#perhaps i am a city boy
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troutlawyer · 2 years ago
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I love twin beds because they are easier to manage and tidy as well as not overtaking a bedroom but also because they are nice and small (claustrophile) and can only be comfortably slept in alone or completely squished up against whoever is in there with you which I think serves the extreme dichotomy I live by perfectly
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januaryembrs · 8 months ago
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YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader
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Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶
Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?
Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)
warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.
authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship
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There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted. 
He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck. 
Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?
Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin. 
He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again. 
They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest. 
“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him. 
Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.
They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene. 
She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been. 
Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men. 
They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.
Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to. 
Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions. 
“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,” 
They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently. 
Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face. 
He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet. 
“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”
They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”
“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”
His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry. 
“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.” 
She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage. 
“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,” 
“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him. 
She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them. 
“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”
The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob. 
“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”
Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand. 
“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter. 
Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights. 
Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible. 
His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was. 
Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed. 
“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him. 
“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands. 
“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”
“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,” 
“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”
She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip. 
“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”
He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. 
He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in. 
Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years. 
“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”
And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.
She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe. 
She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe. 
It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second. 
“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing. 
But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late. 
“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them. 
She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed. 
“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”
“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new. 
“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”
“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”
But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them. 
Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them. 
He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently. 
“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”
She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands. 
“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt. 
His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building. 
Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him. 
She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’
She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use. 
He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard. 
They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign. 
He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?” 
She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,” 
And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes. 
Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested. 
But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again. 
It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible. 
He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything). 
The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright. 
He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet. 
“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance. 
She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock. 
“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,” 
“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,” 
 “I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing. 
And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin. 
Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down. 
“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?” 
She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised. 
“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point. 
Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”
 “Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,” 
She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”
His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion. 
She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.
“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”
His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise. 
“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off. 
She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him. 
“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.
“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,” 
She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”
He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”
She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again. 
“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his. 
Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,” 
Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all. 
But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him. 
She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”
Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though. 
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savanir · 7 months ago
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DP x DC prompt [3]
during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!
But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.
Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.
But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.
Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.
he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.
now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.
far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.
“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking” 
“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”
there is a pause …  he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.
“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.
“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”
“oh you simply must come visit!” 
well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?
things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.
their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.
but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.
There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?
Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.
Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t. 
He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.
so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.
It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.
it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere
Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy. 
And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.
Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?
He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.
he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.
Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.
If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions. 
Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.
2K notes · View notes
ak-vintage · 4 months ago
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I'd Like To...
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Pairing: Modern DILF Din Djarin x Plus Size F!Reader
Summary: Din has always struggled to prioritize his own happiness, even more so now that he is a single father. When some well-meaning friends create a dating app profile for him without his knowledge, he finds himself on his first date in years with a woman who seems determined to bring some much-needed softness to his life.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Present-day AU, dating app AU, dual POV, no use of Y/N, private security Din, photographer reader, reader is a plus size woman but otherwise minimal descriptions provided, age gap (unspecified but enough to be noticed), Grogu is a human toddler, Cara is the ultimate wingman, good dad Din, touch-starved Din, fluff, SMUT – exhibitionism, semi-public acts, brief oral sex (m! receiving), protected p in v sex, dirty talk, rough but sweet, switch-y vibes for both Din and reader
Word Count: ~18.3K (I have no excuse...)
Written for @hellishjoel's Hot DILF Summer Challenge. I am unforgivably late to this event, and I’m so, so sorry. I hope the truly preposterous length makes up for it – it really got out of hand!
Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3
Read on AO3 | Masterlist
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Cara Dune had never been good at subterfuge.
She was loud, decisive, commanding – a “do no harm but take no shit” kind of person who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty in a risky situation or to stick her neck out for what she believed. Cara didn’t have the constitution for stealth. She didn’t do subtle or – god forbid – sneaky; it simply wasn’t a part of her DNA. All of her colleagues were well aware of this, of course, so why, out of all of the consultants of Fett Security, Inc., she was the person that the group had selected for this particular mission was something she would never understand.
But, as a former soldier, if there was one thing Cara knew how to do, it was follow orders, so when the task fell to her, she took it on the chin and threw herself into it headfirst.
Which was how she found herself awkwardly hunched over at her desk, broad shoulders rounded protectively around her phone as she scrolled through various social media accounts, screenshotting as she went. A suspicious behavior for anyone, but even more so knowing that the images she was grabbing were all of the same man – her best friend and coworker, Din Djarin.
Nearly a decade ago, Din had been one of the first people Boba Fett had recruited to join his private security firm, and ever since, he had been the kind of man who ate, slept, and breathed the job. There was no doubt that Fett Security owed a great deal of its growth and success in the industry to Din’s expertise, but that hadn’t left him with a lot of opportunity for a full life outside of work. Or, perhaps more accurately, Din simply hadn’t made such a thing a priority.
When pressed about it, he would say that it hardly mattered; all of his friends eventually came to work for the firm anyway, Fett collecting them all like trading cards over the years, so he saw them plenty. What more could he need?
Of course, he came to eat his own words about a year ago when he rather unexpectedly became the foster parent – then adoptive parent – of a little boy, a tiny thing with no living relatives in a part of the city that had had a severe shortage of foster families for years. Din himself had grown up in the system, a fact he talked about rarely, but nevertheless, the experience had shaped him in a fundamental way. He had jumped at the opportunity to take in the kid, and overnight, he transformed from a man who buried himself in his work to a man who lived for the whim of a little boy with floppy, sandy-brown curls, wide, dark eyes, and comically large ears.
It was clear to anyone who knew him well – Din had been meant to be a father, and as his closest friend, Cara had found a great deal of joy in watching the new role shape and soften him into a version of himself that felt truer and more authentic to who he was at his core. But all of his friends agreed: when it came to his personal life, having a child had done nothing but exacerbate the problem. He was still working just as many hours as he had before, only now, when he did have time to himself, he rarely left the house without his son in tow. He had stopped joining the team for drinks after gigs, his appearances at company barbecues were fewer and farther between, and who knew how long it had been since the man had been on an actual date?
Din was lonely – Cara could tell. He loved his job, and he adored his son, but it wasn’t enough anymore. There was a hollowness to him, a shadow around his eyes. Something had to give, and so during their last group outing, the team had come together and formulated a plan. A plan which involved Cara harvesting a selection of photos of Din from various corners of the internet, writing up a quick bio, and creating an online dating profile for him.
Without his knowledge.
Cara hardly relished keeping this secret from her friend, but she knew that if she or anyone else had broached the subject with him beforehand, he would have dismissed it out of hand. He would have made up some excuse about doing just fine on his own, that he didn’t need anyone else when he had his son; she could almost hear his low, rasping scoff now. His refusal would be swift and final, and that would be the end of that.
But sometimes, being a good friend meant doing something in the best interest of the other person even when that person would disapprove.
And Cara had found that sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
Sending a surreptitious glance around the open office space, Cara breathed a quiet sigh of relief at Din’s empty desk. The man didn’t have any of his own social media accounts, finding the whole concept frivolous and a little bizarre, so she was stuck scrolling through her own and those of their friends in an attempt to harvest a few that would be acceptable for a dating profile. It was taking longer than she had anticipated, and she still had to set up his age, gender, and location preferences and write up a brief bio for him before she was due at a job in an hour. The time crunch had her clenching her jaw as she worked.
Tonight at the bar, she planned to recruit some of their friends to help her get Din set up with a selection of matches. And all of them would owe her a beer for her trouble.
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 Din, the profile read. 45, 5’11”, Private Security Consultant.
Hardworking, outdoorsy, handy. Love vintage cars and motorcycles. Former boxer, teach self-defense classes at the community center on the weekends. Single father to a little boy who is my whole universe. Looking for someone to give me an excuse to get me out of the house, curb my workaholic tendencies, and show me the softer side of life.
“‘The softer side of life?’” Bo smirked around the rim of her beer as she read, Cara’s phone in her hand sticky from being passed around all night. “Cara Dune, you’ve been holding out on us. Who knew you were such a romantic?”
The crew gathered around the end of the bar all laughed as Cara rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her own drink. “What can I say? A bitch contains multitudes,” she replied with a shrug. “But the profile’s good, right? We can start swiping?”
The redhead nodded, neat bob brushing her sharp jaw as she passed the phone back to its owner. “Yeah, I think you’ve got him down.”
“Good call including the bit about the motorcycles,” Axe quipped with a grin. He waggled his dark eyebrows significantly, adding, “Ladies love that stuff. Speaking from experience.”
From her place tucked into his side, arm wrapped around his waist beneath his leather jacket, Koska offered him a tongue-touched smile and butted her head against his chest affectionately. “You’re not wrong.”
Paz returned from the other end of the bar then, shouldering his way through the crowd with six overflowing pints balanced in his massive hands. “What did I miss?” he asked as he passed each of them out to his waiting friends.
Fennec curled her lip in mild disgust as he sloshed a portion of her beer down the side of her glass, soaking her hand. She sat the pint down on the edge of the well-worn bar and drug her fingers demurely across her black jeans as she said, “Nothing, we’re just about to start picking matches.”
“Good.” He downed half of his own pint in a single glug, thick neck working in the low light. “Let’s do this. The guy needs to get laid.”
With a mock-salute of his glass, Axe groaned his agreement. “Maybe if he loosens up a little, he’ll get off my ass about taking over the Organa account. I swear to god, if I have to spend one more fucking charity dinner trailing after those stuffed-shirts, I think my head is going to explode.”
Fennec shot him an icy, closed-lipped smile. “We both know that was my suggestion, not Djarin’s. You’re a good fit for it, Woves. The sooner you learn how to play ball with the politicians, the sooner we can start putting you on more high-profile jobs.”
“Yeah, babe.” Koska’s dark eyes flashed teasingly. “Maybe then you can come join me and Bo on the Skywalker account. Finally start playing with the big boys.”
Bo snorted into her beer, sending a fine spray of the stuff flying as the rest of the group broke into peals of laughter.
“All right, all right, settle down,” Cara urged, passing Bo a napkin. “This has nothing to do with any of us, right? This is about Din. He’s busted his ass for every one of us for years – it’s his turn to catch a break. So let’s stay on task, okay? Now…” With a few taps and a swipe, she brought up the app once more and flipped to the matches tab. “What do we think of her?”
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“Dune.”
“Djarin.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
The dark-haired, hawk-eyed woman quirked an eyebrow at him, phone in hand, the thing still extended toward him, waiting for him to take it. “I could do that. But then I’d be lying, and we both know that doesn’t fly with you.”
Din Djarin gritted his jaw and turned his back to her, focusing instead on tossing his towel, lifting gloves, and empty water bottle into his gym bag and slinging it over his shoulder. It wasn’t unusual for Cara to join him for his daily pre-shift workout. She was a reliable spotter, and he liked the playlists she piped through the Bluetooth speakers in the company gym, but there had been something off about her that morning – something cagey and distracted where she was normally the picture of focus. After one too many attempts at getting her attention had resulted in a distant “huh?”, he had decided that enough was enough and demanded an explanation.
With only the faintest traces of guilt shadowing her gaze, she had made her confession. A dating app. She had signed him up for a fucking dating app, and apparently, the whole team was in on it. The bunch of traitors.
“You can go ahead and delete it,” he growled, casting a scathing glance over his shoulder as he made for the locker room. “I’m not interested.”
A strong, blunt-nailed hand wrapped around his elbow, pulling his retreat up short. “Oh, come on, lighten up a little,” Cara entreated. “When was the last time you went out with someone, huh?”
He shrugged her grip off of him. “I go out with you and the team all the time.”
Behind him, his closest friend groaned dramatically. “You know that’s not what I meant. But, while we’re at it, you haven’t exactly been doing much of that, either, big guy. In fact, maybe if you did come out with us once in a while, you could meet a nice girl at a bar or a sporting event or a festival like a fucking normal person, and I wouldn’t have to resort to mining photos of you off our friends’ socials and making you a dating profile in secret.”
“That isn’t fair,” Din snapped, whirling around to face her. “I can’t just be out until all hours of the night anymore. I have my kid to think about. I thought you understood that.”
“Of course, I understand that! No one expects you to be there every time. Not even most of the time! But Din…” Cara let out a sigh, and he watched as that contentious spark fizzled out of her dark eyes, fading into something softer and more earnest. “You are an amazing father. Anyone who has ever seen you with that little boy knows that. But that isn’t all you are. Just like work isn’t all you are. How long have we known each other?”
He ground his teeth and ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “About eight years.”
“Eight years,” she echoed, nodding. “I know you, Din Djarin, and I can tell. You’re burning out.”
Something squeezed in his chest at the raw honestly of his friend’s words, and he found himself having to look away. She was right, of course, as she often was. He had always struggled with giving too much of himself – first as a boxer in the ring, then as one of the founding members of Fett Security, then as one of its most senior consultants, and now as a father. As a younger man, he had thrived on it; the busier he was, the harder he worked, the more he proved himself, the better he felt.
But now, knocking on the doors of middle age, he found that the breakneck pace of his life was starting to fray him at the edges. He felt worn through in places and dangerously thin in others, and although he would never admit to anyone, his bed had never felt colder. The small handful of meaningless, one-night flings he had permitted himself over the last few years had left him feeling ill-used and unsatisfied, and when he took his son out to a new restaurant or to the zoo or to the beach, he couldn’t help but feel the distinct absence of another person.
There ought to have been another person holding his kid’s other little hand in the park, patiently walking the unsteady toddler between them. There ought to have been another person feeding the boy ice cream afterward, singing him songs, telling him stories, settling him down for a nap.
There ought to have been another person in his bed – holding him close, playing with his hair, whispering his name in the dark as soft lips traced down his neck…
Fuck. Din Djarin was lonely.
“Listen, I’ll tell you what,” Cara said eventually, pulling him out of his musings. “We’ll get the app set up on your phone, you can log in to your profile, and you can just…take a look at the matches we already got for you. You don’t have to go through any on your own, just the ones we’ve already found. And if you hate them all, we’ll delete your profile and be done with it. But if any of them look even remotely interesting, I really think you should try to connect with them. There has to be more to your life than work and your kid. There has to be, or you’re going to run yourself into the ground. I’m not going to let that happen on my watch.”
Her words hung in the air for a moment, blunt and painfully sincere, and then Din was squeezing the pressure points on the sides of his nose and releasing a reluctant sigh.
“Fine,” he groaned. “I’ll take a look at them over lunch. Happy?”
She grinned victoriously and cuffed him on the shoulder, the gesture warm and fraternal. “Ecstatic. Now hit the showers, Djarin, you stink.”
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Cara was at his desk at noon on the dot, barely waiting for him to finish sending off an email to a potential client before she was closing his laptop, dragging him bodily out of his chair, and escorting him out of the building and across the street to their favorite sandwich shop. A few minutes later, equipped with a pair of overstuffed Reubens and a couple bags of chips, the two were settled into a back corner booth with Din’s phone between them.
“Okay, there you go,” she proclaimed, sliding the thing across the table to him with a triumphant grin. “App’s installed, and you’re all logged in.”
The man wiped a napkin across his face and fought the urge to sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” Thumbing through the interface, he fumbled for a bit before finally landing on the tab that contained his list of users with bright pink heart icons next to their profile pictures.
“Now these are people that already matched with me?” he asked, suddenly feeling a bit out of his depth.
“Yep! Me and the crew did some swiping for you the other night.”
Din simply blinked at her. “Swiping?”
Cara’s mouth twisted into a thin line, as though she were attempting to swallow a smirk and failing miserably, and he felt the distinct desire to melt into the plastic cushion of the booth and disappear. “It’s how you indicate whether you’re interested in matching with someone. Swipe right for yes, swipe left for no.”
“So these are the people you…swiped right on?”
“Not quite,” she clarified with a shake of her head. “These are the people we swiped right on who also swiped right on you.”
Din’s brows nearly met his hairline at that. “They wanted to match with me, too?”
“Yeah, dumbass, they did.”
“Hey. Watch it,” he growled, jabbing a finger in her direction as he felt his hackles raise. “You know I don’t know anything about this shit. Cut me a little bit of slack, okay?”
Cara sighed, and her expression shifted from needling to softly exasperated. “Yeah, no kidding, I’m aware. I didn’t call you a dumbass because you don’t know anything about online dating. I called you a dumbass because you act like you’re surprised that people want to match with you.”
Oh.
Cocking his head at her, he replied, “Why wouldn’t that surprise me?”
“Umm…” All of the softness in her face disappeared, and instead she glared at him like he had just grown a second head. “Have you seen yourself? I don’t even like men, and I recognize a DILF when I see one.”
“A DILF?”
Cara smirked lasciviously. “Yeah, a dad I’d like to – ”
“I know what a DILF is, Cara, fucking hell, can you keep your voice down?” Din instinctually ducked his head, his gaze darting around the sandwich shop as he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that no one had heard them.
The woman let out a bark of laughter, dark hair swinging and eyes crinkling with mirth. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a twist, old man. No one’s paying any attention to us back here.” Gesturing at the phone in his hand, she added, “Now quit stalling and start scrolling. I think we ended up with ten or so matches before we called it a night? And we were really picky about it, too. There’s gotta be at least one lucky lady in there that tickles your fancy.”
“Hmm.” He hummed dubiously to himself as he opened the first profile in the list, a blonde woman a couple of years his junior with her head tilted back, face in the sun as she posed on some tropical beach. Pretty. Nice smile. Looked friendly. “Suppose I just didn’t think so many women would be interested in dating a single father.”
“Like I said,” Cara shrugged with a wink. “Ladies love a DILF.”
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Nearly an hour later, and Din couldn’t help but feel a bit…underwhelmed with the selection of matches his friends had chosen for him. Not that any of them were bad choices, per se. They were lovely women, all of them, with their sunny smiles and their glossy, perfectly-posed photographs and their quippy bios. They were from a variety of backgrounds with a variety of interests, though all struck him as approachable, intelligent, witty. He couldn’t find a red flag in the bunch, which he supposed was a credit both to them and to his friends for sifting through the masses so thoughtfully.
No, it wasn’t the women. It was him, he was sure. What else could explain the…nothingness he felt when he looked at them? The utter lack of interest? Perhaps he had missed his opportunity for such things, he thought to himself. Perhaps he had waited too long, been too content with his own company for too many years.
He could feel Cara’s eyes on him across the table as he came to the last few matches, could sense her impatience at his silence, at his steady, unenthusiastic scrolling. Their plates sat picked over and abandoned between them, chip bags empty and crumpled, sodas drained dry. They were due back in the office any minute, the lunch hour quickly expiring around them, and as reluctant as Din had been to agree to this entire endeavor, he somehow still felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Cara to report back to the rest of the group empty-handed.
But at least he had held up his end of the bargain. No one could say that he didn’t give the idea a chance. It simply wasn’t meant to be.
Of course, that was until he reached the second-to-last match on the list.
Absently, Din tapped on your picture, opening your profile, and almost immediately, he felt himself straighten in his seat.
You were…stunning.
Wide, bright eyes. A warm, mischievous smile that teased him through the camera’s lens, as though you had a secret you were taunting him with, daring him to ask, to figure it out. Your photos were unique – mostly candids, the focus soft, enhanced with a touch of grain and flawlessly lit. And you had a lot of them, more than any other profile he had viewed. As he swiped through them, he came upon one of you in an easy, flowing blouse, hair windswept around your face, a DSLR camera with a colorful, well-worn strap slung around your neck.
He quickly scanned your profile header, taking in your name, your age, your distance from his location. Photographer, the profession field indicated.
And…shit. You were young. More than a decade his junior, on the very edge of what he would consider an acceptable age difference in typical circumstances. The gap wasn’t enough for it to be an immediate disqualifier, but it certainly was enough that if the two of you were to walk down the street together hand-in-hand, others might take a second glance.
He should un-match with you. It would be the right thing, the responsible thing to do.
And yet…
Din swiped through a handful of your other photos. Fuck, but you were sweet. Full, soft curves with wide, plush hips, heavy breasts, thick thighs. Little glimpses of soft skin peeking through comfortable clothing, airy cottons and silky satins and well-loved denims that his palms itched to touch. He wanted to feel the texture of you under his hands, the lush and the give of you beneath his fingertips…
Your last photo was one taken of you at sunrise, your soft body clad in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of barely-there spandex shorts. Your limbs were stretched and bent into some strange configuration he recognized as a yoga pose, your leg pressed back near your face at an angle that had blood rushing to his cock, his head immediately filled with images of your body contorted in a similar position as he pressed you into his mattress.
New to the city, looking for someone to show me all the best places to get a couple drinks and people watch. Professional photographer living my dream of documenting the most important moments of people’s lives. In my spare time, I like to get out in nature and go hiking, practice yoga, and travel. Excellent home cook, terrible at karaoke. Love dogs, love kids. Let me take your picture so I know it’s real.
Damnit.
You were perfect.
“Okay over there, Djarin?”
Din’s gaze snapped up to meet Cara’s over the table, taking in the quirk of her brow, the suspicious twist of her mouth, and he felt a flush of heat rush up the back of his neck and settle high on his cheekbones. He had been staring. Really staring, and with his mouth open, he realized, mortified. He slammed his jaw shut, his teeth clicking unpleasantly in his skull, and he shifted in his seat.
“Uh,” he muttered dumbly. This throat was so dry, his voice crackled around the syllable as though he hadn’t spoken all day. He cleared it quickly and nodded once. “Yeah. Fine. Uh – ” Flipping the phone around to face his companion, he slid it back across the laminate tabletop. “Her,” he said, tapping the screen with the tip of his finger. “I’ll go out with her.”
Had he not already been blushing, the cat-like grin of victory that Cara sent him certainly would have done it.
“Gonna have to message her first, big guy. Think you can figure out how to do that, or you want me to show you?”
Din’s flush darkened as he yanked the phone back toward himself, feeling a muscle in his jaw tick. “I can manage,” he snarked, and she scoffed a laugh.
However, as it turned out, as he opened the messages tab from your profile, he discovered that you had already taken the initiative and messaged him.
hey din – such a cool name! looks like we have a few things in common. i’d love to get to know you if you’re interested! 😊
Short. Sweet. Polite. Direct.
He swallowed thickly, feeling something suspiciously like butterflies take up residence in his gut. Scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he looked back up at Cara sheepishly.
“Actually…yeah, maybe I could use some help.”
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You were sitting cross-legged in your oversized office chair, headphones on and iced coffee leaving a ring of condensation on the surface of your desk, when you saw the dating app notification pop up on your phone screen.
1 New Message, it read.
You glanced back and forth between your phone and your computer screen for a moment, debating. You had promised yourself you would be heads-down today, having started to accumulate more of an editing backlog than you typically preferred. The shoot you were working on this afternoon – an engagement session taken in the gardens outside the local art gallery – was due to the clients by the end of the week, and if you wanted to meet that deadline, you couldn’t afford to get distracted.
And yet you couldn’t help but wonder whether the message was a response – finally – from the man you had matched with a couple days ago. The one with the unusual name, the dark curls and even darker eyes, the strong nose and the sharp jaw and the soft, gentle smile. Broad shoulders, big, masculine hands, and a handful of pictures featuring a little boy, no more than two or three years old, his face either turned away from the camera or covered with a little green frog emoji for privacy.
Din the security consultant. Din the vintage car enthusiast. Din the self-defense instructor.
Din the DILF.
You had fired off a message to him as soon as you had gotten confirmation that he had liked you back, and he had been taking up space in your mind ever since. You had always preferred your men a little older, a little more experienced, and the fact that he was a dad, and a proud one at that, had gotten your motor running immediately. He looked like the kind of guy who knew the best bar in town to get an old fashioned and how to grill a good steak. He looked like the kind of guy who would open your car door for you, who would drive one-handed while the other rested calmly, possessively on your thigh. He looked like his palms were calloused and like his skin smelled good even fresh from the gym.
He looked like he had a big –
Fucking hell. It had been a long time since a man had given you this kind of brainrot without ever even meeting him. It was embarrassing and very much not consistent with your independent woman-about-town image you wore like a suit of armor. But you had never been the type of person to deny yourself. If you saw something you wanted, you went for it – full speed ahead. And Din…you definitely wanted Din.
If there was even a slight chance it was him…
Before you could overthink it any further, you saved your progress on your current edit, dropped your headphones around the back of your neck, and scooped up your phone. Tapping the notification, you brought up your messages tab and found one unread message staring back you.
It was from him.
Hi there. It’s nice to meet you. You seem like an interesting person. I would like to get to know you, too. Where is your favorite place you have traveled?
You drew your lower lip between your teeth, smothering a grin as though others might spot it and tease you despite being alone in your apartment. Something about the way he wrote – the dry punctuation, the complete, grammatically-correct sentences, the lack of emojis – all of it screamed someone who didn’t spend much time communicating electronically, let alone online dating. It was a refreshing change from the men you typically met on the apps, the whole thing endearing rather than off-putting and doing nothing to discourage your impression of his “dad” persona.
Poking out your tongue a little in concentration, you tapped out a quick response before you could lose your nerve.
ooo good question! hard to pick a favorite, but if i have to choose, i’d say thailand. i went there with some friends after we graduated college and we got to volunteer at an elephant sanctuary for a few days. coolest experience of my life hands down! what about you? are you a traveler?
His response came much faster than you expected, certainly faster than his response to your initial message.
I used to be. When I was first getting started, I used to travel a lot for work. I have been all over. I am more settled these days. It’s difficult to travel with a toddler on my own.
You nodded to yourself. That made sense. His boy looked young, and he was a self-described single father. You wondered what the story was there, but that was a level of personal that you didn’t need to dive into just yet. For now, your focus was on making sure this conversation didn’t fizzle out.
Frowning slightly, you realized he hadn’t really included anything in that message to prompt much of a response. However, before you could begin to fish around for something to send in reply, another message appeared.
Your profile says you’re a photographer. Your pictures are very unique. I don’t know much about photography, but I can tell that you have an eye for it. What made you interested in that field?
With a huff of a laugh and a mortifyingly strong flush, you closed out of Lightroom and abandoned your headphones on their stand. You weren’t getting any more work done for a while – you could already tell.
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The two of you messaged back and forth several more times that day, then again in fits and spurts over the next three days.
You shared how you got your start in photography and the way your best clients were the ones who embraced your photojournalistic style. You didn’t care for shots that were staged or overly posed, you told him. You liked capturing people’s authentic feelings in the moment, and he quipped that he had never been comfortable posing for photos anyway, so you should get along just fine.
You talked about how both of you desperately wanted a dog but neither of you were in a place where getting one would be a responsible choice. You compared your favorite local hiking trails and determined that although he had lived in the area for far longer than you, you had significantly more experience trekking through the nearby national park. You learned a lot about the ’81 Honda Goldwing that he had lovingly restored, how he used to ride it to and from work every day but that now it sat under a protective tarp in the back of his garage most of the time. It wasn’t exactly a toddler-friendly form of transportation, he explained.
In a moment of vulnerability, you confessed that you had moved to the city as a result of a breakup, in an attempt to get a change of scenery far from the place where you had made a home with another man. He confessed that he had never really made time for relationships in the past, but that his son had made him realize that there was plenty of room in his life for love. He finally felt ready to try, and you finally felt ready to try again.
You told him you thought he was stupidly handsome, that you had no idea how he was single if he didn’t want to be. He told you that he had thought the same about you.
Except I would call you beautiful. Not handsome. I guess unless that’s what you prefer?
no lmao, you wrote back. beautiful is fine. beautiful is perfect.
On day four of…whatever this newfound acquaintance was, you spent the full day shooting a wedding – from getting ready to first looks to family photos to the ceremony to the reception. You swore you could feel your phone burning a hole in your pocket the entire time, but you managed to stay professional and present throughout the length of your contracted hours. By the time you stumbled into your apartment, you were so exhausted, you couldn’t have been more eager to pour yourself some wine and melt into the couch with some trashy reality television. You were changed into your pajamas and a glass and a half deep by the time you allowed yourself to check your phone.
Buried beneath all of the other notifications you had gotten throughout the day, there was a single pop-up from your dating app.
1 New Message, it read. Received four hours ago.
Skipping past all of the other demands on your attention, you opened that notification first.
Hi sweetheart. I know you were photographing that wedding today, so don’t let me interrupt you. We can talk tomorrow, but if you could please message me when you’re done for the night? It would make me feel better to know that you made it home safe.  
Hi sweetheart, he had said.
Sweetheart.
A rush of heat passed over you at his words, and you swallowed thickly, wine burning its way down your throat at the thought of Din at home thinking about you, worrying about you. Had this been any other man, you might have found the message a bit overbearing, especially this early on, but rather than feeling controlled or stifled, instead you felt only warmth and safety. You felt…cared for. Protected. Important.
The sensation had you shifting in your seat, gulping down the remainder of your glass in a single go as you felt the apex of your thighs pulse with interest.
Din was so fucking hot, and he had no idea.
Setting your now-empty wine glass on the coffee table, you typed out a rapid reply and hit send.
heyy! made it home okay, thanks for checking in!
Fatigue pulling at your eyelids, arousal burning low in your belly, quickly-consumed wine flushing your limbs with a soft weightlessness, your thumbs seemed to move of their own accord as they tapped out a second message.
din idk how much longer i can keep this up without meeting you. i wanna see your handsome face in person. can i take u out sometime soon? please say yes.
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately tossed your phone to the other end of the couch as though it had burned you. It disappeared into the stack of throw pillows there, and you breathed a sigh of relief. You couldn’t look at it, couldn’t stand to wait for his reply knowing that it was after midnight, knowing that he likely had been asleep for hours and wouldn’t see your messages until morning. Taking a deep, calming breath to steady your nerves, you forced yourself to refocus on the television. One episode, you promised yourself, and then you would get some sleep.
Less than 10 minutes later, you felt the faint vibration of your phone travel through the couch cushions to where you sat, and your show was abandoned without question.
You tossed several of your unnecessarily large throw pillow collection onto the floor in your hasty search, and though you knew you would be annoyed at having to tidy them in the morning, in that moment, you could hardly bring yourself to care.
1 New Message, your phone screen read as you recovered it from the pile. With something akin to nausea roiling in your stomach, you opened the notification and resisted the urge to physically cross your fingers.
Glad to hear you made it home safely.
That was all. “Glad to hear you made it home safely.”
Your stomach sank like lead in your abdomen, all of the soft, fuzzy warmth of the wine and your arousal evaporating from your body like sweat on a hot day. Only exhaustion was left in its place – exhaustion and the surprisingly poignant hurt of rejection sitting heavy on your limbs. You had come on too strong, it seemed, stated your desires and intentions too boldly and directly. You ought to have held back more, ought to have waited longer before asking or maybe couched the question in a joke or a suggestion of something more casual first. Or maybe you shouldn’t have asked at all and instead waited for him to ask you out. You supposed men probably preferred that – to be the one to initiate, the one to take charge. Fuck, you were always so impatient, so goddamn eager –
In your sweating palm, your phone buzzed once more, interrupting your string of self-curses.
Nerves roiling beneath your skin, you risked a glance down at it.
1 New Message
You had no control over your body as you opened it, watching the action from inside your own mind as though walking through a dream.
As for your other message, of course my answer is yes. I want to meet you, too, sweetheart. But be warned. Even though you did the asking, I WILL argue with you if you attempt to pay for the whole date yourself. It’s against my personal creed to let a lady pay my way without contributing.
All of the breath left your lungs as you took in his words, reading them over and over again until you could recite them from memory.
He wanted to meet you. He wanted to go out with you.
A high, breathy laugh bubbled over from your chest, spilling through your lips into your quiet apartment like the glistening champagne tower at the wedding this evening. You laughed as you typed, as you hit send. You laughed as you turned off your TV and as you completed your evening skincare routine. You laughed as you crawled into bed, as you burrowed under the covers, delirious and giddy.
i think i can allow it just this once. wouldn’t wanna violate your creed.
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It took a handful of messages to determine the best place to meet. Din had offered to pick you up, wanting to treat you right, to be a gentleman, but he did not hold it against you when you turned him down. He understood that meeting a stranger from the internet, particularly as a woman, came with a particular set of risks, and he had no desire to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. He was happy to simply meet you there instead if that would make you feel safer.
Eventually, you settled on a moderately popular restaurant not far from your neighborhood. Din had never been there before, but over the last several days, he had discovered that the two of you shared a love of spicy food, and you had promised that the “modern Mexican fusion” menu did not disappoint.
they also have the cutest patio so we can sit outside if the weather’s nice 😊 , you had said, and he had been sold.
Under the assumption that Din would have a difficult time finding a sitter on a weekday evening, you agreed to wait until Friday to meet. However, the moment he had attempted to discretely broach the subject with Cara while on a jobsite, he immediately had three additional volunteers in Bo, Koska, and Axe, all of whom assured him that they hadn’t been eavesdropping and insisted that he had just been “really fucking loud” with his question.
So perhaps finding a sitter would not have been as challenging as he presumed.
Regardless, the two of you continued to chat throughout the week leading up to your date, first using the dating app’s messaging platform and then, eventually, via text. Din had grown weary of the limitations of the messaging interface days before, but he had been concerned about coming across as too forward if he were to ask for your number. But he needn’t have worried. You offered it freely late one night when the two of you were deep into a discussion about your favorite music artists, and something about getting to put your name and phone number into his contacts made the whole situation feel startlingly real. It had felt…personal, almost intimate. And it was nice.
If he was being honest with himself, it made him nervous – how much he liked you, how quickly he had begun to think of you as part of his daily routine. A text good morning after his pre-shift workout, when he knew you were just rolling out of bed. Checking his phone over lunch to find a whole stack of little videos you had found on the internet during your morning scroll, watching every single one of them as his coworkers rolled their eyes and laughed at how quickly he had fallen into line for you. Countless late-night conversations after he had tucked his son into bed, his tired body sprawled out on the couch or propped up against his headboard and wishing you were there with him.
He wanted to experience the laugh that went with that stunning smile from your photos. He wanted to hear you talk for hours on end about whatever crossed your mind while he just…listened. And fuck, did he want to touch you. It had been almost two weeks since he had first matched with you, and that need he had felt deep in his gut that first day he had seen your pictures had only gotten more acute over time. He had to know – for certain – whether the skin at the small of your back was as soft and warm as it looked. He had to know whether your plush thighs and generous hips would give beneath his hands.
He wanted you in his arms, in his lap, in his bed. He wanted you in his life, and he had never even met you.
He needed to rein it in, he knew. He didn’t want to come on too strong, and he didn’t want to dive headfirst into something without the proper consideration. It had been over a decade since he had last been in a relationship, and he was a completely different person now than he had been then. Not to mention his son. His boy was his top priority – the most important thing in his world. He would need to be cautious about dating anyone seriously with him in the picture.
But something told him that he had nothing to worry about with you, that you wouldn’t resent his priorities or demand things of him that he couldn’t give. And if things went well, and he liked you as much in person as he did online… If after a while, you earned his trust, his commitment…
You and the kid would get on like a house on fire. He could sense it.
But.
Before you could meet his son, before Din could welcome you fully into is life, he had to meet you.
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Din beat you to the restaurant that Friday.
You wouldn’t describe yourself as the type of person who was chronically late (though some of your friends might have had a different opinion on the matter), but in your defense, you had had a new client intake call right at the end of the day that had gone on for longer than you anticipated. Thankfully, you had gotten yourself ready before the call so that by the time the talkative new parents were done describing in great detail their precise vision for their new baby photoshoot, all that was left for you to do was slip on your shoes, grab your purse, and run out the door.
The walk to the restaurant was brief but pleasant, the weather having worked out perfectly for an outdoor meal, and as you approached, you spotted him immediately. Tall and absurdly broad, posted up outside the restaurant’s main entrance with his hands on his hips and one leg popped in a stance that absolutely screamed “dad,” even from a distance. He wore a long-sleeved, charcoal gray henley with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows and a couple buttons undone at the collar, well-fitting, dark-washed jeans, and a pair of black boots with thick soles that you had a feeling he favored when riding his motorcycle. A classic pair of dark sunglasses perched on his prominent nose, and in spite of the warm weather, he had a black leather jacket grasped in one fist, hanging down by his side by its collar.
In the golden hour sun against the worn brick of the restaurant’s exterior, he looked like something out of a movie. Or maybe a men’s cologne ad – something clean but rugged, so masculine you could die. Taking a deep breath against a sudden wave of nerves, you made a mental note to bring your camera the next time the two of you went out. If he was going to look this fucking delicious every time you saw one another, it would be a crime not to document it.
You were in the middle of crossing the street when he spotted you, and you watched with heat rising in your cheeks as he visibly paused and swept you from head to toe with his gaze. His adam’s apple bobbed, and then he was straightening himself and eating up the sidewalk in a handful of long strides to meet you when you arrived.
“Din?” you found yourself asking as you came to stand before him, as if you didn’t know, as if you wouldn’t recognize that striking face, those powerful shoulders anywhere in the world.
He offered you a gentle half-smile, ducking his chin in a single nod, and you took notice of his free hand balling up into a fist at his side, like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for you. After a beat, he replied, “It’s…good to see you, sweetheart. Happy you got here safe.”
His voice. Low and rasping, worn and manly, strangely reminding you of metal scraping against leather. It was painfully attractive, and you felt your cheeks darken further even as a grin spread across your lips.
You had been right. The man was a certified DILF, and he couldn’t have been any more your type if you had designed him in a lab yourself.
“Same to you,” you said, your voice sounding a bit breathless even to your own ears. “Should we go get a table?”
Din made an affirmative noise and gestured for you to precede him down the sidewalk. “I put our names in when I got here. The table should be ready any minute.”
A small thrill went through you at the realization that he must have gotten here at least 45 minutes ago if your table was nearly ready. This place notoriously didn’t take reservations, and there was always a wait, especially for the patio. Which reminded you…
Before you could think better of it, you asked, “Oh, did you request the patio by chance? Sitting out under the lights is the – ”
“ – best part, I remember,” he interjected, his tiny smile quirking up in one corner. “Yes, I requested the patio. They should text me when the table’s ready.” No sooner had the words left his mouth and he startled unexpectedly, glancing over his shoulder as though to look at his own back pocket. He reached behind himself and pulled out his phone, the sleek, black thing dwarfed in his broad palm, and you caught a glimpse of his background picture as he unlocked it.
A little boy with floppy, too-long, sandy-brown hair, huge dark eyes, and big ears, grinning up at the camera with a toothy smile. He was adorable.
“Ah. Speaking of. It’s ready,” he said, showing you the automated text. “After you.”
He gestured again for you to walk ahead of him, and you drew your lower lip between your teeth as you acquiesced. Not a moment later and you felt the soft, warm press of his palm against the small of your back, the steady, unobtrusive pressure gently guiding you toward the entrance to the restaurant. The sensation had something low and hot simmering in your abdomen, the way the heat of it sank through the fabric of your dress into your skin, the way your body listened to his touch instinctually. It was protective in a way that felt comforting rather than overbearing, and it occurred to you that such a thing would be easy to grow accustomed to.
You had always needed to be the one to look out for yourself. How freeing would it be to be able to trust another person to carry that for you, even if it was only every once in a while?
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Your restaurant recommendation proved to be a good one; the food was rich and delicious, the atmosphere was lively, and Din indulged in a couple of their house cervezas throughout the evening, which he found pleasantly light and refreshing. As the sun set behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the flagstone patio, colorful strings of lights crisscrossing the seating area flared to life. The effect was charming, particularly the way the lights cast a warm glow over your face, arcs of gold and red and green streaking across your hair and illuminating your eyes. You were so pretty – even more than he had expected, even more than in your photos. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt “enchanted” by a person before, but he would say that was close to describing how he felt sitting across the table from you.
To his great relief, Din found that the time passed just as quickly while talking to you in person as it did over the phone. You were sweet, funny, and quite talkative, so even when he found himself dipping into introverted lulls or long silences, you were there to pull him back out of himself. You seemed to have an endless fount of things to chat about, which was perfectly fine with him, as it meant he didn’t have to wrack his brain for things to say, and he got to listen to your voice.
You also seemed to find him funny, snorting cutely into your glass every time he said something even faintly amusing, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t have his ego swelling a bit. He liked the idea of being able to make you laugh. And when your eyes flashed at him over the rim of your margarita, when you drug the tip of your slick, pink tongue across the line of salt there, when you offered him a slow, knowing smile with just the barest flash of sharp little teeth…it wasn’t only his ego that threatened to swell.
That was one thing he had not accounted for, he found, one facet of your personality that he had only barely glimpsed over text that was now staring him in the face as the two of you wrapped up your meal. You were powerfully, blatantly flirtatious in a way that felt completely foreign to Din after more than a decade of singlehood. Your lowered lashes, your intentional eye contact, your sweet compliments. Your little touches across the table, burning the backs of his hands and the insides of his forearms with the warmth of your skin. And that wasn’t even mentioning the surreptitious peeks at your ample cleavage your dress kept allowing as you leaned and shifted in your chair. That one, perhaps, wasn’t intentional, but it was still making it difficult for him to avoid embarrassing himself in the middle of this restaurant.
When it became clear that the two of you could no longer draw out your meal, the debate over the check began. Thankfully, you did not propose to pay for both your meal and his, seemingly taking his warning to heart. However, you did suggest that you pay for your own meal and drinks, and something about that still rankled. Eventually, after much back and forth, you compromised and agreed that Din would pay for the meals while you would cover the drinks. The waitress had looked at you a bit oddly when you made the request, but she hadn’t protested, and a handful of minutes later, the two of you had paid and were making your way back out onto the sidewalk outside.
Din wasn’t ready for the night to end. Spending time with you was the most fun he had had with anyone that wasn’t a coworker in…well. Too long. You were sweet and funny and full of life, and every moment he spent in your presence, he could feel warmth and vitality being breathed back into his lungs. He wasn’t ready to let that go just yet.
Thankfully, neither, it seemed, were you. Slipping one of your manicured hands into his, you said, “You know, there’s a park a couple blocks from here with a really nice walking path. You want to go check it out?”
He glanced down at your joined hands, dragging the pad of his thumb across the ridge of your knuckles almost absently as he reveled in the feeling. You were so fucking soft, just like he knew you would be, and the sensation of your skin under his almost distracted him from his response. After a beat, he nodded, and you hit him with a thousand-watt smile that Din couldn’t help but return.
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You kept up a steady stream of conversation as you made your way to the park hand-in-hand. Din had proven just as easy to talk to in person as he had online, and although the evening had confirmed your suspicions that he was much more introverted than you, he was by no means reticent. He had matched you beat for beat all night, and even in the moments where he seemed to need a bit of prompting, you chalked it up to him simply being out of the game for a while and didn’t hold it against him.
More than anything, though, your impression of him as you made your way down the block was one of an old-fashioned gentleman. There was an earnestness, a seriousness about him that you had never really seen in a guy your age, and it made you feel like you were the only person in the world to him. It was a heady feeling, to be the center of such focused attention. You wondered if he knew that if he wasn’t careful, that attention was going to give you ideas. Ideas you weren’t certain someone with his sensibilities would be interested in on a first date.
Just when you thought you might need to pull him to the side of the walkway and give him a little taste of what you had in mind, his phone rang, and he dropped your hand to fish it from his back pocket.
You couldn’t stop yourself from taking a glance at the screen as he examined it. CARA DUNE, the caller ID read, and the photo that lit up the background was of a striking woman with raven black hair, sharp eyes, and smug smile.
Oh. You felt something in your chest deflate a little. Another woman.
Din pulled up short, looking at you with dark, apologetic eyes shadowed by the streetlamps. “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he said, and you found yourself nodding your agreement even as your stomach sank further. And to think, you had been convinced that this man was nothing but a bundle of green flags held together by a gap-necked henley and a pair of slutty black combat boots…
Turning away from you slightly, putting one of his broad shoulders between you and the view of his phone, he swiped up to answer the call.
“Dune? Everything okay?” he asked, a flavor of urgency to his tone that had you frowning.
Wait – Dune? He was calling her by her last name?
You couldn’t hear what the voice on the other side of the line said in reply, but you watched as Din’s shoulders dropped from up around his ears, and he brought his free hand up to squeeze the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, put him on.” A pause then, and he sighed deeply. “No, I don’t mind, really, you just scared the shit out of me. A call from you at this time of night? I thought something was wrong.” Another pause, and you could hear what you would swear were several voices talking over each other ringing from the phone’s speakers even as they were pressed against his ear. “Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Put him on.”
Din pulled the phone away from his face then and tapped the “video call” button on the glowing gray call interface. Half a breath later, the screen flared to life, blinding you a bit in the darkness, and the image of a little boy with unruly hair and dark, sleepy eyes blinked at him from the phone.
“Daddy!” the boy cried, a toothy grin splitting his chubby little cheeks as he seized the phone from whoever was holding it on his end. He was too close to the camera, the angle giving Din a spectacular view directly up the toddler’s nose, and you smothered a giggle as you watched the boy make faces at himself in the viewfinder.
“Hey, kiddo,” Din said softly, and oh, but you could hear the smile in his voice, could feel the fondness radiating off of him in waves even though you couldn’t see his face. Every sinking feeling that had taken over your body disappeared at the sound as you realized what exactly you were witnessing. The other woman was his babysitter.
“Are you being good for Aunt Cara? Hm?” he asked, and you could just melt at the gentleness in his low, rasping voice.
“Good!” the little boy replied, nodding vigorously in a way that bounced his floppy curls across his forehead.
Another face appeared on the screen, the same woman from the caller ID photo, and you watched as she scooped the squirmy kid up into her arms with an exaggerated, theatrical groan. “Tell him,” she prompted playfully. “Say we played with your airplanes and your cars.”
The little boy grinned toothily. “Yeah, cars!”
“And we wrestled with Uncle Axe and Aunt Koska,” Cara prompted, to which the kid giggled.
“I winned!”
Cara nodded with a fond smile. “That’s right, you won.”
From somewhere off-camera, another voice – this one male – called out in protest. “Debatable! I still say the ref was biased!”
The boy laughed again, the sound high-pitched and full of joy, and even the woman holding him seemed to be fighting back a chuckle as she plowed on. “And then Aunt Bo made dinner, and this little dude ate alllll his vegetables!”
“You did?” Din replied, genuine surprise coloring his words. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you!”
“Daddy! When you come home?”
From your angle slightly behind him, you could see your date’s shoulders fall slightly at the question, so sweetly and innocently asked in that little baby voice. On the other end of the line, Cara offered him what you would call an apologetic smile and shook her head. “Someone doesn’t want to go to bed without Dad.”
“Kiddo, Dad’s not going to be home until after your bedtime,” Din sighed. His words were slow and patient on the surface, but you swore you could hear a note of guilt underlying them, and it made your heart ache in your chest. “Remember, we talked about that before I left tonight? Aunt Cara is going to do bedtime tonight, and then when I get home, I promise I will come give you kiss, okay?”
The boy was clearly disappointed by this response, his eyebrows pulling up in the center and his wide, dark eyes shining pitifully through the screen, and he let out a wordless little whine that you were sure would have had you caving in an instant had it been directed at you. However, Din held strong. Voice low and gentle, he offered, “How about this – let’s say goodnight to each other right now instead. Is that okay? Just for tonight?”
He seemed to weigh that response for a moment, uncertain, but after a beat of silence, the kid tucked himself snugly under Cara’s chin and sighed. “Okaaaay.”
“Okay. I love you so much, kiddo. Get good sleep, have good dreams, and I’ll be there in the morning when you wake up.” Din’s words, so soft and intimate, sounded almost rehearsed to your ears, and you realized that this man was completing a long-standing bedtime ritual with his son via video chat in the middle of a darkened sidewalk on a Friday night. The thought had your heart swelling behind your ribs, the core of you warming and softening with a rush of fondness that you were helpless against.
Fuck. Din wasn’t just a DILF. He was also just a really good dad.
On the other side of the connection, Din’s little boy yawned widely and snuggled his curly head deeper into his babysitter’s chest. “Love you, Daddy,” he murmured sweetly, and you knew that if it were possible to die of cuteness, you would have done so that those words.
“I love you, too,” Din replied softly. “Good night, buddy.”
“Night night.”
Cara shifted the phone away from the kid’s sleepy face then, refocusing herself in the frame. “Okay, that should do it. I’m gonna go tuck this guy in while he’s still feeling cooperative.”
He was quick to nod his agreement, clearly not wishing to make this task any more difficult on his friend than he needed to. “Yeah, go. I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”
“Hey.” She sounded rather serious then, making intense eye contact with Din through the phone screen. “Take your time, ‘kay? I got this.”
“Have fun, Djarin!” another woman’s voice chimed from a distance, off-camera and seemingly getting further and further away as Cara carried Din’s son to bed.
There was a chorus of good-natured laughter, then the man’s voice from earlier returned. “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, eh?”
This, of course, was met with an uproar on the other side of the connection, none of which could be seen. All you could really make out was a stern woman’s voice, one you hadn’t heard before, groan, “Axe, I swear to god – ”
You laughed softly at that, hiding your smiling lips behind one of your hands and Din quickly started to fumble with his phone. “Oookay, that’s enough of that,” he muttered, and with a swipe of his thick thumb, he ended the call.
Slipping his phone into his back pocket once again, he finally turned back around to face you, guilt and embarrassment tightening the corners of his eyes. Even in the dark, you swore you could make out a flush high on his golden tanned cheekbones as he said, “I’m…sorry about that. My kid, he’s got some separation anxiety issues. He’s not used to me being out of the house at bedtime. Tried to talk to him about it before, but he’s not even three yet, and – ”
“Din,” you interjected, closing the narrow distance between the two of you and resting your palm on his arm. “You don’t have to explain. Or apologize. You’re a dad. Your kid comes first.” With a slow, sly smile, you slipped your hand into the crook of his arm, holding tight to it as you proceeded down the sidewalk once more. “Besides, that was an interesting look at your family dynamic. Or were those your friends? The one called Axe sounds like a character.”
He huffed a laugh at that. “Friends. Well, also my coworkers, but they were friends first. I’m an only child, so they’re the only aunts and uncles my kid has ever known.”
“How many of them are watching him tonight?”
“Four,” he replied with a grimace. “I had originally only asked Cara, but the others overhead and…wanted to support me, I guess. I think I mentioned, I don’t exactly do this often. I haven’t been on a date in…well. Let’s just say it’s been a long time.”
You smiled to yourself, feeling your cheeks heat at the idea that this man who didn’t date had decided that he wanted his first date in however long to be with you. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t going to go to your head a little. Leaning your forehead against his bicep so he couldn’t meet your eyes, you asked, “And how are you finding it?”
With a low, rasping chuckle, Din brought his free hand up to cover yours, wrapping his long fingers around the back of your hand where it cupped his elbow. “I’m thinking…if it means I get to spend time with you, I should do it more often.”
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Not even an hour later, Din found himself in the back of a cab, arm around your shoulders, fingers linked together, your beautiful face flushed and grinning wildly as you traced the very tip of your nose along his jugular. Your voice breathless and on the verge of laughter, you gave the driver what must have been the address of your apartment, but he couldn’t have repeated the words you said if you had paid him. He was far too distracted, too overwhelmed with where the night was heading to pay attention to such details. You were so soft against him, plastered up against his side. Your mussed hair on his cheek, your breasts against his chest, your round hip snug against his, and fuck, your lips – plump and swollen and glistening with his kisses, the ones he had stolen under the lamp light during your stroll through the park. He couldn’t believe he had done that. He couldn’t believe you had asked him to.
When the two of you had planned this evening, he had had a firm talk with himself – he would keep the physical contact to a minimum, he would not allow his eyes to wander inappropriately, he would be a perfect gentleman, he would treat you like a lady. First of all, because it was the bare minimum of what you deserved, and second of all, because tonight would be your first ever in-person meeting, and he wanted to be very clear that this meant more to him than just some casual hookup. Din had had plenty of those over the years to know that what he felt for you ran so much deeper than that, and he was loathe to give you the wrong idea about his intentions with you.
The moment he saw you walking across the street toward him – backlit by the golden hour sun, hair dancing in the breeze, all your perfect, curvaceous softness swaying with your perky stride – all of that chivalry had nearly been abandoned by the side of the road. And he had been fighting tooth and nail all evening to keep hold of the reins of his desire for you.
But the two of you had meandered through that park for a while. You had stopped along the shore of a little pond to admire the water, and you had looked up at him with these wide, soft eyes, your long lashes casting intricate shadows across your cheeks, and god, it had nearly killed him to keep his hands balled up in the pockets of his jacket.
And then you had taken the smallest step forward, eating up what little distance still remained between you.
And then you had whispered, in a voice so low he could barely hear you, “Will you kiss me, Din? Please?”
How could he have refused you?
Now your breath was on his neck, your lips softly brushing his skin, and he was slithering his arm down from around your shoulders and instead pressing his palm to your thigh. His fingers dug into the softness there of their own accord, tucking the tips inward and brushing his thumb across the cap of your knee firmly, possessively. He felt you exhale against his collarbone at the sensation, the softest, faintest sound of need reaching his ears, and then he was ducking his chin, finding your mouth again, pressing his lips to yours with an urgency that ought to have felt out of place with the poor cab driver sitting right there but somehow didn’t.
Your kiss tasted like lime from your margarita, like salt from the rim. Your fingers threading through his hair felt like heaven. Your body under his hands melted like putty, warm and pliant and so fucking soft that it had blood rushing to his cock, the swell of it pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans.
And it wasn’t enough. You needed more. He needed more.
Breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, Din pressed his forehead against yours, brushed the tip of his nose against yours. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and gravely in the hot, moist air between you. “We’ve got to slow down, or I’m going to embarrass myself.”
You shifted beneath his grip on your thigh, hips squirming in your seat, thighs pressing together, and when he met your heavy-lidded gaze, he was struck with how dark your eyes looked just now, how wide your pupils had blown. Shaking your head, you whispered, “Don’t care.”
He bit back a curse at the way his cock throbbed at your words, at the soft, panting tone of your voice. “Not going to fuck you in the back of a cab, baby.”
Giggling breathlessly, you tucked your face into the side of his neck to hide your blush. “You can’t talk to me like that and not expect me to be all over you, Din Djarin,” you huffed, the tip of your tongue darting out to taste the little patch of skin just beneath his earlobe. “S’not fair.”
“Not fair?” With gritted teeth, pure electricity running through his veins, he returned the favor and buried his nose in the soft, fragrant skin of neck. The scent of you there was intoxicating – warmth and musk with a touch of floral, a touch of sweetness. He wanted to sink his teeth into you, might have had you been alone. “Fine. You want not fair? I’ll give you not fair.”
Shooting a furtive glance at the driver, who mercifully seemed committed to keeping his eyes on the road, Din delicately slipped his leather jacket from where it had been tucked around your shoulders and instead draped it over your lap.
You pulled away from him slightly at that, meeting his gaze with bright, burning interest in your eyes as you realized what he was about to do.
“If we’re doing this,” he whispered, “you have to keep your eyes forward and your mouth shut. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
Din watched as you swallowed hard, your swollen lips parting with lust. You nodded wordlessly, and your thigh muscles tightened under his hand, now hidden by the drape of his jacket.
“Okay then. Not a sound.” He cocked his head toward the front of the cab. “Now face forward, behave yourself, and I’ll take care of you.”
He felt the sharp exhale of your breath against his face, and then you were obeying – shifting your hips square to the front of the car, turning to face the windshield, and balling your fists up at your sides. Din shifted, too, turning to face forward and tapping into every ounce of discipline his profession had ever instilled in him to school his expression into something carefully blank and neutral. Beneath his jacket, however, was a different story.
He started with a soothing caress of his palm from the cap of your knee to the top of your thigh, using the heat and the weight of his hand to ease your tense muscles. After a couple of passes, he could feel that softness return, and unprompted, your knees eased apart – not quite spread, not yet, just parted slightly as you relaxed into his touch. The realization sent a surge of satisfaction through him, and he could not stop himself from slipping his fingers down, down, down to the very edge of your knee and slowly starting to gather the fabric of your dress in his grip.
Din heard your breath catch for a moment as you realized what he was doing, and then it sped up, and your knees dropped even further apart. Before he could wrap his head around what he was about to do in the back of a cab car, he had hiked the skirt of your dress up far enough to slip his hand underneath.
Now it was his turn to not be able to breathe. Fuck, your thighs were soft – smooth like silk, supple and pillowy and forgiving as his calloused fingers traced slowly across your skin, seeking your warmth. He could feel a muscle in his jaw jump as his fingers drew higher, as you subtly adjusted yourself in your seat so you could open your legs even wider, permit him even closer to where you both knew you needed him. Every instinct in him begged him to go faster, to give you more, to whip the stifling cover of his jacket off your lap so he could take in the sight of his fingers reaching the smooth, cotton gusset of your panties with his own eyes. Instead, he pulled his face into a scowl of concentration and kept his pace measured.
By the time the side of his pinky bumped into the apex of your thighs, Din felt ready to combust with urgency. He could feel the heat of you there through the fabric, could feel the slickness seeping through it to dampen his skin, could feel the tension in your hips as you tried desperately not to arch into his touch. You were being so good for him, staying silent, never looking his way, just sitting there, the picture of innocence as you let him touch you. It had something hot and nearly feral rising in his chest, the fact that he could give you such impossible instructions in such an impossible scenario and you would drive yourself mad in an attempt to obey them.
It made him wonder what else you would do, if he asked, and just the question had his cock pulsing in his jeans. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Din tucked his fingers under the seam of your panties and slipped them softly, gently through your folds.
A groan bubbled up in his chest, and he allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment as he collected himself. You were absolutely dripping for him – hot and wet and slippery, trim little curls sticky with it, underwear soaked against the back of his hand. It coated his fingers, and it took every ounce of restraint in his arsenal to stop himself from pulling his hand from under the jacket and popping his fingers directly into his mouth. But no, he told himself. There would be time for that later. Now, you were practically vibrating in your seat trying to keep yourself together, and he needed to watch you fall apart before the cab arrived at your apartment.
Din allowed himself to gently pet you for another moment, reveling in the feel of your soft wetness, and then he was seeking your clit, finding it swollen and puffy and begging for attention near the top of your folds. With the first delicate caress, you lost the battle with your own vocal chords and let out a quiet, breathless whimper, and a rush of pride raced through him at the thought that he had finally overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn’t keep silent anymore. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning over into your space and murmuring into your ear, “I said keep quiet, sweetheart. Or I stop right now. Understood?”
You let out a shaky exhale, and Din felt more than saw you nod your agreement.
“Good girl,” he growled, and he swore he felt your clit pulse under his fingertips at his words. Interesting. That was something he was going to need to explore more later.
For now, he offered you a few more gentle caresses, a few soft, tight circles around your clit as acknowledgment of your suffering, and then he dipped down to your entrance and slowly, sweetly slipped his middle finger into your throbbing pussy.
God, you felt incredible – hot and wet and so fucking tight that he could feel his cock leaking in his jeans at the idea that he might have the opportunity to be inside you with more than just his fingers. Your velvet walls fluttered around him in desperate little waves as he gently thrust inside you, in and out, in and out, pressing deeper on each pass, seeking that elusive spot inside that he knew would make you see stars. After a handful of strokes, he added a second finger, and your hips stuttered at the stretch, hitching against his touch in a way that felt both needy and overwhelmed. You were so tight, and his fingers were so thick; it was no wonder it was a shock.
Din turned and dropped a tender, comforting kiss to the crown of your head. Fuck, you were so good, just sitting there in the back of the cab, letting him touch you, letting him finger you, letting him make you feel good. The ease with which you gave it all up to him was driving him insane. How long had it been since he had been with someone like you, someone who seemed to know innately what he needed, who fit with him so perfectly it was as though some divine being had had a hand in your introduction? Had it ever been this good? Had he ever needed someone as badly as he needed you?
Grinding the heel of his hand into your clit, Din sped up his thrusts. In and out, in and out, pressing, stretching, seeking. Your knees fell farther apart seemingly of their own accord, as your eyes had taken on a faraway look to them, staring unseeingly out the front windshield as you took what he gave you. In your lap, his leather jacket began to slip, and one end of it fell suspiciously down between your spread legs. Although his hand and the apex of your thighs were still hidden, if the driver were to take a look in his rearview mirror, he would clearly be able to tell what was happening in his back seat.
The same idea seemed to occur to you then, because in that moment, you broke his second rule – you glanced over at him with a fucked-out look of urgency on your face, and Din could swear he felt you starting to tighten. Fuck, this was turning you on. The near-exposure, the precarious position the two of you were in, it was making you drip around his fingers, making you clench around his thrusts.
You were a wild thing; Din had known it from the moment he laid eyes on you. Now here was the proof. You were going to come on his fingers in the back of a cab car, and then you were going to invite him up to your apartment and let him fuck you senseless –
“Here we are,” the driver said, his voice slow and unaffected, almost bored as he pulled the cab off to the side of the street and turned on his blinkers.
No matter how nonchalant his words, the sound of them sent a bolt of terror through the both of you, and in a flurry of limbs and fabric, each of you scrambled to put yourselves back together as the car came to a stop. Din yanked his fingers from your body, the quick withdrawal pulling a little hiccupping whine from your throat, but he paid it no heed as he tugged your skirt back down where it belonged around your knees. You gathered up his jacket and draped it over your arm, running your fingers through your mussed hair. By the time the car rolled to a complete stop, each of you were looking mostly put together, save Din’s raging hard-on tenting his jeans and your flush-cheeked, glassy-eyed stare.
Although he had already paid for the fare, as the two of you slid out of the back of the car, Din pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and discretely slipped it into the driver’s hand.
“Thanks for the ride,” he murmured hoarsely, and before the man could reply, he threaded his fingers through yours and followed your lead to the door of your apartment building.
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You would be lying if you said you hadn’t been hoping that this would be where the night would end – Din’s broad, calloused hand in yours, your dress askew and your thighs damp, the two of you moving with urgency down the hall outside your apartment, breathless laughter on your tongue. You had never been strictly opposed to sex on the first date, if the chemistry was there and you felt comfortable and safe with the person, and he had checked all of your boxes and then some from the moment you spotted him outside the restaurant that night. You had decided then and there; if the date went well, and he seemed to be on the same page, you would be taking him home with you that night.
You had worried that your advances might be a bit much for Din, but clearly, those fears had been unfounded. He seemed a bit overwhelmed, a bit in disbelief, but that hadn’t stopped him from jumping at every chance you had given him – holding your hand as you walked, kissing you down by the pond…
Giving you one of the hottest experiences of your life by stealthily fucking you with his fingers in the back of the cab while you struggled to stay perfectly silent and still…
Your pussy clenched at the memory of his thick fingers inside you, the perfect stretch of them, the way they had both soothed your ache for him while also somehow making it worse, knowing how much better it would be if it were his cock filling you up like that. Fuck. You needed this man, and you needed him now.
Thankfully, Din seemed to have no interest in stopping. When you finally reached your door, he wasted no time in crowding up behind you as you fumbled for your keys, hands slipping around your waist as he dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. Your eyelids drooped at the sensation, your hands halting in mid-air, keys dangling from your grip, and you felt more than heard him chuckle against your skin.
“Don’t get distracted, sweetheart. Open the door,” he murmured, breath hot on the shell of your ear, making you shiver. What a little shit.
After another second of fiddling with your keys, you finally were able to work open your door, and the two of you nearly fell inside. He slammed it shut behind you as you tossed your keys onto the nearby countertop, and then he was on you – one hand gripping the swell of your hip, one hand slipping along the side of your face to cup your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair at the base of your skull as he cradled you. You could smell yourself on him, the scent of your arousal clinging to the hand that now held your face, and god, you could swear your insides turned molten at the idea. His mouth was covering yours before you could comment on it, and then every lucid thought evaporated from your mind.
For a man who claimed to have been out of the dating pool for a while, Din certainly knew how to kiss – he was passionate, meticulous, and completely relentless in the way he took you apart. His lips were soft, his tongue precise, and the single-minded focus with which he stroked your jaw, coaxed you open, and devoured you was enough to make you blush.
Almost absently, you realized his other hand had swept around the crest of your hip and taken a palmful of your ass, and you whimpered into the kiss, your hips hitching toward him of their own accord. His hands were fucking huge, warm through the fabric of your dress, callouses on his palms catching on the fabric. You needed them all over you – on your skin, in your hair, between your legs –
Pulling his lips away from yours with a gasp, he groaned, “If this is too much – if this isn’t what you want – ”
You shook your head, digging your fingers into his dark brown curls, pulling his neck down to your mouth so you could suck on the skin there. “I want it, Din. I want it,” you reassured him.
You felt a shudder pass through him, and then both of his hands were on your ass, dragging you closer, pressing the full length of your torso along his. “Know it’s early, know we just met, don’t have to do anything you don’t want – ”
“Din!” Yanking his hair sharply until he hissed, you watched as he finally seemed to focus on you, eyes darkening as he took in your flushed face, your swollen lips, your glossy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I want to fuck you,” you proclaimed bluntly. His mouth dropped open, just slightly, pouty lower lip trembling as he stared at you. “Do you want to fuck me?”
The man blinked a few times, seemingly taken aback, but he didn’t allow the question to hang in the air for too long. With a heavy, audible swallow, Din replied, “Yeah, baby, I want to fuck you.”
A bright, electric thrill of victory surged through you, and you couldn’t have smothered the grin that split your face if you tried.
“Okay, then fuck me. And don’t hold back.”
You winked at him playfully, and a dangerous smirk that had your pussy fluttering pulled at the corner of his lips. No sooner had you registered the expression and he was toeing off his boots, leaving them abandoned in front of your door, and driving you backward into the apartment. A breathless yelp followed by a laugh escaped you as you allowed him to push you into your living room, shedding your own shoes as you went, and then you were kissing again, and just like before, all of your surroundings melted away.
A rush of cool air met your thighs as balled fists pulled up the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric in worn palms as more and more of your body was revealed, and you let it go gladly. Lifting your arms above your head, you allowed him to pull the whole thing off over your head, and through the wild, fluffed-up strands of hair dangling in your eyes, you watched as he took you in – your blushing cheeks, your heavy, heaving breasts cupped in a black cotton bra, your soft, rounded belly, your thick thighs and wide hips, the narrow strip your black cotton thong completely soaked through and clinging to your pussy lips. You had no name for the expression on his face, but if you had to relate it to something, you would say it was close to awe.
Din was in awe of you, completely and utterly gone for you, and the surge of power that sent through your veins was like a drug.
“Take off your shirt,” you murmured, lip between your teeth, and as he rushed to obey, you dropped to your knees in front of him.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t – ” he groaned, but your hands were already working his belt buckle open, already thumbing at the button of his jeans.
“But I want to.” Looking up at him through your lashes with wide, soft eyes, you held his gaze as you slipped his zipper down, as you felt the hardness poorly concealed behind it swell and surge against your palm. “So let me.”
He gave no further protests, simply watched as you tucked your thumbs into the waistband of both his jeans and his charcoal gray boxer briefs and shoved, pulling them both down around his knees in one, smooth tug. One more push and they were pooled around his ankles, and then Din was stumbling out of them, holding onto the back of a nearby armchair for support as he kicked them aside.
He was naked now, staring down at you with dark, heated eyes, broad, muscled chest rising and falling with every labored breath, and fuck, if he wasn’t the most beautiful man you had ever seen. Thick and strong with long, powerful limbs and a soft stomach, a fine dusting of dark brown hair from his bellybutton down, and miles and miles of golden tanned skin decorated with a heavily curated collection of black and gray tattoos that you hadn’t been able to see earlier. They looked like beautiful work, and you were eager to examine them later, but for now, something else was begging for your attention, and you couldn’t ignore it any longer even if you wanted to.
Inches from your face, long and thick and curved, flushed and leaking precum, his cock was just as beautiful as the rest of him, and you needed it in your mouth. Now.
Holding yourself steady with one hand on his narrow hip, one hand around the base of him, you leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside before taking the tip of him in your mouth and suckling gently. Slick musk coated your tongue, and you moaned at the taste, immediately surging forward and taking more. Above you, Din let out a colorful string of curses and dropped a hand to the back of your head, cupping the bowl of your skull in his palm as you worked yourself over him. He never put any pressure there, never thrust himself deeper than you were choosing to take him, but you could feel his restraint in the tension in his hips, in the grip of his fingers in your hair.
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman for you. You kind of wished he would give it up already.
Pulling back, letting his cock fall from your mouth, you took up your strokes with your hand and said, “S’okay, baby. You can take what you need from me. M’not gonna break.”
Din groaned, low and gravelly in his chest, and then he was using his grip on your head to coax you up and back onto your feet. “Need to fuck you, sweetheart – I can’t wait any more.”
Your cunt bottomed out at that, the swooping sensation deep inside you almost leaving you dizzy, and although you had been looking forward to sucking him off, you found yourself nodding your agreement anyway. “Where do you want me?” you asked, and the question had him tugging you forward into a hard kiss.
“On the couch,” he growled. “Just need to feel you around me.”
Pulling him deeper into the living room, you shed your bra as you went, tossing it who-knows-where in your eagerness. You could feel his eyes on you – on them – as your breasts swayed with your movement, and perhaps such direct attention ought to have made you self-conscious, but instead in made you bold. The moment the backs of your knees collided with the couch, you stripped your thong from your body while holding his gaze, and the pure, molten want in his stare had you feeling like the sexiest woman he had ever seen.
“Lie back,” he rasped, and you were quick to obey, laying down with your head at one end and your legs stretched out along the length of the couch. Snagging one of your many throw pillows, Din tapped the side of your hip twice, adding, “Lift your hips for me, pretty girl.”
You did, and he slid that pillow underneath your ass. Then he was clambering up onto the couch with you, all long limbs and big hands and sweat-damp curls, kneeling between your legs, urging one of them up to drape over the back of the couch, nudging the other down to drip limply onto the floor. You went where he guided you, happy to arrange yourself however he pleased as long as it meant you got to feel that gorgeous cock inside you.
But he started with his fingers first, coaxing and petting and caressing your dripping folds in much the same way that he had in the back of the cab, only this time, you were free to arch your hips into his touch and let out soft, breathy moans with every delicate stroke.
Din seemed to realize this at the same time you did, as he began to nod slowly, encouragingly as he slipped two fingers into your quivering, grasping pussy. “That’s it, let me hear you now. You don’t have to be quiet anymore, sweetheart. Let me hear you feel good.”
And fuck, but it did feel good – his fingers stretching you, filling you, pressing steadily against that soft, elusive spot inside you with every thrust, making you want to thrust against him, to drive him deeper, to take even more of him.
“God, baby, you’re so fucking wet. Is that good? Is that what you need?” he groaned, and you nodded furiously, too overcome to speak, just knowing you needed him to keep going…needed him to give you more.
Again, it was like Din realized what you wanted at the same time you did. Gently slipping his fingers from you, he used the thick coating of your wetness on them to stroke his cock as he shuffled forward on his knees. Pressing down on the blunt, swollen tip with his thumb, he dragged his length through your folds collecting your slick, starting at your entrance and sliding smoothly up to your clit. You let out a low, startled moan at the feeling, and you couldn’t help but grind against him, letting the tip of his cock press and circle against your puffy, throbbing clit. Shit, when was the last time you had hooked up with someone and been this outrageously turned on? You felt like you were on the ragged edge of your orgasm already, and he had barely touched you.
However, just as Din began to trail the head of his cock back down to your entrance, a shock of reality broke through your dazed, lust-fogged mind, and you found yourself pressing your hand against his stomach, stopping him from thrusting in.
“Condom,” you panted, sex-addled and breathless. “We need a condom.”
His dark brown eyes widened with a sudden wave of awareness, and you felt him pull back immediately. “Shit. You’re right, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I wasn’t thinking.”
You let out a winded laugh and shook your head. “Me, neither. Did you bring one? I have some if you need.”
Din nodded, hopping up from the couch and crossing back over to where the two of you had abandoned his jeans. Digging his wallet out of the pocket, he slid a conspicuous foil packet from inside then dropped the wallet back onto the pile of denim. A moment later, he was settled back between your legs, perched up on his knees with his hands on your thighs and the condom tucked securely between two of his fingers.
“You ready, sweetheart?” he asked, and you nodded urgently.
“So ready. Beyond ready.”
Your eagerness seemed to be all he needed to get back into the moment. With a few quick strokes of his cock, he ripped the condom wrapper open with his teeth and slid it on. You watched with hooded eyes, lower lip trapped between your teeth, and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to stroke him yourself as the latex stretched over his skin. Din groaned at your touch, and then he shooed your hands away and lined himself up with your entrance.
“Eyes on me, pretty girl. Want to see your face while you take me,” he groaned, and with one long, smooth thrust, he filled your cunt with his throbbing length.
“Ah! Fuck, Din!”
It took everything in you not to let your eyes fall shut as he thrust inside you. The stretch was incredible – just the slightest burn, but even with his size, it wasn’t too much after how he well had prepared you, how long he had teased you in the cab, how turned on you were. It was enough to feel truly full – stuffed to the brim, the weight of him absolutely gorgeous as he bore down on all your most sensitive spots. Above you, your date was gritting his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his nostrils flared, as he dug his fingers into your thighs with a grip so hard it would likely bruise. He seemed to be fighting very hard to keep himself together, and you immediately felt the sinister urge to clench around him just to watch him struggle. Instead, you chose to take mercy on him and simply roll your hips against his, driving him deeper.
“No – shit, baby, you can’t – ” he stammered, hands tightening on your legs even harder, hips surging forward in the smallest of thrusts completely out of his control. “I am…hanging on by a thread here, and if you – ”
“If I what?” you taunted, the power you had over him flowing through you like an aphrodisiac, making you bold, making you reckless. “If I do this?” You rolled your hips against his again, smooth and lazy, and you could actually feel his cock throb and twitch inside you.
Deep in his chest, Din released what could only be described as an animalistic growl, and in an instant, he had one hand tucked behind the back of your knee – the one up on the back of the couch – and the other gripping the couch cushion beside your head. Arching his broad, muscular body over yours, bringing his face down to your level, he pressed your knee back toward your head and thrust so deep into you, you couldn’t help but whine at the feeling.
“Naughty girl,” he rasped.
You nodded with a smile. “You like that about me.”
He huffed a laugh into the hot, humid space between you, shaking his head at you exasperatedly. “You’re right, I do. But right now – ” He pulled back his hips until just the very tip of his cock remained inside you, brows drawn low in concentration. “ – right now, I really just need to fuck you. Can I, sweetheart? Can I just fuck you?” He thrust back in, all the way to the hilt, and you could swear your cunt was literally dripping at the intoxicating feeling. Your body was writhing beneath him, completely out of your control, and you swore that if he didn’t just fucking rail you in the next three seconds, your head might explode.  
“I swear to god, Din, if you ask me one more time – ”
His mouth sealed over yours before you could finish your sentence, and then he was finally – finally – fucking you.
With swift, firm thrusts, he drilled you into the couch cushions, all hesitance and restraint fully evaporated. The angle was perfect, the extra height and the little tilt added by the throw pillow exactly what you needed to have his cock dragging against your G-spot on every thrust, and that combined with the way his pubic bone ground against your clit had you moaning and whimpering and digging your manicured nails into his shoulders in your ecstasy. Din was like a force of nature, the way he fucked – gripping your thigh, driving your leg back toward your head, holding your eye contact, watching with deep, unflappable intensity as you trembled and shook beneath him. Every once in a while, he would drop his gaze to trace over your soft, folded stomach or to watch the hypnotic bounce of your tits, but mostly, he kept his eyes on yours, and rather than making you self-conscious, it simply drove the heat between you higher, made it more powerful.
“Thought about this,” he confessed, a whine creeping into the edge of his low voice as his thrusts sped up. “All those fucking pictures of you – doing yoga – all bent and twisted and – flexible.”
A smirk made its way onto your face, and you ran your fingers through his hair, brushing his limp curls out of his eyes. “Yeah? You like a bendy girl, Din Djarin? How’s it live up to the fantasy?”
He groaned, leaning even further forward to press his sweaty forehead into yours, driving your leg even further back toward your face. Tucking your knee up onto his shoulder, the angle of his cock inside you deepened. “Even better,” he admitted. “You’re perfect – so perfect.”
“P-Perfect?” God, that soft, spongy tip was hammering your G-spot now; you could barely comprehend any of the words he said to you, let alone string together any of your own.
“Perfect body,” he elaborated, gritting his teeth, groaning loudly. “Sweet, soft, perfect p-pussy. Perfect – hnng fuck – perfect girl.”
“Din!” you gasped. That low pool of heat in your abdomen was starting to tighten, starting to pulse. You could feel it rising inside you, threatening to take you over. It felt…massive, life-altering in a way you hadn’t known orgasms could be, but fuck, if this one wasn’t promising to do it.
“Shit, baby, can feel you,” Din groaned. “You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my cock? Hm?”
“Y-Yes, I’m gonna – you’re gonna make me – ” You hiccupped a sob, raking your fingernails down his arms in a move that had him hissing and his hips stuttering as he thrust. “Fuck, I’m so close!”
“What do you need? What’s gonna get you there?”
“My clit – can I – ?”
He cursed, dropping a wet, sucking, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Yeah, baby, touch yourself. Make yourself come. Need to feel it.”
Wiggling one of your hands into the tight space between your bodies, the tip of your middle finger found your throbbing clit and immediately began to play. You wouldn’t need much more – just something a little more direct, a little more concentrated, a little more –
“Yes! Fuck, Din, right there!”
And then you were gone – that tight, wet heat inside you bursting, dripping down his cock and flinging you into the stars on the edge of the event horizon. The walls of your cunt pulsed around him as you rode out your high, and Din was quick to follow you into his own abyss, unable to hold back anymore the moment he had felt you start to fall apart. With one final, deep surge of his hips, you felt his cock pulse and twitch inside you, and for a brief, wild moment, you regretted the use of the condom. You would have liked to have felt the warmth of him spilling inside you.
In the aftermath, Din was tender, as you had had no doubt he would be. After the two of you had taken a moment to catch your breath, he reached a hand down to hold onto the base of the condom as he pulled out. A low, husky groan escaped him as he withdrew, and you felt a sympathetic throb deep inside you at the sound. Even now, everything he did was unthinkably hot.
A moment later, he had removed and tied off the condom and retreated to your kitchen to toss it, returning with a warm rag he had clearly dampened in your sink. He was gentle and methodical as he cleaned you, wiping between and around your swollen pussy lips with steady hands before he moved on to cleaning himself.
He would need to go now, you realized. He had likely already stayed out later than he had planned, already imposed upon the generosity of his friends long enough. His little boy was waiting for him, and as much as you wished he could stay, you knew it would be unreasonable to ask him to.
So without prompting, you pulled yourself up to sitting, and when he came back from tossing the rag back into the kitchen, you rose to your feet.
You had to admit, you felt a bit exposed, a bit awkward, but even now, as Din looked at you, you could see all of the same warmth and affection you had seen in his eyes before the sex, and that eased your nerves a bit. The first real nerves you had felt since the start of the night, you realized.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I have to – ”
“I know,” you interrupted, giving him a smile you weren’t certain would reach your eyes. “I understand. It’s late. You have to be getting back.”
“I do,” he agreed. Crossing to stand just in front of you, he reached out a hand and traced the backs of his fingers down your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “Thank you for tonight. I had a great time with you. And not just…this.” He gestured awkwardly at the surrounding room, at his own nakedness that matched yours, at the trail of clothes between the couch and the apartment door. You giggled in spite of yourself, and he joined in, the whole mood lightening considerably as the two of you found your way back to laughing with one another.
“I had a great time with you, too,” you said, draping your arms around his neck. “I’d like to do it again sometime, if you’re interested.”
Din smiled, soft and genuine, and pressed a kiss to your hairline. “I’m definitely interested. And, ah, maybe next time I’ll call in a few favors. See if I can arrange an overnight sitter.”
You snorted, tucking your face into his neck as joy began to bubble beneath the surface of your skin, making you feel light and filling you with an impish energy in spite of the hour. “Hey, if you can swing it, I’m definitely not going to say no. I’d like to actually, I don’t know, make it to the bed next time? Maybe?”
He playfully squeezed your sides in response, and you let out a squeal. “Can you blame me?” he quipped. “Driving me insane all night.”
Offering him a tongue-touched smile, you pulled away and started collecting his clothing from around the room. “Again. You like that about me, baby,” you teased. With a wink, you dropped the bundle of clothes into his waiting arms. “Now get your cute ass back in these jeans. And go kiss your son good-night.”
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A handful of minutes later, Din was fully dressed and hovering by the door to your apartment, the scent of you still lingering on his skin, his heart lighter and freer than he had felt in years. You had gone and gotten yourself a robe to cover up with while he dressed, and now you stood, hip leaning against your kitchen cabinets, arms crossed over your ample chest, watching him attempt to delay the inevitable of having to say good-bye.
He didn’t want to leave you – he hoped you knew.
He didn’t want to sleep away from his son, but he also didn’t want to leave you. An impossible conundrum, and one that didn’t bear examination seeing as this was only your first time meeting in person. It was far too early for the direction his mind was heading; he headed it off before it could travel any further down the road.
Instead, he gathered you into his arms one final time for the night, cradled your face in his hands, and planted a soft, gentle kiss on your swollen lips. “Good night, sweetheart. Can I text you in the morning?”
“You can text me anytime,” you replied with a smile. “You could even, um…call me. If you wanted. When you have some free time.”
Din drew back for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, if that’s okay with you. I’d like to call you.”
Your smile widened, and he could swear he felt a piece of his heart leave his body and lodge itself in you at the sight. “Great. Then I’ll look forward to hearing your voice again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he echoed, and with one final kiss, Din slipped out the door.
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troublesomesnitch · 8 months ago
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The Novice
Aemond x Septa!Reader
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The one-eyed prince makes a late night confession.
Contents: Book!Aemond. Pure filth, extremely dubious consent/non-con. Confessional dirty talk, coercion, power imbalance.
Words: 4200
Mostly book!Aemond, but with some show elements added to make him a real piece of shit.
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CW: sexual assault!
Proof read, but I am not good at proof reading.
-
Twice a week, the grand sept receives fine visitors.
It is always something you look forward to, something special and exciting; hearing guards in the streets outside, and the swift feet of errand boys running to inform your superiors.
The queen will be arriving shortly. 
There is not much preparation that needs to be done, because you never tarry in your duties - there are always fresh matches laid out, candles ready to be lit, not a spec of dust on the altars. But for the queen, you go above and beyond. You fetch cushions for her dainty knees, you light incense in every corner, and you usher out any crowds that are not worthy of her presence. 
You greatly admire the queen. She is all that a lady should be, the very image of womanhood. Gracious, pious, beautifully but modestly dressed, and always kind and courteous to you. She says thank you, and blessed day, sweet Sister, and she asks about your training, your health and wellbeing, what charitable causes you wish to devote yourself to. 
The older septas say that the queen seems to have taken a liking to you, and that perhaps if you are lucky, she will request for you to join her household once you have taken your vows. To be a helper and companion to her daughter, and to teach the little prince and princess - her grandchildren, which is a strange thought, because the queen is so young and so beautiful to already be a grandmother. 
She is certainly much younger than her husband. The king is old and frail and rarely leaves his castle now, but even in his youth, he never came to the sept. At least that is what you are told. Septon Alester says he is an unworthy husband, and an unworthy ruler, too. A heretic, like all the rest of his Valyrian kin, who flout divine law and believe themselves above the gods. 
You would never dare to utter such a thing, but it seems at least partially true - in all the time you have served the sept, the king has never accompanied his queen to prayer. Not even once. She always comes alone, escorted by her guard and her maid. And sometimes by her son. 
The one-eyed prince. The one who rides the largest beast in the world. 
There are many rumours swirling about noble lords and ladies, but especially about him. In the taverns and winesinks people say he is of a sullen disposition, and that the loss of his eye at such a young age has left his face hideous and deformed - clearly they have never seen him, but you have, and you know it is nothing more than malicious slander. 
The prince is as beautiful as his mother. 
They look lovely when they kneel together by the altar, with their hands delicately folded and their heads respectfully bowed. Regal, godly. Like the Mother and the Warrior, you think. You often wonder about the contents of his prayers - what could a royal prince possibly wish for? Not as many things as a queen, it would seem, because he never kneels for as long, retreating after a minute or two to stand and wait for his mother. Watch over her; look at her with devotion and reverence. You cannot help but steal quick glances at him; at his graceful posture and his strong face, and you are always too slow to look away, so sometimes he catches you in it. Even when you stand on his blind side, he somehow knows to turn his head and meet your gaze. The little bow he gives you is courteous, but the taunting smile that follows is not, and you must always remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong. 
It is not a sin to be curious. 
When the evening bell tolls, and the city gates close, the High Septon calls to prayer. But one person must always stay behind to keep vigil until the morning, and the duty is shared between all servants of the Faith. Septons and septas, novices, even holy brothers and sisters, sometimes. Only the Most Devout are exempt from it, as well as those who are weakened by illness or old age.
You are neither, but you do not mind taking your turn. It is an easy task, as all of the city is asleep, and those who are not would much rather drink and carouse than come to a place of worship. Here, the night is quiet and calm, and you quite like these hours of solitude. Alone in the sept with only the statues, and maybe the gods, for company. 
On this day though, you are startled from your thoughts when the heavy doors are swung open. 
You have never before encountered guests at this hour, so your fearful imagination is quick to jump to conclusions - the man could be a thief, a common brute, a scoundrel hiding from a brawl, or - gods forbid - from the City Watch.
But when you peek out from your little corner, you are surprised to see that it is the prince. And that he is alone. 
He is dressed differently tonight, in dull colours and coarser fabrics, far simpler than what he usually wears. Perhaps in an attempt to go unnoticed among the common people - but if that was indeed his intention, he has very much failed. Everything about him is unusual, from his hair to his eye to the shining silver clasp at his neck; the immaculate tailoring of each of his garments. Even the way he carries himself makes it abundantly clear that this is no grocer or stonemason. 
You cast your eyes down as his steps echo through the sept, purposeful and determined.  Clearly heading towards you, but you would hate to be presumptuous, so it is only when he is right in front of you that you rise from your seat to curtsy. Reverently, so deep that your knee almost touches the floor. 
“Sister,” he nods. “I have sins I wish to confess - a troubled mind I wish to unburden.” 
You curtsy once more, though not as low this time.
“I am not ordained to hear confessions, but I should be happy to fetch a septon - “
“No,” the prince says. “I will speak to no one but you.” 
What he demands is a breach of the rules, and a cruel thing to ask of you, but there is not much to be done about it. You can hardly refuse a prince of the realm, and what if he tells his mother that you were unhelpful? After all, it is your sacred duty to comfort and guide the faithful. To lead them on the path to righteousness. 
So you nod, draping your veil over your head as you both sit down on your little bench. Right beside one another, so close that your legs almost touch. A proper septa would say confess, and may the Father judge you justly, but that is not appropriate for you, so you merely look down at your folded hands and wait for the prince to speak. 
“I am plagued by impure thoughts,” he begins. 
The colour drains from your face in an instant. Oh, not this. 
Anything else, you do believe you could handle. Envy, drunkenness, greed, gambling, even violent offences, perhaps. Anything but this. But you remain calm; force yourself to keep your composure as you speak. 
“All young men have impure thoughts. It is perfectly natural.”
From the corner of your eye, it looks as though the prince smiles ever so slightly. 
“Of course,” he nods. “But mine are by nature nefarious, because the lady I desire is a chaste and pious woman… a maiden, and justly proud of her innocence. She would be distraught if she knew the wickedness she inspires.”
You feel yourself blushing. Although you are sufficiently educated on the matter, speaking of such things makes you feel ashamed and uncomfortable. As it would most young women. Confession or not, nothing about this conversation is appropriate, and you want nothing more than to be done with it and return to quiet contemplation. You keep your eyes cast down, and you are as curt as you dare when you answer. 
“Then you should not sully her, My Prince, even in your thoughts. You should pray to the Smith for strength, or to the Warrior if you prefer, and occupy yourself with noble pursuits. Prayer, studies, and so forth.”
“Oh, but I do,” the prince says gravely. “I devote my every hour to noble pursuits. And yet time and time again I sully her, and my own hand too in the process -  yes, I must confess that I have sinned exceedingly, in both thought and deed. These urges of mine are so unbearable, I simply must relieve myself…” He pauses to look at you coolly, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “You look quite pale, Septa, is my confession too scandalous for you? I should hope the Faith would not admit a novice so unfit for her position…”
“Of course not,” you quickly mutter, though in truth, you are mortified. This is far beyond your station and skill. Not only is the matter highly delicate, but you must also carefully choose your words so as to not offend a member of the royal family. And one with a - supposedly - unfortunate temper at that. 
“It is not for me to command a prince,” you begin, “but it is my duty to remind you that the Faith condemns such practices - surely you know that by indulging your urges, you will only make them stronger.”
“I have tried to refrain from it,” the prince laments. “But even then, she haunts me…  at night, I dream that I lie on top of her - that I spread her thighs and press her body to my own. And these dreams are so vivid, so terribly arousing, they often cause me to - forgive me, Sister - emit my seed.” He sighs deeply, and turns his face away, his shoulders tense; his handsome features full of torment. “A rather shameful predicament, for a grown man - is it not?” 
Perhaps, you think, but a common one nonetheless, and not something he should be chastised for. You know perfectly well that there are some functions of a man’s body that are beyond his control, as do the gods who made it so. It is best not to dwell on it. 
“My Prince,” you say instead, with what little confidence you can muster, “ - with your permission, I would offer you this advice: if you cannot restrain yourself, and if you care for this lady, then you should court and wed her.” You fiddle nervously with your dress, lowering your voice to barely more than a whisper. “It is a wholesome thing, for spouses to give their bodies to each other - for a man to make love to his wife…”  
The prince hums, either in agreement or contemplation, you can’t tell. But you hope he will take your words to heart, and make this irresistible woman his wife. If the mere sight of her can stir such passion, then he would surely grow to love her deeply, and their union would be happy and prosperous. Blessed by the gods.
- Or maybe not.
“I am afraid that is not possible,” the prince says. Slowly, thoughtfully. “Because you see, my lady is a septa - a novice, as it were…” 
His words trail off, and his hand reaches to caress your face, right by the edge of your veil, where a strand of hair has loosened from its pin. 
You recoil at once, springing from your seat to look at him with shock and horror. 
“This is highly improper - “
“I have thought of nothing but you,” he exclaims, impassioned, rising quickly to reach for you once more, “ - since the day I saw you, I have wanted no one else - ”
Again you manage to evade his embrace, but the prince is tall, and his legs are long and agile. Each one of his strides is worth two of yours, and when you back away he follows, stepping ever closer until you are backed up against a pillar.
Oh how you wish that it had only been a thief come to rob the sept. You could have easily escaped out the little hidden door by the dias; let them take whatever riches they could carry.  There is only silver here, and the Faith has no shortage of that.
The prince is after something far more precious. 
“Don’t touch me - ” you plead, feeling your pulse quicken, the hair rise on the back of your neck. He is too near, moving to loom over you, intimidating and imposing, and so tall that he must bend to brush his nose against your hair. 
“It is a waste,” he murmurs. “That such beauty should only belong to the gods.”
You should flee. You should defend your virtue. Maids and ladies, harlots and tavern girls, all women know to protect themselves, to kick where a man is the weakest, to scratch, bite, shout, make a racket. There are guards patrolling the square outside, and septons sleeping nearby in their cells - if you were loud enough, someone would hear you and come to your aid. 
But at what cost, when your assailant is a prince? 
You dare not risk it, so you stand frozen in place, too frightened to push him away, too frightened to even look at him as he gropes your body, touching it in ways that it has never been, and should never be touched. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other trails over your dress, feeling your shape underneath the fabric. Your stomach, your hips, your bottom, and especially your breasts. 
He cups them with both hands, kneading and massaging them hard, pressing his fingers into your flesh.
“I would take you right here,” he breathes. “Against this very pillar, for all your gods to see - ” 
The blasphemy, the shameless vulgarity - you gasp, and at the sound, the prince chuckles faintly. 
“You said yourself it is a wholesome thing…”
“For husbands and wives -” you squeak, “please, you mustn’t hurt me!“
“Never,” he says, bringing your hand to rest on his chest, over his heart, as if to reassure you. “If you would only oblige me, I swear I will be gentle…”
You shake your head, but it does not dissuade him. He kisses your hair, your cheeks, the shell of your ear, touching his lips to every little sliver of exposed skin. Not just your face and neck, but your forearms too, your wrists, the insides of your elbows. Anywhere that lets him truly feel you. Feel the rapid beat of your pulse; the warmth and softness of a woman’s body.
And as he touches you, you feel him. His manhood, stiff against your hip when he presses himself against you, moaning softly at the feeling. It is a most intimate sound, and you are ashamed to realise that your body instinctively responds to it; to the closeness, the touch of a man. You feel warm in your chest, and wet between your legs - unnerving, and so at odds with the panic that still grips you, with the tears that prickle in your eyes. 
“Please don’t - ” you whimper, just as his teeth graze your jaw, drawing a single, involuntary sigh from your lips. One that spurs him on to swiftly yank the veil off your head and discard it, fully exposing your hair and neck. 
He pulls back to look at you, your neatly pinned tresses, your smooth throat and collarbones. Your beauty that he has long wished to admire. 
“Like an angel,” he says softly, longingly, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “A little angel - the Maiden in the flesh - “
“That is a blasphemous thing to say,” you sniffle. 
It only makes him laugh, and before you can say anything else, he tilts your face up so he can press his mouth to yours. 
No one has ever kissed you before. Many boys have wanted to, but none were ever allowed the privilege. You always knew you did not want to be a wife. That you had a different calling. 
It is a very strange sensation, this kiss. Hot, wet, and sticky. You do not return it, and yet the prince is undeterred, parting your lips softly but insistently, just enough to slip his tongue inside. It gives him pleasure, even when your mouth is slack and unresponsive - you can tell from his blissful sighs, and from the indecent way he moves his hips, rubbing the prominent bulge in his trousers against you. He is so entranced by your mouth and your body that you feel a treacherous sense of relief, thinking to yourself that if this is how he wants to gratify himself - by licking your tongue and humping against your hip - you will let him. No real harm has been done to your virtue, and the gods will understand you had no choice. Already you are silently saying your prayers, to the Warrior for courage, the Mother for compassion, the Father for leniency  -
But you are cruelly interrupted when the prince draws back and begins to loosen the closure of his breeches. 
“No - oh no, no - ,” you shriek, but as you try to wriggle from his grasp, his face hardens and his gentle touch becomes like a vice. Rough and unyielding, holding you in place. 
“You must forgive me,” he rasps, his gaze dark with lust, his nostrils flaring, “ - for I can no longer deprive myself of what I so desire...”
He is so much stronger than you. With an impeccably polished boot he shoves your feet apart, his one hand pinning your arms behind your back, the other hiking up your skirts, determined, deaf to your frantic pleas. 
“You don’t understand, I must remain chaste!”
“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, “I know the workings of the Faith, you’ve taken no solemn vows yet - “
“No, I have, I have!” you cry. “I pledged myself to the Maiden when I was a girl!”
It is the truth, but the prince does not care. He silences you with another desperate kiss, crushing his face to yours, reaching to hook his hand under your knee and lift your leg. He has you trapped, pinned between his body and the stone column, and you can claw at him until your hands bleed, it makes no difference. Your dress is bunched up, your legs forcibly parted, your most intimate secrets laid bare to be violated. A great sin, made even greater by the circumstances, and yet the gods have abandoned you, left you here to suffer. 
They must be occupied elsewhere, and the statues too stand motionless on their plinths, with their tranquil faces, staring blankly into the distance as though deliberately blind to your tragedy. 
To the hand that worms its way underneath your smallclothes. The nails that dig into the back of your neck, holding your head in place. The mouth that swallows up your sobs until he is forced to break the kiss so he can reach between your bodies and finish unlacing his breeches. 
You gasp for breath, looking up and straight at him, your eyes wet and pleading, your lip trembling. 
“Don’t ruin me, please - I beg you, don’t take from me what can never be replaced - “
The prince’s hand hesitates on your thigh. His one eye flickers between your two, between the tears that flow uncontrollably down your cheeks; your little hands clenched into fists against his chest.
For a split second there’s a shadow of something softer on his face, a strange draw around his mouth, and then he curses and releases your leg. And you bolt, without thinking, ducking under his arm to sprint towards the door and safety. 
You manage all of two steps before the prince catches you and pins you to the pillar once more. 
“Not yet - ” he orders, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers to finally free his member from its confines. He cradles it at the base to proudly show it off before he begins to stroke himself, shamelessly and urgently, while you look on. At once frightened and sinfully curious. 
You have never seen it before. The masculine organ. Only in drawings, of which some were intended to educate young women, and others were of a much lewder nature. The prince’s manhood does look much like those anatomical illustrations, only it is bigger in person than you had imagined. Hard and swollen with need. It fits perfectly in his fist, and the skin glides back to reveal the head, which is thick and meaty, and a dark purple red. It almost looks as though it should be painful for him, having it filled and engorged in such a way. Having it stretched to be so big. But of course you know that is not the case. And even if you didn’t, his gasp of pleasure would have made it very clear. 
He reaches for your wrist, tugging it down between his legs, and you are quick to look away when he closes your fingers around it, with his own hand on top. Somehow, you reason that if you keep your eyes averted, it is not as sinful. Not as deserving of punishment. 
But you can still feel it. In your palm, against your clammy skin. Warm, and pulsing as he squeezes your fingers tight around the shaft, moving them from the base to the tip and back down again, using your hand to pleasure himself. Slowly at first, but as his arousal grows he quickens the pace, moving your hand only over the tip of his member, massaging the bulbous head with quick movements. All the while groping at your chest.
And you let him do it. All of it, resigning yourself to be used at his will and pleasure. It is the best and safest course of action now, and all you can do is bear it. You keep your sobs inside, and your eyes cast down, staring mindlessly at the patterns in the stone floor until the prince’s hand seizes your jaw. 
“Look at me,” he commands through gritted teeth, running his thumb over your mouth, pressing against your lips. “Open - suck, use your tongue - “
You do as he says, wanting so desperately to just be done with it - once he has finished he will surely let you go. The thought prompts you to suck on his fingers with increasing fervour, taking them deep into your mouth, running your tongue along the length of them, along his knuckles; making him gasp at the feeling.  
“Fuck, like that - gods yes,” he moans, letting go of your hand to lean against the pillar for support, his eye falling closed, his hips making shallow, instinctive thrusts.
You continue with the same movements, up and down over his manhood, trying to mimic exactly what he did before, whilst still sucking on his fingers, too. Letting him feel your soft mouth and your warm lips; your little wet tongue caressing his skin. You haven’t a clue as to what you are supposed to be doing, and there is no grace or skill to your licks, but each swirl of your tongue makes the prince moan regardless. He would probably much rather feel this attention somewhere else, but clearly he has the wits to know that shoving his member into an unwilling mouth is not a wise idea. So he contents himself with this. 
And thankfully, it does not take long before your efforts are rewarded.
When you choke back a mewl his hips jerk forward, and his hand flies down to close around yours again, guiding you to squeeze him harder and faster. His jaw goes slack, and his manhood stiffens even more, and even though you are inexperienced, you know what it means. You can feel it, feel his sac tighten, feel him twitch in your hand as semen travels up his shaft. He bends to lean his forehead against yours, and finally, finally, he spurts, moaning with pleasure as he empties himself onto your hand, his seed pulsing out in hot, wet squirts. Soiling not only your skin and your dress, but your conscience too; your virtue, honour and dignity.
And at last it is over. 
The prince slumps forwards against you, hiding his face in your neck. His body trembles with the final waves of his rapture, and he brushes his fingers over your hair in a strangely intimate way, a tender way. As though you were lovers. 
In a sense, now, you suppose you are. 
Before he leaves you he quickly tidies his clothes, throwing his cloak around his shoulders and tucking his shirt into his trousers. And once he has made himself presentable, he retrieves your veil too. Brushing it off with a gloved hand and draping it over your head once more. 
“Thank you, Sister,” he says sweetly, cradling your face to kiss your lips and then your forehead. “I feel much more at ease now.” 
No sooner have the doors closed behind him before you fall to your knees by the Maiden’s altar to beg for her forgiveness. 
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Part 2: The Devil You Know
Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.
Tags. @arcielee, @helaelaemond, @targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost.
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marwhoa · 1 year ago
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request: You write the turtles boys so well! I literally can't stop smiling when I read your fics - they're so sweet and endearing. I was wondering, only if it strikes your interest of course, if you'd consider writing about the boys being jealous of each other when the reader spends time with them one on one? Like, maybe a slot for Leo where he thinks reader finds Donnie funnier? Or one for mikey, where he thinks that reader likes how big raph is? Or for raph, where he thinks reader is more enamored with Leo? Or Donnie, where he worries that Mikey is flirting with reader? Of course they're all misunderstandings, and maybe it could end all fluffy with confessions and comforting their respective boy? If not, don't worry, but if so, thank you! 1 look forward to whatever you put out next.
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🝮 “ green with envy ”
rise!boys x y/n
author’s note: screaming profusely !!! eeeee !!! So hey yeah here’s a fic, this took a while because it sat in my notes for days before I finally posted it, my bad. This was kinda hard cause I’m not experienced in the realm of jealousy—hopefully y’all like it? ᗡ: also does envy even fit this scenario? Lmao I just be naming these fics any thing, can y’all tell?
word count: 6.1k
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┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Leo 💌
Leo never expected he could ever become… jealous, not him—no, no, NEVER him. He had too much pride, too much confidence. There should have never been any room for doubt in his ability to keep you focused and adoring on him, and him alone.
But, perhaps he had given himself too much credit? Or, maybe he had given his twin too little credit.
It wasn’t as though you were his. Just friends, and technically that meant you belonged to the whole family, not just him. But, no one could blame him for coveting you. From how starry-eyed you looked at him to how genuinely you laughed at his jokes, Leo found out too late that he had been falling for you, and here he was still falling. The way your nose crinkled when you laughed, or how your face lit up during Mikey’s dinner times, even down to the wheezing laugh you would give into if he pushed his jokes on too long, all of it spelled out lovely disaster for his heart.
But, fear not, he thought. He was the face man and the funniest turtle, surely there was no competition? No one could be better than him at getting you to make the faces you did.
Or well, it should’ve been no one. He wasn’t even all that funny, but Donnie managed to get you to keel over to some stuff he said—and he didn’t even intend for them to be jokes! A natural comic, can you believe the nerve of this guy?
So, yeah, Leo never expected himself to be jealous, and especially never towards his own brother, but god the way you were showing that tickled-silly expression to Donnie, wiping tears as he confusedly asked what was so funny? It had him gripping the arm of their couch, digging his nails into them. He wasn’t going to take this any longer! Sure Donnie meant no harm and would never try to swoop in and steal the prize he had his eye on, but Leo couldn’t help but still be… aggravated.
The pent-up annoyance was dispelled by the red-slider leaping over the couch, sassily walking over and snaking his arm across your waist.
“ Yeah, whatever, Donnie is sooo funny, but hey, Y/N, let me show you something better! ”
Never mind the fact that he had nothing planned as he twirled his katana in his other hand, slicing the air until a blue portal shimmered into existence. You glanced back and waved good bye to Donnie, fully intrigued by whatever it was Leo wanted to show you.
“ Oh—okay! What is it? ”
“ Who am I to ruin a surprise? ”
He cocked a brow at your question, tugging you through the portal and stepping out into the courtyard of the Witch’s city. While amazed, you wondered just what this had to do with anything—but, of course that was a comment you would keep to yourself until having fully exhausted the excitement of exploring not just any random town, but rather a town of witches!
“ Oh, Leo, finally! I’ve been begging you to bring me here for weeks! ”
Before he could even say anything, you were quickly rushing up to the nearest shop and sparking up conversation. Such a busy bee, but it was just another aspect of you he was captivated by. However, with such an impromptu visit to a rather overwhelming area, he found chances to spark conversation and get you to laugh to be stretched few and far between.
“ Oh wow, this store really doesn’t leave mushroom for walk-through, huh? ”
He gestured to a potions-ingredients shop, which, you guessed it, specialized in all things fungal-based. His shoulders drooped as you continued ahead, not even hearing him. That joke was gold! Huffing, Leo caught up with you and laced his fingers around your wrist, effortlessly stopping you in your tracks.
“ Mm? Leo? ”
You stared up at him with such a look of focus, all your attention finally fully on him, and he had to fight his legs not to reduce to jelly instantly. Instead, he took a deep breath, cocked his head, and insisted you follow him.
Down weaving alleys, through crowds of people, eventually you reached a park unlike any seen on the surface. The paths were lined with thick, luscious plants cultivated through the town’s magic. Foliage swayed with no wind, as though dancing like silk fabric to whatever music only they heard.
Your attention only left the plants when you heard Leo start clearing his throat and then flashing you a look that you recognized all too well. A grin was already tugging at your lips, and Leo finally felt like he was the only one in your world again. His hands held onto his belt and he kicked out his legs, faking as though he were tipping a hat. It seemed like some western cowboy impersonation?
“ What in carnation? ”
There you went, first with a light and short laugh.
“ Well I do say, I took a leaf of faith bringing you here,”
Which then melded into a series, topped with a “ Wait, Leo, hush—please! ”, all stuttered and peppered through your increasing laughter.
“—but, beleaf it or not—“
He wasn’t even able to finish the entire spiel before you were holding onto him, laughing with such a melodious voice. Which, of course, devolved into your trademark wheeze n’snort after dragging on too long.
“ Pwffhaaha!! Leo, wha-what’s with you today? ”
You wiped away a tear, and suddenly Leo was finally brought back to reality. Your hand on his forearm lingered, and he was just completely beside himself with how the glowing willows beside the garden softened your face ever-so-perfectly.
“ Y/N… ”
His voice was so uncharacteristically soft that it had you a tad bit spooked, hand gripping a teensy tighter. Your head cocked slightly in confusion.
“ I.. Ugh, okay, it’s—it’s dumb! But—“
He dragged his hands down his face, groaning exhaustedly.
“ I thought, maybe, you might’ve… Liked Donnie, more than me. ”
“ Huh? Why would you think that, I love all of you guys? ”
“ Yeah, but I love you, and—“
The shock painted on your face had him holding his breath. Alarms went off in his head, telling him he maybe should have held his tongue, not jumped ahead so quickly. The two of you searched each other’s eyes in silence, you recovering from what he said, and him preparing himself for what you would say. Soon enough, your face twisted into a confusion tinged with a bit of playfulness.
“ Wait a second.. You’re jealous, aren’t you? Of Donnie? What for? ”
“ What? What do you mean what for? You, you’ve been laughing at everything he said all day, don’t you think he’s funnier? Don’t you like him more?! ”
If it weren’t his dumb puns and act earlier, it was this that would do you in.
“ Leo, you dummy! Sure I was laughing, but that doesn’t mean I like him more than you, I just, well… ”
It was your turn to be a bit bashful as your eyes looked everywhere except him.
“ I, well.. You’re my favorite, Leo, not Donnie.. ”
As you batted your eyes at him, hoping he would connect the dots thoroughly, your answer was given in the form of his beaming expression as he swept you into his arms, spinning.
“ Ah-hah! So you do like me—and I’m the funnier turtle!? ”
“ Oh no, I shouldn’t have said anything, now you’re too powerful! ”
Playfully you cried, leaning back with your hand dramatically draped across your forehead. Leo chuckled at your antics leaning in to lay his head against your stomach as he tightened his hold firmly.
This was definitely something he would rub in his brother’s face later on—and said brother would be profusely confused by what brought it on???
┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Mikey 💌
Mikey was the last turtle you ever considered could suffer from the classic ailment of “ jealousy ”, and you couldn’t help but feel both ashamed yet intrigued.
While you weren’t too sure what it was that had got him so riled up, you were observant enough to see the way his eyes lit up with a startling emotion. At first it was impossible to pinpoint, just a glimpse of something indiscernible yet startling that crept into his blue hues at the oddest of times.
The first time you had seen that frightful emotion peek its head was during a date. The two of you had decided to hit a bar late at night, him donning a cloaking brooch, of course.
When you arrived, the loud music was entrancing, luring you both onto the dance floor to get lost in each other’s arms. The music coiled around you both, closing the gap to a suffocatingly tight end, as if either of you couldn’t stand any sort of distance apart. The floor vibrated, from both the booming speakers and the music reverberating the whole building alongside the dancing bodies around you both.
Mikey beamed with the brightest smile, and you just knew he was laughing, albeit drowned out from the ambiance. You were both having the time of your lives. Absorbed into a bubble fit for only the two of you, eyes locked on each other, neither party was ready for the stranger’s hands that snaked around your waist, pulling you in without any mind paid to you already having a devoted dance partner.
Chills set in and you turned to Mikey instantly, locking eyes, but the look in his eyes was enough to have your voice hitch in your throat.
That night ended with you both getting kicked out after Mikey wailed on the guy, but after a while, you both laughed and talked all about the fight on the way home.
The next time you saw that look was when you were hanging out with Leo while waiting for Mikey to return back from patrol. He had invited you over, and you planned to do it after wrapping up a few things, so he figured he could finish a patrol and be ready for you when you got done.
Unfortunately for him, you happened to finish your escapade much too early, and thus were at the lair awaiting his return. Leo happened to pass by, so you roped him into a conversation to bide the time. When Mikey did eventually come home, he stepped in to see you nearly keeled over in laughter.
You had been laughing so hard that when you noticed Mikey, you gave a weak wave and continued dying. He was curious what the joke was, but Leo simply shook his head and left, his own laugh dwindling down the hall. Once you recovered and were on your feet, you caught that same scary emotion swirling in his eyes. He tightened his lips and only softened when he turned to you.
More and more questions arose as you came to experience this look time and time again in all kinds of situations, but the one that finally made all the clicks pop into place was his outburst after you were with Raph.
He had been taking care of some villains on patrol with Mikey when you had ended up in the wrong place, wrong time. Their battle had turned to a violent one, with the villain bashed straight into a wall. Debris crumbled down right as you turned the corner, eyes shooting up to see parts of the building falling towards you. There was no time to move, so you just closed your eyes shut right and braced yourself.
But, no pain ever came, just a bit of dust. You opened your eyes, seeing a huge shadow casted over your body, and when you looked up?
It was Raph, who blocked the falling debris with his mighty shell.
“ Raph! “
You yelped, heart thundering in your chest, and Mikey misunderstood the shimmer in your eyes as Raph rose to full height, throwing the concrete off and away. He misinterpreted why you hugged him so tightly when he scooped you up, taking you away from the damage and ushering you to run the other way.
When you’re focusing on the wrong things, it’s easy to get the signs wrong, and boy had the ache in Mikey’s heart got everything so totally wrong. You liked Raph, didn’t you? Why else would you look at him like that? Did you like it when folks were bigger than you, unlike him who simply had an inch or two on you?
How could he be so stupid?
So, that’s how you ended up where you were now, seconds from entering your apartment when Mikey met you with a sour look on his face. You noticed that same glint in his eyes, still trying to piece together what it meant.
“ Why didn’t you tell me? ”
His voice wavered, and you responded with a hum of confusion. Inviting him in, he closed the door behind you both. His lips tugged down as he searched everywhere for the words to say. Finally, he found them and settled back on you as you were putting things down and unwinding.
“ With Raph! You like him, don’t you?! ”
“ Wha? ”
“ You—You! ”
He seemed frustrated, wracking his brain until finally he threw his hands out and shouted.
“ DO YOU LOVE RAPH MORE BECAUSE HE’S SO BIG?! ”
Silence blanketed you both as you processed his words. Finally, you placed a word on the emotion you always saw in his eyes. Struggling not to laugh at the absurdity, you snorted and shook your head.
“ Jealousy! That’s wh—wait, no, Mikey, no, I don’t ‘Love Raph cause he’s big’ ”
“ Then why do you like him more!? ”
“ Where is this coming from, Mikey, I don’t like Raph like that—I like you. ”
You stepped closer, and Mikey let you in. Your hands reached up, cupping his cheeks, and he leaned into them with such a desperation that you felt bad for finding this whole situation so silly.
“ Just, you always seem so happy when he’s around, and whenever he saves you instead, you always.. ”
His eyes were elsewhere as he spoke, almost as though he were seeing the absurdity in it all now with a clearer mind.
“ Ahh, mhmm, yup, alright so Mikey usually people are very happy when they’re saved from danger—and I mean, I probably look happy cause I’m friends with him too, but I’m dating you, silly. ”
You booped his snoot, smiling as his eyes lit up with the love you were accustomed to seeing them full of.
┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Raph 💌
If there was any one of the brothers full of insecurities, it would come as no surprise as the spotlight shone upon the red turtle, atop the winner’s pedestal. As someone who once led his brothers in the face of battle, who grew up with the elder sibling curse of forced parenthood, it came as no shock that there were a couple of problems sprinkled into his character.
While he had spent much of his life up to this point recovering and healing from what dared chip at his exterior, there was more than a few bits of stubborn grime that lingered on his surface. It ate away at him, leaving behind vulnerabilities.
Then you came along, and throughout the honeymoon period he experienced nothing but delights. Never had the negative Nancy in his brain perked up to talk her shit, misleading him in circles until he was a mess of unbundled, tangled up rope.
You were a light, something that seemed to power wash the grime away, cake over it with your delicate touch and sweet words. Much smaller than he, you were probably one of the kindest humans he met, someone he cherished more than life itself.
And that, in and of itself, was a vulnerability. You were his weakness, and the shrewd dark spots in his brain couldn’t wait for the rose-colored glass to shatter and let them sink their teeth into this beauteous opportunity.
The sensible part of him knew your kindness knew no ends, that it wasn’t limited or excluded to simply him or a select few. In fact, your sweet demeanor shared with his brothers? It was a breath of relief—it was an understatement to say he had been nervous to introduce you to the family. You were okay with him because he saved you, but his brothers and father weren’t present. They hadn’t been the heroes slamming down against concrete, scaring away the silverfish that preyed upon you one fateful night.
Turns out the trash-eaters had a hankering for good food, and you, all alone, on your way back home with a doggy-bag from Cleo’s Beach Shack, served to be the perfect target.
The night had been quiet, albeit suspiciously so, but your full tummy and weary limbs had their guard fully down. You daydreamed of the bed awaiting you at home, arms beckoning you forth with pillowy softness.
That delightful image was disturbed by the sudden rustling and clank you heard from behind. Turning, your eyes shooed away dreamland and were alert. An empty can rolled from a bush, tinking into someone’s trash can at the curb. Not a soul in sight, so surely it must have been one of New York’s infamous rats? Y’know, that creature that is practically extinct in this city, like there’s no way you would ever see them—definitely not at the metro nor the coffee shop, and surely never this residential street with primo rat hot-spots such as unsupervised trash cans full of food waste.
Yeah, of course, must have been a rat. You’re so paranoid, just hurry on home, nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad ever happens to pretty little guys like you, alone on dimly lit streets, lined with houses whose doors are locked to high hell.
Nothing bad, especially not like the cold metal that clamped firmly on your ankle. Never anything as worse as the chilling growl from whatever tripped you up, glaring with red eyes and flicking a long, sharp-looking tail.
“ Oh sh—“
Your voice feebly complained, raising into a scream to the heavens above as it lunged towards you.
Or well, towards your to-go bag, but who’s paying attention to the little things like that when your life is flashing before your eyes?
Thankfully, the end never came. There was the sound of a growling struggle after a tremor shook your shivering frame, and as you opened your eyes to peek at whatever held up your attacker, a silhouette towered over you. He casted a long shadow over you, which should have been intimidating as hell, but instead it left you feeling…
Safer?
In his hand laid two identical buggers, squirming and chomping with animalistic hunger. This had to have been worse than the rats, you’d take the rats any day, at least they weren’t massive.
… well okay, they are, but this is a whole ‘nother level.
The most shocking part was this giant hero taking a step back, assuming the position of a pitcher, and launching the creatures into the distance. There may have been a glint shining, and was that the cheer of an audience you were hearing? No, that was your imagination, obviously.
But you were not imagining this guy in front of you. Much too tall to be human, unless it was some basketball lead who somehow had balls of steel to save a stranger.
Every warning sign imaginable was washed away without a trace as your savior turned around and shot a shaky smile, warm as a summer sun.
“ S-Sorry about that, are ya okay? ”
He spoke with the timidness of someone a fourth his size, and you couldn’t help but be completely charmed to death.
From that day you would see him more and more, to the point that it felt as if maybe he had been appointed your personal body guard. Ah, but, you didn’t really mind, did you? You loved his company and his toothy grins. You adored his warm, gentle hugs, and it was too sweet how you could feel his hands tremble as they held yours ever so delicately.
So yeah, he worried to introduce you to his family, but the way you brightened up the room instantly had him starstruck. You’re perfect, that’s it. That’s the tweet.
The rosey glass shattered after a few lingering months of dating. His insecurities reared their heads, resting sharp grips on his shoulders as they whispered in his ears all kinds of falsities. You liked his brothers, but maybe you liked his brothers? Why else would you be so nice to them?
And, maybe that’s why you were smiling at Leo like that? Raph is right here, so why were you talking to his brother? He couldn’t even focus enough to heard you both holding the most mundane conversation ever about some shop that opened up over on Moore’s. He steeped in the tea of jealousy, filling his senses to the brim with worry.
The worst part about it was that if you liked Leo, he couldn’t even blame you. Leo was like water, while Raph was stone. Raph stood still, he could be bossy at times, while Leo was a spunky little river that would keep you on your toes. Leo was never boring, and he could keep a smile on your face for as long as the day lasted..
But he didn’t want any of that to be true. None of it.
The conversation was stopped by a meek voice asking for your time, attention shifting from Brother Blue to your beloved, clad in what became your favorite color in these past few months.
“ Y/N, can we talk? ”
Ignoring Leo’s nudge and teasing “ ooooooohs ”, you nodded with a smile, following Raph with a pep in your step.
“ Of course, dear. ”
That lead to the silence you currently shared—with him leaning against the wall of his room, gaze fixated on some smudges on the floor. That should be cleaned up, he thought, trying to not think of how you were sat on his bed, awaiting whatever it was he needed off his chest.
“ Raph? ”
You were the first to talk, already well acquainted with your love’s tiptoeing when it came to any sort of conversation that might be unsavory. You watched as he twisted his expression, tightening his lips—whatever it was, it was bothering him profusely, and you couldn’t help the pang gripping your heart..
“ Raph…? ”
Again, your voice seemed weaker this time. That was what gave him the drive to speak, he couldn’t handle leaving you in such a state, he needed to know if these worries of his were dumb!
“ Do you like Leo? ”
“ What. ”
Your response was so fast and curt, the product of being completely taken off guard with a left hook. There were plenty of other ideas you had for the direction of this conversation, such as having beaten his leftovers last week or how you have his favorite hoodie in your laundry basket right now. Maybe even the secret trips to Donnie’s, who was currently helping you get together a gift for Raph’s birthday next month. A particularly low worry even fretted that this might be a conversation about your relationship and how it should end.
But, instead it’s about Leo? What an easy question to answer!
“ Sorry, I didn’t mean that, I mean to say no. ”
Raph’s shoulders loosened and a breath of relief slipped out of him—when had he even started holding his breath?? Never mind that. You snorted at the absurd thought of liking Leo of all people.
“ Why would I like Leo? Raph, c’mere. ”
You held your hands out, and the way his hands fell into yours spelled out a desperation to be close to you. With a gentle tug, he climbed onto his bed, and you melted into his chest. A storm was brewing in his chest, his heart thundering nervously.
“ Ya just, Raph don’t know, something—he, just… Raph was worried, s’all. Afraid ya preferred him over a… ”
While he was searching for whatever word to insult himself with, you captured his attention with a gentle peck on the lips. Your fingers gently held his chin, turning his focus to lay fully on you.
“ Over a charming, handsome hero? ”
There was that adorable smile, peppering his lips as a light laugh erupted from his chest.
“ You think I’d prefer Leo, who is a risky little ticking time bomb, over my knight in shining armor? ”
He whispered a rebuttal, something along the lines of “ he really is, huh? ”
“ Oh Raph-a-doodle, never could I want anyone other than you. ”
Leaning up, you pressed your forehead against his and gazed into his eyes. They searched yours for a hint of deceit, for anything to latch onto and spiral about, but all he found was warmth.
Thus, the jealousy flame died out, and he plummeted backwards against his bed, dragging you down with him. He gave a heavy exhale as you giggled atop his plastron, scolding him for being so silly.
┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Donnie 💌
The green of jealousy was a hue you never expected to be painted across the purple canvas you called your boyfriend, but surely there is a chance for any reality to blossom true, right?
Jealousy had sewn seeds far before either of you could catch on, oblivious to the roots which spiraled and narrowed vision to see only one option as opposed to the myriad of other reasonings. You had poured love into your dearest Donnie, so much so that you couldn’t even fathom any room for jealousy. How could he ever be jealous? Surely he knows full and well just how you look at him? Obviously he knows just how only he can pluck the strings of your heart, strumming love with each touch, in a way unlike any other.
Why, if you were Excalibur, then he was your King Arthur.
So, yeah, may the gods above forgive you for not considering a jealous Donnie as a reality to worry about—though, is it really too worrying? Your boyfriend being jealous? Kind of interesting, doesn’t it just trip up your heart into a flurry of skips?
No? Just me?
Anyways, you had missed entirely the shifting of his gaze when Mikey would enter the room. The low growl, the holding of his breath, none of it had appeared in your mind as you laughed along with whatever silly antics the youngest brother would get up to. Sometimes you would even entertain him! I mean, he is your boyfriend’s little brother, so it’s only right that you laugh at his jokes, get along with him, and all that good stuff.
But, jealousy was the type to hold someone still, to draw their gaze upon one stiff perspective and allow no other reasoning. For a man of science, even he was not above the laws of insecurity in relationships, so when he saw how bouncy his brother was around you, never did he contemplate the obvious. Nary a thought shall he consider that it was simply his brother getting along with his brother’s girlfriend, nor did he consider maybe you were being nice. No, the sour, bitter green dipped his head in the nastiness of jealousy, and all he could consider in this moment was that you must have liked his brother more.
Or maybe, his brother liked you and intended to steal you away? Why else would you laugh so heartily at whatever nonsense his brother spouted? Whatever reason was there for the times he would find you in the kitchen, fixing up dinner alongside Mikey? What else could explain you returning home with topside art supplies and personalized tips to his youngest brother?
Obviously the jealous mind of Donatello Hamato was going to omit one important factor: you did this with all his brothers. If they told a good joke, you would laugh. If Mikey made dinner, you were guaranteed to be in the kitchen helping by fixing you and Donnie’s plates to your liking. If there was something on the surface any of the brothers needed, you would totally put it on your errand run, delivering it during your next visit.
But, jealousy cares not for easy explanations. It craves the most dramatic interpretations, and in this case?
The juiciest interpretation was that Mikey had set his eyes on you, Donnie’s prized lover, and you had fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.
No, no, no, Donnie says, not on his watch would he let you be swept off your feet by anyone else.
“ Y/N. ”
Donnie leaned forward, fingers firmly locking with yours and giving an urgent tug. There was a thickness layered in his eyes that left Mikey shrinking away, confused as to what he could’ve done wrong.
“ Let’s go,”
Straightening up, he couldn’t help the grin widening on his face in a “ I’ve won ” type of manner. You simply waved to his brother.
“ You haven’t forgotten why you’re here, have you? ”
The look in his eyes caused your heart to skip, unprepared for such a heavy gaze that you hadn’t yet experienced. A nervous smile rose on your expression as you looked anywhere but the face giving you a look that would serve to make you fall even harder.
“ Of course not, Dee. ”
Donnie noted your refusal to eye contact, and instead of assuming it was one of your usual bashful moments caused by yours truly, his thoughts were plagued with theories of Mikey somehow worming his way into the heart Donnie swore was his.
“ Right. ”
He muttered in a curt fashion, leading you both to his lab.
The uncomfortable awkwardness blanketing the atmosphere had not gone unnoticed as you followed him, thumb stroking loving little hearts upon the upside of his palm. Usually he would meet this with a firm squeeze, but you could recognize when your genius had his mind up in the clouds. He wasn’t even paying attention to you, was he?! And to think you came all this way to entertain his experiments, hoping to get a kiss or two, only to be met with unnecessary coldness?
What the heck, man?
“ Prepare to behold the wondrous creations of the genius, Donatello. ”
Whatever stink he had been brewing in just seconds prior had evaporated as he unveiled his newest creation: an air-fryer that could quite literally create anything from thin air.
You tried to ignore the distant shout of the youngest brother, something along the lines of “ Hey! Where’s the air-fryer?! ”
Donnie had not ignored it, nor had he dismissed the stifled laughter from you that he surely knew the cause of. His hands clenched, wrapping into crossed arms as he leaned his weight into the table.
“ Annoyed sigh. ”
While rolling his eyes, he muttered an annotation to the peeved groan slipping his lips. There it was again, you noted with a narrowed gaze, that odd discontentment he’d been soaking in this night.
“ Alright, spill it. ”
You mirrored his lean, relying on one of the structural pillars in his lab to hold your weight. Your fingers thumped impatiently against your bicep as your eyes soaked in Donnie’s body language. He seemed to stiffen, either nervously or defensively, you didn’t know.
“ Spill what? ”
He spoke with such an accusatory tone that you were almost ticked off. You held your tongue, hoping to keep this civil and not devolving into mindless argument.
“ Spill wh—?! ”
Sputtering, your hands gestured wildly before quite literally framing him. He knew what you meant, he wasn’t dumb!
“ Whatever is making you so, so—so THIS! ”
His brow raised, and he almost seemed insulted as you threw your hands up with a frustrated growl.
“ Why are you so upset with me right now? What did I do? ”
That seemed to do the charm of dragging out what you’ve been looking for, the explanation, as he straightened his posture and pushed off the table.
“ Oh save me the innocent act, Y/N,”
Confusion painted your face, and for a moment he physically faltered, unsure to continue after such a clear display of hurt across your pretty face. After a second, his mouth tugged into a frown, shaking off the hesitation to continue his claim,
“ I know you like Mikey, so just do us both a favor and go scurry along after him. ”
Donnie waved his hand off, pointing to the door. Whatever look you had on your face at that moment must have embodied just how deeply the pain in your heart crawled, right on down to your very core, because he seemed to balk at his own words. A bit of regret wrapped around him as he muttered something too low for you to hear.
Tightening your lips, you straightened this time and took a few steps to close the gap between you and him.
“ You will not talk to me like that, and what’s this about me liking Mikey? Your little brother? ME? You think I like him?! ”
There was no way, right? He couldn’t be serious? You, liking Mi—he might as well have been your brother too! You could never like him over Donnie?! What an outrageous claim, you thought, standing your ground in front of Donnie. This could have been avoided if he had just not been such, such a…
“ Obviously! Why else would you be bringing him gifts and helping him out in the kitchen? ”
You opened your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted as he continued with an accusatory finger pointing no where specific.
“ And I’ll have you know that I have read about ‘Cooking together’ and I know how much of an intimate bonding experience it is! ”
The childish stomp he gave, throwing his fists against his sides stiffly, served to diminish almost all the frustration bubbling up. You snorted at the sight, causing him to loosen up, confusedly tripping over his words to sputter out a “ Wh-What, what is this, what’s so funny? ”
“ … You’re a riot, Dee. ”
Wiping away the tiny tears pricking from such a hearty laugh, your eyes met his with less of anger and more of the warmth he was far too familiar of.
“ Since apparently I’m the only one of us with some sense, I’ll have YOU know that I do that for all of y’all! ”
Sheepishly, he seemed to curl into himself as you poked your index finger right into his plastron to emphasize the “ you ”.
“ I bring you gifts all the time—April, Raph, Leo, hell, even Splinter, too! ”
Jealousy was starting to burn away, leaving behind the bashful shame as he started to finally contemplate the more reasonable explanations for your behavior. Silently he condemned himself for starting up this whole dumb debacle with such a blatant disregard to the facts.
“ And of COURSE I help Mikey with cooking. You have a specific palette that he doesn’t always remember fully, so it’s up to me to make sure you get a fulfilling meal you’ll actually eat, dummy! ”
Ah, now that was the part that did him in, something he didn’t even know. Just as you were going to continue, he stepped closer.
“ Wait, you do? ”
“ I do—do what? I said a lot of things, Donnie, be specific. ”
Derailed, you stumbled over your claims, lost suddenly at which point he had cling to.
“ I thought Michael was just inconsistent in his preparation of my dishes, but since you say that, I do recall my meals being much better when you were around. ”
His hands had found their way upon your shoulders as he spoke, gaze flitting all across the lab as he collected his thoughts.
“ I had suspected meals were just better when you were around because, well.. ”
You softened as his gaze fell onto you.
“ Because you were there.. ”
Silence fell upon you both, except more comfortably this time. He exhaled deeply, marked with his trademark “ relieved sigh ” then smiled at you.
“ Oh Y/N, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into such a ridiculous argument. I was just… ”
“ You were just… Jealous? ”
Your teasing gaze was searing through him, so much so he shut his eyes tightly and groaned annoyedly.
“ As much as I would wish to not admit it, yes. I may have been experiencing,”
He waved his hand in the air, as if collecting his words.
“ Jealousy, towards your interactions with Miguel.. ”
Donnie was relieved as you laughed away all his worries, leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips. The moment lingered for a few, as if desperately needed to mend this situation, stopping only when you pulled away.
“ Alright, you’re forgiven… For now—BUT! Next time just talk to me, dummy, you got me all riled up for no reason. ”
With that, you gave a playful shove that had him gasping as though he were insulted, and quick to rush to his experiment’s side with more questions than he could keep up with.
Not like he hated an attentive and questioning audience, though. Much appreciated.
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sansaorgana · 6 months ago
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hii 😊 can you please write benny x yn where she thinks he’s a player so she doesn’t want to give him a chance and go on a date with someone else and that drives him crazy and he does everything for her to see him differently, even asks kathy to put in a good word for him
hi! 💝 I know you sent it like 2 hours ago – I swear, I am not insane but I was itching so badly to write something about Benny that... it's already here 👀 as much as I adore the fics with innocent, sweet Readers – my Reader talks back 😇🤭 I hope it's fine 😘
[ I haven't abandoned the three requests from my inbox from the last time, I promise ]
requests for benny are open 🥺🎀
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Benny Cross was an insufferable guy. He was showing up at your diner nearly every day and always asking for the same thing with the same smug smile on his pretty full lips – and always getting your annoyed eye-rolls each time. Yeah, he was pretty and you wouldn’t deny that. And yeah, you could see why so many girls saw the appeal. Bad boys were in fashion now… Well, actually, where had they not been? But you didn’t want to end up as a girl in trouble. Perhaps you were just an ordinary waitress but you still didn’t want to ruin your life for a player. And you couldn’t understand why he wanted you so badly.
“I think it’s because you turned him down,” Kathy explained to you the other day. She was your friend and recently she had also been strangely associated with Benny’s motorbike gang – The Vandals. Ever since her breakup, you could not recognise her, honestly.
“I turned him down, exactly,” you emphasised. “Why can’t guys learn that no means no?” You sighed.
“Oh, please, it must feel… Flattering to be chased by a guy like Benny, right?” Kathy giggled and you looked away, trying not to reveal that yeah, she was right.
“Listen, I just don’t want to end up like my cousin. She had a one night stand with this bad boy at college and guess what? She had to drop out, now she’s a single baby mama and the guy? God only knows where. Some say he married another chick in Nevada,” you explained to Kathy.
“But you’re not in college,” she pointed out as her eyes widened and you just rolled your eyes.
Jesus, what was going on with her these days?
You couldn't know that it was Benny himself telling her to "spread the propaganda" so you'd be more willing to finally agree to go out with him. You couldn't know that you were driving this man crazy – driving him crazier than his motorbike. He would wake up at night all sweaty and all he could think about was you.
You were a tough cookie and you were a challenge – that was for sure. But Benny knew it was more than that. He already knew that his desire would not disappear after claiming you. In fact, it would only grow once he'd get a taste. He was serious about you and he was desperate for you to see it.
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When Marcus Lane asked you out, you were speechless. You were walking out of a flower store with a fresh bouquet to put on your grandfather’s grave and he whistled at you.
You turned around and raised an eyebrow at the guy leaning on his car. And God, what a car that was… A shiny, black Cadillac that made your eyes sparkle.
“Hi!” You waved at him. “You’re back from college,” you pointed out.
“Yeah,” he nodded at you and lit a cigarette. He offered you one but you shook your head. “Couldn’t wait to visit my neighbourhood. I’m staying with my ma until the end of summer,” he explained. “Then I got a job for myself in New York City,” he bragged so casually.
You had always thought he was full of himself and full of shit, too, but out of all the guys in your high school year he had been the one who would succeed most likely. Apparently, it was true. He was going places.
“And how’s Camilla?” You asked him.
“We broke up,” he winced. “What you doing tonight?”
You blinked a few times and fixed your skirt. Marcus Lane asking you out?
“Nothin’,” you answered and tilted your head.
“Wanna go and see a picture?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah!” You nodded, not even asking what picture.
“Still living with your ma?”
“Yeah,” you answered.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he winked at you and you only nodded at him before walking away, not being able to hide a smile.
On your way back from the graveyard, you stopped by the laundry to tell Kathy the news but she didn’t look excited.
“He’s a knobhead, isn’t he? Always has been,” she shook her head.
“Wow, gee, thanks for being happy for me! You know he’s goin’ places and… He’s gonna be somebody,” you couldn’t help a grin.
“Don’t even start,” Kathy put her hands on her hips but you kept on a dreamy expression, so she snapped her fingers right in front of your face. “Guys like Marcus Lane do not date girls like us, wake up.”
“Why would he ask me out then?” You got defensive because your feelings and pride were hurt – mostly because you had a feeling Kathy was right.
“Because he’s back for the summer and bored? He saw you and thought he could play with you for a while before he leaves forever? Because he thinks a silly girl he remembers from high school might be an easy fuck for the summer?” Kathy asked and asked as your anxiety grew.
“Wow, thanks,” you got angry because you hated how right she could be. And sometimes you hated how honest she was instead of feeding your delusions. “I’m going out with him tonight and I’m not gonna sleep with him,” you told her before walking out to go back home and prepare for the night.
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You wore a red polka dot top and tight jeans for the date instead of a dress. Marcus didn’t comment but he looked a little disappointed and you could see that on his face. He kept staring at your thighs as he drove you to the cinema, which increased your anxiety that Kathy could had been right indeed… More than you had expected.
You went to see Bonnie and Clyde and after the movie, Marcus insisted on taking you to a club in the neighbourhood. It was one of those places you would never go to alone but with a man around, you felt safer. At least you should feel this way. But something about Marcus was not right. Why would a proper guy like him even want to take you to a club like that? Perhaps because he was seeing you as a girl like that. You didn’t disagree, though. The idea of getting free drinks was tempting.
“Looks like some of those dirty bums have a meeting here tonight,” he murmured to himself as you walked inside and you sighed at the sight of The Vandals themselves.
The whole place was full of cigarette smoke and it stank of sweat, leather and grease.
“I hate those punks,” Marcus winced. “Sit here, I’ll get us something to drink,” he winked at you as he sat you down by one of the tables and you nodded,
He walked away, without even asking you what you wanted. You looked around, feeling out of place and then you spotted him… Benny Cross by the pool table. You quickly looked the other way but he glanced in your direction and smirked.
You pretended to be very fascinated by the posters on the wall but he sat by the table next to yours and kept grinning at you with his flashy smile, his muscles all on display as he rested his arms on the chair’s backrest.
Seeing you there, it made his heart skip a beat. And those tight blue jeans, that red top... Benny was smug for a moment, thinking that you finally decided to hang out with him. He had been inviting you to this club many times before.
However, he quickly realised that you weren' there alone. And the guy you came with made him feel sick in his stomach. Not only because he looked like a typical piece of shit that would take advantage of a girl like you... But also because this guy represented everything that Benny was not. And it was making him feel insecure at the moment. Of course your standards were higher than a guy like him. That was one of the reasons why he liked you so much.
Still, he decided to play his little game and annoy you a little.
Marcus came back with two drinks in his hand and he looked Benny up and down before placing a drink in front of you.
“That punk bothering you?” He asked – quite bravely, you had to admit. But Benny remained the same as if he was a statue.
“For weeks now,” you chuckled and watched Marcus take a seat in front of you, still glancing angrily at Benny on your right. 
“Is he stupid or somethin’?” Marcus asked.
“It’s fine. Let’s just pretend he’s not here,” you shrugged your arms.
In fact, you enjoyed it. And you wanted to pretend to like Marcus more than you did so Benny would finally realise you were not interested.
Still… You couldn’t help an odd feeling of safety now when he was sitting next to you and some part of you didn’t want him to walk away and leave you alone with Marcus.
“So, what do you think about the movie?” Marcus asked and sipped on his drink as you sipped on yours. Benny raised an eyebrow at you.
“We were in the cinema to watch Bonnie and Clyde,” you informed him quickly as if he was in the audience and you were an actress in the theatre but he was late and you wanted him to catch on. He nodded his head like a little boy and Marcus gritted his teeth. “Well,” you addressed your date now as you fixed your hair nonchalantly. “I adored it. And Warren Beatty was beautiful as always.”
“I don’t like him,” Marcus commented. “And I didn’t like the movie much. My favourite part was when they got killed.”
“Why?” You asked. It was already getting difficult to pretend to like him. And Benny seemed to be interested by his answer too – he tilted his head.
“Because they were outlaws and a couple of twisted psychos!” Marcus got irritated – at Benny still being there and at you asking such silly questions with such obvious answers.
“Yeah, they were but there’s also some romanticism to it, don’t you think? That’s why they made a movie about them. And why did you even go to see a movie about people you despise so much?” You asked and sipped on your drink again.
“You can’t be serious. There’s nothing romantic about murdering people,” Marcus started sounding very patronising and you suddenly realised that Kathy had been right. So, so much. You were a silly girl in his eyes.
“Murdering – no. But the life they had. The love, the freedom on the road,” you tried to explain.
“You want freedom on the road? Ask one of those bums here to show you,” Marcus laughed with irony and he squinted his eyes at Benny. “What you still doing here, punk? How can I get it into your thick head that you’re not a part of this conversation? It’s my date,” he scoffed.
“It’s my girl,” Benny leaned back with a smug smile and your heart skipped a beat.
Usually, when he’d call you that, you would get angry. But now, when Marcus had been annoying you for the whole evening, you actually enjoyed that. Because Marcus’ face was priceless. He looked at you with disgust.
“Is this true?” He asked you. “What the hell is going on?”
But before you could answer, some drunk and loud biker entered the club loudly as he laughed out loud.
“Fuck, I’ve scratched some Cadillac in the front!” He announced and sat by the counter to order beer. You couldn’t help but chuckle at that and Marcus’ face went as red as tomato.
He stood up rapidly, gave you a furious look and then ran outside to check on his beloved car, surely. Not caring much about the fact he was leaving you alone with dangerous men swarming around.
“So…” Benny started lazily as he licked his lips before looking you up and down. “That’s your type?” He pointed his thumb at the door Marcus had just left through. “That why you didn’t want me to take you out?”
“Why did you do that?” You asked, genuinely and his face got serious now.
“I saw you sittin’ here all alone, for a moment I thought… You came here for me,” he admitted with a laugh. “Then I saw that guy and I thought to myself: Jesus, what an asshole. So, I wanted to watch,” he shrugged his arms and you couldn’t help but stare at the flexing muscles and all the tattoos.
“He’s a proper guy. Graduated from college and with a job waiting for him in New York City,” you explained.
“But you’re not a proper girl,” Benny pointed out with a grin and you suddenly got a flashback of Kathy telling you the same thing – that you were just a silly girl for Marcus, just an easy fuck for the summer… 
You stood up rapidly and Benny looked up with a confused look on his face but you ignored him and left the club, hoping Marcus was still there and you could explain to him that you weren’t Benny’s girl… Maybe he’d drive you home?
But Marcus wasn’t there anymore. The only vehicles in the parking lot were motorbikes. You sighed and started walking in the direction of the bus stop but the door opened behind you. You heard heavy footsteps and then the sound of lighting a cigarette. Turning around slightly, you spotted Benny following you.
“Just wanted to point out that proper girls don’t find Bonnie and Clyde romantic,” with a few big steps he was now walking next to you.
“It’s not the murdering aspect, gee, why do I have to explain it so many times?” You got irritated.
“I didn’t say anything ‘bout it. You said something about the freedom and the road. You ever been on the open road like that?” Benny asked and you already knew what he wanted to propose because he had been mentioning it many times before while flirting with you at the diner.
“Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “I need a ride home,” you admitted and bit on your lower lip. “And no, I’ve never been. On the open road, I mean,” you added, feeling your cheeks heating up.
Benny didn’t say anything, he only nodded before throwing his cigarette on the ground and walking away to jump on his motorbike. He started the engine and patiently waited for you to finally join him. Feeling the rush of adrenaline going through your body, you clumsily sat behind him and he made the engine roar like a lion – a very sexy sound, you had to admit – but he didn’t start driving. You realised he was giving you a signal to hold onto something before he would drive away. It was considerate of him, you had to admit. Other guys would just drive away and laugh at your squealing. But Benny wanted you to be safe and for the second time on that night you realised that he was making you feel safe. Safer than a proper guy like Marcus – for sure. And you just didn’t know what to do with this information.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, told him your address and that was when the engine roared again but this time he drove away.
And God, something broke inside of you that moment. It was as if your brain chemistry changed completely. The speed, the wind in your hair, the freedom – this odd feeling that he could take you anywhere like this and you would go with him… To the point that when you spotted him taking a turn that led to your street, you nearly felt disappointed that he wasn’t “kidnapping” you. Perhaps in this moment you understood your cousin even – why had it been so tempting to risk everything for a handsome bad boy.
Benny parked the motorbike in front of your house and you could already spot your mum standing by the window upstairs and looking out through the curtain. You chuckled at the realisation you would have to explain to her how your date with Marcus ended with a guy like Benny taking you home.
“Thanks,” you only said as you got off the bike, still clinging to his leather jacket to make sure you wouldn’t trip and fall. You were a little breathless after that ride.
“And? What do you think?” He asked as he raised an eyebrow.
“It was… Okay,” you grinned, not wanting to give him satisfaction.
“Why do you tease me so much?” Benny sighed.
He was done with playing for now. He just wanted to know the answer. Perhaps it would finally make him give up. Or perhaps it would educate him on the matter how to flirt with you better. Either way, he just wanted the truth.
“Why do you insist so much? I mean, I ain’t nothing special to chase me around for weeks,” you shrugged your arms. “And don’t get me wrong – or actually do get me wrong, the hell do I care? – but I don’t want to be just another number in your book, Benny,” you explained and Benny thought to himself that he wished you could see yourself through his eyes.
“You’re a whole book, kitty,” he winked at you and you couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Sometimes his flirting had this effect on you whether you liked it or not. “And I can’t wait to read it all,” he added, encouraged by your reaction.
“You can read?” You asked, teasingly.
“I’m full of surprises,” he smirked.
“That I see,” you laughed. “Um… I should go now… My ma’s watching us.”
“I can see,” Benny nodded and looked up at the window upstairs. He waved his hand and you grabbed him by his wrist to pull it down.
“Stop it!” You kept laughing at him and then you realised your face was only a few inches away from his as he was still sitting on his motorbike, ready to drive away any given moment.
A short moment of silence occurred between you two and you just kept staring into each other’s eyes as playful smiles disappeared from your faces. You swallowed thickly and fixed his jacket, not knowing what to do with your hands.
“You have a shift tomorrow?” He broke the silence.
“In the evening,” you nodded.
“So… See you?” Benny asked, unsurely.
“See you,” you smiled at him and he smiled back, relieved. “And hey, thanks for… For being there for me when I was with the… With the asshole,” you lowered your voice and took a step back to give him space now – finally.
“No need to thank me,” he shrugged his arms. “It’s just the thing I do, ain’t it?”
You furrowed your brows at those words.
“Protectin’ my girl,” he winked at you and the engine roared, making you take a few more steps back. And then he drove away – just like that.
Shaking your head and hugging your own self to feel warmer, you walked to the front door of your house, biting on your lip and not being able to help a chuckle.
Apparently, Benny had already decided that you were his girl. And, apparently – you enjoyed it.
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MASTERLIST || BENNY MASTERLIST
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catsteeth · 9 months ago
Text
Sugar & Violence
Podrick Payne x reader 
+:✿ Chapter 2 ✿:+ : Beautiful Girl
previous chapter | next chapter
Summary: You’re a Mormont being held hostage by House Lannister.  You are acting now as the Handmaiden for Margery Tyrell, whom you’ve grown quite close with. But it seems that a squire has caught your attention as you have caught his. 
CW: afab reader, SMUT, MDNI, Fingering, P in V sex, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of harassment, mention of NSFW themes.
Word Count: 5125 
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꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
As you’d just finished getting Margery ready for the day she sat you down and began to ready you as well. It wasn’t custom for a Lady to dress and pretty her Hand Maiden but Margery had taken the responsibility voluntarily and happily. 
“Podrick was seen where?” You asked wide eyes, holding in a laugh.
“Little Finger’s brothel,” Margery replied with a smirk as she brushed your hair. 
You shook your head with a smile “I will not believe such rumors.” 
“I hear the whores did not receive a payment.” Her fingers twisting the front sections of your hair and braiding them together at the back of your head.
“You’re suggesting he didn’t pay them?” You asked with disbelief. He didn’t seem like the type of man to pay for a whore, much less the type of man to steal their time and effort. 
“I am suggesting they did not want a payment. I hear that he was so skilled, they wouldn’t accept his payment.” She said as she finished your hair and she sat in front of you, beginning to do your makeup. 
“Now that I can’t believe it.” You said holding back laughter,
“You never know for sure with men like him. Quiet, and sweet, they can be sensitive to a woman's needs.” She said putting 
“I’ve been pinned against enough trees on Bear Island by enough men to know, no tongue, fingers, cock, or even nose is good enough to turn down gold.” 
“Perhaps you’re right. But perhaps you’re wrong, there is only one way to find out.” 
“Oh please, he can hardly hold his gaze to mine.”
“Some would say that means he likes you, besides the poor boy gave you a flower. One of the sweetest, and pathetic things I have ever seen.” She jested.
“He doesn’t want me, not like that.” You always found it hard to believe that any man would be interested in you beyond bedding.
she rolled her eyes as she finished applying a rouge to your lips. She fixed your hair slightly and half a small compact mirror to your face.
“if i were a man i would ravish you.” she smiled as you looked at yourself in the mirror. 
Margery had done your makeup and hair countless times. Every morning after you’d done hers, but each time always made sure to tell you how beautiful you were. even if you didn’t believe it. 
“a man would ravish a horse if desperate enough.” you pushed the compact away, you got up and began to select the gowns you’d both wear to the celebratory feast tonight.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
That evening was a celebration of the victory of Tywin Lannister. Nothing for you to feel celebratory for, but it gave you an opportunity to dance and drink. 
Most of the night you and Margrey had danced with one another, made quite jokes about the other men there. But once the celebration began to wind down Margrey had found an excuse to speak to Joffrey, part of her plan to seduce him. So naturally you made yourself scarce. Finding a corner of the room to stand in while you drank.
It would have been perfect to end your night in peace if a tall man didn’t approach you. 
He could have been some noble man or a knight, kings guard, even city watch, you didn’t know and more importantly did not care. 
“My, who might you be, my Lady.” He asked, his voice was low and attempting to sound seductive. 
“(Y/N) Mormont.” You said as you drank from your cup, your eyes wandered the room, paying little attention to the attractive man in front of you. As your eyes searched the large room, they landed on a pair of eyes already looking at you, Podrick’s. He looked at you with the eyes of a sad dog. 
It caught you so off guard you didn’t hear whatever the man had just said, only the mumbling of words. You tore your eyes from his and looked at the man, “What?” burrowed furrowed in frustration. 
“I said, then you are not much of a Lady.” He said with a twisted grin
“Is that so?” You said emotionlessly, unwilling to show any kind of offense that might have been taken. Fearing it would give him too much power. Besides, you did not care about the opinions of southerners. 
“Hand Maidens are not Ladies of any land, are they not?” 
“Perhaps.” You said your eyes returned to scanning the room, trying to find Podrick again, but having no luck.
“I could make you feel like one for tonight.” He held out his hand to you,
You held your cup to your lips as you spoke, “I’ve no wish to dance with you, Ser”.
“I cannot dance with a handmaiden,” The man smirked, his hand snaking around your waist. “I can enjoy one though.” He whispered in your ear.
You smirked back, and then you leaned in, making him think you were about to kiss him when you kicked him in the shin. “Oh!” You fained shock as he grunted in pain “My apologies Ser, I have always been quite clumsy.” Your concerned and shock demeanor dropped as you began to walk away. He began to spit some curse your way when you stomped on his foot. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord.” 
As you walked forward a few steps before the man grabbed ahold of your wrist.
“You northern who-” He was interrupted by Podrick’s voice. 
“My Lady, the Queen wishes to have a word with you.” He spoke louder than usual. His eyes were wide and looked almost angry. 
You ripped your hand away from the man's grasp and walked with Podrick out of the room. 
“What does she want?” You asked, rubbing your wrist. 
“Nothing, I made that up.” He said avoiding your gaze as you both walked down the hall. 
“You made that up?” You looked at him with wide eyes, he nodded still avoiding your gaze. “Well, thank you.” You said softly. 
He’d walked you all the way to your chambers with no other words were exchanged between the two of you, other than the occasional glance at one another. You had reached your chambers door, you looked over at him as you began to open the door. 
He was ready to nod and walk away when you said, “Podrick,” To which his eyes went directly to yours. You didn’t say another word, just walked into your chambers leaving the door open. 
He hesitated for a moment, but walked in after you. 
He stood there, showing just how intimidated he was. 
As you kicked your shoes off, and removed the necklace Margery allowed you to barrow for the night, you looked over your shoulder to him “Close the door.” You said softly, and so he did. 
As you turned to him and began to walk towards him, his eyes subconsciously went from your eyes to your cleavage. Now more exposed now that you’d removed your necklace. He couldn’t help it really. Your corset and gown were truly putting them on display, and the candle light from your room made your skin glow beautifully. You smirked when you noticed, making him swallow hard and return his gaze to your eyes. He was going to apologize but you reached for his hand making him choke back any words he had. 
You held his hand, looking at his now healed cut, now formed scar across the palm of his hand. 
You trailed the scar with your finger tip. 
“You’re seducing me-” He finally found some courage to spit out some words.
“You feel seduced?” You still held his hand, still admiring your work on his hand.
“Yes- I mean, it is intentional isn’t it?” He stammered, somehow a little out of breath.
“Do you want it to be?” You looked at him with a grin and mischievous grin.
“I don’t want to offend you-” He said softly, looking away.
“So you don’t?” You let go of his hand,
“No- no,” His eyes went wide as he stammered, “I want you to, want to seduce me.” He winced at his own words, not knowing how to phrase it.
“Why would that offend me?” You smiled softly, holding back a giggle.
“I am just a squire, my Lady.” He shook his head looking down
“And here in King's Landing, I am just a handmaiden they send to patch up knights and Lords.” You said softly 
“You are Lady Mormont.” He said, it made you smile. No one had given such respect to your name in so long. 
“You’re sweet.” You brushed his short hair around his ear with your fingertips “Have you ever seduced a woman?” You asked sweetly, you knew the rumors of the whore house, but didn’t know if you could believe it.
“No, no, not really.” He said like we were being honest… maybe he was.
“Show me how you would.” You said looking up at him with sleepy eyes.
“What do you mean?” 
“How do you think I was seducing you?”
“You, made me… feel-” he stammered.
“Mhmm, so try to make me feel…” 
He stepped closer to you, meekly, his head lowered. He reached out and lightly ran his hand over your hair. Taking a strand of it and looking at it, admiring the color of it, and its texture. He looked into your eyes, his head still lowered. 
“You are beautiful.” His hand then went from your hair, to trailing his hand gently down your arm and grabbing your hand softly. He played with your fingers, again, gently. 
“I believe you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” He didn’t stammer, his voice was earnest, and gentle.
“This is wooing, not seducing.” You smiled and corrected him as if he were acting, genuinely thinking he were making it up. 
“I’m not trying to do either, my Lady.” Your smile dropped, “I just wish to be near you.” 
“You shouldn’t.” You said pulling your hand away.  “How we first met, tell me that.” 
“Lord Slynt ordered you to pour him wine-”
“And I spit in it.”
“He deserved it.”
“I lied to him, and your lord.” 
“Not to me.”
Your hardened gaze softened “No, no not to you” You lowered your head avoiding his eyes. afraid you’d melt in his sweetness. found yourself feeling that warm feeling in your chest again. You reached for his fingers with your own. interlocking your index finger with his. 
“You are- different.” He stammered a bit “Special.” He corrected, thinking it sounded more flattering. 
“You really are sweet. I don’t believe I've met a man so sweet as you.” He smiled, and in turn you smiled back, “You are shy, more so normally than you are now.” 
He let out a small chuckle “I still feel shy.” He said as he looked down smiling
“Are you too shy for me to kiss you?”
Instead of responding to you he cupped your face in his hands. So gently it was as if you were made of the finest porcelain in the realm. He leaned in and kissed your lips. Soft and again, gentle. but also passionate and almost lustful. You were surprised how well he kissed. No, he didn’t kiss well, his kiss was intoxicating somehow. Maybe it was the wine on his lips or just skill. you couldn’t help but let out the smallest whimper into his mouth. It made him pull away and go wide eyed. 
“You’re quite good at that.” You said wide eyes, catching your breath a bit.
“I apologize-“ He said, still holding your head in his hands.
“For what?”
“I should have asked you first,”
“Too late for that now,” you said, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him into another kiss. Your lips fell into a perfect rhythm as his hands moved to your ribs, careful not to touch your breasts. his thumbs moved against your ribs slowly and gently. 
You’d never felt this way with a man before. Normally it was sweaty, sloppy, and you ended it burnt out and covered in spit. This was like a dance, like you and he had kissed in every life. 
You felt terrified. An emotion you rarely ever felt. 
What if he was like every other man. They whisper sweet things in your ears, promises, and compliments. Then once they lifted your skirts and humped into you a few times they’d leave. You felt hurt the first time, maybe the second time too. But after that it was expected. So you never let yourself become invested in a man again. You used them as they used you. 
But this was different, this wasn’t only lust, there was something more. But was this feeling only yours, or did you share it? You needed to test him, only you didn’t know quite how. 
“Stop” You whispered in his mouth as you kissed, it made him stop immediately, and he stepped away from you, breathless. 
“I- I’m sorry” He said about to go for the door before you stopped him grabbing his arm.
“No,” 
“But you said-” 
“I can’t bed you like this.” You said running your hands on the tight fabric of your gown.
“Bed me?” He asked as if he had choked, it made you smile.
“Will you wait here for me?” You asked, petting his cheek, and he nodded slightly confused.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
You had gone into the bathing room that was attached between your room and Margery’s. You bathed quickly, washed your hair, washed your face of its makeup, and slipped into your night dress. The only thing you wore to cover your nakedness. 
As you opened the door you saw Podrick lighting the fireplace in your room. He stood as he heard you open the door and looked in your direction as he said, “I thought you might be cold-” He was cut off by the sight of you. His eyes were enamored by the sight of you. 
You hadn’t shown him this side of you. Totally free of glamor and shine. “Thank you,” You said as you walked towards him. 
As you stood in front of him he still couldn’t let out any words. “Do you… not like it?” 
He shook his head quickly, “This is the most I have ever seen of you.” he placed a hand on your cheek. “You are truly the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” 
You searched his eyes for a hint of deceit and found none. You took the hand he placed on your cheek and sat down on the fur carpet that laid in front of the fireplace, pulling him down with you. You looked at the scar on his hand again, this time placing a kiss on the scar. 
“Thank you for what you did tonight.” He looked slightly confused, “The lie you told.” You explained.
“I didn’t want to interrupt, but then I saw how he grabbed you.” He looked down, now beginning to simmer, “No one should grab you like that.” He said in a lower tone. “If I’d a sword, I wouldn’t have to tell a lie.” He became angered thinking of it.
You moved closer to him, beginning to undo the clasps on the front of his top. He looked intimidated again suddenly, “A sword hm?” He nodded, “What would you have told him?” 
“To unhand you, or I’d remove his hand.” He said, with a darker tone of voice, it made you smile as you pulled his red leather top off, leaving him in his tunic. 
“One day you’re going to be the only honorable knight in all of Westeros.” You saw heat rush to his cheeks when you said those words. “A big strong shining warrior.” You said crawling closer to him. 
“You’re seducing me again.” He said staring at your lips, his eyes drifted downwards again to your cleavage again now further exposed by the thin fabric and the angle you were in from crawling to him. 
“Do you want me to stop?” You asked in a whisper,
He shook his head “No,” He said, grasping your face in his hands kissing you so deeply you let out a small moan into his lips, only making him kiss you deeper. 
His hands roamed your sides, as yours gripped the back of his neck and roamed his chest down to his stomach.
When your hand reached his stomach you felt his muscles twitch and he let out a small groan. The sound of his groan made you clench your thighs together. 
Mixed with the sounds of your breathless whimpers he felt himself stiffening, “Can I touch you?” He whispered in your ear, you nodded and he whispered back “Thank you,” As his hands cupped your breasts. He let out a moan into your mouth as he groped you, feeling the plumpness of your breasts. You couldn’t take it anymore and began to lift your night dress. You stopped yourself however, not wanting to push him, 
“Is this okay?” You asked, and he nodded frantically. To which you smiled and lifted the rest of it off. His hands gripped your breasts tighter, and his mouth moved from yours to your neck and shoulder. 
“You’re beautiful.” He whispered against your hot skin, repeating it over and over again. 
One of your hands petted his hair, while the other went over his stomach to his now tenting trousers. You heard him moan into your neck and his hands gripped you tighter, making you moan in return. 
“You sound beautiful too,” He whispered 
“Take this off” You said much less elegantly as you pulled at the fabric of his shirt. As he did you laid down on the fur carpet under you. Looking up at him as he removed his tunic. You smiled up at him, “You’re quite pretty too.” 
He shook his head in awe of you, “Not like you… You could be a painting,” He said, dropping to his knees. He leaned down and kissed your lips. Both your lips at this point were slightly swollen, but that didn’t stop either of you from continuing. Kissing with a new kind of passion. 
You felt, for a moment, this might be much more. And if it was, you didn’t want to hide from him at all. You pulled away from his lips as you blurted out, 
“I’ve been with men before you.” breathlessly, “I feel I should be honest with you.” You felt even more naked revealing that, you felt heat spread across your face.
“That’s alright.” He nodded, trying to reassure you. “And I- I have- I’ve been with women before you.” 
Your eyes went wide, you thought back to the rumors you’d heard. “You have?” You shook your head to yourself trying to shake those thoughts out of your head. “That’s alright.” You said looking back at him, you smiled softly “It is, it’s alright.” You felt a hint of excitement, pulling him back into your body and to your lips. 
You two kissed for a moment until his mouth ran down to your neck, covering your body in as many kisses as he could, making you giggle. Giggle until you feel his thumb run down the slit of your folds. Which made you gasp slightly and then smile at him, and he smiled back. 
He leaned down and began to kiss and suck on your breasts. 
You felt yourself becoming a wet and sticky mess and his thumb continued to roll up and down the slit of your folds, masterfully avoiding your clit, teasing you. 
Finally his index and middle finger parted you, while his thumb gently teased your clit. 
“Mmmmmm” you let out as you closed your eyes. 
“Do you like that?” he asked softly into your breasts, all you could do was nod as he applied more pressure. 
his teeth grazed your nipple with expertise. As though he knew just the right amount to use, how much you liked. 
He continued to kiss, suck on, and sometimes lightly bite your breasts. You felt yourself clenching around nothing as he moaned soft praises into your skin. while he kept circling your clit. 
It was beginning to be too much and not enough. “More,” you whined, “Your fingers.” you said. 
He nodded, “Show me, show me what you like.” 
you reached your hand below, rubbing your clit only a little, then you pushed a finger in. He watched as your eyes closed from the pleasure
He inserted his finger alongside yours, feeling how you moved your own finger inside you. 
The extra digit in you stretched you so nicely, you let out a small sigh as you smiled at him and he smiled back at you.
You inserted a second finger, and he followed suit. The stretch burned slightly, it had been a while since you had been with a man, and now already you’d four fingers inside you. Albeit two were smaller than the other two but still. You whined a little as you winced slightly. It made him lean down and kiss your lips. 
“You’re wonderful” he said as he kissed your jaw and your neck, pumping his fingers in you with your own guiding him. You then removed your fingers, content to let him take control. 
His fingers knew when to curl and when to relax, when to push against the soft spot in you, and knew just the right speed. No man had ever known how to draw out such pleasure from simply his fingers with you. 
“Podrick-“ you gasped at certain curl of his fingers, 
“My lady?” he said into your lips, 
“Call me my name,” you said into his, 
“(Y/N)…(Y/N)..(Y/N)…(Y/N)..” he repeated softly as he kissed your cheek, then your other cheek, then your forehead, then your eyelids, nose, and finally your lips. 
You took his face into your hands, as gently as he took yours in his. You kissed him sweetly, as you pulled away you whispered “I want to make you feel good,” 
He smiled and let out a small chuckle “I feel very good,” 
You shook your head and rubbed your palm onto his tenting trousers, making him close his eyes tightly, “I want you to feel even better.” 
Your touching continued until he was grunting and bucking into your hand, “I- I have to take these off.” He said with a bit of shame as he fumbled with the strings of his trousers. You gladly helped him with a smile on your flushed face. 
As he was freed from his pants, you took him in your hand, looking at his cock. It was bigger than you had expected, and by far the prettiest one you’d seen. Most were crooked, too thin, or too wide but his was perfect. 
“Pretty thing you’ve got there,” You said with a smile as you pulled him into another kiss. 
As you did you pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, slinging your leg over his body. 
He looked flustered with your boldness but pleased. “Thank you,” he responded. 
“You’re welcome,” You said as you lined his cock, slick with precum against your entrance. His hands gripped your hips as you lowered yourself, pushing him inside of you. 
You let out the prettiest of moans from your lips as did he. 
His eyes rolled to the back of his head as you grinded him into you, in and out. The way his cock twitched inside of you hit the soft spot in you so deliciously each time, making you moan even louder. 
You looked down at him, you ran your hand against his cheek as he looked back at you with a soft smile while moans left his lips.
The look in his eyes as he watched you squirm and whimper was a look you were not accustomed to.
All of the sudden, he pulled you down and rolled you onto your back. You were face to face, his arms wrapped around your body and yours around his. Your legs around his waist as he bucked into you, again and again. The way he did it, was as if he had done it a thousand times before. 
He moved his hands to hold your face, and his other to hold your hand. 
His thumb rubbed against your cheek, sweetly. Just before it left your cheek and trailed down your body to your cunt. Rubbing your clit in circles. 
He could feel you clenching around him, his speed picked up and his mouth returned to your nipples. But his hand never left yours. 
“I’m cuming, Podrick, I- mmhmm” You whined, only making him speed up even more. 
You felt your legs shake, your toes curl, and the pressure in your stomach snap and the warmth in your core spread around his cock. You let out the prettiest of moans as you came. You gripped his hand tightly. And he peppered your chest and your neck in kisses. “I want you to cum,” You whispered as he continued to fuck into you.
“So warm… so wet.” He whimpered against your neck, “Gods, I need you.” 
His thrusts in you became more and more erratic, you anticipated his cum filling you, you anticipated the heat that would fill you. You wanted it, badly. You smiled as you saw his face contort knowing it was coming, but he pulled out and came on the ground next to you. 
You whined a little, “I wanted it,” You said in a whisper. 
“You?-” He looked confused “You wanted it?” 
You nodded, pouting a little. 
“Why?” He asked, not being able to understand it, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to- to sully your body.” He said, sweet sentiment. 
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈꒱꒱
After he cleaned it up, you had gotten in bed. 
He dressed himself back in his tunic and walked over to you where you pulled him into your bed. 
He held you against his body, and you held him back. He just stared into your eyes, as he pet your cheek. He admired the way you looked against the light of the fire. His eyes trailed down your body and he saw the bruises he left from his kisses on your breasts. His thumb grazed over them as he said “I’m sorry, I-’ 
“You did nothing wrong,” You said as you gripped his face and pulled him down to kiss his lips. “Do you think your Lord misses you?” You asked jokingly. 
“I think he is too drunk to notice.” He said smiling at you, “What about your Lady?” 
“I think she was too involved in Joffrey to notice.” You said with a giggle. 
“Sleep with me tonight?” You asked softly, 
He nodded and he wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your neck.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱
When you woke up, you were alone. 
You felt a little betrayed but you knew he had duties. 
Later that day you were ordered to check on Lord Tyrion’s injuries as the Maester was too busy to see to it himself. 
When you knocked on the door to Tyrion's chambers Bronn answered the door, he eyed you up and down, making you roll your eyes. 
“My Lord,” You said walking into Tyrion’s chambers, brushing past Bronn and avoiding his gaze. 
“Ah, the bear girl.” Tyrion said,
“(Y/N) Mormont, my Lord.” Podrick attempted to correct him, which made Bronn huff and roll his eyes. But you smiled at him, and he smiled back. 
“Yes, Podrick, I know her name. My family is holding her captive after all.” 
You smirked at his admission, ‘How’re you feeling?” You asked as you sat a leather bag of medicines and supplies on a table. 
“Oh quite pleasurable.” Tyrion said sarcastically,
You turned towards him, dropping your concerned demeanor “I need to know if it stings or itches, if it’s infected, it could spread to your eyes, you’ll go blind, it could spread to your sinuses which could make you go deaf, and if it spreads to your brain you’ll die."
“You’re a gentle flower aren’t you?” 
“Always have been. The Flower of Bear Island they called me.” You said sarcastically with crossed arms, making Tyrion huff a chuckle, “Yes and now they call me bear girl and whore, so if you could be so kind and cooperate I can see to it that you don’t die.” 
Podrick held back a smile at your strength.
“Alright, no burning, itching, or stinging. Satisfied?” Tyrion said as you sat beside him.
“Somewhat…” You said while examining the cut. 
Podricks eyes were entranced by the way your eyes darted around the Lord's scar, how you examined it with such expertise. How your eyebrows narrowed and your lips pouted slightly when you focused intensely on something. How when you wrapped a new bandage around the Lord's face you bit on your bottom lip. As he stared at your lips he thought of your first kiss, how warm and soft your lips were, he thought of your sweet taste. He wanted to grab your face and do it all over again. He was so deep into his fantasy he hadn’t even noticed Tyrion had called his name twice.  
Bronn smacked Podricks head, making him snap out of it as Tyrion repeated himself again. 
“Pod, see Lady Mormont to her chambers.” 
“Yes, my Lord.” Podrick nodded
“Oh I'm sure the lad would love that.” Bronn said as you and Podrick left the room.
Once the door to Tyrion's chamber was closed you turned to Podrick with narrowed eyes. 
“You told them?” You asked with venom.
“No, no, no I wouldn’t.” He stammered, not wanting you to believe he would do such a thing to you, “I wouldn’t. I believe I am just not very good at concealing my… interest in you.” He said softly so no one would hear. 
It made you smile. 
“I am sorry I couldn’t stay, My Lady. This morning, I couldn’t stay, Lord Tyrion would have sent someone for me.” He said softly again.
“I told you, you can call me by my name.” You said not willing to say it was alright but not willing to say it wasn’t. “Did you forget it, Podrick?” You teased him
“No, no (Y/N)” He said your name with a smile.
“Good, I thought your interest in me had finally subsided.” 
“I don’t think it could.” 
It made you smile again, 'seven hells' you thought, falling for such things.
You looked around and saw no one in the hall, you pulled him into another kiss.
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NOTE:sowwy this took so long, i wuv you!
TAG LIST: @ryn-away @boojaynaqueen @holierthancunt @symonedoesart
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lorelune · 7 months ago
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regency au jing yuan how you are haunting me.
(continued here!)
a retired general who at the ripe age of thirty five has never taken a wife. never showed any interest in procuring a spouse nor does he entertain any attempts by the mamas of the ton to throw their eligible children at him. he is a polite scoundrel, kind-hearted in a way that makes those with half a mind question how someone with his demeanor could ever be the famed general who's strategies downed Shuhu during the Abundance Upheaval. he doesn't seem to care for his legacy, as much as he has cultivated one. he doesn't mind gossip, but doesn't entertain it much either.
you only meet him due to fortunate circumstances.
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lord Luocha, a successful travelling merchant, pledged patronage to you sometime ago. he keeps you in a little cottage on the grounds of his manor where you're allowed to mostly do as you please as long as there's a new painting hung on the lord's wall every few months or so. the lord likes when you play too. he brings back new instruments for you to try, though he never expects mastery. he has an air of mystery to him that, despite all of the time you spend near him, keeps you from understanding him fully. you aren't one to pry about it either.
lord luocha invites jing yuan over to partake in fancy spirits from a country and city you can't ever hope to visit, let alone find on a map. you bring lord luocha your newest work-- (a meticulously completed oil painting. something more abstract, suited to the odd lonely and isolation you feel in your little, cozy cottage, despite all of the comforts you are afforded)-- and happen upon the pair.
lord luocha examines your newest work with pride, and shortly after introduces you. 'his patron' he calls you, but offers jing yuan no title. you--
(do not have one. it was stripped from you a long time ago. you think being an artist suits you better, anyways.)
jing yuan offers you his name, though you already know it. you recognize him based on the prattling of the girls and boys at the market. they swoon over his stature, fawn over his good deeds, and make note of his identifiable red hair ribbon. he has the same soft, sun-colored eyes that you had heard the eligible young of the ton giggle about.
you bow to him politely.
you have no reason to linger, but luocha calls you to anyways. perhaps he is lonely. perhaps you want him to be lonely, so it gives you a reason to stick closer to his side in the rare moments he is home for more than a day or two. the proximity is shared with jing yuan, who regards you with keen eyes and a lazy smile. the attention upon you feels weighted, important, like you're something special.
you savor it, however fleeting.
perhaps, however, you misunderstood jing yuan. or lord luocha's intentions.
because as jing yuan rises to take his leave and you bow once more, he catches your hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss into the soft skin. you're sure you smell of linseed and yarrow oil. he lingers there for a moment before meeting your gaze. there's a light of mischief in them that sends your heart fluttering. your breath catches.
when jing yuan is out of the manor, lord luocha pats your shoulder gently, "quite the man, isn't he?"
"i suppose... he is."
"you may speak freely."
"i am," you mince, and shake your head. you must be careful, entertaining such fanciful thoughts. "he is... kind."
"and handsome."
"lord luocha," you barely keep yourself from whining. "please, do not tease me. or the poor man. from what i hear, he has enough to deal with."
"the mamas do chase after him like foxes to a hen," lord luocha chuckles and studies your painting once more with a curious tilt of his head. "he'll ask to see you again, i'm certain."
"and why do you say that?"
"general jing yuan has never taken the hand of a potential suitor."
your heart feels heavy and warm in your chest, burning. "my lord, you cannot possibly think that this single action indicates that the general will... call upon me? that is highly unorthodox and i don't believe that's... quite allowed."
"jing yuan has never cared for the dances of decorum." lord luocha guides you into your gardens. the peonies are in bloom, full and lush in the humidity of late spring. "and, for the record, i don't believe he'll simply call upon you. court, properly, certainly."
"you're bluffing."
"what reason do i have to lie?"
"to tease me, as you so enjoy doing," you huff.
lord luocha simply hums and pauses near a bush of lilacs. they're fragrant, at the peak of their season. the scent rolls over you.
"if i truly intended to tease you, i simply would abstain from telling you of jing yuan's interest and allow you to be terribly surprised when he arrives and formally asks for you and your time. consider this a warning. i'll walk you to the modiste tomorrow, hm?"
you want to squawk at him. your linen dresses and tunics are fine (albeit smeared and stained with paints and oils over the years. you rarely bother replacing them.)
you want to protest and pry more, but lord luocha strikes you silent when he breaks off a cluster of lilac and tucks it behind your ear. he leaves you with your thoughts, however tortuous. and, perhaps horribly, you find yourself believing him. perhaps the warm-eyed general really was charmed. perhaps, your dresses needed replacing and you should contact your perfumer friend for a fresh vial or two.
perhaps perhaps perhaps, you can still feel where his lips lingered on your skin, like a brand. you never thought you could ache for burning, but in the gardens, you find yourself clutching your hand to your chest, craving the lick of the his sun's heat once more.
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painted-bees · 3 months ago
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“It isn't for you, it's because of you.
Because of you, I can finally do this for myself.
Because I want to.
Because I trust you with it.
It's all because of you,
and I'm so fucking thankful.”
-- [Jan 28th, 2014] The weather had conspired against him.
Or perhaps it was trying to protect him. Either way, the cold snap that washed over Vancouver on this sunny January afternoon was perfectly timed to ruin the months of careful planning, frivolous spending, and emotional safeguarding Raf had done in preparation for the performance today. It was as though the sky had opened up to release every breath of warm air that the previous weeks of relentless overcast had, until now, valiantly sealed in.
 To make matters worse, Raf couldn’t turn to Margie for consolation about it. She didn’t know anything about a performance happening today, and it needed to stay that way until at least 6 pm. Her distractible nature had been a huge blessing for him during the past long months of preparation and rehearsals, and this was the last day he'd have to work behind her back. He was thankful for that. Tess had whisked her out into town this morning under the pretence of finding a suitable birthday present to ‘surprise’ him with. It was an effective ruse to keep Margie busy and secreted away from him while he fulfilled the final preparations for the day’s event.
  He was half expecting to arrive at Jack Poole Plaza only to be met by an unfortunate orchestra representative tasked with dispensing the bad news of postponement due to the unusual cold. Instead, the venue was abuzz with activity, warmed by the familiar din of pre-performance energy.   Or rather–it was the arrangement of outdoor heaters that kept the temperature surprisingly manageable in key locations across the venue. That was one of the expenditures Raf had considered “a frivolous necessity” when he committed to it, and it was certainly paying dividends today. 
  “Raf!” The sound of Nels’ voice as he approached was every bit as warm as the heaters. “Boy, you sure picked a day, didn’t you?” As the older man closed the distance, one of his large hands clapped down on Raf’s shoulder with an amicable jostle.
  “Well," Raf said, "no one called to postpone.” Genuine disbelief coloured his tone in a manner that wholly undermined his attempt at a half-joke.
  Nels barked a laugh, “Bah! Over a little cold? No chance. But snow?” He held up a finger, “One snowflake hits that pavement and the whole city' in shut down” He looked up at the sky, wincing against the sunlight. “Thankfully not a problem today!”
  Raf offered a small smirk that bordered on a grimace. “It’s not great for the instruments, though.”
  “Cold feet?”
  “Cold everything.” 
  Nels held him with a gentle but uncompromising gaze. “Train’s already moving, kiddo. Can’t stop now.”
  Turning his eyes towards the stage with a relenting sigh, Raf began making strides across the vast concrete venue towards it. “Outdoor concert in the middle of winter was a terrible idea. Why didn’t anyone stop me?”
  “I recall there was an attempt,” Nels said, “But, ah…You had a clear vision, a convincing argument, and a lot of money.”
  “Yeah, I’m also insane. Nels, I hate crowds, I hate public events. Why am I hosting one?”
  “You love the audience and,” Nels’ hand found Raf’s shoulder again, halting him before the stairs leading up to the left side of the temporary stage set-up. “You love Margie. That’s the kind of insanity that drove all this. She adores this sort of thing. She’s gonna be beside herself. Inconsolable, even. And you know that. That’s why you’re doing this.”
  “Mmh.” That was a swing and a miss, but Raf had no desire to engage in the pedantry dissecting his own mercurial motivations, and so, he was content to leave it there.
  Recognizing the full stop in Raf’s voice, Nels clapped his hands together and led the way onto the stage. “Well-! Things here are looking and sounding well on our end. Security’s all set. It’s not going to be a flood of people all at once but, as you can see,” he gestured out towards the plaza, “We’ve already got a population of curious loiterers. We’re wrapping up the last of the sound tests. Speaking of–!” 
  Nels turned his attention to the microphone set up at the front, centre of the stage. Raf intended to follow, but paused at the sight of Naomi making her way over from the other side. She made he way in brisk strides, holding out her open palms in a gesture both of greeting and surprise. 
  “Ooh, you showed up!”
  Raf regarded her with a lopsided smirk and a curt, upward nod of his chin. “Was I not supposed to?”
  She rubbed her hands together and squeezed the fingertips of one hand in the palm of her other. “Dunno, Ephrem. How you feelin' about it?”
  “Trying not to,” Raf admitted. “But it’s mostly fine. I’ve got Kill Bill sirens going off in my head a bit. First time I’ve ever managed something like this myself, but I am managing, so–” With a Super Mario-pitched voice, and a weak upward pump of his fist, he concluded, “Wahoo.” An aptly appropriated Margie-ism.
  “Man, shut the fuck up. You ain’t managing nothin’ yourself this time, either.” She scoffed loudly. “C’mon I ain’t out here at bitch o’clock in balls degree weather doin’ this shit just so you can tell me you ain’t got no help. Be for real.”
  “That’s not what I–”
  “I know,” she gave him a playful scowl before throwing her hands up in an exaggerated gesture of arrest, “I’m playin’! Jeez, Eph, control your temper, chill. Damn, why you always gotta be yellin’?”
  “Boy, I’m going tah rip your face off.” His stiff posture, quirked eyebrow, and uncharacteristic transatlantic accent delivered his threat with all the seriousness he intended.
  “And ruin your manicure? Girl, you’ll cry.”
  Their short drama play ended with a defusing snort of laughter shared between the two of them.
Thumbing her nose with a sniff, Naomi attempted some honest reassurance. “I think you did a pretty good job, all things considered. Hired the right folks for certain.” She grinned at the compliment as she paid it to herself.
  From their place in the corner of the stage, they both looked out over the set-up and across the venue. The stage itself was populated mostly with venue staff and Hi-Note technicians working in collaboration with each other to make sure things sounded great, looked great, and that no one would kill themselves on any of the countless cables that snaked across the floor.
  Beyond the stage, the last of the temporary barriers and crowd management measures were being organised and installed. Raf himself didn’t know what to expect in that regard, and had no option but to trust that the venue staff knew what they were doing. At the very least, a free admission orchestral event wasn’t new to them. One such concert had been hosted here in the summer, and just like that one, this event was advertised months in advance to draw out as large a crowd as possible. But he hadn’t been the one to advertise it. In fact, he had explicitly forbidden any mention of him or of a vocal performance at all. No, this was advertised in a manner similar to the summer’s concert. And indeed, the programme would be much the same–but it would end with his performance.
 Even as the staff set about their tasks, a budding population of curious doddlers seemed content to wander and wait around for something exciting to begin. It was a lot to hold in his head, and there were countless variables he had no control over–many of which relied on the cooperation of other people. Complete strangers. An overwhelming number of things could and likely would go wrong, and anything that went right would only do so thanks to luck. At least–that’s what his gut told him.
  It would be the first concert he’d perform, without Margie, in almost a decade. It would be the first performance without her that centred him since…
  Since Ephrem Records.   A chill unrelated to the cold forced him to shudder visibly, and he steadied himself with an automatic, curtly huffed sigh. This was not that. He had stared that beast directly in the eyes, he had walked into its horrifying, revenous maw and–
  He came back home. Safe. Sound. Completely unscathed.
  It–that–Ephrem Records and the nightmares within it had no control over him anymore. Though it had tried, it couldn’t keep him. That cage door had fallen off its hinges and would no longer close on him. It was a freedom he had had never in his life known before.
  Beside him, Naomi had turned her gaze to watch him. “Remember after Lacey ditched? How you said you weren’t never gonna get on stage for anyone anymore?”
  “Mmhm.”
  “You been cancellin’ shit all the time because you just ain’t gonna perform if you don’t wanna.”
  “Mmhm.”
  “But you’re here. Today. Like--your birthday’s tomorrow. You didn't wanna take it easy for that?”
  Raf turned his head to cast a very slight, wry smile down towards her. “Mmh, nah.”
 Her eyes lit up under the validating glow of his expression. “Nooo, see! I was gonna ask who you doin’ this for, really? But that shit eating grin–” a cackle punctuated her sentence. “This ain't for Margie. Is it?”
  Naomi’s laugh infected him well enough to let out a small snort of laughter all his own. “She'd hate it if it was. No, I just--wanted to see for myself if...Uh. This wouldn't kill me."
"I've been sayin', too, Margie ain't about seeing you freak out for her!" Naomi clasped her hands together and dipped forward in an elated gesture. "Well, you don't look like you're dying."
"Yeah--I don' think I will. "
  “Raf’s impossible to shop for. I don’t know what we were expecting to find.” Margie's conclusion arrived at the end of a long day spent following Tess around the whole, wide city in search of a gift for a man who placed very little value on material wealth. “There’s nothing we could buy that he couldn't afford himself. And it’s hard to put proper thought into it when it’s so last minute.” There was tired frustration in her voice.
  Savouring a strawberry frappe through a bent straw, Cortes remained wholly unbothered by the state of affairs. With a shrug, her free hand gestured to sign a sloppily composed, “Raf’s birthday gift can be all the friends we met along the way.” 
  Margie let out one of her conversationally reflexive little giggles. “Yeah, yeah! All none of them.”
  The sun had already begun to sink beneath the city skyline, and in its wake the clear sky was turning a shade of deep indigo. An already frigid day was turning into an even colder night. Too cold to be out walking along the seawall. Tess’s choice of a blended iced beverage was nothing short of absurd but, just like the failure of their gift-hunting quest, the freezing cold seemed to have no ill effect on Cortes whatsoever. While Margie’s breath hung like a ghost in the air and caused an uncomfortable moisture to collect on the fraying filaments of her scarf, Tess suffered no such inconvenience. Margie was bundled for warmth, but Tess wore her winter layers only for the aesthetic of it.
  Without looking at her, Tess signed with languid gestures, “We should probably head home, now. I’m getting bored.”
  Margie might have agreed, but something else tugged her attention. She grabbed Tess's arm to halt her. “Hang on, shh!” 
  A pause.
  A swell of string and brass carried itself on the chill ocean breeze. It wasn’t uncommon to hear music playing from the various shops and storefronts that lined the city streets, especially during the holiday months. But…
  “Does that sound live to you?”
  Tess appeared to listen for a moment longer before shrugging. 
  “It’s coming from the plaza.”
  Another shrug from Tess preceded an inquiring forefinger flopped with mild indifference towards the stairs leading out of the park, up towards the convention centre. 
  Margie nodded and shook Tess’s arm in her grip. “Yeah, I just wanna looksee!”
  With one last resigned shrug, Cortes allowed Margie to lead the way forward.
  As they crested the wide staircase, the plaza greeted them with an array of bright, warm lights and a buzz of activity. Margie immediately b-lined to read one of the standing signs that named the event to her.
  “Wait, no! What? This was today?” She turned a baleful gaze up at Tess. “We missed the summer one, so I was gonna tell Raf about this one. But I thought it was like–next month!” She gestured with both arms towards the banner sign. “Free concert! VMO! Tess! I’m so upset!”  Dropping her arms to her side, Margie slouched under the weight of her disappointment. “This woulda been a perfect birthday gift for him. Why did I think it was in February?”
  Tess’s hand came down gently upon the top of Margie’s head in a placating pat-pat. At the same time, an unfamiliar man’s voice addressed them from the side.
  “Excuse me, Ma’am?”
  Glancing up, Margie watched the man approach, well dressed for the weather with a bright yellow and black jacket. “Genesis Security” was emblazoned in bold, white letters across the breast and shoulder. He wasn’t addressing her. The man’s gaze was locked firmly onto Tess.
  “Ma’am,” he repeated, “I've been instructed to show you to your seat, if you’ll please follow me.”
  “Woah...” Margie watched the guy's back as he began to lead the way forward through the plaza. "How does this keep happening to you?" It seemed that no matter where Tess went, there was always something special waiting for her. People treated her like a rock star, honored by her mere presence. Apparently, this was just another such instance.
 Shrug. Tess tapped on the shoulder of the security guard and locked eyes with him before pointing to Margie, then to herself, and then back to Margie again.
  With a nod, the guard responded, “I don't see why not. But let's hurry. Show's half done by now.”
  The guard made haste, Tess kept in stride, and Margie was forced to shuffle quite swiftly in order to keep up. As she did so, her hands fumbled around in her pockets until they found her phone.
  “I should call Raf, maybe he can make it in time if he’s still at Hi-Note!” Neither Tess nor the guard in front of her said anything to discourage the thought, and so Margie hit his name in on quick-dial and waited for him to pick up.
  Instead, she was immediately met with the robotic voice of his service provider.
  With a small groan of disappointment, Margie lowered her phone to send a text message, muttering under her breath, “Why is your phone turned off, you wiener?”
  The two of them were led through the well populated venue towards the very frontmost row of seating, where Tess was presented with two vacant seats.
  “Oh,” Margie took her seat next to Tess, “Raf wouldn’t have been able to sit with us, anyways.”
  Perhaps sensing the tinge of melancholy in her voice, Tess reached over to wrap an arm around Margie’s shoulders and pulled her in close. With a sigh, Margie nestled herself cozily against Tess and made the conscious effort to shift her attitude and appreciate the free show with her ever patient girlfriend. It was thanks to Tess that she got to see this performance at all–and with that thought, Margie was able to replace her disappointment for failing their day’s objective with thankfulness towards the present moment.
  The orchestra played an enjoyable, eclectic selection of compositions, most of which Margie couldn’t name. Perhaps the only one she properly recognized was the Star Wars theme, which stood out somewhat comedically against the others–all of which she had assumed to be classical pieces. 
  The final piece–or rather, what was presented as the final piece–was no doubt Tchaikovsky. She knew Tchaikovsky. Just…not well enough to name his compositions. But this was definitely him! To her ears, everything sounded beautiful. Had Raf been there, he might have identified nuances in the performance, both good and bad, highlighting them to her so that she might be able to notice them, too. There was a shared enjoyment between them for that kind of thing. In contrast, Tess was a remarkably stoic and quiet person to sit with when it came to anything involving live music. Her enormous, dark eyes stared unblinking as she listened; transfixed by the intricate braiding of sounds. Her long, lithe fingers twirled themselves repeatedly into the stray curls of Margie’s hair. It was a tiny, thoughtless, but comfortingly intimate gesture. Despite the best efforts of the late January weather, Magritte felt remarkably warmed.
  Tchaikovsky came to an end, and both she and Tess contributed to the roar of applause that persisted even as the musicians stood to leave, abandoning their instruments on the stage.
  Keeping with the applause, Margie leaned towards Tess’s ear. “Sit tight, there’s prolly gonna be a–oop, yep!”
  Her statement was confirmed before she even had time to finish saying it, as the musicians quickly emerged to retake their seats on the stage. As they did, Margie stopped clapping, waiting to hear if their encore was a song she could identify. As the rest of the applause died down, two additional figures took position onto the stage; a trio of previously absent musicians took positions on the stage. Or, at least–if they had been present previously, they were on entirely different instruments, now. Three electric guitars, one of which was a bass.
  Margie squinted at the rightmost guitarist and her bumblebee-yellow Kramer. “Oh, woah–is that Naomi? Tess, you see her!?” She couldn’t help but pick up an applause with an exhilarated whoop at seeing a friendly face among the cast of talented strangers.
  It worked to catch Naomi’s attention, and Margie was rewarded with an acknowledging little wave, bright smile, and a thumbs up.
  Clasping her hands together, Margie leaned back in her seat with a delighted giggle. “That’s so cool, this is gonna be so good!”
  A blanket of quiet settled upon the venue, and after a moment's pause, the orchestra’s instruments sprang to life once more. The number opened with a swelling whirl of notes that immediately swept Margie’s imagination into the realm of Broadway romance. And then–
  She heard his voice.
  A pleasing falsetto that wove itself beautifully into the airy strings, Margie knew who she was hearing before he had even walked onto the stage. One note was all it took.
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I got inspired to post cringe, I hope you like it lmaooo About a year prior to these events, Margie and Tess had accompanied Raf to a very emotionally turbulent trip to Monaco. It wasn't a vacation, and it wasn't what any of them would describe as particularly enjoyable...Perhaps some day, we'll learn more about what happened there and why he went. One thing that did happen, on a very desperate whim, is that Raf had asked Margie to marry him. No real proposal--something asserted on the spot, motivated more by fear than anything else. Margie said yes, of course--but only on the condition that he ask her again once they were settled back home in Vancouver. She said--promised--she wasn't going to bring it up again unless he brought it up first; that there was no pressure for him to repeat the question once he was feeling comfortable and secure again. It's just--he seemed too emotionally compromised for Margie to really accept the proposal as one that was offered to her with soundness of mind. And so--to ensure that it was something he actually meant--she would forget it was asked at all, until he brought it up again on his own accord upon their return to Canada. No need to any special occasion, now jewelry, none of that--just ask the same way he did in Monaco...but without the undercurrent of panic coloring his judgement. They returned from Monaco safe and sound, and neither Margie nor Raf breathed a word about the Monaco proposal. Margie assumed Raf forgot--or perhaps he had come to his better senses and no longer felt like his well being and safety relied on lawfully locking down their relationship together. As she had expected would be the case. On the other hand, Raf had waited two months to see if Margie would bring it up at all, or if she'd stick to her promise and release him from the obligation of following through. To him, it seemed like she had completely forgotten; ss though he had never asked her to marry him at all. Unbeknownst to her, he hadn't changed his mind. The fact that she wouldn't so much as even allude to it for his sake only imbued further confidence in his decision. She had been with him through hell and high water, she was there in all the ways she promised to be, she gave him the space and the grace he needed, carried him through some of his lowest days, and kept him safe when he was certain no one in the world ever could. She loved him during his worst days, and shouldered his worst behaviors only because she loved being with him. She never asked him for anything spectacular. She never wished to see him spend the limit of his resources on her. She only ever wished to enjoy things with him--and his enjoyment was a critical part of that desire. Over the several years they had been together, one thing became abundantly clear; Margie deserved every good thing he could grant her. Margie could be trusted to receive his best efforts and his greatest gifts without ruin. And for the first time in his life, he wanted to give those to someone--to her. Because it felt right. Because he'd love doing so. Because she fucking deserved it. Performances had become pretty comfortable for Raf by this point. He, Margie, and Tess had been doing them on the semi-regular before certain events dragged him back to Monaco. Even his post performance PTSD episodes--while still present--were far more manageable than they had ever been. He no longer plagued with week-long emotional lows that greatly overshadowed the euphoria of a great performance. Things just felt...more balanced.
Enough so that Raf decided his proposal to Magritte would, itself, be a performance. Planned and organized by him, with the help of Hi-Note. If he could organize an perform a concert as a gift for someone he loved--without succumbing to abject terror and paranoia at any point during the months of preparation--well... That kind of freedom over himself would be the best gift he's ever received. And so--he planned the performance/proposal for his birthday. Margie watched the last half of the orchestra concert with Tess, having no idea that Raf would be the encore act. Tess, of course, had been in on it as a collaborator. She knew the guard would address her for the seating--they had met prior as part of the preparations. She and Raf both knew that Margie wouldn't find anything suspect in the fact that Tess would be spontaneously offered some kind of V.I.P seating. Tess's ridiculous, ambiguous "celebrity status" had basically become a meme between them at this point. It wasn't unusual... It was all planned. And everything played out pretty well according to that plan. Once Raf too the stage, Tess pulled Margie out of her seat and led her to the stage (exchanging a thumbs-up with Nels along the way). Margie followed along in good fun. By this point, she knew shenanigans were afoot--and slipped into her role very agreeably once Nels confirmed that, yes, she's expected on the stage. She was happy to play along.
The dance she and Raf "perform" wasn't any choreographed thing. Rather, it's the same kind of lackadaisical dancing they'd often do in their livingroom at home haha. And then...there was no more performance...just overwhelm and joy and a lot of love...and Kirby rings lmaooo which made her even MORE overwhelmed. And then the rest of the night was just one big overjoyed, emotional blur. Okay, I've typed too much...this is all very silly, but I made it so you can have the whole bunch of it! Bonus: The next morning, they woke up with a terrible cold...and spent the entire day recovering in bed lmao
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(happy birthday, Raf lmao).
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deantfwinchester · 2 months ago
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Love Me Right
Part 1: Henrietta’s
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Pairing: ConstructionCEO!Joel x Waitress!Reader
She's eventually gonna be a teacher again bc let's be real, i'm a one-trick pony.
This is a Millionaire Joel AU x Most Eligible Bachelor Trope
Summary: Joel Miller, CEO and Co-Founder of Miller Construction, hasn't been dealing with an Empty Nest very well. His family and friends have tried their best to cheer him up since Sarah left for college in the fall, but the storm cloud above his head remains. On top of that (or perhaps because of it), he has just been named one of Austin's Most Eligible Bachelors.
What will that mean for the new-in-town waitress he meets in his favorite diner? As far as she knows, he's just an average contractor.
Warnings: age gap (reader late 20s, Joel late 40s); family-centered trauma and conflict; lethal levels of fluff otw
A/N: Bear with me for this one y'all. My imagination is ambitious and my brain is obstinate. Title inspired by Sabrina Carpenter’s Short ‘n Sweet - bc i can’t stop fckn listening to Juno 🫣
Word Count: 4.6k
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“Tommy, there ain’t a chance in hell that’s gonna happen. Why on earth did you bring this to me?”
“Well they talked to Joanna at the front desk first. She said wasn’t going to bring it up to you, but I couldn’t just let it slide,” Tommy raises his eyebrows at Joel, shooting him a mischievous look. “Because one - I wasn’t gonna pass up the chance to see this look on your face, and two - would a little publicity be so bad?”
“Who in their right mind is gonna choose a fuckin contractor from the goddamn ‘society pages’?” Joel bristles at his brother’s amusement with an unwavering scowl.
Tommy stares right back, but the playful nature of his expression is unmarred. “Most men won’t Joel - but their wives will.” Tommy’s salacious grin is damn near wider than Joel’s ever seen. Christ, he’s loving this.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Joel says plainly, rolling his eyes.
“Come on brother, think about it - plenty of busy men in this city with bored housewives in need of a project. He tosses her a few thousand to redo the dining room - well who’s gonna do the job? She hasn’t got a clue where to begin and then BOOM! She sees the list of Austin’s Most Eligible Bachelors in the paper - where she finds a photo of the distinguished CEO and senior founder of Miller Construction—”
“Senior, seriously?,” Joel deadpans at him. Tommy ignores him, continuing to wax poetic.
“And can’t help but wonder if the rest of his staff is as dashing as he appears to be,”
“Flattery’s cheap Tommy.”
“Of course then she meets with me and the deal is sealed.” Tommy smiles smugly now that his story is complete.
“Boy can you paint a picture,” responds Joel, rolling his eyes at his brother’s antics. “So you wanna parade me around like a two-bit hooker, huh?
“Whaddya say — can I give ‘em a call?”
“If you’re so hell-bent on ‘marketing’ why don’t you do it?” Joel says flippantly.
“Well I’m not a bachelor anymore, am I?,” he grins brightly at him. This time, it’s sincere.
“Don’t break your arm pattin' yourself on the back, Tommy. Maria mighta said yes, but there ain’t a ring on your finger yet. She’s still got a few months to wise up,” Joel challenges, his tone playful.
Tommy glares at him, but then gives a sobered nod. “You’re right about that. I know I’m a lucky fucker, and I’m not interested in testing that luck - even for a charity auction. Sorry to the dogs, or the food bank or — is it old people?”
“Hell bent on it, and don’t even know what it’s for? Christ - it’s a Make-A-Wish thing Tommy, damn,” Joel replies, looking bewildered at his brother’s callous and cavalier response.
“And isn’t your attention and concern for the bigger picture just what they need in volunteers?” Tommy retorts, expression still smug but eyes hopeful. “What, ‘s it gonna kill you to go out for once? It’ll be a formality at worst and maybe even a good time if you loosen up a bit.”
“I can think of a number of other ‘worsts’ than a formality,” Joel muses
“You’re gentleman enough to handle it just fine,” Tommy continues.
It has been quite a while since Joel’s been out of his house for much other than work or routine, and even longer since he’s been out with anyone other than Tommy, Maria, and the guys from work here and there. He’ll admit, he hasn’t been dealing with an empty nest very well. He’s done a pretty terrible job of keeping busy since he dropped Sarah off at school back in the fall. She’d gotten in exactly where she’d hoped, and made friends fast - for this he was over the moon - but he misses her like crazy. He’s been swimming back and forth in swelling pride and stabbing grief since September, ecstatic and aching all at once. He knew Tommy’s intentions were relatively pure, business interest aside. He knows they’ve been worried about him for a couple of months now - they haven’t exactly been subtle — they’d started having him over for dinner damn near once a week.
This newfound hobby of Tommy’s, cooking like a grown-up, had become the ruse en vogue for getting Joel out of his house. As Maria’s caseload grew at the law firm, Tommy wanted to make sure she had a real meal to eat when she finally got home — so he started cooking. Joel had to admit it was real sweet, watching his brother dive headfirst into learning a new skill just to take care of his bride-to-be. He claimed it only made sense with his far more flexible schedule, but Joel knew it made Tommy proud to be able to do this for her, and the very fact he wanted to made Joel proud as well.
Once Sarah left for school, however, Tommy quickly discovered his brother’s less-than-satisfactory habits of microwave dinners or forgetting to eat in general. He was a fair chef in his own right once upon a time, but without his little girl there to feed, bothering to make a balanced meal fell by the wayside. Joanna, a kindly woman in her seventies, had been one of the first to notice the change in Joel’s demeanor and the drawn nature of his features. Not much younger than the boys’ mother would be today, Joanna worked at the front desk of Miller Construction, greeting clients with a maternal warmth that, Tommy had to admit, was in part strategic. Disarm a client while they wait with a smile and you’d be able to pry open their hearts and their pockets.
Joanna was not unaware of the role she played in this game, though she did not approve. She’d informed Tommy of her concern for Joel, and the regular dinner invitations followed suit. This, accompanied with Joanna’s tugging Joel along to a nearby diner for lunch a couple of times a week in November had practically pulled Joel through the fall slump and into the new year. The holiday visits home from Sarah had helped a great deal, as well.
Joel wasn’t blind to his friends and family’s kahoots to help him through this patch. Though he sometimes grudgingly obliged to Joanna’s pestering him out the door because she hadn’t “seen you eat a bite all day. Four cups of black coffee don’t count, and you know it. Up!,” or Tommy’s employing Maria to send a text herself inviting him to dinner after he’d tried and simply received the finger, he was grateful for their efforts and care. Sarah was too, but he didn’t need to know that. Those lunchtime diner visits soon turned into breakfasts — a preemptive measure on Joanna’s part to add some time out in public to Joel’s routine of home — office — work site — home. Eventually she’d pavolv-ed him into it, and Joel was at the diner for coffee, breakfast, and one of the only physical newspapers left in existence every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at first following behind Joanna and eventually on his own.
Joanna had been with the Miller brothers since the business was far smaller, just a few years after its inception, when they started needing a receptionist/secretary/assistant, just someone who knew how to manage their slowly growing demand. She’d been a friend of their mother’s and had taken up some of the slack when she’d passed, grieving alongside her friend’s sons and looking after them in her wake. She’d been one of the only reasons Joel and Tommy had been able to build the tiny Miller Bros. into its current position as Miller Construction, multi-million-dollar contracting firm, and the largest in the Austin Metro area. Joel’s practical thinking and creativity combined with Tommy’s ambition and idealistic hopes of grandeur got them into successful meetings with investors that Joanna quietly set up via her husband’s business contacts. Their vision reminded her so much of their mother’s optimism she couldn’t help herself. She’d keep an eye on Sarah when Joel needed and ensured they were taken care of in the moments they would have needed their mother around.
As the boys’ surrogate mother figure and Sarah’s Aunt Jo, it came as no surprise that amid Joel’s season of empty-nested loneliness Joanna had begun encouraging him to “get back out there” and claimed that she “won’t be around forever” and “would like to see him settled before I go.” Classic maternal guilt-tripping, and Joel told her each time that he hears 70 is the new 50. She told him to try that again in a few years when he hits the real 50.
Truth of the matter was, Joel had been alone for a long time. He’d seen people on and off while Sarah was growing up, but it was a rare occasion, and no fling had ever lasted more than a couple of months. With Sarah at home, it never mattered much to Joel — he had someone to care for who was the best company he’d ever had right in front of him. She’d needed him a little less as she’d grown up, but he always had a purpose.
Joel was a natural-born caretaker — between brotherhood and fatherhood, he took to it like a tadpole to water. With Sarah away at school and his little brother engaged, however, he couldn’t figure out where to put all that love, and so it crackled into grief like a blackening candle wick, blooming into a flower of ash that nestled in his chest. The cloud of soot hovered around him for a while as he went through the motions of his everyday. Tommy, Maria, and Joanna all wanted to see him find his way again, as did Sarah when she received honest reports from her family members after some prodding. He always put on his biggest smile for her, never wanting her to worry, but she could see something hurting in his eyes, just below the surface.
While it may have been blatantly out of his comfort zone, Tommy and Joanna jumped at the opportunity to convince Joel when the Most Eligible Bachelors’ Auction came knocking. He needed something to disrupt his routine, with the added bonus of his coming out into the social scene like a plaid-clad debutante with a few extra crow’s feet.
After rolling the last few months’ events around in his mind for a couple of minutes while Tommy answers a phone call, Joel is broken from his reverie. Tommy’s standing in front of him again, waving a hand back and forth.
“Hey ground control - you with me?,” he asks before Joel’s eyes focus on him once again. “Can I give em a call?,” and this time Joel notices the concern in Tommy’s eyes as his joking facade flickers with hope. It’s more than just publicity, and he owes it to them to give it a shot.
Joel releases a measured sigh, relenting. “Can’t believe I’m saying this but sure, fuck it. Call ‘em back,” he says rolling his eyes, resigning himself to whatever nonsense his participation will entail. He reminds himself it’s for charity, and returns to his computer, refocusing on his work as Tommy darts out of his office to return to his own, reporting his success to Joanna along the way.
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You got lucky with this job at Henrietta’s, with its flexible hours and fairly livable wage, you had time to settle into your new place and get to know the city. You spend your off days wandering around, doing research on local schools and prepping your applications for summer school and the new year.
Never had you pictured yourself leaving students mid-year, and having to do it hurt like hell. You missed the kids you left behind every day, but when a friend caught wind of an acquaintance needing a subletter for a little studio within your price range, you didn’t have much of a choice. You needed to take up the lease starting in January, or you’d be starting over at square one. It had been a long time coming, this encroaching need to run and start over somewhere new. Staying in your hometown was no longer an option — work may have been a saving grace, but the other areas of your life were suffering. You knew healing couldn’t begin without separation. You needed to be far away from everything — it was the only way you could picture trying to feel whole again. Grad school had ended the previous year, so you fled.
With each mile you put between you and your family, you started to feel like your lungs could fully inflate once again. The oppressive air of scrutiny and memory that swam around you at home dropped off piece by piece with each passing mile marker. You’d put a few states between yourself and your parents once it was all said and done, and while it was scary, starting from scratch all over again, it was invigorating. You’d done it at eighteen when you left for college, you could damn well do it again with eight years’ more life experience under your belt.
You’d walked into the diner on your second day in the city. You had some money saved up from time living at home, but knew it would dwindle quickly with rent to pay and no salary coming in on the regular. You would need something to keep busy and pay for necessities until the end of the spring semester. When Diane, the manager caught sight of you, bright-eyed and looking like a deer in headlights, she welcomed you with a warmth you’d only read about in books. She interviewed you then and there and offered you a job on the spot, waiting tables on the breakfast and lunch shifts at least four days a week. She told you your “sweet smile and wide-eyed look will do wonders for you in tips, precious!” You think it’s probably just teacher face you can’t shake, and hope she’s right — maybe it could do you some favors until you get back in the classroom where you belong.
Diane’s rounded face was accentuated with wonderfully deep crow’s feet and smile lines that suggested a lifetime of sharing this warmth, and her dark hair streaked with gray around her hairline and temples rested atop her head in a frazzled bun. She made you comfortable out the gate, and had set you up with a uniform immediately. More aptly, she handed you a t-shirt and an apron to go over your leggings. You were thankful for the relaxed dress code, knowing plenty of other establishments required a much more specific ensemble. Once you’d changed she introduced you to your shift lead, Reggie, and the line-cook-on-duty, Tony, patting you comfortingly on the shoulder and insisting they welcome you, hoping to keep you around to solve their persistent staffing issue.
While Diane was quite a bit older than you, somewhere in her mid-fifties, Reggie and Tony were younger, floating between mid-thirties and early forties, if you had to guess. Reggie was a slim black man you’d put in his thirties, and he greeted you with a smile and an exclamation that he was more than ready to gossip ad nauseum with someone so much closer to his age. He’d been the one to fill you in on Diane’s immediate taking to you, letting you know with little ambiguity that you were just a few years younger than Diane’s daughter, who had moved out of the city about a year ago, and that you favored her to boot. Reggie had called this particular gossip session your orientation.
“Don’t get me wrong honey, Diane’s a sweetheart. But never have I seen her offer a position on the spot. I think having you here may do her some good,” he’d said, before turning to fill you in on Tony the line cook. “Yeah Tony’s hot, but he chain smokes like a chimney and doesn’t care at all when I ask him to keep his second hand smoke to himself on the days I have a performance!,” he shouted pointedly at Tony, who only looked up long enough to give Reggie the finger and wink at you. Tony was a muscular Italian guy in his forties with tattoos of a sort that didn’t quite match up with the gold chain and cross pendant hanging around his neck. When your eyes went wide at the wink, Reggie giggled a bit and leaned toward you. “Don’t worry, Tony’s a little sleazy but harmless. He’ll hit on anything in a skirt, but as soon as you tell him you aren’t interested he’ll back off and won’t bring it up again. He’s a good guy, but don’t tell him I said that.”
Over the course of your shift you discovered that Diane’s been at Henrietta’s for fifteen years, Reggie is a drag queen and lounge singer by the name of Wizz Tiria at a few different clubs around town, and Tony has a few other business ventures he mentions on and off (the details of which he keeps to himself), but never misses taking his Mom to church on Sundays. You share a good bit about yourself as well in exchange — what brought you to Austin, why now, and where you may go from here. It doesn’t take long for you to make yourself at home among this eclectic little bunch, and for the first time in a really, really long time, you’re content with the peaceful monotony of these early winter days.
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It’s a brisk February morning when you walk into the diner for your shift. You’ve spent the last month working in the cozy little greasy spoon, so you’re still getting to know the regulars, but you’ve caught on pretty quick. You’ve been working the Tuesday, Thursday, and weekend shifts, but when Diane loses another server, you’re eager to pick up the slack — extra pocket change and keep your mind busy. The company’s pretty good too. Thus, you find yourself walking into the diner at 7 AM on a Wednesday morning with a hoodie over your t-shirt and a scarf to ward off more of the wind cutting into your cheeks. You head to the staff room to remove your hoodie and don your apron and emerge, finding the diner a bit colder than it had been up to this point. You’d kept a light jacket or a cardigan on you previously, but today’s need for something heavier led you to selecting a favorite hoodie to throw over your work t-shirt — which you didn’t quite think through until you came into the dining room and felt a chil run up your spine. Diane catches sight of you before you can still yourself.
“Sweetie, what on earth fo you think you’re doing?,” she asks like you’ve done something obviously egregious.
“Huh? What is it?,” you ask innocently, but you know the answer. She can probably see the goosebumps you feel rising on your arms.
“You need somethin’ on under that, you’re gonna freeze in here today!,” she chastises.
“Yeah, I brought my hoodie, but forgot I’d be taking it off. It’s not so bad in here, I’ll be alright,’ you tell her reassuringly.
“Absolutely not. Wait, hold on a second - REGGIE! We got any more o’ those long sleeve souvenir shirts in the case?!” she hollers after him.
“Hold awn!,” he hollers back, Southern twang taking center stage when he yells, just like the rest of them. After a few seconds he emerges with a few in hand. “Got a few left. Ugly as hell, probably why they’re still here. Watcha need ‘em for?”
“Sweetie, go on and change into that before the rush starts. Not the staff shirt, but the branding’ll be fine in case Jason drops by,” she says, rolling her eyes. She pats you on the shoulder, nudging you toward Reggie to take one of the shirts. They’re bright green with a gaudy design on them that makes you laugh when he hands it to you. Jason’s the owner of Henrietta’s, and so you’ve heard, the bane of Diane’s existence. You’ve only heard tale of this rotten Jason thus far, never quite laying eyes on the mythical beast. You really hope today in this goofy shirt isn’t the day you do.
You return to the dining room a few minutes later clad in the neon green monstrosity, tugging at it in a futile effort to make it look better. “Happy now, Diane?!,” you holler as you enter, only to find her standing directly in front of you at the hostess stand, face to face with a man you’d never seen in here before — who you almost run right into, not looking where you’re going. He’s tall and broad with dark brown curls laced with grey streaks, and gray patches in the short beard that frames his jaw. He catches you when you nearly bump right into him, and you look up to meet the deepest brown eyes you’ve ever encountered. Your cheeks go red when you realize what you’ve done.
“Whoa there,” he says, smiling down at you as you stutter out an apology. “It’s alright, no harm done,” he responds, voice gentle but deep. It’s true, he didn’t even budge when he caught you, and you’re fairly certain if you’d fallen, the outcome would’ve been the same.
“Sorry about that Joel. C’mon, your table’s ready,” she says, patting Joel’s arm and leading him forward, not before turning back to you and saying, “Certainly am. Now go grab some coffee for Table 7 for me, will ya sweetie?” with a smile. You’d just run almost smack into a customer, and she wasn’t upset with you or anything. You shouldn’t be surprised, that’s just Diane, but you’re used to much larger reactions to small mistakes. You just nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, but your eyes are drawn once again to the man she’s leading away. He’s looking back at you with a smile that sends a shiver down your spine, one you’re certain has nothing to do with the chill in the air this time. He’s wearing a plaid button-down and a utility jacket, with cheeks and a nose tinged pink from the cold. You tear your eyes away anxiously and head for the coffee pot.
You’ve got your hand around the decaf pot, pouring another cup for the regular at the bar counter, when your eyes find Table 7, your next destination. You see the man, Joel, Diane had called him, with his back to you, facing out the window, newspaper in hand. You steel yourself once again, switch coffee pots, and head for his table.
You approach from the side, hoping not to spook him as he’s engrossed in the paper he has in hand. Christ, when was the last time you saw a physical newspaper? It’s kinda cute, you think, seeing someone reading one on a cold morning with a cup of coffee. So picturesque. Especially someone as handsome as he is, and you find yourself staring at his broad shoulders and dark curls again before he looks up from his reading.
“Hey,” you start, a little shaky, “sorry again, about before. Don’t know what I was doing, not looking where I was going,” you smile a little, shaking your head at your mishap.
“Really, it’s fine. You seemed, uh, preoccupied,” he says, looking down at the offending design on the tshirt you’re wearing, before looking back up at you. “It’s certainly a change from the regular uniform, huh?” he says, smiling at you. The way his eyes crinkle as he does plants a warmth in your chest you aren’t expecting. It’s been so long since you felt it, it’s almost unfamiliar. Your cheeks warm as you smile back at him, hoping it comes off as embarrassment from your wardrobe rather than bashful attraction. You’re about to tell him it’s certainly not a permanent solution, when he speaks again. “So, Sweetie, huh? Haven’t seen you around before — that what they call you in here?” he questions, smirk playing at his lips.
You laugh in response and introduce yourself, and tell him this isn’t your normal shift, but you’ll probably be around for it moving forward. You take his breakfast order, and tell him you’ll let him get back to his paper.
You don’t converse much more when you bring Joel his breakfast, just quiet thanks when you refill his coffee cup. He looks so peaceful, you almost hate to interrupt each time. You ask Reggie about him when you both have a minute behind the counter.
“Yep, that’s Joel. Gorgeous, isn’t he? Started coming in a few months back with an older lady, then more regularly by himself. She’s with him once in a while, kinda seems like a mom vibe, but she doesn’t look like him. Anyway, I think he works construction or something, always coming in with those boots on looking like a lumberjack,” Reggie says flippantly. “Heard from the older lady one day when he was in the bathroom — his daughter went to college back in the fall, they’ve been trying to get him out ever since,” he said, looking sympathetic at the thought.
You feel your heart do a little squeeze at this newfound tidbit. A fresh empty nester. You know how hard it’s been for Diane, so much she’s taken to parenting the staff in her daughter’s stead. Staring at Joel’s back as his head is bowed reading the paper, you begin wondering more and more about him. His daughter’s probably around eighteen, so how old is he? You’d guess he isn’t married, and you didn’t see a ring. Who is he? Why does he come here to read his paper each day? And most importantly — how soon can you find out the answers to these questions? You don’t want to ambush him at all and scare him off, but you’re drawn to him, and so very curious.
Meanwhile, Joel is stealing glances at your reflection in the diner window in front of him, watching you laugh with Reggie and the customers at the bar, smiling sweetly when someone makes a request of you. He needs to get out of there before he starts feeling creepy, he thinks. He rises and walks to the counter to settle his bill with Reggie at the cash register, glancing at you when he does so, futilely trying to balance showing interest and being weird. He leaves a nice tip in the jar for all of you to share, but just before he turns to go, he looks back at you, locking eyes.
“Oh uh, Sweetie?,” he says, smirk on his face. He looks almost bashful when he speaks next, like he’s working up the courage. “Glad you’re picking up. Look forward to seein’ you again,” he smiles. The look on his face when he says it is so sincere, you could melt on the spot. He was nervous about his joke, you could tell, but recovered when you laughed in reply.
“Looking forward to it too, Joel. Enjoy your day,” you say, smiling wide in return. He gives a little wave to everyone before grinnig down at his shoes and walking out of the diner into the crisp February air. Your eyes follow him out to the pick-up he hops into, before looking back over to Reggie and Tony, staring at you devilishly.
“And I’m looking forward to seeing this story unravel,” says Reggie, looking over at Tony and grinning, like something juicy has just unfolded before their eyes. The two are laughing while you smile and wave them off, wiping down the counter. Diane emerges from the office at the sound of their hearty laughter, reading glasses slipping down her nose, notepad in hand, and stares back at the three of you.
“What’d I miss?!,” she asks. You’re smiling too much to respond with anything genuine, so you return to your wiping, and let Reggie take the lead.
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stumpyjoepete · 3 months ago
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Thinking a bit more about Megalopolis (see prev post). It's not really the case that the script is as disjointed or schizophrenic as my post makes it out to be. The central plot is pretty simple: an egotistical city planner has an ambitious and futuristic vision for redeveloping the city, and he butts heads with the Mayor and others who oppose him in this. He ultimately succeeds in building his utopian "megalopolis". Everyone is happy, the end.
And yet.
There's this... intense centrifugal force that prevents everything from cohering into a unified whole. It's like a puzzle where all the pieces are cut from the same picture, but upon closer inspection, no two pieces quite fit together. Or like that collection of nonsensical objects. A fork where the tines and the handle are connected by a chain. A watering can with the spout facing the wrong way. A quick glance leaves you confused, and that confusion is only deepened by further contemplation.
I think this is especially clear in the pseudo-intellectualism of the title cards, narration, monologues, and quotations/references:
Laurence Fishburne does this heavy-handed narration at the beginning and end of the movie (and several random points in between). And there are these associated title cards that look like they were made by applying an "Ancient Rome" theme to some PowerPoint slides. "Or will we too fall victim, like old Rome, to the insatiable appetite for power of a few men?" My brother in Christ, you are making a movie where the hero is named Cesar, and the happy ending is when he successfully pulls a Robert Moses. This is not a story about power corrupting or good intentions going awry. What are you doing???
Cesar Catilina interrupts Mayor Cicero's speech (where he is introducing a plan to build a casino) in order to lay out an early plan for "megalopolis", which is an ambitious and long-term alternative to the (short-term) casino plan. He prefaces his megalopolis pitch by reciting the Hamlet soliloquy. What exactly does Coppola think "To Be Or Not To Be" is about? He must thinks it means, "I am a dark and brooding bad-boy intellectual", since it's hard to see how "I'd like to kill myself, but I fear death" fits into an argument about the importance of long-term thinking in urban planning.
Cesar says several negative things about "civilization". "[Imagine] humanity as an old tree with one misguided branch called civilization... going nowhere." (Shot of notebook shows an illustration with 'war' and 'cruelty' offshoots from said branch.) "Emerson said the end of the human race will be that we'll eventually die of civilization." (Note: unsourced, probably fake quote.) "Civilization itself remains the great enemy of mankind." Umm... you're an urban planner! You're doing a high modernism. What exactly does it mean for you to call civilization the enemy? Is "megalopolis" somehow anti-civilization because it looks like a Georgia O'Keefe painting instead of a bunch of straight lines and right angles? Will the "war" and "cruelty" branches wither and die when buildings have labia?
Also, there's this amazing line read that completely inverts the meaning of a fake Marcus Aurelius quote (the quote was attributed to him by Tolstoy but is not actually something he said). "The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape... finding yourself in the ranks of the insane." Why did you put in that pause??? Fake Marcus Aurelius is turning in his grave! You're supposed to be fleeing FROM the ranks of the insane! I suppose this isn't really inconsistent with the characterization of Cesar, it's just such a fucking batshit thing to say.
All of the cargo-cult intellectualism listed above could perhaps be excused if the vision that the film is supposedly about had any content whatsoever. Or, alternatively, if the movie was about something more substantive, and the vacuous megalopolis vision took place off-screen in an epilogue, like the "happily ever after" of a children's story. But no! The movie repeatedly interrupts the plot to grab you by the shoulders and scream in your face: "I have a vision! For the future!". And then--now that it has your undivided attention--it shits the bed like a man who has just polished off an entire bag of sugar-free gummy bears and washed them down with a fistful of Ambien:
"Conversation isn't enough. It's the questions that lead it to the next step. But initially, you have to have a conversation. The city itself is immaterial, but they're talking about it for the first time. And it's not just about us talking about it. It's the need to talk about it. It's as urgent to us as air and water."
"Mr. Catalina, you said that as we jump into the future, we should do so unafraid. But what if when we do jump into the future, there is something to be afraid of?" "Well, there's nothing to be afraid of if you love, or have loved. It's an unstoppable force. It's unbreakable. It has no limits. It's within us. It's around us. And it's stretched throughout time. It's nothing you can touch. Yet it guides every decision that we make. But we do have the obligation to each other to ask questions of one another. What can we do? Is this society, is this way we're living, the only one that's available to us? And when we ask these questions, when there's a dialogue about them, that basically is a utopia."
After the revolution, we won't have conflicts anymore; we'll have dialogue instead. We won't have a need for the "jobs" and "sanitation" of "now"; we'll have the "imperishable" "dreams" of "forever". We won't have problems that need solving; we'll all be too busy asking each other questions. Now, if everyone could just shut up and get the hell out of the way and let Cesar implement his vision, then "everyone" will soon be "creating together, learning together, perfecting body and mind." A chorus of children's voices gradually morphing into Laurence Fishburne's, chanting, "One Earth, indivisible, with long life, education and justice for all." It's eschatological anti-politics made entirely from cotton candy. Please, for the love of God, stop making Adam Driver monologue at me! Let's get back to Aubrey Plaza stepping on horny fascist Shia LaBeouf!
The incoherence of Megalopolis's vision is compounded by how anachronistic its depiction of our fallen world is. There are some half-hearted (and ham-fisted) gestures in the Clodio sub-plot towards the dangers of Trumpian populism, but the script was first written in the 80's, and it's extremely obvious that Coppola is writing about New York City in the preceding several decades. The city's finances are in dire straights. (There's literally a "Ford Tells City: Drop Dead" reference!) The city is full of slums, the streets are full of crime, and the elites are all decadent. (For Coppola, decadence means that ladies are doing cocaine and smooching each other in the cluh-ub.) The main character is Neo-Roman Robert Moses, and the conflict of the film is about urban renewal. In case you, like Mr. Coppola, have not been made aware, slum clearance is not a major political issue in 2020's Manhattan.
Two thirds of the way through the movie, a falling Soviet satellite provides a deus ex machina, blowing up the financial district and clearing space for megalopolis to take its place. Ironically, a previous attempt to produce the film came to its abrupt end when two planes flew into some buildings in the financial district. Perhaps you heard about it. The financial backers of the film at the time considered Megalopolis's plot a bit too close to current events for comfort and withdrew their support.
But Coppola's depiction of Manhattan was already decades out of date by then. Moses stepped down in '60. Jacobs' book railing against urban renewal came out in '61. The Power Broker came out in '74. One presumes popular opinion of Robert Moses soured in the following years. The crisis of the city's finances that peaked in '75 was over by '81 when NYC balanced its budget and reentered the bond market. The crime wave of the 70's and 80's had receded by the year 2000. The demand for housing in NYC proper is as high as it ever has been, and it's only getting higher. Megalopolis imagines America as an incoherent mishmash of several decades of mid-century NYC, dressed up in the toga of the late Roman Republic, calling out for (Robert) Moses to part the slums and take us into a promised land that is literally beyond any description, and whose only concrete feature seems to be glowing people-movers.
A Robert Moses with the power to stop time, at that!
Oh, did I forget to mention that part? Cesar discovers he has the power to stop time in the opening scene of the film. I forgot because it's literally irrelevant to the plot. Time stops a few times, and then it starts back up again, and the events of the film just plod inexorably forward. For a movie as temporally dislocated as Metropolis, perhaps that's just as well.
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rubysunnday · 2 months ago
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but who could stay?
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a/n: i'm erasing colin's 'lover boy' atttidue (or however you describe it) because it was the least colin thing i've seen imo. like, my man travels bc he doesn't want to be the ogling of the ton... anyways
summary: Every time Colin Bridgerton returned from travelling the world, there was always an urge inside him to run away again as soon as he could. There was only one woman who could make him stay. Y/N Barrett waited for Colin, but he never stayed long enough for her to tell him her feelings. Now she is engaged and about to enter a loveless marriage arranged by her parents. All she wants is for Colin to stay in London long enough to realise the truth of their relationship.
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Every year, after the debutantes had walked in front of the queen, there was a garden party. Open to everyone, it gave the debutantes an opportunity to further make their mark on the ton as well as allowing other attendees to catch up with friends after a few months away from London.
Colin had been away for longer than just a few months. As soon as Anthony had married Kate, he had been on the first ship over to France.
It wasn't that he didn't like London - he did. Nothing would ever compare to his home city - the gas lamps in the November fog, the bright blue skies after days of endless rain.
Yet, he never felt at peace in London. There was always an urge inside him to up and leave. To travel as far away as he could and not stop until he fell off the edge of the world.
Perhaps it was fear of comitting to a life in one place. Perhaps he was just trying to escape the future that had been planned out for him since he was born.
Perhaps, he had yet to find a reason to stay.
Now that he was back in town, the urge to leave had resurfaced once again. Everywhere he looked, women were staring at him, debutantes were waving and gaving him coy smiles.
Colin awkwardly smiled back and then promptly turned around. He always felt uncomfortable when the attention suddenly became solely on him. He wasn't entirely sure why - he liked women and he liked flirting - but when every woman in the ton came at him at once, it felt predatory.
He knew they were only interested in him for his money (or what he had left of it) and his name. None were interested in Colin the Explorer or Colin the Writer.
Except one.
"Colin!!" Y/N Barrett exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as he walked toward her. "You are back at last!" She reached up and wrapped her arms around Colin's neck, pulling him in for a tight but quick hug. "You could have told me!"
"Apologies," Colin said, smiling at her as she stepped back. "I only just made it back in time for Francesca's debut."
Y/N's gloved hand trailed down his arm. "I am glad you are back," she told him, squeezing his hand once more before letting go. "It has been dull without you."
"Anything exciting happen whilst I was gone?" Colin asked, offering his arm to Y/N - a silent invitation to promenade around the gardens.
"Well, Alice Carey got married to Lord Carlson and then promptly gave birth to a son about four months later." Y/N raised her eyebrows at him. "Easy math there."
"Indeed," Colin muttered. "Has anyone called her bluff yet?"
Y/N shook her head. "No, she has been 'unwell' the last few months and has yet to reappear amongst the ton." She tilted her head to Colin and lowered her voice, "but rumour says she is pregnant yet again... with another man's baby."
"Has Lady Whistledown written of these rumours?"
"You and I both know she will not," Y/N replied with a quick roll of her eyes. "Not only had she not been seen since last season, she has changed her column entirely and now writes exclusively in support of the debutantes! I do not understand how you can go from writting rumours and scandal and causing the public downfall of several well known figures to... well, promoting other women!"
"Perhaps she has had a change of heart," Colin suggested.
"Leopards rarely change their spots, mon ami," Y/N said softly. "Anyway, enough about scandal and rumour," she extracted her arm from his and turned to face him, "how are you?"
Colin stopped walking. He looked at her, her gentle smile, her bright eyes. "I am... okay."
"Just okay?" Y/N asked, her brow furrowing slightly.
"I want to leave again," Colin admitted quietly. "Already, women are staring at me and eyeing me up as if I am their dinner. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable, to be honest. I know that all they want is Colin Bridgerton and not just Colin."
Y/N gave him a sympathetic smile. "Does it help that I am only interested in Colin?"
Colin found his lips curving up into a smile. "It does," he told her, "more than I can say. Which reminds me."
He reached a hand into the pocket of his coat - a coat that Hyacinth had kindly nicknamed his 'pirate coat' - and pulled out a dark velvet bag pulled taught by a silver tassel. Colin held it out to Y/N and she took it with her lilac gloved hands.
"You bought me a present?" Y/N exclaimed, holding the bag as if it was glass.
"I did not want you to feel left out," Colin said, his smile widening as Y/N stared in awe at the bag.
"Colin, it's beautiful!"
"Oh, the bag isn't the gift," Colin said quickly. "The gift is inside the bag."
Y/N's cheeks burnt with embarrassment. "Oh, yes, of course."
She carefully pulled open the bag and turned it upside down, tipping whatever was inside into the palm of her hand. Out tumbled a pair of silver embroidery scissors, engraved to look like a bird.
"Oh, Colin, they're gorgeous," Y/N whispered. "Where did you find them?"
Colin's smile grew. "A shop in Spain. They had other types but... well, they were different."
He had to confess, he was utterly delighted at her reaction. He knew Y/N loved her embroidery - she had endless baskets of thread and material and often sat in the park working on her current project. For his birthday, Y/N had gifted him a hand embroidered waistcoat featuring different birds and flowers from across the globe. Colin had taken it with him on his travels, wearing it as often as he could.
So, when he had seen the little embroidery scissors in the store, he knew he head to buy them. He had carried them around for six months and now, finally, they were in her hands.
"I have needed new scissors for a while," Y/N told him, her eyes still focused on the scissors. She gently turned them over in her hand, the metal glinting in the sunlight. "Thank you, Colin."
A voice interrupted the moment, carrying across the garden. "Y/N, my love."
Y/N looked over her shoulder, giving the man who had called her name a smile.
"Who is that?" Colin asked, looking at the man - who was signifcantly older than Y/N.
Y/N sighed as she turned back to face him. "Mr Catesby. The man I am courting," she told him softly. "Mama set us up. I have been out for three years and she expected me to be married in year one and having a baby by year three."
She was trying to smile but Colin could see that it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Do you love him?"
"I do not think love is possible," Y/N told him, glancing over her shoulder again. She turned back to Colin. "Friendship, perhaps but never love."
Silence fell around them for a moment. All Colin wanted to do was reach out his hand and hold hers. But he knew he couldn't. This was how it would be from now on - always near his side but just out of reach.
"I should go," Y/N said softly. "Thank you, again, for these. I will cherish them, I promise."
Y/N turned around and, with one last glance over her shoulder at Colin, walked toward Catesby and her future with him.
Colin couldn't look away. He knew he should because, really, what was staring going to do.
Y/N didn't look happy or sad as she stood next to Catesby, putting her arm through his. Whilst she smiled and laughed, none of it reached her eyes. She was pretending and Colin was the only one who could tell.
"You have to look away at some point," Francesca said softly, appearing at his side.
Colin swallowed heavily. "I know."
Francesca reached down and held his hand gently. "Why won't you?"
"I don't know," he eventually replied, forcing himself to look away and at his younger sister. He forced himself to grin at her. "Come along, I'm hungry."
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Days turned into weeks and soon Colin hadn't spoken to Y/N for over a fortnight. He had seen her across the room at parties and balls, always at the side of Catesby.
Even though she wasn't happy, she still looked beautiful. Her dresses shimmered in the candlelight and when she did laugh, Colin could just picture her smile along with it.
Ever since he had found out she was being courted, Colin had retreated into himself. He spent long hours in his study, writing and drawing and wondering about what could have been.
His heart broke that little bit more the night of his mother's ball when Catesby announced their engagement. Y/N had smiled, sparkling under the lights once more in a dark blue gown and matching silk gloves. But Colin knew better. He could see how tense she was, how loosely she held Catesby's hand in hers - the way her eyes kept straying over to him.
Benedict and Anthony flocked him as they approached to give their congratulations. They bowed together and Colin was grateful that his brother's did all of the talking - speaking loud enough and quick enough so that neither Catesby nor Y/N's parents noticed Colin's silence.
Y/N did, though. She held his gaze the entire time and there was so much sadness within it, so much regret, that Colin nearly ripped her from Catesby's grip and pulled her to his side, threatening the man with a duel if he dared come closer.
Instead, he maintained his silence, giving a brief bow when they were finally dismissed. Colin refused to look back, focusing his gaze on the table of lemonade and sweet treats jutting out from the far wall.
"Colin, are you alright?" Benedict asked, raising his eyebrows slightly at his silent brother.
"Yes, why would I not be?" Colin said, picking up a glass of lemonade from the table.
"You are being unusually sullen and silent," Benedict replied.
Colin turned around to face his brother. HIs gaze flittered past him and over to Y/N. "Nothing's the matter."
Benedict caught Colin's wayward gaze and turned his head. His own gaze softened a little as he turned back to his brother. "It isn't too late," he said quietly.
Colin laughed humourlessly. "Really? She is an engaged woman, Benedict."
"Were you even around last season?" Benedict raised his eyebrows. "Anthony almost married someone else entirely - he got as far as the altar, Colin."
"That was different?"
"How so?"
Colin let out a frustrated sigh. "Because it just was. Who is to say Y/N would even be interested in my hand?"
"Who's to say she wouldn't?" Benedict looked at his brother. "Answer me this. Every time you come home, you immediately have the urge to flee again. Do you still have that urge when you're with Y/N?"
The silence that followed answered Benedict's question perfectly, Colin knew that. He eyed his brother. "I cannot do that to her, Benedict. I cannot."
"Well," Benedict sighed, "you are a better man than me, brother." He squeezed Colin's shoulder and turned to go, leaving him alone by the refreshment table.
Colin looked over at Y/N again. She had moved and was now walking onto the dance floor, hand in Catesby's. It hurt him more than he was prepared to admit. Yet, it would be so easy to walk over to her and take her hand from his - to confess all his feelings in a flurry of words and doe-eyed expressions. But the scandal that would cause - the ramfication's that could have on Y/N... Colin couldn't do that to her.
It would also be easy to simply walk away, leave the country and pretend he had never met her. Colin knew that nothing he did would ever mean he could forget her. He thought about her everywhere he went, from the churches of Florence to the waters of Athens.
Colin groaned quietly. He tilted his head back and swallowed the rest of the lemonade in a big gulp, wincing at the bitter taste. He set the cup down on the table and stepped away from the wall.
Weaving through the crowds, he spotted his eldest brother standing by the open french doors, Kate by his side. Colin heistated for a second, not wanting to darken Anthony's door with his issues. But the last time he had struggled with issues of the heart, he had given him some startlingly clear advice and he needed that again.
"Colin!" Kate exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as he approached. She pulled her arm from Anthony's and hugged Colin tightly.
Colin squeezed her back as hard as he dared, knowing Anthony was watching his every move like an over-protective swan. "How are you?" He asked, reluctantly letting go.
Kate puffed out her cheeks, hand straying to her stomach. "Coping," she replied. "He, however," she nodded at Anthony, "is not."
"I am allowed to be stressed," Anthony muttered, hand resting against Kate's waist. "It is very overwhelming, but exciting," he added, noting his wife's worried look.
Colin instantly felt guilty. He knew Anthony was overwhelmed. Trying to run the household, keep an eye on Francesca and Eloise all whilst being concerned for his wife and unborn child was more than enough trouble.
"What's wrong?" Anthony asked, noting Colin's distant gaze.
"Oh, nothing," Colin told him with a shake of his head. "Sorry, I should -"
Kate reached out and grabbed his hand by the wrist, pulling him back to them. "Colin, stop." She gave him a gentle smile, cupping the side of his cheek with one hand. "Come, let's go for a walk."
Kate put her arm through Colin's and let him lead her out into the gardens of Bridgerton House. It was still daylight, though the sun had descended. A few couples stood around the grass and patio but it was otherwise quiet.
"I assume this is about Y/N," Kate said, pulling her purple silk shawl tighter around her arms.
Colin nodded, leaning against the stone balustrade. He crossed his arms, a heavy sigh escaping him. "I do not know what to do. I should have stayed, made my intentions clear but I did not and now... now I do not know."
Kate pushed herself up and onto the balustrade, sitting on top of it, her feet dangling down. "What is your heart telling you to do?"
"To steal her away from him and marry her tonight," Colin admitted. "But I cannot do that."
"Why not?"
"Because she is engaged. I cannot bring that scandal to her, Kate, I just..." Colin closed his eyes. "What if she does not return my feelings and I ruin her one chance at marriage?"
"But what if she does?" Kate said softly. "What if she does return those feelings and she spends the rest of her life with you rather than a man she does not love?"
Colin looked at her. "Can I take that risk?"
"Anthony and I were plagued by scandal last year," Kate said quietly, hand resting on her slightly swollen stomach. "Things should never have gone as far as they did but it did not stop us from finding our true happiness. If you want her, Colin, then go and get her. She is right there, waiting."
Five minutes later, Colin was back inside the house, searching everywhere for any sign of Y/N.
He still wasn't sure if he had the courage to tell Y/N the truth. Whilst he knew she wasn't happy, happiness was a minor issue when it came to marriage. The status and money Catesby would give her was more than Colin could ever hope to offer in a lifetime.
But he could give her happiness and he could give her love. Surely, that was worth something?
Yet, as he stood against the landing wall, watching Kate and Anthony waltz together, he knew what he had to do.
Y/N stood by herself, near the table laden with food. Colin spotted her as soon as he walked down the stairs. She wore a dark green gown, one that matched his jacket perfectly.
He tried to approach her first thing but his mother grabbed his arm and whisked him off in the opposite direction, gabbling at him about eligible women and debutantes and flowers.
Y/N had noticed Colin as soon as he'd walked in the room. His jacket matched her dress and all she wanted to do was approach him and ask him to take her far away from here.
She was overwhelmed with wedding preparations and plans for her to move to Catesby's estate in Dorset. Her mother had not allowed her a moment's peace. Sleep refused to come at night and Y/N lay awake, regret and panic growing inside her as the date of her wedding grew ever closer.
The engagement had been a shock. Y/N herself had not actually spoken the word 'yes' aloud, her mother had done that for her. She had blindly followed along, allowing Catesby to place the ring on her finger and brag to his friends that he would soon be a father.
A father. Never mind a husband or a man in love. Just a father.
Because, whilst he was not a bad man, all Catesby wanted was a son to continue his line. That was all Y/N was to him, all this relationship was to him - making an heir.
Y/N had known this marriage would never be one built on love. But a foolish part of her had hoped that, maybe, they would find love together. Seeing Catesby now, flirting with other women and bragging to his friends, she knew that there would never be love.
She plastered a smile to her face as yet another person approached her to congrulate her on her engagement. Exhaustion was beginning to pull at her body, the sleepless nights and endless trips to the modiste finally catching up with her.
"You could at least try and look happy," her mother muttered, suddenly appearing beside her.
Y/N sighed softly, blinking the pull of sleep away. "Sorry."
"Honestly, when was the last time you slept, you look dreadful."
Thank you, mother Y/N thought, trying not to roll her eyes.
"I need you to look beautiful for this wedding," her mother continued, "there is a lot riding on this marriage for this family. Do not mess it up. Ah, Lady Cowper!" Y/N's mother crowed, rushing over to greet her friend.
Y/N needed to leave. She glanced around the room, checking that everyone was preoccupied and then made a swift dart for the corridor running behind the stairs. The room had been warm when she'd walked in but it had only gotten hotter in the hours since. Her head was aching, her heart was pounding and her hands would not stop shaking.
She didn't know what had come over her. There was no reason for her to be acting like this - all she was doing was getting married. But there were so many things wrong with the marriage and with Catesby and with her mother's obsession of wanting a grandchild that Y/N could not go through with it.
The corridor was quiet and signifcantly cooler than the ballroom. Y/N leant her back against the wall and took a deep breath in, desperate to calm herself down and reinstate her happy facade.
"Y/N."
Of course, Y/N thought, turning her head and watching Colin Bridgerton approach her. Of course he appears now.
"Colin, I do not -"
"I have to talk to you," Colin said firmly, coming to an abrupt stop at her side. "Please."
Y/N closed her eyes. She felt sick. The pounding in her head was only getting worse and she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten anything.
"Please, Y/N, I beg -"
"Yes, alright!" Y/N exclaimed, silencing Colin. "Come with me."
She led him back up the stairs - not an abnormal sight since many guests had seeked solace in the front room of Bridgerton house - and down the corridor into an empty room.
"Colin, whatever you want to say to me, please make it quick," Y/N told him, pushing him into the room and pulling the door to. "I cannot disappear from my own engagement party for long."
"You do not love him."
Y/N frowned at Colin. "I told you this earlier -"
"Just... say it again."
"No, I do not love him," Y/N told him, her voice soft. "But that does not mean I can walk away from this marriage."
"What if you had someone else to walk to?" Colin asked, moving toward her.
Y/N stared at him. "Colin, what do you... why..."
"The reason I travel, Y/N, is because I have never felt at home anywhere," Colin said. He took a deep breath in, steeling his nerves and forcing himself to not back down. "Every time I came back, I would have the urge to run away again until I reached the edge of the world. But each time I came back and I saw you, I suddenly felt as if I finall had a reason to stay."
Y/N felt as if all her air had been stolen from her. She stared at Colin - that was all she could do. Here he was, confessing his heart to her and all she could think about was how angry her mother would be, how much scandal it would cause and also how much the room was beginning to spin.
"I could not let you go off into this marriage without giving you a choice," Colin continued, moving a step closer. "I love you, Y/N, I have done for a long time. I wish that I had not spent so long away because maybe things could have gone differently. Perhaps this would be our engagement ball instead. Perhaps it still can be.
"I know that this is asking a lot of you and I know that with this choice scandal will come. But I will stand by you through it all, Y/N. No matter what the ton say, no matter what they do, I will not leave your side. You deserve to be happy and you deserve the right for this to be your decision."
Y/N looked at Colin. Hope was clear as day in his eyes. She had wanted this confession from him for so long and here it was. The circumstances were awful and scandal was calling and her parents would hate her and the ton would give her the look they reserved only for the worse offenders and -
"Y/N? Are you alright?" Colin asked, concern replacing the hope in his eyes. Her skin had lost colour dramatically quick and she was beginning to sway.
Y/N swallowed, nausea growing. She blinked, looking past Colin and at the window. No, that too was spinning.
"Is the room spinning for you?" Y/N asked, her voice quiet.
Colin frowned. "No. Is it for you?"
"A little," Y/N admitted. "I think I might need a moment."
She took a step forward but the room tilted dramatically to the side and hazy black spots filled her vision. Y/N mentally braced herself to hit the carpeted floor and for her body to ache but hands wrapped around her waist, guiding down.
Colin knelt on the floor, resting Y/N's back against his chest. He was never great when it came to dealing with poorly people - his siblings could attest to that. He himself was a terrible patient, incapable of waiting until he was better and always pushing himself before he was ready.
But this was Y/N - his Y/N. Her skin was clammy and lacking colour and her hand was shaking as she tried to grip his. And he had no idea what to do.
They couldn't simply stay in here, someone else might walk in and then there would be a whole other scandal.
Then, an idea came into Colin's head. There was one place he knew no one would stray into. One place that would shield them for just a little longer.
"Come on," Colin whispered. "I've got you."
He put one arm around her shoulders and slipped his other under her legs, lifting her up into his arms. With one foot, he nudged open the door. The upstairs corridor was quiet. Colin snuck out, keeping his footfall as light as he possibly could.
His bedroom wasn't far away. In fact, it was only three doors down the corridor. As he pushed open the door, Colin thanked his past self for forgetting to close the door properly.
It was cooler inside than it was anywhere else in the house. His windows were open, the net curtains blowing gently in the summer breeze. A small fire crackled in the hearth, giving off enough light to chase away the darkness.
With as much care as he could, Colin lay Y/N down on his bed, laying her head on his pillow. He absently brushed his fingers along her cheek as he straightened and her eyes slowly opened, looking up at him.
"Has the room stopped spinning yet?" Colin asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting against her leg.
Y/N hummed softly. "Partly," she told him. "I still feel awful."
"When was the last time you ate?"
"I do not remember," Y/n replied. At Colin's raised eyebrows, Y/N let out a tired sigh. "Mama has kept me so busy and I have hardly slept these last few weeks. Oh, Colin" she said, her head finallycatching up with what had just happened, "I can only apologise for -"
"Do not be silly," Colin told her, reaching up and taking her hand in his. "Our bodies can only handle so much."
"But fainting? That is just... mortifiying!"
Colin chuckled. "When I was in Spain, I fainted in the middle of dinner with a very important noble because I had spent too long in the sun and not looked after myself. My face was bright pink and sun burnt and I felt awful for days after." He shook his head, laughing softly. Colin squeezed her hand. "What I am saying is that we all forget to look after ourselves sometimes. You have a better reason than me, however."
Y/N pushed herself up, letting Colin pull her forward until she was sat cross legged on the bed. He kept a steady hand on her upper arm until she gave him a reassuring smile, confirming that she wasn't about to spontaneously collapse again.
"If this engagement is making you this unwell," Colin said quietly, "is it worth it?"
Y/N sighed softly. She rubbed the pad of her thumb back and forth across Colin's knuckles. "No, it is not."
"Then what is holding you back?" Colin asked. He leant his head forward, seeking her gaze. "Tell me."
"I am scared," Y/N admitted with a small shrug, looking down at the bed. "I am scared of the consequences that will come with calling off this engagement."
Colin gently tilted her chin up until she was looking at him. "What else? Because there is something else, I can tell."
Y/N swallowed heavily. She closed her eyes for a moment. "My mother is determined to make this work," she said softly, opening her eyes again. "She keeps reminding me about how much is riding on this marriage, the things it will do to our family. I am terrified of her reaction if I do not go through with it. What if my family disown me? That will be an even bigger scandal than calling off the engagement!"
"What if she does not?" Colin suggested. "What if everything falls into place?"
Y/N shook her head. Her eyes were glistening with tears as she looekd at Colin. "But what if it doesn't?" She asked quietly, her voice almost lost to the night air.
"Then I will stand by your side no matter what," Colin replied, taking both her hands in his. He held them as if they were the most precious things in the world - because they were. "No matter what happens, you will always have me and you will always have my family, I promise you."
Uncertainty still lingered in Y/N's eyes. Colin knew he was asking much of her but she deserved a happy, loving marriage with someone who loved her. She desered to have a choice.
"You deserve to be happy, Y/N," Colin said softly. "Do not ever think otherwise."
"You promise to stay?" Y/N asked, her voice quiet and small. She looked at him. "Because, every time I thought I was ready to tell you I loved you, you disappeared, Colin. Then, I wouldn't see you for months and... I cannot do this if you are going to leave me again the moment we are married."
Colin leant forward and pressed a kiss to her forehad, his right hand holding the back of her neck. "I promise," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers, "to never leave you again. Together until the end of our days."
Y/N smiled at that, relaxing into Colin's hold. "Okay," she said, her voice certain for the first time all night. "Are you going to ask me, then?"
Colin released her and stood up from the bed. He moved over to his desk and pulled out a drawer, rumaging through it until he found what he was looking for.
"I picked it up in Florence," Colin said, coming back over to the bed. "Because I had decided that when I got back, I would take your hand as mine. I thought for a moment I would never get to do this but..."
He trailed off, looking up from the ring box. Y/N was still sat on his bed, her smile slowly growing. Colin clicked open the lid and knelt down on one knee, extending the box out to her.
"I know I left and for that I am deeply sorry," he said quietly. "It took me this long to realise that you were my reason to stay. So, Y/N Barrett, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
Y/N nodded, her smile reaching her eyes and crinkling the corners. "Yes," she whispered, holding out her left hand, "of course I will."
Colin pulled the golden band out, the moonstone set in the centre catching the light of the fire. He slipped it onto her finger, pleasantly surprised to discover that it fit perfectly.
"Perfect fit," Y/N said, holding her hand up. She looked back at him. "It is as if it knew."
Colin grinned. He took her hand in his, thumb trailing over the ring. "Perhaps it did."
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muneca-lemon-steppa · 7 months ago
Note
hello!!! hope you’re doing great, I kinda wanna ask about Thomas x Sister Shelby if you do that ? And if you do I’m thinking she’d be smart, has a very quick tongue and she wants to get out of the Shelby business to marry the love of her life (alfie😝😍) so she fakes her death and ofc everyone is distraught and angry than after a few years Thomas sees alfie at his home and than comes his sister who he thought had died and he berates her than she says something like you’re a worse person than me always killing for money like he can’t live without a war. Also I am in the mood for a very angst ending
A/N: Hello my love! How are you doing? I am so so sorry that this has taken forever. Truthfully, I had no clue how to do this. I thought about this long an hard, and though some things I switched up, I hope you enjoy this. I feel like this got me to stretch my writing muscles, and it was really fun. Let me know what you think darling!
Run Away With Me Darling
Alfie Solomons x Fem! Reader; 3.8k words; fluff, angst
Warnings: language, contentious family relationships, arranged marriage???
It started innocently enough.
You bringing tea and biscuits to meeting rooms where the men started their schemes. Listening and taking notes alongside your ever watchful Aunt Polly. Sneaking glances at the big brute in the chair across from your big brothers.
“Thank you treacle. Yeah that’s real kind of you.”
That brute is the only man that would say thank you for the tea you bring by. And when you go to pour more for him, he’s the only man who says, “No need for that darling. Grown men can pour their own tea yeah?”
It wasn’t meant to be anything more than professional. But you should’ve known. Known from that first encounter outside those Shelby walls… you and Mr. Solomons shared a single soul… and heaven nor hell could keep you from each other’s grasp.
It was hot. London is not a tropical city by any means. But the sheer amount of bodies, activity, and warm rain, had transformed the city into a sauna. The wisps of your hair along your neck and forehead are plastered to your body. Rivulets of sweat sneak down your chest. The heat could only be described as oppressive. You were counting down the steps till you could go home.
On the one hand… it was strange having a home all to yourself. Truthfully, it was the Shelby homestead in London, where the family would stay when business needed attending to. However, when they all left, you stayed. Carrying delicate messages. Keeping a close pulse on the going’s on of the city. And perhaps most importantly… remaining a pretty show pony for the Shelby family.
You hated to admit it. But you were desperately jealous of Ada. She had the guts to sneak past Arthur, Tommy, and John. She had the foresight to marry her true love before Tommy could marry her off to the highest bidder. You had no such luck. No childhood love. No sweetheart to campaign for. The boys had made sure of it. Despite Ada and your protests, and Polly’s discrete ploys; Tommy had decided. The sweet, pure, and innocent youngest Shelby girl will be auctioned off to the richest and most lucrative partner for the Shelby Company. And she will remain pretty and docile. A prize.
The mere thought made your stomach twist and churn and burn.
You loved them. Your family. More than most love their family. But you could barely breathe under their watch. Even in another city you felt the reach of their eyes. Felt the whisperings of potential matches for your hand and womb. The sweat on your brow burned your eyes. Taking place of the unshed tears you long abandoned.
All you longed for was cold water. A cool bath. Anything to scrub off the sweat and dirt and exhaustion. However, shade covered your front door, casting a shadow over the threshold.
“Sweetheart! Been waiting a bit for you!”
No matter where you see Mr. Solomons, he seems to take up all the space. You don’t know how he is able to stand the heat, with his coat and hat and bushy beard. But he looks unfettered. Cool even. You finally felt the kiss of the breeze on your neck as you approached.
“Mr. Solomons. How can I help you?”
“You going to invite me in like a good girl?”
“I’m not in the business of inviting strange men into my home.”
“You think me strange?”
“Oh Mr. Solomons you are the strangest man I’ve ever met.”
“Makes you a little excited though don’t it? A hint of danger yeah? Big brute standing at your door.”
You stuck your chin out, staring directly into his stormy eyes. “I’m not afraid of you Mr. Solomons.”
His mouth quirks up in the corner. A twinkle in his eyes, and your breath hitched as he leaned into your space, “Oh I know sweet. You ain’t like the others ain’t ya? I saw it… the first time I laid eyes on you I knew you were different. Those boys… cold blooded little snakes… you… nah… there’s a flame in you treacle…and I look forward to see you set things aflame.”
Before you could respond in any way, he leaned away, smiling at your response. He pulled out an envelope from his coat and handed it to you, “Contract and information for your devious brother my sweet. Don’t worry, put a little something in there for you too for your trouble.”
You snatched the envelope from his hand. Unsure of how to respond to his… behavior. His rumbling laugh set a shiver down your spine, but you pushed it down as you appraised him, “This seems below your job description… don’t you have messenger boys?”
He further smirked, “I hope you’ll forgive me, that I want to keep you to myself.”
“I’m not a kept girl.”
“That you are not. Just have to inform your brothers of the fact don’t you?”
Hot shame rose in your cheeks. The envelope in your hands crinkling sharply. You felt the cool brush of gold rings on your cheek, “I have a standing dinner every Thursday evening. Let it be our little secret, hmm?”
Before you could react, a coarse kiss is pressed to your knuckles. As he started walking away, you called out, “And if I don’t show up? What then?”
He turned, with a boyish smile, “You’re not a kept woman treacle. Not my business. I’ll just send my messenger boys in my place.”
That was a year ago. Things were so simple then. Secret dinners. Secret mornings. Secret dalliances and outings around town. And when the family came to town, you placed that mask back on. Sweet, innocent, and docile Shelby girl. Ready at the beck and call of her family. And when they left, you ran right into the arms of Alfie. Because where it all started as something to feel disobedient, it grew into something deeper and more ancient. You felt your soul intertwine with his, as if it was always searching for him. In the evenings when he whispered his love for you and kept you close, you had never felt safer. Never felt more alive.
But dreams are not forever. Sooner or later the bubble must pop.
“You’ll need to come back to Birmingham dearest.”
“For how long?”
Everyone looked up at Tommy. Tommy didn’t even look up from his dinner plate, “Permanently. I’ve got a husband for you.”
Your fork dropped. Your heart stopped beating.
You faintly hear Aunt Polly call your name.
“Husband?” You whispered.
Tommy sighed, “That is what I said. High time you married, you’re old enough. Mr. Gorman has multiple factories both here and in the states, and his son is set to inherit them all. It’s a good match, it’ll be very beneficial to the company.”
“Tommy I don’t even know him.”
“You have your entire life to get to know him. Now finish your dinner.”
“So you just decided is that it? You just decided to that I’d belong to some man? Tell me Tommy… how much did you sell me off for? How much is my womb worth?”
“Watch your mouth!” Polly hissed, with Arthur wincing at the cutting words.
“I’m not going.” You stood from your chair. Preparing for battle.
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“I’m not going! You cannot make me!”
Tommy rose from his seat, John putting his head in his hands with Arthur knocking back a drink. Low. Deadly. Tommy always could command a room with his voice. Cold finger pointing at you like a deadly weapon. “You will do as you’re told. This is not about you. This is about the family. In a week, I will come fetch you. I will drag you back to Birmingham if I have to. And you will marry the young Mr. Gorman, and you will have as many of his fucking babies as he chooses. You will be rich. You will be safe. And you will be set. I am not about to argue with a child.”
You felt the tears well up in your eyes. Sorrow. Mourning. Hatred. “I hate you Thomas Shelby. I hate you.”
“You will get over it.”
You ran to your room. Weeping the rest of the night.
Because how can your body and name be given to a man, when your heart and soul belonged to another?
They left the next morning. Arthur knocking on your door to announce the departure, and trying to convince you, “He’s a good lad darling. Trust Tommy alright? Wouldn’t let nothing bad happen to ya, even though it seems like right shit. Don’t be too angry at us. We’ll all still be close. And anyway… it’s what’s good for the family.”
You didn’t look at him. Not even a hum of acknowledgment when he kissed your hair tenderly. A regretful sigh leaves his body as Arthur walked away, taking one last look at your quivering body on your maiden bed. Arthur always had a soft spot for you. Always defensive for you unlike your other siblings. He had tried in vain to get Tommy to rethink the arrangement. You didn't need to get married. The company didn't need such an alliance. They'd get by as they always have. But Tommy's sights were set much higher. He wanted that name of honor. And to get it, he was willing to play by the rules of old money. Tommy had convinced Arthur enough. Enough that you'd eventually forgive them all.
The orange sky illuminated your bedroom in a bloody hue. Your throat dry and head hot and pounding. The creaking and settling of the house had become a steady ring in your ears, you didn't even hear the bedroom door open.
"Treacle. What are you doing? Eden said you haven't left since last night. You ill?"
Maids hear everything, you think bitterly. But you couldn't be too cross with Eden. Not really.
"He's done it Alfie."
Alfie toed off his boots after the hat and coat. Sinking into the too ornate duvet. "Who treacle? What happened?"
You faced him, deep creases of the duvet threads divide your hot wet cheeks. Lashes clumped together and soaked. "Tommy... he... he finally did it. He's married me off. In a weeks time I'm to belong to some... Mr. Gorman. His father owns factories, and I suppose that's enough for my bride price."
You feel your body being gently tugged up and into Alfie’s embrace. Despite any protest from you about how it may affect his back, he shushes you instantly, “Now now my little dove. Nah you ain’t going back to Birmingham. You ain’t getting married to some prick. Nah you’re staying here with ol’ Alfie.”
You force your face under his chin, letting his unkempt beard absorb your sobs, “No Alfie it’s true! Tommy told me yesterday at dinner! He… he’s taking me away Alfie! I hate him. I hate him so much. I don’t want to marry some man I don’t even know!”
“I already told you darling, you’re not going to! It’s not happening.”
You push his shoulder, “You’re not listening to me! Tommy said-“
“I don’t give a shit what Tommy said! You’re not marrying the shit because you’re marrying me!”
Like an unpracticed magician, he pulled out a gorgeous diamond and sapphire ring. Its glimmer and fractals made it look as endless as the night sky. You felt the breath in your lungs catch, anger and fear simmering down and cooling. You dared not touch something to precious, “Alfie Solomons…”
“Was my mother’s. Gave it to me when I came back from the war. On her death bed. Made me swear that I wouldn’t give it up for any pretty girl on the street. Had to give it to the one.”
You struggled to meet his gaze, “And I-“
“The one treacle. If you’ll have me.”
He shifted you in his lap, fully facing him, “Now… I had a whole event planned out. Garden stroll. Drinks. Music playing. And I know I’m a sorry old monster and you have loads of suitor-“
“Alfie-“
“But I swear on my life treacle, you’ll never want for anything. You will have freedom to do whatever you would hope to do. We’ll go anywhere. I’ll love you till the stars go out-“
“Alfie! Yes! Yes yes yes! I’ll marry you! You silly old man!”
You pushed him back and kissed him fiercely. With all the passion you had been hiding from your family for years. Until the acidic burn of reality came down, “But what about Tommy? Alfie you hate each other, he’ll never let me go.”
Rough hands running up and down your thighs, gazing in awe at the fiery halo surrounding you. “I was willing to go in and threaten blessing or death.”
“I won’t have you put in danger for love. This isn’t Shakespeare.”
With a laugh and kiss to your fingertips he whispers, “You got any ideas? I’m all ears.”
You try to think, but kept coming across a wall. Any option you thought of ended in bloodshed. You fell into the bed next to Alfie, curling into his chest, “I wish we could just run away.”
His arms tighten around you, “What if we did?”
It would happen three days before Tommy would come to fetch you. You dismissed Eden with an oath to secrecy, and for four days you played the part of excited bride to be. Purchasing things for a new marital home, a wedding dress and new wardrobe. Who cares if the detail of the lucky husband was slightly off?
Whenever your family called, you lied happily through your smiling teeth. At first you felt a twinge of guilt. But in the end, they stood by as your brothers sold you off. They lost the right to the truth. They hated Alfie, said as much any time they came to the house. They would never understand. They would never allow it. But this was your life. And you would be damned before you were cleaved from your beloved.
The men from the distillery made regular visits to the house in the middle of the night, picking up your things to take to Margate, dropping off love letters and updates from Alfie. With each passing day, your heart became lighter. The binds lessening. Freedom was right on your tongue.
Three days before Tommy, Arthur, and John are to pick you up, the horrific news explodes through Birmingham. The Shelby home in London: set ablaze. No survivors. The beautiful bride, burned alongside her wedding dress hanging in the window. The youngest Shelby girl, an angel amongst demons, taken too soon from the earth from a horrific accident. The fire so destructive, not even a body is there for a proper burial. Just ash and a memory of that sweet face. The funeral is horrible. Wailing and weeping from all of Birmingham. Aunt Polly could barely keep it together, blaming Tommy for it all. Even business acquaintances from London and beyond come to pay their respects. The most shocking visitor, was Mr. Solomons, who paid for the funeral itself, “I’m sorry Tommy for your loss. I really am. She was a sweet girl. But… she’s in a better place I’m sure.”
And what a better place that is. White washed home right on the beach, windows open at all times, with the sea breeze billowing pristine gossamer curtains in the wind. You spend your days reading and writing to your heart’s content, strolling the beach, playing with Cyril like a child. As Alfie settles affairs in Camden during the week, he visits during the weekend, serving and worshipping you like a goddess. He never gave you information about the family. You didn’t want it. That was your old life. A you that you couldn’t recognize. Here, in this life, you were free. Free to speak. Free to argue and give your mind.
After a month, Alfie permanently moves to Margate. Home. Retired from the gangster life with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, with more than enough to comfort when he’s gone.
And the years pass blissfully. Just how it was in the beginning. Kisses and dancing and laughter and arguing and love and joy. 3 years of absolute heaven, you had nearly forgotten how it all was almost taken from you.
But the past does have a way of rearing its ugly head doesn’t it?
It’s the dawn of summer. The final kisses of spring bringing crisp clean air through your marital home. Alfie had never felt better. The pain in his body had long left him, only flaring during the coldest evenings. The dark circles under his eyes have dissolved. His face and body, fuller, firmer with the glowing health of a man at peace who works for life not death. You were upstairs, searching for the a particular spool of thread you had been working with for a blanket you had spent days on. But it needed to be done soon. Alfie shifted through the records you both had been collecting. Symphonies had become his special interest in the recent months, and he was looking for a particular composition that he felt would make your heart sing.
The heavy knock on the door sent the hair on his neck stand at attention.
Only one demon knocked like that.
His eyes shifted to the stairs. He could still hear you moving things around. Searching tirelessly for that spool. You’d be missing for a couple minutes. Enough to rebuke the vile creature from the door without your discovery.
With a deep breath, Alfie tries to remember the armor of his past. The Mad Baker. Just as another round of knocks was about to come, Alfie opened roughly, “Tommy! What are you doing here? Gates of hell need their master don’t they?”
He looked thinner than normal. It’s been years since the men had seen each other, but the difference was still shocking. Those icey blue eyes even more haunting than they were at the funeral. Gaunt cheeks and pale skin made him look like a living corpse. A flicker of a flame winked behind those eyes. Hope for another fight. Something to set him aflame. “Hello Alfie. Enjoying retirement?”
“Yeah actually I am so whatever you have up your sleeve I want no part in it so if you’ll just fuck off.”
Before Alfie could slam the door, Tommy stuck his foot in the door, “Not that simple Alfie. Worlds gone to shit and it needs Solomons to set it to right.”
“Your world not mine. Now get out.”
“I’m not going to leave until you let me in Alfie.”
Your angelic voice danced on the breeze down to the front door, “I found it! Alfie you would not believe where it was! I swear I’m losing my mind.”
Tommy’s face some how went paler. As if he heard Satan’s whisper of condemnation. Alfie tried to push the door closed, but with the strength of a mad man Tommy pushed past the threshold.
Tommy almost fainted.
This must be hell.
He must have died.
It’s the only rational idea.
God chose to lock him in the home of his biggest agitation, with the ghost of his dead baby sister.
But this couldn’t be your ghost. Your swollen belly proves this.
“Holy shit.” You drop the tea cup in your hands when you see Tommy. Tommy who wasn’t supposed to be here. Tommy who saw you buried and dead.
Alfie rushes in, pulling you behind his broad frame. Through his linen shirt, you feel the ragged breath and hammering heart of your husband. You feel faint. “Tommy… you need to leave right now.”
“You paid for the funeral.”
“Tommy we can do this later but you need to get out right now. I’m asking nicely.”
“You knew she was alive… you knew.”
“She is very delicate right now she does not need any excitement.”
“You fucking made her delicate! You compromised her you fucking bastard!”
You cried out as Tommy lunged for your husband, “Stop it Tommy! Enough! Get out of my house!”
Tommy stumbled, pointing at you, “You… you’re fucking sick. You’re demented! You caused Polly a near heart attack. You are disgusting!”
You push past Alfie, who is left watching, “I’m disgusting! You sold me off to some man. And for what? To get people to see you as a big man? Guess what Tommy, you will NEVER be good enough for them! They’ll always see people like us as trash! But you don’t care. Anything to get ahead right?! You’ll stoop as low as you need to ahead.”
Tommy laughed bitterly, holding back the urge to spit, “And what about you yeah? So spoiled that you throw the biggest tantrum of the century. Whore yourself out to the Mad Baker, and get knocked up with his bastard.”
“I’d stop talking if I were you Tommy.”, Alfie snarled darkly. Fists curling in. Like a wolf ready to devour.
“I’d rather be his whore than be a part of any family of yours. You can’t leave well enough alone. Murdering and slaughtering for some honor so quick to tarnish and fade away. You tried to lock me away, never taking a care to what I wanted or thought. But you can’t do that to me anymore. I’m a Solomons, and I carry his child. You can’t touch me.”
Tommy settled, steel washed over his face. “They have a right to know.”
“You all have a right to nothing. I’ll see the family when I’m good and ready.”
His eyes shift to Alfie, “You are evil incarnate. You are cursed.”
No sign of mirth reaches Alfie’s eyes when he smirks, “Careful Tommy. You know what they say about curses. Especially when you curse family.”
Without another word, Tommy storms out. As soon as the door slams, shaking the lamps, you let out the breath in your heavy lungs, “Holy Shit”.
Your knees give out from under you, and cold shakes roll through your body. Alfie grabbed your body, helping you into a chair. “Settle my love it’s alright he’s gone. What do you need? Baby ok?”
“No I’m ok thank you my love. I just… I need air. I can’t believe he came here. He knows. They all know.”
“Hush darling, breathe for me, settle your nerves, you don’t need to worry. They know but they can’t touch you. You’re my wife and they can’t get to you. You are your own woman. You are safe.”
“But what are we going to do. What if they come?”
“Then we’ll deal with them. I’ll have some boys come in, set up a watch. We won’t be caught off guard ever again.”
You nodded. Trusting the words of your husband. You felt an affirming kick in your ribs. The rushing of your heart. You had paradise for three years. You couldn’t run forever, no matter how far you got. The bell had finally tolled, and it was time to face it.
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thewritetofreespeech · 2 months ago
Note
Would you be willing to do a Gerhard Fra x Nanny reader, they are younger than the usual nanny age but both parties in this regard were desperate. The reader gets along with Angelico very well. Angelico loves story time with the reader even more. After a year or so with them, Angelico wonders why they haven’t come back to finish a story. Gerhard tries to explain him what a “day off” is, it doesn’t register with his son. Angelico sneaks out and tries to find the reader, causing Gerhard to almost freak out. The reader is holding Angelico in their arms asleep and walking towards Gerhards home when they meet eachother.
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“What were you thinking?!”
The children all flinch collectively at Gerhard’s harsh tone. The usually reserved noble yelling for once, letting them know he was serious. “We…we didn’t mean it….”
“So you just ran out into the streets by accident?! With no plan or regards for your safety?! There is a killer on the loose!”
Elena flinched further back and began to sniffle, quickly comforted by her sister. “Oy, Gerhard, I get you’re upset but please don’t yell at my kids.” Henrique urged him. “They’re just little girls.”
“Exactly! Little girls & boys. They shouldn’t be outside at all at this hour, much less in unknown streets with commoners!”
“It..It’s my fault.” Theodore pipped up them. Stepping forward with his brave little hands clenched. “I should have stopped them. As the oldest, it’s my responsibility to make sure they don’t get into trouble.”
Gerhard sighed and pinched his nose. “Your apology is appreciated, young Theodore, but surely even you know that you are not responsible for children when you yourself are a child.” The lord then leveled another look at the children. “Whose idea was this?”
“I wanted to see [Y/N]!” Angelico announced, shouting back at his father. “I wanted to see my nanny!”
Gerhard sneered. They were lucky [Y/N] even found them in this city and brought them home. Whatever miracle it was that granted their swift return, it would not save Angelico however. “I told you, Angelico, Miss Clara is your nanny now while we are staying at Dali’s! You have to accept that!”
“No!” Angelico shouted back. Even stomping his foot. “I don’t want her! I want [Y/N]! She’s way better and doesn’t smell like old people!”
“Angelico!” Gerhard had never seen his son behave so poorly. Perhaps this environment was not the best for him after all….
“Angelico, you can’t say things like that about people.” The boy sniffled as he turned to look back at [Y/N]. Who then placed their hand on his shoulder. “Miss Clara is working hard to take care of all of you. You should be more thoughtful of her effort.”
“But it’s not the same….” He was seconds away from crying, but [Y/N] just smiled softly and brushed his cheek.
“I know. But just because things are different, it doesn’t mean that they’re bad. Remember when they change the color in your room? You didn’t like that at first and now it’s your favorite color.” Angelico nodded. “So, it’s just like that. I’m…sure things will get back to normal here soon and we can play again.”
Their hesitation was indicative of their knowledge that they may not have a job anymore. How long this hiatus in their employment would be with Dali's ridiculous plan was unknown, but it couldn't go on forever. They needed to work. To make money.
Gerhard wishes that he could have them back as well. Angelico had had many nannies in his short life, but none of them he had attached to as fiercely as [Y/N].
“Perhaps I have a suggestion,” Gerhard, Angelico, and [Y/N] all turn to look at Clara. Seeming to appear, as always, just when people needed her. “Perhaps [Y/N] could come to work under the Delico estate for a time. I am indeed getting older, and it is hard to keep up with all the little ones just as one person. [Y/N] could keep up with them better, then I would have more time to focus on Master Ul and some of the other chores.”
They all looked surprised, but Angelico’s eyes brightened like a new penny. “Yes! Yes Father please!”
“What do you think, Master Dali?”
“I think it’s a grand idea.” Dali chimed in at Clara’s question. “I suppose I have been a little inconsiderate putting 4 other children on you with no assistance. So, what do you say [Y/N], do you want to come work for the Delico estate?”
[Y/N] seemed surprised, but before they could answer Gerhard stepped in. “Absolutely not!” He bellowed. “[Y/N] is under the employ of the Fra estate. They will continue as such for the remainder of their employee, and I will cover their wages!”
Dali chuckled. “Whatever you say Gerhard.”
The matter seemed settled, but before Angelico was ushered out with the other children, Gerhard stopped him. “We’re not done. You are to go to bed and not make a peep until the morning. Your punishment will be delivered then.”
The younger Fra looked anxious, but did not argue. He then looked to [Y/N] and asked, “will you finish the story?” Gerhard arched a brow. Story?
“Maybe tomorrow.” They told him. “For now, listen to your father and get to bed.” And Angelico did just that.
“Sorry for all the fuss,” [Y/N] apologized when they & Gerhard were alone. “I really didn’t think he’d go out into the city on his own.”
“Nor did I.” Gerhard agreed. “But…you seem very important to him. I hadn’t realized.”
“Well, given the situation with the little lord’s mother and before….” They trailed off. Not commenting on how distance he had been with his son before. “It’s nice to see you spending more time with him, sir.” Gerhard made a noise in his throat, but no further comment. “Should I return tomorrow to get started.”
“Um…yes.” He hadn’t really planned much further than that. “Please speak to Clara about arrangements. I trust you still have your uniform?” [Y/N] nodded. “Good. Please see that you have it on. Dali’s staff may be more lax, but we will show them the pride of House Fra.”
[Y/N] nodded more firmly this time. “Yes sir!”
They then left to return home and get ready for tomorrow presumably. In the evening, Gerhard went to check on his son. Finding him safe and asleep. He would not deny that Angelico missing earlier had terrified him, but he was grateful [Y/N] had brought him home. It would be good to have them with them again. Gerhard could always trust [Y/N]. It hadn't occurred to him until now that he needed them too, almost as much as his son.
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thewriterwithnoplan · 11 months ago
Text
THE TRAITOR'S SOULMATE (2/2)
Summary: Humans once had four legs, four arms, two heads, and two hearts. For humanity's hubris, Zeus struck them in two. You and Luke Castellan are determined to find your way back to each other, but before that can happen, there are things the two of you need to do.
[Part 2 to The Hero's Soulmate]
Soulmate AU: You meet the future version of your soulmate.
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader
Word Count: 7378
Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, I use the spelling 'mom' because the series is American but I - and I cannot stress this enough - am not American, she a long one.
A/N: I've loved reading your comments, thank you so much for all the support in part one. I hope you enjoy, because we all deserve a little Luke Castellan every now and then!
Masterlist
Amphitrite had been gifted a premonition and the world was all the worse for it. The dream had come from Apollo or perhaps the Oneiroi or whatever great heart pumped blood and Gods and monsters out into the world.
It did not matter to the Goddess from whom the vision came, for in this dream Amphitrite had watched her husband fall in love and sire a child to a mortal paramour. A precious boy that Poseidon might even one day love, with a taste for the colour blue and a heroism that would grow to rival his namesake. And for the Queen of the Seas, that simply would not do.
It would not be the child’s nor his mortal mother’s fault – she was not Hera after all – and so she would have to punish her husband for the blame would be his. But how was one to punish a King among Gods before his crime even came to be? Why to beat him at his own game, of course.
So, Amphitrite set out to sire her own demigod with the mortal man her husband would hate most. A devout catholic.
Amphitrite stayed with her mortal lover and their half-blood daughter until the girl was all but five.  Far longer than the greater Gods were wont to spend with their offspring. But what a precious babe she had bourn and what a traitorous husband she had back home.
But fate and prophecies and soulmates were such funny things. Inciting chaos. Inviting paradox. Introducing dangers untold.
It took Amphitrite all those years – though seemingly short in her immortality – to realise her fatal error. She had been the one to leave Poseidon. She had been the one to sire a child. She had been the one to drive her husband to the surface and his mortal. And so, the blame was hers to shoulder.
Amphitrite decided that she would be a self-fulfilling prophecy no longer. It was time to venture back below the surface.
In a last fit of guilt, she bestowed her first and final act of mercy unto her mortal lover. She told him everything.
When finally, she had gone back to the sea to reconcile with her husband, the catholic man took his turn to bestow his first and final act of mercy unto his young demigod child.
Against all the teachings of his faith. He abandoned his young daughter at Half-Blood Hill. And let the devil-spawn keep her life.
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The Spirit of the Hudson River never did learn to like you. You with your greedy hands, snatching debris from its murky waters. You and your strange sea creature friends who would not dare brave such pollution were it not for your presence. Your pile of war spoils tossed aside like children’s toys. Your strange little bubble of air on the sandy floor of the river, where you stowed your treasures and slept bracketed by water. Were it not for the pollution that slopped against the edge of the river as if it were trying to escape you, the Hudson River Spirit might have chased you and your sea friends and your collection of trinkets out of his waters. But as it were, you made a strangely amicable tenant for a demigod. So, as long as you paid your dues the spirit let you keep your little underwater oasis.
For your first years living there, you made your way in New York City by selling lost things dredged from your river home. Bikes and old weaponry and tarnished jewellery and buckets of coins from across the world. You were careful and you coveted your few precious belongings, but with the rivers bounty, you rarely went hungry.
By the time you were fourteen, you found you could venture further into the city without as many questions. You had met an odd assortment of people whilst selling the lost and unloved things of the river; all who knew someone, who knew someone, who needed another set of hands and so you offered yours. You babysat and cleaned, worked in delis and sandwich shops, helped old women with their groceries and young families mend their clothes. A retired teacher gifted you packets of schoolwork and with little else to fill your hours under the river you took to learning. Your numbers came easier than letters and reading always gave you a hard time but the activities she gave you each time you tended to her balcony garden gave you something to do when the sounds of the city kept you up at night.
All the while you followed Percy Jackson from the recesses of the Hudson. Shuffling your little bubble and its blessedly dry treasures up and then back down the river as he was bounced listlessly from school to school. Watching over him as the mythosphere tried desperately to barge into his little mortal life. Feral harpies that tried to snatch him into the air, great snakes that tried to sneak through air vents and all manner of underworld-born sea creatures that sought to pull him below. You had wrestled and dismembered and slayed them all. Adding their feathers and scales and great weapons to your dragons-hoard.
You were sixteen when you finally knocked on Sally Jackson’s door to introduce yourself. You had spent weeks working yourself up to it, planning your outfit and then fussing over each piece. All your clothes had been gifts and were often a size too big or printed with some generic tagline like Spread peace not hate!; or made entirely from yarn that the old woman whose meals you prepped at the start of each week had gifted you after she had taught you how to crochet; or like the dress you wore now, were sown together from thrifted fabric scraps and embellished with pretty shells and baroque pearls. You had planned the time you would arrive down to the minute so that her oppressive husband would be out, but the hour would not be so late as to make an unexpected visit threatening. You had planned to keep Percy safe while you were away from him by entrusting your friends Clarence the Crab and Emily the Squid to supervise him for the evening.
What you had not planned for was the possibility that Sally Jackson would be the most lovely woman you had ever met. You had been struck dumb by it the moment she opened her door and greeted you with a kind smile. Couldn’t your mother have chosen a mortal as gentle as she to be your parent? Alas, the Gods had never done a thing for you.
“Can I help you, lovely?”
You tried not to burst into tears as you asked, “Mrs. Jackson?”
“Are you alright?” She opened the door wider, leant out and scanned the corridor behind you. “Is there something you need?”
“No ma’am. I’m here about your son, Percy. His father sent me.” A good ambiguous statement that would pique her curiosity but let on nothing about the Gods. Allowing you to spin your tale – that you were Percy’s long-lost step-sister, come to reconnect. 
“Poseidon?” Alas, the Gods had truly never done a thing for you. “Is something wrong? Is Percy, okay?”
“He’s fine Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been keeping him safe.” 
She scanned the hall behind you once more, “You best come in.”
Over a cup of tea, you told Sally Jackson everything.
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You liked your home under the river. For lack of a better term, it allowed you to remain liquid. You could follow Percy wherever trouble took him. You could stay up until the city grew quiet for that brief moment before dawn. You could train with the Hudson River Spirit, even if he only entertained you because he enjoyed winning.
You liked your bed made out of stacked wood pallets and a mountain of blankets. You liked your wooden chest of draws stuffed full of trinkets and weapons and the precious few items you owned. You liked this place that you had carved out with your own two hands.
But you also liked your home in the Jackson household. Where there was always music playing. Where it was always warm and dry. Where there would always be some blue-ified food in the oven or blue candy in the mason jars by the sink.
It became your job in the summers to babysit Percy, to keep him away from Gabe and from danger while entertaining his endless need for motion. You took him to art galleries (which he hated) and aquariums (which he loved), to craft fairs (which he tolerated because he liked the things you made) and swimming pools (which he only liked when he won your swimming races).
“What even is a soulmate?” Percy had asked you one day at the park.
“The person with the other half of your soul,” You scrunched your nose up, “Or well, that's what people say.”
“You’re saying I’ve been walking around with half a soul?”
“I didn’t say I believed them,” You rattled your water bottle in front of his face until he took it. “Stay hydrated.”
He frowned at you, “You don’t believe in soulmates?”
“Of course I do, but it's a little more complicated than that, kid.” You took the water bottle back and played with the cap for a moment while you thought. “Think of it like this. You can have two different puzzles that are cut the same way, right? So all the pieces from one will fit with all the pieces from the other. But that doesn’t mean they belong together, the picture doesn’t come out quite right because even though the pieces fit, they don’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. Maybe that’s what it was like for your mom, like she couldn’t find the pieces that made up her picture and so she went with the ones that fit at the time.”
“You don’t think my mom and dad were soulmates?”
“I never met your father.”
“But he’s your dad too.”
“He’s my mom’s husband. Maybe my mom and dad are soulmates.” Percy didn’t seem to like that answer.  “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe your mom and my mom each have pieces that fit into your dad's puzzle but neither match his picture, or both. Maybe his picture is a year with your mom and a lifetime with mine and having you. Maybe he needs to collect all those little pieces at the right time when they’re the right shape or he’ll end up with a completely different picture at the end.”
“I kind of understand.” But he gave you a look that said he probably didn’t. “What picture are you making?”
You hid your smile behind the lip of your water bottle, “My soulmates about yay-high, pretty as a magazine cover with dimples and all. I’m collecting my puzzle pieces with you and your mom and this city so that I’ll have half of his picture.”
“If you know who he is, why don’t you just go find him now?”
“Still looking for some pieces, I guess.” You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot. “Souls are fragile. If you go rushing in and trying to jam the pieces in when they’re not shaped right just yet you could damage them.”
“What happens if you do that?”
“It’s probably harder to find each other in the next life. You’ll chip pieces away and your souls won’t fit right.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of your cardigan and pulled out a sandwich, you gave Percy the bigger half.
“Who taught you all this?”
“My mom used to tell me and well, I've thought about it a lot.” You tugged Percy by the back of his shirt so he didn't go stomping through a puddle, he glared. “But anyway, some people think it’s just fate. That you find your soulmate no matter what and it’s a perfect fit either way.”
“It would be easier that way.”
“Sometimes that’s just not how the story goes, kid.”
Percy thought that was the most important thing anyone had ever taught him, but he figured some of the other stuff you taught him came in handy too. You taught him the tricks you learned to work around your dyslexia. You taught him to skip stones and to not throw rocks at seagulls. You taught him to flip off the Empire State Building but only when his mom wasn’t around. You taught him to knit and do a cartwheel and make a good cup of tea to take his mother in the morning. You taught him to chew with his mouth shut and to sword fight with wrapping paper rolls. You taught him to braid hair and throw a punch and say all the swears in Ancient Greek.
And then one day, a Satyr came for Percy Jackson, and there was nothing left for you to teach. 
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You wrote Sally a brief letter of warning, picked your way through seven years’ worth of belongings and collapsed your life into a backpack. You said goodbye to Clarence and Emily with a brief promise to visit, pushed a final wave of pollution from the waters and thanked the Hudson River Spirit for his hospitality. He gifted you sixteen perfect round pearls and insisted that he never wanted to see you again. You spent the bus ride to Long Island threading them into a necklace made of fishing wire, tying off each pearl with your teeth. 
It was a tentative tradition between demigod soulmates to exchange gifts upon their first meeting. So few and far between were the possessions of a half-blood that even the smallest bauble would likely mean the world. The practice had died out some over the centuries as the Gods received fewer offerings from mortals and turned to their children for sacrifices. Gift-giving to your soulmate as a demigod became all but synonymous with spitting at the feet of the divine and loudly proclaiming you would make offerings to your soulmate instead. A pearl necklace would be an excellent final addition to the collection of small gifts you had assembled over the years. Let the Gods weep at your feet and beg for scraps if they needed them so much, you would ignore them just as they had ignored you. 
You arrived at Camp far sooner than you might have liked, a few hours past mid-day when hopefully the rest of your ilk would be occupied with meaneal chores and activities. You considered waiting at the crest of the hill for someone to notice you only to find a pine tree planted firmly at its peak where you might have stood. Instead, you make the alarmingly easy trek down to the Big House.
“Chiron!” He had always been your favourite of the two men, currently sat on the porch drinking juice and playing cards. 
“Yes, my girl?” He barely spared you a glance as he shuffled his cards between his weathered hands. He stilled for a moment and then tossed his head back in the way a horse might toss its mane. “My dear!” 
You raised a hand, halfway between a salute and a wave, “Nice to know I haven’t been totally forgotten.”
“Au contraire.” Mr. D stuck his nose up at you. “Which one are you again?” 
“The little one that went missing some seven years ago,” Chiron stood as you climbed the stairs onto the porch. “How are you, my dear? Where have you been?”
“Shouldn’t you be at Yancy Academy?”
Mr. D’s eyes turned sharp in the way that had once made your friends whisper that some days, he was more maniac than man , “And how do you know about that little girl?”
“Percy Jackson is at Yancy,” You smiled at him, all teeth, “How did you think he survived long enough for your baby satyr to find him?” 
“You have been protecting young demi-gods?” Chiron asked wearily. 
“Percy Jackson is a full-time job, I’m afraid,” You tugged at the strap of your backpack, praying you could keep control of the conversation. You had a lot of time under the river to think and this was one of many things you had spent countless hours mulling over. Weighing and considering what story you would tell them – to tell the truth of both your parentage and put Percy in harm's way or to lie and balance your life on its sharp edge. “I found him in Manhattan, he was like a magnet for mythological activity. By the time I’d had enough of rebelling and wanted to come back to camp, I was protecting him from attacks every other week. He wouldn’t have lasted a month. I came back as soon as I could.” 
No matter how many times you played it out in your head, the lies won every time. 
“Kids.” Mr. D threw back the last of his juice.
“Perhaps you should settle back into the Hermes Cabin, dear.” Chiron smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes pinched, “You’ve given myself and Mr. D much to talk about. We’ll settle the issue of your paperwork tomorrow.”
“Of course.” You rustled through your bag, digging up a palm sized statuette that you set onto the table. “Before I forget, I brought you a gift Mr. D.”
“A toy,” He snatched it up. “Oh joy.”
“It’s you, as the mortals’ see you. It’s from the gift shop at the Met.”
“How kind of you, my dear.” Chiron softened, and you watched as even Mr. D’s temper seemed to ease, his hands gentle around the gift as he admired it. 
An unseeing piece of plastic for the God who served as no more than a silent observer over the affairs of the camp. Let him choke on his ego, you thought as you left the pair to their discussion. 
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Cabin 11 was blessedly empty when you entered, but your old bunk was not. A pile of clothes was thrown haphazardly across the bedspread. You snatched a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow from the storage closet and threw them down with your bag. If you could not have the bunk that had been yours at twelve, you would claim the corner that had been yours at five. As you shook out the sleeping bag and pulled out your belongings, you tried not to think of your bed of blankets under the river or Sally Jackson’s couch. 
Instead you turned your mind to the Big House and the conversation that was no doubt happening within. 
You had constructed a perfect image, if you did say so yourself. Grown in ways Mr. D could not have predicted but Chiron would insist he had foreseen. Still a rebellious young woman in the mortal sense, with your scuffed leather boots and ripped jeans. But the parts that had screamed ‘insubordination’ to the Gods were neatly tucked away. Your twin knives strapped to your forearms under the billowing sleeves of your crocheted top, your vicious tongue caged behind a sweet grin, your once sharp stare softened at the edges.
Once you had fashioned yourself so that the Gods could not paint you as a hero, now you fashioned yourself so that they might forget you were an enemy. 
Let Chiron think you were a misunderstood wayward girl scout come home from her self-imposed quest. Let Mr. D think you were a stupid girl who had seen the world beyond the Gods’ protection and finally accepted that you needed them. Let them all think wrong. You had left to protect your brother and returned for one reason only. 
“You’re here.” 
You turned, and there he was, “Luke Castellan.” 
He opened his mouth and then closed it, limbs jerking slightly as if he wasn’t sure whether to move toward you or stay put. He was almost certain you could hear the way his pulse was racing, his heartbeat clanging wildly in his chest as he searched desperately for a suave reply, but everything else seemed lack lustre when you said his name like that.
Your face twisted into something like anger and for a moment he thought he’d messed it all up before your lips curled and you practically spat, “I do like your scar.”
And then he was laughing at you, wild and bewildered and not the least bit contained. Before long you were laughing too, neither of you quite sure what was funny, just so wholly relieved as your chests were flooded with wonder and warmth.
It felt like fireworks and popping candy. Just as he had promised all those years ago. You resisted the urge to throw up on his Converse. 
You might have been crying and he might been too but you weren’t exactly sure because one moment you were both laughing at nothing and the next he was on the floor with you. He held you like he had never held a single thing in his life, like he was lost at sea and you were the only solid thing for miles. He tucked your head under his chin and sucked in great forced breaths that you could feel beneath your cheek. Because he was warm and there and real. And that meant the last seven years, the better part of your life, hadn’t been for nothing. 
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 You and Luke make your way to dinner side by side. You had spent the afternoon rambling about your lives, about your meetings with your future selves, about your home under the river, about his responsibilities as a camp counsellor and yours as your brother’s keeper. He told you about Annabeth and Thalia and the rest of his siblings, you told him about your parents and Sally Jackson and your sea friends. You gave him his necklace which he lets you fix in place at the base of his throat – you do not spend a moment too long running your hand up the back of his neck and through his curls. 
He had been almost bashful when he gifted you a watch that matched his, inlaid with twin fragments of mother of pearl taken from the same shell – kind of like your soul had been, he had said. You swear you’ve never owned anything as precious. You let him strap it to your wrist as he tells you about spending a summer diving for it in the lake. And then softly, tentatively, he tells you about his quest.
Luke could have cried from the way you were looking at him alone, so very gently, like you could cradle him with your gaze alone. At a loss for words, you simply whispered, “I am so proud of you.”
His grip is iron-clad and you tell your next story with your face pressed into the side of his neck, pretending you can’t feel him shaking softly. 
When you make your way to dinner you’re both glowing with the soft exhaustion of emotion. You all but lean against one another as you collect your goblets and fill your plates.
The other campers steer clear of you, content to leave Luke to chauffeuring the new kid around. You count yourself lucky, it was only a matter of time until one of the older campers recognised you.
You were almost to the end of the Hermes table – that perfect spot at the end where you might just have a chance of holding a private conversation after dinner – when Chiron interrupted you. 
“Mr. Castellan, I see you’ve acquainted yourself with our newly returned camper.”
“That’s my job, sir.” You tried not to stare at the crooked smile he flashed the centaur. 
“Perhaps you ought to show her how to make an offering,” Chiron says pointedly, “She’s been away for a long time, and it’s your responsibility to treat her as you would any other incoming Camper.”
Luke turned to you, his boyish grin still charming but the mirth leaking out of his eyes, “Of course. Do you remember how it’s done?” 
“I do. Just not a lot of food to be spared in the mortal world.” 
You squinted, the corners of your mouth pulled up in what Chiron would likely mistake for sheepishness. But Luke could see it in your eyes. How your anger had made you pointy in all the places someone your age ought to be soft. He wondered how all the jagged edges of you would feel against all the jagged edges of him. He thought maybe if the two of you were careful, you could make something smooth as sea glass and twice as pretty, together.
You dump a clump of mashed potatoes into the fire with an unconcerned flick of your fork. Luke lops part of his own meal on top of yours, you glare enviously at the reasonable portion he had left on his plate. You hoped the food would burn at the bottom of the braiser. 
“Sorry, sir.” You mocked Luke. He stuck his tongue at you once Chiron had turned his back. 
You hurried to snag the seat at the end of his table, sliding into place across from each other. You flounder for a moment, wondering whether to draw your legs as far under your seat as they will go or bask in the gentle brush of his knee against his leg. You settle for the latter and try not to evaporate under his gaze, as he stares at you even as you start eating.
Luke realised he’d spent too long staring when you all but groaned, “Don’t tell me I have to sacrifice my dinner to you too.” 
He flashed you a grin, then tried to say as nonchalantly as possible,“Is that why you left? So you could enjoy a proper meal every once and a while?”
You stared at him for a long while, “You, future you, told me to leave, to find my brother.”
“Why would I do that? If you had stayed at Camp–”
“That’s almost exactly what I said to you.” You pushed your food around as you stared at a point just beyond his head, he thought for a moment that he could see the neurons firing behind your eyes, like a hundred tiny zaps of lightning, “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I think you were right to send me away.”
“I don’t think I’ll be hearing that very often.” He dodged the pea you fling at him with a grin. 
“I think maybe if I don’t leave, I won’t become this me or do the things I’ve done and maybe that’s important for us or our future or some past you rewrote by telling me to leave.”
“Seems overly complicated.”��
“I think it’s supposed to be complicated,” You couldn’t help but admire the quiet skill with which he wielded his cutlery, “If it were easy, we would find each other in every universe.”
He paused, knife aloft, “You don’t want to find each other in every universe?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” You speared a leaf of spinach onto your fork to hide your scowl behind as you said, “The Gods have made it this way to keep us separated.”
“We’re together now.” 
“Which means they lost.”
Luke watched you for a drawn out heartbeat, then leaned over to transfer the perfect squares of meat he’d been cutting onto your plate. 
You took a long moment to chew before you said, “So, your plan to send me after Percy worked.”
“I thought it was your plan.”
“I forgot to ask you whose plan it was.”
“I say it’s your plan.” He took a long pull from his goblet that left his lips tinted red. 
“It doesn’t matter what you think.” You passed him a napkin before he could ask, “It’s what you will think.”
“Sure, Precious.” He smothers a laugh into the napkin at the way you scrunch your nose at him, “You know, because you're so protective of your food. Like Gollum with the ring.”
“That’s the stupidest explanation for a pet name I’ve ever heard.” But you’re damn near head down on the table as you laughed. “I definitely got the smarter half of our soul.”
“Then it was definitely your plan.”
You’ve still got a hand pressed to your face to conceal your smile when you say, “What about when I meet you? Any words of wisdom?”
“Try not to fall for me. I can tell you’re pretty charmed but it’s really not appropriate. I’m seventeen, and you’re what? Twenty-four?” 
You launched your bread roll at him. You’re twice as incensed when he catches it whilst looking directly at you, “Asshole.”
“Smartass. See, two can play that game.”
Luke can’t help but think you’re just as pretty sneering as you are smiling, like no expression no matter how ugly could detract from your beauty. Maybe you’re like him, he scarcely dared to hope. Maybe you’re something better, another part of him whispered. The way you talk about the Gods and turn your nose up at them, and play their game only when it suits you. 
You weren’t vengeful in the way he was. You weren’t the spitting vicious thing the Camp had liked to pretend you were when you weren’t around to prove otherwise. You were worse and better and everything he needed. You were a storm on the horizon, a snake coiled tight. You were better than just angry. You were disillusioned. Not a product of juvenile resentment but true wrath born of awareness. Not the wild foaming-at-the-mouth kind that he had imagined when he had first heard your name. But the dark carefully contained kind he had seen in the face you would grow into.
This, Luke thought, you were the start of everything.
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It’s some weeks later when you stick your hands through the grating of the bunk above Luke as leverage to lean over him and croon, “Up and at ‘em, Pretty Boy.”
He pushed his face out of his pillow, curls sticking up at odd angles as he looked at you half-asleep, “What?”
“Remember? Training?”
“No,” He scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “What did you call me?”
“Sickly.” 
“I don’t think that was it.” He propped his head up on a fist as he smiled at you sleepily. 
It was so disgustingly cute that you had to turn your back when you said, “Just meet me there.” 
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Luke’s freshly showered and holding an apple core when he deigns to join you in the forest. He tossed the apple at you and you caught it without thinking. You fake gag at him as you throw it further into the forest. 
You wiped your hands against his shoulder as you say, “I’m not sure if an apple core counts but that was dangerously close to an Ancient Greek proposal, Castellan.”
“I got hungry.” He shrugged. You squared off across the clearing, stretching as you warmed yourselves up for the ensuing sparring match. 
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Is this you rejecting me?” He landed an open hand on his chest and staggered backward. “You wound me, Precious!”
“Was that you proposing? Because I’m,” You wiped your hand again for good measure, scrunching your nose up, “Disgusted.”
“You would be honoured if I had just proposed to you.” 
“You should be nicer to me.”
“And go easy on you just because you’re my soulmate? Unlikely.”
“Because, asshole, I’m the one who got you out of chores this morning, or have you forgotten already. You seemed rather grateful for your little sleep-in.”
He unsheathed his sword and twirled it round in his hand, “You’re a bad influence.” 
“Like you weren’t ready to worship the ground I walk on when I told Chiron you needed to get my training up to speed.” 
“Do you want me to tell you, you’re brilliant?” He pointed his sword toward you with that grin that made you want to hold him down just so you could admire it longer. “You’re brilliant.”
“You’re stalling.” You pull your knives out, one from your boot, the other from your belt. You miss your old clothes with their pretty sleeves and their personality, your camp shirt seems a poor trade in comparison. 
“Stalling? Me?” Luke scoffed. “Never!”
“Don’t you have a counsellor meeting at half-past?”
“I do, so please don’t feel bad when you lose. I only have half an hour to wrap this up. You understand.”
“Who’s fault is that Mr. Just-five-more-minutes?”
He gasped in mock offence and lunged forward, his sword swinging at you in a great arch. You leapt back, out of his range, then ducked low and rushed toward him. Luke was quick, in a viciously smooth move he swept his sword at you again. You brought your knives together, bracing as the impact ricocheted up your arms. Admittedly, you were at a great disadvantage given that you were reluctant to throw a knife at Luke’s head – even though he’d demonstrated an impressive ability to swipe your wayward throws out of the air – and that he had an additional several feet of reach on you.
Luke feigned to the right, you lashed out at his left side and narrowly avoided his sword as it came down at you. He whistled slowly as both of you backed up to circle each other for a moment. 
“You’ve got moves, I’ll give you that.” 
And so the dance went on. Luke struck, you parried or slipped out of his blade's path with a flourish. You struck, Luke swung his sword and slipped around your blows. Finally, you found the chink in his precious armour. He fell back to his right foot when he deflected a blow. You jerked forward. You jabbed the knife clutched in your left hand toward him as you moved in with the right. Just as you hooked a foot around the back of his leg, Luke’s sword made contact with your left shoulder slicing through sleeve and skin. Luke fell backward with a sharp hiss, his sword flying to the side.
In the end you had laid him out flat in twenty minutes. Luke Castellan had spent the last seven years fighting to win. You had spent them fighting to survive. You supposed it didn’t hurt that the greatest swordsman to enter Camp Half-Blood in nearly three centuries was reluctant to let anything sharp or pointed anywhere near you. You secretly thought he might have been going easy on you for being his soulmate after all. You collapsed on the forest floor beside him, your chest heaving to draw in oxygen. 
“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Luke huffed. 
“Orange isn’t really my colour.”
He turned to you with a wink, “Oh but it is.” 
You wave your hand through the air.
“I’ve gotten very good at putting broken things back together over the years.” He tried not to look at the line of stitching that ran from the ankle of your jeans to the rips at your knee. You tried not to look at his cheek. Instead you reached out and trailed your hands across his necklace where the pearls sat snuggly at the base of his throat. 
“You’re wonderful.” He brushed his knuckles down your shoulder and they came away red. “Even covered in blood you’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.” 
You groaned, “Sweetness, you can’t just say–”
“You call me Sweetness when you visit me.” He whispered it like it was his greatest secret. You traced up his throat to his cheek and pressed your thumb into his dimpled cheek. “You’re still being wonderful. I can’t think when you’re–”
“Wonderful?”
“Okay, Smartass.” He sighed up at the sky, then pulled the both of you to your feet, “Enough lounging, we need to get that cut checked.” 
You let him dust the dirt from you and resheath your knives, one in your boot, the other in your belt. Silently revelling in the gentle way he tugs you this way and that. You were well on your way to the infirmary, shoulders bumping and fingers just barely brushing, before he spoke again.
“Where does it come from? The nickname.”
“Sweetness?” 
He looked away from you and squinted off into the distance, as if you were suddenly too bright to look at, “Yeah.”
“My mom used to tell me this story about meeting her soulmate. She probably meant Poseidon, but at the time I thought it was about my dad,” The back of Luke’s hand bumped into yours again, his fingers catching yours, his gaze resolutely ahead but you were definitely holding hands. “She said it felt like swallowing lightning and gorging yourself on popping candy. Like sweetness.”
“You like popping candy?”
“It’s my favourite.” You gave him a queer look as if to say, it’s not yours, you utter heathen?
Luke laughed at you all the way to the Apollo Cabin as he listed all the reasons it was the sub-par candy option. Nonetheless, when you emerge from the infirmary, he unloads a fistful of little packets he’d pinched from the candy bowl when the Apollo kids’ hadn’t been looking.
“Who has sub-par candy options now, Sweetness?” You teased, your mouth crackling merrily.
“Keep calling me that and you can have all the terrible candy you want.”
“Try some,” You shoved a packet toward him, because if he kept saying silly things like that and looking at you the way he was you were liable to do or say something equally as stupid. “You’ve got half my soul, maybe it’s our favourite.”
“I don’t think they had popping candy when we had one soul,” He flicks the packet held between your fingers. “And aren’t you the one who says we’re puzzle pieces not halves?”
“You have been listening to me!”
“Hard not to.”
“Asshole.” You flashed your teeth at him.
“Smartass.” He said, but the bite wasn’t there. He was watching you again, in that way he did sometimes before he said something stupid that made you want to throw yourself in the lake or run back to Manhattan or do something equally as stupid, like kiss him. “You–”
You twisted your hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him toward you, the little sachet crinkling in your fist. For a heartbeat, you were both silent, an inch away and staring as if you could will the other to be the one to press forward. But then he closed his eyes and Luke Castellan was kissing you. Like lightning and popping candy. With all the elegance of two lovestruck teenage fools and all the heat of two people who knew they had all the time in the world but still couldn’t bear to waste a second of it. His hand held you by the chin and then splayed lightly across your cheek and tucked hair softly behind your ear. You were only just reaching for the mess of curls at the back of his head when someone wolf whistles.
“My favourite.” Luke grinned, licked his lips and then turned. Hands stuffed in his pockets and a big stupid grin stretched across his face, as he shouted at you, “Stay out of trouble.”
You flip off the Aphrodite kid who’d whistled at you, and hurried back to the Apollo Cabin. You and Luke Castellan were going to need a lot more popping candy. 
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You’re in the lake, encased in an air bubble, sprawled out side by side with your backs against the sand, when Luke tells you what he’s done. That mere weeks before your arrival he had done the unthinkable. He had robbed the King of the Gods blind and betrayed half the Pantheon in doing so. You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry.
You had simply laid there, silently, for what had felt like aeons to Luke but maybe that had only been because he had to keep reminding himself not to hold his breath. He wasn’t drowning. You weren’t going to turn him in. He hadn’t just blown his whole plan and his life with his soulmate in one fell swoop. He just had to keep breathing and wait for you to say something. He thinks that maybe your mother had passed on some divine knack for diplomacy as Queen of the Sea with the way you seem to turn the issue of his betrayal over and over in your head. 
After a while, you reach your arm toward the bubble and the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment, Luke thinks you’re going to pull the lake down on him. When you don’t Luke spends another infinite second wondering whether he would just let you do it. 
He tosses the thought aside and focuses on the coin weaving between your knuckles. Like magic, it appears and disappears around the bends of your fingers but it wasn't real magic, just you fidgeting. He pressed his lips together and tried not to think about you at the bottom of the Hudson River, flipping your coin and turning over the issue of your soulmate and your brother and the camp you’d left behind. What is it you had said? You’d had plenty of time to think about those things. 
Maybe that's what you need now – time. He’s about to offer it to you, offer to swim his way back to shore so you can think, even if he'd probably drown on the way. He’d give you all the time in the world if he had it. 
But then you finally speak, the golden drachma rolling between your fingers, “If you hurt my brother, soulmate or not, I will kill you.”
“I am your soulmate.” He insisted as the implication made his skin itch.
“You are.” Your smile was so gentle it almost felt sad. “So you understand that my love for him comes before my hatred of the Gods. If you have put him in danger wit–”
“We get married.” He blurted. “We have a future. I woke you, when you visited me. That must mean I win.”
“It means, if that’s the path we’re even on, if those people are even the versions of us that we become… maybe you don’t hurt Percy.”
“I won’t.” He swore and you weren’t sure how to ignore the half of your soul that lies so sweetly. “I wouldn’t.”
“Maybe.” You swallowed like you’d been chewing glass your whole life, and someone had finally offered you something substantial to sink your teeth into. “Maybe if we leave now, there’s a world in which I don’t have to pick between my blood and my soul.”
Luke was quiet for a long moment, “We could recruit him. You said it yourself, he’ll be more powerful than any of us.”
“He’s twelve.”
“He’s the son of Poseidon.”
“He’s twelve.”
“You were twelve when you left to protect him.”
“And look how that turned out,” Your grin was brittle, but he swore you were still the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sat here planning to betray everything I was raised to follow.”
“You’re going to follow me?”
Your eyes traced the shape of his jaw, his nose, his scar. You looked pained, “I fear I would follow you into much worse, Luke Castellan.”
“I’m trying to lead you to something better.” He reached for your hand, took the drachma from your fingers, and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your palm. He smiled and there were dimples in his cheeks and tears in his eyes as he whispered, “We can try for better.”
“Leave Percy.” You pressed your fingers to his cheek, “Let him come to camp, let him join us when he’s ready.”
“You’re sure he’ll join us?”
“He will, I know it. We just need to let him see the Gods’ apathy for himself.” And you sighed. Luke wondered how many lifetimes your souls had seen, how many times you had searched for each other, how many times you had been torn apart. You sound ancient when you say, “You and I have seen more than enough.”
He turned his head and whispered in the scarce distance between you, “What do you propose?” 
“We leave. As soon as anyone catches on, we take anyone who agrees with us and flee.” You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his knuckles firmly, “We can plot your revenge and plan my new world on the way.”
Luke feels ancient when he promises, “Okay, on the way then.”
But he swears, as you lean forward and kiss him, that no matter how many times you do it this lifetime or in all the lifetimes until this story – of you and Luke Castellan – became ancient, it would still never stop feeling like the first time.
Like lightning and popping candy.
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