#like I was on the fence and then I was over it

[wingedhallows]

— RUSTLING MAPLE LEAVES —

— ✩₊˚.⋆☾ PAIRING southern!vi x citygirl!reader / 2.5 k words — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ SYNOPSIS When you inherit your grandmother’s farm in the heart of Georgia, the last thing you expect is Violet Lane—your rugged, maddeningly charming neighbor with a slow drawl and a smirk that could bring anyone to their knees. What starts as a simple favor—a little help with the land—quickly turns into something far more dangerous. Because Vi isn’t just good with her hands; she knows exactly how to unravel you, one lingering touch at a time. And resisting her? Well, that might just be impossible. — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ WARNING smut (minors DNI) — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes, i'm super late with this but it's my first time attempting to write actual smut. I thought you might enjoy this as a thanks for 400 & 500 followers. thanks babes, love u

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Moving into your grandma’s old flat in Georgia wasn’t exactly on your bucket list this year. But when she decided she was done with the ranch—tired of the early mornings and aching bones—she signed it over to you and packed her bags for a nursing home.

And now, here you stand.

Hands on your hips, staring up at the massive oak tree out front. It’s old, gnarled, and overgrown—a mess of tangled branches just waiting to drop and split someone’s skull open.

"Surely needs trimmin’, ma’am."

The voice is smooth, warm, dipped in something slow and syrupy. You whirl around—and nearly forget how to breathe.

A woman stands there, tipping her hat with a lazy smirk. Pink hair peeks out from beneath the brim, catching the golden light just right. One hand rests on the belt of her worn jeans, and the way she carries herself—easy, confident, like she’s got all the time in the world—makes your stomach flip.

Jesus.

Since when did you have a thing for Southern women?

"Violet Lane. Pleasure. Call me Vi."

She pauses, giving the tree a once-over, and for a moment, you swear you catch a sharp cut along the edge of her jaw—like she was carved from something wild and unyielding.

"Shimmer Farm’s mine." She nods down the road, and just like that, it clicks.

Your new neighbor. And, quite possibly, your newest problem.

You finally manage to clear your throat, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun. It’s too damn bright, or maybe it’s just her.

"Bonnie’s my granny—left all this to me." You gesture vaguely at the ranch around you, hoping the motion hides the slight tremor in your fingers.

Violet—or Vi, as you’re already calling her in your head—gives a short nod before leaning against the white fence. The wood creaks beneath her weight, but all you can focus on is the way her flannel stretches over her arms—sleeves rolled up just enough to show off tanned, sinewy forearms and biceps that look like they could throw you clean over her shoulder.

Jesus. Get a fucking grip.

"She mentioned it—nice lady." Her voice is slow, deliberate, dipped in molasses, and you find yourself watching her like she’s something out of a dream.

Of course, she’d know your granny. They were neighbors.

"Tell you what, city girl—I’ll trim it for ya'."

She pushes off the fence with a lazy sort of grace, nodding toward the tree.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “What? No, no—you don’t have to.”

You shake your head quickly, hoping she’ll back off, because if she gets any closer, you might just lose the battle against your absolutely feral urges.

But Vi just smirks, the kind of smirk that’s all trouble, all slow-drawled confidence that makes your stomach flip.

"Nonsense, sugar. ‘S what we do ‘round here."

And then—she winks.

You stand there, completely useless, as she turns and strides back down the driveway, hands tucked in the pockets of her beat-up jeans.

All you can do is stare after her, mouth slightly open, and hope to God nobody catches you drooling like a love-struck teenager.

Vi returns not long after, carrying a ladder, a hedge trimmer, and—oh, hell—without the flannel.

The wife beater she’s wearing should be illegal. It clings to her like a second skin, outlining lean muscle and sun-kissed shoulders, and as if that wasn’t enough to completely fry your brain, your gaze catches on the ink stretching across her upper back. Bold, intricate—something that probably runs the length of her spine.

You stand there on the porch, awkward as hell, gripping the railing like it might keep you from falling over. God, help me.

Vi doesn’t say a word as she props the ladder against the thick trunk of the tree, adjusts her hat, and climbs up like she’s done this a thousand times before.

And maybe it’s your imagination—or maybe she flexes, just a little, when she lifts the trimmer.

She knows you’re watching. And she sure as hell doesn’t mind.

The hedge trimmer hums to life, and you realize you should probably say something—anything—to make this feel a little less like you’re shamelessly ogling her.

"So… what kind of farm is ‘Shimmer’?" Your voice is quieter than you intended, but steady.

Vi doesn’t look away from her work, but she answers anyway, cool and easy.

"Horse farm. Got some sheep, too. Ma’  Pop, and my sister run it with me."

You nod, soaking that in. So, she works on a horse farm, probably rides, probably knows how to rope cattle, probably looks stupidly good doing it.

One question lingers in the back of your mind, burning at the tip of your tongue before you can stop it.

"Just you three? No boyfriend?"

You swear you hear her chuckle—low, rough, the kind of sound that zips straight through your bloodstream and leaves a warm ache in its wake.

Then she turns her head, baby blues locking onto yours, lazy smirk playing at her lips.

"Nah. I don’t swing that way."

Her voice is amused, like she already knows the effect it’s having on you.

And just like that, your brain short circuits.

She’s into women.

Oh.

A few hours later, the tree is neatly trimmed, the stray branches hauled off to God knows where—somewhere in the back of Vi’s truck, probably, but you’d been a little too distracted watching her maneuver the damn thing like she was born with a steering wheel in her hand.

She’d backed into your driveway with one arm slung over the passenger seat, her other hand steady on the wheel, and you swear your heart flipped clean over in your chest.

Now, you lean over the railing of the porch, holding out a cold bottle of beer. A peace offering. Or maybe just an excuse to keep her around a little longer.

Vi takes it with a soft huff, swiping the back of her hand across her damp forehead before twisting off the cap. "Thanks, sugar."

Her voice is a little rough, a little breathless, and it sends a spark straight through your bloodstream.

You watch as she tilts the bottle back, throat bobbing as she takes a sip—your eyes helplessly tracking the way a single droplet of sweat slides from her temple down the curve of her jaw.

And suddenly, you forget how to breathe.

"Are you hungry?" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, blurting out in a rush of reckless impulse.

Vi lowers the bottle, her smirk slow and knowing as she tips her head. "Don’t wanna trouble ya', city girl."

Her voice is low, husky, damn near sinful, and you—God help you—have to press your thighs together, because how the hell is this woman the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen?

"It’s the least I can do, please." You nod toward the house, pushing the door open in silent invitation.

Vi takes her time stepping forward, letting her gaze drag over you in a way that feels deliberate.

And she’s doing her best not to stare at your ass too long—because, fuck.

Inside the house, you make your way to the kitchen, racking your brain for something—anything—you can throw together. Not like you’ve got much to work with. You’ve only been here a week, and your fridge is a sad excuse for a meal.

Behind you, Vi leans against the counter, the beer bottle dangling lazily from her fingers. She’s watching you—no, devouring you with her gaze—slow and deliberate, like she’s got all the time in the world.

You pretend not to notice. Or maybe you just don’t know how to function under the weight of her attention.

She shifts, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, and you let out an awkward chuckle, tugging open the fridge with a grimace.

"I, uh—I don’t really have much. I just moved in, and… grocery shopping…” Your words fumble over each other, and the sheer intensity of her gaze makes you regret speaking at all.

Vi waves you off with a slow flick of her wrist, stepping closer.

And that’s when you catch it—the faintest hint of her cologne beneath the scent of sweat and sun-warmed skin, the lingering trace of sawdust from working on that damned maple tree.

You swear your knees go weak.

"S’alright, hun," she murmurs, voice richer, huskier than before.

Your back presses against the counter, your pulse skittering as she closes the space between you.

The air shifts—thicker now, charged with something electric, something dangerous.

And suddenly, food is the last thing on your mind.

Vi moves in, slow and deliberate, until her arms cage you in against the counter, the scent of her—leather, sweat, a hint of cedar and smoke—wrapping around you like a trap you don’t want to escape.

Her gaze roves over you, heavy and smoldering, like she’s sizing up a meal she’s about to devour.

“Ain’t that hungry—least not for food.”

Her voice dips lower, like a secret meant just for you, like something sinful curling between your legs. Your breath shudders, your fingers gripping the countertop behind you as if that’ll keep you grounded.

She leans in, breath hot against the shell of your ear, and your knees damn near buckle.

"Wanna repay me another way?"

It’s not even a question—it’s a promise wrapped in velvet.

Your lips part, but words fail you. All you manage is a nod, shaky, desperate.

Vi tilts her head, a slow, knowing smirk playing at her lips. Her hands find your waist, calloused fingers curling into the soft skin beneath your sundress, sending a rush of fire through your veins.

And then—before you can even think to touch her—she grips beneath your thighs and hoists you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

Your legs part, a breathless gasp slipping from your lips as she presses in close—solid, hot, the heat of her searing through thin fabric.

You lean back against the cabinet, exhaling a shaky sigh, your whole body thrumming with want, with anticipation.

And Vi—she just watches you, like she’s got all the time in the world.

Vi’s lips find your neck, warm and insistent, each kiss slow and deliberate, a teasing drag of softness against your skin. The heat of her breath lingers, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

You tip your head back instinctively, granting her better access, and she hums in approval, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your throat.

Her hands roam—rough fingertips skimming the curve of your waist, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your sundress with a slow, knowing touch. Your breath hitches, fingers clutching at her shoulders, a feeble attempt to ground yourself against the way she unravels you.

Then—her palms slide lower, brushing over the sensitive skin of your thighs, pushing your dress up inch by torturous inch.

Her fingertips graze over the damp fabric of your clothed cunt, and a shaky gasp tumbles from your lips, your thighs twitching at the featherlight contact.

Vi chuckles, low and deep, the sound rolling through you like a slow Southern drawl, thick and sinful.

“Oh, sugar,” she murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re drippin’ for me, ain’t ya?”

She grins against your skin, her voice sultry and smug, and all you can do is nod, breathless, aching, already at her mercy.

Vi presses one last, lingering kiss behind your ear before she sinks to her knees, slow and deliberate. The sight alone—her looking up at you, eyes dark and hungry, that damn smirk playing on her lips—has your grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

Her hands skate over your thighs, warm and teasing, pushing your dress higher, higher, until the cool air ghosts over your skin.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, a mischievous glint flickering in those baby blues as she drags them down.

A soft gasp slips past your lips when her knuckles brush against your heated skin, and you barely catch the way she tucks your soiled panties into the back pocket of her jeans like a prize.

She doesn’t even try to hide her amusement, lips quirking as her thumb presses against your aching bundle of nerves—just enough pressure to make you tremble.

“Mmm, she’s screamin’ for me, sugar,” Vi drawls, her voice all honey and gravel, thick enough to drown in.

Your mouth parts, a protest, a plea—but before you can even think to speak, she leans in and drags her tongue in a slow, sinful stripe up your slit.

A breathless hiss escapes you, thighs twitching, and when she pulls back, her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, savoring.

“Delicious,” Vi hums, that cocky smirk only deepening.

A breathless moan tumbles from your lips as Vi leans in again, her tongue plunging between your folds—hungry, unapologetic, like she’s been starving for you all her life. The sensation is blinding, white-hot, and when your fingers thread into her hair, tugging at the soft strands, she hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

Her grip tightens around your thighs, keeping you right where she wants you—helpless, unraveling beneath her touch. Each flick of her tongue, every sinful suck against your aching clit, has you teetering on the edge, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Vi—” Your voice is shaky, breath hitching as the coil in your belly winds tighter, tighter. “I-I’m gonna—”

She pulls back just enough, her lips glistening, pupils blown wide as she watches you fall apart. That smirk is there again, the one that makes your stomach dip.

“I know, sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice thick and dripping with something wicked. Then, as if to seal your fate, she licks one slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy - from entrance to clit, savoring the taste, before whispering—

“Cum for me.”

And you do—helpless against the force of your own undoing. The coil inside you snaps with breathtaking intensity, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong it leaves you gasping.

Vi doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath—her strong hands keep you steady, gripping your hips with enough force to hold you together as you shatter.

The kitchen is filled with the sounds of your pleasure—high, breathy moans mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of Vi’s tongue working you through it. You barely register the way she groans against you, drinking in every last bit of your release like it’s something sacred.

And when the aftershocks leave you trembling, thighs still twitching in her grasp, Vi finally pulls back—chin glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and smirks up at you, voice thick as molasses when she drawls—

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.”

[afniel]

Years ago I lived near a park and just by listening you could tell how the cyclists were doing, because a huge mixed-gender crowd of them met there quite early in the morning, got coffee nearby, sat around on the benches for a half hour or so, and laughed so loudly you could hear them over the fence and through the windows. It was basically just another daily morning sound like birds. And I mean, why not think of it the same way? Birds wake up early and do their social thing in the trees in the park (singing to establish territory, mates, communication, etc) and the cyclists also woke up early and did their social thing (reinforcing social bonds, establishing roles, and apparently saying incredibly funny shit) somewhat more on the ground in the park.

And they're totally an indicator species. The presence of a large group of devoted cyclist commuters tells you a lot about traffic behavior, street safety, and overall health (since you generally need to be at a certain threshold of fitness to bike a moderate to long distance at all, let alone twice a day) as well as access to enough finances for dedicated commuter bikes and apparel. The part where it was a mixed but leaning masculine group tells you things too (generally safe for women, but fewer of them employed in the kind of work that serious bike commuters do).

There's a lot to demographically study there! I can see why people's kneejerk reaction is that it's rude, but also, it's basically the same thing as a study would look at, just the phrasing is different, but once you get past that it's a completely valid way to view it.

Once you start thinking about humans as a species in a biome, it affects your entire way of looking at normal things.

The other day I referred to female morning joggers as an 'indicator species' in that if you see women jogging in the dark it means that the environment provides migration pathways (sidewalks, clear signs) and doesn't have any known predators of female morning joggers (guy with knife, bear, BigTruck, male morning joggers).

Though, I think that people consider framing humans as animals reacting to their environment as rude.

[invincibledc]

can we get some jack and batbro love? ;-;

(if you want to ofc. amazing writing either way 👍)

ᯓ★𝑩𝑬 𝑨𝑮𝑮𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑽𝑬!

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐎!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

⭑.ᐟ Synopsis: aggressiveness is the key

⭑.ᐟ Genre: enemies to lovers oneshot

⭑.ᐟ Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome. yes that guy is the face claim I picked.

⭑.ᐟ Word count: 1,291

You despise that boy! Ever since you and your twin brother, Damian, arrived in Gotham, you never imagined you would be the first duo of Robins ever. It’s unheard of—two Robins fighting crime side by side, but that's exactly who you are.

But let's get to the point: you hate Jack Quinn. The boy joker. Joker Jr.—whatever name he tries to claim. Your disdain for him ignited the moment he mocked you.

With his painted clown makeup, dyed green hair, and piercing blue eyes, he embodies everything you can't stand. Right now, you’re locked in hand-to-hand combat with him, and there’s no holding back.

You ran up towards him, holding twin sai as your weapon, Jack Quinn laughed loudly, mocking you as he did a bunch of backflips.

“C'mon short stack, show me what you got, birdy,” he says, his voice a little raspy, but you paid no attention to it. All you saw was his head on your sai.

You leaped up to him, a crazed grin on his face as he jumped back. “Hah! Try again—” You had cut him off, tackling him as you started to punch his face in.

As you straddled him, Jack couldn't help but laugh as you did this, his nose bleeding and face bruised.

“So!” punch “cute!” punch. Midway through your nth punch, Jack flips you over, his tall frame towering over your small one.

“You’re a pathetic excuse of a man, dude.” his hand going to squeeze against your neck, and his eyes darkened as he couldn't help but chuckle darkly at how he could feel your heated gaze staring through his skull.

Before he could fully choke you out, Damian appeared above him, slamming his two hands that were balled together onto Jack’s head.

That knocked the boy joker out, leaving Damian to tie him up and help you up.

You glared at the boy joker, wanting to kick him down before Damian dragged you from the unconscious body of him.

“Control your anger. Batman wouldn't approve of it.” Damian said shocked as you turned to him with a more angered expression.

“I control my anger?! Very shocking when you tried to kill Nightwing!”

While you and Damian argued, Jack woke up, flicking his wrist to magically appear a card and cut the ties off. Rubbing his head before walking off, not wanting to be between two Robins chirping at each other.

This led to Bruce grounding you both, you both needed timeout.

★

But as years went on, you and Jack’s so-called hatred for each other grew more. Or so you thought.

When he talked, his voice was deeper, more raspy. Jack held a detonator, a crazed grin as he laughed seeing explosives around a bank.

“Man… It's finna rain!” he said to himself, his thumb itched to press it down, not caring if he blew up with it.

Suddenly a Batarang hit his hand, cutting it through his gloved hand as he held it to his chest tightly. Another was thrown, breaking the detonator. Groaning in annoyance, already knowing who it was, he turned to see you. The other Robin rather than your twin.

“Birdy.” He says with annoyance and fake friendliness. “You should know, not to peck at the wrong tree.” He says, pulling out cards.

You narrow your eyes and drop to the ground to where he was. He threw the king card down, letting it blow up when you were too close to him.

Laughing, he takes off. He bolts with impressive speed, vaulting over a fence with ease. You, on the other hand, can’t manage that due to your height. You mutter a few choice words in Arabic before opting for the quicker routes.

When you finally caught him, he wore an odd grin. “So, this is it for me, shorty? The clown versus the bird. Quite the tragic ending,” he exclaimed, swaying from side to side in an exaggerated manner.

“Enough with the games. I’m done with your nonsense.” As you approached him, Jack shook his head, a determined look in his eyes. “Honestly, if you weren’t a Robin, I would’ve considered dating you, Birdy,” he said playfully, hands firmly behind his back.

You grabbed him by his suit, pinning him down and grabbing cuffs, “Shut. Up.” You said lowly, the boy joker couldn’t help but giggle.

“Rough, I see, Y/N Wayne.” Your eyes widen, and you nearly drop the cuffs as Jack smirks at you. Taking your shock for granted, he did a weird breakdancing move, moving you back as you jumped back.

“Bye, cutie!” he yelled, tossing something into the air. Smoke erupted, filling the space. You instinctively covered your nose and charged into the cloud.

He was gone—just like that. Overwhelmed by anger, you hurled a trash can, oblivious to a certain clown boy watching with a smirk from a distance. “He’s so aggressive for someone so short,” he commented, amusement in his tone.

★

You were much more explosive than Damian, without a doubt. As demon twins, he had managed to temper his rage over the years, but you remained fierce and unyielding.

Jonathan Kent, Damian’s best friend, dared to compare you to that infamous ninja turtle, Raphael.

You scoffed at the notion, but when he pointed out that like Raphael, you wielded twin sai, you shot a glare at Jon, who cautiously flew behind Damian, trying to shield himself. You knew one thing for sure: you were unapologetically aggressive.

★

But despite everything, you don’t know how the hell this happened. One minute you and Jack were fighting, and you gave him a swift roundhouse kick. He blocked the harsh texture of your combat boots with his arm.

In the next moment, you were fiercely kissing this outrageous character. He grinned as he pulled you in, your arms tightening around his slim waist.

It was a striking sight—Robin, the sixth one, passionately making out with the son of the worst criminal, right there in the alleyway.

After you broke the kiss, Jack took hold of your face, admiring the way his red lipstick marked your lips. Your flushed cheeks and heavy breathing were undeniably captivating. He couldn't resist letting out an adoring coo.

“Looks like the bird found its seed to eat, huh, puddin'?” He teased, and you rolled your eyes in response.

“Enough with the joking.” You pulled him closer, kissing him fiercely, pressing him against the wall with a determined intensity.

You knew you were walking a fine line.

★



“Dick. I think I fucked up.” You said as you walked into your older brother’s room. Dick was on his bed listening to music before he turned it off.

“What’s wrong, Raph?” It was that ridiculous nickname the family had decided on after Jonathan made that comparison.

“...I kissed the Joker’s son,” you replied, biting your lip, a mix of embarrassment and resolve flooding you.

“WHAT?!” he shouted, making it clear for the entire manor to hear. “HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!” He seized you in disbelief.

“It just happened!” you shot back. “And stop yelling!”

“You stop yelling!” Dick countered. The two of you volleyed back and forth until Tim stumbled in, groggy and irritated.

“Guys. I’d like to sleep, so can you please keep it down?” You and Dick exchanged guilty glances, muttering a quick, “Sorry,” as Tim retreated to his room. With the noise now silenced, you and Dick found yourselves at a loss for words.

“Well, you’re Bruce’s son. He had Catwoman and—”

“I’m not going to entertain this right now,” you interrupted, stepping away. You needed to think and figure out your next move.

You were in a precarious situation. An obsessive clown now had his sights set on you, all because you refused to back down.

Jack Quinn tag: @xxxryukifukuxxx @lockofspades @sramoonlight @darkfaethedestroyer @gayartisticandlonely @sleeping-l0s3rs @itsmonicabc @dead-ry-walking @fanaticf1fan @cxcilla @wolffrankie @jellystar-star @nayykura @nickithearticorn @nightblanc

[puck-luck]

Andy! Did you see Luke’s curls tonight🤤🤤🤤Can I get your thoughts on tugging them????

i had a friend in attendance last night and she told me that luke's curls are even BETTER in person... so yes, i doooo have thoughts on tugging them

i think it goes one of two ways; he gets subby...

you're in the bedroom. the lights are dimmed and soft. luke is shirtless beneath you and from where you're straddling his lap, you can feel his cock swelling in his sweats. each time you shift or grind forward, luke's cock grows. you're kissing him, running his hands up and down his chest, until luke's hands cement themselves on the curve of your waist and pull you closer. that's when one of your hands goes into the curls at the nape of his neck, finally long enough to bounce when he moves or wrap around your finger when his head is on your lap and you're watching a movie together. you pet over his sternum with the other hand. as his tongue slips into your mouth, you run your fingers through the curls. you grip them in a clenched fist when luke presses his bulge against your cunt. when you pull, just a slip of the hand, luke shivers and moans into your mouth. emboldened, you do it again. "fuck," luke groans. his cock twitches in his pants. you bring your other hand to his hair and tug with both, maneuvering his head back to bare his neck. you trail open-mouthed kisses down his throat, stopping just before his collarbone, and sucking at the flat expanse of skin there. luke's breath hitches and his hands go lower, resting on your behind, his hips bucking up against you. "like it when i put my hands in your hair, baby?" you ask, ghosting a kiss over his adam's apple. luke lets out a strangled whine when you tug again, his control slipping as he surrenders to the pleasure you're giving him.

...or he gets.. ferocious.

he leaves the shower with his curls dripping and a towel wrapped around his waist. you're in nothing but a big shirt of his and your panties, although with the heat that's growing between your legs, you might have to change them before bed. you watch luke remove his towel and pull on his underwear, shaking his curls out and using the edge of the towel to scrunch them up. he catches your eye in the mirror above the dresser. "take a picture," luke teases, not needing to finish the common jest to get his point across. "you like my hair that much, baby?" he turns to face you, approaching the bed and crawling up your body. he places kisses where there's bare skin– your thighs, your neck, your cheek, and finally, your lips. already, you're panting, lips parted and breathing heavily, the air between your bodies growing humid and thick. luke smirks when he looks you in the eye, putting a hand between your legs to spread them, settling between them and pressing his cock to your clothed core. "you wanna touch?" he continues. "wanna make a mess of my curls?" you bite your lip and nod. luke takes your hand and brings it to the back of his head. he takes the other and brings it to the long curls on top, which twist around your fingers like vines covering a chain-link fence. "go on," luke encourages. his eyes flutter shut when you pull his hair, your grasp firm. luke pins you to the pillows, moaning into your mouth as he claims your lips in a searing kiss.

[jedisupernova]

falling for the mafia boss's son, kwon jiyong

notes minors dni contains fem reader, non idol au, always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but anyone can read, takes place in the late 90s (hence the mention of certain technology or media,) mentions of smoking and drinking, reader and jiyong are both twenty-four, very much slice of life and dialogue heavy, very cute and banter-filled meeting!, jiyong being a flirt (or my attempt at writing flirting,) jiyong and reader are down bad (a lot of banter, her parents are on the stricter side; he has to sneak in) reader and jiyong being silly, yearning, angst (miscommunication, mentions of his hardships, he wants to protect reader from his life but to a fault, arguments, he shows up injured one night and you tend to his wounds YUPPPP, mention of insecurities, reader lowkey needs new friends), smut (keeping quiet, dry humping, oral f receiving, sub!jiyong, p in v, reader gives jiyong a pair of her panties,) and inevitable typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! its certainly is a 180 from the last jiyong fic i posted, but what is creativity without ambition! so here goes nothing! this is long. enjoy :)

the time on jiyong's watch read 9:13 pm, his eyes drifting to the summer night sky above. it was hot as fuck. the street lamp's fluorescent lighting flickered, making him blink increasingly harder, distracting him from properly inhaling the lit cigarette between his lips—unceremoniously landing a bead of sweat initially perspiring from his temple into his eye. "shit." his mutter disappeared into the commotion of whatever his friends were going back and forth over. last he checked, it was something about someone's car, or some movie, but the other side of his brain just processed technotronic coming from the house the party they were all invited to tonight was in. jiyong took his cigarette between his pointer and middle fingers, using his other hand to rub his bothered eye. neither of his friends took notice, enwrapped in conversation, taking drags of the cigarettes they bummed off jiyong after parking the car some ten minutes ago. a long, defeated breath deflated his chest. "hot as shit, bro—god damn." that earned him concurring nods, their gazes following him to the house peeking over the wooden fence behind them. jiyong wiped his forehead, kissing his teeth disapprovingly; the back of his hand glistened with sweat. he took one last drag of his cigarette, dropping it onto the sidewalk and putting it out with his sneaker. "place better have some fucking ac," he said, turning to his friends. "you ready to head in? alright, lets go."

to his joy, there was air conditioning! and not many people were in the house, so he could actually feel it! hallelujah! he sunk into the couch like it was nobody's business after making himself a drink, laying his head back, letting the rum and coke glide down his throat with a satisfied huff. he mouthed the few lyrics he knew to the music playing from the backyard, trailing into the house from the partially-open sliding door. jiyong's eyes opened at the sound of loud footsteps clambering down the stairs, catching glimpses of a friend group walking down the hall leading through the kitchen and into the backyard. he planned on joining whatever was going on out there later in the night—his friends did so immediately after getting their drinks—but for now, he minded his own. he liked parties, and went to most that he was invited to—unless his father had something to say about it, of course—but his social battery didn't sustain for long. he liked the quiet, or at least as quiet as it could get; settling with himself for the time being.

a while after finishing his drink, he went searching for a bathroom. the one on the first floor was occupied, so he headed upstairs; he's been here before, specifically the barbecue that happened a few weeks ago to usher in summertime. it felt humid upstairs with the window behind the landing wide open, laughter from below mixing in with the speaker sounding like it was on its last breath every time the bass kicked in. just as jiyong raised his knuckles to knock, the door swung open, catching him off guard but startling you entirely. "oh my god." you placed a hand over your heart, eyes closed. jiyong didn't know what to do in those passing couple seconds—his hand was still in the air. you smiled, amused at yourself. "didn't expect that," you muttered to yourself, opening your eyes. "my bad—here you go."

you stepped to the left to make room for him to enter and you exit, but he happened to step the same direction with similar intention. an upside down grin molded your face, hearing him awkwardly chuckle. "stay there." the sound of your warm giggle drizzled over his ears like honey, making him perk up and pay the fuck attention. jiyong's eyes followed you whilst you walked by his right. his feet moved before he knew it, his head looking away when you turned to look at him. in those three seconds, a whirlwind of thoughts ran through either of you. for jiyong, it was she's fine as hell; the image of you in your shirt and denim shorts lingering in his mind for as long as he wanted, topped by the sound of your clipped voice fading with each passing moment since he heard so little.

for you, it was the slight furrow of your eyebrows whilst you descended down the stairs: was that who she was talking about? you wondered—thinking back to the pregame at your friend's house earlier in the evening. rumors had floated around about ju . . . was it—no, its ji. jiyong? yeah, that—about jiyong's family, more-so his father, but no one ever had the gall to ask him. did they just not want to be caught in their own bluff, or afraid of unleashing a weapon-bearing fight if they properly dared mention it to him? no one knows, nor was willing to attempt. your city wasn't necessarily small, but it also wasn't large enough for anyone to fall through the cracks. you could pinpoint countless times throughout the years where you overheard speculations of his family's true source of income whilst in line at the local donut shop on sunday mornings, or his supposed home life becoming the topic of discussion at the sleepover once the clock hit two in the morning—but actually coming across him? perhaps a few times at the grocery store, fleetingly at parties, seeing him walking up the block with his friends, or in his car waiting for the traffic light to turn green—like any other neighbor.

you tsked to yourself, remembering something else from the pregame: "i heard he's been getting a lot of tattoos lately." a friend said after someone else brought up the rumor he'd be at the same party you were all going to, pouring the group shots—nothing was left in the house after scrounging the last few pours of cuervo tequila, so you all made due with the singular zima found in the fridge. you never liked the beer alternative, so on top of holding your miniature glass with a slight grimace, her baseless observation just deepened it: "you think that has anything to do with . . . you know . . . his family?" what did that have to do with anything? people have tattoos for whatever reasons . . . not to fit some aimless narrative. now that the anecdote came back, you do remember seeing a pair of detailed wings tattooed on the back of his neck—so he had to be the, for lack of a better term, infamous jiyong. unless there was someone else with the same name? you thought, until you realized how stupid you sounded. that was him, and that was it.

jiyong made his way outside, shouting over the music for his friends to hear him. it was relatively crowded. partygoers were dispersed all throughout the yard—some roasting s'mores by the small fire pit on the corner of the tiled pavement leading into the grass, others bickering over the party mixtape, and many either cheersing or throwing out their red solo cups for new ones. jiyong spotted you on the other side of the yard, talking to a friend whilst sat in the patio swing. his attention left his own friends, inner monologue drowning them out: move, motherfucker. that person must have heard him via some inter-dimensional force. though he couldn't overhear, your friend excused herself to get some snacks from the kitchen, leaving you temporarily on your own—but not if he had anything to say about it. he left his friends wordlessly mid conversation, making his way over. jiyong didn't think ahead much and acted more-so on autopilot, nearly stopping in his tracks when you looked up from your seat.

"did you wanna sit here?" the nicety slipped out before you could stop yourself, gesturing to the empty seat, halfway to standing on your feet. "i can move." "no, its okay." jiyong shook his head. it clicked for you: oh wow. its him, again. "i can—i'll just. . ." jiyong cut himself off by sitting down. it took a moment for you to process what was happening. "oh," an upside down grin tugged at your mouth. "alright." you sat down, inadvertently copying the direction of his gaze watching the party before you, lingering in one another's peripheries. your friend returned outside, equipped with a small plastic bowl of mini pretzels and potato chips, nearly dropping it upon seeing who took her spot. she scurried to the other side of the yard as fast as her flip flops would let her, grabbing the shoulder of whomever in your friend group that was in her nearest reach; scrambling to find the words, only able to point hurriedly in your direction.

whilst their mouths fell agape, yours remained closed. you glanced at him from the side, fingers toying with the bottom hem of your shirt. jiyong crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes remaining ahead; unsure of what to say but sure of his decision to come to you. albeit . . . he felt a little stupid. he was usually quite smooth with it, and if he was awkward, there was an indescribable charm coupled with it. he wasn't necessarily at a loss for words (at least that's what he told himself,) but it was one of those times where he acted before thinking it through—hence the silence. you turned your head fully to look at him. "is there something you wanted to bring up?" "hm?" he was caught off guard, turning his head towards you. jiyong jutted his bottom lip, shaking his head. "no. why?" you shrugged your shoulders. "people don't usually follow the person they ran into in the bathroom, let alone sit next to them." "i didn't follow you." jiyong countered. "we're at the same party." "okay. you tracked me down, then." "tracked you down?" his furrowed eyebrows amused you, seeing him fall into your unserious trap. "what're you talking about? we're at the same party." he repeated, a little defensive.

you shrugged your shoulders again. "i don't know. seems kind of fishy." "what does?" "this." "how? i'm just sitting here." "next to someone you don't know." "so?" "people don't just do that. even when they're at the same party." "they do." jiyong wanted to win. win what? he didn't know. "they do when they're—when they're . . ." he cut himself off, growing embarrassed. "when they're what?" you asked. jiyong swallowed, adjusting his posture. "when—when they're. . ." he hated that he started to build a sweat, and the humid night air wasn't to blame. "when the other person's really, uh—really pretty." you looked at him. he didn't dare look at you. a big smile unraveled across your face. "all of that," you said. "just for you to be cheesy as fuck." jiyong didn't expect to laugh as hard as he did, let alone his hand that shot up to his mouth, clutching his lips to hold it on—until he glanced at you and caught your eyes on him, the both of you losing it.

"oh god." jiyong hid his face behind his palms. "was it really that bad?" he asked, opening a gap between his pointer and middle fingers, peering up at you. "don't try to save face with that cute shit." you dismissed. "you think i'm cute?" his hands slid back down, a knowing smile on his face. "that's—that's not what i was trying to—" you stumbled on your words. he nodded along, eyebrows slightly furrowed in faux-thought. "oh, okay," he barely hid his grin; now we're back on track, he thought to himself. "what were you trying to say, then? hm?" "go away." you told him, turning away, arms crossed over your chest whilst his eyes stayed on you. "if really you don't like it, you can get up yourself." "no, because i asked you first. and you're the one who came over here." "i don't see you leaving." jiyong said. you let out a breath, admittedly defeated. a small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, turning into a full-blown smile when seeing your hand make a talking gesture—the same one waving him off with a small scoff.

jiyong noticed how you both sat with your arms over your chest, finding it endearing. his eyes fell to his knee, mere centimeters away from yours. if only i just sat a little closer. "you're funny." he said, eyes on your knee. "i like that." your hand slipped from underneath your arm, coming up to fan your face. "did you hear me ask what you liked?" this bickering feels like we've been married for decades, his inner monologue voiced. jiyong leaned towards you a little, his movement earning your eyes. "i like a challenge." his voice was smooth, getting his edge back. until you humbled him in a way eliciting whiplash: "that didn't land in the way you thought it would." jiyong let out a breath, eyes closing as he sat back in defeat. "you have me spent." "you've barely tried." you retorted, an upside down grin on your face as you looked down at your lap.

jiyong's eyes opened, sitting up, stretching his arm out before him. "i came all the way over here to talk to you!" he exclaimed, defending himself. "i've been trying!" "so you didn't just come here to rest that pretty head of yours?" your flirting flew right past his senses, jiyong prioritizing the bickering: "this is going nowhere." he crossed his arms over his chest begrudgingly. "it is," you corrected him. "you're just being dramatic for no reason." "i'm not being—" he was about to argue, until your words sunk into his psyche. "oh—it is?" you nodded, cheeks warming, pad of your ring finger wiping the built-up sweat off the side of your nose. it took a moment before jiyong said something: "what worked?" he asked. you shrugged your shoulders yet again, pondering in thought, though you had the answer. "you're funny." jiyong tsked, hiding his sheepish grin by turning his head the opposite direction. "it was fuckin' stupid when i said that." he said, still loud enough for you to hear over the music playing some twenty or so feet away. "it wasn't." you said. "it was cute."

jiyong looked at you; ego boosted, but his smile and raised eyebrow reflected his heart doubling in size. "so you do think i'm cute?" "i owe you after you admitted you came over here to talk to me. even if it was apparent from the beginning." that last part was half-bluff—you weren't completely sure, a bit taken aback when he first approached and sat down. you didn't know where this was going to go, but when it did take off, you would be remised not to have some fun. jiyong was sweet; quickly introducing himself as a witty conversationalist whom both matched your energy and kept you on your toes. his banter was fruitful and his clever use of profanity even more so—like the anecdote of when some guy gave him senseless trouble outside of his cousin's birthday dinner a couple years ago: "i told him that i am indeed the type. the fuck i was, the fuck i am, the fuck i will be." "i can't lie, jiyong. you curse pretty good." or when you told him about the argument that broke out between your friends over what movie to rent from blockbuster last weekend: "its not my fault that i didn't want to waste my time when i've been begging to what feels like a brick wall for months to see angelina jolie in 'gia.' i'm not sorry." "fuck no—and you shouldn't be."

jiyong looked like any other twenty something year old—hiding awkward tendencies behind a charming yet nervous chuckle, or going off on an unbridged tangent about a tv show he likes because he wants to fill the silence; keeping a pretty girl like you tethered to him by any means he could think of. but if anyone looked close enough (and you did, because he was fine), they would find something off about his ensemble of a loose-fitting graphic tee, scuffed sneakers, and basketball shorts paired with hair that looked fresh despite his dried sweat; side taper half-hidden underneath the hair that fell so effortlessly into his comma cut—a little too fresh. or perhaps the most perplexing clue of all: the two-toned watch that fell up and down his wrist whenever he moved his arm. you didn't know much about being rich, or differentiating fake luxury items from the real deal, but how the band of the watch molded against his wrist like it was part of him, and the dial that stared you down whenever he fixed his hair, told you he didn't mess around.

his eyes softened whenever your hand came up to fan your face or swat away gnats, noticing the slight sheen glazing your nose and forehead with a small grin on his face. you looked beautiful. the fact that you gave him the time of day was attractive enough—you didn't need to go out of your way to re-adjust your posture, making your plush thighs rub against the swing's cushioned seats in a way that stole his common sense, or your laughter making his eyes kiss in their corners, his right hand gripping the arm rest to keep his balance. jiyong didn't keep track of the time, so when his friends came over—one who perhaps had one too many, and the other with his arm slung around his shoulders—saying it was a good time to get out of there, he thought quickly on his feet: "its all good, man. i'll—i'll meet you at the car in, like, five minutes."

jiyong stood up, you mimicking his movements without thinking. "do you have a mobile?" he asked you. "no," you shook your head with an iota of irrational shame. "was—was never able to afford one." you let out a nervous chuckle, shaking your head. "its all good." jiyong assured. "whats your home phone? i'll call you." your eyes widened, shaking your head with an added sense of urgency: "my—my parents would never." "oh, okay. i got you." he nodded, understanding. the grin on his face was knowing and a bit cocky, taking a step closer to you. "what should we do then, hm? i'm not leaving here without an answer, y'know." "what about your friend?" "don't worry about him." jiyong said softly, subtly shaking his head. "he could hurl all over the street—like i give a fuck. i'm only here for you." you tsked, looking away to thwart the flustered feeling creeping up your neck. jiyong put his hands in his pockets, grinning when you spoke: "you really need to stop with this cute shit, jiyong." "i don't see you walking away, now do i?" he quipped, chuckling when you nudged his shoulder. he liked this feeling. "cmon," he gestured with his head. "i know you got something. tell me."

you looked at him after a moment. "you're lucky i have the day off tomorrow." "i do consider myself the richest man in the world." "oh my god, fuck off!" your exclaim slipped into clipped laughter, in disbelief over his commitment to the bit. "i'll give you my home phone. but you can only call at specific times, and when i tell you to." "i'll make anything work for you." you scoffed, only deepening his upside down grin. "you're not getting any reactions out of me anymore." you said, only to stumble on your words when he jutted out his bottom lip. "come with—come to the kitchen. i'll find a napkin to write it down, or some shit." and call jiyong did—at noon, just like you told him after scribbling your number down with a bic pen on its last few drops of ink. it was about ten minutes after your parents left the apartment to make the weekly grocery run, strategically landing you at home to finish washing the dishes from breakfast. you dropped the sudsy pan into the sink without second thought when the phone rang, hastily wiping your rinsed hands on your shirt, dashing behind the counter and to the living room.

"hello?" "sorry i'm late—had to get away from my parents." jiyong laid more comfortably in his bed, foot shoving a stray sock off his comforter; the rustling transferring from his nokia. you looked over your shoulder at the analog clock hanging next to a framed family photo, seeing it was barely past 12:01. "you're actually quite punctual." you told him. "you sound surprised." he said. "can you blame me? you're a man." "not just any man—" "—its only been, like, ten seconds," you cut him off, sitting down on the couch. "don't make me already contemplate hanging up." jiyong smiled wide. "you're sharp." he said. "i like that." "in the twelve hours that we've known each other, i don't think i've ever asked what you like. and i don't plan on it." "i think you're just going to have to suck it the fuck up, because i like you." he let out a satisfied huff hearing you scoff. "plus, i think we've known each other for more than twelve hours. i've seen you before. the grocery store, maybe? i knew you looked familiar—think i finally placed you." he tried to play it cool, though he knew the answer.

"most likely, yeah." you nodded despite him not being able to see, your other hand twirling the phone cord between your fingers. did he think about me last night? "i've been working there part-time for a while. its been hard finding a full-time gig, as embarrassing as it feels to be two years post-grad." "i don't think you should feel bad. its hard out here." said jiyong, sincerity coming through the grainy audio. "i mean, i went to columbia, but you don't see me in a suit with a briefcase and shit." "hold on," you waved your hand. "you can't just be the most random person i've ever met." "what do you mean?" "i went to a nobody-knows community college that i'm sure will be caught in a class action lawsuit for money laundering in ten years time, but i'm just sat here talking to a scholar?" jiyong chuckled, running his hand over his warming face. "i'm not a scholar, i'll tell you that much." he toyed with a loose thread on his comforter—memories of his father repeatedly reeling how much he poured into his spot at the university flashing in his head, beckoned away with a small, defiant flick of his head.

you brought him back down to earth: "i'm gonna go get my thesaurus." he kissed his teeth disapprovingly, pout evident in his voice. "like the fuck you are. stay on the phone." he panicked slightly at the prolonged (it was five seconds) silence from your end of the line. "please?" you grinned. "you're really cheesy." you teased. "how is talking to a fine ass woman fuckin' cheesy?" "you can't just say shit like that casually, jiyong." "well, i will. hear me loud and clear." he cleared his throat into the receiver, catching you off guard, holding back your laughter. "you're fine as hell. do i need to keep saying it?" "maybe." "are you free for dinner tonight? i'll tell you in person." "maybe." "what'll convince you?" you said the first thing you thought of: "if you wear that watch of yours again." jiyong smiled, bottom lip caught between his teeth. "you like the finer things in life. don't you, baby?" he said smoothly. your cheeks felt warmer by the second, unsure of what you just started. "its hard to take you seriously when i can hear that smug grin on your face." you responded, voice akin to velvet despite the crackles over the line. "you already know me so well." jiyong's fingers toyed with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "m'starting to think we're meant to be. that doesn't sound corny, does it?"

"i'm relieved you're able to pinpoint that yourself now." you heard him chuckle. "and, no. it doesn't for once. you can be sweet when you want to be." "i can be good." he told you earnestly. "i can be really good, you know." "i believe you." you told him. "i hear it in your voice." a beat went by. "you know," said jiyong. "i didn't think you were capable of being nice." "don't be a dumbass right now, jiyong. this was such a good moment." you couldn't stop the grin stretching your mouth hearing him burst into laughter. "you're goofy as fuck, boy. oh my goodness." you giggled, running a hand over your face. "okay—okay, stop laughing. do you know where we're going for dinner? because i've long thought of what i'm going to say to get out tonight." jiyong got serious real quick. "oh shit—damn, okay. let me think." he cleared his throat. "there's this—there's this place i know by the rec center that has really good subs. does that sound—" "—fine by me." you didn't give a fuck what you ate. you just wanted to see him. "okay. okay, cool." jiyong nodded, licking his lips in thought. "you wanna meet there? or i could—i could come pick you up, if thats okay. i know we just met and all. and your parents might not be the most . . ." you waited for his choice of word. he didn't disappoint. "enthusiastic."

you let out a laugh. "you're right." you said. "you can pick me up from one block over." "whatever works for you works for me." "i can't lie to you, jiyong," you said. he hasn't sure where this was going. "but i really like the sound of that." jiyong took his ear off his phone, turning his head the opposite direction on his pillow, silently screaming into his palm. i hit the jackpot! i hit the fucking jackpot! his inner monologue rejoiced. he quickly brought the phone back to his ear: "you do?" "mhm." the sound of your voice made him kick at nothing, covering his face from no one. "i do, jiyong." "oh my god." he muttered. "i think i love you." you scoffed, unable to thwart your grin or increasingly flustered state. "what's my favorite fucking color, jiyong?" "i still think i love you," he avoided the question. "i'll know by the end of tonight, anyway." "i don't even want to ask if you're referring to my favorite color or whether you love me because you're starting to get on my nerves." "is it the right one?" "jiyong." "at least tell me if its the right one. look, i'll be honest and tell you that i'm just really happy i sat next to you last night." a moment went by before you spoke. "i am too." you said honestly. "and yes. it was the right nerve." jiyong buried himself behind his palm. "tell me where i should pick you up from. i can be there at seven."

it wasn't long before you started sneaking him in. up the fire escape that conveniently lead into your bedroom on the second floor of the apartment building you've lived in your entire life—it was a no brainer. it also wasn't long before jiyong got you a pager and mobile phone to go with it. to use at your own leisure, of course, but also already programmed with speed dial: "just press eight and i'll pick up anytime." "anytime?" "anytime, baby." "even when you're on the shitter?" "now that you mention it, yes. even when i'm on the shitter." jiyong came at ten pm on the dot on nights you gave him the green light. those first few times, it often began with the two of you bickering in hushed whispers when he didn't lift his leg high enough to climb over the windowsill, losing his balance and leading his foot to come clambering down, echoing off the steel grates.

you looked at each other in silent panic, his eyes dashing to your door behind you; both listening for footsteps, his shoulders sinking in relief when nothing followed, only to straighten back up when you smacked his shoulder. "get it the fuck together!" you whisper-yelled. "do you want my parents to wake up!?" "alright, alright—damn!" jiyong tsked, clearly annoyed, but his voice remained quiet. "its not my fault the developer built this shit higher than a fucking city skyscraper!" "use your nimble legs, they usually get you far enough." "i don't have nimble—" "—its a compliment, jiyong." "i don't have time for fuckin' riddles. give me your shoulder—it'll help me balance." he beckoned you over, hearing you huff. you stepped forward, feeling his palm secure your left shoulder. you leaned in as he prepared to attempt to climb in again, hand on his other cheek, bringing his closest to your lips. "you whiny baby." you whispered. "you making fun of me isn't helping either of us." "that wasn't me making fun of you." "you know what—i can just head home." he gestured behind him. "my car is right across the street." you looked him in the eyes, waiting for a moment or two. "i don't see you leaving, jiyong." "well, i was just—" "—get inside before i close the window."

he watched you like you just did him. "right—goodnight." you reached up to pull the window down. jiyong scrambled; "wait, no—shit! wait!" he reached up and tousled his hands with yours, either of your fingers clumped together. his face was directly in front of yours, looking into your eyes. a small, please-forgive-me grin stretched his mouth. "you look really pretty." he whispered sweetly. "just shut up and get inside." you stepped aside, feeling his hand on your shoulder. he climbed in successfully, arms making residence around your waist in no time, bringing you in for a kiss. "you're lucky i like you." he whispered hurriedly with intent, quickly reconnecting your lips. "excuse me?" you felt him giggle against your lips. "its—its the other way around. have to deal with your goofy shit all the time." "but you like it, right? because you like me." his arms pulled you closer to him, your supple cheek squishing against his lips. "right?" he kissed harder, your failed attempt at acting annoyed manifesting in a curt tsk. jiyong was in his own world: "right, my pretty girl?" "i wanna say no just to fuck with you." jiyong abruptly stopped, sinking his face into your neck. "i like hugging you." he murmured. "i think you just like annoying me." his giggle was your answer, feeling a chaste kiss pressed dotingly onto your neck when your hands traveled up his back and into his hair. "you're a pain in the ass."

jiyong was someone who knew what he wanted. so when he asked to be official after your second date, you were surprised and even let out a small laugh, thinking he was playing—but he was dead serious: "you've known me for less than a week, jiyong." you said from his passenger's seat. his gaze left your apartment building a block down and returned to you, shrugging his shoulders. "i mean, sure—yeah." he concurred, wiping the sweat off his forehead. the mechanic still didn't fix his ac right. "but i'd say i've known you long enough to know that i want you." he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, because it was. why waste time, especially when you know the other person feels the same? warmth mounted your cheeks, averting your gaze to the center console. "can i think about it?" you asked. jiyong grinned, eyes momentarily watching your fingers glide against the leather lining of the console, avoiding the urge to hold your hand by tapping his own against the steering wheel. "yeah," he responded gently. "but i already kinda know what the answer is." "no you don't." you tried to quip, your quiet voice a giveaway. "did you not say yes to getting ice cream tomorrow? at the pier? maybe i misheard—" "—you didn't, ji."

he smiled. "good. thats good." he spoke softly. he faced you, eyes fluttering down before taking your hand in his. he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss. he turned to your palm, mouth molding against the clammy skin before making his way down to your wrist. his eyes opened when your nerves acted before you could think, wordlessly calling him over to you when your palm now rested against his cheek. jiyong moved without an iota of hesitation, leaning over the center console. his eyes looked into yours with a look of can i?, voice unexpectedly barely moving a morsel above a whisper. "can i kiss—" "—yes. come here." he didn't need to be told twice, closing that gap damn near immediately. your hands held his face when he tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss. his lips felt soft albeit somewhat chapped, molding against your lips in a way that made a shaky breath exit your nostrils; his hand trailing up your thigh.

"jesus—fuck." you were startled by someone lugging their garbage into the dumpster a few feet away from the car, a hand coming up to your chest as jiyong cursed under his breath. he looked over your shoulder, eyes narrowing at the unsuspecting stranger. his attention returned to you upon feeling your fingers toy with the collar of his graphic tee. jiyong leaned in, the chaste kiss sweet. "my answer's yes." you muttered against his lips. "that's news to no one, baby." his hand rested atop your thigh, thumb tracing your plush skin. "at least act surprised," you tutted, holding his face in your hands, amused at his lips being half-puckered; clearly expecting another kiss. "i have a reputation to uphold." he smiled, not hiding his chuckle, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "what—for who?" you tried to come up with something witty, but each passing second prevented anything from landing correctly. you shrugged your shoulders, playfully defeated. "i can't lie to you—i've heard them say that in movies, and it always sounded really cool." he erupted into colorful laughter, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you caught him, unable to hold your own giggles back.

nights in your bedroom were spent underneath your duvet; recounting your days to each other in hushed whispers, making plans for future dates after swiping that day's newspaper from the kitchen counter—"'eyes wide shut' is still playing? seunghyun mentioned wanting to see it recently, i think. i think he went the other day." "tom cruise kind of freaks me out. what about 'but i'm a cheerleader,' tomorrow at 7:15? i heard its good fun.", giggling in between sweet kisses, or attempting to stay quiet if things got heated. whether it was you unbuttoning his jeans or his hand slipping past the hem of your underwear, either of your free hands was covering the other's mouth. jiyong's mewls were muffled behind your palm as your fist pumped his hardened cock— incessant ruffling of his briefs against your hand hidden behind the innocent creak of the bed when you turned onto your back to spread your thighs further, giving his thumb enough leverage to nurse your clit. his body followed your movements without hesitation, laying on his side, bottom lip caught between his teeth at how your t-shirt bunched up in the space between the bottom of your back and the top of your ass—breathing heavily into your palm.

it was easy to tuck him underneath your shirt when he made love to those perky nipples, relishing in the sound of your sharp breath after the chill of his watch band pressed against the warm, bouncy skin of your right breast, his tongue tending to the left. his ministrations were experienced, but how his hand trailed up and down your side, squeezing and rubbing your hip dotingly felt personal. or the way he hummed to himself in satisfaction from time to time, muttering whispers of "one and only," and "how can you be so fucking hot." he didn't give a fuck that his lips were begging for some vaseline, or that his jaw was feeling increasingly tighter—your breathy "jiyong, baby . . ." was all he needed to hear to keep going. even better if you arched your back, squishing his nose against your chest whilst his re-adjusting his posture stretches out the shirt you slept in. he moved to your right breast, encircling your areola before capturing it between his lips. he moved to lay atop you, waist between your thighs.

you felt his bulge against you. "you know whats f-f—mmph!—funny?" you whispered. "hm?" jiyong hummed. "you're in the perfect p-position t-to—s-shit—to f-fuck me if you wanted to." "don't put that idea into my head," jiyong whispered quickly, popping sotly off of your nipple. "you don't know how long i've been thinking about that." "there's no way we'd stay quiet enough, s-so forget 'b-bout it—least for now—shit!" your hand shot up, covering your mouth as the warmth of his tongue made your eyes roll back. "s-show me." it was hard to clarify with how scattered your mind was at the moment. "p-pretend to—i can feel you—j-ji, baby." you cut yourself off, thinking it was useless to try to compose yourself; thoughts coming out fragmented. he got the message, though—practically shoving of his cock caged in his briefs against your clothed pussy, moving his hips against yours. you let out a small gasp, back arching. jiyong collided his hips harshly with yours, feeling your thighs jiggle and a sound of surprise from your lips. "damn! go slow!" you exclaimed in a whisper, amused smile evident in your tone.

he did it again, eliciting a peculiar small grunt from his forcibly-muted efforts, amusing you further. "i get you that hot and bothered, huh?" "you have no fucking i-idea—f-fuck." he came to a halt, catching his breath, feeling how desperate his dick was between his fucking temples. "if you act up like this," you said. "then there's no way we can fuck here." "no—i'll behave myself." he hurriedly assured, making you grin. "i'll behave, baby. i will. holy fuck—its hot under here." jiyong carefully slid out from underneath your shirt, gradually standing on his knees on the bed. he let out a breath, wiping his cheeks and forehead with the back of his hand. "like i was saying," he let out a breath. "i'll behave—" "you're ridiculous." you cut him off. jiyong looked down at you, seeing you propped up on your elbows. "what?" "since when did you rival fedex?" "what?" he repeated, confused—until he followed your gaze; so hard, and with how the fabric of his briefs looked, it was as if his dick doubled in size.

he bit at corner of his bottom lip, hands on his hips. "i mean—" he began. "you asked me to show you, so here you go." you tsked, raising your leg, nudging his shoulder with the ball of your right foot. he caught your ankle, pressing a kiss before letting your leg go. you propped your feet against the bed, knees together in the air. "nah—open 'em." he tutted softly. "gonna have a taste before i leave. make you feel real fuckin' good." and he fucking did—face sunken into your cunt, his tongue going back and forth between nursing your clit and hole; hands atop your thighs, holding them in place. he heard your whimpers, as muffled as they were, even through the erratic meshing of your plush skin against his ears. your other hand sunk into his hair before having to use both to cover your mouth once that knot began to form in your abdomen. "j-jiyong!" your ghost of a whisper penetrated his senses. his response manifested in one arm slung over your stomach, his other hand trailing past your stretch marks, reaching for the closest breast and kneading it in his palm; humming in content against your slick pussy.

you and jiyong lived in your own world those first few months. neither of your respective friends knew—not because it was hidden on purpose or anything, but jiyong was too busy running red lights to come see you, and you were occupied with thinking of a slick way to end a phone call after hearing the pager beep in your nightside table drawer. though there wasn't verbal confirmation until later, there were definite signs: a particularly blunt friend pointing something out when you got to lunch ten minutes late ("there's something different about you, but i can't place it—" "—she smells like sex. also has the glow." "hey! no i don't!"); jiyong thinking his bucket hat would deter attention from the mostly-faded-but-still-noticeable hickey on his neck, only for seunghyun to point it out the moment he got in his car to head to the mall ("that goofy hat isn't doing shit." "she calls me that, too." "it takes nothing to get everything out of you, ji."); when you were too quick to leave a night out, saying you'd take public transit home, ultimately leading you to be cornered by the same friend, strategically pulled you into her car away from the others ("be for real. are you seeing someone?" "we're still—" "—okay, so you are. who is it? don't tell me its that co-worker that ate the—what was it? expired tuna? willingly?" "i'm offended that you think i would ever consider that. we met at a party, anyway—" "jiyong!? oh my god! oh my god!" "how did you—" "—i saw you two on that swing, but i didn't think—oh my god! tell me everything!" "only if you let me get a fucking word in—holy shit!"); to jiyong straight up telling seunghyun "i can't tonight, man. m'seeing my girl." to which his best friend responded "she rang me up the other day at the market, but i don't think she knew who i was. you need to fix that."

things took a turn the night your parents were out at a co-worker's wedding. they left at eight, not expected to be back until well past midnight. jiyong was in your bedroom no later than 8:10, shoes kicked off, hand comfortably behind his head, slumped against the pillow next to yours in bed. perhaps it was the fact you two were truly alone for the first time with your parents gone and window closed—for once not at the ready to dash out if footsteps erupted down the hall—that the conversation trickled elsewhere. something about these last few months was just something different for jiyong . . . he felt connected. safe. most importantly, trusted. you felt cared for, desired, and seen. it showed in those lingering stares; the air just feeling right whenever you two are together; his hand ghosting past yours before working up the courage to hold it in a way that always granted him that shy grin of yours; your cheeks brushing against one another's when you're looking at the same thing . . . the list was endless. something just—it just clicked. the question of are we moving too quickly? pestered at the back of either of your minds . . . but one look, and the puzzle was completed. the answer clear. any doubts eradicated.

trust was in bloom, and so was his willingness to be vulnerable. when it occurred, you shut the fuck up, putting your own shock aside: "my parents have never been the type—nah." jiyong chuckled. it was after some anecdote you brought up from middle school about parent-teacher conferences—specifically how you were outed for having a failing grade in chemistry. "my mom went to those things, but my dad—its like you'd have to drag him there. he was always busy, or some shit." you hummed, reaching over and softly grazing your finger against his forehead, fixing a fallen strand. it wasn't intended, but jiyong took the gentle gesture as a means of saying you can tell me anything. his eyes flickered to the linen before fully turning onto his side, directly facing you. he avoided the stirring turmoil in his chest, bringing his pointer finger to your bottom lip, pulling it down and letting go; chuckling at the small plop it made against your top lip, endeared by your playful scoff.

"listen, uh—" he began. "i know people—people talk. about my . . . about my family, or whatever. about my dad, specifically." he rubbed his eye, avoiding looking at you. "he does work, uh . . . he does work—he works underground—" "—jiyong, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." you told him, seeing the strain on his face. "no," he shook his head. "i want to. i mean—if i can find the fucking words." he let out a curt chuckle, frustrated with himself. he took a breath, still not looking at your eyes, but the bottom hem of your shirt. "i guess i—" he huffed. "i guess i always kinda knew something was different. like, my 'uncles' weren't my uncles. well, two of them are. but most aren't." you listened carefully, cheek rubbing against the pillowcase when you nodded. "it was a feeling, i guess? and then in sixth grade it was like . . . my frontal lobe developed. that's real fucking early, i know, but i don't know how else to describe it. everything just—it just made sense."

jiyong finally looked up. your expression was unreadable, but you didn't look scared. or intimidated. so that was a good sign. "i'm just jiyong." he spoke softly. he wasn't sure why he said that but something in him compelled him to do so. his hair ruffled against the pillow, subtly shaking his head. "i don't do any of that. i'm set straight—normal." for the most part, his inner monologue voiced. you scooted closer, the tip of your nose brushing against his. your brought your hand up, pad of your thumb tracing his stubble. he watched you with a glint in his eyes; entranced. "no one's interrogating you." you whispered, a smile stretching your mouth, seeing him visibly relax. he let out a long breath, forehead falling onto yours, eyes fluttering closed. "and you are just jiyong." you told him, hand reaching behind him, coaxing tenderly up and down his back. "well, my jiyong. specifically speaking." "you got that right." he kissed your cheek, nestling into your chest, arms slung around your waist. you held him without hesitation, quickly combing his hair back with your fingers as it tickled your chin. jiyong closed his eyes, letting something else slip out: "you make my life feel normal." he muttered, hidden in your warmth. "you make my life a lot more interesting." you told him, the vibrations of your chuckle making him hold you tighter.

a couple hours later, he was out of your bed, stood in front of your rotating fan perched beside your dresser. "you'd think it wouldn't be still hot as shit in damn near october." jiyong muttered, quickly leaning down once the fan turned him way, flushed cheeks momentarily relieved. "i know." you concurred, left in nothing but a shirt and underwear; laid on your side in bed, head propped up by your hand. jiyong huffed when the fan turned away, tugging at the collar of his shirt and pulling it over his head, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the fabric. you quickly looked away when he turned around, sitting on the edge of the bed. the unintended brewing silence caught his attention, turning his head to look at you. "this is the longest you've gone without talking since we started dating." "shut up, ji." he grinned, leaning down, bringing his lips to yours.

"you've seen me like this before. why so shy now, hm?" he murmured against your mouth; the kiss slow, deliberate. "s'cause you're fine." you mumbled. "s'my line, baby." you stopped the kiss, lips hovering above his. "you're so cheesy sometimes that it hurts, jiyong." he laughed against your mouth. "but you like it. i know you do." he said between kisses. his hand reached your hip, sliding down your thigh until his fingers tried to nestle between them. you opened your thighs enough to let his hand in, closing them around his wrist. he cupped and palmed your clothed pussy as best he could, kissing you a bit harder. "i know my girl likes it when i'm half fucking naked." he whispered. his eyes opened when the kiss ceased, feeling your quiet breaths brush against his mouth. you perched your left foot atop the bed, effectively separating your thighs, allowing jiyong to feel your puffy lips underneath the fabric of your underwear. "look at her. so good f'me, so ready." he praised, glancing down as his hand tucked into the hem, sinking his middle finger between your puffy lips. he moved it side to side, watching you as a small gasp left your mouth. you adjusted your hips—to your fortune, the move aligned the pad of his finger to your clit, making you shudder, fighting rolling your eyes back by squeezing them shut.

aimlessly, your hand pawed at his bare chest. "j-ji—kiss me." he leaned in, the side of his nose aligning with yours. "don't ever need to ask," he murmured. "jus' do it." he kissed you repeatedly, going slower when you moaned into his mouth; it was the way you liked it—purposeful and fucking sensual. you both were present and so fucking crazy for each other that it could suffocate any room . . . and it was beginning to be your own. "both of your lips are so soft against my mouth, baby," he muttered atop your mouth, adding his tongue to the mix. "y'know i have dreams of eating that pussy, right? can't get enough of it—" "—j-jiyong!" you gasped, holding onto the back of his neck when the pad of his finger fastened its speed. "should i do it now? hm? should i eat this sweet pussy—make love to your fucking clit before i fuck it? yeah?" that latter was his usual dirty talk that got you the fuck going, putting the idea into your head before giving you brain that had yours malfunctioning. it felt so risky with your parents down the hall, so you never did it until—wait.

"j-ji—jiyong. stop—wait." you reached down, fingers wrapping around his wrist. he halted his ministrations, looking at you. "c-can't—can't think." you breathed heavily. "what's up? everything okay?" he asked, lips finding your temple. his finger left its spot between your puffy lips, palm resting against you. "do you—" your mind was scrambled. "do you have a condom? i want you. tonight." there was a small gap between his lips—until it clicked in his head. "right. right—" he nodded, reaching into his pocket and opening his wallet. if he thought he was flustered before, his cheeks were on fire now. the one fucking time—his inner monologue cursed. "shit—i don't have any." "go get some." "one step ahead of you." his hand slipped out of your underwear, sucking briefly on his middle finger before grabbing his shirt from the floor, shoving his feet into his shoes. "won't be longer than ten fucking minutes. i swear." he told you, leaning down and kissing your lips. "just—just stay horny." jiyong said a little awkwardly before climbing out the window. his own libido clouded his senses, dizzying his temples as he descended down the stairs and climbed down the short ladder. "will do." you muttered to yourself, chuckling.

your bed creaked as loud and incessantly as either you or jiyong willed it to. once he was in and you were adjusted ("how's it feel, baby? feel okay?" "y-yeah. just—just hold me, ji."), he fucked you right and good. you felt like everything he dreamed of and more—all those nights he lulled himself to sleep tracing the linen back and forth with his palm, imagining it was your hips; balling the fabric in his fist as he showed himself no mercy with the other, dreaming of what you might sound like around him. "f-feel good with me, baby. c-c'mon." he'd whisper to himself in the confines of his bedroom—panting it next to your ear whilst his hips rammed into yours. you felt as if you achieved your final form: arms above your head in bliss, shirt pushed up to your neck whilst your tits bounced intermittently, your fine ass man between your legs; fucking you with such tenderness coupled with carnal desire, stretching you out in a way you didn't know you needed or was possible, quite frankly. jiyong took his time to memorize your body: all the divots and crevices poetically curated by your cellulite, the uneven lines of your stretch marks, how the rolls adorning your hips jiggled differently than those on your stomach. his hips stuttered, vulnerable moan escaping his lungs when your thighs wrapped around his waist as best you could in your horned-out haze, pleading "more, jiyongie—m-more. want it harder," so beautifully. he leaned down, both of your heavy breaths meshing together as he adjusted his balance on his knees, rutting into you harder than before. all mine, he thought to himself, eyebrows curling upward at the sound of your indescribable moan, how fucking lucky am i?

the only problem was once you started . . . you couldn't stop. this newly-emerged can of worms was barely contained when your parents were once again just down the hall—but ambition was nothing without strategy. you two mapped out the least-noisy parts of your bed and acted accordingly: if jiyong's behind you, he's on his feet whilst your elbows propped you up on your bedside, your feet on the carpeted floors as his pelvis pounded your globes (nearly popping a vein trying to keep quiet in the process); if you were on top, strangely enough the top middle of your bed worked well, but jiyong couldn't change how he sat once he settled; or the one time you fucked on the floor because you really wanted to try the position whilst laid on your sides, but the bed would be too nosy. you swore to never do it again after waking up with a migraine and stuffy nose from the air conditioning blowing directly onto your head.

at some point, you couldn't take it anymore. it was after the thanksgiving holiday—the early hours of black friday, to be specific. whilst your friends were hitting the mall, jiyong was hitting it from the back. he drowned himself in your duvet trying to keep his whimpers at bay, your own palm suffering under the pressure of your mouth. when you finished, he kept his balance by gripping your left globe, squeezing it to thwart the urge to smack it silly. drool threatened to leak out the corner of his mouth, swiping it with the back of his other hand before pulling the condom off. a thin string connected your palm and your mouth, that same hand going into his hair without thinking upon feeling his lips against your cheek. "i love you so much." he whispered, hand tenderly rubbing your hip. "l-love you too. can't keep—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "can't keep being quiet. s'too hard." "i know. i feel the same." "help me—help me stand up, jiyongie." "i got you. c'mere, baby."

you were on the brink two weeks later. swiveling your hips, his hands holding your waist and lower back in place, swallowing his mewls and whimpers with your connected lips. jiyong was so needy—cut fingernails clawing at your bare back, faint whispers of "keep fucking me. keep f-fucking me just like that—hngh!" against your mouth, hastily re-connecting the kiss to muffle his verbose libido. he was more whiny than usual that night—this being the first time you've seen each other in a while from misaligned free time and abrupt family plans. it showed. "oh f-fuck yeah, baby—" his whisper was so faint and high he sounded as if he was depleted of oxygen. the way his face was scrunched up—mouth hung open, eyes shut, eyebrows knit deeply together—didn't help. "k-keep fucking me—keep fucking jiyongie just like that. y-yeah! fuck—" your mixed slick combined with the lubricated condom made his dick slip out of you a few times, permitting a breather, but not for long. your knees burned and you felt dizzy, but his cock was fucking addicting. it was all for you and no one fucking else's. his pathetic fucking whines merely scratched the surface of attesting to that—how about him chanting your name like a goddamn prayer? catching him grinding into the duvet when he's eating you out? begging for mercy with that fucking quiver, only to stutter a million thank yous once that euphoric wave hits? it was endless. he was yours. you'd take that tylenol and hydrate later—for now, it was just you and him. no one else existed in your shared world.

your gummy walls clenched around him, sending him into an untamable orbit. "a-agh!" he whined aloud, sucking in a breath with your hand covered his mouth with haste, his eyes widening. "you better stop moaning like a bitch." you whispered. his eyes were misty, subconsciously mourning the temporary loss of movement. "i c-can't help it, baby," he shook his head, shaking off your palm. "y-you feel so fucking good. m'so fucking turned on right now—you have no idea, holy s-shit." both of his arms wrapped around your waist, pressing kisses onto your bare chest. "i'll be good. i'll—i'll behave, baby." he whispered, looking up at you. his hand grabbed your right breast, eyes watching yours with a glint. "i'll be your good boy—your good jiyongie. look, i'll do this to keep quiet." his tongue encircled your nipple before taking it between his lips, lapping the peak repeatedly.

it was an effective method, considering when you started moving again, all that could be heard was the moderate, non-suspicious tinkering of your metal bed frame—but now your self-control was withering away. your fingers entangled in his hair, vibrations of his moans molding into your plush skin . . . you couldn't help yourself: "f-fuck!" you gasped, hand aimlessly grabbing onto the wall in front of you, nails scratching against the chipped paint. jiyong sucked diligently as if nothing happened. you attempted to squish this shit like a bug, needing your boyfriend to wake the fuck up: "cut that shit out, ji—ha-a!" you sucked in a breath. "i can't k-keep quiet." "if i don't have this, i'm going to wake up the entire neighborhood." he muttered. "not before we wake my fucking parents!" you whisper-yelled. you nudged the side of his head with a tsk, your nipple slipping out of his mouth with you leaned to your left, grabbing your shirt. "oh hell no—" jiyong realized what was happening, you cutting him off: "shut up." you tutted, putting your shirt on. "thats what you get."

you held either side of his face, kissing his lips sweetly. "i love it when you're like this." you felt him hum. "all desperate." "i know," jiyong answered, kissing you back. "you ride my shit into the sunset whenever i do." he chuckled when you turned away, clearly flustered. "come back here." he murmured gently, lips decorating your supple cheek. "but m'being honest. this is how you make me. s'fucking hard keeping quiet, baby." "i can't keep doing this, jiyong." you shook your head. "i'm going crazy." "i know, pretty girl, i know." he nodded, palms rubbing up and down your thighs. "my place isn't really an option, either." he shook his head, seeing you nod. you talked about this before. "always busy with some shit. but i'm gonna get us a room—its about time. so we can be loud as we want to, yeah? fuck good and hard?" "y-yes." you let out a shaky breath, slowly beginning to move your hips. "needed it, like, yesterday." "i'll book it first thing tomorrow." he whispered, bottom lip choked between his teeth. "just finish us off, baby," his voice was already an octave higher. "no one does it like you—ha-a—a—oh f-fuck!"

it was an interesting feeling, knowing you were going somewhere just to fuck your boyfriend. those car rides were either humorously quiet or overly conversational—the little white lies you told your parents at the back of your mind as you filed into jiyong's passenger's seat after your shift ended: "i'll be late tonight. its someone's birthday," "i'm picking up another shift," or his personal favorite "the girls and i are having a sleepover." ("am i one of the girls?" "in your dreams.") he swiped his card at the hotel receptionist's desk without a second thought; clothes on the floor and bed creaking less than an hour later. the nearby 24 hour mart was the go-to for condom and snack runs, or the neighboring strip mall where you went for dinner ("do you want to go re-fuel?" "'re-fuel' is crazy, jiyong.") or he'd pick up an order—styrofoam take-out containers sprawled out in bed, eating your burgers and curly fries with nothing but the thin hotel quilt atop either of you, talking about whatever as the local weatherman played on the box television.

"keep moving like that! holy shit! holy shit!" he cried out one night, fucking up into you as you slammed down onto him. his hands went back and forth between gripping the side of your thighs to smacking either of your plush globes; or laying his palms on your thighs, looking down as he both watched and felt them shake with each unrelenting thrust. "i love feeling this fucking j-jiggle," he sucked in a breath. "and gripping this shit." his hands squeezed your ass before kneading to your love handles, looking up at you upon hearing you moan. "have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are," his breathing was jagged, sweat perspiring across his forehead. "the fuck do y-you—hngh!—t-the fuck do you mean no one's ever wanted you this bad? huh? felt like i needed to start a prayer service when i met you, baby—f-fuck! oh my god—ha-a—a!" he whimpered, hips stuttering to a sudden halt after you clenched around him. you let out a breath, adjusting your knees, hands letting go of the headboard to opt for your arms wrapping around his shoulders. "thats it, thats it." he praised gently. "get comfortable f'me. for your jiyongie—your good jiyongie. there you go, baby." he found his face lost in your neck when he started moving again; fingers entangled in his hair, nails scratching against his tattoo. "o—oh! j-jiyong! oh f-fuck, b-baby—" you cut yourself off with a gasp, guttural moan following. you felt so free. "felt like i needed to start a prayer service when i met you, baby—f-fuck! oh fuck—yeah! yeah!" he was close, determined to finish his thought. "felt like i needed to go to church and t-thank g-god herself for bringing me t-to you—f-fuck!"

no part of the room was spared. godspeed to whomever was on the housekeeping shift that saturday morning after the stench you two left in that damn bathroom . . . meant to get in the shower at ten to make the eleven check-out time and also complementary weekend brunch . . . but its not your fault the both of you are fine as fuck! "like that! like that! m-more—more! f-fuck!" your voice bounced off the tiled walls; acoustics of the bathroom drilling your moans into his brain for his next however so many lives—not that he was complaining what-so-fucking-ever. your knee was atop the counter, stomach laying comfortably in the sink as your hands held onto the wall and mirror before you, being fucked delectably from behind. the plop of his heavy balls against you hardly rivaled the sound of the air vent, let alone how loud you were. "o-oh my god, baby! f-fuck—fuck me! fuck me just like that! a-ah!" your walls swallowed and spit him out whole, leaving nothing to the imagination with the condom covered in creamy slick. he was panicking a little, though, because all of his cock was in you. he didn't have anymore, so he just went harder.

it seemed to do the trick. his mouth fell open at the sound of your shaky "oh my fucking god!", glancing at the mirror and seeing an expression on your face that he thought only existed in his fantasies. "f-fuck!" he whimpered. "y-you're f-fucking tight—feels so f-fucking good—a-agh! jiyongie f-feels so good!" referring to himself in third person was a tell-tale sign he was pussy drunk, only making you more hornier, knocking over the hotel hand soap in your effort to fuck him back. damn—is my dick really that good? he wondered to himself, nearly stumbling in trying to regain his balance. it ended in you two making it on time to brunch—but with his t-shirt on inside out and backwards, and droplets of water adorning your hair, along with a sheer streak of body lotion on display whenever your lifted your arm to take a bite of your omelette, of course.

godspeed to whomever was next door, too, like that one time a couple took an overnight pitstop during their road trip. it was downhill for them starting at 11 pm that friday night. you were stroking jiyong's cock as he laid on your chest, his moans muffled by your mouth, but the boyfriend's eyebrows raised nonetheless as he got ready for bed. the girlfriend nudged his shoulder and gestured to the wall when you were getting your pussy ate, moans undeniable as jiyong's tongue made love to your clit, slurping you up like never before. she kept her laughter in, eyes widening humorously at the circumstance. the smile was swiped clean off of her face when jiyong started fucking you—grunts of fighting for power as your ass rammed his pelvis, mewls of pleasure, and whorish moans bleeding through the walls like it was made of paper. the couple stared at the ceiling in complete darkness, not a wink of sleep in sight for either of them. to top it all off, a phone kept ringing. until something went crashing down.

"who keeps—who keeps fuckin' calling—god damn!" they heard him curse when your mobile rang again. "m-must be one of the girls." you were out of breath, the ringtone dramatically deafening. "c-can you—can you get it? take out the battery or something. i can't reach—can't think straight, sick of the phone—hngh!" your thoughts came out fragmented, shutting up once jiyong leaned over to the bedside table; inadvertently shoving his cock deeper inside you. he slid the back off, picking the battery out and shoved everything onto the floor hastily. "thats fucking better—f-fuck!" you pushed into him, feeling him grip your hips and rut into you at breakneck speed. "y-yes! yes!" you cried. the girlfriend was fed up, but not with you: "why don't you fuck me like that?" she asked her boyfriend. "uh—" he stuttered. "she's—she's playing it up. clearly. i mean, who really sounds that dramatic? right?" he was overpowered by the sound of you calling jiyong's name so delicately that anyone could see what was really going on. the girlfriend huffed, turning away from him and onto her side, tugging the duvet. "that's what someone who doesn't know what they're doing would say." she muttered. "good-fucking-night."

its true: jiyong knew you like the back of his hand. no matter how he got on your nerves sometimes (with love, of course.) however, as your five month anniversary went by, and you rang in the start of the 21st century together ("we survived y2k, baby. i think this calls for some celebration." "just finish your cig in peace, ji."), you realized you didn't really . . . know him. like, some of the basics. here's some context—what initially tipped you off was something completely unrelated: a conversation that arose when you were out with friends; out at brunch at a local diner, taking up an entire booth, catching up after some time apart. an anecdote filled your ears: "we went all the way to his mom's for his little brother's birthday," a friend was recounting her previous weekend with her boyfriend; the tinkering of silverware and iced teas decorating the air. "it was fun. the food was so good—i haven't stopped thinking about the baked ziti." a wave of chuckles spread around the booth, including from you. as she went on, your inner monologue took your attention away from your french toast: does jiyong have a sibling? i think he mentioned having an older sister before . . . but where does he live? oh my god—where does he live?

you grabbed your glass of water, taking a sip, mentally going down the rabbit hole. does his mom live with him? are his parents divorced? i mean, with his dad's work, its highly unlikely . . . but still—what's his family like? holy shit, i don't even know his favorite fucking movie. now the standing question is was this a product of your own actions, or was he just secretive to the point it all fell under the radar? it felt complex and confusing, and also as if the universe was targeting you directly. the next thing cemented it: the mention of your name from someone in the group took you out of your head. "hm? what's up?" you muttered. "does jiyong have any hobbies?" you have got to be kidding me. you thought to yourself, out of everything i could've been asked. and i don't even fucking know. the look on her face was almost knowing, but in a different way. the subtle snarkiness ruminated in some of your friends since you told them you and jiyong were dating—a product of not having the gall to ask you about his family directly, you've figured. "he does," you quickly said, nodding. "he likes making mixtapes—" "has he made you one?" "yeah, he has. a couple, actually." you nodded again. now lay off; and she did.

not only was jiyong the type to know what he wanted, but he knew when something was up. a lifetime in a household riddled with conflict will do that to you. he doted on your cheek with sweet kisses, remnants of your shared desire sporadically sprinkled throughout the hotel room the following weekend. his arms were wrapped around your naked body, bringing you closer to his own whilst he lowly hummed in content—but you weren't paying attention, and deliberately so. your eyes remained glue to the uninteresting re-run playing on the late night television channel. jiyong was losing his patience, but kept himself leveled: "is something on your mind, baby?" he asked gently. "no." you responded curtly. he pursed his lips, "your pout says different." you let out a huff, defeated, turning your head towards him. a moment passed before you spoke: "i don't know you." you blurted. immediately confused, jiyong's eyebrows furrowed. "what?" "i mean—" you shook your head, "let me explain." you turned to face him fully. "the other day, i was out with my friends. one of them talked about, like, going to her boyfriend's mom's house for a birthday party, and i just thought about how i didn't even know where you live. like, what part of the city, or something." you thought aloud.

your effort to find your words subconsciously led you to sit up in bed, hand out as if you were rifling through the metaphorical word bank. "like, i don't even know what your favorite movie is, ji." you shook your head. "the godfather." he joked, shit-eating grin on his face; head propped against his palm, elbow on his pillow. "this is what i fucking mean!" you exclaimed, gesturing towards him. "be for real, jiyong. now's not the time." "okay, okay. i'm sorry," he apologized, sitting up himself. "i'm not really one for movies." he said. "i'm more into tv—like twin peaks. i really like that show." you looked at him. your subtle pout made you look kissable to the level of a federal offense. "what's your favorite ice cream flavor?" "easy: rocky road." answered jiyong. he looked at you for the next question, but it didn't feel satisfactory. nothing did. your face sunk into your palms. "i don't even know where you live, jiyong." you repeated, albeit with an added sense of self-pity. "that's, like, the first thing someone knows about their significant other. i said 'i love you' before i even knew whether you live on a fucking cul-de-sac, or some shit."

his chest felt heavy. he knew you were right. perhaps his efforts of protecting you from the mess of his life backfired. he didn't feel the need to be retaliatory or on the offense, but instead owned up to it. "i'm sorry." he muttered. "no, jiyong. don't apologize," you shook your head. "that's not what i—you know what . . . i don't even know what i meant. just—just forget it." "no, don't do that." he tsked, shaking his head. "that's the last thing we should do right now. c'mere, baby." he scooted closer to you, wrapping his arm around you, bringing your head to his shoulder. "i'm not the best at being open." he murmured, only for your ears to hear. "but i'm going to try my best to change that—for you. you hear me?" he kissed your temple. "its the least i could fuckin' do." he thought aloud. a long breath left his lungs, eyes fluttering closed, letting himself feel the uncomfortable emotions stirring in his chest. "how about i bring you around tomorrow before i drop you home?" he spoke into your supple skin, pressing a kiss. "my parents won't be home, so it won't be a lot at once. but it'll be a start. how's that sound, baby?" "okay. as long as you're good with it." you said. "i'm more than good with it." he assured with a nod. "you're the person i trust the most, y'know."

his family's house was beautiful. lived in, personal, and not intimidating whatsoever—in fact, it was normal. luxurious, yes, but normal. he lived in a gated community lined with homes with price tags you could only imagine, parking his car on the driveway made with any regular asphalt (you felt asinine for being compelled by such a small detail, but couldn't blame yourself either). the few granite steps leading to the front door were lined with potted flowers in bloom on either end. you had hardly any time to take in just how fucking wide the door was, because before you knew it, paws were pitter-pattering on the floor, followed by a handful of barks. "this is rodney." jiyong bent down after taking his shoes off, scratching behind the beagle's ears. "we got him for my older sister when she turned sixteen. i didn't name him that nerdy shit—she did."

jiyong then gave a tour: the wall of family photos that lined the left side of the hallway leading to the kitchen—the frames aged yet elegant (the portraits weren't giving jcpenney but a friend of a friend of a friend who knows an exclusive french photographer, and mixed in effortlessly with developed photos from disposable cameras and polaroids from family reunions); a descriptive yet comedic detailing of the food in the fridge after you mentally got over how spacious the kitchen island is ("this sliced meat right here—my dad's gone to the same butcher since he was a kid. oh, and this tupperware—my mom's bulgogi marinade is top tier." "i can't wait to try it one day, ji." "you will, baby. you will."); peeking out the windows on the lited doors serving as an entryway into the backyard, staring at the pool before harkening your attention back to him standing in the living room, the couch and nintendo 64 between you two ("me, and this couch. like this—" he crossed his fingers. "every thursday at nine for twin peaks." "no wonder you disappear." "prior obligations, baby."); to finally his bedroom, with rodney filing in and settling into his duvet whilst showed you his cds ("wu-tang clan changed my life." "can i borrow it to listen to it sometime?" "its like you want me to drop everything and propose right now." "its never ending with you, jiyong.")

when rodney decided he was over it, he jumped down and left the room, allotting the bed to you and jiyong. some time later, you laid comfortably atop the duvet, fingers entangled in jiyong's hair as your lips molded against his, his palms tenderly rubbing up and down your side. from time to time, you grew flustered, breaking the kiss and turning away, beckoned back to him upon his lips trailing from your cheek to the corner of your mouth. when it happened for the third time, a smile stretched his mouth. "hey," his breath was hot against your cheek, deepening your sheepish state. "come back here. stop doing that, baby." he purposefully elongated the last syllable, kissing your supple skin slowly. "don't get all shy on me." "i don't know," you muttered. "sneaking over to my boyfriend's house . . . making out with him in his bedroom . . . getting all shy like this. its like i'm finally experiencing what everyone else did when they were sixteen." you looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "does that sound stupid?" "not at all," jiyong shook his head, admiration apparent in his eyes. "you're so fucking cute that it pisses me off sometimes." he laughed at your scoff and eye roll, leaning closer when you nudged him away. "like, i get to be your baby. can you believe that?" "you're always on the brink of being my enemy." "that's hot." "jesus—its never ending!"

slowly ushering you into his life began to mend some things. he pushed aside those movie dates where you sat at the back of the theater, lips together like there was some sort of magnetic force; the gelato café where you've tried every flavor twice and repeatedly beat him at chess on the set out for customers; you two fighting the glitchy atm as he tries to deposit money to pay the overpriced rental rates for pattleboats at a nearby waterfront ("its like the universe doesn't want me to ride the dragon paddleboat." "you sound more like me everyday, ji.") for a restaurant his family has frequented since he was a kid. it was lavish and elegant—yet a sense of community was palpable. jiyong greeted the hostess like he's known her his entire life (because he has), cooly pulling out your chair out for you before settling in himself. he had a pristine suit on coupled with the watch he met you in, wearing them both with ease like a second skin of sorts, ordering the chicken parm for the both of you ("its the best dish and also ginormous") and a wine you were pretty sure had three digits after the dollar sign on the menu.

as out-of-body of an experience this was, you felt you blended in somewhat. it was all in your outfit: a long sleeve red dress that draped just above your knees, complemented by black tights, pearl earrings jiyong gifted you for christmas, and a coat to protect from the bitter winter cold outside. jiyong could tell you were uneasy at first, eyes lingering on you whilst the waiter poured water into your glasses, seeing you try to hide your pensive expression with a grin. "c'mere," he called softly, arm draped on the back of your chair. "see that lady over there? the one with the blue silk top?" "mhm." "has some of the worst french tips you've ever seen. she used to babysit me when i was a kid—shit was in my nightmares." "what a way to reach consciousness." you giggled, making him smile. "i know, right?" he concurred, looking around. "oh—that guy over there, by the plant," he pointed to the right. "he was caught with his twenty-one year old secretary. his wife took the kids—think they're about my age now—he went to turkey and got a hair transplant." he wanted for it to be in view. "move your head, motherfucker." jiyong muttered, glancing at you when you nudged his shoulder. "jiyong!" you chuckled. "what? i wanna show you—look! now!" he whispered. you were taken aback. "i'll be for real with you: i would've never guessed." his commentary was disarming and helped you relax; the kiss he planted on your cheek helping his case.

you felt the fleeting glances from others in the restaurant throughout the night. everyone really knows each other, you thought to yourself as you cut into the chicken parm. however, it wasn't attached to a flare of vitriol or scoping-out-the-fresh-meat, like your one friend would suggest if she knew where you were tonight, but with an air of curiosity and gentle would you look at that? before returning to their business. many, if not all of your fellow diners, were older and had known jiyong his entire life. it was tight-knit, exclusive—further illustrated by the aunties that came up to your table when you finished your meal and were waiting on dessert, doting on him with "you've grown up so well," and smiles brightening even more so upon seeing you. what topped it all off was when an elderly man greeted jiyong at your table in the midst of sharing a small plate of flan, followed by his wife and two younger children—all dressed to the nines. jiyong shot up from his seat, extending his hand, only to be pulled into a hug. you quickly figured this was one of his uncles, standing to your feet after jiyong said your name: "this is my girlfriend," you walked around the table, smiling politely. after making introductory small talk, you returned to your seat, not seeing the uncle grab jiyong's elbow: "you look married." he muttered, making jiyong chuckle, nodding.

"blood-related?" you asked him a moment or two later, glancing at the family being seated on the opposite end of the room. "take a guess." said jiyong, wiping the caramel drizzle from the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "hm. . ." you thought aloud. you genuinely considered it: they shared a similar cadence and held their postures akin to looking into mirrors, but something in you said it was otherwise. "i'm gonna say no." you looked at him, hearing his spoon tinker against the porcelain plate. you shrugged your shoulders, "intuition, i guess." jiyong swallowed his bite of flan, smiling afterward. "what?" you questioned. "did i get it right?" jiyong nodded. "you did, yeah. he's my dad's oldest business partner. used to take me on fishing trips—it was him that shocked me the most when i put the pieces together, y'know?" "mhm. i see, i see." you nodded. you scooped some flan in your spoon, slipping it into your mouth. you sat back on your chair, letting out a breath as your arms crossed over your chest. jiyong couldn't help his grin—you looked like a natural. "you're gonna fit in well here." he told you. "i barely know what i'm doing." you said. "well," he countered. "there's nothing to know. i'm just . . . . me. you just need to be you."

you grabbed your wine glass, stirring it with a subtle rotation of the stem held by your fingers. "i told my parents about us." said jiyong. "you did?" you asked, eyebrows furrowed, taking another sip. jiyong nodded, "i told my mom, like, two weeks after we met. she was so excited." he tried to act cool about it, but you saw through the sudden avoidant eye contact and nervous chuckle; amused grin on your face. "how about your dad?" you set your glass down. "he found out through her." explained jiyong, seeing you nod. "then—then he tried to ask me about you like he didn't know. he's not that good at being subtle." he shook his head, smile stretching his mouth hearing your laughter. his family sounded sweet and admirable, a stark contrast from their perceived reputation. a product of being multi-faceted and cunning, you figured, but you found it endearing nonetheless. "would you—" jiyong cleared his throat. you knew what was coming. "would you ever tell your parents about me?" "absolutely," you answered without hesitation. "they might, y'know, stop drop and roll to the hospital. but they're just going to have to suck it the fuck up, quite frankly."

jiyong smiled so big that his eyes kissed in the corners. "that's right." he chuckled, nodding. "would they be more calm if there was a diamond on your ring finger?" you gave him a look, eyes narrowing a little. "i think that might induce cardiac arrest, but not before it does me—because i know you're not about to get down on one knee right now." "i'm not!" he smiled, shaking his head. "i promise, i'm not! well, not yet—" "—jiyong." "its just an idea!" he defended. "to think about!" you tsked, unable to hide your grin, watching as he took the checkbook from the waiter. "yeah, okay," you nodded. "think about it, silently, to yourself as you pay the bill." "mhm, mhm." he nodded, biting his bottom lip; utmost failure of keeping his smile at bay, placing his card into the book and handing it back to the waiter. "you don't see us doing that, though?" he wondered aloud. "if i say yes, you can't use it against me and make me all flustered and shit." "i can't promise you that." "well, then i guess you'll never know." jiyong smiled knowingly. "think i got my answer, baby."

as the good fluttered in, so did the bad. things got real rather quickly—in every meaning of the word. it wasn't that you were naive and expected some adrenaline-pumping life with jiyong. he was normal, and just a person whom was born into circumstances out of his control. he felt so lucky to have found someone so generous and grounding, accepting of his family without materialistic expectations or with a looming hunger for intel. you wanted him for him; the good, but also the ugly—no matter how visceral it may be. living a life of nuance wasn't a culture shock. everyone experienced it in their own respective lives, whether it was what you perused for at the grocery store, how you were raised, the car you drove, your personal quirks, your defining experiences; the list was endless. jiyong's just happened to be the talk of the city, and on full public display when he was pushed to the edge. so when he showed up to your window on a late thursday night, knocking softly and one when your bedroom door was closed (the rules you established long ago), with small cuts on his face and a bruise forming on his chin, you didn't know what to do.

"h-hey baby," he smiled—an effort to fight his increasingly glossy eyes. "how are—how's it going?" "ji," your voice was quiet, taking the sight of him in. "what . . . what happened?" "uh—" he licked his lips, wiping a fallen tear, seeing it mixed with a droplet of blood leaked from a cut on his eyebrow. its now or never, he thought to himself. "y'know how—y'know how when he first met, i told you sometimes some guys try to give me trouble?" he sniffled. you nodded, "yeah." "well, sometimes," he sucked in a breath. "sometimes i let them." the shame felt atomic. it all happened so quickly . . . out to dinner with his friends . . . having a smoke in the parking lot outside . . . the son of his father's many business partners that's been on the brink of being ousted coming up to him . . . the beef trickling back to jiyong, the eldest and only son of his father's, having to take the heat . . . next thing he knew, he was flooring it to your apartment complex, his face pulsating.

he shook his head. "i didn't have anywhere else to go." he looked at you pleadingly. "its—its—" hard to explain, his inner monologue finished, but he couldn't get the words out. "do you . . . do you have a first aid kit?" his voice fell to a whisper. a moment went by before you responded, everything starting to sink in. "i do have something—" "—t-thank you!" he let out a breath. he grabbed your hands, kissing your inner wrists. "i'm so sorry b-baby. i didn't mean to scare you—i love you so fucking much." he cried. "hey, ji, i need you to breath." you brought him back down to earth, watching him inhale and exhale shakily. "you stay here and out of sight until i get back." you motioned to the brick wall to your left. he's done it before, hiding himself during a close call with your parents early in your relationship. "okay?" "y-yeah." he nodded. "don't—don't take long." "i won't."

you did what you could with the tools at your disposal: a bottle of antiseptic that's been lodged in the bathroom cabinet for years in case it was needed; applying it to his cuts with a cotton round, neosporin that was bought recently after your dad nipped his finger fixing a loose hinge on a kitchen cabinet, and a pack of bandaids that have been there as long as the antiseptic. it wasn't much, but it did the job. jiyong didn't have it in him to hiss at the slight stinging, let alone scrunch his face up in muted discomfort. you two sat in silence, you carefully placing the bandaid on his eyebrow as best you could, your other hand lifting his hair so it wouldn't stick to the adhesive. "do you wanna tell me what happened?" you spoke quietly, fingers fixing his hair. jiyong shook his head. "its fucking embarrassing." a beat went by. "i don't wanna scare you—or something." "you wouldn't. its not embarrassing to tell your girlfriend about something, ji." you told him. he recounted the night as best he could, but didn't lift his head to look at you; falling into mutters when it got to the more sensitive parts. it left you bewildered, but accepting—there wasn't any other choice.

"i'm sorry, jiyong." your hand rubbed his bicep tenderly. "you don't deserve that pressure. no one does." "it can get real fuckin' tough." he nodded, feeling the tears brew again. "like there's no way out sometimes. just gotta suck it up, y'know?" he looked up at you, sniffling. "i know." you whispered. "can i—" he let out a shaky breath. "can i stay here tonight?" "you know that's not possible, ji." you said—your parents down the hall. "i know," he nodded quickly, wiping his cheek. "but i just—i had to ask. how about the hotel? do you wanna go?" "i have work early in the morning." "oh shit—yeah. i forgot. sorry." he muttered. he knew this was coming: he'd have to deal with these emotions himself. he wasn't new to this, but it would've been nice to spend the night with his love. "its okay." you assured, reaching for his hand. "can you—can you hold me? i'm sorry, i don't wanna be a burden—" "—shut up." you cut him off, pulling him into your embrace. he nuzzled his face into your neck nearly immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist, eyes closing at the feel of your hands traveling up his back, settling behind his shoulders. you talked to him in a way that would resonate: "when you're the love of my fucking life, there's no such thing as being a burden." you whispered into his ear. "do you fucking hear me, ji? hm?" "yes." he responded meekly, holding onto you tighter.

your palm smoothened his hair, petting the back of his head like he’d wither away at any second. “i told my parents about us.” “you did?” he expected the worst. “what did … what did they say?” “they brought up your dad,” sounds about right, jiyong thought to himself. “which is surprising, since they usually keep to themselves, so i didn’t expect them to know. but i guess if you don’t talk, you listen.” you thought aloud, hearing and feeling jiyong hum as he listened. he opened his eyes, pondering if he should say what was brewing in his head. i’ve spilled so much tonight, he figured, might as well. “what did you say?” he asked. “i told them they have no idea what they’re talking about,” his eyes fluttered closed, holding you closer. “and left it at that.” he felt his face grow hot. “would they—would they ever wanna meet me?” “funnily enough, my mom asked me this morning before she left for work.” your hand traced up and down his arm. “between you and i,” you grinned. “she looked a little excited at the prospect.” “really?” jiyong lifted his head. “that's—that’s amazing.” a twinkle returned to his eyes. “we can take her to val’s,” the restaurant he took you to, “anything she wants, she gets. i don’t give a fuck how high the bill is.” he shook his head, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. “what about your dad?” “he’ll come around.” you said. you saw his face drop a little. “it’ll take some time, but he’ll come around. i promise.” your hand came up, fingers fixing his hair, though it looked fine; you just wanted to be near him. jiyong nodded, turning his head to kiss your palm before leaning in, bringing his lips to yours. “i don’t know where i’d be without you.” “me neither.”

the next several months were smooth sailing. your first valentine’s was spent at val’s before making the headboard bash into the wall at the hotel—the bouquet of roses jiyong gave you sitting idly next to the gifts you got for one another on the tv stand. come spring, you met his family! not only his immediate, but most of his extended, as well. it called for extensive preparation: “what do i wear?” you asked him from your end of the line, mobile flip phone held between your ear and shoulder as you reached for your go-to cereal. “i don’t know—something casual?” jiyong lugged his laundry bag down the basement stairs. “its a fuckin’ dog’s birthday party. wear anything you want.” he let out a breath, lifting the top of the washer open. “no, jiyong,” you huffed, pouring your cereal into your bowl. “be for real. i’m not showing up in jeans. tell me so i can thrift accordingly.” “thrift? fuck no. i’m taking you to the mall to figure this out. what time’s your shift end?” “two.” you looked at the time on the oven—you had to be out the door in twenty minutes. “great,” you heard jiyong as you chewed. “we’ll be there at two-thirty.”

rodney’s adoption day party was as lively as a graduation or wedding engagement celebration. the love was in the air, specifically an excuse for a huge family to get together and eat good food. jiyong’s mother dashed over to you in her kitten heels before her son could utter a mere syllable, harnessing the most welcoming aura. “you’re more beautiful than i ever could’ve imagined, oh my goodness!” she seemed like the happiest person in the world, holding your face so softly in her hands as if you were god-sent. she took the boxed tiramisu you brought with a look of appreciation, taking your hand in hers, and effectively away from jiyong as she brought you to the festivities in the backyard; much to his chagrin. “how’re you feeling?” jiyong asked when his mother was beckoned away by an in law, hand on your lower back. “a lot of things,” you nodded. “many things—good things. colliding.” he chuckled. “good,” he nodded. “come here, we’ll start with my cousins.”

no one had to tell you his father was the one standing on the opposite end of the poolside, the way he carried himself did the talking. he was conversing with a small group when jiyong brought you over. he was half an inch taller than jiyong, never faltering his posture, even when extending his hand to shake yours. you were so fucking nervous, looking up at him with your best smile and polite greeting. it was like he knew, because what he said next was so disarming it nearly made you dizzy: “i’d usually be a lot less formal with my son’s girlfriend, but i’ve got a reputation to uphold with these guys.” he gestured his head to the right. you let out a laugh, missing him patting jiyong’s shoulder and giving him an approving, re-assuring wink. you went to motherfucking town on that bulgogi, coupled with bottomless in-house mimosas (“compliments to the chef, your mom—holy shit.” “that’s what i’m saying!”); surprised when rodney recognized you after only meeting a couple times, delighted when he came over and sat by your feet (“you’re his mommy.” “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”); or him watching happily when you got along with one of his older cousins, talking to her about coldplay’s upcoming record. a job well done; a new chapter opened.

you were invited frequently back to his house for dinner thereafter. your parents did come around, treated to dinner at val's—jiyong answering whatever questions your father threw at him with unbridled ease. finally, after all this time, it felt as if things were falling into place. so much so that when it came time for his birthday, several weeks after celebrating your first year together, you took a page out of his book: making a mixtape. sure, your family computer was running like a jet engine by the end of it … and you picked up an album of an artist he likes just in case it didn’t work … along with something else … but its the thought that counts, right? right. you handed him the small gift bag before after he climbed out your bedroom window, ready to say goodnight. “happy birthday, my love.” you held his face, bringing your lips to his. “thank you, baby.” he smiled. “what is it?” you tsked, making him chuckle. “open it when you get home. its just … a little something.” “a little something?” “a token for you to remember me by.” you grinned, referring to his family’s week long trip visiting his elder sister and brother-in-law, set to fly out early in the morning. “your dramatic ass.” he teased, giving you a sweet kiss. “i love you. i’ll be back before you know it.” “i love you too,” you rested your hands on the windowsill, watching him descend down the fire escape. “page me when you get home—drive safe!” “i will!”

the mixtape worked, holy shit! he read the accompanying card with a grin on his face, heart doubled in size, practically seeping out of his pores when he opened a greatest hits cd of one of his favorite artists. he set them down on his nightside table, peering into the bag and seeing a box was left. he fished it out—it looked like it would house jewelry, nothing bigger than that. did she get me a bracelet? necklace, maybe? he wondered, lifting the lid. what stared back at him was unmistakable ribbed knit black fabric, lined with what looked to be white elastic hemming tucked into the sides; half of the brand name visible. “holy fucking shit.” he whispered to himself. he’s seen you wear this pair before—better yet, he’s taken it off of you before. he picked the folded underwear out of the box, watching it dangle off his fingers in awe. a thought flashed in his mind. he leaned in, inhaling. then he inhaled again. and again. and again. is that why she went to the bathroom before i left? to fucking pack this—he inhaled sharply, looking down and seeing how hard he was through his shorts. holy fuck.

he triple checked that his bedroom door was locked, taking an extra precaution and lodging the top of his desk chair underneath the handle. jiyong kicked his shorts and briefs off, laying comfortably in bed. he took a deep breath, beginning to stroke himself. he started slow, not wanting to work himself up too quickly. he stared at your underwear held in his palm, letting it dangle onto the linen before scooping it back up, teeth raking over his bottom lip. “look how hard you made me, b-baby—s-shit!” he whispered to himself, stomach curling inward, that fucking knot in his abdomen already threatening him. “look how hard you made your jiyongie.” the amount of precum he already had was (to him) embarrassing, making him grip his stiffened dick more firmly to prevent it from slipping; inadvertently making his mind numb and toes curl. “f-fuck!” he mewled. “keep—keep f-fucking me, b-baby! keep fucking jiyongie just like that—a-agh!” his voice escaped into a higher register, almost invisible in his broken whisper. he pressed the back of his hand against his lips to quiet himself, bringing your underwear back to his nose, eyes rolling back upon catching your scent again. a vein popped onto his temple, sweat building on his forehead—eyes shut, thinking of how your skin jiggles every time he fucks you; the way you look up at him before taking his dick in your warm mouth; the thought of you taking your underwear off in the bathroom and packing it for him.

“o-oh my god!” he whimpered. without thinking, he wrapped your underwear around his dick the best his horned-out mind could, fucking his fist. “c-can’t h-help it, b-baby—can’t hold it in—f-fuck!” he came so hard, feeling it bleed through the fabric and trail down his balls. he breathed so hard he could power a fucking windmill, body feeling like jelly as he aimlessly reached for his jeans on the floor, fishing out his flip phone and speed-dialing you. all you heard was his heavy breathing: “hello? ji?” “i’m gonna f-fucking marry you.” he huffed, chest heaving. “what?” you furrowed your eyebrows, the microphone a little muffled. “is everything okay?” “i said—” he licked his lips. “i said i’m gonna marry you—a-agh! f-fucking—f-fuck.” he whimpered into the microphone, his mewls making it all click. you looked down at your thighs, heat brewing between them. “did you—” you swallowed. “did you like your gift?” “like it?” jiyong huffed. “baby, i—i came in it.” how could she act all innocent when she knows what she’s doing? oh my god—i’m gonna get hard all over again, his inner monologue rambled, breathing finally leveling. your jaw fell, catching it quickly behind your palm. “good to—good to know.” you muttered, hiding your face from no one. i wonder if that hotel would accept guests at one in the morning … you thought to yourself.

by the end of your second summer together, there was a stack of photos on your dresser—developed from various disposable cameras. most were from the same barbecue, beginning with a photo of you and a friend making drinks in the kitchen; the snacks lining the counter; the small bonfire that somehow became overexposed when developed; jiyong giving a thumbs up when the flash went off—a tester photo when you thought you fucked the camera up; you and your friends trying to coordinate a photo; you in the middle with jiyong and seunghyun (you finally know who he is! he’ll never let that inside joke go) on either side of you; and two of you and jiyong smiling grandly in both—the first with his arms around you sweetly; the second he calls “just let your dad handcuff me right now,” his hands visibly on your ass, cigarette hanging between his lips as he grinned. he couldn’t help the very characteristic thing he said after picking the photos up from the department store, rifling through them with you in his car: “damn. we look hot as fuck, baby.”

honey's tag list! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf; @infinetlyforgotten; @riddlerloveb0t; @mesopotamism; @pepsicolapussi; @breakmeoff

[whydousernamesevenexist]

Ooo thank you for the tag!

When i was like two or so, my mother and her sister thought it would be a good idea for me and my cousin (same age as me) to feed our neighbours dog grass. Without the neighbour present. Over the fence. It was winter, and my cousin took off his gloves to feed the dog, and the dog was huge, so he didn't judge the size of the grass correctly and accidentally bit my cousin in the hand. Cue crying, adults yelling, fussing over my cousin. But both of these adult women thought it was okay to let me keep feeding the dog grass. I was wearing colourful gloves, and the doggie probably thought it was a toy, so he grabbed my hand, bit me, pulled off my glove, and took it away. Thankfully after that my mother and aunt didn't let us feed the dog grass.

It's probably my earliest memory (but I'm not sure if it's not just a fake memory that I developed because this story was told to me multiple times)

I eventually got over my fear of dogs, but on the other hand both my younger siblings are terrified of dogs, even though they were never hurt by a dog.

Okay that was a lot of talking lol

No pressure tags:

@starcrossedmoony <333

@mintbecrazy

@moonymoom

@mudkip-enthusiast18

@ravensncrowsx

@forensic-b1tch-aiden

@losver07

@im-a-mess-of-a-person

@uhhlifeig

@athenalikethegoddess

@berryzxx

@kayylivesinchaos

@motivationequaldead89

@here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can

@silence-between-seconds

@mxed-salad-greens

@suckerforrosekiller

@moonyswarmsweaters

@whysosiriushuh

@insert-clever-username-1133

@somniphobicfox

@marylily-my-beloved

@winterpandafreak

@lesbianlazyhouse

@carrotsinnovember

@n1xxi3

@give-me-a-username-plz

@idk-what-to-put-here-123

@where-is-vivian

@basicallyjustmuggleremuslupin

@obsessedwith15deadwizards

@derangedbookworm

@shamelesswolfstarshipper

@themortalityofundyingstars

@myfavcharacterdidntdrown

@chace-vito

@starving-marauder-lover

@roadkill111

@definitionoffuckup

@sapphos-queer-kid

@regulus-smith

@marauding-almond

@dazzling-witch

@absolutelyflabbergasted

@seekmemystar

@hershey-not-the-chocolate-maybe

@kathryn-maraudersversion

@daddysclownboy

@anything-for-my-moony-1971

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Man Called Danger 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You avoid drama, you avoid confrontation, and overall, you avoid men. But some men can’t be denied. ~ short!late 30s reader

Characters: biker!Bucky Barnes

Note: I didn't think I'd be writing rn but I had a pretty restless night despite my best efforts. Mostly just me fixating on noises and not being able to sleep.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You idle outside the corporate facade, fidgeting, looking side to side, mirror to mirror, listening for the thunderous engine. Your grip and ungrip the wheel, unable to slacken your jaw as you huff through your nose. Your heart hammers on your tender ribs and your foot wiggles incessantly. 

You replay the calamitous scene over and over in your head. Your mind sticks to the last vision; that grin. That's a promise. A man like that only smiles with good reason and you don't expect he gets his jollies from fuzzy kittens and butterflies. 

A tap on the window makes you jump. You look over as Eva waves through the glass. You check the clock. You've been there for half an hour. 

You unlock the door and she falls in with a sigh. "Hey, hey," she chimes. “What happened to your car?” 

“Huh, oh--” you sniff and look in the rear view again. Your little act of panicked defiance must have earned a few extra scratches. “Wasn’t paying attention backing out. Just hit a fence.” 

She cackles, “really? Well, not that it makes a difference with this old shitheap.” 

You give her a long look. “You're in a good mood. How was your first day?" 

"Pretty damn great," she snaps her seat belt into place. "Pretty chill job. I just kinda mess with the printer between endless lattes." 

You nod, "sounds like heaven." 

"Boss is super cool. He's really chatty," she preens. 

Right, you're sure that has nothing to do with her looks. You want to caution her but you also don't want to spoil this for her. You're sure it's nothing. Not that you could offer her much advice. You were never the type to draw any sort of office scandal. 

"Just make sure you do your work," you pull away from the curb, shifting in your seat. 

You teethe your lip and let it flick out. You keep up the nervous tick as you hunch behind the wheel. You focus on the road, trying not to think of everything else; that man and his motorcycle, the length of Eva's skirt, Mr. Walker's reminders. 

"I take it your day wasn't great," she scoffs. 

You squeeze the wheel, "huh?" 

"You gonna tear that thing off?" She asks. 

You exhale and push your shoulders down before they can touch your ears. You swallow, "usual, you know..." 

What do you do? You're not stupid, that man isn't going to play around. He's not going to be anything less than blunt. He had the gall to show up at your work. How he knew where to find you... well, you can't be certain he isn't waiting at your front door. 

You stop at the red sign and check the rear view, ears perked for any rumble. You tut and hiss out another breath.  

"Right, well, I know you're not really a fan but you need a glass of wine," she says. 

You shrug, "probably." 

She hums, "seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Nothing, nothing," you lie. "Just... you wanna get dinner somewhere?" 

"Uh, what? Am I hearing you right? You want to eat out?" She chuckles, "alright, something's gotta be wrong." 

"No, I'm... you got through your first day, it'll be a celebration," the lie rolls out all too easy. You've never been challenged at that, but you found it easier to be quiet than deceitful. Lies are shields, not weapons. "Your choice." 

The car behind you honks. You turn just to get out of their way. 

"Oh, you like ramen? There's a place that does spicy noodles just right," she makes a ridiculous gesture with her hand, kissing her fingertips. 

"I can try it," you trawl down the street slowly, "is it down town?" 

"Yeah, back a few streets," she wiggles and claps her hands, "oh, I'm so excited." 

"Really?" You wonder. 

"Well, yeah! When's the last time we did anything fun? Together?" 

"Ha, yeah," you agree hollowly. 

She sits up, and you can see her smile in the mirror. You sense her brightness dim just a little. "Um, last night..." 

"Eva, we agreed to move past it," you scratch your cheek, keeping your other hand firmly on the wheel. You don't want to think about last night or that man. You're hoping the restaurant will be an escape from that. If he has found his way to your house, he might not want to wait around that long. "Let's start over. This job will help with that." 

"Sure," she agrees softly. "It's just... I do feel bad. That he pushed you like that." 

"Well, it's not the worst I've dealt with," you say without thinking. 

She wallows, "it's not?" 

She didn't know your dad. You're happy for that. You shrug. 

"It's nothing," you assure her. "Really." 

"Mom mentioned... you know, that he wasn't very nice--" 

"I can barely remember," you assure her as your skull itches. You remember the bad times; the blunt force, the stinging slaps, the screaming. Even after all those years. "So let's just not think about yesterday, let's enjoy tonight." 

She nods, "yeah, sure... I... I can do that." 

"Oh, you've always been much better at having fun than me," you snort. 

💀

The restaurant is nice enough but not too fancy to make you feel a slob. Eva fits anywhere she goes. She’s just that pretty.

You wonder if it’s just your own insecurity speaking. You’ve aged out of the years where clothes and makeup were your sole concern. You never really worried too much about the latter, you did just enough to be presentable. 

You look at the menu, mulling chicken or shrimp. Eva takes the smaller menu from the middle of the table. 

“They’ve got saki. You should try some. I’ll drive home,” she offers. 

You look at her. She grins and giggles. You tilt your head. 

“I love that look,” she chimes. “You do it really good. It’s scary.” 

“What look?” 

“Oh, you know, mom called it the murder stare. As much as a mess as she is, you know, she used to say you were like grandma.” 

“Grandma?” You click your tongue and sigh. That old bitter hen. “Well, be glad that you can’t confirm that.” 

“Was she really that bad?” Eva asks. 

You shrug, “I was young for most of our... relationship. To a little girl, she was a villain.” 

Your sister nod and puts the menu down. She looks around. “I really appreciate this. And I did my best not to be too much today. You know? And Mr. Hansen...” she taps her nails on the table. “He’s so cool. I think it’ll be good. And if I stick around, maybe you could switch over. Since your job is so shitty.” 

“It’s not shitty. It’s just... a job,” you sit back as you close the menu and settle on chicken. “Won’t be much different either way. I don’t want you to stick around too long. This is to get you into school, right?” 

“Yeah. I know but... I can work and go to classes.” 

You smile, “I’m glad you’re thinking this out.” 

“Well, I’m still going to have fun. You know, Lindsay wants to get some sushi this weekend so...” 

“Ah, well, don’t spend all your money in one place,” you warn. 

“Yes, ma’am,” she snipes back. You meet her eye as she stares. “How did you ever grow up with mom?” 

You make a face, “I don’t know how i made it through either.” 

“Um, excuse me,” the server steps up to the table, setting down two glasses. “Ginger mojitos for the table.” 

You set the menu down and look at him, “oh, I think you’ve got the wrong one. But we’re ready to order.” 

“Ma’am, they’re from the gentleman.” He nods over his shoulder. You can’t see past him as Eva leans back to glance across. 

“Oh,” you swallow and look at your sister. Is this why she goes out? All the freebies from lecherous strangers? “Right. Well, I’ll have the spicy noodles with chicken dumplings, please.” 

Eva waves past the server. You shift awkwardly. It’s so embarrassing. You’re just the old hanger-on. 

“Shrimp, street-style for me, please and thanks,” Eva says. 

“Water too, if you don’t mind,” you add. You don’t know you’ll finish the cocktail. 

“Wow, that’s so sweet,” Eva sits back as she takes the tall glass and sips from the narrow straw. She hums. “Oh, it’s like... ginger ale-y.” 

She smiles and raises the glass in a gesture across the restaurant. You keep your head down. 

“You should try it,” she chirps. 

“Well, one of us needs to drive.” 

“Oh, one drink with dinner is under the limit.” She goads. “Huh, he looks familiar.” 

“You know more people than me.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him,” she mutters and slurps again. 

The server returns with the water. You feel a pulse in your ears. Whoever it is, is staring. Likely not at you but your sister. Still, you’re ready to wilt. 

Mindlessly, your hand slips down to your blouse and you feel along your ribs. She exhales. 

“Does it hurt still?” 

You shrug and drop your hand. 

“Johnny’s such a dick.” 

“I agree,” you say tritely. “Tell me you’re not going to talk to him again.” 

“Not after that,” she pouts. 

You’re quiet. She traces her fingertips on the table top and she shifts. She looks around and leans forward. 

“So... are you ever going to start dating?” She asks. 

You blink and your lips part. She smirks. 

“The murder look, again,” she taunts. 

You sigh and lift your brows, trying to whittle away the tension in your jaw. “It’s not really a priority.” 

“Well, why not? I’m out of school, I’m grown. And you’re not that old.” 

“Wow, thanks, not that old,” you muse wryly. 

“And cute men are buying you drinks,” she trills. 

“I don’t think he sent them because of me,” you argue. 

“Well, he isn’t looking at me,” she retorts. 

“Eva,” you drawl flatly. 

“I think it’d be cute. I mean, I’ve never seen you with anyone. Mom never mentioned, or you...” 

“Yeah, well, men are more trouble than they’re worth.” 

“Oof, I really want to know who hurt you,” she teases. 

You resist another terse sneer. Aside from your father and the train of your mother’s bad decisions, no one worth thinking about. This dinner isn’t going to be spoiled by bad memories. 

“I’m not a people person,” you intone. 

“Oh, he’s really staring at you. We should send a drink back.” 

“No,” you say sharply. 

“He looks your age. And he’s not bad on the eye. Not exactly who I’d peg as your type. A bit too rough around the edges but oh, it’s cute.” 

“Eva,” you warm. You take the glass of water and dare a peek across. You nearly choke on your gulp of water. Shit. 

You quickly turn back to the table and put the water down. You press the napkin to your lips. The man in leather. His jacket is folded across the seat next to him, the gold medallion shining against his black shirt, his eyes gleaming. How... 

“You okay?” Eva asks. 

“Yes, I just... I forgot to file something at work.” 

“Right,” she squints. “You’re so jumpy tonight.” 

“I didn’t sleep well,” you say. It’s not a lie. 

You repress a shudder and tamp down the panic in your chest. He’s there, watching you. Those drinks were his signal. He’s not going away. He won’t forget what you did. If anything, you sealed your own fate. 

Why couldn’t you keep your head down like always? Why couldn’t you just be the rock they get bored of when you don’t react? Why did you do that to a man like him? 

You don’t know a thing about him but you can see clear enough he isn’t a man to walk away. You can only hope he’s only in need of your insurance information. You’ll take the added fees if it gets him out of your hair. 

[theonottsbxtch]

MARNE LA VALLEE | MV1

an: so everybody look at @luvstappen and BLAME HER FOR THIS PAINFUL ANGST. kidding, this is something that will discuss some very sensitive topics and is based off a film i recently watched called vermiglio. please read the warnings before reading this. i had a lot of fun attempting to write this in the style of a cold film, i hope you guys like this as much as i loved writing it.

wc: 10k

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS: Mentions of war, death, suicide, murder, childloss? please tread with caution when reading.

THE WAR HAD MADE GHOSTS of men long before their bodies were laid to rest. Max knew this well. He had seen it in the trenches, in the hollowed eyes of soldiers who spoke in murmurs of home but carried death in their pockets. He had seen it in the streets of his own country, where hunger and fear clung to the air like fog. He had felt it in himself, that slow erosion of self, until he was no more than a name in a ledger, a rifle in trembling hands.

So he ran.

The border was not easy to cross, but desperation is its own kind of compass. He walked where roads would betray him, hid in barns where the straw was damp and the air thick with rot. He slept little, ate less. It was not death he feared, it was capture, the weight of another man’s orders pressing against his back, the certainty that the next bullet would be his own.

And then, the village.

It was small, forgotten, crouched in the hills of Le Grand Est called Marne La Vallee where the war was a distant, bitter echo. There were soldiers, but few. There was hardship, but it had not yet hollowed out the land. Smoke curled from chimneys. Bread still cooled on windowsills. It was a place that had learned to survive, not by fighting, but by waiting.

She found him first. Or perhaps he found her. A moment, a glance, a silent understanding. The village did not ask questions, nor did she.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

Charles was the first to welcome him in.

It was not kindness, not entirely, there was a wariness in his gaze, a careful assessment in the way he looked Max over, as if measuring whether he could be trusted. But Charles knew war. He had fought in it, had carried it home in his bones, had felt it unravel him from the inside until they’d sent him back, useless to the cause. His hands still shook when he held a cup of tea too long. His knee still stiffened in the cold. He knew what war did to a man.

And so he let Max stay.

Arthur was different.

Arthur had wanted to fight. He had watched men go off to war with their heads held high, had watched them march into something greater than themselves, and he had burned with the need to stand among them. But he had been too young. Too young to enlist, too young to do his part. Instead, he had been left behind to mend fences and stack firewood, to listen to wireless reports and write letters to boys who would never write back.

Now, he looked at Max with something colder than contempt.

A deserter. A coward.

He did not say it outright, not in those first days, but Max could feel it in the way Arthur’s gaze lingered too long, in the way his jaw tightened when he entered a room. Charles would speak to Max with quiet acceptance, a nod towards a seat by the fire, a mumbled instruction on where to find work. But Arthur? Arthur would let the silence stretch, would make a show of stacking wood in the yard with twice the force necessary, would scoff under his breath whenever Max turned away.

Still, the village did not send him off.

There was work to be done, and Max had hands enough to do it. He fixed shutters that had been rattled loose by winter winds, patched roofs before the rains came, carried sacks of flour to and from the mill without complaint. The old men who sat outside the bakery in the morning watched him with quiet curiosity; the women at the well spoke in hushed voices, glancing his way, assessing.

He knew what they saw. A foreigner, a man without a country, a man who had walked away from a war that had not yet walked away from him.

But she did not look at him like that.

She did not ask him why he had left, nor what he had left behind. She did not probe at the wounds he had carefully bound. Instead, she let him exist in the quiet spaces between things. When he passed her in the fields, she would smile. When she brought water to the men working, she would set a cup down beside him without a word. And when, one evening, Charles invited him to sit at their table, she did not flinch, did not look away, did not question why a man like him should be given a place among them.

Arthur, however, did.

"You’ve seen no trenches," Arthur said that night, the words slipping from his mouth like something bitter. "You’ve never fired a shot."

Charles exhaled sharply, setting his knife down. "That’s enough."

But Arthur did not stop. He leaned forward, fingers curled around the edge of the table, eyes burning. "Did you even try?"

Max did not answer.

He had learned, long ago, that there were no right words. No defence he could give that would not be spat back at him. He had tried once, had spoken of the men he had seen with their bodies torn apart, of the cold, of the hunger, of the way the fear had made his hands useless on the rifle. He had spoken of the moment he had realised he could not do it, could not march to a death that was not his own, could not fight for a cause that felt as distant as the stars.

And yet, to men like Arthur, there was no excuse.

Cowardice had no poetry to it.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then Charles reached for his glass, took a slow sip, and spoke without looking up.

"You don’t know what war is, Arthur. You think you do. But you don’t."

Arthur’s throat worked, his knuckles white against the wood. He pushed back from the table without another word, chair scraping against the floor, and left the room.

Max did not move.

She did not look at him with pity. She did not look at him with judgment.

She simply passed him the bread.

The days folded into one another, each passing like the slow turn of a page. Max worked where hands were needed, mending, lifting, carrying. He moved through the village as a man untethered, neither fully belonging nor entirely cast out. Charles treated him as one of their own, offering him work where he could, speaking to him in the steady, measured tones of a man who had seen too much to care for past grievances. Arthur remained distant, his contempt quiet but unwavering.

And she watched.

It was not a watchfulness of suspicion, nor one of curiosity. It was something quieter, something that did not press or pry. She passed him in the fields, nodded to him when he carried grain from the mill, handed him bread and water without ceremony. They spoke little at first. But when they did, it was in French, hers slow and careful, his rough and uneven.

"Tu n’es pas d’ici," she remarked once, not as a question but as a truth. You’re not from here.

"Non."

She did not ask where home was. Perhaps she knew better than to ask a man who no longer had one.

It was Charles who first noticed. "You speak it well," he said one evening, as they worked side by side repairing a fence post. "Better than most who pass through."

Max nodded. "I learnt young."

"And yet, you don’t write it."

The words were said simply, without malice, but Max still felt them land like something sharp-edged.

The realisation had come quietly, as all things did in small villages where news travelled fast. The baker’s wife had frowned when he hesitated over the chalkboard list of rations. The old priest had watched him too long when he signed his name with careful, deliberate strokes, each letter slow, uncertain. And Charles, observant as ever, had noticed the way Max never reached for a newspaper, the way he did not write down numbers when counting grain, the way his silence stretched a little too long whenever someone pointed to a letter, expecting recognition.

She had noticed too.

It was her father’s school that took in men like him. Grown men who had spent their lives in fields instead of classrooms, who had worked with their hands instead of books. The village saw no shame in it. After all, the war had stolen more than lives; it had stolen time, stolen youth, stolen the years where learning had been a luxury few could afford.

Still, when Charles first suggested it, Max hesitated.

It was one thing to be a deserter. It was another to be a fool.

"Come if you want," Charles said with a shrug. "Don’t if you don’t."

It was a choice left in the air between them, one Max let sit for days.

Then, one evening, he found himself at the threshold of the school, hands curling into fists at his sides. The room was dimly lit, warm despite the chill outside, the low murmur of voices filling the space. Other men sat hunched over desks, brows furrowed, chalk dust settling over rough hands. And at the front of the room stood her father, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, patience carved into his very stance.

She was there too, stacking books at the back of the room, moving with the quiet ease of someone who belonged in such a place. She glanced up when she saw him, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze. But she did not question why he was there.

She only nodded.

And so he stayed.

The lessons were slow. The letters did not come easily to him, twisting and blurring on the page, refusing to settle into meaning. But she was there in the evenings, sitting near enough that he could hear the scratch of her pen against paper, the murmur of her voice as she recited passages under her breath. When he struggled, her father guided him with quiet patience, tracing letters with a steady hand, never once letting frustration slip into his tone.

One evening, as the others filed out, Max remained behind, frowning at a page of words that refused to yield. She approached, glancing at the paper.

"C’est difficile?" You find it difficult?

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Toujours." Always

A pause. Then, she reached for his chalk, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. She wrote a word slowly, deliberately.

"Espoir."

Hope.

She tapped the page lightly. "C’est un bon mot à apprendre." It’s a good word to learn.

He looked at her then, and something settled between them, not a shift, not yet, but the quiet understanding of two people who did not need words to fill the space between them.

The days stretched into weeks, and still, Max stayed.

Autumn thickened into winter, the air sharp with frost, the village settling into the quiet rhythm of survival. Wood was stacked high against the cold. Bread was made in careful measure. And at night, in the dim light of the schoolhouse, Max traced letters onto paper, his fingers stiff and unsteady, his breath curling in the chill of the room.

She was there more often now.

She did not hover, nor offer help unasked, but he felt her presence like something steady, something sure. Sometimes, when the lesson was done and the others had gone, she would remain behind, tidying books, straightening chairs. And sometimes, when neither of them spoke, it did not feel like silence at all.

It was on one such evening, when the lamps burned low and the snow had begun to fall in slow, drifting flakes, that he found her beside him at the desk, her sleeves pushed to her elbows, ink staining her fingertips.

"You’re improving," she said, glancing at the words he had written.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Not fast enough."

She picked up the chalk, tapping it against the wood. "Then don’t rush."

There was something about the way she said it. Steady. Certain. As though she knew him well enough to understand that patience did not come easily to him.

He did not answer. Instead, he let his gaze linger on her hands, on the curve of her wrist, the delicate smudge of graphite along her knuckles. She noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she did not look away.

The space between them had narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

She was close enough that he could see the flecks of ink on her skin, the way her breath caught, just slightly, when he lifted his gaze to hers. He had seen war, had seen death, had seen the way the world could collapse in a moment. But this, this was something different.

A risk of another kind.

He moved first. Or perhaps she did. A breath. A shift. A closing of space. And then, before thought could intervene, before hesitation could creep in, he pressed his lips to hers.

It was not urgent. Not desperate. It was slow, deliberate, as though neither of them quite believed they had reached this moment. Her fingers curled, just slightly, against the desk. His hand found the edge of the chair, steadying himself against the sudden, impossible certainty of her.

And when they pulled apart, there was no rush to speak. No need to fill the quiet.

She only touched her fingers lightly to his, her thumb brushing over the calloused ridge of his knuckle, and in that touch, he understood.

They were married in the spring.

It was a small ceremony, the kind that did not require grand declarations or elaborate arrangements. The village gathered in quiet understanding, some watching with knowing smiles, others with wary curiosity. Charles clapped Max on the back with a gruff nod, his approval unspoken but present all the same. Arthur stood stiffly at the back, arms folded, eyes dark with something Max could not quite place, but he did not object. Not aloud.

When she took his hands in hers, when vows were spoken in soft, steady voices, Max did not think of the past, nor of the war that had shaped him.

He thought only of her.

The days moved forward, indifferent to the weight of war.

Max worked as he always had, his hands shaping the world into something steady. Fixing shutters that rattled in the wind, mending the fences that winter had broken, stacking wood for the months ahead. The village still stood in the shadow of the war, but here, in the quiet rhythm of daily life, there was something that felt like peace.

She was at the heart of it.

Their marriage was not one of grand gestures or endless declarations. It was built in small moments—the brush of her hand against his as she passed him a bowl at supper, the way her head rested against his shoulder when sleep found her, the unspoken understanding that tethered them together. It was not a love that demanded to be seen. It was a love that simply was.

And now, it was growing.

She told him on a morning where the birds chirped in the trees beside the house, her hands curled around a cup of tea, the warmth chasing away the cold. She did not say the words at first, only reached for his hand and placed it gently over the curve of her stomach, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

But he understood.

The breath left him all at once. He had not expected it—not now, not yet—but the weight of it settled in his chest, something fragile and terrifying and impossibly real.

He had not known what it was to belong somewhere, not truly. But here, in this quiet moment, with her beneath his hands and their child growing between them, he thought perhaps he did.

The war lingered still.

Men returned home in pieces. Some missing limbs, others missing something far worse. News came in whispers, names passed from mouth to mouth, a tally of those who would not be coming back. But in the village, life carried on. It had to. The cows still needed milking, the fields still needed tending. The earth did not stop for grief.

Max continued his lessons in the evenings. He was improving now, the letters less foreign beneath his fingers, the words coming with greater ease. When he wrote, she watched, sometimes offering corrections, sometimes only smiling to herself, as if pleased by the quiet determination that kept him at his desk.

Her father still oversaw the lessons, but now he looked at Max differently. Less like an outsider, more like something known. And yet, there was something else beneath it.

Something Max did not understand.

Not until he heard the conversation.

It was late, the schoolhouse quiet but for the faint rustling of papers. Max had stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air, when he heard them—her father and Charles, their voices low, serious.

"He should go back," her father was saying.

Max stilled.

"You think he would leave her now?" Charles’s voice was wary.

"He must," her father said. "His mother will believe him dead. He has a duty to her, if nothing else." A pause. "And perhaps, then he can come back to her."

Max did not move.

"Do you think he would?" Charles asked.

Her father sighed. "I don’t know."

The words settled, heavy and uncertain.

And then, before Max could think to step back, the door opened behind him.

She stood there, her breath caught in her throat, one hand resting against the curve of her stomach, her expression unreadable.

She had heard.

The war was ending.

And now, for the first time, the question hung between them. When it was over, would he leave?

The day he left, the air was thick with the weight of something unspoken.

Summer had begun to break through the last of spring’s cold hold, the frost fully retreating from the fields, the earth softening beneath cautious footsteps. Life stirred in the village—buds on trees, the hum of bees, the slow return of warmth. And yet, for her, the world felt caught between seasons, hovering in the space between what was and what would be.

Max was leaving.

Not forever. Not truly.

She knew this.

And yet, as she stood at the threshold of her home, watching him pull his coat tighter against the morning chill, she felt the ache of it settle deep in her bones.

"I will write to you," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "A long letter. Every word I can give you. They will be my words."

She nodded, her hands resting against the curve of her stomach, their child shifting beneath her fingers. "I will hold you to that."

Max exhaled, a small, unsteady breath, before reaching for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, rough and calloused, warm even in the cold. He had never been a man of many words, but she did not need them.

She had always understood him.

Charles stood by the cart, his expression unreadable. He had insisted on going with Max, though no one had asked it of him. It was his way, she supposed, a quiet kind of loyalty, the kind that did not need to be spoken aloud.

Arthur had said nothing. He had only stood at the doorway that morning, watching, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And then, without a word, he had turned away.

She did not go to the station.

She could not bear to watch the train take him from her.

Instead, she stood in the doorway of their home, the house still smelling of woodsmoke and morning bread, and watched as he climbed into the cart beside Charles.

Max turned back only once.

Their eyes met across the distance, something unbreakable passing between them.

And then, he was gone.

Two weeks passed, and the silence began to weigh on her like the heavy stillness before a storm.

At first, she had told herself it was only natural. The letters would come when they could, after all. Max was in Belgium now, a place torn by war and time, and perhaps the roads were not as kind as they once had been. Or perhaps he simply needed time to gather his thoughts, to find the right words. She had told herself this again and again, but with each passing day, the empty space between the world she had built and the world he now occupied seemed to grow.

She had not heard from him.

Not even once.

The doubt began to settle in her bones, thin and insidious, like a quiet chill that grew colder the longer it was ignored. She tried to shake it off, to tell herself there was nothing to fear, but every morning, when she stepped out into the quiet of her home, there was only the faint echo of absence, the ache of his absence in every corner. The house had once felt full of him, full of the promise of their future, but now it felt still, as if waiting for a sound that would not come.

And still, no letter.

It was late afternoon when her little cousin, Madeleine, arrived. She always had a way of filling up a room, her chatter endless and her laughter a steady hum of cheerfulness that cut through even the darkest of moods. Today, though, there was something else in her eyes. A glint of excitement, perhaps, or the way her footsteps seemed to bounce off the earth with a new energy.

"Don’t you look miserable?" Madeleine teased as she pushed the door open, all wide eyes and bright smiles.

She gave a small, strained smile in return. "I’m not miserable."

Madeleine raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over the half-empty room, the quiet that hung in the air like a thick veil. She knew. Madeleine always knew when something was wrong, even when she pretended not to. "You’re missing him, aren’t you?"

Her cousin had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

"I haven’t heard from him," she confessed, her voice tight, though she did not allow herself to dwell on it. "It’s been two weeks."

Madeleine frowned, then instantly brightened. "He’ll write soon enough, I’m sure of it." She tossed her bag onto the table and gave a determined little nod. "And even if he doesn’t, you’ve got me to keep you company."

The words were meant to comfort, but her cousin’s cheerful voice only highlighted the hollow ache she was trying to ignore. Still, she appreciated it.

Madeleine grabbed a chair and swung it around to face her. "So, tell me. Have you decided what to name the baby yet?"

The mention of the baby made her pause. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a quiet reminder that there was something to look forward to, something that would grow despite the world’s many uncertainties.

"I don’t know," she said after a pause. "I’ve been thinking about it, but... I don’t know."

Madeleine looked at her with wide, eager eyes. "Well, I think you should name it something strong. A name like... Jacques, or Henri."

"Henri," she repeated softly, turning the name over in her mind. "Yes. That’s a strong name."

Madeleine’s eyes lit up. "Henri! Yes! And for a girl..." She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the perfect answer. "Marie. It’s a classic, isn’t it? Marie Henriette."

She couldn’t help but laugh at her cousin’s enthusiasm. "Marie Henriette, you say?"

Madeleine grinned. "Yes. Very elegant."

Her laughter softened, but the edges of her worry still lingered. She had not expected to feel the absence of Max so acutely, not in the way she did now. She had thought, foolishly, that time and distance would not matter. But it did. It mattered more than she had ever known.

"You’ll get your letter," Madeleine added, sensing the shift in her mood. "And when you do, you can tell me all about the baby names. I’ll be here to help pick, of course."

Her cousin’s light-hearted chatter, so simple and full of life, was a balm she hadn’t known she needed. And for a brief moment, it felt like everything was okay again—like they could sit there, in the warmth of her home, and dream of names and futures and things that were still far from certain.

But just as the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows through the house, the door opened again.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his gaze flicking to the two of them, his expression unreadable. She hadn’t seen much of him in recent days. He’d kept his distance, ever since Max had left, as though he had quietly decided that his presence no longer mattered in their little world.

He had always been like that, closed off, his thoughts hidden behind that wall he never let anyone cross. But today, something felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air, a shift that she couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t speak right away, instead giving a curt nod to Madeleine, who was still sitting across from her with her bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Have you heard from him?" Arthur asked, his voice soft but heavy with something—concern? Or was it guilt?

She shook her head, the ache returning with the question. "No. Not yet."

Arthur paused, his eyes flicking to her stomach, then back to her face. "He’ll write. If he knows what’s good for him." The words were blunt, but they didn’t carry the usual edge of bitterness.

Madeleine, sensing something unspoken between them, stood up, stretching dramatically. "Well, I’m off, then. Don’t sit in the dark and pull faces, the minute the wind passes you’ll hate that your faces stay stuck like that!" She gave them both a quick, knowing smile before grabbing her bag again. "Remember, Marie Henriette."

And with that, she was gone, leaving behind only the soft sound of the door closing and the heavy silence that followed.

Arthur lingered, still standing near the threshold, his gaze turned toward the floor. Then, quietly, almost as if the words hurt him too, he spoke again.

"You’ll hear from him soon."

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The silence was a bitter thing now, one that seemed to stretch longer with every passing day. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she simply let the quiet sit, holding onto the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t the absence of letters that hurt most—, but the absence of the man who had promised to write them.

A week passed, and the silence was suffocating.

She had told herself it would be different, that he would write, that he would return soon, that everything would fall back into place. But the days bled into one another, each one heavy with the unanswered questions that hung in the air. Her thoughts, once clear, had turned into a constant murmur, a nagging hum at the back of her mind that she could not escape.

Still, she waited. Still, she hoped.

But as the days wore on, the silence between them seemed to grow louder, more oppressive. It was now nearly a week since Madeleine’s visit, and still no word.

She had tried to keep busy, to do the things she knew she needed to do, to care for the house, to tend to the garden, to keep the world turning despite the weight in her chest. But every moment without a letter from Max felt like an eternity, and every hour without him felt like a piece of herself slowly slipping away.

It was late in the afternoon when she heard it.The distant sound of hooves against the dirt road.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the wind, a memory of sounds past. But then it came again, unmistakable, the rattle of a chariot’s wheels, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves, a sound she knew well.

Her heart leapt in her chest.

Max.

It had to be Max. She knew it. He was coming back to her.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran downstairs. Her breath quickened with the anticipation, her pulse racing in her throat. She was halfway to the door when she saw him—or, at least, she thought she did.

But when the door swung open, her eyes met Charles’s somber face instead.

Her heart dropped.

Charles.

He stood in the doorway, his expression grim, his coat heavy with the weight of the journey. He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at her the way he usually did, with that familiar, steady warmth.

Behind her, Arthur appeared, his face unreadable, his movements stiff. He had heard the chariot, too, had followed her down the stairs with the same hope. But when he saw the look on Charles’s face, he fell silent, his shoulders tight.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers briefly, before he looked away. He didn’t say a word at first, but in his hand, he held a single item. A newspaper, folded in half.

She reached for it, her hands trembling as she took it from him.

Her eyes flicked to the front page, and for a moment, her mind couldn’t quite process the words that stared back at her. The letters blurred, and the ink seemed to swim before her. But there they were, the headlines clear and cold: Max Verstappen, Dead at 28—Killed by His Wife in a Tragic Act of Honour.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

The article went on to describe the unthinkable. How Max had returned to Belgium after having deserted his post in the war, how he had started a new life in the Grand Est of France, had taken a wife, and had gotten her pregnant. And then, the piece de resistance—the final, damning words.

His first wife had found out. In a fit of rage, in a jealous fury, she had killed him. A matter of dishonour, they wrote, a wife who could not tolerate the shame of her husband’s new life, of his betrayal.

She read it again.

And again.

But the words didn’t change. They were the same.

Max was dead.

The life they had built together, the love they had shared, it was gone. The future they had planned for. It had never existed at all.

And then it hit her. The reality of it. The finality of it.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural cry of pain that tore through her chest like a knife. The paper slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor as she sank to her knees, her body trembling with the force of the scream that had escaped her lips.

Charles moved quickly, kneeling beside her, his arms wrapping around her. His strong hands held her tight, steadying her against the overwhelming storm of grief that had overtaken her.

And then, as if the world had stopped, Arthur was there too.

His arms around her, just as Charles’s had been.

The two men, so different in many ways, but here they were, their presence a quiet support, their strength a solace. But still, no words came. There was nothing to say.

She cried.

She cried for the man she had loved. For the man she had lost. For the future they would never share. For the baby that would never know his father.

She cried for the unfairness of it all. For the way the world had turned so cruel, so unforgiving.

And in that moment, she wasn’t sure if the tears would ever stop, or if she wanted them to. She didn’t know if she could bear this loss, this betrayal of the life she had dreamed of.

But Arthur’s arms tightened around her, and Charles’s hand pressed against her back, and she let herself sink into them, into the grief, into the feeling of being held by something that wasn’t quite enough to mend what had been broken.

She would never be the same again.

Time passed, but she did not follow it.

Days bled into nights, seasons shifted, but she remained unmoved, caught in the static of grief. The world outside carried on as though nothing had changed, but inside her, everything had unravelled.

She did not cry anymore. There was no use in it. Tears did nothing, solved nothing, brought no one back. And so, she stopped speaking, too.

Words were hollow things, useless things. They sat heavy in her throat, unwelcome. She let them wither away, let silence take their place. It was easier this way.

She left the house not long after that day. Left behind the ghosts of what once was, the warmth of home now foreign to her. Charles had tried to stop her, had begged her to stay, but she had only looked at him—empty, silent—and he had understood. Or maybe he hadn't, but he let her go anyway.

She moved into the school.

It was cold there, unfeeling. The walls held no memories of Max, no scent of him in the blankets, no echo of his voice in the halls. That was what she needed.

She did not sleep in a bed. She made a place for herself beneath the desks, curled beneath the wood like a child hiding from the world. Some nights, she sat upright against the bookshelves, staring at nothing until her body gave in to exhaustion.

She barely ate.

Food had no taste, no purpose. Her father left things for her. Bread, soup, fruit. But they would sit untouched for days until mould took them, and only then would she move them aside. Hunger gnawed at her, but she welcomed it. Let it consume her from the inside out.

She wandered through each day in a haze, drifting like a ghost through empty corridors. The sound of children’s laughter filtered in from the classrooms, but it never reached her. She did not teach, did not speak, did not live.

And she avoided Arthur.

She could not look at him.

There was something in his eyes, something that had been there from the start. A knowing. An unspoken I told you so that he never voiced but that sat between them like an unbearable weight.

Arthur had known. Somehow, he had always known.

And she hated him for it.

She hated that he had seen what she had not. Hated that he had been right. Hated that, in some way, he had been waiting for this, for Max to fail her. And now he was watching her crumble beneath the truth of it.

She was afraid of him, of what he saw when he looked at her now, nothing but a woman broken by her own blindness, by a love that had never been real.

She did not know how long she had been like this. Time was nothing now.

But one night, as the rain pounded against the school’s windows and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, there was a sound at the door.

A soft knock.

She did not move.

Then another. Firmer.

Still, she did not answer.

And then the door opened.

She knew it was him before she saw him.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his coat dripping from the rain, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He did not speak right away. He only stood there, staring at her, taking in the wreckage she had become.

She sat curled beneath one of the desks, her knees drawn to her chest, her hair tangled, her skin pale and hollow.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

And then, finally, Arthur exhaled, a slow, measured breath.

“This isn’t living,” he said.

She flinched. The words were soft, but they landed like a blow.

Still, she said nothing.

Arthur took a slow step forward, then another, until he was standing just before her. He crouched down, levelling his gaze with hers.

"You think this is what he would’ve wanted?"

She clenched her jaw, her throat burning.

He sighed, shaking his head. "No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear into yourself. You don’t get to do this to your child. You are still here. And you—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. "You are not alone, no matter how much you wish to be."

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders curling inward. She wished he would leave. She wished he would stop looking at her like that—like he still saw her, even when she was nothing but fragments of who she once was.

When she did not answer, Arthur’s voice dropped, quieter this time.

"Come home."

Home.

The word felt foreign, like something from another life.

She looked away, her eyes burning, her body trembling with exhaustion, with hunger, with grief.

Arthur did not move. He only waited.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than numbness.

It was not hope. Not yet.

But it was something.

Arthur did not leave.

The first night, she had ignored him. She had curled beneath the desk as she always did, her back to him, willing herself to disappear into the silence. But he had not moved.

She had thought, perhaps, that he would go home, that the rain and the cold and the weight of her grief would drive him away. But when she awoke in the grey hush of dawn, stiff and aching, he was still there, sat against the door, arms crossed, head tilted back, eyes closed but alert beneath his furrowed brow.

The second night, she had tried to tell him to go.

She had managed only a whisper "pars" but her voice was thin, barely there, swallowed up by the emptiness of the school.

Arthur had only looked at her.

"Nan," he had said simply.

And that was that.

Days passed in a slow, painful blur. He did not speak much. He did not force her to eat, though he left bread and water where she could reach them. He did not drag her home, though he could have. He only stayed, a quiet presence in the corner, as though he had decided that if she was going to waste away, he would not let her do it alone.

And then—

The pain came like fire.

It was deep and sudden, tearing through her as she lay curled on the wooden floor. At first, she thought it was nothing, another wave of exhaustion, another punishment from a body she had long neglected.

But then it came again. And again.

Stronger. Closer.

She gasped, her hands gripping the floorboards. A fresh wave of pain seized her, and a sharp cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Arthur stirred.

She did not see him move, but suddenly he was beside her, crouching at her side, his hands hovering over her as though he was afraid to touch her.

"What is it?" His voice was sharper now, edged with something unfamiliar, something like fear.

She could not answer.

The pain stole her breath, locked her inside her own body. And then it dawned on her, with a slow, creeping horror—

It was time.

She wasn’t ready.

"No," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Not yet."

Arthur swore under his breath. Then he was up, grabbing his coat, already halfway to the door.

"Stay awake," he ordered, his voice clipped, urgent. "I’ll be back."

And then he was gone.

The minutes that followed stretched into something unbearable. She curled in on herself, sweat slick on her skin, pain rolling over her in relentless waves. The schoolhouse blurred, the candlelight flickering, the world tilting.

Then the door burst open again, and there were hands on her, familiar, steady hands, voices murmuring, lifting her, guiding her through the storm of it.

Her father’s house was warm. Too warm. She had not been inside it for so long that it felt foreign to her now, the walls too close, the air thick with the smell of lavender and candlewax.

Then her mother. Her aunt. Hands pressing against her clammy skin, gentle voices cooing words she could not hear.

She barely saw Arthur, but she knew he was there. A shadow in the doorway, pacing.

Time twisted.

Pain consumed everything.

She heard them tell her to push.

"Non."

She clenched her teeth, shook her head.

"You have to, ma fille." Her mother’s voice was gentle, pleading.

"No."

She could not.

If she did, it would be real.

If she did, Max would still be gone.

If she did, nothing would change.

Hands gripped hers. Soft, warm, trembling.

Charles.

She hadn’t even realised he was there, hadn’t noticed him come to her side.

"I know," he murmured. "I know it hurts. But you have to."

Her breath shuddered. Her body trembled.

And then, with the last of her strength, she did.

A cry pierced the room.

Small, desperate, new.

And just like that, it was over.

She fell back, her body drained, her mind floating somewhere beyond reach.

She did not want to look.

She did not want to see.

But then there was a weight against her chest, a warmth, a softness.

And she saw her.

Blonde curls, wet with birth. A small, perfect nose. Eyes squeezed shut opening briefly to show crystal blue eyes, lips parted in a wail of protest.

She could barely breathe.

Max.

The child was Max.

His mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his shape.

Something inside her cracked.

She turned her head away.

Someone took the baby from her, and she did not stop them.

She did not want to see.

She did not want to feel.

She closed her eyes.

And let the world fade to black.

Time passed.

The world carried on, but she remained untouched by it. Days slipped into nights, and the child, her child, grew.

But not by her hands.

She kept away from the girl.

Her mother took care of her, cooing to her in hushed lullabies, stroking the blonde curls that were not hers. Arthur, too, had taken to the child in his quiet, steady way. She caught glimpses of him sometimes, holding the girl with a carefulness she had never seen from him before, as if she were something fragile, something precious.

She did not ask what they had named her.

She did not want to know.

The days were dull, empty things. She drifted through them like a ghost, neither living nor dead, lost in the spaces between.

And then one evening, the weight of it all became too much.

The house was suffocating. The candlelight too warm, the sounds of laughter, not hers, too distant, too cruel. She could not bear to be inside those walls any longer, where Max’s absence clung to every corner, where his daughter existed in a world he would never see.

So she walked.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to move, to be away, to escape the skin that felt too tight around her bones.

It was cold outside. The wind gnawed at her as she walked through the empty streets, as her feet carried her further than they ever had before.

And then she saw it.

The bridge.

She stopped at the edge, looking out over the water below.

It was dark, the river black and endless beneath her. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the wooden beams of the bridge, but she did not feel it. She did not feel anything at all.

She stepped forward.

Sat down on the ledge.

Her feet dangled over the edge, the fabric of her dress fluttering in the wind.

She thought, briefly, of how easy it would be.

How quiet.

How peaceful.

A step. A fall. And then—nothing.

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

And then—

Arms wrapped around her from behind.

Strong, desperate, shaking.

A gasp broke the silence, a choked, ragged sound, and then a voice—low, broken, breathless.

"Nan."

Arthur.

His grip was iron. He pulled her back, dragged her from the edge, his hands clutching at her like she might slip away, like if he just held tight enough, he could stop the world from taking her.

He turned her to him, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, his body trembling.

And then, something she had never seen before.

Arthur cried.

He let out a sob, raw and shuddering, and held onto her as if she were the last thing tethering him to the earth.

"Please," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "Please don’t."

She did not move.

She did not cry.

She only sat there, numb, hollow, weightless in his arms.

And as the wind howled around them, as Arthur clung to her with everything he had, she wondered—

Why did he care so much when she felt like nothing at all?

Arthur did not let go of her that night.

Even as she sat there, silent in his arms, distant and detached, he held her as though she might slip away again if he loosened his grip. His breath was unsteady against her hair, his fingers tight around her wrists.

And then, without a word, he pulled her up.

He carried her home through the dark streets, his arms steady, his jaw clenched. She did not protest. She did not have the strength.

When they reached the house, he did not hand her off to her mother, nor did he let her retreat into the shadows where she had been dwelling for so long. He led her up the stairs himself, into her room, and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

She felt the mattress dip beneath her weight, but she did not move.

Arthur knelt before her, unfastened her shoes with careful hands, and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. She let him.

Then, he pulled up a chair, placed it in the corner of the room, and sat.

Watching.

Waiting.

He did not speak.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself, staring blankly at the wall. The room was heavy with the sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate, as if he were grounding himself with it.

Sleep did not come easily. But eventually, the exhaustion took her, dragging her into the depths of a dreamless slumber.

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky.

Arthur was still there.

He had not moved from his chair, though his eyes were no longer fixed on her. Instead, he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with an unreadable expression.

She did not speak.

He did.

"Lève-toi." Get up.

His voice was quiet but firm.

She blinked, sluggish with sleep, confusion flickering across her hollow features.

He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and turned to face her.

"On part." We’re leaving.

Her brows knitted slightly.

She hadn’t left the house in days—properly left.

But Arthur wasn’t looking for a fight. He didn’t offer explanations, nor did he wait for her to question him. He left the room, and she was left with little choice but to follow.

She dressed slowly, without urgency, and when she finally made her way downstairs, he was already waiting by the door.

The journey was quiet.

Arthur did not tell her where they were going, and she did not ask. The train ride stretched on for hours, the countryside rolling past in a blur of greens and greys.

She watched the window, detached, her hands resting in her lap.

Arthur did not look at her. He sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze set ahead, his body still as stone.

It wasn’t until the train began to slow that she finally saw it.

A sign.

Hasselt.

Her breath hitched.

She froze.

Her pulse hammered in her throat, a cold, sharp dread settling in her stomach.

She turned to Arthur then, her first real movement in hours, her lips parting—

But he did not give her the chance to speak.

He took her by the wrist, guiding her off the train with steady, unyielding hands.

Outside, the air was cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter. Arthur wasted no time in finding a caddy, speaking to the driver in low, firm tones before helping her in.

She did not protest.

She barely breathed.

The carriage ride was long.

The silence sat thick between them.

And then—

The caddy stopped.

She knew before she even looked where they were.

Graveyard gates loomed before them, iron and ivy-clad, weathered by time. Beyond them, rows of headstones stretched into the distance, names carved into stone, lives reduced to mere dates.

Her stomach twisted.

Arthur stepped out first.

He turned to her, his gaze unreadable.

"Vas-y," he said. Go in

She did not move.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened.

"C’est le moment.” It is time

She swallowed hard.

Her hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms.

The weight of his words settled over her like a stone.

It is time.

To face what she had spent so long running from.

To look upon the grave of the man who had lied to her.

To stand before the earth that had swallowed him whole.

Her breath trembled.

She stepped forward.

And walked through the gates.

The grave was unremarkable.

A simple stone, weathered by wind and time, standing among countless others. His name was carved into it, the letters etched deep, final, unchanging.

Her breath shuddered.

She had not cried since that day. Since the newspaper. Since Charles caught her before she could collapse under the weight of it all.

But now, here, standing before the cold earth where he lay, something inside her cracked.

Tears welled in her eyes, thick and hot, blurring the words on the stone.

"Max."

It was the first time she had spoken his name in months.

She fell to her knees.

The grief struck her like a storm. Wild, relentless. Sobs tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained, pouring out all that had been festering inside her for so long.

She clutched at the dirt, her nails digging into the damp earth as if she could pull him back from it, as if she could unbury what had already been lost.

He was gone.

He had always been gone.

Yet now, for the first time, she felt it.

The weight of it. The finality of it.

And it shattered her.

She did not hear the footsteps at first.

Not until they stopped just behind her.

Slowly, she turned her head.

A woman stood there, watching her with sombre eyes.

She was not much older than her, perhaps the same age. Dark dress, fair hair tucked neatly beneath a scarf. There was something exhausted in the way she held herself, something heavy in her presence.

But it was not her that caught her breath.

It was the child at her side.

Small. Fragile. Barely past toddler years.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Eyes that she knew.

A sickening realisation twisted in her gut.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked from the child to the woman, her mind reeling, piecing together a truth she had not been prepared to face.

The woman’s lips parted.

"Je suis désolée." I’m sorry.

The accent was off. The words clumsy, unnatural.

She had not spoken French for long.

Her throat tightened.

"Why," she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying, "would you be sorry? He left you to fend for yourself and I took him from you."

The woman exhaled sharply, something bitter in the sound.

"Your only crime," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "was falling in love with a man who was not honest with you."

The words struck like a blade, but there was no malice in them.

Only truth.

She should have hated her.

Should have despised the woman who had killed the man she had loved.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew—she knew.

She had seen the truth in that newspaper.

Max had not been the man she thought he was.

He had belonged to someone else.

Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp cheeks, her breath still uneven, but her words came steady.

The air between them grew still.

The woman looked at her for a long moment, as if searching her face for something she could not name.

Then, silently, she reached into her coat.

Pulled out a stack of letters.

She held them out.

"Il t’a écrit." He wrote to you.

She stared at the bundle, her chest tightening. The pages were worn, the edges curled and soft with use.

"On his journey back to Hasselt." The woman’s voice wavered slightly, as though she were speaking of something that still pained her. "He never wrote to me."

Her fingers closed around the letters hesitantly, as if they might disappear the moment she touched them.

"He couldn’t even spell his family name when he left," the woman murmured, something almost wry in her voice.

She swallowed thickly.

Of course.

He could not write.

She had spent months teaching him, watching him fumble with letters, struggle to form words.

"I suppose," the woman said, a quiet sigh in her voice, "he truly loved you."

Her breath shuddered.

She did not know what to say.

Did not know how to respond to a truth that should have comforted her, yet only made the loss feel sharper.

So she did not speak at all.

She only clutched the letters to her chest—

And let the weight of them settle into her bones.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

The wind moved through the graveyard, rustling the brittle grass and carrying with it the distant toll of a church bell.

She clutched the letters tightly, as if they were the last pieces of him she would ever hold, but her gaze had fallen to the child standing beside the woman.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Max’s face, staring back at her with quiet curiosity.

She swallowed, her throat raw.

"Comment tu t’appelles?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. His lips parted, his voice small, yet eerily familiar—

"Emilian."

The breath left her lungs.

It wasn’t just his eyes, his hair—it was his voice too. The same soft lilt, the same gentle way Max had once spoken to her in the quiet of the night.

She felt the weight of it press against her ribs, tightening around her heart.

The woman exhaled, a sound almost bitter, almost tired.

"For a while," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the child, "I couldn’t look at Emilian without seeing Max."

Her fingers curled slightly.

"I hated him." A pause. "Myself. Everything."

The words landed like a blow.

Her breath caught.

Her mind spun, twisting, unravelling, until the truth struck her with brutal clarity—

It was exactly what she had been doing.

To her daughter.

To the child with his eyes.

She had kept away, had let others raise her, because every time she looked at her, it was not just her daughter she saw.

It was him.

And she had hated her for it.

Her stomach twisted, her grip on the letters trembling slightly.

The woman’s words echoed in her head, reverberating through the hollow spaces she had carved out of herself.

She had not even asked for her own daughter’s name.

She had not wanted to know.

A sharp pang of shame coiled in her chest, cold and unforgiving.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Because for the first time in months—

She did not know who she was grieving.

She did not know how long she satthere, rooted to the earth, the weight of the past pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

The woman and the boy lingered a moment longer, then turned away, disappearing into the quiet streets of Hasselt.

She remained, clutching the letters, staring at Max’s name carved into the stone.

She was not sure what she had expected to find here. Closure, perhaps. Answers.

But all she had found was herself, reflected back in the grief of another.

And for the first time, she did not run from it.

She let it settle, let it ache.

Then, slowly, finally, she turned away.

Arthur was waiting just beyond the gates.

He had not paced, had not fidgeted. He had simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead, as though he had always known she would return to him.

When she saw him, something in her crumbled.

She moved to him without thinking, closing the distance between them in a few short strides.

And then she was in his arms.

Arthur stiffened for the briefest moment, as if caught off guard, but then his grip tightened, his arms locking around her.

She pressed her face into his chest, the sobs wracking through her once more, but this time they did not tear her apart.

Arthur said nothing.

He only held her.

Not as he had that night on the bridge, when he had caught her from the edge of the abyss—when he had held on as though she might slip through his fingers.

But as a brother does.

Steady. Constant.

As though he had been waiting for her to come back.

The train rocked gently beneath them, the countryside rolling past in a blur of muted greens and greys.

Arthur sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the window, arms folded.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then, at last, she did.

"I’m going to Paris."

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

She exhaled, her hands smoothing over the letters resting in her lap. "In the week. I’ll find work—maybe in one of the grand houses, a governess, a maid—something with a rich family." She swallowed. "And I’ll come home on the weekends. To her."

Arthur’s eyes flickered to her then.

"I will raise her." The words came steadier than she expected. "I will be her mother."

For a moment, Arthur said nothing.

Then, a slow breath left him.

And he nodded.

"Je suis heureux de te retrouver, sœur." I’m glad to have you back, sister.

A lump formed in her throat.

She turned to the window, blinking hard.

Outside, the world blurred past, shifting, changing.

She was not the same girl who had arrived in Hasselt.

And when she returned home—

She would not be the same girl who had left.

The months that followed were slow and unsteady, like learning how to walk again after a great fall.

She found work in Paris, just as she had planned. A grand house, high windows, polished floors that never scuffed beneath hurried footsteps. She was a governess to the children of a family so rich they barely saw them, her days spent teaching soft-spoken boys their letters, combing through tangled curls, buttoning coats that would never feel the bite of winter.

It was a quiet life, a measured one. And yet, it was not hers.

Hers was the life waiting for her beyond the city, in a house worn by time and war, in the arms of a child she was learning to love.

She returned each weekend, stepping off the train with a bag heavy on her shoulder and the weight of the world lighter in her chest.

On the weekends she could not come, Charles brought her daughter to her. He never let her miss more than a week, never let the distance stretch too wide between them. He would arrive at the door of the grand house, his cap pulled low, her daughter bundled against the cold, and the moment she saw her, everything else fell away.

Arthur was the one who raised her in the days between. He never spoke of it, never boasted, never asked for thanks. But he was there, always there. Holding her daughter's small hands as she took her first steps, lifting her onto his shoulders when she refused to walk, murmuring stories into her ear when the night grew too dark.

At first, she had been afraid. Afraid that when her daughter looked at her, she would see the ghost of a man who had lied to them both.

But she did not.

She saw her mother.

And that was enough.

She did not let her daughter suffer the sins of her father.

She let her be her own.

And though grief lingered, though it always would, in some quiet corner of her heart, it no longer held her captive.

One evening, as she sat in the schoolhouse, letters spread before her, candlelight flickering against the ink, she thought of Max.

Not as he had been. Not as the man she had once loved, nor the man she had lost.

But simply as someone who had passed through her life.

Someone who had given her something more than pain.

Something that would outlast him.

She dipped her pen in ink, her fingers steady.

And for the first time in her life.

She wrote his name without shaking.

THE END.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn @iamred-iamyellow @obxstiles @iimplicitt @oscduck81

[writingunderneathawillow]

piano lessons (bucky barnes x fem!reader)

content warnings: depiction of injury (gunshot), canon level injury, hurt/comfort, angsty, good amount of fluff for balance word count: 1.6k a/n: i used to play the piano as a kid and i recently got back into it, so this was kinda exciting to write

The safe house you and Bucky were staying in was on another level of luxurious.

Nestled in the outer skirts of London stood the imposing terraced family home, inconspicuously conspicuous with its grand brick walls and lush green shrubs adorning the iron fence.

It looked like something straight from a movie set; deep maroon floorboards contrasting with the rich green of the wallpaper which depicted flowers and birds you had never seen before in golden embossments.

Oak furniture filled every room, shining with the sunlight that bled in through the great windows, colouring every piece in golden hues.

Sadly, you didn’t have a lot of time to appreciate the beautiful scenery as Bucky had taken a bullet straight to his gut and was now bleeding profusely on the three hundred year old oriental rug while you were closing every heavy velvet carpet to shield the two of you from wealthy passerby’s curious stares.

In an instant you were by Bucky’s side, balancing a med kit in your shaking hands as you pulled the shirt from his wound. He winced and instinctively reached out to grab a hold of your fingers as the fabric inched over his skin.

“Sorry,” you whispered, and he shook his head.

“No, it’s fine, I didn’t mean to…,” he trailed off and pulled his hand back.

“I need to stop the bleeding but it’s gonna sting,” you murmured and looked into Bucky’s eyes.

“Well, it already does, so…,” he grunted through gritted teeth and hissed as you pressed the cloth against the gunshot, keeping pressure on the wound until the blood flow halted.

“You okay?” You asked quietly while rummaging through the bag with a very limited number of medical supplies, retrieving gauze, disinfectant and some large tweezers.

He nodded but one look at his face told you that he was holding back. Sweat pearled on his forehead, drenching the clammy pale skin underneath.

The cap of the antiseptic clattered as you dropped it to the floor while applying the liquid to a clean rag and dabbed at the edges of the gunshot.

Usually, you weren’t shy around blood; years of field work had toughened you up and you had dressed more wounds than you could count. But Bucky’s pained face with his lips pressed so hard against each other that they were fully drained of colour sent an ice-cold sensation through your body that lingered in your abdomen and threatened to send you into fight or flight mode.

Instead you pushed through and disinfected your hands before grabbing the tweezers. You held your breath, almost inclined to close your eyes as you began to feel for the bullet.

Bucky groaned, gripping your knee as it was the only thing he could hold on to without disrupting you.

With a sharp breath you recovered the bullet lodged not too far below his skin and immediately pressed gauze on the injury.

With a quick glance at Bucky you saw how his eyes rolled back, and you harshly said: “Don’t you dare pass out right now.”

Your voice was tinged with fear, and it seemed to bring him back, eyelids parting to reveal the blue beneath.

“’m not gonna pass out,” he promised, though the colour of his skin drained even further.

You bandaged the wound as much as possible, setting a mental reminder to check for infection as often as possible.

“This is not gonna kill me, don’t worry,” Bucky rasped, his flesh arm stretching out, and his pointer finger hovering just above the crease between your eyebrows as you observed him.

He smoothed out the skin with just a simple touch but your worries didn’t cease.

“You need to rest,” you hummed softly and took his hand.

“So, now I may pass out?” He teased and you were relieved to hear the smidge of cockiness in his voice.

“Yeah, you may, I’ll make sure you keep breathing,” you replied and squeezed his hand.

Bucky slept for the next few hours as you tried to get into contact with the team.

Your heartbeat skyrocketed when Steve told you it would take them until the morning to come and get you; the stress was basically radiating off of you.

You were well aware that Bucky was not going to die from the gunshot. Not only had it not hit any life-threatening areas, but his enhanced healing had also already begun to kick in. The last time you had checked on and redressed his wound, it had looked a lot better, the skin already beginning to stitch itself together.

Still, the idea of Bucky’s health resting exclusively on your shoulders weighed heavily on you. What if something went wrong? What if your attackers found the safe house?

You barely slept at night, counting down the hours until the other Avengers would arrive to bring you home. Every few minutes you wriggled yourself out of your makeshift bed next to Bucky on the couch, either to feel his forehead for warmth or to inspect the healing process of the injury.

In the early morning hours, just before sunrise, you gave up on trying to catch even a few minutes of sleep. Instead, you gave Bucky one last assessment before you began to wander through the house.

Originally, you had wanted to go to the kitchen to make breakfast out of the food of which you were sure that it was stashed in cans somewhere.

But you were curious about the house, it’s grand décor and expensive furniture intriguing you, which led you to make your way through every room.

A marble bathroom with copper armatures and hand carved soaps, a dining room bigger than your own apartment with a fully stocked bar, a guest bedroom with glass stained windows – they all took your breath away.

But the most beautiful room of them all was the study.

Books littered the massive shelves that reached until the ceiling, occasionally broken up by gold accented clutter or exotic looking art pieces.

A colossal desk stood in the centre of the room, gorgeous wood carvings worked dutifully into the auburn material.

Your eyes lit up as you took in the stand-up piano which stood against the south facing wall of the room.

The fallboard creaked slightly as you revealed the keyboard, dragging a finger over the ivories.

It had been years since the last time you played the piano, but muscle memory is stronger than one would think.

You sat down on the stool and instinctively straightened your back as if you could still hear your music teacher scolding you.

Your shaky hands rested against the cold keys, slowly playing a few chords.

The smile that broke out of you was uncontainable as you listened to the slightly out of tune music, so reminiscent of your youth.

After your fingers danced up and down the scale, you began to play a composition that you had been taught very early on.

The sounds of Für Elise filled the room, every movement sensational and familiar at the same time.

When the floorboards creaked, you shot up, already reaching for your gun only to see Bucky.

His hand pressed against his wound, he rested against the door frame, a hint of sleepiness in his eyes.

“Just me,” he mumbled, hands raised slightly.

“God, I’m sorry,” you replied quickly, dropping your hand from the gun holster.

“What are you doing up? Oh... God- I didn’t mean to wake you,” you rambled, eyes darting between him and the piano. Your cheeks heated up as you realised that the music must have disrupted his sleep.

“It’s fine, I’m not tired anymore,” he answered, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I didn’t know you played,” he then added, nodding towards the piano.

“I used to,” you explained, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Sounded good to me.” Even though his voice was filled with a bit of teasing, his expression was earnest; it almost seemed longing.

“Do you play?” You asked curiously.

He chuckled and shook his head.

“No, no, I don’t.”

You bit your lip as you looked at him, not sure if you were overstepping or not.

“Do you wanna learn? Some chords… or… anything?”

He met your eyes, his own round with surprise. “I don’t think I’d be any good,” he replied, scratching the back of his head.

You tutted and waved him closer. “Just try, maybe you’re a natural.”

He stepped closer and let himself be guided onto the stool by you. With the pads of his fingers pressed against the keys, he looked to you for guidance.

“Uh,” you began, stopping yourself as you began to reach out for his hands to adjust the position of them. Instead, you held your hand in the air and showed him how to curve his fingers. “You should try to keep your fingers like this, gives you more control.”

He adjusted his grip and met your eyes again, waiting for further instruction.

“Alright.” You mirrored him an octave higher and began to play three notes. “Just copy what I do, ok?”

He nodded and lowered his gaze to your fingers as you repeated the same tones.

With a little more force than necessary he replicated your movements, pressing the keys into the wood.

You chuckled softly.

“No need to be so rough on the keys, keep your fingers a little lighter. But other than that, good job.”

Bucky smiled contently and tried again, this time playing a bit softer.

“Like this?” He asked and looked at you again. Your stomach fluttered as you met his piercing stare.

“Hmm,” you replied dreamily, nodding slowly.

“Can you play again, doll? It sounded a lot better when you did,” he requested and leaned back a little to watch you. He smiled when he saw the heat creeping up your neck.

[revelboo]

Damn it Revel! You got me addicted to the Insecticin boys and now look! Now I have Insecticons! Oh and not just these three! Wasp (TFA Transformers Legacy Wasp) is coming Wednesday!

They’re absolute gremlins

Worker Bee Pt 27

Waspinator x Reader

• “Thank you. That’s super helpful,” you mutter, taking away the container of frosting and bag of frozen peas he’s holding out. And he just beams and turns to find more stuff to help you cook breakfast, because sarcasm goes right over his bug head. You’re not even remotely hungry but you need something to distract yourself after the shock of not only sleeping with your weird alien wasp puppy, but that the sex was mind blowing. Though that could have been the drugging effect of his saliva. Alien roofie spit hadn’t been on your bingo card.

• Antenna back as he clears his vents, wings flicking at the stink of your food cooking, he looks for more food stuffs to offer you. “Waspinator best mate.” Preening as you turn and look at him, he flares out his wings slightly for you. And you arch your brows at him, almost smiling.“Waspinator good mate?”

• Grimacing at that word, mate, you try to figure out how to explain to him that you’re not his mate and a repeat of last night isn’t happening. Period. Awesome, toe-curling, mind shattering sex or not. “Wasp, sweetie, we’re not mates.” Turning your bacon as his antenna and wings droop to make you feel immediately guilty, you sigh. But with how he deliberately misunderstands you sometimes, painfully blunt is best. “What happened last night? That was a mistake.” And he’s just staring at you with big optics, making you wonder if he understands or if he’s off in his own little world.

• Fidgeting his servos, his wings flick. A mistake? “Waspinator bad?” Always making mistakes, getting in trouble. Unwanted. “Trying.” Trying so hard for you, to be helpful, to take care of you. So you’ll let him love you, hold you. Wants to belong to someone that wants him around. “Try harder.” Hooking his arms around you, he drags you into him. Wrapping himself around you. He can do better. Be better. Be whatever you need him to be.

• Why does he always make this so hard? Make you feel like the bad guy? Reaching up, you lay your palm on his arm as he presses his face against your neck. He’s sweet and that dumb optimism of his wears down your resistance. Makes you want to just go along with him because it’s easier. Sleeping with him was a mistake. A moment of euphoric weakness like the way your stomach does a little flip when he wraps his servos around your fingers and nuzzles more firmly against your neck with a whine. Because he just wants to be loved and wanted. And you understand that too well, but an alien bug husband isn’t exactly what you envisioned when you pictured the big house and white picket fence in your daydreams.

Previous

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Atsumu

You’ve known the Miya twins for as long as you can remember. They were the loudest boys on the playground, all scuffed knees and sunburned cheeks, their laughter carrying across the schoolyard like a war cry. Atsumu, the loudmouth with a cocky grin that drove teachers insane, and Osamu, the quieter one who always seemed two seconds away from dragging his brother out of trouble. You were caught in the middle—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—but you never complained. Being with them was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“Yer too slow!” Atsumu had whined once, standing at the edge of the sandbox with his hands on his hips while you struggled to keep up. “Then go ahead without me!” you’d huffed, kicking sand in his direction, cheeks flushed and breathless.

But he never did.

No matter how many times you fell behind, no matter how many times Osamu rolled his eyes and threatened to leave you both behind, Atsumu always waited. And somehow, that pattern never changed.

Years passed. Middle school turned into high school. The three of you didn’t hang out as much anymore—between club activities, exams, and life pulling you in different directions, it was harder to find the time. But you still showed up. For them.

You never missed a game, sitting in the stands with Osamu’s mom and cheering as loud as the rest of the Inarizaki fans. You watched Atsumu serve with impossible precision, eyes narrowing with focus before the ball left his hand. You watched Osamu spike with terrifying accuracy, his smirk barely contained afterward. You were proud of them both, proud to see them rise, proud to be part of the crowd that supported them.

“Yer comin’ to the next match, right?” Atsumu asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the fence with his bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead, and his uniform was loose, hanging casually over his broad frame. The sun was dipping lower, casting warm orange hues across the field where a few stragglers still kicked a soccer ball around. You glanced up from your phone, pretending to be nonchalant. “I always do, don’t I?” His grin stretched wide—cocky and confident, just like always—but there was something in his eyes. Something… uncertain. Hidden beneath the bravado. “Just checkin’.” He kicked at the dirt, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “Ya don’t gotta, y’know. Betcha got better things to do than watch us all the time.”

Osamu was the one who noticed it first, the subtle shift in Atsumu’s behavior. It was after another win, and the three of you had gone out to grab a bite. Atsumu was unusually quiet, barely picking at his food while you and Osamu bickered over the best dipping sauce for karaage. “Oi,” Osamu had muttered under his breath when you went to the counter to grab more napkins. “What’s with ya?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu had mumbled, poking at his plate, but Osamu’s eyes had narrowed. “Ya never shut up. Now yer quiet? Somethin’s up.”

“Nothin’s up,” Atsumu insisted, but Osamu didn’t look convinced. He shot his brother a look but didn’t press further. Later that night, as you waved goodbye and promised to see them at the next game, Osamu lingered behind. “He’s actin’ weird,” he muttered, watching Atsumu walk ahead. “Ya notice?”

You had laughed, brushing it off. “When isn’t he weird?”

It wasn’t until you started talking about someone else—Takahiro, a guy from your class—that things started to change. He was smart, funny, and polite in a way that seemed almost too perfect. You didn’t even realize how often you were mentioning him—how your eyes lit up when you talked about how he made you laugh during group projects, how he texted you after class to ask if you understood the material. At first, Atsumu barely reacted. Just a quirk of his brow and a half-hearted, “Huh. Cool.” But then it happened again. And again. And suddenly, Takahiro’s name was slipping into conversations more often than not, and Atsumu noticed. Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t say anything to you about it. But he did talk to Osamu.

“He likes her, don’t he?” Atsumu had muttered one afternoon, his voice low, barely audible as they sat in the back of the gym after practice. His knees were drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them while he picked absentmindedly at the tape around his fingers, pulling at the frayed edges like they held the answers to his problems.

Osamu raised a brow, glancing sideways at his brother. “Who? Takahiro?” His tone was neutral, but the way he looked at Atsumu was anything but.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s jaw clenched as he peeled another strip of tape from his skin, eyes fixed on the floor. “She’s always talkin’ about him lately. Laughin’ at his dumb jokes. Her face lights up when she talks about him.”

“Since when do ya pay attention to that kinda thing?” Osamu’s tone was teasing, but there was something careful underneath it, something that probed deeper.

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s answer was too fast, too defensive. His fingers stilled against his knee, tape forgotten as he shifted, posture rigid.

Osamu tilted his head, watching his brother closely. “Right.” Silence stretched between them for a beat, thick and unspoken. “So, why do ya care?”

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter this time, almost too quiet. But his jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something Osamu didn’t need to ask about.

Osamu exhaled softly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Yer full of shit, y’know.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask any more questions. But his words lingered in the air, hanging heavy between them. Atsumu didn’t respond, and Osamu let it go—for now. But the silence that followed spoke louder than anything Atsumu could’ve said.

You started noticing the shift after that. Atsumu was different—quieter around you, shorter with his words. His usual sharp remarks didn’t carry the same playful edge anymore. They were clipped, like he was forcing himself to stay distant. At first, you thought he was just tired. Volleyball took its toll, and with nationals approaching, it wasn’t unusual for the entire team to be running on fumes. But this was different. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, something heavier that settled in the pit of your stomach. His eyes didn’t linger on you the way they used to, and when they did, there was something in them you couldn’t place. Frustration? Hurt? You weren’t sure, but it left a bad taste in your mouth.

It all came to a head during the next game.

It was an intense match—one where every point mattered, the air thick with anticipation. You were in your usual spot in the stands, cheering louder than most of the crowd, but this time… you weren’t alone. Takahiro was beside you, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing yours as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. You didn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and fleeting, but he saw it. He saw the way you smiled—soft and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners—and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

It burned.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling a little too tightly around the ball as he lined up his serve. He tried to shake it off, to focus on the game, but your laugh echoed louder than the roar of the crowd in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, faster, harder, until it drowned out everything else. The whistle blew. He tossed the ball, went through the motions—but his mind wasn’t in it. His focus was shattered, replaced by a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with.

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was deafening in his ears. Atsumu’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe through the frustration. He didn’t look at you after that. He couldn’t. But he felt it—your eyes on him, concern etched into your features, even as you turned back to Takahiro. The tension settled like a weight in his chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Throughout the rest of the game, Atsumu was off. His sets were technically perfect, but they lacked their usual precision. His timing was a second too late, his movements a little too forced. The fire that usually burned in his veins, the one that made him relentless on the court, was barely a flicker. And no one noticed but Osamu.

“Get yer head outta yer ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu muttered under his breath during a timeout, his voice low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Yer messin’ up, and I know why.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, eyes locked on the floor, jaw clenched. But Osamu wasn’t done. “If ya don’t fix it, we’re gonna lose. And if we do, it’s on you.”

By some miracle, Inarizaki still scraped by with a win—but barely. Atsumu was the first one off the court when the final whistle blew, not bothering to stick around as the team lined up to thank the crowd. His skin was crawling, frustration boiling beneath the surface as he tore off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it into his bag. He needed to clear his head. He needed to breathe.

And you? You noticed.

“Where’s Atsumu?” you asked, concern lacing your voice as you turned to Osamu while everyone congratulated the team. Osamu’s eyes flickered toward the gym, his expression neutral but his tone softer than usual. “Needed some air,” he muttered, his voice quiet but knowing. “Ya know how he gets.” And that was all it took.

Your chest tightened. Something told you this wasn’t just about a bad game.

“Oi, Miya!” Takahiro’s voice broke through the hum of post-game chatter as he stepped forward, flashing a bright smile. “Hell of a match out there. You guys pulled through in the end.” His words were polite, his tone smooth, but the second they left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

Ginjima, who was standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, barely masking his distaste as he gave Takahiro a once-over. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something. "So, ya think—"

But before he could finish, Aran stepped in, his usual easy-going demeanor firming up as he gave Takahiro a curt nod.

“Thanks,” Aran cut in smoothly, his tone polite but clipped just enough to send a message. “Appreciate it.”

Takahiro, oblivious to the silent exchange, just smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “No problem. You guys really pulled through.”

You felt the tension rolling off Ginjima, and even Kita’s usually neutral expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered between Takahiro and the team.

You lingered with the team for a little while longer, standing by Aran as he exchanged a few polite words with Takahiro, who was blissfully unaware of the underlying tension. You nodded along, adding the occasional "yeah" or "for sure" as Takahiro talked about how intense the game had been and how impressed he was by Inarizaki's performance. But your mind was elsewhere.

Atsumu’s absence gnawed at you. The way he’d left the court so quickly, the frustration rolling off of him in waves—it didn’t sit right. Something was wrong, and no matter how much you tried to focus on the conversation happening around you, the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, as the crowd began to thin out and the post-game buzz started to fade, Takahiro turned to you with that same easy smile. "We’re all gonna grab something to eat after. You coming?"

You hesitated, your heart tugging you in a different direction. "Hey… I think I’m gonna head home," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m kinda tired."

Takahiro’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You sure? We were all gonna hang out for a bit."

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you replied, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright… text me when you get home, yeah?"

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

As Takahiro rejoined the group, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd without a second glance. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you back toward the gym, where you knew exactly where Atsumu would be. Something gnawed at your gut, telling you this wasn’t just about a bad game. You could feel it, a weight settling in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

As you got closer to the gym, the familiar sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoed through the quiet night. The steady thump reverberated through the empty halls, each hit carrying a frustration that was almost palpable. Your steps slowed as you approached the entrance, the muffled grunts of effort and the sharp sound of rubber meeting wood growing louder with each step.

When you reached the doorway, you stopped, heart hammering in your ears as you took in the sight before you. Atsumu was there, just as you’d known he would be. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. His jersey was clinging to his back, soaked through, and the gym floor was littered with scattered volleyballs, some rolling lazily across the surface after missed targets. But Atsumu wasn’t slowing down.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on an invisible target as he tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, body coiling with raw power. The crack of the ball echoed through the gym as it slammed into the floor, and a grunt of frustration escaped his lips, reverberating off the walls.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, watching him pour every ounce of frustration and anger into each serve. He didn’t notice you. Not yet.

“You're gonna break the damn floor at this rate.”

Your voice echoed across the empty gym, but Atsumu didn’t stop. He tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, slamming it with a grunt that reverberated off the walls. The ball ricocheted off the floor and hit the back wall with a loud thud. His breathing was heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale.

“Go home.” His voice was clipped, laced with exhaustion and something sharper. He didn’t turn to look at you, eyes locked on the next ball he was already lining up.

“Atsumu,” you said softly, stepping further into the gym. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” He tossed the ball, and another loud thwack echoed through the gym as the ball hit the floor. “Go home.”

But you didn’t move.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice was firmer this time, crossing your arms as you stood your ground. But then, as Atsumu lined up another ball, ready to serve, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and you stepped forward, planting yourself right in front of him.

“Atsumu, stop.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the ball still gripped tightly in his hand, but you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, heart pounding as you met his gaze head-on.

“Move,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no real heat behind it.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“Why even bother?” His voice was sharper now, but there was something raw beneath the anger. “Go back to yer boyfriend. Bet he’s waitin’ for ya.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his words. “Boyfriend? You mean Takahiro?”

“Yeah, him.” He finally turned, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—hurt, frustration… jealousy? “Bet he’s real smitten with ya, sittin’ in the stands, watchin’ ya smile at him like that.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Atsumu snapped, his voice rising. “I saw ya. Laughin’ at his jokes, lettin’ him get close. Ya looked real happy. Real fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s what this is about?” Your voice sharpened, anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re pissed because I was talking to Takahiro?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Atsumu drawled, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he dropped the ball and crossed his arms. “‘Takahiro’s so nice,’” he mimicked, his voice going higher, mimicking yours in an exaggerated, sing-song way. “‘Takahiro helped me with my assignment.’ ‘Takahiro said the funniest thing today.’” He scoffed, his expression darkening as he took a step closer, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to jealousy. “Ya never shut up about him.”

If you weren't pissed before, you sure as hell were now.

Your jaw clenched, heat rushing to your face as your hands balled into fists at your sides. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” He let out a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just sick of listenin’ to ya gush about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“Are you serious right now?!” You raised your voice, the frustration bubbling over. “You’re actin’ like a damn child, Atsumu!”

“Maybe I am!” Atsumu’s voice shot up, matching yours as his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your pulse race. “But at least I’m not the one actin’ blind to what’s right in front of me!”

“Blind to what?!” You threw your hands in the air, voice sharp and cutting as you took a step toward him, closing the space between you until there was barely any room left. Your chest brushed his as you tilted your chin up to meet his fiery gaze. “Why do you even care so much, Atsumu?!”

“Why do I care?!” He was practically towering over you now, his breath hot and ragged as his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration. “Because ya never stop talkin’ about him! ‘Takahiro this, Takahiro that!’ It’s all I ever fuckin’ hear!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like you don’t give a damn about me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground even as the tension between you became suffocating.

“I don’t give a damn?!” Atsumu’s voice was louder now, the frustration bleeding into his tone as he stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. “You’re the one who’s been actin’ like I’m invisible! Like I’m just—just some guy while yer out there with him!”

“Then why didn’t you say something?!” You screamed, voice echoing through the gym, your frustration boiling over. Your hands were trembling now, knuckles white from how hard you were clenching them at your sides. “Why do you even care so much?!”

“Because I love you!”

The words erupted from him, loud and raw, his voice breaking as the confession echoed through the gym and filled the space between you. His chest heaved, his face flushed from a mix of anger and desperation, and his eyes—wide, vulnerable, and filled with something you hadn’t seen before—were locked onto yours.

You froze, the weight of his words crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. The world went silent, and for the first time since you’d stepped into that gym, neither of you had anything left to say.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you stared at him, his chest still heaving from the force of his confession. The air felt thick, suffocating, as your mind raced to process what he had just said. Seconds stretched on, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then, without thinking, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess it, you stepped forward. Your eyes locked on his, your expression unreadable, and before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him down.

"You’re so fucking stupid," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was fierce, fueled by weeks—no, months—of pent-up frustration, confusion, and feelings you had pushed down for far too long. Your lips crashed into his, and Atsumu froze for half a second before he was kissing you back with just as much desperation. His hands found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the world around you blurred until nothing else existed.

The anger, the yelling, the unspoken words—they all melted away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in the heat of the moment, finally giving in to everything you’d both been too stubborn to admit.

[elodieunderglass]

Egg: I moved into my grandmother's abandoned hoarder house earlier this year. It has been a great deal of cleaning and repairing and finding and throwing out and reminiscing. When I was little (and potentially before I was alive) there was a lovely little partition fence across the backyard, but it's long since been knocked over in a hurricane and I wasn't able to get it back up. I pulled the whole thing apart and put the planks in a pile to be dealt with later.

When it came time to build planter boxes for this year's garden (first time I've tried planting one) I cringed at lumber prices for a bit before remembering I Literally Have A Stack Of Planks already. I had no blueprint or real plan and just knocked a few of these together using pieces from the fence and a box of roofing nails I found in the shed. They are warped and ugly, this is the neatest one.

I have never done woodworking or gardening before and someone who knows more than me about either probably would have done both very differently, but now there's dirt in the boxes and plants in the dirt, and the wood is probably older than I am but it still works fine for what I currently need it to do and life changes but it goes on or something like that.

I am so so pleased with you - all of this was brave and none of it was easy. Thank you so much for sharing it. I really appreciate that you went to the trouble.

I also admire how much you did, and in how many ways, to claw this out of the entropy around you. There was a lot of resistance to achieving this - everything from materials to sentiment to lack of experience- and you threw your heart over the fence and followed it. Well done! You shall have one of the very last eggs for Killie.

[meggannn]

the kerry & v relationship is so funny to me because from v's perspective, their brainworm is like "hey go break into my choom's house, dw he won't mind" so v's like "uhhhh ok i guess, what's trespassing into a legendary rockerboy's mcmansion compared to the other shit we've done, hopefully johnny can help his friend then we'll get out of his hair before he decides to call the cops on me for hopping his fence and disabling/destroying his security bots and walking around his house and waiting for him to find me like a psycho fan." and they black out right outside his bathroom while he's showering to let their parasite take over

then v blinks and superstar kerry eurodyne is leaning over them on the floor like "hey :) so glad ur here, make urself at home, mi casa es su casa, also we're putting the band back together and you're joining, won't take no for an answer dw you'll do great :)" and v is just like

[kaayyyys]

Rick Grimes

Fluff alphabet

Part 1 (a-j )

For those of us who have fallen for the quiet strength, the unwavering loyalty, and the surprising tenderness hidden beneath Rick Grimes's hardened exterior, this is an exploration of the little things, the acts of love – big and small – that define his connection with the one he holds dearest.

A - Affectionate Touches

Rick isn't one for grand gestures, but his love is woven into the fabric of everyday life. A hand grazing your lower back as he guides you through a crowd, a gentle squeeze of your hand across the table, a lingering brush of his lips against your temple as he passes by. These small, almost unconscious touches are his constant reassurance, a silent promise of his unwavering presence. He'll often pull you close when you're standing near each other, just to feel your warmth against him.

B - Bedtime Stories (and cuddles)

Maybe not stories in the traditional sense, but Rick loves to talk with you before you fall asleep. About his past, about his worries, about his hopes for the future. Lying tangled together in a bed, or just next to each other on the floor. He loves running his fingers through your hair as you gently fall asleep in his arms. He will never be the first one to fall asleep, just so he can watch you, observe how beautiful you are and make sure you are still here.

C - Comfort.

Rick is your personal safe haven. When the world feels like it's crashing down around you, he's the one you run to. He’ll hold you close, his strong arms a shield against all the chaos. He doesn’t always need words; his presence alone is often enough to calm the storm inside you. He'll listens intently, offering advice only when asked, and when he does, his words are always measured, thoughtful, and full of genuine care.

D- Devotion.

Rick's devotion is a quiet, burning flame. He's not fickle; once he gives his heart, it's yours to keep. His loyalty is absolute, his commitment unwavering. You'll see it in the way he looks at you, the way he prioritizes your well-being above his own, and the fierce protectiveness that rises within him whenever you're threatened.

E - Empathetic Listening: Rick may not be the most talkative person, but he's an excellent listener. He truly hears you, not just the words you say, but the emotions behind them. He remembers the little details, the things that matter to you, and he uses that knowledge to support you in ways that are both profound and deeply personal. He will spend countless nights just holding you while you cry over all that has happened, never once judging you.

F -Future Planning.

Rick doesn't talk about a white picket fence, but he does think about the future – a future where you both are safe, content, and building a life together. He'll talk about rebuilding, about creating a community where hope can flourish, and he always includes you in that vision. He wants you by his side, not just as a partner, but as an integral part of his world.

G - Gentle Kisses

Not always passionate, fiery kisses (though those have their place), but the soft, gentle kisses that speak of tenderness and affection. A kiss on your forehead as he leaves for a supply run, a lingering kiss on the nape of your neck as you're cooking dinner, a light brush of his lips against yours as you drift off to sleep. These are the kisses that say, "I love you," without uttering a word.

H - Holding Hands

A simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes. Whether you're walking through the woods, sitting by a campfire, or simply relaxing in each other's company, Rick loves to hold your hand. It's a grounding connection, a reminder that you're not alone, that you have each other to lean on. His large, calloused hand fits perfectly with yours.

I -Inside Jokes

He has few friends, even fewer that have survived. But you hold a special place with him. Sometimes, amidst all the chaos, you'll share a look, a small smile, a silent understanding that no one else could possibly comprehend. These inside jokes, these shared moments of levity, are a testament to the deep bond you share.

J -Just Being There

Sometimes, the greatest act of love is simply being present. Rick understands this implicitly. He doesn't need to solve all your problems or offer grand solutions; he just needs to be there, a steadfast presence in your life, a shoulder to lean on when you need it most.

[boolger]

Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before 🌻 ch.4

Female reader x Nikolai x Price ✨ wc: 6.4K - call of duty - explicit, MDNI. Read the tags. Dead dove don’t eat.

<-last chapter✨ AO3 link ✨masterlist ✨ next chapter ->

tags: non-consensual elements/rape, bikers AU, biker gang 141, omegaverse, dub-con, non-con touching, harassment, stalking, reader has a vagina, M/M/F threesome, threats, reader has a nickname, loss of parent, original characters, pack dynamics, alpha!John Price, Alpha!Nikolai, omega!reader, forced bonding, loss of virginity, breeding kink, piss kink, scent marking, daddy kink, stun guns, smut, rough sex, knotting, (maybe pregnancy), voyeurism, punishments, noncon spanking, p in v sex, anal sex, overstimulation, claiming barks, uh short appearance of a chopped off body part (action not described but the part will appear shortly)

A/N: Read the tags. This is were all the more intense stuff begins. If you don’t like reading non-con and dark stuff like that, stop reading this fic. I had plans of making this chapter longer, but I have decided to cut it there, because otherwise i feel like i force too much into one chapter alone lol. As always, lots of smooches to the lovely @venuskaltrip for being a bestie and dealing w my yapping

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Run.

Your sneakers crushed the flowers that the Parker pack had no doubt spent time planting last weekend - you rushed through the little garden gate that they had to the The Browns’ garden; ignoring the yells from the bikers, as you disappeared further and further in between the houses with the twisting trails and barely-there openings between houses that you could only just squeeze through.

Forcing bushes to part, ignoring whenever thorns ripped in your clothes and your skin. Accidentally breaking a potted plant or two, almost making a garden gnome fall over.

Run.

You lost them three or four gardens ago.

Shouts echoing - motorbikes being started, the sounds of the engines adding to the music of the thunderous clouds above. The footsteps behind you became less and less audible - you desperately needed to put more space in between them.

Run.

Millhaven wasn’t big enough to hide in forever, they would find you eventually even if you hid in between houses and shops, on roofs or in garden sheds - but you knew that, knew that you just had to occupy them for a short moment, make them think you stayed, while you didn’t. Hoping they would spend time looking through gardens, behind houses and between alleyways.

As you spotted the thin opening in the back of the garden, which belonged to the house with the smoking teenager, you went directly towards it. The opening was thin, right in between the stone fence and a bush, but it was there and after checking over the shoulder to make sure none of the bikers were near, you pushed yourself through it.

Run.

Away from the asphalt and gravel roads, the houses and gardens, the street lights and the light turning on in the windows; into the darkness of the night, to hide in between the shadows, inside the field.

The cornfield greeted you like an old friend, when you ran into it, the stalks and leaves hitting your jacket with soft thuds, opening up for you and closing up behind. The engines were like monsters in the dark, looking for you.

The whole town had to know now - know that something was up, that something was wrong tonight. That the roars of the sky was a warning for what to come, dark moments that had built up to this for weeks.

You ran for the forest.

When you were a child, you used to love running through the fields behind Millhaven together with your friends. Run through the wheat, the tall grass - it didn’t matter what was planted, but your favourite was corn. You could disappear into it together, like a never ending labyrinth of green and yellow, that could take hours to escape if you didn’t know how to. Together with Beatrice and the others, you would spend hours and hours out there, right until a few days before harvest. Then you would stay inside the houses or in the gardens, listening to the playground of the year disappear. When everything was done, it would be colder outside - and your little group would stay inside and watch the older kids drive across the bare fields on their ATVs.

Run.

When it was winter and the fields were all bare, it would be football fields or even better, if it snowed, all of you would spend as many bright hours of the day outside, kids across all ages meeting to make giant snow fights and create an endless amount of snowmen. Disappear into the forest behind the fields and when some adults had checked the ice, you would all ice skate on the small lake inside it.

When Carlos was a teenager, he broke his arm once when trying to do a trick, in order to impress Dennis. His parents weren’t impressed, but Dennis did draw a heart on the plaster once Carlos got back from the hospital.

Run.

Another time, during a warm summer evening swim, Beatrice had dropped an earring into the same lake - forcing everyone to dive and search for it, for several days in a row.Finn’s little sister somehow found it three years later and returned it to Bea, who still wore the earrings sometimes.

Run.

Another vivid memory that hit you, as the corn smashed into your face and body, barely able to breathe from how you were forcing your body to continue, was a late summer afternoon many years ago, when you all lost Enid in a cornfield. It felt as if all of you had spent hours yelling out her name, before finally managing to find her before it became too dark outside.

Run.

A corn stalk hit you directly in the middle of your face, making you yelp, only adding to the frustration of the pain already in your body. You wanted to sit down and cry, to hide beneath your dad’s bed, but you had to continue running - you simply had to go straight, then when you hit the first tree, turn left; deeper into the wilder nature, if you weren’t wrong, there might still be a tiny treehouse somewhere near the lake.

The thunderous rumble above you couldn’t hide the sound of an engine not too far from you - it didn’t sound like their big Harley Davidson or whatever their bikes were, but instead like the ATVs from your childhood. You found solace in knowing that it would be hell, if not impossible, to drive through the tall corn - but they could drive by the borders and —

If they didn’t catch you, you were going to die from the pain of running for too long now; your legs burned, your lungs felt like they didn’t work, your pulse was beating so hard it felt like it would burst - there were stars in your eyesight. You wanted to lay down so badly, gasp for air, maybe down three bottles of water.

You had never been a runner. Alphas didn’t physically run from problems, they met them head on.

But you’re not an alpha, are you?

You weren’t sure if it was the fright of what would happen that made your legs continue, if it was somehow courage because you refused to give up - or if it was something instinctual, your inner omega forcing you to not let yourself be taken by such alphas.

You just needed to get to the forest.

Run.

You almost let out a cry of victory when you saw the dark trees looming nearby, a lightning strike not too far away illuminating the sky for a second - dread hitting you suddenly like a lighting strike; you were barely able to stop near the edge, almost falling over face first, with how fast you stopped. Out of reflex you threw yourself onto the ground, in between the stalks and a few seconds later an ATV drove past, a flashlight lighting the corn stalks above you for a second, before it disappeared further down the road.

Looking for you. You wanted to throw up.

You pawed helplessly at your pocket for a moment, taking out your phone - new texts, unanswered calls and you quickly turned it off. Just in case. Even though Mary, Beatrice or any of the others might be trying to contact you, you didn’t trust the 141 to not be tracking you.

In a way, it was like your omega was taking over. After so many years of hiding her away in the back of your mind, she was desperately trying to save you now, forcing you to get up again, not even aware of the muddy clothes. Survive, get somewhere safe - you abandoned the safety of the cornfield, crossing the muddy borders between the field and forest, crawling under the fence. Disappearing in between two tall trees, your omega desperately trying to purr in order to get you to calm down; but you felt possessed, as if overtaken by a demon, unable to phantom the mere idea of slowing down or no longer continue to run.

They were everywhere, you were sure. It was as if all of your paranoia that had been gnawing and growing inside your body for years were coming true. It was only a matter of time, then they would get you - your life would be ruined, they would break you apart and infest your body, break your mind and force you into something you had never been allowed to be; they would take everything from you and if you didn’t attempt to escape it, you might as well had agreed.

Run.

Everything hurt.

Run.

A lightning strike hit again nearby.

Run.

You didn’t want to die.

Run.

You didn’t want them.

Run.

You didn’t want to become their omega.

Run.

The edge of the forest was filled with noise.

Run.

Who would look after Mary?

Run.

Did your dad do it out of love?

Run.

Where were you even supposed to g—

A body collided with yours from the side, a scream leaving you from the lungs that barely seemed able to work.

The forest ground was damp and cold as you hit it, the collision making pain bloom, like a bomb that exploded, sending shockwaves throughout your body. Air forced out your body, as a feral growl came from above you, like an angered god - the second you managed to take a breath, you screamed. Loudly. Hysterically.

Just like you had feared, you had been caught by your worst nightmare, his growling guttural. You trashed, trying to get away, as a hand grabbed onto the back of your jacket, angry words you didn’t understand, spilling from his lips, no, snarled like a beast, as you attempted to elbow him in the face.

”Stupid ‘mega,” Nikolai growled, attempting to put his body weight on top of you, despite how you fought beneath him; screaming and growling without stopping, refusing to stop, even if you only felt yourself be pushed further into the damp forest ground, “so wild - stop fighting—“

Your screams were loud even to yourself, your fingers in pain as you clawed at everything you could get a hold of, squirming to get free from him. The odds were against you - the alpha was bigger and stronger, but still. Why would you stop fighting for what seemed like your own survival?

Nikolai didn’t seem fond of your continual resistance - and when you managed to get one of your hands into your pocket, grabbing onto the pepper spray, an almost animalistic sound left the Russian alpha on top of you. He manhandled you so suddenly it caught you off guard, forcing you onto your back, his big hand grabbing a hold of your wrist in which you held your weapon. Nikolai snatched the metal from your hand despite your other hand clawing at his hand like mad. When he succeeded and tossed the metal can into the darkness of the forest, you screamed again, unsuccessfully attempting to hit his face - but you did manage to knee him between his legs.

A pained howl left him, his grip loosening.

You could hear the sounds of engines coming closer, drawn to the sounds of your screams. Yelling nearby, as they looked for the two of you. The thunder and lightening couldn’t even hide or help you.

You managed to push yourself slightly away, turning around to get up and on your feet.

Nikolai’s hand grabbed onto your ankle before you even got up, pulling you back and making you body slam into the ground again, the alpha snarling words you didn’t understand - you kicked his hand, another snarl leaving the man as you managed to get up, staggering onto your feet.

You didn’t even manage to get that far, his big body pulling you close again, keeping you on your legs.

“Stop fighting, Milaya.” “We will help you.” “You cannot win.” “You’re ours, little one.”

The words all melted together and you didn’t even attempt to listen to it, as he dragged you backwards, closer to the gap between the cornfield and forest edge again, one hand going around your neck, as you desperately attempted to bite and scratch him. Nikolai had taken your pepper spray, but he had seemingly forgotten about your stun gun. Too busy rumbling furiously, a guttural sound, dragging you along, despite your heels digging in and with how you tried fighting - so you somehow managed to pull the weapon from your pocket.

It was close to a practiced, almost a familiar, action now; flipping the on button and pushing down on the other button, as you pressed it against his bare skin on his hand.

An angry, throaty snarl left Nikolai, as he pulled back his hand that had been around your neck, attempting to take your weapon, but you fought this time, pressing it against him again and again - but unlike the first time, the Russian didn’t pull back nor did he let go of you.

”Gonna destroy you,” he darkly warned in between you hopelessly tasering him twice - somehow you managed to press it against his cheek, even if just for a second. You knew you would leave a mark, another stench of burnt flesh hitting you hard, mixing with the overwhelming scent of lust and anger.

It made Nikolai decide to tip you over, his heavy boots kicking your legs out from beneath you; harshly forcing you to the ground, onto your back without any mercy, settling on top of you… Your eyes widened with horror.

He was hard. You could feel his erection pressing against your stomach - when you frantically pressed the metal throngs against him once more, it wasn’t a sound from pain or annoyance that left him. But one from pleasure. The alpha on top of you moaned shamelessly, a deep throaty sound, like he was enjoying being tased. The mere fact startled you enough to allow him to grab onto your stun gun, easily pulling it out of your hand, ignoring your dull claws as you attempted to take it back.

Almost as if the claws weren’t there… as if you weren’t there, as if you weren’t a human being, not like him. Beneath him, easily overtaken, easily defeated.

Run, your inner omega screamed, but how were you supposed to? Submit. Run. Submit. Run. Nikolai was snarling above you, rutting against you, stinking of lust and power, his mere presence demanding the submission you refused to give, fighting every step of the way.

Where exactly he got the wet piece of cloth from, you didn’t know, but the moment he forced it onto the lower half of your face, you knew it wasn’t just water. The smell was intense in its own way, forcing its way into your nostrils and mouth, as you screamed and trashed beneath the bigger man. It was an nauseously sweet scent in an odd way that you almost couldn’t recognise, drops of the liquid trailing into both your nose and mouth, as he pushed it harder against you, staring down at you with a feral grin. Grinding against you, ignoring the way you trashed, the way tears spilled from your eyes, the way you coughed.

”Stop fighting, Milaya,” he cooed, the loving voice almost like venom, forcing its way into your bloodstream, making your body ignite with pain, “Don’t be silly, no?”

Every breath hurt, it burned, not only from the deep exhaustion, as the adrenaline began to disappear, but the wet cloud made you feel dizzy. Nikolai’s entire weight on your body hurt, as stones and branches dug into you from beneath, tears blurring your sight, as you helplessly pawed at him.

Ru-… Submit.

The rumble that came from him was pleased, his free hand sliding beneath your neck and with a little manoeuvring, you felt him grab onto your skin and pull; scruffing you, like a parent would a naughty pup.

”Sleep, little Sunflower,” his voice sounded tender as he almost cooed; like you were his lover having woken from a nightmare, unable to sleep afterwards and not a sobbing mess, he was trying to knock out with chloroform, “no more running.”

Submit, your inner omega screamed. Survive, your mind screamed back.

Headlights illuminated the two of you as you were found; Nikolai became a blurred silhouette above you, a godly shadow, as the last energy left your body and everything went dark.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

There was a familiar smell… blended together with something unfamiliar, yet not fully unknown. You weren't asleep, but you weren’t quite awake either.

Your head felt like it was filled with cotton… perhaps wet cotton, forced into your skull, pressed so hard together it could barely be there, your nose and mouth burning a little… Sore.

Had you escaped?

Purring. It felt slightly nice, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Was it you who were purring?

There were more noises. So many noises. People talking, boots on wooden floors. Laughter. Doors opening and closing. Fridge opening, then closing. Drawers pulled out. Somebody was walking up and down the stairs constantly. Something was boiling. The couch creaked, a familiar sound to you; you had laid in it so many times, that you could recognise it anywhere. Then… the smell of tobacco.

The sound of a groan - it took you a second to realise it was from yourself, the headache suddenly becoming harder for a moment, like somebody was forcing more wet cotton into your skull, despite the limited space.

Another groan, bordering on a whimper. Something was touching your head. Your hair was slightly wet. As you groggily opened your eyes, you saw a bit of mud in a tuft of it.

The light hurt, making you groan again and you twisted a little, unsure of where you were - then it actually hit you.

Something - no, someone was touching your hair, gently petting it. It made you freeze - and then a deep chuckle appeared, the purr stopping for a moment. Your eyes shot open once again, even if everything still were a little blurry, everything doubled for a second; the scent actually hitting you, almost warning you of who you would see, as you dared to look up.

John Price was gently petting you. Your head was resting on his lap and he looked down at you, another deep purr leaving him, messing with your head once again. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket for once.

A coo-like sound left him and he moved his hand to gently caress your cheek for a moment. It was almost as if you couldn’t move, mind overwhelmed, too confused and the drug was still soaked into said mind.

“It’s okay, darling,”. He whispered all lovingly and tenderly at you, hand warm against your cold skin “go back to sleep, sweet flower, you can relax. We got you now.”

Perhaps it was supposed to be comforting. But it wasn’t. Not to you.

We got you now.

It was as if your body followed his command, even if it was unwillingly. As if you disappeared into the cornfield again, darkness consuming you, while you desperately pushed through the many corn stalks, faces flashing by. Your mom, dad, Nikolai, Ghost, Mary, Beatrice as a child, Soap, the female omega in your door, Dennis, Carlos with his broken arm, Lewis from the pub, the Spanish talking woman, child Enid crying, since she was scared and waiting to be found —

You blacked out again, mind disappearing into the darkness.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

“Every day?” You asked your dad, looking down at the pills in your hand. They looked harmless in your palm, like they were vitamins - perhaps allergy pills at best. A part of you wanted to refuse, but you knew it was a smart move. The Shadows, on their roaring bikes, with their odd logos and angry words, did scare you but the idea of them becoming interested in you, scared you even more.

“Yes, dear,” your dad answered, putting the last bottles into the medicine cabinet before turning around, adding “It’s for your safety.”

Safety. Your dad smelled like safety to you. Sometimes you convinced yourself that he still smelled of mom too.

You stared at the pills a little more, wondering how the fuck they were going to get rid of the faint scent of omega from your body, but at the same time, you weren’t really into science - if they worked, they worked. You finally looked up at your dad.

He held a glass of water, offering it to you with a smile on his face, though it seemed sad. You took it, popping the pills into your mouth, washing them down with the water, ignoring the slightly chemical taste it left.

”It’s only until they leave,” your dad promised, sadness in his voice despite the smile, “or you move away. Then you won’t have to take them any more.”

You doubted the shadows would just disappear out of nowhere, but one could be hopeful. A couple of years, you imagined - then they certainly had to have grown tired of Millhaven and everything would be back to normal. Just like when mom was alive.

”Yeah,” you whispered, leaning into your father’s body as he pulled you into a hug.

”I’m sorry, my little Sunflower.” His voice was nothing but a whisper and you hid your face in his shirt. Taking in his scent and wondering why he was apologising. If it was because the two of you were stuck here in Millhaven or because he made you take the pills. In theory, you could just refuse. He would let you. You knew that. Still. You were scared.

”It’s not like you can control me bein’ born as an omega,” you pointed out dryly, making your father huff. It was an attempt to make him feel better, but you didn’t know if it worked.

It wasn’t like you could control it either, yet you could hide it for others.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Your eyelids felt too heavy to move. The headache didn’t feel as rabid as it had the first time you woke. Unable to open your eyes at first, you instead took in the noises of your house. There wasn’t much noise, but you knew you were still in your own house, as you could easily recognise the familiar scents, as well as the feeling of your couch, the fabric pressing against your cheek. Your head wasn’t resting in the lap of John Price, which was a relief.

Your mouth was dry, so you slid your tongue along your teeth a couple of times, trying to make your eyes open. You managed to, ever so slightly, the familiar yet blurry sight of the coffee table and turned off television oddly comforting despite their mundanity.

“Are you waking up, little sun?”

The voice made you groan and closed your eyes when a pair of black pants with chains on came into view - the Russian accent making a shiver of uneasiness rush through your body. For just a second you were back at the edge of the forest, wet leaves clinging to you as you pressed the stun gun against Nikolai’s skin again and again. You remembered the smell of burning flesh… the way the alpha had moaned from the pain and grinded against you.

When you opened your eyes again, you let out a loud cry; Nikolai’s face was all up in yours, a feral grin on his face, that made your instincts scream for you to run.

As if you hadn’t attempted to run already.

“Ah, da, you are - got scared i used too much,” he stated casually, as if he was telling you about the weather, “Don’t worry about anything now, little omega, most of our things have already been moved in.”

Despite the slight pain in your head and the tiredness that had sept into your bones, you quickly sat up, crawling backwards away from Nikolai, to the other end of the couch, the man merely staring like a hungry beast; sitting down on the couch, while you freaked out, crawling close to you himself.

”What the fuck are you - you’re crazy! Both of you are bloody insa—“

A hand appeared at the back of your neck and suddenly you felt yourself get scruffed like a misbehaving kid, making you wail, arms weakly pawing at the man behind you; you didn’t need to look to know who it was, because Price’s scent was intense, his fingers bearing a strong smell of tobacco as well.

”Calm down, pet,” Price said, while your body slowly went limb, his other hand pushing beneath the opening of your shirt, running his warm fingers with the cold rings along your skin, only to caress your scent gland, “We just moved the most important things in while you napped, pet. Just enough for the beginning.”

His words almost didn’t register, your eyes wide, staring at Nikolai who was still grinning, his eyes following Price’s hand touching your gland…. Your bare, exposed gland. They had taken your scent patches off. It was the first time in years that somebody touched your glands without any patches on and the feeling was weird, making a small whimper leave you.

This had to be a nightmare; an odd, terrifying nightmare. Created from your deepest fears, trauma added to make it even worse.

”I - I…” the words couldn’t escape your mouth, your body still lax because of his grip on your scruff - yet it was the overwhelming amount of things that had happened while you had been out cold that kept you from speaking; the mean sentences you were ready to speak, the comebacks to make them upset. They were all stuck, just like you were in your body right now.

The moment Price let go of you, your body sagged together for a second, before you all but scrambled to the floor, in an attempt to put some more distance between you and the alphas. Said alphas who were watching your every move with hungry yet amused expressions. Like they were waiting for a certain moment to jump you.

”I’m gonna report you,” you threatened, hands curling into fists as you crawled backwards a little, growling a little at them, “I’m not gonna let you get away with any of this!”

Nikolai’s sudden laughter was so loud and heavy that it made you flinch and growl a little more.

”Who are you gonna tell, hm?” Price asked in a mocking voice, moving in front of the couch to get closer to you, yet it was as if a demon suddenly overtook his body while he moved, face darkening, “Nobody is going to help you, Sunflower. Nobody dares.”

”You’re ours now, milaya,” Nikolai menacingly crooned from the couch.

“But don’t worry,” Price continued with no kind of comfort in his words, “You will forget everything about that when we’ve fuck you silly—“

”No - nonono,” you desperately crawled backwards, Price calmly following.

”Gonna fuck you until your scent returns,” it was a promise, it was a threat and despite him continuing you turned around and scrambled away - only to run into the arms of Nikolai who had moved from the couch without you noticing.

You screamed; filled with the fear of what they were going to do, what was going to happen, the horror they would force upon you. Nikolai pulled you close, slapping his hand over your mouth for a moment, tears falling from your eyes.

”We’re gonna fuck you until you go into heat, sweetheart,” He was smiling, all lovingly at you - and then Nikolai yanked you towards the stairs - towards upstairs, with all the bedrooms and you screamed again, Nikolai not even bothering to cover your mouth more. There was nothing loving about this, nothing romantic like books always described couplings between alphas and omegas to be like. Nikolai all but dragged you while you fought, with Price casually walking behind you, smiling with glee, like you were the most delicious thing he had ever seen.

Like this was a normal thing.

They were going to force you into heat, force you into everything you had feared.

You couldn’t stop it from happening, the fear overtaking you as Nikolai had dragged you up just two of the steps — You pissed yourself, the warmth that spread from your body only making it worse and somehow more embarrassing, making you sib and twist.

“Nik.”

Price’s voice made Nikolai stop at once, his big arm around your chest still holding you fast - a purr like sound leaving Price, as you sobbed, eyes closed.

”My my, Sunflower,” Price growled, his hand reaching out to touch your pants at your inner thigh that was darkening with the urine that spread, “pissing yourself like a scared dog, huh?”

Some of the liquid ran down your leg and dripped onto the wooden staircase as if to confirm his question. Despite your sobs, you could hear both of the men inhale deeply and sniff. Taking in the scent of your piss; you were both horrified and embarrassed at the same time.

”Fuck,” Nikolai muttered darkly, ”Body knows were in control, huh? That you are little pathetic pup, da?”

The worst thing was that you knew he was right and the thought almost paralysed you, because they were in control - the two of them were the strongest. And you wanted to scream and cry that they couldn’t do this to you, that you didn’t want your first time to be covered in piss and against your will, but you knew they weren’t going to romance you if you said so.

It wasn’t unheard of for omegas to piss themselves in intense situations when it came to dominance, but you had never felt close to that. It felt as if your body was betraying you.

Nikolai hauled you up the last few steps, almost throwing you to the wooden floor as he got up, and you let out a cry, your body tired and terrified - the last urine escaping your bladder as you sniffled. They far from sounded upset about you pissing yourself, in fact, if the lust scent filling the room was anything to go by, they were rather into it.

“Gonna fuck your piss-dripping pussy, milaya,” Nikolai warned, raising his foot to press against your soft, lower stomach, almost as if to see if he could force more piss out of you, making you close your eyes from the pain, “not gonna be nice.”

“Nasty little thing,” Price began, “It was never the pla—“

“I’VE NEVER HAD SEX,” your voice was loud, raw and desperate, and you feebly tried to hit and push away Nikolai’s foot, pressing your eyes close, “please don’t - please don’t- I’m scared- I’m - you’re being so gross, I’m - I’m —“

Beyond your cries and intense begging, none of them said anything for a moment, but you couldn’t make yourself care, continuing to beg, your voice slowly dying down, while you hit Nikolai’s foot. It finally moved.

You were taking shaking breaths when they moved, suddenly both over you, pressing you down, your eyes opening; Nikolai grabbed a hold of you, easily pushing you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, ignoring your wail.

“Nononon—“

“Oh Sunflower,” Price’s voice was like honey, so sweet sounding that the poison you knew was beneath, even though it was barely audible, as he squatted down in front of you, “why didn’t you say so, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you, asshole- wha—“

Nikolai had taken and grip and pulled your hips up like you were a doll, forcing you onto your knees, before grinding his clothed erection against your piss soaked pants, moaning out a disgusting, “you smell so good, flower.”

The wet, still slightly warm fabric pushed against your cunt and you closed your eyes at the disgusting feeling.

”No, fuck you’re nasty, piece of—“ your anger were cut up as he trusted against you again, almost making you topple over from the sudden power, a half sob leaving you. He leant further over you while Price let out an amused laughter and to your horror, he began to open his belt buckle. Nikolai strongly distracted you by grapping a hold of one of your arms, pulling it behind your back without a care. Your scream didn’t deter him and you began sobbing loudly over the entire situation again, feeling helpless with only one arm to keep your face from being repeatedly pushed into the wooden floor.

Each thrust felt so weird, so foreign, so wrong.

At the sound of Price pulling down his fly, you forced yourself to close your eyes, too afraid of what he would do, unable to stop your sobs. There could hardly be anything sexy about you right now, tears mixing with snot, face half smashed into the floor.

You tried to block everything out without succes, tensing up a little as you heard Price shifted to kneel in front of you.

”Pretty girl,” you felt Price touched you beneath one of your eyes, making you open it for a second in confusion, following the hand and oh, fuck that was nasty - he used the hand to give him cock a couple of dry pumps. You were constantly thrusted backwards, your arm hurting from how Nikolai pulled you back. You hated how your body was reacting, how it recognised the base instinct that you were going to have sex soon, making your pussy wet. You hated how it made you mewl and how your body seemed to give up. You could hear them talk, but you tried blocking them out - could hear Nikolai mutter in Russian, feel his pace quicken; you could hear Price spit on his hand, hear him jerk off faster. It sounded slick now and your inner omega was screaming for you to submit.

Nikolai’s grunts were getting faster - then he suddenly stopped and you could hear him all but rip his pants down, before he let go of your arm, pushing your shirt up and oh…

Another sniffle left you as you heard him moan and groan, a deep rumble behind the sounds, feeling the cum landing on your lower back. Despite having both hands free, you couldn’t make yourself move, too afraid and to a certain degree, too shocked by what had just happened.

”Look at me,” Price’s voice was wavering, the slick sounds becoming faster as you refused with a little defiant shake of your head, keeping your eyes pressed closed even harder - trying not to react to his growl, even though your omega was screaming for you to submit.

Nikolai’s hands slid beneath your pants, taking a hold of your hips squeezing the fat on your sides hard, a deep growl leaving him, as a warning.

”Sunflower.” Price’s voice was darker and you hesitated for a second before you dared to open your eyes. His cock was big; sure, you hadn’t seen a lot of cocks in real life, but you had grown up with the internet. You knew how things worked and you knew for a fact that the man in front of you was thicker and longer than the average English person with a dick. You were even more horrified at the sight of his already half-swollen knot.

There was no fucking way any of that thing was going to fit into you.

With a deep moan that sent a small tingle along your spine, Price came - cum splattering over your face before you could move, making you whimper in disgust, eyes closing again.

They were touching you again. The hallway stank of piss, sweat and sex pheromones almost making you gag.

They were praising you softly, like you were a dog who had done a trick and not a person that they had just assaulted. Obnoxious alphas that believed they had the right to an omega’s body.

You felt soiled, like something that had just been used and then disregarded. But they seemed to like you like this, overwhelmed and barely moving - Nikolai continuing to rub his cum into your bare back, as Price began to do the same with the cum on your face.

“Wasn’t that bad, was it, ‘mega?” Price asked in a purr, making you dare to open your eyes again. He had put his member away, looking down on you with a loving expression, despite how his eyes were all dark, “you can be good for us, can’t you?”

You almost felt mesmerised for a second - the two big fingers that had been rubbing his spend into your skin, moving to touch your lips. He pressed against your wet lips, almost like an offering and you felt yourself open your mouth, making a deep, pleased rumble leave Price.

He pressed his fingers against your tongue, the salty, unknown taste of cum overwhelming on your tongue for a second.

Then you bit down with full force.

It would be a lie to say that you didn’t enjoy the loud scream that left the man. As he managed to rip them from your mouth and Nikolai pulled you backwards, screaming at you as well, you noticed the taste of cum had been switched with the metal-like taste of blood… making you grin.

You hadn’t managed to bite his fingers off sadly - but you had managed to break the skin and the big bad alpha, John fucking Price, was fully red in his face from the anger. Good.

The slap to your cheek was sudden and forceful, making you whimper as the world became blurry for a second - cutting off the most of your amusement.

You heard Price bark Nikolai’s name and it seemed like they had some sort of secret way of communication, since Nikolai instantly moved your body once more - and once again your upper body was thrown upon the wooden floor. This time scratching your chin, making you cry out - only for you to freak out even more as Nikolai immediately ripped your pants and underwear down beneath your cheeks, as if it was the most natural thing that came to him.

You began screaming again, instantly attempting to get away - only for Price to take a hold of your neck and after a short moment of struggling, he scruffed you.

In truth, you had rarely been scruffed - maybe twice as a kid, not even by your parents - but now you had been scruffed several times in a short timeframe, making the back of your neck sore.

Even worse… Nikolai began to spank you. Hard.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 22: Preparations

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: G (just a lotta feels) Word count: 7.4k

Masterpost Previous chapter

Author's note: This chapter preserves a big chunk of Colin and Benedict's fencing sequence from the book. I really like it and can tell it was lifted from Benedict's book and applied to Anthony's story in season 2 of the show. The Bridgerton boys will talk about their feelings, but only if they're boxing, fencing, drinking, etc. first 😜 Fans of Colin and Eloise, this chapter is for you. Enjoy! 💙

Sophie was stunned, frozen in place losing all sense of time in the dark garden. It was the sudden outbreak of applause from the house that roused her back to her senses. The musicale was still ongoing but she needed to get inside. As quietly as she could she stole back to her quarters on the lower level. While the musicians carried on above her, the strings filling the air with romantic melodies, she sobbed upon her bed, cast into the very depths of heartbreak. She felt something tugging at her and pulled off Benedict’s cravat which had been hanging loosely around her neck. She cried anew, crumpling the silk in her fist.

It was over. The greatest joy she had felt in her life; the dream that had been her source of strength and comfort for years; it was over. Benedict would never forgive her and she would never see him again. A part of her mind raged at herself, that it was her fault for keeping her identity a secret. But a louder part raged at the world for putting her in a position where she needed to lie. All of the unjust circumstances that had befallen her, all of her anger and pain toward her father, the Cowpers, the Cavenders, and whoever constructed society as a whole. It roiled within her and erupted in a howl muffled into her pillow. 

Why her? Why had she been born the way she had been? Treated the way she had been? And toyed with by fate the way she had been? Why had fate conspired to bring Benedict into her life not once but twice? Why had it drawn them together with such undeniable magic when the world they were born into would not allow them to stay that way?

An image of her father appeared in her mind, his entire countenance sour and cold. Damn you, she thought. You gave me a taste of another life and then left me in the wind. It would have been so much easier if I’d been raised a servant. I wouldn’t have wanted so much. It would have been easier.

She let herself rail against his memory, against her fate and all of her misfortunes until she was too exhausted to cry anymore. All she wanted to do was sleep but she knew she would need to prepare Eloise for bed. She also knew that she needed to leave the household as soon as possible. She couldn’t risk any further contact with Benedict and she feared he may expose her to the rest of the family. Then the Bridgertons might join the list of aristocrats who had a reason to want her in jail - for trespassing if not outright fraud.

It was sad, really, she thought as she splashed water on her face and tried to look presentable before going upstairs. For all her inner turmoil over Benedict, she’d liked living in the Bridgerton household. Sophie had never before had the honor of living amongst a group of people who truly understood the meaning of the word family. 

She would miss them.

She would miss Benedict.

And she would mourn the life she could not have.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. It was time to go. Where, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t stay here.

She would see Eloise to bed and stay for the night. In the morning she would give her notice to the Viscountess. Never in her life had she had the chance to spend time with women of her own age who treated her with respect and affection. She owed them these courtesies. She wanted to say goodbye. If she was lucky, they would not yet have heard about her altercation with Benedict, and she could give her notice, say her farewells, and be off. She had a little money saved. Not much, but if she worked and was frugal, she’d have enough funds for passage to America within a year. She’d heard that things were far easier there for those of less-than-respectable birth, that the boundaries of class weren’t quite as strict as they were here in England. A new country and a new life, finally free from the mess her heart had landed her in. She wondered how long it would take for it to stop aching as she tried to forget Benedict.

Sophie managed a meager smile when Eloise returned to her room. The younger was lost in her thoughts, narrating as she swept by, pulling off her gloves.

“Well, I must say that was not nearly as painful as I had anticipated. Though I did need to continuously dodge the advances of the Marquis of Bath around the canapés.”

She turned to her lady’s maid and paused. She was uncharacteristically dour.

“Sophie? Is something wrong?”

“No, Miss,” she lied. 

Eloise frowned, looking her over. “I can tell you’re not being truthful. Are you alright? Are you ill?”

“No. I mean, yes. I am alright, I simply…”

Sophie’s head was spinning, replaying the terrible events of the night and dreading how she would announce her resignation. She clasped her hands behind her back, desperately trying to find her balance. Her legs felt unsteady, her heart felt unsteady. Any moment now she was going to burst into tears, and why? Because the man she loved would never marry her? Because he hated her for lying to him? Because he’d broken her heart twice - once by asking her to be his mistress, and once by making her love his family and then forcing her to leave? He might not have demanded that she go, but it couldn’t have been more obvious that she could not stay. 

“What is it?” Eloise pressed, worry creasing her features as she laid a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “You can confide in me.”

Sophie chewed her lip, fighting back the tears. What could she say? How would she even start?

Eloise spared her the painful confession.

 “Is it Benedict?”

Sophie gulped, scrutinizing the young lady’s face. A young lady who should have been scandalized to learn of her brother’s dalliance. A member of the ton who should have been disapproving. But then, this was Eloise, who was so unlike her peers. She knew Benedict had confided something in his favorite sister but neither the details nor the depth of information shared. Yet regardless of what she knew, there was nothing but concern and kindness in Eloise’s eyes. Sophie remembered Benedict’s promise that their secret was safe with her.

“He has done nothing wrong.” Sophie choked out at last, unwilling to divulge the tangled details of their argument. “It is not right, what I have done. I should not have taken appointment in your home.” 

Eloise found something oddly satisfying hearing Sophie admit, albeit indirectly, that she had feelings for Benedict. Ever since she had seen the joyful gleam return to her brother’s eyes on the rooftop at Aubrey Hall she had been invested in their mutual happiness. She loved her brother fiercely and had grown to hold Sophie as a dear friend. Now that their relationship seemed to be in peril, she wanted to do everything possible to preserve it.

“What do you mean?”

Sophie pulled Eloise’s hand from her shoulder and held it gently. “I am grateful. So very grateful to you, Eloise, and to your sisters and the Viscountess and your mother. I have enjoyed my time here very much. It has been the kindest home I’ve ever known. But it is time for me to move on. Tomorrow morning I will be giving my notice to the Viscountess.”

Eloise could hardly believe her ears. “Sophie, you can’t!” She pulled her hand away, eyes wide. “What has happened? Please tell me!”

A sensation bloomed in Sophie’s chest, simultaneously warm and aching. The warmth of being wanted and the ache of knowing she could not stay. “It is dangerous, Eloise, the position I am in.” She trusted the young lady understood what she was referring to. “Not just for me but for the entire household. The last thing I would ever want is to bring shame and scandal upon your family name. You don’t deserve it, certainly not for my sake. The best thing for everyone will be for me to leave.”

Eloise was crestfallen, knowing that everything Sophie said was true except that her friend was not worth taking a risk for.

After a moment, she asked softly. “Do you not love him? Do you not want to stay?”

Sophie froze, tears pricking her eyes as the last image of Benedict rose in her mind. He was furious, heartbroken, and so was she for having caused him any pain.

Her voice cracked. “Not all of us can have what we want.”

A devastating silence hung between the two women. They both began to recognize that this was not just the end of Sophie and Benedict’s relationship, but also the end of theirs. 

“Where will you go?” Eloise asked at last, her voice rasping. “To work for another house?” If the rules of society would not allow Sophie to remain at Bridgerton House, she at least had to know that her friend would be safe elsewhere.

Sophie pondered for a moment. Where would she go? America was the goal but where would she sleep tomorrow? She would need to flee London again but did not relish copying her mad dash years ago, sleeping in woodsheds and on the kitchen floors of kindly housekeepers until she managed to secure a position in the countryside. Her transition could be more planned if she knew of a place to stay in the city. A place where she had a friend… Then she remembered.

“I am not certain where I will work but I will seek out an old friend and see if she will let me stay until I find my feet.” She tried to hide her uncertainty that her friend could even be found.

“You have a friend in the city?” Eloise asked.

Sophie nodded. “The modiste. Or, she used to be a modiste…”

The young woman’s eyes lit up. “Madame Delacroix?”

“Yes,” she breathed a sigh of relief. Eloise would be able to point her in the right direction.

“You know her?”

A small smile tugged at Sophie’s lips, remembering that the only bright moments of her years with the Cowpers were when she found herself in the dress shop. “It has been some years but we were friends. Does she still have her shop?”

“Yes she does.” Eloise confirmed. For a brief moment her mind began to twist, remembering her brother’s dalliance with the modiste as well. Was Sophie aware? Was Madame Delacroix somehow involved in their acquaintance? As curious as it was to question the details of her brother’s affairs, it was not nearly as important in the moment as Sophie’s wellbeing.

“I will take you to her tomorrow,” she offered. When Sophie opened her mouth to protest, Eloise cut her off. “I insist. We shall go and see her and make sure you have a place to stay before you give your notice. I do not know what is compelling you to leave and I certainly don’t want you to. But Sophie, if you feel it is best, let me help you.”

The warm ache spread further and all Sophie could do was nod with fathomless gratitude. It was so within the Bridgerton character to be this kind and accommodating to a servant, even one leaving their employ under scandalous circumstances. She would never find another family like them. 

“Thank you, Miss. I should like that.”

___

Benedict’s first inclination upon reaching his lodgings was to pour himself a good, stiff drink. Or maybe three. Alcoholic oblivion sounded rather appealing after the emotional skewering he’d just received at the hands of Sophie Beckett. And he pursued the inclination, drinking himself into a stupor and stalking angrily about his rooms until he collapsed on the sofa in his small parlour.

The next thing he knew, he was being poked. Something was jabbing him sharply in the arm, the chest, the side of his face. His head was pounding and it didn’t help when he cracked his eyes open to see blinding sunlight pouring in through the windows. The jabbing continued. What the devil? His senses slowly returning, his vision cleared to reveal Colin standing over him with a broad smirk, holding the fencing foil which was the cause of the annoyance.

Benedict groaned. He had forgotten that he’d made a date that morning for a fencing match with his brother. Although given the incessant poking, skewering Colin sounded rather appealing, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with Benedict’s wretched mood. That, Benedict thought as he dragged himself upward to sit, was what brothers were for.

“There he is, the sleeping beauty,” Colin mocked, finally lowering the foil. Benedict groaned again and dropped his head into his hands. “I see that you were…enjoying yourself last night.” Colin rocked on his heels as he looked at the empty glasses by the sofa. “Bit uncharacteristic of you to do so alone.”

Benedict looked up at him with bloodshot eyes but did not feel like explaining himself. “I’m sorry I forgot about our appointment,” he mumbled.

“Well,” Colin straightened with a smile. “You can make it up to me by letting me win our matches.” He produced Benedict’s own fencing foil and glove seemingly from thin air and tossed them onto his brother’s lap. Then he strode across the room to a side cabinet. Benedict sighed. He was not going to be released from his obligation, no matter how horrid he felt. 

His head spun when Colin suddenly reappeared and waved a fresh glass of brandy under his nose. “A lesson you taught me brother,” he grinned. “To combat after-effects.”

Benedict was simultaneously proud and horrified of his little brother. What kind of monster had he created? A glint of gratitude sparked in his eyes and he downed the spirit, despite how it made him want to expel everything in his stomach. 

In short order they were both outfitted in their gear and standing in the small garden behind Benedict’s apartments. The fresh air and swig of brandy slowly seemed to be helping Benedict’s body feel human again, but he doubted there was anything that could alleviate his mind. He touched the tip of his foil to the grass, letting the blade bend slightly.

“Are you ready?”

“Not quite,” Colin replied, working on his stance.

Benedict lunged at him.

“I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way. 

“You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped.

Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why do you ask?”

Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be the drunken stupor I found you in, and that you nearly just took my head off, slashing like you were using a sabre.”

Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.”

“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. 

“Will you just get into position, please?” Benedict grumbled.

“As you wish,” Colin murmured, raising his weapon. They both stood en garde, swords raised for a moment of stillness, and then Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking. But Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict’s attack with an expert parry.

“You’re in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder.

Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad” - he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward - “night.”

Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute.

“Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped.

Colin chuckled and advanced, swishing his blade this way and that, keeping Benedict on the retreat. “It must be a woman,” he said.

Benedict blocked Colin’s attack and quickly began his own advance. “None of your damned business.”

“It’s a woman,” Colin repeated, smirking.

Benedict lunged forward, the top of his foil catching Colin on the collarbone. “Point,” he grunted.

Colin gave a curt nod. “Touch for you.” They walked back to the center of the yard. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Benedict nodded. This time Colin was the first to take the attack. “If you need some advice about women…” he said, driving Benedict toward the corner wall.

Benedict raised his foil, blocking Colin’s attack with enough force to send his younger brother stumbling backward. “If I need advice about women,” he returned, “you are the last person I would go to, you green child.”

“You wound me,” Colin said, regaining his balance. “Rather than raking my way across half of London,” he lunged at his elder brother, “I have courted women with respect.”

“Ah yes,” Benedict sniggered, blocking the string of attacks, “Very respectful, the way you are stringing along poor Penelope Featherington.”

Colin froze for a moment, struck by his words. “What?”

It only gave Benedict the opportunity to advance upon him and he raised his sword to block just in time. Benedict continued, “And your slapdash engagement and near elopement with Miss Thompson.”

As soon as he spat out the words he regretted it and dropped his blade to his side. He had gone too far. He knew that what had happened with Miss Thompson was not Colin’s fault. His brother had simply been too naive, a trait that had been exploited by the poor young woman who was in distress. Fortunately, everything had worked out for the best, but Benedict should not have treated it as a stain on his brother’s record.

Colin had dropped his blade too and was staring intensely at the ground, nodding. “I was foolish,” he said, before Benedict could apologize. “You, on the other hand, are stupid.”

That lit the anguish in Benedict again. “What the hell does that mean?”

Colin sighed and planted a hand on his hip. “Why don’t you just do us all a favor and marry the girl?”

Benedict just stared at him, his hand going limp around the grip of his sword. Was there any possibility that Colin didn’t know who they were talking about? He looked into his brother’s steely blue eyes and nearly groaned. Colin knew. He didn’t know how Colin knew, but he definitely knew.

“How do you know?” Benedict finally asked.

One corner of Colin’s mouth tilted up into a victorious smile. “About Sophie? It’s rather obvious.”

“Colin, she’s-”

“A maid? Who cares? What is going to happen if you marry her?” Colin asked with a devil-may-care shrug of his shoulders. “People you couldn’t care less about will ostracize you? Hell, I wouldn’t mind being ostracized by some of the people with whom I’m forced to socialize.”

Benedict shrugged dismissively. “I’d already decided I didn’t care about all that,” he said.

“Then what the bloody hell is the problem?” Colin demanded.

“It’s complicated.”

“Things are rarely as complicated as they seem in one’s mind.”

Benedict mulled that over, bending the blade of his foil back and forth with the tip in the grass. Colin had proven adept at easing his mind before. Most significantly through the introduction of the powdered tea, but even uninhibited, Benedict knew he could confide in him.

“Do you remember the masquerade?” he asked.

Colin blinked at the unexpected question. “A few years ago? At Bridgerton House?”

Benedict nodded. “Yes. Do you remember meeting a woman dressed in silver? You came upon us in the garden.”

Colin snorted, “Well of course I remember, you wouldn’t shut up about…” his eyes suddenly bugged out of his head. “That wasn’t Sophie?”

Benedict gave him a serious nod. He still could barely believe it himself.

Colin gaped. “But…how…”

“She told me she snuck in. She’s not a maid.”

“She’s not?”

“Well, she is a maid,” Benedict clarified, “but she’s also the bastard daughter of the Earl of Penwood.”

“Not the current--”

Benedict shook his head. “No, the late.”

 “And you knew all this?”

“No,” Benedict said, the word short and staccato on his tongue, “I did not.”

“Oh.” Colin caught his lower lip between his teeth as he digested the meaning of his brother’s reply. “I see.” He stared at Benedict. “Then what are you going to do?”

Benedict let his sword fall into the grass and stared at it dispassionately. “That's a very good question.”

He was still furious with Sophie for her deception, but neither was he without blame. He shouldn’t have pushed so hard for her to quit her work and be kept as his mistress. It had certainly been his right to ask, but it had also been her right to refuse. He shouldn’t have kept making up excuses to keep her within his reach. From the inn at Rosemeade, to the multiple times she had tried to leave Aubrey Hall, to his family bringing her to London. He had lorded money and pleasures over her and then his family got involved to complicate matters further. No wonder Sophie had tried to negotiate her own boundaries and continue working as a maid. It was the one thing she seemed to have control over and he should have respected that and not insisted that she abandon it too.

If he respected her, then he had to respect her beliefs. 

He shouldn’t have been so flip with her, insisting that anything was possible, that she was free to make any choice her heart desired. His mother was right; he did live a charmed life. He had wealth, family, happiness…and nothing was truly out of his reach. The only awful thing that had ever happened in his life was the sudden and untimely death of his father, and even then, he’d had his family to help him through. It was difficult for him to imagine certain pains and hurts because he’d never experienced them.

And unlike Sophie, he’d never been alone.

What now? He had already decided that he was prepared to brave social ostracism and marry her. The unrecognized bastard daughter of an earl was a slightly more acceptable match than a servant, but only slightly. They would live quietly somewhere, eschewing the London society that would almost certainly shun them. He would shield Sophie from the unkindness that would be most heavily directed at her. Europe seemed the safest option. It took his heart less than a second to know that a quiet life with Sophie was by far preferable to a public life without her.

Did it matter that she was the woman from the masquerade? She’d lied to him about her identity, but he knew her soul. When they kissed, when they laughed, when they simply sat and talked - she had never feigned a moment.

The woman who could make his heart sing with a simple smile, the woman who could fill him with contentment just through the simple act of sitting by him while he sketched - that was the real Sophie.

And he loved her.

“You look as if you’ve reached a decision,” Colin said quietly.

Benedict eyed his brother thoughtfully. When had he grown so perceptive? Come to think of it, when had he grown up? Benedict had always thought of Colin as a youthful rascal, charming and debonair, but not one who had ever had to assume any sort of responsibility.

But when he regarded his brother now, he saw someone else. His shoulders were a little broader, his posture a little more steady and subdued. And his eyes looked wiser. That was the biggest change. If eyes truly were windows to the soul, then Colin’s soul had gone and grown up on him when Benedict hadn’t been paying attention.

“I owe her a few apologies,” Benedict said.

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“She owes me several as well.”

Benedict could tell that his brother wanted to ask, “What for?” but to his credit, all Colin said was, “Are you willing to forgive her?”

Benedict nodded. “I was going to propose to her last night when all of this came out. My mind was made up.” He took a deep breath. “It still is.”

Colin smiled warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. Something in the gesture brought Benedict a stab of sadness. “If she will have me, we will have to move away, Colin.” His brother’s brow knit in confusion. Benedict continued, “I don’t care what the ton will think about me, but I won’t subject her to their reproach. I want us to live undisturbed by all that nonsense.”

Colin’s eyes, grown and perceptive as they now were, flickered through emotions in an instant. Longing, sadness, worry, and then resolve. His smile returned and he gripped Benedict’s shoulder.

“Well, I am happy for you brother. But I will miss you, wherever you end up. However, I suppose that if any member of the family were equipped to visit you with frequency it would be me, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of each other.”

Benedict returned his smile, already picturing Colin at the bow of a ship headed east across the English channel. Of course he would be thrilled to have an excuse to travel even more than he already did. And he would be the perfect guide to chaperone the family in visiting Benedict and Sophie abroad from time to time. A future was starting to shape itself in his mind. A future where everyone might be happy…

“I have to get back to her,” he blurted out, tugging off his glove.

Colin arched a brow at him, suddenly serious. “Might I suggest…I think it would be best to confirm your plans with the family first before taking off with your fiancee. It would make it less awkward for Sophie than quitting her position and everyone finding out afterward that she is with you.”

Benedict stared at him, surprised once again at the depth of his little brother’s insight. “You’re right,” he nodded, “but Mother already knows.”

“Not Mother,” Colin leveled his eyes and Benedict understood. 

Anthony. If there was anyone in the family who may try to stand in the way of Benedict marrying a maid and running off to live abroad, it was his elder brother. The Viscount took his responsibility of maintaining the family’s reputation very seriously. So seriously that Benedict had nearly watched him get killed over it when Anthony had dueled with the Duke, their now brother-in-law, over a premarital kiss with their sister.  What on earth would he do to keep Benedict within the family and married to a respectable woman? Whatever it was, Benedict would face it head on and ensure that it wouldn’t complicate his engagement. Bless Colin for having the foresight to anticipate it. 

As if reading his mind, Colin spoke. “We’ll meet with Anthony today. I will support you, brother.”

A lump formed in Benedict’s throat and he reached out, pulling his brother into a tight hug. Thank God they had scheduled this fencing match because it was turning out to be precisely what he needed. Like a guardian angel Colin was here with resolutions to all of his problems. How the tables had turned since the years when Benedict had watched over him as he grew. 

“I don’t say this often enough,” he said, his voice starting to sound gruff in his ears, “but I love you.”

Colin patted him on the back, “I love you too, brother.” He pulled back and beamed at Benedict with a wide smile. “Do you have a ring?”

Benedict blinked, surprised by the question. “Uh, no…” he stuttered, “I was too caught up in my anxieties, I didn’t think of it.”

“Well,” Colin clapped him on the chest and began to walk backward toward the house, beckoning Benedict to follow. “Now you are proposing and apologizing, so a ring is definitely warranted, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Benedict nodded, his mind racing. “But the last thing I have time for is ring shopping around London.”

“We have the family rings.” Colin shrugged. “We’ll go to the house and you can pick one out. It would also give us the opportunity to check on Sophie.”

His younger brother seemed to have a mind to think of everything and Benedict was more than happy to follow his lead. He didn’t know if his brain or heart could handle any more than they were already contending with. “But the rings are in Mother’s room under lock and key.”

Colin paused in the doorway and folded his arms with a devilish smirk. “Was it not you who taught me how to pick a lock?”

___

Less than an hour later, Colin and Benedict were moving quietly through the halls of Bridgerton House. The stealth of their mission reminded them both of their younger years when they had crept down the same halls and staircases, around doors and through secret passages to avoid detection due to some naughtiness they had committed. Fortunately, they encountered no one on the way to Violet’s bedroom. They had spoken with a footman who confirmed that the two Lady Bridgertons were out for a promenade with little Edmund. Upon reaching the bedroom door, Benedict ducked inside and Colin stood watch in the hall, trying to look nonchalant in case anyone appeared.

As if on queue, someone called his name. “Colin!” He turned to see Eloise rushing toward him from the main staircase.

Colin sighed. Whatever it was his sister wanted to prattle on about, he didn’t have time for it. “Busy at the moment, El.” He grumbled, trying to shoo her away.

She marched up to him, ignoring his words completely. Now he could see she was in a degree of distress. “Have you seen Benedict?” she asked anxiously.

“Uh…” Colin’s mouth hung open as he pondered whether to tell the truth.

“I need to speak with him.” Eloise wrung her hands and was practically bouncing foot to foot.

“Regarding?”

“Miss Beckett.”

At this, Colin grasped her by the elbow and looked up and down the halls. No one seemed to be within earshot but he conspiratorially pulled his sister into a corner nonetheless.

Realization dawned on Eloise’s face. “Ah!” She grinned. “So you know too!”

“Well, I do now.” Colin whispered, urging her to lower her voice. “What about Miss Beckett?”

Eloise’s distress returned. “She wants to leave. She’s going to give her notice to Kate today…”

“She can’t.” Colin declared.

“I know she can’t,” Eloise huffed, aggravated that he cut her off in the middle of her explanation, “but…” He interjected again. “Benedict is going to make everything right, I assure you. You need to keep her around. Just for today.”

“I’m going to!” Eloise grumbled. “I am taking her with me to the modiste. But where is Benedict?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Colin assured her. “We will find you. Just don’t let Sophie leave. Be persuasive if you have to, I know you’re up to it.” The smirk on his face made it clear that he meant his statement as a jibe rather than a compliment. Eloise scowled at him, convinced he wouldn’t help her any further, and stomped away. 

His sister had just turned the corner out of sight when Colin saw his eldest brother approaching from the opposite direction. He sighed. Bridgerton House was a veritable bustling city center.

Anthony was scanning a fistful of papers and looked up as he drew closer. 

“Colin?” There was a tone of surprise in his voice, but he smiled. “Good to see you. What are you up to?”

Colin did his best to look nonchalant, clasping his hands behind his back. “Must I be up to something when I am simply visiting my family home?” 

Anthony raised an eyebrow and Colin could feel the interrogation coming. Before it could begin, he continued. “It’s been too long since we’ve caught up. We are due for a drink at the club, wouldn’t you say? The two of us and Benedict.”

Anthony’s brow stayed arched, but he appeared to soften a bit. “Yes, I suppose we are due.” He glanced down at the papers in his hand. “I have a mountain of ledgers to get through, though. Meet you at Mondrich’s before dinner?”

Colin smiled, “Splendid.”

Still giving him a quizzical sideways look, Anthony slowly moved on down the hall while Colin bounced on his heels, nodding politely. He knew his brother could detect something was afoot but was grateful that the Viscount was not in the mood to probe further. Once his brother was out of sight Colin stepped into his mother’s bedroom and closed the door before anyone else appeared to question him.

In a far corner of the room, Benedict was bent over a chest of drawers. Colin moved to join him, whispering urgently.

“You’ll need to hurry up before I have to stave off every last member of our family…”

Benedict suddenly straightened, inspecting the ring he held aloft. “This one.”

Colin stepped closer. “You found one to your liking?” In his brother’s grip he saw a small silver ring, the band delicately filigreed and set with two pearls framing a lone sapphire. It glinted as Benedict turned it in the light. Colin recognized it. “Ah, great aunt Eleanor’s ring.”

Benedict was staring at the jewel like a man in a trance, turning it this way and that. “I believe so.”

Colin smirked at him. “You know, betrothal rings are traditionally gold.”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, eyes still locked on the ring and full of conviction. “This one must be silver.”

It only took a moment for Colin to register why that would be, and he didn’t know whether to laugh at or admire his brother’s depth of feeling. He chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You are a hopeless romantic, you know that?”

This broke Benedict out of his reverie and he blinked, stashing the ring in his pocket.

“Eloise is keeping an eye on Sophie and Anthony will meet us at the club tonight.” Colin explained.

Now Benedict turned his heartfelt gaze on him and spoke in a voice choked with gratitude. “Thank you, brother.”

Colin was glad to have helped his closest brother with so many momentous decisions in a single morning, but he desperately needed a break from all of these intense emotions.  It was high time for a drink. They could wait for Anthony at the club. He grinned at Benedict. “Do you need some liquid courage beforehand?”

___

It had been so long since Sophie had slept in, she found herself utterly confused when she finally awoke. No one in the house had roused her and by the time she dressed and left her room, she was terrified to discover that it was already past midday. Yet she was not admonished. Mrs. Wilson was nowhere to be found and none of the other servants commented upon her tardiness. Ashamed nonetheless, Sophie ran upstairs to meet with Eloise only for her to confess that she had insisted Sophie not be woken.

Sophie knew what Eloise was doing, using every trick she could think of to keep her at the house longer. But she couldn’t deny that she was grateful for the rest and that her head felt much clearer thanks to it. After Eloise made sure that Sophie ate something, they set off as intended to the modiste. As they drew nearer to the shop, down the streets which Sophie knew so well but hadn’t trod in years, her heart started to pound. She was eager to see her old friend but couldn’t be certain how she would react to all that Sophie had to tell her.

When they stepped through the door of the dress shop, Sophie was transported back to the night of the masquerade. This was where she had spent the last moments before her life flipped utterly upside down. Turning from three women gathered in a corner of the shop, Madame Delacroix swept over to them.

“Mademoiselle Bridgerton,” she smiled at Eloise without a glance at her lady’s maid. “Back again so soon?”

Caught off guard, Sophie had to remind herself of the faux accent Genevieve adopted for clients. She had always used her true voice when she and Sophie chatted alone and with the passage of time, Sophie had forgotten the saccharine timbre she was capable of.

“Yes,” Eloise chirped. “More dresses. Young ladies are always in need of more dresses, are they not?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. She looked back to where Sophie stood timidly by the door and waved her forward. “Madame Delacroix, I believe you know my new lady’s maid.”

Sophie stepped toward them both, nervously searching Gen’s face. She knew that she was barely recognizable from the woman she had been years earlier. Benedict had proven as much. But she noted that Gen looked the same, if not even more beautiful, with rich raven curls, bright eyes and pink lips, modeling a navy dress in the latest fashion. There was a moment’s confusion in her eyes as she beheld Sophie, but it almost immediately melted into recognition and surprise.

Her eyes wide, she gasped. “Sophie Beckett?” Her accent slipped and Eloise cocked her head.

Sophie felt as if she would burst. It felt so good to be recognized, to be greeted as a friend. “Genevieve,” was all she could manage.

Gen started to walk toward her but regained herself and thought better of it. She cleared her throat and looked back at Eloise.

Before she could say anything, Eloise cut in. “I will be going across the street for some ice cream.” She began backing toward the door with a cheeky grin on her face. 

“Eloise,” Sophie turned to her with a cautionary tone. The last thing she needed was for anything to happen to Eloise on her watch while she broke all the rules of her position and sat chatting with a friend, not paying attention.

“Just to Gunter’s Tea Shop across the way.” Eloise pointed through the front windows. “Just there. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.” Sophie peered out and could indeed see into the tea shop. It appeared to be full of young ladies, maids and mamas and seemed like a place where Eloise was very unlikely to get into any trouble. “In fact,” Eloise continued, her hand turning the doorknob, “I think I see my friend Penelope in there already.” Before Sophie could say another word, Eloise was out the door, across the street, and sitting at a table in the tea shop, plainly visible.

Sophie sighed. Eloise would be safe and she knew that this visit to see Gen was another gift the young woman was giving her. She turned back to her friend who was smiling at Eloise’s antics but held a hundred questions in her eyes. 

“Let me just see to these ladies,” she said softly, pointing to the customers in the corner. “Make yourself at home.”

Sophie returned her smile gratefully and found a cushion to sit on while Gen tended to the women in the shop, clearly rushing them to make their purchases and leave. Once the last of them departed, she locked the door and pulled Sophie to the back parlour.

“Sophie Beckett, where on earth have you been?”

Over the next few hours, it all came out. Sophie told Gen everything that had happened. Everything from the night of the masquerade up until the present day. The magic of meeting and dancing with Benedict, Araminta’s cruelty and her flight from the Cowper house, her years of servitude, Cavender and the fateful night she escaped him. Everything that had occurred with Benedict, only the appropriate details of course; how he had found her and how she had ended up at Aubrey Hall, then London. How they had been together, how he had discovered her secret at last, and how she loved him. Despite the pain and the anger and the impossibility of their pairing, God help her, she still loved him but knew it was time to put an end to it all.

She shook, she cried, she raged. She unburdened herself of all her secrets. It felt so good to share her story with someone, she was unable to stop until every last detail of her heartbreak was laid bare. Gen held her hands, brushed tears from her cheeks, wrapped her in reassuring arms, and listened intently, asking all the right questions. When Sophie had finally talked herself numb, Gen produced a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

The drink helped Sophie to steady herself. “I’m sorry,” she rasped, hoarse from her confessions. “If this is awkward for you. You and Benedict…”

Gen gave her a reassuring smile. “Benedict and I had fun. But that was so long ago, I don’t even think about it. I’m the one that called it off.” She sighed and sank back into her seat. “He’s a bloody fool. These Bridgerton men,” she grumbled, “tearing their way through the hearts of all the decent women in London.”

Sophie sniffed and took another sip of wine. She didn’t care to know what other stories Gen had about the Bridgerton men.

The modiste looked at Sophie intently. “I understand why you must leave and of course you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like. Not a Cowper or a Cavender or a Bridgerton will lay eye nor hand on you.” 

Sophie smiled at her with deep gratitude, feeling that for the first time in ages, she had a safe place to go.

It was dusk when she pulled herself together enough to leave the modiste’s shop, but she didn’t feel guilty. This had been the purpose of her outing with Eloise, after all. Eloise must have been watching for her because she stepped out of the tea shop and met her in the street. Sophie wasn’t sure if she had told the truth about seeing her friend, but she had seen her speaking with a girl in a yellow dress. 

On their walk back to Bridgerton House, Eloise pressed Sophie for information but all she would confirm was that she would be giving her notice to the Viscountess and then going to stay with Madame Delacroix. Eloise was flustered, pleading with her to reconsider her resignation, offering to set up a meeting with Benedict for them to patch things up, but Sophie held her resolve. She thanked Eloise repeatedly for everything she had done and even agreed to visit with her at the modiste’s shop, though she wouldn’t confess that she only planned to stay for a day or two while she decided upon her next move.

Eloise huffed, she implored, she bargained, but was forced to stop when they reached the steps of Bridgerton House. 

“Eloise,” Sophie looked at her seriously. “You have been incredibly kind to me.” She felt emotion rising in her throat but kept her composure. “You are a remarkable woman and a wonderful sister. I will miss you.”

Eloise’s chin began to tremble as she finally seemed to accept that she could not convince Sophie to stay any longer. 

“Write to me, wherever you end up,” she croaked.

Sophie gave her a half-hearted nod, unsure if that was a promise she wished to keep, maintaining a tie that was so close to Benedict. Suddenly, Eloise flung her arms around her and embraced her tightly. Sophie was stunned, aware of how inappropriate it was for a young lady to be hugging a maid at all, much less on the front steps of her home in full view of the street. But it felt wonderful and Sophie squeezed her back. 

Then they silently walked into the house and with sorrowful nods at each other, Eloise turned and went upstairs while Sophie made for servants’ staircase below, fighting back tears.

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