#my wallet is empty but my heart is full

[wanologic]

yuri hiiro

[electrivolt]

// im winning im fucking winning

[quarterprioritymidnight]

some silly little pictures of my silly little band over the past week ❤️

[blocksandco]

yeah in my absence I Um may or may not have gotten obsessed with and binged the magnus archives and then bought two furbies to customize related to it. so. I regret nothing

[azzibuckets]

do you even love me anymore? [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: quick little blurb based on azzi’s tiktok repost

a/n: yall better not give my any heat for the fact that im so desperate that im getting inspo from tiktok reposts

word count: 700

masterlist

Paige dragged her teeth across Azzi’s collarbone, nipping at her skin and tasting the saltiness of her sweat. In response, Azzi’s grip on Paige’s hair tightened as her breath hitched, her chest heaving in sync with the pants escaping through her parted lips. Paige’s hands trailed down Azzi’s abs, tugging at the strings of Azzi’s shorts, but her hands were gently pushed away.

“What’s wrong?”

“You said we could get Yogurtland.”

Paige dipped her head back down, running her lips along the soft crease of Azzi’s neck. “You’re seriously thinking about yogurt right now?” When Azzi sighed softly and tilted her head to give Paige more access, the blonde smirked, congratulating herself for making Azzi forget about dessert so quickly.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered close. “I want gummy worms this time. And chocolate chips.”

Paige dropped her head onto Azzi’s shoulder and groaned, knowing that she was fighting a losing battle. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

With another exaggerated sugh, Paige dutifully climbed into the front seat. “What are you getting? I might take a bite.”

“You’re not getting your own?” Azzi’s face looked almost wounded.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m still full from dinner.”

“Ugh, fine. We might as we just go home then,” Azzi grumbled, purposefully ignoring Paige’s hand splayed out for hers on the console.

Paige looked in disbelief at the dark haired girl before grabbing her hand and forcefully interlocking their fingers. “Dude, we can still get you your yogurt.”

“I don’t wanna be getting dessert while you’re just watching me.”

“Azzi.”

“I’m not even hungry anymore.”

“Az, you’re being ridiculous.” The fondness in Paige’s voice was evident. When Azzi stayed silent, the older girl shook her head and started the engine. “Okay, I’m driving there anyways.”

Once they parked in front of the white building, Azzi stayed wordless, slumped low in her seat with her arms crossed and looking everywhere but the huge pink Yogurtland sign right in front of them.

“Unbelievable.” Paige reached over and unbuckled Azzi’s seatbelt, trying to prod her into getting out. “You were literally just begging me to get Yogurtland two seconds ago.”

“That was before you broke my heart and called me a fattie,” Azzi said coldly, tapping her nails against the armrest.

“Well, we’re here now, so you might as well get some.”

Azzi sniffed, her nose upturned as she looked away. “Do you even love me anymore?”

“What the fuck?”

“You don’t even wanna get dessert with me. Next thing I know, you’re gonna be saying you don’t want kids with me.”

Paige rested her forehead against the wheel of her car, resisting the urge to bang her head. Goddamn it. “Azzi,” she said slowly. “Would you like me to get yogurt as well?”

Azzi was already out of the car and slamming the door before Paige finished her sentence. “You’re paying!” she yelled as she ran inside the store.

Rolling her eyes, Paige grabbed her wallet and followed her girlfriend inside. Azzi was pumping vanilla yogurt into her bowl by the time Paige walked through the door. The blonde took a furtive look around the mostly empty store before wrapping her arms around the younger girl’s waist and planting a sloppy kiss onto her cheek.

“Ew, Paige,” Azzi complained, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her sweater.

“What should I get?” Paige asked, even though she already knew she was going to get strawberry because that was Azzi’s second favorite flavor but Azzi would never get it in her own bowl because she hated the way strawberry and vanilla tasted when mixed together.

“I don’t know, anything,” Azzi said dismissively as she moved to the bar of toppings, but Paige smiled when she saw the quick glance she sent to the strawberry dispenser.

Paige pressed a quick kiss to Azzi’s hairline as they walked out, each with a bowl of yogurt. “Happy?” she murmured, nuzzling her nose against her hair.

Azzi nodded, offering a spoonful of her vanilla yogurt for Paige to try. “That’s good,” Paige said, biting back a grin when she saw the wistful glance Azzi sent towards her own bowl. “You want some of mine?”

“I mean, I guess I can try it,” Azzi said nonchalantly.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re dramatic as hell?” Paige said when Azzi finished taking a bite.

“Not my fault when you spoil me.” Azzi said cheekily. “You have no one to blame yourself.”

“My fault? You’re the one who walks around looking like this all the time,” Paige grumbled. She pressed Azzi against the car, hands fisting her shirt. “I should just lock you up in my room and never let you out.”

Azzi brushed her nose against Paige’s, her eyes lighting up with a smile. “Refuse to get dessert with me again and you’ll regret it,” she said, faux sweetness dripping off her words.

“You’re sick.”

[screwitbaby]

naive

hamzahthefantastic x reader

day 2/7

summary: this is part two of my short story about the boys’ trip to curaçao (read the other one first, or don’t). hamzah’s getting you all riled up and mandy and martin begin to notice his unusual behavior with you.

contains: SFW content

wc: 2k-ish

~

You wake up to an empty bed and some part of you feels disheartened at the sight. The only evidence of Hamzah ever being there is the indent in the pillow and the shorts he borrowed folded neatly atop the mattress. You sit up to stretch, rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 10:02 and you decide to get dressed.

When you grab your phone on the way out, you see a text message light up your screen.

morning :)

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but before you can type out your reply, a pair of large hands grab your shoulders and you nearly launch into the ceiling.

"Fuck—Hamzah!"

He cackles at your scream. You slap his arm, immediately shutting him up as he rubs the spot to soothe it.

"Dumbass," you grumble.

"Good morning to you, too." The grin on his face doesn't fade for a second.

"Whatever.” You shut the front door and walk down the hallway alongside him. “When did you wake up?”

"'Round 9,” he yawns out. "Martin called me back and we got the room situation sorted."

He pulls his new key card out of his wallet and holds it between his fingers to show you. “Nice.”

Upon finding the hotel pool already chock-full of people, the two of you decide to meet Mandy and Martin at a restaurant they told Hamzah they'd be at. The GPS on your phone’s map gives you a hard time and you nearly walk into oncoming traffic with your nose deep in the screen. Hamzah reaches out to grab your forearm and pulls you back right as a taxi flies by.

"That was way too close," he says. Both of you breathe heavily at the realization that it could've ended way worse. "I think I know where it’s at anyway, just follow me."

"Sorry," you apologize, blushing. He smiles and shakes his head to dismiss your embarrassment. His hand stays on the middle of your back as he leads the rest of the way. The sparks you feel from his touch can hardly be ignored.

You get seated in a booth with the couple, who have already ordered some appetizers in anticipation of your arrival. The four of you dig into some sort of steamed veggie dish and catch up.

"Martin kept me up all night," Mandy says.

"Yeah, I got stamina." Martin nonchalantly shrugs.

"No, you literally passed out the moment you went to bed." She rolls her eyes. "I had to check if he was breathing, like, 5 times."

"She got yo lying ass, boy," Hamzah says, laughing with you. "I think I was snoring all night. Those drinks had me messed up."

"You weren't," you assure him.

"How do you know that?" Martin diverts the attention to you.

"Because someone was dead asleep and couldn't help his best friend get back into his hotel room," Hamzah replies pointedly. Martin sinks into his seat and takes a bite of food while pouting.

"So, you guys were stuck in the same bed?" Mandy asks, genuinely interested. "How'd that go?"

"It was—"

"We were—"

You look at each other and you nod your head, gesturing for him to talk first. He nods back and places his hand on your knee under the table before continuing. Your heart leaps to your throat.

"We were watching some show in Dutch that we couldn't understand until we knocked out."

"That's it?" This earns Martin a light smack on the arm from Mandy and a fiery glare from you.

"Was it the one with the bald dad and the ginger kids?"

"Yeah, how'd you—?"

"I watched it with Martin's mom the day before we came. It’s pretty popular here."

Hamzah's hand is still on your knee, occasionally running his thumb over your skin like it's the most natural thing in the world. You try to be attentive and contribute to the conversation, but it's a struggle when your mind is constantly wandering. When the waiter comes to take your orders, you choose something random off the menu because you were too lost in thought. You’re starting to think you need to be spayed because of how much this affects you.

"I can't believe we have to leave in a week," Hamzah says. You look up from the table.

"Don't remind me," you groan.

"I miss Rudy," Mandy admits with a sigh, "and Fish and Carl, of course."

"Every parent has their favorites.” Martin shrugs.

Your food arrives after some more chatter. Hamzah's hand leaves the spot on your thigh he’d slowly worked up to and you feel like you can breathe again. This trip has made you guys a lot closer than you ever anticipated, but it makes you wonder how things will be once you get back home.

“Wanna bite?” Hamzah whispers to only you. “It’s pretty good.”

“Lemme try.” You pluck a piece of omelette from his plate and bite into it. “Yum. Try mine.”

He shovels a scoop of your yogurt bowl into his mouth and hums. “Let’s split?”

“Yes, please.”

The meal ends with Martin paying for Mandy and Hamzah paying for you, in a surprise turn of events. You try to fight him back on it, but once he swipes his card without a word you know it's settled.

"All that YouTube money has gone to your head," you joke.

"I got fat stacks."

"Ew." You and Mandy cringe.

The couple walks ahead of you up the street and the two of you walk side by side.

"Was that alright?" Hamzah asks once the others are out of earshot.

"What do you mean?"

"Y'know, me paying." He nudges your shoulder. "It felt like the right thing to do."

"It did?" you ask, a smile growing on your face. "I didn't mind it."

"Good, good..." He walks with his hands in his pockets, kicking a rock every couple of steps.

"I actually thought it was cute."

He exhales through his nose, smiling at the ground. "Was it?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Thanks, Hamzah."

"No biggie."

You scrunch up your face and he laughs once he sees your expression. His laughter could cure even the most fatal illnesses, you're convinced. You take steps in unison for a bit—right, left, right, left—until he clears his throat to speak again.

"And, um," he starts, licking his lips. "When I put my hand on your leg..."

"Mhm?" You enjoy seeing the way his face contorts as he tries to find his words.

"Was that... alright, too?"

"I didn't mind it," you repeat.

He shakes his head and this time it's your turn to laugh. The tips of his ears turn red under his hat, making your heart pound at the sight. He fixes the hat tighter on his head and you fight the urge to tuck one of his stray curls behind his ear. Instead, you find that your feet lead you closer to his side, your fingertips brushing past his ever so slightly.

The couple eventually stops at a building and the two of you rush to catch up.

"We made it, kids," Martin says with a smile once you reach them.

"An art museum?" Hamzah questions as he reads the sign at the door. "Are we museum people?"

"We are now," Martin says, turning to walk inside.

"He's been talking about this since we landed," Mandy explains. "C'mon, guys."

Your group enters the museum and you look around at the historic paintings and sculptures from various Curaçaoan artists. Any and all doubt is washed from your mind as you make your way through the space, carefully observing art you haven't had the pleasure of seeing before. Hamzah follows close by, never straying too far as to not miss the way you react to each piece with 'oo's and 'ah's.

"Here's what we came for!" Martin points at a painting in the corner.

You walk closer and catch sight of a beautiful beach landscape. There's bright green shrubbery in the forefront, leading up to a peachy-toned sunset with tropical birds flying in the background. Mandy excuses herself to check out the gift shop and Martin huddles the three of you together.

"One day, I'm gonna propose to her here," he whispers. His finger traces the plaque below the canvas. You'd been to this beach the day you touched ground in Curaçao. It was the first thing you guys did, even before checking in at the hotel.

"Martin," you gasp, eyes wide. He shushes you and you lower your voice. "That's so sweet, oh my god."

"She walked right by it," he beams. "She has no clue."

"That's great, man." Hamzah clasps his hand on Martin's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "She'll love it, for sure."

"I can't believe I'm gonna be a maid of honor," you squeal as quietly as you can. Martin shushes you again but you can barely contain your excitement, turning to Hamzah to find his eyes already on you.

"What makes you so sure it'll be you?" he teases.

"It will be." You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to say otherwise.

"As long as I can be best man."

You take a couple pictures of Martin standing next to the painting with his thumbs up, narrowly avoiding Hamzah's photobombing attempts. When you finally walk away, Martin motions for you both to zip your lips. You mime crossing your heart and make your way to the gift shop.

There's shelves of souvenirs with prints of the art pieces from the museum, as well as some nearby tourist attractions that you recognize from visiting recently. You get to the jewelry section and run your fingers across the array of bangles and necklaces, hearing how they jingle as they move. Once you get to the end of the table, you notice a reddish-brown beaded bracelet.

"'Handmade,'" you mumble, reading the tag.

Hamzah stops close by your turned back and sees what's caught your attention from over your shoulder. "What's that?"

"Isn't it pretty?" You slip the bracelet onto your wrist and hold it up to show him. He grabs another one, doing the same.

Mandy suddenly calls for you and you walk over to her.

"I want this book so bad." She holds up a leather bound book with golden letters on the front, flipping through the pages to reveal photographs of nearby landmarks. "Wouldn't it look cute on our coffee table?"

“We have so much stuff from this trip already—“ Martin starts, but upon seeing Mandy’s glare, agrees.

You conclude that married life would suit them very well.

Your group loiters around the museum until you've seen everything it has to offer, snapping a few pics of your favorites along the way. Hamzah volunteers to take a few aesthetic photos of you, but when you get your phone back, your camera roll is full of him making funny faces. You know you’ll get him back for it eventually.

The four of you make it halfway back to the hotel when you look down and realize the bracelet is still on your wrist. You halt in the middle of the sidewalk and curse at the wind.

"Guys," you call out, making them stop as well. "I'll meet you there, I forgot to put this bracelet back."

"You stole?" Martin exaggerates. "Dang it, now we're all accomplices!"

"Say it louder, why don't you?" You roll your eyes, turning on your heels to walk back up the street.

"YOU STO—"

Hamzah slaps his palm across his friend's mouth, "I got it, don't worry."

"What?" You turn back.

He holds his free hand up and shakes the bracelet on his wrist. "I paid already. You don't have to go back."

You part your lips, but no words come out.

Mandy and Martin share a glance with each other, him mumbling something unintelligible. Hamzah drops his hands and fidgets with his hat.

"I feel bad," you finally say, your cheeks warming up uncontrollably. "You're too nice."

"I wish I had a sugar daddy," Martin complains. You collectively ignore him.

"Thank you, Hamzah," you say with a smile. "I appreciate it."

"You liked the bracelet, so..." He shrugs it off.

The walk back to the hotel commences and you feel your pulse thumping with each step. Once again, the couple get ahead of you two, but that’s fine by you. Mandy turns a few times to make eye contact with you and raise her eyebrows ridiculously. You just shake your head and try not to grin too hard.

The weather is muggy and the sun is beaming on your heads, but Hamzah’s warm hand finds yours despite it all. Your bracelets graze each other and you wordlessly make a pact to not let go.

~

a/n: u get what u want in the next part ya filthy animals!!! also sorry i took so long, i’m still not 100% happy w how this turned out but i wanted to pump something out before u guys start chasing me w wooden stakes and pitchforks :-)

[vikwrites]

Playboy - Tony Stark

Summary ➣ Tony Stark invites you into his Rolls Royce. Pairing ➣ Tony Stark x Reader Word Count ➣ 2.5k words Warnings ➣ 18+ / Car Sex / Power Imbalance / Age Gap. Author's Notes ➣ The first full Tony Stark oneshot! Comments are highly appreciated <3 Requests are also open!

You didn’t know exactly how you ended up here. 

The events leading up to your current situation were a blur, like trying to see through thick fog. 

Here you were, seated in the plush backseat of Tony Stark's lavish Rolls Royce Phantom. A variety of crystal glasses in all shapes and sizes were scattered haphazardly, some full, most empty. The rich aroma of Macallan 1926 filled the air. A bottle had been tipped on its side, its deep tones spilling onto the seat and seeping into a crevice of the leather, leaving behind a multitude of stains, You wonder how many times Tony had to pay someone to clean up these messes.

The past few hours were a hazy mix of neon lights and blaring speakers, the repercussions of Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC filling your ears.  

Then you recalled that Tony had spotted you at Stark Expo, at the Arc Reactor exhibit, standing in front of the machine, mesmerized by the pulsing reactor and the hypnotic hum that filled the room. 

Tony had made the first approach and talked to you for a while, although most of the conversation consisted of you awkwardly sucking up to him, while another part of you was afraid of saying something embarrassing or coming off as too eager.

You never thought you'd be graced with the opportunity to even be in the same room as Tony Stark, let alone talk to him face-to-face. But as the conversation went on, you felt more and more intimidated. You had always admired Tony and maybe even had a bit of a crush on him, but now that he was standing in front of you, you didn't know what to say or do. 

However, when you were invited to his limousine, you couldn't resist. He had lured you in like a moth into flame. 

The air was thick with tension, your fingers found themselves subconsciously fidgeting, you were sitting mere inches away from Tony after all; who was currently fiddling with a Cuban cigar. Your heart raced with a cocktail of excitement and fear - after all, this was the Tony Stark, one of the most influential figures in the world, and you were just a mere woman-in-the-street. This man probably had more money in his wallet than you’d ever have in your entire life. 

Tony seemed to have picked up on your nervousness, reaching over to the mini-fridge and picking up another bottle of liquid courage. The cigar had found its way in his mouth, and is currently hanging from his lips.

“Mr Stark—” You stuttered, trying to reach for the rear-hinged doors of the car, “I’d think it would be best if I left, it’s getting late.” 

“Relax, honey.” As Tony's hand unexpectedly settled on your wrist, pulling you back, the sudden weight caught you off guard. You couldn't help but flinch when you felt his fingers close around your wrist. His touch gentle yet assertive, a delicate balance that leaves you feeling conflicted. He takes another drag of the cigar.

Internally, you battled with conflicting emotions, but externally, you remained still as his hand steadily guided another crystal glass into your grasp, the weight of the cold drink dragging you back to reality. Initially you wanted to refuse, but you didn’t want to let Stark down, or seem ungrateful—downing the whiskey, you felt the liquid burn your throat.

His hand on yours caused a weighty pause in your conversation, Tony smirked, finding it amusing how tense he made you. Eventually, he breaks the silence by redirecting the conversation towards you. "So, tell me about yourself," he prompts, his tone casual and easy. Another cigar made its way into his mouth. 

You took a moment to recollect your thoughts before answering. "I'm studying at MIT," you replied, "I'm pursuing my degree in Nuclear Engineering." As soon as the words leave your lips, you notice Stark raise an eyebrow in surprise, seemingly impressed by the mention of your alma mater.  

Tony leans back in his seat and exclaims, "Impressive, I’m going to assume I’ve probably funded one of your projects, you’ve been to the September Foundation Grant presentation right?" He turns to look at you, as if trying to make a connection. You nod and continue to take small sips of your Macallan whiskey. 

After a few more rounds, you found yourself becoming less tense around him. 

“—and he’s now the forehead of security, get it?” Tony giggled, clapping his hands at his own joke, his laughter was infectious, and you found yourself laughing along with him, feeling a sense of camaraderie that you hadn't experienced in a long time. He takes another puff of the cigar, attempting to blow smoke rings but failing horrifically, the supposedly circular puffs of smoke coming out in flattened, unidentifiable shapes.

"Mr. Stark-" you began, but were quickly cut off by the man himself.

"Please, dear," Stark offered with a shake of his head, "just call me Tony."

You took a deep breath, trying to muster up courage (as much courage as you could get while being mildly to severely intoxicated, you couldn’t tell at this point), and corrected yourself. "Tony," you said firmly, hoping to sound more confident than you felt. "Why did you invite me here?" The question hung in the air amongst the clouds of smoke.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tony raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I think you’re cute.” 

Your heart skipped a beat at his bold statement. Did Tony Stark really just say that to you?

“Fuck, Tony Stark thinks I’m cute, never expected that, ever.” But before you could fully process the unexpected compliment, another thought crossed your mind. “Looking past the obvious," you continued, "why isn’t there some Playboy supermodel in my position? Aren’t you just slumming it?” 

“Your expectations of me are too high, darling,” Tony drawled, his voice dripping with charm and confidence. “Honestly, I’d call Playboy right now and make you a model right away. You’ve got the face for it,” he paused to rake his eyes over your body, biting his lip, “—and the bod.” 

A rush of heat spread through your body at his words, igniting a spark of desire that you couldn't deny. The atmosphere became charged with tension, but this time, in a good way. The constant pet names and lingering gazes from Tony were stirring you up, and you could feel something else crackling in the air between you two.

You wouldn't say no to his advances, not when his gaze was so intense and his touch so electric. After all, who would say no to Tony Stark? His smooth words and charming smile were enough to make any woman weak at the knees, and you were no exception.

“I just think that you could do better.” You muttered, all the confidence draining from you the moment he tries to make a move, you cursed yourself for it. 

“Quit being self conscious and just kiss me.” Tony's words were like a soothing balm to your inner turmoil, urging you to let go of your self-consciousness and just give in to the moment. As he leaned in, his lips met yours in a swift motion that caught you off guard. 

Your hands instinctively found their way to his cheek, pulling him closer to you as you melted into his embrace. While his hands grabbed at your hair, caging you in between his body and the leather seat. The taste of his lips and the warmth of his body enveloped you, drowning out the nagging voice in your head reminding you of all the reasons why this could be a mistake. Tony moaned into your mouth, you took a mental recording of that, hoping to replay it in your head later.

In this moment, nothing else mattered except for the feel of his touch and the heat that pulsed between the two of you. You surrender yourself completely, allowing yourself to be swept away by his kiss.

The cigar was carelessly discarded from his trembling hands, the smoke swirling in lazy wisps around the ash urn. The taste of tobacco still lingered on his lips, a bittersweet reminder of his vice. Your senses were heightened as you pulled away from the kiss, your hair tousled and wild from the frenzied grabbing. The two of you shared round after round of kisses, each one more desperate and passionate than the last till Tony decided to go further.

Tony pushed you down onto the seat, his movements were rough and uncoordinated, but it only added to the thrill. Your body responded to his manhandling, and you could feel yourself getting turned on. You laid horizontally on the car's leather seats, taking in the sight of stars twinkling on the headlining, but your attention was quickly diverted as Tony's lips crashed onto yours once again.

"You look so good underneath me, baby." he whispered in that seductive low tone of his, his mouth mere millimetres from your ear. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine and each vibration of his words seemed to make you even wetter. 

Your breath hitched in surprise as Tony's hand traveled down to your core, his fingers grazing the hem of your dress and revealing more of your skin. You were startled by the sudden move but couldn't deny the heat that pooled between your legs. His touch was tentative, tracing circles over your clothed clit with a slow, teasing stroke. Your moans grew louder as he continued, each touch feeling foreign yet undeniably pleasurable.

"F—Fuck," you gasped as his piercing gaze met yours, those maroon eyes no longer their gentle brown hue.

"God, you're so wet for me," Tony's eyes locked onto yours as he brought his glistening finger to his mouth, savouring the taste with a low moan. Just the sight of it nearly sent you over the edge. "And you taste even better." Your eyes rolled back at his declaration, you’re so close and he hasn’t even started yet. 

Your fingers trembled as they reached for the button of Tony's Tom-Ford dress pants, fumbling with it in a desperate frenzy. In this moment, your entire existence seemed to depend on getting his pants off and feeling his naked skin against yours. Tony's hands were still on your clit, his skilled fingers teasing you mercilessly.

You could barely focus on unbuttoning his pants as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with just two fingers, god he was good. Every touch from him felt like electricity pulsing through your body, igniting every nerve ending and making you forget everything else except for the pleasure he was giving you.

"Please, Tony," you pleaded, your voice breathless and desperate. Your body quivered as two fingers slipped into your slick pussy, the wet sounds echoing in the confined space of the car.

At first, Tony's movements were slow and deliberate, teasing and tempting every inch of your sensitive walls. But he knew how to push all your buttons and soon, you were clenching around his fingers, begging for more.

"I'm gonna come," you gasped out, feeling your orgasm building with each thrust of his fingers.

"Come for me, baby,” Tony growled lowly, his voice making you even more wet. "I wanna see you falling apart on just my fingers." And with those words, you unravelled in a mind-blowing climax, your body trembling and shaking against his skilled touch.

As you came down from your high, you felt a new sensation. You realized you had squirted all over the interior of the car, but at that moment, you didn't care. All that mattered was how good Tony made you feel.

You were dazed and lost in the haze of pleasure when you felt him shuffling over you. His pants were unbuttoned and his cock was in his hand, slowly stroking as he took in the sight before him: your flushed skin, your heaving chest, and the evidence of your pleasure coating the seat beneath you.

You let out a soft gasp as he playfully teases you, running his member along your slit. With regained control over your limbs, your hands find their way into his once-slicked back, now ruffled hair. Your legs lock behind his lower back, pulling him closer to you in an attempt to deepen the connection between you two.

His voice is low and husky as he groans, "Your tight pussy feels so good, darling." As he pushes into you, you feel a fullness that you've never experienced before. The initial sting of pain quickly gives way to a deep pleasure that radiates through your entire body.

"Fuck, I love you, Tony." The words escape your lips before you even have time to register them. The intensity of the moment sparking a declaration that surprises even yourself. But before you can worry about whether it was too soon or not, Tony returns the sentiment.

"Love you too, baby," he whispers as he bottoms out inside of you. You can feel every inch of him inside you, and the sensation causes you to writhe beneath him. His chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heart beating through the fabric of his suit that was yet to leave his figure, but you figured you’d see him without the suit another time. 

“Fuck, gonna be a good girl and take my cum?” Tony's deep, ragged breaths spurred you on as his orgasm neared. You could feel your own climax building, your body shuddering in anticipation. Unable to form coherent sentences, you nodded in response.

Your back arched off the leather couch as you reached your peak, crying out in ecstasy as Tony's movements became even more frenzied. "Yes, gonna come so hard, Tony. Need you so bad." Your words were barely audible through your moans as he grunted and thrust into you one final time before the both of you came. 

Breathless and spent, Tony's lips crashed down on yours once again.

The heat between your bodies was almost suffocating as you rode out your high. He remained inside you until he was soft, and when he finally pulled out, a trail of your arousal leaked onto the leather beneath you. A groan escaped him as he took in the sinful sight, but you were too lost in your pleasure-drunk haze to fully register it.

You're too spent to move, but from the hazy corner of your vision, you see him in front of a mirror slicking back his disheveled hair. Still dazed and caught up in the aftermath of your orgasm, it took you a while to gather yourself and get dressed. But as soon as you did, Tony turned to you with his trademark smirk. 

"So, about that Playboy call?"

⎊ back to masterlist

[youronlydarlin]

warning: kinda sad ANGST, Simon losses you :( , ooc kinda?? But he's soft for you only, trust me bro

This was kinda inspired by that one part in the comics where our poor, Si holds his mums skull, n he jus'... Kinda nuzzles into it. I dunno it just bought on some sad feeling, mkay...

Simon who slightly raises the cup of tea he's drinking each time he has one, just to let you know he's relaxing. Or trying his best too, at least. Doesn't know what he'll do if he worried you from beyond the grave. Sometimes he looks at all the belongings you left behind. Saying how they probably miss you, but not nearly as much as he does.

Unlike some, Simon uses your things. He doesn't want the house to go through the pain of loosing you too. So he drinks from your mug, and sits on your chair. Reads your favorite books, but never takes out the book marks in case you want to continue reading them. He also completes your bucket list for you, and even though he's the one doing them he always whispers 'good job, to the wind, hoping they'll carry the messenge to you.

Simon who speaks to your framed pictures. He remembers each, and every memory behind them. "Bet your happy... Now it'll always be my turn to grab the 'bloody groceries.." he jests. He hopes that one made you laugh. Knowing you, you would've. It's a mystery how you always laughed at his lame jokes. Though your laugh's always been better than the awful punchlines.

Simon who passes by that cafe you bugged him to go with you to, and he feels his throat go dry. He never got to take you there because of a sudden call from Price, telling him about an urgent, albeit sudden, mission. He definitely regrets not taking you out on dates more often. There's so many shops opening that he knows you would've loved to see.

Simon who's heart breaks at how quickly the world turns without you. Everything's moving so quickly, leaving him behind like it's already moved on, and he hates it. He hates how there's less clothes to fold now. Food is served, but only for one. The taste of it is flavorless, and dry. It's times like these, that he wishes he should have took the time and learn your recipes.

But what's worse, is that your side of the bed is cold. And it'll remain that way forever. At times he'll reach for you absentmindedly. Nightmares about war traded for dreams about you, but during those dreamless nights where sleep doesn't visit he'll stroke your pillow the same way he'd do to keep your hair out of your face, and pull the covers over the empty space you once occupied. He wonders if it's cold where you are right now. But just know that he's always willing to warm you up if ever you come back.

Simon who...

Stands at the doorway. Bag slinged over his shoulder, full of everything he needs and more for deployment. He knows he can't leave without properly saying goodbye, so he fishes out his wallet, and digs out a picture of you. He holds it up to his face, and it's funny. How you're not even staring at the camera when the photo was taken. No, you were staring at him. This one's always been his favorite. So he clears his throat, and wishes you don't hear the slight shake in his tone.

"..By now you would've told me to be careful.. And I will, by the way. But, m' sorry for all the times I didn't...'

....

" I have to go now. Don't need them gettin' on my ass for 'being late.. so.."

....

"..You just rest now, ok, love? There's nothing else for you to worry about' anymore. I love you, always. Wish me, and the boys luck, yeah?.."

He gives a light kiss to your photo, and it's as if you're with him when he steps outside the door..

a/n: This was a challenge to write, and I don't know what to feel about the results. I'm just polishing my english, I guess. M'not good at writing angst, you can probably tell, also my grammar feels off on this one, again. English isn't my first language, sorry. So please correct me on any mistakes I've made! But putting all that aside, I hope you like this more than I do! And, always remember that you are loved, and cared for! Have an amazing day, my darlings!

Yours, truly,

–dolly

[loveshotzz]

My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Tongue Tied

summary: A Halloween party, Brenda, and teaching Steve that shotgunning isn’t just a trick guys use to kiss girls.

wc: 2.9k

warnings: My blog is 18+ fem!reader, slight jealousy, and a little insecurity if you squint, fluff, weed smoking and mentions of drinking.

<- 🎃 chapter one | mini series masterlist

Tina’s ‘witches brew’ was maybe just as bad as the music she picked, but Steve Harrington was staring at you from across the crowded room.

You’d only ever seen Top Gun once, and in all honesty you didn’t even need to watch it to know that he looked better than Tom Cruise. The brown leather of his bomber jacket fits snug across his broad shoulders, and tappers tight around his waist. It’s half way zipped up, revealing the white shirt underneath and the aviators that he’d walked in wearing dangling from the collar. The weight of them pulls the fabric down enough to catch a glimpse of the dark hair that covers his chest, and your throat dries up at the thought of him shirtless. His Levi’s are light washed and well worn, a soft outline of where he usually keeps his wallet dangerously close to where your gaze wants to linger. The black combat boots he wears somehow make his feet look even bigger, your thighs press together under your dress.

His eyes roam the length of your body the way you hoped they would when you decided to dress up as The Mistress of the Dark herself. Your plunging neckline begs for his hungry gaze, and you push up your chest to encourage it. A thick black belt hugs tight around your waist, accentuating your curves in a way that has you feeling more confident than normal. Especially when you catch the way he bites his bottom lip in a smirk, darkened eyes lingering on the fake dagger resting against the softness of your tummy. Wiggling your long black nails at him, you can’t help but relish in the fact that a simple wave makes the former king of Hawkins cheeks flush the same shade of red as your lips.

It had been four days since that night with Steve. A whole 96 hours and the boy across the room from you has occupied your thoughts for every minute of every single one. It was becoming a real problem, but yet here you were at a Halloween party you’d already said no to because you knew he would be here.

Robin’s very obviously telling a story next to him, her hands moving wildly as she gets more worked up with whatever is happening in it. She’s too focused on the way Nancy’s giggling in front of her to notice that her best friend isn’t listening, the full weight of his attention making your insides warm.

Is this what it’s like to be one of those girls?

Steve chugs the rest of his beer, throat bobbing with every large gulp before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He holds your gaze even when you see him say something to Robin who waves him off, lost in the oldest Wheeler’s big blue eyes, and the first few steps in your direction is enough to send your heart into overdrive.

You almost lose sight of him when he starts to cross the makeshift dance floor in the living room, his wild auburn hair the only thing staying in your line of vision. It’s a mess of dancing bodies, and orange and black balloons already starting to lose their luster falling from the ceiling.

His eyes meet yours in the crowd and you feel the heels you can hardly walk in start to carry you closer, stepping over the empty cups and streamers that litter the floor. His smile widens, and you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed when you feel your cheeks push up doing the same.

It’s when Steve finally makes it to the edge of the crowd, stopping just a few more steps away from you when it happens. When she happens.

Brenda.

She’s dressed as Madonna, her perfect blond hair teased just right, giving it more volume than Steve’s even on his best day. Black fishnets cover her toned legs, with a matching tutu that leaves little to the imagination stopping just above the curve of her ass.

The corset she wears gives her breasts the kind of push that you know is the reason for Steve’s blush when she steps in front of him. Perfectly manicured pink nails dragging up his chest before her palm flattens just underneath where his sunglasses hang.

His eyes flicker between the two of you, a nervous laugh leaving his mouth at whatever she’s saying. He scratches the back of his neck when he responds, and it makes her throw her head back in flirty giggles before her fingers start playing with his jacket zipper.

The sting of rejection is harsher than you thought it’d be, and you hope he can’t see the way it wipes the smile clean off your face. Girls like Brenda always seemed to be the boy’s kryptonite. The urge to find your best friend is what keeps your feet moving, almost like that was your plan all along. The joint you stashed away earlier in his jacket pocket calls your name, and you don’t look at Steve as you walk past the two of them, even when you see his hand reach out for your wrist.

It’s just Steve anyway.

You keep telling yourself that, hoping that it will ease the slight lump in your throat. An anger bubbling just under the surface turning the heat in your stomach into something more like lava, a volcano bubbling, just ready to explode as you try to convince yourself that you don’t have a crush.

When you find Eddie in the next room, his tongue deep in his girlfriend Cece’s mouth on the couch, and you can’t hide the bitterness that drips from your tone.

“Make sure to get some oxygen so you don’t pass out, Jesus Christ.”

Your rude interruption makes them both pull apart with a loud smack, the fake blood he’d sloppily smeared down the corners of his mouth almost gone leaving a pink stain on his pale skin instead.

“What’s your deal? Can’t you see I’m a little busy.” Eddie’s gaze narrows into an annoyed glare, “Aren’t you supposed to be doing the same thing to Harrington.”

“That’s not why I came,” you snort, crossing your arms and it makes him raise his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Bullshit.”

The two of you stare each other down, unwavering, it’s only when his eyes flick towards the dance floor that he sees the cause of your sour mood. The hard lines on his forehead soften before he rubs a ringed hand over his face with an exasperated groan. Cece wraps her arms around his waist tighter, hearts taking over her pupils when she gets a front row seat of her boyfriend being your best friend.

“Here,” he sighs under his breath, pulling open his jacket to pluck out the perfectly rolled joint inside his hidden pocket. He holds it out to you in a peace offering.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you take it, giving him a weak smile before tucking the cone in your belt next to your lighter, “Go back to sucking each other's faces off, sorry to interrupt.”

Your joke makes her giggle, and Eddie grin in the kind of way that's contagious.

“He’s an idiot,” the metal head tries to comfort, “Honestly, he’ll tell you himself.”

“I’m fine.” You keep your expression as unreadable as possible, but you know it's futile to try and hide from him, “It’s just Steve.”

It’s colder outside than when you first got here, and you don’t have nearly enough alcohol in your system to keep you warm. Goosebumps rise on the inappropriate amount of skin you have showing for the season, making you wish you’d grabbed your jacket. The breeze rustles the leaves that refuse to let go or their brittle branches, mixing with the muffled bass of the music inside, while your heels make a hollow thump against the wood of Tina’s back porch.

Pulling out the joint and your lighter from your belt, you take a seat on the top of the stairs that lead to her backyard. There’s a shiver that runs down your spine as your thumb flicks the wheel that brings the flame to life, a temporary heat warming your face as you spin the fat end over the fire to burn it evenly. The earthy smell hits your nose, shoulders already relaxing before you take the first toke. Bringing it to your lips, you tuck your lighter back inside your belt, leaning back on your palm to look at the clear night sky above you as you inhale your first drag into your lungs.

It’s just Steve.

When you exhale, your eyes stay trained on the white wisps of smoke that shades the twinkling of the stars behind it and you try not to think of Brenda’s pink nails running through his hair. Your next hit is much bigger. The music from inside gets louder, making you jump when you hear the sliding glass door open. Straightening up, you turn around with a glare ready for whoever the intruder is, only to be face to face with the boy you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t like.

“Hey, there you are.” His smile is easy, and you hate that it warms you like the sun just from looking at it.

You raise your eyebrows in acknowledgment, hollowing out your cheeks taking another drag before bringing your gaze back to the sky. His boots sound heavier than your heels against the wood, some steps making the deck creak under his weight. The silence is thick with words on the tips of both your tongues, but neither one of you is willing to break it first. He sighs awkwardly out of his nose, rubbing his palms against his thighs before taking the seat next to you. Your knees knock together, and the heat of him so close sends another shiver down to your bones.

“Jesus, you have to be cold. It’s like 40 degrees outside.” Steve doesn’t hesitate to start shrugging off his jacket, and you clock the movements from the corner of your eye.

“Steve, no, really I’m fine,” you try to protest but he doesn’t listen, thick tan arms coming into view.

“Please, I can hear your teeth from here,” he chuckles, standing up to drape the leather over your shoulders, and you try not to stare at the way the hem of his shirt rises up revealing a dark happy trail.

It feels like he’s everywhere when your shoulders slot into the warm pockets where he just was, wrapped up in him just like on your couch. The spice of his cologne clings to the fabric on the inside, and you have to fight back the urge to bury your nose into the collar and inhale.

“Well aren’t you gonna be cold now?” You ask, finally daring to meet his eyes, taking another hit.

“Nah, I’ll be alright.” He winks with the kind of confidence that makes your face hot, clasping his hands together over his spread knees making your shoulders bump.

“So, Top Gun huh?” Giggling, you finally earn a Steve Harrington eyeroll.

“Look, I didn’t have to buy anything okay. I wasn’t even going to come tonight, until I heard,” he stops himself, pink dusting his cheeks and you don’t think it's from the frost in the air, “I’m surprised you’ve even seen it, doesn’t seem like your type of movie.”

“What’s my type of movie, Steve?” You grin with a cocked brow, letting the end of the joint rest against your bottom lip, the heat from before blooming deep in your gut when he tracks the movement licking his.

“I don’t know,” his heavy gaze makes your throat bob, “You tell me.”

You don’t think you’re talking about movies anymore.

“Isn’t Brenda going to be looking for you?” You tear your eyes away from him, taking another hit to seem nonchalant. The loud snort you get in response makes you jump.

“Brenda? No, I’ve been dodging that girl for months.” Running a hand through his hair, he dares to snatch the joint from between your fingers like he was some kind of professional or something. “Is that why you ran off on me in there?”

“I did not run off!” You huff, ducking your head inside his jacket to glare at him from over the top of it, “Why would I do that?”

Vulnerability softens Steve’s features when he looks at you tucked into his coat like it’s always meant to keep you warm.

“I don’t know,” he repeats quietly, “You tell me.”

Too scared of rejection, it’s his turn to look away bringing the joint to his mouth in an attempt to take a hit. You watch him hollow his cheeks, impressed for a second until he opens it to exhale and blows nothing out. A giggle slips past your lips that breaks the tension, making him groan loudly trying to fight his own smile.

“Look, I’m still new at this okay.” He sighs, a breathy laugh escaping him with a shake of his head handing it back to you. He’s only a little embarrassed, too enamored by how cute you look giggling at him.

“Hey, the confidence was there, you just gotta work on the technique.” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, something sweet dancing behind your eyes when you scoot a little closer. “Do you want me to shotgun it for you?”

It’s Steve’s throat that bobs now.

“Aren’t guys supposed to do that to girls? I mean, I’ve seen Eddie do it at a few parties…” he starts, eyes going wide when you scoff at him.

“Wow, your feminism is showing.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just like in movies - I’m not saying girls can’t - wow this is not coming out the way I want it too, I’m just going to shut up now.” Steve stammers, running another nervous hand through his hair, blowing out an exasperated breath before meeting you

with sheepish eyes.

“Are you driving tonight?” You ask, looking up at him from under your lashes, bringing the joint to your mouth.

“No, for once.” He gives you a lopsided grin that makes your head spin.

“Good.” Turning your body towards him, the confidence you’re trying to hang onto wavers being this close again.

It’s just Steve.

He looks nervous as you feel, but tries to hide behind a quiet laugh, the amber of the beer he drank inside lingering on his breath. The warmth of his palm finds a home on your fishnet covered thigh that’s revealed to him by the side slit of your dress, fingertips pressing into soft skin. The heat behind his stare makes your body buzz as you inhale the last little bit of the joint into your lungs, beckoning him closer with a hum, and a curl of your long nails you snuff the rest out on the stairs. Surely Tina won’t mind.

“Really?!” Steve half whispers, half yells but the whites of his teeth show giving him away.

The corners of your mouth twitch as you lean forward catching the way his gaze flicks down, and how the view makes the gold specs inside his eyes darken. Resting your hand on his cheek, the stubble tickles your palm when your fingers spread out, your thumb coaxing his chin down to open up more for you. His long lashes flutter when his nose bumps with yours, heads turning just enough for lips to brush for a second and you feel the blunt ends of his nails dig into the holes of your fishnets.

You release your hit, feeling him steal the air from your lungs, his hand daring to move up your thigh to your waist where he tugs you even closer. He holds it in for a second, both of your eyes meeting down the bridge of your nose but neither of you pulling away.

Do it.

When he exhales there’s hardly anything left, but you take it anyway, your fingers finding their way to the hair at the nape of his neck. He squeezes at the dough of your hips, in a silent plea to put him out of his misery and just when you think you’re about to show him mercy the sound of the music getting louder and the sliding glass door opening makes you both jump away.

“Hey! - Oh shit! Sorry Harrington, I didn’t know you were out here.” Eddie tries to apologize profusely with his eyes when he sees the glare you’re shooting him. “I just sold the last of my stuff and Cece’s ready to go, so if you still need a ride?”

Your best friend looks at Steve begging him to take the opening to hopefully spare his life.

“I didn’t drive tonight if you can actually believe,” Steve laughs nervously scratching the back of his neck, “or obviously I’d love nothing more for you to stay.”

He says the last part softly, just for you more than pleased when he sees you try and fight the smile from taking over your face.

“Maybe next time,” you look at him from under your lashes hoping that he picks up the fact that you want a ‘next time.’

The blush that turns the tips of his ears pink tells you he does. He watches you get up and start to shrug his jacket off, shaking his head as he stands up to stop you.

“Keep it tonight, honey. It looks better on you anyway.”

-> chapter three

[gallaggher]

opposites attract || spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: none, just pure fluff

comments: i honestly might turn this into a series. like they could go on a date and fall in love slowly but let me know what you guys think.

also quick thank you to @aperrywilliams for helping me with the story!!

- - -

it was early sunday morning. you had woken up, taken a shower, and put on a light pink sundress that was covered in white flowers. you walk down the stairs and grab your pitbull puppy. you clip her leash onto her collar. “you ready girl?” you ask as you grab your tote bag, which contained all your essentials: a book, house keys, wallet, and your phone and lock the door.

you pick up your puppy as you approach the coffee shop, your bag on your shoulder. you talk quietly to her as you walk in “we’re just gonna grab some coffee, then park okay?” you say, looking at how cute she is. you see a man in line and take your place behind him, still speaking to your dog. as the man finishes his order and turns to walk out he notices you. he admires how sweetly you speak to your dog for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for you to notice. you look up at the man and immediately feel your cheeks flush. he’s handsome, you can’t deny that. you two maintain eye contact for a split moment, but you break it when you feel laila trying to jump from your arms. you rush up to the counter, face still red, and order.

you had finally arrived to the park. your eyes searched for an empty bench as your dog dragged you around, looking around and sniffing trees and bushes. you had finally found and empty bench and settled yourself on it. you couldn’t shake the man from the coffee shop from your head. the way he admired you as if you were a masterpiece, or the way he maintained eye contact. you finally pulled out your book, you were rereading romeo and juliet. you had only read a few pages when you heard a voice.

“did you know shakespeares real name wasn’t really william? it was really gulielmus, which is the latin word for william. he began referring to himself as will in sonnets” you look up at the man, and you smile big. it was the man from the coffee shop. “wow? really?” you ask, nerves sitting in the pit of your stomach. “i didn’t know tha-” your response was cut off by laila jumping up him while wagging her tail. “oh my god,” you say, standing up, “i am so sorry” you reach your arms out to grab her. he begins to pet laila with a soft smile. “no, no, it’s okay i love dogs” he says, looking down at you with a face full of nerves. you build up all the courage in your body before you ask him to sit. “would you like to sit?” you say, anxiety coating your voice. “are you sure? i don’t want to impose” the man replies. “i’m sure!” you say with a smile.

what felt like minutes, but was truly hours, had gone by, you and spencer just sat talking. you had learned all about spencer’s job, his family, his personality, basically everything you could ever imagine. laila was sitting between you two the entire time, and how she was currently asleep on spencer’s lap. every time you spoke, spencer admired you. your bubbly personality outshined everything around you two, and in that moment it truly felt as if you two were the only ones in the park. “but yes, my coworkers do like to say i’m a-” his sentence was cut short by his ringtone. “just one second, it’s a coworker” he stuttered. you nodded at spencer, telling him to pick up. “hey morgan. no im not really busy, i’m just at the park right now. mm, okay i’ll be there as soon as i can” he replied to the man on the other end of the phone before hanging up. “i’m sorry, we just got called in on a case” spencer tells you.

he warned you of this, the constant calls, the constant cases. “it’s okay spence, do you mind if i get your number before you leave? i really enjoyed talking to you” you say, your heart sitting in your throat. “o-oh of course. can i see your phone, i’ll type it in” he says, hand shaking as he reaches out. you hand him your phone and he puts his number in. “thank you spence” you say with a smile as you put your phone back in your bag. “can i walk you home y/n? i just want to make sure you arrive home safely” spencer asks, nervous tones coating his voice. “a walk home from the famous spencer reid? i’d love that” you reply with a smile before you stand up and grab laila’s leash.

spencer stands up right after you. he gestures for you to lead the way. he looked around, seeing the sunset. “hey look!” he says with a smile and points at the sky. you look up and see the beautiful sky. shades of orange and pink cover the blue that was there hours ago. “wow! it’s so pretty!” you exclaim. “i love sunsets!” you say, whilst taking out your phone to take a photo. spencer mumbles, “i know” before smiling at your face. your eyes were lit up like a kid in a candy store.

you two continue walking until you reach your apartment building. “thank you for walking me home spence” you say as you stand infront the door. “it’s not a problem y/n,” spencer says looking down at your eyes “i don’t live very far from here anyway.” you look at spencer’s eyes, the brown shade sucking you in. “goodnight spencer, i hope to see you again soon” you say with a soft smile. this moment was so bittersweet, the both of you could feel it. you place your arms on spencer’s shoulders to steady yourself before placing a kiss on his cheek. spencer’s face flushed red almost immediately. “g-goodnight y/n, i want to see you soon as well. i’ll give you a call when i’m back from my case okay?” he smiled, face still bright red. “okay spencer!” you say and turn towards your buildings door.

just before you hit the buzzer, you turn back to spencer. “hey spence?” you yelled out? “huh? yes?” he says and turns back to look at you. “is it true what they say? opposites attract?” you ask, curiosity showing over your features. spencer stops in his tracks. “well scientifically, it hasn’t been confirm-” he replied before you cut him off. “no, what i mean is do you believe opposites attract?” you ask again. spencer smiles softly, “yeah, i think they do.” you hum and he says as he turns around, mind still full of you.

[jeon-ify]

1, 16, 19, 32 Yeosang!! *runs and hides*

woah. you are a mastermind. im gonna have fun with this one

1. “open up, baby”

16. “stop fucking crying”

19. “yeah? you get off on me talking down to you?”

32. “you belong to me, understand?”

————————————————————————————

you belong to me- yeosang

this morning, you woke up to the sound of no one. each room in the house was empty, curiosity rising from your chest. you’d triple checked every room, your closets— nothing.

yeosang was no where to be found. you called and texted, but no answer.

an hour or so later after contemplating on whether to give up or not, you pick up your phone and text again, in hopes he responds this time.

————————————

y/n: baby? where’d you go?

y/n: ur not picking up 🫤

y/n: at least leave me on seen

y/n: did i do something wrong?

y/n: ur scaring me sangie :/

y/n: was it because i braided hwas hair?

*seen just now*

y/n: bro.. theres no way

y/n: ur mad cus i-

y/n: nevermind

sangie 🧡: on my way home. u better not have any clothes on or i’ll rip them off. understand?

y/n: i understand

sangie 🧡: good girl

———————————

you never thought that braiding seonghwa’s hair would be such a problem to your boyfriend, since you already asked and made sure it was okay with the both of them.

“hwa, stop moving or it’ll hurt—“

“then fucking hurry up its only three little pieces” he whined to you. you’re really not hurting him, but he just likes whining.

“i’m sorry!! i’m just trying to make them neater.”

yeosang sits across the room, watching the two of you whine and yell at each other. the smirk that plasters over seonghwa’s face is what makes yeosang’s stomach flip and twist in jealousy. yeosang was never ever the jealous type, but when he was, it was dangerous for the both of you.

he glares at you and you swear you saw smoke coming out of his ears. he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his black nike sweats, and your phone dings twice.

sangie 🧡: just wait.

sangie 🧡: are you enjoying yourself?

sangie 🧡: bet you wanna fuck him and pull on his hair dont you

sangie 🧡: bad girl.

he slides his phone back into his baggy pockets, taking a deep breath to calm himself from the scene happening before him.

he stands up, walking over to the bowl on the counter in the kitchen where his car keys were. he starts his car, puts on his slippers and leaves the house; slamming the door behind him.

“someones jealous.” seonghwa snares.

“shut up.” you smack the back of his head, as you knew he was being petty.

“ow, dumbass. didnt you ask him if you could braid my hair already? its for a music video. he’s so fucking petty.”

“yeah, but if you keep looking at him and fucking smiling of course he’s gonna get mad and think you wanna fuck me or some shit.” you argue. you knew seonghwa had heart eyes for you since the moment you met him through yeosang. you hung out for dinner, seonghwa tagging along since he was bored out of his mind.

yeosang made the mistake of trusting seonghwa around you.

————————

you hear the door unlock and keys jingling around the knob. you run upstairs to your room before the door could open, saving yourself the hassle of yeosang carrying you and tossing you across the room.

“baby, i know you’re home. where are you?” you hear his deep voice rumbling throughout the dark home, as you sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for yeosang to find you waiting for him.

you hear his footsteps coming closer to the room, his breathing picking up as your breath hitches in fear and excitement at the same time.

he shoves the door open, being met with you at the end of the bed, cheeks flushed red and your heavy breathing ringing in his ears. he drops his wallet, phone, and keys onto the dresser as he turns back around and grabs a fist full of your hair. he pulls your head back so you’re looking up at him. he towers over you with his hand tugging and squeezing at your brown locks.

“i shouldn’t even be looking at you. but you’re fuckin’ lucky im nice to you.” he groans. he comes closer to you, prying at your lips, pushing and pulling, almost placing a kiss onto your lips. you scoot your face closer to his as he pulls away. he swipes his tongue vertically across your lips, as you sigh in relief that he finally touched you.

“open up, baby. gonna fuck that little throat of yours. you know your safeword, but i doubt you’ll use it, fuckin’ whore.” he takes his painfully hard cock out of his sweats as your throat becomes dry. you lose all words and all thoughts. you open your mouth, sticking out your dry tongue far enough for yeosang to shove his entire length down your throat.

“there you go, baby. now imagine seonghwa fucking your throat like this— fuckk, so warm.”

he’s relentlessly fucking your throat while your spit and his precum pools at the base of his cock. you scratch and grip at his clothed thighs, his neck veins pulsing and his arm muscles tightening against themselves.

“gonna cum in your throat, y/n. swallow it all like the good little bitch you are.” he groans— you could cum just from his filthy words alone. he watches the way your bare thighs wriggle and press together whenever he says things like this.

he pulls you away by the back of your neck after spilling his load down your throat. you stick your tongue out, moaning an ‘ahh’ sound so he could see that you swallowed completely. “fuck, look at you. dirty slut. bet you like when i use you like this.”

he watches the pool of tears flood your eyes from how overly pleasured you are. he mocks you, watching the way you sob and whine for him to just touch you and fill you up the way you need.

“sangie, please just fucking touch me, ‘been so good-“ he cuts you off as his heavy hand lands a sharp slap on your right cheek.

“good? you giving seonghwa ‘fuck-me eyes is good? you playing with his hair and laughing ‘n shit with my fucking friends is good?” his eyebrows furrow as he yells at you.

he’s not angry, but he’s disgusted that his friends would do such a thing, trusting them around you and wanting to build that bond with all of you.

“im sorry, daddy. just wanted you to fuck me.” you argue and plead him to just fucking do something. his large hand wraps itself around your throat as your tears spill down your cheeks to his fingers. you’re not sad, you’re intrigued by his possessiveness, thus making you so overly pleasured and excited, you decide to cry— turning him on as he loves seeing you weak before him.

“stop fucking crying. i didn’t do anything to you and you’re already cockdrunk. do you deserve to cum tonight?” he slides your panties down in one go with one hand, spreading your legs and shoving his middle and ring fingers into your mouth.

“suck. get ‘em all nice and wet so i can touch you where you want.” you suck and spit around his fingers while he fiddles with your throat.

“fuck— i can’t take it anymore, just fuck me please, daddy. please please please!” you moan as he rams his fingers into your sopping cunt

“i asked you a question. what do you do when i ask you a question, darling?”

“a-answer.” you manage. you don’t know how but words finally managed to leave your mouth.

“exactly. so, do you deserve to cum?” he caresses your cheek, giving you a kiss on your forehead. he’s acting gentle and kind to you, but this is the calm before the storm.

“no, i don’t.”

“and why not?” he questions.

“b-because i was touching your friend.”

“you got it, baby. you finally know common sense. now when i fuck you, don’t try to run from me. you belong to me, understand?. not seonghwa, me. turn around, and let me fuck your tight cunt.” his voice gets gradually louder when he claims you, the veins in his neck becoming prominent.

you get on all fours before him, ass up as your face is buried in his silk navy blue pillow. the cold sensation making you feel way above the clouds as yeosang undresses and runs his slim and long fingers through your folds before sliding his thick cock inside of you.

“i understand, daddy. you feel so fucking good. s-so big!” you moan. you feel like such a pornstar right now, being open and exposed for the man before you.

“look at your legs already shaking, wish i could get this on video and send to seonghwa so he fucking knows— fuck— that you are mine.”

he groans and brings his hand to land a slap on your ass cheek, eliciting a deep moan from your throat. he moves his warm and muscular arm to put you in a headlock, white stars and black clouding your vision.

his muscles contract around your throat, cutting off your air supply as he feels you clenching around his length, gripping him like your life depended.

“daddy— fuck— call me a whore!” you moan and cry out as he pounds you ruthlessly and probably the fastest you’ve ever been fucked.

“yeah? you get off on me talking down to you? nasty whore.”

you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want yeosang to put a baby in you, just so you could be full of him. truthfully, you both werent ready for a baby, but you just wanted to walk around with him inside of you forever, everywhere you went.

he groans and moans in your ear as you feel him twitching deep inside you. you cum around his length, his thrusts becoming quicker and harder, you feel him chasing his orgasm.

“gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you. so seonghwa knows who you belong to. walk around the house with my seed in you, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, y/n?”

“yes- fuck, please please please~” you moan again, arching your back up and down, as yeosang pulls you onto his hips, as you feel him reach a spot he has never reached before, making you squirt and stain his satin sheets.

“made a fuckin mess. look at you. let this be a warning for the next time you touch or look at any of my friends, hm baby?”

“o-okay,” you cry out.

he paints his load all over your pink gummy walls, groaning and stilling his thrusts as you both catch your breaths. he pulls out while you lay down, processing what the fuck just happened.

this was the best sex you’ve ever had.

————————————————————

I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS OMFG IT WAS SO HARD TO WRITE CUS I DONT WRITE YEOSANG BUT THIS WAS SO FUN TOO

[roturo]

TRUST FUND BABY

→ Megumi Fushiguro x Female!Reader

TUMBLR IS BASED ON A REBLOG SYSTEM. PLEASE REBLOG. ←

sypnosis: ¨thank you dad, I'll never be a trust fund baby. Why can't that life ever be minе?¨

warninngs: smut, aged up!megumi, switch!reader, switch!megumi, breeding kink, overstimulation, megumi fantasizing about having a family with you, english is not my first language, kinda of jealous!reader?, possessive behavior, semi-public sex, might do part two.

Megumi Fushiguro is a man of keeping the promises he made. One of them being not ever having a girlfriend.

Why?

Simple. His dad.

Most of the girls who tried ¨getting closer to him¨ was all just about his dad. At first, he didn´t take it THAT personal, just naive girls finding a way to get closer to his dad. But then, his first real crush betrayed him. It made him feel miserable, he´s just the shining spoon for someone else´s story.

Whether it´s a dream or love,

he found you.

You were a new student, thankfully, from the jujutsu world, surprisingly grade 2 as well, and he knows he´ll never be that type of boys who tried to ask you out at Shibuya when you guys were looking for a curse, but he knows he´s a lover with no dollar sign.

It´s not like he´s a guy with no money, He comes from a wealthy clan, he does have money, but he prefers having an empty wallet with the name of a heart.

Your heart.

When the mission was done, Itadori gave the idea of staying at a hotel for some days as a ¨break day(s)¨, which, you gladly accepted and somehow convinced Megumi to stay too.

You could say you´re Megumi´s closest friend, not like he shows it, but deeply he knows that too. You never asked about his dad, and he wishes you never do. He´s so fucking scared you´re one more of those girls, and he´s even more scared that he opened up to you and you´re just using him.

Until, it was your time to open up to him. For him, there was no ¨game over¨ for the others girls lives. But for him? he thought he might lose this game again.

To say he was fucking scared for his heart, it´s just a phrase.

¨I don’t want to sound cheesy, but I need you to know how I feel.¨ He begged to god you weren´t about to tell him you wanted his dad number or something like that. But after what you told him, he wished he never thought that bad of you.

So, that´s how he finds himself sprawled out on a random chair you found in your hotel room, his clothes somewhere in the room while you remained clothed.

Three simple words got him at your mercy, begging with tears on his eyes for you to let him cum.

¨Aww, is 'gumi about to come? I feel so bad for you, but you look so cute beggin' for me¨ You told him with a mocking put that turned into a smirk, while your fingers played with the tip of his cock, trying to get more pre-cum out of it.

¨I'm not- mmh- ha!~ please, let me-¨ He couldn't finish begging for you when a pleasure shock came and his vision started becoming blurry, the pain being too strong but the pleasure being even stronger.

¨It's kinda sad how pathetic you became thanks to your dad, isn't it?¨ You said, while the rhythm of your hand stroking his cock become faster, ¨Want me to make you a daddy? So all those other girls would want to come running back to you and suck your cock?¨ The thought of you becoming a mom and being full of his cum was his finish line, letting a loud moan that he's sure Itadori will make fun of tomorrow, he let himself cum.

¨Oh baby, i'm not done here¨ Your hand still stroking his cock with the same speed became unbearable for Megumi, trying to let go of you, you were faster and got on top of him, now straddling his hips, made him leave a small whimper at the sudden friction of your now wet panties.

With no time wasted, you started getting naked, eager to feel him more. ¨I wouldn't let any of those stupid girls that dare come any near you ever get a taste of you.¨ His hands, naturally went straight to your waist, moving you back and forward to get some more friction of your now bare and wet pussy into his hard cock, feeling his tip almost entering your hole makes you leave a small moan into his neck.

He couldn't take it any longer and positioned himself, he was almost halfway through when you could feel his tip in your throat, with no warning he slammed all into you, not stopping with the rough and fast pace he got, he started kissing your neck, leaving bruises.

¨You're mine now Y/N, all mine¨ Those words got you moaning his name out like a prayer, ¨I know you can be louder than that, show me how loud you can be pretty girl¨ His thrusts become so much for you, you couldn't let any word out of your mouth without moaning, his behavior changed in just matter of seconds, not that you complain.

¨'m gonna' make you a mommy, screamin' my name every night till' you get full of me and my child's, not gonna' stop any day soon since you're all mine now¨ His voice become husky of how much groans, whimpers and moans have left his mouth thanks to you. One specific thrust made both of you see stars and got you coming at the same time.

You were about to faint into a deep sleep in his arms until you felt hard slap on your butt, and Megumi thrusting into you again, hard as a rock. Your fluids mixing with his, and forming a circle every time Megumi continues thrusting into you.

¨Told you, i'm not stoppin' any time soon¨ He gave you a sloppy kiss, while thrusting even harder than before.

He couldn't stop himself, it just feels soo right being inside of you, fantasizing about having a family, being no longer related to his, but with you. You being full of him, showering his kids with gifts and money he has, fucking you in every corner of the house both of you'll have, telling other people you're his.

He thought he was in a paradise of losers thanks to his dad, but there´s nothing like that with you.

[atinylittlepain]

joel miller x f!oc

story playlist

monsters are made of myths. in this story, two myths become one. two myths are in love. they are in wretched love.

warnings | 18+ this is a work of contemporary horror | literally cannibalism, and the trappings of it - love as consumption, non-graphic death, murder, grotesque depictions of food (normal food) and eating (normal eating), non-graphic references to unhealthy parental relationship (abuse and neglect), descriptions of dissociation, smut, strange neurotic processes in general

word count | 17K (yes, really)

a/n | this fic is partially inspired by the movie Bones and All, and it is my attempt to get Bones and All right (read: better) - i cannot stress enough that this is a work of horror, and as such, deals with unsettling imagery, subject matter, and emotions. read with care. special thanks must be given to @pr0ximamidnight and @wannab-urs who loved these two characters enough to keep me writing them, thank you, my darling friends, i hope i've done them justice. and thank you, dear reader, for coming along on something of an odyssey.

Monsters, she thinks, are hewn from guilt and shame. She is trying very hard not to feel either of those things about what she must do. But some slippery part of her still supposes that she has been a monster for a very long time, maybe even from the beginning. When did it change? When are monsters made? Like everyone else, she drank from her mother’s breast. Some time after that then.

What she does remember is not regretting it, any of it, until her mother taught her it was something to regret. Shame in the whites of her eyes, the dark ring of her open mouth, stricken in a scream. She has only ever met one other person like her in all her time skipping from town to town, a few years younger than her, but older in her confidence, her certainty in who she was. And like her, the first time, a babysitter, blood in the bathtub. She took her ear clean off, and the girl’s father found the scene when he got home from work, babysitter having fled, baby still in the tub, gumming on something pink and soft in her mouth. He had been afraid, she told her, that she could have drowned. Never mind the ear. Monsters are loved too, after all, a wretched thing of love. 

For her it had been a finger. At least that’s what her mother told her, easy to wrap her small mouth around. She believed her, vaguely remembering the flicker of red nail polish, bitter amidst the rest of sense and sate. What she does remember, the feeling of fullness. What she does remember, her mother making a myth out of her, conjuring up some way to explain this condition of hers. Condition, what she decided to call it. An affliction of appetites, something to be controlled, to be smothered under the thick swaths of what her mother taught her. How to be normal is really just another way of saying how to hide. And she hid for a very long time, weak and wan and wanting things she knew she shouldn’t be wanting. Until, eighteen, and their tenth packed car and dark house and her mother telling her that she was no longer interested in this myth, this unmaking of a monster. You are what you are and I have tried, I have tried, I have tried, but you are what you are. 

Not just guilt and shame, monsters are made in the breadth of a back turning, in eyes settling somewhere up and away. Monsters are made in a leaving. Everyone has already left. So what else is there to do but eat?

She likes the song that’s playing in the convenience store, the light haze of it, staticking from somewhere overhead. Hazy in the afternoon slump, everyone making minced conversation about setting the clocks back last weekend. Her watch still reads an hour ahead. 

I feel the earth move– she needs toothpaste.

I feel the sky tumbling down– and soap.

I feel my heart start to tremble– but there’s an empty promise left in her wallet.

Whenever you’re around– soon, she will have to stay.

I just got to have you– soon, she will have to pretend.

Baby– make-believing normal.

I just lose control– make a little more money.

I get hot and cold, all over, all over– before another leaving.

Tumbling down, tumbling down– before another fullness. 

“Excuse me.” A man, somewhere in her periphery, and the quick realization that she’s been standing in front of bars of soap, considering what it would feel like to slip one or two into the pocket of her coat, standing there for a bit too long. Shrug and shuffle to the side, a quiet sorry, keeping her eyes down, but in a quick flicker, she sees his face. Fang recognizes fang, always. 

He looks tired, like if not for whatever weight is pulling at his shoulders, he would be much bigger, much badder. Worn thin at the edges, wings darkening beneath his eyes, he spares her a single glance, disinterested, picking up two bars of soap, the kind that smells clean and young and kind. As he leans down, she sees the glint and flirt of gold dangling from his neck, a cross. But she knows, she thinks she knows. When you are rare like this, it isn’t difficult to know another myth when you see one. 

She watches the heels of his boots clip down the aisle toward the checkout, there and gone, and she does not follow. This is not something that should be followed. She knows, she knows. She tried once, with that girl. That girl who had different ideas about what their myth meant, their mouths, who decided that cruelty felt good, who decided to play the part of the monster with a terrible flair. No, this is something best done alone, and worst when it is shared. 

A single bar of soap sits heavy in her pocket while she pays for a tube of toothpaste, the man already gone, mercy. And the evening unfolds like it usually does during these times of motion. Still enough gas in her car that she can crawl a few miles down the interstate and find a quiet place to pull off for the night, somewhere green, somewhere with trees. Summer, the heat turning cool and sticky as it starts to darken, and a routine that is familiar to her by now. Windows cracked just enough to let a thin stream of fresh air in without threatening danger. And she folds the fact of her body in the backseat, tucking all her angles beneath a worn blanket that she keeps folded in the trunk during the day. Always memory before sleep, though her mind has made motheaten, misshapen murmuring out of the most of it. The fullness is always what remains. And that thick curl of shame. 

Here is how her mother made her. She broke skin and pulled out a rib of her own, made flesh of her flesh, tended to the wound until it was something else. There was no father, and there was certainly no god. At least that’s how her mother told it. You came from me, mine, this is mine, me and you and your mouth that must stay closed because I love you even though you are like this, awful, you are like this and I love you. But that love stretched thin, snapped, bleeding gums and broken teeth and never again. A goodbye that she is still saying, that she curls herself around in the backseat of her car in the summer when it’s warm enough for leaving. 

…

Maybe a foolish thing to spend what’s left of her money on. The waitress is very pretty though, a flush of red curls piled on her head, red lipstick too, crackling with her smile and bleeding into the lines around her mouth. Pours her a dark cup of coffee and leaves the steaming pot of it at her table. She pours three plastic thimbles of cream into it, two packets of sugar that she doesn’t stir in, lets it settle, biting down on the grit when she tips the last of her cup back into her mouth, and repeats. And the pretty waitress brings her two plates, so hot that they leave red welts on her forearms when she sets them down on her table, pinkened pain. Scrambled eggs, grease and sweat pooling beneath their lingering heat, bleeding over into two pieces of bacon, blistered crisp. A stack of pancakes, the sheen of butter seeping down, she pours enough syrup over them to pool thin and flooded on the plate. Collects a little of everything on her fork, the soft give of protein and matter, everything sagging in the sweet stick. Hand to mouth, but she stops, stuck, seeing him sitting alone at a booth across the diner. And he sees her too. A meal much like her own, enough to give someone a stomach ache. His eyes fall away from hers just as soon, and she watches him pass a knife through a piece of meat, flesh on his fork that he pockets into his cheek, jawing it down. She works her mouth around her own bite, teeth hurting with the snap down onto metal, the scrape of the fork. The food turns to sweet, soft mush, rolling around on her tongue, swallowed hard. 

He’s watching her again, working his jaw in a slow shift, and this time, his eyes don’t leave hers. She plucks a piece of bacon off her plate, pinched between thumb and forefinger, bites down again and sucks the salt from the dried flesh. He finishes a piece of toast in two bites, mouth screwing to the side, the dip and bob of his throat when he swallows, muscle moving muscle. Sweat is starting to prickle her scalp, the soft stretch of her stomach with her meal, warm and sick and sloshing. She doesn’t chew her eggs, swallows them, slipping down her throat with the rest of the salt and sate. His eyes fall to her hands, the smooth procession of fork and knife making mince out of her pancakes. She sucks the syrup out of each bite, works the sugar down first before swallowing the rest. His meal, almost completely gone, dragging a finger through a smear of ketchup he had been steeping his hashbrowns in, sucks the remnant red into his mouth. She can almost hear the hum that bobs in his throat, even through the murmurings of the diner. And he is very beautiful, beneath it all. The crooked strength of his nose, his brow, the drop of his lashes over the tops of his cheeks when he takes a pull of coffee. Unabashed, she stares, and he stares back, a darkened dare, watching the movements of each other’s mouths.

And just like that, she’s still chewing when he gets up to leave, not sparing another glance her way as he shoulders out the door. Her chin tilts, neck stretched to see him get into a blue pickup truck with a slam of the car door. He’s gone like a thin flame of lightning. She feels like she’s going to throw up. But she doesn’t, pays her check and stumbles out into the starkness of the morning. It’s a Saturday, and families are congregating for breakfast. She watches, slumped in the driver’s seat of her car, a sliver of a little girl and a little boy crossing her rearview mirror, holding onto hands attached to bodies that are cut off from view. She sighs, sits up straight and turns the key in the ignition. 

…

It’s a half-hour worth of driving later when she sees that blue pick-up truck again. Midwest, middle of nowhere, fields of ruin, and that truck, still and silent next to an abandoned barn made of rot. Middle of the day, the sun a flirting threat high in the middle of blue shock, but there are very few people out here, no one around to see her pull off the side of the road, get out of her car, and start swaying through the tall grass toward that truck and the barn. 

He is beautiful like this too. Slinking out from behind the barn, his eyes flickered low like he knew, he knew. His shirt is ruined, dark, damp. White t-shirt bled red, and the strange starkness of that gold cross glinting around his neck. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and makes the mess worse, smears it up to the height of his cheeks, across his forearm. And his eyes, his eyes, swimming, darkness starting to drip down his face, starting to meld and mix with the rest. Beautiful, and so very sad. 

“There’s nothing for you here.” Low, the shivering thrum of it murmuring from somewhere between his ribs. Some kind of twang that sharps in her ears. She can’t find words of her own, still where she stands, beneath his hunkered gaze. When nothing comes, he sighs, shakes his head, walks right past her to his truck, keeping a wide breadth of distance between them as he does. 

“How did you know?” The question tries up her throat once, twice, before it finally jerks out into sound, stopping him before he opens the door to his truck, squinting at her over his shoulder. 

“It’s not hard to tell.” And in the space that follows, something is understood, confirmed. It’s starting to dry on his skin, in the scruff along his jaw, dark. The strangest hunger, the sharpest, an awful ache just looking at him. But he’s already leaving, not another word when he gets into his car, and the silence is a command in and of itself. I am and you are, and it will be a blessing if we never cross paths again. Again, gone, parting the sea of withering  grass with the slow trundling beast of his truck. 

She does not look, does not see for herself what lies behind the barn. She already knows. 

…

Like a child, her cheeks flamed with tears, scrubbing at the salt as soon as it falls. To put it simply, her car stopped, a few last wheezing rolls, and it will not start again. And there is no one to call, not out here, between states, between time itself. Eventually, the panic gives way to a dull surrender. She leans against the side of her car, tips her head back to let her face flush in the last slip of light, the sun fretting at the edge of the horizon. Memory is never far when she lets her eyes close. Something normal, driving down the street outside of house number five, her mother letting her, teaching her. She had laughed, giddy, running her palms along the wheel. Back then, flight had felt more like option, and less like routine. Those last few years, and the quick succession of escapes. 

She was out of control, her mother’s words, and she felt it too. Felt like a fine thread of hunger had been stitched through her spine and was pulling painful, the sharp tug toward destruction. And when the thread snapped, it was all she could do to find something to close her mouth around. Those last few years, they moved more than they ever had, every couple of months when she would inevitably mess up, making a mess of everything. Much easier now to always be leaving, because staying was never really an option. 

It’s heard before it’s seen, the crackling of gravel, of tires and brakes slowing down. She lets one eye slip open in a thin slit, squinting in the final slip of sun. That blue pick-up truck, sidling up behind her car along the shoulder of the road. He makes no move to get out, but he does roll his window down, and that’s enough for her to walk over to the side of his car, smalling beneath his steady eyes. He’s clean now, she thinks she can even smell the soap on him, that same soap that she stole a bar of and has been holding under her nose in the nights, something of comfort before she sleeps.

“You’re like me.” The words come from somewhere unnamed inside her, what might be called courage in someone else, and it seems to surprise him too, his brow jumping before furrowing back down. 

“I am.” 

“Where are you from?” A stupid question to ask someone like her. She doesn’t blame him for remaining silent, lips pressed in a thin line. So, she tries again.

“Where are you going?” 

“West.”

“Where west?”

“Just west.” Silence again, a single car hums by them. He clears his throat.

“Is your car broke down?” 

“I think it’s dead.”

“Is it worth fixing?”

“No, probably not. And I don’t have any money left.” 

“Do you want a ride?” Myths are made in the fine split of choice. She is walking into a new one. 

“Okay.” 

There is very little of herself to collect. A bag in the trunk of her car with a few spare clothes, her blanket, a bar of soap. The rest can be left behind. 

“I’m Joel.” All that he offers her when she slides into the passenger seat, a glance that falls on the curl of her hands in her lap. 

“I’m Maeve.” 

It has been a very long time since she has been a passenger in someone else’s car. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, leaving always looming, but she had been doing well for her mother. Well enough to get a date with a shy boy who sat behind her in seventh period math. He took her out in his car, fall and dark and dim and something light threatening in her chest, stealing glances at each other as he drove them out to that spot that everyone parked at. Lovers, lovers, lovers, young limbs tangling in the backseats of cars, damp windows and fog twirling up skirts in the wash of headlights. And they had parked, and shy boy had stuck his shy tongue in her mouth, and she had liked it, she had liked it. And of course, it went wrong, blood and body and blood and she ran home with salt stinging down her cheeks. She didn’t mean to hurt him. She never meant to hurt anyone. This isn’t a hurting thing, at least she didn’t want it to be. Her mother had slapped her, hard, sending her neck turning to one side before collecting her up in her arms and making it all better, making a leaving for both of them.

Now, with her temple pressed against the window of the passenger side door, silence save for the thin voices on the radio, she thinks of that boy, and how carefully he had cupped her cheek in his palm. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to love him. But she didn’t know how to without biting down.

For as long as she can remember, alone has meant monstrous. Evidence of defect, deformity, the delineation between others, normal, the world, and her, somewhere on the periphery, always. But she wasn’t always alone, and for a while, that was enough to convince her that normal was possible, that, no, not a monster. She had her mother, not alone, not a monster. Clinging to not alone so hard, and in turn clinging to her  mother so hard, that often her fear, or love, or the product of the two, would get her hurt. 

She was hungry for touch as a child, and her mother was unwilling to give it to her in the amounts she wanted for. Her mother, her mother, locking her bedroom door from the inside so she couldn’t turn the handle and slip inside and ask for a palm on her back to calm her nightmares. She would curl up on the pilled carpet of whatever house they were in at the time, back pressed to the door like maybe she could feel her mother’s respiration through the wood, something to soothe down her spine, thumb tucked into her mouth. And in the mornings, bleary, jostled awake by the slow fall backward when her mother would inevitably open the door to her room. Lying on her back in the doorway, blinking up at her mother, grave and grim, who was always frowning, always sighing. Not again, not this again, not you, doing this again. Her mother would step right over her, the hem of her dressing robe brushing against her body as she did, and even that was a relief to her, touch of some kind.

And her mother did love her, in some way. Loved her the way one loves a monster. At arm’s length. That doesn’t mean much to monsters, though. They want, they hunger, just the same. She has wondered, from time to time, if it was the way her mother loved her that made her worse. To go hungry like that for so long, no great working of the imagination to consider how a body might solve that problem in another way. But no, she knows, this is something essential, something curled close inside her. This hunger has been there from the beginning. After all, the finger, the red nail polish, she was just a baby then. She likes to imagine how her mother loved her before that happened. There was a whole year of life before she became a monster. What is love like when people will actually look you in the eye, when every touch does not come tentative as if through the bars of a cage? Sometimes at night, she will wrap her arms around herself and trace her palm along the span of her back that she can reach. Something like that, she imagines, it would feel something like that. 

Something like what she is seeing now, sitting in the pew ahead of her. Husband and wife, and they are very old, the fine threads of age mottled on the back of husband’s hand, spread between his wife’s slight shoulder blades, her pale blue sweater, gold band glinting. His thumb moving back and forth, a smoothing thing, smoothing and steadying thing. The sermon, the prayers, the withering coughs of the staggered crowd all fall away. Small salvation in the steady rhythm of touch, it mesmerizes her. Things like these are always over before she’d like them to be, the husband’s hand falling away as he and his wife both rise from their seats, the sudden shuffle making her blink back into place and space. Plenty of people are getting up, sliding out of the pews to line up down the aisle. Joel, one of them, a gasp of cool air in the empty space he leaves beside her. 

She doesn't know what they are doing in a place like this. She doesn’t think, up until recently, that she had ever been in a place like this, if she’s being honest. Her mother wasn’t religious, and it always seemed to her like churches were somewhere good people went. So no, she had never been in a church before. Not until she started traveling with Joel. 

He tries to find one every Sunday if he can, in between towns and states and strips of road. Usually, he will manage to, he doesn’t seem to care what kind. Last week, Presbyterian, and the week before that, Baptist. This week, Catholic. They all seem the same to her. But then again, she doesn’t listen closely to the sermons, focuses instead on the movement, and making her own like theirs. Here is what she has learned, when you talk to God, look up, and look sad. What else she has learned, at the end, there is always an eating. Bread and wine placed on soft, trying tongues, and some kind of prayer draped over the entire thing. She watches Joel, every week, take communion until she doesn’t even have to watch. Keeps her eyes closed and pictures the drop of his jaw, the slow pull of his throat. She knows it, she knows it. What she doesn’t know is why. Not much room for a God like this one in their particular myth. Though Joel seems intent on it, and she is in no position to challenge this routine. A month traveling together, and still such strange silence between them. But on church days, he is always more likely to speak. 

There’s only a few other people who don’t get in line to receive communion, and all them, herself included, are met with the heavy sweep of eyes, soft shakes of heads that tells them no, should not be here, no, not for you. A childish thought that she keeps to herself, not for Joel either, no matter how he plays pretend at it, gold cross glinting like a rotten tooth rendered good at his neck. A thin flare of jealousy, maybe, that he can believe in good so easily. 

But maybe Joel is good, she thinks, in spite of what they both do. He certainly seems good walking down the aisle, polite words soft in his throat and a nod for her to follow on his heels and out to the parking lot. These people, church people, will never see them again, and that is a mercy. 

“Where are we?” 

“We’ll be in Kansas soon.” He always answers that question with the future rather than where they are in the present, always forward motion. All that he offers her, folding his worn map back up before he pulls the truck onto the road. 

Joel has some money saved from a past staying. And she told him that wherever he decided to stay next, she would stay too, paying him back for what he has already spent on her. He seemed neither moved nor impressed by her affirmation, eyes slipping down somewhere to the side, a sigh. At the very least, it’s a comfort to her, the promise of somewhere for her, for a little while.  

“Should we try to today?” 

“We don’t have to do it together. If you want to, today, that’s fine. I don’t mind.” The words feel stupid in her mouth, and the sharp look Joel gives her before his eyes return to the road tells her as much. 

“It’s safer if we do it together. Less of a mess.” It doesn’t feel that way to her. She knows what he means, but still. Not to her. Shameful to her, that someone else sees her like that. Shameful back when she had been traveling with that girl, that girl who would grin through it, teeth stained and tarred and making her sick up in her throat with shame, with cruel terror turned inside herself. But Joel isn’t like that. No, there is something different to how Joel tends to this. 

Now, alone means go, green light, good for taking. They watch for alone, parked in rest stops, gas station parking lots, all the in between places, places where the loneliest people tend to linger. They’ll spend whole afternoons in some various slump in or against his truck, squinting down in the sun at bodies moving around them, moving through. Today, they pull off at one of those long haul trucker stops, a gravel lot full of slumbering beasts of cars, cargo, men mincing around, stretching length back into their tired bodies. And they watch. And they wait. Teeth aching.

Joel distracts her, sometimes. Her watching him watching the world. It seems like he moves and something pressed beneath the thin crust of the ground moves too. Big man, silent as a fist man. But he is nice and gentle and kind. Small words for a big man. A kind of manners she has never seen before. She watches him now, the soft squint of his eyes under the sun’s cool heat, leaning against the side of his truck with his hands tucked into his pockets, ankles crossed. He looks so casual, but she knows that there’s a wire strung taut in his spine, quick flickers of want, of hunger. She feels it too. 

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, ducking his head down in a way that shows her he’s listening. 

“How many others have you met?” Like us, the implicit understanding of like us. Something strange passes across his face, quick pinch, smoothing itself out. 

“A few.” 

“How many is a few?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, how many do you think there are in the country?”

“I think that’s a useless question.” He doesn’t say it mean, more matter of fact than anything, though it still feels like a swift loss of breath in her lungs. She pinches her mouth shut, a flume of embarrassment warming beneath her skin. But Joel pays her no mind, his gaze has settled on someone. 

They’ve only done this together two other times, but it’s been enough to know there’s a particular way Joel goes about this. Always alone, always men, trying for the bad ones. And how they decide who is bad is, at best, a childish logic. Alone, for one thing, both of them understanding how that can translate into bad. The loud ones, the brassy, blundering ones, ones that bodies move like they know violence intimately. It is all a game of chance, though Joel seems so methodical. Regardless, it makes her feel messy, smeared and stupid for the way she used to go about this, which is to say, with little thought for anything save the ache in her gut. Yes, she had rules of her own. Never children. Rarely women. As alone as she could find them. It was in the mechanics of it that she always failed, and this failure curdled into something close to cruelty, something she had a hard time stomaching. 

But not Joel. Joel is painfully careful in how this is done. The first step is always the waiting, seeing if a body will stick around in this in-between place. And in that waiting their hunger grows teeth of its own, hunkering their shoulders, making them as small as the curl of their guts. And when a body stays in that in-between place, a trucker who seems to be resting for the night, wandering idly around the lot with a cigarette held loose like a prayer between his lips, that’s when Joel moves. This part is not difficult for Joel, because he is kind and gentle and nice. Quiet, he smalls himself, makes himself anyone that could be anyone else. 

And when he does it, he does it in the night, pale slants of the moon’s watchful gaze washing down on him. And when he does it, he does it with his hands. Not a word, not a whimper or whine, just a final puff of breath when he is done, something absent floating up in his eyes. In the close brush of trees a few yards away from the rest stop, there will be nothing left to find when they are done. Down to the ankles, and then some. 

She hates doing this with him, to have him see her in it, and in the after of it. The sate feels good, but the shame fans a perfect flame up her neck. And she cries, she always cries, and he refuses to look at her when she does. They stumble into the rest stop bathrooms and wipe away what they can from their skin. This is no clean thing. She will feel the stick of it on her for days afterward, she always does. But she will feel good too, full too, and it will only make the shame worse. 

“Why do you cry like that?” It startles her, stops another sniff from hiccuping up her throat. He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes focused out on the flare of their headlights eating away at the road, driving back into the night. It’s difficult to look at him, the pearling stains of it that he missed down the line of his throat, the darkening of the front of his shirt, pink-tinged skin, hard to scrub off. Not difficult in that she wants to look away, but difficult in knowing that she should want to look away, though she doesn’t. Beautiful, eyes blown into a sad melt from beneath his brow, his jaw working at some phantom feeling. No, she shouldn’t, but she does. 

“It feels like I should.”

“Well, you don’t have to.” A little sharp, still quiet, but enough to make her heart twist. The rest of their drive is silent, eventually, pulling into the vacant yawn of a motel parking lot. 

Joel goes into the motel office after hastily changing into a new shirt, her eyes slipping somewhere else, but not without a glimpse of bare skin. He’s better with people than she is, and she is still inconsolable, shaking in the passenger seat and trying not to look at her hands, the thin curl of red under her fingernails. She lets her gaze unfocus on the blinking neon sign, vacancy becoming less of a word and more of a throb in her skull. 

“Come on.” He opens her door for her, snapping her back into awareness, and he’s not mean about it, but he is exasperated, dragging his palm down his jaw, already rounding the car to pull their bags out of the bed of the truck. She wishes she could be like him about this, so matter of fact, so mundane. Where did he learn that from? Who taught him to be like that? Who loved him like that? He is far more free than she is, she thinks. She wishes he would show her how. 

This is part of the routine too. They stand, hip to hip, at the cracked sink in the bathroom of their room and they brush their teeth. Their work is meticulous, rounding every canine, making gums bleed with too much pressure. She flosses twice, then brushes again, spitting pink into the porcelain. Joel prefers mouthwash, swallows two stinging gulps of it, trying to kill something from the inside out. It makes her stomach hurt to watch the dip and bob of his throat. 

He lets her take a shower first, the faint sound of late night news filtering in through the cracked bathroom door. She scrapes at her skin with her fingernails, scrubbing down until it stings, until she’s certain that a layer has been sloughed off. She uses the soap that he uses. She smells like him. Clean and good when she looks in the bathroom mirror again. 

Cheaper to get one room with two beds, she never sleeps under the covers. If she thinks too hard about what other lives have breathed on this bed, what cellular remains cling to these sheets, she will make herself sick. So she curls close to one edge of the bed, letting the light from the television blur into meaningless shapes. Joel comes out of the bathroom clean as well, the soft ruff of his hair, the stretch of muscle in his back beneath the thinness of his t-shirt. She watches him sit down on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the glinting dare of his cross hanging from his neck. 

“Can I ask you something else?” She regrets the words instantly with the sigh that slumps down through his shoulders. Not supposed to speak, not after. Though he still turns his face over his shoulder to look at her, eyebrows jumped in something like assent. 

“Why do you wear that?” Nod of her head that she hopes he understands, and he seems to, pinching the teardrop of gold between thumb and forefinger.

“Because I believe in it.”

“Why do you believe in it?” 

“I’d like to think there’s something that will forgive me when I say that I’m sorry.” And she can understand that, though she gave up on sorry a long time ago. Her mother used to be the one to receive her sorry. Her sorry, met with scorn, with a scoff, the whites of her mother’s eyes rolling with her sorry, the flat of her mother’s palm making contact with her sorry. Much easier, she thinks, to offer sorry to something that will never actually answer. You can believe anything you want that way. 

“I wish I wasn’t like this.” She’s never said that out loud, sighed out loud, her chin propped in her palm where she’s laying on her side. But it is the crux of all her wanting, and there is a sorry threaded through it. Wanting for something else, to be anything else other than this. 

“It’s not your fault, being like this.”

“I should be able to control it.”

“You can’t, Maeve, you can’t.” She knows that, nods her knowing to him before sitting up and curling her chest over her knees. There’s comfort, at least, in sharing this understanding, in finding control in other ways. 

“Why did you let me come with you?” 

“That’s another question.” His words curl with the smallest smile, a rare thing as he turns to fully look at her, something softening, something slipping. 

“Did you follow me, Joel?” She ruined it with that, she knows, his face falling into something darker, shadows dipping and bending around his eyes, something dark swimming in his lashes. But some part of her already knew. There are no coincidences in a myth like this, everything must be chosen. 

“I did, I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you follow me?”

“I was confused by you.” He speaks so quietly that she keeps her body perfectly still so she can collect what little sound there is, the low thrum of it, something cracking in his voice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I knew you were like me, but I didn’t understand how that could be possible.” She knows that he doesn’t mean the possibility of others, he has met others before her. Her confusion must be evident on her face, because he offers her a weak smile, his hands in an anxious clasp in his lap, working a steady rhythm into his knuckles. 

“I didn’t think people like us could be good like you are.” These words, what finally shocks her, a surprised yelp of a laugh frightening up her throat, though he is serious, unwavering, and she finds herself becoming angry. How dare he tell her what she is. How dare he hope like that, amidst all this rot. The most they have spoken in their month together, and this is what he says? How dare he say good with so much certainty, and lay it at her feet like it is hers for the taking. A sick joke, more cruel than anything else. 

“I’m not good, Joel.” 

“You are, I see it.” She feels tears starting to ache behind her eyes again, and she is too tired for another flood. All she offers in response to him, a quiet I don’t think so, leaving no room for argument when she lays back down and turns out the lamp on her nightstand. With her eyes closed, she can hear his quiet sigh, the slow shuffle of his body laying down, the softening of his breath. 

She hates that she liked the way good sounded coming from his mouth. 

“Alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Are you getting that?”

“No, no.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s not practical.”

“You can get it, if you want.” She considers it, letting the fabric fall between her fingers, a brief wanting that she lets dissolve with a shake of her head, the small pang of it settling in her stomach. There’s no point in getting something nice like this dress, light blue with buttons down the front. It’ll just get ruined anyways. No, instead she sticks to the sensible stack of t-shirts and jeans, some sort of dollar deal at the Salvation store on denim today. Joel takes the bundle of clothes from her, his palm cupping her elbow for a moment, and she thinks he might ask her again if she wants the dress. She’s grateful that he doesn’t, that he takes his hand away, because if not, she might have said yes, might have given into that want, and that would be something she simply could not do. 

They move strangely around each other. Days bleeding weeks bleeding months. Very little progress made in the push west, following a coiled snake of a path, zagging from state to state. Pieces of each other, collected slowly, carefully. Joel is from Texas, and, like her, Joel tried at normal for a very long time. He got further in normal than she ever did. Had a daughter, had a family. Held on long enough to see her into adulthood. He writes letters to her now, though Maeve tries not to watch him working. The shake of his hand, his shoulders, not for her to see. Sometimes the letters get sent, if they are in the right place at the right time to make that happen. Sometimes the letters are left behind in their wake, a prayer to something much larger. 

She tells him a clean version of her own myth, leaving out what she can, leaving out the mother when she can. She is learning the power of deciding for herself where she comes from. She is learning the power of looking someone in the eye, and of them looking back. 

Joel pays for their new clothes, and she sulks, lingering amongst the racks like a despondent ghost. In part, his money comes from the wallets of the people they find in the in-between. It had upset her when she discovered this, and while he had been apologetic, always quick to soften when she prickles, he was still firm about it. She couldn’t exactly argue with his logic, doing far worse things, after all, but she still tends toward steel when money leaves or enters his hands. It makes her nervous, and it makes her sad. Because she knows with no uncertainty that Joel is good, she knows that now. A shame, that all his goodness must get confused in what they must do.

“How much longer do you think?”

“Maybe twenty minutes, we’re close now.” Something that she knows he is doing for her, and only for her, which makes it lovely, and dangerous, and a little dizzying. It had been an idle, errant thing on a morning a few weeks ago, looking at the creased map over the dash of the truck and trying to make sense of what should come next. Arizona had seemed like a tenable answer, and a memory had floated up, something she had seen on the television as a child, something she couldn’t quite believe on a hazy afternoon, turned upside down on a couch they’d be leaving behind soon. A chasm in the earth, somewhere split open, somewhere to look inside of and see whether all wounded things bleed the same way. Sheepish, she had mentioned it to Joel between the cracks of her fingers held over her mouth, hiding the want that was curling at the corners of her lips. And he had said okay, as if it were as easy as that, as if want could ever be as easy as that, asking and receiving. A silly thought, she wondered if he wouldn’t say the same thing if she had pointed up to the moon instead. She thinks that he would. 

The truth, she likes Joel, in a way that makes her nervous. Likes the quiet hum in his throat while he drives, likes his palm between her shoulder blades, an absent-minded touch that she tries hard not to lean into, likes the steadiness of his breath in the middle of the night. Above all, she likes him looking at her, and she likes giving that back to him, looking right back at him with only kindness, a foreign mercy.

“Have you been before?”

“No, never even been in Arizona before.”

“Thank you, Joel, for doing this. I know it’s silly.” His hands flex along the wheel, a light jump in the tendons of his fingers, a glance her way in the passenger seat before his eyes settle back on the road.

“It’s not silly. We needed somewhere to go.” Always needing somewhere to go, the in-between of the in-betweens. But here in the cab of his truck, it seems like time might forgive them, might let them slip by. She’s worked up something that kicks like courage over the months, enough that now, she will often reach across to him and take one of his hands in both of hers. And he will let her. Always that first tensing, touch still tentative, though the lines of his palms will smooth out eventually, pressed close and tight with hers. She likes to hold the pads of her fingers over the soft inside of his wrist, let the beat there lull her into line with the murmuring engine. And he lets her. 

It’s a perfectly normal scene when they get there. Tourists, teeming, tired parents and kids tugging at pants, at hands, at each other. And Joel, clearing his throat a few times, a shake in his hand that she knows well as they walk out to the edge. She hooks her arms over the railing, leans over until her stomach starts to lurch, eyes dizzy from the vast swaths of red and orange grit, crags and peaks and dry brush all around, down into the canyon. 

Because she is so good at leaving, she can do it without even having to move muscle. A little leaving, she watches herself from somewhere suspended, and in her leaving eyes, she watches the small mechanics of her body climb over the rail and leap out into the sinking blankness. But a hand on her shoulder draws her back. She finds Joel looking at her with a cloudy focus, a soft frown that she watches pinch and pull into a thin line. He clears his throat again. 

“Is it what you imagined?” 

“It’s in color.”

“What?”

“When I saw it on the TV it was in black and white. This is better.” Relief, she thinks, something that smooths his brow and the wings of his shoulders. Maybe even a smile. She offers him one of her own, slight slippage when her gaze wanders over his shoulder. Hand in hand, a halo of golden hair like corn silk, a daughter at her mother’s hip, both of them walking away from the edge. Probably back to their car, probably back to their home, to dinner, to bedtime, to mother brushing her daughters corn silk hair with hands that could not even imagine violence. Saying I love you with mouths that could not even imagine violence. 

And Joel turns around to see what she is staring at, and she sees in the planes of his back the same tensing she feels, the same tensing that comes with knowing that something has been lost, and that it can never be retrieved, returned to. When he turns back around to her, steel has resettled in his jaw, but something is swimming hazy in his eyes. 

“We should go.” 

“Okay.” She takes one more look at the open wound, one more imagining of slipping into it, letting it swallow her whole. And then, well, they do what they always do. They leave. Somewhere inside of her, she is telling her mother that she finally got to see the Grand Canyon. 

…

She thinks she might be hurting Joel. Not directly, not intentionally. She’s been trying to wait out her hunger, staving it off, and he in turn has been doing the same. Testing and trying the boundaries of how long she can hold onto normal, and it hurts, and she can see that it hurts Joel too. Waiting like this, going without like this, strings him by a livewire of his want, makes him jumpy, slow to soothe, to sleep. She can hear him shifting around in the night in the close quiet of their motel rooms, restless, wanting. Sometimes, he will sigh, get up, moving quiet in the dark, the thin slice of sound when he opens the door and steps outside. He goes and sits in the truck. She knows, she has stepped into the corner of the motel room window and seen him with his temple propped in his palm, made small in the cab of the truck. This waiting is tiring. This waiting has teeth and claws and growls. This waiting, this hunger, is enough to make an animal stupid, shivering like static. 

And he has done this nice thing for her, taken her to see the black and white wound in color, and so, she decides that the waiting is done, for now. So they do the thing that they do. They find a place that is in-between, and they begin a different kind of waiting. 

“I want to see this time.”

“No, Maeve, it’s not something you should be seeing.”

“It’s nothing new to me, Joel.” She needs to see, she thinks, needs an accounting of every part of him. In the past, it has always been an unspoken routine. She would catch glimpses of it, of him, of his hands closing around something fragile,  but he wanted her to have nothing to do with it. It’s not like she hasn’t done it herself. The whites of the eyes, and the collapse of the lungs one final time, wretched things she understands.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” His voice borders on the edge of pain, the tendons in his neck playing a hurt tune, and for a moment, she thinks about backing down, letting this go. But she can’t. To do what she wants to do, she must know every part of him, this too. 

“Please.” And he’s not going to say no, she knows that. He has turned her into a terrible king in some ways with how little he says no to her. She grows greedy with it. A child growing up with so much no will hoard whatever yes they can find. 

He doesn’t say anything else, returns to his waiting in the gas station parking lot, with perhaps an edge less patience, shifting in his boots and squinting into the dry shock of the afternoon. She presses her lips together to keep any more from coming out, turns back to the strange landscape surrounding them, the desert, the resilient death of it. And as always, if you wait long enough, someone else will come staggering into the in between. 

It begins like it always begins. They wait until the bruising pall of night washes the cracked earth purple, all the other nighttime creatures starting to yip and titter, working themselves up into their usual routine. But this time, she is there when Joel approaches the man, there to watch something else slide into the place where he is kind and gentle and nice, there to watch him, with the calm strength of a storm, take the man out into the quiet judgment of the desert. 

She stands and she watches a scared animal whimper and wriggle in a merciless trap. Joel’s hands are around the man’s neck, hunched over the strange slump of his body, a thin frown on his face and the slightest pinch between his brows. She can’t look away, her eyes stinging, unblinking, wide and receiving this part of him. And Joel is looking right back at her with the same intensity, eyes lit up in a slash of moonlight. And the man refuses to die. Still struggling, clutching at air and hoping for a savior. And the errant realization that she is someone people need saving from, a quick flash of lightning in her mind. Her stomach starts to churn. 

“Please, please.” It isn’t the man that’s saying it, she realizes. It’s Joel. Quiet and broken murmurings, pleas, prayers, for this to be over. This time is different. Joel, usually so clean and quick and quiet, is struggling. And it isn’t because the man is big or battering, actually quite slight, actually still slumped, but wheezing lost breaths, heart still beating blood and body. Broken cries like an animal caught in a trap. She covers her ears with her hands, but the sounds echo, and the sounds  will echo for a long time. But she can’t look away, not even when thin beads of silver start to fall down Joel’s face, crying, and still pleading for the man to die. And when nothing else works, Joel does turn violent, a quick shock of it in the way he makes simple work of the man’s neck in his hands. She lets out a shriek that she cannot hold back, hot shame following close on its heels. 

Joel is pale, face flushed wan and weary. He swallows hard a few times as he straightens his spine, letting the body curl limp on the ground. Hot salt starts to skate down her face, both of them crying now, shivering with it. 

“I can’t, not this one.” His face crumples at her words, something close to agony that makes her stomach swoop and curdle. She has seen every part of him now. There will be no returning from this.

“Maeve, please, I–” 

“I’m going to wait in the truck.” Already turning her back to him and stumbling toward the faint, fluorescent pulse of the gas station in the distance. He does not stop her, and she is grateful for it. 

The worst part, she is still very hungry. Her shame growing wings that batter against her ribs, because beneath the horror and the guilt, there is still that hunger, made worse now by how close she came to sating it. Like a petulant child, frustrated, and on the brink of going full-tilt. She sits in the passenger seat of the truck and presses her forehead against the window, cool glass providing the smallest comfort. 

And when Joel eventually returns to the truck, he is not covered in it. She knows he is still hungry like her. She does not want to know what was done with the curled body, and he does not tell her. 

They are silent, small, slow moves. She keeps her temple pressed to the passenger-side window, shoulders shaking with the smallest sobs. And she isn’t sure if it’s the hunger, or the shame that is making her cry, and not knowing only makes her cry harder. 

She doesn’t know how long they drive for, but eventually there is a motel, and eventually she is standing in the bathroom of a motel room, and he is standing next to her, and they are moving like they had not failed. She brushes her teeth twice, until it hurts, and like always, he lets her have the shower first. She wants it to burn, and so it burns, coming out from under the water with skin welted and washed thin. And when they pass each other in the doorway to the bathroom, their eyes still don’t quite meet, nothing is said. 

Something strange is settling inside her. She doesn’t lay down, runs her palm across the static fuzz of the television, over the pixel-pocked face of the person delivering the evening news. And when that isn’t enough, she presses her cheek to the low-humming screen, curls her arms around the back of the television, and holds herself there. And for a moment, it’s as easy and as simple as how good that warmth feels, the mumbling drone of sound in her ear. She pulls herself away from it when she hears the water shut off, and there is a moment of reckoning, recognizing, when he comes to stand in the doorway to the bathroom. Hair dark and dripping darker onto his t-shirt. He looks at her, and she looks back, her hands fisted in the fabric of her sweatshirt. He looks small, he looks sad, he looks like he’s about to ask her for something. She would give him anything he could ask for, she would try, the realization as clear and clean as the blade of a knife. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I couldn’t. Not with you there like that.” 

“It’s okay.”

“I wanted to keep good for you.”

“You are good, Joel.”

“Please, don’t.” A monster, broken, a monster, bending, a monster, brought to the ground. A monster in tears. Something seems to split inside him, the fragile threads of his strength flailing and failing. And she surprises herself when she goes to him before the first shaking crack of a sob can rack his chest, curls arm around shoulders like she knows what to do. He’s saying something that sounds like sorry and she’s saying something that sounds like forgiveness, managing enough movement to get them to the edge of one of the beds, to sit down still holding him. 

That cross hangs from his neck like a wretched joke, the small shiver of it. He cries, big man, big strong man. And she holds him, lets him shake with sorry and promises him that he doesn’t have to, that he is okay, that he is good, and in turn, it feels good to give these things to him. 

Eventually, the shake starts to smooth, and when she takes his face in both her hands, he leans into it, eyes heavy and worn weary, but something bright still when he looks at her. 

The thing is, Maeve knows very little about what care looks like. Most of what she learned came from the same black and white fuzz of a television. Beautiful women and beautiful men and their beautiful lives. In the movies, care is a delicate hand at the cheek. In the movies, care is a complete embrace, arms in arms and faces tucked into necks. In the movies, care is having someone to come home to, someone to love. When her hunger was at its worst as a child, she would sit as close to the television as she could get, unblinking, should she miss the moment that the beautiful woman and the beautiful man would kiss. 

And when she got older, she learned a little more about what care is, and more importantly, what it isn’t. There were boys whose violence shocked her, and in turn were shocked by her own violence. There were men that made her feel foolish for expecting care, and there were others who were just plainly mean. One comes to mind, a man whom she got on her knees for. Strange, how women are made gods on their knees, fleeting, foolish gods. And she felt wanted, looking up at him and him looking down at her. And she was wanting too, the thick curl of it in her stomach that was different from any other want. But that had changed very quickly. She didn’t like the way his hand gripped the back of her skull and she didn’t like the crude words he dribbled over her and she didn’t like that it didn’t feel like care, knew that it wasn’t care, it was a cage, and it was too much, and it was all she could think to do because she was afraid, she was afraid, and wanting, and afraid of her wanting, and she was young. So she let a different kind of wanting, different kind of hunger take over. And instead of a god on her knees she became a monster all over again.  

She has not tried for care since then, not for a very long time. But she thinks that she would like to now, with Joel. And so she does, tentative at first, the soft presence of her mouth at his temple, the round of his cheek, the drop of his lashes brushing against her skin, something shy about it. She lays another at the corner of his mouth, and it is an asking, it is a choice, it is a new myth made possible, one in which they can both be good, one that is constructed out of care. An answer in the tilt of his head, in the aligning of mouths, in his palm spanning her jaw, holding her now, holding her still in a kiss that teaches her a new kind of hunger. 

They move like they have both been wanting for a very long time, and they have, after all. The act of give and take, and she wants to take so much, give so much, perfect, pooling pangs of want when she lets his tongue into her mouth, a sharp sigh in her nose. Both turn pliant for the other, his hands at her hips, coaxing and curling her into his lap, and her hands in his hair, tilting his head back how she would like it so she can taste the sharp of his jaw and the soft hollow of his neck. For a moment she pauses, mouth pressed to the jump of his pulse, and she breathes because he smells like him, like that soap he buys wherever they go, like something else human and pleasant and real. And he lets her, runs his palms up the track of her spine, a soothing, steadying thing, only stilling when she lifts her face from the crook of his neck. Breath and beat stop briefly when she looks at him, the dark awe rounding his eyes, cheeks flushed down devastating and lips parted. She has never been looked at like this before. She likes being looked at like this. 

“I think that you’re beautiful, Joel.” It makes him shy, and awful, it makes her smile. She keeps him from dropping his gaze in denial with her hand at his jaw, holding him there and pressing a small thing of a kiss to his lips. And what unfolds afterward happens slowly, something on the verge of timid in how they move, like at any moment, flight, fleeting and fled and gone. But that does not happen, but they both stay, and they both grow more confident every time touch is answered with more touch until they are both bare, and they are curled around each other on the bed, the closest to holy she thinks she could ever get in the sense and sate of skin pressed to skin, a warmth that is so new it stings salt behind her eyes in overwhelm.  His brow pinches at the sight of her first tears, showing her how gentle he can be for her with the fragile presence of his thumb gathering the salt before it can fall. 

“I’ve never met someone good like you.” Awful, she believes him when he tells her this, hope unfurling in her chest and flushing up under her skin, a terrible heat that flickers and flumes when he begins to shift down her body, moving muscle how he would like it to move until she is splayed for him, her knees falling to the sides to allow the breadth of his shoulders to settle between them. He rests his open mouth over the soft inside of her thigh, his eyes flaring up to hers beneath the dark fan of his lashes. And this is care, she thinks, soft jaw and soft teeth where they could turn so violent. Soft only for her. He holds her in the soft bleed of his mouth, dragging heat to her cunt. He takes from her, eats at her pleasure, pulling muscle and bone into a taut line of want, her whole body strung in a snarl as he takes and takes and takes, his mouth, and his fingers, and yes, she thinks, anything else she could ask him for. He would give it to her. Gives and gives and gives until it’s his name in the back of her throat, something that borders on pain with the way he continues to mouth at her through it. She tugs at his hair, begging mercy that he finally allows, up and up and up until she’s tasting herself on his mouth and the solid weight of him is smoothing the kick of her pulse, her chest. 

The roll film starts to melt and pop at that point. Not like the movies, some myth of their own, making myth out of their want. She opens for him, a high, animal keening in her chest when his hips settle against hers. And it is not grace, it is not beautiful or merciful. It’s want distilled, and it makes them move ugly, animal, accepting and open to each other, a little bit frantic, frenetic and fizzing. Skin slicks with salt, turning everything hazy, everything close and cloistering and she likes it, the feeling of overwhelm, blatant and battering and him, all she can think about is him saying her name, saying his want and calling his want by her name. And in the aftermath, they barely move, remain pressed close like stained glass starting to melt into syrup. 

He holds her in a way she didn’t think she’d ever be able to ask for, tucked close to the steadiness of his heart, a sound that soothes and reassures her that yes, this is real, yes, this is shared. 

“This is a good thing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Want is whispered on broken exhales, and accepted into willing mouths. Monsters that are no longer monsters in each other’s company. 

Some things make the hunger easier to stomach. This is one of those things. This is care. She is learning how to receive it, and she is learning how to give it. She is learning that she might like giving it more than she could’ve ever imagined. She didn’t know how to for such a long time, after all, that it is something entirely new, something that feels good. 

And in that care there has been a staying. Small, but still, she can’t remember the last time she spent a week, let alone two,  in a single place. They get a motel room with a kitchenette, and she knows that money is starting to become more of a question than an expectation, because neither of them are doing the thing that makes them monsters. Playing chicken with each other’s hunger, but filling in the ache with other things.

Joel buys her that dress, light blue with buttons down the front, watches her put it on for the first time in the peeling mirror next to the bed, sheepish and smiling, rubbing his palms down his thighs. She flushes, and any hunger is smothered beneath a fine flume of want, and of something else. Something like power, being seen like this, and seeing him like this, his eyes heavy and lingering. And how easy want like this becomes, him reaching out and her responding with two steps into his arms. He drops to his knees before her, sweet in his supplication, bunches the fabric up at her hips, and gives a little more to her from the soft hinge of his mouth. A fine fissure splits and snarls in the mirror that day from the way her skull makes contact with it, perfect arc of pleasure and she doesn’t even mind the pain. 

They go to the grocery store that’s ten minutes away and pretend at normal. They buy white bread that’s so soft, she watches the easy give of it with the press of her thumb, how it reforms itself around the indent through the crinkling plastic. Tomatoes, and mayonnaise, and salt, and they sit in the back of his truck, and she watches him slice into the perfect, red skin, juice dribbling from the clean break. The end of summer, sun flirting and flaring on their curled backs in the motel parking lot. He makes them sandwiches, and she sighs at the taste, golden and the grit of salt, and the soft stick of bread to the roof of her mouth. A hum in her throat when the sense of it all slips down. She watches his jaw work. 

How nice, to let days go by in something close to stillness. She learns his body, lays him out on the coarse sheets and puts her mouth wherever she would like to. Because she gets to have him, however she would like to have him. And so she does. Lips to the center of his chest where she can feel the kick of his heart, to the soft catch of his stomach where he holds his breath, watching her beneath the shy fan of his lashes, light and shadow flickering with the trying twirl of the fan. And she’s so soft for him, only for him, soft jaw and teeth and tongue, taking him into her mouth and humming at the salt and sense of it. That gold cross glints above her with the rise and fall of his chest. And she could, and he could. As easy as exhaling, as easy as the hinge of the jaw. Though they don’t, though they don’t. They sate each other in different ways. 

He coaxes her up and up and up, squeezing at the soft of her hips, a preening laugh getting stuck in her chest when he pulls her down onto the open heat of his mouth. Sweat beads and bends in all the soft places in the close swelter of the afternoon and she exults in it, watches her hips move in the sliver of mirror caught in the corner of her eye. His hands splayed against her ass, making flesh give, animal mouthings that make her shiver. She feels beautiful. Looks back at the woman in the mirror and the woman looks back at her and she feels beautiful. 

And when they settle down around each other, when his hips press close to hers and she’s looking at him and he’s looking at her, she can begin to believe that they aren’t monsters at all. Monsters couldn’t love like this, at least she doesn’t think so. 

“Can I have one of those?”

“Mmm.” This is the way most afternoons go. Bare, they don’t leave bed again, making a game out of reaching whatever they could possibly need. She stretches one leg out, toeing at a carton of cigarettes strewn on the floor until it’s within arm’s reach, Joel’s hand held steady on her hip to keep her from slipping. Smoking, she has found, is an excellent way to press the hunger down and away, tendriled tempering. She curls back into his side, plucks the lighter from where it was tucked in the carton and settles a cigarette between his lips. The pull he takes once it’s lit jumps and jags the tendons of his throat. She lays her mouth there, feels the thrum it drags from him, and like divine machinery, it makes a smile start to curl and round her cheeks. 

He offers her a drag, and she takes one that is a little too much, makes her eyes water while he rubs his palm up and down the bare breadth of her back, soothing, all easy, easy, Maeve. Sheepish, she tucks her face down along the line of his clavicle, a small sound of protest in the back of her throat before she can stop it when his palm stills, though he’s quick to pick up the smooth circuit. She flushes, because he has made her greedy with all this touch, all this give and take, ask and receive. A different kind of monstrous, what he has made her with want made real. 

“Maeve?” She already knows that tilt to his words because he has tried this a few times now, that little edge of pain that comes with hunger. She sighs, but she does lift her head so she can look at him, the slight pull of his frown, waiting for the question that’s coming. 

“Will you eat?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Maeve.”

“I don’t, Joel.”

“I know you do.” And the unsaid of it, because I do too, because I am in pain too, because we are the same, and we must not forget that. Yes, she can set the hunger down, but there is always the picking it up, always the remembering. It turns her quiet, turns her stomach too, making her sit up, Joel’s hand falling from her spine. He sits up with her, ducking his head to catch the slant of her gaze, eyes rounding and wet. 

“Baby, all you gotta do is eat. I’ll take care of the rest.” She sighs, letting her cheek fall into the cup of his palm, fighting a question that is threatening in her throat, and that has been for a while now. She wants to know how long, just how. He held onto normal for a very long time, and if he could, maybe she could as well. Maybe this could be enough, her cheek in his palm. But, at least for now, she will not ask that, will not try that, because she can see that she is hurting him again, dark wings beneath his eyes, jolting with unanswered want. She knows that hurt, and was fine with hurting herself for a very long time, so long as it meant a gentle hand from her mother, a promise of staying. But this is different, because even when she isn’t hurting, even when she isn’t hungry, Joel doesn’t look away from her, doesn’t leave, doesn’t punish or preach. Relief, she thinks, is all he feels when she’s full. And that’s a kind of care that is new to her as well. 

She lays her hand over his, turns her face into his palm to the fated lines there. 

“Okay, we’ll eat.” 

Eating means leaving, and they both know that, but just the promise that this hurting will soon be over is enough to ward off any worry with skittering fingers. They slink out of bed, get dressed in the wavering light of the single lamp in their room. By now, night, dark and close when they step outside, that late summer cooling that comes when the sun slips down beyond the horizon. 

They haven’t, not since she refused to, not since Joel wept. And she feels a fine thread of worry tugging in her stomach, trying not to look at him too hard as they drive through the night toward some in-between place. But there is nothing to worry about, because Joel takes care of it. And so they are full again, and so they aren’t hurting any more, stumbling through the desert brush beneath the merciful glow of the moon, dark, dark, dark. 

It is amazing how little time something so monstrous takes when it is done so carefully like this. In the passenger seat, she presses her palm over her mouth, feeling the dried stick there. And in turn she reaches over to him, lays her hand over his mouth in the same place, feels the same tack there. Like her, like her, like her. He kisses the cup of her palm without ever taking his eyes off the road, the jump of muscle in his forearms, in his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. 

They are quiet when they get back to the motel, curling around themselves to conceal the truth of the stain, of the darkening damp smeared down their fronts. And this routine starts the same. At the sink, the toothpaste and the floss and the mouthwash. But there is no separation when the steam of the shower starts to seep. They both strip down and step in together. Before he can, she is already pressing her palms against his chest, holding him in the stream of the shower. She cleans what remains from his skin, water pinkening in the drain. And when she’s satisfied with that, she takes his skull in her hands and tips his head back so she can thread her fingers through his hair. He hums, eyes slipping shut in pleasure made pure. And she is so gentle for him that even now, so dizzyingly full, she has a hard time convincing herself of her own monstrosity. 

He surprises her when he takes over, beginning his ministrations with his hand holding her chin, fingers tucked at the hinge of her jaw to hold her steady, hold her mouth open so he can run the pad of his thumb over her teeth, pressing at the sharp of her canines, something dark laying heavy over his eyes. She tries for a grin, though it is only a crook of the corners of her lips with the way he is holding her face. And when she bites, just a little, holding his thumb in the merciful pressure of her teeth, he laughs, a quiet murmuring sound as he watches her from beneath his lashes. 

“Be good, please.” And she is good for him. Good means not biting down. Love means not biting down, at least not too hard. Instead, taking his thumb into her mouth and curling her tongue around it. She sucks, and he groans, and it sends a new want stuttering up her spine. Close to frightening to want and be wanted so regularly like this. The cool tile is holy against her spine, shivering down a perfect prayer. He holds her there, and she lets him, and they do something about the hunger that remains. 

When the water runs cold and clean, they get out, continue a routine that looks normal, settle down around each other in bed. Joel puts on the evening news and she keeps her ear pressed over his heart, lets the flooding beat of it drown at that slick slither of shame, still there, always there. But then, but then.

There is a woman on the news. A woman who is crying. A woman who is surrounded by the small flicker of candles held in hands, held in vigil. And the woman is crying because her husband never came home. Three weeks ago, and her husband didn’t come home, and her husband isn’t, wasn’t, the type of man who would just leave because they had children. They had children, and their father never came home. And Maeve sits up because when they show a photo of the husband, the father, she recognizes him. That night when she refused and Joel wept. She recognizes him, and her stomach starts to curdle. And Joel recognizes him too, sits up too, a careful, quiet call of her name, low, so as to not scare her into flight. But she is already shaking her head no, no, no, no, shirking and shrinking away from his touch, curling up on the end of the bed, all her angles tucked up close as panic turns into sickening white noise in her mind. 

They had been careful, hadn’t they? Always careful, always the in-between, always people that couldn’t possibly have someone waiting at home for them. After all, it isn’t hard for like to recognize like. And they were careful, and they were kind, and they always tried very hard to be gentle when they had to do what they always have to do. Not enough though, none of it, enough, and it was never going to be. 

Joel turns off the television, his movement fragmented in the melt of her tears, catching stained-glass glimpses of him kneeling in front of her, pleading, or praying, or something in between the two. Please, baby, please will you look at me? It’s not your fault, it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine. You’re good, you’re so good, please, I’m sorry, please. And it’s please over and over again, and she’s shaking her head no over and over again, trying to wrench away from his hands holding her face steady. 

In the perfect cradle of a pain like this, there is a regression, something childlike in the logic of making it better. Something young in the way he unclasps his cross from around his neck and tries to give it to her, tries to lay it against her sternum. And something young in her too, throwing a perfect fit when he tries to make this right the only way he knows how. She shows him her snarl, thrashes and tears the chain away from her skin, throws it across the room. Terrible, she regrets it immediately, regrets the way his face falls, the way he sinks back into himself. She has hurt him, and this time, on purpose. 

He gets up with a sigh that sounds very tired, doesn’t say another word as he crosses toward the bathroom. She can’t look at his face right now because it will make her cry even harder, so instead she lets her vision blur and unfocus around his form, a silhouette with his forehead resting against the bathroom door frame. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.” All that he offers, slipping away, slipping out of sight and into the bathroom, and that young part of her panics. No, needs him to be where she can see him, where he can see her, needs to fix this. She gets down on her hands and knees in a blind stutter, runs her fingers along the grimey baseboard trying to find where she threw that wretched chain. And it’s no use because when she does find it she sees that the clasp is broken clean off, golden bones in pieces, glinting in the faded carpet. She picks up what she can find of it, feeling small, shivering small when she pads into the bathroom. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, big man made small just like her, curled over himself with his head in his hands. And now would be a good time for her to leave, she thinks. Leave the cracked pieces of his faith on the counter and start walking in any direction away from here. She is familiar with this kind of leaving. All those years ago, and her mother in a similar posture of prostration, of surrender to this thing that she could not fix for her daughter. Her mother, asking her to leave. And Maeve, finally given an opportunity to succeed in what her mother asked of her. Yes, she is very good at leaving when people get tired of her, or frightened of her, or tired of being frightened of her. She has done it many times now. 

“I’m sorry, Joel.” And the rest is said too, in a sodden slur when she holds out her cupped palms to him and shows him the broken pieces, something about her fixing it, with money that doesn’t exist, and in a place she doesn’t know, and with hands that seem to only be good for greed. But he accepts her sorry, curls his palms around hers to close her fingers over the wreckage, a prayer that she is relieved to partake in. 

They are ruinous. But they are in love. 

A strange, slow slump over the lip of the tub, and he pulls her with him. The porcelain, or whatever it is, is still pearled damp from their shower earlier and the bare skin of her shins sticks and slips as she settles in his lap. She holds his face in her hands, thumbs stroking at the soft skin beneath his eyes. And he’s beautiful, and she’s already forgiven him, and she never wants to hear him say sorry again because she would continue to forgive him for any and all of it. She wants a world for them in which they never have to say sorry.

“Joel?” He is listening, though he doesn’t say anything, and she allows something like hope to lurch hot and hazed in her chest.

“Do you think we could be normal together?”

Silence, for a long time. The sink faucet drips.

“We could try.”

Two years pass. 

It is the longest she has ever managed normal.

The truth is there was money, because her mother did love her in her own strange way. She had never touched it before though, there never seemed a good enough reason for it. But this seemed good, like the best possible reason, really.

They get an apartment in a town in New Mexico with a name that doesn’t mean anything to either of them. Something they could both agree on, the hard bake of the sun and the dry air. 

They both get jobs in the first months. She works at a grocery store, smiles bright at the mothers that bring their daughters along on their weekly errands. He works with his hands, and comes home in the slow slump of the afternoon smelling like cedar and salt. She licks it off his skin and runs her fingers through his damp, darkened hair most nights. 

Those first few months, there is a mattress, and not much else. It is enough. They put it in the middle of the apartment. They eat and they sleep and they talk and they laugh and they fuck and they watch the sun rise and fall in the harsh way it does from that mattress. They are very happy. 

And then they get some more furniture, and then they start saying hello to their neighbors when they pass them in the hall, and their neighbors start saying hello back. Normal slips into the corners of their lives like the most gracious guest. 

At the end of that first year, when it seems like normal is going to stick, Joel sends a letter to his daughter with a phone number scribbled in hope at the bottom of the page. He waits by the phone the whole week after it’s sent like an anxious ghost, makes himself sick with waiting. And when she does call, Maeve catches glimpses of him from the end of the hall, a smile, and quiet wonder in his voice. He’s not interested in going to church any more because now his daughter calls every Sunday. He sits down on the floor with his chin tilted to the side to accommodate the stretch of the coiled phone cord and he talks all morning with her. 

In the second year, Maeve finds that she likes to paint. There’s an art supply store in town, so she quits her job at the grocery store and goes to work there, gets enough of an employee discount that she can buy paints and brushes and canvases and an easel over the span of a few months. She likes the desert, likes its colors and its quiet assertion of life, so that is what she often paints. And Joel likes to watch her in the evenings, she sets up her work in front of the crooked palm of windows in the living room, an errant hum in the back of her throat to whatever song is playing on the radio. Eventually, every night, when she is doing more swaying than painting and her eyes are starting to squint shut, he gets up off the couch and pads over to sway with her, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder as he coaxes her tired body into his arms. And from the faint glow of the windows stacked and ordered alongside a few dozen other glowing windows of the apartment complex, it looks like love, because it is. 

She finds that she likes routine, likes being bored and boring. She likes that the things she worries about now are small things, like what they're going to have for dinner, or whether they’ll go to the weekly tenant meeting on Thursday nights. She likes waking up in the same bed every morning, and she likes that he sleeps on his stomach when he’s actually comfortable in a space, splayed and cheek rumpled on his pillow, an arm always extended toward her, draped over her. She likes the weight, the reassurance of it. And in the mornings he is slow to wake, all soft murmurings and soft eyes, still shut even when she presses her lips to his temple, though a smile will usually start to curl smug when she does. Good morning, good morning. It is good, all of it, so good that it makes the dormant hunger hurt a little bit less.

They eat breakfast together, leaning against the kitchen counter. Eggs and their golden tears splitting and spilling on their plates, strong coffee that he takes black and she takes with cream. Their mouths work hard around normal. She packs lunches for them both, late summer again, tomatoes again, sandwiches again, the way that he made them. And on her break at work she does her best to get it down, pinching the crust off first before eating the rest. But no, that other hunger doesn’t go away. It makes sounds a little sharper, and lights achingly brighter, it makes the steady beat of the sun fierce. But she thinks she can manage it, because she wants all this normal so much more, hunger for hunger, and want for want, a careful game of tipping the scales. 

Joel’s birthday is in a few weeks. She’s been working on a painting for him, difficult to keep it a secret with the way he is always over or under her shoulder, a hum in his throat because that’s beautiful, baby, you work so beautiful. But somehow she’s managed to keep it hidden. And today she picks up two fresh tubes of paint, pigments that she needs to finish her work. She’s painting a sunset for him, a landscape that they both know, a wound in the earth, that canyon that they visited once. She hopes he’ll like it. She thinks he will. 

She always gets home later than he does these days because he got a promotion, baby, big man, good man who got a promotion, baby, who’s a boss now, baby, working with his hands, baby, good, honest work, baby. He's already showered, hair damp and dripping dark down the back of his t-shirt, the small slide of muscle as he stands over the stove and stirs something that smells good. That same hum in his throat when she twines her arms around his stomach and presses her face into the back of his neck, deep inhale because he smells like that good, clean soap he always uses. 

And it’s all the quiet, normal things, greetings, and how was your day, and it was good, baby, how was yours, and mmhmm, good, this looks good, you look good, good, good. He turns in her arms and smacks a kiss to her mouth that makes her laugh, makes her hungry. 

“I got some new paints.”

“Oh yeah?” Somehow, squirreling around each other, he tucks her into his side, arm easy and slung around her shoulders while he continues to stir pasta and sauce in simmering pots, steam and savor washing over their faces and turning skin tacky and flushed. 

“Mmhmm.”

“Gonna paint something beautiful, baby?” Baby, baby, baby, his cheeks round with the word every time. She especially likes it, usually late at night, or early in the morning, when he slurs and stumbles over Maevey baby, Maevey, Maevey, Maevey. Heavy and sweet like thick syrup in his throat and it nearly brings her to tears it’s so nice coming from his mouth. 

“I’m gonna try.” 

“Always beautiful, always make things so beautiful.” It’s almost absent-minded the way he says it, intent on getting food on plates with only one free hand, but it still makes her stomach swoop and buoy something awful. 

They eat dinner, and they sit on the couch, and he watches her work on a different painting until the sun slips under and washes everything down dark. And they get ready for bed, moving around each other in a routine they don’t even have to think about, settle down around each other and turn out the lights, quiet whisperings of love, touch that expects more of itself for a very long time, easy, patient, soft. When she feels and hears his breath slip into that slow resonance of sleep, she moves as quietly as she can in getting out of bed. She’s been hiding his painting in the hall closet where they keep their winter coats tucked. They have winter coats now. 

She works in the quiet clutch of the night, eyes squinting in the dim light she allows for herself, working partly from memory, and partly from  mythology of a place in their shared past. The painting will be finished soon. She thinks she’ll have to give it to him early if that’s the case, giddy with the idea of finally sharing it with him. 

When she’s satisfied with her progress, still night, still close and dark and quiet, she tucks the painting back into the closet, careful not to let anything brush against it while it dries. And when she returns to bed, Joel is still asleep, on his stomach now with his arm outstretched toward her side of the bed. Nothing is easy like it is to slip back under with him. 

She’s going to finish the painting tonight. The thought makes her rush a bit in closing the store. It takes her three tries to finally get the key to click into the lock. If she does finish it, she thinks she might have to wake him up right then and there to show it to him. And she floats home on the prospect of that, smiling, easy greetings to the people she passes on her way up to the apartment. 

“Joel?” A fine whisper of worry when she doesn’t find him in the kitchen making dinner. He must have had a longer day at work, she figures, just now getting home and getting cleaned up because she can see the light slipping down the hall from the bathroom. 

And the rest happens in a strange, slow unraveling. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that she screamed when she opened the bathroom door. She will not remember that. What she will remember, the awful resignation, that understanding like a small death, that she was never going to be able to walk out of her own myth. And the blood on clean, white tile that had never seen blood before. And blood on him, on his hands and on his face and down his shirt and all over and all over and all over. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that he thought he was going to die when she told him not to touch her, when she skittered back so hard she tripped and fell in the hallway when he reached for her. What she will never tell him, she sometimes wishes she died then and there.

From the glimpse she caught, there is very little left of what he has done, only remnant viscera in the bathtub. But she doesn’t see any more than that, because she is on the ground and she is pressing her back up close against the wall as far from him as she can get and she is sobbing and yes, she is screaming. Ruinous, wretched ribbons of sound ripping through her chest. It is a mourning sound. And he drops down to his knees, reaches in the space between them, but thinks better of it with the way she shrinks away from him. Pink streaks of tears down his face, he pulls at his hair in something that looks like agony. He cries with her, and he prays to her. Like a chant, like an invocation, like one last plea for salvation, I’m sorry, I’m so tired, I’m sorry, I was so tired, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I’m sorry, I love you, please, I’m sorry, please. And she cries harder at the broken sound of his wails, fingernails clawing at her chest like she might be able to plunge through skin and muscle and find the sick, stuttered beat of her heart that is in such perfect pain. The horrible truth is she had already forgiven him the moment she opened the bathroom door. The horrible truth, they are in this myth together. 

Eventually, when there is little left for her to mourn, the cries stop, everything swollen and slumped and sodden. She doesn’t wince or recoil when he reaches for her now, crawling to her on his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing the crown of his head into her stomach, still shivering in his sobs. And because she has already forgiven him, it is hardly difficult for her palms to find the shake in his spine. She doesn’t even have to think about it, holding him a little tighter when his hands grasp at the fabric of her shirt. 

Still, pain. Later, much later, she does not let herself think of that day too often. Of the painting that was never finished. That was left in the hall closet to dry with a sunset that wasn’t yet complete. Because if she does think of it for too long, that pain will tear open inside her all over again, and it will turn her hateful, and she doesn’t want that, not for him, not when he tries to show her how sorry he is every day. Sorry that normal ended like that. Sorry that there was always going to be another leaving. 

They leave, together, the next morning, silent as a grave. And in all the years of wandering that follow, they never return to New Mexico, a space sealed off like a tomb of the past, of a promise that could never have been kept. 

…

“Are you cold?” 

“A little, but it feels nice.” Still, he doesn’t think twice about offering his shirt to her from where it had stayed dry and folded at the edge of the lake, warmed by the sun and clinging to the pearling damp on her skin. It’s summer again, and they are in some in-between like they always are, and he is trying to find what joy he can for her like he always is. And it is a good day, one of their better ones, so she tries for what she can of a smile from behind the tuck of her knees up against her chest, squinting in the bright halo around him. He smiles too, a shy, small thing that looks like relief, and when he curls his arm around her shoulders, she lets him, tucks  into his side, and they sit at the edge of a lake in the in-between, soft grass and mud and the mild kippering of insects all around them, baking in the sun. When he holds her like this, when normal starts to creep in, so do the tears, but she tamps them down with a hum in her throat, some song that he sighs at, tucks his face into the hollow of her neck so he can feel the thrum of it from the source. He holds her like he is waiting for her to shatter, something desperate, but something fragile. And she drags her fingers through his hair, now drying in fine waves beneath the sun, and it is a moment that will have to be enough. She is learning what to hold onto, and what to let go.

“Joel?” He hums his listening, though he keeps his face ducked down to let her continue her ministrations. 

“We should probably leave soon.” 

“Yeah, we should.” And it is this string of words over and over again, the finely stitched pattern of their lives held in the cradle of these few words. She thinks that she has accepted this, settled around this, grown around the rot until it has become something else. Sometimes, she wonders if they are real, if she is real. Watch two myths walk away from the edge of a lake. It is summer, and  two myths are holding each other in their arms. It’s only real if you watch. The rest of the time, they define real for themselves. Real in touch, in sun on skin, in mouths and hands on skin. They make each other real within their own myth. All of the time, they are in love. Some of the time, they are happy. 

But before this, before now, before all the miles they have crawled in the time following that staying that turned into a leaving, she refused to eat for another two years, despite his coaxing and cajoling. And it weakened her, made her mean and sharp, and eventually withdrawn, curled like a corpse in the coarse sheets of motel beds, letting her eyes glaze and glass in the glow of the television. Lover turned patient, any care and keeping was done by his hands, moving her in a pleading pattern of preservation. Please, baby, I need you to eat, I love you I know you love me so eat, all you have to do for me is eat. All she offered in response when he would start to pray to her like that, her palm lifting in the air, and dropping back down as if judgment had been passed.  In the night, he curled his body around hers, and it was the strongest she got to feel, him weeping against her spine.  And in the waking day, death seemed inevitable, seemed like grace, and one day, she told him in what voice she had left that she would like him to, to her, of her, if the time came soon. And she hoped the time would come soon. And he got very angry, it shocked her how angry he got. Voice like thunder and lightning in his hands, shattering whatever would break against the walls of their motel room. The vision of a man who did not know what else to do. The vision of a man losing. And that broken, beating thing inside of her lurched because she loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him. And so she eats with him. And so she lives with him. And so they walk through this myth together. Her in the passenger seat and she takes one of his hands in both of hers and keeps it for herself in her lap and he lets her. How could they be monsters? How can this be called monstrous? They are in love. They are in wretched love.

And before this, before now, when a new couple moved into that apartment in New Mexico, clean, white tile clean and white again, ready to fill the rooms with their own kind of love, full and good, they found a near-finished painting in the hall closet. A painting of a wound in the earth, and the flame of a sunset. They thought that it was beautiful. 

[flowerbetweenfangs]

Cream Filling: Chapter Four

CW: There is discussion of an abusive relationship. The MC also remembers the lovebombing stage. Nothing is on screen, so to speak.

This is part of an ongoing series. You can read the previous part here!

Thick sheets of snow covered the streets, the grey sky plunging the world outside into early darkness. Streetlights flicked on, bathing everything in amber light. Despite the lack of sunlight, the sidewalks and strip were empty. 

“Full moon,” Horac commented. “Everyone who’s got half a brain is already at home.” 

“Magic rituals, werewolves running around, and everyone who needs it is charging their charms.” Wrecks shrugged, before yawning. 

“All the wildlife around my home is being so noisy right now. I barely got any sleep last night.” He rubbed his main eyes. 

Elle went to touch her protective charm, but only felt the spider. Right. She’d left stone at home, right on the windowsill so the rays of the moon would charge it with protective magic. Her neck felt naked without it. 

A blast of cold air hit her. Shivering, she rubbed her arms as a man in a large coat shuffled in, clutching papers. His face was wound in scarves, hiding his face. Without a word, he came to the front counter and set the pile down, without looking at Elle. His fingerless gloves showed his nails were thick and opaque, slightly longer than normal, and tapering to a point. 

His hand rested on the counter, and the papers shuffled again. 

Looking down, Elle realized it was a job application he was presenting to her. Before she could ask him any questions, he shuffled away, pulling his patchy coat tighter around himself went to the door, holding it open as a gaggle of goblins came in. 

Quickly, she snatched up the application and put it into a manilla envelope along with the rest. Runes appeared on the tab at the top, before the papers vanished in a puff of smoke. 

“Welcome to Ramses!” She called out, having to lean over the counter to look the new customers in the eye. They were a small group of regulars, and she gave them her best smile. 

Once the café closed, Elle tried to not lament the small pile of tips on the counter. At least with her favor, it meant that the debts she’s acquired would be a lot less cumbersome in the next couple of weeks. Still, she felt a pang of anxiety as she picked up the bills and stuffed them into her wallet. 

“Attention residents.” A voice crackled over an old ham radio, the dials twisting to try and get a signal. Elle jumped, putting a hand over her chest as her heart hammered. 

“Moonrise is in three hours!” The voice continued, followed by feedback. Wrecks yelled, covering his ears and scuttling to the kitchen.

 “We advise all non-magical residents to please be indoors before then.” The crackling lessened. “All those afflicted with lycanthropy please proceed to safe areas. Those who plan on performing rituals, please refrain from doing so unless you are being supervised by a professional…” 

As more warnings and advisories warbled on, Elle rubbed her ears. 

“You alright, Rookie?” Horac asked, going to the radio and attempting to adjust the volume, before yelping as a bolt of magic hit his fingers. Waving his hand, he sucked on his finger and glowered at the machine. 

“Does it do that every full moon?” She winced, hoping it would stop soon. 

“Yeah. But we’re normally out by then.” Horac shrugged, then looked at the empty café. “But we have to have one for safety standards.” 

Sighing, Elle went to the back and clocked out. 

Wrecks parted with a polite farewell, before scampering up the side of the café. Silky strands quickly froze as he spun, but that seemed to be the goal because the drider was using them as a bridge. 

Hopefully, this one wouldn’t be burnt down. 

Going to her car, Elle shivered. Snow was starting to come down heavy again, clinging to her clothes and hair. The old clunker was already covered in a foot of snow. She unlocked the door and pulled, having to yank harder than normal to free it from the ice. 

After scraping off her windows, she sat in the driver’s seat. Her breath was foggy. Taking the key, she stuck it in the ignition. Turning it, she felt her heart drop when the engine stalled. 

No. She was just starting to claw her way out of debt. She could not have this happen now! Turning the key again, she held her breath as the engine sputtered, but nothing more. 

Why today of all days? Trying to keep her breathing steady, she rubbed the steering wheel. Whispering a few affirmations, she tried to will the car into starting. 

There was a rap on the window. Turning, she saw Horac standing right outside. 

“Need a jump?” He looked pointedly at the front of her car. 

“My savior!” She called out, opening the door and popping her trunk. 

Once she got out the jumper cables, Horac repositioned his truck. It was probably older than her clunker, but obviously better taken care of. There was a wax finish on it, catching the streetlight and looking lovely. The tires were new, windows all but sparkling. If it wasn’t for the snow and some slush, it would have looked like it rolled off a vintage vehicle lot. 

And when it started, the engine purred. 

Elle wondered if he was the type to stay in the garage after dark, polishing the metal meticulously. And if he winced every time her car squealed to life. 

Once she’d opened the hood, Elle rubbed her hands together and stared at the vehicles. The Boarman fiddled with the cables, before standing next to her. Without realizing it, she scooted closer to him, feeling his body heat. 

Sighing, he slipped off his coat and put it over Elle’s shoulders. Whatever it was made of was heavy, nearly making her knees buckle. She pulled it closed, adjusting her stance to stay upright. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Elle asked. 

“It’s not too bad.” He assured her. “I’ve dealt with a lot worse.” He fiddled with his key ring. “You want me to unlock the café so you can wait inside while your battery charges?” 

With a sigh, Elle shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, there should be enough juice for me to get home.” The thought of her getting stuck on the highway on the trip back made her shiver. To be out on the full moon, without a protective charm. Shaking her head, Elle walked to her car and rubbed the roof, giving it a few more affirmations. 

After a few more minutes, Elle slipped into the car and took in a deep breath. Turning the key, she winced when the car sputtered, before dying again. Sighing, she hit her forehead against the steering wheel, feeling ready to burst into tears. 

Come on… Not today of all days. 

“Want to call your insurance?” 

Biting her lip, Elle avoided the Boarman’s eyes.

“... You have insurance, right?” 

When she didn’t respond, Horac mumbled something, running a hand down his face and rolling his eyes. Sighing, he looked away and at the businesses turning their lights out and covering their windows. 

“Then again, I don’t think there are any places open because of the full moon.” 

Looking at his truck, Horac jerked his head toward it. “Come on. I’ll take you home.” 

“It’s a half-hour drive!” Elle protested. “And you’ll be in the Leviathan district!” 

“Alternative: Leave my coworker stranded on the full moon. She gets bitten by a werewolf or worse.” Horac took the cables off and put them back in her trunk. “A ride service is going to be more expensive, but if that’s what you’re more comfortable with.” 

Elle wasn’t so sure the pittance in her wallet would cover the gas money the truck would need, let alone for a ride service or taxi.

“Well…” 

“I should be able to make it back with plenty of daylight to spare,” Horac assured her. 

Looking at her car, Elle slipped in and gave it one more try, but the engine only clicked. 

Pulling out the tips, she peeled off one bill for herself and passed the rest to him. “I know that thing’s gotta be a gas guzzler.” 

Rolling his eyes, Horac sighed and helped her into the truck, before starting it. They drove through the strip in silence as more snow fell. 

“I knew that thing was going to crap out on your eventually.” Horac sighed. “I could always hear it before seeing it.” 

Elle felt her cheeks burn. “It was all I had.” She swallowed hard. “I… Lived in it for a few months before I got the job at Ramses.” 

Horac’s shoulders squared, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. 

“Damn.” His tusks wiggled. “I… Don’t mean to pry, but has your ex been bothering you again?” 

Shaking her head, Elle looked down at her phone. “No. I used my favor to make sure that he’d been taken care of.” 

“Any word on that?” 

“No, but it’s only been two days.” Elle sucked in a breath, looking at the burn on her wrist. It still perfectly resembled a pair of lips. Heat rushed through her, the memory of Ash’s lips on her skin fresh. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Horac said, reaching over like he was going to clap her on the shoulder. His hand hovered, before returning to the wheel “Ash, if nothing else, knows how to leave his customers satisfied.” 

The silence that followed was stifling. Horac fumbled for the radio, finally managing to turn on a classic rock station. 

They were about to get onto the highway when traffic started to bottleneck. Elle inhaled sharply, seeing all the cars ahead of them. 

“Rookie.” Horac’s voice was calm. “This may put you in an awkward spot. And I’m sorry.” 

Her eyes didn’t leave the road. There were a few vehicles that had slid off and flipped over. A few of the occupants were camped out on the shoulders, bundled up against the cold and chatting with police officers or on their phones. Despite this, another car flew past them in the merging lane. 

Unable to stop, it slid, rear wheels spinning as the driver tried to get traction again. 

If it was this bad now, how would it be after Horac dropped her off? Sure, his truck was better suited for the conditions, but the other drivers…

“Horac. How far away do you live?” 

“About twenty minutes from here, other direction.” He said, eyes not leaving the road. Another car spun out, and he winced. 

“I would… Feel really bad if you drove back in this.” Elle swallowed. “I… Don’t have anyone at home that needs me. If it’s easier, I can just crash on your couch tonight?” 

Horac visibly relaxed. “I didn’t want to make it awkward and just offer it to you. But it beats driving home in this.” He craned his neck and nodded. 

“Let me get off at this exit.” Flipping on his blinker, Horac inched forward and then eased out of the traffic. 

Elle kept a death grip on the handle above the window. 

“Will, uh, your kids be there?” 

“No.” Horace’s eyes narrowed and he began to ease up the ramp. “It’s their week with mom.” He let out his breath when they managed to get onto a level surface. “We switch off every Friday.” 

Once they were back in the district limits, the ride went a lot smoother.

“They’re safe?” 

“Yes.” He exhaled sharply. “The safest they can be.” 

They drove in silence again, the music filling the void. Buildings began to become sparse, long snowy fields taking over. She stared at them, seeing a few dead stalks of plants. Farmland? She frowned. 

Horac kept his speed low, so the twenty minutes turned into thirty before they came upon an iron gate. Elle blinked rapidly, trying to hide her confusion. To her shock, the gate didn’t look like it surrounded a community, but a long sprawling driveway. 

With a grunt, Horac opened the door and stepped out of the truck, physically opening the gate. It squealed noisily, making Elle grit her teeth, hands clapping over her ears. Once it was open, Horac looked back at her. The gate trembled slightly in his grip, but he kept it lifted. 

“Think you can scooch it up a little bit for me?” He beckoned her. 

Looking at the driver’s seat, Elle bit her lip. Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slid into the driver’s seat. With a white-knuckled grip, she shifted the gears and slowly edged the truck forward, hearing the roar of the engine as she stomped onto the gas. The vehicle lurched forward, and Elle quickly slammed on the brakes, chest hitting the steering wheel. 

Horac winced and kept his head down as he waved her forward. 

Much softer, Elle pressed on the gas. The wheels spun, spraying snow behind the bed of the truck, but the vehicle slowly rolled forward, finally passing the threshold. Slamming on the brakes again, she threw the gearshift into park and all but jumped into the passenger seat again as the gate squealed behind her. 

Horac got back into the truck with a sigh. 

“Well, you didn’t wreck it, so that’s a good start.”

They drove up the winding driveway, a house slowly coming into view. It was a two-story ranch, with a screened-in front porch. An old tire swing hung on a large tree in front, children’s toys covering the yard, half-buried in snow. Remnants of a garden were poking from behind a stone ring.

“It’s been in the family for years,” Horac explained as they parked. “Didn’t have the heart to sell it.” 

Stepping out of the truck, Elle shouldered her purse. The snow continued to come down in large flakes, leaving the area blindingly white. As they entered through the garage, she could feel the pressure of a second threshold spring up. 

Flipping on the lights, Horac opened the door, letting her go first. 

They entered a living room. Despite the toys in the front yard, the inside was spotless, things tucked away cleanly into totes or baskets, blankets on the back of an expensive-looking couch, and an old tv set. 

“Wow.” Elle fidgeted with her purse. “I had no idea.” 

“It’s an inheritance.” Horace shrugged, before going to the kitchen. “Er… I hope you don’t mind tv dinners. It’s all I got that’s human-friendly. I normally eat out when my kids are here. I, uh… Don’t really like cooking when I’m not working, you know?” 

“Sure!” Elle’s stomach grumbled. At this rate, she was ready to start chewing on anything solid. 

Next to the couch was a nightstand with a lamp. A silvery rectangle was next to it, showing cracked glass across the middle. 

Leaning down, she flipped on the lamp, illuminating a picture in a frame. It showed a dark-haired girl, maybe two or three, holding a newborn wrapped in a blanket. Her smile was big but didn’t reach her eyes. The crack covered a person reflected in the mirror, obscuring the picture taker. 

They were all human. 

Staring a moment longer, Elle finally pulled away when the floors creaked. Horac had gone down the hall, his shoulder scraping against the walls. 

Come to think of it, she’d never asked about his kids, and the Boarman never indulged information beyond that he had them or had to leave early to take care of something pertaining to them. 

Slipping off her coat, Elle looked down at her uniform. It was going to be uncomfortable sitting in it all night, but it was better than sliding off the road or being stranded. Pulling out her phone, she texted Wrecks that she and Horac had gotten back and were safe, reminding him to be careful. 

Heavy footsteps brought her back. 

There was a shirt and pair of shorts over Horac’s arm, judging by the size, it wouldn’t even fit over his head. 

“You don’t have to take it, but,” Horac shrugged, tossing over the clothes. “I can’t imagine the maid outfit is terribly comfortable.” 

Staring at the shirt, Elle saw it was the same pink as the ticket for “Temptation”. When she unfolded it, the club’s name was printed across the chest, a pair of crimson lips under it. 

“Old shirt,” Horac said sheepishly. 

“Were you in middle school?” Elle held it up to him. Even if they could get it over his head, it would probably rip at his shoulders. She wasn’t too read up on the anatomy of Boarmen. 

“I-” Horac shook his head. “It was a while ago.” 

Elle felt a twinge of guilt, knowing it would be unwise to press further. Holding the clothes to her chest, she ducked into the nearest room. 

There were twin beds on opposite walls, a closet between them. Each one had a trunk at a foot of it. The headboard on the right said “Isabella” the one on the right said “Jolie”. The walls were covered with children’s drawings, from markers to crayons. 

Isabella seemed to be the older one, showing more pictures. There was a drawing, showing a family of four, showing a dark-haired woman next to the girls, and a fair-haired man on the end. 

“Daddy, Mommy, Me, Jolie.” 

Elle stared at them, feeling a sudden pang in her chest. 

Slipping on the clothes, Elle folded up her uniform and sighed. 

When she came out, the shirt almost came to her knees, and the shorts down to her calves. The tie at the waist had to be looped around her hips to keep them from sliding down. 

Horac was fiddling with a dial on the television, hooking it up to his laptop and managing to get a show streaming. An old black and white movie flickered across the screen. There were two sad-looking tv dinners on the coffee table, which Elle ate. It was better than nothing, making the rumbling in her stomach lessen. 

They sat on opposite sides of the couch, the silence deafening. 

“I was thinking about breaking out some of my old bourbon,” Horac finally said. “But if you’re not comfortable, I-” 

“I haven’t been out drinking in years.” Elle almost laughed out loud. “I… Could never afford to.” She scratched the back of her head nervously. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to talk about how broke I am all the time.” 

Horac shrugged. “I mean, you can’t help it.” He faced her.  “But… You have drank before, right?” 

“Oh, yeah!” Elle reassured him. “But it was like… Sneaking drinks from the older patrons of the academy I went to-” Her mouth closed, and she sighed. “It was a different time.” 

Horac got up and went to the kitchen, glasses and bottles clinking. When he came back, he unscrewed the lid and poured them both a glass, his much taller and larger than hers, topping it off with cola. 

A large ball of ice floated in the alcohol, fizzy clinging to it. 

Picking up the cup, Elle gave a smile. 

“To breaking old bonds,” Horac said, gently clinking his glass to hers. “May yours go smoother than mine.” The hem of his shirt hiked up, showing the twisted and knobby scar on his abdomen. 

Averting her eyes, Elle tried to not stare. 

Taking a drink, Elle winced at the taste but managed to gulp down the liquid. Eyes watering, she sniffed and wiped her nose. Setting the glass down, she took in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“You’re supposed to go slow.” Horac teased, before taking a sip of his own drink and setting it down, and filling Elle’s glass with water. “Only drink as much as you want to. If you just want water, it’s fine. And if you want me to stop drinking, just tell me.” 

He drank another glass, switching the movie to an old tv show. His eyes were focused on the screen, but she could see him staring at her out of the corner of them. 

Nursing the water, she thought about the drawing, then the photograph. Genetics of interspecies relationships escaped her. Sure, there were cambions, dhampirs, and holsteins, but purely human children? “So… What happened to you?” 

“Hm?” 

“I saw… A picture in your daughter’s room. A family drawing. It uh… Didn’t look like a Boarman in the “dad” spot.” She felt bad about prodding, but she had to know. 

Horac was silent for a moment, running a thumb over the rim of his glass. His jaw clenched and unclenched before he sighed, topping off the drink with another round of bourbon. 

“It’s a bit of a sore subject, but I feel like you should know since you’re dealing with Asmodeus.” 

“What?” She tried to not look too baffled. 

“Some of us get a demon’s Favor. Some of us get their Ire.” Horac explained, staring at the credits as they rolled across the screen. 

“When I worked for Temptation, I was a good employee. A bunch of customers liked me, so did the workers. But I also wasn’t afraid to jump in and break things up when they got out of hand. It didn’t happen enough, but it was enough to justify keeping me around. I loved my wife. Loved my kids.” His tongue flitted across his lips. 

“The succubus who had a thing for me, she was something else. Ash encouraged her because he… Has a way of thinking that doesn’t really match up with mine.” He frowned, the pause following extended. 

“You don’t need to know the details of my screw-up.” Another drink, the glass filling with more bourbon and considerably less cola.

“But I messed up big time and got involved with shit I shouldn’t have been.” His shoulders sagged, shame darkening his features. 

“If you know anything about Concubi, they can get really attached to regular… “customers”.” He added air quotes around the last word.

“Anyway, she shot her shot, wanting more. Then didn’t take it well when I rejected her.” He winced. “I deserved it. Honestly, I should have had a lot more happen.” He finished his drink, setting down the glass. 

“Ramses approached me while I was in the hospital. And offered me a job as a cook. It was different, it was new. Fresh start. And I knew I could keep myself and my family safe.” He swallowed, eyes watery. “And I knew that once word had gotten around about the “incident” I would have a hard time finding anything else to do to make a living.”  

“So, I agreed. I went to turn in my two weeks. Asmodeus took my resignation as betrayal, so he twisted my body and changed it. Ash kept him from going any further than that. That man is a demon, but he’s at least able to see both sides of things. That’s the reason I didn’t throw him out the second he walked into the café.” 

Elle stared at him, her eyes wide. She picked up her glass and gulped it down, the rush of cold clearing her head. 

“My wife wasn’t an idiot but trusted me. The Club wound up sending a bunch of pictures to our home. My… actions had broken down the threshold enough for them to be able to cross.” Inhaling sharply, Horac squeezed his eyes shut. 

“The only solace I have is that the girls didn’t see them. Isabella doesn’t really remember what I used to look like, but she knows I’m… Different now. Jolie was a baby, so she’s only known this-” He waved a hand in front of his snout. 

“-as how I look.”  

Elle put a hand on his arm, giving it a light squeeze. He snorted, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry.” She said softly, before letting him go and scooting away to the other side of the couch.

“I’m lucky.” Horac insisted. “They could have gone after my family. I’ll take something like this a thousand times if it means they’re safe.” 

He jerked his head toward her. 

“What about you?” 

Tit for tat. She almost felt guilty. He’d been so open with her about something that obviously hurt him, especially something that made him look… Less than perfect. 

Judging by how much he’d drunk, he wanted to forget. Horac seemed a little more buzzed, although his speech hadn’t begun to slur, and he seemed sharp. 

“I was eighteen.” Elle’s heart began to pound at the memory. The story had been told so many times, but each time she began, it was like her skin was being flayed open for everyone to see. 

***

“If you summon this, there’s no telling what would happen!” 

“Thousands of people summons demons every day.” Elodie swatted at the air. “And they’re doing just fine.” She looked at the symbols in the circle. “Besides, they have to do something before they can even do anything to you. Just gotta be smart about it.” 

She looked at the frightened faces of her old friends. Years had worn away the features, making them all fuzzy. There were infernal runes and symbols for various sins over their faces, obscuring them further. 

“I’m tired of living like this.” Scratching at her neck, Elodie finished touching up the last rune. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll go to the Beezelbub district and hit up the Vampires. I heard Plasma is supposed to be a safe Feeder Club.” 

Of course, the rumors about ‘blood bags’ were vile. Vampiric saliva could be addicting, leaving the human unable to go the recommended six weeks between feedings. The pay would get lower and lower, and three would bind the biter and bloody together, too big of a risk.

She looked at the circle on the floor once more. It looked close enough to the ones from the blogs she’d been consulting. 

“Now, you just need a bit of blood.” Elle paused, looking down at the components. “Whoever’s we use will be the one keeping this all in check.” 

“Why not yours?” 

“Hey!” She protested, feeling a rush of excitement and fear. “You sure about that? That means I’m gonna have all the power.” 

“You’re the one who knows the most about this.” 

Elodie huffed, scowling at the circle. “Still.” 

She flexed her fingers. Looking at the ritual knife, she picked it up, holding the handle tightly. No one moved to stop her. Either they were frozen with fear or had complete confidence. She wasn’t sure which one was better. 

Nodding, she began to head to the center of the circle, hearing a few gasps. 

“Last chance to back out,” She warned, eyeing the faces of her friends. 

No one moved. 

Taking the blade, Elle lifted her skirt and ran it along the outside of her thigh, chanting in the infernal language. It was harsh on her throat, like gargling nails. As crimson flowed from her leg to the central symbol, the lines began to glow. 

Air stirred, candle flames flickering. The energy began to shift, loud crackling making everyone jump. Elodie could feel the pressure and heat building but didn’t stop chanting. 

“Servant of Mammon, I command you to come to me!”  

A candle erupted. Then another. And soon the flames had become infernal pillars, faces flickering in the fire. Legions of screams began to add to the crackling, the heat becoming unbearable. Sweat poured into Elle’s mouth, but she didn’t stop chanting. 

Screams filled the air as the candles were dropped, and the room was vacated. Flames caught on the curtains. 

Stopping her chanting, Elodie ran out of the circle and began to stamp on the fires. Luckily, they hadn’t spread too much, but there was enough ash in the room to leave her clothes covered with them. Glaring at the closed doors, she crossed her arms. 

The petty part of her wanted to wait and see if any came back to check if she was alright. But she figured it wouldn’t end well. The Headmasters were likely already being informed of the ritual and that there was something on the loose the students couldn’t control. 

At least she could clean up the room before they got into more trouble. Or worse, someone with even less sense would try and do the ritual again and crack open a Hellmouth. 

She knelt to pick up the candles when a wave of heat rolled over her, the room suddenly bathed in crimson light. Whirling around, she saw a naked man sitting where her blood had spilled. 

Aside from the flesh-colored horns poking from his brow, he looked completely human. Inhaling sharply, Elodie felt a rush of scents hit her nose. Honey. Pine. Chocolate. Mint. The seemed to shift on a dime, images flashing in front of her. 

Honey poured in tea to sweeten it. A pine forest in the summer. A box of chocolates was passed to her by a classmate (who had the demon’s face for some reason). And the mint of someone’s breath as they leaned in to kiss her. 

Covering her mouth and nose, Elle coughed loudly, trying to clear her head and keep her eyes above the demon’s waist. 

A noise alerted him. Slowly, the stranger stood, a whip-like tail swishing behind him. Raking fingers through wavy hair, he opened his mouth to speak but paused. 

Doors burst open and in came the teachers and caretakers, shouting out binding spells and slapping charms on the walls to seal off the room. 

“Elodie Shepard! What were you thinking?” 

The demon vanished in a puff of pink smoke. 

As the room was blocked off, Elodie winced as she was grabbed by the arm and hauled off. 

“Well?” Headmistress Blackstone stared at Elodie from across her desk. “You’re lucky the spell didn’t work. Or who knows what you could have brought here.” 

Elle opened her mouth about to say it had, in fact, worked. But then she thought better of it and closed it. 

Blackstone spread polaroids taken from the scene across the desk. Despite the anger in her voice, the older woman’s brows quirked up, obviously impressed. 

“I know you’re kicking me out next week.” Elodie tried to keep her voice calm, despite the burning on her leg. “Because I haven’t shown any particular skills. Nothing to justify keeping me past adulthood.” 

“So,” Blackstone steepled her fingers. “Was this supposed to impress?” She shook her head, “Because the Guardians will have to be notified, and that room will have to be sealed off to prevent anything further from happening. Anyone who needed that room will be denied it for at least a month.” 

“It was supposed to give me a chance before I got thrown out with nothing.” Elodie shook her head. “You’ll never get it.” 

Sighing, Blackstone pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, Miss Shepard. We tried to raise you right, even letting you stay past the cutoff date for a couple of gap years while we tried to finesse a proper higher education for you. But between your subpar test results, your need to skirt the rules, and the number of times you’ve been caught on grounds with boys-” 

“It takes two to tango!” 

“I know, Miss Shepard, but you have a… Habit. You’ve been caught no less than six times with four different boys. The woods. In the bathrooms. Even in the library where you were supposed to be studying! One of those boys had parents who donate to the school. They threatened to pull their funding because they thought we were neglecting his education.” 

Elodie scowled and looked out the window. “I bet if my parents were rich, you’d let it slide. But because I’m a foundling brat-” 

“There are a lot more with half your talent who work twice as hard,” Blackstone warned. “People who have gone through a lot more than just parental abandonment. You have to stop assuming people who aren’t blindly praising you are out to get you.” 

“This incident would have been the last straw, even if we had a reason to keep you here, this cannot be overlooked.” Blackstone pointed to one of the photos. “What were you planning on doing with this particular demon?” 

“A demon of Mammon can get you material goods.” Elodie shrugged. “Figured if I was going to be left with nothing, I could at least get myself something to help me live until I could get something to sustain myself.” 

“Well, you need to brush up on your runes.” She waved the photo. “ This is a symbol of Asmodeus, not Mammon.” 

“...Oh.” Elodie shifted uncomfortably. That explained a few things. 

They stared at one another in silence. Elodie shook her head, before standing up. 

“I’ll go collect my things.” 

Blackstone raised her hand, magic crackling in the air. Elodie plunked back down in the chair. 

“You’re never to take up the title of Mage, used magic generated of your own power, or use the academy for any reference in any career endeavors.” The Headmistress sniffed. “I hope this stunt was worth it.” 

As Elodie packed up her belongings, which wasn’t much, she noticed her friends were giving her a wide berth. A change of clothes and a few toiletries that could fit in a small backpack were all she had left in the world. 

If they hadn’t run… They’d probably be joining her on the street tonight instead of next week. 

Once she was off the property, the squeak of the iron gate loud in the night, she finally started to cry. She let out the tears,  before sniffing and wiping her eyes. Fanning herself, she managed to pull out a map without stumbling. 

This was it. She was on her own now. 

Staring at the map, she stood under a bus shelter, letting the dim amber of the streetlight illuminate the twisting lines of the map. Wind buffetted Elodie, threatening to rip the paper from her hands. Gripping it tightly, she grit her teeth and sucked in a breath. 

The cycling scents hit her nose again. Peppermint. Pumpkin. Fresh bread. Coffee. 

The smell of a city square during the holidays. Autumn gatherings with pastries. A bakery in the summer. A cafe in the spring. 

Jerking her head up, she stumbled back. The demon was standing across the street, now dressed in a uniform from the academy. It was too small for him, the buttons straining and pantlegs baring his ankles. 

“Oh! Now you show up!” Elodie snapped. 

“Sorry about that.” His voice made her breath catch. Each syllable seized her heart, and the map slipped from her hand.

“Adrian Ashborn.” The Power of his name crackled in the air. 

Ashborn. So Blackstone had been right. He was a Demon of Asmodeus. 

The faces in the flame came back. Were they other Concubi trying to break through the veil?  

“I was trying to summon a demon from Mammon , not Asmodeus.” Elodie rubbed her face. “You were a mistake, I’m sorry.” 

He was suddenly in front of her, their faces close enough for breath to mingle. 

“Gah!” She flinched away from him. 

“Don’t do that!” She rubbed her brow. The smells were starting to worm their way in, and she wanted to bury her face in his chest and just rest there. 

No, that was how they trapped people, focus!  

“Go away.” 

“I can’t do that.” He said, a matter of factly, keeping pace with her as she started to walk. “You summoned me, so you have to dismiss me.” 

“I’m not a mage anymore.” Elodie looked over her shoulders to check for cars. “They took all my magic, you must have felt the power holding you drain.” 

“You bound me with your blood, not power.” 

Elodie let out another groan, which seemed to amuse Adrian. His smirk would have been punchable on any other face. She still wanted to hit him, but she felt more restrained than normal. 

“They really sent you out here with nothing, huh?” 

“Can’t afford to keep feeding and housing me without a return.” Elodie sniffed, trying to flag down a passing car. “Barely managed to scrape by on my final exams to keep me. If I’d passed them this year, I’d be there until twenty-six.” 

They sped up, hitting a puddle of mud and spraying her. Stepping away from the road, she looked towed the lightening sky, ready to scream. 

They finally came to a rest stop, and Elodie ducked into the bathroom. Adrian started to follow her, but she swatted him in the chest, pointing to the sign. 

“Ladies only.” 

Inside, she scrubbed off the worst of the mud but was still covered with it. Changing her clothes, she stuffed the damp clothes in her backpack. At least she had that. 

When she came out, Adrian all but tackled her. He seized her arms, the touch sending a bolt through her. She barely managed to clench her jaw before a loud moan came out. 

“I got us a ride.” He jerked his head toward a van, where a bunch of men in flannel waved them over. 

“There’s a motel about three miles from here.” He explained. “They’re on their way to the nearby Hunting Grounds.” 

Werewolves. Blinking, Elodie sputtered. 

The pack was a polite, if talkative, bunch. They had filled up all the seats, but there was room on the floor of the van to sit, so she did. Adrian sat next to her.

Elodie was glad she didn’t have to say anything, although being in close proximity with Adrian was making her head spin. The scents, the warmth of his skin, the way the sun seemed to hit him just right. 

“Sucks that you’re in such a tight spot, but we’ve all been there.” The pack leader remarked, “It’s not much, but we’ll cover your first night so you can at least sleep somewhere warm while you try and get your bearings.” 

“Thank you.” Adrian smiled, and there was a collective inhale as everyone quickly averted their eyes. “Parents were a lot less accepting than you were.” 

Elodie tried to not roll her eyes. Of course, he’d go that route. Two lovebirds from different species in an unforgiving world. She felt guilty for lying, but she also didn’t want to be kicked out of somewhere twice in less than a day. 

“Just gotta find your people.” One of the wolves said. “It’ll get better, trust me.” 

The wolves let Adrian cover up with one of their blankets, but by the time they were at the motel, his skin was already blistered and peeling. The clerk took one look at them and about fainted, but quickly passed over the key as Elodie yanked him back into the room. 

“They weren’t kidding about you guys not being able to handle the sun.” Elodie winced, scouring the bathroom for a first aid kit. 

“I’ll heal up eventually.” Adrian watched her from the bed, which of course there was only one of. “You’re quite resistant.” 

“Huh?” She paused, looking at the pitiful bar of soap and toiletries they had. Sighing, she began to check the closet. 

“To my charms.” That damn smirk was back. 

“Oh. I feel them.” Elodie rolled her eyes. “But I’m ignoring it, like a random person screaming on the crosswalk.” 

“Ah. Explains your irritability. Ow!” He swatted at her backpack when it hit his face. When it fell, small red lines opened on his face and began to bleed. 

“Look.” His voice dropped a few octaves, freezing Elodie in place. “I have a proposition for you.” Taking a tissue from the box on the nightstand, he dabbed as the blood. “I can’t be sent back until I fulfill a contract, and you seem to be in a bit of a bind.” 

“I may be an incubus, but all that means is that I get my power a certain way. I might not have Mammon as my Prince but…” He squeezed the tissue tightly, the veins on his hand popping out. When he opened it, there were gold coins in his palm. 

Elodie stared at it, eyes wide. Licking her lips, she dared a few steps closer. 

“I think we can come to some sort of agreement.” He palmed the gold and stuck it in his pocket, the motion betraying his erection. 

“Good to know Demons are pigs just like their human counterparts.” Elodie snapped, turning away and scoffing. “I’m many things, but I don’t-” 

“It’s literally how I sustain myself, Dear. Do you shame a vampire for feeding on blood? Or a human for eating meat or vegetables? A spider for eating a fly?” 

Sighing, Elodie nodded. It was in his nature, and he couldn't help it. Not to mention he was probably in pain from the sunburn. He hadn’t asked to be summoned. And she’d yanked him into this mess. 

Turning to face him again, she rubbed her thigh nervously. 

“Just one contract, and you’ll go away?” 

“Of course.” The corner of his lip tugged up. “If that’s what you want.” 

Her lips parted as she tried to come up with the words, but nothing came out. 

“For one, I would like to not be reminded of Hell, so if you could be so kind as to assist me with my burns.” 

Swallowing, Elodie gestured to the empty closet behind her. “There’s uh… Not any aloe or anything like that.” 

“As I said, we sustain ourselves on a very specific sin.” He flexed his fingers, “Unless you’d rather me wait around until nightfall and go looking for someone else.” Leaning over, he put his ear to the door. “I can hear the hotel staff moving around, I’m certain there’s someone among them that wouldn’t mind a quick fuck in exchange for-” 

He yelped as Elodie slammed him against the headboard, arms clutching the too-tight shirt. Buttons popped off, rolling on the floor. 

“You are not going to abandon me after all I just went through!” She snapped, before realizing she was digging her nails into his skin. Blood had soaked into the fabric. Red smeared on her fingers, and she let him go. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Adrian assured her. “I love a woman who can kick my ass.” 

Rolling her eyes, Elodie slid off the bed, sitting at the foot of it. 

Adrian placed a hand on her thigh, right over the wound from the ritual knife. The touch was light, but it felt like he’d stuck a blade into the wound. Wincing, she pulled away, but his fingers lingered on her skin. 

“Why’d you cut there instead of your palm? Would have been a lot easier to control where your blood dropped in the circle.” 

“Not as many nerve endings. And I wanted to make sure I could hold onto the knife if you got wily.” Although her friends running and breaking the circle had made that pretty much impossible. 

“And if you’d cut here.” His fingers slid to her inner thigh, making her breath hitch. “You would have cut the femoral artery and bled out before the people who sealed off the room got there.” 

The touch was light, but Elodie could feel herself starting to quiver. Adrian inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. The blisters on his hands and fingers began to heal, the skin becoming smooth and whole again. 

“You may not be able to use magic made by your own power, Miss Elodie Shepard.” The energy of her name crackled in the air, making her heart skip a beat. 

“But I can promise you, if you allow me this, I will make sure that you are taken care of.” The tip of his finger brushed against the cotton of her panties. 

Elodie’s back arched, a shuddering breath escaping from her lips. The finger between her legs stayed, before Adrian’s hand began to travel up more, slipping past the fabric. A soft moan escaped him as he found the soaking folds. 

She fell back onto the bed, her skirt hiking up as her legs spread. The burns were gone from Adrian’s arm, and more were vanishing before her very eyes. Adrian’s fingers pumped in and out of her, his free hand sliding up and slipping under her shirt. It slowly rose up, exposing her midriff and bra to him. His nails traced over her breasts, covering her in gooseflesh. 

The hand went behind her shoulders, unhooking her bra with surprising precision. Leaning down, he took the cups between his mouth and yanked it off. 

Running his tongue over her nipples, he put it between his lips and began to suck. His finger circled her other breast, nail tracing over the erect tip. Between that and the fingers pumping in and out of her, it was almost too much to bear. 

She just wanted to come. But… Then what would happen? Panting, Elodie stared up at the ceiling, the soft moans getting louder and louder. 

“You held yourself together pretty well.” He rose up to straddle her. Taking his finger out, he brought it to his lips. It was shimmering with wetness. 

“But now that I know it’s there…” 

Opening his mouth, he began to suck it. A moan went through him as he shuddered, brushing his erection against her panties. When he pulled back, there was a wet spot on his crotch. 

“You’re not going to be able to hide it from me anymore.” He ground his hips into her, his smile widening as she let out a few whimpers, before clapping her hand over her mouth. How thin were the walls of this place? 

The noises made him chuckle, the blisters receding from his cheeks and jaw. Did anything related to sex give him power? 

“It’s taking all my self-control not to tear these off you right now.” He hooked a thumb under her waistband, slipping her underwear off and flinging it to the side. “When I get you some more clothes, I’ll make sure to do just that.” 

Grabbing the hem of her skirt, he roughly pulled it off, the seams popping. 

Putting a leg over his shoulder, he began to kiss down (up?) Elodie’s calf, the back of her knee, then thigh. His tongue circled her inner thigh, then slowly traveled up. His fingers parted her lower lips, breath rolling over the soaking folds. 

Elodie clutched the blanket, biting her lip. 

Adrian began to lick, hands wrapping around her thighs and placing her knees on his shoulders. Elodie yelped, legs crossing at the nape of his neck. The motion pushed him further into her, and he groaned. His teeth grazed her, revealing they were slightly sharper than a human’s, but not enough to be fangs. 

He plunged deeper, rolling his jaw and moaning, pulling back with a gasp and swirling his tongue around her clit. Elle moaned, rocking her hips against his face as her legs began to shake. The noises of pleasure only encouraged him further, and he continued to lick and suck at her clit, fingers plunging into her, thrusting back and forth. 

When he pulled his face off to breathe, he licked his lips and brushed up the fluid into his mouth, sucking his fingers with a moan. 

“Way better than aloe.” He panted, the burns now gone. Fumbling, he managed to unbutton the shirt and shrugged it off. 

Unbuttoning the pants, he let them slide down to his thighs, his cock hard and dribbling. Taking some of the fluid still on his chin, Adrian stroked himself, panting as he made eye contact with Elodie. Black and white rippled in his sclera. 

Pushing her leg up, Adrian lined himself up, damp head brushing against her wetness. Elodie’s breath hitched, feeling herself clench. He noticed, brows coming together in confusion. 

He put a finger on her clit, and began to circle it, grinding his hips against her, using her wetness to lube his shaft and head up. Biting his lip, he stared down at her, slowly starting to smile as she let out more pants of pleasure. 

As he continued to stimulate, he lined himself up again, her breath hitching as she shifted, opening her legs wider. She could see wetness on his fingers and her thighs. 

“You’re something else, Elodie,” Adrian said, his voice barely above a whisper. Shifting his hips, he slid inside her. “I can tell this is going to be the start of something amazing.” 

It was like a barrier had been broken, something inside her unraveling. Back arching, Elodie screamed as she saw every color of the rainbow, her vision blurring. Eyes watering, she felt her voice start to give out as her perception of the world started to slip away, only sensations of pleasure filling her mind. 

Adrian’s fingers laced with hers and he pinned them on either side of her head. His legs pushed hers apart and he began to thrust, hilting himself inside with each movement. 

Elodie could see various runes and symbols, feeling the contract starting to form. It was like manacles were forming around her wrists, pinning her to the bed. 

He released her, tangling his fingers in her hair and pressing her lips to his. As he continued to thrust, his tongue plunged into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she let the sensation take over. The runes and symbols seemed even more vivid than before. 

Wait… Those are infernal… 

Their tongues twined, and his moans reverberated in her ears, vibrating through her entire being, his heart thundering in his ribcage, the raising and lowering of his chest. Heats mingled, going from pleasantly warm to an inferno of pleasure. 

He’s been writing the contract the entire time? 

Adrian finally pulled back, gasping for air. His grip on Elodie’s hair tightened, keeping her head down on the bed. His skin glistened with sweat, his whole body heaving with exertion. 

Wait, go back, what does it say? 

Grabbing her hips, Adrian raised them, thrusting deeper than before. She could feel his hip bones with how hard he slammed into her, making her squeak and lock her legs around him. Smiling, he shifted and spread her out over his shaft, then started to rub her clit again. 

All thoughts and symbols began to fade away. 

Elodie yelped, feeling the pleasure ripple through her body, then crest as she clenched. 

Letting out a groan of pleasure, Adrian shuddered, his cock twitching. Panting, he pulled out, white strands spurting onto her stomach. 

“Well, I’d say that was…” His eyes narrowed as he lifted her hip. “What the Hell?” 

“W-what’s wrong?” Elodie sputtered, legs shaking too hard to move.

“You’re still twitching. You okay?” 

Nodding, Elodie fell back with a sigh, covering her eyes. He’d have to learn to not scare the bejeesus out of her next time. 

Wait… Why was she thinking about a next time? This was supposed to be a one-time thing. Panting, she turned on her side. Fumbling with the air conditioner, she turned it on full blast, letting the cool air roll over her. 

Then, her stomach heaved. Springing up from the bed, she rushed to the toilet, her legs giving out just when she reached it. 

Retching, she felt her stomach empty itself. The pleasure that filled her body started to turn into a pattern of throbbing and dull aches. 

Fingers went through her hair. Adrian clutched it in a knot at the back of her head, tight enough to hold it back, but loose enough not to make the headache worse. The cycling scents started again, but now they were making Elodie’s body shake and eyes water. 

“Sorry. Should have told you about this. It’s a bit of a hangover.” Adrian sat on the rim of the tub, leaning down and pressing his lips to her shoulder. Wincing, Elodie jerked away from his touch. “Humans aren’t… Too terribly used to the sensations.” 

He looked hurt, but it was hard to tell how much out of the corner of her eye. 

When Elodie finished, Adrian flushed the toilet, putting a damp rag to her forehead. Then, he picked her up and carried her out of the bathroom. 

The hotel room had gone from a barely furnished space, to something out of a luxury suite. The bed was taller, the comforter fluffier and embroidered with a scene from hell. A demon (that could be said to resemble Elodie) reclined in a pool, being fed some sort of fruit by a pair of naked men. Setting her down, Adrian smiled. 

The backpack she’d come in with was now a trunk, so full of clothing that the lid couldn’t close. Adrian pulled out a silk robe and passed it over to Elodie, and she slipped it on. He pulled out a matching one and tied it, but it did little to hide his growing erection. 

The mini-fridge that came with the room was now filled with champagne and chocolates. The nightstand was now filled with money and jewelry. 

“It’s a start,” Adrian confessed. “I’m not a servant of Mammon, but…” 

***

“It’s always good until it isn’t,” Elle said, sighing. 

“Making a contract that you couldn’t even read.” Horac shook his head and sighed. “Damn. I knew demons were sneaky, but that seems low, even for a Hell Dweller.” 

“It was my own damn fault.” Elle looked at her drink. Even if she hadn’t gone into all the details, they were still fresh. Concubi preyed on sensation, so encounters with them were near impossible to forget. 

“If I hadn’t tried to summon a demon, none of this would have happened.” Her hand went to her thigh. The scar had long since faded, but she could see it in her mind’s eye, still slick with blood. 

“But ‘maybe’, ‘shoulda’, ‘coulda’, ‘woulda’ gets tiring after a while.” She had gotten past the point of self-pity. It was why she’d started this new life. Why she’d gone into so much debt to escape him. And why she was finally going to leave the past where it belonged. Behind. 

“What will you do when he’s gone?” Horac asked. 

The question gave her pause. She’s spent so long focusing on getting out from under the rock it never really occurred to her what “later” would entail. 

“I don’t know. I never really had a plan outside of ‘get away’ and ‘pay off my debts’.” The original plan was to work as a mage. Then it was to survive with Adrian. Then it was to get away with Adrian…” She frowned. “I kind of just went along with what felt right at the time. Because…” Her hands closed on the empty air. 

“...It felt right?” Horac finished for her. 

She stifled a laugh. “Not as profound as I could have hoped.” She shrugged. “Until I know my next move, I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing.” 

Taking the tv dinners and glasses, Horac cleared off the table. He managed to find an old phone charger Elle could use. Once she’d gotten it plugged in, she set up a makeshift bed on the couch. 

Horac shuffled off to his bedroom, where Elle could hear him talking on the phone, likely to his daughters. Despite it all, he had people who cared about him. 

She thought about Wrecks and Ramses. Now she could add the Boarman to the list of people she considered her friends. 

Staring at the shadows on the ceiling, Elle laced her fingers over her stomach. Closing her eyes, she settled in, pulling the blankets up to her chin and trying to snatch a bit of sleep before the morning. 

Next part here!

[girlbloggerbae13]

Against Better Judgement - Part 1

I have re-entered my hyperfixation of The Boys due to season 4's release. Unfortunately I am a maladaptive daydreamer and can insert an original character into any given piece of media. So this is a Butcher x OC story, where OC is Hughie's big sister...so it does fit the story of the show pretty much to a tee (that is just how my brain cooks it up, sorry) - but there will be more details, side stories, etc to make it more fun for the Butcher storyline! And of course, it's written in OC's pov, so you get to know her backstory and thought process quite a bit. Please let me know what you think!

At 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Mickey should have been awake. A functioning, stable, put-together 29 year-old would be. Not Mickey. She was passed out in bed (a full size mattress resting on the floor in her room), her body still trying to process all the alcohol she had consumed the night before. And the morning before. As well as the few consecutive days before that. That’s how it had been for as long as she could remember, at least since – 

The phone rang. Mickey groggily lifted her head from the pillow, reaching for her cell phone. She had apparently neglected to plug it in before she fell asleep last night. Hughie? She stumbled over to the corner, where her charger was plugged in, not quite able to reach the bed. I’ve been meaning to call him.

“Hughie? I’m sorry, I really have–,” she started, already guiltily rambling, but she was cut off by her brother’s wails. “Hughie?” He wasn’t stopping. “Hugh? Hugh? Hey, what happened? Hughie?” Mickey was already standing up and putting her shoes on, despite the hangover-induced migraine that was making her ears ring. 

Hughie sniffled, gasping, then went silent. His breath was shaky. “Hughie?” Mickey warily said to her brother.

“She, she was j-just standing there,” he started.

“Who was? Hugh. I’m on my way, but I need you to tell me what happened.”

“We were just…I was leaving work, and she…,” his voice cracked as Mickey grabbed her keys, wallet, and flask. Empty. She’d grab something on the way to fix whatever had ruffled her little brother’s feathers. He was a sensitive kid, always had been. It was probably just some car accident he had seen while going on lunch, or even worse, he had been riding his bike and, distracted by the great Billy Joel, accidentally hit a kid. That had happened before. That would make sense. Everything is okay. The bad stuff happens to me, not him. 

“Robin.” He was gasping for air now. Mickey’s heart dropped. “She was one step off the fucking…and he just came out of nowhere…she– I, I didn’t have time to…God, Mick, oh my God, Mickey…Robin, she’s gone.”

Mickey was about to open the door, but she turned around and threw up in the kitchen sink.

—

“The service was beautiful,” Dad said. Mickey had to stifle her laughter. She always did during times like these. Funerals, memorials, the like. The drinking helped, for a little bit at least. When it stops helping, it just means you need to drink more. 

Mickey took a sip of her drink – some shitty wine her dad had likely bought to assuage the “divorcee blues” – and took a look at her brother. He was staring forward, scowling, with blank eyes. She knew what he was thinking. Hughie was asking himself what he could have done differently. What he could have said, or in his instance, where he could have stood differently. He’s wishing it was him instead of Robin. Maybe he’s thinking about joining Robin in death, or maybe that had just been Mickey when her husband died.

She had stood, motionless, next to Liam’s casket, as friends and family came up to her and gave their condolences. Mickey had sat with her head down, avoiding eye contact with Liam’s mother and father. He had been an only child. Perfect Liam. Hughie had nudged her to signal that it was the part of the funeral where she was supposed to stand for the family honors. Had they never married, the “honors” would have gone to his parents. She was the one that wanted a big, white wedding. 

Mickey’s eyes had been squeezed shut as the rifle volleys were fired. Why do they fire blanks at a military funeral? The loud noises can’t be good for attendees suffering from PTSD. Like Liam had been. Mickey counted the shots.

One. Liam's face flashed in her mind.

Two. She squeezed her eyes tighter.

Three. Everything Mickey had ever wanted. Gone.

One of the other soldiers started playing Taps. She didn’t even have tears left, just rage. Mickey wanted to grab the stupid fucking bugle and slam it on her husband’s casket until it split open. She wanted to pick Liam up by the collar of his stupid fucking uniform and shake him back to life. She wanted to scream at him for leaving her a stupid fucking mess. For leaving her alone. All alone. She wanted to smash his head into the pavement until he died. Again.

They handed her – the next of kin – the neatly folded American flag. Mickey didn’t want it; she would have happily given it to her in-laws. She didn’t need another reminder of the mess he had gotten himself, or herself into, for that matter. Liam and his stupid patriotism. He had worshiped Supes, but unlucky for him, wasn’t gifted with any super ability. So he joined the military. For what? A couple years overseas firing at whatever your commanding officer told you to, a shitty government job where you’re just another cog in the wheel of the “Great Big American Dream” (the military industrial complex), and a never ending B-roll of whatever tragedies you had bore witness to. Mickey’s superiority complex had gotten her into psychology, then into the FBI’s training program to be a special agent. But this happened. And when you fire a gun at your officer’s foot – it was the ground next to him…it was never going to actually hit him…she had fantastic aim, and he was pissing her off – you can’t be a special agent. 

That left her a widow at 26. Jobless. And an escalating alcoholic. 

That wouldn’t happen to Hughie, though. Mickey wouldn’t let it. 

She was brought back to reality by her dad. “Michaela, please make sure your brother signs the papers today. It’s what Robin would have wanted” She waved off her dad, scoffing.

The Vought attorney? Paralegal? PR motherfucker. Had some sense of entitlement coming in and asking Hugh to keep his mouth shut. And for only $45,000, as if that could immediately fix his grief. Obviously, it would work in Vought’s favor. No one would ever know that A-Train had run right through Robin, leaving only her hands, still holding on to Hughie’s. And the TV “apology” the asshole had given was disingenuous, to say the least, and a cover-up, to tell the truth. In the middle of the road? Yeah, right. 

“Can I think on it?” Hughie asked the suit. Mickey breathed out a sigh of relief. It’s not like she hated Supes in general, but they reminded her of the military – especially Homelander – so each day her distaste for Vought, The Seven, and any asshole with super-strength grew exponentially. 

“Good choice,” Mickey told her brother after she hastily escorted the suit out the door. “I know the money seems nice, but in my experience, it only pisses you off more. Plus, you’ll probably blow it on something stupid.”

“Like booze?” Hughie gave a half-smile to his sister for the first time since the accident.

“Ha-ha, asshole. Exactly like booze. I’ll stop when I’m ready to come back to real life.”

“Well while you continue to bury yourself in liquor, I’m going to bury myself in work.”

“Not any time soon, though, right?” Mickey asked, standing up.

“Why not? It’ll be a good distraction.” Hughie shrugged. This behavior wasn’t like Hughie at all, granted she had never witnessed him after he lost a significant other before, not like this. Maybe it will be beneficial, at least more beneficial than the coping mechanisms she chose. Everyone handles grief differently, right?

—

“Sorry, we’re closing–” Hughie turned to see Mickey walking through the tech store door. “Oh. We are getting ready to close.”

“I know, I know. I’m not here to shop. Now that you’re back at work, stupidly, might I add, I wanted to offer my free labor. I figured we could do the opposite of what we did when we were little and had chores. You get to sit and boss me around, and tell me what to do,” Mickey dropped the Tupperware of funeral food on the checkout counter. “Plus, I brought you dinner.”

“Really? Funeral leftovers?”

Mickey rolled her eyes. “Look, dude, it was already made. Now will you tell me what wires I need to put where so we can go home and–”

Both the Campbell siblings turned to the door. The bell rang, and the door was open, but neither of them could see a customer.

“Who are you?” A voice said.

“What the fuck?” The siblings said in unison.

“Right in front of you, pricks.” They were staring at the voice when whoever it was held up a small disc, waving it in Hughie’s face. “You think I wouldn’t find this thing?”

“What did you do, Hugh?” Mickey asked her brother, gritting her teeth. Wanting revenge on A-Train was one thing, but if her hunch was correct, this invisible guy was none other than Translucent. How did he get tangled up with one of the other Seven?

The Supe grabbed Hugh’s badge. “Hughie,” he jeered, then without warning, slammed Hugh face down into the counter, cracking the glass case. Hugh was launched over the counter. “Pussy! I followed you from the fucking tower,” Translucent said, lifting Hughie up again.

“The fucking tower?” Mickey was now yelling, but still frozen. “What the fuck, Hugh?”

Hughie was then launched into one of the store’s windows, cracking it. She had to do something. “Oh, and who’s this, Hughie? Your little accomplice?” The voice got closer, and Mickey could hear footsteps making their way towards her. 

An invisible hand grabbed her by the hair, and she instinctively raised her knee, hard, hoping to hit Translucent where it mattered. He groaned, releasing her hair. Mickey tried to dash over to her brother, but was yanked up by her hair again and thrown backwards into a shelf of routers. Now her and Hughie were both on the ground, coughing, and Mickey still had no fucking clue what was going on. She propped herself up against what was left of the shelf, blinking and trying to reset her eyes. 

“Who’s that guy you were with? In the car?” Translucent asked a panting Hughie. “Who was he? He put you up to this?” Now he was screaming, Hughie trying to escape, and Mickey was trying to get herself on her feet. 

“I, I don’t know! He was just some Uber driver, okay?” Hughie’s voice cracked as he pleaded with the Supe. 

Mickey grabbed an extension cord from the ground and slowly prepared to blindly wrangle their attacker, but unable to see the Supe, she didn’t see him making his way over to the wall closest to her, and in one fell swoop, Translucent grabbed the extension cord and threw it, and Mickey still holding on, to the opposite side of the store. She landed behind the shattered glass counter, still faintly able to understand what was transpiring through the ringing the blow had left in her ears.

“Oh don’t give me some bullshit! Uber driver?” Translucent mocked Hughie. Mickey could see a TV being lifted off its wall mount. “What, you think I’m some fucking idiot?” Translucent was walking over to Hugh, the flat-screen lifted high. “Why’d you plant the bug?”

“Please, please. Please, please, no. Please,” Hughie pleaded.

“We’re The Seven. Earth’s most mighty.”

Mickey had to do something. She propped herself up and took position to leap onto the invisible asshole. 

“Champions of the innocent, motherfuc–”

A car drove right into the shop, shattering the windows, knocking down merchandise, and just barely missing Hughie. “Sorry about the mess,” a bearded man said as he exited the vehicle. “You should fuck off, Hughie.”

Mickey stood up shakily. Now she was really confused. “Who the fu–”

The Cockney-accented man turned towards her. “You must be the sister. Sorry to meet’cha under these circumstances, but you two need to scram.”

Holding a tire-iron, the man slowly walked towards where Translucent had landed, smirking. “Well if it ain’t the invisible cunt,” he chuckled to himself, then began swinging blindly around the TV wall. Moments later, he was launched into a rack of pagers.

“Hughie, Hughie, you heard him, we need to go,” Mickey said, trying to usher her brother onto his feet and away from the store.

“No, no,” Hughie stood up, brushing her off. “We can’t leave him here.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Yes, we can!” Mickey was practically pulling Hughie to the emergency exit when he stopped in his tracks. “Hugh. Hugh! No, don’t even–”

Hughie stepped back into the floor of the store with such force that he yanked her back with him. Mickey huffed and ran her hands through her hair. She inhaled and blood ran down her throat, greeting her with the familiar metallic taste.

Brit was attempting – and failing – to wrestle Translucent to the ground. Looked like he was tasting that red metal too, because with an erratic grin, he spat blood all over the Supe, revealing Translucent’s position. Smart. The bearded man then had the upper hand after headbutting the “invisible cunt” and landing a few punches, whilst slowly covering more of the Supe’s body outline with more bloody spit. 

Though England put up a good fight, Translucent got one good lick in, and the man was down on the ground. Translucent looked up at Mickey, who, overcome with agitation and confusion, had not moved her feet, and she was now standing directly behind the groaning Brit. She swallowed a mouthful of blood. She was trained for this at one point in time, right? She at least had the pent-up anger for this. Mickey stepped over the Brit’s body.

“Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you just come back to the Tower with me, and I’ll make sure you don’t ever have to see these assholes ever ag–”

Mickey cut him off with a punch, slugging Translucent right across his face. Predatorial asshole. “Fuck,” she hissed, shaking her hand. She forgot how much she hated hand-to-hand combat.

Translucent stumbled a little, but popped back up, rubbing the side of his jaw. “Look, lady, I’ll give you that one, but let’s just–”

Mickey hit him again, this time with an uppercut. He charged back at her, grabbing her hair – again? – and landing a few blows to her stomach. Mickey snapped back into it, grabbing his forearm and pulling herself around so that her back was against the Supe’s chest. She flung her head back. Hard.

The Supe instinctively launched her into the wall. Now she could really taste the blood. But before she could steady herself, Translucent kicked her in the stomach, knocking her through the wall of TVs.

Thankfully, this had given England enough time to regain his strength, and he stood up, ready to attack, when Translucent gave him the same swift kick he had just given Mickey. 

“So who are you?” Translucent asked. “Fucking spy?! For who, huh? You’re gonna fucking tell me!” Translucent picked up the Brit’s tire iron from the ground. “Or I’m gonna smash your fucking scalp off! Who the fuck are you?”

Through the Mickey-sized hole in the wall, she could see Brit propped up on one of his elbows, smirking. “I’ll tell you who you are,” he said. “A fucking moron. Translucent doesn’t even mean invisible. It means semi-transparent.” England made a quick glance to the other side of the store, where Mickey was able to faintly see Hughie holding an exposed wire. Hughie’s wire couldn’t reach, so England quickly kicked the Supe, sending him backwards where he waltzed right into the wire.

Translucent screamed as he got electrocuted, lighting up the store. Hughie kept screaming until Translucent’s limp body fell backwards onto the ground.

England stood up with a groan, and through shaky breaths, Hughie asked, “Is he…is he dead?”

The bearded man kicked the Supe. “Well he ain’t movin’.”

Mickey, limping, emerged from the wall she had been kicked through, and ignoring the mystery man and the Supe, yelled at Hughie, “I’m gonna need some answers, Hugh. What the fuck have you gotten into?” She gestured back at England. “And who the fuck is he?”

England put up a hand to silence her. “Whoa, whoa, darlin’, don’t fret. Name’s Butcher, and I’m just a friendly neighbor helpin’ out’ya brother here, alright?” He turned to Hughie. “Now, kid, how’d you know the electric could do the job?”

Hughie was still sitting against the TV wall. “Skin’s carbon…highly conductive. I saw it on, uh, Jimmy Fallon…”

Butcher raised an eyebrow, “Would have taken me forever to work that one out. Good job.” One thing about Hughie is that he knows the most random shit. This time it might have just saved them. Butcher made his way to Translucent’s lifeless body, and against her better judgment, Mickey followed his lead. Hughie wasn’t going to go down for this. “Let’s get ‘em in the boot.”

Hughie brought his hands up to his head. “W-wait, wait what?”

“The trunk,” Mickey and Butcher said in unison.

“See, your sister knows the lingo,” Butcher said while trying to get a grip on the Supe’s upper half.

Hughie looked at his sister, then at Butcher. “No, no, I mean, what are we doing with him?” Hughie was panicking now.

Butcher looked up at Hughie. “Well, Hughie, you just offed one of The Seven, mate.”

Mickey let out a mix of a scoff and a laugh, much to Hughie’s dismay. “Me? I…I…,” He turned his gaze to Mickey. “You’re okay with this, Mick?”

“Well no, but…I mean, he has a point, and I’m not getting in trouble for this.”

“What?! I…I…Butcher, you hit him with a fucking car!” Hughie shouted.

Butcher dropped Translucent’s torso. “Look, potato fucking potahto, we’re all in a shitload of trouble–”

“No, no! No, no, we’re not. He attacked us, and you’re…you’re a federal officer, you know?” Hughie argued, and Mickey dropped the Supe’s legs, standing up to cross her arms. This smug, sloppy, arrogant asshole is not a federal officer. “Just…just call the fucking FBI!”

The hesitation in Butcher’s voice confirmed Mickey’s suspicions. “Yeah, o-okay, so look…technically I’m not a fed,” he said, shrugging, as if this wasn’t just the atomic bomb of all bombs to drop on Hughie right now, let alone a less-than-awesome first impression to have on Mickey. 

“Jesus, fuck,” Mickey started, holding her head in her hands, shaking it.

“WHAT?!” Hughie practically screeched. “Then who the fuck are you?”

[cosmic-navel-gazin]

sister: But you’ve seen that already, You’ve seen that film a 1.000 times!

me: Not on the silver screen I haven’t!!!

sister: True, let’s go so.

Amadeus (1984) is being shown in a theater near me with a concert playing his requiem afterwards... act normal... act calm...