#its been almost eight hundred days
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Sins of The Flesh
Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC [Riley]
Wordcount: 3,000+
Warnings: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact, No physical description of OC other than her being black, Spanking, D/S Dynamics, Mentions of Heaven/Hell, Alternate Universe (Mike Is Alive), Bratty!OC, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, a tiny bit of Degradation Kink, No P in V, Slight Angst
A/N: Divider by fireflygraphics. Special shoutout to @megamindsecretlair who inspired me to write something for the first time in too long. Thank you!
Riley was the picture-perfect Southern belle. With a preacher for a father and a teacher for a mother, she always kept up her manners in public. But behind closed doors, she had a talent for getting into trouble—and her relationship with Terry Richmond was no different.
He was her very own Black G.I. Joe—six feet, four inches of solid muscle. Intense, stormy green eyes and the face of an Adonis. A flawless specimen—and completely hers.
That morning, she woke up with a familiar ache in her belly. Terry had been gone the entire week to celebrate his cousin Mike’s homecoming, while she stayed behind due to a special work project. It had been seven long days without so much as a touch from the man who couldn’t keep his hands off her whenever they were alone.
He'd returned late Saturday, slipping into bed quietly to avoid waking her.
It was Sunday morning, and as the preacher’s daughter, she knew she had to be at her best. But sleep had eluded her. The rollers she wore to sleep were uncomfortable, and she never slept well when Terry wasn’t there. She woke up feeling restless, only to turn over and see him.
He was bare-chested, the morning light making his skin glisten. The bedsheets were pushed down to his hips, and the outline of his body was impossible to ignore. Her mouth watered.
When her gaze finally made its way up to his face, his eyes were already on her. Terry was always up by six, but some days, he'd stay in bed a little longer just for her.
She kissed her way up his body, starting from his neck and working toward his lips, straddling him.
“Mornin’, baby,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, making her heart flutter. His green eyes framed by naturally long lashes—lashes she spent a hundred dollars a month trying to replicate—fixed on hers. He pulled her down for a tight hug, his lips finding her jaw. She sighed, feeling his strength encase her.
“What time did you get in? I missed you,” she admitted, feeling a little foolish. She was a grown woman, had spent most of her adult life without him, but sometimes it felt like she couldn’t breathe without him there.
His facial hair, grown in during the week they’d been apart, tickled her skin as he nuzzled into her neck—a silent way of saying, "I missed you too."
They lay there for a few moments before he stirred. One arm wrapped around her back, the other reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “We gotta get up. It’s almost eight.”
She groaned. “It’s too early.”
She was up before sunrise on workdays, but weekends were different.
“Come on, we have to.” He patted her back gently.
“Excuse you…” She sat up, crossing her arms with her legs still draped over his hips. “You just got back and you're bossing me around. You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
He wouldn’t admit it, but he loved how spoiled she could act sometimes. She knew he’d give her the world if she asked, and it boosted his ego to know she trusted him that much—knew, deep down, he would always protect and care for her.
“Oh, you think you’re running the show now?” he teased, raising a brow. She bit her lip, debating how to respond. Terry Richmond wasn’t the type of man to play petty games with, but she liked to do it every now and then, just to keep things interesting.
“Duh. I thought you knew.”
He let out a deep laugh from his core, right in her face. She huffed and tried to move away from his lap, but in an instant, he had rolled them over, pinning her beneath him as they both giggled.
“Who gave you command?”
His hand wrapped gently around her neck, and the playful moment turned serious. He positioned himself between her legs, morning wood pressed against her thigh, and her face flushed.
“You did.” She swallowed hard, remembering the last time they were in this position—his hand firm around her throat as he took control. The unspoken command hung in the air: tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll give you what you want.
He raised an eyebrow, “Me?”
“Yeah,” She smirked, “You disappeared so I had to improvise.” Her voice softened, teasing but with a warmth that hinted she missed him. “Maybe don’t leave me hanging next time, huh?”
He shook his head with a chuckle, then his lips crushed against hers, the kiss demanding, until her thoughts were consumed by him and only him. Her back arched, hips shifting as she sought him out. His hand found her neck again as he slowly pulled away, as if it pained him to stop.
“We gotta get up. I let you miss another Sunday, and your dad will never let me live it down.”
His sudden shift in tone made her scowl, especially as he tapped her legs to free himself from her grip. “Why are you talking about my father right now?”
“Get up.” His tone tolerated no dissent, and she reluctantly allowed him to pull her to her feet.
She followed him into the guest bathroom, where he'd gone to shower in peace. She dragged her soapy hands down his back, teasing him, offering to help him dry off but using it as an excuse to grope him instead. He wouldn’t give in. She spent the rest of the morning testing his resolve, brushing against him as he scrambled their eggs, and bending at the waist to give him a peek under her slip after "accidentally" dropping the house keys.
By the time they reached the church parking lot, a frown lingered on her made-up face, fading only as they approached the church doors, where she transformed into the picture-perfect preacher’s daughter.
Smiling, saying all the right things, all the while thinking about Terry. It wasn’t right, thinking these things in church, but she couldn’t help it. She prayed for forgiveness but couldn’t stop herself from reminiscing about him—the way he drove her to the brink of madness, how good he always made her feel.
The singing of hymns and the preaching faded into the background as she focused on the analog clock hanging above the pulpit. Church seemed to drag on even longer than usual, as if the universe were conspiring with Terry to tease her to death. He sat there, as tempting as the devil, his button-up shirt clinging to his muscular arms and thick thighs defined even in slacks.
By the time they reached the car, she felt like she was on the verge of catching fire. She’d waved hurriedly at her parents before dragging Terry out the church doors, complaining about the traffic. She was sure her mom would call her and fuss about it later, but she’d deal with that when the time came. He didn’t say a word until they were driving down the main road, his eyes glancing over at her.
“You’ve been acting wild all day. You that desperate for my dick?”
“What?”
“You heard me. You want it that bad?” He repeated himself, a sly smirk playing on his lips. Her mouth hung open as she processed his words. In the bedroom, he was her Daddy—dominant, demanding, intense. A bit of a bedroom bully, but never harsh. She was his princess, and he treated her like one. Terry didn’t usually talk to her like this, but she couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between her legs at his words.
She wished she had something clever to say, but the truth was that her desire for him ran deeper than he could ever realize. “I can’t help it,” she admitted, leaning over the center console to caress his leg. She gave him those Bambi eyes and spoke softly. “I need you, baby.”
“I get it. I've been counting down the days too,” He promised. His voice was steady and calm—too calm—while she felt like she was on the edge. He had unbuttoned the top of his shirt when they got in the car, and all she could think about was undoing the rest. The way the water had cascaded down his chest this morning was sinful. Her thighs clenched together subconsciously.
“I need more than just talk right now,” She grumbled, remembering how he had rejected her earlier that morning. She’d wanted him so badly that she dropped to her knees, promising to make it worth his while. But he remained composed, pulling her back up for a soft kiss on the corners of her mouth. “Later,” he had promised.
All week, she had struggled to concentrate at work, her thoughts consumed with him. And now that he was back, he didn’t seem in any hurry to change that. He should have woken her up last night, church be damned— The same way he did any other night he wanted to be inside her. Her hand inched up to his thigh and squeezed.
When her fingertips grazed his dick, he gently grabbed her hand and lifted it from his lap. “Relax,” he warned, his voice adopting that stern tone she usually loved. But now, it just grated on her nerves. Terry Richmond—who was always so eager—was telling her to relax about sex. How many mornings had he insisted on having her before he left for work? How many days had he stalked her around the house, grabbing her any way he wanted? How many nights had he promised to “do all the work” if she just let him inside?
She kissed her teeth and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring out at the cars ahead. He was full of it.
“What’s this? You got an attitude now?”
She snapped before she could stop herself. “What do you think, Terry?” Aggravation burned in her chest, and his eyes widened at her tone. Apparently, his week away had been too long—she had lost her damn mind.
“Any other time, you can’t get enough of me, and now you’re acting like I’ve got the cooties. What’s going on with you?”
“What are you trying to get at?” he asked, sounding annoyed, and it was clear on his face. She stared back at him as his gaze flicked between her and the road, as if her eyes could uncover whether he had been faithful. She trusted Terry, but she already knew Mike’s wild ass had plenty of strippers and trouble around.
What else was she supposed to think? Terry was only a man after all.
“For real?” he replied, meeting her suspicious gaze. “You think I’d do you like that?”
Her stomach flipped. In her heart, she felt one thing, but her head was a different monster altogether. She had a tendency to overthink and jump to conclusions. Terry usually made her feel so secure that it wasn’t an issue. “So, just because I’m not moving fast enough for you, I must be cheating, huh?” He looked at her like a wounded lion.
“I don’t know, Terry,” she shifted her gaze away from him, knowing she had overreacted. “I’m just frustrated, okay?” The silence that fell between them felt heavy. She knew she had made a mistake. “I’m sorry,” she added, her voice softening. “I know you’re not like that; I was just... I don’t know.”
Just like Muni Long, she wished for a Time Machine.
The sting of her accusation settled in his gut. He couldn’t begin to understand why she would doubt him after everything they’d been through.
Terry remained silent for the rest of the ride. Not even when he parked the car, opened her passenger door, and unlocked the house did he say a word. He let her in first, just like always, but the usual kisses to her neck were absent. Instead, he slipped off to the guest room to change while she undressed in their shared bedroom, feeling like a brat. The pretty polka dot dress and brand new stockings he should have been removing only added to her sadness.
She removed her makeup in a somber mood, then finally made her way to the living room when she could no longer put it off. Terry had changed into a T-shirt and shorts, sprawled across the couch while fiddling with the remote, flipping through channels she knew he wasn’t interested in at all.
She settled onto his lap, her thighs gripping him to keep him close. He avoided her gaze until she cupped his face in her hands, gently forcing him to meet her eyes. There was a storm brewing, one that she had caused. “Don’t be like that,” she pleaded.
She rested her head against his broad chest, cuddling into the warmth beneath her. With her chin snuggled comfortably, she gazed up into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was wrong– so wrong. I know who you are and that you wouldn’t hurt me. Please forgive me. I was trippin’.”
He took a deep breath and ran a hand across his low fade, trying to process his emotions. “You really scared me with that.” He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. “I need you to understand that it’s not easy for me to shake off what you said. I love you, but I need to know you trust me.”
“I do. I promise I do, baby. I just lost my head for a minute there. You mean everything to me.”
“Okay,” he conceded after a minute, “Just keep your head in the game, alright? Stick with me. We’re good.” Terry’s habit of framing their relationship in sports terms never failed to make her smile.
"You got it, coach," she teased, then added playfully, "Oh wait—Sir, yes sir," as she offered a mock salute.
“You always know just how to push my buttons, don’t you?”, he asked. “That’s alright, though, because you’re still under my command, recruit.” He delivered a series of sharp smacks to her behind without warning. Riley gasped as she felt the sting of each slap.
"Terry, stop," she protested, trying to push him away, but he was unyielding.
“Nah, baby,” he whispered against her lips, staring her directly in the eyes, “You got a little too bold and need a reminder of who’s running things.”
Her stomach flipped as she realized what was happening. She had been getting more mouthy as the day went on, testing how far she could go. Now it was time for Terry to put her in her place, and while that was always fun, she knew he wouldn’t go easy on her.
As if reading her mind, Terry pulled back slightly, his gaze fierce and focused. "You know I love you, baby," he uttered softly. “But sometimes, a firm hand is needed to keep us in line.”
She nodded, a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside her. A spanking hadn’t been a part of her agenda for the day. All she wanted was to come home, have him in their bed, and make up for lost time, then pretend to watch TV for a little before she rode him to oblivion. But she had ruined that by being impatient. She knew that Terry was right – she had crossed a line today, and this was exactly what she needed.
Taking a deep breath, she eased into him, allowing him to maneuver her over his lap as he repositioned them on the couch. The muted sounds of the TV faded into the background as they got comfortable, her shorts rustling quietly as he pulled them down to her ankles.
“I get that you’re used to having things your way, but that ain't how it works with me,” Terry advised, palming her ass cheeks in each hand. He took his time jiggling the fat there before his hand came down on one side and then the other. Terry was heavy handed, making sure she felt him deep in her soul. She hissed, already reaching back to cover her bottom.
"Gimme your hands," he ordered, locking both of them in one of his own.
Terry started spanking her in earnest, and Riley felt every bit of it— the sharp sting as his hand met her skin, the heat radiating across her backside, and the firm pressure of his arms keeping her steady.
“I’m so sorry,” She whined, squirming in his lap. “I didn't mean it!” He took a breath, grabbed her chin, and locked his gaze on her to make sure she heard him loud and clear. “I know you didn’t plan for this, but you still deserve this punishment. You gotta do better, ma.”
He went back to smacking her ass all wild, hitting it from every possible angle. “Fuck!” She cursed, getting lost in the pain and the pleasure. If the folks at church knew she had a mouth like this, she'd be too embarrassed to show her face again. With each smack, her thoughts become increasingly scrambled, swirling in a delicious haze. It didn’t help that Terry was talking her through it the entire time.
“Remember I’m doing this because I love you.”
“You need to find some middle ground before you take things to the next level. You understand me?”
“Stay exactly like that, don’t move.”
“I know it hurts. It’s supposed to.”
“Here, grab this pillow.”
She moaned and groaned her protests but Terry was too strong and she had earned this ass whooping. She knew there was nothing left to do but surrender. Terry had her and she could let go of all her worries and concerns. She just needed to ride it out.
As the spanking continued, Riley’s breathing grew more ragged until she was breathless. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She apologized fervently each time his hand came down on her ass, sobbing when he gave her a small reprieve, rubbing her lower back gently. “You’re okay. We’re almost done. Are you really as sorry as you’re claiming?”
“Yes, Daddy,” She whimpered, already imagining how sore she’d be the next day, hobbling into her good government job with a bruised backside. She had bit off way more than she could chew and now needed his mercy.
“Repeat after me,” Terry commanded, his tone leaving room for argument. “Say ‘I’ll be a good girl and listen.’” She immediately complied, her voice shaky but sincere as she echoed his words, fully embracing the promise behind them. “I understand that the next time I do it, Daddy is going to spank my disobedient ass all over again..” She repeated his words like a well-trained parrot, and at the moment, it was all she could manage.
She felt lightheaded by the time Terry finished spanking her, and she couldn’t recall the last thing he’d said. She had hit her breaking point.
She laid there for several minutes, completely spaced out, and focused only on catching her breath. Terry massaged her scalp with his fingertips as they both came down from the natural high of their chemistry. Eventually, Terry lifted her up to meet his gaze, being mindful not to agitate her already bruised bottom.
“You good?”
Her head was still reeling. She wanted to shrink into a little ball, but she also wanted to live in his skin. How could she express that to him without sounding unhinged? Terry massaged her back in gentle, calming circles until he sensed her start to unravel. She eventually nodded slowly, acknowledging that yes, she was okay— physically at least, even if her emotions were still in a disarray.
“I’ll do better,” she promised, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.
"That’s my good girl," he said, gently wiping away tears from her cheekbone as his expression softened. Despite what she might think, he didn’t get as much satisfaction from spanking her as she believed. It was just something he had to do.
“Come on, pretty. I’ll fill the tub up for you, and then we can order brunch from your favorite spot.”
Forgive me for any mistakes. I had to post this before I lost my nerve, lol. This started as something completely different but I'm happy with how it turned out. Let me know what you think! For more Terry Richmond fics by other amazing young ladies, please check out my Terry Richmond fic rec tag.
Part 2
#rebel ridge#terry richmond x black!oc#terry richmond x black!reader#rebel ridge fanfiction#terry Richmond x black oc#Terry Richmond x black reader
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feat. mrs. lee bahng
SUMMARY: why have a plot when your two gorgeous boys are finally having a short break before the comeback? y’all already know what to do.
WC: 0.6k
CW: lowercase! [NASTY SMUT] make sure to hide the bible if god watching. like, wash your hands after reading kind of nasty. man, i’m so ovulating right now.
REQ! by 🧋anonnie right here. omg. yes. just yes. no questions asked or needed, i gotchu.
[🔶 ★🎇★ 🔶]
one of them is kissing your neck, but with your eyes closed, you don’t bring yourself to guess just yet, just shiver, whimpering, before being able to feel the shape of his plush lips against your pulse.
“such a pretty princess,” chan whispers, his hands moving your hair off your face.
he had been wearing lipstick when he arrived home with minho after their last photoshoot of the day, which makes him chuckle, because neither of them can be too sure the makeup is still on.
actually, scratch that. minho licks his lips, bending to pepper kisses all over your stomach. if there was any lipstick still on his lips, he’s 100% sure its shimmer would look a hundred times better against your nude skin.
there’s a gasp the younger man holds back, a tremble in his voice when, even after making you reach the stars with his tongue, he still won’t fit.
“s-so… t-tight.”
you know that tensing up is about the worst thing you should do, and you try ignoring the awkward, stingy feeling that shoots through you when minho barely attempts to settle himself where you know he belongs.
luckily, chan’s there, leaving sweet kisses and teasing licks here and there, his hand traveling down to your clit, pressing figure eights and snickering to his hearts content at the sighs that come out of your mouth when specks of that yummy feeling slyly start seeping through.
“mmm, baby… such a champion,” he’s teasing, his teeth biting your cheek. your sweat tastes sweet, much like the champagne he had back at the studio with the boys, the day before the album came out.
both him and minho went back home smirking, knowing that the real celebration was waiting for them at home.
“takes cock so well… shit…”
minho can’t even dare to speak, a small part of him that doesn’g want to hurt you, and the other one that just knows that he’s a blink away from bliss.
“such a tight cunt, fuck.”
at his struggle, chan can’t help but snicker. you just pant, and take minho’s hand, kissing his palm before turning to chan and resting your other hand on his cheek.
“baby,” you sigh. his dimples smile at you, and he pecks your lips.
“it's okay, princess,” chan coos at you sweetly. “don't worry, mhh? min'll make it fit. make you feel really good, yeah?”
his lips can’t fathom leaving your skin, pecking, nibbling, kissing anywhere he can reach.
minho pushes further into you, and you whine, your eyes tearing up lightly, the tears not daring to fall down your cheeks after facing chan’s lips, kissing them away.
“so warm and tight.” minho is oozing in a comfy hornyness, lying against you, his body almost melting over yours, his hands hugging your waist, lips licking and nibbling on your nipples playfully.
“colour, baby?” chan whispers to your ear. there’s no agreement to decide whether today’s about fucking or about making love, but his sweet marks on your neck, as well as the ones minho leaves on your cleaverage are always welcomed.
“green, pretty,” you smile, playing with his hair as you bit your lip, moaning at minho’s antics. “so green. greenest.”
it seems like your answer made him regain his stamina, because you can feel him twich as he licks and kisses down to your stomach. in a harsh manner he takes chan by his neck and plants a hard kiss on his lips. then, his nose rubs against yours, and he bites your lip cheekily, smirking down at you.
“gonna make sure you remember tonight until we come back from tour.”
seems like today isn’t either love nor fucking, because why choose if, ultimately, you can do both?
[🔶 ★🎇★ 🔶]
~kats, who has spent at least two hours thirsting over the album’s pics.
catiuskaa, july 2024 ©
#stray kids x reader#stray kids#stray kids scenarios#stray kids imagines#skz scenarios#skz lee minho#drabbles#stray kids minho#stray kids imagine#stray kids smut#bang chan smut#bangchan smut#lee minho smut#lee know headcanons#lee know x you#bangchan hard thoughts#skz hard thoughts#skz hard hours#bang chan x reader#minchan#bang chan imagines#lee minho fluff#bangchan fluff#lee know fanfic#bangchan x you#straykids x you#straykids bang chan#straykids lee know#stray kids x you#smutty smut smut
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MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me
Chapter Twenty Eight--Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.
Tags: 18+, SMUT, Rough Sex, Slapping (for sexual titillation), Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasm, Overstimulation, GUNPLAY, Outdoor Sex, Gagging, Choking, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTTTTT!!!!! GET THE TISSUES OUT!
FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.
In the aftermath of your heartfelt confession, the ambiance shifted beneath the curtain of rain. Mattheo's initial warmth, which had enveloped the moment, began to withdraw, slowly being replaced by his usual guarded demeanor.
Tension, thick and tangible, emanated from him, as if he yearned to retract, to voice a refusal. The gaze that had once been soft, akin to melted chocolate, now bore a stark reluctance. It was as though the vulnerability you had glimpsed moments earlier had transformed into a protective shield, guarding him against the intensity of the unexpected revelation.
Undeterred, you pressed forward, defying the cooling atmosphere with a resolute step. Your hands, a gentle insistence against the encroaching frost, found their place on his face. Amidst the rhythmic percussion of springtime raindrops, your eyes held an unbroken contact, mirroring the pounding cadence of your heart. A silent gaze held him in place, allowing the weight of your words to permeate the space before you spoke again.
"Don't say anything," you whispered, the words borne on the breath of the rain-soaked air, a plea to let the unspoken emotions settle in the delicate stillness between you two. "You've said so much, Mattheo...you've shared so much with me...I don't need you to say another word...just...just listen,"
Mattheo blinked, the subtle motion accompanied by the quiet working of his throat as he swallowed. His hands, hanging at his sides, remained still as yours maintained their firm grasp on his face. An almost imperceptible nod from him prompted you to inhale sharply, capturing the breath in your lungs.
"Perhaps I lied to you..." you began, your voice soft, tender. "Perhaps I wasn't being truthful when I said I never believed in destiny...because in a way, I do...but I also believe that we are only destined to do the things we'd choose to do anyway..."
A pause ensued as you studied his countenance, your gaze tracing the scars on his skin and taking note of his perfect imperfections that shaped the essence of who he is.
"And I'd choose you, Mattheo...in a hundred fucking lifetimes, in a hundred different realities, I would choose you...every fucking time..." you declared, your grip on him intensifying. Your hands trembled, mirroring the tremor in your voice. "I don't care about your history, I don't care about any of the bad things you've done...everything you've been through has made you who you are...and I am fucking in love with who you are...every single part of you...your smart mouth, your cheeky smirk, every line and every scar..."
Drawing him nearer, you gently guided him until his forehead found solace against yours. His hands discovered the curve of your waist, pulling you into an embrace that emanated urgency, a profound need to absorb every syllable you uttered, each word a testament to the depth of emotions shared between you.
"Your skin, absent of its scars, would be like a sky without stars," you murmured, your shared breaths blending in the intimate proximity. "I didn't fall in love with you; I fucking walked into love with you--with my eyes wide open, deliberately choosing every step along the way. Everything you've revealed changes nothing, Matty...I love you, utterly and unequivocally."
A profound silence enveloped the space, and time seemed to elongate into a suspended realm, each passing moment an eternity. His eyes, a tumultuous storm of unexpressed feelings, gently fluttered closed, his lips parting as his breaths, once steady, now took on a rhythm almost akin to panting--a visceral manifestation of the emotions swirling within.
His hands, deliberate in their motion, traversed the landscape of your back, ascending with a sense of purpose. As they reached your head, his fingers, fueled by a desperate urgency, found purchase, gripping your face with a fervor that spoke volumes. In this charged atmosphere, his eyes, concealed behind closed lids, hinted at the vulnerability beneath the stoic exterior. The suspended moment begged for release, aching for the words that lingered on the precipice.
"Say it again..." his murmured request, laden with longing, reverberated through the charged air. "I just-"
"I love you," you said, the words firmer this time, your hands threading behind his head, fingers entwining in his soaked hair. "I love you..."
His jaw tensed, and he released a shaky breath--his eyelids fluttering, the grip on your skull tightening. "Again."
"I love you," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, fingers digging into his scalp as though you could force the words through. "I fucking love you, Mattheo Riddle."
Breaths intermingled, and your grips on each other surpassed the hold of any chains or restraints. In the pulsating intensity, your minds spun with a whirlwind of thoughts. Was there a sweeter arrangement than this? He gets to ask you, over and over to repeat it--while you get to tell him, over and over, that you mean it.
Your nails dug into his scalp, foreheads pressing together with an almost painful force. "I thought it would be impossible to ever find someone...to ever be with someone, when beneath my surface of composure, I'm scattered in a million different pieces--like a puzzle with missing parts..." you paused, lips softly grazing his. "But then you showed me that every piece doesn't have to be in place to create something beautiful...something real...that love can exist in the most imperfect, lost, broken people."
A guttural noise escaped him, resonating low in his throat as his fingers dug into your skin, cradling your head.
You inhaled a shallow breath before you continued, "and I promise you, my love will be just as strong, just as beautiful, whether you, too, are in a thousand pieces, or just one.”
Mattheo, completely struck silent, locked eyes with your parted lips. In perfect synchrony, your gaze met his, and in that silent exchange, there was a mere gasp of air before his mouth was on yours. The passion between your bodies ignited into an unbridled inferno, refusing any attempt at restraint. His kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding further into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he groaned against your lips before capturing them again,
The kiss was unlike any before--a fervent blaze spiraling out of control, unwilling to be subdued for even a moment longer. His lips met yours with an intensity that felt almost primal; a hungry, desperate fusion of raw emotion and longing. His hands cradled your head with a force that hinted at an uncontainable desire, making you wonder if he sought to meld your very essence. The cool droplets of rain cascaded around you, soaking your skin to the bone, but you couldn't find it in you to care.
"I need you, princess..." he whispered, parting from the kiss, his hands gliding down your back as his lips found the curve of your neck. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Pretty girl..."
Your eyelids fluttered in response, fingers tightly grasping his hair, a desperate grip that mirrored the intensity of his kisses trailing down your neck. Your lip found refuge between your teeth as his mouth explored the path of rain cascading along your skin.
"My tainted little angel," he murmured, his words a provocative caress against your ear. "Crushingly beautiful...tender like a bruise..."
His hands, firm and insistent, sought the curves of your hips, fingers grasping at the wet fabric of your dress, tugging it upwards along your thighs. "You were the first sin actually worth hurting for...had me wrapped around your little finger before you even fucking touched me..."
You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder, Mattheo's lips moved back to yours, nipping at your lower lip before sliding to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.
"I told myself I was fine...that I was better off alone...never needed anyone, never wanted anyone...but then you came around, and after all this fucking time, after everything I put you through...it's still you, it's you who fucking believes in me..." he murmured against your skin. “You mean so fucking much to me…and when I finally admitted to that myself, when I finally let myself feel…you made me better, and I don't mean from being my tutor...you just made me want to be better...fuck, Raven...I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at the stars...I wanted to get better grades for you…I quit drinking and drugs because I wanted to be a better man for you..."
As he lifted your dress beyond your hips, your hands eagerly joined the movement, gathering the fabric's hem and peeling it over your head. His eyes traversed over every inch of newly exposed flesh, absorbing the sight with an intensity that spoke volumes. You observed as he swiftly shed his suit jacket, stripping the soaked fabric from his frame and laying it on the ground. His hands deftly moved to undo his belt, discarding his gun in the process. Returning a firm grip on your hips, he crashed his mouth back to yours, a relentless hunger igniting the kiss.
Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until you were both on the ground; him on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.
"I’ve had some, then most of you...all, and then none of you..." a soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection, covered only by the thin fabric of his boxers. "I-I can't lose you again...it's you...it's fucking always been you..."
"Oh, Gods..." your voice cracked, emotion bubbling in your chest, threatening to spill out as you rolled your hips against him. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. "You won't...you fucking can't..."
Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, head falling back on your shoulders. As if the sound awakened something inside him, he gripped your hips, flipping the two of you around until you were on your back beneath him, lips instantly moving to your neck, sucking at your throat.
You slid your hands under his shirt, savoring the firm contours of his body. He tensed, a low groan escaping into the intimate space between you, while his hips pressed against you with a force that seemed intent on melding you with the forest floor. Your fingertips traced the hard muscles, memorizing the damp, heated feel of his skin. In his voracious pursuit, he exhibited no restraint, extracting painful hickeys from the pulse at your neck.
The heat of desire surged between your thighs, and he moved lower, marking you with unrestrained passion. Tissue yielded to the pressure of his teeth, welts blooming under the fervent touch of his lips. Anxiety flickered through your mind as visible evidence of his ardor emerged, but the soft groan escaping his chest erased any concerns. Your back arched, willingly offering more of your untamed flesh to his insistent exploration. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands moved to your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric.
Mattheo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. "Still so fucking wet for me..." he murmured, clucking his tongue. "And in the middle of the fucking forest...you'd take my cock anywhere I wanted, hm?"
You bit your lip, trying to grind against his hand. "What can I say...watching you use that gun did something to me..."
"Naughty, naughty girl..." he leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. "Weren't you ever told to stay away from the asshole, weapon wielding bad boys?"
"Perhaps," you hissed through a moan as Mattheo pushed two fingers inside you--your walls tightening around him, hips twitching, head lolling against his soaked jacket. "Though I've never been good at following orders."
Mattheo huffed. "I'd say."
His mouth consumed you with a fervor, tracing a path of rich violet marks from your chin down to your clavicle, his spit mingling with the rain. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.
"If I fuck you now," he muttered at your jawline, "you'll have to take all of me. Everything I give you." He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. "I won't be able to control myself."
Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. "Thought I'd long proved my capability."
Mattheo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. "Earlier doesn't count, we were rushing...I need to wreck this tight little cunt...I'll fuck you harder and deeper than any of those assholes could ever fucking dream of..."
You shuddered, meeting his eyes. "Do your worst."
Snarling, he leaned back onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, working to suckle them clean. Mattheo's free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.
"You know how this works." His gaze locked onto you, and the sky seemed to ignite with lightning around him. "Beg for it."
When he released you, you gasped into the rain. "Please, fuck me."
In the blink of an eye, his hand struck you, unleashing a spray of saliva from your parted lips. "That was pathetic," he snickered. "I fucking said beg."
Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. "Why don't you fucking make me?"
"There's that dirty mouth..." Mattheo smirked, shifting as he reached for his gun, gripping it with his free hand while the other stroked his cock. Before you could process it, he brought the barrel toward your temple, pressing the cold, wet metal against your skull. "Last fucking chance, princess...if you don't beg for my cock I'll fuck you so hard you'll be begging for mercy instead."
A whirlwind of shame and yearning left your head spinning, the likely instigators of your brief lapse into temporary insanity. "I'm not scared of you, Riddle..."
“Oh, princess.” His smirk grew. "You should be."
Adjusting the gun, he compelled the barrel past your lips, the icy metal coating your tongue. His other hand delved into your hair, gripping your soaked strands tightly as he forcefully drove the gun deeper into your throat. Then, without warning, he broke you open, splitting your core with a deep, harsh thrust, head slamming your cervix. You cried out against the weapon, body recoiling in pain, hands moving to his hips, and he shook you in reprimand.
"Oh, no--don't fucking bother." He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. "No running. Take it."
Mattheo pulled out fully before ramming back into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, failing to find oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, drool spilling down your chin and mingling with the flow of rain.
"Fuck--such an insatiable little cunt..." he growled, his eyes drilling into yours, taunting you through his gaze. "It missed this cock already, didn't it?"
Another deep thrust, meeting your cervix, and you winced, groaning against the gun as you tried to nod.
"That's right...shit..." he pulled the gun from your mouth, strings of drool hanging like garland from the barrel, quickly being washed away with the rain. "My girl...my fucking beautiful, filthy girl..."
He tossed it onto the ground next to your head, drawing his hand down toward your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm.
"Fucking hell, you're so tight when you're about to cum..." he groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. "Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock."
Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Above you, Mattheo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core's pulsing slowed, he shifted, propping your calves up his shoulders before he leaned forward and clamped his palm down on your neck.
"Don't squirm, baby..." his low voice commanded, and as you whimpered, squirming beneath him, his grin deepened. His eyes, now wild and intoxicated with desire, held a promise. "I gave you fair warning."
His free hand pinched your cheeks, slowly sliding out before slamming back in and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again.
The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Mattheo grunted, tugging you closer, eyes drilling into yours.
"Open that filthy mouth."
Wincing, you complied, parting your lips as he commanded. Without hesitation, he leaned down and spat into it.
"Now swallow it. Show me."
With determination etched on your face, you managed to comply against the pressure of his massive hand. Popping your jaw apart with a grimace, you showcased your resilience, earning a smirk from him. In response, he rewarded you with a series of both painful and blissful strokes of his hips, pushing your body to its absolute limit. Your breath had vanished ages ago, your heart now a wild entity, coursing through your veins.
"Poor baby," he sneered, feign sincerity in his tone. "I think you need to cum again."
He snaked his free hand between your legs, rolling your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust.
"Fuck." Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, dark void of lust. "Who do you fucking belong to?"
The words barely made it out. "Y-you, Mattheo..."
His choke tightened, and your vision blurred. "Who owns this tight little pussy?"
"You--you do, Mattheo..." you gasped.
"That's right," he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. "Cum for me, princess..."
The force of your orgasm surged through you, blurring your vision, and you screamed, choked by his hand as every muscle below your waist convulsed in a rapturous ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended. He drank in the sight of you--eyes rolled, raindrops scattered like diamonds on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession.
"Good fucking girl...take me...take all of me," he muttered, voice low and deep in the night air. "Every single fucking inch."
Mattheo shifted again, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your chest. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the base. Soaked strands of his hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze.
"You love me." He tilted your head back with a deliberate motion. "You fucking love me."
You nodded, not a shred of hesitation. "Yes-fuck! I do!"
He swallowed, inching closer, his forehead tenderly meeting yours. "After all of it," he whispered, the words almost lost in the shared breath, "after everything..."
Your chin quivered, and the revelation about his parents cut into your heart, a painful echo of his turbulent past. It hurt, yes, but it also felt like the a groundbreaking revelation, the ending to the story which finally explained why he was the way he was. There was an undeniable understanding that surged between your hearts, a silent recognition that both of you needed love in ways only the other could provide.
Despite the turmoil, you couldn't blame him for something so deeply rooted. The man craved love as desperately as you did, neither of you ever willing to admit it. In the synergy of your souls, there existed an undeniable connection, a perfect harmony that transcended spoken words. Even in the hushed language of silence, your hearts resonated, acknowledging that there would never be two souls more perfectly suited for each other than yours.
"After everything." You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. "No matter what."
"Fuck." He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. "...I'm--fuck--I'm going to make you break again." His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. "And then I'm going to fill you up with my cum."
Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He wasn't fucking joking. You wanted mercy. "Fuck! Mattheo! Please-please-"
"No. Take it," he snarled into your ear. "Take it."
He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him like a snake, shaking from the overwhelming intensity of his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear.
"You're mine." He growled, his voice shredded raw with lust. "Mine."
"I'm yours!" You shrieked, nails digging crescents into his back. "Yours."
"Fuck-" he hissed, slamming harder, deeper. "Mine! All fucking mine..."
"Yours! Fuck!" It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. "All fucking yours!"
Your body convulsed, teeth sinking into your lip, propelled through a realm of heightened sensitivity into an ecstasy that seared your skin. Gasps and incoherent pleas spilled from your lips, a desperate supplication for release, for him to unleash the crescendo that would send you soaring and screaming and cumming.
"That's it," Mattheo growled, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. "You're taking me so fucking well baby, just one more...cum for me, angel."
Your senses fractured, caught between euphoria and disbelief, and your body spasmed, climax radiating through your every fiber, a luminous burst that shattered any remnants of sanity, setting Mattheo ablaze in its wake. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. For a moment, he didn't move, silently working to catch his breath before he pulled back, shifting onto his knees.
You fixated on him, your head weighed down, struggling to fathom the endearment he had bestowed upon you--silently endeavouring to etch every detail of this encounter into the recesses of your memory. A contented sigh escaped you, accompanied by a smile that radiated the joy swelling within your chest.
However, as you gazed at him, basking in the warmth of affection twinkling in his eyes, you noticed a flicker of something else--an abrupt shift. His thumb grazed your chin absentmindedly before he moved, working to tuck himself away. You mirrored his actions, attempting to salvage what was left of your clothing, now thoroughly drenched by the relentless rain.
Walking through the forest on your way back to the castle, the shadows of the trees played in the puddle-soaked ground, creating a surreal dance around you. Mattheo extended his hand, a silent invitation you willingly accepted. The brief connection sent a comforting warmth through you, grounding you amidst the uncertainty.
As you navigated the path, thoughts swirled like the mist around you. The night's events echoed in your mind, and a cloud of questions veiled the clarity you sought. Contemplating a potential job at the castle, you wondered about its impact on your newfound bond with Mattheo. Did you still harbour the same enthusiasm for the job amid these compelling complexities? The walk became a journey through both the tangible forest and the intricate maze of your thoughts, navigating the uncertainty of what lay ahead.
Approaching the castle, the distant melody of music embraced the night air, whispering promises of celebration within. Capturing the tune, Mattheo halted abruptly, pivoting to face you as the two of you lingered just outside the castle walls, hidden by the shadows of the night.
Your brows furrowed inquisitively as you locked eyes with him, seeking to understand the meaning behind this sudden pause. "What are you-"
"Shh." He cooed, eyes darting around.
After a brief survey of the surroundings, he fixed his eyes back on you with a newfound emotion swirling within them. Without another word, Mattheo enveloped you in a tender embrace, guiding your arms to rest on his neck as his firm hands settled on your hips. Bathed in the gentle glow of castle lights, he initiated a graceful sway to the rhythm of a slow, melodic tune that harmonized seamlessly with the rain-soaked ambiance.
In the suspended moment, your gaze locked with his, the world around you blurred as the rain continued its gentle descent, creating an intimate cocoon amidst the springtime storm. It felt perfect, a clandestine world of your own, away from the prying eyes of others.
"All those people think love's for show..." Mattheo blinked, drawing his face closer. "But I'd fucking die for you in secret."
Your breath hitched, water welling in your eyes. You quickly blinked it away, searching his face, mapping it, along with everything else from this night into memory.
"How'd I get so lucky..." you tightened your hold on him, the raindrops adding a gentle percussion to the soundtrack of the moment. "A sky full of stars, and yet you're staring at me..."
"There's no need," he murmured, directing your head to lay against his chest. "Avere lei è come avere le stelle."
Your heart leapt. "How did you-"
"Notts been teaching me," he said, and you could practically hear the smirk on his lips, the pride in his tone. "You know what I said, don't you?"
You blushed, unable to stifle your grin. "I do."
He hummed. "Tell me."
"No," you whispered, fingers digging into his neck as you shifted your head to look up at him. "I'd like to hear you say it."
His smirk grew, and he peered down at you. "To have her, is to have the stars."
“Mm,” you glimpsed his mouth, brushing your lips against his as you murmured, "E averlo, è come avere la luna." (And to have him, is to have the moon.)
His smirk blossomed into a radiant smile as he gripped your face, drawing you into a profound, messy, deep kiss. Every fiber of your being quivered under the intense surge of emotions you felt for this man--love enveloping you entirely, and whether or not he uttered the words, you could sense it--right now, ten minutes ago, and every moment in between.
All you wanted, more than anything, was that he’d hold you tight, and whisper that you’d find a way to be together. But then, his hands fell from your face, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you back into him. With his lips pressed to your forehead, he whispered,
“I’ve never loved anything, Raven…anyone…I didn’t even know I had a heart until you made it beat.” He murmured, tightening his grip. “Now this heart belongs to you. And I’ll fucking kill every last person that tries to keep you from me…”
You shuddered, breathing him in. “We’ll make it work. We’ll figure it out.”
He hummed, nodding softly, the two of you swaying to the gentle melody, ignoring the cold rain pouring down against your bodies. You weren’t sure how long you’d stood there, minutes, maybe even hours--but as the song came to an end, switching to another, more upbeat one, you smiled, meeting his dark, gleaming eyes.
“I love you, Mattheo.”
He pressed his lips to yours. “I love you, Raven.”
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A Simple (Mis) Understanding Chapter Two: Numbness & Pain
Daisy
I always used to think it was an exaggeration of how pregnancy is a constant state of exhaustion. But it was a lot of work growing a tiny human. Add in the fact that I'm still working 40 + hours a week and, of course, something is always causing some sort of discomfort or pain.
Swollen feet, back pain, nausea; I can't even find any solace in sleep. The 32 week mark felt so close, yet still so far. Another eight or so weeks of this seems like a drop in the bucket compared to how far along I am, but still. That still another two months. So far away when you want to be done, but still too short compared to everything I still have yet to do.
Another two months to set up a crib and wash her new clothes. Another two months to figure out a name and make decisions that I always envisioned making with a partner. Another two months of struggling to do things like picking up shit off the floor or staying on my feet long enough to make a decent meal.
But right now, I wasn't worried about the two months ahead of me and all the things I still have to do. Right now, I was looking forward to a three day undisturbed weekend. The pain in my feet and sciatica was becoming so bad, I had taken Friday off to see a doctor and spend the rest of the weekend doing nothing, but sitting in my modest little house and watching mind rotting television. I might even indulge in some spicy reading. Heaven knows its been too long.
Or at least, it hasn't been since them. That day in the office, but... that really didn't count. I often wrestled with myself about it. That one time erased any feelings I had for any of them. But I felt a bit pathetic how it now tainted every good memory I had with them. Kyle bringing me something to snack on when he realized I hadn't gone to the mess hall. Price always having a cup of earl grey tea cooling for me first thing in the morning. Two packs of zero calorie sweetner and a bit of honey.
Sweet like you.
I couldn't stand the smell of it now. I blamed it on the hormones. A lot of things made me queasy, but something about the smell of the bergamot, made me sick in a completely different way. A feeling not of nausea, but of... fear. Like the same way a pentagram could summon demons, earl grey could summon mine. As if John Price was somehow there any time the scent lingered in the air.
But he wasn't. None of them were. Fuck. Why did my thoughts always go back to them at some point? No. This was going to be a relaxing weekend god dammit. Fuck them.
Almost angrily, I hit the garage key fob, shutting the door and engulfing me into darkness; a thin line of light leaking through the bottom of the garage door. When I had opened my door, I could at least see a path to my mudroom. I grabbed my purse, ready to go in, when I felt it.
Hundreds of needles. Stabbing and digging into my feet. Not just the soles, but the entire fucking foot the moment I bared any weight on them. I pulled off my flats and it was then I noticed how angry they looked. Red and swollen and all but screaming at me to sit my fat ass back down. I wiggled my toes, trying to get some blood flow. Fuck. Why didn't they hurt while I was driving?
I manage to get onto my feet, using the car door as support. Steading myself until I was ready to take the first step. By the time I had managed to all but crawl inside, ten minutes had passed since my initial arrival time. I got off at 5:00, but usually didn't log off until almost 6:00. Granted, I work from home, but I had run out of a few essentials. Essentials now that were in the boot of my car.
Fuck.
10 minutes won't hurt. Not like there is any thing frozen. Speaking of which, I forgot my ice cream... dammit. I really need to start keeping a list on the fridge. It's hard to remember when pregnancy brain (or stomach) takes over and I slam a container in a single sitting.
Grabbing a pillow from the couch, I went to the kitchen. Which considering the town house, or terraced housing I suppose now, was perfect for a single and expecting Omega it was cozy. Not like the base where going from the common area to the chow hall was about a three minute stroll.
I get down and lay on my back. Carefully maneuvering so my ass rests against the cabinets before I hook the back of my heels unto the counter top so I could rest my feet a bit. Not the most sanitary, but it wasn't like I had guests. It was just me. For now.
It took a few moments to adjust. My back ached against the hardwood, but I could already feel the relief from my feet and legs. It wasn't all that shocking that I was having a hard time with them. I had gained a considerable amount of weight during my pregnancy. When I had brought it up to the OBGYN about possibly cutting back on food, her suggestion was to simply not weigh myself at home. Now when I went in for a visit they made me turn around before taking my weight.
It was hard. I've always had a problem with how I looked and now adding pregnancy then taking away the option to diet and exercise didn't exactly help.
I pulled out my phone and was preparing to open my kindle app when I saw a tiny red bar in the top right corner of my phone. Of course. I get nice and settled and my phone is on 2 fucking percent. Whatever. I tell Alexa to set an a timer for fifteen minutes and take a little nap. Maybe meditate.
A knock on the door quickly brings any possibility of relaxation to a pause. Margaret next door was dropping off Winnie off early to go to her book club. Margaret was a widow and a recent empty nester. She had spent her life as a mother and a homemaker. When I got custody of Winnie two months ago, she had quickly stepped up in helping me with everything from child rearing to managing my pregnancy.
"Hello, Maggie!" I greeted from the floor. "Hello, Winnie Darling." Winnie had the same sand colored hair as me and bright green eyes. Her face was a shade of red and I could smell her from the entryway. Someone would need a bath today. Fantastic.
"Oh, Dear!" Maggie fussed, setting Winnie down on her feet before coming over to me. "Are you alright?" Winnie didn't bother stopping to hug me like she normally would before making a beeline toward the potty. She usually was a creature of habit, but nature calls I suppose.
"Feet are a bit swollen." I waved off. "Just resting them a bit."
"I don't have to go tonight." She set her bag down. A deep green corduroy shoulder bag that always had just what you needed in it. A wet wipe, hand sanitizer, a spare tissue and even a stain pen when a spill happened at the most inconvenient time. "I'll stay and-"
"Maggie." I said, trying my best to sound at firm, but it was hard with her. No one told Maggie 'no'. "It's alright. Just a bit of water retention. Nothing to fret over." And it wasn't. I could already feel the pain from earlier subside.
"Really, it's no bother." She argued, bending over to unstrap one of her shoes. "It's a bloody stupid book anyway. I just go for the gossip really."
"Maggie." I tried again. "Really." "It's getting close to the due date and I don't want to burn out on me just yet." It was a lie. Even with her greying hair, a deepened laugh line, Maggie didn't burn out. She was one of the few Omegas I had met in my life and she could run circles around any of them, myself included.
The sound of flushing sounded from the bathroom followed by the faucet. She huffed before slipping her shoe back on. "If you insist."
"I do." I encouraged. As much as I loved having Maggie's help, I hated feeling like a burden. She had raised her children. It was time for her to do things for herself. "Besides, we'll see you tomorrow after my appointment tomorrow." The bathroom door clicked open, revealing my little Win with the front of her smock covered in water. Fantastic.
"Hi, Mommy." Winnie finally greeted. Her freshly washed hands dripping water droplets onto the hardwood. "What are you doing?"
"My feet hurt so I'm just letting them rest." I explained, looking up at her. Winnie was rambunctious as most four-year-olds without a sense of self preservation are, but when I explained to her how careful she had to be now that I had her sister in my belly, her nature had become more gentle.
It worried me as much as it warmed my heart.
"Why don't you sit on the couch?" She asked. Her head tilting to the side, face etched as if she were trying to figure out my reasoning.
"Because it helps when you lift your feet up high in the sky, Winnie Pooh." Maggie explained before looking back at me. "Well if you're sure-"
"I am. Go." I urged. "We'll see you tomorrow. Lunch around noon?" Spending time with Maggie didn't make me feel like such a parasite when I knew she enjoyed the company. Her children had all moved away, only one staying in the UK. She wasn't so alone, but neither was I.
"Wouldn't miss it." She gave a soft smile. The laugh lines around her face deepening. "See you tomorrow, Dearies." She said, retreating back outside. The soft sound of the door clicking behind her.
Winnie had laid down beside me. Yep. Definitely going to need a bath tonight. "How was school today?" Winnie went to a pre-school that was luckily covered under my insurance. Perks of being an Omega. I'll take it where and when I can.
She talked about going to the playground and painting. All the usual bits. Who she played with and new things she learned. Then came the question. A question she had asked before in passing. A subject I changed with ease before. 'Have you brushed your teeth? How about another episode of Bluey? Put on your trainers (because we can't just say tennis shoes anymore) and we'll go for a walk to the park. I had skirted around the question with ease.
"Why don't you have a mate if you have a baby?" Winnie was too young to get the answers to a lot of life's difficult questions. Why did Tiffany not like us? Why didn't she get to see her daddy anymore? Why did that man look at you weird on the train, mommy? I wish she would just stay this little. That she never needed or want to know the harsh truths about me, us.
"I..." I wracked my brain for an answer and just came up short. I couldn't think of a way to sugarcoat it. We almost had a mate. Mates. We almost had a pack that would have walked you to school on the mornings my feet were too sore or I was already running late. They would have loved you. "It... it's complicated, Darling." Is what I chose instead. The other worrisome fact is that Winnie was too young to understand the concept about mates. I had never broached the subject which only means she probably heard it from some little shithead at school.
Wonderful.
"I'll explain it when you're older." I promise, closing my eyes and letting her snuggle into the crook of my arm. "Do you wanna rest your eyes with me?"
"Like when I'm five?" She asks putting one of her hands underneath my shirt onto my belly. It had become a thing she had started since I told her about the baby.
"Maybe six." I said, looking down at her. She gave a yawn before closing her eyes.
"I think five is better."
"Okay, Win." I said. "When you're five we'll talk about it." It was a promise I hoped she would forget. But I didn't want to negotiate with a four-year-old about something future me could deal with. I wanted just 15 minutes of this. I order Alexa to set a timer to make sure we haven't dozed too far off. Winnie still needed to shower and eat. I still needed to get the groceries out of the car. But I could spare another 15 minutes.
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Cottagecore Series DVD Bonus Features
By popular request: the deleted scenes of how Dream and Hob ended up confessing their respective Big Secrets to one another. Below the cut are a series of conversations that take place a few days after Dream announces his pregnancy with Orpheus, and they are incredibly angsty. They also heavily feature abortion as a conversation topic. These were originally written to intercut with at least two miracles but didn't end up working out due to tone issues, and also don't really work as a standalone fic, so. If you're interested--enjoy!
The possibility of a child—their child, their own, of them—had occasionally crossed Hob’s mind, in the same way that other fantastical things like dragons and public libraries did. Fleeting. Unformed. Simple, wonderful little daydreams.
The reality of it was both impossibly more exciting and terrifying than he could have ever imagined.
Hob thought of a beautiful child with tiny pointed ears and glowing amber eyes. He thought of a babe born to the world still and pale, never to draw a single breath of life. He thought of all the stories his mother used to tell him, the skipping games and the toy swords and songs that lived inside of him, waiting to be passed down to someone small and new. He thought of a fae child, enamored of the forest and magic and books of learning, with little use for its mortal father.
Once, when Hob was young, his mother had been called to help an ewe who had been laboring for the better part of the day. Twin lambs, both trying to emerge at the same time.
They’d had mutton for dinner, that night. And for many nights after that.
Hob could not stop thinking about it. About everything.
What if the child came out completely human.
What if the child came out completely fae.
“You told me once,” Hob said, the words leaving his mouth even as lead weights sank pits into his stomach, even as his heart said don’t ask this don’t ask this don’t do it, but he had to, he had to know. “You told me once. That it took you a very long time to grow up.”
Dream paused. “Yes,” he said, at length. “But time in the realm of the fae is not so… linear as it is here. It is—it was subject to neither law nor order. Time was fickle. Changeable.”
“You said that it was almost a hundred years.”
“That was… a guess,” Dream said.
Hob stared.
“It was unusual,” Dream added. He did not meet Hob’s eyes. “It. It was a choice I made. The rest of my siblings came of age much faster than I.”
“How fast?” Hob asked, heart in his throat.
Dream swallowed.
“How fast?”
“The child is half mortal, Hob it should not—it will not age as a fae child would. It cannot, it—it will not have the same power, the same gifts, and moreover, the laws of this universe would not allow—”
“Oh, you know that, do you?” Hob asked, eyebrows raised. “Like you knew that a mortal man couldn’t get you pregnant in the first place?”
Dream flinched.
Hob sighed, and scrubbed at his face. “I’m just. I’m just thinking. We don’t know what we’re going to get, eight months from now—” If they were going to get anything at all. “—and we’ve got zero precedent to go off of, here. It. It could be anything. It could grow like a human and take sixteen years and be done. But, it could also…”
“It will not,” Dream said, but there was a traitorous wobble in his voice.
“It could,” Hob insisted. “It could, Dream, and we just. I just want to be prepared for that. I want you to be prepared for that.”
Dream stared, like the whole world was crashing down around him. As if he had not considered this at all. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Hob—”
“But, listen—listen, it’ll be okay,” Hob said hurriedly, and took Dream’s hands into his own. Put on the bravest face he could muster. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way, for. For as long as I can be. Even if it means being stuck in the terrible twos for an entire decade. You just might have to do the teenage years on your own, that’s all. And. You know. The thousand years that come after that.”
Dream closed his eyes.
Hob tried desperately to rally. “And, hey! The good news is, at least I won’t be around to give any dodgy sex talks when it comes time for that, since I obviously—”
“Hob,” Dream said.
“Though clearly pregnancy prevention isn’t your strong suit either,” Hob allowed.
“Hob.”
Dream’s eyes were open again, and they were full of tears.
“Hob,” Dream said again, and it caught in his throat. “Hob, I—I am not going to live for another thousand years.”
Hob frowned. “But—”
“I made,” Dream said, and with the next blink the tears spilled over, “a bargain.”
The reason that Hob had kept it a secret for so long (was because he was a coward) was because, in his opinion, there had been no good that would come of the truth.
Dream had assumed that the people of Eskham had turned against Hob for being a hedgewitch. He’d assumed in turn that mortals were prejudiced against any being with magic, which was a category that happened to include the fae but more importantly included Hob, who did not have the ability to summon tornadoes or fell ancient oaks. Dream still sweetly seethed about the injustices Hob’s own people had done upon him. He had yet to even once seem concerned for his own safety.
This was fair.
Dream had, after all, taken out an entire village of mortals in one wrothful fell swoop.
Now, Dream had confessed what had happened in the aftermath of that massacre—what he had so readily sacrificed, to save Hob’s life—and it had been devastating in its own right. It had left Hob awake at night, imagining what it would be like to grow older and older and older, while his child did not.
But it had also pulled on the string that unraveled whatever remained of their tapestried joy at the possibility of impending parenthood. The happiness was gone. The happiness should never have existed in the first place, because the ache of its absence was far worse than to have never known it at all. Hob could not believe he ever felt such simple, mindless elation at what had quickly become a question to which every answer was more horrifying than the last.
Hob thought of a babe with perfectly pointed ears, stolen away in the night, drowned in the river.
Hob thought of a child with huge, phosphorescent eyes, tied to a stake above a pile of dried tinder. Screaming.
Hob thought of black-nailed teenager who had had forty-odd years of childhood with its parents before they succumbed to old age, and left their child alone in a world it did not belong in. Orphaned. Ostracized. Hunted.
It filled Hob’s stomach and left him unable to eat. It pressed down on his chest at night, and he could not sleep.
And he knew what he needed to do.
At the same table where Dream had confessed not three days ago, Hob sat himself heavily on the bench.
Dream stared back wanly. He’d spent most of the morning vomiting copiously, which perhaps made this timing even worse, but Hob knew if he did not say it now he might never say it at all.
“Dream,” Hob said carefully. The words stuck in his throat like glass, and they tore him open one by one as he forced them out. “There’s. The other day, when you told me about the bargain you made. I—there’s something that I should. Something I should have told you, before—something. Something.” He swallowed. “Something I. Something.” His nails dug into his palms. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Something—”
“Hob.”
Dream’s hand splayed across his chest is like ice on fire. Hob sucked in a breath, and relished the burn.
He seized Dream’s hand in his own. Looked Dream in the eyes. Prepared to pull this one last thread of sanity for the person he loved more than anything in this world.
“Something,” Hob said unevenly, holding onto Dream like a lifeline, “that I should have told you a long time ago. About. About Eskham.”
Dream tilted his head, brows drawing together. “Eskham?”
Hob nodded.
“What about it?” Dream asked.
He had no idea. He had no clue.
“That day,” Hob said, and he was gripping Dream’s hand hard as if he could prevent the inevitable withdrawal. “When they came for me.”
And Dream nodded. He reached out with his other hand to rest it on Hob’s forearm—a gesture meant as supportive that only served to make Hob’s stomach drop to new depths.
But this was not about him. This was not even about Dream. It was about their child, carried one day into a town square with pitchforks at its throat and devil spawn in its ears. It was about deserved truths.
“That day,” Hob said again. He swallowed against a dry tongue. Against the heart that was trying to escape through his throat. “That day. The mob. They weren’t looking for me.”
Dream stared.
Hob’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might be sick.
He watched, as Dream’s face went from confusion, to realization, to���
Bloodless.
Grey. Dead eyes and parted lips. Staring, but not seeing.
“I—defended you,” Hob made himself say. “I wouldn’t tell them. Where you were. I told them that I loved you, that you were just as natural as any other creature in this realm and that I would rather die before I let any of them hurt you, and—”
Dream yanked his hands back.
Hob tried to hold on, but he wasn’t quick enough. Not strong enough.
“You,” Dream whispered.
“I don’t regret it,” Hob said frantically, almost angrily. He was losing control, the tidal wave of panic and horror sweeping him out to a roiling sea he could not swim in, and he barely knew which words would leave his mouth when he opened it again. “I haven’t regretted it for a single second, Dream, not once, not ever, I’d have burned on that stake a thousand times over before I let them touch you, I’d—”
And Dream bolted.
Hob leapt to his feet to follow—but his calf muscle seized, and he careened to the side and just barely managed to grab the table at the last second. Stood there, panting, gripping the table as his calf cramped hard enough to render the entire leg useless. Staring at the empty doorway.
He deserved this, he supposed.
It didn’t make it hurt any less.
The summer air was thick and sweet beneath the canopy of the forest. The trees mostly blocked the breeze, but so also the warmth of the sun, which made it about as pleasant as any place was during the midday heat. They were sat at the base of an ancient yew tree that Dream favored, not far from the cottage, and had been for some time. Ravens chattered and rustled softly overhead. A large halo of bird shit was slowly accumulating around them.
Dream inhaled as if to speak, for the third time in about as many minutes. This time, though, the words came.
“I do not want. Our child. To be hunted.”
Hob closed his eyes. “I know.”
“We do not know what powers it will be born to. What features it will be born to.”
Unspoken—the slimmest chance, the highest hope, that it would somehow be born wholly mortal.
A mortal body. A mortal magic. A mortal lifespan.
“We’ll do whatever we have to, to protect them. Whatever it takes. You know we will,” Hob said, and even as anxiety turned his stomach over, rage flared through him hot and fast. “Anyone that tries to lay a finger on our child, I’ll—I’ll kill ‘em. I would. Anyone. Everyone. And if they think I’m terrifying just wait until they meet the thirty-foot forest nightmare right behind me that can summon hail and rent the earth.”
Dream swallowed. “Hail and earth. Did not save you.”
Hob tightened his grip around Dream’s waist. “Yes it did.”
“You—”
“Yes it bloody well did. You saved my life that day, you fought, and if you hadn’t been there I—”
“If I had not been there,” Dream interrupted darkly. He barked one harsh, bitter laugh. “If I had never inflicted myself upon you in the first place, then no mob would have ever come for you at all. You would be—”
“Lonely,” Hob said. He tried desperately to keep the frustration from rising. “I told you. I would have been lonely, and bored, Dream, and I would have died in that house feeling as if I’d never truly lived at all. You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“I nearly killed you,” Dream said.
“You saved—”
“And now,” Dream continued, staring into the depths of the forest, “I have attempted to thrust a child upon you, without your consent. I have tried to sentence you to spending the rest of your meager years consumed in the care of a creature that will only suffer as a result of my own hubris—my own selfishness—and it will resent us. It will hate us. It will hate me, and it will be right to do so for—”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Hob said, scrambling around in front of Dream, and cupping his face.
Dream stared determinedly to the side, with eyes that were red-rimmed and shiny. His breaths came uneven and jagged.
“You and I both know that you didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” Hob said fiercely. “You didn’t know better. I didn’t know better. Right?”
“Hob—”
“This isn’t something that you’ve done to me. To us. Neither one of us is to blame here. Not one little bit. And it wouldn’t matter anyway if it was, because whatever happens, you know that we’re in this together. We’re going to do what we always do, and make it work. Figure it out. Pregnancy, childbirth, parenthood, all of it. Together. Yeah?”
Dream set his jaw, and at last met Hob’s eyes. Slowly, he reached up, and pulled Hob’s hands away from his face.
“You argue. That we are absolved of any guilt, for what strife our child may face in life. Because we held no intention of conception, in our couplings,” Dream said.
“...Yes?” Hob said, eyebrows raising. “I don’t think we can be blamed for bringing a child into the world when we didn’t know it was possible in the first place.”
“Incorrect,” Dream disagreed.
Hob opened his mouth, but Dream continued too quickly.
“Ignorance acquits us from blame in the conception of this child, yes.” Dream’s hand moved, in the periphery of Hob’s vision, delving into the folds of his robe. “But we are not without agency, in these early months of pregnancy.”
Dread swung sudden and hard into Hob’s chest, like a fist.
“...What do you mean?”
Dream held out his hand between them, and uncurled his fingers. A cluster of flowers rested there.
Tansy.
“It sings to me of… release,” Dream said. His thumb brushed over golden petals like spikes. “Of choice. Liberty. Of the harmonization of poison and medicine, as one.”
Hob took in a deep breath, because he was, for the first time in days, hopeful.
Hob was also terrified.
Hob was sick, sick, sick, sick.
“I believe,” Dream whispered, eyes boring in Hob’s, “that it would be enough. To—take care of it.”
There was a cup of water on the table, steaming and yellow with tansy.
Choice, Dream said it sang. Release. Liberty. The harmonization of poison and medicine, as one.
But to Hob, it was silent as a grave.
Dream was holding the cup so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The steam had long disappeared from the cup, leaving only a stagnant yellow tonic. Hob had offered to leave the cottage twice and allow Dream some privacy, and on the second time Dream had grabbed his hand, hard, and he hadn’t let go since.
Hob’s fingers ached where they were threaded through Dream’s, but he did not complain.
He sat in silence, and watched Dream raise the cup to his mouth.
Watched him inhale.
Watched him close his eyes.
Watched him press the rim of the cup to his lips.
Watched as Dream froze, and was perfectly still for an eternity save for the tremble of the cup in his grasp—
And the cup slammed down onto the table, sloshing poison everywhere, and Dream gasped, “I cannot. I cannot, forgive me, Hob, I—”
Hob grabbed him and pulled him in hard. “It’s okay—”
“—I cannot do it, I cannot—”
“—you don’t have to—”
“I should,” Dream snarled, gripping the fabric of Hob’s tunic and pushing back. There were tears streaming down his face. “I should end it, I should be rid of it. It is. It is the only humane option, the only option that guarantees that—that—”
“I know, love,” Hob said miserably, his own throat going tight and hot. “I know that. But—”
“Hob,” Dream choked out. He tried to inhale, but could not. “Hob, I can—hear it.”
Hob’s heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went numb. “Y-you—”
“I can—” Dream slapped his hands over his mouth. He stared at Hob in horror.
Dream, who could hear the songs of river stones and the herbs in the garden. Who communed with foxes and ancient oak trees alike. Who had come to Hob with news of this pregnancy but without explanation as to how he knew.
“You can hear it,” Hob repeated blankly.
“I should not have told you,” Dream said, shaking his head. His eyes were blank and unseeing and wet with tears. “I. I should not have told you, I told myself I would not, I—it should not matter. It does not matter.”
“What does it sound like?” Hob asked.
Dream looked up at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Dream, what does it sound like?”
He shouldn’t ask.
He couldn’t not know.
“Like. A songbird,” Dream whispered.
A songbird.
“The most beautiful—” Dream choked on a sob. “The most beautiful songbird, Hob, the most wonderful songbird in the world.”
And Hob. Hob, quite abruptly, could not imagine a world where he did not one day get to hear that song. He could not imagine a world in which he did not get to hold their child in his arms this winter and instantly fall in love with whatever features the world had seen fit to give them, mortal or fae or some splendid combination of both.
He could not imagine what it would be like, for Dream to sit at this table and drink down poison and then listen to the song of their child go silent.
Dream sobbed in his arms. He begged for forgiveness—from Hob. Their future child. The universe. I have failed, he said, over and over again. Selfish, and weak, and worthless, he named himself, and he would not be consoled with any combination or repetition of words Hob had to offer.
But still, the tansy sat untouched.
Eventually, it went out the window.
And the songbird lived another day.
#ask and ye shall receive#this is sooooo close to actually working as a standalone fic#but not quite#alas#dream of the endless#hob gadling#dreamling#mpreg#abortion#sandman#cottagecore verse#my writing
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Sibling Rivalry - Part 1
pairing: senator!john f. kennedy and bobby kennedy/reader
summary: senator jack kennedy and bobby kennedy both have an eye for you, and you can’t help but enjoy watching as they try to win your affection. but when the brothers’ competitive natures inevitably take over, you realize you might not have as much power in the situation as you thought.
warnings: 18+, nothing super graphic yet but descriptions of dub-con and infidelity
word count: 2.4k
a/n: this fic is based on this ao3 fic i read a while ago! i definitely recommend checking it out
sorry this took so long guys 😖 i decided to just go ahead and post it even though i’m not sure how i feel about it lol so plz let me know what you think. this may or may not be the worst thing i’ve ever written.
this section of the fic is basically just a set-up for the eventual smut, which will be in part 2 if you guys want it
The hour or so you spend in Bobby’s office every evening is the only time all day you can relax. You know Bobby feels the same way. That’s part of the reason why he stays so late after the rest of his big brother’s campaign team is long gone. And since you’re his personal secretary, you feel obligated to stay with him. He’s told you before that you can go home with everyone else, that you don’t have to stay with him, but you always insist. You and he both know he could use all the help he can get as he blearily writes and re-writes strategy sheets or tallies up the daily budget in the growing darkness. And you both benefit greatly from what usually happens between you two after the day’s work is done. Your fingers massaging the stiff back of his neck, his lips warm on your skin. These methodical, intimate evenings are a welcome interlude between a long day of the raucous, back-slapping, wolf-whistling fraternity party that is Senator Jack Kennedy and the rest of his campaign team and a night full of giggly questions from your roommates about the newest juicy details of your job. Tell us one more time what it was like meeting Frank Sinatra. Is it true the senator is sleeping with his daughter’s babysitter? Is Jackie nice?
On this particular evening as you walk into Bobby’s office, having just completed the work you personally wanted to finish in order to get a headstart on the next day, you find yourself chuckling a little at the sight you’re greeted by. It’s only seven, and Bobby has already abandoned his desk for the sofa. Usually, he doesn’t take a break until closer to eight. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, you notice he’s leaning almost completely sideways on the armrest, his eyes closed, head slowly drooping off of the closed fist it’s propped up on. His gray-striped tie is a limp tangle on the floor. His dress shirt has been untucked from his slacks in what seems to have been a pretty violent manner—you notice that its bottom two buttons came undone in the process. His red, fuzzy lower belly is squishing out over his belt.
Just to make sure he’s not asleep, you whisper, “Bobby?”
In response, Bobby opens one eye, looks at you for a moment, then shuts it again in a playful, darting way, like he’s playing peek-a-boo with one of his hundreds of kids. Then he pats his hand on the cushion beside him, and you’re immediately starting towards him.
His office is snug, tucked in a literal corner of Senator Kennedy’s headquarters. Your only source of light as you pick your way through the towering stacks of paper all over the floor is the golden streetlamps of Boston outside the window, which look smeared now from the raindrops that streak down the glass. The only noises you hear are the scuff of your heels on the carpet and Bobby’s breath whistling faintly in and out of his nose.
Once you’ve sat down beside him and are wiggling out of your heels, he finally opens both eyes. You watch patiently as he slowly sits up and swings his heavy head to look at you. Poor thing. He gives you a soft smile, his big front teeth just barely peeking out under his lip. His fluffy hair is slightly mussed—and extra-fluffed—on the side he was just leaning on. You smile back.
“Tough day,” you say.
He blows his cheeks up with air and nods. “Yeah.” His voice is just a murmur, even though there’s really no need to be quiet since you two are the only ones left on the entire floor.
He’s been working extra late and extra hard now that the senator’s presidential election is only about a month away. This is quite an achievement, seeing as, even in the earliest days of the campaign, Bobby spent almost all day locked up in his office, tirelessly barking orders into one of the three constantly-ringing telephones on his desk or scribbling incessantly in the margins of a drafted campaign ad. Only every few hours would his door would bang open and he’d come stalking straight into the middle of where the rest of Senator Kennedy’s inner circle lounged, feet up, in a lazy haze of cigar smoke. Then Bobby would launch into a passionate explanation of whatever incompetent mistake on their part had prompted him to leave his office this time. You remember one specific afternoon when Bobby marched out, planted his hands on his hips, and said, “Alright, now, I just finished with that biography draft, and I want to know who approved it because it doesn’t do Jack justice at all. I mean, God, why mention the Addison’s?” One of the men replied, “Well, see here, that was my suggestion, Bobby. We need to get out in front of these things.” Naturally, an argument ensued. Bobby can be combative on a good day, but with the weight of the campaign largely on his shoulders, there was no way he’d be able to stop himself from spitting back a fiery retort at the other man’s condescending tone—and not to mention, he hates when men who aren’t his brothers call him “Bobby.”
As the yelling got louder and louder and all eight of Senator Kennedy’s henchmen eventually tossed their cigars aside and surged up on their feet to try their luck against Bobby’s razor-sharp Kennedy wit, Senator Kennedy himself simply observed from his desk like a Roman emperor watching his gladiators, leaning back in his chair, opening and closing his lips around his cigar. You knew better, though, than to ever let the senator’s laid-back mannerisms fool you. You clocked how his eyes were shrouded in a dark, calculating shadow, how they lingered on each of the nine men in turn. He was testing them, watching to see what they’d do, what positions they’d argue for. You could tell he was deeply focused. He never flinched or even so much as blinked as the men continued to yell and shake their fists and get closer and closer to each other’s faces. You doubted this sort of thing could be good for team morale, but you’ve accepted by now that it was Senator Kennedy’s strange, mysterious way of coming to a decision on something.
At one point during the dispute, the senator looked over at you and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Get a load of this, huh? You smirked coolly back at him, but a small shiver seared down your spine as you did. Nobody makes you nervous quite like he does. It’s sort of titillating, this power he has over you, but it’s also why, despite the senator’s movie-star smile and smooth one-liners, you’ve always felt more comfortable with Bobby.
After several minutes of watching the men yell, once he’d evidently seen enough to make whatever judgment he’d been ruminating on, Senator Kennedy stood up from his desk. The room snapped into a ringing silence.
The senator ran a hand through the little curls that framed his forehead, then nonchalantly said, “Bobby’s right.”
Another stunned beat of silence. Instinctively, you looked to Bobby, who simply sniffed and scratched his nose, seemingly as unfazed by the whole debacle as his big brother was.
One of the other men, Bobby’s brother-in-law Steve, bravely piped up, “But, Jack—”
Senator Kennedy cut him off. “It’s the presidency, gentlemen,” he told them wryly. “Don’t overthink it.” And with that, he huffed back into his chair. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pointed a long finger towards Bobby, and with a barely perceptible teasing bounce in his voice, said, “Alright, back to your corner.”
Bobby chuckled and spun on his heel towards his office. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”
Bobby drops this tough, Irish-bulldog exterior around you. You’ve gotten pretty comfortable with each other in the past few weeks, ever since Bobby told Senator Kennedy that he needed his own personal secretary and that he’d chosen you for the job. This announcement, which you overheard from across the room at the little clump of secretary desks, was a bit of a surprise to you, despite the fact that it was well-known that you were the best typist in the office. It definitely wasn’t an unwelcome surprise, though. You’ve always been fond of Bobby. You think it’s sweet how he talks to you and the other girls in such an innocent, genuine way, like he’s actually interested in your secretarial skills and what you have to say instead of just your body and your face, unlike certain other members of the campaign.
It was immediately obvious, though, that your sudden closeness to Bobby agitated Senator Kennedy. Since you’re the only secretary who hasn’t slept with him yet, the senator has a particular fixation on you, and Bobby knows this well. You had to bite back a giddy smile that afternoon when you saw how the senator’s eyebrows dropped low over his face as Bobby informed him of your new job title. “Personal secretary, huh?” the senator sneered, teeth flashing. Bobby simply grinned.
Bobby and the senator were intensely, at times comically, competitive. You’ve heard them go back and forth over such trivial things as who played better in a weekend family football game or who could read the morning newspaper faster. Once Bobby made you his personal secretary, though, more and more often they’ve been going back and forth over you.
From day one of the campaign, practically, Senator Kennedy has been pursuing you relentlessly, looming over you, tugging at a loose strands of your hair as he teases you for coming in late, unashamedly eyeing the way your ass moves in your pencil skirt, saying things like, “Nothing makes my day like seeing that pretty smile of yours, sweetie.” And the longer you pretend not to notice his advances, the more relentless he is, and, admittedly, the more you find yourself wanting to drive him crazy. It’s fun for you, and honestly quite flattering, that you can get him all riled up by simply brushing against his shoulder as you drop a paper on his desk and whispering breathily in his ear, “Here you are, Senator. Anything else I can do for you?” You can’t get enough of the incredulous look that takes over his handsome, always-nonchalant face—his nostrils flaring, his eyebrows raising, his eyes firing up like a cat who caught sight of a mouse—afterward as you skitter away. On a serious note, though, you figure you’re actually doing him a service by holding out like this. The way he acts with women is absurdly arrogant. He’s like a spoiled child, always getting everything he wants. Secretaries. Call girls. Actresses. All delivered to him, pretty much, at the flick of his hand. You figure it’d be good for him to not get something he wants for once, all flirtations and teasing aside.
You came dangerously close to having your vow of celibacy broken at a celebratory dinner party a few months back. The senator followed you to the back hall as you were about to leave, pushed you up against the wall, and before you even knew what was happening, he stuck his hand up your dress. He’d had a little too much to drink that evening, and he was like a wild animal in that dark, empty hallway. Tearing at your stockings, practically snarling in your ear, cursing you for “driving him crazy” at the office.
“Senator,” you gasped, “please—”
“Please what?” he scoffed. “You think you can act like a little harlot all the time and nothing’s going to happen to you?”
After a moment, your inner desires took over and you gave up resisting. You spread your thighs and let him finger you. It’s not your proudest moment. You hated to let him have that little victory over you, but with the entirety of his body weight against you and his big hands holding you still, there was really no way you could’ve stopped him, even if you’d wanted to.
This game you have with Senator Kennedy has been taken to a whole new level now that you’ve actively chosen to spend almost all your time with Bobby. You can tell by the way the senator shakes his head as he watches you and Bobby walk around together, like you’re two little children misbehaving under his watch, that this is really grating on his competitive side. Bobby doesn’t help matters with the way he smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at the senator when he thinks you’re not looking. Sometimes, the senator will tease Bobby by saying things like, “Don’t you think it’s, uh, a little unfair that you’re not letting anyone else work with our best typist?” or “I’m starting to doubt whether you two are actually getting any work done. Don’t make me take Y/N away from you, Bobby. She’s just on loan, you know.” Bobby does his best to appear to be the mature one in front of you, opting to half-playfully shove the senator with his shoulder as he walks by instead of snapping back some kind of retort.
You still aren’t entirely sure what Bobby’s real motives were for picking you as his secretary, whether it had purely been about spiting the senator, or he’d genuinely admired your skills, or he’d planned to turn your evenings together into sexual rendezvous all along and he was much more like his brother than you thought.
But since, in the process of this whole thing, you’ve developed a genuine relationship with Bobby—and it’s pretty clear, you think, that he has bested his big brother in this little game—you suppose his pushing back against the senator has more to do with the pure competitive spirit of it all at this point than any possessiveness he might feel over you. But still, you get out such a kick out of the fact that they never fail to play right into your hand when you pit them against each other, flirting with one brother in front of the other, making flippant comments to the senator about how wonderful your evenings alone with Bobby are.
Sometimes, though, your confidence in your femme-fatale abilities wavers slightly. Almost daily, Bobby and the senator will convene at the senator’s desk for an intense, private conversation about what you originally assumed was various campaign matters, but every once in a while, you’ll glance up during one of these conversations to find them both looking at you from across the room. The senator will mutter something, and Bobby will nod, and the low sound of their confident, patronizing male laughter will rumble across the office. You instantly drop your eyes back to whatever memo you’re working on, heart suddenly racing. What on earth could they be saying? And why do you have the creeping feeling that this game isn’t going to be so easy for you much longer?
thank you for reading!!
taglist:
@evie-gets-bitches
@kennediva
@secretwonderlandcheesecake
@melancholicstation
@southernpopprincess
@maudesgf
@neverellaxx11
@astro-vibes-bro
@h-l-vlovesvintage
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#john f kennedy#bobby kennedy#the kennedys#jfk#jfk x reader#jfk x you#bobby kennedy x reader#john f kennedy x you#john f kennedy fanfiction#maria writes
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The Weight (1/3)
3.3k words
Proofread? Y/N
Relevant Tags: Jinx x Reader, Post series finale, Canon compliantish, time skip, reader runs a port, alcohol consumption, original characters for interaction's sake, three shot hopefully
You were really hoping to have a chill day at work. Was your current predicament your own doing? Yes. Were you still going to complain about it anyway? Also yes. But while you were almost one hundred percent sure that you wouldn't have to run around putting out fires,--you prided yourself in fixing up how efficient the port was being run--an unexpected landing from a rogue airship ruins the peace and quiet you were hoping to have. You would've been pissed. On any other gods-given day, you would be incredibly pissed. But unfortunately for you, the pilot of the ship has you wrapped around her finger the second you lay eyes on her.
"BREAK. BREAK. PAPA MIKE THIS IS TRAFFIC CONTROL. DO YOU COPY?"
You groan, rubbing your temple as you reluctantly reach for your radio. You were praying for a slow day, your hangover from the previous night still glaringly in full swing, but alas, today just had to be the day an army of ships were going through the bay. You curse the ray of sunlight that hits you square in the face when you sit up in your chair, letting out a huff before pushing the call button.
"Ten-four. Traffic control this is Papa Mike. What's the situation? Over." The radio beeps as you let go of the call button, before it crackles back to life.
"PAPA MIKE WE HAVE AN UNAUTHORIZED AIRSHIP ON DOCK EIGHT. OVER." You pick up a copy of the manifest, eyeing schedules for the aforementioned dock. A red ink pen was used to overwrite Available on the manifest to Maintenance. Sighing, you stand up and head closer to the window to get a view of the dock. The radio beeps again.
"PAPA MIKE. STATUS?" You reach for the radio on the table, its coiled cable stretching out as you yank it with you towards the window. Yup, there's an airship there alright. Looks like it came from Piltover based on the design.
"Copy that Traffic Control. Affirmative on the unauthorized airship. Dock eight's supposed to be under maintenance. Over."
"COPY THAT, PAPA MIKE. WE'RE GONNA NEED YOU TO GO UP THERE AND CHECK THE SHIP. NEGATIVE RESPONSE ON SHIP'S RADIO. OVER."
"Huh?" You mutter to yourself, before pressing the call button again.
"Traffic Control why do I need to go up there? Over."
"PAPA MIKE WE HAVE NO AVAILABLE HANDS. THERE'S TOO MANY SHIPS COMING IN TO THE PORT TO CHECK ROGUE AIRSHIPS. OVER." Great, just great.
There had been a recent influx of visitors coming from all over. It had started with whispers of a war between Piltover and a Noxian fleet, and people were scrambling to get as far away from the city as possible. Something about Hex Gates being fought over, which was expected at some point, really. How could anyone just watch as Piltover create the scientific equivalent of teleportation, and not want a piece of that pie? You had your money on Piltover eventually falling, since there was no way a merchant city would have a chance again a Noxian army. Imagine your surprise when they did manage to win.
Then there were travelers headed towards Piltover. With the sudden decline in population, especially for workers, the city-state welcomed people with the promise of work and opportunity. You heard from somewhere that they were willing to give stipends depending on the work you'd be able to contribute. You were briefly tempted yourself, until you realized that Noxus might retaliate and cause more trouble.
Though regular ships were expected to show up at your docks, the influx of airships were a surprise. But you figured that Piltover airships were riding the coast instead of staying on land so they could avoid having to travel on Noxus territory entirely. From where you were standing, several stories high, you could see a long line of passenger and private vessels lining up to dock; looking a bit to your side, airships were also moored, rendering the port to near full capacity. Routine maintenance became frequent, just to make sure none of the sea and air docks would suddenly have stability issues.
All of the airships were lined up in a neat pile on their moors, except for that one rogue airship on dock eight. You frown as you shoot a glare its way.
On one hand, you could do your job, go up there and check out which Piltie decided to moor their airship there; this definitely wasn't the first time this has happened. On the other, just leave the ship be and ignore traffic control. You much prefer the second option, really. But that would get you fired, and you're not really looking forward to being fired. So you let out another groan as you lightly bang your forehead on the window. Of all the days I'd have to walk outside in the bright ass sun. You think yourself as you hit the call button.
"Ten-four traffic control. Wilco. Over and out." You toss the manifest onto your desk and hook the radio back up as you hear Traffic Control acknowledge you. You put on your sunglasses and put on your work jacket and cap, then down a cup of coffee before heading out the door.
------------------------------------
"Take the job at the port, they said. They'll just make you haul stuff, they said."
Your face scrunches up in disdain as you walk along the air docks. The sun was especially bright today, and on any other day, you'd actually enjoy it. But today, with your head throbbing, and your stomach reminding you of your poor choices the previous night, you absolutely loathed that incessant ball of fire.
Dock eight was near the end of the platform, which meant a longer walk. The wind decided it was a good time to pick up and was whipping against your face; you hold on to your hat to stop it from flying off. You made a silent promise to punch whoever was the captain of the rogue ship. As you round the corner--a sign with the number eight painted on it and Under Maintenance right underneath it--you spot a cloaked figure trying to tie down the sides of their ship onto the platform.
"Hey, pal. You're not allowed to dock here." You pick up the pace--not by much due to your queasy stomach--as you approach the ship and grab one of the lines and tying it down. The ship's pilot--whose shoulders seemingly sag in relief once you're able to secure the vessel--is still turned away from you, trying to secure another line. You raise your voice to try and beat the loud whipping of the wind.
"Hey, did you hear me?!" The figure stands up straight and turns to you, her hood being blown off.
You see the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen in your life.
"What?!" She shouts back.
You try to say something, but end up stammering and unable to get any words out. Thankfully, the wind calms down, and you're able to think in relative peace even though your mind was still fogged by your hangover.
"Uhm, you can't dock here. This one's under maintenance." You point towards the sign behind you. She cranes her neck a bit to get a look behind you, her blue hair flowing effortlessly off her shoulder. She clocks the sign, then turns her eye back to you.
"Sorry, who are you?" She asks, an annoyed look crossing her face.
You're not usually snippy, but you're hungover, and this girl
had the audacity to ask who you were when she's the one illegally docking her ship on your port.
"Oh, silly me!" Feigning surprise, you have one hand on your chest, one taking off your hat in an exaggerated and flowy motion. "How incredibly rude of me--" your talk in a higher pitch than you usually do, committing to the bit you're pulling. "It looks like this says--" Your face drops, and you mirror the annoyed look this beautiful, audacious girl is sending you. "--Port Master." The tone of your voice is icier than you would have wanted it to be, and she winces at you. Wow, now you feel like a jerk.
"Look, I'm sorry." She puts her hands up, as show of peace. "I had to do an emergency landing. There's been something wrong with the engine--"
"You could've answered the radio transmission."
"Yeah, no. That's busted."
"How convenient." She takes a very deep breath at your deadpan responses. Even closing her eyes before exhaling--Holy shit she's gorgeous--and maintains her calm demeanor as she tries to explain herself.
"I'm really sorry. But I wouldn't just randomly dock if it wasn't an actual emergency." She points towards the engine at the back, and sure enough, a small plume of white smoke is emitting out of one of the propellers. Your brows furrow as you try to take a closer look at the engine. The smell of something burnt fills your nostrils, and the pain from the headache you're been trying to ignore increases.
"Go moor the ship and turn off the engine." You nod towards the mooring mast as you rub your temple. She shoots a curious look your way.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, just moor the ship." You wave her off as you head to the radio box, opening the panel with a click, and flipping the switch to turn it on. The previously hollowed light turns green, and a low hum signals that it's functioning. You grab the microphone and push a button.
"Traffic Control, this is Papa Mike on dock eight. Do you copy? Over." The radio starts to cackle before a response. "TEN-FOUR PAPA MIKE. ANY NEWS ON THE STRAY DOCKING? OVER."
"Qualified emergency landing. We got engine trouble. Ten-seventy-eight, tug ship for hangar transport. Over."
"COPY THAT PAPA MIKE. TEN-TWENTY-THREE ETA FIFTEEN MINUTES. OVER."
"Ten-four. Over and out." You put down the microphone and let out a sigh.
"What'd they say?" You jump from the sudden voice coming from behind you, and you hit your hand on the panel door. You yelp as you try to shake out the pain from your hand.
"Fucking hell, when did you get there." She crosses her arms and shrugs.
"Literally while you were talking to your traffic control." You nod as you double over, the pain in your hand teaming up with your headache for an optimal terrible time. You don't notice her approach and lightly put her hand on your shoulder. "Hey, totally none of my business, are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," You say quickly, straightening up and holding onto your still aching hand. "Just, super hungover." You wince as a few clouds part and the sun hits your face. "Fuck, anyway. We'll send a tug ship down to get you into the hangar. We can do an engine check there."
There's a surprised, confused look on her face. "I can't kick you out with a busted engine." You offer before she can ask. She still looks a bit confused and uneasy by the offer, but nevertheless mutters a Thanks before turning around and walking to her ship, you tentatively follow from behind. "You should get your valuables and some clothes. We can let you into the hangar to fix the engine, but you can't sleep there. There's a good selection of places to stay down at the town, in the meantime." You stay behind as she disappears into her ship.
She pops back out a few minutes later, having doffed her coat. Your eyes immediately catch the tattoos peeking out from her sleeve. She raises an eyebrow at you, a smirk playing on her lips, before tossing you a vial.
"What's this?" You ask, popping the cork, and mistakenly taking a whiff of its contents. You cough from the smell.
"Hangover cure." She says as she walks past you, checking over her lines on the cleats of the dock. You debate whether or not you should drink something this total stranger just handed you. Unfortunately, pretty privilege is a thing that exists, and you're only human. So you down the contents of the vial, and you stop yourself from gagging from the oily feel of the liquid.
"Woah, hey! You're supposed to rub it on your forehead!"
"I was supposed to what?" She grabs the vial from your and checks how much is left, before looking at your horrified expression. She looks at you with concern, then back at the vial, then back at you, before snorting.
"I'm sorry, I'm kidding, I'm kidding. You're supposed to drink it." She tips the vial over and spills what's left of it into her mouth. You try not to pay too much attention to her sharp jaw or the way the muscles on her neck move when she swallows. "See. It tastes like ass, but it works."
"What's even in it?" You ask as you hand her the cork. She shrugs.
"You're better off not knowing."
"Great."
You're about to ask her how she ended up in your port, but the tug ship comes into view, and the radio box starts to ring. You excuse yourself to walk back to answer.
"DOCK EIGHT THIS IS TANGO-SIERRA-ONE RECEIVED TEN-TWENTY-THREE REQUEST. CONFIRMATION FOR ASSISTANCE? OVER."
"Tango-Sierra-One this is dock eight. Ten-four on the assist. We need to get this ship to the hangar for an engine check. Over."
"COPY THAT. CLEAR IMMEDIATE AREA FOR LINE DEPLOYMENT. OVER." The tug ship starts to hover above the Piltover ship. It's much larger propellers kicking up a wind and dust.
"Hey! Get over here. They're gonna deploy lines." You beckon the girl over, and push the call button on the radio. "All clear!"
You hear a ten-four come from the ship, as lines come down from its side, lowering down to the side of the smaller ship.
"LINES DEPLOYED. TANGO-SIERRA-ONE TEN-TWENTY-THREE FOR ATTACHMENT. OVER."
"Ten-four. Over." The blue haired girl is on her tip toes trying to look over your shoulders.
"That means they're standing by while we attach the lines, right?" She asks. You mutter an affirmative before the both of you move to attach lines to the sides of the ship. You start untying the lines on the cleats, and instruct her to unmoor.
"I'll have to hitch a ride with you to the hangar." You say as you wrap her ship lines and put them away.
"Aye aye, Port Master." She gives you a mock salute as she heads to the mooring mast, and you head over to the radio box.
"Tango-Sierra-One radio on ship is ten-seven. Lift off at T-minus five minutes. Over and out." You wait for the tug ship's confirmation before switching off the radio and closing the panel, signaling for your companion to board the ship. "We got five minutes before they start lifting the ship." She nods and gestures for you to head inside.
---------------------------------------------
"Right," You start, taking off your hat and jacket. "The hangar we don't usually rent out, but in cases of emergencies like this, you can use it but you still have to pay the port fees. It's usually double, but I'll waive it since that hangover cure is actually working."
"Covered dock where I can repair my ship and I pay the same fee as the schmucks outside? Sounds like a steal to me." She says as she takes your things and sets them down a chair. "You give discounts to all the girls with engine trouble?" The desk on the side of the ship creaks as she leans on it. She's got a mischievous glint in her eye, and with your hangover gone, you're more willing to bite.
"Only the one's that give me their name." You say as you walk over. You're momentarily distracted when you see a map on the wall, a chartered course written over it. She looks behind her to see what's suddenly got your attention. You tap the part where Piltover and Zaun are located. "You're a long way from home."
"Who says I'm from Piltover?" She crosses her arms, giving you a challenging look. Those goddamn eyes.
"Your ship screams Piltover."
"Really?"
"It's obvious you made a few modifications, but yeah, it's pretty obvious." You chuckle as you point at the interior of the ship, clearly made for aesthetic more than utility. "Even the inside." She lets out a huff, and starts a rant about changing the interior when she gets the chance.
The ship suddenly lurches, and you're both thrown off balance as the tug ship begins its ascent. You recover first, steadying yourself on the desk then grabbing her by the waist and pulling her over to the desk as well. One of her hands grabs onto your shoulder when you reach for her, and the other onto the desk so she can steady herself. When the ship rocks to the side, she ends up pulling you along with her, and you end up unintentionally pinning her to the desk. Your faces suddenly a few inches apart. Mercifully--or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it--the tug ship is able to do a successful ascent, and the ship stops moving. You lock eyes, and you see panic, then surprise, then amusement come across her face.
"Definitely don't get this from other ports." Her eyes flit to your lips for a moment before they meet your eyes again. You proactively take a step back, trying to salvage some ounce of professionalism. Playful banter was one thing, pinning someone to their desk was something else entirely.
"Sorry," You manage. "I definitely don't do… that with other pilots here, trust me." You dust yourself off and start picking up stuff that had fallen off the desk. She seems to take the hint and fixes up the desk.
"So where are you headed after port?" You try your best to not sound nosy as you gather a few fallen pencils and stack them back into a cup, with neon drawings on it.
"Haven't really thought about it, I usually go wherever I feel like it." She points towards the map again, and the scattered course is enough to confirm her statement. You ask her about the places she's been to, mostly coastal cities, save from Piltover itself. Following the same patterns most Piltover ships use that avoid Noxian ports. Better safe than sorry, you guess.
Eventually, you start to see the hangar come into view, and you tell her to brace herself for the landing. You grab her arm when she loses her balance again, making sure to keep a respectable distance. Once a crew member comes into view of the window and throws an okay signal, the both of you exit the ship. You set off for the engine, and she follows with a tool box in tow.
"I have a guess on what could be wrong." She says as she opens up the back panel of the ship. "I'm pretty sure I have a blown gasket."
"I was thinking a cracked engine block." She gives you a look and you shrug. "Just a guess."
She grins at your response. "Wanna make a bet." She turns to the engine and starts unscrewing the outer parts.
"Sure. Always in the mood to be right." You can hear the snort coming from inside the engine.
"Loser buys the winner drinks. Anywhere they want."
"Deal."
"Get ready to lose money later then, I guess." You move to help her remove parts of the engine, which were thankfully cool enough to handle. Then, once you've both gotten most of the attachments unclasped or unscrewed, you roll an engine hoist over to remove the entire engine from the ship. "Ready to be disappointed?" She asks. You send her a cheeky smile.
"Wait." She stops short of lifting one of the covers.
"What, cold feet?"
You scoff. "No, you never told me your name."
She blinks, clearly not expecting the question. She looks off to the side, seemingly debating whether or not she should tell you. Not that she needs to, really, since you have to make her sign a manifest anyway. But you'd prefer if she told you herself.
"Powder." She starts. "My name is Powder." You crack a smile and introduce yourself.
"Powder." You test the name on your lips. It suits her. An unusual name, sure, but you've heard stranger ones.
"Nice to meet you, Powder. Ready to lose?"
"Not on your best day."
#arcane#arcane netflix#arcane jinx#arcane x reader#jinx x reader#i lrealized why airports were called airports while writing this lol#Jinx making an entrance
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When The Lights Go Out | Min Yoongi
a/n: I wanted so badly to write something horror and this idea popped into my head and I needed to post it :( my initial idea had been to make it an interactive story, but I'm still not sure whether to do that or not.
summary: Your boss -with whom you had been working for more than seven years- had given you the job of going to check out one of his most recent projects, a large house on the outskirts of a rather quiet town that was quite far from the city.
It wasn't until you spent the first week staying at the house that you realized something important. From dead animals, to the shadow of a badly wounded young woman screaming at your window in the early morning hours, every single thing that happened during your stay there was screaming at you to leave, warning you about what your future would be.
It had taken you a long time to realize that, much to your disgrace, you had no escape. You were trapped in that place, and it was no longer just your job that was at stake, after all, how could you work when you were dead?
warnings: the respective warnings of each chapter will be added as appropriate. They may touch on sensitive topics, so please read them carefully.
wc: ???
taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss
You checked the clock on your phone screen for the third time. It was barely six o'clock in the evening and the sky was already beginning to darken. You weren't sure if it was because of the time or simply because of the lack of streetlights in the neighborhood, if that's what you could call it. The last house you had seen you had passed about ten minutes ago by car.
You let a sigh escape your lips, feeling a little calmer as you watched a large house grow larger and larger. It had taken you almost eight hours to get from your apartment to here, your feet felt cramped and your eyes felt heavy.
Soon after you left your car parked near the entrance. You got out of the car, making sure to lock the doors. You couldn't help but grimace at how terribly disastrous the state of the house was, not even a rat could live in such a neglected place. Or maybe it could, you weren't too sure about the lifestyle of rats.
You took a quick look around. On your right hand side was a lush forest that, to the naked eye, seemed to extend much further than you could imagine. You made a mental note just then, dead before you entered that forest, your sense of direction was too poor to be able to get out of there. On the other side, a little further from the manor house was another kind of hut; this one was a little smaller than the one in front of you, but it still seemed to have enough space to house a family of at least four people. Due to the darkness you could not distinguish much more clearly the state of that hut, but what you were absolutely sure of was that there were people living in it. You could see the lights coming from one of the second floor windows.
Before entering the house, you caught a glimpse out of the corner of your eye of a man coming out of the cabin. You weren't a hundred percent sure, but you could have sworn he turned to look at you once outside.
You had spent the last forty-seven minutes tidying up some of your things and doing a complete check of the house. To your great surprise, the lights were still working, something that eased the burden of the work you would have had to do if the power lines were out. First you checked the master bedroom, the one you would be staying in for the next days. The bed seemed to be in pretty good condition, even the sheets seemed to have been in a state that was too spotless. You thought maybe it was because the former owners were still in charge of keeping the rooms in a livable state.
The second place you checked was the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in its place, there were even services in the drawers and some pots and pans in the cupboards below. The refrigerator contained no food, in fact, it was almost like new. You made sure to check the functionality of the furniture and some of the appliances that were still here. Luckily for you, they were still in perfect working order.
You walked around the first floor a few times, listening for the sound of wood creaking against your footsteps. It was only until you reached the end of the hallway that you noticed the house had a basement. You hated basements more than anything. But you weren't here to be whimsical, you were here for work. That said, you walked over to the door and grabbed the handle. You were ready to turn it but, just as your wrist began to twitch, knocking on the front door made you stop in your tracks. Who could it be?
With a frown you walked straight to the door, feeling a slight pressure in your chest and a sense of dizziness that prevented you from breathing normally. Why were you so frightened by the simple knock on a door? Well, admittedly, you were in the middle of nowhere, the nearest civilization was a ten minute drive away and you were staying in a house that's next to a forest that's not exactly what you'd call something appealing to the eye. Yeah, come to think of it, you had a lot of reasons to feel unsafe in this place.
The door had no peephole, so you could only open the door to see who was on the other side. You hesitated for a few seconds, but ended up opening it. On the other side of the door stood a woman and a man; the woman seemed to be around your age, she was much shorter than you, she was wearing a lilac-colored vest and had a huge cake in her hands. Next to her was the man, he didn't seem to be much older than you, but he had an expression bitter enough to add a few extra years to it. He was wearing a black colored jacket, kept both hands in the pockets of it and, quite unlike his companion, there was no glimpse of a smile on his face.
"Hi!" greeted the girl cheerfully, giving you a too big smile. For a second you wondered if her cheeks hurt from doing so, "I'm Chaewoon, Yoongi" she pointed at the guy next to her, not taking her eyes off you, "told me you had arrived a while ago and I couldn't help but think that you'd probably feel a little dazed by all the change, I mean, you can tell you're coming from the city" she pointed at your car, letting out a soft laugh before continuing, "I thought maybe it would make you feel a little more comfortable if you knew your only neighbors. It's necessary to have communication between us, you know, the nearest town is a bit far, it would be much better if we were here to help each other!".
"Chaewoon, you're making her dazed by talking so much" muttered the man who, from what you remembered, was called Yoongi. Chaewoon frowned at him and stomped his foot in annoyance, "Hey! What's wrong with you?".
"Shut your mouth, there are people trying to be nice around here" she snorted, turning her full attention back to you. "So… what do you think?" she smiled kindly, spreading the cake in front of your face.
You grimaced, glancing inside the house, only to turn your attention back to the two people standing in your doorway. It was true that you didn't feel very comfortable being in this house all alone, but the idea of having two strangers inside didn't quite suit you either.
"Well?" the girl insisted after a few seconds, cocking her head slightly.
You bit the inside of your lip, unsure of what to say to her. She looked so excited with the cake in her hands. You looked up, still looking just as unsure as you did. "I..."
Masterlist.
#bts x reader#bts x you#bts imagine#bts fanfic#bts x y/n#bts x fem!reader#fanfic#yoongi x reader#yoongi x you#yoongi x yn#yoongi x y/n#suga x reader#suga x you#suga x y/n#suga x yn#min yoongi x you#min yoongi x reader#min yoongi
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its finally done! happy wsatw everyone <333
word count: 1,817
At 10:39 PM on Saturday, every single person anywhere on either coasts of the continent, and people looking to cross either border of the United Federation, felt a harsh gust of wind.
Commotion ensued, but Sonic, of course, didn’t stick around to see it. When he arrived back at Emerald Coast, he cut back into the city and zoomed past cars cruising along Speed Highway. He ran in front of a few of them, daring them to hit him before swooping away at the last second. Before the fifth exit whizzed by, Sonic bounced over the guardrail and took off through the bare-bones forested area, hopping up and jumping from rooftop to rooftop before he hit the ground running. He passed through lots more cramped neighborhoods on the outskirts of Central City until he made it to the Night Babylon district, where he ran up the side of some random building, speeding up to the top—
And tripped.
And fell.
He just laid there for a moment, before flipping himself over as rapid, shallow breaths racked his body.
Running didn't get tiring. Not normal running, anyway— when he had food in his stomach, water in his blood, and eight hours of sleep.
In the moment, though, with his limbs sore and shaking, he thought this must be like how it felt if the average person ran just a hundred miles. Or maybe even only ninety.
The world kept spinning. It always did, and it wouldn't wait for him to get over whatever funk he was in. He hit his fist dully on the concrete ground.
He should go back to Mystic Ruins. To make sure Tails was okay, of course. Not to sleep or eat or anything, really. Then he would go back to running— patrolling. He was patrolling to make sure no one was causing trouble while everyone else rested. Of course. He pushed himself up.
Sonic didn't cry that day. Not once. Because if the only person who saw him cry was dead now, then no one had any proof.
And now, running back to his little brother's workshop, he could chalk the tears in his eyes up to the wind beating at his face.
The trip was just a bit slower than it probably would have been normally. It was like his body was protesting against moving his legs, one after the other. He almost collapsed on the porch once he reached it when a wave of exhaustion hit him upon seeing the home, but pushed through the door and shoved himself up the stairs. A chill shuttered through his body, forcing him to realize just how cold he was now that he was inside, and he made a quick pitstop in his room to yank his comforter off the bed and bundle himself in it.
Tails’ room was just down the hall, but he already knew the kit wasn’t in there. For one, the door was open, and Tails hates it when his door’s open. And for two, his self-imposed bed time when he thought Sonic wasn’t around was around three in the morning (but, more recently, it had started stretching to four). So, he begrudgingly hauled himself back down the stairs and through the Tornado’s hangar, giving her a pat on the wing for good luck, and arriving at Tails’ workshop door. A strange sweet smell emanated from the room.
He gently pushed open the door, the sweet and somewhat nostalgic smell becoming stronger. The moment he stepped through the door, Tails’ ear flicked, and he spun his chair around, yipping in surprise. “Sonic! You’re back!” His face then morphed into a bright smile as he waved him over and spun back to continue his work.
The plan was to just check in for a bit, maybe send his brother to bed, but now… Well, maybe he’d rest for a bit. Just a bit. He leaned over Tails’ shoulder. “For a bit, yeah. What’s that smell?”
“Oh, uh, blowtorch s’mores.”
“Huh?”
Tails held up a stick with a jumbo marshmallow at the end and a blowtorch. It was only then that Sonic noticed the graham crackers and chocolate bars where mechanic tools should’ve been on the workbench. “Blowtorch s’mores,” he repeated.
“Uh, yeah, I heard you, heh. What’s the occasion?” Sonic hopped up and sat on the workbench, blanket draping over the corner and barely touching the ground.
“Science.”
“Okayyyyy… Can I have one?”
“Sure! Here—” he picked up a second blowtorch that was haphazardly thrown under the table— “just click that button and it'll turn on, and release it to turn it off.”
Sonic yoinked a marshmallow from the package and stuck it on the end of one of the roasting sticks Tails had rested on the side of his workbench. “Ssso, whatcha—” He got cut off by his own throat spurring into a coughing fit. Turns out 24 hours without a drop of water in his system did some real shitty things. Tails immediately shoved a water bottle into his free hand that was about to pick up the blowtorch; he downed the bottle in all of 3 seconds and mumbled a quick ‘thanks’, wiping his mouth. “Whatcha been working on?” he finished.
“Well, before I got distracted by this,” Tails set his perfectly toasted marshmallow aside and turned to the graham crackers splayed out, lightly melting the chocolate laid out on top. “I was fixing up the Cyclone! She got really damaged yesterday…”
“Oof. How bad?”
“Not too bad, I think I did a pretty good job back there,” Tails said with a smug grin. Sonic mentally cheered him on. “But I have to fix up and replace a lot of her casing that got too dented to be safe. And some quick repairs to her engine, ‘cuz Eggman kinda busted it up with his bullets…”
“Wait, what? When did Eggman shoot at you?” He put the blowtorch to the marshmallow, letting the flame consume it until it lit up the entire room, burning so bright the fire’s image was seared into his eyelids.
He knew he didn’t have enough power to save him and fly the both of them back to the ARK. Had he succeeded in grabbing hold of Shadow, they both would’ve died that day. He reached out anyway.
“Maria, this is what you wanted, right? This is my promise I made to you…”
As his hand was waved away, his fingers accidentally curled around the golden bracelet. It snapped off.
The last glimmer of white faded from his fur, and he fell.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and clutched the bracelet close to his chest.
Sonic blew out the flame once it had charred the outside of the marshmallow.
“Yeah, after he tried to blow you up.”
“And did you show him what for…?”
“Hehe, maybeee…”
“Hell yeah!” He set down the blowtorch and ruffled the kit’s bangs as he constructed his s’more. “That’s how I know I raised you right!”
“Pffft— Sonic, stoppp!”
“Okay, okay,” he let up and took out his own crackers and chocolate, smushing the ingredients together and taking a big bite. Gaia, he hadn’t realized how hungry he was… “But,” he said through a mouthful of sugar gunk, “I’m still proud of you, little bro.”
“R– Right! Thank you!”
Sonic practically scarfed down his s’more and went in for another one. “But the Cyclone’s gonna be okay, right?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah! She’ll be okay, but I might take it easy on her for a little while… Those chaos drives got me thinking maybe I put a little too much focus on offense? I mean, it’s mostly for fighting, but if I took out the extra propulsions for rockets and slimmed down the auto-aimer, I could make some more room to add a holo-shield, plus I’d have even more room if I used just one chaos drive to power my ammo rather than what I have in there now!”
Tails rambled on, his explanations becoming more and more weird and sciency with terms spliced in that Sonic had no hope of understanding. A fond smile made its way on his face as he burnt his second marshmallow, looking at the kit.
“—But I think I can make it work! If I rework the leg hydraulics to be lighter, then the rocket boost can—”
“You know I love you, right, little bro?”
Tails stopped, half his s’more in his hand. “...Huh?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. Of course I know, hehe… I love you too, big bro!” Tails bonked his head against Sonic’s arm.
“Heh, just checking.” It was no use to dwell too much. His entire body ached with grief, but if he let it drown everything around him out, he’d never hear the wind when it called to him with the promise of adventure.
It hurt so much, but he had to keep going. For his own sake, of course, but…
But also because Shadow, in his brief time on Earth, didn’t get that kind of freedom. So he’d live for him, if that’s what it took to get him out of this weird funk.
“Hey, how about we hit up the Station Square Diner in the morning? My treat!”
Tails’ eyes lit up. Maybe not at the prospect of the food, but more likely at the suggestion to hang out. “Yeah, that sounds awesome!” Tails finished his first s’more, while Sonic finished eating his second.
“Then it’s settled! C’mon, let’s head to bed now so we can beat the morning rush tomorrow,” Sonic said, standing up and stretching with his comforter’s edge balled up in his fists.
“Aw, but I wanted to work on the Cyclone—”
“Nope! Sorry, but you’re under contractual obligation now, Mister Prower!”
“That’s not how contracts work— eek!”
Sonic grabbed him and bundled the two of them in the comforter, carrying the kit awkwardly on his hip as he struggled. “That’s why you gotta read the fine print, heh.”
“Stoooop! Let me gooo!”
“Nope! It’s sleepy time for geniuses and speedsters!” Sonic dragged both his aching body and the kit’s struggling one up the stairs to the house part of the lab and flopped down on the couch.
“Sonic?”
“Tails?”
“Are we sleeping on the couch tonight?”
“If you don’t mind, then yeah.”
“Hehe, I don’t mind. It reminds me of when we’d sleep outside.”
“Oh?”
Tails shifted so he wasn’t awkwardly pressed against the back of the couch. “Yeah, that’s why I was making s’mores, too. ‘Cuz, u– um. I kinda missed you just a little bit today…”
A small laugh managed to slip out of him. “Aw, bud… maybe I should give phones another try so we can talk while I’m on the go.”
Tails yawned. “That’d be nice…”
Sonic adjusted to make sure his neck wouldn’t hurt like hell in the morning. “G’night, little bro.”
“Good night, big bro.”
#i usually dont put fics in posts themselves but idk im trying a new formatting! eh idk#sonic#sonic the hedgehog#miles tails prower#tails the fox#sonic adventure 2#sonic fic#sonic fanfiction#sonic fanfic#unbreakable bond#wsatw#wholesome sonic and tails wednesday#wstw
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"I think we underestimated the human population by eight or nine orders of magnitude."
The war room was reeling. The human population had been estimated in the mere hundred billion range. They should barely have had enough of an economy to field two light cruisers, least of all the goddamn armada that was ravaging the inner worlds. After the alpha strike, the human flotilla should’ve been completely crippled. Instead the number of ships they were fielding kept growing.
Tan-Hauser was the first target struck by a human attack, and they reported seventeen craft before they lost comms. Attican was hit just three days after that, but their reports already showed numbers above ninety. Any doubts that the fleet was growing were eliminated when Outpost Batan reported 1,217 FTL pings two days before the loss of Kira.
The number reported was so big it was written off as a sensor malfunction. Twenty-five billion souls lost, all because nobody in the war room could face reality.
They were going to face it now. The Kirarian in front of them was the primary sensor engineer for the Batan outpost, a specialist with more expertise in analyzing space lanes than warships. He’d been up for at least the last two days, poring over the sensor data, and only now was ready to begin to share his findings.
From the pain in his multifaceted eyes, it was clear he was still reeling from the loss of his homeworld.
Seeing that he had the room’s attention, he began to speak. The translation units each member of the war council had implanted experienced a moment of lag as they struggled to convert the almost musical tonal humming of the Kirarian tongue to more common galactic speech.
"The simplest data that can be analyzed from an FTL ping is the distance that the ship traveled before dropping to sublight. The contracted space in front of the craft traps small particles, even light itself for a short period, compressing its wavelength and then releasing it when the field disengages."
The war room nodded along. The explanation was mildly technical, but anyone that had traveled on an FTL shuttle before knew the hazards of exiting FTL directly in front of your home destination. Blasting your home station with a wave of alpha, beta, and ultraviolet rays was hardly a warm welcome.
The engineer continued.
“The… issue with this is that we’re used to the majority of the ping being in the UV spectrum. We aren’t entirely sure what the spectrum of the signals we got from the ships were because Batan station can only detect up into the low gamma range, but that’s still what the majority of the human’s FTL pings were detected in. That’s at least ten billion times the frequency that we’re used to. Since the frequency of the burst can be roughly modeled by multiplying the mean radiation per unit distance by the length of the path, that implies one of two things: That the human ships are either traveling through areas with ten billion times the standard background flux, or that they are traveling extragalactic distances.”
The engineer paused for a few seconds at that statement. The pain of loss still shone in his gemstone eyes, but something more immediate was beginning to take center stage: Fear.
“Because the craft is essentially throwing… well, normally it would be the next three or four days worth of cosmic background radiation at you. In our case it’s more like several decades. But because it’s just giving you an advance on your normal cosmic background radiation, you can track the void in the next several days' worth of background noise to determine the ship's approach vector. The 1,217 crafts that arrived weren’t coming from the same spot. There were actually hundreds of converging vectors, but more importantly…”
He trailed off, a small 3D model of the local space appearing in the center of the holo table. A spiked ball of vectors protruded from the galactic disk, each piercing cleanly through his former homeworld.
His voice cracked a little, the hum turning into a hiss. The translator tech paused a moment too, struggling to convey the subtle emotional cues into the message.
“They’re all coming off the galactic disk. That doesn’t just mean that we’re surrounded, that doesn’t just mean that we’re outnumbered… It means that each attack that we’ve seen up to this point is from an entirely separate group. What we’ve been mistaking for fleets, I believe, are simply the beginning trickles of their exploratory forces. Each of the sites that they’ve targeted hasn’t been of significant strategic importance; they’ve just been sites with unusually strong output signals. I think they’re just using our transmission stations as makeshift beacons for their FTL jumps." He took a deep breath to steady himself before providing his final thought. "I think we underestimated the size of the human population by eight or nine orders of magnitude.”
There was a heavy silence in the war room as that last sentence was processed. The engineer was already out the door before he heard the panic begin to set in.
Part of him felt a little guilty. It would’ve probably been kinder for them to go out not knowing what was about to hit them. Still, it wasn’t often you could force people with this much power to realize that they’d just lost everything.
There was a bitter satisfaction in that.
#hfy#humanity fuck yeah#humans are space orcs#science fiction#we are the swarm#scifi#writing#writblr#we are the cosmic horror#The goal was to imply that we have colonized hundreds of other galaxies#Babylon-HFY#Babylon-TopPick
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Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: But I already have love in LA
A/n: 5,692 milli is the distance between calm nighttime Paris and sweltering Los Angeles, which almost makes Eilish howl like a wolf. A Paris promo in honor of the album mercilessly separates the two of you on an important date, but you find a way out.
Billie's point of view. 'Cause I like it.
"The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please call back later," is the peremptory verdict unchanged over these endless eight hours, echoing coldly from a woman's voice on the other side of the handset. Not the voice I want to hear so much, not the timbre that makes my heart flutter so incredibly, as if it were your most expensive wind-up toy. Not your voice, absolutely not. You don't get in touch for such an ungodly long time, and I just diligently shut up the feeling of anxiety devouring from within throughout the day: a dark woolly monster grins hungrily with its wide mouth, loudly clicking its massive, fanged jaw. Each click is a new, painstakingly detailed picture in my head, causing hot anxiety. What if you're really lying helplessly on the hot as hell asphalt of LA, caught under the spiked wheels that tried to slow down with a soul-shattering screech? I know how hurried you are. What if you turned into a disadvantaged area, taking a shortcut, and now your lifeless body is lying in the nearest ditch, turning paler and colder by the minute? What if you just stopped breathing in your sleep for no reason?...
I take a deep breath, and the chains behind the monster immediately tighten with the deafening clang of massive links: it leaps, wanting to grab at me with its clawed paws, to pull me into the viscous pools of panic, but it still can't reach me. With a menacing guttural growl, its fangs gleam faintly in the semi-darkness, covered in viscous saliva. It's actually easier to contain my anxiety when my head is full of thoughts about the shoot, about the phrases I have to elegantly slip into the interviewers, turning their question marks into confident dots. It's easier when you're surrounded by a horde of people: security, staff, family. But when I'm in the silence of an insanely expensive French hotel, drowning in the uncompromising gloss of the surroundings, still perfectly styled and dressed in expensive dark clothes, coming straight from the shoot, nervous and clutching my phone in my hands with hope - it all becomes so impossible.
I'm dialing twelve digits again, just a little more and I'll be able to dial your number blind. "The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable, please call back later." I lean back noisily on the cold silk of the sheets while that toothy, infinitely dark ball of anxiety laughs snidely. I check all the messengers, only to fling my phone away in a brief flash of anger somewhere upward, toward the ruched beige pillows: you still haven't been online in eleven hours, my messages unanswered. Fuck! It's becoming more and more like Jenga, where with each passing hour I take one wooden brick out of the structure and put it on top, making it even more rickety than before. Indeed, something has definitely happened, you couldn't just disappear from everyone's radar for no good reason, especially when today is our little celebration of a month-long relationship. There's five thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles between us, and the silence on the wire makes me want to howl. God, I'm going to go crazy...
Beep! It sounded like someone had thrown a grenade with the pin pulled right under the bed. I reacted immediately, but on the desplay is just a message from Fin in an endless string of unnecessary things. Well, better than nothing. Better than drowning in madness alone.
"Are you asleep?"
"No." How the fuck can I, bro?
"She still hasn't responded?"
"No."
The three dots bounce around again as my brother puts the right letters into words. Maybe I should call you again.
"Can you open the hotel room door right now?"
The restless gears in my head rumble to a grinding halt. Now? For what?
"For what?"
"Just open it, sis." - so unobtrusive and unexplanatory, followed by another gray block of letters: "You'll thank me later :)"
"Don't smile at me."
":)" - naturally, a smile. Damn Finn.
I dial you again and reluctantly get out of bed, shuffling my feet as if I were going to the lacquered scaffold under the shouts and whistles of the French Revolution crowd, but in fact only the thin tulle is swaying in the night wind, and the noise of rare cars, which enters the room so valiantly with the help of the open balcony. And here is the guillotine itself in the form of an oak door. I touch the gilded cold handle with the palm of my hand with pressure, and feel the massive blade whistling as it flies straight at my neck, severing my head. You're standing in front of me.
You look me in the eye and leisurely take the phone out of the pocket of your wide bard palazzo pants. Your accurate fingers finally touch the ill-fated green answer button before you bring the display to your ear. There's a slight, confused smirk on your lips, and on my end of the line there's finally the beeps and this mechanical female voice have finally died down. But it is still impossible to answer you, I can only stare at you in disbelief, as if you were a masterpiece that had escaped from the Louvre and had personally come to my doorstep.
"Bonsoir, Madame Eilish," your soft, purring timbre mightily shatters all anxiety, defeating the monster in my head. The only thing left were the massive chains of patience and self-control that held it back. You say what I've been longing to hear for these fucking eleven hours. You sound the way you've imprinted on my memory for the many hours we've spent together. - "A special gift exclusively for number one hundred and eleven."
I grab you into my hage, pulling you into the room in a flash. The door slams too loudly for midnight, but I don't care, you gasp, rustling a small package - I don't care, you babbling a hundred apologies for this frightening silence - I also don't care, girl. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! I just leave a lot of barely visible lip gloss prints on your face, showering you with hot kisses, clinging to your lips with mutual hunger, making you almost choke, but I don't care! You don't pull away, just squeeze tighter, sliding down the wall a little. You're here right now, and the rest of it doesn't matter. And how can I take offense at you, when you have overcome five thousand six hundred and ninety-two miles...? At least not right now.
We calm down only when we reach the floor and settle down on the soft pile of the carpet. Your face now gleams beautifully in the warm light of the bedside lamp, your hair slightly ruffled either from my hands or the wind outside.
"I'm sorry." - You gulp in air with your mouth and repeat again, touching my cheek gently as if I were fragile Chinese porcelain.
"I almost lost my mind, Y/n." - I snuggle closer into your palm, finding the needed reassurance finally. - "But I'm so glad you're here now, my dumbass."
You chuckle lightly before rising to your feet in one merged motion, then gallantly offering your hand to me. My gaze first clings to the not-so-little bard stain spilling over the once flawless whiteness of your favorite shirt.
"What's this?"
"It's wine," you answer innocently as we walk to the back of the room, me holding your hand and intertwining our fingers, you holding the paper bag in front of you in your free left. - "I thought it unseemly to show up on a deep Parisian night and on our little holiday without a present. While we were choosing a variety with a nice elderly sommelier, he accidentally spilled some on me, for which he apologized for an extremely long time and stuffed a whole assortment of vegan sweets into the gift."
"Actually, it looks pretty good," I touch my hands to the damaged fabric where the wine petals had opened exactly opposite the heart. - "It looks like a flower, and it goes well with the pants."
"I told him the same thing, only in broken French!" - you laugh, sitting down on the bed. The package drops to the floor for nothing, revealing a dark bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a corkscrew, and a dark blue box of obviously not cheap candy. - "Got a cup of any kind?"
"Only if it's cup after some coffee," the porcelain taps lightly as I hand you the cup along with the saucer that was on the bedside table. Drinking coffee at night is a little professional whim.
The cork easily yields to you under the spiraled steel of the corkscrew, so the generous scarlet stream quickly fills the porcelain cup almost to the brim, cleverly masking the coffee ring, which has already managed to imprint on the white dishes. You carefully pass the cup back to me, giving me the honorable right of the first sip. You already have a chocolate candy hiding behind your cheek. Sweet tooth.
You ask me about the past day, listening with incorruptible interest, you ask about the progress of the promo, about my dreams, I listening about your flight, about our first meeting, about Paris at night. We just talk about everything that comes into our heads, while the candy slowly runs out and the scarlet column of alcohol reaches the glass bottom of the bottle, and the bottle becomes more transparent than before in the weak light.
"You look ravishing, did I mention?" - My throat burns a little with the slight spice mixed with the flavor of currants and cherries, and your careful and transfixed gaze, albeit slightly cloudy from the wine, pleasantly burns my heart. - "Although, you absolutely always have that."
And I see you blush and your lips bend into a pleasant smile. When you're drunk, you're so sweetly embarrassed every time, like the word compliments are received by you, not me. Insanely nice. Insanely beautiful.
"Merci beaucoup, L'amour de ma vie." - in sweet, purring French, because you are a total provocation today, presented so elegantly and unobtrusively that I can't think of anything else. The chiseled collarbones are not only hidden under the thin fabric of the branded shirt, but also topped with a weighty gold chain. I catch myself thinking that you remind me of exactly this wine in the porcelain of the cup, which I want to sip leisurely, enjoying it alone. To taste you on my tongue is much more desirable than that cedar-currant flavor in the cup.
The bottle is almost empty, and you will soon begin to look like this pink wine stain blooming on your shirt. You giggle, shifting your gaze in embarrassment to the rich black lacquered wood that elegantly fills the bedroom space.
"Wow, is that a piano?" - so childishly naive, just to avoid my gaze. Gently I place the cup in your palms and then touch your chin with my fingers, turning you straight toward me. - "it's beautiful."
Along with the alcohol and fever rushing through my arteries, an absurd idea popped into my head, and it was an original sin not to realize it. I lean closer, deliberately slowly, though the knot of heat has tightened quite a bit. I like getting you so hot, Y/n, you'd know.
"It's beautiful, but it's only missing your nakedness," a languid whisper in your ear and you're already burning like a match. It's gorgeous. - "Shall we fix it?"
And you nod so obediently that even an expensive room in the best hotel in France and the same expensive wine are nothing compared to this one gesture. This will be the first time for you, the first time for the two of us, and believe me, I'll do everything I can to make sure that it goes well. I won't disappoint you, because all I really want is to drown you in a sea of pleasure. Think of it as my little gift to honor our date, like this wine.
×××
You moan so sweetly, and the only thing I really want right now is to seal your voice in a bottle so that I can open it later at any opportunity when you're not around again. You rest both palms against the shiny black lacquer on the closed top of the grand piano, standing with your back to the most elegant instrument and your face to me. You're standing completely naked, just a pile of clothes under your feet, and I'm already face between your thighs, kneeling. You grip the fabric of my black cardigan with trembling fingers, and like a whimpering child, you pull it on yourself. And it's so exciting to fulfill your little whims, knowing that it's still going to be the way I want it. I throw the dark, soft cotton off of me - a "storm cloud" glistens and shimmers slightly in the light of one dim lamp before falling to the carpet with the rest of my clothes. I'm completely naked now, too. Your lustful eyes dance on the ink of my tattoos, as if not knowing where to stop.
"Do you like the view too much, my girl?" - a grin, and you look away a little in renewed embarrassment. I touch your beautiful thigh, stroking it. "Hey, I like it when you watch."
And you watch again, only now you're looking clearly into my eyes, looking into the depths of my abysses, which for you alone are ready to serve not as destruction but as an unbreakable refuge. Your gaze is so focused, as if you want to dive in headfirst into my seas.
"I just... I just like absolutely everything, and I really don't know where to stop."
"So look, you can even touch me, as much as you want and wherever you want. You're allowed, Y/n." - I rise from my knees to push the banquette back to the piano again and sit down. - "Just for you."
And you explore, touching my skin with a gentle that the most distinguished musicians of classical orchestras will envy. Your hands outline my hips, my waist. You cling to my ribs with your fingers, then you stroke my shoulders and arms. I see a spark of delight in your eyes when you feel how the muscles are easily felt under the alabaster of my skin, while you reach to the very tips of my fingers, interlacing one hand in a lock with yours. Your other hand touches my chest, alternately slightly squeezing each one, and frankly speaking, it becomes infinitely difficult to breathe evenly. The same your hand slides over the stomach, heading to the bottom with like a sharpened arrow. Oh, my Goodness...
"Does that feel good?" - you whisper, touching two fingers to my clit with light pressure, alternating with circular motions. It feels good. Crazy.
So much so that all the words suddenly disappear from my head and stick in my throat in broken syllables, unwilling to form into something intelligible. I had to make an effort not to just nod like a silly dummy, chiseling out a single: "good."
You smile, feeling a gradual confidence, as if you're finally stepping on solid ground after the weightlessness of space, having been successfully rehabilitated. And I finally realize I don't have to hold back anymore. I can pull you close to me, rewarding you with a dozen deep, hot kisses, I can marked you with a bright hickeys on your neck, I can pick you up under your hips and lay you top of the piano cover with your shoulder blades, under which steel strings are silently stretched. While you're trapped in a haze of excitement, I can trace a path with my tongue and lips from your breasts to the bottom of your belly, where everything is burning Vesuvius flame. I can, I can, I can...
"It's so romantic in Paris, isn't it? Won't even try to compare it, it's all love everywhere." - I make the first quick stroke of my tongue and then pull away, hovering over your face again. You barely keep the back of your head from banging against the wooden lid, arching your back in longing. Who says I forgot to get back at you for my nerves?
"I don't know, I guess, but I already have love in LA." - You exhale so hotly, but you endure stoically. You realize you deserve it, yes. - "And I don't need anyone else."
My own heart begs for mercy on your account with a solid thump against my sternum, and I'm back down in a flash, repeating the strokes again, playing with your folds to the accompaniment of your moans. You're delicious.
And when you thrust yourself on my fingers so obediently, waiting for the denouement, which burns you to the point of shaking, and then you spur me with my back to the lid, hovering over me with intermittent heavy breathing, but with such selfless love in your eyes; when you enter me with two fingers sharply, but so necessary and precise, easily beating out moan after moan from my lungs and ligaments, that I really realize how suitable an instrument like a piano is for you.
I realize that I also definitely already have love in LA, in the form of you.
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Gently now, easy does it, careful
The Humans maintain the majority of their fleet within the Sol system as they have not yet expanded further. A few are in Coalition systems on the border with the neutral buffer zone between us and the United Federation, who we are in a bit of a cold war that is looking to turn hot any day now. And there are scatterings of some scout groups dotted around the immediate vicinity (aka roughly 400 light-years from Sol).
Recently, they recalled almost every ship back to Earth for a special operation.
They are, uhh... trying to plug the 200km hole they blew in their planet with a moon of roughly equal size.
Normally we'd expect them to just dunk in there and see what's what, but we suppose because it's Earth they are for once being careful. All seventy five Dreadnoughts, one hundred and thirty eight carriers, three hundred and twelve destroyers, thousands of transports, even fourteen planet crackers, and millions more ships of all shapes and sizes are amassed around the now almost impossible to see moon of Uranus named Sycorax, gently tugging it with every available gravity hook and tractor beam towards the Earth.
They got bored of waiting and after Jimothy McCallahan showed it was in fact possible to attach and sync enough hyper-drives to straight up steal a moon, so yeah, they're doing that now for convenience sake.
To say this is the biggest patch job is pointless, as this is nothing but the mad inventiveness of Humanity on full display. Nobody else would think to try this, because nobody else would create the initial problem in the first place. According to our eons long records, there is no precedent, thank fuck. Nobody who made it to space had ever been THAT crazy before.
As the moon approaches the upper layers of the atmosphere, every ship in a burst of immense power amplify their grip and slow the process down to just about five meters a second. The next two days are agonizingly slow, but the display of beams engulfing the moon and shining past the swarm of ships are almost like a second green-tinged sun over the Pacific.
And then, without fanfare, it is inserted into its new home. Cheers on all channels at the accomplishment of this monumental task. Now, huh. Nothing's happening. That's good, we expected another calamity, but the Humans seem a little disappointed now. I think some of them also expected chaos and destruction.
Well, maybe it fixed Earth, probably not though. But then again, everything the Humans have done so far has felt like a probably not possible at all, and then it magically worked perfectly. Well, from their perspective. We would consider explosions and collateral damage a sign of failure, but oh well. Good for them.
Meanwhile we signed into Coalition law making it an official crime to steal moons, planets, planetoids from their host systems. Initially adding stars was dismissed, but after we remembered who we've got in space now, those were included as well. I bet they will try.
#humans are space orcs#humans are space oddities#humans are deathworlders#humans are space australians#humanity fuck yeah#carionto
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BABYDOLL: CHAPTER EIGHT. THE DEATH SQUAD
jj maybank x fem!routledge OC // read on Ao3
In which a boy with zero self preservation falls in love with a girl clawing at life.
chapter summary. sunken ships can sometimes be underwhelming; the twins best a big-headed cop; JJ believes in an eye for an eye; the death squad finds the pogues at what was supposed to be a lovely movie night
word count. 5.9k || masterlist
previous chapter < >next chapter
The moment of truth was upon them. They stood on the line between staying a Pogue for the rest of their lives and becoming “full Kook” as John B. lowered the stolen drone into the water at the very location Lottie’s dad had marked on his map, the supposed location of the sunken Royal Merchant.
Kiara fed the line into the water as the drone sank deeper and deeper. Everyone else waited in eager anticipation. Pope watched the monitor connected to the drone’s camera, and Lottie hovered over his shoulder with her eyes peeled for any sign of the ship. The image relayed nothing but murky water and sea life circling the depth, but they had a ways to go until the drone reached the sea floor. John B. tracked the position of the sunken boat that their dad had marked precisely, instructing JJ to move the boat to keep them on the spot.
The drone reached four hundred feet when the tide started to change. They took their chance with the weather, which was only slightly better than the day before. A storm held off in the distance but loomed closer with each passing minute. They were in a bit of a time crunch, eager to find the treasure and return the drone before they got in any more trouble.
At seven hundred feet, the waves started to grow in size, jostling the boat more. Lighting flashed in the distance, warning them that their time was running out.
Lottie bit her fingernails as she flickered her gaze between John B.’s GSP and Pope’s monitor. The camera was still feeding them nothing, no sign of the ship. The wind whipped around them, growing more violent and making it harder for Kie to hold onto the line. Losing it wasn’t an option.
At nine hundred and sixty feet under the water, the drone showed the sandy bottom of the sea. Lottie’s stomach dropped, pooling with disappointment at the lack of anything waiting for them down there. Pope controlled the drone’s camera, moving it around with hopes of finding something, anything that proved the ship had once been there. Then, like an answered prayer, there it was, the Royal Merchant.
The old and decayed ship sat half buried in the sand, harboring its treasure before their very eyes. Lottie didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry at the absurdity yet elation raced through her veins.
You know that feeling, when you see a beautiful, bright star in the sky and you’re in awe? You’re looking up at the vast expanse of space, an inky darkness that’s terrifying to think about for too long, but then that star winks at you. Its golden glow reminds you that even in the darkest of things hold something beautiful. And just as you’re thinking all of that, some asshole walks up to you and tells you that the star you’re looking at, the one you’re wishing on, has actually been dead for a long time. It doesn’t actually shine anymore; it simply takes a long time for a star’s death to reach our eyes, leaving its ghost in the sky. That was kind of how Lottie felt at that moment.
For a brief minute, they thought they had found four hundred million dollars that would solve all of their problems. But as they looked around what was left of the skip, they realized there was nothing there. They searched through the wreckage three times before the reality settled upon them. There was just nothing, no gold, no treasure, nothing.
“Someone beat us to it,” John B. said, a look of disbelief on his face.
And that was it. No one else muttered a word as they shut down their operation with slumped shoulders and all of their hope left almost a thousand feet under the ocean. There was nothing else to do but go home, fresh dreams crushed.
Three days prior, Lottie didn’t believe in any treasure, but the voice of her dad on the tape recording led her to believe. She believed they’d finish his hunt, get the money, and stay on the island with their friends forever.
But, instead of returning to shore with an exciting secret and new lives around the corner, Lottie and John B. returned home where they met their reality waiting for them in their living room.
“Hello,” their social worker greeted them. She sat on their couch, having made herself comfortable as she waited for them to return. As if Lottie didn’t think her mood could sink any lower, she felt herself slip past rock bottom at the sight of the social worker.
“Cheryl, it’s kind of a bad time for a check-in,” John B. said, moving into the kitchen with Lottie trailing behind him.
Cheryl offered them a tight-lipped smile, something too professional as she smoothed down the collar of a blue button up. “It’s not a check-in today. I’m here to take you guys.”
John B. rolled his eyes. “Today, really?”
“It’s just for a few weeks until your hearing.”
Lottie felt like she was going to throw up. She wanted to go back on the boat and pretend like they still had the chance to change their future.
“No,” John B. said. “We’re not going into foster care, okay? We’re not gonna be a part of your little system.” His voice rose steadily, his anger seeping out. In response, a police officer stepped into the room. The officer was a tall and broad man, ready to haul them both of their home even if it meant kicking and screaming.
The officer startled John B. His eyes widened as he stumbled back and to Lottie’s side in surprise.
“This is Deputy Thomas. He works with juveniles at the sheriff’s department,” explained Cheryl. “I know that your uncle T is down in Mississippi working at a casino. He hasn’t been here in months.”
In a quick movement, John B. grabbed Lottie’s hand and attempted to make a break for it out the back door, but they didn’t even make it past the dinner table before the deputy blocked their path with his hands on his hips and an unimpressed look on his face.
“Oh, this is my nightmare,” he muttered, squeezing his sister’s hand. It felt like they were little kids again, running down to their dock to meet their dad after he returned home at the end of the day. Lottie had always been shorter than John B. and a little slower-paced. So, when they both needed to get someone fast, he used to grab her hand to keep them evenly paced. It had been ages since they had needed to run anywhere together, but it seemed like they were going to need to if they wanted to stay on the island, with each other and with their friends.
“L-Look! We want emancipation!” John B. tried.
Cheryl looked around the house. “Emancipation? From who? There’s nobody here.”
Clearing her throat, Lottie found her voice. “Okay, then asylum.”
“On what grounds?”
“On solid grounds! On…on holy grounds!” John B. said. Panic crept across his face and into his voice, clear enough for Lottie to tell they were losing their fight. She could feel their future shifting without a choice, slipping from their fingers as the seconds ticked by. “You know what? I’m feeling very prosecuted right now by you and especially by Mr. Big Head over there.” The deputy shot him a look, to which John B. met with, “What are you looking at, dude? What’re you gonna do, tase me?”
Smacking her brother’s arm, Lottie tried to get him to shut up before they both got tased. Instead of speaking anymore, he tried to make another break for it. They skirted around the table and made it a few steps closer to the door before the deputy blocked their path once more. The bag of popcorn Sarah Cameron had given John B. was left open on the table. Lottie grabbed a handful and threw it at the deputy, distracting him somewhat as they tried to run.
Unfortunately, they only managed to piss off the deputy. He practically tackled John B., causing Lottie to stumble backward. She shook off her surprise and was ready to tackle the officer herself to get him the hell away from her brother, but Cheryl gently grasped her arm.
“Call off your dog!” John B. wheezed from underneath the deputy’s headlock.
Neither of the twins liked being backed into a corner, but that was exactly where they were.
Lottie turned to Cheryl, eyes pleading as she said, “Tell him to let him go!”
With a sigh, Cheryl listened, calling the deputy off. He let go of John B., who stood up dejected.
Looking between the twins, Cheryl said, “Go pack your things,” leaving no room for any more argument. They were leaving, and that was that.
Lottie walked into her room, the little space she’d been decorating since she was little, in a daze. Her collection of seashells and pet rocks she had made with Kie line her windowsill. CDS and books were piled high on the floor in organized piles. An old set of white Christmas lights were strung from her ceiling, zig-zagging across the room. She had to leave it all behind. Even if they were allowed to come back and pack the rest of their things once the trial was over, it wouldn’t be the same living anywhere else.
She stuffed a couple pieces of clothes and other essentials into a backpack, along with one pet rock, her hidden stash of cash, and a pocket-sized photograph of herself, John B., her mom, and her dad that had been taken only a couple of weeks before her mom left. It was the only picture they all had together. She gently placed it in a different pocket of her bag before leaving her room.
Traveling down the road in the back of a squad car was not how Lottie had envisioned her day going. She picked at her nails and tried to think of a plan to get them out of their current shit show, but her mind kept coming up blank, too wrapped up in worry to think clearly.
John B. seemed lost in his head too, staring at a photo of their dad he had brought with him.
The back window was cracked and as they rolled through the Cut, the wind sucked the photograph right out of his hands. He panicked, begging both the deputy and Cheryl to pull over. The deputy didn’t want to, but John B. told the sob story of how it was the only photograph he had of their dad. It worked on Cheryl and she made the deputy pull over and go look for the lost photo.
Nudging her leg, John B. shot Lottie a look, one that told her loud and clear that he had a plan. He motioned for her to unbuckle, and she did so by coughing to cover up the small ‘click’ of the buckle. Cheryl didn’t notice what they were doing, too engrossed by something on her phone.
“Can I go help him look, please?” he asked Cheryl. “He’s not even looking in the right place.”
She couldn’t smell bullshit, giving into John B.’s sad and desperate tone. With a sigh, she unlocked the back door and told him to make it quick; boy, would they.
He pushed open the door and scrambled out with Lottie following quickly behind him. They bid Cheryl and Tom goodbye before they booked it.
Lottie was sure she had never moved faster in her life, sprinting down the streets of the Cut with her brother pulling her along. They hopped a fence and cut over to the next block through someone’s yard. Their end goal? Hell if Lottie knew. Maybe they’d be able to run from DCS until they turned eighteen or maybe they’d be considered too much trouble to chase down anymore. It was wishful thinking, and realistically it would all probably come back to bite them in the ass, but as long as they could run, they would.
“There’s only one Tom,” John B. breathed out as they slowed their pace for a moment, hiding between someone’s garage and house. “I don’t think he’s my biggest fan at the moment, so he’ll try to find me first. If we split up, it’ll buy us more time.”
She hesitated, not loving the idea of splitting up. “Are you sure?”
“We’ll meet back up somewhere, anywhere but the house for now,” he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll text you in a bit. Just lie low, okay?”
Letting out a breath, she nodded. He squeezed her shoulder before they started running in different directions. John B. ran left and she ran right.
Lottie was glad she opted to change into her sneakers from her sandals as she ran down the streets and cut across peoples’ yards to not be spotted in case Tom had decided to go after her instead. She didn’t know where she was going, but she couldn’t run for much longer. A stitch formed in her side painfully, slowing her down as she turned down a familiar street.
The Maybank residence wasn’t somewhere she visited often, mostly because JJ was always at her place instead. But her feet had carried her there anyway, leading her right to the yard littered with scraps and trash, thanks to JJ’s deadbeat dad. Luckily, as she approached, there was no sign of Luke Maybank smoking in the front yard or screaming from the living room. There was only a consistent string of loud ‘pops’ that came from the backyard, gunshots that she knew were coming from that stupid gun JJ had stolen. He’d been keen on ‘practicing’ using it.
Following the noise, Lottie paused at the sight of JJ in front of a makeshift shooting range. He held the gun tightly in his grasp, wearing oversized headphones as he aimed at a line of used beer cans an old stuffed animal with a bullet torn through its belly, spilling its stuffing rather graphically.
“JJ?” she yelled out a couple of time before getting his attention. Her lungs burned from running and not really breathing, trying too hard to focus not getting caught.
He pulled off his headphones and sat the gun down on a stump to the side of him, looking surprised to see her. “Hey Lot,” he greeted. “What’s up?”
Opening her mouth, she let out a wheezed breath instead of an explanation. Doubling over, she rested her hands on her knees and tried to even out her breathing before she passed out.
JJ’s surprise shifted into concern as he walked up to her, placing a hand on her back. “What the fuck did you do, run here?” She nodded. Lottie didn’t consider herself out of shape, but running was not her forte. Swimming was where she thrived, not sprinting.
“Uh, why?”
The blood rushed to her head as she stood bent over, so she opted to take a seat in the grass. “DCS,” she answered after a beat. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she shed her backpack and tied her hair up as she explained further. “They were waiting for us after we got back. We booked it but John thought it’d be harder for them to catch us both if we split up.”
JJ’s expression landed somewhere between impressed and concerned. “Well, thanks for choosing casa de Maybank as your refuge. We have zero amenities, and our only other employ has just taken a bullet to the belly.”
She attempted to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace as her mind reeled. How long would they be able to hide from the police? They were just two sixteen year olds, not some square groupers. They were certainly in even more trouble for running, facing possible juvie time.
Deep down, Lottie knew Cheryl was just doing her job and following the law, but that didn’t mean it was fair. She was scared, way more scared than she wanted to admit. She was scared of their lives changing, of having to move into a new home with new people who weren’t her real parents, no matter how nice they were. It felt like an odd betrayal, even if their mom had been the one to leave them and their dad had been so focused on treasure hunting than his children. She didn’t want to replace them; she didn’t want anything to change, even if it could have been for the better.
“Hey.” JJ’s voice was soft as he kneeled on the grass in front of her, gently shaking her knee to pull her out of her thoughts. “You alright?”
Lottie shook her head, picking at her nails despite the painful sting that it caused to spread down her fingers. “I don’t want to go,” she admitted with a slight tremble in her voice. It was childish, only proving DCS’s point that she and her brother were still children, but everything felt so heavy, slipping out of her grasp.
Grabbing her hands, JJ forced her to stop picking at her nails, a bad habit she couldn't kick. “Why can’t DCS just lay off?”
“Because it’s technically the law,” she sighed.
He scoffed as a scowl formed on his face, but he held her hand almost carefully. “That’s such bullshit. You’d think they’d have other things to freak out about.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, using her free hand to wipe her nose and will herself not to cry. She already felt pathetic enough. “It doesn’t matter though. Eventually they’re gonna ship John and I off to some creep’s house or a landlocked state. Oh, God,” Lottie groaned, throwing her head back. “They’re gonna split us up and make me sell my surfboard and-”
“Whoa, Lot, hey,” JJ cut off her spiraling ramblings. “Look, we’ll figure something out, okay? If worse comes to worse, Kie, Pope, and I will come and kidnap you guys or some shit. Then we’ll all flee the country and live off grid.”
Oddly enough, that did make Lottie feel a little bit better, even if it was outlandish. If all else failed, at least she knew her friends were always there to hatch some batshit plan, even if it had the potential to only make things worse.
“JJ!” A frantic voice called out from the front of the house. JJ helped Lottie to her feet just as Pope rushed around the corner of the home, slightly out of breath and visibly upset. “JJ, they know.”
At first, JJ looked confused until Pope retreated himself, causing something to click inside JJ’s head. “Hey, relax man,” JJ said. “They don’t know shit.”
“Who doesn’t know what?” Lottie asked.
Pope’s wide-eyes gaze flickered between her and JJ before pausing on JJ. The two seemed to speak with only their eyes and hand movements, confusing Lottie even more as she watched them. Then, after a moment, JJ pointed to Lottie and said, “Dude, just tell her.”
“Ugh!” Pope cried, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay, fine! We, well, I did something really stupid.” That was new. Did Pope usually agree to participate in their stupid ideas? All of the time. But the original stupid idea was rarely ever his idea, and he never did them alone.
“Come on, man.” JJ turned to Lottie. “He didn’t do something stupid; he gave those fucking Kooks exactly what they deserved.”
Lottie swallowed the same lecture she’d given JJ a thousand times about how screwing with the Kooks only ever backfired on the Pogues, but she refrained since it was Pope who had done to the stupid thing this time.
“What did you do, Pope?”
“I…I sank Topper’s boat.”
The panic that riddled Pope’s body suddenly made a lot more sense. That wasn’t a little stupid thing, that was a monumental stupid thing. Not only was it also a literal crime, Topper and his Kook friends were borderline insane. There was no telling what they’d do if they did indeed know it was Pope who sank the boat.
“What were you thinking?!” she cried.
Pope hung his head, somewhere between on the verge of tears and yelling. “I don’t know! I wasn’t!”
“Jesus, Pope!” JJ joined in the yelling. “They jumped his ass when he was just delivering groceries. They almost knocked his goddamn teeth in and gave him this.” JJ ripped Pope’s baseball cap off his head to show a nasty cut across his forehead.
Pope stared at the ground, like he was embarrassed that he got jumped. His expression alone made Lottie want to sink Topper’s boat again. She understood why they did it, but that didn’t mean it was right or that anyone else was going to believe it was justified.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Lottie asked. It couldn’t have just happened that day, which meant Pope and JJ kept the fact that Pope got jumped and he sank the boat from the rest of the Pogues.
His voice came out quieter this time as he answered, “I don’t know.” He snatched his hat back from JJ and placed it on his head. “But Topper knows I sunk it. He and Rafe posted outside of Heywards and mad dogged me.”
“No, there’s no way,” said JJ. “They don’t know shit.”
“They have cameras! They could have seen me!”
JJ was unconvinced. “There was no power. How could they have seen you?”
“It’s Figure Eight! They’ve got generators!” Pope started pacing, which was never a good sign. “They don’t give scholarships to kids who vengefully sink boats! It’s not a good look on my transcript-”
JJ forced Pope to stop, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying to shake some sense into him. “Enough with the regret, dude! They caved your face in! They hit us, we hit them back. It’s the law of the jungle. And if any Kook comes up to you and asks if you had anything to do with it, you look ‘em right in the eye and do what?”
Swallowing thickly, Pope seemed to steel himself slightly as he answered, “Deny the living shit out of it.”
Lottie was sure, with the added stress of the Kooks possibly after Pope, she was on the verge of growing gray hairs.
“That’s right. Deny, deny, deny.” JJ turned around and grabbed the gun from where he had abandoned it on a stump. “But just for safety, we don’t go anywhere without protection.” Lottie wished Kie would have tossed the gun into the ocean like she had threatened.
➤
Lottie had spent roughly one hour worrying that her brother had been caught by Tom and Cheryl, only to receive a text from him saying he was on his way to Chapel Hill with Sarah Cameron. He didn’t explain why, only that they were doing “super secrete spy shit” and that she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone until he returned with more information. What any of that meant, she had no fucking clue.
While her brother paraded around the mainland with the Kook Princess, she was dragged to an outside movie with the rest of her friends. She didn’t think that necessarily counted as “lying low,” but there were a lot of people at the gathering, which made it easy to blend in. DCS probably wouldn’t think to look for her at a crowded yard in the middle of Figure Eight, but her nerves remained.
During the warm days of the year, they’d put on screenings of films on a large screen outside. People brought blankets and lawn chairs, sitting in the large yard with concession stand drinks and snacks. Normally, Lottie loved their movie nights, but Kie was the only one of them not on edge.
They picked a spot and got comfy before Kie offered to get everyone drinks. Lottie sat with her knees pulled to her chest on the blanket, gazing around the crowd. Everyone looked to happy and carefree, and normally the Pogues were in the same boat. They’d spend the evening sneaking drinks from JJ’s flask and made the movie they were watching way funnier with jokes they muttered under their breathes. That movie night, however, both she and Pope couldn’t stop looking over their shoulder, waiting for something to go wrong.
Kie returned, sitting down beside Lottie and passing out the drinks. “I just saw Rafe,” she said. “And he said, and I quote, ‘Tell your boy we know what he did.’ What is that all about?”
JJ masked his nerves by clearing his throat and sitting upright in his lawn chair, but Lottie saw right through him. “Where is he?”
“Over there.” Kie subtly nodded her head in the direction of Rafe, who stood near the back of the crowd with Topper and his other friend Kelce at his side. The group was already staring at them, which caused the Pogues to quickly return their gaze forward.
“Great,” Pope mumbled. “The whole death squad's here.”
“If they corner us, I’m comin’ out swinging,” said JJ. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ve got back up.” He patted his backpack, where he had stashed the gun after Lottie had told him to leave it at his house. Of course, he didn’t listen and had shoved it in there behind her back. She glared at him, but he didn’t look too sorry. “Cool it, Lot. This is serious business, okay?”
“You’re an idiot,” she said. He didn’t try to argue, simply shrugging his shoulders.
Kie, who had been left out of the loop, looked between the three, putting together some pieces on her own. “JJ, please tell me you did not bring you gun here.” He said nothing, which answered her question. “There are kids here! What-”
“No,” JJ rushed out, lying through his teeth. “I didn’t bring the gun! Everything is fine.”
Everything was far from ‘“fine” and Lottie wanted to tell Kie that, but she was worried about stressing her out too. At least one of them should have been able to enjoy their night.
Unfortunately, Kie knew when she was being lied to, especially when it came to any of the Pogues. “Wow, JJ, thank you. That was really convincing,” she said with a roll of her brown eyes. “What about the founding principle, you guys? There’s to be no secrets amongst Pogues. So what is Rafe talking about?”
Pope leaned almost all the way off of his seat and spoke to Kie in a voice just above a whisper. “It might go down tonight.”
“What does that mean?”
JJ shook his head. “Deny, deny, deny.”
The boys refused to say anything more, which caused Kie to drop it for the time being as the movie started to play. The sun had just set, painting the sky dusk-y blue, and everyone settled into their spots, pointing all of their attention on the screen.
Everything was going smoothly, without any hiccups, until Pope and JJ had to use the bathroom. They left together, which prompted a confused Kie to ask, “What’re they gonna go, hold it for each other?” Lottie stifled a laugh before she turned over her shoulder to check on the “death squad.” It seemed like they were more focused on the movie than anything, but the third member of their little party, Kelce, nudged Rafe’s arm and pointed in the direction Pope and JJ had gone.
Lottie cursed under her breath before whispering to Kie, “You know how Pope said shit might go down tonight?” Kie nodded. “Well, I think it’s going down right now.”
Kie glanced back at where the Kooks had just been. “Shit. What do we do?”
Lottie shrugged. “Make sure no one dies, I guess?”
She grabbed JJ’s backpack and took off in the direction all five boys had disappeared in. She and Kie found them behind the movie screen, out of view of the crowd. The fight had already commenced, three against two. Topper and Pope looked pretty evenly matched, at least for the time being, but Kelce held JJ in a headlock while Rafe landed punch after punch.
Lottie tossed the backpack to Kie, who used it to swing on Topper, while Lottie ran up on Rafe, jumping on his back to force his attention off of JJ. He let up his punches, stumbling backward before he realized what was happening. He grabbed onto Lottie’s arms that were around his neck and tore her off of him, sending her to the ground.
“Stay out of this!” Rafe spot before he moved onto Kie, tearing her away from Topper and tossing her aside as well.
Pissed off, Lottie scrambled to her feet. JJ was still struggling against Kelce’s tight hold and Pope was forced into a headlock by Topper. Rafe returned to hitting JJ, blood flying. Kie crawled away toward the backpack while Lottie prayed she had some kind of plan better than the one Lottie did.
“Stop it!” Lottie yelled, shoving Rafe as hard as she could to throw him off his rhythm. He tried to push her out of the away again, but she slotted herself between him a JJ and planted her feet. Rafe’s gaze was angry, his jaw hard-set and bloodied fists clenched at his side.
“I told you to stay out of this,” he said, almost as if he was giving her a warning, but Lottie was not about to let some Kook hurt her friends or threaten her.
Her heart drummed wildly against her chest, her veins filled with the awful kind of adrenaline that paired with a “fight or flight” response. Normally, Lottie’s reaction was to run, but that wasn’t an option that time around.
So, she stayed put, in between the two boys. “What’re you gonna do? Hit me? That’s a bad look, even for a Kook.” She remembered the looks people sent Topper when he had elbowed her in the nose at the Boneyard. Despite her Pogue status, it wasn’t a good look for a Kook to hit a girl trying to break up a fight. And while they didn’t have an audience that time, she thought Rafe had to draw the line somewhere in who he hurt. She thought she could push him a lot further than JJ, Pope, or John B. could. So, her plan? Piss off Rafe Cameron until Kie, hopefully, executed her plan that involved a lighter she was struggling to get to catch.
With fake confidence, she smirked and tapped her index finger under her nose. “I think you’ve got something, right here.”
She may have underestimated what a pissed off Rafe was willing to do, but at least he wasn’t too interested in mashing in JJ’s face anymore. Instead, he lurched forward in a rage and gripped her shoulders harshly before he threw her on the ground.
The wind was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping for a breath for a moment. Pain shot up her back, throbbing in her tailbone as she lied on the grass.
Rafe stood above her, seething as he said, “I told you to keep your mouth shut, bitch!”
During all of that, JJ managed to wriggle free from Kelce’s grip before he lunged at Rafe, delivering a good punch to his jaw. JJ was in pretty bad shape, but he didn’t show it in his movements.
As Rafe stumbled and rubbed his sore jaw, JJ got in his face and yelled, “Touch her again and see what happens!” He spit blood as he spoke. It coated his teeth and spilled from his nose too.
“Oh, yeah?” Rafe challenged, not shrinking back. He opened his mouth to say something else but Kie managed to get a flame on the lighter and lit the movie screen on fire. The cloth caught with ease, quickly burning up and sending everyone on the other side into a panic.
Topper dropped his hold on Pope, causing the boy to fall to his knees desperate to get air into his lungs after being choked out. Rafe gave the group one last glare before the three Kooks took off.
As the fire grew hotter and spread, Lottie wiped her shaky hands off on her jean shorts before moving to check on the boys. Pope caught his breath and was helped to his feet by Kie. JJ doubled over, breathing heavily with his hands on his knees, just as Lottie had been earlier that day when she showed up at his house. She placed a hand on his back, which prompted him to stand upright with a sigh.
The firelight made it a little easier to see the damage the Kooks had done. Pope’s main injury was the headlock Topper had put him up, which would definitely leave a bruise for him in the morning around his neck. JJ’s injuries were hard to make out under the smeared blood, but he at least had a split lip and a busted nose.
“Are you okay?” she asked, despite the answer being pretty visible on his face.
Yet, in typical JJ fashion, he shrugged it off, picking his fallen baseball cap from the ground and placing it on his mop of sweaty curls. “Yeah,” he said, his voice horse. “You?”
“Better than you two,” she replied. Pope and Kie joined them, gathering in a little circle behind the nearly completely burnt up screen. “Pope, you still with us?”
He held a thumbs up and nodded, leaning heavily on Kie’s side.
“When you said shit was gonna go down, I didn’t think they’d try to kill you,” said Kie.
Pope cleared his throat, his voice even more horse than JJ’s as he answered, “Yeah, well, I did sink Topper’s boat.” Knowing the truth, Kie looked ready to put Pope in another headlock, but she refrained, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. “JJ was just there for moral support.”
JJ with only half of his mouth. “That’s right, dude.”
“You idiots are lucky we were here,” Kie said, shaking her head. “What happens next time they come to kick your asses and we’re not there?"
JJ slung his arm around Lottie’s shoulders. “I guess we’ll just have to stick together.” His words caused Kie to roll her eyes and not say another word as she started walking away before they were caught at the scene of their crime. She dragged Pope along with her, forcing Lottie and JJ to follow not far behind.
“Hey, uh, thanks for that, back there,” JJ said, dropped his arm from around her shoulders. “But you don’t need to, like, do that.”
Lottie stared at him, confused. “You mean don’t try to stop someone from beating the shit out of you? What did you want me to do, watch?” He said nothing and Lottie scoffed. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Dipping his head, JJ seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say. He restored to shaking his head before saying, “Whatever. You still shouldn’t do that shit. They’re fucking crazy.”
While his concern was sweet, Lottie wasn’t having it. It didn’t matter how crazy the Kooks were, she wouldn’t let them hurt any of them.
“If you want me to stop, then you should stop getting into fights with them,” she countered. “Like you said, we stick together.” JJ said nothing in return. He kept his gaze forward while Lottie stole glances at the side of his head.
They go far enough away from where the movie had taken place and realized they didn’t know where they were heading.
“Back to the Chateau?” Kie suggested.
“No can do,” replied Lottie. “I gotta lie low. DCS and the cops are probably waiting for us there.”
“We can go back to my place,” offered Pope.
And to the Heyward's they fled.
#outer banks#obx#jj maybank#jj maybank x oc#jj maybank x original character#outer banks fanfiction#obx season 1#john b routledge#kiara carrera#pope heyward#rafe cameron#topper thornton
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“Doesn’t that get old?”
“Every human has a unique and fleeting taste which makes devouring them a perfect way to pass time until death.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Sukuna views love as worthless, and it’s something I honestly expect from someone like him, but what he said highlighted something about him that actually did surprise me. Though he’s opting to disregard love, focus on himself and his pleasures and desires, live as his nature as the King of Curses and somewhat bask in the isolation and solitude that comes with being the strongest…his reply to Kashimo implies something that’s kinda sad.
From how it sounds in his statement about humans and passing time, Sukuna is just numbing himself and is just existing but not really living.
He’s doing and chasing whatever, filling up the days with things that somewhat amuse and interest him, chasing those moments of serotonin, but avoiding love and companionship and all those things he views as worthless until he dies. And sure, everyone numbs themselves sometimes, and I’m certain Gojo and other strong sorcerers who did and do love have found ways to cope with the reality of things by numbing themselves and have moments when they’re just doing whatever they need to keep going and just existing but not really living if that makes sense—but there’s moments of joy and happiness and fun and life that find its way back in their lives and allow them to live without just existing, if that makes sense, and it’s because of various forms of love. So there’s something kinda sad about Sukuna just existing without any of that until he dies.
There’s only self-love but none of the other loves (friend, romantic, family, etc) to give him things to look forward to, to give him reasons to do more than just exist, because he finds it worthless. There’s little room for longer moments of joy and happiness and living because a lot of those come with various forms of love and he’s avoiding all of that because it’s worthless to him and he’s just “passing the time” until he dies, which clearly is taking centuries because he’s the King of Curses and at the top of the jujutsu food chain. It just sounds exhausting and lonely.
Sure it matches and supports his nature and has likely served him well all these years, and it’s got to be exhausting to make and remake connections every hundred years and see those you care about die repeatedly when you can just be alone instead and not attach yourself to anyone but yourself but, idk this whole chapter is interesting to me.
Since Sukuna finds love worthless and he’s leaned into this isolation for so long that it’s bordering on serious loneliness, he’s just been doing all of this alone for centuries, and learning to shove everything he can in to feel like he’s living and alive and happy and he’s seemingly doing fine without love and companionship as he’s opting to “pass the time” with blips of fun. And he sounds so certain and comfortable (and almost defensive) in how he’s chosen to live his long life, and how he’s disregarded love, and yeah it’s worked for him. He said he’s never “needed” someone to satisfy him, and I’m sure the King of Curses doesn’t need anyone, but I wonder if there has been times (at least from the way he’s managing his long life without others and the way he explained himself) if he ever just wanted a friend or even just someone who understood (and he got it for a quick second in that fight with Gojo, and we kinda saw how that affected him).
Idk I’m rambling but it’s just interesting that he finds love worthless but sounds like he could really use it (at least one of the other eight forms of it since he’s already got self-love handled) so he can live less of a lonely life instead of just simply existing until his end.
#jjk#jjk 238#jujutsu kaisen#sukuna#ryoumen sukuna#ryomen sukuna#hajime kashimo#jjk manga spoilers#jjk manga#jjk thoughts#idk i’m rambling#jjk analysis#jujutsu kaisen manga#jujutsu kaisen manga spoilers
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When I say that I want to be evil
what I mean is I want to be powerful. What I mean is I want to be free.
Some weeks ago I spent more money than I should have on my first ever (ever!) two-piece swimsuit. You have to understand that as a child I was told I was fat, and as a teen I was told I was fat, and as an adult I've always been fat*, and you can't read your way out of the shame caused not strictly by the word but by its connotations.
(I know, because I've tried. I have been trying for almost twenty years. Looking for plus-sized fashion brought me to the digital 'fatosphere.' It made me a better person as I learned about another dimension of intersectionality and about power and oppression. It made me feel like I could wear clothing that I liked. It made me more informed about the diet and wellness industry. It's been over 20 years since I first read a critique of the BMI; it's been almost as long since I started wondering why gros/se in my close-second language didn't have the same (haha) weight to it as fat does, in my first.)
At the tail end of June, days long and scorching, I stepped into a two-piece swimsuit with a deep-v neckline and my whole midsection exposed and I spent the day in full view of dozens (hundreds?) of strangers. Cold, cold water on the joints; warm, soft pools for the evening. My hair got bigger and bigger. My neck and chest sunburned. My midriff stayed comically, blindingly pale, and everything else? It was lovely; it was fine. I rarely thought about my body, unless it was 'this feels nice' or 'my swimsuit is so pretty.' I took a selfie, even, though I deleted it. I was worried that posting it would count as thirst-trapping; shame has cored out and replaced so much of me. It was a good pic, though, and I wish I'd kept it.
What was true of me that day: I was a quite tall, very fat femme person whose feet swell with arthritis and whose hair takes up the entire frame and who's had cellulite since grade eight. What else was true: many people complimented my swimsuit. I looked out across the valleys and the mountains from the top of my almost-six-feet. I let my shoulders roll back and smiled at the sight of my bare skin gone blue-wavering-dappled beneath the surface. I stood tall. I made eye contact. I enjoyed delightful company, and let that enjoyment extend to the simple pleasure of having a body that felt fairly good, in garments I had chosen for the joy of it.
You can't read your way out of shame; it's only part of the equation. I didn't go swimming the next day with my family members, because I didn't want to feel them looking at my body and being disappointed that What A Beautiful Girl turned out like I did (though: if What A Beautiful Girl then why You Need To Watch What You Eat?). But for an entire day I felt like anyone else, gentle enough, good enough, in my skin.
It would have been good for me to swim with my family that weekend, because I'm finding that - as in all things - the practice is important. You can't read your way out of shame, not entirely, but in working with and through it there's maybe a chance to rewrite our stories.
There's a fallacy that I think a lot of us fall into, when we're trying to counter and challenge fatphobia, both culturally and in ourselves. It's the fallacy of the Good Fat. It's why I want to tell you about how two-pieces are maybe a better swimwear choice for me because of the drastic difference between my tits and hips vs my waist. It's why I wanted to post that selfie, so people could shoutycaps and fire emoji me on twitter. It's why I want to craft this post into a narrative where spending a single day mostly-unburdened by body shame has led to a hot girl summer, and I'm walking for miles every day and going to the pool four times a week. (I'm not. I still have a day job, and writing to do, and a physical disability, and the ol' depression. I'm more active than I was three months ago, and working to improve that, but still. It's not a lot.)
It is, simply, the same lie as we tell ourselves along so many different axes of marginalization: that as long as we are exceptional in a way equal and opposite to our marginalization, we'll be fine. It's the model that says you earn the right to exist fat and unashamed by being healthy, by being active, by being hot. Sorry my hip is squished against yours on the airplane; at least I've got a nice face and good hair and am well-dressed, wanna admire my hip-to-waist ratio about it?
There's no such thing as a Good Fat because we live in an inherently fatphobic world. I mean: airplane seats are too small for anyone average sized. I mean: 20 years ago I was a size 16/18 and couldn't fit into the newer lecture hall seats at my university without a lot of stress and embarrassment. I mean: I can't buy a compression sleeve for my arthritic joints at the drug store. If I ever needed to take Plan B, it might not work because I weigh (as do most adults of my acquaintance) more than 165lbs. You cannot be hot enough or active enough or well-dressed enough to escape from this; the only option is to be Not Fat.
But why on earth would we want to accept this? We know the system is fucked up and evil, and so: we want to be evil. Just a little bit, just enough. We want to be hot villains. We want to serve cunt and to be cunts. We want to nailcare emoji, fire emoji, crown emoji, and we want to take no prisoners unless it's between our thick thick thighs. Sit on their face; if they die, they die. It's fun and sexy, in a world where "everything is sex, except sex, which is power" to dig in and grab handfuls of what looks like empowerment, fuck the rest of it, get what makes you feel best.
It's a mirage; freedom doesn't live there.
Because of course fat people are hot. Fat bodies are desirable. Fat bodies are strong, sometimes, and athletic, sometimes, and powerful in whatever way you'd like to read that. That's true no matter what.
And yet (this will hurt) fat bodies are still (I'm sorry, I'm so sorry) not good enough. If the system is the problem, your individual empowerment is not the (whole) solution.
When I say that I want to be evil, what I mean is I want to be free. I want the strange rare days I've known I was desirable because I was desired, specifically and individually. I want the days where I grant myself dignity. I want the day where I lived peacefully in my mostly-naked body around hundreds of strangers, and went to bed happy.
Reading is input, it's taking in. I can't read my way all the way out of fatphobia, out of body shame because that's like trying to put out a forest fire 2000km away by throwing baking soda on your stove element. (Not harmful, but insufficient and misdirected.) It has been so helpful to know that other people wrestle with all of this, in ways that are more intelligent and expert than mine; it doesn't change material reality, though.
It's not the shame that's the problem, but where it comes from. It's not my internalized fatphobia or low self-worth or lack of body confidence that keeps people from life-saving medical care because their doctors were obsessed with their weight instead of their symptoms. My soft abdomen has never shamed a stranger on the internet, my calves (never in tall boots) haven't forced someone to buy a second seat.
Maybe it's time that I redefine what I mean when I say I want to be evil. I want to be a hot villain that was justified in their takedown of the status quo. I want to put a crown on every head. I want these thick thighs under me as I pull you into my lap and love you, and to use those fire emojis to make room for new growth.
I want us all at the pool together, celebrating as the sun sets.
*I'm using "fat" to here mean something like "size 16 US women's or larger," but there's no good definition
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There’s a folder in Jude’s phone dedicated to you. It's a day shy of your first anniversary when you find out about it, stumbling upon it when he asks you to look for a screenshot of the recipe he’s using to bake biscuits. The exact one your grandma sent him, one of your favorite foods of all time since you were learning to walk and speaking gibberish in the hopes of forming a sentence.
Its title is a plain red heart, sitting above the number three hundred and forty-eight. You stare at it for a moment to make sure it’s right, you swipe out of the app and click back onto it as if to make sure it won’t disappear suddenly. Though it’s still there, the number and symbol staring back at you. There’s a funny lurch in your stomach when you tap the screen with the pad of your thumb, clicking on a random photo when they all show up in neat little rows of three.
There’s one of an arcade machine. The big display screen a cartoony shade of blue with cheesy racing cars and checkered flag graphics, with two grainy photos in the middle. One of Jude sticking his tongue out, his eyes squeezed completely shut. The other of you smiling cutely with all your teeth showing, Jude’s hand appearing from off-screen to give you bunny ears with his fingers. It was your fourth official date and you both spent it collecting as many arcade tickets as possible, only to just end up with glittery bouncy balls and pencils when you traded them all in.
Another one is of you standing by the sink in his bathroom, your hair clipped away from your face. There’s foamy face wash all over your cheeks and on the tops of your fingers, you hold your hands out to display them to the camera. You had promised to spend the night at his place for the very first time, and getting ready for bed had already taken nearly an hour due to all the talking. Jude sat on the edge of the bath wearing one of your fuffy toweling headbands, watching you endearingly as he fiddled with the lid of your moisturizer
One sticks out like a sore thumb, a screenshot from your childhood Instagram account that makes your toes curl with cringe. A heavily filtered selfie of you pouting with a caption that’s a variation of unrelated emojis. After a night out drinking overpriced cocktails, you both ended up sitting in bed scrolling through embarrassing photos. Looking back it might have been the extra tequila shot, but Jude found it so funny he struggled to gasp for air. He set it as his home screen as a joke and forgot to change it back for almost a month.
Further down there’s one from when you both went on holiday. A photo of you sitting on a wooden dining chair, your elbow leaning against the table with your cheek squished against the palm of your hand. You’re wearing the strappy sundress you bought earlier that week in a little boutique owned by an enthusiastic Italian lady. At dinner the strap keeps falling off your shoulder, and when no one is looking Jude plants a kiss exactly where it should sit.
“Darl, have you found it?” Jude speaks up from the kitchen. Shortening the pet name ‘darling’ into just one syllable, as if the other one will ruin the flow of his sentence. Looking up you’re greeted by him standing next to the mixer, the flour down his front making the text on his shirt unintelligible.
“Yeah.” You click the arrow on the top left to take you back. Scrolling past some selfies and a bunch of pictures of the same sunset, until you find the recipe sitting next to a funny photo of his brother. When you get up to rest it against the shiny countertop so he can read it, your heart feels a little fuller. “Here you go.”
#cute idea#idk abt the result#football imagines#my writing#footballer x reader#footballer fluff#footballer x you#footballer imagine#jude bellingham one shot#jude bellingham x you#jude bellingham fluff#jude bellingham x reader#jude bellingham#jude bellingham blurb#jude bellingham drabble#jude bellingham fic#jude bellingham fanfic
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