her a tall glass as Phoebe hands Charlotte her own drink. “When’s she on?”

Everyone turns to Charlotte, “Half an hour, maybe?”

“When are your friends coming? It’s getting quite...stuffy in here,” Jamie looks around and Phoebe nods, hands going around Jamie’s waist to pull the brunette into her.

“I texted Sarah and she said Harry was parking the car- oh, I see Mitch.”

They all look around, and she spots the tall guy with long hair, walking towards them with Sarah and Harry behind. She gulps and tries to look away, praying that no one takes notice of her sweaty forehead and shaky hands.

As the trio walk towards them, she takes a moment to examine Harry, and his outfit. Even in the dimly lit bar, she’s almost sure the high waisted trousers he has on are navy, and he’s got a tan...or a beige shirt tucked in them, chest on full display and she notices a cross necklace, looking as if it was made for his pretty neck. She clears her throat as quietly as she can and looks down but not before she takes a peek at his shoes, and she almost snorts at the choice of red boots he’s got on, noticing how everyone had trainers on while the two of them had what looked like very uncomfortable boots on.

To be honest, she thinks, he looks pretty good. She looks around them, noticing how most guys had jeans and ugly trainers on whereas Harry looked like he made quite the effort with his outfit but she also knows that even if he turned up in jeans and ugly trainers, he would still look amazing. Damn Harry Styles. Was she blushing?

The three of them are in their space now, close enough so she can make out Sarah’s overpowering perfume, and she clears her throat once again when Charlotte embraces Sarah first, then Mitch. Before she can watch her hug Harry, Sarah’s in front of her.

“Hi,” she smiles, going in for a hug, “It’s so nice to see you again. It’s been a while,” she says and her voice comes out muffled since they’re still hugging and she hopes her hair smells decent because Sarah’s face is pressed against her neck and hair.

“It’s nice to see you too! How have you been?”

“‘Been alright, I suppose!” She beams at her and turns to the man with long hair, “This is Mitch.”

As Sarah introduces everyone with Mitch, she feels Harry’s eyes on her, though she can’t turn her head and meet his gaze because that’d be rude seeing how Mitch is about to reach and give her a one armed hug. Alright then, she thinks, they’re a hugger. Then, it’s Harry’s turn. She looks at him, seeing how his eyes are focused on Phoebe and Jamie as he gives them both a warm smile before Charlotte starts talking again, introducing everyone to Phoebe and Jamie, then everyone turns to her, and she feels her face heat up seeing how everyone’s attention is on her now. She knows it’s her turn.

Harry takes a step forward and her earlier thoughts are confirmed when she can finally make out the colour of his trousers. “Hey, ‘m Harry,” he gives her a smile without waiting for Charlotte to speak, “Nice meeting you,” he comes closer and wraps an arm around her, engulfing her in a hug but it’s definitely different from Mitch or Sarah’s hug. It’s tight, much warmer and he’s got both arms around her, palms flat against her back as he rubs her back.

And of course she responds with the same warmness and hugs him back, “Hiya,” she introduces herself, and once they pull apart, he repeats her name and it sounds like poetry, something so personal and...erotic. But maybe, she thinks, maybe it’s just his deep voice making her feel that way.

Despite the moment they shared, if she could call it that, felt like hours, it was merely a minute. And it wasn’t like in the films where they hug, everything around them slowing down as the people watch in awe. No, not at all. When she looks around, she sees that everyone’s been already mingling, Phoebe and Jamie smiling at each other while they sipped their drinks, and Mitch is nowhere to be seen, possibly at the bar getting drinks.

Harry turns to Charlotte with a grin, “So is she any good, should we replace you with her?” He says, nudging her with his hip.

That sort of makes her smile, seeing Harry so carefree and friendly with the people who are essentially working for him. Even though she doesn’t know Harry Styles like they do, like Charlotte does, she knows he considers these people to be his friends and colleagues rather than his employees. It’s also fun seeing him this friendly with her best friend, and she feels proud, as she always does, knowing Charlotte has made herself great friends and that she clearly enjoys working with these people.

Charlotte nudges him back, “She’s great, I wouldn’t mind being replaced by her. Oh, there she is,” she points at the stage, and everyone turns to look at the pink-haired girl on the tiny stage with a sleek looking acoustic guitar on her side. As the others start talking about Julien, she finally takes the opportunity to look at Harry. Once their eyes meet, he gives her a smile, dimples on full display, and she swears she could see him blush when he looks down after she beamed at him. Even if he did blush though, he recovers quickly when he’s offered a drink and he mutters a thank you to Mitch, then lifts the slice of lime off the rim of his glass and sucks it into his mouth and she deems it as a good time to look away.

And she does, when she feels Sarah close, and she turns to her, Sarah welcoming her with a smile, “How’s uni? It’s your last year, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” she clears her throat, “It’s alright. Exhausting, but alright.”

“You’re working too, right?”

“Yeah, I work at an animal shelter.”

“It must be exhausting.”

“It is,” she gives her a nod, “I work three days a week and I also have classes so I only have Sundays off. I’ll probably leave and focus on uni after Christmas break though, I have my dissertation next semester.”

“Oh, cool! I miss being a student,” she purses her lips and turns to Harry, who had been listening to their conversation, his pretty fingers, most of them adorned with equally pretty rings, wrapped around the tall glass, “You probably can’t relate, H, can ya?”

He rolls her eyes but laughs regardless, “Piss off.”

Despite the chatter around them, it’s not ridiculously loud so they can carry a conversation without having to shout. They fall into an easy conversation, everyone joining in, and all of a sudden a pink neon light falls over them and they all turn to the stage. Julien starts singing, and all the chatter around them dies down, some people already starting to sing the words back at her.

She looks away from the stage for a minute and catches Harry’s gaze from across the room. They’re close enough for her to make out a few droplets of sweat on Harry’s forehead, and their eyes meet as he gives her a smile, eyes sparkling with mischief, then brings the glass up to his mouth. She watches as his top lip rests on the rim before he lifts it to his mouth and when she looks up, she sees him still looking at, gaze unwavering and mouth curled upwards in a sly smirk. She was caught. She was caught and he looked like he was loving and devouring every second of it.

Julien takes a break, promising to come back with a brand new song from her upcoming EP, and there’s a group of people making their way towards the exit, presumably to have a smoke and get some fresh air.

“Where’s she gone?” Charlotte huffs, eyes searching the room for the pink haired girl.

“She’s over there,” Phoebe points at Julien and they all turn to where she’s pointing at, spotting Julien near the bar with a drink in hand.

“Is she flirting?”

“She’s got groupies already?” she says after she takes her eyes off of Harry and everyone laughs.

Charlotte comes closer and nudges her shoulder against her, “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” “Be quiet,” she nudges back, and their group falls back into their conversation except Harry, who keeps staring at her and she gulps, hands reaching to feel her blazer pockets.

“Right,” she mutters, “It’s time to poison myself. I’m going out for a fag,” once she feels the bulge in her pocket, she turns to Charlotte, “Send me a text when she’s back on, yeah?”

“I’ll come with.”

She looks up at Harry, surprised, but nods, waiting for him to follow her outside. Even though she tries her best not to make eye contact with anyone as they leave, she’s aware of them watching them, everyone in their group equally surprised, but they keep walking, Harry following quietly behind. Once they pass the smelly bodies, they’re finally outside, the wind licking her face once she steps out and she tries to hug herself closer, seeing how the thin blazer’s not doing a good job at keeping her warm.

Harry wishes he’d brought a coat.

They’re quiet as he follows her to a quiet corner, only a few people turning their heads their way, presumably recognising him, and they stop near a brick wall and she takes her tobacco out of her left pocket. She looks up, catching him staring at her ring-clad fingers wrapped around the dark green packet, and she clears her throat, making him look up at her. They share a smile, both feeling at ease with the comfortable silence between them. She spots a wooden bench near and sits down, hands already working the packet open. When she starts tearing the tobacco apart, Harry can’t help but note how quickly she’s working it between her fingers, and he’s almost certain she’s been doing this for years.

“Want one?” She asks and he saunters forward, coming to stand in front of her with hands in his pockets.

He shrugs and she takes that as a yes, fingers pausing their work on the tobacco to take out something that resembles a cigarette and it’s only when she pushes it from the bottom that Harry realises they’re filters. Placing one between her lips, her fingers dip into her pocket once again to retrieve some papers and Harry finds himself unable to look away from her lips and how pretty they look with something between them.

He looks down at her lap, where the packet of tobacco is, seeing her fingers work swiftly as she fills the thin paper, and despite knowing better not to glamorise something as horrible and disgusting as smoking, he takes his time to admire the way she pushes down the tobacco with her index finger, presumably trying to fit and secure everything inside the paper. Taking the filter from between her lips, she places it inside the paper, at the very end, and her fingers start rolling.

Oh fuck, he thinks, knowing what’s about to come. Unable to look away, he watches as she brings it up to her mouth and licks a long stripe along the paper, and despite the lack of lighting around them, his eyes make out her pink tongue moving along the paper and it doesn’t come as a surprise when he feels a sudden twitch in his trousers at the unholy image before his eyes.

“There,” she hands him the rolled up cigarette, “Hope you don’t mind that I licked?”

He wants to laugh because of course he doesn’t mind. In fact, he quite enjoyed it, according to the knot in his stomach and his twitching cock in his underwear. He enjoyed it so much that he now couldn’t stop imagining her mouth doing other things, preferably dirty things with, or to him.

“Nah, it’s all good, thanks.”

“No probs. Didn’t take you as the smoking type,” she lets it slip out.

“I...don’t smoke, really. Only sometimes. When I’m drinking. Which…” He looks at the cigarette between her fingers, “...isn’t that often.”

She notices the nervousness that tinges his words, and it makes her feel better knowing he’s also as awkward as her. “Fair,” she sends him a smile and repeats all the steps on her own rollie, putting it between her lips just like Harry, and she takes her lighter out of the same pocket. She lights her own first and reaches to light his, and he sort of bends over until his cigarette reaches the lighter. They both take a hefty drag of their cigarettes and she blows the smoke out first, Harry watching her pursed lips as he lets out his own next, both of their cigarette smoke swirling in the air and joining in together.

He takes it out of his mouth and lets his arm dangle on his side, cigarette between his fingers, and watches as she takes another drag before fumbling with the packet on her lap, putting everything back in her pocket haphazardly.

“Do you go to uni in London, or?”

“Westminster, yeah,” she takes another drag and notices how Harry hasn’t taken another one of his since.

“Nice,” he says and a grin stretches over his face, “Charlotte talks about you a lot.”

“She does?”

“Yeah, all the time. If I didn’t know about her boyfriend I’d say she was in love with you,” he laughs and gestured to the lighter in her hand and she lets him take the lighter from her hand, watching as the flame lick at the cigarette between Harry’s lip and he takes a long drag. “I mean, we...the band feel like we already know you. It’s sweet, how much she cares about you.”

“Well, I’m pretty hard not to love, you know.”

He blows out the smoke, a chuckle escaping his mouth, “That right?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking great.”

“Well, I-”

He gets interrupted by her phone going off and a pout forms on his face. She huffs, looking around, then throws the cigarette on the ground despite the sign and he does the same, not feeling bad in the slightest. “We going in?” He asks, like a lost puppy waiting for his owner’s command.

“I guess. Is it bad that I don’t want to? Like...does that make me a bad friend?”

“Nah. I...I kinda wanted to stay here too. I was enjoying our conversation.”

She sends him a grin, eyes mischievous, and stops walking, “You telling me you weren’t bored to death by my dry ass conversation?”

“Dry? You opened up and talked about your narcissistic behaviours, that’s not boring, darling,” he smirks and she rolls her eyes, hand reaching to slap his chest and it feels easy, like they’ve known each other for years. “Alright, alright, ’m just messing with you.”

She starts walking again, a few steps ahead of him, and he follows, passing three girls with phones up to their faces.

It’s easy, he thinks, it’s easy with her.

People in the bar begin to leave one by one, and it’s only their small group and a few others left, some of them still sipping their drinks and the others talking and laughing. Some even come up to Julien, who’s sipping her water from a reusable water bottle as Charlotte keeps snapping pictures of her, and they all congratulate her, telling her how excited they are about the EP. She’s all smiles, fringe sticking to her forehead due to sweat, and her long arms are equally sweaty, dressed in a tight black dress with striped knee high socks adorning her long legs, and a pair of platform Mary Janes.

“So,” Harry says, folding his arms across his chest, “Do you have any plans for October?”

Mitch snorts across him and Julien tilts her head, puzzled, “Erm...I’ve no idea, to be honest. It’s months away and God knows I’m shite at thinking ahead. That’s why I’m friends with this lot,” she gestures to their tiny group, causing Charlotte to snort and Julien continues, turning her attention to her who’s playing with the hem of her blazer,  “This one though...”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Oi, what’s crawled up your bum, eh?” Julien turns to Harry again, catching how his gaze flickered over her body, then her face instead of looking at Julien and she finds herself smirking at the tension between the two.

“We’re thinking of putting a show together for Halloween. I have a bunch of new and upcoming artists in my mind that I’d love to see perform that night. Would you be interested?” Harry’s attention is back on Julien and he watches as the girl gasps, eyes widening in excitement.

“Shut the fuck up!” She yells, almost dropping her water bottle and they all laugh, Charlotte reaching to flip her on the forehead and she slaps her freshly-manicured hand away, “You’re not taking the piss, are you?”

Harry laughs, “Am definitely not. I love your vibe. That’s actually one of the reasons why I asked Charlotte if I could come tonight,” he says as he runs his fingers through his hair, the strands gliding easily between his long fingers.

“Yeah,” Charlotte smiles at Julien, “He’s on a hunt. He thinks he’s one of those talent agents. Just say yes, Jules, it’ll be fun.”

“Holy fuck. Yes. Fuck, yes. Of fucking course, yes!”

They all laugh when she lunges herself at Harry, arms wrapping around his neck, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck I could literally kiss you right now but I won’t, I’ve been watching you both undress each other with your eyes all night,” arms still around Harry’s neck, Julien turns her head towards her, whom Harry’s been looking at all night, and gives her a wink before breaking their hug. “So, do I have to do anything? What do I have to do? Fuck, I’m so bad at this-”

“Hey,” Harry interrupts, “It’s fine. Relax. Are you signed with anyone? Have a manager?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m with Gleam, my manager, Alana, she’s sick that’s why she wasn't here tonight.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Just give me your phone number and your manager’s contact details and we’ll sort everything out. Hey- relax, it’s gonna be fun!” He reaches and gives her shoulder a squeeze.

“I called an Uber,” Sarah says after her phone goes off, “And it looks like…” she taps on the screen a few times, “Hassan is here.”

“We could’ve gotten maccies,” she says, pouting, as her head rests on Charlotte’s shoulder.

Sarah sighs, cuddling closer into Mitch’s side, “We’re leaving for Brighton tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, Sarah’s making us wake up at, like, five,” Mitch grumbles.

They all start walking towards the exit, Julien and Harry in the back talking about the show as Charlotte links her arm with her as they follow behind the others. As they walk, she remembers how Harry arrived with Sarah and Mitch, meaning they shared a ride, and she turns to look at Harry who seems to be in deep conversation as he waves his hands around.

She feels hot all of a sudden, remembering how neither of them wanted to go inside earlier, how good he looked and how his voice sounded, deep, so deep, when his attention was only on her and not the girl on the stage or his drink or the people around them. As selfish as it sounds, she wanted all his attention on her, she wanted him to only look at her, see her, think of her, and she feels foolish because they only met tonight, and their conversation earlier didn’t last that long.

Once they’re outside, everyone sighs, almost in relief as the fresh air fills their lungs, and everyone bids their goodbyes to Sarah and Mitch, then Phoebe starts complaining about how uncomfortable and tired she was.

“That’s it from us, folks, my wife needs a shower,” Jamie pinches Phoebe’s cheek as Phoebe blushes, swatting her hand away.

She turns to Harry for a second and he’s just standing there, arms folded with an expression she’s unable to read, and Julien laughs, muttering something about catching a black cab since she now has money to waste.

Everyone leaves and it’s only them, and Charlotte comes closer to her as she nudges her hip with hers, “Hey. Is it cool if Harry gives you a ride? Tom’s picking me up.”

She panics and gives her a puzzled look. A car ride with Harry. Alone. Just the two of them.

She swallows, “How come you never mention it?”

“He just texted me, we’re driving up to Manc. Will you be okay?” She reaches and strokes her cheek, then turns to Harry, as if the question was directed at both of them.

“Well, yeah...I mean- I’ll call a Bolt or something-”

“It’s fine, I can give you a ride,” Harry says, hands now in his pockets. He looks like he’s cold too, considering how he’s only wearing a thin shirt and his chest is on full display, letting the breeze softly lick at the flesh.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother, I can take a Bolt. Really, it’s fine.”

“I insist...whereabouts is your place?”

“Ehm,” she sniffs and her eyes look for Charlotte for a moment, and when she spots her, she’s watching them despite the phone pressed against her ear. “Marylebone.”

“Great! That alright with you?”

She looks at Charlotte again, the short haired girl failing to meet her gaze, and she turns to Harry again, lips pursed, “I guess- I mean...sure. Okay.”

Harry beams at that, the dimple on his left cheek widening with the smile, and she wants to reach out and touch it, place her finger there. She doesn’t though. Instead, she gives him a smile and looks down at her boots, feeling all giddy inside with the realisation that she’d be alone with Harry for a while and it would also be away from any prying eyes, in the warmth of his car.

Charlotte comes back and reaches for her, giving her a big hug as she buries her head in her neck, and she involuntarily breathes in the smell of cigarettes and Charlotte’s personal favourite, Chanel no. 5.

“Text me when you’re home, yeah? And text me if you need anything...he’s nice, I promise,” she whispers the last part, as if she’s letting her in on a secret, then reaches for Harry to give him a hug.

“Drive safe,” she says, walking backwards, “I mean it.”

“I will. Precious cargo, am I right?”

Harry opens the door for her and waits for her to get in, her lips form the words ‘thank you’, and once they’re both inside, seatbelts on, Harry sighs and tries to fix his creased shirt. She watches his hands, the rings catching the light coming from a lamppost outside, creating beams, and she notices the single, nearly-chipped gold nail polish on his left pinky.

“So…” they both say at the same time and he laughs, shaking his head, and a few strands fall to his eyes.

She chuckles too, eyes falling to her hands on her lap as she fiddles with them. “I think we’ve been set up,” she mumbles and looks up at him, finding him watching her carefully with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his thigh.

“Yeah? You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m usually not this dumb.”

“Maybe you wanted play dumb, hm?” He gives her a smile, causing her to scoff, and he surprises them both when his left hand reaches to stroke her cheek, making goosebumps appear on her skin and she swears she could hear her breath hitch at the warm touch, feeling hot all over.

They stare at each other, his hand still on her cheek, and she swallows, “Sure, whatever you say.”

“Is this okay?” He asks, gesturing at the touch, voice as soft and smooth as honey.

She nods, because it is. It is more than okay and if it were up to her, they’d already be kissing, tasting each other’s dirty, sweaty skin and touching each other all over, feeling each other’s bodies...she wanted all of that.

She swallows again, his gaze shifting from her face to her neck, then lower and lower until it reaches her boobs. They look divine, he thinks, despite the lack of lighting in his car, they look absolutely gorgeous, sort of spilling out from the lace material and he gulps, hand beginning to make its way down to her neck. He rests it there as long fingers caress the side of her neck, discovering a few moles there, and he looks up at her, only to find her eyes fixed on his lap. He looks down to, the slight tent not coming as a surprise, and he gives her a grin, the other hand coming to rest atop his bulge.

“Hm?” He hums as he waits for her answer despite knowing what she would say.

She clears her throat and looks around, seeing the almost empty parking lot all dark except the stop sign near the exit, and turns her attention back to Harry.

“Yes. It’s okay.”

“Mmm,” his fingers curl around her throat, thumb stroking the flesh there, “Thank you, love. Can I kiss you?”

“You can...Please,” she practically moans when his thumb presses a sweet spot on her neck and he gives her a smile, hand reaching to unbuckle both of their seatbelts with a click.

It doesn’t happen that fast. First, he gives her a look, almost as if he’s trying to remember where her lips are and the nose, then her eyes...he keeps looking, and looking, and he brings his hand up to her mouth, resting his thumb on her bottom lip as her eyes shift downwards with the movement. While he watches her, she takes her time to watch him, his face, and she feels something bubbling inside her, much like the bubbles that rise to the top when you open a coke bottle.

Pressure, she thinks, pressure and the need to devour him. Thus, without thinking too much, she reaches and grabs him by the nape of his neck, his hand falling atop the car seat as their lips meet, both of them hungry for each other’s touch as their teeth clash and Harry lets out a hiss when she bites his bottom lip, suckining it into her mouth.

His hands go up to her cheeks, pushing her far enough to look into her face and eyes in particular and he smiles, the inside of his palms feeling the soft peach fuzz on her face. When she lunges forward to continue their kiss, he stops her, thumb stroking her cheekbones as she lets out a huff, and he chuckles, “Slow, baby, slow. We’ve got time. I want to feel you, taste you as much as I can, yeah?”

She nods, letting him stroke the side of her face some more and feel her skin against his soft hands before he starts leaning in, this time slow, so slow that it feels like hours to her. Before she closes her eyes, she catches a glimpse of his pink tongue dart out to lick his lips, and he finally captures her top lip, sucking it into his mouth softly and she melts under his touch, her mouth pursed as she starts responding with her own kisses. Their lips, she feels, fit together like a puzzle piece.

Harry’s tongue swipes across her bottom lip and she opens wider, letting him lick into her mouth further. It’s hot, wet, and she feels herself getting wetter and wetter as the smooch noises grow louder with each kiss. His hands are now cupping both of her cheeks, and as he presses wet pecks on her parted mouth, one of his thumbs travel down to her mouth and he stops their kiss, and she opens her eyes, giving him a puzzled look.

He shushes her, lips pursed as he does so, and her eyes watches the movement, wanting to feel them all over her body now that she knows how he feels and tastes like. He presses his thumb against her bottom lip, then into her mouth and pulls her closer to him. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head when she closes her mouth around his thumb, sucking it like a lolly, and his cock twitches in his trousers again as he watches the way she sucks on his flesh, humming around it as if she’s having the most delicious meal of her life.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, “Y’like playing with me, don’t you?”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she takes his thumb out of her mouth with a pop and she holds him by the wrist, placing his hand on one of her boobs and Harry lets her warm hands and the feeling of lace overpower him as he gives her boob a squeeze, then travels his hand down to where he supposes her nipple is and brushes a thumb over it, a beaming grin stretching across his face when he feels her pebbled nipple under his thumb.

When he looks at her face, she’s biting her lips, eyes shut, and he bites his own lips as he traps her covered nipple between his thumb and index finger, tweaking it gently which causes her to breathe out a moan, toes curling involuntarily inside her boots. He tugs at it, then his hand travels up and he looks at her, as if to ask her permission for what he’s about to do. And she nods, of course she does, and she feels her upper torso getting sore from the position they’ve been in but she lets it go, reaching for his hand near her boob and places it on top of his, encouraging him to keep going.

With her hand on top of his, he slides the bodysuit down from the top, and he feels his cock twitch in interest so he has to bring his other hand down to press against his bulge over his trousers in hopes of relieving some of the tension. He plays with her nipple, tweaking and squeezing it between his fingers before finally leaning to capture the pebbled nipple into his mouth. “God damn, your tits...so fuckin’ hot, baby,” he bites her nipple and she shudders, back arching in pleasure. “Wanna do everything with you...wanna fuck you- wanna fuck these tits,” he whispers against her nipple, now wet with his spit, and his hot breath sends chills down her spine.

It’s warm, his mouth, so warm and wet around her hard nipples and she lets out another moan, arms wrapping around his neck and she tries to press against him closer. “Fuck,” a moan leaver her mouth, “Please, Harry, fuck me. Do something, just- ‘m so wet.”

“Yeah? Want me to fuck you? Jesus,” he presses a kiss to her nipple before he frees her other boob from the fabric, “You’re so fuckin’ hot. Got me so fuckin’ hard, just look at these gorgeous tits, baby. Bet your cunt’s even more gorgeous, hm?” He whispers, hands already on the other boob, squeezing the nipple and he watches as it hardens, looking so pretty and puckered for him and he gets his mouth on that one too, licking across the nipple before he bites it into his mouth.

“Can I take this off, sweetheart?” He touches her shoulder, squeezing her there over the blazer, and when he sees the hesitation in her eyes, he travels his hand up to her neck and strokes it there, “Y’don’t have to, darling. However you’re comfortable.”

“No,” she says ever so softly, “It’s okay.”

He smiles at her as she takes the jacket off and throws it somewhere at her feet. Harry grabs her by the neck and brings her in for another kiss but this time, it’s slow. And sweet. Slow, sweet, and warm, so warm that she feels it in her chest, in her stomach, and it reaches everywhere, the kiss warming anything and everything inside her. He swipes a tongue across her bottom lip before pulling away, and places both hands on her boobs, squeezing them, mouth popping open as he watches them in awe.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he brings one of his hands to the front of his trousers and the heels of his palms press against the bulge, but instead of giving him some relief, the touch makes him hiss, wishing for something softer, warmer.

“Can I fuck you? I need to fuck you, please, sweetheart,” he whispers and she nods, tongue darting out to lick her dry lips and he nods as well, looking around inside the car, swiftly examining the tinted black windows before he turns to her, “I hate that I’m about to fuck that pretty pussy in the backseat of my car instead of a comfortable bed but I need it so bad, sweetheart, I need you,” he licks his lips, “That okay?”

“Yes...more than.”

He helps her move to the backseat, boobs still hanging from the top, and he joins her in the backseat quickly. They’re closer now, nothing serving as a barrier between them, and with the way they’re facing each other, she can make out a tiny pimple on the side of his nose as well as a little mole on his forehead. Her gaze falls to his bulge again, and he’s already fumbling to get them off. With a swallow, she shuts her eyes so she doesn’t see Harry watching her intently, dilated pupils fixated on her sweaty skin, her lips in particular.

He leans in and presses an open mouth kiss to her damp skin, the touch making her open her eyes.

Take it off” she whispers, voice as sweet as honey, “Come on, I want you to fuck me,” she breathes against his hair, his head now in the crook of her neck, and she feels him nod, his hands coming to rest atop hers.

He fumbles with the button with shaky hands, her hands coming to rest on Harry’s waist and he sighs in relief when he hears the zipper. He lowers his trousers along with his underwear clumsily, the pile of material pooling around his ankles. He’s hard and leaking already, the tip an angry shade of red, and she takes a few seconds to admire the thickness of his cock and how pretty it looks, his dark, coarse pubic hair making her mouth water as she imagines deepthroating him, nuzzling the hair at the base of his cock.

Harry looks up and she’s got one hand on her boob while the other rubs herself through her jeans, presumably feeling aroused with the way the fabric is feeling against her pussy. A low, choked ���fuck’ leaves his mouth following a growl as his long fingers begin unbuttoning the beige shirt and she watches, bottom lip trapped between her teeth with fingers rubbing herself.

Once it’s unbuttoned, he’s quick to get his hands on her jeans, eyes briefly searching for something in hers before he starts unbuttoning them. She stops him and bends over to take her boots off and he watches her back, hand reaching involuntarily to travel his fingers down her spine, stroking her waist before he bends forward to place a kiss on there as she keeps fumbling with her boots. Once they’re off, he’s quick to help her get the jeans off too, and he throws them in the front seat, smiling when she hears her giggle.

“Alright, Miss Giggles?” he says softly, palm resting on top of her thigh as one of his hands reaches and strokes the side of her face, fingers playing in her wild strands of hair.

She bites her lip again, giving him a nod, and he brings her face into his, lips pressing a tender kiss to her chin before he opens his mouth slightly and grazes his teeth across the flesh, and he presses a final, loud kiss there before he pulls away with a pop, leaving her chin all shiny and wet with his saliva. He lowers his eyes and spots her thong, fabric too tiny and flimsy to cover all the areas of her pussy, and he lets out a groan at the sight, hand immediately reaching to touch what’s under her little thong.

“So pretty, darling...so, so pretty,” he murmurs and she watches with parted legs as he positions his middle finger against her pussy over the black lace, thin, so he feels just how warm and wet she is between her folds. This makes him pause to look down at his cock, just to make sure he’s not about to spill all over the carseat since he feels the pleasure at the tip of his cock, ready to explode right then and there. “How can anyone ever resist you, hm? This pretty girl…” with one hand still between her legs, he reaches with his other hand and ghosts his thumb over her nipple, his other hand working her thong as he pulls it to the side, “...this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, making her eyes lull shut at the compliments.

She parts her legs wider to give him more room to work with, and he grins as he looks up at her hungry eyes, knowing what she’s asking for. And god, is he about to give her what she wants. The way she looks, not just half naked but from the moment he’d caught a glimpse of the grumpy girl across the room, it’s been driving him insane. Not that she was rude or looked bored, but she looked cute, kinda nervous, as if she too was as uncomfortable as Harry by the prying eyes and tipsy chatter around them.

From the moment they were introduced, Harry knew she didn’t particularly like to be looked at. Maybe he was being judgmental, or reading too much into things, but he got the impression that she was sort of nervous to be around people, especially new people. He tried his hardest not to be some weirdo, an utter creep who kept looking at the beautiful girl across him but truth be told, it wasn’t the first time Harry had seen the girl’s face.

He knew of her, stories about her, from Charlotte, and saw numerous photos and throwback videos of them on Charlotte’s Instagram, but he would never actually admit to the fact that he’d clicked on her tag on one of Charlotte’s posts, and scrolled through her feed for hours, giggling from time to time at her silly captions and numerous pictures of a Golden Retriever and a black cat cuddling.

Yes, he might have found her interesting, took a few screenshots of her posts where she proudly displayed her favourite reads, immediately ordering everything on there, and a few funny memes, but now with his middle finger circling her clit, he would never, ever admit any of that to anyone, ever.

“Harry,” she breathes, and it sounds sort of harsh, rough even, the reason presumably being a mix of the cigarettes she’d been smoking and the way his finger teasingly, slowly moves over her pussy. “Harry…” she says again, melodiously, fingers curling around his wrist and he looks up with a grin, eyes almost evil, dark and pupils dilated from hunger bubbling up inside him.

He retracts his finger and brings it up to his mouth slowly, her eyes watching him like a hawk, and his pink tongue darts out, licking a long stripe up his middle finger and he truly devours the savoury taste, eyes finding hers as he sucks the finger into his mouth. “Taste so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “Want me to play with that beautiful cunt, hm? Give it my full attention?”

“Yes, please, I need it so bad, I’ve been waiting for so long.”

“Yeah?” He asks, ever so softly, “How long?” He presses, his middle finger once again placed between her wet folds, and she wraps her fingers around his wrist.

There’s a bloom of pleasure in her voice when she lets out a shaky breath, a stuttered ’yeah’ because she doesn’t want to give in to Harry’s teasing game, and he leans forward, capturing her chin with his mouth as he bites the flesh while the pads of his finger massages slow and deep over her swollen clit.

He feels the spongy bit under his touch, “Tell me you’ve been thinking of this too,” he breathes against her wet chin, then brings his middle finger down to her hole. It’s wet, so fucking wet when he drags his finger back up and circles her clit faster than before which makes her legs kick out in pleasure, one hand grabbing harshly at her boob as the other go up to Harry’s soft hair and she pulls, fingernails scratching his scalp while doing so. He groans against her skin and drags his finger down to her slick little hole again, circling around the wet, soft muscle and he pushes his finger in, her cunt making a wet, lovely sound as he does so as his eyes fall to his throbbing cock.

It’s so hard, an unpleasant feeling blooming inside, so he takes his finger out of her hole, making her let out a tiny whimper as she clenches around nothing with the sudden loss of his touch. Harry brings his finger up to his mouth, and his pink tongue darts out to lick, mouth closing around to devour the slightly salty slickness.

“Can I fuck you now?” He asks as his hand goes to stroke the side of her neck, goosebumps appearing immediately at the touch. She shudders, unable to respond and Harry’s voice is softer this time, “Can I, baby? Will you let me fuck your pretty pussy now? I need it so bad, sweetheart, so fucking bad. See how hard I am for you? So fucking hard for you, baby.”

“God,” another shaky breath, “Please, I’m so wet and horny- I need it, Harry, please.”

“Need my cock, yeah? Need me to fill that little hole? Stretch your tiny little hole, darling?”

“Fuck- please, I- please stop teasing me, I need it...please, fuck me.”

Harry feels something, a prickly sensation inside him, his groin tightening, and he knows it’s her dirty mouth and sweet face to blame. He looks down at his cock, hard as rock between his legs, and grabs her by the waist, pulling her on top of him with ease. “There, sweet girl.”

He lets out a hiss when her warm pussy makes contact with his cock and she bites her lip, leaning forward until their sweaty foreheads meet. “Your pussy’s so fuckin’ warm. Shit, we need condoms,” a strong arm wraps around her waist and she gasps when he leans forward so suddenly. His face is buried into her boobs as he tries to retrieve his wallet from one of the compartments in between and she watches him struggle, unable to control a tiny laugh escaping her mouth.

“Well,” Harry mumbles, warm lips making her skin feel all tingly, “This is lovely...mmm,” a few kisses are pressed between her boobs, then another open mouth one on her left nipple, and they’re finally back to their previous position, condom package between Harry’s lips as he rips the top, never once taking his eyes off of her while doing so.

“Ready for me?” He gives himself a few lazy pulls, thumbing at the tip while she watches, one hand kneading her boob. “Hm? Ready to take my cock?” He moves his hand slowly, up and down, causing her to swallow.

“Yeah...fuck yeah. Please, fuck me.”

He looks up at her as the rubber works its way down his cock, and she joins her arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he brings his cock to her cunt, earning a moan from her, her warm breath licking at his face ever so softly. He grunts, voice strained with pleasure when he feels how warm and wet she is at the touch of his cock and slides it against her warmth before he brings it down to her tight little hole and pauses there.

“Y’ready, sweet girl?” He nudges their foreheads together and it’s sweet, so sweet despite the position they’re in, and she nods, feeling their damp foreheads stick together, and Harry gives her a bright smile, dimple appearing on his left cheek.

And he pushes it in. With his thumb pressed against the tip, he pushes his cock inside her, the tightness squeezing his already sensitive cock as if she doesn’t want to let him go, as if she wants to keep him inside of her forever and ever.

“God, such a tight cunt, baby. Squeezing me already, hm?” He murmurs into her mouth, “Easy, darling...slow. Slow, yeah? Want to feel you properly,” his hands go up to her hips, holding her there to still the movement of her hips, and her arms loop around his sweaty neck, fingernails scratching the back of his neck and he hisses, face moving forward to press a bruising kiss on her parted mouth.

Once she calms down, hips stilled, his strong arms begin moving her up and down and they both moan, quick breaths leaving their mouths and mixing together just like how their bodies are almost joined together, two becoming one, and Harry starts moving his own hips so he can fuck into her as she helps her by moving her own hips up and down, slowly, just like he’d asked her to, feeling his cock stretching her tight hole with his every move. There’s a honking outside and both their movements still for a second, and a muffled chuckle leaves her mouth, arms tightening around Harry’s neck.

Their eyes meet, Harry’s mouth turning upwards, “What’s so funny, Miss Giggles, hm?” He murmurs as his hips speed up again, their skins slapping against each other as his cock strokes the insides of her walls ever so softly, sliding in and out of her.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking big, I- I knew you’d be big but...fuck, you’re so good, so fucking good, Harry,” she moans, earning a grunt from him as she meets his thrusts, her hands sliding down to Harry’s shoulders and squeezing his smooth skin briefly before she brings her palms down to her chest.

She strokes the hair on his chest, admiring the way his cross necklace sits proudly there, amongst his now damp chest hair, and she brings her palm to one of his nipples, thumb stroking the slightly darker nub and he lets out a groan as goosebumps appear on his chest and nipples.

“God,” she breathes and Harry can smell the fruity-sour alcohol on her breath, and his mouth pops open when she tweaks his sensitive nipples. “I love your nipples,” she moans again when his cock brushes that sweet spot inside her and he does too, arms tightening around her waist, and she tweaks his nipples again, this time harder as her hips speed up, ass slapping against his meaty thighs and she keeps jumps up on down on his cock.

As she does so, her boobs too move, bouncing up and down with her every movement and Harry reaches with one hand, capturing one of her nipples between his fingers as he tweaks left and right before letting it go, watching her skin prickle at the touch.

“Shit, y’feel amazing, just wanna keep you forever,” he groans, low and delirious, fingernails digging into her waist as he thrusts into her, “So fuckin’ tight around me...so tight and snug. I want you- want this everyday. Wanna be able to touch you, kiss that little face everyday, fuck this beautiful pussy...so good, darling, you’re so fuckin’ good, letting me fuck that sweet cunt in the backseat, hm? Are you good,” he breathes her name into her mouth, then bites her bottom lip, earning a gasp from her when his thrusts become particularly rough. “Are you a good girl?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m good, I’m so good, please- I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna fucking cum please keep fucking me, keep fucking me hard, Harry- keep going,” she speeds up her movements, Harry’s cock sliding in and out of her as wet, dirty sounds fill the car and he curses under his breath, hips lifting off the seat to meet her strokes.

“Are you close?” He manages to ask, a low grunt in his voice.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she brings one hand down to her pussy and begins rubbing her clit, moaning when she touches the little nub and then, with her other hand, she reaches for Harry’s face, thumb stroking the side of the smooth skin before she places it on his bottom lip and presses hard, making him part his mouth. She pushes it in, eyes lulling shut at the feeling of his warm tongue as he sucks on her thumb, hips continuing their movements as he fucks her cunt with quick, rough thrusts.

When she opens her eyes, Harry’s watching her, sweat glistening on his forehead and she brings her finger down to where Harry’s cock meets her warmth and rubs the top of his cock, moaning when she feels the vein there. She brings it up to her clit again, all wet and warm, and she rubs harder with rough strokes as Harry juts his hips forward a few more times. “I’m gonna cum, fuck- I’m gonna fuckin’ cum, baby,” his grip tightens on her waist and she places her hands on his shoulder, squeezing there.

“Come on me, I want it on my tits,” she mutters, fingernails digging into the smooth skin of his shoulders and he lets out a grunt, pulling out quickly as she gets down, Harry’s legs parting immediately so she can get between them.

And she does, gets on her knees between Harry’s parted legs as he takes the condom off, hissing at the feeling as he tosses it somewhere on the floor, and he begins stroking his now-wet cock as she thumbs at her nipples, kneading her boobs before pushing them together. His wrist works harder and quicker at the sight and he finally comes undone, his warm cum spilling onto her boobs, decorating her soft flesh with white stripes and she looks down, watching with sparkling eyes.

“God, fuck,” he breathes, letting his head tilt back, “You’re something else, y’know that?”

She hums, sending him a grin as he gives himself three more lazy strokes before he lets go of his cock and watches the spattered cum against her skin separate with the movement when she lets them go.

“Got some on your top, sorry, love.”

She looks down, then swipes a thumb across her skin and brings it up to her mouth. Pushing it in, she sucks around her digit as she tastes the salty-sour taste and Harry watches, all wrecked and fucked out.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“You’re so naughty...come up here,” his ring-clad fingers reach for her wrist and he helps her sit next to him.

He reaches the little pocket behind one of the seats, taking out some tissues as she watches him take out a few and clean her up as much as he can. Then their eyes meet, both sleepy and wrecked, and he lifts his hand up to her cheek, stroking it, and she leans into the touch, making him smile. “You’re lovely,” he mumbles, hand still on her cheek.

“You’re lovelier.”

He chuckles as she fixes her top, “You really are. Really lovely.”

“Stop it, I’m not good with compliments.”

“Well,” he shrugs, reaching for his trousers on the front seat, “I said what I said. You hungry? Thirsty?”

“I’m kinda thirsty. Aren’t you?”

As they lean against the bonnet of Harry’s car, now parked outside a McDonald’s, there’s a comfortable silence between them as they sip their waters, bodies close to each other, close enough for Harry to smell his faint cologne on her skin.

“You cold still?”  He turns to her as she takes a bite of her chocolate muffin, and he follows as a few crumbs land on her chest.

“I’m good. Feel very warm...ed up,” she chuckles, thumbing at the corners of her mouth.

Harry groans, nudging her with his shoulders and she nudges back, harder, and he gasps, “Oi, be nice. I’m feeding you.”

“Soz. Guess I owe you like...what is it, a fiver?”

“You’re a very mean girl.”

“I’m the nicest. I’m good,” she gives him a grin, earning another eye roll from him as she takes another sip of her water before placing it on the floor, “Seriously though, thanks for the muffin.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m kinda bummed you turned down the nuggets but…maybe next time?”

“Next time?” She asks, crossing her arms, trying to warm herself up despite her promise from earlier.

“Well,” he clears his throat, hand going up to his necklace, “I’d love to see you sometime. Again. Preferably for longer than an hour and...you know, just us two? Hanging out?”

She smiles and leans forward, taking him by surprise when she presses their lips together. It’s a sweet, slow kiss, and his hands grab the back of her neck, pressing their faces closer as they kiss. Her hands find his waist and she gets on her feet, coming to stand between his legs without breaking their kiss, and she loops her arms around his neck, smiling when he moans at the feeling of her fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

He tastes the muffin, the chocolate, and himself, and as foolish as it sounds, he wishes there was a way to be closer to her somehow, closer than they already are at this moment. She pulls away, their foreheads pressing together as they smile at each other.

Harry scrunches his nose and smiles, bringing it forward so their noses touch, “What was that for?” He whispers, hands tight around her waist as he hugs her closer.

“Just felt like it...just felt like kissing you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like kissing you. I liked kissing you a lot tonight.”

He smiles, nose booping against hers once again, “I liked kissing you a lot too. I’d like to kiss you a lot tomorrow. And maybe the day after that.”

“That’s fine by me. You can kiss me tomorrow...and the day after that,” she whispers, pressing their bodies together.

Harry closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as she watches with curious gaze, eyes crinkling with a smile.

“What are you doing,” she whispers, and he shushes her, smiling when he opens his eyes to find her staring with her eyebrows raised, “What are you doing?” She asks again and he squeezes her waist, forehead pressing against her once again and he leans in closer to press a tiny kiss on the corner of her mouth.

“I’m listening,” he whispers, lips almost touching hers as he speaks.

“Listening? What are you listening to?”

He strokes her cheek, “A song.”

She raises her eyebrow again, “What song? I can’t hear it. Are you- you’re not actually serious, are you?”

“Ssh, it’s a song. Listen,”

“Har-ry,” she groans, pressing her forehead on the crook of his neck, “What is it?”

Harry smiles, arms hugging her closer as she presses a tiny kiss to the side of his neck, “Aubade.”

SEND ME YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT AUBADE AND PLEASE REBLOG THE FICS YOU’VE READ AND ENJOYED TO SUPPORT AND MOTIVATE WRITERS <3

[with-love-from-hell]

Blog Changes as of 5/16/2022

Hey everyone!!

First off, I want to thank you all for following. I recently hit 800 followers, which is so huge for me. I have been writing for less than a year, and to have that many people decide that they love my work enough to follow is amazing to me. Whether you’ve been following for 6 months or for 6 days, I love all of you and I am looking forward to continue to give you all some great content. 

As stated in my previous post, my blog will be undergoing some changes. I will still be writing, but there will still be less content weekly, as I’ve stated before. The main change though, is that I am going to be changing how I do requests. Specifically, I am going to *try* to start charging for some content. 

Before you run for the hills, let me explain:

I have been needing to pull more hours at work in order to pay down my debt in preparations for student loans coming due in August (my only hope is they get postponed longer, because Grad school put me in DEEP) and to be able to afford things for my wedding next year (because jesus this shit is expensive). Because of this, my time to dedicate to writing is...minimal, unfortunately. I am finding it hard to pull one substantial piece per week, whereas before I was able to put out at least two, and some other content as well. 

In order to maintain my income at work, I am needing to see about 33-35 clients per week, which doesn’t seem like a lot for a 40 hour work week, but those other 5-7 hours are reserved for meetings, charting, preparation for session, tracking my hours for licensure, and training. For reference, the average therapist sees between 23 and 28 clients per week in order to manage this in a 40-hour work week. So I am needing to be at work for at least 45-50 hours- which is super draining and definitely feeding my depression.  What also doesn’t help, is that I am salaried, so I am stuck with the same income weekly- though I am fortunate enough to work at a place that offers quarterly bonuses for any client numbers consistently over the weekly quota of 28 people, but those bonuses only come out once every 4-5 months- which means I have to wait. I am also really thin on PTO due to all of the physical health bullshit I deal with that requires me to take off of work, which I wont get into here, but adds another barrier. 

The reason I am doing this is because I want to dedicate more time to writing if I can. I like to write; it makes me happy. It was never something I wanted to commodify, but given how shitty capitalism is, I am kind of left with no other choice unless I only do headcanons until I somehow manage to reduce my hours at work, which wouldn’t happen for at LEAST one year. And that’s not something I want to do. 

So, the way I will be changing things is that I will still have content free to be requested, but others will cost some money. Small drabbles (e.g. anything under 1k words) and headcanon requests WILL STILL BE FREE, though I am limiting how many of them I can get in a certain time frame due to the issues stated above. The time frame on these will basically be whenever I have some time to get to them. I started a Ko-Fi- which I will link at the bottom of this post- for the cost for “commissioned” works. I tried to make them affordable while also not minimizing the time it takes me to do them. All of my commissions will be based on word count.

Here is the tentative basic spread of what I will be offering here:

Free tier: Drabble requests (about 1k words) and Headcanon requests

$4 tier: Short fic (e.g. between 1.5k and 3k words)

$8 tier: Medium-length fic (e.g. between 3.5k and 5k words)

$13 tier: Long fic (e.g. between 5.5k and 7k words)

$24 tier: Fic series (e.g. 3parts that have a total of between 12k and 15k words) 

With all of this said, I will still be working on the stuff I have currently going (like Melancholia and the Fortification Series) and the requests that are for more longer things I am taking out of my inbox or reworking into drabble/headcanons instead of original plans. If I do a follower event in the future (which I have been thinking about doing for 999 followers), the stuff I do there will all be free. If you submitted a request and want to rework it, you are more than welcome to!

I hope this goes over well so I can reduce my workload a bit and focus on writing, because that’s what the purpose of opening these commissions is. My Ko-Fi also has tips set up, so even if you don’t want to request anything specific you can donate there (obviously you don’t have to, but anything is appreciated). Shit sucks right now for a lot of people who are financially screwed, so I never want you to feel like you can’t engage with my content. Everything I create will still be able to be read for free, I wont hide any of that behind a paywall. It’s just specific requests. 

If you have any thoughts about this, let me know. I always welcome feedback!

Here’s the link to my Ko-Fi (which is also in my blog bio). Stay tuned for an updated masterlist, and updated pin post for my blog rules!

Thank you all again for being so wonderful and enjoying my work!

[dollsonmain]

Blather One:  Contractor Man

So, this guy’s done work for us before but it’s been a few years.

He’s very confident, but that doesn’t mean he’s right. That Guy probably would explode if I said that out loud (he just stopped moving for a while when I told him that both sides in an argument have just as much reason to lie so he shouldn’t believe the WMAL folks were telling the truth just because they said they were), though, so I’m stuck doing my own research and watching the contractors like usual.

However, when they did the siding, they did it right, very well, and willingly answered any questions I came up with.

Anyway, he basically told us do not renovate anything that doesn’t need it for safety reasons right now because the price of materials is disastrously inflated at the moment. Wait until winter when contractors are bored for lack of summer projects and prices come down on materials.

He said the floor felt alright under his heavy feet and that as long as I keep it caulked up tight it’ll stay that way because I made a point of drying it out very well before sealing it up. He also suggested installing a strip of quarter round to cover the edge of the sheet vinyl but I have no idea what it would be nailed into since there’s a large gap between the subfloor and the shower pan. Maybe glue it on?

-

So That Guy, ever the opportunist, suggests we look around for other things that need fixed.

-

The wall that squeals and groans in the wind? Drive some screws in tightly, pull the drywall back against the studs, and it should stop. Requires painting.

-

The window that leaks? Tear down all of the siding on that relatively small section of wall (it’s an outcropping), find the problem, fix the problem, put the siding back, replace the outer frame of the window. He’ll send us an estimate, but isn’t sure he can get the wood right now. I’m open to replacing it with plastic and we can discuss that more later.

-

The deck that’s falling apart? It’s not installed right, codes for safe installation have changed and it doesn’t meet them, it’s the wrong kind of wood, the frame can likely be reused, no you don’t want a concrete slab, That Guy. The deck is low to the ground and it would make maintaining that slab unnecessarily difficult. Maybe some limestone gravel if he’s really intent on putting something down.

Yes, that’s a critical repair. It’s becoming unsafe to use because the railings are falling off. We can get the TREX composite That Guy wants and depending on how chuffed we are about aesthetics it can be $12k-$15k to just refresh what’s there [stripping it back as far as needed and replacing almost everything]. His crew will also remove the random junk the previous owners left under there since they’ll have pulled almost everything out and have a truck for trash anyway.

He audibly groaned when he saw the mulch I’d laid under there, and kind of dove under to look but calmed down when he saw that I knew well enough to NOT mulch up to the support beams and had left them with plenty of clearance to help the ground dry out around the wood.

I don’t know everything, but I’m not stupid.

-

Then he’s like “Well.... Are you in a hurry?”

He went on and on and on about his upcoming mission trip to Uganda (if you’ve been on the whining side blog, a little bit of that conversation ended up there because hahahahahahahahahahah That Guy is such a fucking hypocrite) and I was like

First off, if they say specifically “We don’t want Christians here changing things.”, and apparently a different mission’s locals did, then leave those people alone.

Second, that’s none of our business. You tell the client you’re booked up for a good while, maybe apologize for the length of that time if it’s long, and that’s it.

I had the same problem with Captain Overshare (I know, funny for ME to say that, but it’s different between in-person and online interactions because people can just stop reading something online) last time telling me horrible stories about his time as a volunteer firefighter and how his ex wife used to physically abuse his sons and.....

Dude. That’s not professional. Go to therapy.

I think he desperately wants someone to tell him he’s a good boy.