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luveline · 10 days ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here

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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks.

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.”

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out.

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask.

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says.

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world.

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation.

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person.

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about.

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.”

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him.

“He was nice,” you murmur.

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?”

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?”

“You’ll be alright?”

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands.

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare.

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought.

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage.

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little.

“Darling.”

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand.

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says.

Me, you think.

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.”

“You didn’t,” the woman says.

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.”

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense.

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says.

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.”

“Hardy-har.”

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks.

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?”

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.”

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.”

“Gentleman and the tramp.”

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.”

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape.

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth.

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water.

What the fuck?

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down.

Your head races with hurt feelings.

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman.

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees.

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched?

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is.

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.”

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky.

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in.

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal.

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing.

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse.

She was unbelievable.

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?”

“What?”

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.”

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.”

“I didn’t mean to come out here.”

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks.

“Sorry.”

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.”

“That’s romantic.”

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?”

“Scavenging for food.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.”

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…”

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones.

“I love you, too,” you say.

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.”

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…”

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable.

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it.

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath.

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands.

“These aren’t good tears,” he says.

He’d know. They’re not.

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out.

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not you.”

“But something does hurt?”

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs.

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.”

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not.

He looks sick.

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage.

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring.

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly.

“It’s so stupid.”

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?”

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.”

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin.

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.”

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.”

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.”

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh.

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble.

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.”

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.”

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says.

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying.

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.”

“Aaron.”

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.”

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.”

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown.

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.”

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.”

“Aaron!” you laugh.

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.”

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased.

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.”

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips.

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.”

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.”

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask.

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.”

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.”

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze.

”You said it.”

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.”

“I’m glad you asked me.”

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now.

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders.

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress.

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.”

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.”

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.”

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear.

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast.

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast.

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind.

“Are you eating that one?” you ask.

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?”

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.”

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?”

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?”

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.”

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.”

“Did you eat?” you ask.

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.”

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says.

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour.

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.”

“I thought Miss Jareau went?”

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.”

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks.

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.

“Hey,” Aaron says.

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw.

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe.

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?”

“I didn’t take any, sorry.”

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says.

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.”

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text.

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding?

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless.

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right?

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online.

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake.

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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leeloooonfire · 4 months ago

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based on this post about Steve's internalized bi-phobia:

Steve has known for years.

And how could he not when Tommy's freckles come back tenfold each spring like a flower peaking it's head through the last layer of snow? Or when Matthew Carver's hair have a reddish brown tone that turns blond after they spent the last days before summer break practising outside and remind Steve of liquid gold? Or when he watches Star Wars and Harrison Ford, rugged and witty, comes into view and twists his stomach in knots? How could he not know?!

Steve knows he finds guys as attractive as girls, known for many, many years. But.

But he can't. Not when Tommy sneers at that boy in their literature class who likes flamboyant clothes and wants to be an actor on Broadway. Not when the people they meet in Indi who are like Robin and Eddie 'fully queer' and talk about people like Steve as if they're traitors and scams. Not when he reads the newspaper and is assaulted by Reagan and his folk preaching about the 'fag pandemic' or how his father nods in approval and mutters 'another sinner gone for good' when the news play on TV and they occasionally mention the crisis that kills people like Robin and Eddie and him.

Like him....

It doesn't matter how much he loves sleeping with his nose pressed against Eddie's collarbone or that he thinks he'd like to kiss Eddie and hold his hands and wake up beside him until they're old and wrinkly and complain about bad knees.

He is, but he cannot be a queer, half a fairy '50% like me, 50% like Eddie' as Robin jokes.

He will not be a bisexual, he can keep it inside, keep it hidden, buried deep inside him no matter how much it pains him. He can be the straight friend who goes to pride and bakes rainbow cakes and marries a woman even though his heart screams in an ear ringing cacophony, 'Eddie, Eddie Eddie Eddie!'

This is how his 20s go: loud and hurting and yearning and hiding and more noticeably being disgusted and ashamed of himself for simply being able to love men the way he can love women.

He's 29 when his wife, Becky, leaves him. It's not just Eddie and this shameful secret that weights heavy on their relationship, but the scars and all the other secrets he is unable to explain to her that drive Becky finally away - back to Boston. She leaves him alone in that tiny house they bought three years ago with their Saint Bernard puppy they lovingly named Bernadette.

He's 30 when he goes to a coffee meeting of the bisexual group meeting in Chicago, nearly turning the car multiple times, hands and knees sweaty with fear that they won't want him there. They do want him there, welcome him with open arms, and talk about things Steve knows all too well: 'When I fell in love with the first girl, I ran. I like men just fine, so I hid my crush. It's just easier, when your parents hate gays, when the world is shaming our community, when we're dying.' He finds a second home there, and learns - learns about queerness and bisexuality, about trans and gender non conforming people and physical attraction versus emotional attraction. He learns about his past and present and about his future, about their history and where they want to go, how they want to mold their world to fit people like them into it without the pain and the hiding.

Steve is 33 when he finally comes out to everyone dear to him. To the kids who aren't kids anymore and to Joyce and Hopper, and then his parents. this does not go well, but Steve doesn't want, doesn't need their validation anymore. He has his family, his friends, his support system who love him not regardless of his sexuality but because of it, love him because it's part of him. He comes out to Becky, too and that goes much better. they want to be friends, in the future. She's also met Gary who works the the NY Times and wants her to follow him into the big city. So Steve is looking forward how that goes, their tentative friendship.

He is 34 when Eddie comes back from his latest world tour and wants to take a break to rekindle with his uncle, to write new songs, to take a breather. It's only natural that Eddie moves into Steve's guest room and takes over his space on the couch where he cuddles Bernadette while Steve is in the kitchen and makes them grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner.

Its even more natural when their feet meet while watching a movie and they lean into each other in the kitchen, dawn barely there, while they wait for the coffee maker to finish.

Steve's 35 when Eddie finally kisses him and he kisses back. No hurt, no shame, no guilt gnawing on him, Steve finally allows himself to be with the person he truly wants - regardless of their gender.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #eddie x steve

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featherandferns · 18 days ago

Text

sugar (fic)

ex!jj maybank x ex!fem!reader | set in season 4 without the Blackbeard mystery! (non-canon) | inspiration

content warnings: mentions of/references to sex (m and f receiving; MDNI); drug use; unfaithful relationships

word count: 18k.

blurb: JJ comes back into your life - older, richer and different again from before. Can the past stay the past, and the two of you be friends, or is there too much history there to let it all lie?

Cinnamon Buns

“Where would you like these?” Someone calls out to you. You turn and take in the tray of mouth-wateringly delicious looking cinnamon buns that a volunteer holds. Smiling, you point to a far table on the grassy field.

“Anywhere over there is good! Those look amazing, thank you so much!”

You turn back to the task at hand: organising cans of tinned, chopped tomatoes. To your left is a stack of bags of rice and to your right, bags of pasta. It’s quick work as you separate them by flavour: garlic and herb; chilli; regular…In the background you overhear chatter of fellow volunteers. Where should I put this? Who had the plastic bags? This was your happy place.

‘The Stirring Spoon’ is what you had called it. It was your passion project born out of daydreams. A collaborative, community effort, providing food to anybody and everybody, free of charge. It wasn’t a traditional food drive. Instead, it was like a potluck dinner that you hosted every Wednesday in the late afternoon, running into the evening. People brought whatever dish they had prepared, or any ingredients that they had going spare which you and a handful of other volunteers whipped up into mains and desserts. Tomato soup and lentil curry and meatball subs and rainbow brownies and chocolate chip cookies. You’d even managed to rope a few local establishments into it. Any leftover bakes that they had when the workday was over, or things that were just a smidge out of date by a day or two, you took and offered out. Today? Cinnamon buns that were baked yesterday at a humble cafe in the town centre, just shy of Figure Eight. Food health and safety laws were strict but you could stretch them for The Stirring Spoon. After all, you weren’t technically selling a product so no harm done. People were clued in about the supposed “risk”.

You lift up a can of tomatoes and study the ‘best by’ date on the metal lid. A month in the safe zone. Perfect. As your mind flicks through recipes of what you could cook up, a voice stood out amongst the chatter nearby. It was like a siren’s call; distinct and damning. You could pick it out even when deaf.

“I gotta delivery here for y’all.”

“What’s in it?”

“Fresh sorta stuff. ‘Tatoes and that kinda thing.”

“Over there, I’d say.”

As the footsteps approach you can feel your heartbeat quicken. It taps nervously in your ribcage like you’re sixteen all over again. Your focus remains on the task at hand until a slight shadow casts over you, and you know you can’t stall any longer. Your hands freeze over a can of tomatoes. Looking up, standing in front of you, clear as daylight and bright as dawn, is JJ Maybank. He’s dressed in his usual attire of a worn-down t-shirt and shorts; his fingers and wrists decorated with metal rings and beaded bracelets. If you squinted, it’d be like no time had passed at all. He doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him and yet, he’s entirely changed. In his hands is a large cardboard crate of various fresh produce. You smile.

“JJ.”

It comes out in a breath as though you’re seeing something supernatural before you. In a way, you are. How long has it been now? Two years? Nearly three?

His own surprise mirrors yours on his face. But JJ was always better at hiding his emotions, once he had a chance to catch them. It was like a teasing glimpse before he closed the curtains. His recovery is quick as a smile starts to show, and he says your name like he’s practised it everyday.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask.

“Brought some deliveries,” JJ says, hitching the box. “Kiara mentioned something ‘bout a community kitchen drive y’all do and we thought we could contribute and stuff.”

“Well, that’s nice of y’all. Thank you,” you reply.

You shuffle some stuff out of the way on the pop-up table in front of you to make space for JJ’s box. It’s hard not to watch his arms as he lowers it down, the way the biceps flex and tense beneath the skin. It’s hard not to think of other times his arms have looked that way, wrapped around your body, tugging you closer. You blink the memories away.

JJ’s hands slot into his short pockets. He rocks on his feet. “Looks like it’s a pretty popular thing, huh?v This food drive, I mean.”

You glance around at the bustling volunteers. Smiling, you say, “Yeah, I guess it caught on pretty quick. Could say the same about y’alls tackle-and-bait shop you got going. It’s the talk of the town ‘round here.”

JJ grins with visible pride and it isn’t until you see it that you realise how much you missed his smile. You wonder if he’s surveying your face and body the way you are his, as if looking for some inconsistency or change since the last time you saw him.

“Yeah, it’s coming together pretty nice. Helps having a bunch of us working on it, though.”

“I bet,” you say. You’d heard the chatter on the island about the Pogue’s latest venture. The sneers of the kooks and the curiosity of the locals. Their bets and wagers on whether the business would sink or float. You’d wanted to wander down and check it out for yourself but you always chickened out. Truth was, you’d been avoiding JJ Maybank like the flu, and now here he was in front of you, putting all your quarantining to shame. Your eyes flit down at the crate and you gently rifle through the food for a distraction. Tomatoes and potatoes and bunches of fresh berries and fruit.

“I, uh, don’t know if there’s much in there that y’all need but–”

“No, no, this is great,” you assure him, smiling. “It’s really generous of y’all. Every contribution is appreciated.”

“Happy to help. To be honest, it’s Kie and Sarah you should be thanking.”

“Yeah, I didn’t peg you as the gardening type,” you tease.

“Well, only for the stuff that matters,” JJ grins with a wink. You consciously try to fight away the warmth running to your cheeks. Damn it, you weren’t sixteen anymore. “So…how have you been, then? Since we last…y’know–”

“Baby!”

It’s a reflex reaction to turn at the sound of Mark’s call. He comes bounding over with a wide grin. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and flour is dusted on his khakis. It’s a reflex to close your eyes when he dips his head to plant a kiss to your lips, too. You rub them together after as you prepare yourself for what might be the most awkward interaction you’ll ever go through.

“JJ,” you say, turning to the blonde haired boy. “This is Mark. Mark, this is JJ. We used to…uh…Well, we used to hang out.”

“JJ - pleasure,” Mark says sincerely. He sticks out his hand and for a painful moment you genuinely worry that JJ might never take it. But he does, shaking it.

“Likewise,” he says.

You feel Mark’s spare arm slide around your back, his palm placing itself respectfully on your side. That was Mark: respectful. Righteous but not in an arrogant way. He was kind and caring without judgement, like the sort of Christian boy your nana would want you to bring home. The sort of guy who would bring your mother flowers and play golf with your father on the weekends. The kind of face you’d see flash on the television during the six o’clock news as the reporter relays a daring and heroic tale of saving orphaned kittens from a burning tree.

“This is the guy that’s started the tackle-and-bait shop. Y’know, the one with the surf store and stuff,” you say to Mark. Realisation dawns upon Mark and he wags his finger at JJ.

“Wait, wait, JJ as in JJ Maybank? One of the gang who found El Dorado?”

You roll your eyes at the pure awe in his voice. JJ chuckles somewhat nervously and nods as he says, “yeah, uh, that JJ, I guess.”

“Holy shit! Baby, why didn’t you say!? Oh man, I read all about that. It sounded freaking incredible! I have so much to ask you, I mean-”

You place a hand to his chest and laugh, slightly embarrassed by his fangirling. “Baby, baby! Cool it a second, yeah?”

Laughing, you glance at JJ. And you catch it. That emotion he lets slip just before correcting himself. His eyes dart to yours in a second but they were looking elsewhere before. They were looking at your hand on Mark’s stomach.

“Nah man, it’s cool. You guys should stop by sometime and I can tell you all about it. The other Pogues too, yeah,” JJ cordially replies.

“Oh sick, man. That’d be great,” Mark beams. You smile at JJ and nod.

“I’d love to see what you guys have done to the place,” you tell him. JJ smiles but it falters, like a flickering lightbulb that’s fighting to stay on. An awkward quiet passes and you clear your throat and glance around at the voluntary effort. “Well, I should probably get back to work.”

“No, yeah, course. I ought’a get back to the shop,” JJ replies.

“Thanks for the stuff though. We really appreciate it.”

“You brought this?” Mark wonders, picking a strawberry out of the crate. He pops it in his mouth and hums happily. “Damn, those are some fresh strawberries.”

“Yeah, man. All from our local garden we got going.”

“This place sounds like the dream,” Mark tells you. You smile up at him. He takes the crate in his broad hands and lifts it easily into the air. Being sandwiched between two toned-up guys had you feeling as brittle as candyfloss. “I’ll take this over to Nancy. Nice meeting you, JJ.”

“Yeah, you too, man.”

You watch him wander off a moment before turning back to JJ. He offers you another smile. “I’ll come check out the shop soon,” you promise.

JJ points at you, playfully warning, “you better!” before walking away. You watch him with every step he takes and the moment he’s out of sight your head drops. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you’d been holding. Your entire body feels as though it’s vibrating; your heart running laps in your ribcage. And the funniest part of all is the strange thought that races around your mind, he’s real. It had been so long since you’d seen JJ, let alone heard from him, that it felt like a daydream. The memories were so hazy now that they’d been painted over in sepia and you wondered if you’d imagined the whole thing. But no, here he was, knowing you and recognising you, and talking to you. The two of you back in Kildare, seemingly for good.

“Baby! Can you give us a hand?”

The call drags you out of your thoughts. Your eyes fall onto your boyfriend. He stands a good head taller than most people. He’s almost lanky in build but not ungainly; broad shouldered and slim nosed. His eyes are those of an otter: nearly black with how brown they are; beady and shining, even from over here. There’s a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which is adorably boyish in contrast to his stubble on the jawline. He’s smiling at you in a way that all girls want to be smiled at. Unashamed in his admiration for you. It grounds you from the dizzying interaction with JJ and you walk over to him, ready to help out in any way you can.

The rest of The Stirring Spoon passes without a hitch or unexpected visitor from the past. It’s as popular as always, with locals and tourists stopping by. The lentil and tomato soup that you whipped up disappears within the first half hour, alongside the nearly stale but still delicious cheese bread. Mark stands by your side the whole time, smiling as he serves. He whispers little jokes in your ear that have you giggling in the quiet periods of the food drive. Then came the evening rush, with people stopping by after work. The culmination of it all meant JJ was pushed out of your thoughts and back into the long-term store, where he’d been haunting before. That is, until you’re tidying up.

“That JJ guy seemed nice,” Mark says from the table to your right. You look up from the plastic snack-bags you’re tidying away. “You said you guys used to hang?”

“When we were sixteen,” you reply.

“How come you stopped hanging out?” he wonders.

You look down at the bags and obsess over the colours of the labels as you debate how best to word your reply. What do you divulge to him? There’s an index of memories labelled JJ and you know not all need to see the light of day, let alone enter the mind of your boyfriend in scarring reenactments.

“We just grew apart. He was going through some stuff, I think, and then he got really into that whole treasure hunting thing,” you tell him. It was true enough to not be a lie. Mark hums in thought.

“That’s a shame.”

You quirk a brow, amused. “Why? Cause I could have cashed in on the gold too?”

Mark shrugs and you laugh. “What!? I’m just saying, some people are worth staying friends with!”

But that was the thing. You and JJ weren’t just friends. Shaking your head, you close the cardboard box of repacked snack-bags and carry it over to the table where he’s working. You held him wrap individual muffins in napkins before placing them in a large tupperware box.

“Hey, y’know what’d be nice?” Mark says.

“What?”

“If we took them over some leftovers. I mean, we made most of this stuff with the ingredients they gave us anyway. And there’s still some of those cinnamon buns going spare.”

You take pause and look up at him. He’s obliviously working away, head tucked down to look at the muffins. There’s an easy smile that’s permanently etched into his face, as if he came out the womb cheesing away. That wasn’t why you fell for him though. No, it was his kindness. His offhand generosity that came so naturally to him it was almost offensive. Pressing up onto your toes, you cup his jaw and press a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles quietly.

“You’re wonderful,” you hum happily. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“You go wrap up some cinnamon buns then. I’ll pack up some of these muffins for them.”

You do as he asks and soon enough, there’s a box of miscellaneous leftovers from your food drive. Mark drives. The sky is a delicate colour of amber and pink warning of soon nightfall. Colours like that always make you feel relaxed. It helps ease the nervousness of seeing JJ again. You weren’t sure why it was making you so antsy. It wasn’t as if you and JJ parted ways on bad terms. You suppose it’s just a bitter-sweet memory. All memories of JJ came with that sour coating now, like sherbet lemons on your tongue. You wonder if you’d feel the same way if Mark weren’t around.

But he is, and you’re glad he is.

Looking over to him, you reach out your hand to capture his, resting on his thigh. He glances over at you and smiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just happy, s’all.”

“That’s good,” he says, looking back to the road. Like something from a music video, he raises your interlocked hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Means I’m doing something right, if you’re happy.”

It’s impossible not to do a double-take as you pull up to what was formally the Maybank property. It’s as if new life has been breathed into it. More than just a lick of paint, there’s two brand new buildings alongside a pretty sturdy looking pier and dock. There’s a handmade charm to everything that makes it all the more enticing and impressive. Mark seems to think so too because he whistles as the two of you pull up the driveway. You look to your left and see the Twinkie. A relic from your past, of memories half-naked, rolling around the back with JJ, sharing a blunt in a post-orgasmic haze. Your thoughts shut off with the engine.

Mark takes the lead, his hand in yours, and carries the box of leftovers up to the house. You both wander up the porch and Mark knocks twice on the door. Your eyes look at everything, taking it in, admiring every detail, until someone opens the door. It’s Kiara.

“Hey. Can I help you?” she asks your monolith of a boyfriend. You poke your head from around his body.

“Hey Kie.”

“Oh my Gosh! Girl, where have you been?” Kie beams. The two of you embrace, laughing and smiling. “Wait - did you get the stuff I sent JJ over with?”

“Yeah, we did,” you say. “Thank you so much.”

“We actually brought this as a thanks,” Mark adds, offering out the tub. She eyes him almost with suspicion.

“Sorry, I forgot to say - Kie, this is Mark. My boyfriend,” you explain. Kie’s eyebrows shoot up with that final word but she recovers quick.

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” she says. She takes the box and glances through the plastic.

“Just some leftovers we thought you might like. Muffins and cinnamon buns and things like that.”

“Thanks guys, you didn’t have to. We’re happy to contribute,” Kiara tells you. “In fact, me and Sarah were talking about maybe making it a regular thing. Like every Wednesday we bring some stuff from the garden, or fish that we’ve caught?”

“Oh my God, yeah, that’d be amazing,” you nod enthusiastically. “We can definitely figure out a system.”

“Perfect. I’ll put these inside. You guys want a drink or anything? I can show you around,” Kiara offers, opening the door wider in invitation.

You glance over her shoulder into the room and then around the porch, behind you out to the water. You’re not sure why you were expecting JJ to just appear out of thin air in front of you.

“JJ’s out on the dock, if you want to catch up,” Kiara posits, as if hearing your thoughts. You look at her and hold her gaze, and - unable to read what her expression means - nod.

“I think I’ll go say hi. We didn’t get a chance to properly catch up,” you reply. You glance up at Mark. “You want to come with?”

“It’s alright. I’ll stay here and get the tour,” he tells you with a wink. You smile, press a kiss to his lips, and wander off with a wave to Kie, towards the dock.

Feet thudding on the slabs of wood, the structure creaks as you walk to the shop. An American flag waves in the breeze. You run a hand along the thick rope bannister and glance down into the growth of plants and water weeds underfoot. I can’t believe they built all of this, you can’t help but think as you walk up to the wooden-slatted tackle-and-bait shop. As you walk into the store under the wooden ‘WELCOME’ sign, reggae music blesses your ears alongside the smell of incense. It’s jam-packed with miscellaneous water accessories: fishing gear, surfing gear, refreshments, you name it. There’s nobody behind the counter. You glance around and squint, catching onto a spot red through the window. JJ lies outside atop of a vintage cooler, feet crossed one over the other, arms tucked under his head. You can’t help but smile. Walking outside, you lean against the doorframe and fold your arms over your chest.

“Well, as far as customer service goes, this is pretty crappy.”

He snaps up to sit like he has the joints of a ken doll. You laugh as he blinks his eyes awake, laying them on you.

“Oh shit,” he says, clearing his throat, running a hand through his hair. “When’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. You looked pretty comfy there,” you say, amused.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a good nap spot,” JJ chuckles nervously, glancing down at where he just lay his head. He straightens his t-shirt and then looks back at you. His brows furrow. “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

“Came by to see the new place,” you reply, gesturing around you. “You offered.”

“Didn’t think you’d be in such a hurry.”

“No time like the present and all that.”

You’re acutely aware of how you’re avoiding mentioning Mark and how he’s currently being led around JJ’s former house and yard under Kie’s tow.

“This is a pretty sick set-up,” you praise.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, huh?” JJ grins, getting to his feet. “Here, you want a beer? We’re technically closed for business anyway.”

Laughing, you shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

Cracking open the cooler, he reaches in and retrieves two ice-cold cans. One is tossed to you and you catch it, and a feeling of deja vu rings through you. JJ, younger, just as handsome, throwing you a can of beer at a kegger. He leans against the cooler and you against a wooden pillar. Cracking cans and the fizz of beer, and you take a refreshing sip. A comfortable quiet comes and the two of you catch one anothers eyes. You smile.

“I don’t think I said earlier, but it’s really nice to see you again,” you tell JJ.

He smiles, small and reserved. “Thanks. It’s nice seeing you too. Even if it is with Joe America over there.”

“Joe America?” you snort. “Come on, he isn’t that bad.”

“No, no, he seems…uh, he seems nice.”

“He is nice.”

“I believe it.”

“Well…good.”

That marked the end of that conversation. You take a sip of your beer and sigh, looking out to the view of sunset over the marshland.

“I wish you could’ve seen it,” JJ suddenly says. You look over to him with a frown, confused. “El Dorado, I mean. South America. It was beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning out there.”

“Really?” you say, smiling.

“Hell yeah,” he grins. “Like there was colours out there that I didn’t even think existed without, like, LSD, man.”

You laugh and he does too and you’re glad whatever awkwardness that just came passed quick like a seastorm.

“I still haven’t gone farther than Charleston, so I guess I’ll have to live vicariously,” you lightheartedly remark.

“Yeah, well, turns out there’s a pretty big world out there,” JJ grins.

“Glad one of us got to see it,” you hum.

“Nah, you’ll see it too. All of it. Even Paris.”

The city’s name hangs heavy in the air. It was more than just a throwaway comment. It was a secret message, as if JJ was speaking in code. I remember it. I didn’t forget. You wash down the adrenaline with another sip of beer.

“But no place like home, huh?” JJ says, clearing his throat.

“Probably helps now that John B ain’t a fugitive anymore,” you muse. JJ laughs, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, no, for sure.”

“Well, I’m glad you found your happiness, JJ,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m glad you found yourself out.”

“Ain’t we all?”

The two of you watch one another for a moment. His resting smile lingers on the edges of his thin lips. His round, soft cheeks that add to a boyishness about him that his jawline doesn’t allow. You always liked JJ’s hair though. A mop of blonde planted atop of his head with sun-bleached highlights and deep-sea lowlights. But he’s taking you in too. You can’t take the weight of his stare after a while. Taking a deep breath, pushing away from the beam, you ditch your half-drunk beer atop of the cooler.

“Well, I better get going.”

“You sure? I mean, we can hang out a bit longer, if you like?”

You smile politely and shake your head. “I’m not the one driving, so…”

JJ looks over your shoulder and spots Mark. “Ah. Didn’t know Dollar Store Chris Evans was here, my bad.”

“JJ! Don’t be mean!”

“I ain’t being mean! If anything, that’s a compliment,” JJ defends. You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll see you around though. It’d suck to go back to being strangers again when we’re both in the same place for a change.”

Despite the innocence of the offer, something in your gut tells you that you shouldn’t agree. You should set a boundary there, draw a line, and leave it in the past. So, really, you have nobody to blame but yourself for saying “I’d like that” with a smile in farewell, before walking back across the dock to your boyfriend.

Salted Chips

JJ had always been in your life. However, in the past, he was more of a background character, like an NPC in a videogame that creators constantly add in like an Easter Egg. The kind of character you’re curious about, in terms of their past and their present, their wants and their fears, but the kind you never have the privy to get close to in that way. He’d be at parties, at the surf break, at the shops or at school, but he wasn’t in your life. Until he was.

Fate came in the form of a seating plan for history class.

You and JJ were classmates. Table buddies. At first, the conversation was nonexistent. Sometimes JJ wouldn’t show up to class at all, either bunking off or playing truant in the bathrooms to light up a joint. But sometimes he’d come to class, usually escorted by Pope, and you’d share an uncomfortable silence as you worked through the hour. But then came an assignment that needed to be done out of class, and numbers were exchanged and words were shared outside of ‘what did he say’ and ‘what’s the homework’ and ‘what answer did you get for five?’. At your prompting to start on the project, JJ offered up the Chateau to work at, John B’s house that was a renovated fishing shack on the marsh.

To stimulate inspiration for the poster the two of you had to create - outlining the history of the American Civil War - JJ had offered up beers and a blunt, and you were glad to take him up on the offer. If you’re going to be doing schoolwork at the weekend, you might as well get something out of it other than mind numbing boredness. It seems you saying yes to JJ’s “gifts” put you in his good books. It’s as if you could see the moment his opinion of you changed. From there, it was as if the two of you had always known the other. Conversation came easy, banter even more so. Time spent together stretched outside of the classroom and instead into lunch breaks and evenings and weekends. He’d seek you out at keggers and hang with you at the beach. Somewhere in the roots of you friendship grew an attraction from the fondness. You noticed it in his lingering glances, his drifting gaze from your eyes to your mouth to your body. Later, you heard it in his words, finding innuendos in smalltalk, catching compliments like falling stars. Eventually, both slightly intoxicated, it came to a head, about three months into this natural-forming friendship.

“Yo!”

You turn around, beer in hand, startled by the interruption. It’s JJ. He’s wearing a cap, squishing down his beautiful locks of blonde; the muted green pairs well with his t-shirt. His combat boots sink into the ground, damp from the rainfall earlier in the day. Everything smells piney and fresh. You lift a finger to your lips to coax him to be quiet. His brows quirk up, a bemused smile gracing his gorgeous face. God really does have favourites, it seems.

“You good?”

“Sh! You’ll scare them,” you whisper. At his cocking head, confused, you fervently gesture for him to come over. He does. His presence by your side is almost overwhelming. The buzz from the liquor makes it difficult to keep your itching hands to yourself and your inhibitions at bay. “You see them?”

“See what?”

“The birds.”

“What?”

“Look, here,” you mumble. You lean close to him so you can point clearly with your finger, just along his line of vision. A whiff of JJ’s scent dusts your nose. He’s warm like he creates heat. Through the canopy of leaves, you can make out a single branch of a tree. In the nook, against the trunk, is a nest, and inside is a bunch of baby birds, cawing out for their mother, hungry, blind. You’d left them some salted chips on the floor, crumbled and scattered, in case the mother wanted to steal some to take up and gift. She probably wouldn’t, but something about their cries made you feel the need to do something, and it wasn’t as if you could offer up your beer.

“Woah.”

“You see ‘em?”

“Yeah,” JJ breathes. “That’s sick, how did you see them?”

“I heard them first,” you tell him, keeping your voice low so as to not frighten them. “Needed some air.”

“The smoke from the campfire botherin’ you?”

“I swear to God, it targets me,” you sincerely reply, making JJ laugh. You finally retract your finger (still sticky from the Smores made earlier) and turn, looking up at him. He looks down at you. Some strands of hair stick out from under his cap, pressing against his forehead. His brows are almost permanently slanted, eyes bright in the dusk of the evening. His shark tooth necklace sits against his chest. JJ’s lips quirk at your staring. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re so pretty,” you say, shaking your head, smiling. The alcohol has given you too much confidence, it seems. Loose lips. His eyes widen in momentary surprise but he catches it, covers it well. Then, comes his mask of confidence. He gives you a cocky smile.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he suavely replies.

“Nah, I mean it. You’re really something, Maybank,” you smile, doubling-down. In for a penny and all that.

His smugness fades into something more real. He doesn’t seem to know how to take compliments like that. Then, strangely, something like panic tugs his brows together. “I’m not very good at this sorta thing.”

Your frown of confusion seems to spur him on.

“Being honest. Real. I’m…I’m pretty fucked up, y’know?”

“The best people are,” you murmur, meaning every word.

“Nah, I mean it, though. I’m not…I don’t wanna hurt you.” JJ says it so quietly, so sincerely, that you get the sense that he’s never said it before. Maybe only thought it on dark nights, when you’re so alone with your thoughts it’s maddening. Smiling, shaking your head, you lift a hand to his cheek. Your heart hiccups at how he relaxes into your touch.

“I don’t think you have to worry ‘bout that,” you whisper.

You’re not sure who moves first, whether it’s him or you, but you end up a hair-width apart at the lips. His breath is hot as it fans onto your lips. Risk comes like a lightning rod and you take it, pushing onto your toes, connecting your lips with his. His hand finds yours and squeezes. That small gesture, as innocent as it is, tells you that you’re crossing this boundary together, from friends into something more.

Pistachio Pastries

The smell of coffee rouses you from sleep. You hum sleepily into your pillow, nuzzling in the scent of your boyfriend: peppermint and sage. A heavy palm gently pets your hair.

“Wake up, sleepy,” Mark murmurs.

You grumble in protest and he chuckles. The bed dips and the duvet lifts as he climbs back into the cocoon of warmth. Rolling over, you tuck yourself against him. He always slept in pyjamas. It was adorable. Nothing cheesy: just a simple shirt and flannel bottoms. His arm hooks around your waist and holds you against him. You swear to God, you could hide here forever. Mark was safety and security. Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car.

“Wednesday again,” he says, stroking the skin of your back. “Kiara messaged the Instagram page today. Said one of them will drop off an order around one-ish.”

“Sweet.”

An alarm blares from Mark’s phone and he cusses, breaking apart from you to retrieve it and turn it off. You take the opportunity to sit up and grab your coffee. The steam tickles your nose as you blow on it. Routine. Mornings spent in the mini home Mark had made in his parents backyard, in their old shed. He brought you coffee in the morning and you brought him tea before bed. You’d be asleep by ten and awake by eight. Your shifts at the smoothie shop typically followed a Monday through Friday routine, with the exception of midweek, with Wednesdays reserved for The Stirring Spoon. Weekends passed in a blink. Then, you reset to continue with the same thing again.

But that’s okay. Routine is okay. It’s reliable. Monotonous in a way that assures certainty. Besides, you liked your job, and your coffee, and your Stirring Spoon. But maybe it might be nice to stray from it all, just for a change.

You carefully place your coffee back on the side table and look over to Mark. He’s scrolling on his phone, lips set in a line, brows tugged together in vague concentration. A thrill runs through your body at the thought, as you press several kisses to the skin of his neck. You feel him breath beneath you. Then a kiss comes to your forehead, quick like a grandparent to their least favourite grandchild.

“Baby,” you hum, lifting a hand to rub your finger along his jawline.

“Mhm?”

“Do you have any, like…things you wanna try.”

He takes a moment to think, looking up from his phone. A smile comes to his face and he looks down at you, and your body burns with anticipation. “Surfing. Was never that good at it but I’d like to try it again, y’know?”

It fizzles away like water atop of a dying flame. “Oh. Yeah, no, yeah…that’s…you should do that.”

He frowns. “You okay?”

“Well, I just meant more…in the bedroom. Like anything, I don’t know…” Your face burns like you’re a nun stumbling across a Playboy magazine. “Kinky?”

“Kinky?”

“Not like oh my God, kinky. Just…I don’t know…”

He quirks a brow, smiling at you in a teasing sort of way. “You got some kink you’re not telling me about?”

“Maybe,” you tell him, hoping it comes out seductive.

“I don’t know,” Mark sighs, resting his head back against the wall. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and you lick over your lips. He grins, like something dawned upon him, and he dips his head suddenly to press his lips to yours. “Wanna know what I’ve always wanted to try?”

“Mhm,” you say, lifting your hands to cup his face and keep him near. Yes, your body practically cries. Tell me, tell me, tell me.

“Well,” he stalls, kissing you again. You chase his lips, shortening in breath. “I’ve always wanted–” another kiss “-to try-” another kiss “-doing it in the shower.”

It’s hard not to deflate completely with disappointment.

Wow, yeah Mark. Kinky.

But when you open your eyes, you come face to face with a nervous, sweet, caring Mark. A Mark who always makes sure you feel good and safe. A Mark who would never walk past an elderly man struggling to cross the road. A Mark who would donate a twenty dollar bill he found on the roadside. And you can see it in his eyes, this burning passion, this shock at his own words, because for him, that was like confessing to watching gangbang porn in a Church. So, you plaster on a smile, feigning excitement. “No, yeah. That’d be fun. We should totally do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grin, kissing him again. He sighs, pushing back against you. Your body sparks up again. The feel of his hands on your sides is like static energy. “We should try it now.”

“Now?”

“Mhm,” you nod eagerly, kissing at his lips desperately. “Good way to start the morning, huh?”

“Maybe,” he says. He pulls away slightly, guilty as he adds, “but it’s been a while since I cleaned the bathroom. And I promised my mom I’d help her out today, and I gotta be good to go in like ten minutes so…”

“Oh.”

He kisses you fleetingly on the lips and then tosses the bedsheets off his lap. You watch him get up. “But maybe soon? Like Friday?”

Routine with scheduled sex.

“Okay,” you say through a false smile. You sink against your pillow and watch him put on his slippers. The moment his back turns, you drop the expression. You’re so disappointed there doesn’t feel much point in trying to get off by yourself now, either. You don’t seem to fix your frown quick enough before he turns back around.

“Oh, hey, baby, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mark frowns. He lowers down so his eyes are level with yours. You pout like a child as you look at him. He pushes some hair off your face. “I swear, if I weren’t about to go help my mom, I’d be all over you right now.”

“Mhm.” Maybe you are being a bit selfish. He’s helping his mother for God’s sake! Smiling, properly this time, you jokingly warn, “I’m gonna hold you to that, Mark.”

“You better,” he winks. He kisses you before leaving the room, into the bathroom. Sighing, you roll on your back and blink up at the ceiling. You practise your mantra - Mark is good. Mark is good for me. Mark is good. Mark is good for me - and you get up to start your day.

The Stirring Spoon is a good distraction from your whining libido. It’s hard to think about fucking when you’re comparing shapes of pasta. And yet, you still find a way. Because as you stack packets of spaghetti, you try and recall the last time you and Mark had really good sex. Not sex where it’s soft and nice and satisfying. Sex when you feel like you might cry or scream, just to cope with the pleasure pulsing through your body. Sex when you’re actually scared that you might have a heart attack from how fast your heart’s beating. Was it ever like that with Mark? Was it ever like that with anybody else?

Yes.

“Hey.”

The very boy who just popped into your mind like a vision stands before you, crate in hand, smile on face, as if you manifested him.

“JJ.”

“You good? You were looking at that spag pretty hard,” he asks, amused.

“No, yeah, I’m good,” you say. You drop the pasta like it’s incriminating to what you were thinking about. Don’t tell JJ about the hot sex I was thinking about with him, pasta, please. “What’re you doing here?”

“Delivery from Kildare County Kitchen,” he says, dropping the crate down onto an empty spot on the table. “Some of Cleo’s less deadly version of her gumbo; a few sandwiches that Sarah whipped up; and some fish me and John B caught the other day.”

“Damn, that’s quite the haul,” you say, glancing into the crate and surveying its contents. “Thanks, JayJ.”

As you retrieve the items and lay them out carefully and neatly on the table, JJ shoves his hands in his short pockets and looks around the yard. “So. Loverboy here?”

“He’s busy today, helping his mom.”

“Ah. You short of a helping hand today, then?”

“Why? You want to help?” you say, half-joking. But JJ shrugs.

“I’m not doing much. Why not?”

“Don’t the others need you back at the shop?”

“There’s five of them, I think they’ll manage,” JJ replies sardonically. He claps and rubs his hands together. “Where do I start?”

“Um…” You stand upright and scan the area, checking what looks the most chaotic. As if on cue, the local bakery van pulls up. “Oh, sweet. Delivery. You can help me unload and log inventory.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The two of you walk over to the van, side by side, hands kept politely to yourselves. Small talk sits on your tongue but doesn’t make it into the world.

“Morning Mr Parker,” you call.

“Morning, darlin’,” he croons in his southern accent. “You too, Maybank.”

“Good to see you, sir,” JJ nods.

“What you got for me today?”

“Some good stuff, I’m not going to lie to y’all,” he grins over his shoulder before opening the doors to the back of the van. Mr Parker pulls out a tray of sealed baked goods. JJ steps in and takes it, and as he holds it you crack open the lid to peer in.

“Pastries?”

“Pistachio pastries,” Mr Parker says proudly. His takes off his cap and brushes a hand through his short grey hair. “My wife got a bit carried away. People in this town don’t have that fancy of taste buds.”

“Maybe not on the Cut,” JJ mumbles, making you smile.

“Well, be that as it may, glad I can contribute something to your little venture,” Mr Parker tells you. He squeezes your shoulder sweetly. “Y’all doing a good thing, with this here Stirring Spoon.”

“Thank you,” you say, overwhelmed by the simple praise. “Well, we appreciate any contribution, especially pistachio flavoured ones.”

With that, the three of you get to work carrying the four trays of baked goods to a spare table. Bidding Mr Parker farewell, you and JJ take pause against the table.

“I think I’ve earnt a break.”

“You’ve been here less than an hour.”

“Time flies by when you’re having fun, and all that,” he says passingly as he cracks open one of the bakery tubs. He grabs one of the pastries and tosses it into his mouth. His eyes widen as he chews. “Holy shit. These are so good.”

“JJ, you’re not supposed to eat the–”

“--try one.” A pastry is shoved into your mouth. You glare at him but bite, and holy shit this is really good. It must read on your face cause JJ grins. “Yeah, right? So good.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble. The two of you smile at one another like you’re stealing cookies from a jar.

“You remember that time we got high and raided Pope’s dad’s fridge?”

You laugh and nearly choke on the flaky pastry. “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that.”

“You were like a fucking racoon,” JJ sniggers.

“You were the one that got me high in the first place.”

“I didn’t fucking drug you! You wanted to try it!”

“Yeah, I did,” you grumble, unwilling to accept responsibility for completely draining the Heyward fridge.

“You’re cute when you’re high.”

You glance up at him. His smile is coy, like he knows he shouldn’t have said that. Because he shouldn’t. Rolling your eyes, you play it off as best you can. “Cute whilst I’m stuffing my face with questionable cheese?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shrugging. “You’re cute all the time though, so guess it’s not very hard for you to be even cuter high.”

“JJ, stop it.” Your tone is gentle but firm. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” JJ says. “Captain Vanilla.”

You hate how he isn’t completely wrong. “That’s not his name.”

“It’s just too easy,” he shrugs, playful as always. “The guy is a walking textbooked ‘good guy’.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” you mumble, picking out another pastry and studying the way it’s rolled.

“Nothing, I guess. Just find it funny.”

“Funny how?”

“That you’d go from me to him.”

You glance up from the pastry to meet his gaze. “We never officially dated, JJ.”

“Same difference,” he shrugs. “But hey - you know you. You know what you want.”

“Exactly…”

You do know you, don’t you? It sounds like such a crazy thing to question. But the older you get, the more you think you don’t know a thing about yourself. What’s your favourite colour? What’s your favourite animal? What do you want out of your future? What do you want out of a relationship? Journeying back to the morning, your mind replays the scenes like a horror movie. The worries of when the last time you felt passion in the bedroom feeds into worries of when the last time was that you felt passion, period. Oh no: it feels like an existential crisis might be coming on, about thirty years too early.

“Hey.” You snap out of your spiral. JJ forces a smile. “Just wanna know that you’re still living, not just secure. Y’know. As a friend.”

Funnily enough, that does little to cheer you up.

Croissants

JJ’s skin is warm against your cheek. Your face rests on his bicep, using it as a makeshift pillow, as you lay skin-to-skin, body-to-body. One of your legs is hooked over his, and his palm rubs large, mindless patterns against the sweat-sticky skin. The room is bathed in moonlight, the curtains drawn closed, and you can hear the sounds of the marsh from outside the Maybank residency. You wonder if JJ might have fallen asleep. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and you can’t see his face from here, to tell if his eyes are open or shut. But then he sighs and you smile against his arm.

“Tell me about your family,” you request in the quiet of the room.

“What about them?”

“Anything, really. Like about your mom and dad; if you have any siblings,” you murmur.

“Not much to tell,” JJ replies in a hum.

“Still. Tell me anyway.”

“Tell me about yours,” JJ deflects. You crack a smile.

“Alright,” you relent. “I live with my mom and my dad. She’s a waitress and he’s a mechanic.”

“You got any brothers or sisters?” he asks, his thumb massaging your upper leg.

“I did,” you say, your voice turning softer. “An older sister.”

“What happened?”

Your lips press together. An image flashes into your mind like a jumpscare, of a coffin dressed in white daisies and lilies. Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes and will the memory away. It’s then that you decide to confide in JJ.

“Do you know who Andy Warhol is?”

“I recognise the name,” he replies after a moment, not questioning why the sudden change in topic.

“He was an artist. Painted a lot of pop-arty things.”

“Is that the freakshow who painted those boring-ass soup cans?” JJ wonders. You laugh quietly.

“I wouldn’t describe him like that but yeah, that’s the guy.”

“What about him?” JJ asks.

“He was in love with this man, way back when. He kept a diary and this man he was in love with died, and Andy was heartbroken. But he ain’t like to say that somebody had died. Instead, he used to write that ‘they went away’, like on a trip or somethin’,” you tell him. Your voice trails off towards the end, fearing JJ might laugh at you as you go on to say, “I don’t know. I think I’d like to say that about my sister.”

JJ shifts underneath you until the two of you are lying side by side, now able to see one another’s faces through the muggy darkness of the room. His eyes glow in the non-existent light, shining and present, gazing into yours.

“Where’d she go, then? On this trip of hers,” he coaxes. Your lips part in surprise, and for some reason, you want to cry for his small act of kindness. Then, you smile, small and sombre.

“To Paris, in France,” you whisper.

“She go to the Eiffel Tower?”

“Every day. She eats dinner there at night and watches it twinkle. For breakfast, she buys a croissant and sits by the Seine,” you murmur. Tears wet your eyes as you picture your lost sister, venturing the streets with the wind in her hair, kissing her plump cheeks. Your voice is thick when you continue, “it’s her dream to see all the stuff in the Louvre. She goes every week and keeps a note of where she’s been and where she wants to go.”

“Like the Catacombs?”

You laugh and sniffle. “Nah. They’re too creepy for her.”

“Damn straight,” JJ mumbles. “They scare the crap outta me.”

As a tear lets slip, trickling down your cheek, JJ reaches out his thumb and wipes it away. His hand lingers on your face and you feel yourself lean into his hold. It’s like he’s holding you up. He’s holding you together. You open your eyes into his. There’s a smile on his face, different to the others. More reserved, less obvious, so different to the JJ you’d known and heard of before. You’re terrified of losing it entirely or saying something especially stupid, and so instead you mouth two words: ‘thank you’.

When he kisses you, it’s different too. There’s something about it, like a taste that wasn’t there before, and it lingers in your mind and mouth. It only grows as JJ deepens the kiss. Your hand traces his jawline and your fingers loop through the locks of his hair, and you tug him closer with a breath. The dance of your lips and tongues and teeth is growing more and more familiar by the day and it terrifies you how easy it has been to become accustomed to it. How easy it has been to become accustomed to JJ. Hands on your hips, JJ lifts you atop of him with a grunt, him rolling onto his back. You shrug the comforter off your back and straddle him. Your hands cradle his face, palms cupping his cheeks. You kiss him like he’s the antidote to all your ailments. Your mouth chases him in the teasing of his lips, breaking apart just to reel you back in. JJ’s teeth nip at your lower lip and pull, just so, just enough to have you whining and sighing like some lovesick fool. Maybe you are.

“JJ,” you mewl, rocking back against him. He groans as you begin to torture his jawline and neck. Groans louder when you suckle on the tender skin by his ear, painting hickeys like a beautiful landscape. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips deep enough to leave delicious bruises. You feel him growing hard beneath you as you grind against him like some animal in heat.

“Fuck, you’re so…Fuck…”

Your lips continue their descent down his body. Kisses are peppered along his windpipe, bridging over his Adam’s apple, and you can feel every breath, every stutter, every sigh. Down his chest, bare and broad, and down his stomach. His hands are now free from your hips and instead they tether into your hair, combing through the strands. You look up at him from between his legs - he’s made space for you - and can make out his lazy smile through your hooded gaze. JJ’s looking down at you too. His eyes glow.

You ghost a kiss over his boxers and he inhales a long, deep breath, his head tilting back into the pillows, eyes undoubtedly slipping shut. Lips upturning with a smile, your fingers tuck into the band of his boxers, and you pull them down his legs tantalisingly slow. Somewhere in the shadows of the room you hear him mumbling, ‘please.’ Taking him in hand, revelling in his short gasp, you guide him to your mouth. The smell, the feel - it all consumes you as you go down on him. The brush of bristly hair scratching against your nose, flooding your senses. JJ’s hand comes to the back of your head quick, as if guiding your pleasure, wordless praising your ways. Until it’s not wordless.

“Fuck, that’s it…Taking me so fucking good, huh? Look so pretty like this…”

You hum around his length and he stammers out a moan. Your eyes flick up to take in the sight of his exposed neck, head thrown back, mouth hanging open as he lets noises slip through, shameless and sinful. And you love it, the way you can bring him to the brink, the way you can manipulate his satisfaction like moulding something out of clay. A finger here, a stroke there. The tip hits the back of your throat uncomfortably. You pull away with a damning pop and a trail of saliva connects the two of you. Resting your head against the apex of his thigh, you jack him off with your hand, almost mesmerised by the way he pulses in your hold. Maybe it’s the sounds he makes. JJ Maybank walks like he’s a God; it’s a power trip to have him weak at your hold.

“Please, please, fuck…Jus’want your mouth, baby, please,” he begs through gritted teeth. His hand gently yet firmly pushes at your head, trying to guide you back to him, and you feel a giggle bubble up through your throat. It feels unnatural, this version of you. Sexy, seductive, sly.

“You want my mouth?” you tease, pressing a kiss to his throbbing dick.

“Fuck - yes, yes, please,” he groans. You glance up at him and meet JJ’s gaze. His hair, damp with sweat, hangs over his forehead, dangling over his eyes. A sadistic smile is on your face as you pull away, easing your hand off him too. His brows furrow. It’s like something snaps inside of him - some restraint he was holding breaking like the overstretching of elastic. His hands are on your in a second, gripping and grabbing at your body like you weigh no less than feathers, and you gasp as he tosses you onto your back. He’s on top of you, ravishing your throat and collarbone so mercilessly, you’re gaping at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Think that’s funny, huh? Wanna see how much you like it?”

You stammer something out; you don’t even know yourself if it’s a yes or no. All you know is you want him - you need him - on you, in you. Anything. JJ doesn’t make you wait. His hands pull your panties away swiftly. A finger slips all too easily through your slit and you gasp, eyes rolling shut. His laugh is deep, crooning, cruel in your ear.

“So fucking wet for me, hm? Such a fucking slut. Wanna see how it feels?”

“P-please.”

The stretch of your walls isn’t unpleasant as he eases a finger in. You let out a wanton moan. It pumps leisurely inside, the foreign metal of his ring overwhelming, and the brush of the tip of his thumb against your clit has you panting from the pleasure.

“Yeah, you like that, huh?”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. Then the torture begins, of the instant movement of his finger, in and out, in and out, before easing away so suddenly it’s like he was never there. After that, the faintest of pressure on the exposed skin at his mercy. His damp finger trailing the inside of your thigh. He repeats this cycle until you’re almost in tears. Your hands clutch the bedsheets in fists, feet writhing uselessly at the head of the bed, kicking at the flimsy pillows. You know he’s gloating from the power he holds. Something tells you he doesn’t get this much control in most aspects of his life. Something tells you he gets off this just as much as you. “You wanna come? Do you?”

“Fuck! Please, please, JJ, please. I’ll do anything, please, please,” you blubber. You don’t care how embarrassing it sounds; how much it pleases him. All you care about is feeling that hot, blinding, pulsing pleasure consuming your every nerve, every bone, every fibre of your being. His breath is hot against your collarbone. JJ kisses the lobe of your ear in such a tender way you wouldn’t be able to fathom the magic he works with his hands below the belt. And as you finally break, tumbling over the edge, letting out a fucked-out sob when you do, you can make out JJ’s low voice, his Southern accent thick like molasses.

“That’s it, baby. Make a mess on my fingers.”

Smores

Despite telling Mark where you’re going, it still feels like sneaking around behind his back as you walk up to the Pogue’s house. But this isn’t anything nefarious. This is just you breaking routine. This is you catching up with old friends, current friends, and having fun. Sharing some drinks, smoking a joint or two, sitting around a campfire. Good, old fashioned fun just like when you were sixteen.

Yep. That’s all.

“Hey yo! There she is!” JJ hollers the moment you come into view.

“Hey!” you smile, waving. In your other hand is a bag filled with a six pack of beer, a packet of graham crackers, some chocolate and a bag of marshmallows. You ditch it by the cooler to hug everyone hello. JJ’s last. His arms wrap around you like tree vines, secure and strong, and it’s familiar in a way that has you lingering. Mark. You break apart and take a seat on the opposite side of the campfire to him.

“What’s in the bag, mystery girl?” the girl you now know as Cleo asks.

“Some refreshments,” you say, lifting up the six pack. That earns a few whoops and hollers of approval from the already tipsy group. “And some snacks.”

“Smores?” Sarah gasps. She takes the bag of marshmallows from you.

“Just like old times,” you say. Your eyes catch JJ’s. He’s watching you.

“Let’s light these bad boys up,” John B announces. The gang is vocal in their approval. Sticks and twigs are gathered for skewers. Marshmallows dangle over the open flames that lick into the dusky air. A marshmallow shoves at yours and you glower at JJ.

“Leave my marshmallow alone.”

“Hey, this is America. I got rights, y’know?”

“Says who?”

“The constitution,” he retorts, grinning. You roll your eyes, trying and failing to bite back your smile.

“Y’all better stop it,” Cleo says in her thick Jamaican accent. “I ain’t wanting any marshmallows going to waste.”

“You heard her,” you playfully quip at the blonde haired boy. He rolls his eyes at you. He’s smiling. The amber of the fire paints his face like an oil artwork. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?

No, no, stop it. Stop it! God, what is wrong with you? This is just because you and Mark have been a bit distant lately. Yes, that’s all. You’re getting stuck on nostalgia. It’s a mind’s trick. It didn’t work before with JJ so who’s to say it will again. The two of you are friends - he’s been a good friend - and you don’t need to go muddying the waters. You punish yourself by staring into the flames and trying to make images of Mark’s face in the fire.

The night spurs on with drinks that wash down the sickly sweet snacks. You listen to the tales of El Dorado and laugh at the reminiscences of youthful madness when you were all in high school. It isn’t until you’re back in the bubble of the Pogues that you realise how much you missed it. It’s like rediscovering your favourite movie from childhood. It brings a certain comfort that few things can match. They ask about The Stirring Spoon and you recount the tale of how you came about with the idea, of how you got it off the ground. Nobody asks about Mark and you’re ashamed that you don’t feel the urge to bring him up, either.

You go for another swig of your beer to find it empty. The cooler by John B is empty too, upon investigating. You drop the lid.

“You guys got any more beers?”

“Probably some down at the fish and tackle shop,” Kiara tells you.

“Thanks,” you say, starting towards the dock. The further you walk, the more the vivacious chatter turns into a humming like the crying cicadas and croaking frogs and cooing owls. The water laps at the wooden pillars and you smile, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment as you walk. Nature is so wonderfully peaceful. The cooler is full of bait and chum, but there’s a small section for the beers. You retrieve one and drop the lid to find JJ standing in your peripheral.

“Holy shit!”

“Sorry!”

“What the fuck, man?” you laugh.

“Just wanted a refill too,” he says, shooting you a squiffy smile. His hair is dishevelled. He seems to wear caps less now, you note. You’re happy about that. In your tipsy state you can admit your attraction with less shame. You chalk it up to appreciating beauty the way one can appreciate a perfect sunset or timeless painting. To stop your staring, you open the cooler and hand him a can. “Thanks.”

“Hey, cheers,” you say, holding your drink out. He clinks his against yours. “To old friends.”

The two of you take a drink. Neither of you go to move back to the other Pogues (who are seemingly in some weird charades battle that is far from quiet). JJ gestures over your shoulder. “You seen the boat yet?”

“The H.M.S?”

“Nah, the new one,” JJ answers.

When he walks past you, you catch a whiff of his smell and it reminds you of home. You turn and follow him. He steps up onto the large boat. It’s painted bright green and in yellow paint, the name reads The Snapper. JJ offers you a hand and you take it, letting him help you up onto the boat. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your shorts but you’re in no mood to check it.

“Pretty sweet, huh?”

“So sweet,” you agree, looking around. JJ wanders over to the main console and flicks on an overhead light. He glows beneath it. When he takes a seat on the bench, you do the same, sitting opposite. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brutal plastic. “This is the life.”

“Yeah? You miss the marsh?”

“I miss it all,” you quietly confess.

You can hear the rustle of clothes and the flick-flick of a lighter. The smell of cannabis drifts into the air. “Here.”

Opening your eyes, you lift your head to find a joint extended out to you. Smiling, you take it with thanks and have a hit, then a second, then a third. You haven’t smoked in what feels like forever. Mark doesn’t like the smell; says it makes him feel sick. You wonder why you stopped indulging in something you enjoyed just because of that, even on your own time.

“Thanks,” you say, passing the joint back. You ditch your beer can to the side. One poison at a time would be best in these sticky situations, you reckon.

“What’d you mean, ‘you miss it all’?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. You gaze off into the distance; it’s hard to make out much definition in the dark, save for some lights of houses in the far distances and the silhouette of plants and trees. “I feel like my life is so…‘same’ now.”

“Same is good.”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But I keep thinking about what you said to me, the other day. About being secure but still living. What if…What if I’m not living?”

“Well–”

“--I mean, look at you guys! You went to El Dorado! You found El Dorado, and the Royal Merchant, and the Royal Merchant’s treasure, and the Cross of Santo Domingo. What did I find? A mouldy tomato in a box of potatoes.”

JJ cracks up and you roll your eyes. “It’s not funny,” you mutter, smiling nonetheless. You take the joint back and have another drag. Relief fills your system. The muscles in your face loosen along with your mouth. “It’s pathetic. I’m nearly twenty-one and I’ve been as far as Charleston and have about a handful of exciting memories to my name.”

“Woah, come on now,” JJ chuckles, taking the blunt back. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on yourself? You heard what Mr Parker said: that Stirring Spoon thing is awesome, and that was all you. You’re feeding the community, bringing people together. That’s way cooler than some shiny fucking stones.”

“Meh,” you shrug. “Guess I’m just jealous of you.”

“Ha! Yeah, don’t be,” JJ sarcastically berates. A shadow comes to his face. Foot in the mouth syndrome curses you.

“Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re good. I sometimes forget how bad it was too, with how things are now,” JJ admits. He smiles at you and takes another hit. “But I guess I didn’t fully let you in then, huh?”

“You think?” you jest. He laughs, thankfully, and you inhale the sweet scent of the herb. “Guess I just get stuck on the good memories from before. Like all the days skipping school to surf. And how the summers felt like they could go on forever. Or that time we broke into City Hall, or pranked Topper’s house.”

“Damn, I guess we did get up to a lot of shit, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you grin. Following the dance, you take the joint back.

“Well, I can think of some other memories, too,” JJ says. His grin is telling, tongue poking through his teeth. You bite back your smile.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“What?” he chuckles.

“Don’t! That’s dangerous territory,” you tell him. You point your joint at him. “That’s no man’s land.”

“Oh man!” JJ groans, tossing his head back. “Why’d you have to call it that!? You know that’s like calling a moth to a fire or whatever!”

“What?” you giggle, eyeing him.

“Telling a guy not to do something is the exact thing to do to get a guy to want to do something,” JJ argues nonsensically. You laugh, shaking your head at him. He holds your gaze and you feel your smile settle into your skin like footprints into damp sand. “They were pretty good memories, huh?”

“Yeah,” you quietly say. “They were pretty good.”

“Remember that time we did it on the beach.”

“Stop it,” you say, but there’s little conviction in your words. You can’t take his eyes anymore, the blue dragging you under like currents in a riptide. You look down at the joint and fixate on the way the embers burn at the paper.

“Or that time–”

“JJ, I mean it,” you say, your tone losing its humour now. You shoot him a look that you hope will put a pin in it. “We should talk about something else.”

“Alright, alright,” JJ surrenders, holding his hands up and all. He relaxes back against the plastic seat of the boat and you do the same. Your legs outstretch so you can rest your feet on the spot beside him. The two of you catch each other’s gaze and look away, chuckling bashfully like preteens. You take another hit of the joint and watch the smoke fizzle away into the night. “How’d you meet Mark, then?”

You glance at JJ. “A few months back. He’d just moved to Kildare and came by to The Stirring Spoon to help out, and we sort of hit it off.”

“He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” you smile. But it fades. The weed tickles at your emotions, pulling the wires as if to wreak havoc. JJ seems to take advantage.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie. You take another hit and shake your head, plastering on a smile. “It’s nothing.”

Sighing, JJ folds his arms comfortably over his chest. “Y’know, just cause I know what you look like naked don’t mean we can’t be friends now.”

Barking out a laugh, you shake your head. “There was definitely a better way you could have put that.”

“Probably,” he shrugs, grinning, “but it’s true, ain’t it? We can be friends.”

“Of course we can. We are,” you emphasise.

“So…That means that if you wanna vent about Mr Loverboy to me, you can,” JJ offers.

Laughing, you rock your head back and gaze up at the sky. The stars are out. They shimmer white and crystal in the abyss of the night. “That’d be too weird, I think, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

“I just got one question. Just one.”

“Go on,” you reluctantly reply.

“Does he say ‘thank you’ after the two of you fuck?”

You burst into fits of laughter. It’s so sudden that it has you doubling over. Tears slip from your eyes and you wipe them away, looking at a grinning JJ. God, you missed him and his twisted sense of humour.

“He just looks like the kinda guy who would!”

“Oh my God, no!” you laugh, shaking your head. Catching your breath, you manage out, “no, he doesn’t say ‘thank you’.”

“Is he the sub then? Cause there is no way that guy is laying his hands on you without written permission.”

“JJ stop! I’m gonna pee myself!” you cackle, kicking your feet. JJ starts laughing too. You open your eyes and make out his face in the lowlight of the pier’s lamp. Wheezing, you catch your breath and calm yourself. “This is exactly what I was talking about.”

“I can give the guy pointers if he needs them,” JJ jokes. Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets just at the idea though and you point at him in another warning.

“Don’t you dare!” you say, trying not to crack up again. “‘Sides, he doesn’t need pointers.”

“Everybody needs pointers,” JJ says with a roll of his eyes. “John B gave me one of the best pointers.”

“I find that impossible to believe,” you snort.

“He did! It was a tip for kissing. Works like a fucking charm too, I’m telling ya.”

“Mhm, I’ll bet,” you sarcastically return. You glance at the joint to check if it needs tapping off, take another drag, and then look up to find JJ watching you. He hasn’t changed enough for you to forget what that expression means.

“You want me to show you?”

“Show me? How?” you say with furrowed brows. Something in the air shifts with your question. An unspoken thing, an unseeable thing, but something nonetheless. A nervous tickle comes to your throat.

JJ doesn’t reply but he slowly leans over the seat towards you. Your breath catches in your lungs the moment he enters your bubble, breaking some unspoken barrier, and your smile fades away like day into night. You feel as though you’re stuck in place, plastered to the seat, and you’re ashamed to admit that you don’t hate that you are. You’re ashamed that you’re not pushing him away, telling him to buzz off, laughing at his idiocy. You’re ashamed that you’re curious as to what he’s going to do next.

JJ’s close enough now that you can smell him. His cologne mixed with something sweet but tangy, like seasalt and citrus. Something masculine underneath, that has a primal instinct inside of you wanting to claw its way out. Your fingers grip the edge of the seat instead. Your eyes stare into his. You study the laps of green and grey in the sea of blue, mesmerised in the way the night sky reflects in the iris. His gaze darts down to your lips and you have no idea how this happened and how you got here, and everything is blurry but so, so clear from the cannabis as he leans forward, and you can’t move but you should move and you want to move but you don’t, you never want to move again, as his lips brush against yours just so, just enough for you to know that they have, that he has, that he’s real, but that he hasn’t, and that you can take it all back, and that it doesn’t count and it shouldn’t and you shouldn’t but–

Your hand clutches his jaw and you pull him in. His lips crash against yours in a breath. You kiss him like you won’t ever kiss him again. He sighs against you in the hurried mesh of mouths, groaning as your tongue brushes against his, tasting him for the first time in years. It’s like finding a childhood toy and it smells like nostalgia. It’s like eating a baked good and it tastes like a specific holiday. It’s like smoking your first joint and it feels like floating.

Until you’re not.

Your body falls back down to earth with a thud. You shove JJ away as if he’s flammable and you’re the deadly spark. Your mouth hangs open in shock, your eyes filling with horror, and the worst feeling you’ve maybe ever felt overcomes you so suddenly, you worry you might be sick.

Guilt.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. You lift a hand to your lips and your fingers brush against the damp of his spit that lingers, and it confirms that it was all real. “Oh my God.”

JJ’s lips move to try and formulate words but nothing happens. He looks just as stunned as you do. His eyes are wide, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Those three words bang about your brain as you take in the sight of him. It’s not at all unfamiliar.

Hot ash from your joint drops onto your thigh and you cuss, brushing it off. You toss the joint into the sea behind you as if it’s the culprit, the plotter, behind all of this. Then you’re on your feet and rambling out excuses.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I think it was - it was definitely the weed. I really should go, it’s so late. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I have no idea-”

It’s as you’re about to step off the boat and onto the wooden pier that JJ’s hand locks around your wrist. It freezes you in place once more and you want to climb out of your body and scream at yourself. Instead, you look down at him.

“You can stay, y’know,” JJ whispers. There’s a pleading in his eyes, a tenderness that you haven’t known before in him, and you finally know how Eve must have felt with that damn serpent in Eden. Temptation at its finest, dressed up in blonde, unruly hair and dreamy eyes and sculpted muscles and a graphic tee.

Mark.

You shake your head and snatch your hand free. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

And no matter how vehemently you tell yourself that you mean it as you hurry away from the pier and from the house, you know you don’t.

Cheap White Wine

The tart tanginess of the wine is sharp on your tongue as you take another swig. It’s late, or perhaps early, and the Chateau is illuminated by amber and orange from lamps. It’s raining outside as hurricane season rattles on, but you and the Pogues could care less. When you have wine, you really have everything you need.

“Come on, come on!” Kiara laughs, egging on you to loop your arm in hers. The two of you line dance together to an old noughties CD in the player. You swing one another around in a tipsy haze to the upbeat tempo. Pope and John B heckle and holler from the pull-out sofa, toasting their beer cans up in approval. You’re happy here, like this, in your bubble. As the song comes to a close on a major chord, you and Kiara giggle and take joking bows to your audience. You frown when you look around the room, not finding JJ anywhere.

“He’s on the porch,” Pope says, seemingly catching on.

“Thanks,” you smile, a little embarrassed that you’re that easy to read. Taking the wine, you venture out the door, closing it behind you as another song starts up. Kie’s cheer and begging for John B to dance is muted through the shutters and windows.

JJ sits on the sofa, a joint lit up, legs outstretched on the coffee table. He glances up at the sound of someone coming out and smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey. Can I join?” you wonder.

“Course,” he hums, shuffling a cushion in invitation beside him. You sit and lean against him, hitching your feet up onto the table beside his. He knocks one of his shoes against yours teasingly and you smile. Through the netting of the porch, you can make out the lashing of rain in the yard. It’s pitter-pattering is soothing like a nursery rhyme. You sigh and let your eyes slip shut. “Having fun?”

“Always,” you mumble, making him laugh. “You got any dreams?”

“Like sexy ones?”

“No,” you giggle, elbowing him, making him let out a few laughs too. “Like actual dreams. Ambitions. A wish.”

JJ takes a pause for thought. You have a swig of your wine as you wait, revelling in the sound of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and constant. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Your heart sinks with disappointment. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. It felt as though every time JJ came close to pulling back the curtain and letting you see a glimpse, he caught eye of something that scared him and he slipped it shut again. He told you what he wanted to tell you and kept the rest close to heart. You weren’t going to pry his cards from his body to see them, but it would be nice if he showed you them once in a while. It felt like the more time you spent with him, the less you knew. You could guess things from small clues as if playing a boardgame. He hardly went home, never mentioned his mother, and his father came into conversation with a shadow. He spoke lowly of himself, presumed the worst before others could, and it saddened you how clearly he believed everything he said. JJ couldn’t see himself the way you did.

“I do,” you whisper, hoping it might entice him to share.

“Oh yeah? What’s your dream?”

“I want to start a kitchen.”

“Huh?”

“Like a community kitchen thing. Not a bakery or a restaurant, just a place for all kinds of food, for all kinds of people, y’know? A good thing, like that. My sister used to help out at a soup kitchen and…I don’t know. I always liked that.”

JJ squeezes your thigh in acknowledgment. “Sounds fuckin’ amazing.”

“Thanks.”

In the Chateau, John B and Kiara laugh and Pope speaks loudly over them, something teasing, and you smile. The smell of weed fills the air before you and blends in with the notes of your wine and the telling scent of JJ. You wonder if the smell of you affects him in the same way; if the flavours of your perfume haunt him when he can’t sleep the way his cologne does for you. Suddenly, somewhere in the serenity of the moment comes a calamitous realisation, like a rumble thunder breaking the rain.

You were falling in love with JJ Maybank.

Biscuits

Food poisoning. That’s what you’d told Mark. The heavy sickness that had sat in the bottom of your stomach like a boulder since last night lingered still. You hoped it was a hangover, but that passed with an advil. You knew what this was.

You only escaped the guilt in your sleep. The moment you returned home, you climbed under the sheets of your bed like a child hiding from the bogeyman. Sleep was the only reprieve, though it didn’t come easy, and the second you came to in the morning, the first thought in your head was the look on JJ’s face just before his lips touched yours.

Fuck.

Your phone pings with another message that is no doubt from Mark and you can’t bring yourself to look at it. It doesn’t help that there’s a framed picture of the two of you staring at you from the bedside. It was his gift to you for your one month anniversary, because of course Mark cares about one month anniversaries. You hadn’t gotten him anything; you had to make up some lie that it was late in the mail, and then run to the shops that night. Just further proof that you don’t deserve him.

Hello, hell? I’d like to reserve my spot in advance. Queen sized bed please, for me and my whorish ways. Much love.

When the phone begins to ring you groan aloud and send it straight to voicemail. You bury your head beneath the pillow and close your eyes, but the memories haunt you like flashbacks. JJ’s eyes. JJ’s lips. The way he tasted, the way he bit your lower lip just so, in that way that only he knows, in the way that he always knew drives you crazy–

“Stop it!”

Hello, hell? Quick update: I think I might be going insane, too. Just thought I should preface you.

Somewhere in your self-loathing, you manage to drift off into another restless sleep. It’s broken by a tapping on your door. Groaning, you force yourself out of the safety of your bed and wander to your door, expecting to find your mom. Instead, your head tips back to see the face of your boyfriend.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is thick with concern, brows knitted with worry. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Thankfully, you didn’t have to lie with that one. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to check on you,” he replies. He steps into your room and you make space, sitting on your bed. He closes the door behind him. “I tried calling but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, sorry, uh…I was just feeling really frail, y’know?”

“Oh, baby,” Mark sighs. He sits beside you on the bed and places his large palm on your forehead. His brown curly hair sits in perfect ringlets atop of his head. One dangles over his forehead, out of formation, and it reminds you of JJ. Just how you went from me to him, JJ had said. Were they that different, after all? “You got a temperature?”

“I don’t think so,” you say. You gently push his hand off your face. “I think I just need to sleep.”

“Well, I’m here to take care of you.”

“Really?” You hope the dread in your voice isn’t obvious.

“Course. You’d do the same for me,” he smiles. He lifts a bag you didn’t even notice he was carrying and shows you each item. “Mama’s homemade biscuits. She’s real worried about you, y’know?”

“I’m fine,” you insist, “just a bit sick. I think the worst of it has passed.”

“That’s good, then. I’ll make you a hot drink, yeah? We can watch a movie or something. You get cosy,” Mark tells you. You nod and try your best to smile. Mark leans forward and presses a fleeting kiss on your lips, and the sickness comes back tenfold. You want to cry the second he’s out of your room.

Mark is good. Mark is good for you. But what if you’re not good for Mark?

Chocolate Chip Cookies

“I don’t understand.”

You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your forehead. Bile lingers in the back of your throat but you swallow it down, alongside the feeling of self-reproach. This was it: the conversation you’d been dreading. The conversation that needed to happen. You’d rehearsed your words in the mirror like practising lines for a play. Journals and diaries filled with debate, as to whether you stay or bolt. But now was as good a time as any, and you knew in your mind what the right thing to do was. You can’t risk getting in the car accident if you step out of the vehicle.

“Did I do something?” JJ then asks, his voice weak, naked. You meet his gaze and shake your head firmly.

“No,” you breathe, “no, you ain’t do nothing, JJ.”

“Then I don’t get it,” he repeats, stronger this time. Frustrated. You knew none of this would be easy.

“Look,” you cut yourself off with a sigh. You shuffle your crossed legs, sitting on JJ’s bed in the Chateau in a way that you never have before, as if you’ve never stepped foot inside his life. “My parents are heading to Charleston for a couple months anyway, to stay with my grandmother and help look after her, and…well, maybe it’s for the better, that we have this distance sooner rather than later.”

“Distance?”

“You’ve been removed, JJ,” you mumble, hoping not to sound accusatory. “And that’s okay, I know you’re busy. I mean, you told me from the start that you don’t do the whole relationship-thing. But I don’t think I can stay, not right now.”

“Okay, is this some kinda joke?” JJ snaps. He gets to his feet and paces a few steps in the small throughway of his bedroom. Taking off his hat, JJ rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, eyes fiery, expression hard as if to shield from the hurt that you don’t mean to cause. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I thought we were fine.”

“We are fine,” you insist. Sighing, you try and find the best way to explain yourself without giving it all away. “Look, I ain’t meaning that you’re a bad guy or that you’re damaged or anything like that. I don’t think that, not at all. But…How can I explain this?”

JJ takes a moment or two to calm himself as you hang your head and clench your eyes, searching for the perfect turn of phrase to make your thought process make sense. You find it. Lift your head, soften your gaze at the hurt on his face, and try your best to smile through the sorrow. This wasn’t easy for you either.

“You know when you see a tornado?”

He stares at you for a short while before nodding, urging you to continue.

“Things that like…They’re always so pretty for afar. So mesmerising, how nature can create something like that. Stunning, really. Epic. But then, you get too close, and you get sucked in. And it’s just chaos and there’s no way out of it without being broken.”

JJ nods again, pursing his lips.

“I think that’s what might happen here,” you whisper. “If I stick around.”

“I don’t get it. You’re saying I’m gonna break you?”

“No, I’m saying…I’m saying you’re not in a spot right now to give me what I need. That ain’t your fault, JJ, but I can’t let myself stay knowing that I’m gonna have my heartbroken. I wish I could - I wish I could just wing-it like that - but I can’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause that JJ drags out, staring at you as if trying to see into your head, searching for some lie. Sighing, he must come up empty, as he takes the spot beside you on the bed again. You test the waters, leaning against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his t-shirt. One of his hands lifts and strokes your hair, smoothing it down.

“I really do care ‘bout you, y’know? Like, that ain’t fake,” JJ admits in a hushed tone.

“I know, JJ,” you reply, just as soundless. “I just think you gotta figure yourself out before you can…”

“...love you?” JJ hesitantly whispers, after you lose nerve. Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Mhm.”

“You can’t love me ‘til then, either?”

Laughing sadly, you shake your head against him. He really couldn’t tell how much you’d fallen for him already, could he? “I don’t think you gotta worry ‘bout that ever, JJ.”

A soft kiss is planted on your forehead. “So…Just gotta do some soul searchin’, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you hum. “But hey, I tell you what.”

You break apart from the comfort of his hold, tilting your head so you can look up, into his eyes. The pain in JJ’s gaze tears you like wrapping paper, and it’s worse to know it’s your fault, but you know that it’s the only way to save you both from further pain. It isn’t the right time, and that’s a shame, and it isn’t fair, since you’ve memorised the outline of him and drawn him into all your plans and daydreams. But you can hear it when you talk and feel it when you sleep together, this detachment, this removal of himself, that can’t come until he’s healed in a way that he’s far away from now. There’s something pulling him away from you, an adventure of sorts, and you don’t want to keep him from it. You want JJ to love you but you want him to choose you, too. And until then, you don’t have it in yourself to sit around on the sidelines, waiting for your heart to be broken. It’s like sitting a toddler in front of a plate of chocolate chip cookies but demanding them not to touch; the temptation might just kill you.

“What?” JJ gently prompts, bringing you back from your thoughts.

Your smile is sick with inner lamentation. “If you do figure yourself out, after some soul searchin’ and all that, then chances are I’ll still be here. So, I guess, if you ever feel like fallin’ then lemme know. You can catch me on the way down.”

JJ’s smile is beautiful, even when his eyes are wet with unshed tears. You lean up and press a fleeting kiss to his lips, but you don’t let yourself linger. If you do, you’re afraid you’ll never leave. You murmur some sort of goodbye, making an excuse that you should get going, and JJ doesn’t argue. He watches you as you stand, waves farewell with two-fingers as you leave, and you walk home with your heart halfway broken but more whole than it might’ve been if you stayed and tried to make this impossible thing work. JJ wasn’t ready to fall in love, not yet, but you already had.

Ham and Cheese Sandwiches

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I promise,” you reply to Mark, smiling reassuringly. You wonder if it looks like a grimace. It feels like one. Even touching him makes you want to cry, as you brush your hand atop of his on the table. Your feigned food poisoning was two days ago now but Mark was still worried for your health, likely because you were still acting so withdrawn and drained. It’s hard to sleep when you’re consumed by guilt and confusion. “Why don’t you see if Nancy needs a hand in the kitchen, yeah? I can work on the inventory out here.”

“You sure? I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m sure,” you nod. “I can come get you if I need anything.”

“You better,” he grins. He dips his head and kisses you and it takes everything inside of you not to pull away like a flinch. It’s not him. It’s you. You feel like you’re poison. Like JJ’s kiss has infected you and you can’t get Mark sick too. His brown curls bounce as he walks back to the building. You busy your mind with counting tins of soup. The Stirring Spoon had never had so many posters, so many new recipes, with how much you’d been trying to keep yourself busy. You picked up extra shifts at the Smoothie Shop to avoid Mark during the daytime, and you submerged yourself in your voluntary-planning work and ‘early nights’ to avoid him during the night. It wasn’t fair to him but you didn't know what else to do.

Well, that’s a lie. You know exactly what you should do, but denial is so much easier.

Ducking down, you grab another box of leftover soup from a local supermarket. They’d recently changed providers and all the old stuff had to go. You were thinking of making toasted sandwiches with soup. Grunting, you lift the box onto the table. The sun beats down on you as if the universe is punishing you. Good, it’s the least I deserve.

You can spot him anywhere, even blind. He’s in the far corner carrying a smaller box than usual, compared to his crate. A sudden wave of panic comes over you and you speed walk over to him. He frowns as you approach.

“You good? Hey!”

You grab his arm and drag him out of sight from the field, behind an overgrown bush. “W hat are you doing here?” you hiss.

“Bringing sandwiches?” he replies, as if it should be obvious. “Are you okay?”

“JJ, you can’t be here,” you snap. “Mark is literally in the other building!”

“So?”

“So? Do you…Do you not remember what happened the other night?” you ask, calming down slightly.

JJ sighs and puts the box down on the floor. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. “Look, clearly you spun out. I ain’t gonna mention it if you don’t want me to.”

“Wait…Really?”

“Jesus Christ, I ain’t a homewrecker,” JJ chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. You want to crack a smile but you think your face might be permanently stitched in perpetual concern forever. His laughter dies. “Listen, I think you got some stuff to figure out, a’right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get offended! I’m jus’ saying…” JJ cuts himself of with a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You missed all his little ticks and quirks. “Look, don’t kill me for sayin’ this, I’m just tryin’ to be honest. I don’t think Mark’s the right guy for you.”

“I-”

“I’m sorry, a’right? I don’t think you want to admit it either but…I think you gotta be honest. You don’t love him, okay? And that’s a’right, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I just think you need to make a choice.”

“What does that mean? A choice?” you quietly ask, terrified for his answer.

His smile is sad as JJ shrugs. “I was an idiot to lose you once, I ain’t gonna lose you again - not if I can help it. If Mark’s who you want - if Mark makes you feel like you’re living - then I’ll never bring it up again. Hell, I’ll stay away from you forever, if you want. Least, I’ll try to. I don’t know if I can be held accountable for when I’m drunk but- look, now I’m getting side tracked. The point is:”, JJ speaks with his hands, “if Mark isn’t the one for you…I’m here to catch you, y’know?”

You blink at JJ and blink away the tears. You’re not sure if you can form words right now, not even sure what words they would be, so you try your best to nod. JJ tries another smile.

“There’s some sandwiches from Kie and Sarah for today. I hope it all goes okay. Just…lemme know. Or don’t, y’know? Either way,” he trails off with a shrug. You feel cemented into the dirt as JJ backs away. Then he’s gone. Your eyes slip shut. Some weird hybrid of JJ and Mark’s faces fill your thoughts.

‘If you ever feel like fallin’ then let me know. You can catch me on the way down.’

‘I’m here to catch you.’

You need to figure this out and fast. It wasn’t fair to anybody, not even yourself. Dragging things out doesn’t make it any easier, it only delays the inevitable, like tediously inching a bandaid off the skin. Sometimes you just have to rip. You just have to prepare for the aftermath.

How ironic, how when you were sixteen it was you waiting for JJ to figure himself out, and now it’s your turn. It’s a shame you were never all that much of a fan of irony.

Cinnamon Buns

Baking is therapeutic. The precision of weighing out the ingredients; the cathartic relief from beating together butter and sugar until fluffy like clouds; the tapping and cracking of eggs; the rhythmic folding of flour; the soon-to-arrive reward for your labour. You like baking when life gets stressful. Few things are so systematic, so simple, so quick to resolve, as baking. Life is more complicated than that.

Mark and JJ. Two sides of different coins. Neither good, nor bad. Human, just like you.

As you prepare the batter for cinnamon buns, you try to make sense of everything. Figure yourself out, as JJ had put it.

Mark was designed to be easy to fall in love with. It was as if the universe had a recipe for him, everything the girls crave, the people fawn over in romance novels, the parents pray for in their child’s partner. Responsible; caring; thoughtful; kind; secure; safe. Mark was good. There was no other way to put it. Hell, you met him at a voluntary community kitchen. He gave you stability like a white picket fence. Perfect and practised, like he’d been waiting for that his whole life. But you found yourself restless in the fairytale. Found yourself itching for change, for chaos, for clutter. He was sentimental in a way you weren’t. That wasn’t to say you were heartless - the two of you just loved differently.

JJ Maybank? He wasn’t designed for it in the same way, but it was impossible to not fall in love with him. You knew it from the moment your paths crossed, back when you were sixteen and the two of you tumbled through two months together. That’s why you left in the first place. To save yourself from the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring, because sixteen-year-old JJ was in no place to commit to anybody. You assumed that with time your feelings would fade away and when you met Mark, you believed they had. You liked Mark - that wasn’t false - and you had feelings for Mark. But the love you had for JJ didn’t vanish. Like energy, it could only be transferred. It went into the back of your mind as if in hibernation but the moment JJ waltzed back into your world, it was awake. It was impossible to ignore.

Mark was the netting beneath a trapeze artist, but JJ was the acrobat. Mark was the emergency brake in a racing car, but JJ was the driver. But JJ was safety too. He made you feel safe, but he also made you feel alive.

And you wanted to feel alive.

Mark was routine. He was predictable. You could see the next five, ten, twenty years of your life laid out nice and neat with Mark. But did you want that? Did you want to give up the adventure? The chaos? The things you missed so desperately.

As you drizzle the topping on top of the cinnamon buns, you summarise your scrambled thoughts into one neat realisation: you wouldn’t have kissed JJ if you truly wanted Mark.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat as you walk to Mark’s house. The buns sit neat in the tupperware and you’re careful not to shake them. His door looks like a tombstone as you knock on it. There’s a noise from inside and the door opens. Mark smiles down at you. He’s dressed in a baby-blue waffle sweater and it’s so undeniably, so wonderfully him.

“Hey!” he grins.

“Can I come in?” you ask. It sounds ridiculous asking that when you used to sleep in this house almost daily.

“Course,” Mark replies. He opens the door further and you slip inside. It shuts behind you. You place the tupperware on the countertop, taking too much time in letting go. “You alright?”

“Mhm. I just…I think we should talk about some stuff,” you say, feeling your voice losing power.

“Alright. Come, sit,” he urges. You do as he asks and take the spot on the bed beside him, leaving a gap. “What’s up?”

You fumble your fingers together and stare intensely at your hands, racking your mind for the words, for where to start. You’d practised this so many times in the mirror. Childish.

“I did something and I need to tell you, because you’ve always been so good to me, and so honest with me, and it isn’t fair to hoodwink you.”

“Okay,” Mark faintly replies.

You take a steady breath in. Mark is good. He deserves the truth. “I went to see JJ last week, and one thing led to another, and we kissed.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sounds of the air conditioning unit humming as white noise. Then,

“Oh.”

You clench your eyes shut before looking up at him. He’s detached in his expression. Your eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mark,” you whisper, scared your voice will break if you talk any louder. He meets your gaze. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re such a good, genuine person. I just…I don’t know why, but I just…I can’t love you.”

Mark swallows thickly. The tears are warm and sticky on your cheeks. It’s so selfish to cry when you’re the one who threw the punches. You hang your head with shame and watch the teardrops land on your restless hands.

“I swear I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I still had feelings for JJ until…Well, until then.”

“I did.”

Your head snaps up. He’s staring at you, but he doesn’t look angry. No. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips. A sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless.

“You did?”

“The minute you saw him, that Wednesday at the start of the month. I saw it on your face, clear as day. You never used to look at me like that.”

“Mark–”

“--That’s okay,” he nods. He’s crying too, now, and you’re not sure what to think, what to do. But Mark does. Of course, he does. His hands reach out to hold yours, warm in his clutch, and you blubber like a petulant child. “You’re not a bad person, Y/N. I could tell something was bothering you this past week.”

“I just didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t even know what it meant. But I have to be honest for the both of us, and I don’t…I don’t think I’m the girl you’re looking for, Mark,” you say through your tears.

Mark smiles solemnly and nods once. The squeeze of your hands tells you everything. I know. I agree. It’s okay.

“Do you hate me?” you ask in a moment of pure patheticness. Mark laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re too pretty to hate.”

“Ugh! You can’t say things like that!” you whine, throwing your head back. He laughs again, soggy with his sorrow, and he shrugs.

“Just got to keep my good-guy rep up.”

Laughing, you shake your head at him and smile. The two of you share a breath and he nods. A conclusion. His smile dwindles.

“I’m gonna need time, though…Before we can be friends, maybe. Just to…You know…”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I understand. Whatever you want, whatever you need. It’s all on your terms, I promise.”

Mark nods. Thanks you. It is so fucking bizarre to have the man you cheated on thank you but here we are. Life is full of strangeness.

“Can I give you a hug?” you wonder. Chuckling, he nods, and you waste no time in throwing your arms around his shoulders. Mark holds you in the embrace and the two of you savour the feeling of one another for one last time. Against his shoulder, you murmur, “I’m going to miss you, Mark.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” he tells you into your collarbone. “JJ’s a lucky guy. But make sure to tell him I know where he lives if he hurts you.”

You tearfully giggle against him. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Bacon Sandwiches

It’s warm today; bright and brilliant. The critters are happy, chirping in the trees, croaking in the overgrowth by the water of the marsh that lines the Pogue’s house. Your footsteps feel heavy as you walk up the driveway, anticipating weighing you down. You lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight and make out JJ. He’s at the entrance to the shop, stood a few rungs up a free-standing ladder. He’s trying to staple something to the walls - a banner of some kind - and you make your way over.

“Need a hand?”

He jumps and you cringe. Oops. JJ looks down at you and his lips quirk at the corners. The muscle tee he wears is grey and hangs loose on his well-kept frame. He’s armed with a staple gun. “Yo. What’re you doing here?”

“Want a hand?” you repeat, nodding up at the banner, not quite ready to confess. JJ shrugs and nods.

“Sure. Thanks.”

You glance around and find something that looks sturdy enough to stand on. Dragging it over, you boost yourself up and hold out your hand to take the other side of the banner. Holding it up against the wall, JJ leans forward and steadies himself with an elbow on the wooden panelling.

“We’re selling bacon sandwiches on weekends now, so thought we oughta advertise it, y’know? So, anyway, what’re you–” a grunt and a click of the staple gun, “-doing here?”

You step down from your boost and JJ takes your place. You don’t speak, stalling time, as JJ secures the banner. Sighing, taking it in, nodding with contentment, JJ jumps down and ditches the gun. The he stands with his hands on his hips and looks at you, shrugging again.

“I, uh…I needed to talk you,” you say, clearing your throat.

“A’right. What about?”

“Just like…” You rock your head back, take a breath, and steel yourself. Somewhere in that split second, you find a new mantra. JJ is good. JJ is good for me. I’m good for JJ. We’re good for each other. Smiling, you look at him again. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” he mumbles.

There’s a playfulness, a teasing, as you shrug. “That you’ll catch me.”

You can see the words as they process through his head. See the moment he tracks the meaning, parses it altogether. A smile, beautiful and brimming, greets you, and then JJ crosses the gap between you in two large strides. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you up in an embrace. He swings you around for good measure and you laugh, looping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close, smiling against him. This is good.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” you whisper in reply. He carefully reunites you with the ground. You smile up at JJ, gazing into his blue eyes, bathing in their depths. Your hand strokes along his jaw, slides down his front until it rests just above his heart. “It was always you, JJ.”

“You think…You think you can love me now?” he nervously asks.

You shake your head with a silent laugh. It feels like breathing, like you’re finally free, as you admit, “I’ve always loved you.”

It comes and goes like a comet; the flash of shock in his eyes; the glow of his smile; the burning passion of his lips on yours. And as you kiss JJ, without guilt, without fear, you finally feel at home. When you break apart, short of air, JJ rests his forehead against yours. His thumb smooths along the soft line of your jaw and you smile. He takes a small breathe, shaky, unsure, but JJ's words are sure like bedrock.

"I love you too."

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diejager · 1 year ago

Note

We need more Dark!Captain Price please!!

Behave, Love

Pairing: Dark! Captain John Price x fem!reader

Cw: implied smut, DARK, IMPLIED NON-CON, possessive behaviour, kidnapping, kinda Stockholm syndrome, captive reader, mean Price, punishment, basement wife?, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 2.6k

“We have guests tonight, love,” he told you this morning before leaving.

That was a warning, the only one you needed to understand what you were told - ordered - to do. You spent the morning cleaning up, wiping off the nonexistent dust from the shelves, washing off the clean tables and surfaces around the house that you’d cleaned yesterday after he called to tell you that he was coming home. The following hours were spent vacuuming the wooden floor and mopping up any nano-spill of some kind. Only after the long hours you took to clean every speck of dust in your shared home, did you start cooking.

Price was a simple man in the things he liked, he might’ve been strategic in his plays and his decisions, down to the smallest aspects of each mission, or preferring his gun or knives maintained in a specific way that was his only, but anything at home, he liked simple. Perhaps it was a blessing for you, never spending time learning how to cook or bake, your training took up all your time and any free time you had was spent resting or on extra training. He liked well-rounded meals, having meat, vegetables and a bit of spice on his plate with rice or fries on the side.

You dread the moments he leaves as much as the giggle of the knob, leaving meant that he’d be watching you remotely, from the small screen of his phone with alarms and countermeasures against your escape - to which you’ve tried and failed many times, the severity of his punishment racking up from an hour in the dark basement to being tied up and tortured to overstimulation of a fake cock moulded to replicate Price’s cock - and his return would leave you at the mercy of his prying eyes and hungry mouth, letting his hands trace the scars that littered your skin. Any sign of disgust: shuddering, flinching or freezing would get you some time in the basement.

He pulled you from years of training, the result of your blood sweat and tears gone with the flick of Price’s wrist. He had you discharged and had you move in with him - how fortunate you’ve been living on base without an apartment outside of the compound, you saw no use for it if you’d rarely be home - even though you fought against him, tooth and nail. Yet that only landed you in time out - or so he called it.

“We’re going to get married, love,” he told you, a bright smile hidden under his beard, a wishful gleam in his eyes.

You weren’t only getting married, you were signing off your body and soul to your captor to become a glorified housewife. From a private to a housewife, how saddening, you couldn’t help that self-deprecating attitude rather than the confidence and strength that were beaten into you during training.

Any connection to the outside world was cut off, Price made sure that you wouldn’t have any way to contact your family without his supervision - he had you call them once a month to reassure them that you were safe and happy with your new life - or the authorities, not that they’d listen to you with The Captain John Price and his decorated background. Granted, you had a TV to entertain yourself in moments of boredom or the book-filled wall in the living room, even a few recreational activities he wanted you to practise: knitting, sewing, cooking and baking.

Naturally, you turned to cooking and baking as a way to pass the time, leaving the radio or the TV on as background noise to fill the depressing atmosphere. With time, you’d grown more comfortable in the kitchen and Price could trust you with more complicated dishes, even being excited to eat a homemade dinner when he came home. He liked meat, so you read about different meaty dishes - especially with the notion of the other coming over for the afternoon - with good portions of vegetables.

You moved around the island, setting the table with plates and cups, knives, spoons and forks on the sides with a bowl of fries in the middle. The steaks were almost done, sizzling besides the warm sauce you were boiling after cracking the can. The beans and mashed potato were already set on each plate, waiting for the juicy meat and sauce you worked on, hoping that you’d be finished on time for Price to get home. You hoped Price would be nicer to you while the men ate, nothing too rash or possessive from him during their stay.

The lock clicked as you placed the final piece, the rattle of keys and the familiar steps of Price’s heeled shoes were - unless you missed his soft “I’m home, love.” - the usual sounds you’d hear when he came home, the only indications that you were never truly able to relax.

“Welcome home, John,” you returned, greeting him with a small kiss on the corner of his lips, his bushy beard irritating your cheeks.

He leaned down, chasing you for a second, deeper kiss, his teeth catching your lower lip before he moved aside to let his coworkers enter.

“Ma’am,” Gaz jumped in, lowering his cap in a mock bow to you.

Being called ma’am made you feel old and married. While you were married, you were a year or two younger than him with him having an authority over you on base. You didn’t necessarily know him before your discharge, only catching a few glances when either of you were passing through the gym or shooting range, or when you crossed paths in the halls or mess hall. Perhaps in another universe, you would’ve been friends or teammates by chance. You swallowed down a sigh that threatened to slip from your pursed lips.

Soap followed closely behind Gaz with a boisterous greeting of his own, his smile infectious and giddy. How couldn’t you smile back at him when he seemed so happy to be here, you couldn’t bear to break his heart, his puppy-like joy. You shook his hands, they were as firm as the last time, his fingers more calloused and harder on the tips from the many deployments between their last visit. Ghost was a step behind everyone, giving you a quick but welcoming nod, his eyes softening at the dark bags under your eyes.

“Come in, I was just about finished.”

Without so much of a complaint, they sat down, watching you pour the brown sauce over their plate. Price - as always - sat at the head of the table, watching you and his team from his vantage point. Ghost sat to his left with Soap beside him and Gaz on the opposite from him, taking the seat to your right. The seat to Price’s right was always reserved to you whenever you were present, a rule he imposed himself. He could easily hold your hand while it rested on the table, he could sneakily place his firm hand on your thigh, or he could send you a quiet message through the corner of his eye, something so discreet that not even Ghost noticed.

Dinner with 141 was always animated, with Soap and Gaz throwing jabs at each other and Ghost jumping in with a few jokes of his own - though they were the usual dark and morbid humour that he thrived on - while Price watched over it all, a proud smile adorning his face as his thumb brushed your knuckles. You could see the fatherly joy in his eyes whenever everyone was at the table, this joy that almost made you happy that you were part of this small family - almost. You couldn’t forget the pain and harrowing sadness that clouded your mind every day, Price’s influence on your life becoming the looming shadow that kept you locked away from the freeing sun.

“It was tidy, bonnie!” Soap thanked you, collecting the plates while the rest helped around.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

While you washed the dishes, burly arms reached around your waist and locked fingers, pushing his chest to meet your back. He hummed a comforting tune, peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses, playing the loving and caring husband he was to the rest of the world. Laying his head on your shoulder, he was content with watching you work, ears listening to the chatter in the room and your beating heart, a calm and soft beat that soothed his nerves.

“A right delight,” Price breathed out, hips swaying side to side in a drawl dance, rocking you along with him.

He pressed his lips to your ear, mumbling praises for your behaviour and playing the husband he wanted to be - was. He was gentler with you, his strong arms holding you lovingly and expressing his devoted obsession with you with kisses and whispers. It was a side you saw often, Price being the ever-loving man he vowed to give you on the day of your marriage, the other one was the possessive and obsessive man who wanted your everything, your mind, body and soul. That side of him was given to you when you misbehaved, when you did something to displease him or when he deemed you worthy of punishment.

The other rarely saw their captain acting so soft and loving, even toward them, his little, ragtag of a team. Although it was something to be proud of, unendingly happy because at least one of them finally settled down, who were they if they couldn’t jab at Price, just a bit.

“Growing old, Cap’? You look like a romantic sap,” Gaz snickered, watching Price narrow his eyes in mocked anger through squinted eyes.

“Aye, I dinnae yer were a bodach,” Soap elbowed Gaz, failing to hold back his cackle, head tilted back and arms around his abdomen.

“English, Johnny.”

Price huffed, shoulders shaking with his own laughter.

“Oh, sod off,” he spat, lips stretched in a snarky smile. “Am I an old sap, love?”

He clung to you, hands slipping under the hem of your shirt

“ ‘Course not, John. Maybe romantic, but not old.”

Calling him old wouldn’t do him or you any good, especially since you were married to him, a man over a decade older than you; and calling him romantic would be a lie thrown to the face, at least to you. Price would call himself a romantic man and preen about his rugged, yet gentlemanly character, his hands calloused and loving, his mouth praising and biting, his eyes ravaging and devoted, his acts protective and possessive. How Price would proclaim himself as the perfect husband - he said he was the day he dropped you the discharge letter - and how lucky you were to wound yourself with him rather than any boy your age.

Price chuckled, his chest rumbling against your back as he tightened his hold around you. He liked your reply, that wide smile pressed to your throat with nipping kisses made you aware of his joy. You rocked back against him, dancing along the lazy sway of his hips, you were catering to his whims to stay safe and alive. His training wasn't for nothing, carved into the seams of your mind with every thrust of his cock or the silicone mimic of his cock. You learned quickly that if Jonathan Price was happy, you’d be safe and unharmed, so you aimed to please him and keep him happy.

If it meant playing the reciprocating and happily married wife to their captain, you’d do that. There wasn’t any loss of dignity and pride in wanting to feel safe, wanting to ignore how his hands gripped you too firmly or how your skin was littered with painful bruises after a rough night. To the Task Force, you were a willingly discharged soldier who became a housewife for their hardworking captain and your loving husband. The gold band carved with curved and intricate words added to the illusion of your perfect life.

It made you want to scream and pull your hair out at how trusting they were of Price. All and any man had his darkness, that ugly need buried under the mass of duty and morality that made them who they were, but if let loose, they could be like Price, another monster wearing the skin of a man.

You couldn’t help squinting your eyes in a silent plea to the men, watching them drink and laugh merrily without a fault. Being a witness to their bountiful smile and full-bellied laughter when you were glued to your captor by the hip, his arm looped around your waist, pulling you to him. Laying your head on his shoulder as the bottle of whiskey grew lighter and lighter over time, the golden liquid rolling down their throat with a comforting burn after a long week at work. The little glances Price sent your way were reminders for you to behave until the end, his fingers curling over a healing bruise from when he held you too tightly, pussydrunk with his head between your thighs.

You smiled and nodded, going along with whatever they were chatting about, from meaningless affairs to slightly classified subjects. Nothing was off the table with you, they trusted Price enough to trust you with sensitive subjects and they all liked you, someone who could relate to their cause and understand their pains. Perhaps that played a part in his obsession with you.

Even when they stood on your doorstep with slurred speech and hooded eyes, they were always aware of their situation and minds sharp, but they were blind to your plight. Gaz and Soap shook hands with Price, the darker Brit bowing to lift his cap in a familiar salute: “‘Night, ma’am.”

“Thanks fer the meal, bonnie.”

“It’s always a pleasure having you over, Johnny.”

Ghost waved at you from the driving seat, he drank less comparatively to the other men, being designated as the driver between them. You send him a tired grin with a wave of your own, still within Price’s grasp. You looked on beside him as Ghost drove off, returning to base with two drunken sergeants in his custody. With them gone and the door shut and locked - bolted down with keys and codes only he had access to - he pulled you to his chest, rumbling out praises with his deep, soothing voice.

“You were so good today, love,” he pressed his lips against yours, hand cupping your nape with a slow lave of his tongue to deepen the kiss. “I’m so proud of you.”

He dragged you away, feet hanging on your toes to follow his movement while letting him press for more kisses, growing passionate and stealing your breath. You clung to him, fingers clawing at his form-fitting shirt as you walked backwards, stepping into your shared room. He blindly kicked the door shut, throwing you to the bed with a rough push. He stared at you through lidded eyes, bouncing on the bed as you scrambled to get your footing before he straddled your hips between his thick thighs, rutting his covered hardness against your stomach.

His leaky head trapped under the tightness of his briefs and pants drenched his clothes, his chest rising with deep and laboured breaths. In the silence of your privacy, Price became handsy, wanting to grab and touch every part of you, cradling your face and wiping the drool on your lower lip with his thumb. He brought it to his mouth, sucking his thumb with lust-hazed eyes as he peered down at you. His brown hues were darker in the dim lighting, nearly black with lust and need as he grappled himself over you. He wore a crooked smile on his perfect lips.

“You deserve a reward for behaving so well, yeah?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs

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theemporium · 1 year ago

Note

🧸 le monagasque x reader’s daughter taking her first steps inside charles’ childhood home

☕️

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

edit: I’m a dumbass who only realised now you said daughter😭I’m so sorry

It had just been like every other Sunday brunch.

With so many Sundays robbed from his family due to the race season, it became something like an unspoken tradition for the Leclerc family to spend non-race weekend Sundays together. Something lighthearted and sweet. Something that helped him put his family first, no matter what was happening on the race track or in the garage.

Once upon a time, it was just Charles and his brothers making their way to their childhood home. Each boy would have their own role to help their mother. Each boy would laugh and smile and bask in something as simple as a meal shared together which wasn’t as easy when they were all around the world.

And in more recent years, there had been a few additions to the Leclerc Family Brunch.

“He looks just like you.”

Charles lifted his head to see his mother standing by the doorway, a warm and kind smile on the older woman’s face as she watched the sight in front of her. Her son sat on the floor of the living room, an array of toys around him and her grandchild crawling around as he happily babbled.

“Really?” Charles asked, a little bashful as his mother’s grin widened.

“It makes me feel twenty years younger,” Pascale joked, a look of adoration on her face as little Adrien Leclerc garbled happily on the floor before tilting his head up to look at her. “He even has your smile. Different eyes though.”

“He has his mother’s perfect eyes,” Charles cooed as he grinned down at his son.

Though you had been more than welcome at the Leclerc household for their Sunday brunches, Charles also knew that you liked to give him some time with his family regardless of what he said. After many weeks of trying to tempt you early on in your relationship, he finally relented and made his own Sunday tradition with you. It started of as a day to just treat yourself at the expense of his card, but soon became your day away from him and Adrien.

Just a day for you to take a breather from the Leclerc men in your life.

“Ah, Maman, look what I taught him,” Charles announced suddenly as he shuffled back until his back was pressed against the couch. “We’ve been practising.”

“Charles,” his mother scolded softly. “He’s your son, not a dog.”

“But he’s so obedient,” he teased playfully before turning his focus back to his son. He spread his legs open and patted the floor in front of him as he called his son’s name. “Adrien, box box!”

Adrien’s head snapped towards his father and he let out a happy giggle like he seemed to realise what was happening. He began to crawl towards his father, a wide and toothless smile spread across his face.

“My smart boy!” Charles praised as his son continued to crawl across the carpet towards him.

“Oh Adrien,” Pascale cheered with a clap. However, her smile faltered slightly when he started to slow down.

Charles' brows furrowed together. “Adrien, come on. Box, box.”

Adrien looked at his father before he stopped fully. But before Charles could even say anything, he was sitting back on the carpet before he began to slowly push himself up onto his feet with the help of the table beside him.

“Maman,” Charles murmured breathlessly, excitement mixed with tears shining in his eyes as he watched his son stare determinedly towards him. Later on, he would be grateful his mother had half the sense to take her phone out while he was so focused on young Adrien.

Charles could only let out a choked, wet laugh as he watched his son take one step and then another and another, and eventually letting go of the table as he took shaky steps towards his father. He could only let an array of mumbled French as his son fell into his arms, quickly hugging the young boy to his chest as he pressed kisses all over his face.

“My smart boy. My smart, smart prince,” he continued to mumble against his chubby cheeks as Adrien squirmed and squealed in his father’s arms. “Oh, I can’t wait to show Mama what you can do, hm? Gonna be a good boy and show her what a smart boy you are? She’s gonna be so excited.”

And truth be told, Charles cried when Adrien walked in front of you too when he caught a glance at your glossy eyes. But he wasn’t ashamed to be emotional about his family.

#cece's slumblurb party #charles leclerc #formula one #f1 #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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suguru-getos · 11 months ago

Text

— soft yandere suguru geto pt 1 —

-> building the story in this one. warnings: none! the reader meets suguru for the first time since her best friend was encapsulated by a curse causing nightmares and issues. it’s fluffy <3

suguru had one goal — irradicate the non-sorcerers so there comes to be a world without curses. satoru on the other hand wanted to make people capable enough to fight the curses. the goal was same - a world where curses don’t exist anymore. suguru was hell-bent on achieving that of course. gaining fame as ‘geto sama’ a monk-looking saintly human being who helps people. the backgrounds are for suguru to handle anyways - he needed curses to get powerful & eventually achieve his goals.

his hatred for monkeys was unsubstantiated. no one who was not in control of their cursed energies would be spared by suguru geto. he didn’t even spare his parents. though he knows certain monkeys are slightly more valuable than others. some are his banks, some give him curses to swallow. and some are the ones who have no control of their CE and end up attracting higher curses/creating them.

what he didn’t take into account was you. your best friend was tormented by sickening nightmares of being non-conned almost everyday. aches in the back, cramping and utter pain during her period. you had almost given up — as her roommate, you had searched all psychologists; all doctors. nothing seems to be working. until one day — you found a ‘monkey’ treated by none other than geto sama.

without wasting time, you believed their gratefulness and their willingness to lend you the address. since nothing is working — you will definitely try anything at this point.

the moment your car landed on the geto estate you knew this man was no joke. why else would he be able to afford something like this otherwise? on the other hand — you were suspicious as to his ulterior motives. what if he was a mafia boss or something? who knew. finally, after some wait; you were advised to follow the instructor who led you to suguru geto.

he sat there, a merry & a friendly smile over his face. something that’s practised even as he talks to your friend. “yumiko san.” he grins, “you have symptoms like rape nightmares, don’t you? you feel like you’re being touched in the wrong places & there’s nothing you can do about it?” your best friend teared up, she had never felt so intricately seen and heard the way geto had made her feel. he raised a hand, and the curse that was latched into her, unseen by you. unseen by her.. latched itself into suguru’s hand.

she instantly felt lighter & felt better. while you were extremely considerate of what suguru geto did, you were not pleased. what even was that — you and your best friend bowed and on your way to leave. you turned back, “what did you do?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“ah, i have god’s grace in my hands thankfully. nothing much. prayed on her behalf that her problems go away. little one.” he hums, monkeys are usually dumb enough to be happy-go-lucky with the treatment. you weren’t. suguru hums, “if that’d be all, you may leave. i have other things to cater to.”

your siren eyes met his own, deep down. you could sense suguru hated your best friend. it was just a hunch— the vibes were so off. you hum, “what do you practise then? what form of meditation?” you crossed your arms, eagerly wagering for more answers on his behalf.

suguru chuckled in disbelief, an insignificant, puny monkey was asking ‘him’ questions? “be grateful and leave.” he said dismissively. and your best friend held your wrist, dragging you outside. you were adorable and so curious. pity you were just an ordinary, low-class monkey.

“he’s a scammer, a fraud! i’m fucking sure! let’s go to a doctor.” you scoffed, gritting your teeth. glaring daggers at the man who laid down in front of you on a stage, seemingly uninterested. suguru wanted to play with you too, the same curse that was latched onto your friend, he transferred it into you, going out. now you’d have the same symptoms and suffer. shouldn’t have voiced your shit so hard, tsk…

unfortunately for suguru, you ended up like one of those who can see curses once subjected to cursed energy. you screamed gutterally when you saw the hideous creature attached to you. an amused smirk ran past his lips at the way you tried to shove it away. your friend was in utter confusion — what did she do? got on her knees and apologized on your behalf to ‘geto sama’ who promised to treat you. and forgive you of course. forcing her to leave.

you screeched curses and profanities at suguru, who was more than pleased to see you hit some sort of a standard he has for people he’s allowed to care about. his hand touched your crotch, right where the curse was supposed to be holding, unconcerned with your flustered resistance as he absorbed it.

“there we go, little girl.” he smiled, while you watched the curse turn into a ball. “this is the thing that was latched onto your friend. normal humans can’t see these. some of them can. i can.” you sat next to him and asked him a multitude of questions about this. you don’t remember the last time you had talked to someone this much & suguru doesn’t remember the last time he was so thoughtless. he was observing literally everything. your facial features, the way your brows scrunched when you emphasized over something, how you overcommunicated with your hands at times, rolled your eyes ever so often and shook your legs while you asked questions and waited eagerly for your answers. you blinked and your lashes looked so long and luscious, your hair suited you just well. he wonders how your soft looking skin would look all marked up with hickeys. he wonders how your voice would sound when you would moan or scream out his name. he wonders how his name would sound. how your lips would curve a certain way to pronounce ‘suguru’. oh he’s slowly losing his mind isn’t he?

he asked you to stay the night and join for dinner since it was quite late because of everything he just told you. you of course obliged and met his adopted daughters, miguel and the others who he called family. holy fuck they worshipped him. you knew that because of the way they respected you — treated you as their own because suguru said you are a guest today. his daughters were bratty but they knew their limits; seems like suguru raised them well.

after dinner, you joined him for a walk outside, pouting and flushed because he wasn’t wearing his gojo-gesa anymore. he almost looks so normal with that. “you aren’t an actual monk are you?” you raised a brow, grinning when he shook his head in denial. “no, i’m just here to collect cursed spirits because of my technique for a greater cause.” he hums; replying gently and looking deeply into your inquisitive eyes. you threw another question at him, seemingly obvious. “what greater cause?” you tilt your head like an indulged bird, and he caught that gesture. “want to know everything at once? hmm? little bird.” he smiled, looking relaxed and like a normal human being. “i’ll let you know with time.”

you had a peaceful and a sound sleep, why? because you were unaware how suguru watched you sleep in awe. just thinking of the ways he would watch you smile again, just thinking how he could make you feel special again? he can brain wash you into thinking humans are detestable, no?

the next morning, you were called for breakfast and had a great time, making promises to visit again while suguru bid you a farewell by kissing your knuckles. looking ever so charming. oh you will visit again, otherwise suguru geto would: either way… your red thread of fate was sealed.

suguru geto had a little crush…

or was he in love?

#geto suguru #geto hcs #yandere geto #yandere geto suguru #yandere jjk #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk hcs #jujutsu kaisen hcs #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen drabble #jjk drabble

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cochineal-leviat · 11 months ago

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Say, Applin! (A snapshot before disaster)

I was going to practise lineless art, but the lineart came so well that I gave up and proceeded in this style. The picture is set during the Teal Mask with Kieran and Flore (MC) after they found the first signpost in Loyalty Plaza. Kieran showed Flore the orchard down the hill. Even though Flore had already explored it, they didn't mention it.

Flore asked Kieran if they could photograph him with his Applin. Kieran definitely thought Flore was weird when they requested him to do this silly pose. But he still did it - admiring Flore too much to deny them. Applin was very pleased.

(Flore kept the picture and stared at it often. Wondering where things went wrong when they went back home and what they could have done better. In the present time - after the DLC episode - Kieran is unaware they kept the photo and would die from mortification if he found out about it or ever saw it)

Also, the symbolism of Kieran holding up his hands to mimic Applin's eyes but also imitating the ogre's horns of Oni Mountain, which do not line up symbolising that he admires but does not understand Ogrepon, is entirely intentional and totally not something that happened accidentally as I was painting the background. I swear /lying/.

Also, the size being perfect for a phone background was an accident, too, but a happy one.

(Flore is Julliana and Florian combined, btw. A sort of Non-binary option of the player character)

#my art #kieran #pokemon kieran #rival kieran #pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon sv #applin #teal mask #the teal mask #teal mask spoilers #pokémon #pokemon scarlet and pokemon violet dlc #pokemon dlc #local kid before his villain arc #not gonna tag the pokemon in the background #trainer kieran #pokemon sv dlc

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signedkoko · 1 year ago

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Hi hi!

How would Striker, Bee, and poly Stolitz (romantic) react to their chubby s/o being very physically strong and working out a lot?

No pressure to write this, and If you don't write for this many characters, you can choose who to focus on!

Sending lots of love your way 💚💛💙

-🐻

Beelzebub | Blitzo & Stolas | Striker [Romantic]

In which you are considerably physically stronger than them, and work out plenty to match.

Naturally, all of the sins are extremely strong in comparison to any overlord or sinner

Even so, you were surprisingly up there, without her magic Beelzebub couldn't begin to carry half the weight you did, and usually had to resort to her larger form- or just asking for your help

It's part of why she found you so attractive, it felt like in some way you could protect her more than anyone she knew

A lot of the people around her were already small, so it was also nice that you compared to her in size, though she found you to be much more curvaceous than her own lanky figure

" Ugh. I'd kill for hips like these, babe. "

She loves to feel you up and down and hold you close because god, you are just sooo comfortable

And when you flex your muscles it drives her crazy! She thinks you're the hottest person she's ever met

She also may be partially to blame for your chubbiness, because she never stops feeding you sweets, oops!

Both of these fools are physically WEAK, however strong they might be with guns or magic

They recall their first encounter with you was when someone was making fun of Stolas for dating an imp, and you totally rocked their shit with a punch straight to the face

Blitzo is already on you, asking so many questions about who you were, why you did that, making jokes

And Stolas has a faint blush because god, that was so attractive

They kept inviting you over until eventually you were closer than most- present on every date, called by the same sweet nicknames

Stolas likes to go with you when you work out, he especially loves to see you boxing

Being able to cheer you on against an opponent, or imagine you protecting him- oh it was just so exciting

Blitzo enjoys walking around hell with you because he gets to see everyone fuck off

Scary dog privileges

Stolas is always squishing your cheeks and hugging you tightly while speaking of all his fantasies involving you both

Blitzo is sneaking pictures of you after workouts for his office

Stronger? Than him? Sure thing

Striker first heard it at a place he frequented for drinks, that there was a guard for hire poster put up on their bulletin, someone new

When he hired you to see what'd happen, you sweeped the floor of some royals security team in minutes, and all he had to do was pull the trigger

Admittedly, he didn't feel the need to work with you more than that, as he enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill

But it was certainly fun seeing what someone else pulled

He’s straightforward about that, but also admits that he'd like to keep in touch

OBVIOUSLY so he can hire you on tougher missions, not because he thought you were interesting or fun

Suddenly, he's always popping up in the places you go, always offering you a drink, always getting tipsy enough to invite you to dance

Oh yeah, he certainly wants you

Fortunately for him, you're his lovely significant other only a few weeks later

He enjoys practising sparing with you, though he usually loses with just strength to strength, hsi wits certainly make him a tougher opponent

Striker find your resolve fiery, and something about you ignites something in him that leaves him wanting more

Author's Note - Actually love these guys sm... good crew you chose bear non I respect it!

Also I CATCH all the love you sent my way and EAT IT 🖤

#koko writez #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin hotel x reader #helluva boss x reader #reader insert #x reader #beelzebub #beelzebub x reader #stolas #stolas x reader #blitzo #blitzo x reader #striker #striker x reader

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celestialprincesse · 10 months ago

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💅💞

Gaz and his hyper feminine girlfriend - that's it, that's the post.

He comes home to find her sat on the living room floor with a nail polish bottle and all sorts of other clippers and cuticle pushers and whatnot, which to him just look like miniaturised torture instruments.

She's constantly got a flawless mani-pedi, does it herself like twice a month even though he always offers to pay to take her so the nail salon. She likes doing her own though because she can change it whenever she likes. She's also like a chronic people pleaser who has a hard time admitting when she doesn't like something, and has come out of the nail salon more than once in floods of tears because the nail tech didn't do what she wanted and she couldn't say no.

She has a whole box of pretty polishes in an assortment of glossy pinks and pearly whites, even has some little extra things that she adds when she wants to spice things up, like glue on rhinestones or chrome powder.

Gaz learns to paint nails - orders a clear top coat online and practises on himself. Before he gets deployed she trims his nails and cuticles for him anyways so that they don't get in his way, broken etc, so he's got a vague gist of how it works.

He notices the way she struggles to paint her non dominant hand and offers out of the blue to do it for her. She accepts and he uses the pink coated brush with meticulous precision that only a soldier could even think of achieving.

He ends up joining her little mani pedi sessions, claiming that he's only doing it to protect his nails, keep them clean and short for totally innocent (not) reasons.

He also helps her fix her hair, seeing as he's got the advantage of his height and being able to see the back of her hair, he's always adjusting her little ribbons that she wears or making sure her ponytail isn't bumpy.

Also always makes sure to subtly pull down the hems of her skirts and dresses when they ride up and show off a little more than she'd be cool with. He's fine with her wearing whatever though, no matter how short or skimpy. He can fight.

This man is so utterly whipped for his girlfriend, he'll do anything to make her happy, even if that includes skincare and her freaky face masks that actually kind of sting, not that he'll admit it when she putters around in her Hello Kitty skincare headband without complaint.

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hazbinshusk · 2 days ago

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blitzø x gn!reader. during a slow week at the imp office,blitzø convinces you that there are better ways to spend your time waiting for a new client to call on. and honestly, it doesn't really take all that much to convince you, especially when he figures out a kink you've been keeping close to the chest. requested by the wonderful @blitzsicedcoffee. 2.75k

featuring: collar kink, light pup play, dom!blitzø, oral sex (blitzø receiving), blitzø using his tail as a leash, light degradation, penetrative sex. blitzø uses terms like 'pet' and 'pup', reader has non-specific genitalia, and a prehensile tail (so could be read as an imp or an incubus/succubus).

Flipping idly through an outdated Weapons of Wrath catalogue, you’re curled up on the sofa in the I.M.P. office, leaning against the arm of it comfortably. It’s been a slow enough couple of weeks that Blitzø had decided to start having you all work in shifts, and with him holed up in his office, you had the main room to yourself, waiting pointlessly for a new client to call in.

And holy fuck, you were bored.

Even thinking that thought seems to be enough to summon your boss from his office, and you jerk upright as the door slams against the opposite wall when he kicks it open.

“Satan’s fucking taint, how does no one in this shit-slinging ring want to have somebody murdered?” he complains, tossing an empty coffee cup towards the trashcan and missing completely. It bounces off the wall behind it and the lid pops off, spilling the remains of a couple of ice cubes onto the carpet. “This is still Hell, isn’t it?”

“Last I checked,” you reply dryly, returning your attention back to your magazine, thumbing a page over idly.

He arches an eyebrow at you, irritated by your lack of similar dramatics. “Since when do I pay you to just fuckin’ sit there?”

You turn another page with practised nonchalance. You know it’s only going to piss him off further, but, well… you’re petty. “Depends. Did you have something else that needs doing?”

Blitzø groans, throwing his head back dramatically. He sighs, straightening his posture and setting his eyes on you again. He considers you for a moment, an eyebrow raised, before he says, “So… you wanna fuck?”

If you’d been drinking something, you would have choked on it.

“What?”

He grins, shrugging. “There’s no point in soundin’ so damn scandalised. It ain’t like we haven’t done it before.”

You feel your face flush. “A couple of drunk hookups does not mean I’m going to fuck you in the office, Blitz.”

“Why not?” he asks, closing more of the distance between you. You clutch the catalogue tighter against your lap as though it’s some kind of ward against bad decisions. And this would definitely be one. Right? “Ya think M&M don’t get their fuck on on the conference table every chance they get?”

“Christ, Blitz, that is so not the po—”

“This is jus’ fuckin’ adorable, by the way,” Blitzø tells you lasciviously, hooking a claw up under the choker around your neck. You’d worn it on a whim, and you curse yourself for the way your breath catches despite yourself. Your cheeks warm even more as you feel the band tighten slightly around your throat. There’s a second where you hope he doesn’t notice, but Blitzø’s eyes widen then narrow, a downright villainous smirk blooming on his lips. “Ohhh… I get it. Lil’ pup likes to play.”

You swallow, finding your voice. “Blitz…”

“That’s it, ain’t it?” he continues as though you hadn’t spoken, although his smile twitches wider at the hitch in your voice. “You like bein’ collared, don’t ya?”

You hesitate a moment even as excitement floods through you. Heat pools low in your belly at the suggestion in his voice, as the way his claws graze the column on your throat as he hooks two more in the front of the choker. You swallow again, wetting your lips with the tip of your tongue as it tightens the choker around your throat. He tugs on it, urging you to stand in front of him, and you do it without thinking, the catalogue slipping from your lap to the floor. Blitzø is standing only inches from you, his tail switching back and forth behind him slowly.

His breath fans across your face, warm and tickling. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

Blitzø grins. “Good pet.”

Fuck.

You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes you when he pulls you closer again, his nose skimming against yours. He’s watching your every reaction with hooded eyes, and you feel his other hand ghost down over your waist. It makes you shiver, and his smirk widens when you lean forward slightly to kiss him. Blitzø pulls back the moment your lips should meet, and he bites his lip with a cocky grin.

“On your knees for me, pup.”

Blitzø is half-hard as he palms himself through his jeans, and a soft growl rumbles through him as you tongue slides across your bottom lip. He runs a hand through your hair almost sweetly before he suddenly grabs a fistful of it, jerking your head back to meet his eye.

“What’re you waitin’ for, exactly?”

The pain only adds to the heat blooming low in your belly, and you reach up with eager fingers to unbuckle his belt. You lean forward to nuzzle against the bulge in his jeans, planting open-mouthed kisses over it until the fabric is damp with your saliva and his cock is straining against the zipper.

“Oh, puppy wants to play,” Blitzø croons, releasing a breathless laugh as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. You press a kiss to the underside of the head before parting your lips, curling your tongue around it as you take him into your mouth. His head falls back as the wet warmth of your mouth engulfs him. “Fuck…”

Blitzø keeps one hand in your hair as you suck him, the other lifting his shirt so he can watch the way you gag around him when he hits the back of your throat. You whine around him when you feel the spade of his tail slip under your choker, winding around it to pull it tight against your throat. He smirks when your eyes roll back.

“You’re a good little bitch, aren’t you?” he coos, voice husky sweet as you clutch at his thighs, hollowing out your cheeks as you pull back. He moans as you roll your tongue around the head of his cock and suck, his hand tightening possessively in your hair as you take him all the way in again. Blitzø holds your head in place, thrusting his hips forward to feel the way your throat flutters around his cock. “Fuck, you’ve got a nice mouth…”

You moan around him and the vibrations of your throat makes his eyes roll back. He presses his hips forward until you choke in earnest, releasing your hair as you pull back with a cough. Drool hangs from your chin as you catch your breath, and Blitzø reaches down to smear it across your lip with his thumb. You suck it into your mouth, biting down on it lightly, and he hisses through a sharp-toothed grin.

“Shiiiit…” he wraps a hand around his cock, pumping it against your spit-slick bottom lip. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you, pet?”

Your voice comes rough, your swollen lips brushing against the tip of his cock as you murmur, “Yes, Blitz.”

The imp’s smirk widens, his eyes dark and hungry with lust. You part your lips obediently, and he thrusts it back into your eager mouth with a grunt. His tail tugs on the choker again, and you’d be embarrassed at the way your tail wags behind you, but all you can focus on is the way Blitzø’s eyelids flutter as he presses his cock deep into your throat. You gag around him again before he pulls back, instead fucking himself languidly into your mouth. You curl your tongue to cradle the length of him with each slide of it past your lips, the taste of his precum downright addictive. “Then I’m gonna need to hear it, slut.”

You suck firmly at his cock until his breath hitches and he pulls back, gripping the base of his cock. He snickers deliriously, the choker around your throat so tight your eyes roll back as you blink. “Fuck me, Blitz.”

“Not good enough,” he grins wickedly, stroking himself slowly. He leans down, his other hand closing around your jaw as he brings his face down to yours. He forces your chin up, his lips a breath from yours as he growls, “I wanna hear you beg, baby.”

Dear Satan, you wanted to kiss him.

“Please,” you whimper, shifting on your knees in a vain attempt to meet his lips with yours. Blitzø pulls back just enough to leave you wanting, infuriating amusement playing at the edge of his smirk. “Please, fuck me, Blitz.”

“Hmm?” he raises a brow tauntingly, his tail tugging at the choker warningly.

“Sir,” you correct yourself, an edge of desperation colouring your broken voice. “Please, fuck me, sir.”

Blitzø grins. “That’s my good pup.”

He straightens up, stepping to the side and waving a hand towards Loona’s desk.

“Bend over it for me, pup.”

You make move to stand, and his tail tugs you back down again.

“Did I say you could walk?”

Fuck, he looks so pleased with himself. Still, you can’t help the little whine that escapes you at his tone, and you crawl across the scratchy carpet until you reach the desk. He nods and you stand slowly on shaky legs. Blitz unwinds his tail from your choker as he does, trailing the spade of it down your spine and smirking when you shudder.

“Strip.”

You feel a surge of nerves settle in the pit of your stomach even as you tug your shirt obediently over your head. Yeah, you’d fucked before, but those had been drunk and hurried and in the dark. This was stark and carefully paced, and somehow so much more exciting, and your fingers shake as you push your jeans down your thighs. You stiffen as you feel Blitzø press himself up against your back, his fingers expertly unclipping your bra as his lips find the nape of your neck.

A soft moan escapes you as he trails his lips to the side of your throat, sucking a mark into the sensitive flesh as his hands take hold of your hips, pressing his naked erection up against your ass. He shifts his hips to slide it between your thighs, and you whine, head falling forward.

“Bend over, baby,” he mutters, breath hot against your ear, and he squeezes a handful of your ass as you do as you’re told, pressing yourself further back against his cock as you brace your hands on the desk in front of you. Blitzø groans as you do, claws tearing your underwear away greedily. “That’s it…”

You hear him spit, excitement burning through you as you feel him stroke his cock against your ass, mixing his saliva with yours. Your eyes widen and you moan, a long, drawn out, throaty sound as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Christ on a stick… always so fuckin’ tight,” he groans, withdrawing only to thrust into you again. With each slow push of his hips, he slides another inch into your warmth, stretching and filling you in a way that makes your eyes roll back. You bite your lip in a vain attempt to stifle your moans, claws digging into the edge of the desk hard enough to gouge marks into the wood. “Fuck, I’ve missed this…”

You don’t even want to think about why those words thrill you so much. You push your hips back to meet him with each thrust, and Blitzø snarls, hands clutching at the flesh of your hips hard enough to hurt. He lets you fuck yourself back on his cock, reaching up to hook his claws in the back of the choker and pull it taut against your windpipe. It makes you whine, your head forced back with the way he pulls at it.

“Bli—” you choke on his name, and Blitzø snickers headily at the eager way you ride his cock. “Fuck…”

“Such a good fuckin’ pup,” he growls, gripping at a handful of your ass. His tail winds around yours, the spade of it teasing against your thigh. He begins to fuck you again, punctuating each word with an unforgiving thrust. “So. Fuckin’. Good…”

You jump as the phone suddenly rings beside you, and Blitz curses as you flex around him.

“Go ahead, pet…” he grinds out, fucking into you hard. “Answer it.”

“Blitz—”

He tugs on the choker when you try to protest, and you moan. “Did I fuckin’ stutter, pup? Answer it.”

You whimper, reaching for the phone with an unsteady hand. You knock the receiver off its cradle, the phone clattering obnoxiously against the desk before you pick it up and shove it against your ear.

“I.M…P. Imm—ediate Murder Profession… Professionals.” you say, trying desperately to control your breathing even as Blitzø takes the opportunity to smack you hard on the ass. “How can I—hnnn – help you?”

Blitzø laughs at your tone, his voice tight with his own need, and you bump your forehead repeatedly against the desk as the guy on the other end of the line rumbles into your ear.

“I’m sorry, can I-- uhn… can I call you back?” you stumble over the words, teeth gritted together in an effort to keep your voice steady. You’re so fucking close, your whole body hot and tingling with sensation. “Blitz is… he’s a little busy at the—fuck. Look, I’ll call you back, alright?”

You slam the phone down and it bounces off the cradle, the receiving falling off the desk to dangle over the side. You moan in earnest and Blitzø groans, his hips meeting yours in a desperate, disjointed rhythm as the two of you approach the peak.

“Fuck, Blitz…” you curse as his tail tightens around yours, his claws pulling so tight on your choker you’re sure it might snap. Your eyes roll back at the feeling of it, your jaw hanging slack. Every time his hips meet yours, you let out a high-pitched ‘uhn!’, and Blitzø snaps his hips forward so hard the desk begins to slide against the carpet. “Fuck…!”

“You wanna cum, puppy?” he snarls breathlessly. “You gotta ask nice.”

“Please, sir…” you whimper, so close that your thighs tense painfully, toes curling against the carpet. “Please. Please, make me cum. I need to cum, sir, please…”

“That’s a good, fuckin’ pet.” Blitzø growls and he thrusts hard, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck. The feeling of his large, strong hand closing around your throat is enough to make you keen, and you all but collapse onto the desk as you finally cum, your body shaking with the feeling of it. “Satan’s fuckin’— FUCK!”

Blitzø cums deep inside you, clutching blindly at your hips as he shudders through it. You whimper with every touch he gives you as the two of you cum down, your eyes closing as you feel Blitzø bend down to press a kiss to your spine.

“Christ on a stick,” he moans quietly into your skin, smoothing his hands up along your waist and back down again. “Fuuuuck…”

You laugh quietly, breathless, pressing your forehead against the cool wood of the desk. “Pretty sure we fucked it up with that client.”

“Fuck it,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your shoulder blade. “They really want someone dead; they’ll call back after they’ve finished yankin’ it to that hot little whimper-y thing you do.”

“Shut up,” you retort even as you feel your cheeks warm.

When he pulls out you shudder at the feeling of it, patting you on the ass as you push yourself up. When you turn around he smirks at you, self-satisfied, and he hooks a claw in the choker and tugs you in to – finally – kiss you. He does it languidly, smiling as his tongue slides into your mouth. Leaning back against the edge of the desk for support, you wrap an arm around his neck, the other bunching in the fabric of his shirt. Blitzø braces himself on a hand beside your hip, pulling away only when your lungs begin to burn for a proper breath.

“Y’know, I’m preeeetty sure I’ve got an actual collar and leash set in the sex trunk in there,” he says suggestively, nodding towards his office.

You have to hope he doesn’t notice the way that suggestion, even after what you just did, makes you flush. “It’s still so messed up that you keep that shit here.”

Blitzø cocks a brow at you challengingly. “Does that mean you’re not interested in round two?”

“… I hate it when you’re cocky like this.”

“You fuckin’ love it, horndog.”

#blitz fic #my fic #blitzsicedcoffee #blitz #blitzo #blitzø #blitz x reader #blitzo x reader #helluva blitzo #blitzo helluva boss #helluva boss blitzo #blitz helluva boss #helluva boss #helluva blitzø #helluva boss blitzø #blitzø x reader #helluva blitz #helluva boss blitz #helluva boss x reader

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pretentiouswreckingball · 8 months ago

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✯my entry for the @croptopjames fest✯

jegulus | 1.3k | non-canon/magical au

summary:

It was revenge, they say, for a prank they played on the other houses. So if Lupin and Pettigrew got their trousers turn into shorts, and Black got his shirt turn into a crop top, then that means Potter—

“Did you hear what happened?”

“They say it was revenge for a prank on the other houses,”

“Seems like a weird way to take revenge,”

“Someone said it was a new statement for the dress code,”

“Of course those Gryffindors would come up with something like that,”

“Mila from my transfiguration class says someone charmed their clothes to transform into something else whenever they wear it. You know, trousers turn into shorts and—”

“Oh, so that’s why Lupin and Pettigrew were wearing shorts! But why was Black’s shirt cropped? Not that I mind the view but—”

“Maybe the spell worked in pairs? If Lupin and Pettigrew got shorts, and Black’s shirt was cropped, then maybe Potter got—”

But Regulus had heard enough.

He should’ve known something was off the moment he crossed Lupin and Pettigrew earlier that day wearing shorts of all things, but if he was completely honest with himself, his mind was somewhere else and didn’t even think twice about it. But now, after eavesdropping on a conversation of some sixth years, maybe he shouldn’t have been so dismissive.

Entering the Great Hall for lunch, Regulus makes a b-line for his seat at the end of the Slytherin table and starts filling his plate absentmindedly, trying to ignore the sight of his brother at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly to Lupin and Pettigrew, still in those ridiculous clothes. His mind inevitably going to the person who’s conveniently, not among them.

The thing is, Regulus isn’t capable of thinking of a piece of clothing that would look bad on James Potter.

He has seen the guy practising on the Quidditch pitch for Salazar’s sake. He has had a front row of what James’ body looks like when he leans on his broom, quaffle in hand, gaining some speed over his fellow teammates. He has seen how his forearms look when he grips the handle hard and how his thighs squeeze the rear of the broom when he’s doing a particularly hard move so he doesn’t fall.

So no, he doesn't think there’s a piece of clothing that would look bad on him, he could pull any look, especially a crop top, and that is the problem, isn’t it?

Regulus could feel his cheeks warming at the thought. Oh no this is bad, what he’s going to do if he sees him wearing that? He’s going to make a fool of himself and he can’t afford that. No, Regulus needs to get the fuck out of there if he wants to make it with his dignity intact.

Practically stuffing his face, Regulus tries to be as quick as possible, cursing in his mind at the idiot who hexed James Potter to be stuck with that particular piece of clothing, or lack thereof, more like.

“Let it not be said that we don’t do anything nice for you, Regulus,” a voice comes from behind and Regulus freezes and then groans.

Looking up from his plate, he eyes the pair who has taken the seats in front of him, both looking smug as fuck, “You guys are unbelievable,”

Evan hums in agreement, “Aren’t we just?”

“Wasn’t a compliment,”

Barty tuts disapprovingly, stealing a piece of food from Regulus' plate and popping it in his mouth, “Why Regulus, we thought you would be thrilled by this, can’t believe you’re this ungrateful.”

“Crop tops, really?” He huffs, stabbing whatever is left of his chicken, “And don’t get me started on the shorts.”

“Those were my idea,” Evan mentions.

Regulus doesn’t get it, “Why though?”

“We couldn’t be so obvious and only hex Potter, we had to cover our traces,” Barty says, turning his head slightly to look at the Gryffindor table. “Besides, the others look ridiculous, minus your brother of course, the bastard is fit as fuck.”

“Why though?” Regulus repeats, this time even more aggravated at the notion of Barty ogling his brother.

Evan gives him a pointed look, “You know why,”

Regulus drop his gaze, sniffing lightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Barty smirks at him, “You will,”

There’s a sudden ruckus at the entrance. The voices grow loud and you could hear some whistles here and there but what actually catches Regulus’ eyes when he looks up, is the man at the doors.

Something inside him is pleased to notice he was right about James looking good in any piece of clothing, especially something that would show his really fit body. James is looking a little dishevelled, but that only makes him look even prettier. Still enthralled by the sight of James Potter wearing something this sinful, Regulus notices a little too late a voice shouting really close to him, efficiently taking him out of his rivery.

“Looking good, Potter!”

“Barty!” Regulus hisses in embarrassment as James looks in his direction. And oh, the way he smiles at Regulus as soon as their eyes connect.

Regulus is incapable of doing much else under the intensity of that look, he wants to run like he had planned before. He wants to hide, not only from James but from the way he feels when he’s near. Pathetic as it is, the only thing Regulus is capable of doing is following James as he makes his way to the Slytherin table.

Regulus blinks hard at that. Wait, Slytherin table?

Before Regulus can process that, James is already standing right in front of him.

“Rosier, Crouch,” he greets them, still not taking his eyes off Regulus.

“Potter,” Barty nods in his direction. “Nice shirt, does it come in men’s?”

James grin turns sharp, “You don’t want me to answer that, Crouch,”

“Okay, time to go, have a great one!” Evan practically drags Barty aways as the latter cackles like a madman all the way out of the Great Hall.

When his laugh fades, James is still in front of Regulus and Regulus is purposefully looking at anything but his face, so his gaze inevitably fall at the only thing at his eye-level, James’ stomach.

There are beads of sweet running down over that beautiful golden skin and all Regulus wants, is to touch it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Wondering how it would feel under his teeth.

James clears his throat to catch Regulus' attention. Unnecessary, since he hasn’t lost it the moment he entered the Great Hall.

“So, Regulus,” he starts.

“Yes?” He can see the trail of hair disappearing under the navy trousers. He’s having a hard time not to reach out and touch it.

He’s being so brave about this whole thing, someone should notified his mind-healer.

A beat of silence and then a hand, reaching for his chin and turning his face up, callous fingers against his soft skin. The sight of James’ playful smile makes something inside him melt.

“My eyes are up here, love.”

His cheeks get warmer out of the embarrassment of being caught. Not that he was subtle in the least but still, embarrassing.

James doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

“You’re blushing,” he notices.

Regulus' face is practically red at this point.

“Shut up,” he grumbles and James chuckles.

“No, no, I like it,” he says, voice soft. “Red looks good on you,” and then he proceed to fucking caressing his cheek.

It’s settled then, Regulus is living inside a romantic novel where making a fool out of yourself in front of someone you fancy is necessary and crop tops are a thing.

“What do you want?”

“Just wanting to say hello,” James says, eyes softening. “Hello,”

“Hi,” Regulus says, like an idiot.

“Fancy a Quidditch game with me?”

Regulus frowns. “Right now?”

“Why not?”

“You’re not wearing the proper gear,”

James smirks, “I think I will manage,”

This is a bad idea, a terrible one and Regulus knows it, everyone knows it and yet— “Lead the way then,”

James lets his hand drop from his face, and it takes all of Regulus not to chase the touch, but the feeling of loss is quickly replaced with excitement when he sees James holding his hand up for Regulus to take.

Regulus does, of course he does.

Hand in hand, they make it to the Quidditch pitch.

Together.

#well. let it not be said I never do anything nice for you guys #happy birthday James!!!#pathetic Reggie my fave Reggie #wait for the slutty shorts James later today!!#and just fyi Sirius looks amazing in that crop top too #also pardon any mistakes I wrote this last night half asleep #anyways enjoy!!!#james potter #James Potter birthday #croptopjames #jegulus #jegulus fic #jegulus microfic #(?) idk

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purinfelix · 2 months ago

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possibly, maybe i'm falling for you [ pt.1 ]- joao felix

summary: when you're asked to train the new barista at work, you don't think much of it until you realise something about him is winning over customers - and it isn't just his coffee. w/c: 1.3k

a/n: this was supposed to be a cute fluffy fic but i'm physically incapable of not writing (one sided) enemies to lovers for some reason

The tiny bell atop the cafe door rang softly, alerting you to the entrance of a customer. Considering that you weren't meant to open for another twenty minutes, you instinctively recited your practised phrases without even bothering to look up from the counter you were cleaning.

"Sorry, but we aren't open yet! You're free to come back in half an hour though, and we'll be happy to serve you then."

"Oh, sorry, am I at the wrong place?"

Well, that was definitely a new response - polite mutters of embarrassment, groans of annoyance and even fits of rage you were used to after almost two years of working here, but this was new. Looking up slowly from your counter you locked eyes with a tall, almost ridiculously handsome young man. His brows were furrowed in confusion but his mouth sat open in a half-smile, though out of embarrassment or amusement, you weren't sure yet.

"Uhm, sorry?" you said.

"I was told to come in half an hour before my first shift to get trained, am I at the wrong place or something?"

Shit.

So this was the new barista your manager had mentioned to you in passing the last time you had worked a shift. She had asked you to be the one to train him since you'd be the most experienced employee working that morning and even offered to pay you more than normal for it. "Though I'm sure once you get a look at him, you'll forget about the money," her assured words rang through your head, only now your feeling of confusion felt long gone. You had to give it to her, he really was good looking, though that meant little if he couldn't do his job correctly.

"Oh, right! You're ..." you started, trying to jog your memory for his name.

"Joao Felix," you'd be lying if you said you weren't endeared by how quickly he seemed to pick up on your words, "though you can just call me Joao."

"Right, Joao c'mon behind the counter and I can show you where to put your stuff."

He does as you say almost instantly, and as you take him through the basics - uniform requirements, where ingredients are, how to talk with customers - you're impressed by how quickly he picks things up. What you're less impressed by though, is the air of naivety he holds about it all. Doing things perfectly the first time around is one thing, pretending you don't know you're doing it is completely another.

"Now, this is the coffee machine which I honestly think you'll be more adept with than me," you laugh, and he does the same though much shyer, almost as if he's weary of accidentally insulting you.

"Well, I mean I've been taught how to but I'm not really a professional or anything. I'm sure you can't be worse than me."

"I mainly stay around taking orders and preparing non-coffee drinks. Milkshakes and smoothies are my forte, but this bad boy," you explain as you tap the top of the coffee machine awkwardly, "we don't get along too well."

He laughs again, louder and more sure this time and you instinctively smile. "Well, I hope you and I get along better then."

"Yeah," you say, a bit taken aback by how forward he is. "Anyways, that's pretty much everything I can think of, we'll be starting soon so if there's anything you have questions about let me know."

The rest of the morning shift proved easier than you had expected, though a new concern was raised once you realised most of this was due to Joao's uncanny abilities. Not only did he make amazing coffee, but he did it incredibly efficiently - wiping down as he went, communicating on orders and doing almost anything you told him. A small part of you was impressed, but more than anything you felt an immature irritation brewing within you at the fact that, despite it being his first day, he had racked up more tips than you had gotten all week. It confused you - surely his coffee wasn't that good.

"Will that be all today Miss?" you said to an older customer who was coming up to pay.

"Yes, but before I pay," she began, and your eyes widened as she pulled out a twenty-dollar note, "would you give this to that handsome young man over there?"

You were taken aback as you took the note from her, "him?" You gestured to Joao, who was busy frothing milk, though the two of you were the only ones working you had to be sure.

"Yes, his coffee was the best I've had in a while, and," she leaned in, "that face, why I'd pay double the price just to get a look at it!"

You blinked, bewildered, "I'll pass on your tip, thank you ma'am."

Of course. Why hadn't you realised it before? Sure Joao worked well, but that wasn't what had been helping him rack up tips - no, it was that godforsaken face.

"Come again soon ma'am!" you heard him call out as the woman left the cafe, but only you saw the shy smile spreading across her face through the window. Groaning softly you scrunched the note up in your hand as you walked over to him.

"Here, she left this for you," you said, your voice coming out sterner than you had meant it as you pushed the crumpled note to his chest.

"That lady?" God, you hated how clueless he could sound sometimes.

"Yes, she said to give it to you specifically - never mind that I was the one who took her order, wiped down her table, served her."

"Oh, well that's nice of her still, you can put it in the jar and we'll split it later." Somehow this selflessness only annoyed you further.

"Don't be an idiot, it's yours, plus I'm clocking off anyways."

You stormed off, pulling your apron over your head hurriedly, eager to get out of there. It was just your luck that a newbie comes into the cafe you'd been slaving away at for years, and almost immediately outperforms you. That alone was frustrating enough but the fact that he had the nerve to act so kind about it just felt like salt in your underpaid wound. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you emerged from the staff room with a huff. As you turned to punch out from your shift you saw Joao out of the corner of your eye tidying up the counter, straightening topping jars.

"You leaving?"

"Duh," you sighed, motioning to the clock, "my shift finished five minutes ago."

"Oh, well thanks for training me today." You felt your heart twist - despite how selfish it was a small part of you wished he would just stop being so nice to you. That way it might make it easier to dislike him.

"It's nothing, I mean it's my job."

"Yeah but still, I think you did a pretty good job," he smiled shyly.

"Alright," you sigh, beelining for the door - you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up this tantrum, and you were eager to get out of here before you said something too immature for you to mean it.

"See you next time?" The hope in his voice stopped you as you opened the door, the tinkling bell punctuating his words - half a sentence, half a question.

"Yeah sure, and hey just a tip," you turn to him, tone cold, "spend less time flirting with customers and more time actually doing your job."

You whipped your head around, regret filling in you almost as soon as the words left your mouth. Did you have any idea why on earth you would say something like that? No. Were you fully aware that what you just said might risk your job if Joao reported it to someone? Yes. Were you going to turn around and apologise to him though? Absolutely not, but the further you stormed away from the cafe the more you thought about the idea - because maybe then you wouldn't be so filled with regret as you did.

#joao felix #joão félix #joao felix x reader #joao felix x you #joao felix fluff #joao felix oneshot #joao felix fic #fanfic #football #oneshot #chelsea fc #jet writes ★#purinfelix

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senualothbrok · 4 months ago

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Remembrance

Summary: In Waterdeep, Tav journeys through grief and loss, with Gale by her side.

(Featuring fighter and Harper Tav, Professor Dekarios, and Jaheira.)

Word count: 4.9k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Angst (with resolution). Grief/bereavement.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to @tee-dohrnii, who wanted to read about Gale comforting a Tav who has experienced grief and loss. I hope that anyone who resonates with this journey finds comfort, hope and healing through this fic.

Thank you again to @inglorionamy-ammy for being a fantastic beta-reader.

**********

She would roll her eyes. That was Charis’ usual response, when you were halfway through a diatribe about your uncle’s ineptitude as a parent, or the way the roads were more perilous than they used to be, or how she had always been stubborn to a fault.

But the last time you saw her, Charis had thrown her head back and said instead, “You always do this.”

“Do what?” you retorted, irritated by her interruption.

Her bright eyes crinkled slightly, her voice softening.

“You forget. You look back at something, and you just see one part of it. You forget the rest of it. You forget to remember.”

You had stared at her, backfooted by her sudden seriousness. Her unexpected insight embarrassed you. You waved her away.

But this is what you remember now.

****

“You’ll be pleased to know that all is in order for the funeral, my Lady. There’s only one matter left, on which we’d be grateful for your direction.”

You stare at the cleric. There is a languid deliberation, a cloying softness, in his words and movements, common to all the clerics of Lathander in this temple. It irks you, how they speak as though life were a slumbering companion to tiptoe around, rather than a crushing flood leaving nothing but rubble in its wake.

Beside you, Gale clasps your hand. Your other hand is a balled fist. You gaze at the blanching of your knuckles.

“What do you need from me?” you hear yourself say.

The cleric hums as he thumbs through a crusty tome, his gnarled fingers scratching at the pages. With a practised smile, he holds the words out to you.

“We would like you to choose a reading on Charis’ behalf, to commence and conclude the ceremony. There are five potential passages.” He indicates each one painstakingly. “Please let us know which one your sister would have preferred.”

You stare blankly at the writing as it swirls and congeals into a mass of meaningless blots. You stare and stare, until you can stare no longer, until you are no longer sure what you are staring at. Gale’s hold on your hand tightens.

“Brother Walter,” he says. “Perhaps you can leave the passages with us, so that Tav can have a moment to consider them?”

The cleric nods, an impression of patience, understanding. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

He lays the tome on the table between you and rises. As you watch his stooped and receding back, a bolt of bile surges within you.

“Shouldn’t you know?”

Brother Walter stops, glancing back. “Pardon?”

You stand. Haltingly, Gale follows suit. His fingers remain intertwined in yours, as if he is afraid to let you go.

“Charis came here every week,” you say. “For daily prayers, services, all the rest of it. She believed,” you jerk your hands around you, “in all of this. She spent time here with you all. She thought it was something worth doing.”

Brother Walter’s pale eyes widen. You can tell he is unaccustomed to scathing displays of disgust. You imagine him shuffling about the temple placidly, padding out his existence with pointless prayers to his indifferent god. All at once, this is the most offensive, despicable thing you have ever imagined.

“She was one of your faithful. You knew her. Shouldn’t you know what nonsense she would prefer?”

Brother Walter looks down. Gale clears his throat. The building awkwardness only adds fuel to your fury.

“My Lady-”

“In fact, shouldn’t the Morninglord know?” you spit out. “He loves his faithful, right? Is that why he claimed Charis when she was barely twenty five, at the prime of her life? She must have been incredibly highly favoured by the Dawnbringer. What a blessing.”

Brother Walter’s thin lips twitch. You welcome his indignation, his sanctimonious chiding. You are practically begging for it. You want to fight, to rage, to scream. You want to drown this temple in the sea of your grief.

But he says nothing. Instead, Gale drifts into your vision. His eyes quiver like soft earth, his frown stilling you for a moment. Your hand goes limp in his.

“My love,” he whispers.

Your breath spasms. You are a glacier, shattering against the shore.

“I don’t have a godsdamned clue what passage Charis would have wanted,” you choke. “Charis should be here. Not me.”

Gale turns towards Brother Walter. You do not know what passes between them, and you do not care. When he shuts the door behind him, you let Gale take you in his arms. With the steel of your rage, the bleeding void that gapes, you cannot reciprocate the tenderness of Gale’s embrace. But it does not deter him. He holds you for a long time.

“Aren’t you going to tell me off?” you ask eventually.

He draws back to look at you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. When his skin grazes yours, you wonder whether he can feel the black ice beneath.

“Whatever for?”

“Disrespect and discourtesy. Blasphemy.”

His brow steeples, his lips parting in surprise. “No, Tav. No.”

He takes your hands and kisses them, so firmly and yet so gently. You tremble at his affection, the warmth of his touch.

“I think vitriolic anger is an appropriate response to this injustice.” The lines on his forehead are deep and dark. “This tragedy.”

Everything within you twists, like the tendrils of a tornado, tearing you apart. You try to speak, to maintain composure, but all you can do is clench and unclench your fists. He notices.

He is tentative at first. Then his words tumble out swiftly, lightly, almost playful. Like Charis’ springing feet when you practised swords together. Her leaping sprint when she stole the apples that were halfway to your mouth.

“Do you want me to conjure an effigy for you to batter?” he offers. “A dummy for you to rip apart? Should I find some barrels to fireball? Perhaps some statues for you to shatter in reckless abandon?”

Months ago, you and Charis had told Gale about your favourite childhood pastime, after your father had left you in the joyless care of your uncle. Over one of Gale’s sumptuous home-cooked meals, you had laughingly extolled the virtues and cathartic benefits of breaking everything you could get your hands on. You and Charis had offered to give Gale a detailed demonstration, but he had respectfully declined.

You are cut through by the joy of this memory, and of Gale’s love in sharing it. They are a sunbeam, searing through your empty heart. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury yourself inside him.

“Charis would approve of anything you choose,” he tells you, when you start to weep.

***

“So I told her, in no uncertain terms, that the next time she sends a simulacrum to one of our Board meetings, I will not hesitate to destroy it. That got her attention.”

As Poppy bobs her head in pride, you watch her tight curls bounce like coiled springs. Beside her, Kriv’s emerald scales shine as he applauds Poppy’s bravery. Gale is chuckling, cradling your hand in his lap. You mimic a smile.

Around you, there is the echoing of clattering mugs and clinking glasses. Hollow voices bleed into trailing laughter. The glow of candlelight warms your companions’ eyes and skin, but does not touch you. You have the strange feeling of being submerged in a glass box, watching and listening, hearing but not understanding. You feel disembodied.

You have sat at this table many times. When you moved to Waterdeep with Gale, you were keen to visit the Yawning Portal, the legendary tavern where Gale had rescued an unwitting crowd from violence with the power of ale, wit and generosity. You were overjoyed when Gale introduced you to his old friend Kriv, the dragonborn bard who narrowly escaped a stabbing on the night of Gale’s heroics. You made fast friends with Poppy, too - Gale’s colleague at Blackstaff Academy, a pyromancer in specialism as well as temperament.

And when, a few months after the wedding, Charis had moved to Waterdeep, no trip to the Yawning Portal was complete without her. It was only natural that Charis should move to be near you. Before you awoke on the nautiloid, you had worked as mercenaries together, watching each others’ backs as you had since you were children. That did not need to change, just because you were married now, and had taken up with the Harpers. Charis settled in quickly, as she always did, renting modest lodgings near your tower, surprising you by joining the City Watch as a Constable. Your baby sister, finally putting down roots beside yours. You could not imagine life without her.

You stare at the empty space beside you.

You suddenly realise that your companions have fallen silent. You look up to three pairs of eyes, brown and green and blue, expectant and concerned as they wait for your answer. You look back blankly. You did not hear the question.

“Kriv was wondering whether we can still expect Jaheira next month, my love.” Gale squeezes your hand, his smile flickering. “Apparently, he’s quite taken by her.”

Kriv sighs loudly. “There's no use hiding it. That woman’s sunken her talons into my big black heart. If I had a moment alone with her, I could-”

Poppy chortles. “You spoke to her for all of ten minutes last time, Kriv. And you were more than a little tipsy.”

“It's called love at first sight, Popsicle. The stuff of odes, sonnets and ballads.” He waves dismissively. “I thought wizards were supposed to be wise.”

Poppy arches an eyebrow. “We are.”

You are nodding, smiling. You are trying.

“Jaheira's coming next month,” you manage.

You expect Gale to come in with a quip, but he does not. As Kriv and Poppy resume their bickering, Gale dips towards you. There is no hiding from his searching gaze.

“Do you want to go home, Tav?” His face is dark with worry again, a familiar sight which shames you.

After the funeral, you promised yourself that you would keep going. You would put on a brave face, as you and Charis had always done. For so long, you only had each other. You had to be strong for her, and she for you. As fighters, you were trained to soldier on through the most harrowing of battles. You would go on as normal. You had to.

So you accept every social invitation at Blackstaff, every gathering with Morena and Tara. You show up to every shift, attend meetings with Harpers around Faerun. You try to continue as though nothing has changed.

You can tell this troubles Gale. When he encourages you to take some time out, you reassure him this is not what you need. You need to keep going. To keep doing. You shrug off his tender, knowing gaze whenever he asks if you are alright. You cannot explain that you will never be alright again. This is what life is like now, without her.

“I'm fine, Gale.” Your voice is harder than you intend. “Everything's fine.”

A frown creases his brow. You avert your eyes, leaning forward to plant a long kiss on his cheek. You let go of his hand as you rise, turning towards your friends.

In the brightest voice you can muster, you ask, “Does anyone want another round?”

***

You are drifting towards the bar when you see her at the corner of the tavern. Ash blonde hair, shaved on one side and cut harshly at the chin. A deceptively willowy frame, concealing the strength of mountains. A soft, round face with deep set, almond eyes. She turns away, back facing you, nestled within the cackling group around her.

Time stops. The glass box splinters, and you are raked through by piercing ice. You leap towards the vision of your sister - flesh and blood, alive and well, here with you, and not crushed beneath the rubble of a disintegrated orphanage.

You knew it. It could not have been Charis lying on that pallet, grey and stiff as a torn doll. That was not the Charis you had wrestled with in the grass, who spiked your drinks with chilli and laughed so loudly that your ears rang with her delight. The Charis who sang in her sleep, who sharpened your blades as you stitched up her wounds. A desperate, frenzied relief possesses you.

An elderly man yowls as you shove him aside. A coiffured youth curses as you knock half of his ale onto the floor. You ignore the heads that turn at the commotion. You bound towards her, heaving wildly as you clutch her shoulder.

“Charis,” you cry.

She spins around to face you. Her eyes are wide with confusion, the blue of a cloudless sky, not the green of spring leaves. She is all straight lines and angles, harsh and pinched. Her skin is pale, unadorned by the freckles which mirror your own. On her jarringly narrow forehead rests a choppy fringe of an unfamiliar fashion.

You are winded. You stand speechless, tears erupting from you like guttering flames. The woman who is not Charis shifts away. The burly man next to her steps forward.

“Is there a problem here?”

You cannot move, cannot think. You have lost her. You are condemned to lose her again and again. A torment, an agony of remembrance. You cannot bear it. Your legs buckle beneath you.

He catches you. You know it is Gale before you see him. His body is warm and solid around yours, his arms steadfast and sure as they embrace you. The fragrance of sandalwood and soap envelopes you. He cups your cheek, sealing your forehead with kisses.

“I’m here, Tav,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

You are shaking. His body reverberates with your grief. You wonder if it is a shield straining to crack.

“Charis… She was…I thought…”

“I know.” His gentle eyes glisten as he holds you. “And I’m so, so sorry that it wasn’t her.”

All at once, you are sobbing. Cocooned against his chest, you begin to register the swirling of footsteps around you, bent on resuming the rhythm of the bustling tavern. You feel sharp jerks of Gale’s head, hear his protective warnings to irritated passersby. You know Gale would fight any one of them if they insulted or threatened you. You cannot allow that to happen. There can be no more death, no more tragedy. You try to steady the spasms of your breaths, to regain control of your limbs. Gale waits. He does not let you go.

When you stumble to your feet, Gale stands beside you. He brushes a tear from your cheek, weaving his fingers through yours.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

***

Every dawn is a punishment. A mockery by the Morninglord.

You draw your curtains, wrap yourself in the darkness of your bedsheets. You drink in sleep like an elixir, a balm that helps you forget. A spell that maintains the illusion.

You dream of her. In your dreams, she is alive, a babe and a child and a woman all at once. Barefoot and squealing as you chased her through the summer fields. Smug and smirking as she found your hidden stash of erotica. Feverish and frail as you fed her broth in bed. Grinning and victorious as you yielded to her wooden sword.

You dream of the thorns as well as the roses. Her incandescent, roaring rage. Her vile obscenities. Her stubbornness that drove you to madness. The petty squabbles you grew out of, and the meaningless quarrels you did not. You long for them now, more than ever. What you would not give to feel her seething anger, the proof of life in blood that boils.

Your dreams are a canopy, suspending you in time. Death cannot reach you there. It is perfect, and every time you wake, the anguish of truth crushes you so completely you do not think you will ever breathe again. You crumble beneath the weight of it.

You cannot keep going. Everything has changed.

***

He is curled against your back, close as a second skin. His arm drapes around you, his hand resting against your chest. You can smell the salt of sea air on Gale’s teaching robes, the bittersweet scent of his musk. It has become a routine, for Gale to bound up the stairs on return home from his lectures, sliding silently into the bed behind you, as though he never left your side.

“Jaheira sent word.” His breath caresses the shell of your ear. “She’s arriving a bit earlier than originally planned. She would like to spend that time with you.”

You say nothing. You can sense his movement. He is trying to catch a glimpse of your face, to parse the signals of your turmoil. You know you should feel gratitude at his love and patience, guilt at your withdrawal, your failure as a wife, friend, and Harper. But all you feel is a gaping chasm where Charis used to be.

“Tav.” His voice is impossibly soft. “I know it’s agony, unimaginable agony.” His hand reaches for yours. “But you’re not alone. I’m here for you, all of our friends are here for you, and we love you. I love you.”

For a long time, you cannot speak. You are collapsing into yourself, drowning in memories. When you answer, your voice is strangled and hoarse. The sound of decay.

“She was my mirror.”

Gale is quiet for a while. A tear rolls down your cheek, into the space between your intertwined fingers, braced against your heart.

“What do you mean, my love?”

You close your eyes. It hurts to speak of her. Every word is an admission of her absence, an ache that swallows you whole.

“She told me when I had food on my face,” you begin. “I wiped the mud off hers. She showed me when I was being an asshole. I made her keep her promises. I took care of her, and she kept me going. She told me I was her hero. I never got to tell her she was mine.”

You are haunted by all the things you should have said and done, broken links in the chain of possibilities. You had always thought there would be time. Why had you taken it for granted, as though every moment with her was infinite? You should have cherished them like pearls of dew in a desert. Now, you have nothing left.

“She’s gone, Gale. Who am I without her?”

You cannot see his face, but you can feel the resolve in his frame. He holds you against him, as though he can shield you from the storm.

“You’re who you’ve always been. Kind, brave, passionate. The warrior who saved the world. A soul that puts the stars to shame. The woman I love.”

He speaks with such certainty. You do not think you will ever be sure of anything again.

“I don't know how to be, without her.”

You can feel his heartbeat against your back. Its rhythm is constant and true.

“She'll always be a part of you, Tav. You carry her within you. Nothing can take that away.”

Something wrenches inside you. You are overcome by all of your doubts, all the questions that strip you bare. You cannot hold them back any longer.

“I should have insisted,” you choke. “When we asked her to move in with us, I shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I could have kept a closer eye on her, then. I could have vetted her last mission with my contacts. They would have known that orphanage was falling apart. I could have warned her, stopped her, saved her…”

Gale is shaking his head, first slowly, then more and more insistently. His denial wracks your entire body, but you do not stop.

“My whole life, I’ve tried to protect her. To take the blows meant for her. She had so many years ahead of her. I should be dead, not her.”

Gale flinches. His hands are urgent, almost forceful, as he turns your body to face him.

“That’s not true. Please don't say that.”

You wince as he cups your tear-streaked cheeks, holding your gaze with brown fire. His chest heaves, and you feel his distress like a dagger, twisting with the knowledge that you are the source of his pain.

“Charis loved you fiercely. Furiously. She wanted nothing but the best for you. She wouldn’t want this for you. For you to be torn apart by guilt and regret over a tragedy no one could have prevented. To think it was in any way, shape or form your fault.”

His voice trembles, his eyes a stormy sea.

“No, Tav. She would want you to live. She wanted you to be happy.”

You want to cling to the thought, to the hope that Charis had. Her passion for life, her love for you. But sorrow comes like an avalanche, and you are buried in it. You are gasping, keening, weeping into his chest. You are a mangled mass of memories that hurts but never heals.

But he remains.

“There’s nothing you could have done to change things,” he whispers. “You’ve done nothing wrong. None of this is your fault.”

He presses you so tightly against him, you feel his breaths as your own. He kisses the crown of your head over and over again, his very own warding spell.

“I love you,” he says. “I'm here.”

***

You are standing in the kitchen, watching Gale stirring a simmering pot of Hundur sauce. He bobs his head enthusiastically as he relays the latest news from Kriv and Poppy. A strand of grey hair falls over his eyes, and you lean forward to tuck it away. He kisses your palm as you draw back.

You had stayed home when Gale ventured to the Yawning Portal last night. You had intended to go through some reports from recent Harper patrols, but you did not get far. Instead, you sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, staring at the stars. Thinking but not thinking. Feeling but not feeling.

When Gale returned much earlier than usual, you did not chide him. It had been an effort to convince him to go in the first place, to enjoy the company of his friends without fretting after you. You could still see the concern in his eyes when he joined you on the balcony, peppering your face with tiny kisses, as though he had not seen you for years.

You had kissed him properly for the first time in weeks, open mouthed and inviting. You could feel his yearning, raw and swollen, a surging flame dampened by worry. You reassured him that it was what you wanted, you were ready, it was alright. You had made love, wreathed in the haze of the stars - desperate and starving, throbbing with longing. And afterwards, you wept. You were relieved, so relieved, that you could still feel desire. That you were still capable of showing him your love. That having Gale inside you was still the closest you had ever come to feeling complete.

“I don’t have the heart to tell Kriv to cut his losses with Jaheira,” Gale goes on. “Though my esteemed colleague probably has that task well in hand. Better to leave such things to the experts.”

You chuckle. “Kriv doesn’t listen to Poppy though.”

“No.” Gale titters. “He doesn’t. I’m not sure how much he knows about Khalid, either.”

Gale’s brow flickers as he searches the kitchen counter. Instinctively, you pass him the pepper.

“He’s a bard,” you point out. “He’s read all the legends. And he’s done a ton of special research on Jaheira.”

“Ah.” Gale hums, his fingers a flurry of seasoning. “Then he must be an optimist as well as a hopeless romantic. To hear Jaheira speak of Khalid… She’s still married to him in spirit, and I think she always will be. New love can’t blossom in a field already full.”

You are quiet for a moment. Gale bustles around, squinting and frowning as he tastes his creation. You cannot help but smile at the intensity of his focus, his pride in everyday miracles.

“Khalid was a good man,” you say. “Compassionate and kind.”

You step forward, pressing yourself against Gale’s back, wrapping your arms around him. A sigh escapes him, a huff of busy contentment.

“He loved her,” you continue. “I think he would want her to be happy.”

Gale stops stirring. Slowly, he turns to face you. His smile is sunlight on thawing snow. He presses his forehead against yours, his arms circling your waist.

“I think he would, too.”

***

You are grizzling and grinning as you pour Gale’s sauce into jars, ready to be stored in the larder. The sauce was a mere moment away from being ruined, Gale mock-complains, because you drove him to distraction yet again. Thank the gods, he declares, for his discipline and self-control.

You are developing an appetite, in more ways than one. You suspect that the flush on Gale’s cheeks is not just from the heat of the hearth. You are dividing up the last of the sauce as briskly as you can when an afterthought comes to you.

“We need to keep a few jars aside for when Charis comes,” you exclaim. “She loves this stuff. She asked if she could take some away with her the last time she-”

Your throat closes. You cannot breathe. There is a roiling inside you as the bridges you have started to rebuild crumble to dust. You are dust and ruins, and she is gone. Never again will she savour your food or drink, or sit with you and Gale trading jests and barbs. Never again will you ruffle her hair and cuddle her close, a grown woman, formidable and fearless, but still your baby sister. Always your baby sister.

You break.

In an instant, Gale is by your side. As you fall apart, he gathers up the pieces, returning them gently to the palm of your hand. You look at him through black waves and splintered glass. His brow is steepled with sorrow, but he shines with the hope of love.

He cradles your head against his heart.

“It’s alright,” he says. “We’ll enjoy it for her.”

****

You are sitting together on the balcony. Within the coral sky, purple bruises turn to gold, as the sun takes its weary dive into the sea. Three boxes of Charis’ belongings rest at your feet, waiting and expectant.

It is difficult at first. Each item aches more than the last. The scent of vanilla and smoke clings to all of Charis’ clothes, assailing you with a longing that has no equal. There are things you never knew Charis kept, like the one-eyed teddy you found for her when you were ten, and the book of lewd drawings you doodled together when your uncle sent you to bed. There is the silver locket you gave her on her twentieth birthday, polished and still kept in its plush box - “too expensive to wear”, Charis used to say -and the green ribbon you used to wear in your hair, when it was longer and less unruly.

Gale listens as you unravel the mystery of every priceless treasure. You are sobbing one moment, chortling the next, and then you sit in silence, holding one of Charis’ scarves against your face, as though you are embracing her one last time.

“It was an honour to have known her,” Gale says after a while.

You realise that he, too, is crying. You plant feather-soft kisses beneath his eyes, and when your lips meet, you can taste the tears on his tongue. His arm drapes around your waist as you lean your head on his shoulder, watching the seagulls soaring overhead. Surrounded by these last traces of her, there is pain, but there is also a kind of peace.

“For a while, it hurt to remember,” you start. “It tore me apart. I wanted so badly to forget. I wanted to forget everything.”

An image of Charis blazes in your mind. You let yourself linger on every line and curve of it. Her toothy grin. The messy dance of freckles across her nose. The white down around her hairline. A face like no other.

“Now, I want to remember. I don't want to forget anything. I want to remember it all.”

Your gaze drifts over each and every wonder that Charis cherished, the remnants of a life well-lived. A life containing multitudes, far more than three boxes of scattered possessions, more than a clumsy jumble of tales.

“So many moments in a life. So many memories.” You look down at your balled fists. “I’m losing them already. I don't want to forget.”

As your voice catches, Gale’s fingers find yours. Your anchor, constant through the storm.

“Then I'll help you remember.”

You frown at him, questioning.

“Tell me.” He smiles, his eyes warm as sun-kissed oak. “Tell me everything.”

So you do. You start at the beginning. With your hand in his, you leap through the chapters of your history, the thread of Charis’ life woven into yours like a braid. As the cloak of night falls over you, then dissolves to the birth of dawn, you laugh and cry and rage. You remember your sister in all her glory, the rough and the smooth, every feat and foible. Every memory you share is a stitch in your broken heart. Gale listens, eyes streaming, lips curling, chuckling and seething, as though he feels every memory as vividly as his own.

And when you gaze into the sunrise, you know there is no ending. In Gale’s embrace, you burn with a love stronger than death.

“I won't forget,” you promise her. “I won't forget to remember.”

*****

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